Ollie Quain - She Just Can't Help Herself

She walks out, en route rubbing my shoulder with about as much sincerity as Naomi Campbell’s anti-fur campaign for PETA. I stay seated. We have never had a conversation like this in the entire time I have been at Catwalk. We started at the same time. Her at the top. Me at the bottom … an intern.

It took me two years to be offered an internship at the magazine. I lost count of the times I sent in my curriculum vitae, each time including an elaborate missive about the power of fashion to Polly, (then) the Editorial Assistant. I rang her too. But my letters and calls were never returned. Thinking back, it was a stupid thing to have done—going down the ‘this is me’ route. Polly had a double-barrelled surname and by listening to her answering machine message you could tell she bled Malbec. There is always at least one Polly type on the staff at all magazines. You just have to pray that she is not in charge of sifting through the CVs, as all of them are notorious for only giving work experience to their own people. Or rather, ‘peeps’. After I had clicked that this was the case, I sat down and wrote a fresh CV with a few mild embellishments.

First up, my surname. I went from Ashley Atwal to Ashley Jacobs. I chose Jacobs for no other reason than it also belonged to Marc Jacobs—who the magazine were ob- sessed with back then and were very likely to always be. Next, I said I lived in Fulham. Benenden School in Kent was where my education had now been spent ( literally —their website said it cost over twenty grand a year). My hobby was importing beads from Thailand, which I sold on the Portobello Road. I bought a Pay As You Go mobile so my number was different from my original application—and sent it off. Polly called me within a week. Within a fortnight I started.

Today, Catherine deigns to delight us with her presence until 3.36pm. Everyone else leaves two and a half to three hours later. By quarter to seven, it’s only Fitz and I in the office. We’re sitting at his desk, flicking through the new issue which has just been delivered from the print house. He sticks his head over the top of the partition to check we are alone.

‘She’s in seed, isn’t she? Ogilvy …’

‘How did you know?’

‘She was on the San Pellegrino at the launch, she’s rearranged the party date and I totally clocked some bloat in the features meeting. Thought she’d been overdoing it on granola. But no, another being has taken root in her womb. So Sigourney Weaver! Does she need another one? It pisses me off how women who make a personal choice to have so many children have a ricochet effect on other women—and men!—who work hard because they WANT or NEED to, enforcing them to work harder with no extra pay … whilst the breeder continues to be rewarded with their higher salary on maternity leave, which pretty much amounts to a paid holiday. And one which when it officially finishes, doesn’t actually finish … because their work share will continue to be offloaded to other staff during half-term and other school holidays, parents’ evenings, and random departures from the office when precious has fallen ill or off their pony …’ He flops back into his seat. ‘… or quadbike. Don’t you think?’

I shrug and stare down at my lap. I am wearing a pair of Rag & Bone ripped and faded jeans. They are skin tight. I’ve worn denim like that since I was teenager. My mother always wore a pair of voluminous dungarees, even though she was smaller than me. They made her look like a farmyard cartoon character. That look put me off non-snugly fitting denim for life. Whenever bell-bottom flares or a sailor-style cut reappear in the collections, I say no.

‘That said,’ continues Fitz, ‘at least with Ogilvy out the way for a few months, we might start getting some decent material in the mag again. Don’t you think this issue is even more vanilla than the last? There’s not one piece I was excited to see in print. Your column is funny, naturally, but the subject matter … I mean, seeeeeeriously, Jacobs, you shrew. I used to DIE for all of it.’ He flips the issue open at my page and runs his finger down it. ‘Latex as daywear, Russian doll surgery, grime chic, Caroline Vreeland and the rise of the multiple-threat Insta girls —okay, fair enough —but knuckle tattoos, stylist lexicon, spike epaulettes, the new mephedrone and e-cigs? E-cigs? I am choking! But I am deffo not dying!’

Even I cringe. ‘Catherine wanted the topics to be more mainstream.’

‘And you didn’t argue the toss? We’re playing too safe. There’s no grit. We’re turning into the magazine equivalent of Miranda Kerr; looks fabulous—no denying that—but the personality, well …’ He sucks in his cheeks. ‘I find it astonishing that our sales haven’t slipped.’

I shrug again. ‘Yeah, well … they haven’t, so …’ I sigh. ‘Anyway, does it matter?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘Or rather, do we matter anymore, Fitz? We put out one magazine every month to share our collective views, but each one of our readers has a way of expressing their unique point of view in every single moment of every day. Our generation was the first to grow up with the Internet—we were meant to be in control of it, but we’re not. And it’s going to get worse. I thought it would affect us, but we could never have predicted this … I am starting to feel like what is the point ? Is there a point to it? Us? ’

Fitz leans back and eyes me as he chews the end of his biro. ‘Woah! Where has all this come from?’

‘They’re trying to prick us from the outside, you know,’ I mutter. ‘We’re not safe in the bubble.’

‘O -kaaaaay. ’ He laughs. ‘I’ve got two qwezzies for you, Jacobs. The first is not one I like to ask anyone, as it always gets misconstrued, but, are you okay? I’ve been concerned. Ugh. There. I’ve said it.’

‘Why are you worried?’

‘I said, ‘concerned’, not worried. Worried would imply this is about you. But this is about me.’ He raises an eyebrow at me. ‘Recently, you’ve not exactly been full of the joys of Spring/Summer or Autumn/Winter. ‘I’m concerned because how you are acting is affecting my general enjoyment in the work place. The truth is, you’ve been behaving in a peculiar fashion. Not fashionably peculiar. You have been and are being … boring. I can see a pattern of said banality forming both in the flesh and online versions of you. Your Instagram account used to be a relentless and shameless exercise in showing off without ever quite making you look pleased with yourself. No mean feat. And as for Kat Moss, she could have been the new Choupette! In person, you haven’t instigated a round of the I DIE FOR game in an age and now this … questioning the essence of who we are? We are fashion, Jacobs. Don’t ever question that. Something is definitely up. Where has my vicious shrew gone? Spillez les haricots, pronto.’

I crumple a piece of paper in my hand. I am acutely aware that it could be considered odd I have not told the person I am closest to (other than my husband) that I am in the middle of a separation. Indeed, that the ‘process’ is already at the stage where our legal representation are conferring and are sorting an ‘arrangement’. But it’s not as if I have lied, I’ve simply been airbrushing the truth. I throw the crumpled-up piece of paper at Fitz.

‘I’m perfectly fine.’

‘Prove it, then,’ he says. ‘Prove you are not a fun sponge.’

‘How?’

‘Come to a party next Saturday. I introduced myself to Frédéric Lazare’s painfully fit PA at Noelle’s launch. Get this … he’s called Jesus! Talk about if the cap fits … if He is the Second Coming, it was well worth the wait. Anyway, he told me, Lazare’s having a twenty-four-hour bash next weekend at his penthouse on the river. Expect a crowd of acerbic fashion whores off their tits on whatever dirtbag narcotics they can get on speed dial by tapping their acrylic fingernails against limited-run chrome Samsungs … then dancing the night, following morning and possibly the next arvo away to a re -lent -less disco beat. In other words, it’ll quite possibly be …’