Chapter Seventeen
Projecting a stealth wealth aesthetic
The Fuchsia Frenzy Strappy Lace Bodysuit I ordered from Victoria’s Secret (thanks Yuvana Labs for prompt payment of my first invoice) arrived this morning and I think Gabe is going to be delighted by how little fabric was used during its production. Not from an environmental perspective, I just mean that it’s very revealing. But honestly, I look bloody great in it, although I do say so myself. Thank god he hasn’t seen me naked yet – he was never introduced to the bingo wings or chicken thighs, so even though my face has clearly changed, maybe he can imagine my body always looked like this…
The fly in my ointment is Nandy’s rather lukewarm reaction to my new look, but I’m pretty sure that it’s because she’s also in the industry, so is feeling left out.Metrowouldn’t get offered such a thing and frankly, considering her last feature was calledI’m A Fussy Eater – Can I Take A Packed Lunch To My Friend’s Wedding?, I don’t think she’s a contender for a trial like this. What she thinks really, really matters to me though. She’s my best friend and I need her to be happy for me. Maybe she just needs time to get used to it. Josie is more polite so I’m not expecting such negativity from her.
What didnotarrive this morning, annoyingly, were samples of the new Elemis bath range, some of which I was going to add to Mother Pells’ eightieth birthday present. After saying ‘I don’t expect much from you, Erica, as I know you don’t make a lot,’ she asked me for a heated poncho from Lakeland, which is not only expensive but sounds like something you would find as a runner-up prize in a raffle at a nursing home. But if that’s whatshe wants, then so be it. Maybe I can get one ‘gifted’. I make a mental note to do a#journorequestfor ‘Birthday Presents for Elderly Relatives’. I’m still collecting freebies of course, even though I’m not writing as much – I need to focus on the WULT® social media for the time being.
Thankfully Channing, the elusive marketing/social media person, has finally got in touch to ‘support me with the WULT® Woman content’. Although I look young, Channing is keen for me to remember that the target audience for my ‘content’ is rich middle-aged women – they’re the ones Yuvana wants to sign up for the treatment. He uses the word ‘content’ a lot, as well as ‘advertainment’ and ‘omnichannel’. It’s all quite daunting – just because I’m not worried about my jowls anymore, doesn’t mean to say I’ve become confident in front of a camera. The whole looking around like there’s a fly in the room and/or banana voice both remain an issue.
At least I’ve managed to get the tripod set up in the spare room, as well as both lights, which are surely visible from Josie’s house, if not outer space. Do they need to be this bright? Even though I have zero skin worries these days – apart from the unwelcome return of blackheads – it still seems a bit ‘operating theatre’. As well as a giant tripod, there’s also a smaller phone stand for when I’m ‘out and about’, but I can’t really see what that would involve unless it’s filming a trip to the garage during which I walk past Alan’s Auto Repairs and a field with a goat in. Then there’s my background. Channing sent me some instructions for creating ‘a minimalist backdrop’ (I’m planning to move the Peloton) with ‘a statement plant’ (will the dying basil on the kitchen windowsill do?) and ‘bougie accessories’ (pass). He told me to ‘remember the rule of thirds’ which is not possible as I don’t know what it is in the first place.
Channing has also emailed over some ‘concepts’ for ways to address the issue that I mentioned to Merlyn – namely, howwill people know I’m not just a woman in my mid-twenties pretending that I’m older? The first idea is#flashbackfridays– every Friday, I will share embarrassing photos from my youth and my followers will have to guess the year, or the story behind them. I make a mental note to go up into the attic when I’m at Mother Pells’ house for her birthday party and see if I can dig any old photos out. That’s if I go to the party – although at the moment, I’m planning to. I can’t stay hidden from my family forever, and who knows, they might even be impressed with me for a change. Either that or Simon will bring one of his marsupials and cause a welcome distraction.
The second idea, which sounds terrifying, is a weekly#popquiz, involving being played snippets of Eighties and Nineties music, which I will then have to name. Optimistic, as I can barely remember what I just came into the room for, although this forgetfulness seems to have improved slightly since the treatment. And finally, there’s an#ama, which I had to google – ‘Ask Me Anything’, it transpires. Channing then finished the email with#vibesonpoint, which is pretty much unfathomable, unless it’s a joke. But I add it to my mental Gen Z language database anyway.
This morning, I’m attempting to make my background look passable for Channing with a fake Ikea plant I found in a kitchen cupboard (the basil was rejected), a pile of oldWallpapermagazines courtesy of Keith a while back, and an ‘objet’, which apparently isnotmissing a ‘c’ and is about ‘projecting a stealth wealth aesthetic’. At least I know what an aesthetic is now, even if I’m not sure about the rest of that. I go for a sculpture called ‘Elbow’ that Nandy’s husband Ash gave me – which I personallythink looks more like a pepper grinder but what do I know – and Channing is more into this than I anticipated.
And now I’m bored, so I decide to make use of all the equipment and do a practice reel following a Clean Girl make-up tutorial I found on YouTube. I really need to update my make-up routine as I don’t need all that contour anymore, but Idoneed my face to match my new Gen Z outfits. Sorry – ’fits.
Well, first up, can I just say there’s nothing clean about it? I haven’t put on this much make-up since the whole Cheryl Tweedy WAG look of the mid-Noughties. And also, what the hell is with the incessant finger waggling? If these Clean Girls aren’t tapping the bottle of foundation with their pointy nails, they’re flapping their fingers under their chins like a substandard impression of a prawn, and pursing their lips like koi carp. It’s all quite fishy. Am I going to have to start doing this too? Mind you, it could be a way to distract viewers from my banana voice.
I start the tutorial with a Clean Girl bun, not to be confused with a messy bun which was what I wore – and indeed still wear – around the house every day. No, this is more reminiscent of early J-Lo, as if your hair has been melded to your head using a glue gun. Then I’m told to fill in the gaps at the top of my forehead with mascara because apparently nobody wants an uneven hairline. Heaven forbid.
Now for the products themselves. There’s quite a lot of skincare prep, making me nostalgic for the single layer of Neutrogena moisturiser under some Dream Matte Mousse, which was my go-to when I was young the first time round. Peculiarly, the woman doing the tutorial pours the products down her cheeks with a dropper – I mean who does that? Her, apparently. (Her being someone called@thatgirlliv.) And then the make-up itself, which purports to be ‘fresh’ but is in fact about ten layers of primers, concealers, highlighters,foundations, blushers and powders. Oh, and then enough setting spray to weatherproof a tent.
I’ve finished, and actually, I look pretty good. Shiny, but not in a Peach Jumpsuit sort of way. And then, just as I’m busy admiring my Hailey Bieberness in the ring light mirror, the doorbell rings.
Who could that be? The spare room overlooks the front door so I peer out of the window. It’s Josie. Right, I’m not going to answer it, I’m not quite ready. I’m just going to let her ring the bell – she’ll go away soon. I mean, not that I want her to go away per se – she is my friend, and I love our chats – it’s just the timing is a bit off. But as I turn back from the window, I walk straight into the bloody tripod, trip, and then stagger into the stupid ship-to-shore light. Then I yowl. Josie probably, okay definitely, heard all that.
She did indeed. And she is now shouting through the letterbox at me, which is frankly a bit much. ‘Erica, are you okay? It’s me, Josie.’
I know who you are, Josie. I sign for your deliveries on a borderline daily basis.
‘I’ve got some Frank Cooper’s marmalade for you from Oxford. It’s to say thanks for taking in my parcels… and for that contouring stick thing you gave me. I haven’t used it yet but I’m erm… sure I will.’
You should, I think to myself as I come down the stairs. Anyway, here goes.
I open the front door.
‘Hi… er… oh…’ says Josie. ‘I was expecting Erica. Hi. I’m her neighbour, Josie.’
‘Josie, it’s me,’ I say. ‘It’s Erica.’
Josie looks at me and says, ‘No.’ Then she looks at me some more, and some more… I don’t say anything, I just smile and wait for her to take it all in and get excited.
After a minute, she still hasn’t said anything, so I break the silence and invite her into the hall. She walks in looking dazed, but still doesn’t say anything.
‘I had a beauty treatment at New Year, Jose. Amazing, isn’t it? I look pretty young, don’t I?’ I tilt my head from side to side so she can get a good look, lift up my chin and give her a twirl, hands on my hips.
‘Is it permanent?’ She looks really pale for some reason.
‘Erm… yes, if I want it to be! I mean, well, I’m still going to age, but from where I am now, which is mid-twenties. It’s like a reset. Incredible, isn’t it? It’s nanotechnology. I’m so bloody lucky doing the job I do because I’m one of the first people to try it. I’m sure everyone will be getting it soon though…’
I trail off again because Josie hasn’t said anything else and it’s getting quite one-sided.
Then she puts her hand on my hall wall as though to support herself, and bursts into tears.
