The Accidental Socialite

by Stephanie Wahlstrom

  “That’s right, fannies are super hot right now and you’ll be seeing them everywhere this autumn.” I used the right word with just the right amount of emphasis to make sure Emma realized I was assimilating. “I am a huge fan of the fanny, any shape and size. Personally, I think that the faux fur fanny will be the big trend we’ll see for the season and we should be the first on it.”

  Gisele’s eyebrows were still in her hair and two out of the three interns’ hands were covering their mouths in shock. Bet they wished they had thought of this.

  “I’ve got a whole feature planned exploring how the fanny has changed from the ‘80s when it was a colorful and bold statement, to the ‘90s where I think it got a bad rap from fat men and rollerbladers. Then we bring it into now, where fannies are not just for greasy middle-aged men anymore.”

  It was time for my big finish. I went into the props bag and grabbed a handful of fanny packs. Emma was staring at the bags, speechless. She was probably wondering where I could have gotten so many amazing fanny packs from this quickly. And a little upset that she’d be losing me as a copywriter because I was moving up the Fashionista ladder.

  “I want to show Fashionista readers that the fabulous fanny is for them, and it even comes in leopard print.” I had the two fur fanny packs in one hand and was swinging the leopard print one in a circle in front of me with the other.

  Everyone was quiet. I wasn’t sure what was supposed to happen next, but I was beginning to think that Emma and Gisele weren’t as excited as I had first thought.

  “Do you have any questions?” I asked awkwardly. I hadn’t really planned on dead silence.

  “No, please go back to your desk,” Emma said tersely.

  I took my props and left my artwork on the whiteboard. Carlos was waiting for me anxiously and he’d taken the liberty of eating my lunch.

  “How’d it go?”

  “I’m not sure, they were pretty quiet.” Too quiet, actually. My heart sank into my stomach.

  “Don’t worry about it, hun, they were quiet for mine too, and it got published! I wrote a feature on blow jobs last summer.”

  “Obviously,” I said as I rolled my eyes. Maybe being reserved was just Gisele’s style. Emma certainly wasn’t one to shout from the rooftops when she got excited.

  “So can you tell me now? What did you pitch?” He was taking very generous sips of my Diet Coke. I’d kept it a secret from him until now so he wouldn’t ruin the surprise.

  “Fall for Fannies,” I announced confidently. It was a boss idea.

  Carlos spit Diet Coke all over my “mine to keep” Closet dress.

  “Sorry doll, but did you actually do a presentation on fannies?”

  “Yes, I thought it would be ground-breaking.” I pulled out the fur fanny packs.

  “Ohhhh, you meant ‘fanny packs.’” He air quoted.

  “Well, ya, but I thought that fanny pack sounded geeky, so I dropped the ‘pack.’”

  I was confused, but Carlos was more than willing to enlighten me.

  “Paige, fanny is an offensive word for vagina.” He pointed to my bag of fanny packs. “Those, we call bum bags.”

  Well, that was information I could have used yesterday. I Googled it and, sure enough, fanny was up there with pussy and the “c” word. I was totally fired.

  Emma came around the corner. “Paige, may I see you in my office?”

  I got up, tried to calm my increasingly irregular breathing, and pleaded with Carlos. “If I get fired, can we still be friends so you can get me more samples?”

  “Of course, doll.”

  I sulked my way into her office while willing myself not to have a panic attack. “Take a seat.” Once I was seated, Emma took a deep breath and shook her head. “Paige, I thought you were going to pitch something about what all those celeb parties are like, or at most, your reaction to the Twitter incident. I have to say, I did not expect you to walk into that room and say the word … fanny … as much as you did, and then actually pull out a bum bag at the end.”

  I was fidgeting and should have probably said something, but she had already been correcting me on my English and I didn’t think I could get the sympathy card for this one. Besides, the whole point of this was to get away from being some D-list celeb. I’d never wanted the fame in the first place; why would I offer to write an article with the risk it could get worse? Emma was pausing too long, as if she was waiting for the right words to fire me with. I was about four seconds away from throwing up in my own mouth. How was I going to tell my mom I got fired and had to come home because my boss thought I asked to write an article about pussy? This was so bad.

  “It was a risk, but I have to say it’s one that paid off. Once Gisele got over the initial shock, she thought it was a brilliant idea. She loved the lead line and thinks it would get some attention on the cover, so we are going to run it. Congratulations on your first feature.”

  I couldn’t believe it. I was grinning from ear to ear even though the rational part of my brain (which, I have to say, seems to have shrunk since I moved here) was telling me to play it cool.

  I came bounding out of Emma’s office and Carlos gave me a big hug.

  “You’re not fired!”

  “Better, it’s going on the cover!”

  “I hate you!”

  “I know, right?”

  “You must be well chuffed. We have to celebrate. I’ll call the puffs.”

  It was late April and London was coming out of the pit of darkness and rain it descends into for winter. Light shone through my bedroom window, offering hope. The weather app on my phone told me that it would be 18c today, but it was a free app, and in my experience was usually off by three degrees either way. Clothes were strewn about my room along with evidence of the club launch I’d gone to last night. There was a single sheer black pussy bow blouse left hanging in my closet I got at a press event the other week and my black skinny jeans were still damp from the laundry I did several days ago. I turned on my blow dryer, hanging it precariously over the edge of my chest of drawers, and pointed it at the skinnies. Hopefully that would dry them while I was in the shower and not start a fire.

  Someone else’s alarm went off in the house. I grabbed my towel and ran for the shower just as I heard Philip’s hurried footsteps down the stairs towards the bathroom that all five of us shared. Shutting the door quickly, I turned on the shower and pretended not to hear his cursing. Several weeks into living here I’d learned that for some reason Philip liked to get into the shower at the exact same time I did, even though he didn’t actually have a job to go to. So, I began setting my alarm five minutes earlier in order to beat him to it. Rats learned quicker than this guy.

  Carlos came with me to the launch last night for some random nightclub. The invite came through my inbox the day of, presumably because all the A-list stars said no and they were trawling for bottom-feeders. At first that made me feel horrible, but when I checked my ever-dwindling bank balance I realized a night out like that on my own money would bankrupt me, but, take a few photos at the entrance and my friends and I eat and drink for free all night.

  Carlos looked just as rough as I did in the morning so I didn’t feel guilty walking in with my McDonald’s. To spread the judgment I brought him a Sausage and Egg McMuffin. I felt the sausage juice run down my chin as Emma walked by and scrunched her nose at us with disgust, but it felt so good, I didn’t care.

  Later that afternoon I had a text from Jason. Things had been going really well with us, or so I thought. Most of it was a haze of expensive dinners and waking up twice a week in his amazingly comfortable bed. He had a client dinner tonight and he wanted me to join him and the guys from work. Obviously I wasn’t at my best, but agreed anyway. If all else failed, I’d walk over to Selfridges and ask one of the girls at the MAC counter for help.

  At exactly five thirty I grabbed my leather jacket off the back of my chair and ran for the elevators. I was supposed to meet Jason at seven in Canary Wharf. So far,
the farthest east I had been in London was The Maple Leaf in Covent Garden when I was feeling homesick. The poutine was terrible.

  As I neared Selfridges, I repeated a firm promise to myself. I would not go up the escalator, I would not wander through the shoe galleries, and I would not spend my rent on a pair of strappy stilettos. As it ran through my head for the third time I realized I was on the escalator. Dammit!

  I stopped on the second floor with the intention of going right back down when I saw Charlie the rugby player. I shrunk quickly and attempted to make myself disappear, however, a woman crouching in the men’s department was far more suspect than if I was acting normal.

  He was checking out jeans maybe twenty feet away from me. I looked around, still crouched, and realized I would have to walk right by him to get on the escalator back down unless I was prepared to attempt some Mission Impossible type shit.

  In the hope that I would find an elevator, I bent down lower and ventured farther into the men’s section. A tapping shoe appeared next to me as I was crawling through the Hugo Boss collection.

  “May I help you?” asked the salesman in a way that made me feel like he may not actually want to help me.

  “Yes. I am actually trying to avoid someone, could you please tell me where the nearest elevator is?”

  “Are you Paige Crawford?”

  “No.” Or at least not in this situation. I’d ceased being on the cover of magazines, but had cemented myself firmly on the Daily Mail celeb gossip section. Anytime I went out there were comments on what I wore, who I was with, and an update on Stuart Smith. It was always totally unrelated, but having Stuart in the same article had me forever connected to him. I did not need this guy to think he could make a hundred quid selling a story about me on my knees in the men’s section.

  The salesman raised an eyebrow and was about to call me out but seemed to think better of wasting his time and instead shook his head and pointed at the far end of the room where the tills were. I gave him a thankful smile and he rolled his eyes.

  I crawled farther and was just past Versace when I heard someone shout my name. Instinctively, I remained still and on the floor in hopes that a Tyrannosaurus Rex was the one who’d recognized me. I saw another very nice pair of shoes make their way through the men’s section.

  “Paige! What are you doing on the floor?” I tried to focus on his face. He looked like a model, and for some reason I felt like eating eggs benedict.

  “Oh, I … ” Still couldn’t place him. He noticed.

  “It’s Duncan, the waiter from Balans?”

  Of course. “Hey—uh, I dropped something.”

  “Really? Well stay down because that asshole rugby player is here.” He crouched down to join me.

  “It’s good seeing you, Duncan. Thanks so much for hooking me up with Pete. The Fashionista job is going really well.”

  “No problem, doll. Anyway, how’s everything else?”

  “Other than my vag making front page news?”

  “I heard. Sorry, hun.”

  “It’s fine. My mom still calls it the interweb, so I think I’m ok there. Nothing I can do about it now anyway. What about you? How is Balans?”

  “I was only working at Balans for a bit after I got back from travelling. It was a great way to pick up guys, but now I’m working in advertising again.”

  “That sounds amazing!”

  “It is. And I just got a new place. You’ll have to come by for the house warming.”

  “Definitely.” I noticed the time on his clunky and expensive watch. “I gotta … crawl.” Waving goodbye, I continued towards the elevator as Duncan laughed behind me. I was crawling across the floor in a fancy department store, of course he was laughing. This is what my pathetic life has turned into. If only all those people assuming my life was all champagne and caviar could see me now.

  The tile was surprisingly clean on the second floor of Selfridges and once I found the elevator and got in, there was minimal dust on my pants. Thank god. That’s all I needed, a picture of me leaving the men’s section with suspicious marks on my knees when Charlie was there.

  The elevator stopped on the ground floor and I walked directly to the MAC counter, only breaking my gaze slightly when I walked by the Mulberry bags. They were really pretty. MAC had its usual uber cool atmosphere where makeup artists wearing green lipstick and purple eye shadow were able to take us normal folk and turn them into supermodels.

  Patiently, I waited until one of them was free and then begged her to help me with a promise of buying whatever lip gloss she used. Twenty minutes later I looked fresh and much more glamorous than I had at the office. I bought the Viva Glam V Lipglass and was on my way, albeit about half an hour later than I had wanted.

  Bond Street tube station was overflowing with rush hour commuters but I pushed my way through. I had half an hour to get somewhere that TFL said would take seventeen minutes, which in real life minutes meant at least forty.

  Three trains came and went before I was able to force myself onto the Jubilee line. It was hot and every man on the train seemed to have forgotten his deodorant that day. For a country that essentially invented modern industry and discovered the new world, England was really behind on this whole air conditioning notion.

  At Green Park the tube emptied somewhat, but since nobody wanted to give up their spot, anyone wanting to get off had to push their way through. This, combined with the fact that clearly nobody understood that you couldn’t get on until everyone had gotten off, led to the tube guy on the platform yelling “STEP ALL THE WAY INTO THE CARRIAGE” far louder than was necessary through his cracking microphone. The driver attempted to close the doors before everyone who thought they could fit had pushed their way onto the train and the doors stalled. Beeping and trying to shut again unsuccessfully, it was the driver’s turn to get on the microphone.

  “Step all the way into the carriage. Please stand clear of the doors,” he sighed.

  There were a few glances around the carriage because all of us were practically sitting on each other; there was no more room to move.

  Finally, the doors were forced shut after more beeping and bouncing but the train still wasn’t moving. It began to pull forward slowly as the rail made a horrible metal on metal sound, then suddenly jerked and stopped. The driver spoke again in his aloof voice of god.

  “Please stand clear of the doors.”

  Seriously, who doesn’t get that by now? We were crammed in like sardines as it was and I wasn’t sure what he wanted us to do about it. Everyone shuffled in slightly, which caused my face to be firmly planted into the armpit of a charcoal suit.

  My heart began to race; I was suffocating and nobody around me seemed to notice or care that I was about to die. Oh my god, my headstone was going to say “suffocated by an overweight estate agent on the Jubilee Line.” I couldn’t do that to my mom.

  Squirming into the three-centimeter gap I had to the left of me, I managed to dislodge my face, tilting my head so it rested uncomfortably on my shoulder and took a deep breath of sour air. Hunched over with my neck in the armpit of the suit was incredibly uncomfortable, but was better than being suffocated by polyester.

  The train moved slowly through the next three stops, each time getting a little lighter, and we were at Waterloo by the time I had enough space to stand upright. Most of the progress the makeup artist had made was lost on that fat man’s suit and the rest was currently running off my face in little streams of makeup mixed with sweat. It was a million degrees in the carriage.

  I checked my watch. It was already seven and I had no service so couldn’t send my apologies in advance. I thought about giving up and going home, but I knew that it would be even worse going west. We pulled out of Waterloo and had been in the tunnel for a few seconds when the train abruptly stopped again.

  “Sorry for the delay. This is due to a person under a train at Bank,” said the train god.

  I was suddenly envious of that person, only because they w
ere at least outside of the carriage. Three Italian women were talking animatedly; seemingly oblivious to the plight we were all in. People were glaring at them because these women were sucking up valuable air. When we were close to suffocating, I vowed right then that I would use my last breath to make their final moments as miserable as they were making mine.

  Twelve minutes later, the train began to move again slowly. I was never getting to Canary Wharf, but at this rate I was probably going to die in this train so making a dinner date was the least of my worries.

  Another twenty minutes passed and we inched into a deserted Canary Wharf station. Everyone else with any sense had abandoned hope of getting home via the underground. I was only half an hour late and considering the nightmare I’d just been through, I thought that was great time.

  I got out of the station and texted Jason, apologizing profusely and alluding to my ordeal which I planned on going over in painstaking detail so he would never ask me to come this way again at rush hour.

  He told me to meet him at a fancy sushi restaurant called Roka. I stopped to look at my refection in one of the buildings just before I arrived at the restaurant and brushed the sweaty mess of hair out of my eyes. It was the best I could do for now and once I said hello I planned on excusing myself to the bathroom again to try and get some of the nauseating tube smell off of me.

  I walked into the building and didn’t see a restaurant anywhere, so I loitered in the lobby for a minute, hoping someone would point me in the right direction. A woman walked in from the street and moved towards the elevator. I followed her.

  “Can I help you?” she asked in a posh English accent.

  “I’m just heading to Roka,” I answered.

  “You’re in the wrong elevator, this goes to Alma Consulting. You don’t work there,” she said with such certainty that it really offended me.

  “How do you know I don’t work there?” I snapped.

  “Because I work there and last I checked we didn’t have a slag wannabe WAG on our floor.”