‘Tonight?’ I turn back to Ben.
‘I thought I was just meeting Mila for a drink. I didn’t know you’d be here. I. . .’
‘It’s okay.’ It’s my turn to shake my head. Crestfallen. Confused.
‘I’d better go.’ I grab my bag.
‘Wait, Jasmine. . .’
Anita reaches our table and I take a deep, shaky breath. ‘Hi, I’m Jas. Ben’s a really good guy.’
Anita smiles warmly back at me and my heart feels heavy as I walk away.
You know what’s good at distracting you from hideous romance issues? A fancy pants party! Violet has asked me to come as her plus one, because she’s still not managed to find The New Chip and she ‘doesn’t want to look like a total loser by going alone’. She gets papped a lot these days, and thank the lords I’m not the one doing the papping. Actual paparrazzi pop up whenever she’s out and about, calling her name and asking her probing and insightful questions about her love life.Did Chip really wear tighty whities? Has she found a new boyfriend yet? Would she have sex in his bed for revenge?Violetlovesit. She swans serenely past them as the cameras flash, a mildly aloof look on her face and her gazeaverted, but beneath the cool surface she’s buzzing. As soon as we’re inside the gallery, she grabs my hand and fires questions at me.Did she look calm? Was her outfit creased? Will the magazines pick up on her break-over?
Yeah, Violet’s had a break-over. It began with an admittedly bad-ass new haircut. Her long blond locks are now a fierce, don’t-mess-with-me bob. Then she hit the gym to ‘build up her butt’ and she has got some tiny curves going on in that formerly pancake-flat department. She took a little away time, spending four nights at a posh hotel in Croatia and getting a gorgeous, natural tan. Tonight she’s trying out a new make-up look, less soft and cutesy, more sassy AF. She’s gone for a red lip and she looks SO HOT.
I reassure her that she looks incredible and that Chip will be weeping into his breakfast bowl when these pictures hit tomorrow morning.
‘I hope he drowns in his breakfast bowl,’ she replies. Which seems a bit much.
We walk into the gallery, which is launching a new exhibition and has invited a whole bunch of famous faces to celebrate. No sooner have we stepped through the doors and accepted a glass of champagne (it’s technically a night off for me so hell yes I’m having one too) and Violet spots a friend already mingling.
‘Bye babes, see you in a bit,’ she says, strutting off.
I pause. I don’t know anyone here and I normally hate this kind of situation. Jasmine’s not so great at mingling. It’s one of my least favourite words. Or at least, it was. See Cannes for reference. But there’s a whole load of art to look at, which is right up my street, and I’m feeling uncharacteristically confident. As long as I don’t accidentally punch J-Law in the boob again, I should be just peachy.
This shit is bananas! I’ve seen some incredible art already and I’m so pumped to get back behind the camera myself. It’s beyond inspiring to witness exciting new artists showcasing their work and there’s a little voice inside me saying, ‘bloody well go for it!’ Oh who am I kidding? It’s not a little voice, it’s a great big foghorn. I’ve had a taste of what working for myself feels like and after tonight, I’m feeling even more ambitious. I want to be these guys! I want my own photography exhibition! I want to be Jasmine Hepworth circa eight years ago, ready to jet off to New York and become the next Annie Liebowitz. Only now I’m older and wiser and. . . maybe, better? Well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I’m definitely not any worse and I’ve been learning loads from Dave, pushing myself to experiment whenever I can.
I’m chatting away to complete randoms as I walk from one piece to the next, confidence issues be damned. So far I’ve found out that the guy topping up my champagne glass is saving up for his gap yah, a woman in ah-mazing culottes is thinking about buying a piece for her own ‘collection’ and a bloke I thought was a cosy old guy in braces is actually the gallery owner who loves cats and takes his rosé with ice in it.
‘Hello,’ a voice purrs right into my ear canal.
‘Argh!’ I jump. I do not want undisclosed person’s breath right down my ear, thank you very much. Who thinks that is acceptable? I spin round to see Photographer Dave standing next to me.
‘Dave! As it’s you, I’ll let you off that creepy introduction.’
‘It wasn’t creepy.’ Dave thinks all of his actions are non-creepy, which is totally inaccurate. I pat him on the arm.
‘It was. But hi! Hello! How are you?’
‘Verywell thank you. And you? You seem full of energy.’
‘I am! This exhibition is so inspiring. Have you just got here?’
‘Yep, I’m in and out. Just came to show my face really.’
‘It is a lovely face,’ I quip. ‘I don’t think I’ve had the chance to properly thank you for using my portraits in your book. Seriously, Dave, I’m so honoured. And when your agent told me how much I’d be getting paid I swear I did a little excitement wee.’ Dave looks horrified. I plough on. ‘Will you hurry up and finish the book so I can get a copy? Ooh, and would you sign it for me?’
‘Now you’re being creepy. There’s no need to thank me, the shots were excellent.’
Lately, the new email address I set up to go with my website has been getting busy. I’ve had all kinds of requests for work, some great, some not-so-great. E.g. would I consider shooting for a new adult pleasure website for free. TBH it was the ‘for free’ bit that most got my goat. I don’t know if Dave has been speaking highly of me, or if the work I’ve put into self-promotion is finally paying off, or both, but I’m really starting to feel like I’m no longer just Violet’s photographer slash dogsbody. I’ve got a bit on the side! Is it weird that I’m my own bit on the side? Probs, but it’s making me very happy to think that I can supplement my income by doing the thing that I love and getting credit for it.
Dave and I wander around the exhibition, me pointing out my favourite bits and him half-listening while he checks out all the hot women here tonight. He’s like a randy, skinny-jeans-wearing dog in heat.
Suddenly he clatters to a halt and dives behind the nearest brass carving. ‘OH. FUCK.’
‘What?’
