Amber Green Takes Manhattan
Amber Green Takes Manhattan
Rosie Nixon
Novice stylist Amber Green is taking on the glittering celebrity world of Manhattan one fashion disaster and wardrobe malfunction at a time!When her TV producer boyfriend Rob announces that he’s been offered a job in New York, filming with the infamous Angel Wear lingerie models, Amber knows its her perfect chance to take the New York fashion world by storm.But Amber wasn’t counting on unruly toddler photo shoots, clandestine designer handbag scams and a Hollywood star who is determined to wear as little as possible on the red carpet. Until she meets a disgraced former designer who could turn her career around…or leave it all in tatters.Fun, adventure, glamour and high-fashion make this is the perfect feel good women’s fiction read.
ROSIE NIXON lives in London with her husband and their two young sons and is Editor-in-Chief of HELLO! magazine. She previously held senior positions at glossy women’s magazines, including Grazia, Glamour and Red. Rosie has a love of all things celebrity, Royal and fashion-related and has been lucky enough to attend a multitude of glamorous showbiz events all around the world. Ever discreet and protective of the big stars she has worked with, Rosie’s experience has enabled her to write her debut novel The Stylist and its sequel, Amber Green Takes Manhattan.
For Rex
Contents
Cover (#uf501730e-a494-5ab4-acd8-33b88021a0c2)
About the Author (#uec38a076-a3e4-5dd4-ba28-1503340a219d)
Title Page (#u2985f248-6129-5eda-95e4-8f54c4e7e1be)
Dedication (#ueabeafc8-e9a6-592b-ab0f-9fc0b14bacab)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_080aeabf-1b62-5d92-8ea1-03d3250b4da6)
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_c4544038-6bee-5184-8b6c-fa286924f2fe)
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_494e8f18-197a-5bc8-b585-62e762ed2473)
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_5e2d5e72-68ab-5a3d-bf2a-b25175959bef)
I nuzzled in and breathed deeply. I could sniff the vulnerable patch of bare skin just under his collarbone all day long. It was light outside now and I couldn’t get back to sleep. My mind was spinning. I traced the edge of Rob’s tattoo lightly with my finger. An intricate feather design on his upper arm, it was quite a work of art and had taken me by surprise the first time I saw it in full, after our first date. He had teased me with glimpses of it poking out of T-shirt sleeves for a long while before that. It had taken three sittings to create, by the steady hand of a Muswell Hill tattoo artist. The feather, he said, was to symbolise the freedom of flight; to remind him that he too was free to fly, if he ever needed reminding. Deep and meaningful! I teased him at the time, but the sentiment had played on my mind a bit ever since. Tonight it was resonating strongly to me. Does he want to just take off and fly away from me? Leave me broken hearted, like his last girlfriend?
It all started yesterday evening.
Rob came to the door in tracksuit bottoms and a baggy hoodie. I loved him in his comfy house clothes. He was holding Pinky under one arm.
Pinky: the cute pet micro-pig partly responsible for getting us together. Rob had adopted the little piggy and relocated him from Los Angeles after Pinky was abandoned by one of my former ditzy Hollywood clients. Yes, really! It all happened last year, during my temporary job as stylist to the stars Mona Armstrong’s assistant. Rob doted on the creature – literally worshipped the sawdust Pinky walked on. He was more than a pet; he was his child.
Of late, I’d noticed that the novelty of having an alternative to a house cat was starting to wear off for Rob’s flatmate. Ben was, understandably, getting fed up with the lingering smell of pig pee in the hallway, trotter prints on the sofa, and the wet snout he regularly found snuffling in his clean laundry. But when you looked into Pinky’s dark little eyes you could forgive anything. Well, Rob could. In the same way that I became pretty pathetic whenever I looked into his.
The little creature squealed in what I’m sure was piggy happiness when he saw me on the doorstep.
‘Ben’s here,’ Rob warned, meaning no proper kissing until we reached his bedroom.
I smiled, pulling on his tracksuit cord. ‘I can control myself.’
Rob hovered by the door. He looked anxious.
‘Everything okay?’
He paused for a bit too long. ‘Sort of. I’ll explain later.’
I followed him into the living room. Ben was in his usual position, lying full length across one of the sofas, bare feet and lanky legs dangling off the end, a litre bottle of Coke by his side. He was sweaty, like he’d not long been home from the gym.
Theirs was such a boy flat. It was sparse and functional, yet still managed to look untidy. The front room consisted of a large flat-screen TV, two sofas, a coffee table and an Ikea rug that should never have been bought in cream because it had rarely seen a vacuum cleaner in the two years they had lived here. Shelves crammed with DVDs and books in no particular order and curtains that didn’t quite stretch across the width of the whole window. No surprises, then, that they affectionately referred to their home as ‘the pigsty’.
‘So have you heard the big news?’ Ben said when he finally took his eyes off the TV and registered my presence.
‘No,’ I looked at Rob, confused.
‘Pinky’s gay,’ Ben blurted out, shifting himself sideways to get a proper view of both of our faces.
Rob smirked: ‘Don’t flatter yourself.’
‘Oh, it’s nothing to do with me – though if he fancies me, who can blame him? Pinky always goes for the guys. C’mon, bet you’ve noticed too, haven’t you Amber?’ He winked at me.
‘Enlighten me, Ben,’ I said cynically. I could tell he was desperate to get on with his story.
‘Nina’s bulldog, Freddie: Male. Can’t stop sniffing around his rear every time he comes over. The cat from next door: It’s a Tom, and Pinky’s entire face lights up every time he jumps over the fence. His trotters could barely move fast enough when he tried to chase him the other morning, I saw it with my own eyes. And I’m not joking, he takes an unhealthy shine to your and my boxers in the laundry basket, Rob, mate. You might not have noticed, but I certainly have.’
I chuckled and dug Rob in the ribs. ‘Got competition, have I?’
‘What is it they say?’ Rob asked, stooping to gently place Pinky on the floor and ushering him towards Ben. ‘Takes one to know one?’
‘Oh, I’ve got nothing against gays, you know that, Rob. Two of my best mates are gay and I went to a gay wedding last year – granted most of the guests fancied me, but that’s another story. No, I’m wondering if there’s a marketing opportunity here – “Meet Britain’s First Gay Miniature Pig” – I can see him being a hit in Soho. Don’t you think, Amber?’
I tried not to laugh.
Rob scowled in mock irritation. ‘Pinky and I are going to make dinner, and if you’re on our side you’re invited to join us, Amber. Get yourself a takeaway Ben.’
‘Flouncing off in a strop – so camp!’ Ben uttered, turning back around and taking the TV off pause.
I followed Rob into the kitchen and watched him lovingly top up Pinky’s bowl of slop. The fact he was an animal lover was one of the things I adored about Rob. He couldn’t walk past a cat in the street without stopping to give it a stroke.
‘So, tell me more about your day,’ I said, opening the fridge on the hunt for white wine. Rob failed to hear me; he seemed lost in thought.
‘You okay?’
‘Hey?’ He almost jumped. ‘Sorry, just sorting Pinky out then I’ll get dinner on. We’re having fish. Okay with you?’
‘Sounds great. Do you have any wine in here?’
‘There’s a bottle in my bag in the hallway, should still be slightly cold.’ He seemed nervous and it wasn’t like him not to open a bottle straight after a stressful day at work.
He was making me feel jittery too. I found the wine and returned to find Rob scrolling through emails on his phone. He was lost in thought as I unscrewed the top and poured us each a glass.
‘Shall I get the oven on then?’ I asked.
Finally, after dinner on our laps in front of some terrible sci-fi film Ben refused to turn off, Rob opened up. We were in his bedroom and I was reading an email from my boss, Joseph, who wanted a load of changes to the clothes I’d chosen for our latest window display at Selfridges.
‘How was I supposed to know he wanted muted candy colours rather than brights?’ I moaned. ‘He could have mentioned the fact two weeks ago when I started pulling it all together. It’s so frustrating.’ Rob was miles away. ‘And he’s asked me to come into work naked tomorrow.’
‘Eh?’ He’d spent the last ten minutes fiddling with the iPod dock, but there was still no sound coming out.
‘He’s asked me to… nothing. Perhaps you can tell me what happened at work? You’re clearly not listening to me.’
He turned and sat on the bed next to me. Then he looked at me earnestly. ‘Louise, the series producer, had a chat with me about a pitch the company’s just won for a shoot in New York,’ he began.
‘New York, wow,’ I uttered, though I felt my stomach knot as I sensed what was coming.
‘It’s to make a fly-on-the-wall series about Angel Wear.’
‘As in, Angel Wear, the underwear company?’ I asked.
‘Right,’ he said, avoiding eye contact. The knot in my stomach was pulled tighter. ‘She’s asked if I want to produce it – there’ll be directing involved too.’
‘In New York?’ I repeated, just to check I’d heard correctly. A mental image of the Angel Wear lingerie models popped into my head, all tanned, long-limbed perfection.
‘Yes, it would mean moving out there – for at least three months, maybe longer.’
I took a moment to process this. ‘Do you want to do it?’
‘I don’t know.’ He looked truly pained.
‘Well, when do you have to let her know?’
‘As soon as possible, they’re keen to get visas in place and a team out there in the next few weeks.’
I knew I must look as if I was desperately trying not to cry, every muscle in my face straining to retain its composure. I ached for him to pull me into a big bear hug and kiss my forehead reassuringly. But he didn’t. I’m not even sure he noticed my strange facial expression because he just lay back on the bed and sighed.
‘Listen Amber, I’m not sure about all the details yet, maybe I won’t take it, I thought I wanted to move away from this kind of telly. But it’s an opportunity to direct. I’m going to talk to Lou properly in the morning. I just wanted you to be in the loop.’
I managed to utter the words, ‘Yes, great, just got something in my eye,’ and escaped to the bathroom where I locked the door behind me. I sat on the side of the bath and held my head in my hands as I tried to imagine what this meant for us. Finally, I find someone I really like – someone I think I love; someone I can imagine building a life with – and now he’s going to move to New York. Maybe I’m destined to be single forever, after all.
When I finally emerged from the bathroom, Rob was already in bed looking at his phone again. Self-consciously I undressed, pulling on one of his T-shirts and awkwardly undoing my bra and wriggling out of it without showing any flesh. Instead of finding my usual sleep position: legs entwined with his, face buried in his chest, I stayed on my side. My feet were freezing.
And now, here I was, lying in bed awake at five in the morning, thinking too much, sniffing him and stalking his tattoo.
The events of last spring were still raw in my mind, nine months later. A fateful trip to Hawaii had changed the course of my life: I had finally realised Rob did have feelings for me; my then boss, Mona, completely lost the plot; and my best friend Vicky ended up shagging Trey Jones, the Trey Jones, the famous film director and man who we were meant to be watching get married. You couldn’t have made it up.
Vicky moved in with Trey in LA almost immediately, but it had taken Rob and me a whole four months after that to finally get together, when he tracked me down at work in London. I’ve been starring in my own rom-com ever since – Vicky providing the ‘com’, even from the other side of the globe.
Rob had said he needed to be out of the house extra early in the morning, which wasn’t unusual, but this morning I was happy to pretend to be still asleep while he tip-toed around the room, gathering his clothes before going off to shower. I stirred as he gently kissed my cheek goodbye but waited for the front door to slam before I got out of bed and dragged myself to the bathroom.
I’d gone to sleep trying to convince myself that things are never so bad in the cold light of day, but why did I still have the same feeling of impending doom? I tried to tell myself that three months was nothing – it would be over in a flash. But when you’ve only been dating for five months, it feels like forever. As a waterfall of hot water cascaded onto my head, I was lurched out of my despondency by the even more horrific realisation that there was no shampoo or conditioner in this shower. And soon after that, I realised there was none anywhere in the bathroom, so I went to work with hair washed in Lynx Deep Space shower gel. The day could only get better.
I called Vicky as I walked to work from Oxford Circus tube. ‘He’s going to be filming underwear models.’ Saying it aloud made it sting even more.
‘Man, that’s tough,’ said Vicky, confirming what I already knew.
‘Underwear models!’ I exclaimed again, thinking that making them sound faintly ridiculous might make them less threatening.
‘I heard you. The Icons all have legs up to their armpits, washboard stomachs, perfect racks, peachy—’
‘Yes, yes, okay, I think I know what an underwear model looks like, Vicky. I feel crap as it is, no need to rub it in.’
She paused, before replying, measuredly, ‘What I was going to say was peachy bottoms – and air for brains. Amber, stop doing the paranoid girlfriend thing and rise above this. It’s you who Rob’s going out with, and that’s not going to change. Well, unless you start acting all insecure and paranoid about the underwear models and their peachy bottoms that he will be filming. Not dating or having sex with – just filming. Okay?’
‘Okay.’ She didn’t have to spell it out quite so bluntly. Although she had hit the nail on the head.
‘Anyway, when are you coming out to see me?’ She changed the subject. ‘Not being funny but it’s been nearly a year, and you still haven’t got on a plane. We’ve got tons of space. I’m even naming a suite after you – the Green Suite. Come on Am, book it! Bring Rob too if you want. I’m going nuts out here in this huge mansion. And I need some English humour, desperately. I also need digestive biscuits dunked in Earl Grey tea. But most of all, I need us!’
She was right. I needed ‘us’ too. I missed Vicky so much – her wry sense of humour and the hilarious escapades we’d got up to when we shared a home.
‘Anyway, how’s things with you?’ I asked
‘Not great, to be honest. Why do you think I’m still awake at two in the morning and not at a party? I’ll tell you, because I’m lying in bed – alone – trying to work out what I’m doing with my life.’
‘Oh, honey, sorry to hear this, and I’ve been banging on about me. What’s going on?’
‘Nothing really. And that’s half the problem. I’m so bored here, Amber. Trey’s out at the crack of dawn each day and back late, if he comes back at all. He’s working on a big feature film and although it’s filming in LA, I hardly see him. I know more about our pool cleaner’s life than my own boyfriend’s right now. I even made lunch for the hedge trimmer yesterday, I was so bored of cooking for myself. He was pretty hot, as it goes, I was starting to find his strimmer sexy. Honestly, if Trey hadn’t come back that evening… Amber, I don’t know what I’m doing out here.’
‘You found his strimmer sexy? That’s desperate. Have you told Trey how you’re feeling?’
‘If I had a chance I probably would, but, like I said, he’s barely here and I don’t want to do the whiney girlfriend on the phone thing. I never wanted to be that girlfriend, but I’m getting close to having no option. Be careful what you wish for, Amber, maybe there’s more spark living apart.’
‘But not living in separate continents. God, it’s never straightforward is it? What are we going to do?’
‘I wish we could go to the Chamberlayne and get drunk.’
‘Me too. I could murder a girlie drinking session with you.’
‘I miss you so much, honey. I keep thinking of my room in the flat. At this rate, I could be back before you know it.’
‘Listen, let’s keep each other posted, okay, and if it all goes wrong, of course you can just move back. We’ve still got the flat, your room is exactly as you left it, and we’ll just carry on like before. Our lives weren’t so bad, were they? Sainsbury’s must be suffering from a loss in revenue from hummus and Popchips since you’ve been away, I’m sure they’ll welcome you back with open arms too.’
Finally, she laughed. ‘You’re right. It will be fine. This film is meant to end in a couple of weeks and then Trey’s mentioned a holiday in Mexico, so I’m sure we’ll be back on track. And Rob does love you, Amber, I know it. He might not take the job anyway.’
‘I s’pose. Let me know if you speak to Trey. Love you, bestie.’
‘Love you more. Night night from here.’
I had our Kensal Rise flat pretty much to myself these days. Trey, being loaded, was paying Vicky’s half of the rent so they had a London bolt-hole, but they were yet to use it; the one time they popped back for a premiere, he checked them into a suite at the Soho Hotel. Even so, she was definitely still there, haunting the place. Some of her belongings were still strewn around her room and many of her pictures still hung on the walls: the black-and-white framed print of Brigitte Bardot in the living room, cigarette casually hanging from her lips, wind-swept hair, black scarf tied loosely around her neck, to remind us how to be cool, like Brigitte; the collection of Instagram photos from various holidays, printed out and carefully framed, to remind us of our best moments, if ever we needed reminding – usually on the Saturday nights when we were in our PJs, having a living room picnic in front of Ant and Dec. It was all so carefree, silly – and single.
And now here we were, coupled up in our late twenties. Much as I loved the days of being in a platonic relationship with Vicky, I was so happy about that fact I didn’t have to face the prospect of being a thirty-year-old spinster. While Vicky always had some guy on the go, whether it was ‘Sunday Simon’ or ‘Sexy Jim from the art desk’, I was a bona fide ‘car crash’ when it came to relationships; another traffic-based pun on my full name, Amber Green. Yes, after ten years in the single wilderness, it felt so good to have someone who would go to the twenty-four-hour garage for a family bag of Maltesers or run me a bath after a shitty day at work; someone who embraced the role of human hot water bottle, taking pleasure in warming my block-of-ice feet when I got into bed. Life was great. But now the thought of Rob taking off for New York was following me around like a shadow.
The walk along Oxford Street from Marble Arch was very different in January compared with before Christmas. The strings of bright lights across the road were gone and, bar a few sad, forgotten decorations in some shops, the festive period had been packed away. The London sky was heavy with big, grey clouds.
Christmas came and went in a bit of a blur, to be honest. Rob went to his mum’s big house in Holland Park and I went to the family pile (read: suburban semi) in deepest North London. As per usual, everything revolved around my sister’s six-year-old daughter, Nora: ‘Nora prepared the Brussels sprouts!’; ‘Nora nearly recited that song from Matilda by heart!’ The ‘Nora Show’ was in full effect. And it was every bit as grating as a pantomime – for three days solid. Urgh, listen to me. My New Year’s resolution is to be nicer to Nora.
After polishing off a couple of morning glasses of dry sherry, moving on to prosecco and red wine with lunch, then on to port, by way of a Baileys, I was feeling very fluffy around the edges by nine o’clock. Instead of watching Big for the trillionth time with my sister and Nora, who was being allowed to stay up as long as she wanted, much to my horror, or allowing my dad to beat me at Trivial Pursuit circa 1990, again, I called it a night. Apart from booze, the only thing keeping me going through the day was texting Rob and later sexting with him until I fell into a port-induced coma in the tiny spare bedroom, because my old bedroom had been commandeered by – you guessed it – Nora. Rob seemed to be having a much more civilised day, his mother having decided to take him and his older brother, Dan, plus Dan’s fiancée, Florence, out for a champagne Christmas lunch in a trendy Notting Hill restaurant, then home for charades and posh liqueur chocolates. Maybe next year I’ll be there too. Please Father Christmas, I promise I’ll be good all year.
There wasn’t even time for a Boxing Day lie-in for me. The only downside to working at Selfridges – although based on my Christmas, it could be classified as a bonus – was that I had to be at work at five in the morning on Boxing Day. Alongside our regular team we had twenty contractors and, behind huge vinyl stickers, we carefully stripped the fairy-tale festive display from the windows, and then the glass was covered with shouty red paper advertising the January sales. As Big Ben chimed nine in the morning, a stampede of hungry customers from all around the world charged through the doors and set to work dismantling the entire store, snapping up the designer bargains of the year. It was the shopping equivalent of the bull-run through Pamplona. As fervent fashionistas turned the shop into a glorified jumble sale, our windows team sloped back to bed. This time I headed to my own bed in Kensal Rise. Work was a distant memory by evening, because Rob came over in a Christmas jumper with a mountain of leftover cheese and we roasted chestnuts and scoffed Quality Street cuddled up on the sofa watching Elf. All I needed was him. We were lost in each other and I had never felt happier.
But now, the heady glow of Christmas had disappeared, along with the shine on my relationship, it seemed.
As I entered my super-cool work place through the staff entrance round the back of Oxford Street at nine thirty, I felt a sense of pride. I’d been working as a window designer at Selfridges for six months now and it was my dream job. Finally, that irritating voice in my head telling me to ‘get a proper career’ could shut up because I finally had a proper career. Instead of dreading the point in conversation with friends of my parents or mates of mates down the pub, that would eventually crawl around to the inevitable, ‘So, what do you do, Amber?’ I could embrace the question, invite it even, because I had a decent response.
‘Oooh, what are you working on now?’ they often asked.
‘It’s all a bit hush-hush,’ I’d tease, though it was actually the truth – pulling back the vinyl to unveil the new Selfridges window display was a big, closely guarded event.
‘Jesus, what happened, babe?’ my boss, Joseph, exclaimed as I entered the studio.
‘Happy Tuesday to you, too,’ I sneered.
‘Sorry, babe, but if you’re sick, perhaps you should go home. Pale and interesting is not this season.’
‘I’m not ill, just tired,’ I muttered, marvelling at how stupid I was not to get a muffin as well as a coffee from Starbucks on the way in. Thankfully, our studio office was at the very top of the shop, and when we weren’t tucked away up here, we were downstairs tweaking the windows. I was rarely required for face time with senior management.
Joseph, the creative director for visual merchandising at Selfridges, never looked sloppy, just like his name was never abbreviated to Joe. Tall, handsome and confident, he was fancied by literally the entire female workforce – despite the fact he was gay. He wasn’t particularly camp, which made a certain portion of his admirers cling on to the fantasy that he could be ‘turned’. And of course all the gay guys – which was most of the male staff – had a deep yearning for him, too. Joseph blatantly knew he was God’s gift, and strutted around the store like Mr Selfridge himself. His hair was wavy and shoulder length and he wore it tightly tucked behind his ears, like ram’s horns. If you didn’t know better, to look at him you’d think he was French – arty, Gauloises-smoking, air of superiority – but when he spoke his dialect was pure Joey Essex. Everyone was a ‘babe’ and life was ‘sweet’.
After working with him for half a year, I was getting to know the real Joseph and, although he genuinely lived the life of a moisturising modern man who adhered to the five:two diet and had been known to get hooked up to a reviving vitamin-packed IV drip during his lunch break, at the end of the day he was a first-class creative director and I loved having him as my boss. As well as my solid experience styling the windows at Smiths boutique, I think he was wowed by my time spent assisting Mona – in our world, it would be hard not to be – as he gave me the job without a second interview. When I started, he took me under his wing as a protégée of sorts and it was a great position to be in. It gave me some protection from the less friendly, uber fashiony senior managers who swanned around our floor in their top-to-toe designer threads, trying to catch a glimpse of Joseph.
Then there was Shauna: white fingernails with gold tips, big gold hoops and curly afro hair, channelling a modern day Diana Ross. Her iPhone clicked in my face and then traced my body. A deeply unflattering video of my stunned mug and greasy-looking hair was now playing live on Snapchat. Shauna loved to share. She worshipped at the altars of Instagram and Snapchat and was dedicated to the daily documentation of selfies, shoefies, Instafood, Instacocktails, Instacats – and fairly often me, with #nofilter.
‘You’re so ’grammable today, babe,’ she said, crouching down to snap my Starbucks cup as I placed it on my desk. Until that moment, I had failed to noticed that the barista had scrawled the word ‘Antler’ on it, instead of my real name. Shauna found it hilarious and shared the image with her 1.4 thousand followers. ‘Big night, deer? Get it – Antler, deer?’
I frowned. ‘So I look like something the cat dragged in, can we all just get over it, please?’
Shauna sucked in her cheeks and waggled her finger at me, intimating that I was not one to talk about anything this morning.
Joseph broke us up. ‘Now, now ladies, there’s no time for bickering today, Jeff wants the final designs for the summer windows by EOP, so I need you to finish the edit. And that’s before we get cracking on phase two of the “Chelsea” display.’
The great thing about my job, especially on days like today, was that time passed quickly. I loved putting the mood boards together and then sourcing clothes from the collections about to hit the shop floor to bring it all to life. We were always working on two themes at any one time, currently we were completing the spring windows, inspired by the famous Chelsea Flower Show, and also planning our big summer production, a homage to the ‘Traditional British Seaside’, which would come into play soon after. I was transported from grey January to sunny July and a world of ninety-nines, beach huts, rubber rings, candy-coloured Kate Spade bags, Linda Farrow sunglasses, Matthew Williamson bikinis, palm-print dresses and everything in between. Heaven.
Although Shauna and I didn’t always see eye to eye outside work, we were a great team in the studio, her eye for props perfectly complementing my choice of fashion from the designer look books. The time flew as I busied myself finalising clothes for the Chelsea windows and lining them up on rails ahead of Joseph’s inspection – a cacophony of vibrant pink, lemon, lilac, peach and turquoise, the sartorial equivalent of a fragrant bouquet. Bright clothes were amazing for lifting my mood. But they couldn’t stop me from checking my phone every five seconds. Nothing from Rob.
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_157b15ff-4930-51fa-8a8c-28f7694ceab7)
Two days had passed since Rob told me the news that he was thinking of moving to New York. In that time I had cried in the loos at work once, eaten MacDonald’s for dinner twice, bought a Marc Jacobs top I couldn’t afford, despite my staff discount, and looked at the Angel Wear website five thousand times as a conservative estimate. Krystal, Jessica, Roxy, Leonie, and Astrid were the names of the main Angel Wear ‘Icons’. I could tell you their vital stats by heart. And I hated their perfect thirty-four–twenty-four–thirty-four guts. It was now Thursday and today Rob had been unnervingly attentive, texting me more than usual just to see how my day was going and wanting to arrange to meet up. He’s taking the job and he’s feeling guilty, I know it. In my head, we were already on opposite sides of the Atlantic. But I hadn’t worked out how to handle things the next time I saw him, so I hadn’t yet replied. The reality was that we’d only been dating for five months. I couldn’t stop thinking about his feather tattoo. This could be Rob’s perfect opportunity to just catch the wind and fly.
Work continued to be a good distraction, but Joseph and Shauna didn’t do compassion. I’d come clean about Rob to Shauna in the loos the first morning, when she caught me redoing my mascara and, of course, she had blurted it out to Joseph.
‘Hate to say it, babe, but it sounds like a case of “He’s just not that into you”,’ Joseph said, causing my eyes to prickle all over again. I carried on tweaking a mocked-up candyfloss stand.
This morning, we were waiting for Jeff to come and cast his critical eye over our final plans for summer, when my phone rang: Rob.
‘Let me speak to him.’ Shauna tried to grab my iPhone from my hands, but failed, sending a fake nail onto the floor.
I spoke to Rob from the hallway outside the studio. It’s impossible to get any privacy around here.
‘I thought you were going to avoid me forever. I’ve been getting paranoid.’ He sounded nervous.
‘I’ve not been avoiding you,’ I lied, ‘just been busy. Anyway, what’s happening with you?’
‘I wanted to see if you’re free tonight. I could meet you from work and we could grab some dinner, chat, you know – what boyfriends and girlfriends do?’
He’s still using the b-word, that’s surely a good sign. I paused. ‘Are you there, Amber?’ he continued. ‘Are you pissed off with me?’
I swallowed hard. ‘New York, what’s happening with that? Are you going to move?’
‘That’s what I want to talk to you about,’ he said.
‘Are you sure you want me to be your girlfriend, Rob?’
Silence on his end. This is it. It’s over. Joseph is right, he’s just not into me.
‘Amber—’
‘Don’t tell me, this opportunity, you can’t turn it down, blah, blah, blah. It’s fine, I can handle it, tell me I make a great friend but it’s you, you’re not in the right place for a relationship.’ A hot sensation was working its way up into my cheeks.
‘Listen, I didn’t want to have this conversation on the phone, I wanted to meet up with you and talk about it properly, but—’
‘I get it, you’re just not that into me…’
‘Amber! Shut up for a second.’ His tone took me aback, Rob rarely raised his voice. ‘Yes, I’ve done some thinking and I do want to go to New York, I think it will be an incredible experience – but not just for me, for both of us. I wanted to ask if you would consider coming with me?’ He paused. ‘Wouldn’t it be fun to flat hunt together in Williamsburg or Queens?’
I was so shocked I could barely find the words to respond.
‘Really?’ I uttered at last, leaning back against the wall, finally allowing every muscle in my body to relax.
‘Really.’ He was smiling into the phone; I could picture it.
And that was it, suddenly everything was rose tinted again. New York or bust? It was a no-brainer.
Rob met me from Selfridges that night, even skipping Pinky’s slop time, so I knew he meant business, and we spent the evening plotting the weeks ahead. I would speak to Joseph about a three-month sabbatical; we would give up my Kensal Rise flat and move everything into Rob’s room while we were away. I felt sure Vicky would understand – she’d probably be overjoyed that I was going to be a mere five-hour internal flight away. Besides, she was probably making it up with Trey this very moment.
The following morning I broke the news to my parents.
‘Isn’t this a bit crazy, Amber?’ Mum said after doing me the courtesy of listening quietly as I excitedly babbled away for five minutes. Bearing in mind Mum’s idea of adventure is a day out in April without bringing her umbrella and Dad thinks anyone who eats hummus is on the road to ruin – how could I expect them to understand?
‘It’s what people my age do all the time, Mum,’ I told her, bristling. ‘Anyway, it’s only for three months, initially – it’s hardly a long time in the scheme of things. You and Dad could even come and visit if you want.’ I crossed my fingers behind my back.
‘Initially, darling? You’re thinking of staying longer? This is a whole different scenario. How are you going to do that legally, you know you need a visa to work in America? You’re going to do it all by the book, I hope? They’ll lock you up if you don’t.’ I could picture her shaking her head disparagingly. ‘You won’t have the same rights in America.’
My mum hadn’t got her position as a top barrister without thinking through the legal implications for every situation.
‘I know, Mum. And of course we’re going to do it properly. I can stay for three months as a tourist anyway, and we’ll take it from there. Rob’s company are sorting out the visa for him. He’s getting an O visa.’
Suddenly my dad’s voice came on the phone. I hated it when my parents put me on a three-way conversation, especially without telling me. Surely it was a violation of my privacy.
‘O visa? How old did you say he is?’
‘It’s an O-1 visa, not OAP, Dad. It means he’s got an extraOrdinary ability.’
‘Don’t tell me he’s a psychic?’
‘No, he’s a TV producer, as you know – not just anyone can make a top TV show, he’s got tons of experience.’
‘What’s this TV show about, then?’
I squirmed; the last thing I wanted was for them to pick up on any insecurities about going to New York on my part, and ‘a show about an underwear company’ didn’t exactly sound like something that would impress one’s parents. I casually wandered out of the kitchen and into the sitting room so Rob couldn’t overhear the half-truth I was about to tell.
‘It’s about a top company out there, it’s kind of an American institution. Rob will be telling the inside story on how it works.’
‘Anyway, Amber,’ Dad interrupted me, ‘we wondered if you’d like to bring Rob to dinner at home next Sunday? Especially now that you’re practically eloping, we’d like to meet him properly.’ I almost choked on my tea.
‘If you’re disappearing off to the other side of the world with this fellow, we’d better get to know him,’ Mum added. ‘My parents have invited you over next Sunday, if you can bear it.’ I broke the news as I re-entered the kitchen, to find Rob serving up scrambled egg.
‘You’re not exactly selling the opportunity,’ he said, smiling. ‘But your folks seemed lovely when I met them the other week.’
‘You met them for precisely fifteen seconds,’ I reminded him. They’d dropped me off at Rob’s one evening on a detour after we’d been to visit my sister. He’d politely come out to shake my dad’s hand. Dad didn’t bother getting out of the car and shook it through the window. Bit rude, I thought at the time.
‘I don’t remember him having a hook for an arm,’ he said, teasing me. ‘But,’ a hesitation, ‘my mum has invited me over next Sunday too, along with Dan and Florence, and, well, I was going to see if you fancied joining us?’
I took a large swig of tea from the mug in my hand, wishing it contained something stronger. ‘If I’m not mistaken, Robert Walker, are you asking me to meet your family? Not only your mother but your brother and his scary-sounding fiancée, too?’
‘I am, Miss Green, now will you please accept because I want to eat my breakfast before it goes cold?’
I leaned over and ran my fingers through his unkempt bed hair. I smiled into his lips before kissing them.
‘I’d be honoured.’ And I texted Mum the bad news before flying out of the door to work.
‘A sabbatical?’ Joseph repeated the words back to me, then he sat back and pushed his curls behind his ears with both hands. ‘No one’s asked for a sabbatical before.’
‘Just three months – it will fly by,’ I pleaded, desperation no doubt showing in my face. ‘I absolutely promise I’ll come back.’
‘But what if everyone wants a sabbatical?’ he asked, looking around us to check no one was eavesdropping. We were sitting at a table in the Selfridges food hall. ‘It won’t be easy to find cover for that amount of time. What if Shauna wants one too – what then? I’ll have to speak to Jeff, find out what the company policy is.’
‘But it’s not a no?’
‘Not yet,’ he smiled. ‘Listen, babe, I’ll see what I can do, because I’d like to keep you, but you’d better come back, and don’t tell anyone, for now.’
‘I will, I promise. Let me buy you a Krispy Kreme Deluxe Donut as a thank you – in advance.’
And I got up before he could change his mind.
I was looking forward to spending time with Rob’s mum, but for some reason I was even more excited about meeting Dan’s fiancée, the infamous Florence. On Boxing Day evening, Rob had moaned about how his mother, Marian, was like a lap dog around Florence – she thought she was the best thing not just to happen to Dan, but to their entire family.
‘She hasn’t met you yet, though,’ he qualified, though he had polished off a number of glasses of mulled wine.
From what I could glean, without turning into an A grade stalker, Florence was a high-flying PR executive for a boutique agency in London with a roster of clients across the luxury world – from London’s hottest restaurants and spas, to art galleries and high-end fashion and beauty launches; Rob gave the impression she knew everyone worth knowing in the whole of London. Unfortunately, her Instagram account was locked, so I couldn’t carry out the full extent of my desired snooping, but hopefully, after we’d met, we’d be tagging each other in photos from fashion parties and I’d be on her VIP guest list. In my role as a window designer for Selfridges, I hoped she would see me as someone worth knowing in London too.
Rob had decided we should break the news about New York to his mum together, the thought of which was making me feel sick with nerves as the day drew closer.
‘Are you sure this won’t make me come across as the girlfriend who’s stealing her precious son?’ I quizzed Rob on the phone on Sunday morning. ‘I’ll be like, “Hi, I’m Rob’s new girlfriend – by the way, we’re off to America, so you won’t be seeing him for a while. Thanks for dinner!”’
‘Course not. I think our delivery will be a bit more tactful than that. Anyway, it’s no biggie – besides, Mum loves to travel, we’ll invite her to visit – she’ll be thrilled.’
‘Have you told Dan yet?’
‘No, we’ll tell them together and it will be fine. Dan will support us, and I bet Florence will think it’s the coolest thing. Mum will go along with whatever Florence thinks anyway. Relax.’
Relax, I tried. I ironed a silky blue Zara dress bought especially for the occasion, had a long soak in the bath and then, in a move I hoped would make me feel empowered for this family meeting of meetings, I decided to try out a new method of curling my hair. It involved heated rollers borrowed from Vicky’s room and an upside down blow-drying technique I’d seen on a YouTube video. What could go wrong?
Plenty. The resulting hairstyle – Scary Spice, electrocuted, times ten – was so terrifying my eyes nearly burst when I caught sight of myself in the mirror. There was no way of relaxing it so I had to take another shower. Consequently, I was running late for dinner and there were sweat patches on the silky dress.
I jumped off the bus and headed down Westbourne Grove, half walking, half running, feeling far too hot. Plus, a strap broke on my bag and I was clutching it in an ungainly fashion under my arm, trying not to let the contents fall out. I was carrying all my overnight stuff for staying at Rob’s and didn’t particularly want my best knickers to end up in a puddle. As I dashed past the shops – Heidi Klein, Tom’s Deli, Joseph – I thought how much I loved this part of London, just walking the streets felt like being in a Richard Curtis film. Perhaps Rob and I might get a place around here one day.
I turned left off the main road and reached Rob’s mum’s house. Glancing at my phone I realised I was a whole forty-five minutes late. Rob had texted: You ok? x. I needed to turn on a full charm offensive this evening.
It was a tall, impressive, white-fronted family house, complete with black metal railings and well-tended geraniums on the steps. The epitome of Notting Hill chic. Walking back a couple of paces to be out of sight, I swapped my flats for some new black, shiny Kurt Geiger heels, panic bought in the store on Friday to wear with my dress. My staff discount was burning a hole in my pocket recently and the shoes were blatantly for Florence’s benefit more than anyone else’s. My toes were crushed after walking up the steps. Rob opened the door and gave me a big hug.
‘You look gorgeous,’ he said, making me light up inside and out. There was classical music playing, candles flickering on a side table, and a delicious smell of home-cooking.
‘Sorry I’m late.’ I lifted my head for a kiss.
He took my face in his hands and kissed me softly.
When we parted, I paused to take in my surroundings: everything was cream, white, and glossy – it was a well looked after, tasteful home. ‘Nice pad. I can’t wait to see all the embarrassing photos of you growing up.’ I scoured the hall table.
‘Quick update,’ he whispered, looking over his shoulder. ‘Dan’s here, but Florence isn’t. Not quite sure why, but I don’t think things are going well right now. He doesn’t want to talk about it – not around Mum, anyway. If she starts to dig, we’ll change the subject. She used to be a therapist, remember. Mum loves relationship problems – if there is a problem, I’m not even sure. Anyway, families, hey? Go with the flow, like you always do… Do you mind taking off your shoes? Mum’s got a thing about shoes indoors.’
It was great to see Dan again, he was such a friendly, easy-going guy who instantly made me feel at ease, and the brothers were sweet and attentive to their mum. They loved her to bits, it was clear to see, and Marian was the kind of woman who relished the attention from her ‘two beautiful boys’. It was heart-warming to witness such stability compared with the uneven keel I felt between my sister and me, in my parents’ eyes. She being the perfect one and I being the one who worked in fashion and was, therefore, certifiably ‘bonkers’. Marian was well groomed, with blow-dried brown hair, good make-up, and what looked like a very real Chanel twinset. I felt glad I’d made an effort with my appearance, though she wasn’t the kind to compliment me on it.
Maybe it was because Marian had never had a daughter, or perhaps it was just the way she was, but it quickly became clear that she found it hard to relax around her son’s girl-friends – this one in particular. She eyed me with the kind of cynicism of a Gogglebox family watching TV.
‘So, tell me about your work, Amber – it might not be worthy, but it sounds terribly thrilling, from what I’ve heard. You style celebrities, right?’
I was taken aback by the ‘not worthy’ dig. Would she prefer me to work for Christian Aid?
Rob gave me a look that said, ‘let it go’.
‘Well, I did work with famous people,’ I replied. ‘But these days I style dummies for the shop windows at Selfridges and, to be honest, the fact they can’t answer back suits me better.’ Her crestfallen face indicated that I should have gone along with the celebrity line.
‘Right. But you must have met some huge names when you were out in LA – you know, when you and Rob were working on the show together?’ She glanced at her son. He’d obviously filled her in on our backstory.
‘Oh, you mean with Mona Armstrong?’ I looked to Rob for help. ‘That was certainly an interesting time in my career – we worked a lot with Jennifer Astley.’ Her eyes widened. Everyone loves a celebrity encounter, evidently even those who might claim to be ‘worthy’. From then on I caved in and gave her what she wanted – an embellished list of the famous names I’d been in fairly close proximity to at the BAFTAs and the Oscars, giving her plenty to regale her friends with, and – hopefully – pass on to Florence.
My career done, she then moved on to family. ‘So, what do your parents do, love?’ she asked, oblivious to the fact I was dying to get the subject off myself.
I dunked a hefty piece of ciabatta in olive oil and chewed it for a few seconds, giving myself a moment to think.
‘Mum was a hot-shot lawyer, she worked for years at a firm in the city handling litigation cases mainly, and now she’s semi-retired she still works freelance for them but can take or leave cases as she likes. And Dad was a stay-at-home dad, he did all the school runs while Mum was working and did some work as a handy man. There’s nothing dad can’t fix.’
She gave me a stare that felt like she was trying to read my soul.
‘Keep the hubby at home, clever woman,’ she remarked finally, a wry smile across her face. ‘How delightful.’
When my five minutes of grilling from Marian was finally over, she proceeded to spend ten minutes telling us about Florence’s latest work projects – including a campaign for a new London art gallery filled with paintings created by children with behavioural problems, and a charity project sending make-up products to women in remote African villages.
‘All fantastically worthy,’ Marian gushed. She had a wicked glint in her eye.
Noticing my puffed-out chest and reddening cheeks, Rob placed a firm hand on my knee.
‘Let’s take out the plates.’ he said. Dan looked as though he wanted to slide under the table. Marian looked at her watch. I was clearly dull as ditch water compared to Florence.
‘Mum adores you, it’s obvious,’ Rob said in the kitchen as I placed two empty plates on the side. He had wound his arms around my waist and was peppering my neck with little kisses.
‘Have we just been in the same room?’ I asked. ‘I feel like I’ve been in front of a firing squad. She’s infinitely more excited about how Florence is saving the world than anything I have to say.’ I rolled my eyes.
‘Please, Amber, don’t take it personally. Mum’s just testing you, she likes a woman who can stick up for herself, it was the same when Florence first came round. I know when Mum likes someone and she likes you. You passed.’
‘I passed?’ It’s a weird kind of test. ‘Anyway, when are we going to—’ I stopped abruptly as Marian joined us and leaned against the work top.
‘To what?’ she asked, and we both averted her eyes. ‘I’m worried about Dan,’ she continued, looking earnest. ‘He’s not himself at all this evening and he’s stepped out to make yet another call – to Florence, I’m sure – but he won’t let on if anything’s wrong. He barely said a thing over dinner, and he didn’t even finish his lamb. That’s a first. Has he said anything to you, Robert darling? I just want to be sure he’s all right.’
Sensing a mother-and-son private moment, I excused myself for the loo.
I locked myself in the downstairs toilet and sat down, breathing a huge sigh. My eyes wandered around the tiny room; there was a super-cute photo of Rob and Dan in a paddling pool on the wall – I imagined it was taken in the garden of this very house. I guessed they were aged about four and six, with grubby hands, freckled faces and huge smiles. Rob looked a cheeky blond scallywag and Dan more serious and dark haired. It must have been captured not long before their father left. Rob had told me a little about what happened, but not much detail.
‘It was the biggest cliché in the book,’ he had said. ‘Dad went off with his young PA and broke Mum’s heart. I don’t think she’s ever got over it. After going to some counselling sessions she decided to train as a relationship therapist herself. What is it they say about therapists? They’re the most messed-up people out there.’ I knew that Rob now had a fractured relationship with his father, who went on to have three more children with the PA. They saw each other maybe once a year. It was sad, really. Knowing this made me feel a little more sympathetic about the dig Marian had made about my dad’s job over dinner and perhaps helped explained why she hadn’t exactly been warm to me so far. She clearly had a deep mistrust of other women around her men. Unless they’re Florence.
And then my gaze fixed on another photo; this one looked very recent. It showed Dan on a white sandy beach holding an attractive, bikini-clad blonde woman in his arms; she was flaunting what appeared to be a big diamond engagement ring. It had to be Florence; all big bouncy platinum curls and an innocent smile.
‘Quick loo break, that’s better.’ I smiled, joining them all in the kitchen.
Rob smiled quizzically. ‘Thanks for the update, Amber.’
‘Dessert will be another five minutes, let’s go back through.’ Marian ushered us, rapidly putting an end to whatever they had been discussing. She placed a hand on my arm to guide me through first, an indication that I wasn’t completely repulsive to her.
Rob poured us all another large glass of white wine and I gulped down half of mine immediately. Thank God for wine, I mean, seriously, what would I do without wine? Judging by the speed with which Rob finished his glass and then refilled us both, I knew the moment had arrived.
‘So, Mum, Dan, there is something Amber and I wanted to talk to you about tonight.’
Marian clutched Dan’s arm. ‘Jesus, don’t tell me you’re getting married,’ she squealed, horrified.
I shuffled to the back of my chair. She really knows how to make me feel welcome.
‘No, Mum, it’s more of a short-term plan. We, er, Amber and I are going to be moving to New York for a few months. I’ve been offered a filming job out there and we thought it would be a great adventure if we both went together.’
He paused to take in their expressions. Marian looked like she’d been turned to stone.
‘Mum? You’ve always said I should seize opportunities – isn’t it great?’
‘Sounds bloody exciting. Congrats, man,’ Dan piped up, filling the silence from Marian. He held his hand out across the table to Rob and then he shook my hand. ‘Got space in your suitcase for me?’
‘Always got a sofa for you, come and visit. You too, Mum, it’s only for an initial three months, so you’d better take advantage of the cheap accommodation.’
Marian forced her mouth into a kind of tight smile. ‘Super, darling, I suppose it sounds great fun,’ she said, before looking me right between the eyes. ‘You must be pleased.’ I wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d then hissed. You’d think I’d just told her I was taking him to Helmand Province.
‘Yes, I’m excited, too,’ I offered, ‘and it’s not for long, you know, we’ll be back.’
‘Lovely. When do you go?’ she asked, arms folded across her chest defensively.
‘In a few weeks. We’re just looking into our tickets and visa and we have to sort out living arrangements and then we’ll be off.’
‘A few weeks? Just like that,’ she said.
‘Just like that,’ Dan repeated, impersonating Tommy Cooper. Rob and I both sniggered.
We were wrenched out of some awkward small talk about journey times to New York by a strange smell emanating from the kitchen. Rob noticed it first.
‘That’s smoke,’ he got to his feet. ‘Mum, I think something’s burning.’
We all lifted our noses to the air.
‘God, yes, and your smoke alarm’s not working,’ said Dan, sounding animated for the first time all evening as he leapt up to join Rob on his way to the kitchen.
Marian jumped to her feet, too, calling after them. ‘Oh Lord, it’s the sticky pudding, I forgot all about the bloody pudding. It’ll be ruined.’ She looked stricken.
I pushed my chair away from the table and joined them.
In the kitchen, the three of them were staring at a smoking layer of melted plastic mixed with a toasted toffee pudding. Marian’s eyes had gone glassy and I was afraid she might cry.
‘Left the damn plastic film on it, didn’t I.’ She swallowed, her voice trembling. ‘Some lids you pierce, others you don’t, it’s so bloody confusing.’
‘Bang goes pretending it was home-made,’ Rob remarked, trying to lighten the atmosphere. He put an arm around her shoulders and she leaned into him.
‘Well, perfect end to a pretty disastrous evening wouldn’t you say?’ Marian remarked finally, once the backdoor had been opened and the pudding placed out of sight on the patio. I didn’t know where to look. ‘Both of my boys are having early mid-life crises and then I nearly set the house on fire.’
‘Come on, Mum, it’s not that bad.’ Dan put a hand on her arm. I noticed he didn’t try to deny the crisis part. She covered her face with her hands and began sobbing into them. Half of me wanted to put my arms around her too and join the group hug, as I’d do if she was my mum, but I had no idea how that might go down. Instead I watched as Rob and Dan enveloped her and the three stood there for a few seconds, hugging. I wondered whether to grab my coat and disappear, but I’d promised Rob I’d stay at his tonight; besides, I was wearing new underwear. Instead I comforted myself with a realisation: Maybe my own family is not so dysfunctional after all.
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Rosie Nixon
Novice stylist Amber Green is taking on the glittering celebrity world of Manhattan one fashion disaster and wardrobe malfunction at a time!When her TV producer boyfriend Rob announces that he’s been offered a job in New York, filming with the infamous Angel Wear lingerie models, Amber knows its her perfect chance to take the New York fashion world by storm.But Amber wasn’t counting on unruly toddler photo shoots, clandestine designer handbag scams and a Hollywood star who is determined to wear as little as possible on the red carpet. Until she meets a disgraced former designer who could turn her career around…or leave it all in tatters.Fun, adventure, glamour and high-fashion make this is the perfect feel good women’s fiction read.
ROSIE NIXON lives in London with her husband and their two young sons and is Editor-in-Chief of HELLO! magazine. She previously held senior positions at glossy women’s magazines, including Grazia, Glamour and Red. Rosie has a love of all things celebrity, Royal and fashion-related and has been lucky enough to attend a multitude of glamorous showbiz events all around the world. Ever discreet and protective of the big stars she has worked with, Rosie’s experience has enabled her to write her debut novel The Stylist and its sequel, Amber Green Takes Manhattan.
For Rex
Contents
Cover (#uf501730e-a494-5ab4-acd8-33b88021a0c2)
About the Author (#uec38a076-a3e4-5dd4-ba28-1503340a219d)
Title Page (#u2985f248-6129-5eda-95e4-8f54c4e7e1be)
Dedication (#ueabeafc8-e9a6-592b-ab0f-9fc0b14bacab)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_080aeabf-1b62-5d92-8ea1-03d3250b4da6)
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_c4544038-6bee-5184-8b6c-fa286924f2fe)
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_494e8f18-197a-5bc8-b585-62e762ed2473)
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_5e2d5e72-68ab-5a3d-bf2a-b25175959bef)
I nuzzled in and breathed deeply. I could sniff the vulnerable patch of bare skin just under his collarbone all day long. It was light outside now and I couldn’t get back to sleep. My mind was spinning. I traced the edge of Rob’s tattoo lightly with my finger. An intricate feather design on his upper arm, it was quite a work of art and had taken me by surprise the first time I saw it in full, after our first date. He had teased me with glimpses of it poking out of T-shirt sleeves for a long while before that. It had taken three sittings to create, by the steady hand of a Muswell Hill tattoo artist. The feather, he said, was to symbolise the freedom of flight; to remind him that he too was free to fly, if he ever needed reminding. Deep and meaningful! I teased him at the time, but the sentiment had played on my mind a bit ever since. Tonight it was resonating strongly to me. Does he want to just take off and fly away from me? Leave me broken hearted, like his last girlfriend?
It all started yesterday evening.
Rob came to the door in tracksuit bottoms and a baggy hoodie. I loved him in his comfy house clothes. He was holding Pinky under one arm.
Pinky: the cute pet micro-pig partly responsible for getting us together. Rob had adopted the little piggy and relocated him from Los Angeles after Pinky was abandoned by one of my former ditzy Hollywood clients. Yes, really! It all happened last year, during my temporary job as stylist to the stars Mona Armstrong’s assistant. Rob doted on the creature – literally worshipped the sawdust Pinky walked on. He was more than a pet; he was his child.
Of late, I’d noticed that the novelty of having an alternative to a house cat was starting to wear off for Rob’s flatmate. Ben was, understandably, getting fed up with the lingering smell of pig pee in the hallway, trotter prints on the sofa, and the wet snout he regularly found snuffling in his clean laundry. But when you looked into Pinky’s dark little eyes you could forgive anything. Well, Rob could. In the same way that I became pretty pathetic whenever I looked into his.
The little creature squealed in what I’m sure was piggy happiness when he saw me on the doorstep.
‘Ben’s here,’ Rob warned, meaning no proper kissing until we reached his bedroom.
I smiled, pulling on his tracksuit cord. ‘I can control myself.’
Rob hovered by the door. He looked anxious.
‘Everything okay?’
He paused for a bit too long. ‘Sort of. I’ll explain later.’
I followed him into the living room. Ben was in his usual position, lying full length across one of the sofas, bare feet and lanky legs dangling off the end, a litre bottle of Coke by his side. He was sweaty, like he’d not long been home from the gym.
Theirs was such a boy flat. It was sparse and functional, yet still managed to look untidy. The front room consisted of a large flat-screen TV, two sofas, a coffee table and an Ikea rug that should never have been bought in cream because it had rarely seen a vacuum cleaner in the two years they had lived here. Shelves crammed with DVDs and books in no particular order and curtains that didn’t quite stretch across the width of the whole window. No surprises, then, that they affectionately referred to their home as ‘the pigsty’.
‘So have you heard the big news?’ Ben said when he finally took his eyes off the TV and registered my presence.
‘No,’ I looked at Rob, confused.
‘Pinky’s gay,’ Ben blurted out, shifting himself sideways to get a proper view of both of our faces.
Rob smirked: ‘Don’t flatter yourself.’
‘Oh, it’s nothing to do with me – though if he fancies me, who can blame him? Pinky always goes for the guys. C’mon, bet you’ve noticed too, haven’t you Amber?’ He winked at me.
‘Enlighten me, Ben,’ I said cynically. I could tell he was desperate to get on with his story.
‘Nina’s bulldog, Freddie: Male. Can’t stop sniffing around his rear every time he comes over. The cat from next door: It’s a Tom, and Pinky’s entire face lights up every time he jumps over the fence. His trotters could barely move fast enough when he tried to chase him the other morning, I saw it with my own eyes. And I’m not joking, he takes an unhealthy shine to your and my boxers in the laundry basket, Rob, mate. You might not have noticed, but I certainly have.’
I chuckled and dug Rob in the ribs. ‘Got competition, have I?’
‘What is it they say?’ Rob asked, stooping to gently place Pinky on the floor and ushering him towards Ben. ‘Takes one to know one?’
‘Oh, I’ve got nothing against gays, you know that, Rob. Two of my best mates are gay and I went to a gay wedding last year – granted most of the guests fancied me, but that’s another story. No, I’m wondering if there’s a marketing opportunity here – “Meet Britain’s First Gay Miniature Pig” – I can see him being a hit in Soho. Don’t you think, Amber?’
I tried not to laugh.
Rob scowled in mock irritation. ‘Pinky and I are going to make dinner, and if you’re on our side you’re invited to join us, Amber. Get yourself a takeaway Ben.’
‘Flouncing off in a strop – so camp!’ Ben uttered, turning back around and taking the TV off pause.
I followed Rob into the kitchen and watched him lovingly top up Pinky’s bowl of slop. The fact he was an animal lover was one of the things I adored about Rob. He couldn’t walk past a cat in the street without stopping to give it a stroke.
‘So, tell me more about your day,’ I said, opening the fridge on the hunt for white wine. Rob failed to hear me; he seemed lost in thought.
‘You okay?’
‘Hey?’ He almost jumped. ‘Sorry, just sorting Pinky out then I’ll get dinner on. We’re having fish. Okay with you?’
‘Sounds great. Do you have any wine in here?’
‘There’s a bottle in my bag in the hallway, should still be slightly cold.’ He seemed nervous and it wasn’t like him not to open a bottle straight after a stressful day at work.
He was making me feel jittery too. I found the wine and returned to find Rob scrolling through emails on his phone. He was lost in thought as I unscrewed the top and poured us each a glass.
‘Shall I get the oven on then?’ I asked.
Finally, after dinner on our laps in front of some terrible sci-fi film Ben refused to turn off, Rob opened up. We were in his bedroom and I was reading an email from my boss, Joseph, who wanted a load of changes to the clothes I’d chosen for our latest window display at Selfridges.
‘How was I supposed to know he wanted muted candy colours rather than brights?’ I moaned. ‘He could have mentioned the fact two weeks ago when I started pulling it all together. It’s so frustrating.’ Rob was miles away. ‘And he’s asked me to come into work naked tomorrow.’
‘Eh?’ He’d spent the last ten minutes fiddling with the iPod dock, but there was still no sound coming out.
‘He’s asked me to… nothing. Perhaps you can tell me what happened at work? You’re clearly not listening to me.’
He turned and sat on the bed next to me. Then he looked at me earnestly. ‘Louise, the series producer, had a chat with me about a pitch the company’s just won for a shoot in New York,’ he began.
‘New York, wow,’ I uttered, though I felt my stomach knot as I sensed what was coming.
‘It’s to make a fly-on-the-wall series about Angel Wear.’
‘As in, Angel Wear, the underwear company?’ I asked.
‘Right,’ he said, avoiding eye contact. The knot in my stomach was pulled tighter. ‘She’s asked if I want to produce it – there’ll be directing involved too.’
‘In New York?’ I repeated, just to check I’d heard correctly. A mental image of the Angel Wear lingerie models popped into my head, all tanned, long-limbed perfection.
‘Yes, it would mean moving out there – for at least three months, maybe longer.’
I took a moment to process this. ‘Do you want to do it?’
‘I don’t know.’ He looked truly pained.
‘Well, when do you have to let her know?’
‘As soon as possible, they’re keen to get visas in place and a team out there in the next few weeks.’
I knew I must look as if I was desperately trying not to cry, every muscle in my face straining to retain its composure. I ached for him to pull me into a big bear hug and kiss my forehead reassuringly. But he didn’t. I’m not even sure he noticed my strange facial expression because he just lay back on the bed and sighed.
‘Listen Amber, I’m not sure about all the details yet, maybe I won’t take it, I thought I wanted to move away from this kind of telly. But it’s an opportunity to direct. I’m going to talk to Lou properly in the morning. I just wanted you to be in the loop.’
I managed to utter the words, ‘Yes, great, just got something in my eye,’ and escaped to the bathroom where I locked the door behind me. I sat on the side of the bath and held my head in my hands as I tried to imagine what this meant for us. Finally, I find someone I really like – someone I think I love; someone I can imagine building a life with – and now he’s going to move to New York. Maybe I’m destined to be single forever, after all.
When I finally emerged from the bathroom, Rob was already in bed looking at his phone again. Self-consciously I undressed, pulling on one of his T-shirts and awkwardly undoing my bra and wriggling out of it without showing any flesh. Instead of finding my usual sleep position: legs entwined with his, face buried in his chest, I stayed on my side. My feet were freezing.
And now, here I was, lying in bed awake at five in the morning, thinking too much, sniffing him and stalking his tattoo.
The events of last spring were still raw in my mind, nine months later. A fateful trip to Hawaii had changed the course of my life: I had finally realised Rob did have feelings for me; my then boss, Mona, completely lost the plot; and my best friend Vicky ended up shagging Trey Jones, the Trey Jones, the famous film director and man who we were meant to be watching get married. You couldn’t have made it up.
Vicky moved in with Trey in LA almost immediately, but it had taken Rob and me a whole four months after that to finally get together, when he tracked me down at work in London. I’ve been starring in my own rom-com ever since – Vicky providing the ‘com’, even from the other side of the globe.
Rob had said he needed to be out of the house extra early in the morning, which wasn’t unusual, but this morning I was happy to pretend to be still asleep while he tip-toed around the room, gathering his clothes before going off to shower. I stirred as he gently kissed my cheek goodbye but waited for the front door to slam before I got out of bed and dragged myself to the bathroom.
I’d gone to sleep trying to convince myself that things are never so bad in the cold light of day, but why did I still have the same feeling of impending doom? I tried to tell myself that three months was nothing – it would be over in a flash. But when you’ve only been dating for five months, it feels like forever. As a waterfall of hot water cascaded onto my head, I was lurched out of my despondency by the even more horrific realisation that there was no shampoo or conditioner in this shower. And soon after that, I realised there was none anywhere in the bathroom, so I went to work with hair washed in Lynx Deep Space shower gel. The day could only get better.
I called Vicky as I walked to work from Oxford Circus tube. ‘He’s going to be filming underwear models.’ Saying it aloud made it sting even more.
‘Man, that’s tough,’ said Vicky, confirming what I already knew.
‘Underwear models!’ I exclaimed again, thinking that making them sound faintly ridiculous might make them less threatening.
‘I heard you. The Icons all have legs up to their armpits, washboard stomachs, perfect racks, peachy—’
‘Yes, yes, okay, I think I know what an underwear model looks like, Vicky. I feel crap as it is, no need to rub it in.’
She paused, before replying, measuredly, ‘What I was going to say was peachy bottoms – and air for brains. Amber, stop doing the paranoid girlfriend thing and rise above this. It’s you who Rob’s going out with, and that’s not going to change. Well, unless you start acting all insecure and paranoid about the underwear models and their peachy bottoms that he will be filming. Not dating or having sex with – just filming. Okay?’
‘Okay.’ She didn’t have to spell it out quite so bluntly. Although she had hit the nail on the head.
‘Anyway, when are you coming out to see me?’ She changed the subject. ‘Not being funny but it’s been nearly a year, and you still haven’t got on a plane. We’ve got tons of space. I’m even naming a suite after you – the Green Suite. Come on Am, book it! Bring Rob too if you want. I’m going nuts out here in this huge mansion. And I need some English humour, desperately. I also need digestive biscuits dunked in Earl Grey tea. But most of all, I need us!’
She was right. I needed ‘us’ too. I missed Vicky so much – her wry sense of humour and the hilarious escapades we’d got up to when we shared a home.
‘Anyway, how’s things with you?’ I asked
‘Not great, to be honest. Why do you think I’m still awake at two in the morning and not at a party? I’ll tell you, because I’m lying in bed – alone – trying to work out what I’m doing with my life.’
‘Oh, honey, sorry to hear this, and I’ve been banging on about me. What’s going on?’
‘Nothing really. And that’s half the problem. I’m so bored here, Amber. Trey’s out at the crack of dawn each day and back late, if he comes back at all. He’s working on a big feature film and although it’s filming in LA, I hardly see him. I know more about our pool cleaner’s life than my own boyfriend’s right now. I even made lunch for the hedge trimmer yesterday, I was so bored of cooking for myself. He was pretty hot, as it goes, I was starting to find his strimmer sexy. Honestly, if Trey hadn’t come back that evening… Amber, I don’t know what I’m doing out here.’
‘You found his strimmer sexy? That’s desperate. Have you told Trey how you’re feeling?’
‘If I had a chance I probably would, but, like I said, he’s barely here and I don’t want to do the whiney girlfriend on the phone thing. I never wanted to be that girlfriend, but I’m getting close to having no option. Be careful what you wish for, Amber, maybe there’s more spark living apart.’
‘But not living in separate continents. God, it’s never straightforward is it? What are we going to do?’
‘I wish we could go to the Chamberlayne and get drunk.’
‘Me too. I could murder a girlie drinking session with you.’
‘I miss you so much, honey. I keep thinking of my room in the flat. At this rate, I could be back before you know it.’
‘Listen, let’s keep each other posted, okay, and if it all goes wrong, of course you can just move back. We’ve still got the flat, your room is exactly as you left it, and we’ll just carry on like before. Our lives weren’t so bad, were they? Sainsbury’s must be suffering from a loss in revenue from hummus and Popchips since you’ve been away, I’m sure they’ll welcome you back with open arms too.’
Finally, she laughed. ‘You’re right. It will be fine. This film is meant to end in a couple of weeks and then Trey’s mentioned a holiday in Mexico, so I’m sure we’ll be back on track. And Rob does love you, Amber, I know it. He might not take the job anyway.’
‘I s’pose. Let me know if you speak to Trey. Love you, bestie.’
‘Love you more. Night night from here.’
I had our Kensal Rise flat pretty much to myself these days. Trey, being loaded, was paying Vicky’s half of the rent so they had a London bolt-hole, but they were yet to use it; the one time they popped back for a premiere, he checked them into a suite at the Soho Hotel. Even so, she was definitely still there, haunting the place. Some of her belongings were still strewn around her room and many of her pictures still hung on the walls: the black-and-white framed print of Brigitte Bardot in the living room, cigarette casually hanging from her lips, wind-swept hair, black scarf tied loosely around her neck, to remind us how to be cool, like Brigitte; the collection of Instagram photos from various holidays, printed out and carefully framed, to remind us of our best moments, if ever we needed reminding – usually on the Saturday nights when we were in our PJs, having a living room picnic in front of Ant and Dec. It was all so carefree, silly – and single.
And now here we were, coupled up in our late twenties. Much as I loved the days of being in a platonic relationship with Vicky, I was so happy about that fact I didn’t have to face the prospect of being a thirty-year-old spinster. While Vicky always had some guy on the go, whether it was ‘Sunday Simon’ or ‘Sexy Jim from the art desk’, I was a bona fide ‘car crash’ when it came to relationships; another traffic-based pun on my full name, Amber Green. Yes, after ten years in the single wilderness, it felt so good to have someone who would go to the twenty-four-hour garage for a family bag of Maltesers or run me a bath after a shitty day at work; someone who embraced the role of human hot water bottle, taking pleasure in warming my block-of-ice feet when I got into bed. Life was great. But now the thought of Rob taking off for New York was following me around like a shadow.
The walk along Oxford Street from Marble Arch was very different in January compared with before Christmas. The strings of bright lights across the road were gone and, bar a few sad, forgotten decorations in some shops, the festive period had been packed away. The London sky was heavy with big, grey clouds.
Christmas came and went in a bit of a blur, to be honest. Rob went to his mum’s big house in Holland Park and I went to the family pile (read: suburban semi) in deepest North London. As per usual, everything revolved around my sister’s six-year-old daughter, Nora: ‘Nora prepared the Brussels sprouts!’; ‘Nora nearly recited that song from Matilda by heart!’ The ‘Nora Show’ was in full effect. And it was every bit as grating as a pantomime – for three days solid. Urgh, listen to me. My New Year’s resolution is to be nicer to Nora.
After polishing off a couple of morning glasses of dry sherry, moving on to prosecco and red wine with lunch, then on to port, by way of a Baileys, I was feeling very fluffy around the edges by nine o’clock. Instead of watching Big for the trillionth time with my sister and Nora, who was being allowed to stay up as long as she wanted, much to my horror, or allowing my dad to beat me at Trivial Pursuit circa 1990, again, I called it a night. Apart from booze, the only thing keeping me going through the day was texting Rob and later sexting with him until I fell into a port-induced coma in the tiny spare bedroom, because my old bedroom had been commandeered by – you guessed it – Nora. Rob seemed to be having a much more civilised day, his mother having decided to take him and his older brother, Dan, plus Dan’s fiancée, Florence, out for a champagne Christmas lunch in a trendy Notting Hill restaurant, then home for charades and posh liqueur chocolates. Maybe next year I’ll be there too. Please Father Christmas, I promise I’ll be good all year.
There wasn’t even time for a Boxing Day lie-in for me. The only downside to working at Selfridges – although based on my Christmas, it could be classified as a bonus – was that I had to be at work at five in the morning on Boxing Day. Alongside our regular team we had twenty contractors and, behind huge vinyl stickers, we carefully stripped the fairy-tale festive display from the windows, and then the glass was covered with shouty red paper advertising the January sales. As Big Ben chimed nine in the morning, a stampede of hungry customers from all around the world charged through the doors and set to work dismantling the entire store, snapping up the designer bargains of the year. It was the shopping equivalent of the bull-run through Pamplona. As fervent fashionistas turned the shop into a glorified jumble sale, our windows team sloped back to bed. This time I headed to my own bed in Kensal Rise. Work was a distant memory by evening, because Rob came over in a Christmas jumper with a mountain of leftover cheese and we roasted chestnuts and scoffed Quality Street cuddled up on the sofa watching Elf. All I needed was him. We were lost in each other and I had never felt happier.
But now, the heady glow of Christmas had disappeared, along with the shine on my relationship, it seemed.
As I entered my super-cool work place through the staff entrance round the back of Oxford Street at nine thirty, I felt a sense of pride. I’d been working as a window designer at Selfridges for six months now and it was my dream job. Finally, that irritating voice in my head telling me to ‘get a proper career’ could shut up because I finally had a proper career. Instead of dreading the point in conversation with friends of my parents or mates of mates down the pub, that would eventually crawl around to the inevitable, ‘So, what do you do, Amber?’ I could embrace the question, invite it even, because I had a decent response.
‘Oooh, what are you working on now?’ they often asked.
‘It’s all a bit hush-hush,’ I’d tease, though it was actually the truth – pulling back the vinyl to unveil the new Selfridges window display was a big, closely guarded event.
‘Jesus, what happened, babe?’ my boss, Joseph, exclaimed as I entered the studio.
‘Happy Tuesday to you, too,’ I sneered.
‘Sorry, babe, but if you’re sick, perhaps you should go home. Pale and interesting is not this season.’
‘I’m not ill, just tired,’ I muttered, marvelling at how stupid I was not to get a muffin as well as a coffee from Starbucks on the way in. Thankfully, our studio office was at the very top of the shop, and when we weren’t tucked away up here, we were downstairs tweaking the windows. I was rarely required for face time with senior management.
Joseph, the creative director for visual merchandising at Selfridges, never looked sloppy, just like his name was never abbreviated to Joe. Tall, handsome and confident, he was fancied by literally the entire female workforce – despite the fact he was gay. He wasn’t particularly camp, which made a certain portion of his admirers cling on to the fantasy that he could be ‘turned’. And of course all the gay guys – which was most of the male staff – had a deep yearning for him, too. Joseph blatantly knew he was God’s gift, and strutted around the store like Mr Selfridge himself. His hair was wavy and shoulder length and he wore it tightly tucked behind his ears, like ram’s horns. If you didn’t know better, to look at him you’d think he was French – arty, Gauloises-smoking, air of superiority – but when he spoke his dialect was pure Joey Essex. Everyone was a ‘babe’ and life was ‘sweet’.
After working with him for half a year, I was getting to know the real Joseph and, although he genuinely lived the life of a moisturising modern man who adhered to the five:two diet and had been known to get hooked up to a reviving vitamin-packed IV drip during his lunch break, at the end of the day he was a first-class creative director and I loved having him as my boss. As well as my solid experience styling the windows at Smiths boutique, I think he was wowed by my time spent assisting Mona – in our world, it would be hard not to be – as he gave me the job without a second interview. When I started, he took me under his wing as a protégée of sorts and it was a great position to be in. It gave me some protection from the less friendly, uber fashiony senior managers who swanned around our floor in their top-to-toe designer threads, trying to catch a glimpse of Joseph.
Then there was Shauna: white fingernails with gold tips, big gold hoops and curly afro hair, channelling a modern day Diana Ross. Her iPhone clicked in my face and then traced my body. A deeply unflattering video of my stunned mug and greasy-looking hair was now playing live on Snapchat. Shauna loved to share. She worshipped at the altars of Instagram and Snapchat and was dedicated to the daily documentation of selfies, shoefies, Instafood, Instacocktails, Instacats – and fairly often me, with #nofilter.
‘You’re so ’grammable today, babe,’ she said, crouching down to snap my Starbucks cup as I placed it on my desk. Until that moment, I had failed to noticed that the barista had scrawled the word ‘Antler’ on it, instead of my real name. Shauna found it hilarious and shared the image with her 1.4 thousand followers. ‘Big night, deer? Get it – Antler, deer?’
I frowned. ‘So I look like something the cat dragged in, can we all just get over it, please?’
Shauna sucked in her cheeks and waggled her finger at me, intimating that I was not one to talk about anything this morning.
Joseph broke us up. ‘Now, now ladies, there’s no time for bickering today, Jeff wants the final designs for the summer windows by EOP, so I need you to finish the edit. And that’s before we get cracking on phase two of the “Chelsea” display.’
The great thing about my job, especially on days like today, was that time passed quickly. I loved putting the mood boards together and then sourcing clothes from the collections about to hit the shop floor to bring it all to life. We were always working on two themes at any one time, currently we were completing the spring windows, inspired by the famous Chelsea Flower Show, and also planning our big summer production, a homage to the ‘Traditional British Seaside’, which would come into play soon after. I was transported from grey January to sunny July and a world of ninety-nines, beach huts, rubber rings, candy-coloured Kate Spade bags, Linda Farrow sunglasses, Matthew Williamson bikinis, palm-print dresses and everything in between. Heaven.
Although Shauna and I didn’t always see eye to eye outside work, we were a great team in the studio, her eye for props perfectly complementing my choice of fashion from the designer look books. The time flew as I busied myself finalising clothes for the Chelsea windows and lining them up on rails ahead of Joseph’s inspection – a cacophony of vibrant pink, lemon, lilac, peach and turquoise, the sartorial equivalent of a fragrant bouquet. Bright clothes were amazing for lifting my mood. But they couldn’t stop me from checking my phone every five seconds. Nothing from Rob.
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_157b15ff-4930-51fa-8a8c-28f7694ceab7)
Two days had passed since Rob told me the news that he was thinking of moving to New York. In that time I had cried in the loos at work once, eaten MacDonald’s for dinner twice, bought a Marc Jacobs top I couldn’t afford, despite my staff discount, and looked at the Angel Wear website five thousand times as a conservative estimate. Krystal, Jessica, Roxy, Leonie, and Astrid were the names of the main Angel Wear ‘Icons’. I could tell you their vital stats by heart. And I hated their perfect thirty-four–twenty-four–thirty-four guts. It was now Thursday and today Rob had been unnervingly attentive, texting me more than usual just to see how my day was going and wanting to arrange to meet up. He’s taking the job and he’s feeling guilty, I know it. In my head, we were already on opposite sides of the Atlantic. But I hadn’t worked out how to handle things the next time I saw him, so I hadn’t yet replied. The reality was that we’d only been dating for five months. I couldn’t stop thinking about his feather tattoo. This could be Rob’s perfect opportunity to just catch the wind and fly.
Work continued to be a good distraction, but Joseph and Shauna didn’t do compassion. I’d come clean about Rob to Shauna in the loos the first morning, when she caught me redoing my mascara and, of course, she had blurted it out to Joseph.
‘Hate to say it, babe, but it sounds like a case of “He’s just not that into you”,’ Joseph said, causing my eyes to prickle all over again. I carried on tweaking a mocked-up candyfloss stand.
This morning, we were waiting for Jeff to come and cast his critical eye over our final plans for summer, when my phone rang: Rob.
‘Let me speak to him.’ Shauna tried to grab my iPhone from my hands, but failed, sending a fake nail onto the floor.
I spoke to Rob from the hallway outside the studio. It’s impossible to get any privacy around here.
‘I thought you were going to avoid me forever. I’ve been getting paranoid.’ He sounded nervous.
‘I’ve not been avoiding you,’ I lied, ‘just been busy. Anyway, what’s happening with you?’
‘I wanted to see if you’re free tonight. I could meet you from work and we could grab some dinner, chat, you know – what boyfriends and girlfriends do?’
He’s still using the b-word, that’s surely a good sign. I paused. ‘Are you there, Amber?’ he continued. ‘Are you pissed off with me?’
I swallowed hard. ‘New York, what’s happening with that? Are you going to move?’
‘That’s what I want to talk to you about,’ he said.
‘Are you sure you want me to be your girlfriend, Rob?’
Silence on his end. This is it. It’s over. Joseph is right, he’s just not into me.
‘Amber—’
‘Don’t tell me, this opportunity, you can’t turn it down, blah, blah, blah. It’s fine, I can handle it, tell me I make a great friend but it’s you, you’re not in the right place for a relationship.’ A hot sensation was working its way up into my cheeks.
‘Listen, I didn’t want to have this conversation on the phone, I wanted to meet up with you and talk about it properly, but—’
‘I get it, you’re just not that into me…’
‘Amber! Shut up for a second.’ His tone took me aback, Rob rarely raised his voice. ‘Yes, I’ve done some thinking and I do want to go to New York, I think it will be an incredible experience – but not just for me, for both of us. I wanted to ask if you would consider coming with me?’ He paused. ‘Wouldn’t it be fun to flat hunt together in Williamsburg or Queens?’
I was so shocked I could barely find the words to respond.
‘Really?’ I uttered at last, leaning back against the wall, finally allowing every muscle in my body to relax.
‘Really.’ He was smiling into the phone; I could picture it.
And that was it, suddenly everything was rose tinted again. New York or bust? It was a no-brainer.
Rob met me from Selfridges that night, even skipping Pinky’s slop time, so I knew he meant business, and we spent the evening plotting the weeks ahead. I would speak to Joseph about a three-month sabbatical; we would give up my Kensal Rise flat and move everything into Rob’s room while we were away. I felt sure Vicky would understand – she’d probably be overjoyed that I was going to be a mere five-hour internal flight away. Besides, she was probably making it up with Trey this very moment.
The following morning I broke the news to my parents.
‘Isn’t this a bit crazy, Amber?’ Mum said after doing me the courtesy of listening quietly as I excitedly babbled away for five minutes. Bearing in mind Mum’s idea of adventure is a day out in April without bringing her umbrella and Dad thinks anyone who eats hummus is on the road to ruin – how could I expect them to understand?
‘It’s what people my age do all the time, Mum,’ I told her, bristling. ‘Anyway, it’s only for three months, initially – it’s hardly a long time in the scheme of things. You and Dad could even come and visit if you want.’ I crossed my fingers behind my back.
‘Initially, darling? You’re thinking of staying longer? This is a whole different scenario. How are you going to do that legally, you know you need a visa to work in America? You’re going to do it all by the book, I hope? They’ll lock you up if you don’t.’ I could picture her shaking her head disparagingly. ‘You won’t have the same rights in America.’
My mum hadn’t got her position as a top barrister without thinking through the legal implications for every situation.
‘I know, Mum. And of course we’re going to do it properly. I can stay for three months as a tourist anyway, and we’ll take it from there. Rob’s company are sorting out the visa for him. He’s getting an O visa.’
Suddenly my dad’s voice came on the phone. I hated it when my parents put me on a three-way conversation, especially without telling me. Surely it was a violation of my privacy.
‘O visa? How old did you say he is?’
‘It’s an O-1 visa, not OAP, Dad. It means he’s got an extraOrdinary ability.’
‘Don’t tell me he’s a psychic?’
‘No, he’s a TV producer, as you know – not just anyone can make a top TV show, he’s got tons of experience.’
‘What’s this TV show about, then?’
I squirmed; the last thing I wanted was for them to pick up on any insecurities about going to New York on my part, and ‘a show about an underwear company’ didn’t exactly sound like something that would impress one’s parents. I casually wandered out of the kitchen and into the sitting room so Rob couldn’t overhear the half-truth I was about to tell.
‘It’s about a top company out there, it’s kind of an American institution. Rob will be telling the inside story on how it works.’
‘Anyway, Amber,’ Dad interrupted me, ‘we wondered if you’d like to bring Rob to dinner at home next Sunday? Especially now that you’re practically eloping, we’d like to meet him properly.’ I almost choked on my tea.
‘If you’re disappearing off to the other side of the world with this fellow, we’d better get to know him,’ Mum added. ‘My parents have invited you over next Sunday, if you can bear it.’ I broke the news as I re-entered the kitchen, to find Rob serving up scrambled egg.
‘You’re not exactly selling the opportunity,’ he said, smiling. ‘But your folks seemed lovely when I met them the other week.’
‘You met them for precisely fifteen seconds,’ I reminded him. They’d dropped me off at Rob’s one evening on a detour after we’d been to visit my sister. He’d politely come out to shake my dad’s hand. Dad didn’t bother getting out of the car and shook it through the window. Bit rude, I thought at the time.
‘I don’t remember him having a hook for an arm,’ he said, teasing me. ‘But,’ a hesitation, ‘my mum has invited me over next Sunday too, along with Dan and Florence, and, well, I was going to see if you fancied joining us?’
I took a large swig of tea from the mug in my hand, wishing it contained something stronger. ‘If I’m not mistaken, Robert Walker, are you asking me to meet your family? Not only your mother but your brother and his scary-sounding fiancée, too?’
‘I am, Miss Green, now will you please accept because I want to eat my breakfast before it goes cold?’
I leaned over and ran my fingers through his unkempt bed hair. I smiled into his lips before kissing them.
‘I’d be honoured.’ And I texted Mum the bad news before flying out of the door to work.
‘A sabbatical?’ Joseph repeated the words back to me, then he sat back and pushed his curls behind his ears with both hands. ‘No one’s asked for a sabbatical before.’
‘Just three months – it will fly by,’ I pleaded, desperation no doubt showing in my face. ‘I absolutely promise I’ll come back.’
‘But what if everyone wants a sabbatical?’ he asked, looking around us to check no one was eavesdropping. We were sitting at a table in the Selfridges food hall. ‘It won’t be easy to find cover for that amount of time. What if Shauna wants one too – what then? I’ll have to speak to Jeff, find out what the company policy is.’
‘But it’s not a no?’
‘Not yet,’ he smiled. ‘Listen, babe, I’ll see what I can do, because I’d like to keep you, but you’d better come back, and don’t tell anyone, for now.’
‘I will, I promise. Let me buy you a Krispy Kreme Deluxe Donut as a thank you – in advance.’
And I got up before he could change his mind.
I was looking forward to spending time with Rob’s mum, but for some reason I was even more excited about meeting Dan’s fiancée, the infamous Florence. On Boxing Day evening, Rob had moaned about how his mother, Marian, was like a lap dog around Florence – she thought she was the best thing not just to happen to Dan, but to their entire family.
‘She hasn’t met you yet, though,’ he qualified, though he had polished off a number of glasses of mulled wine.
From what I could glean, without turning into an A grade stalker, Florence was a high-flying PR executive for a boutique agency in London with a roster of clients across the luxury world – from London’s hottest restaurants and spas, to art galleries and high-end fashion and beauty launches; Rob gave the impression she knew everyone worth knowing in the whole of London. Unfortunately, her Instagram account was locked, so I couldn’t carry out the full extent of my desired snooping, but hopefully, after we’d met, we’d be tagging each other in photos from fashion parties and I’d be on her VIP guest list. In my role as a window designer for Selfridges, I hoped she would see me as someone worth knowing in London too.
Rob had decided we should break the news about New York to his mum together, the thought of which was making me feel sick with nerves as the day drew closer.
‘Are you sure this won’t make me come across as the girlfriend who’s stealing her precious son?’ I quizzed Rob on the phone on Sunday morning. ‘I’ll be like, “Hi, I’m Rob’s new girlfriend – by the way, we’re off to America, so you won’t be seeing him for a while. Thanks for dinner!”’
‘Course not. I think our delivery will be a bit more tactful than that. Anyway, it’s no biggie – besides, Mum loves to travel, we’ll invite her to visit – she’ll be thrilled.’
‘Have you told Dan yet?’
‘No, we’ll tell them together and it will be fine. Dan will support us, and I bet Florence will think it’s the coolest thing. Mum will go along with whatever Florence thinks anyway. Relax.’
Relax, I tried. I ironed a silky blue Zara dress bought especially for the occasion, had a long soak in the bath and then, in a move I hoped would make me feel empowered for this family meeting of meetings, I decided to try out a new method of curling my hair. It involved heated rollers borrowed from Vicky’s room and an upside down blow-drying technique I’d seen on a YouTube video. What could go wrong?
Plenty. The resulting hairstyle – Scary Spice, electrocuted, times ten – was so terrifying my eyes nearly burst when I caught sight of myself in the mirror. There was no way of relaxing it so I had to take another shower. Consequently, I was running late for dinner and there were sweat patches on the silky dress.
I jumped off the bus and headed down Westbourne Grove, half walking, half running, feeling far too hot. Plus, a strap broke on my bag and I was clutching it in an ungainly fashion under my arm, trying not to let the contents fall out. I was carrying all my overnight stuff for staying at Rob’s and didn’t particularly want my best knickers to end up in a puddle. As I dashed past the shops – Heidi Klein, Tom’s Deli, Joseph – I thought how much I loved this part of London, just walking the streets felt like being in a Richard Curtis film. Perhaps Rob and I might get a place around here one day.
I turned left off the main road and reached Rob’s mum’s house. Glancing at my phone I realised I was a whole forty-five minutes late. Rob had texted: You ok? x. I needed to turn on a full charm offensive this evening.
It was a tall, impressive, white-fronted family house, complete with black metal railings and well-tended geraniums on the steps. The epitome of Notting Hill chic. Walking back a couple of paces to be out of sight, I swapped my flats for some new black, shiny Kurt Geiger heels, panic bought in the store on Friday to wear with my dress. My staff discount was burning a hole in my pocket recently and the shoes were blatantly for Florence’s benefit more than anyone else’s. My toes were crushed after walking up the steps. Rob opened the door and gave me a big hug.
‘You look gorgeous,’ he said, making me light up inside and out. There was classical music playing, candles flickering on a side table, and a delicious smell of home-cooking.
‘Sorry I’m late.’ I lifted my head for a kiss.
He took my face in his hands and kissed me softly.
When we parted, I paused to take in my surroundings: everything was cream, white, and glossy – it was a well looked after, tasteful home. ‘Nice pad. I can’t wait to see all the embarrassing photos of you growing up.’ I scoured the hall table.
‘Quick update,’ he whispered, looking over his shoulder. ‘Dan’s here, but Florence isn’t. Not quite sure why, but I don’t think things are going well right now. He doesn’t want to talk about it – not around Mum, anyway. If she starts to dig, we’ll change the subject. She used to be a therapist, remember. Mum loves relationship problems – if there is a problem, I’m not even sure. Anyway, families, hey? Go with the flow, like you always do… Do you mind taking off your shoes? Mum’s got a thing about shoes indoors.’
It was great to see Dan again, he was such a friendly, easy-going guy who instantly made me feel at ease, and the brothers were sweet and attentive to their mum. They loved her to bits, it was clear to see, and Marian was the kind of woman who relished the attention from her ‘two beautiful boys’. It was heart-warming to witness such stability compared with the uneven keel I felt between my sister and me, in my parents’ eyes. She being the perfect one and I being the one who worked in fashion and was, therefore, certifiably ‘bonkers’. Marian was well groomed, with blow-dried brown hair, good make-up, and what looked like a very real Chanel twinset. I felt glad I’d made an effort with my appearance, though she wasn’t the kind to compliment me on it.
Maybe it was because Marian had never had a daughter, or perhaps it was just the way she was, but it quickly became clear that she found it hard to relax around her son’s girl-friends – this one in particular. She eyed me with the kind of cynicism of a Gogglebox family watching TV.
‘So, tell me about your work, Amber – it might not be worthy, but it sounds terribly thrilling, from what I’ve heard. You style celebrities, right?’
I was taken aback by the ‘not worthy’ dig. Would she prefer me to work for Christian Aid?
Rob gave me a look that said, ‘let it go’.
‘Well, I did work with famous people,’ I replied. ‘But these days I style dummies for the shop windows at Selfridges and, to be honest, the fact they can’t answer back suits me better.’ Her crestfallen face indicated that I should have gone along with the celebrity line.
‘Right. But you must have met some huge names when you were out in LA – you know, when you and Rob were working on the show together?’ She glanced at her son. He’d obviously filled her in on our backstory.
‘Oh, you mean with Mona Armstrong?’ I looked to Rob for help. ‘That was certainly an interesting time in my career – we worked a lot with Jennifer Astley.’ Her eyes widened. Everyone loves a celebrity encounter, evidently even those who might claim to be ‘worthy’. From then on I caved in and gave her what she wanted – an embellished list of the famous names I’d been in fairly close proximity to at the BAFTAs and the Oscars, giving her plenty to regale her friends with, and – hopefully – pass on to Florence.
My career done, she then moved on to family. ‘So, what do your parents do, love?’ she asked, oblivious to the fact I was dying to get the subject off myself.
I dunked a hefty piece of ciabatta in olive oil and chewed it for a few seconds, giving myself a moment to think.
‘Mum was a hot-shot lawyer, she worked for years at a firm in the city handling litigation cases mainly, and now she’s semi-retired she still works freelance for them but can take or leave cases as she likes. And Dad was a stay-at-home dad, he did all the school runs while Mum was working and did some work as a handy man. There’s nothing dad can’t fix.’
She gave me a stare that felt like she was trying to read my soul.
‘Keep the hubby at home, clever woman,’ she remarked finally, a wry smile across her face. ‘How delightful.’
When my five minutes of grilling from Marian was finally over, she proceeded to spend ten minutes telling us about Florence’s latest work projects – including a campaign for a new London art gallery filled with paintings created by children with behavioural problems, and a charity project sending make-up products to women in remote African villages.
‘All fantastically worthy,’ Marian gushed. She had a wicked glint in her eye.
Noticing my puffed-out chest and reddening cheeks, Rob placed a firm hand on my knee.
‘Let’s take out the plates.’ he said. Dan looked as though he wanted to slide under the table. Marian looked at her watch. I was clearly dull as ditch water compared to Florence.
‘Mum adores you, it’s obvious,’ Rob said in the kitchen as I placed two empty plates on the side. He had wound his arms around my waist and was peppering my neck with little kisses.
‘Have we just been in the same room?’ I asked. ‘I feel like I’ve been in front of a firing squad. She’s infinitely more excited about how Florence is saving the world than anything I have to say.’ I rolled my eyes.
‘Please, Amber, don’t take it personally. Mum’s just testing you, she likes a woman who can stick up for herself, it was the same when Florence first came round. I know when Mum likes someone and she likes you. You passed.’
‘I passed?’ It’s a weird kind of test. ‘Anyway, when are we going to—’ I stopped abruptly as Marian joined us and leaned against the work top.
‘To what?’ she asked, and we both averted her eyes. ‘I’m worried about Dan,’ she continued, looking earnest. ‘He’s not himself at all this evening and he’s stepped out to make yet another call – to Florence, I’m sure – but he won’t let on if anything’s wrong. He barely said a thing over dinner, and he didn’t even finish his lamb. That’s a first. Has he said anything to you, Robert darling? I just want to be sure he’s all right.’
Sensing a mother-and-son private moment, I excused myself for the loo.
I locked myself in the downstairs toilet and sat down, breathing a huge sigh. My eyes wandered around the tiny room; there was a super-cute photo of Rob and Dan in a paddling pool on the wall – I imagined it was taken in the garden of this very house. I guessed they were aged about four and six, with grubby hands, freckled faces and huge smiles. Rob looked a cheeky blond scallywag and Dan more serious and dark haired. It must have been captured not long before their father left. Rob had told me a little about what happened, but not much detail.
‘It was the biggest cliché in the book,’ he had said. ‘Dad went off with his young PA and broke Mum’s heart. I don’t think she’s ever got over it. After going to some counselling sessions she decided to train as a relationship therapist herself. What is it they say about therapists? They’re the most messed-up people out there.’ I knew that Rob now had a fractured relationship with his father, who went on to have three more children with the PA. They saw each other maybe once a year. It was sad, really. Knowing this made me feel a little more sympathetic about the dig Marian had made about my dad’s job over dinner and perhaps helped explained why she hadn’t exactly been warm to me so far. She clearly had a deep mistrust of other women around her men. Unless they’re Florence.
And then my gaze fixed on another photo; this one looked very recent. It showed Dan on a white sandy beach holding an attractive, bikini-clad blonde woman in his arms; she was flaunting what appeared to be a big diamond engagement ring. It had to be Florence; all big bouncy platinum curls and an innocent smile.
‘Quick loo break, that’s better.’ I smiled, joining them all in the kitchen.
Rob smiled quizzically. ‘Thanks for the update, Amber.’
‘Dessert will be another five minutes, let’s go back through.’ Marian ushered us, rapidly putting an end to whatever they had been discussing. She placed a hand on my arm to guide me through first, an indication that I wasn’t completely repulsive to her.
Rob poured us all another large glass of white wine and I gulped down half of mine immediately. Thank God for wine, I mean, seriously, what would I do without wine? Judging by the speed with which Rob finished his glass and then refilled us both, I knew the moment had arrived.
‘So, Mum, Dan, there is something Amber and I wanted to talk to you about tonight.’
Marian clutched Dan’s arm. ‘Jesus, don’t tell me you’re getting married,’ she squealed, horrified.
I shuffled to the back of my chair. She really knows how to make me feel welcome.
‘No, Mum, it’s more of a short-term plan. We, er, Amber and I are going to be moving to New York for a few months. I’ve been offered a filming job out there and we thought it would be a great adventure if we both went together.’
He paused to take in their expressions. Marian looked like she’d been turned to stone.
‘Mum? You’ve always said I should seize opportunities – isn’t it great?’
‘Sounds bloody exciting. Congrats, man,’ Dan piped up, filling the silence from Marian. He held his hand out across the table to Rob and then he shook my hand. ‘Got space in your suitcase for me?’
‘Always got a sofa for you, come and visit. You too, Mum, it’s only for an initial three months, so you’d better take advantage of the cheap accommodation.’
Marian forced her mouth into a kind of tight smile. ‘Super, darling, I suppose it sounds great fun,’ she said, before looking me right between the eyes. ‘You must be pleased.’ I wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d then hissed. You’d think I’d just told her I was taking him to Helmand Province.
‘Yes, I’m excited, too,’ I offered, ‘and it’s not for long, you know, we’ll be back.’
‘Lovely. When do you go?’ she asked, arms folded across her chest defensively.
‘In a few weeks. We’re just looking into our tickets and visa and we have to sort out living arrangements and then we’ll be off.’
‘A few weeks? Just like that,’ she said.
‘Just like that,’ Dan repeated, impersonating Tommy Cooper. Rob and I both sniggered.
We were wrenched out of some awkward small talk about journey times to New York by a strange smell emanating from the kitchen. Rob noticed it first.
‘That’s smoke,’ he got to his feet. ‘Mum, I think something’s burning.’
We all lifted our noses to the air.
‘God, yes, and your smoke alarm’s not working,’ said Dan, sounding animated for the first time all evening as he leapt up to join Rob on his way to the kitchen.
Marian jumped to her feet, too, calling after them. ‘Oh Lord, it’s the sticky pudding, I forgot all about the bloody pudding. It’ll be ruined.’ She looked stricken.
I pushed my chair away from the table and joined them.
In the kitchen, the three of them were staring at a smoking layer of melted plastic mixed with a toasted toffee pudding. Marian’s eyes had gone glassy and I was afraid she might cry.
‘Left the damn plastic film on it, didn’t I.’ She swallowed, her voice trembling. ‘Some lids you pierce, others you don’t, it’s so bloody confusing.’
‘Bang goes pretending it was home-made,’ Rob remarked, trying to lighten the atmosphere. He put an arm around her shoulders and she leaned into him.
‘Well, perfect end to a pretty disastrous evening wouldn’t you say?’ Marian remarked finally, once the backdoor had been opened and the pudding placed out of sight on the patio. I didn’t know where to look. ‘Both of my boys are having early mid-life crises and then I nearly set the house on fire.’
‘Come on, Mum, it’s not that bad.’ Dan put a hand on her arm. I noticed he didn’t try to deny the crisis part. She covered her face with her hands and began sobbing into them. Half of me wanted to put my arms around her too and join the group hug, as I’d do if she was my mum, but I had no idea how that might go down. Instead I watched as Rob and Dan enveloped her and the three stood there for a few seconds, hugging. I wondered whether to grab my coat and disappear, but I’d promised Rob I’d stay at his tonight; besides, I was wearing new underwear. Instead I comforted myself with a realisation: Maybe my own family is not so dysfunctional after all.
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Rosie Nixon
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современные любовные романы
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: Novice stylist Amber Green is taking on the glittering celebrity world of Manhattan one fashion disaster and wardrobe malfunction at a time!When her TV producer boyfriend Rob announces that he’s been offered a job in New York, filming with the infamous Angel Wear lingerie models, Amber knows its her perfect chance to take the New York fashion world by storm.But Amber wasn’t counting on unruly toddler photo shoots, clandestine designer handbag scams and a Hollywood star who is determined to wear as little as possible on the red carpet. Until she meets a disgraced former designer who could turn her career around…or leave it all in tatters.Fun, adventure, glamour and high-fashion make this is the perfect feel good women’s fiction read.