Ollie Quain - She Just Can't Help Herself

OLLIE QUAINhas written for a variety of the UK’s top music, fashion and lifestyle brands. Having toiled at this media coalface since the late nineties, she now lives in Ibiza … but pops back to London regularly to inform anyone who will listen how ace it is over there. She Just Can’t Help Herself is her second novel. The first, How To Lose Weight And Alienate People, is also available and – despite not winning any awards – is a rather good read.

Follow her on Twitter and Instagram @olliequain

To Eddie. The purriest. The furriest. The greatest.

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About the Author OLLIE QUAIN has written for a variety of the UK’s top music, fashion and lifestyle brands. Having toiled at this media coalface since the late nineties, she now lives in Ibiza … but pops back to London regularly to inform anyone who will listen how ace it is over there. She Just Can’t Help Herself is her second novel. The first, How To Lose Weight And Alienate People, is also available and – despite not winning any awards – is a rather good read. Follow her on Twitter and Instagram @olliequain

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Dedication To Eddie. The purriest. The furriest. The greatest.

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Copyright

ASHLEY

Of course, there are times when I think to myself, ‘WHAT AM I DOING?’ But when you work in fashion, it’s essential that every so often you do to try to retain some perspective. After all, in this industry we have a tendency to lose ourselves when witnessing a ‘moment’. From the arrival of Karl Lagerfeld’s cat on Twitter to the return of the consciously unkempt eyebrow, it’s easy to get over-excited about stuff when everyone in the ‘bubble’ is ramped up too. I know a blogger who had to breathe into a paper bag when Balmain announced a diffusion line for H&M. It can get pretty ridiculous. But no one questions this ridiculousness out loud. If they have to, it is to an audience of one. (This guarantees the option of total denial later.) Because there is a rule: don’t prick the bubble. It mustn’t burst.

‘I want to feel the true essence of Noelle during your interview …’ my Editor, Catherine Ogilvy, gushed at me an hour ago in the foyer of the hotel, shortly before the main party was due to start at 3pm. ‘She is such an alluring dichotomy of sophistication and quirk. The designer’s muse who was happy to ‘sofa surf’ on arrival in New York … paying her hosts in ‘styling tips and personal artwork’. But let’s overlook that makeover show she presented, the one for the ugly teens …’

‘It never existed. All tapes have been destroyed,’ I dead-panned, trying to decide whether a) I liked Catherine’s pussy-bow-neck silk polka dot blouse and b) if I had time for a quick (private) drink in the lobby bar. Just to take the edge off. I’d come straight from a non-work-related meeting.

‘… of course,’ she added. ‘You must touch on that break-up, which Noelle handled with such bravery and fortitude.’

‘That relationship only lasted three months, Catherine.’

‘They were en route to marriage.’

‘No, he was on tour with that painful emo rock band he plays with, Barbed Wire. So called because anyone with ears would clamber over all forms of skin-lacerating high-security metal spiking to avoid one of their shows.’

She giggled. ‘Tsk. Come on, that poetry she wrote after the split was very dark. Real inner-demons stuff.’

‘Yeah, she’s like Sylvia Plath for the Snapchat generation …’ I muttered, and looked over Catherine’s shoulder to check my hair and make-up in the mirror behind her.

Both were as they should be, ie, not too done. I never like to appear as if there has been a deliberate focus on getting ready, even if there has. Crimes Against Fashion No. 9: continual obvious use of a ‘ glam squad ’. Guilty: Rita Ora.

‘… well,’ I added. ‘Thank goodness Noelle managed to get over the worst in time for Coa- fucking -chella. Heartache and purposefully frayed denim have never worked well together.’

‘And neither does being clever with not exactly Mensa-eligible celebrities. No messing about tonight with Noelle. Just remember why we’re all here: to get a better understanding of the woman herself in order to celebrate the launch of her book …’

By ‘her book’, Catherine was referring to This is Me by Noelle Bamford. Not exactly a traditional autobiographical tome, this cobbled-together collection of text-message screen grabs from Noelle’s sycophantic pals, Polaroids taken on shoots, fridge-magnet life advice, the odd stanza of the aforementioned poetry (only made just literate by a hapless copy editor) and a guide to her favourite hip hang-outs … had resulted in a £400,000 publishing advance. I said we should swerve giving the book anything but minimal attention in the magazine. Even better, we should be seen to be choosing to ignore it. Catherine disagreed, calling the book a ‘zeitgeist moment in celebrity-slash-fashion-slash-self-reflexive publishing’ and a) offered to co-sponsor a launch party alongside the design house, Pascale, who make the perennially popular ‘Noelle’ tote-style handbag, which was everything Noelle was not: chunky and useful. And far, far worse b) asked Noelle to be on the cover. And almost un beara bly c) invited her to be our Guest Editor too.

Catherine clocked my expression.

‘Don’t be like that, Ashley! You know that now more than ever the fashion magazine industry has to indulge in some vigorous back slapping. Actually, that should be cupping, no?’ She laughed, but when my expression did not change, she wagged her finger at me. ‘Word of advice, Ashley … you need to stop taking things so seriously.’

I hated that she had a point. I hated that I was aware of doing this a lot recently. I’m a fashion journalist, reporting from the front row not the front line. I needed to lighten up. But first, I needed that drink.

So I had one. Then another. And now, here we are. At five to four in the elaborate Renaissance-style function room of the Rexingham Hotel in London’s West End. Noelle is wearing an A-line pinafore dress, shirt with a Peter Pan collar and her signature shoe, the brogue (which she has paired with—I swear —pompom socks). I am in a white top and skintight grey leather trousers. I have had the latter for years. The former, a recent purchase. Originally on Net-A-Porter at five hundred quid, there was no way I could justify buying it. I didn’t even try. The first sale price of £299 prompted me to make a pros-and-cons list, but the biggest con on my list (both figuratively and literally) was the first round of fees from my solicitor. Finally, the top dipped below two hundred pounds and I pounced. Or rather PayPal-ed. Was it still wrong to spend that much on deconstructed cotton viscose mix with raw edges? No. Two words: Alexander Wang. Right?

Anyway, Noelle and I are sitting opposite each other on an elevated podium surrounded by white lilies and expensive candles in front of a carefully collated audience of fashion insiders, hipster celebrities and the cooler journalists from the broadsheets and Sunday supplements. Slick waiting staff have been on hand since the doors opened, offering the guests trays of elderflower blinis and mauve macaroons (the canapé equivalent of a pompom sock) to match the pastel-purple cover of Noelle’s book. The blinis were disgusting. They tasted like … hedging, so I had a couple of vodkas (on the rocks with a splash of grapefruit juice). Also in attendance are some of Noelle’s fans, who have won their invitations by entering a competition on her app. They are properly young. The sort of age where they would have no appreciation of Galliano’s fifteen years for Dior. Only a vague memory of a fifteen-second BBC3 news story on his sacking. I wonder if they have ever bought a copy of Catwalk. I wonder if they have ever bought a magazine.