‘Your garden puts mine to shame,’ James admitted, the first time I came here. But actually his little patch of greenery is quite beautiful with its gnarly apple tree, several rickety wooden birdhouses attached to the fences, and an ancient moss-covered stone birdbath on a stand on the lawn. Using my phone, I rattle off a few shots just to get a feel for the space, and for the light at this time of day.
‘So,’ Esther says, looking a little unsure of herself now, ‘what shall I do?’
I look at her and smile, wondering again if she’s quite as self-assured as she seems. I still can’t understand why this stunning and obviously smart young woman is with a man like Miles who, age issue aside, has treated her soshabbily. ‘Just be yourself,’ I suggest. ‘Do whatever feels natural for you. We can take our time with this …’
She moves slightly as I start to shoot. She’s just standing there in a simple top and her old jeans with the delicate gold necklace twinkling against her honeyed skin. Cool sunlight crosses her face. The effect is quite beautiful and something starts to happen. Now I see what Esther Burton is all about.
She’s not like a model. I met plenty of those when Frank was still doing fashion photography. And while those models all looked very different, they shared a kind of other-worldliness with their angular faces, the bones almost visible beneath smooth, taut skin. Their long, gaunt frames were often the result of picking at sandwich fillings and avoiding the bread. Before the days of all kinds of body shapes being represented, extreme skinniness was the beauty standard, the desired aesthetic. The world of fashion was populated by skinny girls of five foot ten who seemed to survive on black coffee and cigarettes.
Esther is nothing like that. For one thing she’s tiny compared to your average model; no more than five foot four, I’d guess. But there’s also a realness about her with the freckles, the upturned nose and not-quite-perfect teeth. While I’m pretty sure her hair has been filled out with extensions, she hardly wears any make-up and her natural beauty shines through. The word ‘luminous’ is overused – but that’s what Esther is. She iswonderfulin front of a lens. It feels as if it would be impossible to take a bad picture of her.
I take dozens of shots in her dad’s terraced garden; against the dark wooden fence with the birdhouses and the brick wall of the house. I do more of her perched on the back step, sipping from an enamel mug of tea, and sitting cross-legged on a faded corduroy cushion on thelawn. The light is soft and milky, the setting perfect for the casual feel of our pictures. But we could be in the middle of a municipal tip, surrounded by old cookers and mattresses and somehow the whole thing would still look quite lovely.
Thisis what those jewellery people want, I realise now. Not the black walls, the bat-on-a-string and the challenging splattered art in her boyfriend’s flat. They want Esther being her lovely, natural self.
‘They’re really nice,’ she says with a note of surprise as we head indoors to look through the shots together.
‘I’m so glad you like them.’
She musters a smile, almost reluctantly. ‘You’re a good photographer!’
I can’t help smiling at that. ‘Thank you. I really enjoyed doing them.’
I watch as she looks through them again, seeming to lower her guard with me now. I catch James’s eye and he grins. ‘Honestly,’ she adds, ‘you’re wasted on all that food stuff …’
I happen to enjoy that food stuff …‘Thanks.’ I chuckle and catch James’s eye again, knowing that we’re both thinking the same: that perhaps we won’t have to keep the rest of our lives so separate after all.
*
The next day Esther calls me. A young person – an influencer – actually callingme! ‘They love them,’ she says, still with a note of surprise in her voice.
‘I’m so glad,’ I say.
‘Thank you so much,’ Esther adds. ‘I think you might’ve saved things with them …’
‘Honestly, it was nothing,’ I say truthfully. NormallyI’d far prefer to shoot a goat’s cheese and olive tart, or a plate of pistachio cookies, to an actual human. People are too tricky, I’ve always reckoned – remembering Frank complaining about models ‘having histrionics’ on shoots. They’d complain about being too hot, too cold, or the sun being ‘too bright’ on an overcast day.
But Esther was a joy to photograph. And when she asks if we can do more pictures sometime – ‘At your place, maybe? Would that be okay?’ – my heart seems to swell. ‘I’ll pay you of course,’ she adds quickly.
‘Absolutely no way,’ I say firmly.
‘Oh.’ She sounds crushed. ‘Don’t you have the time?’
‘No, I mean I don’t you want to pay me, Esther. This is fun for me – something completely different from my usual thing. I loved photographing you and I’d love to do some more.’
And it’s not just about taking pictures, I reflect as we arrange a date. It’s about being accepted by Esther and getting to know her a little bit more, and already I’m looking forward to our next shoot.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
ESTHER
Esther’s therapist told her to try and appreciate the good things in her life, rather than dwelling on the bad. ‘Write a gratitude journal,’ Chrissie suggested. She meant that, at the end of every day, Esther should list three things she was grateful for that day.
Her dad once saw her curled on his sofa with her journal, wondering what to write. ‘Oh, d’you still keep a diary?’ he asked in surprise. Years back, when Esther was about nine or ten, she’d started one in a burst of enthusiasm. She’d record thrilling events like ‘Kasey stuck her chewing gum on my furry pencil case’ and ‘Jake Matthews did a massive poo in the school loo. Mr Bloom had to chop it up with wire so it would flush away.’ Her interest had waned before January was out and the other eleven months had remained blank.
‘It’s not a diary,’ she’d told her dad. ‘It’s a gratitude journal.’
‘What’s that?’ he’d asked. She couldn’t believe he hadn’t heard of the term. ‘Is it to do with all that mindfulness stuff?’
