‘So tell me, what made you want to be a photographer, Heather?’
I knew I shouldn’t have worn this stupid mohair skirt and the lacy granny blouse. Everyone’s in jeans and T-shirts, all cool and funky, like real journalists and photographers. Not impostors like me. A lowly assistant to a wedding photographer. Oh, God, what on earth was I thinking? I don’t belong here. I’m way out of my league.
‘Heather?’
With a start I snap back from Planet Failure, and see that Victor Maxfield is waiting for what the interview-technique books call ‘input’.
‘Oh, absolutely.’ I adopt a confident look. Which freezes to my face like a mask as I see his expression change from expectation to confusion. ‘I mean . . . I think . . . I’m sorry, what was that again?’ My voice comes out much higher than usual.
‘I was wondering what sparked your interest in photography,’ says Victor Maxfield, patiently, but I know his easy manner camouflages a steely demeanour.
I sit up straight in my chair and pretend to give the question some serious thought (tip number two: never rush an answer) but again I’m distracted by someone walking past the office and peering in. Honestly, I wish people wouldn’t stare at me.
‘Don’t worry, he’s not staring at you.’
I jump as Victor Maxfield gestures to the man outside. ‘He’s looking at himself. Vain bunch, my staff.’ He chuckles. ‘I don’t know if you noticed before you came in but my window’s a mirror,’ he explains.
‘Really?’ I laugh pleasantly. Now I feel like even more of an idiot. All this time I’ve thought they were staring at me when in fact they’ve been checking their appearance.
‘So?’ Victor Maxfield steeples his fingers and rests his chin on them. He seems to be pondering me and I can feel my chances, whichwerethisclose, slipping away.
Spiralling downwards into a pit of insecurity I glance at him from under my eyelashes. Victor Maxfield is an imposing figure. Even though he must be nudging sixty, he’s still attractive. His tanned, freckly face has the well-worn furrows and lines that on men are called ‘rugged’, and on women are the reason plastic surgeons drive around in top-of-the-range Mercedes. His hair is still thick, albeit sprinkled with grey. But it’s the eyes I notice most. Partly hidden by his baggy eyelids, they match the faded blue of his Ralph Lauren shirt, and briefly I’m reminded of Gabe’s and how, when I looked into them this morning, they were filled with his belief that I can do this.
‘I was eight,’ I begin quietly, ‘and my family and I were moving from Yorkshire to Cornwall.’ It all comes flooding back as if it were yesterday. ‘We were saying goodbye to all our friends and neighbours. I remember seeing all these faces and expressions and wanting to capture them for ever. There was Mrs Bird who lived next door and never put her teeth in and little Andrea swinging on the gatepost. Buster the Alsatian was barking and wagging his tail. I didn’t want to forget any of them.’
Snapshots of their faces come alive in my mind, and even though I’m sitting in a high-rise office on the banks of the river Thames, I’m right back in Yorkshire again. ‘I asked my father if I could borrow his camera,’ I continue. ‘It was an old Leica, big, black and heavy, and he’d never let me use it before. But today was special, so he showed me where to look, what to press and how to focus.
‘It was incredible, all this life, all these memories, all this emotion, and as I clicked away it was as if I was soaking it all up, like a sponge. I knew I’d be able to keep it for ever.’ My voice falters when my mind flicks to Mum – as it so often does. ‘I don’t like saying goodbye and I knew this way I wasn’t really saying goodbye because I was taking those people with me.’
I look at Victor Maxfield, who’s been listening quietly all the time. ‘I still have them today, Andrea, Mrs Bird and Buster.’
‘Can I see them?’ asks Victor Maxfield.
‘I’m afraid they’re a little blurred,’ I laugh, ‘and there’s a lot of my thumb.’
He laughs too and I’m buoyed up. ‘But I do have lots of other pictures,’ I say eagerly, pulling out my portfolio from under my chair, ‘if you’d like to have a look.’
‘Please.’ He pats his desk.
I place the large black case on it, unzip it and lay it open. Like myself, I think, feeling suddenly vulnerable as Victor Maxfield undoes his cufflinks, and, rolling up sleeves, says, ‘Let’s get down to business, shall we?’
For the next thirty minutes Victor Maxfield studies my photographs, nods admiringly and asks dozens of questions. I can’t quite believe it. The editor. Of the Sunday Herald. Looking at my pictures.
But as I talk about my photography, my nerves disappear. My voice becomes steady and confident, I stop fiddling with my clothes and use my hands to gesticulate depth and perspective. I even forget that I need a pee.
Engrossed in describing the different inspiration for each subject, I sneak sideways looks at Victor Maxfield and, although I barely dare to believe it, he seems impressed. One moment he’s nodding approval, the next he’s raising his eyebrows with interest or laughing at an over-processed image of one of Ed’s patients – a boy of about nine with his mouth full of braces and chewing-gum. When he comes upon one image he falls quiet and I watch him studying it, his forehead furrowed in contemplation. ‘Who’s this?’ he asks.
He’s holding a black and white photograph of my mother. Wearing a headscarf, she has her face tilted to the sunshine and a faint smile playing on her lips. She has a luminous quality. So luminous, in fact, that you might not notice she has no eyebrows, or that no tendrils of hair are escaping from beneath the scarf. She died just a few weeks after it was taken.
‘My inspiration,’ I say quietly.
‘She’s a beautiful woman.’ Victor Maxfield talks in the present tense.
‘I know,’ I agree. Because in this photograph she is alive.
There’s a pause as we gaze at the picture. ‘Well, I’ve very much enjoyed your portfolio,’ Victor Maxfield is saying, as he eases himself back into his chair. He rolls down his sleeves, deftly replaces his cufflinks and fixes me with a thoughtful look. ‘Do you have an extra five minutes? I’d like you to meet our picture editor.’
‘Of course.’ Like he has to ask.
Picking up the phone he presses a button. The person at the other end answers immediately. ‘Yvonne? Hi, it’s Victor. Are you free? There’s a photographer I’d like you to meet.’ Without waiting for a response he hangs up with the confidence of a man for whom questions are merely rhetorical.
‘Well, that’s settled.’ Seeming rather pleased he stands up and, taking this as my cue, so do I. He walks out from behind his desk and holds out his hand. ‘Heather, it was a pleasure to meet you.’
So this is it. The interview’s over. ‘You too,’ I say, shaking his hand and feeling a mixture of relief and sadness that perhaps this is the closest I’m ever going to get to my dream.
We’re interrupted by a knock at the door and a curly-haired woman with large dangly earrings puts her head round the door.
‘Ah, Yvonne, this is Heather, the photographer I was telling you about.’
She smiles energetically and the rest of her appears. ‘Hi,’ she says briskly, then pumps my hand and bobs back out of the office. ‘This way.’ She beckons.
I pick up my portfolio and glance back at Victor Maxfield. Arms folded, leaning back, he’s watching me intently, as if he’s deep in thought. Is that good or bad? I can’t work it out and, making a mental note to look it up in my interview book, I hurry after Yvonne.
Chapter Thirty-five
Yvonne turns out to be scary but friendly. She shows me briskly round the picture desk, introduces me to her assistant, whose name I’ve forgotten already, and flirts aggressively with a floppy-haired freelance photographer looking for work (‘Never be afraid to abuse your power,’ she advises, after commissioning him for a shoot), shakes my hand, shows me to the lift and disappears ‘for a fag’.
I think about her the whole tube journey
to work. Well, not Yvonne specifically, but in context with the Sunday Herald, Victor Maxfield and my interview. Excitement bubbles. If I get the job my whole life will change. Daydreaming, I close my eyes and allow the Piccadilly line to transport me out of my imaginary future and back to reality.
When I arrive at work I’m surprised to discover that the building is still locked up. Where’s Brian? I check my watch – it’s nearly eleven. Puzzled, I let myself in with my keys, turn off the alarm and pull up the blinds. Sunlight streams into the office, illuminating the dust particles swirling in the air like confetti, and scooping up the mail from the mat, I walk over to the front counter.
As usual its mostly bills, but while a few weeks ago we’d had no hope of paying them off, now with Lady Charlotte’s wedding we needn’t worry. Which is great, I muse, wandering into the little kitchen to make myself some coffee. Just not so great for me. A knot of dread tightens in my stomach as the day looms closer.
Trying not to think about it I’m spooning Nescafé into my mug when I hear the electronic jingle of the door. That must be Brian. ‘So, what time do you call this?’ I shout.
‘I beg your pardon?’
I put my head round the door and the grin freezes on my face. It’s not Brian. Instead, it’s a reed-thin blonde. With a suspiciously large cleavage. She stalks towards me, kitten heels clicking loudly on the laminate flooring. ‘I’m looking for Brian Williams,’ she demands, in a high-pitched whinny.
My stomach drops. I don’t need any introductions to know who this is – Lady Charlotte. ‘I’m afraid he’s not here yet,’ I reply, moving behind the front counter where she’s rested her Mulberry tote.
She pushes her black Chanel sunglasses on to her forehead and fixes me with a haughty stare. I stare back. There’s love-at-first-sight, but this is hate-at-first-sight. ‘Not here?’ she repeats indignantly.
Tread on eggshells, Heather, warns the voice in my head. Tread on eggshells.
‘Perhaps I can help,’ I venture carefully. I mustn’t let my personal feelings get in the way. I have to be totally professional about this.
‘Perhaps.’ She sniffs and it’s apparent from the look she gives me that ‘Perhaps not’ is what she means. However, with the absence of anyone else, she’s got little choice. ‘I think we may have spoken once on the phone.’
Once? More like fifty times, I want to cry. Instead I bite my tongue and concentrate on remaining friendly and smily. Friendly and smiley. Friendly and smiley. Repeating it in my head, like a mantra, I shuffle a few papers on the counter in an attempt to give myself an air of authority.
‘I’ve come about my wedding.’
‘You must be excited,’ I enthuse.
‘Very,’ she says, in a voice that couldn’t have sounded less excited. ‘But, quite frankly, I’ll be glad when it’s all over. Organising a wedding for five hundred people is so completely stressful. What with the string quartet flying in from Prague, Harrods saying they won’t have time to gold-leaf the cake and my makeup artist breaking her wrist . . .’ She rolls her eyes dramatically. ‘But, then, that’s me. Always taking on far too much. My doctor’s warned me I’ve got to be careful otherwise I’ll find myself in hospital with exhaustion. But I told him, “No, Doctor. This is my wedding day and if I have to apply my own eyeliner, then I’ll jolly well do it.”’
‘Good for you,’ I say encouragingly. Er, hello? Is this woman for real? I’m almost tempted to ask her if she’ll have the strength to apply her own mascara too, but I’m distracted by her handbag – it’s wriggling.
‘Jesus.’ I jump away from the counter. ‘Something’s alive in there!’ The bag wriggles again and a black nose pokes out of a corner. ‘Oh, my God, it’s a rat!’
The first genuine smile I’ve seen appears on Lady Charlotte’s face and scooping out the tiniest, baldest, ugliest dog I’ve ever seen she begins scratching its tiny ratty head, cooing, ‘Oooh, did the big horrible woman frighten you, Poo-poo?’
Poo-poo?
‘This is Pollyanna, my chihuahua,’ she says, looking at me crossly.
‘Gosh, I’m sorry. I thought . . . she’s got those little beady eyes and I thought . . . well—’ I’m interrupted by the electronic jingle of the door and Brian appears.
‘Good morning.’ Bounding into the office with a tray from the little café on the corner and more energy than I’ve seen in him for ages, he takes a drag of his cigarette and smiles broadly at us both. ‘Isn’t it a glorious day?’
Behind him, out of the window, the skies are still overcast and threatening rain.
‘I bought you a double cappuccino, no foam, just how you like it,’ he says merrily, passing me a Styrofoam cup, ‘and a pain au chocolat. I know they’re your favourite.’
As I silently accept them I peer at him suspiciously. Hang on a minute. Is this the same Brian I find slumped each morning at his desk, smoking cigarettes and making bitchy comments about whoever’s on the front of the Daily Mail? Who refuses to pay two pounds fifty for a takeout coffee, calling it ‘daylight robbery’ and insists on drinking instant? Even if it means taking a flask when we’re on a job?
‘I must say you’re looking very chi-chi this morning. What’s the special occasion?’
‘Erm . . .’ I’d been planning to tell him about my interview when he arrived, but with Lady Charlotte here it’s impossible.
‘Don’t tell me!’ He slams his cup on the counter, takes a drag of his cigarette and peers at me through narrowed eyes. ‘You and James have got engaged.’
‘Not exactly.’ I smile uncomfortably, then, trying to quickly steer him off the subject of James, say brightly, ‘Have you met Lady Charlotte?’
It seems a shame to spoil his extraordinary good mood, but she’s standing there like a lemon. Or should that be looking like she just sucked one.
‘Delighted,’ she mutters, offering a limp hand.
I expect Brian to look sickened, but he’s unfazed. ‘Lady Charlotte! What a surprise. I’ve been so much looking forward to meeting you.’ Clasping his hands in delight, he beams at her like a politician. Actually, he’s not unfazed, he’s unhinged, I decide, and watch an unsavoury bout of air-kissing.
Then I spot a crimson splodge on his neck.
Like a line of dominoes, everything falls into place. Last night. The Rocky Horror Show. Neil, the good-looking air steward. This morning. Late for work. Ridiculously good mood. Lovebite.
I catch his eye over Lady Charlotte’s shoulder, smile knowingly and give him the thumbs-up.
He reddens and focuses his attention on Lady Charlotte as she whinges on about how her bouquet is going to clash with her complexion and make her look ghastly in the photographs. ‘Well, we need to get this matter sorted immediately. Ideally, we should go to the florist and take some Polaroids . . .’ He tries to ignore me.
‘Oh, could you? Could you really?’ pleads Lady Charlotte, her voice husky with hopeful gratitude.
Hopeful gratitude? Lady Charlotte? I’m amazed: Brian works his magic like a sorcerer.
‘But that would mean me cancelling appointments.’
‘Well, of course I’ll reimburse you.’
‘Which would incur considerable costs.’
‘Whatever. I’ve got access to Daddy’s Coutts account. I’ll write you a cheque right now.’ She scrabbles for a pen.
‘No, I’m afraid I can’t accept that. It could reach into thousands.’ He holds up his hands as if he needs to defend himself from a Coutts cheque.
At which point I gaze at him in awe. This man is a genius. With an empty diary and a pile of bills, we’re looking at making the grand total of zero today.
‘Will this cover it?’ begs Lady Charlotte, brandishing a cheque.
Brian looks at it, then hesitates for dramatic effect. Furrowing his brow, he sucks his teeth and then, in what is truly a superb move, finally looks over at me and asks, ‘Heather, do you think you’ll be able to clear the diary?’
Honestly, the man should get an Academy Aw
ard.
I play along: I adopt a solemn expression and open the diary. Blank pages stare back at me. ‘It won’t be easy, but I’ll do my best,’ I say gravely.
‘Oh, marvellous!’ Whooping with relief, Lady Charlotte clasps her hands together. ‘How can I ever repay you?’
‘Please, don’t mention it,’ protests Brian. ‘Here, at Together Forever, we go that extra smile.’ Beaming at his play on words, he tucks the cheque into his breast pocket and, putting his arm round her trim little waist, ushers Lady Charlotte out.
Half an hour later, having eaten half of my pain au chocolat and realised that I’d prefer a bowl of cereal today, I’m toying with the idea of popping out to buy some All Bran when the phone rings. It’s one of our customers calling about extra prints of their wedding, which took place a few months ago.
Yes, of course, we have them on file, I assure them, abandoning my breakfast run. I go into the little back room where I survey the overflowing cabinets, shelves cluttered with different folders and jumbled boxes of film. This is Brian’s idea of a filing system. Sighing, I make my usual vow that one day I’m going to reorganise it and, flicking on the CD player, roll up my lacy sleeves and get stuck in.
Mr and Mrs K. Peck. Nope, that’s not them. I reach for another folder on which is scribbled STAR . . . something. I struggle to decipher Brian’s handwriting. STAR T-R-E . . . Oh, it’s the Star Trek couple who said their vows in Klingon. I glance at a photograph of a portly middle-aged groom in a Starship Enterprise crew outfit, then stuff the file back into the cabinet and pull out a different wedding.
Oh, this is the one where the bride wore black, and this was on the London Eye . . . and they were a lovely couple. I spot an elaborately dressed Indian bride and groom, and drift off into a memory of a red and gold-embroidered sari, beating drums, tables piled with the most delicious food. But that’s not the couple I’m looking for. I rummage through a tray of contact sheets with no luck.
I flop dispiritedly on to a stool and chew my fingernails until my eye falls on a packet marked ‘June 2005’. Pulling out a wad of photographs I angle them to the light.