Chapter 1
One
The moment I step through the doors of the club in Soho, I’m surrounded by a flock of frazzled-looking people desperately needing answers to their questions.
Shrugging off my trench coat and draping it over one arm, I’m forced to hold a hand up to silence them before calmly requesting that they speak to me one by one, like a teacher handling a bunch of overexcited school children.
‘Ash, where do you want the extra chairs set up?’ a panic-stricken intern asks me.
‘No extra chairs,’ I answer simply.
‘I thought Ren—’
‘He’s changed his mind,’ I inform her. ‘We’re now going for a bare and minimalist theme.’
‘But… what about the flowers?’ checks one of the venue staff, practically buckling beneath the weight of two vases filled with large displays of blooms in his arms.
‘No flowers.’
He blinks at me over the giant blue hydrangeas. ‘No flowers?’
‘No flowers,’ I confirm.
‘But what do I do with—?’
‘Whatever you like. Keep them, give them away.’ I shrug. ‘But no flowers in here anymore, please. Thanks so much. Next question.’
I begin to walk across the venue to the back, my heels clacking across the shiny floor, my panicked entourage in tow.
As I hang up my coat and bag in the cloakroom, I continue to answer questions about the lighting, the music, the caterers, the cocktail menu, the official photographer and last-minute changes to the guest list. On the face of it, I seem cool and collected, perfectly in control despite my boss’s sudden U-turn over the theme for tonight’s big launch of his latest menswear collection. Under the surface, I’m bricking it.
If I had the liberty to scream, I would.
I never set out to be a fashion assistant.
I left university with a degree in history and no set idea of what I wanted to do.
I was vaguely thinking something along the lines of a research position or a job in a museum, something to which my skillset would be suited.
But after floundering to get a job anywhere, my mum, a TV producer, suggested I apply for the assistant role going with Ren, an up-and-coming designer whose career she’d boosted when one of her breakfast presenters wore a loud shirt of his that got people talking.
It was only meant to be temporary while I worked out what I actually wanted to do, but I’ve worked for Ren for almost four years and am still no clearer on my vocation in life.
I should have moved on by now, but the problem is I’m good at this job.
It actually helps that I’m not devoted to a career in fashion because I don’t feel the need to suck up to anybody or feel intimidated by those in this industry.
I’m a good gatekeeper – nobody gets to Ren without going through me first – and, four years in, I know Ren and his dramatics well enough to prioritise what’s important and keep him happy.
When I spotted him pacing around his glass-walled office earlier in a flap, I knew instantly something was wrong and I was the only person who could help.
I gathered myself. Ren’s tantrums can be difficult to manage and no one else who works for him is brave enough to face them.
I could see that the office floor had coincidentally emptied and the few left were keeping their heads low and their eyes averted. I marched over to knock on his door.
‘Everything all right, Ren?’ I asked, peering round it.
‘It’s no use, Ashley!’ he cried, throwing his hands up in the air. ‘It’s no bloody use! I can’t do it. I haven’t been true to myself!’
I stepped in and shut the door behind me. ‘It’s natural to feel nervous in the run-up to the launch of a new collection. Remember what happened last time? And that one ended up being a huge hit.’
I was referring to last season’s launch date when Ren didn’t show up to work and, after calls and messages went unanswered all morning, I had to use my key to get into his apartment.
I discovered him curled up in his wardrobe wearing nothing but a silk dressing robe and sunglasses.
He was vaping and eating a bag of peanuts, questioning every step he’d made in his career that had led him to this ‘meaningless existence’.
After applying some tried and tested persuasion techniques that mostly involved flattery, I managed to get him out of his wardrobe and encourage him to shower and dress while I waited with a car downstairs.
He eventually floated down and accepted the flat white I handed him before he reluctantly accompanied me to the office, only to get there and realise his collection was being received well.
Then he demanded to know why I’d taken so long to get him.
‘This time is different,’ he hissed impatiently at me today. ‘This is not just any collection. This is… this is—’ He stopped pacing, his eyes widening in wonder. ‘This is a cultural moment.’
While I wasn’t sure his menswear had quite the impact on the world he was envisioning, I couldn’t deny that this was a big moment in Ren’s career.
We have secured Australian tennis pro Chris Courtney as the face of this collection, which is a huge deal.
He’s so famous that the moment we announced the news on social media, we had more engagement than ever before.
He’s the perfect face for this collection: suave, sophisticated and hot as hell.
And when we released a sneak-peek selection of provocative photos from the shoot, there was an online meltdown over his smouldering gaze, carved abs, chiselled jaw and raw masculine energy, as one journalist put it.
Real Men Are Back on Top, the headline of the article claimed, as she went on to applaud Ren’s decision to choose someone she described as an ‘older’ athlete, even though Chris is only in his thirties and reached the Wimbledon final two years ago.
‘You’re right, this is a big moment and we’re prepared for it,’ I reminded Ren coolly. ‘Chris has already confirmed his timings with me and how excited he is for the launch tonight. It’s going to be great.’
But Ren shook his head. ‘Nope. No, it won’t. I’ve made a mistake.’
‘Ren—’
‘I can’t do it, Ash, I can’t stick with this theme. Every bone in my body is screaming at me to stop it before it’s too late,’ he declared.
‘Stop what? Explain to me what you want to change.’
‘The party,’ he said, bewildered, as though that was obvious. ‘I thought I wanted opulence and aspirational luxury. But that clashes with the very heart of the collection!’
Suddenly, I realised where this was going.
‘You want to change the theme of the party?’ I checked, my voice croaking as panic began to rise in my throat. ‘The party that’s taking place… tonight?’
He nodded. ‘Yes. Destroy the excess. I want minimalism.’
I was able to swiftly decipher whether this was a temporary whim I could talk him round from or a serious change of heart.
Unfortunately, it was the latter. When he threatened that it would have to all change or he couldn’t possibly show his face tonight, I told him I would sort it.
Now here I am, hours away from guests arriving, trying my best to persuade everyone else that this is manageable when I’m not entirely convinced of that myself.
I’m talking through Ren’s new concept with the lighting designer when my phone rings. I see Chris Courtney’s name flashing up on the screen. My heart lurches.
‘I have to take this,’ I say, excusing myself and going to find a quiet corner where I won’t be disturbed before I pick up. ‘Hi, Chris.’
‘Ash, hey,’ he says, his smooth Australian accent making my stomach flutter. ‘How are you?’
‘Great. You?’ I ask brightly.
‘I heard there’s been a change of plan about tonight?’
‘Nothing for you to worry about. A simple switch up, that’s all,’ I say, jumping as the men carrying the giant gold-painted sculpture of Chris’s bare torso clip it on the door frame on their way out. ‘Everything is going perfectly to plan and we are on schedule.’
‘Are you sure? I heard something about Ren having a meltdown…’
I scan the room of staff scurrying around, wondering who blabbed to Chris’s people. If any of this leaks to the press, it wouldn’t be a good look for us.
‘A major exaggeration,’ I assure him. ‘He’s currently at the spa enjoying a massage, so whoever your source is, they’re mistaken.’
Through the window, I spot Sam crossing the road towards the venue carrying a clothes bag and closely dodging the elbow of one of the men lifting the torso sculpture into the back of a van. She stops to ogle it before continuing on her way.
‘Okay, I’ll choose to believe you,’ Chris says, his voice more relaxed now.
‘Wise decision. Tonight is going to be perfect, I promise.’
‘With you in charge, I have no doubt about that.’
Leaning back against the wall, I smile into the phone. Sam is wandering into the middle of the room now, dodging out the way of everyone and craning her neck to look for me. Her eyes finally land on me and she brightens. I wave her over.
‘Uh, Chris, I have to go,’ I say a little reluctantly.
‘I’ll see you tonight,’ he says.
‘See you tonight. Can’t wait.’
As Sam reaches me, I hang up and pull her in for a hug.
‘Gosh, it’s all going on in here,’ she observes, pulling back from me with a wide grin. ‘Sorry to disturb your call. Anyone important?’
‘Chris Courtney,’ I admit, sliding my phone back into my pocket.
She gawps at me. ‘Not him personally. Oh my God, you talk to the man himself ?’
‘It’s been necessary during this campaign,’ I reason, a little flustered. ‘Much easier to talk direct than keep passing messages through someone.’
‘Jesus, no wonder you were smiling so big then. He might just be the sexiest man on the planet. Such a shame he’s married.’ She hesitates. ‘By the way, was that a sculpture of his body I saw out there?’
‘One of two sculptures, yes.’
‘Why is it being taken away?’ she whines, appalled.