CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Absolutecarnage is the best way to describe my current situation. There’s a barefoot bride dancing on a table, a groom with his arms around his best men, a bridesmaid kicking her legs in the air as she sits in a chair and a thousand champagne glasses drunkenly propping one another up. This is the exact kind of scene I was looking forward to with James just a couple of months ago. I’d pictured me plus a sudden and mysterious injection of confidence, flitting between guests, impressing his parents and generally being the perfect girlfriend at his sister’s wedding. Back then I had no clue that I was about to get dumped, and still less clue that my life was going to turn on its head. Gone are the boy-stressing, work-stressing, life-stressing days of old. In their place is a new-found confidence, a buzzy energy about what might be just around the corner, and a kick-ass new career. If I had time to have a little cry of joy, I would. Instead I step back from my camera and take a sip ofwater while the makeup artist flits from one model to the next, correcting and perfecting with her tool kit.
‘This is looking fantastic already,’ says one of the magazine team, standing next to me.
‘I’m so pleased,’ I reply, my eyes now focused on the scene as the bride picks up the place names Mila worked on and throws them into the air. They swish and sway to the floor like confetti as I snap.
As well as having loads of fun today, I’ve also managed to secure myself some best friend brownie points. There’s a bag full of shoot loot in the corner with my name on it. I know, I just dropped that phrase in there like an actual pro photographer, right! Shoot loot is THE BEST. Sometimes I’m given bits and bobs to take home with me at the end of a shoot, aka the loot. Given today’s wedding theme and my best friend’s strange and only recently discovered wedding obsession, I think she’s going to like it. I’ve got the latest edition of the mag, which doesn’t come out until the start of next month, some mini bottles of fizz, a tiara and a garter in there. Let’s face it, Mila and Mike are on a one-way street to Weddingsville. As for me, well, I can honestly say that I am more than happy taking pictures of brides rather than being one myself right now. My life no longer revolves around boys, espesh the wrong-uns I used to go for, and that’s such an incredible feeling.
The Wedding Edit’s picture editor suggests we take a lunch break, which my stomach agrees is perfect timing. I was in such a rush this morning that I didn’t get a chance to open my post before I left the house, so I stuffed the envelope that had landed on my doormat into my bag. Usually post consists of bills and flyers enticing me to try yet more dirty burgers, but today a handwritten envelope come through. I grab my bag and step outside for some fresh air.
Fromout of the envelope I pull a postcard. The picture is so familiar yet almost forgotten. I stare at it, tracing the drawing with my fingers. It’s ‘Cat Does A Sick’, one of my first ever ‘paintings’. I made it with Dad while he was working in his studio. I haven’t seen it in years and yet here’s a copy of it, printed on a postcard.
I turn it over.
Dearest Jazzy
Remember this? I’ve got the original hanging in my workspace at home. I expect it to be worth millions one day!
I just wanted to tell you how proud I am of you. You are making great things happen with work, far better than I ever managed. You have the determination and the talent to succeed and you are already doing so well. Remember those stars I told you to reach for? I think you’ve found some already.
I know it’s been tough, but I feel so grateful to have you back in my life now. You bring joy to my heart and I love you always.
Love, Dad x
I hold the postcard against my chest for a few minutes and place it carefully back in the envelope. When I get home, it’s going straight on my fridge. But for now, I’ve got someone else to go and say hello to.
‘She’s a fucking nightmare, Jasmine,’ Dave hisses.
‘I did actually tell you that. I worked with her for years, remember?’
‘Seriously,you need a medal. Last night she sent me out to get a bloody smoothie because she’d run out of coconut water and needed to “rehydrate” after pilates. I suggested tap water and she looked at me like I’d lost my mind. It was 10pm and all!’
I pat Dave on the back because I know how it feels to be Violet’s bitch. Though I must say I didn’t expect a cocky, world renowned photographer to get the same treatment.
‘You do have a choice, you know. You don’t actually have to date her?’
Dave looks like he’s mulling this over. Then he shakes his head. ‘I fucking love the girl, though.’
Yep, I did not see that one coming either. Dave and Violet have been an item ever since they argued about skinny jeans versus posh hotels at that art exhibition a while back. I fully expected it to last ten seconds, like all of those hot and fast relationships that burn too bright and too quick. But apparently it’s the real deal. I look at Dave, his face contorted in a combination of love-sick and terrified. Poor sod.
‘Shit, she’s coming back, pretend we weren’t talking about her,’ he whispers.
‘YEAH SO SHUTTER SPEED, WHAT YOU SAYING?’ I say, possibly too loud and definitely too obvious. Dave shoots me a look.
‘Talking about me, where you?’ Violet steps past Dave to give me some mwah mwah.
‘Busted. Dave really likes you, you know?’
I think he’s going to kill me. He’s looking murderously at the lens cap in his hand.
‘I do know,’ Violet smiles, crossing both hands on his shoulder and leaning up to kiss him on the cheek. ‘I like him, too. Can you believe it? We’re like, total opposites. I mean, he’s called Dave for a start. I’m more of an “Archibald” type of girl. And he pronounces it grass like sea bass, not grass like. . .’
‘Arse?’Dave suggests, giving her perfect posterior a squeeze.
‘Exactly,’ she giggles, pretending to slap his hand away. ‘He didn’t go to university, he’s never done a summer cookery school and I’ll be honest with you Jasmine, I don’t even think we have the same political leanings. I mean!’ Violet’s eyes widen at the surprise of it all. I shoot Dave a look but he’s staring at his girlfriend, utterly mesmerised. ‘Dave could not be further from my type and yet. . .’
‘You can’t get enough of me,’ he grins, pulling her in for a proper kiss. She leaps up and wraps her legs around him. Blurgh.
