A Girl's Best Friend

by Lindsey Kelk

  ‘I’ve been mostly making tea for a man called Ess and wearing a hat with the word “cock” embroidered on the front,’ I said. ‘Oh, and I was watching the first three seasons of Scandal.’

  ‘I’ve heard that’s very good,’ he said as he chewed thoughtfully. ‘You haven’t been taking photos?’

  ‘I’ve been taking them,’ I said as Genevieve brought out a stark white plate full of food, ‘but they haven’t gone any further than Instagram. It’s a bit harder than I thought it would be.’

  ‘Anything I can do to help?’ Al asked.

  I smiled and shook my head. ‘My friend has offered me a job,’ I said, pushing the words out fast. ‘In advertising.’

  ‘And you’re considering it?’ He pushed a jug of warm syrup towards me as I tackled a fresh, fluffy pancake.

  ‘I’d be stupid not to,’ I said. ‘It’s a pretty good offer.’

  It was true. I couldn’t simply write off Charlie’s offer, I wasn’t a child. I had bills to pay; I needed somewhere to live. If I couldn’t pay my way by taking pictures, could I really call myself a photographer? ‘It’s a really great offer.’

  ‘Then you should certainly consider it,’ Al said. ‘I’m sure you’re not the kind of person who would run away from a situation when the going gets tough.’

  ‘I might be,’ I admitted. ‘Don’t most people?’

  ‘Are those people happy?’ he countered.

  ‘I don’t actually know,’ I replied through a mouthful of pancake. God, it was good. Why didn’t we have pancakes for breakfast in England? It wasn’t like we didn’t know about them. ‘They seem pretty chipper.’

  ‘You’ll do what’s right at the end of the day,’ he said. ‘I have faith in you.’

  ‘I’m going to enter a competition while I’m here,’ I told him, while he jammed a huge forkful of hash brown into his mouth. ‘It’s an exhibition, really, but they have a competition for new photographers and the prize is a paid apprenticeship with one of the photographers in their programme. I sent in some of my other work and they accepted me, so that’s a good sign, isn’t it?’

  ‘I would think so,’ he agreed, a broad smile on his face. ‘A very good sign.’

  ‘Well, that and I paid $500 to enter.’ I frowned. ‘I’ll probably get there and find a million entrants and one bloke sat in the corner counting piles and piles of money. You don’t think it’s a scam, do you?’

  ‘Let’s assume it isn’t,’ he said, supportive to the end. ‘Tell me, which of your photographs do you think you might enter? You’re free to include anything we’ve done for the book, of course.’

  ‘It has to be of New York,’ I told him, my eyebrows knitting together as I flipped through my portfolio in my head. ‘Not like a landscape, necessarily, but it has to be about the city. I don’t even know where to start.’

  ‘New York is a glorious place for clearing your head and finding inspiration,’ Al said. ‘Every time you step outside, you live a dozen lives. My Janey always said that.’

  ‘I went for a walk when I woke up,’ I said, smiling softly at the mention of his late wife. I really wished that I had known her. ‘It was weird, I expected it to be impressive but I didn’t think it would be actually, straight-up beautiful. The snow and the trees are so pretty and the light was amazing. I took loads of pictures but I wasn’t really awake so I have no idea what they’ll look like.’

  ‘Spectacular, I’m sure,’ Al assured me. ‘Now, when and where is this competition? So I can make sure it’s in the diary.’

  ‘Oh, you don’t have to come,’ I said, shaking my head quickly. ‘It’s on the twenty-eighth at the Spencer Gallery? Do you know it?’

  ‘Actually I do and I’m sure you’ll submit something you can be very proud of,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘What I’m not sure about is this “cock hat” nonsense. Although there is a chance I’m out of touch with the fashion world. I suppose we’ll see shortly, won’t we?’

  ‘Is everything all ready for the presentation?’ I asked as Genevieve returned with a plate so full of food, I didn’t know where to start. I couldn’t even name everything in front of me and, what’s more, I didn’t care.

  Al waved his fork in the air, a so-so gesture. ‘It’ll have to be,’ he said, covering his mouth with his hand as he spoke. ‘Seeing as it’s the day after tomorrow. I hear the blogs are alive with chatter. Whatever that means.’

  ‘I imagine Jane would be incredibly proud of you,’ I said. ‘I think it’s amazing that you’re doing this.’

  I’d never met Al’s late wife but he talked of her so often, with so much love, I couldn’t imagine she could feel any other way.

  ‘Let’s hope you’re right,’ he said, his eyes twinkling. ‘They’re really her dresses, after all. If everyone loves them, she’ll get the credit, but if they hate them, it’ll be on me.’

  ‘The world is going to go crazy for them,’ I promised. ‘I can’t wait to see everyone’s faces when they see the whole collection.’

  When we’d been working on his book in Milan, I’d seen all of Jane’s original sketches and they were incredible. Al had taken the designs she had worked on decades ago and created the most beautiful collection of gowns I’d ever seen. Each and every one was timeless; any woman from any era would have swooned. We’d revealed a few at his launch party in Milan but the rest were being saved for the presentation, the details of which Amy and Paige had filled me in on. Everyone from the fashion world would be there, editors, buyers, bloggers – even if Al didn’t really know who they were. Putting on an event like this outside of fashion week was a big risk but even in his seventies, Al was a rebel. And if you can’t work outside the system in your seventies, when can you?

  ‘I couldn’t have done it without Amy,’ he said. I dove into my breakfast, swallowing down the pangs of jealousy and smothering them with perfectly cooked eggs. ‘She’s been quite the revelation.’

  ‘She’s amazing,’ I choked, taking a big swig of tea then realizing my friend was missing from the breakfast table. ‘And not here. Amy never misses food – I should go and check on her.’

  ‘Oh, no, she didn’t miss a feed, you missed her,’ Al said. ‘She left for a breakfast meeting a little while ago.’

  I almost dropped my fork.

  ‘Amy had a breakfast meeting?’

  Al nodded. ‘With the caterers. And then she was headed to the venue to meet with the lighting design people.’

  ‘That all sounds very …’ I searched for the right word, struggling to pair anything that seemed to fit the situation with my best friend ‘… professional?’

  ‘As I said,’ Al quirked an eyebrow and sipped his coffee. ‘Quite the revelation.’

  ‘Amazing,’ I mumbled, wondering how I had missed the memo on Amy and me switching lives.

  ‘She is,’ he agreed as a very tall, very slim and far too pretty blonde slipped in from the hall and came over to the table to kiss Al on the cheek. ‘As is this young lady.’

  ‘Good morning!’

  She held out a hand with perfectly manicured pink nails and I realized I was supposed to shake it, not just stare at it. I had never seen anything so glossy and well put together and I knew Paige Sullivan. This girl looked airbrushed. There was literally not a single pale blonde hair out of place. She had to be wearing a wig, I decided, no one’s hair was that good. Especially not when it was snowing outside.

  ‘You must be Tess,’ she said, confirming that everyone in the house had received the memo about my arrival. ‘I’m Delia Spencer.’

  I shook her hand and returned her friendly smile, reaching up to smooth down my own damp bird’s nest of a mullet with my other hand. She was wearing a beautiful navy-blue sheath dress, the kind of thing that would make me look like I was on my way to court to argue a parking ticket, but on Delia it gave an air of polished professionalism. Combined with her impossibly shiny bun and simple, black-framed glasses, I couldn’t help but wonder as to whether or not she was really a Hollywood actre
ss playing a plain-but-not-really professional type, shortly before her grand makeover. It was all I could do not to grab her glasses, pull out her bun and scream, ‘But Miss Spencer, you’re beautiful!’

  Genevieve practically ran across the room with a cafetière of freshly brewed coffee as Delia took her seat, the housekeeper fussing around her charge like an overprotective mother bird.

  ‘I’m so glad you could join us for Christmas!’ Delia said, leaning back while Genevieve poured her coffee. ‘Amy was so excited when you said you were coming.’

  A penny suddenly dropped. ‘Spencer?’ I looked at Al and he nodded. ‘Like the gallery?’

  ‘Like Spencer Media,’ he replied. ‘The gallery belongs to Delia’s grandfather.’

  ‘What gallery?’ she asked, adding the tiniest splash of cream to her coffee. ‘Amy and Uncle Al have told me so much about you.’

  ‘Al’s your uncle?’ I asked, trying to work out how much make-up she was wearing, because it looked like none and I refused to believe it.’

  ‘I’m Delia’s godfather,’ Al answered on Delia’s behalf. ‘Her grandfather, Bob, is an old, old friend of mine, hence, Uncle Al. Old habits die hard.’

  ‘I can’t just call you Al,’ she said, laughing lightly as an egg-white omelette was set down in front of her. ‘It would be too strange, you’re family.’

  I inwardly sighed with relief as I watched her transform from Upper East Side perfect princess to standard issue Al worshipper before my eyes. And I liked her all the more for it.

  ‘So, I hear you’re a photographer?’ she asked, digging into her breakfast. ‘And you were working for UK Gloss?’

  ‘Delia never forgets a thing,’ Al said, beaming with pride. ‘She’s my baby elephant.’

  ‘Hey, I’ve lost a lot of weight since I was a kid,’ she replied, drawing her spine up straight with a grin. ‘But he’s kind of right, I do remember everything. It’s a curse. Even after one too many cocktails. Not that I ever have one too many cocktails, Uncle Al.’

  ‘A likely story,’ he replied, a smile hidden underneath his beard.

  ‘So, do you know anyone over at US Gloss?’ Delia asked. ‘That’s sort of where I work.’

  ‘I don’t,’ I admitted, still inhaling my stack of pancakes. ‘Are you in the fashion team? Did you know Paige Sullivan in the UK? She’s now at Belle.’

  ‘Ah, the name isn’t familiar,’ she said, flushing slightly. ‘What is it that she used to do?’

  ‘What Delia doesn’t want to say is, she doesn’t work at Gloss exactly,’ Al said, interrupting smoothly. ‘She’s the VP of business development at Spencer Media.’

  ‘And acquisitions,’ Delia added, her cheeks bright red now. ‘Humblebrag.’

  ‘That’s amazing.’ I was trying not to stare but I couldn’t help it. I had dreamed of being my company’s youngest creative director at twenty-seven. She was a baby and she was running a multimedia empire. ‘You’re so young.’

  ‘Not that young,’ she said, shaking pepper over her omelette. ‘I’m thirty-three.’

  ‘I’m sorry, that was really rude,’ I said, biting my lip in disgrace. ‘But just so you know, that’s still really bloody young.’

  ‘Yeah, I guess it is,’ she laughed. ‘But I’ve been in the business basically my whole life. Like, actually my entire life. My sister and I were almost born in the Spencer Media building – my mom’s water’s broke in a shareholders’ meeting.’

  Now that would have been a photo.

  ‘You’re a twin?’ There were two of her? Dear God, how was that fair on the rest of us?

  ‘Uh-huh,’ she confirmed. ‘Identical. But Cecelia is way cooler than me. She moved downtown a while back, though she still has a room upstairs. She’ll be here for Christmas – I’m sure you’ll get to meet her then.’

  ‘That would be great,’ I said, keen to add to my gaggle of Al fans. ‘I’m sure she’s awesome.’

  ‘She’s … something,’ Delia said reluctantly. ‘Actually, she does work on a fashion team at Spencer, at Gloss.’

  ‘The US edition?’ I asked. Ooh. US Gloss. Fancy. ‘Not to be incredibly rude but, do you think she would meet with me? Just for ten minutes? I’ll bribe her with coffee and everything but I’m trying to get to know as many editors as possible, just to get feedback on my portfolio.’ I held my breath a bit. It had been a while since I’d pushed for work.

  ‘I can ask,’ Delia offered. ‘But Cici can be a little prickly sometimes.’

  ‘That’s a very polite way of putting it,’ Al muttered. ‘She’s a strictly take-no-prisoners sort, Tess. Even I’m a bit scared of her.’

  ‘Well, maybe my friend Angela would be a better bet,’ suggested Delia. ‘She’s the editor-in-chief so I can’t promise anything, she’s always super busy.’

  ‘Anything with anyone would be amazing,’ I said, celebrating with one final bite of one final pancake. ‘And really, I can take harsh criticism.’

  ‘Let me email them,’ she said, pulling a shiny iPhone out of an unseen pocket. ‘I can’t imagine they’ll be super busy this week. I mean, who works that hard over the holidays, right?’

  ‘Right,’ I replied weakly. Last year, I had been the only person in the office for the last three days in the run-up to Christmas and, as such, had finished off six different peoples’ advent calendars. Hashtag no regrets.

  ‘OK, I have to run, I have a meeting. I just wanted to stop in and say hi to you both,’ she said, pushing away two-thirds of her omelette. So that’s how she stayed so skinny, I thought, looking at my almost empty plate. ‘But I’ll let you know what they say. What’s your number?’

  ‘Oh, um, here.’ I handed her a tattered-looking business card and tried not to look ashamed. Amy had them made for me when I finally agreed to consign my Donovan & Dunning cards to the wheelie bin and they’d been floating around in the bottom of my handbag ever since. Proof of how far I had fallen – there was a time when I would have been able to locate my business-card holder with my eyes closed. ‘That’s my mobile and my email.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Delia said, slipping it into a pocket on her phone case. ‘Have a great day, you guys. Lots of fun stuff on the agenda?’

  ‘Sadly I have a lot of dull meetings with journalists almost as scary as Cici,’ Al said, smoothing his unruly hair closer to his head. ‘But I’m sure Tess is up for an adventure all on her own.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I agreed. ‘Do you think it will warm up at all?’

  ‘You’ll forget about the weather in five seconds flat,’ Delia promised, a polite way of saying no. ‘There’s nothing like your first day in New York. You’re going to have a ball.’

  ‘I’m going to have pneumonia,’ I said, checking what 35 degrees Fahrenheit was in Celsius on my phone. ‘But still, where better to have it than New York?’

  ‘We have excellent doctors,’ Delia said. ‘Just the best.’

  ‘Quite,’ Al replied, shaking his head and finishing up his tea. ‘That’s the spirit.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘Der de, der-der-da, der der der-der-da …’ Charlie answered his phone singing. ‘Tess! You’re in New York!’

  ‘I am! And in a coffee shop! With coffee!’ I said, shuffling as close to the radiator as it was possible to be without setting my coat on fire. ‘Well spotted.’

  ‘I can’t believe you went,’ he said, his voice clear as day all the way across the Atlantic Ocean. ‘I really thought you’d find a reason not to.’

  ‘It wouldn’t have been hard,’ I admitted, peeling off my top layer. I didn’t have pneumonia yet but it was definitely on its way. ‘And if I’d known how bloody cold it was going to be, I would have used any of these excuses. Honestly, I’m not sure I’m going to live through the day.’

  Running off to tropical climes was much more my style. It was hard to feel like a powerful, accomplished woman who could achieve anything when you were walking around a city with a steaming paper cup held against your nose, just so you could breathe.
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br />   ‘But it’s amazing, yeah?’ he asked, ignoring my moaning. He had a gift for that. ‘How’s Amy?’

  ‘It is and she’s good.’ I pressed the tips of my fingers against the radiator and waited for them to defrost. ‘She had to work today but we’re having dinner together tonight. I passed out as soon as I got here last night, so I’m in trouble.’

  ‘Amy working while you swan around all fancy free,’ he said, laughing. ‘Unbelievable.’

  ‘I know,’ I replied, considering our switcharoo once more. ‘Although there hasn’t been so much swanning as cautious tiptoeing. It’s like an ice rink out here – I’ve fallen over twice already.’

  And I had the bruises to prove it, I thought, poking myself in the thigh.

  ‘What have you been up to so far?’ Charlie asked, the sound of the clicking of a keyboard and random radio chatter in the background. It was 1 p.m. in New York, 6 p.m. back in London, and he was still beavering away. I wondered what he was working on, if it was an existing client or a new pitch. ‘What have you seen?’

  ‘So, I was reading this photography magazine the other day and it mentioned a competition out here – I’m entering that. No big reason, just it’s something to do.’

  I wanted to play down just how strongly I felt until I’d made my absolute final decision on taking his job.

  ‘I’ve mostly been sightseeing and taking photos for that this morning.’

  So far since I left Al’s townhouse for the second time, I’d taken more than three hundred photos. I’d seen the Empire State Building, the Chrysler and the Freedom Tower. I’d watched yellow taxis run up and down Park Avenue and hung out with a man with a cat on his head. I’d taken photos of big brown shopping bags, little blue coffee cups and a rat the size of a dog. And not a small dog, at that. But none of them seemed quite right.

  ‘What’s next on the agenda?’ Charlie asked. ‘Have you bought me a Christmas present yet?’

  ‘Oh, I meant to put it in the post before I left!’ I said, stifling a yawn. The jetlag combined with more physical activity than I’d seen in weeks had left me wiped out. ‘I’m so sorry. I can’t believe I won’t see you at Christmas this year.’