by Lindsey Kelk
‘My friends.’ I shook my head. ‘My best friends. Best friend. Amy. My turn: how old are you?’
‘Thirty-six,’ he said. ‘I know, I look great. Question two: what’s your proudest achievement?’
‘I …’
‘No hesitation.’
‘Getting my first job before I graduated.’ I waved my hands in the air, trying to slow myself down. ‘Before I was a photographer. Full-time photographer. Me again: do you have a girlfriend?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I don’t,’ Nick replied. ‘And that’s two questions for me.’
I wasn’t nearly as good at this game as he was. Over the next ten minutes, I answered every one of his abstract, nonsensical questions. I told him what colour I felt like, I told him I would never move back to where I grew up, I told him I preferred birthdays to Christmas and preferred the city to the country, the country to the beach and that I had never, ever cheated on anyone. All I managed to learn about Nick was that he was born in London, he had lived in New York, Paris and Argentina, that he didn’t have a driving licence, was a night owl rather than an early bird, and his favourite colour was blue. He was right ? I was not a professional question asker.
‘Is this what you do in difficult interviews?’ I asked, all out of questions. I sat back in my chair and mournfully nursed my food baby as Kekipi and the gang came to clear the table. There was still so much left, it was beyond wasteful. I wanted to parcel it all up and send it back to poor, jobless Amy. She would have decimated the leftovers in seconds. ‘I ask you, you ask me?’
‘This is what I do whenever I have to interview children,’ Nick replied. ‘Difficult children.’
‘Right,’ I nodded. Just when I’d been starting to warm to him. ‘Do a lot of that, do you?’
‘Nope.’
‘No.’ I shook my head. ‘Well, I don’t see what you managed to glean that would be interesting to anyone else by asking me if I consider myself to be a loyal person. Who would say no to that?’
‘This is the thing.’ Nick leaned back in his chair, his features almost vanishing into a silhouette as he pulled away from the candle. ‘I learned a lot more about you from your questions than you learned about me from my answers.’
‘Is that right?’
‘OK, here’s what I know.’ He took a deep drink of wine and then cleared his throat. ‘You grew up in a small village but you were desperate to get out. I know you aren’t close to your family because you value your friends much more highly than your relatives. You are single, which I would know even if you hadn’t mentioned the break-up earlier because you were so quick to tell me how proud you are of your professional achievements. If you were hopelessly in love, that would have come out in your answers, whether you wanted it to or not. Also, the only friend that you mentioned was Amy, which is very Sex and the City of you but it also tells me that you aren’t in love with anyone. Or at least you’re determined not to be. I’ve got to assume you’re unhappily single because so many of your questions to me were about my love life, and since you asked so many questions about my job and where I’d travelled to, I’ve got to assume that even though you use your job as your main source of validation, you haven’t travelled very much even though you’d like to. Which is weird for a photographer.’
Disconcerting was not the word.
‘Is that all you’ve got?’ I needed more wine and I needed it immediately.
‘Probably go out on a limb and say you’re worrying about your age since you asked me mine,’ he shrugged. ‘And your questions were a bit banal and depressingly literal but somewhat creatively grounded, what with the favourite colour and everything, so I’d say you’re someone who likes to solve problems but in a creative way. That makes more sense for a photographer, I suppose.’
Or for a creative director in an advertising firm, I thought to myself. He was quite possibly the best professional question asker I’d ever come across.
‘You’ve gone a bit quiet,’ Nick noted as Kekipi re-appeared with half of his gang and several platters of dessert. Thank God this dress had plenty of eating room. I was going to go back to England the size of a cow. Two cows, at this rate. ‘I’m right?’
‘About some of it,’ I admitted. ‘But it’s not like I didn’t learn anything about you.’
‘Go on then,’ he said as one of the waiters poured out two coffees. I hoped they were decaf. ‘Stun me with your insight.’
‘I suppose what I noticed most was that you were just really vague.’ I added cream to my coffee and tried not to look at Nick while I was talking to him. Too distracting. ‘Favourite colour, driving licence, yes and no questions, all really easy, but the rest of it … I don’t think you like people knowing too much about you.’
‘Interesting theory,’ he commented. ‘Go on.’
And so I did. ‘I don’t know. I mean, I’m not the journalist, obviously, but just all of it ? the quick comebacks, the bare feet, the black coffee. Single at thirty-six, can’t commit to a city, nowhere you call home. Maybe you can’t commit to anything?’
‘I don’t think you’re breaking any new ground suggesting a single man in his thirties might have commitment issues,’ Nick said with forced boredom. I glanced up from my coffee cup. He might have sounded bored, but he looked really annoyed. Amazing. ‘Although you realize commitment issues were invented by women? No man has commitment issues. When a woman says that, what they really mean is, “He doesn’t want to commit to me,” It’s a little bit sad.’
‘Wow,’ I replied, leaning towards the candles to get a better look at him. ‘Are you angry at all women, or is there just one who really pissed you off?’
‘Oh, that would be original, wouldn’t it?’ He moved back out of the light and I couldn’t quite see his face. ‘Wounded, damaged and heartbroken, I spend my days writing the stories of others so I never have to think about my own. Constantly trying to outrun my feelings until one day I meet the woman who changes everything?’
‘I never said heartbroken,’ I said quietly.
‘Well.’ Nick tapped his fingers on the table and smiled down at the tablecloth. ‘Well, no, I suppose you didn’t.’
The pretty evening breeze rustled the palm trees overhead and I busied myself by concentrating on the lights inside the main house and pushed a stray wisp of hair out of my eyes. I wondered how many people lived in there. It couldn’t possibly just be Bertie Bennett ? it was far too big.
‘So tell me more about Vanessa Kittler, photographer extraordinaire.’ Nick broke the silence first. Even though I’d been at a complete loss for something to say, I chalked it up as a win. ‘I still want to hear your story.’
‘Nope.’ I picked up a piece of pineapple from the platter in front of me and used it as a delicious fruity pointer. ‘I’m not the storyteller, you are. Maybe you should be a writer.’
‘Hilarious,’ he replied flatly. Somewhere in the past five minutes, something had knocked the comedy right out of him. Instead of looking bemused by the whole situation, he just looked pissed off. I was ever so slightly pleased with myself. ‘Must have been a terrible break-up,’ I said, eyes wide with feigned innocence. ‘You poor, broken man, you.’
‘Yeah, I think you’ve seen too many films.’ Nick chugged the remains of his coffee and snatched the piece of pineapple out of my hand. ‘And you clearly haven’t read too many books.’
‘I read,’ I snapped back. He stole my fruit! And, yes, there was an entire plate of pineapple, but that wasn’t the point. ‘I read all the time.’
‘The Fifty Shades books don’t count.’ Nick pushed his chair back.
‘I didn’t read them, actually,’ I announced with triumph. He didn’t need to know I hadn’t had the time and had read the Wikipedia synopses and then downloaded the dirty bits instead.
‘Like I said, not a reader.’
With just as much grace but significantly more purpose than when he had sat down, Nick stood up, walked round th
e table and placed his hands on the armrests either side of me, leaning in close. I jerked backwards, eyes locked on his. They were such a strange colour. He bent down until his lips were right beside my ear, and I breathed in suddenly, his fresh, soapy shower gel and shampoo just barely covering the traces of a darker, warmer scent that made my stomach flip.
‘Goodnight, Vanessa,’ he whispered before pushing away from my chair and jogging off down the steps and back towards the beach.
‘Well.’ A little stunned and incredibly flustered, I grabbed another bit of pineapple and took a big bite, waiting for my heartbeat to resume normal service. ‘That was just rude.’
‘It was a little,’ a voice said in the semi-darkness. It was Kekipi. ‘I think you touched a nerve.’
I laughed self-consciously, happy to have an ally and only slightly embarrassed at being caught talking to myself.
‘How is the pineapple?’ he asked, filling up my coffee and pouring himself a cup before sitting down in Nick’s empty seat and throwing his bare feet up onto the table. I wondered if he was like this with all of Mr Bennett’s guests. I wondered if Mr Bennett had many guests.
‘Bloody delicious,’ I replied, my mouth completely full. With Kekipi as my witness, it was the best bloody pineapple I had ever eaten. The little plastic pots from M&S would never, ever do the job again. ‘Perfection, actually.’
‘Good to hear.’ Kekipi sipped his coffee and sighed. He looked so contented and comfortable, the opposite of my earlier dinner date. ‘They do say you’ve never eaten pineapple until you’ve eaten it in Hawaii.’
‘I’ll have to make sure I eat lots while I’m here then,’ I said.
‘We can ensure that your cottage is well stocked.’ Kekipi gave me a wink and nodded down the hill, where a light flickered on in the cottage next door to mine. Nick was home. ‘Mr Miller was an interesting dinner companion?’
‘I just hope I haven’t bitten off more than I can chew,’ I said, tugging at the end of my plait. ‘I’ve got a funny feeling I’m going to have trouble with that one.’
‘I’ve got a funny feeling I’d like to have trouble with that one,’ he replied. ‘And that funny feeling is right in the middle of my trousers. He would be just my type.’
‘Not mine.’ My eyes were still fixed on the glowing window. He was probably taking his shirt off. Right. That. Second. ‘Never been a blond fan.’
‘I’m sure you could make an exception if you put your mind to it.’ Kekipi heaped a giant spoonful of sugar into his cup and stirred. ‘He is one of those men everyone wants. He’s like pizza and George Clooney. Everyone wants a slice. He’d charm your mother and flirt with your grandmother while impressing your father with his in-depth knowledge of knot-tying and single malt whiskies.’
‘He knows about knot-tying?’ I looked back at Kekipi.
‘Probably.’ He shrugged. ‘I think he might be the least gay man I’ve ever met. I’m trying very hard not to fall in love with him. Can I suggest you do the same?’
‘I promise I will not fall in love with him,’ I said, laughing alone until my chuckles tailed off into awkward silence. Kekipi stared at me with a less-than-convinced expression.
‘I won’t,’ I said, unnecessarily defensive. ‘Seriously. I am not going to fall in love with him.’
‘I’ll remind you of that at the wedding,’ he said.
‘You can be head bridesmaid,’ I muttered, turning my gaze back towards the cottages and watching the little light in Nick’s window flicker and blink before the bay was bathed in darkness.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Tuesday morning was almost as confusing to my poor little brain as Monday evening had been. I woke up with the remains of jetlag fug clouding my mind as I tried to recount the events of the past twenty-four hours. Hawaii, Amy, sleep, dinner, Nick-baiting and then two hours on the veranda with Kekipi. According to my new best friend, it had been years since the estate had seen any real guests and he was ecstatic to have a captive audience, even if only for a week. In exchange for my rapt but sleepy attention, he told me endless amazing stories about his adventures as the only gay in the Hawaiian village and during all the years he’d worked for Bertie Bennett. His tales of wild parties at the Bennett mansion reminded me of The Great Gatsby. Which reminded me I should finish reading The Great Gatsby.
But that was last night and this was this morning. Today was the first real day of my new double life, my first full working day as Vanessa Kittler. I’d decided, somewhere between two and three a.m. – when all best decisions are made – that if I was going to be Vanessa for a week, I was going to be Vanessa for a week. As much as I hated to admit it, all that verbal sparring with Nick had been fun, and while picking a fight didn’t feel like a very Tess thing to do, it did feel like a very Vanessa thing to do. And why shouldn’t I indulge in flirty banter with the handsome man? I was a free agent. And, as far as that handsome man was concerned, possibly a bit of a slag, according to my reputation. Stretching my arms above my head until I heard something crack, I tried to make myself get up. I only had this life on loan for a week ? I really should try to make the most of it. Instead, I rolled over and curled my arms around my pillow, smiling at what I saw. My camera, safely tucked in beside me, resting half under the covers and half on a pillow. Apparently I’d felt like a one-night stand with my Canon when I got home. Nothing like slutting it up with electronic equipment to start a week away. I reached out and stroked it gently, careful not to press any buttons and wake it from its slumber. We had a hard day ahead of us.
Leaving my lover in bed, I slunk into the kitchen in my T-shirt-come-nightie and noticed two things that hadn’t been there when I’d finally rolled myself into bed. A plate full of yet more delicious-looking fresh fruit and a thick white envelope resting beside it, addressed to Vanessa. Inside was a stiff white note card with a gold crest and a couple of lines of perfect handwriting.
Dear Ms Kittler,
Unfortunately I will not be available for our appointment today. Please accept my sincerest apologies. Kekipi is at your disposal.
Yours,
B. Bennett.
Hmm. He had cancelled again. I wondered why he’d blown us out this time. That mill trouble Kekipi had been talking about? Stuck at an orgy with Jack Nicholson, Mick Jagger and half the Playboy mansion? More likely he just couldn’t make his mind up between the hot tub and the sunloungers on his terrace. I understood his pain – it was almost exactly the same predicament as in Sophie’s Choice.
‘It’s fine,’ I announced to the empty kitchen, placing the card back on the worktop and twisting my hair into a dodgy topknot. ‘Gives me another day to get to grips with the camera.’
And if the worst came to the worst, I still had a spare day at the end of the week to play around with. Gloss was a proper magazine with proper contingency plans made by proper planning-type people. They just didn’t have a proper photographer. But they didn’t know that. Regardless, what this really meant was that I had a completely free day in Hawaii …
The beach was deserted and utterly silent when I ventured outside. Instead of a starchy white shirt and badly fitting black trousers, I was wearing one of my super-soft T-shirts and a pair of denim cutoffs that had previously lived life as my ‘painting jeans’. It felt good to be out of uniform. The breeze from the day before had vanished and the sun warmed my bare skin through in a heartbeat. It wasn’t too hot, it wasn’t too humid – it was just right. Goldilocks weather.
‘Must remember you’re here for a reason,’ I reminded myself, sliding the wide, webbed camera strap over my head. ‘Must take pictures. Pictures must be good. Or at least good enough for a professional to Photoshop.’
There was no one anywhere to be seen on the beach or up by the house and so I began to wander. Everything looked so calm, so peaceful. Either the entire island was medicated or Kekipi had slipped some Xanax into my coffee the night before. Tiny red-crested birds fluttered around me as I walked along the beach, the floury sand sticking
to my feet like little white socks, and I took deep, full-to-the-bottom-of-my-lungs breaths of fresh, flowery air to wash away the grey smog of home.
‘Hi.’ I nodded politely at a little white bird who was jogging along the edge of the beach, his little head bobbing back and forth. He paused for a moment, looked at me with his head on one side, and then went about his business. I was officially a million miles away from London’s scabby one-footed pigeons.
After not really very long at all, the backs of my calves began to burn from walking in the sand. It was time to sit down. Somewhere between the cottages, the ocean and the middle of nowhere, I found a comfortable spot, checked for random men running down the shoreline, and once I was certain I was alone, I turned on by beloved camera. She clicked, whirred and flashed into life, blinking at me as I found my grip.
Trading my camera to Vanessa in lieu of rent had broken my heart, but at the time I hadn’t had any choice. And as my mum liked to tell me all the time, what was the point in wasting my time taking pictures when I should be worrying about my work? But now, with my camera back in my hands, the strap rubbing against the back of my neck, it didn’t feel like it was going to be a waste of time. And it wasn’t just because I was sitting on a beach in Hawaii and didn’t have a job to worry about anymore ? it just felt really, really good. I fiddled with the settings for a moment, changed the lens, tinkered with the exposure and the shutter speed and then held the viewfinder up to my right eye. The camera had a digital screen on the back, but I still loved to line everything up myself.
‘Let’s do this,’ I mumbled, focusing the camera on a small sailing boat out in the bay and pressing the shutter button. There. I had taken my first photo. It was blurry, overexposed and basically terrible, but still, it was a photograph taken in Hawaii. Baby steps.
For the next couple of hours, I wandered up and down the beach taking photos of everything I came across. Happily, Hawaii was a very giving subject. Everywhere I looked, there was something else that was ridiculously beautiful. Before I knew it, I’d filled an entire memory card with warm-up shots.