She wished she could delete that image from her brain’s SD card; she really shouldn’t have it. It felt like the copy of Forever by Judy Blume that was passed around her Year 9 class until Sister Philomena confiscated it. Inappropriate. Contraband.
‘Did you know,’ she said to cover her unease, ‘that Zack’s main musical influence is the California scene of the late sixties? Joni Mitchell, Jackson Browne, Crosby, Stills and Nash … I was raised on that stuff. I wonder if he’s any good … Also, he’s been romantically linked with several of the other influencers on our list; I believe there was a very messy break-up with Alyssia Ahmadi.’
Tom’s eyes were round. ‘Where are you getting all this?’ he asked, amused.
‘Here and there,’ Rachel said, shrugging. ‘There’s loads of stuff about him online, obviously. He even has a Wikipedia page.’
‘Wow. Okay, so I guess it’s best to avoid romantic relationships when you chat to him – but maybe use the music thing as a hook to get him talking about honesty and truth as ideas. Loop him around to the theme of the exhibition via something we know he’s into.’
‘Got it.’
‘In terms of the image we’re after, the focus is on getting him to smile. Almost every Zack picture in existence has him pouting or brooding. He’s quite jolly in his YouTube vids, but it seems he channels Heathcliff for photos.’
‘Right. Maybe I’ll see if I can find a playlist he’d like – help him relax. There’s an Alexa over there that should connect to my phone.’
‘Great idea. Now, hop onto the stool in front of the camera, would you?’
‘Er – what?’
‘I need to test the light. See what I’m working with.’
‘Oh. Okay.’
Rachel shuffled into the centre of the studio area, treading softly on the roll of background paper that Tom had pulled into place. It was a pale, blueish off-white, and she hoped her well-worn boots wouldn’t leave prints on it.
She scrambled up to perch on the stool, which was slightly too tall for her.
‘Hang on,’ Tom said, ‘let me lower that a bit. We don’t want you falling off it; where there’s blame, there’s a claim.’
He helped her down, then fiddled with the underside of the seat until it had come down by a few inches. Satisfied, he held Rachel’s hand as she climbed back up.
‘Okaaaaay,’ Tom breathed, moving back a few paces to assess the set-up. He stared at her thoughtfully, pushing his hair off his forehead.
This was strange. It felt intense … And exposing. Rachel was surrounded by lights and reflectors, everything trained on her face. She fought the urge to pull her sweater over her head and hide, instead trying to remain as still as possible. Tom looked like he was considering something complicated; she didn’t want to put him off.
He came closer again and she instructed herself not to move, though the urge to run away was now stronger than ever. Tom reached up to faff with a huge boxy thing just behind her. As he arched his body around hers she could smell washing powder – presumably the stuff he used to keep that white T-shirt bright.
He retreated and stood directly in front of her. ‘May I?’
Rachel nodded, though she had no idea what she was agreeing to.
Tom placed two fingertips on the underside of her jaw and tilted her head up, tipping it to the left. Rachel felt her lips come apart to suck in a sharp breath that betrayed her surprise at being touched, but she stayed still.
‘Sorry,’ Tom whispered. ‘I know it’s weird.’
‘S’fine,’ Rachel whispered back. It was definitely weird. But weirdly, also fine.
‘Can I take this hairband out? It’ll help me see how the light hits different textures.’
‘Uh-huh,’ Rachel answered, trying not to shift her head.
Tom fiddled with the elastic until her hair came loose, then pushed his fingers into the waves at the nape of her neck, gently fanning them so they fell down her back.
‘Oops – didn’t mean to tickle you,’ he said softly, feeling her start at the contact. He fell back, putting himself a respectful distance away.
Tom fumbled in his pocket and pulled out something that looked like a calculator. It had a small white ball on top.
‘Light meter,’ he said, answering Rachel’s unspoken question. He extended his arm and let the thing hover a few millimetres from the right-hand side of her face, then pressed a button and waited.
Tom moved the meter until it was suspended above Rachel’s head, then fiddled again with the controls. After several more checks, he seemed happy.
‘Cool,’ he said, grinning at her. ‘Don’t move a muscle.’
He strode away, ducking behind a large square camera, then picked up a long, thin black wire with what looked like a silver trigger on its end. He held the metallic thing in his hand as he looked through the viewfinder.
‘Smile, Rach,’ Tom said, then fired the camera. It emitted a loud, rather pleasing snap.
‘You blinked,’ he laughed. ‘And before that you just looked terrified. You know this is a camera and not a grenade launcher, right? Relax your shoulders a bit if you can … You look great, by the way.’
Rachel puffed out her cheeks, blowing away a rush of air that signalled she didn’t believe him.
‘Trust me,’ he said. ‘Now, come on, I need you to smile properly. Think joyful thoughts … No, no, not like you’re straining to go to the loo.’
‘Fuck off, I’m trying!’
‘That’s better.’ Snap.
‘Right. Now think about something properly hilarious. I dunno … Laurence being rugby-tackled by Will. Or having the crap kicked out of him by Anna … I’m not sure which would be scarier, to be honest.’
Rachel laughed, imagining her two friends tag-teaming: Will knocking Laurence over and Anna whacking him around the face with her leopard-print beret. Snap.
‘Beautiful,’ Tom said, then shook his head as she rolled her eyes at him. ‘Rach, listen. I—’
Brrrrrrrring. BRRRRRRRRRINNNNNG.
‘Ah. Zack must be here.’
Tom turned and made for the door as Rachel slid off the stool.
She shook her head and pressed her hands against her cheeks to quell the sudden, intense warmth in them. Then she pulled her hair back up into a high, messy ponytail before following him.
Zack Lanson was shorter than Rachel had expected, but he was every inch the influencer. He was wearing a Belstaff leather jacket that probably cost as much as her monthly rent, plus a long fine-knit scarf so soft and luxurious she’d happily curl up and sleep in it.
Rachel found herself transfixed by Zack’s eyebrows. They were a rich dark brown and more perfectly arched than any she’d ever seen – except perhaps Jessica’s in those stupid Angeljuice ads. He must have them threaded, she concluded. Perhaps she should ask him where.
‘Hi, thanks for being here,’ Tom said, shaking hands with Zack and the younger man he’d brought with him. ‘I’m Tom and this is Rachel, the copywriter for the exhibition. She’ll chat with you about your thoughts on the theme and I’ll be taking your photo.’
‘Lovely. Nice to meet you both,’ Zack said in his trademark cockney wide-boy accent. ‘This is Nate, my assistant.’
From where Rachel was standing it looked as though Nate, a solidly built black guy barely out of his teens, chiefly assisted with carrying Zack’s stuff. He was weighed down with garment bags, a large glass bottle of what Rachel hoped was water and a massive metallic vanity case.
Rachel took the water out of Nate’s hand before the bottle could fall and smash, then helped him to drape Zack’s clothes over the arm of the small mustard sofa that sat in the kitchen area.
‘Thanks,’ Nate said, flashing Rachel a smile.
‘No problem.’
‘So, what do you want me in first, Tommy?’ Zack asked. ‘A suit, perhaps? I’ve brought my YSL skinny tuxedo, I look the dog’s in that.’
‘It’s just Tom. And actually, what you’re wearing is pro
bably perfect – the famous white tee plus your jacket. We’ll mainly be doing just head-and-shoulders shots anyway, and we’re after a kind of “off-duty” look … I’m sure you’re all clued up on the exhibition concept after speaking with Dev.’
‘Oh yeah, absolutely,’ Zack said, not sounding clued up at all. ‘I remember now – we’re keeping it real for this one. Seriously, though … Are we talking no hair and make-up whatsoever? Not even a bit of CC cream, no highlighter? I don’t wanna look all pale and tired, my followers expect me to be fresh. And what about contouring?’
Tom looked alarmed, as though he wasn’t sure what most of these words even meant.
‘Think about the kind of shot you’d see on a 1960s album cover,’ Rachel interjected. ‘Or imagine a really gorgeous, natural photo of a good-looking artist – say, Springsteen. That’s what we’re aiming for.’
Tom closed his eyes in relief, nodding and giving her a thumbs up behind Zack’s back. He motioned for her to carry on talking.
‘The idea is we want to show a different side to you,’ Rachel continued, ‘create an image that’s artistic, a little raw, kind of vintage in style. Less polished than usual, but beautifully lit and composed, so still really flattering.’
‘Got you,’ Zack said, brightening. ‘Shame I didn’t bring my guitar, now I think about it – would have been the perfect prop. Nate, mate – could you take all this stuff back to the flat? Maybe pick up the Hummingbird?’
Nate’s face crumpled at the prospect of more fetching and carrying. Rachel didn’t blame him.
‘Honestly, there’s no need,’ Tom said. ‘I promise we can get the vibe we’re after without it.’
‘We want to capture the music in you,’ Rachel said, trying not to cringe or catch Tom’s eye in case she laughed. ‘I don’t blame you for wanting to show off the Gibson, though. Is it the cherry-coloured one you have?’
Rachel guided Zack towards the studio area, chatting with him about instruments, songwriting and a folk music documentary they’d both seen. She handed Tom her phone as they passed him, preloaded with a playlist she was confident Zack would like. Tom got it going while Rachel settled Zack inside the ring of lights and reflectors, and Nate clattered around the kitchen working the coffee machine.
As Tom adjusted the equipment and the voice of James Taylor meandered around the room, Rachel chatted with Zack, noting down everything that might be suitable for his mini-bio and soon feeling like she had plenty to work with.
Before long, Tom had established a comfortable dynamic with his subject, taking flurries of photos, tweaking some aspect of their set-up or composition and then shooting more. Zack was clearly more confident than Rachel had been in front of the camera, shifting his body and tilting his face on cue in the way a fashion model might.
Tom had to work hard, joking and chatting to keep Zack engaged and prevent his face falling into its standard brooding stare. Gradually, though, Zack’s expression started to relax, his face becoming more real somehow as Tom gave him room to unwind.
Rachel watched Tom work, fascinated by a side of him she’d never seen before. Occasionally she’d creep up to glance at the photo monitor, startled every time by the beauty of the images he’d captured. She made a mental note to thank Anna for pushing her into doing this; it was fun and interesting, and she couldn’t imagine someone else here in her place.
As the shoot neared its end, Zack had an idea that no one could deny was worth exploring. He wanted to try taking some photos in the suit he’d brought with him, but wear it scruffier than usual – rough it up and subvert the style his fans were used to seeing.
As Zack retreated behind a screen to change and Nate lugged a heavy-looking YSL bag across the room, Tom pulled his mobile out of his coat pocket and put the phone to his ear, presumably to listen to a voicemail. Rachel could tell immediately that something was wrong.
Sinking into a plastic chair, he dropped his face into the palm of his left hand as he clutched the phone in his right.
‘What’s happened?’ Rachel asked under her breath, crouching down and clinging to the arm of the seat. ‘Tom?’
He groaned. ‘It’s my brother.’
‘Your what?’
As far as Rachel knew, Tom was an only child – but she told herself now wasn’t the time to badger him into explaining the sudden appearance of a sibling.
‘Is he okay?’
‘No. Well, yeah … But he’s twatted in some pub not too far away. Which wouldn’t be a problem if it weren’t for the fact he’s only fifteen.’
‘Fifteen? So the age gap between you is … No, forget it – that’s not important right now. Was he calling you for help?’
‘It’s not him, it’s his mates. They’re terrified he’s going to get them all arrested, and they don’t dare call his mum. None of them are even supposed to be in London.’ He clawed at his dark-blonde head. ‘Urrrgh, fuck it, I’m going to have to go and get him.’
‘No,’ Rachel insisted, ‘it’s so unfair for you to have to abandon the shoot when it’s going so well. And it’s only the first one – what will Dev think? Listen …’ she went on, not entirely sure where she was going with this, yet certain it couldn’t be anywhere good. ‘I have enough notes on Zack to pull my copy together. Let me go and fetch your brother. Although you’ll need to give me his name and some sort of description.’
Taking responsibility for a hammered teenage boy was somewhere between camping and giving up cheese on Rachel’s list of Things I Have No Desire To Do, but Tom’s face was desperate and it made her insides hurt. He shut his eyes and sighed as he processed what she’d said.
‘Really?’
‘Really. How long ago did his friends leave that message?’
‘Only about ten minutes, thank God.’
‘Right. Give me your phone so I can get your brother’s number. I’ll find them.’
‘Are you sure about this?’ Tom asked. ‘It sounds like he’s in a proper state.’
‘Thomas, I have about a thousand Irish cousins and I’ve spent many summers hanging around the street corners, parks and pubs of County Dublin. I promise you, your brother won’t be the first battered schoolboy I’ve kept out of harm’s way.’
Tom nodded at her gratefully.
Rachel grabbed her handbag and pulled her coat on, then stopped. ‘Er – who am I looking for again?’
‘Oscar Evans. Answers to Ozzy. Looks kind of like me, I guess, but shorter.’
‘Right. Leave it with me. If it looks like Zack’s still here when I get back, I’ll find somewhere else to take him.’
‘You’re brilliant, Rach,’ Tom said. ‘I can’t thank you enough.’
She smiled at him, then reached up and gave his arm a squeeze. She slipped out of the door just as Zack, dazzling in his slim-cut designer suit, stepped back in front of the camera.
18
Oscar Evans was exactly as described: shorter and rounder than Tom, but with familiar facial features that denoted they must be brothers. Also, he was hideously drunk.
Rachel found him with three slightly less incapacitated friends, slumped against the outside wall of a pub on Bethnal Green Road. After establishing that they were capable of getting themselves home, Rachel put the other boys on a bus to Liverpool Street station and instructed them to get on the first train back to Colchester. This, she’d been informed, was where they all lived.
She said they could call her again if they needed anything, but also left them in no doubt that she wasn’t some soft touch. If any further rescues were needed today, she warned, it would be the police or their parents picking them up off the pavement. Rachel got the impression the boys took her at her word, and felt confident they wouldn’t drink any more.
Oscar himself was in no fit state for public transport, so after getting him to sip some bottled water she threw her arm around his waist and helped him plod slowly back in the direction of the studio. What should have been a ten-minute walk took more like twenty, but eventually
the railway arches were back in view. When she got close enough, Rachel saw that the door to A24 was propped open.
Concluding that Zack and Nate must be gone, she hauled Oscar inside. Tom rushed over to them, pulled his brother’s arm from around Rachel’s shoulders and manhandled him into a seated position on the kitchenette’s yellow-gold sofa.
‘Thank you so much,’ Tom said, folding Rachel into the tightest hug they’d ever shared. She leaned into it, enjoying the sensation of being held upright by someone else after the exertion of getting Oscar back here.
‘Fuckin’ hell, get a room …’ came a groggy voice from the corner.
Tom whirled around, advancing on Oscar in a single angry stride.
‘Watch it,’ he warned. ‘You are in a world of shit with me, but that’s nothing compared with the bollocking you’ll get from Christine if I phone her and tell her what’s happened.’
Oscar quailed and looked as though he might throw up. ‘Don’t. Please.’
‘Here’s what’s going to happen. You are going to sit there quietly and drink some more water while I put this equipment away. Then you’re going to come back to my flat and stay there – at least until you’re in your right mind and I’ve worked out what to do with you.’
Oscar was no longer listening. He was now half-asleep and smirking, his head leaned back against the couch he’d been deposited on.
‘I’ll help you get him home,’ Rachel said. ‘You finish packing up, I’ll call an Uber.’
‘Rach, you’ve already done enough. Honestly, don’t let me – this – take up any more of your Saturday.’
‘Stop arguing,’ she said. ‘The car’s already on its way.’
Tom sighed and shook his head, but continued sliding lights and lenses back into their foam-packed cases.
Moments after he’d collapsed the final tripod and slipped his laptop into his bag, Rachel said, ‘Taxi’s here.’
Between them they loaded Tom’s equipment into the boot of the Prius that had pulled up, then went back inside the arch for Oscar. Tom dragged him to his feet. ‘Stay quiet and act normal,’ he ordered, ‘or the driver won’t let you in the car.’
Rachel Ryan's Resolutions Page 19
