IT IS THE night before Justin Jarvis’s — and possibly the world’s — first carbon-neutral fashion show, and luckily Justin has gone to lie down in a darkened room after Jasmine Guinness called to say that she can’t open the show after all.
“Didn’t want her anyway,” Justin said, re-emerging just as I was changing the running order for the billionth time. “Have you seen her thighs since she had that baby? It’s all very well in theory these models hulking their carcasses up and down the catwalks after they’ve given birth, but it’s just not working. What’s wrong with using a surrogate?” I’ve noticed that recently all that is required to keep Jason happy is the occasional signal that the listener is still sentient.
“Oh well,” he chirped, “think positive. That’s what I always say.”
It wasn’t what he said when he did his Nihilistic-Chic collection.
“We’ll just have to get the divine Scheherazade Goldsmith to wear the sea-grass corset instead,” he continued. “It’s so much more authentic having someone who actually tills the land, don’t you think? I always wanted her in the first place, but I didn’t want to hurt Jasmine’s feelings. Huh. So much for friendship. As Judy Garland said, no good deed ever goes unpunished.” I didn’t think it was Judy Garland, but I have now promised myself that I won’t prolong conversations with Jason longer than necessary.
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Under the pretence of inspecting the fake oak behind him, I lob a penetrating glance at his pupils just as he narrows his eyes.
“Where are the sea-grass bales?” He turned on me accusingly.
“Swindon.”
“Swindon?”
“Train. Delayed. Here. Soon.” He looked at me suspiciously. “Nina, have you been on the Night Nurse again?” He surveyed the almighty void where his seating was meant to be. “At this rate my editors will be sitting on the floor. I hope you’re happy, then . . . ” Fortunately his mobile interrupted.
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In addition to keeping discussions with Jason admirably concise, I have also promised that as soon as the world’s first carbon-neutral show is over I am handing over his account to a younger, hungrier, much, much more naive colleague so that I can devote myself to pursuing more worthwhile projects such as the John Lewis pitch which, despite a disappointingly lacklustre response from the rest of the office, is going rather well. As of 3pm tomorrow, I am washing my hands of Hoxton and clothes made from untreated iron ore. Henceforth, the bywords of my life will be dignity, cream cashmere and W1.
“That was Schererazade Goldsmith.” Jason snapped the lid of his mobile closed viciously. “She can’t make it after all. Lambing crisis or something.
“But she said” — he cleared his throat, a sign that he was going to do one of his impersonations — “that the bales should be here any minute. Huh! And farmers wonder why no one trusts them.” He headed towards the darkened room.
It is 3am and I am trying to think positively: 1) Jason is still in the darkened room. 2) The emergency electrician has mended all the fuses. 3) The hairdryers are working again and by the laws of physics, these grass bales must eventually dry out. 4) I have managed to smudge my name on most of the programmes, so with any luck no one will ever know of my involvement. 5) If they find out, I’ll tell them that at least I managed to convince Jason — eventually — not to accept sponsorship for his carbon-neutral show from Hummer. 6) Florence is not here to witness this nadir in her mother’s career.
Unfortunately nihilistic thoughts insist on clouding the horizon: 1) Ros rang at midnight to ask if I could lend her my copy of The Plot Against America for tomorrow’s book club meeting. When I told her I hadn’t got round to buying it yet she accused me of being commitment-phobic and put the phone down. 2) Florence is not here because she is skiing with the rest of the family, while once again I miss half-term to be with Jason. She is not witnessing this debacle and will thus persist in her belief that fashion is an appropriate career for the sane.
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3) I am clean out of Night Nurse.