Christmas at Tiffany's

by Karen Swan

  Kelly rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Cassie. It’s Juicy Tube. You put it on your lips.’ She put her hands on her hips, exasperated. ‘Jeez-us.’

  ‘There’s no need to shout,’ Cassie said, one eyebrow raised.

  ‘I’m not sh –’ Kelly stopped and took a deep breath. ‘Okay, let me see you.’ Kelly appraised her. ‘Well, you look half-alive, at least. Though God only knows what you’re wearing.’ She took in the outfit, arms crossed. ‘That is wrong on so many levels.’

  Cassie looked down at her black pleated leather midi skirt, fairisle jumper and red Converse. Her feet had gone into spasm just thinking about sliding into a pair of heels. ‘I wasn’t joking when I said I couldn’t remember what went with what,’ she said petulantly. Suddenly she gasped in horror. ‘Is it okay that I’m wearing a bra? Didn’t you say it’s too straight?’

  ‘That was for the V-neck.’ Kelly bit her lip. Toddlers could dress themselves better. There was a frustrated silence. ‘Okay, look – I told Bee you were leading the brunch at the Hudson this morning, so just lie low, okay? Don’t bring attention to yourself. I’ll give you some paperwork to get on with.’

  Cassie tipped her head to the side gratefully. ‘You’re such a good friend,’ she said emotionally as Kelly steered her back towards the studio. ‘Honestly, I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have you to put me up, make up a job for m—’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ Kelly muttered, rolling her eyes. ‘Keep it for the Christmas card.’

  Bebe was back in the room and back in full strop as the girls reappeared.

  ‘Kelly, there you are,’ she boomed. ‘Tell me what you think. Don’t you agree that the sequins are just wrong on this dress,’ she demanded rhetorically as she held a barely-there model by the shoulders and swung the poor girl round to face them. Her red tartan dress – asymmetric and ragged – was embellished with black ‘tattoo’ embroidery and a heavy spattering of gold paillettes. ‘I mean, she’s at a traditional Orthodox wedding. She’s supposed to look like she’s been showered with coins. Instead – look at her! She looks like she’s the love-child of Aladdin Sane and Bonnie Prince Charlie.’

  Cassie’s head ached at the nebulous metaphor. It was a journey too far for her mind today. She wished to goodness she’d stayed asleep – fully-clothed – on the sofa and hadn’t bothered trying to be brave. But she hadn’t wanted to let Kelly down. It was only her second day on the job.

  Kelly’s mobile rang. She held up a finger. ‘I’ve got to take this, Bee. I’ve got a call in with W. I’ll just be a moment,’ she said, turning away.

  Bebe stared at her, then at Cassie, as if she wasn’t sure she was the girl she’d seen yesterday. ‘What’s that you’re working?’ she asked, eyes narrowed.

  Cassie looked down at her hands to see what they were doing. She felt that bad, she couldn’t be entirely sure that she had full control over her body. She looked back up, confused. ‘I’m sorry – what’s what I’m working?’

  ‘Your look. What is it? Slutty librarian?’

  Cassie’s eyes widened. ‘Uh . . . uh . . . I . . . don’t really have a title for it,’ she said slowly. ‘I just thought it looked . . . nice?’

  Kelly came back from her phone call, the smile sliding off her face as she saw Cassie in the full glare of Bebe’s attention.

  ‘Nice?’ Bebe repeated, looking over at Kelly. ‘And you get her to write press releases?’ Bebe hauled the model round to face Kelly, tipping her head disdainfully back towards Cassie. ‘Olivia Palermo she ain’t,’ she drawled. ‘Now, what’s your opinion on this?’

  ‘Cassie, I’ve left some urgent paperwork on your desk,’ Kelly said briskly, sending Cassie running for cover before turning her attention to the trembling model. ‘And I think you’re right about the sequins, Bee. Too harem. They’re the wrong gold, don’t you think?’

  Wrong gold? Cassie wondered. Was there such a thing?

  ‘That’s the problem. They’re too brassy. They should be lighter. I’ve got a contact in Tribeca. They owe me – I’ll make a call. Oh, and that was Bazaar. They want to call in the leopard-print . . .’

  ‘Jaguar print,’ Bebe corrected sternly, as though the difference between the prints was as big as the difference between spots and stripes.

  ‘Yes, you’re right, sorry – the jaguar print – for a cover try with Scarlett . . .’

  Chapter Six

  Cassie nodded slowly, a gleam of encouragement in her eyes as the girl came towards her. A week in and she was beginning to get the hang of this now. It wasn’t personal. It was just about the story, the mood, the journey Bebe was taking them on through her clothes.

  Bebe leant towards her slightly, a question mark implicit in the gesture.

  ‘Well,’ Cassie said slowly. ‘She’s got great hair, and her shoulders and hips are so narrow, she’d definitely look like a teenage bride.’

  ‘Hmmmm.’ Bebe scrutinized the model critically. She was startlingly pretty and had probably sailed through life thus far, fawned over since birth, the most popular girl at school and the living incarnation of every male’s fantasies. But in this huge, echoing, whitewashed studio, she was merely the sum of her parts and easy pickings to a seasoned fashion veteran like Bebe Washington.

  ‘Pretty enough, but she walks like a cow,’ Bebe drawled, making no effort to lower her voice. ‘And look at her ankles,’ she said as the girl came to a stop before them and struck her pose position, sinking into her back leg, hands on hips. ‘I’ve seen more contour in an RSJ.’

  Cassie saw the girl staring at the back wall, her eyes shining with unshed tears. ‘Oh, Bebe, you do have such a funny sense of humour,’ she said, desperately trying to laugh the comment off but unable to drum up a convincing on-the-spot laugh. Bebe turned sharply and stared at her strangely schizophrenic PR who was on-trend one day, off the planet the next.

  ‘She’s got lovely ankles,’ Cassie insisted, but she already knew Bebe’s mind was made up. The designer was still in a monumental sulk about having been blown out by her star booking – ‘Fucking airheads – acting like they’re the talent!’ – and as a result, Cassie wasn’t really there as a second opinion, but rather as a conduit, allowing Bebe to humiliate the models by pronouncing her thoughts to her.

  ‘No. She’ll kill the clothes. She’s only good for shampoo ads,’ Bebe said loudly before turning to the girl and addressing her directly, as though this was a kindness. ‘You shouldn’t be doing runway,’ Bebe said slowly. ‘But you’re pretty enough.’ The girl’s face fell. ‘Pretty’ in high fashion was the equivalent to GSOH in the civilian-looks scale. ‘Next.’

  The steamrollered model slunk sadly away as the next sacrificial victim came forth, picking up her feet in an exaggerated fashion whilst rolling her hips and swaying her arms languidly from side to side.

  Cassie felt Bebe lean in towards her again. ‘Hmmmmmm?’

  Her BlackBerry – which Kelly had given her – buzzed in her bag. ‘Oh, excuse me a moment, Bebe,’ she said quietly, catching the look of panic that came into the model’s eyes as she saw Cassie’s moderating influence distracted from her performance. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Cass, it’s me,’ Kelly said breathily.

  ‘Are you running?’

  ‘I was,’ she panted. ‘I’m just . . . leaning . . . against the wall . . . for a second . . .’

  Cassie waited while she got her breath back.

  ‘Phew! That was good – twelve storeys in seven minutes. A PB.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Personal best, dummy.’

  Cassie rolled her eyes. As well as kickboxing lessons every other evening, and the seven o’clock training runs each morning, Kelly was also a devoted tower-runner, even in heels. Cassie had been let off a few runs – on compassionate grounds – but she was ‘due’ out again tomorrow.

  ‘Anyway, look, the reason I called – I’ve left the file for the Breitling presentation at the office. Can you go back there and bring it over for me?’


  ‘But I’m with Bebe. We’re in the middle of the casting session for the show.’

  ‘We both know Bebe doesn’t actually need you there. Just tell her there’s an emergency at the office and you have to go. Take a cab and get a receipt. The address is on the folder. We’re on the twelfth floor. ’

  And she hung up.

  Fifteen minutes later, Cassie was standing in the lobby, impatiently pushing the ‘up’ button. She had no intention of racing up the stairs, even if she did have to wait seven minutes for the lifts to come back down from the heavens.

  The doors opened and after the stream of occupants had spilled out she stepped in.

  ‘Cassie! Hold the doors!’ called a voice as they began to close. She quickly turned back to the panel, looking blindly for the ‘doors open’ button, but there was no need. Henry suddenly leapt sideways through the half-closed opening, falling heavily against the mirrored wall at the back. Cassie pushed herself to the side wall in fright – not that her face registered it. The Botox doctor Kelly had taken her to the day before hadn’t been quite as light of touch as she’d hoped, and every time she went to the loo, she spent ten minutes practising lifting her eyebrows in the mirror, like a sumo wrestler heaving a foot off the floor.

  ‘Hi,’ he smiled, and then stopped at the sight of her expression. He straightened up and looked away from her as the lift started moving up the shaft.

  They stood in silence for a few moments.

  ‘Are you in on this meeting too, then?’ he asked.

  ‘No. I’m just the delivery girl,’ she said, holding up the file.

  ‘Ah.’ He slid his eyes over towards her, watching the way her lips silently read the changing numbers on the display.

  ‘Look, Cass . . . I’m sorry if I overstepped the mark the other night,’ he said, staring straight at her. ‘I crossed the line saying those things to you. I confused knowing you since birth with knowing you now. You have every right to . . . rebuild your life however you see fit.’

  ‘Thanks, Henry,’ she said, smiling weakly. ‘I appreciate that. I couldn’t bear to think of you feeling so . . . disappointed in me.’

  ‘You could never disappoint me, Cass,’ he said hurriedly.

  A moment passed and they watched the numbers zoom up on the LED display.

  ‘Oh. I got you this!’ he said, holding up an envelope. ‘By way of apology. I was going to give it to Kelly at the meeting. I didn’t expect to see you again before I go.’

  ‘When are you off?’

  ‘Tonight.’

  ‘Oh.’ They’d only just become reacquainted, and the other night hadn’t been an unmitigated success. It made her feel sad to think he was going again so soon. She needed all the friends she could get at the moment.

  She took the envelope. The contents rattled loosely, like rice.

  ‘What is it? Confetti for your wedding?’ she joked, before suddenly blushing as she realized she might not be invited. Old friends didn’t mean close friends. ‘Lacey seems lovely, by the way.’

  ‘Yes. She is.’

  ‘Absolutely gorgeous.’

  ‘Yes. She’s very pretty.’

  The doors pinged open and Kelly practically fell in. ‘There you are!’ she said, rushing forward and taking the file from her arms. ‘Oh, Henry!’ she said, catching sight of Henry stepping out after her. ‘You’re here too. Great. We’ve been waiting for you. Everyone’s ready to start.’

  ‘Well then, I guess this is it,’ Henry said, turning back to Cassie. He took a deep breath and smiled at her. For all the forty-two-inch chest and bear-paw hands, he looked at that moment just like the little brother she remembered.

  ‘Good luck with the expedition,’ she said. ‘When will you be back?’

  He shrugged. ‘Depends on the weather and acts of God. But hopefully by June.’ He held her lightly by the shoulders as he kissed her goodbye. ‘Well, see you around.’

  She looked up at him and gave a small smile. He was going to the end of the world and she might not see him for another ten years. ‘Yes, see you Henry.’ They stared at each other for a moment. ‘And be sure to ring your mum.’

  He chuckled as the lift doors trilled open and she stepped back in. She stood at the back of the elevator, holding her green handbag over her tummy, her poker-straight, baby-blonded hair fluttering softly under the air-con. And then the doors slid shut and he was gone.

  Cassie checked her watch. It was nudging five. Strictly speaking she ought to go back to Bebe at the studio, but she couldn’t face being party to any more character assassinations today. She felt the sadness which she was trying so hard to keep under wraps pushing up like a malevolent jack-in-the-box, and she wasn’t convinced that even the shock of Bebe’s cruelty or the mania that passed as a typical working day here would be enough to divert her attention.

  It was because she was tired, she knew. She and Kelly had gone out every night for the week and a half she’d been here – very often after eleven, when Kelly was done with her work functions and just when Cassie’s body was curling itself into sleep – and tonight she really didn’t want to ‘check in’ and have Kelly organize her evening for her. She didn’t want to eat raw fish or super beans. She wanted to eat a burger and drink a goddamn cup of tea. Her constitution demanded it in the way Kelly’s needed adrenalin or Anouk’s needed satin bras. She wanted to curl up on the sofa and read a book. If her feet weren’t so sore, she’d maybe have taken a detour and gone for a walk in Central Park on the way back. It might have helped clear her head. Ever since the Botox injections, she’d had a dull headache she just couldn’t shift, and vats of cocktails and scarcely any sleep weren’t helping. But the four-inch-heeled boots Kelly had left out for her before she left that morning – she had actually numbered her outfits for her after Cassie’s disastrous freelance effort – left no room for negotiation. They were called ‘limo shoes’ for a reason.

  Having darted into Dean & Deluca to buy dinner, she decided to treat herself and caught a cab home. She let herself into the apartment and immediately filled a small saucepan with water and put it on to boil. Pulling a box of teabags slyly out of her shopping bag – not PG, but better than nothing – she found a cup at the back of Kelly’s underwear cupboard, although traces of soil in the bottom of it suggested it had last been used as a flowerpot.

  As the water started to bubble, Cassie changed out of her dress and pulled on a pair of NYC grey joggers and a matching navy hoodie that she’d bought at a tourist shop down the block. She craved this time of the day before Kelly got back and gave her the evening itinerary. And tonight, since Kelly was expecting to meet her at Raoul’s at six, she was going to get a bonus hour of peace and quiet and rest.

  She already knew that she was going to spend most of it crying. The first call from her divorce lawyer had come through earlier this afternoon and she could feel the tears – swallowed down in front of Bebe – pumping from her heart and moving through her body like a secondary blood supply. It seemed to be the only way to mobilize the pain, to expel it like carbon monoxide or some other toxin contraindicated for survival. She just hoped, scared though she was by the fierceness and frequency of the tears, that if she let them come, it would wring out of her heart that heavy, rotting, sodden feeling, like a towel that had missed the spin cycle. ‘Better out than in,’ her mother had always said, and she supposed she was right – but not at any old time. Not randomly. After the first few days of uncontrollable tears, she had tried extra hard to let them out only when Kelly wasn’t around, not because she didn’t trust or couldn’t confide in her friend, but because she knew Kelly was scrutinizing her every move. Was she off her food? Lethargic? Pining? She’d overheard her several times on the phone to Suzy and Anouk, reporting back on her ‘progress’: ‘. . . pretty good day today, although she was crying in the shower for fifteen minutes this morning. Thought I couldn’t hear, of course . . .’

  She didn’t want to let anyone down – they were all so worried about her, trying so
hard to make it okay for her, that she felt she ought to keep her tears private and self-contained. But she was always astonished, when the tears did fall, at how very hot they were, as if they’d been simmering for hours; as though she was at boiling point inside, burning up with rage.

  She made her tea and sent a text to Kelly: ‘Got headache. See you at home after. Cx’

  A reply came back almost immediately. ‘Don’t believe you. Hot date?’

  ‘Ha ha,’ she typed back, before sighing and throwing her BlackBerry on the cushions. She sank down into the sofa just as her mobile suddenly rang, making her jump. Kelly had changed her ringtone for her from Four Seasons: Spring to a demented frog chorus, and it still took her a moment or two to realize that it was her phone ringing and not an apocalyptic invasion of toads.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Chérie! C’est moi!’

  ‘Nooks,’ she said, trying to brighten her voice.

  There was a pause. ‘’Ow are you?’

  ‘Me? Oh, I’m fine – working hard, meeting loads of new people, wearing lipstick every day. You wouldn’t recognize me.’ She exhaled deeply. ‘I’m great.’

  There was a long pause as Cassie put a hand to her temple. She could feel the tears swelling behind her skin.

  ‘Okay, now let’s try that again. ’Ow are you?’

  Cassie gave a sigh that said everything. ‘Truthfully? Well, I want . . . I want to be able to sleep through the night. And when I am awake, not to have a heart rate that’s constantly in high revs. I feel like a car doing a hundred and forty miles an hour in first gear.’ She stared at the back of her hands and was shocked to see that the skin looked thin and grey. ‘I want to be able to breathe without feeling like someone’s kneeling on my chest. I want to be able to think about the past decade of my life without feeling winded.’ She steadied her voice, aiming for truth without emotion. ‘Honestly and truly, Nooks, if a doctor offered to put me in a medicated sleep for the next six months, I’d gladly take it. Or a cryogenic coma, maybe. They could deep-freeze me for a year.’ She tried to laugh, to shake off her gloom, but it didn’t work.