‘We’re not all global pop stars.’
‘No, we certainly aren’t.’
There was an awkward silence. Rose couldn’t think of anything to fill it so said nothing and pulled her dress down again.
‘Well, do you enjoy your job?’ he asked, shaking one hand through his hair, which fell neatly back into its original position.
‘It’s fine.’ She paused. ‘I mean, whenever I describe it to other people, they tell me how glamorous it sounds. And I can see how it would look like that. But most of the time I’m really just trying to stop people like you from telling the world about your weird foot fetish, or whatever.’
‘How did you know?!’
They both laughed.
‘I’m sorry Joss isn’t here, by the way. But I’ll be on hand for whatever you need.’
‘Oh, you’ll be on hand, will you?’
‘Sorry. I mean …’
He smiled. ‘I know what you mean. And I appreciate it, thank you. I’d much rather be here without Joss anyway, to be completely honest.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘It just means I can have a bit more fun.’
Rose’s cheeks flushed again and she felt an urge to end whatever conversation they were having. ‘I’m going to leave you here for a bit but I’ll come and find you after dinner to check in just in case they want any more photos of you with some of the other VIPs,’ she said.
‘VIPs. Ha,’ he scoffed, finding either the concept or the acronym hilarious. ‘Bye, Rose.’
‘Bye.’
The next few hours were intense. Minnie was stressed because Kate Moss had taken Sienna Miller’s seat so she could be next to Naomi Campbell, which meant Sienna Miller now had nowhere to sit. And Oliver was so occupied with attempting to seduce Cillian Murphy that he had forgotten to collect the key to the press room from security, which meant everyone they’d scheduled interviews for would now have to linger in the corridors until, according to Minnie, Oliver stopped ‘batting his eyelashes at straight men and did his goddamn job’. Oliver was convinced that half of Hollywood was secretly gay.
The corridor was small and journalists were now conducting interviews with A-list talent while squashed together like sweaty sardines. Occasionally, on nights like this, Rose would spot guests she was excited about seeing in the flesh: actors she’d loved since she was young, or, as Minnie had promised in her interview, artists she admired. On those nights, Rose would often try to find a way of getting face time with the talent somehow, either by offering to help their publicist on the night or simply listening in on the press interviews. She had only taken one photograph with a celebrity during her entire tenure at Firehouse, which was several less than Oliver, who was constantly posting photos with guests on his Instagram.
The one occasion when Rose couldn’t help herself was the night Cosima Ray came to one of Intel’s cocktail parties. Rose had studied Cosima’s paintings at school and tried desperately to emulate them at art college. At forty-nine, she was one of the few female artists that people outside the art world had heard of. Her paintings were grotesque, horrifying things that reminded Rose of Francis Bacon’s self-portraits. Except Cosima’s all featured women, either their faces or specific parts of their naked bodies. The brushstrokes were bold, brash and occasionally completely nonsensical. Her work was controversial, too, like the time she painted the naked bodies of women who’d just come out of rehabilitation centres for eating disorders.
Rose had asked Minnie if it would be okay to speak to Cosima before approaching her. ‘Don’t be silly. Of course. I’ll introduce you,’ she replied. Cosima smiled politely and listened as Rose tried – and failed – to articulate how much her work meant to her, managing just a few garbled platitudes before Minnie offered to take a photo of them together on Rose’s phone. It seemed like a more natural thing for Cosima to offer up; this was what most fans wanted and what most celebrities had become accustomed to giving. A photo was as easy as standing still and raising your cheeks. A conversation required effort. In the photo, Rose’s eyes looked blank, her smile strained. She deleted it right away.
Tonight, though, Rose wasn’t that fussed about anyone in attendance. Not unless you counted the ‘Its’. The Its – or ‘the tits’, as Oliver called them – were a group of six women identified by Minnie as the most influential in the media industry. Always pictured in the diary pages and regularly featuring on each other’s Instagram Stories, they boasted around 10 million followers between them across Instagram, Twitter and YouTube. One was a TV presenter who had written several bestselling books about self-care, another hosted one of the most popular podcasts in the country and had just launched her own line at Topshop, and a third had used her trust fund to launch a ludicrously successful fashion PR company (all of her clients were ‘family friends’).
It would be so easy to hate them, and a lot of people did, including the majority of Firehouse’s staff. But Rose admired them. To her, these women epitomised everything she wanted to be. Successful, confident and effortlessly gorgeous, they represented a new form of media based as much on their output as their personal brands. Products they posted about sold out, their books became bestsellers, and off-hand remarks spawned viral Twitter threads and daytime TV appearances. Rose envied them. On top of all their successes, these women were a tight-knit unit. Firm friends who looked out for one another, got drunk together, and regularly posted about each other’s various achievements.
Rose was always the one fighting to defend the Its in the office when everyone tried to reduce them to vapid socialites or, worse, vapid influencers. The latter had become an increasingly common insult flung their way. Once, Minnie sent out a press release about one of the Its, Celia Bamford, coming to a launch party of MODE’s new biannual homewares supplement, using it as leverage to ensure the attendance of London’s diary journalists. Celia had made a name for herself in fashion from a young age, having started a blog when she was sixteen. Now she was often seen in the front row at fashion weeks. Normally, the company didn’t send tips ahead of time but Celia had been paid by the homewares sponsor to show up, so it was a sure thing. At least, it was supposed to be. But Celia didn’t turn up. The diarists were furious, as was the sponsor, and Minnie had to graft to regain their trust. Later, everyone in the press team received an email from her publicist:
Dear Minnie and team, we were hurt and disappointed to see CeCe referred to as an ‘influencer’ in your earlier press release. As you know, CeCe is a creator and writer. Very little of her income comes from sponsored posts on Instagram. We felt like this false representation of her work belittled her public persona, which is why she will not be attending any further events with you.
‘But she literally is an influencer,’ whined Oliver, hunched over Minnie’s shoulder, chewing on a Clif Bar. ‘Like, she has millions of followers, and makes money by selling things to them on social media. Her blog has been defunct since 2013. What’s she writing now besides Instagram captions?’
‘I know,’ Minnie sighed, quickly typing a polite apology in response.
‘I think there’s a feeling that calling yourself an influencer implies you’re a narcissist,’ said Rose. ‘You’re profiting off your looks, your house, your Anthropologie plates … it’s all about you and it’s bullshit. I guess they know that and deep down they’re embarrassed by it.’
‘Oh, come off it, Rose,’ Oliver scoffed, neatly folding the wrapper of his Clif Bar so it became a tiny triangle. ‘Why be embarrassed when that narcissism has literally turned you into a millionaire? We’d all do it if we could.’
All of the Its, bar CeCe, were in attendance that evening but had been huddled in the smoking area since dessert had come out. Rose walked past them on her way to the loo, inhaling wafts of Marlboro Light mixed in with Jo Malone. Marissa Miller was wearing a silk scarlet gown, with a strap just about clinging onto her shoulder. Polly Jenkins was wrapped in a leopard-print mini dress that she kept hoisting up over her breasts as she puffed furiously on a cigarette. They sat close together, one telling a story while the others opened their mouths and gasped in sync. Polly’s eyes met Rose for a split second; she whispered something to Marissa and they both burst into a fit of Machiavellian giggles. Rose told herself it was a coincidence and kept walking.
Back at the press room, which had now been opened thanks to Cillian Murphy introducing Oliver to his wife, things were just as manic. Minnie was on the phone asking why two Made in Chelsea stars had arrived. ‘I told you “no”,’ she said firmly, presumably to their renegade publicist. ‘I don’t care if they promise to go home after the red carpet!’
Meanwhile, Oliver was now negotiating with a British actor Rose vaguely recognised from a Lord of the Rings film. Evidently, he hadn’t done the red carpet and had just arrived to present the award to the best newcomer in film, which was going to a teenage girl who’d been cast in a Tarantino flick. ‘Look, I’m really sorry but we can’t get you from this room to the stage and off stage again without walking through some of the tables,’ Oliver explained. ‘It’s just the way the room is organised.’
The actor, who must have been in his early forties, made an actual huffing noise and replied in a voice that sounded satirically clipped: ‘Fine, but I must insist on having an escort then.’
Oliver sighed. ‘We’re all a little bit tied up back here but I promise no one will bother you.’
‘Well, you can’t guarantee that, can you? I’m calling my publicist.’
The actor stomped into the corridor, phone already to his ear. Oliver rolled his eyes and turned to face Rose.
‘What do you want?’ he said with such severity it was more of a statement than a question.
‘Nothing, I’m just looking for Minnie to see if she needs help with the interviews.’
‘You’re just so bloody helpful, aren’t you?’ he said, squinting his eyes with disdain.
It was best to ignore him and focus on trying to find Minnie. Oliver had been fiercely competitive with Rose ever since she started at Firehouse. This was odd for a few reasons. The first was that he had been at the company for two years longer than her and had a more senior role. The second was that he was often given preferential treatment by the executives upstairs, who’d sometimes invite him to cover presentation meetings over Minnie. And the third was that at 6'5'' with a bone structure to rival Cindy Crawford’s, he looked like a Hollywood siren from the 1960s. Standing next to Rose should have been enough to boost his ego.
Even so, he was too obsessed with celebrities to be any good at his job, which was probably why he hadn’t ever been promoted. Rose suspected he blamed this on her. The fact that she was looking after Milo tonight would have pissed him off. Oliver loved to look after talent – but the rule was you only got to do that if you were the one to book them. Still, he was often requested personally by publicists. And if Minnie didn’t give in to a publicist’s requests, she would risk losing the talent altogether. Rose hardly ever got to work directly with celebrity guests; it was almost always Oliver.
