Gemma was back quickly.
‘Kent – that’s the assistant’s name, honestly, it is,’ she said. ‘He’s from North Dakota but he lives here now. Anyway, Kent – he’s quite cute actually – Kent says Nivek might be able to work in one corner of the store, so he’s just setting up to do some test Polaroids. Kent is going to come and tell me when they’re ready for Amica. Although it’s just a trial, of course,’ she added, with heavy irony.
‘Oh, of course,’ I replied and we all knew he was going to shoot there. It was just his way of torturing us to feel he was still in control, but my Bee ruse had worked. Advantage Miss Pointer.
It was a similar story in all the locations. It’s hard enough when you have five different shots to do in one day, in different parts of any city, but New York is even harder than most, because of the crazy bustle and press of the people and all the hassle with permits.
And then Nivek did just about everything he could have done on top of that to make it harder, including being rude to a cop, when we were doing the taxi shot – which we should have had a permit for and didn’t. We only got out of that one by another intervention from Gemma, who could bat her eyelids for Britain. And very pretty eyelids they were too. I was beyond being able to bat anything, by that stage, apart from possibly Nivek’s head with a heavy golf club.
His ill grace infected the whole first day, with Amica refusing to wear a couple of the outfits, for no good reason, and even Paul getting quite testy at times. His problem was that he loathed Mitch the hairdresser on several different levels, not least of which was that he kept giving Amica terrible overdone hairdos, which had nothing to do with the exquisitely natural looking make-up Paul was doing – appropriately for a girl going on holiday. Mitch kept making her look like something out of a Miss America pageant.
In the end, when he refused to take down a full-on Priscilla Presley beehive no one had asked him to do, I sacked him. That was a moment. I’d never actually done it before, sacking someone on a job, but on top of Nivek’s posturing I’d just had enough.
What was really driving me nuts was that I loved the concept of the story and maddening though he was, I could tell from the Polaroids that Nivek was doing seriously beautiful pictures. It was almost annoying how good they were, but I kept reminding myself to stay focused on the endgame and that I just had to put up with these two days of torture to have a wonderful story in my cuttings book for ever. If I could only sort out the hair.
We’d done three shots when I told Mitch to go. I could see Nivek waver for a millisecond as he decided whether he should chuck a full tantrum and leave with him. Mitch clearly expected him to, but Nivek was enough of a player – and enough of a shit – to know that an eight-page story in Chic was worth a lot more to him than his friendship with Mitch, whatever that was based on and I had good reason to believe it wasn’t strictly professional.
I’d asked to see his book before the shoot – mainly because I’d never heard of him and partly tit for tat for the Paul book insult – and it had been conveniently ‘lost’ by the courier en route to my hotel. Now I knew why. It probably only contained local photographer shots from an Idaho hair show.
With Paul doing the hair as well as the make-up, the shoot got much easier. Amica relaxed and it subtly shifted the balance of power away from Nivek, a state which was enhanced further by the glaring fact that Kent was absolutely smitten with Gemma and would do anything to make her happy. She was playing him like a trout; it was beautiful to watch.
By the time we’d finished on the second day it was after ten at night. We hadn’t done the shots in order and the last one we did was the unpacking-in-the-hotel picture, for which we had used a suite at the Soho Grand, where Gemma and I were staying on an editorial credit deal. It was Paul who came up with the idea that we should keep the suite on for a post-shoot party – we’d already messed it up.
His initial plan, which we cooked up while Nivek was down in the bar having a cigarette break, was not to tell him about the party plan and have everyone go away and then come back half an hour later. But as we plotted, I started looking through the Polaroids again. I put them in narrative order on the bed and called Paul over to look. He whistled between his teeth when he saw them.
‘Shit, that looks good,’ he said. ‘That fuckwit can really take a picture. How annoying.’
‘I don’t know whether to be thrilled or furious,’ I said, laughing. ‘He’s a loathsome toad, but these are fantastic. They’ve got exactly the mood I wanted. The crazy thing is that obnoxious though he is, these are so great I’m going to want to work with him again and even if I didn’t want to, Bee would make me. These shots have that luscious feel that makes you want to rush out and buy all the clothes. He’s really good. A really good wanker and we’ve got to have him at the party, Jacko. I’ve got to learn to like him.’
The surprising thing was that Nivek seemed sincerely excited about the party idea when we told him and the final shot went off without any rudeness or attitude from his quarter.
By the time we finished there was actually a great atmosphere in the suite, which was cranked up further when Paul’s friends Mark and Karl turned up, along with a few buddies of Kent’s, and Amica’s likeable banker boyfriend. We had a wild old time, ordering champagne and snacks on room service and generally acting up.
Everyone was carrying on in the sitting room – Mark had initiated dancing to MTV, which at this point had him attempting to spin on his head – and I sneaked off to have another squint at the Polaroids in the bedroom. Nivek came out of the loo and found me looking at them. And the man I had wanted to kill earlier turned into a small boy.
‘Do you like them?’ he asked, uncertainly.
‘Like them?’ I said. ‘I love them. They’re brilliant. Thank you so much, Nivek. Bee is going to adore these pictures, you know.’
His whole face lit up. It was such a striking difference from the person he had been earlier, I just had to come out and ask him.
‘Nivek,’ I said, tentatively. ‘Why were you such a pain on this shoot? What was that all about?’
He looked shifty and then something in him seemed to deflate. I patted the bed next to me and he sat down, hanging his head.
‘I was scared,’ he said. ‘I care too much about my work. As a photographer you only get one go and I always get absolutely terrified that I am going to fuck it up and no one will ever book me again.’
‘You idiot,’ I said, punching him on the arm. ‘The only thing that nearly fucked this shoot up was your attitude. Chill out, Nivek – you’re really talented, but you’ve got to relax a bit and learn to trust other people.’
He looked up at me with such a vulnerable expression, I almost wanted to give him a cuddle. Almost.
‘It’s teamwork, you know, this thing we do,’ I told him, gently. ‘I mean, you click the shutter and you’ll be the one with your name in lights on the page, but it’s a combination of my styling and Paul’s make-up and – well, we’ll gloss over the hair – and Amica’s beauty. Even Kent and Gemma played a big part too. Go with that, don’t fight it.’
‘You’re probably right,’ he said. ‘I think it comes from being an only child, I think everything revolves around me.’ He picked up the Polaroids and looked at them thoughtfully. ‘They are good, aren’t they?’
‘They’re brilliant – but don’t go all maudlin on me. I’m serious about this. If you can just learn to relax we can do a lot of great work together… Kevin.’
It was a risk. There was a moment’s silence and then he burst out laughing.
‘You cow,’ he said.
‘You can call me Y-lime,’ I said, pushing it a bit further. He thought for a moment and then roared again, pretending to cuff me round the head. Paul came in a moment later to find us hugging.
I tell you, fashion really is a funny old business.
15
The combination of such an emotionally charged shoot, the great work we had produced together despite i
t all, the pleasure of spending two whole days with Paul and the high spirits at the party left me feeling pretty wired.
Things didn’t wind down in the suite until after 1 a.m. when Paul and his pals – including Nivek – decided they had to go off to some new boy bar. I declined the offer to join them and then, as I sloped off to my room, I caught sight of Gemma and Kent kissing passionately in the corridor. It was quite clear what was going to go on there and I felt a sharp pang of envy. Well, not envy exactly. The truth of the matter was I felt fantastically sexed up.
I sat in my lonely hotel room all too aware of what Gemma and Kent were probably getting up to in hers and feeling quite mad with desire. And it wasn’t random sexual desire either. I didn’t just want sex, I didn’t want sex with Kent, or even Ollie. I wanted sex with Miles.
So I did what drunk and horny women so often do, I drank – a shot of brandy from the mini bar – and dialled. I hadn’t even checked what time it was in Australia, but Miles answered straight away and sounded fully awake. Just hearing his voice say hello sent a tremor through my loins.
‘It’s Emily,’ I said.
‘Hey, Em,’ said Miles, sounding surprised and pleased. ‘How are you, darls?’
I let out a big sigh and then I told him.
‘I’m horny,’ I said. ‘Horny, horny, horny, just like the song, quite pissed, alone in a hotel room and thinking about you.’
‘Is that right?’ said Miles in a voice which was all smile.
‘You’re not in New York are you?’ I asked him, half seriously. Well, stranger things have happened.
‘If only,’ he said. ‘I’d be right there, but actually I’m here in Australia, on the beach at Seal Rock. I’ve been surfing all day, I’m just about to leave, but I can’t tear myself away from the waves. Listen…’
I could distinctly hear the sound of waves crashing on a beach.
‘Can you hear it?’ he asked me.
‘Oh, yeah,’ I said, wanting him more than ever. I would have done a From Here to Eternity with him right there on that beach if I could have.
‘Can you hang on a minute?’ he asked. His voice sounded more Australian somehow over the miles. And even sexier. I held on and heard what sounded like a door slamming.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’m in my panel van. What are you wearing?’
‘In your what?’ I said. ‘And what do you mean, what am I wearing?’
He laughed.
‘It’s a van-type car thing. An “estate”, I think you Poms call them. And I mean, tell me what you’re wearing – as you take it off. Have you still got your shoes on?’
I had. Very high heels, as usual. No tights, as usual. Low-rise jeans. Layered T-shirts. A bright pink Agent Provocateur thong. I described everything as I took it off, until I was lying naked on the bed.
‘Don’t lie down,’ said Miles.
‘How did you know I was lying down?’ I squeaked.
‘I could tell by your voice. Don’t lie down until I’m ready. I want you to sit up and watch me. I’m pulling down the zip on my wetsuit now – can you hear it?’
I could hear it and in my mind’s eye I could so clearly see it, I nearly fell off the bed with desire. And so it went on, until I realized I had just had what is known as phone sex. It wasn’t as good as the real thing, but it was something.
We didn’t ring off immediately, but just lay there – well, I lay there, I suppose he was in his car seat – breathing.
‘Emily?’ he said eventually.
‘Yeah?’ I answered.
‘I’m glad you called,’ he said and then he paused for a moment. ‘I miss you.’
I swallowed hard. I wasn’t expecting that. I missed the sex, but did I miss him? I couldn’t allow myself to.
‘Well, I’ll see you here in New York in February,’ I said cautiously. ‘I’ll email you, nearer the time. Or I might call you again, before then.’
‘You do that,’ said Miles and finally we hung up.
Even though I hadn’t had much sleep I woke up the next morning feeling almost as good as if I’d had live sex with Miles. Just lying in bed stretching and thinking about it made me want to ring him again. So I did.
This time, I had clearly woken him up. It took him a moment or two to come to, but when he realized it was me the smile came right back into his voice.
‘You are a horny little girl, aren’t you?’ he said.
‘Not particularly until I met you,’ I replied, in all honesty.
‘Well, what can Dr Feelgood do for you tonight – or this morning, or whatever it is with you? It’s midnight here.’
So I told him – in graphic detail.
I went out into that New York day feeling ready to take on the world. It was a bright morning for mid-November, with an invigorating chill and a bright blue sky. I had so much energy I decided to get the hotel to send on my bags and set out to walk all the way up to Ursula’s.
I counted it later; it was over eighty blocks, more actually, as I didn’t take the most direct route, but wound through SoHo for a while checking out the shops, stopping for coffee at Café Havana and cruising through Nolita, before drifting along Lafayette Street and up to Union Square.
I spent some time browsing in the huge Barnes & Noble, then hit Fifth Avenue to take me all the way up to 83rd Street, with detours en route into Bendel’s and Bergdorf’s. As I walked I thought about Miles. All the way. For once I let my mental brakes off and just gave in to enjoying the memories. I was intrigued by what he’d said about me being ‘a horny little girl’. It just wasn’t a way I had ever thought of myself.
I mean, I liked sex well enough, I certainly wasn’t frigid, but I didn’t obsess on it like some of my friends. Nelly was always going on about it, in gory detail, which I had always found a bit much. I was happy when it came along, but didn’t think about it much in between. Until now. When it seemed I could think of nothing else. It was quite weird, really.
Ollie rang me when I was in FAO Schwarz buying Christmas presents for his nieces and nephews, and Barbie accessories for the girls at the office. As I heard his familiar voice, I was struck once again by my total lack of remorse about what I had done the night before – and that very morning. It just didn’t seem anything to do with my relationship with Ollie, it was something that happened elsewhere; in another part of the world and another part of my head.
When Ollie commented on how upbeat I sounded, I attributed my perkiness to the success of the shoot, spending time with Paul, my anticipation of a few days cocooning with Ursa and that famously infectious New York buzz. All of which were part of it as well.
Ollie was chirpy too, getting really excited about Slap for Chaps, which had now been picked up by the broadsheet newspapers. Even the mighty ‘Today’ programme had interviewed him about it.
‘Wow,’ I said, trying to sound slightly more enthusiastic than I felt. ‘Radio 4. That is grown-up. Anyone would think it was August. Make-up for men is silly-season stuff for them surely?’
‘Well, you’d think so,’ said Ollie. ‘But there is something about Slap for Chaps that has got them interested from a sexual politics point of view and they are always looking for that angle. “Woman’s Hour” is going to do something too. Iggy’s comments about trying it out “to feel like a woman” seem to have given it some kind of intellectual credibility. They’ve got Germaine Greer commenting on it and stuff like that. Suits me, Emily.
‘Oh!’ he added suddenly. ‘Did you know our friend Iggy is going to be the new designer at Albert Alibert? That’s helped give the story legs too, because now he’s really in the big league.’
‘Wow,’ I said again, although I already knew. Like I said, I really can keep other people’s secrets. ‘So it is happening, that really is fantastic. Hey, I might be front row at that show in future, that really would be a blast. I’ll call them when I get to Ursa’s. I’m on my way there now.’
‘Well, you carry on having a good time in New York, my darling,’ said Ollie, i
n winding-it-up tones. ‘I’m holding the fort here. I’m going to be Phone Off a lot of the time though, with all that’s going on, which is why I’ve rung now, just to let you know I’m thinking about you.’
We said goodbye, with all the usual soppy stuff and then without missing a beat I carried on walking up Fifth Avenue, with a throb in my groin and credit cards burning a deeper hole in my pocket with every step I got closer to Barneys. By the time I had studied every floor of my favourite store in detail, picking up a few bits and pieces along the way that I wouldn’t have been able to get in London, it was after five before I got to Ursula’s.
I had planned on nipping into the Frick before going to her place, but by the time I got to 70th Street I had so many carrier bags I decided to go the next day instead. I could do the Met and the Whitney as well, pop down to MoMA and make it a total art day. Manuela opened the door and told me ‘Missis Lorimer’ was out at meetings, but would be back to have dinner with me at home.
I went to my old room and lay down on the bed I had slept on since I was eleven years old. Ursula had changed nothing in there in the intervening years. My old teddies were still there. Pictures my dad had drawn for me were framed on the wall. My Barbies were still ranked up on the bookshelves – even though I knew how much Ursula hated them – and there were pictures of my family looking remarkably happy on every surface.
I loved that room and always looked forward to sleeping in it, especially since Ollie had started making me stay in hotels when I went to New York with him. The only time we had stayed at Ursula’s place together I’d asked her if we could go in the guest room instead, because it just didn’t feel right to stay in my childhood bedroom with him. For one thing it only had a single bed, but when I was there on my own, I couldn’t wait to get into it.
It still was very much my room; it even said so on the door in the bright china letters Ursula had glued up the day I had arrived from England, a shell-shocked little casualty of the bad places unbridled creativity can take people. At least that’s how I saw it. My father’s death was just a ghastly stroke of fate, but I felt somehow that the unbearably intense atmosphere in our home had hurried it along. He was only thirty-eight when it happened, after all.
Handbags and Gladrags Page 22
