Chapter One #2
‘We’re not there – yet,’ Joseph replied calmly. ‘But there’s been talk of digitising the windows. I didn’t even get the David Koma display approved, and I only got him to agree to do it because he’s a friend.’
‘I’m good with digital,’ Shauna piped up seriously. ‘Did you see my last TikTok?’
Joseph continued calmly, ‘Listen, I know it’s a shock, it was for me too.
But try not to panic. Please keep an eye on your inbox and I’ll support you however I can through this process.
’ He had obviously been heavily briefed by HR not to go into any detail.
Though I was pretty sure that being in the at-risk category didn’t sound promising.
Sure enough, I got the email later that day, just as I set foot on the down escalator at the Bond Street Tube station.
It stated that my role had been made redundant and there were ‘regrettably, no other openings within the company’ for me at this time.
I texted Shauna to see if she had received the same email and she replied immediately, No babes – I’m sorry .
It was crushing for my confidence, but, as Rob reminded me over a bottle of wine that evening, after all the fun and excitement of styling the Angel Wear fashion show in Manhattan, going back to work as a shop window designer hadn’t been cutting it for me for a while.
I missed styling real people instead of mannequins.
‘Maybe this will turn out to be a good thing?’ he had offered, green eyes shining.
Rob’s ability to look on the bright side was one of the things I loved about him.
‘You’ll get two-months’ pay to tide you over while you find a new job.
And I’m sure that won’t take you long. You’re Amber Green, stylist to the stars, dahling ! ’
‘Former stylist to the stars,’ I corrected him, morosely.
So, right now, eighteen hours later, as I waited for Mum in Peter Jones, this email felt like I’d been thrown a life jacket.
It would be amazing if I could secure a job immediately.
Then I might be able to afford a few new outfits from the two-months’ pay.
There was a new fire in my fingertips as I replied to the email.
Dear Julie-Ann, thanks so much for getting in touch. I’d love to meet up! Just let me know what time suits Ms Sykes and I’ll be there. Kind regards, Amber Green
I instantly regretted the fact I’d made myself so available.
Enthusiasm had probably knocked a zero off my potential salary.
I’d never been good at stifling excitement.
If I was likened to a punctuation symbol, I’d be an exclamation mark, no question.
I could never be as aloof as all the moody full stops you see decorating the front row at fashion shows.
In a panic, I realised I hadn’t given Julie-Ann my mobile number, so I sent her another email adding my mobile, plus Instagram and TikTok handles, just to cover all bases. The show of excitement had likely shaved another chunk off my salary, but was totally and utterly authentically me.
With a cheese scone sitting like a kettlebell in my stomach and Mum looking jittery after two cups of coffee, we decided to abort the shopping trip and go home. She had some partially defrosted steak and a legal case to check on, and I wanted to discuss the email with Rob.
We parted company on the Bakerloo line with a stiff hug and a promise to do this again because it had been so lovely.
Neither of us is good at lying. As the train pulled away, she urgently mouthed at me: See you next Friday for Nora’s birthday, don’t forget!
And then a text came through: Sorry for being a shitty client, you are wasted on me.
That Mandy will be lucky to have you. Good luck – go for it. Mum.
This made me smile. It was as close as I would ever get to a compliment. I hoped ‘That Mandy’ might feel the same.
As I continued my journey back home to Kensal Rise, I became curious about who had recommended me to an agent of Mandy Sykes.
The fact the email referred to a ‘position’ made me think it was more than an ad-hoc enquiry about styling Mandy for the occasional event.
My immediate thought was Mona Armstrong, the notorious celebrity stylist, and my former boss, whom I assisted during one memorable awards season between London and Los Angeles three years ago.
Mona wasn’t known for being particularly generous when it came to good deeds, especially for ex-assistants, so it was unlikely to be her, unless she had an ulterior motive, which was plausible.
Maybe I had met one of Mandy’s entourage during that whirlwind circuit? I couldn’t recall who. Or perhaps Mandy had read about the Angel Wear show, during those incredible few hours last autumn when I had found myself trending on Instagram. Maybe she had made a note?
Then it clicked. It might be Poppy. As in Poppy Dunn, the actress.
Just before Rob and I spent three months in New York last year, I bumped into Poppy, sat in Mandy Sykes’s car outside Selfridges, as she waited for her mega-famous friend to return to the vehicle after emptying half of the Hermès concession.
Poppy and Mandy shared an agent at one point, when Poppy was trying to break America, so she was the only certain link to Mandy I could think of.
I had come to her fashion rescue a couple of times during those three crazy months in Manhattan, so she owed me a favour.
Yes, it had to be Poppy. I looked up and whispered into the lighting on the stuffy Tube carriage. Thank you, Poppy, you’re a total babe.
When I made it back to our flat, Rob was already home. I call it ‘our’ flat, but it wasn’t so long ago that I shared this place with my best friend Vicky, before Vicky moved to Los Angeles and stayed there with her film director boyfriend.
At least Vicky will understand how big this is.
I was itching to call her, but it would only be eight a.m. in LA and Vicky was not an early riser.
‘So, were you successful in making over London’s most fussy client?’ Rob asked. He knew my mother sufficiently well enough that he was allowed to make derogatory comments.
‘Don’t be stupid,’ I replied. ‘I was always going to fail.’
‘Did she buy anything ?’
I sighed. ‘Nope. We should have gone to a gallery or a matinée, she wouldn’t have had to suffer all my bad suggestions then. I mean, can you believe I had the audacity to suggest she try wearing a shade of yellow?’
‘Not very her.’ He smiled.
‘She’d have looked great, if only she’d given it a go. And it’s bang on trend.’
He smirked. ‘Did she at least buy you lunch?’
We were interrupted by my phone buzzing. Lucy.
‘Amber, I’ve been waiting for you to call. How did it go with Mum?’
I paused. I knew full well what she meant.
‘Am?’
‘I’m here. I literally just walked through the door.’
‘So, did you do the deed?’
My silence told her the answer.
‘Oh Amber, this is the only thing I’ve asked you to do so far.
And, as my maid of honour, you kind of have to do it.
We only have eight Eurostar tickets and I’ve invited everyone.
I can’t tell one of my best friends that they can’t come anymore.
It’s only a couple of weeks away. What are we going to do?
’ The ‘we’ made me flinch – such a friendly but loaded word.
‘I’m sorry, Luce, there wasn’t a good moment,’ I replied, feeling irked that my main duty as maid of honour appeared to revolve around delivering bad news, rather than knocking back champagne whilst giving a second opinion on the wedding flowers.
Lucy seemed to have conveniently forgotten that I had successfully steered her away from the horrendous tulle wedding gown, which came with a stitched-in suspender-belt, that she would have ended up in if left to her own devices.
Surely that was a big tick under my MOH duties?
Telling the excited mother-of-the-bride that she was barred from her own daughter’s hen do shouldn’t be a prerequisite for the role, if you ask me.
‘Perhaps we should just get another ticket?’ I offered, meekly.
Lucy recoiled. I could sense it through the phone.
‘No,’ she said, measuredly.
She was right, of course. But I was angry that she had let Mum believe she was invited, leaving me to do the dirty work.
Lucy could be bossy at the best of times, but her wedding run-up had been a marathon – and there were still four months to go.
I felt horribly disloyal even thinking it, but I wasn’t looking forward to my own sister’s hen.
To compound matters, she was also starting to make noises that the Pronovias gown I helped her choose – and at a fifteen per cent discount, thanks to my fashion connections – was giving her nightmares because she thought it made her back look like she ‘wrestled for a living’.
Naturally, being a stylist, I was to blame for this imagined situation; when in reality the champagned-coloured sensual ‘mermaid’ gown with rippling sequined effect, plunge back, and a neckline with exquisite beaded edging, was going to make the most breathtaking bridal look for the bride who insisted she couldn’t wear white.
‘Don’t panic. I’ll talk to Mum in the next couple of days,’ I muttered, to get her off the phone.
‘Okay, great, let me know when it’s done.’ She sighed. ‘And don’t forget Nora’s birthday next Friday. Come any time after six as she’s having a party with her school friends first. Expect a sugar high, but it would be lovely to see you. I’ll save you some cake.’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I’ll be there.’
When I had hung up, I pulled my sweater sleeves down over my hands and sucked in my cheeks.
‘She’s going to be devastated,’ I said, flopping onto the sofa beside my boyfriend. ‘Rob …?’ I said, louder.
‘Not wedding drama again?’ He was squinting at his laptop.
‘You need to get your eyes tested. How do I phone Mum and tell her she’s not going to her daughter’s hen do?’