‘Congratulations,’ I say. ‘You totally deserved it.’
‘Thank you,’ she grins, her sea green dress shimmering in the bright light. ‘My mum is going to be so proud! That reminds me, Violet’s asked if you could go in and join her? My seat will be free for the next ten minutes or so while I call Mum and tell her the good news. Vi wants some pictures of herself before her name is announced.’
I give Emmy one last squeeze and grab my stuff. Violet has such supreme confidence in her own abilities that, in her head, she’s already won the biggest award of the night. She might be a prime knob sometimes but I have to hand it to her, her self-belief is off the hook.
‘And the winner of Influencer of the Year goes to. . .’
The wait is unbearable. I’m sat in Emmy’s seat and Violet hasn’t taken a breath since the compère uttered those last words. If he doesn’t hurry up I’m worried she’s going to pass out.
‘Violet Huntington!’
A cheer erupts around the room and Violet stands, blowing kisses to the crowd. Then she whispers in my direction, ‘Straighten my dress.’ I grit my teeth, annoyed with Violet for treating me like a dogsbodyagainand with myself for letting it happen. But after the Chip incident and my dress designer fudge-up, I just want to get through tonight without any more glitches.
Arrangingthe acres of pink froth, I look up to Violet for approval and she gives me a nod. She glides past Chip’s table, some may say deliberately letting her dress trail over his new girlfriend’s feet. And when she gets to her podium, award in hand, she gives an Oscar-worthy speech. It’s funny, succinct and oozing in charm, the kind of thing her fans will go wild for. I clap along with everyone as she takes a bow and then finally allow myself a trip to the loo before racing back to the media room to catch Violet’s moment with the press.
‘The problem is, you just can’t get the staff these days. Tagging the wrong designer in my Instagram pictures this evening was a huge mistake and I’m worried that it’s undonehoursof hard work on my part. Between you and me, it’s just the last in a long line of mistakes. There was the whole paparazzi débâcle in Italy. That was my reality TV début and she went off on a date with Alessandro, one of the new stars of the show? That’s what first had me worried that she has ideas above her station. Apparently when his agent Karen heard that he was going on a date with Jasmine, she tipped off a local press agency. She thought the idea that a basic girl could find her happy ever after with an actual prince was a golden opportunity to get his name in the UK press ahead of the series airing. I didn’t tell Jasmine when I found out because I didn’t want to upset her and for it to affect her work ethiceven more. I mean, don’t get me wrong, she’s notbad. She takes quite a good photo for a girl with no formal training. But the other stuff? Do you know, she doesn’t even offer to clean up Prince Albie’s poop these days!’
I’m stood stock still, inches behind Violet as she trots out this vile monologue to a journalist I was sharing a ham-less sarnie with not so long ago. I’m so cross that I can’t even see.
The journalist spots me first and scurries off.
Violetturns to me. If she’s wondering whether I heard what she just said, she’s doing a sterling job of pretending not to be. Some words pour out of her mouth. . . can I take some more behind the scene shots / check that her dress still crease-free. Blah. Bloody. Blah. Suddenly everything becomes clear and my boiling blood cools to a simmer. I hold my index finger up to silence her.
‘No.’
Violet looks around the room. People don’t say no to her. Her left eye starts to twitch.
‘No, as in, you think there’s somewhere better for our shots?’
‘No, as in, I think there’s somewhere better forme,’ I say calmly. ‘I heard every single world of that nasty conversation you just had. Belittling me in front of a journalist? Gossiping aboutmydate with Alessandro? Here’s a newsflash, Violet, I’m yourphotographer. That’s my job description. And yet you repeatedly expect me to run around after you, clearing up your mess, doing menial tasks along the way. Not to mention taking my ideas and passing them off as your own, or relying on me to keep your blog running even when I’m taking time off. None of that is in my contract and I’m neither paid well enough, nor treated with enough respect, to do them. I’m hard-working, I’m committed, I take good photographs for you and I never, ever get any credit for my work. On top of all of that, I’ve had your back. Emmy and I tried our hardest to protect you from Chip and his shit-stick moves earlier. I’ve been working since the break of day, just managed a five second break to have a speed-wee. And what’s my thanks? I come back to hear you criticising me in the press room. It is unbelievably unprofessional of you and I’ve had enough. I have no clue what’s around the corner for me, but I’ll happily spend the rest of my life in my crap flat, eating beans on freezer toast if it means I don’t have to deal with you. Ever again. Pleaseaccept this as notice of my resignation. You can stick your job up your perfectly bronzed arse because I am no longer your bitch.’
