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 26th 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.
‘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
