It couldn’t have been clearer that that was not the case. I wondered what it could be. Did they work together? Was he famous? Was he married?
‘What about you?’ Paige fingered a delicate gold chain around her neck and gave me a nudge. ‘You still haven’t—’
‘No.’ I cut her off before she could ask. If she didn’t want to answer my question, I certainly didn’t want to answer hers. ‘I haven’t.’
‘And he hasn’t?’
‘No.’ I shook my head firmly and turned on the screen on the back of my camera, flicking through the fruits of our photoshoot.
‘Tess,’ Paige said, pushing my camera down onto my lap. ‘Don’t you think it might be worth giving him a call? It’s been months.’
‘Nope,’ I replied swiftly. ‘For now, I think it’s best I pretend it never happened.’
‘If only it were that easy,’ she agreed. ‘Why hasn’t someone invented a pill for that yet?’
‘Because there aren’t enough women scientists yet,’ I replied. ‘The ones we do have are busy trying to cure terrible diseases while all the men scientists work on inventing vibrating razors with five blades. We’ll get there eventually.’
‘I hope it’s sooner rather than later,’ she said. ‘It’s only two months until fashion week in New York and I’ve got outfits to think about. All this man drama is taking up altogether too much brain space.’
‘Priorities,’ I agreed, resting my head on her shoulder and watching the Zamboni buzz quietly around the ice in a graceful figure of eight. ‘And that’s another reason why I haven’t called him. I can only deal with one massive brain drain at a time. At least it’s nearly Christmas.’
‘I’m thinking about getting really fat and then juicing for all of January,’ Paige said.
‘I’m definitely in for the first bit,’ I said, pulling Amy’s T-shirt down over my belly. ‘Might give the second bit a miss.’
‘Me too,’ she admitted. ‘Kale makes me retch. Maybe I shouldn’t plan on porking out this close to fashion week.’
‘Or you could always quit your job,’ I suggested, patting her knee while she shrugged, considering her options. ‘Let’s go and get a proper drink before my fingers fall off.’
‘Now you’re talking,’ said my model as she hopped off the bench and helped me untie my ice skates. ‘First round’s on me.’
Seriously, one of the best human beings I had ever met.
‘Jess, can you lift that reflector up, please?’
‘It’s Tess,’ I said, stretching my arms higher above my head, wobbling as I went. My arse was still killing me from the coccyx incident the night before and I did not feel steady on my feet in the slightest. ‘My name is Tess, actually. Sorry.’
Celebrated celebrity photographer extraordinaire Ess – no last name – took a moment to throw me a filthy look, then went back to staring at nothing through his viewfinder. I couldn’t really complain, it was the first time he’d looked me in the eye all day, having been far more interested in my tits ever since I’d arrived on set at 6 a.m.
I had been so excited when my agent got me the job with Ess. It was a real opportunity, she said. I’d learn so much, she said. So far, I’d made four cups of tea that hadn’t been drunk, been out on two coffee runs in the pouring rain and contorted myself into more uncomfortable positions than the average yoga instructor, all while holding an arm-breakingly huge reflector. And that was just today. The closest I had been to a camera all week was when Ess accidentally hit me in the arse with his while I was underneath a desk, plugging in the MacBook. This was not the hands-on training I’d been hoping for.
‘Jess, I need it higher. For Christ’s sake, woman!’
I closed my eyes, prayed to whoever would listen that I wouldn’t be spending Christmas with a broken leg to go with my bruised bum and pressed up onto my tiptoes, swaying back and forth.
‘Sorry,’ I said through gritted teeth. ‘Is this better?’
‘Not really. Doesn’t help that you’re waving it around like a fucking flag,’ he replied, snatching the camera away from his face and throwing it at his first assistant, a small, scared-looking bleached blond boy called 7. Not the word seven, the number seven. He had been quite clear about that. Never the word, always the number, he’d said defensively. ‘It’s supposed to be still. You’re supposed to reflect light. Do you even know how to stand still, Jess?’
‘Nope,’ I whispered before pasting on my brightest smile and holding my breath. ‘Any good?’
‘No. Get down and we’ll find something for you to do that isn’t as taxing as standing still,’ Ess said. He scratched his muttonchops and leered at my backside as I clambered off the stool he had balanced on the chair that stood on top of a suitcase. He did not offer to help. ‘Veronica said you were going to be good at this.’
It was delivered as a statement, no obvious question, no definitive inflection.
‘That’s nice,’ I said, tiptoeing across the all-white studio set-up. ‘And not at all like her.’
‘You doing her?’ he asked.
‘Sorry?’ I blinked.
‘Shagging her?’ he said.
‘No,’ I replied, shaking my head. ‘I don’t think so. Is she gay?’
‘She’s never tried it on with me,’ he said, shrugging as though that was an answer. ‘If you were good, you’d be able to hold up a reflector properly.’
He signalled for me to stand on the T-shaped mark 7 had created on the floor with duct tape. ‘Veronica isn’t usually wrong about people. You sure you’re not shagging her?’
‘I’m definitely not,’ I said, pulling the elastic from around my ponytail and securing as much of my curly copper hair as I could. ‘And I’m sorry if I’m not getting everything right straight away. I’ve never actually assisted before. I’ll get it, though, I promise. I’m sorry.’
It was as though I had apologetic Tourette’s. I couldn’t stop saying I was sorry even though an apology was not owed and unlikely to ever be deserved.
‘Oh, so you’re one of them,’ Ess said, eyes narrowing as a tight smile took over his bristly face. ‘You think you’re a real photographer so you’re too good to dirty your hands assisting me.’
‘Not at all,’ I replied quickly. ‘I mean, I am a real photographer but I don’t think I’m too good to assist you.’
I did though. I thought I was far too good but since no one had hired me to be a ‘real’ photographer for nearly three months, I didn’t have a lot of choice. It turned out that lucking into two jobs, no matter how brilliant they might have been, did not a career in photography make.
‘Yeah? You got lots of nice pictures of your dinner on Instagram, have you?’ he asked while 7 tittered in the background. ‘Maybe the odd cat? Few nice duckface selfies?’
‘No,’ I replied, tossing my head like an indignant pony. ‘I mean, yes, obviously, but not just that. I shot Bertie Bennett for Gloss magazine and I worked with him on the book he’s writing.’
‘Never heard of him.’ Ess dismissed my job of a lifetime without a second thought. ‘Gloss’ll be closed inside six months, mark my words. All those gash mags are going under.’