CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Theday has come for me to repay a whopping favour I’ve been owing for quite some time. After a frantic morning running around after Violet (Influencer of The Year Awards are later this week so we are BI-ZEE) I deposited her with Bruce the spray-tanner for the afternoon. He was very complimentary about my outfit and I did a little spin to show off my new Copenhagen wardrobe. Today I’ve tucked an old white cross-over shirt into some new white shorts and added a pair of trainers. I feel comfortable but also kind of chic as I make my way over to Borough Market and Arnie’s ‘space’. (Apparently the word office is deeply uncool when you work at a tech start-up.)
Half of the huge room is taken up with a coffee bar, and the other half is a giant desk with people interspersed around it, balancing on orange gym balls in lieu of chairs and clicking away on their laptops. I spot Arnie behind the coffee bar.
‘Hi,’he smiles. ‘Coffee?’
‘Yes please. Does your job include coffee making as well?’ I never did fully understand what he does.
‘We take it in turns. I’m today’s barista. Everybody thinks it’s a good idea to get a break from your screen and practise a new skill. Look, I’ve been working on my coffee art.’
He pours milk into my cup, twirling it around a long spoon, before handing it to me. The exact image of my face has been recreated in frothy milk. I blink up at Arnie.
‘Is that me? It’s really good! I almost don’t want to drink it. I swear it’s nicer than my actual face,’ I take a quick photo on my phone. New profile pic maybe?
A couple of guys join us at the coffee bar. One is inhumanly tall, like two basketball players have been Sellotaped together, and the other is drumming his fingers impatiently.
‘You must be Jasmine,’ says the giant.
‘Yes, hi,’ I reply, wondering how he knows. This is not the kind of office where you get issued a name tag at reception.
‘I’m Jon. This is Paul. We work with Arnie.’
I smile at Jon and Paul. ‘How did you. . .?’
‘We’ve been drinking “Jasmines” all afternoon,’ explains Paul, pointing to his empty coffee cup. ‘Maybe too many. I’m wired.’
‘I’m sorry, what?’
‘Wired. You know, like on a caffeine high?’ Paul looks at me like I’m proper stupid.
‘No, not that. You said something about drinking “Jasmines” all day?’
Paul looks like he’s let the cat out of the bag. I can’t tell what Jon’s face is doing because it is miles above mine, a couple of clouds floating around his shoulders. MeanwhileArnie’s gone bright red. He bustles me out of the ‘space’ and into a side room before I have time to get any more confused.
I’m thrilled that Arnie has finally cashed in on my I-owe-you because I was starting to fret that our relationship was totally one-sided. You know, he did all the work on maintaining my website while I sat around in my hideous pink leggings, eating his food and painting my nails. I did offer to paint his nails but he said something about not being Johnny Depp circa 2011. I remember being both offended and impressed with the precision of his reference. Anyway, I finally get to do something for him and it’s giving me a warm feeling deep in my belly. The kind of feeling you get when you compliment a stranger in the street, or text your mum before 9am on Mother’s Day, or produce your own biodegradable carrier bag at the checkout.
For a man who looks like a Viking, Arnie is surprisingly photogenic and, better still, he’s excellent at taking direction. I’ve been charged with taking some new headshots for all of the team at his company – I’m sorry, ‘group of collaboratives’ – and Arnie is next to a standing desk looking creative.
‘Pulled out all the stops with your outfit today,’ I say, eyeing up his white t-shirt and white shorts.
‘We’re basically dressed the same.’
I peer up at him over my camera. Huh. He’s absolutely right. All this time I’ve been taking the mickey out of Arnie’s fashion sense because it wasmyfashion sense, if I had the balls to wear it. And now, apparently, I do.
‘Why you insist on dressing like a girl I’ll never know,’ I tease.
‘Whatever.I think you look good, by the way. It’s nice to see you mixing it up. Those shorts look. . . good.’ He’s gone bright red again.
Hmm. I opt for my new default position, aka Professional Jasmine, and focus on the job in hand before packing Arnie off and asking him to send his colleagues in.
The perfume bomb hits me first. Then the click, pop, swish of makeup pots being opened and brushes deftly applying products. The excited hum of chatter as Violet and Emmy discuss the evening ahead. They’re perched high on make-up stools, dressed in towelling robes with hair in clips, wads of tissue between each one to stop their locks from creasing. I’m back from a seven-minute break, which consisted of me collapsing onto Violet’s spare bed like a starfish. I lay there for a few blissful seconds before I remembered that I have my own stuff to do, so I scoured through the rest of my work emails.
From:[emailprotected]
Subject:Shoot idea
Dear Jasmine
