by Zoe Foster
‘Good morning, ladies. Thank you so much for your time today, we appreciate how busy you all are, so we’re really delighted you could all make it.’ She was smiling, but her hands were shaking. ‘As you may have guessed, today we’re here for a very special reason, and what will be a very important launch for us this year, so we hope you’ll all love it so much you’ll feel inspired to include it in your pages!’
‘She should be more passive-aggressive about us giving it editorial,’ smirked Fiona.
I laughed along with her, because that’s what you do when there’s a clear ringleader: you laugh at their jokes.
‘A first-to-market product, the new Rewind serum uses papain, an extract from papaya that works as an enzyme on the skin to dislodge dead skin cells and let the fresh new ones shine through, and is the natural alternative to Alpha Hydroxy Acids (AHAs), which can be too harsh for some people’s skin…’
‘Oh, come on, as if we’ve never heard of papain.’ Fiona rolled her eyes.
‘Shut up, Miss Know It All. I’ve never heard of it,’ Yasmin hissed.
‘…and of course, our patented antioxidant elixir, which contains eight of the most potent antioxidants available in skincare today, which, where possible, are cold-pressed for greater effectiveness.’
Sold.
I’ll take two.
‘I want to wear it now,’ said Yasmin, clenching her fingers in a gimme-gimme motion. ‘Love their shit. Fuckin’ love it. Their eye cream with the cooling stuff in it? Best eye cream ever.’
‘Rewind is pretty good actually,’ agreed Fiona. ‘One of the few brands who actually deliver half the promises they churn out.’
‘I could never have afforded it in the real world,’ I said.
‘Honey, we’d all be using Nivea if we weren’t beauty editors!’ said Fiona, and we all laughed – but me a little more than the others, because she was utterly right, and because she was finally, finally being nice to me.
‘Hey, I used Neutrogena then, and I still use it now,’ said a defiant Yasmin, who was watching the testers being sent around with a hawk-eyed glare.
Olivia’s spiel was coming to a close, and her relief was palpable. Her PowerPoint had gone flawlessly, and all her video clips had worked like a dream, and we were hungrily rubbing her goo into our hands, doing the rub rub sniff, rub rub sniff thing we always did with any skincare product, be they cleansers, scrubs or crèmes. ‘So there are some samples being passed around for you all to try, and of course you’ll get some to take home, so please, enjoy, and thank you again for coming.’
I looked to the ringleader for a snide remark or observation, but Fiona was too busy rubbing and sniffing. Even the jaded could still be moved with an impressive product it seemed.
It’s just an irony
Make the boys melt by smelling like a dream, sans reapplication. The trick? Apply perfume to all the ‘bendy’ parts of your body: neck, elbows, knees and wrists. Your body heat and movement will distribute your fragrance evenly all night.
Later that day I was typing furiously to get my ‘Six Steps to Smoky Eyes’ article finished and filed before five. I had got all the tips from an interview with an M.A.C make-up artist, but was having difficulty turning her creative talk into succinct, reader-friendly tips.
It was funny, because during the interview, when she used phrases like, ‘And then with a mid-sized blending brush gradually build the charcoal shadow over the lid like a thunderstorm gently brewing,’ I nodded and a-ha-ed as though I had finally found someone who spoke my language. But hours later, listening to my tape recorder and staring at a blank document, it came off sounding as though we had both been happily clicking away in Swahili. My phone beeped and I welcomed the distraction. It was Iz.
Is 2nt a legs and heels night or a jeans and boobs nt?
You mean you’re not going to make the most of your loan and wear The Top?
OMG, I totally 4got I still had ur top! So sorry! Um, but can I wear again? Pls??
Of course! It’s boobs and jeans for me. See you soooon x
Love u long time xxx lz
Immediately after this textversation, my concentration clocked off. Because, it being a Friday, and me being single, I was going out.
It was definitely a night for jeans and boobs, I confirmed to myself.
Everyone knows that Saturday night is wardrobe-effort night, not Friday. All I had to do, thanks to the pressures of being a mag hag, was switch tops and increase my eye make-up by around 300 per cent. Perfect.
We were meeting for a drink at 6.30 p.m. at a bar in the city called Frisk. I arrived at 6.32, Iz at 6.53.
‘Sorry, honey – I’ve had an absolute bastard of a day,’ she said as she kissed me and dumped her coat on the floor.
I held out the white wine I had bought her and told her she looked sexy. Which she did: she had her blonde hair blow-dried and all flicky, and wore black skinny-leg jeans with my new black top, which pushed her already ample bosom up to her chin. I could already sense men staring at her, mentally sketching plans to weasel their way into our conversation before anyone else had the chance.
‘So, how was your day?’ she asked with a sigh and a relieved sip of her wine.
I explained to her about the whole Fiona thing, careful not to make Fiona sound too evil, for fear of Iz getting a bad first impression and hating her forever.
‘Well, she sounds mental to me,’ she said decidedly. ‘Why waste time letting someone like that into your inner circle?’
As if I had one in the beauty world.
‘But you’re making friends, aren’t you?’ she asked. ‘That Jasmine girl sounds cool.’
‘Yasmin.’
‘Yasmin. She’s nice, right? Decent enough to spend time with at all those functions, anyway.’
‘Yeah, she’s unreal. But, I dunno, Iz. It’s just a weird world. Either they’re utterly twisted, or they’re overly nice, but they’re all a little bit off. They’re not, you know, normal. Not like you and me.’
‘Oh yeah, we’re totally normal.’ She exploded into laughter.
‘Whatever. I guess it will just take time.’
‘Look,’ Iz rearranged herself on her seat, signalling that she was about to make a Wise Comment, ‘unless or until someone proves they’re an outright bitch, I reckon just be nice.’
Iz said this as though up until this point I had been deliberately spilling red wine on them or sleeping with their boyfriends.
‘Kill them with kindness and all that. Rise above. But watch that Felicity.’
‘Fiona.’
‘Fiona, whatever – two-facey. She sounds shonky. Ooh! Speaking of shonks, I met a guy! And I didn’t tell you because I knew you wouldn’t mind, but he’s coming here with some friends for a drink. Is that okay? Don’t worry, if they’re losers, we’ll brush them off and go to another bar. But he’s hot. So hot. A model! He’s in that base-jumping Pepsi ad! Can you believe it?!’
Male models were obviously Iz’s new flavour. After having had her fill in Suit City, helping herself to finance lads and stockbroker boys at will, then passing through Hippie-ville, she seemed to have moved on to Young Studs. If only I had such confidence. I couldn’t imagine myself with one guy right now, let alone a whole stable.
As if reading my mind, Iz answered the question I hadn’t asked.
‘Oh, Han, I don’t know that I want to go chasing Mr Right – cash, looks, age, experience and brains. Whatever. Too much ego and too much baggage for me. I want someone fun. Someone who will make me laugh, not bolt off with his sexetary.’
We sipped our wine in agreement.
Iz’s swift movement between men didn’t mean she was easy, even though women who didn’t know her and who were threatened by her confidence liked to label her so. She was just enjoying every opportunity single life afforded an attractive, secure young woman. She had done her five-year fiercely loyal relationship; now she wanted to play. And it wasn’t like these guys were all bedding her – she was excruciating
ly slow to give up the candy with most of them. I truly admired her. I could never be so bold, or manage so many personalities in such quick succession.
As it so often did, one glass turned into one bottle and one cheeky cigarette turned into four. Then the catwalk kids arrived.
One wore a trucker’s cap and a T-shirt that said ‘I Only Fuck Models’.
One wore a short mohawk, a snarl and layers of attitude.
One wore a winter scarf, thongs and tight red skinny-leg jeans.
And the other one, well, within a minute or two he was wearing Iz.
She winked at me, and nodded towards the guy in the trucker cap. Who saw her do it. Which was apparently all the encouragement a shy boy like him needed.
‘So.’ He paused to look me up and down. ‘You’re pretty hot,’ he said, as he took up a stool next to me. I noticed that he was absolutely beautiful. The type of guy you don’t date because you can’t trust your friends around him. Deep-blue eyes, olive skin, dizzyingly perfect smile and sexy man-cheekbones. He looked like he’d stepped out of one of those Dolce & Gabbana ads where dozens of sexy young boys just writhe around on the floor in their underpants. Judging by his overwhelming bashfulness, I was pretty sure he’d tell me he had just come back from Milan, where he’d done precisely that.
He sat folded-armed, eye-balling me as though I were a new Ferrari, and although he had wanted a Lamborghini he’d be prepared to settle.
‘A lot of girls who look good from afar are no good up close. I’ll need a better look.’ He raised his eyebrows and then he actually tipped his cap back to get a better look.
He was a walking, talking caricature.
‘Your T-shirt means I’m out of the question anyway,’ I said, openly flirting.
He cocked his head to an angle, I guessed in an attempt at being cute.
‘Don’t worry about that, babe. It’s just an irony.’
I choked on my wine before laughing out loud. Having absolutely no clue as to his gaffe, he nodded, smiling a smug, no-teeth-showing smile, as though he had successfully broken the ice with his genius.
‘I think you might cut the grade, missy,’ he said. ‘You’re a cutie. So, what will we drink now that we’re friends? How about some one-two-three-floor tequilorrr!’ He said the last part loudly so his friends could hear, and together they all repeated it and laughed. I felt like I had accidentally crashed a college party. I looked at Iz and raised my eyebrows.
Two tequilas, two wines and two clubs later, my enjoyment and Trucker’s adoration had escalated to a dangerously high level. I was now wearing a certain person’s trucker cap. A siren wailed faintly in the back of my mind: I was meant to be tough on men from now on! Play hardball. Make them work. Keep the upper hand at all times.
Keep an air of detached cool. I had rules and regulations about this stuff, which I was supposed to be following. Was I so weak that the first guy to show me a twinkle of interest made me forget all of them?
I looked over at Trucker dancing and laughing. He caught my eye and blew me a kiss, before galloping over.
‘You gonna give that back?’ he asked, motioning to the cap on my head while smiling, clearly not caring either way.
‘Nope.’ I smiled and sipped my drink.
Bah, so what? I thought. Time to have a little fun. I was sure Jesse was out there doing the same. Or worse. I shivered at the image.
‘Well then, guess I’ll be needing to go home to get me another one.’
I decided he needed a chaperone.
‘But what are you feeling? I mean, where are we going? What is the path we’re on? Emotionally? You know hair is a reflection of your state of mind, don’t you? It needs to progress as you do. Don’t make me explain that to you again, not you of all people; I mean, darling, that’s your goddamn job! If you don’t know that, well then, we’re all screwed, know what I mean?!’
With that, Johnson Tyler, Hairdresser of the Year two years running, dissolved into scary high-pitched laughter. He was the best hairdresser in the city (country, world, galaxy, universe) and his PR had given me six months’ worth of free haircuts, in return for him being the hair guru in my beauty pages. This made things hard when super-celebrity hair royalty swooped into town, but as Johnson’s cuts were so extraordinary, it was worth the sacrifice.
Johnson was a tiny Hispanic ‘hair artist’ who had more presence than an irritated lion in a small room. He had cut and styled everyone from Goldie Hawn to Cindy Crawford, and until he had fallen in love with a young photographer, Julie – yes, a woman – who lived here in Sydney, he had lived in Manhattan. He liked to remind me of that fact roughly ten times per haircut.
The thing about Johnson was that he carried on like Señor Gay of Gay Street, Gay Town, when in fact he was entirely heterosexual. He was just a little bit camp. In the same way the Antarctic is a little bit cold.
On his insistence, I gave some serious thought as to how I was feeling. I was feeling the best I had in a few months. Life was starting to come together. That or I had finally mastered the art of repression. ‘Um, I guess I’m feeling okay? Kind of, um…cruisy?’
‘Darling. Cruisy is not a state of mind, it’s a kind of day we have when the sun shines and the Veuve flows and there is no fucking work to be done! Are you screwing anyone yet? It’s time you were over that ex of yours. So boring for me. Waste of time. Life is too short to slobber and sob over past fucks.’
‘Well, I mean, there’s this…but it’s…no. I mean, we’ve hung out a few times, but he’s silly, it doesn’t mean anything…’
‘Ohmigod! We have action! Frank, FRANK! Turn that off! Did you hear that – the little one is getting laid!’
Johnson was screaming across the salon – and several customers – to his assistant, Frank. Frank winked at me and went back to his blow-drying.
‘Johnson, please. You’re embarrassing me!’
‘Oh, stop it. What are you, a grandma? Okay! Enough chit. Now you be quiet.’
With that, he put his iPod on and started cutting. As Johnson snipped and razored my hair, I wondered what exactly it was that Trucker, male model extraordinaire, was to me. He was definitely an A-class rebound. He was undeniably replacement therapy. He was also doing a cracking job of administering ego enhancement and distraction treatment.
Yasmin was thrilled for me, and had even had a dalliance with one of his model friends, Jimbo, during a post-party party at Iz’s place.
Jacinta had taken to calling me Issues.com, claiming the short amount of time since the break-up was irrelevant, but Trucker’s prowess in the sack and his hot shirtless Nike campaign were not.
Post-haircut, with a new fringe and looking like someone way cooler than the person I really was (Johnson had surmised my emotional state to be ‘butterfly hotness’), I schlepped back to the office. It was already 6 p.m., but I had some stories that needed to be done, and I figured that, with a full day of functions tomorrow, it would be best to get ahead tonight. I’d thought when I started that I was working long hours, but I’d since realised that beauty editors don’t ever do normal hours. We have the same deadlines as everyone else, but only half the time in the office, so it wasn’t unusual for me to be at work at 7.30 a.m. and to leave at 8 p.m.
When I walked into the Gloss office, I was disappointed to see Eliza, Karen’s crazy deputy, at the photocopier. Her blonde mane was freshly blow-dried and excessively voluminous. From behind she looked like a kind of hyper-cheerleader, with her tiny frame, bomber jacket and tight jeans. She was pressing buttons aggressively and pulling out paper trays before slamming them shut again, swearing and hissing loudly. I tried to sneak past, but she saw me.
‘Hannah! What the fuck does this mean? Check the cartridge positioning, tray four?’
I had no idea. None. I was even worse with antagonistic office machinery than I was with psychotic superiors.
‘Do you want me to take a look?’ I said, hoping she’d say no and shoo me away. She had a reputation for being very scary once
every four weeks.
‘Yes, fix it, please, Hannah. I need to print out finals.’ And with that she whooshed back into her lair.
I put my bag down and slowly started tinkering with trays and touch screens, trying to understand why this sadistic machine was trying to get me verbally clocked.
When my phone rang, I let it ring out. When it rang again, I did the same. I preferred to focus on the copier, and thus preserve my life. When the shrill tone sounded for the third time, Eliza opened her door and screamed, ‘Hannah, would you please answer that fucking phone.’
She startled me so much I actually jumped. I hadn’t felt this scared and tiptoey around someone since school. It would be funny tomorrow, but right now it was frightening.
It was Trucker. Shit.
‘Hannah speaking.’
‘Hola! Sexy señorita, what’s the G-O? I love your phone voice, you sound foxariffic. I’ve had the worst day; my agent was being a total toss, trying to get me to do some lame-ass supermarket show, and I’m like, “Uh, Phil, I think we both know I don’t do shopping centres.” Loser. Anyway, flash forward, who cares: what time am I seeing you tonight?’
‘Oh, um, can I maybe call you back?’
‘Why? Your husband there? Tell him I said hi, and that tonight you’re all mine.’
‘No, I mean—’
‘The party starts at nine, so we’ll meet Kyle and Shaun at the Duke for a drink at eight. Can you wear those jeans that show off your arse? Hot. Damn, you look fine in those. You should wear them every friggin’ day.’
‘Hannah! Is that copier fixed? I’m pressing print right now.’
‘Look, I’ve gotta go. I’m not sure if I can come tonight, but I’ll text you.’
‘What? Like hell. I’ll hunt you down and carry you out like a caveman.’
‘I’ll call you. I’ve gotta go, bye.’
