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‘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 (#ulink_404e96fc-6688-58ed-8e38-2c8972a62376)
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.
