The Stylist. Rosie Nixon

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.

      ‘But honestly, Jas, what the hell am I supposed to do? I’ve got at least twenty global superstars wanting me to dress them over the next week, and only a few days to sort the whole frigging lot out—I’ve got photo-calls, cocktail parties at Soho House, premieres—not to mention the awards themselves. She could not have done this at a worse time.’

      Jasmine, too cool to play up to the camera or be drawn into slagging anyone off, was trying to offer some comfort, shaking her head and nodding empathically in all the right places, whilst calmly directing Mona back to the clothes and the job in hand.

      ‘You poor love—how will you get through it? Have you seen the new Lanvin?’

      ‘Oh, I’ll do it, all right.’ Mona looked directly into the camera lens for effect. ‘Nothing comes between me and my superstars. But at this precise moment, it’s so unfunny, I actually feel like screaming.’

      I glanced over towards the Stick. Brow furrowed, she was totally immersed in Mona’s plight, feeling her pain. Does she know she’s folded and refolded that mohair jumper three times? The 20Twenty crew huddled around Mona, filming her intently. Fran with the bob was chewing the end of her biro while Rob held a boom mic just above Mona’s head.

      I wondered if they’d shot the fateful scene with Tamara handing in her notice earlier in the day. I wouldn’t have liked to be in her shoes when she told Mona the news. Jas began motioning Mona over to her ‘Ones to Watch’, concern etched across her delicate features.

      ‘What a total nightmare. But surely you have some girls you use in LA, Mona—is there anyone I can have Kiki call for you? Kiki, honey!’

      The Stick immediately dropped the jumper and rushed on-set, almost skidding to a halt on the shag-pile in front of Mona. Damn—it would have been entertaining to see her take a dive. Her box-fresh Kirkwoods were clearly as uncomfortable as mine. The camera and boom turned to her. Idly, I wondered if the Stick was Rob’s type.

      ‘No, darling—there’s no one I can call.’ Mona turned away, barely registering Kiki. ‘Loving this though—what’s the label?’

      ‘Star-Crossed, she’s a recent graduate, will show at London Fashion Week,’ Jas informed her, pulling a couple of cocktail dresses from the rail.

      ‘Hmm.’ She moved on.

      Mona then turned her gaze to the front of the store. Kiki retreated, crestfallen, her small-screen debut over before it began.

      ‘That reminds me,’ Mona continued, ‘the windows. I’m loving the monochrome, but what you’ve done with the shoes is inspired.’

      Jas and Kiki both looked at me, puzzled. We all joined Mona at the side of the bay windows. My cheeks began to heat up as I racked my brains. What could have happened to the shoes? The shaggy cameraman headed towards the front of the store, too, Rob lifting cables behind him. Kiki and Fran followed. Surreptitiously, we all strained to see the feet of the two mannequins standing exactly as I’d left them, with their backs to us behind the glass facade. The burning sensation in my cheeks turned into a wave of panic as it hit me like a cold, hard slap in the face—I’d been standing outside, looking at the mannequins from the street, when the Stick had screamed for me to come in and finish steaming the jumpsuits. I’d meant to come back to them, but got distracted by Mona’s arrival … Oh God … I’d left one white and one black shoe on each mannequin’s plastic feet.

       I feel sick.

      ‘Which of you is responsible for the mismatched shoes?’ Mona asked.

      I shuffled uncomfortably, knowing I had nowhere to hide. I wanted to open the door and run far away from here; just keep on running until I found a bush to hide under in Regent’s Park, or a cardboard box in an underpass. I wanted to be at my parents’ house—better still, my grandma’s flat. Somewhere no one would find me. Jas and the Stick both looked in my direction, frowning, willing me to speak, lest Mona should think either of them had messed up the display.

      ‘Come on, don’t be shy,’ Mona urged, searching our faces.

      The camera’s big, nosy lens pointed towards us. I hated Shaggy for putting me on the spot like this with his horrible, ugly camera. And I hated Rob and Fran even more, for not stopping him. Eventually I plucked up the courage to speak.

      ‘It was me, Mona, I …’

      ‘The monochrome vibe, it’s so fresh, so relevant,’ she said. ‘But what you’ve done with the shoes—j’adore! You’re a genius, girl.’

       Is she having a laugh?

      Before I could say it was a hideous mistake that I had meant to fix, she was gesturing to the TV crew. ‘Have you got this, cameraman?’ She ushered Shaggy closer to get a good view of my stunned, blotchy face.

      ‘Babe, it’s a brave statement,’ she continued, ‘but you totally nailed it. The odd shoes grabbed my attention straight away.’

      ‘They did?’

      Luckily for me, Mona doesn’t listen to other people’s doubts.

      ‘And that’s what this business is all about. You don’t gain column inches by blending in with the crowd. You’ve got to wear a look with conviction, you’ve got to stand out, kick it up a notch. Mixed up monochrome has a buzz to it—it’s the perfect way to inject some attitude into a cocktail look or get noticed on the street. It’s cheeky and playful—seriously, it’s reinvention at its best. Loving your Kirkwoods, by the way.’

      The camera zoomed in on my (matching) pair of too-tight suede and metal heels. They were amazing, all right. Amazing at cutting off the circulation to my toes. I winced.

      ‘Jas, you’re a lucky woman to have this talent on your team.’

      I still didn’t know whether she was being sarcastic