Page 38 of Bad Influence
Every time I mentioned a more high-street brand we could try, Mandy would respond with a mumbled ‘maybe’, signalling this meant ‘no’ and she had already moved on to thinking about more important things, like how to get one back on the editors ofHELLO!andTatler. Although I supposed Mandy probably had enough money in the bank to splash out on any of the designer items she really wanted in her wardrobe, like the Bottega Veneta boots, it was an indication that she had a lot of work to do to win over the elitist British style set. They were of the opinion that true class was something you were born into, rather than a position you can buy with Instagram followers, whether you have 1.8 million of them or not.
Back at the house, the rain was falling thick and hard, and it wasn’t doing much to help Mandy’s mood. She swore loudly, as Philippa came rushing out of the house with a large umbrella to ease her journey of a few steps from the car to the front door, but accidentally tipped it at the wrong angle, sending a small river of rainwater right onto her hair.
She pursed her lips. ‘I don’t know how you people cope with this horrible weather.’
Mandy seemed to hate the British climate with a vengeance. Her little digs at my motherland and our unpredictable weather were starting to grate. It wasn’t as if the Crown had officially invited Mandy to set up a temporary home here, she had come of her own accord. And if she’d like to depart, well, I didn’t think the Home Office would pull out all the stops to keep her here.
I took this as my cue to retire early for the evening. I had clothes to press, outfits to plan, chains to inspect, and jodhpurs to pack away. There was no doubt that this styling mission was going to be a test.
By the evening, both Philippa and I were on first-name terms with the UPS delivery man, and I could tell you the names of all four children of the Parcelforce guy. Deliveries had arrived thick and fast, and I worked late into the night getting everything ready for the shoot, so Mandy had at least four options for every look.
I had begun to see a more sensitive side to Philippa as she trotted back and forth with parcels and took pity on me, keeping me company as she correctly read the mix of fear and trepidation in my eyes, as I tried to fathom what mightbe on Mandy’s imagined vision board for this shoot. Yet every time my voice rose and I started to panic, she artfully changed the conversation and brought me back down. At one point, when Philippa asked me if I had ever experienced such a high-maintenance boss as Mandy, I plunged into a mire of grievances about Mona Armstrong. She then regaled a brilliant story about the former lady of Gables Manor who had once asked Philippa to get into the car – in her pyjamas – to go to the end of the long driveway and collect her Deliveroo orderfour timesbecause she couldn’t use the app properly and kept ordering the wrong thing.
‘As m’lady slurred that she hadn’t been drinkingany sherryand the “stupidsoddingfuckwit” app had kept changing things of its own accord, I just had to bite my tongue and do as instructed. But the great thing was that I ended up with three untouched delicious curry takeaways from the Bombay Bicycle Club, which kept me in free meals for the rest of the week. Lady Muck didn’t make any reference to any of the orders in the morning, and I’m not entirely sure she could remember any of it, since I hid the evidence. Honestly, rich people docrazythings.’
As it neared midnight, Philippa announced she was going to bed, and before she did, returned with a mug of hot chocolate and a shortbread from her ‘secret stash’ to keep me going; a sight which made me genuinely happier than I had felt at any time since I arrived here.
I changed into my pyjamas and waited up for one final delivery, from a courier bringing a collection of blingy accessories I knew would be to Mandy’s taste. I kept myselfawake by scrolling through Instagram, chuckling at Vicky’s latest Reel which showed her chihuahua standing in front of the screen on her Peloton, desperate for attention, and had the caption ‘Wait ch-a minute!’
With Philippa in bed, I relocated to a kitchen stool near the intercom system for the front gate. I passed the time on my phone and idly wondering whether to resurrect my TikTok account. It had lain dormant for the past few months. Building my social media following had become an unhealthy obsession when we were in New York, it almost came between Rob and me, and I had been cautious of it ever since. Plus, Mandy and Jose had asked me to sign a lengthy and heavy-handed privacy agreement when I started, so it wasn’t as though I could post anything of interest anyway.
When the buzzer rang, I could barely keep my eyes open and, on autopilot, mumbled, ‘Come up to the main house – thank you.’
A few minutes later the doorbell rang, and like a robot, I had my arm outstretched to receive the bag. Only as the car turned and began heading back down the driveway, without anyone returning to it, did my brain register that the person on the doorstep was not a courier. It was Jimi.
‘Sorry, Amber, did you stay up for me?’ The soft Spanish twang to his voice was more noticeable sometimes.
‘Only if you have a delivery,’ I muttered sarcastically, holding the door open, but not wide enough for him to walk through it. I was slightly pissed off that he was teasing me like this.
He looked me up and down quizzically. ‘Nice PJs,’ he said, smirking. ‘I forgot my keys.’
I checked him out. He was wearing jeans which were probably very expensive but looked as though a cheese-grater had been taken to them, partially covered by a large white puffer jacket and a white woolly hat with a few dark brown curls poking out. In his garish ski-resort-meets-dated-boy-band outfit, he would look more at home in Whistler than West Surrey.
‘It’s really cold out here,’ he said, shifting his weight between his feet, to illustrate the point. ‘Any chance you can let me in?’
‘You’re out late,’ I replied, aware that I sounded like my mum.
A wind circled between us.
‘Are you security now?’ He asked the question with some disdain. ‘Do you mind—’
He put his hand on the door to push it open. This riled me.
‘I’m not the maid either,’ I replied.Seriously, I’m too tired for this.
‘I wasn’t suggesting it!’ he quipped.
I looked at him unamused.
‘You seem annoyed at me. Or are we flirting?’ he said.
After a beat, when I didn’t respond, he said, ‘Oh. You’re angry.’
‘I kind of am,’ I muttered.
‘Shall we start again?’ he asked, looking up at me with very large brown eyes, the kind you might find on a chocolate labrador begging to be taken out for a run.
I nudged the door wider and let him in.
