‘Dev managed to convince the owners of this place that having a show of starry photos would guarantee ongoing celebrity interest,’ Tom said, winking.
Dev was smiling. ‘Indeed. Though the discount I negotiated will probably be swallowed twice over by the budget for press night …’
‘Press night?’ Rachel asked.
‘A glorified launch party for the show,’ Dev explained. ‘We invite a range of people with an interest in the exhibition, plus as many journalists as we can get, to come and see it before it opens to the public. Everyone drinks champagne, nibbles on canapés and says how marvellous it is. Which, of course, it will be, hahaha. If we’re lucky, #NoFilter gets mentioned as the hottest ticket in town in Hello! magazine, as well as coverage in Grazia and all the weekend papers.’
‘Wow,’ Rachel said, a little taken aback.
‘You’ll be there, of course,’ Dev went on. ‘Everyone who worked on the show will come along on press night, as well as all of our models.’
‘Speaking of whom …’ Tom put in, pulling an iPad out of his backpack. ‘Let me show you the latest snaps.’
He perched on the top step of the staircase that led from the high point of the gallery to the floor below, then patted the space next to him, beckoning for Rachel to sit. She squeezed into it, ending up pressed far closer to Tom than she was used to. He smelled lemony and clean. It was the scent that still lingered on the sweatshirt he’d given her.
Tom flipped through a selection of images featuring an almost unrecognisable Alyssia Ahmadi. She was grinning artlessly into the camera – a far cry from her usual smile, which was the smug grin Rachel associated with macrobiotic types who insisted positive thinking was the key to success, while blithely letting their wealthy parents pay the mortgage.
Tom had photographed Joey Nixon outside, which in itself was noteworthy. His followers rarely saw him without headphones or a console control pad in his hand. In the exhibition images he was surrounded by nature: trees just coming into blossom, a moody-looking River Thames and – in one photo – a black Labrador that had shaken off its owner, bounded into shot and licked Joey’s face.
Rachel felt like she might burst with admiration. ‘These are amazing, Tom,’ she said. ‘It’s like they’re different people, but in a good way.’
‘Want to see some of the shots I’ve done of the normals too?’ he asked, grinning.
‘Ugh,’ Dev groaned. He was at their backs, looking over their shoulders. ‘I’ve been bracing myself for these. Some of the mental health advocates look like vagabonds – overgrown beards, ill-fitting tunic tops and hideously dehydrated skin. I’m slightly worried they’ll ruin the whole aesthetic of the show. Are you absolutely sure we can’t airbrush them?’
‘Of course we can’t,’ Tom laughed, scrolling through shots of doctors, campaigners and politicians. None of them were as beautiful as the influencers, but he’d managed to catch every face looking open, honest and good.
‘I love these too,’ Rachel said. ‘How is it that we’ve known each other four years, Thomas, and it’s only now I’m realising you might be a genius?’
He shrugged and smiled at her. ‘I guess I hide it well.’
‘All right, you two,’ Dev said from behind them. ‘I could live without the love-in. These are solid, Tom. They’ll fit in fine with the client shots.’
Tom heaved himself back up to standing, then reached for Rachel’s hand to help her do the same. ‘I’ll send you low-res copies of the final shots we select for the show, Rach. You can use them while you’re working on the text. Just shout if there’s anything else you need.’
Rachel replied, ‘Cool,’ then followed Tom as he began making his way down the gallery’s four flights of stairs.
‘Well done, both,’ Dev said as they approached the front door. ‘Things are shaping up nicely. Before I forget, Tom: there are one or two influencers I’m still trying to get on board. If we have last-minute additions, we might have to accommodate them as part of photo shoots we’ve already booked.’
‘Not a problem,’ Tom said. ‘Just keep me posted.’
‘Will do. Right, I’m off. Wedding planning,’ Dev moaned. ‘I ask you: how can it be that there are six hundred people coming to celebrate my marriage?’
Rachel’s mouth dropped open. ‘I don’t think I even know six hundred people.’
‘Knowing them isn’t the point,’ Dev said. ‘Inviting them is. A good chunk of them I’ve probably never even met – like Aditi’s old piano teacher from when she was eleven, plus her husband. And they’ll jolly well come too. At least I’m not the one paying for the samosas.’
He shook his head as Rachel and Tom laughed, then bustled away.
‘What are you up to now?’ Tom asked. ‘Fancy lunch and a fruit beer? That bar you liked is only round the corner and their pommes frites are spectacular. I can fill you in on all things Oscar-related.’
‘Honestly, I’d love to,’ Rachel said, and meant it. ‘But I’ve been drafted in for wedding duty this afternoon too. Anna’s asked me to meet her in Muswell Hill. I think we’re looking at dresses.’
‘Ah. Cool. Well, have fun,’ Tom said. ‘By the way – the next big influencer photo shoot isn’t for a while, but I wondered if you might want to come along? It’s the session with Sophie French, and she seems very keen on being reinvented.’
‘Definitely! Let me know when it is and I’ll make sure I don’t double-book myself.’
‘Will do. Enjoy this afternoon. And Rach …?’
‘Yeah?’
He was looking at her gently – with an expression that was kind and concerned, but somehow managed not to seem patronising.
‘It’s going to be okay, you know, all this wedding stuff. You’re going to be okay. I promise.’
Rachel nodded at him, not trusting herself to say anything back in case her voice cracked.
She wanted to believe him – wanted him to be right, like he almost always was. She just didn’t see how it was possible.
May
New Year’s Ongoing resolutions
1. Consider exercise an act with actual benefits – both mental and physical – not merely grim punishment for pizzas consumed. Have a proper go at Continue letting Greg drag me to yoga. provided he refrains from making snide comments re Jack/me and Jack. Give up trying to control subject matter discussed over dinner.
2. Also re-download Complete Couch to 5K running app and actually do the programme. Keep running at least twice per week – always being careful not to perv on anyone improper.
3. Apply for promotion at work at first chance. Move to bigger account and try to get pay rise. Avoid, if possible, further projects concerning dog biscuits, disinfectant, high-quality printer ink cartridges, ‘miracle’ grass seed, organic vegetables, etc.
3a. Try to hang on to job (and temper) despite presence of evil ex-boyfriend hideousness control-freakery of certain clients.
3b. Ignore everyone who keeps banging on about how fit he Jack is.
3c. Ignore how fit he is.
3d. Ignore the fact he keeps trying to be friendly/nice/possibly quite flirtatious is openly trying to shag me.
3e. Ignore the fact he is getting divorced.
4. DO NOT agree to further dates with Laurence. Remember: it’s no use having a boyfriend who is good on paper if you do not actually fancy him.
4. Forget that Laurence even EXISTS (despite usefulness of overblown ‘romantic’ gestures for creating illusion of deeply devoted boyfriend. Try not to spin any more tales re ‘boyfriend’ though – don’t want story to get too complicated … ) – situation is already quite complicated enough.
5. Try to remember Mum means well, even during phone calls where she implies I am doomed to a lonely life of penury because I am thirty with no partner, hardly any savings and no mortgage insists on talking about the babies/breasts of people I went to school with.
6. HOWEVER, do not (!!!) speak to Mum when suffering PMT. Set phone alerts for likely spel
ls based on period tracker intel.
7. Try to address ‘hardly any savings’ situation. (If promoted, set aside extra earnings for future house deposit instead of spaffing it all on ASOS.) (Do not spend entire pay rise on ‘cheer up’ treats to distract from heinous ex-boyfriend mess.) hot new outfits for work – see 3c.)
8. Try to eat my five-a-day. (Remember horrid rule that potatoes do not count.)
9. Start using proper night cream with retinol. SERIOUSLY. Regularly apply retinol cream purchased from Boots in pursuit of perfect, Dev-style skin.
10. Do the best possible job helping Tom with exhibition. Be supportive and discreet re Oscar. Avoid arguing with Tom about Jack.
11. Be a good friend (and bridesmaid) to Anna. Help with wedding organisation and keep selfish, sad worries about how much I’ll miss her to myself.
25
It was unusual for Rachel to take a half-day off work, but today she was going to start the weekend early. Anna wanted to meet her at some random shop in Wood Green, near school, and she had a free period every Friday afternoon. Coincidentally, this was the only time when the ‘by appointment’ store she’d found could open for them.
‘We can make an event of it,’ Anna had said. ‘Look at the dresses, spend some quality time together and then get to the Hope nice and early.’
Rachel hadn’t had the heart to argue, though she was apprehensive. What sort of place would Anna be dragging her to this time? So far they’d been to look at wedding gowns in swanky boutiques, high-end department stores and specialist dressmakers’ studios. They’d drunk a fair amount of free Prosecco, but nothing they’d found had been right. Not a single dress Anna tried on had felt like her, somehow.
‘I look like an ornate toilet roll holder,’ she’d said of a voluminous French lace gown in a bridal shop in Kensington – much to the chagrin of the owner.
‘More like a pint-sized Disney princess …’ Rachel had replied in a vain attempt at diplomacy. Anna had glowered at her. ‘… Which is obviously not the look you’re going for.’
Anna was already waiting outside the shop when Rachel arrived. It was a small place, but neat, tidy and stylish. The storefront was painted dark grey and there were two beautifully dressed mannequins in the window.
One was in a midnight-blue evening dress, and the other wore a diaphanous chiffon gown in pale turquoise. It had long sleeves with flamboyant feather trim that had been dyed bright cyan. Both garments, Rachel thought, were probably 1960s originals – dresses made decades before she and Anna were even born. The sign above the door announced, in shiny bronze letters, that the shop’s name was Tempo.
‘It’s a vintage boutique!’ Rachel cried, smiling.
‘Yes.’ Anna nodded. ‘Specialising in formalwear, particularly designer pieces: vintage Dior, Balenciaga, Hermès, Pucci, Ossie Clark …’
Rachel sighed, clutching at her chest as though her heart might burst with excitement. ‘How did you find this place?’
‘Well, it’s fairly new,’ Anna said. ‘And honestly, I just happened to walk past it one afternoon last week. It hadn’t occurred to me to try looking for a vintage dress to get married in, but …’
‘It’s a great idea,’ Rachel said. ‘I have a very good feeling about this.’
‘Me too.’ Anna smiled, and rang the doorbell.
They were let in by a woman with deep amber skin and shoulder-length Afro hair. Some of her curls were highlighted shades of caramel, honey and gold, and her big, wide eyes were dark brown. Rachel guessed she was no older than twenty-five.
‘You must be Anna,’ she said, grinning. ‘I’m Zahra. We spoke on the phone.’
‘Yes!’ Anna said, shaking Zahra’s hand. ‘And this is Rachel. She’ll be my maid of honour.’
‘Just the two of you, is it?’ Zahra asked. ‘We don’t need to wait for anyone else?’
Anna shook her head. Rachel cringed. They’d had this conversation in every wedding dress shop they’d visited – though at least Zahra had the sense not to ask, point blank, ‘Isn’t your mum coming?’
Anna’s mother lived in Spain, and they didn’t speak. They’d had barely any contact since Anna was about thirteen – the age at which she’d realised it hurt more to try to have a relationship with her mum than to pretend she didn’t exist.
Nicola Taylor had given birth to her daughter at twenty and rapidly decided that motherhood was too tough a road to walk alone. She moved back into her parents’ house in Dagenham, then out again not twelve months later, leaving her baby girl behind.
Anna always said her gran and grandpa were the only parents she’d ever known, and – as far as Rachel was concerned – they’d been outstanding ones. Their granddaughter was the best, most brilliant person she’d ever met.
When they passed away, they’d left Anna everything they had – including the ex-council house she’d grown up in, which Anna had sold so she could buy the Stroud Green flat. Even six years on, it still made Rachel feel sick to think that Anna’s mother hadn’t bothered to help plan her own parents’ funerals – nor even attended her father’s. What she had done was mount a legal challenge to the will that left their worldly goods to her daughter. Thankfully, it had ended in failure.
‘Yep – just us,’ Anna said brightly, smiling at Zahra and clutching Rachel’s arm. Rachel found her hand and held it for a moment.
Zahra nodded and Rachel caught a glimpse of her left ear, which was adorned with an array of tiny, twinkling piercings. The woman was stunning – and probably wearing her own stock, Rachel thought. She had on an ochre maxi dress with a psychedelic leaf print in shades of orange, black and lime green, likely a find from the seventies. It looked perfect, like it had been made for her.
‘Nice, isn’t it?’ Zahra asked, and Rachel realised she must have been staring.
‘It’s awesome.’
‘It was like a sack when I found it.’ Zahra smiled. ‘I do alterations and reimagining of vintage stuff, as well as just trading in the pieces I source – so if we find something you love but it isn’t a great fit, that’s no problem.’
She turned to Anna. ‘Based on our chat and what you told me about your style and size, I’ve put aside a few things I think you might like. Why don’t I go and get the rack, then pop the kettle on while you take a look?’
Anna grinned when Zahra reappeared, wheeling a clothing rail along with her. It was hung with garments in varying shades of white, blush, cream and oyster. All of them were different, and none looked like anything Anna had tried on during previous attempts at wedding gown shopping.
She and Rachel riffled through a selection of dresses while Zahra made tea. One was flapper-style and entirely made of chiffon. Another, probably from the 1930s, was made of vanilla-coloured silk; it had a high-necked sunburst front, a low, scooped back and subtle gold trim.
Anna looked beautiful in everything, though some of the dresses were several inches too long for her. Zahra, however, claimed she’d saved the best for last. ‘Now I’ve met you,’ she said, ‘I’m even more convinced this one’s going to look amazing.’
Anna took the dress she was handed into the changing area, then emerged a few minutes later with a blazing, jubilant look on her face. She was a vision, and she knew it. Rachel felt her eyes well up and Zahra clapped.
Anna was wearing a 1960s cocktail dress that fell to her knee. It was made of thick cream satin and covered in tiny clear-glass beads that shimmered as she moved. The bodice, cut square above Anna’s bust, sat separately from the skirt; elevated above the waist, it was embroidered with small peach flowers. Beaded tassels hung from its glittering hem.
‘This is the one,’ Anna sighed.
‘It so is,’ Rachel agreed. Anna, with her pixie cut, petite figure and doll-like face, was wearing the hell out of this dress – it wasn’t wearing her.
‘And here’s the best bit,’ Zahra said, triumphant. She pulled a box off the shelf next to her, opened it and freed an elegant bolero jacket from several folds of tiss
ue paper. She handed it to Anna.
‘I made this to match the dress so it could be worn during the daytime, always hoping the right bride would come along.’
‘It’s perfect,’ Anna said, and slipped it on. It sat snug on her shoulders and had slender three-quarter-length sleeves with pale peach edging. She looked iconic – like a model. Like a shorter, more grown-up Twiggy.
‘This dress is your sartorial soulmate, Anna,’ Rachel declared. ‘You have to buy it. Give Zahra all your money before someone else can come along and say they want it. Give her all your worldly goods. Give her Will, if she wants him.’
‘All I’ll need today is a deposit, if you decide to go ahead,’ Zahra laughed. ‘In which case, we could also make a couple of appointments for fittings – just so I can adjust the dress and jacket to your measurements exactly. If you like, I can also help you source shoes and accessories to go with them … Maybe even a bridesmaid’s dress?’
‘Yes, yes and yes,’ Anna said, elated. ‘Yes to everything. Here’s my debit card.’
Half an hour later, on the bus back towards Finsbury Park, Anna rested her head on Rachel’s shoulder. She was quiet but smiling – thoughtful but contented.
‘Thanks for being there for me,’ she said softly. Rachel knew precisely what she meant.
‘Always,’ Rachel replied. ‘Forever. I wouldn’t have missed that fashion show for the world.’
They arrived at the Hope just after five and settled at a table in a sunny spot by the window. Rachel bought a bottle of chilled Provence rosé and poured out two glasses.
‘God, that’s lovely,’ Anna said, taking a sip. ‘Let’s crack into the crisps.’
Rachel tore open the two bags she’d placed on the table – one cheese and onion and one prawn cocktail. Anna made a disgusted face at the pink packet, then dragged the blue one towards her.
Rachel Ryan's Resolutions Page 27
