Spitting Feathers

Jerry smiled and produced several sheets of paper, as if by magic. I certainly didn’t see where they came from. He put them down on my leather folder and asked me to read it in my own time and, when it was signed, drop it off at Reception.

‘It’s a contract,’ he explained when I didn’t respond. ‘You’ve been booked for two weeks by Featherweight Productions, the company behind the book. Though you won’t be working flat out during that time, of course. It will be a matter of fitting in the shoots when Taylor Wiseman is available.’

I nodded stupidly, unable to open my mouth.

‘Basic agency rates will apply,’ he went on brightly. ‘But if you do a good job we might be able to upgrade you next time. There’s a buzz out already on this book. Big pre-orders in place. And if the show is taken up in the States you could well make a real name for yourself.’

The daze I was in deepened when I glanced at the fee. Basic rates or not, it was more than I’d ever imagined I would earn on my very first job. It just seemed too good to be true, only I couldn’t say what I was thinking, now, could I? It would only make him suspect I didn’t think I was worth what I was being offered. I was tempted to sign there and then, before he had time to change his mind, but I did what was expected of me, and with a great deal of effort I unzipped my folder and slipped the contract into it.

He looked at his wristwatch then, and let out a sigh. ‘I know we scheduled in half an hour,’ he said regretfully, ‘but something’s come up and I’m going to have to cut our meeting short, unfortunately.’

But I was relieved. I was beginning to feel distinctly unreal, and the quicker I got out of there the quicker I could pinch myself to make sure this was actually happening. So up I got up quickly, full of smiles now as I retrieved my portfolio. He got up too, and walked me to the door of his office. He held out his hand and this time I shook it firmly.

‘I’ve got the feeling this is just the start of a long and successful association, Tao,’ he said, and I must have been coming round a little now, because I found myself wishing he’d said it on the other side of the door, so that Amber could hear.

The Tulip, the restaurant where Taylor worked, was only a five-minute walk from the office, so I strolled around the old flower hall for a while, in order to kill some time. I didn’t take much notice of the shops and the stalls, but I paused for a while on the balcony, to listen to a young man playing a classical piece on a violin. Quite a crowd had gathered and for one crazy moment I was tempted to make a public announcement about my new job.

Fortunately I managed to resist the temptation and I arrived at the restaurant at precisely the appointed time. It turned out to be one of those swanky places with a bay tree on either side of the entrance, and I would normally have found it intimidating. But not today, not in my state, which by then was bordering on euphoric. It wasn’t due to open till twelve-thirty, and I had to ring on the outside bell and wait to be admitted.

A short and pleasant-looking young man eventually opened the door, and looked as if he was expecting me. Which was a relief, because despite all the excitement my concerns about it all being too easy had begun to haunt me. What if it was just some horrible practical joke? What if, at this very moment, Taylor Wiseman was splitting his sides as he laughed down the phone at my expense with Jerry Marlin?

My paranoia receded when the young man informed me that ‘Chef weel be weeth you soon,’ in a thick French accent. He was wearing black trousers and an open-neck white shirt at the moment, but I presumed he’d be adding a tie soon enough, and possibly one of those tablecloth aprons that waiters in smart and pretentious restaurants are often given to wear. I followed him into the dining room, which was simple and chic. A lot of white linen and pictures of, well…tulips—one the few garden flowers that I did recognise. They were the sort that you find in early bound books on botany, set off nicely in old gold frames. There were also fresh yellow tulips in an enormous glass vase on a Georgian-style mahogany sideboard, and all in all it was a lot more cosy and comfortable than I’d somehow expected it to be.

I was shown to a table at the back of the dining room and refused the waiter’s offer of coffee. I was already buzzing so much on adrenaline that caffeine would have had me climbing walls.

A few moments later Taylor appeared, dressed in the pristine kitchen whites that he wore on TV. I smiled as he sat down opposite me.

‘Shouldn’t they be all splattered in food by now?’ I said.

He looked down at his double-breasted jacket and grinned. ‘They will be later, I promise you. I’m the hands-on kind of chef, but we do everything to order.’ He looked at me for a moment without speaking. ‘Has Jerry told you?’

I hesitated briefly. ‘You do know this will be my first professional job ever, don’t you?’

‘Of course I do.’ He shrugged. ‘Like you know that this is my first cookery book ever. We’ve all got to start somewhere. Now,’ he said in a brisker tone, ‘down to business, I suppose. You said you might have some ideas…’

Ah, yes. So I had. And I’d been racking my brains ever since the words had slipped out. To not much avail. Or at least not until I was wandering around the old flower hall, imagining how it used to be before it became a tourist attraction. My imaginings were mixed with a scene from My Fair Lady, with Audrey Hepburn as Eliza Doolittle in all her new finery. The one where she goes back to the market to see the people who had once been her friends before Mr Higgins changed her so much she didn’t fit in any more. One thing had led to another in my head, and finally met up with something that Jerry had said about Taylor’s show.

‘Jerry said you were hoping the show would be taken up in the US,’ I said.

He nodded, but didn’t speak.

‘Well, I was thinking that it might be nice to take some shots of you in parts of London that tourists—American or British—wouldn’t normally see. With the sort of people they probably don’t know exist. Real places, real people.’

He still didn’t speak, and his eyes drifted off to a blank bit of wall on his left. It was impossible to guess what he was thinking, but he was clearly mulling something over. I opened my mouth to speak again, but he must have sensed it and he raised his hand as if to politely shut me up. Then, finally, when I was beginning to think my idea must be rubbish, he turned his eyes back on me.

‘I love it!’ he said. ‘It’s brilliant.’

‘I’ll show you the sort of thing I mean,’ I said, trying not to seem too excited as I unzipped my portfolio and took out the recently developed prints of Brick Lane market, and of Felix’s Place. I passed them to him and he nodded his head with enthusiasm as he flicked quickly through them.

‘They’re great,’ he said. ‘Just great.’ He looked over at me. ‘Can I borrow these? I’d like to show them to my producer, help sell the idea to her.’

‘So you need to get her approval?’ I said cautiously, remembering what Amber had said about Mary Deacon.

He shrugged again. ‘I guess so. She is my boss…’ He paused for a moment and I had the feeling that he wasn’t telling me something. I wondered if it had anything to do with the fact that he’d taken me on. Maybe his boss hadn’t liked the idea very much and had insisted he consult her about anything else to do with me. ‘But I just know that she’ll love it,’ he added more confidently. He took hold of my hand suddenly across the table, as if he was going to shake it, but just held it instead. ‘If we do get the go-ahead, when do you want to make a start?’

‘That’s up to you and your boss,’ I answered, more coolly now. He’d told me there was no one special in his life at the moment, and if he really did have something going with his producer then that made him a liar. Someone not to be trusted. But, then again, so long as it was only in personal matters it should not affect me, I assured myself. Which made me feel better.

He nodded and let go of my hand. ‘Let me have a contact number and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.’

I took a pen out of my bag and looked vaguely around me for something to write on.

‘Here,’ he said, offering me his arm, ‘put it on there.’

‘On your sleeve?’

He smiled. ‘Sure, and don’t worry—I won’t lose it.’

So I wrote my mobile number on his jacket sleeve, and in doing so had to rest my other hand on his to gain some purchase. And I got a strange tingle in my fingers as a direct result. I think he might have been aware of the effect this bodily contact was having on me because he grinned when I went red and snatched my hand away from his. Then he got up and spoke as if nothing had happened.

‘It’s a pity we’re fully booked for lunch, or I’d ask you to stay and sample the menu. We don’t have any pies on today, but I think you’d enjoy it just the same.’

‘Another time, maybe,’ I said with a forced smile, still a bit shaky as I got up from the table. I wasn’t remotely disappointed. I probably wouldn’t have stayed if there had been a free table, because I just wanted to get out of there now and get some air.

I made a few calls when I got back to the flat, and left my parents till last. I’d already called five or six friends, three of whom had been on the photography course with me. In their case I tried not to sound too smug, especially when I learnt they were still out of work, but on the whole I think they were encouraged. If Tao Tandy could do it then surely they could as well…

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