Of course, it wasn’t real blood and I knew that, it was some kind of special-effects-department Kensington Gore, against a video loop of the moment in the film when the lift doors open and the blood pours out. But although I knew all that, the dark red liquid that suddenly gushed all along the catwalk looked just like blood and I completely freaked out.
I screamed, I jumped up out of my seat – which was close to the end of a row, luckily – and then I fainted, crashing to the ground in the full view of the entire audience.
The next thing I knew I had woken up on the floor outside the venue with two nice ladies from St John Ambulance attending to me and Frannie bobbing up and down behind them, trying to see if I was OK. I was, but still very shaken and, worse than that, I was hideously embarrassed.
‘Oh God, Frannie,’ I said, when I could speak again. ‘Did everyone see me?’
‘Only the people right next to us,’ she lied, like the friend she was.
I didn’t feel up to going to any more shows that night, so Frannie took me home in a cab and just moments after she left, I had my confirmation that my freak-out had been visible to everyone present. Peter Potter called on my mobile.
‘Well, Emily,’ he said in his most smarmy darling/bitch tones. ‘That was quite a display you put on at Huw’s show just now. What was that all about? Don’t like Thirties evening gowns with plaid shirts?’
I laughed as gaily as I could. There was a pause.
‘So?’ he said, a harder tone coming into his voice. ‘What was all that about?’
‘I don’t like blood,’ I said. ‘I’ve got a full-on phobia about it. I do the same thing if I cut my finger chopping onions.’
‘Are you serious?’ he said, not exactly sympathetically.
‘Yeah, I’m serious. It’s not that much fun actually, Peter, and I dearly wish I could control it, but I can’t. I know people who are like that about snakes and birds, but with me it’s blood.
‘I tell you what, though,’ I added, trying to lighten the tone. ‘It’s lucky I’ve only ever seen The Shining on video, because if I’d seen that river of blood thing at the movies, it would have been even worse than it was today. It really is my worst nightmare.’
‘Making an idiot out of myself at a fashion show would be mine, Emily darling, but each to their own.’
And he rang off. There was no getting away from it, he really wasn’t going to forgive me for not giving him that Nelly gonads story – and Peter Potter was famous for nurturing his grudges.
Not long after, I had another call. A nicer one. My phone beeped to tell me I had a text. It was from Miles and it was very simple: ‘R U OK?’ was all it said.
I called him.
‘You saw me as well then,’ I said.
‘Yeah,’ said Miles. ‘I was actually in that bank of photographers quite near you and I heard someone scream. When I looked over and I saw it was you, it was all I could do not to rush over. Are you sure you’re OK?’
‘Yes, I’m OK,’ I said. ‘I just have this thing about blood. I really, really hate blood.’
‘I understand,’ said Miles. ‘I really, really hate spiders, which is not great when you live in Australia and spend a lot of time in the bush. So you’re sure you’re OK then?’
‘Yes, I’m fine, it’s just the shock and the humiliation, but thanks for checking, Miles, it was sweet of you.’ I paused. ‘I’ll see you in Milan…’
About two hours later I was starting to feel better and was sitting in bed reading my mum’s book, when Ollie called.
‘Darling,’ he said. ‘I’ve just come out of a meeting and heard what happened at Huw Efans. Are you all right? I know about you and blood, you poor thing. That stupid little arse, that’s not big or clever, it’s just poor taste, vulgar shock tactics. That’s why we don’t sponsor him.’
‘I’m OK, Ollie,’ I said. ‘I feel a bit shaky, but I’m fine. I’m in bed. I’m going to sleep soon.’
‘Well, call me if you need me. I’ve got to go to three more shows we’re sponsoring tonight, as you know, but I’ll see you later. OK?’
The next day at the first show everyone was terribly felicitous to me, which just made it all the more embarrassing. The only person who wasn’t being nice about it was Bee.
‘How could you, Emily?’ she was saying. ‘I was so embarrassed. Thank God you weren’t in the front row, that’s one blessing, but couldn’t you have controlled yourself? I know you don’t like blood, but it was only paint or something stupid and what do you think that kind of behaviour does for the image of the magazine? I was mortified.’
‘Give me a break, Bee,’ I said. ‘I didn’t do it on purpose.
I can’t help it. It’s a phobia. I hate blood like you hate,’ I racked my brain for a comparison. ‘Like you hate – losing an advertiser to pure, OK?’
‘Gosh, is it that bad?’ said Bee. ‘I’ll let you off then.’
Then as if it wasn’t all humiliating enough, just when I thought it had all been forgotten, up it popped in Rotter’s column.
Chic magazine stylist Emily Pointer looked anything but when she freaked out at the sight of a little stage blood at Huw Efans’ brilliant show on Thursday. Not what you’d call professional. Lucky for her she had handsome husband Ollie Fairbrother of Slap for Chaps fame to look after her when she got home.
Yep, I thought, as I aimed the paper into the nearest rubbish bin, the little shit really did have it in for me. And he had his facts wrong as usual, because as it turned out, Ollie hadn’t been there for me.
19
After the tension of the London shows it was a relief to get over to Milan and surrender myself to the familiar routine of claustrophobic limo rides, freezing rain, back-breaking waits on hard benches and the various moods of my colleagues. I may have whinged about the shows along with the rest of the fashion pack, but really, I loved them.
Slipping back into that crazy routine was always strangely comforting, and as I looked around the venue of the first show, at all the people in ridiculously high-heeled shoes, carrying handbags that cost as much as the deposit on a small flat, I felt I was back among my own tribe.
As well as all the famous bigshots I was always pleased to see again – Hello Anna, Hello Suzy – there were all the other fashion-shows faces I recognized from season after season, but I had no idea who they were, or where they worked. It was an odd kind of long-term anonymous relationship and it was funny to think that as a regular attendee myself, I was probably one of those known-but-unknown strangers to other people.
I always enjoyed seeing what they turned up in. Oh, I’d think, she’s got a new coat. Or, that’s the same bag she had last season, time for a change. Or, she’s put on weight. You’d see a baby bump one season, notice she wasn’t around the next one and then she’d be back showing off the photos. It was like a weird extended family of total strangers, and I loved it.
Bee seemed to be pretty cheerful on the whole too, which was a good thing, because Alice was whey-faced and monosyllabic to the point where I was almost worried about her. I mean, she was never what you would call easy company, but she had dark shadows under her eyes and gloomed around the place looking like some kind of fashion zombie.
Bee didn’t seem to notice, mainly because Alice snapped into wide-eyed alert mode whenever being addressed by her mighty editor-in-chief, but also because it would have been a terrible inconvenience for her to acknowledge that her star stylist was ill-disposed during Milan, when she needed her in maximum schmooze mode. She was a tough old boot, our Bee.
In the end, though, Frannie and I agreed we couldn’t watch Alice suffer any longer – or, at least, we couldn’t stand being around it twelve-plus hours a day – and we decided that we had to do something about it. We’d snuck off to have coffee with Nelly, who was in town, with Iggy in tow, doing selected shows in her fashion-director-at-large role, and Frannie came back from the counter with a couple of paper straws.
‘Go on,’ she said, handing them to Nel
ly. ‘Emily and I will draw straws for who’s going to ask her what’s wrong and you can oversee it as the neutral party.’
‘I don’t know why you’re bothering,’ said Nelly, tearing one straw in half and concealing them both in one hand so they looked the same length. ‘She’s just a moody cow and a crap stylist, who should leave the magazine as quickly as possible, so Emily can have her job.’ She chuckled loudly. ‘OK, which of you two bleeding hearts is going first?’
We tossed a coin for that honour – while Nelly rolled her eyes – and I took the first turn, pulling out the torn straw.
‘Oh no,’ I said, groaning. ‘Not me. Oh, go on, Frannie, can’t you do it? Please? You’re so much nicer than me…’
‘Forget it,’ she said, taking a big bite out of her panino. ‘I’m not that bloody nice.’
From that point on the pair of them didn’t give me a moment’s peace until I had my ‘little talk’ with Alice. It had just turned into a big game for them – especially Nelly.
‘I tell you what,’ she said to me one afternoon, while we were waiting for Prada to start, and she had been teasing me mercilessly about my forthcoming Oprah Winfrey moment, within very close range of Alice’s ears. ‘I’ll stop giving you a hard time, in fact, I’ll help you do it.’
‘You will?’ I asked, amazed.
Nelly’s cleavage started shaking as the laughter welled up inside her.
‘Yeah, I’ll watch. Reckon I could scalp a few tickets for that. Actually, forget Oprah, we could make more of a Jerry Springer-type show out of it. I can just see it: “Alice – Talentless Moody Bitch”; “Emily – Wants to Help Crap Saddoes”. It would be great television.’
I put my hands over my ears until she stopped.
My big moment finally came the next day, when Alice and I ended up alone together in the limo on our way to the Antonio Berardi show. Bee was tied up in a meeting with the head of Chic International and Frannie was doing an interview with Iggy’s replacement designer at Rucca.
Alice was looking particularly miserable, I noticed, as I snuck a sideways look at her in the car. Even her usual gypsy tangle of vintage and ethnic jewellery, and a fanciful antique lace petticoat and army boot combo did little to dispel the miasma of doom around her. She looked as grey as the Milan sky.
I took a breath.
‘Alice,’ I said. ‘Can I ask you something?’
She turned and looked at me with dead eyes.
‘What?’ she said, with no enthusiasm.
‘I just wondered, um, if you are OK? It’s just that you seem a bit low. You don’t seem quite yourself and I felt I had to ask…’
I petered out in the force of her gaze. There was still no animation in her eyes, but there was a cold malice in there.
‘That’s what you’d like, isn’t it?’ she said eventually.
‘What?’ I said.
‘You’d like there to be something wrong with me.’
‘Of course, I wouldn’t,’ I said, quite taken aback. ‘It’s just that you don’t seem your usual self and I was concerned.’
‘Concerned how quickly you can get my job, Emily?’
I just stared back at her horrified.
‘I know what your game is,’ she said. ‘Ever since you arrived at Chic you’ve been trying to get me sacked so you can swan around with your long legs and your handsome husband and your Sunday salons in Peter Potter’s columns and your great friend Nelly Stelios and her famous boyfriend – and my job. You want it all, don’t you? But you can’t have my job, because I’m not going to let you. And it doesn’t matter how many times you try and humiliate me about Croatia and spreadsheets and with all your clever ideas, you will never ever get my job.’
I started to speak. I had been going to say I didn’t want her job, but that was such a lie. Of course I wanted it – but not enough to try and get Alice the sack. I was just looking forward to the day she decided to leave, like most other people on the magazine.
‘Alice,’ I said. ‘You’ve got me all wrong. I don’t want you to get the sack. I’m not plotting against you. I really can’t believe you think that. And it’s not just me who thinks you’re looking pale, Frannie has been worried about you too.’
She laughed, bitterly.
‘Oh yes, you and your little gang of cronies,’ she said. ‘I might have known you had them in on this too. Well, I know what you’re up to, all sitting in your little office, laughing at me behind my back and trying to make me look bad in front of Bee. You think you’re so clever, but it all gets back to me, you know, Emily. Well, you can all go and rot.’
Then she put on her big black sunglasses and turned her head away from me. I didn’t say anything, because I couldn’t think of anything to say.
It was quite extraordinary, but Alice managed not to speak to me for the rest of the time we were in Milan – and without Bee noticing. She was never what you would call the chatty type, but it was amazing how she totally avoided making eye contact with me, despite our ridiculously close proximity twelve hours a day in the limo and at shows.
Even at intimate PR dinners for eight people she managed never to address me, refer to me, or look at me, without anyone noticing except me. It was very discomforting. Not even Frannie noticed, but then she wasn’t looking out for it, because I hadn’t told her or Nelly the truth about how Alice had reacted to my well-meaning enquiries. I just said she’d told me she was really tired after too much travel and left it at that, partly because I was still in a state of shock about it.
I’d really had no idea Alice felt that way about me. Of course I knew there had been some unfortunate incidents, like the spreadsheet scenario right at the start of my time on Chic, but I thought I’d done my best to defuse all that. I didn’t think she liked me particularly, but I thought she felt that way about everybody.
I didn’t want to tell Nelly what had happened because I knew it would have been foghorned all over town in a moment as a hilarious anecdote, but with Frannie it was more complex.
For one thing it would just have added credence to Alice’s paranoid delusions to have had the two of us exchanging looks about her in the back of the car and nudging each other, which is exactly what would have happened. Because in some ways, Alice was right.
Frannie, Gemma, Janey and I did sit in our office and laugh at her pictures when the magazine came out. We did have running jokes at her expense about stupid things she’d said in ideas meetings. Gemma had even paraded around the office on several occasions dressed in pastiches of Alice’s signature whimsical outfits – gumboots with a gypsy skirt, a ballet tutu with a chunky fisherman’s jumper and a top hat, that kind of thing. Oh, how we’d laughed.
And then, of course, there was the simple fact that I did want her job. Perhaps at some unconscious level I was trying to undermine her, I thought. I didn’t think I was that ruthlessly ambitious, but after years living with Ollie, maybe it had rubbed off on me. He was certainly convinced that I should leave Chic if I wasn’t promoted to fashion director in the next six months and was always reminding me of it.
With Frannie busy with her big profile on the new Rucca designer, Nelly wrapped up in Iggy, Bee obsessively chasing advertisers – she’d lost a couple of key accounts to pure and she was on a mission – and Alice iceberg-ing me, it was adding up to being a pretty miserable Milan season for me. The only nice thing about it was Miles.
He’d been to see me in my hotel room late at night a couple of times and we’d had a few heart-stopping moments of eye contact on our way in and out of shows, then on the very last day, I ran into him completely unexpectedly at the Fiera.
Frannie was away watching the Rucca fittings and I’d sneaked off to our secret café on my own to have a break from Bee’s advertiser mania and Alice’s gamma death rays. I was just deciding what to have when I realized Miles was standing right next to me at the counter. We looked at each other in amazement and I couldn’t stop myself grinning at him like a fool.
‘Hey, Emily,’ he sa
id, pecking me on the cheek, like it was the most normal thing in the world for us to run into each other. ‘How are you doing? Want a coffee?’
We took our macchiatos off to one of the tables and sat there chatting like the casual fashion acquaintances we supposedly were. Really, what was so surprising about a catwalk photographer and a fashion stylist with loads of friends in common having a quick coffee together? Well, nothing, if I hadn’t been hyperventilating and practically swooning off my chair.
Just looking at the way his strong hand circled the cup made me dizzy and when he leaned back in his chair, stretching out his legs and running his other hand through his hair, I couldn’t take my eyes off him. I wanted to bite chunks out of him.
Miles seemed much more in possession of his faculties than I did, but then he always was the classic relaxed Australian.
‘Gee, that Franco Belducci show was a crock,’ he said. ‘Do you think anyone would really wear that shit? They looked like drag queens. Ugly ones.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘No one will wear that rubbish, but they’ll buy the black trouser suits and he advertises with Chic, so we all have to go smiling to the show and I have to use something from that hideous collection in one of my stories in the next six months.’
Miles frowned.
‘You have to use things you don’t even like in your pictures?’
I nodded and shrugged. ‘It’s just part of the business. I do get to shoot the things I love as well, so the crap like Belducci is just a pay-off.’
Miles shook his head.
‘Is that why you have to go out for all those dinners with PRs as well?’ Then he lowered his voice. ‘When you could be having me for dinner?’
I felt my face heat up like my straightening iron.
‘You’ve got it,’ I said.
‘God, it’s bullshitty, what you do,’ he said. ‘And you do it all the time. I only do it for a few weeks a year and that’s bad enough. I think I’d go nuts.’
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