The Stylist Read Online Free

for these gleaming floors?’ he quipped.
    My cheeks flushed.
Despite wearing new season Jonathan Saunders, I still resemble the resident skivvy. How?
‘Sorry about that.’
    ‘You’d better hope Mona’s put the cheese-grater over her soles,’ he replied. ‘Unlike me.’
    I laughed nervously. There was a familiarity about him.
    Kiki gave me a withering look. ‘That’s what people on TV do,’ she informed me, loud enough for Rob to hear, ‘to stop them slipping on the studio floor.’
    ‘I know,’ I lied.
    If she was trying to show me up, I didn’t really care. I was more interested in Rob taking off his jacket. He pushed up the sleeves of his grey jumper revealing what looked like the beginning of a tattoo on his upper arm.
    Rob was the first to arrive of the team of three. The next, sporting a directional dyed red bob and wearing thick, black-rimmed glasses, was introduced as Fran, the director. There was also a long-haired, lanky bloke carrying the camera, who went by the name of Dave. I inwardly christened him Shaggy. I wondered if, like us, Fran and Rob had put on their most fashion-conscious clothes for Mona’s benefit, or whether they always looked so media cool. As word went round that ‘She’ was about to arrive, Rob hurriedly took down our contact details and had us each sign a release form and NDA. I barely read the words; I was too busy concentrating on trying not to do anything embarrassing.
    Today, as ever, you could spot Mona’s sunglasses before you saw the rest of her. Huge, round Prada shades, coveringat least half of her small, elfin face, came bobbing down the street, swooping towards the store like a large fly. Light chestnut boho waves with streaks of caramel blonde cascaded around her shoulders; now a flash of matte coral lipstick came into view. She was only average height, even in towering heels—in fact she was more shades and curls than actual person—but in the fashion world, she was God. She paused to take in the windows; I felt a prickle of excitement, hoping she liked what she saw. She looked the mannequins up and down, but her sunglasses hid any kind of facial expression. At last, Mona entered our pristine temple of style. As she made her entrance for the camera, Jas, Kiki and I simultaneously clocked a turquoise cocktail ring the size of a golf ball on her petite index finger. Behind me, Kiki let out a gasp.
    ‘YSL, new season,’ she whispered, as if we were observing a rare exotic bird.
    And then the front door was locked, the shop sign switched to Closed, the French blinds rolled down and we pulled up ringside seats at the Mona Armstrong show. Of course there was no real need to pull down the blinds, to the average person, Mona was just an eccentrically dressed, extremely thin, seemingly ageless woman in OTT sunglasses. But in the world between these four white walls, she was the high priestess.
    According to Kiki, my main tasks during this particular visit would be to silently hold clothes for Mona, refrain from taking part in fashion small talk (I wasn’t qualified), try to keep off-camera (not photogenic enough, presumably) and above all, concentrate on not tripping up in the stupidly high Nicholas Kirkwoods I’d made the mistake of thinking I could walk in (hello, bunions).
    I’d been fully briefed that Mona’s long-time assistant, Tamara, would do most of the running around, trying things on, holding items to the light and offering opinions on the season’s hottest threads. Blonde and long-limbed, able to pass for a model herself, Tamara was a well-known face on the fashion circuit, too, having been Mona’s assistant for several years. She was the only person—other than Jas and Mona—who I had ever seen the Stick try to make an effort for. When Tamara had once retweeted Kiki (‘Smith’s is now stocking Roksanda! #Ledge’), she’d been bouncing off the walls for days. Today she was more exhilarated than ever about Tamara’s visit because apparently