‘Oh no,’ I jump in, flapping my arms protectively in front of Ben. ‘It’s bad enough that you’ve taken charge of my love life, you can’t go doing it to Ben too. Look at him! He’s like a happy puppy. He actuallyismaking hay while the sun shines, aren’t you Ben?’
Ben looks from me to Mila and back again, just to make sure that he is being given the chance to speak. Poor guy. He’s used to not getting many words in when we’re all around. He was allowed into our very exclusive club ofthreetwo when he joined our school in sixth form and turned up on his first day wearing a Gossip Girl t-shirt. A bold move, considering. And yet thanks to a combination of extremely high (some might say infuriating) levels of self-confidence and the fact that he’s built like a brick shit house, Ben managed to command the respect of everyone in our year despite the huge question mark hanging over his sartorial choices. Mila cornered him at lunch on his very first day, fired ten Gossip Girl questions at him and, when he got themallright, announced that he was going to be friends with us. To this day I don’t know if he actually wanted to be or not.
‘Yeah,making hay,’ he nods. I chomp through some raison brioche, nodding enthusiastically at him. ‘It’s great. Though Mila’s right, I wouldn’t mind finding just one girl actually.’
Pause. Blink.
I can practically see the cogs working in Mila’s mind. Ben wants a girlfriend! This has to be a first. Though I really wish he’d admitted this to me, because Mila is blates about to serve up a seven-point plan to him too. She’ll be firing ideas at him any minute now.
Any minute. . . now?
I watch her take a long, pondering sip of champagne and then, get this, she stays silent. Our Mila, the ultimate boss and organiser extraordinaire. Huh.
‘You’ll find her,’ I punch Ben cheerily on the arm. ‘The right one is probably just around the corner.’
‘Yeah, maybe. I’m going to have a lot of fun while I wait, that’s for sure,’ Ben reaches out to brush a stray bit of brioche crumb from my chin. ‘How’s your challenge going, kiddo? What is it again?’
‘“Seven Dates To Find The One”,’ Mila recites like a proud mother.
‘Yep. And they can’t be anything like my old type, either, which sounds incredibly easy and simple. The good news is that I’ve tried. Too Much Thierry ticked off a couple of things on your new list, Mils. Go me! And I have closure from Zach, too. Woop! So I guess I’m pretty much done getting out there, now. Can I get a hell yeah?
‘Hell NO. Nuh uh.’ Mila waves her wine beaker at me menacingly. ‘You can’t give up so soon! That article wasn’t called “Give Up After One Dodgy Date”, was it? “Seven Dates to Find The One”. That means there are six more dates to be had, not to mention more exes tosink your teeth into. NOT LITERALLY. This, sugar plum, is just the beginning,’ Mila grins. I’m tempted to ram a cronut into her gob for all of our sakes.
I’m striding into Friday like the sassy lady emoji. This week has been crazy busy as we waded through all our Cannes content, but I did a quick stat check first thing and Violet’s blogs from the festival are doing brilliantly. Plus I’m secretly hoping that today will be a bit of an easy ride. Violet is shooting her new role as ambassador for a swimwear brand. I thought ambassadors were just for countries and Ferrero Rocher parties, but what do I know? The brand has employed a hotshot photographer for the shoot so I’m going to be a bit of a spare tyre (or maybe wheel?) but it will be incredible to watch a pro at work. I treat myself to a takeaway coffee, hop into the lift and zoom up to the studio.
Violet’s in a director’s chair with her hair in rollers as a make-up artist gets to work.
‘It will be just wonderful to have some professional photos taken for a change,’ she’s saying. ‘My personal photographer Jasmine does a decent job, of course, but I’m sure we’ll all notice a difference. Dave Corrigan has shot some huge names.’
I cough to announce my presence but Violet doesn’t look embarrassed in the slightest. Why do I take this from her? Oh, that’s right, because she’s right. I’m not a professional. I’m sure she will notice a difference today. I stare down at the lid of my keep cup, now flecked with splashes of coffee, feeling deflated. For some reason, I can’t stand up to Violet or attempt to defend myself. I’d been on such a high after telling Zach what I think of him, and Too Much Thierry, come to think of it. Silently cursing myself for being such a dweeb around my boss, I go for a mooch around the set. Sky blue back drop. Inflatable palm trees. It’s all very clichéd, if you ask me.
Vispends the morning looking stunning in a selection of pastel coloured bikinis. You’ve got to hand it to her, she knows how to work the camera. In between fetching drinks for my boss, I’m taking notes on how Photographer Dave works. I know how he likes his lighting, how many shots of each new outfit he likes to take and also how he likes his coffee, because he has shouted ‘NON FAT CAPPUCINO’ in the direction of his assistant Terry 861 times already. Terry is heading out on his 862ndcoffee run so I decide to join him, mostly because this gal has a hankering for a sausage roll.
Terry’s only just counting out his change at the till when my phone buzzes.
WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU Get back here I’ve just seen the shots and I do not look good why didn’t you insist on photographing this campaign Jasmine? I am so pissed off you can see actual cellulite in one picture DISASTER.
‘Shit, we need to move,’ I say, piling pastry treats into Terry’s arms, grabbing our coffees and spinning on my heels.
This may be the first time in history that an inflatable unicorn lilo has been used as a battering ram. The poor mythical beast has been flipped upside down and its magical horn is pummelling a confused-looking Dave on the head.
‘I. Do. Not. Have. Cellulite!’ Violet delivers a fresh blow with every word.
I approach cautiously, waiting to see if the red mist has lifted enough for her to recognise me before I actually try to help. But I also need to act fast because a couple of the male models are filming this sorry scenario and if it ends up on YouTube we are doomed. DOOMED. Well, Violet is doomed. If anyone found out that her super sweet persona is a bigfat act, her cash cow of a blog would be lost forever. And that can’t happen because then I’d be out of a job right when I’ve developed a Friday sushi habit.
‘Put the unicorn down,’ I soothe, easing the weapon from my boss’s claw. Photographer Dave flashes me a grateful smile but I can’t really look at him. His trendy glasses are hanging off one ear and his forehead is sporting a red patch in the shape of a unicorn horn. Or some may say, penis.
‘Let’s all have a nice glass of prosecco and calm down, shall we?’ says Becky, the PR in charge of this shoot who has been beyond perky all day. She clicks her fingers and her assistant emerges with drinks for us all. It’s half past three in the afternoon so obviously I accept mine. Violet sinks hers like a pirate and tries to compose herself.
‘Jasmine,’ she begins. I know it’s bad when she refuses to talk to anyone in the room apart from me. ‘Would you kindly tell Rebecca here that I am not happy with the photographs this “photographer” has taken. They do not reflect my best self. You can see dimples where there are none. VIOLET DOESN’T HAVE MOTHER FU—’
‘Thank you, Violet,’ I jump in, turning to Becky. It’s always awkward when you have to relay a conversation to someone who already heard the entire thing. And don’t even get me started on the fact that the light was shining out of Photographer Dave’s arse just an hour ago.It’s nice to have some pro photos for a change.Violet’s actual words.
‘I got it, thank Jasmine,’ replies Becky, who seems to have a clipboard surgically attached to her hands. ‘Of course you don’t have mother fu– ahem – dimples Violet! You are utterly flawless. Dave, what can we do about this?’
‘There’s always Photoshop,’ he shrugs, one hand on his spray-on jeans (it’s a no from me).
‘Photoshop!My trusty photographer Jasmine never has to Photoshop pictures of my posterior and she doesn’t even have any formal training!’ Violet spits, marching off in a huff.
