rolled his eyes. “Marie Claire the magazine, silly girl. When the accessories closet gets cleared out, the goodies get thrown on the giveaway table. I have connections.” He winked at her. “I’d planned to bring this stuff to the shoot tomorrow, but with your closet, we won’t need it.” He waved a dismissive hand at the carrier bags. “Keep the lot.”
Natalie squealed and clutched the bags to her chest.
“These metallic flats are perfect for the flounced skirt,” Jacques announced from within Natalie’s closet, and set them aside. “And this wide leather belt goes perfectly with the poet’s shirt.”
“I’ve never done a fashion shoot,” Natalie said, and chewed at her fingernail. She jumped as Phillip swatted her hand away.
“No nail biting,” he scolded. “Early to bed tonight, and no alcohol. We start at eight a.m. tomorrow. And don’t be late. Time is money on a photo shoot.”
“Especially this one, when there is no money,” Jacques added.
“Should I do my own makeup and hair?” Natalie asked.
“No,” Phillip said. “My friend’s a makeup artist, and very good. This is Tamara’s first proper job, so she’s doing it gratis. If things work out I’ll throw more work her way. Jacques and I are styling the outfits ourselves.”
“I’m terribly nervous,” she admitted. “There’s so much riding on this. I can’t screw it up.”
“You won’t screw it up, chickpea.” Phillip looked at her with steely resolve. “We won’t let you.”
“Ever worked in a stockroom before?”
Hannah James glanced up. Today was her first day of work at the store. A tallish boy with streaked blond hair – “Jago,” he’d told her – eyed her sceptically. His eyebrow was pierced.
“No.”
He took down one of the boxes stacked on the shelf. “Watch and learn, princess. Take a box off the pallet, scan it—” he demonstrated with a scan gun “—and throw it in that bin.” He grinned. “Think you can handle it?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” She snatched up a box. “A wombat could do this.” She frowned as she struggled to operate the scan gun. “It doesn’t seem to be working.”
Jago grabbed the gun, scanned the box, and threw it in the bin. “Easy.”
Hannah snatched the gun back, determined to get the hang of it. “I just need a bit of practice, that’s all.”
“Oh, but a wombat could do it,” he reminded her. “Too bad you can’t.”
“It’s my first day,” she snapped, and glared at him. “At any rate, I don’t plan to work here very long.”
“Too right,” he agreed, “‘cause you’ll be sacked before the week’s up.”
Hannah reached for another box. “We’ll see about that.”
“Reckon we will, Posh.” He chucked an empty box into the waste bin.
“My name is Hannah. Hannah James,” she added pointedly.
“I know who you are, Hannah James.” He shrugged. “You’re Mr. J’s daughter. And you’re just as much of a pillock as I expected you’d be.”
Hannah glared at him, but he turned away to grab another box.
“So – you got a boyfriend?” he asked.
“No.” She glanced at him, then away again. “Not that it’s any of your business, but we broke up.”
“What happened? Did he dump you?”
“No! We decided to see other people. He’s going to university in the autumn.”
“Ah.” Jago nodded as he scanned a stack of shirts. “He dumped you.”
“Shut up.” Hannah eyed him. “What about you? Don’t tell me you have a girlfriend…?”
“No. I go to school at night, don’t have time.”
“Oh? What are you studying?”
Jago hesitated. “Cookery. I want to be a chef.”
“You need restaurant experience to be a chef.”
“I work Saturdays in my uncle’s chip shop, washing up and clearing tables.” He grinned. “I’m a dab hand at frying fish.”
Hannah glanced at him. “You work full time, go to school at night, and work Saturdays? When do you just hang out?”
“Sundays. Why, do you fancy hanging out with me?”
“Oh, absolutely,” she retorted. “Can’t think of anything I’d rather do.”
“I’m game if you are. I’ll even spot you lunch at me uncle’s chippy.”
Hannah rolled her eyes. “I can hardly wait.”
He grinned. “It might not be dinner at the Savoy, but they’re the best chips you’ll ever have, Posh. I guarantee it.”
At the studio in north London early the next morning, Natalie choked down some toast and a sip of tea at the craft services table to calm her nerves. She saw the art director, the photographer and his assistants, a hair stylist, makeup artist, and – most unnerving of all – Rhys Gordon.
“Phillip, what’s Rhys doing here?” Natalie hissed.
“He’s the client, chickpea. Your grandfather sent him along to represent the store.” Rhys had his back to the activity around him, his ear pressed to his mobile.
“Natalie, over here, please.” The photographer, an American in a Yankees baseball cap, waved her over. He pointed to a spot in the centre of a white backdrop. “Stay on that mark while I shoot. Your light’s here—” he pointed to a cluster of umbrella lights “—and I want you loose, playful, relaxed. OK?”
Natalie nodded uncertainly. “Loose, playful, relaxed. Right.” She felt about as playful and relaxed as a frozen cod.
Rhys wandered over, mobile clapped to his ear. “How are you feeling?”
Natalie bit her lip. “Like a virgin on her wedding night. With twelve people standing round the bed, watching and taking notes.”
He grinned. “It’ll all be over soon.”
“So will my career as a model,” Natalie said, and turned away to find the loo before the shoot started.
When she emerged, Phillip grabbed her hand and led her to the dressing area. “It’s time to get changed. Jacques has everything ready.”
When she was dressed and done with hair and makeup, Jacques handed her a yellow umbrella. Natalie frowned. “What’s this?”
“It’s your prop for the first few shots. Pretend it’s raining.”
“I feel ridiculous, but OK.” She sighed and, affixing a playful, relaxed expression to her face, took her place in the middle of the backdrop, unfurled the umbrella, and waited.
Wasn’t it bad luck to open an umbrella inside?
“Ready, Natalie?” the photographer asked, camera slung around his neck.
“Ready.” She managed a smile. “Let’s have a go.”
She stepped on her mark and took a deep breath. She twirled the umbrella playfully on one shoulder; she held it over her head and looked pensively up at pretend clouds. She tilted the umbrella down, up, and sideways, until she was bloody sick of the sight of it.
Modelling was nothing like she’d thought. Each shot took time; the photographer adjusted her