Chapter Text
2007.
THE NEW YORK JOURNAL, 'Fashion' Column
Publication 4 Aug 2007
"Questioning Authenticity"
George Russell
Finding a new start is the positive equivalent of hitting your head on the pavement.
It's grueling, sometimes hot, sometimes cold, and, most importantly, it gets you dizzy.
There's something about bars in the Upper East side of Manhattan.
They're cold, first of all— not sweaty, hot, and packed like the usual pubs downtown.
They're refined. Tables crafted from mahogany, shining so bright its almost as if the tree's sap had blessed the wood.
They play jazz. Live.
They're, well, fancy. And maybe George has been to far too many crappy ones where the most expensive scotch you can get is worth thirty dollars, but he feels unwelcome here anyway.
It's all just a blur of orange and red and black-and-white tiles, so much so it frightens him.
But that's the Upper East Side for you.
So, George puts on his best suit, which doesn't really look the best anyhow, and strides over to the counter, ready to order their best scotch worth thousands of dollars a bottle. He rests himself on the posh stool with a grunt, when the bartender finally comes into view, and then it's like everything comes to a halt.
"Mr. Piastri." George gasps; Oscar Piastri, at the same time, chimes in with a, "Mr. Russell."
"Fancy seeing you here," Oscar notes, smiling sheepishly, before adding, "have you heard?" in a conspicuous voice. He says it in such a low whisper, and looks to the side at the same time, that it is comical— like he is a spy in an action movie and is being hunted down for.
"I've not just heard, I've been invited, ofcourse. Best man." George smiles wryly, like he always does when things are unpleasant.
"Ah. As have I." Oscar sucks in a deep breath. They meddle into awkward silence as Oscar fixes him a glass of whiskey, like old days. George drinks from it absent-mindedly, and Oscar really shouldn't be inebriated on the job, but he seems to have a lack of care for it as he pours himself a glass as well.
"I didn't expect it to happen, like this." Oscar muses as he takes a fine sip.
"Neither did I," George agrees, "but it is, well, not bad of a thing. I'm happy for them."
"We all are, ofcourse. It's just the circle of people we will have to face. So, you will be coming to the wedding, yes?"
"I will." George sighs, putting down his glass, looking at it with disdain.
"Even if it means coming alone? Well, and, ditching work."
"Yeah. I guess. They're gonna be all over me. 'George, why no ring on your finger yet?', 'George, why not settle for a nice girl?', 'George, are relationships too hard for you?'; George this, George that, why not worry about themselves?" George groans. Oscar finds mirth in his misery, a small giggle betraying his composed facade.
"It'll be alright, you'll find a date. Or not." Oscar smiles cheekily.
"How is it with the missus?" George grins, "I thought it'd be you both getting married this year."
Oscar pulls back, scandalised.
"We’re just friends!"
George stills, eyes going wide, as he turns around to face Oscar properly. He suppresses a grin, lips twitching in futile attempt.
"So, when will I get my Save The Date from you?" George chirps, "Should I be calling you Mr. Norris anytime soon? Or is it the other way around?" George jests, nudging his elbow against Oscar's playfully. Oscar's face goes painfully scarlet.
"Worry about the wedding first, mate." Is all he receives as Oscar finally stands up, the chair backing away with a tiny screech as Oscar grabs his coat. He pats George's back sympathetically before leaving; for what, George doesn't know. All he knows, or can know, is the bitter taste of whiskey that he doesn't quite appreciate yet.
The air is rough and dusty when work arrives the day after next. George, still slightly hazed and vexed from the weekend's injustice, and the burden of not-so-far-away plans, seats himself down in his cubicle. He rifles through prompts with dismay. They're all mundane.
It's like that for a while, distant clicking of pens. He tries to do something productive, himself, typing away a bit on his keyboard. But it's only when he starts to ramble on about the properties of magenta that he decides it is enough.
It doesn't come as a surprise when he strides into the office a few metres away from his cubicle without knocking, mind caved in.
Mr. Wolff, his editor, sits at his desk comfortably, feet on the table, head nowhere here. A name plate sits plush on the edge of the desk. TOTO WOLFF inscribed on it in sleekness.
Toto Wolff sits up instantly at George's unwarranted entrance, caught off guard, as he adjusts his glasses in discernment.
"Please, Toto, can I just do an opinion or anecdotal piece? I'm going to kill myself if I have to write one more piece about satin." He practically begs, pacing around frantically.
"Those are opinion pieces." Toto smiles cynically, in an all-knowing manner; it's unnerving.
"Listen, just one good piece, okay? I can do so much more than write about all the silk in this world. The Fashion department was made for a placeholder before I get bumped up to Politics and Social Sciences, I don't see why I cannot experiment abit here first."
Toto's lips form a thin line into what seems like disapproval, but he suddenly nods, as if he'd known this would happen. But he doesn't— if he really got it, he'd empathise, and then maybe he'd stop using George as a stepping stool for Fashion and finally let him do what he wants, what he can do best. Politics. So, yeah, Toto should not reserve the right to look this understanding and all-knowing, because if he really was, George would be in a much different position right now. Here, it just feels like condescension coated in a honeypot.
"One piece. On features. But one condition." Toto relents.
"What is it?"
"It has to involve romance. Cynical, optimistic, whatever. As long as it gets the clicks."
Now, George wasn't much of a romantic. He was the most cynical being on this earth when it came to romance. But a desperate man was almost equivalent to a man in love, because both fronts required a sense of desire so strong it was practically magnetic.
"Clicks, I will get."
George Russell found himself a week later back at the same bar nursing yet another drink with good man Oscar Piastri, and his (new) boyfriend and friend, Lando Norris. He was a third wheel, ofcourse, but Lando was quite funny and they were a very welcoming couple.
They were like his parents, of some sort, that he could go to when he had relationship troubles. His relationship trouble, as of now, was that he had no relationship.
This time, Oscar was not bartending but rather celebrating. His colleague he hated at first but had come to like for Lando's sake, Carlos (old friend of Lando's), now took Oscar's shift to let Oscar and Lando celebrate— in congratulations for them, putting extra shake into every drink.
"You could say that Romance in New York is so dead it's hard to have, despite it's constant appearance on TV." Oscar offers.
"Hey, hey. That's pessimistic. We're alright." Lando chides, swatting Oscar's arm. Oscar just smiles smugly.
"Maybe I could. But I haven't touched depth at all in that. Look at me, I don't even have a plus one to Alex's wedding. Hey, I'm genuinely thinking of hiring a male escort here." George sighs, taking another sip of his well-shaken scotch.
"I have a friend," Lando suddenly jumps up, "friend of mine and Alex's, Oscar knows him— you've met him, too. He's been looking for a plus one. Maybe you guys could try to be each other's plus ones."
"So a blind date, but orchestrative?"
"When you put it like that..." Oscar chimes in.
"I think he's as desperate as you are to not look lonely. Just give it a shot."
"What's his name?"
"We can't tell you," Oscar sighs, "you'll back out."
So, maybe pretending to date someone for real and faking intimacy was bad, but being fake-sympathised with and real-pitied sounded like a far worse fate.
George remembers there was a time Toto Wolff had called him too uptight and unwilling to succumb to new forms of writing.
Well, maybe now was the time to let loose and indulge in a new form of dating: not dating.