by Ellis, T. S.
“Right,” she said. “We’re going to make this a little more interesting. You see, I have this suspicion that you lazy people won’t put much effort in to this search.” She smiled. It was a smile only the owner of it could enjoy. “So let’s make it more interesting. I want a photo and contact details from each of you of one civvy, one beautiful person, who you think has it. That person must never have modelled before. And they can’t be one of your friends. I want new, I want fresh.”
There was still a complete lack of interest in the room. But Polly hadn’t finished speaking.
“Now that we don’t have the income from Sienna’s earnings, we need to shed one booker. There’s probably a fairer way to do it, but I like this idea. Listen, everybody.”
Her smile grew, until it seemed to wrap its way right round her face.
“The person who comes back from their weekend with the least likely model will get fired. Okay? You get it? I have to fight for the life of this company, I don’t see why you shouldn’t.”
That piqued their interest, in a negative way.
“Get out.”
We all sloped back to our desks.
There wasn’t the usual chatter in the office for the rest of the day. The Friday feeling just wasn’t there. If people had been looking forward to their weekends, they weren’t now.
When I returned to Emily’s flat, I told her about Polly’s ultimatum. She was outraged, but at the same time she was up the challenge. We’d already talked about taking a shopping trip to Camden in the morning. A fair few of the beautiful people hung around the market stalls. It’s a good place for fashionistas to go if they want to keep their finger on the pulse. Clothes are cheap and crafted, a refreshing escape from the high street. Although it does get unbearably busy.
Early on Saturday morning we took the District Line to Embankment and changed onto the Northern Line. We alighted at Camden and headed for the market stalls, some of which were still putting up their awnings to protect their products from the unreliable weather; weather that looked like it could throw all four seasons at us in the next few hours.
“What about her?” Emily was more enthusiastic about the task than I was. It wasn’t because I didn’t want to keep my job. I did. But I know how difficult it is to spot talent. Anna had been a case in point. I’d thought she would be a big hit with magazine editors and ad agencies. In truth, I’d lost confidence in my abilities since Anna’s continued failure to ignite the imagination of these people.
“She’s gorgeous,” said Emily. I shook my head. Although I had lost confidence in my ability to do this, and assumed I was wrong more than I was right, Emily had made the mistake lots of people make. She’d picked out a very beautiful woman. But beautiful women, if they have nothing else in addition to their beauty, can be very bland in front of a camera. The reading public are used to seeing simple beauty, they gloss over it. Today’s models need something else layered on top of beauty.
“What about him?”
We weren’t here to talent spot men. Men weren’t as lucrative for the agency. The powers that be didn’t come to our agency for me. So I didn’t immediately turn away from the fabulous polka dot skirt I was examining on one of the market stall’s rails.
“Him,” hissed Emily, through her teeth. I turned and saw him straightaway.
“No,” I said.
“You’re kidding me. Why not? He’s so amazing. I would love to crack a walnut in front of an open fire with him.”
I tried not to smile. I didn’t want to encourage her bad jokes. But I couldn’t help it.
“Come on,” she said, and grabbed me by the hand, leading me in his direction.
“No,” I said. “He’s not what Polly and the agency are looking for.”
“Oh, stuff Polly and the agency. This one’s for me.”
She yanked over to the stall where they were selling watercolour scenes of London life, painted by the stall holder I presume.
Emily had no respect for the conversation that was in progress between the two men. She just jumped right in.
“Hello,” she said. “My name is Emily and I’m a model booker for a London model agency. We like your look and were wondering if you’d like to chat over a coffee?” She was stealing my line, delivering it better than I ever had.
The stall holder seemed to find this hilarious and broke away to leave us alone with the handsome man.
The man didn’t look at Emily, even though she was the one speaking to him. His brown eyes locked onto mine.
“We meet again,” he said.
“Yes,” I murmured, a little embarrassed.
Emily frowned. “You two know each other?”
“We share the same train,” he said. “My name is Carl by the way.”
Emily grabbed his hand to shake it. “Nice to meet you, Carl. My name’s Emily.”
“Pleased to meet you, Emily” he said. Then he turned to me. “And what’s your name?”
“Fay.”
“What a nice name. And are you?”
“Am I what?”
“Fay? As in ‘like a fairy’. That’s what it means, doesn’t it? Like a fairy?”
I hesitated. Somebody had told me this when I was about four years old. But I hadn’t thought of it since. “Yes, I’m a fairy, me.”
“But without the wings?”
“The wings are at the dry cleaners.”
“I wondered how you fairies kept them so sparking white.”
Emily was switching her gaze between the two of us. It began to feel like our exchange was a spectator sport for her.
“I’m afraid I don’t have time for a coffee,” said Carl. “And I already have a job, so I wouldn’t be interested in becoming a male model.”
“Oh,” said Emily.
“I have commitments today, but would you ladies like to meet up for a drink tomorrow?”
Emily was smirking. When Emily smirks, mischief is sure to follow. “I’m a little busy tomorrow, but Fay is free. In fact, she was telling me only this morning that Sundays can be a little tedious. So going out for a lunchtime drink would be very agreeable, I imagine.”
The little minx. Talk about being put on the spot.
Carl got the joke, too.
But I wasn’t going to play this game. “That’s a very kind invitation. But as I told you on the train, I’m not single.”
“Oh you so are,” said Emily.
I blushed faster and more deeply than I’ve ever blushed in my life.
Emily soon realised what she’d done. You can never be annoyed with Emily for long. True, she makes these blunders quite often. But it’s only because she has this boundless enthusiasm. And she’s always more mortified than the person she’s landed in the do-do. We stood there like a couple of beetroots.
“Forgive me,” said Carl. “I just like meeting new people. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot.”
He certainly had a way with words. I couldn’t help but smile at the ease with which he’d tried to take the focus away from Emily’s blunder.
“I tell you what,” he said. “How about you take my telephone number and if you feel at a loss for something to do tomorrow, give me a ring.”
Now, I said that I always forgave Emily because she always meant well. But just occasionally, she carries on and lays one mistake on top of another.
“You should take Fay’s number, too,” Emily said.
Even Carl was a little confused. “Only if she wants it.”
By now, I just wanted to get this exchange over with. So I agreed to swap numbers with this Carl. Emily leant over my shoulder to ensure that I entered the digits into my phone’s address book correctly.
Then Carl said goodbye and we went our separate ways. Emily and I didn’t speak for a while, ignoring what had just happened. I tried to cover the silence by picking up various hats without trying them on.
“I’m sorry,” Emily said.
“That’s okay,” I replied, as bright and breezy as I could make t
he words sound.
We went to another market stall which specialised in tie-dye garments, not my thing at all. But I rummaged through them anyway.
Then I stopped.
“Look, I know I should be dating again,” I said, “I know that six months is quite a while. And I am beginning to accept that Russell and I will never get back together, but… well, only last night I was imagining him drawing a bath for me. So, it’s still a bit soon.”
She tilted her head to the side. “I know. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done what I did. But he was very handsome and I couldn’t stop myself. Sorry.”
“It’s okay. A date would be pointless anyway. I’d be a complete mess. I’d take Russell with me. Not literally. You know what I mean.”
“I do. I know it hurts. He probably won’t call. I’ve taken lots of numbers. Never used any of them.”
She rubbed my back and then we hugged.
“It’s nearly lunchtime,” she said. “Shall we grab a bite to eat?”
We set off to the nearest pub, uncertain about whether we’d get a seat. It was the one closest to the canal and had the best views of the narrowboats crawling along between locks.
But on the way to the pub somebody caught my eye.
“She’s interesting,” I said. She was quite tall, fair, and walked like a newborn foal. Despite her unsure gait, her face was a map of sensuality. She made you want to look at her twice.
“Her?” asked Emily, with notable doubt.
“Yes. I think she could be interesting.”
We went up to her and, this time, I introduced myself. She seemed very sweet, saying that she’d never considered modelling because she didn’t think she was pretty enough. I took a picture of her on my phone. She was remarkably relaxed in front of a lens. Then we swapped details and I told her I’d be in touch. Her name was Portia. It wasn't because she was posh, she explained, but because her father was a big fan of Shakespeare.
“I think that attractive man has skewed your judgement,” said Emily.
We had a lovely lunch, even though the last time I’d been to this pub had been with Russell. I imagined him sat with us at one of the empty chairs at our table.
It was a nice day. But it was hard to forget previous nice days.
8. Using my imagination
EMILY INVITED ME to stay at her place for the remainder of the weekend. I thanked her but said I needed to go back and do the laundry, as I was running out of clothes.
That was partially true. But it was also true that I needed some time alone. Emily’s the best friend a girl can have. But I was still exhausted after my embarrassing, and debilitating, binge drinking of a couple of nights ago, followed by our marathon shopping, model spotting expedition.
I just wanted to spend Sunday at home — do the chores, go for a jog. So on Saturday evening I said goodbye to Emily and went back to Surbiton. It was only when I’d collapsed onto the sofa, switched on the TV and saw a trailer for that evening’s Strictly Come Dancing that I fully realised it was Saturday night.
I found Saturday nights the most difficult ones to get through. There’s something about Saturday night. You’d think it would be Sunday that would be trickier, because everything’s quieter, giving you more time to think. But it’s the pressure to have fun on a Saturday night that hits home. It doesn’t matter if you go out and party, or if you stay in to watch TV, Saturday night is supposed to be about fun.
I hadn’t had fun on a Saturday night for at least six months. Before then, I’d enjoyed going out. At the agency we’d often get invitations to soirées from photographers or people at advertising agencies. And I’d gone along to a fair few, even though some of them felt a little too much like work.
Russell had usually come along, too. But we were both just as happy snuggling up in front of the TV. I thought that when you found somebody who was as happy staying in with you as they were going out, you were set for life.
After Russell left, I felt less inclined to go to parties. But I was unhappy, too, sitting down in front of the television. I couldn’t find anything I wanted to watch. Romantic comedies made me cry. Cops shows made me impatient to find out the villain. Soaps made me rage.
It was the easy intimacy we’d had that I missed the most. Russell was the one person I didn’t have to try hard to impress, which was nice.
“You could always call me. You don’t have to wait for me to call you.”
It was Russell again. The one in my head. I was imagining him sitting in the armchair in the corner of the room. I didn’t want to imagine him, I wasn’t in the mood, so I stood up and walked into the kitchen.
What should I have for dinner? I asked myself. Even the smallest decisions were proving difficult. I didn’t want anything too heavy. I’d had crab fishcakes for lunch. It wasn’t a lot, but I still didn’t feel like eating several hours later. There was a box of eggs on the shelf. I could scramble them and pour baked beans poured over the top. It was what I cooked when I needed something warm and comforting.
“Well, you could.” He was in the kitchen now, standing by the washing machine. I didn’t want to start up a conversation. Not now. So I pretended he wasn’t there, which he wasn’t.
Oh, how I missed him.
Scrambled eggs and beans on toast watching Strictly would do nicely I finally decided. So I set about cooking them. The simple things in life are so reliable. They are if you don’t overcook the eggs. I don’t like runny scrambled eggs, but this time I’d gone the other way — the eggs were dry. I hate scrambled eggs that are too dry. The sauce from the baked beans helped, but still they didn’t look good.
“I do miss your scrambled eggs. You make fantastic scrambled eggs.” Russell gave me a wry smile. “Most of the time.” He was back in the armchair. I couldn’t get rid of him. “Although those look a little crispy.”
I still didn’t reply to him: not in my mind, and not out loud. They were just scrambled eggs, I told myself. It didn’t matter. But these eggs seemed like the most important thing in the world.
I didn’t realise I was crying until a single tear made its way down to the corner of my mouth. I’d been trying to concentrate on the dancers on Strictly. A soap star was being whirled around in a waltz by a hunky pro. It was romance in motion.
It was the dance that made me cry, I told myself. I wasn’t going to fall into a slough of self-pity. But I had to put down the eggs and beans and go into the kitchen to find a tissue. After I’d blown my nose, I returned to the sofa. The eggs and beans tasted cold and nasty. I didn’t want to eat anymore. So I took the plate back into the kitchen, scraped off the remains and washed the crockery.
“Have one of those chocolate puddings you keep in the fridge for emergencies,” Russell suggested. He was behind me and I didn’t want to turn round. It was sound advice, though. I opened the fridge and took out the chocolate pudding.
Back on Strictly, an astrologer was being fired out of a canon, the main reason being to hide his lack of dancing talent. It was quite funny, but I just couldn’t laugh. It was going to be one of those evenings.
“Day or night, you only have to call,” said Russell. I stared at my phone lying on the coffee table. I could call him, I suppose. The evening couldn’t get much worse.
Could it?
Yes, it could. I knew that if I did call we’d have an awkward conversation and I wouldn’t say what I really wanted to say, which was to beg him to come back. And when the phone call ended, I’d be left with a feeling of emptiness so acute that it would feel like a real stomach bug.
There was another option. I could talk to Russell without calling him. I could have a conversation with the imaginary one. I could stop ignoring him and do what I’d done many times over the last few months — chat to him, my imagined version of him.
I didn’t know precisely why I did it. I’m sure a psychologist could come up with a reason, or several reasons. But it worked for me. I usually felt a little better afterwards. The only time it went wrong was when
I imagined spending a romantic night with him. Bath night had been a disaster, had completely freaked me out.
I had to stop idealising him. A normal conversation would be fine. We could talk about things we normally talked about. I could ask him who he would be voting for in Strictly, not that he ever voted. He probably didn’t even watch it anymore. He’d probably pretended to enjoy it just to keep me quiet. He usually passed the time when it was on, and we were at home, on his iPad or reading a book about one of his sporting heroes.
“Why did you leave me, Russell?”
He didn’t reply. He just stared at the TV. Of course he did. He didn’t have an answer for that question. Or, to be more accurate, I didn’t have an answer.
Instead, Russell asked, “Why did you give your phone number to another man?”
“I was caught off guard.”
“Oh, come on. You wanted to give him your number the moment you saw him on the train.”
“If I thought there was the slightest chance that you would change your mind and we would get back together, I wouldn’t give my phone number to anybody.”
It had been six months since we broke up and five weeks since we’d met up for our fortnightly drink. The regular contact was Russell’s idea. But he hadn’t been in touch for those five weeks. A couple of text messages just before that, about nothing in particular, but he hadn’t mentioned meeting up for a drink again.
Conjuring up his image in my head was difficult. I was shocked at how difficult it was. It was only five weeks since I’d last seen him. But it was only a vague impression of him that I saw. I suppose that when you think of someone in your head they can’t be anything but vague.
“If you keep giving out your number to strange men,” he said, “then there’s no way we can get back together. You do want to get back together, don’t you?”
“Of course I do.”
“Then you should act like you do.”
“For how long?” I asked him.
“For as long as it takes, surely?”
“And what about you?” I said. “You haven’t told me if you’ve found somebody else. To be frank, I find it odd that you haven’t suggested meeting up for a drink for five weeks. That can only mean you’ve found somebody else. Can’t it? What are you thinking right now? Are you thinking it’s less cruel if I don’t tell her that I’ve found somebody? Because it isn’t less cruel. If you told me at a pub, or even on the phone, at least I’d know. It would be hard. It would be devastating. But I’d know. Then I could grieve properly, instead of this sad state of affairs.”