Authors: Rosie Nixon
I flung the phone on top of the duvet.
‘I’m totally over men, too,’ Vicky said, thankfully not reminding me of the fact I should have stalked him on Facebook and that she had guessed I fancied him before I’d admitted it to myself. ‘Anyway—eggs?’
‘Yes, please.’
She left the room and I wiped the sleep from my eyes. I didn’t actually know what I was meant to be doing today, but my vague memory was that we were putting Miss P’s styling session off until tomorrow and instead going to Mona’s lock-up to sell some of her clothes for cash. The BAFTAs were little more than twenty-four hours away, though, so we didn’t have much time. I called Mona to check and the phone rang out. It really didn’t help that my head, yet again, felt like it was in a vice.
Another thing I had Mona to thank for.
‘So, why are you off men, too?’ I asked, as I sat at the kitchen table waiting for Vicky to present me with breakfast: two slices of thick-cut granary toast, topped with smoked salmon and a heap of creamy scrambled eggs, with two paracetamol tablets on the side. I eyed it suspiciously. This was unlike Vicky. ‘Ten out of ten for presentation, but what have I done to deserve this?’ I asked, necking the pills.
‘I had an epiphany last night,’ Vicky said, sprinkling parsley over our plates. ‘As a result, I’ve decided to stop drinking for a while. It was making everything cloudy and I was doing things the sober me wouldn’t do.’ She registered the concern on my face. ‘It’s cool, I’m cool, I just need to focus on other things for a bit. You know?’
I nodded solemnly, wondering if Simon’s comments about her being ‘too drunk’ had anything to do with it.
‘I’m proud of you, I mean that,’ I said, horribly aware of my own splitting headache. ‘Cheers to that, my friend!’ I held up my mug and we chinked.
True to her word for once, Mona soon sent an email containing the address of a Big Yellow Self Storage Company depot in Kennington. I took this as a positive sign, but decided to
take Vicky along, too, for backup (and because she begged me). I could see that cajoling Mona into parting with some of her best-loved fashion items might be harder work in the cold light of day—and perhaps she wouldn’t sack me if we had company. But she had shown such vulnerability last night, I felt she needed me now. And, strangely, I wanted to help. Though crestfallen having to change out of the fashion-forward LBD for our trip to the lock-up, Vicky was buzzing about the opportunity to hang out with my much-fabled boss. She alerted her followers on a number of social networks that she was spending the day with ‘fashion royalty’.
Miraculously, Mona was pleasant all afternoon. It seemed that last night had actually brought us closer. She greeted Vicky warmly, making her entire year by commenting on how much she loved her vintage biker jacket, before throwing herself into the unpacking of boxes and suitcases containing her wardrobe overspill. She had even dressed appropriately, and the jeans, pumps and baggy Acne sweatshirt really suited her; she looked prettier, more human. For three hours solid we worked, taking our orders from Mona about which box to put where and giving her a few moments alone when she came across a suitcase containing her Galliano wedding dress, made for her by the young up-and-coming designer eighteen years ago. She didn’t even pause to scream for a macchiato (though I had already cased out the storage company’s refreshment offerings and ruled out anything as suitable for Mona, except for the chewing gum).
‘She’s so sweet!’ Vicky gushed, when we were left on our own. ‘I don’t know what you’ve been complaining about.’
‘Sweet’ was a word I never would have used to describe Mona ordinarily, but it really seemed as though she’d turned into a different person overnight; she appeared relieved to
be doing something to help herself and got into the spirit of turning her niche wardrobe to her financial advantage.
As the three of us worked on unpacking cases, we were soon surrounded by teetering piles of expensive shoes; a rack of jaw-dropping; barely worn designer gowns, coats and tops; and a box overflowing with some incredible costume jewels. Some of it had clearly been residing here, in a dusty storage container, for years. Both of us were enthralled by the stories accompanying some of the items—like the pillar-box-red vintage Yves Saint Laurent suit Mona was allowed to keep after wearing it to the wedding of Liza Minnelli and David Gest, the pale blue Christian Dior gown she was given by the design house following success at the Oscars with Charlize Theron, and a joyful silk floral Cavalli maxi, gifted to her to wear on one of the infamous trips aboard Roberto’s yacht in Cannes. Every dress held an enchanting ‘Cinderella’ tale, captivating to hear.
As the end of the day approached, Mona’s final selection bagged up, Vicky had to exert all her mental strength not to offer Mona her life’s savings for a quarter of it. Leaving Mona to lock up, Vicky and I peeled off to drop three hefty suitcases of her former belongings at a luxury designer seconds shop on the New Kings Road, figuring we’d get the best prices in an upmarket area. Mona had sensibly decided it wasn’t advisable for her to come along, too, in case the shop assistant leaked the story to a gossip site.
The assistant gasped when she laid eyes on our wares, and immediately called for her manager, who very nearly had a coronary on seeing a haul of this quality. We were almost rendered speechless ourselves when they offered us the grand total of four thousand, three hundred and eighty
English pounds in cash for the whole lot. I was sure they must have been quietly congratulating themselves on driving the bargain of the century, but it sounded like a good enough deal to us and would more than cover the money Mona owed me, plus our expenses for the next week; maybe more, if I was careful with the budget. Besides, we didn’t have time to peddle the goods around town. There was also something profoundly rewarding about knowing this sumptuous, dazzling designer gear, that had long since lost its shine for Mona, was waiting to be discovered and transformed into the treasure that someone had been unwittingly searching for their entire life.
T
he morning of the BAFTAs arrived, and the weather was terrible. Rain and wind thundered against my bedroom window, making it rattle loudly, and infiltrating an anxiety dream in which I was about to jump off Roberto Cavalli’s yacht in the middle of a stormy sea, with no life jacket, only a faux-fur gilet. I was mightily relieved to wake up marooned only on my bed in the middle of my messy bedroom. The weather outside was the kind of grim greyness set to last the entire day. It was the worst kind of red-carpet weather you could imagine. You could almost hear all the specially flown-in Americans sighing in their hotel suites:
Typical British weather.
Mona rang at 10:00 a.m. At least her name came up, but the caller was a heavy breather.
‘Who is this?’ I demanded briskly, following several seconds of wheezing, spluttering and deep breathing on the other end. For one moment my muzzy brain thought that it
might be LA Liam trying out a werewolf impersonation for his next audition. A few seconds later I heard a voice that sounded like Mona, but a Mona half-submerged in water with a clothes peg on her nose:
‘It’s Mona, babe.’
‘Mona, it doesn’t sound like you at all—are you okay?’
Stupid question.
‘Not really,’ she said. She sounded completely blocked up. ‘I had the hot sweats in the night and then some unpleasant bowel movements, then I was sick. Ouch!’ There was a noise sounding like a limb knocking into something. ‘I’m lying down on the bathroom floor. I’m not in a good way, Amber.’ More coughing and sniffing to emphasise the point. ‘I’ve got the Norovirus. Must have picked it up in that grotty lock-up. You pick up all kinds of things in horrible places like that. That’s why I’ve avoided it for so long.’
‘Have you seen anyone about it?’ I probed.
‘Doctor’s here right now …’ Cue a rustling sound. ‘Yes, thank you, Doctor—complete bed rest, yes, whatever it takes …’ Sometimes you couldn’t make her up.
‘Do you want me to speak to the doctor?’ I offered.
‘There’s no time, babe—the BAFTAs are tonight.’
‘I’m fully aware of that, Mona.’
What the hell is she playing at?
‘Jennifer will be expecting you at the Dorchester, I need you to go and do the BAFTAs with her, Amber. She’s wearing the Valentino—she has it with her.’
Yes, thanks to me retrieving the duplicate gown from Beau and having it sent to Caroline for Jennifer.
‘But she needs you there, too, for final tweaks. I’ve used some of the cash to send a car to pick you up and take you straight there. Maybe
your flatmate—what’s her name?—could help you. She seemed a capable girl.’
After our trip to the New Kings Road I’d taken the funds owed to me, and given Mona the rest.
Aargh, I hate myself for being so stupid.
‘But what about Miss P? Who’s going to style her big moment?’ I could feel the all-too-familiar sensation of my stress levels rising. ‘I thought we were going to manage them together?’ It all felt out of control and on such an important day.
Why is Mona doing this?
I just couldn’t fathom what was going on in her head.
‘Don’t worry about Miss P, I had the gowns sent over to her hotel from Smith’s yesterday—her management team will all be there, too. Perhaps you could just pop in on her when you’ve set up Jennifer?’
‘But who’s doing the fitting?’
‘I don’t know yet—leave it with me, just make sure Jen looks incredible. My reputation depends on it. There are plenty of suitable accessories in your suitcase.’
‘Do I have a choice?’ And before I could proclaim that I wanted to pack in this stupid job and open a coffee stall on a beach in a remote part of Mexico—or Margate, anywhere would do; Lord knows I could make a good caffè macchiato by now—she was gone.
I slowly walked back into the lounge, some new lines no doubt already etched on my face.
I’m too young to be ageing this fast.
‘Mona, I take it?’ Vicky could tell from my expression.
‘Reckons she’s got the Norovirus. Pah! She must think I’m a total idiot.’ I folded my arms. ‘She wants me to style Jennifer Astley today. Once again she’s royally dumped me in it, right at the last minute.’
‘But that’s great news!’ Vicky’s face lit up.
She doesn’t seem to get it.
‘Er, no—it’s really not. She also wants me to pop in on Miss P and I can’t be in two places at once. Plus, she’s got all the money from the exchange shop. Aargh, Mona! I’ve never known someone so unreliable. I don’t know how she still has a career.’
Vicky grinned. ‘She has really amazing assistants, that’s how. I’m free today. No Sunday Simon has advantages already, I’ll help you—it’s going to be amazing, dahling!’
The doorbell went. As Vicky flew downstairs, I paced around trying to calm down and formulate a plan. First up, I supposed I had better get dressed—wearing my big bed T-shirt and old ski socks was not conducive to productivity. Secondly, I would sort through the case and pick out some bits to take to Jennifer. At least the gown was a definite; I just had to take accessories and make sure no one was allowed within a mile of her if they were holding any kind of liquid.
Vicky was almost out of breath when she reappeared clasping an open brown envelope.
‘It was a driver, he dropped this off from Mona—it’s full of cash. Says he’s gone to fill up and will be back in half an hour to take us to the Dorchester. Come on, girl, we’ve got a date with Jennifer Astley. I can’t believe I just said that! Man, today’s going to be more fun than I’ve had in ages!’ And she skipped off to her room.
After showering, I changed into my grey Hudson skinny jeans, a black sweater and comfy Uggs, adding a Kenneth Jay Lane gold tiger cuff borrowed from the case at the last moment. We were meeting a Hollywood superstar after all.
Then I went through the case, whipping out all the gowns and leaving a sizeable selection of shoes, bags, jewellery and some spare lingerie—there were plenty of options to set off the Valentino. Vicky emerged, wearing the same black dress she’d had on yesterday. She gave me a twirl.
‘Okay, okay, you look amazing—are you trying to show me up in front of my client?’ I felt a twinge of jealousy. The Star-Crossed dress had a statement gold zip at the back and a small, flattering peplum; the vintage necklace from the market went with it perfectly.
‘May as well see if Jennifer appreciates it,’ she sighed, ‘seeing as Mona probably never will.’ She smoothed the material over her enviable curves.
Damn my gorgeous flatmate.
But there was no time for me to swap clothes because in the street below, a car horn sounded.
When we reached the heavy revolving doors of the Dorchester, there was already a pen of autograph hunters behind railings next to the driveway, ready and waiting to pounce on any emerging megastars. This hotel was a firm favourite with the A-list for the BAFTAs and especially the Americans, who loved its ‘quaint’ British decor, reminiscent of the 1930s, but boasting all the trappings of a modern, five-star hotel in the heart of Mayfair. The reception was bustling with people checking in, waiting for taxis, looking out for people—or pretending to, while they surreptitiously played ‘spot a celebrity’. Bellboys in traditional bottle green uniforms weaved between them, artfully dodging bodies, their trollies stacked with expensive luggage. I spotted Caroline to the side of the lobby waiting for us, wheeled the case towards her and set it down. Vicky hung back. I noticed she
hadn’t bothered wearing a coat today, despite the weather, so her dress got maximum attention.
‘Amber! We’re
so
pleased you’re here.’ Caroline greeted me warmly, both hands clamping on to my arms and a kiss on each cheek. How different to the frosty reception at the Chateau last week. She looked straight through Vicky back towards the doors. ‘Where’s Mona?’
‘Oh. I thought she told you?’ I frowned, trying not to look as though I was about to lie. ‘She’s been struck down with the Norovirus.’
Caroline’s expression was blank. ‘Norovirus? Is there something wrong with her computer?’
‘It’s like a serious flu thing,’ I explained. ‘She’s bed-bound, on doctor’s orders.’ Caroline’s expression turned to grave concern. ‘Oh, it’s okay—I mean, she’s not going to die or anything. But she can’t do anything today, apparently.’
Vicky piped up from over my shoulder: ‘Think flu with added sickness and squits.’ Caroline registered her for the first time, and gave her a look usually reserved for a bad smell. It clearly wasn’t elegant to use a word like ‘squits’ when standing one degree of separation from the Hollywood A-list.
‘This is Vicky,’ I said, by way of an apology. ‘She works at
Glamour
magazine and is giving me a hand today. Mona suggested it, seeing as she’s unwell. Don’t worry, we’re both feeling fine, we’re not infected.’
Smiling, Vicky offered her hand to Caroline. ‘It’s lovely to meet you.’
Caroline declined the hand, but clocked Vicky’s appearance. ‘Gorgeous dress.’ She reached forwards to touch the peplum fabric. ‘Is it Victoria Beckham?’
‘Actually, no, it’s by a new designer—Star-Crossed.’ It
was incredible to witness how a simple garment could break down barriers.
‘Beautifully made, very chic,’ said Caroline. ‘Anyway, ladies, Jen’s in the Harlequin Suite, so we’d best head up—time is ticking.’ We set off towards the lifts. ‘Oh, meant to check—how’s the weather doing out there?’ She paused momentarily, neck stretched towards the entrance.
‘Still hideous.’ We watched the latest flurry of guests being led safely inside under big green Dorchester umbrellas.
‘Shitty British weather,’ she muttered.
We were let into the suite by a woman called Nicole, who introduced herself as Jen’s publicist. She only had to look for a second too long at my Uggs for me to take the hint that shoes were to be left by the door. Vicky looked peeved to have to remove her stratospheric Steve Madden heels, worn especially to set off the dress. As I resisted the urge to do a running skid along the stately walnut floor, I was glad that for once I wasn’t wearing socks with holes in them. A floral scent filled the air and the suite was bathed in a gold, buttery glow from stylish lamps. I peered around some double doors leading to an elegant lounge area, but I couldn’t see Jennifer. Vicky quietly followed me, occasionally nudging a finger into my back, presumably to draw attention to the fact that she was as wowed by the place as I was.
Nicole ushered us into the dining room where, under a beautiful crystal chandelier, a round walnut table was awash with every piece of make-up you could possibly imagine. It was as though the entire Mac counter in Selfridges had been transported here and laid out by someone with an extreme case of OCD. On one side were more brushes than
Leonardo da Vinci probably got through in his entire career; next to them was a row of foundations, powders and all kinds of concealer, and beneath that a line of eyeshadows, neatly presented in ascending order from nudes to browns to metallics and pearls. There were at least six different types of mascara, a host of eyeliners and brow definers and a whole other section of lipsticks, cheek stains and powders, plus more tubes of primer and iridescent lotions than the world’s most decorated drag queen could possibly know what to do with. In one corner of the room a manicurist was quietly packing up her kit, presumably having just worked her magic on Jen’s digits. Next to her, a miniature hair salon had been set up, complete with its own collection of brushes, straighteners and tongs and a free-standing full-length mirror. It was quite unbelievable that all this was needed for just one face.
‘This is Caroline’s kit,’ Nicole explained, as if reading my mind. ‘She works from the same palette each time, so they know exactly what they’re doing.’
So all this stuff is actually needed?
She gently pulled the French doors together and ushered us in close.
‘Here’s the thing,’ she began, giving me a foreboding sense that once again I was about to be told something I did not want to hear. ‘The weather’s diabolical out there and, as a result, Jennifer’s not feeling the Valentino any more. It’s too much of a risk. The fabric is so delicate, it’ll only take one wayward drop of rain or splash-back to spoil the look of it completely. She can’t be photographed with a sodden hemline or wet patches—it’ll ruin everything. And I have to say, I completely agree with her. Remember the year the rain caused the BAFTAs carpet to foam up? It was a skating rink out there. I know, because I was the person patting
Kate Winslet dry in photos across the world’s media the next morning. And I, for one, don’t want to be dealing with a disaster like that again.’
Caroline joined us and nodded in agreement. They both looked at my case. ‘Well, let’s get her open and see what you have that’s more suitable. You brought a steamer, didn’t you?’
Vicky gave a weak smile and looked at the floor. I stared at the case and then back at Vicky. We both knew that the case held no designer gowns, only a myriad of shimmering, sparkling accessories—a magpie’s heaven—to set off, beautifully, a certain Valentino gown; a gown that, once again, seemed unlikely to grace the world’s stage.
If I were that dress I’d be getting a massive complex right about now.
I took a deep breath and decided to come clean.
‘I hear what you’re saying but, the thing is, Nicole, I didn’t—’
Before I could finish my sentence, Jennifer appeared, making us all stop in our tracks. She wafted into the room with her trademark air of calm—the kind of aura that only the biggest, best celebrities emanate. She was wearing a delicate cream silk dressing gown belted around her waspy waist. She barely looked up—she was blowing on her freshly manicured nails. Her hair had been styled into a neat updo that accentuated her delicate features. As the fingernail-waving subsided, she stopped in front of us. ‘How are we getting on, girls?’
‘Great!’ I said, more loudly than was appropriate.
‘Weather’s still abysmal, I see.’ She moved towards the French doors in the lounge area and we all gravitated into the living room behind her. It was a very pretty suite, light
and airy with buttercup-yellow upholstery on ladylike day chairs, a large cream sofa and a white leather pouffe. Minimalist but feminine—a reflection of Jennifer’s own clean aesthetic. She stood at the windows, the outline of her slender, willowy frame silhouetted through the gown, every bit as beautiful off-screen as on it. Without turning around, Jennifer spoke again: ‘I gather Mona is sick, poor bird.’