Chapter Two
O n Monday, mid-afternoon, which was early morning in Los Angeles, an email arrived from Julie-Anne Morris. The fact she had placed me at the top of her week’s to-do list had to be a good sign.
Dear Amber,
Regards
Julie-Ann
With no job to go to next week, save an allotted time to clear my desk on Friday afternoon, I didn’t have to think twice.
When the day of the interview came around, I felt inordinately nervous.
Just because I’ve come across many famous people in my styling career so far, my friends and family tend to assume I’m cool as a cucumber, nonchalant even, when it comes to being in the presence of someone in the public eye.
Although I have mastered the art of not actually fainting when in the presence of showbiz greatness – let’s gloss over the time I briefly passed out at a Hollywood premiere, back in the days when I was styling the actress Beau Belle (the LA sun combined with a sugar dip was to blame) – they couldn’t be more wrong.
When I see a superstar in the flesh, I still get a quickening of the heartbeat, and an adrenalin hit akin to the one time I shoplifted something (for the record, it was a travel-size dry shampoo from Boots when I was fourteen).
Yes, although you would never guess it, as I have calmly smoothed the VPL on a celebrity’s rear or inserted some chicken fillets to enhance a well-known cleavage, most of the time, I’m screaming this is amazing! inside my head.
Today was no different.
As the Tube neared Embankment station, my pulse started to rise. In a matter of minutes, I would be a few feet away from Mandy – the Mandy Sykes – and didn’t my sweaty palms know it.
At Baker Street I had opened the mindfulness app I downloaded earlier that morning. By Piccadilly I had closed it again because I couldn’t concentrate on the instructions, and by Embankment my heart was beating like a drum in my temples.
On the short walk from the Tube to the hotel, I was shaky with nerves. My phone lit up with a stream of good-luck messages from Vicky.
You got this! Followed by, Don’t leave until she offers you the job , and a further, Americans don’t do subtlety. Tell her how much you want this job. MAKE her give it to you!
I battled with my internal voice. What if I can’t do this?
A message from Rob came through: Good luck, baby. Just be you!
Just be me.
Fashion has been in my blood for as long as I can remember.
There is a family legend that, aged four, I refused to sit on a sofa next to my cousins for a photo, because I was so offended by the apricot colour of the sofa and how it clashed with my red dress.
When I was six, I styled my own angel costume for the school nativity, complete with glittering tiara and long, cream lace gloves, both discovered in our local Oxfam.
By the age of eight, I had assembled a huge dressing-up box, and unsuspecting playmates became my clients, as I delighted in transforming them with a mohawk wig, a silk pyjama top, or some of Mum’s old sunglasses and beaded necklaces.
I revelled in their delight at the big ‘reveal’ moment, when they were allowed to look in the mirror.
It’s fair to say that from a young age, I had grasped the transformative power of clothes, but I had no idea yet of how this would set me up in my working life, because, truth be told, I always saw myself as a fashion fraud.
As I progressed through my awkward teenage years, I became less confident in dressing myself, but very interested in clothes worn by other people.
When it came to shopping, I worshipped at the altar of charity shops and vintage stores, especially the ones in well-to-do areas like Notting Hill and Hampstead where you could regularly pick up designer seconds for a fraction of the price.
There was something compelling about an item of clothing or piece of jewellery that came with its own story – the circle of fashion was a beautiful thing to me.
I was all about the hunt for a bargain, or a killer accessory to reinvent an existing outfit, and always something that would suit my mum, dad, sister, or friends, before myself.
After uni, I got my first proper job in luxury retail when I literally stepped into Vicky’s shoes when she vacated a role as store assistant at Smith’s, the famous designer boutique on South Molton Street in London, and it was there that Mona Armstrong and I crossed paths on one of her visits and she offered me a role as her assistant.
Yet throughout my journey with clothing, I have come to learn and appreciate first-hand that you can dress a body in the finest, most exquisite clothes but they will do absolutely nothing for them until the person inside is able to shine too. And that’s the part I love the most.
I suppose you could call me a therapist-stylist. This was why the shop window dummies I once craved, after working with some challenging personalities, were losing their allure. And I missed the human connection of styling a person to help influence them to become their best self.
I looked down at my classic black loafers and flared black trousers, which I had teamed with a crisp white boyfriend-style shirt, untucked, and biker jacket.
I had styled the outfit with some gold jewellery, not much make-up and my hair back in a low ponytail, because it looked smart that way.
It was a sharp yet safe look. No star likes being out-glammed by their stylist – our job is to make the client feel like the only person in the room.
But now I felt a tug of regret, hoping Mandy wouldn’t think I looked too casual.
I wondered if I should have worn something borrowed, to give us a talking point around sustainability, the buzz word in fashion.
It was too late now. My mind could be its own worst enemy.
I pulled up the collar on my biker. After a month of eyeing it up in the All Saints concession in Selfridges, having this job interview had given me the incentive to blow a large portion of my March salary on it. So I ordered it online, even paying for express delivery to receive it in time.
You’ve got this, Amber. You look great.
When I let the lady at the front desk know who I was there to see, she lowered the tone of her voice.
‘Of course. I’ll let Ms Sykes know you’re here. Can I get you some water?’
She was being extra nice to me and I was under no illusion why – the cost of the Royal Penthouse Suite was probably more per night than I used to get paid in a month.
‘Mr Marquez is going to meet you out of the private lift,’ she said, beaming, and a porter appeared from nowhere to show me up.
Jose Marquez. Before he got together with Mandy, the tabloids portrayed him as a suave events promoter on the make.
He was a regular on the Hollywood club and bar scene, regularly pictured with his arm around a celebrity, wearing a black T-shirt with a large gold necklace around his neck.
He was mildly famous by association. Since he married Mandy two years ago, in a blaze of publicity, a People magazine cover, and a stat-breaking TikTok Live, he had become Mr Mandy Sykes: husband, manager, bodyguard, handbag holder.
Mega-famous by association. Being married to one of the biggest personalities on the planet meant leaving your ego at the altar.
I wondered how this had affected him. Whether he begrudged the fact his own career aspirations had been put on hold; and how the dynamic worked behind closed doors.
As the lift stopped, I had a few seconds to compose myself before Jose appeared.
I recognised him immediately, his face a daily occurrence on my Instagram feed since Mandy had become a celebrity over here, as well as in America.
Although in good shape, he was smaller than he seemed on screen, and older looking than I imagined.
He couldn’t be much more than five-foot-eight and was of a stocky build, a firm belly pressed against his black T-shirt, olive skin, forearms with visible veins, and flecks of grey in his wavy black hair, which was tucked loosely behind his ears.
‘Hola, you must be Miss Green.’ He grinned and a gold tooth at the side of his mouth glinted in the light.
His smile was so wide and teeth so perfectly straight and white, I could be looking at a poster in a dentist’s waiting room.
He had a husky voice, a hint of Spanish to his American accent, and when he reached out to shake my hand, his were baby soft with neat, manicured nails.
As we shook, I noticed a lively look in his eyes.
His hair was slightly damp, or perhaps gelled.
He smelt fresh, like he hadn’t long been out of the shower.
A medium-sized diamond stud in one earlobe sparkled.
‘It’s great to meet you. Please, call me Amber,’ I replied, trying to sound as calm as possible.
Jose looked over his shoulder as he ushered me through the door to the suite and down another corridor.
For a fleeting moment I wondered if he had expected me to arrive with my agent.
Not that I had one at the moment – my days of having an agent had come to an end when I left New York – as I hadn’t been actively seeking styling work.
‘I hope you live up to the hype,’ he said, smiling.
I squirmed. Pressure.
As Jose led me through the entrance foyer and into an elegant lounge, my eyes searched the room, wondering where Mandy was.
The floor was white marble, an open fire crackled on one side of the room, though on a double-take I could see it was actually a video of one on a flat-screen television.
Opposite it, through another doorway, I could see a spiral staircase, at the top of which I presumed the bedrooms must be located.