Free The Stylist by Rosie Nixon

myself.
Well, how hard can PA duties actually be?
    ‘Great. First, I need you to call the TV people. I told you they’re coming to the suite to do a bit of follow-up filming for the pilot today.’
Er, no, you didn’t. Do you think I’m Derren Brown?
    ‘They took the plane out this morning, too—the Virgin one, all a bit lastminute.com. But it’s a good sign—they must think the network is interested in commissioning the series. Isn’t that fabulous?’
    I gulped.
    ‘The AD, Bob, was it? The cute one. His number’s in my phone, under “TV”. I said you’d call when we were on our way.’
    She handed her unlocked iPhone to me without taking her eyes off the road, which was lucky because it meant she couldn’t see my award-winning impression of Gwyneth Paltrow’s face after discovering she’s eaten a non-macrobiotic canapé. I wasn’t sure what scared me more—the fact that the TV crew was already here, in LA, or that Mona thought Rob was cute. ‘What are you waiting for, babe? Give him a call.’
    Hastily, I located the number, and it rang, the long, foreign ringtone leaving me in no doubt that he was indeed this side of the Atlantic. My heart started pulsing hard, taking me by surprise.
    ‘Hello, Rob speaking.’
    ‘Oh, hi, Rob—it’s, um, Amber here, calling for Mona Armstrong.’
    ‘Hi, Amber, great to speak to you—we were just wondering when Mona would call. Wonder if you’re feeling as out of it as I am!’
    He instantly put me at ease. I pictured him smiling into the phone.
    ‘Yes, I am pretty tired.’ I sideways-glanced at Mona, who flew across an amber light, laughing. ‘Amber Green!’
    As we sped along a wide six-lane carriageway, glass-fronted shops and parked cars whizzed past. I saw very few actual people on the pavement; it was so different to the packed streets of central London.
    ‘All right, babe, stop flirting,’ Mona barked. ‘Just let the guy know they should make sure they’re with us by at least five, because Beau Belle’s due soon after. She’ll be perfect for the show.’
    I replaced my ear to the phone. ‘Mona says, if …’
    ‘It’s okay, Amber, I heard. Beau Belle, in the flesh, hey? We’ll be with you by five. Get some coffee down you. It’s always a killer on the first day, but you’ll be fine.’
    ‘See you later, then.’
    I handed Mona’s iPhone back to her, leaned back into my seat and began mentally listing the things that were wrong with my current situation:
    My face looks like Lindsay Lohan’s after a bender.
    I smell.
    I have indeterminate ‘energy’.
    I’m not sure what I’m meant to be doing at the W Hotel.
    And on top of that, my first day at work was about to be recorded on camera by a guy I almost definitely fancied.
    Just concentrate on your professional ability, Amber Green. You have a career now, and you can do this. Show her you were worth the gamble. You want this. Focus.
But giving myself an internal pep talk was another clear sign I fancied him.
    We pulled up in front of the impressive glass facade of the W Hotel in West Hollywood, the gleaming mirrored wallsglinting in the bright sunshine. Mona handed the keys to a waiting valet attendant. Then the boot bounced open, and the bags and hanging clothes cases Ana and I had carefully packed into it were lifted out by a bellboy and loaded onto a trolley. Mona handed him a dollar bill.
    ‘Wow Suite, fast as you can.’
    ‘Certainly, Ms Armstrong. I’ll let the front desk know you’ve arrived.’
    ‘And tell them to send up any parcels—there should be several.’
    Like her obedient pet puppy, I followed. We entered the achingly cool foyer. Trendy people stood busily chatting in groups or waiting for others in round seating areas. An organically curved central staircase with a red carpet down its centre swept through the space with impressive elegance. I wanted to stop here for a minute, to take it all in, but we went straight into the lifts. Mona seemed impatient and far too