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