Be Careful What You Wish For (33 page)

‘Hey.’ He yelps as it hits him, splat, in the chest.

‘Bull’s-eye,’ I cry, and we both crack up as the damp splodge of PG Tips spreads out across Mr T’s face.

Then noticing the time on the microwave, I catch myself. ‘Shit, it’s getting late. I’d better jump in the shower.’

‘Sure you don’t want to join me for breakfast?’ He spears a charred lump from the toaster and waves it at me in what I assume is meant to be an enticing manner. His eyes are twinkling.

‘Mmm, tempting,’ I concede, playing along as I meet his gaze.

And then, unexpectedly, my stomach flutters.

What the . . . ? Looking into his big blue eyes I don’t know what comes over me. Suddenly he’s not my flatmate in his underpants, he’s this flirty, half-naked American who’s actually quite sexy . . .
Heather Hamilton, what’s got into you?

I snap out of my daze. Christ, I must be having withdrawal symptoms from James. I don’t fancy Gabe. Our relationship is purely platonic. And, anyway, he goes out with Mia, his model-Hollywood-actress girlfriend. He’s hardly going to be attracted to me with my terry-towelling bathrobe and eyebrows that need plucking, is he?

I look at Gabe who’s grinning at me but suddenly I’m feeling quite indignant towards him. ‘Maybe some other time,’ I say stiffly, and do my best model strut out of the kitchen.

Half an hour later, I’m in my bedroom. Showered, blow-dried and deodorised, I open the wardrobe door.

Right. Operation Interview. I begin flicking through the row of hangers dismissively. No, no, no, no . . .
maybe.
I pause on a pink mohair skirt that cost a fortune in some fancy little boutique, but it’s one of those things that look lovely on the hanger and dreadful on me. In fact, I’ve got loads of stuff like that. There’s this beautiful lace vintage top, which makes me look like someone’s granny, and a gorgeous embroidered jacket from India with all these mirrored bits, which must have taken someone ages to sew on – and which Jess says makes me look like a student bedspread. Honestly, I should start framing some of these clothes and hanging them on the walls instead of pictures.

No, I need a suit. Everyone wears a suit for an interview. And I once had a lovely suit. I wish I still had it . . .

A prickle of static electricity surges through my fingertips, making me jump. What was that? I peer into the wardrobe and see that they brushed the shoulder pads of a jacket.
My suit jacket.
Aha! I knew I couldn’t have thrown it away. I got it from Jigsaw in the sale, and even then it cost a small fortune. I unearth it from the back of the wardrobe. Just as I remember. Dark grey with a faint pinstripe. Very
Great Gatsby.
Very hip-professional-photographer. Very
Sunday Herald.

Bubbling with optimism, I unhook the jacket and slip it over my naked arms. Hurrah, it still fits. Which is doubly great as it means I’m the same size as I was when I was . . . I attempt a bit of mental arithmetic . . . Well, I’m not sure exactly, but clogs were in fashion so it
must
have been a long time ago.

Buoyed up by the success with the jacket, I unhook the trousers. Yippee! This is going to be a great look, I just know it. I can team it with that lovely white shirt Jess gave me and maybe my brogues and go for a Diane Keaton in
Annie Hall
vibe, or maybe I should do T-shirt and Pumas and do that whole androgynous Jude Law thing . . . Carried away by the host of possibilities I step into the trousers and pull them up.

And up. And up.
And up.

Shit.

I fasten the button and look at my reflection.

Two words spring to mind. Simon and Cowell.

No, this can’t be. I’ve been thinking hipsters, bootcut, flattering. Not a waistband that’s so high it’s nudging my nipples. Plus – and, believe me, this isn’t a plus –
they’re pleated.

I’m aghast. I don’t need Trinny and Susannah to point out the fashion disaster: it’s right there before my eyes. I do a nervous twirl and catch sight of my bottom. At least, I
think
it’s my bottom. Lost under swathes of gathering it appears to stretch from my ribcage to the backs of my knees. I shudder. This has to be the most unflattering pair of trousers I’ve ever seen.
Ever.
Did I really wear these?
In public?

I could go on for ever, but I’m running out of time. My interview’s at nine and I’ve got to go straight to the office afterwards. Which means, I decide, tugging off my suit and chucking it on to the bedroom floor, it’s time for Plan B. Delving back into the wardrobe I start rifling through the hangers. Now, where was that pink mohair skirt and lacy top?

Two squirts of perfume later I’m all set. Grabbing my black leather portfolio I start a hunt for my keys and mobile. Where are they? I’m going to be late. I dash into the kitchen and sort through piles of magazines and newspapers on the table, then upturn a fruit bowl that’s home to loose change. Damnit. I wish I could find them.

Hang on, what’s this?

I spot my sparkly key-ring under a tea-towel. Fantastic. Now what about my . . . I do a double-take: there, in the fruit bowl, is my mobile phone. But how can that be? I only looked there a second ago. Amazed, I scoop it out and pop it into my bag. Wow, thank goodness for the lucky heather. What would I do without it? I take a deep breath. Now, have I got everything for the interview?

Quickly running through the list in my head, I glance round the kitchen and notice that Gabe’s trainers have disappeared. He must have gone for a run, I muse, and feel a bit guilty for being short with him earlier. Then I notice that he’s left the window open and go over to close it.

Which is when I spot the lucky heather on the windowsill. Gosh, how could I forget that? I pluck it from its vase and hold it tight. Almost instantly I feel myself grow calmer. Gabe’s right. I’ll be fine. Actually, no, I’ll be more than fine, I’ll be awesome. I’m going to wow Victor Maxfield with my skill as a photographer and he’s going to ask me to work for them.
Beg
me to work for them, I tell myself, enjoying a splurge of confidence as I entertain this happy thought.

Followed by another: telling my family about my super-duper new job. Dad will be delighted as he knows it’s what I’ve always wanted. Ed will be amazed. As for Rosemary, she’ll never be able to boast about Annabel again. Because I’ll have something much better than an all-weather conservatory and a French-speaking nanny. I’ll have a high-flying career!

I catch my breath. My childhood dream is so close I can almost touch it. I pop the lucky heather into my pocket, sling my portfolio over my shoulder and hurry down the hallway towards it. Just think. Me. Heather Hamilton. The
Sunday Herald
photographer. And pulling open the front door with both hands, I take one small step for mankind and one giant step into my new life.

 

Behind his desk, in one of those chunky high-backed leather chairs that big-shot people spend their days swivelling in, Victor Maxfield is telling me what makes the
Sunday Herald
the best-selling weekend newspaper in the UK. Sitting opposite him in his large corner office, which has huge glass windows with an amazing view of the London Eye, I’m doing everything those how-to-win-the-job articles always say you should do in interviews. I’m making eye-contact, appearing interested and enthusiastic with occasional nods, cocking my head to the side and murmuring, ‘Really?’ and ‘Absolutely,’ and laughing in all the right places at his jokes – even though secretly I don’t really think they’re
that
funny. But I’m so nervous I still feel as if I’m going to throw up.

Honestly, I had no idea it was going to be so bad. When I arrived fifteen minutes ago and was told to wait in Reception I felt relatively calm. I sipped some water from the dispenser in the corner and flicked through a few magazines. When Margot, Victor Maxfield’s secretary, came to take me up to his office, I made easy chit-chat in the lift about the weather, thinking, Look at me, I’m mature and confident and not in the least bit nervous. It was as if I was the one putting
her
at ease.

In fact, I was even OK following Margot through the busy open-plan office, although I do admit I had to stare at the carpet the whole time as otherwise it might have been a bit intimidating. But still. I was fine. I was taking it all in my stride, flicking my hair, swinging my portfolio, thinking of how, finally, in the Snakes and Ladders of life, I was climbing up the ladder.

Then I saw it. A door with
EDITOR
across it in shiny silver letters. Just like in my dream.

And that was when I lost it.

‘. . . and so when our circulation figures surpassed that of every other leading newspaper I went home to my wife and told her the good news. And she said, “Well done, that deserves a nice cup of tea.”’

‘Really?’ I smile.

I’m sweating. I can feel dampness mushrooming out under my lacy armpits, two revoltingly sticky patches. I wriggle selfconsciously, making sure to keep my arms clamped firmly by my sides. Ugh.

‘. . . I’ve lived here nearly twenty years but it must be a British thing, hmm?’ He laughs amiably.

‘Absolutely.’ My bladder twinges painfully. Damn, why did I have that second cup of coffee? I cross my legs, squeeze my thighs together and smile tightly.

‘. . . But enough about me and the paper. We’re here to talk about you . . .’

I can hear Victor Maxfield’s voice in the background but I’m distracted by someone else walking past the office and peering in at me.

‘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?’