Dave turns to look at me, a mixture of ‘mildly impressed’ and ‘how do you work with this monster’ about his eyes. ‘You take all of the photographs on her blog?’
I nod.
‘I’m impressed,’ he adjusts his wonky glasses and rubs at the penis patch on his head. ‘I particularly liked the pictures in a recent post. What was it called? “How To Slay Your Spray Tan”, that’s it.’
Wait. What? Firstly, I can’t believe actual Dave Corrigan the famous photographer is impressed with my stuff. A swell of pride washes over me and my heart feels like it’s doing a pufferfish impression. Secondly, “How To Slay Your Spray Tan”? I pull out my phone and scroll back through Violet’s blog. I’ve been so focused on editing the Cannes shots that I didn’t check what she’d posted the day we left. Violet actually ignored me when I suggested that blog title, so pleased was she with her own suggestion about Sicilian lemons or whatever it was. But here she is, using my idea and passing it off as her own. Pepé Le Pew, she’s infuriating. It’s not like this hasn’t happened before, either. I’m going to have to say something soon. Or, you know, probably never.
Meanwhile Dave is talking about the balcony shots and I’m genuinely bowled over to hear his comments. ‘Thank you. We were lucky with the light.’
‘Hi hello there!’ Violet bowls back over with Becky in tow. ‘Before this turns into some little photographer love in, can we decide what we’re going to do about MY PROBLEM please. I cannot be an ambassador for this brand if I am not happy with the pictures.’
Then she stamps her foot like a two-year-old.
Andit works, because when Violet stamps her foot people don’t turn and laugh at her like they bloody well should, they scuttle around adjusting this and that until she is perfectly happy. It issoannoying to watch.
‘Sure. Sure,’ Becky With The Clipboard is making frantic notes. Dave is attempting to look nonchalant but it’s clear that even he is a bit worried about how today will pan out. And Ulrikka (yes, I named the unicorn) is giving me a look which says ‘please take me home’. It seems cruel to tell her that unicorn lilos feel a bit 2017 and, besides, I could do with another seating option in my living room.
‘Whatareyou doing Jasmine?’ Violet asks.
I look around and realise that I’ve popped Ulrikka around my neck and am about to leave. Only it’s three thirty-five and this tedious hangover of a day still hasn’t finished. WOE.
Five hours later and I am a frazzled shell of my former self. Mmm hmm. It has taken FIVE more hours to coax Violet out of her mood and persuade her to let Dave get back behind the camera with the promise of ‘hotter’ pictures. Even then she insisted on me art-directing the rest of the shoot, which was all kinds of awks, given that he’s the professional. Plus, you can’t polish a turd. Not that I’m calling Violet a turd (aesthetically-speaking) (personality? Probs) but the whole shoot concept was so far removed from something I would come up with for her blog that I really had to get my brain cells going to create something un-turd like.
Ireallyneed to stop saying the word turd.
We are currently at Brockwell Lido, freezing our bits off as we gather around Dave’s laptop. Early summer it may be, but a chill has descended and I’m really hoping that isn’t theweather’s way of hinting what will happen next. Like it did when it thundered all over my date slash dumping recently. Stupid James.
The whole team decamped from our studio after I suggested taking the shoot outside. No sooner had the words ‘retro lido’ left my mouth than Becky With The Clipboard was making calls. So here we are, jostling for space in front of the computer and waiting impatiently for the pictures to load. I can barely look. We’ve already thoroughly eaten in to Friday evening and if she’s still not happy this could turn into an all-nighter. But then our girl fills the screen, a pistachio bikini popping against the aqua-marine pool behind her. Her toned, tanned limbs look sleeker than ever with the evening sun bathing her in golden rays. A couple of male models do their best Daniel Craig impression in the background.
I bite my lip. I like them. But will she? And more importantly, will Ieversee my bed again? In a rare moment of winning recently, I remembered to change my bed sheets and now they smell so fresh.
‘Perfect pictures. Thank goodness I came up with the idea. Jasmine, please send me the edit as soon as possible. Now, is my car ready? I’m already late for my date with Chip tonight,’ she announces loudly.
I frantically call up a cab while Violet slips a sarong from the new range around her waist and stalks off.
‘You can keep the swimwear!’ Becky With The Clipboard calls after her, somewhat pointlessly. Violet never leaves a shoot without half inching something. Then Becky turns to me and says, ‘You saved the day today. Thanks, doll.’
Iknow it’s a crap idea to get hung up on what could have been. My brain knows that too. Yet sometimes, while I’m happily doing a great job of blocking out all that shoulda-woulda-coulda bollocks, my brain’s likeHEY JASMINE why don’t we go through 394 ways your life could be better right now?! Doesn’t that sound like fun?
Then off it goes, plucking little gems from thin air while I deflate like a cooling soufflé. Right now we’ve already marched through the need for new camera kit versus my bank balanceandmy frustration over letting Violet walk all over me again. Why can’t I just stand up for myself? I’m in my mid-twenties FFS! Am I literally the only person still too scared to address a work problem with their employer?
At least I’m on the tube, finally heading home after the shit show formerly known as today at work, with a massive burger in my hands. This carriage is full of people either heading out for the night or staggering back home after one post-work drink turned into six. The first kind of people are looking at me with positive disgust. No sober tube-goer likes to watch another sober tube-goer eating. The second half have developed wild eyes as they stare at my burger with unbridled envy. I burrow further into my corner seat and take a bite. Juicy. But not as juicy as tonight was meant to be. It’s wedding weekend so I should be holed up in a hotel with my boyfriend James by now. We’d probably have finished dinner and would be back in our bedroom for the main course (winky face). The next day I’d pull my incredibly expensive dress on and James would say something like, ‘You look so beautiful in your incredibly expensive dress, I think you make it look even more incredibly expensive than it already is.’ The wedding would be a roaring success and I’d end the weekend with a boyfriend more smitten with me than ever.
Except he wasn’t smitten with me at all, and now the only thing putting a smile on my face is this burger. But gherkin. Yuk. I surreptitiously spit it out.
‘Enjoyingthat?’
A PERSON is trying to talk to me. ON THE TUBE. Don’t they know the rules? No one talks to anyone. Ever. I pointedly turn my music up.
‘Excuse me. . .’
Another attempt. I see what’s happening here. This person must be unhinged. I make a show of salting my fries and start to hum along.
‘It’s just that you’ve got. . .’
Dude get the hint! I don’t want to engage you in any possible way. So far I’ve managed to avoid eye contact but now this weirdo is waving at me from the seat opposite and I’ve no choice but to meet his gaze. He’s your average moustachioed creative, wearing granny-curtains masquerading as a short-sleeved shirt and round, tortoise-shell glasses. I scowl.
‘I know this goes against the rules,’ he says, ‘but I just wanted to tell you. . .’
