Low Expectations (26 page)

‘I give up. I need fags, food, more fags, a bitch and a break. How does a greasy Chinese takeaway sound to you?'

‘Super!' I say manically, feeling like a mechanical toy suddenly wound back up.

As we wait for our food, Julian explains with animated irritation everything that has gone wrong this season, which is, it seems, a lot. The problem with being a perfectionist, an idealist and genuinely good at your job, is that you will
rarely find satisfaction in it, being too consumed with endlessly finding flaws. Julian is of this temperament, but has a sense of humour. Trigger does not and has been using him as a scapegoat and verbal punching bag.

‘Basically, I think Marco told him something about that dick pic business and now he resents me. Trigger's not the warmest of guys but about a month ago – poof! – it was like I'd gone from teacher's pet to gum on his shoe overnight. Fucking Marco! If I am fired just before we start showing in Paris, shit will go down, man!' Julian's attempts to sound gangster rarely succeed and this failure is compounded when he adds camply, ‘Hell hath no fury like a designer scorned!'

‘Whatever happened with that? I thought you were worried Theo might find out,' I say a bit guiltily, realizing that I've been so self-consumed over the past month that I haven't bothered to enquire.

‘Do you know, I actually did the thing I least expected myself ever to do. After I'd acted like a defensive, jumpy spastic for about five days, Theo confronted me and I told him the truth! The complete truth! Can you believe it?'

I can't. In the long history of emotional fuck-ups within my friendship circle, I don't think that this simple solution has ever actually been tried. Half-truths, white lies, omissions, yes – but confessions? Those have always been considered as something best left to deathbed agnostics.

‘That's so brave! How did he take it?'

‘My fear was that he wouldn't believe me, but he did, immediately! Apparently when I lie my eyes go flat like a shark and he can always tell. I mean, he was upset of course, but he said that I'd been acting so strangely all week he thought it could be something far worse. He went to his mum's for tea and sympathy for a few days. I had to endure a hideous seventy-two hour period convinced he wouldn't return. We had a beautiful heart-to-heart when he came back and he claims to have completely forgiven me, though I haven't had a Sunday morning breakfast-in-bed since, so I think he's still holding out on me a little bit.'

‘You got weekly breakfasts-in-bed? Christ, you're spoiled. Marry that man!'

‘Well, I did propose,' Julian says lightly as he grabs his take-away baggie of Kung Po Chicken and rice from the counter, a warm sparkle in his eyes belying the archness of his manner.

‘No way! Oh my God! Did he say yes?' I jump up and down in a ridiculously clichéd display of feminine excitement.

‘He said he'll think about it. I'm going to do it again, properly, sometime after the show, I'll plan something really extravagant to win him over. I gave a pretty little speech but I didn't have a ring or anything. So I am going to do it properly next time'

We walk back to the studio talking about what the ideal proposal and wedding might be. Julian favours the ostentatious; a hot-air balloon ride in the countryside, passing over a
field that has ‘Will you marry me?' picked out on it through flattened stalks of wheat (this idea is dismissed as having creepy crop-circle, matchmaking-alien connotations). He has also looked into hiring a band to perform as he serenades Theo under the windows of his Golborne Road workshop with their song, ‘That's How Strong My Love Is' by Otis Redding. I must admit to some surprise that it is not either an impossibly hip electro track or, alternatively, Madonna.

Personally, I would prefer something less public but nonetheless dashing, like a spontaneous elopement to a random destination with only the clothes on your back and your passports. Holes are picked in this otherwise brilliant idea due to the vacuum of romance that are airports, the inevitable frustration that would result from having wedding pictures featuring hastily bought, local tourist-monstrosity clothes, the practical issues with finding an English-speaking pro-gay-marriage priest to officiate, anger of friends and family at being excluded and the possibility that the only tickets available might be to Albania via Ryanair. Not that there is anything wrong with Albania, but there are sexy countries and there are countries that may be perfectly wonderful but nonetheless conjure visions of underage sex trafficking.

Julian finally admits that due to financial constraints and Theo's hatred of scenes he will have to tone it down, but wants to do something very special and do it soon. As he is completely overworked for the next few weeks (after the
show he has forty-eight hours off then sales and production begin, a whole new circle of hell), he doubts he will find a solution straight away.

Back in the studio, we wolf down our meals and then are back to work until midnight, as Schrödinger is obliged to reimburse taxi fares if we miss the last train home. While stingy, this also works out fairly well as the only true all-nighters are likely to be the two days before the show next Monday afternoon.

When I get home, I trudge into the kitchen with grand plans to make myself a second dinner to eat out of nervous stress. However, Stacy's presence guilts me into putting the kettle on for a pot of camomile tea, possibly the most prudent beverage in the history of the world and as such one I usually despise.

‘All right, Stacy? I haven't seen you about much recently.'

Stacy is sitting on the kitchen countertop opposite the sink, her head leaning back against the cupboards, her crossed leg swinging jauntily as she nurses an organic cider. Wearing only a worn-in grey Ralph Lauren polo shirt that comes down practically to her knees and I presume (hope) pants; her hair is mussed and her eyes are bright.

‘Fantastic, darling! Super!' Stacy smiles brightly. ‘How are your projects going?'

‘Oh, you know, fine, I'm back at Schrödinger for a week to help out and then it's back to the grindstone.'

‘How exciting! That's nice that they thought of you to help them out. How much are they paying you?'

I am so unused to her girlish tone that I say, ‘Nothing,' my shoulders flinching in anticipation of some cruel jibe.

‘No! Really? After taking time off in your final year to help them? Surely you must at least be gifted something for your time. A dress or a handbag?' she insists with wide, innocent eyes.

‘I doubt it. They have lots of interns you know, if they did that for everyone it would be kind of unsustainable.' I think back to the time when, feeling dissatisfied with some of his earlier samples in the archive, Trigger had instructed us to throw them all away, chopping them up first so that no one would be able to fish them out of the bins to wear or sell them. Many of the garments still had swing tags on them with their wholesale prices. It's an odd feeling, taking shears to something worth upwards of £2,000, but it was judged necessary to protect the brand identity.

‘Well, that's a shame. You deserve more. Still, I suppose you know when all the sample sales are …' She trails off, as we both reflect that even at discounted rates, all this really means is that you are paying your own, hard-earned-elsewhere money back into the company for which you toil for free.

‘That I do. So, things are going well with Cosmo, I take it?' The kettle whistles its readiness and I pour the hot water slowly over my tea bag.

‘Yes.' Stacy smiles happily and I am once again shocked by the transformative powers of love. This is how one should feel in a relationship. Not bored, tethered and resigned. ‘He's upstairs, out like a light. I couldn't sleep. He told me he loved me on New Year's Eve, you know.'

‘That's wonderful! I'm not at all surprised.'

‘I wasn't so sure about him at first. Well, I liked him of course, but not so much more than all the others. But when I was away over Christmas I realized that I actually really do care for him. I haven't said I love you back, got to keep him on his toes a little. But he's taking me to Paris next weekend and I've planned to show him my favourite little spot in Parc Monceau and tell him how I feel as the sun sets.'

The words are uttered in such a totally unexpected tone of wistful romance that I choke and sputter out my gulp of tea, which sprays all over Cosmo's shirt.

‘Oh shit! Sorry, sorry! That sounds lovely, Stace, really romantic. Shit, sorry about the shirt, I hope it doesn't stain,' I apologize.

‘Oh, that's all right, I'm not terribly fond of this. I'm just wearing it because it smells like him. Tell me, fashion girl, why is it that these brands find it necessary to scale up the size of their logos times ten? So vulgar.' She picks at the giant Man On Horse Swinging Stick, which is about three times the size of her dainty left breast.

‘Arabs and Russians, I suppose.'

We both stare into the distance contemplatively, sipping our respective drinks. I am knackered but Stacy looks like she wants to continue this rare little chat and I feel obliged to respect the rapprochement in our relationship.

‘So, things are going well with Leo, then?' she asks. It's weird to hear him called by his real name.

‘Oh, I don't know. “Well” is such a strong word …'

‘Oh, dear. That doesn't sound promising. I thought you said that what he lacks in character he makes up for in lust?'

‘Did I?'

I can imagine myself saying this, just not to Stacy. Maybe we had a conversation when I was pissed and then I forgot about it. Who knows, maybe we have an entirely different, really close connection that I've blanked out. Maybe these midnight chats are a weekly occurrence. Maybe we're best friends.

‘He does have a good beard. I was sure that looks and sexual chemistry were enough for me, but I've recently had doubts about my staunch superficiality and it's kind of thrown me,' I muse.

‘That's good! That's progress, right? You can't just keep falling into bed with people hoping that their facial hair will satisfy you emotionally. So who is the other man?'

‘The other man?' I start guiltily. Perhaps Stacy is psychic. How can I have lived with her for so long while knowing so little about her?

‘If there wasn't another man, you would be in love with Leo, wouldn't you? Nothing turns a woman's head so much as a lack of other contenders and regular sex. You'd see his flaws in a different light and magnify his good qualities until he fit some romantic idyll.' Stacy is very matter-of-fact. I wonder if this is because she has fallen into this trap herself or just judged other people for doing so.

‘That … could be true.' I have definitely experienced that in the past. I thought I had grown up a bit since then, but the passage of time does not necessarily denote progress if you remain the same.

‘I knew I was right,' Stacy chirps with a hint of her old smugness.

‘Honestly, I'm still hung up on my old boss. But there was a cock-up of epic proportions.' I proceed to fill her in on the whole sorry drama that was New Year's Eve.

‘So why was Scott so angry at Leo?' Good question. One I've had niggling doubts about myself.

‘Some stupid argument. I asked Beardy about it; apparently he and Tim, Alice's brother, got into a domestic over something Alice said. Beardy said she's oversensitive and blows things out of proportion. He got really annoyed when I pressed him about specifics so I let it go, but whatever it was it was enough to cause a massive rift between them. They broke up Tin Can Bang – the world will be missing out on some quality tunes there. Beardy's since joined a new band.
They don't have a name, just an icon of a square with a sort of squiggly thing in the middle.'

I sigh and wish I didn't have a boyfriend whose taste prompted me to voice such a sentence aloud.

‘Wow. This might sound harsh, but you have really low standards. I mean, you're all about women's rights, aren't you?' I am startled. While I am a feminist, I don't think I have ever said anything strident to Stacy and can only assume she is making this judgement on the infrequency with which I wash my hair. She continues, ‘The sexual revolution is all very well. You have the freedom to sleep with some handsome guy who doesn't seem to care about you that much and that you don't care about that much, without any social or emotional repercussions. But don't you want more than that?'

Stacy says this not unkindly, but nonetheless my eyes and mouth are round like saucers as I digest her appraisal of my first real boyfriend in almost a year. Of course, one of the reasons I wanted to pin him down, as it were, was just to have some sort of social stamp of approval – ‘Not Rejected!' – rather than feeling that he is a man I could fall in love with. Isn't that perfectly natural when the majority of my dating attempts have ended in disaster? The initial shagging stage is exciting and fun; later you realize it took only two weeks to know them well enough to satisfy your curiosity for ever.

And that there is a humiliatingly good chance they stole
£50 from your purse, as well as the last muffin from the bread basket. Fuck you very much, see you never.

‘What about you!' I say defensively. ‘You might be loved up with Cosmo right now but you treated your men like cash-points and holiday funds. You manipulated them and disrespected them and they were too blinded by your face to care that you were using them.'

At this, Stacy shrugs her slim shoulders with a Gallic insouciance. She is unoffended, supremely confident in all her choices as usual.

‘At least I was getting something. Money for beauty; that's a fair exchange. I knew they didn't care about my personality, my wants or needs, so I didn't care about theirs. I didn't respect them, I did use them, but I respected myself and didn't let myself be used. I can't say that I feel the same way about the way you've behaved. Did you even ask Scott about what happened? You ran away. You took the easy way out, by settling for someone who you won't care if you lose. I was looking out for myself. You're lying to yourself about what you want because you're afraid you won't be able to get it.'