The Stylist
'Bridget Jones meets The Devil Wears Prada!’RED‘Hilarious and uplifting …The Stylist is the perfect beach read this summer’METROAmber Green loves her job at Smith’s, the exclusive London boutique frequented by the rich, the famous and the stylish – and with stylist to the stars Mona Armstrong as a customer, there is never a dull moment.With the Oscars approaching and yet another assistant walking out on her, Mona needs help, and she needs it fast. Before she has time to say Rodeo Drive, Amber finds herself agreeing to get on a plane to LA as she is expected to work with the increasingly volatile stylist and dress some of Hollywood’s hottest (and craziest) starlets. Awards season turns her life upside down as designer gowns, and dazzling jewels are matched to a steady stream of A-list stars and are paraded on red carpets at the year’s most glittering events. Meanwhile Mona is unravelling faster than a hemline…And as Amber starts to enjoy rummaging through the ultimate dressing-up box, she finds herself in the limelight as she catches the attention of two very different suitors. How will she keep her head? Which man will she choose? And most importantly, what will everyone wear?
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IN HOLLYWOOD ONLY ONE THING MATTERS … STYLE!
When exclusive London boutique employee Amber Green is mistakenly offered a job as assistant to infamous ‘stylist to the stars’ Mona Armstrong, she hits the ground running, helping to dress some of Hollywood’s hottest (and craziest) starlets. Awards season turns Amber’s life upside down as dazzling designer gowns are paraded on red carpets in Los Angeles, London and back.
Suddenly Amber’s catching the attention of two very different suitors, TV producer Rob and Hollywood bad boy rising star Liam.
How will Amber keep her head? Which man will she chose? And what the hell will everyone wear?
The Stylist is a fast-paced, fun-packed rummage through the ultimate dressing up box.
ROSIE NIXON lives in London and is joint Editor of HELLO! magazine. She previously held senior positions at glossy women’s magazines including Grazia, Glamour and Red. Ever discreet and protective of the big stars she has worked with, Rosie’s experience has undoubtedly enabled her to write her debut novel, The Stylist.
For Callum and Heath
I must thank a few people without whom Amber Green and Mona Armstrong would almost certainly not have been brought to life.
My brilliant sister in law and agent, Jenny Savill, thank you for your ideas, encouragement and guidance, your faith in me made it possible and I admire you in so many indescribable ways; to Jill/Ruby Dawson for sharing your expertise – it was fate that we met in Marrakech, you are a true inspiration.
Thunderous applause to the team at HQ, especially Anna Baggaley for believing in The Stylist from the beginning and Alison Lindsay and Sophie Ransom for your enthusiasm and marketing and PR wizardry. You have all been a dream to work with and I am so grateful.
To my amazing husband Callum for not complaining when I spent hours at my screen during any free time and for appearing interested in red carpet fashion; to my incredible mum, for your endless support and holding the baby – literally – so I could get this book finished; to my wonderful friends for all the adventures we have shared which have without doubt inspired some of the situations in this novel. Especially to Chrissie, Mel and Michael, without whom I would have no understanding of what it is like to be monstrously hungover the day after The Oscars. And finally to my beautiful son, Heath, for arriving two weeks late so I could finish writing The Stylist and for being such a good boy as I tweaked it during your first year. There was nothing like the deadline of your arrival to get things done.
Table of Contents
Part One: London, Pre-Awards Season
Part Two: Los Angeles, The Golden Globes
Part Three: London, The BAFTAs
Part Four: Los Angeles, The Oscars
The car door swings open and bright white lights flash before my eyes, blinding me for a few long seconds. Flash! Flash! Flash! Like a firework has been let off at close range. I wait inside the car while she makes her big entrance. Getting out of a blacked-out limousine in an exquisite, glittering gown complete with vertiginous heels is no easy task, even for a seasoned pro. Knees together, swivel hips, feet on the ground, smoothly push up, rise gracefully, and straighten gown and SMILE! A thunderous cheer erupts around us as she emerges—Ta da!—a Hollywood goddess in the flesh. Then come the voices.
‘Jennifer! Jennifer!’
She is under siege. Paparazzi shoot off hundreds of high-resolution frames, their faces hidden behind the long, prying lenses of their black state-of-the-art DSLR cameras. When they get too close to this tall, willowy, shimmering beauty, the minders rush in to hold them at bay.
‘Hey, Jennifer!’
‘This way!’
‘Give us a smile!’
When the flashes subside, I tumble out of the car, dart hastily round it and slip through the entrance, flashing my invitation pass. I crouch down at the side of the red carpet, beside the cold metal crowd-control railings, and sink into the shadows, desperate to keep out of sight. But I’ve been rumbled. An autograph hunter taps me on the head and shoves a glossy photo in my face.
‘Hey! Can you get this signed by Jennifer?’
Another pleads in my ear: ‘Ma’am, ma’am, do you know her? Can you get her to come over?’
‘Yeah, you got out of her car, get her to come here! ‘Others join in, like a chorus of extras in a low-budget film. I pretend not to hear, taking my eyes off her for only a few seconds; time enough to readjust the zip and pull down the hood of my grey towelling sleep suit. I’m breaking into a sweat. I look down at myself, in my deeply inappropriate, stale outfit, and then back at Jennifer in her stunning gown, all clean and super gorgeous. I’m so tired and embarrassed I almost want to laugh. It’s rarely cold in Los Angeles, even on a February evening, and the Oscars—the biggest night in the entertainment calendar—is no place for a pasty British girl in a baggy onesie, flashing her saggy bottom at unsuspecting fans, never mind the world’s paparazzi, who might snap an unexpected exclusive. Inside, I’m seething.
