What a Girl Wants

by Lindsey Kelk

  ‘She is.’ She quickly switched to a yell that was entirely unnecessary given the size of my mother’s house. ‘Mum! It’s Tess!’

  ‘And what does Tess want?’ I heard Mum yell back.

  ‘She wants to know what you want,’ Mel relayed faithfully.

  ‘Can I just speak to her, please?’ I asked. My tolerance levels were dropping with every passing second. ‘It’ll be quicker.’

  ‘I’m very well, thanks for asking,’ she said. I had not caught my favourite sister in a good mood. ‘She says she wants to speak to you!’

  ‘Maybe I don’t want to speak to her,’ Mum replied, sounding very pleased with herself. ‘I haven’t forgotten what she said when she walked out of this house.’

  ‘She says—’

  ‘I heard what she bloody said.’ I cut Mel off before she could finish, wondering whether it wouldn’t be easier to just throw myself off the Westway and hope a passing bus was there to finish me off. ‘And I haven’t forgotten. I’m sorry for losing my temper and I shouldn’t have walked out without explaining what was going on but I was upset.’

  ‘She says she’s really sorry and she shouldn’t have walked out.’

  ‘That’s not exactly what I said, is it? Put her on the bloody phone, Mel.’

  ‘Don’t swear at your sister,’ my mum said, finally on the line without an interpreter. ‘You’re not in the position to be calling my house and being all high and mighty.’

  I closed my eyes and rubbed the spot in the middle of my forehead that felt a tiny bit like it might actually explode. Still, better an aneurysm than an apology – that was the Brookes motto. Or at least it should be.

  ‘I wasn’t swearing at my sister—’

  ‘Yes, you were. I’ve got ears, you know.’

  Breathe, Tess, breathe.

  ‘I didn’t mean to,’ I corrected myself. ‘How are you?’

  ‘As if you’re bothered,’ Mum huffed audibly down the phone. ‘After that scene you caused.’

  The scene she was referring to wasn’t so much ‘a scene I had caused’ as a scene caused by my sisters hanging me out to dry by telling my mother I had lost my job at Donovan & Dunning, at which point she had chucked a glass of red wine across the room and got into a screaming row with Amy. In the middle of a christening. Amy had of course diffused the situation by climbing onto a table and holding the baby aloft while singing The Circle of Life. Amy was wonderful.

  ‘And you’re the one who walked out and said you were never coming back.’

  It was good to know she’d run everything through her own filter and come up with her own version of events. History was written by the winner. The winners and their mums.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said as calmly as possible. There was no point in getting into another row; the only thing that would work here was blanket apologies. ‘I didn’t mean it. I was being stupid.’

  ‘Yes, you were.’ Clearly not enough apologies yet. ‘You sounded like you were off your head. Charlie says you’re not doing the heroin, though.’

  And if Charlie said so, it must be true. The only person who had had a bigger crush on Charlie for the last decade was my mum. Mostly, it only manifested itself in overly maternal smothering when he went with me to visit, but I always felt a bit bad for my stepdad whenever she started pawing my best friend. Poor, lovely Brian. Patience of a saint, that man has.

  ‘I’m not doing heroin, I was just made redundant,’ I explained, the words still sticking in my throat. Me. Redundant. Bleurgh. ‘And it wasn’t only me, the whole company went under, so it wasn’t anything I did.’

  ‘There’s no need to be defensive,’ Mum sniffed. ‘No one said it was your fault.’

  Another historical revision: that was exactly what she had said. Loudly, while throwing wine glasses around at a christening.

  ‘Hang on, if the company has gone under, what is Charlie doing?’

  Deep, cleansing breaths.

  ‘Charlie is fine, Mum,’ I said. She was practically hyperventilating on the end of the line. ‘He’s setting up his own agency. We’re actually talking about doing it together.’

  ‘Oh, Tess!’ And just like that, her tone of voice altered completely. ‘Your own business? With Charlie? Well, that sounds like a very good idea. Would he be your boss, then?’

  ‘No, Mum, we’d be partners,’ I said as calmly as possible. Why had I called her again? Was I worried that my inevitable stroke wasn’t coming on quick enough? ‘He would run the client side and I would do the creative.’

  ‘I’m sure Charlie knows what he’s doing,’ she said, entirely turned around. ‘Mel, have you heard this? Charlie is starting his own advertising agency and giving Tess a job. She’s going to be the head of his creative.’

  I heard some approving, disinterested noises in the background and decided it was time to wrap things up while I was, relatively speaking, ahead.

  ‘OK, that’s really all I called for,’ I started. ‘To say sorry and—’

  ‘You should both come for Sunday dinner,’ Mum declared, cutting me off mid-escape. ‘You should drive up and tell me all about it.’

  ‘I can’t Sunday.’ Oh, there was that throbbing in the forehead again. I stopped short on the edge of the pavement to let the number 85 bus go by.

  ‘And why not?’ she asked.

  ‘I won’t be here,’ I said, wondering whether or not throwing myself under the number 85 bus might not have been a bit easier than having this conversation.

  ‘Not here? What does that mean?’

  Don’t tell her about Milan, don’t tell her about Milan, don’t tell her about Milan …

  ‘I’m going to Milan.’

  Oh, fuck me.

  ‘What are you going to Milan for?’ Mum shrieked so loudly that even the nice old lady coming out of Costa could hear her. ‘You haven’t got time to be gallivanting around on holiday when Charlie’s trying to start a business.’

  ‘I’m actually going for work,’ I said, taking a deep breath and trying to work out how to phrase this. ‘I’m taking some photos for someone.’

  ‘What have I told you about this photography nonsense, Tess?’ she said after one too many moments of silence. ‘You don’t let a hobby get in the way of a career. We had this conversation a long time ago.’

  In truth, there had never really been much of a conversation. I had loved taking pictures when I was growing up – it was one of the few things I had shared with my dad before he left us to have another go at starting a family – and I’d begged my mum to buy me a camera of my own when I turned eighteen. But whenever she found me poring over photography books, or looking at my pictures, she would pop up with a snide comment or a stark reminder of how hard it was to make it in a creative field, that a proper job was much more secure and the right thing to do. I’d believed her, of course, and put my camera to one side to concentrate on my marketing degree, but the passion had always been there. Maybe it was buried deep under PowerPoint presentations and the desire for a company pension, but it was there.

  ‘And they’re paying you to take photos, are they?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, hoping for another number 85 bus.

  ‘With what, magic beans?’

  ‘Honestly, Mum, it’s a long story.’ At least she couldn’t accuse me of lying on that one. ‘And I really have to go now but I’ll call you later and tell you all about it, yeah?’

  As if it was going to be that easy.

  ‘I’ve got to say, I think you’re making a very big mistake. Charlie’s offering you a job on a plate and you want to fanny off to Italy and take photos. Italy!’

  She applied the same emphasis to ‘take photos’ as someone else’s mum might to ‘sacrifice virgins’.

  ‘But if you want to waste your time on silly adventures, you go ahead and do it,’ she said with a cluck, apparently done with the conversation. ‘Give my love to Charlie.’

  As if it was going to be that easy.

  CHAPTER FIVE

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nbsp; ‘I’m glad you’ve been keeping busy,’ Paige said, completely ignoring the four half-naked men to her left, after I brought her up to speed on my current predicament. ‘You can’t help but get into trouble, can you?’

  ‘You know me,’ I replied, staring at the four half-naked men to Paige’s left. ‘I like to keep myself occupied.’

  ‘What was it like, getting arrested?’ she asked. ‘Did you have to wear an orange onesie? Orange would look terrible on you.’

  I nodded, not entirely sure what I was agreeing about while four of the most handsome men I had ever seen, all wearing black eye masks and very little else, hoisted one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen high above their heads. I gazed at the photographer’s big, beautiful Nikon camera with so much envy, I thought that it might fly up into the air and land in my hands. It didn’t.

  ‘You know, this is incredibly distracting,’ I said, turning fully in my chair to peer over the mezzanine onto the set below. We were in a very fancy studio on a very fancy street in a very fancy area and I was terrified of touching anything.‘How do you ever get any work done?’

  ‘This, my love, is work,’ Paige said, curving her scarlet lips into a very happy smile. ‘I’m the art director. I’m directing the art.’

  I nodded, resting my chin on the balcony and trying not to gawp. Paige worked for Gloss magazine, coming up with the ideas for photoshoots and executing the creative. We had met in Hawaii and, after a few teething problems, she had come to my rescue more than once and, as everyone knows, a friendship forged in the fires of adversity is as strong as one that has weathered the test of time. Or something. One of the models caught me staring and flexed his pecs while flashing me a grin. This was the best reason I had come up with to get into fashion photography so far.

  ‘What are they doing exactly?’

  ‘It’s a lingerie shoot for the October issue,’ she explained. ‘Halloween vibe – hence the masks. But given that most women will never look like that girl in just their knickers, I thought it might soften the blow to chuck in something easy on the eye.’

  ‘Or four somethings,’ I clarified. ‘Are they their actual abs? They’re not drawn on or anything?’

  ‘You know, sometimes the photographer casts the models,’ she said. ‘And that photographer could be you.’

  I gulped.

  ‘Look, only you know what you really want to do,’ Paige said, slapping me gently on the arm. ‘I really haven’t known you that long and I’ve only seen you as a photographer so I can only comment on that; and my comment is, you’ve got a raw talent not many people have. If it’s something you really want to pursue, now is the time. There won’t be many more opportunities like this. Make the most of it.’

  I tried to make myself look away from the orgy of muscles and hair gel below and concentrate, my heart thrumming at the words ‘raw talent’.

  ‘I know it looks obvious from the outside,’ I said, playing with the hem of my stripy T-shirt. ‘But I really do love advertising. Maybe it doesn’t sound as sexy and exciting as being a photographer, but it is to me. It’s not like I was looking for something to save me from the dark, depressing days of a real job. Starting my own agency was something I used to dream about and let’s be real, it’s a more sensible option than starting out as a photographer at twenty-eight; it’s definitely more secure.’

  Paige nodded slowly. ‘Starting out in the business isn’t easy,’ she admitted. ‘I’d hire you though.’

  ’Thanks,’ I said with a smile.

  ‘You’d be cheap,’ she added.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said without a smile.

  ‘So, only you can answer the question.’ Paige shrugged her shoulders, sending her long curtain of blonde hair cascading down her back. I made a mental note to ask her which conditioner she used before I left. And then to scalp her. ‘Is it going to be photography or advertising?’

  ‘That’s not really the question though, is it?’ Amy barrelled up the stairs behind me and blew into Paige with a hug so aggressive, anyone would have been forgiven for thinking she hadn’t seen her in ten years. It had been three days. And that was the first time they had ever met. Five seconds later, she dropped Paige in a heap and hurled herself across the sofa to treat me to the same hello.

  ‘You got my text then?’ I choked when she finally let me go. Amy nodded, her black hair glossy under the studio lights and her polka-dot shorts riding up dangerously high as she leapt up and threw herself towards the mezzanine railings.

  ‘Fuck me,’ She spun around to face us and pointed down at the shoot below. ‘I’ll take the blond. Or the brunette.’

  ‘Which one?’ Paige asked.

  ‘I don’t care,’ Amy replied. ‘This is amazing.’

  ‘Didn’t you have a job interview today?’ I asked. ‘How did it go?’

  ‘Shit,’ she said, pinching the tight skin above her exposed belly button. ‘It was for TopShop. They wanted me to work weekends. And they kept asking me whether or not I thought I was reliable and professional.’

  ‘Well, yeah, I think most Topshops are open on the weekend.’ I didn’t bother to ask if that was what she had worn to the interview because I already knew that it was. But what did I know? Maybe nothing said ‘please give me a job in fashion retail’ more than denim polka-dot shorts and a cropped pink T-shirt bearing the slogan ‘It’s not me, it’s you’. I think you’re reliable and professional.’

  It was a lie. I thought she was reliable when it came to turning up on my doorstep with a bag full of Galaxy and three bottles of wine, but I thought she was horribly unreliable and, if possible, even more unprofessional when it came to keeping a job. And mostly I thought that because it was true. In and out of retail jobs, a brief flirtation with teacher training and a puppy love infatuation with the idea of becoming a twenty-first century Avon lady, Amy had a commitment problem when it came to work. And men. And everything else on earth.

  However, that didn’t seem like a helpful opinion in that moment so I kept my mouth shut and smiled. Amy gave me a cheerful grin in return and slipped her arm through mine. Ours was a long-term love affair. We’d been friends since before we could talk and some days I wished we could go back to those times. Like now.

  ‘That is very good to know,’ she said with a big grin. ‘Because I’ve been thinking. You clearly can’t work out whether to shit or wind your watch without help so I’m coming to Milan with you.’

  ‘No you aren’t,’ I said, stunned.

  ‘I am,’ she corrected. ‘I’m going to be your assistant. Like that lady down there.’

  I peered over the balcony and saw an exhausted, harangued-looking girl rubbing oil into one of the model’s chests.

  ‘You might actually need an assistant,’ Paige said, shrugging. ‘And god knows, you do need a life coach. Like, all the time.’

  ‘And that’s what I’m here for.’ Amy spread out her arms with a flourish. ‘I can fetch, carry and make sure you don’t ruin your life, all at the same time.’

  ‘Amy, I—’

  ‘I’m a great multitasker,’ she added, nodding at Paige.

  I sat and stared at my best friend, clicking the tips of my bitten-down fingernails together.

  ‘Tess …’ Amy reached across the sofa and took both my hands in hers. ‘It’s going to be awesome.’

  Why did her words sound more like a threat than a promise?

  ‘I’ll have to clear it with my agent,’ I muttered, accepting defeat far too easily. I’d never been able to say no to Amy. It was like denying a pitbull puppy a treat. So little and cute, you couldn’t bear to turn it down and you kind of knew that if you did, it would rip your hand off and take it anyway.

  ‘Now, are we still pretending to talk about work? Is this yours?’ she asked me, letting go of my hands and reaching over to grab a full-to-the-brim glass of white wine from the coffee table. ‘Amazing, thank you.’

  ‘What else would we be talking about?’ Paige asked, straightening her pink silk top and
grabbing her own wine to get it out of Amy’s reach. It was nice to see the new friends had at least one thing in common: getting hammered in the middle of a work day.

  ‘Nothing,’ I replied as fast as I could, quietly glad that Amy had taken away my wine. I was not a good drinker. ‘One hundred per cent work talk only.’

  ‘If you really want to go for the advertising job as much as you say you do, maybe you should go for it.’ Paige casually glanced over at the shirtless men, flickered an eyebrow and shook her head. ‘Photography won’t be the easy option.’

  ‘Yeah, and maybe you could even go from working six days a week to the full seven?’ Amy replied. ‘I’m sure it would only freak you out to have to spend your birthday with your friends instead of in the office. Or Christmas. Or New Year.’

  ‘You work over Christmas?’ Paige looked horrified. Then took a drink. Then looked horrified again.

  ‘No, it’s fine,’ Amy said, waving her hands and her wine around in the air. ‘Tess isn’t normal. Tess is a martyr. She’s happiest when she’s miserable.’

  Paige nodded. ‘That explains why she went for Nick.’

  ‘I’m happiest when I’m busy,’ I said before Amy could pounce on the mention of his name. ‘There’s a difference.’

  For the want of a better plan, I picked up an empty glass and poured in a couple of slugs of wine. I was not a big drinker for good reason. More than three drinks and I could not be held responsible for my actions. More than four and I couldn’t remember them anyway. But this definitely felt like a legitimate wine-to-the-rescue moment. Amy took hold of my wrist, raising the glass to my mouth, and I drank obediently, disappointed in my appalling lack of willpower.

  ‘How do you feel right now?’ Paige asked. ‘If you had to make the decision right now, pick one and never do the other ever again, which would it be?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said, wishing I didn’t see Nick and Charlie in my head when she asked that question. ‘I had a plan, you know? I knew where I was going and I knew what I wanted. And now it’s like, boom! decision time. But if I make the wrong decision, what happens then? I’m buggered. Completely buggered and miserable and I die alone with seventeen cats all called Steve. It’s too hard.’