stretch of the imagination the type of pause that is just taking in a deep lungful of breath so they can scream, ‘WELCOME BACK! WE MISSED YOU SO MUCH!’ down the phone at you.
‘Sophie,’ said the voice, finally, smoothly. I recognised it as Ladushka, a terrifyingly elegant woman who did something unspecified with galleries. ‘What can I do for you?’
I aimed for cheerful perkiness, but it might have come out as strained desperation.
‘Well, I was just calling to tell Jules I’ll be back in to work tomorrow, and I’ll want to chat to him about, you know, my conditions and things . . .’ My voice trailed off. There was another, not very encouraging pause.
‘Sophie, Jules thought you’d left.’
‘I didn’t leave! My father died!’
‘Well, yes, but . . . it’s been weeks, and it was only ever an internship anyway, so . . .’
‘It was my job! You can’t fire me from my job because my father died!’
‘No, Sophie, it was an internship, with a small sum attached . . . I mean, you didn’t think that was a salary, did you?’
It was certainly more of a salary than I was getting now.
‘I was sorry to hear about your father,’ said Ladushka, her voice softening. Which meant I could tell that she knew the battle was over and that she’d made her position quite clear. ‘You must miss him terribly.’
Not so I was going to own up to her.
‘Eh, could I just speak to Jules?’
‘I’m terribly sorry, he’s in Reykjavik shooting girls swimming under the ice for Italian Vogue .’
I’d hit an impasse.
‘No mobile signal up there,’ Ladushka added quickly, just in case I hadn’t finally, irrevocably got the message.
‘I see,’ I said.
And I did see. Easy come, easy go.
I confided in Eck. I had to confide in someone and he was the only person handy.
‘I’ve lost my job,’ I said.
‘Oh no!’ he said. ‘Did they ask you to clean the loos?’
‘What do you do when you lose a job?’ I said, realising I sounded a bit pathetic.
Eck raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, you get another one. Or if you’re desperate you could sign on.’
‘Really? Do people still do that?’ I said, wondering if I put a headscarf on nobody could ever recognise me.
Eck eyed me over his paper and toast.
‘Not very many your age with four working limbs,’ he said.
‘Is that meant to make me feel guilty?’
‘No. Do you feel guilty?’
Just about everything, all the time, I didn’t say. I just sat there.
‘Do you want to look at the jobs in my paper?’
He handed it over. There was quite a lot of jobs on offer for someone with my qualifications, i.e. not much. But they all seemed to involve something called hostessing or exotic dancing.
‘You need to buy a better quality paper,’ I said.
‘It pleases me to think I read the same paper as exotic dancers,’ said Eck. ‘Don’t worry, Sophie. You’ll get a job. You could waitress, or you’re getting quite good at cleaning . . .’
I’d taken to the surfaces of everything with a tin of polish. I’d gone a bit overboard - OK, you could get slightly high walking in the house. And I’d used one of my old pairs of Agent Provocateur pants as a duster. They didn’t fit me any more for some reason.
‘Nope,’ I said, standing up. ‘No more cleaning. I’m a photographer. That’s what I am. That’s what I’ve always wanted to be. I’m dedicated, and I’m going to do it.’
‘Yay! Good for you!’ said Eck, saluting me with his toast. I grinned back at him, then stopped suddenly and hoped I had enough money left for camera film.
The dedicated photographer trudged around every studio in London in the end. That’s OK, flat hunting had made me quite good at trudging, and it gave me something to do during the day, apart from watch out for dropped pound coins on the street. I couldn’t
‘Sophie,’ said the voice, finally, smoothly. I recognised it as Ladushka, a terrifyingly elegant woman who did something unspecified with galleries. ‘What can I do for you?’
I aimed for cheerful perkiness, but it might have come out as strained desperation.
‘Well, I was just calling to tell Jules I’ll be back in to work tomorrow, and I’ll want to chat to him about, you know, my conditions and things . . .’ My voice trailed off. There was another, not very encouraging pause.
‘Sophie, Jules thought you’d left.’
‘I didn’t leave! My father died!’
‘Well, yes, but . . . it’s been weeks, and it was only ever an internship anyway, so . . .’
‘It was my job! You can’t fire me from my job because my father died!’
‘No, Sophie, it was an internship, with a small sum attached . . . I mean, you didn’t think that was a salary, did you?’
It was certainly more of a salary than I was getting now.
‘I was sorry to hear about your father,’ said Ladushka, her voice softening. Which meant I could tell that she knew the battle was over and that she’d made her position quite clear. ‘You must miss him terribly.’
Not so I was going to own up to her.
‘Eh, could I just speak to Jules?’
‘I’m terribly sorry, he’s in Reykjavik shooting girls swimming under the ice for Italian Vogue .’
I’d hit an impasse.
‘No mobile signal up there,’ Ladushka added quickly, just in case I hadn’t finally, irrevocably got the message.
‘I see,’ I said.
And I did see. Easy come, easy go.
I confided in Eck. I had to confide in someone and he was the only person handy.
‘I’ve lost my job,’ I said.
‘Oh no!’ he said. ‘Did they ask you to clean the loos?’
‘What do you do when you lose a job?’ I said, realising I sounded a bit pathetic.
Eck raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, you get another one. Or if you’re desperate you could sign on.’
‘Really? Do people still do that?’ I said, wondering if I put a headscarf on nobody could ever recognise me.
Eck eyed me over his paper and toast.
‘Not very many your age with four working limbs,’ he said.
‘Is that meant to make me feel guilty?’
‘No. Do you feel guilty?’
Just about everything, all the time, I didn’t say. I just sat there.
‘Do you want to look at the jobs in my paper?’
He handed it over. There was quite a lot of jobs on offer for someone with my qualifications, i.e. not much. But they all seemed to involve something called hostessing or exotic dancing.
‘You need to buy a better quality paper,’ I said.
‘It pleases me to think I read the same paper as exotic dancers,’ said Eck. ‘Don’t worry, Sophie. You’ll get a job. You could waitress, or you’re getting quite good at cleaning . . .’
I’d taken to the surfaces of everything with a tin of polish. I’d gone a bit overboard - OK, you could get slightly high walking in the house. And I’d used one of my old pairs of Agent Provocateur pants as a duster. They didn’t fit me any more for some reason.
‘Nope,’ I said, standing up. ‘No more cleaning. I’m a photographer. That’s what I am. That’s what I’ve always wanted to be. I’m dedicated, and I’m going to do it.’
‘Yay! Good for you!’ said Eck, saluting me with his toast. I grinned back at him, then stopped suddenly and hoped I had enough money left for camera film.
The dedicated photographer trudged around every studio in London in the end. That’s OK, flat hunting had made me quite good at trudging, and it gave me something to do during the day, apart from watch out for dropped pound coins on the street. I couldn’t
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