It was a question I often asked myself at life junctures, big or small. Like when Rob asked me to move in with him. Vicky told me to go for it. Or, the time when Joseph was being unreasonable at work, expecting me to stay late without any extra pay for the second time in a week – just like he had the week before.What would Vicky do?‘Tellhim, no! What are you, fashion roadkill? No overtime pay, equals no extra time. Tell him you have boundaries. End of.’
I could always rely on Vicky to tell it straight. When Mona offered me the chance to go and work for her in LA, it was Vicky whom I got drunk with the night before and who stayed up all night to help me pack my suitcase. No way was she going to let me miss that plane, even though it broke both of our hearts to end such a special era of flat-sharing together.
Vicky was the best of BFFs. She always had my interests front and centre, and was the only person who could be completely honest with me – brutally, at times – but she could do it in a way that still made me greatly admire and love her. (And, by the way, I did get the extra pay from Joseph.)
I sat back in my seat. ‘I haven’t had a chance to speak to her about it yet,’ I told Rob, feeling the urge to FaceTime Vicky immediately but restraining myself, seeing as I was on a date night with my boyfriend, not my long-distance best friend.
Vicky had come between Rob and I once before, when she rocked up unannounced on the doorstep of our tiny sardine-tin bedsit in Williamsburg, New York. That was all in the past, but I still felt a wariness about putting her advice ahead of his too often.
‘I reckon she’d tell you to go for it, don’t you?’ Rob lifted his hand and stroked my cheek, as if reading my mind.
‘Probably. Do you think I should?’ I asked, gently capturing his fingers on the side of my face and holding them there for a moment.
‘Of course, beautiful.’ He smiled. ‘Just as long as Ms Sykes doesn’t have you on her private jet every other day, so I never get to see you.’
‘Well, now I just have to hope that Julie-Ann Morris, Agent of Ms Mandy Sykes, gets back to me. I gave her literally all my contact details, save my NHS number.’
He laughed and, as the dimple appeared on his left cheek, I marvelled at how lucky I was to have him.
The following day I FaceTimed Vicky and she confirmed what I suspected.
‘This is the most exciting potential job I’ve ever heard – you’ve got to get this!’ she squealed. It seemed that living in Los Angeles, and regularly doing her weekly shop at Erewhon next to Hailey Bieber, had done nothing to dampen Vicky’s excitement about the power of celebrity. ‘Surely you’ve checked her Instagram recently?’ she asked. ‘She wore the most heinous white body-con monstrosity to a Taylor Swift gig. Two words: camel foot. If she was meant to be a white witch, she could have cast a better spell over her wardrobe.’
I laughed.
‘No, seriously,’ Vicky continued. ‘I mean I’m all for body positivity, I think she’s got a shape to die for, but sheneedsAmber Green in her life. Never mind her bunions, you need to save her front bottom, Amber. This is a fashion emergency!’
I was belly-laughing into the screen now, instantly reminded of why it was friendship at first eye-roll whenVicky and I met on the first day of university in Brighton. We’ve been BFFs ever since.
Since that day, Vicky and I had probably shared over a million eye-rolls, sniggers behind hands, and knowing looks. We once nearly wet ourselves at a British Airways check-in desk when we tried to explain, in heavy French accents, that she was nominated for the Palme d’Or at the Cannes Film Festival, as we tried to blag an upgrade to Nice. When the woman behind the desk pointed out that the festival finished last week, and the flight was full, award-winning directors or not, we were forced to retreat to the back of the queue, blushing and Vicky muttering, ‘Sacré bleu, les Angleses est trop rude,’ as we joined the snaking economy line that almost reached the French border anyway.
Little did we know then that one day Vicky would be living in the movie industry capital, Los Angeles, with an actual film director boyfriend.Talk about serendipity!I felt a pang. I missed my partner in crime. But perhaps an opportunity like this, working with an American star like Mandy Sykes, might mean I could see her more often. The pluses were stacking up.
Chapter Two
On Monday, mid-afternoon, which was early morning in Los Angeles, an email arrived from Julie-Anne Morris. The fact she had placed me at the top of her week’s to-do list had to be a good sign.
Dear Amber,
Many thanks for the swift response. Ms Sykes and her team will be in London this coming Thursday through Monday. She can see you at 10am Friday 1stMarch at Corinthia London. Please confirm.
Regards
Julie-Ann
With no job to go to next week, save an allotted time to clear my desk on Friday afternoon, I didn’t have to think twice.
When the day of the interview came around, I felt inordinately nervous.
Just because I’ve come across many famous people in mystyling career so far, my friends and family tend to assume I’m cool as a cucumber, nonchalant even, when it comes to being in the presence of someone in the public eye. Although I have mastered the art of not actually fainting when in the presence of showbiz greatness – let’s gloss over the time I briefly passed out at a Hollywood premiere, back in the days when I was styling the actress Beau Belle (the LA sun combined with a sugar dip was to blame) – they couldn’t be more wrong. When I see a superstar in the flesh, I still get a quickening of the heartbeat, and an adrenalin hit akin to the one time I shoplifted something (for the record,it was a travel-size dry shampoo from Boots when I was fourteen).
Yes, although you would never guess it, as I have calmly smoothed the VPL on a celebrity’s rear or inserted some chicken fillets to enhance a well-known cleavage, most of the time, I’m screamingthis is amazing!inside my head.
Today was no different.
As the Tube neared Embankment station, my pulse started to rise. In a matter of minutes, I would be a few feet away from Mandy –theMandy Sykes – and didn’t my sweaty palms know it.
At Baker Street I had opened the mindfulness app I downloaded earlier that morning. By Piccadilly I had closed it again because I couldn’t concentrate on the instructions, and by Embankment my heart was beating like a drum in my temples.
