as I was neither of these people, something had to give.
I ran a quick search through Google for second-hand designer shops. Although it was painful, I wasn’t naïve enough to ignore the fact that having a roof over my head would be far greater than any memories I was still holding onto. A small shop popped up in Islington with a purple catchphrase written in violet across the website: ‘One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.’ I shook my head in disbelief.
Twenty minutes later, I exited the tube, my hands clutching a plastic bin liner full of possessions like a prisoner on his last day serving time. A small bell rang out as I walked through the rickety shop door. The smallest woman I had ever seen, with a halo of orange hair, pulled a curtain back from behind the till.
‘Hello, darling,’ she said. She reminded me of my grandma.
‘Hello,’ I replied. By now the bag was weighing heavily in my arms and the decision to actually sell off our history was weighing heavily in my heart too.
She took several minute steps over to me. ‘What’s that you have there, sweetheart? Are you looking to sell?’
I nodded and placed the plastic bag on the counter. Without a minute to spare, she had ripped it open with frail fingers that were stronger than they looked and tipped the contents over the glass worktop, meticulously sorting through them with an experienced hand.
‘Time to get rid?’ she said, fingering the stitching.
‘Something like that.’
‘From a certain gentleman?’
I nodded again, exhaling.
‘Well they’re good stuff: real quality pieces.’
‘So how much do you think?’ I said, focusing on the reason I was here. The facts. The financials.
‘Well, I can give you £500 for the Chanel, £350 apiece for the Fendis and £300 for the Marc Jacobs.’
I looked down at the bags and took a deep breath.
‘How does that sound?’ she said.
‘Sounds great,’ I replied, knowing it would cover one and a half month’s rent and a few weeks’ worth of food if I ate like a borrower.
As she counted out £1,500 in cash I began to peruse the shop.
‘This place is really lovely,’ I said, running my fingers through the silk scarves hanging down.
‘We opened in 1981. Can you believe that? I bet you weren’t even born!’ she said, stuffing the large wad of cash into an envelope.
‘My name’s Jess,’ I said, not knowing why I felt the need to introduce myself.
‘Rita,’ she smiled.
‘You know,’ I continued, ‘those bags, they were a gift from someone – I feel a bit guilty selling them. I just don’t have a choice. I’ve gotten myself into a bit of a rut financially and these are all I own of any real value. Sad really, isn’t it.’
I ran my fingers over the worn leather.
‘This is literally all I was worth to him.’
She smiled. She could see my face turn red as I fought to hide my embarrassment.
‘You just did what you have to do,’ she said, simply. ‘There’ll be others…’
‘Bags or men?’ I asked, my lips creeping into a smile.
‘Both,’ she said handing me the envelope.
I pulled the rickety door behind me and gave her a short wave through the window. I looked down at the envelope poking through my bag. Unless I was willing to sell every possession I owned, it was the motivation to find a money-paying job.
I lay down on the living-room carpet, my legs stretched out behind me, surrounded by lists of all the magazines that I had sent my photography portfolio to. I decided to take matters into my own hands and try to speak to somebody about a possible placement. I could feel the butterflies of nerves in my stomach as the tone rang out. I sat there, crossed-legged, picturing the office I was calling. Picturing the person who may answer the phone. After four, possibly five rings, a stern-sounding lady picked up.
‘You’re through to Redsky magazine, how may I help you?’
‘Hi, I was wondering if you could put me through to your creative director, Laura. I sent through a portfolio of photographs for her perusal and I was wondering if it had been received?’
‘Is she expecting your call?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘Then I’m afraid I can’t put that call through. Can I help you with anything else today?’
‘No…’
‘Thank you, have a lovely day. Goodbye.’
It was a ten-second phone call then the line went dead. I drew a red line through Redsky magazine. I moved on to the next one.
After several awkward exchanges with receptionists, operators and refusals to connect I had reached the last name on my list. A warm sensation rose in my stomach and I knew that it was time to take a different approach. I dialled the final number.
‘Good afternoon, Inside Style magazine.’
‘Hello, I was wondering if I could be put through to Matt, your creative director? I sent through a portfolio for his perusal and I was wondering if it had been received?’
‘Is he expecting your call?’
‘Yes,’ I lied.
‘One moment, please…’
I could hear the line connecting, as I waited with bated breath to see if my tactic had worked.
‘Matt Baker.’ His voice was low and serious.
‘Hi, Matt, it’s Jess here. I sent through a portfolio for you to have a look at. I’m interested in a photography position and just wanted to check if you’d received it?’
‘Hi, Jess. You know it’s not exactly ideal to ring someone up in the middle of the day, unannounced.’
I nodded silently. ‘I know,’ I said out loud. ‘I’m sorry, it’s just…’
‘Listen, give me two seconds,’ he said, cutting me off. ‘I’m searching my emails, what was your full name?’
‘Jessica,’ I said, quickly, making sure as not to waste any more of his time. ‘Wood.’
‘Here we are. Okay, I’m looking at your CV… hmmmm… okay… to be honest, you have very little experience for a full-time position. I mean, you haven’t even taken a degree course at this level.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘I studied law and then…’
