Tanya had kindly left John’s bottle made up on the kitchen counter so I just warmed it in a bottle of hot water and fed him while watchingCoronation Street. I decided I might as well have an early night. It had been quite stressful going back to work that morning to find
a junior plonked at my desk, and then meeting Joanne unexpectedly on the street had got my heart racing. I needed to put my electric blanket on, curl up with my latest Maeve Binchy book and hopefully before I knew it I’d have nodded off.
After changing John’s nappy, I put him down into his cot with his teddy and smiled at him. He looked as snug as a bug in a rug and I tenderly stroked his little cheek. He smiled innocently back at me and once again I found myself thanking God that he had sent me this special little angel to share my life with. I loved him so much that I couldn’t even really remember what life was like before him. What had I done with my time? With whom had I spent it? I recalled meeting girls I vaguely knew for cocktails to discuss men that had since vanished. I remembered not wanting to leave the office sometimes, wishing that I’d had a sleeping bag so that I could kip a few hours on the floor to save me having to go home and come back in again. I remember being absolutely fascinated by trivial gossip concerning staff members at the magazine. Now that I had John, all of that stuff seemed so unimportant. Being a mummy certainly put things in perspective. I certainly wasn’t as career focussed as I used to be, but I believe I was a more rounded person now. I was certainly more sensible and that was a good thing.
I don’t really know what made me think of it, but suddenly I remembered that strange white envelope that had been waiting for me when I got in from work. I had been reluctant to open something markedPrivate and Confidentialin front of Tanya. I thought I’d open it now. I took it to bed with me and opened it there. Then I wished I hadn’t. It was a solicitor’s letter from John’s father, Clive, demanding access to his son. I was astounded. Why was he suddenly looking for access after telling me in no uncertain terms that he didn’t want to be involved with John? “You’re on your own now,” he’d said to me, with a fair amount of venom. So why the change of heart? And why couldn’t he have contacted me directly instead of running off to a solicitor? This was all deeply disturbing.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Luckily Creea had loved my Christmas-party fashion shoot idea. Even though it was still September she told me to get cracking on it immediately. I decided on a big old-world country-house hotel in Kildare, about an hour’s drive from Dublin. It was a former private house belonging to an earl, with magnificent high ceilings and beautifully sculpted mantelpieces. I organised with the hotel’s PR and marketing team to have a roaring log fire
in the drawing room which we intended on using, and they had given me permission to decorate it with festive candles and Christmas decorations. I even hired an enormous Christmas trees complete with fake ribbon wrapped presents to put underneath.
The magazine works two months’ ahead so time was not on my side. The shoot had to be in the November issue of the magazine and the pressure was on. The hotel had promised us the rooms to use free of charge in exchange for a credit mentioning their website and details of their Christmas Party nights and New Year’s Eve ball.
My mother had kindly given me the use of her car to drive to Kildare, and the hotel had offered to put up myself, the photographer, the model, the hairdresser and the make-up artist free of charge. This was fantastic as it would save us getting up at five both mornings to get to the hotel on time. The hotel PR had told me there was no problem using the rooms for our shoots as long as the guests weren’t disturbed too much. This meant that we needed to start work very early in the morning. I had been so busy all week prepping for the Christmas shoot that I barely had time in the evenings to even cuddle little John. But I was glad to be busy because first of all it took me out of the office and, second of all, I didn’t have time to think about Clive’s nasty solicitor’s letter. I tried to banish it to the back of my mind until I had decided what I was going to do about it. The day after Creea gave me the go-ahead to put the Christmas-party fashion shoot together I held a casting in a city-centre hotel room. I had been going to do it with just the photographer, a lovely guy called Dave with whom I had worked in the past, but Creea had said it would be nice to take Louise along to the casting so she could have an idea how it worked. Reluctantly I agreed.
Well, I could hardly say no to the boss, could I? I had a clear image of the type of model I wanted to cast for this job. Usually when I dream up a shoot in the early stages I have a vague idea of the type of look I’m going for. By the time I see the girls and can envisage the end product laid out between the covers of the magazine, I am sure. I wanted somebody classy for my shoot. Tall, elegant, with high cheekbones. I wanted somebody with healthy-looking long dark hair and big, dark soulful eyes. I didn’t want somebody cheesy covered in fake tan. In fact, I preferred the model to look pale rather than heavily-tanned. After all, it was supposed to be winter. After looking through several model websites, I made requests to see ten models. It was great to see Dave again. I hadn’t seen him since before I gave birth and he enveloped me in a great big bear-hug before planting a smacker on my cheek. “You look stunning,” he grinned. “Motherhood obviously sits well with you.”
“Thanks,” I said. “It does. It’s a tough but very rewarding job!’
Even as I uttered the words I was struck by a pang of guilt again. Here I was at work while a stranger soothed my child when he cried, fed him when he was hungry, watered him when thirsty and amused him with his toys. Stop it, I berated myself. This is just ridiculous! Millions of mothers go back to work. Millions! Stop beating yourself up for it.
“Coffee?”
“Oh yes, please, I’d love some. Actually, there’s a great little deli on the corner of this street that does great takeaway coffees.”
“Grand, so. Do you want something to eat too?”
I shook my head. I really had to cut back on my endless munching at every opportunity. I yearned to get my figure back. “No thanks, Dave. I’m fine with black coffee.”
I had been about to ask him to get a third cup for Louise, but then decided not to as she hadn’t even turned up yet.
The casting was about to start in ten minutes. Dave and I sat behind a large desk near the door. The models were going to wait outside and then come in one by one and show us their portfolios. Models’ portfolios were like CVs to them. Ideally they would contain totally different head and body shots showing the client what they would be capable of in front of the camera. Sometimes the prettiest of girls just couldn’t take a good strong photo, while plainer girls were more versatile and almost came to life in front of the camera lens.
“Right, Dave, it looks like Louise isn’t going to show so let’s crack on with the casting. You sit there and I’ll go out and get the first girl.”
I popped outside and the girls were all standing in a queue chatting among themselves. I asked them if they could come in one by one, starting with the first girl Helen. Helen was a willowy, sweet-looking brunette, a girl I’d worked with in the past. She was an absolute pro, always enthusiastic and professional and never late for a job. She had a reputation in the fashion world of being great to work with. Today she arrived in, bright and breezy, with her recently updated portfolio. She looked Dave straight in the eye, extended her hand and smiled. “Nice to see you again, Dave.” Then she greeted me in the same friendly, polite manner. We flicked through her portfolio, praising some of her recent shots, and then asked her to tell the next girl in the line to come in.
She thanked us and left. Dave and I looked at each other and immediately recognised each other’s disappointment. “Her skin,” I said, feeling my face crumple.
He too looked disappointed. “I know. It’s unfortunate.”
“Her skin is usually flawless. I don’t understand it.”
Dave shrugged. “That’s why it’s important to hold castings. It saves time in the long run.”
“You could always airbrush her face, I suppose . . .”
“I could. But it would be easier if I didn’t have to.”
Michelle was next through the door. I hardly recognised her as she had put on at least a stone since I had worked with her last. Her lovely cheekbones had all but disappeared. She was still slim. In fact she was a lot slimmer than myself and slimmer than most women you would see walking up and down the street, but the horrible thing about doing fashion shoots was that the samples that you were sent from the designers were almost always a size eight, making it very difficult to work with models who were of a bigger size. I wish it wasn’t like that but there was nothing I could do about it. Michelle would not be booked for this casting.
“We’ll let you know,” I told her.
But I knew that she knew we wouldn’t be contacting her. It was tough. Modelling was a tough game. Rejection was the norm, but still I hated to be the one rejecting. It was awful. Next in was Lorraine Dyer. Lorraine is a very popular model. She isn’t the prettiest model ever, but she has striking bone structure, and being closely linked to one of Ireland’s top rugby stars has kept her firmly in the gossip columns for the past two years. She is probably in the papers at least twice a week, and will pretty much do anything from standing in a bikini on Grafton Street with a handful of lottery cards in her hand to sitting on a bike with an inflatable banana on her head. I don’t think Lorraine has ever actually turned down a job, and although she will probably never end up on the cover of Imagemagazine, she sure is laughing all the way to the bank.
“Hey, you guys!” She beamed, flashing her pearly whites. She was wearing a tight vest that showed off her recent boob job, and dark skinny jeans. She gave us both a kiss like we were her very best friends. Lorraine is very full-on bosom-buddies with anyone that might help her on the way to the top. You’d have to give her full marks for her networking skills, no doubt about that. She showed us her portfolio. It was mostly press calls, launching everything from fake tan to washing powder. Her book lacked classy editorials but you couldn’t help being impressed by the sheer volume of work that she had done over the last couple of years. There were no flies on Lorraine.
We had to see seven more girls. As expected, some of them looked so completely different from their online photos that they might as well have been different people altogether. It was quite amazing. And then, just as I was about to give up hope that we were going to find the right girl, Adrienne walked in. She was at least six foot, feminine and willowy with long, shiny, dark hair and legs that seemed to go on forever. She had nice straight white teeth, a clear complexion and a lovely natural smile. She was obviously very young. She wasn’t wearing a shred of make-up and it was easy to see how versatile she could look. When she left, myself and Dave turned to look at each other, and smiled in unison. We both knew we had found our woman.
Immediately I phoned Adrienne’s agency and booked her for the shoot. Her agent boss told me that she was new to the agency and hadn’t actually done a shoot with any Irish magazine before. This made me doubly excited. It was every stylist’s dream to discover somebody brand new, an up-and-coming star. Adrienne was from Latvia and her English wasn’t perfect, but that was okay, I wasn’t hiring her for her conversational skills. Then Dave and I went down to the lobby to have another coffee and discuss the concept of the shoot.
I’d forgotten what nice and charming company Dave was. He was very easy to be around. He filled me in on all the gossip around town. As a society photographer he could tell me who was dating whom, who had split up with whom and which models had recently invested in Botox and boob jobs. He even told me that a particular model hounded him day and night to make sure he airbrushed out any of her wrinkles in photos and demanded that she got a look of all photos before they were emailed in to the picture desks.
We both agreed that Adrienne was a rare find. “Can you believe she’s only seventeen though?” I said. “That makes me feel very old.”
“Don’t be daft, you’re still hot, Kaylah. You’d be hot at any age.”
To my absolute mortification, I found myself blushing. I looked away quickly to hide my face. It was the first time in ages a man had actually paid me a compliment. I was so grateful I was almost overwhelmed. Dave’s job was to photograph stunning women on a daily basis, and he told me that he considered me hot? I could have cried with appreciation.
“Thanks,” I gulped because I genuinely couldn’t think of anything else to say. And then, and I’m not sure if it was just because I knew he fancied me, I actually began thinking that Dave was very attractive. He had lovely eyes and dark wavy hair that was greying slightly at the temples. He had a really cute boyish smile too. Oh God, maybe I was falling for him.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The lovely country-house hotel in Kildare where we had arranged to do the fashion shoot was set in extensive grounds, with pretty manicured lawns and an abundance of exotic-looking flowers. It was stunning and I had such a good feeling about the shoot. But when I walked into the foyer I was amazed to see Louise of all people already sitting there. Why the hell was she here? Was I dreaming? She was sitting cross-legged by a table with a cappuccino in front of her.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, genuinely stunned.
She looked up at me with a mock smile. “What am I doing here? Oh, didn’t anyone tell you? Creea sent me. She thought it would be good for me to help on the photo shoot. Is that not okay with you?”
“But . . . but you don’t know anything about setting up fashion shoots,” I felt myself spluttering with annoyance. “You didn’t even show up to the casting.”
Louise looked suitably taken aback. “Yes, that was unfortunate,” she said. “But I genuinely couldn’t find the hotel. Listen, if there’s a problem I’ll just go back to Dublin and tell Creea that there was a problem with me being here.” She went to pick up the Louis Vuitton suitcase by her feet.
“It’s okay, you can stay,” I answered, probably a bit too gruffly. I needed to calm down and not lose my cool so easily with her. If she had been trying to get a rise out of me it had worked. “But listen, we’re not here on a holiday, so I am warning you that organising a fashion shoot is not child’s play. I expect you to be more of a help than a hindrance. Understood?”
“Yes, of course,” she said, her voice almost a whisper. “So what can I do?”
“I’ll let you know in a minute,” I said, and then took a deep breath. Jesus, I wished she would just go away! Talk about stressing me out!
I was berating myself for showing my annoyance so obviously. I didn’t want her to get the better of me. But really I was astounded by her cheek. Showing up here unannounced and expecting me to welcome her with open arms? Honest to God.
Adrienne arrived about ten minutes later with her little wheelie case, looking a million dollars. Her Bambi-like eyes were enormous underneath those long lashes of hers and her skin was radiant as though she had enjoyed a thoroughly good night’s sleep. She wore a genuine smile as she came over to kiss me on both cheeks. I introduced her to Louise and then ordered us all coffees.
The make-up artist, Steve, and hairdresser, Diana, arrived together shortly afterwards. They always worked as a team and were a joy to have around. Dave arrived about two minutes after them. And even though it was a stupid hour of the morning, I admit that my heart did a little flutter as I saw him coming in through the door with his equipment, wearing jeans and a simple white T-shirt that showed off his impressive physique. I couldn’t wait for this shoot to begin.
As Diana and Steve worked their magic on Adrienne’s fine features, making her into a supermodel type, I busied myself sorting through the various outfits. I had picked out a few select beautiful, well-cut dresses and to-die-for high-end shoes to match. I had an array of Christian Louboutin, Jimmy Choos and Guiseppe Zanotti heels in different colours from which to choose. Some were shimmery, sparkly, sky-high and utterly bling, while others were kitten-heeled, satin and so
ft with bows. I coveted each and every pair and found myself thinking that if I’d won the lottery I’d take them all home with me.
There is a myth in the fashion world that models and stylists get a load of free clothes from the designers in return for wearing and promoting their clothes. This is, in fact, not entirely true. Some designers don’t even give you a discount, and make out that they’re doing you a huge favour by lending out their precious designs to you. My greatest fear doing a shoot like this with high-end luxury clothes is that the clothes might get damaged. I have to make sure the clothes are returned in immaculate condition, meaning no makeup on the collars, no hint of perfume and no snags whatsoever.
I laid the dresses out on the sofa of the main drawing room where we were going to do the shoot this morning beside the huge log fire. It was a spectacular room with ornate ceilings and magnificent paintings. It really was a room fit for gentry. The dresses were like works of art. I had pieces by Versace, Stella McCartney, Alice Temperley and even a stunning black dress from Victoria Beckham’s latest collection. Even touching the fabric of these beautifully designed dresses sent a frisson of excitement down my spine. I was in love with the sheer quality of them all. If only I were rich!
I spent a good twenty minutes meticulously taping up the soles of the shoes. As long as the shoes were properly taped up in shoots, there wouldn’t be any unforeseen casualties. Taping the soles made sure that no matter where Adrienne walked in them they wouldn’t get scuffed. The last time one of my models scuffed a pair of designer shoes it cost me a week’s wages. And they weren’t even my bloody size. I ended up selling them on eBay for a fraction of the cost. An expensive lesson learned. By nine thirty everybody was ready and Dave started shooting Adrienne. Diana and Steve had done an amazing job on her appearance and she looked very like (a very tall) Kiera Knightly with her subtle make-up, razor-sharp cheekbones, translucent skin and willowy frame. As she posed and worked with the camera I genuinely could not keep my eyes off her. This was a genuine superstar in the making.
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