by Paige Toon
The rest of the morning is excruciatingly awkward. Alex barely speaks to me and I barely speak to anyone. Russ, one of the features writers from Hebe, arrives towards the end of the shoot, and Nicky breaks away from scrutinising Phil’s digital shots on a laptop to come over to me.
‘Russ is here now to do the interview.’ She flicks her medium-length light blonde hair back off her face and regards me with cool blue eyes behind her red horn-rimmed glasses. ‘Alex and I are going to head back to the office. You can bring everything back later in a cab with Russ.’
Great. So I’ll be tidying up on my own. ‘Okay.’
She turns away and smiles charmingly at everyone. ‘Thanks for a great shoot, guys!’ She theatrically air-kisses each of the four judges, then Phil, before turning to Alex. ‘Ready?’ she asks him, waving goodbye to Maria, who’s still packing up her makeup bag.
He glances at me with confusion. ‘Is Bronte not—?’
‘No,’ she cuts him off. ‘She’s staying to clear up. We should get back.’
Alex looks uneasy, but doesn’t argue. It’s his first day in the office, after all. Nicky turns on her heel and she and her skinny butt leave the building, closely followed by a man who I have spent a huge number of days dreaming about in the last year and a half.
‘You alright?’ Maria asks me with concern.
‘I feel a bit weird,’ I tell her honestly.
‘That was weird,’ she agrees. ‘You both seemed tense.’
My eyes shoot up to look at her. ‘Do you think—?’
‘No,’ she cuts me off. ‘No one else would have noticed. It was just me, because I knew.’
She doesn’t even fully know what she knows, but I think she suspects we slept together, and well, she’d be right.
‘Do you want to go for a quick drink?’ she asks sympathetically. I glance over at Russ. He’ll be at least another half an hour, maybe more, with the interviews.
‘Sure, yeah, okay, that’d be nice.’ I smile at her gratefully.
We go down the road to the first pub we come across and order a couple of Cokes, taking them to a booth seat by the window. It smells of stale booze and years of pre-ban cigarette smoke ingrained in the flocked wallpaper and swirly red and brown patterned carpet. I sip my Coke miserably.
‘Do you want to talk about it?’ Maria asks me, her warm brown eyes full of compassion.
‘I don’t really know what to say,’ I mumble. ‘I never thought I’d see him again.’
‘It must have been a shock.’
‘The oddest thing is that I saw him on the Tube escalator this morning.’
She looks incredulous. ‘No way?’
‘He was coming up, I was going down. I motioned for him to wait at the top, but he didn’t.’ I feel embarrassed by this revelation and dejectedly rest my chin on my hand.
‘No wonder you’re freaked out. Then I go and turn up, too. Talk about weird coincidences.’
I regard her across the table. ‘I don’t believe in coincidences.’
She smiles and delivers a quote in a regal-sounding voice: ‘There’s no such thing as coincidence. Just God’s hand in a greater plan.’
I smile at her wryly. ‘I don’t believe in God, either.’
‘What about Einstein?’
‘What about him?’
‘Well, as Albert Einstein himself said, “Coincidence is God’s way of remaining anonymous.”’
I grin at her. ‘I still don’t believe in God.’
She rolls her eyes, giving up on me. ‘So what are you going to do now?’
‘Go back to the office and act like I’ve never met him before.’ The thought makes my heart clench painfully, and the emotion takes me by surprise. I barely knew him. It was one night. It shouldn’t be too hard to move on from this. ‘Where are you off to after this?’
‘I’m meeting up with a friend. She’s getting married this weekend and I’m doing her make-up.’
‘Cool. Where do you live?’
‘Golders Green.’
‘That’s a few stops up from Chalk Farm, right?’
‘Yeah. Have you been?’
‘No. I only arrived from Oz three weeks ago.’
‘Aah. Well, it’s a nice neighbourhood, and Hampstead is not far, where there are lots of lovely little shops, restaurants and cafés. Definitely worth a visit, and it’s great hanging out on the Heath in the summer.’
I glance out of the window at the grey sky. ‘Summer feels like a long way away.’
‘It’ll be here before you know it.’ Pause. ‘And then it’ll be gone again, just as quickly.’
I snort with amusement. ‘Well, I’m not here for the weather.’
She smiles across the table at me. ‘How’s your job?’
I can’t help hesitating and her face falls.
‘What? You’re not happy?’
‘I’m being such a misery guts today.’ I sigh heavily. ‘I’m not too sure about my new boss,’ I admit. ‘But maybe she just takes a bit of getting used to.’
‘I didn’t think much to the way she spoke to you at the shoot,’ Maria empathises.
‘No, neither did I,’ I reply glumly. ‘Oh well, I’ll just have to get my job satisfaction from elsewhere.’
‘Like where?’
‘I like taking photographs,’ I admit. ‘I prefer being behind a camera than trawling through pictures of paparazzi shots of celebrities’ wobbly bits.’
‘Have you done any freelance work?’
‘A little. I’ve done portraits of friends’ babies and that sort of thing, and I’ve done some birthdays and a few events.’
Her face lights up. ‘What are you doing this weekend?’
‘Er, nothing...’
‘Rachel is going to kiss me!’ she exclaims excitedly.
‘Who’s Rachel?’
‘My flatmate. She’s a wedding photographer and her assistant has just completely let her down for this wedding we’re doing this weekend. Can you help out?’ she asks quickly.
My head prickles with panic. A wedding? ‘I’m not sure. I mean, I might not be good enough.’
‘Rachel would handle all the tricky shots. You’d just be her back-up.’
‘I don’t know,’ I say hesitantly. I believe in marriage as much as I believe in God.
‘It pays well. Why don’t you just come over and meet her? Bring a portfolio of your work?’
‘I don’t suppose it could hurt,’ I respond. It’s not like I couldn’t use the extra money.
‘Brilliant!’ She beams from ear to ear and I wonder what the hell I’ve got myself into.
Chapter 3
The red-painted front door whooshes open and a pretty woman in her mid-thirties with brown eyes and blonde ringlets beams at me.
‘Bronte!’ she cries. ‘Thank you so much for coming!’
‘Hello!’ I recognise her instantly. So this is Rachel... ‘You did Polly and Grant’s wedding,’ I say, juggling my laptop under my arm as she ushers me past her into the cramped hall.
‘That’s right,’ she replies, closing the door behind me. ‘When I was a weekend warrior.’
‘Weekend warrior?’
She smiles at my confused look. ‘A part-time wedding photographer. I’ve finally left my accountancy job and gone full-time.’
‘Wow, that’s great.’
I remember her well. She was friendly and approachable and everyone felt relaxed around her. I still haven’t seen Polly’s wedding photos, but I’d put money on them being fantastic.
‘Can I get you a drink? We’ve just opened a bottle of white,’ she says.
‘I’d love one.’
She leads me into a cool and cosy kitchen styled like a Fifties diner with pastel shades of blue, pink and cream. Maria leaps up from the kitchen table, leaving behind two large glasses of white wine and a stack of large black, square books.
‘Hey!’ she says happily. ‘I’m so glad you could make it.’ She gives me a friendly hug.
‘Thanks,�
� I reply as a long-stemmed wine glass finds its way into my hand.
‘Maria said you’ve just arrived from Australia?’ Rachel says as we sit down.
‘That’s right. About three weeks ago.’
‘And you’ve done some events?’
‘A few,’ I reply uneasily, feeling compelled to elaborate. ‘No weddings, though, I’m afraid, although I have done some portraits for friends.’
‘Any documentary-style photography?’ she asks, worry lines appearing on her forehead.
‘Um, well, I’ve taken quite a lot of pictures at friends’ birthdays and I did an awards ceremony once.’ Back when I worked at Marbles, my boss let me have a go at some boring industry awards.
‘Have you got anything to show me?’ she asks.
‘I didn’t bring my portfolio with me from Australia, but I’ve got a bunch of shots on my laptop.’
Maria smiles encouragingly while Rachel clicks through the images. I watch her nervously, feeling the pressure.
‘How’s it going at work?’ Maria asks.
‘It’s okay.’
‘Have you seen much of Alex?’
‘Not really. He’s been in and out of meetings.’
The glass-walled meeting room is right opposite my desk so I’ve had a perfect view of Alex steadfastly ignoring me since getting back to the office after the photoshoot yesterday.
I notice Rachel pausing on the occasional picture, taking time to study it. My nerves intensify and I take a large gulp of my wine. I love photography and I want her to be impressed.
‘This is great,’ she says finally, looking pleased.
‘Really?’
‘Perfect. Just the sort of thing I’m after.’
I exhale with relief. ‘So what will you need me to do exactly?’ I ask. ‘I mean, I have a camera.’ I invested in one when I started getting some freelance work. ‘But I’m not sure my two lenses will be good enough.’
‘No need to worry. My assistant, Sally, will be happy to lend you her kit.’
‘Are you sure she won’t mind?’
‘Not at all.’ Rachel tuts. ‘She owes me, dropping me in it at the last minute like this.’
‘Why did she pull out?’
‘Her boyfriend wants to take her away for the weekend.’
Rachel can’t be very happy about it. Maria gives me a pertinent look, answering my unspoken question.
‘Where is the wedding?’ I glance at Maria.
‘It’s near Cambridge, about an hour away, in a village a few miles from where I grew up,’ she reveals. ‘We can all travel up together in Rachel’s car on Saturday morning.’
‘Great.’ I look down at the stack of books on the table and Rachel notices.
‘These are some of my weddings.’ She picks up the book on the top and hands it to me. The cover says ‘Pippa and John’ in swirly script on the front and there’s a beautifully romantic shot of a groom dipping a bride backwards while planting a gentle kiss on her lips. Rachel talks me through her work, explaining how a wedding package tells the story of the wedding from the getting-ready part, sometimes all the way to the last dance. It’s a far cry from the traditional leather-bound albums that you usually see of fifty formal, stiff-looking photographs of the wedding party in various staged poses. Rachel’s books are packed full of natural photographs of relaxed and happy people enjoying what looks like the best day of their lives.
‘I’m so glad you like it.’ Rachel smiles warmly when I tell her how impressed I am. ‘I learned everything I know from a wedding photographer called Lina Orsino. She and her partner Tom work as a team. Eventually I hope to have the same set-up – a partner, rather than an assistant – but one step at a time.’
‘Sounds great,’ I say. ‘So what will you need from me?’
She leans forward and I sit up straighter. ‘The service will take place around the corner from the bride’s parents’ house, so you can come with Maria and me for the bride preparation shoot and hang out, see how I do things. Then, you’d need to go to the church ahead of time to take photographs of the little details. People rarely appreciate how much goes into a wedding, but we do, and we need to capture it for posterity. So take photos of the flowers, the candles, the church...’
My heart jumps, but I force myself to listen carefully, wishing I’d brought a pen and paper. Actually... ‘Do you have a pen and paper?’ I ask.
‘Sure!’ Rachel looks pleased as she gets up from the table and hunts them out. Maria gives me the thumbs-up and I shift selfconsciously as Rachel sits back down.
For the next hour, I take notes as she fills me in. Eventually I say goodbye, realising the wine has done nothing to quash my steadily growing nerves. The fee she is paying me is substantially more than I earn in a day at work, which is fantastic, but this feels like such a big responsibility. I really hope I don’t screw it up.
On Friday, I’m in the small kitchen adjoining the Hebe office making tea for Nicky and Helen, the deputy picture editor. Helen is a moody little cow and I keep catching her giving me dirty looks, but I don’t know why.
I squeeze the tea out of Nicky’s teabag and dump it in the bin. I miss Sydney. Thank goodness for Bridget – I’d be lost without her to hang out with every night, watching crappy TV and dissecting our days over wine and microwave meals. We’re going to the pub tonight after work for a few drinks – not many; I have to be up early. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.
‘Hey,’ I hear a voice say and turn around to see Russ coming into the kitchen.
‘Hi,’ I reply with a smile.
I like Russ, Hebe’s deputy features editor. He was cracking me up on Monday in the taxi back to the office, telling me all the judges’ dodgy secrets. He’s a bit of a gossip, I think, but good fun. He’s tall at about six foot two, of medium build, with short ginger hair and a fair few freckles. He reminds me a little of Ed Sheeran – he’s pretty cool.
‘You coming to the pub tonight?’ he asks as he moves past me to fill up the kettle.
‘I can’t. My flatmate wants me to go to the pub with her.’ I pass him the teabags.
‘Bring her along. The more the merrier,’ he says casually.
I lean against the worktop, in no rush to get back to my icy colleagues. ‘Who else is going?’
‘Pete and Lisa from news, Esther, the features editor, will probably come along for one. Zach from production and Tim on the art desk usually come. I don’t know about Alex.’
The sound of his name makes me tense up.
‘What about Helen and Nicky?’ I ask, trying to sound casual.
‘Nah, not likely. Nicky never socialises with us minions, and Helen spends every spare second up her boyfriend’s arse – not literally,’ he adds, flashing me a cheeky grin.
I’m taken aback by his openness, but try not to show it.
‘How are you finding things on your desk?’
‘Er, it’s okay,’ I say weakly.
‘Helen being a bitch?’
He gives me a knowing look, not fazed by my surprise. ‘She went for your job,’ he reveals.
‘Oh?’
‘Simon didn’t think she had enough experience.’ He pauses before adding, ‘Although I’m not sure Nicky agreed...’ He lets his voice trail off, stopping short of saying that Nicky wanted to promote Helen to picture editor instead of employing me.
‘I see.’ Now it all makes sense. I’m guessing Simon made the final call and that put my two most immediate colleagues’ noses out of joint. No wonder I’m feeling the chill.
‘Don’t let them get to you,’ Russ says with more compassion than I’d expect from an almost total stranger, and a bloke at that. ‘Everyone knows how bitchy they are. Well, everyone except for Simon.’ He rolls his eyes. ‘Bitchiness is not on that guy’s radar.’
I’m still surprised he’s talking to me so openly, but I can’t say it’s not welcome after two weeks of feeling completely alone at work.
‘Come to the pub,’ he urges, picking up his mug.
>
‘Alright, I’ll see if Bridget fancies it.’
‘Not Bridget Reed?’ he checks as we walk out of the kitchen together.
‘Yeah, the very same.’
‘Oh, Bridget will definitely be up for the pub with us lot,’ he says with a grin.
‘You know her well?’
‘Not that well, but I’ve seen her play enough drinking games at various work dos to know that she’ll fit right in.’
I laugh as I pass him, completely forgetting that I’m right by Alex’s desk until his brilliant blue eyes lock with mine over the top of his computer. I quickly avert my gaze.
‘Cheers, Russ, see you later.’ I break off to go to my desk.
Russ is right of course: Bridget is not about to turn down a chance to be sociable.
Next week’s issue of Hebe has been put to bed by five p.m. so I join the crowd pulling on their coats and mingling by the door. Alex’s seat is empty – he’s over by Simon’s desk, signing off the last of the page proofs. Helen and Nicky walk by together, completely ignoring the rest of us as they talk.
‘Have a nice weekend!’ Russ calls after them jovially and they both start with surprise.
‘You too,’ Nicky calls back uncomfortably.
Helen gives Nicky a look as she pushes the button for the lift. They both stand there in silence until the lift arrives.
I catch Russ’s eye. ‘Miserable cows,’ he says under his breath, flashing me a grin. I try to keep a straight face. ‘Bridget meeting us there?’ he checks with me.
‘Yeah, they’re still going to press.’
Bridget is freelancing at monthly travel magazine Let’s Go! this week.
‘Bridget Reed?’ Lisa, the news editor, asks, having overheard.
‘The very same,’ I reply with a smile. Does everyone know Bridget?
‘There go my plans to have an easy one,’ she mutters.
‘I’m definitely having an easy one,’ I say firmly.
‘Good luck with that,’ Russ says wryly. ‘Tim, are you coming or what?’ he snaps suddenly.
Tim, the art editor, is hovering over his computer.
‘Yep,’ he replies shortly, glancing up at Russ. He’s rocking the geek chic look, with black-rimmed glasses and shaggy dark hair. ‘Done,’ he murmurs, grabbing the coat hanging over the back of his chair. I glance at Alex in time to see him turn away from Simon, rustling A3-sized pages in his hands.