by Hannah Doyle
Right, that’s it, I have to say something.
I clear my throat. ‘We need to talk.’
He puffs out a load of air from his mouth. ‘Yes, we do.’
‘I. . . I don’t know where to start. I feel very confused about us.’ This is hell. I’ve started peeling the label off my bottle of beer.
‘Yes, it’s complicat— SHIT. I forgot.’ Ben’s staring at the door.
‘What?’
‘She’s here. . . Anita. I, uh, shit. I arranged to meet a date here tonight,’ he’s looking anywhere but me.
I turn to see a woman walking slowly towards us and my stomach drops.
‘Tonight?’ I turn back to Ben.
‘I thought I was just meeting Mila for a drink. I didn’t know you’d be here. I. . .’
‘It’s okay.’ It’s my turn to shake my head. Crestfallen. Confused.
‘I’d better go.’ I grab my bag.
‘Wait, Jasmine. . .’
Anita reaches our table and I take a deep, shaky breath. ‘Hi, I’m Jas. Ben’s a really good guy.’
Anita smiles warmly back at me and my heart feels heavy as I walk away.
You know what’s good at distracting you from hideous romance issues? A fancy pants party! Violet has asked me to come as her plus one, because she’s still not managed to find The New Chip and she ‘doesn’t want to look like a total loser by going alone’. She gets papped a lot these days, and thank the lords I’m not the one doing the papping. Actual paparrazzi pop up whenever she’s out and about, calling her name and asking her probing and insightful questions about her love life. Did Chip really wear tighty whities? Has she found a new boyfriend yet? Would she have sex in his bed for revenge? Violet loves it. She swans serenely past them as the cameras flash, a mildly aloof look on her face and her gaze averted, but beneath the cool surface she’s buzzing. As soon as we’re inside the gallery, she grabs my hand and fires questions at me. Did she look calm? Was her outfit creased? Will the magazines pick up on her break-over?
Yeah, Violet’s had a break-over. It began with an admittedly bad-ass new haircut. Her long blond locks are now a fierce, don’t-mess-with-me bob. Then she hit the gym to ‘build up her butt’ and she has got some tiny curves going on in that formerly pancake-flat department. She took a little away time, spending four nights at a posh hotel in Croatia and getting a gorgeous, natural tan. Tonight she’s trying out a new make-up look, less soft and cutesy, more sassy AF. She’s gone for a red lip and she looks SO HOT.
I reassure her that she looks incredible and that Chip will be weeping into his breakfast bowl when these pictures hit tomorrow morning.
‘I hope he drowns in his breakfast bowl,’ she replies. Which seems a bit much.
We walk into the gallery, which is launching a new exhibition and has invited a whole bunch of famous faces to celebrate. No sooner have we stepped through the doors and accepted a glass of champagne (it’s technically a night off for me so hell yes I’m having one too) and Violet spots a friend already mingling.
‘Bye babes, see you in a bit,’ she says, strutting off.
I pause. I don’t know anyone here and I normally hate this kind of situation. Jasmine’s not so great at mingling. It’s one of my least favourite words. Or at least, it was. See Cannes for reference. But there’s a whole load of art to look at, which is right up my street, and I’m feeling uncharacteristically confident. As long as I don’t accidentally punch J-Law in the boob again, I should be just peachy.
This shit is bananas! I’ve seen some incredible art already and I’m so pumped to get back behind the camera myself. It’s beyond inspiring to witness exciting new artists showcasing their work and there’s a little voice inside me saying, ‘bloody well go for it!’ Oh who am I kidding? It’s not a little voice, it’s a great big foghorn. I’ve had a taste of what working for myself feels like and after tonight, I’m feeling even more ambitious. I want to be these guys! I want my own photography exhibition! I want to be Jasmine Hepworth circa eight years ago, ready to jet off to New York and become the next Annie Liebowitz. Only now I’m older and wiser and. . . maybe, better? Well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I’m definitely not any worse and I’ve been learning loads from Dave, pushing myself to experiment whenever I can.
I’m chatting away to complete randoms as I walk from one piece to the next, confidence issues be damned. So far I’ve found out that the guy topping up my champagne glass is saving up for his gap yah, a woman in ah-mazing culottes is thinking about buying a piece for her own ‘collection’ and a bloke I thought was a cosy old guy in braces is actually the gallery owner who loves cats and takes his rosé with ice in it.
‘Hello,’ a voice purrs right into my ear canal.
‘Argh!’ I jump. I do not want undisclosed person’s breath right down my ear, thank you very much. Who thinks that is acceptable? I spin round to see Photographer Dave standing next to me.
‘Dave! As it’s you, I’ll let you off that creepy introduction.’
‘It wasn’t creepy.’ Dave thinks all of his actions are non-creepy, which is totally inaccurate. I pat him on the arm.
‘It was. But hi! Hello! How are you?’
‘Very well thank you. And you? You seem full of energy.’
‘I am! This exhibition is so inspiring. Have you just got here?’
‘Yep, I’m in and out. Just came to show my face really.’
‘It is a lovely face,’ I quip. ‘I don’t think I’ve had the chance to properly thank you for using my portraits in your book. Seriously, Dave, I’m so honoured. And when your agent told me how much I’d be getting paid I swear I did a little excitement wee.’ Dave looks horrified. I plough on. ‘Will you hurry up and finish the book so I can get a copy? Ooh, and would you sign it for me?’
‘Now you’re being creepy. There’s no need to thank me, the shots were excellent.’
Lately, the new email address I set up to go with my website has been getting busy. I’ve had all kinds of requests for work, some great, some not-so-great. E.g. would I consider shooting for a new adult pleasure website for free. TBH it was the ‘for free’ bit that most got my goat. I don’t know if Dave has been speaking highly of me, or if the work I’ve put into self-promotion is finally paying off, or both, but I’m really starting to feel like I’m no longer just Violet’s photographer slash dogsbody. I’ve got a bit on the side! Is it weird that I’m my own bit on the side? Probs, but it’s making me very happy to think that I can supplement my income by doing the thing that I love and getting credit for it.
Dave and I wander around the exhibition, me pointing out my favourite bits and him half-listening while he checks out all the hot women here tonight. He’s like a randy, skinny-jeans-wearing dog in heat.
Suddenly he clatters to a halt and dives behind the nearest brass carving. ‘OH. FUCK.’
‘What?’
‘It’s her,’ he whispers. ‘Can she see me?’
‘Who are you talking about?’ I look around the room for clues. Is it one of his former model conquests, hell-bent on revenge? I can’t see any angry looking women.
Dave is trying to fold himself further behind the carving which, on closer inspection, is actually a headless female torso. Dave is approx. 10,000 feet tall and, try as he might, he cannot tuck both his head and his body behind the sculpture. I step back and splutter. His head is now sitting atop a bronze pair of boobs.
‘Your crazy boss,’ he mouths as Violet approaches.
‘Jasmine, I’m so glad I’ve found you. I’m over this exhibition, art is so boring and there’s not one potential boy here for me to hook up with. Pringle’s off to another party so I’m going to go with.’
‘Pringle?’
‘Pringle.’ Violet repeats, like it’s totally natural to have a friend who shares a name with a savoury snack.
‘Right, Pringle,’ I try it out. Nope. ‘Okay, well I’m going to stay here if that’s alright?’
‘What, by yourself?’
&nb
sp; My eyes involuntarily flicker in Dave’s direction and that’s when Violet spots him. Crap. He’s going to murder me.
‘Nice tits,’ Violet smirks.
Dave straightens up and tries very hard to look like he hasn’t just been hiding behind a bronze carving of some magnificent breasts.
He tips his forehead up and says, ‘What’s up?’
Violet snorts. ‘“What’s up?” What is this, the nineties? And might I ask why you were hiding behind a pair of boobs?’
‘I wasn’t hiding,’ Dave says petulantly, his cheeks pink. I inch back to watch the conversation. Dave hasn’t seen Violet since she beat him around the head with an inflatable unicorn lilo. Violet clearly holds no regrets over the unsavoury scenes and Dave seems ruffled.
My new gap yah pal saunters past and both Dave and Violet practically pounce on him for a champagne refill. He tops my glass up too and I take a sip.
‘Are you well?’ Dave asks, recovering himself.
‘Quite well. I was just leaving.’
‘Off to attack some other unsuspecting male?’
‘I didn’t attack you, I was simply venting my frustration. It’s not my fault you take awful photographs.’
I grimace.
Dave tuts. ‘There are literally thousands of people who would beg to differ with you. Like the A-lister I shot yesterday or the rapper who insists on using me for all of his album covers.’
Violet rolls her eyes. ‘It’s uncouth to brag.’
‘It’s petulant to criticise my substantial talent just because I couldn’t avoid your cellulite.’
Oh damn.
I cannot believe Dave just mentioned the c word. An enraged Violet has bypassed the conversation stage and is now scouting about for a new weapon with which to attack her nemesis. I surreptitiously step in front of the bronze knockers because they’re awesome and she could do some real damage with those guys. The air is thick with bad vibes.
‘You said you were leaving,’ says Dave, casting his hand wide as if to hurry her out.
‘Off to the opening of a new hotel.’
‘Oh hell,’ sighs Dave. ‘Number Fifty-Four?’
‘You’re going too? In those dreadful denim trousers?’ Violet is horrified.
‘That’s right. Only now it looks like I’m going in these really nice jeans and with a woman with a bad attitude.’ They glare at each other as the reality of more time together sinks in.
‘I don’t have a bad attitude,’ Violet whips her bob away from her shoulders.
‘Please,’ says Dave. ‘I have a car waiting outside. Do you want a ride?’
Me and Bronze Boobs are agog. What is happening here?
‘Fine,’ says Violet. ‘Tell your driver that the car temperature will need to be an ambient 19 degrees.’
‘Listen princess, you’ll travel at my temperature or you won’t travel at all.’
Violet considers her options. Then she turns to me and says, ‘Tell Pringle I’ll see her there.’ With that, she picks up her clutch and motions for Dave to lead the way. I turn to watch them leave, the paps already shuffling for prime position when they spot Violet Huntington exiting with a famous photographer. Right before they reach the door, Dave taps her on the arse and says, ‘You are flames tonight.’ And just as I’m sweeping my jaw up off the floor, I swear I hear her giggle.
I’m really sorry about the other night. I hope it didn’t upset you. I think that we need to deal with this properly, no distractions. I’m dog-sitting for my parents this weekend, do you want to come? Ben
I think I’m going to be sick. A whole weekend? I’ve been on a lot of dates recently but none of them has lasted a whole weekend! Thierry, Arnie, Alessandro, Ralph, Charlie, Harry and now. . . Ben? My best friend Ben? I count the dates off on my fingers and realisation hits that my next date will be number seven. Lucky number seven. Seven dates to find The One.
Oh. Hell.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Date Seven: Best friend Ben
My mind’s telling me no, but my body, my body is telling me ye–e–eees.
Is there nothing wrong with a little bit of bump and grind with Ben? Or is there actually a big fat heap of wrong with hooking up with my best friend? I’ve been pondering over this for a good few millennia and things have got so bad that I’m thinking only in song lyrics.
We’ve been at Ben’s house for almost twenty-four hours now, with nothing but his dog Tilly for company, and still haven’t muttered anything about The Situation. Last night we wolfed down some pizza and scurried off to separate bedrooms before 10pm, and today we ended a bike ride with an admittedly delicious pub lunch. I’m starting to freak out. What if we’re about to ruin almost ten years of friendship? Would it be better to just bottle up our emotions and pretend like nothing’s happened? And why did Ben’s parents have to move out to rural ruddy Oxfordshire and leave me with no means of escape from this weekend? So many questions, so little room in my brain to find any answers.
Thankfully, the market town where Ben’s folks live is so pretty it’s providing some distraction. After sensing that Doing Things is the only way to stop us from going stir crazy, Ben suggested heading out for a drink and we’re now walking along the riverbank, dappled in late evening sunshine. I decide to tell Ben everything I know about ducks and seventeen seconds later all of my duck material is exhausted. The silence crackles between us. Every now and then our fingers touch and it sets my nerves on fire. And while the thought of having an adult conversation about my feelings is making me want to dive head first into this river and spend the rest of my days as a mermaid, I know I have to face this head on, and soon.
Ben stops in his tracks and points to a flashing neon sign. ‘A bar! It looks like a bit of a dive though. . .’
‘Let’s do it!’
Kendall Jenner and Hailey Baldwin (or two superb lookalikes) have decided that we need more shots. They shimmy off to the bar, all tiny waists and ‘mom jeans’ (aka my actual jeans), returning with a miniature surf board filled with lurid drinks. It’s possible that our new group of pals is underage and I feel a strange maternal desire to send them all home to bed, but I’m also super pleased to have some other humans to talk to. There’s no confusing sexual chemistry between these young guns and me! Just some very loud bass reverberating through my body. I take a polite sip of my toxic green shot. Jesus wept. Ben’s nodding away in an energetic conversation with a young buck when an old Usher song blares out of the speakers. Our eyes meet across the sticky table.
Why didn’t this come to me earlier? Usher fixes everything!
I’m up and grabbing Ben’s hand, barreling past kids as we make our way to the pool table because apparently I’m that drunk. Ben leaps up and holds out his hand so I can join him. Here, finally, is the answer to our current pickle. Who needs words when you have Usher? We’re dancing like it’s the early noughties. Ben’s body moves in perfect time to the song and I’m so tipsy that I’m convinced I look awesome too. We’re laughing away like we’re teenagers again. It feels so good. Like we’re back to normal, if normal was bringing its absolute A game and a sprinkle of lust. Beyoncé and Jay Z’s ‘Crazy in Love’ comes on and we’re singing the duet. Inexplicably, I’ve taken Jay Z’s part and Ben is having a bloody good go at hitting Beyoncé’s high notes. We’re roaring by the end of the song, and we’re also SO sweaty, so I signal to Ben that I’m going out to grab some fresh air.
‘I’m so hot!’ I shout when we’re outside, realizing too late that there’s no need to shout anymore. A late-night dog-walker tuts at me.
‘You are so hot,’ murmurs Ben, his body right up next to mine.
Guys, I’m pretty sure he does not mean sweaty hot like I do.
‘Am I?’
‘Jasmine?’ Ben’s approx one millimeter from my face. ‘Stop talking.’
I can feel his breath against my cheek. He smells like apple-flavoured alcohol and earthy aftershave. I stop waffling. I stop thinking. I turn my face to his.
I’ve been watching Instagram stories for the past ten minutes as a delay tactic. I cannot think what to text Mila. A date has happened so technically she should be getting my round up but. . .
‘Smells good,’ Ben walks in with a lop-sided smile, tartan PJ bottoms and his hair all mussed up.
I bite my lip.
‘I put some croissants in the oven, hope you don’t mind. Coffee?’ I offer.
‘I’m starving and yes please.’
I slide a mug over to my best friend. Maybe I’m dithering about what to say to Mila because I’m still technically on said date – we’re not leaving for London until after lunch. Or maybe it’s because last night was. . .
‘So last night was a spectacular failure, huh?’ Ben ruffles my hair.
‘Oh god yes,’ I nod. The second our lips touched, I just knew that me and Ben are never going to be anything more than friends. Whatever spark I thought I felt had turned into a damp squib the moment we kissed.
‘Are you okay, kiddo?’
‘I think so. For a while there I was all caught up in the idea that you and me might actually be something. You know, like in the movies?’
‘I felt exactly the same. I’ve been thinking about committing to a relationship recently and suddenly it didn’t feel like I had to look far. You’re my best friend, Jas. You make me laugh and you look after me. . .’
‘I do like to make sure you’ve had a good breakfast,’ I smile.
‘You’re a bloody good egg. But you’re not my egg.’
‘I’m still a hot egg, though.’
‘Huh?’
‘You told me I was hot last night! Or is it too soon to be making jokes about that?’
‘You are hot, Jas, it’s just. . .’
‘Not your hot. I get it. Do you think that’s why we got confused about our feelings. . . Because we started to look at each other in a different light?’
‘I guess we’re both searching for the same thing, ultimately.’
‘You’ll make someone very happy Ben, she is out there for you.’
