by Lindsey Kelk
‘I know, mental,’ he replied, yawning right back at me. ‘First year in how long? You can make it up to me at New Year though, OK?’
‘Except I’m going to a wedding in Milan.’ I frowned at the mishmash of sugar packets in the little white bowl in the middle of the table. ‘Unless you want to come to that? I’m sure there’s room for one more.’
‘I can’t even keep up with you these days,’ he said, a light laugh in his voice. ‘No wonder you don’t want to work with me. Who wants to slog away in an office with all this jet-setting you’ve got going on?’
‘I didn’t say I didn’t want to,’ I said quickly. Too quickly. ‘I need a bit more time to think about it. I’m not being difficult, it’s just a big decision.’
‘It wouldn’t have been a year ago,’ he said, sounding somewhat resigned. ‘But I want you to know I’m not just trying to help you out, Tess; this is entirely selfish on my part. You’re the best and I want the best working for me. This isn’t a pity offer.’
‘I know,’ I replied, taking out the sugar packets and stacking them back in the bowl in order: pink, blue, yellow, brown, pink, blue, yellow, brown. ‘Like I said, I just need a bit more time to decide.’
‘Not a problem, but like I said, I already interviewed that bloke so I need to let him know after Christmas,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to go. Call me when you’ve had a hot dog.’
‘I’ve already had two,’ I told him. ‘And they were delicious.’
‘Class act, as always,’ he laughed. ‘Miss you.’
Hanging up the phone, I stared at the sugar packets. There were three pink ones left over. Knitting my eyebrows together, I pushed the neatly organized bowl back against the wall before switching on my camera and taking another look at my day’s work.
I was a good photographer. I knew I was. Paige and Al both said I had natural talent and Agent Veronica wouldn’t have taken me on if I wasn’t. Even Ess had grudgingly admitted he didn’t hate all my photos after I strong-armed him into looking at my portfolio. But at the same time, Charlie was right. I might be a good photographer with lots of potential, but I was already a brilliant creative director. And that wasn’t arrogance speaking, it was seven years’ experience, hundreds of campaigns and dozens of awards. If it took me another seven years to get anywhere as a photographer, I’d be thirty-four before I was anywhere while Charlie ran his own advertising agency and Amy took over the world. Why was it so much harder to make these decisions as we got older? I thought, tearing open one of the extra pink packets. Shouldn’t it be easier? The more I did, the less I knew and the older I got, the more afraid I was. It felt as though it should go the other way, to me.
Weird.
Before I could delve any deeper into my existential crises, my phone flashed into life with a text message. It was Delia Spencer.
Hi Tess! Angela and Cici can see you at 2 p.m. They’re in the Spencer Media building, 1757 Seventh Avenue. Ask for Angela’s assistant Candace at reception.
‘Spencer Media Building?’ I muttered
The woman sat beside me with three pieces of pizza piled up on a paper plate looked up as I spoke this last bit aloud.
‘That’s not far from here,’ my neighbour announced. ‘Three blocks. You’re good, honey.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, immediately cheered by the kindness of strangers.
‘No worries,’ she replied, stacking all three slices on top of each other, covering them in chilli flakes and folding them down the middle into one giant pizza sandwich before wedging the entire thing in her mouth. ‘Always happy to help.’
Even if it was disgusting, it was impressive.
I looked at the time on my phone and realized I had less than half an hour until my meeting. At a fashion magazine. In Manhattan. My shoes were stained from the gritty grey slush I’d been walking through all morning, almost every single one of my nails was bitten to bits and my hair was a mess after having been shoved inside my coat all morning. And that was before I even considered the state of my face.
Trying not to panic, I closed my eyes and shut out the sounds of the noisy café. If I was preparing for a meeting in my old job, what would I do? Research the company, reach out to any contacts who had dealt with them before and make sure I had as much information as possible. I wanted to make a good impression on these people. I couldn’t turn up to a fashion mag dressed as a nail-biting, sleeping-bag wearer with dirty feet.
‘Please answer,’ I muttered into my phone, picking it up and dialling the only person I could think of who would consider this as much of an emergency as I did.
‘Tess?’ Paige answered on the second ring. ‘You’re in New York!’
‘Um, yes?’ I replied, slightly surprised. ‘Are you psychic?’
‘Oh, I, no,’ she said, her laugh fluttering down the line. ‘Amy posted. On Facebook.’
‘Of course she did,’ I replied, shaking my head. I started boycotting social media when my sisters began posting photos of their assorted children in various seasonally themed ensembles. ‘But yes, I am and I need your help.’
‘Of course you do,’ she replied simply. ‘What’s going on? Did you pretend to be Vanessa again? Do I need to bail you out of somewhere? Tess! Am I your phone call?’
‘No,’ I sniffed. ‘I haven’t been arrested yet. I came to see Amy for Christmas, all a bit last minute. But the problem right now is that Al’s goddaughter got me a meeting at Gloss magazine.’
‘That’s fantastic,’ she cheered. ‘They’re doing really well. Who are you meeting?’
‘The editor-in-chief and the fashion editor?’ I said. ‘Do you know them?’
I heard Paige suck the air in through her teeth, sharp and slow.
I blanched.
‘That bad?’
‘The editor is supposed to be lovely,’ she said. ‘But I haven’t met her. The fashion editor, not so lovely. I met her at New York fashion week in September. What. A. Bitch. It’s not the same as the UK, they’re far more intense over there. Even more than they are on Belle. I hear it’s all very Miranda Priestly.’
More intense than Paige’s job? Christ on a bike.
‘Reassuring,’ I said, beginning to wish I hadn’t bothered calling in the first place. As if mucky shoes weren’t enough to worry about. ‘I met her twin sister this morning, she was lovely.’
‘Then she must be the nice twin,’ Paige replied. ‘Cecelia is definitely the evil twin. What are you wearing?’
‘Black jeans and a black polo neck,’ I said, peeking inside my unattractive coat. ‘I accidentally dressed as a mime this morning.’
‘No, that’s OK,’ she sounded relieved. ‘Everyone wears black in New York. But you’re going to want to touch up your make-up.’
‘How do you know?’ I asked, peering at my reflection in the screen of my phone. ‘Maybe my make-up is fantastic.’
‘Tess,’ she said. ‘Get real.’
‘You’re always so charming,’ I told her, steeling myself to venture back outside. ‘That’s why I love you.’
‘Thank your lucky stars you aren’t wearing that bloody unicorn T-shirt,’ she warned. ‘Or I’d have called a bomb threat into the office to stop you from going at all. I’m only thinking of you, I want them to love you.’
‘Me too.’ I said, waving at my pizza-eating table neighbour and heading outside. I pushed the coffee shop door open and felt my breath catch in my throat as the wind slapped me in the face. ‘I’ll let you know how it goes.’
‘I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you,’ she said. ‘And my legs. And my eyes.’
‘It’s nice to know you have so much confidence in me,’ I told her as I strode out onto the snow-covered street. ‘And really, she can’t be any worse than you.’
‘Oh, Tess,’ Paige laughed. ‘You just wait.’
‘So.’ I blinked, struggling to pull my heavily mascara’d eyes apart. ‘Any questions?’
Cecelia Spencer stared at me across her huge glass desk.
�
�What’s wrong with your face?’ she asked, squinting.
‘My face?’ I replied. ‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘What. Is. Wrong,’ Cici repeated, slower this time. ‘With. Your. Face.’
‘Nothing,’ I replied, pulling out my iPad and opening my portfolio. ‘Why don’t I show you some of my work?’
‘You’re wearing so much make-up,’ she said in a low, confused voice. ‘Like, all of it.’
It was possible that asking Paige for advice hadn’t been my best idea. I’d been pretty pleased with my make-up after a quick go at myself in the café toilets with a kohl pencil and the mascara I found in the bottom of my handbag. With a little smudging and a touch of translucent powder, I’d even convinced myself I looked quite good.
But somewhere between Forty-Second Street and the Spencer Media building, I was caught in an unexpected slushy shower and my smoky eyes and nude lips had bled into what might happen if Alice Cooper, all the members of Kiss and a couple of giant pandas decided to hang out together at a goth night. Of course, I hadn’t seen my reflection until I walked through the mirrored doors of Gloss and by then it was too late. No wonder the lady on reception had looked at me so strangely.
‘It must be the light,’ I replied, skipping through to my photos of Al’s archive dresses while trying to wipe around my eyes with my little finger. ‘Let me show you some of the work I did with Bertie Bennett.’
‘You look like one of those dolls little kids have to practise make-up on,’ she whispered, never taking her cornflower blue eyes off my face. ‘Only with worse hair.’
‘This was actually his wife’s wedding dress,’ I said, clenching every muscle in my body and powering through. The sooner I got to the end of the portfolio, the sooner I could leave, wash my face and kill myself. ‘I shot it at his house in Hawaii and no one had seen it since their wedding back in the sixties. Would you like to see the shoot I did for Gloss UK?’
‘I’m so sorry I’m late.’
The glass door to the office bustled open as a pretty woman with an English accent and an anxious look on her face rushed in, her blonde-brown hair in a messy ponytail and her arms full of papers, printouts and cardboard coffee cups.
‘The exec meeting ran over and I had to grab the pages from the features desk and entertainment are having a crisis and – anyway, that doesn’t matter, does it?’ She dumped everything on the circular table behind me, dusted off her bright blue patterned dress and held out her hand. ‘I’m Angela Clark. You’ve met Cici?’
‘Angela, what’s wrong with her face?’ Cici asked, resting her pointed chin in her hands and resting her elbows on the desk. ‘It’s not just me, right? You can see it, right?’
‘You’ve met Cici.’ Angela nodded, dropping her hands on her hips. She turned to the fashion editor with wide, fierce eyes. ‘Could you do me a massive favour? Candace is out picking up some props for the shoot tomorrow and I’m dying for a coffee.’
‘You can go.’ Ceci pointed at me with a silver nail file. ‘I got this.’
‘I was actually thinking you could go and get coffees for me, you and Tess.’ Angela’s chin lifted as she spoke. ‘If that wouldn’t be too much trouble.’
Cecelia pushed her chair back with something that couldn’t quite be considered a sigh but certainly wasn’t a happy noise. Standing, she smoothed out her jumper and strutted towards the door, in heels so high just looking at them made my ankles hurt.
‘What do you want?’ she asked, her eyes focusing somewhere to the left of my head.
I glanced at Angela who was busy taking Cici’s seat and straightening various papers. I looked around at all the cute, funny things pinned on the walls. Images of Alexander Skarsgård in various states of undress, an empty bag of Monster Munch, a Union Jack and a Christmas card showing Rudolph and his red nose in a very compromising position. Of course this was her office. Cecelia Spencer did not eat Monster Munch.
Cici cleared her throat loudly.
‘Just a coffee. Milk and sugar, thank you,’ I said. ‘Two sugars.’
‘Sugar is terrible for your skin,’ she informed me in a conspiratorial whisper. ‘And, you know, your ass.’
Sucking my stomach in, I slouched down in my chair as she walked out the room.
So far, so astonishingly awful.
‘Sorry again,’ Angela said, pulling out her ponytail and running a hand through her long, straight bob. ‘I know Cici can be a bit prickly.’
‘Not at all, she reminds me of someone I used to live with,’ I replied, the tension in the room fading out as Cici walked away. ‘I’ve never seen identical twins that are so, well, identical.’
‘Thankfully Delia focuses all her cut-throat energy into her career,’ she assured me, swiping on a pink chapstick. ‘Cici’s Mean Girls stage lasted a bit longer but she’s mostly over it now.’
I raised a blackened eyebrow.
‘Oh man, you should have met her before,’ Angela replied. ‘Believe me, this is a million times better than she was a few years ago. Anyway, what can I do for you? Delia said you’re a friend of her godfather or you work for him or something? Sorry, my brain isn’t quite with it today and I’m a bit rushed for time – we were hoping to close the magazine early to get more time off over the holidays so everything’s gone to shit, obviously.’
‘I really appreciate you seeing me,’ I said, happy to pull the meeting back on track. If there was one thing I was good at, it was a PowerPoint presentation. The sooner I could wow her with my portfolio, the better. ‘I shot a feature spread with Bertie Bennett for Gloss UK and then we worked on a book together, a retrospective of his work.’
‘That’s cool.’ She looked impressed and I felt proud. Two emotions I had missed over the last few weeks. ‘How long have you been working as a photographer?’
‘Not that long, if I’m honest,’ I said, hesitant. ‘I’m only just starting out, really.’
Angela smiled, tucking her hair behind her ears.
‘Still struggling to say it?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ I admitted. ‘It feels weird. I’m a photographer … I’m not entirely sure I believe it.’
‘What were you doing before this?’ She grabbed a handful of red and green M&Ms from a bowl on her desk before pushing them towards me. I took them gladly, popping a couple in my mouth before I could worry what the sugar was going to do to my skin. Or my arse.
‘I was in advertising,’ I told her, noticing the beautiful emerald ring on her wedding finger. Fancy. ‘I was a creative director at an agency in London.’
Angela began twisting the emerald around her finger. ‘Bit of a drastic change there. What made you swap careers?’
‘I was made redundant,’ I said, not sure whether or not I should be telling her everything. ‘And I always enjoyed taking photos so I thought I might as well give it a shot. No pun intended.’
I handed her my iPad and watched her eyes flick back and forth over my photos. I noticed that she smiled a lot more than Ess had when he was looking at them but she was still very quiet.
I looked around her office while she looked at my photos, my eyes automatically drawn to a bunch of silver-framed photos of Angela and various people on top of her bright red filing cabinet. In one, she was posing with a blonde woman and a baby outside a church; in another she was laughing hard and clinging to an improbably beautiful woman, who had the hair my hair dreamed about. The same woman cropped up in two or three others; some of the backgrounds I recognized, lots I didn’t. Angela looked so happy in every picture.
‘Was that really it? You got made redundant?’ Angela asked, looking up from my photos. ‘And that was enough to make you change your entire life?’
‘I did get made redundant,’ I admitted, weaving my fingers in and out the ends of my hair. I couldn’t see any good in not telling her the truth. ‘But then I sort of shagged my friend, found out he’d been shagging my god-awful flatmate and I went a bit mental.’
‘Fair,’ she said with an acce
pting shrug. ‘Happens to the best of us.’
‘Not finished,’ I said, wincing. ‘Then I stole her identity, her camera and her job, went to Hawaii to shoot Al – I mean, Bertie Bennett – for Gloss, met another bloke – and that ended horribly – then went to Milan to shoot the book with Al and well, now I’m here. So, basically I was completely sorted with what I was doing with my life and now I haven’t got a clue. Except I really, really want to make it work as a photographer.’
‘Classic,’ Angela said. ‘I knew there was more to it. Sorry, it’s the journo in me, I can’t resist a good story.’
‘How did you end up here?’ I asked, staring at the New York skyline that stretched out behind her, wondering how she ever got anything done. ‘What made you move to New York?’
‘My boyfriend was shagging another woman in the car at my best friend’s wedding and I accidentally broke the groom’s hand,’ she said in the most disarmingly offhand manner. ‘I came over here to get away for a bit. That was, what, six years ago?’
‘You’re my hero,’ I said.
‘I don’t know about that,’ she said, taking another look at my iPad and handing it back to me. ‘I am so glad Delia sent you over.’
‘Me too,’ I said with an unexpected bubble of laughter. I felt my entire body relax as Angela retied her ponytail and sat back in her spinny chair. ‘It’s ridiculous.’
‘I’m the worst person on earth to give someone life advice,’ Angela said, running a finger underneath her eyes to wipe away mascara smudges that didn’t exist. I did the same and came away with hands that looked like I’d been down a coal mine. ‘But I have dealt with more than one curveball, I know how hard it can be when things start going off track.’
‘Really?’ I replied, looking at a gorgeous black-and-white wedding photo over her left shoulder. If the man in the picture had given her that ring on her finger, she officially had no grounds for complaint, ever, about anything.
‘Things are good now.’ She waved her hands around her office. ‘But trust me, that was not always the case. I turned up here with nothing but a very unflattering bridesmaid dress, a pair of Louboutins and a credit card I’ve literally just finished paying off. As in last week.’
