own power. She might just be a receptionist, but she was God as far as appointments were concerned. I was debating whether to take the appointment or tell her what she could do with it, when a door to the left of the desk opened and two men appeared in the foyer.
They were clearly at the end of a meeting, and as they shook hands I recognised one of the men as Taylor Wiseman, the famous American chef. He had his own hit TV show and a legion of adoring female fans, and while I wouldn’t have counted myself amongst their number, I had to admit that he did look pretty good in the flesh. He was tall and dark and lean, and although I was used to seeing him in the sexy kitchen whites he wore so well to present his shows, the smart suit he’d donned for the meeting gave him a nice touch of the urbane that certainly did not go amiss.
‘We’ll contact a few of our best,’ the other man assured him, with a smile that was midway between charm and smarm.
‘It’s real important that we get along,’ Taylor Wiseman replied in the husky tones that added greatly to his small screen appeal. ‘We’ll be working together closely on this project, so I’m going to have to like the guy, as well as his ideas.’
The other man nodded sympathetically. ‘If I shortlist a few then you can meet them and make your decision.’
‘I’ll wait to hear from you,’ Taylor said, and turned to leave. At which point I moved sideways and blocked his path past the desk.
‘Mr Wiseman,’ I said, thrusting my hand out. I was wearing faded jeans and a good-quality tweed hacking jacket that I’d bought in a charity shop a few years ago. Not exactly how I’d choose to be dressed when meeting a celebrity, especially with my wayward hair and lack of any cosmetic enhancements, but I didn’t have a chance to think about all that. ‘Delighted to meet you.’
I’d taken this unusually bold step with Sophie’s words writ large in my mind. She was forever advising me to ‘get out there and network’, and although I had no real idea what was going on my hunger for work told me there might just be an opportunity here.
‘Likewise,’ he said in his friendly all-American way. I could see his teeth now, which looked even more perfect in real life than they did on the small screen. Their whiteness was exaggerated by his lightly tanned skin and his brown eyes were smiling at me. ‘And you are?’
‘Tao Tandy,’ I replied. ‘Food photographer extraordinare…’ I added with a cheeky wink and a grin, remembering what Sophie had said about my good bluffing skills.
By now the man with whom the meeting had just taken place was at Taylor’s side, an expression of surprised concern on his face. He was quite a pleasant-looking man, with thinning hair and pudgy plasticine features; in his mid-forties, I’d say. He plainly didn’t know me from the Boston Strangler, but I snatched the advantage.
‘I joined the agency a couple of weeks ago,’ I explained to them both, ‘and I thought it was time I introduced myself.’
I glanced at Amber behind her desk and saw that her face was frozen in impotent fury. ‘Amber here was helpfully arranging an appointment for me to meet someone,’ I added with a slight smile in her direction.
‘Jerry Marlin,’ the man said as he extended his hand warmly to me. I recognised the name as that of the agency’s top dog, and gave him flash of my own excellent teeth. They might not be as white as Taylor’s but I pride myself on their neatness.
‘You’re the prizewinner from Manchester, aren’t you?’ he added, and I nodded my head modestly.
‘Well, that’s great,’ Jerry said. ‘I’ve been wanting to meet you as well. Only we don’t seem to have a contact number.’
‘That’s strange,’ I said, glancing towards the reception desk. ‘I left it with Amber a fortnight ago.’
‘It was unfortunately mislaid,’ Amber said quickly, when Jerry looked at her questioningly.
He glanced at his watch. ‘Damn,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a lunch appointment in ten minutes, but I could meet up with you later.’
I was about to agree when I remembered my instructions from Mrs Audesley and offered him a little grimace of regret. ‘I’m afraid I have to be somewhere at three,’ I said, thinking now that it wouldn’t do any harm to appear a little less desperate than I actually felt. ‘But I could come back tomorrow.’
Jerry looked at Amber again, and she sniffed as she looked in the diary. ‘You have a window between ten and ten-thirty in the morning,’ she said glacially.
‘Ten it is, then,’ Jerry said, and with a final appraising glance at me and a sly wink in Taylor’s direction he took his leave of us.
‘And what are you doing for lunch?’ Taylor said when the two of us were left alone—apart from Amber, that is, whose eyes were boring a hole into the side of my face.
‘Missing it, I’m afraid. Making up for a bit of over-indulgence last night.’
He raised one of his thick dark eyebrows curiously, so that it seemed to form an unspoken question mark. ‘How about a coffee, then? There’s a place not far from here that does a great cappuccino.’
‘With cinnamon topping?’
‘You bet.’ He smiled captivatingly.
I slid a look at Amber as I hoisted my bag higher on my shoulder and fell into step with one of TV’s hottest properties. ‘See you tomorrow,’ I said, but failed to get so much as a grunt by way of response.
Things had happened quickly for Taylor since he’d arrived in London, I learnt. He’d been spotted by a TV producer almost straight away, and offered a show there and then. It had been an immediate hit, but clearly took everyone by surprise because no one had thought of a spin-off book to go with the series. So a big glossy had been planned this time, and was due to be launched with series two of the show.
‘Trouble is,’ he said, ‘most of the illustrations are stills from the show, and I just think it needs something else to make it different. Some additional shots to set it apart from the usual stuff. Which is why I went to the agency.’
I could feel my heart beginning to pound as the words BIG BREAK burst into my mind. ‘I might have some ideas,’ I said, without thinking first. He looked at me with interest and I tried not to panic. ‘Maybe we could meet again to discuss them,’ I said, because I didn’t actually have any ideas at that particular moment.
I felt a bit stupid when he didn’t respond directly—when he completely changed the subject, in fact. ‘So,’ he said, when we were half way through cappuccino number one, ‘what kind of food do you like yourself?’
Slightly deflated, but not yet defeated, I lowered my eyes a little as we sat opposite one another in a two-seater booth near the café’s counter. The place looked new—not one of the chains of coffee shops that seemed to be on almost every street corner now, but an independent, run by what I took to be South Americans. I was trying to decide whether to lie and say Mediterranean, which covered a multitude and which, along with Pan Australasian, seemed to be what everyone seemed to be into these days. Or just be honest. I went for the honest option in the end, because by now, having already provided a quick rundown of my credentials, I was beginning to suffer from bluffing fatigue.
‘Being from the north,’ I began, ‘I have a particular partiality to anything which contains a lot of cholesterol—suet, pastry and chips being at the top of my list.’
He grinned uncertainly, not sure if I was serious or not. ‘But how come you manage to keep such a neat little figure?’ he said when he finally accepted I was telling the truth. His lovely dark eyes were constantly smiling, and from him it felt like a genuine compliment.
‘Long periods of abstinence between binges,’ I said, warming to him all the more. I explained why I wouldn’t be having lunch that day, and he seemed quite taken with my description of Felix’s place.
‘I’ve got some photos of it,’