She Just Can't Help Herself
‘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.
Trance-like, she nodded at me to approach the lift. I walked over and got in. The doors shut but she did not press any buttons. I stood by her side. Should I say something? Should I say nothing? No. Yes. I should say …
ME: I don’t know what to s—
HER: (Interrupting. Voice flat.) Have you seen The Devil Wears Prada?
ME: (Confused.) Erm … yeah, of c—
HER: (Interrupting again.) You know that montage? Which loops together the makeover scenes? It starts with the Style Director taking Andrea—the awkward, shy intern—into the fashion cupboard and lending her a poncho? Then she borrows more and more clothes, and as she does she grows and flourishes into a confident, well-rounded member of staff who fits right in? Well, this scene and the rest of the movie—is a pile of crap. It is about as far removed from the reality of life doing work experience on a fashion magazine as you can get … and even further from the reality of what your life will be like at Catwalk. There will be no development of your personal storyline, no actual job to be retained or offered at the end … and you can bet every penny you have—I hear that’s a fair bit these days—that at no point will you be taken into the fashion cupboard by a kindly gay male member of staff to help get your look on point using all the latest designer clothes.
Firstly, you will already be in the fashion cupboard—and trust me, ‘cupboard’ makes it sound far more glamorous than it actually is; it makes the communal changing cubicle in an out-of-town discount-designer outlet resemble Coco Chanel’s Parisian apartment. It has no windows. The iron and industrial steamer are on permanently. Your pores will open up like craters.
Secondly, we do not have any ‘kindly ‘gay male members of staff. All three who work here are caustic. But that said, nowhere near as brutal as the straight women. And as for being tasked with anything to do with the Editor; in respect to her life on the magazine or private world, forget it. You won’t even meet her. In fact, you won’t get as far as that end of the office because you will spend seventy-five per cent of your time in the aforementioned leper’s cave of a fashion cupboard, another ten per cent by the photocopier and the other fifteen per cent tramping round Central London, running personal errands for senior staff. This could be anything from picking up dry cleaning to buying cashew nuts. And if you do, for fuck’s sake don’t buy salted, honeyed or roasted. Plain. Always plain. They won’t touch a modified nut. It also goes without saying that if you consider Anne Hathaway’s kooky fish-out-of-water shtick as endearing … then I suggest you don’t simply keep that opinion quiet, you keep it locked and hidden in a dark vault in the recesses of your mind, never to be unlocked. Remember all of the above and you should be able to last the twenty days you have been pencilled in for. It is essential to note the word ‘pencilled’, as you are only here as it suits us. There is no contract. No cosy back-up from HR. No pay. You are here or not here because we do or do not want you to be. By ‘we’ I mean ‘I’.
She gave me that flickering sideways glance. Because to look at me directly would be giving me too much when she felt I deserved nothing.
ME: You.
HER: Yes. Me. Are you in? Or out?
She raised her finger and hovered it over the button for the fourth floor. Out. I was out. Our relationship was about to be over for a second time. I left the lift and vacated the building. I did not turn round.
This time, it is her who doesn’t turn. I watch the door swing shut as she leaves, then face myself in the mirror. I am wearing a shirt under a jacket with trousers and boots. All Reiss. Not too edgy. Not too conservative. Not too high street. Not too expensive. But not too cheap either. Solid middle-ground shopping choice. Everything in black. A quick glance in my wardrobe and it could be assumed I was a funeral director or a mime artist. Black is the perfect colour for being present but not drawing attention to yourself. You can be there, but not ‘HERE!’. Unless, that is, you were invited to one of those toe-curling-ly cringe Z-list celebrity weddings on a foreign beach, where all the guests are asked to wear white (and go barefoot).
I breathe in very slowly. Then exhale. And continue to stare. This is me now. Not the me she knew. I am finished with both of them.
‘Hon-eeeeey!’
The only reason I am here flies through the door and gives me a perfunctory peck on the cheek.
‘Noelle! How are you?’
‘How am I? Duh! Not exactly happy. That bitch!’
‘What bitch?’
‘The bitch who interviewed me. Ashley some-one-or-other.’
I realise Noelle has not recognised her. Not surprising. She was a small kid when everything happened. A concerted effort was made to ‘keep her out of it’.
‘Sorry, I got here late. Was at the hospit—’
‘You missed the whole thing?’
‘Not on purpose. What’s the matter?’
‘I got trashed out there,’ continues Noelle. ‘I’ve never been so embarrassed in my, like, life. If Frédéric hadn’t arrived … well, quelle doomage! Anyway, why didn’t you come and find me?’
‘I attempted to. But was prevented from doing so by a lady holding a clipboard and wearing an I’m-so-special-I could-eat-myself hat.’
‘Oh, you mean Sophs. She was only making sure I saw all the right people first. No, like, offence. There were a lot of serious national journalists out there. Internationally, if you include Internet hits. I mean, the Web has become even more important than print these days, yeah.’ She adds this as if she was revealing a prize nugget of information gleaned from years studying the development of digital media.
I don’t engage. ‘You’re okay then?’
‘I’ll pull through, I think. I have to. I’ve got to hang with Frédéric, sign some like, shit—I mean books—ha! for my fans … then go to another party.’
‘I meant, generally, are you okay? I keep getting missed calls from you at weird times of the night.’
She shrugs. ‘Soz. Only tryin’ to catch up and t’ingz. Time-zone issues. But, yeah, I’m more than okay. Honeeeeey, believe … this bitch is fly.’
‘Good, because I was …’ I stop myself. There is no point voicing concern. ‘We can still do a picture?’