‘You like them?’ She fixes me with a gaze.
‘I do, yes.’ I pause. ‘They’re so, um, moody and intense …’
‘Yeah, and I thought they were fine with that.’ Her mouth twists into a frown. ‘But it turns out they’re not happy at all.’
Conscious of treading carefully, I try to figure out the best way to proceed. ‘They obviously liked what you were doing in the first place. Otherwise they wouldn’t have approached you …’ I pause. ‘Is that how it works? They loved your Instagram and got in touch, asking you to work with them?’
‘Yeah, exactly.’ She nods. ‘That’s before I moved in with Miles. I was just doing pictures at home – at Mum and Luc’s – messing about in the house and garden …’
‘What were they like?’ I ask. ‘I mean, what kind of style were they?’
She shrugs. ‘Just natural. Spontaneous, I s’pose. I was just having fun and didn’t put much thought into them. They weren’t set up and staged like the ones Miles does …’
‘You were just being yourself,’ James remarks and she nods again.
‘Guess so. Yeah.’
‘So, why not go back to those kinds of pictures?’ he suggests.Before Miles started doing them for you, is what he means.Before that jerk took over.
She gives me a look that suggests her father has no idea about such matters. An eye-roll, almost. ‘But that’s my environment now, Dad,’ she says with exaggerated patience. ‘It’s where I live. There’s not much I can do about that.’
Well, you could leave him,is what I’m thinking.On top of lying about his age and cheating on you, he’s now imposing his own aesthetic on your social media …‘Could you show me some of Bethani’s advertising,’ I ask, ‘so I can see what they do?’
‘Er, yeah. Sure.’ Looking pleased that I’ve remembered the brand name, she brings up images of glowy-skinned women in vests and faded denim shorts. They’re strollingon beaches, or relaxing at the poolside, or wandering through meadows ablaze with wildflowers. The vibe is natural and carefree. While I wouldn’t dare to make assumptions, I’d guess that black walls, splattered artworks and playing dead on a frankly grubby-looking rug don’t quite fit.
‘It’s all very sunny and outdoorsy, isn’t it?’ I remark.
‘Yeah,’ Esther says with a sigh.
I’m surprised, and even a little flattered, that’s she’s actually engaging with me a little over this. After all, it’s her dad she’s popped round to see today. ‘This might seem like a mad suggestion,’ I say, feeling emboldened now, ‘but how about we try doing a few pictures out there?’ I nod towards the window.
Esther stares at me. ‘You mean,youtake some pictures of me?’
‘Well, yes. If you’d like me to …’
‘In Dad’s garden?’
‘Er, yes. There are plenty of things we could try out there—’
‘I think it’s raining.’ She frowns and prods at her phone. ‘I’ll just check.’
James splutters. ‘You’re checking the weather?’
‘Yes, Dad …’
‘Why not just look out the window?’ he asks, catching my eye with a grin.
‘This is more accurate,’ she murmurs distractedly, then, seemingly reassured about the climactic conditions, she jumps up from the sofa. ‘Okay then. Let’s go.’
‘It’s not raining?’ I ask, straight-faced, as I follow her into the hallway.
‘Nope.’ She picks up the bag she’d dumped on the floor, pulls out a tangled necklace and unknots it with a sigh of impatience before slipping it on. There’s a quick sweepof the hair with her hands – it tumbles in glossy russet waves all down her back – and a slight adjustment of her moss green skinny-rib top, worn with softly faded jeans today, and we’re off.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
LAUREN
It’s a typically narrow, rectangular London garden, bordered on three sides by tall fences. James has admitted that it verges on neglect, and I know he attacks it with gusto whenever it’s edging towards being out of control. Today the air is fresh and clean after a heavy shower. The shrubs are gleaming, the yellow and purple winter pansies peeking out from terracotta pots.
