Chapter 32
Honor
Ican’t decide if the timing of London Fashion Week this year is diabolical or heaven-sent.
It nearly breaks me physically, but it saves my sanity.
The entire week is so heady and crazy and stressful and frothy and frivolous and vapid.
And it consumes me, and that’s precisely what I need despite the protestations from every side—Jackson, Ally, Di, my team, even Mum—that it’s too much for me at this stressful time.
It is too much, and having Honor Chapman Cosmetics working on some of the biggest shows provides the exact oblivion that my fevered, knackered, lovesick brain needs just now.
I’m reeling from the loss of Noah, who so quickly became my north star.
I’m on the worst tenterhooks as Mum slips gently and inexorably towards her death.
And so it actually feels good to stress that the model opening the Erdem show is late for her call time, or agonise endlessly with Astrid over whether the look we’ve settled on for the Astrid Carmichael show is too matte for a spring collection.
It also helps that London Fashion Week is firmly my and Jackson’s territory.
The guy adores Fashion Week. He was in New York last week for Tom Ford’s show, and in London he and I take our places front row at all the biggest shows.
The shows themselves, as well as the endless logistical exertions of being dressed in advance by the designers and getting ourselves from show to show (never straightforward in London) are the best kind of mindless distraction.
Surface froth that masks how flat life is right now, without Noah.
And so I allow myself to be dressed up like a doll, and I sit on front row after front row with my ridiculously handsome husband, who’s at his absolute best at this kind of thing, and bask in the attention, and in Jackson’s relentless, infectious energy, and in knowing that every front-page photo of Jackson James and Honor Chapman sitting side by side, looking every inch the glossily perfect power couple, shoves the images of Noah and me further away from the collective consciousness.
And if it’s not real in the public’s eye, it’s not real in my eyes.
This is real. If Jackson and I are sitting shoulder to shoulder for all the world to see, it must be real.
This is the life I’ve deliberately chosen, because that day was a fork in the road, whether I liked it or not, and I made my decision.
Chose my direction. If this is my life, I’d better damn well enjoy it.
Having Jackson back is strangely comforting.
It helps that Fashion Week is such a well-trodden path for us as a celebrity couple and for Honor Chapman Cosmetics.
Jackson’s always been my biggest cheerleader professionally, and he attends every show my brand is involved with.
He’s there for me, in all his magnificent physical glory, and by showing up for me he’s unknowingly bolstering our marriage.
I go through the motions of Fashion Week and navigate my version of what’s normal on a daily basis, in this odd twilight of grieving for Noah and grieving for Mum’s imminent death. But there’s an unwelcome sense of consciousness that wasn’t there before. Of analysis.
It’s as though I’m seeing everything I do through Noah’s eyes and finding it lacking. Not that Noah would ever judge me: he’s always told me how amazing, and inspiring, and even intimidating, my professional success is.
But by distancing myself from the action, and putting myself in the shoes of someone as altruistic and far removed from the world of celebrity he is, I see clearly how nonsensical much of it is. Nonsensical and invasive, and plain gratuitous.
This perspective hits me when I have to barge past the paps to get Rollo to his school gates.
When a photographer nicks the tail light of another parent’s Porsche Cayenne and I have to apologise and fork out for the damage.
When I find Serena crying in bed one night because another girl has said Serena’s daddy has a girlfriend who is not her mum.
When Mara suggests it would be great to capture the whole family, Jackson included, arriving at Good Vibes to spend what could be our final time together with Mum.
No! No, no, no. All these years, I’ve endured this type of bullshit, and for what reason? I’ve always told myself it’s to grow our family brand, keep it current, keep it front and centre in the public’s mind, benefiting our array of business interests.
But it’s not.
Not really.
It’s all for Jackson.
He’s a world-famous movie star, operating at the highest levels of the entertainment industry.
He’s done incredibly well, and he chose me and brought me along for the ride, and so much of it’s been an amazing adventure.
We have more money than God, and I’ve had access to the smartest, most successful people and parties and inner circles.
His chosen career requires a level of public exposure that’s frankly terrifying, and is jarring so hard for me right now, but my career doesn’t.
Not really. Our profile as a couple undoubtedly launched my cosmetics brand, but now I have the track record and customer base to prove my product has legs and isn’t just another celebrity hobby.
Evelyn and Astrid and Elaine and Stacey are all examples of women at the top of their game, who’ve achieved enormous professional success without courting the spotlight.
Granted, Evelyn had a nightmare when she was married to her ex, Seb, but since they divorced she’s focused all her press efforts on herself as an entrepreneur, and it’s been extraordinarily effective.
Same with Astrid. Same with Elaine and Stacey.
If only I didn’t have to constantly worry about my and my children’s faces being on the front of the Post. If only I could focus on making the cover of Forbes instead.
But this is what Jackson and I have always done: offered the press access to our family.
This has always been at the core of our media strategy.
Mum’s words keep popping into my head at the most inconvenient moments.
You are not the Queen. I’ve taken this burden on myself.
No one is making me get out of bed and live this ridiculous life every morning.
No one but me. And perhaps in a few months, when I’m in a more robust state of mind, I can work with my executive coach and with Mara and Erika and Jackson to iron out what I view as a more sustainable model for my career.
One where I don’t have to sell my soul to the tabloids every day.