by Cate Woods
Five minutes into the footage, the onscreen Annie walks back to the doorway, sticks her head into the corridor to check she’s alone, then comes back and begins rummaging through the drawers and wardrobes. Christ, I look so guilty! Watching this for the first time, I could well believe this was footage of a thief caught in the act. I find the Aquazurra heels in the wardrobe – oh God, did I really have to try them on? – then take the fur throw off the bed, arrange the shoes on top of it and take a painfully long time, far longer than I actually remember, to get the perfect photo. After another few minutes of this torture, Karl finally stops the video.
‘You’re lucky Mr Eliopoulos doesn’t want to press charges. He’s an extremely important man, and this’ – he points at the image of me frozen on screen – ‘is a disgusting invasion of his privacy.’
I drop my head in shame. ‘I’m so, so sorry, Karl. I know I’ve let you and the company down.’
‘You’re damn right you have.’ It’s clearly taking him a huge effort to keep his temper. ‘We’ve now lost his business because of your stupidity. What the eff were you playing at?’
I give a hopeless shrug – because really, what can I say? ‘I just like taking photos of beautiful things,’ I manage eventually, the only excuse I’ve ever had for my dodgy sideline – which is clearly no excuse at all. Even I can tell how pathetic it sounds, but there’s no way I can tell Karl about the Instagram account; he’d probably have me arrested.
‘You could have had a great future here, Annie, but you’ve destroyed any trust I had in you, damaged Curtis Kinderbey’s reputation and, in the process, lost me one hell of a potential pay cheque. I have no choice but to dismiss you without notice, as of right this second.’
‘I understand,’ I say in a small voice. ‘And I really am extremely sorry.’
Karl shakes his head, his lips drawn into an angry line, then flicks his hand in the direction of the door. ‘And don’t bother running off to Coxtons asking for a job,’ he calls after me. ‘I’ve already warned Darren Wilson about you.’
When I get outside Karl’s office, my face burning with shame, I return to my desk and quickly gather up the few personal items I’d left there, shoving them into my bag before anyone can ask what happened.
Stupid, stupid Annie. What the hell am I going to do now? Sure, this job might not have been the most artistically fulfilling, but the pay was pretty good, the hours flexible and I was actually enjoying it. Thanks to my ludicrous need for approval from a bunch of strangers, I’m now the unemployed single mother that I feared I’d end up when this whole mess started. Ridiculously, I’m almost as upset about the fact that I’m now going to have to kill off ArbiterofCool’s Instagram account: I must have known I’d get caught in the end, but those photos really made me feel good about myself. It would be tragic if it wasn’t so bloody pathetic.
Desperate to get out of the office, I make a dash for the door – but just as I reach for the handle, it opens from the other side and Rudy nearly slams into me.
He stares at me, taking in my crumpled expression and general wobbliness, but doesn’t say a word, just waits for me to explain. We’ve barely spoken since that disagreement over my Instagram account, but he’s looking at me with genuine concern.
‘You were right about the photos,’ I mumble, eyes on the ground. ‘And now Karl’s fired me.’
A pause. ‘Do you want to go for a coffee?’
I nod miserably, chewing my lip.
He holds back the door: ‘Come on then.’
Rudy orders our drinks in takeaway cups (I’m grateful he senses this isn’t a conversation I want to have in a busy café) and then we walk the few streets to the common – me, as ever, jogging to keep up with his stride – where we find a quiet bench.
As soon as we sit down, I say: ‘Please don’t tell me I told you so.’
‘I’m sorry this has happened, Annie.’
‘I’m an idiot,’ I mutter. ‘An insecure, attention-seeking idiot.’
‘Perhaps, but you’re also a very talented idiot. You may have misjudged the subject matter, but those photos were fantastic.’
‘You don’t have to be nice to me, Rudy. I know I’ve screwed up. I just got such a kick out of that stupid Instagram account. It made me feel . . . I don’t know – worthwhile. Like more than just a mum . . .’
We drink our coffee in silence for a little while; even though this is my second double shot of caffeine this morning, my earlier burst of positivity has fizzled out completely. The enormity of what’s happened is sinking in, leaving me deflated.
I sense Rudy looking at me and turn to find his mismatched eyes studying me in that intense way he has. I used to find his stare unsettling, but now I find it oddly comforting – like he’s cutting through all the crap and bluster and seeing the real me.
‘This was never your dream job, was it?’ he asks. ‘Like me, you’ve just been marking time, waiting for your next move. But there was always a risk you’d get too comfortable in this job and end up being stuck in it forever – well, now that’s not going to happen.’
‘Yeah, because I’m going to be an unemployed single mother.’
‘Well, that would be the glass-half-empty approach. Alternatively, you could see this as a chance to turn your talent for photography into a career you really love.’ He sips his coffee. ‘You’re wasted taking pictures of property, Annie. I’ve seen your photos of Dot – you’ve got a gift for capturing people in a really fresh, unique way.’
‘But the Curtis Kinderbey job was safe. There’s so much change and confusion in my life right now, I really needed that stability.’
‘I get that.’ He nods, staring out at the common, thinking for a moment. ‘Did I tell you I got that audition? The part in A Star is Born?’
‘No!’ I break into a grin. ‘That’s fantastic, congratulations!’
‘Thank you.’ He gives a coy, very un-Rudy-like smile. ‘I handed in my notice to Karl last Friday – we start rehearsals in a few weeks. The reason I’m telling you this now, though, is that I very nearly didn’t hand my notice in. I’ve wanted to be an actor for as long as I can remember, yet it took me a week to decide to accept the role because I kept thinking: “I’m doing really well as an estate agent, perhaps I should just stick at it. What if I never get another role after this one . . . ?” What I’m trying to say, I suppose, is that the unknown can be scary, but sometimes you need to take a risk and see what happens, otherwise you might end up regretting it forever.’
‘So you’re saying that this is my moment to take a risk and see what happens?’
‘Perhaps.’ He gives a shrug of his narrow shoulders. ‘At the very least, it’s a better way of looking at your current situation, rather than sitting there moping about being a failure.’
We lapse into silence again. A woman passes pushing twin babies in a double buggy with a preschooler on a bike behind her and a dog trotting at her heels, and I spend a few moments marvelling at how she’s even managed to leave the house.
Then out of the blue, Rudy says: ‘I hope you don’t mind me saying this, Annie, but you really need to start believing in yourself.’
I look down at my hands, my cheeks flushing, because I can’t deny he’s got a point.
‘I get the impression you never think you’re good enough,’ he goes on. ‘Not a caring enough mum, not a successful enough photographer, not an interesting enough person. But that really is bullshit, because you’re enough just as you are. You are the fabulous Annie Taylor: talented photographer, doting mother, fantastic friend and disgraced estate agent.’
I give a snort of laughter, elbowing him in the ribs.
‘The point I’m trying to make, Annie, is that you’re unique, so you need to stop concerning yourself with what anyone else is doing and worrying what they might think of you, and get on with living your own life the way that you choose to.’ Then he sits up straight and gives a theatrical toss of his hair. ‘Because you don’t have to wear Barbra’s kaf
tans to have her attitude.’
I smile at him. ‘Rudy, that is probably the campest thing I’ve ever heard.’
‘Darling, I’m an actor.’ He pauses. ‘That sounds so much better than estate agent . . .’
Despite my own woes, it’s wonderful to see the change in Rudy this morning: he seems noticeably lighter and happier – younger, almost. It’s like he’s finally getting the chance to live his true self and the effect it’s having on him is inspiring. And I can’t deny he seems to be remarkably perceptive when it comes to me and my various dilemmas. I think back to the kind things he said about my photography, and how I should be using my talent to develop a more exciting career. Perhaps, I think, hope finally flickering to life inside me, this could be my chance, too?
Rudy drains the last of his coffee. ‘Well, I better get back to the office,’ he says, lobbing his cup into a nearby bin.
‘Of course,’ I say. ‘You’re very wise for a child, aren’t you?’
‘I lied about my age – I’m actually forty-eight.’
‘Makes sense.’ I smile. And then, on a sudden impulse, I blurt out: ‘Rudy, what’s your boyfriend’s name?’
He turns to look at me, narrowing his eyes. ‘What’s this about?’
It’s a fair question – and I’m not actually sure of the answer – but I plough on regardless: ‘Well, you know pretty much everything about me and my life, but I know next to nothing about yours. I don’t even know where you live.’
‘That’s because you’ve never asked,’ he says, clearly amused. ‘I live in Chelsea.’
‘What? But that’s really . . . posh. Are you loaded?’
‘Yes,’ he replies, in that unerringly blunt way he has. ‘Well, my family are.’
I sit in stunned silence for a few moments, struggling to get to grips with this new version of Rudy. At least this explains why he knows so much about rich people’s antiques and art: it’s because he’s one of them.
‘And in answer to your earlier question,’ he goes on, ‘I don’t have a boyfriend. I do, however, have a dwarf lop-eared rabbit called Methuselah, and a wife called Annabelle.’
A wife? I just gawp at him: this is a shock on so many levels that I don’t even know where to begin. ‘But,’ I stammer, ‘but when we were at Mr Eliopoulos’ place, you told him you had a male partner.’
‘No, I just said I had a partner. Mr Eliopoulos assumed it was male, and he seemed happy to have come to that conclusion, so I didn’t see any point in correcting him.’
‘But why not just say “wife” in the first place? “Partner” doesn’t seem quite, well, significant enough for someone you’re married to.’
Rudy dismisses this with a wave of his hand. ‘People get far too hung up on labels – they tend to bring baggage with them. I find them unhelpful.’
‘But she is your wife, so why wouldn’t you describe her that way?’
He considers this for a moment. ‘I guess it’s like the word “mum”. Yes, you have a child, but aren’t you so much more than just someone’s mother? I think “partner” gives a less restrictive view of Annabelle, who’s a wonderful and interesting individual in her own right, and far more than just my wife.’
I can’t deny he’s got a point; after all, haven’t I been struggling with this very thing – my identity – since Dot was born? Rudy is looking amused at my obvious confusion, but I’m feeling terribly guilty that I’m only learning these fundamental details about him now – and for pigeonholing him so flagrantly (because of course straight men can be Streisand fans). I’m about to tell him how sorry I am for being a self-centred prick when, as perceptive as ever, he gets in first.
‘Don’t worry, Annie, I know you’ve had a lot on your plate lately. I can give you a full rundown on my love life another time.’
Then he gives me a Rudy-hug goodbye – all spiky elbows and awkward back-pats – and sets off in the direction of the office.
‘Oh, and Rudy?’ I call after him.
He pauses. ‘Yes?’
‘Thank you. You’re a true friend.’
His face lights up in his lopsided grin, then he turns and strides away, his long, black coat flapping about his legs like Sherlock in hot pursuit of Moriarty.
After Rudy has gone, I sit back on the bench again; Dot is at Helen’s and I have nowhere I need to be until lunch with Fiona. Propping my elbows on my knees and my chin in my hands, I gaze out at the view in front of me: across the green is the duck pond, surrounded by gaggles of crust-wielding toddlers, and beyond that I can just make out the brightly coloured dots of children darting about the climbing frame in the playground. Meanwhile, the path in front of me is a blur of mini scooters and their kamikaze drivers. If an alien had just landed on earth, it would assume our planet was peopled by tiny, hysterical, dinosaur-loving pygmies. No wonder this part of London is known as Nappy Valley.
There’s a giggle nearby and I turn to see a baby waddling towards me, chasing after a ball, his arms outstretched and face apple-cheeked with delight. As so often happens, I automatically frame the photo in my head: I can see it would make such a gorgeous picture that I almost reach for my phone – but no, I’ve learnt my lesson. Instead, I watch as the little boy’s mum takes a few snaps, although I can tell from here that the angle won’t be that great.
Then all at once the seed of an idea plants itself in my mind, quickly finding fertile ground and putting out roots, and by the time I eventually leave the common over two hours later, I’m feeling pretty sure that Rudy was right: being fired from Curtis Kinderbey might actually be the best thing that could have happened to me after all.
38
‘Right then, do you want a Brazilian, a Hollywood or a Brentwood?’
Mara is looming over me on her portable treatment table, spatula in one hand, waxing strip in the other.
‘Brentwood?’
‘It’s my own creation, named after my hometown – like a Brazilian, but with a glittery landing strip.’ She looks very pleased with herself. ‘I can do silver, gold, pink or rainbow.’
‘Just whip the whole lot off, Mara,’ yells Jess from the doorway, as she passes by with Dot in her arms. ‘Mummy’s getting laid tonight.’
‘It’s just dinner!’ I shout back. ‘Oh, and Jess, would you mind heating up that sweet potato mush in the fridge for Dot?’
I hear Jess murmur her assent from the kitchen.
Mara tips her head on one side, still contemplating my bush.
‘I could wax the hair into the shape of his first initial? That’s very popular with my ladies with hot dates.’
‘Um, no, I think I’ll just have a tidy-up, thank you, Mara.’
‘If you like.’ She shrugs, unimpressed at my lack of pubic panache.
As Mara heats up the wax, my thoughts turn again to tonight’s plans. I am jumpy with excitement about seeing Sam again and the prospect of continuing that kiss where we left off. Even a 5 a.m. wake-up call from Dot hasn’t dampened my spirits. We are going to meet at the penthouse for a pre-dinner drink, then Sam’s booked a table at a new Scandinavian restaurant that Jess tells me is the hottest place in town right now, although I’ve never even heard of it. Once upon a time I had my finger firmly on the pulse of the London social scene; nowadays we’re barely on nodding terms.
‘So who’s the lucky bloke then?’ asks Mara, as she starts to slap on the wax.
‘His name’s Sam. He’s Canadian.’
‘Ooh, I love Canada. I had a holiday in Vancouver a couple of years back and it was amazin’.’ She pauses, her spatula hovering just above me. ‘Tell you what, how about we wax the hair into the shape of a little maple leaf? Like on the Canadian flag? Bet he’d love that.’
‘That’s a really great idea, but maybe another time,’ I say quickly.
Two hours of intensive prep later, I check out my finished look in Jess’ hallway mirror and can’t help breaking into a delighted grin. My freshly highlighted hair is now shorter, cut into a far cooler, more shaggy style t
han before. I’ve dug out a brightly patterned vintage mini-dress that in my fashion days I’d style with platforms, a feathered cloak and shitloads of beaded necklaces, but today have toned down with flats and hoop earrings. And Mara’s magical lash extensions have worked like an instant facelift, emphasising my eyes and cheekbones, while distracting attention from my – well, you know.
As always when in front of a mirror, I turn my face from side to side, examining The Nose from every angle. While it’ll always be the first thing I see, I think my hatred of it is softening slightly. Yes, it’s massive, but when you put it together with all my other facial features, it does sort of make sense. I’m still keeping Mr Jindal’s number, just in case, but I’m feeling cautiously optimistic that my nose and I can learn to love each other again. I guess the tumultuous events of the last few days have knocked some sense into me.
‘You look beautiful.’ Jess appears behind me in the mirror and kisses my cheek. ‘Now off you trot and have a wonderful time.’
I turn to look at her with a melodramatic gasp. ‘Is that all you’ve got to say? No last-minute condoms to press into my hands? No lecture on the merits of reverse cowgirl versus the Viennese oyster . . . ?’
‘Not tonight, Annie.’ She smiles. ‘I don’t want you to worry about anything, just have a fantastic evening. You bloody well deserve it.’
I give her a hug. ‘I love you,’ I say, as I open the front door.
‘Love you too.’ And she waves as I set off down the path.
I’m just saying hello to the sweet old man next door, who’s outside pruning his hedge, when Jess hollers: ‘And the Viennese oyster is way better than the reverse cowgirl when it comes to penetration, although obviously it does depend on the actual cock . . .’