She Just Can't Help Herself. Ollie Quain
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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?
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,