She Just Can't Help Herself. Ollie Quain
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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: