She Just Can't Help Herself. Ollie Quain

the magazine. You’re not the magazine. You’re part of a team and your main role within that is to support me. Something that I will need a lot more of in coming months.’

      She cocks her head at me. Another of her trademark mannerisms in recent years. She usually reserves this one when informing me she is off on a non-essential PR jaunt. She never used to do that, but these days her buzzwords are: invitation, complimentary, gift, expenses and freebie. Preferably all in relation to the Maldives.

      ‘You’re off somewhere?’

      The angle between Catherine’s shoulder and neck decreases. I picture the hut on stilts with aquatic views from a window in the bedroom floor. I hear a woman behind me order a glass of red wine.

      ‘Intermittently, yes. And then next year, well, for a little longer. I’m pregnant …’

       The sound of a cork popping. Then liquid pouring.

      ‘… due mid-Feb, but I’ll be booking in for a Caesarean at the Portland on the eleventh; sadly, the anniversary of Alexander McQueen’s tragic passing. But a rather lovely tribute, I thought?’

      ‘Maybe a little McCabre.’

      Catherine playfully wallops me on the shoulder. ‘Stop it, I’m still furious with you. But yes, four kidlets! Ridiculously greedy, but Rhuaridh and I always planned on having a large family. He’s an only child and you should see the pile his old dear rattles around in. There’s an awful lot of—excuse the pun—reproduction furniture that will need to be divided up eventually. As you know from last time, and the time before, and the one before that, I don’t enjoy the easiest of times in the early to mid-section of my pregnancies.’

      I hear the woman thank the barman for her drink. I never used to drink red. Where I grew up it was considered poncy. But recently, I’ve been drinking it at home after work. I get into my (secret) Snuggle Suit and pour a glass. Then another. Staying in is safer.

      ‘Ashley?’

      ‘I am listening. Erm … congratulations. Congratulations. Sorry, I should have said that first.’

      ‘Thank you. But, anyway …’ Her voice is serious again. ‘The reason I wanted to tell you about my pregnancy is that if you would like to take a holiday, sooner would be better than later.’

      ‘I can’t take any time out soon. London Fashion Week is in a few days.’

      ‘You won’t be attending LFW.’

      ‘Excuse me?’ I physically recoil. ‘Are you having a laugh?’

      ‘Calm down. Come into the office as usual tomorrow, attend the features meeting, but then … home. And stay there. Your entry pass will be disabled. I’ll deal with any other details and email you what I need done.’

      I grip onto the bar. ‘Whaaaaat? But you … I mean, I can’t not … for Christ’s sake, Catherine …’ As soon as she has finished with me, I’m going to order a glass of red. ‘Are you insane?’

      ‘No, I am not, and don’t for one minute assume that I am setting these measures in place because I think you’re heading that way. You’re a mentally robust woman, Ashley, but …’ She pauses again. ‘I think you could do with a little me-time. I’ve been concerned for a few weeks, but have kept this opinion on the down low because I didn’t want to, well … add to any of your problems. Today’s incident has established that I should step in and say something.’

      ‘To confirm, then, you’re not asking me to take a holiday …’ Maybe I’ll leave now, buy a bottle of Merlot on the way home. ‘You’re suspending me.’

      ‘Not officially. But I am insisting on you having a short break … a few days, that’s it.’

      ‘What for? To come to terms with pricking the bubble?’

      She peers at me, confused. ‘No, whatever that is. To come to terms with your divorce.’

      That’s when my Alexander Wang gets it.

Two

       TANYA

      I stare at the red stain spreading like a bullet wound across the white top. Simultaneously, I can feel my usual purple heat rash creeping across my chest. It’s my body’s default reaction to a—okay, most—situations where I could potentially become involved. In a situation. I never look for a ‘situation’. Heaven forbid, set one up. If I find myself in a situation, I usually attempt to vacate it as promptly as possible. Gripping onto the empty wine glass, I don’t dare look at the woman’s face. I know that pain and shock will be etched across it as if she has actually been shot. After all, this is a fashion party, and that won’t just be a top.

      I glance to the side. A man charges towards me, stuffing a macaroon into his mouth. He grabs a pile of napkins and waves at the barman.

      ‘Water! Barman! Quick. We need help …!’ he shouts, spraying purple crumbs. ‘We need white wine!’

      ‘Leave it,’ I instruct. ‘Use a rub of Vanish later.’ I almost laugh at how pedestrian the words ‘rub of Vanish’ sound in this environment. ‘For the moment, rinse it through … as quickly as possible.’ Then I find myself adding—clearly, to expose myself as living a life of comparative suburban mediocrity where dealing with the removal of marks on fabric is part of my daily drudgery even though it isn’t and I would OBVIOUSLY take it to a reputable dry cleaner …—‘Time really is of the essence with stains.’

      On the ‘st’ of stains, my ‘victim’ shuns the barman’s soda gun and the handful of serviettes her friend is flapping at her. She growls at him to buy her a T-shirt from American Apparel: ‘Men’s. Extra small, deep V-neck, not round or a scoop’, then spins round and strides in the direction of the toilets. I follow her. Which might not make sense, as overseeing the removal of a potentially ruinous stain on someone else’s designer top through to the end is a textbook ‘situation’. But another thing about me is that if I do get myself into a ‘situation’, I don’t like to come out the other side thinking I could have done anything differently. Guilt is not something I like to feel, on any level. It’s the combine harvester of human emotions. It breaks you down, churns you up, spits you out, but then spreads … and grows. Faster.

      Inside the loo, the woman wriggles out of her top with no concern whatsoever about anyone else hanging around by the sinks touching up their make-up or doing their hair. I’m not surprised by her lack of inhibition. She has exactly the type of body you would expect from a fashionista. A deep-caramel pigment to her skin—the result of a blood line, not a spray booth—and a tiny, hard body. She probably picks at processed snacks and smokes cigarettes but is also a gym rat. And combines that with Bikram yoga, some sort of combat training, Cross-Fit, weights and Barry’s Bootcamp … girls like her don’t get the results they demand from doing one form of exercise any more, do they? They ‘mix it up’ so that all parts of their bodies are toned, honed, shrunk then stretched in order to achieve that perfect combination of muscular fragility. Then they are prepared for any sort of trend as soon as it arrives on the catwalk, or more specifically in …

       … Catwalk.

      Oh, my God. I grip onto the sink. Frozen, I watch as the woman’s head frees itself from the neckhole. A dark mop of glossy ethnic hair springs out first, then the delicate, fragile features which are at total odds to the personality I know lies within.

      It’s her.

      Her eyes are closed. When they open, she immediately focuses on the soap dispenser. She pumps some liquid onto the top.

      ‘I’m fine, you can go …’ she says, turning on the faucet.

      I don’t move. I cannot say anything. Not even her name. Or mine. My purple heat rash is burning my chest.