Page 5 of Bad Influence
‘Thank you for being so understanding,’ I added duly. ‘Lucy feels terrible.’
‘That’s one outfit we can scratch off the list,’ she added jovially. ‘You must be relieved.’ Her tone was friendly, as she alluded that she might not have been the easiest customer today.
‘It’s no bother, Mum, honestly.’ I smiled. ‘But I still wish you’d tried the mustard.’
Being a lawyer, Mum was used to keeping it professional in smart suits and dresses, but this was a big family event. It was such a wasted opportunity! Things like this pained me, deeply, on a visceral level, like the thought of chewing cotton wool balls or watching Rob eat a peach.
Buoyed by telling Lucy the good news that we were going to Paris without mother in tow, and redeeming myself as her wedding attendant, I decided to ditch cooking and go with Rob for a date-night dinner of snacks and wine. ‘We may be broke, but you’re worth it,’ he had declared, and as usual we opted for our local, The Chamberlayne.
Nico was behind the bar. He was always a comforting sight, having been pulling pints and shaking cocktails in The Chamberlayne for as long as I’d lived in the area. He’d been witness to more than a few ‘spirited’ evenings I’d had in here with Vicky – and there was that disastrous night with Rob, before we were together, when I fancied him like crazy and managed to slag off his current girlfriend before drunkenly toppling off my bar stool and twisting my ankle. Luckily, there wasn’t much about my behaviourthat could shock Nico – he claimed to have ‘seen it all’. But none of it went outside of these four walls. He’d merely wink and flash his wide, warm Italian smile the next time I saw him.
‘If only he wasn’t gay,’ Vicky would lament, almost every time we had come to the pub and shared a lock-in with Nico. ‘I mean, do you think he’dever fancy me?’
I didn’t need to order before a glass of white wine was placed on the bar in front of me, and a pint for Rob.
‘Table or bar, you beautiful pair?’ Nico asked, looking across at the half-empty space. It was nearly seven p.m. and by eight on a Saturday evening, most of the tables would be taken.
‘We’ll grab that one please, mate.’ Rob gestured to a cosy spot.
‘So, tell me properly about this email,’ he said, when we’d ordered a carb-tastic array of bar food to nibble on, plus the cheese croquettes, which made me salivate just thinking about them.
I pulled out my phone and located the email. Reading it aloud made it even more real.
Please let me know as soon as possible if you can meet with Ms Sykes and her team with regards to this position.
Best wishes,
Julie-Ann Morris
Agent to Ms Mandy Sykes
I added a flourish to the last part, to accentuate how big this was.
‘So, what are you going to do?’ Rob asked.
‘Durr!’ I replied, staggered. ‘Seeing as I’m currently unemployed, coupled with the fact I miss the fun of putting clothes on humans, rather than shop window dummies, I’ve emailed her back to say I’m interested already – it’s a no-brainer. But there is a chance this email has gone out to lots of other, more established stylists so I’m trying not to get my hopes too high.’
Rob sniggered.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘I was just remembering how you were ecstatic to get the Selfridges job after assisting Mona Armstrong, precisely for the opposite reason – you were sick of actual people, their crazy demands and showbiz nonsense,’ he said, smiling endearingly. ‘Mannequins were appealing.’
‘You’ve got a point. But clothes look the same on those dummies – they don’t come alive like they do on real bodies. I miss people, their energy, and, most of all, their stories.’
‘There were somecrazystories,’ he observed. ‘It wasn’t all about bringing clothes alive, it was the reverse sometimes. Remember Liv Ramone, who preferred to go naked rather than wear any of the outfits you carefully sourced? And the fact you ended up styling a six-foot-four drag queen in an Angel Wear diamond bra? That wasn’t a standard day at the office.’
‘I know, I know,’ I giggled, ‘but it was brilliant. They wereproper fashion moments. I love the power of bringing out the best in people … and I guess I miss the drama of it all.’
‘Be careful what you wish for,’ he warned.
Rob had a point. I had been so caught up in the excitement of celebrity, it nearly cost us our relationship. I bristled as I recalled how I let my obsession for building an Instagram following take over my life.
Yet there was something so tantalising, so alluring, about the prospect of being a personal stylist to a personality as big as Mandy Sykes. It could turn my career around. It would show Joseph and the Selfridges bosses. The fact Mandy’s agent had taken the time to write to me personally was such an ego boost.
‘I could start a new career as a personal stylist with a job like this,’ I enthused. ‘And I would get to know Mandy, what suits her shape, her personality, rekindle my relationships with top designers to reinvent her look, help to bring out the real her – I’d love to get to grips with the fiery Latino side of her that the tabloids like to spin as if it’s a negative. I’d love to see her reallyownher heritage, her curves – the real her. I could be so creative again.’
‘IfMandy is up for the journey,’ Rob reminded me. ‘What does Vicky think?’ he asked after a pause.
