OLLIE QUAIN has written for a variety of the UK’s top music, fashion and lifestyle brands. Having toiled at this media coalface since the late nineties, she now lives in Ibiza … but pops back to London regularly to inform anyone who will listen how ace it is over there. She Just Can’t Help Herself is her second novel. The first, How To Lose Weight And Alienate People, is also available and – despite not winning any awards – is a rather good read.

Follow her on Twitter and Instagram @olliequain

To Eddie. The purriest. The furriest. The greatest.

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Endpages

Copyright

One

ASHLEY

Of course, there are times when I think to myself, ‘WHAT AM I DOING?’ But when you work in fashion, it’s essential that every so often you do to try to retain some perspective. After all, in this industry we have a tendency to lose ourselves when witnessing a ‘moment’. From the arrival of Karl Lagerfeld’s cat on Twitter to the return of the consciously unkempt eyebrow, it’s easy to get over-excited about stuff when everyone in the ‘bubble’ is ramped up too. I know a blogger who had to breathe into a paper bag when Balmain announced a diffusion line for H&M. It can get pretty ridiculous. But no one questions this ridiculousness out loud. If they have to, it is to an audience of one. (This guarantees the option of total denial later.) Because there is a rule: don’t prick the bubble. It mustn’t burst.

‘I want to feel the true essence of Noelle during your interview …’ my Editor, Catherine Ogilvy, gushed at me an hour ago in the foyer of the hotel, shortly before the main party was due to start at 3pm. ‘She is such an alluring dichotomy of sophistication and quirk. The designer’s muse who was happy to ‘sofa surf’ on arrival in New York … paying her hosts in ‘styling tips and personal artwork’. But let’s overlook that makeover show she presented, the one for the ugly teens …’

‘It never existed. All tapes have been destroyed,’ I dead-panned, trying to decide whether a) I liked Catherine’s pussy-bow-neck silk polka dot blouse and b) if I had time for a quick (private) drink in the lobby bar. Just to take the edge off. I’d come straight from a non-work-related meeting.

‘… of course,’ she added. ‘You must touch on that break-up, which Noelle handled with such bravery and fortitude.’

‘That relationship only lasted three months, Catherine.’

‘They were en route to marriage.’

‘No, he was on tour with that painful emo rock band he plays with, Barbed Wire. So called because anyone with ears would clamber over all forms of skin-lacerating high-security metal spiking to avoid one of their shows.’

She giggled. ‘Tsk. Come on, that poetry she wrote after the split was very dark. Real inner-demons stuff.’

‘Yeah, she’s like Sylvia Plath for the Snapchat generation …’ I muttered, and looked over Catherine’s shoulder to check my hair and make-up in the mirror behind her.

Both were as they should be, ie, not too done. I never like to appear as if there has been a deliberate focus on getting ready, even if there has. Crimes Against Fashion No. 9: continual obvious use of a ‘glam squad’. Guilty: Rita Ora.

‘… well,’ I added. ‘Thank goodness Noelle managed to get over the worst in time for Coa-fucking-chella. Heartache and purposefully frayed denim have never worked well together.’

‘And neither does being clever with not exactly Mensa-eligible celebrities. No messing about tonight with Noelle. Just remember why we’re all here: to get a better understanding of the woman herself in order to celebrate the launch of her book …’

By ‘her book’, Catherine was referring to This is Me by Noelle Bamford. Not exactly a traditional autobiographical tome, this cobbled-together collection of text-message screen grabs from Noelle’s sycophantic pals, Polaroids taken on shoots, fridge-magnet life advice, the odd stanza of the aforementioned poetry (only made just literate by a hapless copy editor) and a guide to her favourite hip hang-outs … had resulted in a £400,000 publishing advance. I said we should swerve giving the book anything but minimal attention in the magazine. Even better, we should be seen to be choosing to ignore it. Catherine disagreed, calling the book a ‘zeitgeist moment in celebrity-slash-fashion-slash-self-reflexive publishing’ and a) offered to co-sponsor a launch party alongside the design house, Pascale, who make the perennially popular ‘Noelle’ tote-style handbag, which was everything Noelle was not: chunky and useful. And far, far worse b) asked Noelle to be on the cover. And almost unbearably c) invited her to be our Guest Editor too.

Catherine clocked my expression.

‘Don’t be like that, Ashley! You know that now more than ever the fashion magazine industry has to indulge in some vigorous back slapping. Actually, that should be cupping, no?’ She laughed, but when my expression did not change, she wagged her finger at me. ‘Word of advice, Ashley … you need to stop taking things so seriously.’

I hated that she had a point. I hated that I was aware of doing this a lot recently. I’m a fashion journalist, reporting from the front row not the front line. I needed to lighten up. But first, I needed that drink.

So I had one. Then another. And now, here we are. At five to four in the elaborate Renaissance-style function room of the Rexingham Hotel in London’s West End. Noelle is wearing an A-line pinafore dress, shirt with a Peter Pan collar and her signature shoe, the brogue (which she has paired with—I swear—pompom socks). I am in a white top and skintight grey leather trousers. I have had the latter for years. The former, a recent purchase. Originally on Net-A-Porter at five hundred quid, there was no way I could justify buying it. I didn’t even try. The first sale price of £299 prompted me to make a pros-and-cons list, but the biggest con on my list (both figuratively and literally) was the first round of fees from my solicitor. Finally, the top dipped below two hundred pounds and I pounced. Or rather PayPal-ed. Was it still wrong to spend that much on deconstructed cotton viscose mix with raw edges? No. Two words: Alexander Wang. Right?

Anyway, Noelle and I are sitting opposite each other on an elevated podium surrounded by white lilies and expensive candles in front of a carefully collated audience of fashion insiders, hipster celebrities and the cooler journalists from the broadsheets and Sunday supplements. Slick waiting staff have been on hand since the doors opened, offering the guests trays of elderflower blinis and mauve macaroons (the canapé equivalent of a pompom sock) to match the pastel-purple cover of Noelle’s book. The blinis were disgusting. They tasted like … hedging, so I had a couple of vodkas (on the rocks with a splash of grapefruit juice). Also in attendance are some of Noelle’s fans, who have won their invitations by entering a competition on her app. They are properly young. The sort of age where they would have no appreciation of Galliano’s fifteen years for Dior. Only a vague memory of a fifteen-second BBC3 news story on his sacking. I wonder if they have ever bought a copy of Catwalk. I wonder if they have ever bought a magazine.

Thus far, my interview with Noelle has covered ‘that’ relationship split (‘I learnt so much, honey …’) and the possibility she will be launching an eponymous perfume (‘something dynamic yet delicate, yeah …’). Then we touched on how she felt when she hit two million followers on Instagram (‘hashtag humbled …’). Now we’re on ‘fame’.

‘Fame, honey? I guess it means something very different to me, now I am like, famous. Before I thought it meant, well …’ She ponders her answer for a few seconds. ‘… free stuff! I’m kidding. Well, joking aside … it does. But you do have to pay in other ways. The lack of privacy …’ Her voice becomes serious. ‘… is a major cost.’

‘I can only imagine.’

‘Exactly. You’re lucky. You can only imagine the cost. I have to pay and keep paying,’ she sighs. ‘Do you mind?’ She grabs her Hello Kitty-customised mobile from the coffee table in between us and waves it at me.

‘Be my guest.’

She raises the mobile at arm’s length to her face, pouts at it, then taps.

‘Then,’ she continues, ‘you also pay the price of like, responsibility. Knowing my fans look up to me …’ She looks over and then down at them. ‘… see me as a role model, on like a very basic level, want to be me; it’s important I don’t short-change them. They mean so damn much to me. Every ‘Like’ I get on, like, social media is, like, reassurance that I’m, like, doing okay. I’m like, liked!’

Giddy, grateful whoops are offered from the ‘civilian pen’. I gaze round the room. My hands are clammy. Not from nerves. I’ve done this type of public promo many times before. I used to relish putting Ashley Jacobs on display. But today, I’m not sure who people are seeing. Her or me? No … her, definitely her. I tell myself I am clamming up because we are having an Indian Summer. It’s the beginning of September but very mild. Last night at the pub, I was wearing Havaiana flipflops. The original white-and-green ones with the Brazilian flag motif, obviously—I wouldn’t wear any other colour. I’m like that with Converse, too: I only wear the classic model; not the zipped ones or the rubber ones or the skate ones or the low pump ones or, heaven forbid, the wedge ones. There should be a ban on all major brands and designers adding wedges to leisure or sport footwear. The ONLY exception being Isabel Marant’s wedge trainer, which is a classic in its …

I realise Noelle has stopped talking.

‘So, Noelle …’

She leans forward. ‘Yes?’

‘You’re erm … now based in the States … that must be … so much going on for you … is it hard to stay grounded?’ This is the sort of question Catherine wanted, wasn’t it? ‘To not change … to be true to yourself?’

‘You would have thought that, but no, honeeeeey. Actually, you know what? If—and it’s an if I hope never happens—I started to become full of myself, I would soon get told off …’ She sits forward and gives me a weird smile. ‘… by my parents. They sacrificed so much to get me where I wanted to be in my career. We never went on holidays abroad and stuff like that so I could go to stage school … even though they hated celebrity razzmatazz. It was because I wanted it. They’re really private people. That’s why I took my nana’s maiden name—to keep t’ingz on the DL. Whenever I see them now, it reminds me how lucky I am. Their support, their love … it’s unconditional. I owe them everything …’ She smiles again. ‘But I guess we all owe our parents that.’

I realise why her smile suddenly feels weird. It’s genuine. It makes me uncomfortable.

I let her blather on. Yadadadadadadadadadadadadadada. I take a sip of my drink and swallow hard. I do not listen to what she is saying, only how she is saying it. This is the longest she has spoken without using that ridiculous accent which travels to Hollywood via a Hackney council estate (apparently, she is from a chocolate-box village in the West Country). I look over at Fitz, the Senior Features Writer on Catwalk, wearing his favourite Friesian-printed sweatshirt by Moschino, embossed with the words: CASH COW. (He dies for a fashionably ironic logo.) He is checking his phone, so I would bet north of a thousand quid he is on Grindr. Or Hornet. Or Scruff. Next to him is Noelle’s agent. She is wearing a Foo Fighters tour T-shirt and a flat tweed cap. Band merchandise with ‘country manor’ millinery? Ugh. Please. Her name is Sophie Carnegie-Hunt, but Fitz calls her Gopher Hag-Needy-C*nt. Hahahahaha!

Am I laughing out loud?

‘Ha! No. No, we don’t. Not at all.’

Noelle peers at me. ‘What don’t we do?’

‘Pardon? I didn’t say … anyth— … I …’ DID I? The room is suddenly so quiet I can hear my watch ticking. It’s vintage. I reckon seventies. It has no designer name on it. The face is huge. Big faces are so in now though, aren’t they? I mean, look at Gigi Hadid’s. She’s made a fortune out of hers.

Okay, THAT was funny.

‘Wasn’t it?’

‘Wasn’t what?’ asks Noelle.

‘What you were saying.’

‘I wasn’t.’

‘No, you weren’t. But what I was about to say was …’

I realise I am not in control. And this feels odd because I am Ashley Jacobs. She is not so much a control freak … more of a control drone, remotely operating herself to enter, attack and win over all areas of life always with great success. Being like that has enabled her to get everything she has ever wanted, by herself. The job she wanted. The flat she wanted. The clothes she wanted. The cat she wanted. The husband she wanted.

Whatever she wants to do, she gets on with it and does it. She does not churn it over in her mind. There is no cogitation. No procrastination. No deliberation.

Shit.

‘Like, so?’ Noelle rolls her eyes at her agent.

‘So …’ I swallow again. ‘Your book! THE BOOK! Yes, that book. Tell me … Why?’

She smooths down her fringe. ‘Mmm … well, gaaaaad. Obvz, it was because I had to. I wanted to take some control back. Someone somewhere writes something about me every minute of every day. There is no way I can see all of it, even with Google alerts. I mean, I’d be spending all day reading about me, and not being me. No one should suffer that kind of life. So, I thought, you know what, I will give you and them … me.’ She beams earnestly at those closest to the podium. ‘Hence the title, This Is Me. And it is all of me too. I don’t hold back. You probably think that’s like, crazy. Surely, I would want to keep at least part of ‘me’ to myself? It’s not like I have much left to give, but it wouldn’t have been me, then. The real me …’

As she talks, I focus hard on her mouth moving, so I don’t roll my eyes too. Because all I can hear is bullshit. I know that if everyone else in the room was listening individually to what she is spouting that is what they would be hearing too. A gushing fountain of brown (which will NEVER be the new black! EVER!) bullshit. But we’re in the bubble, aren’t we? No one has any perspective. Not her. Not us. Not the kids in the pen. Even though we all know that Noelle is not the Noelle in This Is Me. In my meeting earlier, I wasn’t me either. I was pretending to be someone else.

‘Surely?’ prompts Noelle. I’m not sure how many times she has said this.

‘Oh, yes. Surely, Noelle. Surely.’

‘… but it’s what my fans deserve. That’s what I have given them.’ She waves a hand towards the pen. ‘It’s my gift to you.’

The competition winners screech in adoration. I hear extra appreciative ‘yo yo yo!’s added by Jazz. She works at Catwalk too. Her title is Contributing Associate Editor. Although, since Catherine employed her, I would sum up her contribution thus far as simply, irritating. Her writing is whimsical and she has a habit of bringing trays of overpriced, overdecorated cupcakes into the office. What’s wrong with a packet of biscuits? I spot her standing—no surprise—next to Catherine, who is doing her trademark breezy nodding gesture. It’s the same one she uses when telling me she’s leaving the office early (again) because there’s an issue with one of her three children that ‘simply can’t be dealt with over the phone’. I decide I do not like her silk shirt. Polka dots are verging on twee territory. You need to wear them with something tough and she’s opted for a skater skirt.

‘But by writing about yourself, Noelle,’ I comment, ‘you’re only encouraging more to be written about you. The less you put out there, the less will be commented on.’

Immediately, Fitz looks up from his phone.

Noelle gives me a pinched smile. ‘True, I suppose. But ultimately, I want to be heard. This Is Me is about who I was, and how and why I have become the me I am today. It is my story.’

‘And it is a story, isn’t it?’

‘What do you mean, honey?’

Now Fitz is sucking in his cheeks. He knows where I could be about to take this interview, if I had the balls to prick the bubble. It’s where any proper journalist would. No, should. A discussion about Noelle’s notoriety has to include—if not revolve around—one subject. Her weight. Because that is the only reason Noelle has become so well known. As her BMI has plummeted, she has rocketed to cover star. Yeah, she’s cultivated one of those hipster careers: the model-come-DJ-come-It girl-come-presenter-come-entrepreneur-oh, come off it!, but she is not globally recognised for a single one of those jobs. She is famous because her inner thighs have not met since 2013. Type her name into a search engine and the first most popular associated word which pops up is: THINSPIRATION. Given the world she lives—no, subsists—in, it’s obvious how she manages to ‘skip the odd meal’.

I take a deep breath. Fitz mouths ‘YOU SHREW!’ at me and makes a sort of strangled face as if I am about to do something really stupid. And I am, aren’t I? I am about to prick the bubble.

‘What I mean, Noelle,’ I begin, ‘is that your book is not all fact, is it? The person in the book can’t be who you actually are.’ I flip open the copy I have on my lap at a Post-it note I slapped in it last night. I was in the wine bar round the corner from the office. (Before I went to the pub.) ‘“So, when me and my mates have had a, like, big night out in NY, yeah, and are really feeling it the next day, we cab it to any of the wikkid authentic Jewish hang-outs and pig out, stuffing ourselves to the max. My fave is Ben’s Kosher Deli. Boom! Check this bad boy.”’ Next to this bit of copy (in a wacky speech bubble) is a picture of a towering sandwich made with thick white bread, filled with cold cuts and oozing with relishes. I show everyone in the room. Then Noelle. ‘Seriously, can you honestly tell me you’ve eaten that?’

‘Of course, I have. I erm … love ham.’

I don’t skip a beat. ‘It’s a strict orthodox restaurant, they don’t serve swine. So much for pigging out.’

She fiddles with her Peter Pan collar. ‘But I, erm …’

‘… have been a little liberal with the truth?’ I feel dizzy but focused. Unpredictable but in control. Deep despite the shallow content of what I’m saying. So, this is what it’s like to prick the bubble! ‘There’s also a quote from you saying that all women are beautiful, no matter what shape or size.’

‘I do think that! I’ve just been hashtag blessed with a fast meta-meta-metabolicity.’

‘Metabolism? So that video which went viral of you having your fringe trimmed whilst giggling that your ex-boyfriend’s new—no more than a Size Ten—girlfriend, “probably has to take her selfies by satellite …” was a one-off lapse of judgement?’

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. She would consider me someone who could ‘take it or leave it’. If you really think someone has a problem with alcohol, you never ask this question wanting a legitimate answer. It is pointless. All you can do is listen at school when taught First Aid instruction on how to put a patient into the recovery position. And act appropriately when necessary.

‘Ashley?’

‘Of course I haven’t been drinking. Look, I’m sorry, 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 glance to the side. A man charges towards me, stuffing a macaroon into his mouth. He grabs a pile of napkins and waves at the barman.

‘Water! Barman! Quick. We need help …!’ he shouts, spraying purple crumbs. ‘We need white wine!’

‘Leave it,’ I instruct. ‘Use a rub of Vanish later.’ I almost laugh at how pedestrian the words ‘rub of Vanish’ sound in this environment. ‘For the moment, rinse it through … as quickly as possible.’ Then I find myself adding—clearly, to expose myself as living a life of comparative suburban mediocrity where dealing with the removal of marks on fabric is part of my daily drudgery even though it isn’t and I would OBVIOUSLY take it to a reputable dry cleaner …—‘Time really is of the essence with stains.’

On the ‘st’ of stains, my ‘victim’ shuns the barman’s soda gun and the handful of serviettes her friend is flapping at her. She growls at him to buy her a T-shirt from American Apparel: ‘Men’s. Extra small, deep V-neck, not round or a scoop’, then spins round and strides in the direction of the toilets. I follow her. Which might not make sense, as overseeing the removal of a potentially ruinous stain on someone else’s designer top through to the end is a textbook ‘situation’. But another thing about me is that if I do get myself into a ‘situation’, I don’t like to come out the other side thinking I could have done anything differently. Guilt is not something I like to feel, on any level. It’s the combine harvester of human emotions. It breaks you down, churns you up, spits you out, but then spreads … and grows. Faster.

Inside the loo, the woman wriggles out of her top with no concern whatsoever about anyone else hanging around by the sinks touching up their make-up or doing their hair. I’m not surprised by her lack of inhibition. She has exactly the type of body you would expect from a fashionista. A deep-caramel pigment to her skin—the result of a blood line, not a spray booth—and a tiny, hard body. She probably picks at processed snacks and smokes cigarettes but is also a gym rat. And combines that with Bikram yoga, some sort of combat training, Cross-Fit, weights and Barry’s Bootcamp … girls like her don’t get the results they demand from doing one form of exercise any more, do they? They ‘mix it up’ so that all parts of their bodies are toned, honed, shrunk then stretched in order to achieve that perfect combination of muscular fragility. Then they are prepared for any sort of trend as soon as it arrives on the catwalk, or more specifically in …

… Catwalk.

Oh, my God. I grip onto the sink. Frozen, I watch as the woman’s head frees itself from the neckhole. A dark mop of glossy ethnic hair springs out first, then the delicate, fragile features which are at total odds to the personality I know lies within.

It’s her.

Her eyes are closed. When they open, she immediately focuses on the soap dispenser. She pumps some liquid onto the top.

‘I’m fine, you can go …’ she says, turning on the faucet.

I don’t move. I cannot say anything. Not even her name. Or mine. My purple heat rash is burning my chest.

Her mobile phone bleeps. She grabs it from her bag, checks the caller ID, adjusts it to speaker setting and goes back to holding the exact area of fabric directly underneath the gushing tap.

‘Yeah?’ she barks at her phone.

‘Hey …’ A man’s voice. He clears his throat.

‘I said ‘yeah’ … I’m here.’

At the sink next to her, another party guest finishes washing her hands, wrings them and turns on the dryer.

‘… you’ll have to shout. It’s noisy in here.’

‘I need to talk to you.’

‘About what?’

‘Maybe we could meet.’ The man continues. ‘No. We, erm, ought to meet. Now …’

‘I’m at a work thing,’ she replies.

‘It’s important. The, erm, report … you know … look, I’m at our … well, your … the flat. Can you get back here soon? We should go through it …’

‘Now? You think I won’t read it? Christ. Relax. I will …’

‘Seriously … we have to speak.’

She tuts, grabs her phone, turns off the speaker setting and puts it to her ear. With the other hand, she pulls her top away from the tap to check it. Just a cloudy mark remains. The dryer comes to the end of its cycle and the other guest leaves the room. She is quiet for a few seconds, then she calmly switches off her phone, squeezes out the remaining moisture from her T-shirt, puts it back on and stares ahead in the mirror at herself. Finally, she turns. Her eyes flicker up towards mine.

She sees me … flinches and gasps; but it is only a short, sharp inhalation—then her face becomes emotionless. The last time she looked at me like this, we were in the reception of the building where Catwalk is based.

It was a few weeks after I had finished my degree. I was about to start an internship at my favourite magazine. I’d bought every copy ever published. I was addicted to it from the first issue. I’ll never forget the launch copy. My best friend showed me it. The lead fashion shoot—set in a dilapidated mansion—was a glossy homage to what eventually became known in the tabloids as ‘heroin chic’. The models—dressed in flimsy, sheer, de-constructed fabrics—were draped across broken beds and chairs or lying on the cracked marble floor, as if they were abandoned garments themselves. But the ten-year-old me didn’t look at the pictures and think, ‘Yikes, they’ve had a heavy weekend on the skag …’. I didn’t even know what narcotics were, other than that they could possibly be disguised as fruit pastilles, as my father constantly told me: ‘NEVER ACCEPT ANY SWEETS FROM HER (my best friend’s) FAMILY—THEY COULD BE DRUGS!’

We—my best friend and I—stared at the shoot. She fell in love with the clothes; how everything looked on the surface. I loved what was going on beneath; the way each model was captured by the camera. Each one had a story to tell. But it was a secret.

The receptionist at the front desk puts a call through to the magazine.

‘Good morning, your new intern is waiting in reception. Shall I ask her to wait for you down here?’ He smiles at me from behind his sponge mouthpiece. ‘The Editorial Assistant will be right down.’

‘Ah, okay …’ I feel my purple heat rash spring across my chest. My dream job. This was actually happening. After everything that had happened. Life was about to happen.

‘Don’t look so worried,’ says the receptionist, mistaking my excitement for nerves. ‘She’s new too.’

But she wasn’t new to me. As the lift doors opened, I saw her before she saw me. Unquestionably pretty, petite—almost imp-like—and dressed casually but coolly in ripped skinny jeans, a grey T-shirt and Nike Air Max. Her hair was in a mussed-up high pony tail. I had ironed mine into a poker-straight bob. Typically for her, she looked at my shoes first. She stared at my ‘office smart’ kitten heels as if I had dragged in a rotting animal—no, human—carcass. I used this time to gather myself. It was only a few seconds … it was not enough. But an hour would not have been enough. Nor a day. Nor another year. And it had already been five. She gave me her trademark impenetrable stare. Her face was emotionless.

RECEPTIONIST: Ah, you two know each other? Well, that’s nice, isn’t it?

But it was not nice. Not for me, Tanya Dinsdale. Or her, Ashley Atwal.

Trance-like, she nodded at me to approach the lift. I walked over and got in. The doors shut but she did not press any buttons. I stood by her side. Should I say something? Should I say nothing? No. Yes. I should say …

ME: I don’t know what to s—

HER: (Interrupting. Voice flat.) Have you seen The Devil Wears Prada?

ME: (Confused.) Erm … yeah, of c—

HER: (Interrupting again.) You know that montage? Which loops together the makeover scenes? It starts with the Style Director taking Andrea—the awkward, shy intern—into the fashion cupboard and lending her a poncho? Then she borrows more and more clothes, and as she does she grows and flourishes into a confident, well-rounded member of staff who fits right in? Well, this scene and the rest of the movie—is a pile of crap. It is about as far removed from the reality of life doing work experience on a fashion magazine as you can get … and even further from the reality of what your life will be like at Catwalk. There will be no development of your personal storyline, no actual job to be retained or offered at the end … and you can bet every penny you have—I hear that’s a fair bit these days—that at no point will you be taken into the fashion cupboard by a kindly gay male member of staff to help get your look on point using all the latest designer clothes.

Firstly, you will already be in the fashion cupboard—and trust me, ‘cupboard’ makes it sound far more glamorous than it actually is; it makes the communal changing cubicle in an out-of-town discount-designer outlet resemble Coco Chanel’s Parisian apartment. It has no windows. The iron and industrial steamer are on permanently. Your pores will open up like craters.

Secondly, we do not have any ‘kindly ‘gay male members of staff. All three who work here are caustic. But that said, nowhere near as brutal as the straight women. And as for being tasked with anything to do with the Editor; in respect to her life on the magazine or private world, forget it. You won’t even meet her. In fact, you won’t get as far as that end of the office because you will spend seventy-five per cent of your time in the aforementioned leper’s cave of a fashion cupboard, another ten per cent by the photocopier and the other fifteen per cent tramping round Central London, running personal errands for senior staff. This could be anything from picking up dry cleaning to buying cashew nuts. And if you do, for fuck’s sake don’t buy salted, honeyed or roasted. Plain. Always plain. They won’t touch a modified nut. It also goes without saying that if you consider Anne Hathaway’s kooky fish-out-of-water shtick as endearing … then I suggest you don’t simply keep that opinion quiet, you keep it locked and hidden in a dark vault in the recesses of your mind, never to be unlocked. Remember all of the above and you should be able to last the twenty days you have been pencilled in for. It is essential to note the word ‘pencilled’, as you are only here as it suits us. There is no contract. No cosy back-up from HR. No pay. You are here or not here because we do or do not want you to be. By ‘we’ I mean ‘I’.

She gave me that flickering sideways glance. Because to look at me directly would be giving me too much when she felt I deserved nothing.

ME: You.

HER: Yes. Me. Are you in? Or out?

She raised her finger and hovered it over the button for the fourth floor. Out. I was out. Our relationship was about to be over for a second time. I left the lift and vacated the building. I did not turn round.

This time, it is her who doesn’t turn. I watch the door swing shut as she leaves, then face myself in the mirror. I am wearing a shirt under a jacket with trousers and boots. All Reiss. Not too edgy. Not too conservative. Not too high street. Not too expensive. But not too cheap either. Solid middle-ground shopping choice. Everything in black. A quick glance in my wardrobe and it could be assumed I was a funeral director or a mime artist. Black is the perfect colour for being present but not drawing attention to yourself. You can be there, but not ‘HERE!’. Unless, that is, you were invited to one of those toe-curling-ly cringe Z-list celebrity weddings on a foreign beach, where all the guests are asked to wear white (and go barefoot).

I breathe in very slowly. Then exhale. And continue to stare. This is me now. Not the me she knew. I am finished with both of them.

‘Hon-eeeeey!’

The only reason I am here flies through the door and gives me a perfunctory peck on the cheek.

‘Noelle! How are you?’

‘How am I? Duh! Not exactly happy. That bitch!’

‘What bitch?’

‘The bitch who interviewed me. Ashley some-one-or-other.’

I realise Noelle has not recognised her. Not surprising. She was a small kid when everything happened. A concerted effort was made to ‘keep her out of it’.

‘Sorry, I got here late. Was at the hospit—’

‘You missed the whole thing?’

‘Not on purpose. What’s the matter?’

‘I got trashed out there,’ continues Noelle. ‘I’ve never been so embarrassed in my, like, life. If Frédéric hadn’t arrived … well, quelle doomage! Anyway, why didn’t you come and find me?’

‘I attempted to. But was prevented from doing so by a lady holding a clipboard and wearing an I’m-so-special-I could-eat-myself hat.’

‘Oh, you mean Sophs. She was only making sure I saw all the right people first. No, like, offence. There were a lot of serious national journalists out there. Internationally, if you include Internet hits. I mean, the Web has become even more important than print these days, yeah.’ She adds this as if she was revealing a prize nugget of information gleaned from years studying the development of digital media.

I don’t engage. ‘You’re okay then?’

‘I’ll pull through, I think. I have to. I’ve got to hang with Frédéric, sign some like, shit—I mean books—ha! for my fans … then go to another party.’

‘I meant, generally, are you okay? I keep getting missed calls from you at weird times of the night.’

She shrugs. ‘Soz. Only tryin’ to catch up and t’ingz. Time-zone issues. But, yeah, I’m more than okay. Honeeeeey, believe … this bitch is fly.’

‘Good, because I was …’ I stop myself. There is no point voicing concern. ‘We can still do a picture?’

‘Yeah, I’ll get Sophs to arrange it.’

‘What’s there to arrange? All you have to do is stand in front of the display of your books by the podium.’

Noelle scrunches up her face. The bones underneath don’t so much jut as project.

‘Thing is,’ she says, ‘Sophs, is a bit funny about who snaps me these days.’

‘Noelle, you snap yourself every day on a Hello Kitty phone. You’re not Nick Knight.’

‘Don’t get on my grill. That’s different. Insta, innit! Let me see what I can do. It is, like, you, after all. Wait there. I need a pee.’

She disappears into the toilet. I see the tips of her shiny patent brogues poking towards the gap beneath the cubicle door. Then she flushes and turns round. Now I can see the backs of her shoes and pompom-socked ankles. I know what she is doing. Sure enough, I hear the sound of a card being tapped quickly and violently on the cistern, followed by a long drawn-out gutteral snort, which she attempts to drown out by flushing the loo again. But frankly, she could have carried out that little routine by the Niagara Falls and still be heard. Also as expected, I gag.

Even after I had grown up enough to realise that my father had not been joking and that Class A and B drugs did in fact look like many sweets (Sherbet Dip Dab, Toblerone, Love Hearts etc,) but not fruit pastilles, I avoided them. Therapy had given me mental stability. Well, more of a plateau of not feeling anything, which suited me fine. I did not want to see where a pill or powder could ‘take me’. I did not want to go anywhere.

At college, people would question my lack of adventure and tell me I didn’t know what I was missing out on. But Dr Google gave me a pretty good idea: ‘A brief, intense high and rush of confidence that is immediately followed by depressive thoughts, anxiety, a craving for more of the chemical, heart palpitations, insomnia, hyper-stimulation and paranoia …’ And all that was only in the short term! Oh, and it gave you terrible diarrhoea; I witnessed both verbal and gastric. The latter of which I think Noelle is now experiencing because she is flushing the loo again. Either that or she is doing another line. I gag again.

‘Noo-Noo! Noooooooooo-Noooooooooo!’

A clipboard appears in the doorway, followed by the peak of a tweed cap and the enticingly punchable face of Noelle’s agent.

‘She’s in there.’ I point at the correct cubicle. ‘Testing out the efficiency of the plumbing.’

Sophie walks in and knocks on it. ‘Noo-Noo, we need to do one last circuit and then get you down to drinkalinks at the Serpentine. I want your arrival to be circa the same time as Paltrow or Palermo. And Harry. Styles not Windsor. We’re okay-ish for the moment, Loopy’s just radioed through … but we really should bloody chop chop.’

‘I think she’s already done that,’ I mutter.

Sophie ignores me. Noelle unlocks the cubicle door and beams at us. Her eyes are glassy and wide. Her top lip sweaty. Her smile skewed. As on the last few occasions I have seen her like this, there is part of me that wants to take her aside and tell her exactly what I am seeing. But then the other part of me speaks up to remind me that Noelle isn’t fussed by what I see. Only how she is seen … by people she doesn’t even know.

She goes to the sink and starts washing her hands. ‘Sophs, I’ve promised this honey …’ She nods at me. ‘… I’ll do a snap, yeah?’

Sophie crinkles her nose. ‘Eh? We’re not doing any pics today, Noo-Noo. It was part of the deal with Catwalk; they get the exclusive on all the party images to go up online overnight. I know nothing about any other requests.’

‘It’s for my own personal website,’ I explain. ‘I have a blog.’

‘A fashion blog?’

‘More of an on-going study about the relationship between women, image, marketing, reality, art and social media.’

The look on Sophie’s face tells me I may as well have asked, ‘WOULD YOU LIKE TO ROLL IN SOME FOX FAECES WITH ME?’

‘How nice,’ she says. ‘But not today. Maybe another time. Pending on your hit scores, we could tie it in with something for charity. I’m all about getting bad ass on bullies. And STDs, obviously.’ She adds nonsensically and passes Noelle a make-up bag. ‘Noo, blow your nose, get some slap on and meet me back by the bar.’

As Sophie departs, Noelle grimaces at me. Her pupils are even more dilated and blacker, like the liquorice swirls we used to love. She shakes the water from her hands.

‘Don’t get ants in your pants, honeeeeey,’ she shouts. ‘I’m as, like, gutted as you are. I, like, really mean that, yeah? But I guess, if I’ve learned anything from this situ it’s that I’m now at a point in my career where the smaaaaa-llest request has to be, like, put through my agent? Bonkers, I know, but then everyone knows where they stand and I’m not disappointing anyone. Espesh peeps who I like, really care about, yeah? Because you know that’s not who I am. I’m a people-pleaser not a, like, people-letter-downer. I mean, yeah, if the request gets like turned down, they’ll still be disappointed, but Sophs will do the disappointing for me, you know? It means I don’t have to carry that, like, burden.’ She does a ducky-mouth pose in the mirror and captures the moment on her Hello Kitty mobile. ‘But, hey, at least you got to come down and get a little taster of how cray cray life is for me right now, huh … I mean, that bitch out there was just jealous of my success, right? My fans still love me. Like I give a, like, fuck about the haters.’ She shrugs off their imaginary hate. ‘It’s always women who are having a pop at me. Remember that show I did in the States … Check Me Out, Sista!? Feminist wackos basically said that by making over lonely teenage girls using fashion, make-up and haircuts inspired by the most popular celebs that we were like, not only taking away their individuality … but moreover underlining the homig-homug- …’

‘Homogenisation?’ I interject, only because I want to correct her.

‘Yeah, the homogeni-wotist of, like, female youth erm … culture, yeah. That’s it. I was like, “Whatever, go laser your bikini line …” It sucks! I really don’t need those negative vibes.’

‘Not when you’ve got a book to sell, eh?’

‘I’d also like an MBE … at some, like, point.’

‘I’m going to go home now, Noelle.’

‘All that way? Bit of a trek, honey. Why don’t you crash in my hotel? We could hang tomozz … I’ve got fittings for fashion week at Tory Hambeck—I’m doing ‘da c-walk’ for her—but that’s, like, it. I would invite you to the Serps but it’s totally invite only. I mean, I could ask Loops if she could get in contact with the peeps running t’ingz, see if she can track down a spare ticket, but I can only i-mag-ine the waiting list. It starts in an hour.’

‘I imagine it would be easier to locate, purchase and install a new lung before then. Not to worry. I can’t stay in London, anyway. I’m going to a gig … at The Croft.’

‘That old pub by the station?’

‘It’s been revamped.’

‘Sweet! Awww, I can’t do gigs any more, they remind me of Troy too much. Coachella was like twisting a, like, Sam-Sam-Samo- … a big knife in my heart. Sometimes I wish Loops had screwed up my Access All Areas pass for Reading so I’d never met him. It probably would have been better …’ She sniffs loudly with dual purpose; to halt her runny nose and demonstrate how upset she is at the memory. ‘So your boyf is still singing? That’s cute. God loves a try-er!’

‘Yes, he is still singing … because he is a singer. I emailed you a link to his most recent demo. It’s an acoustic set …’ I cringe at those two words. It find it impossible to use music terminology without sounding pretentious. ‘I thought that maybe you could help, with your connections …’

‘Email it again, honeeeeey. Probably landed in my junk. I permanently have major storage issues.’

I can’t help laughing. ‘Sure you do. Bye, Noelle, it was great catching up. I’m glad I came all this way.’

‘I’m 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 …’

‘Well, you’d still better not have a Chinese takeaway any time soon. Not until she’s totally settled in. MSG is feline crack. She might get involved in something she’d regret. I can only imagine what her police mugshot would look like, all dilated pupils and bushed-out tail …’

Zach manages a smile. ‘… and hanging from her mouth, the bloody remains of an urban rodent only identifiable from its dental records.’

I laugh. So does he, but then we both stop. Abruptly. Zach clears his throat again.

‘Ash, the reason I called you tonight …’

‘… was because you needed to show me your financial report for the …’ I don’t say it. The D word. I don’t call it that. If forced, I replace it with a generic term that covers the legal aspect, like ‘process’ or ‘arrangement’ or I simply trail off. ‘I heard you. Give me five minutes.’

I need to go to the off licence. The only booze in the fridge is my three-week-old half-drunk public ‘decoy’ bottle of Sauvignon Blanc that I keep there to pretend I can have it in the flat without drinking it.

‘No, no, Ash … I said that so that you would come back home as soon as possible. I need to tell you something.’

I blink hard. Six very average words. I need to tell you something. But how they are spoken makes all the difference. Quickly, short spacing … the something is Some Thing which may affect part of your day. Slowly, wide spacing … the something is The Thing which will affect your whole life.

‘Sorry?’

‘I.’ SPACE. ‘Need.’ SPACE ‘To.’ SPACE ‘Tell.’ SPACE. ‘You.’ SPACE. ‘Something.’

‘What.’ No intonation.

‘Your mother … she’s passed away.’

I look down at the box of records. The only visible one is an (I’m imagining appalling) house remix of Don’t Speak by No Doubt. I was never a big fan of Gwen Stefani’s fifties rockabilly look when that song came out. The overtly punk style that came afterwards lacked authenticity. And then the geisha thing was too … well, it had been done. (Madonna, Kylie, Janet Jackson … who hasn’t put their hair in a bun and sweated through a video in a silk dress with a dragon motif?) But now … wow. Stefani is a street fashion icon. Okay, it’s structured, expected, formulaic almost …

‘Ash?’

… but no one can deny that she hasn’t been hugely influential on the general look of girl groups from the Pussy Cat Dolls to Little Mix. Or as Fitz calls them, Wind in the Willows. Ha!

‘Ash. I’m so sorry. I don’t know any of the details but when I was here, a woman called and left a message on the answering machine about the memorial service. She must have thought you already knew.’

MOLE. BADGER. RATTY. TOAD.

Zach steps forward. I step back.

‘I didn’t mean to shock you but the last thing I wanted to happen was for you to listen to the message on your own and th—’

I interrupt him. ‘She had a husky voice … the person who left the message. Right?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Her name is Sheila. She ran the pub next to the block of flats where I grew up. She had white-blonde hair and always wore skintight shiny black clothes. Not leather … PVC. She always laughed—chestily, in fact, thanks to a forty-a-day Lambert and Butler habit—in the face of breathable fabrics. I lik—’

Now he interrupts. ‘Rewind. How can you be sure it was her?’

‘Because I already know.’

‘What? You know what?’ He manages a double intonation.

‘I know that my mother is …’ Another D word. Another one I—or anyone would—want to think about. Let alone, articulate.

‘And you didn’t tell me?’

‘No. Look, it’s not as if it wasn’t …’ Around the corner? Bound to happen? A matter of time? I pause, knowing I sound like an automaton, but I don’t want Zach’s sympathy because he feels obliged. ‘… you know the relationship she and I had. And let’s face it, you and I are in a difficult situation too.’

‘Come on, Ash. Don’t be like that. How long have you known?’

‘Two months.’

‘Two months!’

‘Yes, Zach, two months. That’s what I said. Look, you don’t have to feel guilty. You weren’t to know this was going to happen.’

‘Guilty? You think that’s why I want to be there for you?’

‘Well, it is, isn’t it?’

‘Ash, don’t be so brutal. I’m here because I care about you. This is a massive thing to have happened—irrespective of the timing and irrespective of your relationship with her. This must have—must still be—bewildering for you. I think “bewildered” would be totally understandable in this situation. How did it happen?’

‘All that coconut water. It’s a lesson to us all. Clean living gets to you in the end.’ I squirm at my wholly unnecessary joke. ‘It was liver disease, Zach. Sheila told me that there are around seven thousand alcohol-related deaths each year and sixty-five per cent are because those livers have just said, “Nope. No more. E-fucking-nough!”’

He shakes his head, sadly. ‘I can’t even begin to imagine how I would be feeling if it were my mother.’

‘Don’t make me look bad by personalising the conversation. It’s a slightly different situation. I have not seen mine once in the last decade. You speak to yours every day. At length.’

Zach’s mother has a lot to say about everything, but little of her commentary is necessary. It’s always coated with middle-class concern over what other people might think, even when she doesn’t need other people to know. She randomly emailed me the other week to say, ‘I’ve told Barbara and Tim from next door that it was decided shortly after Easter you would be going your separate ways …’ As if her neighbours had been glued to the Sky News ticker tape during the summer waiting for an update on mine and Zach’s marriage.

He sighs at me. ‘I know that Mum will be really sorry for you when she hears the news, Ash.’

I ignore this comment. He ignores my lack of response.

‘So, will you go to the memorial? Because if you do decide to, I’ll come with you. I can drive us there.’

He clears his throat. Another one of the mannerisms we both seem to have acquired recently. Whenever we are discussing something on the phone, either he or I or both of us suddenly seem to have something obstructing our oesophagus.

‘Don’t be silly. You’ve got that pitch coming up.’

‘It’s tomorrow. We finished the prep a couple of days ago, thank God. There’s been a lot of late nights in the office with Keith and … the team.’

‘Lucky you.’

Keith With The Bad Teeth is Zach’s business partner. He refers to women as ‘poontang’ and rides a pimped-up eighties BMX along the pavements of East London into work. As Noelle Bamford would say, ‘Nuff said.’

‘Seriously, I appreciate the offer, Zach, but I’ll be more than capable of handling this.’

‘“Handling this”?’

‘Yes. Handling this,’ I repeat. It sounds even worse third time.

‘Well, when you decide what you’re doing … you know how to get hold of me.’

‘Through your solicitor?’ I joke weakly. ‘Please, can we not talk about this anymore.’

He manages to smile too. ‘Okay. Hey … look, until I heard the news about your mother, I wasn’t planning on being here when you got back. You’d said you were going to be out late tonight, so I would have made sure I was gone by nine-ish. I want you to know I wasn’t breaking the agreement we made.’

That being whilst things are being sorted out on the legal front, it’s best we are not in one another’s company. We talk or text when necessary but we avoid face-to-face encounters, especially at our homes. I haven’t even seen the place that Zach has rented, even though it is only a ten-minute walk.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ I tell him. ‘It doesn’t matter if we crossover occasionally. Obviously, you’re going to need to pack up the rest of your stuff and, besides, it’s still your flat.’

‘Nah, it’s your flat now.’

‘Maybe we should refer to it how Prince might: “The Home Formerly Known as Our Flat”.’

We both emit a short burst of uncomfortable laughter again.

‘Well, I’ll, erm … finish off this box and then maybe we could grab some dinner,’ suggests Zach. ‘I know it’s also against the rules, but I don’t like the idea of you being on your own, thinking about all of this. Let me take you out for a Chinese. I won’t tell Kat Moss. Unless you’ve erm … got a hot date coming over later, then of c— …’

‘Actually, yes, I have!’ I interrupt, almost manically brightly. ‘I would quite like you to meet him. Nice guy. City trader, got a faintly experimental haircut and zips around on a Vespa … but despite that, isn’t a wanker. Although, I haven’t seen his bike helmet yet. If it’s emblazoned with a Union Jack or a Mod target in the colours of the Italian flag, then we’ll know he is indeed a massive tit!’ I pause, my unhinged laughter hanging in the air. ‘Sorry, I was just trying to l—’

‘Lift the atmosphere?’

‘Yeah.’ I clear my throat. ‘That.’

‘No need to apologise. I started it by making a joke about you having a date … which wasn’t necessary.’

‘Mmm …’ I flop faux-casually down onto my giant bean bag—the first piece of ‘furniture’ I bought for the flat. ‘True. It wasn’t. I can’t recall seeing anything on the initial paperwork sent from either of our solicitors instructing us that from now until the decree absolute is signed, one of us has to be the official ‘Lifter of the Atmosphere’ whenever we are in an enclosed space together.’

He smiles at me. It is more relaxed this time. ‘Actually, we should probably take it as an encouraging sign. Apparently, a reflex desperation to lift the atmosphere is perfectly natural. One of the account managers I work with said that when they were in the early throws of getting a …’ He is as unwilling to use the D word as I am. ‘… well, breaking up with their partner, they went into this strange entertaining mode every time they saw each other.’

‘That sounds horrific. We’d better nip this in the bud right now then, or Christ knows where we could end up. Juggling, unicycling, fire-eating, angle grinding, puppetry …’ I prod him with my foot. ‘From now on let’s promise to only communicate with cold stares, monosyllabic replies and signatures in the appropriate places. Deal?’

Zach reaches over with his right hand to shake mine, but I feel as if he has punched me with it. He is not wearing his wedding band. This is the first time I have seen him without it since we took our vows. We both decided to wear our rings on our right hand. Him because he’s left-handed. Me because the ring was too big for my left hand and I didn’t want to get it fixed. I wanted to wear it as soon as he gave it to me, and then I never took it off. I still haven’t.

I clear my throat again to stay ‘in situ’, but I am not here … now. It is December 24th last year. I am lying on the bean bag next to Kat Moss. She is the world’s coolest cat. She is the cat that all other cats want to be. She makes being a cat look utterly effortless. And she knows she’s the best. Her meow sounds like she is saying, ‘Meeeeeeeeee …’.

Kat has been grooming herself intensely. My face is now pressed against her fur, I am inhaling it, wondering if there is a finer smell in the universe than ‘eau de freshly washed feline’. Instead of heading out for my final festive knees-up with Fitz, I’ve come home straight after work to get changed. Zach and I are going out to dinner … to continue talking about ‘it’. I look up as he enters the lounge. I had left the house before he got dressed that morning so I assess what he is wearing: Stone Island wool coat, a ridiculous Christmas jumper which was given to him by his team at their work party the week before, True Religion jeans and, as usual, hi-tops. I like how the laces are tied as loose as they could be whilst still maintaining enough grip to walk in. He has perfected ‘louche lacing’.

HIM: How’s my Number One girl?

ME: Good, thanks.

HIM: I didn’t mean you. I meant Kat Moss. (Picking up our cat. Cuddling her.) But I am also open to hearing how you are too given that although you don’t have the subtle, come thither allure of Ms. Moss—or the impressive whiskers—you’re still very sexy, Ash.

ME: I know that. But it’s nice to hear that you think that too.

HIM: And I will always think that. Even when you’re knackered, moody and swollen in places you never knew existed! (Laughing.)

I swallowed. I had not realised we were laughing about ‘it’ yet. I thought we we were still talking about it. And would be doing more of that tonight.

ME: What?

HIM: (Not realising I am not laughing.) Oh, yeah, my Mum told me all about how things just … swell up. Apparently, your sock elastic will feel like you’ve been caught in a wire hunting trap, bra straps will give you welts and you may even need your wedding ring removed with a blow torch. You’ll be forced to live and work in your Snuggle Suit.

I paused and considered whether to pursue the joke to see how it felt.

ME: But being skinny is my thing. I’m the annoying girl everyone hates because she eats crap and never puts on weight.

HIM: You’ll find a new thing.

ME: So might you. A new play thing.

HIM: Maybe. But I promise that if I do, it will only be while you are chubby. When you’ve lost the bulk again, you and I will be back in business. (Putting Kat Moss on the sofa, then checking his watch.) Now, get that soon-to-be huge ass of yours into the bedroom. We’ve got a good hour before you need to faff about in order to make yourself look as if you’ve just got out of bed … even though you will have done exactly that.

I sprang up, grateful of the diversion.

ME: So you know, Zach, there is a difference between bed hair and ‘bed hair ‘. The latter is not a literal effect of the former. (Walking through to the bedroom, stripping off my T-shirt and trousers, jumping onto the bed in my underwear.) It takes tongs. And clips. And effort.

HIM: (Appearing at bedroom door.) And just so you know, Ash, I was kidding. There will never ever be anyone else but y—

‘Deal. Yeah, it’s a deal.’ He rubs my shoulder brusquely as if I am a ‘pal’.

Immediately, I am back in the now, staring numbly at him.

‘Ash? Talk to me … you don’t have to hold all this in, you know.’

‘I’m not. I’ve been dealing with it. I am dealing with it. I will deal with it. But at the moment, I told you … work is pissing me off.’

He sighs, knowing he will not get any more out of me on anything more important.

‘Then I really do think you should look at some options. A change of scene may do you good. At this rate, when you do quit, the HR department won’t give you a carriage clock, you’ll be presented with Big Ben.’

‘Well, maybe some of us find it a little easier than others to fuck off,’ I snipe, and am immediately embarrassed. ‘Sorr—’

‘Don’t apologise.’

‘No, I shouldn’t have.’

‘You should.’

He smiles again, but his smile is different again. There is warmth, worry too … but also pity. I don’t know what’s worse. The fact he thinks I need it or the fact that he clearly sees himself as the stronger one in this situation.

Some more clearing of throats. I tell him I’m going to get changed. As soon as I step into my walk-in wardrobe, I feel myself levelling out a little, because it’s my space. Zach has never even been in there. No one has but me. And the bloke who fitted it. And Kat Moss. It was the first building work I had done as soon as the sale of the property had gone through. The cost meant I couldn’t afford a new boiler or a fridge, but a lack of the former meant it was cold enough for me not to need the latter until the summertime. Besides, what was the odd game of ‘dairy roulette’ with a carton of milk kept on the window sill, when I had my own wardrobe next to my own bedroom in my own flat?

Everyone said it would be impossible for me to buy my own place when I was earning so little—at the time I was still only a junior at Catwalk—but I was determined to save up enough for a mortgage deposit. So I made some changes. I moved into a two-person room share within a house share. I worked nights in a sauna. Weekends in a club. I only bought food and beverages from (the economy range in) supermarkets and not from any form of restaurant or ‘snack’ emporium; especially coffee shops. I had to think of a daily visit to Starbucks as the equivalent of grinding up a five-pound note in a percolator. I didn’t go partying. I’d seen enough of all that. I wanted my own home. One that no one—mortgage company withstanding—could ever ask me to leave.

My walk-in wardrobe is not packed full of clothes. Yes, I am obsessed with fashion but I don’t relentlessly throw money at it. Although, recently I may have been PayPaling a little more than I used to. But it’s not as if I’m one of those girls who buys ‘outfits’. That’s too expensive and too obvious. Crimes Against Fashion No. 23: a head-to-toe look (unless sitting front row at the actual designer’s show. Or it’s your own label, e.g., Stella McCartney.) Guilty: The Kardashians. All of them. Plus Caitlyn Jenner. Girl really does need to be way less matchy matchy. Everything I own is carefully and eclectically selected from all spectrums of fashion retail: designer, vintage, high street, market and online then combined to achieve a look I would hope could be classed as edgy statement chic. I look after each item. I either dry clean or I hand wash, rinse, dry, iron, fold and place back in the allocated spot. My mother’s wardrobe started out like that … she said you should respect clothes as if they were your friends. ‘Because many of them will be in your life a lot longer.’

I reach up to get a fresh Snuggle Suit off the top shelf. On the level above is my collection of The CR Fashion Book. Carine Roitfeld is a genius; and that is not a word I bandy around lightly. In a world where so many are told they are fabulous … she actually is. No one does edgy statement chic like her. Almost mannish but oh-so-sexy. And subtle. Fitz gave me a framed photo of Ms Roitfeld to place on top of my accessories cupboard, just to remind me that a little more is nearly always too much. But there is not much chance of me over-accessorising at the moment as I can’t open the bottom two drawers. There is a fake Louis Vuitton suitcase lying on the floor which I have no other room to store. It was sent to me last week by Sheila. I don’t need to open it because I know what is inside. Exactly what was in there when I unzipped it all those years ago. I was so excited I couldn’t wait to show my best friend. But the second I flipped the lid, she turned to me.

I looked at her face. I knew this face almost as well as my own. With its wide, wise, eager eyes which looked even bigger when she scraped her hair up into a messy top knot, which I had recommended she did as it was classic ‘off duty model’. Much better than the overly straightened, overly hair sprayed bob which was her go to style. I’d told her many times. Crimes Against Fashion No. 28: chemical processes during grooming clearly evident. Guilty: Christina Aguilera (the Genie years).

Suddenly, a mottled rash spread across her skin.

HER: I need to tell you something.

ME: What? What do you need to tell me, Tanya?

Four

TANYA

I can hear the band playing as I leave the station. They’re doing a cover of that Mumford & Sons track which sounds as if it should be played in a village square on May Day by locals drinking scrumpy and wearing neckerchiefs. The lead singer’s voice is raspy. Sexy. He doesn’t quite manage to hit the high notes with full precision, but this inevitably makes him sound even sexier, because maybe he is too cool to care. As I open the door, the band attacks the final chorus and the vocalist clutches his microphone stand. His faded (purposefully crumpled) grey T-shirt is patchy with sweat and clinging to his torso. His hair is also damp and hanging messily in his eyes. He glances down into the audience; a mixture of local twenty- and thirty-somethings on the tail end of a drink-up after work. Most of them would have been in the pub drinking anyway, even if they hadn’t known there was going to be some sort of musical entertainment. They’ve stayed, which is a positive thing. But it’s unlikely the majority of them had the gig diarised on their mobiles … even though a few are being held aloft in video mode. The frontman acknowledges these ‘fans’ with a nod, then wipes his brow. The chunky man bracelet he is wearing flops forward then back to his wrist. I can see in his eyes that the situation isn’t perfect for him. He’d rather be looking out across a sea of fans at the O2 who have bought tickets—months in advance—specifically to see him play his music. I admire him for still having that kind of, well, hope. Because, let’s face it, at this stage, ambition alone is not going to make him—my true love—a star.

Set finished, he jumps down from the makeshift stage onto the floor. I go over to give him a kiss. As he leans down, I think I can smell cigarette smoke.

‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you, babe, I’m well sweaty.’

‘Don’t care.’

I plant a smacker on his mouth. Yes, he’s been smoking. I sense other women in the bar looking in our direction. They were looking at him, but now they are looking at us together; assessing our compatibility. Greg has become very good looking. To me, he always was, but over the last couple of years, I have noticed that a lot of—almost all—women do as well. He finally quit smoking marijuana, lost two stone and toned up to the point where you can see the sinewy outer line of muscle tissue through his clothes—which consequently, took on a more streamlined edge. I was surprised when he told me it was time ‘to hit the gym’. Previously, he’d been more the type of guy who would only look at the cover of Men’s Health if he was ripping it up for roach material.

I kiss him again and come away from his face with a sticky chin.

‘Eww.’

‘So, what did you think of the set?’ he asks, pulling away. ‘Personally, I thought it went pretty well …’ He lowers his voice as the rest of the band start dismantling their equipment ‘… except for the Oasis tribute. The two new guys were on point but Jez fucked up the riff at the beginning of Wonderwall. I mean, seriously! You could give a monkey a banjo for half an hour and I guarantee it would be able to strum that out, no problem. Did you hear me do my solo on the guitar?’

‘Sorry, I’ve been running late all day.’ I had to wait for ages to get my procedure done at the hospital. ‘I’ve only just got here. Was it an, erm … acoustic …’ I cringe. ‘… spot?’

‘Yeah. Then the two newbies came in at the end. Nothing went wrong vocally or instrumentally, not surprising considering that numbnut wasn’t involved.’ He glances over at Jez. ‘Am thinking we need to have words. I don’t see how the band can progress with him as part of the unit. Don’t get me wrong, I love him as if he were a brother, but I already have a brother, and I choose not to see him, so I don’t need another holding me back. You wouldn’t want another sister, would you, babe?’

‘God, no.’

He kisses me again. ‘You know I hate going on about it, but I don’t suppose she’s … erm, managed t—’

‘No, no, she hasn’t. You don’t need her though. You need talent and that’s what you have. That will bring you success.’ I say this as affirmatively as possible. ‘You’ve got it, Greg.’

‘Mmm …’ Greg gazes at the punters, no more or less excitedly guzzling their drinks then they were during the gig. ‘Shall we do the offski?’

‘Are you not cashing up tonight?’

‘Nah. If I hung around till closing, I’d explode the rock-’n’-roll mystique for my “fans” …’ He raises an eyebrow. ‘… that in real life, I manage a gastro pub and the only instrument I usually carry around with me is a portable chip-and-pin machine, not an electric guitar. Have a drink whilst I grab my stuff.’

I order an orange juice and chat to the new barman. He’s ‘cute’, but I’ve never been attracted to boyish good looks. I like men. Greg is manly. And like I said, there was even more man at the beginning. He was solid physically. That was what drew me to him, because on a very basic level, I was looking for someone who was solid mentally.

The night I first saw Greg, it was a Thursday. As we did on this day every week, Suze, Maddie and I would go to The Croft after work for some drinks. Suze saw him first, then Maddie and then me. With almost choreographed perfection their eyes swivelled from him to me, as if to say, ‘He’s SO your type!’, which was a fact, and I suppose quite sweet of them. But I could already sense the patronising exchange that was about to follow. It did.

‘Go and talk to him,’ said Maddie.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I replied (only semi-)sarcastically. ‘I can’t do that. It is considered highly inappropriate for clientele frequenting drinking establishments to speak to the staff working there … except in extreme circumstances, like ordering a beverage.’

‘… and don’t attempt to distract the situation by making shit jokes,’ said Suze, snorting.

‘This could be fate,’ added Maddie. ‘He may have been sent to our pub for you. Everything happens for a reason.’

I rolled my eyes at her. ‘You know who started that expression? The fairies at the bottom of the garden. They came up with it shortly after finishing off that day’s twelve horoscope predictions which would apply to the world’s population of seven billion.’

Another snort from Suze. ‘Whatever, T, get on with it. When was the last time you dated?’

‘I went on a date last week.’

‘I mean, seriously dated.’ She rubbed her chin. ‘Actually, I remember … it was before Jasper had taken his exams for prep school. In fact, you came to his last sports day with the guy you were seeing. Jasper bit his teacher. She had to get a jab. Then Evie threw your bloke’s car keys into the swimming pool.’

‘You’re right, Suze, I forgot you had a calendar in your kitchen which correlates your children’s advance through the education system with my love life.’

Suze laughed.

‘We only want you to be happy,’ added Maddie, who had recently made things official with her boyfriend, Kian.

I rolled my eyes at her. ‘Surely it is a given that everyone should want that for everyone else as standard. But for some reason, as soon as a woman becomes part of a couple, she automatically morphs into this beatific altruistic creature who roams the land wanting happiness for all women. Maddie, suffragettes died on your behalf so that our gender could flourish in their lives without being reliant on men for anything, least of all happiness.’

‘Until you start thinking about kids,’ she replies. ‘If you want to have a baby, you’ll need a man. It’s a simple fact. And you’ll need one that you can rely on.’

I stiffened. Suze sensed my reaction immediately. I know this because a second later she was replying to Maddie so I wouldn’t have to.

‘Bullshit, you don’t need to rely on a man to have a child. You only need one temporarily.’

‘You mean a donor?’ Maddie shook her head. ‘I don’t know whether I could do it. Not from a moral point of view, of course, it’s not for me to cast judgement in that sense. I mean, plan on being a single parent. I’d find it overwhelming. Within a day of meeting Kian, I knew I wanted him to be the father of my children. Two months in, I still do. But I want to wait until I am absolutely sure that the environment I am bringing that child into is right. Would it really be fair if I didn’t?’

‘Fair?’ I blurt out. ‘On who?’

Maddie shrugs. ‘Well, the child.’

‘If you are intending on having one out of love, it doesn’t matter how many people are involved. One or one hundred!’ My voice rises. ‘And who are you to say what environment is right or wrong?’

‘I was only saying that I think it would be tough doing it on your own … and that the better scenario is a two-parent family. It’s a wider support system. You must agree with that?’

I tutted at her for being so … well, so typically Middle England Maddie. But deep down, I agreed with her. Of course, it would be tough doing it on your own. It would take a brave woman to do that. If you were a scared girl, forget it.

Suze clocked my expression and stepped in again.

‘Anyway, I think this is all getting a bit Loose Women. Are we going to get a drink or what? At this rate I’m going to die of thirst …’ She reached into her bag for her purse. ‘Oh, and if I do drop dead, you can have one of my children each. And then, trust me, neither of you will ever want one of your own!’

So, Suze got the first round. Then Maddie got the second. They found out the new barman was called Greg and had been posted here by the brewery from another pub across town. I kept quiet. There were so many variables that simply weren’t in my favour to do something as rash as speaking to him. For a start, it would have been too obvious. And, therefore, embarrassing. And, consequently, awkward for both of us. And then, painful for any of us to come back to a pub which had been our regular hang-out for years. Ultimately, I would be creating a ‘situation’. The girls knew this was how I would be thinking, so after two drinks they stopped badgering me. The following Thursday, we arranged to meet at our usual time … but when I turned up (five minutes late), they weren’t there.

I saw him though. His back was to me as he changed an optic on a bottle of vodka. I knew it was him as I had stared at every part of his anatomy so hard the previous week, I could have given Crimewatch an exact E-fit of the nape of his neck. I was about to spin round and leave when a text pinged through from Suze:

If you walk out you’re officially a TWAT. FYI Maddie is with me, so don’t think about calling her.

I approached the bar, purple heat rash prickling.

ME: Erm … hi.

HIM: (Turning round.) Hey.

It was a generic I-don’t-recognise-you “hey”.

ME: I’m Tanya. I was in last week. You were talking to my friends, Suze and Maddie. We’re here every Thursday, but they haven’t turned up yet s—

HIM: Oh, right, yeah. How’s it going?

ME: Great, in fact. You?

HIM: Yeah … good.

ME: That’s, erm … good. Really … great.

Move over Dorothy Parker.

HIM: That’s all decided then. I’m good and so are you. No, you’re—in fact—great. What do you want?

He smirked. Negatively? Positively?

ME: Oh, God, erm … nothing really. I got here early, so thought I would say hello, since I was in here. Waiting. For Suze and Madd—

HIM: I meant, what do you want to drink?

ME: Right. Of course. Prosecco?

I HATE PROSECCO!

HIM: Coming up. So, tell me, Trisha …

ME: Tanya.

HIM: Sorry … Tanya. What do you do?

ME: I’m a content writer for corporate websites.

HIM: Ah, cool.

ME: It’s not. But I have a crazy boss who is obsessed with Star Wars. It’s really funny, he does impersonations of Yoda.

Yeah, he’s a lunatic. Because not even the vaguest sci-fi fan does that, do they?

HIM: Sounds it. Hey, maybe you could do a new website for my band? Pretty please!

ME: Band?

NOT what I wanted to hear.

HIM: Yeah, I’m a singer. The band is pretty successful, but I like to work behind a bar still. Keeps me grounded. I’m just hoping that I get to enjoy this sort of freedom for as long as possible before things sky rocket and we l—

ME: (Interrupting to tie up the conversation.) Well, that sounds like you’re keeping it, erm … real. The fans must appreciate that.

I physically recoiled at my use of muso speak.

HIM: I’m sure they would if I had any.

ME: What?

HIM: I was winding you up! The band … it’s a hobby. We play covers at weddings … not original material on the Pyramid stage at Glastonbury.

ME: OH! (Warming to him again.) So, erm … what kind of traffic do you get on your current website?

HIM: Traffic? (Rubbing his chin.) Well, metaphorically speaking … you know if you take a left at the roundabout before Lidl, and then go right past the old recreation ground and take that spindly lane which snakes round the back of the church up towards the farm which is basically only used by the occasional agricultural vehicle? That’s pretty much the type of traff—

ME: Yep, I do. Actually, my parents use that lane too … they live just off it.

HIM: Poor them. That’s where Howard Dinsdale lives, isn’t it? In that mock-Tudor monstrosity. His company bought the youth club I went to as a kid and turned it into luxury flats. He’s an arsehole …

ME: Try having him as a father.

HIM: Ha! Nice attempt at getting me back. Now you’re winding me up. (Peering at me.) Oh. Shit. Oh, shit.

I smiled at him. He smiled too. At that moment, my stomach didn’t simply flip. It did a full-on exquisitely executed Olympic-level triple flickflack into a double backwards somersault with a twist. One which had been perfected by a dedicated Russian gymnast who had spent her entire childhood in a Moscow training camp, but who knew if she nailed a flawless routine she could move to the United States once the Games were over and be free to watch Miley Cyrus pop videos. And visit the Dash store. And eat Ben and Jerry’s.

I disappeared to the toilets and shut myself in a cubicle to call Suze. I told her everything Greg had said. Everything I had said. She informed me that she and Maddie were on their way, and ordered me to go back out to the bar and talk to him until their arrival. I left the cubicle. At the same time, another girl vacated the other cubicle and we both went to the sinks to wash our hands. As she rinsed hers, she stared at me. She was an Eva Mendez-esque exotic beauty with sloping features and olive skin. There was not a dab of make-up on her face—not even a very light mineral veil or BB cream. (I know my subtle cosmetic camouflage, they are the only products I use.) But she didn’t smile back, and left the lavatory without drying her hands. When I returned to the bar, she was sitting on a stool, chatting to Greg. He waved at me.

HIM: Hey, Tanya, this is Sadie. (He passes Sadie a pint of beer.) Sadie, meet Tanya … one of the regulars here.

Sadie raised her glass and gave me a look. This look told me that she’d heard every word I’d said in the toilet. It also told me everything about her relationship with Greg. But moreover, my relationship with myself. She knew I wasn’t going to compete with her, as I was the type of girl who avoided competition. The sort who lived within the remit of her capability but didn’t push herself further than that. She was right. My approach to life since my late teens had become: get through it. Full stop. Not, live it! Certainly not ‘to the full’ or ‘to the max’ or with the pressurising pre-cursor, of ‘you only have one, so …’. And that is what I had been doing, getting through it. No highs. No lows. Anything to avoid … feeling.

‘Do you think I should call myself something else, babe?’ Greg asks, as we pull out of The Croft’s car park and head home.

He is driving. I had a silly spate of fainting a while ago, so I don’t feel fully comfortable behind a wheel. Besides, I like watching Greg drive. It says a great deal about how sexy he is that he is still sexy when zipping about in my Ford Ka.

‘Eh? Why on earth would you do that?’

‘My name is so lame.’

‘How can a name be lame?’

‘When you’re called Greg. There can’t be many more inappropriate monikers for the front man of a band. Just say we make it—and I am obviously being stupidly optimistic here, as our most recent demo is probably being used as a coffee mug coaster in all the record companies we sent it to—and not even on the A&R guy’s desk; it’ll be his assistant’s assistant, or the reception—’

‘Stop it, something will happen.’ I interrupt, to tell him what he needs to hear. ‘Think of how far you’ve come in the last couple of years.’

‘Playing covers in pubs as opposed to marquees? Mmm … I can almost feel my fingers closing round that Grammy.’

‘Shoosh. Anyway, you don’t need to change your name. Besides, I like it.’

‘That’s because you like me,’ he says, laughing, ‘but, I’m sure, if prior to us meeting, you had been presented with a list of ten men’s names and asked which one belongs to a rock star, “Greg” would not be your number one choice.’

‘It depends who else was on the list,’ I say, looking at him as he changes gear then indicates.

‘Okay, so on this list …’ He continues. ‘… other than Greg, are the following; Jon (without the “H”), Kurt, Axl, Mick, Bruce, Gene, Eddie, Freddie, Jim … and Bono.’

‘Ha! But you don’t want to be called a name that is already associated with an established star … especially a dead one. Or worse, a smug one. Besides, you have to think that some singers aren’t necessarily born with the coolest name. They make the name cool themselves. I mean, what’s that guy called who fronts the, erm … Killers?’

‘Brandon Flowers.’

‘There you go!’

‘An isolated case … and to be fair, he’s not really that rock’n’roll. He’s a Mormon.’ He reaches across to rub my knee. ‘Hey, I’ve been thinking about your birthday … you know I was meant to be working? Well, I’m going to organise some time off. I need a break. That place is doing my head in. Why don’t we go somewhere? Have a long weekend. Manchester, maybe? See a band …’

‘Awww, that sounds brilliant …’ I lie. Live music! Drugs! Enforced wild abandon! No, thank you. ‘… but I’ve got a really important meeting on Monday morning at work and I’ll, erm … have to prepare. My boss is on my case about it.’ Another (half-)lie. I do have an appointment first thing that day but it’s not in any way related to my job. And no one would ever be on my case about anything because I’m always a consummate professional. ‘You know me, I hate being unprepared.’

‘Life on the edge, babe.’ He laughs.

‘Yep, I’m all about that periphery. Ha! Anyway, Suze and Maddie wanted us to do lunch. With Rollo and Kian, too …’ I add, in attempt to make it sound more appealing for him.

‘But we did lunch with them last year …’

‘That’s because they’re my best friends. Suze, Maddie and I always see one another on our birthdays. Besides, you get on with Rollo and Kian, and at least you and Suze can go off and you know what …’ I poke him.

He brakes and changes gear jerkily as the road twists.

‘No, what?’

‘God, sorry! Didn’t mean to make you jump. I meant, smoke. She’s the only one left out of everyone who still does.’

‘Oh, right. Yeah, I guess she is.’ He stares straight ahead. ‘But I’m not smoking any more …’

‘Which is why it’s so strange you smell of fags, not to mention unfair, when you’ve put in so much hard work.’

‘Very funny.’ He exhales loudly. ‘Okay, o-kay, I had a couple tonight before the gig. I needed the nicotine hit. It gets me hyped up. And, more importantly, stops me caning crisps.’

‘I still fancied you when you ate salty snacks. What happened to the electronic cigarette thing I bought you?’

‘It’s at home. I look like such a dickhead puffing on it.’

‘You’ll look even more of a dickhead when you’re hooked up to immobile medical apparatus so you can breathe.’

‘I know. I hear you. I’m so sorry, babe. I’ll try harder.’ He glances across at me briefly. ‘To quit …’

I laugh. ‘Stop it! You sound so tormented. I’m not angry with you, Greg … just concerned.’

‘… and you’re right to be concerned. I shouldn’t do it but, in the moment something sort of takes over.’ He rubs his forehead. ‘But I’ll make more of an effort, I promise …’

He takes his hand off my knee to change gear and his man bracelet jangles. I gave it to him and had it engraved on the inside: To my T. T = TRUE LOVE. I wrote this in code to a) make sure that other people did not know what it said as I hate relentless public celebrations of togetherness. (There is a whole section on my blog about the horror of ‘Insta-couples’) and b) because it was such a huge statement from me. I knew I would see it every day. In code, it was less likely to be a glaring reminder that the love I’d experienced before had been so false. It was a lie. The worst kind of lie. The type that breeds more lies.

Let it fucking go.

I find myself emitting a short gasp. It is a breath of realisation. Because it is time. Time to admit it to myself. Time to tell him. It is, isn’t it?

‘Babe?’

I jump. We are parked outside the house. Greg waves the car keys (attached to his mini-Fender Stratocaster keyring) at me.

‘Are you going to get out of the car?’

‘Wha— God, sorry.’

‘You all right?’

‘Uh huh.’ I click off my seat belt. ‘Greg …’

‘That is my name, yes … unfortunately. Ha!’

I don’t laugh. ‘I want to talk …’

His face tenses. ‘Right …’

‘About something good! The last time we discussed it, I wasn’t sure, but now, I think it will be fine. Fine! What a ridiculous word to use. I’ve been going round in circles in my head, not wanting to commit to a decision for so many reasons. But then I thought, what am I doing? In practical terms, we now have a house so it will not be that much of an upheaval as we have way more space. God, I’m sure the noise will still be a shock but you can’t hav—’

‘Awww, babe!’ He interrupts me and plants a kiss on my cheek. ‘Thank you. I knew you would see the light eventually. It’s not as if we ever park the car in the garage anyway. Trust me, the guys will be over the moon. And please, do not worry about the noise. When Jez had his studio in his ex’s garage, he egg-boxed the whole thing for sound insulation. Sounds crazy but it works … you need a lot of boxes, so you can’t really do it with the dozen boxes you get at the supermarket. I’ll go to that posh farm shop up the road from your parents’. They’ll have the big trays. Unless …’ He takes a deep breath then gives me one of his Olympic-flickflack-inducing smiles. ‘Unless, we do it properly and get your old man to get some of his builders to soundproof properly. Yeah, I know, I know … you hate accepting anything from him. I do, too, but he did ask if you wanted help renovating when we first moved in and you said, “No,” so, the offer was there. All we need to do is clear out all the rubbish in there. What is in there, anyway?’

I consider whether to reboot the conversation. Are we actually talking about the garage?

‘Babe? Are you listening?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I asked what was in there.’

‘Oh … erm … you know, stuff …’

‘Like what?’

‘Old clothes. Magazines. Letters. Things like that …’

… let it fucking go. ‘But nothing important?’

‘No, nothing important.’

‘Fantastic! So, you can ask Pops and we’ll be good to go. Right you … out.’ He opens the car door and jumps from his seat. ‘I’m going to show you my appreciation in the only—but the best—way I can: N to the O to the O to the K to the I to the E. NOOKIE!’

Seconds later, I am tapping in the alarm code. Minutes later, we are in the sitting room. Greg’s kit is off already. As usual. He can strip fast. My true love is a very sexual being. He wants to have sex every day, multiple times if possible. He starts by pumping me against the leather armchair. The force shunts me and the furniture across the room. It is good. It is sooooo GOOD. No, it’s great. GREAT! GREEEEEEEEEEAT. Aghhhhhhhhhh! We edge past the coffee table, manage to traverse a pot plant my mother gave me, then head towards the CD tower racks from my old flat. Each one is ordered alphabetically. The corner of the chair slams into the nearest tower (A–F). An Arctic Monkeys live album, Biffy Clyro’s debut and White Ladder by David Gray (tsk—that should be under G–L!) and all of Coldplay’s studio work shoot out onto the floor. Oooooh, that’s hard. It’s getting harder. TOO HARD! OW! OW! OWWWWW! NO, I’ve chaaaaanged my mind. MORE! I WANT IT HAAAAAAAAAARDER! I hear a nasty crunch and know that Parachutes will need replacing. A few more shunts to the left and three whole towers tumble. All the albums which land on the floor are ‘some bloke’ acts … every one a quadruple platinum-selling television-advertised sensation that I purchased because it was what ‘some bloke’ I was dating was into. Ooooooooooh … that’s the spot. That’s the SPOT. Mmmmmmmmmm … oh, Greg, YOU ARE SUCH AN ANIMAAAAAAAAAAL! There was a string of these men. Including the slightly more longterm one who got bitten by Suze’s daughter, Evie. I remember her teeth sinking into his arm. I remember the exact pattern of the marks she left as Suze unhooked her jaw. I remember we waited in A&E for three hours. But right now, I can’t remember his name either. Was it Steve? Stephen. No, Stephan. Or was it St—it doesn’t matter, because … oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, OH MY GOD! We move to the hallway, then the utility room—but change our minds because we both value our coccyges—and end up in the master bedroom. I lie underneath Greg, looking at his face: contorted with pleasure—his eyes screwed shut, accessing that place. A private, hidden place. He does this sometimes, not just in relation to sex. He sort of zones out. Some people can do that, can’t they? Remove themselves. I am not one of those people. Not any more. I was when I used to buy all those magazines that are in the garage. When I used to wear those clothes which are in there. When she wrote me that letter which is lying in the first issue on the opening-double-page spread of the heroin-chic shoot. Oh, yeah, I was one of those people then. But now I am very much in the moment. And at this moment, I am about to have … no, I am having, I AM HAVING AN ORGAAAAAAAAAASM! Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes, oh yes, oh yes, oh yes! YES! YES! YES! AND ANOTHER ONE! YAHOOOOOOOOOO! YES! I’M COMIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIG!

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm mmm …

Greg does too. Then collapses on top of me. As I lie underneath him, panting—deliriously satisfied to the point that he could ask to convert the whole freaking house into a production studio and I would say yes … then even re-mortgage to pay for Pharrell Williams to show him how to use all the equipment—I pray that he and I will always have ‘nookie’ like this. Even if that nookie becomes nookie for more than pleasure’s sake. Even if that nookie is a means to an end. Because that end will be a new beginning. I would never want to be that woman who has nookie and physically is going through a wide variety of motions, but mentally, her only thought is …

… I want a baby.

Five

ASHLEY

‘So, Noelle’s shoot for her Special Edition issue …’ Catherine turns to our Fashion Director, Wallis. ‘I had a chat with her agent at the party and she has confirmed that Noelle will be picking her five favourite key pieces from the new season.’

‘Her stylist will, you mean,’ says Wallis, as she repositions her headpiece—a stuffed swallow attached to a metal band. (No one batted an eyelid when she walked in wearing it this morning). ‘You know every single look of hers is put together by Kenny Chong? My girlfriend cuts his hair. She said Kenny introduced Noelle to brogues too.’

Jazz glares at Wallis. ‘That’s absolute rubbish, she’s always worn men’s shoes. She’s into androgynous dressing. It says so in her book.’

‘Then it must be true,’ deadpans Fitz.

He glances over at me and rolls his eyes. I roll mine back, as standard. Jazz is irritating on the best of days, least of all on my last few hours before suspension. She worships Noelle and is always suggesting we should feature other model-come-DJ-come-It girl-come-presenter-come-entrepreneur-oh, come off it! celebrities in the magazine. As a rule of thumb, the least obvious the talent, the more likely Jazz will be a fan. I’m convinced this is because she feels less exposed by these sort of people. Before Catwalk, Jazz hadn’t been employed anywhere before. That winning dual combo of über-rich parents and ultra-fast WIFI had meant she could fill her days being a blogger. Not too long ago, blogging would have skulked under HOBBIES AND OTHER INTERESTS at the bottom of a CV. But to Catherine, the fact that Jazz was a whizz at uploading pictures of people attending events and had even managed to get one of Noelle in the VIP tent at some shite rock festival with an early prototype of the ‘Noelle’ tote was more than enough reason to give her a job. Her first one. At twenty-fucking-nine years old. The same age as me.

‘… so, yup, five outfits and Noelle’s favourite on the opening-double-page spread,’ says Catherine. ‘That’s the Tory Hambeck neoprene tunic in olive from her debut collection. We should champion a new British designer.’

Wallis bristles. ‘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 it. Actually, Ashley … I’d like a word.’

Christ. WHAT NOW? Everyone troops out.

‘Are you looking forward to a quiet few days?’ she asks me. ‘Time to relax but also reflect on, you know what.’

‘No, I am not. And to be honest, Catherine, I would prefer it if we didn’t discuss my …’ 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 they WANT or NEED to, enforcing them to work harder with no extra pay … whilst the breeder continues to be rewarded with their higher salary on maternity leave, which pretty much amounts to a paid holiday. And one which when it officially finishes, doesn’t actually finish … because their work share will continue to be offloaded to other staff during half-term and other school holidays, parents’ evenings, and random departures from the office when precious has fallen ill or off their pony …’ He flops back into his seat. ‘… or quadbike. Don’t you think?’

I shrug and stare down at my lap. I am wearing a pair of Rag & Bone ripped and faded jeans. They are skin tight. I’ve worn denim like that since I was teenager. My mother always wore a pair of voluminous dungarees, even though she was smaller than me. They made her look like a farmyard cartoon character. That look put me off non-snugly fitting denim for life. Whenever bell-bottom flares or a sailor-style cut reappear in the collections, I say no.

‘That said,’ continues Fitz, ‘at least with Ogilvy out the way for a few months, we might start getting some decent material in the mag again. Don’t you think this issue is even more vanilla than the last? There’s not one piece I was excited to see in print. Your column is funny, naturally, but the subject matter … I mean, seeeeeeriously, Jacobs, you shrew. I used to DIE for all of it.’ He flips the issue open at my page and runs his finger down it. ‘Latex as daywear, Russian doll surgery, grime chic, Caroline Vreeland and the rise of the multiple-threat Insta girls—okay, fair enough—but knuckle tattoos, stylist lexicon, spike epaulettes, the new mephedrone and e-cigs? E-cigs? I am choking! But I am deffo not dying!’

Even I cringe. ‘Catherine wanted the topics to be more mainstream.’

‘And you didn’t argue the toss? We’re playing too safe. There’s no grit. We’re turning into the magazine equivalent of Miranda Kerr; looks fabulous—no denying that—but the personality, well …’ He sucks in his cheeks. ‘I find it astonishing that our sales haven’t slipped.’

I shrug again. ‘Yeah, well … they haven’t, so …’ I sigh. ‘Anyway, does it matter?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘Or rather, do we matter anymore, Fitz? We put out one magazine every month to share our collective views, but each one of our readers has a way of expressing their unique point of view in every single moment of every day. Our generation was the first to grow up with the Internet—we were meant to be in control of it, but we’re not. And it’s going to get worse. I thought it would affect us, but we could never have predicted this … I am starting to feel like what is the point? Is there a point to it? Us?’

Fitz leans back and eyes me as he chews the end of his biro. ‘Woah! Where has all this come from?’

‘They’re trying to prick us from the outside, you know,’ I mutter. ‘We’re not safe in the bubble.’

‘O-kaaaaay.’ He laughs. ‘I’ve got two qwezzies for you, Jacobs. The first is not one I like to ask anyone, as it always gets misconstrued, but, are you okay? I’ve been concerned. Ugh. There. I’ve said it.’

‘Why are you worried?’

‘I said, ‘concerned’, not worried. Worried would imply this is about you. But this is about me.’ He raises an eyebrow at me. ‘Recently, you’ve not exactly been full of the joys of Spring/Summer or Autumn/Winter. ‘I’m concerned because how you are acting is affecting my general enjoyment in the work place. The truth is, you’ve been behaving in a peculiar fashion. Not fashionably peculiar. You have been and are being … boring. I can see a pattern of said banality forming both in the flesh and online versions of you. Your Instagram account used to be a relentless and shameless exercise in showing off without ever quite making you look pleased with yourself. No mean feat. And as for Kat Moss, she could have been the new Choupette! In person, you haven’t instigated a round of the I DIE FOR game in an age and now this … questioning the essence of who we are? We are fashion, Jacobs. Don’t ever question that. Something is definitely up. Where has my vicious shrew gone? Spillez les haricots, pronto.’

I crumple a piece of paper in my hand. I am acutely aware that it could be considered odd I have not told the person I am closest to (other than my husband) that I am in the middle of a separation. Indeed, that the ‘process’ is already at the stage where our legal representation are conferring and are sorting an ‘arrangement’. But it’s not as if I have lied, I’ve simply been airbrushing the truth. I throw the crumpled-up piece of paper at Fitz.

‘I’m perfectly fine.’

‘Prove it, then,’ he says. ‘Prove you are not a fun sponge.’

‘How?’

‘Come to a party next Saturday. I introduced myself to Frédéric Lazare’s painfully fit PA at Noelle’s launch. Get this … he’s called Jesus! Talk about if the cap fits … if He is the Second Coming, it was well worth the wait. Anyway, he told me, Lazare’s having a twenty-four-hour bash next weekend at his penthouse on the river. Expect a crowd of acerbic fashion whores off their tits on whatever dirtbag narcotics they can get on speed dial by tapping their acrylic fingernails against limited-run chrome Samsungs … then dancing the night, following morning and possibly the next arvo away to a re-lent-less disco beat. In other words, it’ll quite possibly be …’

‘… the best party ever?’ I suggest. This is one of our in-jokes. Every industry bash always has this potential revered status.

‘Up for it, Jacobs?’

‘Maybe …’

‘Bring Zach, obviously.’

‘Ah, I doubt he would be able to make it. He’s still preparing for that big pitch at his agency,’ I say, quickly. ‘Oh, and let’s not forget he absolutely loathes disco.’

Fitz tuts. ‘Yawn! Straight men really are a strange breed, aren’t they? I can just about understand them not wanting cock. But glitter balls?’

I force a smile, but I am already imagining about what would happen if I went to the party. I’ll drink, get drunk … then sober up way too quickly. When I do, I’ll be looking in a mirror, in a bathroom, in a home I have never been in before. That’s when I have to face myself because the reflection never lies.

‘Jacobs?’

‘I said, maybe. Anyway, what was the second question you had?’

‘Ah, yes. That dizzy cow who chucked her drink over you at the book launch. She threw me such shade as she was leaving. I mean, serious attitude! Is she someone?’

‘No. She is no one.’ I say, very slowly. ‘No one at all.’

‘Anyway, did the Wang recover?’

I exhale deeply, collecting myself. ‘The dry cleaners are going to do what they can, but they couldn’t give me an answer for sure. You can never tell what the long-term effects will be after that sort of damage. I should know more in a day or so. Best we can both do is let the experts do their thing … and pray.’

Fitz laughs. ‘That’s better, darling. Almost funny. Keep this up and I may not replace you. I was even considering Bronwyn earlier as my new office bf.’ He throws the paper ball back at me, then checks his watch. ‘Right, I’m off. Am nipping to that do which Oil Denim are putting on. They’re celebrating the release of their new ethically sourced boyfriend jean. That would be nice, wouldn’t it? An ethical boyfriend … oooooh, I bet Jesus has a social conscience. He’d have to … with a name like that.’

‘I’m sure he does a lot of volunteer work,’ I deadpan.

‘Totally. Heart of gold!’ He giggles. ‘Actually, I might casually ask him to pop down. Right, I’ll text you later, when I am nicely pissed and the night feels full of possibility. And then again, when I’m eating my feelings in a kebab shop and considering a Reece’s Pieces Nutrageous chaser. Oh, and Jacobs, remember …’ He swings his jacket round his shoulders. ‘Cheer the fuck up, you SHREW!’

I go back to my desk. My screen saver of Kat Moss is partially covered by my email inbox. During the time I was with Fitz, I have received twenty-three new messages. Around half are tagged with a little red exclamation mark—a ‘screamer’, as we call it—signifying that the contents require reading urgently. But I can tell from the subject boxes most of these are not even verging on ‘pressing’, let alone anywhere in the ball park of urgent. Sample sales, product launches, label re-branding, model-agency parties, designer-high street collaborations, new clubs and bars, store openings, store revamps, store invite-only evenings, and bloggers asking for interviews … not exactly real newsworthy events. But honestly, all of that used to excite me. It’s what the industry is all about. Image. But right now, I can feel my own image slipping. I am slipping.

I stare at my computer screen. A new email pings through from gillian@bellsolicitors.co.uk. How ironic that hers are always free from any exclamatory tags yet they are the ones which make me want to scream. I click on it.

Ashley,

I’ve received notification from your husband’s solicitor regarding the status of your mortgage and house accounts. Please call me to discuss. I shall be at the office until 8pm tonight.

Kind regards, Gillian

I check that Fitz has left and reach for my iPhone. I’ve got two missed calls. One from Sheila. Another from Zach. I dial 901. The disembodied voice kicks in.

You have one new message. To return the call, key five. To replay the message, key one. To s— … I key 2 and save the message. The next message is four … minutes … long.

Zach’s mobile has rung me by mistake. This happens a lot because he only uses code-less Nokias made between 2003 and 2008 and never puts the lock on. He thinks smartphones are naff. I listen to the message. I can hear music, mate-y joshing, fruit machines … the background hum of a pub. Then the noises become clearer. I assume the mobile has been removed from his pocket.

ZACH: Still can’t believe it. (Excited.) We hit that out of the park. Smashed it in the back of the net. Insert your own triumphant cliché here …

A WOMAN’S VOICE: I knew we would get it.

I don’t recognise her. She must be a colleague. Probably one of the fancy dress enthusiasts. Zach’s office is full of them.

A MAN’S VOICE: Just between us, I was shitting myself. I recognise him. It’s Keith With the Bad Teeth.

Properly shitting myself.

THE WOMAN: Charming.

KEITH: You were too, Zach. Admit it.

THE WOMAN: He didn’t come across like that during the pitch.

ZACH: Well, that’s good to know. Hey, where are the toilets in here?

KEITH: Told you!

ZACH: D’you always have to be so low rent, Keith? It’s amazing how you’ve become even more uncouth since you’ve stopped drinking. You used to be a one-man wave of tastelessness …

KEITH: … and now I am a tsunami! Even better, the next morning I get to remember all the chaos I’ve caused. Bogs are up the stairs to the left …

ZACH: Cool … watch those files for me, please.

THE WOMAN: That’s a lot of paperwork you’ve got in there.

ZACH: Yeah, it’s for the … (Stops.) We’re not exactly doing our bit for the conservation of the planet.

WOMAN: God, don t. Pete and I must have destroyed a good few acres of the rainforest before our decree nisi was issued.

KEITH: I would prefer not to be listening to this conversation. It’s depressing. As you both know, I am very recently engaged …

ZACH: How that happened, I have no idea.

KEITH: Me neither!

WOMAN: Well, if it does go horribly wrong, my advice is to be reasonable at all times. Pete and I started out being more than civil, but then he got nasty, so I did too. It was tough. At times I wondered if it was going to be worth it, but I just kept repeating to myself a joke my best friend told me.

ZACH: Go on …

WOMAN: What’s the difference between getting a divorce and getting circumcised?

KEITH: What’s the difference?

WOMAN: When you get a divorce, you get rid of the whole pri—

The message clicks off and the disembodied voice returns.

To return the call, key five. To replay the message, key one. To save, key two. To delete, key three. For message details key eight.

I key 8. The message was left six minutes ago. I imagine Zach washing his hands at the sink in the toilet, looking into the mirror. He is content with his reflection. Why wouldn’t he be? Zach never fucks up. That’s Zach. A justifiably shame-free zone. I think about the way she looked at me in the mirror at the hotel. After looking at me she looked at herself. She was staring at her face until I left the room. It was expressionless. There was no shame. I wonder how long she gazed at herself for like that. How could she? How dare she? After what she did …

… Tanya fucking Dinsdale.

Six

TANYA

‘Happy birthday to y—’

‘MAMA! Jasper’s being MEEEEEEEEEEAN! I haaaaaaaaaate him! I want to go shopping!’

‘Happy b—’

‘Whatever, Evie. You ugly anus pig face.’

‘Jasper! E-nough. Where did you learn that dis-gust-ing expression?’

Greg leans down and laughs in my ear. ‘His eye-wateringly expensive private school, probably.’

‘MAMAAAAAAAAAA! Owwwwww! Jasssssper! MY ARM! He’s got my AAAAAAAAAARM!’

‘Happy birthday, dear Taaaaany—’

‘Can’t we go to the shops? OWWWWWWWWWW!’

This particular squeal is so blood curdling I drop my fork. One decibel higher and there could be potential perforation of an ear drum. Judging by the expressions (ranging from marked annoyance to Chitty Chitty Bang Bang Child-Catcher-style loathing) worn by the other customers eating in The Croft’s alfresco area, they feel the same. Across the table, Maddie and Kian, look stoically—and a little smugly—at each other. Kian is bouncing their baby, Carter, on his knee. Carter has not murmured since we got here, whilst Suze’s children have not stopped swearing and screeching whilst locked in combat. Her eldest, Jasper (my godson), has always been rough with the younger Evie (Maddie’s goddaughter), to obtain information or his own way but, recently he’s started treating her way outside Amnesty guidelines, purely for fun.

‘Jasper! NO! I said, NOT shouts Suze.

‘Listen to your mother,’ adds her husband, Rollo, without much volume or losing focus on the remaining section of his cheeseburger. ‘Maybe I should put them in the car …’

‘Don’t be silly,’ I reassure him. ‘They’re only playing.’

‘… cut to Evie being disembowelled,’ says Greg.

Suze shoots him a look. But then, another squeal. This one more cochlea-penetrating than the previous. Suze jumps up from the table and marches over to where Jasper is yanking Evie across the grass by her left wrist. With one swift action, Suze separates both kids and drags them towards the car park, where they will stay until she ‘effing says so’.

‘How long is an effon, Mama?’ asks Evie, as they are shunted off. ‘I want new shoes. With a heeeeeeeeeel! Flatties make your legs look gross. You get cankles! FACT! Is an effon longer or shorter than a minute?’

‘You can work that out whilst you’re sitting in the car, can’t you?’ seethes Suze. ‘And by the time you have, we’ll be leaving.’

Jasper blows a nonchalant raspberry at his mother. ‘Like I care. Sooner we get out of this lame hole the better. Can we go to Nando’s on the way home? Food here is crap. I want peri peri chicken. To take away. I’ll eat in my room, then smash the shit out of Call of Duty.’

Greg bursts out laughing. ‘To be fair, I often think that when I come here to start my shift …’

I smile at my boyfriend again, relieved that he is not simply making light of the situation but actually enjoying himself and making sure everyone else does too. I know he wasn’t expecting to have a good time at my birthday lunch today. I noticed a box-shaped lump in the back of his jeans as he was tapping in the alarm code before we left the house. Cigarettes. Or as they shall henceforth be known: sperm destruction sticks.

Suze returns to the table with dots of sweat on her forehead. She dabs at her face—she has applied a fair amount of make-up today—and gives Rollo the type of look usually reserved for violent criminals in the dock.

‘What was that for?’ he asks her, dipping the last piece of his brioche burger bun into a pot of aioli. ‘I haven’t done anything.’ He swivels his eyes at Greg and Kian. ‘Did I do anything? No, m’lud, I didn’t.’

Suze claps her hands to her cheeks and makes a skew-whiff ‘O’ shape with her mouth, briefly resembling The Scream by Edvard Munch.

‘I think that may have been the issue, Rollo, mate,’ mutters Kian, chomping on his dressing and cruton-free Caesar salad (Maddie has put him on a diet) whilst goo-gooing at his five-month-old son. ‘Never ever admit to not doing something.’

‘Who taught you that?’ asks Rollo.

‘You. When Suze got preggers for the first time.’

Everyone laughs, even Suze. She sits back down at the table next to her husband and he puts his arm around her.

‘Sorry, sweetness.’ He squeezes her. ‘If it makes you feel any better, I too wish our son was not so sadistic nor our daughter so materialistic, and that we could leave them both at an enclosed educational institution all year round. As soon as such a place is set up—that is not strictly a prison and has flexi but not compulsory visiting hours—I assure you, you will never have to see them, unless you want to.’

Suze manages a smile back at him. ‘You promise?’

‘As I am also your barrister, I’ll get some legal papers drawn up.’

‘Thank you. Oh, and remember you also promised to drive back.’ She kisses him on the cheek then takes a restorative gulp of white wine. ‘Right, shall we try and sing “Happy Birthday” to Tanya again?’

I wave my hand at them all. ‘No! God, really, you don’t h—’

‘Yeah,’ agrees Greg. ‘Probably not the best idea. I think it’s safe to say the rest of the beer garden know we’re here now.’

Suze glances across the table at me, eyes narrowing. I pretend I haven’t seen her.

‘… so, what are you lot doing next Friday?’ continues Greg.

‘Erm, that’s when we’re round at my parents’ house for their anniversary. You reminded me the other day.’

He pulls a face. ‘Oh, shiiiiit, yeah. Only, there’s a band playing in Camden I wouldn’t mind having a look at. A sort of experimental indie collective with a retro-seventies Hendrix feel.’

I pull a face back at him. I’ve been to gigs with Greg before, where the boxes marked CAMDEN, EXPERIMENTAL and COLLECTIVE have been ticked. And you can guarantee if they have been, so will the ones marked HOT, SWEATY, NOISY, SMELLY AND ABSOLUTELY JOYLESS. But with the addition of the word HENDRIX? That’s a fresh kind of hell that I have not even visited in my darkest nightmares. Suddenly, sitting across the table from my father for a couple of hours feels more appealing.

Greg clocks my expression. ‘Don’t panic, I meant a boys trip.’ He nods at the guys. ‘We could get up there early doors, have a few drinks, do the gig, go to a club … stay overnight. It’s been God knows how long since we all went out on the lash. What do you reckon?’

Like highly strung barn owls, Suze and Maddie’s heads rotate round towards their partners.

Rollo laughs. ‘Well, I think that’s your answer, mate. Sounds great, but it’s the aftermath I can’t handle … that noise you heard earlier, imagine that when you’re hungover. All day. It’s torture.’

‘I hate to tell you,’ Suze adds, ‘next weekend it will feel more like an actual torture chamber. Eves and Jasps are having a sleepover weekend at ours with four pals. Imagine the first Saw movie with elements of Hostel thrown in.’

‘Oh, sweet Jesus, no …’ moans Rollo.

‘You’ll have to count me out too, Greg. Sorry …’ Kian apologises. ‘Obviously, I can’t leave Maddie overnight.’

‘What with her being a fully functioning adult and all that,’ jokes Greg.

I don’t laugh as I know Maddie is staring at me.

‘He means leave me with the baby,’ she says. ‘It’s still early days, and besides, Greg, the last time Rollo and Kian went out with you overnight, Kian came back with a black eye, his arm in a sling and a cracked tooth.’

Greg sighs. ‘Come on, that was an isolated incident.’

‘It wasn’t that bad, Maddie,’ I add, sticking up for Greg. ‘They didn’t leave him on the pavement. A night in Casualty and Kian was good to go.’

‘Good to go straight back to bed, where he remained for two days,’ says Maddie. ‘And he couldn’t do a feed either.’ She nods at Kian. ‘Forget it, you’re not going.’

‘Jesus, you’re so pussy whipped, mate.’ Greg laughs.

‘Yep,’ smiles Kian, quite happily. ‘That pretty much sums it up.’

‘What about Jez?’ I suggest. ‘He’ll want to go …’

‘Nah, not his thing. Too edgy. Jez doesn’t like to veer too far from the status quo. The concept or the band,’ he mumbles.

I can sense he is getting irritated.

‘Tell you what,’ I suggest. ‘Why don’t you go to the gig and stay over? I’ll go to my parents on Friday night, then meet you in London on Saturday morning, and we can spend the weekend there … do something fun. By “fun”, I mean something in no way involving trippy guitar music. And nothing experimental or, heaven forbid, experiential.’

He smiles at me. ‘Yeah … why not? You’ve got yourself a date, babe.’

I smile back. If there was ever a perfect time for us to have The Baby Talk it will be on a ‘mini-break’ (not that I would call it that out loud because I hate all that couples parlance). I’ll splash out, book us into one of the luxury suites at The Rexingham, that posh hotel where Noelle did her book launch. Greg and I will be in our room—which will be a textbook lover’s playground of squishy pillows, his’n’hers dressing gowns, a fully stocked mini-bar and a remote-control docking system—lying in bed after having ‘nookie’ … and start talking. I will pre-empt the conversation by saying that at no point during our future life as parents will we be like them. ‘Them’ being Suze and Rollo, Maddie and Kian or any other couple who reproducing has turned nuts. Or boring. Or both. He will laugh. So will I. And we will both know that we are in this together. It will be as far removed from what happened before as it is poss—

I jolt.

‘I’m gasping for a fag,’ says Suze. She puts her knife and fork together and glances up at her husband. ‘Can you go and check on the little shits? They might be hot wiring the Range Rover. Greg … cigarette?’

I scan his face for a vague hint that he could be considering it, but he doesn’t flinch.

Suze looks at him. ‘You’ve given up?’

‘Yep, it’s all behind me now,’ he says. ‘I’m a reformed character.’

‘That’s … good. Good for you,’ mutters Suze, pulling a Marlboro Light out of her pack. ‘I’m the only one still up for it, then?’

‘Looks that way,’ he confirms.

I stop myself from looking too pleased.

‘D’you mind not having one at the table, Suze?’ Maddie grimaces at Suze. ‘I know we’re outside, but with Carter here …’ She reaches over and strokes her baby’s cheek. ‘Actually, we’re going to need to make tracks soon. My precious boy needs a nap.’

‘Yeah, I’m exhausted,’ says Kian, downing the remainder of his pint.

Maddie tuts at him. ‘I meant Carter, you idiot. I hope he doesn’t go bananas again when we put him in the car seat. It’s the only time he really screams. You don’t mind if we sneak off, do you?’ she asks me.

‘Erm … no, of course not.’

‘I mind,’ says Suze. ‘Not all of us are ready to leave yet.’

I tap her arm. ‘Relax, it’s fine, Suze … we can stay.’

She rolls her eyes. ‘It’s always the end as soon as someone leaves,’ she snaps. ‘Jesus, Maddie, if you go slightly off schedule for one day, Carter is not going to grow up to be a serial killer.’

Maddie looks wounded and says nothing.

‘Why don’t you go for a cigarette?’ I suggest to Suze, to diffuse the situation. ‘Let me say goodbye to these two and I’ll catch up with you. Greg, you don’t mind, do you?’

‘Nah, I’ll go and help Rollo.’

Suze eyeballs him. ‘Why would you want to do that?’

‘Because it’s fun watching over-indulgent middleclass parents being relentlessly poked at and abused by their own offspring.’ He grins at her as he wanders off. ‘It’s a modern and far less upsetting form of bear baiting.’

After watching Maddie buckle a suddenly inconsolable Carter into the back of the car, I find Suze at the bottom of the beer garden next to the pond.

‘What was all that about?’ I ask her.

She drags on her Malboro Light. ‘I thought we were going to be making a day of it, that’s all.’

‘No, not that. Getting at Maddie.’

‘Oh, right … she’s bugging me at the moment. It’s as if she’s produced the first baby to crawl the earth and everyone has to be reminded of this every second of every day. When I first had Jasper I was not like that. I was a lot more relaxed …’

‘You were stoned, plus you had your sister and your mum—a hugely experienced GP!—on hand twenty-four hours a day to help.’

Suze pulls a sheepish face. ‘Yeah, okay, I hear you. Hey, maybe the reason why my children are so out of control now is because I was too effing chilled out then? They’re rebelling against their incense-infused, Portishead sound-tracked babyhood.’

I smile. ‘Nah, they’re going through a phase … one which I have to say, you’re dealing with incredibly well. I’d blow a gasket if mine started acting like that.’

‘Oh, I’m only dealing with their behaviour thanks to Philip Morris and endless boxes of picnic wine from Lidl.’ Suddenly, she stops. She is making her Munch face again. ‘Sorry, what did you say? ‘If mine started acting like that …’ T, you’re not pregnant?’

I shake my head. ‘No, no, god no … but …’

‘Thank fuck for that … I mean, th—’ She stops herself again. ‘Sorry! Sorry. I was only thinking about what it would be like, erm … for me … to have another one. So … you’ve decided you want a … baby?’ She drains her glass and swallows hard. ‘Are … you … are you sure?’

‘Uh-huh. Pending on everything working downstairs—I’ve had tests at the hospital and I’m seeing your mum for the results, so I need to wait and see. I’m sure everything will be fine. It was so long ago that … but, yeah, I’d like to get pregnant as soon as possible.’

‘But …’ begins Suze. ‘B—’

‘Oh, I know …’ I interrupt her. ‘I do not want to be one of those women who act as if it’s like organising an Ocado delivery slot.’

‘No, that’s not what I was going to say …’

‘What were you going to say?’ I peer at her. ‘Suze?’

She stares at me for a few seconds then gazes out over the pond. ‘Are you really ready though, aft—’

I butt in again. ‘Yeah, I am.’

‘But even a few years ago, you still didn’t know what you wanted, and now … you’re sure?’

‘Yes, I’m sure. I’m not a mess any more. Not a single part of my life is. Everything about me is in order. My home, my job, my friends and most importantly, the man I want to have children with.’

‘You mean Greg?’

I shrug. ‘Well, I did consider that “cute” new barman who started here last week as a potential father. Obviously, your husband too, but then thought, no. Even though we know he has good swimmers, it might be a bit weird for our friendship group. Definitely not Kian either. But more because his head is a weird shape. Carter was very lucky not to have inherited that.’ I growl at her. ‘Of course, I mean Greg, Suze. Greg is my boyfriend. If I am going to have a child with anyone it will be Greg.’

‘Right …’

‘Yes, Greg. Greg is my Mr Right. And you can blow fag smoke in my face for rolling out that mawkish old chestnut.’

‘Look, T …’ She is still looking out over the pond. ‘I’m not saying Rollo is the ultimate catch. I mean, I look at him when he is doing that trick with the cereal and think, how the hell did I end up with someone who thinks spraying cornflakes out of their mouth and all over the kitchen in the style of a burst New York fire hydrant is funny? But you know what, the kids find it funny. They love how funny he is. They love him. And he loves them—despite their clear lack of respect for anyone bar the waiting staff at specialist chicken restaurants or the sales assistants at Schuh. And he loves me. He always has. From our party-mad years right through to the staid, middle-class perjury we serve now, he has loved me. And I know that when we are old and dec—’

I interrupt her. ‘Why are we talking about Rollo? I’ve already said I think it would be odd if he sperminated me.’ I continue the joke, purely to give Suze a chance to re-consider what she is about to say. But she doesn’t.

She turns back to me. ‘You know what I am getting at.’

‘Would it be the same thing you were getting at about twenty minutes ago, when you shot me a look after Greg was reluctant to sing “Happy Birthday” again?’

‘Well, it’s not as if he’s gone out of his way to make it a very special day for you, is it, T?’

‘That’s unfair, Suze. He doesn’t have the funds which Rollo does. He works at a bar, your husband works at The Bar … it pays a lot better.’

‘I’m not talking financially, just in terms of effort.’

‘Hang on, it was your idea we came to The Croft because of the outside space for Jasper to re-enact a hunt-to-kill mission on Evie. Besides, we’ve got our weekend away in London to look forward to.’

‘Only because you suggested it about five minutes ago. He was quite happy to be going on a piss up with the boys—totally disregarding the dinner you had arranged over at your parents’, I may add. The addition of some time with you—romantic or otherwise—was an afterthought, of yours.’

I growl at her. ‘Whenever you have a couple of glasses of wine, you cannot wait to start carping about Greg.’

‘That is not true,’ she retorts, then laughs. ‘Let me assure you I carp about him when I haven’t been drinking too, but behind your back.’

‘Suze! This is serious. You’re my best friend. He’s my boyfriend. It’s going to stay that way. I’d really like it if you could build a proper relationship with him. There must be something you like about him. You’ve shared enough cigarettes with him over the years.’

‘I’m not saying he’s a bad person, T. All girls are meant to faintly disapprove of their best friend’s boyfriend.’

‘But it’s more than that with you …’

She pauses again, then takes a deep breath. ‘I guess it’s because of … because of everything you went through. I saw you go through it.’

‘… and “through” is the operative word. I am over it. Partly thanks to you, because you were there for me throughout. Why are you being like this, Suze?’

She swallows hard even though she has no wine left.

‘T …’

‘What?’

‘I want you to be sure.’

‘I am sure. I’ve been sure for a while. But the other day …’ I swallow hard too. ‘I saw her.’

‘Who?’

‘Her.’

‘Her?’

‘Her.’

Suze sucks in her cheeks. ‘What the fuck? Where?’

‘In London … at a launch I went to for my blog. Catwalk were sponsoring the party. I had no idea.’

‘Shitting hell! What did you say?’

‘Nothing. She didn’t say anything either.’

‘And that was it? T! This is HUGE!’

‘It’s not.’

‘T! You saw Ashley Atwal? You saw Ashley Atwal? YOU SAW ASHLEY ATWAL?’

‘Shooooosh, keep your voice down. Please. Look, it happened. It’s over. It’s done.’

Suze’s face contorts as she digests the information. But then she shakes her head at me.

‘And this apparently non-event has changed your mind about everything?’

‘Of course not! For God’s sake, Suze, you know me … I’m not the kind of person who makes decisions without thinking things through so thoroughly I even bore myself, but seeing her forced me to examine whether I was ready. Truly ready. Not because I want to change the past. Because I am living in the present.’ I highlighted this sentence in one of my psych books on cognitive therapy. I found the books more helpful than the therapists. ‘Do you understand?

‘Mmmm, and I’m …’

‘I think the word is ‘happy’, Suze. You are happy for me.’

She pulls me to her. Our embrace is stiff. As I pull away, I hear a guitar being strummed. I twist round. So does Suze. Immediately, both of us gulp for air.

Her sudden need for oxygen is down to shock. Mine is down to a overwhelming sense of love. Okay, and shock. Greg is standing on top of the table where we had eaten our lunch and is playing his acoustic guitar. Within seconds, everyone in the beer garden has stopped talking. They are staring at Greg. But he is only focused on one person … me. He starts to sing a song I don’t recognise, but when he hits what appears to be the chorus, there is one word I am familiar with; Tanya. Tanya. TANYA. He makes it rhyme with ‘I want ya’. From beside me, I hear Suze mutter, ‘Move over, Ed Sheeran … ‘. The other punters are swaying in time to the music and offering Greg encouraging whoops. By the time he has got to the chorus for the second time, a few of them have a go at joining in.

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