CHAPTER ONE
Aslow clap for my current situation wouldn’t go amiss. Problem number one: There’s a butt right up in my face. It is peachy and perfectly formed. Problem number two: Said cut-from-marble ass belongs to my employer. I’m at work right now! Insert crying face emoji here please! The sad truth is that, even though I don’t work as Kim Kardashian’s iPhone, or in any other profession where having a bottom in your face might be deemed the norm, today’s state of affairs isn’t unusual. I’m so well acquainted with my boss’s perky posterior that I could pick it out of a bum line up.
Ooh, who would watch way more cop dramas if bum line ups became a thing? Especially if they starred Jake Gyllenhaal, Prince Harry (just me?) and every single buff boy onLove Island.
Oh my gawd,FOCUSJasmine!
Adjusting the zoom, I take another shot and watch as those familiar pink cheeks fill my camera screen. In front of me, Violet is staring at her near-naked reflection in a mirror with her hands on her hips. Most normal human beings might feel a tiny bit exposed to be wearing nothing but a paper thong in the middle of a room bathed in natural light, but Violet is categorically not normal. She might not be a human being at all. Just a ridiculously good-looking fembot who says things like ‘hashtag blessed’ – in total sincerity – at the end of most sentences.
‘I need you to bring your A game today Bruce,’ Violet instructs as the spray-tanner casts his professional eye over her flawless figure. ‘Cannes begins tomorrow and I have to look my best.’
Violetis off to the Cannes Film Festival and, as her trusty photographer, I’m going too. Which sounds one bazillion times more exciting and glamorous than it actually will be, I promise you. Firstly, my official role of photographer barely scrapes the surface when it comes to the things I actually do for my boss. Photographer and Professional Dogsbody is a more accurate job title. No doubt that I’ll be racing around the south of France like a wild beast while she lives her best life. Her highlights will be wearing incredible dresses, sipping endless champagne and looking stunning, while mine will probably be eating ten packets of plane peanuts as an emergency dinner in a poky hotel room. But I shouldn’t jump to conclusions. Neither of us has been to Cannes before and, if Violet can spare me for an hour or so one day, I might get to explore by myself! Or, whisper it, take some photos for my non-existent portfolio?
A girl can dream.
Violet’s busy telling Bruce all about the thirty-day cleanse she’s just been on. ‘I feel ah-mahhhh-zing. But I just haven’t had the chance to get any sun and I really do not want to look pale in Cannes.’
‘Imagine!’ Bruce shakes his head in horror.
‘I’d like to look like I’ve already had a few days on the Mediterranean. You know, a little Sicily glow? Oh hello, I think we’ve found my next blog post title! Could you write that down, Jasmine?’
Sweet baby Jane. This doesn’t sound like award winning blog content to me, but I pull up Notes on my phone, find the one I’ve titled SHIT VIOLET SAYS and tap in ‘My Sicily Glow.’
‘Maybe you could go for something a little more. . . punchy?’ I suggest, slipping my phone into the back pocket of my jeans. ‘What about “How to slay your spray tan”?’
Violetcompletely ignores me. She’s too busy getting into all sorts of indelicate positions that I really wish I did not have to see with my eyes. ‘Bend forwards for me babes, legs apart,’ orders Bruce, his Aussie accent conjuring up images of shrimps and barbies and sea for days. In reality, I’m in a hotel in London adding yet more pictures of paper-knickered Violet to my poor old memory card.
The tanning gun whirs into action and Violet squawks as the cold spray hits her, while Bruce regales us with stories of the celebrities he’s bronzed recently. ‘Of course, you are by far my favourite,’ he beams at Violet.
Oh Bruce, you are good.
‘Me, a celebrity?’ She giggles with mock-modesty.
Pregnant pause. She’s waiting for us all to rush in and reassure her that she is, in fact, bigger than Beyoncé.
‘Everyone I meet is always desperate to know what you’re like IRL.’
‘Oh stop!’ But Bruce’s shameless arse kissing continues, giving me the opportunity to have a quick think about tonight. Because guys, I’m going on a date with James later. . . ON THE LONDON EYE! I’ve lived in this city for all of my days and still haven’t been for a ride on the big wheel. I’m super excited because a) James and I are getting on so well right now and b) I’m hoping to take some sweet photos from our capsule. My camera could definitely do with some pictures on it that aren’t all Violet. Violet gets a spray tan. Violet goes for lunch. Violet wears an outfit. Violet’s manicured hand intrudes on my carefully constructed flat-lay. I should try not to complain because working as a photographer for her ridiculously popular blog does (just about) pay my bills. And she is very generous when it comes to handing over things she’s been gifted and doesn’t want. I mean, I’m sure I’ll get tonnes of wear out of those neon yellow shearling earmuffs when the weather takes a turn. All I’m saying is,tonight will be a great chance to flex my photography skills in ways that don’t involve my boss for once.
‘How can we round off this post?’ Violet’s suddenly back in work mode and interrupting my thoughts. ‘What’s typically Sicilian? Lemons? Maybe I could pose naked with some lemons covering my boobs?’
Cough.
‘Orwe could just pop you in a towelling robe and have you sipping a coffee on the balcony over there.’ I wave in the direction of the French windows. ‘It would still have a nice holiday vibe without being too. . . cheesy?’
‘Okay, fine,’ Violet concedes, mildly disgruntled. ‘But ring down to reception first and see if they can send up a bowl of lemons to put on the table next to me. I know you were hoping to leave early for your date tonight but we really must nail these shots first.’
‘Ooh, is this with James?’ Bruce downs tools and practically skips over to the table where I’m scanning through today’s photos on my ancient laptop.
‘Yep. He’s taking me on the London Eye.’
‘Very romantic,’ nods Bruce in approval.
‘Then we’re off to his sister’s wedding in just under two weeks,’ I add, feeling slightly dizzy at the thought of it.
‘So you’ll be meeting his parents for the first time?’
‘Don’t! I’m nervous enough as it is. I’ve spent way too much money on a dress I cannot afford. You know how useless I am at wearing anything other than jeans and a t-shirt! I really want to look the part and it took me ages to find the right one. . .’
