Rosie Nixon - The Stylist

‘Great entrance there, well done, Rob,’ he said, quickly composing himself and catching my eye as he laughed it off. My internal laughter then gave way to a fear that the highly polished floor/fluffy rug combo might actually be a potential death trap. What if Mona breaks her leg? Rob pushed a strand of floppy brown hair behind his ear. When he came round to shake my hand, I became aware that my palms were sweaty.

‘Are you responsible for these gleaming floors?’ he quipped.

My cheeks flushed. Despite wearing new season Jonathan Saunders, I still resemble the resident skivvy. How? ‘Sorry about that.’

‘You’d better hope Mona’s put the cheese-grater over her soles,’ he replied. ‘Unlike me.’

I laughed nervously. There was a familiarity about him.

Kiki gave me a withering look. ‘That’s what people on TV do,’ she informed me, loud enough for Rob to hear, ‘to stop them slipping on the studio floor.’

‘I know,’ I lied.

If she was trying to show me up, I didn’t really care. I was more interested in Rob taking off his jacket. He pushed up the sleeves of his grey jumper revealing what looked like the beginning of a tattoo on his upper arm.

Rob was the first to arrive of the team of three. The next, sporting a directional dyed red bob and wearing thick, black-rimmed glasses, was introduced as Fran, the director. There was also a long-haired, lanky bloke carrying the camera, who went by the name of Dave. I inwardly christened him Shaggy. I wondered if, like us, Fran and Rob had put on their most fashion-conscious clothes for Mona’s benefit, or whether they always looked so media cool. As word went round that ‘She’ was about to arrive, Rob hurriedly took down our contact details and had us each sign a release form and NDA. I barely read the words; I was too busy concentrating on trying not to do anything embarrassing.

Today, as ever, you could spot Mona’s sunglasses before you saw the rest of her. Huge, round Prada shades, covering at least half of her small, elfin face, came bobbing down the street, swooping towards the store like a large fly. Light chestnut boho waves with streaks of caramel blonde cascaded around her shoulders; now a flash of matte coral lipstick came into view. She was only average height, even in towering heels—in fact she was more shades and curls than actual person—but in the fashion world, she was God. She paused to take in the windows; I felt a prickle of excitement, hoping she liked what she saw. She looked the mannequins up and down, but her sunglasses hid any kind of facial expression. At last, Mona entered our pristine temple of style. As she made her entrance for the camera, Jas, Kiki and I simultaneously clocked a turquoise cocktail ring the size of a golf ball on her petite index finger. Behind me, Kiki let out a gasp.

‘YSL, new season,’ she whispered, as if we were observing a rare exotic bird.

And then the front door was locked, the shop sign switched to Closed, the French blinds rolled down and we pulled up ringside seats at the Mona Armstrong show. Of course there was no real need to pull down the blinds, to the average person, Mona was just an eccentrically dressed, extremely thin, seemingly ageless woman in OTT sunglasses. But in the world between these four white walls, she was the high priestess.

According to Kiki, my main tasks during this particular visit would be to silently hold clothes for Mona, refrain from taking part in fashion small talk (I wasn’t qualified), try to keep off-camera (not photogenic enough, presumably) and above all, concentrate on not tripping up in the stupidly high Nicholas Kirkwoods I’d made the mistake of thinking I could walk in (hello, bunions).

I’d been fully briefed that Mona’s long-time assistant, Tamara, would do most of the running around, trying things on, holding items to the light and offering opinions on the season’s hottest threads. Blonde and long-limbed, able to pass for a model herself, Tamara was a well-known face on the fashion circuit, too, having been Mona’s assistant for several years. She was the only person—other than Jas and Mona—who I had ever seen the Stick try to make an effort for. When Tamara had once retweeted Kiki (‘Smith’s is now stocking Roksanda! #Ledge’), she’d been bouncing off the walls for days. Today she was more exhilarated than ever about Tamara’s visit because apparently there’d been some rumours among the fashion Twitterati that Tamara might be on the verge of setting up on her own—that it was actually her who had been dressing some of Mona’s regular clients. She had even been snapped spending New Year on board a yacht in the Caribbean with none other than the BAFTA rising star—not to mention former regular client of Mona’s—Poppy Drew. Plus, there were hints that Tamara, instead of Mona, would be dressing the actress Jennifer Astley for awards season this year, where she was hotly tipped to win a slew of Best Supporting Actress awards. But that’s just gossip.

Until today, when Tamara was nowhere to be seen.

Since Mona entered the store, Jas had been doing most of the talking. They’d begun with the customary detailed appraisal of each other’s outfits—the way peers traditionally greet each other in fashion land.

‘Mad about the ring …’

‘Those shoe-boots …’

‘You lucky cow, you’ve got the Balenciaga leather pants! Isn’t the stretch amazing …’

‘I must get your colourist’s number.’

‘Loving the matte nails. Is it gel?’

And so on. Then they finally got down to the juicy stuff.

‘No Tamara today, Mona?’ Jas asked.

Mona responded by handing her Pradas to Rob, who took them politely. Massaging her temples, she completely ignored the question. The Stick and I tried, unsuccessfully, not to gawp. We felt like we needed to drink up everything about her: her clothes, her shoes, her hair, her skin, which had the kind of pearly sheen that only really expensive make-up could achieve, her whiter-than-white teeth, her bag, her jewellery, the way she moved, her voice. If we weren’t so fearful of her, we’d have gone up and given her a good sniff all over, too. There was an intoxicating musky aroma around her, beginning to settle in the air. Everything about Mona was absurdly fascinating.

‘Well, just let me and the girls know what we can do,’ Jas offered, leading her over to the clothes rails. The Stick gave me a gentle prod in the back, a signal that I should get into position, ready to hold clothes.

As Mona began to rifle through the latest Stella McCartneys, Fran with the bob shouted, ‘Action!’ Shaggy sprang to life and so did Mona, chatting animatedly to Jasmine. She really knew how to turn it on for the cameras.

‘It’s only Tuesday and this week’s already a fucking nightmare, Tamara’s gone and left me right up shit creek. The silly bitch handed in her notice this morning.’

From her language, I made the assumption that this was to be a post-watershed pilot. Fran with the bob raised an eyebrow and Rob bit his lip.

‘ This morning. Can you fucking believe it? I go for the bloody Globes tomorrow. That girl’s out of her mind if she thinks she’ll last two minutes doing awards season solo. Oh wow, look at the Stella jumpsuits, aren’t they divine? I’ll definitely take a couple of these.’

Mona had no problem with multitasking. Between slagging off Tamara and gushing over the clothes, every so often she pulled out an item from the rail and handed it to me, standing with arms outstretched like a forklift truck, by her side. I wasn’t sure if I was actually in shot, though a little part of me hoped I was; just a bit of my dress or, ideally, the beautiful shoes. Loads to tell Vicky about tonight.