CHAPTER TWO
SometimesI wake up feeling like I could run the world and sometimes I spend minutes hunting for my phone only to find that it’s already in my actual hand. This morning falls into the second category. There’s chipotle mayo in my hair, for a start. There’s ringing in my ears and vague flashbacks to serenading Mila with aggressive rap songs last night. And then there’s the gin headache, the day of travelling with Violet to look forward to and, cherry on the cake (crap on the carpet?), the thudding realisation that I’m back to being single.
Today is not winning at anything.
Thirty minutes in and I’ve showered, crammed a few ‘borrowed’ items from Mila’s wardrobe into my suitcase and am ready as I’ll ever be to leave the house when I spot that she’s left a glass of orange juice out for me with an accompanying Post-it.
Drink this ↑ and don’t forget this →
The second arrow points towards last night’s list and anti-list, resplendent with a giant number seven. I feel my shoulders sink a little as memories of the gin-fuelled discussion come flooding back. It wasn’t one of my favourite nights of all time, I’ll be honest. ’Cept for the chicken.
Scrunching up the Post-it, I neck the juice and check the time.
Shit. If I don’t move soon I’m going to be late and Violet doesn’t approve of tardiness in anyone other than herself, so I scramble around shoving all my stuff back into my hand luggage and pray that the tube won’t be taking the piss when I get there. Anything morethan a two-minute wait and I’ll kick off. Or, you know, just be terribly British and grumbly under my breath.
Wait, where’s my passport? Argh! I upend my bag onto the kitchen counter and it tumbles out with a piece of chewing gum stuck to it. Did I mention that I’m incredibly chic and classy? Hurriedly scraping everything back into my bag, I’m about to stick the passport into the back pocket of yesterday’s jeans when I spot my best friend’s list again.
‘Mynewtype on paper,’ I read out loud. I’m tempted to rip it up, but we all know that Mila will be crazy cross if she finds it in her bin, so I fold it up into a tiny square and bury it deep in the spare pouch of my passport holder.
There’s a pair of giant sunglasses walking towards me, so I must still be drunk. I stare down at the half-eaten croissant in my hand, blink a bit and look back up. Nope, the huge sunglasses are still on the approach. But at least now I can see that they’re attached to some bouncing blonde hair, a shimmering midi-dress, perfectly bronzed calves and a pair of high heels. Violet. An absolute vision, standing out against the crowds of other holiday-makers. She comes to a halt in the middle of the busy airport and forces a buggy loaded with suitcases to perform an emergency stop.
I hop up, dusting crumby hands on my jeans and wiping croissant grease from my lips. She peers over the top of her sunglasses at me in disapproval. Sunglassesindoors. ‘Good morning. My luggage is just over there. Be a doll and grab it for me? I’d do it myself, only I’ve just applied a nourishing hand cream! Flights can be so dehydrating.’
A mountain of monogrammed suitcases winks at me. Dogsbody duties are go. Together we clatter through the airport, me pushing a trolley full of Violet’s luggage with my own camera kit perched precariously on my back, Violet with a tiny cup of takeawayespresso in her hand, pinky aloft. People over the age of twenty-two stop and stare at her, trying to figure out if she’s famous, while teenage girls skip over for a selfie and gush about how Violet is totally the most inspiring woman on the planet. I lurk in the background, peak hangover about to hit. A cheeseburger would not go amiss, but it isn’t even close to lunchtime and I don’t want to risk puking mid-flight. Getting dumped last night was bad enough, but then going round to Mila’s, drinking All The Drinks and scarfing fried chicken for dinner? I really need to start questioning my life choices.
Violet weaves through the shops, spritzing herself with expensive perfumes while I attempt to heave her crap around the aisles, the scent of patchouli and rose assaulting my nostrils. All the while, she’s trilling about how excited she is to be the face of a new vodka company who have invited her along to Cannes Film Festival. Violet’s getting paid to attend the glittering event and in return, she’s going to light up her blog and social media channels with sponsored content for the brand. She’s been focusing on Cannes for weeks now, which explains yesterday’s tan and the fact that only green juice, coffee and something called Tasmanian rain water have passed her lips over the past twenty-four hours.
‘Shall we go through the plan again?’ asks Violet as we wait in the boarding lounge.
‘Sure. You want me to take photos of you living your best life whenever you’re out and about. I’ve got plenty of stills planned too. . . pretty, vodka-drinking scenes with sea, sand and sky in the background.’
‘Excellent,’ Violet nods approvingly. ‘I can’t wait! We really must nail this, Jasmine. If it’s a success, who knows what I might be invited along to next.’ She glazes over as she dreams about world domination. I fish a bit of mascara goop out of my eye. ‘I bet you never imaginedyouwould be part of Cannes.’
‘Um, no.’
‘Andlook at you now!’ Violet pats my hand. ‘Just imagine where you’d be if we’d never met.’
Do not punch your boss. Do NOT punch your boss.
But Violet’s kind of right, attending the festival is an amazing opportunity. I guess if we’re talking about my own personal life goals though, studying Fine Art and Photography at the crazy popular Bede Academy in New York had been right up there since I picked up a camera for the very first time. I shake my head, the familiar lurch of regret starting to bubble up inside. In an ideal world, that’s how I’d have started my career and not just because going to uni in America soundedsocool! I worked every spare minute during sixth form to save up on the teeny, tiny chance that I’d get offered a place. Framing pictures for a local art gallery, making personalised greetings cards for friends and family, working in a café. . . You name it, I did it. When I was invited to interview on Skype for a place, I nearly collapsed. I was so nervous beforehand that I didn’t sleep. Dad found me pacing around in the kitchen and sat me down, told me that he believed in me and spent all night helping me to put together my portfolio.
My throat tightens at the memory.
Two weeks later, the letter came through. I’d been offered a place! The course tutor said he saw ‘potential’ in my work. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so completely happy. I was off to America! To study actual photography! Watch out Annie Leibovitz! That day Dad swept me up in his arms like he had since I was little, planted a kiss on my forehead and told me how proud he was of me. And when Mum came home from work, we all piled out to our favourite restaurant where we drank prosecco to celebrate.
Thencame the shit storm. Dad did the whole what-Dad-did thing and everything turned upside down. My heart hurts thinking about it even now. Mum was in bits and there was no way I could support her if I was living thousands of miles away.
So, the truth is, Iwasreally lucky to land this job with Violet. When we met, my dreams of becoming a photographer were almost extinct. No one wanted to take me on without any training or qualifications and I’d gone back to work at the art gallery, framing other people’s artwork. Violet’s blog was just getting popular and when she came in asking for advice on some prints she wanted framing, we got talking. I offered to take some pictures of her and she liked how they turned out. She offered me a job soon after that and I practically bit her arm off. An actual salary doing what I loved! Sure, it wasn’t the exact kind of photographer I’d dreamed of becoming. But it was a great opportunity and the perfect starter job. Only, that was five years ago now and I’m not entirely sure where I’m headed anymore. I can’t admit that, of course. Violet sees taking me on as a kind of Mother Teresa move and even though she’s at her most patronising slash irritating right now, I won’t risk upsetting her by pointing out that we’re busy chasing after her dreams, not mine.
In good news, I survived take-off without throwing up gin/chicken/croissant. In bad news, Violet gives zero fucks that I am craving some peace and quiet and is insisting on talking to me through this entire flight. She’s read through my proposed photography schedule three times and, having exhausted all possible lines of work chat, now appears to be telling me about her love life like we’re gal pals.
‘I had to dump the last guy because he looked better in skinny jeans than I do and I simply couldn’t have that.’
I snap my head round to face her. That sounds familiar.
‘Sonow I’m on a mission,’ she adds. ‘I need to meet a new boyfriend in Cannes. First and foremost, he has to be famous. Obvs! Imagine dating a non-celebrity! I need my stock to rise, not fall. And of course he needs to tick a lot of my boxes, too. Tall, dark and handsome. Good dresser. Buff AF.’
Violet’s ticking her type off against her well-moisturised fingers while my eyes widen in horror.
