Chapter Two #2
And then came Instagram, the place where I feel like I’m at a house party with a bunch of much cooler people, and I’m in the kitchen.
No, not even the kitchen – the queue for the downstairs loo.
Scrap that – I haven’t even been invited to the bloody party.
Cassia, however, is dancing in the living room (this is still a metaphor, by the way).
Even her profile on Instagram is cool. It just says ‘Creator’ with a cryptic emoji of some cherries and a quote from Stranger Things that I don’t get as I’ve never seen it.
Millie Bobby Brown would get it. They’re probably following each other.
Cassia posts daily – more than daily if you include the chatty updates from her car on Stories.
No banana voice for Cassia, even when ACTUALLY EATING A BANANA, as she was the other day.
And it doesn’t help that Cassia is the physical opposite of me: blonde, tall, with that posh physique that grew up skiing, playing tennis and being wholesome.
The sort of person people describe as ‘coltish’.
I look like I grew up in an underground bunker by comparison: wiry brown hair, pale skin and a decidedly unathletic body.
What’s even more annoying is that we’re the same age, although Cassia uses hashtags like #wisewomen and #midyouth.
I roll my eyes at an imaginary Cassia, then wonder if that’s even possible when they’re sealed shut.
How much longer is this going to take? Cassia would make light work of the Before and After reel I have to do.
Her videos are all dropping clothes on the floor, which then magically appear on her body.
She makes vintage cocktails called things like gimlets every Friday – and only has one (#mindfuldrinking).
She winks at the camera, but it isn’t creepy, which I feel it would be if I did it.
And she has 134K followers, while I have 2892.
A large proportion of mine are American servicemen and pictures of bums in thongs with handles like @savannah_5638.
I know you’re meant to report stuff like that, and I will, but only once I get to 3K.
A tap on my arm from the Hun and finally, it’s over – I’m ready to have the miniature rollers removed.
The room is blurry and my leg has gone to sleep, which gives me an interesting gait when I head for the door, but at least my eyelashes are a modicum less stubby.
Outside, it’s tipping down, and my too-long-for-short-legs jeans absorb the rain off the pavement and start flapping about like wet flannels.
I linger in the doorway of FILLINGZ and check to see if anyone messaged during my ordeal.
One person, it transpires: Nandy, or Nandita Choudhury to be precise, another of my former colleagues at Beautique magazine but unlike Cassia, a ‘kindred spirit’, as Anne of Green Gables would have said.
Hey mofo. Are you going to the Twat Fest at Luscious HQ? Let’s get BOLLOCKSED and tell them all we hate them. Thoughts?
I laugh, which turns into the coughing fit I’ve been hoping for since I left the salon, to remove the lash lift stench from my lungs. Thank god FILLINGZ isn’t open – I have to lean on the door and make one of those retching noises to conclude matters.
When I look up, eyes watering, there’s smiley Gabe Dix, Josie’s friend, who I promised myself I’d say hello to next time I saw him.
And this is my moment, standing in a sandwich shop doorway, jeans now pretty much wet up to my knees (damn you, osmosis) and zero make-up, as the Hun took it all off To Make The Treatment As Effective As Possible.
‘Hi.’ My voice comes out in a croak.
‘Hi!’ Gabe looks surprised then concerned. ‘Are you okay?’
I mutter vague words about ‘something going down the wrong way’ to explain the retching without mentioning my lash lift. But instead of politely moving on, he reaches into his bag, pulls out a bottle of water and hands it to me.
‘I just bought it. I mean, I haven’t drunk out of it. Would it help?’ He’s like a hotter version of Gary Barlow, without the tax evasion rumours. I thank him and shake my head.
‘Maybe see you at The Perch soon?’ he says, putting the bottle back in his bag and, I notice, making quite a meal of refastening it. I also notice he has rather lovely, slightly freckled hands.
‘Oh yes please.’ My voice is still husky, so I sound like Rod Stewart, but not in a ‘Do you think I’m sexy’ way.
And also – please? Why the hell did I say PLEASE?
For a writer I have quite a talent for picking the wrong words.
In the hope of ending this shameful interaction as quickly as possible, I mutter a goodbye and start walking home, waving over my shoulder.
To appear busy and important, I get my phone out and google Halloween costumes.
And that’s when I spot it, as double-take-inducing as a coconut in a grocer’s window: an email from my old editor Merlyn.
Dear Erica,
I hope you got the invitation to the party at Luscious that I asked the team to send over. Very much hoping you can make it, especially as I have an exciting proposition for you.
Until then!
Baci
M
Merlyn Vye
Non-executive Editor, Luscious (UK edition)
I have a feeling. Well two feelings, the first of which can hopefully be remedied by a Settlers Wind-eze Plus. The second is a feeling that something might be about to change. At bloody last.