Low Expectations (31 page)

‘I know that! I am not saying women are! What I am saying is that if cake had feelings, a mother, a painful childhood and complex body-image issues, in a fit of gluttony I'd still want to come on cake's face.'

Sarah takes a glug of her champagne and smiles like a Cheshire Cat.

I personally think that sexual objectification is impossible to avoid. As long as there is sex, there will be objectification. Unless humans evolve to a point where we start self-propagating. Even then, if we still have a libido, the situation will just turn into a frenzy of narcissistic masturbation. No one will ever leave the house and the welfare state will be overwhelmed.

‘Ridiculous.' Rose cuts herself a slice of cake and takes a bite. ‘Mmm, delicious.'

‘We will be equal when everyone can look at a naked photo of a woman and enjoy it, even sexually, but not make assumptions about her qualities or essential value as a human being. As we do with men.' Sarah finishes, reaching for the champagne bottle.

‘Look, guys, let's just all agree that we like eating cake while looking at dicks. I propose a birthday toast,' I say, ‘to a wonderful year, spent objectifying, or not, the ones we love, depending on how we define the term. And lots of cake!'

‘Hear, hear!' Sarah raises her glass.

‘To cake!' Rose declares.

We all tuck in, bathed in spring sunshine.

It is the 30th of May, the day of the show – and I am oddly calm. Though I still have niggling doubts over decisions most consumers would never notice – the finishing on a hemline, the wrong bloody buttons for a dress – I have emotionally exhausted myself with the collection to the extent that I no longer care how it will be received. Like a message in a bottle, addressed to no one in particular, I want to rid myself of it, fling it out into the world. I am ‘detached with love', to use an expression my mother uses when defending a lack of feeling in situations that would suggest she is sociopathic. Even the thought of my parents and friends in the audience leaves me strangely unaffected. Maybe this preternatural calm is actually nerves.

Backstage the mood is buoyant or hysterical, depending
on how prepared the other students feel they are. We congratulate each other, oohing and ahing over the collections of those in our cliques; the less subtle of us sniff or raise an eyebrow at the aesthetic of the unfavoured, murmuring a cruel ‘My gosh, what a brave choice in cut!' or ‘I always feel duchesse satin is too bridesmaid, but she nearly gets away with it'
sotto voce
. Personally, though I genuinely like the majority of my classmates, I have always tried to keep out of these dramas. I get on with things politely, head down, dressing my models with care.

My work is a luxurious swirl of draped silks and embroidered crèpe de Chine contrasted with tailored leather pieces in muted Gothic tones, recalling the dramas of Theda Bara. Vintage elegance with a minimalist edge, the strong silhouettes have a touch of nineties Calvin Klein. I am satisfied that I have created a collection with the powerful, modern femininity that I had envisioned.

I take a deep breath and move to the side of the catwalk entrance as my girls line up, ready to stride out. From this angle, I can see a few faces in the audience, but the majority of the guests are hidden from view. Between the beat of my heart and the beat of the music, it is impossible to judge an initial response, good or bad. The models strut elegantly to fast-paced electronic music; my long year's work unleashed into the world for four whole minutes that pass in the blink of an eye. I duck my head out afterwards, give a wave, seeing nothing but bright
lights; come back in, shaking. I am afraid that I might burst into tears with the weight of this off my shoulders. I am not so impervious to the emotion of the day after all.

After thanking the girls, I undress them and make a start on repacking my collection. Heartfelt congratulations and cheap red wine are shared with the other students. I succumb to the large table of sandwiches. I am halfway through stuffing a second roast chicken, avocado and salsa wrap into my mouth when I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn around, one cheek bulging.

‘Hello,' Scott smiles lopsidedly.

My eyes widen in shock. I nearly splutter bits of poultry all over his shirt. Chewing my mouthful as rapidly as I can without choking, I swallow, throat dry as a bone. After an excruciatingly slow thirty seconds during which I lose the ability to speak, I am finally able to reply with a weak, ‘Hey'.

Scott says nothing, shuffling from side to side, looking from my face to the floor and back again. My chest constricts with confusion, hope and anxiety. What the hell is he doing here, I think. My heart is leapfrogging in the prolonged silence. He must be here for me. Why else would he be here?

As the silence and shuffling continues, I start to doubt myself. Oh God, maybe it's something to do with that little redheaded girl he was with when I cornered him at his pub. Maybe she works here. If that is the case, I hope she's doing something menial.

Scott clears his throat. I want to reach out and brush back a lock of his tumbling hair but stop myself. The awkwardness between us is palpable, painful. This is not at all how I had envisioned a grand reunion.

‘Your collection was beautiful. I want to congratulate you.'

I forgot how his accent makes me melt.

‘Thank you very much. That's very kind. I appreciate that,' I say formally before blurting out, ‘What are you doing here?'

‘I took the ticket you gave to Gary. I hope you don't mind. You see, I want to tell you something.'

‘You want to tell me what?'

I am shocked by the calmness of my voice. This is it. I am sure of it. Come on, man! Speak! I stare intensely at him. His eyes draw me in like a magnet but his own gaze keeps slipping away. I feel every particle in my body buzzing with longing and panic; I fear that I might spontaneously combust from impatience, fear and delight. Like in
Repo Man
. It happens sometimes. People just explode. Natural causes.

‘I just want to say congratulations.' Scott clears his throat again.

I continue to stare at him expectantly, waiting for him to continue, ideally to declare his love. He looks down at the floor again.

Seriously? Is this it? He just wants to say hi and fuck off out of my life again? I think with irrational anger. At least
when I thought that he hated me, I could convince myself that it was because he still cared. This is bullshit.

‘Oh … You already said that. But thanks.'

Silence. He looks up searchingly; our eyes connect. He opens his mouth to say something; shuts it again. I try to wipe the disappointment off my face; nothing more appears to be forthcoming.

‘Well, it was nice to see you again.' I can't believe this is it. My voice wobbles.

Scott clears his throat for the third time.

‘I also want to say … that I think of you. Fondly. A lot.'

The remains of my chicken wrap drop to the floor. I smile brilliantly.

‘You do?'

‘I do.'

Taking my beaming smile as the encouragement it is, Scott takes me by the shoulders and pulls me towards him. His eyes are laughing in that way of his that never fails to touch my heart; his smell is both familiar and intoxicating. A bubble of relief, exhilaration and pure happiness bursts inside of me. Moving his hands to stroke my hair and cradle my face, he slowly leans in to kiss me. I have to stop myself from grinning so widely. At first it is soft, uncertain, with a hesitant tenderness. As his strong arms clasp me closer to him, the kiss deepens and an electric shock goes through all the nerves in my body. I melt into him, suspended in a timeless urgency.

I would like to thank:

My most brilliant of mothers and kindest of fathers, who have always been a source of endless love and support.

My amazing grandparents, who are so interesting and interested in the world. I hope I am always so curious. Sadly, this is the only page you are allowed to read.

My darling sisters Anna and Leila, who make me laugh everyday I am with them.

My agent Becky Thomas, for seeing potential in me. Without her hard work this exciting new chapter in my life would not have been possible.

My editor Katie Gordon, who has cleverly cut the worst of my humorous excesses and ensured there was always enough heart in
Low Expectations
.

The lovely and talented Golan, Fyodor, Natalie, Gabby and Basil, for helping with the promotion process and just being all-around excellent company.

And last but not least the fun, funny and fabulous women whose lives I have shamelessly pilfered for material. Hanako, Iz, Maggie, Ollie, Deeba, Jane, Kat, Eve, Josephine and Marie-Anna, I love you girls!