They both also reported that top LA celebrity stylists were already fighting over Rucca dresses for their clients to wear to the forthcoming Academy Awards – which was the fashion equivalent of winning an Oscar. And Nelly got a namecheck from them both too, as his ‘new muse’.
I was mentally air punching on Iggy and Nelly’s behalf when my mobile rang.
‘Have you seen Suzy and Louise?’ shouted Nelly.
‘Is that the new muse?’ I shouted back. ‘I was just reading them. It’s wicked. I’m thrilled for you both, Nelly, stoked, it’s brilliant. How’s Iggy.’
‘He’s pretty happy, as you can imagine. Want to come and have breakfast with us? We’re already on the Dom.’
‘Oh, Nellster,’ I said. ‘I’d love to, but I’m racing to catch the plane as it is. I haven’t even packed yet. We’re all going back this morning.’
I paused. Normally we all went on the same flight – the entire London fashion pack crammed into the first possible plane out of town, because everyone wanted to maximize their time at home before heading off again for Paris. Plus I had a pedi booked at Bliss Spa at 4 p.m. I couldn’t miss that.
‘Aren’t you on the ten o’clock flight, Nelly?’ I asked her.
‘Fuck that,’ she said. ‘I’m stayin’ here. With my Ig.’
‘Are you doing Paris?’
‘Not sure yet. If Iggy comes with me, I will. Otherwise, fuck it.’
‘It’s that tight already, is it Nelly?’ I said quietly, quite concerned about my impulsive friend. ‘After – what is it? – five nights? So tight you’re prepared to risk your job?’
‘Are you kidding?’ Nelly laughed her throatiest laugh. ‘Beaver’s just promoted me. I’m “fashion-director-at-large” now. How funny is that? Anyway babes, love ya lots. I’ll call you. Stravo lepina.’
‘What?’
‘That’s: “Bye beautiful,” in Serbian.’
And cackling with laughter she hung up.
As I whirled around the hotel room, stuffing my things into my suitcase – I had only half an hour until we had to leave for the airport – I came across Miles’s business card, which was still on the bedside table where he’d left it. I sat down on the bed and turned it over in my fingers a few times, wondering whether I shouldn’t just throw it on to the pile of carrier bags, old invitations and press releases already overflowing from the waste-paper bin.
It was another of those moments I’d been having ever since I had met him, when I felt very clearly that I was at a junction in my life. I could throw away the card, making a statement to myself that the whole thing had been a crazy aberration – or I could keep it and leave open the possibility of seeing him again.
For a moment, as I sat there thinking how nicely done his card was, in dark brown raised ink on vivid yellow card, I envied Nelly and her absolute certainly that staying in Milan with Iggy was the right thing to do. But then, as always seemed to happen in regard to Miles, my body was already acting, while my brain was still mulling it over. I fished my Palm Pilot out of my bag and entered Miles’s details in the photographer category. Then I threw the card into the bin.
I always felt strangely sad to leave Milan – it was the thought of all those gorgeous shops I hadn’t had time to get into – but as soon as we landed at Heathrow I felt the energy of my home city pick me up like a leaf in a fast stream.
I left Bee and the others at the airport to take the chauffeured car into town and hopped on to the Heathrow Express. It was so much quicker and dropped me off just minutes from home. And I’d had quite enough of riding around in cars with those three for a while. Even Frannie. I was sick of being some kind of Siamese quad and was all too aware that I only had a few days of freedom before it all began again in Paris.
By the time the train pulled into Paddington I was so happy to be home I decided to walk back to the flat. It was an amazingly nice day for early-October; blades of sunshine were piercing the station’s glass roof and there was no telling how many more days like that we would have before the tight lid of London’s winter sky settled over the city until spring.
I had my luggage in a wheelie bag and although it was on the huge side, I could just about drag it along. I even had sensible shoes on for a change – a pair of Gucci trainers in their logo jacquard – but every step I took closer to Ledbury Road, with my bag rattling along the pavement behind me like an old train, my guilt and confusion about what I had done with Miles got more intense.
Back in Milan I had felt so cut off from my real life, that despite my daily phone calls with Ollie I had somehow been able to keep him – and what I had got up to over there with Miles – separate in my head. Now I was back in pure Ollie territory, it all became one big mess.
Taking in the great-looking people strolling along Westbourne Grove, all of them somehow simultaneously individual and totally in fashion, one of a kind and one of my pack, I realized just how much living in that neighbourhood meant to me. I also remembered all over again that I was only there because Ollie had invited me into his life – and into his lifestyle. I could never have afforded a flat in W11 on my salary, even without my shopping habit.
That thought then prompted a moment of pure panic about how much I had racked up on my credit cards in Milan. The four pairs of Prada boots. The Gucci trainers. Another pair of Sergio Rossi killer heels. A Marni coat. A Dolce & Gabbana pantsuit. A Tod’s bag. A handful of T-shirts from Helmut Lang. I mean, it was all essential stuff for the new season, but even with discount, what did that come to? £ 5,000? £ 6,000?
By the time I had my key in the lock I felt physically sick about it all – especially when I saw the huge vase of flowers on the dining table with a big heart-shaped note.
Welcome home, darling Ems. See you tonight. I’ve booked E&O. See you there at 9 p.m. – have PO meetings before. Ollie xxxxxx
‘PO’ was our shorthand for ‘phone off’, meaning he wouldn’t be able to take any calls, so I sent him a quick text – ‘Hme sfly, c u EnO 9. Lv u. Em xxx’ – then I set to unpacking.
It was always crucial to me to get my things unpacked, washed and put away as soon as possible when I got home from any trip and especially with the shows, as it was part of the discipline of being ready to do it all again in three days’ time. I couldn’t possibly pack again for the next trip unless I was completely unpacked from the last one. Plus it was a great way to keep busy when I didn’t want to think about something.
I took off everything I was wearing – including my earrings and wedding ring – pulled my hair back into a tight pony-tail and upended my suitcase on the bedroom floor. Then I stuffed everything washable – even things I hadn’t worn – into the washing machine. Anything that had been in a suitcase was tainted to me. I hate that suitcase smell.
I handwashed my Chloé tops, TSE cashmere cardigans and Prada underwear, squeezed the excess moisture out by rolling them in thick towels and laid them out on my special drying-flat contraptions in the autumn sunshine pouring through the French windows.
I was starting to feel much better as I set to brushing and polishing all my shoes, putting aside a pair of boots which needed re-heeling, and then setting them out on the shelves in my side of our walk-in closet, in neat rows. Sandals and strappy evening shoes at the top, coming down through mules, to closed shoes and trainers, with boots along the bottom two shelves, all with the appropriate shoe trees.
I stowed two of the new pairs of Prada boots in a rarely used suitcase, locked it and put it back in our luggage cupboard. I was just about to put the suitcase I’d taken to Milan back in there too, when I noticed the two books Ursula had sent over with Paul were still in the bottom of it. I threw them under the bed, without giving them another look. For a moment Paul’s strange comment about there being more to life than shopping came back into my mind. He loved shopping as much as I did, I thought. I couldn’t imagine what he’d been on about, so I just pushed it out of my mind again, and went back to my sorting.
I rolled my belt
s into neat coils and put them in their drawer, ran a soft cloth over the handbags I’d taken with me (five), put them back in their dustbags and stowed them away on their shelves. I folded my scarves and pashminas and laid them carefully in their clear plastic storage boxes, arranged by colour. I smoothed my gloves and put them back into their box and sorted my costume jewellery into separate cases for necklaces, earrings and bangles.
Next I tipped out and sorted my travel tote and my handbag, putting the stack of Italian magazines I always got for Ollie on his bedside table and my book on mine, chucking the half-empty bottles of mineral water, chewing-gum wrappers and bits of crumpled newspaper into the bin – except for Suzy’s page featuring Iggy, which I also put on Ollie’s bedside pile.
I transferred my everyday essentials – Louis Vuitton wallet, keys on a Tiffany keyring, Anya Hindmarch mini make-up bag, Palm Pilot in its new Prada cover, tiny Nokia phone, Smythson notebook, Lamy pen, tissues in their quilted Chanel pouch – from the acid yellow Birkin bag I had travelled with into a more casual dark tan Luella Bartley safari bag.
Next I moved into the bathroom, emptying my washbags into the sink and putting all the products away in the cupboards hidden behind mirror doors. I wiped out the washbags and put them on their shelf in the luggage cupboard. Then I sorted my make-up bag, putting my brushes and other tools back into their crystal beakers, and separating eye shadows, lipsticks, foundations and blushers each into their designated Lucite storage caddies inside the mirrored cupboards.
Once all that was finished I had a very hot shower, washing my hair till my scalp tingled, blasted it with my hairdryer so I wouldn’t get pneumonia and then got dressed again, entirely in pristine clothes I hadn’t taken away with me: chocolate brown Juicy Couture trackpants with a tiny Bond’s T-shirt, and a huge navy six-ply cashmere jumper over the top, a trusty old pair of Pumas on my feet. No socks of course.
With everything done, I threw my pedicure flip-flops into my bag and raced out of the flat, to drop all the non-washable clothes off at the dry-cleaner’s on the corner. The man behind the counter greeted me like family – Ollie and I were probably his best customers. On top of my dry-cleaning needs, which were pretty massive, Ollie had all his shirts laundered there – which was at least ten a week, as he always changed his shirt before going out at night – plus all his suits.
Then I picked up a cab to take me down to Bliss Spa, in Sloane Avenue. I especially asked the driver to go through Hyde Park and as I looked out at its elegant landscape, the last of the afternoon sunshine falling in shafts between the trees, any residual feelings of panic completely ebbed away. I felt like I had sorted my brain along with my luggage.
Safely cocooned at Bliss, I lay back in my white leather chair and surrendered myself to ‘Sex and the City’, which was playing on a TV over the pedicurist’s head. With my headphones on I was able to tune out from the whole world, even though Carrie was regretting cheating on her dopey boyfriend with Mr Big. Oh well.
Forty minutes later, with my toenails a glorious rich dark red, I left feeling completely renewed. Dusk had fallen and the autumn chill nipped my soft bare feet in their black flip-flops, but I didn’t care. I was still on an ‘I love London’ high.
I had a little stroll along Walton Street looking in the windows at the gorgeous jewellery in Van Peterson, all the fragrant goodies in Santa Maria Novella and the engraved stationery in the Walton Street Stationery Shop. I even enjoyed looking at the painted nursery furniture in Dragons, even though Ollie and I had no intention of ever having children.
Strolling back to find a cab at Brompton Cross I popped into Joseph and dropped £ 130 on a pair of their stretch drainpipe pants in deepest burgundy. I already had several pairs of black, but thought the burgundy would be useful in Paris. A key new variation for my winter look. By the time I got home and dumped the trousers in the closet, still in the Joseph carrier bag, I felt fine again. Miles was safely stored in a box in my head. Tied up tightly with a large red bow. I’d worry about the credit cards another day.
With my brain back in order, it was great to see Ollie when I met him later at E&O. He was a bit late, but I didn’t mind, I sat in the restaurant’s bar – a home from home for us – showing off my genius new Marni coat and chatting to various people I knew in there.
One I was not so pleased to see was Alice’s assistant from the magazine, Natalie, who immediately started probing me for all the details of Nelly’s affair with Iggy and info about Nelly herself. I didn’t trust Natalie any more than I did Alice, in fact I thought she was a right little conniver, so I was circumspect in my replies.
Once I shrugged her off I was buttonholed by Nivek Thims – the photographer who had been sitting with Iggy in the Four Seasons the night of the Ferrucci party. Like everyone else in the bar, it seemed, he was raving about Iggy’s show, but he was also finding ways of implying – due to how closely they had worked together discussing the possible ad campaign – that he, Nivek, had quietly played a large part in Iggy’s success.
‘That’s the great thing about Iggy,’ Nivek was saying. ‘He likes to work closely with a small creative elite of brilliant people that he naturally gathers around him – like Nelly. How is darling Nelly? Have you seen her since the show?’
I knew for a fact that Nelly had never met Nivek until the night of the Ferrucci party, so I was a little surprised when he went on to suggest that we send her a text – on his phone – ‘just for fun’, because it was such a coincidence that we had bumped into each other. That was when it hit me just how major Nelly’s new role in life was. Overnight she had become someone that anyone who wanted to get ahead in fashion really needed to know. Nivek just wanted to text her – on his phone – so he could get her mobile number. I pretended I’d forgotten it.
Under this pressure, I was relieved when Ollie walked in, looking pink and flushed and handsome, that lock of dark hair falling over his eyes, his suit, shirt and tie combo as immaculate as ever. Unfortunately Nivek was delighted to see Ollie too – he would have liked a Slap advertising campaign almost as much as he wanted the Rucca one.
After giving me a big hug and kiss, Ollie greeted Nivek warmly, pumping his hand and slapping his shoulder in the public school way he had never quite lost. For a moment I watched him with a strange sense of remove. He and Nivek circled round each other like two wolves not sure which of them was more senior in the pack. Both were friendly, showing lots of gum and presenting their metaphorical butts for sniffing, as they tried to compute which of them had more to get from associating with the other.
So far, it was a tie – Nivek had serious groove credentials for the work he had done with various new independent style magazines with names like Thrust and Wonderdog, while Ollie had the rare appeal of controlling a cool brand and the big budget to promote it. Nivek had close ties with the agents of super-hot young models and Ollie had access to the world’s most cutting-edge make-up artists. And now they both had connections to the new fashion supernova that was Iggy.
In the end, by employing a brilliantly slipped-in mention of ‘our’ very close friendship with Nelly, accompanied by a dazzling ‘fuck-you sucker’ smile, Ollie triumphed. It was he who ended the conversation, catching the maître d’s eye over Nivek’s shoulder, like the old smoothie he was, and steering me off my bar stool and into the restaurant.
When we were seated he took both my hands over the table and smiled at me.
‘Hello, beautiful,’ he said. ‘How the hell are you? You look wonderful, as always. Is that a Marni coat you’re wearing?’
‘Bingo,’ I said. ‘I had to wear it straight away – it’s new. And you don’t look so shabby yourself. Have you been working out? Or drinking?’
Ollie laughed heartily as the waiter brought over fresh sea breezes, still our favourite cocktail.
‘I have been doing a few of those Astanga yoga moves you showed me,’ he said. ‘Opening up my chakras. It’s good stuff, gets the brain working. So what else did you buy in Mi
lan?’
I gave him the edited highlights. Ollie was one of those rare men who actually loved shopping and really enjoyed seeing what his wife had bought, but generous though he was – he paid off one of my cards for me each month – I never told him the full story. Indulgent though he was, I knew that even he might think I’d gone a bit far with the four pairs of boots. When I eventually got out the two pairs I’d stashed away, I’d tell him I’d picked them up in the Selfridge’s sale. Easy.
After that, our conversation fell into its usual pattern: Ollie telling me about his latest triumphs at work and his plans for even greater market domination and coolness for his beloved ‘brand’; me telling him all the gossip from the fashion scene. Of course, the thing he wanted to know about most was Nelly and Iggy – their new association had even made it into the British papers that morning.
‘So how did it come about?’ he asked. ‘How did Nelly crack on to this Iggy bloke?’ He snorted contemptuously. ‘She’s no prize, let’s face it, so how on earth did she swing it? And is he really as great as everyone’s saying?’
Ignoring his unkind remarks about my dear friend, I felt a momentary hot flush of panic engulf me as a sudden total flashback of the night Nelly ‘cracked on’ to Iggy swept over me.
I didn’t think my face had betrayed me, as I had got it under control immediately with one of those split-second crisis responses the human brain is capable of. In that instant I knew for certain that I was going to be able to separate what Nelly had done that night with Iggy from what I had done with Miles. I was actually quite impressed with myself and wondered if this was how international espionage agents had to think. It was like having a split computer screen in your head.
‘Well,’ I said. ‘Everyone was at the Ferrucci party that night. Iggy was there with a load of people, we were all there too and the two of them just got together, the way people do.’ A vision of Miles’s face came fastbowling into my forebrain from nowhere and I knocked it out again, for six.
Handbags and Gladrags Page 10
