She Just Can't Help Herself. Ollie Quain

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 [email protected]. 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.