Occupational Hazard: The Ultimate Workplace Romance Box Set

by Eve Langlais

  ‘So, one last night, then.’

  ‘For now, Mr Milan, New York and Morocco...’

  ‘Hattie.’ He held out a hand to stop her. ‘I think it would be better if this is the last night full stop.’

  ‘Better?’ She shook her head at him. ‘I don’t think that word means what you think it means.’

  He was going to miss the way she could always make him laugh. ‘Seriously, Hattie.’

  ‘I’m never serious. You should know that by now.’

  ‘Right. That’s why I’m being serious for both of us. I’m not looking for a relationship, Hattie. I spend far too much time travelling and, frankly, I’m not ready to settle down. I don’t know if I ever will be.’

  ‘Because of Lianne? You’re going to have to get over her someday.’

  ‘No. Yes. Hattie, you don’t want to get involved with me. I can’t do relationships like other people. I run a mile at the first hint of anything serious.’

  ‘We just established that I’m never serious.’

  Her eyes were, though. Behind the cheerful facade he could glimpse something that terrified him.

  Hope.

  She might say she wasn’t serious, but some part of her was hoping for more than he could give. He needed her to know he meant it when he said he didn’t do relationships. He needed her to understand his limits.

  He cupped her face in his hands and held her gaze. ‘This isn’t going to be a relationship, Hattie. It can be fun for now, but no more. Okay?’

  She searched his face and he waited, needing her to agree to his terms before he went any further.

  ‘Fun for now. I think I can do that.’

  He let out his breath. ‘Good. That’s good.’

  ###

  They stopped for lunch on the way back to London at a privately-owned service station with a farm shop and a half-decent restaurant.

  ‘Do you really think I have a chance?’ Hattie asked while they were waiting in the queue at the cafeteria.

  Her vulnerability was a surprise. She’d always shown herself to have massive self-confidence.

  ‘Hey, you just spent a week being shot by a world famous photographer. That’s your dream, right?’

  ‘Right. That was pretty awesome, actually.’ Her eyes twinkled and he realised she’d put her coloured contacts back in.

  ‘And once you get your new portfolio together, your career is going to skyrocket.’

  ‘Maybe. But, I’m trying to be sensible about things. Dreaming hasn’t got me anywhere good.’

  ‘It got you here. If you hadn’t been a dreamer, you’d never have come to my audition,’ he pointed out.

  ‘Yes, but I still haven’t decided if that’s a good thing or not. For me, I mean. Obviously it was brilliant for you.’ She grinned at him and he automatically returned her smile.

  ‘The exhibition might flop.’ His stomach did a little flip as he considered that possibility. For the last couple of days, that fear had taken a backseat in the face of Hattie’s accident. But now, on his way back to the city, it came rushing headlong back into his mind.

  Hattie pursed her lips. ‘It might. Art critics aren’t known for their rational ability to make judgements.’

  Oh God, she was right. It was going to be a disaster. All of a sudden, his appetite disappeared as he considered the hideous prospect.

  They’d reached the front of the queue and Hattie loaded her plate with lasagne and garlic bread. Tom had the same, with a salad on the side. They took their food over to a table by a window.

  ‘On the other hand...’ Hattie apparently hadn’t finished what she was saying. She pointed her fork at him. ‘You’re a genius behind a camera and any sane person will see it as soon as they step into that gallery.’

  ‘Do you really think so?’ He was pathetically grateful for her support.

  She reached over to pick a slice of cucumber out of his salad. ‘Of course. And if they don’t see your genius, at least they’ll see my tits. That’s sure to impress them.’

  He burst out laughing. ‘They are very impressive.’

  She grinned back at him. ‘I know.’

  His smile faded. He pushed his plate away from him and shook his head. ‘God, Hattie, I’m terrified of it. What if they all see straight through me? It’ll make me a laughing stock. Pretensions beyond my ability.’

  ‘So what if they hate it?’ She spread her hands wide. ‘It won’t be the end of the world.’

  ‘It feels like it will.’

  ‘Now who’s being melodramatic? You’ll still have a great career, and you’ll have given the other thing your best shot.’

  He picked up his fork and began to scratch patterns in the sauce left on his plate. ‘I’ll have failed.’

  ‘Depends what your goal is. If it’s to be adored by the rest of the world, then yes, you’ll have failed. But that’s a stupid goal. You can’t control what other people think. And, even if they like you today, they might have forgotten you entirely by the end of the week. Are you going to eat that?’

  ‘Yes.’ He loaded his fork. ‘That’s not my goal.’ Adoration was a fickle thing, she was right. Besides, he got enough of that in the fashion world, or at least a close approximation.

  ‘Well, good. So what is your goal?’

  ‘To make good art that other people appreciate.’ That’s what he’d told the gallery owner, when she’d asked the same question.

  ‘No good.’ She waved the garlic bread at him. ‘You’re still focussing on other people.’

  ‘Other people matter.’ Especially the ones with open cheque books to buy his work.

  ‘Not as much as you’d think.’

  He raised his eyebrows at her.

  ‘What I mean is, they matter individually. Relationships matter. But they don’t matter when you’re thinking about your work. You have to do what you’re proud of and not worry about what anyone else says. That’s what I think, anyway.’

  ‘It’s easier said than done.’

  She shrugged. ‘Not really. Like this week, I wasn’t worrying about who would see the pictures of me at the exhibition. I’m sure there’ll be some who will just dismiss me as any old fat woman. And some who won’t like the look of me for other reasons. But I’m proud of what I did, and that’s all that counts.’

  ‘Don’t my opinions count?’

  She gave him a speculative look. ‘A bit, I suppose.’

  ‘What if I’d been disappointed with the shots?’

  ‘Then I’d have told you to stop being a pretentious prat.’

  ‘I wish you were coming to Milan.’ What? What? He didn’t mean that. He definitely hadn’t meant to say it. But it was true. He was going to miss her. A lot. There wouldn’t be anyone in Milan half as much fun as she was, in or out of bed. And no one who would dare call him a pretentious prat.

  ‘So do I.’

  ‘If I call you when I’m back in London, will you come out for dinner with me?’

  ‘I was hoping for more than just dinner.’

  ‘Dinner and a play? Musical? Sing-a-long Sound of Music?’

  She laughed. ‘Will you be the Mother Superior?’

  ‘If you’ll be the Nazi guard.’ His eyes were twinkling again and she was glad to be the cause of it.

  ‘Maybe not. But dinner and a musical works for me.’

  He took a deep breath. ‘You’ve got a deal.’

  Four and a half hours later, Tom parked his car expertly in a spot Hattie hadn’t thought was big enough. He carried her suitcase up to her flat and made sure she hadn’t left any random possessions in his car.

  ‘Keys?’

  ‘Check.’

  ‘Purse?’

  ‘Check.’

  ‘Lacy underwear?’

  She peered down her T-shirt. ‘Check.’

  ‘You’ll be careful with that shoulder?’

  ‘Yes, mother.’

  ‘Fine. Then I guess I’ll see you in a couple of weeks.’ He didn’t want to go.

  �
�I guess so.’

  He leaned forward awkwardly, as if he wasn’t sure whether to aim for cheek or lips. Hattie took his face firmly in her hands and kissed him thoroughly on the mouth.

  ‘Don’t go flirting with any of those sexy models,’ she warned.

  ‘No. Right. Good.’ He wouldn’t be able to flirt with anyone, not while he had the memory of Hattie on his lips.

  ‘Have fun in Milan.’

  ‘And New York.’

  ‘And Morocco. But then you’d better come back to London and sweep me off my feet, or there’ll be trouble.’

  ‘Got it.’ He slid his hand into her hair and bent his head to take another kiss. ‘That one’s so you don’t forget. I might be an idiot most of the time, but I like you, Hattie Bell. I like you a lot.’

  ‘You’re not so bad, yourself, Tom Metcalfe.’

  He rested his forehead against hers and took in a deep breath of her scent. His arms tightened around her waist. God, he was going to miss her.

  Chapter Seven

  He called her from Milan. Twice. Then New York and Morocco. Brief conversations that left her wanting more and plotting her tactics for his return. She had big plans for Tom Metcalfe.

  He’d emailed the portfolio pictures and, which she hadn’t expected, arranged for a printed set to be delivered to her. She took the box from the courier and opened it up to find a simple black file with her name stuck to the front. Professional, but not ostentatious.

  The pictures inside were nothing like her old portfolio. Hattie stared in wonder at the woman Tom had seen and shot. She didn’t look like she was pretending to be a model. She looked like herself, only a million times better.

  There was a note tucked inside. ‘Feel free to rearrange them. Keep the smile on top.’

  She remembered him taking that shot of her during their picnic. She’d been looking up to the sky, following the cloudy tracks of a plane. He’d spoken her name and she’d turned to him, and smiled. And he’d captured the moment forever.

  It felt almost too personal, too precious to use as a selling card for hawking herself to model agencies. But Tom had told her to keep it on top so that it was the first picture they saw, and she knew he was right. It was an arresting image, memorable and familiar. There were a thousand products it could sell.

  Two days later, she got an email inviting her to bring her portfolio to an agency she’d never heard of before. She checked with Tom and he told her it was the one his contact had recommended. They supplied all the major advertising and PR companies with models. If she got herself on their books, then all sorts of opportunities could open up.

  Hattie booked a day off work and got up ludicrously early in the morning to sort out her hair and make-up, and then work out what to wear. She had to do her nails three times because her hands were shaking so hard. She’d never been so nervous before an audition. Mind you, she’d never been to an audition she’d wanted so badly and thought she had such a good chance of getting. She went through all her favourite outfits, but nothing looked right. In the end, she opted for the same outfit she’d worn to the picnic – jeans and a checked shirt. If nothing else, it would confirm that she was really the woman in the photos.

  She picked up a coffee and walked to the bus stop. Her phone buzzed to announce a text message.

  You’ll wow them. xx

  She smiled and sent one back.

  I know. ;)

  His reply came after she’d got on the bus and squeezed onto a seat.

  Don’t flirt with them.

  She laughed.

  But how else will I get the job?

  He was slow to answer and she’d all but finished her coffee by the time the phone buzzed again.

  I don’t want to know.

  She could imagine the wry grin as he’d seen her response and the shake of his head while he typed his own. He was so cute when he was pretending to be outraged by her.

  Nearly at the office now. Talk to you later.

  It was only a couple of minutes from the bus stop. Hattie took a moment to check her appearance and redo her lipstick. She arrived promptly at nine o’clock and walked over to the reception desk.

  ‘I’m here to see Kate. She’s expecting me.’

  A dark-haired girl, who couldn’t have been more than nineteen, looked her up and down, rolled her eyes, then swivelled her chair back to her monitor.

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Hattie Bell.’

  ‘All right.’

  Without another glance at Hattie, the receptionist started flicking through the pile of mail on her desk.

  ‘So, where should I go?’ Hattie bit back her exasperation.

  The girl looked up in surprise that Hattie was still there. ‘Second floor. Lift’s behind you.’

  ‘Great. Thanks so much for all your help.’ She was reasonably sure that her sarcasm had gone straight over the receptionist’s head.

  ‘No worries.’

  Hattie stepped out of the lift into an open-plan office. Unlike the foyer, the second floor was full of people and activity.

  ‘Hattie?’ A sharp-featured, dark-haired woman in a charcoal grey suit came forward to greet her.

  ‘Hello. Are you Kate?’ Smile, shake hands, don’t blurt out your life story all at once. It was terrifying how basic life skills could desert her when she was nervous.

  ‘Kate Meehan. Pleased to meet you. Tom’s told me all about you.’

  ‘He has?’ What on earth had he said?

  Kate smiled pleasantly. ‘All good, I promise.’

  ‘I brought my portfolio.’ She handed over the black file and surreptitiously wiped her clammy hands on her jeans.

  ‘Fine. Coffee?’

  ‘No, thanks, I just had...’

  Kate cut her off to call out to a young man in an astonishingly orange sweater. ‘Jason! Bring a pot of coffee over to the interview room.’

  ‘Experience?’ Kate guided her past a series of huge display boards.

  ‘Oh, um. Some. I worked for Tom a bit. And life modelling.’ It wasn’t much, she knew that.

  ‘No issues with nudity, then?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Even blown up to ten times lifesize on a billboard?’

  Kate showed Hattie into a small room with a couple of soft chairs and a drooping pot plant.

  ‘My mother would have ten fits, but no, I wouldn’t mind being naked on a billboard.’

  ‘Good. Acting work?’

  ‘None.’ Hattie bit her lip. Kate wasn’t asking about her role as third shepherd in the school nativity play. She was determined to be professional. This could be her big chance and she was not going to blow it.

  ‘Honest. I like that. Most of what we deal with are stills, anyway.’

  Kate’s face gave nothing away as she flicked through the photos. She paused once or twice, but Hattie couldn’t tell if that was good or bad. She finally looked up when Jason brought the coffee in.

  ‘None for me, thanks,’ Hattie said when Kate offered her a cup. More caffeine would be disastrous at this stage.

  ‘More for me.’ Kate glanced back down at the portfolio. ‘What’s your availability like?’

  Hattie pushed her sweaty hands down her jeans again. ‘I work in an office. But I could easily get temp work if I needed to be more flexible.’

  ‘Live in London?’

  Hattie nodded.

  ‘Good. Tell Jenna to get your details. You’ll need to send us copies of the portfolio.’

  Kate stood up and Hattie followed suit. ‘You’re taking me on?’ Did that sound desperate? Was it okay to be desperate? God, she had to stop panicking.

  ‘Can’t guarantee any work.’

  ‘I understand.’ She was letting her down gently.

  ‘But I think you’ll be easy to place. Very commercial.’

  ‘Right. Good.’ That was a yes, right? Hattie’s heart bounced. She’d done it. She was going to be a model. Easy to place, Kate said. She’d get jobs, build up a portfolio, make a success of i
t. She couldn’t stop the grin spreading across her face.

  ‘Tom said you were a dream to work with.’ Another bounce at that reported compliment. She was practically floating now. ‘He’s got a reputation for being tough on his models.’

  ‘I dislocated my collar bone,’ Hattie confided.

  Kate laughed. ‘I hope he paid you danger money.’

  She shrugged. ‘He kissed it better.’

  Kate’s eyes narrowed with interest. ‘Did he now?’

  ‘Does it matter?’ Oh, God, she’d really blown it now. Kate would think she rolled into bed with every photographer she worked with.

  Kate shook her head. ‘No. Not if you’re as good as I think you’re going to be.’

  Hattie let out a long breath. That was definitely a yes. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I’ll be in touch.’

  She wrangled the contact form out of the receptionist, filled in her information and made sure that the girl didn’t put it underneath a huge pile of papers marked for recycling.

  As soon as she was out on the street, she texted Tom.

  Wowed them.

  He wrote back almost immediately.

  That was quick. They must really like you.

  Well, duh.

  She grinned. Everything had gone brilliantly. Better still, it was only ten o’clock, she had the rest of the day off work and there were shoes to be bought and dresses to try on. She needed something truly spectacular to wear for Tom’s exhibition.

  ###

  The Morocco shoot was dull. Tom had no idea how a country so full of vibrant light and colours could become so tedious when peopled with half-naked skinny teenagers. The magazine’s fashion editor had brought clothes in neutral tones and told Tom to make them shimmer against the North African skies.

  He’d had to stop himself from rolling his eyes at her and remind himself that this was the work that paid the bills. The exhibition, on the other hand, might not make a penny. In fact, it could end up costing him a fortune.

  So he set up the shots she wanted, manoeuvred the models into position and found ways to make them come alive for the camera. But, at the end of the day, he was glad to return to the souk and phone Hattie.

  ‘Hey,’ he said, when she answered at the second ring.

  ‘Hi. I’m just in the middle of making dinner, but I can talk while I’m stirring.’