The Stylist. Rosie Nixon

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.

       Chapter Five

      ‘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?

      ‘No problem, I’ve done plenty of PA stuff for Jas,’ I offered diligently, with as much good energy as I could muster. It was only a white lie. I had turned into Mona’s big-eyed, eager-to-please puppy. Yet I had an overwhelming feeling that I would always be just one accidental widdle on the carpet away from getting the sack myself. Well, how hard can PA duties actually be?

      ‘Great. First, I need you to call the TV people. I told you they’re coming to the suite to do a bit of follow-up filming for the pilot today.’ Er, no, you didn’t. Do you think I’m Derren Brown?

      ‘They took the plane out this morning, too—the Virgin one, all a bit lastminute.com. But it’s a good sign—they must think the network is interested in commissioning the series. Isn’t that fabulous?’

      I gulped.

      ‘The AD, Bob, was it? The cute one. His number’s in my phone, under “TV”. I said you’d call when we were on our way.’

      She handed her unlocked iPhone to me without taking her eyes off the road, which was lucky because it meant she couldn’t see my award-winning impression of Gwyneth Paltrow’s face after discovering she’s eaten a non-macrobiotic canapé. I wasn’t sure what scared me more—the fact that the TV crew was already here, in LA, or that Mona thought Rob was cute. ‘What are you waiting for, babe? Give him a call.’

      Hastily, I located the number, and it rang, the long, foreign ringtone leaving me in no doubt that he was indeed this side of the Atlantic. My heart started pulsing hard, taking me by surprise.

      ‘Hello, Rob speaking.’

      ‘Oh, hi, Rob—it’s, um, Amber here, calling for Mona Armstrong.’

      ‘Hi, Amber, great to speak to you—we were just wondering when Mona would call. Wonder if you’re feeling as out of it as I am!’

      He instantly put me at ease. I pictured him smiling into the phone.

      ‘Yes, I am pretty tired.’ I sideways-glanced at Mona, who flew across an amber light, laughing. ‘Amber Green!’

      As we sped along a wide six-lane carriageway, glass-fronted shops and parked cars whizzed past. I saw very few actual people on the pavement; it was so different to the packed streets of central London.

      ‘All right, babe, stop flirting,’ Mona barked. ‘Just let the guy know they should make sure they’re with us by at least five, because Beau Belle’s due soon after. She’ll be perfect for the show.’

      I replaced my ear to the phone. ‘Mona says, if …’

      ‘It’s okay, Amber, I heard. Beau Belle, in the flesh, hey? We’ll be with you by five. Get some coffee down you. It’s always a killer on the first day, but you’ll be fine.’

      ‘See you later, then.’

      I handed Mona’s iPhone back to her, leaned back into my seat and began mentally listing the things that were wrong with my current situation:

       My face looks like Lindsay Lohan’s after a bender.

       I smell.

       I have indeterminate ‘energy’.

       I’m not sure what I’m meant to be doing at the W Hotel.

      And on top of that, my first day at work was about to be recorded on camera by a guy I almost definitely fancied.

      Just concentrate on your professional ability, Amber Green. You have a career now, and you can do this. Show her you were worth the gamble. You want this. Focus. But giving myself an internal pep talk was another clear sign I fancied him.

      We pulled up in front of the impressive glass facade of the W Hotel in West Hollywood, the gleaming mirrored walls glinting in the bright sunshine. Mona handed the keys to a waiting valet attendant. Then the boot bounced open, and the bags and hanging clothes cases Ana and I had carefully packed into it were lifted out by a bellboy and loaded onto a trolley. Mona handed him a dollar bill.

      ‘Wow Suite, fast as you can.’

      ‘Certainly, Ms Armstrong. I’ll let the front desk know you’ve arrived.’

      ‘And tell them to send up any parcels—there should be several.’

      Like her obedient pet puppy, I followed. We entered the achingly cool foyer. Trendy people stood busily chatting in groups or waiting for others in round seating areas. An organically curved central staircase with a red carpet down its centre swept through the space with impressive elegance. I wanted to stop here for a minute, to take it all in, but we went straight into the lifts. Mona seemed impatient and far too alert—unlike me, she’d obviously had a decent amount of sleep on the plane.

      ‘Your Cavallis should be here by now,’ she commented, squeezing out half a smile as we zoomed upwards. Please, dear Lord, let them be here. I glanced at my phone—16:35—that meant I had twenty-five minutes, maximum, to make myself look a bit better and to wake up.

      ‘Nathan should have pre-ordered refreshments for the suite, so you can set them out prettily and get the coffee on first of all,’ Mona instructed. I wondered if Nathan had ordered her a side dish of cyanide while he was at it. Judging by the phone conversation I’d eavesdropped on, I wouldn’t have put it past him.

      Our suite was the size of my entire flat. In the sprawling living room, a stylish dove-grey corner sofa and lounge chairs filled one area, above which hung a light installation ‘containing 20,000 LEDs’ according to the in-room brochure. There were also three free-standing full-length mirrors and a large glass-topped dining table, upon which Mona began methodically setting out an impressive haul of glittering accessories from one