by Lotte Daley
Me: ‘Obviously it was awful, soul-destroying, oh God, totally beyond any heartbreaking feeling there is when it comes to a break-up. Hearing about Jack’s relationship with Jessica Hilson has hurt me greatly. Jack Hunter has made me feel as though I am disposable, as though I never mattered and that he was only my boyfriend until something better came along that he felt fitted in with his wannabe film star lifestyle.’
I sniffed and swallowed a tear. Frenella handed me a box of tissues.
‘Thanks,’ I said, before taking a deep breath and continuing.
Me: ‘I felt like as soon as he got what he needed and wanted out of me, which was designer clothes, money to go out, sex,’ [I blushed at this point] ‘you know … he left me, high and dry, just like that Radiohead song.’
I laughed nervously. Was I saying too much here? Didn’t want to slate him too much, after all, my heart ached for him, winced at the mention of his name, broke at the thought of them together. Jack and Jessica. Jessica and Jack. Felt wrong, was wrong, it was Katie and Jack, Jack and Katie, together for … oh, who was I kidding? The man was an arse! He was! He had a nice arse all right, and pecs you could bounce tiddlywinks on, and underneath it all, a good heart, but he was still a horrible, self-obsessed, vacuous, emotionally immature idiot who totally turned his back on me when something more akin to his stupid fantasy life came about, without so much as a proper goodbye! The fuckwit broke up with me in a text, for crying out loud. Danielle was right, he was and is a total loser. Why am I so fussed about what his slimy self does? I should have walked out ages ago when he refused to take me anywhere, when he used me like a doormat, treated me like a mug. But I loved him. Still do. Don’t know why. I can’t give you reasons beyond aesthetics and wishful thinking. There you have it.
Me: ‘But to be honest,’ I continued, with a smile on my face, ‘I am better off without him in my life, and these things only make a girl stronger!’ [Lying through my teeth.]
Frenella: ‘And you’re a strong woman, Katie, our inbox is absolutely chocka with emails wishing you well, encouragement and support, everything, it seems as though many women have this happen to them … although not quite on the same scale.’
Me: [poshly] ‘Quite.’ [Equally smug grin on face, must keep composure.]
Tell me about it, I thought inwardly, I mean, most girls I know who have had love-rat boyfriends have been left for barmaids or secretaries, not movie stars. I give a heavy sigh and wonder if I have had some kind of illness that makes breathing in physical agony, as though I was inhaling razor blades. Is this what lovesickness is all about? Frenella looks intently at me, a face of pure sorrow. She felt bad for me and it was making me feel even bloody worse. Never mind, I thought, at least my face can still move.
The rest of the interview consisted of quick-fire questions about me: what I liked to drink (red wine, copious amounts of it), what was the last film I saw (Dinner For Schmucks with the delicious Paul Rudd) and also, would I take Jack back if he asked … I said ‘Absolutely not’ with complete conviction and plenty of gusto. My fingers were delicately crossed behind my back. Hanna sat on a puffed-up white leather chair, filing her nails in her normal violent manner. I couldn’t quite work her out. Not telling me about Jack was just mean, almost as if she wanted me to have some kind of horrific reaction involving tears and ruined make-up, splodged mascara all over my cashmere clothes. I am really confused now. Is she friend or foe?
‘And that’s a wrap,’ Frenella clicked the tape machine shut and turned her back to me, facing Hanna whose face now broke out into a sunny smile.
‘I’m just, I need some air,’ I said aloud to the back of her head, thinking, I must smoke, get some air, and think things through. The problem with these fashion/media types is they are literally a total whirlwind, they put thoughts and phrases into your mouth, tell you what you think, what’s right, what’s going to happen next and you end up instantly believing that every word spoken is gospel. What did I think? I didn’t know, some extreme smoking was in order. I clip-clopped in my fancy too-high-to-walk-in six-inch heels and almost fell over by the banister of the stairs. I gently removed them and moved with great ease towards the fire exit where I sat back against a quiet wall and removed a Marlboro Light menthol from its packet. I busied myself in my handbag looking for a lighter that worked. As usual I had about a zillion things in my handbag, random things like Vicks nasal sprays, lipsticks, travel playing cards, an old Malteser, a zip, my mobile, a succession of lighters and a photograph of me and Jack when we went boating on the Norfolk Broads one hazy, happy, loved-up summer. After three lighters had failed to light so much as a tiny flame, my patience was wearing thin. I looked at the picture of myself and Jack: his arms were wrapped around my waist and I grinned back a large open-mouth smile, my eyes were gazing up at the sun as he nuzzled my neck. The sky was a bright blue and the water glistened. We were picture perfect. Was all that based upon a lie? Was Jack using me the entire time? Can you fake happiness like the happy look he had in his eyes for me? I just didn’t know what to think any more.
‘Goddamnit!’ I shouted at my useless pink lighter. I threw it in anger and watched it bounce across the pavement where it then came to a stop outside a very large black tyre which belonged to a very large, dark and imposing BMW that seemed to have come out of nowhere.
‘Sorry!’ I called out, before scrabbling to my feet in order to retrieve said lighter. I guess I’d have to scrap the cigarette for another time. Shouldn’t really smoke in these beautiful clothes anyway, but oh … what was this? Slowly, the buzz of an electric window came from the shiny black Beamer and I felt as though I was a witness to a spaceship landing. I squinted in the sun, which had come out from behind a cloud, illuminating my stature against the wall behind me. With my hand up against my brow, I could just about make out the silhouette of a man.
‘Kate Lewis,’ he said as a statement, not a question.
‘Um …’ I said, a little bit afraid. Who is this strange man?
‘Come closer, see,’ the strange Italian-sounding voice said.
‘I’m really not sure I should …’ I said, nervously backing away from the vehicle.
‘Kate. You have just been humiliated by Jack Hunter and his girlfriend, Jessica Hilson, right?’ I winced at the word ‘girlfriend’. How could she possibly have earned that status so soon! She was his fling, his sex thing, his bit of fluff, I bet she doesn’t trim his nose hairs or wax his bum cheeks every fortnight with Veet, no, no I bet she doesn’t. And I bet she doesn’t trawl the internet and drive to random little places in order to find organic this and organic that and I bet her house doesn’t permanently stink of bloody Japanese miso soup! No, she gets the fun bits of Jack, actually come to think of it, I bet he gets his back, sack and crack wax done at the poshest salon in town, she probably doesn’t think he possesses any hair on his body that doesn’t live on his head, Christ, I bet she also believed that he had stress alopecia on his pubes and that’s why he was as bare as the day he was born down there. Yes, OK, it may look bigger, but it wasn’t and he just looked weird. But there was no telling him.
The Italian man’s voice continued to purr through the wound-down window.
‘Hmmm … ?’ he said, prompting a reply from me.
‘No, actually,’ I lied, still in Sizzle Stars mode, fingers crossed, ‘I don’t care any more, it’s yesterday’s news. Old chip wrappers, you know, boring, yawn, not bothered …’ I was waffling now.
‘I see.’ The words curled along his tongue. ‘I would say, that one remarkable thing has occurred in this whole, sorry affair.’
‘Really, well, I’m glad you’re seeing silver linings on fluffy clouds, whoever you are,’ I said carelessly. After all, why should I care what some faceless man in a scary car had to say about my Jack. And then it dawned on me … Italian man, rich voice, expensive car … Jessica Hilson!! No, her boyfriend, ex-boyfriend? Whatever, it was totally Fabio Matravers! It had to be!
‘Cara, sei bellissima, ti
voglio, andiamo a cena?’ he said, confirming my suspicions, as his tanned face came into view at the window. He had large, almond-shaped eyes, framed by dark lashes. He broke out into a bright smile and cocked his head to the side in anticipation of my response.
‘Yes, that sounds wonderful, but, um, I don’t speak Italiano!’ I said, in a crap Italian accent.
‘I asked you to dinner, Kate, and,’ he said, licking his lips, ‘I called you beautiful.’
Ooh, that should be pervy but it’s not, it’s rather nice, he is quite a studmuffin.
‘Um,’ I said, oh God, what to say, what to say, need Danielle, no wait, need PR, Hanna, need advice, can I accept dates from hunky Italian ex-boyfriends of Jessica Hilson? Imagine the look on Jack’s face if he saw me, Katie Lewis, stepping out with Fabio Matravers! ‘You’re beautiful,’ he said. Our eyes locked for a moment. His were narrowed, studying me intently as the skin on my arms went prickly. My heartbeat quickened. I narrowed my own eyes back at him.
‘Kate, darling, coffee?’ Hanna cooed from the upstairs window which I noticed was wide open. My head spun up towards the window.
‘I have to go,’ I said, turning on my heels to go back into the warm building and away from Fabio.
‘Wait,’ he said, his voice urgent. ‘Take this, and call me,’ and he extended his arm out towards me. Between his thumb and forefinger he held a business card. Fabio Matravers it said, in delicate gold writing which I suspect was real gold leaf, or something just as precious. The paper was sturdy yet it felt almost like silk in my hand. The window hummed closed as the car rolled away as seamlessly as it had arrived. Clasping the business card tightly, I popped it into my handbag and thought about what to do next.
I walked gingerly up the stairs. Hanna had sounded OK but female intuition told me something was awry with us, or was I simply being paranoid? No, I just don’t know; after all, I wasn’t supposed to be talking to anyone unless Hanna or one of the fashion gays said so.
‘Kate,’ Hanna said angrily.
Shite, I thought. It was a facade, the tone of her voice was severe.
‘Let’s just get one thing straight,’ she screeched.
God, she was frightening. My mother calls me Kate when I’m in trouble, seems as though Hanna’s been picking up some tips. Saying that, Fabio called me Kate, but in a sexually arousing, authoritative way, unlike Hanna Frost, the wannabe schoolmarm. She’s tapping her foot impatiently whilst Frenella, who’s still here, wafts her hands in the background. The smell of acetone from the hot-pink varnish she’s been using fills the air.
I swallow hard. I hate it when people shout at me, especially when I’m not altogether sure what it is that I’ve done to warrant such shoutage.
‘You work for me, OK, and as per our signed contract, you do as I say. Did I say you could go on ahead outside willy-nilly with no shoes on in broad daylight, without some kind of apparel to hide your face?’
‘Um,’ I began to form a sentence in my head. I believe I did ask. I did tell them anyway, I know that much, and no one said anything, and I walked right past them to the door, even stalling for a few moments to take my shoes off. She cannot be serious?
‘I, uh, I told you where I was going,’ I said meekly.
‘You’re fucking useless!’ Hanna shrieked, her cheeks flushing.
‘Exc– excuse me?’ I said, my face matching hers in the redness stakes. I was sure to win. My cheeks were flaming red. Frenella said nothing.
‘You …’ Hanna spoke slowly, ‘are … fucking … useless!’ She stood still, her face so close to me I could smell the tuna salad she had for her lunch.
‘I am?’ I said. My confidence had taken a battering what with Jack, and then the succession of stupid gay stylists who had as much subtlety as a brick.
‘Yes, and another thing, you better get down on your knees and pray that no one saw you accepting that business card from Fabio Matravers, and it was only I and Frenella who witnessed that and not a rival magazine, such as London Lowdown!’ she barked.
‘Pippa Strong has been sniffing around us for days now, once we’d removed her from your garden – her face was practically invading your hallway via your letter box. She will not stop until she has a story on you and the juicier the better. Kate, you are a fucking liability, do you want to ruin things for yourself?’ Hanna was so imposing, all she needed now was a bloody whip to knock me into shape.
‘Well, of course I don’t want to ruin things for myself, Hanna, I’m just, I didn’t think, really I honestly didn’t mean to …’
‘Enough!’ Hanna said quietly. Her palm was facing my nose. ‘I have heard quite enough from you today. Seriously, I have a migraine. BAILEY!’ she screamed, projecting her voice down the hallway. Bailey appeared, clutching a newspaper and a Diet Coke.
‘Hanna,’ he said.
‘Bailey, I need my blue pills.’ She sighed and rubbed her temples.
Bailey looked at me, tried to make eye contact but wasn’t getting anywhere. My eyes were fixed on my bare feet. I was now hideously aware of my slightly blackened toes from absconding down the fire escape. Note to self, must learn to walk in very high heels. Must not look like poverty-stricken person with no shoes or, worse, like mental patient on day release, barefoot but wearing gorgeous garments. I sigh inwardly, must keep calm. When I think he’s stopped looking at me, I look up at him, but then like a bolt of searing hot electricity, I feel his eyes connect with mine, and there is a definite moment. More of a moment than the one I shared with Fabio, which was like a stand-off – who could blink last, who looked away first was a measure of the strength of the pair of us. I half expected Fabio to extend his hand and challenge me to a thumb war. There was electricity flying in all directions today, Fabio to me, me to Bailey, Tom Theodore to my breasts and me, once again, to the clothing emporium downstairs. What a to-do!
‘NOW!’ Hanna screamed at Bailey, who practically jumped out of his skin at the volume coming from Hanna’s pouty mouth.
I could see the tension on his face, he was inwardly struggling to contain the words ‘Fuck’ and ‘You’ to Hanna Frost as she looked down her long nose at us. His lips trembled and it looked as though he was about to say something but then thought better of it. He walked off down the corridor, his hand rubbing the back of his neck as he went.
‘I … I’m sorry, Hanna,’ I said, almost gulping back tears.
She cast me a quick glance before waving her hands at me as if she was shooing an annoying child away from her.
‘Right, well …’ I said, looking around the room. Frenella was tapping away on her BlackBerry whilst Hanna stood looking out of the window, awaiting Bailey’s return. Within seconds, Bailey walked back into the room and approached Hanna with the pills.
‘About fucking time,’ she hissed. ‘Now just go, OK?’ she said, gulping back the pills with a bottle of Evian.
I shuffled out towards the door, shoes in my hand, my handbag slung over my shoulder and beat a hasty retreat southwards towards the exit of the building. I felt utterly humiliated. Bailey walked a step or two behind me. Neither of us knew what to say after Hanna’s outburst. I mean, was this normal? Do media people talk like this to their clients? Which is what I suppose I was? Even though, after all, she knew who I was before I signed the contract, maybe this has made her a bit careless with her words? Maybe that’s why she’s such a bitch? Familiarity breeds contempt; she could get away with using the C word with me if she wanted to.
‘Here,’ Bailey said, handing me a new balaclava. This one had a soft cashmere touch, which was a welcome relief after the scratchy woolly item owned by Dad.
‘To avoid any more, you know, issues …’ his voice trailed off.
‘Thanks,’ I said, half smiling. Was Bailey mad at me too?
We got into the car silently and he set about rolling a cigarette. There was something about Bailey, I didn’t know what it was, but I could feel some connection, in the way he looked at me with those dark, penetrating eyes, as though
he was looking straight into my soul.
‘Want one?’ he asked, offering me his tobacco.
‘No, I’m a menthol girl,’ I said, softly. ‘Not that I can smoke through cashmere!’
‘Right,’ he said.
We drove towards Bethnal Green whilst I texted Danielle.
Hanna had full on strop at me for going outside, V upset.
Beep Beep
Let’s rendezvous 9pm, we need to talk.
K
I put my phone back into my lovely new camel bag that had long tassels hanging from it. ‘We need to talk’ sounded ominous. I wonder what Stewart-small-penis had done now. Lost in my thoughts concerning whatever topic it was that Danielle wanted to talk about, I looked out of the window at passers-by. We continued to drive in silence. I counted a full thirty minutes before attempting, once again, to get some answers from Bailey. This was getting ridiculous. Out of everyone I have met so far, he’s the one I like the most, he’s the one who seems to care, he has kind eyes, a warm smile, he is thoroughly nice. Isn’t he?
‘Bailey,’ I asked him, gingerly.
‘Yah,’ he said.
