‘You made your and Drew’s wedding rings, didn’t you?’ Margot asks me.
‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘Mine is gold and Drew’s is silver.’
‘Well, perhaps one day he’ll earn enough to buy you a proper ring.’
She joins Liv at the island, chooses a necklace at random and picks it up, pretending to give it her full attention.
‘Do you mind if I take some photos to send to my influencer friends?’ asks Liv. ‘Some are stylists, others are buyers, and a couple are Instagrammers.’
‘That’s really thoughtful,’ I say, perhaps a little overzealously.
She must take at least a dozen pictures, and I look over her shoulder as she sends them to a WhatsApp group titled ‘Fashion Huns’, then adds a carousel of them to her own Instagram page and tags me. She has almost ninety thousand followers. I realise Margot’s also watching, and going by her expression, she’s equally surprised by that figure.
‘Can I try that one on?’ asks Margot, pointing to a necklace.
It’s one from my recent Inferno range: a brass drawn cable chain holding flame-like loops made from red spinel, rhodonite and citrine.
‘It really suits you,’ says Liv as she helps Margot affix it. ‘Women with slightly thicker necks often struggle to pull off thin chains, but that looks great on you.’
Liv winks at me and I turn my head so a blanching Margot can’t see me react.
‘I think I’ll have this one,’ Margot says. It’ll be her first-ever purchase from me. ‘Invoice me.’
She takes it off and I give it a polish with a fine cloth before slipping it into a box. Liv turns her attention to Margot.
‘I feel like I should apologise for my drunken friend Anastasia at our New Year’s Eve party,’ she says. ‘I hope she didn’t embarrass you by bringing up the past? She really has no filter.’
‘I haven’t given it a second thought,’ Margot replies. ‘Those days are long behind me.’
I suspect they aren’t. You’re unlikely to forget being called the most reviled woman in Britain in a hurry.
Chapter 12
Liv
I’m judging Margot. I wouldn’t be if I was only basing my opinion on her past behaviour. People can change. And who she was a decade ago isn’t necessarily who she is now.
She’s certainly a complex beast. I’d had no idea she used to be famous until Anna told me. When Margot was at the height of her fame, I was more interested in rock than fluffy pop. And I didn’t really read newspapers or magazines either, so her rise to fame – and subsequent fall – passed me by.
It was only when I was googling her that I began recalling parts of her story. I hadn’t realised just how badly the press savaged her. Some of it was deserved, but for the most part, it was a witch hunt. Nicu got away lightly, all things considered. But men so often do, compared to women. Suggest a historical sexual assault by a male celebrity and the first thing social media wants to know is either ‘Why did you wait so long to report it?’ or ‘How much money are you trying to get from him?’ Not, ‘I’m sorry that happened to you, how can I show you my support?’
But I’m not judging her for any of that. My view is based on who she is now, and that’s someone who constantly demeansAnna. It doesn’t sit comfortably with me. The comments about her appearance, her weight and her husband must all be chipping away at her confidence, which is unfair because, from what I’ve learned, Anna is a good-natured soul. I’ve met bullies like Margot before. I’ve worked with some. And I have this big-sisterly urge to fight back on Anna’s behalf when Margot makes her jibes. If I’m given the opportunity and it feels appropriate, I’ll ask Anna why she puts up with it. Or maybe she needs someone like me to help her realise how negating Margot’s behaviour is.
My phone pings with a message.
‘It’s my friend Stephanie, the fashion blogger I was telling you about,’ I tell Anna. ‘She says she’d love to use some of your designs in a shoot early next week. Would you be able to send some? Can she send a courier to pick them up tomorrow?’
Anna’s face reddens. ‘Yes, of course,’ she says in a voice that’s too small for her. ‘That would be amazing. Thank you so much.’
Another message appears with photos of the items Stephanie wants.
‘Do you have any more of the one Margot chose?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Please, take this back,’ says Margot, a little too quickly, before she slides the box across the worktop to Anna.
‘I’ll make you another one,’ Anna says gratefully.
