Sean’s studio occupied the entire second floor of a canal-side warehouse close to King’s Cross. All white-painted brickwork with a glossy concrete floor, tonight it had been filled with silver helium balloons which were bobbing up at the rafters. The biggest, tethered above the huge metal-framed windows, read SEAN50. When Roxanne, Serena and Kate arrived, the room was already bustling.
There was a pop-up bar, manned by almost laughably handsome young men. Roxanne recognised them as new faces at one of the model agencies she used regularly, and Serena and Kate scuttled over to say hello. Other fledgling male models patrolled the studio, joking and flirting and carrying trays laden with glasses of champagne. At the far end of the room, a DJ was playing mellow tracks.
‘Hi, sweetheart,’ Sean said, having made his way towards Roxanne and given her a heartfelt hug. ‘Sorry about your awful day. Are you okay?’
‘Oh, I’m fine – don’t worry about that now. It’s your party! It looks fantastic in here …’
He grinned. ‘I’ll give Louie his due, he pulled out all the stops.’ Sean paused and appraised Roxanne’s appearance. ‘You look drop-dead gorgeous tonight, babe—’
‘Thanks, darling,’ she said, glowing now as Serena strode over to greet him, followed by Kate. Soon a cluster of new arrivals were descending upon him too.
‘Let me grab you girls some champagne,’ he said.
‘Oh, don’t worry about us,’ Roxanne said quickly, feeling buoyed up already by the jovial atmosphere. ‘We can sort ourselves out, can’t we, girls?’
‘We sure can,’ Kate chuckled, indicating the stunning young waiter who was gliding towards them.
‘See you in a little while, birthday boy.’ Roxanne kissed his cheek and stepped away, leaving him to welcome the stream of newcomers, and accepted a glass of champagne from the waiter gratefully. Naturally, Sean would be busy playing host tonight, which was fine by Roxanne; she was used to them each doing their own thing whenever they were at parties together. She could hold her own in social situations and had no desire to cling to him, limpet-like.
With Serena and Kate at her side, she milled around the studio in a flurry of kisses and hugs; Sean’s crowd were an affectionate and demonstrative bunch, forever greeting each other with cries of delight. As Roxanne had expected, she knew almost everyone here. ‘Daniella, hi! Sadie, hi, sweetheart! Angelo – so lovely to see you …’
‘Oh, you look stunning, Roxanne,’ enthused Jarek, a hairdresser she worked with regularly on shoots. ‘What a fabulous dress! Is it vintage?’
‘It is, yes …’
‘You always find the most perfect thing …’
She thanked him and moved on. Make-up artists, hairdressers, models, photographers, stylists, PRs and agents … they were all out in force, filling the studio with chatter and boisterous laughter as the music grew louder and more champagne was swigged. It wasn’t long before Roxanne began to feel quite light-headed. She was drinking too quickly, trying to shake off the stress of her meeting with Marsha. She really needed to slow down. One more glass wouldn’t hurt, though, and she’d be sure to eat plenty and drink some water.
She took another glass of champagne from a tray and went in search of food to soak up the fizz. Bypassing the seafood bar, where piles of oysters glistened on ice, she made her way to the Indian street food stall where a glamorous young woman with her hair tucked into a crisp white hat was handing out paper cones of puffed rice. ‘This is bhel puri,’ she explained. ‘Would you like some?’
‘Ooh, yes please – it looks delicious.’ Roxanne tucked into her cone with a wooden fork, noting that the light and spicy rice was proving especially pleasing to the fashion crowd, most of whom tended towards the determinedly skinny. Roxanne, who had settled at around a size twelve, feared for their bones sometimes. Sean’s agent, Britt Jordan, looked as if she might snap. Even her back – which was entirely visible in a tiny grey sheath of a dress – looked starved, with all the nodules visible. You could actually count the vertebrae. Roxanne was sick to death of carb-avoiding these days. She tucked into a second cone of bhel puri and washed it down with her champagne. Who could blame her? It had been a horrible day, the sort that needs its rough edges smoothed by something chilled and delicious, and this particular vintage was doing the job extremely well.
‘Hey, Rox, you’re looking good, darling!’ Britt had glided over towards her.
‘Thanks, Britt. So are you. Isn’t this great? I hear you had quite a hand in the organising …’
‘Oh yes, I had to, or we’d have been sitting in the pub with a dish of dry-roasted nuts.’ She laughed huskily. ‘But he’s loving it, isn’t he?’
The two women glanced over to where Sean was holding court with a group of younger men and women by the DJ booth. Everyone was laughing and sipping champagne. ‘I think he is,’ Roxanne said with a smile, genuinely happy to see him enjoying himself.
Britt turned to her. ‘All that not wanting a big fuss … it’s all show, isn’t it? Who wouldn’t want a gorgeous party like this?’
‘Yes, you’re right,’ Roxanne said, surprised that Britt was spending time with her. A notorious networker, she usually flitted from one potential client to another, eager to make contacts that might benefit her roster of fashion photographers. Roxanne booked Sean regularly, as she had before they were seeing each other, so there was no need for any schmoozing where she was concerned.
Britt’s expression turned serious. ‘Um, I hope you don’t mind me saying, but I’ve just heard your news …’ Roxanne frowned, uncomprehending for a moment. ‘About Tina Court being brought in over you,’ she clarified.
Oh, right, cheers for that! ‘It’s not really like that,’ Roxanne said quickly, trying to take a sip from her glass before realising it was empty.
‘Isn’t it? Because Sean said—’
‘No, it’s just a sort of restructuring,’ she explained, prickling at the fact that they had discussed it at all. Of course, they were friends; Britt had represented Sean for many years. But, still, Roxanne wasn’t thrilled at the thought of being gossiped about.
‘Really? Why are they doing that?’
‘Erm, I guess Marsha wants to bring in someone with a strong fashion background as hers is more, er …’ Roxanne trailed off. What was Marsha’s area of expertise again? Diets. Celebrity diets, at that. All made up, of course; Roxanne knew from inter-office gossip that she used to harangue her interns into writing any old tosh. ‘She’s more health-focused,’ she added carefully.
‘But she has you to produce the fashion pages,’ Britt was insisting now. ‘Oh, it’s awful, Roxanne. So insulting. Everyone’s gutted for you—’
‘Everyone?’ Roxanne’s face seemed to freeze as Louie, Sean’s assistant, landed beside them clutching a large glass of red wine.
‘Yeah, we can’t believe it, Rox,’ he said, glancing around as they were joined by Johnny, a make-up artist who was also clearly in the know.
‘I admire you, I really do,’ he announced, enveloping Roxanne in a hug.
‘I don’t know what for, Johnny,’ she said with a tight laugh, disentangling herself and grabbing another glass of champagne as a waiter glided past.
‘For putting on a brave face tonight,’ he exclaimed.
‘Oh, I’m not being brave – I’m fine, really. I’m having a great time—’
‘We’re all amazed you’re here at all!’ added Dinny, a fashion editor from another magazine who had popped up seemingly from nowhere. She clamped a hand around Roxanne’s wrist. ‘If it was me, I’d probably go into hiding …’
‘Or throw myself off a bridge,’ quipped Johnny.
What? ‘Honestly, it’s not a big deal,’ Roxanne said, a shade too loudly as the DJ had misjudged the end of a track and the music stopped abruptly. ‘And of course I’d be here for Sean’s birthday.’
‘Well, you’re very stoical!’ Louie gushed.
‘You show them, Rox,’ Britt added. ‘You poor, poor thing. It’s so demeaning for you …’
‘Erm, would you excuse me for a minute?’ Roxanne hoisted a rigid smile, still catching snippets of conversation as she strode away. She really had to escape from this group, before she drowned in a pool of pity.
‘She should get her CV out pronto …’
‘D’you think she’ll resign, or what?’
‘Christ – I would …’
And worst of all: ‘I suppose she has been in that job a terribly long time …’
As Roxanne wended her way through the crowds, she tried to emit an aura of quiet dignity. She gulped her champagne and glanced around, looking for someone to talk to who wouldn’t go on about Tina Court joining the team and her own career being truly up the spout. Perhaps, she thought bitterly, she could gather everyone around to decide which bridge exactly she should hurl herself off? If only her old friend Amanda was here – but then, this wasn’t her sort of party at all. After her stint as a magazine publisher’s receptionist Amanda had retrained as a primary school teacher; i.e., got herself a proper job. The parties she threw were casual affairs with bunting, sausage rolls and cheap prosecco in her kitchen or unruly back garden.
What was the big deal about Tina Court anyway? Amanda taught children to read and write – she helped to shape their futures – and here Roxanne was, despairing just because someone new was being brought in to oversee the fashion pages and drag them downmarket. She stood for a moment, sipping her now-lukewarm champagne, aware of an unpleasant tightening sensation in her chest.
Fashion Guilt, that’s what it was. It had happened before when she was trying to pull together a cover shoot and a PR had sent the wrong fake fur jacket for the model to wear. Roxanne had been moaning to Kate in the office when a little voice in her head (the Fashion Guilt voice) hissed, ‘You watched Syria being bombed on the news last night. And you’re sitting there, nibbling your Pret a Manger sushi and drinking your coconut water and grumbling about a fluffy jacket?
Wondering what to do with herself now, Roxanne found herself back at the Indian street food stall. She wolfed another cone of bhel puri, then regretted it immediately: all that puffed rice seemed to be swelling up inside her. Uncomfortably bloated, she stood tall and tried to hold in her stomach. No sign of Serena or Kate, and Sean appeared to be busy, still surrounded by friends, filling the studio with his wonderful infectious laugh which she had loved from the moment she first heard it. She would go over to join him soon, but right now it felt better to give him his space. She caught his eye, and he smiled. How handsome he looked tonight in a crisp white open-necked shirt and smart dark grey trousers. She didn’t mind in the slightest that legions of younger women were perpetually clustered around him. That was what it was like, in this sort of world – just harmless flirting. Roxanne was overcome by a rush of pride in him, and almost wished she could fast-forward to the moment when they were home together, undressing and tumbling into his bed.
However, it was only 9 p.m., and there were hours to go yet. Aware of her tipsy state, Roxanne fixed her gaze on the area of floor in front of the DJ booth. She inhaled deeply, reassuring herself that she was perfectly capable of holding her own as she strode towards it and started to dance.
That felt good. She could sense any remaining tension floating out of her pores, dissipating into the fragrant air, as she started to move. Never mind yoga with its slow pace and emphasis on breathing; Roxanne had one of those restless minds, so was it any wonder she found it so hard to concentrate in eagle pose? This was far more her sort of thing. As the music filled her consciousness, she no longer cared about Marsha or whether Henry from the flat below would be banging on her door to tell her off again for the lingering burnt smell. Stuff all that, she thought, closing her eyes and swaying her body, barely aware that she was the only one on the floor.
Roxanne had always loved to dance, right from when she was a little girl; back then, no one had known as she’d done it in secret, in her bedroom, having put on one of her favourite records to mask yet another of her parents’ monumental fights downstairs. As she’d twirled on her faded floral carpet, she had ceased to hear them at all.
An escape, that’s what it had been back then in Rosemary Cottage – just as it was now. There was something magical about music, the way it could transport you to some other place. With her vast collection of crackly old jazz records, her neighbour Isabelle understood that too.
Roxanne caught the DJ’s eye and he grinned at her. He had a full, bushy beard, as was mandatory amongst a certain breed of twenty-something males right now. What would happen when the fashion was over? she mused. Would the companies that made all the necessary beard oils, balms and pomades – she wasn’t entirely sure how these products differed – go out of business?
The track ended, and she was seized by an urge to hear something from way back, something she had danced to as a little girl in her bedroom in the eaves.
Another track started but it wasn’t right: all this music was all too esoteric. What the DJ needed to play was … what was it called again? Heck, it was her absolute favourite, she’d danced to it a billion times and now she’d forgotten it. She wobbled slightly on her black patent heels and pushed a slick of damp hair away from her face. Across the room, Serena waved and gave her an everything-okay? sort of smile, but Roxanne didn’t really register it. She was too busy approaching the DJ, trying to explain over the pulsing music, ‘D’you have, er …’
‘Sorry, love? What was that?’
She frowned, trying to flick back through her mental Rolodex of songs that had meant so much to her as she was growing up. The DJ was peering at her in a bemused sort of way. ‘I can sing it for you,’ she yelled at him. ‘Can you listen for a minute?’
‘Aw, don’t worry, darling,’ he said with a patronising smile, as if she was an old lady who had just biffed him with her wheeled shopping trolley.
‘No, no, I’ll remember it if you let me sing the start. Could you turn your music down, please?’
He laughed and shook his head. ‘Sorry …’
‘I remember it now! Dancing Queen by Abba. D’you have it?’
The DJ sniggered again. ‘No, love, it’s not really my kind of—’
‘You must have!’ she begged. ‘It can’t be a party without Dancing Queen …’
‘Oh, you reckon?’ The young man grinned.
‘Could you at least have a look?’ She wobbled on her heels and clung to the front of his booth as if it were a swaying ship.
‘Off you go and dance,’ he urged her. ‘You’re a great dancer. Pretty impressive moves, you’ve got there …’
She peered at him squiffily, wondering if there had been a trace of sarcasm in his voice. No, she was just being paranoid, and no wonder – it had been a terrible day, so of course she’d drunk too much and was feeling sensitive. But what the hell? She was tottering off now and dancing, still on her own, feeling happy and light and not caring that Sean had just thrown her a concerned look, and was shaking his head and muttering into someone’s ear, or that she was one of the oldest women in the room.
Sean waggled his hand to beckon her over but Roxanne just laughed and turned away. How boring he was, never venturing onto the dance floor. Age didn’t matter one bit! Britt was beside her now; skinny, sexy Britt, who Sean reckoned to be around forty, although no one was sure and she refused to divulge her age.
Roxanne glanced back at Sean and cried, ‘C’mon, it’s your party! Come and dance!’ He just gave her an inscrutable look and disappeared back into the crowd.
Now more people had joined Roxanne and Britt on the dance floor: Johnny, Serena, Kate, Louie and a couple of new girls from Roxanne’s preferred model agency. They were all dancing and whooping, hair flying, and nothing mattered to Roxanne anymore. Not until she glimpsed a new arrival who was looking around expectantly. Marsha! What was she doing there? Sean didn’t even know her. Roxanne stopped dancing and stared, realising now that Marsha hadn’t come alone, and that Tina Court was hovering at her side. Tina, who’d been hired as the new fashion-director-in-chief! Roxanne had seen her at enough events to recognise her, even in dim light. She was a tiny woman, bird-like with pointy features and brows plucked to the point of near-invisibility. Her long, straight black hair hung in a glossy sheet, and her wincingly tight outfit comprised a shimmery cobalt blue dress with a silver belt and towering nude heels. Marsha was still wearing the same cream shirt and dark skirt she had had on all day. Now the two women were laughing together as if enjoying a particularly hilarious joke.
Roxanne glanced around wildly for Sean, seized by an urge to demand to know why they were here. Okay, so Britt had probably pulled together the guest list, but Sean must have been involved at some point. He’d have been happy to delegate responsibility for the bar staff, the DJ and drinks – but not who was coming. Maybe Britt had insisted Sean invited Marsha, with her being an editor of a glossy magazine now? Roxanne supposed that made sense. But why Tina – the one Roxanne was apparently being so brave and stoical about? Her blood seemed to pulse at her temples as she watched them accept drinks from a waiter and gaze around as if they were utterly entitled to be there.
‘Okay, Rox?’ That was Serena, gently touching her arm.
Roxanne flinched. ‘Yes, I’m fine …’ She tried to carry on dancing, realising how terribly drunk she was now, and aware of several glances in her direction. She needed water or more of that puffed rice. It was too hot in here, that was the trouble; lately, her internal thermostat seemed to have gone haywire. She tottered away and stepped outside, onto the red metal fire escape where she inhaled the evening air. From here, she took in the view of London; it was unusually warm, even for late May, verging on stuffy. Perhaps a storm was brewing.
Further down on the steps, a couple of models were smoking. Usually, Roxanne didn’t mind the smell of cigarettes. She had been a smoker herself until she had finally managed to quit last year, after visiting Della and feeling like an idiot, puffing away on the pavement outside her bookshop with virtually every passer-by stopping to say hi. But now, as the girls’ cigarette smoke plumed upwards, she felt queasy. She looked out again over the city she had loved with a passion since she had arrived here at eighteen years old, and felt nausea rise in her.
Back in the studio, she scanned the vicinity for Marsha and Tina, keen to avoid bumping into them. They were nowhere to be seen. A waiter glided towards her with a tray laden with more glasses of champagne. ‘Thank you,’ she murmured, knowing it was the last thing she needed, but since when was champagne about need?
As she took a sip, a familiar voice floated above the hubbub: ‘Yep, Roxanne’s definitely here. I spotted her dancing like a nutter a few minutes ago.’ That was Marsha – and what did she mean by that? Roxanne whipped around to see her, still with Tina at her side, turned partly away and facing the seafood bar. A fresh wave of nausea rose in her stomach, and for a moment she feared she might be sick.
‘I thought she might not turn up tonight after your big announcement,’ Tina replied.
‘Of course she has,’ Marsha retorted. ‘You do know she’s seeing Sean, don’t you?’
‘You’re kidding!’ Tina gasped, still clearly not registering her presence.
‘No – honestly, they’re a couple. Everyone thought it’d just be a fling, ’cause you know what he’s like …’
‘Oh God, yeah,’ Tina murmured.
‘But apparently those days are over,’ Marsha crowed. ‘They’ve been together a while now …’
Roxanne’s throat felt dry and sour. Fuzzy with booze, she felt incapable of confronting them or even wobbling over to talk to them and making any sort of sense. What was Sean like exactly? What the hell was she implying? Sure, he’d dated plenty of women during the lengthy periods between his serious relationships – but there was nothing wrong with that, and she’d never heard that he’d treated anyone badly. She frowned, trying to fathom out what Marsha and Tina had meant. Of course, the fashion business was rife with gossip, most of it widely overblown or patently untrue.
Roxanne sipped from her glass, feeling quite desolate now after having her dancing and her boyfriend criticised, virtually in a single breath. Kate was waving from the dance floor, trying to coax her to join them. However, Roxanne wasn’t really registering her.
‘I thought everyone knew about them,’ Marsha added.
‘Everyone apart from me, obviously,’ Tina exclaimed with a high-pitched laugh. ‘Always last with the gossip. God, though – Sean and Roxanne Cartwright? That’s hysterical …’
Roxanne stood for a moment, clutching her glass which she might once have termed half-full but was now most definitely half-empty. She turned away and placed it on a windowsill. However, being made from uneven bricks, the windowsill was too wonky a surface for the glass to rest on without toppling. Topple it did, landing with a smash on the concrete floor, causing a momentary hush as Roxanne turned and ran out of the room.