Chapter 1: 'Lean onto me... Shed your tears...'

ROSE

12 hours earlier… 

A tear slipped under my thick brown rim of specs and rolled down my left cheek as I stared in yet another disbelief at my work, beautifully blown up on the screen, presented by the head of the styling team to B.A.D’s management team as another one of her creations. 

They did it again. 

Those so-called stylists—veterans in their own rights of knowledge, skills, and years of experience—had once again played me. Just to steal my styling idea. An idea that was woven from my father’s gift of creativity. 

My name is Rose Cintilar. Eighteen. Three years ago, I came to B.A.D, the top talent agency of the U.R.T, with hopes of becoming a famous stylist. My father had always wanted to be one when he was alive, and since I inherited his vibrant creativity, I saw it as my life goal to make his wish come true. It was the least I could do to make amends for what I'd done. 

If it wasn’t for me, my parents wouldn’t have died. This, I heard from my aunt ever since she took me in, right after my parents’ funeral. 

‘Cintilar’ means ‘sparkle’, and my father deserved his shine. So I would do everything within my power to put his name out there. ‘Cintilar’, the best stylist in the world—that’s my aim. 

But it had been three years. Three long and exasperating years of late nights and going about in circles running menial errands. And I hadn’t touched a bristle of a hairbrush—unless, of course, I was washing them. 

Even that didn’t stop my father’s creativity from gushing out like an unstoppable fountain. His ideas were a breath of fresh air, innovative and energetic at the same time. It was like he was inside me moving my hands, creating. Every time I moved a pencil or a pen, I felt his presence and I couldn’t stop. I missed him so much. 

The first one we did, a few months after I started at B.A.D, I gave it to the head of the styling team, Annie, hoping that she would promote me to a full-time stylist. 

She tore the paper into two and screamed at me, “How dare you besmirch the art of styling! You think you can style? YOU'RE NOT QUALIFIED. Styling is not for everyone! Not everyone can style!” She didn’t think I should lift as much as a pencil, much less make a line with it, and then she doubled my chores so I would go home later than everyone else every night.  

Then, months later, one of the artistes launched his album in a new style that was exactly the same as the one I'd shown Annie and she'd rejected. 

I confronted the stylist. And that was when this hellhole swallowed me. 

In the next few years, idea after idea, she stole from me. If it wasn’t her, it was one of the stylists she was grooming. If I didn’t give them what they wanted, they’d beat me, carefully avoiding conspicuous areas of my body, such as the face, neck and limbs. I turned to oversized jumpers to hide their cruelty and my weakness. I braided my hair into a high ponytail to protect the curls from the stinking water that they threw on me, and to keep it on my scalp when they tried to yank it off. 

I couldn’t report the bullying to the management. How could I? I’m a nobody whereas they are A-list stylists. No one would believe me on top of their lies.

I tried avoiding them. But they’d always find me.  

I was desperate for a way out. 

A month ago, when the agency was launching a new singer, Cherry, I immediately got to work. After a week of research and numerous drafts, I came up with a concept of style to promote Cherry in shades of hot pink and dull grey to fit her image as U.R.T.’s cotton-candy jazz sensation—a singer with the sweet voice of a harp and the soul of classic jazz. 

I showed Annie the work and her eyes enlarged with excitement. But as always, not a word of praise or criticism. This time, she asked me what I wanted. 

And I told her. 

“I-I want you to t-tell the director that… that I, C-Cintilar Rose, is the one behind the concept. Y-you do this… this one-time favour for m-me, and I won’t t-tell anyone that you’ve been taking my ideas and calling them yours. I’ll take the secret to my g-grave.”

The head of the styling team was livid. But then she flashed a malicious grin. “Why don’t I s-send you to your g-grave now?” she whispered, mimicking my stammer to mock me. 

I shrunk from her, fearing the worst of what she'd do to me now and afterwards. Would she tell the team to clobber me up? Or spit in my lunch and made sure I eat it? Or smear the dirty slime from the vaccum cleaner on my face?

“Fine.” She inhaled sharply, her expression turned humble. “You win, Rose. I’ll do as you say.” She came close and lowered her voice to a threatening level, “But after this, I won’t ever mention your name again. 

That was three weeks ago. 

Today, the second I entered the agency’s building, there was already a bustling about the new popstar ‘Cherry’ and how the exuberant Annie and her team had come up with yet another marvelous styling idea for her big debut. 

After a tedious rummaging through the grapevine, I finally got hold of the meeting time and place, and arrived just in time to see, metaphorically, my arm being chewed off yet once again. 

I’m so fucking dumb! Why did I believe her after so many times? 

“This is brilliant, Annie!” remarked the producer of Cherry’s debut project, and he stood to clap impressively. “The colours are bold yet not too flamboyant.” 

The director of Cherry’s MV nodded in full agreement. “I love the matching grey. Seriously, Annie, you did it again! This is like witchcraft! I can’t imagine pairing hot pink with grey!” 

“I was beginning to worry when you said ‘hot pink and grey’. But then you showed the pictures and—my god—they looked gorgeous!”  B.A.D’s Vice President was clapping too. 

Annie bowed and lifted a proud beam at her audience. “I thought, how best to project a playful yet innocent image. And viola! It struck me!”

“Just like that?” The Vice President snapped his fingers. 

“Just like that,” Annie replied, smiling meaningfully in my direction. 

Dream on, zero, her gaze seemed to say. You’ll never get a chance as long as I’m around. 

I scanned the varied snide looks across the styling team and my body cringed with the memories of the pain they had inflicted on me and inside me in the past three years. As hot, helpless tears streamed down my face, I bolted out of the meeting room. 

*****

I had a good cry in the empty toilet of the highest floor. For about an hour. Then, I went about the rest of my daily chores, all the while ruminating about my stupidity and repeated failures. 

I cleaned the brushes, the make-up tools, the chairs, the vanity counters, and the mirrors in Studio 1… then Studio 2… then Dressing Room 1… 2… 3… 4…. 

Sigh… My life is worse than death. No matter how hard I tried, it didn't seem to get better. I should probably end it all right now.

“Lean onto me… Shed your tears… I won’t say a word… Vent your fears…”

The words struck a chord in me. Instantly, I spun around and saw him—Rum, my idol—on the screen of a phone which was in the hands of a stunning model. In a second, I caught her well-sculpted face and long, slim physique, and I felt tiny and ugly.

I swung back to the vanity table. My heart thumped with joy at the thought of the 22-year-old songwriter and singer. Rum....   

Rum is the only one who feels my pain and understands me. His words, his soft and rugged voice—they never failed to touch my heart and move my soul. 

“He's such a dream, isn't he?” moaned the stylist standing behind, prepping the model. “That voice and face... it just hits different.” 

I beamed proudly at the row of clean eye brushes. Of course, he is. He’s Rum!

“Mmm... he's my daydream come true….” The model squealed in the dreamy state of a teen girl meeting her crush. Then she frowned in the mirror with a pout. “I can’t seem to get an invitation to his parties. Oh, I so want to get in! I want to meet him! Get his autograph!" She looked in the mirror at the stylist. "You know how?” 

The stylist laughed. “Oh, you’ll get your chance. Don’t worry. Rum’s very kind and generous. He never misses anyone.” 

The model spun around, her crossed long slender legs stretching to the ground, and she was brimming with excitement. “So you’re saying I should wait?” 

The stylist pretended to ponder. “Or you can apply to be his assistant. I heard he’s looking for a new one.” 

My eyes widened in astonishment at the floor. Rum’s looking for an assistant?