by Lindsey Kelk
‘What happened to the Louboutins?’ I knew Paige would ask me later so it only made good sense to find out now.
‘They were blown up in a controlled explosion at Charles de Gaulle airport,’ she replied. ‘Honestly, don’t ask, it’s not worth it. My point is: if I can get it sort of kind of almost together, anyone can. Really.’
‘I’m going to have to trust you on that,’ I said, nodding towards the window. ‘But it’s amazing that you’ve done all this in six years.’
‘A lot of people will tell you it’s not what you know, but who you know,’ she said. ‘But I’m a big believer in right place, right time and making the most of opportunities when they’re given to you. I could have turned down the blog I was offered and gone back to England but I didn’t. I knew staying would be harder than leaving and I had to put a lot of trust in people I didn’t know that well, not to mention myself. I didn’t know if I could do it but I did. Or rather, I am. It’s a work in progress.’
I smiled before a massive chunk of mascara fell into my eye, causing tears to start pouring down my cheek.
‘Do you want a tissue or something?’ Angela asked as I scrubbed at my face with the cuff of my jumper. ‘Or a wipe? Or a sandblaster?’
‘I don’t normally wear a lot of a make-up,’ I explained, happily accepting the packet of make-up remover wipes she produced from her desk drawer. ‘I just thought, you know, Gloss is a fashion magazine and I’m supposed to be a fashion photographer so I ought to make an effort. This is what happens when I try.’
‘Or when you stop trying to be yourself,’ Angela corrected. ‘I hate to be rude, but I’ve got a bitch of an afternoon in front of me and I think I’m going to have to kick you out.’
‘Oh, of course,’ I said, jumping to my feet. ‘Is there any chance I could grab five minutes with your art director or whoever books the photographers? I don’t want to be a pain, I just really need some advice.’
‘Honestly,’ she sucked the air in through her teeth as she stood, ‘this is the worst day. That would be the art director and she’s already in LA to run a shoot that I just had to kill because the actress she was supposed to be working with has checked into rehab. I’m sure you’ll be able to read all about it on the internet.’
‘Ooh.’ I felt terrible for her but, more importantly, I really wanted to know who the actress was.
‘So yeah, today isn’t the best. I’ve got until tomorrow morning to come up with a brand-new story that we can pull off on practically zero budget to fill six pages of our New Year’s Eve issue that we have to close in two days unless we all want to be working on the weekend, which just so happens to be Christmas, and between you and me, I’m more than a bit hungover. I thought we were all but done with this issue and everyone out there hates me right now.’
‘Well, if you need a photographer, I’m available,’ I quipped, carefully sheathing my iPad. ‘And will work for wine.’
‘Be careful what you wish for,’ she warned. ‘If I can’t get hold of anyone else in the next hour, I might well take you up on it.’
‘No, really?’ I dropped my bag back on my chair. ‘I would love to do it. If you really don’t have anyone, I have my camera and my laptop and I’ve shot for Gloss UK before. I know I’m just starting out but I wouldn’t let you down.’
Angela looked up at me and gnawed on her thumbnail.
‘I don’t know if it’s that easy,’ she replied. ‘We’re pulling something together with really experienced models and I wouldn’t want you to feel like you were out of your depth. It wouldn’t be fair on you and I won’t have time to reshoot.’
‘All the better that they have experience,’ I argued. How could I convince her? This was my chance; I knew it. ‘That makes everything easier for me. I’ve worked with models and I’ve worked with non-models. Angela, I’m really good. Please give me a chance to prove it.’
‘I just don’t know,’ she said reluctantly. ‘It’s not that I don’t believe you …’
‘I’ll do it for free,’ I blurted out. ‘That’ll help costs, won’t it?’
‘It would,’ she admitted. ‘But we would pay you, it wouldn’t be right otherwise.’
‘But you could pay me a lot less than anyone else available at such short notice, couldn’t you?’ I added. ‘Tell me about the shoot.’
‘It’s a “New Year’s Eve in New York” article,’ she said, sitting down slowly and looking at her computer as I swiped my iPad back into life. ‘I’ve called in a couple of favours with a couple of friends so it’ll be Sadie Nixon and James Jacobs, celebrating on the town and then telling us their New Year’s resolutions.’
‘Brilliant, I love both of them.’ No, I didn’t have a clue who either of those people were. ‘And that sounds like so much fun. Look, here’s one of the shots I did for Gloss that was a party scene. And we pulled all this together so quickly, adverse weather conditions in Hawaii, if you can believe it. Angela, I promise I can do this. I won’t let you down.’
I felt such a fire in my eyes, I was worried I might turn into Superman and burn the place to the ground. Angela looked back at me, not nearly as certain as I felt.
‘I am a really great photographer,’ I said, my voice so certain I barely recognized it, even though I was shaking from head to toe. ‘And I will not let you down if you give me this chance.’
‘It’s a huge job,’ she said, giving me a level stare. I realized she hadn’t made it to editor-in-chief of a magazine in New York by being all charming and English. ‘You’re putting a lot on yourself and you’re asking a lot from me.’
‘Right place, right time,’ I reminded her, my spine turning to steel as I kept my chin up high. ‘I can do it.’
She didn’t say anything, just stared at her computer and up at my iPad and then down at her desk. After a huge sigh, she turned her eyes back towards me.
‘If this turns out to be a complete disaster, we’re both buggered,’ she said, sighing as she began to type. ‘But you’re on.’
‘What?’ I felt my knees wobble as she spoke and everything inside me melted. ‘You really want me to do it?’
‘You’re not bottling out on me now, are you?’ She looked up, her eyes flashing with concern. ‘Because this is a now-or-never situation.’
‘No, I’m in,’ I said quickly, throwing up my arms and jumping back into my seat. ‘I’m definitely in. I definitely want to do it.’
‘It’s a pretty straightforward concept,’ Angela said, her forehead still creased with a lack of conviction. ‘And James and Sadie are total pros so they shouldn’t give you too much trouble.’
‘It’ll be perfect,’ I promised as Cici reappeared, hurling herself at Angela’s office door with three paper coffee cups in her hands. ‘Just give me the brief and I’ll do the rest.’
‘What’s going on?’ Cici asked, dumping the coffees on the desk with as much care and grace as a baby elephant. Streams of steamed milk trickled underneath the edge of the lids and pooled around the bottom of the cups, making a mess on the glass desk. I had to sit on my hands to stop myself from reaching over to wipe it up with the sleeve of my jumper.
‘Tess is going to shoot Sadie and James tomorrow,’ Angela explained. ‘She’s a lifesaver.’
From the look on Cici’s face, I had to assume she did not agree.
‘Angela, I know it’s Christmas,’ she replied without taking her eyes off me. ‘And it’s a time for charity and all, but do you really think this is a good idea? Can we really not find a professional?’
If we hadn’t been on the millionth floor of a skyscraper in the middle of Manhattan, I would have dug a hole in the ground, crawled into it and tried my very hardest to die. All the fight and fire I’d felt while convincing Angela to take a chance on me melted away in front of this very mean girl.
‘Cici.’ Angela spoke with a warning in her voice and her fashion editor rolled her eyes in response. ‘Don’t.’
Taking my cue to leave, I stood up, pleased to see I was a
t least more or less the same height as Cici Spencer, even if I was not the same size. The woman was a twig. How could legs that skinny support hair that big?
‘Oh, look,’ Angela pointed at the two of us. ‘You’re wearing the same outfit. How cute is that?’
I looked down at my skinny black jeans and Topshop polo neck then over at Cici’s black leather leggings and cashmere sweater.
‘We’re really not,’ we said at the exact same time.
At least we agreed on one thing.
After an intense fifteen minutes spent washing off the rest of my eyeliner situation in the very fancy Spencer Media bathrooms, I jumped in the lift back down to the lobby, feeling considerably happier than I had on my way up. Cici Spencer aside, that had to rank as one of the best hours of my life. Right next to arriving in Hawaii, eating in Hawaii, and the time Amy and I met Justin Timberlake. Right before the police took Amy away. I had a job! I didn’t know exactly what it was but I had an actual job, taking actual photos.
Maybe I’d be able to take something for the competition, I pondered, fishing around in my pocket for my phone so I could let Charlie and Amy know right away. Or maybe my pictures would be so good, Gloss US would want to hire me again and I could stay in New York forever. I could spend some proper time with Amy and then my Charlie decision would be made for me. I could only imagine the looks on the faces of the girls we’d gone to school with. Amy Smith and Tess Brookes, living in New York, working in fashion and definitely not being lesbians. Everything they’d been saying about us since year ten proved entirely wrong. We weren’t gay and we were cool, so there.
Bouncing out of the lift, I tapped out a text to Amy before gleefully wrapping the ten-dollar scarf I’d bought from a charming man on the street all the way around my head until only my eyes were visible. It had taken me almost an entire day but I finally had this New York winter ensemble down. Hood up, scarf on, sunglasses at the ready and not an inch of bare skin showing. I looked like an absurdly cheerful Ray-Ban-wearing mummy and all I wanted to do was get back to Al’s townhouse and prep for the shoot. Because I had a shoot to prep for. I was in New York and I had a shoot to prep for and I was deliriously happy.
Until I saw him.
Nick Miller was standing in the lobby of Spencer Media.
I didn’t believe it at first. I’d been dreaming about his face for so long, I’d almost forgotten what it looked like in real life; part of me had even worried that I wouldn’t recognize him but there was no such luck. There he was, wearing no more protection from the bitter cold than a pair of jeans, leather jacket, and a tired expression, and it was all too much. In one heartbeat I went from freezing cold and full of joy to a burning bundle of shredded nerves. Biting off my gloves, I tore at my scarf, at my sunglasses, all the noise of New York getting louder and louder inside my head, my heart thudding and drowning out everything else. In the middle of the city, surrounded by constant car horns, shouting, banging, screaming and laughing, skyscrapers and snow and millions and millions of people, there was only me and only him and he hadn’t even seen me.
With one hand still caught up in my scarf and my sunglasses in my mouth, I felt every part of me just stop. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, my arms were stuck at odd angles and every muscle in my body contracted. It was one hundred and forty days since I had seen him. His hair was one hundred and forty days longer; there was one hundred and forty days’ more grey mixed into the blond. One hundred and forty days since I had kissed his chapped lips and held the hand that was pulling a travel card out of his back pocket and replacing it with his phone. One hundred and forty days since I had told him that I loved him and he had run away.
Without breaking stride, Nick sighed, turned the collar of his jacket up against the wind, walked out of the building and into the snow, as though I wasn’t even there. But now that I’d seen him, even with the thrill of my new job echoing in my ears, even here in the middle of Times Square, in the overwhelming heart of the city, there was nothing and no-one else for me in the whole world.
If I was certain of only one thing in this world, it was that private detective was not amongst my future career plans. I had chased Nick out into the street without a second thought. As soon as I laid eyes on him, it all came flooding back, all the reasons why I loved him, all the reasons why I hadn’t been able to let him go and I followed blindly as though there were an invisible string pulling me along. Tailing him through the crowds, I had no idea what I was going to say to him when I finally caught up with him and so, I didn’t catch up with him. I stayed a few feet behind, my eyes trained on the back of his head, dodging people as he strode confidently through streets he knew like the back of his hand. He hopped on and off the edge of the pavement, turned tightly around corners and spun himself this way and that, avoiding the tourists with their ever-present mobile phones and the Christmas shoppers, wielding their weaponized shopping bags. I bumped against everyone I passed, scraping my legs on Big Brown Bags, tripping over toddlers and skidding on patches of black ice in my attempt to catch up.
Eventually, he stopped and I paused, ten feet away, trying to catch my breath. I really had to start working out. Perhaps I should join a gym in January then stop going in March, like everyone else. Sweating underneath my scarf and hood, I peeled off my sunglasses as they began to steam up. Freezing cold air and hot, sweaty face was not a good incognito combo. Nick was almost lost in the crowd when I saw the back of his head dart across the street, ignoring the Don’t Walk sign, and sprinting into a restaurant with half a pig hanging in the window.
Trying not to gip, I waited for the walk signal and crossed the street in an orderly fashion, hovering outside the door of the restaurant. I was pleased with my amateur sleuthing prowess but now what was I supposed to do? I peered inside the window, fingertips touching the glass, and watched Nick clap a tall man on the back in the most manly of hugs before shuffling himself into a booth and slipping off his jacket. The place was pretty big and pretty busy. I felt as though I might go mad, to be this close to him but not be with him. I wanted to hear him, I wanted to smell him, I wanted to grab a handful of his hair and dig my fingers into his arms until they left a mark and never let go, ever again.
Or, I could pop in, order a drink and listen in on his conversation for five minutes instead. It wasn’t like I was being a complete stalker, I was really thirsty, after all, and I hadn’t eaten anything in over an hour. That was a new New York record for me. Maybe this place had cronuts? I’d heard nothing but wonderful things about cronuts. Nick would never need to know. I could nip in, get a pastry fix and my Miller fix at the same time, then decide what I wanted to do. It was a completely rational plan. Mentally swinging those balls, I pushed open the door and lowered my scarf to smile at the hostess inside, never taking my eyes off Nick Miller.
‘Hi, welcome to McCall’s,’ she said. ‘Table for one?’
‘Yes please,’ I croaked, pointing at my throat. ‘Sorry, I have no voice today.’
‘Oh no,’ she said, a look of concern on her face as she grabbed a little laminated menu and walked me towards the bar. ‘I hope you’re not getting sick for the holidays?’
‘I’m sure I’ll be fine,’ I whispered in an indeterminate accent. ‘Just have to keep warm.’
She placed the menu down on the bar, so far away from Nick and his friend, I couldn’t possibly hear a single thing.
‘Would it be all right if I sat at a table?’ I asked, looking pointedly over at an empty booth that backed up on my ex.
‘We usually seat people at the bar when they’re on their own,’ the waitress said with a furrowed brow. ‘But I guess the lunch rush is dying down. There’s a spot in the back over there?’
‘Just here will be fine,’ I replied, throwing myself onto the brown leather banquette, back to back with Nick. ‘Thanks.’
I was a superspy mastermind.
‘All right then.’ The hostess rediscovered her fake smile and nodded. ‘I’ll send over your waitress.
’
Settling in, I shuffled around under my hood, pulling my scarf over my telltale copper hair, and then unzipped my coat, audibly sighing with relief as I felt the AC of the restaurant hit the disgusting sweatiness of my clammy skin. Nothing said ‘I love you’ like stalking-induced sweat patches.
‘What’s up, man?’ Nick’s friend asked as I placed my phone next to my folded napkin, the official ‘I’m OK’ accessory of the lone diner. ‘I thought maybe you’d already be headed home. The airport is brutal at this time of year.’
‘I’m headed out Sunday,’ he replied. ‘Flights back to the UK are always cheaper on Christmas Eve – no one wants to land on Christmas morning.’
That’s because Christmas morning is when you’re supposed to be with the people you love, I explained in my head, silently stabbing the menu with my finger. Ooh, chicken noodle soup.
‘Yeah, man, good call,’ his friend agreed. ‘Glad I caught you.’
‘I know, it’s been ages. This year has been too much.’ Nick broke off while his friend ordered a beer and a sandwich, then ordered a bourbon and a burger for himself. Of course he was drinking whisky in the middle of the afternoon, of course he was. ‘I can’t wait for it to be over. It’s been nothing but one kick in the arse after another.’
Well, that was nice to hear.
‘I hear you, man,’ his friend said. ‘Has anyone had a good year?’
I had, I thought. Sure, I started it with an amazing job and a nice flat and a lovely, manageable crush on my friend and was ending it homeless, sort of jobless and double dumped but, well, I still thought it had gone all right. I’d had an all-expenses paid trip to Hawaii and so had he – that was nothing to be sniffed at where I came from.
‘Next year needs to try harder, that’s all I know,’ he replied. ‘How are the kids?’
‘Hi!’ A cheerful-looking woman with a nose ring and a smile placed a huge glass of ice water down in front of me. ‘I’m Debbie and I’ll be your server today. Do you have any questions about the menu? Is there anything I can get you?’