Lindsey Kelk - A Girl’s Best Friend

‘But I will,’ I said again. ‘I just need time.’

‘News-fucking-flash.’ Veronica spoke in between intense inhalations. ‘No one knows who you are, no one’s worked with you, no one gives two shits. I know it’s nearly Christmas but it’d be a bigger miracle than the virgin sodding birth for me to get you another job like the one you blagged at Gloss .’

I opened my mouth to speak but she cut me off with a stab of her cigarette.

‘And you’ve got a dubious reputation at best, depending on who you ask.’

A dubious reputation? I was clean as a whistle. I’d won the attendance prize in school every single year, apart from that one time when Amy made us bunk off to meet Justin Timberlake but that was hardly my fault. If I hadn’t gone, she would have been arrested. Instead of just being cautioned.

‘Word gets around in this industry,’ Agent Veronica said, seeing the confusion on my face. ‘And your cuntychops former flatmate has made it her business to make sure everyone has heard her side of the story.’

Oh, bollocks. Vanessa. Honestly, you steal someone’s job, their identity and let your best friend punch them in the tit once and you never hear the end of it.

‘That said, I like you, Brookes.’

She had a funny way of showing it.

‘I’d hate to see the way you talk to someone you didn’t like,’ I said behind a cough. ‘But thank you.’

‘You’ve got balls and I respect that,’ she went on, ignoring me as usual. Agent Veronica only really listened when you were saying something she wanted to hear. ‘But you’ve got to get used to throwing those fucking balls around a bit. Do you understand me?’

‘You want me to throw my balls around?’

‘You’re not going to get anywhere mincing around and fucking well sulking in corners.’ She pointed at me with her cigarette, causing a mini flurry of ash to fall into her keyboard. ‘And you’re not going to get anywhere crying to me about some arsehole asking you to polish his knob.’

‘That’s not going to be a regular occurrence, is it?’ I asked, genuinely at a loss. I came from a world where you worked hard and you got ahead. Or at least, I thought I did. It turned out I’d been very naïve. ‘I mean, tell me what to do and I’ll do it.’

‘That’s more like it.’ She sucked her second cigarette into nothing, grinding it out in her ashtray with what I supposed passed for a smile. ‘I want you to go home, put your big boy trousers on and go back on set tomorrow and kick Simon Derrick’s arse. That doesn’t mean you have to take his shit: that means you stand up for yourself and be amazing. Yes?’

‘What else can I do?’ I asked, trying to change the subject before she knocked me out with a single punch. ‘I’ll do anything, really, I’m not afraid of hard work.’

‘How about you take some fucking photos?’ she suggested. ‘Cocking revolutionary idea, I know. I can’t carry you much longer, Brookes, not when you’re not booking jobs. I don’t have the time to spend pulling assisting gigs that pay a pittance out of my wonderful arse.’

‘I’ll give that a try then,’ I said, grabbing my bag from the floor. It didn’t seem like the time to mention that she still took 15 per cent of that pittance. ‘Thanks for the advice, I won’t let you down.’

Before I could open the door, a tennis ball thwacked the wall, right next to my head. Bending down slowly, my heart in my mouth, I turned around to see Agent Veronica staring at me.

‘You dropped this?’ I picked up the ball and held it in the air, heart pounding.

She clapped for me to chuck it back. With a feeble underhand throw, I tossed it across the office, missing Veronica by a good two feet and knocking a massive stack of invoices off the desk.

‘I’m not really a thrower,’ I explained as they fluttered to the floor.

‘Do your research.’ She spoke to me without acknowledging the piles and piles of paper all over her floor. ‘Never have that camera out of your hands, shoot everyone and everything and make the most of every opportunity that comes your way. If you want this, you’re going to have to fight for it. It’s not going to be handed to you on a plate.’

‘I can fight,’ I replied, clenching my hands into fists. ‘I want this. I really want this.’

‘If you don’t book something in the next month, I’m going to have to drop you and then you’ll see how hard this really is. I want to see those balls, Brookes,’ she barked. ‘Show everyone who you are. You’re not Tess the shitty, sad office girl any more, you’re Tess Brookes, photographer, and a photographer should have something to say, should have a message. Show me what that is, who you are. Got it?’

‘Got it,’ I confirmed as I closed the door behind me. ‘Swing my balls around and show everyone who I am.’

It sounded easy. Only … I wasn’t entirely sure who I was any more.

‘And then Veronica said she was going to drop me if I didn’t start booking jobs,’ I said, shovelling salt and vinegar Pringles into my mouth by the handful. Damn Tesco and their seasonal three-for-two offers. Damn the woman on the checkout who asked if I was going to a party. There was absolutely nothing wrong with a twenty-seven-year-old woman eating two tubs of Pringles for dinner and saving one for dessert.

‘No way!’ Amy bellowed, the speakers on my laptop crackling with outrage during our daily Skype call. ‘She did not? She can’t do that, can she? She can’t fire you?’

‘She can,’ I replied, exhausted, glancing down at all the pieces of paper and empty Pringle tubs around me. ‘And she might. Looking at it from a business perspective, she probably should. She’s investing a lot of time in me and I’m not bringing much money in. My ROI is terrible and—’

Amy clapped her hands together and I snapped back to the camera.

‘Tess, please tell me you haven’t worked out the return on investment on yourself.’

‘No,’ I replied, slowly pushing my pad and calculator out of view of the webcam. ‘Of course not.’

‘She can’t drop you, you’re just starting out,’ she said, glancing away at her phone for a second. ‘You’re hardly going to be David Bailey overnight, are you? It’s not fair.’

‘It’s not about fair,’ I told her. ‘It’s about what’s best for business. Also, there’s a small chance I did think I would be David Bailey overnight. I suppose things don’t work out like that though, do they? I just don’t want her to give up on me.’

‘I don’t want you to give up on you,’ Amy corrected. ‘It’s a minor setback, that’s all. You’re killing it. You’re better than David Bailey. Fitter than him anyway … although I don’t think I’ve actually ever seen one of his photos. Or a photo of him. Is he fit?’

‘I appreciate that but it would be a massive setback,’ I said. ‘I haven’t got a clue what I’m doing, I wouldn’t even know where to start.’

But I was trying. The bed was covered in magazines and newspapers, every publication I could get my hands on lay open on top of the duvet, the name of every art director, picture desk and photo editor in London highlighted with neon-yellow marker pen. I was down but I was not out. Not yet.

‘You’ll work it out,’ Amy replied, her attention drifting. ‘You always do.’

‘Is everything all right? Do you need to go?’ I asked as she frowned at her phone again. ‘It’s OK if you do.’

‘Sorry.’ She threw her phone backwards onto the bed behind her and I winced as it bounced twice and then hit the floor. ‘I am listening, I’ve just got loads of emails coming in. This presentation is going to kill me.’