Thanks for this. Any chance of bringing this down slightly? All we’d ask is that Clara share a few posts on her Stories and ideally one on her grid on the night. Can of course send cars for pick up and drop off.
Thanks,
Rose
----
Rose, Clara would love to meet you for coffee to discuss. Are you free today at 12.30pm? She’ll meet you at The Wolseley.
It was 11.20. Rose replied yes immediately.
‘Got a meeting with Clara,’ she said, loud enough so that Oliver would hear through his headphones.
‘Oh great! Well done,’ said Annabelle.
‘How much?’ asked Minnie, swanning back into the room to grab her coat.
‘They want £10,000 for her to walk in the show. £3,000 for attendance. But I’m going to try and negotiate with her in person.’
‘You’d think this woman was Lady sodding Gaga,’ Oliver laughed, who had either turned the volume right down or had only ever been pretending to listen to music. ‘Don’t get your hopes up, sweetheart.’
‘Make sure you talk her through the social media strategy,’ said Minnie, handing Rose a scarlet file with the words FIREHOUSE X STANDFIRST SOCIAL STRATEGY splashed across it.
‘Will do. So she’ll come for the reception, take photos for Getty, and then we’ll give her a front-row seat in the show. Is there anything else I need to know?’
‘No hotel room. We’re saving those for the performer and their crew. Ask about dietary requirements, too. The reception is going to be seafood canapés.’
‘Seafood canapés?’
‘Yes, don’t ask,’ Minnie sighed. ‘Another demand from Jimson’s CEO. Apparently he’s on some sort of seafood-only diet.’
‘Okay, no problem.’
Rose had been to The Wolseley once for a leaving lunch Minnie threw for an old intern. All she could remember from the visit was wondering why so many people could afford to get blow dries and drink champagne in the middle of the day. It was just as busy today, a cacophony of clinking silverware and corporate gossip filling the room.
By 2.15 p.m., Clara had still not arrived. The jug of tap water someone had brought over to Rose’s table had long been empty and she’d gone through almost all of Clara’s Instagram posts since 2014. That day alone, she had posted twelve Stories. The first one showed her getting a facial at a new clinic in Belgravia. Best start to the day, thanks so much #gift, she wrote over the top, tagging a brand Rose remembered as being the place where Kim Kardashian had something called a vampire facial. Then Clara had posted a selfie outside of Cecconi’s. Lunch meetings made better with Italian food :), she wrote before uploading a photograph of what looked like a plate of Cacio e pepe. Rose’s mouth started to water. She had briefly stopped at Pret on the way to The Wolseley to grab a tuna sandwich. Even though she was going to expense the meal, Clara struck Rose as someone with expensive taste. And she wasn’t going to risk expensing a £300 bill by ordering a proper meal herself too. Equally, she couldn’t exactly tell Clara not to order whatever she wanted considering this was, evidently, what she was accustomed to doing. Hence the safety sandwich.
At 2.27 p.m., the swoop of a door pushed too hard and a clanging of jewellery indicated the arrival of someone in a fluster.
‘Sorry, miss, you can’t use your phone here,’ the host said to the woman.
‘Oh yes, of course, sorry,’ she replied, holding her phone to her ear.
‘Right, Fraser, I’ll call you after. Okay. Yes, I will do. Yep. Okay. Bye. Bye.’
Clara looked almost identical to her photographs. Her cheeks were just as high, her eyes wide and deer-like. Her skin looked like it had been smothered in expensive serums and lifted by something clever and non-surgical. She was wearing a beige linen trouser suit over a crisp white shirt. All of it appeared immaculately cleaned and steamed, as if it had all been freshly unboxed that morning. It probably had.
Clara followed the host to Rose’s table, eyes fixed on her phone.
‘So sorry I’m late,’ Clara said, standing behind her chair, eyes still on her phone, fingers tapping furiously.
‘Don’t worry at all,’ Rose replied, pulling her hand away slowly when Clara’s didn’t move to meet it.
‘Okay,’ she said, putting her phone on the table with the screen up, and then sitting down, neglecting to thank the host who pulled the chair out for her. ‘Let’s talk about the event! Remind me what it is?’
Rose dived straight into talking Clara through StandFirst and their plans, outlining the reception, the runway show and the performer they had yet to confirm. She explained how she’d need to arrive around ten minutes after the start of the event, take some photographs for Getty and then a few on her phone for social media. Ideally, she’d take a few videos too, filming herself at the event and posting it live while she’s there, tagging Firehouse and the new StandFirst handles.
Clara sat and listened quietly while her phone lit up every twenty seconds. Rose was trying hard not to look down at it but the constant flashing was distracting. It looked as if the same name was messaging her on WhatsApp.
Rose had started to explain the seafood canapés when Clara’s phone rang.
‘God, I’m so sorry,’ said Clara, her face flushed and agitated. ‘Do you mind if I answer this? It’s my boyfriend. If I don’t answer, he’ll just keep calling until I do.’
‘Of course, don’t worry.’
Clara looked relieved, her eyes furrowed in the way they do when the person is embarrassed. Mouthing the words ‘so sorry’, she picked up her phone and walked back towards the entrance and then outside.
Rose continued to flick through Clara’s Instagram. It made sense for her to hide a relationship from her followers. Even if her boyfriend was on social media, it would be an infringement of his privacy to put him on hers. Maybe he didn’t want that, which was fair enough.
Rose tried to imagine what it must feel like to have 1.2 million people watching your every move on social media, piling you with praise and criticism in equal measure. Rose had 526 followers on Instagram, which was quite a lot for a regular person. She suspected this was due to the fact that she worked at Firehouse. People either wanted to see photos from the parties or be featured in the magazines. After she got the job, Rose posted a selfie outside the famous Firehouse HQ sign and swiftly received a text from a boy she’d gone to school with asking if she could get his girlfriend an interview at MODE.
When Clara returned, her eyes were red and swollen.
‘Sorry,’ she said, her voice soft and uncertain. ‘Right, where were we?’
Rose wanted to ask if Clara was okay, to give her an opportunity to explain that she clearly wasn’t. But this was a meeting, one that her job possibly depended on. Clara’s relationship was none of her business. So she asked if Clara preferred oysters or lobster.
Clara nodded as Rose spoke about the menu, glassy eyes fixed on her knees. By the time Rose had got onto talking about shellfish allergies, it had become impossible not to ask. Clara was as close to tears as any person could be without actually crying.
