The Vintage Guide to Love and Romance

by Kirsty Greenwood

  Summer rolls her eyes and pushes me along the expanse of lobby. ‘Of course they publish him. They publish practically every Sunday Times bestseller in the country.’

  ‘Fuck.’

  ‘Will you stop swearing?’

  As I watch the electronic doors whoosh closed behind Davis Arthur Montblanc, the magnitude of where we are hits me. Blimey. This is a Real Thing. Potentially the big time. A swarm of excitable butterflies make themselves known in the pit of my belly and the sudden blast of nerves somehow reminds my body to start sweating again. Stupid massive coat.

  Oh no. I’ve just had the most shitty thought. What if I sweat onto the desk in the meeting? Onto an important manuscript? Oh. My. God. What if I sweat onto Davis Arthur Montblanc’s award-winning manuscript? Jesus, God, no.

  ‘Are you absolutely sure I shouldn’t take the coat off?’ I ask Summer as a droplet of perspiration slides off my forehead and trickles its way down my nose.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure. Not in that ridiculous dress. You’ll make a horrible impression.’

  I protest a little but keep the coat on – because Summer is the fashion genius and I wouldn’t know a Louboutin if it were flung at my head – and frantically fan my crimson face as we reach the reception desk.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ says a friendly-looking young woman in a crisp, cream cotton shirt. ‘Welcome to Southbank Press. How may I help you?’

  ‘Hello there,’ Summer says with her usual supreme confidence. ‘Summer Spencer here for Valentina Smith.’

  ‘And Jessica Beam too. I’m also here to see Valentina Smith.’

  Summer throws me her withering look which, I’m peeved to admit, is a great deal more withering than my withering look.

  The receptionist nods curtly, hands us plastic ‘Guest’ lanyards and instructs us to take a seat while she calls down Valentina Smith.

  ‘Right,’ Summer says once we’re perched on the plush purple sofas. ‘We’re going to storm this, OK? We have to. Anderson will rue the day he decided to dump a bestselling author!’

  I imagine Anderson is probably poolside in LA right now, cheerily snorting cocaine off a model’s teeny arse cheek, thinking about how mega loaded and successful he is. If the topless selfies Summer texts to him when she’s had a few haven’t got his attention already, then I’m not sure a book will. Poor Summer.

  ‘They won’t be able to say no,’ I agree in my most confident voice. ‘We’ve got a mega pitch. And a great, unique lifestyle website. We’re basically a fucking dream team, Sum. Practically the . . . Cannon and Ball of fashion-slash-lifestyle blogging. No, wait, Cannon and Ball haven’t worked as a dream-team comparison for years. Torvill and Dean? No. Er . . . Kenan and Kel? No . . . um . . . ’

  ‘Shush.’ Summer opens up her yellow Mulberry purse and pulls out the well-worn picture of the time she met her idol, Alexa Chung, at a fashion show in New York. She inhales and breathes out extra slowly through her mouth before closing her eyes.

  ‘I call upon the power of Chung to see me through this important life moment. To inspire me to be my freshest, most stylish self. To help me to rock it in a super-hot way. To allow my star power to rise to the surface and shine brightly like a super superstar.’

  She opens her eyes, strokes Alexa Chung’s luminous cheek and carefully tucks the photograph back into her bag.

  ‘Fuck. I’m a bit nervous,’ I huff, picking up an abandoned copy of the Guardian to fan myself with.

  ‘No swearing, Jess!’

  ‘Shit, did I swear again? Shitballs, sorry. I don’t even know I’m doing it anybloodymore. Maybe we should get a swear jar in the flat. But not a jar, something nicer. A swear mug? A swear vase? Some cool kind of vessel, anyway – what do you th—’

  ‘It’s fine. Shush. Just be extra careful in the meeting.’

  An intern appears and indicates that we should follow her into one of the lifts.

  Summer smiles, a steely look in her big brown eyes. She leans in close.

  ‘Don’t fuck this one up, Jess.’

  Valentina Smith, non-fiction editorial director, is one very polished-looking woman. She’s in her mid-thirties and really attractive: deeply tanned and willowy, and wearing clothes in camel, taupe and biscuit, which everyone knows is basically light beige, dark beige and medium beige. Her long, blown-out hair is highlighted in exactly the same three-tone colour as her outfit, her lips are painted a look-at-my-mouth! postbox red, and her only jewellery is a pair of understated, elegant, white-gold studs. There’s an awkward moment with my gigantic coat: Valentina insists I take it off immediately on account of this absurdly hot summer weather, but I’m conscious of Summer’s instructions to keep it on no matter what so that the dress underneath never sees the light of day. I don’t know what to do! Valentina starts to pull the coat off my shoulders, but I hiss ‘No!’ and clutch onto it fiercely, and then we have a kind of coat tug-of-war until Valentina – who I suspect usually gets what she wants – wins out and the coat is removed. Now my floral dress is revealed in all its hideous glory. Summer looks as if she’s mere seconds away from dying of embarrassment.

  ‘Oh, I am loving that dress!’ Valentina Smith says, her bright blue eyes appraising the outfit. ‘Very “Jen” from Dawson’s Creek, but just a touch slaggier. In an ironic way, of course. I was reading an article about the whole ironic fashion trend in the Observer last month. I’m not sure I could ever quite pull it off myself, but you do it beautifully, Jess! Kudos.’

  ‘Thank you, Valentina Smith!’

  I haven’t a clue what she’s talking about, but it all seems to be very positive. I knew this dress wasn’t so bad.

  Summer and I sit down on a stiff buttercream sofa and I take a good look around at what I think is the most gorgeous office I’ve ever seen. It’s as stylish as Valentina is – all glass surfaces and huge windows, with bursts of colour coming only from vases of exotic-looking flowers and the beautifully glossy hardback books that fill up the entire back wall. If this were my office, I would have it exactly the same way. Except I’d probably add some fairy lights to brighten things up just a touch, and maybe a few beanbags to hang out and read all the books on. Ooh, and an amazing sound system so we could play some music and have a dance whenever the mood struck. Maybe even a funky disco ball . . .

  Valentina pours fancy bottled water into three tall crystal glasses. I’m super thirsty from the blistering July heat, so I pick up one of the glasses right away and down the refreshingly cool liquid. Summer and Valentina watch as I gulp it all eagerly.

  ‘Aaaaaah! Necked it in one!’ I whisper, muffling a petite burp with my hand.

  Summer gives me the frosty look. What’s up with her?

  ‘Quite!’ Valentina laughs and sits down behind her big desk. ‘So! How much do I adore Summer in the City? The answer is a lot. It’s so “of the now”. So springy and fresh. We love it.’

  Summer and I smile excitedly at each other. This is so cool. They love our site!

  ‘Obviously Summer here is the eponymous Summer of the website. Jessica, can you clarify what role you play in things?’

  ‘Oh, I’m mainly the writer, but I do a bit of community management too – you know, look after the social media and admin-type stuff.’

  Valentina glances at Summer, her brow puckered slightly. ‘Ah! OK! So you don’t actually write any of the content, Summer?’

  Summer mumbles. ‘I, er . . . well . . . ’

  The last time I heard Summer mumble was back in uni when the lecturer asked her a question about one of the assignments I’d written for her. Luckily we were sitting together and I was able to scribble the answer on my Pukka Pad for her to see before anyone realized. She flushes red. I can’t bear it.

  ‘We write together,’ I interject quickly. ‘Totally equal. Isn’t that right, Sum?’

  Summer nods vigorously and swallows before saying, ‘Right, yes. And I’m the face of the site too. And I decide what and who exactly we write about.’

  ‘Great!’ Valentina sm
iles, showing off beautifully white, perfectly straight teeth. ‘I couldn’t be more excited to hear your pitch.’

  So we begin.

  It’s all going well. Really well. Summer is performing the first half of the presentation as planned, and I’m flicking the projector monitor through screen-grabs of Summer in the City and all of our recent analytics. The page that shows our steep traffic climb over the past year elicits a gasp of delight from Valentina Smith, and her tongue almost lolls with pleasure when we show her how many of our product clickthroughs result in a direct sale of that product. Summer is on fire – unwavering and poised. I get a tickle of pride as I watch her talk about our site.

  It’s getting close to my turn to speak. I’m trying to stay cool, but my hands shake a little, something that’s never happened before. Since when did I start getting nervous? I clasp them together to keep them steady.

  You can do this, Jess. Just picture the distant mountains of Peru, the hot bearded boy travellers, the beach parties, a whole new life. You could have it all if you get this book deal . . .

  I take a deep breath, open my mouth and . . .

  Summer doesn’t stop talking.

  My first thought is that I’m trying to jump in too early. I look down at the notes. But no. She’s saying my words. She’s doing my bit of the pitch!

  I cough lightly to get her attention as non-intrusively as possible, but she doesn’t notice, just continues speaking the words I’ve been going over the whole way here.

  What is she doing? I watch her, and the feeling of pride I had a moment ago turns to one of despair. Maybe she’s nervous? Or is she just so in the flow that she can’t stop?

  When Summer finishes up with the excellent joke I wrote about the difference between Flickr and Pinterest, I don’t quite know whether to feel pissed off that I didn’t get my chance to speak or pleased that Valentina hasn’t noticed the hiccup.

  I give Summer a ‘What the hell?’ look when she sits back down, but she doesn’t seem to see me, just smiles serenely at Valentina.

  ‘Great,’ Valentina enthuses, tucking a golden-blonde lock behind her ear. ‘You’ve clearly got a handle on your audience. And your retail relationships are to die for.’

  ‘Thanks!’ Summer smiles. ‘It’s something I’ve taken super seriously.’

  ‘Jess, we’ve not heard from you yet.’ Valentina turns to me. ‘Traditionally a lifestyle book like this is meant for the coffee table. But us old publishing stalwarts have to think about the exciting new digital revolution. How do you think a Summer in the City book would flourish as a digital entity?’

  I stand up, my knees all wibbly. Shit. We didn’t prepare for this question, though it seems so obvious now that we should have. I give Summer a look of terror. She shrugs discreetly.

  Fuck.

  ‘Well, um . . . ’ I cough and push my glasses up my sweaty nose. ‘I . . . I think the best thing to do would be to transfer ideas from the book into all mediums.’ I reach down for my glass of water and take a huge gulp, not quite sure where I’m going with this. ‘Er, as you heard from Summer, we already have quite a good social media following. We could up our YouTube content with spoken extracts from the book or podcast interviews with the designers and establishments we feature?’

  Valentina nods, her eyes slightly narrowed. OK. She’s not trying to kick me out of the room yet.

  ‘With an e-book, we would—’ I start.

  ‘I know sooo many amazing Manchester-based business owners that would be up for featuring,’ Summer interrupts. ‘They’re good friends of mine – it’s a really connected scene. I could call them up and ask—’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think Jess was quite finished,’ Valentina says with a polite smile. I risk a glance at Summer. She’s gone ruby red. Shit. I clear my throat and pause for a second before continuing.

  ‘Um, well, with an e-book we would have the capacity to make the book interactive on a tablet device.’

  ‘Interactive? Super!’ Valentina tilts her head encouragingly. I lift my chin.

  ‘We could embed retail details in the images. Link to video content or even run it from directly inside the book. We could have Facebook comments working as an app through the chapters. Ooh, or we could entitle the chapters with hashtags, so that people who are reading the same bits of the book can have a natter about it on Twitter. Could the images be turned into gifs, do you think? Our audience on Tumblr really love gifs! And we could run snippets of music by the bands we mention. Summer knows loads of bands. Let’s allow the readers to instantly see and hear and buy exactly what it is we’re talking about!’

  I stop, aware that I’m getting overexcited and might not be fully making sense.

  Valentina Smith clasps her hands together and gives me a wide grin.

  ‘Fantastic ideas, Jess. Well done, lovely energy there. Kudos!’

  I give Summer a look as if to say ‘Phew’, but she’s gone pale and is staring at me, her mouth gaping open.

  ‘You know . . .’ Valentina says thoughtfully. ‘We’re having a launch tonight for Davis Arthur Montblanc’s fabulous new novel. Why don’t you girls come along? Meet a few of the Southbank team?’

  We nod eagerly. Wow. Davis Arthur Montblanc’s party!

  ‘Of course, I can’t promise anything yet,’ Valentina continues, ‘but . . . ’ and then she looks straight at me, ‘I think you’d fit in very well here. Very well indeed.’

  Aw yeeeah.

  Chapter Five

  Your attire should always suit the event for which it’s worn.

  Plan as far in advance as possible!

  Matilda Beam’s Guide to Love and Romance, 1955

  Summer’s been dead weird ever since we got out of the meeting with Valentina. I asked her why she didn’t let me say my bit of the pitch, and she told me it was down to an attack of nerves, although she didn’t look nervous at all to me. Then she was quiet and evasive for the entire Tube journey to Carnaby Street. I don’t know. Maybe she’s processing everything. The whole meeting was pretty intense, to be fair.

  She doesn’t even baulk when I pull her into Primark, a place she usually swears brings her out in a polyester rash.

  I pick a nice bright pair of pink feather earrings off a stand.

  ‘What do you think?’ I ask Summer.

  ‘I can’t even begin to explain how much they offend me.’

  I inspect them. What’s wrong with them? How can a pair of pink feathery earrings offend a person? Fashion is even more confusing to me than trying to eat spaghetti bolognese without spilling sauce on my chest. Bugger it. I like the earrings. I plonk them in my basket and carry on through the store, Summer trailing behind sullenly.

  ‘Ooh, look!’ I say. ‘Onesies are three for two!’

  I love onesies so much. What could be more comfortable than an adult Babygro! When I’m properly hung-over, the only thing that will cure me is sprawling across the sofa with an 80s film and two cans of icy-cold Fanta, all bundled up in a onesie.

  I pick up a hooded cow-print one, a leopard-print one with a neon-pink zip, and a plain yellow one, excitedly adding them to the basket.

  We pay for my stuff in Primark and continue walking towards Carnaby Street and a fancy boutique Summer wants to go to. I glance over at her.

  ‘Are you OK, Sum?’

  She shrugs prettily.

  I put my arm round her. ‘You did a really fucking excellent job in there, you know. I was really proud of you.’

  She pauses mid-walk and gives me her look.

  ‘Yeah, I’m not sure Valentina got me. Then again . . . I didn’t exactly have a chance to impress her, with you prattling on about all that digital technological stuff the whole time. What was that? We didn’t agree to talk about that. It wasn’t in the notes you wrote.’

  ‘Oh, Sum, what else was I supposed to do? She asked me a blummin’ question. I totally had to wing it.’

  ‘Right. Well, thank God for clever old Jess!’ she says with an odd smile before walking ahead
of me into the fancy shop.

  It’s after six and we’re back at the hotel getting ready for the Davis Arthur Montblanc party. Summer has perked up a bit: the shop assistant at the boutique – a huge Anderson Warner fan – recognized her, something that hasn’t happened for a while, and gave her a discount on the long black velvet dress she bought.

  ‘How does it look?’ she says now, posing by the hotel bed, hand on hip, one foot crossed over the other, red-carpet style.

  ‘Beautiful. You look really beautiful,’ I say. She does. She’s a five eight-size eight with legs like a baby giraffe and Jennifer Aniston-level toned arms. Her brunette to caramel dip-dyed hair is thick and wavy over her angular shoulders, her big brown eyes are enhanced by perfectly applied bronze shadow and she’s painted her lips a very dark, very chic blood red. The necklace she’s wearing does have a dismembered Barbie’s head on it, though. But it’s from a really exclusive shop, so even though I’m not keen, it’s almost certainly a very cool fashiony choice which everyone will be impressed with.

  ‘What about my arse?’ She turns around to show me her bum.

  ‘It looks wonderful.’

  ‘Better than Carol Vorderman’s?’ She frowns, twisting her head round so she can see her bum in the full-length mirror. Carol Vorderman is Summer’s arch nemesis: the woman who stole 2011’s Rear of the Year award from under her nose and didn’t even have the grace to respond when Summer sent her a tweet that said: ‘Congrats hun, the best woman won :D <3 #rearoftheyear #noregrets.’

  ‘Way better than Carol Vorderman,’ I say enthusiastically. ‘Vorderman’s arse is a . . . a sack of porridge compared to yours.’

  ‘OK, good,’ she mumbles, grabbing her iPhone and taking a series of selfies in the mirror, which she proceeds to post immediately to Twitter and Instagram and Facebook.