She Just Can't Help Herself. Ollie Quain
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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