Spitting Feathers

‘Of course it’s a bloody wig,’ she finally managed, ‘but the secret is to pretend not to notice. The way you were looking at it I was afraid you were about to give it a tug.’

We took a little diversion on the way back and bought a bottle of Château Cheapo from the local offy. And, because neither of us was in the mood for the Cs, we drank it in Sophie’s bedroom—her sprawled on the bed, me in the lotus position. (Some things die hard, I’m afraid.)

We talked for a while about my prospects, and I got the feeling that Sophie didn’t think all that much of them—at least not on the strength of my work.

‘But then you’ve always been a good bluffer,’ she said, trying to make amends now. ‘And in this town that’s far more important than actual talent.’

I thanked her a bunch, but didn’t take this vote of no-confidence to heart. I was hopeful and optimistic after today and I had a good feeling about the future.

And then, just as we were finishing off the wine, just as we were at that rosy, happy stage where nothing in life seems impossible, she went and spoilt everything by telling me that she might just have met the man she was going to spend the rest of her life with. The only crumb of comfort I was able to take from this alarming statement was the fact that she almost certainly wasn’t referring to someone who wore a dubious wig and had delusions of being an arachnified super-hero.

3

There is always a price to pay for a chip butty, and I paid it next day by missing out on lunch as well as breakfast. Having been brought up on an apparently healthy but deadly boring macrobiotic diet, I am nowadays an enthusiastic eater of junk food, but I know that I have to be careful. Despite the faddiness of my mother’s former regime, she now weighs fifteen stone and, much as it suits her, I don’t want to end up the same way—not for a good few years yet anyway. But, rather than eat a sensible, balanced diet, I eat what I want with big gaps in between.

I took a call from Mrs Audesley first thing that morning, with instructions for me to go to the house at three o’clock ‘sharp’ in order to meet her gardener. Since that meant I had about six hours to kill, I decided to take the tube to Covent Garden, so that I could have several rolls of film developed at the photographic lab recommended by the agency. I knew how to process the stuff myself, of course—just about—but it was such a faff, and I didn’t think the Cs would appreciate me turning their bathroom into a makeshift chemical-filled darkroom.

The Linford Laboratory was in a fairly run-down-looking building in a side road off King Street, and for a moment I thought I must have the wrong address. I was used to labs on industrial estates, and although there aren’t too many of those in central London, I was still very surprised. I wasn’t really sure what I’d expected to find, but since many top professionals apparently used the place, I suppose I thought it would appear a little more on the up-market side. There was just a small, unimposing shop front, and inside a dizzy-looking chilli-pepper redhead behind an old-fashioned oak-topped counter. She greeted me with a hugely welcoming smile, however, and before I’d even opened my mouth asked me what kind of work I did.

‘Food,’ I said, and the smile immediately turned to an expression of disappointment. She was wearing a deep V-necked red sweater that revealed rather desperate-looking breasts that were squashed together by a ferocious up-lift bra. She was heavily made up, and it occurred to me that she was working there in the hope of being ‘discovered’.

‘Are you a model?’ I asked, in an effort to cheer her up.

‘If only,’ she said unhappily.

‘Have you tried the agents?’ I asked as I dug five rolls of film out of my bag.

‘A couple,’ she replied gloomily, ‘but they seem to think that my look is too strong.’

And they could have a point, I thought as I passed the film over the counter. But it was very possible that if she removed some of the slap, and maybe stopped using the chilli-pepper dye, she could look pretty good. She was the right height and weight, and her features looked fairly photogenic.

‘You should try toning things down and then go somewhere else.’

She gave me a What-the-hell-would-a-food-photographer-know? sort of look, and without any response to what was meant to be a helpful suggestion she asked me my name and address so she could write it down on a slip.

I supplied the information and asked how quickly I could have the prints back.

‘It’s usually a day, but you can pay extra, if you like, and we can have them ready in three hours.’

It was a curt response, and I wondered if it was time for some toning down myself. My plain speaking clearly wasn’t going down too well in this town. ‘I’ll pay the extra,’ I said, ‘and I’m sorry for being so blunt. It’s just that you really are very pretty, but it’s kind of hidden behind all the make-up.’

She softened visibly now, and I made a mental note to engage sensitivity before offering any further advice to strangers.

‘Standard E6 okay?’ she said, and I nodded that it was.

‘Do you do the processing here?’ I said curiously as she deposited my films in a large envelope.

She shook her head. ‘This is just the drop-off and collection point. A despatch rider picks up every hour and takes them on to the lab.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘He’s due any minute, so with a bit of luck these might be back in two hours, not three.’

I thanked her, and looked forward to picking up the prints. As well as Felix’s wonderful fry-ups, I’d taken quite a few shots of the Brick Lane Sunday market with my brand-new Hasselblad, and I was hoping they’d turned out well. They certainly should have if the price of the camera had anything to do with the quality of the finished product.

All through the photographic course I’d managed well enough with an old Pentax my father had given to me, but since it was pretty old I’d recently sacrificed an arm and a leg for a brand-new Hasselblad 201F. And that, plus a digital camera, a computer, and all the rest of the paraphernalia required by a present-day pro photographer, had just about cleared me out of what was left of the sale of the semi. But I kept telling myself that it was an investment, that it was necessary to speculate to accumulate, and, having now done a great deal of the former, it seemed high time I started to get some rewards. Which was why I headed straight for the Front Page Agency after dropping off my film.

Naff name, I know, but they seemed a pretty pukka sort of set-up—smart offices, cool-looking people working in them. A bit too cool, though, if you ask me. The receptionist, for example, wasn’t the most approachable person in the world. I’d tried being friendly with her when I first landed in London, in the hope that she’d keep me in mind if anything good came in, but it had been like trying to befriend a refrigerator. Poker-thin—and faced—I think she was afraid to smile for fear of disturbing her magnificently applied make-up. Either that or she’d had radical Botox treatment that had left her incapable of using her facial muscles.

‘Hi, Amber,’ I said. ‘Remember me?’

She cast me a vaguely hostile look and pursed her full, beautifully lipsticked lips disapprovingly. She was sitting behind a glass-topped desk which had on it just a phone, a slim-line computer screen and a cerise leather appointment book. She herself was dressed in matching cerise that, because she’d been wearing it before, I assumed was a uniform.

‘We haven’t got anything for you, if that’s why you’re here,’ Amber replied in an accent that was supposed to be posh but didn’t quite cut the mustard. There was a hint of twang there in her vowels that I think I recognised as Midland in origin.

‘Well, I think I’d like to see someone who’s a little more senior in the organisation, if you don’t mind.’ It wasn’t a comment designed to win favour, exactly, but I was getting fed up with nasty, bitchy women, and I was wondering what had happened to all that sisterhood stuff my mother still gamely talked about. I certainly hadn’t seen much evidence of it in the past fortnight.

She seemed taken aback by my remark, but soon recovered her icy equilibrium. ‘You’ll have to make an appointment,’ she said, opening the diary in front of her, ‘but I don’t have anything available for at least a month.’

‘A month!’

She seemed pleased by my dismay, and delighted with her 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.’