Free The Stylist by Rosie Nixon Page A

alert—unlike me, she’d obviously had a decent amount of sleep on the plane.
    ‘Your Cavallis should be here by now,’ she commented, squeezing out half a smile as we zoomed upwards.
Please, dear Lord, let them be here.
I glanced at my phone—16:35—that meant I had twenty-five minutes, maximum, to make myself look a bit better and to wake up.
    ‘Nathan should have pre-ordered refreshments for the suite, so you can set them out prettily and get the coffee on first of all,’ Mona instructed. I wondered if Nathan had ordered her a side dish of cyanide while he was at it. Judging by the phone conversation I’d eavesdropped on, I wouldn’t have put it past him.
    Our suite was the size of my entire flat. In the sprawling living room, a stylish dove-grey corner sofa and loungechairs filled one area, above which hung a light installation ‘containing 20,000 LEDs’ according to the in-room brochure. There were also three free-standing full-length mirrors and a large glass-topped dining table, upon which Mona began methodically setting out an impressive haul of glittering accessories from one of the holdalls, as if she’d robbed the Crown Jewels. There was a large flat-screen TV and an iPod station on one wall; she turned it on and soon Jessie Ware’s soothing tones filled the space, a comforting reminder of the music we played in Smith’s. All of a sudden it dawned on me that I was a long way from home. There was also a breathtaking outdoor private terrace with an open fireplace and cream patio seating, ‘for cigarette breaks and refreshments’. And a compact double bedroom dressed in shades of beige led off from the lounge.
    ‘This will be the changing area,’ Mona informed me.
    I quickly realised that we were basically turning the space into an elaborate shop fitting room, but with plusher sofas and added Jo Malone candles, which Mona had brought along in her Louis Vuitton.
    Having laid out a table of cups, glasses, bottles of still and sparkling water, two large platters of fruit, a bowl of mixed berries and a plate of fig rolls—a menu she and Nathan had clearly decided was ample sustenance for our clientele, but which I could currently have tipped down my throat in one go—I figured out how to work the Nespresso machine and got busy making my first ever caffè macchiato. My initial attempt was flat, so I kept it for myself and made a second, impressively fluffy, super-strong cup for Mona. It soon transpired that the ability to make good coffee was indeed an integral part of my job. Through the course of theafternoon I learned that Mona was a caffeine addict, and I swiftly became her dealer.
    As I re-emerged from the terrace, I saw that Mona had transformed the living area into a haven of shimmering designer wear. The dining table was a magpie’s paradise, with sparkling jewellery laid across it in neat columns of necklaces, bracelets and shoulder-grazing earrings—most of them chunky, eye-catching pieces in gold or silver inlaid with twinkling diamonds and elegant semi-precious gems. The opposite end was a treasure trove of clutch bags, from small, hard boxes covered in black and silver crystals, bringing a touch of
Great Gatsby
glamour to evening ensembles, to softer hand-finished half-moons in all colours from navy to ultra-feminine pale peach. Down the middle of the table was a row of evenly spaced sunglasses—or ‘pap shields’, as Mona referred to them—an essential accessory for our most-photographed visitors. There were big, round Jackie O ones, gold-rimmed aviators and fifties styles that playfully turned up at the corners, all bearing designer names. On a side table, laid out around a large cream lamp, was a symphony of scarves. I breathed a sigh of relief as I noticed the bright Cavalli ones from the airport nestled in the display.
Thank you, Jane from Cavalli. I at least have one fashion PR pal I can count on.
Along the entire length of the room was a row of shoes, all towering heels; some