She Just Can't Help Herself. Ollie Quain

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ ‘Tory Hambeck is British but she is not a designer. She is a reality TV star who has employed a very good design team … from America. Hambeck doesn’t even know how to stitch let alone sketch.’

      Catherine ignores her suggestion. ‘She can draw. Her PR tweeted one of her sketches last week.’

      ‘Actually, Catherine’s right,’ says Fitz, seriously. ‘I’ve got it right here.’ He holds up his notepad, where he has drawn a stick person in a triangle dress.

      Everyone laughs, including Catherine, because she knows no one will be changing her mind.

      ‘Look, it’s essential to put Hambeck at number one, then we’ll get an exclusive interview when she launches her perfume at Christmas.’

      ‘What?’ Bronwyn, the Beauty Editor, balks. ‘But we’ve never gone near celebrity perfumes. Catwalk beauty is about catwalk—with a small c—creativity, not about A, B or C List vanity projects.’

      ‘Absolutely,’ says Fitz. ‘If we’re going to do a feature on Hambeck, it should be about how her designs are manufactured and marketed … who the real minds are behind it. Let’s talk to industry insiders, not her. She’ll only spout the same insipid waffle that all the celeb so-called designers—who have never even approached a work bench let alone pattern cut—do, about wanting to ‘empower women’ … when actually all they are asking of the female population is to go shopping and make me richer! At least be honest. It’s a business. Real designers are not afraid to say that, they are proud. So they should be.’

      ‘He has a point, Catherine …’ squeaks Dixie, our Talent Editor. ‘A more investigative angle is way more in sync with our readers. Yes, we include famous people in the magazine, but we’re not a fanzine.’

      Catherine cocks her head. ‘We are a business too! And we need to compete by getting more readers who like the other angle as well.’

      Fitz throws his hands up. ‘But that dilutes our brand. If we give this type of coverage to Hambeck, where do we stop? She is not the brains behind the label. And label makes it sound a far more complex operation than it is. She does shapes, no actual tailoring. Ashley’s cat could have cobbled together her last season’s look with a tube of Pritt Stick and a basic set of instructions.’

      I blink at him as if considering what to say on the matter, but I’m not thinking about Tory Hambeck’s designs. I’m remembering the collection of the first designer I knew. She specialised in what she called ‘rave togs’. The whole range she did was unisex: sweatshirts, T-shirts, dungarees, hats, vests. Each piece was emblazoned with neon lettering, swirly patterns or smiley faces as if it been manufactured in a toy factory.

       ME: Mum?

       HER: Ashl-eeeeey! (Voice sing songy.) Where are yooooou?

       ME: (Shouting back.) In my room, I’m reading that new magazine you bought.

      HER: Oh, that. It’s shit! (Sticking her head through the door, tripping slightly as she does.) Where’s your Dad?

       ME: Gone to get the van fixed. Again. Why don’t you dump it?

       HER: Because it’s got history. Like I always say, you were quite possibly conceived (slightly slurring on the double ‘s’ and the ‘c’) in that van en route to some rave-up in a field. Or on the way back. Ha! Maybe parked up behind a service station. (More slurring.)

      ME: I think I prefer the shtory of the shtork. She either did not hear my joke or she chose to ignore it.

       HER: You’re an aciiiiiiiiii-ed baby!

      ME: Aghhhhh … don’t do that!

      HER: I’m only having a laugh withyou … (Plonking herself down on my bed next to me.)

      I could smell the Red Lion on her.

      HER: … Gawd, I worry for your generation. You think THAT (pointing at the photo shoot in the magazine) is the future. Fashion should be fun! That’s just depressing.

       ME: It’s called ‘heroin chic.’

       HER: I make clothes to dance in, not die in.

       ME: It’s what’s selling in London. (Clocking her expression.) Sorry. I wasn’t saying that it is better.

       HER: No.(Voice darkening.) But you were THINKING you know better.

       ME: I’m ten, Mum. Why would I think that?

      HER: Because a lot of people round here do. Think they know better. Think they are better. I was just saying that to Sheila in the pub—this estate is split into those who LIVE here and those who want to LEAVE here. And the latter don’t have any respect for the former. I mean, look at your little buddy, Tanya … she’s always round. You’re never over there. Have her parents ever invited you or us? Nope.

       ME: Have you ever asked Mr and Mrs Dinsdale over?

      HER: Only because they wouldn’t come. They’re snobs. Boring ones at that. I bet the closest they’ve ever come to a warehouse party is paying for some flat pack furniture in Ikea … ha! And as for their clobber! Cheryl is drip-dry, and have you seen the shoes Howard wears? Docksider boating shoes. For fuck’s sake, he lives on a housing estate an hour and a half away from the nearest harbour. What? Has he got a yacht moored in Plymouth? The new St. Tropez, eh? What a penis. (Rubbing my head. Suddenly, bright again.) Hey, you know what shoes your Dad was wearing when I first met him?

       ME: What?

       HER: Kickers.

       ME: Never heard of them.

       HER: (Sighing.) Well, one day—when you’re old enough to appreciate that not everything has to have been featured in a glossy magazine to be a significant trend—I’ll explain their social impact. Believe me, those shoes meant something. You can always judge a man by his shoes, Ashley. It will tell you everything.

      Last night, Zach was wearing new trainers. Zach is not that vain but he is obsessed with ‘old school’ sneakers. He buys them from a Japanese website that sources rare originals. Since ‘it was decided’ I have not seen him sport any new footwear, but he was wearing box-fresh Travel Fox the other night. He was wearing Travel Fox when we met. It was in a bar round the corner from here …

      Fitz is eyeballing me. Should I be speaking? I look away.

      ‘Either way, it’s not happening,’ confirms Catherine. ‘To wind up Hambeck’s management would be like kicking a hornets’ nest wearing peep-toe sandals and pedal pushers. We’d be guaranteed to get stung.’ She turns back to Wallis. ‘So. Neoprene. Tunic. Olive. And here is a list of the other designers I want you to use …’ She peels off a Post-it note and passes it to her. ‘Right, last on the agenda: the Catwalk twentieth-anniversary party. It’s been moved forward to fit in with our sponsors. Invites will be going out via email in the next week or so. Now, if we’re all happy …’ She doesn’t pause. ‘That’s СКАЧАТЬ