Wilde About the Girl

by Louise Pentland

  I secretly wish Skye might give me a brief window to do my ‘essentials’, like checking what the deal of the day on Amazon is and having just one obligatory Facebook scroll (even the most Professional of Professionals do this, I believe). But alas, here she is, with a worn-looking, yet uber trendy, tote over her shoulder and make-up clearly inspired by Kylie Jenner, except, frustratingly, Skye looks better. She looks gorgeous.

  She comes in, carrying her eco-cup of something earthy and sits at my desk.

  ‘So, I’ve been thinking, this Mara Isso job, it’s a big deal,’ she says to me as if I’m new to this industry.

  ‘Erm, yes, very big,’ I say in a breezy tone so she doesn’t sense my annoyance or low-level fear of her.

  ‘So we need big make-up,’ she says firmly and launches into her ideas. ‘I’m thinking some special effects with holo, lash extensions, maybe some clever strobing. What do you think to body art? Maybe we could add on-trend tattoo work or body gems. Nothing cray, but pops of intrigue here and there, really make the models stand out.’

  Skye sits back in her chair and sips the earth juice (I bet Storie would know what it was instantly – charcoal-matcha-turmeric-something, no doubt) and looks smug.

  Taking a long breath in to stall before answering, I try to envisage her proposals. Holographic work is hard but can look gorgeous done properly, Skye is incredible at special effects so I’m sure she’d make something striking. Lashes? Yeah, lashes are always nice, and I could share my idea of colouring them to match or contrast with each outfit and the models’ skin tones. Body art, tattoos and gems all sound like the models would certainly ‘stand out’.

  ‘I love all the ideas individually, but are they the right fit? Should the clothes be doing most of the talking?’ I ask, still mulling over her suggestions and imagining my acid-green lashes alongside holographic shimmer, gems, airbrushing, body art and glitter. Is it all a bit much?

  ‘I want the models to stand out, though. I want them to look so savage that you won’t even care about the clothes,’ she says assertively.

  ‘But that’s the point of London Fashion Week. The fashion. The clothes. The actual outfits,’ I reply gently.

  ‘I know, but this is our chance to shine,’ Skye responds without skipping a beat, staring at me as though she thinks I don’t get it.

  I don’t think she’s getting it. I think she might be seeing this as a chance to fully showcase her work, which of course it partly is, but she’s missing the wider point. I don’t want to squash her ideas or crush her creativity because, as much as she drives me berserk, she’s amazing at what she does, and I don’t want to hurt her feelings, so know I need to be tactical.

  ‘I see what you’re saying,’ I begin. ‘I love how you’ve taken the brief of making something special and brought the Skye flair to it – that’s why Natalie picked you to lead the creative, because you’re amazing. I just think you can have too much of a good thing, you know? Perhaps we should take your ideas, which are all individually amazing, and assess which ones would work the absolute best. Right?’

  Skye shrugs, then nods. Flattery will get you everywhere.

  ‘Why don’t you leave your ideas with me, and we’ll chat again this afternoon. Perhaps I just need them to percolate and then we’ll find the sweet spot,’ I say in my most maternal voice without being patronising. A fine balance.

  Skye blinks. ‘If that’s what you want, yeah. I’ve found the sweet spot already but if you wanna think about it for a while, then I’m chill.’ Clearly she did not appreciate the effort it took to find my fine balance. ‘I guess I just work fast and some people … well, I guess you just need to take your time.’

  My God, she’s good at pushing my buttons. I smile tightly as she gets up to leave my office and the second she’s through the door frame, open Facebook to find that video of the swans again. It’s not procrastination, I tell myself, it’s therapy.

  HOURS LATER, AFTER SEVERAL attempts to map out potential looks with holo effects or body art or lashes or all of the above, I’m stumped. I can’t see this being the way forward; something about it isn’t gelling. And time is running out.

  I ping Skye a message to see if she’s free to pop back into the office. She lives locally but is often out on shoots or planning and prepping from home, like I was last year, but she agrees to come in. You can fault her for a lot of things (well, I can), but her dedication is on point.

  Forty-five minutes later and she’s back in my office, still pristine and glowing. Can she really look this good at home? Surely she appreciates the joy of a braless oversized T-shirt and pyjama bottoms?

  ‘So, I’ve been thinking about your suggestions,’ I begin. I need to not make this sound like I’m completely shooting her down but, ultimately, I’m completely shooting her down.

  ‘Yep,’ Skye says, casually flipping her PopSocket on her phone with one well-manicured hand.

  ‘I love the concepts,’ I start, keeping things positive, ‘and I’d love to see them in the flesh at some point … but I just don’t think they’re right for this.’

  ‘You’re wrong,’ Skye says with so much understated confidence I envy her. ‘These girls will need to stand out, need to be special, and my idea is special.’

  ‘That’s the thing, though, Skye, they already are special and will stand out because a) they’re in Mara Isso’s new collection, and b) they are the first fully plus-size models Mara has ever used. No other designer is going to fill their catwalk with models like this. Perhaps we don’t need to go all out with every trick in the book.’

  ‘So what then? Just let them go on barefaced and say, “Look at these models, aren’t they so special”?’ Skye says with a slight hint of venom in her voice.

  ‘Yes! Exactly … Oh my God, Skye, you might have nailed it there!’ I say, jumping up at the brainwave. ‘Why don’t we do the most beautiful, silky, natural looks, with flowing, natural hair, nude nails, soft lips, gentle eyes, glowing skin? The whole point of this show is that all women are beautiful. Let’s take that and weave it through the hair and make-up as well, and, as cheesy as it sounds, let their inner beauty shine.’ I feel almost light-headed I love the idea so much.

  Skye narrows her eyes and frowns at me for a moment. ‘No body art then?’ she says in a last-ditch attempt to have her way. I’m going to have to placate her.

  ‘Look, I don’t want you to feel like I don’t like your first idea because I do. I’ve seen your work and I know how skilled you are. Body art and holo effects from you would be insanely good. I just don’t think they’re right for this particular shoot. Another shoot, though, maybe even another Mara Isso shoot, yes – get your brushes because you’re the woman for the job!’ I say, smiling and nodding in the most uplifting way I can. The way I do when I’m trying to convince Lyla that something is a really good idea.

  ‘Fine. Although I think my ideas would have looked crazy-hot on the models, plus size or not.’ She’s grudging but still taking this more graciously than I expected. ‘I can see this is a big moment for the industry, I’m not stupid, I know women will live for this. I know it will be lit. Natural beauty, then,’ she says, clapping both hands on her knees. ‘Sure.’

  ‘Huzzah!’ I say jubilantly, but Skye just looks at me side on, like I’ve said something crazy. ‘I think we’ve got it. Soon nobody will leave a shop feeling crap about themselves! I love that someone is shaking things up, and with ideas like this, we might get to be a part of it. Hurrah, huzzah again!’

  ‘You have such weird little words,’ she says quietly, shaking her head and getting up from her chair.

  ‘Yeah, I know, and you’re so lit,’ I say sarcastically, but from her blank expression I can see it’s lost on her. ‘Are you all right to put a rough draft proposal together? Just some face maps, product suggestions, a few pictures demonstrating what we’re going for, and I’ll send over the written blurb to accompany?’ I’m excited about telling the story behind the great visuals I know Skye can come up wi
th.

  ‘I’ll have it done by the end of the week,’ she says efficiently.

  ‘Great! Then Natalie can perfect it with plenty of time before the official submission of the proposal,’ I say. I love having this new role, being creative from this angle. I’m feeling that buzz again. I was missing the thrill of doing an amazing job, like last year when things went so well in Manhattan, but now I feel like that thrill is returning. The joy is seeping back in and I’m so pumped to be working on creative jobs again, especially on such a groundbreaking one as this. If Skye wasn’t still in my office, I’d fist-pump the air.

  ‘Sure,’ Skye says calmly, perhaps a modicum less buzzy than me.

  Meh. Life is so sweet right now I’ve enough buzz for the both of us.

  EIGHT

  I FEEL LIKE MY FEET don’t touch the ground all week. After getting the basics of the pitch sketched out, I was called out to two shoots (a commercial catalogue and a wedding trial), ferried Lyla about to three separate play dates (this child has a significantly busier social life than I do) and took several upset phone calls from Lacey, who had come on her period, despite being so sure that this was the month. I don’t know what to say to her anymore except how sorry I am. I can feel her pain through the phone and want to just reach out and fix it all but know I can’t.

  Sitting down on Friday night on the old sofa (it might be a big, new house but these comfy, brown, slightly battered leather sofas are never leaving me, even if they do have crumbs down the sides and the odd stray Ferrero Rocher wrapper under the cushions), I suddenly realise how exhausted I am. The pitch document has gone to Natalie, Simon picked Lyla up from school tonight and is having her till Monday and I’ve got a whole weekend stretching ahead. With the busyness of the week, I didn’t even think to plan anything in. What I should really do is put on some speed-cleaning vlogs, blitz the house, organise the junk drawers, clean out my work make-up kit and catch up on the ironing.

  Little birdy tells me you’re in town this weekend, I text to Edward.

  Is that little birdy a thorough Facebook stalker? he replies straight away.

  Shit.

  It wasn’t that thorough. You ‘check in’ at Heathrow, then at the Ace Hotel. You’d be a terrible prison escapee.

  Good job I’m not on the run then! Wanna hang?

  ‘Wanna hang’ sounds so breezy and casual. Theo would never have said such a thing. He’d be too busy booking cars and museum tours or, actually more likely, finding ways to avoid me and make me feel like shit. Good old straightforward, sexy Edward. And each time we see each other the sex gets better and better …

  I think about my options. Hoovering and ironing alone all weekend with nobody but YouTube for company, or hot sex and easy chat with lovely Edward, who is only here for a week and is probably very lonely. Really, I’d be doing him a favour. It would be the noble and right thing to do.

  Borough Market, noon tomorrow?

  See you then, sweet cheeks, he replies immediately.

  Who needs ironed clothes anyway?

  NEXT MORNING, I LUXURIATE in the bath for over an hour, pampering, primping and, most importantly, shaving. We all know where tonight is going and as every good fling-friend knows, preparation is key. I don’t want him to think he’s a booty call but, at the same time, I don’t want to feel caught out.

  Thinking back to our Balthazar night last time, I feel a little uneasy. I was a bit more tipsy than I’d thought. That pink Moët flowed very easily and before I knew it I’d gone from upright in a swanky restaurant to very much less than upright in a man’s bed. I don’t even fully remember all of it – it’s a bit hazy. I’d thought I was quite sober until I had to go and have a very quiet, very demure tactical sick-up in the bathroom. I turned both taps on to avoid detection and brushed my teeth after. I got away with it, but still. This time I’ll rein it in a bit, not rely on bubbles for confidence and grab the bull by the horns, so to speak.

  WE MEET AT BOROUGH Market and before any nerves can set in, we’re swept up by the throngs of tourists and local hipsters wanting to sample a million different cheeses, steaming-hot street food and freshly squeezed orange juice. The sights and smells are intoxicating: everywhere you look there’s a stall or table laden with amazing artisan foods, local delicacies, fresh flowers, handmade crafts, bespoke artwork, and each table is surrounded by people straining to get a look.

  We stop off at a stall near the door and Edward buys us each an overpriced (in my humble-but-won’t-say-anything-out-loud opinion) fresh orange juice. But then I sip this nectar from the gods.

  ‘Oh my, I don’t think I’ve ever tasted anything so incredible in all my life,’ I say, bending my knees and shutting my eyes in a swoon-like fashion.

  ‘What about this, then?’ Edward says, and leans in to kiss me on the lips, in the middle of the market. OK. Brazen. I like it.

  Smiling back at him as he pulls away, my swoony thoughts are interrupted by a market vendor’s heckle. ‘Love’s young dream, is it?’ and a hearty cackle from his stall-mate.

  ‘Something like that,’ Edward calls back as I turn beetroot with horror. I want to run back, slam my drink down and shout, ‘No, we’re not in love! We’re not in a dream! I nearly had all that and it fell to shit. This is different. I’m in control, I can’t get hurt here. This is just fun, no strings, easy fun. Shut your mouth, Mr Market Man!’ But instead, I force a smile, look at the floor, sip my drink and say, ‘Oh, they’ve got a lavender stand! Kath would kill me if I didn’t take a look,’ and steer Edward away.

  The stall would be Kath’s absolute heaven, with big, long, fresh stems, cellophane bags of dried lavender and an array of products infused with tiny flecks of blue and purple. I grab a couple, pay the lady and put them in my rucksack. Or at least, I try to.

  I had decided there was no point beating about the bush and pretending I wasn’t going to be staying over, so opted for my black leather Whistles backpack that I could stuff a few overnight essentials in, rather than carrying on a charade with a tiny cross-body number. I’m all for spontaneity but I at least want deodorant, toothbrush, fresh clothes and my favourite make-up.

  Edward studies me, trying to fit the bags in. ‘Did you pack the kitchen sink as well?’

  ‘Ha ha, no, I just brought …’ I pause and try to shove the bags in ‘… a couple of …’ more vigorous shoving ‘… essentials. For the day, I mean.’

  ‘Oh, just for the day?’ he says, a wry smile forming on his frustratingly kissable lips.

  ‘Yes, Edward, the day. This is a day trip, is it not?’ I stand on tiptoes and let my face sway very close to his.

  ‘Hmmm, not to my understanding,’ he says quietly, his lips so close to mine I can feel the warmth from them.

  ‘Oh, well, in that case it’s a good job I was in the Girl Guides and always come prepared with overnight attire, a ball of twine and a small tent,’ I say, grinning now.

  ‘Why are we still at the market?’ he says, putting his hands on my waist.

  ‘I have no idea.’ I kiss him hard on the mouth and give zero shits when Mr Market Man heckles again. ‘Get a room, you two lovebirds! This is Borough Market, not the Moulin Rouge!’

  Forty-five minutes, one very heated black cab ride of my life later and we’re in Edward’s hotel room and he’s in me.

  THE NEXT MORNING, AFTER hours and hours of sex, chat, hair-stroking (oh, the hair-stroking: I love this about Edward. Not love love, just, you know, really-quite-like) and copious amounts of room service (thank you, posh hotel on his work expenses), I roll over to look at my phone and see there are four missed calls from Lyla’s drippy dad, Simon.

  The last thing I want to do right now is ring my ex-fiancé while I’m naked, smelling of sex and in bed with another man, but I remind myself this isn’t a video chat.

  ‘Hi, Simon, I had some missed calls. Everything all right?’ I say with a firm, businesslike tone.

  ‘Well, yes. Ha. No, actually no. Lyla’s a bit, um, sick.’

 
; ‘Sick? As in she’s been sick, or American “sick” when they mean “ill”?’ I ask, frustrated that he’s not being clear, and fearing something terrible.

  ‘Erm, both, I suppose,’ he stutters.

  ‘What’s happened?’ I butt in before he dithers some more.

  ‘Well, ah, Storie and I enrolled on a, er, wild mushroom course. We are thinking about setting up an organic herb and vegetable business from Storie’s mother’s garden, so we were researching the new venture …’ He seems to think I should know what that means. That’s just a fact, not an explanation. What is wrong with my little girl?

  ‘And?’ I query, growing more frustrated.

  ‘And yesterday we were encouraged, erm, to let Mother Nature blend with us during our mushroom, er, exploration.’ He stops.

  ‘Blend with you? What do you mean, Simon? What’s actually happened?’

  ‘We think Lyla, possibly, has let Mother Nature blend with her, and—’

  ‘What are you talking about, Simon? Just speak normally without all this Mother Nature bullshit!’ I snap, frantic to know what’s happened to Lyla.

  ‘Lyla’s eaten some wild foliage she found near the mushrooms, we don’t know what it was exactly but we do know she didn’t have … er … have an … erm … actual mushroom, just some wild herbs. She’s been up all night being sick and Storie’s remedies aren’t working,’ Simon gabbles, panicked.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Simon! Why didn’t you call me straight away? What the hell kind of remedies has Storie given her?’ I feel like I’m about to explode. I’ve completely forgotten that Edward is sitting naked and concerned next to me and all I feel is guilt that my sweet baby girl is in pain and I’m not there, but sprawled out in a luxury hotel room with a man, instead. I’m disgusted at myself.

  ‘We were dealing with it. We thought she’d be OK,’ Simon says with a hint of irritation in his usually pitiful tone.