by Lindsey Kelk
He nodded and looked down at his shorts and ratty fisherman’s jumper. ‘I imagine they’re going to expect me to get changed.’
‘Me too,’ I replied. ‘I can’t wait to see the final collection. Amy won’t tell me anything – she says I’m going to have to see it to believe it.’
‘It’s going to be quite the spectacular,’ he confirmed. ‘I’m very proud of her.’
I rested my elbows on the edge of the terrace beside him and stared straight ahead, wondering whether or not he had already seen the article.
‘You must be missing Jane a lot today,’ I said, slightly awkwardly. ‘I bet it’s weird doing all this without her.’
Al smiled and nodded slowly. ‘It’s all for her,’ he said. ‘And she’s not here to see it. I have to admit, the nerves have been growing over the last couple of days. I’m starting to wonder if perhaps this was a slightly rash decision.’
‘But you wanted to do it, didn’t you?’ I asked.
‘I did,’ he confirmed. ‘I do. But it’s a huge risk. I’ve tied quite a lot of money up in the venture and I’m not entirely sure why. I’m an old man, Tess. I could be back on the beach in Hawaii right now, not bothering myself with starting over.’
‘That’s true,’ I agreed, curling my fingers to hide my grubby fingernails. ‘But I think this is going to be worth it. Hawaii will still be there when you get home.’
‘It will,’ he said, patting my hand then stretching his arms high overhead. ‘Where are you off to at such an early hour?’
‘Oh, just some last-minute shopping,’ I said, shaking my head at the task at hand. ‘I’ll be all shiny and new for the presentation.’
‘Sounds fun,’ he said. If only he knew how wrong he was. ‘Janey loved to shop.’
‘Convenient, given that you owned a load of shops,’ I commented. He smiled but his usual gruff chuckle was nowhere to be heard. ‘Are you all right up here?’ I asked. ‘I could always go out later if you fancy a chat?’
I couldn’t really, but I also couldn’t bear to see him in so much pain. Al was my oracle, and not knowing how to defend him against these awful magazine mares, let alone his own demons, was the worst.
‘No, no.’ He shook his head and shooed me away. ‘All I need is ten minutes to clear my head. And several cups of tea, I should think.’
‘I’ll ask Genevieve to get the kettle on,’ I promised, resting my hand on his arm. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’
‘More than,’ he promised. ‘Now off with you. I’m sure you have a lot of fun adventures planned, so don’t waste your day on a sulky old man.’
‘Adventures,’ I agreed weakly. ‘I suppose you could call them that.’
Tony was right. The Apple Store on Fifth Avenue was busy. So busy, in fact, that I had to join a line of people queueing up around the bizarre glass cube that sat on Fifth Avenue, marking out the subterranean retail wonder below. Charlie would love this, I thought, as I inched towards the staircase. Not the queueing, per se, but the ridiculous design of the store and the overexcited tech heads would send him into gadget-geek overdrive. He always had the newest phone as soon as it came out, was always updating mine to the latest operating system. He was on the list for an Apple watch before I even knew what an Apple watch was. In all honesty, I still wasn’t entirely certain.
‘You on Yosemite?’
I looked up to see a young woman with lilac hair looking at me as though she would rather be anywhere else on earth.
‘Sorry?’ I said politely. ‘Did you mean me?’
‘Yeah?’ she replied. ‘Are you on Yosemite?’
‘I don’t know what that means,’ I said as we trudged another step forward en masse.
There was something very unsettling about standing in a crowd of people in the snow, all moving one step at a time and willingly walking into an underground bunker just because a man with a Madonna-esque earpiece told us too.
‘The operating system?’ Every sentence out of her mouth was phrased a question. ‘For your computer?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I admitted. ‘I’d had mine a while but my friend always updated it for me. It’s broken, actually, that’s why I’m here.’
‘Yeah?’ she replied, flicking her unlikely coloured hair over her shoulder and into the face of the man behind. ‘I have to pick mine up? I ordered it online because I need, like, super specific specifications? This is way closer to the G?’
I understood about 50 per cent of what she had said to me but I was too scared to tell her.
‘I just need a laptop that will run Photoshop.’ I was determined to hold up my end of the conversation without coming off like a total loser. She could only be five years younger than me, tops. I was only twenty-seven; it wasn’t like I had one foot in the grave just yet.
‘Pro or Air?’ Lilac Hair asked, her eyes lighting up. ‘Or are you getting the new MacBook?’
‘I don’t know, I’m a photographer.’ I said, my tongue still tripping over the word. ‘I just need something to edit on.’
‘You want a Pro,’ she said with complete confidence. ‘That’s what I use for my photography.’
‘You’re a photographer too?’ I was cheered to find some common ground that might help us converse like normal people, rather than leave me feeling like her nana.
‘I have a blog?’ she shrugged. ‘I shoot for my blog but I don’t like to label myself. I write also, but I mostly use my Air for that or my tablet, depending on how much travelling I’m doing?’
‘Right,’ I said as the group took another step forward. Did anyone really need that many computers? ‘Do you work nearby?’
She looked at me, gone out. ‘I, like, don’t have a desk job?’ she said with a sniff. ‘I’m an artist.’
I pursed my lips together. An artist. Right.
‘My mom is getting me an iMac for Christmas?’ she explained. ‘What camera do you have? I need to upgrade soon?’
I pulled my Canon out of my bag and held it up for inspection.
‘Dude.’ She tried to smother a splutter of laughter. ‘That’s so funny – I have one of those as my back-up shooter. You use that, like, for real?’
‘Oh look,’ I said, as we shuffled to the top of the staircase. ‘We’re almost down. Well, enjoy your computer.’
Lilac Hair sniffed and looked away while I concentrated hard on the floor, more worried about this purchase than ever. How could a twenty-two-two-year-old artist with purple hair and no real job have three computers, an iPad and two cameras when I was twenty-seven and driving myself into debt just to own one laptop?
‘Hi, welcome to the Apple Store!’ a far-too-cheerful voice boomed as I hit the bottom of the stairs and watched Lilac Hair disappear into the crowd. ‘How can I help you today?’
‘I need a laptop,’ I said, in my best, most polite English accent. ‘Please.’
His face fell a little and I noticed the badge on his shirt read ‘genius’. Thank God for that, I thought, it really would help if one of us had a clue what they were doing.
Several hours and a credit-card-cancelling amount of money later, I had managed to transfer the photos from my destroyed machine onto my brand, spanking-new laptop and pull together something resembling a passable selection of images from the Gloss shoot. It was already after three when I looked at the clock after transferring them over to the magazine’s FTP site for Cici and Angela’s approval, so I had less than four hours until the presentation and I was still wearing my dirty jeans and borrowed sweater dress; while that could pass for bohemian chic in the Apple Store, I had a feeling it wouldn’t cut it at the AJB presentation. Amy had warned me she would be incommunicado all day, preparing for the presentation, and after seeing how upset Al had been that morning, I didn’t think it would be a good time to ask if it was all right to rifle through his dead wife’s closet for a frock to borrow. But who else did I know in America who had access to fancy dresses and wouldn’t mind loaning one out for the evening? After getting Kekipi’s voicemai
l three times in a row, I fished around in the bottom of my handbag for the next best thing Manhattan had to a fairy gayfather. My snow-shoot saviour fairy godmother and fashion PR maven …
‘Jenny Lopez.’
A true professional, she answered on the second ring.
‘It’s Tess,’ I said, fingers, legs and toes all crossed. ‘Tess Brookes. I was wondering if I might be able to bother you for a favour?’
‘Man, I am wasted in PR,’ Jenny muttered, as a very skinny man with black skin and a pink Mohawk reached out with a lip brush to dab at my mouth one more time before setting it down on the desk and taking a small bow. ‘You are a babe.’
‘She’s perfection,’ he declared. ‘Even I’m impressed.’
‘Am I done?’ I asked, struggling to hold my eyes open under the weight of my false eyelashes. ‘Do I look OK?’
‘Doll …’ She flipped her caramel highlights over her shoulder and gave me everything but a finger snap. ‘What a dumb thing to ask! Go look at yourself in the mirror. Razor is a master with a mascara wand.’
‘I love my work,’ he said modestly. ‘But this is impressive, even for me.’
‘Oh sweet Jesus,’ I gasped, pressing my hands against my heart. ‘Is that me?’
I’d walked into Jenny’s office wearing my sleeping-bag coat, dirty Converse, and a smile. After sixty very committed minutes with a pair of very hot hair straighteners, my bushy curls had transformed into liquid copper that trickled over my shoulder in Veronica Lake waves that I couldn’t quite believe while another thirty minutes in make-up had left my skin glowing and my eyes sparkling. I looked like an Instagram filter come to life. It was still me, only Photoshopped and soft filtered, and I barely dared move.
‘I can’t wear this,’ I said, completely still. If I moved and the girl in the mirror moved at the same time, I was worried the world would end. It had to be a glitch in the matrix. ‘It’s too much. Isn’t it too much?’
‘Girl, you’re going to a party with me – there is no such thing as too much,’ Jenny replied, appearing in the mirror behind me and grabbing hold of my shoulders. ‘Repeat after me: I am Tess Brookes.’
‘I am Tess Brookes,’ the girl in the mirror said.
‘I look incredible.’
‘I look incredible,’ she echoed.
‘I am a badass bitch,’ Jenny said.
‘Yeah – no! I can’t say that out loud,’ I cringed. ‘But I’m thinking it.’
‘Fine,’ Jenny clucked. ‘Let’s finish with “when I need to use the bathroom, I will give Jenny ten minutes’ notice because I am wearing two pairs of Spanx.”’
‘Only two?’ I turned to the side and marvelled at the power of well-made clothes. ‘This dress is incredible.’
And it was. As dazzled as I was by my hair and make-up, I’d seen my face a million times before. This dress was a one-off. The silk chiffon gown sparkled with rose gold sequins, or pailettes as Jenny insisted they were called, catching the light and ringing with sparkles every time I breathed. Through the wonder of amazing tailoring it clung to my curves but never accentuated my chub, nipping my waist to improbably tiny proportions and dipping low on the front to suggest tasteful cleavage rather than tons of boob. Soft straps slipped over my shoulders, forming a deep V in the back while matching strips of rose-gold chiffon floated out behind me, meeting somewhere around my perfectly lifted backside to create a romantic train.
‘I feel like I want to propose,’ Razor said, clasping his hands together under his chin. ‘And I’m so gay I hit on my preschool teacher.’
‘I’m not sure the camera goes with it,’ Jenny said, shaking her head at my refusal to put my newly fixed camera down, even for the evening. ‘But you look so good I don’t even feel bad that I’m not wearing it.’
‘This was yours?’ I spun around, the train swishing behind me, eliciting a gasp and clap from Razor. ‘Oh, Jenny, I can’t take it. I’ll wear something else. Seriously, you take it.’
‘Your need is greater,’ she said with great benevolence. ‘It’s what Oprah would want. Also, I’m pretty sure this is the only thing I have that will fit you, so shut up and wear it, OK?’
‘OK,’ I relented, swishing lightly from side to side, watching the light catch the sequins. Sorry, pailettes. ‘It’s soooo pretty! Who is it by?’
‘It isn’t pretty, it’s a masterpiece,’ she corrected, flipping out my train. ‘And you don’t know who it’s by? It’s AJB, you dumbass. It’s Al’s.’
I looked at myself again. Of course it was from Al’s collection. The dress was exquisite. Defiantly feminine; flattering beyond belief, and timelessly vintage. It would have been just as at home in Janey’s wardrobe in the sixties as it would on the red carpet at the Oscars. With a sad smile I thought back to the moment on the terrace and wished with all of my heart that I had said more. It was crazy to think that Al was in any way anxious, his work was stunning. Even if he had read that thing in Belle, surely someone as confident and sure of himself as Al wouldn’t care. Tonight could only be a huge success.
‘Hey, Miss Thing!’ Jenny snapped her fingers to get my attention. ‘When you’ve finished falling in love with yourself, you can sit your ass down. I still have to get ready and we’re leaving in, like, thirty minutes. Can you be trusted not to eff up your dress before then?’
‘If I sit very still,’ I said, nodding solemnly as I backed onto an office chair. ‘I can try.’
‘You’re already an easier project than Angie,’ she said with a sigh. ‘Do. Not. Move.’
Every year my company had gone to the annual advertising awards at this plush hotel in London. It was a fancy do; the men all wore what they believed was black tie and the women dressed up, either in actual ballgowns if it was their first year there or the sexiest dress their boss and their self-esteem would let them get away with every year after that. When Amy said they were organizing a presentation and a party for Al’s collection, I anticipated something along the lines of the advertising awards, only with more flair. I’d been to one of Al’s parties before so I knew we weren’t talking hotel conference room and tired canapés but what I wasn’t expecting was this. Really, I had to stop underestimating the pair of them.
‘You ready?’ Jenny asked as the car pulled up outside a building that made the V&A feel like it wasn’t quite pulling its weight in the drama stakes. Red brick, tall windows – it even had turrets. Since when had Cinderella’s castle been smack bang in the middle of Manhattan? Huge banners hung on either side of the gothic wooden doors, declaring the arrival of AJB, and it was only when our driver held open my door and the December chill hit me in the face, I realized that the photographs on them were mine.
‘As I’ll ever be,’ I finally nodded, ignoring all the popping flashes and screaming paparazzi while keeping my eyes on the banners and my feet moving forwards.
‘What’s it like to be on this side of the camera?’ she whispered, slipping her arm through mine as we walked the red carpet. An actual red carpet, bleeding through the snow and up the stairs into the Armory.
‘I think I prefer the other side,’ I replied, watching people I recognized from TV and magazines posing for the paps in dresses I recognized from Al’s sketchbook. It was surreal.
‘So, what’s the deal?’ I asked as we made our way inside and followed the crowds through the echoing halls. Music throbbed all around us and the walls were lined with twinkling fairy lights, leading us ever onwards. ‘When is the actual presentation?’
Jenny cast me a look I was getting far too used to seeing.
‘What are you talking about?’ she asked, her skintight, floor-length black crepe grown moving with her as she walked, a thigh-high split exposing acres of perfectly toned leg.
‘The presentation,’ I repeated, blushing. ‘Isn’t Al going to stand up and, you know, tell us all about the brand?’
‘I take it back,’ she said. ‘You are worse than Angie. A fashion presentation isn’t the same as a business presentation; there w
on’t be any slides or handouts if that’s what you mean.’
Part of me was slightly disappointed. I really did love a good PowerPoint.
‘It means Al is presenting his collection to the industry, like a runway show only not. Instead of having models walk the runway, they kind of stand still, like statues, while buyers and media look at them.’
‘How long do they have to stand still?’ I asked, eyes flitting all around me. Everyone looked like someone I should know and everyone I should know looked excited.
‘At a regular presentation? Two hours, maybe three.’
‘Christ on a bike!’ I gave a low whistle. ‘And they have to stay stood for all that time? No thank you. Imagine what a ballache that would be?’
‘I don’t have to,’ Jenny reminded me. ‘I live with a model, remember? She’s plenty vocal about the hardships.’
‘Are they usually done like this?’ I waved my gold satin clutch around at the dozens of people, dazzling in their ensembles, wending their way down the hallway to whatever awaited us all. ‘Are they usually such a production?’
‘Nothing is done like this,’ she said with an electric smile. ‘Can’t you tell how psyched everyone is?’
I looked around and noticed a smile on almost every face. I was so relieved, Belle magazine couldn’t possibly consider this a mistake and neither could Al. ‘Everyone looks like they’re enjoying it.’
‘That’s how you know this is a big deal,’ she laughed and pulled me along as the music swelled all around us. ‘This is New York – no one smiles in public. What would people think?’
After what felt like a million miles in four-inch heels, we came to the end of the corridor and fell through the rabbit hole.
‘Bloody hell!’ I whispered, craning my neck to take it all in. ‘Amy Smith, you are incredible.’
Once upon a time, the room we found ourselves in might have been a big, empty hangar but somehow Amy had transformed it into something else. The lights that had led the way down the hall spread out along the walls, creeping across the ceiling like strings of stars. They came together in the centre of the room around the most extraordinary chandelier I had ever seen with strands and strands of lights casting a golden glow across the room, twirling and sparkling as though it was alive. Over in one corner, surrounded by towering fir trees, decorated with the same delicate lights, I saw a black-haired man in a cage of his own, playing an acoustic guitar and singing softly, seemingly oblivious to the commotion around him.