Amber Green Takes Manhattan. Rosie Nixon
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the full extent of my desired snooping, but hopefully, after we’d met, we’d be tagging each other in photos from fashion parties and I’d be on her VIP guest list. In my role as a window designer for Selfridges, I hoped she would see me as someone worth knowing in London too.
Rob had decided we should break the news about New York to his mum together, the thought of which was making me feel sick with nerves as the day drew closer.
‘Are you sure this won’t make me come across as the girlfriend who’s stealing her precious son?’ I quizzed Rob on the phone on Sunday morning. ‘I’ll be like, “Hi, I’m Rob’s new girlfriend – by the way, we’re off to America, so you won’t be seeing him for a while. Thanks for dinner!”’
‘Course not. I think our delivery will be a bit more tactful than that. Anyway, it’s no biggie – besides, Mum loves to travel, we’ll invite her to visit – she’ll be thrilled.’
‘Have you told Dan yet?’
‘No, we’ll tell them together and it will be fine. Dan will support us, and I bet Florence will think it’s the coolest thing. Mum will go along with whatever Florence thinks anyway. Relax.’
Relax, I tried. I ironed a silky blue Zara dress bought especially for the occasion, had a long soak in the bath and then, in a move I hoped would make me feel empowered for this family meeting of meetings, I decided to try out a new method of curling my hair. It involved heated rollers borrowed from Vicky’s room and an upside down blow-drying technique I’d seen on a YouTube video. What could go wrong?
Plenty. The resulting hairstyle – Scary Spice, electrocuted, times ten – was so terrifying my eyes nearly burst when I caught sight of myself in the mirror. There was no way of relaxing it so I had to take another shower. Consequently, I was running late for dinner and there were sweat patches on the silky dress.
I jumped off the bus and headed down Westbourne Grove, half walking, half running, feeling far too hot. Plus, a strap broke on my bag and I was clutching it in an ungainly fashion under my arm, trying not to let the contents fall out. I was carrying all my overnight stuff for staying at Rob’s and didn’t particularly want my best knickers to end up in a puddle. As I dashed past the shops – Heidi Klein, Tom’s Deli, Joseph – I thought how much I loved this part of London, just walking the streets felt like being in a Richard Curtis film. Perhaps Rob and I might get a place around here one day.
I turned left off the main road and reached Rob’s mum’s house. Glancing at my phone I realised I was a whole forty-five minutes late. Rob had texted: You ok? x. I needed to turn on a full charm offensive this evening.
It was a tall, impressive, white-fronted family house, complete with black metal railings and well-tended geraniums on the steps. The epitome of Notting Hill chic. Walking back a couple of paces to be out of sight, I swapped my flats for some new black, shiny Kurt Geiger heels, panic bought in the store on Friday to wear with my dress. My staff discount was burning a hole in my pocket recently and the shoes were blatantly for Florence’s benefit more than anyone else’s. My toes were crushed after walking up the steps. Rob opened the door and gave me a big hug.
‘You look gorgeous,’ he said, making me light up inside and out. There was classical music playing, candles flickering on a side table, and a delicious smell of home-cooking.
‘Sorry I’m late.’ I lifted my head for a kiss.
He took my face in his hands and kissed me softly.
When we parted, I paused to take in my surroundings: everything was cream, white, and glossy – it was a well looked after, tasteful home. ‘Nice pad. I can’t wait to see all the embarrassing photos of you growing up.’ I scoured the hall table.
‘Quick update,’ he whispered, looking over his shoulder. ‘Dan’s here, but Florence isn’t. Not quite sure why, but I don’t think things are going well right now. He doesn’t want to talk about it – not around Mum, anyway. If she starts to dig, we’ll change the subject. She used to be a therapist, remember. Mum loves relationship problems – if there is a problem, I’m not even sure. Anyway, families, hey? Go with the flow, like you always do… Do you mind taking off your shoes? Mum’s got a thing about shoes indoors.’
It was great to see Dan again, he was such a friendly, easy-going guy who instantly made me feel at ease, and the brothers were sweet and attentive to their mum. They loved her to bits, it was clear to see, and Marian was the kind of woman who relished the attention from her ‘two beautiful boys’. It was heart-warming to witness such stability compared with the uneven keel I felt between my sister and me, in my parents’ eyes. She being the perfect one and I being the one who worked in fashion and was, therefore, certifiably ‘bonkers’. Marian was well groomed, with blow-dried brown hair, good make-up, and what looked like a very real Chanel twinset. I felt glad I’d made an effort with my appearance, though she wasn’t the kind to compliment me on it.
Maybe it was because Marian had never had a daughter, or perhaps it was just the way she was, but it quickly became clear that she found it hard to relax around her son’s girl-friends – this one in particular. She eyed me with the kind of cynicism of a Gogglebox family watching TV.
‘So, tell me about your work, Amber – it might not be worthy, but it sounds terribly thrilling, from what I’ve heard. You style celebrities, right?’
I was taken aback by the ‘not worthy’ dig. Would she prefer me to work for Christian Aid?
Rob gave me a look that said, ‘let it go’.
‘Well, I did work with famous people,’ I replied. ‘But these days I style dummies for the shop windows at Selfridges and, to be honest, the fact they can’t answer back suits me better.’ Her crestfallen face indicated that I should have gone along with the celebrity line.
‘Right. But you must have met some huge names when you were out in LA – you know, when you and Rob were working on the show together?’ She glanced at her son. He’d obviously filled her in on our backstory.
‘Oh, you mean with Mona Armstrong?’ I looked to Rob for help. ‘That was certainly an interesting time in my career – we worked a lot with Jennifer Astley.’ Her eyes widened. Everyone loves a celebrity encounter, evidently even those who might claim to be ‘worthy’. From then on I caved in and gave her what she wanted – an embellished list of the famous names I’d been in fairly close proximity to at the BAFTAs and the Oscars, giving her plenty to regale her friends with, and – hopefully – pass on to Florence.
My career done, she then moved on to family. ‘So, what do your parents do, love?’ she asked, oblivious to the fact I was dying to get the subject off myself.
I dunked a hefty piece of ciabatta in olive oil and chewed it for a few seconds, giving myself a moment to think.
‘Mum was a hot-shot lawyer, she worked for years at a firm in the city handling litigation cases mainly, and now she’s semi-retired she still works freelance for them but can take or leave cases as she likes. And Dad was a stay-at-home dad, he did all the school runs while Mum was working and did some work as a handy man. There’s nothing dad can’t fix.’
She gave me a stare that felt like she was trying to read my soul.
‘Keep the hubby at home, clever woman,’ she remarked finally, a wry smile across her face. ‘How delightful.’
When my five minutes of grilling from Marian was finally over, she proceeded to spend ten minutes telling us about Florence’s latest work projects – including a campaign for a new London art gallery filled with paintings created by children with behavioural problems, and a charity project sending make-up products to women in remote African villages.
‘All fantastically worthy,’ Marian gushed. She had a wicked glint in her eye.
Noticing my puffed-out chest and reddening cheeks, Rob placed a firm hand on my knee.
‘Let’s take out the plates.’ he said. Dan looked as though he wanted to slide under