Page 33 of Good Sisters

‘Mummy’s friend Vincent gives me lots of sweeties.’

‘Does he?’ My ears pricked up. ‘Is he nice?’

‘I only know him a tiny bit.’

‘Is he a new friend?’

‘Yep. Mummy says I need to be super-good when he comes over cos he’s a zillionaire.’

Wow, she was some operator, using her kid to reel in a man with money.

‘He has his own plane. Mummy says it’s amaaaaaazing and one day, if I’m really nice to Vincent and show him what a good boy I am, I can go on the plane too.’

‘That sounds like fun.’

Vincent who? I’d have to ask Quentin. He’d definitely know.

‘Does Vincent have any kids?’

‘Two, but they’re not kids, they’re all growed up.’

So, an older guy, then.

‘I hope he’s nice to you because you’re a very special boy.’

Robert grinned up at me. ‘You’re special too, Sophie. Mummy says you can be grumpy, but I think you’re super-nice.’

I kissed the top of his head. ‘Thank you, sweetie.’

How dare that bitch give out about me? The cheek of her! Grumpy, my arse. I was practically raising her son – and doing a much better job of it than she was.

We arrived at the school where Robert ran into the classroom and over to his friends. I explained to the teacher that Jess was picking him up, filled out a permission form, waved him goodbye, then rushed into work to talk to Quentin and figure out who Vincent with the private plane was.

Julianne tapped my shoulder. ‘I can’t fit into this stupid dress. It’s shrunk,’ she whined.

I tried to pull up the zip, but it refused to go past her hips.

Quentin glared at her. ‘Darling, that dress hasn’t shrunk, you just need to eat a few salads or tape your mouth shut after five p.m.’

She gasped. ‘You can’t say that to me. That is not a body positive comment.’

‘Don’t give me that crap. You’re a model, you have to be thin. It’s your job.’ Quentin put his hands on his hips. ‘If you want to eat burgers, go and work in McDonald’s.’

‘How dare you?’ she said. ‘You’re just a stupid … old …’

‘What? Spit it out, honey. I’m just a stupid old fag? Well, this stupid old fag runs a very successful modelling agency and clients don’t want girls with fat arses modelling their clothes. Find yourself another career.’

Julianne yanked the dress off and pulled on her tracksuit. ‘You’re a nasty old prick. I’m going to hashtag MeToo you on my socials.’

‘Go ahead, darling. I grew up as a gay man in Ireland in the seventies. It was pure hell. I can take a little social-media bitching. Knock yourself out. Hashtag the hell out of me.’

Julianne stormed out while the other models – some looking shocked, some giggling – carried on getting ready for the show. I pulled Quentin aside.

‘Quentin, please be careful with your words. You have to be so mindful, these days. If clients hear rumours that you’re body-shaming models, they may pull out.’

‘Body-shaming? Give me a break. She wants to be a model, so she has to be thin. If I want to be a sumo wrestler and all I eat are salads and I’m eight stone wringing wet, is my coach going to clap me on the back and say, “Well done, we’ll put you on the Olympic team”? No, he bloody isn’t. He’s going to scream at me to eat more food. If you choose to be a model, fitting into designer clothes is part of the job. I’m sick of people telling me I can’t say this or that. You can’t have a goddamn opinion on anything any more.’

I understood what he meant. The world, and people, had got very precious. While it was positive in the main that people were being more mindful, sometimes it felt like walking through a minefield, trying to make sure you didn’t say anything that could be deemed offensive by anyone, anywhere.

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