by Hannah Doyle
My intercom buzzes and I run down the stairs to open the main door into my block of flats, where the postman hands me a long white box. Underneath folds of delicate tissue paper, pretty cream flowers nestle next to sprigs of foliage. I feel like a kid at Christmas as I unwrap the blooms and cast about for a vase to put them in, carefully tipping out the flower food before adding water. Finally I open up the tiny envelope and read the message inside.
I’ll miss you this week! But while I’m away, I just wanted you to know that I’m super proud of you. I believe in you, boo! Now go get your date on.
xx Mila xx
Gulp. She is so incredibly thoughtful and, not for the first time, I find myself wondering how the heck I managed to bag such a supportive best mate. It’s like she could sense that I was wavering and got these flowers delivered right in the nick of time. I’m wondering if Mila has actual super powers as I pull a light jumper over today’s t-shirt, take a final glance at ‘my type on paper’ before popping it back into my passport, and head out the door. If Mila believes in me, then I should have a ruddy good go at treating myself with the same respect.
I LOVE MY FLOWERS! I LOVE YOU! Thank you, you’re the best. Good luck with work this week, I miss you loads already. You’ll be pleased to hear that I’m off on a mission as we speak. It’s not a date, because my heart could do with a break from catastrophic dates right now, BUT there is something positive I can achieve.
YES GURL! Keep me posted pls. She taps back.
I’ve been rehearsing what I’m going to say all the way to Clapham and I’m pretty sure Taylor Swift would be proud. This is going to be the break up speech to end all break up speeches. I’ve got cute memories in there, a poignant thought or two, and a little bit of humour to brighten the mood at the end. After all, I don’t want poor old Hot Tom to be too devastated when I put an end to our, um, relationship of convenience. Mila was right when she said he no longer deserves VIP access to my pants. Hot Tom has been a dead end for over a year now and this girl needs some. . . what’s the opposite of dead ends? Motorways? Yeah! Feeling fired up, I ring the bell.
Tom opens the door to his flat wearing a pair of boxers and nothing else. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’
I try not to stare.
‘I’m just back from the gym,’ he’s saying. ‘I was about to get dressed. Unless. . .?’ The glimmer in his eye sets my pulse racing.
‘No, no! You get dressed!’ Why am I squeaking? I bite a fingernail for distraction. I need to focus.
‘If you’re sure,’ he shrugs, resting his hands on my shoulders to gently move me out of the way. He smells like shower gel and shampoo. We’re so close I can see a post-shower sheen on his skin. If I just reached out I could. . . Get a grip, Jasmine! That Taylor Swift speech isn’t going to recite itself, is it?
So, here’s the thing. I *may* have accidentally fallen on top of Hot Tom’s penis. Twice. I know, I know. But please don’t judge? I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this already, but he’s HOT. Also dark, handsome, hench. There are just one little problem with Hot Tom. . . Even I can see that he’s a bit of an idiot. But Tom is never more than a call away when I need him, he’s my go-to guy when things get difficult. Had a shit few days? Hot Tom will fix it! Keep getting dumped by men who you thought were the one? Don’t panic, just call Hot Tom. Developed an awkward-ass situation with your male best friend? WHO YOU GUNNA CALL? Hot Tom!
Tom is very good at taking my mind off anything other than Tom. However, given that things have gone from bad to worse lately, I really do not know why I thought right now would be a good time to end things with him. Let’s face it, my speech fell right out of my tiny mind the minute I saw him in his pants and only now, lying on his bed and staring up at the ceiling, have I realised exactly what I’ve just done. Hindsight is such a bitch.
‘Are you ready for round three?’ Hot Tom is completely naked and striding back from the bathroom.
Round three. It’s not a boxing match, Tom.
He winks, points at his groin and adds, ‘You know, round three?’
God he’s an idiot. To make matters worse, the guilt is creeping in. This is most definitely a hiccup in the plan.
‘I’m actually good,’ I say, jumping up and pulling my clothes on as fast as I can. ‘I need to go. I’ve got, um, work to do.’
‘Tonight?’ he asks.
I pause to look at him as I pull my t-shirt back on. He looks crestfallen so I decide to woman-up and try a little honesty.
‘Actually, no. That was a lie. I’m sorry Tom. The truth is, I came round here to end things with you.’ I bite my lip as I gauge his reaction. He’s paused half way through buttoning up his jeans.
‘End what?’
‘This,’ I say, wondering what happened to that empowering speech I had planned. Right now I’m just pointing between my boobs and his trousers. ‘You know, this!’
‘You don’t want to be fuckbuddies anymore?’
And just like that, any former horn I had for Hot Tom dies a death.
‘No I do not. This isn’t going anywhere and it’s a waste of time for both of us. I’m after something more meaningful. We’ve had fun, but all good things must come to an end.’
‘Huh,’ he says, not looking at all upset. ‘Well, there are plenty more birds in the nest, as they say.’
‘Do they actually say that though, Tom?’
‘What?’ he asks, but it’s clear that I’ve already lost him. I grab my stuff with as much dignity as I can muster and walk out of his flat, turning only once to see that he’s flicking through Tinder. And his bed’s not even cold. Shudder.
‘The thing is, I’m starting to think that Violet was right. Maybe I am a complete disaster. I was already on rocky ground before Mila decided to shake things up and now look at me, lurching from one crap situation to another. Nearly molested by a randy Frenchman, splashed across the news with a posho Italian and then there was the godawful. . .’ I stop myself just in time.
Arnie raises his eyebrows.
‘Godawful. . .’ he prompts.
‘Time I went to. . . the cinema? On a date?’
‘You were going to call our pie date godawful, weren’t you?’ Arnie says, taking a sip of tea and spluttering.
‘Of course not! Our date was. . . I mean, the actual date was fun. We had a laugh. There was just no. . .’ I click my fingers impatiently. How have I got myself into this pickle? ‘Sorry. I don’t know why I’m offloading on you. We’re here to work. What’s up with your tea?’
‘It’s English Breakfast?’ Arnie says, though by the expression his face pulls you’d think he’d just said, ‘It’s made with urine?’ ‘I should have said, I’m an Earl Grey drinker.’
Of course he is.
‘I’m afraid I don’t have any Earl Grey and I’m all out of the last batch of kombucha I home-brewed, too. I could always decant your tea into a tiny kilner jar if that would make you feel more at home?’
Arnie rolls his eyes.
‘Listen, so far today you’ve spent the entire time complaining about your love life and mocking my creative roots. Need I remind you that you’re not actually paying me to help you out? I’m doing this out of the good of my heart because I’m a nice person. So why don’t you pipe down and pay attention while I walk you through the basics.’
It turns out that Arnie’s use of the word basics is entirely inaccurate. I’ll be honest, he lost me at the words ‘domain name’ during step one. But given that this is my one last hope of gainful employment as a photographer, I’m trying hard to absorb all the information, scribbling away in my notepad every time we go over something Arnie’s just done. It takes quite a while, mostly because I’m a slow learner, and by the time we have the beginnings of a slick looking website on screen, it’s getting late.
‘I’m dying to get some of my photos on there but also, I’m starving,’ I say, stretching out like a cat on my floor to iron out the cricks in my neck. When I’m a proper grown up I’ll have an actual
desk for my computer. Maybe even my own office? For now, the floor of my living room will have to do.
‘Me too,’ yawns Arnie.
‘Right,’ I hop up and into my kitchen, rifling through the fridge for ideas. Only, it’s post-Italy empty.
I pop my head around the door. ‘Two options. One: you go foraging for food. I’m sure there’s a blackberry bush round the back of the recycling bins at Sainsbury’s. You’d probably love that. Or two: we eat the Supernoodles in my cupboard.’
Arnie eyes me suspiciously. ‘What flavour?’
I pause. ‘Does it matter?’
‘Have you ever tried bacon Supernoodles before?’
‘Excellent point,’ I concede. ‘They’re chicken, obviously. I’m not an animal.’
‘Well then, it sounds like you and I are going to enjoy another dinner of shame.’
I don’t even dare wonder what the nutritional value of a bowl of noodles and a can of Vimto for tea is. What I can tell you is that this combo has made my IT guy (Arnie loves me calling him that) hella gassy. He literally cannot stop burping.
Still, given that we have firmly established our relationship as friends only, I am feeling totally at ease in Arnie’s company. So while Belchy McBlecherson is furiously typing code into my laptop, wearing a paisley short-sleeved shirt and tartan trousers, I slink off to change into my hot pink home-only leggings before sitting down cross-legged next to him.
Arnie politely averts his gaze from my new ensemble and nods towards my laptop. ‘The moment of truth. Do you want to see?’
‘Yes please!’
Arnie clicks open my website and I stare. And stare. And stare. My all-time favourite shot from Cannes – a bunch of stylists taking a break between fittings – is the holding photograph with my name written across it in the coolest, looping font.
JASMINE HEPWORTH.
It me! I’ve spent so long wishing I’d get even the tiniest credit on Violet’s blog that seeing this is almost overwhelming.
‘Are you okay?’ Arnie asks.
‘It looks really good,’ I say, swiping at stray tears. ‘Thank you. Honestly, it means so much.’
‘No worries.’ Arnie looks awkward. He’s clearly not used to outbursts of emotion in the workplace.
‘I don’t suppose you get many clients bursting into tears as a. . . technical director? App designer?’ I trail off.
‘Fuck’s sake, Jasmine. I’ve told you what I do about a million times now.’
‘Sorry. I’m useless. This looks so amazing though, you are an absolute genius. Thank you for all your help. I’m thrilled with it. Now people can find me online and know how to get in touch. That’s a huge start! Next stop, drumming up some business.’
‘Right, I’m outta here. I’m off to a cosplay thing this weekend and I need to get my outfit sorted.’
Cosplay? As in, costume play? As in, the geekiest of all past times? Dear lord. And to think I once ever so vaguely entertained romantic thoughts about my IT guy.
I’m wading through more photos to add to my site when my phone starts to ring. Even Mum uses Whatsapp these days. Maybe it’s someone selling something? I have zero clue what PPI is and not much inclination to talk about it right now.
‘Jasmine, it’s Violet.’
‘Well hello there!’ I trill in an Irish accent. I’m not Irish. I do not know where that came from. What is even wrong with me?
‘Jasmine?’
‘Yep, sorry, it’s me.’
‘Right. Are you planning on coming into work today?’
‘I’m sorry, what?’
‘I got back from Italy last night so we’re back to work.’
Hmm. Has she forgotten all about being incredibly rude and hurtful? Has she forgotten that she accused me of being an even bigger attention seeker than her? Or of the fact that she said Al only went out with me because he felt sorry for me? Apparently so.
‘Um, you haven’t been in touch for a while so I didn’t know when you were getting back.’
‘Well here I am!’
‘You were also quite mean to me. . .’ I say this very, very quietly, her words still ringing in my ears. Desperate. Disaster. Pathetic.
‘Ah, yes, all water under the bridge now. I got it wrong. Now, what time can you get here?’
It’s not exactly the world’s most profound apology but it will do.
‘I can be at yours in about 45 minutes?’
‘Wonderful. We have lots to catch up on. I’ve been invited to review a new spa in Switzerland in a couple of weeks. Please get the dates blocked out in your diary. Oh, and Jasmine, could you bring an almond latte when you get here? My coffee machine’s broken again.’
Deep breaths. This is GREAT news. I still have a job! So what if she’s assuming I’m free for another last-minute trip and still annoyingly unable to work her own coffee machine. So what if she’s unable to disguise the fact that she only wants me for my camera? And so what if I can barely stand up for myself? On the whole, things are looking up.
Perched on a breakfast stool by Violet’s kitchen island, I’m mainlining coffee from her not-actually-broken machine as I desperately try to wade through the backlog. I’d expected Violet to at least try to do some work while I was dismissed, but no. She’s usually a post-a-day kind of blogger but she managed one whole post in the entire four days I’ve been off, which used an old photo I’d taken ages ago and simply said that, in light of the press intrusion into her love life (absolute LOL) she was taking some time away. Her followers have been inundating her with messages of support ever since. But now that I’m back, her retreat from the spotlight has been surprisingly cut short, and she’s currently barking instructions at me while I fill in our shared calendar.
‘I need something up, and I need it up fast,’ she says.
The sun is beating down through the trees, dappled light dancing over a hamper laden with food. China cups filled with the remnants of Earl Grey (Arnie would love it) are scattered about, strawberries with bites out of them ooze red juice onto the picnic blanket and Violet, a vision in a pale pink wrap dress, tips up the corner of her wide-brimmed hat to let the sun onto her face. I look around, pleased with our handiwork, and for once the word ‘our’ is accurate. Violet actually chipped in with preparing for the shoot! Once we’d agreed on the picnic idea, she skipped off to her local bakery to buy delicious treats and did a mad dash around the nearest organic supermarket for the fruit. Normally this kind of prep work is left to yours truly and I’m wondering whether pointing out that she was mean to me might have made a difference to our relationship? Shots taken, we start to wrap up and I’m about to race through an edit so we can get that blog up asap.
Though I have more pressing jobs to tend to first, apparently.
‘Jasmine, be a love and clean up Prince Albert’s poop?’ Violet says, waving her hand in the direction of a steaming pile of excrement. Prince Albert – not, in fact, a deceased monarch but a super cute Pomeranian – tilts his head to one side and looks at me apologetically.
‘I really should press on,’ I reply, looking pointedly at my camera.
‘You know I’d do it normally.’ Nope. ‘But this dress is on loan and I can’t send it back with Albie’s muck all over it, can I?’ She has no intention of sending the dress back and that’s a fact. ‘Would you mind just this once? I’ll tidy up and see you back at mine.’
What was I saying about our working relationship, again? Before I have time to protest any further, Violet daintily picks up one solitary cup, scoops Prince Albert into her arms and walks off.
I lunge for the nearest poop bin, holding my breath in case this morning’s breakfast makes an unwelcome reappearance, then pack the picnic stuff away. It is so hot today! Dealing with the contents of Albie’s butt must have earned me a couple of minutes off so I collapse on the grass and let the warm sun soak into my skin. Closing my eyes, I listen to the gentle buzz of insects nearby. The grass smells divine, like the scent of summer. I take a huge breath in l
ike I learned that one time I got cajoled into doing a yoga class with Mum and. . .
Wait.
What happened to the scent of summer?
An acrid smell fills my nostrils. It’s. . . familiar. It’s. . .
I bolt upright to discover a second mound of Albie poop behind my back. Or, more specifically, all over my t-shirt.
‘Arggghhhhh!’ I swat wildly at the stain with the tiny fleck of lint I have pulled out of my jeans pocket in a panic. Obviously it’s no use whatsoever and I’m forced to scurry back to Violet’s as fast as I can, the trail of Eau de Dog Shite in my wake.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Violet H swimwear shoot
Hi Hun!
Finally getting in touch about those swimwear shots for Violet’s blog, apols for the delay, the brand kept pushing the embargo date back. Pics attached, we LOVE them here. So fresh. Violet looks increds in the bikinis. We love Violet. We love you too. You saved the day with the lido idea, thank you. I owe you 122 espresso martinis. I’M HAVING ONE NOW! The swimwear client is so pleased that they’d like to use some of the blog shots for their own advertising. I’m going to call Violet’s agent to see if that’s something she’d be happy with. Obvs they’d run a credit for both you and Dave Corrigan with anything they use. Just wanted to let you know! Btw my boss here at the agency was also super pleased and I told her all about you. She said we should think about using you again in a professional capacity. SO. . . We’ve just landed an exciting Scandi knitwear client and are planning a major UK launch campaign. We need some amazing social media pics to coincide and I’m on the hunt for a photographer. Would you be interested in me putting you forward to interview?
Kisses, Becks
I read the email from Becky With The Clipboard three times. It takes a while to process that a) she’s on the espresso martinis before 5pm and b) OH HOLY SMOKES HOW FREAKING A IS THIS EMAIL?! I’ll actually get a credit for the Brockwell Lido photos on the brand’s website? That’s more than I’ll get on my own boss’s blog. Also, some possible new work? Taking pictures of something other than Violet?
‘YASSSSSSS PLEASE,’ I type back, hitting send before I realize that a pleasantry or two might have been nice. But it’s too late and I’m too excited. Who doesn’t love knitwear? (There are way too many jumpers crammed into a stolen borrowed blue Ikea bag at the back of my wardrobe). This could be an incredible opportunity for me. A chance to get my name out there, a chance to flex my skills and maybe, finally, feel proud of myself?