‘Oh, poor her,’ Minnie replied, fumbling around in a drawer underneath her desk and pulling out an empty make-up bag covered in Clinique logos. ‘Here, go to the beauty cupboard and fill this with bits for her.’
‘That’s really kind of you, Minnie. Thank you. Also, I was wondering if it might be possible to come to Intel’s event on Wednesday with her? I’d be happy to help with any work things on the night if you need it, too.’
‘Absolutely. Oliver is working on that one with Annabelle so he’ll make sure your names are on the list.’
‘Thank you so much.’
‘Sure. Now go write that email,’ she said, snapping back into authority mode.
The only way to research @cosmoclara on Instagram without being distracted by the new message, which may or may not be from Milo Jax, was to not open Instagram. So Rose typed @cosmoclara into Google and, thankfully, numerous articles came up. There were interviews with various online websites, including one that described her as the ‘millennial influencer that’s rewriting everything you hate about millennials’. There were videos on YouTube, ones where she took you around her roof terrace – she’d recently had a garden designer do it up – ones where she showed you her wardrobe, which she’d converted from the spare bedroom, and ones where she talked you through her ‘go-to date night beauty look’.
Then there were interviews about her diet – vegetarian – and clips documenting everything she ate in a day. There were multiple podcasts, too, with some focused on life advice while others were about Clara’s favourite restaurants. There was, apparently, nothing this woman kept to herself. No sign of a partner, though, which would surely be something she’d at least mention in one of these interviews. If not to share this vital part of her life then at least to commodify it somehow. She must be single.
Rose began crafting her email, being sure to quote her in interviews and mention how many of the company’s key editors would be in attendance – face time with them was always a huge pull. Then she attached a few articles that had been published after previous launch events to illustrate how widely covered the event would be. In terms of freebies and gifted items, these would be minimal. The sponsor would be providing everyone with their own personalised, hand-embroidered towels. But that was hardly a draw for someone like Clara, who was probably getting sent personalised handbags from Dior every other week. Hand-embroidered or not, at the end of the day, a towel was still just something that lived on a rail in your bathroom.
Given how much the company had invested in the publication itself, the remaining budget for the launch was relatively low. Still, the prestige, exposure and numerous Getty photographers sent to attend would be enough to get @cosmoclara on board. Rose sent the email and spent the rest of the day watching YouTube videos documenting Ryan Reynolds’s relationship history. Oliver had taken Annabelle to meet a group of journalists from the Telegraph. Minnie was out to lunch with the PR team at Louis Vuitton. By 5 p.m., no one had returned.
The beauty cupboard was located on the fifth floor of the building next to the offices belonging to MODE. Anyone could pay a visit so long as they had written permission from a senior member of staff (Minnie had given Rose a note) and made a donation for every item they took – different charities were chosen every month. Usually cleared out by entitled editors and wily interns, the cupboard was surprisingly full today. There were endless rows of products stretching back almost two metres, including everything from lipsticks and mascaras to candles and bath oils.
All of it was ludicrously expensive: Jo Malone, Liz Earle, Crème de la Mer. Entire shelves dedicated to face moisturisers that contained SPF, categorised into their varying amounts. There was a whole section dedicated to plumping lip glosses. Another for contouring sticks. And one for night oils. These were products that Rose – and most of her colleagues – couldn’t possibly afford on their salaries. Rose had a hard enough time paying the minimal rent Luce’s family asked for each month.
After picking up things she knew Luce would like – Lancôme mascara, Bobbi Brown eye kits, YSL red lipstick – she started to add bits for herself. A bronzer from a French brand she recognised, a primer from one she didn’t. And an eyeshadow palette with four sparkly shades. Rose rarely wore make-up but the idea of it always appealed, like a mask she’d been waiting to grow into. Mascara and lipstick was all she ever really dabbled in. Maybe now she would become a woman who wears eyeshadow.
On her way out, Rose unlocked her phone and sent Luce a WhatsApp, noticing she was online.
Coming home now. Minnie has said yes to Wednesday and gave me a free pass to the beauty cupboard so have picked up some bits.
That’s so sweet re beauty bits ! Thank you. Would love some red lippie. And YES to Wednesday! Let’s cause chaos xxxx
Rose replied with a heart emoji and opened Instagram.
Milo’s message had been sent three hours ago.
I feel so used. What are you up to this week?
On impulse, Rose double-tapped the message, producing a small red heart underneath, and replied: Aside from looking for cheese, I’m mostly working and looking after my broken-hearted housemate. How about you? before locking her phone and zipping it in the front of her backpack.
Rose stood still and tried to breathe but all she could manage were a few quick shallow gasps. She put her hand on her heart and felt it thumping angrily. What the fuck was happening?
*
‘You promised there would be men here,’ sighed Luce, sucking on the olive from her martini like it was a lollipop.
‘There are! Look around,’ said Rose, gesturing around the dimly lit restaurant they’d been tightly packed into. The room was, indeed, mostly filled by men, as was usual for parties hosted by Intel.
‘They are all gay.’
‘They are not all gay.’
‘Maybe I should sleep with a gay man.’
‘I’m not sure that’s how it works.’
Luce turned to Rose and raised an eyebrow. The YSL red lipstick somehow had made her full lips look even more pouted, ripe and ready for action. Her skin was glowing and clear; she looked far too good for someone who had stayed up all night alternating between sobbing over her ex-boyfriend and re-downloading every dating app in existence.
‘What about him?’ Rose asked, pointing towards a tall blond man leaning against the bar, smouldering at the camera as the Getty photographer fawned over him, snapping away.
‘Too pretty for me.’
‘How about him?’ she ventured, nodding over at a man lingering on his own by the fireplace in a black Trilby hat, drinking from a champagne flute.
‘You’re not being serious.’
‘Let’s try the smoking area?’
Luce sighed and pulled her tights up. ‘Maybe I should just go home. This was a stupid idea.’
‘No! Come on, we’ll find you someone.’
‘Can we get another drink first?’
‘Sure. Let’s go to the bar.’
‘I’m going to pee. But I’ll meet you in the smoking area?’
‘Sounds like a plan.’
At the bar, Rose checked Instagram. Milo hadn’t opened her last message. It felt strange keeping something so monumental from Luce. Although, at this point it might still not be monumental at all. For all Rose knew, Milo did this kind of thing every week, sweeping unsuspecting women off their feet with the odd DM here and there for the sake of the high it gave them – and subsequently him. Nonetheless, the idea of telling anyone felt fundamentally wrong. Like she’d be breaking the spell.
