The Aftermath: Chapter Eight
Wherein Amory meets her nemesis and contemplates ageism and Aperol Spritzes at the Poster Bar, Royal Academy
PART TWO: LIMBO
Eight
Aperol Spritzes at the Poster Bar with the girls, or rather with Chloe and Chloe’s new protégé, Tessa. Chloe always had a protégé. They were nothing but glorified assistants – an ever-revolving door of lipstick slaves really – but Chloe called them protégés because she thought it made her sound more philanthropic, more all for helping other women climb the corporate ladder, more “relevant.” Chloe had to be relevant, if only in name and not in action. Like Hugo, Amory thought – all talk and no action.
Amory loved the Poster Bar. She loved its vaguely Viennese atmosphere, the oversized gilded mirrors behind the bar, the framed Summer Exhibition posters from years back, the little round tables and stools that were too tiny to really be sat on unless your arse was the size of a pinhead, the light fixtures that were more ice cream parlor than cocktail bar. But most of all, Amory loved the Aperol Spritzes and the paper straws they were served with. She loved the paper straws. Red and white striped perfection. She loved how they felt against her lips. She loved how she could get drunk without feeling like she was getting drunk. After two or three (or three or four) Amory felt she could tolerate almost anything. And these days, that was about the best Amory could do. Her life had become an exercise in tolerance. Not patience exactly, but tolerance. It was the first time she’d been to the Poster Bar since lockdown. Now that it had reopened, Amory didn’t think she would ever leave.
“So Fitz’s opening is all anyone can talk about,” Chloe held court. She was dressed in a floor-length wrap-around black silk kimono patterned with bold red chrysanthemums that looked more bathrobe than museum cocktail bar attire, but Amory happened to know how much the get-up had cost, just as she knew how within minutes of Chloe appearing in it in last Sunday’s Sunday Times Style section, the kimono had sold out, putting the heretofore obscure Holborn-based designer on the London fashion map, and creating such demand there was now a year-long waiting list for the damn thing. Now that was influence.
Amory hated giving credit where credit was due, especially where Chloe Templeton was concerned. And now she had this latest protégé to contend with, a girl so thin she was positively translucent. Amory would have killed for her cheekbones alone. And her eyes: big, round, wholesome and blue. And her hair: kind of a dirty blonde but a dirty blonde that said cool and Glastonbury and Soho Farm House, pulled back in a loose ponytail that hung rather limply just between the sharp edges of her shoulder blades. Chloe’s protégé was dressed for Glastonbury too: white ribbed tank top, no bra, cut-off denim short shorts, and Hunter wellies. Wellies! In the middle of an August heat wave! A fucking drought no less! But again, Amory had to give credit where credit was due. The girl – this Tessa something – pulled it off with a panache that Amory knew she could never hope to emulate. She wondered if it was too early to order another Aperol Spritz. Chloe was a sipper. Tessa only drank tap water on account of all the plastic clogging up the ocean.
“You’ve met the artist, haven’t you, Ames? Fitz says Hugo’s been spending quite a lot of time with him. Fitz says he’s a bit of a hayseed but what do you expect when you’ve grown up on a sheep farm in the Yorkshire Dales? Fitz said it took a while to get the stench of sheep shit off of him.” She shuddered.
Yes indeed, Amory thought. Hugo had been spending quite a lot of time with him lately. With Rafe. Rafe Hartley. Everything was Rafe Hartley these days. At least with Hugo. But then, she supposed she couldn’t really complain. If she could have her Clothilde, then it was only fair that Hugo could have his Rafe. It didn’t mean though that she had to be okay with it. It didn’t mean she had to like Rafe or like the idea of Hugo spending all of his time with Rafe or talking about Rafe when he wasn’t with Rafe. But at least he was talking to her though, right? That was something at least. An improvement even. Well, sort of. Still, Amory didn’t think she talked about Clothilde the way Hugo talked about Rafe. The way Hugo talked about Rafe was…well, Amory didn’t know what it was. She just knew she didn’t like it.
“Yeah,” Amory said. She sipped the dregs of her Aperol Spritz, felt the disappointment in the last icy cold bitter mouthful.
“And?”
Amory shrugged. She glanced longingly at the bar where the server stood with her back turned. Amory hoped to catch her eye in the mirror. She hoped it didn’t look too obvious.
“He’s okay,” Amory said.
“Judging from the way Fitz talks about him, I’d say he was more than just okay. He sounds like the Second Coming.” Why ask for her opinion, Amory thought, if Chloe had already made her mind up about him? “Fitz reckons he’s our generation’s Bacon. Freud even. Or Tracey Emin. Of course, I’ve not seen any of his work yet. Fitz is keeping it strictly under wraps, no sneak peeks or anything before tonight’s opening. The anticipation is huge. Unprecedented.”
Amory had the feeling the server was consciously avoiding her eye. She wondered if Chloe had paid her to keep Amory in check.
Tessa the protégé yawned. “Unprecedented is so overrated these days,” she said. It was the first time since they’d sat down that Amory had heard her speak. She wasn’t impressed. “Everything is unprecedented now. If I hear one more thing described as unprecedented, well, I don’t know what I’d do, but I know it wouldn’t be good.”
“That’s only your youth talking,” Chloe replied. “You haven’t lived long enough to really know anything.”
Tessa rolled her eyes and tossed her ponytail.
“Amory. Earth calling Amory. Amory, can you hear me?”
Amory startled. She forced herself to look away from the server and meet Chloe’s all too direct gaze. “What?”
“If you want another Aperol Spritz, then order another Aperol Spritz. None of us here will judge you.”
“I don’t drink,” Tessa said unhelpfully.
“You will though,” Chloe said. “It happens to all of us.”
And just like that, as though a cue had been secretly communicated between Chloe and the server, the server nodded and went about preparing Amory’s next drink. Amory seethed.
“Fitzie says Hugo and Rafe have taken to each other like two peas in a pod,” Chloe droned on. “I find the whole thing rather curious.”
“Why?” Something in Chloe’s tone immediately put Amory on edge.
“I don’t know.” Chloe hated nothing more than being questioned. Amory took an almost physical satisfaction in watching Chloe’s discomfort. It was subtle of course. And because they were in a public space, Chloe couldn’t flutter for a cigarette like she normally would have done had they been anywhere less public. Her dis-ease manifested itself in a thousand ways. Amory held her gaze and refused to back down. She decided she wouldn’t rush to take a life-saving sip of the Aperol Spritz when the server brought it to her. She’d wait instead, taking a perverse satisfaction out of proving to her idol and nemesis that she was stronger and smarter than any of them gave her credit for. Well, anyone, of course, meaning Chloe.
“You know how I feel about Hugo,” Chloe said.
“And?”
“Doesn’t it strike you as just a little bit odd that someone who has no discernible interest in anyone or anything – and even less interest in himself – would suddenly be so – well I’m just going to say it because you’ve put me on the spot and I can’t think of a more apt descriptive – so enamored, so obsessed with a yokel – a Yorkshire hick – whom none of us know and with whom I can’t imagine any of us would have the slightest bit in common. I mean, all right so he’s got talent. But personality? Class? Interesting conversation? Relatability? Relevance. I mean, we don’t know anything about him.”
Chloe looked about the half-empty bar as though searching for reinforcement. Amory just stared at her, her gaze fixed and unblinking. The server brought her the Aperol Spritz. Amory caught sight of the straw in her periphery. The temptation was there, but Amory was determined. It was one of those things. Yes, she agreed with most –if not everything – Chloe said about Hugo’s intensely bro-mantic relationship with Rafe Hartley, but because it was Chloe expressing her opinion, Amory was loath to validate that opinion with an affirmation.
“Relatable to whom?” she asked. “You?”
“I speak for the group,” Chloe snapped.
“Is he fit?” Tessa asked.
Yes, Amory thought. Fitter than he had any right to be for an artist. And Hugo’s regard for him was alarming.
“So he’s fuckable then,” Tessa again.
Amory was tempted by the way the condensation formed on the exterior of the glass. The ice was melting. She heard it go clink. She couldn’t hold out much longer.
“You’ll see him tonight,” she sputtered. “To be honest, he’s not my target demographic. He’s not even on Instagram.”
“Fitzie says you’re helping him with that,” Chloe said. She sounded annoyed but still it came off like a challenge. “Your drink’s going to waste.”
Amory wanted but didn’t want it anymore.
“Insta is so fake,” Tessa said. “It’s like not even real? It just metastasizes negative self-image which leads to depression and self-harming and suicide. Especially amongst teenage girls. It’s a form of bullying really. So toxic. So dangerous. So…white. I’ve read the studies.”
“Tessa spent her lockdown on something called TikTok,” Chloe said.
“TikTok’s authentic,” Tessa said. “It gives me joy. Peace, love, and joy. And smiles. Lots and lots of smiles.”
“Tessa’s so cutting edge,” Chloe said. “And young. That’s why I hired her. She’s the voice of her generation.”
Amory had heard other things about Tessa and her connection to the Templeton brood, but she was too irritated to bring any of that up. She merely nodded and toyed with the glass. Resistance was futile. She took a sip. Succulent release!
“About fucking time,” Chloe said. “I mean, really, Ames – don’t stand on ceremony. Fitz and I have seen you at your worst. Remember? We were going to have an intervention not so long ago, but Fitzie convinced me otherwise, although to be honest, I’m still not convinced. And what on earth are those bandages around your wrists? I can’t pretend any longer that I haven’t seen them.”
It was time she called time. But Amory couldn’t. She thought about it. She thought about it while she downed the Aperol Spritz in record time and heard the terrifying gurgle at the bottom of the glass that indicated time was up, there was nothing left to gulp, and it was either order another or sit there and silently scream while Chloe and her insipid and insipidly protean – she suspected – protégé judged her. Of course she’d heard of TikTok. TikTok was all everyone was talking about during lockdown. Amory was business savvy enough to know that TikTok proved a very realistic and unsettling threat to her brand and the way she connected with her followers. If those followers whose devotion brought her the six-figure sponsorship deals, if they all went the way of TikTok – the way of Tessa – then what would happen to her? She’d be irrelevant. The pipeline would dry up. And then what? What would she do? Who would she influence? How would she influence? The idea of finding herself in a situation that might require her to do something like what Hugo did before lockdown was anathema to Amory. That had been the beauty of being an influencer. She could work from home (or not home if it was somewhere fabulous) and as long as she kept up a steady stream of attractively shot pics of herself in preferably enviable and aspirational locations among equally enviable and aspirational (and recognizable) names and faces, she had it made.
But lockdown had changed the game. The goalposts had shifted. Amory didn’t know how or by whom, but it was like she’d woken up one morning and everything she’d thought she had under control was suddenly a universe out of reach. She felt old and looking at – despising – Tessa made her feel not only old, but ancient. And ancient was the kiss of death in her industry. Nobody wanted ancient, least of Amory’s followers. They wanted beautiful sandy beaches and crystal blue waters, glamorous clothes, chic nightclubs, make-up tips. They wanted a lifestyle that most could only aspire to. They wanted Aperol Spritzes with perfect round red-and-white paper straws with just enough ice and just enough condensation on the outside of the glass. They wanted Amory. Until, that is, they didn’t want her anymore. Until they wanted Tessa and Tessa’s tribe, for there was always a tribe around someone like Tessa. They fed off each other like leeches, multiplying with every like and every re-post. They were unstoppable. Ruthless. Determined. Ageist. To these arseholes and the arseholes who followed them, anyone over the age of twenty-nine was obsolete, and even that was a stretch, considering the fact that most of them weren’t even twenty. Amory dreaded to think what they thought of her. If they were anything like Tessa…
But she couldn’t think about that now.
And as for the bandages around her wrists…
“I’ll be doing Instagram Live from the opening,” she said. It sounded desperate and desperately out of context. Ancient, in other words. But she had to say something and nothing else came to mind. “Perhaps we could tag team, Tessa? If you’re going to be there too, as I assume you will be?”
Tessa didn’t even look at her. She merely shrugged, sniffed, and rolled her eyes. “You’re not my demographic,” she said, spitting Amory’s own words back at her. Chloe let slip a barely concealed laugh.
“Tessa’s got something special planned,” Chloe said. “Stay tuned. Tick tock. Tick tock.”
The Poster Bar was so much more satisfying, Amory thought, when she was drinking there on her own.
#royalacademyofarts #aperolspritz #posterbar