‘Now that was a fair fight with a joyous ending,’ laughed Dixie, lifting her glass to him.
‘This is one of my favourite things, lying under the stars, fully satisfied.’
Dixie chose to ignore the implication, she was too sated. She curled up under his arm, allowing herself to feel his warmth, and wondering what happened now. Was he going to ask her to leave? Or was he going to let her sleep there? Hopefully not outside on the freezing sofa – but in her desire to be near him, she refused to tell him she was feeling the cold, so she just snuggled in, trying to stop her body from shaking. Of course, she was also thinking what an amazing Instagram moment this would be… Them, the sofa, wine in hand, the brightly lit interior, the location. But that wasn’t an option.
‘There was, of course, no window,’ she mumbled.
‘What?’
‘The exhibition. Window On The Abstract. Not a single window.’
He kissed the top of her head. ‘Really, are you sure? Wasn’t MOMA one big window? Aren’t we all windows opening onto our own worlds?’
Chapter Fifteen
Stella
Stella had decided that an Uber was the appropriate transport to her first interview in over ten years. Sweating was an issue. She had to avoid sweating, but, sitting in the car, the foremost issue was old-fashioned panic. Her phone told her she was four minutes from Redchurch St. Her last trip to Shoreditch had ended in her first lesbian kiss. She was trying to block that from her mind, but in her heightened condition, this stimulated a sweat. She flapped her elbows like a chicken to try to cool herself. Breathe, she said to herself, breathe, and realised that she was holding her breath. Again.
The interview was for editor of a web portal in the health and wellbeing ‘space’. They were looking for a ‘thought leader’, ‘innovative editor’, ‘connected style creator’ for a health-lifestyle-fashion web base for the modern professional, metro woman. Stella read ‘modern’ as ‘young’. She knew this was a leap from her former roles in paper-based media, but her conversations with Coco, Stef and Renée told her that this was the future and knowing that she was presently the past, any success in this area would bring her right to the centre of the market. There was no doubt this was a major step down from Editor at Candy mag, Contributing Editor at Spring, and Features Editor of a major weekend supplement. The pay was a fraction of her 2008 salary, but this was about building a future, not reliving the past. Fully aware of the gaps in her knowledge, she’d found a copy of Dummies Guide To Social Media in WHSmiths, she’d done a search of #health #wellbeing on Twitter and Instagram and spent more than her usual quantity of time scanning dailymail.com for stories and personalities in ‘the space’. The idea of an entirely digital, continuously changing online lifestyle magazine terrified her, but she knew that a good publication comes from gathering the right people and delegating effectively. She might be a bit behind on the dietary ins-and-outs of Lena Dunham and Taylor Swift, but she knew how to pull together a focused publication. At least, that was what she told herself between hot flushes.
The Prius whispered to a halt outside 9 Redchurch, one of those glass-fronted, converted warehouse buildings.
She sat and stared, waiting for the driver to tell her the fare and then panicked as she remembered that all that was taken care of by the credit card. (At least she hoped so. Jake had promised there’d be no more issues!)
She strode towards the doors and when they failed to open, she froze. The interior was how Stella imagined a modern youth club in the style of Cliff Richard’s Summer Holiday. Long wooden tables, an indoor coffee cart, swathes and blobs of primary colours resembling a nursery. Her clothing choice for the day was off, she now realised, way off. She’d had the usual clothing crisis, whipping through and discarding piles of clothes dismissing them with exasperation: too Nineties, too small, too floral, too many wine stains, not mine, too Eighties, too matronly, too mutton, too long, too short. She was left with a silk dress that covered her knees, which was a relief as on a bad day they looked like two little faces. It was a little too tight around the chest, but with a pair of heels she felt a little less round and a little more ‘sexy, fearless dominatrix’.
Someone pushed past her impatiently and she noted that the doors were opened by a big red button on a pillar. She looked at it wistfully, wishing that it fired an ejector seat. Movement was still impossible.
She’d been shocked when they’d invited her in for an interview. The application had been 99 per cent speculative, but their brand name had made her smile: Slop! If anything, it told her they had a sense of humour. Frozen in front of the sealed doors, she now seriously doubted her decision. She’d been specifically conscious that there would be many nerdy millennials, drinking cat-shit coffee and raving about colon cleanses and gender issues, but she still wasn’t ready for the freak show that confronted her. Kids, beardy weird kids with top knots and dungarees, wearing Doc Martens and Oxfam rejects. Teenagers playing pool and darts, lounging on electric pink sofas (want one, thought Stella). This was an alien environment. Stella had never seen anything like this. Her first job had been as an assistant on a tabloid fashion section. Her interview had been in the Coach & Horses on Brewer St and she couldn’t remember how it ended. Feeling the panic rising and knowing that if she didn’t go in now, she might never, she smacked her hand down on the red ejector button and strode directly to the reception desk.
‘Excuse me. Loos?’
‘Loos?’
‘Yes. I’m here for an interview, but I need to use the loo.’
‘Ah; OK. The restrooms are behind you. Can I take a name?’
‘Stella Hammerson. Here for Slop!’
Locked in the cubicle, she began an emergency restyling drill. Generally this would have taken place in front of the flattering 10’ x 8’ mirror with soft lighting, but she could not risk anyone witnessing this fashion triage. The heels were gone, replaced by the battered silver Adidas she’d carried in preparation for the dispirited journey home. She did up the buttons at the front of her dress to obscure her cleavage (WTF!) and she found an old muslin scarf in purples and pinks at the bottom of her bag and used this to hold back the hair that she back-combed and fluffed for curated casualness. She even found a pair of old 45 denier tights to cover her legs. They seemed intact, just a few lacerations in the crotch area. Best not to linger on that, she thought. She exited the cubicle with a guilty and pointless flush. She knew that millennials were triggered by environmental issues, but needs-must when you found yourself in a youth club in Shoreditch, and you were dressed for an awards ceremony at The Savoy.
Shabby chic, she thought, as she messed her hair a little more. Like a Border Collie. Good. And wiped away the lustrous watermelon lipstick she’d chosen to go with the fruity dress. Antique chic, the annoyed face in the mirror mouthed at her.
The receptionist pointed her to one of the low pink sofas and announced, ‘Someone will be right down.’
She settled to pick some of the shellac from her nails. She doubted very much that girls in dungarees with red striped socks and Doc Martens, hair hidden by a hairnet, spent their monthly salary on a good shellac-ing.
‘Stella? Is that how you say it? Stella?’