Ollie Quain - She Just Can't Help Herself

Thus far, my interview with Noelle has covered ‘that’ relationship split ( ‘I learnt so much, honey …’) and the possibility she will be launching an eponymous perfume (‘ something dynamic yet delicate, yeah …’). Then we touched on how she felt when she hit two million followers on Instagram (‘hashtag humbled …’ ). Now we’re on ‘fame’.

‘Fame, honey? I guess it means something very different to me, now I am like, famous. Before I thought it meant, well …’ She ponders her answer for a few seconds. ‘… free stuff! I’m kidding. Well, joking aside … it does. But you do have to pay in other ways. The lack of privacy …’ Her voice becomes serious. ‘… is a major cost.’

‘I can only imagine.’

‘Exactly. You’re lucky. You can only imagine the cost. I have to pay and keep pay ing ,’ she sighs. ‘Do you mind?’ She grabs her Hello Kitty-customised mobile from the coffee table in between us and waves it at me.

‘Be my guest.’

She raises the mobile at arm’s length to her face, pouts at it, then taps.

‘Then,’ she continues, ‘you also pay the price of like, responsibility. Knowing my fans look up to me …’ She looks over and then down at them. ‘… see me as a role model, on like a very basic level, want to be me ; it’s important I don’t short-change them. They mean so damn much to me. Every ‘Like’ I get on, like, social media is, like, reassurance that I’m, like, doing okay. I’m like, liked !’

Giddy, grateful whoops are offered from the ‘civilian pen’. I gaze round the room. My hands are clammy. Not from nerves. I’ve done this type of public promo many times before. I used to relish putting Ashley Jacobs on display. But today, I’m not sure who people are seeing. Her or me ? No … her, definitely her. I tell myself I am clamming up because we are having an Indian Summer. It’s the beginning of September but very mild. Last night at the pub, I was wearing Havaiana flipflops. The original white-and-green ones with the Brazilian flag motif, obviously —I wouldn’t wear any other colour. I’m like that with Converse, too: I only wear the classic model; not the zipped ones or the rubber ones or the skate ones or the low pump ones or, heaven forbid, the wedge ones. There should be a ban on all major brands and designers adding wedges to leisure or sport footwear. The ONLY exception being Isabel Marant’s wedge trainer, which is a classic in its …

I realise Noelle has stopped talking.

‘So, Noelle …’

She leans forward. ‘Yes?’

‘You’re erm … now based in the States … that must be … so much going on for you … is it hard to stay grounded?’ This is the sort of question Catherine wanted, wasn’t it? ‘To not change … to be true to yourself?’

‘You would have thought that, but no, honeeeeey. Actually, you know what? If—and it’s an if I hope never happens—I started to become full of myself, I would soon get told off …’ She sits forward and gives me a weird smile. ‘… by my parents. They sacrificed so much to get me where I wanted to be in my career. We never went on holidays abroad and stuff like that so I could go to stage school … even though they hated celebrity razzmatazz. It was because I wanted it. They’re really private people. That’s why I took my nana’s maiden name—to keep t’ingz on the DL. Whenever I see them now, it reminds me how lucky I am. Their support, their love … it’s unconditional. I owe them everything …’ She smiles again. ‘But I guess we all owe our parents that.’

I realise why her smile suddenly feels weird. It’s genuine. It makes me uncomfortable.

I let her blather on. Yadadadadadadadadadadadadadada. I take a sip of my drink and swallow hard. I do not listen to what she is saying, only how she is saying it. This is the longest she has spoken without using that ridiculous accent which travels to Hollywood via a Hackney council estate (apparently, she is from a chocolate-box village in the West Country). I look over at Fitz, the Senior Features Writer on Catwalk, wearing his favourite Friesian-printed sweatshirt by Moschino, embossed with the words: CASH COW. (He dies for a fashionably ironic logo.) He is checking his phone, so I would bet north of a thousand quid he is on Grindr. Or Hornet. Or Scruff. Next to him is Noelle’s agent. She is wearing a Foo Fighters tour T-shirt and a flat tweed cap. Band merchandise with ‘country manor’ millinery? Ugh. Please. Her name is Sophie Carnegie-Hunt, but Fitz calls her Gopher Hag-Needy-C*nt. Hahahahaha!

Am I laughing out loud?

‘Ha! No. No, we don’t. Not at all.’

Noelle peers at me. ‘What don’t we do?’

‘Pardon? I didn’t say … anyth— … I …’ DID I? The room is suddenly so quiet I can hear my watch ticking. It’s vintage. I reckon seventies. It has no designer name on it. The face is huge. Big faces are so in now though, aren’t they? I mean, look at Gigi Hadid’s. She’s made a fortune out of hers.

Okay, THAT was funny.

‘Wasn’t it?’

‘Wasn’t what?’ asks Noelle.

‘What you were saying.’

‘I wasn’t.’

‘No, you weren’t. But what I was about to say was …’

I realise I am not in control. And this feels odd because I am Ashley Jacobs. She is not so much a control freak … more of a control drone, remotely operating herself to enter, attack and win over all areas of life always with great success. Being like that has enabled her to get everything she has ever wanted, by herself. The job she wanted. The flat she wanted. The clothes she wanted. The cat she wanted. The husband she wanted.

Whatever she wants to do, she gets on with it and does it. She does not churn it over in her mind. There is no cogitation. No procrastination. No deliberation.

Shit.

‘Like, so ?’ Noelle rolls her eyes at her agent.

‘So …’ I swallow again. ‘Your book! THE BOOK! Yes, that book. Tell me … Why? ’

She smooths down her fringe. ‘Mmm … well, gaaaaad. Obvz, it was because I had to. I wanted to take some control back. Some one some where writes some thing about me every minute of every day. There is no way I can see all of it, even with Google alerts. I mean, I’d be spending all day reading about me, and not being me. No one should suffer that kind of life. So, I thought, you know what, I will give you and them … me. ’ She beams earnestly at those closest to the podium. ‘Hence the title, This Is Me. And it is all of me too. I don’t hold back. You probably think that’s like, crazy. Surely, I would want to keep at least part of ‘me’ to myself? It’s not like I have much left to give, but it wouldn’t have been me, then. The real me …’

As she talks, I focus hard on her mouth moving, so I don’t roll my eyes too. Because all I can hear is bullshit. I know that if everyone else in the room was listening individually to what she is spouting that is what they would be hearing too. A gushing fountain of brown (which will NEVER be the new black! EVER!) bullshit. But we’re in the bubble, aren’t we? No one has any perspective. Not her. Not us. Not the kids in the pen. Even though we all know that Noelle is not the Noelle in This Is Me. In my meeting earlier, I wasn’t me either. I was pretending to be someone else.

‘Surely?’ prompts Noelle. I’m not sure how many times she has said this.