She Just Can't Help Herself. Ollie Quain

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СКАЧАТЬ glad you came too! Hey, you know what …? I think Sophs is right. I should do more charity work.’

      ‘Well, you know where they say charity starts …’

      ‘Who does? Where does it?’

      Add inability to detect sarcasm to the paranoia in short-term effects of cocaine. I hug her goodbye and go out into the foyer. The room where Noelle had her launch is still buzzing. The guests will all be ‘going on’ somewhere soon. Either to that do at the Serpentine or some other bash for more customised cocktails and loosely themed finger food. On the steps of the hotel, I bump into the man who sprayed the macaroon crumbs. He is holding a bag from American Apparel.

      ‘Excuse me,’ he says. ‘My name is Fitz Martin … I work at Catwalk.’

      ‘Get you.’

      He squints at me, confused at my reaction.

      ‘My friend, the one who … with the Wang. Is she in there?’ he asks, worriedly, as if he was arriving at hospital to witness her last rites. ‘Can’t believe that top was Wang. Unworn Wang.’

      ‘I know. It was a shame. But …’ I pause and look up and down the street on both sides, pretending to gauge the activity. ‘… thank goodness, the world is still turning.’

      I lift my hand to hail a taxi. It’s a confident departure … which is the only way to navigate clearly out of a situation. Not ‘out there’ or ‘up for it’ or ‘in-your-face’ confident, but ‘quietly’ confident—which is more believable. Anything more than that is obviously a front. I am fascinated by how much ‘fake’ confidence people—especially women—project these days, especially on social media. It’s why I started my blog … to examine how women present themselves on the various portals. There is a lot of faking extreme confidence going on. You know that for every smug #nofilter #nomakeup ‘selfie’ posted, there are forty-seven rejected images—taken in umpteen different locations (ploughing on through successive breakdowns over choice of outfit) until the most flattering light is found—sitting on their camera roll. That for every ‘Woooooooooo! PARTY TIME!’ status update, there are double the amount of lonely nights in, spent reaching the depths of despair (and a carton of pecan-fudge ice cream) that never get flagged up. That for every sobering, wise and self-aware proverb ‘meme’ posted, there has been a spate of pissed, stupid behaviour that they live in fear of being reminded about.

      But I understand. Truly, I do. Faking it is the only way to move forward. Pretend that everything is okay. The good news is that if you do this for long enough, you’ll start to believe it. Whatever happened in your past will not affect you any more. I never thought I would get to that point. But I have. A base line of aggressive therapy helped but, after that, it was all me. I didn’t quite realise how far past that point I was until about twenty minutes ago. But seeing her … how can I put it?

      I loathe Disney animation. The heroines all have craniums bigger than their waists. It’s the first registration point for any girl wanting to sign up for self-esteem issues later in life. But today I am going to paraphrase Queen Elsa: I have let it fucking go.

      And I never swear. She did. Not Elsa. Ashley. She swore a lot. But today it feels right. No, good.

Three

       ASHLEY

      Tanya Dinsdale. Tanya Dinsdale. Tanya FUCKING Dinsdale. She was never meant to factor in my life. I took one look at her and thought, ‘Nah, no way’ … even though I was actively on the lookout for a new best friend. I had been forced to ditch my last one because she’d developed a habit of stealing. When her parents found a load of clothes from a selection of mainstream mall brands under her bed, she stitched me up, saying I had nicked the lot and had forced her to hide them. I didn’t know what was more offensive … the fact her parents believed that I was a thief or that I would have thieved such a bland and impact-less array of ‘stretch jersey basics’. Within seconds of meeting Tanya Dinsdale in the school canteen, I could tell she was one of those girls who liked to act as if she was born with a silver spoon in her mouth, even though the cutlery in question was more likely to have been one of those plastic forks which come free with a Pot Noodle. Even worse, she was wearing Mary Jeans and culottes. No, worse, she was wearing them proudly. I should have walked away then.

      I let myself in the front door, ignoring the photo on the sideboard, and walk into the lounge. Zach is layering a large cardboard box with bubble wrap. He is wearing his gym gear. I hadn’t realised he was working out again. He jumps up to hug me, but we end up giving each other a nervous head lock. I add a handshakey-matey-back-slap, as if I am welcoming him onto my own chat show. As he pulls away, I sense him scanning my face.

      ‘Sorry I had to drag you away from your work thing, Ash, but it’s imp—’

      ‘Yeah, so you said. Whatever. I wanted to leave, anyway. That magazine is doing my head in … and before you suggest I put my feelers out to see whether a decent position is coming up on another one, I would know if it was. No one wants to budge. The magazine side of the industry is getting smaller and that means it’s less fluid—not an environment you take risks with your income. Not if …’ I stop rambling.

      I am about to say not if you have reproduced—as many of the women in the top spots have done—often multiple times. They need their solid salaries to pay for the painfully expensive day-care bills, that probably hurt more than giving birth itself. But I don’t approach this topic. Not in front of Zach. Shit, I forgot to buy any red wine.

      ‘… not if you can be totally sure that the magazine is secure, i.e., supported by other products …’ I continue. ‘And that would mean going to a publication which is part of an umbrella company and, trust me, those jobs are hard to come by because applicants for the second-job-down nearly always come from the inside.’

      Zach nods. In a few seconds, he will give me the same half-understanding/half-tolerating look he has been doing ever since I started to talk at him, as opposed to with him. He knows there is no point trying to engage because this is a rant, not a discussion. Everything I say to him I have already made up my mind on. He reaches back down into the cardboard box and straightens up a batch of records even though they are stacked perfectly. Zach used to own a ton of vinyl, most of which he stored along the walls of our flat—literally, sound insulation—but sold most of it in the New Year because we would be ‘needing the space’. I told him he would regret selling his collection (mainly rare remixes of classic pop songs) because he started it when he was a kid. But he went ahead and bunged pretty much all of it on eBay as a job lot. All those tunes he had meticulously chosen and added one by one over the years … gone in three days and seven bids. It made me uncomfortable. I felt as if he wasn’t so much preparing for the future, as forcing it.

      He looks up at me. But the look I was expecting is not there. I can tell he is nervous.

      ‘Is Kat Moss okay?’ I ask quickly.

      ‘Yes, yes … she is fine.’

      ‘Still establishing her territory?’

      ‘Mmm … almost there, I think.’

      ‘But she’s getting back into her usual routine of late nights and sleeping all day?’

      ‘Yeah …’

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