The Chloé girls all had one thing in common. It was a truism that once obtained was not for sharing nor speaking of. Said gift was an un-holier than thou confidence. Confidence so unequivocal that they didn’t know they even possessed it, nor emitted it or could do no wrong. It was like wealth without the jangle of money in one’s pocket. They were the new elite that weren’t born into ‘it,’ they just had ‘it.’ But this was an elite that was all encompassing, the dawn of a new girl gang, it was to put in layman's terms; a sisterhood.
I, of course, being able to comment on ‘it’ by default did not posses ‘it.’ To those that had ‘it,’ I still wore an invisibility cloak that came as standard with my transfer from a Parisian High school to an English London day school years ago. I was stiff with an upturned lip, there is wasn’t one crease in my mother’s antique dress and I always knew exactly how many cigarettes I have left in my packet of Gauloises. They, on the other hand, could easily pull off moth-eaten with cigarette burnt vintage and an odor of strong cigarette ash. I thought they were joking when they said a chipped tooth was sexy and stains on their two canines was fine but somehow, for them, it was. Because with them, anything goes and everything did come and go.
They laughed like hyenas as one of them fell over at last night’s party venue, while one of the others trailed around with white loo paper on the bottom of her scuffed, mud-stained-from-hiking-on-the-Moors-on-the-weekend kitten heel. I would have been embarrassed. They thought it was “hil-airrrr-ri-OUS!”.
So when they walked into the obscure English café, that my champagne hangover and I had taken refuge in, I hid behind my large mug of luke-warm milky PG tips.
Christabel MacGreevy walked in first. By the volume of energy coming out her 150mph mouth you’d never suspect she had guzzled more drinks the night before, at the Chloé party, than her accomplice this morning, actress Anna Brewster, who had had sex scenes in BBC drama Versailles. Like, a LOT.
Apart from the necking back of drinks, like a thirsty English rose who’d been let out of boarding school early, when it came to Christabel you really couldn’t fault her. She’d studied at The Royal Drawing school and lived in Mexico, as Frida Kahlo had, perfecting her craft. She was spawned from a type of parent where anything goes just as long as it was bohemian and held irregular life drawing classes with men-only subjects. Box ticked then.
Of course her musician boyfriend said he didn’t mind about the life drawing classes but last night I’d overheard her and Anna whispering through cubicle doors in the basement loo of the party about a recent Brazilian subject of her affections. I didn’t need to see how wide she was gesturing with her hands when the giddish hysteria shook my cubicle from theirs next door. Next through the door speaking ear splittingly loudly down the blower was Brewster. Anna Brewster the model/actress, in those sunglasses that were as appropriate last night, in the pitch black of the party, as they were in a greasy spoon that sold two fried eggs and a hash brown for £1.99. The English liked her for her roaring success in taming men. She may well have been famous for her acting but from what I heard, she was more infamous for swapping the pits of Peckham for the parties in Paris. She went from Brixton’s meat markets to dating Mr Stock Market and living in the 16th Arrondissement. It was all terribly chic, and as a French girl it was her fucked-off expression and rolling eyes framed by faux wayward dark chocolate hair that meant I liked her the most out of all four of them that day.
After sitting down, the two of them had kept craning their necks at the girl sat behind them. With intermittent hair twizzles, and sweet Christabel struggling to see over the felt beret she had pinned to her hair, Christabel made a half-arsed attempt at being interested in the ceiling when the girl had spotted her staring. Said girl who had caused the near whiplash was Izzy Bizu. The same Bizu who had performed at the party the night before.
Bizu had a singing voice that sounded like the best sex you’d ever had, but better actually. It had more fireworks than Cannes in the summer and was about to sell more records than this place had sold 30% pork meat sausages. You couldn’t beat it, one thing you could do is hate her for it. For every two trolls you had on social she had ten fan accounts. Even worse, Izzy was incredibly nice and was never wearing the right glasses to see the air of cattiness that came from the green eyed girls she had encountered in reality. But today was different, instead she was met with an air of admiration, as Anna and Christabel’s peering eyes drew her across the room and into conversation.
In the other corner, tucked in, hunched over what initially looked like a small dog, was blogger Camille Charrière. The dog turned out to be the drag queen of all phone cases and after 5 minutes Camille finally came up for air and noticed the other revelers from the night before, in the café with her. Course they weren’t friends, they just had cameo roles in each others socials, but that was good enough for Camille and she marched over to say, ‘hey.’ Camille was in a relationship with herself and Instagram. This was out of choice mind you she was a picky as the scab on Christabel’s shin, from falling out the club the previous night, when it came to men. As a woman of the most upstanding glamour, her standards were high, and for now a pink mink phone case was the only thing that was going to cut the biscuit.
The four began to say their niceties, compliments were thrown around, caught and stored for smug satisfaction later. As they began to pile out of the café they all had this Illuminati like look to them, like a secret handshake just without the exchange. These four girls all had one thing in common. It was not the confidence, it wasn’t the nonchalant air about them, their ballsiness or their ease with style, intelligence or effortless everything that you couldn’t put your finger on...
No, the one thing they all had in common that you could put your finger on, was that they were all Chloé girls.