She Just Can't Help Herself. Ollie Quain

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СКАЧАТЬ I consider using the D word to see how it feels, but back off. ‘… issue in the office. You wouldn’t even know that I was in the process of one if I hadn’t sent you that message by mistake.’ Hungover one morning last month, I emailed her an update on mine and Zach’s living arrangements, instead of the mortgage company. ‘What happened at the book launch was a minor blip.’

      ‘To you, maybe, Ashley. But certainly not to Noelle, her fans or her agent. But, most importantly, Frédéric Lazare.’

      ‘With all due respect, who gives a monkey about Frédéric Lazare? None of RIVA’s brands and products, and yes—I am including Pascale’s ‘Noelle’ tote in that—are right for Catwalk. It’s not as if Lazare’s labels would ever attract boundary-pushing talent. The ‘new’ Olivier Rousteing, JW Anderson, Thomas Tait, Dion Lee, Jonathan Simkhai, Esteban Cortázar, Michael van der Ham, Sally LaPointe, Mary Katrantzou, Carly Cushnie, Michelle Ochs … would not touch RIVA. Lazare is the living evidence of money not being able to create or sell style.’

      She sighs at me—almost nostalgically, like she did at the book launch.

      ‘But, some of that money contributes to a portion of our advertising and will be paying for our party in its entirety, so I suggest you keep that opinion very much to yourself. That aside …’ Her eyes dart furtively. ‘… when you get back from your break, you need to knuckle down and prove yourself. Looking further ahead with my pregnancy, I need to know that when I am out of the office, the magazine will be safe. I need to leave someone at the helm who won’t rock the boat, and right now I don’t see you as a particularly reliable captain.’

      ‘That’s unfair and you know it. I’ve covered for you three times and each time everything has been kept … shipshape.’ I pull a face as I elaborate on her nautical metaphor. ‘There is no one else here who could do it.’

       Is there?

      I look through the glass window at the five longest serving members of our editorial team at their desks. All of them are perfect in their current roles, but not as Editor. First, Fitz, currently wearing a pink custom-made sweatshirt with WHAT WOULD DONATELLA DO? embossed on it in metal studs. He’s witty, insightful and blunt verging on tactless. Exactly what you want from a fashion writer and a mate. But as a leader, he would quite happily admit he lacks patience, empathy and tolerance. In fact, he would be livid if you implied that he did have those qualities. Then there’s Dixie, our Talent Editor, who is as loud as the clashing vintage prints she wears. Her excited squeal can reach such a piercing level that when she manages to secure a top interview, dolphins in the Irish Sea are also made aware of the scoop. She’s too hyper. Bronwyn is the opposite. Like a lot of beauty journalists, she always sports a crisp white shirt (usually Ann Demeulemeester) and is smug verging on “shit-eating”. A beauty writer’s self-satisfaction is usually directly correlated to how clear her skin has become thanks to the endless unctions and treatments she is invited to test. Bronwyn has been at Catwalk for eight years. (That’s a lot of peptides.) Besides, a Beauty Editor would never be made Acting Editor. It does not happen. It’s not how the publishing chain of command works. And there’s no way Wallis—despite being one of the most respected Fashion Directors in London—would be given a chance either. She’s too much of an eccentric and wholly anti-establishment. She may not be able to keep a lid on her views during meetings with corporate advertisers. Oh, and her hairdresser girlfriend has a habit of rocking up to the office unannounced to pick fights. Wearing a scissor belt.

      Catherine must be planning to bring in someone from the outside.

      She gets up from her chair. ‘Nothing is decided yet, I’m simply letting you know that there is a lot for you to think about over the next few days. You’re going through a period of change at home, maybe you need one at work too. It could be good for you.’

      ‘What could?’

      ‘To spread your wings and fly … make a new nest.’

      ‘A new nest? You want …’

      I distract myself from the enormity of what Catherine is saying by examining her oversized corsage-style brooch pinned to her chest. Crimes Against Fashion No. 21: Obvious tributes to Carrie Bradshaw. Guilty: thirty-something females on a Monday after a weekend of watching Sex and the City repeats on Comedy Central.

      ‘… me to leave?’

      ‘I want what is best for you, Ashley. Think about it. It could be good for you.’ Her voice becomes thicker, more serious. ‘You’re talented. That talent will always be yours. You could do and go wherever you want. I knew that when I first employed you. Don’t forget that … with all your drama going on. No matter what happens here, you … you … oh, aaaaaa-nyway …’ She claps her hands together, as if stopping herself elaborating. ‘I’ll be out for the rest of the afternoon. Bit of a problem with one of the little ones, and the new au pair’s English is still somewhat left of centre. You’d have thought three months in Barnes was enough for anyone to grasp the essentials. Clearly not. Oh, and can you ask Jazz to meet me in my office in five mins … thanks, Ashley.’

      She walks out, en route rubbing my shoulder with about as much sincerity as Naomi Campbell’s anti-fur campaign for PETA. I stay seated. We have never had a conversation like this in the entire time I have been at Catwalk. We started at the same time. Her at the top. Me at the bottom … an intern.

      It took me two years to be offered an internship at the magazine. I lost count of the times I sent in my curriculum vitae, each time including an elaborate missive about the power of fashion to Polly, (then) the Editorial Assistant. I rang her too. But my letters and calls were never returned. Thinking back, it was a stupid thing to have done—going down the ‘this is me’ route. Polly had a double-barrelled surname and by listening to her answering machine message you could tell she bled Malbec. There is always at least one Polly type on the staff at all magazines. You just have to pray that she is not in charge of sifting through the CVs, as all of them are notorious for only giving work experience to their own people. Or rather, ‘peeps’. After I had clicked that this was the case, I sat down and wrote a fresh CV with a few mild embellishments.

      First up, my surname. I went from Ashley Atwal to Ashley Jacobs. I chose Jacobs for no other reason than it also belonged to Marc Jacobs—who the magazine were ob-sessed with back then and were very likely to always be. Next, I said I lived in Fulham. Benenden School in Kent was where my education had now been spent (literally—their website said it cost over twenty grand a year). My hobby was importing beads from Thailand, which I sold on the Portobello Road. I bought a Pay As You Go mobile so my number was different from my original application—and sent it off. Polly called me within a week. Within a fortnight I started.

      Today, Catherine deigns to delight us with her presence until 3.36pm. Everyone else leaves two and a half to three hours later. By quarter to seven, it’s only Fitz and I in the office. We’re sitting at his desk, flicking through the new issue which has just been delivered from the print house. He sticks his head over the top of the partition to check we are alone.

      ‘She’s in seed, isn’t she? Ogilvy …’

      ‘How did you know?’

      ‘She was on the San Pellegrino at the launch, she’s rearranged the party date and I totally clocked some bloat in the features meeting. Thought she’d been overdoing it on granola. But no, another being has taken root in her womb. So Sigourney Weaver! Does she need another one? It pisses me off how women who make a personal choice to have so many children have a ricochet effect on other women—and men!—who work hard because СКАЧАТЬ