About a Girl (37 page)

‘I am,’ a voice snuffled from behind the door while the lock rattled. These doors locked? In London, I had to put the deadbolt on before I could even run to the toilet for a drunken wee, but it hadn’t even occurred to me to lock the doors here. ‘Is everything all right?’

Even red-faced and puffy-eyed from lack of sleep and sobbing so relentless that she couldn’t stop it to say good morning, Martha was obscenely beautiful. Even a paper bag over the head wouldn’t help ? it would probably just bring out her swan-like neck. But this wasn’t the time for pointless jealousy; this was the time for cold teabags and hopefully some very expensive eye cream to work their magic.

‘Everything is fine.’ I clutched at my camera bag and tried not to drop my tripod. I’d had the best idea for the shoot and was so excited I couldn’t stand still, but I needed Martha’s help. If she wasn’t up for it, I was left with Ana. And that wasn’t happening. ‘Are you all right?’

What a stupid question.

Rather than do something obvious like answer with words, Martha burst into deafening, heart-wrenching sobs and buried her face in my shoulder. I slid my tripod onto the floor, ignoring the unpleasant clattering sound as it struck the ground, and patted her back.

‘Don’t cry, he’s not worth it,’ I told her in between comforting taps. I’d been managing a team of almost entirely women for five years. I knew an on-the-job boy breakdown when I saw one.

‘I’ve been trying to hold it together, but I just caaan’t,’ she wailed. ‘He’s seeing someone else. He’s coming home to me every night after he’s been out shagging someone else. I don’t know what to dooo.’

Wow. Men even cheated on models? There really was no hope for us mere mortals.

‘That’s awful,’ I said as sympathetically as I could manage, prising her arms off me. ‘And we should have a drink and talk about it, but, I was wondering, is there any way I could borrow you for a couple of reshoots?’

‘Oh shit, yeah, of course.’ In a heartbeat, Martha snapped into professional mode. Professional model with a runny nose. I couldn’t have loved her any more. ‘When?’

‘Now?’ I held up my camera bag. ‘And, um, there’s no make-up artist and I sort of thought we’d do it without Ana.’

‘Thank God,’ she sniffed and tossed her long black hair out behind her. ‘I can’t stand that cow. Let’s do it. Anything is better than sitting around here. I just can’t seem to stop thinking about him. What’s the plan?’

‘I’ll tell you on the way.’ I sighed with relief, understanding exactly how she felt. ‘Prepare yourself for some pretty epic dresses.’

‘Better than preparing myself to dump that wanker when I get home, isn’t it?’ she said sadly. ‘Lead the way.’

‘She looks amazing,’ Nick whispered as I moved Kekipi’s arms into just the right position with my light reflector. He tutted, sighed and tossed his head like an angry pony, but he did as he was told. As photographer’s assistants went, he was ? well, he was terrible, but he was willing, so that was something.

Martha was sitting at Jane’s dressing table, gazing into the mirror as she touched up her impeccable make-up – someone had been paying attention over the years – wearing the red Valentino dress. Al stood in the wardrobe, still in his board shorts and T-shirt, beaming with his memories of Janey wearing the dress. I wished we could have opened up his head and scooped them all out, but the way his smile shone through the lens of my camera, it was almost as though I had. ‘This is perfect.’

‘The way Al was talking about it all,’ I said, not taking my eye off the scene, ‘it all just made sense. The pictures needed to be intimate, they needed to be about him and Jane, and this room is her.’

‘Yeah. I felt a bit weird being in here at first,’ Nick said, peering over my shoulder at the image showing in the back of my camera. ‘It’s like when people make the bed for their dead husband or set a place at the table every night ten years after they’ve carked it, but this just feels right. Really happy.’

‘I know.’ I paused to signal to Kekipi to lift up the reflector. Lazy bastard. ‘Did you notice how all her silver brushes and frames and things look brand new? But it’s not weird.’

‘Which is, oddly enough, a bit weird,’ Nick said, placing a gentle hand on my waist. ‘These photos are going to be perfect. Thank you.’

I blushed and made an awkward shrugging motion, waving him away, not knowing what to say. ‘Um, Martha, I think we’ve got this dress. Shall we try the next one?’

‘The wedding dress?’ She sounded as though she was asking if she could finally have a ride on a pony. ‘The Givenchy?’

The second we’d walked into the dressing room, Martha’s heartbreak was forgotten. She still had a slightly preoccupied, wistful look in her eyes in the images, but the look on her face when she’d seen Jane’s wedding dress was unbelievable. I’d considered getting her to call her boyfriend and break it off then and there, she was so consumed by it, but instead I just let her make breathless squeaks at Al and jump up and down, arm stretched out but never quite touching the fabric of the dress. It was a fashiongasm. Al seemed quite pleased.

‘Are you sure about this, Al?’ I asked. I had my reservations. Everything else looked so incredible. The magazine wouldn’t know they weren’t getting this and it just seemed so personal. ‘Really?’

‘Really,’ he nodded, handing the dress to a practically vibrating Martha. ‘The look on her face, that’s what I was talking about earlier. And Janey would be furious if we didn’t include her favourite dress.’

‘She wouldn’t be mad that you’re letting someone else wear it?’

‘No, it’s right,’ he said, sounding very certain. ‘Janey wasn’t one to hide things away and hole them up. She wouldn’t want her things to be locked away and turning into rags; she’d want everyone to enjoy them. She’d want them to have a life.’

‘She’d want her things to have a life?’ I pursed my lips and raised my eyebrows. ‘She wouldn’t want to hide them away? Maybe not just her things?’

‘Oh, very clever, young lady,’ he chuckled. ‘And yes, you’re right. Women usually are. The sooner you learn that, the better, Nicholas.’

Nick gave him a nod and squeezed the hand that was still sitting lightly on my waist.

‘I needed a bit of time to think about things, and I’ve had that. I am still sad that Jane isn’t here any more – heartbroken really – but more than anything, I’m glad that I had her while I did. I’m glad we didn’t waste a minute.’ He stopped speaking as Martha popped out of the bathroom wearing the dress.

The ivory fabric glowed against her dark skin and she’d pulled her hair up into a simple knot, letting strands fall down against her cheeks. She looked incredible. Al stepped back, took a proper look at her, then readjusted the slightly skewed neckline and offered his arm. Martha took it, smiling so broadly there was a good chance she’d been shooting up in the bathroom. I’d never seen anyone look so happy because of a dress. And I had been to a lot of weddings.

‘This will not be the first time anyone’s said this to you,’ Al said, giving a desperately weeping Kekipi a stern look, ‘but there isn’t enough time to waste in this life. So don’t.’

‘I’d better finish taking these pictures then,’ I said, purposefully obtuse.

CHAPTER TWENTY

The shoot didn’t take long. Martha and Al got on like a house on fire, and all remaining thoughts of her rubbish boyfriend were temporarily forgotten just as soon as Martha got a glimpse inside Jane Bennett’s fabled wardrobe. I left the two of them playing dress-up with Kekipi and went back to the cottage to work on the photos. As soon as I pulled them up on my laptop, I knew we’d done it. They looked amazing. Al looked happy and proud; Martha looked stunning in every shot. Each dress told a story, and happily, Nick now had those stories. And alongside the beautiful fashion pics, I’d pulled the photos I’d taken of Al on the beach. They were perfect. Honest, sweet and real. And not a ukulele in sight. Somehow, we’d pulled off the impossible. Before I could think better of it, I picked my favourites and emailed them to Agent Veronica. One job down.

‘While I’m dealing in miracles,’ I muttered, reaching for my phone. Reluctantly, the fucked-up phone dialled out, rang several times and eventually went through to voicemail. I cleared my throat and closed my eyes. I felt horrible. We’d never fought and gone so long without making up before. I couldn’t believe she hadn’t called me. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t called her. I had no idea what I was going to say.

‘Aims, it’s me,’ I started, not knowing where to go next. ‘I am a massive cock. I deserve to be punched in the boob and I love you very much. I’m sorry I’ve been so useless, I’m sorry I went complete batshit mental, and I’m sorry I’m not there when you need me. Hopefully you’re just down at G.A.Y. dancing on a table to Rhianna and not in the bottom of the Thames. I’ll be home Sunday evening, about five-ish. I’ll call you then? If you’re not dead?’ I paused, minimized the Photoshop window on my laptop screen and stared at the picture of me, Amy and Charlie that I used as my wallpaper. Weird. ‘So yeah, topline summary, I love you. I’m coming home. Vanessa’s probably going to kill me in my sleep, so if you don’t hear from me again—’

Before I could finish my round-up, the call waiting tone chimed loudly in my ear.

‘Someone’s trying to call me and I’m hoping it’s you. So I’ll talk to you in a minute. Bye!’

But I couldn’t talk to her because my phone was officially a piece of shit. I stabbed at the shattered screen again and again but it stubbornly refused to switch calls, and because I’d made such a beautiful modern artesque job of destroying the thing, I couldn’t even see for sure who it was that was calling.

‘I hate you, iPhone,’ I yelled, furious at being refused a chance to make things up with Amy properly. Voicemail messages always sounded hollow and worklike. No one left voicemails any more. Apart from me and whoever had just tried to call me, it seemed, as a green box flashed up underneath a criss-cross pattern of shattered glass announcing a voice message. Out of sheer perversity, I jabbed at the box and, lo and behold, it connected immediately.

‘Of course you did,’ I hissed, picking up my technological nemesis and holding it to me ear. ‘You little shit.’

‘Hello, um, Tess?’ Bugger me backwards, Bob, it was Charlie.

‘Yeah, just checking in. Again. Wanted to see if you’re all right or not, or talking to me again. Or not. I tried to call Amy, which was probably a mistake. She’s not very happy with me, but when is she? Anyway, um, I’ve got some news. My football team won on Wednesday night. That’s not the news, but, well, I suppose it is news …’

He sounded so uncomfortable and so strange that I felt sick. I was doing this to him. Me not talking to him was making him sad. I’d spent ten years trying to make Charlie Wilder happy and now I was hurting him so much that he was making feeble jokey comments about his football team on my voicemail. ‘But call me back, yeah? Really need to talk to you. I know I’m a massive twat who doesn’t deserve a phone call even, but I, um, yeah, I really, really need to hear your voice.’

It wasn’t a long message and it definitely wasn’t a coherent one, but it was enough to make me turn off my phone (after six attempts) and rest my head on my forearms. Silly me thinking everything would magically be sorted out by a half-decent photograph. Or several amazing photographs, if I was really going to toot my own horn. Eurgh.

‘Vanessa?’

A quiet knock on the door announced my visitor before they spoke, so I knew it wasn’t Paige. Sniffing quickly and rubbing my face on my arm, I looked up, blinking into the daylight. Staring at a screen for so long had made me dizzy.

‘Kekipi.’ I tried to look pleased to see him, and not just because he had a picnic hamper in his hands. ‘How is the happy couple?’

‘I haven’t seen Mr Bennett happier for a very long time.’ He smiled right back at me. ‘They were still up to their eyeballs in haute couture when I left.’

‘Think they both needed a bit of a boost,’ I said, eyeing the picnic basket like the honey badger I was. I hadn’t eaten anything all day, and now the nervous energy that had carried me through the morning was about to blow up into one giant fist of fury.

‘From the looks of things, so do you.’ He set the basket down on my couch and came closer, unwittingly risking life and limb. ‘Trouble in paradise?’

‘Trouble, definitely.’ I looked at my phone again, looked at the computer screen and yawned. It was all too much. ‘I’m really bloody hungry. What’s in the basket?’

The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. My nan would have been appalled.

‘Nothing to eat.’ Kekipi frowned and made straight for the kitchen. ‘I’ll make you a deal. You go and shower, shave, do whatever it is that girls do, and I’ll prepare something light and delicious.’’

‘Why do I have to shower to eat something light and delicious?’ I looked down and poked my soft belly gently. Maybe I had gained a couple of pounds while I’d been away, but still, insulting much?

‘Because I’m taking you somewhere special for dinner, and that picnic basket is full of things to make a woman beautiful,’ he said, turning to fix me with an unmistakeably judgemental eye. ‘Things that you do not currently own.’

I would have been offended, but he was quite right. I was still using the Nivea for Men I’d nicked from work because I hadn’t had time to go out and buy proper moisturizer. Anyone going through my toiletry bag would think it belonged to a travelling salesman. ‘I’ll just be a minute.’

‘You will be a minimum of ten,’ he corrected. ‘Don’t wash your hair, I like it like that.’

‘Yes, boss.’ I pushed myself up out of my chair and sloped into the bathroom, weak from lack of munchies and the tyranny of an impending gay makeover. Hopefully he wasn’t taking me to a live taping of
RuPaul’s Drag Race
. Or, actually, I hoped that he was.

When Kekipi finally unveiled his handiwork, I gasped. His flair for the dramatic meant that he had covered every mirror in the cottage aside from the giant one in the bathroom, and I was forbidden to see myself until he was happy. And, scarily enough, when it came to make-up, this time what made him happy made me happy. My skin looked soft and airbrushed with a rosy pink glow rather than bronzed tiger stripes, my lips held just a whisper more than their natural colour, and, thanks to the very liberal usage of smokey eyeliner and individual false eyelashes that I was really, really looking forward to picking off when I got home from wherever we were going, my eyes looked enormous, but not creepy. I almost looked as pretty as him. ‘Thank you, lovely.’