Читать книгу She Just Can't Help Herself - Ollie Quain - Страница 10

ASHLEY

‘So, Noelle’s shoot for her Special Edition issue …’ Catherine turns to our Fashion Director, Wallis. ‘I had a chat with her agent at the party and she has confirmed that Noelle will be picking her five favourite key pieces from the new season.’

‘Her stylist will, you mean,’ says Wallis, as she repositions her headpiece—a stuffed swallow attached to a metal band. (No one batted an eyelid when she walked in wearing it this morning). ‘You know every single look of hers is put together by Kenny Chong? My girlfriend cuts his hair. She said Kenny introduced Noelle to brogues too.’

Jazz glares at Wallis. ‘That’s absolute rubbish, she’s always worn men’s shoes. She’s into androgynous dressing. It says so in her book.’

‘Then it must be true,’ deadpans Fitz.

He glances over at me and rolls his eyes. I roll mine back, as standard. Jazz is irritating on the best of days, least of all on my last few hours before suspension. She worships Noelle and is always suggesting we should feature other model-come-DJ-come-It girl-come-presenter-come-entrepreneur-oh, come off it! celebrities in the magazine. As a rule of thumb, the least obvious the talent, the more likely Jazz will be a fan. I’m convinced this is because she feels less exposed by these sort of people. Before Catwalk, Jazz hadn’t been employed anywhere before. That winning dual combo of über-rich parents and ultra-fast WIFI had meant she could fill her days being a blogger. Not too long ago, blogging would have skulked under HOBBIES AND OTHER INTERESTS at the bottom of a CV. But to Catherine, the fact that Jazz was a whizz at uploading pictures of people attending events and had even managed to get one of Noelle in the VIP tent at some shite rock festival with an early prototype of the ‘Noelle’ tote was more than enough reason to give her a job. Her first one. At twenty-fucking-nine years old. The same age as me.

‘… so, yup, five outfits and Noelle’s favourite on the opening-double-page spread,’ says Catherine. ‘That’s the Tory Hambeck neoprene tunic in olive from her debut collection. We should champion a new British designer.’

Wallis bristles. ‘Tory Hambeck is British but she is not a designer. She is a reality TV star who has employed a very good design team … from America. Hambeck doesn’t even know how to stitch let alone sketch.’

Catherine ignores her suggestion. ‘She can draw. Her PR tweeted one of her sketches last week.’

‘Actually, Catherine’s right,’ says Fitz, seriously. ‘I’ve got it right here.’ He holds up his notepad, where he has drawn a stick person in a triangle dress.

Everyone laughs, including Catherine, because she knows no one will be changing her mind.

‘Look, it’s essential to put Hambeck at number one, then we’ll get an exclusive interview when she launches her perfume at Christmas.’

‘What?’ Bronwyn, the Beauty Editor, balks. ‘But we’ve never gone near celebrity perfumes. Catwalk beauty is about catwalk—with a small c—creativity, not about A, B or C List vanity projects.’

‘Absolutely,’ says Fitz. ‘If we’re going to do a feature on Hambeck, it should be about how her designs are manufactured and marketed … who the real minds are behind it. Let’s talk to industry insiders, not her. She’ll only spout the same insipid waffle that all the celeb so-called designers—who have never even approached a work bench let alone pattern cut—do, about wanting to ‘empower women’ … when actually all they are asking of the female population is to go shopping and make me richer! At least be honest. It’s a business. Real designers are not afraid to say that, they are proud. So they should be.’

‘He has a point, Catherine …’ squeaks Dixie, our Talent Editor. ‘A more investigative angle is way more in sync with our readers. Yes, we include famous people in the magazine, but we’re not a fanzine.’

Catherine cocks her head. ‘We are a business too! And we need to compete by getting more readers who like the other angle as well.’

Fitz throws his hands up. ‘But that dilutes our brand. If we give this type of coverage to Hambeck, where do we stop? She is not the brains behind the label. And label makes it sound a far more complex operation than it is. She does shapes, no actual tailoring. Ashley’s cat could have cobbled together her last season’s look with a tube of Pritt Stick and a basic set of instructions.’

I blink at him as if considering what to say on the matter, but I’m not thinking about Tory Hambeck’s designs. I’m remembering the collection of the first designer I knew. She specialised in what she called ‘rave togs’. The whole range she did was unisex: sweatshirts, T-shirts, dungarees, hats, vests. Each piece was emblazoned with neon lettering, swirly patterns or smiley faces as if it been manufactured in a toy factory.

ME: Mum?

HER: Ashl-eeeeey! (Voice sing songy.) Where are yooooou?

ME: (Shouting back.) In my room, I’m reading that new magazine you bought.

HER: Oh, that. It’s shit! (Sticking her head through the door, tripping slightly as she does.) Where’s your Dad?

ME: Gone to get the van fixed. Again. Why don’t you dump it?

HER: Because it’s got history. Like I always say, you were quite possibly conceived (slightly slurring on the double ‘s’ and the ‘c’) in that van en route to some rave-up in a field. Or on the way back. Ha! Maybe parked up behind a service station. (More slurring.)

ME: I think I prefer the shtory of the shtork. She either did not hear my joke or she chose to ignore it.

HER: You’re an aciiiiiiiiii-ed baby!

ME: Aghhhhh … don’t do that!

HER: I’m only having a laugh withyou … (Plonking herself down on my bed next to me.)

I could smell the Red Lion on her.

HER: … Gawd, I worry for your generation. You think THAT (pointing at the photo shoot in the magazine) is the future. Fashion should be fun! That’s just depressing.

ME: It’s called ‘heroin chic.’

HER: I make clothes to dance in, not die in.

ME: It’s what’s selling in London. (Clocking her expression.) Sorry. I wasn’t saying that it is better.

HER: No.(Voice darkening.) But you were THINKING you know better.

ME: I’m ten, Mum. Why would I think that?

HER: Because a lot of people round here do. Think they know better. Think they are better. I was just saying that to Sheila in the pub—this estate is split into those who LIVE here and those who want to LEAVE here. And the latter don’t have any respect for the former. I mean, look at your little buddy, Tanya … she’s always round. You’re never over there. Have her parents ever invited you or us? Nope.

ME: Have you ever asked Mr and Mrs Dinsdale over?

HER: Only because they wouldn’t come. They’re snobs. Boring ones at that. I bet the closest they’ve ever come to a warehouse party is paying for some flat pack furniture in Ikea … ha! And as for their clobber! Cheryl is drip-dry, and have you seen the shoes Howard wears? Docksider boating shoes. For fuck’s sake, he lives on a housing estate an hour and a half away from the nearest harbour. What? Has he got a yacht moored in Plymouth? The new St. Tropez, eh? What a penis. (Rubbing my head. Suddenly, bright again.) Hey, you know what shoes your Dad was wearing when I first met him?

ME: What?

HER: Kickers.

ME: Never heard of them.

HER: (Sighing.) Well, one day—when you’re old enough to appreciate that not everything has to have been featured in a glossy magazine to be a significant trend—I’ll explain their social impact. Believe me, those shoes meant something. You can always judge a man by his shoes, Ashley. It will tell you everything.

Last night, Zach was wearing new trainers. Zach is not that vain but he is obsessed with ‘old school’ sneakers. He buys them from a Japanese website that sources rare originals. Since ‘it was decided’ I have not seen him sport any new footwear, but he was wearing box-fresh Travel Fox the other night. He was wearing Travel Fox when we met. It was in a bar round the corner from here …

Fitz is eyeballing me. Should I be speaking? I look away.

‘Either way, it’s not happening,’ confirms Catherine. ‘To wind up Hambeck’s management would be like kicking a hornets’ nest wearing peep-toe sandals and pedal pushers. We’d be guaranteed to get stung.’ She turns back to Wallis. ‘So. Neoprene. Tunic. Olive. And here is a list of the other designers I want you to use …’ She peels off a Post-it note and passes it to her. ‘Right, last on the agenda: the Catwalk twentieth-anniversary party. It’s been moved forward to fit in with our sponsors. Invites will be going out via email in the next week or so. Now, if we’re all happy …’ She doesn’t pause. ‘That’s it. Actually, Ashley … I’d like a word.’

Christ. WHAT NOW? Everyone troops out.

‘Are you looking forward to a quiet few days?’ she asks me. ‘Time to relax but also reflect on, you know what.’

‘No, I am not. And to be honest, Catherine, I would prefer it if we didn’t discuss my …’ I consider using the D word to see how it feels, but back off. ‘… issue in the office. You wouldn’t even know that I was in the process of one if I hadn’t sent you that message by mistake.’ Hungover one morning last month, I emailed her an update on mine and Zach’s living arrangements, instead of the mortgage company. ‘What happened at the book launch was a minor blip.’

‘To you, maybe, Ashley. But certainly not to Noelle, her fans or her agent. But, most importantly, Frédéric Lazare.’

‘With all due respect, who gives a monkey about Frédéric Lazare? None of RIVA’s brands and products, and yes—I am including Pascale’s ‘Noelle’ tote in that—are right for Catwalk. It’s not as if Lazare’s labels would ever attract boundary-pushing talent. The ‘new’ Olivier Rousteing, JW Anderson, Thomas Tait, Dion Lee, Jonathan Simkhai, Esteban Cortázar, Michael van der Ham, Sally LaPointe, Mary Katrantzou, Carly Cushnie, Michelle Ochs … would not touch RIVA. Lazare is the living evidence of money not being able to create or sell style.’

She sighs at me—almost nostalgically, like she did at the book launch.

‘But, some of that money contributes to a portion of our advertising and will be paying for our party in its entirety, so I suggest you keep that opinion very much to yourself. That aside …’ Her eyes dart furtively. ‘… when you get back from your break, you need to knuckle down and prove yourself. Looking further ahead with my pregnancy, I need to know that when I am out of the office, the magazine will be safe. I need to leave someone at the helm who won’t rock the boat, and right now I don’t see you as a particularly reliable captain.’

‘That’s unfair and you know it. I’ve covered for you three times and each time everything has been kept … shipshape.’ I pull a face as I elaborate on her nautical metaphor. ‘There is no one else here who could do it.’

Is there?

I look through the glass window at the five longest serving members of our editorial team at their desks. All of them are perfect in their current roles, but not as Editor. First, Fitz, currently wearing a pink custom-made sweatshirt with WHAT WOULD DONATELLA DO? embossed on it in metal studs. He’s witty, insightful and blunt verging on tactless. Exactly what you want from a fashion writer and a mate. But as a leader, he would quite happily admit he lacks patience, empathy and tolerance. In fact, he would be livid if you implied that he did have those qualities. Then there’s Dixie, our Talent Editor, who is as loud as the clashing vintage prints she wears. Her excited squeal can reach such a piercing level that when she manages to secure a top interview, dolphins in the Irish Sea are also made aware of the scoop. She’s too hyper. Bronwyn is the opposite. Like a lot of beauty journalists, she always sports a crisp white shirt (usually Ann Demeulemeester) and is smug verging on “shit-eating”. A beauty writer’s self-satisfaction is usually directly correlated to how clear her skin has become thanks to the endless unctions and treatments she is invited to test. Bronwyn has been at Catwalk for eight years. (That’s a lot of peptides.) Besides, a Beauty Editor would never be made Acting Editor. It does not happen. It’s not how the publishing chain of command works. And there’s no way Wallis—despite being one of the most respected Fashion Directors in London—would be given a chance either. She’s too much of an eccentric and wholly anti-establishment. She may not be able to keep a lid on her views during meetings with corporate advertisers. Oh, and her hairdresser girlfriend has a habit of rocking up to the office unannounced to pick fights. Wearing a scissor belt.

Catherine must be planning to bring in someone from the outside.

She gets up from her chair. ‘Nothing is decided yet, I’m simply letting you know that there is a lot for you to think about over the next few days. You’re going through a period of change at home, maybe you need one at work too. It could be good for you.’

‘What could?’

‘To spread your wings and fly … make a new nest.’

‘A new nest? You want …’

I distract myself from the enormity of what Catherine is saying by examining her oversized corsage-style brooch pinned to her chest. Crimes Against Fashion No. 21: Obvious tributes to Carrie Bradshaw. Guilty: thirty-something females on a Monday after a weekend of watching Sex and the City repeats on Comedy Central.

‘… me to leave?’

‘I want what is best for you, Ashley. Think about it. It could be good for you.’ Her voice becomes thicker, more serious. ‘You’re talented. That talent will always be yours. You could do and go wherever you want. I knew that when I first employed you. Don’t forget that … with all your drama going on. No matter what happens here, you … you … oh, aaaaaa-nyway …’ She claps her hands together, as if stopping herself elaborating. ‘I’ll be out for the rest of the afternoon. Bit of a problem with one of the little ones, and the new au pair’s English is still somewhat left of centre. You’d have thought three months in Barnes was enough for anyone to grasp the essentials. Clearly not. Oh, and can you ask Jazz to meet me in my office in five mins … thanks, Ashley.’

She walks out, en route rubbing my shoulder with about as much sincerity as Naomi Campbell’s anti-fur campaign for PETA. I stay seated. We have never had a conversation like this in the entire time I have been at Catwalk. We started at the same time. Her at the top. Me at the bottom … an intern.

It took me two years to be offered an internship at the magazine. I lost count of the times I sent in my curriculum vitae, each time including an elaborate missive about the power of fashion to Polly, (then) the Editorial Assistant. I rang her too. But my letters and calls were never returned. Thinking back, it was a stupid thing to have done—going down the ‘this is me’ route. Polly had a double-barrelled surname and by listening to her answering machine message you could tell she bled Malbec. There is always at least one Polly type on the staff at all magazines. You just have to pray that she is not in charge of sifting through the CVs, as all of them are notorious for only giving work experience to their own people. Or rather, ‘peeps’. After I had clicked that this was the case, I sat down and wrote a fresh CV with a few mild embellishments.

First up, my surname. I went from Ashley Atwal to Ashley Jacobs. I chose Jacobs for no other reason than it also belonged to Marc Jacobs—who the magazine were ob-sessed with back then and were very likely to always be. Next, I said I lived in Fulham. Benenden School in Kent was where my education had now been spent (literally—their website said it cost over twenty grand a year). My hobby was importing beads from Thailand, which I sold on the Portobello Road. I bought a Pay As You Go mobile so my number was different from my original application—and sent it off. Polly called me within a week. Within a fortnight I started.

Today, Catherine deigns to delight us with her presence until 3.36pm. Everyone else leaves two and a half to three hours later. By quarter to seven, it’s only Fitz and I in the office. We’re sitting at his desk, flicking through the new issue which has just been delivered from the print house. He sticks his head over the top of the partition to check we are alone.

‘She’s in seed, isn’t she? Ogilvy …’

‘How did you know?’

‘She was on the San Pellegrino at the launch, she’s rearranged the party date and I totally clocked some bloat in the features meeting. Thought she’d been overdoing it on granola. But no, another being has taken root in her womb. So Sigourney Weaver! Does she need another one? It pisses me off how women who make a personal choice to have so many children have a ricochet effect on other women—and men!—who work hard because they WANT or NEED to, enforcing them to work harder with no extra pay … whilst the breeder continues to be rewarded with their higher salary on maternity leave, which pretty much amounts to a paid holiday. And one which when it officially finishes, doesn’t actually finish … because their work share will continue to be offloaded to other staff during half-term and other school holidays, parents’ evenings, and random departures from the office when precious has fallen ill or off their pony …’ He flops back into his seat. ‘… or quadbike. Don’t you think?’

I shrug and stare down at my lap. I am wearing a pair of Rag & Bone ripped and faded jeans. They are skin tight. I’ve worn denim like that since I was teenager. My mother always wore a pair of voluminous dungarees, even though she was smaller than me. They made her look like a farmyard cartoon character. That look put me off non-snugly fitting denim for life. Whenever bell-bottom flares or a sailor-style cut reappear in the collections, I say no.

‘That said,’ continues Fitz, ‘at least with Ogilvy out the way for a few months, we might start getting some decent material in the mag again. Don’t you think this issue is even more vanilla than the last? There’s not one piece I was excited to see in print. Your column is funny, naturally, but the subject matter … I mean, seeeeeeriously, Jacobs, you shrew. I used to DIE for all of it.’ He flips the issue open at my page and runs his finger down it. ‘Latex as daywear, Russian doll surgery, grime chic, Caroline Vreeland and the rise of the multiple-threat Insta girls—okay, fair enough—but knuckle tattoos, stylist lexicon, spike epaulettes, the new mephedrone and e-cigs? E-cigs? I am choking! But I am deffo not dying!’

Even I cringe. ‘Catherine wanted the topics to be more mainstream.’

‘And you didn’t argue the toss? We’re playing too safe. There’s no grit. We’re turning into the magazine equivalent of Miranda Kerr; looks fabulous—no denying that—but the personality, well …’ He sucks in his cheeks. ‘I find it astonishing that our sales haven’t slipped.’

I shrug again. ‘Yeah, well … they haven’t, so …’ I sigh. ‘Anyway, does it matter?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘Or rather, do we matter anymore, Fitz? We put out one magazine every month to share our collective views, but each one of our readers has a way of expressing their unique point of view in every single moment of every day. Our generation was the first to grow up with the Internet—we were meant to be in control of it, but we’re not. And it’s going to get worse. I thought it would affect us, but we could never have predicted this … I am starting to feel like what is the point? Is there a point to it? Us?’

Fitz leans back and eyes me as he chews the end of his biro. ‘Woah! Where has all this come from?’

‘They’re trying to prick us from the outside, you know,’ I mutter. ‘We’re not safe in the bubble.’

‘O-kaaaaay.’ He laughs. ‘I’ve got two qwezzies for you, Jacobs. The first is not one I like to ask anyone, as it always gets misconstrued, but, are you okay? I’ve been concerned. Ugh. There. I’ve said it.’

‘Why are you worried?’

‘I said, ‘concerned’, not worried. Worried would imply this is about you. But this is about me.’ He raises an eyebrow at me. ‘Recently, you’ve not exactly been full of the joys of Spring/Summer or Autumn/Winter. ‘I’m concerned because how you are acting is affecting my general enjoyment in the work place. The truth is, you’ve been behaving in a peculiar fashion. Not fashionably peculiar. You have been and are being … boring. I can see a pattern of said banality forming both in the flesh and online versions of you. Your Instagram account used to be a relentless and shameless exercise in showing off without ever quite making you look pleased with yourself. No mean feat. And as for Kat Moss, she could have been the new Choupette! In person, you haven’t instigated a round of the I DIE FOR game in an age and now this … questioning the essence of who we are? We are fashion, Jacobs. Don’t ever question that. Something is definitely up. Where has my vicious shrew gone? Spillez les haricots, pronto.’

I crumple a piece of paper in my hand. I am acutely aware that it could be considered odd I have not told the person I am closest to (other than my husband) that I am in the middle of a separation. Indeed, that the ‘process’ is already at the stage where our legal representation are conferring and are sorting an ‘arrangement’. But it’s not as if I have lied, I’ve simply been airbrushing the truth. I throw the crumpled-up piece of paper at Fitz.

‘I’m perfectly fine.’

‘Prove it, then,’ he says. ‘Prove you are not a fun sponge.’

‘How?’

‘Come to a party next Saturday. I introduced myself to Frédéric Lazare’s painfully fit PA at Noelle’s launch. Get this … he’s called Jesus! Talk about if the cap fits … if He is the Second Coming, it was well worth the wait. Anyway, he told me, Lazare’s having a twenty-four-hour bash next weekend at his penthouse on the river. Expect a crowd of acerbic fashion whores off their tits on whatever dirtbag narcotics they can get on speed dial by tapping their acrylic fingernails against limited-run chrome Samsungs … then dancing the night, following morning and possibly the next arvo away to a re-lent-less disco beat. In other words, it’ll quite possibly be …’

‘… the best party ever?’ I suggest. This is one of our in-jokes. Every industry bash always has this potential revered status.

‘Up for it, Jacobs?’

‘Maybe …’

‘Bring Zach, obviously.’

‘Ah, I doubt he would be able to make it. He’s still preparing for that big pitch at his agency,’ I say, quickly. ‘Oh, and let’s not forget he absolutely loathes disco.’

Fitz tuts. ‘Yawn! Straight men really are a strange breed, aren’t they? I can just about understand them not wanting cock. But glitter balls?’

I force a smile, but I am already imagining about what would happen if I went to the party. I’ll drink, get drunk … then sober up way too quickly. When I do, I’ll be looking in a mirror, in a bathroom, in a home I have never been in before. That’s when I have to face myself because the reflection never lies.

‘Jacobs?’

‘I said, maybe. Anyway, what was the second question you had?’

‘Ah, yes. That dizzy cow who chucked her drink over you at the book launch. She threw me such shade as she was leaving. I mean, serious attitude! Is she someone?’

‘No. She is no one.’ I say, very slowly. ‘No one at all.’

‘Anyway, did the Wang recover?’

I exhale deeply, collecting myself. ‘The dry cleaners are going to do what they can, but they couldn’t give me an answer for sure. You can never tell what the long-term effects will be after that sort of damage. I should know more in a day or so. Best we can both do is let the experts do their thing … and pray.’

Fitz laughs. ‘That’s better, darling. Almost funny. Keep this up and I may not replace you. I was even considering Bronwyn earlier as my new office bf.’ He throws the paper ball back at me, then checks his watch. ‘Right, I’m off. Am nipping to that do which Oil Denim are putting on. They’re celebrating the release of their new ethically sourced boyfriend jean. That would be nice, wouldn’t it? An ethical boyfriend … oooooh, I bet Jesus has a social conscience. He’d have to … with a name like that.’

‘I’m sure he does a lot of volunteer work,’ I deadpan.

‘Totally. Heart of gold!’ He giggles. ‘Actually, I might casually ask him to pop down. Right, I’ll text you later, when I am nicely pissed and the night feels full of possibility. And then again, when I’m eating my feelings in a kebab shop and considering a Reece’s Pieces Nutrageous chaser. Oh, and Jacobs, remember …’ He swings his jacket round his shoulders. ‘Cheer the fuck up, you SHREW!’

I go back to my desk. My screen saver of Kat Moss is partially covered by my email inbox. During the time I was with Fitz, I have received twenty-three new messages. Around half are tagged with a little red exclamation mark—a ‘screamer’, as we call it—signifying that the contents require reading urgently. But I can tell from the subject boxes most of these are not even verging on ‘pressing’, let alone anywhere in the ball park of urgent. Sample sales, product launches, label re-branding, model-agency parties, designer-high street collaborations, new clubs and bars, store openings, store revamps, store invite-only evenings, and bloggers asking for interviews … not exactly real newsworthy events. But honestly, all of that used to excite me. It’s what the industry is all about. Image. But right now, I can feel my own image slipping. I am slipping.

I stare at my computer screen. A new email pings through from gillian@bellsolicitors.co.uk. How ironic that hers are always free from any exclamatory tags yet they are the ones which make me want to scream. I click on it.

Ashley,

I’ve received notification from your husband’s solicitor regarding the status of your mortgage and house accounts. Please call me to discuss. I shall be at the office until 8pm tonight.

Kind regards, Gillian

I check that Fitz has left and reach for my iPhone. I’ve got two missed calls. One from Sheila. Another from Zach. I dial 901. The disembodied voice kicks in.

You have one new message. To return the call, key five. To replay the message, key one. To s— … I key 2 and save the message. The next message is four … minutes … long.

Zach’s mobile has rung me by mistake. This happens a lot because he only uses code-less Nokias made between 2003 and 2008 and never puts the lock on. He thinks smartphones are naff. I listen to the message. I can hear music, mate-y joshing, fruit machines … the background hum of a pub. Then the noises become clearer. I assume the mobile has been removed from his pocket.

ZACH: Still can’t believe it. (Excited.) We hit that out of the park. Smashed it in the back of the net. Insert your own triumphant cliché here …

A WOMAN’S VOICE: I knew we would get it.

I don’t recognise her. She must be a colleague. Probably one of the fancy dress enthusiasts. Zach’s office is full of them.

A MAN’S VOICE: Just between us, I was shitting myself. I recognise him. It’s Keith With the Bad Teeth.

Properly shitting myself.

THE WOMAN: Charming.

KEITH: You were too, Zach. Admit it.

THE WOMAN: He didn’t come across like that during the pitch.

ZACH: Well, that’s good to know. Hey, where are the toilets in here?

KEITH: Told you!

ZACH: D’you always have to be so low rent, Keith? It’s amazing how you’ve become even more uncouth since you’ve stopped drinking. You used to be a one-man wave of tastelessness …

KEITH: … and now I am a tsunami! Even better, the next morning I get to remember all the chaos I’ve caused. Bogs are up the stairs to the left …

ZACH: Cool … watch those files for me, please.

THE WOMAN: That’s a lot of paperwork you’ve got in there.

ZACH: Yeah, it’s for the … (Stops.) We’re not exactly doing our bit for the conservation of the planet.

WOMAN: God, don t. Pete and I must have destroyed a good few acres of the rainforest before our decree nisi was issued.

KEITH: I would prefer not to be listening to this conversation. It’s depressing. As you both know, I am very recently engaged …

ZACH: How that happened, I have no idea.

KEITH: Me neither!

WOMAN: Well, if it does go horribly wrong, my advice is to be reasonable at all times. Pete and I started out being more than civil, but then he got nasty, so I did too. It was tough. At times I wondered if it was going to be worth it, but I just kept repeating to myself a joke my best friend told me.

ZACH: Go on …

WOMAN: What’s the difference between getting a divorce and getting circumcised?

KEITH: What’s the difference?

WOMAN: When you get a divorce, you get rid of the whole pri—

The message clicks off and the disembodied voice returns.

To return the call, key five. To replay the message, key one. To save, key two. To delete, key three. For message details key eight.

I key 8. The message was left six minutes ago. I imagine Zach washing his hands at the sink in the toilet, looking into the mirror. He is content with his reflection. Why wouldn’t he be? Zach never fucks up. That’s Zach. A justifiably shame-free zone. I think about the way she looked at me in the mirror at the hotel. After looking at me she looked at herself. She was staring at her face until I left the room. It was expressionless. There was no shame. I wonder how long she gazed at herself for like that. How could she? How dare she? After what she did …

… Tanya fucking Dinsdale.