She Just Can't Help Herself. Ollie Quain

       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