Unsticky

by Sarah Manning

  ‘Oh, we found some of those in the attic when Granny died,’ Posy, the junior fashion editor, chimed in. ‘Flogged them at Sotheby’s.’

  ‘You auctioned off a Worth dress?’ The fashion department all winced in unison at Grace’s shrill middle-class tones.

  ‘You’re such a fashion geek,’ Posy wagged a chopstick reproachfully in Grace’s direction. ‘I’ve told you a million times that people only wear vintage if they can’t afford new clothes or they have crippling death duties.’

  There was a plethora of crushing retorts that Grace could have barked out but she contented herself with taking an angry bite of her manky banana as Kiki Curtis sailed into the room on a cloud of Fracas and bad vibrations. ‘I’ve spent all morning in a merchandising meeting. Go and get me some lunch, Grace - a Caesar salad with a very light dressing and grilled salmon, not chicken.’

  Kiki Curtis (though Grace had seen her passport and she’d been christened Kimberly) was the kind of brittle-thin, over-groomed fashionista who avoided direct sunlight and had never met a neutral colour that she didn’t love. Grace had been recruited by Derek, the former Style Director after six months slaving away as an unpaid intern and getting paper-cuts from huge amounts of photocopying, filing and cutting up magazines. It had been the happiest six months of Grace’s life because she also got to spend large parts of every day with her hands on silk, chiffon, duchesse satin and cashmere so fluffy soft that she’d hold it up to her face and sigh rapturously. She’d probably have carried on working at Skirt for free, but a junior position had opened up and lovely, lovely Derek had given Grace an interview, which involved sending her out on a complicated coffee run. When she’d returned with his soy milk, bone dry, caramel macchiato, he’d given her the job on the spot.

  It was strange when all your dreams came true. Or Grace’s new dreams - because her old dream was to become the new wunderkind of British fashion but she’d screwed that up by abandoning her course at Central St Martin’s days before her final degree show. But still, her new dream to become a super stylist like Katie Grand was the next best thing, and fashion assistant on Skirt was the first step. Grace could still remember the victory jig she’d done when Derek had told her she was hired. ‘There was absolutely no one else I could even consider giving the job to,’ he’d said, when he’d taken her for an alcohol-soaked celebratory lunch at The Wolseley. ‘Stick with me, kid.’

  Grace had stuck with Derek for a whole two days before he’d been suddenly poached by German Vogue. She’d been inherited by Kiki, who’d been trying to disinherit her ever since. Skirt’s famous ‘no-fur’ policy had lasted a week under Kiki’s reign, but Grace was made of stronger stuff. Also, she was the only person in the fashion team who knew the postroom’s extension number.

  These days they had a simple understanding. Kiki made Grace’s life a living hell with some abject misery served up on the side. And Grace took it like a dose of castor oil, because sooner or later, it had to be good for her.

  Grace brandished her folder of ideas like a protective talisman in a to-the-death Dungeons and Dragons game. Her hands were still aching from wrestling with unwieldy Japanese fashion magazines the day before. ‘I’ve got some ideas that I really wanted to put forward for the next issue.’

  ‘Did you type them?’ Kiki asked sweetly.

  ‘Yeah, double-spaced like you told me to.’

  ‘Well, as long as they’re not written in your usual illegible scrawl, I’m sure we’ll manage to decipher them somehow.’ Kiki held out an imperious hand for the folder, which was making Grace’s shoulders sag under the weight of all the tear sheets and sketches she’d painstakingly collated.

  ‘But I really wanted to explain them myself,’ Grace said doggedly. She was sick of being sent off on some low-carb errand, only to find that her ideas had been divvied up in her absence.

  ‘Really, Grace, I think I can take it from here,’ Kiki said firmly. ‘You do what you’re really good at and buy me lunch.’

  There was a flurry of activity from all corners of the room.

  ‘If you’re going out, can you get me some organic chocolate, Gracie?’

  ‘And I’ll have some orange juice - make sure it’s freshly squeezed but they’ve got rid of the pulp.’

  ‘Oh, and I want . . .’

  Grace snatched up some Post-its and started scribbling orders down. Even Bunny, the work experience girl, was getting in on the act. And Kiki could glare as much as she wanted, but no way was Grace adjusting her surly expression or her demands for cash upfront. If Lucie, the senior fashion editor, expected her to trawl the streets looking for organic Mexican chocolate then she could bloody well pay for it first.

  Grace got back to the office in time for a riveting discussion about how nasty suburban girls shouldn’t be allowed to ruin the Hermès brand name and how dear, sweet Bunny was super-keen to write something super-fun about fashion and how it would really raise her profile on Cherwell.

  ‘Grace!’ Kiki snapped, clicking her fingers for the salad container. ‘I thought you’d gone all the way to Scotland to get that salmon. There’s been no one to take notes - poor Posy had to do it.’

  ‘Sorry about that.’ Hadn’t someone told her recently that she should never apologise? Mind you, he wasn’t here to face Kiki’s wrath. ‘There was this queue out of the door, and then—’

  ‘I have things for you to do,’ Kiki decreed, and just for once Grace wished that someone, somewhere, would let her finish a complete sentence. Just once. ‘We’re done here anyway.’

  Grace could already see that her tear sheets were resting on various laps. She knew young and hungry fashion obsessives were the lifeblood of any magazine, but she was still on £14,000 a year and getting hungrier by the week so she wasn’t going down without a fight. ‘I’d really like some feedback on my ideas,’ she said to Kiki’s pronounced shoulderblades, clad in the Michael Kors cashmere jumper that Grace had called in for her, as she exited stage left, her team trailing in her wake like a family of ready-to-wear-clad fluffy ducklings. ‘You said you’d think about letting me style the accessories still-lifes for this issue.’

  ‘Oh, we’re getting Bunny to do that,’ Posy told her brightly. ‘Turns out that her godfather has a non-executive seat on the board. And she really is very visual for an intern.’

  Bunny had to die, Grace decided as the other girl shot her a perky smile. ‘I’d really like to set up a time to go through my ideas this week,’ Grace insisted weakly. ‘Your diary isn’t too full.’

  Kiki pursed her lips as much as the Botox would allow and Grace couldn’t stop the heartfelt and desperate, ‘Please,’ that popped out.

  ‘Oh, go on then,’ Kiki capitulated, opening her office door with a slightly put-upon air. ‘Ten minutes and then I want you giving Milan some serious phone. But first, let’s take a moment to appreciate your ensemble.’ Kiki collapsed elegantly on her big, squidgy leather chair and waved a hand in Grace’s direction. ‘Go on, talk me through it.’

  Kiki’s incisive analysis of Grace’s outfits was a daily routine that Grace bore without a murmur of protest. She suspected that it was the main reason why she was still on the payroll. It certainly wasn’t for her awesome styling skills. Grace put down her folder and obediently struck a pose.

  ‘The blouse is from Primark. It cost seven pounds,’ Grace said, and watched as Kiki shuddered from being in such close proximity to a cheap, poly-cotton blend. White T-shirts from Gap were as High Street as she went. ‘And I made the tulip skirt from an old vintage dress because modern anti-perspirant tends to rot out the armpits.’ Kiki twirled her index finger and Grace slowly rotated so she could get the full 360-degree view. ‘The fishnets are from Tescos and these are Marc Jacobs flats I got on eBay.’

  Kiki’s eyes raked Grace up and down more thoroughly than any man ever had. ‘Your fashion choices are very . . . brave,’ she cooed, eyes glinting with malice. ‘I knew there was a reason why I wasn’t doing volume this season and I’m telling you th
is as a friend, Gracie, but that skirt is doing your arse no favours.’

  Grace decided that Kiki’s smug, satiated look meant she was done critiquing, so she placed her folder timidly on the desk.

  ‘Well, these are very edgy,’ Kiki finally remarked, gesturing at the fan of papers spread out on her desk. ‘You might want to dial that down. We’re doing that Day in the Life of a Changing Room idea as one of the main fashion stories - should get the ad department off my back. We’re going to pretend a model wrote the piece about fashion-related injuries and we all loved the vintage idea. Maybe it could be shot on geriatric models - there are always a few lurking about from the fifties.’

  Grace nodded eagerly to show that she was totally flexible. She was so flexible that if Kiki wanted her to back-flip out of the office, she’d do it. ‘Well, Posy’s gran modelled for Hartnell back in the day, so I could call her . . .’

  ‘But you don’t have any shoot experience,’ Kiki sighed, as if she’d been foisting shoots on Grace from day one, only to have them thrown back in her face. ‘And now that little Bunny is going to be let loose on the accessories page . . . Well, you’re going to be stuck with a lot of admin this month and I need you to file three months’ worth of expenses before I miss the deadline. I do like that vintage story though. Maybe I could get Posy to shoot it. I’m sure she’d let you help her,’ Kiki added kindly, opening the lid of her salad box and scrutinising the contents. ‘We’re shooting in New York next month and so if you’re a really good girl and manage not to lose a very important Proenza Schouler dress like you did last time then I’ll let you come along too.’

  ‘One of the make-up girls stole that dress,’ Grace muttered under her breath because God, when was Kiki going to let that drop? Then she realised that she wasn’t focusing on the important part of Kiki’s last sentence. ‘I’m going to New York?’ She had to will herself not to start clapping her hands in glee. ‘You’re taking me to New York with you? Oh God, that would be so cool. Thank you so, so much. I promise you won’t regret it.’

  ‘I’m regretting it already,’ Kiki said, but there was a tiny smile just poking through the set line of her lips, like she appreciated Grace’s genuflection. ‘Don’t think you’re going to be swanning about the Village and stocking up on cheap Ugg boots, though. It will be hotel, studio, Starbucks, then back to the studio.’

  ‘I know, but it would still be totally ace and I really appreciate you taking me with you. I mean, thinking about taking me with you,’ Grace amended hastily at the warning glint in Kiki’s eyes. She couldn’t blame the woman though; Grace found her own breathy sucking-up equally irritating.

  Kiki poked at the salmon with her fork. ‘Well, we’ll see. And I need you to call Paola in Milan and sweet-talk her into lending the feathered dress from the runway show. She seems to have a soft spot for you. Oh, and book a table at The Ivy for nine p.m. on Saturday night and send flowers to my mother-in-law for her birthday with a note that sounds as if I actually give a damn.’

  ‘I’ll get right on that,’ Grace said brightly because she was going to be on her very best behaviour until she had her place on the New York trip locked down, though being perky 24/7 would probably kill her.

  ‘Best assistant ever.’ Kiki nodded regally. ‘It’s your own fault, Grace, you make yourself far too indispensable.’

  ‘So if I was less good at my job, you’d let me shoot and write and get non-gutter credits?’ Grace asked incredulously, as she straightened up the teetering pile of magazines on top of the filing cabinet. Kiki, for all her expensive beauty treatments, was a slob from way back.

  ‘No, I’d give you a massive bollocking and if it persisted, I’d fire you,’ Kiki said with too much bloodlust for a woman who hadn’t eaten red meat since 1997. ‘There are dues that need to be paid, Gracie. We’ve been through this. And you don’t even have a degree, do you?’

  ‘I nearly have a degree. I was two weeks away from getting it.’

  ‘And then you fell at the final fence,’ Kiki pointed out. ‘Which doesn’t exactly inspire confidence, especially as you’ve never managed to come up with an explanation which sounds even vaguely convincing.’

  There was an explanation. Of course there was, but it wasn’t one that Grace was going to share with Kiki. Not just because it was so private that she wouldn’t even be able to stutter out the words, but because Kiki would bring it up at every available opportunity: that was the kind of thing she did. Grace would rather have Kiki think that she was a quitter than know the truth, though Grace had worked like a dog at St Martin’s. There had been many, many times during her three years there that she’d wanted to throw it all in. There was the feeling that she didn’t really belong; she wasn’t like the other wannabe fashion designers in her year who all had unswerving self-belief, while Grace was riddled with self-doubt. There had been the three part-time jobs she juggled to try and stave the flow of money she was spending on rent and food and bolts of fabric. And there had been the harrowing day when she’d broken the overlocking machine and been chewed out by her entire class. But she’d stuck out her chin and stuck out the course until she was two weeks away from her final show. Ten outfits ready to send down the catwalk after months of draping and cutting and sewing and unpicking and starting all over again - and Grace had gone out with the puniest of whimpers for reasons that were nobody else’s business but her own.

  On the plus side, Grace would never be able to fuck up anything else as stupendously as she’d fucked up her degree. It just wasn’t possible. Now she returned Kiki’s malevolent glare with a completely blank face. ‘It’s been two years already,’ Grace reminded her quietly. ‘When will my dues be paid up in full?’

  ‘When one of the other girls goes to Vogue or gets pregnant and I don’t have some daughter of a board member or one of the landed gentry waiting to take her place,’ Kiki snapped as she speared a cherry tomato and glared at it, her sunny mood clouding over for some inexplicable reason. Her face trembled with effort as she tried to pull her eyebrows together. ‘And when you can actually get a lunch order right. I specifically told you no dressing.’ She thrust her salad box at Grace, even though she’d already scarfed down half the contents. ‘I can’t possibly eat this. Get me some sunflower seeds and be quick about it. I’m getting a hunger headache.’

  ‘You said a light dressing,’ Grace insisted, snatching up the salad and considering the leftovers. Her banana really hadn’t hit the spot. ‘There were actual witnesses, you know.’

  ‘If you argued less and worked a bit more, you’d probably be Editor by now,’ Kiki hissed, throwing the minutes of the last planning meeting at Grace. They missed completely but the point had been made. ‘Now get out and close the door behind you. You’ve wasted enough of my time.’

  chapter three

  The fashion team sat right at the end of Skirt’s large open-plan office space; the fashion cupboard was a small, windowless room that extended into an L-shape behind them. After Liberty’s, it was Grace’s favourite place in the whole world, her little sanctuary where she was queen of all she surveyed - the groaning clothes rails lining the walls, shoes and bags carefully arranged under them, and the shelves above where she kept the accessories, from handfuls of brightly coloured tights and scarves and belts to plastic see-through crates crammed full of costume jewellery.

  It had been a mess when Grace first arrived but now she had a system and the fashion team respected that system. Maybe respect was too strong a word but when Grace issued an edict about fashion-cupboard etiquette the rest of the staff listened to her. After months of lectures, they even wrote stuff down in the Fashion Cupboard Book of Comings and Goings. When they were doing a lot of shoots and there had been a lot of deliveries, there was only enough space in the cupboard for a maximum of two people, which suited Grace just fine. She’d mutter some vague excuse about ‘doing inventory’, which would make everyone else suddenly try to look industrious, and Grace was safe to shut the door and try on dresses.

>   After her pep talk with Kiki, Grace sequestered herself in the cupboard, jumped up and down twice at the prospect of going to New York, then curled up in a corner so she could start pairing up wedge sandals. She was completely engrossed in her task when the door burst open with a loud bang.

  ‘Gracie, did you tell me that you’d broken up with Liam?’ Grace’s best friend Lily demanded with her hands on her thirty-four-inch hips. ‘I have absolutely no memory of it.’

  ‘I told you on Thursday night.’ Grace stashed the last pair of sandals under the day-dresses rail. ‘But I was pretty drunk and you were absolutely hammered. I think I cried, though.’

  ‘I remember you crying but I thought that was because you’d drunk too much vodka and you were regretting the black hair dye. Oooh, shiny!’ Lily’s attention was momentarily distracted by a pink sequinned shift dress, which she began to wriggle into over her jeans and Cacharel top. ‘I was sure we talked about your hair at great length . . .’