[Here's one I did earlier...]
PROLOGUE
*
Of all the worst days out of my life, this one really does take the biscuit. This particular day wins, hands down, for being the very worst on record. I know, I know, people are always saying that, and harping on about how bad their day was just because they didn't get the extra shot of espresso in their Starbucks that morning whilst nursing a bad hangover, but in this case it really is true.
On a scale of one to ten, i'm talking a minus one. And for the record, I happen to be someone that doesn't even have the phrase 'high standards' in my vocabulary.
Rain pours down my coat, my shirt, and my collar as I shift from one sore, blistered foot to another, hopping up and down impatiently. Even though I'm completely soaked and have a very good chance of getting pneumonia in the morning, I'm still holding my mac over my head as a makeshift umbrella. The only problem is that my very expensive trench coat from Burberry isn't exactly doing a great job as the material is anything but waterproof, which must have been unimaginable to the sales assistant when she sold it to me, the snooty cow.
My idea of heaven would be getting out of my boots and running a nice hot bath with a glass of merlot, blackberry firmly turned off. Possibly. But I've been waiting here like a crazy woman who looks like she's just escaped from an asylum, standing on the edge of the road, waiting impatiently for my phone to ring, so I can get the green light to start heading home. That was half an hour ago. Actually call it 45 minutes.
I can't feel my toes anymore. I'm never buying shoes from Boots-R-Us ever again. I brought these 'authentic' leather shoes last week in the sale, as I had to make up for splurging on my trench. They were half a size too small anyway, but the girl said they would stretch, and that they made my legs look really long, and drew attention away from my 'rather boxy' arms. And I believed her. Of course I did, I usually buy anything that flatters my figure to a very large extent. Not to mention when I got home, I discovered on the inside label that in actual fact they were 'PVC' and 99% Acrylic as opposed to actual genuine leather, that and the fact that my poor toes were being left to excruciating torture as they got withered away to nubs every day, continuing to rub together with every step I took. Honestly, I'm the world's biggest sucker – I'm surprised some wacky old lady hasn't tried to sell me some 'authentic' magic beans yet.
I'm actually standing on the corner of some street in south west London I'm only vaguely aware of, with music pounding faintly from the club below our feet on an otherwise respectable looking street. A few feet away from me is Keira, my 'boss.' I say 'boss' because she's not my actual boss. I'm her assistant, and Keira's the PA to our actual boss, Amanda Rogers. Only now we've both been put in charge of the V-VIP guestlist for this year's annual black and white party, and it's our job to stay on security and check ins until everyone gets here. Most of the guests have arrived and have been seated, and naturally, it's only the guests of honour who are very, very, very fashionably late. The party is being held in a huge cathedral, featuring a huge fashion show and undeniably large catwalk, so not only are we both waiting on the guests to arrive, but the press, editors, fashion bloggers, staff, caterers and models are all waiting on us, and at this moment in time, I'm the only one who seems even remotely bothered.
Keira has commandeered the nearest doorway and is on the phone incessantly chatting away to her boyfriend. They had yet another argument this morning, and judging by the look on her face, she's completely wrapped up in the fact that they're making up – verbally at least. When she's not on the phone with her boyfriend, Keira spends the rest of her free time talking about her boyfriend with whoever will listen – even the sandwich guy, over how much she's so head over heels for Gareth, her boyfriend of approximately one week. Keira has long dark hair, and a wide smile to match, and an oversized laugh to match. Her dark hair is now all ratty in the rain, but she's still bright faced over Gareth.
“Sophia!!” yells Keira, extending an arm towards me, before she presses her phone to her chest briefly. “Any word yet? See anyone arriving? Cars? Limos? Paps?... wow, it's really raining men out here, isn't it??”
This is Keira's idea of being nice to me – saying something vaguely humourous in an effort that I'll collapse laughing and hold her in even higher esteem than she thinks I already do.
“Raining men? Do you even see any men around here?” I call back morosely. “It's just bloody raining!”
I normally love “Raining Men”, “Dancing Queen”... all the classics really, and if this had been any other work night which involved me once again working an event, I would have started humming along to myself, but I'm really not in a singing kind of mood tonight.
I feel physically sore, and it's now starting to creep into my psyche now. I just want to curl up into a soft, small little cocoon and escape from everyone, especially this weather. The subtext of “Men” from the song starts me thinking, Austin was supposed to be working tonight. Everyone was supposed to be on red-eye tonight, but weirdly, instead of being out in the rain, he was probably inside the party, working the crowd, and inevitably saving our arses from guests starting to get I restless.
Anyway, after all those 'you're amazing soph' texts; after promising to be here. I sat waiting all that time, watching the door, even when the other girls, Keira especially, never failed to remind me with every five minutes that passed to give up on him, and that he was way out of my league. He was good looking and boy, was it his golden ticket.
Now I feel like a pathetic moron.
Austin Nicholson works as head of Public Relations and works closely with our creative director, Victoria Hendricks, 'Bitchtoria' for short. We've been out on a few dates and even had a fling since we kissed at his friend's barbecue last summer. Everyone calls him Austin Powers around the office, and lately, it's become an out of office trend too. Nobody says it to insult him of course, it's just become a unanimously favourite nickname, and it's even started trickling down to the other departments. I came up with the nickname for him and blurted it out suddenly one late night when we were both working, but he's never told anyone else how he came to get it, despite being asked thousands of times, so it's become something of a running joke now.
Anyway, he just is Austin Powers to everyone, not because of his sexual prowess I might add, although he has definitely been one of the better ones, but just because I wanted to give him a stupid, inappropriate name, the way I've always been called 'fatty boom boom'. I've been called that since eleven, by friends and family, even people I've not known for longer than five minutes. As embarrassing as this was to suffer, I guess my parents called me this more 'lovingly' than anyone else, and my previous boyfriends felt it was quite funny and OK I had this particular nickname, as it meant they could call me 'fatty boom boom' in a carefree, slapstick comedic kind of way without getting punched in the face every single time. Or at least that's what they thought. To be fair, I've always been pretty chubby as a child, but I was allowed to get away with it just being 'puppy fat.' When I hit my teens, I never really managed to lose my 'puppy fat' before hitting puberty, and with the realization of puberty, hormones, and most importantly, feelings, I discovered chocolate, which was allowed down to 'every girl likes their comfort food.' My gentle curves soon expanded, and so did my waistline, into what I would describe [in politically correct terms, that is] as being very curvaceous and voluptuous. But I always say it rounds out my facial features, and at certain mirror angles, this theory proves true.
[Actually, that's a lie. The fact that I'm round as a rubens does not make my face any different. It doesn't smooth my contours, or make my nose more streamlined, or make my face less round and more heart shaped. That's just me saying these things. Myself and my best friend Kaya, who tells me anything and everything I want to hear so I can be in my 'happy place.' Kaya thinks the world is filled with people who laugh and smile all day, have their eggs sunny side up, and has a particular soft spot for bunny rabbits. She also lives a pretty hippie themed, hedonistic lifestyle which might explain some reasoning behind her logic. But I'm planning on losing weight just as soon as I get around to renewing my weight watchers membership.]
A taxi pulls up to the pavement, and I wait with baited breath; the door opens to reveal a foursome of gaggling girls stumbling out of the taxi in their stilettos as the taxi pulls away again. Great. I shove my blackberry in my pocket miserably and continue scanning the roads for any signs of cars.
It's not just being made to stand out here in the pouring rain, it's the bonuses. Today was the end of the financial year at work, not to mention a Max Azria sample sale today at work, which resulted in me getting nothing but my Manolo Blahnik 'seconds' squished, and ten empty rails staring back at me when I finally arrived at the door, out of breath and panting, not to mention someone yelling 'give up the jaffa cakes!' whilst running towards me with an armful of body con bandage dresses. Everyone was jumping up and down with excitement; the girls with their body con dresses, the guys with their bonus pay slips. It was like Christmas come 10 months early, and everyone spent the rest of the day talking animatedly about what they were going to do with all their extra money or what party to wear the dresses to, with the words 'speakeasy', 'elton john', strip joint', 'tequila', and 'threesome' being thrown around in what all sounded like the same sentence. Keira started looking at brand new 7 inch heels online to go with her dress, Austin started planning a 'boys night out' and started speed dialling what sounded like his entire contact list, not to mention making a 'very important call' to Spearmint Rhinos.
And then there was me. With nada. Zilch. Not because I haven't worked hard [to get the extra bonus pay], or because I didn't want the dresses bad enough, because I really, really did, it's just I once again underestimated that the women in my office will literally kill to get their hands on any kind of high end designer label worth having, and not feel even remotely sorry about it to leave you alone and empty handed in the corridor.
With the extra bonuses, it turns out that you have to have worked for the company for over a year, and I missed it by approximately, one day. One day. The word 'unfair' doesn't even begin to touch at the tip of the iceberg of what I'm feeling right now. It's so corrupt and penny pinching. Don't they realize I live in London? I'll be lucky if anyone in HR actually knows my name, let alone where I live, apart from that weird creepy guy with the black rimmed glasses that's in finance, but that's another story.
I'm telling you, if they actually asked me what I thought about it....
Anyway. No point crying over spilt milk, although I have, several times as a child, of not having anything left to go with my oreos and chocolate chip cookies. No juice would suffice.
Not that Amanda Rogers would ever ask my personal opinion about anything – unless Viva Magazine decided to do a plus size cover spread on the cheap and needed an A-Z index of absolutely everything related with being over a size 6. That's the other thing... I have the worst job ever. Well, obviously, not the worst job ever, but at times I really do feel like I'd be happier scraping up somebody's left over chinese food from the day before or giving some poor child their lunch of lumpy mashed potato and cold rice pudding.
It's embarrassing that I'm known to all my friends as 'the assistant's assistant' – primarily in charge of lunch, starbucks, and knowing the exact name and location of 'that sushi place' or 'that restaurant I went to last week' – making sure I have the correct restaurant out of a 100. Prior to getting the job, and in their excitement, my parents had made up 100 business cards for me and my brand new job, not exactly knowing what i'd be doing, or my position, they figured it must be worthy of a business card as its Viva Magazine. However my actual job title is particularly long, all lengthy and complicated, filled with convuluted words so the title actually sounds like one of actual importance.
I look up to see another car come around the bend, and excitedly, happily, I run towards it like a mad woman, hands waving and flying in the air, but not before a shower of dirty water has hit me in the face. I take back what I said earlier, I'm actually happy Austin isn't here. There's no point in even trying to save my make -up.
From the doorway I can hear Keira, still on the phone chatting incessantly to Gareth, but she sounds as if she's taking things up a notch, murmuring into the phone in a sweet, rather raspy voice. I catch a few familiar words and despite my mood, can't help but do my best in clamping my mouth shut before I burst out laughing. Months and months ago now, Keira ended up flatlining a bit at a Viva party, and at the end of the night, started to randomly confess all her explicit dirty talk secrets. Keira said she uses the same two lines every time, and the boys come purring in her ear, full of manic ectasy with the lines 'my underwear is melting off' and 'you're so damn hot. hot, hot , HOT!'
I mean, come on! Would any guy fall for that????
Obviously, by Keira's record, they do.
Me, on the other hand, I always find myself complimenting the guy. I mean, come on!! My peers, the Keiras, the Amandas of the world, the career go-getters don't have time for all of that. They're the angels with dirty faces, the women who take control, who say no when they want, and do things how they want. They have the mindset where they can think like Chuck Bass from Gossip Girl and screw guys like Samantha Jones from Sex and the City.
“Hey Soph.” I look up to see Keira off the phone, now lighting up a cigarette instead. She comes over, pulls the majority of my trench coat over her own head and gets out her red lipstick.
“Hey”, I say, managing to blink the rainwater off my lashes. “Things all good with lover boy now?”
“He's waiting for me at home, stark naked apparently.” Keira replied, blowing out a perfectly formed smoke ring, watching it intently as it sailed up into the dark sky.
“Keira!”
“What?” Keira looked thoroughly unrepentent. “You know any girl would rather be getting jiggy with it than being stuck out here in the wet and the rain. I look like a wet rat!” She holds up her compact and redoes her mouth in a pillarbox ruby red that makes her whole face pop, and in this light, she looks quite stunning, not that I'm going to tell her that, her ego really doesn't need anymore of a boost.
“So, I'm getting a whole new load of make-up”, she says, looking at the half used container in dismay. “Dior, Chanel, crème de la mer, the whole lot. To go with my dresses of course. Now if only I could decide on what party for each dress. There's so many to go to... I just can't possibly choose... and then there's my diet... but what diet suits each dress best, do you think? Soph? Sophia??”
By this point, I had completely zoned out. I wasn't even in the zone. In fact, I was nowhere near the zone and I didn't want to be. All I wanted to do was get these people in, seated and then go home.
“You OK?” Keira eyes me narrowly. “You want to go inside the party and get a drink. You could find Austin? I guess I could cover for you...if you want.” I looked up at Keira with a stunned look on my face, like a baby deer caught in headlights. Tears almost sprang to my eyes as I realized Keira was actually doing her best to be genuinely nice to another human being. This really was progress.
“Thanks... but it's...it's fine. I could really use a hot drink instead of a cold one, and besides, Austin's probably working the crowd anyway, to make up for all this lost time.”
Keira smiled. “Well, he'll definetely be working over someone, that's for sure!”
Nobody likes a whiner. There's a mantra that hangs above the office door which me and 3 interns share which says 'If you have to cry, go outside.” It's worked pretty well, having been left by one of the PR girls who used to work at Viva. That or reminiscing the horror story about the young girl who accidentally sliced her hand open with a can opener, and as a result, missed picking up for Lagerfeld, Miesel, McGrath, and Testino who all happened to call in the space of five minutes, so needless to say she was sacked immediately and now works for Women's Own.
Keira is silent for a moment, her hazel coloured eyes glittering in the passing headlights and the glare of passing cars.
“you know....” Keira started. I looked up, poised and ready to hear whatever condescending comment she was about to make from her newly painted mouth.
“Things will work out for you.... I think.” She says.
“How can you be so sure?”
“You just have to believe it. I do. I see it. The way you do things, even the worst jobs that nobody wants to do, although you hate doing it, you still do them so perfectly. You still have that drive. For what it's worth, it shows you clearly haven't given up yet.”
I look up at her, and the tears really are starting to show now. “Not for my lack of trying though.” She says as she looks at me and laughs.
Keira's voice is softer now, and I brace myself for my own waterworks as it looks like she's gearing up to say the third nice thing she's ever said to another human being – apart from Gareth, Amanda, and the guy in charge of the sample sales; in her life. I'm in a pretty emotional state at the moment, and if Keira really does surprise herself and me, by saying one more nice thing, that really will push me over the edge – there'll be no stopping it.
Keira's lips are about to move and she's about to say something else where there's a loud noise coming from the door, and both of us turn around, with slightly panic stricken looks on our faces, fearing the worst.
“Hey you guys...” It's Kristen, one of the girls on red-eye tonight, but she usually works with Austin in PR.
“Anyone of you got a spare condom I could use?” She says with a wink and a smile. Her voice pierces my thoughts as she snaps me right back into actually being in my current situation.
“Just in case...” she adds with a seductive grin. “I mean, it is a big one for Viva, and he does have a wife, so we'll probably just end up talking about politics or golf... but you never know!”
I shake my head, whilst Keira roots around her snakeskin clutch to find one, handing it over discreetly.
“Thanks babe! I owe you one! Well, it's probably more than one, but who's counting?!” She kisses Keira on the cheek. “Listen, do you fancy coming round to mine tomorrow night? I'm having some of the other girls over too. I'll make spaghetti carbonara!” Kristen looks at me, her face lighting up before registering there's actually another person standing next to Keira. “Oh hey! Ummm... Sophia is it? Keira said she had some kind of new asssitant! Is she breaking you in alright? Well, this thing... do you want to come along to? Keira's told me how much you love carbs!”
I shook my head, before saying “Actually, I....”
Keira interrupted me before I had a chance to explain to Kristen that a home cooked meal for once actually sounded pretty good, even if it was with a group of girls that would watch in shock as I'd probably end up eating more than two forkfuls and actually finish my portion. I mean, how crazy is that?
“I can't come sweetie, sorry!” She said, Keira genuinely looking upset.
“Why can't you come hang with the girls? What's the matter hun?” asked Kristen.
“Well, I'd love to come hang out with everyone, since Gareth's away anyway... I haven't had a girls' night out in so long, and it really does sound like fun.... but... it's this new bloody diet! You see, it's for the annual MET ball, Amanda actually needs me to go this year! Anyway, I don't eat anything.... and when I'm just about to faint, I eat one quarter of a granola bar. I'm just one stomach cold away from my goal weight.”
Kristen's face looks utterly puzzled for a minute, and just when I almost lost hope in believing there could be someone else working in fashion with a normal, rationalized approach to thinking, she puts her hand on Keira's shoulder and looks her square on in the face.
“Honey, don't worry about it. I completely understand what you're going through. When I was in Paris for couture week, I tasted everything, swallowed nothing. The Laudauree Macaroons were the hardest!”
I keep smiling as Kristen and Keira say their goodbyes, a kiss on each cheek. I walk a few steps away from Keira until I'm back in my spot closest to the pavement, keeping a close eye out for any Limos, Bentleys, or sheer chaos ensuing. I start fantasizing about my own spaghetti carbonara night... a plate of delicious pasta filled with cheese, bacon, cream.... not to mention a nice glass of white to top things off.
The traffic keeps on piling up down the street, and I start to get a bit light headed when I suddenly realize I haven't eaten anything all day, except for some dry crunchy nut corn flakes as I ran out the house early this morning, and it's almost 10 PM now.
Suddenly, my phone starts to vibrate and I answer it quickly.
“Hello? HELLO?” I yell down the phone frantically.
“Sophia? Soph? Yeah hi.. it's Austin. We need you in here. The guests are starting to arrive and there's a problem with the VVIP list.... can you come and take care of this? I'm too busy to do it. Cheers. I'm on the third level upstairs. Quick as you can.”
“But....!”
“Don't worry, Keira can take care of whatever you're doing. So get your bum in here!” Click.
Flustered, I turn around to talk to Keira, but she's assumed her post back in the doorway, her phone glued to her ear. Bloody Gareth. I try to signal to her, but all I get is a wave back at me.
I start to head towards the door when I'm suddenly all too aware of my appearance. I can't go in there – there's no way.... I look worse than a drowned rat. Keira doesn't look that bad – she's been stuck under that doorway for most of the time, and she still looks pretty much put together, now her hair doesn't look so wet.
There must be a toilet in there before I get to Austin and the 3rd level – yes, there is, I remember there's one on the first floor before the boudoir lounge. I slowly make my way inside, tentatively climbing up the stairs as I nod and smile at the guests, hoping they just let me pass without wondering too much what someone like me could possibly be doing here.
As I get to the first floor, I can see Austin, Amanda, and Karen, another editor, looking down onto the other floors and scouring the floor plan – looking for someone. Probably looking for me, but I can't let them see me like this – Austin for obvious reasons, but more importantly, If I ever want any chance of a promotion, it's probably not a good idea to approach two of the most powerful and influential editors in the fashion business looking like you've been dragged through a wet hedge backwards. Not exactly the best sign of showing that you take your job seriously.
I quickly duck into the toilet doorway before Austin's eyes land on me, and quickly approach the mirror, hoping by some miracle I've remembered to bring everything I need in my clutch bag to make me look half decent. I look inside to find a wet, soggy brush, a half eaten granola bar, some change, some keys, and my business cards from mum and dad. Great.
I fix the loose strands of my hair and try and smooth it out as best as I can, and check my make up for any water stains or mascara lines. Fortunately, I don't seem to have any. I smooth out my black blazer and trousers, and check my shoes. This is the best it's gonna get.
I walk out of the toilet doorway and start making my way up the stairs carefully. My boots are sodden and there's no way they're going to last the night. I've lost all feelings in my nubs now and am sure that I will have blisters the size of Italy when I can finally take them off at home. I can feel the heels on my boots about to give way, hoping I can only make it to the top of these stairs...
I look around the second level to realize it's empty, and Austin, Amanda and the rest of their party have probably decided to go somewhere else. I look around, even peeking over the balcony to see if I can see Austin wrapped around some girl on the dancefloor. Just as I'm about to pull out my phone, I hear my name being called, back towards the stairs.
“Sophia!!”
I walk towards the edge of the stairs and see Austin waiting at the bottom, giving me a short wave. He really can look amazing, especially in a suit. The sad part is he's all too well aware of this.
He signals me to come down the stairs, before tapping at his watch and mouthing 'A-M-A-N-D-A! B-A-L-L-S, P-L-A-T-E!”
I start to make my way down the stairs, one step at a time. My phone starts buzzing again. I pull it out to see its Keira ringing me. As I hold my phone to my ear to answer, I'm not sure what's happening. My phone falls out of my hand, my foot skids on the step, and as I start falling, my brain rushes with sheer disbelief.
I've slipped on my stupid, stupid, cheap heel. I'm tumbling right over, down the steps, oh god, oh god, oh my god!!! I scrabble desperately at something, anything, anything to hold onto. I scrape my skin, bruise my hand, dropping my snakeskin clutch, grabbing for anything to steady myself, to break the fall, but no matter what I do, it's way too late for all of that and I can't stop myself as I tumble to the ground.
Oh crap.
The ground's coming straight towards me, there's nothing I can do anymore. All I know is that whatever happens, this is really, really, really going to hurt.
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