More Than a Feeling

by Cate Woods

  I zone out again and look around the room at the other attendees, whose expressions run the full gamut of bored, boreder and boredest. Rudy, who is standing opposite me on the other side of the room, has his arms folded and eyes closed; when I glance back at him a few minutes later, he hasn’t moved. Could he actually be asleep? My eyes wander around aimlessly in search of something to occupy the remaining 14:28 minutes, until they land on Karl’s ‘Brown-nose Board’ (not its official name), which is where our leader sticks up selfies of himself with his heroes, mostly motivational speakers and bodybuilders, with the idea being to remind us that ‘anything is possible’. The rest of us are encouraged to bring in photos too, although the only non-Karl pictures currently on the board are a blurry snap of deputy receptionist Irene with her arms thrown around a startled Richard Madeley, and Kev the IT bloke doing a thumbs up next to Grumpy Cat.

  I put my hand into my pocket and wrap my fingers around my phone, itching to pull it out, but in addition to lower-back pain, another consequence of Karl’s standing policy is that it’s impossible to sneak a look at your phone during the meeting. I posted a new picture to Instagram this morning – it’s a shot of this exquisite antique rocking horse I found in the bedroom of an apartment in a church conversion yesterday – and I’m desperate to check how it’s doing. Yes, just one week on Instagram and I’m already a diehard ‘like’ junkie.

  I’d thought about what Riva had said on the bus back to Streatham after our lunch. She did have a point: why wasn’t I on Instagram? Barb definitely would have been, but then she had plenty of material. I suppose I could fill my feed with pictures of Dot – she is, after all, the most beautiful, brilliant and fascinating child in the world, and I love taking photos of her – but I’m not sure how I feel about sharing my daughter with strangers. Out of interest, I look up Riva’s profile; it is filled with pictures of her celebrity mates, white-sand beaches, copious #OOTDs (including the motorbike leathers she wore to meet me) and the occasional motivational quote. Her Insta posing was impressively on point: there was the knee pop, the casual glance over the shoulder, the adjusting the hair while standing pigeon-toed and looking at the ground laughing (experts only for that one) and the long-distance stare with hands in pockets. None of her son, Jethro, but I suppose that’s fair enough. Distilled into those seductive little squares, Riva’s life looked even more enviable than the glittering reality, and a quick browse through the profiles of some of her followers yielded yet more of the same: chic restaurants, vegan smoothies and thigh gaps. And how many palm-fringed infinity pools are there in the world? Or does everyone just take photos in the same one? This is not my world, I thought to myself with a shudder, and went back to nice, safe Facebook with its 80s movie quizzes, photos of World Book Day costumes and kitten gifs.

  Then a couple of days later, I went to photograph a townhouse in Stockwell, and while measuring for the floor plan, I came across a gorgeous Le Corbusier chaise in the master bedroom. I get this tingling feeling in my stomach whenever I see the makings of a great photo, but I knew that this needed an extra something, so I had a rummage in the wardrobe and found a classic Burberry trench, which I draped artfully over the chaise. I spent a little while tweaking the coat and adjusting the curtains to get the lighting just right, and the resulting shot was seriously impressive. I gazed at it for a while, enjoying the way the coat’s checked lining contrasted with the cow-skin upholstery and the flash of sunlight on the chrome frame. I knew it deserved a wider audience.

  At first I thought: well, there’s absolutely no way I can put this on Instagram. What if somebody recognised their stuff? I’d be in deep shit. Nah, not worth the risk, no matter how good the photo. But on the way to my next job, I looked at it again, and then scrolled back through all the other covert photos I’d taken over the past few weeks, and I could just see how great they’d look displayed together on Instagram. A collection of beautiful things photographed in a beautiful way; it would certainly make a nice change from all the bums-in-bikini-bottoms shots.

  After putting Dot to bed that night, I Googled how many people there are on Instagram and it turns out it’s something like 800 million! The chances of somebody finding my photo of their particular Le Corbusier chaise or Chanel bag would be infinitesimal, surely? And if they did somehow stumble onto my profile, they wouldn’t necessarily recognise the things as their own, would they? Plus, it’s not like I’d be silly enough to put a photo of myself up there.

  It took me a while to come up with an Instagram handle. I couldn’t use my own name, obviously, but I liked the idea of creating a whole new identity for myself. My photos look like they belong to someone who lives in Chelsea, flies private jet and has a passion for fine art, so I decided to call myself ‘ArbiterofCool’. I know – ridiculous, right? There I was, in my attic bedsit in Streatham, breast-milk stains on my old Primark t-shirt and my hair tied up with a pair of knickers, making out I was Victoria Beckham’s richer and more glamorous BFF.

  Nevertheless, thanks to Riva following me – and getting her friends to do the same – ‘ArbiterofCool’ already has over 300 followers. One commenter, ‘Lifestyle_Curator’, actually wrote: ‘wish I had your life!!!’ followed by a wink, applause, and three heart-eye emojis. I very nearly replied, ‘I’m sitting here eating beans out of a can LOL!!!’ but instead just graciously liked their comment; no point bursting their bubble, after all. Anyway, I’m finding it a real buzz to have an audience for my photography again, and with each new ‘like’ or thumbs-up emoji, I feel a tiny shred of my self-confidence returning. I’m just so glad that Riva talked me into it.

  When the team meeting is over – there’s a mass exodus the second the timer ticks to 00:00 – I join Fi at her desk, blissfully sinking into the hard office chair like it’s made out of clouds and kittens. It’s still only mid-morning, but it already feels like we’ve done a full day’s hard graft. While Fi checks her email, I get out my phone to check Instagram: sixty-two likes for the rocking horse photo already! I knew it was a good’un . . .

  ‘Hello? Annie?’

  I look up from the screen to find Fi glaring as if she’s just said something vitally important and I missed it because I was fiddling with my phone. Which I obviously had.

  ‘Sorry, what was that?’

  ‘I was telling you that Finn’s booked us a weekend in Amsterdam in April, and that I think he’s going to propose.’

  ‘Really? Wow, that’s amazing!’ I’m careful to sound as thrilled as possible, but alarm bells have started to ring.

  ‘Yup. It’s going to happen this time, I’m absolutely positive.’ She holds out a packet. ‘Munchie?’

  ‘Thanks.’ I take two and chew very slowly, trying to decide whether I should tell Fi what’s on my mind, and by the time I’ve swallowed I’ve decided that yes, as her friend, I really should.

  ‘Um, Fi, why do you think Finn is going to propose?’

  She looks at me like it’s obvious. ‘Why else would he be booking a mini-break in April?’

  ‘Maybe . . . to have a little holiday?’

  She shakes her head, irritated. ‘No, I’m telling you, he’s going to ask me to marry him. The timing is spot on. It’s nearly fifteen and a half years since our first kiss.’

  ‘I just don’t want you to get your hopes up . . .’

  ‘Annie.’ Fi gives me a stern look. ‘He’s going to do it this time. I know he is.’

  As you can probably tell, this is not the first time Fi has been convinced Finn is about to propose. I hate to be pessimistic, but in the ten years that we’ve been friends, I’ve lost count of the number of restaurant dates, holidays, Christmases, birthdays and Valentine’s Days that were absolutely definitely going to end with him getting down on one knee. Fiona is the ballsiest person I know – she once hitch-hiked across the Australian outback on her own – yet her attitude to marriage is straight out of a Jane Austen novel.

  The last time this issue came up was on their skiing holiday shortly before Christ
mas. Every day while they were away, Fi would text me:

  Dinner at a mountaintop restaurant tonight – here we go!!!

  Bobsledding this morning – think this is the day! Wish me luck!!!

  Do u think he might propose on a chair lift?!! Hope I don’t drop the feckin’ ring!

  When she returned home ring-free, there was the standard forty-eight hours of ranting about how she was much too good for that feckin’ loser, and how he’d only have himself to blame if she dumped his sorry arse, then it blew over and they went back to being the happiest, most rock solid couple I know – until the next time a potential opportunity for a proposal arose, then we’re back to planning her engagement party and debating the merits of diamonds versus sapphires. I once told Fi she should take matters into her own hands and propose to him, but you’d think I’d just suggested she join the priesthood.

  At that moment Rudy slopes past Fi’s desk, engrossed in some property particulars.

  ‘Hey,’ he says with a slight nod in my direction as he goes by.

  ‘Hang on a sec, were you asleep during the team meeting just now?’

  He pauses, looks back and nods.

  ‘Impressive,’ I say.

  ‘I don’t sleep much at night.’ He turns to leave, then stops and looks back again. ‘Will you still be in the office at lunchtime?’

  ‘Yup, I’ve got to wait around to collect some keys.’

  ‘Do you want to grab a sandwich?’

  ‘Together?’

  He shrugs, as if not remotely bothered either way. ‘If you like.’

  ‘Sure,’ I say, a little surprised, ‘that would be great.’

  ‘Okay. Well – whatever.’ Then he gives another shrug and heads off.

  Fi watches him stride back to his desk and turns to me, suspicion in her eyes.

  ‘What’s going on with you and yer man over there?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I don’t think I’ve ever chatted to Fi about Rudy; we’ve always got so much else to talk about.

  Fi darts a look over to his desk and back to me again. ‘Well, he’s barely ever said a word to me – or anyone else in the office – and now he’s asking you on a date?’

  I give a bark of laughter. ‘I don’t think you can call getting a sandwich a date.’

  ‘I’d watch him if I were you. Not sleeping at night – I ask you! He creeps me right out.’

  ‘Come on, Fi, you just need to get to know him. He’s a really nice guy.’

  ‘Weird, more like,’ she mutters. ‘Well, I hope the two of you and your little vampire babies will be very happy together. Now, I need your help deciding what I’m going to wear when Finn pops the question . . .’

  While we’re clicking through ‘Occasion Dresses’ on ASOS, I glance over to where Rudy is sitting, typing feverishly at his keyboard, one leg frantically tapping away as if possessed. What a daft thing to suggest, that he was asking me on a date! Aside from the fact that we don’t fancy each other, I’m old enough to be his mother – well, near enough.

  ‘Annie?’ I look round to see Karl’s head sticking out of his office door; he spots me and beckons. ‘Need you in here, Annie, pronto.’

  ‘Be right there,’ I reply as he disappears back inside.

  ‘What’s that about?’ asks Fi.

  ‘Dunno.’ I shrug. ‘I’ll be back in a sec. Check if they’ve got that red skater dress in your size . . .’

  In his office Karl is sitting behind his desk, an unsettling look on his face, his fingers steepled in front of him like he’s a Bond villain. Put it this way: a fluffy white cat wouldn’t look out of place in this scenario.

  ‘Close the door behind you, Annie.’

  I do as he says. ‘What’s up?’

  Karl gestures impatiently to the seat on the opposite side of his desk. ‘I’ve just taken a call from Brad Michaelson.’

  Sitting down, I try to place the name. Brad Michaelson . . . Nah, doesn’t ring any bells. ‘Do I know him?’

  ‘He’s the American guy who owns that £3.2 mill penthouse on the river you did the pictures for a couple of weeks ago.’

  My mouth drops open; I immediately shut it again. I try to swallow, but my mouth is so dry I just make a weird choking noise. I nod and plaster on a smile on my face, hoping it will distract from the fact that the rest of me is freaking the fuck out.

  ‘It looks like we’ve got a problem,’ says Karl, reclining in his chair with an exaggerated sigh. ‘Or rather, you’ve got a problem.’

  22

  Now that the moment I was dreading has arrived, I feel a sort of calm acceptance. I’m in trouble, I’m not going to be able to talk my way out of it, so I’m just going to have to go with the flow, right up shit creek. It’s simply the latest episode in the sorry soap opera my life has become – although if this was a plot line on EastEnders you’d think it a bit far-fetched.

  It is mortifying though, sitting here opposite Karl knowing that he thinks I’m a sexual predator. I feel myself shrinking into the chair and my hands fold themselves together primly on my lap; my subconscious is clearly trying to make me appear as chaste and non-sex-pest-like as possible.

  Karl is still leaning back in his chair with his eyes focused beadily on me; I assume he’s expecting me to grovel a bit before he fires me, which is fair enough.

  ‘I am so sorry, Karl,’ I begin, earnestly emphasising each word. ‘I have absolutely no excuse for what happened; it was completely unprofessional and I can only apologise unreservedly.’

  Karl stares at me blankly. ‘Apologise for what?’

  Well, that throws me. It’s almost as if he doesn’t have a clue what I’m talking about . . . Jesus, could this actually be about something else? Which would be excellent, except now I’ve just admitted to being totally unprofessional.

  ‘Well, what I actually meant was . . .’ I can’t for the life of me think of an alternative reason as to why I might be grovelling. ‘You see . . . the thing is . . .’

  To my relief, Karl interrupts with an impatient wave of his hand.

  ‘Listen, this Brad character – typical Yank – saw the pictures you took of his place and he wasn’t happy. Not happy at all.’

  This is so not what I was expecting to hear that I can only manage a sort of ‘mmm’ sound.

  ‘Long story short,’ Karl continues, ‘he’s decided to completely redecorate the apartment before putting the place back on the market. Apparently the current decor was too much of a “bachelor cliché”.’ He rolls his eyes. ‘Personally, I thought it looked pretty sharp, but that’s Americans for you . . . Anyway, it means you’re going to have to go back once the paint’s dried and take a whole new set of photos.’

  ‘Right, I see. And – that’s it?’

  ‘Yeah. That’s it.’

  ‘This guy didn’t mention any other . . . issues?’

  ‘No. In fact, he actually made a point of telling me how pleased he was with the pictures, and was quite apologetic about causing hassle.’ Karl reaches for his protein shake. ‘To be honest, I think it’s his fiancée that’s to blame for his change of heart over the decor. He’s always mentioning her – ‘oh, Serena wants five bathrooms’ and ‘Serena must have underfloor heating’. It’s crystal clear who wears the trousers in that relationship.’ He gives a snort of laughter. ‘Or rather, who wears the pants!’

  Ah, so the American – Brad Michaelson, as I should start thinking of him – is engaged. But why should that be a surprise? He’s hot, funny and kind (as proven by him not reporting my appalling behaviour): that’s the holy trinity, right there. If you were playing man-bingo, Brad Michaelson would be a full house. So of course he would have been snapped up yonks ago – and by the undoubtedly stunning Serena. But while I’m shaky with relief that I’m in the clear, at the same time I feel a cold ache of disappointment. Despite our disastrous encounter at the penthouse, deep down a tiny part of me – a misguided ovary, perhaps, or a deluded pancreas – must have been quite taken with the guy.

  K
arl, who has been noisily slurping the dregs of his shake, clearly takes my confused expression to mean that I didn’t get his joke.

  ‘It’s what Americans call trousers, Annie. Pants.’ He gives a tetchy sigh and gestures to the door. ‘I’ll let you know when you need to head over to the property to take another set of pictures. Oh, and Annie?’

  I pause, already halfway out of the office. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Whatever it was you were apologising for earlier . . .’ He pauses, scrutinising me through narrowed eyes. ‘Just make sure it doesn’t happen again, alright?’

  And then he nods, as if to dismiss me, and I plaster on another smile and say a silent, heartfelt thank you to Karl for not interrogating me any further, because I have absolutely no idea what excuse I would have come up with. Yet although the imminent threat of being exposed as a pervert has disappeared, a brand new worry is now looming ominously in its place: I’m going to have to return to the penthouse to take a new set of photos, which means potentially coming face to face with Brad Michaelson again.

  I stay well out of Karl’s way for the rest of the morning, keeping my head down at the spare desk in the corner where I kill time editing photos, and the second I notice Rudy putting on his coat I make a dash for the door. I catch Fi’s eye on the way out and she gives me a look that plainly says: ‘You’d better watch yourself, missus, I don’t trust that fella. Oh, and please bring me back a chicken salad on granary, no mayo, cheers, darlin’.’

  You might think this is an awful lot to infer from just a look, but we’ve known each other for a long time – and Fi does have unusually expressive eyebrows.

  Rudy sets off at quite a pace, striding out like he’s hiking across a moor, and I have to trot to keep up: a stumpy-legged dachshund to his loping lurcher. I’m not particularly short, but Rudy makes me feel tiny – height-wise, at least. His waist measurement is probably half of mine.

  ‘Italian place round the corner alright with you?’ he asks.

  ‘Absolutely,’ I reply, a little out of breath.