IN HOLLYWOOD ONLY ONE THING MATTERS … STYLE!

When exclusive London boutique employee Amber Green is mistakenly offered a job as assistant to infamous ‘stylist to the stars’ Mona Armstrong, she hits the ground running, helping to dress some of Hollywood’s hottest (and craziest) starlets. Awards season turns Amber’s life upside down as dazzling designer gowns are paraded on red carpets in Los Angeles, London and back.

Suddenly Amber’s catching the attention of two very different suitors, TV producer Rob and Hollywood bad boy rising star Liam.

How will Amber keep her head? Which man will she chose? And what the hell will everyone wear?

The Stylist is a fast-paced, fun-packed rummage through the ultimate dressing up box.

ROSIE NIXON lives in London and is joint Editor of HELLO! magazine. She previously held senior positions at glossy women’s magazines including Grazia, Glamour and Red. Ever discreet and protective of the big stars she has worked with, Rosie’s experience has undoubtedly enabled her to write her debut novel, The Stylist.

For Callum and Heath

Acknowledgements

I must thank a few people without whom Amber Green and Mona Armstrong would almost certainly not have been brought to life.

My brilliant sister in law and agent, Jenny Savill, thank you for your ideas, encouragement and guidance, your faith in me made it possible and I admire you in so many indescribable ways; to Jill/Ruby Dawson for sharing your expertise – it was fate that we met in Marrakech, you are a true inspiration.

Thunderous applause to the team at HQ, especially Anna Baggaley for believing in The Stylist from the beginning and Alison Lindsay and Sophie Ransom for your enthusiasm and marketing and PR wizardry. You have all been a dream to work with and I am so grateful.

To my amazing husband Callum for not complaining when I spent hours at my screen during any free time and for appearing interested in red carpet fashion; to my incredible mum, for your endless support and holding the baby – literally – so I could get this book finished; to my wonderful friends for all the adventures we have shared which have without doubt inspired some of the situations in this novel. Especially to Chrissie, Mel and Michael, without whom I would have no understanding of what it is like to be monstrously hungover the day after The Oscars. And finally to my beautiful son, Heath, for arriving two weeks late so I could finish writing The Stylist and for being such a good boy as I tweaked it during your first year. There was nothing like the deadline of your arrival to get things done.

Table of Contents

Cover

Excerpt

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Prologue

Part One: London, Pre-Awards Season

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Part Two: Los Angeles, The Golden Globes

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Part Three: London, The BAFTAs

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Part Four: Los Angeles, The Oscars

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Part Five: Hawaii, The Wedding

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Epilogue

Copyright

Prologue

The car door swings open and bright white lights flash before my eyes, blinding me for a few long seconds. Flash! Flash! Flash! Like a firework has been let off at close range. I wait inside the car while she makes her big entrance. Getting out of a blacked-out limousine in an exquisite, glittering gown complete with vertiginous heels is no easy task, even for a seasoned pro. Knees together, swivel hips, feet on the ground, smoothly push up, rise gracefully, and straighten gown and SMILE! A thunderous cheer erupts around us as she emerges—Ta da!—a Hollywood goddess in the flesh. Then come the voices.

‘Jennifer! Jennifer!’

She is under siege. Paparazzi shoot off hundreds of high-resolution frames, their faces hidden behind the long, prying lenses of their black state-of-the-art DSLR cameras. When they get too close to this tall, willowy, shimmering beauty, the minders rush in to hold them at bay.

‘Hey, Jennifer!’

‘This way!’

‘Give us a smile!’

When the flashes subside, I tumble out of the car, dart hastily round it and slip through the entrance, flashing my invitation pass. I crouch down at the side of the red carpet, beside the cold metal crowd-control railings, and sink into the shadows, desperate to keep out of sight. But I’ve been rumbled. An autograph hunter taps me on the head and shoves a glossy photo in my face.

‘Hey! Can you get this signed by Jennifer?’

Another pleads in my ear: ‘Ma’am, ma’am, do you know her? Can you get her to come over?’

‘Yeah, you got out of her car, get her to come here! ‘Others join in, like a chorus of extras in a low-budget film. I pretend not to hear, taking my eyes off her for only a few seconds; time enough to readjust the zip and pull down the hood of my grey towelling sleep suit. I’m breaking into a sweat. I look down at myself, in my deeply inappropriate, stale outfit, and then back at Jennifer in her stunning gown, all clean and super gorgeous. I’m so tired and embarrassed I almost want to laugh. It’s rarely cold in Los Angeles, even on a February evening, and the Oscars—the biggest night in the entertainment calendar—is no place for a pasty British girl in a baggy onesie, flashing her saggy bottom at unsuspecting fans, never mind the world’s paparazzi, who might snap an unexpected exclusive. Inside, I’m seething. Bloody Mona!

Jennifer makes her way along the carpet, spreading pneumatic glamour wherever she goes, thrilling the crowds of fans with high fives and making a point of waving to those at the back standing on their tiptoes, camera phones lifted skywards, straining to catch a glimpse of their idol. She stops to pose for a few photos with admirers, all of them less aesthetically blessed than she is, and an explosion of air kisses ensues. They have to be air kisses, they can’t make actual contact with her skin—she can’t risk a germ and she certainly can’t mess up the immaculate, dewy make-up that took two hours for the steady hand of a leading make-up artist to apply. She signs a handful of autographs, using the black permanent marker pen I have learned to keep in my kit for such occasions.

Soon we are being ushered along the red gauntlet by her bossy publicist, brandishing a clipboard and a firm perma-smile, to reach the main bank of paparazzi. Time to make my move. Pouncing out of the shadows like a leopard stalking its prey, I’m suddenly visible under the bright lights. I dash to the corners of her skirt, pulling down layer upon delicate layer of pure silk scarlet organza, embellished with shimmering beads and tiny sequins that catch the lights, sending sparkles in every direction. It is breathtakingly elegant.

‘Jennifer! This way!’

‘Over here, Jennifer!’

The cries are more urgent now. This is the main photo opportunity.

The paps are penned at least five deep, some standing on stepladders to get the view from above. She takes her time, moving elegantly this way and that, adjusting and tweaking her pose ever so slightly with almost every click. It’s second nature now: right hip lifted, left foot crossed over right, enhancing the natural curve of her body; right shoulder pushed back, chest out, but not too far; left arm on her left hip bone, right arm hanging behind to create a slender profile. Head held high to elongate the neck, face turned slightly to the right to present her best side, chin raised just so for a youthful jawline, belying her forty-something years (she stopped counting at thirty-nine). She is textbook perfect.

‘That’s it, love, nice big smile for the camera!’

‘This way, once more!’

‘Beautiful!’

I look up. Both hands are on her hips now, slender silhouette perfectly shaped by the structured internal corset. Not so tight that she can’t breathe properly, but plenty tight enough. A hint of crystal embellishment on satin sandals peeping out from beneath the gown at the front. Elaborate diamond-drop earrings, worth ten times the gown itself. It’s such a timeless, romantic, pure Hollywood look. Just perfect. I glance back to check the security guard is still with us. He winks back in acknowledgement, earpiece and discreet microphone on the lapel of his slick black suit, ready for action should we run into any trouble. The fine jewellery houses don’t take any risks with a loan this expensive. She moves on, floating down the carpet now, enjoying the attention, gliding gracefully, a beautiful swan. With her honey skin, wide smile and dewy eyes, she bewitches everyone in her path. She’s so mesmerising, it’s actually a little overpowering. How incredible to put a spell on so many people, purely by turning up. On to the bank of waiting press and TV crews. I shuffle back against the railings into the shadows cast by the hazy early-evening sun.

‘Mind out, you’re standing on my cables!’ a small angry American man shouts to my right.

‘Sorry, sorry.’ I inch out of the way. Then I lose my footing, stumbling backwards, and a Japanese woman elbows me in the ribs.

‘Hey! Watch it, miss. You almost lost my sound!’

Aargh, jet lag. I should be asleep by now. More bright lights. This time microphones are being thrust in her face, a barrage of questions thrown from all sides. The faces of the entertainment reporters are so familiar to me now.

‘Jennifer, you look stunning tonight! Who are you wearing?’

‘Is it couture?’

‘Did Mona Armstrong style you?’

‘Can you twirl so we can see the back?’

‘How much are the earrings worth?’

‘Can we get a close-up of your shoes?’

‘Were you influenced by the style of your character in the film?’

‘Do you feel confident about tonight?’

And repeat. Over and over again, for entertainment shows from Boston to Beijing and everywhere in between. Finally we reach the entrance to the Dolby Theatre—and my phone vibrates in my pocket. But it’s not the person I’m aching for it to be, and I’m disappointed. One text from him and this would all be exciting again—another crazy night in la-la land to chew over and laugh about later on. The onesie would give him plenty of ammunition. And though I’d protest, really, I’d love every minute. Instead, it’s from Mona: Are you with Jennifer? Seriously? Bit late now. But I’ve learned it’s best not to reply when I feel like I do right now.

As Jennifer is swept into the auditorium to deafening applause, thousands more flashbulbs and some ear-splitting whoops, I discreetly make my exit wondering how I ended up in this circus, in a slightly smelly onesie. Oh, if only this was just a bad dream …

Part One: London, Pre-Awards Season

Chapter One

We gathered on white stools around the cash desk as Jas, our boss, delivered the news.

‘It’s about Mona Armstrong.’

Kiki’s eyes lit up. This sounded infinitely more interesting than a discussion about who was responsible for the smelly lettuce in the fridge. And her short attention span, after years of social media abuse, meant she really needed to concentrate.

‘I’ve had a call from an assistant director at 20Twenty, the production company,’ Jas explained.

Her motley crew—the staff of Smith’s boutique, consisting of Alan the security guard and the store assistants, Kiki and I—listened intently.

‘They’re making a pilot episode for a reality show about Mona,’ she continued. Kiki flashed me a told-you-so look, but I pretended not to notice, willing her to topple off the stool.

‘The working title is Mona Armstrong: Stylist to the Stars, but for now they’re calling it The Stylist.’

Big Alan was the only one of us who blatantly wasn’t bothered about this news. But it didn’t come as a complete surprise to Kiki or me—style bloggers had been buzzing about the pilot for several weeks, and Kiki had been monitoring the situation closely. Her latest bulletin, gleaned from various fashion blogs and breathlessly delivered over her daily litre of Super Greens, had informed me the show was ‘rumoured to be airing on an American network in the coming months’.

Mona was one of the few things Kiki and I bonded over. You see, Mona Armstrong was not just any old stylist, like the ones you saw on daytime TV turning Sharon from Wolverhampton into a sort of Sharon Stone. She was Britain’s most famous—make that infamous—celebrity stylist; a personality in her own right, thanks to her minuscule frame, achingly hip, self-coined ‘boho riche’ dress sense, and close friendships with most of the names in Tatler’s Little Black Book.

Now, just a few hours later, it had suddenly become a reality. My reality. Little did I know today’s news was about to change my life, forever.

‘The TV guy—Rob, I think—asked if we can keep it to ourselves for now,’ Jas went on, the American twang to her English accent a reminder of her two decades working as a top New York model. ‘That means no Instagram, Twitter, Facebook, nothing—they need to keep it under wraps until the network has confirmed.’

But that wasn’t the half of it. ‘Oh, and the 20Twenty crew want to come to the store tomorrow to do some filming, with Mona, as she prepares for awards season,’ Jas said, ‘so it’s highly likely we’ll appear in the pilot, too.’

Kiki and I looked at each other. I stifled a giggle—laughing was my default when I didn’t know how to react. Kiki’s jaw had dropped so low it looked like it needed a stool of its own. Jas carried on, ignoring the mounting hysteria emanating from her staff.

‘We’ll each have to sign a release form, in case we’re in a shot the TV people want to use, and a non-disclosure agreement—an NDA.’

Kiki surreptitiously pulled her iPhone from the back pocket of her tight grey Acne jeans and held it in her lap, her finger hovering over the blue bird icon.

‘Release forms and NDAs are legally binding,’ Jas added, pointedly.

Sucking in her cheeks, Kiki turned the iPhone over. Updating her followers would just have to wait. But this was big news for both of us. In fashion circles, Mona Armstrong was a legend. AKA a #Ledge.

‘The Stylist crew will be here to set up at eleven tomorrow, and Mona will arrive soon after,’ Jas continued, already off her stool and itching to get to work. ‘So we need to get this place looking camera-ready. Amber, can you refresh the windows—let’s go monochrome. And Kiki, work with me in store.’

We nodded as the enormity of the situation began to sink in. This visit to the boutique, on a Tuesday morning in late January, was to be Mona’s first this season, just before awards season kicked off in Los Angeles with the Golden Globes. Mona’s visits were always an ‘event’, even without TV cameras rolling, so this was set to be off the scale. Kiki, visibly about to burst at the seams of her skinny jeans, couldn’t hold it together any longer.

‘Oh. My. God. A camera crew! What the hell are we going to wear?’

We both cracked up. Kiki and I were both obsessed with Mona, though for different reasons—Kiki from a bona fide fashion perspective (she would regularly study the minutiae of Mona’s outfits, to an extent bordering on OCD). For me, it was more of a morbid fascination. I wondered how she could function on a seemingly liquid diet of Starbucks, water and champagne. (There were no paparazzi photos in existence that showed her eating. Fact.) But what could not be denied was that Mona’s celebrity power was off the scale. Practically a celeb in her own right, the careers of the stars she counted as friends were built on column inches secured through the clothes she’d put on their skinny backs. For up-and-coming fashion designers, she was a ‘dress trafficker’, able to kick-start a label simply by placing their creations on the model of the moment. Yes, in our world, Mona was massive news, so it wasn’t surprising that today we were bordering on hysterical. What will we be like tomorrow?

On the morning of Mona’s visit, Smith’s was a flurry of activity as we vacuumed, steamed, straightened, dusted and generally tarted the place up. In the centre of the shop was a loosely set noughts-and-crosses board of square leather pouffes and two small glass-topped tables holding Diptyque candles and mineral water—though a glass of champagne was offered to those who looked like they had money to burn. This was one world where you mostly could judge a book by its cover. You could spot our customers a mile off: latest It bag hanging off her arm, rarely wearing a warm coat (who needed one when you cab-hopped around town?), sunglasses whatever the weather, breezing around in a delicious cloud of expensive perfume. Some of our best clients, many of whom were old friends of Jas’s from her catwalk days, frequently stayed in the shop for hours at a time, chatting, gossiping and, of course, buying clothes, especially once the champagne flowed. One regular recently bought the entire Chloé collection on a whim following four glasses of Perrier-Jouët rosé.

‘Her head will be aching tomorrow,’ Jas commented, as the woman left the store with eight immaculate shiny white Smith’s bags tied with bows. ‘But she won’t bring anything back. She’d rather die.’

Smith’s did that to women who were usually highly self-controlled. The thought of spending nearly two thousand pounds on a few items of clothing, in one shopping trip? It made my eyes water. I still couldn’t comprehend what it must be like to inhabit a world where a cheap bag cost three hundred pounds. That was almost half my rent for a month! But working at Smith’s, it had begun to feel like we were ringing Monopoly money through the tills.

Of course, most of the store’s reputation was down to its owner, Jasmine Smith—an elegant, fifty-something ex-model with cheekbones that make Kate Moss’s look fleshy. Jas’s talent for spotting a bestseller on the crowded runways of New York, London, Milan and Paris was second to none. But it was her skill in mixing up cutting-edge items from the designer collections with carefully chosen pieces from the debut lines of the fashion stars of tomorrow—often fresh from their Central Saint Martins graduation show—that had made Smith’s the most successful, long-running, independent luxury fashion outlet in central London and a destination for stylists and shoppers alike. ‘God is in the detail,’ is Jas’s mantra, and neither Kiki nor I would dare argue.

I was often mesmerised by my chic manager and her stylish customers. It was only now, after working here for the past twelve months, that I felt just about cool enough for this store. The truth was, I got the position by default. It was originally offered to my fashionista best friend and flatmate, Vicky, who then got her dream job as assistant to the fashion editor at Glamour magazine. I was temping at the time, which everyone knew was a fast track to nowhere, so she passed this job to me, and Jas said yes.

Until this position, I was more your average Debenhams devotee and Gok Wan fan. Topshop was my fashion frontline and Armani simply the fragrance my parents gave each other for Christmas. Yep, beneath this shiny new surface, I am one hundred per cent fashion fraud. I often see the real me, in the form of typical Westfield shoppers, peering into the window of Smith’s and looking confused.

‘Recession’s hit hard, this place is halfway to closing down,’ they remark, passing on by. At first glance, the shop’s white walls and oh-so-sparse rails might look as though we’re missing half our stock or have fallen victim to a Bond Street raid. But, as I have swiftly come to learn, true fashionistas know differently. The hardcore style set have Smith’s in their Smythson address books because this boutique is a fashion landmark.

Once you step through the glass doors and enter the inner sanctum, you are in an Aladdin’s cave, featuring a small, fully alarmed section of haute couture, rails of hot-off-the-catwalk pieces and Jas’s ‘ones to watch’. Either side of the cash desk stand two tall, highly polished, glass jewellery cabinets, filled with rings set with rare gems, shoulder-grazing earrings, waspish friendship bracelets and sparkling necklaces in pretty, contemporary designs, boasting price tags to make even the most fearsome fashion director pause. Then there are It bags, killer heels, painted pumps and chain-mail belts dotted around on white plinths and shelves, each presented as a unique work of art. Everything is to be admired, stroked, Instagrammed, Pinned, oohed and aahed over by every passing customer in turn. Smith’s has it all. But only in small doses.

‘Nothing makes an item more covetable than if you have to sit on a waiting list for six months before you get it,’ Jas informed me early on. The minimalist interior is down to our strict instruction to put only one of every design onto the rails. Of course, mostly, it’s just an illusion—we have all the sizes, colours and crops in the stockroom, downstairs in the basement, which is the size of the shop floor again but packed with polythene-wrapped clothing. It’s a clever ploy; thinking your size isn’t available only makes you desire something more. And then when we pop out of the stockroom, excitedly exclaiming, ‘You won’t believe it, Mrs Jones! We do have a 14 after all!’—well, they’re already punching in their PIN.

Of course, the hefty price tags at Smith’s are very real. That’s why, like most of the high-end store managers, Jas employs a full-time security guard to watch over the stock—in our case, a burly silver fox affectionately known as ‘Big Al’. He works here full-time, patrolling the boutique and keeping a trained ex-army eye on the very expensive items, which have actual alarms fitted. Though his six-foot-four frame doesn’t suggest it at first, he’s a teddy bear at heart and, like me, is now able to offer an informed second opinion on an outfit if a customer requires it. In fact, despite the fact he’s happily married with two grown-up children, Big Al loves the opportunity for a gentle flirt with a ‘lady who lunches’, especially when she’s in a quandary over whether to plump for the DVF wrap or the Hervé Léger body-con dress. He must be nearing retirement age, but when he removes his stiff guard’s cap to reveal a full head of salt-and-pepper hair, and you notice his bright blue eyes, it’s easy to imagine Big Al was a heartbreaker in his day. You’d be surprised how many phone numbers he’s had surreptitiously thrust into his big, capable palms. Uniforms really do work.

As for me, I know that, in Jas’s mind, what I initially lacked in fashion credentials, I gained with my ‘artistic eye’. My art foundation course wasn’t going to turn me into the next Tracey Emin, but it had given me the confidence to believe I knew what looked good when it came to dressing the shop, and the windows had become my specialist area. Our visual merchandising isn’t on the scale of the world-class windows at London department stores—Selfridges, Liberty or Harrods. But, for a bijoux boutique just off Bond Street, right in the heart of London’s designer shopping enclave, our little shop and its two bay windows gets a lot of attention.

On the morning of Mona’s visit, we had all come in early to ensure the store looked more dazzling than ever. I’d even brushed the shag-pile rug—a first, even in our bonkers little world. The candles sent an intoxicating aroma of gardenia into the air, and the room-temperature Evian and best cut-crystal tumblers were set out. Mona didn’t do Buxton or ice cubes, I discovered to my cost the first time I was dispatched for water without having received this important memo. And Kiki had spent the past ten minutes painstakingly assembling a pyramid of dark chocolate truffles on a white porcelain saucer next to the till (not that anyone was likely to eat one). Big Al was watching her with a mixture of awe and amusement.

‘Dare you to take one from the bottom, Amber,’ he whispered as I passed.

When I started at Smith’s, Kiki had given me a crash course in preparation for a visit like this. Kiki was two years older than me, and boy did she let me know it. She’d been working at the boutique for nearly three years, and she was Jas’s senior assistant. For me, the job was a full-time stopgap while I searched for a ‘proper’ career, ideally in visual merchandising, but Kiki adored everything about it. Waif-like, effortlessly hip and permanently looking as though she’d stepped off the pages of i-D magazine after a huge night at The Box, she had bags of attitude and I was intimidated by her from day one—a situation she seemed to relish. At first sight of me, Kiki had taken it upon herself to educate me in the intricacies of the fashion scene, because I so evidently needed it.

‘There’s a major hierarchy in the industry,’ she explained, as I sat on a box of Diane von Furstenbergs once during stocktaking. Though she claimed to hail from the East End, Kiki still had a clipped, public school voice.

‘At the top are the designers—the holy grail of Valentino, Giorgio Armani, Donatella Versace, Stella McCartney, Dolce & Gabbana and so on. Beneath these are the A-list stars who wear the designers’ creations on red carpets everywhere from Hollywood to Cannes, at the Golden Globes, BAFTAs, Oscars, collecting gongs at all the glitziest bashes. And beneath these are the stylists, who do all the real work, getting them red-carpet ready and securing their appearances on “best dressed” lists around the world. Sod the little gold trophy—it’s making those lists that really counts. A stylist like Mona Armstrong can make or break a celebrity with a sheer gown or a statement accessory. Remember when Angelina’s leg pose at the Oscars went viral?’ I nodded, sagely. ‘But can you remember who won any of the awards that year?’ I shrugged. My lecturer smiled appreciatively. ‘Of course you can’t. It was a moment that went down in red-carpet history.’ She leaned in conspiratorially. ‘But what works for one could be a horrendous fail on the poor cow who can’t pull it off. It’s a cut-throat world out there and styling underpins it all. Make no mistake, Amber, a celebrity without a stylist is like Kylie Jenner without her pout. We shut the entire shop when Mona comes in to choose pieces for her clients—it’s beyond fabulous. But don’t get carried away, it gets really, really stressful in the run-up to awards season. I ate a cheese baguette once.’

It must have been stressful, because it wasn’t hard to guess why Vicky and I had nicknamed Kiki the Stick Insect, or lately just the Stick. I often saw her downing pints of pond-water-looking liquid from recycled water bottles—her famous Super Greens—and the work fridge was always stocked with bags of lettuce and bean sprouts that she snacked on during the day or, more often than not, went off, causing a hideous stench that I would regularly have to clean up. Only once did I see her pick at something vaguely calorific—a lavender macaroon—and that was only because it had been sent in by the fashion editor at Bazaar and she wanted to #Instafood it.

Kiki was hardly coming up for air during this particular lesson.

‘Seriously, Amber, it’s ah-mazing when Mona comes in—she’s been dressing the big names like Jennifer Astley and Beau Belle for years. And if they wear an outfit Mona’s borrowed from Smith’s, when the fash mags come out and we’re credited Jas is on cloud nine. It’s sooo good for business. But it’s not only the red-carpet stuff. I mean, it was Mona who introduced the whole gypsy trend we’re seeing now.’ She fluffed up her billowing sleeves to illustrate the point. ‘The second Beau went shopping on Rodeo Drive wearing a peasant skirt and crochet top—literally all the high-street stores were knocking out rip-offs within weeks. Mona is that powerful.’

I quickly learned that the Stick had a major fashion crush on Mona, and by this particular January day I was well versed in the life of the super-stylist.

As usual, I had spent most of the morning being bossed around by Kiki, before being directed by Jas to finish off the windows. I loved the narrow wooden ‘stage’ between the bay windows and the store—a small space that might have felt claustrophobic, but was a beautiful blank canvas to me; somewhere I could create an image of the woman all our customers wanted to be. Dressing the mannequins, I’d follow Jas’s chosen ‘Look’ from the stack of look books the fashion houses provided with each new collection—usually a ring-bound folder containing photos of a series of models posing in a white studio wearing the label’s latest designs. Really it was window dressing by numbers, but because we held only edited versions of the collections at Smith’s, to my delight, Jas would often let me add personal touches—an edgy accessory or eye-catching shoe—to bring the ensemble to life. We changed the windows on a Monday, once a fortnight, to stop them feeling stale. This week we had refreshed them specifically with Mona in mind—they had to be ‘wow’. Jas had instructed me to put a strictly black and white outfit on each of the two mannequins, a look we then made ‘pop’ with one statement accessory; a bright green leather cuff on one and a stand-out red clutch under the arm of the other.

‘Our girls look stunning today!’ she declared, before suggesting the footwear I should add to each model’s perfectly smooth size seven plastic feet—one was to wear black and the other ivory heels, completing the monochrome vision. As I admired my handiwork from the street outside, I mulled over which pair of shoes should go on which mannequin. Not bad for a morning’s work.

‘Am-ber!’ Kiki trilled from the doorway, breaking the spell. ‘You forgot to steam the Stella!’ Jesus Christ, does she ever let up? Three perfectly pressed Stella McCartney jumpsuits later, Jas conducted a final walk-through to ensure everything was just so. And then, decked out ourselves in on-trend outfits (borrowed from the store for the duration of Mona’s visit; our slim wages could never afford the real thing), we were ready to welcome fashion royalty.

Bang on time the assistant director, Rob, arrived. He skidded on the shag-pile and almost slipped over, making me want to giggle.

‘Great entrance there, well done, Rob,’ he said, quickly composing himself and catching my eye as he laughed it off. My internal laughter then gave way to a fear that the highly polished floor/fluffy rug combo might actually be a potential death trap. What if Mona breaks her leg? Rob pushed a strand of floppy brown hair behind his ear. When he came round to shake my hand, I became aware that my palms were sweaty.

‘Are you responsible for these gleaming floors?’ he quipped.

My cheeks flushed. Despite wearing new season Jonathan Saunders, I still resemble the resident skivvy. How? ‘Sorry about that.’

‘You’d better hope Mona’s put the cheese-grater over her soles,’ he replied. ‘Unlike me.’

I laughed nervously. There was a familiarity about him.

Kiki gave me a withering look. ‘That’s what people on TV do,’ she informed me, loud enough for Rob to hear, ‘to stop them slipping on the studio floor.’

‘I know,’ I lied.

If she was trying to show me up, I didn’t really care. I was more interested in Rob taking off his jacket. He pushed up the sleeves of his grey jumper revealing what looked like the beginning of a tattoo on his upper arm.

Rob was the first to arrive of the team of three. The next, sporting a directional dyed red bob and wearing thick, black-rimmed glasses, was introduced as Fran, the director. There was also a long-haired, lanky bloke carrying the camera, who went by the name of Dave. I inwardly christened him Shaggy. I wondered if, like us, Fran and Rob had put on their most fashion-conscious clothes for Mona’s benefit, or whether they always looked so media cool. As word went round that ‘She’ was about to arrive, Rob hurriedly took down our contact details and had us each sign a release form and NDA. I barely read the words; I was too busy concentrating on trying not to do anything embarrassing.

Today, as ever, you could spot Mona’s sunglasses before you saw the rest of her. Huge, round Prada shades, covering at least half of her small, elfin face, came bobbing down the street, swooping towards the store like a large fly. Light chestnut boho waves with streaks of caramel blonde cascaded around her shoulders; now a flash of matte coral lipstick came into view. She was only average height, even in towering heels—in fact she was more shades and curls than actual person—but in the fashion world, she was God. She paused to take in the windows; I felt a prickle of excitement, hoping she liked what she saw. She looked the mannequins up and down, but her sunglasses hid any kind of facial expression. At last, Mona entered our pristine temple of style. As she made her entrance for the camera, Jas, Kiki and I simultaneously clocked a turquoise cocktail ring the size of a golf ball on her petite index finger. Behind me, Kiki let out a gasp.

‘YSL, new season,’ she whispered, as if we were observing a rare exotic bird.

And then the front door was locked, the shop sign switched to Closed, the French blinds rolled down and we pulled up ringside seats at the Mona Armstrong show. Of course there was no real need to pull down the blinds, to the average person, Mona was just an eccentrically dressed, extremely thin, seemingly ageless woman in OTT sunglasses. But in the world between these four white walls, she was the high priestess.

According to Kiki, my main tasks during this particular visit would be to silently hold clothes for Mona, refrain from taking part in fashion small talk (I wasn’t qualified), try to keep off-camera (not photogenic enough, presumably) and above all, concentrate on not tripping up in the stupidly high Nicholas Kirkwoods I’d made the mistake of thinking I could walk in (hello, bunions).

I’d been fully briefed that Mona’s long-time assistant, Tamara, would do most of the running around, trying things on, holding items to the light and offering opinions on the season’s hottest threads. Blonde and long-limbed, able to pass for a model herself, Tamara was a well-known face on the fashion circuit, too, having been Mona’s assistant for several years. She was the only person—other than Jas and Mona—who I had ever seen the Stick try to make an effort for. When Tamara had once retweeted Kiki (‘Smith’s is now stocking Roksanda! #Ledge’), she’d been bouncing off the walls for days. Today she was more exhilarated than ever about Tamara’s visit because apparently there’d been some rumours among the fashion Twitterati that Tamara might be on the verge of setting up on her own—that it was actually her who had been dressing some of Mona’s regular clients. She had even been snapped spending New Year on board a yacht in the Caribbean with none other than the BAFTA rising star—not to mention former regular client of Mona’s—Poppy Drew. Plus, there were hints that Tamara, instead of Mona, would be dressing the actress Jennifer Astley for awards season this year, where she was hotly tipped to win a slew of Best Supporting Actress awards. But that’s just gossip.

Until today, when Tamara was nowhere to be seen.

Chapter Two

Since Mona entered the store, Jas had been doing most of the talking. They’d begun with the customary detailed appraisal of each other’s outfits—the way peers traditionally greet each other in fashion land.

‘Mad about the ring …’

‘Those shoe-boots …’

‘You lucky cow, you’ve got the Balenciaga leather pants! Isn’t the stretch amazing …’

‘I must get your colourist’s number.’

‘Loving the matte nails. Is it gel?’

And so on. Then they finally got down to the juicy stuff.

‘No Tamara today, Mona?’ Jas asked.

Mona responded by handing her Pradas to Rob, who took them politely. Massaging her temples, she completely ignored the question. The Stick and I tried, unsuccessfully, not to gawp. We felt like we needed to drink up everything about her: her clothes, her shoes, her hair, her skin, which had the kind of pearly sheen that only really expensive make-up could achieve, her whiter-than-white teeth, her bag, her jewellery, the way she moved, her voice. If we weren’t so fearful of her, we’d have gone up and given her a good sniff all over, too. There was an intoxicating musky aroma around her, beginning to settle in the air. Everything about Mona was absurdly fascinating.

‘Well, just let me and the girls know what we can do,’ Jas offered, leading her over to the clothes rails. The Stick gave me a gentle prod in the back, a signal that I should get into position, ready to hold clothes.

As Mona began to rifle through the latest Stella McCartneys, Fran with the bob shouted, ‘Action!’ Shaggy sprang to life and so did Mona, chatting animatedly to Jasmine. She really knew how to turn it on for the cameras.

‘It’s only Tuesday and this week’s already a fucking nightmare, Tamara’s gone and left me right up shit creek. The silly bitch handed in her notice this morning.’

From her language, I made the assumption that this was to be a post-watershed pilot. Fran with the bob raised an eyebrow and Rob bit his lip.

‘This morning. Can you fucking believe it? I go for the bloody Globes tomorrow. That girl’s out of her mind if she thinks she’ll last two minutes doing awards season solo. Oh wow, look at the Stella jumpsuits, aren’t they divine? I’ll definitely take a couple of these.’

Mona had no problem with multitasking. Between slagging off Tamara and gushing over the clothes, every so often she pulled out an item from the rail and handed it to me, standing with arms outstretched like a forklift truck, by her side. I wasn’t sure if I was actually in shot, though a little part of me hoped I was; just a bit of my dress or, ideally, the beautiful shoes. Loads to tell Vicky about tonight.

‘But honestly, Jas, what the hell am I supposed to do? I’ve got at least twenty global superstars wanting me to dress them over the next week, and only a few days to sort the whole frigging lot out—I’ve got photo-calls, cocktail parties at Soho House, premieres—not to mention the awards themselves. She could not have done this at a worse time.’

Jasmine, too cool to play up to the camera or be drawn into slagging anyone off, was trying to offer some comfort, shaking her head and nodding empathically in all the right places, whilst calmly directing Mona back to the clothes and the job in hand.

‘You poor love—how will you get through it? Have you seen the new Lanvin?’

‘Oh, I’ll do it, all right.’ Mona looked directly into the camera lens for effect. ‘Nothing comes between me and my superstars. But at this precise moment, it’s so unfunny, I actually feel like screaming.’

I glanced over towards the Stick. Brow furrowed, she was totally immersed in Mona’s plight, feeling her pain. Does she know she’s folded and refolded that mohair jumper three times? The 20Twenty crew huddled around Mona, filming her intently. Fran with the bob was chewing the end of her biro while Rob held a boom mic just above Mona’s head.

I wondered if they’d shot the fateful scene with Tamara handing in her notice earlier in the day. I wouldn’t have liked to be in her shoes when she told Mona the news. Jas began motioning Mona over to her ‘Ones to Watch’, concern etched across her delicate features.

‘What a total nightmare. But surely you have some girls you use in LA, Mona—is there anyone I can have Kiki call for you? Kiki, honey!’

The Stick immediately dropped the jumper and rushed on-set, almost skidding to a halt on the shag-pile in front of Mona. Damn—it would have been entertaining to see her take a dive. Her box-fresh Kirkwoods were clearly as uncomfortable as mine. The camera and boom turned to her. Idly, I wondered if the Stick was Rob’s type.

‘No, darling—there’s no one I can call.’ Mona turned away, barely registering Kiki. ‘Loving this though—what’s the label?’

‘Star-Crossed, she’s a recent graduate, will show at London Fashion Week,’ Jas informed her, pulling a couple of cocktail dresses from the rail.

‘Hmm.’ She moved on.

Mona then turned her gaze to the front of the store. Kiki retreated, crestfallen, her small-screen debut over before it began.

‘That reminds me,’ Mona continued, ‘the windows. I’m loving the monochrome, but what you’ve done with the shoes is inspired.’

Jas and Kiki both looked at me, puzzled. We all joined Mona at the side of the bay windows. My cheeks began to heat up as I racked my brains. What could have happened to the shoes? The shaggy cameraman headed towards the front of the store, too, Rob lifting cables behind him. Kiki and Fran followed. Surreptitiously, we all strained to see the feet of the two mannequins standing exactly as I’d left them, with their backs to us behind the glass facade. The burning sensation in my cheeks turned into a wave of panic as it hit me like a cold, hard slap in the face—I’d been standing outside, looking at the mannequins from the street, when the Stick had screamed for me to come in and finish steaming the jumpsuits. I’d meant to come back to them, but got distracted by Mona’s arrival … Oh God … I’d left one white and one black shoe on each mannequin’s plastic feet.

I feel sick.

‘Which of you is responsible for the mismatched shoes?’ Mona asked.

I shuffled uncomfortably, knowing I had nowhere to hide. I wanted to open the door and run far away from here; just keep on running until I found a bush to hide under in Regent’s Park, or a cardboard box in an underpass. I wanted to be at my parents’ house—better still, my grandma’s flat. Somewhere no one would find me. Jas and the Stick both looked in my direction, frowning, willing me to speak, lest Mona should think either of them had messed up the display.

‘Come on, don’t be shy,’ Mona urged, searching our faces.

The camera’s big, nosy lens pointed towards us. I hated Shaggy for putting me on the spot like this with his horrible, ugly camera. And I hated Rob and Fran even more, for not stopping him. Eventually I plucked up the courage to speak.

‘It was me, Mona, I …’

‘The monochrome vibe, it’s so fresh, so relevant,’ she said. ‘But what you’ve done with the shoes—j’adore! You’re a genius, girl.’

Is she having a laugh?

Before I could say it was a hideous mistake that I had meant to fix, she was gesturing to the TV crew. ‘Have you got this, cameraman?’ She ushered Shaggy closer to get a good view of my stunned, blotchy face.

‘Babe, it’s a brave statement,’ she continued, ‘but you totally nailed it. The odd shoes grabbed my attention straight away.’

‘They did?’

Luckily for me, Mona doesn’t listen to other people’s doubts.

‘And that’s what this business is all about. You don’t gain column inches by blending in with the crowd. You’ve got to wear a look with conviction, you’ve got to stand out, kick it up a notch. Mixed up monochrome has a buzz to it—it’s the perfect way to inject some attitude into a cocktail look or get noticed on the street. It’s cheeky and playful—seriously, it’s reinvention at its best. Loving your Kirkwoods, by the way.’

The camera zoomed in on my (matching) pair of too-tight suede and metal heels. They were amazing, all right. Amazing at cutting off the circulation to my toes. I winced.

‘Jas, you’re a lucky woman to have this talent on your team.’

I still didn’t know whether she was being sarcastic or not, when she said: ‘I’ll take odd pairs of Sandersons, black and white, in all the sizes you’ve got.’

When I dared to glance in her direction, the Stick looked as though someone had handed her an envelope marked ‘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 number on here.’ She thrust a Smith’s business card from a pile next to the candles into my sweaty palm.

‘You’d better ask Jas if you can go home and pack.’

‘Oh wow—really? Thank you, Mona—thanks so much. I won’t let you down! I absolutely promise.’ She almost looked like she wanted to give me a hug.

Should I smile into the camera now? Surely this is TV gold! I suddenly realised what I was doing and stopped. ‘Excitement is deeply unsexy,’ Mona had recently stated in an interview with vogue.com—an interview Kiki had printed out and pinned to the office wall. The office Jas was coming out of right now. I’d almost forgotten I already had a job and a boss—a very nice boss, at that. I averted my eyes, entrusting Mona to handle the situation.

‘Well, babe, seems like good old Amber Green has come to my rescue.’

‘Amber?’ Jas turned to me, confusion creasing her face. Don’t blow it now, please, Jas. The camera was still rolling. I suddenly felt guilty for putting her on the spot like this—not only with Mona, but in front of a TV crew, with a potential audience of tens of thousands.

‘Amber here,’ Mona said, ‘our traffic warden turned window dresser extraordinaire, Amber has offered to come to LA to help me survive the Globes. She only needs a two-week sabbatical. That’s all right with you, isn’t it, Jas, babe? There’ll be credits aplenty for Smith’s with your star pupil out there!’

Jas paused for a moment. I wanted the camera to stop and the rug to swallow me up.

‘Of course it is. Amber’s a lovely girl and very creative. Mona, you’ve landed on your feet.’ Jas turned to look at me and for the first time ever I sensed a slight look of annoyance spread across her pretty features. ‘Just don’t have too much fun, okay?’

‘Okay.’ Does that mean I’ll have a job to come back to? I daren’t ask. Certainly not with this bloody camera in my face.

And that was it. In less than five minutes I’d gone from shop girl to ‘window dresser extraordinaire’ to temporary employee of Mona Armstrong: Stylist to the Staaars! The deal was sealed with an air kiss from Mona and then the cameras stopped for the day.

‘Nice one,’ Rob said, as he gathered their kit together. ‘Congrats on the new gig.’

‘Thanks … I think,’ I blushed, busying myself neatening up the rails as I tried to take it all in.

‘We’ll see you in LA, then.’

I was holding open the door for the TV crew when a cold, stressed Stick approached balancing a cardboard tray of coffees.

‘Hope I didn’t miss much,’ she said.

There isn’t an emoticon to cover it.

Chapter Three

As she sipped her coffee, Mona didn’t have to tell us that it was barely warm—we already knew. She sent an equally chilly look in the Stick’s direction. I felt sorry for Kiki as she picked at her black painted nails; even her Pucci dress seemed to have lost its playful, voluminous look, and her face had the pained expression of someone whose actual soul had been crushed. Yes, hands up, I’d had nasty thoughts about the Stick from time to time. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t willed heavy, studded bags to fall on her head on more than one occasion. But now I started to feel sorry for her. The hours we’d spent preparing the shop for Mona’s arrival suddenly felt like a long time ago—a distant land where expectations were high and fashion-fever reigned; a place where the Stick and I were almost friends.

Prada shades back on and a mirror check as she prepared to leave the store, Mona turned to me one last time: ‘Oh, and, Amber? Pack your coolest clothes. Blacks, whites, neutrals are best. I need you to blend into the background. Directional footwear optional.’ She smiled, sunglasses conveniently hiding her facial expression once more, though I would have put money on a wink. ‘Think Blake Lively over K. Middy. We’re talking Los Angeles, babe, it’s a whole different fashion landscape to London. And the weather rarely dips below twenty-five.’ The Stick grimaced.

The idea of packing my ‘coolest clothes’ was already sending me into a panic, as was the weather. Just what my pasty half-Scottish skin needs. I doubted I had time to fit in a spray tan. ‘There’ll be a lot of running around, so bring flats as well as your killer heels.’ ‘Your killer heels’. Mona Armstrong thinks I’m a stylista who owns killer heels. I’ve really pulled the cashmere over her eyes.

I pictured my wardrobe at home, wherein hung a cacophony of Zara, H&M and Topshop, plus some precious vintage finds gleaned from eBay (strictly under Vicky’s supervision) and, at the bottom, an overflowing shoe rack stuffed with footwear in all colours and styles, not to mention various states of disrepair. It was a collection that had suited my life perfectly well up until this moment, but I somehow doubted it was up to Mona’s standards. Plus the only understanding of ‘killer heels’ I had right now were the Kirkwoods currently killing my toes.

‘But most importantly,’ Mona continued, ‘don’t forget your kit.’ The Stick folded her arms tightly, revelling in the knowledge that not only did I not own a kit, I probably didn’t even know what one was.

‘No, babe, I’m not talking about your gym gear.’ Mona smirked, reading my mind. ‘You know—the bits and bobs we need to make it all work.’

Hmm. I’d heard Tamara mention ‘the kit’ on previous visits to the shop, and had regularly noticed her delve into a well-used leopard-print vanity case, and come up bearing bulldog clips to cinch a dress together at the back. I also thought of Jas’s bottom drawer in the office: a veritable emporium of tit tape, gaffer tape, Sellotape—every kind of tape known to woman—plus plasters, chicken fillets, cotton buds, Party Feet, pop socks, a sewing kit and a host of other goodies that surely kept the Bond Street branch of Superdrug in business.

‘Of course,’ I replied, glancing at the Stick. And then Mona was off, big sunglasses, bouncy hair and thin, leather-clad legs springing straight into a taxi.

Now there were just the three of us, plus Big Al, left in the store. Normally, following such a visit, Jas, the Stick and I would all sort of crumple onto the pouffes, kick off our heels, attack the truffles and champagne and erupt into a fevered discussion of what had just gone on. The Stick would dissect Mona’s outfit, generally loving everything about it, and I’d think I should love it, but that most of it was plain weird; Jas would debate why she picked some items and not others, and we would all shriek with laughter. Big Al would feign disinterest, but he’d eventually crack, and chip in with a comment like ‘What that woman needs is a roast dinner.’

But today, Mona left nothing in her wake but an awkward silence. And it was all my fault.

Throughout my final exchange with Mona, I had felt the Stick’s eyes drilling holes in the back of my head, correctly sensing she had missed something important while she was queuing for coffee like a work experience flunky. I knew full well it should be her going to LA in the morning. The Stick had the experience, the knowledge, the look—she was born to be Mona’s assistant. She idolised the woman. And then there was Jas—my kind boss, put on the spot like that. Left with no option but to step aside and let a member of her staff be poached before her eyes. I began to wonder if it was really worth it, if I was more cut out to be a traffic warden or a teacher after all. If I should do the honourable thing—step aside and offer the job to the Stick or simply tell Mona it was all a horrible mistake and stay at Smith’s. But something stopped me. Another voice in my head tried to rationalise: this was the Stick’s comeuppance for all the hours I’d spent sweating next to the steamer because she didn’t want to risk her make-up; for the way she looked at me when I thought that Erdem was the name of a Turkish pop star, rather than the hottest designer on the block. I thought of Jas and her look of confusion when she saw the mismatched shoes on the dummies. She must have known it was an accident, but was too polite to embarrass me while I had the camera eyeballing me. And then I threw it back in her face by moonlighting with Mona. I’m going to hell, for certain.

I pulled myself together, stood taller and took a deep breath. What’s done is done. And besides, perhaps now it was my turn to prove that I could do it, actually; that styling was my calling and Mona the person to nurture my talent; that I could make it in fashion, on my own merit. Yes, I’d show the Stick you don’t need to slink around being too hip for Hoxton and live off pond water to get ahead. Either that, or I’m a fraud—and not only a fraud but a horrible, selfish person.

If only I’d put opposite shoes on the mannequins on purpose.

It was beginning to sink in that a) I might not have a job to return to, but b) my prospects for the next fortnight were looking up dramatically. I finally had an opportunity to be excited about—I couldn’t wait to update my Facebook status. It might even be worth joining LinkedIn! I just had to find myself a kit and pull together a suitcase of cool looks that would get me through a fortnight in the entertainment capital of the world, because I, Amber Green of Greater London, was going to Los Angeles in the morning.

If this had been a film, with Jennifer Lawrence playing me, she would have punched the air when my feet, now comfortably clad in Uggs, hit the street outside the boutique that day. However, because this was not the movies, and because Jas had been uncharacteristically cold and the Stick had spent the rest of the day blanking me—bar the occasional tut—the mood was subdued. She broke the silence in the stockroom, as we layered-up for the cold, by taking the unusual step of suggesting we walk to the tube together. Perhaps she wanted to continue blanking me in the outside world, too. Having spent the entire afternoon fastidiously busying myself with my usual shop duties and doing all I could not to look halfway near as excited as I was beginning to feel, I had been planning to bolt bang on six. My phone was burning a hole in my pocket. I was desperate to call people, to scream, to see Vicky—to make it all real. The last thing I needed was an uncomfortable three-minute walk to Bond Street tube with a furious Stick.

It soon transpired that far from starting a Dynasty-style bitch fight in the middle of South Molton Street, her tactic was indeed to continue ignoring me. Finally, as we turned the corner into Oxford Street, she spoke.

‘Bet you’ve had the best day ever?’

‘It’s been unusual, that’s for sure.’

‘So, she just told you you were going to LA, just like that?’

‘I think she was just desperate to get someone to replace Tamara.’

‘And my name didn’t even get mentioned?’

‘No. I mean, yes, it got mentioned, but you weren’t in the shop.’

‘So you went for it while I was out of sight?’

‘It wasn’t like that, Kiki.’

‘Didn’t you think you should tell her the shoes were an accident?’

Pass.

‘God, this is such a joke!’ She spat the words out.

‘Listen, Kiki, I don’t think it mattered to Mona if it was you or me. She just wanted someone—anyone—to help.’

‘Didn’t Jas tell her about me? How much more experience I’ve got? Didn’t she put up a fight?’

‘Would you fight Mona Armstrong?’

‘If it was worth fighting for, I would.’

Ouch. I stopped walking. ‘Kiki, I hate this. Shall we grab a coffee and talk about it properly?’

Kiki marched on, turning only briefly to shout over her shoulder: ‘Coffee? Is that supposed to be funny?’

‘Sorry, I forgot. Honestly, Kiki, Jas didn’t have a say in it. We both know I’ll probably get the sack after a day …’

But Kiki was more than a bit narked. She was angry.

‘It’s fucking ridiculous, that’s what it is. What does she think I am, a bloody skivvy? You should have gone for the coffee.’

‘Why—because I am a skivvy? A pointless skivvy who should have listened to your orders and kept her mouth shut the whole time Mona was in the store?’ Now my blood was starting to boil, too. ‘Perhaps, Kiki, just perhaps, Mona sent you for her coffee because she, like me, thinks you’re not a very nice person. A person who’s been so busy putting me down and bossing me around, she’s never actually spared a thought for how I might feel—about anything—until I suddenly got something you want. Until now. Well, you know what? Fuck you, Kiki. You’re a pathetic, skinny Stick Insect and I’m very happy I won’t have to see your thin face, or have to look at your pond water, or clear your stinking lettuce out of the fridge, or steam another piece of fabric because you can’t be bothered, because I’ll be in LA with Mona Armstrong, styling the stars.’ Hah! ‘Oh, and don’t forget, you signed an NDA so none of this can be repeated to anyone. Otherwise you’ll be sued. Hasta la vista, Stick, I’m off home to pack my killer heels.’

Of course I didn’t actually say that. But it was very real in my head. I’ve never been good at confrontation, so, in real life, I tried to bury the feelings of guilt currently making my stomach churn, and tried a change of tack.

‘That guy Rob seemed nice?’

‘I preferred the shaggy one.’

Au contraire.

We walked the final few steps in another awkward silence, both ranting inwardly. I decided against asking her opinion of what I should pack or if she had a kit I could borrow. The atmosphere between us was eating me alive, so I fibbed.

‘I think I’ll get the bus today. I need air.’

‘Fair enough.’

She didn’t even look me in the eye.

‘I guess I’ll see you in a couple of weeks, then.’

‘Yeah, if Jas will have you back.’

And she was gone, skinny jeans and dip-dyed hair lost in a crowd of commuters, probably heading to a Shoreditch pub to break her NDA and slag me off with some East London hipsters. I hope the NDA police are sitting at the next table.

When I had safely turned off Oxford Street onto Manchester Square—when I could be sure that neither Kiki nor Mona nor any TV cameras were spying on me to see if I was displaying any embarrassing, high-spirited emotions—I did what every twenty-six-year-old in possession of her best job offer ever does: I phoned my mum.

‘Are you walking again?’ she asked, before I even said hello.

For some reason my mother has an aversion to me walking and talking. Probably because I always seem to phone her when I’m in transit.

‘I’ve just finished work.’ I stopped in the street and cupped the phone, to block out some of the traffic noise.

‘It’d be nice if you phoned, just for a chat, when you weren’t on a noisy street, on your way somewhere, that’s all …’

‘I know, Mum. Anyway, guess what?’

‘You’re coming to see us this weekend?’

‘No …’

‘We’re coming to see you this weekend?’

‘Afraid not. I’ve got a new job!’

‘That’s fantastic news, darling! A proper one?’

‘It’s in fashion!’ Quiet on the end of the line. An indication that my mother does not view this as news of a proper job. ‘I’m going to be a celebrity stylist. Well, I’m going to be an assistant to a celebrity stylist—and she’s the celebrity stylist—I’m going to be Mona Armstrong’s number two. Well, I think number two.’ Maybe I’m her number ten? ‘I don’t actually know what my job title is. It’s a two-week thing.’

‘I thought for a second you’d decided to do the teacher training course …’

Not again.

‘Darling, there’s not much security there. Jasmine’s happy to let you come back, is she?’

Why can’t she just be excited for me?

‘I’m flying to LA, tomorrow. For the Golden Globes!’

Another heavy pause.

‘Mum? Did you hear that? I’m going to the Golden Globes!’

‘Golden Globes, what’s that? Some kind of Californian fruit growing contest? Don’t tell me it’s a beauty contest, you know I …’

‘No, Mother. It’s one of the film industry’s biggest awards ceremonies, and I might be dressing some of the winners. I’m probably going to meet Jennifer Astley!’

Was I really saying those magic words?

‘Jennifer who?’

Being a lawyer, my mother doesn’t pander to the ins and outs of celebrity culture or the awards-season calendar, let alone share my enthusiasm for what dresses the stars might or might not wear during it. Instead, most conversations with her involve her checking I have the relevant paperwork for something.

‘Does this Rhona have insurance? You’ve got travel insurance, have you, sweetheart?’

‘Yes, I think I have insurance.’

‘Think, darling? You need to have it for sure.’

‘Yes, Mum.’

‘And you’ll definitely have a job when you get back, will you? Rent doesn’t pay itself, and you can’t leave poor Victoria in the lurch.’ You’d never have guessed this person had the eccentricity to name her child after a traffic light, would you? Once upon a time my mother must have had a sense of humour.

‘I know, I know, anyway, I need to get myself sorted out. Just wanted to let you know. I’ll call from the airport if I have time.’

‘Good luck, sweetheart, I’m proud of you. Just be safe, okay?’ Though my mother rarely gives me any praise for my achievements—and granted they have been limited so far—for some reason I continue to seek her approval, because somewhere deep down it really matters. I tried to ignore a slight pang in the pit of my stomach. I couldn’t face telling her the real circumstances and risk her disappointment in me, too.

‘A fortnight you’re going for, did you say? That means you’ll miss Nora’s performance next week,’ she continued. ‘Well, take care, and beware the Hollywood prima donnas. Remember, this fame thing—it’s all smoke and mirrors. Keep your feet on the ground. And please check you’ve got insurance. Your father will sort it out if you haven’t. Promise me, Amber?’

‘Promise. Give Nora a squeeze from me. Love you. And Dad.’

Nora is my older sister’s overachieving five-year-old, who is already the best in her ballet class and seems to have a recital of some kind almost every week. If we were an American family, she would probably resemble one of those scary over-made-up, disco-dancing, grown-up-looking kids you often see on freaky cable documentaries, their hair pulled back into such a tight bun they can barely blink. Poor Nora. There are already far too many performance photos of her in existence.

‘I love you, too, sweetheart. Check your insurance.’

I hung up. Straight after I called Vicky, my flatmate and oldest, bestest friend since we bonded aged five at ballet class.

‘I’ve got a job!’

‘What? You’ve already got a job?’

‘A proper one! Well, a temporary one. Actually a two-week one. But a possible career one! You’re not going to believe the day I’ve had. It’s been mad.’

It was so great to tell Vic the story—I was like a pressure cooker of exploding excitement, at last able to let it all out. I couldn’t stop talking. When I finally paused, out of breath, her response was the one I’d been waiting to hear all day.

‘Are you serious? That’s bloody amazing, honey! You lucky cow! Oh my God, I’m so jealous I can’t bear it. I feel sick! What was she like? Was she not a bitch, then? What was she wearing? Is she pretty? How much better looking than SJP on a scale of one to ten?’

This is why we’re best friends.

‘She was actually really nice, well, kind of nice, in a stand-offish, scary way, and tiny, so much smaller in the flesh. But actually really pretty. She had on these tight leather leggings and a T-shirt, Chloé, and these amazing black shoe-boots, tons of bracelets. And this ring, it was huge and turquoise, new-season YSL.’ Vicky was gobsmacked, taking it all in. For once I sounded like I knew what I was talking about. Perhaps I can do this after all.

‘And guess where I’m going in the morning?’

‘Not Mona’s house—don’t tell me she’s got a miniature dog she wants you to walk?’

‘Nope. Well, yes, I am going to Mona’s house—but not the one in London, the one in Los Angeles, baby! I’m going to the US of A because I am Mona Armstrong’s assistant for the Golden bloody Globes!’

I had decided that Los Angeles sounded more grown-up and glamorous than LA. And I couldn’t help wanting Vicky to be wowed by my new high-flying fashion status. It was generally her going to cool events and fashion shoots in exotic locations, so for once it was nice to share some fabulous news of my own. Cue screaming.

‘Oh my God, it’s too much! I’m going to faint!’ I love Vic. ‘Come home immediately—we need to discuss this in great detail.’

‘Just getting on the tube. See you in half an hour.’

‘Oh, and did you pinch my Mulberry? Either you’ve got it or we’ve been burgled, I’ve been looking for it everywhere.’

‘Er, yeah, sorry about that … I needed to look good today. The Stick noticed it.’ Before she wanted to kill me. ‘I’ll bring it home safely now.’

As I hung up, my elation was tinged by the return of a deep nagging sensation. I couldn’t even admit to Vicky the exact circumstances in which I got my break.

Just before I walked down the escalator at Baker Street, my phone buzzed. Unknown number. Mona’s PA? I hesitated for a moment and decided to let it ring to answerphone, thinking I’d call back at the other end, when I might be able to detect from her message whether the PA sounded like an uber-bitch or not. And then a much more exciting thought popped into my head. Maybe it’s Rob? He’s looked up my number from the NDA. He wants to do some additional filming with me—take me to Selfridges to choose a few outfits for LA … Too late. Missed Call.

I got to Kensal Rise quickly. A year of taking the tube twice a day had made me an expert commuter, adept at standing behind the yellow lines on the platform at exactly the right spot to match the doors when the tube arrives, and then standing on the correct side of the carriage to be the first off again. During the journey I mulled over the packing situation. It was a major worry. But Vic would be able to help. She didn’t get the fashion assistant position at Glamour under false pretences. I have always been in awe of how quickly Vicky can put together an outfit and look like the chicest person in the room. ‘Naturally stylish,’ Jas regularly comments, surveying her fondly, whenever Vicky comes to meet me from work, and it’s been that way since we were at school together; she even made train tracks and a tight perm look good. I don’t think anyone has ever said those words about me. I’ve come to accept that, for me, looking fashionable will be more of an effort. I hereby vow to make dressing myself part of my job.

When I reached our flat, circumnavigating the build-up of junk mail and spare rolls of recycling bags in the communal hallway, Vicky was standing in the living room, straining to see over her shoulder into the mirror to admire her near-perfect rear in a pair of eye-wateringly tight pale blue jeans.

‘Do they look ridiculous, hon? Can you see my love handles over the top? I fell in love with them in the fashion cupboard, but now I’m worried. I wonder what happens if circulation to your arse actually stops?’

‘You get a numb bum. They look amazing, honey, really. You’re probably the only person I know who could get away with jeans that tight. Honestly, you look sensational.’

‘You would say that.’

‘No, 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?’

Part Two: Los Angeles, The Golden Globes

Chapter Four

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, babe. Best sleeping pill there is. Everyone in America uses it. Drop it now and you’re guaranteed a few hours.’

Unfurling my fingers, I looked at the small round pill. It didn’t look too alarming, but I decided to snap it in half, just in case. I’d always been told it was unwise to accept drugs from relative strangers—especially ones you suspected were of dubious sanity. And then I thought sod it and swallowed both halves. After she had left us again, the man next to me shuffled uncomfortably. ‘Did you see that camel toe?’

I chuckled. He had a point.

‘And that melatonin shit—they don’t sell it in the UK, you know. Made from sheep’s brains.’

‘Too late.’

Sheep’s brains or no sheep’s brains, I was going to Tinseltown, and there was a guy who bore more than a passing resemblance to Robert Pattinson a few rows in front. For all the Hermès in Harrods I wouldn’t swap places with anyone right now.

The one benefit of having a monstrous hangover on a flight was the ability it conferred to glaze over and, as it turned out, sleep. Maybe it was the melatonin, but I managed to nod off for a few hours. Arriving in LA—Mona in her third outfit of the day, a cool, cream Marni shirt dress and ballet pumps, and me still in my first outfit—skinny jeans, ankle boots, black American Apparel sweater (which Mona eyed disapprovingly and I was paranoid was starting to smell)—we made it through immigration without difficulty. This was ‘a bloody miracle’, according to Mona, who had given me strict instructions to bat my eyelids, smile and pretend to be dim, should I be asked any difficult questions, like what I was doing in the United States of America. I wouldn’t be lying if I responded, ‘I’m not entirely sure ‘.

‘They nearly always question the excess baggage,’ she explained, as I pushed a heavy trolley piled high with the rest of her Louis Vuitton luggage, Vicky’s battered suitcase, plus two huge, smart, hard black cases full of clothes for the suite, towards the car-rental centre.

We were soon in the mid-afternoon sunshine, top down on the hired, fashionably eco-conscious Toyota Prius convertible, whizzing up La Cienega and heading towards Mona’s second home in the Hollywood Hills. The warm breeze licked at my face and whisked my hair high into a Mr Whippy before throwing it down again to lash against my cheeks. With Vicky’s Ray-Bans on—she won’t even know, it’s winter at home—and a slick of lip gloss hastily applied in the airport loo, I was feeling surprisingly good. As we cruised up wide, palm tree–lined roads, a cheesy Ronald McDonald smile spread right across my face. The sight would have made Mona wince, but she was too busy shouting at the in-car phone, which was failing to acknowledge any of her instructions. I crossed my arms on top of the door, leaned out and breathed it all in. The air smelled sweet and biscuity. I love it here already.

A trio of honey-skinned girls, who looked as though they’d stepped straight off the set of the latest Abercrombie & Fitch ad shoot, pulled alongside us in a convertible jeep. I wondered if they were the kind of women I’d soon be hanging out with at the W Hotel. They were intimidatingly pretty, all golden Californian perfection. Wait a minute, wasn’t one of them a Kardashian? Could be. Probably is. I can’t wait to tell Vic about this. I caught myself staring. And then a wave of panic rippled through me: Will I be able to fit in here? Suddenly I felt like my teenage self again, the slightly overweight girl with spots and home-dyed hair, denim dungarees and plastic clip-on earrings, who ate her dinner without removing her CD-Man. I bet none of the Abercrombie girls have had bad hair or been overweight in their lives. I bet they were allowed to get their ears pierced as soon as they could talk. The car screeched as we sped around a right turn, on a red light.

‘Mona! Didn’t we just—’

‘Oh, sweetheart, you’re so funny. This is America, remember? It’s perfectly legal to go right on a red.’ I sunk back into the seat, not convinced. ‘Chill out! No need to call the traffic police, Amber Green.’ She laughed to herself and I gripped my seat belt, saying a silent prayer that we would make it to her house alive.

Wiping a bead of sweat from my forehead, another, more pressing thought dawned on me: I may have packed very badly. I realised all at once that I was beyond boiling in my outfit. And I had a nasty feeling that, thanks to my hungover packing, I’d forgotten to chuck the white pile into the suitcase. My heart rate quickened, and my body felt clammier still. This meant I had brought with me an almost exclusively black, winter, working wardrobe—a look better suited to the role of a Black Sabbath roadie about to embark on a tour of Siberia than a cutting-edge stylist preparing for awards season.

I glanced back at the Abercrombie girls. None of them were wearing black. They were wearing spaghetti-strap candy-coloured vest tops and light denim, with delicate, layered gold necklaces to enhance their tans. They looked cool and clean, everything I currently was not.

Finally, we crossed Sunset Boulevard and followed a winding road, climbing steeply into the hills. The words to ‘Sunset Boulevard’ played over in my head. The Lord knew I’d listened to the soundtrack enough times, always in the car with Dad tunelessly singing along. Oh, how apt they seemed today.

Sunset Boulevard, twisting boulevard,

Secretive and rich, a little scary.

Sunset Boulevard, tempting boulevard,

Waiting there to swallow the unwary.

Mona began pointing things out: ‘That house over there, behind those gates, that’s Keanu Reeves’s. We used to share a gardener. And that one is Jennifer Aniston’s old place, before she moved in with Justin. She hasn’t sold yet—maybe she’s hedging her bets. Moby’s got an architectural house way up there and if you keep going down that road, eventually you reach the Playboy Mansion.’ I ooohed and aaahed in all the right places, not even having to feign excitement. It was just like being on a film set as we glided past Mulholland Drive and spied beautiful mansions nestled in the nooks of the winding hillside roads. I imagined Hollywood heavyweights like Sylvester Stallone and Bette Midler tucked away behind the security gates, wearing silk dressing gowns, reading scripts or dictating updates to their autobiographies in sumptuous living rooms.

‘Up there—’ I craned my neck skywards ‘—is Madonna’s house. I’ve been to parties there. Insane.’

‘What happened?’ I attempted to make conversation, but Mona ignored me. I was learning fast that any chit-chat was strictly on her terms. Idly, I wondered how old Mona was and where she was born. I knew so little about this woman currently driving me off into the Hills to stay in her home. I guesstimated mid-to-late forties. Birthplace? I had assumed London, because of her English accent, but now I wasn’t entirely sure.

She was on a roll. ‘Christina Applegate walks her dog around here every day, and see that tree? That’s where Lindsay Lohan crashed her car. And before you ask, no, the Hollywood sign is not near here, it’s the other side of Hollywood Heights. So touristy, though—you won’t want to do that.’ Oh. I’d been quite looking forward to posting that particular photo of myself on Facebook.

Eventually we pulled up on Mona’s driveway, in front of a magnificent, large Mediterranean-style house with terracotta tiles on its whitewashed walls. It was the kind of house I’d own in my fantasy life. Beneath us was the most incredible view of the sprawling city and the smog cloud above it. It was out of this world. I felt speechless.

‘Amazing view, hey, babe?’

I breathed it all in. Beats the sight of Scrubs Lane from my window at home.

‘It’s incredible.’

Inside Mona’s house we were greeted by a zebra skin rug. I hesitated.

‘Don’t panic, babe, no need to Tweet the WWF, it’s fake.’

A wisp of a girl wandered into view. She had long, thin brown hair and was wearing a pale yellow bikini under an oversized white T-shirt with the words ‘Relax Don’t Do It’ emblazoned across the front in shouting black capitals.

‘Amber, this is Klara. She’s staying here while she takes over the modelling world. Isn’t that right, Klara, babe?’

The girl smiled. She was a natural beauty, her face completely bare of make-up. She was younger than me, maybe twenty maximum. And she was thin, so thin. Her pale legs seemed to go on forever. She was like a kind of miniature giraffe.

‘Thanks, Mona,’ she replied softly, in an English accent, before slinking off again through some large glass doors at the end of the open lounge area onto a patio, and was that a swimming pool behind? It is! My insides did the Macarena.

‘The great thing about having models as tenants is they hardly eat anything,’ Mona revealed, the girl out of earshot as we made our way into the heart of the house, which opened up into a large living area.

‘All I do is stock up on peanut butter and rice cakes, leave some fresh coffee and grapes in the fridge and they’re happy. They don’t even need milk for coffee. Klara’s been over from London staying the last six months, on and off, and I’ve not seen her eat anything but rice cakes and grapes the whole time.’

The girl had slipped some denim shorts over her bony thighs and sauntered back into view. Exotically beautiful, she looked a bit sleepy, dazed, not quite ‘with it’. Maybe she had just woken up—I wasn’t exactly feeling dynamic myself. Mona beckoned her over.

‘Come here, Klara, babe, let Amber see you properly. You’re looking gorgeous. Tell us, when are we going to see the new Burberry campaign?’

The girl moved across to the vast open plan kitchen–diner area to the right of the high-ceilinged lounge, and we followed, leaving our suitcases in the hallway. Klara sat on one of the breakfast stools, pulling her long legs up and hugging them into her chest. My eyes darted around the room, taking it all in. It was filled with more shiny white kitchen cabinets than I would ever know how to fill. A thick black marble worktop with inlaid sparkly bits went around in a horseshoe, above which hung three modern white-and-chrome statement light fittings that shed circular shafts of light onto the wide breakfast bar.

Mona followed my line of vision.

‘It’s filled with Swarovski crystals, babe. One of a kind.’

Klara plucked a grape from a large bowl on the top and began carefully peeling off its skin.

‘It’s stunning,’ I uttered, running my hand across the welcome, cool surface. I wanted to put my flushed cheeks on it, too. Everything was so sparse and clean, I felt like I was messing up the feng shui just by being here.

‘Anyway, tell us some gossip, Klara?’

‘It’s been awesome, Mona,’ she replied, barely transferring her attention from the half-bald grape. She’s about to tell us something exciting, but is showing absolutely zero signs of enthusiasm for it—Mona has trained her well.

‘I was shooting with David de la Valle last week—it went on into the night and then we all went to Soho House and had espresso martinis while we watched the sun come up. Leonardo DiCaprio was there.’

‘Lovely Leo, I met him once when he was dating that supermodel,’ said Mona. ‘Did he chat you up?’

‘Yeah, we chatted, but he isn’t my type. I prefer Harry Styles.’

Leonardo DiCaprio, not your type? Vicky will go nuts! Though I could only assume Klara was more engaging when she was actually being chatted up by a Hollywood heartthrob. Maybe I’ll end up bumping into Leo while I’m here.

Mona cackled with laughter. ‘Oh, darling, you’ll meet Harry soon enough, I’m sure. Won’t she, Amber?’ She elbowed me in the ribs.

I smiled awkwardly. I had absolutely no idea how to add to this conversation, my closest previous celebrity encounter having been when Jas offered Orlando Bloom shelter from the paparazzi by letting him into the stockroom. Or there was that time I walked past Helen Mirren on Mount Street. Mona looked at her chunky gold Rolex.

‘Maybe you should go unpack and freshen up?’ Oh great, so I do actually smell.

As I made my way back to my case, I was intercepted by the arrival of another woman, who had let herself into the house. At barely five foot, stocky and Hispanic, she was Klara’s diametric opposite.

‘Ah, hel-lo, Ana!’ Mona shouted, though the woman was barely a few feet away. Maybe she has a hearing problem.

‘Mona,’ came the reply, in a clear American accent. ‘How was your flight?’

‘Oh, you know, high, long, tedious. This is my new assistant, Amber Green. Like the traffic light.’ Klara sniggered. At least I don’t spend my time peeling grapes.

‘No Tamara, then?’ Ana asked.

‘No.’

‘I liked Miss Tamara.’

I liked Ana straight away. She already appeared to be one of the few people who wasn’t afraid of Mona.

‘Will you show Amber to her room, please?’

‘You work for Mona, then?’ I asked, as we made our way up some white stairs leading off the central hallway, Ana insisted on lugging my suitcase despite the fact that she looked older than my mum.

‘Yes, I’m her housekeeper,’ she replied, a little out of puff.

‘How long have you worked here?’

‘Fifteen years.’

‘Wow, that’s a long time.’

‘A very, very long time,’ she replied wearily. ‘When Miss Armstrong was married.’

‘Right, of course.’

I suppose she expected me to know this intriguing piece of information already. In fact, I felt a little ashamed that I knew almost nothing about my landlord and boss. I was desperate to hear more, but Ana didn’t seem to want to elaborate, and we had reached our destination at the end of a white corridor lined on either side with black-and-white photos of Mona, in various states of gushing ecstasy, with numerous celebrities.

Blake Lively, Jennifer Lawrence, Kristen Stewart, is that Nicole Scherzinger? In another—Jennifer Astley! I made a mental note to come back and study them in detail later on.

My room—one of five barely used guest rooms, it transpired—was nicer than any hotel I’d ever stayed in. The animal-print theme continued with a faux leopard-skin rug on the floor, and there was a big, soft, cream throw and at least half a dozen cream and caramel scatter cushions on the king-sized bed. There was a large, tasteful black-and-white line drawing of a sitting woman’s naked back on one of the walls and a black-and-white photograph of Grace Kelly on another. It was understated, but girly and cool. I loved it instantly. There were two windows in the room, one of which looked out over the driveway and the other the side of the garden, but if I opened it and stuck my neck out, I could just about see twinkling water.

There’s a pool! I texted Vicky. But then I deleted it. I didn’t want her to think I was showing off. But wow, this is The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills come to life!

Peering out, I could see Klara, sitting cross-legged on one of the loungers around the swimming pool, tapping at her iPhone. The pool was circular and very inviting. It definitely wasn’t the kind for swimming lengths. There were six loungers around it, with black-and-white-striped cushioning over them—one of them with a long, thin wet patch in the middle, presumably where Klara had been basking after a dip. The sun was beating down strongly. I was aching to strip off and get into the water.

‘Miss Armstrong will meet you downstairs in twenty minutes,’ Ana instructed.

I opened my case and began sorting through the mass of crumpled black clothing within it. I had indeed forgotten the white pile. You idiot, Amber. It seemed ironic that I was going to be living for two weeks with one of the world’s top stylists and I had absolutely nothing to wear. Maybe I’d be able to go shopping. I wondered if Mona would ever loan clothing to her staff, like Jas did sometimes, but something made me doubt it. Then I noticed another door leading off the room. I pushed it open and discovered a gleaming, cream en suite bathroom complete with a roll-top bath, a wet shower area and one of those big sinks with a large mirror above it and plenty of space to pleasurably lay out all of your cosmetics, as if you were a professional make-up artist. I started unpacking my case, refolding and hanging up clothes, putting everything into the spacious walk-in closet with far more care than I had taken when packing, and wishing I had a wardrobe on this scale at home. It was practically the size of my entire bedroom. My black capsule collection looked even more pathetic, filling only a tiny area. Mental note to self: reorganise wardrobe as soon as I get back.

The quiet was suddenly interrupted by a loud phone conversation going on downstairs on the driveway. It was Mona, and she wasn’t happy. I inched closer to the open window.

‘Notice period? I’m sorry, darling, but there is no notice period. You never signed a contract. Remember? … Well, expect to hear from my solicitor, too, if you want to take it further … Bring it on … I’ve got Amber now, she’ll do it … You’re swiftly losing any chance of a decent reference, Nathan … You’ve lost the reference … I already have the itinerary.’

And then the conversation came to an abrupt end.

‘Fucking prick.’

The front door slammed shut and I heard Mona’s heels on the polished white floor indoors. I slid down the wall, coming to rest on my bare heels. I really wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of a conversation like that. But before I had time to dwell on it, I was summoned.

‘Amber, babe, all unpacked up there? We need to get going!’

I guessed that asking for another ten minutes so I could at least have a ‘whore’s bath’—what Vicky called a quick, cold top and tail from the sink—wasn’t an option.

‘I’ll be down in two!’ I yelled back.

Feeling weak and out of body from the flight, there was nothing I could do but whip off my stale jeans and jumper, put on the one black denim skirt I had managed to pack, a black vest top, black ballet pumps, a heavy application of Mitchum under my arms and fly downstairs.

Chapter Five

‘So here’s the thing,’ Mona said as we sat in the Prius en route to the W Hotel, she in yet another outfit, copper waves tamed in a loose ponytail and a headscarf while she drove. ‘You’re going to be doing some PA duties for me, too. I had to get rid of Nathan.’ She paused. ‘He had bad energy.’ She put her foot down, accelerating hard, clearly unwilling to divulge any more details about the second member of staff she’d parted company with this week. Bad energy. As the breeze lashed my hair against my face, turning it into a tangled mess, I wondered what this actually meant. Will she think I’ve got ‘bad energy’ too?

‘No problem, I’ve done plenty of PA stuff for Jas,’ I offered diligently, with as much good energy as I could muster. It was only a white lie. I had turned into Mona’s big-eyed, eager-to-please puppy. Yet I had an overwhelming feeling that I would always be just one accidental widdle on the carpet away from getting the sack myself. Well, how hard can PA duties actually be?

‘Great. First, I need you to call the TV people. I told you they’re coming to the suite to do a bit of follow-up filming for the pilot today.’ Er, no, you didn’t. Do you think I’m Derren Brown?

‘They took the plane out this morning, too—the Virgin one, all a bit lastminute.com. But it’s a good sign—they must think the network is interested in commissioning the series. Isn’t that fabulous?’

I gulped.

‘The AD, Bob, was it? The cute one. His number’s in my phone, under “TV”. I said you’d call when we were on our way.’

She handed her unlocked iPhone to me without taking her eyes off the road, which was lucky because it meant she couldn’t see my award-winning impression of Gwyneth Paltrow’s face after discovering she’s eaten a non-macrobiotic canapé. I wasn’t sure what scared me more—the fact that the TV crew was already here, in LA, or that Mona thought Rob was cute. ‘What are you waiting for, babe? Give him a call.’

Hastily, I located the number, and it rang, the long, foreign ringtone leaving me in no doubt that he was indeed this side of the Atlantic. My heart started pulsing hard, taking me by surprise.

‘Hello, Rob speaking.’

‘Oh, hi, Rob—it’s, um, Amber here, calling for Mona Armstrong.’

‘Hi, Amber, great to speak to you—we were just wondering when Mona would call. Wonder if you’re feeling as out of it as I am!’

He instantly put me at ease. I pictured him smiling into the phone.

‘Yes, I am pretty tired.’ I sideways-glanced at Mona, who flew across an amber light, laughing. ‘Amber Green!’

As we sped along a wide six-lane carriageway, glass-fronted shops and parked cars whizzed past. I saw very few actual people on the pavement; it was so different to the packed streets of central London.

‘All right, babe, stop flirting,’ Mona barked. ‘Just let the guy know they should make sure they’re with us by at least five, because Beau Belle’s due soon after. She’ll be perfect for the show.’

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.’

‘It’s a pig.’

‘You’re not an animal lover, AJ?’

‘Mona’s asked for you. I’ll take over from here.’

I handed him the lead and headed back inside, where an area had been lit with a bright, free-standing light and the camera was trained on Mona and Beau going through the rail.

‘You can afford to go more cocktail for the pre-events,’ Mona was advising, holding up a cute on-trend floral cocktail dress from Oscar de la Renta, ‘but you still want to make an impact.’

‘Hmmm, I know it’s very now, but florals are not the new me, Mona, I’m trying to get more serious roles. Do you have anything sexier or edgier, maybe?’

Beau had taken off her hat and fur now and you could see just how slight she was—the human version of her teacup pig.

‘The camera adds ten pounds, you know—everyone will be thin beyond belief,’ Mona had warned me earlier, when I remarked on how miniature all the clothes appeared. ‘No one in Hollywood is larger than a size two sample.’

‘There’s this sexy Dolce & Gabbana,’ Mona said, pulling out a glamorous leopard-print, stretch-silk dress. ‘I’ve got the perfect Dolce cuff and clutch to go with it. Trey will go wild!’

‘Sold! I love it!’ Beau exclaimed, holding it to her chest and turning on that million-dollar smile for the camera.

‘Why don’t you try it on, along with the Oscar de la Renta, just for comparison? Amber will help you.’

Mona directed her towards the bedroom door and beckoned me over to the accessories table, to load up with suitable ‘finishing touches’—a thick, studded gold cuff and matching clutch, plus some black Jimmy Choos with buckles around the ankle and a delicate pair of high gold sandals. I prayed she wouldn’t ask me to try them on first, knowing full well that my size seven sausages wouldn’t have a hope in hell of squeezing into those delicate beauties. The film crew headed to the terrace for a break and I noticed Rob tickle Pinky under the chin en route, muttering, ‘All right, mate?’ The movement made the muscles flex in his upper arm. I quickly looked away, scuttling across the living area to the bedroom.

After tentatively knocking on the door, I was ushered in by a semi-naked Beau, the leopard dress at her svelte hips, revealing her ample bust encased in a turquoise lace bra. She had big boobs for a girl so slight; I wondered if they were fake. That was something Vicky would have been able to deduce instantly—one of her favourite hobbies was pointing out boob jobs. Beau wriggled as she pulled the dress up around her shoulders.

‘Give me a hand with the zip, would you?’

I struggled slightly to do it up, it was skintight even on her bony frame.

‘There we go. Oh wow …’

She surveyed her perfect physique in the wardrobe’s floor-to-ceiling mirrors, flicking her luscious locks, and turning left to right and back again. I undid the buckles on the Choos, ready for her petite feet to slip into them like Cinderella. Then a loud twinkling sound emanated from her bag, lying on the hotel bed.

‘Chuck me my Burberry, would you, babe?’

I stretched across to retrieve it, thinking how surreal this all was. She delved into the bag to grab her iPhone and looked at it in silence for a moment; then she slumped down and sat on the edge of the bed.

‘Shit.’ She fixated on the phone, reading the message again, then whispered: ‘You absolute shit.’ And then she buried her head in her hands and burst into tears. I looked away, feeling uncomfortable. Has she not got a part? Maybe the casting agents don’t think she’s cut out for ‘edgy’ after all? She began pumping air out of her mouth in short, sharp breaths, like a woman in labour. Perhaps it was helping her fight back the tears. Has someone died? Talk about #awkward. Then, phone still in her hand, she appeared to steady herself and stood up decisively, smoothing the dress over her washboard stomach and miniature hips, and resumed admiring herself in the mirror. Seconds later, her phone rang. She lifted it to see the caller’s identity, then threw the handset down, hard, on the duvet behind her.

‘Fucking asshole!’ She hurled herself onto the bed after it, crumpling the dress and letting out a shriek not unlike the sound Pinky might make if you accidentally stood on his trotter. Then she buried her head in the pillow and began to wail.

I looked up from the corner of the room, where I had been pretending to busy myself straightening a curtain. A noise like that meant I couldn’t ignore her any longer. Cautiously, I inched closer.

‘Um, is everything okay?’

She thumped the duvet. ‘No, it is not!’ she screeched, turning onto her side to face me, as I stood, hesitantly, by the side of the bed. Her eyes were red, make-up smudged, and the ivory pillowcase now sported two charcoal grey blotches and a dab of cherry lip gloss. Was this a prima donna hissy fit because she was last on the waiting list for the new Chanel bag? Such things did actually happen … A loud thud made us both look at the door.

‘Is everything all right in there, Beau?’

Her big blue eyes fixed on my own and, in them, I saw genuine fear. She waved her arm at the door, signalling she didn’t want AJ to intervene.

‘Yes, we’re fine, thanks, AJ!’ I shouted back. ‘Just a stiff zip!’

‘All good!’ she seconded. At least he’d know I hadn’t murdered her or anything.

‘Okay, well, we’ll see you out here.’ I heard him move away.

‘Thanks, honey, you’re a babe.’ Her pretty eyes were wet with tears.

‘Is there anything I can do?’ I asked.

‘I don’t think so.’ She sniffed.

‘Well, if you want to talk about it …’ I perched on the edge of the bed. She seemed to want me there.

‘Really?’ she snivelled, as though no one had ever offered her support before.

‘Really. Er—a problem shared …’

I put an uncertain hand onto her thin, childlike shoulder, wondering if there was a law against making physical contact with a vulnerable, crying, miniature celebrity. It wouldn’t have surprised me if AJ had her wired.

Chapter Six

We were suddenly interrupted by another knock on the door and Mona’s head appeared around it.

‘Just me, darlings!’ she announced, as she clocked the scene—me looking worried, and Beau dishevelled. ‘Jesus, has someone died? Do you hate the dresses, Beau? Seriously, honey, if you don’t like the Dolce, there’s plenty more on the rails.’

Beau played along brilliantly. ‘To be honest, Mona, I’m having a fat day,’ she wiped smudged mascara from under her eyes. ‘Amber’s been trying to talk me into the Dolce & Gabbana, but nothing feels right, you know?’ She squeezed a non-existent love handle for added effect. Mona nodded sympathetically.

‘Do we have to do the filming today?’ Beau continued. ‘I’m just thinking—if I skip dinner, get a colonic and wear Spanx, it’ll look much better in the morning.’

‘Little sparrow, there’s nothing of you as it is!’ Mona said truthfully. ‘But I’m not going to make you do anything you don’t feel comfortable with. The important thing is that we look after you! The TV people will have to understand.’

I stood up and crept towards the door, guessing that I’d be in the unenviable position of having to tell the 20Twenty crew they’d made a wasted trip.

‘But can Amber stay with me, please?’ Beau asked, intercepting me. I was shocked that she had remembered my name. ‘I’m feeling a bit sick, too. I just need to sit quietly in here for a little while. With Amber.’

Looking perturbed that Beau had chosen me as her confidante, Mona pursed her lips and forced a smile. ‘Sure.’

Left alone in the room once more, Beau was suddenly much more forthcoming.

‘The truth is, Amber, I’m being stalked.’

‘You’re what?’

‘Someone, a man, is stalking me.’ She gripped my hand. ‘And I’m scared.’

She welled up again, her breathing becoming short and irregular. This was either really good acting, or the red blotches and the tears were real—I suddenly felt like we were at a high school pyjama party gone wrong. I dashed to the bathroom to grab her a handful of tissues and took a moment to gather my thoughts. What am I supposed to do now? I remembered hearing a story about a stalker being caught hiding on a shelf in Simon Cowell’s walk-in wardrobe, and hoped the windows in this suite were locked.

‘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?’

‘I’m feeling a little better now, thank you, Mona. We’re coming out, literally right now,’ Beau clambered off the bed. ‘So that’s sorted, then, Amber?’ She turned to me. ‘I’ll come back to finish the fitting tomorrow, give you Trey’s number and you’ll call him. I’ll tell you exactly what to say.’

She looked like a different person—certainly not the one who was drowning in tears not more than five minutes ago. She wiped the last traces of mascara stains from her cheeks, added a slick of lip gloss and surveyed herself in the mirror as if nothing had happened. Then she slipped on the Jimmy Choos and swung open the door.

‘Ta-da! You know what, I do love the Dolce, Mona. I’ll bring my Spanx tomorrow and it’ll all be fine.’

I was flabbergasted.

When Beau had changed back into her civvies, Mona promised to call Stefano Gabbana himself to see if she could keep the dress after wearing it for her premiere. Then Beau announced she had to leave, but she’d be back the next day to be filmed as they finished her fitting for the actual Golden Globes. As she made for the door, we all noticed she was missing something—something she had most definitely arrived with—a small grunting pink thing in a leather jacket.

‘Ah, Pinky!’ she exclaimed, her eyes finding AJ, who was still holding Pinky’s lead. ‘Amber, babe, you love pigs—how do you fancy Pinky-sitting tonight?’ She didn’t give me a chance to respond. ‘Thanks, babe! I just need a bit of quality time with my fiancé this evening … you know.’

I knew, all right. Beau needed to be on the ball, vetting her phone for calls from the ‘stalker’. It had now been thirty hours since my last proper sleep, and London felt a very, very long way away. As AJ put Pinky’s lead in my hand, I lacked the energy to do anything about it. Instead, I surrendered myself to whatever a night with a micro-pig might have in store. The look of disdain on Mona’s face told me the pig would be staying in my room and nowhere else in her clean, white mansion—I didn’t even get a chance to ask what the creature should eat. And I was already dreading the morning and the phone call. This really wasn’t the initiation into the Hollywood scene I had been hoping for. I wondered if I should just refuse to be drawn in. Maybe I should tell Mona about it?

‘You and Beau seemed to hit it off,’ Mona commented frostily as we sped back to her house, Pinky travelling, probably illegally, on my lap. I was gripping him so tightly my knuckles had turned white. One late brake at the traffic lights and we’d have gammon for dinner.

‘S’pose so,’ I responded, abruptly deciding against telling Mona. I didn’t want to appear foolish or out of my depth—for all I knew, this was normal for Hollywood. Besides, Beau had asked me to keep it a secret, and I wasn’t sure if I could trust Mona yet. I didn’t want to turn it into any more of a drama.

When we got back, Klara was in the kitchen, heating what appeared to be a watery soup of over-cooked vegetables. She barely twitched when she saw Pinky enter the kitchen behind me. It’s a pig in a leather jacket, for God’s sake! I felt exhausted now, off-balance and hardly able to keep my eyes open; I went through the rest of the evening in a daze, picking at the turkey chilli Ana had made for us. I didn’t want Mona to think I was a lightweight, but it had been the longest day ever and now I really needed my bed. I led Pinky upstairs and used my last shred of energy to text Vicky: Am sharing my bed with Beau Belle’s micro-pig. Will call tomorrow. Miss you. A x. Then I turned off my phone and passed out.

I woke up a few hours later to a loud crash as Pinky overturned the water bowl I’d left for him on the floor. As it rolled around on the glossy white floorboards and finally came to a halt, I flicked on the bedside light to see him snuffling around the pile of discarded black clothes at the foot of my bed. I didn’t get much sleep for the rest of the night. It turns out pigs are pretty much nocturnal. My head was spinning with Beau’s request and I kept being woken up by Pinky either headbutting the door or scratching at the floorboards as he searched for an escape route. I felt sorry for the little thing. We were both a bit lost in this big, pristine room in a show home high in the Hollywood Hills.

Suddenly a thought occurred to me that made everything seem a little better. There’s a half-eaten family bag of peanut M&Ms in my bag! Maybe a midnight feast of chocolate would help us both.

I managed to lift Pinky onto my oversized bed and he gobbled the M&Ms right out of my hand. As he slobbered and tickled my palm, I wondered whether Nathan and Tamara had the right idea in quitting. I pictured my own bed in my messy room back in London, where the tapping of water pipes and creaking of radiators regularly kept me awake. At one point in the early hours I actually scooped Pinky’s warm body up for a quick snuggle, but he kicked me in the chin. He had powerful trotters for such a dinky animal. Turns out micro-pigs don’t like cuddling, either.

At last it was 7:00 a.m. Warm, buttery fingers of sunlight had appeared around the blinds, bathing the room in a golden glow. I thought how pretty it looked as I groggily got out of bed and went to the ample en suite, noticing Pinky was fast asleep, curled up between two pillows on the floor, the makeshift ‘pig bed’ I had made for him some time in the early hours. There was something about this bathroom that made me feel as if I was getting a big hug, just by standing in it. Maybe it was the underfloor heating. I stood under the power-shower revelling in the moment. It felt so good, finally, to get properly clean. So good until I remembered what lay in store with Beau today. Maybe she’s had a change of heart overnight? The thought of seeing her again made me feel sick.

When I made it downstairs to the kitchen, Mona was reading a printed itinerary of our arrangements for the day over a glass of hot water and lemon. The list had presumably been written by Tamara or Nathan before they quit. We would be spending the morning on ‘appointments’ exactly like the ones Mona had attended at Smith’s, so at least I had a rough idea of what to expect.

After leaving the house, we darted around Beverly Hills in the Prius, popping in and out of a stream of glossy boutiques—greeted with air kisses and enthusiastic smiles, browsing, admiring and borrowing, placing orders and loading up the car with yet more clobber for the suite. During car journeys, Mona handed me her iPhone to make calls. To my relief it contained the contact details of all the fashion PRs I could possibly ever need to call, so there was no danger of me having to keep Vicky up all night as I hunted for numbers.

Pinky came everywhere with me as I assumed the role of Mona’s mouthpiece, note-taker and sunglasses holder, as well as Beau’s pig-sitter.

‘He’s Beau Belle’s, honey, we’re on piglet duty as a favour. Isn’t he fun?’ Mona explained to anyone who would listen, enjoying the opportunity to name-drop and using the term ‘we’ loosely—she blatantly hadn’t come within a trotter’s length of little Pinky the whole time.

Back at the W, the afternoon saw a parade of wealthy-looking girls with smooth Brazilian blow-dries and fresh manicures, clutching python bags and groomed to golden perfection, troop in and flutter out of our suite, buoyed by their appointments with Mona. It was like watching a masterclass in laid-back luxe. Frankly, none of the visitors, with their delicate features, long limbs and good clothes, looked in desperate need of fashion help. Some looked vaguely familiar from bit parts in movies, or photos in magazines of Mona with her crowd. Others just had an air of importance. Perhaps they were up-and-comers, hoping, with Mona’s help, to make their mark as a fresh fashion force this awards season. Whoever they were, all were greeted with hugs and yet more air kisses.

Outfits were tried on, accessories were cooed over and selfies were snapped. Superlatives flew around the room, ricocheting off the walls; everything was ‘fabulous, amazing, sexy, gorgeous, delightful, darling, pretty, major, stunning, beautiful, to-die-for …’ on and on, over and over. There was no need for any other vocabulary, because when you’ve got perfect genes, let’s face it, everything looks great. I was the only person looking less than glamorous, having spent the morning rushing around after Mona and Pinky, answering the door, running items to the changing room, keeping everyone hydrated with Fiji water or on the phone to room service requesting an increasingly bizarre assortment of refreshments, ranging from peppermint teas and espressos through to steaming hot mugs of lemon juice with cayenne pepper and maple syrup. Every couple of hours, Mona would mouth her request for a ‘little pick-me-up’; my first priority was to keep her caffeine levels at the max. She must have had at least four macchiatos before 3:00 p.m. and we’d only got here at twelve. As well as acting as a waitress, I was also tasked with keeping Mona’s database of who was borrowing what, when, and where it needed to be delivered. Mona seemed delighted when I suggested setting up an Excel spreadsheet to keep track of this, instead of the endless Post-it notes she had previously stuck onto her iPad. What kind of PA was Nathan, anyway?

Every now and again I had to phone a PR to request a particular dress or accessory in a certain size, and I also had Mona’s preferred seamstress—an amenable Mexican woman called Maria—on redial, if a gown needed a hem lifting or a bustier tightening. Couriers came and went, and my black ballet pump–clad feet soon ached from running around opening doors and darting wherever I was needed, which was generally everywhere at once. Every time the doorbell rang, my heart leapt as I wondered if it was Rob returning for more filming, or Beau, back to demand I fulfil my promise. She’d been on my mind all morning, her arrival drawing ever nearer, and I still hadn’t worked out what to do about it. I was so busy, it was impossible to think straight.

In the bedroom-cum-changing room, I’d never seen so many practically naked, supermodel-like women. Dresses were pulled over heads with impressive dexterity, flashes of athletic, fake-tanned frames with perky, pointy breasts. This was how I imagined the set of a Juergen Teller photoshoot to look, or the scene backstage during London Fashion Week. I suddenly felt self-conscious about what lay beneath my black Zara T-shirt dress.

Mid-afternoon, we were alerted, via a call from the hotel manager, to the news that a high-profile actress had entered the building via an underground passageway so as not to be seen. She’d booked an emergency appointment with Mona to expunge horrific memories of a gown that drew column inches for all the wrong reasons last year.

‘Someone really should have told her that see-through is the ultimate no-no on Oscars night,’ Mona told me as we straightened things up, having cleared the suite of bodies for this VVIP. ‘She hit the jackpot on all the Worst Dressed lists. Should have come to see me then.’

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