She Just Can't Help Herself. Ollie QuainЧитать онлайн книгу.
how cray cray life is for me right now, huh … I mean, that bitch out there was just jealous of my success, right? My fans still love me. Like I give a, like, fuck about the haters.’ She shrugs off their imaginary hate. ‘It’s always women who are having a pop at me. Remember that show I did in the States … Check Me Out, Sista!? Feminist wackos basically said that by making over lonely teenage girls using fashion, make-up and haircuts inspired by the most popular celebs that we were like, not only taking away their individuality … but moreover underlining the homig-homug- …’
‘Homogenisation?’ I interject, only because I want to correct her.
‘Yeah, the homogeni-wotist of, like, female youth erm … culture, yeah. That’s it. I was like, “Whatever, go laser your bikini line …” It sucks! I really don’t need those negative vibes.’
‘Not when you’ve got a book to sell, eh?’
‘I’d also like an MBE … at some, like, point.’
‘I’m going to go home now, Noelle.’
‘All that way? Bit of a trek, honey. Why don’t you crash in my hotel? We could hang tomozz … I’ve got fittings for fashion week at Tory Hambeck—I’m doing ‘da c-walk’ for her—but that’s, like, it. I would invite you to the Serps but it’s totally invite only. I mean, I could ask Loops if she could get in contact with the peeps running t’ingz, see if she can track down a spare ticket, but I can only i-mag-ine the waiting list. It starts in an hour.’
‘I imagine it would be easier to locate, purchase and install a new lung before then. Not to worry. I can’t stay in London, anyway. I’m going to a gig … at The Croft.’
‘That old pub by the station?’
‘It’s been revamped.’
‘Sweet! Awww, I can’t do gigs any more, they remind me of Troy too much. Coachella was like twisting a, like, Sam-Sam-Samo- … a big knife in my heart. Sometimes I wish Loops had screwed up my Access All Areas pass for Reading so I’d never met him. It probably would have been better …’ She sniffs loudly with dual purpose; to halt her runny nose and demonstrate how upset she is at the memory. ‘So your boyf is still singing? That’s cute. God loves a try-er!’
‘Yes, he is still singing … because he is a singer. I emailed you a link to his most recent demo. It’s an acoustic set …’ I cringe at those two words. It find it impossible to use music terminology without sounding pretentious. ‘I thought that maybe you could help, with your connections …’
‘Email it again, honeeeeey. Probably landed in my junk. I permanently have major storage issues.’
I can’t help laughing. ‘Sure you do. Bye, Noelle, it was great catching up. I’m glad I came all this way.’
‘I’m glad you came too! Hey, you know what …? I think Sophs is right. I should do more charity work.’
‘Well, you know where they say charity starts …’
‘Who does? Where does it?’
Add inability to detect sarcasm to the paranoia in short-term effects of cocaine. I hug her goodbye and go out into the foyer. The room where Noelle had her launch is still buzzing. The guests will all be ‘going on’ somewhere soon. Either to that do at the Serpentine or some other bash for more customised cocktails and loosely themed finger food. On the steps of the hotel, I bump into the man who sprayed the macaroon crumbs. He is holding a bag from American Apparel.
‘Excuse me,’ he says. ‘My name is Fitz Martin … I work at Catwalk.’
He squints at me, confused at my reaction.
‘My friend, the one who … with the Wang. Is she in there?’ he asks, worriedly, as if he was arriving at hospital to witness her last rites. ‘Can’t believe that top was Wang. Unworn Wang.’
‘I know. It was a shame. But …’ I pause and look up and down the street on both sides, pretending to gauge the activity. ‘… thank goodness, the world is still turning.’
I lift my hand to hail a taxi. It’s a confident departure … which is the only way to navigate clearly out of a situation. Not ‘out there’ or ‘up for it’ or ‘in-your-face’ confident, but ‘quietly’ confident—which is more believable. Anything more than that is obviously a front. I am fascinated by how much ‘fake’ confidence people—especially women—project these days, especially on social media. It’s why I started my blog … to examine how women present themselves on the various portals. There is a lot of faking extreme confidence going on. You know that for every smug #nofilter #nomakeup ‘selfie’ posted, there are forty-seven rejected images—taken in umpteen different locations (ploughing on through successive breakdowns over choice of outfit) until the most flattering light is found—sitting on their camera roll. That for every ‘Woooooooooo! PARTY TIME!’ status update, there are double the amount of lonely nights in, spent reaching the depths of despair (and a carton of pecan-fudge ice cream) that never get flagged up. That for every sobering, wise and self-aware proverb ‘meme’ posted, there has been a spate of pissed, stupid behaviour that they live in fear of being reminded about.
But I understand. Truly, I do. Faking it is the only way to move forward. Pretend that everything is okay. The good news is that if you do this for long enough, you’ll start to believe it. Whatever happened in your past will not affect you any more. I never thought I would get to that point. But I have. A base line of aggressive therapy helped but, after that, it was all me. I didn’t quite realise how far past that point I was until about twenty minutes ago. But seeing her … how can I put it?
I loathe Disney animation. The heroines all have craniums bigger than their waists. It’s the first registration point for any girl wanting to sign up for self-esteem issues later in life. But today I am going to paraphrase Queen Elsa: I have let it fucking go.
And I never swear. She did. Not Elsa. Ashley. She swore a lot. But today it feels right. No, good.
ASHLEY
Tanya Dinsdale. Tanya Dinsdale. Tanya FUCKING Dinsdale. She was never meant to factor in my life. I took one look at her and thought, ‘Nah, no way’ … even though I was actively on the lookout for a new best friend. I had been forced to ditch my last one because she’d developed a habit of stealing. When her parents found a load of clothes from a selection of mainstream mall brands under her bed, she stitched me up, saying I had nicked the lot and had forced her to hide them. I didn’t know what was more offensive … the fact her parents believed that I was a thief or that I would have thieved such a bland and impact-less array of ‘stretch jersey basics’. Within seconds of meeting Tanya Dinsdale in the school canteen, I could tell she was one of those girls who liked to act as if she was born with a silver spoon in her mouth, even though the cutlery in question was more likely to have been one of those plastic forks which come free with a Pot Noodle. Even worse, she was wearing Mary Jeans and culottes. No, worse, she was wearing them proudly. I should have walked away then.
I let myself in the front door, ignoring the photo on the sideboard, and walk into the lounge. Zach is layering a large cardboard box with bubble wrap. He is wearing his gym gear. I hadn’t realised he was working out again. He jumps up to hug me, but we end up giving each other a nervous head lock. I add a handshakey-matey-back-slap, as if I am welcoming him onto my own chat show. As he pulls away, I sense him scanning my face.
‘Sorry I had to drag you away from your work thing, Ash, but it’s imp—’
‘Yeah, so you said. Whatever. I wanted to leave, anyway. That magazine is doing my head in … and before you suggest I put my feelers out