at Eskum now,’ she said, interrupting before I could make my escape. ‘Director of people—’
‘Wow, yeah? I actually really don’t care,’ I said, taking my turn to interrupt. I flashed her one more smile as she visibly shrivelled in front of me. ‘But gosh, those poor, poor people.’
Raquel looked as though I’d slapped her in the face and I wished I had.
‘I wish I could count all of the fucks I don’t give but I’ve only got eight fingers and two thumbs and that’s not nearly enough,’ I said, giving her a brief hug and ever such a tiny shove. ‘Have a lovely day, Raquel. Or don’t. Doesn’t really matter.’
I turned on my heel and marched off down the road, ridiculous painted head held high in my cock cap.
‘Ess!’ I shouted as I pushed the door open against the wind.
‘Thank God, my stomach thinks my throat’s been cut,’ he said, holding his hand out for his coffee with one hand and scratching his crotch with the other. ‘You were gone more than ten minutes though.’
‘I haven’t got your coffee,’ I replied, marching across the studio and throwing the Cock cap at 7. ‘I want to go over my portfolio.’
‘We haven’t got time,’ Ess replied, pointing across the studio to the styling area. ‘Now sod off and bring me a coffee.’
‘We won’t be done for at least an hour,’ Rachel the make-up artist called over to us with a thumbs up. ‘Take your time.’
Hands on my hips and feeling only slightly less confident than I had been thirty seconds earlier, I stared Ess down until he gave a sigh and shook his head in defeat.
‘Fine, pass it here,’ he said, holding out his hands. ‘But if they’re shit, I’ll tell you they’re shit.’
‘Good.’ I pulled my portfolio out of my bag, bouncing across the room. ‘Whatever advice you can give me, I’d appreciate it.’
‘Most of the time my advice is stop trying to take photos,’ he grunted, flicking through the pages, skipping over my shoot for Gloss, my pictures of Milan, without even stopping to take a proper look. ‘It’s quicker.’
Biting my thumbnail, I crossed my fingers.
‘Shit,’ he said, flipping through the pages without really looking. ‘Shit, shit, shit. Ready to give up yet?’
‘No,’ I said, barely breathing. ‘You can keep going.’
He paused on a shot of Al, sat on the beach in Hawaii and staring out at the ocean.
‘I don’t hate this one,’ he announced, slamming the book shut. ‘Now go and get my coffee.’
‘That’s it?’ I asked, crushed. ‘You don’t hate that one so we’re done?’
‘I don’t hate that one so I’ll look at the rest later,’ he clarified. ‘Now you go and get my coffee and we’ll go through the rest of them after the shoot if I don’t decide it’s a complete waste of my time before then.’
‘Oh my God,’ 7 whispered, pulling me away after Ess shoved my portfolio into my chest and walked away, muttering to himself. ‘That’s the nicest thing I’ve ever heard him say about anyone’s photos.’
‘Really?’ I asked, a tiny spark of hope lighting up inside me. ‘That was nice?’
‘Have you met him before?’ he asked. ‘Don’t push it. That was a big compliment.’
‘Why are you still here?’ Ess barked, looking over his shoulder at me. ‘Why isn’t there a cup of coffee in my hand?’
Nodding, I threw my portfolio back in my bag and ran out the door. Two weeks I’d been there and I’d finally got him to look at my photos. If I could get Ess to give me some genuine feedback, I felt as though I could do anything. This must have been that ball-swinging feeling Agent Veronica had been talking about and I didn’t hate it.
As I jogged down the street I made another big ball swinging decision. Pulling out my phone, I opened up the internet browser and tapped in ‘New York flights’. There was nothing stopping me taking photos while I was in New York, was there? Maybe there would even be a course I could take. Donovan & Dunning’s American office barely closed for the holidays so I was far more likely to find something useful in New York than I was hanging around my mum’s house getting squiffy on Baileys and ignoring my sisters.
As soon as I’d picked up four flat whites, two Frappuccinos and a green juice, I told myself, I was going to book my flight to New York and work the rest of it out from there. Well, after I’d done that and finished the day at work, washed my face, gone home and had some tea. And packed. And called my mum. And done the online paperwork.
But once all that was out of the way, New York City, and the rest of the world, had better get ready for me.
‘TESS!’
Resplendent in a red velvet Santa hat, gold-glitter leggings, neon-blue fur coat and clutching roughly enough balloons to float a house, Amy Smith was impossible to miss as I walked through the arrivals gate at JFK. She fought her way through with the helium-filled herd, the biggest balloons practically lifting her off the ground as she hurried across the airport, bashing people in the head as she went.
‘You’re here!’ She threw herself at me, wrapping her arms around my neck and her legs around my waist while Kekipi clapped and cheered behind her and half the balloons floated off up to the ceiling.
‘I’m so happy to see you,’ I said, dragging my case behind me with Amy still clinging around my middle like a glittery little spider monkey. ‘It feels like forever.’
‘It’s been forty-nine days and fifteen hours,’ Amy confirmed as she hopped to the ground. ‘God, Tess, you look knackered.’
‘That’s because I am knackered,’ I replied, trading air kisses with Kekipi. ‘I had to change planes twice to get any kind of cheap flight. Turns out it’s expensive to fly at Christmas. What time is it?’
‘It’s 1 a.m.,’ Kekipi said, taking custody of my suitcase as Amy grabbed hold of my hand. ‘What time did you leave London?’
‘Yesterday?’ I said, shaking my head. ‘But Amsterdam was today I think. And I got to see Chicago! Or at least I got to see the airport. But I’m here now, that’s all that matters.’
‘At least you can fly directly from here to Milan,’ he said. ‘Amy told you I’ve booked your flights? I want no arguing from either of you.’
‘You won’t get any,’ I said wearily. ‘Usually I would fight you on it but this one bankrupted me, so thank you.’
‘You’re welcome. I couldn’t have my bridesmaid missing the wedding, could I?’ he asked. ‘And you look wonderful. Look at those charming overalls, you’re so Madonna circa 1986.’
‘No, she’s right, I look like a tramp,’ I replied, stifling a yawn. ‘I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t wearing these. If it’s 1 a.m. here, what time does that make it at home?’
‘Party time,’ Amy said confidently. ‘Maybe a little bit past.’
‘That’s funny, it feels more like bedtime to me,’ I said, trotting through the airport, hand in hand with my best friend. I was tired, I ached from cramping my stupid long legs up in an economy seat, but I was so, so happy. Of all the spur-of-the-moment, credit-card-destroying flying decisions I’d made in the last year, this felt like the best one. ‘Can party time be tomorrow?’
‘I suppose,’ she replied. ‘I’ve