‘Nothing to wear,’ I repeated slowly. My mind flashed back to the hotel closet stuffed to bursting with designer clothes.
‘Can you find me a gown? I need to make an impact. Consider it your trial period. If you can get to the Corinthia with some options first thing tomorrow morning, I’d really appreciate it, Amber.’
There was only one answer. ‘Yes. Of course, Mandy, please text me your sizes and I’ll get on the case.’
‘Great, you can meet some of the team then too. You are officially onboard, I take it?’
‘Absolutely,’ I purred. ‘I’ll be there.’
As I ended the call, I noticed that my family had fallen silent around me, as they wondered what kind of emergency required someone to text their sizes before it could be acted upon.
My bladder felt like it was about to burst so I dashed to the loo.
On the toilet, knickers around my ankles, I noticed my heart was galloping.What have I agreed to do?
My phone pinged into life with a WhatsApp from Mandy sending me her clothes sizes.
I scrolled onto the email icon to check whether Julie-Ann had been in touch, a contract for me to sign would be useful right about now. And I hadn’t known the offer was dependent on a ‘trial period’.
Before I had pulled my knickers up again, registering that Mandy’s sizes were pretty much identical to my sister’s, I was struck by a flash of inspiration.
Returning to my family, when Rob innocently asked Lucy how the wedding plans were coming on, and Lucy sighed in response, I was glad to have a valid excuse to leave before dinner and swerve a logistical discussion about hotels in close proximity to the wedding venue. After a quick word with my sister about needing to get home to prep, and a big hug as I congratulated her on her news again, I bundled myself into an Uber.
On the way home, I glanced across at the Pronovias gown folded carefully onto the seat beside me. It was proof that one person’s fashion fail, could be another’s movie-star moment. It was a risk, but given the time limitations, it was a gift – and the only chance I had.
Chapter Five
Isquinted at my bedside clock. Seven a.m. already.
Rob rolled over and flung a heavy arm across my body. My sleepy brain computed this as a wordless, neanderthal means of trying to make his woman stay in bed a while longer. I pushed my bottom into his side, making him sigh woozily and hold me a little tighter. His feather tattoo was clearly visible on his upper arm. I shifted my position to gain a better vantage point and tenderly ran my finger over it, the black ink slightly raised on his skin. I often did this when we were dozing in bed, finding the fine lines of the image a comforting presence on his body. I had noticed the tattoo poking out of his T-shirts a long while before we started dating, adding an extra layer of intrigue to him, making him even more attractive as my mind fantasised about whether I might get to kiss him one day. And when I finally did, in the middle of a crowded pavement on London’s Oxford Street, it was as tender and sweet as I had hoped. I fell for Rob hard and still couldn’t quite believe that I had actually, somehow, made him mine.
I pushed myself against him again, more firmly this time, testing how awake he was. Rob had taken one for our team,staying at my sister’s house after I left yesterday. I imagined the wedding chat had been off the scale.
‘Morning, handsome,’ I whispered when he stirred.
‘You’re not leaving,’ he muttered sleepily, eyes still clamped shut, his arms tightening their grip around my waist.
‘I am, I’m afraid. I’ve got to get over to Mandy. It’s a work day for me, remember?’
‘Oww,’ he murmured.
‘How was the rest of last night?’
‘Rory got the whisky out,’ he croaked. ‘He told me their baby news, I’m chuffed for them. Whisky is never a good idea, but we had to get away from all the wedding chat between your mum, dad, and sister. Your dad was really into it. I think he might have volunteered to make them a floral arch to get married underneath. He might regret that this morning. Lucy has abigvision. And she was the only sober one by the end.’
‘Eek, poor Dad,’ I said. ‘Anyway, the whisky explains your breath this morning.’ I recoiled as he tried to kiss me on the lips.
‘Hey, not even a peck before you go?’ he complained. ‘I did you a favour last night remember.’ He prodded my side jokingly. ‘God knows what you would have been roped into if you had stuck around. I heard them discussing who could make 150 miniature bags for wedding favours at one point. I can always give Lucy a quick bell and tell her that y—’
‘Stop!’ I put my finger over his mouth. ‘That’s enough from you, Mr Walker. Save your kisses for when I get home,and when you’ve brushed your teeth. I think you should take advantage of the fact you can get some extra kip, while I have to drag myself into town. I cannot be late for Mandy Sykes.’ I said her name theatrically, the novelty of the words coming out of my mouth not lost on either of us.
I had spent the rest of last night at home cobbling together the bits I had available to make up my stylist’s ‘kit’ ready to take to the hotel this morning. In a bum bag, I gathered a miniature sewing set swiped from a hotel room a few months ago, some tit tape, gel implants to enhance her cleavage, though I doubted she would need this, plus scissors, bulldog clips, pins in a pin cushion, and some Body Blur – my secret weapon to smooth the skin for a glossy, even, photo-ready finish. A quick trip to the twenty-four-hour garage ensured I also had plasters and wet wipes. My experience in the styling world taught me that you canneverbe too prepared. You wouldn’t believe how much damage a spiked heel through a delicate silk organza gown can do, or the drama a bust zip can cause, and it always seems to happen at the last minute, just as a client leaves their hotel room, or steps from a car to the red carpet. That kind of panic isn’t pretty, I assure you. It’s ugly, it’s dark; it’s a situation you need to fix – fast – and then you have to pray there’s no lasting emotional damage to the celebrity, on top of the physical distress that might have been caused to a one-of-a-kind designer-creation. Styling is stressful.
In our small kitchen, a pan of cold pasta and pesto was sat on the hob in a flood of starchy water, which had developed a thin milky film across the top. The fridge washumming, and our miniature dishwasher hadn’t been turned on overnight. Dirty mugs that had built up during the week lay in the sink unwashed. A packet of crumpets was open on the side, I saw them at the same time as a passing fly, and I watched as it took a pit stop on top of one. We might have had an excuse for living in a pig sty when we actually had a micro pig called Pinky as a pet for a short while, but since Pinky was rehomed while we were in New York, now there was no excuse. The evidence here all pointed to the fact that Rob must have got home very late andverydrunk last night.
Rob and I still hadn’t mastered the ability to successfully delegate household chores between us. The early days of our dating had been characterised by working all day, eating out, ordering Deliveroo, drinking in pubs, going to parties, and generally avoiding the shared grown-up responsibility of looking after a home together. It had been a heady time, lust-filled and fun. Talking about how to descale a kettle, or whose turn it was to clean the oven, wasn’t on the agenda, even if we knew how to do either of those things.Why don’t they teach you this stuff at school?
In New York we had both been so busy working, we didn’t have to deal with domesticity in any detail. Besides, we, like everyone else in our block, pretty much lived off burritos-to-go from our local deli or Taco Bell.
