The Stylist. Rosie NixonЧитать онлайн книгу.
I wouldn’t.’
‘Oh yeah, you wouldn’t. By the way, someone called for you. A man.’
My heart did a little leap.
‘I didn’t get his name, but he said he was Mona’s PA and when he said that I was too dumbstruck and embarrassed to ask for his name again. He sounded really camp. He asked me to take down your flight reference number for the morning and to say you’re on the 9:45 from Heathrow Terminal Five. Mona will meet you through security. He’s texting you her number.’
She stuck a yellow Post-it onto my parka.
‘But anyway, I think you deserve a drink, don’t you?’
‘Too bloody right!’
‘And I need to hear more about Mona. Come on, I’m in these things now and I might never get them on again, so let’s pop to The Chamberlayne and have one to celebrate. Are you really going tomorrow?’
Through scared, aching eyes, I observed my alarm clock the next morning. Six o’clock.
My mouth was dry, my head pounding. I was still wearing my make-up but cuddling a pack of cleansing wipes. For a moment I couldn’t remember what I was doing on this strange, unfamiliar planet. And then it all came flashing back: one quick drink at the pub had turned into several drinks and then a bottle of white wine back at ours. It had all culminated in our dizzily turning my bedroom upside down to find my passport and then emptying the entire contents of my wardrobe into a jumble sale heap on my bed. From this fabric mountain, Vic and I lumped all the black things into one pile, white into another, and anything with a vaguely designer-y label—we decided Stella McCartney for Adidas and an Anya Hindmarch protective cotton dust bag counted—into a third, before I passed out in a boob tube, in the middle of it all.
‘Is that my case?’ Vicky muttered, as I popped my head around her door and shouted goodbye half an hour later, having lumped it all into the first suitcase I could lay my hands on.
‘Sorry, hon. You’ll have it back in a fortnight … if I come back. Wish me luck?’
‘Luck? You’ll need it. Can’t wait to hear the stories. Take care. But not too much care. Neck some Nurofen on the way. Love you!’
And I was off—head hurting, stomach rumbling, badly put together, but excited as hell.
It wasn’t hard to spot Mona in the Harrods concession at Terminal Five. She was wrapped in a large, brightly coloured scarf, striking poses in front of a full-length mirror. Two boxes of Marlboro Lights stood to attention in a clear plastic bag by her feet; a Venti Starbucks cup with coral lipstick all over the lid perched on a shelf nearby. Smoke and mirrors indeed, Mum was right. Make that smoke, mirrors and caffeine. Mona saw me in the reflection.
‘Amber! Babe! I was beginning to get worried. What do you think? The canary yellow or bubble-gum pink? Don’t you just love them? They are so LA.’
‘Oh wow, divine.’ Did I just say ‘divine’? Thank God Vicky can’t hear me.
‘These little beauties are going to go down a storm for the daytime events. Get on to the Cavalli PR and have them sent over as soon as we land.’ Get on to the Cavalli PR. Have them sent over. I felt queasy again. I hadn’t actually had time to consider the work that was going to be involved with this job: the PRs whose numbers I didn’t have, the requests I didn’t know how to make, the sending over I didn’t know how to go about.
‘Right, I’ll get on to it straight away.’ My efficient tone belied my internal panic.
‘I’ve put you down for the lounge—they should let you in. I’ll meet you in there when I’ve finished shopping.’
‘Right, boss, I’ll see if they’ve got Wi-Fi so I can make a start.’ Has she noticed I’m wearing yesterday’s make-up? My shaky hands?
‘They will, babe. And if I don’t come up to the lounge, I’ll see you at the gate.’
I hoped she wouldn’t come up. What I really needed was some time to get my head together. One person who would definitely know the PR for Cavalli was the Stick, but I couldn’t go there, so I texted Vicky as I looked for the lounge: First panic of the day—you don’t happen to know the PR for Cavalli, do you? xx
A phone number was buzzed back a minute later, along with the words, Get hold of her Fashion Monitor, babe. It’s the Bible. How I wish Vicky was hiding in my suitcase.
And then another text: How’s your head? Mine’s killing! Love ya xxx
I then spent the next thirty minutes in Boots buying Nurofen and Berocca for my hangover, emergency deodorant for my armpits, plus a large ironically garish cosmetics bag which I filled with an assortment of goodies from every aisle—chicken fillets, pop socks, Party Feet, plasters, breath fresheners, bull dog clips, cotton buds, medical tape—as much as I could stuff in.
When I eventually entered the British Airways Club Lounge, it was like entering a seventh heaven. Smartly dressed travellers sat on swivel stools at high white benches, working on laptops and iPads, and there were dimly lit seating areas with comfy chairs and lamps on coffee tables. I gravitated towards the darkest, most deserted corner I could find. A lady dressed like a pristine air stewardess pointed out the hot and cold buffet and advised me of the full drinks service on offer. Best of all, everything was free! Had I known about this before, I’d have dragged my sorry self out of bed even earlier. I headed straight for the brunch buffet and filled up a plate with croissants, scrambled eggs and bacon, all the while looking over my shoulder. The last thing I needed was for Mona to witness me gorging on breakfast like a normal human being. If Vicky had been with me I’m sure we’d have washed it down with a Buck’s Fizz, but I decided to stick to a sensible skinny latte.
At last I felt some colour return to my cheeks. After eating, I managed to call a really nice, friendly lady called Jane in the Cavalli press office. She didn’t seem pretentious or too fashiony at all, but promised to call their LA office, ‘as soon as they wake up’, and have a selection of scarves biked over to Mona’s suite at the W Hotel in West Hollywood to arrive ahead of us that day. It actually hadn’t been as difficult as I thought.
If use of the lounge had gone to my head, I was swiftly parachuted back to reality when we reached the aircraft’s door. Of course I was directed to the right and Mona sashayed left, dumping her shopping and Louis Vuitton tote on an air steward, who offered a saccharine smile in response.
‘Lovely to see you on board again, Ms Armstrong.’
I’m sure she gave me a knowing look straight after.
Mona reappeared some time after the meal—a hangover-friendly cheesy pasta. She popped out from behind the coveted curtain, waved a black Juicy cashmere tracksuit–clad arm in my direction, put her palms into a prayer position and then motioned a sleep sign. I mouthed ‘Sleep well’ back; another sweaty pea-head among the Economy passengers, knowing we were unlikely to get much, if any, shut-eye during the remaining eleven hours to LAX. When she turned back towards the curtain, you couldn’t miss the words ‘The Stylist’ written across the back of her black velour hooded top in Swarovski crystals.
‘Should I know who she is?’ asked a Northern man sitting next to me, craning his neck for a better look.
No sooner had Mona gone than she reappeared like a magician’s glamorous assistant, brandishing a little white tablet which she dramatically thrust into my hand, wafting a large dose of her pheromone-reactive Molecule 01 fragrance through the stale cabin. In a loud whisper, she told me: ‘Melatonin,