Rosie Nixon - The Stylist

‘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.

‘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?