‘Tea is fine.’
Samantha served me from the white china teapot on the table, and I helped myself to an almond biscuit, not having had breakfast.
‘So, Lila is the Sun’s youngest entertainment columnist. As you know, she started off in Three’s a Crowd as a singer while she was at university and won The X Factor with them.’ I remembered watching it with Jacqui. They were good but safe and never achieved the dizzy heights of One Direction after the predictably limp Christmas number one. They split up a year later, not seeing out their record contract with Syco. I bet they made no money, hence the Sun column, and now this vlogging lark. ‘She’s hoping the vlogging will lead to writing a fashion column for a magazine or getting into TV presenting. Fashion is her first love; The X Factor thing was just an accident really. The other two needed a third member and she volunteered, then it took off. The other members of Three’s a Crowd have since returned to do a master’s and work in PR so she’s out on a limb, her star waning.’
Hadn’t it already waned?
‘I inherited her from a friend’s agency, which was overcommitted,’ Samantha went on, ‘and because I do TV, books and most media, she’s a better fit at my place. But all my other clients are more established, or older.’
‘She studied fashion and journalism, didn’t she? Did she actually finish her degree?’
‘No, she didn’t. She was on for a first too. She’s a bright girl, but I’m not sure what she would be like vlogging. You’ve worked for so many different clients in the industry, and you said you were doing a lot with Instagram now.’
I nodded.
‘I think she needs to come from a different angle other than pushing other people’s products.’
‘All the vloggers I’ve seen are very young, with all the fashion aimed at that age group. It’s a saturated market. Yes, she will have a head start because of her column in the Sun, but what’s going to make her stand out?’
‘Yes, that’s what I thought too. There are women fashion vloggers and stylists for older women, and they tend to be more your age.’
‘Is there a vlog with a younger and an older woman?’ I suggested, tentatively. ‘I don’t remember seeing one. Like a double act kind of thing. Clothes my daughter steals, that kind of ethos.’
‘No, I don’t think so. Clothes my daughter steals – wow, that has a real ring to it.’
I beamed.
‘Oh, here she is.’
Lila was tiny, a pocket rocket and so young, not yet Botoxed into oblivion. Her onyx-black hair was cut into a perfect shiny fringed bob that skimmed her jaw, framing her delicate features that I made a sweeping assumption were of Chinese origin. Her choice of clothes was interesting for someone who was involved in fashion – a Clash T-shirt and a pair of skinny black jeans with holes in the knees – my pet hate – and skanky trainers. Her incongruous perfect hair and make-up were at odds with her grunge get-up. If this was what she usually wore things would have to change.
‘Hello, Lila, how are you?’ Samantha stood up to air-kiss and I did the same. ‘This is Alison, the lady I was telling you about.’
‘Hello,’ she said politely. ‘Excuse my dreadful clothes. I stayed with my sister in Clapham last night and we got soaked running home after the pub. I had to borrow something of hers and this was all she had that wasn’t in the wash.’
Samantha laughed and I joined in, relieved she wasn’t a philistine like Amanda, who wore the same clothes for four days, even socks, and wore the same bra for a month without washing it. I knew she secretly stored biscuit crumbs in there for snacks.
‘Alison has had a good idea about a vlog. Possibly teaming you with an older woman to do dual-age styling and fashion advice.’
Her perfectly symmetrical face puckered into a lopsided frown.
‘I thought I was going to do something on my own,’ she said, sounding disappointed but not petulant. I did actually warm to her; she seemed very unaffected.
‘What did you have in mind?’ I asked her, ‘because the vlogging world is fit to bursting with girls doling out advice. What’s your USP?’ Wow, I even sounded like I knew what I was talking about, imposter syndrome still festering just below the surface.
‘Well, I get invited to all the right parties, not the Tatler-style ones, but all the general opening of envelope things. I could report back on them. Dissect what people were wearing and maybe find cheaper versions for normal people to wear.’
‘Yeah, that’s a possibility. But it’s very much determined on who’s at a party and would anyone want to wear those clothes. Isn’t it kinder not to dissect other women and choose nice clothes that two lots of women from completely different ends of the age spectrum could wear? Accessorise, adapt for different body shapes, that kind of thing.’
Lila didn’t say anything for a few moments. I checked out Samantha and she nodded encouragingly at me.
‘I suppose, yes.’
‘It could be empowering. As well as you and the other presenter trying on clothes, we could find different women and do a makeover on them with the clothes from stores they would never think of looking at because of the age stigma. I know a few make-up artists who might do it for free for their CVs.’
‘Yeah, OK. It sounds cool. What would we call it?’
I was used to spoon-feeding art directors stuck in a rut and this was no different.
‘Well, off the top of my head, I came up with Clothes My Daughter Steals.’
Lila chewed it over, saying it to herself and rolling the words round her mouth with her tongue.
‘I like it. What do you think, Samantha?’
‘I think it’s genius. We need to sit down and plan it out properly.’ She winked at me. ‘It’s hard to monetise stuff, but after ten thousand followers it gets easier, so I think you just initially want the exposure. If it does well, it could lead to other things where you receive a decent income.’
‘So when will we film it? How will it work, where will we do it?’ Lila fired at us, obviously totally on board now. ‘I’ll be able to advertise it all over Instagram. I’ve got almost eighty thousand followers left over from The X Factor. That’s how I got the columnist job, and the fact I can actually write my own copy. Samantha totally sorted it all out.’ She smiled adoringly at Samantha, which was quite sweet.
‘When are you free, Ali?’ Samantha asked me.
‘For consulting?’
‘For filming. You’re the other presenter!’
‘No, I just came up with the concept. I can find you someone else, maybe. I know lots of stylists older than me who would be a better fit.’
‘I like you, though,’ Lila insisted. ‘I want to do it with you. You know what you’re talking about.’
‘I hate TV, though. Especially live TV. It terrifies me!’
‘It isn’t live, silly,’ Samantha said.
‘Yeah, you can mess up as many times as you like,’ Lila continued. ‘So…?’
15
Clothes My Daughter Steals
‘Do you ever think about meeting anyone else?’ I asked, looking at all the pictures of Samantha’s dead husband dotted around the living room. Samantha let out an enormous hoot, almost convulsing. We were rummaging through all the clothes I had managed to blag for the inaugural filming of the vlog.
‘Oh, you young people. Can you imagine me on Tinder or any of those other horrible dating apps? No one my age goes on there. I would have to go on a Saga holiday and there’s no bloody way I’m doing that. I like being on my own. I don’t need to meet anyone else. I’m too busy, anyway. The few dates I have been on, the men have turned out to be so needy. I’m too independent for them.’
‘How old are you?’ I asked, well aware it was the rudest question ever, but I was still not convinced she was as old as she was implying.
‘I’m sixty.’
‘What? No way! You look great. Any age-defying top tips you can offer me?’
‘Enjoy what you do, drink wine, be a bit naughty, marry fo
r love, and don’t take anything too seriously. And don’t mess with your face. I’ve seen too many bad lip jobs and frozen expressions in this business; let life shine out.’
Samantha had shoved the coffee table to one side and set up the huge white roller screen over the unkempt floor-to-ceiling bookcase. It really worked at minimalising clutter! If only I could wipe out all the detritus in my life with a crisp white screen.
‘Where did you get all this?’ Lila asked, obviously impressed. ‘And the lights?’
Samantha had set up two professional lights, one for illuminating the main area where we were going to ‘present’ and one to counteract the shadows.
‘I’ve been around so long, sweetie, that I’ve collected things. The lights have been living in the shed for about five years, along with the screen. Now, have you brought the tripod, mic and camera?’
A full-length mirror on a moveable stand was strategically placed to one side so we could gasp in horror or coo in delight at our transformations.
‘Here’s me thinking we’re just going to shoot on an iPhone and hold the camera at arm’s length,’ I said, impressed with all the gear.
‘No, love, we have to stand out from the crowd from the off. As you said, the internet is teaming with vlogs. We should just film you both chatting; I don’t think we need a script.’
We farted around for about half an hour salivating over the clothes, practising what we would say about them, mixing and matching and trying on the same outfits, then tweaking. I kept forgetting that Lila had won The X Factor, performed at the London Palladium and had met Prince Harry, and all the rest of the star-studded triumphs she’d achieved in her short life. She was just a normal twenty-three-year-old woman who loved clothes and wanted to have a laugh trying something new.
‘Shall we see what we’re like on camera?’ she asked, twirling around in a hot-red fifties prom dress from the Topshop vintage section. ‘Are you going to eat your cinnamon swirl?’
‘Yes. Hands off!’ She had wolfed hers down in two crocodile bites, inhaling the buttery crumbs at the same time. ‘I’m glad to see you’re not on the paleo diet or any of those things. Most people I style are avoiding carbs or dairy, or only eat when it’s a full moon. Madness!’
‘God, no way. I’m from a large family and learned that you had to eat fast or you didn’t eat at all! I love my food!’
Samantha laughed while she beavered away on her laptop and phone from the sofa on the other side the room.
Lila set everything up, checked we were in shot and then pressed record.
‘Welcome to Clothes My Daughter Steals,’ she breezed as naturally as a duck bobbing on a pond. ‘We’re a fashion vlog with a difference…’ Then she subtly gave me a cue.
‘Ow! Don’t kick me! Your hooves are sharp.’
‘You’re going to explain.’
‘But you haven’t said who you are yet.’
‘Oh, right, yeah. I’m Lila Chan.’
‘And I’m Ali Jackson. Would you normally steal your mum’s clothes? No way? Is that because you wouldn’t be seen dead in her threads, or because everything she wears came out of the Ark? Well, maybe it’s about time to update everyone’s outfits in your house with mix and matching for all age ranges…’
‘How are you going to cut it all down to five minutes?’ I asked, mystified at the end of the shoot, the clothes heaped in piles at the side, shoes scattered like petals round the periphery of the ‘set’.
‘My boyfriend, Hayden, works in TV; he has edit suites on his laptop. I have ideas for graphics and everything. He’s a total whizz and will help us out.’
‘Thanks for that,’ Samantha said after Lila had left. ‘She’s a lovely girl and I really think this will work well for both of you. I know at the moment you’re not getting paid – she isn’t either – but I’m hoping in time that will change.’
*
I pushed hesitantly on Elinor’s half-open door at seven for my first ever weekly BBQ, a tradition in the Mews I had yet to sign up for. I hadn’t seen everyone together since the Easter party when I’d opted out of Carl’s AA press gang. To mitigate any potential awkwardness, the people pleaser in me had overcompensated by making a double batch of Marmite whirls and bringing a couple of expensive bottles of Merlot.
Now the nights were getting lighter I was filled with a longing for romantic summer dates, Pimm’s and drinks in leafy beer gardens. I could hear loud chatting and low music drifting from Elinor’s courtyard garden. She was in the kitchen unboxing sausages and some pre-prepped lamb kebabs.
‘Ah, hello,’ she said tensely. ‘Thank God you’re here.’
‘Why, what’s happened?’
‘Jo has split up with her girlfriend and is horrendously drunk and no one else is here yet apart from Carl, and I think it’s going to be too much for him to cope with.’
‘Oh shit, should I go and grab Francesca?’
‘No, she’s on her way back from one of her Qi Gong classes. She’s never here until eight thirty on a Wednesday.’
‘Ah, here she is!’ Jo cried as I emerged into the garden. ‘The love of my life, the one and only Alison.’ Carl rolled his eyes and mouthed ‘sorry’ at me. He was manning the BBQ and turning some golden chicken thighs with the tongs, the fat spitting on the grill.
‘Hello, Jo. What’s going on?’
Jo swung her glass of wine wildly in my direction like she was challenging me to duel. She was unsurprisingly in yellow silk pyjamas and fluffy red googly-eyed slippers, her florid face a tell-tale sign that she had been drinking for a while.
‘I’m a free agent again. Free to roam the market for pretty girlsh.’ She was hammered.
‘I know coming from me it’s hypocritical, but don’t let her have any more wine,’ Carl hissed.
‘Carl, shut your face! I can drink as mush as I want. I’m not the alcoholic here.’
I braced myself for some kind of retribution, but Carl calmly carried on checking the chicken, ignoring her.
‘Hellooo,’ Deborah appeared behind me, carrying a large glass of red wine, her son, Charlie, warily hanging back.
‘Debs, I just bought a Rolls-Royce, on the internet. That’ll show Caro I’m over her.’
‘Jo, you didn’t!’
‘She did,’ Carl said resignedly. ‘It’s like the time she bought the yacht after Penny.’
Who the fuck had money to just casually as you like buy a yacht and a Roller?
‘Oh, Jo, what have you done?’ Debbie said shaking her head. ‘You need to stop this. Do you want to go home for a lie-down?’
But before Jo could reply, she tripped on a tuft of grass that had audaciously squeezed itself through Elinor’s paving slabs and face planted on the ground, blood splattering everywhere.
‘My dose!’ Jo squawked like Laurel or Hardy.
Carl jumped over and pulled her up. Her lip and nose were split and blood poured off her chin and down her once-yellow pyjamas.
Debbie took over, while Elinor grabbed tissues and cleared her up. It was bad, but Elinor managed to stem the bleeding.
‘I’m taking you home to sleep it off,’ Deborah said. ‘Then it’s A and E tomorrow for stitches. Better to go sober. Wasn’t she supposed to take you to AA tomorrow, Carl?’
‘Yeah, don’t worry. I’ll sort something out. I feel fine going on my own. Got to do it some time.’
‘No, we all said we’d support you for the first month,’ Elinor butted in, waving a matronly finger at him. ‘When’s the meeting?’
‘Midday in the Barry Road church hall. It’s fine. I can go on my own.’
‘I’m out from eleven tomorrow,’ Elinor said.
‘I’ll take you,’ I nervously piped up, my mouth racing ahead of my brain.
‘No, you don’t have to,’ Carl insisted.
‘I don’t mind. I’m not working.’
‘That’s decided then,’ Elinor said. ‘Ali will accompany you.’
16
Carl
Carl sa
t motionless on the floor of his living room with his eyes closed. He felt like he’d accidentally rubbed sand under the lids, his eyeballs twitching in their sockets, jittery and unsettled behind the shutters. He knew he was supposed to empty his head during his daily meditation, and observe the thoughts as they passed unattached through his consciousness on his way to mental clarity and zen wholeness. But he’d acquired an annoying earworm from the Radio Two breakfast show: ‘Stop’ by the Spice Girls. Quite a titular and pertinent message for his life so far. Stop right now, thank you very much…
He breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth, vainly trying to conjure up a gentle white light. I need somebody with a human touch…
‘Fuck off, Ginger Spice!’ That was enough of that for today. He needed to have a cigarette. He unfolded himself from the floor, his back resting heavily against the sofa. He couldn’t sit cross-legged any more. Years of playing football back in the day had shot his hamstrings to bits and they were as rigid as a corpse. As for his knees, he could hear them creak like a rusty gate hinge. Everybody had joked once he’d hit forty that everything would go downhill and they weren’t wrong. Betsy had tried to get him to do yoga with her, but he looked like he was crouching in the recovery position after a heart attack during downward dog.
He stood at the open back door that led out to his paving-slabbed patch of nondescript garden, mostly evergreen plants in moss-covered pots, the plastic tabs rammed into the soil long since rinsed of their information by the elements. He gave them a cursory water in the summer just when they thought their time had come. They (who were the pervasive ‘they’?) said that if you could keep a plant alive, you could then graduate to a pet, and if that was still hanging on in there, maybe think about a baby. He studied the plants – they were OK. Few brown bits here and there, but alive. He wasn’t keen on animals…
‘Mummy! MUMMY! Where’s my bag?’
Carl smiled. Grace had such a gruff voice and she could certainly project it well. He liked eavesdropping on her in the garden playing with her Barbies while he had a cigarette; she was very bossy. He’d realised that Ali had no idea he could hear a large chunk of their life filtering in through the party wall or out of an open window or door into the garden. He didn’t want to say anything because he liked it. It was comforting listening to their daily hum, unselfconsciously going about their business.
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