by Hannah Doyle
‘Thanks. And likewise.’ Ben picks up a too-hot croissant and drops it again. Then he sits down and stretches an arm around me. ‘Are we okay?’
I snuggle into his hug. This feels familiar. This feels right.
‘I think we’re better than okay. I think we’re back on track. I love you Ben, as a friend.’
‘Me too kiddo. Now tell me how your dating mission’s going.’
‘Well, technically I am on my seventh and final date right now but I’m going to scratch it from the records and chalk you up as a blip.’
Ben pretends to look offended.
‘I am officially meant to be finding new boys to date, not old mates, so I don’t think this counts. And I might not have found The One yet, but I’ve had more fun this summer than I have in ages. I guess Mila was right, I did need to ditch my old type.’
‘Yeah, you were kind of stuck in your ways but you had your reasons. How are you feeling about that now?’ Ben gives me a loaded look.
‘Do you mean Dad? Or Holly?’
‘Both.’
It’s not even 10am and I still smell like last night’s shots. This kind of conversation would have had me running for the hills just a few short months ago. But not now. I feel. . . a bit more sure of myself? Or maybe a bit less angry about the past? I can’t quite put my finger on it. Because even though I spent last night snogging my best mate in an underage bar, I feel stronger in myself than I have in a long time. And now Ben’s reminded me that I’ve got some other stuff to deal with.
I pull out my phone. It’s finally time to reply to that email.
From: Me
Subject: Re: hello
Holly, hi
I’m sorry it’s taken me a while to reply. I was so surprised to hear from you and it’s taken time to think it all over. I would like to meet up too, do you want to message me some dates? My number is in my sign off.
Take care, Jas
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The day has come for me to repay a whopping favour I’ve been owing for quite some time. After a frantic morning running around after Violet (Influencer of The Year Awards are later this week so we are BI-ZEE) I deposited her with Bruce the spray-tanner for the afternoon. He was very complimentary about my outfit and I did a little spin to show off my new Copenhagen wardrobe. Today I’ve tucked an old white cross-over shirt into some new white shorts and added a pair of trainers. I feel comfortable but also kind of chic as I make my way over to Borough Market and Arnie’s ‘space’. (Apparently the word office is deeply uncool when you work at a tech start-up.)
Half of the huge room is taken up with a coffee bar, and the other half is a giant desk with people interspersed around it, balancing on orange gym balls in lieu of chairs and clicking away on their laptops. I spot Arnie behind the coffee bar.
‘Hi,’ he smiles. ‘Coffee?’
‘Yes please. Does your job include coffee making as well?’ I never did fully understand what he does.
‘We take it in turns. I’m today’s barista. Everybody thinks it’s a good idea to get a break from your screen and practise a new skill. Look, I’ve been working on my coffee art.’
He pours milk into my cup, twirling it around a long spoon, before handing it to me. The exact image of my face has been recreated in frothy milk. I blink up at Arnie.
‘Is that me? It’s really good! I almost don’t want to drink it. I swear it’s nicer than my actual face,’ I take a quick photo on my phone. New profile pic maybe?
A couple of guys join us at the coffee bar. One is inhumanly tall, like two basketball players have been Sellotaped together, and the other is drumming his fingers impatiently.
‘You must be Jasmine,’ says the giant.
‘Yes, hi,’ I reply, wondering how he knows. This is not the kind of office where you get issued a name tag at reception.
‘I’m Jon. This is Paul. We work with Arnie.’
I smile at Jon and Paul. ‘How did you. . .?’
‘We’ve been drinking “Jasmines” all afternoon,’ explains Paul, pointing to his empty coffee cup. ‘Maybe too many. I’m wired.’
‘I’m sorry, what?’
‘Wired. You know, like on a caffeine high?’ Paul looks at me like I’m proper stupid.
‘No, not that. You said something about drinking “Jasmines” all day?’
Paul looks like he’s let the cat out of the bag. I can’t tell what Jon’s face is doing because it is miles above mine, a couple of clouds floating around his shoulders. Meanwhile Arnie’s gone bright red. He bustles me out of the ‘space’ and into a side room before I have time to get any more confused.
I’m thrilled that Arnie has finally cashed in on my I-owe-you because I was starting to fret that our relationship was totally one-sided. You know, he did all the work on maintaining my website while I sat around in my hideous pink leggings, eating his food and painting my nails. I did offer to paint his nails but he said something about not being Johnny Depp circa 2011. I remember being both offended and impressed with the precision of his reference. Anyway, I finally get to do something for him and it’s giving me a warm feeling deep in my belly. The kind of feeling you get when you compliment a stranger in the street, or text your mum before 9am on Mother’s Day, or produce your own biodegradable carrier bag at the checkout.
For a man who looks like a Viking, Arnie is surprisingly photogenic and, better still, he’s excellent at taking direction. I’ve been charged with taking some new headshots for all of the team at his company – I’m sorry, ‘group of collaboratives’ – and Arnie is next to a standing desk looking creative.
‘Pulled out all the stops with your outfit today,’ I say, eyeing up his white t-shirt and white shorts.
‘We’re basically dressed the same.’
I peer up at him over my camera. Huh. He’s absolutely right. All this time I’ve been taking the mickey out of Arnie’s fashion sense because it was my fashion sense, if I had the balls to wear it. And now, apparently, I do.
‘Why you insist on dressing like a girl I’ll never know,’ I tease.
‘Whatever. I think you look good, by the way. It’s nice to see you mixing it up. Those shorts look. . . good.’ He’s gone bright red again.
Hmm. I opt for my new default position, aka Professional Jasmine, and focus on the job in hand before packing Arnie off and asking him to send his colleagues in.
The perfume bomb hits me first. Then the click, pop, swish of makeup pots being opened and brushes deftly applying products. The excited hum of chatter as Violet and Emmy discuss the evening ahead. They’re perched high on make-up stools, dressed in towelling robes with hair in clips, wads of tissue between each one to stop their locks from creasing. I’m back from a seven-minute break, which consisted of me collapsing onto Violet’s spare bed like a starfish. I lay there for a few blissful seconds before I remembered that I have my own stuff to do, so I scoured through the rest of my work emails.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Shoot idea
Dear Jasmine
My name is Frazer Byrne and I’m a talent manager based in Dublin. I wanted to get in touch because I heard you’d been shadowing Dave Corrigan and was impressed with your website. I’m currently looking for a photographer who could come capture some raw, behind-the-scenes style pictures of one of my clients for a new project we are working on. I don’t want to reveal too much over this initial email but could you give me a call if you’re interested? We’d need you for four nights here in Dublin at the start of next month, and would cover your travel and hotel expenses as well as offer a day rate.
I hope to hear from you soon.
All the best,
Frazer
Byrne + O’Neill
I was super intrigued by Frazer’s email and a feeling that’s starting to become more familiar washed over me. . . I think it’s pride. But when I took a quick look through my calendar, Violet had already pencilled in something called EXTREME BOOTCAMP for the start of nex
t month. And as she’d put it in our shared calendar, muggins here must be going too. It sounds awful. I sighed at the missed opportunity with Frazer, made a mental note to reply to him properly later and got back to it.
Today started at a time that shouldn’t legally be called the morning. I don’t even think Anna Wintour was up and playing tennis when my alarm went off. It won’t finish until Violet says so, which I imagine will be the same time tomorrow ‘morning’ as she rampages her way through the after parties on the hunt for her perfect guy. At least she made some energy balls yesterday (see recipe on today’s blog) and we’ve all been mainlining those. They’re actually quite nice, even though they look like something Prince Albert the pooch might produce.
I capture the all-important getting ready scenes for the big night, not really having to think as I work. I’ve taken these pictures, in various guises, so many times over my years of working with Violet that it’s second nature to me. I know what works, I know what angles Violet likes best, I already know which image will be going on Instagram before I’ve even taken it. I work my ass off for Violet, I’m here and committed every damn day, but the truth is, it’s no longer a challenge. It’s taken the past few months to make me realise that I am coasting with Violet. But having the chance to work on other shoots, to get my brain going in ways it hasn’t for so long, and to feel energised about photography, has made me determined to keep pushing myself. I should be moving forward. The easy way isn’t always the best way, right?
Emmy has slipped into a stunning, sea green dress. It shimmers as she moves and hits just above the floor. Her hair is pillar box red today and falls in s-shaped waves past her shoulders, hitting her collar bone which has been lightly dusted with gently shimmering powder. She looks incredible.
Meanwhile Violet’s sliding into her own dress, which might best be described as bridal. It’s HUGE. Remember when Rihanna wore a massive yellow gown with the world’s biggest train and someone photoshopped pizza toppings onto it? Violet’s dress is around the same size. She looks good in a hugely unsubtle way. It’s pink and frothy, but given a touch of the badass thanks to an oversized black bow around her teeny waist. Her cropped hair and vampish make-up bring the sass, too. This whole look screams don’t mess with me. If Violet had planned to debut her romance with Chip tonight, she now plans to kill him dead with her beauty. I’ve got to hand it to her, she never misses an opportunity.
I’m in the back of a car sandwiched between a bride from a horror movie and a mermaid. There is little space for me to breathe, let alone prep my camera, and we’re in a massive limo laid on by the sponsors. If I’d needed to hail a black cab for us I’d have ended up strapped to the roof. Both Violet and Emmy are lying out almost flat, like cardboard cut-outs of themselves, to avoid the dreaded dress-creasing before their red carpet moment. I’m scrunched up in the middle, wearing some new cropped trousers and a vest, which I figured would be comfy for all of the running around but also vaguely stylish.
‘I’ve just had the most awful thought,’ says Violet.
Emmy tips her head forward to look at her best friend, which must take some impressive core strength in her position.
Violet fans her face with her hands. ‘What if I don’t win?’
Hmm. It’s not really ‘the most awful thought’ but then Violet is never not thinking about herself.
‘Babes, as if,’ Emmy soothes. ‘You are going to nail this. Did you hear about the goody bags? Apparently the winners get a trip on some amazing new cruise-liner.’
‘A cruise-liner?’ I interject. ‘Isn’t that a bit. . . retro?’
Emmy and Violet shoot me sympathetic looks.
‘Oh hun, cruising is the new glamping. Haven’t you heard? Everyone will be doing it soon,’ says Emmy.
‘I think my auntie went on a cruise. Jane MacDonald was there,’ I say.
Emmy and Violet claps their hands to their chests.
‘OHMYGOD JANE!’ They both coo. ‘She is impeccable.’
Just as I’m about to get into the world’s strangest conversation about cruise ships and Jane MacDonald in the back of a limo with a demon bride and a beautiful sea creature, our driver announces that we’re nearly there. The girls whip out their compacts, checking their make-up.
‘You both look stunning,’ I say honestly. And as we step out of the car and the lights start to flash, even I feel excited about the night ahead.
Their legs swing gracefully to the side. They exit the car like they spent a year at finishing school. (Violet actually did do this.) They stand up, dresses smooth and smiles lighting up their faces. Violet and Emmy step onto the red carpet with no trace of the nerves I could feel in the car. Meanwhile I scramble out, hella creased. Violet not only wants pictures of her red carpet moment, but also footage and photos for social, so I’m juggling my camera in one hand and her phone in the other. It’s a balmy London night, the late summer heat almost oppressive.
I rush round to face the girls and snap some shots of them together before the branded limo drives off. Got to get the sponsors in shot so that Violet can earn even more money from the pictures I take, obvs. The girls are greeted by a PR who ticks them off her guestlist then chats into her headpiece, announcing their arrival to her colleagues at the other end of this vast walkway. There are fans standing by the railings which separate the red carpet from the street, holding their phones high and calling for a selfie with their favourite influencers. As soon as they see Violet the din gets twice as loud. She stands in front of the photography pen, inching her body incrementally from left to right to make sure each snapper gets a good shot of her. I post a quick picture and tag in all of Violet’s ‘glam squad’ for the night.
#InfluencerOfTheYearAwards
#WishMeLuck
#LoveMyFans
#Blessed
Violet moves over to take some pictures with her fans and the paps start shouting at me for being in their shot. I do an awkward ducking down move as I back out of their way, accidentally knocking into someone as I go.
‘Oops, sorry!’ I say, turning to face. . .
OH HOLY BALLS it’s Chip. And he has a blonde bombshell on his arm.
‘Jasmine, how nice to see you again,’ he says with a foppish smile.
‘Chip, what are you doing here?’ I hiss, head snapping back to Violet to see if she’s spotted her ex yet. She’s busy signing autographs but she’s going to lose her shit when she realises what is happening. Ever since Chip’s roaming penis put an end to her plans for tonight to be their first formal event together, Violet’s been planning to steal the limelight with her post-breakup makeover, so Chip’s arrival with a new lady on his arm couldn’t be worse timing. What an absolute knob he is.
One of the event organisers shepherds Chip and his plus one in front of the photographers before he has a chance to answer me and though Violet’s back is still turned, Emmy has cottoned on. She’s frozen on the spot and I lunge towards her.
‘We have to get Violet off this carpet before she spots him,’ I say.
‘But how? Look at her, she’s loving it. She’s been looking forward to this moment for weeks.’ Emmy’s eyes widen in panic.
‘You need to persuade her to go inside. If she sees Chip she’s going to do something wildly embarrassing with half of London’s paps watching!’
Emmy bites her lip. ‘How am I going to do that?’
‘Tell her that Ryan Reynolds is here and has asked to meet her personally.’
‘Won’t she question what a Hollywood A-Lister is doing at a British bloggers party?’
I give Emmy a look. We both know that in Violet’s head, it would be totally plausible for a Hollywood hunk to a) have heard of her and b) be desperate to meet her.
‘Yeah, okay. I’ll give it a go. But I feel awful lying to my best friend.’
‘Emmy, you are sweet but right now you need to woman the fuck up.’ I edge her and her mermaid’s dress closer to Violet. ‘A little white lie now is going to save a whole heap of
shit later, okay?’
Emmy takes a deep breath and goes to whisper in Violet’s ear. I watch as my boss’s cheeks turn a pretty pink as she learns that Ryan Reynolds wants to hang out. I feel bad, but not as bad as she’ll feel if she ends up becoming the first influencer to brutally murder her ex-boyfriend at a red carpet event. I can see the headlines now.
Toff Turns Toxic: Irate influencer terminates TV star over lover’s tiff.
Gulp.
Actually, I think it’s going to be okay. Violet is handing a phone back to one of her fans and turning towards the entrance of tonight’s ceremony, which is being held at a v swanky building in Marylebone. Chip and Bombshell are now a little behind her, still posing for photos. I will Emmy to keep Violet moving forward. Chip’s laughing with his beautiful plus one as they pose. He takes a step back and accidentally lands on his date’s floor-length dress, causing her to wobble on her super high heels. He steadies her by grabbing her waist and plants a kiss on her lips while she’s in his arms. The crowd of onlookers are loving it and their cheers get louder. The paps can’t get enough of this PDA either and their cameras click, flash, click, flash. Violet and Emmy are so, so close to entering the venue.
But Violet’s heard the commotion.
She turns her head slowly to see what all the fuss is about.
A panicked Emmy shouts, ‘THE PROPOSAL’ and a string of other Reynolds films in her best bid to drag Violet the last few steps inside, but it’s fruitless. Violet has already turned back towards the red carpet.
I watch her face as she sees Chip kissing the beautiful woman in his arms.
Her smile drops.
One photographer has already picked up on Violet’s reaction.
She’s lifting up her train. She’s marching back towards Chip. Oh please no, she’s going to kill us all, isn’t she? My life starts flashing before my eyes and I realise that most of the highlights are from this summer. Real Talk with Ralph. Charlie the Courageous. Hot DAMN, Harry!
I try to draw my head into my body like a frightened tortoise. Chip should really be doing the same but the poor fool has wildly underestimated his ex-girlfriend. He’s smiling at her, hands wide in greeting. I want to shout ‘RUN CHIP RUN’ but I don’t because I also think he deserves whatever it is Violet now has in store for him.