Читать книгу A Girl’s Best Friend - Lindsey Kelk - Страница 8

‘Jess, can you lift that reflector up, please?’

‘It’s Tess,’ I said, stretching my arms higher above my head, wobbling as I went. My arse was still killing me from the coccyx incident the night before and I did not feel steady on my feet in the slightest. ‘My name is Tess, actually. Sorry.’

Celebrated celebrity photographer extraordinaire Ess – no last name – took a moment to throw me a filthy look, then went back to staring at nothing through his viewfinder. I couldn’t really complain, it was the first time he’d looked me in the eye all day, having been far more interested in my tits ever since I’d arrived on set at 6 a.m.

I had been so excited when my agent got me the job with Ess. It was a real opportunity, she said. I’d learn so much, she said. So far, I’d made four cups of tea that hadn’t been drunk, been out on two coffee runs in the pouring rain and contorted myself into more uncomfortable positions than the average yoga instructor, all while holding an arm-breakingly huge reflector. And that was just today. The closest I had been to a camera all week was when Ess accidentally hit me in the arse with his while I was underneath a desk, plugging in the MacBook. This was not the hands-on training I’d been hoping for.

‘Jess, I need it higher. For Christ’s sake, woman!’

I closed my eyes, prayed to whoever would listen that I wouldn’t be spending Christmas with a broken leg to go with my bruised bum and pressed up onto my tiptoes, swaying back and forth.

‘Sorry,’ I said through gritted teeth. ‘Is this better?’

‘Not really. Doesn’t help that you’re waving it around like a fucking flag,’ he replied, snatching the camera away from his face and throwing it at his first assistant, a small, scared-looking bleached blond boy called 7. Not the word seven, the number seven. He had been quite clear about that. Never the word, always the number, he’d said defensively. ‘It’s supposed to be still. You’re supposed to reflect light. Do you even know how to stand still, Jess?’

‘Nope,’ I whispered before pasting on my brightest smile and holding my breath. ‘Any good?’

‘No. Get down and we’ll find something for you to do that isn’t as taxing as standing still,’ Ess said. He scratched his muttonchops and leered at my backside as I clambered off the stool he had balanced on the chair that stood on top of a suitcase. He did not offer to help. ‘Veronica said you were going to be good at this.’

It was delivered as a statement, no obvious question, no definitive inflection.

‘That’s nice,’ I said, tiptoeing across the all-white studio set-up. ‘And not at all like her.’

‘You doing her?’ he asked.

‘Sorry?’ I blinked.

‘Shagging her?’ he said.

‘No,’ I replied, shaking my head. ‘I don’t think so. Is she gay?’

‘She’s never tried it on with me,’ he said, shrugging as though that was an answer. ‘If you were good, you’d be able to hold up a reflector properly.’

He signalled for me to stand on the T-shaped mark 7 had created on the floor with duct tape. ‘Veronica isn’t usually wrong about people. You sure you’re not shagging her?’

‘I’m definitely not,’ I said, pulling the elastic from around my ponytail and securing as much of my curly copper hair as I could. ‘And I’m sorry if I’m not getting everything right straight away. I’ve never actually assisted before. I’ll get it, though, I promise. I’m sorry.’

It was as though I had apologetic Tourette’s. I couldn’t stop saying I was sorry even though an apology was not owed and unlikely to ever be deserved.

‘Oh, so you’re one of them,’ Ess said, eyes narrowing as a tight smile took over his bristly face. ‘You think you’re a real photographer so you’re too good to dirty your hands assisting me.’

‘Not at all,’ I replied quickly. ‘I mean, I am a real photographer but I don’t think I’m too good to assist you.’

I did though. I thought I was far too good but since no one had hired me to be a ‘real’ photographer for nearly three months, I didn’t have a lot of choice. It turned out that lucking into two jobs, no matter how brilliant they might have been, did not a career in photography make.

‘Yeah? You got lots of nice pictures of your dinner on Instagram, have you?’ he asked while 7 tittered in the background. ‘Maybe the odd cat? Few nice duckface selfies?’

‘No,’ I replied, tossing my head like an indignant pony. ‘I mean, yes, obviously, but not just that. I shot Bertie Bennett for Gloss magazine and I worked with him on the book he’s writing.’

‘Never heard of him.’ Ess dismissed my job of a lifetime without a second thought. ‘Gloss’ll be closed inside six months, mark my words. All those gash mags are going under.’

Apparently the look of horror on my face didn’t faze him one little bit.

‘Gash mags?’

‘Mags,’ he nodded, making a chopping motion with each word. ‘For gash.’

‘I’m not following,’ I replied. ‘Sorry.’

‘You,’ he pointed at me with a thick, unappealing finger, ‘are gash. Mags for you. Gash mags.’

Agent Veronica had warned me not to mess up this job. Those weren’t her exact words because Agent Veronica loved to swear like most people loved to breathe, so the whole exchange had been a lot more colourful than that but when she told me not to mess up, I just thought she was warning me not to be late or break anything. Dropping a camera seemed as though it would be considerably less damaging to my career than sprinting across the room and stabbing Ess through the heart with a biro.

‘Jess, are you with us?’ Ess snapped his fingers in front of my face and pointed at the mark on the floor. ‘I need to check lighting on this shot. You’re tall, well done. Get down on your hands and knees so I can see where to position the daft model tart when she finally shows up.’

Taking a short, sharp breath in, I reminded myself of how important this job was, of how much I wanted to get somewhere in my career. How this was all vital experience for my very light CV. Besides, what else was I going to do with my Saturday? I only had three episodes of Game of Thrones to watch and then I was completely caught up. After that, I was going to have to put myself into a medically induced coma until the new season started if I didn’t find something else to do.

‘Shall I just stay here?’ I asked, kneeling down and holding a hand over my eyes as 7 turned on the blinding studio lights, all aimed directly at my face. ‘Is this good?’

‘Look up at me,’ Ess directed, looking through his camera and edging closer to me. ‘Look right into the camera.’

‘I can’t really see it for the lights,’ I replied, blinking. ‘Am I looking at you? Can you see me?’

‘I can see you just fine, Jess,’ he said. ‘Now bend your elbows down a bit and look up. And stick your arse in the air.’

When Agent Veronica told me I was going to have to start at the bottom, I didn’t realize that meant I would have to start with my actual backside. Reluctantly, I did as I was told. Making my arse centre of attention went against everything that I was, I was worried that if I kept it up there any longer, planets would be drawn into its orbit.

‘God, it’s not easy, is it?’ I said. My arms were already shaking with the effort of holding the pose and the air conditioning whipped around the exposed strip of skin between my shirt and my jeans. Hello builder’s bum, farewell dignity.

‘Now open your mouth,’ Ess said, coming ever closer. ‘And stop blinking, look right at the camera like you want to suck it.’

I jolted backwards, backside crashing to the ground. ‘Excuse me?’

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, can’t you be professional for one minute?’ He turned on his heel and threw the camera at a waiting 7. ‘I asked you to hold a pose for one minute and you’re giving me bleeding Naomi Campbell.’

‘No, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ I said, the words tumbling out of my mouth before I could think better of them. ‘I misunderstood. Where do you want me?’

‘On your knees, with your mouth open, waiting for me to come all over your face,’ he replied.

‘OK, yeah, sorry, no.’ I leapt to my feet, standing up and hitching my jeans back up over my backside, my face bright red. ‘That is totally not cool.’

Now I was standing up, and less than three feet away from him, it was clear that I was a good six inches taller than Ess, even in my Nikes. And with the righteous indignation jacking me up another foot, it felt as though I was towering over him.

‘You can’t say things like that to people,’ I said. My face was hot and my mouth was dry. ‘It’s not OK.’

‘It’s art, Jess,’ he said, hammering a fist into his hand as he spoke, his face even redder than mine. ‘It’s editorial. It’s a method. Didn’t you just say you were a real photographer?’

‘I am a real photographer,’ I stated as clear and loud as I could manage, while 7 skittered over to the computer, visibly shaking in his overpriced silver boots. ‘But I’m not going to sit there and let you talk to me like that. It’s horrible.’

‘It’s art,’ Ess repeated, not quite as sure of himself. ‘It’s my style. It’s why the magazine hired me and not you. It’s not like I’m really going to jizz all over your chops, is it? I’m just trying to make you look sexy – although clearly I’m fighting a losing battle on that front.’

‘It doesn’t feel sexy,’ I replied, flushed and upset. ‘It feels horrible. Why can’t 7 stand in for the lights? He’s exactly the same height as me and he’s probably skinnier. He looks more like a model than I do.’

Ess and 7 turned to look at each other and burst out laughing. True, hysterical, body-shaking guffaws.

‘Oh, Jess, he does, you’re right,’ Ess wiped away an actual tear. ‘That is priceless. I didn’t realize you were funny, I just thought you were shit.’

‘Do you think I might be able to set up some of the shots this afternoon?’ I asked. It had to be worth a try. ‘Or shadow you? Rather than, you know, just make the tea?’

The smile on his face evaporated in an instant.

‘Until you’re capable of making a drinkable brew, you’re on tea duty,’ he sniffed. ‘You don’t come within ten feet of my camera until I’ve decided you’re ready. Now go and get the kettle on before the model gets here.’

I wanted to argue. I wanted to tell him he was a complete arsehole who didn’t deserve his job, his assistant or the air that he breathed. But I didn’t. I was broke, I was bunking down with my best mate and I needed the job. So I did what millions of women had done before me: shut my mouth and went to put the kettle on.

Tea soothed all ills. And failing all else, I could always piss in the teapot. That would probably make me feel a bit better.

‘And then he said he was going to jizz …’ I paused for effect while Agent Veronica stared at her laptop. ‘On my face.’

She looked up for a moment, fag hanging out of the corner of her heavily lipsticked mouth, her glasses hiccupping across her nose as she sniffed before turning her attention back to her computer.

‘And?’

‘Well, he can’t say things like that to me!’ I exclaimed before squeezing my eyebrows together with concern. ‘Can he?’

‘He can say whatever he wants as long as people keep hiring him,’ she replied. ‘Can I ask you a question?’

‘Yes,’ I said, dropping my bag on the floor and my arse into a chair. I’d been too incensed to sit until now but her non-reaction had taken the rage right out of me.

‘What the fucking fuck is wrong with you?’

My arms froze in mid-air as I tightened my ponytail.

‘What’s wrong with me? Seriously?’

‘It’s got to be something,’ Agent Veronica said, stubbing out her cigarette and immediately lighting another. ‘Because I can’t think of a single reason why you’d be in here, complaining to me about working with one of the best fucking photographers in London.’

‘Because he said he wanted me to look at him as though he was going to jizz—’ I started.

‘Yeah, we covered that,’ Agent Veronica cut me off before I could finish. ‘It doesn’t get funnier the more you say it. Actually, it does, but I digress. What are you complaining about?’

I was stunned. In my old job, people were sent to HR for as much as showing an ankle to a chimney sweep and we worked in advertising, an industry that saw itself portrayed as a misogynistic, glass-ceilinged nightmare on Mad Men and thought, nope, that’s not sexist enough.

‘I felt uncomfortable,’ I said, trying not to choke on her cigarette smoke. ‘I didn’t like it.’

‘Oh, I am sorry,’ she replied, pressing her hands to her heart, a look of faux concern on her face. ‘My precious little baby angel! Did that bad man upset you? Did he hurt your feelings?’

I pouted. ‘Yes.’

‘There there.’ She reached across the table and patted me on the head. ‘Now calm down. Did he actually come on your actual face? No, he didn’t.’

‘That doesn’t matter,’ I muttered, beginning to feel stupid. And hungry. Terrible combo. ‘It shouldn’t matter. He shouldn’t be able to say things like that.’

‘No, he shouldn’t but welcome to the world.’ Veronica sat back in her chair, blinking through the fug of smoke around her, and shook her head. ‘Do you want to be a fucking photographer, Tess?’

Six weeks ago, when I left Milan and arrived home, bright and shiny, full of ambition and pasta, I had been fairly certain that I was one. Apparently I had been mistaken.

‘Yes,’ I said hesitantly.

‘Do you want to book actual fucking jobs that pay actual fucking money?’

‘Yes,’ I said quickly. That one I was sure about.

‘Then, I hate to be the one to tell you but there’s worse coming your way than Simon fucking Derrick telling you to get on your knees and make kissy faces at his tiny knob,’ she sighed. ‘You should have told him to whip it out and then pissed yourself laughing.’

‘Simon?’ I asked, the first smile I’d managed all day creeping onto my face. ‘His name is Simon?’

‘What? Did you really fucking well think his Mancunian mother took him down the swimming baths and shouted “What a fucking brilliant backstroke, Ess!”?’ She took a drag and blew it out hard. ‘I’ve had him on the books since he was taking pictures for the Argos catalogue. And they were shite.’

I would have killed to shoot the Argos catalogue.

‘And 7?’ I asked.

‘You mean Colin?’ Agent Veronica grabbed her mouse and began clicking manically. ‘Little shagweed. Went to Eton, daddy owns half the internet. I hate that child.’

‘It’s harder than I thought it was going to be, that’s all,’ I admitted, scratching at a blob of white paint on the knee of my jeans.

‘There’s nothing easy about breaking through as a photographer, Brookes,’ she replied. ‘It takes some people years. Early starts, late finishes, working weekends, hours spent photoshopping some wanker’s sausage fingers so he doesn’t look like the smackhead that he is on the cover of a magazine. And that’s when you get good enough to pick up that sort of job. Have you considered that maybe it’s not for you?’

I felt my mouth fall open and immediately choked on Agent Veronica’s cigarette smoke.

‘It is for me!’ I said, my eyes stinging from the same smoke. The air in her office was so dense with thick white fug, it could have passed for the set of a Bananarama video. ‘It definitely is. I’ll put in the hours, I don’t care about hard work, I’ll do whatever it takes.’

‘And that’s a fandabidozi attitude, Pollyanna, but it doesn’t mean it’s going to happen for you.’ She stubbed out her cigarette and immediately lit another. ‘It might be time to admit that I was a bit bloody ambitious in taking you on. I don’t really work with assistants, Brookes. I’m an agent, not a charity. Do you think I’m at work on a Saturday afternoon for fun?’

‘But I won’t be assisting for long,’ I protested, swiping at my watering eyes, desperate to convince her to let me stay. ‘I’m going to be booking shoots really soon, I promise.’

‘That’s not your decision to make though, is it?’ she grimaced, eyes flickering back and forth over emails I couldn’t see. ‘I’ve had you on the books near enough six months and you’ve booked two jobs for the same person. I can’t babysit you for another six. There are only so many bleeding hours in a bleeding day and, no offence, but I need to concentrate on clients who are bringing in money.’

‘But I will,’ I said again. ‘I just need time.’

‘News-fucking-flash.’ Veronica spoke in between intense inhalations. ‘No one knows who you are, no one’s worked with you, no one gives two shits. I know it’s nearly Christmas but it’d be a bigger miracle than the virgin sodding birth for me to get you another job like the one you blagged at Gloss.’

I opened my mouth to speak but she cut me off with a stab of her cigarette.

‘And you’ve got a dubious reputation at best, depending on who you ask.’

A dubious reputation? I was clean as a whistle. I’d won the attendance prize in school every single year, apart from that one time when Amy made us bunk off to meet Justin Timberlake but that was hardly my fault. If I hadn’t gone, she would have been arrested. Instead of just being cautioned.

‘Word gets around in this industry,’ Agent Veronica said, seeing the confusion on my face. ‘And your cuntychops former flatmate has made it her business to make sure everyone has heard her side of the story.’

Oh, bollocks. Vanessa. Honestly, you steal someone’s job, their identity and let your best friend punch them in the tit once and you never hear the end of it.

‘That said, I like you, Brookes.’

She had a funny way of showing it.

‘I’d hate to see the way you talk to someone you didn’t like,’ I said behind a cough. ‘But thank you.’

‘You’ve got balls and I respect that,’ she went on, ignoring me as usual. Agent Veronica only really listened when you were saying something she wanted to hear. ‘But you’ve got to get used to throwing those fucking balls around a bit. Do you understand me?’

‘You want me to throw my balls around?’

‘You’re not going to get anywhere mincing around and fucking well sulking in corners.’ She pointed at me with her cigarette, causing a mini flurry of ash to fall into her keyboard. ‘And you’re not going to get anywhere crying to me about some arsehole asking you to polish his knob.’

‘That’s not going to be a regular occurrence, is it?’ I asked, genuinely at a loss. I came from a world where you worked hard and you got ahead. Or at least, I thought I did. It turned out I’d been very naïve. ‘I mean, tell me what to do and I’ll do it.’

‘That’s more like it.’ She sucked her second cigarette into nothing, grinding it out in her ashtray with what I supposed passed for a smile. ‘I want you to go home, put your big boy trousers on and go back on set tomorrow and kick Simon Derrick’s arse. That doesn’t mean you have to take his shit: that means you stand up for yourself and be amazing. Yes?’

‘What else can I do?’ I asked, trying to change the subject before she knocked me out with a single punch. ‘I’ll do anything, really, I’m not afraid of hard work.’

‘How about you take some fucking photos?’ she suggested. ‘Cocking revolutionary idea, I know. I can’t carry you much longer, Brookes, not when you’re not booking jobs. I don’t have the time to spend pulling assisting gigs that pay a pittance out of my wonderful arse.’

‘I’ll give that a try then,’ I said, grabbing my bag from the floor. It didn’t seem like the time to mention that she still took 15 per cent of that pittance. ‘Thanks for the advice, I won’t let you down.’

Before I could open the door, a tennis ball thwacked the wall, right next to my head. Bending down slowly, my heart in my mouth, I turned around to see Agent Veronica staring at me.

‘You dropped this?’ I picked up the ball and held it in the air, heart pounding.

She clapped for me to chuck it back. With a feeble underhand throw, I tossed it across the office, missing Veronica by a good two feet and knocking a massive stack of invoices off the desk.

‘I’m not really a thrower,’ I explained as they fluttered to the floor.

‘Do your research.’ She spoke to me without acknowledging the piles and piles of paper all over her floor. ‘Never have that camera out of your hands, shoot everyone and everything and make the most of every opportunity that comes your way. If you want this, you’re going to have to fight for it. It’s not going to be handed to you on a plate.’

‘I can fight,’ I replied, clenching my hands into fists. ‘I want this. I really want this.’

‘If you don’t book something in the next month, I’m going to have to drop you and then you’ll see how hard this really is. I want to see those balls, Brookes,’ she barked. ‘Show everyone who you are. You’re not Tess the shitty, sad office girl any more, you’re Tess Brookes, photographer, and a photographer should have something to say, should have a message. Show me what that is, who you are. Got it?’

‘Got it,’ I confirmed as I closed the door behind me. ‘Swing my balls around and show everyone who I am.’

It sounded easy. Only … I wasn’t entirely sure who I was any more.