by Daniel Hurst
Meanwhile, it will all start here today, when I reveal my clothes for the first time to the peers who will give me their feedback, to the critics who will give me their unfiltered comments, and to the journalists who will publish all the reviews, both good and bad.
If you think dealing with trolls and haters online is bad, wait until you have a room full of the harshest fashion critics in the world ready to pounce all over you and the garments you have spent the last few months painstakingly putting together. ManorGirl will be launched right here tonight but it could also be crushed right here tonight. It’s that fine a line, which is why my heart rate is rapidly getting more out of control with every minute that ticks by.
All the prep work with the artists. All the meetings with the designers. All the conference calls with manufacturers and suppliers and logistics companies. It all comes down to this. Either they will love it or they will hate it but unlike my social media posts, I can’t just spend a little more time editing the dresses or use my favourite hashtags to give them an engagement boost.
They are on their own now.
For someone who lives most of their life online, I’m now finding it very scary to be faced with the prospect of putting myself out there in such a raw, unfiltered way. And if the sixth model doesn’t turn up in the next sixty seconds then I am going to be even more exposed because I will be out on that catwalk myself.
And there isn’t a hashtag or a filter in the world that can save me then.
I see an anxious Frenchman wearing a headset poke his head through the curtain and give us all the thumbs up, which I know means that everything is set and that the audience is ready for the show to begin. But we aren’t ready back here. We are still one model down.
But we are out of time now and so unless I want the show to be unsymmetrical then I need to get my outfit on quickly and take my place in the line alongside the models who are going to give the world their first look at my clothes. But the difference is that these models do this for a living, on a daily basis. To them, walking down a catwalk is just as normal as walking down the street on the way to the shops. But it’s not normal for me.
What if I trip? What if I fall off the catwalk and launch myself head-first into the lap of one of the most prominent fashion critics in the world? What if this is a complete and utter disaster?
Maybe I should just quit now, while I’m ahead. I have my successful business platform on PhoGlo. I don’t need to risk my reputation by trying to break into the fashion industry. If social media is a cut-throat world then fashion is a whole other animal.
Maybe I should just stay in my lane and not try to branch out and diversify my empire. Maybe I should just count myself lucky to be where I am today and not try to push things, in case I overextend myself and lose it all?
And I can’t lose it all now. I can’t go back to a normal life. I can’t go back to being a nobody.
Oh god I think I’m having a panic attack. I need my mum. I need my best friend. I need a large glass of red wine. And I need all of them right now.
But my mum isn’t here. She is back home in a sleepy part of the UK, a world away from the fast-paced and harsh world of Paris. Emily isn’t here either, as she is in Berlin, working on her own brand and taking her own risks. And while there is wine here, I daren’t touch any of it because I have to go on the catwalk in a moment and if I’m drunk then I will definitely fall off it.
But time is up. It’s now or never. The curtain is about to be opened. The audience is ready to be wowed, or disappointed. And I am going to have to take the place of the missing sixth model if we are going to get this show on the road on time.
Screw it. Give me a dress. I’m going out there. How hard can it be? Put one foot in front of the other. Repeat. Get to the end of the catwalk and stop, put your hand on your hip, pout, pose for the cameras, then turn and walk back. Easy.
No stumbling. No falling. No disasters.
I can do it.
Or I will die trying.
I am soon out of my planned dresswear for the evening and change quickly into a yellow dress that will form part of the first MasonGirl summer collection. I take my place, standing in the line of models, and we wait for our cue to go.
I can hear the pounding music on the other side of the curtain, which I know means that the show has begun, because it’s the very same music that my assistant and I picked out when we were planning this launch party several weeks ago. I thought the soundtrack sounded fun and edgy and would elevate the heart rates of the audience members just before the models come out.
I had planned to be one of those audience members myself so that I could see if it worked. But instead I was here, backstage, about to begin my unexpected and extremely unprepared-for career in fashion modelling. My heart rate is certainly elevated, but I think that has more to do with what I am about to experience than the inspired choice of music.
The agitated Frenchman reappears and taps the first model on the shoulder.
It’s time to go.
I watch the first model sauntering away from me, disappearing around the corner of the curtain and walking into a cacophony of flashbulbs and applause. Then the second model goes. Then the third.
Soon it will be me walking out in front of all those people.
I am suddenly taken back to the time when I skydived in Dubai. Sitting there in the plane, watching the other thrill seekers flying out of the aircraft ahead of me and knowing that it was getting closer to my turn with each passing second, had filled me with an incredible existential dread. Now this feels exactly the same.
At least there isn’t any chance of me dying here if my parachute doesn’t open. There is just the chance of my fashion career dying if these outfits didn’t go down well.
But as the fourth model heads out, I remember that I actually do have some modelling experience. After I had finished dressing myself and my Barbie in clothes as a child, I would perform a fake fashion show in front of the mirror in my mum’s bedroom. If I remember rightly then I had some pretty nifty moves on that ‘catwalk.’
And so as the fifth model walks away from me through the curtain and into the great unknown, I try to tell myself that this is no different to when I was a little girl pretending to be a superstar model in my mum’s house.
I can do this.
I am walking towards the curtain. I am walking out into the flashlights and the spotlights. There’s no time for nerves now. Only time to kill it.
Walk.
Smile.
Slay.
#4DaysBeforeTheParty
#WorkIt
Emily Bennett
I’m wearing a gorgeous white dress that isn’t available for the general public to buy yet, my blonde hair has been poured over by a team of stylists who work on me for free and the bracelet on my wrist is worth over £1000.
I’ve definitely looked worse.
I’m in Berlin to model for Monica Bella Jewellery and I’m having the time of my life. This is the kind of thing that I’d be happy to do for no charge but obviously I’m a businesswoman now and so I rightly command a fee. It’s not an astronomical one but it’s enough for me to buy most of the items I am modelling today.
And I might just buy them all because they are gorgeous.
There are gold bracelets, silver brooches, gemstone rings, diamond earrings and more, and I am getting to display them all, posing in various positions specified by the photographer in his quest for the perfect shot.
This campaign will be run on PhoGlo in two weeks’ time and the hope for the people paying me today is that the use of my image alongside their classy jewellery will be enough to make many of the platform’s users click the advert and make some purchases. I always wonder how profitable adverts like these will be, especially considering the substantial outlay they have already invested in getting me to be here today, but it must be worth it for them to do it.
They must be planning on selling a lot of jewellery when these photos get uploaded
and I sincerely hope they do, because that might mean I get to come back and do all of this again. Because I’m loving it so far.
After an enjoyable time in hair and makeup, I have spent the last three hours smiling, pouting and brooding for the camera in a variety of positions, mainly involving me and a vintage car. I know absolutely nothing about cars and have no idea of the make or model, but whatever the vehicle is, I’ve been all over it in the last few hours.
I’ve sat in the driver’s seat with one hand on the wheel, flashing the beautiful rings on my fingers. I’ve stood with both hands on the door, looking over my shoulder as two sparkling earrings hung down by the sides of my face. And I’ve even draped myself across the bonnet, although I’m not sure exactly how that was supposed to draw attention to the expensive watch that I was wearing on my wrist at the time.
I’m just glad that the photographer managed to get the pictures he needed before I slid off the bonnet and onto the ground. I almost gave the wardrobe department a heart attack when they saw the crisp white dress that I was wearing in a heap on the dusty studio floor.
But they knew what they were getting when they hired me. Just because I’m modelling glamorous pieces, it doesn’t mean I’m not still the same clumsy girl that I’ve always been.
I smile again as the photographer’s finger clicks away furiously on his camera and I’m having such a fun time being the centre of attention that I can almost forget about how much I’m missing Ryan. While I’m working it for the lens in Germany, he is all the way over on the other side of the world in Los Angeles, performing his stand-up routine and entertaining the crowds that queue up to see him.
With the time difference between us, it has been tricky to schedule a video call since we last saw each other on Sunday in New York and although we are keeping in contact with messages it would be nice to see his face. But the way our hectic schedules are, I’m not sure we will manage to get one in before the weekend, although at least then we will almost be back in the same time zone as I fly to Miami and he works in Phoenix.
I’m looking forward to the yacht party on Saturday and can’t wait to see my girl Mason, along with a whole load of other influencers who will be attending the social event of the year, but I’m a little disappointed that Ryan won’t be able to accompany me.
When I received the invite from Zack’s agent, I RSVP’d with my intention to come but also asked about the possibility of me bringing my boyfriend. Although I hadn’t checked to see if Ryan was available that night, I thought I would find out if he would be allowed to come at all and I’d been pleased when the agent had got back to me and said that boyfriends were welcome, and especially such photogenic ones as mine.
I have a feeling that Zack’s agent likes men.
Happy with the news, I had then checked with Ryan to see if he was free on Saturday to board the luxury yacht bound for The Bahamas but unfortunately he told me he had a show in Arizona that night and wouldn’t be able to make it back in time.
I’d been disappointed but also pleased for Ryan, as him having another show meant that his comedy routines were going well. I knew how hard he had worked to get his career off the ground, because he’d told me all about it on one of the lazy mornings we had spent together in his apartment.
Damn, how I miss those lazy mornings.
As the photographer continues snapping away at me with seemingly no end in sight, I think about how much fun the yacht party is going to be this weekend. There are already several promo videos going online, showing images of the skyline in Miami, the beaches on Bimini and the impossibly crystal-clear ocean in between. These videos also feature the names of those who would be in attendance, so the whole thing had already begun to stir up a great deal of interest in the online community.
The whole point of the promos is to build up the buzz for the day and make sure that by the time the event is underway on Saturday and PhoGlo is being flooded with photos and videos by all the lucky attendees, the views, likes and comments would be off the chart.
Zack’s agent sent a memo out yesterday to everyone who was going to be there, asking them to post something about it in the build up to the event and so Mason and I exchanged messages and decided that we would combine forces to promote the fact that both of us would be at the party.
We are going to record ourselves packing various items, like sun cream, makeup and passports as well as trying on different bikinis and then we will edit and play the two separate videos alongside each other in one main video on both of our accounts at the same time. Our captions will tell our millions of followers where we are going and also that they should cancel whatever plans they have for Saturday because they won’t want to miss a single one of the many posts that will be going online that day.
The party is going to be epic. Not only will it be a great chance to let our hair down and dance in the sunshine, but simply being there with so many other influential figures will simultaneously help us to grow each of our brands.
I have come to realise that no matter how many followers I get on my PhoGlo account, I still have to work incredibly hard at it every day to continue to grow it. Mason reckons that it’s only a matter of time until another social media platform takes over from PhoGlo as one of the most successful sites on the planet and so if we don’t strive hard to build up a huge fanbase now, we might not get the chance ever again once people start migrating to another platform and leave us behind.
I don’t like the thought of my fans leaving me behind and also believe that they would never do that because I work hard to engage with them but I am aware that the world of social media is always changing and so we must plan for the future. The more I am seen mixing in elite circles, the more chance I have of staying in them, even when PhoGlo is yesterday’s news and I’m trying to figure out how to upload my latest selfie to whatever the next big platform is.
That is why Saturday’s party is important to the career of everybody who will be on board that yacht, so amongst all the champagne celebrations and sun-drenched selfies, I will remember that I am there to grow my brand and not just get extremely drunk and vomit over the side of the yacht.
Which has been known to happen before when I have been invited onto somebody’s yacht.
But no matter what happens, once the party is over, I will leave the world of mega influencers behind for a little while and fly back to New York to be reunited with Ryan, because although my career is important to me, he is quickly becoming the thing that I care about most in the world.
#DeadSerious
Anna Akari
There is only one thing I enjoy more than killing people and that is planning how I am going to kill people. Usually I am only plotting to murder one target at a time, so my plan doesn’t involve much more than a sharp blade and a steady hand. But this job is different. This job is a challenge.
This job is going to be my favourite.
With all eight of my targets scheduled to be on board the same yacht this Saturday, I have been presented with a unique and tantalising opportunity. I can wipe them all out in one fell swoop and I don’t even need to pack my trusty switchblade this time. All it will take is a small device and the push of a button.
And one very, very loud bang.
It is still four days until the party that will see all the influencers gather together, but I am already in Miami to make my preparations for the big event. I am in my hotel room overlooking South Beach but unlike all the other people in the adjacent rooms, I’m not here to get a suntan, find a nightclub to dance in or pick up somebody to share my bed with.
I’m here to build a bomb and if I don’t concentrate then there won’t be much of this hotel left standing.
There are many different ways to build a bomb and you can learn about most of them online if you look hard enough, but I’m not interested in ones that may or may not actually work when it comes to the moment of detonation. I want a sure thing and there aren’t many things surer than a couple of blocks of C4 and
a detonator.
I plan to get myself on board the yacht disguised as one of the waitresses that will be serving the party’s attendees and once on, I will deposit the deadly package on the vessel. The C4 itself will be stitched inside a brown teddy bear that will be concealed inside a gift-wrapped box and tied with a bow. That way even if the present is opened then the explosives won’t be discovered inside it.
By the time the yacht has left The Bahamas on the return leg of its journey, all I will have to do is press the button on my phone that is linked to the detonating charge stuck into the C4 and Mr Teddy Bear will be one hell of a party pooper.
I got the explosives from a guy I went to school with back in Japan, who now works in America and makes a fortune supplying deadly devices to wannabe terrorists or bored rednecks who like to blow stuff up on their farms. I paid him handsomely for his services and know that his discretion can be counted on, mainly because he knows that I will kill him if it isn’t.
It’s good to keep in touch with old friends.
With a little manipulation, I am able to mould the wedge of C4 to fit the shape of the toy animal’s insides and I carefully slide the needle through the plastic substance, feeling the adrenaline rush that comes with handling such a deadly item.
I’ve always loved danger. As a young girl I would run out in front of traffic just to get a rush and the louder the car horn, the higher my heart rate would be. As I got older I would get my thrills torturing the neighbourhood pets. I was getting away with it too until my mother noticed the trail of blood running down the wall outside my bedroom window and searched inside to find the dead cat I had been dangling outside.
I was sixteen when I first killed another human being. My parents had sent me to a maths tutor in a desperate bid to help me pass my school exams, but after becoming bored with the old professor’s attempts to teach me equations, I had taken a knife from his kitchen drawer and stuck it through his neck. Then I had walked out of his home and boarded a train that took me far away from my family.
