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there’d been some rumours among the fashion Twitterati that Tamara might be on the verge of setting up on her own—that it was actually
her
who had been dressing some of Mona’s regular clients. She had even been snapped spending New Year on board a yacht in the Caribbean with none other than the BAFTA rising star—not to mention former regular client of Mona’s—Poppy Drew. Plus, there were hints that Tamara, instead of Mona, would be dressing the actress Jennifer Astley for awards season this year, where she was hotly tipped to win a slew of Best Supporting Actress awards.
But that’s just gossip.
    Until today, when Tamara was nowhere to be seen.

Chapter Two
    S ince Mona entered the store, Jas had been doing most of the talking. They’d begun with the customary detailed appraisal of each other’s outfits—the way peers traditionally greet each other in fashion land.
    ‘Mad about the ring …’
    ‘Those shoe-boots …’
    ‘You lucky cow, you’ve got the Balenciaga leather pants! Isn’t the stretch amazing …’
    ‘I must get your colourist’s number.’
    ‘Loving the matte nails. Is it gel?’
    And so on. Then they finally got down to the juicy stuff.
    ‘No Tamara today, Mona?’ Jas asked.
    Mona responded by handing her Pradas to Rob, who took them politely. Massaging her temples, she completely ignored the question. The Stick and I tried, unsuccessfully, not to gawp. We felt like we needed to drink up everything about her: her clothes, her shoes, her hair, her skin, which had the kind of pearly sheen that only really expensivemake-up could achieve, her whiter-than-white teeth, her bag, her jewellery, the way she moved, her voice. If we weren’t so fearful of her, we’d have gone up and given her a good sniff all over, too. There was an intoxicating musky aroma around her, beginning to settle in the air. Everything about Mona was absurdly fascinating.
    ‘Well, just let me and the girls know what we can do,’ Jas offered, leading her over to the clothes rails. The Stick gave me a gentle prod in the back, a signal that I should get into position, ready to hold clothes.
    As Mona began to rifle through the latest Stella McCartneys, Fran with the bob shouted, ‘Action!’ Shaggy sprang to life and so did Mona, chatting animatedly to Jasmine. She
really
knew how to turn it on for the cameras.
    ‘It’s only Tuesday and this week’s already a fucking nightmare, Tamara’s gone and left me right up shit creek. The silly bitch handed in her notice this morning.’
    From her language, I made the assumption that this was to be a post-watershed pilot. Fran with the bob raised an eyebrow and Rob bit his lip.
    ‘
This
morning. Can you fucking believe it? I go for the bloody Globes tomorrow. That girl’s out of her mind if she thinks she’ll last two minutes doing awards season solo. Oh wow, look at the Stella jumpsuits, aren’t they divine? I’ll definitely take a couple of these.’
    Mona had no problem with multitasking. Between slagging off Tamara and gushing over the clothes, every so often she pulled out an item from the rail and handed it to me, standing with arms outstretched like a forklift truck, by her side. I wasn’t sure if I was actually in shot, though a little part of me hoped I was; just a bit of my dress or, ideally, the beautiful shoes.
Loads to tell Vicky about tonight.
    ‘But honestly, Jas, what the
hell
am I supposed to do? I’ve got at least twenty global superstars wanting me to dress them over the next week, and only a few days to sort the whole frigging lot out—I’ve got photo-calls, cocktail parties at Soho House, premieres—not to mention the awards themselves. She could not have done this at a worse time.’
    Jasmine, too cool to play up to the camera or be drawn into slagging anyone off, was trying to offer some comfort, shaking her head and nodding empathically in all the right places, whilst calmly directing Mona back to the clothes and the job in hand.
    ‘You poor