by Zoe Foster
And he came over. And apologised. And promised never to fight again. And they ‘made up’. All night.
I couldn’t help but miss Trucker a little when I saw Kyle and Iz all happy and together again the following weekend. Or, rather, my ego missed him. But I knew finishing it had been the right thing to do. Even if I had felt a little lonely for the last few weeks. And all that loneliness made me think of Jesse, because I still had reserve loneliness left over from him.
I wondered if he and Lisa were buying engagement rings yet.
Send/Receive, Send/Receive
Too busy to get your roots done? Try one of the ten-minute touch-up products. Or apply a colour refresher. Or switch your parting. Or do a teased quiff and ponytail. Or just don’t dye your hair.
For the first time since starting at Gloss, things had slowed down. My usual crazy stream had stemmed to a paltry trickle. All at once, the cosmetic companies eased up on PR activities, which meant no functions. And no busy. Just as I craved frantic, extreme busyness as a substitute for Trucker, who’d distracted me from thoughts of Jesse, the universe stripped me of it. Being stuck at my desk all day – rare, near unheard of – meant I got lots of work done. And could leave at 6 p.m. Which was great. Except that I hated it.
I missed my regular routine. I was used to, say, a natural skincare launch at 8.30 a.m., complete with soy smoothies, bio-dynamic eggs, a yoga class and free iridology consultations, followed by a 12.30 lunch with a PR to talk about their new tanning range, then a 2.30 two-hour boardroom meeting with Karen and Marley, and, to finish, a 6 p.m. cocktail function in a hotel lobby with every hairdresser in the metropolitan district. It was loopy but, just like the strange rash I’d contracted from a cheap dry-body oil a few weeks back, I was used to it now.
Not having stuff on made me all clingy and strange. I forwarded stupid clips from YouTube, changed my Facebook profile picture incessantly and wrote inconsequential ramblings on Iz’s wall; I Google-stalked Bailey Thomas, my high-school sweetheart, but mostly I found myself hitting the Send/Receive button above my email inbox.
It wasn’t just me. Yasmin was cranking out the emails too. We both had work to do, but we were bored. So bored. We were used to fragmented office time, screaming out of hallways and impatiently jabbing lift buttons, redoing our make-up four times a day, stomping in contempt when a taxi failed to stop for us.
Ding.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Free offer from Dr Kalward
Hi Hannah,
Dr Kalward, one of the country’s top five cosmetic surgeons, would like to extend to you the offer of one free Botox session. He believes the best way to be able to write about the procedure is to experience it. Of course, he is happy to give extensive quotes for your ensuing piece.
The offer is only available until the end of the month, so get in fast!
Lx
I touched my forehead. Was it so frowny that they thought I needed Botox? I grabbed my mirror and peered at my skin, making faces to accentuate the lines. Surely I wasn’t at the Botox stage yet? I looked at my face again, pulling my skin back to test for elasticity. Seemed fine to me. But was I silly to knock them back? After all, I knew how expensive Botox was.
I shook my head, tsk-tsking. I wasn’t going to be sucked into an expensive obsession out of insecurity caused by a PR desperate for a story. I was shocked at how vulnerable I had become. If someone had offered me Botox a few months back, I would’ve burst out laughing.
Out of nowhere I suddenly wished I had Dec’s email. Not to use it, necessarily, but just to have it. In fact, scrap that – I wished he had mine, so he could send me a quick-fire shot of his elegant humour and cheekiness. He had a way of making me see the forest for the trees, or rather the forehead for the frowns. I smiled, thinking of his kiss a few months back. Why had he done that? And why then? He had probably just been drunk. Or maybe he was not as perfect as I painted him to be; maybe he was a sleazy little octopus who loved nothing more than locking nubile nymphs in candlelit bathrooms under the guise of ‘helping’.
I shuddered at the thought. No, that wasn’t Dec. I knew he wasn’t like that. He was the Nice Guy. He was definitely the Nice Guy, I was just over-thinking the situation. I sent a text to Iz to break the train of thought.
Drink tonight? Please say yes. I’ll bring you some new make-up?
Ha! Bring it! Can do Randys @ 630 x
Finally, I had something I could look forward to. I didn’t love the Randy Panther, which was smack bang in the city’s hobo-chic ghetto, but I would’ve drunk from a puddle to have a plan that night.
By the time I arrived at the Randy Panther, which should’ve been renamed the Drowned Kitty for the evening, I was in a foul mood: it was raining, there had been no cabs and I’d had to walk three blocks in uncomfortable – and now ruined – suede heels. My hair was flat and greasy-looking and I was sure my mascara had run. I stomped to the bathroom to quickly fix myself up.
Walking out of the bathroom, I looked up to see Jesse. Fuck! What was Mr Boat Shoes doing in an underground bar like the Panther? I panicked: my top was clinging to my stomach in a most unflattering fashion, and my quickly-tied-back hair, now happily having made the transition from soaking to frizzy, was about as chic as the brown stained carpet under my feet. And why, why had I not reapplied my bronzer and blush in the bathroom? This was all just awesome. Thank you, Universe.
I wondered if I could quickly duck behind the group of loud artistic types to my right. No dice. Jesse saw me, and his face immediately broke into a big grin. My expression was more like that of a teenager busted shoplifting. He came over and went to kiss me on the cheek, but I pulled away so he kind of grazed my chin instead.
‘Hannah! I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch. I’ve been meaning to call—’
Jesus! It was all so awkward.
‘Don’t, Jesse. Just don’t.’ My voice shook a little bit, but I tried to remain strong. I was supposed to be acting agonisingly indifferent. I was irritated that I was having such a stupid reaction to him, when in all my revenge daydreams I was ice-cool when faced with his blue eyes and blond, floppy mop.
He dropped his eyes and took a deep breath before looking at me again.
‘I’m so sorry that things turned out this way…’
‘Don’t.’ I could feel tears rising.
‘So!’ he said in falsetto. ‘How is the job?’ Sensing I was about to bolt, he was trying to normalise the situation by babbling.
‘Oh, you know, it’s okay…keeps me busy.’ Insert fake smile.
‘So, I’ve, ah, I’ve been pretty flat out, you know, travelling and stuff for work…just got back from overseas, actually.’
‘Really? How nice.’ Clearly he was gagging for me to ask about his job, but I was not going to give him the satisfaction of showing I was interested at all, even though every hair follicle and pore on my person was screaming, ‘How’s your new girlfriend Lisa? Are you happy with Lisa? Is Lisa good in bed? Does Lisa cook French toast as well I do? Can she reverse park as well as I can? Does Lisa’s breath smell when she wakes up in bed next to you in the morning, or is she just one ongoing, flowery-smelling fairy princess who you would never, ever cheat on?
I could suddenly hear, feel, smell the hurt and rage bubbling within me. I needed to get far away from him. Now.
‘So, are you seeing anyone?’
He came out with it just like that. As if he were asking if I had seen the new Pixar movie.
What the hell are you supposed to say when your ex asks you that? ‘Yes’ would make me sound as though I had moved on, and although that could work by making him jealous, it was a big risk to take if he was at all interested in trying again…while ‘no’ made me sound like a loser who couldn’t get a date. I knew the fundamentals, at least: always ensure the ex-boyfriend thinks you are having far more sex than he is.
‘Actually, I’ve been doing a bit of multi-dating.’
Ohmigod. What di
d I just say? I had no idea where that had come from.
Jesse’s eyebrows shot up. Fast.
‘Multi-dating?’
Can’t back down now. ‘Sure. Everyone’s doing it. And, you know, as long as you don’t sleep with all of them, it’s totally kosher.’ I nodded for extra sincerity and authority.
Jesse’s eyebrows still hadn’t come down.
I cleared my throat.
There was an excruciatingly loud silence.
I needed to leave. Terrible things were streaming out of my mouth without my permission.
‘Uh, well, I should go.’ I smiled with my lips closed and eyebrows up and swivelled away quickly.
Yes! I secretly cheered, at least I had salvaged the farewell. It was crucial to end any conversation first, so you appeared busier than him. Hopefully, Jesse would now be wondering if I was here with a guy. Or five. As long as he didn’t see Iz.
Just as I had spied a table in the far corner where I could hide and wait for Iz, I looked up to see her walking through the door.
Thank God.
‘HE’S HERE,’ I said through clenched teeth. ‘I just spoke to him. I need you to find out who he’s here with, except I’m meant to be here with a harem of young sexy men, so be subtle for chrissakes.’
‘Slow down, honey, who is here? Trucker? I thought Kyle said he’d moved to Milan for work?’
‘JESSE. Jesse is here. I need you to see if he’s with Lisa Sutherland. Now. Please?’
‘Oooooh,’ she said, drawing it out to show she now understood perfectly. She started looking around furtively before standing up and stalking away.
Three excruciating minutes and 67 million possible-outcome thoughts later, and she was back.
‘He’s not with her,’ she said, settling back onto her stool.
‘Oh thank God.’ My heart soared.
‘But he is with another bird…but don’t worry, I didn’t see any body contact and she literally looks as though she might be seventeen years old.’
My heart sank. Swear words swirled around my head. Jesus. Didn’t take him long to move on, jumping from one pretty thing to another as though he were some form of hyperactive-mating tree frog.
‘Honey, that she’s seventeen is good. It means she’s just a toy.’
‘He’s disgusting. I hate him.’ I folded my arms and glared in his general direction.
‘Do you want to go?’ Iz could see how pissed off I was.
‘Can we? Sorry, Iz. I’m not really in the mood…’
Sitting in the taxi, I fell completely mute. Once again it felt like Jesse had won. And what did it matter if I’d said I was multi-dating? It didn’t, since he was the one actually doing it.
The Bitchy and Scratchy Show
Fake tan on your fingernails? Get some whitening toothpaste and an old toothbrush and scrub those digits. Fake tan on your sheets? Stick to dark blue or chocolate linen.
‘I always harboured a desire to be one of those girls who sashays in and out of buildings and elegantly hails cabs, all the while looking glamorous and composed and New Yorky,’ I said wistfully, as Gabe swiped some of the fruit from the top of my muesli. We were having a quick pre-work breakfast at Doppio, and, as always, Gabe had under-ordered because he was on a diet. He then, as always, thieved half of mine.
‘You have a way to go yet, darling. I’ve seen you: you claw your way out of the back seat like a Michael Jackson Thriller extra exiting a grave. It’s not right, sweetie: you’re flashing areas of the thigh no one needs to see. Honestly.’
‘I do not.’
‘Darling – oh look, you’ve spilled some food on your top for something different – you know you do. It’s simple: keep the stilts snapped shut. That way you can’t flash any of the nasty stuff.’
I told him I would try, and the topic was closed. He was very fixed on improving my decorum – he called it Mission Elegant Bitch. He thought my small-town idiosyncrasies were vulgar, and needed desperate, urgent chic-ifying. ‘In fact,’ he would say, ‘and this is something I’ll probably sell as a thesis one day to finance a beach house, I’m pretty convinced that one’s elegance is directly proportionate to how much time one spends with a stylish gay man. Obviously, this means you should up your time spent with me. A lot. Now, don’t dwell on the astounding complexity of that philosophy; just know that it’s pretty much, totally, 100 per cent, probably, a fact.’
He liked to bait me by saying my becoming an Elegant Bitch would be the clincher to Jesse’s decision that he couldn’t live without me. Even though Gabe made it no secret he thought I should move on and find a man with ‘more money, more style and less inclination toward loose weather tarts.’
I listened to him because he was tough on me, whereas Iz wasn’t. She sympathised; Gabe chastised. And also because he was so stylish and commanding and knew all the fashion people. Even though this morning’s pirate-style frilly blouse was a bit hard to take.
‘For fuck’s sake, can someone gag and bind those silly cows?’ Gabe swivelled his head to look at two squealy, giggly women standing near the barista.
‘Oh shit, it’s Jill—’
‘It is, too. Bloody creature. She’s so wrong. And look at that bag – honey, if you’re gonna buy the fake Chanel, at least get it in a colour Karl Lagerfeld wouldn’t be embarrassed to be in the same galaxy as. Honestly, I don’t know how you lot meet your deadlines, you must be so flat out lapping up saucers of milk and sharpening your claws.’
‘It’s not like that, Gabe. I just don’t get a good vibe from Jill, is all.’
‘Oh, stop the cover-up. You’re rubbish at it. I know exactly what beauty editors are like: it’s the bitchy and scratchy show behind all that lip gloss and hairspray.’ He leant over and stole another sip of my latte, because he had already had two and knew he couldn’t have three during one sitting, because that would be uncouth.
Gabe wasn’t alone in thinking that of beauty editors; everyone asked me if the girls were catty and cliquey. It stemmed from that universal belief that the bowels of any women’s glossy was rife with the sort of petulant backstabbing that would make a Vegas showgirl blush.
‘I disagree, actually. For every blunt-fringed, black-clad fashion editor stomping on a trembling intern’s foot, there is a beauty editor with big bouncy curls and a floral frock singing about sunshine and flowers and handing out cupcakes.’
He laughed. ‘That’s a stereotype and you know it – fashion types don’t all have blunt fringes.’
When I got to my desk an abnormal number of courier bags and parcels awaited me. They were lined up and piled neatly, but still entirely overwhelming. I had completely forgotten I’d done my beauty call-in yesterday afternoon.
The monthly beauty call-in was a major event for me. It was what I did after planning my beauty pages, when I had decided (or made up) what the trends were for that month.
Yesterday I had asked for comfort crèmes, face washes to clear spots, tuberose-based fragrances, sea-salt sprays, coral-coloured lipsticks and some blushes. I had put all of my requests into a group email to every brand’s PR. They then started sending in samples at the speed of lightning.
I needed to set aside a full day to test and sort through all the suggestions, and put aside those I wanted to photograph and write about. Things like price, how the product would come up on the page, and whether an eyeliner was the perfect shade of aqua (as per the latest Miu Miu ready-to-wear) were crucial. I always had to double or triple edit the list before I hit send. If I didn’t ask for the right things, it would be too late to ask for more, because my shoot day closely followed my call-in.
On top of that, I had to factor in all of the really big cosmetic launches for the on-sale period of each issue of Gloss. This was always confusing because we worked three months ahead, and by the time the mag was on sale, the products for that month were old news to me. But missing them meant I could potentially get into lots of trouble indeed.
Last month I had completely forgotten to menti
on the new Karen Jones mascara. It was their biggest launch for the year, as well, they were the first company to market mascara with an entirely silicon comb-wand thingy, and they had booked all of their advertising for said mascara in said issue. I got slammed by Marley, the psychotic media-agency girl Lindsay, and, in the nicest, as-inoffensive-as-possible way, the PR girl, Jane.
‘We were really disappointed to see that Flexilash didn’t receive any mentions in the current issue, especially considering how important a launch this was for us,’ said Jane in a scary passive-aggressive email. Lesson well and truly learnt: Flexilash to receive many adoring words and a large, beautiful picture in the next issue.
I took off my heels, slipped on the ballet slippers I kept under my desk for schlepping around the office, and started opening the boxes, wondering if anyone had understood what on Earth I had meant when I’d requested ‘non-bronzer, slightly shimmery peach and apricot shades of powder – not crème – blush’.
The barefoot fugitive
Crusty, dry feet will turn off even the creepiest foot fetishist. Use a pumice stone or a pedi-paddle on heels and rough spots on dry feet, wash, then apply a thick moisturising balm. Put on some cotton socks and hit the hay. Twenty-four hours later, do the same. Repeat seven times. Enjoy soft feet.
I had sworn off dates and flirting and men in general. I was now all about me: getting myself together and focusing on being happy.
My newfound mantra had come from a book called He Ain’t Thinking ’Bout You, Suga’, which encouraged women everywhere to stop placing so much emphasis on men and relationships.
And, as always happens, the minute you stop looking…
Dan was one of those guys who when he walked into a party, roughly four hours after everyone else, women turned to their single friends and hissed: ‘Dibs! Right, who else do I have to tell?’
Well, that’s how I felt, anyway, when he walked into Yasmin’s house-warming party.
