Page 47 of Glitterland
“Y-yes.”
“You’re setting the next Rik Glass in Essex?”
“Uh, yes. It’s going to be called…” I waited for inspiration to strike me from nowhere. And, unbelievably, it did. “…The Glass of Fashion.”
“Oh, that’s quite good.”
“Yes,” I said dazedly. “Yes, it is.”
“All right, then. I’ll take a day off and pick you up next Monday.”
I let the phone slip from my hand. In less than a minute, I’d somehow lost control of everything. I’d not only committed myself to attending a fashion show, but I’d claimed to be writing a book about it too. And the pretend book I would never have dreamed of writing even had a fucking title.
No plot, of course.
But it had a title.
I went upstairs to my study and wiped my latest attempt at a decent outline off the board. It was, in all honesty, no loss. I stared at the white horizon, wondering who to kill. A brilliant but hated designer? An innocent young model? An embittered has-been? A prestigious guest? A resentful journalist?
I felt a little dizzy, as though I were standing on the edge of a cliff. But I wasn’t afraid. The vanishing point of the mind’s eye, the locus of the gyre, was whispering to me across imagined waves. It would have been, at that moment, effortless to step onto the breath of the wind and be borne away like a falcon. But it was only mania tugging on the kite string of my consciousness. Glittering promises that were nothing but ashes. Falling, not flying.
I scribbled some notes while the ideas were fresh and, finally, crawled into bed. I had no expectation of rest. But I slept, deep and dreamless, and awoke safely on the ground. No cliffs or quagmires.
12
Essex Fashion Week
Essex Fashion Week was being held at a golf and country club near Chigwell, the sort of place that self-identified as a manor despite having been built in the 1990s. We eased into a gravel-lined car park not far from the main building, which was an inoffensive white square topped by a triangular roof that seemed to want to suggest chalet. Pale green countryside, most of which was golf course, surrounded us on all sides. So far, so chocolate box.
“Ye gods,” said Niall, as a bevy of heavily bronzed women in tiny dresses tottered past on skyscraper wedges. “We’re a pair of pale-skinned brunets in Essex. I think they’re going to burn us like at the end ofThe Wicker Man.”
I nodded. “Or you’ll be whisked off to Room 101 and threatened with an immediate spray tanning.”
“And I’ll say: ‘Do it to Ash, do it to Ash!’”
“But,” I said, in a brainwashed monotone, “I love Essex.”
Niall chuckled, the spring sunlight picked out a gleam of gold in his dark hair, and I suddenly remembered, not so much with my mind but with a rush of unexpected feeling, why we’d once been friends.
We made our way towards the main entrance, following the crowds into which we absolutely did not blend. I tried to ignore the stares. I think people were trying to work out whether we were celebrities or not.
“Follow the orange brick road,” I whispered to Niall.
“I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore,” he whispered back.
Inside, a champagne reception was in full swing. Not wanting to jeopardise my equilibrium or start an argument with Niall, I virtuously declined my free drink. We were in a fairly generic function room, most of which was taken up by a catwalk in the middle and a lavish VIP area. There was a lot of activity over there, the click and flash of cameras filling the air like a chorus of clockwork crickets. Essex seemed to really love its reality TV stars and talent show contestants.
We wandered over to the exhibition rooms, where there were a number of booths belonging to local boutiques, fashion brands, and salons. If I’d ever wanted hair extensions, now was clearly the time.
Niall, on his third glass of champagne, had relaxed enough to charm a very blond, very gay seventeen-year-old and buy a T-shirt which read “Live Young, Die Fast.” He took off his shirt and put it on immediately (much to the appreciation of the seventeen-year-old).
“I can’t tell whether it’s ironic, a mistake, or absolute genius,” said Niall. “But I think I love it.”
“It’s well reem,” avowed the seventeen-year-old, nodding sagely.
Just then came a cry of “Oh. My. God. Babes.” And I turned just in time to receive an armful of Darian. “I didn’t fink you was coming.”
“Neither did I,” I said, when he stopped kissing me long enough to allow me to answer.
