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‘FaceTime?’
‘In real person! How long are you here for when you get back? You’re not going to tell me you’re zooming off straight away again?’ Rachel runs out of steam and sounds breathless. Giddy with excitement, as my mum would say.
‘No, I won’t be zooming anywhere!’ I laugh a bit self-consciously. I might, or might not, have mentioned to my mate (well, all my mates, and most of my family, and everybody I know on Facebook) that I am about to jet off on an important business trip to New York. I couldn’t help myself, it’s the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me.
‘Promise? We can meet up as soon as you’re home?’
‘Promise.’ I won’t be going anywhere, apart from work, for quite some time. My credit card is totally maxed out because I’ve been on a massive spending spree.
For a moment I forget about my lap full of kittens, and I even forget about Andy.
I’ve been buying clothes for the trip. Talk about excited, I’ve never been to New York before, I’ve never set foot in any part of the U. S. of A. This is the trip of a lifetime, well worth a new outfit or six. ‘We can meet up the moment I get back.’
‘So, you’re back on the 25th? Can you make the 26th? Or will you have jet lag?’
‘I’ll be fine, the 26th is great.’
‘Brilliant! I need to see you, Jane! How about we meet me at that new Jax Bar in town at 7 p.m.?’
I’ve known Rachel for years, since we bonded over a stolen ciggie (yes, I packed them in years ago) behind the bike sheds at high school after we’d both found out we hadn’t got tickets to see the Spice Girls.
We were in different school years, but right then it didn’t matter.
I was eleven, coming up twelve, and Rach had already hit that milestone. And back then she seemed way, way older than me. She was an August birthday, just into the second year of big school but one of the youngest, and I was a September birthday, one of the oldest in my year but still trying to find my feet. A newbie to the scary, big world of high school. But that day we gelled.
I had a sneaking suspicion that my Dad hadn’t actually tried very hard at all to get the damned things. It was probably his idea of hell being surrounded by screaming teenyboppers leaping around as bubbly Emma Bunton and Scary Spice strutted their stuff round a Christmas tree (although thinking back, maybe not). But, anyhow, I’d found out over toast and marmalade that I had lost possibly my last ever chance to see some real Girl Power live and I was in a strop.
So was Rachel.
It was a defining moment, our own small act of Girl Power defiance, as we wagged Wednesday afternoon PE and stomped on the weed-ridden tarmac, punching the air and yelling ‘Tell me what you want, what you really, really want’ at the top of our voices. I reckon we got a far better work out than we would have done with Ms Stainton and a wooden horse in the freezing gym.
We were mates after that. In school she had her gang, and I had mine, but we’d walk home together, hang out at weekends and as we got older the fact that we were in different school years mattered less and less. By the time I walked out of those school gates for the last time, we were inseparable. Joined at the hip, as Mum laughingly said.
After school we were closer than ever for a while, but then she started spending more and more time with her boyfriend Michael, and I made the decision to move further south with Andy when he got offered a better job. Then I took on a job that involved loads of travel and unsociable hours, so we saw less and less of each other, even though we’d gas on the phone for hours sometimes. It’s not like we’re miles from each other, but life can kind of get in the way, can’t it? But Rach is always the person I tell first about anything. Well, anything major, my flatmate Freddie often finds out the minor stuff first these days, because he’s there. In situ. As in, on our shared couch.
I told Rach I was engaged before I’d even told my mum. She helped me pick my dress, the flowers, the bridesmaids, even my undies. Then she was the person who put me back together again when it all went wrong.
She took a week off work and camped out in the flat. Then she left strict instructions for Freddie and made sure she rang me every single day when she went back home.
‘Oh, come on Rach! What’s so big you can’t tell me over the phone?’ I shake my head and can’t help but smile.
‘I’ll tell you when I see you, it’s a surprise! I know I shouldn’t have mentioned it now, but I couldn’t help it. Now, are you all ready for the trip?’ This shows how excited she is – Rachel is a very considerate, caring person. Asking about my trip would normally have been her top priority.
‘Nearly! I’ve just got to do this one shot and then I’ve got two days off before we go.’
‘Wow, the mighty Coral has given you time off?’ She giggles, and I join in. The hours I put into this job (and the crap I put up with) are ridiculous, but I see it as an investment. This is my apprenticeship. One day, I won’t be the un-credited photographer for a glossy Instagrammer, I’ll be taking the photos I want, my way. But for now, as my only qualification is a GCSE in Art and I can’t afford to take time out and do a course, this is my way in. Along with my role as unofficial pet photographer for the local animal rescue centre. I’m working on that one though. Pet Portrait-er might not have the same ring to it as Photographer to the Stars, but I reckon it’s a good second string to my bow. There will always be dogs, right? And it has to be easier than taking pics of babies. Or cats.
‘She has, we’ve got a backlog of photos to post over the next few days, then the next ones will be in New York!’
Rachel squeals. ‘Ooh, I’m so excited for you! You’re my jet-setting friend, I tell everybody they’re your photos and not hers.’
‘I was lucky to get this chance.’
‘Bollocks to you being the lucky one!’
I was though. Serendipity don’t they call it? It was one of those one in a thousand things when I’d bumped into Coral on Millennium Bridge. Literally. Well, I was trying to take a photo and she nudged me with her bony elbows so hard I would have toppled in if Health and Safety precautions hadn’t been in place.
We had a bit of a stand-off, mobile phones at the ready. Me wrapping one leg round a rail so she couldn’t dislodge me from the prime spot.
Normally I’m an easy-going kind of person, and if she’d have asked nicely I’d have budged over, but it was her attitude that made me bristle.
She told me who she was, expecting me to recognise her name (I didn’t), then showed me her Instagram feed which was full of pretty boring photos. Then I saw her stats. She had tens of thousands of followers. Tens of thousands. Most of them under age for at least some kind of legal activity. I don’t think I’m her demographic, but I ask you, how had she got so many followers? I had more like ten.
Turns out Coral was a blogger, big time. She had sponsorship, bucket loads of free stuff sent to her every week, and a devoted following.
We compared the shots we’d just taken and before I knew it I had a job taking the pictures for her Instagram feed. Sadly, my role as photographer had also morphed into PA and general dogsbody, as she was a bit of a madam and had nobody else to boss around. And sometimes I find it hard to say no.
Now don’t get me wrong, I love my job. I’m doing what I’ve always wanted to do. And before I met Coral I’d been on the verge of taking a part-time admin job with the company Andy worked for, just to help boost my income until I started to build a reputation. He’d never been that interested in my career to be honest and saw taking photos as my little hobby and had done his best to persuade me to turn it into just that. And he had the killer reasoning that we did, after all, have to save up for our wedding. So why couldn’t I do a proper job for a bit?
So it felt like fate meeting Coral that day. It had stopped me putting a hold on my dreams and spending my days filing and photocopying. Andy wasn’t keen at all, but, I mean, if I’d taken that role he’d wanted me too, I’d really be in a mess now. No way could I have faced up to him every single day. I’d have been far too tempted to feed him into the shredder or slip something nasty into the water cooler and accidentally kill everybody in the company.
But I need this job more than ever now. I don’t want Andy to be proved right, that it’s just a hobby. Because it isn’t. This is my apprenticeship, and one day the time will be right to strike out on my own. But right now, it’s my security blanket.
Without Coral, I wouldn’t be able to pay my rent, and I’d lose my flat, and Freddie, and everything.
I love Freddie my flatmate. Not in a lustful way – the shag-a-thon way would completely wreck everything, and I could never in a million years do that to us. He’s the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time.
A man who I don’t need to shave my legs or comb my hair for. Though I do of course. I just don’t always have the time or inclination to de-fuzz bits of me that nobody is going to see. And after a burger it is just so hard to hold my stomach in and think sexy. It’s actually a relief to be living with somebody and not have to think about all that.
So that’s me in a nutshell. Wannabe photographer, average weight, slightly above average height, red hair, green eyes, no five-year plan, slightly forgetful, verging on sluttery, one flatmate called Freddie, half of a very small flat.
‘She was lucky to get you!’
‘Oh, I do love you, Rach.’
‘Love you back.’ I can hear the smile in her voice. ‘I’ll see you on the 26
then?’
‘You will! Can’t wait to hear your news.’
‘Hey, Jane? Keep one of those kittens! That ginger one, it is so you.’
‘I can’t, I’m away too much. I’m off to New York!’
‘Get it when you get back, ask Lora to keep it.’
‘But I’m …’
‘Freddie will feed it when you’re not there! You know he will, he’d do anything for you. See you soon,’ I can hear her blowing kisses. ‘Keep it!’
I put my mobile down, and stare at my lapful of purr-i-ness, they’re rumbling so much my legs are vibrating. How on earth can she say that a kitten is so ‘me’?
It has its tiny pink tongue stuck out between its lips and its toes are twitching.
I know for a fact I don’t do that.
Chapter 3 (#ulink_bac0a620-9f08-5d33-9079-a7ab0a44472a)
‘Hi, honey, I’m home!’ A waft of air from the front door, and the clunk of a heavy bag being dropped sends the kittens scattering in all directions.
Freddie is standing in the doorway, his big trademark grin on his face. He even uses it when cold callers and religious types knock on the door. It makes their day.
I’m not his honey, it’s a joke. We’re flatmates, but we’re like an old married couple without the married bit. Or the old.
He’s all lanky and loose-limbed, like a Great Dane puppy. But with the floppy fringe of a cocker spaniel. I don’t normally liken people to dogs, honest, but it works with Freddie.
Kitten number 1 has emerged from under the couch and is staring up at him, with a look of wonder on its little face. It’s cute, okay, I admit it. Very cute. Big eyed, button-nosed cute.
‘Oh my God, cuteness overload.’
See? ‘You sound so soppy.’ I look at all the ginger and white hairs on my black leggings. I so shouldn’t even consider keeping one.
‘I don’t care.’ He’s down on his hands and knees making baby noises, and the kitten is onto him in an instant. Literally. Marching over with a slightly sideways swagger like it thinks it’s a real big cat, with its spiky tail stuck in the air. All mixed up attitude and neediness in one small package.
Freddie scoops it up and rolls over on his back and I swear I see the tiny creature fall in love. The other two kittens emerge from their hiding places wondering what they’re missing out on, then scramble up onto his chest and join in the purr-a-thon. ‘Aren’t you the handsomest guy in the world?’ Ginger purrs louder, then opens its little pink mouth in a soundless miaow. ‘Aww, baby.’ Freddie props himself up on his elbow and looks at me, head tilted slightly on one side. ‘This mean you’re ready for love again?’ He winks.
‘Oh, God, don’t you start! They are kittens, right?’
‘Right on,’ he holds one up in the air, ‘definitely kittens.’
‘I need help, Freddie.’
‘Don’t I know it.’ He raises an eyebrow and chuckles. ‘Though that is the first step to recovery, admitting—’
‘Sod off.’ I can’t help but grin back and nudge him in the ribs with my foot. ‘They’re a photoshoot not a therapy session.’
‘Shush. Don’t call them that.’ He covers the kitten’s ears with his hands. ‘Kitties have feelings too you know.’
I ignore him. ‘And they won’t stay still. Why won’t kittens just sit?’
‘You’re confusing them with dogs, and men.’
‘I need to get a decent shot, and I need to get a photo of that flaming apple on a white plate with lipstick before Coral rings.’ He raises an eyebrow. ‘Don’t ask.’
‘Well, how about,’ he pulls himself up, so he’s got his back resting against the couch, ‘it just sits on my knee? I could hold it sneakily to make sure it doesn’t move. You know put a finger on its tail, out of sight? Like this?’ He demonstrates, and the kitten rolls over in indignation, wraps its whole body round his finger, kicks like crazy and bites him. I hope that this isn’t what Rachel means by the ‘so you’ bit.
‘Ooh, you’re a little tough nut, aren’t you?’ He tickles its tummy and it flops back, all languid and blissful. Feet in the air, and I’m a tiny bit jealous. ‘Aww, so gorgeous, are we keeping them?’
‘No, we’re not! I’m taking photo’s for Coral’s Instagram page, and said I’d do a few for promo for the rescue centre.’
‘We should rescue one! A house is not a home …’
‘Well, you can clean the litter tray!’
‘Really?’
I groan. ‘You’re being serious, aren’t you? You want a kitten! Gawd, you’re as bad as Rach.’
‘Maybe.’ He tickles the kitten under its chin, and the purring starts up again. ‘Look, the perfect picture.’
‘Cute, but your finger is in the way, and I’m not sure the ripped jeans make the perfect backdrop.’
Freddie’s jeans are not ripped in a designer way, they’re ripped in a ‘we’ve been through a lot together and I can’t bear to part with them and they’re very comfy’ way.
It’s not Coral’s way. Coral doesn’t do comfy. Coral would sue me if I posted anything resembling un-touched-up reality on her Insta feed.
And I’m not convinced it will help with re-homing the kittens.
‘I could put a blanket on my knee?’ He pulls the throw off the sofa.
‘It’s a bit up and down, they’re only tiny. You can’t see its legs now.’
‘We could put a board underneath?’ He improvises with a magazine. ‘Mag, blanket, kitten. Ta-dah!’ He throws his hands out and the kitten slides off his knee, faceplants between his ankles then rolls over and attacks his leg. ‘Maybe not.’
I have to laugh. See what I mean about him being the best thing? What boyfriend would go to that kind of trouble? I’d be a total fool to ever think about him in any way other than just a mate, despite him being ever so slightly sexy when he pads through the place in the morning; bare-chested, with bare feet and his hair all tousled.
And makes me coffee.
Then goes away without a word.
No conversation required.
He is priceless.
I bumped into Freddie a few days after my world imploded, and he more or less saved my life.
There I was, at an all time low, my life all but over (I’d got a bit melodramatic, which I think I was entitled to). I’d been dumped mid hen-party, had a horribly demanding boss who just then was doing my head in, and had nowhere to live. Even though I love my mum, living with your happily married parents when you’ve just hit thirty, and it looks like you’re going to be a spinster for ever, and you’ve just woken up to the fact that there’s more chance of your eggs getting hard-boiled then producing babies, is not a recipe for happiness. One more day and one of us would have cracked. Nastily.
So, I’d strolled confidently into an estate agents’ office. All naïve and excited about my new life as a single independent woman earning a wage.
Okay, I wasn’t excited, I was exhausted from crying, full of self-doubt and needing to find a cave to hole up in. But I was naïve. That bit is true.
‘I’m looking for a flat to rent. Something like that.’ I’d said to the guy by the desk, pointing at what I thought was an unassuming but nice apartment.
‘Nice, isn’t it?’
‘It is.’ He wasn’t being very helpful. ‘Very. How, er, much are they charging?’
