She Just Can't Help Herself. Ollie Quain

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      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. СКАЧАТЬ