Читать книгу A Girl’s Best Friend - Lindsey Kelk - Страница 12

‘Morning.’

‘Nnueeughh,’ I groaned, my face buried deep into a pillow that I immediately knew was not my own.

‘You’ve always been such a delight first thing in the morning,’ Charlie said as he opened the living room curtains. I rubbed my eyes with tight, tired fists. ‘Nice pants.’

‘Thanks,’ I said, rolling myself up in his quilt and promptly falling off the settee. ‘God, I feel rubbish, I should have gone home.’

‘I’m not sure sleeping on my settee is why you feel rubbish,’ he said, tapping an empty bottle of white wine with his foot. ‘But you were in no fit state to go home, madam.’

‘And apparently you were in no fit state to give up your bed for a lady,’ I replied, clambering back up onto the settee, curling my legs up underneath myself and pressing my head back into the pillow. ‘What a gent.’

‘You refused,’ he reminded me. ‘You said you didn’t need to be patronized, you were perfectly fine on the settee and you wanted to be closer to the toilet in case you threw up.’

‘Oh yeah.’ I looked across into the bathroom and saw the toilet seat up. ‘It’s coming back to me now.’

‘And you said I’d have to carry you and, honestly, I couldn’t be arsed,’ he said, stretching upwards and tapping his fingertips on the ceiling. His T-shirt pulled up around his flat belly, showing off a trail of brown hair that disappeared under the waistband of his shorts as well as some abs I definitely didn’t remember seeing before. His no-biscuit regime was clearly paying off.

‘I should get to work,’ I said, sitting up and trying not to cry. Charlie’s settee was not the place to get a good night’s sleep. ‘If you’re late, Ess makes you wear the Hat of Shame.’

‘Hat of shame?’ Charlie asked, flicking at his phone, a look of concern on his face.

‘It’s a bright pink baseball cap with the word “cock” embroidered on the front.’ I tried to run my fingers through my curls but last night’s rain, sleeping in a plait and a night on the settee had worked together to create one giant dreadlock. Wearing the hat might actually be preferable.

‘I can’t believe you’re working as an assistant to an arsehole.’ He leaned over the back of the armchair to give me a sad look. ‘I know you’re a complete martyr when it comes to work but at least at Donovan & Dunning you were getting somewhere.’

‘I worked eighty hours a week and I was the first person they made redundant when the shit hit the fan,’ I replied. ‘Yes, totally getting somewhere.’

‘But this is better?’ he asked. ‘Fetching and carrying for a wanker?’

‘This is how it is,’ I told him. ‘You know how people say, “you’ve made your bed, now lie in it?” This is my bed. This is me lying in it. You have to start at the bottom, Charlie.’

He made a humming noise and tucked his phone away in his back pocket. ‘You say it like you don’t have any options, but you do. You could get another job in advertising tomorrow.’

‘Firstly, who would want me with a six-month gap in my CV? And secondly, I don’t want to go back into advertising,’ I said, almost surprising myself with my certainty. ‘I love photography. I’m a photographer.’

‘You’re also a brilliant creative director,’ he replied simply. ‘And I’d have you.’

I pressed my lips into a tight, silent line.

‘I mean, I’d hire you,’ he clarified. ‘I’m serious, I was thinking about it when I woke up. I interviewed someone for creative director last week but it’s not too late. You could still take photos on the side and you wouldn’t have to do all this assisting shit. You’re better than this, Tess.’

I methodically worked my fingers through my hair and pretended he hadn’t just made me the most spectacular offer.

‘That sounds really amazing,’ I said, overwhelmed by the sudden vision of myself striding into a meeting with nice clean hair and a lovely pair of shoes on my feet instead of balancing on a chair, covered in sweat, wearing a pair of dirty trainers. ‘But like I said, I’m a photographer now.’

‘I’m serious, Tess,’ he repeated, squatting down on his uncomfortable armchair, elbows on his knees. ‘I’m not saying you don’t love photography and I’m not saying you’re not good at it but I’m offering you something else. You’ve had six months out and maybe you needed a break. There’s no shame in saying the photography thing didn’t work out as a career and keeping it as a hobby. You could be a director. If you wanted, you could be a partner, we’d be a team. The business is really starting to take off.’

It was something I’d wanted for so long. I’d worn my corporate blinkers for years with partnership the only goal in sight and here it was, being dangled in front of my face. And it was tempting. Going back to the beginning, a month before I turned twenty-eight, starting back at the bottom? Less appealing.

‘Think about it,’ Charlie said. ‘I told the bloke I interviewed I’d let him know after Christmas so he can sort everything out with his old job in the new year. That gives you time.’

‘I will,’ I promised. ‘I’ll think about it.’

‘Yeah, well,’ he said, clearly a little bit offended. ‘Don’t think you’ve got to stick this out because you don’t want to admit you made a mistake. Tea?’

I nodded and waited until he had disappeared into the kitchen before I gave him the finger. Did he really think I’d made a mistake? Did everyone?

I knew that going back to advertising would be easy and working with Charlie would be fun, but what I didn’t know was whether or not it would make me happy. Nick always said I was too worried about the things I thought I should do, rather than the things I wanted to do. This definitely felt like a ‘should’. But since when was I taking Nick Miller’s advice?

Pulling the blankets up around my chin, I grabbed my phone to check my messages. There was a late night text from Paige, asking if I wanted to get a drink. A message from Kekipi attached to a photo of him and Domenico singing karaoke in some dimly lit dive bar and seventeen texts from Amy, half written exclusively in Emojis, the other half more or less unintelligible swearing but the general gist of them was that I should get my arse on a plane to New York ASAP.

‘Maybe I should be Amy’s assistant,’ I called through a yawn. ‘She’ll be queen of the world in six months at this rate.’

‘Maybe this Al dude is her Mr Miyagi,’ Charlie shouted back. ‘She’s going to be the fashion equivalent of The Karate Kid.’

‘Karaoke kid, more like,’ I muttered, flicking through her Facebook posts. Kekipi and Domenico were not alone in that bar. ‘I don’t really see Al as the wax on, wax off type.’

‘I don’t know.’ Charlie stuck his head out of the kitchen. ‘He made a big impression on you.’

‘He did,’ I admitted. ‘He’s a really great man, you’d like him.’

Growing up, it hadn’t really occurred to me to miss my dad. My mum remarried a couple of years after they got divorced and he was never more than an occasional visitor after that. Brian, my stepdad, was a total champ, but the fact of the matter was always there: he wasn’t my real dad. Whether I knew it or not, I’d missed out on something. Al, or Bertie Bennett as most of the world knew him, was the kind of granddad everyone wished for. A kind, generous, gentle man armed with all the wisdom of old age combined with the same curiosity and preference for neon T-shirts as your average six-year-old. Al was the kind of person you needed in your corner, only you didn’t know it until you met him.

‘Hasn’t he got a job for you somewhere in his empire?’ Charlie asked. ‘Personal photographer to the Bennett estate?’

‘It’s not like I haven’t thought about it,’ I admitted. ‘But I don’t want to take the piss. He helped me out loads by getting me in to work on his book. I can’t expect him to hand me a job every time I’m on my arse.’

‘Don’t be afraid to ask people for help,’ he said after a moment’s consideration. ‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of.’

‘I do need help,’ I told him as the kettle whistled for attention in the kitchen. ‘I need help getting to work in an hour and I need help explaining to Amy why I’m not going to New York for Christmas.’

‘First one’s easy, I’ll get you an Uber,’ Charlie said, setting a cup of coffee down in front of me. ‘And don’t understand the second one. Why aren’t you going to New York for Christmas?’

It was a fair question.

‘I do want to go,’ I said, scooting up the settee so he could sit down beside me. ‘But I can’t go. I’ve got work and I don’t really have the money and, you know, I should spend Christmas with my family. Or something.’

Charlie did not look convinced.

‘Christmas Day at your mum’s house makes Eastenders look like a sitcom,’ he reminded me, needlessly. ‘And as for work, most people take time off at Christmas, although I know that’s going to come as a shock to you.’

‘It’s less shocking than the thought of going to New York to visit the Vice President of Special Projects at Bennett Enterprises,’ I said while searching for my overalls. Ah, there they were, rolled in a ball in the bath. Of course, where else would they be?

‘Do you know what I do whenever I’m not sure what to do?’ Charlie asked.

‘Lie down on the floor and eat Maltesers?’ I suggested. ‘No, wait, that’s me.’

‘I sit down and I ask myself, what would Tess do?’ he said with a knowing smile and a smug nod. ‘Works like a charm.’

Amy was right: he really was a cockwomble.

‘And there was me thinking you were going to say something helpful,’ I said with a filthy look on my face. ‘Thanks, Charlie.’

‘Good to have you back, Brookes,’ he replied, slapping a heavy hand hard on my arse as he strode back into the kitchen. ‘Now get your arse to work, your Uber’ll be outside in two minutes.’

‘Jess, I’ve got a mouth like a badger that just went down on a camel and liked it,’ Ess declared later that morning. ‘Go and get us a coffee, I am parched.’

Across the studio, I gave him a startled look from the make-up artist’s chair. ‘Right now?’ I asked.

‘No, next Tuesday,’ he replied. His flat cap and muttonchops clashed with his flashy silver tracksuit, making him look like a disgruntled sheep farmer who had come to work in fancy dress as a twat. ‘I wouldn’t ask for it now if I didn’t want it now, would I?’

‘It’s just, I’m not really in any shape to pop to Starbucks right now.’ I bit my lip and got a mouthful of something rancid.

Ess dropped his camera, 7 diving across the room to grab it before it could hit the hardwood floor. ‘What’s the problem? The model is going to be here any minute.’

I looked at Rachel the make-up artist with wild eyes. Well, I assumed I did; it was very hard to tell under all the face paint and false eyelashes and cock cap.

I had been three and a half minutes late.

‘I’ll go,’ she offered, turning to Ess. ‘I can be there and back before Tess washes all that off her face. What does everyone want?’

‘Why would she need to wash her face?’ he asked, trying not to laugh. ‘I need you here, Rach, the model will arrive in a minute and we’ll have to get started.’

‘I can’t go out like this,’ I said. ‘You’re not serious.’

‘You look grand to me,’ he said, staring right at me. ‘Doesn’t she look grand to you, 7?’

‘Grand,’ he squeaked, hands pressed over his mouth. Wanker.

‘You said you’d look at my portfolio today before the model came in,’ I reminded him, stalling for time. ‘When are we going to do that?’

‘When you’ve got my coffee,’ he replied. ‘I’m dying on my arse over here, Jess. If I don’t get a coffee in me in the next two minutes, I’m going to turn into a right old – Kelly, you’re here!’

A six-foot-something goddess with glowing black skin and a weave that would make Beyoncé weep strolled into the studio, only to be swept up in Ess’s arms and lavished with kisses.

‘Jess is going out to get coffee,’ Ess said in between gratuitous snarfs of her neck. ‘What do you want?’

‘Oh, I’m fine,’ she said, taking off her sunglasses, giving me a double take and then putting them straight back on so she could stare more freely. ‘Thank you.’

‘You need a juice, she’ll get you a juice,’ he reassured her before turning back to me. ‘If you’re back in less than ten minutes, I’ll look at your portfolio.’

‘Can I wash my face first?’ I asked, bouncing my weight from foot to foot.

He sneered. ‘7, start a timer for ten minutes,’ he called across the studio. ‘I don’t know, can you wash your face and get coffee in less than ten minutes?’

‘Bollocks,’ I muttered, grabbing hold of my bag and running for the door. ‘I’ll be back in nine.’

‘She’s not going out like that, is she?’ I heard the model ask in a low voice as I left. ‘Does she know what’s on her face?’

‘Yeah,’ Ess said gleefully. ‘Yeah, she does.’

Starbucks was exactly two minutes away from the studio and the juice bar was next door but one. I’d spent all week bouncing between the two and had my coffee run down to six minutes exactly, I could absolutely do this.

‘No one will be in Starbucks,’ I told myself, shaking out my ponytail and trying to cover my face with my hair. ‘It’s East London, no one will be in Starbucks. It won’t be busy.’

No, the voice in my head reminded me, they’ll all be in the organic juice bar, you fool.

Whatever, I argued, as if I would be the strangest thing on the streets of London today. What were the chances of bumping into someone I knew, anyway?

‘Tess? Is that you?’

The chances were high.

‘Raquel?’ I squinted through my hair to see a small, squat blonde woman staring at me, slack-jawed, in the middle of the street. ‘Hi!’

Because there was no better time to bump into the woman who had fired you from your last proper job than when you were wearing dirty denim overalls with unspecified muck all over the knees and an entire make-up artist’s palette of unblended contouring slap all over your face.

‘Are you …’ She peered up at me, half confused and half delighted. ‘What’s going on with your face?’

‘I’m working,’ I told her, trying very hard not to touch my face. ‘I’m doing a thing.’

‘What kind of thing?’ She kept staring, her eyes flickering from red triangles underneath my eyes and lavender circles on my chin to the brown shading all around my cheeks and nose. ‘Are you a clown?’

I gave her as ferocious a look as I could, given the circumstances.

‘Do I look like I’m laughing?’ I asked.

‘Sort of,’ she replied tartly. ‘That’s an interesting hat.’

‘Thank you,’ I said graciously, touching the peak of the Hat of Shame. ‘Anyway—’

‘I’m glad you found work,’ Raquel said, interrupting me to be even more condescending. If that was possible. ‘You disappeared off the face of the earth and I was wondering where you’d got to. What agency are you with?’

‘I’m not in advertising any more,’ I said, aware of every single person on the street turning to stare as they passed. ‘I’m a photographer.’

Raquel looked at me with her dead shark eyes. ‘You’re a what?’

‘A photographer,’ I replied. It was hard to sound confident when you looked like a Picasso painting of a clown. Brown blocks on my cheeks, silver triangles around my chin, bright red circles under my eyes. It was a grand look.

‘I see.’

‘I’ve been in Hawaii,’ I said, folding my arms around me. ‘Shooting for Gloss magazine.’

‘Is that right?’

‘And Milan,’ I said, nodding. ‘I was working with Bertie Bennett. You probably won’t know who he is but he’s basically a fashion legend. He’s huge. Just an incredible man. An inspiration really.’

‘And this …’ She gestured towards my face, reminding me of my current situation in case I’d somehow forgotten for a split second. ‘Is something to do with that?’

‘It’s a make-up test,’ I said, hoping she didn’t have any follow-up questions. ‘I’m testing make-up.’

Playing make-up guinea pig was another in a long line of Ess’s super-fun challenges. Like how he’d had me wear a necklace of sausages for two hours last Wednesday morning and then source fourteen gerbils and six guinea pigs for a ‘concept’, only to discover that the model was allergic to rodents, meaning I had to return them before she would even walk into the studio.

‘And what about Charlie?’ Raquel asked. ‘How’s lovely Charlie?’

‘He’s fine,’ I told her. ‘I saw him last night.’

‘So exciting to see him go out on his own,’ she said, her over-tweezed eyebrows arching high into her hairline. ‘And picking up Peritos as his first client? Impressive.’

‘He’s very talented.’ I shoved my hands in my pockets and wished I’d brought my gloves. It was windy and cold and I very much wanted to be inside. ‘He’s going to do very well.’

‘I was surprised to hear you weren’t working together, you two were always so buddy-buddy.’

‘You know, I’m actually late,’ I said, looking past her to see a queue forming out the door of Starbucks. ‘I’m shooting a feature for No-No magazine – have you heard of it?’

‘I can’t say I’m familiar with it, but I’m sure it’s very good,’ she said, flipping her bleached blonde head around, stretching up to her full five-foot-nothing.

I stood in the street, looking down at the woman who had taken away my job with a smile, and suddenly realized she didn’t matter. None of it mattered. She could stand in the middle of the street and try to make me feel shit every single day for the rest of the year and it wouldn’t mean a thing. She couldn’t fire me again; I was the only one who could fuck up now. So why waste another second worrying about what she thought of me?

‘You know, you actually did me a massive favour,’ I said, giving her a big, bright smile. ‘And I never said thank you.’

‘I did?’ she asked, her smile fading as mine grew. ‘How’s that?’

‘Sacking me,’ I explained. ‘Best thing that ever happened to me.’

‘Oh.’ Her thick foundation formed deep orange creases on her forehead as she frowned. ‘Well, I’m glad you’ve been able to find a positive in such a difficult situation.’

‘Absolutely! And not just because I never have to see you again!’ I replied, quickly looking at my watch. ‘Ooh, is that the time? It’s been so great to see you—’

‘I’m at Eskum now,’ she said, interrupting before I could make my escape. ‘Director of people—’

‘Wow, yeah? I actually really don’t care,’ I said, taking my turn to interrupt. I flashed her one more smile as she visibly shrivelled in front of me. ‘But gosh, those poor, poor people.’

Raquel looked as though I’d slapped her in the face and I wished I had.

‘I wish I could count all of the fucks I don’t give but I’ve only got eight fingers and two thumbs and that’s not nearly enough,’ I said, giving her a brief hug and ever such a tiny shove. ‘Have a lovely day, Raquel. Or don’t. Doesn’t really matter.’

I turned on my heel and marched off down the road, ridiculous painted head held high in my cock cap.

‘Ess!’ I shouted as I pushed the door open against the wind.

‘Thank God, my stomach thinks my throat’s been cut,’ he said, holding his hand out for his coffee with one hand and scratching his crotch with the other. ‘You were gone more than ten minutes though.’

‘I haven’t got your coffee,’ I replied, marching across the studio and throwing the Cock cap at 7. ‘I want to go over my portfolio.’

‘We haven’t got time,’ Ess replied, pointing across the studio to the styling area. ‘Now sod off and bring me a coffee.’

‘We won’t be done for at least an hour,’ Rachel the make-up artist called over to us with a thumbs up. ‘Take your time.’

Hands on my hips and feeling only slightly less confident than I had been thirty seconds earlier, I stared Ess down until he gave a sigh and shook his head in defeat.

‘Fine, pass it here,’ he said, holding out his hands. ‘But if they’re shit, I’ll tell you they’re shit.’

‘Good.’ I pulled my portfolio out of my bag, bouncing across the room. ‘Whatever advice you can give me, I’d appreciate it.’

‘Most of the time my advice is stop trying to take photos,’ he grunted, flicking through the pages, skipping over my shoot for Gloss, my pictures of Milan, without even stopping to take a proper look. ‘It’s quicker.’

Biting my thumbnail, I crossed my fingers.

‘Shit,’ he said, flipping through the pages without really looking. ‘Shit, shit, shit. Ready to give up yet?’

‘No,’ I said, barely breathing. ‘You can keep going.’

He paused on a shot of Al, sat on the beach in Hawaii and staring out at the ocean.

‘I don’t hate this one,’ he announced, slamming the book shut. ‘Now go and get my coffee.’

‘That’s it?’ I asked, crushed. ‘You don’t hate that one so we’re done?’

‘I don’t hate that one so I’ll look at the rest later,’ he clarified. ‘Now you go and get my coffee and we’ll go through the rest of them after the shoot if I don’t decide it’s a complete waste of my time before then.’

‘Oh my God,’ 7 whispered, pulling me away after Ess shoved my portfolio into my chest and walked away, muttering to himself. ‘That’s the nicest thing I’ve ever heard him say about anyone’s photos.’

‘Really?’ I asked, a tiny spark of hope lighting up inside me. ‘That was nice?’

‘Have you met him before?’ he asked. ‘Don’t push it. That was a big compliment.’

‘Why are you still here?’ Ess barked, looking over his shoulder at me. ‘Why isn’t there a cup of coffee in my hand?’

Nodding, I threw my portfolio back in my bag and ran out the door. Two weeks I’d been there and I’d finally got him to look at my photos. If I could get Ess to give me some genuine feedback, I felt as though I could do anything. This must have been that ball-swinging feeling Agent Veronica had been talking about and I didn’t hate it.

As I jogged down the street I made another big ball swinging decision. Pulling out my phone, I opened up the internet browser and tapped in ‘New York flights’. There was nothing stopping me taking photos while I was in New York, was there? Maybe there would even be a course I could take. Donovan & Dunning’s American office barely closed for the holidays so I was far more likely to find something useful in New York than I was hanging around my mum’s house getting squiffy on Baileys and ignoring my sisters.

As soon as I’d picked up four flat whites, two Frappuccinos and a green juice, I told myself, I was going to book my flight to New York and work the rest of it out from there. Well, after I’d done that and finished the day at work, washed my face, gone home and had some tea. And packed. And called my mum. And done the online paperwork.

But once all that was out of the way, New York City, and the rest of the world, had better get ready for me.