I get dressed in any of my client’s clothes, usually whichever one is doing my head in the least, although this is a very tough contest. I get gifted so much, which is the least the clients can do considering they’d be nothing without my PR skills. I mean literally nothing, because most of these designers don’t even design their own collections, it’s done by their ‘team’ or their ‘stylist’ all of which I put in place for the charlatans. In return I insist on a hefty fee and a five fingered discount on anything I choose from their collection. Oh, and they must personally dress me for their show. In a very key look. Not something from their shitty commercial collection. One of the ‘designers’ tried to fob me off with a commercial piece once, I smiled and wore it like the professional I am. Then, as soon as I got back to the office I lent their look 1 (the most major look of any designer’s runway collection, usually reserved for only the most credible magazines) to Patsy Palmer for the TV Quick Awards. It was bloody everywhere. How I delighted in scanning each published image (I usually have 15 interns to do such menial tasks) and sending each picture from my personal email account to the shitbag designer – who never messed with me again, funnily enough.
Another designer client recently tried to charge me for 6 looks from their collection, I subsequently lent his clothes to the crappest stylists all season as a punishment. After he had the utter nerve to complain about this, sadly the courier ‘lost’ his entire collection. Like I say they learn not to mess with me.
I live just across the square from the office, but I take a cab anyway. I always charge it back to the clients. It’s their own stupid fault for not designing shoes which are easy to walk in. I need to live near the office as one never knows when any of these designers are going to want my attention. Besides, I never switch off, you simply can’t when you are in my position with all these careers depending on my genius.
I always arrive late to work. At unpredictable times. This strikes fear in my staff. Keeps them on edge all morning. And I always create a drama when I arrive. Set the tone for the day..
I like to think that the way I arrive at the office oozes power and glamour, in a totally offbeat, arty, modern and yet somehow nonchalant way. I have watched the Michelle Pfeiffer / elevator scene in Scarface no fewer than 9,000 times in order to perfect this. Appearance is everything to me -actually that reminds me, I must fire the receptionist. She has let her knees get fat. The major loser.
Nothing particularly dramatic has happened so far this morning, but it will. It always does. I’m on edge just thinking about it. This may be due to the fact that I’ve got half of Columbia up my nose, or it may just be the anticipation of what erratums the useless team that work for me have created so far this morning.
I strut into my office. To my utter astonishment I notice that my pa hasn’t bothered to put my office lights on yet. She knows it is crucial to do this before I enter the building. How dare she? Why should I, with my seniority, my close relationships to our designer clients, all my celebrity friends, and crucially, having worked my arse off to get to this position, have to bother myself with flicking a light switch?
Does she not realise how many years I spent having mobile phones chucked at my head to get to where I am today?
I spend a good few minutes jumping up and down on the spot, like a two year old on a trampette, screaming the words ‘pa’ and ‘useless bitch’ and ‘why do I have to think for everyone?’ but this doesn’t calm me down and as I cannot possibly work in the near dark, I storm downstairs to the basement where my useless team work. To be frank they don’t deserve windows or daylight, although no -one stays here long enough to get vitamin D deficiency anyway (people just don’t want to work hard these days…) and besides, the HR dept won’t let us work on a high floor anymore, since I threatened to put one of my team through the window for bringing me the wrong shade of banana.
My pa is there in the basement, I no longer learn their names, since they don’t last long enough for me to bother myself with such trivialities. I simply call them all ‘Poodles’ This particular twont is my 14th pa this year (it is March) and I expect she will leave soon because I recently saw her tapping the side of her head with her finger and saying ‘she’s not very well’ in my direction.
I have such bad luck with staff.
I pick up the nearest object (a carrier bag full of magazines) and launch it at her. I’m not allowed to throw things so they hit my team anymore. This bothered HR after one of my pa’s had the cheek to sneakily film me repeatedly chucking a selection of last season’s shoes at her. I really do have the worst luck with staff. What did she expect me to do? Risk denting this season’s shoes?
After such a busy morning I just about have time to flick through the latest issue of the magazine of the Editor I’m having lunch with. I like this editor, because she’s so thin and she loves a gossip. She tells me everything my main PR rival is up to. Which I need to know, because since this PR has been acting as a beard to a world famous actor she is getting far more business than me. The fashion industry can be so vacuous at times.
I always get changed for my lunch appointments. My PA has laid out 3 jumpsuits for me to choose from, but only one belt. How peculiar
Me ‘Poodles, Why are there 3 jumpsuits but only one belt?’
PA ‘The 3 belts are identical’
Me ‘Never mind that, why are there 3 jumpsuits but only one belt?’
PA ‘Are you going to wear 3 belts at once, I thought I should use the other 2 for press shoots taking place this afternoon’
Me Silent staring at her with an open mouth. I do this for about 5 minutes, until she starts shaking
Me ‘Where are the other 2 belts, Poodles?’
Eventually, and god only knows why it takes this long, the idiot brings me the other 2 belts, which are actually the same as the one I already have… This infuriates me and I make a note to get on to HR about her lack of initiative. These belts should be on shoots. I do not possibly need 3 identical belts.
Why do I have to think for everyone?
Then, because I’m distracted I drop my pen on the floor. There isn’t another on my desk, which I keep minimal. iMac. 1 pen. Notepad. iphone. Candle (not lit ever, well not since I accidentally set a copy of The Telegraph on fire), Kartell black bin, from Milan, because English bins are common. A banana. Must be the right shade.
I phone Poodles.
Her ‘How may I help you?’
Me ‘A pen’
Her ‘Excuse me?’
Me ‘A pen, I dropped my pen on the floor, I need a new pen’
Her ‘I’ll be right through’
Then I’m sure I hear a kind of sniggering sound, but it’s probably just the phone line crackling. That’s the trouble with dancing with the white lady during the day, one can get slightly paranoid.
Time for a banana to pick me up. I reach for the banana, and measure it against my Pantone chart. Perfect. At least the idiots have managed to get this right. I start to peel the skin, mmm, hang on, what is that? Something written in big letters in black sharpie on the underside:
How odd that this passed Waitrose quality control with such a defamatory word written on it.
Ah here is Poodles with my new pen. I show her the banana, tell her to get one of the interns to return it to Waitrose and ask for one without swearing scrawled up it. When I look up I see that she is staring really hard at her shoes and her shoulders are shaking up and down, there are tears rolling down her cheeks and she is biting her lip hard.
Clearly terrified of me. Just the way I like it.
TBC (or maybe not)