Chapter Five
I squinted at my bedside clock. Seven a.m. already.
Rob rolled over and flung a heavy arm across my body.
My sleepy brain computed this as a wordless, neanderthal means of trying to make his woman stay in bed a while longer.
I pushed my bottom into his side, making him sigh woozily and hold me a little tighter.
His feather tattoo was clearly visible on his upper arm.
I shifted my position to gain a better vantage point and tenderly ran my finger over it, the black ink slightly raised on his skin.
I often did this when we were dozing in bed, finding the fine lines of the image a comforting presence on his body.
I had noticed the tattoo poking out of his T-shirts a long while before we started dating, adding an extra layer of intrigue to him, making him even more attractive as my mind fantasised about whether I might get to kiss him one day.
And when I finally did, in the middle of a crowded pavement on London’s Oxford Street, it was as tender and sweet as I had hoped.
I fell for Rob hard and still couldn’t quite believe that I had actually, somehow, made him mine.
I pushed myself against him again, more firmly this time, testing how awake he was. Rob had taken one for our team, staying at my sister’s house after I left yesterday. I imagined the wedding chat had been off the scale.
‘Morning, handsome,’ I whispered when he stirred.
‘You’re not leaving,’ he muttered sleepily, eyes still clamped shut, his arms tightening their grip around my waist.
‘I am, I’m afraid. I’ve got to get over to Mandy. It’s a work day for me, remember?’
‘Oww,’ he murmured.
‘How was the rest of last night?’
‘Rory got the whisky out,’ he croaked. ‘He told me their baby news, I’m chuffed for them.
Whisky is never a good idea, but we had to get away from all the wedding chat between your mum, dad, and sister.
Your dad was really into it. I think he might have volunteered to make them a floral arch to get married underneath.
He might regret that this morning. Lucy has a big vision.
And she was the only sober one by the end. ’
‘Eek, poor Dad,’ I said. ‘Anyway, the whisky explains your breath this morning.’ I recoiled as he tried to kiss me on the lips.
‘Hey, not even a peck before you go?’ he complained.
‘I did you a favour last night remember.’ He prodded my side jokingly.
‘God knows what you would have been roped into if you had stuck around. I heard them discussing who could make 150 miniature bags for wedding favours at one point. I can always give Lucy a quick bell and tell her that y—’
‘Stop!’ I put my finger over his mouth. ‘That’s enough from you, Mr Walker.
Save your kisses for when I get home, and when you’ve brushed your teeth.
I think you should take advantage of the fact you can get some extra kip, while I have to drag myself into town.
I cannot be late for Mandy Sykes.’ I said her name theatrically, the novelty of the words coming out of my mouth not lost on either of us.
I had spent the rest of last night at home cobbling together the bits I had available to make up my stylist’s ‘kit’ ready to take to the hotel this morning.
In a bum bag, I gathered a miniature sewing set swiped from a hotel room a few months ago, some tit tape, gel implants to enhance her cleavage, though I doubted she would need this, plus scissors, bulldog clips, pins in a pin cushion, and some Body Blur – my secret weapon to smooth the skin for a glossy, even, photo-ready finish.
A quick trip to the twenty-four-hour garage ensured I also had plasters and wet wipes.
My experience in the styling world taught me that you can never be too prepared.
You wouldn’t believe how much damage a spiked heel through a delicate silk organza gown can do, or the drama a bust zip can cause, and it always seems to happen at the last minute, just as a client leaves their hotel room, or steps from a car to the red carpet.
That kind of panic isn’t pretty, I assure you.
It’s ugly, it’s dark; it’s a situation you need to fix – fast – and then you have to pray there’s no lasting emotional damage to the celebrity, on top of the physical distress that might have been caused to a one-of-a-kind designer-creation. Styling is stressful.
In our small kitchen, a pan of cold pasta and pesto was sat on the hob in a flood of starchy water, which had developed a thin milky film across the top.
The fridge was humming, and our miniature dishwasher hadn’t been turned on overnight.
Dirty mugs that had built up during the week lay in the sink unwashed.
A packet of crumpets was open on the side, I saw them at the same time as a passing fly, and I watched as it took a pit stop on top of one.
We might have had an excuse for living in a pig sty when we actually had a micro pig called Pinky as a pet for a short while, but since Pinky was rehomed while we were in New York, now there was no excuse.
The evidence here all pointed to the fact that Rob must have got home very late and very drunk last night.
Rob and I still hadn’t mastered the ability to successfully delegate household chores between us.
The early days of our dating had been characterised by working all day, eating out, ordering Deliveroo, drinking in pubs, going to parties, and generally avoiding the shared grown-up responsibility of looking after a home together.
It had been a heady time, lust-filled and fun.
Talking about how to descale a kettle, or whose turn it was to clean the oven, wasn’t on the agenda, even if we knew how to do either of those things.
Why don’t they teach you this stuff at school?
In New York we had both been so busy working, we didn’t have to deal with domesticity in any detail. Besides, we, like everyone else in our block, pretty much lived off burritos-to-go from our local deli or Taco Bell.
Looking at the state of things now, I wondered if it was time to get more organised at home.
I reassured myself that we weren’t complete slobs because the place would look a hell of a lot worse without me having bought a bunch of tulips from the supermarket to decorate the kitchen table, and the throw I had found on a Portobello market stall recently had made a big difference to the sofa.
I was good at up-cycling vintage finds and styling our home.
It’s just neither of us was very good at noticing when the washing-up liquid was running low.
I shrugged. It was messy, but it was our mess, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
In a funny kind of way, I thought I might miss Rob’s untidiness when I moved in with Mandy and didn’t have to see it every day.
I thought of Mandy waking up in the luxury of the Corinthia penthouse, no doubt encased in a cacophony of plump white duck-feather pillows and crisp, sweet-smelling sheets, a silver-service trolley on order with fruit, pastries, and coffee.
A world away from my surroundings. We might live in one city but the disparity in living arrangements among its inhabitants was something I could never fully get my head around.
I had witnessed so much of this polarisation between the haves and have-nots in my line of work.
It never ceased to stagger me when I witnessed someone blow thousands of pounds in a couple of hours on the shop floor, and in the same breath enquire about getting on the waiting list for the latest Louis Vuitton bag.
Where did all this money come from? Yet just metres away underground on the Tube, there I was being gifted a piece of heather by a woman who looked as though she hadn’t washed for a while. It wasn’t right.
I made myself a coffee in my reusable cup, put on my boyfriend jeans, a white T-shirt, an oversized grey wool blazer, and gold chain and rings – my go-to look when I didn’t know what to wear – then scooped up the bag containing the gown, popped over to give Rob a kiss on the cheek, and left the house at 7. 30 a.m. on the dot.
I can’t believe I’m actually doing this.
‘I hope she thanks you for this!’ Rob called out as I closed the door.
When I arrived at Corinthia London, I was ushered straight up to the penthouse floor. Jose met me at the door again.
‘Amber!’ he greeted me warmly, like an old friend. ‘Glad you could make it.’ I thought about saying that I didn’t really have much choice but decided against it. My straight talk had been tolerated the first time, but I wasn’t sure how far I could push it.
After the obligatory kiss on each cheek, he took me through. This time the suite was busy, I felt several pairs of eyes immediately turn my way.
Ushering me ahead of him, Jose announced me to the room. ‘The team is complete! Everyone, this is Amber Green, Mandy’s new stylist. She’s part of the live-in squad.’
‘Hi. Jimi. We met before,’ said the dashing man with cheekbones you could slice ham on. He had the kind of looks that actively made me feel uncomfortable. This time he seemed more friendly, holding out a hand to shake mine. ‘I do all of Mandy’s social media. I’m also a DJ.’
‘And our personal trainer,’ Jose added, slapping his brother on the shoulder.
‘Do you work out, Amber?’ Jimi asked, deep brown eyes sparkling.
‘Um, yoga, sometimes,’ I lied.
‘Great, you might enjoy the Pilates too then,’ he said.
Jose indicated to a petite woman with corkscrew curls standing on his right.
‘Hi, I’m Lola, hair and make-up,’ she said. ‘Nice to meet you, Amber. I’m not live-in, but I’ll be in and out of the house a lot. This is going to be so much fun!’