In the layer cake of Olympia — jammy carpet tiling, spongy exhibition space — Michelle Brodie struggled to keep up with her idea of who she ought to be. Almost all those who laboured to get Olympia ready for the opening of Business Computing '87 knew Michelle by sight — she was hard to miss, with her fiery plume of auburn hair and her trim figure in its neat, scarlet suit. Hurrying here, rushing there, her heels clicking and a comet tail of gaseous regard streaming behind her.
The fabricators weren't working hard enough on the stand. Michelle wasn't in charge of this — any more than she was in charge of the account overall — if it's a success Manning takes the credit, and if it bombs it'll be my fault. Manning, the Exhibitions Executive, that fat wanker with his white socks and cheap loafers, his greased-back hair and C&A suit … thinks he's God's fucking gift, had made his obligatory pass at Michelle within days of his appointment. Since he's been brought in over me, he thinks he has the right to climb on top of me. Although by the standards of the passes that had been made at Michelle — and there were many at this time — Clive Manning's was low key. His fish-belly hand lounged towards her coppery tights while he burbled of 'forward planning', then, when she flinched, it flopped away while he continued uttering banalities about 'feedback'.
What if I'd let him? Pork-pie breath on my shoulder, greasy hair in my eye, little dick digging at me down below. . The grim vision goaded Michelle on past fabricators who were bolting steel frames and hammering together wooden partitions, speedily erecting a model city inside the cavernous exhibition hall; a new London, shiny, two-dimensional, every facade commercially artful. The workmen, scenting her perfume, turned to stare, wet tongues lolling on their yellow teeth, while women looked daggers at her, searching for chinks in her beautiful armour — the hint of a sag or a blemish.
At her clients' area Michelle talked to the foreman, a dependable Irishman, older, his wedding band emphatic on his veined hand. I remind him of his daughter or niece — he can't respect me 'cause I'm not a virgin — but he doesn't dream of fucking me. She showed him the revised drawing: the stand was to be in the shape of a giant desktop computer, with the staff answering queries through the screen. Prospects would be ushered in to look at its shiny innards. It was her idea.
Michelle's mate Sandra took the call at her desk in the Shell Centre, while forking grated carrot from a plastic container and peering myopically at the drizzly window. 'Not at lunch, San?' Michelle said.
'Issat you,' 'chelle? No, rain's come on, his nibs got me a salad. What's up?'
'I was going to call him, but I'm in a cafe with that Rachel from work and I swear she knows.' Michelle risked a glance over her shoulder: Rachel was sizing up a builder at the next table, whose flesh-coloured dust mask disfigured his neck like a goitre.
'Yeah,' Sandra laughed, 'she knows she's a scheming little cow, that's what she knows.'
'I dunno, San, I'm bloody nervy today, it's… it's like something's gonna happen, I dunno what — just something.' Michelle's eyes flicked outside to the Hammersmith Road, where a black cab shook with mechanical ague.
'Are you meant to be seeing him?'
'Yeah, later, I don't know where, though, he'll leave me a message at home — lissen, I gotta go.'
'What?'
But Michelle had hung up. She went back to her seat opposite Rachel. The builders at the next table rose, four big bodies moving in dusty puffs. From the kerfuffle a meaty arm tossed the Sun between the two young women. 'Paper for yer, luv,' he said, giving Michelle a gappy grin. She picked it up: it was open at the horoscopes and she read: 'PISCES. It has been a long, rough and lonely road emotionally. However, with the sun in Cancer and a new moon to boot, this will be a week of amazing highs and the realization that at last your darkest days are over.' Snip-snip … He's gonna leave her … Snip-snip, he's gonna cut her out of his life … Snip-snip.
Michelle unlocked the front door and took the stairs at a run. Fiddling with her flat key on the top landing, she felt her nostrils prickling with dust — then the Yale clicked. Without bothering to shut the door, she lunged for the answer-phone. It peeped, hissed, crackled: 'chelle, it's Mum here.' As if I don't know your voice. 'I was wonderin' if you were coming by Friday. .'so you can put me down with sly digs '… 'cause I'm going down the market an' if you are I'll get a whole chicken instead of pieces.' A thigh or two for her, a leg for Ronnie, gross. 'Anyway, love, gissa call, there's a good girl, love, Mum.' She thinks she's writing a bloody letter. 'Peep!' 'Alright, 'chelle? A load of us are going down Gossips tonight.' That's desperate. 'We'll be in the wine bar before that…' getting pissed enough to take on anything in trousers — and it's only Thursday '… so see ya there, unless you're getting shagged by wossisface, ta-ra.' I should keep my big mouth shut. Shut. 'Peep!' 'Hilton on Park Lane …' His voice!'… eight o'clock in the lobby, don't be late.' 'Peep!'
Michelle kicked off the black heels, she shrugged off the red jacket, she sloughed off the tight red skirt, she tore off the white cotton blouse. In her bra, tights and knickers, she raced into the bathroom, her head a whirl of transportation schedules. I don't want to rush, it'll be sweaty on the tube, I don't want to sweat. No sweat, he doesn't want sweat — he doesn't want real, he wants a fantasy girl. . Weird thing is … I wannabe that for him. Crouching in the bath, Michelle used the rubber Y of the shower fitment to sluice away Olympia and Manning. She pushed the heel of her hand down through her pubic hair, then gouged out her vagina with the bar of lavender soap … Dirty girl Dirty, dirty girl. On the mat, she twisted in front of the full-length mirror, checking for stubble under arms and between thighs. I wonder if Mrs Thatcher ever does this? Or Chris Evert? They must do. Michelle flipped her mane forward and vigorously stroked it with the saddle brush. A hiss of spray to stop the frizz and Michelle flipped it back. Deodorant was sprayed under arms still damp from their douche. Perfume was dabbed at ear and neck and crotch. In the bedroom she pulled multicoloured handfuls of silk and cotton scraps from her drawer, and strewed them like blossom on the counterpane of her bed. Why bother? He doesn't want this — I don't want this. He wants in — I want him in as fast as possible.
Michelle Brodie had always been a fashion victor, triumphing over each season's army of styles, colours and cloths with her own inimitable Look. Aged sixteen, trolling through Crystal Palace on her way to her Saturday job, she'd been spotted by Ben Bendicks, a photographer so famous that even Michelle had heard of him. He came at her out of the shiny fourth dimension that was folded into Vogue and Harpers. They were deep in Sarf London, deep and high up — to the south lay the North Downs, a bright, green streak on the horizon. All this airy calm was annihilated by the Yank car flung against the kerb, the man in the iridescent silk shirt and wraparound shades shouting, 'You've got it girl! You've got the Look!' She was wearing a midi-length black skirt and a white blouse. Some Look. Still, Bendicks conjured up her exhibitionism with his own. A spread-legged year followed — not that he ever laid a hand on her — as Michelle posed in front of paper flats, morphing to the rat-a-tat-tat of his shutter. The freckles on her face and hands were airbrushed out, and she learned to think of nothing so as to achieve the allure of a Zen garden. Bendicks got her on hoardings as the Face of Fermata — the designer label of that year.