Lindsey Kelk - A Girl’s Best Friend

‘You know work parties are never that much fun,’ she argued. I zoomed in on her face and clicked as her pale cheeks flushed. ‘There are always a lot of events at this time of year and none of them entertaining. And the weather’s been awful. And there’s nothing on TV. And, you know, stuff.’

I hadn’t known Paige nearly as long as I’d known Amy but it didn’t matter. She was a terrible liar.

‘Paige Sullivan.’ I narrowed my brown eyes and zeroed in on her green ones. ‘Why are you babbling? What aren’t you telling me?’

‘Nothing, there’s nothing,’ she scoffed, her face glowing more brightly than Rudolph’s red nose. And since there was a twenty-five-foot illuminated version of everyone’s favourite reindeer right behind her, it wasn’t a difficult comparison to make. ‘Like, what are you even talking about?’

‘Oh, no way!’

Delighted, I clapped and immediately lost my balance, the skates sliding underneath me. I threw my arms to steady myself as she tried to cover up a quiet laugh.

‘There is something! Spill, immediately. You have to tell me, I’m brilliant at keeping secrets.’

‘You can’t even keep your own secrets,’ Paige pointed out. ‘Why on earth would I tell you anything?’

‘Fine, I’ll guess.’ I stared until I had her locked in uncomfortable eye contact. ‘New job?’

‘No, no and there’s nothing. I’m not keeping any secrets,’ she protested, looking anywhere but at me. ‘You know, you didn’t have to wear skates to go on the ice. You could have worn your trainers.’

‘Where’s the fun in that?’ I asked. ‘Oh my God, are you pregnant?’

‘Christ no!’ she yelped. ‘At least, I hope not.’

And then it was obvious. She was calmer than usual. She had only complained about her terrible luck with men once all night and she was wearing flats. Paige Sullivan. Art Director at Belle magazine. Out on a Friday night. In London. In flat shoes.

‘Oh!’ I threw my hands in the air, knocking myself off balance and landing on my arse with a hard bump. ‘You’ve got a boyfriend!’

At first she didn’t say anything, she just sat there, concentrating on her mittens and shaking her head, while smiling. ‘I haven’t,’ she said eventually. ‘I haven’t, Tess, honestly.’

‘You’re a filthy liar,’ I replied in a strangled voice, waiting for my breath to come back. Ow ow ow . Broken coccyx for Christmas, brilliant. Maybe, if I was really lucky, I could spend Kekipi’s wedding sitting on an inflatable doughnut. ‘And lies make Baby Jesus cry. Do you want to make Baby Jesus cry this close to his birthday?’

‘I don’t have a boyfriend,’ she insisted, pulling out the hair tie in the end of her plait and looking up to meet my eyes. I took this to mean the photoshoot was over. ‘God’s honest truth. I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘Fine,’ I said, crawling over to the edge of the ice and taking her hand as she helped me up, my camera swinging wildly around my neck. ‘I won’t ask any more questions. I’ll just assume you’re secretly boning some wonderful man’s brains out on the sly and when you’re ready to talk to me about it, you will.’

I stared at her for a moment, holding her eyes before she looked away. She looked sad. Which made me sad. Which I did not care for.

‘Or I could have him killed?’ I offered. ‘The mood I’m in, I’d be very happy to do it.’

She considered it for a moment then shook her head. ‘We can let him live for now. I’m all right, Tess, I promise.’

‘Well, of course you are,’ I said as we flopped down on the bench next to the ice. I sucked up a sharp breath as my bruised bum bones hit the cold, hard stone. ‘That goes without saying; you’re amazing. Whatever’s going on, you know you can talk to me about it though, don’t you? Absolutely no judgement.’

‘I know,’ she nodded. ‘You’re a good friend. It’s all right though, there’s nothing to talk about.’

It couldn’t have been clearer that that was not the case. I wondered what it could be. Did they work together? Was he famous? Was he married?

‘What about you?’ Paige fingered a delicate gold chain around her neck and gave me a nudge. ‘You still haven’t—’

‘No.’ I cut her off before she could ask. If she didn’t want to answer my question, I certainly didn’t want to answer hers. ‘I haven’t.’

‘And he hasn’t?’

‘No.’ I shook my head firmly and turned on the screen on the back of my camera, flicking through the fruits of our photoshoot.

‘Tess,’ Paige said, pushing my camera down onto my lap. ‘Don’t you think it might be worth giving him a call? It’s been months.’

‘Nope,’ I replied swiftly. ‘For now, I think it’s best I pretend it never happened.’

‘If only it were that easy,’ she agreed. ‘Why hasn’t someone invented a pill for that yet?’

‘Because there aren’t enough women scientists yet,’ I replied. ‘The ones we do have are busy trying to cure terrible diseases while all the men scientists work on inventing vibrating razors with five blades. We’ll get there eventually.’

‘I hope it’s sooner rather than later,’ she said. ‘It’s only two months until fashion week in New York and I’ve got outfits to think about. All this man drama is taking up altogether too much brain space.’

‘Priorities,’ I agreed, resting my head on her shoulder and watching the Zamboni buzz quietly around the ice in a graceful figure of eight. ‘And that’s another reason why I haven’t called him. I can only deal with one massive brain drain at a time. At least it’s nearly Christmas.’

‘I’m thinking about getting really fat and then juicing for all of January,’ Paige said.

‘I’m definitely in for the first bit,’ I said, pulling Amy’s T-shirt down over my belly. ‘Might give the second bit a miss.’

‘Me too,’ she admitted. ‘Kale makes me retch. Maybe I shouldn’t plan on porking out this close to fashion week.’

‘Or you could always quit your job,’ I suggested, patting her knee while she shrugged, considering her options. ‘Let’s go and get a proper drink before my fingers fall off.’

‘Now you’re talking,’ said my model as she hopped off the bench and helped me untie my ice skates. ‘First round’s on me.’

Seriously, one of the best human beings I had ever met.

‘Jess, can you lift that reflector up, please?’

‘It’s Tess,’ I said, stretching my arms higher above my head, wobbling as I went. My arse was still killing me from the coccyx incident the night before and I did not feel steady on my feet in the slightest. ‘My name is Tess, actually. Sorry.’

Celebrated celebrity photographer extraordinaire Ess – no last name – took a moment to throw me a filthy look, then went back to staring at nothing through his viewfinder. I couldn’t really complain, it was the first time he’d looked me in the eye all day, having been far more interested in my tits ever since I’d arrived on set at 6 a.m.

I had been so excited when my agent got me the job with Ess. It was a real opportunity, she said. I’d learn so much, she said. So far, I’d made four cups of tea that hadn’t been drunk, been out on two coffee runs in the pouring rain and contorted myself into more uncomfortable positions than the average yoga instructor, all while holding an arm-breakingly huge reflector. And that was just today. The closest I had been to a camera all week was when Ess accidentally hit me in the arse with his while I was underneath a desk, plugging in the MacBook. This was not the hands-on training I’d been hoping for.