At some point, Durand’s creative director turns up. Francois is a tall man with a very loud voice who is overly fond of his own opinion. I know Olivier has been making noises about him not being a good fit for the business, so it’s amusing to watch Francois strut around like he actually owns said business. He’s never liked me and resents my friendship with the Durands. His beef with me was acerbated last year when his boyfriend took a shine to me. It wasn’t reciprocated, but it injured Francois’s pride.
I steer clear and carry on working. Hours pass, and sweat prickles under my arms as the lights blaze down on us. A headache plays with my temples, and my back is ablaze with the strain of holding positions and crouching. Still, I enjoy the ease of being one with my camera—an extension of her eye.
I’m aware evening has dropped when I look out of the window, and find Edinburgh is already cloaked in lights.
“That’s a wrap,” I call, and I’m immediately greeted with cheers. I lower myself to the floor and stretch out. In the background, I can hear the models talking.
“Did you hear that Saoirse got arrested last week?”
“What for this time?”
“Indecent exposure in a fountain.”
“She’salwaysgetting her tits out. That’s nothing new.”
“Not in a hotel foyer. Management got really shirty and charged her for the bathrobe too.”
I repress a laugh and the floor vibrates slightly as footsteps come near. “Reuben,” a voice says. I raise one eyelid and find Francois glaring down at me. My gaze travels from his shiny loafers to his cold eyes.
“Yes?”
“Are we paying you to take a rest?”
A couple of the models at the makeup station turn their heads, and I shrug, knowing it will annoy him. “At this point, I’m not exactly sure. Olivier made it sound like I was doing him a favour. Admittedly, I’d rather have loaned him a cup of sugar, but life isn’t always sweet, is it?”
He sniffs and pushes his hands into his trouser pockets. “Nevertheless, is it customary for photographers to lie on the floor?”
“Depends on whether they’re tired or not.”
I hear a smothered snort, and I fucking damn well know that was Xavier. The thought that he might be smiling is like a shot of vodka on an empty stomach.
I brighten, but it fades as the pompous twat huffs and says, “You’ve missed something.”
“Was it the breaking down of the shoot because I’m finished?”
“No. There’s a segment featuring Dean, Bowie, and Xavier.” He blanches when I look up at him. “It’s on the call sheet.”
“I’m pretty sure we both know I barely glanced at that.”
He rolls his eyes. “Well, it’s hardly my fault that you’re a little chaotic in the workplace.”
“Francois, where I used to work, there wasn’t a need for call sheets.”
“We still have half an hour on the clock.”
“Are we working in the Twix factory now?”
He glares. “We need shots of Xavier, Bowie, and Dean in the lift.”
The lift?I tense slightly, and his eyes gleam. It’s at that moment I know someone has told him about my claustrophobia. I’ve had it since I photographed a riot and nearly ended up squashed a few years ago. It’s mostly manageable now. As long as I avoid being boxed into spaces where I haven’t got a clear exit, I’m fine. However, it’s still ultimately governed by my mental state and that’s been shaky this week.
“Really?” I say.
He nods. “It’s the teasers for the ad campaign you just shot. It was on?—”
“If you say the word call sheet again, I will murder you.”
I drag myself to a sitting position, feeling the familiar stab of pain in my shoulder. I’ve worked it too hard today. I realise I’m massaging it when I look up and catch Xavier’s eye. His gaze is fixed on my hand, and when I look down, I realise my shirt’s gaped open and the twisty scar tissue that surrounds my old bullet wound is visible. His face wears an unusual expression, and it takes me a second to realise that it’s concern. For a second, I’m struck dumb, and then he turns away, and I rise to my feet.
