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someone whose actual soul had been crushed. Yes, hands up, I’d had nasty thoughts about the Stick from time to time. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t willed heavy, studded bags to fall on her head on more than one occasion. But now I started to feel sorry for her. The hours we’d spent preparing the shop for Mona’s arrival suddenly felt like a long time ago—a distant land where expectations were high and fashion-fever reigned; a place where the Stick and I were almost friends.
    Prada shades back on and a mirror check as she prepared to leave the store, Mona turned to me one last time: ‘Oh, and, Amber? Pack your coolest clothes. Blacks, whites, neutrals are best. I need you to blend into the background.Directional footwear optional.’ She smiled, sunglasses conveniently hiding her facial expression once more, though I would have put money on a wink. ‘Think Blake Lively over K. Middy. We’re talking Los Angeles, babe, it’s a whole different fashion landscape to London. And the weather rarely dips below twenty-five.’ The Stick grimaced.
    The idea of packing my ‘coolest clothes’ was already sending me into a panic, as was the weather.
Just what my pasty half-Scottish skin needs.
I doubted I had time to fit in a spray tan. ‘There’ll be a lot of running around, so bring flats as well as your killer heels.’
‘Your killer heels’. Mona Armstrong thinks I’m a stylista who owns killer heels. I’ve really pulled the cashmere over her eyes.
    I pictured my wardrobe at home, wherein hung a cacophony of Zara, H&M and Topshop, plus some precious vintage finds gleaned from eBay (strictly under Vicky’s supervision) and, at the bottom, an overflowing shoe rack stuffed with footwear in all colours and styles, not to mention various states of disrepair. It was a collection that had suited my life perfectly well up until this moment, but I somehow doubted it was up to Mona’s standards. Plus the only understanding of ‘killer heels’ I had right now were the Kirkwoods currently killing my toes.
    ‘But most importantly,’ Mona continued, ‘don’t forget your kit.’ The Stick folded her arms tightly, revelling in the knowledge that not only did I not own a kit, I probably didn’t even know what one was.
    ‘No, babe, I’m not talking about your gym gear.’ Mona smirked, reading my mind. ‘You know—the bits and bobs we need to make it all work.’
    Hmm. I’d heard Tamara mention ‘the kit’ on previous visits to the shop, and had regularly noticed her delve intoa well-used leopard-print vanity case, and come up bearing bulldog clips to cinch a dress together at the back. I also thought of Jas’s bottom drawer in the office: a veritable emporium of tit tape, gaffer tape, Sellotape—every kind of tape known to woman—plus plasters, chicken fillets, cotton buds, Party Feet, pop socks, a sewing kit and a host of other goodies that surely kept the Bond Street branch of Superdrug in business.
    ‘Of course,’ I replied, glancing at the Stick. And then Mona was off, big sunglasses, bouncy hair and thin, leather-clad legs springing straight into a taxi.
    Now there were just the three of us, plus Big Al, left in the store. Normally, following such a visit, Jas, the Stick and I would all sort of crumple onto the pouffes, kick off our heels, attack the truffles and champagne and erupt into a fevered discussion of what had just gone on. The Stick would dissect Mona’s outfit, generally loving everything about it, and I’d think I
should
love it, but that most of it was plain weird; Jas would debate why she picked some items and not others, and we would all shriek with laughter. Big Al would feign disinterest, but he’d eventually crack, and chip in with a comment like ‘What that woman needs is a roast dinner.’
    But today, Mona left nothing in her wake but an awkward silence.
And it was all my fault.
    Throughout my final exchange with Mona, I had felt the Stick’s eyes drilling holes in the back of