Rosie Nixon - The Stylist

When exclusive London boutique employee Amber Green is mistakenly offered a job as assistant to infamous ‘stylist to the stars’ Mona Armstrong, she hits the ground running, helping to dress some of Hollywood’s hottest (and craziest) starlets. Awards season turns Amber’s life upside down as dazzling designer gowns are paraded on red carpets in Los Angeles, London and back.

Suddenly Amber’s catching the attention of two very different suitors, TV producer Rob and Hollywood bad boy rising star Liam.

How will Amber keep her head? Which man will she chose? And what the hell will everyone wear?

The Stylist is a fast-paced, fun-packed rummage through the ultimate dressing up box.

ROSIE NIXONlives in London and is joint Editor of HELLO! magazine. She previously held senior positions at glossy women’s magazines including Grazia, Glamour and Red. Ever discreet and protective of the big stars she has worked with, Rosie’s experience has undoubtedly enabled her to write her debut novel, The Stylist.

For Callum and Heath

I must thank a few people without whom Amber Green and Mona Armstrong would almost certainly not have been brought to life.

My brilliant sister in law and agent, Jenny Savill, thank you for your ideas, encouragement and guidance, your faith in me made it possible and I admire you in so many indescribable ways; to Jill/Ruby Dawson for sharing your expertise – it was fate that we met in Marrakech, you are a true inspiration.

Thunderous applause to the team at HQ, especially Anna Baggaley for believing in The Stylist from the beginning and Alison Lindsay and Sophie Ransom for your enthusiasm and marketing and PR wizardry. You have all been a dream to work with and I am so grateful.

To my amazing husband Callum for not complaining when I spent hours at my screen during any free time and for appearing interested in red carpet fashion; to my incredible mum, for your endless support and holding the baby – literally – so I could get this book finished; to my wonderful friends for all the adventures we have shared which have without doubt inspired some of the situations in this novel. Especially to Chrissie, Mel and Michael, without whom I would have no understanding of what it is like to be monstrously hungover the day after The Oscars. And finally to my beautiful son, Heath, for arriving two weeks late so I could finish writing The Stylist and for being such a good boy as I tweaked it during your first year. There was nothing like the deadline of your arrival to get things done.

Cover

Excerpt

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Prologue

Part One: London, Pre-Awards Season

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Part Two: Los Angeles, The Golden Globes

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Part Three: London, The BAFTAs

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Part Four: Los Angeles, The Oscars

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Part Five: Hawaii, The Wedding

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Epilogue

Copyright

The car door swings open and bright white lights flash before my eyes, blinding me for a few long seconds. Flash! Flash! Flash! Like a firework has been let off at close range. I wait inside the car while she makes her big entrance. Getting out of a blacked-out limousine in an exquisite, glittering gown complete with vertiginous heels is no easy task, even for a seasoned pro. Knees together, swivel hips, feet on the ground, smoothly push up, rise gracefully, and straighten gown and SMILE! A thunderous cheer erupts around us as she emerges— Ta da! —a Hollywood goddess in the flesh. Then come the voices.

‘Jennifer! Jennifer!’

She is under siege. Paparazzi shoot off hundreds of high-resolution frames, their faces hidden behind the long, prying lenses of their black state-of-the-art DSLR cameras. When they get too close to this tall, willowy, shimmering beauty, the minders rush in to hold them at bay.

‘Hey, Jennifer!’

‘This way!’

‘Give us a smile!’

When the flashes subside, I tumble out of the car, dart hastily round it and slip through the entrance, flashing my invitation pass. I crouch down at the side of the red carpet, beside the cold metal crowd-control railings, and sink into the shadows, desperate to keep out of sight. But I’ve been rumbled. An autograph hunter taps me on the head and shoves a glossy photo in my face.

‘Hey! Can you get this signed by Jennifer?’

Another pleads in my ear: ‘Ma’am, ma’am, do you know her? Can you get her to come over?’

‘Yeah, you got out of her car, get her to come here! ‘Others join in, like a chorus of extras in a low-budget film. I pretend not to hear, taking my eyes off her for only a few seconds; time enough to readjust the zip and pull down the hood of my grey towelling sleep suit. I’m breaking into a sweat. I look down at myself, in my deeply inappropriate, stale outfit, and then back at Jennifer in her stunning gown, all clean and super gorgeous. I’m so tired and embarrassed I almost want to laugh. It’s rarely cold in Los Angeles, even on a February evening, and the Oscars—the biggest night in the entertainment calendar—is no place for a pasty British girl in a baggy onesie, flashing her saggy bottom at unsuspecting fans, never mind the world’s paparazzi, who might snap an unexpected exclusive. Inside, I’m seething. Bloody Mona!

Jennifer makes her way along the carpet, spreading pneumatic glamour wherever she goes, thrilling the crowds of fans with high fives and making a point of waving to those at the back standing on their tiptoes, camera phones lifted skywards, straining to catch a glimpse of their idol. She stops to pose for a few photos with admirers, all of them less aesthetically blessed than she is, and an explosion of air kisses ensues. They have to be air kisses, they can’t make actual contact with her skin—she can’t risk a germ and she certainly can’t mess up the immaculate, dewy make-up that took two hours for the steady hand of a leading make-up artist to apply. She signs a handful of autographs, using the black permanent marker pen I have learned to keep in my kit for such occasions.

Soon we are being ushered along the red gauntlet by her bossy publicist, brandishing a clipboard and a firm perma-smile, to reach the main bank of paparazzi. Time to make my move. Pouncing out of the shadows like a leopard stalking its prey, I’m suddenly visible under the bright lights. I dash to the corners of her skirt, pulling down layer upon delicate layer of pure silk scarlet organza, embellished with shimmering beads and tiny sequins that catch the lights, sending sparkles in every direction. It is breathtakingly elegant.