The Stylist. Rosie Nixon

legs seemed to go on forever. She was like a kind of miniature giraffe.

      ‘Thanks, Mona,’ she replied softly, in an English accent, before slinking off again through some large glass doors at the end of the open lounge area onto a patio, and was that a swimming pool behind? It is! My insides did the Macarena.

      ‘The great thing about having models as tenants is they hardly eat anything,’ Mona revealed, the girl out of earshot as we made our way into the heart of the house, which opened up into a large living area.

      ‘All I do is stock up on peanut butter and rice cakes, leave some fresh coffee and grapes in the fridge and they’re happy. They don’t even need milk for coffee. Klara’s been over from London staying the last six months, on and off, and I’ve not seen her eat anything but rice cakes and grapes the whole time.’

      The girl had slipped some denim shorts over her bony thighs and sauntered back into view. Exotically beautiful, she looked a bit sleepy, dazed, not quite ‘with it’. Maybe she had just woken up—I wasn’t exactly feeling dynamic myself. Mona beckoned her over.

      ‘Come here, Klara, babe, let Amber see you properly. You’re looking gorgeous. Tell us, when are we going to see the new Burberry campaign?’

      The girl moved across to the vast open plan kitchen–diner area to the right of the high-ceilinged lounge, and we followed, leaving our suitcases in the hallway. Klara sat on one of the breakfast stools, pulling her long legs up and hugging them into her chest. My eyes darted around the room, taking it all in. It was filled with more shiny white kitchen cabinets than I would ever know how to fill. A thick black marble worktop with inlaid sparkly bits went around in a horseshoe, above which hung three modern white-and-chrome statement light fittings that shed circular shafts of light onto the wide breakfast bar.

      Mona followed my line of vision.

      ‘It’s filled with Swarovski crystals, babe. One of a kind.’

      Klara plucked a grape from a large bowl on the top and began carefully peeling off its skin.

      ‘It’s stunning,’ I uttered, running my hand across the welcome, cool surface. I wanted to put my flushed cheeks on it, too. Everything was so sparse and clean, I felt like I was messing up the feng shui just by being here.

      ‘Anyway, tell us some gossip, Klara?’

      ‘It’s been awesome, Mona,’ she replied, barely transferring her attention from the half-bald grape. She’s about to tell us something exciting, but is showing absolutely zero signs of enthusiasm for it—Mona has trained her well.

      ‘I was shooting with David de la Valle last week—it went on into the night and then we all went to Soho House and had espresso martinis while we watched the sun come up. Leonardo DiCaprio was there.’

      ‘Lovely Leo, I met him once when he was dating that supermodel,’ said Mona. ‘Did he chat you up?’

      ‘Yeah, we chatted, but he isn’t my type. I prefer Harry Styles.’

      Leonardo DiCaprio, not your type? Vicky will go nuts! Though I could only assume Klara was more engaging when she was actually being chatted up by a Hollywood heartthrob. Maybe I’ll end up bumping into Leo while I’m here.

      Mona cackled with laughter. ‘Oh, darling, you’ll meet Harry soon enough, I’m sure. Won’t she, Amber?’ She elbowed me in the ribs.

      I smiled awkwardly. I had absolutely no idea how to add to this conversation, my closest previous celebrity encounter having been when Jas offered Orlando Bloom shelter from the paparazzi by letting him into the stockroom. Or there was that time I walked past Helen Mirren on Mount Street. Mona looked at her chunky gold Rolex.

      ‘Maybe you should go unpack and freshen up?’ Oh great, so I do actually smell.

      As I made my way back to my case, I was intercepted by the arrival of another woman, who had let herself into the house. At barely five foot, stocky and Hispanic, she was Klara’s diametric opposite.

      ‘Ah, hel-lo, Ana!’ Mona shouted, though the woman was barely a few feet away. Maybe she has a hearing problem.

      ‘Mona,’ came the reply, in a clear American accent. ‘How was your flight?’

      ‘Oh, you know, high, long, tedious. This is my new assistant, Amber Green. Like the traffic light.’ Klara sniggered. At least I don’t spend my time peeling grapes.

      ‘No Tamara, then?’ Ana asked.

      ‘No.’

      ‘I liked Miss Tamara.’

      I liked Ana straight away. She already appeared to be one of the few people who wasn’t afraid of Mona.

      ‘Will you show Amber to her room, please?’

      ‘You work for Mona, then?’ I asked, as we made our way up some white stairs leading off the central hallway, Ana insisted on lugging my suitcase despite the fact that she looked older than my mum.

      ‘Yes, I’m her housekeeper,’ she replied, a little out of puff.

      ‘How long have you worked here?’

      ‘Fifteen years.’

      ‘Wow, that’s a long time.’

      ‘A very, very long time,’ she replied wearily. ‘When Miss Armstrong was married.’

      ‘Right, of course.’

      I suppose she expected me to know this intriguing piece of information already. In fact, I felt a little ashamed that I knew almost nothing about my landlord and boss. I was desperate to hear more, but Ana didn’t seem to want to elaborate, and we had reached our destination at the end of a white corridor lined on either side with black-and-white photos of Mona, in various states of gushing ecstasy, with numerous celebrities.

      Blake Lively, Jennifer Lawrence, Kristen Stewart, is that Nicole Scherzinger? In another—Jennifer Astley! I made a mental note to come back and study them in detail later on.

      My room—one of five barely used guest rooms, it transpired—was nicer than any hotel I’d ever stayed in. The animal-print theme continued with a faux leopard-skin rug on the floor, and there was a big, soft, cream throw and at least half a dozen cream and caramel scatter cushions on the king-sized bed. There was a large, tasteful black-and-white line drawing of a sitting woman’s naked back on one of the walls and a black-and-white photograph of Grace Kelly on another. It was understated, but girly and cool. I loved it instantly. There were two windows in the room, one of which looked out over the driveway and the other the side of the garden, but if I opened it and stuck my neck out, I could just about see twinkling water.

      There’s a pool! I texted Vicky. But then I deleted it. I didn’t want her to think I was showing off. But wow, this is The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills come to life!

      Peering out, I could see Klara, sitting cross-legged on one of the loungers around the swimming pool, tapping at her iPhone. The pool was circular and very inviting. It definitely wasn’t the kind for swimming lengths. There were six loungers around it, with black-and-white-striped cushioning over them—one of them with a long, thin wet patch in the middle, presumably where Klara had been basking after a dip. The sun was beating down strongly. I was aching to strip off and get into the water.

      ‘Miss Armstrong will meet you downstairs in twenty minutes,’ Ana instructed.

      I opened my case and began sorting through the mass of crumpled black clothing within it. I had indeed forgotten the white pile. You idiot, Amber. It seemed ironic that I was going to be living for two weeks with one of the world’s top stylists and I had absolutely nothing to wear. Maybe I’d be able to go shopping. I wondered if Mona would ever loan clothing to her staff, like Jas did sometimes, but something made me doubt it. Then I noticed another door leading off the room. I pushed it open and discovered a gleaming, cream en suite bathroom complete with a roll-top bath, a wet shower area and one of those big sinks with