Page 38 of Did My Love Life Shrink in the Wash?
The compliment is sincere and lifting and I smile back.It’s super comfy too and has pockets, but he doesn’t need to know that. I turn the corner to a huge empty set lined with lights, white walls and lines of dancers in unitards and heels rehearsing some pretty complex balletic moves.
‘We didn’t warm up,’ I whisper to Giles, who luckily finds that especially funny. My senses are overwhelmed by all the activity, but Joe seems to take it all in his stride. I’ll credit that to manic days sitting around Emma’s kitchen.
Special K sees us and runs over, excited. I still have a soft spot for this girl’s energy and excitement. I’ve also heard some of her lyrics and they seem to be more focused on her experience as a youth, her struggles, as opposed to being about sex and sex and more sex. Today, the theme still focuses on shredded denim – but I will admit to coveting her yellow Nike Blazers and voluminous hair. As soon as she sees Joe, she puts her arms out to carry him.
‘I can’t believe you’re here. Hello, Mummy. Hello, little man.’
I hand him over and watch as she engages with him. I like the lack of divaness, the grace of her manners, which I’m under no illusion makes me sound ancient.
‘He is so beautiful. I am glad we tracked you down again.’ I follow as she walks over to hair and make-up and sits down, balancing Joe in her lap.
‘It’s our pleasure. And congratulations, things have gone a bit mad for you, eh?’
She widens her eyes like that might be a complete understatement but smiles broadly too. A wardrobe person comes over and presents her with a different top; it’s shiny and revealing and she looks at it briefly and shakes her head.
‘Talk to Giles. I don’t want my breasts spilling out as part of this video. He knows this.’
Giles signals from across the room. I pick up on a bit of tension, as does Joe, so try to divert, noticing a book on the dressing table in front of her. It’s Sylvia Plath’sThe Bell Jar.
‘This yours?’ I ask her.
‘Yeah, have you read it?’ she asks.
‘I have. I recommend it to my A-level students. I have an alter ego as an English teacher.’
Her eyes seem to light up at this point. ‘Don’t you love how it doesn’t conform, how it’s got this amazing feminist streak running through it that women don’t have to be defined by traditional roles?’
I laugh mainly because literature-wise I haven’t been able to focus on anything more than a takeaway menu for months. Joe looks up at her animated face.
‘I love the way it parallels her real life too,’ I tell her. ‘What else are you into?’
‘I like Zadie Smith.’
‘Who doesn’t?On Beautyis brilliant, have you read it?’
‘It’s on my TBR list,’ she says, rocking Joe. ‘Isn’t it Joe Joe?’
A person behind Kimmie starts adding product to her hair and Joe watches in wonder. That is not the bird nest bun that I am used to seeing in the mirror. I sit and watch as a make-up artist puts finishing touches to her face and rubs a brush on Joe’s nose to make him giggle.
‘And Beth, this is Zahra, she’s our baby wrangler,’ says Giles, appearing next to us. I laugh a bit too heartily until I realise that’s a thing.
‘Oh yeah, sure. Lovely to meet you.’ I shake her hand wondering if that’s what she writes down in the occupation box on forms. She’s basically a sheepdog for little people. I hope she has a crook and a whistle that only my baby boy can hear.
‘And this is Yasmin, who’s going to be heavily involved. There’s quite a cool narrative where she’s an Amazonian street warrior handing over the baby. Like Beyoncé meets Wonder Woman. There are all these symbols for youth, innocence and female empowerment in the room. We are birthing Special K into the music industry,’ Giles says.
I would like to say that I am trying to take all of that in. But I am stunned into silence. Blah, blah, youth, innocence, blah… For me, the most important part of that sentence was at the beginning.Yasmin?She stands there looking like Tina Turner in a gold headdress, legs up to her armpits. There is a moment of hesitancy as she looks at me. Then comes the moment we realise who the other is.
‘Yasmin, this is—’
She cuts him off before he can draw breath. ‘We went to school together, didn’t we?’
Shit.
I say shit. No fucking way is more appropriate here. You see, this is Yasmin King. Of all the people in the world, bloody Yasmin King? There’s a lot I can tell you about Yasmin. She’s the same age as me and for the past ten years has made her career out of modelling. She was never a catwalk model but open your Next catalogue around New Year’s when all the sales come to the fore and she’ll be there in a lavender fleece or caressing a leather sofa. Occasionally, her face adorns something slightly more highbrow such as cosmetics or high-street fashion but that’s as much as I’ve ever seen her in. I know this because Yasmin King has been a model all her teenage and adult life and the reason I know this is that she started modelling when we were at school. Together.
You’re here? Now? And how have you not aged? Or changed?She has the same mint-green eyes, mahogany-coloured hair, honey-toned complexion, non-existent waist. It’s like she’s been set in formaldehyde since our teens. She was one of those girls who was in all my lessons and for some reason, they always sat me next to her in an attempt to separate her from her bitchy troublemaker mates, and thereby flatten any notions of self-esteem I had about my looks. We did English literature together. I’m having flashbacks of her copying an essay I wrote for our coursework.I owe you, she said afterwards, and stole my best biro. She got a A- for that essay. I got a B+. Go figure.
I haven’t seen you since our final year ball. You were dressed in Lipsy. I think I wore something that was a tenner in the H&M sale. I got so drunk I went around telling everyone how cheap my dress was. You were horrific at that ball. I know because I caught you shagging some lad in a stairwell and was so drunk I went back into the hall and told everyone about that too. I wonder if she remembers that. This is not a happy reunion or a chance to reminisce. However, she certainly piques my curiosity. She was one of those girls at school who were an urban myth, a source of speculation and gossip in the corridors. I’d heard all the rumours: she’d got into porn; shagged Mr Baker, the design tech teacher; nearly burnt down the PE sheds.
