Slave to Fashion

by Rebecca Campbell

  I love it.

  A steady stream of guests had been arriving, and it seemed that pretty well everyone was here. The Japanese designer came in with an angry face, looking for a battleship to crash into, but Milo soon had him giggling a strange high-pitched giggle at some tale of courtesans and couturiers. Yes, the party was perfectly shaped: there was a definite feeling that it was one group, with one purpose, yet there was sufficient bitchiness and animosity amid and between the various little subsets to provide endless interest.

  Much of this interest was focused on Pippin, who had turned up smashed, coked, and stinking of rent boy, determined to do his “last dark days of Sebastian Flyte” impression. He staggered from group to group, bursting into the middle of conversations, which he then hijacked for his own monomaniacal purpose: the badmouthing of Milo and Xerxes. In the end, even Milo’s coolness was tested too far. He beckoned two of the burlier caterers, dipped into his wallet, whispered some instructions, and turned away.

  The caterers, one obviously supplementing his student loan, the other faintly sinister in a butcher’s boy kind of way, pocketed what looked like diamond-sharp new fifties and, with very little roughness, guided Pippin to the door. His passivity may have been born of a conviction that the two were after a little entertainment. Only at the last moment did he seem to realize that he was getting the bum’s rush in quite a different sense, calling over his shoulder in a gesture so theatrical that it simply had to be deliberate and, if so, represented Pippin’s triumph, the zenith of his career as drama queen:

  “I’ll get you, you bitch! You’ll pay for this.”

  Already the party was guaranteed immortality.

  Amid all the fun, I noticed that a rather elegant figure had taken the opportunity of the open door to enter. It was a full three seconds before I realized that it was Ludo’s bolshie friend Tom. He was dressed head to toe in charcoal gray Paul Smith, which may have been unimaginative, but it certainly worked wonders for him. His hair had been cut rather nicely, too, and I guessed that an elderly Italian in N19, or wherever Tom lived, had missed out on his £5 this month. But that didn’t tell me what he was doing here. I supposed Ludo must have invited him to play crutch, which could get me in serious trouble with Milo. Plenty of perfectly estimable fashion people had failed to make it onto the guest list, and good space being taken up by yet another schoolteacher with no fashion or showbiz cred at all (despite his ever-so-proficient makeover) was precisely the kind of inefficiency that Milo found unacceptable.

  “What a lovely surprise,” I said as Tom spied me and came over. He looked disconcertingly confident, contrasting with the half-sheepish half-surly way that Ludo always appeared at these events.

  “Hello,” he said, declining, as ever, to kiss. He had the typical working-class aversion to polite physical contact.

  “I suppose you’re after Ludo. I haven’t seen him for a while.”

  “Er . . . no. Actually, I’ve found who I was looking for.”

  And at that Kookai appeared. Tom’s face melted into a huge smile. I realized that I’d never seen his teeth before. They looked as though they might have been fixed in the very recent past. Kookai stood on her tippy toes, threw back her head, kissed him on the lips, and then slipped down to nestle at his side.

  I worked hard at controlling my body’s urge to go into shock mode, checking that my jaw hadn’t dropped, my eyes popped, or my bladder emptied. Think sardonic, think cool, think collected, I told myself. I decided to raise an eyebrow.

  “So, you two an item, then?”

  “No, I always just go up and snog women at parties,” Tom said unnecessarily.

  “Tom, be nice now. After all, it was lovely Katie who brought us together.” Was it my imagination, or was I being patronized by Kookai? Surely not.

  I decided to go and look for Ludo, not something I’d ever felt like doing at a party before. I assumed he’d be slumped in a corner somewhere, mumbling to himself about how hideous fashion people are, so I was amazed to find him amid the steam ovens, chrome juicers, and other equipment that would never be used, in the burnished bronze of Milo’s high-tech kitchen.

  More astonishingly, Ludo was at the center of rather a fun little group. I recognized a couple of pretty fashion journalists (too young yet to have acquired the leathery hide, the crooked back, and the evil countenance of the editors), both called Jane; a famously moody East European photographer, dressed in snow-wash denims and an ill-gotten biker jacket; and Galatea Gisbourne, the too, too trendy designer who’d come up with the concept for Milo’s flat. Apart from her extraordinary looks, with her blue-black hair and white face and bee-stung lips, which guaranteed her a place in any article on up-and-coming designers, Galatea was known principally for her elaborate and highly amusing speech impediment, a kind of lisp that made her pronounce “s” as “sh,” a sound accompanied by a bubbling and hissing of spittle around her back teeth. Unkind people were always trying to get her to say “sshcrambled eggssh,” or “sshpinach,” or “Sshasshkatchewan.”

  As well as these familiar figures, another, darker, stood with his back to me. Something about his shape gave me a vague feeling of unease. It was a feeling that escalated into near panic when I heard him speak. I heard only one word clearly above the background party hubbub, but it was enough: the word was “siii-hens.”

  In reply to whatever the dark figure was saying, Galatea replied excitedly, “Yesssh, who would deny the sshignificanssh of sshigns?” but I was reeling too much to enjoy it. I started to back out of the kitchen, when Ludo caught sight of me.

  “Katie, come and say hello. It’s amazing, I’m actually enjoying one of your parties. I didn’t realize that you lot knew philosophers.”

  I thought quickly. I’d done nothing wrong. In fact, the opposite. I’d nothing to be ashamed about. So what if I gave this bozo the runaround? Served him right for that lazy pass he made at me. Fuck him! I’ll brazen it out.

  Malheurbe turned and looked at me.

  “You! Katie! I cannot believe my good fortune. I have been wanting to see you, to apologize.”

  “What? You two know each other?” said Ludo, looking puzzled and amused.

  “No,” I said, but Malheurbe was already talking.

  “I did this lady a miserable ungallantry. She arranged to meet me for an assignation in Paris. Her arrangements were very professional, which we do not expect from the English in this situation. But I had a terrible indisposition, and I could not meet her. I felt so sorry when I thought of her standing still waiting for the man who does not come.”

  Suddenly everyone was staring at me. The journos sensed something amusing was on the cards. Ludo’s expression had moved from puzzlement to a sort of armed neutrality, like Switzerland.

  “What’s he talking about, Katie?” he asked coolly.

  I’d been hugely thrown by Malheurbe’s apology. I didn’t know if he really hadn’t turned up or if this was all some carefully planned revenge. Try blanket denial.

  “This man is clearly some kind of loony. I’ve no idea what he’s talking about.”

  “But Katie, my dear,” said the French Fuck smoothly, “I understand you are angry. But if you knew how deep are my feelings, you would forgive. Look, you see, I have kept the note of love you gave me when we met.”

  Jesus, the directions. Christ, the kisses.

  He held out his hand. And there it was, the fold of faint-lined A4, with my handwriting and my little pyramid of three kisses. Everyone knew that was my signature.

  The mood among the onlookers changed from excitement to embarrassment, and they began to edge away.

  I turned to Ludo.

  “Look, darling, let me explain. This . . . man was with Milo at Première Vision. He made the most appalling pass at me, and I arranged to meet him just to get rid of him. You can ask Milo if you don’t believe me.”

  Malheurbe interrupted: “I am sorry, I did not realize that there is an association between you two people.”

 
“She’s going to be my wife.”

  “Ah, let me commend you on the liberality and openness of your relationship. Again, this is not a sophistication we expect from the English.”

  Ludo hit him, hard, in the mouth.

  The Janes gave a little synchronized gasp. I’d never seen him doing anything violent before. He was so gentle. I briefly considered feeling turned on by the spectacle, but I just felt sick. The photographer took out a small but expensive-looking camera and took a picture of the crumpled and bloody philosopher.

  Ludo turned away and strode back into the main room. I ran after him. The party had continued, unaware of the drama in the kitchen. Nobody seemed to notice as we twisted and writhed our way to the door. I caught him just before he reached the lift in the hall.

  “Ludo, please. You can’t believe that rubbish. It’s funny, it’s so mad.”

  He looked at me gravely for several seconds.

  “I believe you,” he said, but without smiling.

  “Please come back in to the party. I’ll stay by your side all night, I promise. And you’ll never guess what, Tom’s come, and he’s with Kookai!”

  Now he smiled, but not with his eyes.

  “Yes, I knew about them. I thought I’d mentioned it. But I can’t go back in. I acted like an arse. And I’m really quite upset about the whole thing. You know, Katie, you really shouldn’t behave like such a . . . slag. It’s no wonder people get the wrong idea. I trust you, I think, but it still makes me look like a fool. Why don’t you just go to the party and have some fun. I’m going to wander around for a bit. Maybe get some ice for my hand.”

  I looked down. His index finger was purple, and there was a deep cut, which must have come from Malheurbe’s tooth. I took it in my hands and kissed it better. He winced and pulled away.

  “Just leave it for now, Katie. I’m suddenly very tired.”

  I gave a little wave as the doors closed. He smiled back sadly, looking defeated.

  But could I face the party after all the fuss? Well, the whole point of Katie Castle is that she goes back into parties when her fiancé has just punched a French philosopher to the ground for claiming to have had an affair with her. Isn’t it?

  So back I went. Frankly, the kitchen spat was small fry compared with the Pippin incident and barely seemed to have registered on the party Geiger counter. Malheurbe smirked at me, which made it plain that revenge had been his motive. At least he had a bloody lip to remember me by.

  I drifted around for a while, but my heart had gone out of it. I noticed that Tom and Kookai were having fun. Kookai was telling a surprisingly amusing story at her own expense about having to “bus surf” her way into work when she first started in PR. Penniless, she’d get on a bus going her way, and when the conductor got around to asking for her fare (which always takes a few minutes), she’d search desperately through her bag, finally bursting into tears. Explaining that she’d lost her purse, she’d offer to get off the bus at the next stop. About half the time they’d smilingly let her ride all the way. If she did have to get off, she’d just do the same on the next bus. “You know, it really made getting into work quite an adventure,” she said, winningly, “but it once took me four buses, and I was cried out for a week afterward.”

  Sly minx, I thought. Not nearly so dumb. Here she was subtly playing on our perceptions of her as a bimbo, but making us all love her for it. Perhaps there’s a PR genius in there after all.

  As I was thinking about leaving, Milo cornered me.

  “So how do you think it went?”

  “Couldn’t have been better. Flat looked fab, everyone came, catering worked a treat, two major fistfights, blood on the kitchen floor. What more could you want?”

  “Yes, I heard about Ludo and that buffoon Malheurbe. No long-term damage, I hope?”

  “What, to Malheurbe? Nah, just a bust lip.”

  “Pity. But I was thinking more about you and Ludo.”

  “No, he’s a sweetie.”

  “Pity.”

  “Milo!”

  “Only joking.”

  “I should think so. You know you’d have nothing to do with me if it weren’t for Penny Moss; and if it weren’t for Ludo, then I’d still be . . . well, a God knows what. Without Ludo I’d never have made it past the Vietnamese child.” At the mention of the Vietnamese, Milo emitted a groan of animal lust. It looked as though Milo would be playing United Nations after the party fizzled, what with his Persian and Vietnamese boys and the unwholesome Czech, or Latvian, or Pole, or whatever-he-was photographer, who seemed to be hanging around in the hope of something.

  Milo paused whatever secret video he was playing in his mind.

  “Katie, really! You’re not trying to say that that if you went back to being a little fashion wannabe, with no money, and no influence, and no prospects, I’d drop you, are you, darling? Heaven forfend!”

  “Like a ton of hot shit,” I said, surprising myself with my crudity and vehemence. It had meant to come out a touch more lightly.

  CHAPTER 10

  In which

  Katie Doesn’t Cry

  I got in about three, exhausted and just a bit depressed. Overall the party had been a success, but somehow I couldn’t derive much satisfaction from it. I knew that I should have followed Ludo, played kissy-kissy-make-up-now-best-friends-please. But I’d wanted to consolidate my gains, drive home my advantage. Instead, toward the end I had drifted aimlessly, watching as the coke-heads got jitterier and jitterier. I’ve always preferred the honest blur of alcohol to the false clarity of coke, but I never really minded other people doing it. Made them laugh more at your jokes. But like everything, repetition grates, and the scraping and cutting and sniffing and false laughter came to seem boring, and pointless, and ill-mannered.

  As soon as I opened the door, I sensed that something was wrong. The flat felt cold and empty. Ludo wasn’t there. I checked all the rooms in case he’d fallen asleep in a closet or something, but I knew I wouldn’t find him. I wasn’t particularly worried. Ludo wasn’t the kind of boy who’d get into a fight with broken bottles and bicycle chains. I assumed he’d gone round to Daniel’s. I slept lightly and dreamed of dragons.

  When Ludo still wasn’t there the next morning, I did begin to become concerned. I thought I’d better talk to Penny to see if she knew where he was, but as I was about to call I saw that there were a couple of messages on the answering machine. I used to love getting messages. I always felt a little shudder of excitement; after all, it might be something that would change your life.

  The first message was from Veronica, which I deleted after listening to the first drawn-out, soppy, “Hell-oo, Katie.” It was bound to be boring or depressing: a new rejection or a food-related crisis.

  The second was from Penny. The machine’s irritating Stephen Hawking voice told me it was from “one thirty-seven” in the morning.

  “Katie, this is Penny. Ludo is here, but not for much longer. Something has happened, and I want to see you in the office tomorrow. I suggest you get there at eleven o’clock. You will be there, and you won’t be late. I know it’s a Sunday.”

  What on earth was this about? There must be an emergency at work. I’d occasionally gone in on a Sunday when things were frantic, but it was unknown for Penny to forgo her morning with the color supplements. A thought struck: surely it couldn’t be that idiot Malheurbe, could it? Had Ludo taken that nonsense to heart after all? He did brood on things. Had he run to Mummy in his hour of need? No, no. Ludo being there was a red herring. It was probably the landlords, or Liberty’s, or a new buyer who could only make Sundays, or another of the factories had gone under and we were going to have to switch production to Latvia, or something.

  It was one of those rare sunny early November mornings that seem so wondrous because of the inevitable grayness before and after. I reached the shop at five to eleven and rang the bell. I was amazed when it was answered by Hugh. He unlocked the door and stood aside as I entered. He didn’t offer to kiss
me.

  “Hugh,” I said, “this is all very mysterious. What’s going on? I’m not used to adventures on a Sunday.” I tried to keep my voice just on this side of flirtation.

  “Better leave that for Penny,” he said, refusing to look me in the eyes, which was very un-Hugh. I was afraid now. Everything was wrong. Penny-work-Sunday-Hugh-Ludo, it was a horrid combination. I followed Hugh silently up the stairs. I had a brief but powerful hallucination that I was going up the steps to the gallows. The tumbrels tumbreled, and hags knitted, and culottes were in very short supply.

  More surprises lay in store for me up in the office. Rather than just the expected Penny, I saw that she was with Cavafy, of all people. Why on earth did Penny want him to be there? It was the first time I’d ever seen the little Greek outside the factory. It was deeply disorienting. He looked at me strangely for a moment, his face angled away. I didn’t know if it was sadness or hostility, but the old kindness had gone.

  Hugh joined them on the far side of Penny’s desk, which was pulled away from the wall and arranged for interrogation.

  “The Committee of Public Safety,” I mumbled. Hugh seemed to read my mind and smiled, then coughed to hide the smile. Penny didn’t know or care what I might be thinking.

  “Now, Katie,” she began in her most businesslike manner, “I’ve no intention of beating about the brush.”

  “Bush,” said Hugh quietly, taking his life in his hands. On this occasion Penny chose to ignore him.

  “You’ve been found out. It was only a matter of time. I never thought you were suitable for Ludo. I feel no personal animosity. I’m sure you just couldn’t help yourself.”

  What, who did she mean? Christ, what to do? Try bluster.

  “How many times do I have to tell people that that fucking Frenchman was a criminal fantasist. I gave him the note to get rid of him. He’s an ugly, boring, pointless little nobody. Who cares about deconstructive fashion now? I wouldn’t dream of doing anything with him.”