Lindsey Kelk - A Girl’s Best Friend

‘I am a real photographer,’ I stated as clear and loud as I could manage, while 7 skittered over to the computer, visibly shaking in his overpriced silver boots. ‘But I’m not going to sit there and let you talk to me like that. It’s horrible.’

‘It’s art,’ Ess repeated, not quite as sure of himself. ‘It’s my style. It’s why the magazine hired me and not you. It’s not like I’m really going to jizz all over your chops, is it? I’m just trying to make you look sexy – although clearly I’m fighting a losing battle on that front.’

‘It doesn’t feel sexy,’ I replied, flushed and upset. ‘It feels horrible. Why can’t 7 stand in for the lights? He’s exactly the same height as me and he’s probably skinnier. He looks more like a model than I do.’

Ess and 7 turned to look at each other and burst out laughing. True, hysterical, body-shaking guffaws.

‘Oh, Jess, he does, you’re right,’ Ess wiped away an actual tear. ‘That is priceless. I didn’t realize you were funny, I just thought you were shit.’

‘Do you think I might be able to set up some of the shots this afternoon?’ I asked. It had to be worth a try. ‘Or shadow you? Rather than, you know, just make the tea?’

The smile on his face evaporated in an instant.

‘Until you’re capable of making a drinkable brew, you’re on tea duty,’ he sniffed. ‘You don’t come within ten feet of my camera until I’ve decided you’re ready. Now go and get the kettle on before the model gets here.’

I wanted to argue. I wanted to tell him he was a complete arsehole who didn’t deserve his job, his assistant or the air that he breathed. But I didn’t. I was broke, I was bunking down with my best mate and I needed the job. So I did what millions of women had done before me: shut my mouth and went to put the kettle on.

Tea soothed all ills. And failing all else, I could always piss in the teapot. That would probably make me feel a bit better.

‘And then he said he was going to jizz …’ I paused for effect while Agent Veronica stared at her laptop. ‘On my face.’

She looked up for a moment, fag hanging out of the corner of her heavily lipsticked mouth, her glasses hiccupping across her nose as she sniffed before turning her attention back to her computer.

‘And?’

‘Well, he can’t say things like that to me!’ I exclaimed before squeezing my eyebrows together with concern. ‘Can he?’

‘He can say whatever he wants as long as people keep hiring him,’ she replied. ‘Can I ask you a question?’

‘Yes,’ I said, dropping my bag on the floor and my arse into a chair. I’d been too incensed to sit until now but her non-reaction had taken the rage right out of me.

‘What the fucking fuck is wrong with you?’

My arms froze in mid-air as I tightened my ponytail.

‘What’s wrong with me ? Seriously?’

‘It’s got to be something,’ Agent Veronica said, stubbing out her cigarette and immediately lighting another. ‘Because I can’t think of a single reason why you’d be in here, complaining to me about working with one of the best fucking photographers in London.’

‘Because he said he wanted me to look at him as though he was going to jizz—’ I started.

‘Yeah, we covered that,’ Agent Veronica cut me off before I could finish. ‘It doesn’t get funnier the more you say it. Actually, it does, but I digress. What are you complaining about?’

I was stunned. In my old job, people were sent to HR for as much as showing an ankle to a chimney sweep and we worked in advertising, an industry that saw itself portrayed as a misogynistic, glass-ceilinged nightmare on Mad Men and thought, nope, that’s not sexist enough.

‘I felt uncomfortable,’ I said, trying not to choke on her cigarette smoke. ‘I didn’t like it.’

‘Oh, I am sorry,’ she replied, pressing her hands to her heart, a look of faux concern on her face. ‘My precious little baby angel! Did that bad man upset you? Did he hurt your feelings?’

I pouted. ‘Yes.’

‘There there.’ She reached across the table and patted me on the head. ‘Now calm down. Did he actually come on your actual face? No, he didn’t.’

‘That doesn’t matter,’ I muttered, beginning to feel stupid. And hungry. Terrible combo. ‘It shouldn’t matter. He shouldn’t be able to say things like that.’

‘No, he shouldn’t but welcome to the world.’ Veronica sat back in her chair, blinking through the fug of smoke around her, and shook her head. ‘Do you want to be a fucking photographer, Tess?’

Six weeks ago, when I left Milan and arrived home, bright and shiny, full of ambition and pasta, I had been fairly certain that I was one. Apparently I had been mistaken.

‘Yes,’ I said hesitantly.

‘Do you want to book actual fucking jobs that pay actual fucking money?’

‘Yes,’ I said quickly. That one I was sure about.

‘Then, I hate to be the one to tell you but there’s worse coming your way than Simon fucking Derrick telling you to get on your knees and make kissy faces at his tiny knob,’ she sighed. ‘You should have told him to whip it out and then pissed yourself laughing.’

‘Simon?’ I asked, the first smile I’d managed all day creeping onto my face. ‘His name is Simon?’

‘What? Did you really fucking well think his Mancunian mother took him down the swimming baths and shouted “What a fucking brilliant backstroke, Ess!”?’ She took a drag and blew it out hard. ‘I’ve had him on the books since he was taking pictures for the Argos catalogue. And they were shite.’

I would have killed to shoot the Argos catalogue.

‘And 7?’ I asked.

‘You mean Colin?’ Agent Veronica grabbed her mouse and began clicking manically. ‘Little shagweed. Went to Eton, daddy owns half the internet. I hate that child.’

‘It’s harder than I thought it was going to be, that’s all,’ I admitted, scratching at a blob of white paint on the knee of my jeans.

‘There’s nothing easy about breaking through as a photographer, Brookes,’ she replied. ‘It takes some people years. Early starts, late finishes, working weekends, hours spent photoshopping some wanker’s sausage fingers so he doesn’t look like the smackhead that he is on the cover of a magazine. And that’s when you get good enough to pick up that sort of job. Have you considered that maybe it’s not for you?’

I felt my mouth fall open and immediately choked on Agent Veronica’s cigarette smoke.

‘It is for me!’ I said, my eyes stinging from the same smoke. The air in her office was so dense with thick white fug, it could have passed for the set of a Bananarama video. ‘It definitely is. I’ll put in the hours, I don’t care about hard work, I’ll do whatever it takes.’

‘And that’s a fandabidozi attitude, Pollyanna, but it doesn’t mean it’s going to happen for you.’ She stubbed out her cigarette and immediately lit another. ‘It might be time to admit that I was a bit bloody ambitious in taking you on. I don’t really work with assistants, Brookes. I’m an agent, not a charity. Do you think I’m at work on a Saturday afternoon for fun?’

‘But I won’t be assisting for long,’ I protested, swiping at my watering eyes, desperate to convince her to let me stay. ‘I’m going to be booking shoots really soon, I promise.’

‘That’s not your decision to make though, is it?’ she grimaced, eyes flickering back and forth over emails I couldn’t see. ‘I’ve had you on the books near enough six months and you’ve booked two jobs for the same person. I can’t babysit you for another six. There are only so many bleeding hours in a bleeding day and, no offence, but I need to concentrate on clients who are bringing in money.’