‘Sorry, who exactly are the non-key people?’ asked Annabelle earnestly.
‘Oh, no one gives a toss about them,’ said Oliver.
‘The majority of attendees, to be honest,’ clarified Minnie. ‘Basically anyone we don’t put on the tip sheet. So managers, publicists, plus-ones … you know.’
Annabelle nodded and scribbled something down on a notepad.
Then came concerns about the sponsor, which basically amounted to how to avoid pissing them off. The range of things in this category were vast and largely depended on the individual sponsor, how much money they’d spent on the event, and if anyone working for the company was friends with anyone at Firehouse. No one at Jimson & James was in any way associated with anyone at Firehouse, which was one of the reasons why everyone was so vexed they’d been chosen as the sponsor at all.
The truth was that the luxury labels more commonly associated with Firehouse (the Pradas and Guccis of the world) didn’t want to spend their money on publishing companies anymore. All of the budget they had was being invested in influencers. This was what made StandFirst’s launch so vital. It was a way of modernising Firehouse and showing advertisers that it and, crucially, its magazines were still relevant in the digital age. That all of it still mattered.
Then there were the more detailed and specific risks. Rose had never worked on an event with a fashion show before. But Minnie used to work in-house for a major Italian designer so this was her wheelhouse.
‘Sometimes models don’t show up,’ she began. ‘That shouldn’t happen this time seeing as we’re paying them from a commercial budget as opposed to an editorial one. But still, you never know.’
‘What were the fashion models like?’ asked Annabelle.
Minnie raised an eyebrow. ‘Hungry.’
‘Didn’t one of them faint backstage at a show once?’ asked Oliver.
‘Actually there were two of them. And that happened more than once. But the less we say about that the better.’
‘Is the cotton wool and orange juice thing true?’ Annabelle asked.
‘I remember the first time I saw a model in real life,’ said Oliver wistfully as he leaned back in his chair twirling a custard cream between two fingers. ‘It was at London Fashion Week and I’d snuck into a show with a friend. I swear to God, those women. Beautiful but my God. They are bones and air.’
‘It will never change,’ sighed Minnie. ‘Hopefully, we shouldn’t have any issues like that this time because the models we’ve employed are not models,’ she said.
‘No, they’re definitely not,’ scoffed Oliver.
Liz read out the line-up of the not-models. There were twelve in total, and each would be styling themselves, arriving in an outfit that was entirely second-hand, either sourced from vintage shops or hand-me-downs.
‘Are we getting approval of the outfits beforehand?’ asked Minnie.
‘Yes, I’ve asked them all to send photos,’ confirmed Liz.
‘God, yeah, imagine if one of them turned up in a mesh bikini or something,’ said Oliver.
‘Jimson will need to approve what they’re wearing too,’ added Minnie.
‘Of course. Do you think Izabel will want to see them too?’ asked Liz.
‘Oh yes, absolutely,’ Minnie nodded.
Izabel DuPont was a senior editor at MODE who had been appointed editor of StandFirst. She was responsible for collating the editorial for the website and had been chosen by Jasper to head up the launch. Rose had never met her. But she had stood next to her in a lift once and because it was such a small space, and it seemed odd not to, Rose said hello. Izabel must not have heard her. She was one of the most notoriously terrifying women in the company. With long blonde hair that fell to her waist and a razor-sharp fringe, she always looked more like someone who belonged in the magazine’s pages as opposed to its offices. Her outfits were usually a mix of loose-fitting collared shirts in either blue or white, structured rigid denim jeans or tailored trousers and a black tailored blazer. All of it would usually be from Celine, as Rose had gleaned from Izabel’s Instagram (50,000 followers) and was often accessorised with a small Chanel handbag. She was very beautiful. She was very thin. She was French.
‘Has Izabel sent over the editorial for the launch yet?’ asked Oliver.
‘No, she hasn’t actually, let me see if we can get that sent over,’ replied Minnie.
‘How are we supposed to PR a website when we have no idea what’s even going to be on it yet?’ he added, now building a small tower out of clementine peel.
‘They’ve given us a general brief, which is that its content is geared towards young millennials and Generation Z.’
‘But what does that even mean?’ he asked.
‘Your guess is as good as mine. But I think it will be more like political commentary, fashion op-eds, a bit of pop culture … that kind of thing. Also, Rose, Fraser has asked if Clara can be profiled for the website as part of her fee.’
‘Sure. That makes sense.’
‘I have passed Fraser onto Izabel’s team. So they can deal with that.’
‘What about responsibilities on the night?’ asked Oliver.
‘I was just about to get to that,’ replied Minnie firmly. ‘Oliver, you’ll be handling the red carpet arrivals.’
‘Of course. Who else?’ he said smugly.
‘I don’t know what you’re so pleased about,’ said Liz. ‘The talent is extremely meagre.’
‘Still,’ he smiled. ‘Great for networking.’
‘Yes,’ said Minnie. ‘But we don’t have any super VIPs. Unless we get Milo, of course. Annabelle and Rose, you’ll look after the performer, whoever he, or she, is.’
They both nodded.
‘If it’s Milo, don’t you think it would make more sense for me to take care of him?’ asked Oliver.
