an innuendo.’ Gabe chuckles.
I roll my eyes, recalling the cringe-worthy incident in question. It may have been years ago, but I’m still mortified by the memory. A few days after Gabe and I first moved into our flat, this really attractive guy started talking to me in the hallway. When he asked if I needed anyone to ‘service my pipes’, I thought he was just being really flirty and forward. I didn’t realise that he was literally a plumber. It was only when we were in the flat and I was offering him a glass of wine, and he pulled out a toolbox from his bag that I realised that he really did want to service my pipes. I tried to style it out and ended up with a $150 bill for pipe servicing. Literal pipe servicing, that is. The incident was so embarrassing that two years later, I still scan the hallway every day before I leave the flat just to check he’s not there.
Gabe giggles at the memory as he begins applying winged eyeliner.
‘Okay, I think we’ve established that dating chat isn’t quite my forte,’ I admit. ‘But for your information, I’m pretty sure I got the job, so there!’
‘Seriously?’ Gabe scoffs.
‘Yeah!’ I tell him about the way Derek responded to me in the interview while Gabe perfects his eyeliner flicks. ‘Honestly, I think the job’s in the bag!’
I expect Gabe to be happy for me, but he seems a bit off. He screws his eyeliner closed and places it back in his make-up bag. ‘Don’t you think the job’s a bit…’ He pauses, searching for the right word. ‘Wrong?’
‘Wrong?’ I echo.
‘Yeah.’ Gabe shrugs as he rummages in his make-up bag again, before pulling out a lipstick. ‘Don’t you think it’s a bit messed up? To message women pretending to be someone else? What if they start to like your banter? What if they like cheeky emojis or being called Delia instead of Diana?!’ Gabe jokes.
‘Ha! I don’t think it’s a big deal. It’s just messaging, right? Everyone seems different over messages to how they are in real life. They probably won’t even notice.’
‘I don’t know,’ Gabe muses as he pulls off the lid of his chosen lipstick – a bright pink shade he used to wear all the time called Back to the Fuchsia. ‘I think I might feel a bit cheated if I’d been talking to someone for a while and it turned out they’d just hired someone to write their messages.’
‘Well, it’s not like I’m going to message them about their deepest darkest secrets, I’m just setting up a date,’ I insist.
‘I suppose,’ Gabe reasons as he applies the lipstick, but I can tell he’s not on board.
‘Look, I need the money,’ I remind him. Gabe knows better than anyone how much I’ve been struggling lately. I’ve been living off horrible ready meals and barely going out thanks to the crummy pay of my intermittent freelance photography jobs. I even had to borrow a hundred dollars from him to cover last month’s rent.
‘I guess,’ Gabe says. ‘But can’t you get a different job? Like a normal office job. Admin or something?’
‘Admin?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You need qualifications for those jobs. Or experience,’ I point out. I’ve seen ads for admin jobs online and even the dullest-sounding positions still require a degree, a secretarial qualification or relevant experience.
‘Hmm… you have qualifications though,’ Gabe says, a little hesitantly.
‘I have a photography degree, Gabe. They don’t want arts degrees. Trust me, I applied to a few and heard nothing,’ I tell him. After all, it’s not like getting a job as a matchmaker for To the Moon & Back was my first choice of role.
‘Well, it just seems a bit morally dubious, that’s all.’ Gabe perfects his pout, before popping the lipstick back into his make-up bag.
‘Well, no job is perfect, is it?’
‘I suppose.’ Gabe sighs. ‘So are you going to take the job then?’
‘I don’t know.’ I shrug. ‘I haven’t officially been offered it yet. But I probably would take it. It’s not like I have any other options right now.’
‘Hmm…’ Gabe murmurs. ‘Well, why don’t you come out tonight? Have a night out, let your hair down, and then sleep on it. You might feel totally differently in the morning.’
It’s clear that Gabe really doesn’t want me to take the job. He isn’t a fan of online dating. He met his boyfriend Adam in the coffee shop near his office. He’s all about real life over online. Perhaps it’s because one of his friends got catfished once; he sent the guy nudes and then found them on some creepy website.
‘I shouldn’t… I don’t have any money,’ I say.
‘Come on.’ Gabe shoots me a look. ‘You know you’re going to get free drinks at The Eagle.’
‘I guess,’ I murmur. That’s another great thing about The Eagle. Since I used to work there, I always get free drinks from my old work mates whenever I go. I should probably just have a quiet night, stay home and consider my options. I even agreed to take on an unpaid freelance job tomorrow for an Instagrammer who’s releasing a cookbook and I’m meant to be at her flat bright and early in the morning to photograph the recipes. But a night out at The Eagle is kind of tempting. It would be fun to just dance and let my hair down, especially after all the job-hunting I’ve been doing over the past few weeks.
‘Come on! We’ll have fun!’ Gabe insists brightly.
‘Okay, fine!’ I relent, reaching for the vodka and Coke.
When I set out to be a photographer, I didn’t think I’d end up photographing turnips, yet here I am, in a swanky kitchen in Chelsea taking what feels like the one-hundred-and-seventy-fifth shot of a turnip resting on a bed of wilted spinach, pomero and chopped dates.
‘Darling!’ Alicia Carter, famous health food Instagrammer, bursts through the doorway carrying another bowl of salad. She places it down on the table. ‘This is one of my favourites. Absolutely delicious!’
‘Great!’ I insist weakly, eyeing the latest salad bowl. I could really do with some toast and a cup of coffee. After a late night at The Eagle, that’s precisely what the doctor ordered – not another bowl of salad to photograph.
‘Can you make sure it’s in sharp focus? Try to capture the colours,’ Alicia advises me.
‘Yep, definitely!’ I insist. ‘Just need five more minutes on this one.’ I glance towards the turnip.
‘No problem! Take your time!’ Alicia says, clapping her hands together before turning on her heel.
She’s preparing the salads in the kitchen next door with all her cool, health-conscious friends. All morning, I’ve been overhearing them discussing the importance of balancing macro and micro nutrients and debating the merits of hot yoga versus hatha. They’re all tanned, athletic and glowing and not one
