In the beginning it was mostly just daily duck-faced selfies of Summer at different parties and product launches. It barely had any traffic, and no income to speak of. She called me and asked if I’d like to write for her. I was in Morocco at the time, having a ball, but she needed a favour and I owed her big time. And now here we are. The wages aren’t quite enough for me to rent my own pad, but Summer lets me live cheaply in the Castlefield apartment Anderson bought her. This is where I’ve been ever since, and over the past two years of working together, Summer in the City has become this gorgeous, popular lifestyle blog based on Summer’s adventures in Manchester. I do the bulk of the writing, but Summer’s the tastemaker. I mooch along to all the restaurants, cocktail bars, boutiques, gigs and product parties, and together we blog about it. Me the voice, and Summer the face. The work’s easy-peasy, and we get to go out a lot for free. I never really made any grand plans for a career, so to have fallen into this, I’ve got to admit, is a sweet deal.
Hopefully it’s about to get even sweeter because today we’re going to London to pitch to Valentina Smith – nonfiction editor at the Southbank Press. They’re interested in turning Summer in the City into a glossy lifestyle book!
OK: clothes.
I dry myself off with the only towel I can find until I do some washing – a teeny green hand towel – and open my wardrobe door to find that the line of plastic coat hangers that are supposed to hold my clothes are all empty except for one, which displays a slutty Cleopatra costume from last Halloween.
Probably not that.
Rifling through my drawers I find, amongst the odd DVD case, a half-empty bottle of rum, the beloved gold bra I thought I’d lost and a slightly crumpled, kind of low-cut but otherwise perfectly all right turquoise and pink floral cotton dress.
Is this even mine?
I give it a sniff.
Not bad . . .
I liberally spritz it with Febreze just in case and pull it on. It’s quite short, just about covering my bum and fully exposing my razor-doomed legs.
Dammit. I probably should have prepared better for this. The dress does look kind of awesome, though, as long as everyone’s eyes remain firmly above the waist.
‘Jess! Hurry uuuuuup!’
Right, it’ll just have to do.
‘Sorry, Summer! Nearly there!’
I dab loo roll on the cuts, blast my white-blonde hair extensions dry, draw in my eyebrows, put on my favourite silver flip-flops and head out to an increasingly impatient Summer.
‘What are you wearing? No. Noooooooo.’ Summer panics as soon as she sees me.
She’s in our living room looking perfectly groomed in a coral shift dress and a short leather bolero jacket with some high-heeled ankle boots. Her dark ombréd hair is softly waved and swept over to one side. Around her neck she’s wearing a necklace with a gold Sonic the Hedgehog charm. I don’t get it, but we wrote about it on the blog last week and apparently it’s really ‘on trend’. Behind her, draped across our faux-distressed leather sofa, is Summer’s boyfriend Holden. He looks me up and down over the top of his big square knobhead glasses that make him look like a knobhead.
‘I’m wearing a dress, like you said to!’ I explain, fingering the short skirt.
‘That’s not a dress, sweetpea, it’s a tragedy.’
Holden sniggers. I shoot him my best withering glance, which I’ve checked out in the mirror a few times. It’s pretty withering.
‘But isn’t it your dress?’ I ask. ‘I don’t think it’s mine . . . ’
She’s offended by the mere suggestion. ‘Why didn’t you just buy a new one like I asked you to?’
Shitbags. She did ask me to get a new one just last week. I wrote it on my arm. Buy sensible dress!
‘Is this really so bad?’ I ask. ‘It’s all floral and shit. You like flowery things, don’t you? That designer person you said you love . . . Cath Kidston! It looks exactly like that.’
‘I did not say I love Cath Kidston,’ Summer fumes, tapping a foot speedily against the floor. ‘I said loathe. I loathe Cath Kidston. Loathe. And why are you wearing your glasses? Put your contacts in.’
I push my glasses up my nose. ‘Oh, I lost my contacts last night. Haven’t had a chance to order some more yet.’
‘Most people order these things in advance!’
‘Do they? Don’t worry. If 80s teen comedies have taught me anything, it’s that people wearing glasses are much cleverer than other people. Glasses make me look more bookish. They are perfect for a trip to a publisher!’
‘This isn’t a trip, Jess. It could be the difference between being winners in life or sad losers. I know which one I’m going to be. This is important. Why can’t you take just one thing seriously?’
I roll my eyes, but I do know how important it is. I’ve worked really hard on the pitch for today. Nonetheless, as my mum always used to say, if you want something too much, it’ll probably go wrong. So I’m going to do what I always do. I’m going to be cool. Cool like a fool in a swimming pool.
‘Don’t stress so much, Sum.’ I pat her on the arm. ‘They probably won’t even notice what we’re wearing. They’re interested in us for our brains.’
Summer tuts, glances at her retro Minnie Mouse watch (I’ll never understand why people wear naff old things when they can get shiny new things) and stalks over to the coat cupboard. ‘It’s too late to change you now, though you’d think my sartorial finesse might have rubbed off just a teensy bit after all these years following me around. And your legs. The fake tan is all patchy around the knees and . . . is your shin bleeding?’
I peer down at my legs.
‘Oh, um, yeah. It was bleeding a teeny bit, but it’s stopped now. You can hardly even notice it. It could be just a bit of red fluff for all anyone knows.’
‘Red fluff? Why would you have red fluff on your shin?’
‘Errr . . . ’
I can think of no believable reason.
‘Here. Put this on.’ She flings me my long black cashmere winter coat, the sheer weight of which makes me stumble backwards into the wall.
‘But it’s July!’ I eye the heavy fabric with horror. ‘I’ll stew in my own juices.’
Summer puts hand to slender hip and glares at me.
‘I’m going to make the wild assumption that you have no other clean clothes ready, and you absolutely can’t wear jeans for this. I’m, like, a model-tall size eight, maybe even a six now, and you’re a five-foot-three size ten, so it’s not like anything of mine will fit you. Shit, Jess. Just put the coat on. We need to go.’
Fuck. She’s getting really upset.
Before I’ve even got one arm in the sleeve of the coat I can feel the beads of sweat begin to form on my forehead. My estimation for full slide-offage of eyebrows is approximately ten minutes.
‘Have fun in Londonski, guys,’ Holden twangs from the sofa, lighting his Gauloises cigarette. ‘Say hi to the ol’ LDN from me, yeah? Good town. Good town.’
Summer sashays over to give him a kiss, being careful not to get her eye poked out by the drumstick he keeps tucked behind his ear. ‘Wish us luck!’ she trills.
‘Good luck,’ he purrs, taking a sip from his jam jar of artisan beer before pulling her onto his knee for a full-on snog. ‘Go do you, babydoll. Go do you.’
‘I love you more than tea and kittens and apricot gin,’ Summer murmurs, making a heart shape with her hands and giggling as Mr Belding jumps between the two of them with a hiss.
‘I love you more than Mumford and Sons,’ Holden says solemnly.
My body starts feeling itchy, like it always does when anyone gets overly emotional in my presence. I have no problem with public displays of affection; I have partaken in many varieties in all different kinds of locations. But public declarations of everlasting love? Yeuch. Get me outta here.
‘See you laters, Crocodeelios,’ Holden croons, smirking as Summer finally leaves his knee. As she turns away, he blows me a moustachioed kiss and a pervy wink.
Barf.
‘Come on, Summer,’ I say, flipping Holden the bird behind Summer’s back. ‘Let’s go to London and seek our fortune!’
Rose Beam’s Diary
17th April 1985
Almost got caught tonight! Knocked Gulliver’s Travels off the windowsill climbing back through the window. Luckily I managed to dive back into bed and pull the covers over my head before Mum came nosying about the room to catch me out in this minuscule lace Madonna dress. Twenty-five years old and still sneaking out of my parents’ house to go to a nightclub. Christ.
I’m itching to get a proper acting job so that I can afford to get out of here and be independent. Mum and Dad are steadfastly refusing to believe that I need to, especially with Nigel flipping Pemberton sniffing around with his oily hair and ‘I’ve got a micro penis’ car and his stupid boring stock portfolio. Hello! It’s 1985 now! Women staying still until a marriage proposal approved by their parents is utterly archaic. It’s like a flipping Austen novel. Working at the gallery is horrendously dull and there’s no money in it, but at least I can escape this place for a little while every day while I figure out what I really and truly want to do with my one wild and precious life!
Anyway, I’m pretty tipsy (isn’t crème de menthe delicious?) and writing about things that are not even interesting. Victoria has invited me out again on Friday night to a rad new club called the Blue Canary. It’s in Soho. Dad would die. Hah! I absolutely can’t wait. I love dancing. I love the colourful lights. I love going out with Victoria, she’s such a buzz and not at all stuffy like Anna and Claire-Marie.
Must sleep and dream now. Work in the morning. Boooo. REMEMBER, ROSE! You must hide flat pumps outside next time. Climbing on these balconies is dangerous even without the five-inch heels!
R x
Chapter Three
When travelling by train, eat only light, plain food. Strong, lingering smells are a nuisance . . .
Apart from a friendly greeting, train mates usually don’t speak. If you are a lady alone, take a book or enjoy the view out of your window.
Matilda Beam’s Good Woman Guide, 1959
What I want to know is why everyone’s so obsessed with the Quiet Zone on trains? They announce their preference for it reverentially. ‘Oh, I always book Quiet Zone, I do,’ they say, as if their ears are super delicate and simply cannot handle both human noise and high-speed travel at the same time. And then these peculiar people spend the entire journey miserable and twitchy with anticipation, ears pricked, watching and waiting for the tiniest sniffle or crunch of a biscuit that will break the silence and ruin that special Quiet Zone magic forever.
I open my beloved old laptop and place it on the plastic train table as Summer, sitting opposite me, angrily rolls her eyes at a child a few rows down who’s loudly trying to decide whether his favourite colour is blue like the sky or dandelion yellow.
‘Ugh. Doesn’t the little shit know we’re in Quiet Zone?’ she hisses, much to the chagrin of the man on the seat to her left who tells Summer to hush, thus setting off a cacophony of tuts and grumbles and high-pitched whispers throughout the whole carriage. It sounds like school assembly. I cough, even though I don’t really need to, and get the urge to shout ‘MASSIVE WANG’ at the top of my voice.
Because of Summer’s sensitivity to train noise, we’re going to rehearse our pitch silently via the power of instant messaging, or IM as we hip new media kids call it. As the train creaks out of Manchester Piccadilly, I pay for and connect to the WiFi Internet on both our computers.
SUMMER SPENCER: OK. Let’s go over everything one final time. We’re already behind.
MS BEAMBASTIC: Agreed. But can I get a pasty first? I’m starving. Do you want one? My treat?
SUMMER SPENCER: A pasty? No thank you. It being eleven a.m. and all.
MS BEAMBASTIC. I’m a bit rough. I’m going to nip to the food cart and get one. Back in a mo.
Summer does the frosty-glare thing as I stumble my way down the narrow aisle and into the next carriage, the infinitesimal sound of my flip-flops on the carpet causing the other Quiet Zone passengers to wince and shoot me daggers. I eagerly grab my beef Ginsters from the lightly humming refrigerator and peruse the crisps selection. Hula Hoops, Skips or McCoy’s salt and vinegar? It’s a very tough choice. The sulky young fella behind the counter stares at me and utters a loud sigh.
‘What do you think I should get?’ I ask cheerily. He stares blankly at me and shrugs.
‘You’re absolutely right,’ I say to him. ‘McCoy’s are clearly superior.’
I grab a bag and plonk them onto the counter as well as a Green & Black’s ginger and dark chocolate bar for Summer.
‘I’ll have a Lilt as well, I think. And a vodka. Hair of the dog and all that.’
When I get back to my seat, Summer frowns and starts to type.
SUMMER SPENCER: Vodka? What??
MS BEAMBASTIC: Hair of the dog.
SUMMER SPENCER: Classy. And crisps? We’re in Quiet Zone.
MS BEAMBASTIC: I’ll lick them first so they won’t crunch as loud.
SUMMER SPENCER: Ugh! You are such a scruff.
MS BEAMBASTIC: ☺
I open my pasty and take a huge bite, sighing with pleasure as the juicy beef brings the pink colour back into my chalky, hungover cheeks.
SUMMER SPENCER: That stinks. You’re upsetting the entire train.
I scan the carriage and notice the other passengers sniffing and pulling faces of horror. I put my pasty down on the table and type.
MS BEAMBASTIC: But it tastes really good! They’re just jealous of my pasty.
Summer dramatically holds her nose for the whole time I’m eating the pasty. I gobble it down as quickly as I can and attempt to stifle the resulting burp. I don’t do a good job though, and it rings out in the silence, causing a collective gasp throughout the train coach. I cringe and expect an outcry, or even to get kicked off, but no one says a thing. They can’t! For they are in Quietzonia, land of the aggressively mute! I stand up from my seat, take a bow and do a royal wave with my most annoying flared nostril smile. They fume. They quietly fume!
Once we’ve gone over our pitch – refining key sentences, making sure the website pages of our slide show are all there and triple-checking the order we’re going to speak in – Summer plugs a pair of headphones into her laptop to watch a movie. It’s True Bromance, the smash hit ‘buddy comedy’ Anderson Warner was filming when they met in New York, the premiere for which she accompanied him to. This film in particular holds special memories for her. Not only is it a reminder of how she and Anderson met (one of her fashiony friends was a wardrobe assistant for the movie and invited Summer to visit the set), but it was also at that time that she started getting a bit famous. There was actually a period of about six months when she couldn’t go out without getting papped whether Anderson was with her or not. You always read about celebs hating the paparazzi, but Summer thrived on it, on occasion tipping them off about her whereabouts. She’s even got Manila folders of all her press cuttings. Of course she doesn’t know I know that – I saw them one night when Mr Belding got trapped under her bed in a cowboy outfit and I was performing a rescue mission.
When Anderson dumped her, the interest in America all but disappeared, but a few of the UK fashion blogs still fawn over her. She’s cool, you know – wears white ankle socks with lavender-coloured brogues and has a huge fringe, both vertically and horizontally.
I yawn and give her a smile, but she doesn’t notice. She’s got that weird dreamy expression she always gets when she’s thinking about Anderson.
Jeez.
My mum used to say that love makes people crazy, and she was right. Not that I’ve personally ever been in love. But for someone who’s usually so focused and razor-sharp, Summer turns into a wibbly wreck of a woman when it comes to that guy. It doesn’t seem to matter that he got his PA to dump her by email, or that he’s now officially dating Emma Watson. She still thinks of him as the one
that got away, and if he were ever to come back I reckon she’d drop Holden in a nanosecond, which wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing, since Holden is a proper turd.
Sinking back against the train seat, I get started on my Lilt and vodka, watch the gorgeous greens and golds of the English countryside whizz past through the window, and wonder what life will be like when I’m the rich and famous co-author of a bestselling book. I’ll finally be able to go travelling again without having to worry about money. I could open a bar somewhere exotic and far away. Maybe Bali. Or St Lucia, even. Somewhere full of happy, relaxed people who just want to chill out and have fun and dance in the glow of the moon and that sort of shit. Somewhere I could live in my bikini, throw amazing, life-changing parties every night and just enjoy myself without any pressure or questions or obligations to anyone. Complete and utter freedom without a worry in the world.
I can’t wait.
Chapter Four
When meeting new female friends, be friendly and interested, but not too interested as this will cause suspicion.
Matilda Beam’s Good Woman Guide, 1959
The Southbank Press lobby is so fancy: a mixture of majestic London architecture, with its high ceilings and intricate cornicing, blended with modern minimalist decor. The walls are vast and white and lined with framed images of book covers, each one lit by soft, glowy uplighting like in an art gallery. It’s busier than I thought it would be, with people bustling about in and out of lifts and lounging on huge sofas reading sheaves of paper and biting biros insightfully. On one wall, a huge cinema-sized TV screen blasts out glossy promotional videos of famous authors talking about their books.
‘Shit on a stick,’ I whisper as I spot the recent Booker Prize-winning Davis Arthur Montblanc hurrying into one of the lifts. He was on BBC’s Question Time just a few nights ago. And now he’s here! ‘Look, Summer! It’s Davis Arthur Montblanc. I didn’t know the Southbank Press published him!’
The Vintage Guide to Love and Romance Page 2