‘OK, that’s definitely a bit of blue sky. If I don’t try now, the rainclouds will be back.’
Kelsey grabbed her camera case and the box of business cards her mum had sent her as a gift weeks ago and headed out of the studio and down the stairs. She’d spent the first two hours of her working day sitting at her desk waiting for the phone to ring, hoping even just one of the local schools would respond to her hastily sent on-spec emails and invite her to do the new term photographs, but nobody had. Mr Ferdinand hadn’t given her another commission yet either, and nor had he paid her. She glanced at the date on her phone. It was Friday the sixteenth of October and her businessstillwasn’t off the ground.
‘Sitting here isn’t working; this is just wasting time,’ she scolded herself, so she took to the street, all the while repeating the mantra, ‘Make Success Happen’.
This was something she’d heard her ex-boyfriend, Fran, say many times. It had worked for him; he was well on his way to becoming a young headmaster at his posh grey-walled school back in Scotland, his dream job and life’s ambition.
A light autumn breeze blew down Henley Street, making the leaves swirl. The cafés were still busy, mainly with locals and their dogs stopping mid-walk for a cream tea in spite of the morning’s rain bursts.
‘Desperate times, and all that,’ Kelsey muttered as she made her way towards the house where Shakespeare was born, now a major tourist attraction and one of Kelsey’s favourite spots in all the world. She had visited with her dad years ago on their last ever family holiday and he’d handed her his camera for the first time, letting her snap pictures of the pretty, old cottage. She couldn’t walk past the spot now without imagining her younger self there and her gentle dad by her side, coaching her on how to turn the camera’s focusing ring and get the light metering right. That holiday, and in particular that one moment, had influenced her future path so much that the spirit of Lewis Anderson was inextricably entangled in her love of the town, of Shakespeare, and photography; loves that had only grown as she aged.
Stopping across the wide street from the heritage spot where the Shakespeare family crest flapped wildly at the end of the flagpole in the cottage garden, she scanned left to right. Now the weather was improving the tourists would hit the streets again on the hunt for selfies and souvenirs, and she’d be there to meet them.
Having worked as a tour guide that summer she’d found her voice and lost the self-consciousness that seemed bred into working-class Scottish girls back home, so she knew she’d be fine approaching the bus-loads of tourists as they made their way from beauty spot to historic wonder.
‘Hello, I’m Kelsey Anderson of Kelsey Anderson Photography. Would you like me to take your picture? I’ll print them within the hour, ready for you to collect at my studio. Eight pounds for a ten by twelve…’
She lost count of how many times she ran through her spiel, almost never getting to the end of it before being met by a silent, polite bow, a clipped ‘no thank you’, a full body swerve, or worst of all, the blank disinterest of someone intent on ignoring her as though she weren’t even there.
‘Excuse me,emm, excuse me, sorry. One hour portraits in front of Shakespeare’s birthplace? Only five pounds, yours to treasure… OK, never mind.’
Dropping her prices wasn’t working either. Yet another couple waved their hands in awkward dismissal. She could see herself from their point of view and it made her cringe. They had no reason to believe that she wasn’t some kind of fraudster, out to trick unwary tourists into parting with the unfamiliar sterling in their wallets.
An hour passed and she hadn’t taken a single shot, let alone raced along the street to the chemist’s where the photo-printing machine she’d planned on using waited idly.
‘You don’t have examples of your work? How am I supposed to know what these shots will turn out like? And what guarantee do I have that you’ll even be here in an hour?’ asked a bluff American in a red baseball cap pushed down over sandy hair. ‘You could be anybody.’
‘I know, but I’m not. That’s my studio just over there, and here’s my business card with my mobile number, you can ring it now if you like, so you’ll know for sure…’
But he was already walking away, re-joining his family as they queued for tickets for Shakespeare’s house. He’d made a good point. She needed a board of some kind with pictures on and a price list, something that made her look more legit. Was she even allowed to do that? Unsure if taking commercial street shots was even lawful, she felt convinced some local statute or other would prevent her setting up an actual stall or putting out a board without a permit.
The bells of Holy Trinity on the riverside tolled one o’clock as she called it an unsuccessful day – besides, the clouds were closing in again and the air was growing damp.
‘Well that was a total failure. I should have planned this properly,’ she chided herself, zipping her camera away in its case ready to trudge back to the studio for a long afternoon hitting ‘refresh’ on the inbox.
‘Kelsey?’ someone called from a distance behind her.
It was a voice she knew well; a loud, Texan drawl like Jerry Hall. She spun round to be greeted by its owner pacing down Henley Street towards her, her arms outstretched.
‘Myrtle! Iknewthat was you.’
‘Honey, are you tour-guiding again? What about your photography studio? Is everything OK?’
‘Oh, no, things are fine, brilliant in fact, but I could use a little more trade at the studio… and I thought…’ Kelsey’s words faltered. She’d worked closely with Myrtle, one of the agency’s best and longest-serving tour guides, all summer. Myrtle had been able to see through Kelsey’s hidden attraction to Jonathan and she could see through this false jollity too.
‘You look like you need a break. You got time?’ Myrtle was already looping an arm into Kelsey’s and walking her through the clusters of tourists making peace signs into their selfie sticks towards the little café by the newsagent’s. The foody aromas in the air reminded Kelsey she hadn’t eaten yet.
That was one of the best things about Stratford, Kelsey had found; you’re never more than ten feet away from the nearest freshly baked scone, but today she hesitated, thinking of the dwindling cash in her bank account. She’d managed to save a tiny proportion of her tour guiding wages and all of her tips, but now that money was running out. Even the money from the joint bank account that Fran, her ex back home, had split between them, was almost gone, spent on her rents – the bedsit and Norma’s old office – paid for until February, thank goodness. The rest was spent on getting the studio up to scratch. ‘Oh, I don’t know, I…’ she flustered.
‘My treat.’ Myrtle patted her hand. ‘Have you been hiding away at the studio? We haven’t seen you in weeks.’
‘I’ve been so busy, but I don’t feel like I’ve achieved much yet— Hold up a sec!’ Kelsey’s eyes fell upon the newspaper stand between the newsagent and the café’s doors. ‘Look!’ There on the rack amongst the garish, alarmist tabloid headlines was Blythe Goode, a vision in pastel pink and black lace, raising her gin glass with a bold stare down Kelsey’s lens. ‘I took those pictures.’
Myrtle was by her side and reaching for her own copy of theExamineras Kelsey showed it to anyone walking by who would listen. ‘Front cover shots! I took these!’
‘That’s my girl, Kelsey. Come on, let’s buy a bundle and then we’re getting theproseccocream tea! Come on.’
They pushed inside the café, all knowingly on-trend chintz and so welcome after the autumn chill on Henley Street. They found a table in a quiet corner and devoured the cover page. Blythe really did look wonderful, a true star.
