Minnie handled it like a true pro, quietly calming everyone down and bringing buckets out from the kitchen for people to vomit when they couldn’t get into the bathroom. Obviously, the fashion show didn’t go ahead. Liz was oddly serene about the whole thing, almost like she was relieved the event could be cancelled. I’m pretty sure I saw her smoking a joint outside at one stage.
I was trying to placate the journalists we’d invited and asking them not to write about everything. But there was no point. The ones who weren’t aggressively vomiting were taking surreptitious selfies of all the celebrities who were. Some of the influencers were filming themselves while retching. Minnie and I toyed with the idea of pretending this was all intentional: a way of introducing StandFirst as a brand so fresh and new you need to purge the old you out before you could be part of it. But we let that idea go.
It wasn’t until much later that I thought about Rose. It was the first work event when I hadn’t been watching her every move, looking over my shoulder as Minnie tended to her like she was a child prodigy. God, she was irritating. I knew she was better at the job than me from the moment she started. I mean, for fuck’s sake, she worked at a private members’ club and immediately got a job at Firehouse. Who does that? And then she somehow manages to wangle Milo Jax as her first major A-list talent? I’ve endured hours of meetings with that toad Joss and it had all come to nothing. Until Rose. It was impossible not to resent her.
I was supposed to be the favourite, the 6'5'' office wunderkind who could just as easily get you on the phone to Madonna as Cher. Okay, maybe not Cher. But almost anyone else. So whenever I felt like I wasn’t the next best thing, I guess I was a bit of an arsehole. Honestly, sometimes I think I was just trying to provoke her, to see her actually get really angry, or say what she was really thinking. She never did.
I can’t remember who told me she’d slept with Milo – probably one of the circulation girls – but it didn’t surprise me. She was exactly his type: young, thin, with a naivety that was almost virginal. There were always so many rumours flying around about his sex life: that his seduction trick was to play Toto’s ‘Africa’. That he got girls to peg him on the first date. That he was actually a woman. Of course I was jealous Rose slept with him. Who wouldn’t be? I mean, have you seen that man? Fucking hell.
Anyway, after it happened, something about her changed. It was like she retreated even further inside herself. It was frustrating to watch. And I swear Minnie was favouring her even more. And so I just sort of got … nastier. I know, I know. How petulant for a grown man to stamp his feet the moment he’s not the centre of attention any more. But dating in London is a binfire right now. I still haven’t found anyone to take my spare room. I’m surviving on my overdraft. And I might actually have to move back into the Leyton flat with Dad and vile Cynthia unless Minnie finally promotes me. This job is all I have.
It must have been around 10 p.m. by the time I’d walked outside to have my secret nightly cigarette and inhale something that wasn’t vomit or despair when I noticed a woman on the other side of the Serpentine, barely visible through the dark. It was hard to make out any identifying features, but then she started running and I could’ve sworn she wasn’t wearing any shoes. It’s not often that you see someone running barefoot in Hyde Park. As she moved closer, I spotted the glint of the silver StandFirst logo on her top under a streetlight. We really should have gone with the white like I’d suggested.
Rose was running quickly towards the bridge. Then suddenly she stopped. That’s when I started to run myself. She had climbed onto the top of the barrier by the time I’d arrived. She was sitting down, feet hanging over the edge with her arms spread wide, almost as if she was about to take flight. Her eyes were closed; it looked like she was smiling.
I didn’t even think about what to do. I just wrapped my arms around her and pulled her down onto the road. She screamed and kicked me. Her eyes were tightly shut, I’m not sure she even knew it was me. She was hysterical, like a possessed toddler. Or some kind of feral creature. It was terrifying, to be completely honest. They don’t train you for this kind of thing in publicity. I kept holding her, squeezing her tightly so she couldn’t wriggle away, waiting for her to calm down. Eventually she stopped fighting and just sort of collapsed into my arms, like a broken bird.
I sat there on the ground with her until a black cab drove past and stopped to check if we were all right. I told the driver what had happened and he suggested we take her to hospital. So that’s what we did. The queue for A&E was hours long. I tried to negotiate with the nurse but she wasn’t having any of it. We had to wait. The cabbie, Dave, stayed with us for hours. He was pretty fit, actually. I couldn’t work out if he stayed because he was worried about Rose or because he wanted to sleep with me.
Either way, we chatted for hours until we were seen. Rose stayed asleep the entire time; I kept checking her pulse every few minutes. Minnie hadn’t stopped calling all evening for updates; eventually, I suggested she contact someone in Rose’s family.
Her mum showed up just as we came out from taking Rose to the doctor, who’d asked us to leave them in private. She looked fabulous, actually. Very out of sync given the circumstances. Head to toe in leopard-print pyjamas with feathered bits at the end. I wasn’t sure how much to tell this wondrous woman what had happened, so I just said that Rose had also fallen victim to the food poisoning from the seafood reception and we decided to bring her here as a precaution.
Then someone else called Luce arrived. I presume Rose’s mum called her because when she got there the two of them just hugged and cried a little. Luce kept apologising; I’m not sure why.
Eventually, the doctor came out with an update. He asked if we were friends or family, and I quickly asserted that I was just a colleague while her mum stood up and declared, ‘I am her mother.’ The doctor asked her to come with him and then they disappeared down one of the hospital’s corridors.
Obviously, I wanted to know what was going on. But something about the look on the doctor’s face told me not to pry. A part of me thought it might be best to leave and let them get on with things; Rose would probably be furious if she found out I was there. But I couldn’t leave without an update. I needed to know she was going to be okay.
Her mum came out after about an hour. She thanked me over and over again and explained that Rose was fine. Because of me. I didn’t really know what to say to that so I just smiled. She said everything was going to be okay and they were going to check Rose in to some sort of residential facility for a few weeks to recover. I didn’t want to ask what she would be recovering from. It didn’t even seem like her mum knew, in all honesty.
Of course, Minnie was more than understanding. She gave Rose a two-month sabbatical. No one at Firehouse asked any questions – none of the senior team really knew who Rose was, anyway, and those who did probably just assumed she’d gone to the Priory or something. That kind of thing was normal for us. Jasper did ask after someone called Roisin once. But I never met anyone at Firehouse called Roisin.
PART V
November 2017
Rose’s alarm goes off at 6.37 a.m., which, according to her sleep app, is the exact time in her circadian rhythm that she should get up. It’s a delicate plinky sound that is supposed to soothe her. On her screen is an affirmation: ‘You are heading in the right direction,’ it reads. Rose opens another app on her phone and starts her five-minute morning meditation. She lies back down in her bed, closes her eyes, and listens to the sounds of someone called Tamsin talking about which parts of her body are waking up first.
Once it’s over, she gets up to pour herself a large glass of water that she sprinkles green powder into, turning it into a swamp-like shade. It tastes disgusting but she holds her breath and finishes it fast as usual.
Next, she walks over to her bathroom and opens the cupboard, where jars of various vitamins line the shelf at her eye line. She goes from left to right, starting with one vitamin C and ending with two probiotics. Then she takes her medication: one tablet every morning at 7 a.m.
She wiggles into an activewear set Lola bought for her. A black sports bra with matching leggings; there is leopard print faded into the design but it’s subtle. She opens her laptop to a YouTube tutorial for thirty minutes of yoga and begins her routine. She is getting much better at the tree pose already.
Once that’s over, she has a cold shower. This is still not something she has got used to. She gets dressed quickly – black jeans and an oversized vintage shirt she found in Portobello Market – and makes breakfast, using the posh smoothie maker Luce bought her as a housewarming gift. Then she makes a cup of hot water and lemon and sits at her desk with her notebook and pen. She writes for thirty minutes, mostly about the dreams she had last night. Then she writes down three things she’s grateful for that day: her green smoothie, the smell of her bedsheets in the morning and her activewear set.
Finally, she turns her phone off ‘Do Not Disturb’ mode. There is a message from Lola asking how she slept. And one from Oliver asking if she’s still free for coffee on Saturday. Rose replies to both immediately: she slept well, and yes, she is. There are no other messages. She puts the phone in her pocket, plugs her headphones in and presses play on a playlist she found yesterday on a website about ayurvedic living.
She bundles up her coat, wraps a large grey scarf around her neck, puts her hat on and finally a pair of oval black sunglasses. Looking around for her keys, Rose smiles when she finds them placed neatly on the side by the door. She steps out of the house and takes a deep breath. The air is chilled but she is wearing enough clothes to shield her from it. There are mothers pushing prams, laughing and chatting idly. Birds are singing as they wake up with the day. A father holds his young daughter’s hand, her backpack perched over his shoulders. And then there’s a gentle gust of wind, one that rushes past as if moving right through her.
*
Extract from a newspaper article
Published 20 November 2017
A British musician has been accused of sexual assault during a three-year period, this newspaper can exclusively reveal. Four women have alleged they were raped between 2014 and 2017. The musician, who we cannot name, is believed to have made contact with each of the women via social media.
While the circumstances surrounding each case differ, there are striking similarities. The musician initially befriended each of the women, none of whom are in the public eye or known to one another, before inviting them to his home, where they had consensual sex. Hours later, they claim he raped them, either at his home or theirs. Alcohol was involved in all of the scenarios, with most of it provided by the musician. The testimonies have been corroborated by friends the women confided in at the time of the alleged crimes.
All of the women have told this newspaper that they felt compelled to report what had happened to them in light of the #MeToo movement.
The investigation is ongoing.
Acknowledgements
For whatever reason, I start thinking about the acknowledgements of a book very early on. This is true for books that I’ve written and books that I’ve read. In cases of the latter, the acknowledgements are usually the first thing I look at. I love to know who the author is close to, who inspires them and who helped bring their project to life. As for the reason, well, maybe I find it contextualizes the piece of work I’m about to consume or teaches me something about the publishing industry. Maybe I’m just nosy. Who knows?
Either way, I want to start by thanking you, reader, for being here and for paying attention to this book. At least enough attention to make it to the acknowledgements. Gold Rush is something I’ve wanted to write for a very long time and I will be forever grateful to anyone and everyone who engages with it. It means more to me than you’ll ever know.
First up, I want to thank Michelle Kane. Your support has been truly life changing and I will be forever grateful to your unrelenting belief and grace throughout this process, even while you were taking time off. I would never have had the confidence to write this book had it not been for your encouragement. You saw something in me that took years for me to see in myself; thank you.
Next is an enormous thank you to Katie Bowden, whose thoughtful and considered edits took this story to where it needed to go. You knew exactly what I was trying to do with Gold Rush from the beginning and I’m so pleased we had the opportunity to work on it together.
That brings me onto marketing wizard, Olivia Marsden, and publicity pro Nicola Webb. Thank you both so much for your dedication and commitment to Gold Rush. Also, thank you Jo Thomson for designing the truly stunning cover and Martine Johanna for allowing us to use your gorgeous portrait. And to Eve Hutchings and the entire team at 4th Estate: thank you, thank you, thank you.
Josie Freedman and everyone at CAA, thank you for seeing the power and potential of this story, and for helping me realise it, too. I’m now convinced that all exciting Zoom meetings should take place in the back of taxis on the way to fashion shows.
