by Cate Woods
So much for remaining calm and dignified. At the sound of my anger, Dot starts to cry. I scoop her up, clutching her to me while I sob, wracked with guilt that I’m putting her through this trauma, but at the same time unable to stop myself from falling into a gulf of self-pity. How could Luke do this to me? I was just starting to work out my place in the world after being thrown off course by the loss of my parents – and, okay, so the photography thing hadn’t worked out as I’d hoped, but being a good mother and loving partner, and creating a happy home, is just as valuable and fulfilling a role, right? Except now Luke has screwed that up for me as well, leaving me with no idea who I am or what I’m doing.
Wiping away a tear, I turn to glance at him: the look on his face suggests he’s struggling to decide whether to hug me or get the hell out.
‘Please, Annie, I’m not the enemy,’ he says quietly. ‘I love you, patatina, and I’m going to do whatever it takes to make us a family again.’
I turn away from him, swallowing down the bitter retort that’s hovering on the tip of my tongue. Well, at least coming here today has helped me make one decision: whatever else happens, I am definitely going to that job interview tomorrow.
12
‘Well, what do you think?’ I strike a pose in the kitchen doorway. ‘Would you hire me?’
Jess looks up from her toast and appraises my carefully selected job-interview outfit: a pair of black boot-cut trousers – maternity, though you really can’t tell – a white shirt and an ancient black cardigan. It’s a bit bobbly up close, but unless I’m going to be sitting on this bloke’s lap for the interview, it’ll be fine. (And if I do have to sit on his lap, then I won’t be taking the job, thank you very much.)
Jess pulls a face. ‘Wow, I didn’t realise the interview was for the job of a silver-service waitress in 1993, but dressed like that, you’ll ace it, babe.’
I look down at my outfit. ‘It’s not that bad, is it?’
‘Yes.’ She says it matter-of-factly. ‘It makes you look like you’ve given up. Surely you must have something a little more inspiring in your wardrobe?’
‘No – well, not anything suitable for a job interview.’ I brought back more clothes from the flat yesterday after seeing Luke, but it’s been so long since I needed to wear anything remotely formal that my options were limited.
Jess takes another bite of toast. ‘I miss the kaftans, Annie. Why not get those out again? Surely photographers are allowed to look a bit creative – even the ones who work for estate agents?’
I shake my head firmly. ‘That was another lifetime.’
‘But they suited you. They were who you were.’
‘Not anymore,’ I insist, pushing down the memories that bubble up inside; it pains me to remember how much more interesting Barb was. ‘Anyway, have you seen what Fi and her colleagues wear? It’s all sexy little suits and high heels, like a sluttier, modern-day Mad Men.’
‘Well, you can’t wear that. Seriously, I refuse to let you leave the house in it, someone might see you and think you’re something to do with me.’ Jessica hops off her stool and fastens her silky robe around her. ‘Come on, kiddo, let’s have a look in my room. I’m sure I’ve got something that won’t make you look like someone’s frumpy mum who never has sex.’
‘But I am someone’s frumpy mum who never has sex,’ I mutter, following her upstairs.
Jess ‘works from home’ on Wednesdays (i.e. spends the day online shopping and swiping right) so is not only available for styling advice, but also, thankfully, Dot-sitting duties while I’m at the interview. I sit on her bed while she rifles through her extensive wardrobe, occasionally turning to scrutinise me, and she eventually pulls out a tomato-red trouser suit, holding it up with a triumphant ‘tah-dah!’
I pull a face; it’s a lovely colour, but way too look-at-me.
Jess glares back at me. ‘Just try it on. It’ll look fab on you.’ She reaches inside the wardrobe again and holds out a spotty blouse. ‘Here, put this underneath.’
And so I do as she says, partly because when Jess has made up her mind, resistance is futile, but mainly because she always looks great and I, quite frankly, don’t.
As I get changed, Jess eyes my maternity bra nervously.
‘Try not to leak on that blouse, love, it’s dry-clean only . . . Blimey, Annie, your tits are ginormous!’
‘Yeah, well, Dot’s overdue a feed so they’re even bigger than usual.’
‘Can I have a feel?’ Before I can object, she jumps up and grabs my boobs. Honestly, the woman has zero respect for personal space; just because she enjoys being groped doesn’t mean the rest of us do. ‘Oh my God, that is crazy!’ Her eyes go wide and she breaks into astonished giggles. ‘They’re all hard and lumpy, like they’re filled with gravel!’
I pull away from her, buttoning up the blouse. ‘Wow, thanks, you really know how to make a girl feel pretty,’ I mutter. ‘That’s what happens when you’re breastfeeding . . . Right – what do you think? Of the outfit?’
‘Perfect.’ She grins with an approving nod. ‘Smart, but sassy. The job’s yours, hon.’
An hour later I’m sitting on a lime-green banquette in the reception area of Curtis Kinderbey Sales and Lettings anxiously awaiting the agency’s manager, Karl. Fi has already popped over to say hello and made a joke about my suit clashing with the upholstery, which I’m sure was intended to help me relax, but has actually made me even more jittery. I knew I should have stuck with the waitress outfit; it may have been bland, but at least it was a more accurate reflection of my personality . . .
‘Hey, you must be Annie. I’m Karl – great to meet you.’
I look up and come face to crotch with the tightest pair of pinstripe trousers I have ever seen. In fact, they aren’t so much suit trousers as ankle-length Speedos. I know it’s the trend these days, but honestly, you can see everything: penis, ball one, ball two – the whole shebang, all perfectly level with my eyes. I am desperate to unsee this, but at the same time I can’t stop looking: it’s hypnotic, like watching a really terrible act on Britain’s Got Talent. Only with immense effort do I manage to drag my eyes away and up into the grinning face of a man who looks like he may well be fully aware, possibly even proud, of his car-crash crotch.
‘Hello!’ I jump up, flustered, and stick out my hand. ‘Thank you so much for seeing me, Karl, it’s a pleasure to meet you.’ And your entire reproductive system.
‘Let’s go to my office so we can chat,’ he says, turning around and treating me to the back view.
Like the rest of Curtis Kinderbey’s premises, Karl’s office is modern and minimalist. There is nothing on his desk apart from a bottled protein shake, and the only decorations are a large, numberless wall clock and a shelf of hideous glass and metal sculptures that on closer inspection appear to be awards.
‘Ah, I see you’ve clocked the trophy cabinet,’ grins Karl, gesturing for me to sit down. He points at each of the awards in turn. ‘Best Lettings Negotiator 2009, Best Prestige Property Agency 2014 and 2015, Best Branch Manager 2016 – that last one was for yours truly.’ Karl rocks back in his leather chair, chuckling to himself. ‘Darren Wilson from Coxtons in Putney was convinced he had it in the bag – you should have seen his face when my name was read out!’
‘Wow, that’s really impressive,’ I say, hoping flattery will make up for the earlier crotch embarrassment.
Karl takes a swig of his shake. ‘But seriously, Annie, the reason Curtis Kinderbey Sales and Lettings is the award-winning market leader is because we’re innovators, y’know? We’re always thinking up ways to improve our client experience, because without our clients, what would we be?’
I assume this is a rhetorical question and politely wait for him to continue, but it quickly becomes clear that Karl is expecting an answer.
‘Oh! Ah, gosh, without your clients you’d be . . . well, I’m not entirely sure.’ I laugh nervously. ‘You’d be . . . out of business?’
‘We’d be nothing,
Annie.’ He sits up and bangs his hand on the table. ‘And that’s the reason that you’re here today.’
‘Right. Great!’
Karl smiles, running a hand over his hair. He has the sort of hairstyle that looks like it’s been moulded into place rather than brushed; it looks like glossy, brown Play-Doh.
‘So, I’m not sure how much our little Fiona has told you’ – he pronounces her name ‘Faaay-ohh-narrr’ in a broad, mock-Northern Irish accent – ‘but I’m looking for a shit-hot professional photographer to help promote Curtis Kinderbey’s selection of superior prestige properties.’
‘It certainly sounds like a very interesting position.’
‘Sure is, and an incredible opportunity for the right person. Have you brought your portfolio?’
‘Ah. I’m afraid not, no.’
‘No problemo, just give me the names of some property websites where I can see your work.’
God, this is awkward. ‘I’m sorry, Karl, but I’ve never photographed houses before. Or flats. Or any sort of property, really.’ I give an apologetic smile. ‘I thought Fiona had told you that?’
Karl frowns. ‘She told me you were an excellent photographer with years of experience.’
‘Well yes, I have had quite a bit of experience . . .’
‘Experience photographing what?’
‘Models, mainly. I used to assist quite a well-known fashion photographer.’
‘Give me some names.’
‘I’m sorry . . . ?’
‘Names. Of the models you photographed. Anyone I’d have heard of?’ Karl leans forwards, hope etched across his features. ‘That Kylie from the Kardashians?’
‘Ah, no, it was a few years ago now, so Kylie was probably, um, still at school.’
‘Cheryl Cole?’
‘Sadly not, no, it was really more fashion models I worked with, rather than celebrities, like . . . Natalia Vodianova, for instance.’
Karl slumps back in his chair. ‘Never heard of her,’ he mutters, glancing over at the clock. I get the distinct impression that this job is rapidly slipping away from me, which means, of course, that I suddenly really, really want it.
Come on, Annie, think . . .
‘Kate Moss!’ I virtually yell. ‘I did a Vogue shoot with her once.’ (Probably better not to mention that I was there to make coffee and didn’t even touch a camera.)
Karl’s eyes light up. ‘You worked for Vogue?’
I nod. ‘Yup. And GQ, Harper’s, Esquire . . .’
‘Fantastic! Darren Wilson is going to freak when he hears about this. I bet you Coxtons don’t have an Esquire photographer taking the marketing shots for their shitty properties . . .’ He shakes his head, chuckling to himself, then glances up at me. ‘You’ve got your own camera, right?’
‘Yes, of course, a Canon digital SLR, and I’ve got a 10–20mm wide-angle lens that will be perfect for photographing property, as you can fit more of the room in the frame, which means—’
‘Terrific, you’ve got the job.’ He sticks his hand over the desk. ‘Welcome to the team.’
As Karl walks me out through the office, I glance over at Fiona’s desk and give her a surreptitious thumbs up; she grins and does a mini air-punch. I can’t quite believe I’ve got a job, and so quickly, too! I was all primed to dazzle Karl with my technical property photography expertise – gleaned from a frenzied Googling session last night – but in the end it was Kate Moss who sealed the deal. (Thank you, Kate, I forgive you for bitching about the coffee at that Vogue shoot. Consider us quits.)
Out in reception Karl is telling me about his fitness regime and I’m trying my best to appear fascinated by the details of his Lacto-Paleo diet, when the door swings open and Benedict Cumberbatch walks in. Not the Benedict Cumberbatch, you understand, but the lookalike who I clocked in the office the other day. He greets Karl and then looks at me, his eyes lingering on mine a little longer than is entirely comfortable. I didn’t quite appreciate how tall he is; he towers over Karl, and stands with a slight stoop as a result.
‘Rudy, I’d like you to meet Annie Taylor,’ says Karl. ‘She’s going to be our new property photographer. She used to work for Maxim, you know.’
Then Karl turns to me, his hand clamped chummily around Rudy’s back.
‘This is Rudy Sheen, he’s a Curtis Kinderbey newbie too. He started as a negotiator just before Christmas but from his performance so far I’m expecting big things of him! Isn’t that right, mate?’
Rudy’s mouth forms a crooked line, which I think is meant to be a smile. Up close he looks even younger than I first thought, but there’s something about him that gives an impression of maturity too: perhaps next to Karl’s puppyish enthusiasm, his stillness and deliberate stare make him seem older than his years. In fact, with his skinny frame, messy dark hair and intense, wide-apart eyes, he looks more like a poet than an estate agent.
‘You were here the other day, right?’ he asks, his voice soft.
‘Yes, I came to meet Fiona. She’s a friend of mine.’
He nods, thinking this over. ‘Well, I look forward to working with you, Annie.’
Again, the eye contact goes on for a few seconds more than you’d welcome in the circumstances, then he turns and walks into the office.
‘Odd bloke,’ murmurs Karl, watching him go. ‘But honest to God, he could flog sand to the Saudis.’
I meet up with Jess and a sleeping Dot in a nearby café, where we have celebratory almond croissants. Jess keeps telling me how proud she is of me and how this is the start of an exciting new chapter in my life, and I’m trying to stay positive and enjoy the moment, but I can already feel worries creeping in to take the edge off my triumph. Is this really the best thing for Dot? How will I cope with a baby and a job? Am I up to this? And what the hell am I going to wear?
A little while later Jess and I are walking back to the bus stop when she nods at Dot’s buggy and says thoughtfully: ‘They’re not like dogs, are they?’
‘What aren’t?’
‘Babies. I pushed that pram around the common for an hour and not a single bloke gave me so much as a second look, whereas when I took my mum’s pug to the park, I got chatted up by a golden retriever, a Border terrier and a working cocker, all in the time it took Madge to do her business.’ Jess stares dreamily away into the distance. ‘Man, that working cocker really knew how to work his cocker . . .’
I give her a playful shove. ‘No, they’re not known for being great for pulling, babies. Quite the opposite, in fact.’
Jess nods. ‘Unless, of course, you’re a single bloke pushing a baby, which I understand is catnip for a certain type of female.’
‘Mm-hmm,’ I murmur vaguely. My mind is suddenly focused on the fact that if I do split up with Luke, then I’ll be back in the third circle of hell that is the world of dating. It was bad enough the first time round, but with a child in tow and speeding towards my forties? That’s going to be mission virtually impossible. Well, at least it’s not something I’ll have to think about for a long time yet – if at all, if Luke and I manage to sort out this mess . . .
‘Annie, are you listening to me?’
I snap back to attention to find Jess looking at me.
‘Sorry, love, what did you say?’
‘I was just telling you about my brilliant idea to help you deal with all the crap going on in your life at the moment.’
‘Great! What was it? Prozac? Carbohydrates? A holiday in Hawaii?’
‘A one-night stand.’
I burst out laughing; proper loud guffaws. ‘Yeah, because that’s exactly what I need right now. To have a stranger judge my sad vagina and stretchmarks. That will be super helpful.’
‘Just hear me out, will you?’
I shrug; there’s no point trying to stop Jess when she’s had one of her ‘brilliant’ ideas.
‘Okay, so you’re feeling pretty shitty about yourself right now, aren’t you?’
‘True.’
‘And under
standably so, after what that fucker did to you.’ Jess puts an arm around my waist and gives me a squeeze. ‘But if you came out with me for a night, you’d have men falling all over you, I guarantee it. We’ll get dressed up, go to a bar, have a dance, get bought drinks and then . . . see where the evening takes us!’
‘Home?’ I deadpan.
Jess ignores me. ‘You need to let yourself go for a night, forget about your responsibilities and remember what it’s like to have fun. It’ll be the best thing for you, Annie, I promise. Being seduced by a hot bloke will definitely help you get your groove back.’ She glances at my cleavage. ‘Besides, it’s such a waste that nobody’s getting to enjoy those magnificent tits. Apart from Dottie, of course.’
‘Jess, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’m afraid I can’t think of anything I’d like to do less.’
‘But why?’
‘Well, apart from the fact that I’m currently in a relationship’ – Jess rolls her eyes at this – ‘sex is absolutely the last thing on my mind right now.’
‘But how can that even be possible? Sex is an essential bodily function, like breathing, or having a poo. It’s a necessity.’
I sigh. ‘I know it’s hard to understand, but it’s like I’m too deep into motherhood to need it right now.’
Jess stares at me with an expression of total miscomprehension. This is going to be challenging.
‘Okay,’ I begin, ‘you know on nature documentaries—’
‘Like David Attenborough programmes?’
‘Yes, that sort of thing.’
‘I love David Attenborough,’ muses Jess. ‘He’s such a fox. That voice . . .’
‘Jessica!’
She grins apologetically.
‘As I was saying, you know on nature documentaries when there’s a lioness with cubs and a randy lion comes up and tries to get his end away, but the female is all like, “Leave it out, son, can’t you see I’m busy with the kids?”, and then swipes at him with her big furry paw? That’s basically me right now.’
Jess is shaking her head. ‘Nah, I guarantee if the right lion came along that lioness would be all like, “Mmm, how do you want me, babe?” You just need to meet a really hot lion.’