I rest the bottles of beer down next to him and step back.
‘Why don’t you give it a go yourself,’ I say with sudden confidence. ‘Oh and by the way, I treatedmyselfto a couple of gins in tins. That fiver you gave me covered one and a half of your four beers. And I’m pretty sure that your salary trumps mine by one million and ten per cent.’
Trumps?
Dave stops trying to fix the tripod into place, looks up at me and actively guffaws.
‘You make me laugh. Thank you for going to get the drinks. My wallet’s over there, please help yourself to whatever you need.’
I’ve only been working with Dave for a day but this feels like a small win.
‘Nah, it’s fine. I’ll shout you two point five beers. You’re doing that all wrong by the way.’ I kneel down next to him and jack the tripod into position. ‘There.’
‘Go on then.’
‘Goon then. . . what?’
‘Take some shots.’ He picks up a beer, flicks the bottle top off with his thumb and nods towards his camera.
‘Really? What happened to not letting your assistants touch your camera?’
‘Huh?’
‘They were your actual words when I asked if I could take some pictures earlier. Along with some other, more offensive words. Like “step the fuck away” and “get your sticky thumbprints off”.’ Full disclosure: My thumbsweresticky from the heat, but he didn’t have to point it out.
‘Oh yeah. Well, you did good today and I don’t usually get called out on underpaying for drinks by an assistant who I’m lending my time and substantial expertise to.’ Dave grins, placing heavy emphasis on the wordssubstantialandexpertise.
Two beers down and Dave seems genuinely enthused as we stop to look at the pictures I’m taking, offering up bits of advice and encouragement. I’ve been so wrapped up in what I’m doing that my gins remain untouched, an almost unheard of feat in the History of Jasmine.
‘You were right,’ I say as Dave sets his bottle down, leaning back on his arms.
‘About what?’
‘This sunset. It’s insane.’ I motion to the sun, now a tiny dot beaming out bright orange shards of light over the London skyline. If I look immediately up, the sky above my head is a swirl of indigos, purples and pinks.
‘This city never fails to impress.’
‘Have you shot here before? At this warehouse, I mean?’
‘Yeah,quite a few times. It’s one of the favourites for magazines like this. Exposed brickwork, huge windows, blah blah,’ he reaches for beer number three.
‘You sound kind of bored.’
Dave stares out at the city’s silhouetted landmarks. ‘Shoots like this and the one we did with that crazy boss of yours are my bread and butter. I do them because the pay is good and they keep me going between the big stuff.’
‘The fashion shoots?’
‘I definitely prefer them because there are models and models are hot, but my thing is taking portraits. Not famous people, just characters. People. Life. It sounds trite to say, but you can absolutely see into a person’s soul, just by looking at their face.’
I find myself staring at Dave’s face. He’s got flecks of grey running through his dark hair and laughter lines around his eyes. At a guess I’d put him in his late thirties. He pulls off his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose, shifting his body away from me as he turns to stare at the city. I grab my own camera from my bag and carefully, quietly, start taking pictures.
‘My next big project is a book,’ he’s saying. ‘It’s my baby. I’ve been taking portraits of people with interesting stories to tell for the past few months and it will be ready by the end of next year. I’m hoping to have an exhibition of the pieces around the time the book launches.’
Wow. A book and an exhibition? Those are some serious photography aims, right there. Dave is looking reflective and softer than he was on set today, like he’s lost that self-conscious need to be ‘cool’ all the time. My finger clicks away until he looks back over his shoulder at me.
‘You got me thinking about portraits,’ I say sheepishly. ‘They’ll probably be shit.’
Heputs his hand to the lens to stop me taking more pictures.
