‘Wonderful. We have lots to catch up on. I’ve been invited to review a new spa in Switzerland in a couple of weeks. Please get the dates blocked out in your diary. Oh, and Jasmine, could you bring an almond latte when you get here? My coffee machine’s broken again.’
Deep breaths. This is GREAT news. I still have a job! So what if she’s assuming I’m free for another last-minute trip and still annoyingly unable to work her own coffeemachine. So what if she’s unable to disguise the fact that she only wants me for my camera? And so what if I can barely stand up for myself? On the whole, things are looking up.
Perched on a breakfast stool by Violet’s kitchen island, I’m mainlining coffee from her not-actually-broken machine as I desperately try to wade through the backlog. I’d expected Violet to at least try to do some work while I was dismissed, but no. She’s usually a post-a-day kind of blogger but she managed one whole post in the entire four days I’ve been off, which used an old photo I’d taken ages ago and simply said that, in light of the press intrusion into her love life (absolute LOL) she was taking some time away. Her followers have been inundating her with messages of support ever since. But now that I’m back, her retreat from the spotlight has been surprisingly cut short, and she’s currently barking instructions at me while I fill in our shared calendar.
‘I need something up, and I need it up fast,’ she says.
The sun is beating down through the trees, dappled light dancing over a hamper laden with food. China cups filled with the remnants of Earl Grey (Arnie would love it) are scattered about, strawberries with bites out of them ooze red juice onto the picnic blanket and Violet, a vision in a pale pink wrap dress, tips up the corner of her wide-brimmed hat to let the sun onto her face. I look around, pleased with our handiwork, and for once the word ‘our’ is accurate. Violet actually chipped in with preparing for the shoot! Once we’d agreed on the picnic idea, she skipped off to her local bakery to buy delicious treatsanddid a mad dash around the nearest organic supermarket for the fruit. Normally this kind of prep work is left to yours truly and I’m wondering whether pointing out that she was mean to memight have made a difference to our relationship? Shots taken, we start to wrap up and I’m about to race through an edit so we can get that blog up asap.
Though I have more pressing jobs to tend to first, apparently.
‘Jasmine, be a love and clean up Prince Albert’s poop?’ Violet says, waving her hand in the direction of a steaming pile of excrement. Prince Albert – not, in fact, a deceased monarch but a super cute Pomeranian – tilts his head to one side and looks at me apologetically.
‘I really should press on,’ I reply, looking pointedly at my camera.
‘You know I’d do it normally.’ Nope. ‘But this dress is on loan and I can’t send it back with Albie’s muck all over it, can I?’ She has no intention of sending the dress back and that’s a fact. ‘Would you mind just this once? I’ll tidy up and see you back at mine.’
What was I saying about our working relationship, again? Before I have time to protest any further, Violet daintily picks up one solitary cup, scoops Prince Albert into her arms and walks off.
I lunge for the nearest poop bin, holding my breath in case this morning’s breakfast makes an unwelcome reappearance, then pack the picnic stuff away. It is so hot today! Dealing with the contents of Albie’s butt must have earned me a couple of minutes off so I collapse on the grass and let the warm sun soak into my skin. Closing my eyes, I listen to the gentle buzz of insects nearby. The grass smells divine, like the scent of summer. I take a huge breath in like I learned that one time I got cajoled into doing a yoga class with Mum and. . .
Wait.
What happened to the scent of summer?
An acrid smell fills my nostrils. It’s. . . familiar. It’s. . .
Ibolt upright to discover a second mound of Albie poop behind my back. Or, more specifically, all over my t-shirt.
‘Arggghhhhh!’ I swat wildly at the stain with the tiny fleck of lint I have pulled out of my jeans pocket in a panic. Obviously it’s no use whatsoever and I’m forced to scurry back to Violet’s as fast as I can, the trail of Eau de Dog Shite in my wake.
From:[emailprotected]
Subject:Violet H swimwear shoot
Hi Hun!
Finally getting in touch about those swimwear shots for Violet’s blog, apols for the delay, the brand kept pushing the embargo date back. Pics attached, we LOVE them here. So fresh. Violet looks increds in the bikinis. We love Violet. We love you too. You saved the day with the lido idea, thank you. I owe you 122 espresso martinis. I’M HAVING ONE NOW! The swimwear client is so pleased that they’d like to use some of the blog shots for their own advertising. I’m going to call Violet’s agent to see if that’s something she’d be happy with. Obvs they’d run a credit for both you and Dave Corrigan with anything they use. Just wanted to let you know! Btw my boss here at the agency was also super pleased and I told her all about you. She said we should think about using you again in a professional capacity. SO. . . We’ve just landed an exciting Scandi knitwear client and are planning a major UK launch campaign. We need some amazing social media pics to coincide and I’m on the hunt for a photographer. Would you be interested in me putting you forward to interview?
Kisses, Becks
Iread the email from Becky With The Clipboard three times. It takes a while to process that a) she’s on the espresso martinis before 5pm and b) OH HOLY SMOKES HOW FREAKING A IS THIS EMAIL?! I’ll actually get a credit for the Brockwell Lido photos on the brand’s website? That’s more than I’ll get on my own boss’s blog. Also, some possible new work? Taking pictures of something other than Violet?
‘YASSSSSSS PLEASE,’ I type back, hitting send before I realize that a pleasantry or two might have been nice. But it’s too late and I’m too excited. Who doesn’t love knitwear? (There are way too many jumpers crammed into astolenborrowed blue Ikea bag at the back of my wardrobe). This could be an incredible opportunity for me. A chance to get my name out there, a chance to flex my skills and maybe, finally, feel proud of myself?
Well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I try to calm down as I slip my phone back into my pocket, Violet’s bedroom coming back into focus. With permission, I rifle through her ‘summer spares’ wardrobe (true story) and pull out a replacement t-shirt, hoping that my own isn’t ruined forever. Crunched up in my left hand is a plastic bag containing a t-shirt now covered in you-know-what. The dulcet tones of my boss, shouting up the stairs to passive-aggressively ask when I’ll be available to get on with the picnic edit fill the room. And yet suddenly, an afternoon spent staring at pictures of Violet popping a cream scone into her smug gob doesn’t look so bad after all.
The sensible, grown-up, adult thing to do would be to own up. Come right out with it. Just rip that plaster off.Hey Mila I accidentally bonked Hot Tom twice please don’t be cross!But just when I feel like I’m plucking up the courage, Mila returns with our drinks and a bombshell.
‘Mikeand I are moving in together,’ she grins as she sits down.
‘WHAT? That’s amazing news! You’re moving in? Together?’
‘Yes! Me and Mike, moving in together! Shall I say those words a few more times before it sinks in?’
She’s chuckling at my reaction.
‘Bloody hell Mila. This is HUGE. I’m so pleased for you guys!’ I jump out of my seat
