The Stylist. Rosie NixonЧитать онлайн книгу.
‘Anthrax’ and told her to snort it. The camera zoomed in for a close-up of the mixed up shoes on the mannequins and I cringed inside. Then Mona grabbed me by the arm and shoved me into the shot, as well.
‘And here is the girl responsible! Kiki, isn’t it?’
I smiled awkwardly.
‘It’s … Amber …’ I stuttered.
‘Well, what a morning it’s been already. It must be time for a coffee break. A big, strong caffè macchiato, that’s what I need. You?’ She looked at me.
‘Sure, I’ll go,’ I answered, desperate to scurry out of sight and compose myself.
‘No, I mean you’ll have one, too, right, Amber?’
‘You—’ Mona looked at the Stick, who skipped forward expectantly.
‘You be a darling and run to the Monmouth coffee shop for me and Miss Windows, would you, babe? They do the best caffè macchiato in London and I’ve been craving one all morning.’
And before Kiki could say, ‘But this is a dreadful mistake!’, and before Jas could ask her to kindly not wear her borrowed Pucci dress and box-fresh Nicholas Kirkwoods out of the store, she’d been dispatched to a coffee establishment on the other side of Zone One. As she wrapped herself up in a fake fur swiped from a rail by the door, the camera followed her out, witnessing her almost getting tangled up in the French blinds. Meanwhile I remained anchored to Mona’s side, her cold fingers still holding my arm in a vice. I battled the urge to ask the Stick to pick me up a croissant while she was at it. None of us had eaten all morning and I was starting to feel faint.
Mona’s sweep of the shop complete, we moved over to the rail I had filled with her chosen pieces. ‘Pieces’ are what the fash-pack call items of clothing, shoes and accessories, a bit like they’re artefacts in a museum.
‘Hold it there, babe—you can’t shoot the pieces!’ Mona turned to Rob, who was helping Shaggy get some close-ups of the designer haul on display.
‘Jennifer Astley’s Golden Globe–winning gown could be on this rail! We can’t let the dress out of the bag. That’s enough, let’s wrap.’
With the caffeine jump leads not yet connected, she’d lost interest in filming. The crew busied themselves winding up cables, opening flight cases and checking their phones, probably counting down the minutes before they could escape to the pub for a much-needed pint. It was exhausting being in Mona’s company. Jas disappeared into her office to prepare a dossier detailing her edit of the store, so we could arrange for items to be couriered to her in the States or packaged up for her to take. For the first time, I was left alone in the court of Mona Armstrong.
‘Coffee’s taking its time,’ she huffed.
I’d almost forgotten about the Stick. I imagined the long queue outside the Monmouth Coffee Company at all times of day. Even if she’d placed the order and had the exact change, with a black cab waiting on double yellows, the macchiato was bound to be stone cold by the time she got back. It was a no-win situation. I suddenly had an overwhelming urge to break the rules and start a conversation with Mona.
‘Sounds like you’re having a bad day.’ Did I really say that?
‘You can say that twice.’ I battled the urge to take her at her word.
Then she sighed. ‘You don’t happen to know any styling assistants who could start tomorrow, do you?’
A vivid apparition flashed before my eyes: Me, adjusting the train on Jennifer Astley’s diaphanous designer gown as she gets out of a limousine at the foot of the Golden Globes red carpet. The bank of paparazzi awaiting her and the frenzy of flashes when she strikes a perfectly honed pose in front of them, with just enough leg on display to ensure maximum column inches the next day. And the Golden Globe for Best Dressed Actress goes to … Of course I had no actual experience of what this looked like, but I’d seen enough coverage of similar events in the pages of the glossies to have a vague understanding. Then something completely unplanned happened.
‘I’m free.’
Crap. Where did that come from?
My heart rate lifted, and I swallowed hard. Mona turned to look at me; I mean really look at me, not just my shoes—and she actually seemed to soften. She subtly motioned to Rob and suddenly a light was shining on my face, the boom overhead and the camera lens too close for comfort.
‘Do you know how to make a good, strong caffè macchiato?’
‘Yes.’ I didn’t, but what was this? Not an interview for head Starbucks barista.
‘Can you steam?’
‘Yes.’
I didn’t think she was talking about milk. Steaming, I did know all about, having lost a colossal number of my life’s hours to this hot and stuffy basement, carefully teasing the creases from the latest Cavalli, Chloé and McQueen creations before they made it to the shop floor.
‘Can you work the next fortnight straight—that means long days, little sleep and no time off until everything’s been returned?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Why did I say ‘yes, ma’am’? Idiot.
I didn’t know if I actually was available, but I would make myself, because I suddenly wanted this … whatever it was … so badly. She lifted a foot and sank her spiky heel into the shag-pile rug we’d found ourselves marooned on, like castaways upon a fluffy island.
‘What star sign are you?’
‘Gemini.’
‘Too good to be true! I love what you did with the shoes back there. It was edgy, it was sharp. I can see you’re a risk-taker. You’ve got flair. Yes, I like you, Amber.’ She tucked a stray boho wave behind her ear and looked me straight in the eye once more. ‘Surname, poppet?’
The light from the camera was hot as well as bright; it was making my cheeks fizz and my eyes water. I thought of Kiki, obediently trekking back across town in the freezing cold, trying not to spill a drop of Mona’s precious coffee. Perhaps it should be me in that queue; maybe she should be here. I’m out of my depth. No—you can do this, Amber. Just do it!
‘Green. Amber Green.’
Mona looked upwards for a moment, as if she was consulting a higher being. For the first time her face broke into a smile that also engaged her eyes. They were hazel. She was attractive, even under the camera’s harsh light. She fiddled with the golf ball ring.
‘Amber Green. Love it, babe. Not a bad name … if traffic lights are your thing.’
A hushed snigger went round the TV crew. Thirteen years of being called Traffic Light at school has made me tougher than this. Thanks once again, parents, it’s been character-building.
‘You’ve clearly had the nous to give yourself a fashion pseudonym,’ Mona said, silencing the sniggerers. ‘Ralph Lauren wouldn’t have got very far if he’d kept the surname Lifshitz, would he, darling?’
I smiled, weakly.
‘You’re perfect, Amber Green, Traffic Light. I’ll pay you the work experience rate of fifty quid a week, plus food and expenses. You can stay in my house in LA for the fortnight, though we’ll be in a suite at the W for most of the time and out at appointments and events. I’ll get your flights. You have a valid passport, don’t you?’
Fifty quid, is she taking the P? But I like the sound of the W. I’m pretty sure she means the trendy hotel and not the loo. I nodded and mentally pictured the messy state of my bedroom. I hadn’t physically seen my passport for a long time—I hadn’t left the country for over two years. But it had to be there somewhere. Absolutely has to be.
‘Good. We’re flying from Heathrow Terminal Five tomorrow morning. My PA will give you the details. Write your