The Stylist. Rosie Nixon

asked.

      ‘Well, the cameras weren’t actually rolling, but we were rehearsing our scenes. You know?’

      I wasn’t sure I did. ‘Does Trey know anything about this?’

      ‘I really love Trey!’ she exclaimed. ‘He’s my fiancé, Amber. We’re getting married soon. But this stalking reporter is trying to ruin everything. And it sounds like they’re going to print the lies, anyway …’

      Tears began to stream down her cheeks, carrying blobs of mascara from her clogged lashes.

      ‘Beau, it’s okay, please don’t cry. It’s going to be okay, you know …’ I said. ‘Can’t you just tell this reporter he’s got it wrong? Tell him exactly what you just told me?’

      She shook her head in response.

      ‘At least no one is actually trying to kill you,’ I continued, trying for cheery. ‘I thought for a moment you were going to say there was a crazy man about to jump through the window with a handgun. It’s not that bad.’

      Lightening the mood didn’t seem to be working. Now the streams of black tears were joining up into one big river that ran down her neck and drip, drip, dripped its way onto the brand new Dolce & Gabbana dress. Mona’s going to go bananas … I needed her out of the dress.

      I grabbed some more tissues from the en suite and gently tried to dab at the dress. Beau barely noticed—she wasn’t interested in clothes any more. Her mind was ticking over, formulating a plan that was inevitably going to involve me.

      ‘So what really needs to happen,’ she said after a few minutes, ‘is for Trey to know these stupid photos are just me rehearsing with Jason, and nothing more, before they get Tweeted all over the world and picked up by every gossip site under the sun in two days’ time. No, I’ve got to get to him first.’

      ‘Right. I’m sure Trey will completely understand when you explain things to him,’ I offered hopefully, and in the face of all the signs. ‘No one believes what they read on Starz, anyway.’

      I didn’t think she’d appreciate knowing most of my friends back home were signed up to the Starz email alerts, and accepted every single word as gospel.

      ‘Well, what I was thinking was, that that’s where you could help, Amber, like you said you would.’ She widened her blue eyes; the big, sultry eyes that had led so many co-stars into ‘compromising situations’. ‘I was thinking that you could just call up Trey, pretend you were one of my producers on Summer’s Not Over, and tell him that some photos have unfortunately got into the hands of a down-market gossip site, but that you can confirm Jason and I were only rehearsing, so there is nothing to worry about. End of. Right, Amber?’

      I remained silent for a moment, while I digested this.

      ‘But, um, but I’m not a producer … I’m Mona’s assistant. I’m not sure I’d be very good at pretending I’m someone else—I’m not an actress, like you.’

      ‘But you said you wanted to help?’ She had desperation in her eyes.

      I felt panicked. What would Jas do now?

      ‘Really, Beau,’ I pleaded. ‘I was always rubbish at drama at school. I never got picked for the school plays. I was always the back end of the donkey in the Nativity. I want to help you, I really do, but I don’t think I can do this. What if Trey started asking questions? He might not believe me.’

      Right then, we were interrupted by another knock at the door. Mona again—this time shouting through it.

      ‘Are you feeling better, Beau, darling? You’ve been a very long time. I was beginning to wonder if Amber had fallen asleep on you. She’s probably not coping with the jet lag. The TV people have gone now, okay?’

      ‘I’m feeling a little better now, thank you, Mona. We’re coming out, literally right now,’ Beau clambered off the bed. ‘So that’s sorted, then, Amber?’ She turned to me. ‘I’ll come back to finish the fitting tomorrow, give you Trey’s number and you’ll call him. I’ll tell you exactly what to say.’

      She looked like a different person—certainly not the one who was drowning in tears not more than five minutes ago. She wiped the last traces of mascara stains from her cheeks, added a slick of lip gloss and surveyed herself in the mirror as if nothing had happened. Then she slipped on the Jimmy Choos and swung open the door.

      ‘Ta-da! You know what, I do love the Dolce, Mona. I’ll bring my Spanx tomorrow and it’ll all be fine.’

      I was flabbergasted.

      When Beau had changed back into her civvies, Mona promised to call Stefano Gabbana himself to see if she could keep the dress after wearing it for her premiere. Then Beau announced she had to leave, but she’d be back the next day to be filmed as they finished her fitting for the actual Golden Globes. As she made for the door, we all noticed she was missing something—something she had most definitely arrived with—a small grunting pink thing in a leather jacket.

      ‘Ah, Pinky!’ she exclaimed, her eyes finding AJ, who was still holding Pinky’s lead. ‘Amber, babe, you love pigs—how do you fancy Pinky-sitting tonight?’ She didn’t give me a chance to respond. ‘Thanks, babe! I just need a bit of quality time with my fiancé this evening … you know.’

      I knew, all right. Beau needed to be on the ball, vetting her phone for calls from the ‘stalker’. It had now been thirty hours since my last proper sleep, and London felt a very, very long way away. As AJ put Pinky’s lead in my hand, I lacked the energy to do anything about it. Instead, I surrendered myself to whatever a night with a micro-pig might have in store. The look of disdain on Mona’s face told me the pig would be staying in my room and nowhere else in her clean, white mansion—I didn’t even get a chance to ask what the creature should eat. And I was already dreading the morning and the phone call. This really wasn’t the initiation into the Hollywood scene I had been hoping for. I wondered if I should just refuse to be drawn in. Maybe I should tell Mona about it?

      ‘You and Beau seemed to hit it off,’ Mona commented frostily as we sped back to her house, Pinky travelling, probably illegally, on my lap. I was gripping him so tightly my knuckles had turned white. One late brake at the traffic lights and we’d have gammon for dinner.

      ‘S’pose so,’ I responded, abruptly deciding against telling Mona. I didn’t want to appear foolish or out of my depth—for all I knew, this was normal for Hollywood. Besides, Beau had asked me to keep it a secret, and I wasn’t sure if I could trust Mona yet. I didn’t want to turn it into any more of a drama.

      When we got back, Klara was in the kitchen, heating what appeared to be a watery soup of over-cooked vegetables. She barely twitched when she saw Pinky enter the kitchen behind me. It’s a pig in a leather jacket, for God’s sake! I felt exhausted now, off-balance and hardly able to keep my eyes open; I went through the rest of the evening in a daze, picking at the turkey chilli Ana had made for us. I didn’t want Mona to think I was a lightweight, but it had been the longest day ever and now I really needed my bed. I led Pinky upstairs and used my last shred of energy to text Vicky: Am sharing my bed with Beau Belle’s micro-pig. Will call tomorrow. Miss you. A x. Then I turned off my phone and passed out.

      I woke up a few hours later to a loud crash as Pinky overturned the water bowl I’d left for him on the floor. As it rolled around on the glossy white floorboards and finally came to a halt, I flicked on the bedside light to see him snuffling around the pile of discarded black clothes at the foot of my bed. I didn’t get much sleep for the rest of the night. It turns out pigs are pretty much nocturnal. My head was spinning with Beau’s request and I kept being woken up by Pinky either headbutting the door or scratching at the floorboards as he searched for an escape route. I felt sorry for the little thing. We were both a bit lost in this big, pristine room in a show home high in the Hollywood Hills.

      Suddenly a thought occurred to me that made everything seem a little better. There’s a half-eaten