by Anna Martin
“Next month,” she said. “Got us a slot in the venue on the seventeenth and—actually, I should wait for Geordie to tell you.”
“Fuck Geordie,” Tone said. “Tell us.”
“She hasn’t fucked Geordie in ages,” Geordie said, taking the steps down to the basement two at a time. He had a bag of ice under one arm and a fizzed-up bottle of Coke in the other. He clutched a stack of plastic cups between his fingers.
Summer rolled her eyes and pulled a bottle of rum from her backpack. “I got us a slot supporting Racket City. Not first support, second. But it’s at the Electric Ballroom, and it should be a really good gig. They’re gonna put our names on the posters and everything.”
“Fuckin’ ace,” Geordie said and leaned over to kiss her cheek. “Well done, gorgeous.”
He started to pass the rum around for a celebratory drink, but mixing booze and weed gave Ben a headache, so he passed and rolled a cigarette instead.
“Sounds good,” Ben said, then licked the paper to seal the rollie. “How long have we got?”
“Forty-five minutes. We need to pad out the set.”
Their current set was about twenty-five minutes, tops, and that included the cover of “Teenage Kicks” they did to kick off every gig. They used the song to raise the energy and the atmosphere, and it was appreciated almost everywhere.
“Fuck,” Ben muttered and took another drag on his cigarette. “Better get fuckin’ started, then.”
The magazine had arranged for a flat for Stan to live in, in a gated complex in Bow that had once, many years ago, housed a match factory. The red-bricked building in the East End of London had been split up into smaller apartments, and Stan had been offered a neat, spacious one-bedroom home that was his for a year.
He’d only just moved in, so of his possessions were still in boxes, and all of those boxes were stacked in the living room. Stan kicked off his shoes, dumped his bags, and stared at the boxes for a long moment before turning on his heels and walking through to the kitchen. The green tea he preferred would help combat any lingering tipsiness from the two pints he’d just consumed.
The kettle whistled merrily on the stove when the water boiled, and he carefully deposited it into a chipped white china cup and tied the teabag around the handle. While it steeped, Stan twisted his long hair back onto itself and secured the knot with a pencil lying on the countertop. Although the weather was far from warm out, the Underground in London was close and humid, and the sweat on the back of his neck made his hair sticky.
Using the kettle as a mirror, he checked his make-up. Still perfect. Thank goodness. At least his eyeliner was supposed to be a little smudged. That was the look he’d gone for that morning—slightly tousled, rough and lost.
With a sigh, he took his tea back through to the living room and stared at the boxes some more. It was no use. He had every intention of working through his current contract, which was for a year, and possibly staying in London longer if things worked out. Of all the places he’d travelled to in the past few years, London was by far his favourite. With the way things were in Russia these days, he didn’t feel safe going home anymore, even when his mama begged.
This was his life, now.
The tight jeans and loose, cut-up T-shirt he’d been wearing all day were not the right sort of clothes to do unpacking jobs in. Stan set down his tea on the coffee table—one of the few pieces of furniture he’d acquired so far—and went into his bedroom to change. Stuff wasn’t any more organised in there. The only things he’d unpacked so far were his boxes of make-up and hair products, and a suitcase of clothes that was now spilling possessions onto the floor.
He knew, for sure, a pair of loose pyjama pants were hidden in this suitcase somewhere. He rifled through denim and leather and silk and soft, soft cotton, until he located the baggy red pants with the reindeer pattern. He wore them year-round. They were his most comfortable lounging-about pants.
The T-shirt was fine, and with his hair tied back, Stan could start the long, laborious task of creating his new home.
By late the following morning, it was nearly done. All his clothes had been hung in the wardrobe, the things that needed to be ironed separated out and tossed over the back of a chair. He’d get to that… sooner or later. The only thing left to do was unpack the kitchen, and he had brought very little in the way of cooking utensils with him, so that wouldn’t take long.
Stan yawned, feeling his muscles stretch and move with him, then went back through to his bedroom to change. Breakfast was the next thing on his agenda.
The box of Twinings tea was the only nutrition he had in the house, and the last thing he’d eaten was at Camden the previous lunchtime. From his exploring, he’d discovered plenty of fresh produce available on market stalls for much lower prices than he’d been warned he’d find in the capital. Yet so many people here seemed to shop in the supermarkets. It was the same in America. He couldn’t get his head around the idea.
Not wanting to make a fuss to go out for simple groceries, not when he wasn’t planning to run into anyone, anyway, Stan brushed his hair and gathered it into a loose ponytail at the nape of his neck. With an oversized powder brush he swept MAC NC5 loose powder over his whole face, then filled in his eyebrows with an angled brush and mid-brown shadow. He’d recently acquired some Benefit bronzer, which was deliciously soft and blended perfectly, so he added a little of that to his cheekbones.
A quick lick of mascara finished the low-key—for him, at least—look. Stan changed into jeans and a black T-shirt, stamped his feet into heavy boots, and tucked his wallet, phone, and keys into his pockets.
Done.
It took a few minutes to get his bearings, and he doubled-back more than once after taking a wrong turn. But it didn’t take long to get to the long street—Brick Lane—lined with all its Indian restaurants and suspicious-looking cafés.
Stan found a grocer that looked good. A wide range of produce was displayed in wooden crates outside the front door, and a portly, older gentleman with an apron and a beard sat on a stool behind the counter, an open newspaper spread in front of him.
“Mornin’,” he said, barely looking up.
“Good morning.”
There wasn’t a basket, so Stan loaded vegetables up in his arms, things he recognised and a few he didn’t. Mushrooms, peppers, courgettes, tomatoes. Some fruit too, rustic red apples, and limes to go in water.
It fell to the counter in a tumble of thuds, and the grocer looked up at him properly for the first time. His eyes widened comically.
“I’ll… uh… I’ll just ring this little lot up for you,” he said, and Stan smiled again, suppressing his laughter.
“Thank you,” he murmured demurely.
He couldn’t be sure—either he was undercharged or this really was the place to come for good-value vegetables. Not that he minded, much. The old man got a good look, and Stan got a decent dinner.
With the blue-and-white-striped bag hanging from his fingertips, Stan moved on up the road.
When he arrived back at the flat, his wrists were hurting from carrying so much stuff. It was hard not to buy in bulk, not when all of the little shops seemed to cater to a multinational community, and rice was sold in bags that probably weighed more than he did.
He felt all warm and fuzzy seeing things here that he hadn’t seen in years—Russian food and treats and sweets from Eastern Europe that his grandfather had brought back with him when returning from one of his many business trips.
Stan had tried to find some kind of logic or order in the kitchen but couldn’t, and just deposited all his purchases in whatever cupboard they fit in. The morning had exhausted him, and he was still jet-lagged from travelling.
The flat had come partially furnished, which was a blessing, and Stan curled up on the sofa with his hands pillowing his cheek, content to look out over the courtyard through the open door and Juliet balcony. Buying a television was on his list of things to do, although not a priority. He had
never been one for watching TV, and moving about so much over the past few years meant it had been almost impossible to keep up with the shows he liked.
With the summer warmth streaming in through the window, he was content to snuggle down on his surprisingly comfortable sofa and drift off to sleep.
The ringing phone startled Stan out of his foggy nap.
“Pronto?” he answered out of habit.
“Hello? Is that Stan?”
“Yes. Allo. Sorry. This is Stan.”
The instinct to answer the phone in Italian had obviously not left him just yet. Stan felt the blush rise to his cheeks, and he held his fingers there, cursing his exceptionally pale skin, even though the caller obviously wouldn’t judge his complexion.
“Hi. Uh… this is Ben. From the pub.”
“Ben?”
“Yeah. You left me your number?”
“Oh gosh. I’m so sorry. I forgot…. I was just sleeping.”
“I guessed.” Ben’s voice had taken on a soft, teasing tone.
“I didn’t think you would call.”
Stan stretched out across the couch, letting his knees click and hips clunk back into place. Each individual toe could crack of its own accord—something of a hidden talent and incredibly satisfying to do.
“I’ve just finished my shift. I wasn’t sure if you were still around Camden.”
“No. I’m sorry. I live in the east of London.” Speaking English, especially when his brain hadn’t quite woken up yet, was proving difficult. Stan could hear his own accent, thicker due to fatigue. Ben must have been too polite to mention it.
“That’s a shame. Maybe you could let me know when you’ll be over here again? Or I’m working next week. If you want to stop by the pub again, I mean.”
“Yes. I’d like that. And then, maybe when you finish your shift again….”
“Yeah. We could….” A pause. “Go out, somewhere?” he finished lamely.
Stan smiled to himself. He hadn’t even been sure Ben was interested, and now he was flustering over his words.
“That sounds good. I’ll send you a message in the week. I have to work long hours, I expect. I start my new job on Monday.”
“Good luck,” Ben said. The sentiment sounded genuine. “Maybe we could go out on Friday to celebrate your first week. I’m on ’til six on Friday.”
“That sounds good,” Stan said and smiled to himself as he scratched his belly. “I’ll look forward to it.”
“Me too. Catch you later, Stan.”
“Goodbye.”
Stan pressed the End button and hugged his phone to his chest. He had a date. And he’d been in London less than a week.
Chapter Two
New job. First day. Desperate desire to prove oneself.
Power dressing was definitely on the cards, but exactly how, Stan wasn’t sure.
Hair and make-up had taken a full thirty minutes, not that this was entirely unusual. After washing and blow-drying his hair straight, he’d slicked it down with a dab of serum so it fell in a glossy wave. When it came to make-up… well, he’d amassed a collection so vast it was almost silly. He had boxes of the stuff, and only used a few of those things on a day-to-day basis.
In the end, with time ticking away, he’d gone for a classic smoky eye—dark liner, grey shadow, a lighter colour in the inner corners of his eyes to make them look bigger. He’d perfected the look a long time ago.
Now he just had to pick clothes. Standing in front of his wardrobe in a pair of very tight black boxers wasn’t going to get him far.
In most situations, when Stan walked into a room it caused enough of a ripple of interest, without him going wild on the clothing front. But he was about to start work for a fashion magazine.
“Come on, Stanislav,” he muttered, flicking through the rows of wooden hangers. “Pick something.”
He came up with something classic yet edgy: black skinny jeans tucked into black motorcycle boots, and an oversize, white, billowing shirt that was more than a little see-through.
He finished off the look with some chunky jewellery that had been given to him as a gift, the castoffs from a photo shoot he’d worked on in Italy. Rings on his fingers, long necklaces, and a slick of gloss over his lips.
On the weekend, he’d timed how long it would take getting to the magazine’s offices in Spitalfields and added an extra half hour for the early morning commuter rush. He was fifteen minutes ahead of schedule.
A massive Mulberry bag—already packed—was ready and waiting by the door, along with his new leather jacket from Camden. Stan had a mirror, just a small one, hung next to the door for a final check before he left the flat.
Perfecto. Let’s go.
He arrived early—which was good—and introduced himself to the waifish girl on reception. She stared. They all did. It didn’t even bother him anymore.
The office wasn’t as glamorous as Vogue Italia, but few places in the world were. Stan looked around while he waited for his new supervisor to come down and meet him, noting with interest some of the magazine spreads in huge, high-definition shots hanging on the walls.
Where most of the big Italian fashion magazines liked the sparse-and-clean look, here things were decidedly more chaotic. The reception area looked warm and inviting, with pictures of previous months’ covers in large frames on the walls.
“Can I get you coffee?” the receptionist asked, and Stan shook his head.
“No, thank you. Do you know where my office will be?”
“Um….”
It took a few minutes of clattering about on her keyboard and a phone call upstairs for her to direct him to the third floor, where someone would, apparently, be waiting to meet him. He nodded his thanks and walked to the shiny glass elevator.
The young woman who met him on the third floor was a chaotic explosion of bleached-blonde curls and a slightly saggy cardigan.
“Hi, I’m Kirsty,” she said. “Sorry it’s so cold in here—someone left the air con on overnight, and it’s bloody freezing. You must be Stanislav.”
“Stan,” he said, extending his hand for her to shake. He noted her bitten-down fingernails and forced a shudder inward.
“Nice to meet you. I’ll be your assistant. Well, I’m the assistant for everyone who reports in to Victoria, but basically if you need anything, just give me a call.”
Kirsty was nice, a little talkative, and willing to show him around the large third floor that was made up of a number of smaller offices. His was particularly tiny, a reflection, he was sure, of the fact he was new.
Eventually Stan was left alone in his office, which wasn’t too bad at all, on consideration. From the looks he’d stolen into the other offices, it seemed most people decorated their working spaces to reflect their personalities, or maybe just the way they worked. For Stan, the clean white walls and neat glass-topped desk would be fine.
After checking no one was around, Stan stretched his arms out to his sides and turned a full circle in his new space, letting a smile creep onto his face.
“Let’s get to work,” he murmured under his breath.
By mid-afternoon Stan’s head was frazzled from all the people he’d been introduced to, from other creative editors like himself to the terrifyingly tall, thin Victoria—not Vicky, Kirsty had impressed on him—who ran the department. Victoria had long, straight, dark hair and delicate designer spectacles, and had given Stan a very visible once-over before offering him a tiny smile and shaking his hand firmly. For some reason, Stan got the impression he’d met his match.
He’d also gained a new respect for Kirsty, who ran around like a crazy person trying to satisfy the whims of all the different people she worked for. She offered coffee almost on the hour, every hour. Then she was going out to collect lunch. Stan elected to go with her and learned where the best places to eat were. He got a large salad from the delicatessen that made them fresh while he waited.
“You worked for Vogue before, right?” Kirsty asked as they w
alked back to the office. She was balancing two bags full of sandwiches and salads and refused any help.
“Yes. In Milan.”
“Milan,” Kirsty sighed dreamily. “I can’t imagine how awesome it must be to work for Vogue. In Milan. Most of the people here are hoping to go there, not leave.”
“It was good,” Stan conceded, rolling his shoulders and tipping his face up to the weak sun. “But I wanted a new challenge. It’s such a different aesthetic here—much edgier, and the styles change so quickly. You need to keep your ear to the ground, watch the street fashion, let the people lead instead of the designers. That’s interesting to me.”
“I guess.”
“Here we can’t get away with running florals for spring. Can you even imagine?”
Kirsty laughed, a bright sound. “You’d be castrated.”
“Darling,” Stan said, giving her a pointed look. “But yes. I want to walk around London and let that be my inspiration, not the top-down politics where it’s all decided and dictated months in advance.”
“I think you’ll fit in well here,” Kirsty said. Stan squirmed under her scrutinizing. “You’re different, but in the right way.”
“I’m different everywhere,” Stan said with a humourless laugh.
Kirsty left him in peace that afternoon, quickly learning he didn’t like to be disturbed when deep in a project. It might only be his first day, but fashion didn’t wait. He was going straight in, feet first—exactly how he liked it.
And by the end of the week, Stan had developed a routine that suited him just fine. Managing his own workload meant Stan controlled his own working hours too. He was the first in the office most days, usually by seven in the morning, and left early to compensate. No one challenged him if he disappeared for a while in the afternoon, or if he loaded his iPad up with stuff and took it home to work.
