by Eve Langlais
‘I’d like to see it before then, if I may.’ Most photographers Hattie knew were bossy, demanding types who barked out orders like a sergeant major on parade. Tom’s polite, gentle requests were much sneakier, she realised. She found herself agreeing without even thinking about it.
‘It’s at my flat. You can come and pick it up whenever you like. Or I can send it. Whatever’s easiest.’
‘This evening?’
Her flat was utter chaos. She’d have to rush home and chuck out the cold pizza that had been on her living room carpet since last week, throw the piles of unironed laundry onto her bed, and do a sweep of anything mouldy or embarrassing. But she couldn’t say no to him. He was going to make her dreams come true, after all.
Tom Metcalfe was going to photograph her, Hattie Bell, for an exhibition. A real one, in a gallery.
This was her chance to really prove them all wrong. Everyone who had told her not to be so ridiculous; girls like her didn’t become famous. This, now, with Tom Metcalfe smiling at her and offering her a job; this was Hattie’s dream and she was grabbing it with both hands and never letting go.
After Hattie had gone in a swirl of colour, kissing his cheek and bubbling with excitement, Tom sank down at his desk. She was… extraordinary.
Which was a good thing, he reminded himself. He wanted extraordinary. He needed it for what he had in mind.
He slid the memory card into his laptop and began to flick through the images of Hattie. There was warmth in every shot. Warmth, humour, and sizzling sensuality. Just looking at them made Tom smile again. Hattie could teach the models he usually worked with a thing or two about being comfortable in your own body.
His finger paused over the mouse button for an instant. He flicked on, then back again. He zoomed in, so that her face filled the entire screen.
There it was.
The key to the whole exhibition lay in Hattie’s eyes. Behind the blue contact lenses there was something he hadn’t expected to find. The make-up, the dyed hair, the confident chatter were all a mask. In her eyes, Tom saw the fragility she was trying to hide.
His mind whirred, reviewing all the pictures he’d already taken. That was the theme he hadn’t been able to find amongst the pretty, decorative images: the fragility of life. All those delicate soap bubbles glistening with the colours of the rainbow, ready to burst as soon as they came into contact with anything else. The unfurling buds of a rare orchid. The moment of a sunrise, transient, fleeting, fragile.
Now Hattie. Bold, cheerful, confident Hattie with eyes that told a very different story. He would dress her in strong, powerful clothes, and then capture the chink in her armour. He would make her a modern-day Cleopatra, facing down her Marc Antony, then seduced by the snake that would be her destruction. He would give her walls to build and let an intruder in through the back door. Those pale blue eyes would open in shock and the lurking fear he had glimpsed earlier would betray her.
Someone had hurt her. Badly. He didn’t know how or why, but he could see that Hattie was scared of being hurt again. Tom knew all about being hurt. He hid his own vulnerability behind the lens of a camera. Disappearing into the background, deflecting attention onto others, he’d perfected his own protective techniques over many years. Hattie had her own way of covering up her weaknesses with her make-up and clothes, and her proud appropriation of her own body. Yet her fragility still showed if you looked hard enough, behind the glossy smile and the flirty wink.
The photos Tom had in mind were going to strip away that façade. It would be his job to break down every barrier she had. With the click of a camera he was going to expose her very soul. He held Hattie in his hands, as delicate as a glass bauble he was planning to smash against a rock.
He could ring her now. Tell her he’d changed his mind. Protect her, even though he was certain she wouldn’t see it that way.
Or he could go ahead. Give her the opportunity she’d been waiting for. Make her face famous. Take the portfolio shots she needed and help her to make the contacts that could launch her career. She’d come to him, after all. She wanted this and he wanted it, too. With Hattie, he could see his way to finally achieving his ambitions. He’d take the photos that would cement his reputation as a true artist.
He pushed his chair away from the desk and turned to stare at the blank wall. He could make it sound any way he liked in his head, but the truth was there was nothing evenhanded about what he intended. Hattie was never going to be a supermodel, and not just because of her size. It just wasn’t in her to be ruthless or jaded, and this industry demanded the former and created the latter. Those teenagers he’d seen earlier would eat her alive. It would be kinder to put a stop to her dreams now.
Art wasn’t kind. She was a cruel mistress and Tom was her slave.
He closed his computer and picked up Hattie’s business card. He was going to do this.
Chapter Two
‘He’s not a con artist, Mum,’ Hattie repeated for the fourth time. ‘He’s a well-known fashion photographer and he wants to take some pictures of me.’
She tucked the phone under her chin and continued to listen to her mother’s bewilderment while she switched the oven on and extracted a dish of leftover shepherd’s pie from the fridge.
‘But why would he do that, darling?’
She gritted her teeth. Her mother didn’t intend to be cruel. Her confusion was quite genuine. Why should anyone want to take pictures of Hattie? Hattie was the fat daughter, not the pretty one. Because, in her mother’s mind, fat was shameful, ugly, something to hide away from. It had taken Hattie years to realise just how wrong her mother was and even longer to work out how to let the constant barrage of unintended insults wash over her. Today, it was harder than usual. She’d phoned her parents to tell them the good news, hoping they could be happy with her. Stupid. She should have known they wouldn’t understand.
‘He said he was looking for someone a bit different.’
‘Oh, Hattie, he’s not going to make you into some kind of freak show, is he?’
She blinked hard. If she could stop the tear from falling, then that didn’t count as crying, right? ‘Mum! I’m not a freak.’
‘No, of course not, sweetheart. I didn’t mean that. Just that you’re not… well… normal, are you?’
Counting to ten and praying for strength, she didn’t answer immediately. What the hell had she ever done to deserve a mother like this? Weren’t parents supposed to love their children unconditionally? Protect them against all harm? Not abuse them with misguided attempts at honesty.
‘Hattie? Darling, are you still there? You know I didn’t mean anything by it. But you’ve got that job now and I wouldn’t want you to do anything foolish to jeopardise it.’
‘I’m taking the rest of my annual leave,’ she replied. ‘So the damn office will still be waiting for me when I get back.’
There was half a bottle of red wine left from the weekend. Hattie found a clean wine glass and poured herself a generous slug. She was going to need it.
‘Language, dear,’ her mother said automatically. ‘Well, that’s good. You’ll have a bit of fun, I expect, and then settle back into normal life.’
‘With a portfolio from the world’s leading fashion photographer. This could be huge, Mum. This is the break I’ve been waiting for.’
‘I’m just saying you shouldn’t get your hopes up, darling. You know that girls like you don’t…’
‘Girls like me don’t what, Mum?’ She couldn’t help the bitterness that seeped into her voice. This was literally the best thing that had ever happened to her and her own mother couldn’t find it in herself to be happy.
‘You know what I mean, sweetheart. You’ve never had good luck with men, have you? Perhaps if you just tried to lose a little bit of weight…’
The doorbell rang. Hattie silently gave thanks. She’d heard her mother’s thoughts on weight loss too many times to count and she didn’t think she could bear to hear them again now.
<
br /> ‘I have to go now, Mum. There’s someone at the door.’
‘Oh, Hattie, you know perfectly well you’ll never slim down while you’re eating takeaways every night.’
‘It’s not a takeaway. It’s Tom Metcalfe, actually.’ She waved him in, pointing apologetically at the phone in her hand and mouthing an apology.
‘The photographer? In your flat? What’s he like? Is he good-looking?’
‘Mum!’ She looked round swiftly, hoping that Tom hadn’t heard her mother’s piercing whisper.
‘I’m just asking, darling. No need to be like that.’
‘Huh.’
‘Anyway, be careful, darling. Remember what happened with Alex.’
She turned away from Tom, instinctively hiding her face from his keen gaze. ‘I’m not likely to forget, Mum.’
There was a brief pause at the other end of the phone. ‘No, I suppose not. I just don’t want you to go through that again.’ And there it was, the sudden flash of disarming tenderness that kept Hattie from severing all ties to her mother. She did care, she just didn’t understand most of the time.
‘Honestly, I’m fine.’ Hattie squeezed her eyes tightly shut, willing back the tears that threatened to belie her words. ‘He’s only here to look at a picture of me. The one from my business cards.’
‘Not that dreadful one where you’re naked, darling? I don’t know why you use that picture. You can see everything.’
The tenderness never lasted long, and the outrage was much easier to deal with. ‘Not everything.’
‘Near enough. Couldn’t you show him the photos from Claire and Marc’s wedding? You looked so pretty in that dress.’ She’d looked conventional, in strapless dark green taffeta with a fitted bodice and an A-line skirt. She’d dyed her hair a rich chestnut brown and let Claire’s hairdresser and make-up ladies do what they wanted. It had been worth it, to see the glimmer of approval in her sister’s eyes when she’d seen Hattie fitting in with the other bridesmaids, but she wouldn’t do it for anyone else.
‘He doesn’t want to see family wedding snaps, Mum. Look, I’ve really got to go now. I’ll ring you tomorrow.’
She pressed the button to end the call before her mother started worrying about whether her flat had been cleaned recently and was she wearing nice underwear. She slammed the phone down onto the sideboard, then took a deep breath to calm herself.
‘I’m sorry about that. My mother can’t decide whether I’m so repulsive no man will ever lay a finger on me, or so attractive that I’m in danger of being ravished by every man she’s never met.’
‘Mothers aren’t always rational about their children.’ His voice was grave, but his eyes had creased into laughter lines that she hadn’t noticed earlier.
Hattie shook her head in amused despair. ‘Well, mine certainly isn’t. Come on, I need another drink after that. Will you have a glass of wine with me? Or there’s some gin somewhere, I think. No beer, I’m afraid.’
‘If you’re having wine, I’ll join you.’
Tom leaned against the counter in her kitchen while Hattie searched for a second glass. Still wearing the faded jeans and dark blue shirt he’d had on earlier, he seemed more relaxed. Hattie approved of anyone who could make themselves comfortable despite the crumbs on the counter and the piles of unopened post. She especially approved of tall, good-looking guys who could make themselves instantly comfortable in her flat. If they had darkening hints of stubble around a strong jawline, and tawny gold hair curling up at their collar inviting her to run her fingers through it… well, that was a bonus.
He was skimming through her takeaway menus and almost smiling as he discovered the breadth and depth of the collection. That was another good sign. She’d been with too many men who tried to make her feel guilty for enjoying her food.
‘What would you recommend?’
‘You haven’t eaten?’
He rubbed a hand over his face. ‘I had some work to do after the casting finished. I came straight from the studio.’
As much as she found her mother incomprehensible, Hattie had definitely inherited her impulse to feed people. ‘I’ve got a shepherd’s pie in the oven and there’s easily enough for two.’
‘I don’t want you to go to any trouble.’ He held up the menus. ‘I was just going to order something to pick up on my way home.’
‘It’s no trouble. I’ll just do some carrots and peas to go with it. Not very sophisticated, I’m afraid. I don’t really do gourmet cooking.’
‘Neither do I.’
She gave up pretending there might be another glass in the cupboard and went to extract one from the large pile of dirty dishes waiting to be washed up. Aware of Tom’s gaze on her, she felt a strong urge to apologise. She resisted. She was a grown woman and she could make her own choices about when to do housework. Mostly she chose to do it tomorrow. Or the day after that.
‘That’s better,’ she said, after they both had a glass of wine in hand and she had taken a fortifying gulp. ‘Sorry about before. My mum always manages to set me on edge. She means well enough, but she just doesn’t get it.’
Tom sipped cautiously at his glass. ‘So why don’t you want me to see your family wedding snaps?’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘You can see them if you like. Why would you want to?’
He shrugged. ‘I want to get to know you better. A picture of your family could be a good place to start.’
‘Well, okay, I suppose. I’ll go and hunt them out. You can peel a few carrots while I’m looking.’ She plonked the bag of carrots on the counter and found the peeler. ‘There. I won’t be long.’
He swiftly peeled half a dozen carrots, found a knife and chopped them into rings. Picking up his glass, he took another sip and decided it really was undrinkable. Better to pour it down the sink while Hattie wasn’t looking than make a fuss. She’d been generous with her hospitality and it would be churlish to let her think it wasn’t appreciated. He left the empty glass by the sink, then wandered back into the sitting room.
Too much furniture was crammed into the tiny space. Like Hattie herself, her space was exuberant and unapologetic. He found himself smiling at the excess of clutter and wanting to explore it all. Bookshelves filled with novels had been pushed up against DVD racks, and all of them were spilling their contents into heaps on the floor. The side table and the sofa, squashed in against one wall, were similarly laden. An eclectic mix of brightly-coloured pottery, an empty coffee cup, several dog-eared invitations and cards, and a small silver trophy cluttered up the mantelpiece. Tom picked up the trophy and grinned at the inscription: ‘Harriet Bell, Community Service Award, St Mary’s Grammar School, 2007.’ He’d have to ask her about that later.
A pile of glossy magazines had been stacked haphazardly on the coffee table, with a bowl of fruit perched precariously on top. Tom moved the fruit bowl and flicked through the first few magazines, pleased to find all his most recent cover photos. Hattie had been doing her homework. His gaze fell on a bright pink folder with her name printed on the front. He hadn’t thought to ask for her portfolio in the studio earlier, but now he was curious.
‘What do you think?’
He glanced up at Hattie, then back to the portfolio. The shots were dreadful. It was as if the photographer had never met Hattie. He’d put her into the standard poses and told her to make faces like every other wannabe model.
‘Who took these for you?’ he asked, diplomatically.
She sighed and came to sit beside him on her saggy floral sofa. ‘They’re terrible, aren’t they? I knew as soon as I saw them, but I couldn’t afford to get them redone by anyone better.’
Tom grimaced at a shot of Hattie in a particularly unflattering pose with a dead look in her eyes. ‘They’re not the worst I’ve ever seen.’
‘But?’
He shut the folder and chucked it back into the mess. ‘They don’t give anyone a reason to book you. There’s no personality in these at all. And, frankly, personality is the bi
ggest asset you’ve got, Hattie.’
She winced. ‘Right. All the big girls have great personalities. I get it.’
He laid a hand on her thigh. ‘No, they don’t. But you do. You light up in front of the camera, Hattie. I saw it today. The idiot who took these clearly never did.’
‘To be fair, he didn’t have much chance. I only booked an hour and we had to get through a lot of shots.’
‘Do you always do that?’
She met his gaze, a question in her eyes.
‘Make excuses for the way other people treat you,’ Tom explained.
‘I don’t do that,’ she replied too quickly.
‘Yes, you do. Why?’
‘I don’t know.’ She had stopped looking at him and started flicking through the portfolio again.
‘Hattie.’ Tom took the folder away from her and waited until she turned her face up again. ‘If you’re going to be my muse, you have to be honest with me.’
Her expressive eyes began to twinkle. ‘Your muse? Is that what I am?’
He shrugged. ‘Of course. My mind’s been sparking with ideas ever since you walked into my studio this afternoon.’
Hattie’s jaw dropped. ‘Really? I’m your muse. How fabulous. I feel like I should be draped in a 1920s dress and wafting around your studio with a cigarette holder.’ She picked up an apple from the fruit bowl and held it as if she were offering it to an invisible god. ‘Muse, with apple in her hands.’
Tom grinned. ‘Or in a Grecian gown, holding an urn?’
‘I haven’t got an urn.’ She went to fetch something from the kitchen. ‘Will a colander do? Muse, holding colander aloft.’
She held her pose for an instant, then collapsed into giggles. ‘Are you sure you want me? I’m not very good at being serious.’
He laughed and took the colander out of her hands. ‘Muses aren’t chosen, Hattie, they’re born. And you, it seems, are mine.’
Her eyes narrowed as she held his gaze. Then she nodded. ‘I’m glad.’
When Hattie had left the studio earlier, Tom’s mind had exploded. New ideas crashed into each other like waves against a cliff, too fast for his pencil to keep up as it flashed across the pages of his sketchbook. He wanted her falling from a cliff, dodging a fast car, facing the venomous tongue of a snake. He wanted fear in her eyes, masked with courage and determination. He wanted Hattie grasping at life with both hands while fate threw up every unimaginable danger in her path. He wanted her open, vulnerable and fragile.
