Zoe May - When Polly Met Olly

‘I suppose,’ Gabe reasons as he applies the lipstick, but I can tell he’s not on board.

‘Look, I need the money,’ I remind him. Gabe knows better than anyone how much I’ve been struggling lately. I’ve been living off horrible ready meals and barely going out thanks to the crummy pay of my intermittent freelance photography jobs. I even had to borrow a hundred dollars from him to cover last month’s rent.

‘I guess,’ Gabe says. ‘But can’t you get a different job? Like a normal office job. Admin or something?’

‘Admin?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You need qualifications for those jobs. Or experience,’ I point out. I’ve seen ads for admin jobs online and even the dullest-sounding positions still require a degree, a secretarial qualification or relevant experience.

‘Hmm… you have qualifications though,’ Gabe says, a little hesitantly.

‘I have a photography degree, Gabe. They don’t want arts degrees. Trust me, I applied to a few and heard nothing,’ I tell him. After all, it’s not like getting a job as a matchmaker for To the Moon & Back was my first choice of role.

‘Well, it just seems a bit morally dubious, that’s all.’ Gabe perfects his pout, before popping the lipstick back into his make-up bag.

‘Well, no job is perfect, is it?’

‘I suppose.’ Gabe sighs. ‘So are you going to take the job then?’

‘I don’t know.’ I shrug. ‘I haven’t officially been offered it yet. But I probably would take it. It’s not like I have any other options right now.’

‘Hmm…’ Gabe murmurs. ‘Well, why don’t you come out tonight? Have a night out, let your hair down, and then sleep on it. You might feel totally differently in the morning.’

It’s clear that Gabe really doesn’t want me to take the job. He isn’t a fan of online dating. He met his boyfriend Adam in the coffee shop near his office. He’s all about real life over online. Perhaps it’s because one of his friends got catfished once; he sent the guy nudes and then found them on some creepy website.

‘I shouldn’t… I don’t have any money,’ I say.

‘Come on.’ Gabe shoots me a look. ‘You know you’re going to get free drinks at The Eagle.’

‘I guess,’ I murmur. That’s another great thing about The Eagle. Since I used to work there, I always get free drinks from my old work mates whenever I go. I should probably just have a quiet night, stay home and consider my options. I even agreed to take on an unpaid freelance job tomorrow for an Instagrammer who’s releasing a cookbook and I’m meant to be at her flat bright and early in the morning to photograph the recipes. But a night out at The Eagle is kind of tempting. It would be fun to just dance and let my hair down, especially after all the job-hunting I’ve been doing over the past few weeks.

‘Come on! We’ll have fun!’ Gabe insists brightly.

‘Okay, fine!’ I relent, reaching for the vodka and Coke.

When I set out to be a photographer, I didn’t think I’d end up photographing turnips, yet here I am, in a swanky kitchen in Chelsea taking what feels like the one-hundred-and-seventy-fifth shot of a turnip resting on a bed of wilted spinach, pomero and chopped dates.

‘Darling!’ Alicia Carter, famous health food Instagrammer, bursts through the doorway carrying another bowl of salad. She places it down on the table. ‘This is one of my favourites. Absolutely delicious!’

‘Great!’ I insist weakly, eyeing the latest salad bowl. I could really do with some toast and a cup of coffee. After a late night at The Eagle, that’s precisely what the doctor ordered – not another bowl of salad to photograph.

‘Can you make sure it’s in sharp focus? Try to capture the colours,’ Alicia advises me.

‘Yep, definitely!’ I insist. ‘Just need five more minutes on this one.’ I glance towards the turnip.

‘No problem! Take your time!’ Alicia says, clapping her hands together before turning on her heel.

She’s preparing the salads in the kitchen next door with all her cool, health-conscious friends. All morning, I’ve been overhearing them discussing the importance of balancing macro and micro nutrients and debating the merits of hot yoga versus hatha. They’re all tanned, athletic and glowing and not one of them has even acknowledged me. I’m clearly not worthy of attention, like the cleaner who’s minding her own business as she dusts and tidies the house. I know it probably shouldn’t bother me, but it does. Manners go a long way, particularly when you’re not even being paid. I agreed to take on this job photographing recipes for Alicia’s new cookbook, because I thought it might open doors. After all, Alicia does have nearly a million followers on Instagram and her cookbook, based solely on raw vegan recipes that aim to help readers ‘rediscover the fruits of the earth and enjoy an invigorating plant-based diet’, is probably going to be huge. But then, as Gabe reminded me this morning, while I lugged my camera, tripod, lights and screens out of the flat, that’s what I said about my last job when I got paid peanuts for taking wedding photos for an actress who promised me she’d put me in touch with all her friends. She didn’t. It was a similar story with the job before that. I keep hoping that one of these jobs is going to kickstart my career, but it doesn’t seem to be working out like that. I’ve just been lumbering from one rubbish job to the next. I peer down my lens at the salad, adjusting the focus until it’s in perfect definition.

Having taken a dozen or so pictures, I scroll through the images on the back of my camera. They’re okay, but there’s still too much shadow on the left-hand side of this goddamn turnip. I adjust the bowl and take five or six more pictures until I get one I like. I examine the picture. The turnip glistens, its purple to beige skin capturing the light, almost glowing. If a turnip could be described as beautiful, then this is one beautiful turnip. I smile, feeling a twinge of professional pride. And then a second later, I kick myself. A swell of pride over taking a good picture of a frigging turnip?! Oh, come on. The day I start revelling in taking pictures of vegetables for pretentious cookbooks is the day I declare my true photography dreams officially over. I always imagined I’d be some cool portrait photographer, taking pictures of singers, artists, filmmakers and intellectuals, the movers and shakers of my generation, not vegetables! I like to get an intimate rapport with my subjects, getting to know them, so that they don’t just look beautiful and striking in shots, but unmasked too. Like when Mario Testino shot Kate Moss or when Sam Shaw shot Marylin Monroe. They don’t just look stunning in the photographs, they look vulnerable, off-guard and real. But here I am, taking intimate off-guard shots of a turnip instead.

‘Polly!’ Alicia bursts back into the room, looking flustered. ‘I’m so sorry, but I completely forgot about the pumpkin seeds.’ She reaches into a bag of seeds she’s holding and scatters some over the salad.

‘Can you take a few more pics? With seeds.’

‘Okay.’

‘Yeah, it’s just this one, the last and about half a dozen more. I’ll bring them back out from the kitchen,’ she says.

‘Half a dozen more?’ I gawp. I don’t think she has any idea how long it took to capture each salad at just the right angle with just the right focus and light. I have almost two hundred pictures on my camera for those half a dozen salads, and now I need to take them all again, with bloody pumpkin seeds?!

‘Is that okay?’ Alicia asks brightly as she scatters a few more seeds over the turnip.

‘Yes, of course!’ I insist, trying hard to conceal my frustration.