She Just Can't Help Herself. Ollie Quain

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ