‘There are loads of celebs here tonight, babes,’ says Emmy.
She gets a look.
‘He’s not a celebrity. He’s a stupid fool.’
‘Yeshe is,’ I agree. ‘But please don’t let him ruin your night? What he did was bang out of order and he’s not worth your tears.’
‘I shouted at him in public! It’s going to be everywhere. What was I thinking? Why didn’t you stop me?’ She’s looking accusingly at me.
‘I did try.’
‘You should have tried harder. Now I’m going to look like such an idiot. Even if I win it won’t take away from what happened.’
I shake my head. ‘You won’t look like an idiot. I actually thought you dealt with it quite well. I was terrified that you were going to knock him out.’
‘Me too,’ agrees Emmy. ‘Everyone saw what he did to you on the show and they will all be rooting for you. Did you know there’s a Twitter account called @ChipIsADick? It’s about time he had his come-uppance.’
Violet sniffs and raises her sad eyes.
‘Do you really think?’
‘Really, really,’ replies Emmy, passing her phone to Violet so she can laugh at @ChipIsADick. Violet giggles at the memes before her face crumples again.
‘It’s trending,’ she wails.
‘What is?’ Asks Emmy.
‘Hashtag Chip’s tiny chopper.’
‘It’s quite funny when you think about it,’ I say, noticing the hint of a smile creeping back to her face. ‘And look, you’re already getting tonnes of comments on Instagram about your outfit.’
She watches the Stories I’ve posted: her stepping out of the cab, a boomerang of her waving to fans, a full-length of her dress with the bank of photographers standing in front ofher. The suggestion of a smile gets bigger. ‘I do look good,’ she says quietly as she scrolls through the comments of the red carpet picture I added to her grid.
Then BOOM, her face falls. Her brows cross. And her hands ball into a fist.
‘What the FUCK, Jasmine?’ she shouts.
I literally cannot think of what might have gone wrong.
I open my mouth to say something but Violet has already started shouting.
Guys, I tagged the wrong designer for her dress. Which didn’t seem like a catastrophic mistake to silly old me. I was all, ‘No worries, I can delete the tag and add in the right one! It’s not a problem really.’ Violet’s reaction is painting a different picture. Apparently it is the massivest, problem-iest most problematic problem in the Kingdom of Problems.
Throwing her hands up to the air and looking at the heavens, Violet is telling us how long and hard she’d been grafting to get on the good side of a PR who works with loads of designer brands. There had been emails and lunches and even a delivery of flowers. (Violet’s idea of grafting is wildly different to ours, btw). Mission finally complete, tonight she’s wearing the first dress of what she hopes is many to be unlocked by this heavenly PR creature, not to mention brand collaborations etc etc. Only now I have royally cocked it up which means Violet might have to kiss goodbye to a whole load of great stuff / a giant wad of money. I wait for her to stop balling me out and apologise for getting it wrong, replying as calmly as I can that I will rectify the situation. ‘Would you like me to get in touch with her too and explain what went wrong? The photo has only been up for a matter of minutes so she may not even know about the slip up.’
Emmy’s got my back and the MUA is agreeing too.
ButViolet’s head is so huge that she can’t conceive of a world in which someone may not be hanging onto their phone, just praying for the very second that she uploads some new content.
There’s a huge cloud hanging over us and all we can hear is Violet huffing and puffing. I grab the phone and quickly edit the tag, noticing that my palms are mysteriously not sweaty right now. Usually when Violet goes tonto over something work related, my stomach falls a thousand feet and my palms start to sweat. I absolutely hate feeling like I’m in her bad books. But tonight I feel okay.
The lights in the ceremony are dim and the stage is back-lit with a large screen, flashing up the nominees and winners of each category. Chandeliers dangle above each table of guests, who sip expensive wine and eat beautifully presented plates of haute cuisine. Violet and her huge meringue dress are settled in next to Emmy and every now and then, the camera pans to them as they chat together over their meal. Vi’s MUA did the best job ever. . . no trace of crying eyes or terrifying rage are left on Violet’s face now. Another winner is announced and a young guy with a baseball cap on the wrong way bounds up to the stage.
It’s a smidge less glam from where I’m standing, which sums up the difference between Violet’s life and mine. I’ve got a warm ham sandwich in my hand and the sneaking suspicion that someone else in here already fished the ham out of it. Animals.
I’m in the press room watching events unfold from a TV screen in the corner. Journalists clutching dictaphones run from one award winner to the next as they are walked through the brightly lit room, while photographers snap each winner in front of the ceremony’s sponsor board. Chargers and laptop wires trail along the floor and the wholeplace smells a bit fusty. A tray of picked over sandwiches sits next to some luke-warm water bottles. It’s a million miles from the swanky set-up in the ceremony room.
Emmy’s name is announced in the press room and in she walks, her Vlogger of The Year trophy aloft. When her pictures are done she slinks over to me and I squeeze her hand.
