by Cate Woods
‘Barb!’ She jumps up and rushes over to give me a hug. ‘You look amazing,’ she says, grinning. ‘Adore the suit. Very Cate Blanchett.’
Lacing her arm through mine, she marches me over to her friends.
‘Hey, people!’ she booms, waving her arms for attention. ‘Look who’s here!’
Everyone at the table (and quite a few at the other tables as well) turns to look at me. Staring back at the mass of faces – some curious, some surprised, some bored, most beautiful – I feel my cheeks turning the same colour as my suit. I give a nervous, half-hearted wave.
‘Right then,’ says Riva. ‘Who do you already know? There’s Delphine, obviously . . .’
A waifish redhead waves across the table. ‘Barb, darling, it’s been too long! You look gorgeous.’
‘And there’s Mimi’ – Riva gestures to a curvy blonde, who blows me a kiss – ‘ooh, and over there, next to Farrah, is of course Nick.’
‘Hey Barb, great to see you,’ calls Nick, a model who, when we were last in touch, fancied himself as a budding photographer. ‘You still in touch with Jay?’ he adds, mentioning my old boss; he used to be obsessed with getting me to introduce them.
‘Afraid not,’ I reply, and with a shrug Nick turns his attention back to the model on his right.
Then Riva points out a slender middle-aged man in a trilby and three-piece-suit and says: ‘And of course you know . . .’ But before she can finish, the man stands up, flings out his arms and shrieks: ‘OH. MY. GAAAAD! Barbra fucking Streisand, is that really you?’
I look at him blankly; I have absolutely no idea who he is – and I’m usually quite good at remembering faces.
‘Oh bitch, please,’ he pouts theatrically. ‘I know I’m off-duty tonight, but surely it hasn’t been that long?’
Then he strikes a pose and I gasp.
‘Madame Kiki Beaverhousen? Oh my God, it’s so good to see you!’ I rush over to give him a hug. ‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t recognise you without the wig and sequins.’
‘Well, I could say the same about you.’ He pulls back and looks me up and down. ‘You off-duty tonight as well?’
I laugh. ‘No, I’m afraid this is me on duty these days. Barb’s retired.’
‘What?’ He gasps in horror. ‘But why? Barb is your spirit animal, just as Madame Kiki is mine. You can’t just . . . put her back in the wardrobe. That’s tantamount to abuse!’
‘I’m afraid I have. These days I’m just Annie.’
‘Well, it’s a delight to see you again, just Annie.’ He moves a chair between him and Riva. ‘Come and sit next to me, darling. What are you drinking?’
‘Whatever you’re having.’ I smile, relieved to be out of the spotlight.
‘Excellent choice.’ He waves at a passing waitress. ‘Bianca, darling? Two Singapore slings for us London queens.’
Riva introduces me to the others at the table, but I forget their names as soon as she’s told me, and then, with the babble of gossip resuming comfortingly around me, a cocktail appears; I take a huge gulp so the alcohol can work its magic.
‘You should have seen Barb a few years back,’ Riva is saying to a Kim Kardashian lookalike sitting opposite. ‘She was a total fucking legend. I mean, seriously, everyone knew her. She used to be Jay Patterson’s right-hand woman.’
This is all hilariously over the top, but the Kim clone looks genuinely impressed. It appears that Jay’s name still holds currency even after he was exposed as a sexual harasser and drug addict last year.
‘And do you still work in fashion, Barb?’ asks the Kim-alike through over-filled lips.
‘Oh no, not anymore,’ I say. ‘I . . .’
Before I can finish, Riva leans across and says: ‘Barb works in property and design.’
My immediate reaction is to hoot with laughter, but Riva’s face is deadly serious and certainly my new friend looks a lot more interested than she would if I’d told her I worked for an estate agent, which is what I was about to say.
‘You should check out her Instagram,’ Riva goes on. ‘She has a killer eye.’
Two drinks (swiftly) down, I begin to relax and feel less of a sore thumb. I’ve stopped imagining that everyone is looking at me and wondering: What’s that mum doing here? It helps that despite the five years that have passed since I was part of this crowd, they’re still having the exact same conversation as when I left. All anyone is talking about is the industry: who’s landed which contract, who’s fallen out of favour, who’s working (and sleeping) with whom. Some of the names and references mentioned are unfamiliar, and there’s more talk about bloggers and influencers, but generally I’m astonished how little has changed – which means I can easily blag my way through most conversations. And if there is an awkward lull, I can simply dig out one of my endless, outrageous anecdotes from working with Jay. I’ll say something like: ‘Oh my God, Riva, do you remember that crazy shoot we did with Salma Hayek in Marrakech? And Jay tried to smoke oregano and nearly got arrested?’ And the old gang will break into screams of nostalgic laughter while the newcomers hang on my every word with starry-eyed admiration. My ego hasn’t had such a boost in years.
In fact, I find myself slipping back into this world so easily that I have moments of feeling weirdly off-balance, sort of like vertigo, when I remember how different my life is now. Nobody apart from me seems to have kids – or if they do, they’re not talking about them – and everyone is drinking in that carefree, chaotic way that suggests they don’t have to worry about combining childcare with a hangover tomorrow morning. Early in the evening I make the mistake of asking Riva where Jethro is tonight and for a split second she looks like she doesn’t even know who I’m talking about.
‘Oh, with his nan,’ she says, with a vague wave of a hand that suggests it doesn’t warrant further discussion. ‘Now, have you spoken to Cheska yet? She’s just got a job working as assistant to . . .’
The drinks keep coming and I’m enjoying myself more than I have in ages. I really hope Tomo turns up soon; I’m looking hot, right? And I’m clearly holding my own with this crowd. It would be fun to see him again and catch up with his news . . .
‘Come on, everyone, selfie time!’
The Kim Kardashian clone, whose name, hilariously, is actually Kim, bunches us all together and gets the waitress to take one picture of the whole group – well, I say one, but really it’s a full-blown photo shoot. As she’s tapping away, editing and filtering, she looks up and asks: ‘Barb, what’s your Instagram so I can tag you?’
‘Oh no, I’d rather you didn’t . . .’
Riva laughs at my discomfort. ‘Barb’s got a strict no selfie policy on Instagram. She likes to fly under the radar.’
Kim turns to me, horrified. ‘Really? Wow. Sure. That’s, uh, weird.’
‘It’s just a work thing,’ I explain. ‘Not to mention the iPhone camera doesn’t do my face any favours. It’s my nose – it tends to dominate.’
‘You just need to learn to contour,’ says Kiki Beaverhousen, whose real name, I discover, is Edgar. ‘A little shading and some highlighter and you could completely remodel it.’
I give a hollow laugh. ‘I think the last thing my nose needs is highlighting.’
Riva puts her head on one side and scrutinises me. ‘Babe, if it bothers you so much, why don’t you get it fixed?’
‘Fixed?’
‘Yeah. Made smaller.’
‘What, like a nose job?’
Delphine chips in from across the table: ‘Ooh, you should go and see Mr Jindal. He does all the top girls.’
‘Oh God, yeah, he’s uh-maaazing,’ drawls Kim. ‘You know that blonde model in the latest Dior campaign? Carolina? Well, you should have seen the state of her nose before Mr Jindal got his hands on it.’
Farrah nods enthusiastically. ‘Yah, that bitch owes her entire career to him.’
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘It just feels a bit, well, drastic. Going under the knife.’
Riva’s forehead
furrows in confusion. ‘Why? I had my boobs done after Jethro. It’s so not a big deal nowadays, doll. You’d be in and out of hospital super quickly and then it would be like a week in bandages and you’re done!’
‘These days surgery is basically just like a sort of intensive facial,’ agrees Delphine.
‘Yeah, you should totally do it,’ Mimi chips in. ‘You’ve got the most fabulous cheekbones, it would really make them pop if your nose wasn’t so’ – she gestures with her hands, searching for a tactful word – ‘bold.’
I have no idea what she’s talking about – can cheekbones pop? – but I must admit it’s very tempting to imagine I could fix my detested nose so easily. I’ve got a bit of money left over from my parents that I’ve kept back for emergencies, I’m sure that would be more than enough . . .
‘Here, I’ve got Mr Jindal’s office number on my phone,’ says Delphine. ‘I go to him for lasering,’ she adds, slightly defensively. ‘Why don’t you book a consultation?’
I guess there’s no harm in meeting this guy for a chat. With a thrill of anticipation, I take down his number and save it in my phone.
It’s past eleven when somebody mentions that Travis is having a party in Shoreditch and suggests we get over there right away; there is an immediate and enthusiastic mass exit.
Riva turns to me, her eyes shining. ‘Oh my God, Barb, Travis is gonna fucking die when he sees you!’ She grabs my arm and leads me towards the exit. ‘How long is it since you last saw him? Shit, do you remember that time when we were in Cannes together? And Travis streaked down the Croisette?’ She cackles with laughter. ‘Man, fun times . . .’
As we make our way downstairs I laugh along with her, and although I’m pretty sure that I’ve never met anyone called Travis, or even been to Cannes, these seem like minor details. The important point is, I think that I could have been there.
We’re standing outside waiting for our Uber to arrive when I check my messages. I have one from Claris telling me that Dot went to sleep like a dream, and a voicemail from Tabby. With a rush of something uncomfortably close to guilt, I hit play.
‘Oh hey, Annie, don’t worry about phoning back, nothing at all important, I just . . . well, I was just feeling a bit worried about – well, you know – the scan and everything, and you’re always so good at making me feel better that I thought I’d give you a call. But as I said, I’m absolutely fine, just being a bit silly, that’s all. Anyway, Jon’s back tomorrow. Thanks again for today. Love you.’
I check the time of the message: she left it three hours ago. Still, I should definitely try to speak to her . . .
‘Hurry up, Barb, we’ll be late!’ I look up from my phone to see Riva hanging out the back of a packed silver Toyota, beckoning impatiently.
‘I just need to make a very quick call,’ I say, waving my phone by way of explanation.
‘No time, babe,’ says Riva. ‘Do it in the car.’
I hesitate for a moment. I really don’t want to speak to Tabby when I’m surrounded by these people; I need privacy for this. But she’s bound to be asleep by now – and she did say in her message that I shouldn’t worry about calling back. I’ll just send her a text instead, then she can read it in the morning.
Nick sticks his head out the front window. ‘Barb, you coming or what?’
With an apologetic grin I slip my phone back in my bag, then squeeze in next to Riva and slam the door.
26
The way I see it, a hangover is basically a fun tax. The bigger the fun, the more you’ll be liable to pay – with a special higher tariff for parents of young children to act as a ‘fun deterrent’. Viewed in purely fiscal terms, it seems almost – almost – fair that I’m feeling so dire this morning, as I had such a brilliant time last night.
Honestly, I really don’t know why I was so worried about seeing the old gang again. I guess it was because I thought I’d feel out of place, but all anyone wanted to talk to me about was the old days, back when I was working for Jay. I haven’t felt so fascinating in a long time. None of them seemed at all bothered about what I’m up to now – which is lucky, because I can’t imagine Mimi or Farrah being that interested in Curtis Kinderbey, or my thoughts on baby-led weaning. Is it terrible to admit that it was actually really nice to spend an evening being something other than someone’s mum? To be appreciated for my achievements, rather than simply my body’s ability to push out a baby? For the first time in ages, I felt like a valued person in my own right, instead of just carer-in-chief and head bum-wiper to a tiny, demanding dictator. The only time I got even close to mentioning Dot was when Edgar poked my cleavage and shrieked: ‘Good Lord, are those new boobies?’ And when I explained that they were only bigger because I was breastfeeding, his horrified reaction was priceless. In fact, the night’s only downer was that Tomo was a no-show. According to Travis – who, it turned out, I did know: we worked together on a men’s fragrance campaign once – he’s living part-time in Ibiza. Travis promised that he’ll make sure Tomo comes along next time we all meet up – by which time hopefully I’ll have just about recovered from this God-awful hangover.
Rolling over in bed, my tummy churning like I’m on a cross-channel ferry in a gale, I reach for my phone: shit, it’s already past eight o’clock. I really do have to get up. Why on earth didn’t I call it a night after the drinks in Soho like a sensible person? It’s all very well going to bed at 3 a.m. if you’re a blogger, but I’m due at the office in less than an hour to pick up some keys. Bloggers probably don’t even have an office, they just snap a quick bed selfie, stick it on Instagram (#bestsleepever #lovemybed #socosy), get paid thousands of pounds by a duvet company and then take the rest of the week off. And yes, I am jealous, but most of these so-called influencers couldn’t frame a decent photo if they tried.
Trying to delay the moment where I have to attempt to stand, I scroll through my phone, smiling to see the contacts I added last night: Nick, Delphine, Edgar/Kiki – um, who’s ‘Nose Guy’ . . . ? I try to make sense of it, but thinking makes my brain hurt. Suddenly a memory looms out of the fog: Riva asking why I don’t get my nose fixed. Everything falls into place. Of course, this is the plastic surgeon they were raving about! I stare at the number, which now possesses an almost mystical allure. Before the rational side of my brain can kick in, I hit dial and – with a thrill of anticipation – I leave a message asking someone to call me back at their earliest convenience about booking a consultation.
*
At just after 10 a.m., held together by industrial amounts of coffee and under-eye concealer, I arrive outside a set of imposing black gates on a quiet street in Battersea. From where I’m standing it’s impossible to see what lies behind them, but going by the CCTV cameras and general fuck-off air conveyed by the seven-foot gates and spike-topped fencing, you’d think it was a top-secret government laboratory rather than the apparently charming seven-bed period property that I’ve been sent to photograph.
I press the intercom, the gates slowly open and I find myself in a particularly lovely part of rural Somerset. Ahead of me, surrounded by trees, I can just about make out an enchanting three-storey house, its weathered, silver-grey brickwork swathed in greenery. As I make my way up the gravel driveway, the usual London sounds of traffic and swearing disappear, to be replaced by birdsong and the gentle hum of a mower. A couple of vintage cars and an old-fashioned bicycle complete with basket are parked near the house, arranged in such an aesthetically pleasing tableau that it must have been deliberate. Even the air smells sweeter in here. I’ve photographed some truly amazing properties over the past few weeks, but never have I had such intense home envy as I do right now.
I ring the doorbell and settle in for a wait: the first thing I’ve learnt from photographing houses like this is that it can take a long time to get from one wing to the other. It’s not like your average London flat, where you can basically just turn around and open the front door from wherever you’re standing in the property.
A
man in tennis whites opens the front door, racket in hand. He’s in his mid-fifties and looks important and cross.
‘Curtis Kinderbey?’ he barks. ‘You’re late.’
Oh come on, mate, I feel like saying. You live in this stunning house, you’re playing tennis on a weekday, you’re clearly loaded – surely you can manage not to be an arsehole?
Before I can get a word out, however, he turns and shouts: ‘Natasha? Estate agent’s here, darling. Could you come and deal with it? Giles is waiting for me at the club.’
And with that he walks past me without another word and heads out to one of the gorgeous cars, jumps in and zooms off in a shower of dust and gravel.
A minute or so later Natasha – for this must be she – drifts elegantly down the curved staircase, spooning something out of a bowl that probably involves chia seeds. She is obviously fresh out of the shower: her long, brown hair is wet, her feet bare and her unfairly beautiful face make-up free. Most normal people would immediately think: teenage daughter. But the second thing I’ve learnt from this job is that when it comes to rich people, wives and daughters are interchangeable. She’s not wearing a wedding ring, but that could be locked in the safe (lesson number three: there’s always a safe).
‘Oh hey,’ she drawls, admittedly in a very teenager-home-from-boarding-school fashion. ‘So you’ll just . . . get on with it, right? Or do you need me to . . . do something?’
‘No, it’s absolutely fine; if you’re happy for me to go around by myself, I can just crack on.’
