and offer you a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity?’ she asked, her hands clasped together in prayer.
‘I don’t want to agree to three months,’ I replied, as staunchly as possible. Playing hardball had never been my thing. Actually, playing any kind of ball had never been my thing, euphemistically or otherwise.
‘I’ll tell them you’ll go for a week, do a recce and then make a decision,’ she said. ‘And if that decision is anything other than “thanks for giving me this opportunity, Mr Bennett, now may I kiss your arse?” I’ll have you fucking killed.’
A week. I felt relief roll off my shoulders. I could do a week. I’d know how I felt in a week. Probably.
‘Thank you,’ I said, visions of
Roman Holiday
and big plates of pasta suddenly rushing through my head. Everything I’d held at bay until now crashed over me on one big Italiano-gasm. I was going to Milan.
‘That would be amazing. It’s just that I’ve got other stuff, maybe. I don’t want to commit to something I might not be able to do.’
Veronica’s head snapped round towards me so quickly, her hair almost moved. ‘You know I’m your agent? You can’t book a job without me because then I’d have to fucking kill you and I hate having to sort that out. Right pain in the tits.’
‘It’s not a photography job, it’s advertising,’ I said quickly, preparing for a slap. ‘Like I was doing before.’
‘Can you see me right now, Tess Brookes?’ Veronica pushed her massive leather chair over to the wall behind her and began knocking her head against the wallpaper harder than I could imagine was comfortable. ‘This is me, banging my head against a brick wall. And why do you think I’m doing that?’
‘Is it because I’m a fucking idiot?’
I thought it was worth a guess.
‘Ding ding ding!’ She waved her arms above her head like Kermit the Frog and thankfully stopped bashing her head against the wall. ‘You’re a fucking idiot. This is a chance that will never come around again. You are a twenty-eight-year-old untested, unproven, rookie photographer. You ought to be spending the next five years trekking around shit weddings in Bracknell, taking pictures over dinner because the main photographer can’t be arsed.’
It was a fair point.
‘At best, you’d be looking the other way while some big-shit fashion photographer got a blow job from some underage model while you changed the flash and spent so long holding up reflectors that you had a right bicep bigger than a world champion wanker.’
Again, not untrue.
‘Am I getting through to you? Shall we just go over what exactly is on the fucking table here?’
I didn’t feel like we especially needed to but I didn’t think it would be in my best interests to tell her no and so I went with a noncommittal half-shrug and made an awkward mewing noise in the back of my throat. Veronica sat forward and held out her hand, ticking off each of her points with so much force, I was worried she was going to break off her own fingers.
‘One first-class fucking trip to Italy, a base in Bertie-cocking-Bennett’s private apartments in Milan, a job working personally with Bennett himself that a million other photographers would happily bum a goat to get, and a proposed fee that is twice what I would have even attempted to get for you – and I, Tess Brookes, am a fucking ballbreaker when it comes to fees. So what, pray tell, is your opportunity? Because if it’s anything other than Jesus-fucking-Christ asking you to rebrand his bell-end, I’m afraid I’m not going to understand.’
I bit my lip and pulled my handbag closer to my chest.
‘Do you know Perito’s Portuguese Chicken?’
CHAPTER FOUR
According to a hastily scribbled note on the back of a Domino’s Pizza napkin, Amy was out at a job interview when I got back to the house and where her other five flatmates were, I didn’t care to know. Seizing my chance, I grabbed a semi-clean towel from Amy’s radiator and ran
Grace Thompson
John Burnside
KC Mills
Liam McIlvanney
Nina Levine
Dominique Eastwick
Salvador Espriu
KATHY
Valerie Seimas
Stella Rae