by Zoe Foster
Worried about u?? Call me call me call me! Iz. 3.32 a.m.
I quickly wrote back, punching in the letters quietly, lest Jesse wake to the tap-tapping.
Darling Iz, am safe but at the WRONG MAN’S house! Lord knows how this happened. I feel sick. I feel stupid. Breakfast please? So sorry to leave so early last night… Love, Friend of the Year
I checked the time. 8.14 a.m. Time to go; time to go. I dialled a cab and snuck up the hall to Jesse’s bedroom to deliver the directions. The last thing I needed was for him to wake up.
Cab booked, I crept back out to the lounge room to put last night’s ensemble back on. It wasn’t slutty last night, just slutty now it was broad daylight and my hair and make-up made me look like a nasty old streetwalker called Candy.
I looked at Jesse sleeping on the sofa. He was all tanned and fit-looking. Damn him. If it wasn’t for him, I’d never have left Iz’s. And had sex with a man I didn’t even want to speak to in real life. I needed to leave.
I yanked my dress down over my head. My phone vibrated; the taxi was here. I grabbed my shoes and tiptoe-ran to the front door, pausing quickly to rearrange my pile of shoes, bag and phone before dropping it all and ruining my stealthy exit. Bending down to pick up all my stuff, I noticed a note on the small table where Jesse kept his change bowl and keys.
Sexy,
Next time I’M cooking! And dessert’s on me… Literally.
Already can’t wait for Sunday.
B xxx
My heartbeat quickened and the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I picked up the note, trying to make sense of what was happening. I finally concluded that what was happening was that Jesse had a girlfriend, or at least the makings of one, but had slept with me anyway. Unbelievable. I shook my head in utter incredulity. He was fucking disgusting.
Bizarrely, my heart went out to her before it remembered it was meant to stay with me at all times, especially in situations like this. The poor bitch thought Jesse was into her when he was actually busy kidnapping and seducing his drunken ex-girlfriend under the guise of looking after her. I wondered who she was, what she looked like, if they’d ‘done it’ on the very sofa we had… I shuddered. The idea of that made me feel even sicker than I already was. I felt sorry for the girl, though, knowing that if she stuck with Jesse, she would no doubt go through what I had; I wouldn’t wish that on any woman.
I put the note back, still shaking my head. I was meant to see that note, I thought. I was meant to see it so I’d know not to go back to him. I mouthed a silent thank you to Lady Fate for stepping in and saving me from all manner of headfucking. I considered leaving the note on the floor, so he’d know I’d seen it, but that would be too easy. No. I’d let him lose his mind trying to figure out why I never, ever, EVER spoke to him again.
I opened the door, taking care not to make any noise as I unlocked it. Gently closing it behind me, I exhaled deeply. Jesuuuuus. It was not even 9 a.m. and already it had been a huge day.
Perfect – the cab had come right onto his driveway – I wouldn’t even need to be seen on the street. As I got in and gave directions for home, panic suddenly gripped me: we hadn’t used protection last night. Even though it was barely deserving of the label ‘sex’, it was still enough to transmit an STI. Oh God, I was a loser. Who knows what he could’ve picked up from those filthy tramps he had on the go?
My phone started vibrating madly. It was Don’t Answer. I was so angry I’d let him take me home last night. I would’ve been fine, but no, he had to play the hero and whisk me away to his fishy lair, where ‘B’ had been only days – or maybe even hours – before me. A mixture of fury, disgust, relief and regret engulfed me. I had a feeling it would stay for a little while yet.
Once I was back home, I let the scalding-hot shower beat down on me. It smelled so nice… I didn’t want to get out. I had covered the drain with a face cloth and dripped in some essential oils, creating a ‘mini day-spa’.
I knew I should get out, my hands were completely wrinkled, but I couldn’t leave the cocoon of hot water and calming aromas. I leant my head against the tiles and closed my eyes. Part of me felt like I wanted to rewind and start last night all over, and part of me wanted to still be at Jesse’s, laying into him in the most violent manner I could muster. Who did he think he was? Switching women like he was some kind of bloody movie star. Drying off, I wondered what Jesse would be thinking right now. A twisted smile crossed my face at the idea of him realising I had gone and wasn’t answering his calls.
Knowing he was a certified cheat gave me a strange feeling of comfort. The decision had been made for me: he was gone from my life now. I didn’t need to waste another nanosecond thinking about him.
With that thought, I went to the bathroom and luxuriously applied a hydrating cloth mask to my pale, dry face. It said ‘leave on for ten minutes’. I would leave it for twenty.
For what felt like the first time in several millennia, I was in possession of crystal-clear insights. There would be no more Jesse. I had gone backwards, I had fallen, and I wasn’t interested in nursing bruises and cuts for this man a moment longer. He was gone.
Don’t bother, it’s domestic
Cold sore on your lip, huh? Unlucky. Here’s a magic trick: take a cotton tip with nail-polish remover and hold it on the sore for ten seconds. It’ll kill, but it’ll kill it, too. Repeat every couple of hours. If you need to cover it up, apply some foundation with a new cotton tip. No gloss, no lipstick. Just smoke up those eyes and leave the lips nude.
Monday morning I woke up with a cold sore.
I immediately began my war against the little mother. Most people will tell you to apply ice until you can get your hands on some Zovirax and then to start chomping on Lysine tablets before every meal. But I had a secret weapon that a make-up artist had told me about. Nail-polish remover. The strong gear full of acetone. None of that girly stuff. I poured some on a cotton pad and held it directly on the beast. It stung. Man, it stung. But according to the make-up artist, who’d had to heal and cover up many a model’s cold sore, it would completely dry out the blister within a day. I could handle a much worse sting for a result like that.
My hair behaved – since being straightened it always behaved – but my make-up and outfit suffered because of the cold sore. I couldn’t think. I was distracted and cranky. Vain and stupid? Guilty, your honour. After all, there were little boys in India with no legs, wheeling themselves around on skateboards and begging for coins by banging on pans with sticks, and here I was, all worked up over a blister on my lip.
The global guilt trick worked for about a minute, then I was back to doom and gloom.
I furiously huffed and puffed my way to a breakfast meeting at the Sheraton, where I (consciously) watched each of the five PR and marketing girls (subconsciously) rest their eyes on my angry-looking bottom lip.
Back in the office, the girls looked at me with a blend of pity/smugness/surprise. This seemed crystal-clear to me in my paranoid state. Because, while they didn’t say anything, I knew they were thinking, ‘Sucked in, beauty girl, not even you can escape imperfection.’
I had a morning-tea function with a stack of beauty eds. As we waited in the sunshine, Fi brushed her newly cut hair and said, ‘What’s wrong with your lip?’ She had never apologised for her form on the boat, and I had never made a big deal out of it. We’d both just pretended it had never occurred. Confrontation was far too inconvenient in this industry.
‘Nothing, just got a bit of a blister.’
Yasmin’s ears pricked up.
‘You mean a cold sore?’
‘Well, yeah.’
‘Looks pretty disgusting; you should use that stuff that gets rid of it,’ said Yasmin helpfully.
‘Really? I thought about that, but then I figured it looks so delightful I’d just let it get as big and visually offensive as possible.’ I was in a bad mood.
‘You know they’re a type of herpes, right?’ Fi’s turn to be helpful.
‘Okay, okay. Jesus, just trying to hel—’
‘Taxi!’ I yelled out, and jumped into the road to hail it, thankful for the diversion.
In the taxi I applied a thick layer of gloss. It was against the ‘dry out’ rules, and acted as a thin and inefficient mask for the lip monster, but it was a mask nonetheless.
The girls chatted about a lunch we’d had last week, and I redid my make-up several hundred times. I figured the more full-on the rest of my make-up, the less people would stare at my lip. I was irritated by how much time and energy I was wasting on this goddamn cold sore. Bet it was all Jesse’s fault. He’d either given it to me, or had stressed me out so much it had come on by itself.
At the function, I was wholly consumed with disguising the beast: holding my hand over my mouth as I talked, strategically placing drinking straws in front of my lip, and adding another layer of thick, opaque pink gloss.
‘What’s the champagne like?’ Yasmin asked Fi.
‘Don’t bother; it’s domestic,’ she said, placing her flute down and snatching a mineral water from a passing waiter.
‘Hey, Hannah, great gloss, which is it?’ Ruby, the beauty editor from a gossip weekly, was staring at my vibrant pink lips. Great. I’d used so much gloss that now people were enquiring about the brand. I listlessly told her it was a Givenchy one and then excused myself.
It was a disturbing moment of vanity. I had become so self-obsessed that a blemish was controlling my day. I guess when you’re scrutinised daily you are acutely aware when a wheel falls off.
When I got back to the office at midday, I made the unpleasant observation that I had six pages to write before I could leave the office. At 5.45 p.m. I was still two pages off being done. And really, really over it. I applied some more nail-polish remover – which had already dried out the bubble – and checked my phone. Iz and Jesse had both called, hours ago, but neither had called back.
My phone vibrated noisily on my desk again. It was Jesse. I didn’t have time to think about him. I had the New Bob to write about.
I looked at Ron. It was a fiercely busy week, launch-wise. I was exhausted just thinking of all the outfits I’d have to figure out, and the late nights that would inevitably follow.
Wednesday night looked as if it’d be a nice one, though. The new spokesmodel for Tender skincare, Ashley Calton, the Oscar winner, was in town. An ‘intimate tasting-plates event’ had been organised for selected beauty editors. Neither Fi nor Yasmin had got a start, so I was particularly stoked to have been invited.
Of course, the fact I was pretty tight with the PR, Lloyd, a spry gay boy who dressed in Lacoste and Pringle head-to-toe, and who just happened to be one of Gabe’s closest friends, might’ve had something to do with it.
Gabe! God, I missed him. He was acting as editor in his boss’s absence and we hadn’t caught up for ages. Maybe I would call him and see if he was free for a late supper tonight…
‘Hello!’ he shouted into the phone.
‘Whoa, Gabriella, is that any way to answer the phone?’
‘Oh, honey, it’s you. I’m so sorry; your number didn’t come up. I’m having a prick of a day. ’Bout ready to knife someone, actually.’
‘Me too! Hey, do you want to get a late supper? Maybe at the soup house? In, say, an hour?’
‘Oooh, beauty, I don’t know if I’ll be done by then, we go to print the day after tomorrow and…’
‘I slept with Jesse.’
‘You what?’ (Sigh.) ‘All right. I suppose the mule has to be fed at some stage. An hour, did you say?’
‘Yes please!’ I was so excited. ‘Love youuuu.’
‘Flattery will get you everywhere, darling. Oooh, one favour – do you have any of the Clarins Beauty Flash Balm lying around? My face is more hobo than homo, and I meant to call some in but I forgot…’
‘I do, as a matter of fact. I shall bring it as thanks for making time for me.’
‘Love you. You’re the best friend a gay man with dry, dull skin could hope for.’ He hung up.
Shit, now I really had to focus on getting this story done. Because if it wasn’t on Eliza’s desk tonight, like I’d told her it would be, my arse was grass.
I knew Gabe was going to rip into me for the weekend’s slip-up, but he’d be proud about my decision to completely renounce Jesse, following my fateful viewing of The Note.
‘Isn’t she astonishing? Look at those pores! That’s right – there are none. None at all. And fine lines? No fine lines. She’s incredible.’
Lloyd whispered loudly into my ear, staring at the goddess sitting at the end of the table. I nodded. I was right to be excited about this launch. Ashley delivered: she was funny, articulate, excellent at telling stories, terrific at impersonations of other famous people, and stunning to watch. Her ebony curls framed her face just-so, and her eye make-up hadn’t moved all night, unlike mine, which had crept down underneath my eyes. Her face glowed. Her eyes sparkled. No jet lag to be seen.
Her outfit made the dress I’d borrowed from Marley look like something a first-year fashion apprentice had knocked up for her little sister.
Ashley wore a brocade A-line smock dress with Balenciaga ankle boots that Yasmin had been dreaming of owning for weeks. If only she were here to witness this spectacular outfit.
‘Amazing. Look at her skin. I mean, could you have picked a better spokesmodel for a skincare brand?’ Lloyd was still in awe. Three hours after having first laid eyes on her.
I was beyond happy I didn’t have my cold sore any more. Seeing this vision in front of me would have been the best possible way to compound any feelings I had of looking ugly.
Dinner had finished and, full of Mediterranean food and a delicious array of wines, we all sat around chatting loudly. Lloyd was still in panic mode, making sure the Tender brand manager was happy with how it was going, and that Ashley moved around the table so that all of us could have our turn staring at her like gobsmacked teens, and make conversational blunders when she asked us tough questions like, ‘So, which magazine are you from?’
She was so normal. So unaffected. I wanted to be her. I figured she was roughly ten years older than me, so I still had time to stumble across some grace and elegance. I could start by not spilling food on my clothes every time I ate, I thought, as I scraped sauce off Marley’s dress.
Within ten minutes of coffee and tea being served, the brand manager had Ashley’s jacket, and she was walking around the table farewelling us all individually. This from an A-list star, with a rockstar boyfriend and dinner company that usually involved Kate Moss, Gwyneth Paltrow, Sting and Trudie.
‘Arrivederci!’ she cried as she walked out of the private dining room, waving regally. And then she was gone.
After spending a good half-hour discussing how gorgeous Ashley was, I decided to make a move. I was full, and fat, and very pleased with this evening’s activity. I couldn’t wait to text Iz about it; she’d been even more excited than me about the dinner. Jay wanted to know what Ashley was like, too. Everyone did. I was delighted I had nothing but praise for her, as there is nothing more boring than meeting someone Totally Famous who is completely underwhelming.
It was a beautiful night outside, so I decided to stroll for a few blocks to walk off my dessert. I was in the trendy district, in which super-hip wine bars were brimming with super-hip people whose conversations revolved entirely around jaunts to Morocco and organic breakfast cereal.
One bar in particular, Curt and Boyds, was overflowing, and a red carpet indicated a press event was in progress. I saw the logo of Doll lingerie, and made the connection that it was their summer-collection launch party. I recalled Fi and Yasmin and a few others saying they would be there. Should I go in? There was no door person. Well, I was invited, and it was only ten-thirty, and I looked good in my borrowed clothes… Stuff it. One drink with the girls would be fun. I could tell them all about Ashley.
I walked in: the room was pack
ed. I saw a few reality-TV stars, some actors and models, and a lot of the usual magazine crowd. The room temperature was set to ‘pottery kiln’; people were visibly sweating. The fans were on, but they were doing nothing but pushing hot air back onto the crowd. There was thumping salsa music coming from a DJ-band hybrid in the corner, to which people were dancing. This was very rare at a function. I saw a tray of dangerous-looking cocktails glide past and did the math: everyone was completely smashed.
I saw Yasmin all over a very hot guy near the bar. I made a beeline for her.
‘Hey, Yasmin!’
She looked at me with glazed eyes.
‘Baby! You came!’ She gave me a big hug and stumbled as she pulled away. ‘How was the dinner? What was she like?’ She turned to Hot Guy and explained, ‘Hannah was special enough to get to meet Ashley Calton tonight. I wasn’t, but she was.’
I laughed. ‘She was stunning, Yasmin. Funny and beautiful and just amazing. I’ve got a crush.’
‘A girl crush,’ said Hot Guy. ‘That’s niiiice.’ He nodded salaciously and winked at Yasmin.
Yasmin winked back, and then they kissed messily. I looked around. In the context of the other people at the party, they were being quite tame. The place was bordering on an orgy.
‘Is Fiona here?’ I yelled.
‘What?’ Yasmin yelled back and cupped her ear.
‘FIONA! IS SHE HERE?’
‘Yeah, yeah. Went off with some dude. But she’s definitely here. I’ve got her bag.’ She kicked Fi’s new Burberry handbag with her foot. I was sure Fi would appreciate that.
I decided to look around for her; it wasn’t like I was going to get much from Yasmin. If I didn’t see her within one lap, I’d go.
Fi wasn’t down on the ground floor anywhere, but there was an upstairs bar and balcony.
I walked through a packed bar – no Fi – and looked for the exit to the balcony. I spotted Dave, Dan’s friend. That was weird. Why would he be here? Guess there was a lingerie parade…