by Kiley Dunbar
She knew there was nothing left to do but prepare to open her studio properly to paying customers, if she could find any.
She carried on whipping the still-settling post-decorating dust off the shelves she’d mounted all by herself on the wall behind her desk, now neatly stocked with boxes of 35mm film, before finally coming to a stop and sitting down in front of her new diary, spread open at today’s date. A glance confirmed what she already knew: nothing booked in for this morning. Maybe it wasn’t my best idea launching a new business in Stratford’s off season? Maybe Fran was right after all when he said photography studios have had their day? No, come on, Kelse. Positive thinking. The phone might ring any second now.
Expectantly, she watched her mobile for a few moments, before checking that the ringer volume was definitely turned up.
With a sigh, she conceded it was time. If she was ever going to establish some regular trade she’d have to make the phone call she’d been putting off in the hope that somehow word of mouth would be enough to signal her presence in town, but that hadn’t happened. She was going to have to part with some serious cash. She reached for her phone and dialled.
‘Is this the right number for placing adverts in your newspaper, please?’
‘Hold on,’ replied the brusque, harried man’s voice.
Kelsey listened to the sounds at the other end of the line, papers being shifted, rummaging and cursing, and a sudden triumphant, ‘Got it. You’d think you could find a pen in a newspaper office, wouldn’t you? Right, what do you want?’
‘Well, I need an eye-catching advertisement for my new business, please? But… I don’t have much money.’
‘They never do,’ the nasal voice said, cutting her off. ‘It’s fifty pence a word.’
‘Oh, OK.’ That didn’t sound too bad. ‘How about, Kelsey Anderson Photography, wedding and family portraits, school visits, passports and ID shots, theatrical headshots. Pets and kids photographed in your home or in studio.’
‘Address?’
‘What?’
‘Won’t your customers want to know where you are?’
‘I was just getting to that. It’s Second Floor, Corner Buildings, off Henley Street, Stratford. You’d better give my number as well.’
‘You think so?’
Kelsey stiffened her neck in response. Doesn’t this newspaper want my custom? There were other rival papers in the town, perhaps a little more respectable, with smart offices overlooking the town square or the river, but she had already called them both and their ads started at fifty quid for a black and white box somewhere in the middle pages beside the pets for sale and the lonely hearts, and she simply didn’t have money for ads people might not take note of.
It really should be a big announcement, a ‘new business in town’ sort of thing. The Stratford Examiner was one of many freebie papers delivered to most residents whether they wanted it or not, and a pile was always dumped at the train and bus station every Friday, so Kelsey hoped it would reach just as many potential clients as the smarter papers. Still, this guy wasn’t doing much to reassure her of the paper’s professionalism.
Kelsey told the man her mobile number, crossing her fingers in the hope that sharing it with the world wouldn’t result in a barrage of cold calls about double glazing and PPI claims. The studio no longer had a landline connected; she had worried she couldn’t afford the bills, and Norma Arden’s clunky nineties phone was now wound up in its beige cables in the desk drawer.
‘Logo?’ the man barked.
‘Sorry?’
‘Do you have a business logo you want to include?’
‘Ahh, no, not really.’ Dammit, another thing I’ve failed to sort out. She didn’t even want to think about how much hiring a logo designer might cost her.
‘That it?’ the man asked, sourly, and Kelsey heard the sounds of additions taking place under his breath accompanied by a nib moving scratchily across paper. ‘Seventeen fifty for a front pager. Will you take it?’
Kelsey gulped. ‘Yes, please. For eight weeks.’ It was an essential expense, and the other papers only had inside pages to offer, so this was an improvement, right?
‘One hundred and forty pounds. How do you want to pay?’
And with that, Kelsey parted with her money, using the business bank account she’d set up only the month before.
‘Processed. First ad will appear next Friday.’ And with that, the man hung up.
Kelsey was still shaking her head and looking at her phone in her hand when it rang.
‘Hold on, you’re a photographer?’ the same voice asked. ‘I might have some work for you. Cheap, are you?’
A moment of stunned silence passed before Kelsey stammered, ‘Competitively priced.’
‘If that means cheap, call in at the office. Today.’ She could tell he was about to hang up again and managed to quickly enquire who she should ask for when she arrived.
‘Ask for Mr Ferdinand, lead editor.’ And he was gone.
Chapter Three
‘Come, bring me unto my chance’
(The Merchant of Venice)
Kelsey climbed the stairs following the sign indicating that the editor of the Stratford Examiner’s office was at the top of the building. So far, nobody had stopped her to enquire why she was there. The reception desk at the foot of the stairwell was unmanned and seemed to be little more than a storage area for cycling helmets and coats. There had been no reply when she buzzed at the outer door and, finding it was off the latch, she had pushed her way inside.
As she climbed, the steps became increasingly cluttered with piled books, folders, and old editions of the newspaper. Thinking of the steely-faced fire officer who had visited her studio last week to make sure it was workplace compliant (no filing cabinets in front of fire doors, no smoke alarms with the batteries taken out for use in a telly remote control, that sort of thing) Kelsey wondered how on earth this place could have passed an inspection any time recently.
At the top of the second flight of stairs, Kelsey passed a man coming down and was struck by his model-handsome features and wild black hair sticking up in what, in front of his mirror this morning, might have looked like artfully crafted peaks.
He said nothing as they passed on the landing, only smiling politely, if a little bemused, before turning back regretfully and calling to her up the stairs, ‘Do you know where you’re going?’
‘Mr Ferdinand?’ Kelsey asked awkwardly.
She witnessed his look of horrified amusement and heard the suppressed snorting laugh, before he replied, ‘God, no. He’s up there.’ This was accompanied by a sharp jab of his finger towards the top landing. ‘I thought we were done for the day. Are you here about a story?’ He looked begrudgingly beyond Kelsey and up the stairs as though nothing could induce him to follow her and do more work, not when the weekend was within reach.
‘Not a story, no. He’s expecting me. Something about a job? Photography?’
‘Ah! OK.’ His eyes flickered as if a thought had struck him, before he added in a low voice, ‘You sure you want this gig?’
Kelsey had no idea whether she wanted it; she didn’t know anything about it, and now there was this guy’s dubious expression putting her off before she’d even investigated it. She simply shrugged.
‘Just be sure he pays in advance.’ He cast a furtive glance to the unseen boss above them before turning again and rushing down the stairs with the air of a schoolboy let loose from class.
Kelsey wasn’t fazed; far from it. She’d been in town nearly five months now and had long ago grown used to Stratford’s more eccentric residents. The place was chock full of them; from the arty, elderly, and oftentimes wealthy, locals raised on theatre and poetry – drama running through them like silver seams through rock; to the younger population – lively, creative and often totally skint but full of ideas and enjoying the benefits of the local networks and organisations designed to support their arty inclinations. Then there were the others: the barflies;
the international students in town to study Shakespeare on dreamy year-long courses; the holiday-makers who had visited once and never left; the new arrivals in town hoping for an audition, serving coffee in the theatre bars while they waited for their big break.
Back on the hot summer afternoon when she’d first run into Jonathan in the little café with the pink stripy awnings by the marina, Kelsey had remarked to him how Stratford seemed to attract people from across the world, arty nomads looking for self-discovery, and he had looked at her in her tour guide uniform with her dad’s old camera around her neck and seen in an instant that she was one of them. ‘It looks to me as though you’re actually a photographer,’ he’d said. Kelsey smiled at the memory now. He’d seen straight to her core, recognised her dreams and ambitions, and he’d engaged her services there and then to shoot his new theatrical headshots. Now here she was with her very own photography studio and about to negotiate another commission if she played her cards right.
With Jonathan’s belief in her abilities in mind she felt ready for anything as she came to a stop at the closed door with its smoky glass and a yellowing piece of paper taped across it bearing the words, ‘C. Ferdinand, Editor’.
Kelsey had visited Mirren in her newsroom once, and she’d seen them on TV dramas, and, generally, they all looked alike: rows of monitors alive with the day’s copy, coffee cups beside every keyboard, pictures being edited, phones ringing, facts being checked, experts being consulted, interviews and advertising deals being secured, doors swinging, Ubers being hailed, and everywhere the rush and bustle of news-gathering.
But this place was as still and soundless as the grave.
Kelsey’s knock was answered with stony silence and the door creaking open a few inches. Instinctively, she peeked her head around the frame, sure it would confirm her suspicions that everyone had gone home for the weekend.
Glancing inside the room, the first thing that hit her was the smell of hot dust emanating from the ancient computer on the desk, mingling with the unmistakable smell of cigarettes smoked furtively by an open window with an arm waving away each exhalation, fooling precisely no one.
Instead of the modern, sleek, grey and white office Kelsey had expected, everything was a dull and dusty manila. Folders and documents were piled high on every surface, and what must have, once upon a time, been a leafy pot plant by the window was now reduced to crunchy brown rot slumped in its pot. There in the middle of it all, well-nigh camouflaged among the clutter, his thinly combed-over head lolling on the cracked brown leather of the headrest, a curling cheese sandwich on its torn cardboard package on the desk before him, was Mr Ferdinand himself, his eyes closed and mouth agape, as beige and uninspiring as the office he inhabited.
Horrified, Kelsey pulled her head back out of the office and closed the door quietly. Was he dead? He was deathly pale. There was nothing for it but to bang loudly on the glass and, if there was no answer, ring the paramedics.
Fortunately, her determined knock was greeted with a loud snort, a few moments’ rustling, the sound of the stale sandwich hitting the bottom of a metal wastepaper basket, and a terse, discomfited, ‘Come in!’
‘Mr Ferdinand? I’m Kelsey Anderson, the photographer,’ she said, half entering the room again. She loved the sound of the words as they made their way through the stuffy air. A part of her still expected them to be greeted with a ‘Pfft! No you’re not!’ from everyone she met, but Kelsey was learning that people accepted her just as she presented herself, no questions asked, actually. The only person she had trouble convincing of her new professional status was herself.
Mr Ferdinand, still blinking in the early afternoon light, was indicating she should come in and sit down, so she moved the pile of newspapers from the only other chair onto the desk and lowered herself into it, her nose prickling from the dust in the air.
‘Looking for a job then, are you?’ He scratched thin fingers over his forehead and narrowed his eyes as he spoke.
‘Um, well, if you remember, you invited me here?’
The silence that descended was so uncomfortable and Mr Ferdinand’s eyes so penetrating, Kelsey mentally gave the situation twenty seconds to improve before she excused herself and raced out of this weirdo’s office.
At last he spoke. ‘What makes you think you would be a good replacement for our old staff photographer?’
‘Is that what you’re after?’ Kelsey’s mind raced, trying to catch up. If this was to be a regular thing, she could certainly use the money, no matter how brusque her boss would be. ‘I could do some freelance work for you, yes. No problem. How many jobs a week would it be?’
‘Depends. Sometimes one, sometimes none. I re-run old pictures from our archives where I can.’
‘Oh, OK.’
‘Today I need someone to take some pictures for an interview with a retired actress. It’s for a feature we’re running in the lead-up to the sixtieth anniversary of the town’s main theatre company.’
‘I can do that.’
‘Today?’
‘Is this actress expecting a photographer to turn up?’
‘Does that matter?’
‘Um, well, yes. I expect she’d like to know I’m coming.’
‘I’ll ring her now, tell her you’re on your way.’
‘Oh!’ She hadn’t even confirmed she was free this afternoon, and he hadn’t actually offered her any money yet. This guy was something else. ‘Should we talk about payment first?’
Kelsey had learned her lesson on this score, arriving in town early that summer, having already signed a contract with Norma Arden for her guiding services and never thinking to ask about the hourly rate until she was sitting in Norma’s office. Kelsey inwardly groaned at how green she had been only a few short months ago.
‘Eight pounds an hour. You can do this in an hour, I expect. She’s local.’
Eight quid? That would buy bread, milk and tea for a week. Come on Kelsey, she told herself, screw your courage to the sticking place. ‘My hourly rate is thirty-five pounds for jobs within the town boundary.’ Instantly, she felt her cheeks flush. She hadn’t been required to provide an hourly rate since setting up her fledgling business and had plucked this figure out of thin air.
He was staring her down. ‘Sixteen and you’ve got a deal. If you get the pictures to me by five.’
Hold on, she thought. He needs these pictures by five, and he doesn’t exactly have a queue of photographers lining up to take them, so short of doing it himself, I can afford to stick to my guns. Kelsey rose to leave. ‘My rate is thirty-five pounds, but if you can find someone else…’ Her voice was just beginning to waver when he interrupted.
‘Fine. But go now. Here’s her address, and my email address. Send the pictures straight away.’ Mr Ferdinand handed her a Post-it note.
That was like something off The Apprentice, Kelsey congratulated herself. Who knew I was so good at wheeling and dealing? Wait ’til I tell Jonathan about this!
‘Get some shots of her with some old theatre memorabilia or something, some old costume or a prop?’
The nasal whine of his speech woke her from her self-congratulatory state, and she recalled the young man’s words as they passed on the stairs, sharpening her thinking. She’d better ensure she got paid first. She drew a slim notebook from her satchel, wrote her new bank account details in it and tore the page free.
‘I’ll invoice you properly later today, but this is my account. You can transfer the money direct.’ Her heart swelled with the feeling of triumph, and even better than that, of competence. She really was prepared for anything her new career brought her way. She had even asked a member of the legal team at Mirren’s newspaper – who did a bit of freelance work of her own – to draw up a copyright agreement for exactly this kind of situation, and she’d send it to Mr Ferdinand to sign along with her invoice for payment.
Her smile of self-assurance faded, however, as Mr Ferdinand snatched the paper and skewered it through an upturned nail on a w
ooden block upon his desk which was, she noticed, rather ominously pierced with at least a hundred other notes.
‘Unusual in-tray you’ve got there,’ she said with an awkward nod towards the rusty spike, but Mr Ferdinand simply blinked with a little scowl of annoyance. ‘I’ll be off then.’
‘Deadline’s five p.m., Miss…’
‘Anderson?’ Has he forgotten already, or does he simply not care? ‘Kelsey Anderson.’
Harrumphing, he showed her the door with a weak swing of his bony hand.
And that was it. Kelsey had a new freelance commission and, potentially, a long term client. She clutched the paper to her chest as she made her way downstairs and out into the October afternoon light.
She wasn’t a stranger to sudden turns of fate, so this new development felt comfortingly familiar. Hadn’t she signed a contract with Norma knowing next to nothing about her new boss, or indeed, about her new town? And now here she was, the newest recruit to a newspaper’s staff in that very town, and why not? Recently, life seemed to want to take Kelsey in all manner of new directions and she intended to go with it.
She checked the time on her phone: two thirty. Turning the paper in her hand, she peered down at the address, hoping this actress lived not only nearby but in an area of town she was familiar with. She gasped in delighted recognition at the words.
Blythe Goode. Ground Floor, Flat A, St. Ninian’s Close.
Her new commission, it seemed, would take her back to her own doorstep. At last, she was going to meet one of her mysteriously quiet and unobtrusive neighbours.
