Rosie Nixon - The Stylist

‘Jennifer! This way!’

‘Over here, Jennifer!’

The cries are more urgent now. This is the main photo opportunity.

The paps are penned at least five deep, some standing on stepladders to get the view from above. She takes her time, moving elegantly this way and that, adjusting and tweaking her pose ever so slightly with almost every click. It’s second nature now: right hip lifted, left foot crossed over right, enhancing the natural curve of her body; right shoulder pushed back, chest out, but not too far; left arm on her left hip bone, right arm hanging behind to create a slender profile. Head held high to elongate the neck, face turned slightly to the right to present her best side, chin raised just so for a youthful jawline, belying her forty-something years (she stopped counting at thirty-nine). She is textbook perfect.

‘That’s it, love, nice big smile for the camera!’

‘This way, once more!’

‘Beautiful!’

I look up. Both hands are on her hips now, slender silhouette perfectly shaped by the structured internal corset. Not so tight that she can’t breathe properly, but plenty tight enough. A hint of crystal embellishment on satin sandals peeping out from beneath the gown at the front. Elaborate diamond-drop earrings, worth ten times the gown itself. It’s such a timeless, romantic, pure Hollywood look. Just perfect. I glance back to check the security guard is still with us. He winks back in acknowledgement, earpiece and discreet microphone on the lapel of his slick black suit, ready for action should we run into any trouble. The fine jewellery houses don’t take any risks with a loan this expensive. She moves on, floating down the carpet now, enjoying the attention, gliding gracefully, a beautiful swan. With her honey skin, wide smile and dewy eyes, she bewitches everyone in her path. She’s so mesmerising, it’s actually a little overpowering. How incredible to put a spell on so many people, purely by turning up. On to the bank of waiting press and TV crews. I shuffle back against the railings into the shadows cast by the hazy early-evening sun.

‘Mind out, you’re standing on my cables!’ a small angry American man shouts to my right.

‘Sorry, sorry.’ I inch out of the way. Then I lose my footing, stumbling backwards, and a Japanese woman elbows me in the ribs.

‘Hey! Watch it, miss. You almost lost my sound!’

Aargh, jet lag. I should be asleep by now. More bright lights. This time microphones are being thrust in her face, a barrage of questions thrown from all sides. The faces of the entertainment reporters are so familiar to me now.

‘Jennifer, you look stunning tonight! Who are you wearing?’

‘Is it couture?’

‘Did Mona Armstrong style you?’

‘Can you twirl so we can see the back?’

‘How much are the earrings worth?’

‘Can we get a close-up of your shoes?’

‘Were you influenced by the style of your character in the film?’

‘Do you feel confident about tonight?’

And repeat. Over and over again, for entertainment shows from Boston to Beijing and everywhere in between. Finally we reach the entrance to the Dolby Theatre—and my phone vibrates in my pocket. But it’s not the person I’m aching for it to be, and I’m disappointed. One text from him and this would all be exciting again—another crazy night in la-la land to chew over and laugh about later on. The onesie would give him plenty of ammunition. And though I’d protest, really, I’d love every minute. Instead, it’s from Mona: Are you with Jennifer? Seriously? Bit late now. But I’ve learned it’s best not to reply when I feel like I do right now.

As Jennifer is swept into the auditorium to deafening applause, thousands more flashbulbs and some ear-splitting whoops, I discreetly make my exit wondering how I ended up in this circus, in a slightly smelly onesie. Oh, if only this was just a bad dream …

We gathered on white stools around the cash desk as Jas, our boss, delivered the news.

‘It’s about Mona Armstrong.’

Kiki’s eyes lit up. This sounded infinitely more interesting than a discussion about who was responsible for the smelly lettuce in the fridge. And her short attention span, after years of social media abuse, meant she really needed to concentrate.

‘I’ve had a call from an assistant director at 20Twenty, the production company,’ Jas explained.

Her motley crew—the staff of Smith’s boutique, consisting of Alan the security guard and the store assistants, Kiki and I—listened intently.

‘They’re making a pilot episode for a reality show about Mona,’ she continued. Kiki flashed me a told-you-so look, but I pretended not to notice, willing her to topple off the stool.

‘The working title is Mona Armstrong: Stylist to the Stars, but for now they’re calling it The Stylist .’

Big Alan was the only one of us who blatantly wasn’t bothered about this news. But it didn’t come as a complete surprise to Kiki or me—style bloggers had been buzzing about the pilot for several weeks, and Kiki had been monitoring the situation closely. Her latest bulletin, gleaned from various fashion blogs and breathlessly delivered over her daily litre of Super Greens, had informed me the show was ‘rumoured to be airing on an American network in the coming months’.

Mona was one of the few things Kiki and I bonded over. You see, Mona Armstrong was not just any old stylist, like the ones you saw on daytime TV turning Sharon from Wolverhampton into a sort of Sharon Stone. She was Britain’s most famous—make that infamous —celebrity stylist; a personality in her own right, thanks to her minuscule frame, achingly hip, self-coined ‘boho riche’ dress sense, and close friendships with most of the names in Tatler ’s Little Black Book.

Now, just a few hours later, it had suddenly become a reality. My reality. Little did I know today’s news was about to change my life, forever.

‘The TV guy—Rob, I think—asked if we can keep it to ourselves for now,’ Jas went on, the American twang to her English accent a reminder of her two decades working as a top New York model. ‘That means no Instagram, Twitter, Facebook, nothing —they need to keep it under wraps until the network has confirmed.’

But that wasn’t the half of it. ‘Oh, and the 20Twenty crew want to come to the store tomorrow to do some filming, with Mona, as she prepares for awards season,’ Jas said, ‘so it’s highly likely we’ll appear in the pilot, too.’

Kiki and I looked at each other. I stifled a giggle—laughing was my default when I didn’t know how to react. Kiki’s jaw had dropped so low it looked like it needed a stool of its own. Jas carried on, ignoring the mounting hysteria emanating from her staff.

‘We’ll each have to sign a release form, in case we’re in a shot the TV people want to use, and a non-disclosure agreement—an NDA.’

Kiki surreptitiously pulled her iPhone from the back pocket of her tight grey Acne jeans and held it in her lap, her finger hovering over the blue bird icon.

‘Release forms and NDAs are legally binding,’ Jas added, pointedly.

Sucking in her cheeks, Kiki turned the iPhone over. Updating her followers would just have to wait. But this was big news for both of us. In fashion circles, Mona Armstrong was a legend. AKA a #Ledge.

‘ The Stylist crew will be here to set up at eleven tomorrow, and Mona will arrive soon after,’ Jas continued, already off her stool and itching to get to work. ‘So we need to get this place looking camera-ready. Amber, can you refresh the windows—let’s go monochrome. And Kiki, work with me in store.’