waxed nose. He probably should have paid a little more attention to his nostrils though, both of which were ever so slightly crusty.
âOoooh â whereâve you been?â Poppy was always eager to hear about othersâ debauchery, but now she could actually indulge in her passion for gossip in the name of research. This job really, really couldnât be better. She knew how lucky she was and was working like a trouper to show her gratitude.
âWhere havenât I been?â Fabrice winked, and Poppy giggled at him in the mirror. She did like the way she looked, even with a smarting red nose.
âOh, my screaming Andy Warhols, you are just sooooo cute. If I had even an
atomo
of hetero hormones, I would be up your tiny tight pussy faster than HIV in a seventies âFrisco sauna!â
âWow, thanks ⦠I think. So, Fab, take me through your night. I want to hear it all â bars, restaurants, clubs, the lot!â
By the time Fabrice had hilariously and indiscreetly told all, Poppy felt they might be friends for life. The final wax strip barely stung.
Make-up passed without a hitch â New Yorkers didnât want to look like footballersâ wives, after all â and she emerged looking like an even better version of herself (if that were possible). But ensconced in Hair, Poppy had a battle on her hands.
âUm ⦠Iâm sure you know your job far better than I do â¦â She smiled winningly at the latest addition to her hairdressing team.
âI do.â Jojo, a terrifyingly well-groomed middle-aged redhead, didnât smile back.
âItâs just that, if Iâm meant to be the cool Anglo chick around town, I wouldnât be all blow-dried to within an inch of my life like this. I mean, my hairâs always been a bit messy â¦â
âU-huh.â Only New Yorkers could imbue so few syllables with such disdain. Jojo pulled a golden lock even harder around the round brush. Poppy tried to stay friendly.
â⦠and I think thatâs kind of what they wanted â you know, for me to keep my â erm â unkempt London essence?â
âIf you think I am letting you out in front of those cameras looking how you looked before, then you are mistaken, Brit chick,â said Jojo grimly. âItâs my reputation on the line here.â
Poppy smiled back sweetly, knowing sheâd mess up the Stepford blow-dry as soon as she was out of the Nazi bitchâs hands. It was her hair, and sheâd wear it as she bloody well pleased.
Damian stared at his laptop morosely. Still no new messages, unless you counted the endless press releases and PR guff that flooded his inbox daily, as an ex-important journo (he was amazed they didnât update their files more frequently and put him in the box marked useless). It wouldnât hurt any of the editors heâd approached to at least acknowledge receipt of his featuresâ ideas. A âthanks but no thanksâ would be preferable to the interminable silence. Apart from anything else it was bloody bad manners. He wasnât some unknown hack, he was a former
Stadium
columnist, for fuckâs sake. And he knew most of the editors personally â they had all drunk and snorted together at many a press hooley.
Oh, well. He tried not to let it get to him as he got up off his sun lounger. Wandering over to the bar, he marvelled at the number of New Yorkers able to hang out on Soho Houseâs roof terrace in the middle of the day, in the middle of the week. He imagined that a lot of them were, like him, newly unemployed. Recent victims of the recession. He laughed at himself. Victim wasnât quite the right word, not when you still had enough dosh for Soho House membership. And he wasnât the only one grabbing the opportunity to go freelance, which definitely had its perks. Networking in the sunshine over a cocktail or two wasnât such a bad way to spend your
âOoooh â whereâve you been?â Poppy was always eager to hear about othersâ debauchery, but now she could actually indulge in her passion for gossip in the name of research. This job really, really couldnât be better. She knew how lucky she was and was working like a trouper to show her gratitude.
âWhere havenât I been?â Fabrice winked, and Poppy giggled at him in the mirror. She did like the way she looked, even with a smarting red nose.
âOh, my screaming Andy Warhols, you are just sooooo cute. If I had even an
atomo
of hetero hormones, I would be up your tiny tight pussy faster than HIV in a seventies âFrisco sauna!â
âWow, thanks ⦠I think. So, Fab, take me through your night. I want to hear it all â bars, restaurants, clubs, the lot!â
By the time Fabrice had hilariously and indiscreetly told all, Poppy felt they might be friends for life. The final wax strip barely stung.
Make-up passed without a hitch â New Yorkers didnât want to look like footballersâ wives, after all â and she emerged looking like an even better version of herself (if that were possible). But ensconced in Hair, Poppy had a battle on her hands.
âUm ⦠Iâm sure you know your job far better than I do â¦â She smiled winningly at the latest addition to her hairdressing team.
âI do.â Jojo, a terrifyingly well-groomed middle-aged redhead, didnât smile back.
âItâs just that, if Iâm meant to be the cool Anglo chick around town, I wouldnât be all blow-dried to within an inch of my life like this. I mean, my hairâs always been a bit messy â¦â
âU-huh.â Only New Yorkers could imbue so few syllables with such disdain. Jojo pulled a golden lock even harder around the round brush. Poppy tried to stay friendly.
â⦠and I think thatâs kind of what they wanted â you know, for me to keep my â erm â unkempt London essence?â
âIf you think I am letting you out in front of those cameras looking how you looked before, then you are mistaken, Brit chick,â said Jojo grimly. âItâs my reputation on the line here.â
Poppy smiled back sweetly, knowing sheâd mess up the Stepford blow-dry as soon as she was out of the Nazi bitchâs hands. It was her hair, and sheâd wear it as she bloody well pleased.
Damian stared at his laptop morosely. Still no new messages, unless you counted the endless press releases and PR guff that flooded his inbox daily, as an ex-important journo (he was amazed they didnât update their files more frequently and put him in the box marked useless). It wouldnât hurt any of the editors heâd approached to at least acknowledge receipt of his featuresâ ideas. A âthanks but no thanksâ would be preferable to the interminable silence. Apart from anything else it was bloody bad manners. He wasnât some unknown hack, he was a former
Stadium
columnist, for fuckâs sake. And he knew most of the editors personally â they had all drunk and snorted together at many a press hooley.
Oh, well. He tried not to let it get to him as he got up off his sun lounger. Wandering over to the bar, he marvelled at the number of New Yorkers able to hang out on Soho Houseâs roof terrace in the middle of the day, in the middle of the week. He imagined that a lot of them were, like him, newly unemployed. Recent victims of the recession. He laughed at himself. Victim wasnât quite the right word, not when you still had enough dosh for Soho House membership. And he wasnât the only one grabbing the opportunity to go freelance, which definitely had its perks. Networking in the sunshine over a cocktail or two wasnât such a bad way to spend your
Similar Books
