by Hannah Doyle
‘To be honest I’m not sure if I’ll be able to see the plan through. I mean, seven dates is a lot. But I did go out with a guy in France, so that’s something!’
‘Just see how you go, darling. There’s no need to rule it out yet. And the date in France sounds fun!’ A wide smile lights up her face. It’s the smile I’ve loved best ever since I was little. . . the one she used when she came to see my A Level art display and the one beaming back at me during a starring role as Piper Number Three for my primary school’s nativity play. I guess I didn’t have the most ‘normal’ family set-up, growing up. Dad was an artist and the kind of man who withered at the thought of having to work in an office. He did give it a go, but he’d come home raging about ‘The Man’ which made little me super confused. Who was this Man getting up in Dad’s grill? But Mum would always soothe him, always tell him it would be okay. That he’d sell some paintings soon and that he simply wasn’t designed to work a nine-to-five. Instead, she worked tirelessly to provide for our family and sweet Piper Number Three, was she good at it. It wasn’t long before Mum was made a partner at her marketing firm. It meant long hours and she missed out on stuff like eating tea with me and Dad a lot, but she did it because she wanted the best for us all. And I loved hanging out with Dad. I’d potter around his studio (garden shed) where he set me up a little easel so I could copy him and create ‘masterpieces’ of my own. (Cat Does A Sick is, I believe, one of the finest examples of my early work). So, while Dad and I were still in our pyjamas eating Sugar Puffs, Mum would be slipping on a power suit and heading into central London to be the ultimate girl boss.
The weekends were my favourite though, when I got to hang out with her too. By the time I was a teenager, I was hell bent on making it is a photographer and in my wildest dreams, I’d go off to study at this world-renowned academy in New York. Mum told me in no uncertain words that I must follow my dreams. I remember, quite clearly, that she teared up when she said those words.
‘Like you,’ I’d said.
‘Working in marketing is not my dream,’ she’d replied. ‘I like what I do, I’m good at it, and it means I can support my family. But that’s it.’
This had come as a massive surprise. It turned out that Mum dreamed of being a yoga teacher, but, given how hapless Dad was at anything other than art and being a brilliant father, she’d transformed herself into a kick-arse businesswoman instead. Teenage Mila worshiped the ground she walked on and I think Ben had a bit of a crush on her, which really doesn’t bear thinking about. She was an awesome mum too but, growing up, Dad was the one to stick plasters on my scabby knees and Dad was the one who knew if fish fingers were in or out that week. Subconsciously, I reach for my camera bag just to check that it’s there.
‘That camera,’ Mum smiles softly. ‘Your father would love to know that you’re still using it. Have you thought about. . .?’
‘Nope,’ I cut in. ‘How is Tiger doing?’ Mum is dating a man called Tiger. He shares many of her loves; horticulture, pickling, naked yoga.
‘Just wonderful,’ she smiles as the sun streams through the kitchen window, lighting up her silver hair. One solitary grey used to have Mum booking herself in for an expensive cut but these days she cuts it herself and uses the discarded hair to make jewellery which she sells to questionable characters on Etsy. I guess you could say that she’s a bit of a kook now, and I love her all the more for it. There was a time, after what happened, when I thought I’d never see her smile again. Now that beautiful broad grin spreads so easily across her face and, best of all, I know it’s because she’s finally able to do what she wants to do. After the tears, the betrayal, the hurt, she picked herself up off the floor and dusted herself down like an absolute trooper. She quit her job, trained as a yoga teacher and has never looked back. If she was my ultimate hero when I was little, she’s like the queen of everything now.
‘Tiger is coming over later this afternoon and we’re going to practise our chaturanga dandasana. You’re welcome to stay? You look like you could do with working on your flexibility. We can all keep our clothes on if we really must.’
Even the Queen of Everything has that inbuilt ability to embarrass the crap out of her daughter. ‘Now there’s an offer,’ I laugh slash shudder, planting a kiss on her forehead and making my excuses.
Sundays might just be my favourite day of the week. Today Ben and Mila wanted to go for bottomless brunch but I reminded them that I’m not made of money so we’ve settled for a picnic breakfast in the park instead. I’m watching Mila unfold a tartan blanket at our chosen spot by the lake. There are TWELVE different types of beige foods in the two brown paper bags I’m carrying and yes it is acceptable to eat glazed doughnuts first thing – why would you even ask that question? Ben couldn’t shake the idea of champagne for breakfast and so, being the big baller that he is, he’s bought two bottles of fizz to the party. I don’t think I could be happier.
I’m pouring drinks into plastic cups while Mila admonishes Ben for ditching yet another one-night-stand to come hang with us. If there were to be medals given out in that department, Ben would be on his way to a knighthood by now.
He shrugs. ‘She’s nice but it was a one-off and we haven’t hung out in a while,’ he says, motioning to the three of us.
‘Aren’t you bored of it?’ Asks Mila.
‘What?’
‘All the women. Don’t you ever think about finding just one?’
‘Oh no,’ I jump in, flapping my arms protectively in front of Ben. ‘It’s bad enough that you’ve taken charge of my love life, you can’t go doing it to Ben too. Look at him! He’s like a happy puppy. He actually is making hay while the sun shines, aren’t you Ben?’
Ben looks from me to Mila and back again, just to make sure that he is being given the chance to speak. Poor guy. He’s used to not getting many words in when we’re all around. He was allowed into our very exclusive club of three two when he joined our school in sixth form and turned up on his first day wearing a Gossip Girl t-shirt. A bold move, considering. And yet thanks to a combination of extremely high (some might say infuriating) levels of self-confidence and the fact that he’s built like a brick shit house, Ben managed to command the respect of everyone in our year despite the huge question mark hanging over his sartorial choices. Mila cornered him at lunch on his very first day, fired ten Gossip Girl questions at him and, when he got them all right, announced that he was going to be friends with us. To this day I don’t know if he actually wanted to be or not.
‘Yeah, making hay,’ he nods. I chomp through some raison brioche, nodding enthusiastically at him. ‘It’s great. Though Mila’s right, I wouldn’t mind finding just one girl actually.’
Pause. Blink.
I can practically see the cogs working in Mila’s mind. Ben wants a girlfriend! This has to be a first. Though I really wish he’d admitted this to me, because Mila is blates about to serve up a seven-point plan to him too. She’ll be firing ideas at him any minute now.
Any minute. . . now?
I watch her take a long, pondering sip of champagne and then, get this, she stays silent. Our Mila, the ultimate boss and organiser extraordinaire. Huh.
‘You’ll find her,’ I punch Ben cheerily on the arm. ‘The right one is probably just around the corner.’
‘Yeah, maybe. I’m going to have a lot of fun while I wait, that’s for sure,’ Ben reaches out to brush a stray bit of brioche crumb from my chin. ‘How’s your challenge going, kiddo? What is it again?’
‘“Seven Dates To Find The One”,’ Mila recites like a proud mother.
‘Yep. And they can’t be anything like my old type, either, which sounds incredibly easy and simple. The good news is that I’ve tried. Too Much Thierry ticked off a couple of things on your new list, Mils. Go me! And I have closure from Zach, too. Woop! So I guess I’m pretty much done getting out there, now. Can I get a hell yeah?
‘Hell NO. Nuh uh.’ Mila waves her wine beaker at me menacingly. ‘You can’t giv
e up so soon! That article wasn’t called “Give Up After One Dodgy Date”, was it? “Seven Dates to Find The One”. That means there are six more dates to be had, not to mention more exes to sink your teeth into. NOT LITERALLY. This, sugar plum, is just the beginning,’ Mila grins. I’m tempted to ram a cronut into her gob for all of our sakes.
I’m striding into Friday like the sassy lady emoji. This week has been crazy busy as we waded through all our Cannes content, but I did a quick stat check first thing and Violet’s blogs from the festival are doing brilliantly. Plus I’m secretly hoping that today will be a bit of an easy ride. Violet is shooting her new role as ambassador for a swimwear brand. I thought ambassadors were just for countries and Ferrero Rocher parties, but what do I know? The brand has employed a hotshot photographer for the shoot so I’m going to be a bit of a spare tyre (or maybe wheel?) but it will be incredible to watch a pro at work. I treat myself to a takeaway coffee, hop into the lift and zoom up to the studio.
Violet’s in a director’s chair with her hair in rollers as a make-up artist gets to work.
‘It will be just wonderful to have some professional photos taken for a change,’ she’s saying. ‘My personal photographer Jasmine does a decent job, of course, but I’m sure we’ll all notice a difference. Dave Corrigan has shot some huge names.’
I cough to announce my presence but Violet doesn’t look embarrassed in the slightest. Why do I take this from her? Oh, that’s right, because she’s right. I’m not a professional. I’m sure she will notice a difference today. I stare down at the lid of my keep cup, now flecked with splashes of coffee, feeling deflated. For some reason, I can’t stand up to Violet or attempt to defend myself. I’d been on such a high after telling Zach what I think of him, and Too Much Thierry, come to think of it. Silently cursing myself for being such a dweeb around my boss, I go for a mooch around the set. Sky blue back drop. Inflatable palm trees. It’s all very clichéd, if you ask me.
Vi spends the morning looking stunning in a selection of pastel coloured bikinis. You’ve got to hand it to her, she knows how to work the camera. In between fetching drinks for my boss, I’m taking notes on how Photographer Dave works. I know how he likes his lighting, how many shots of each new outfit he likes to take and also how he likes his coffee, because he has shouted ‘NON FAT CAPPUCINO’ in the direction of his assistant Terry 861 times already. Terry is heading out on his 862nd coffee run so I decide to join him, mostly because this gal has a hankering for a sausage roll.
Terry’s only just counting out his change at the till when my phone buzzes.
WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU Get back here I’ve just seen the shots and I do not look good why didn’t you insist on photographing this campaign Jasmine? I am so pissed off you can see actual cellulite in one picture DISASTER.
‘Shit, we need to move,’ I say, piling pastry treats into Terry’s arms, grabbing our coffees and spinning on my heels.
This may be the first time in history that an inflatable unicorn lilo has been used as a battering ram. The poor mythical beast has been flipped upside down and its magical horn is pummelling a confused-looking Dave on the head.
‘I. Do. Not. Have. Cellulite!’ Violet delivers a fresh blow with every word.
I approach cautiously, waiting to see if the red mist has lifted enough for her to recognise me before I actually try to help. But I also need to act fast because a couple of the male models are filming this sorry scenario and if it ends up on YouTube we are doomed. DOOMED. Well, Violet is doomed. If anyone found out that her super sweet persona is a big fat act, her cash cow of a blog would be lost forever. And that can’t happen because then I’d be out of a job right when I’ve developed a Friday sushi habit.
‘Put the unicorn down,’ I soothe, easing the weapon from my boss’s claw. Photographer Dave flashes me a grateful smile but I can’t really look at him. His trendy glasses are hanging off one ear and his forehead is sporting a red patch in the shape of a unicorn horn. Or some may say, penis.
‘Let’s all have a nice glass of prosecco and calm down, shall we?’ says Becky, the PR in charge of this shoot who has been beyond perky all day. She clicks her fingers and her assistant emerges with drinks for us all. It’s half past three in the afternoon so obviously I accept mine. Violet sinks hers like a pirate and tries to compose herself.
‘Jasmine,’ she begins. I know it’s bad when she refuses to talk to anyone in the room apart from me. ‘Would you kindly tell Rebecca here that I am not happy with the photographs this “photographer” has taken. They do not reflect my best self. You can see dimples where there are none. VIOLET DOESN’T HAVE MOTHER FU—’
‘Thank you, Violet,’ I jump in, turning to Becky. It’s always awkward when you have to relay a conversation to someone who already heard the entire thing. And don’t even get me started on the fact that the light was shining out of Photographer Dave’s arse just an hour ago. It’s nice to have some pro photos for a change. Violet’s actual words.
‘I got it, thank Jasmine,’ replies Becky, who seems to have a clipboard surgically attached to her hands. ‘Of course you don’t have mother fu– ahem – dimples Violet! You are utterly flawless. Dave, what can we do about this?’
‘There’s always Photoshop,’ he shrugs, one hand on his spray-on jeans (it’s a no from me).
‘Photoshop! My trusty photographer Jasmine never has to Photoshop pictures of my posterior and she doesn’t even have any formal training!’ Violet spits, marching off in a huff.
Dave turns to look at me, a mixture of ‘mildly impressed’ and ‘how do you work with this monster’ about his eyes. ‘You take all of the photographs on her blog?’
I nod.
‘I’m impressed,’ he adjusts his wonky glasses and rubs at the penis patch on his head. ‘I particularly liked the pictures in a recent post. What was it called? “How To Slay Your Spray Tan”, that’s it.’
Wait. What? Firstly, I can’t believe actual Dave Corrigan the famous photographer is impressed with my stuff. A swell of pride washes over me and my heart feels like it’s doing a pufferfish impression. Secondly, “How To Slay Your Spray Tan”? I pull out my phone and scroll back through Violet’s blog. I’ve been so focused on editing the Cannes shots that I didn’t check what she’d posted the day we left. Violet actually ignored me when I suggested that blog title, so pleased was she with her own suggestion about Sicilian lemons or whatever it was. But here she is, using my idea and passing it off as her own. Pepé Le Pew, she’s infuriating. It’s not like this hasn’t happened before, either. I’m going to have to say something soon. Or, you know, probably never.
Meanwhile Dave is talking about the balcony shots and I’m genuinely bowled over to hear his comments. ‘Thank you. We were lucky with the light.’
‘Hi hello there!’ Violet bowls back over with Becky in tow. ‘Before this turns into some little photographer love in, can we decide what we’re going to do about MY PROBLEM please. I cannot be an ambassador for this brand if I am not happy with the pictures.’
Then she stamps her foot like a two-year-old.
And it works, because when Violet stamps her foot people don’t turn and laugh at her like they bloody well should, they scuttle around adjusting this and that until she is perfectly happy. It is so annoying to watch.
‘Sure. Sure,’ Becky With The Clipboard is making frantic notes. Dave is attempting to look nonchalant but it’s clear that even he is a bit worried about how today will pan out. And Ulrikka (yes, I named the unicorn) is giving me a look which says ‘please take me home’. It seems cruel to tell her that unicorn lilos feel a bit 2017 and, besides, I could do with another seating option in my living room.
‘What are you doing Jasmine?’ Violet asks.
I look around and realise that I’ve popped Ulrikka around my neck and am about to leave. Only it’s three thirty-five and this tedious hangover of a day still hasn’t finished. WOE.
Five hours later and I am a frazzled shell of my former self. Mmm hmm. It
has taken FIVE more hours to coax Violet out of her mood and persuade her to let Dave get back behind the camera with the promise of ‘hotter’ pictures. Even then she insisted on me art-directing the rest of the shoot, which was all kinds of awks, given that he’s the professional. Plus, you can’t polish a turd. Not that I’m calling Violet a turd (aesthetically-speaking) (personality? Probs) but the whole shoot concept was so far removed from something I would come up with for her blog that I really had to get my brain cells going to create something un-turd like.
I really need to stop saying the word turd.
We are currently at Brockwell Lido, freezing our bits off as we gather around Dave’s laptop. Early summer it may be, but a chill has descended and I’m really hoping that isn’t the weather’s way of hinting what will happen next. Like it did when it thundered all over my date slash dumping recently. Stupid James.
The whole team decamped from our studio after I suggested taking the shoot outside. No sooner had the words ‘retro lido’ left my mouth than Becky With The Clipboard was making calls. So here we are, jostling for space in front of the computer and waiting impatiently for the pictures to load. I can barely look. We’ve already thoroughly eaten in to Friday evening and if she’s still not happy this could turn into an all-nighter. But then our girl fills the screen, a pistachio bikini popping against the aqua-marine pool behind her. Her toned, tanned limbs look sleeker than ever with the evening sun bathing her in golden rays. A couple of male models do their best Daniel Craig impression in the background.
I bite my lip. I like them. But will she? And more importantly, will I ever see my bed again? In a rare moment of winning recently, I remembered to change my bed sheets and now they smell so fresh.
‘Perfect pictures. Thank goodness I came up with the idea. Jasmine, please send me the edit as soon as possible. Now, is my car ready? I’m already late for my date with Chip tonight,’ she announces loudly.