Flop, schlop, kerflop. Perfect bound, the catalogues curl to the ground with a rich sound, onto my rustic doormat. I lean down to grab one, tearing at the virgin polythene with my teeth. Sharp smell of fresh print intoxicates as I thumb the pages. Snatched glimpses of luxury alpaca wraps, clinging, fine sweater knits with silk viscose mix. A thread of drool yo-yos from the side of my mouth. Cashmere–I hear the money whispering–a conspiracy of dead leaves. Three-quarter sleeve cardigans in crabapple, gold or slate. Don’t fob me off with demure girls’ blouses or Peter Pan collars, I want that wasp-waisted biker jacket with the off-road zip.
I return to my room to sit on the chaise longue. My fingers fumble through the rest of the pages–their touch like dagger blades draped with velvet.
Ah, the Rosaline dress–such a pretty name, but the girl who wears it is doomed to be given short shrift by any passing Romeo. There he is on the facing page, looking as if he’s already taken the poison draft. Nice chinos, edged in gold from a dying sun.
I leaf endlessly through cornfields blurred at the margins. Noted, in the foreground–a collection of mismatched ceramics, broken into shards. I turn the page–a man with tousled dark hair lies prone. Is it Romeo? No, another guy, shot through the head by sniper in crisp sycamore leaf surround. Trousers a snip at £250. Jacket–in dogtooth or herringbone–brown. Shirt squared for graph calculation. Co-ordinated merino blend V-neck jersey. Antlers at a gallop far away in the hunting ground. Under a rain cloud, civilians are dying in droves on the shores of a misty lake, gasping like fish.
I turn more pages and reach the centre spread, where a pale-faced model named Beth (like the sickly one in ‘Little Women’) poses in the kitchen of a safe house, in silk pyjamas, sprawled against the butler sink. I take a magnifying glass and examine the artisan-wired scrubbing brush gripped in her white-knuckled hand and the patchwork of jacquard weave tea towels covering the window. I can’t decide, I turn the page. Out in the back yard, is another young woman with matted hair, shot from the back, bent at the waist, seam of pencil skirt in graphite, split. They could be sisters. Nice detail given of albino crocodile handbag left dangling from one arm. Moving on–I’m in need of fresh air.
Ah, now that’s the ticket. A sultry blonde in torn silk wrap skirt, standing in a ditch, calves stigmatised by barbed wire. Hands held aloft. She’s surrendered. Her tall heels slathered in thick mud. Cocktail sticks stuck into a chocolate fountain. The brand is anyone’s guess. Price not shown.
They are coming thick and fast–at first not distinct. I shift the position of my hips on the couch and peer closer. A man without a face in double-breasted suit jacket, no shirt underneath, has arrived at the kissing gate. Close-up of a young woman’s legs in indigo opaques, running across burnt stubble in umber. I hear her rapid breaths. Knock-kneed, shod in vintage buckle boots of dull oxblood and black Maria micro skirt. Hands like spoons thrust into slant pockets of open wool mix Cathy coat in charcoal with button-through lapel, crimson lining all ripped. Strands of windblown russet curls gag her mouth and in her eyes, a look of fear (model’s own). A chill descends like Scotch mist. I lay my head back and lick my lips. The New Season has arrived in strange order.
Lise Colas writes poetry and short fiction and lives on the south coast of England. She has a B.A. (Hons) in Fine Art and used to work in the archive of Punch Magazine. A selection of her drawings and poetry can be found at:goodtemperedpencil.tumblr.com
–Art by Milan Vopálenský & Esmahan Özkan
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