Читать книгу Spitting Feathers - Kelly Harte - Страница 9

There is always a price to pay for a chip butty, and I paid it next day by missing out on lunch as well as breakfast. Having been brought up on an apparently healthy but deadly boring macrobiotic diet, I am nowadays an enthusiastic eater of junk food, but I know that I have to be careful. Despite the faddiness of my mother’s former regime, she now weighs fifteen stone and, much as it suits her, I don’t want to end up the same way—not for a good few years yet anyway. But, rather than eat a sensible, balanced diet, I eat what I want with big gaps in between.

I took a call from Mrs Audesley first thing that morning, with instructions for me to go to the house at three o’clock ‘sharp’ in order to meet her gardener. Since that meant I had about six hours to kill, I decided to take the tube to Covent Garden, so that I could have several rolls of film developed at the photographic lab recommended by the agency. I knew how to process the stuff myself, of course—just about—but it was such a faff, and I didn’t think the Cs would appreciate me turning their bathroom into a makeshift chemical-filled darkroom.

The Linford Laboratory was in a fairly run-down-looking building in a side road off King Street, and for a moment I thought I must have the wrong address. I was used to labs on industrial estates, and although there aren’t too many of those in central London, I was still very surprised. I wasn’t really sure what I’d expected to find, but since many top professionals apparently used the place, I suppose I thought it would appear a little more on the up-market side. There was just a small, unimposing shop front, and inside a dizzy-looking chilli-pepper redhead behind an old-fashioned oak-topped counter. She greeted me with a hugely welcoming smile, however, and before I’d even opened my mouth asked me what kind of work I did.

‘Food,’ I said, and the smile immediately turned to an expression of disappointment. She was wearing a deep V-necked red sweater that revealed rather desperate-looking breasts that were squashed together by a ferocious up-lift bra. She was heavily made up, and it occurred to me that she was working there in the hope of being ‘discovered’.

‘Are you a model?’ I asked, in an effort to cheer her up.

‘If only,’ she said unhappily.

‘Have you tried the agents?’ I asked as I dug five rolls of film out of my bag.

‘A couple,’ she replied gloomily, ‘but they seem to think that my look is too strong.’

And they could have a point, I thought as I passed the film over the counter. But it was very possible that if she removed some of the slap, and maybe stopped using the chilli-pepper dye, she could look pretty good. She was the right height and weight, and her features looked fairly photogenic.

‘You should try toning things down and then go somewhere else.’

She gave me a What-the-hell-would-a-food-photographer-know? sort of look, and without any response to what was meant to be a helpful suggestion she asked me my name and address so she could write it down on a slip.

I supplied the information and asked how quickly I could have the prints back.

‘It’s usually a day, but you can pay extra, if you like, and we can have them ready in three hours.’

It was a curt response, and I wondered if it was time for some toning down myself. My plain speaking clearly wasn’t going down too well in this town. ‘I’ll pay the extra,’ I said, ‘and I’m sorry for being so blunt. It’s just that you really are very pretty, but it’s kind of hidden behind all the make-up.’

She softened visibly now, and I made a mental note to engage sensitivity before offering any further advice to strangers.

‘Standard E6 okay?’ she said, and I nodded that it was.

‘Do you do the processing here?’ I said curiously as she deposited my films in a large envelope.

She shook her head. ‘This is just the drop-off and collection point. A despatch rider picks up every hour and takes them on to the lab.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘He’s due any minute, so with a bit of luck these might be back in two hours, not three.’

I thanked her, and looked forward to picking up the prints. As well as Felix’s wonderful fry-ups, I’d taken quite a few shots of the Brick Lane Sunday market with my brand-new Hasselblad, and I was hoping they’d turned out well. They certainly should have if the price of the camera had anything to do with the quality of the finished product.

All through the photographic course I’d managed well enough with an old Pentax my father had given to me, but since it was pretty old I’d recently sacrificed an arm and a leg for a brand-new Hasselblad 201F. And that, plus a digital camera, a computer, and all the rest of the paraphernalia required by a present-day pro photographer, had just about cleared me out of what was left of the sale of the semi. But I kept telling myself that it was an investment, that it was necessary to speculate to accumulate, and, having now done a great deal of the former, it seemed high time I started to get some rewards. Which was why I headed straight for the Front Page Agency after dropping off my film.

Naff name, I know, but they seemed a pretty pukka sort of set-up—smart offices, cool-looking people working in them. A bit too cool, though, if you ask me. The receptionist, for example, wasn’t the most approachable person in the world. I’d tried being friendly with her when I first landed in London, in the hope that she’d keep me in mind if anything good came in, but it had been like trying to befriend a refrigerator. Poker-thin—and faced—I think she was afraid to smile for fear of disturbing her magnificently applied make-up. Either that or she’d had radical Botox treatment that had left her incapable of using her facial muscles.

‘Hi, Amber,’ I said. ‘Remember me?’

She cast me a vaguely hostile look and pursed her full, beautifully lipsticked lips disapprovingly. She was sitting behind a glass-topped desk which had on it just a phone, a slim-line computer screen and a cerise leather appointment book. She herself was dressed in matching cerise that, because she’d been wearing it before, I assumed was a uniform.

‘We haven’t got anything for you, if that’s why you’re here,’ Amber replied in an accent that was supposed to be posh but didn’t quite cut the mustard. There was a hint of twang there in her vowels that I think I recognised as Midland in origin.

‘Well, I think I’d like to see someone who’s a little more senior in the organisation, if you don’t mind.’ It wasn’t a comment designed to win favour, exactly, but I was getting fed up with nasty, bitchy women, and I was wondering what had happened to all that sisterhood stuff my mother still gamely talked about. I certainly hadn’t seen much evidence of it in the past fortnight.

She seemed taken aback by my remark, but soon recovered her icy equilibrium. ‘You’ll have to make an appointment,’ she said, opening the diary in front of her, ‘but I don’t have anything available for at least a month.’

‘A month!’

She seemed pleased by my dismay, and delighted with her own power. She might just be a receptionist, but she was God as far as appointments were concerned. I was debating whether to take the appointment or tell her what she could do with it, when a door to the left of the desk opened and two men appeared in the foyer.

They were clearly at the end of a meeting, and as they shook hands I recognised one of the men as Taylor Wiseman, the famous American chef. He had his own hit TV show and a legion of adoring female fans, and while I wouldn’t have counted myself amongst their number, I had to admit that he did look pretty good in the flesh. He was tall and dark and lean, and although I was used to seeing him in the sexy kitchen whites he wore so well to present his shows, the smart suit he’d donned for the meeting gave him a nice touch of the urbane that certainly did not go amiss.

‘We’ll contact a few of our best,’ the other man assured him, with a smile that was midway between charm and smarm.

‘It’s real important that we get along,’ Taylor Wiseman replied in the husky tones that added greatly to his small screen appeal. ‘We’ll be working together closely on this project, so I’m going to have to like the guy, as well as his ideas.’

The other man nodded sympathetically. ‘If I shortlist a few then you can meet them and make your decision.’

‘I’ll wait to hear from you,’ Taylor said, and turned to leave. At which point I moved sideways and blocked his path past the desk.

‘Mr Wiseman,’ I said, thrusting my hand out. I was wearing faded jeans and a good-quality tweed hacking jacket that I’d bought in a charity shop a few years ago. Not exactly how I’d choose to be dressed when meeting a celebrity, especially with my wayward hair and lack of any cosmetic enhancements, but I didn’t have a chance to think about all that. ‘Delighted to meet you.’

I’d taken this unusually bold step with Sophie’s words writ large in my mind. She was forever advising me to ‘get out there and network’, and although I had no real idea what was going on my hunger for work told me there might just be an opportunity here.

‘Likewise,’ he said in his friendly all-American way. I could see his teeth now, which looked even more perfect in real life than they did on the small screen. Their whiteness was exaggerated by his lightly tanned skin and his brown eyes were smiling at me. ‘And you are?’

‘Tao Tandy,’ I replied. ‘Food photographer extraordinare…’ I added with a cheeky wink and a grin, remembering what Sophie had said about my good bluffing skills.

By now the man with whom the meeting had just taken place was at Taylor’s side, an expression of surprised concern on his face. He was quite a pleasant-looking man, with thinning hair and pudgy plasticine features; in his mid-forties, I’d say. He plainly didn’t know me from the Boston Strangler, but I snatched the advantage.

‘I joined the agency a couple of weeks ago,’ I explained to them both, ‘and I thought it was time I introduced myself.’

I glanced at Amber behind her desk and saw that her face was frozen in impotent fury. ‘Amber here was helpfully arranging an appointment for me to meet someone,’ I added with a slight smile in her direction.

‘Jerry Marlin,’ the man said as he extended his hand warmly to me. I recognised the name as that of the agency’s top dog, and gave him flash of my own excellent teeth. They might not be as white as Taylor’s but I pride myself on their neatness.

‘You’re the prizewinner from Manchester, aren’t you?’ he added, and I nodded my head modestly.

‘Well, that’s great,’ Jerry said. ‘I’ve been wanting to meet you as well. Only we don’t seem to have a contact number.’

‘That’s strange,’ I said, glancing towards the reception desk. ‘I left it with Amber a fortnight ago.’

‘It was unfortunately mislaid,’ Amber said quickly, when Jerry looked at her questioningly.

He glanced at his watch. ‘Damn,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a lunch appointment in ten minutes, but I could meet up with you later.’

I was about to agree when I remembered my instructions from Mrs Audesley and offered him a little grimace of regret. ‘I’m afraid I have to be somewhere at three,’ I said, thinking now that it wouldn’t do any harm to appear a little less desperate than I actually felt. ‘But I could come back tomorrow.’

Jerry looked at Amber again, and she sniffed as she looked in the diary. ‘You have a window between ten and ten-thirty in the morning,’ she said glacially.

‘Ten it is, then,’ Jerry said, and with a final appraising glance at me and a sly wink in Taylor’s direction he took his leave of us.

‘And what are you doing for lunch?’ Taylor said when the two of us were left alone—apart from Amber, that is, whose eyes were boring a hole into the side of my face.

‘Missing it, I’m afraid. Making up for a bit of over-indulgence last night.’

He raised one of his thick dark eyebrows curiously, so that it seemed to form an unspoken question mark. ‘How about a coffee, then? There’s a place not far from here that does a great cappuccino.’

‘With cinnamon topping?’

‘You bet.’ He smiled captivatingly.

I slid a look at Amber as I hoisted my bag higher on my shoulder and fell into step with one of TV’s hottest properties. ‘See you tomorrow,’ I said, but failed to get so much as a grunt by way of response.

Things had happened quickly for Taylor since he’d arrived in London, I learnt. He’d been spotted by a TV producer almost straight away, and offered a show there and then. It had been an immediate hit, but clearly took everyone by surprise because no one had thought of a spin-off book to go with the series. So a big glossy had been planned this time, and was due to be launched with series two of the show.

‘Trouble is,’ he said, ‘most of the illustrations are stills from the show, and I just think it needs something else to make it different. Some additional shots to set it apart from the usual stuff. Which is why I went to the agency.’

I could feel my heart beginning to pound as the words BIG BREAK burst into my mind. ‘I might have some ideas,’ I said, without thinking first. He looked at me with interest and I tried not to panic. ‘Maybe we could meet again to discuss them,’ I said, because I didn’t actually have any ideas at that particular moment.

I felt a bit stupid when he didn’t respond directly—when he completely changed the subject, in fact. ‘So,’ he said, when we were half way through cappuccino number one, ‘what kind of food do you like yourself?’

Slightly deflated, but not yet defeated, I lowered my eyes a little as we sat opposite one another in a two-seater booth near the café’s counter. The place looked new—not one of the chains of coffee shops that seemed to be on almost every street corner now, but an independent, run by what I took to be South Americans. I was trying to decide whether to lie and say Mediterranean, which covered a multitude and which, along with Pan Australasian, seemed to be what everyone seemed to be into these days. Or just be honest. I went for the honest option in the end, because by now, having already provided a quick rundown of my credentials, I was beginning to suffer from bluffing fatigue.

‘Being from the north,’ I began, ‘I have a particular partiality to anything which contains a lot of cholesterol—suet, pastry and chips being at the top of my list.’

He grinned uncertainly, not sure if I was serious or not. ‘But how come you manage to keep such a neat little figure?’ he said when he finally accepted I was telling the truth. His lovely dark eyes were constantly smiling, and from him it felt like a genuine compliment.

‘Long periods of abstinence between binges,’ I said, warming to him all the more. I explained why I wouldn’t be having lunch that day, and he seemed quite taken with my description of Felix’s place.

‘I’ve got some photos of it,’ I told him. ‘It’s got a great atmosphere—like something from a different time.’

‘I’d like to see them,’ he said, and I asked him when…

Which was how we came to make the arrangement for me to go to his restaurant the following day. And if he liked what he saw, he casually told me, he might well consider using me on his book. I was naturally cock-a-hoop about this, but since I hadn’t yet seen the results of my efforts I wasn’t exactly counting my chickens. It didn’t stop me indulging in a mental shopping binge, however, not to mention a few choice imaginings about being up close and personal with a popular TV chef. I’d be the envy of housewives everywhere.

I was a third of the way through the second delicious cinnamon-topped cappuccino when the conversation became a little more intimate. I was telling him about the problems I’d been having with certain females lately—no actual names mentioned—and he said it might have something to do with what he called my ‘refreshing openness’.

‘That’s not a euphemism for crass insensitivity, is it?’ I queried wryly, and then related the tale of Miss Chilli-Pepper.

‘Sounds like good advice to me,’ Taylor said with a shrug. ‘Anyway,’ he added after a moment’s thought, ‘why do you mind so much if people don’t like you?’

‘I don’t know, but I do,’ I said, surprised at my answer. I did know, really—but, nice as he was, I didn’t think it was time to tell Taylor the sad story of my early life.

‘Well, I like you,’ he declared, and the creases around his eyes deepened.

I felt my face colour slightly, and steered the focus back to him. It was obvious that things had worked out well for him professionally since he’d arrived in the city, so I threw in a few subtle questions about his social life.

‘I haven’t really had time for much relaxation,’ he said. ‘Sure, I know people, but there isn’t anyone—well, you know…special.’

I found myself frowning as it struck me as odd that a man who was lusted after by thousands of women didn’t have a girlfriend. Of course he could be gay, I supposed briefly, but it wasn’t the signal he was giving out. I couldn’t state with any certainty that he’d been flirting with me, that he was attracted in the fancying sense, but I did get the impression he was quite looking forward to meeting up with me again, and I couldn’t help but be flattered.

It was getting on for two o’clock when I took my leave, having reluctantly declined a third cup of coffee. Which was just as well, really, because three large cups of full-fat milk would have been getting on for the equivalent of another chip butty, and that would have meant forgoing yet another meal if I was to stand any chance of hanging on to my ‘neat little figure’. The reflection of which kept catching my eye in the windows of shops as I practically skipped down the road back to the tube station.

I was still on a high when I stepped off the train at Hampstead—still feeling hopeful about the future despite the uncomfortable proviso that I still had a few hurdles yet to overcome. I’d picked up the developed photographs on my way to the station, but I hadn’t dared look at them yet for fear of spoiling my excellent state of mind. A lot was now riding on the shots having turned out well, and I was anxious to delay any disappointments. However, having arrived at my destination early, and with half an hour’s heel-kicking time on my hands, temptation got the better of me.

Miss Chilli-Pepper had been nice enough, now that we’d got over our small misunderstanding, but for some reason dark thoughts had crept into my head. I began to imagine that I’d detected a hint of smirk on her face as I picked up the package, which I now felt certain had been directed at the quality of my work. I tried to adopt a What-does-a-would-be-model-know? sort of stance, but I didn’t have the confidence to sustain it, and eventually, at the end of the street where Mrs Audesley lived, I decided to put an end to all the suspense.

There was quite a strong breeze going on, but it was warmish and fine, so taking out the pictures seemed safe enough as I perched on a low brick garden wall and delved into my bag. I was starting to have serious doubts now, because without any special lighting I’d resorted to flash, and that can look a little bit amateurish. Still, I tried assuring myself as I lifted the flap of the first envelope, if all else failed I still had my famous watermelon pic to fall back on.

I took a deep breath and slid out the prints, and the photo on top cheered me a bit. It was of a plate of bacon and egg, set on one of the Formica tables and with one of Felix’s customers, knife and fork eagerly poised, grinning toothlessly at the camera. It wasn’t a great photograph, but it was good. Encouraged, I thumbed through the rest and my heartbeat gradually slowed to its regular pace. The market shots weren’t bad either, especially the ones of the French cheeses, which a genuine Frenchman brought over from France every week.

‘Brick Lane market,’ somebody said in my ear, and I jumped so much the photos nearly shot out of my hand. I looked up to see a youngish man leaning on the gatepost next to me. He wasn’t bad-looking, with rich brown, longish hair and a cute smile, but he had a damn nerve looking over my shoulder, so I gave him my best haughty expression.

‘Not bad,’ he said now. ‘Are you a professional?’

This warmed me slightly to him, I suppose—but, flattered or not, I still wasn’t about to engage in cheery banter with a rather scruffy, ill-mannered stranger. He was wearing old jeans with mud on the knees, and a red and white striped rugby-type shirt that was clean enough but raggy and frayed at the edges. I slipped the photos back in their envelopes and glanced at my watch. It was five to three. Time to be off. I stood up and to my surprise, but not yet alarm, the stranger fell into step beside me.

‘We seem to be going in the same direction,’ he said nonchalantly.

‘Not for long, I trust.’

‘You’re from the North, aren’t you?’ he said, not put off by my disdainful tone for a moment. ‘Me too. From Black-pool, originally, but I’ve been living down here for a few years now.’

I recognised the familiar accent now, and I almost dropped my guard for a moment—until he spoilt it with his next words.

‘I take it you’re new in town.’

I didn’t like him pointing out that it was so obvious, and since he was now following me down the path to Mrs Audesley’s house I was getting a bit nervous at his persistence.

‘I don’t think that’s any of your business,’ I said, and then I stopped and looked at him sharply. ‘Look, if this is how people do their pick-ups round here, forget it. I’ve come here for an important appointment and I’d like you leave now.’

‘Can’t do that, I’m afraid,’ he said with a shrug of his admittedly broad shoulders. ‘And, no, this isn’t the way that we “do our pick-ups”, as you so charmingly put it. It’s got the same name here as it has in the North. It’s called being friendly.’

But I was still stuck on the first bit of what he’d said. ‘What do you mean, you can’t leave?’

‘I can’t leave because I too have an important appointment with Mrs Audesley,’ he answered lightly.

I was so busy feeling defensive and foolish at the way he put so much emphasis on the word ‘important’, as if he was making fun of me, that my confusion didn’t kick in for a moment. Then, when he spoke again, it hit me big time.

‘And I also happen to live here.’

I felt a bit queasy then, as I glanced over the railing to the gardener’s flat in the basement.

‘Oh,’ I said, trying to make amends with a silly smile as the penny dropped, ‘you must be the gardener, then.’ He wasn’t what I’d imagined at all. I’d being expecting an elderly retainer type, with a cap and dentures.

He looked amused at my discomfort. ‘And I guessed who you were when I saw you sitting on the wall.’ He glanced at his wristwatch. ‘It’s precisely three o’clock,’ he added coolly now, ‘and our Mrs Audesley sets great store by punctuality.’