The Stylist

‘Maybe we should get AJ after all?’ I asked, returning to the room and handing over a stack of tissues. Beau was sitting up on the bed now, her back against the wall, knees tucked into her chest as she clasped a tissue in each hand.

‘No need for AJ, I can handle it,’ she insisted.

‘Might the, um—stalker—be near us now?’ I asked. Beau subsided into sniffles.

‘It started on Twitter, about a week ago,’ she began. ‘He was so nice to me at first, this guy, I thought he was a fan, telling me he liked my movies and he thought I was a good actor and pretty and stuff. It was just innocent banter. But then he kept on asking me about Jason—you know, Jason Slater, my co-star in the movie I’ve just wrapped?’

I nodded. Everyone knew Jason Slater. He was a big-name actor, chiselled, single, with legions of female fans—he’d broken onto the Hollywood scene with a slew of popular rom-coms, and Beau and Jason had co-starred in the soon-to-premiere chick flick Summer’s Not Over. (The pile of magazines stored under the counter at Smith’s, and the Stick’s constant drip feed of Hollywood news from various online sources, meant I was well up to speed with my celebrity news.)

‘Well, this guy kept asking whether me and Jason were more than work buddies. He just wouldn’t let it go,’ she explained, blowing her delicate nose.

‘Perhaps he’s just a troll?’ I suggested.

‘I thought so, too, but it’s got worse than that now,’ she said. ‘I blocked him, but somehow he got hold of my personal cell number, and he’s been texting and phoning me non-stop ever since.’

I sat there, racking my brain. ‘Are you sure it’s the same person?’

‘Positive, because he asks the same thing—always about Jason. The way he keeps going on—it’s not right, you know? It’s so obvious he’s trying to trip me up, trying to get me to say something that isn’t true. He’s trying to intimidate me, Amber, and I don’t know what he’ll do next. He’s sent me about ten texts already today and I’ve had as many missed calls.’ Her eyes started to well up with emotion again. ‘That was him, earlier. He’s stalking me and I don’t know what to do.’

I thought about the most level-headed person I knew. What would Jas do in this situation?

‘Do you need me to call anyone?’

‘No. There’s no one.’

‘Your fiancé?’

Beau’s intended was the good-looking and highly rated British film director Trey Jones. The couple were regulars on the Hollywood scene and their forthcoming wedding was already creating a buzz in the celebrity world, with rumours that the photography rights had been sold to a glossy magazine in a million-dollar deal.

‘Trey? God, no!’ She was emphatic, which only made me more perplexed.

‘Your publicist?’

I knew about publicists from Smith’s. We would occasionally be asked to close the store for a couple of hours if a big American actress wanted to shop in solitude, away from the hoi polloi, and they always came with a publicist in tow. American versions of British PRs, publicists are straight-talking, brash and infinitely scarier than their UK counterparts. Publicists generally get what they want, when they want it, and never return a favour. But today Beau was shunning publicist assistance.

‘Honey, I’m just glad my publicist is not here.’ She picked up her phone again, and reread the stalker’s earlier message before turning it off.

‘Well—maybe you should go to the police?’

‘Never! Oh God, this is a total nightmare!’

I was nonplussed. Who would be stalking Beau and accusing her of being more than friends with Jason Slater?

‘Actually, honey, maybe there is something you can do for me,’ she said finally, looking at me, coyly, with big, pup-pyish, Princess Diana eyes. Surely Mona would want me to do anything I can to help …?

‘Just say the word,’ I said.

‘Can I trust you, Amber? I mean, really trust you?’ She leaned in close enough for me to smell her delicate, fragrant breath.

‘Of course you can.’

She lowered her voice and checked her phone was definitely off.

‘I should have been honest with you straight away,’ she explained. ‘My stalker is actually from the national press. He’s a journalist from that shitty gossip website Starz. He’s been calling me for the past three days non-stop, intimidating me. He’s a bully. And now he says they’re about to go to press with some photos of me apparently in a “compromising position” with Jason.’ She indicated the inverted commas with her fingers.

‘He’s trying to suggest there’s something going on between us, when of course there isn’t—we were only filming.’

‘If you were filming, can’t you just tell him so?’ I asked.

‘Well, the cameras weren’t actually rolling, but we were rehearsing our scenes. You know?’

I wasn’t sure I did. ‘Does Trey know anything about this?’

‘I really love Trey!’ she exclaimed. ‘He’s my fiancé, Amber. We’re getting married soon. But this stalking reporter is trying to ruin everything. And it sounds like they’re going to print the lies, anyway …’

Tears began to stream down her cheeks, carrying blobs of mascara from her clogged lashes.

‘Beau, it’s okay, please don’t cry. It’s going to be okay, you know …’ I said. ‘Can’t you just tell this reporter he’s got it wrong? Tell him exactly what you just told me?’

She shook her head in response.

‘At least no one is actually trying to kill you,’ I continued, trying for cheery. ‘I thought for a moment you were going to say there was a crazy man about to jump through the window with a handgun. It’s not that bad.’

Lightening the mood didn’t seem to be working. Now the streams of black tears were joining up into one big river that ran down her neck and drip, drip, dripped its way onto the brand new Dolce & Gabbana dress. Mona’s going to go bananas … I needed her out of the dress.

I grabbed some more tissues from the en suite and gently tried to dab at the dress. Beau barely noticed—she wasn’t interested in clothes any more. Her mind was ticking over, formulating a plan that was inevitably going to involve me.

‘So what really needs to happen,’ she said after a few minutes, ‘is for Trey to know these stupid photos are just me rehearsing with Jason, and nothing more, before they get Tweeted all over the world and picked up by every gossip site under the sun in two days’ time. No, I’ve got to get to him first.’

‘Right. I’m sure Trey will completely understand when you explain things to him,’ I offered hopefully, and in the face of all the signs. ‘No one believes what they read on Starz, anyway.’

I didn’t think she’d appreciate knowing most of my friends back home were signed up to the Starz email alerts, and accepted every single word as gospel.

‘Well, what I was thinking was, that that’s where you could help, Amber, like you said you would.’ She widened her blue eyes; the big, sultry eyes that had led so many co-stars into ‘compromising situations’. ‘I was thinking that you could just call up Trey, pretend you were one of my producers on Summer’s Not Over, and tell him that some photos have unfortunately got into the hands of a down-market gossip site, but that you can confirm Jason and I were only rehearsing, so there is nothing to worry about. End of. Right, Amber?’

I remained silent for a moment, while I digested this.

‘But, um, but I’m not a producer … I’m Mona’s assistant. I’m not sure I’d be very good at pretending I’m someone else—I’m not an actress, like you.’

‘But you said you wanted to help?’ She had desperation in her eyes.

I felt panicked. What would Jas do now?

‘Really, Beau,’ I pleaded. ‘I was always rubbish at drama at school. I never got picked for the school plays. I was always the back end of the donkey in the Nativity. I want to help you, I really do, but I don’t think I can do this. What if Trey started asking questions? He might not believe me.’

Right then, we were interrupted by another knock at the door. Mona again—this time shouting through it.

‘Are you feeling better, Beau, darling? You’ve been a very long time. I was beginning to wonder if Amber had fallen asleep on you. She’s probably not coping with the jet lag. The TV people have gone now, okay?’