‘OK, ROBIN, LET’S DO this!’ Natalie smiles at me and I follow her through the huge glass doors into the studio’s atrium. I’ve been looking forward to this high-profile job for ages, absolutely thrilled that Natalie’s invited me to assist her, and I’m going to give it my best. I want to prove to Natalie that I’m serious about my work for her and appreciate everything she’s letting me do.
Clive Fitz is a world-renowned fashion photographer, and he’s been flown in from LA to work on Glamour magazine’s spring fashion editorial. It’s clear from the get-go that he really thinks he’s something else.
There’s a whole team of us on board to make ten of the UK’s most coveted models look even more beautiful and intimidating than they already are. Looking around at the size of the team, this is my biggest job to date and I can feel butterflies in my tummy. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this excited and ready to get stuck in. The two stylists are having an argument about whether exposed hems are the next big trend or not.
‘They’re so raw, Elissa,’ one of them shrieks.
‘I just feel like they’ve been done, Cassy,’ the other snipes back, threatening every stylist’s worst nightmare.
Focus, Robin. This is your chance to show Natalie what you can do.
I look across the studio at the runners who are supplying the models and Clive with everything they could ever wish for. The PR girls are running around with their clipboards, headsets and barking voices, and the light guys, equipment guys, hair guys and other nondescript guys are all looking super-stressed and super-busy.
It’s a big shoot in a big, shiny, London studio with impossibly high ceilings and a warren of side rooms for hair, make-up, food tables. Natalie and I are holed up in the make-up room with signature light-bulb-framed mirrors and swirly chairs. As I step into the room, I feel a buzz of excitement. I always feel surprisingly calm and in control in this environment, and Natalie and I move together in synchronised motion. Here I know what I’m doing and I am exactly where I need to be, part of an ace team of two. We have arrived early to unpack the kit and catch up on our lives. I love chatting with Natalie, but sometimes it feels like a masochistic act. Maxwell has just achieved eleven As in his GCSE mock exams. Her life is perfect and together, and being around her makes me question if I’ll ever get to that point. The point where I’ll have the guy, multiple littles playing at my ankles, a golden Labrador and the perfect house in the village, on the corner, with the cherry blossom tree at the front. But she also shows what a determined woman can do when she sets her mind to it. I can’t help but adore her.
The first beautiful model walks in and places herself in my make-up chair without speaking a word or looking up from her phone. I busy myself, moving my tools around, pretending like I’m not waiting for her to finish her message. There’s something soothing about seeing all your brushes laid out in order, clean and untouched, ready to work their magic. Suddenly Clive swings his head round the door with camp vigour and in a forced American accent shouts, ‘Naaatural glaaamour! I want them to look vivacious! Hollywood! Full-lipped, doe-eyed beauties! Minimal, though. Nothing false. Classic. You know, you know …’
Hollywood glamour isn’t normally approached with minimalism in mind, but after a quick chat we set to work sneaking on natural-ish powdered eyeliner and tinted lip balm. Clive seems pleased (we presume; praise isn’t really his style, but Natalie tells me the powdered eyeliner was a ‘genius’ idea and I felt like I was floating, I was so proud), and very few touch-ups are required. It helps that each model is the living embodiment of perfection. God, I wish I hadn’t eaten that second cronut (though at least now I don’t feel as hungry as a lot of these models look).
After ten hours of creating the perfect look for each girl, doing touch-ups on set and helping the hair department aim the wind machine while being subjected to Clive screeching, ‘Hold it! DON’T MOVE!’, Natalie and I are packed up and off for the night. It’s a two-day job and we’re staying at a nearby hotel, so when she suggests a few drinks I jump at the opportunity.
Lyla is with her dad, probably enjoying some angel cards and a documentary on Indigo Children, and I feel pumped after a day on set. Granted, the Grey Goose vodka going round after 3 p.m. has also helped. For once I’ve managed to push The Emptiness completely aside.
It doesn’t control me.
I pop into the hotel room to slip on something glitzy, realise I have nothing at all glitzy so opt for my trusty emerald-green flowing skirt and a black wrap-around top with sheer sleeves that Piper picked out. Something about the sheer black fabric makes me feel special. It’s a maxi skirt, so nobody cares about shoes and I just throw on a pair of ballet pumps from New Look. Bangles and earrings on, a final swish of lip gloss and I plod downstairs to find Natalie.
She’s already there waiting for me, and she looks like an absolute bloody vision. How did she do that in ten minutes flat? She’s transformed herself from her typical working uniform of black jeans, white cotton tee with her hair wrapped up in a Gucci silk scarf to effortlessly chic city girl in a soft beige shift and gold slingbacks. I look down at my flaccid sheer sleeves. If I didn’t love her so much, I’d definitely hate her.
WE HEAD DOWN TO one of Natalie’s familiar haunts in Covent Garden. She regales me with stories of how she and Martin used to go out for dreamy dates round here all the time before their boys came along (she’s just always been cool), and as we descend the concrete stairs to the bar, I can feel the stresses of life slipping away, along with The Emptiness. Simon texts me some pictures of Lyla playing in the garden, I’ve just aced it at my job, I’m about to have drinks with an amazing woman and I’m not wearing leggings – things are good.
It’s been so long since I’ve done this!
Loud music and the sound of cocktail glasses clinking give me a warm fuzziness in my stomach (again, though, it could just be the vodka). We nab a table, peruse the menus and order some drinks and nachos. As the prosecco flows, so does our conversation.
Natalie has formed a committee in Hopell Village to restore the local lake and bring it back to its former glory with grants, fundraisers and whatnot. Wow.
‘Oh, Robin, it’s going to be great fun. We’re going to host outdoor cinema nights and community barbecues come summer,’ she chimes. ‘You and Lyla must come!’
How does she find the time to do all these things? Honestly, I call it a win if I’ve got all ten nails painted and have picked Lyla up – and not necessarily on time. I suddenly realise that I may never be the Head of the Lake Restoration Committee and disappointment sinks in – even though it’s not a position I previously knew I wanted. To put a firm stop to this negative train of thought, I excuse myself and pootle to the bar to order more fizz. The bottles aren’t being put in ice buckets today, instead they’re being served in ice-filled wellington boots. Of course they are. The bar apparently likes to mix things up in a ‘kooky’ way, so sometimes they switch out the champagne buckets for other ‘hilarious’ containers. It’s all very jovial and I try to blend in with the young professional crowd who seem unfazed by the shoe-shaped vessels.
I pay for our bubbly, pop my bag under one arm and clutch the slippery welly in my other hand. I prance off in the direction of our table, thinking that maybe, just maybe, I might make it as Assistant to the Head of the Lake Restoration Committee. Only the prance is more full-on than I plan and before I know it, the bottle has tipped up and Prosecco is pouring out onto the floor. Oh, hell! I quickly bend down to retrieve my welly, which has now lost all integrity and is flopping all over the shop like some kind of jellied eel. Robin Wilde, everyone: the biggest klutz in London.
I stand up flustered with sticky hands and – oh, my sweet Jesus, there he is.
The most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.
His thick, brown, wavy hair tickles his cheekbones enough for me to notice how glossy it is. Is it salon-fresh? Why does it smell so good? Stop smelling him, Robin! I look up and his eyes smile at me like they know just what I’m thinking. Oh, God, I hope not. He’s perfection, dressed in a well-fitted suit like something straight out of a fashion house, and I notice I’m gawking at him. Gawking with my flaccid wellington boot, my soggy shoes and my soaking sheer sleeves.
Say something cool. Say a thing that showcases what a creative, coherent go-getter you are, Robin:
‘My welly was wet and it slipped.’
Amazing. Ah-mazing.
‘Ha! I bet you say that to all the men you launch drinks at,’ Mr Perfection leans in to my ear to reply and I get an actual shiver down my spine. Fuck me, I’m in love. There’s no two ways about it. I’m actually in love. Without missing a beat, he says, ‘Let me replace that for you, perhaps with something that’s not served in a shoe.’ He orders who-knows-what from the bartender and I burst into apologies.
‘I’m so sorry about your shoes, I didn’t mean to get sticky fizz all over them. I mean, it was the welly that did it. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha – drinks in a welly!’ Chill out, Robin, you sound insane. Less manic, more, well … anything other than manic.
Before I can behave like even more of an imbecile, two sweet-looking ruby-red cocktails arrive and he’s leaning over to cheers with me. I glance over to Natalie. She winks, blows me a kiss and turns back to her menu, more than confident to sit alone.
‘Here’s to our ruined shoes and your beautiful face.’ We clink our glasses and I swoon, internally this time. At least, I think it’s internal – I’m struggling to decipher the difference between what I’m saying in my head and what I’m saying to him out loud.
‘Honestly, I’m so sorry. I was carrying too much, and—’
‘If wet shoes are all it takes to be able to talk to a woman like you, I’ll have them. I saw you walk in with your friend and hoped we’d have the chance to meet, so the shoes are a small sacrifice to pay.’
Wow. That was smooth.
‘I’m Theo Salazan,’ says Mr Perfection, offering his hand for a cordial handshake.
‘Robin Wilde.’ Please God, let the lighting be trendily dim enough to hide my red cheeks.
‘So, other than being totally bloody gorgeous, what else do you do, Robin?’
‘Well, I’m a make-up artist’s assistant, and we’re on a shoot this week so we’re in London and thought we’d just have a couple of drinks to—’
‘No, I’m not asking you what you do for a living. I meant what excites you, what do you get up to, what makes you tick?’
When he asks this question he looks only at me, eye to eye, and I feel like nobody else is in the room. The music is quieter, the lights are softer, it’s just me and my cocktail and this rather enchanting man.
Feeling buoyed by the attention of the most charming man in the room, and boosted by the alcohol already in my bloodstream, I answer as coolly as possible.
‘Creativity makes me tick. Making something myself. Seeing my ideas come to life,’ I say, leaning in close to his ear to be heard above the music. Fuck me, that was impressive.
We talk for what feels like forever. I’d popped over to ask Natalie to join us but she simply smiled and said ‘You go, girl’ and left to give Martin a call. I find out that Theo is thirty-four, was born in the Cotswolds but now lives on the Thames and works in property. He’s out with some of his senior team celebrating a big acquisition, but he’s not feeling it. He’d rather be at home catching up with Peaky Blinders on Netflix, and it’s at this point I suspect he’s my soulmate.
As the conversation develops, so does the chemistry. Little arm touches from me, a brushing of my hair out of my face from him; he is gentle but in charge. He’s taller than me, so I have to look up and I can’t help but notice his lips, and I don’t think I usually notice other people’s lips. They’re really good lips. Yes, I’m in love. I am head over wellies in love.