Styling Wellywood: A fashionable romantic comedy (Wellywood Series Book 2) (20 page)

We’ve just finished our delicious ramen and edamame at Wagamama when my phone rings. I pick it up and look at who’s calling, and if it wasn’t for the fact we were packed onto the bench like sardines, I would have fallen off my chair. It’s Morgan, back from the dead.

“
Morgan?” I ask as I answer the phone, scarcely believing it’s her.

“
Yeah, gorgeous, it’s me. How are you?” She sounds all breezy and happy, like she hasn’t been absent for weeks with no explanation.

“
Fine.” I don’t know quite what else to say.

“
Can you hang on a minute? Whatever you do
don’t
hang up,” I say as I clamber off the bench and I give Mum some money to pay for dinner as I walk down the hall towards the toilets so we can talk properly. “Morgan, are you there?”

“
Yeah, I’m still here. Just wanted to check you had the tickets for tonight. I’m standing outside the venue.”

“
You’re what? Morgan, where have you been? I called you, I don’t know, like a gazillion times. Did you get any of my messages?”

“
I did, I’m totes sorry, babes. Look, I can tell you all about it when I see you. Where are you, anyway?”

“
I’m at Waga’s. But I hadn’t heard from you in weeks. Dave hasn’t seen you. I didn’t know if you were all right. Morgan, we’ve all been so worried.”

“
I know, I know. I’ll explain when I see you. Meet me in five?”

It would be
so good to see her and it’s such a relief to hear she’s OK. But then I remember I’ve invited Mum tonight and I can’t just dump her and run. Especially after we’ve had such mother-daughter fun getting her all dolled up.

“
I can’t Morgs,” I reply reluctantly. “When I didn’t hear from you I invited Mum.”

“
What? You can’t do that!” She sounds thoroughly indignant.

Yeah, like
I’m
the one who’s been acting badly here.

“
Sorry, Morgs. Let’s catch up tomorrow, say nine at Doreen’s Bakery?”

Ha,
she’ll hate the idea of having to go to Doreen’s again, but she can’t just turn up and expect everything to be back to normal.

“
What the…” she starts.

“
See you then. Bye.” I hang up quickly before I lose my resolve.

“
Bravo, darling.” Unbeknownst to me Mum has been standing within earshot. “It’s about time you stood up to her. What do the young ones say?
‘You go girl’
!” She punches the air in her delicate, awkward way.

Feeling the release of tension from my confrontatio
n with Morgan and watching my dolled up, fifty-something year old mother punch the air like some teenage football fan makes me burst into laughter.

“
Thanks, Mum,” I reply once I’ve regained my composure. “Let’s go, the show’s about to start.”

***

We get to the TSB Arena, hand over our tickets and find our seats. The place is packed and really buzzing. Tonight is the night they name the winners, and there are quite a number of quirkily dressed people in the front few rows looking extremely nervous. They must be the designers of the incredible wearable arts the models are about to show to the world.

I look down on the tables at the front where the gala dinner has been taking place, searching the crowd for
Lex and Stephanie. Lex isn’t hard to spot, of course, easily being the most beautiful young woman there. But she’s wearing the hot pink dress, not the short, sparkly cream one I’d had dry-cleaned for her. She looks incredible, of course, albeit a bit bored.

W
hy isn’t she in the cream dress?

I get my answer within about ten seconds when I hear a loud laugh and spot Stephanie, sitting on a very debonair
older man’s lap at the adjacent table. With a jolt I realise she’s not in her age-appropriate, figure-complementing dress, but is in fact dressed in Lex’s short, cream, sequined Trelise Cooper. She looks an absolute fright! Don’t get me wrong, it’s a stunning dress, but not on a 40-plus year old woman with breasts the size of overripe watermelons and legs that could be used to support a small family home in Queensland.

Shit
! I realise with a nasty jolt I must have given her the wrong suit bag this afternoon! And she’d been too distracted to check its contents so wouldn’t have known her dress wasn’t in there until she was getting ready to head out.

What must she think of me? What stylist drums the cardinal rules of dressing for your body type into you and then does a total
U-turn, giving you a dress you’ve never seen before in a style that’d be better suited to a six foot supermodel?

Another
wave of panic overtakes me when I remember she’d promised to tell everyone at the dinner tonight she’d been dressed by Estil.

God, m
y personal styling career is over before it’s even begun.

I watch her, transfixed, much like people do when they see horrific car crashes and can’t avert their eyes, no matt
er how much their brains yell,
“Turn away! Turn away! For the love of God, turn away!’
”

But after
the initial shock I begin to realise she’s having a wonderful time, despite looking like she’s squeezed into her daughter’s dress.
The man she's perched on, whoever he is, is clearly enjoying her attentions. She’s
got the sort of confidence tonight you can only get from feeling sexy and happy, and she is positively radiating it.

“
So where are your clients, Jessica dear? I’d love to see what they’re wearing. I feel a bit like one of them, now I’ve been dressed by you,” Mum asks, breaking my train of thought.

I
’m quite happy to point Lex out because, let’s face it, she’d look good in a potato sack, but I pretend I can’t see Stephanie.

It’s then a loud voice comes over the PA, advising us the show’s about to begin. Thank goodness for that. I
watch as Stephanie gets up from the man’s lap and he slaps her almost visible bum playfully as she sits back down next to him. Whoever he is, they seem pretty familiar with one another and blissfully oblivious to the inappropriateness of her attire.

The show is
absolutely outstanding. It goes on for two hours but there’s so much to see, the time just flies by. It’s utterly entertaining and the concoctions the models are wearing range from totally fascinating, to creepy, to ingenious, to downright weird. Lady Gaga would be in her element here, probably picking up an idea or two from the incredibly imaginative designers.

I absolutely love it and feel
so proud it’s Wellington that puts on this internationally acclaimed show every year to completely sold out audiences. Mum is equally enthralled, and it’s hard to tear ourselves away to head home once the prizes have been awarded to the deserving designers from all over the globe.

As we shuffle along with the crowds through the foyer Mum says,
“Dear? Isn’t that your friend Ben? Over there, near the door, talking with the striking, exotic-looking woman?”

I turn in the direction she’s indicating and see it is indeed Ben
, looking dapper in a suit and open-necked pale blue shirt. I go to wave to him but then notice he’s standing with a very beautiful woman. They look intimate and comfortable together. That must be Jia, the girl he told me he was coming with tonight. I could’ve predicted she would be a goddess - Ben’s girlfriends always are.

“
Exotic”
is the slightly cringe-worthy way some people of my mother’s generation describe someone of Asian decent. Looking at her standing next to Ben dressed in a long, elegant, black dress I recognise from the Trelise Cooper collection, I feel an unexpected pang of jealousy.

How is it some women can look so effortlessly amazing?
It certainly helps she’s petite, slim and lithe with almost waist-length, perfectly straight, thick black hair, finished with a blunt fringe highlighting her sparkling eyes. But she looks like she stepped out of an advertisement for perfume - she’s so radiant, so
shiny
.

You know when you’re out and about somewhere and you se
e a glamorous person you recognise from TV? They always look somehow better then the rest of us, kind of more glowing, like TV-land is a healthier, altogether more attractive place to live. Well, that’s how it feels to see Jia, and I can’t say I’m enjoying the experience overly much.

She
laughs softly at something Ben says, tossing her beautiful mane, and I have to look away. I get a strange feeling in my chest and the only way I can describe it is like my heart’s sinking. They look so
good
together, so right. Like they fit.

And here I am, recently dumped by a complete lothario, out on the town with my mum.

“Do you want to try to work our way through the crowd, dear, to say hello?” Mum asks, bringing me back to reality. “He’s such a nice young man.”

“
No, no. Too hard, Mum,” I respond quickly.

I really don’t want to see Ben and I
certainly
don’t want to meet Jia right now after my confidence has been knocked by Stephanie’s dress fiasco.

“
Let’s just go home,” I say.

Just as we turn to leave
I’m grabbed from behind and turn in surprise to see Stephanie, looking a tad dishevelled but ecstatic, beaming drunkenly at me and planting a slobbery wet kiss on my cheek. Luckily she’s now wearing a brightly-hued coat I recognise from Anne Mardell’s latest collection, going some way in protecting her middle aged modesty.

I’m torn between feeling intense embarrassment and admiration she’d been shopping by herself and purchased
extremely well. Sadly in the end intense embarrassment wins over.

“
Jessica! How fabulous to see you! I have to say, I love this dress. Thank you so much. Such a lovely surprise!”

Oh no. Nightmare.
She thinks the surprise I mentioned is the dress, not the drink voucher!

She leans in closer to me and I can smell the wine on her breath.

“Now, I’ve told everyone about you and Estil. I’ve suggested they visit your website to make a booking. I told them they could all look as fabulous as me if only they’d give you the opportunity to help them.”

I smile weakly at her, wishing she would just disappear in a puff of a
lcoholic smoke.

That’s it then
. Estil is officially history. Over before it’s even begun. Defunct. No one in their right mind will want me as their stylist after seeing the state Stephanie’s in tonight.

“
Oh but how rude of me,” she trills. “This gorgeous fellow here is Jeremy. Jeremy, say hello to Jessica.”

“
Hello Jessica,” Jeremy obediently exclaims, grinning from ear to ear, arm wrapped possessively around Stephanie’s shoulder.

All I can muster is
a weak, “hi,” back to him.

Remembering
Mum, who has been standing quietly by my side, listening to our conversation, I say, “This is my mother, Cynthia. Cynthia this is Stephanie and, err, Jeremy.”

They all greet each other and I notice Ben and
Jia heading our way. Ben doesn’t appear to have seen me and I’m pretty darn keen to keep it that way. So I tell Stephanie and Jeremy it was lovely to see them but we have to go, dragging Mum away as I make a hasty bee-line for the door.

I have a very strong desire to get home and put this evening behind me.
Despite the awe-inspiring show, it’s been a night I’d really rather forget.

***

I lie awake at night, unable to get the image of Ben and Jia out of my brain. I feel inexplicably discomfited by it. Why does it bother me so much? I know I’m feeling wounded by the whole Scott fiasco, but it feels like there’s more to it.

I
t sounds ridiculous, but seeing him with someone else has thrown me. I know we’re not in a relationship or anything, no one’s made any promises, hell we haven’t even slept together, but I feel like he’s…. God, what is he to me? I guess I feel like he’s
mine
.

R
ationally I know I’m being completely ridiculous. He’s a great guy, so of course women are going to fall at his feet. Plus he’s single, and he’s entitled to play the field, to go out with whomever he chooses. So why am I so worked up about it? We’re only friends.

Admittedly mates who had a pretty awesome snog one night, but
just mates all the same.

Eventually, a
fter a fitful sleep I wake up to my insistent phone alarm, roll out of bed and force myself to push thoughts of Ben and Jia out of my mind. I look at my calendar through sleepy eyes and realise with a pang I’d arranged to meet Morgan this morning for coffee.

Despite loud protestations from my body I manage to get myself awake enough to get dressed
, clamber onto the bus with a piece of half eaten peanut butter toast stuffed into my mouth - not my best look, I admit - and arrive at Doreen’s Bakery a few minutes after our agreed meeting time of nine.