The Stylist

I replaced my ear to the phone. ‘Mona says, if …’

‘It’s okay, Amber, I heard. Beau Belle, in the flesh, hey? We’ll be with you by five. Get some coffee down you. It’s always a killer on the first day, but you’ll be fine.’

‘See you later, then.’

I handed Mona’s iPhone back to her, leaned back into my seat and began mentally listing the things that were wrong with my current situation:

My face looks like Lindsay Lohan’s after a bender.

I smell.

I have indeterminate ‘energy’.

I’m not sure what I’m meant to be doing at the W Hotel.

And on top of that, my first day at work was about to be recorded on camera by a guy I almost definitely fancied.

Just concentrate on your professional ability, Amber Green. You have a career now, and you can do this. Show her you were worth the gamble. You want this. Focus. But giving myself an internal pep talk was another clear sign I fancied him.

We pulled up in front of the impressive glass facade of the W Hotel in West Hollywood, the gleaming mirrored walls glinting in the bright sunshine. Mona handed the keys to a waiting valet attendant. Then the boot bounced open, and the bags and hanging clothes cases Ana and I had carefully packed into it were lifted out by a bellboy and loaded onto a trolley. Mona handed him a dollar bill.

‘Wow Suite, fast as you can.’

‘Certainly, Ms Armstrong. I’ll let the front desk know you’ve arrived.’

‘And tell them to send up any parcels—there should be several.’

Like her obedient pet puppy, I followed. We entered the achingly cool foyer. Trendy people stood busily chatting in groups or waiting for others in round seating areas. An organically curved central staircase with a red carpet down its centre swept through the space with impressive elegance. I wanted to stop here for a minute, to take it all in, but we went straight into the lifts. Mona seemed impatient and far too alert—unlike me, she’d obviously had a decent amount of sleep on the plane.

‘Your Cavallis should be here by now,’ she commented, squeezing out half a smile as we zoomed upwards. Please, dear Lord, let them be here. I glanced at my phone—16:35—that meant I had twenty-five minutes, maximum, to make myself look a bit better and to wake up.

‘Nathan should have pre-ordered refreshments for the suite, so you can set them out prettily and get the coffee on first of all,’ Mona instructed. I wondered if Nathan had ordered her a side dish of cyanide while he was at it. Judging by the phone conversation I’d eavesdropped on, I wouldn’t have put it past him.

Our suite was the size of my entire flat. In the sprawling living room, a stylish dove-grey corner sofa and lounge chairs filled one area, above which hung a light installation ‘containing 20,000 LEDs’ according to the in-room brochure. There were also three free-standing full-length mirrors and a large glass-topped dining table, upon which Mona began methodically setting out an impressive haul of glittering accessories from one of the holdalls, as if she’d robbed the Crown Jewels. There was a large flat-screen TV and an iPod station on one wall; she turned it on and soon Jessie Ware’s soothing tones filled the space, a comforting reminder of the music we played in Smith’s. All of a sudden it dawned on me that I was a long way from home. There was also a breathtaking outdoor private terrace with an open fireplace and cream patio seating, ‘for cigarette breaks and refreshments’. And a compact double bedroom dressed in shades of beige led off from the lounge.

‘This will be the changing area,’ Mona informed me.

I quickly realised that we were basically turning the space into an elaborate shop fitting room, but with plusher sofas and added Jo Malone candles, which Mona had brought along in her Louis Vuitton.

Having laid out a table of cups, glasses, bottles of still and sparkling water, two large platters of fruit, a bowl of mixed berries and a plate of fig rolls—a menu she and Nathan had clearly decided was ample sustenance for our clientele, but which I could currently have tipped down my throat in one go—I figured out how to work the Nespresso machine and got busy making my first ever caffè macchiato. My initial attempt was flat, so I kept it for myself and made a second, impressively fluffy, super-strong cup for Mona. It soon transpired that the ability to make good coffee was indeed an integral part of my job. Through the course of the afternoon I learned that Mona was a caffeine addict, and I swiftly became her dealer.

As I re-emerged from the terrace, I saw that Mona had transformed the living area into a haven of shimmering designer wear. The dining table was a magpie’s paradise, with sparkling jewellery laid across it in neat columns of necklaces, bracelets and shoulder-grazing earrings—most of them chunky, eye-catching pieces in gold or silver inlaid with twinkling diamonds and elegant semi-precious gems. The opposite end was a treasure trove of clutch bags, from small, hard boxes covered in black and silver crystals, bringing a touch of Great Gatsby glamour to evening ensembles, to softer hand-finished half-moons in all colours from navy to ultra-feminine pale peach. Down the middle of the table was a row of evenly spaced sunglasses—or ‘pap shields’, as Mona referred to them—an essential accessory for our most-photographed visitors. There were big, round Jackie O ones, gold-rimmed aviators and fifties styles that playfully turned up at the corners, all bearing designer names. On a side table, laid out around a large cream lamp, was a symphony of scarves. I breathed a sigh of relief as I noticed the bright Cavalli ones from the airport nestled in the display. Thank you, Jane from Cavalli. I at least have one fashion PR pal I can count on. Along the entire length of the room was a row of shoes, all towering heels; some with the instantly recognisable Christian Louboutin red sole, and most in black, nude, silver or gold, so perilously high and delicate they looked like art installations rather than footwear. I was glad I’d brought plasters and Party Feet. Then ‘the pièce de résistance’ as Mona referred to it: a long clothes rail filled with the most exquisite evening wear I had ever seen. Some gowns were so long they trailed onto the floor; others screamed for attention with their eye-popping hues or sophisticated detailing. I thought the rails at Smith’s were something special, but this was a whole new level of glamour. Each piece struggled to steal the spotlight from the next. I couldn’t take them all in fast enough—it was like lifting the lid on a fairy-tale fancy dress box. One dress was so full of elaborate creamy ostrich feathers its plumage rose up above the others, like a sensual showgirl high-kicking onto centre stage. Next to it, a hanger groaned under the weight of a heavy, one-shouldered gown covered in twinkling black sequins: a dress fit for a diva. A stunning emerald beauty threw glitter-ball spots of light onto the ceiling, from the glinting silver jewels hand-sewn onto its neckline. The craftsmanship and love put into each gown was instantly visible.

Amid this cornucopia, there was one that instantly appealed to me; a beautifully romantic, scarlet satin Valentino number, figure-hugging, oozing class. It might as well have had an Oscar pinned to it as an accessory. I ran my hand over the material, cool and silky-smooth to the touch. I wonder what it feels like to wear a dress like that.

‘Red-carpet evening wear on the left, low-key daywear on the right,’ Mona informed me, though I failed to see anything ‘low-key’ about the entire collection. ‘It’ll be obvious straight away who’s looking for what.’

I really hoped it would. A fug I assumed was jet lag was starting to surround me. I stopped myself thinking that, eight hours ahead of us in the UK, I’d probably be in my cosy bed after an evening on the sofa with Vic, eating pitta and hummus and watching Graham Norton. At five to five, the front desk alerted us that the TV crew were making their way up, so I locked myself in the posh cream marble bathroom and rummaged through the stash of free miniature products, attempting a quick freshen up. I splashed water on my face, rubbed silky moisturiser into my arms, neck and chest—so at least I was vaguely fragrant—and re-scraped my hair back into a ponytail. It would have to do.

Today’s TV crew was similar to the one we’d entertained in Smith’s not much more than twenty-four hours ago, only this time, another shaggy-haired cameraman was joining Fran with the bob and Rob. This one was American and called Lyle, but I christened him Shaggy, too. Fran with the bob shook my hand and Rob planted a peck on my cheek.

‘Amber, good to see you again.’

It was great to see a friendly face. In a crisp white T-shirt, jeans and Pumas, Rob looked fresh, like he’d actually managed to shower since disembarking the plane. The place where he’d planted the kiss was burning up. He had Mona and I sign more release forms. Then, no sooner had the camera been set up and we’d necked another coffee, there was a ring at the door. Our suite has its own doorbell! I opened it to reveal a man mountain, dressed like a nightclub bouncer in a black suit, white shirt and skinny black tie, his hair crew cut, a small earpiece tucked inside his right ear.

‘Hey, Mona, good to see you again. I’m here with Miss Belle—should we come in now?’ He looked straight through me. I fizzed with excitement, jet lag suddenly forgotten. I was about to meet Beau Belle, star of so many chick flicks. Vicky would die.

‘Not looking after Miley any more, AJ?’

‘No, Trey Jones, but his fiancée, Beau here, has got me run off my feet,’ said the Hulk, bending his thick neck to speak into a discreet radio microphone pinned to his collar. ‘Just finding out how long filming will take. Keep her close at heel until I say.’ How odd, they’re talking about her as if she’s a chihuahua.

‘The filming won’t take long,’ said Mona. ‘We’ll pick a few pieces together, a few twirls for the camera and we’ll wrap. Right, kids?’ Rob nodded and Fran with the bob smiled through gritted teeth. It seemed that Mona couldn’t help patronising everyone she met.

‘Do you have any food? She and Pinky haven’t had time to break all day,’ said AJ.

‘Pinky?’ Rob mouthed at Fran, who shrugged in response.

‘My assistant, Amber here, has it covered. Water, coffee, fruit, snacks, whatever she—they—want.’ Mona was in full-on charm mode, although she clearly had no idea about Pinky, either.

AJ spoke into his mic again. ‘We’re ready. Bring them in.’

The camera was trained on the door, and I stepped back, hopefully out of shot. As Fran with the bob signalled, ‘Action!’ a small grunt made all of us look at the floor. A petite, pink micro-pig, dressed in a black leather biker jacket, made its entrance, inquisitively rushing into the room and stopping in the centre of it to check us all out. Its short curly tail lifted eagerly. Mona was trying not to frown, which wasn’t all that difficult. I was by now aware that her forehead barely moved.

Vicky would be wetting herself.

‘Pinky, baby, wait for Mommy!’ a shrill, recognisable voice called out.

And in tottered Beau Belle, an image so familiar from the Daily Mail Online, yet strangely different in the flesh—in fact, she looked like a cartoon character. A torrent of molten gold curls hung loose around her shoulders, a floppy black hat perched on top of her head and an oversized black faux-fur waistcoat hung over pale grey skinny jeans, finished with high, black, suede-fringed ankle boots. Seventies hippie meets Texan cowgirl, with a sprinkling of Barbie. She was not unlike a smaller, younger and—we all knew it—prettier version of Mona. A second bodyguard entered behind her, rooting himself immediately next to the door.

‘Mona, honey! So good to see you!’ shrieked Beau, dropping her Burberry Blaze bag on the floor and launching herself into Mona’s open arms to exchange air kisses. ‘What do you think of Pinky? Isn’t he the cutest? I wanted a Pomeranian, but I couldn’t get one because of my fur allergy, so Trey got me the next best thing. Do you love?’

‘Adorable!’ Mona wasn’t good at lying. What her face couldn’t express, her body language screamed as she nervously fixated on the pig’s wet snout. Pinky trotted straight towards Mona’s perfectly laid out highway of immaculate designer heels. She looked at the two beefy guards, jerking her head towards the pig, but neither seemed bothered about Pinky. Instinctively, I rushed over to the clothes rail and scooped the longest gowns off the floor, out of the slobbery snout’s reach.

‘Perhaps, um, my assistant, Amber, could take little Porky for a play on the terrace?’ Mona suggested, indicating for me to get the pig outside immediately. Beau turned her attention to me and looked me up and down, visibly unimpressed.

‘Just arrived today,’ I muttered, by way of an apology. ‘I love pigs.’

Another lie. I had absolutely no experience of pigs, other than a weakness for the M&S ones called Percy. Picking up Pinky’s lead from the floor, I cringed as I felt the camera follow the pig, my bottom and my pasty legs to the patio before panning back to Mona and Beau. Carefully lifting Pinky onto the clean patio seating next to me, I loosened his studded leather coat and looked into his small, dark, watery eyes.

‘Are you thirsty, little piggy?’ Admittedly, he was quite cute. And he smelled fresher than I did. ‘Want some food? It’s not as if anyone else is going to eat much.’

I poured some milk into a saucer and set it down on the floor. The pig began lapping it up enthusiastically. Then I took a couple of fig rolls, broke them in half and put them on another saucer. He chowed them down loudly. I ate one, too. Then another. Then I stabbed a few berries with a fork and quickly scoffed them, as well. I offered a handful of blueberries to Pinky and he ate hungrily, tickling my palm as he bolted them down.

‘Aw, Mommy not fed you lunch today?’

‘I hope you’re not suggesting Beau’s neglectful?’ a voice boomed above me. AJ was closing the terrace door behind him; a prime example of LA beefcake, completely devoid of a sense of humour.

‘Not at all—just making conversation.’