by Lucy Dawson
But unlike when we’d been in the café, when she’d been all twinkling eyes and suggestive nods, she just sort of blankly stared at me for a moment and then said, ‘Oh, right,’ before abruptly turning away and starting to busily look through another row of shoes. She picked up a strappy, purple number with a three-inch heel and said, ‘I’ll take these too – in a five, please,’ to the assistant, who was still hovering, now rather awkwardly, in the background.
‘Don’t you want to try them on first, see if they fit?’ I asked. ‘Remember the Louboutins?’
‘No I don’t, thanks,’ she said shortly, not looking at me. ‘In fact,’ she called after the assistant, who had scampered off, ‘I’ll take them in the black too.’
‘Are you pissed off with me?’ I said carefully, knowing that she was, without really understanding why. She’d encouraged me before, offered to put in a good word. What had changed? My heart sped up a bit as I realised that I’d completely unwittingly steered us into the first disagreement of our friendship. ‘Have I upset you?’
She looked up at me, eyes all wide and innocent. ‘No!’
‘Is it because of what I just said? About Bailey?’
She laughed airily. ‘You can’t possibly think you’re the first friend of mine to fancy my brother? It’s been like this since I was fifteen – maybe even younger.’ She picked up another shoe, inspected it and then threw it down carelessly. I felt incredibly stupid. ‘Anyway, I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings, but he’s just started seeing someone.’
‘Oh.’ I felt my expectant heart pop with disappointment and plummet through the bottom of my sensible, old shoes.
‘She’s Brazilian,’ she added, turning to look at me unfalteringly. ‘From Rio, I think.’
‘Right.’ I looked down at the rope on my lap. ‘Well, that’s nice for him.’
We said nothing more, just waited in silence until the assistant came back and put Gretchen’s three boxes down on the counter and rang them through. The only sound in the small shop was the churning of Gretchen’s receipt as she yanked her credit card out of the machine. ‘Enjoy your shoes,’ the girl said, looking uncomfortably at Gretchen, then at me as I stood up.
Gretchen swung the shop door open with unnecessary force and it clashed off the wall, almost hitting me as it rebounded. ‘Oops! I’m so sorry!’ she said immediately to the girl and pulled a face. ‘Bit overexcited about my new shoes!’
Once we were back out on the street I said, ‘Look, let’s just go and get lunch and we can talk abo—’
‘Can’t, I’m afraid,’ she said briskly. ‘We took much longer than I thought we would getting all your stuff. I’ve got to get over to the studios now.’
‘But it’s your day off.’ I looked at her as I adjusted the rope more comfortably on my shoulder. ‘Gretch, I’m getting the feeling you’re really unhappy with me and—’
She exhaled shortly. ‘Nope, I’m not. I’ve just really got to go.’
‘But I—’
‘For fuck’s sake, Alice!’ she exploded. ‘The only bloody problem is the fact that you keep saying there’s one when there isn’t! I’m fine, but I’m now going to be late for a work meeting. Just like you said earlier – it’s not always about what you want and you need, OK?’
‘Gretchen,’ I said in disbelief, ‘what on earth are you talking about? I was joking when I said that. Can’t we just—’
‘Look, please,’ her voice suddenly wavered, ‘can we just leave it? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get shitty with you. I’m just . . . I’m just a little stressed out, OK?’
‘What’s up?’ I asked immediately, my own stuff forgotten. ‘You can tell me.’
‘It’s nothing,’ she said. ‘Nothing major anyway, I promise. I’m just tired.’
I looked at her critically. Come to mention it, she did look pretty knackered under her make-up. ‘Is there something I can help with? Is it work?’
‘Seriously,’ she insisted. ‘Don’t give it a second thought – I’m just being a twat, just ignore me.’
She stepped out into the middle of the street, waved and a black cab immediately swerved over to her, indicator flashing.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow, OK?’ She leant forward, kissed me on the cheek briefly and jumped into the cab. Her eyes were shining as she slammed the door shut and I suddenly realised she was near to tears.
I watched her lips move silently as she sat back on the seat and gave an address. I tapped on the window to get her to stop. Something was very badly up – I’d never seen her like this. I mimed undoing the window but she just pretended she hadn’t seen me. She smiled and waved cheerily, even though I saw a tear unmistakably spill over and run down her face. The cab jerked away and I instinctively stepped away, watching her staring furiously ahead, refusing to meet my eye. Then she disappeared round the corner, leaving me standing on the pavement, clutching my rope.
Chapter Thirteen
She ignored my calls for the rest of the afternoon and by the time I tried her again when I got home, her mobile was switched off.
‘That’s about the seventh time I’ve seen you check your phone tonight,’ Tom said as we got ready for bed. ‘Something wrong?’
‘Gretchen’s a bit out of sorts,’ I confessed. ‘I’m worried about her and she’s not picking up calls.’
‘I’m sure it’s nothing,’ he yawned. ‘Though I wouldn’t know, I guess – having not actually met her.’ He pulled the duvet back, got in and reached for his book. ‘God, I’m so wrecked! I’ve never known a work schedule like this . . . but it’s going to pay off.’ He patted my hand and smiled. ‘You’ll see. Anyway, I know it’s slack that I’ve not met Gretchen yet. When things calm down a bit I will, I promise.’
‘It’s really not a problem,’ I said quickly. Seeing as Gretch thought he was only my flatmate anyway, I wasn’t exactly in a rush to introduce them.
‘I’m going to the gym after work tomorrow,’ he said, ‘so I won’t be back until late. Why don’t you bring her round to have dinner here or something?’
I shook my head. ‘I’m doing a shoot with her tomorrow so I’ll see her then – and I’m sure you’re right, it’s probably nothing to worry about. I expect she’s just gone to bed early to get some beauty sleep.’
I must have still looked worried though, because he put his book down and reached out an arm to me. ‘Want a hug?’ he said.
But I wanted to take my make-up off first before I settled down, and by the time I came back from the bathroom, he had fallen asleep with his arms folded and his book open on his chest. Relieved, I closed it and slipped into bed beside him, turning the light off.
I slept badly, dreaming about engagement rings slipping on my fingers that then exploded my hands – which was pleasant – so the following morning I arrived to set up the studio, feeling tired and like I needed at least another three hours in bed to deal with the day ahead. I wasn’t sure how best to handle Gretchen. Should I act like nothing was wrong? Not mention yesterday? I didn’t want her to think I didn’t care about what was obviously bothering her, but equally I didn’t want to upset her again, especially not just before she was having a set of pictures done.
But then I discovered that I had a more pressing problem. The studio had already taken delivery of the rack of clothes for the shoot. When I unwrapped them, however, I realised we’d been sent the wrong rail. It was full of exotic and very expensive haute couture destined for – I checked the label – Coco magazine. I had a moment of complete panic but then took a deep breath and checked my watch. I had ages before anyone was supposed to arrive. There was plenty of time to sort it.
Which was lucky because when I phoned the PR company who had sent the rail, they couldn’t have given less of a shit. ‘The labels fall off all the time,’ one of the girls said carelessly down the phone. ‘I expect they just got mixed up and Coco got your stuff. We could get it picked up and sorted tomorrow, I suppose?’
What, a day after my shoot? An hour later,
I was trying to calm myself down in the back of a ludicrously expensive people carrier, bombing across town, having asked the driver to get to Coco’s offices as fast as he could. I’d never worked for them before, but knew that they liked to be seen as the directional magazine, meaning their fashion department probably consisted of scouts and muses that scoured the world looking for the very latest designers, seeking out women weaving exquisite fabrics by candlelight on mountain tops so remote one would have to trek on a camel for five days to reach them. And I had to explain the rack of couture they thought they had was in fact twelve mini cowgirl outfits and a novelty horse mask.
I wrestled the rail from the back of the taxi outside the swish, glass-fronted building, out of which impossibly glamorous people were drifting. They stared at me coolly as I, glowing rosily, pushed through into the stark, air-conchilled reception.
‘Can I speak to someone on fashion at Coco?’ I puffed to the über cool receptionist who had an asymmetric fringe. It looked like an optical illusion when she raised an icy eyebrow at the sight of a sweaty me hanging over her desk.
Eventually, after some embarrassing explanations, I was ushered into a large lift and told someone would meet me on the fourth floor. I stepped out into a corridor lined with hundreds and hundreds of framed magazine covers, all of which had Coco blazed across them. No one was there, so I pushed my rail round the corner . . . into a scene little short of office carnage. There were about thirty desks in the open plan office and a lot of shouting coming from one in the middle, where a man was saying loudly into a phone, ‘Robert, I don’t care. I’ve got a load of plaid stuck in Morocco and everyone waiting in the middle of a bloody desert for it.’ In another corner, a group of very overexcited women were huddled round a very camp man, cooing, ‘Who’s the birthday boy?’ as he opened a small pile of presents. He pulled a pair of huge sunglasses out of some wrapping and screamed ‘OH MY GOD – I literally LOVE THEM! They’re so FUCKING COCO!’ He shoved them on and inexplicably the women began to sing, ‘It’s gotta be . . .so Coco, it’s gotta be . . . so Coco,’ to the tune of Sinitta’s ‘So Macho’.
I wanted to leave. Instantly.
Another woman barged past me, clutching a loose sheaf of pages and throwing them over her shoulder as she discarded them one by one, muttering, ‘No, no . . . definitely no, her knees sag . . . possibly her, get the agency to send her arse over.’ She shoved the picture at a timid looking girl trotting alongside her, who nodded and rushed off like the white rabbit.
No one took any notice of me at all.
Eventually, after what felt like hours, a girl looked up from a desk and said boredly, and without smiling, ‘Can I help you?’
I explained the situation and, after much hilarity (how I laughed), at the fashion desk, which is what the bunch of singing women and the gay bloke turned out to be, we swapped rails.
‘You know, that is just brilliant,’ the gay bloke gasped, as he wiped tears from his eyes and sat back into his chair, exhausted by all the activity. ‘You had a whole rail of McQueen in the back of a taxi and we had a whole load of mini Dolly Parton outfits – and no one noticed! That’s just delicious! Giddy up, horsey.’ He held the now infamous horse mask up to his face and everyone screamed with laughter.
‘Seriously though,’ he let the mask drop for a moment, ‘I’ve just had a roaringly brilliant idea.’ He sat up sharply and seemed to stare into the distance. There was a sudden low murmur in the office. Everyone fell quiet, as if anticipating a life changing moment. ‘What about . . . what about we do the leather shoot as a next generation cowgirl concept – the evolution of leather. We could hang these funny little miniature outfits of hers,’ he nodded at me, ‘from tree branches – along with a load of horse masks. God, it could be a kitsch nod to the Wild West meets The Godfather meets urban warfare. Saddle up, cowgirl, Daddy’s back in town!’ He slapped the table gleefully. ‘Someone start sourcing a farm location, I need one for tomorrow. Come on, people: Can we do this? I SHOULD COCO!’ he shouted and people started jumping up in a flurry of activity. ‘Darling, can we appropriate your sweet little costumes for one more day?’ He turned to me.
I suddenly remembered exactly why I wanted to be a travel photographer.
By the time I got back to the studio at 1.42, having literally wrestled the outfits out of his very manicured hands and been told I was a brassy bitch harlot who offended his very eyes, I found twelve overexcited children, their chaperones, the stylist and a hair and make-up girl all waiting for me. I was hungry, tired and we hadn’t even started. I wanted to cry.
But just as I was considering shouting ‘Look over there!’ and then legging it out of the door, Gretchen walked in.
She was wearing a bright red version of the waiting-list-only Lucky dress, which with its cute capped sleeves would have looked demure if she hadn’t teamed it with black patent open-toed heels. She looked like Red Riding Hood with an agenda that was going to end badly for the wolf. She filled the room with smiles and loud ‘Hellooooo!’s and ‘I’m so sorry I’m late . . . Hi, girls!’ she called over to the children, who immediately got up, ran over and gathered round her, happily shouting things like, ‘I know who you are! You’re on my TV!’ and ‘Gretchen, Gretchen! Come and see my dress!’ One of them, standing next to me, jumped up and down on the spot three times, shouted, ‘It’s her, it’s her!’ and was then promptly sick on my foot.
Gretchen dumped her oversized bag down on the floor and it fell open to reveal several paper bags completely stuffed with pick ’n’ mix.
‘Oh how sweet,’ said one of the chaperones. ‘Did you get them for the girls?’
‘Um, yeah,’ said Gretchen. ‘If you like. Go for it, kids!’
Squealing like piglets, including the one that had just puked on me, they all dove in and began to squabble about who got what. Gretchen laughed and walked over, looking just like her normal self.
‘Hey, Al, you OK?’ Her face creased into a look of concern at the sight of me.
‘I’ve just had a run-in with some horrible bitchy git at Coco magazine,’ I said and laughed, but it came out a bit high and squeaky at the end.
‘What happened?’ Gretchen listened intently as she pulled up a chair next to the make-up mirror and I sat down on it. ‘You need to get that shoe off, Al – it honks.’
‘It’s so stupid, I shouldn’t even care. They had our clothes and we had theirs. He wanted to keep the kids’ outfits for reasons too stupid to bore you with, but when I said he couldn’t, he called me a harlot and the whole office went quiet to listen. He told me I’d never work in fashion again.’ I steadied my voice as I slipped off the shoe. ‘Not that I even bloody want to.’ Gretchen pulled a tissue out of a nearby box, picked up the shoe and hurriedly dropped it in the bin. ‘Now that’s friendship,’ she patted my shoulder, ‘I wouldn’t do sick for anyone else.’ She peered at my leg. ‘I don’t think any has gone on your trouser leg. Thank God for cut-offs, eh? Just don’t give that silly queen a second thought, he probably has a miserable life perpetually dieting to fit into trousers he’s permanently too fat for.’
‘Well, it was his birthday,’ I said. ‘So I hope someone gets him a big massive cake he can’t allow himself to eat.’
‘Oh, well that explains it,’ she said instantly, ‘he’s another year older too . . . you were just wrong place wrong time. With any luck the cake will completely choke him for being mean to my best friend, the bastard.’
‘Thanks,’ I said gratefully. She thought of me as her best friend? That was so nice! I was torn between wanting to hug her and feeling bad for dumping my stress on her when she’d been upset the day before. ‘Anyway, enough about me. Are you OK?’
She waved a hand airily. ‘Yeah, sorry about yesterday . . . and I’m sorry I didn’t call you back either, I just had massive PMT. In fact, can you use every trick of the trade today, because I’m so bloated I feel like ten-tonne Tessie and I’m craving sugar like you wouldn’t believe, but,’ she lowered her voice and wh
ispered, ‘those horrible little rug rats are eating all my sweets!’
I laughed. ‘Let’s get each other through this, shall we?’
She nodded. ‘But only if we can go out and have a glass or three once it’s done.’
‘Deal,’ I said. ‘Except I’ve got no shoes.’
‘We’ll think of something,’ she said. ‘We always do.’
By quarter to four, the kids’ sugar rush was showing no signs of letting up. They were all completely out of control and running about the place like small Tasmanian devils on speed, not helped by the fact that the stylist had stuck the High School Musical soundtrack on, very loudly, to which they were all dancing and singing like crazy. To give her credit though, Gretchen had firmly thrown herself into proceedings and was also leaping around like a lunatic, making the kids giggle with delight.
By five o’clock she was still going strong, but the children were fading fast.
‘You’ve been amazing today,’ I laughed, wrapping her in a grateful hug. ‘Well done. I think we should go and get that drink – I’ve got all I need.’
‘Except a shoe.’ She pointed, still dancing to the background music, at my foot. ‘The stylist asked me why you were only wearing one, I told her it’s your creative “thing” and she bought it – the prat. Why don’t we get a cab and swing past yours before the bar, so you can grab a replacement?’
That was fine by me, as I knew Tom was gyming it after work so wouldn’t be at home.
Half an hour or so later we pulled up outside the flat and, having unlocked the front door, I rummaged around quickly in the jumble of mine, Tom’s and Paulo’s shoes – aware the taxi meter was running. I was just dragging on a pair of pumps when Tom appeared at the top of the stairs. ‘Hi,’ he called down.
‘What are you doing here?’ I said in amazement, looking up at him.
‘Well, that’s nice!’ he laughed. ‘Love you too. My meeting finished early and I couldn’t be arsed to go back to the office, but all my kit is under my desk. I’ll go for a run tomorrow instead. How about you?’
