Rosie Nixon - The Stylist

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.’