Spitting Feathers

‘We’ll contact a few of our best,’ the other man assured him, with a smile that was midway between charm and smarm.

‘It’s real important that we get along,’ Taylor Wiseman replied in the husky tones that added greatly to his small screen appeal. ‘We’ll be working together closely on this project, so I’m going to have to like the guy, as well as his ideas.’

The other man nodded sympathetically. ‘If I shortlist a few then you can meet them and make your decision.’

‘I’ll wait to hear from you,’ Taylor said, and turned to leave. At which point I moved sideways and blocked his path past the desk.

‘Mr Wiseman,’ I said, thrusting my hand out. I was wearing faded jeans and a good-quality tweed hacking jacket that I’d bought in a charity shop a few years ago. Not exactly how I’d choose to be dressed when meeting a celebrity, especially with my wayward hair and lack of any cosmetic enhancements, but I didn’t have a chance to think about all that. ‘Delighted to meet you.’

I’d taken this unusually bold step with Sophie’s words writ large in my mind. She was forever advising me to ‘get out there and network’, and although I had no real idea what was going on my hunger for work told me there might just be an opportunity here.

‘Likewise,’ he said in his friendly all-American way. I could see his teeth now, which looked even more perfect in real life than they did on the small screen. Their whiteness was exaggerated by his lightly tanned skin and his brown eyes were smiling at me. ‘And you are?’

‘Tao Tandy,’ I replied. ‘Food photographer extraordinare…’ I added with a cheeky wink and a grin, remembering what Sophie had said about my good bluffing skills.

By now the man with whom the meeting had just taken place was at Taylor’s side, an expression of surprised concern on his face. He was quite a pleasant-looking man, with thinning hair and pudgy plasticine features; in his mid-forties, I’d say. He plainly didn’t know me from the Boston Strangler, but I snatched the advantage.

‘I joined the agency a couple of weeks ago,’ I explained to them both, ‘and I thought it was time I introduced myself.’

I glanced at Amber behind her desk and saw that her face was frozen in impotent fury. ‘Amber here was helpfully arranging an appointment for me to meet someone,’ I added with a slight smile in her direction.

‘Jerry Marlin,’ the man said as he extended his hand warmly to me. I recognised the name as that of the agency’s top dog, and gave him flash of my own excellent teeth. They might not be as white as Taylor’s but I pride myself on their neatness.

‘You’re the prizewinner from Manchester, aren’t you?’ he added, and I nodded my head modestly.

‘Well, that’s great,’ Jerry said. ‘I’ve been wanting to meet you as well. Only we don’t seem to have a contact number.’

‘That’s strange,’ I said, glancing towards the reception desk. ‘I left it with Amber a fortnight ago.’

‘It was unfortunately mislaid,’ Amber said quickly, when Jerry looked at her questioningly.

He glanced at his watch. ‘Damn,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a lunch appointment in ten minutes, but I could meet up with you later.’

I was about to agree when I remembered my instructions from Mrs Audesley and offered him a little grimace of regret. ‘I’m afraid I have to be somewhere at three,’ I said, thinking now that it wouldn’t do any harm to appear a little less desperate than I actually felt. ‘But I could come back tomorrow.’

Jerry looked at Amber again, and she sniffed as she looked in the diary. ‘You have a window between ten and ten-thirty in the morning,’ she said glacially.

‘Ten it is, then,’ Jerry said, and with a final appraising glance at me and a sly wink in Taylor’s direction he took his leave of us.

‘And what are you doing for lunch?’ Taylor said when the two of us were left alone—apart from Amber, that is, whose eyes were boring a hole into the side of my face.

‘Missing it, I’m afraid. Making up for a bit of over-indulgence last night.’

He raised one of his thick dark eyebrows curiously, so that it seemed to form an unspoken question mark. ‘How about a coffee, then? There’s a place not far from here that does a great cappuccino.’

‘With cinnamon topping?’

‘You bet.’ He smiled captivatingly.

I slid a look at Amber as I hoisted my bag higher on my shoulder and fell into step with one of TV’s hottest properties. ‘See you tomorrow,’ I said, but failed to get so much as a grunt by way of response.

Things had happened quickly for Taylor since he’d arrived in London, I learnt. He’d been spotted by a TV producer almost straight away, and offered a show there and then. It had been an immediate hit, but clearly took everyone by surprise because no one had thought of a spin-off book to go with the series. So a big glossy had been planned this time, and was due to be launched with series two of the show.

‘Trouble is,’ he said, ‘most of the illustrations are stills from the show, and I just think it needs something else to make it different. Some additional shots to set it apart from the usual stuff. Which is why I went to the agency.’

I could feel my heart beginning to pound as the words BIG BREAK burst into my mind. ‘I might have some ideas,’ I said, without thinking first. He looked at me with interest and I tried not to panic. ‘Maybe we could meet again to discuss them,’ I said, because I didn’t actually have any ideas at that particular moment.

I felt a bit stupid when he didn’t respond directly—when he completely changed the subject, in fact. ‘So,’ he said, when we were half way through cappuccino number one, ‘what kind of food do you like yourself?’

Slightly deflated, but not yet defeated, I lowered my eyes a little as we sat opposite one another in a two-seater booth near the café’s counter. The place looked new—not one of the chains of coffee shops that seemed to be on almost every street corner now, but an independent, run by what I took to be South Americans. I was trying to decide whether to lie and say Mediterranean, which covered a multitude and which, along with Pan Australasian, seemed to be what everyone seemed to be into these days. Or just be honest. I went for the honest option in the end, because by now, having already provided a quick rundown of my credentials, I was beginning to suffer from bluffing fatigue.

‘Being from the north,’ I began, ‘I have a particular partiality to anything which contains a lot of cholesterol—suet, pastry and chips being at the top of my list.’

He grinned uncertainly, not sure if I was serious or not. ‘But how come you manage to keep such a neat little figure?’ he said when he finally accepted I was telling the truth. His lovely dark eyes were constantly smiling, and from him it felt like a genuine compliment.

‘Long periods of abstinence between binges,’ I said, warming to him all the more. I explained why I wouldn’t be having lunch that day, and he seemed quite taken with my description of Felix’s place.

‘I’ve got some photos of it,’ I told him. ‘It’s got a great atmosphere—like something from a different time.’

‘I’d like to see them,’ he said, and I asked him when…

Which was how we came to make the arrangement for me to go to his restaurant the following day. And if he liked what he saw, he casually told me, he might well consider using me on his book. I was naturally cock-a-hoop about this, but since I hadn’t yet seen the results of my efforts I wasn’t exactly counting my chickens. It didn’t stop me indulging in a mental shopping binge, however, not to mention a few choice imaginings about being up close and personal with a popular TV chef. I’d be the envy of housewives everywhere.

I was a third of the way through the second delicious cinnamon-topped cappuccino when the conversation became a little more intimate. I was telling him about the problems I’d been having with certain females lately—no actual names mentioned—and he said it might have something to do with what he called my ‘refreshing openness’.

‘That’s not a euphemism for crass insensitivity, is it?’ I queried wryly, and then related the tale of Miss Chilli-Pepper.

‘Sounds like good advice to me,’ Taylor said with a shrug. ‘Anyway,’ he added after a moment’s thought, ‘why do you mind so much if people don’t like you?’

‘I don’t know, but I do,’ I said, surprised at my answer. I did know, really—but, nice as he was, I didn’t think it was time to tell Taylor the sad story of my early life.

‘Well, I like you,’ he declared, and the creases around his eyes deepened.

I felt my face colour slightly, and steered the focus back to him. It was obvious that things had worked out well for him professionally since he’d arrived in the city, so I threw in a few subtle questions about his social life.

‘I haven’t really had time for much relaxation,’ he said. ‘Sure, I know people, but there isn’t anyone—well, you know…special.’

I found myself frowning as it struck me as odd that a man who was lusted after by thousands of women didn’t have a girlfriend. Of course he could be gay, I supposed briefly, but it wasn’t the signal he was giving out. I couldn’t state with any certainty that he’d been flirting with me, that he was attracted in the fancying sense, but I did get the impression he was quite looking forward to meeting up with me again, and I couldn’t help but be flattered.

It was getting on for two o’clock when I took my leave, having reluctantly declined a third cup of coffee. Which was just as well, really, because three large cups of full-fat milk would have been getting on for the equivalent of another chip butty, and that would have meant forgoing yet another meal if I was to stand any chance of hanging on to my ‘neat little figure’. The reflection of which kept catching my eye in the windows of shops as I practically skipped down the road back to the tube station.

I was still on a high when I stepped off the train at Hampstead—still feeling hopeful about the future despite the uncomfortable proviso that I still had a few hurdles yet to overcome. I’d picked up the developed photographs on my way to the station, but I hadn’t dared look at them yet for fear of spoiling my excellent state of mind. A lot was now riding on the shots having turned out well, and I was anxious to delay any disappointments. However, having arrived at my destination early, and with half an hour’s heel-kicking time on my hands, temptation got the better of me.

Miss Chilli-Pepper had been nice enough, now that we’d got over our small misunderstanding, but for some reason dark thoughts had crept into my head. I began to imagine that I’d detected a hint of smirk on her face as I picked up the package, which I now felt certain had been directed at the quality of my work. I tried to adopt a What-does-a-would-be-model-know? sort of stance, but I didn’t have the confidence to sustain it, and eventually, at the end of the street where Mrs Audesley lived, I decided to put an end to all the suspense.

There was quite a strong breeze going on, but it was warmish and fine, so taking out the pictures seemed safe enough as I perched on a low brick garden wall and delved into my bag. I was starting to have serious doubts now, because without any special lighting I’d resorted to flash, and that can look a little bit amateurish. Still, I tried assuring myself as I lifted the flap of the first envelope, if all else failed I still had my famous watermelon pic to fall back on.

I took a deep breath and slid out the prints, and the photo on top cheered me a bit. It was of a plate of bacon and egg, set on one of the Formica tables and with one of Felix’s customers, knife and fork eagerly poised, grinning toothlessly at the camera. It wasn’t a great photograph, but it was good. Encouraged, I thumbed through the rest and my heartbeat gradually slowed to its regular pace. The market shots weren’t bad either, especially the ones of the French cheeses, which a genuine Frenchman brought over from France every week.

‘Brick Lane market,’ somebody said in my ear, and I jumped so much the photos nearly shot out of my hand. I looked up to see a youngish man leaning on the gatepost next to me. He wasn’t bad-looking, with rich brown, longish hair and a cute smile, but he had a damn nerve looking over my shoulder, so I gave him my best haughty expression.

‘Not bad,’ he said now. ‘Are you a professional?’

This warmed me slightly to him, I suppose—but, flattered or not, I still wasn’t about to engage in cheery banter with a rather scruffy, ill-mannered stranger. He was wearing old jeans with mud on the knees, and a red and white striped rugby-type shirt that was clean enough but raggy and frayed at the edges. I slipped the photos back in their envelopes and glanced at my watch. It was five to three. Time to be off. I stood up and to my surprise, but not yet alarm, the stranger fell into step beside me.

‘We seem to be going in the same direction,’ he said nonchalantly.

‘Not for long, I trust.’

‘You’re from the North, aren’t you?’ he said, not put off by my disdainful tone for a moment. ‘Me too. From Black-pool, originally, but I’ve been living down here for a few years now.’

I recognised the familiar accent now, and I almost dropped my guard for a moment—until he spoilt it with his next words.

‘I take it you’re new in town.’

I didn’t like him pointing out that it was so obvious, and since he was now following me down the path to Mrs Audesley’s house I was getting a bit nervous at his persistence.

‘I don’t think that’s any of your business,’ I said, and then I stopped and looked at him sharply. ‘Look, if this is how people do their pick-ups round here, forget it. I’ve come here for an important appointment and I’d like you leave now.’

‘Can’t do that, I’m afraid,’ he said with a shrug of his admittedly broad shoulders. ‘And, no, this isn’t the way that we “do our pick-ups”, as you so charmingly put it. It’s got the same name here as it has in the North. It’s called being friendly.’

But I was still stuck on the first bit of what he’d said. ‘What do you mean, you can’t leave?’

‘I can’t leave because I too have an important appointment with Mrs Audesley,’ he answered lightly.

I was so busy feeling defensive and foolish at the way he put so much emphasis on the word ‘important’, as if he was making fun of me, that my confusion didn’t kick in for a moment. Then, when he spoke again, it hit me big time.

‘And I also happen to live here.’

I felt a bit queasy then, as I glanced over the railing to the gardener’s flat in the basement.

‘Oh,’ I said, trying to make amends with a silly smile as the penny dropped, ‘you must be the gardener, then.’ He wasn’t what I’d imagined at all. I’d being expecting an elderly retainer type, with a cap and dentures.

He looked amused at my discomfort. ‘And I guessed who you were when I saw you sitting on the wall.’ He glanced at his wristwatch. ‘It’s precisely three o’clock,’ he added coolly now, ‘and our Mrs Audesley sets great store by punctuality.’

4

‘Ah,’ Mrs Audesley declared when she opened the door, ‘so the two of you have already met. Excellent.’

In fact we hadn’t actually got as far as exchanging names, but she’d referred to him as Chris the day before, and I assumed she’d mentioned my name to him. I was feeling uncomfortable because of our small misunderstanding, and it wasn’t helped by the ease Chris and his employer obviously felt in one another’s company. I also noted that Mrs A didn’t seem to mind in the least about his untidy appearance.

‘How are the travel plans going?’ he asked casually as we followed the lady of the house into the opulent sitting room.

‘Not bad,’ she replied. ‘Marcus has arranged most things. It’s just a matter of packing, really, though one needs so much for so many weeks away from home,’ she added with a wistful sigh. She indicated that we should take a seat and then turned her attention on me. ‘I’ve checked your references and everything seems to be in order.’

I nodded demurely and waited for her to continue. Chris had taken the seat next to me on the sofa and Mrs A remained on her feet, just as she had the day before. She was wearing an expensive-looking ensemble in beige today, with a single row of no doubt real pearls around her well-pre-served neck. I’d taken to looking at women’s necks of late. The last time I saw my mother I’d noticed that hers was looking rather scraggy, a bit turkeyfied, and if I took after her—as I already feared I might in the genes department—that was presumably another undesirable physical feature I had to look forward to in about twenty-five years.

‘I’m making a list of dos and don’ts regarding Sir Galahad,’ Mrs A went on, ‘which I’ll have ready for you on Saturday afternoon.’

‘Is that when you’re leaving?’ Chris wanted to know.

‘Yes. A taxi will be arriving for me at four p.m., by which time I trust that Tao will be settled in.’

‘I thought I’d get here around midday,’ I said. ‘If that’s okay with you.’

I didn’t hear Mrs A’s reply because at that moment an almighty squawk let rip from the adjoining room. Knowing looks were exchanged between the two other people in the room with me, and while I looked on blankly Chris got up.

‘Come on, old feller,’ I heard him say as he opened the door and went inside. When he reappeared Sir Galahad was perched importantly on his shoulder. Until he saw me, that is, at which point he squawked again, flapped his wings, and took off in my direction. He landed safely on the top of my head and immediately enquired whether I’d like ‘one lump or two.’

‘We haven’t even poured out the tea yet,’ said Chris, who was now standing next to a side table on which was arranged a formal looking tray of tea things. ‘Shall I pour, Adrienne?’ he asked his employer, and I was struck again by his easy familiarity with the dowager duchess, and the fact that he used her first name.

Mrs A nodded and finally sat in a chair at right angles to me.

‘He’s been very excited at the prospect of seeing you again,’ she told me, which seemed a little bit far-fetched, but I didn’t think it would be wise to say so.

‘That screech was his welcome cry when he heard you speak,’ Chris chimed in. ‘I used to get it, but he takes me for granted these days.’

He brought tea over for Mrs Audesley and me, served in fine bone china cups—with saucers, of course—and placed them between us on a wine table. Meanwhile, Sir Galahad was gently plucking my hair, and purring like a contented cat. I reached up and ruffled his throat feathers a little, and he announced in the fondest of terms that my mother was sired by a German shepherd.

‘Sir Galahad!’ Mrs Audesley bellowed severely, and the bird instantly flopped down onto my shoulder. He extended his head round to my face and tut-tutted at me, as if I was the one with the foul mouth.

‘I’m sorry about that, Tao,’ his owner said, ‘but I think I warned you that his language can be a little spicy at times. I think he does it for attention now. You’re a naughty little show-off,’ she said, wagging her finger at the bird indulgently.

‘Adrienne blames her wayward nephew,’ Chris said as he took his place next to me again. ‘But I’ve heard him say things that couldn’t possibly have come from Jerome.’ He looked accusingly in Mrs Audesley’s direction, and she gave in with the tiniest hint of a grin.

‘My husband was a little deaf, and I’m afraid I used to say things under my breath which Sir Galahad later repeated.’

‘Silly old fart!’ Sir Galahad piped in, as if he understood what she was saying all too well and was obliging us with a small demonstration.

Mrs Audesley chuckled fondly at this, and then glanced at the portrait of her husband. ‘He was a lot older than I was, and I’m afraid he could be very difficult at times. I was tempted to poison his pink gin on several occasions,’ she said lightly, ‘but I released my emotions with the occasional whispered insult.’

Just then the bird started making a noise that sounded as if he was imitating someone being strangled, and I glanced at Mrs Audesley questioningly. She was looking at the bird with surprise, as if this was a new one on her as well. I turned to Chris, and as he mirrored her expression the noise suddenly changed to a cough and I felt something land on my lap. A small ball of I wasn’t sure what. I picked it up and examined it more closely. It looked like a tightly compressed orb of seeds and vegetable matter, and a quick sniff confirmed my suspicions. The strange object had come from within the bird. Luckily I am not particularly squeamish, so I held it up to the bird and thanked him for the presentation.

At which point Mrs Audesley let out a sigh. ‘If there was any doubt about his affection for you,’ she began mysteriously, ‘then there is no longer.’

Still none the wiser, I frowned at Chris.

‘I should be offended,’ he said wryly. ‘It’s a regurgitation. They only do it for those that they love, and I’m afraid he’s never done it for me.’

‘That’s because you’re a man,’ Mrs Audesley said soothingly. ‘It’s clearly something he saves for the women in his life—although until now it’s only been me.’ She glanced at me sadly, but without resentment. ‘And I have to admit he hasn’t performed for me in quite a long time.’

The bird appeared to be listening intently, and whether or not he understood—and I was sure, of course, that he couldn’t—he lifted his wings and took off towards his mistress where, on the top of her perfectly coiffured head, he announced, ‘Here is the shipping forecast,’ in a perfectly enunciated BBC accent.

‘It’s no good trying to sweet-talk me now,’ his mistress said in feigned hurt tones, but she ruffled his feathers just the same. She might have looked faintly ridiculous, with a bird on her head like some bizarrely plumed hat, but somehow she got away with it. She looked over at me then.

‘Well, at least I won’t have to worry that my old friend will be pining while I’m away, I suppose.’

‘And I promise to take very good care of him,’ I said, because I thought that was what she wanted to hear and also because that was exactly what I intended to do. Apart from anything else, I was flattered that the bird liked me so much, and it’s hard not to like someone back when they make their feelings so clear. Not that he was exactly a ‘someone’, being a parrot and everything, but the way he spoke so well, and at times in just the right context, it was easy to fool yourself that he was really a miniature human in parrot costume. Quite spooky, really.

‘Amen!’ Sir Galahad said, and his mistress managed a chuckle.

When we’d finished tea, Mrs A suggested that Chris show me around the garden—which, I presume, was her way of providing an opportunity for us to get better acquainted. For obvious reasons it was important to her that we got along, and I didn’t at this stage see why we shouldn’t, despite our bad start. And it was obvious that Mrs A thought a lot of him, especially since she allowed him to live in part of her house.

‘How long have you been working for Mrs Audesley?’ I asked as we strolled slowly along the path which led from the terrace at the back of the house. The layout of the garden was fairly traditional. It was long and narrow, but broken up with areas of shrubs and beds crammed with old-fashioned flowers. I didn’t know much about gardens, but I could see that this one was very well kept.

‘Four years,’ he said. ‘Although I’ve only been in the flat for just over a year.’

It occurred to me that, although he was lucky to live somewhere as nice as this, he couldn’t earn very much. And neither would a garden this size take up the whole of his time, I wouldn’t have thought. ‘So, do you look after other gardens as well as this one?’ I asked him chattily.

He nodded absently as he took a penknife out of the back pocket of his jeans and deftly dead-headed a pale pink rose that was past its best. I don’t think he was really listening to me.

‘And what do you do for entertainment round here?’ I pressed on regardless.

He shrugged. ‘This and that, though I’m not really one for going out much. I work most evenings during summer.’ He moved ahead of me and began slicing the stems of some blowsy red flowers that I didn’t know the name of.