Kitabı oku: «She Just Can't Help Herself»

To Eddie. The purriest. The furriest. The greatest.

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Endpages

Copyright

One

ASHLEY

Of course, there are times when I think to myself, ‘WHAT AM I DOING?’ But when you work in fashion, it’s essential that every so often you do to try to retain some perspective. After all, in this industry we have a tendency to lose ourselves when witnessing a ‘moment’. From the arrival of Karl Lagerfeld’s cat on Twitter to the return of the consciously unkempt eyebrow, it’s easy to get over-excited about stuff when everyone in the ‘bubble’ is ramped up too. I know a blogger who had to breathe into a paper bag when Balmain announced a diffusion line for H&M. It can get pretty ridiculous. But no one questions this ridiculousness out loud. If they have to, it is to an audience of one. (This guarantees the option of total denial later.) Because there is a rule: don’t prick the bubble. It mustn’t burst.

‘I want to feel the true essence of Noelle during your interview …’ my Editor, Catherine Ogilvy, gushed at me an hour ago in the foyer of the hotel, shortly before the main party was due to start at 3pm. ‘She is such an alluring dichotomy of sophistication and quirk. The designer’s muse who was happy to ‘sofa surf’ on arrival in New York … paying her hosts in ‘styling tips and personal artwork’. But let’s overlook that makeover show she presented, the one for the ugly teens …’

‘It never existed. All tapes have been destroyed,’ I dead-panned, trying to decide whether a) I liked Catherine’s pussy-bow-neck silk polka dot blouse and b) if I had time for a quick (private) drink in the lobby bar. Just to take the edge off. I’d come straight from a non-work-related meeting.

‘… of course,’ she added. ‘You must touch on that break-up, which Noelle handled with such bravery and fortitude.’

‘That relationship only lasted three months, Catherine.’

‘They were en route to marriage.’

‘No, he was on tour with that painful emo rock band he plays with, Barbed Wire. So called because anyone with ears would clamber over all forms of skin-lacerating high-security metal spiking to avoid one of their shows.’

She giggled. ‘Tsk. Come on, that poetry she wrote after the split was very dark. Real inner-demons stuff.’

‘Yeah, she’s like Sylvia Plath for the Snapchat generation …’ I muttered, and looked over Catherine’s shoulder to check my hair and make-up in the mirror behind her.

Both were as they should be, ie, not too done. I never like to appear as if there has been a deliberate focus on getting ready, even if there has. Crimes Against Fashion No. 9: continual obvious use of a ‘glam squad’. Guilty: Rita Ora.

‘… well,’ I added. ‘Thank goodness Noelle managed to get over the worst in time for Coa-fucking-chella. Heartache and purposefully frayed denim have never worked well together.’

‘And neither does being clever with not exactly Mensa-eligible celebrities. No messing about tonight with Noelle. Just remember why we’re all here: to get a better understanding of the woman herself in order to celebrate the launch of her book …’

By ‘her book’, Catherine was referring to This is Me by Noelle Bamford. Not exactly a traditional autobiographical tome, this cobbled-together collection of text-message screen grabs from Noelle’s sycophantic pals, Polaroids taken on shoots, fridge-magnet life advice, the odd stanza of the aforementioned poetry (only made just literate by a hapless copy editor) and a guide to her favourite hip hang-outs … had resulted in a £400,000 publishing advance. I said we should swerve giving the book anything but minimal attention in the magazine. Even better, we should be seen to be choosing to ignore it. Catherine disagreed, calling the book a ‘zeitgeist moment in celebrity-slash-fashion-slash-self-reflexive publishing’ and a) offered to co-sponsor a launch party alongside the design house, Pascale, who make the perennially popular ‘Noelle’ tote-style handbag, which was everything Noelle was not: chunky and useful. And far, far worse b) asked Noelle to be on the cover. And almost unbearably c) invited her to be our Guest Editor too.

Catherine clocked my expression.

‘Don’t be like that, Ashley! You know that now more than ever the fashion magazine industry has to indulge in some vigorous back slapping. Actually, that should be cupping, no?’ She laughed, but when my expression did not change, she wagged her finger at me. ‘Word of advice, Ashley … you need to stop taking things so seriously.’

I hated that she had a point. I hated that I was aware of doing this a lot recently. I’m a fashion journalist, reporting from the front row not the front line. I needed to lighten up. But first, I needed that drink.

So I had one. Then another. And now, here we are. At five to four in the elaborate Renaissance-style function room of the Rexingham Hotel in London’s West End. Noelle is wearing an A-line pinafore dress, shirt with a Peter Pan collar and her signature shoe, the brogue (which she has paired with—I swear—pompom socks). I am in a white top and skintight grey leather trousers. I have had the latter for years. The former, a recent purchase. Originally on Net-A-Porter at five hundred quid, there was no way I could justify buying it. I didn’t even try. The first sale price of £299 prompted me to make a pros-and-cons list, but the biggest con on my list (both figuratively and literally) was the first round of fees from my solicitor. Finally, the top dipped below two hundred pounds and I pounced. Or rather PayPal-ed. Was it still wrong to spend that much on deconstructed cotton viscose mix with raw edges? No. Two words: Alexander Wang. Right?

Anyway, Noelle and I are sitting opposite each other on an elevated podium surrounded by white lilies and expensive candles in front of a carefully collated audience of fashion insiders, hipster celebrities and the cooler journalists from the broadsheets and Sunday supplements. Slick waiting staff have been on hand since the doors opened, offering the guests trays of elderflower blinis and mauve macaroons (the canapé equivalent of a pompom sock) to match the pastel-purple cover of Noelle’s book. The blinis were disgusting. They tasted like … hedging, so I had a couple of vodkas (on the rocks with a splash of grapefruit juice). Also in attendance are some of Noelle’s fans, who have won their invitations by entering a competition on her app. They are properly young. The sort of age where they would have no appreciation of Galliano’s fifteen years for Dior. Only a vague memory of a fifteen-second BBC3 news story on his sacking. I wonder if they have ever bought a copy of Catwalk. I wonder if they have ever bought a magazine.

Thus far, my interview with Noelle has covered ‘that’ relationship split (‘I learnt so much, honey …’) and the possibility she will be launching an eponymous perfume (‘something dynamic yet delicate, yeah …’). Then we touched on how she felt when she hit two million followers on Instagram (‘hashtag humbled …’). Now we’re on ‘fame’.

‘Fame, honey? I guess it means something very different to me, now I am like, famous. Before I thought it meant, well …’ She ponders her answer for a few seconds. ‘… free stuff! I’m kidding. Well, joking aside … it does. But you do have to pay in other ways. The lack of privacy …’ Her voice becomes serious. ‘… is a major cost.’

‘I can only imagine.’

‘Exactly. You’re lucky. You can only imagine the cost. I have to pay and keep paying,’ she sighs. ‘Do you mind?’ She grabs her Hello Kitty-customised mobile from the coffee table in between us and waves it at me.

‘Be my guest.’

She raises the mobile at arm’s length to her face, pouts at it, then taps.

‘Then,’ she continues, ‘you also pay the price of like, responsibility. Knowing my fans look up to me …’ She looks over and then down at them. ‘… see me as a role model, on like a very basic level, want to be me; it’s important I don’t short-change them. They mean so damn much to me. Every ‘Like’ I get on, like, social media is, like, reassurance that I’m, like, doing okay. I’m like, liked!’

Giddy, grateful whoops are offered from the ‘civilian pen’. I gaze round the room. My hands are clammy. Not from nerves. I’ve done this type of public promo many times before. I used to relish putting Ashley Jacobs on display. But today, I’m not sure who people are seeing. Her or me? No … her, definitely her. I tell myself I am clamming up because we are having an Indian Summer. It’s the beginning of September but very mild. Last night at the pub, I was wearing Havaiana flipflops. The original white-and-green ones with the Brazilian flag motif, obviously—I wouldn’t wear any other colour. I’m like that with Converse, too: I only wear the classic model; not the zipped ones or the rubber ones or the skate ones or the low pump ones or, heaven forbid, the wedge ones. There should be a ban on all major brands and designers adding wedges to leisure or sport footwear. The ONLY exception being Isabel Marant’s wedge trainer, which is a classic in its …

I realise Noelle has stopped talking.

‘So, Noelle …’

She leans forward. ‘Yes?’

‘You’re erm … now based in the States … that must be … so much going on for you … is it hard to stay grounded?’ This is the sort of question Catherine wanted, wasn’t it? ‘To not change … to be true to yourself?’

‘You would have thought that, but no, honeeeeey. Actually, you know what? If—and it’s an if I hope never happens—I started to become full of myself, I would soon get told off …’ She sits forward and gives me a weird smile. ‘… by my parents. They sacrificed so much to get me where I wanted to be in my career. We never went on holidays abroad and stuff like that so I could go to stage school … even though they hated celebrity razzmatazz. It was because I wanted it. They’re really private people. That’s why I took my nana’s maiden name—to keep t’ingz on the DL. Whenever I see them now, it reminds me how lucky I am. Their support, their love … it’s unconditional. I owe them everything …’ She smiles again. ‘But I guess we all owe our parents that.’

I realise why her smile suddenly feels weird. It’s genuine. It makes me uncomfortable.

I let her blather on. Yadadadadadadadadadadadadadada. I take a sip of my drink and swallow hard. I do not listen to what she is saying, only how she is saying it. This is the longest she has spoken without using that ridiculous accent which travels to Hollywood via a Hackney council estate (apparently, she is from a chocolate-box village in the West Country). I look over at Fitz, the Senior Features Writer on Catwalk, wearing his favourite Friesian-printed sweatshirt by Moschino, embossed with the words: CASH COW. (He dies for a fashionably ironic logo.) He is checking his phone, so I would bet north of a thousand quid he is on Grindr. Or Hornet. Or Scruff. Next to him is Noelle’s agent. She is wearing a Foo Fighters tour T-shirt and a flat tweed cap. Band merchandise with ‘country manor’ millinery? Ugh. Please. Her name is Sophie Carnegie-Hunt, but Fitz calls her Gopher Hag-Needy-C*nt. Hahahahaha!

Am I laughing out loud?

‘Ha! No. No, we don’t. Not at all.’

Noelle peers at me. ‘What don’t we do?’

‘Pardon? I didn’t say … anyth— … I …’ DID I? The room is suddenly so quiet I can hear my watch ticking. It’s vintage. I reckon seventies. It has no designer name on it. The face is huge. Big faces are so in now though, aren’t they? I mean, look at Gigi Hadid’s. She’s made a fortune out of hers.

Okay, THAT was funny.

‘Wasn’t it?’

‘Wasn’t what?’ asks Noelle.

‘What you were saying.’

‘I wasn’t.’

‘No, you weren’t. But what I was about to say was …’

I realise I am not in control. And this feels odd because I am Ashley Jacobs. She is not so much a control freak … more of a control drone, remotely operating herself to enter, attack and win over all areas of life always with great success. Being like that has enabled her to get everything she has ever wanted, by herself. The job she wanted. The flat she wanted. The clothes she wanted. The cat she wanted. The husband she wanted.

Whatever she wants to do, she gets on with it and does it. She does not churn it over in her mind. There is no cogitation. No procrastination. No deliberation.

Shit.

‘Like, so?’ Noelle rolls her eyes at her agent.

‘So …’ I swallow again. ‘Your book! THE BOOK! Yes, that book. Tell me … Why?’

She smooths down her fringe. ‘Mmm … well, gaaaaad. Obvz, it was because I had to. I wanted to take some control back. Someone somewhere writes something about me every minute of every day. There is no way I can see all of it, even with Google alerts. I mean, I’d be spending all day reading about me, and not being me. No one should suffer that kind of life. So, I thought, you know what, I will give you and them … me.’ She beams earnestly at those closest to the podium. ‘Hence the title, This Is Me. And it is all of me too. I don’t hold back. You probably think that’s like, crazy. Surely, I would want to keep at least part of ‘me’ to myself? It’s not like I have much left to give, but it wouldn’t have been me, then. The real me …’

As she talks, I focus hard on her mouth moving, so I don’t roll my eyes too. Because all I can hear is bullshit. I know that if everyone else in the room was listening individually to what she is spouting that is what they would be hearing too. A gushing fountain of brown (which will NEVER be the new black! EVER!) bullshit. But we’re in the bubble, aren’t we? No one has any perspective. Not her. Not us. Not the kids in the pen. Even though we all know that Noelle is not the Noelle in This Is Me. In my meeting earlier, I wasn’t me either. I was pretending to be someone else.

‘Surely?’ prompts Noelle. I’m not sure how many times she has said this.

‘Oh, yes. Surely, Noelle. Surely.’

‘… but it’s what my fans deserve. That’s what I have given them.’ She waves a hand towards the pen. ‘It’s my gift to you.’

The competition winners screech in adoration. I hear extra appreciative ‘yo yo yo!’s added by Jazz. She works at Catwalk too. Her title is Contributing Associate Editor. Although, since Catherine employed her, I would sum up her contribution thus far as simply, irritating. Her writing is whimsical and she has a habit of bringing trays of overpriced, overdecorated cupcakes into the office. What’s wrong with a packet of biscuits? I spot her standing—no surprise—next to Catherine, who is doing her trademark breezy nodding gesture. It’s the same one she uses when telling me she’s leaving the office early (again) because there’s an issue with one of her three children that ‘simply can’t be dealt with over the phone’. I decide I do not like her silk shirt. Polka dots are verging on twee territory. You need to wear them with something tough and she’s opted for a skater skirt.

‘But by writing about yourself, Noelle,’ I comment, ‘you’re only encouraging more to be written about you. The less you put out there, the less will be commented on.’

Immediately, Fitz looks up from his phone.

Noelle gives me a pinched smile. ‘True, I suppose. But ultimately, I want to be heard. This Is Me is about who I was, and how and why I have become the me I am today. It is my story.’

‘And it is a story, isn’t it?’

‘What do you mean, honey?’

Now Fitz is sucking in his cheeks. He knows where I could be about to take this interview, if I had the balls to prick the bubble. It’s where any proper journalist would. No, should. A discussion about Noelle’s notoriety has to include—if not revolve around—one subject. Her weight. Because that is the only reason Noelle has become so well known. As her BMI has plummeted, she has rocketed to cover star. Yeah, she’s cultivated one of those hipster careers: the model-come-DJ-come-It girl-come-presenter-come-entrepreneur-oh, come off it!, but she is not globally recognised for a single one of those jobs. She is famous because her inner thighs have not met since 2013. Type her name into a search engine and the first most popular associated word which pops up is: THINSPIRATION. Given the world she lives—no, subsists—in, it’s obvious how she manages to ‘skip the odd meal’.

I take a deep breath. Fitz mouths ‘YOU SHREW!’ at me and makes a sort of strangled face as if I am about to do something really stupid. And I am, aren’t I? I am about to prick the bubble.

‘What I mean, Noelle,’ I begin, ‘is that your book is not all fact, is it? The person in the book can’t be who you actually are.’ I flip open the copy I have on my lap at a Post-it note I slapped in it last night. I was in the wine bar round the corner from the office. (Before I went to the pub.) ‘“So, when me and my mates have had a, like, big night out in NY, yeah, and are really feeling it the next day, we cab it to any of the wikkid authentic Jewish hang-outs and pig out, stuffing ourselves to the max. My fave is Ben’s Kosher Deli. Boom! Check this bad boy.”’ Next to this bit of copy (in a wacky speech bubble) is a picture of a towering sandwich made with thick white bread, filled with cold cuts and oozing with relishes. I show everyone in the room. Then Noelle. ‘Seriously, can you honestly tell me you’ve eaten that?’

‘Of course, I have. I erm … love ham.’

I don’t skip a beat. ‘It’s a strict orthodox restaurant, they don’t serve swine. So much for pigging out.’

She fiddles with her Peter Pan collar. ‘But I, erm …’

‘… have been a little liberal with the truth?’ I feel dizzy but focused. Unpredictable but in control. Deep despite the shallow content of what I’m saying. So, this is what it’s like to prick the bubble! ‘There’s also a quote from you saying that all women are beautiful, no matter what shape or size.’

‘I do think that! I’ve just been hashtag blessed with a fast meta-meta-metabolicity.’

‘Metabolism? So that video which went viral of you having your fringe trimmed whilst giggling that your ex-boyfriend’s new—no more than a Size Ten—girlfriend, “probably has to take her selfies by satellite …” was a one-off lapse of judgement?’

A sharp and collective gasp emanates from the room. Noelle looks up at me, her usually pallid cheeks now flushing. I watch the colour lift … then my eyes dart from one fashion insider to another. Everyone knows what I have done. They grip onto their champagne flutes and stare at me, their eyes googly with shock as if they can see the metaphorical pin in my hands. But I don’t acknowledge them or Noelle for more than a few seconds. Or the fact I have pricked the bubble. I am thinking about the meeting I had earlier. The reason why I needed that first drink. And then the others. It was with a woman I only met eight weeks ago, although I had her number for a month before that. Now she contacts me almost every day.

ME: So, how are you?

HER: Fine. I thought we would go through that paperwork I posted you, first. As thus far, I haven’t heard back.

ME: The postal service round my way is a nightmare.

HER: I also emailed it to you. As an attachment. Twice. You’ve already told me about your postman.

ME: Did I? Ah. He’s a good guy. But bad at delivering letters.

HER: (Leaning forward.) Ashley, I am concerned that we are behind with things. Look, I’m telling you this because—and please, excuse the hackneyed expression—but time is money. My time is your money. I was thinking, maybe it would be useful—and cheaper—if we all sat down together and went through everything. It’s often the best way to get things finalised. You say what you want. He s—

ME: No. There’s no need for us to do that.

HER: But it will get you there quicker. (Pausing. Giving me a look. It’s Look Two.) Ashley, has anything happened outside of this situation? You’re distracted.

ME: Mmm … I agree.

But actually, I am recalling the high-necked low-sweeping black Gothic ballgowns worn by the Olsen twins at the Met Ball a while back. Vintage Dior by John Galliano. Fuck-ing-hell. What a moment. Add their trademark louche grooming and the gowns took on another, more modern but equally theatrical story. Couture for the people. So different to their own label—The Row—which is … pared down, almost anonymous luxury. Too Park Avenue for me.

HER: Ashley? You agree you’re distracted?

ME: Sorry?

HER: I said, has anything happened? Outside of this situation?

ME: (Pausing.) Nothing.

HER: Nothing?

ME: Nothing which can’t be dealt with. But I don’t need to deal with it right now. That’s the thing with real shit, it’s always there. It isn’t going anywhere, is it?

HER: But you want to get there quicker?

ME: Where?

HER: The end.

I hear my watch ticking again. Fitz has his phone clasped to his face, trying not to laugh. Noelle’s agent is heading towards the stage. I catch Catherine’s eye. She draws her index finger sharply across her neck. I no longer feel any sort of buzz; merely an intense sense of fucking up. And drunk. I turn back to Noelle. Suddenly, she screeches.

‘Oh, my gaaaaaaaaad! Guys, know this, yeah. Without the genius over there …’ She points at the door. ‘… the ‘Noelle’ tote would totes not exist.’ The assembled guests gasp again, as if this thought was too ghastly to contemplate in this soft candlelit light of the afternoon. ‘Saaaaafe, crewdem!’

I twist round to see Frédéric Lazare, the boss of RIVA, arriving. RIVA own Pascale as well as numerous other clothing, cosmetics, fragrance, accessory and footwear brands. As befits a fashion conglomerate big wig (literally—Fitz swears that’s a hairpiece on his head), he is flanked by two security guards dressed in (last season) suits from one of his labels. Frédéric waves a heavily ringed hand at Noelle, then an obscenely handsome long-haired Latino—presumably a model from a current campaign—appears from behind the heavies and steps forward with a huge bouquet of purple flowers. The room breaks into applause. I lean across to Noelle. I could be about to apologise—could I?—but then Sophie Carnegie-Hunt arrives at the stage, flapping her cap at me.

‘Wrap this up, now!’ she snaps.

Gopher Hag-Needy-C*nt. Hahahahaha!

I ask Noelle if she would like to leave her fans with something.

‘Yes, I would like, like that …’ she says, her voice still quivery. ‘I guess I want to say thank you.’ She doesn’t look in their direction. ‘You’re like the bomb diggity and have made this whole ride, like, a trip. This book is for you …’ Now she turns to them. ‘… and is available from midnight at all the usual online retailers and my website—obvz! Oh, and in booky-type-shop thingies from tomozz. Nuff said! So remember hashtag ThisIsMe, yeah? Let’s get this mo fo trending!’

And on that subtle marketing plea, the audience shower Noelle with further applause, and purple confetti is released from the ceiling, which I guess is appropriate given we have just witnessed the perfect marriage between meaningless bullshit and PR nonsense. But as the lavender-scented hearts rain down on us, I know that I am the one coming out of this stinking. Noelle doesn’t look at me again. She steps down from the stage and lurches into Sophie’s arms, as if she has just been released from a long-term hostage situation. I jump down too, but before I can go anywhere, Catherine approaches and grabs my wrist. She marches me to the back of the room.

‘What the hell was all that about?’ she whisper/snaps at me. ‘You’re going to get slaughtered on social media. My god, Ashley, teenage girls are like terrorist cells. Brainwashed, angry and ready to blow things up! Don’t you remember being one?’

I’d rather not. I focus more on the typical clunkiness of Catherine’s extended metaphor.

‘And as for the damage to our relationship with Noelle! I am stunned … I hope you’re sorry.’

I nod. I am stunned at my behaviour and, yes, I was almost sorry a few minutes ago too. But similarly to how I was feeling at the end of my meeting earlier, I am now indignant.

‘Well, Catherine,’ I retort, ‘I guess I was also stunned and sorry that you asked an illiterate personality vacuum whose Twitter feed proves daily that the rule about whether to use ‘your’ or ‘you’re’ is entirely dependent on how many characters she has left, to guest edit our magazine to champion her book … i.e., next month someone who can’t write will be overseeing what we are writing about what she didn’t write. We used to have a distinct editorial voice of our own. We didn’t need anyone else’s.’

Catherine sighs. I am sure there is a part of her—that part which belonged to the forward-thinking editor she used to be—which agrees. She shrugs, then steps closer to me.

‘Have you been boozing?’

I almost smile, because her rhetorical tone indicates that she doesn’t think I have. She would consider me someone who could ‘take it or leave it’. If you really think someone has a problem with alcohol, you never ask this question wanting a legitimate answer. It is pointless. All you can do is listen at school when taught First Aid instruction on how to put a patient into the recovery position. And act appropriately when necessary.

‘Ashley?’

‘Of course I haven’t been drinking. Look, I’m sorry, Catherine. I didn’t mean to put the magazine in a difficult position. I’m merely concerned about the direction we are taking it.’ Or is it me? Is it the direction I am moving in that is of concern? Maybe everyone and everything else is FINE. I feel clammy again. ‘Anyway, you know I would never purposefully embarrass you or Catwalk.’

‘It worries me that you failed to see the importance of today. We are lucky Noelle chose us to promote her book. We could have lost out to the mainstream market leaders: Elle, Vogue, Grazia, Stylist, Instyle … look!’ She gestures over to the stage. ‘Everyone wants a piece of her.’

We watch as Sophie manoeuvres her client through the journalists to answer their questions, subtly making sure the big-name hacks get priority. On the outskirts of the throng are the ‘second round invite’ guests, i.e., writers from the ‘lesser’ publications; the tattier tabloids and London freebie papers. As Noelle chats animatedly to the style writer from the Guardian, I see a woman at the edge of the pack wave at her. She has her back to me, but I can make out Sophie looking the woman up and down, pursing her lips, then elevating her clipboard and turning to cut off any potential contact. I wince. That has got to hurt.

‘You see?’ says Catherine. ‘Noelle is “it”.’ She leans in closer to me. Admittedly, “it” doesn’t have a specific talent, but you and I both know the days where that was a pre-requisite for media coverage are long gone. To pretend otherwise is foolish. Even more foolish is to not use this to our monetary advantage.’

‘Sell out, you mean?’

‘Keep your voice down.’

‘You know I’m right.’

She sighs another semi-reflective sigh. ‘This conversation stops right here, Ashley. You should leave before you say something else you regret. I wouldn’t want you to talk yourself into dismissal territory.’

I nod as if I am taking her seriously, but Catherine won’t sack me. I am the backbone/life blood—insert essential body part or function here—of the magazine. My column is always the most-read page when we do a focus group, she wouldn’t dare drop it. Besides all that, if I wasn’t around it would present Catherine with the worst possible scenario at work: she would have to do some.

As if reading my mind, she continues. ‘It would do you good to remember that you’re the Deputy Editor of the magazine. You’re not the magazine. You’re part of a team and your main role within that is to support me. Something that I will need a lot more of in coming months.’

She cocks her head at me. Another of her trademark mannerisms in recent years. She usually reserves this one when informing me she is off on a non-essential PR jaunt. She never used to do that, but these days her buzzwords are: invitation, complimentary, gift, expenses and freebie. Preferably all in relation to the Maldives.

‘You’re off somewhere?’

The angle between Catherine’s shoulder and neck decreases. I picture the hut on stilts with aquatic views from a window in the bedroom floor. I hear a woman behind me order a glass of red wine.

‘Intermittently, yes. And then next year, well, for a little longer. I’m pregnant …’

The sound of a cork popping. Then liquid pouring.

‘… due mid-Feb, but I’ll be booking in for a Caesarean at the Portland on the eleventh; sadly, the anniversary of Alexander McQueen’s tragic passing. But a rather lovely tribute, I thought?’

‘Maybe a little McCabre.’

Catherine playfully wallops me on the shoulder. ‘Stop it, I’m still furious with you. But yes, four kidlets! Ridiculously greedy, but Rhuaridh and I always planned on having a large family. He’s an only child and you should see the pile his old dear rattles around in. There’s an awful lot of—excuse the pun—reproduction furniture that will need to be divided up eventually. As you know from last time, and the time before, and the one before that, I don’t enjoy the easiest of times in the early to mid-section of my pregnancies.’

I hear the woman thank the barman for her drink. I never used to drink red. Where I grew up it was considered poncy. But recently, I’ve been drinking it at home after work. I get into my (secret) Snuggle Suit and pour a glass. Then another. Staying in is safer.

‘Ashley?’

‘I am listening. Erm … congratulations. Congratulations. Sorry, I should have said that first.’

‘Thank you. But, anyway …’ Her voice is serious again. ‘The reason I wanted to tell you about my pregnancy is that if you would like to take a holiday, sooner would be better than later.’

‘I can’t take any time out soon. London Fashion Week is in a few days.’

‘You won’t be attending LFW.’

‘Excuse me?’ I physically recoil. ‘Are you having a laugh?’

‘Calm down. Come into the office as usual tomorrow, attend the features meeting, but then … home. And stay there. Your entry pass will be disabled. I’ll deal with any other details and email you what I need done.’

I grip onto the bar. ‘Whaaaaat? But you … I mean, I can’t not … for Christ’s sake, Catherine …’ As soon as she has finished with me, I’m going to order a glass of red. ‘Are you insane?’

‘No, I am not, and don’t for one minute assume that I am setting these measures in place because I think you’re heading that way. You’re a mentally robust woman, Ashley, but …’ She pauses again. ‘I think you could do with a little me-time. I’ve been concerned for a few weeks, but have kept this opinion on the down low because I didn’t want to, well … add to any of your problems. Today’s incident has established that I should step in and say something.’

‘To confirm, then, you’re not asking me to take a holiday …’ Maybe I’ll leave now, buy a bottle of Merlot on the way home. ‘You’re suspending me.’

‘Not officially. But I am insisting on you having a short break … a few days, that’s it.’

‘What for? To come to terms with pricking the bubble?’

She peers at me, confused. ‘No, whatever that is. To come to terms with your divorce.’

That’s when my Alexander Wang gets it.

Two

TANYA

I stare at the red stain spreading like a bullet wound across the white top. Simultaneously, I can feel my usual purple heat rash creeping across my chest. It’s my body’s default reaction to a—okay, most—situations where I could potentially become involved. In a situation. I never look for a ‘situation’. Heaven forbid, set one up. If I find myself in a situation, I usually attempt to vacate it as promptly as possible. Gripping onto the empty wine glass, I don’t dare look at the woman’s face. I know that pain and shock will be etched across it as if she has actually been shot. After all, this is a fashion party, and that won’t just be a top.

I glance to the side. A man charges towards me, stuffing a macaroon into his mouth. He grabs a pile of napkins and waves at the barman.

‘Water! Barman! Quick. We need help …!’ he shouts, spraying purple crumbs. ‘We need white wine!’

‘Leave it,’ I instruct. ‘Use a rub of Vanish later.’ I almost laugh at how pedestrian the words ‘rub of Vanish’ sound in this environment. ‘For the moment, rinse it through … as quickly as possible.’ Then I find myself adding—clearly, to expose myself as living a life of comparative suburban mediocrity where dealing with the removal of marks on fabric is part of my daily drudgery even though it isn’t and I would OBVIOUSLY take it to a reputable dry cleaner …—‘Time really is of the essence with stains.’

On the ‘st’ of stains, my ‘victim’ shuns the barman’s soda gun and the handful of serviettes her friend is flapping at her. She growls at him to buy her a T-shirt from American Apparel: ‘Men’s. Extra small, deep V-neck, not round or a scoop’, then spins round and strides in the direction of the toilets. I follow her. Which might not make sense, as overseeing the removal of a potentially ruinous stain on someone else’s designer top through to the end is a textbook ‘situation’. But another thing about me is that if I do get myself into a ‘situation’, I don’t like to come out the other side thinking I could have done anything differently. Guilt is not something I like to feel, on any level. It’s the combine harvester of human emotions. It breaks you down, churns you up, spits you out, but then spreads … and grows. Faster.

Inside the loo, the woman wriggles out of her top with no concern whatsoever about anyone else hanging around by the sinks touching up their make-up or doing their hair. I’m not surprised by her lack of inhibition. She has exactly the type of body you would expect from a fashionista. A deep-caramel pigment to her skin—the result of a blood line, not a spray booth—and a tiny, hard body. She probably picks at processed snacks and smokes cigarettes but is also a gym rat. And combines that with Bikram yoga, some sort of combat training, Cross-Fit, weights and Barry’s Bootcamp … girls like her don’t get the results they demand from doing one form of exercise any more, do they? They ‘mix it up’ so that all parts of their bodies are toned, honed, shrunk then stretched in order to achieve that perfect combination of muscular fragility. Then they are prepared for any sort of trend as soon as it arrives on the catwalk, or more specifically in …

… Catwalk.

Oh, my God. I grip onto the sink. Frozen, I watch as the woman’s head frees itself from the neckhole. A dark mop of glossy ethnic hair springs out first, then the delicate, fragile features which are at total odds to the personality I know lies within.

It’s her.

Her eyes are closed. When they open, she immediately focuses on the soap dispenser. She pumps some liquid onto the top.

‘I’m fine, you can go …’ she says, turning on the faucet.

I don’t move. I cannot say anything. Not even her name. Or mine. My purple heat rash is burning my chest.

Her mobile phone bleeps. She grabs it from her bag, checks the caller ID, adjusts it to speaker setting and goes back to holding the exact area of fabric directly underneath the gushing tap.

‘Yeah?’ she barks at her phone.

‘Hey …’ A man’s voice. He clears his throat.

‘I said ‘yeah’ … I’m here.’

At the sink next to her, another party guest finishes washing her hands, wrings them and turns on the dryer.

‘… you’ll have to shout. It’s noisy in here.’

‘I need to talk to you.’

‘About what?’

‘Maybe we could meet.’ The man continues. ‘No. We, erm, ought to meet. Now …’

‘I’m at a work thing,’ she replies.

‘It’s important. The, erm, report … you know … look, I’m at our … well, your … the flat. Can you get back here soon? We should go through it …’

‘Now? You think I won’t read it? Christ. Relax. I will …’

‘Seriously … we have to speak.’

She tuts, grabs her phone, turns off the speaker setting and puts it to her ear. With the other hand, she pulls her top away from the tap to check it. Just a cloudy mark remains. The dryer comes to the end of its cycle and the other guest leaves the room. She is quiet for a few seconds, then she calmly switches off her phone, squeezes out the remaining moisture from her T-shirt, puts it back on and stares ahead in the mirror at herself. Finally, she turns. Her eyes flicker up towards mine.

She sees me … flinches and gasps; but it is only a short, sharp inhalation—then her face becomes emotionless. The last time she looked at me like this, we were in the reception of the building where Catwalk is based.

It was a few weeks after I had finished my degree. I was about to start an internship at my favourite magazine. I’d bought every copy ever published. I was addicted to it from the first issue. I’ll never forget the launch copy. My best friend showed me it. The lead fashion shoot—set in a dilapidated mansion—was a glossy homage to what eventually became known in the tabloids as ‘heroin chic’. The models—dressed in flimsy, sheer, de-constructed fabrics—were draped across broken beds and chairs or lying on the cracked marble floor, as if they were abandoned garments themselves. But the ten-year-old me didn’t look at the pictures and think, ‘Yikes, they’ve had a heavy weekend on the skag …’. I didn’t even know what narcotics were, other than that they could possibly be disguised as fruit pastilles, as my father constantly told me: ‘NEVER ACCEPT ANY SWEETS FROM HER (my best friend’s) FAMILY—THEY COULD BE DRUGS!’

We—my best friend and I—stared at the shoot. She fell in love with the clothes; how everything looked on the surface. I loved what was going on beneath; the way each model was captured by the camera. Each one had a story to tell. But it was a secret.

The receptionist at the front desk puts a call through to the magazine.

‘Good morning, your new intern is waiting in reception. Shall I ask her to wait for you down here?’ He smiles at me from behind his sponge mouthpiece. ‘The Editorial Assistant will be right down.’

‘Ah, okay …’ I feel my purple heat rash spring across my chest. My dream job. This was actually happening. After everything that had happened. Life was about to happen.

‘Don’t look so worried,’ says the receptionist, mistaking my excitement for nerves. ‘She’s new too.’

But she wasn’t new to me. As the lift doors opened, I saw her before she saw me. Unquestionably pretty, petite—almost imp-like—and dressed casually but coolly in ripped skinny jeans, a grey T-shirt and Nike Air Max. Her hair was in a mussed-up high pony tail. I had ironed mine into a poker-straight bob. Typically for her, she looked at my shoes first. She stared at my ‘office smart’ kitten heels as if I had dragged in a rotting animal—no, human—carcass. I used this time to gather myself. It was only a few seconds … it was not enough. But an hour would not have been enough. Nor a day. Nor another year. And it had already been five. She gave me her trademark impenetrable stare. Her face was emotionless.

RECEPTIONIST: Ah, you two know each other? Well, that’s nice, isn’t it?

But it was not nice. Not for me, Tanya Dinsdale. Or her, Ashley Atwal.