almost unbearably c) invited her to be our Guest Editor too.
Catherine clocked my expression.
‘Don’t be like that, Ashley! You know that now more than ever the fashion magazine industry has to indulge in some vigorous back slapping. Actually, that should be cupping, no?’ She laughed, but when my expression did not change, she wagged her finger at me. ‘Word of advice, Ashley … you need to stop taking things so seriously.’
I hated that she had a point. I hated that I was aware of doing this a lot recently. I’m a fashion journalist, reporting from the front row not the front line. I needed to lighten up. But first, I needed that drink.
So I had one. Then another. And now, here we are. At five to four in the elaborate Renaissance-style function room of the Rexingham Hotel in London’s West End. Noelle is wearing an A-line pinafore dress, shirt with a Peter Pan collar and her signature shoe, the brogue (which she has paired with—I swear—pompom socks). I am in a white top and skintight grey leather trousers. I have had the latter for years. The former, a recent purchase. Originally on Net-A-Porter at five hundred quid, there was no way I could justify buying it. I didn’t even try. The first sale price of £299 prompted me to make a pros-and-cons list, but the biggest con on my list (both figuratively and literally) was the first round of fees from my solicitor. Finally, the top dipped below two hundred pounds and I pounced. Or rather PayPal-ed. Was it still wrong to spend that much on deconstructed cotton viscose mix with raw edges? No. Two words: Alexander Wang. Right?
Anyway, Noelle and I are sitting opposite each other on an elevated podium surrounded by white lilies and expensive candles in front of a carefully collated audience of fashion insiders, hipster celebrities and the cooler journalists from the broadsheets and Sunday supplements. Slick waiting staff have been on hand since the doors opened, offering the guests trays of elderflower blinis and mauve macaroons (the canapé equivalent of a pompom sock) to match the pastel-purple cover of Noelle’s book. The blinis were disgusting. They tasted like … hedging, so I had a couple of vodkas (on the rocks with a splash of grapefruit juice). Also in attendance are some of Noelle’s fans, who have won their invitations by entering a competition on her app. They are properly young. The sort of age where they would have no appreciation of Galliano’s fifteen years for Dior. Only a vague memory of a fifteen-second BBC3 news story on his sacking. I wonder if they have ever bought a copy of Catwalk. I wonder if they have ever bought a magazine.
Thus far, my interview with Noelle has covered ‘that’ relationship split (‘I learnt so much, honey …’) and the possibility she will be launching an eponymous perfume (‘something dynamic yet delicate, yeah …’). Then we touched on how she felt when she hit two million followers on Instagram (‘hashtag humbled …’). Now we’re on ‘fame’.
‘Fame, honey? I guess it means something very different to me, now I am like, famous. Before I thought it meant, well …’ She ponders her answer for a few seconds. ‘… free stuff! I’m kidding. Well, joking aside … it does. But you do have to pay in other ways. The lack of privacy …’ Her voice becomes serious. ‘… is a major cost.’
‘I can only imagine.’
‘Exactly. You’re lucky. You can only imagine the cost. I have to pay and keep paying,’ she sighs. ‘Do you mind?’ She grabs her Hello Kitty-customised mobile from the coffee table in between us and waves it at me.
‘Be my guest.’
She raises the mobile at arm’s length to her face, pouts at it, then taps.
‘Then,’ she continues, ‘you also pay the price of like, responsibility. Knowing my fans look up to me …’ She looks over and then down at them. ‘… see me as a role model, on like a very basic level, want to be me; it’s important I don’t short-change them. They mean so damn much to me. Every ‘Like’ I get on, like, social media is, like, reassurance that I’m, like, doing okay. I’m like, liked!’
Giddy, grateful whoops are offered from the ‘civilian pen’. I gaze round the room. My hands are clammy. Not from nerves. I’ve done this type of public promo many times before. I used to relish putting Ashley Jacobs on display. But today, I’m not sure who people are seeing. Her or me? No … her, definitely her. I tell myself I am clamming up because we are having an Indian Summer. It’s the beginning of September but very mild. Last night at the pub, I was wearing Havaiana flipflops. The original white-and-green ones with the Brazilian flag motif, obviously—I wouldn’t wear any other colour. I’m like that with Converse, too: I only wear the classic model; not the zipped ones or the rubber ones or the skate ones or the low pump ones or, heaven forbid, the wedge ones. There should be a ban on all major brands and designers adding wedges to leisure or sport footwear. The ONLY exception being Isabel Marant’s wedge trainer, which is a classic in its …
I realise Noelle has stopped talking.
‘So, Noelle …’
She leans forward. ‘Yes?’
‘You’re erm … now based in the States … that must be … so much going on for you … is it hard to stay grounded?’ This is the sort of question Catherine wanted, wasn’t it? ‘To not change … to be true to yourself?’
‘You would have thought that, but no, honeeeeey. Actually, you know what? If—and it’s an if I hope never happens—I started to become full of myself, I would soon get told off …’ She sits forward and gives me a weird smile. ‘… by my parents. They sacrificed so much to get me where I wanted to be in my career. We never went on holidays abroad and stuff like that so I could go to stage school … even though they hated celebrity razzmatazz. It was because I wanted it. They’re really private people. That’s why I took my nana’s maiden name—to keep t’ingz on the DL. Whenever I see them now, it reminds me how lucky I am. Their support, their love … it’s unconditional. I owe them everything …’ She smiles again. ‘But I guess we all owe our parents that.’
I realise why her smile suddenly feels weird. It’s genuine. It makes me uncomfortable.
I let her blather on. Yadadadadadadadadadadadadadada. I take a sip of my drink and swallow hard. I do not listen to what she is saying, only how she is saying it. This is the longest she has spoken without using that ridiculous accent which travels to Hollywood via a Hackney council estate (apparently, she is from a chocolate-box village in the West Country). I look over at Fitz, the Senior Features Writer on Catwalk, wearing his favourite Friesian-printed sweatshirt by Moschino, embossed with the words: CASH COW. (He dies for a fashionably ironic logo.) He is checking his phone, so I would bet north of a thousand quid he is on Grindr. Or Hornet. Or Scruff. Next to him is Noelle’s agent. She is wearing a Foo Fighters tour T-shirt and a flat tweed cap. Band merchandise with ‘country manor’ millinery? Ugh. Please. Her name is Sophie Carnegie-Hunt, but Fitz calls her Gopher Hag-Needy-C*nt. Hahahahaha!
Am I laughing out loud?
‘Ha! No. No, we don’t. Not at all.’
Noelle peers at me. ‘What don’t we do?’
‘Pardon? I didn’t say … anyth— … I …’ DID I? The room is suddenly so quiet I can hear my watch ticking. It’s vintage. I reckon seventies. It has no designer name on it. The face is huge. Big faces are so in now though, aren’t they? I mean, look at Gigi Hadid’s. She’s made a fortune out of hers.
Okay, THAT was funny.
‘Wasn’t it?’
‘Wasn’t what?’ asks Noelle.
‘What you were saying.’
‘I wasn’t.’
‘No, you weren’t. But what I was about to say was …’
I realise I am not in control. And this feels odd because I am Ashley Jacobs. She is not so much a control freak … more of