rely on the boys sharing their fish and chips forever.
I wished my portfolio were bigger. God, after Daddy put in my own dark room and everything. That made me feel all squirmy and guilty. I took a lot of shots en route though; of a sudden piece of beauty amongst the graffiti, and rubbish on the bypass; a wildly optimistic daffodil pushing up through concrete, or a grubby child, eyes wide, pointing at a fire engine.
The West End had nothing for me. They had photography assistants up to their eyeballs, which coincidentally was where the legs of those photography assistants came up to too. East London wasn’t much help either. So finally I ended up even further south from where I started out; down the bottom of the endless Old Kent Road, in New Cross. I’d just taken the address from Yellow Pages .
In the end it was less a studio, more a big garage that someone had knocked a large north-facing window into. Inside, one corner had big, red velvet drapes pinned up. The rest was the usual photographer’s mess of empty coffee cups and cabling, as well as a large selection of slightly dubious-looking clothing. Suddenly I wasn’t sure about this at all. It looked definitely a bit on the seedy side.
‘Hello!’ yelled a voice from behind the curtain.
‘Hello,’ I said, trotting out my spiel. ‘I’m looking for a job? I’ve been working with Julius Mandinski, and I’m looking for a bigger challenge.’
A burly figure stepped out from behind the curtain.
‘Oh yeah?’
It was Julius.
‘Julius!’ I said. He looked at me, and I could tell he was trying to remember my name.
‘It’s Sophie, remember? Your assistant? I thought you were in Reykjavik.’
‘Uh, yeah,’ said Julius. He looked a hundred per cent not very happy to see me. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘Well, what are you doing here?’
Suddenly I heard a squawk from the door behind me.
‘Well, I’m not going to be big sister, right, so you might as well just get over yourself, Kelly.’
‘I would do,’ came a voice that sounded like it possessed extremely long fingernails, ‘if you weren’t looking like such a hideous old bag. Maybe we could be, like mother and daughter, yeah?’
‘Oh Christ,’ said Julius, looking worried and glancing at his watch. Two little minxes pushed open the door. Neither of them could have been taller than five foot two. Both had really cheap blonde synthetic hair extensions down their backs, obvious fake logoed bags (I recognised them but would never have bought them) and very pale lipgloss. They could easily have been sisters.
‘Hello, Grace. Hello, Kelly,’ said Julius. I glanced at them in disbelief. He knew these girls? The only girls he ever worked with were over six foot and under six stone.
‘JULIUS!’ they both started up at once. ‘I’m not going to be the big sister.’
‘She’s an old trout,’ said Grace, whose eyebrows were possibly more arched than Kelly’s, though it was a close run thing. ‘One, she’s twenty-one anyway, two, she’s had too much sunbed, and three, all the kids have dragged her tits down to the ground anyway.’
‘They have not!’ said Kelly, affronted, ‘And I’m smaller! I should be little sister!’
I looked at Julius and he shot a look at me.
‘I don’t understand,’ I said.
Julius rolled his eyes. ‘You trust-fund honeys never do. There’s no money in fashion photography, darling. The fees are so low it hardly covers the models’ waxing bills. This is what pays for the flash pad.’ He waved his hand at the lowly studio. ‘Bit o’ glamour, bit o’ catalogue.’
He turned away from me. My mouth dropped open.
‘Now, can we just get the tops off, girls, and get started?’ he said.
‘No,’ said Grace. ‘Not till she confesses that she looks older than me.’
‘No way,’ said Kelly. ‘Bitch.’
‘Now, come on, girls.
I wished my portfolio were bigger. God, after Daddy put in my own dark room and everything. That made me feel all squirmy and guilty. I took a lot of shots en route though; of a sudden piece of beauty amongst the graffiti, and rubbish on the bypass; a wildly optimistic daffodil pushing up through concrete, or a grubby child, eyes wide, pointing at a fire engine.
The West End had nothing for me. They had photography assistants up to their eyeballs, which coincidentally was where the legs of those photography assistants came up to too. East London wasn’t much help either. So finally I ended up even further south from where I started out; down the bottom of the endless Old Kent Road, in New Cross. I’d just taken the address from Yellow Pages .
In the end it was less a studio, more a big garage that someone had knocked a large north-facing window into. Inside, one corner had big, red velvet drapes pinned up. The rest was the usual photographer’s mess of empty coffee cups and cabling, as well as a large selection of slightly dubious-looking clothing. Suddenly I wasn’t sure about this at all. It looked definitely a bit on the seedy side.
‘Hello!’ yelled a voice from behind the curtain.
‘Hello,’ I said, trotting out my spiel. ‘I’m looking for a job? I’ve been working with Julius Mandinski, and I’m looking for a bigger challenge.’
A burly figure stepped out from behind the curtain.
‘Oh yeah?’
It was Julius.
‘Julius!’ I said. He looked at me, and I could tell he was trying to remember my name.
‘It’s Sophie, remember? Your assistant? I thought you were in Reykjavik.’
‘Uh, yeah,’ said Julius. He looked a hundred per cent not very happy to see me. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘Well, what are you doing here?’
Suddenly I heard a squawk from the door behind me.
‘Well, I’m not going to be big sister, right, so you might as well just get over yourself, Kelly.’
‘I would do,’ came a voice that sounded like it possessed extremely long fingernails, ‘if you weren’t looking like such a hideous old bag. Maybe we could be, like mother and daughter, yeah?’
‘Oh Christ,’ said Julius, looking worried and glancing at his watch. Two little minxes pushed open the door. Neither of them could have been taller than five foot two. Both had really cheap blonde synthetic hair extensions down their backs, obvious fake logoed bags (I recognised them but would never have bought them) and very pale lipgloss. They could easily have been sisters.
‘Hello, Grace. Hello, Kelly,’ said Julius. I glanced at them in disbelief. He knew these girls? The only girls he ever worked with were over six foot and under six stone.
‘JULIUS!’ they both started up at once. ‘I’m not going to be the big sister.’
‘She’s an old trout,’ said Grace, whose eyebrows were possibly more arched than Kelly’s, though it was a close run thing. ‘One, she’s twenty-one anyway, two, she’s had too much sunbed, and three, all the kids have dragged her tits down to the ground anyway.’
‘They have not!’ said Kelly, affronted, ‘And I’m smaller! I should be little sister!’
I looked at Julius and he shot a look at me.
‘I don’t understand,’ I said.
Julius rolled his eyes. ‘You trust-fund honeys never do. There’s no money in fashion photography, darling. The fees are so low it hardly covers the models’ waxing bills. This is what pays for the flash pad.’ He waved his hand at the lowly studio. ‘Bit o’ glamour, bit o’ catalogue.’
He turned away from me. My mouth dropped open.
‘Now, can we just get the tops off, girls, and get started?’ he said.
‘No,’ said Grace. ‘Not till she confesses that she looks older than me.’
‘No way,’ said Kelly. ‘Bitch.’
‘Now, come on, girls.
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