In Her Image

Chapter 2

2

Work’s chaotic at the moment, and I’m finding myself having to get into the office earlier and earlier all the time. The only problem is that I’m so knackered by the time I get home I find myself drinking more and more each evening, too, and that doesn’t fit well with early starts.

There’s a horrible taste in my mouth that only comes the morning after drinking white wine — almost like the alcohol vapours have seeped up from my lungs overnight — and I lean over to take a mint out of the packet. I’ll brush my teeth once I’m up and have had breakfast, but at least this’ll make me feel a little more human. While I’m there, I prise one of my fluoxetine pills from its blister pack and slug it back with a mouthful of water before crunching the mint.

Mornings are lonelier now than they were before. Generally speaking. It has its upsides, though. It’s better than having to wait to use my own bathroom, or getting downstairs to find the kitchen work surfaces covered in crumbs. There are some things I don’t miss one bit.

My morning routine doesn’t end when I leave the house, either. Even though I’ve already had a small bowl of cereal at home, there’s no swaying me from my morning pastry on the way in to work. One of my colleagues introduced me to a new patisserie on the high street a few months back, and I’ve been in there every day since. And today’s no different, as I find myself going through the motions, walking in through the door and smelling that familiar smell of freshly baked pastries. The woman behind the counter smiles as she spots me join the back of the queue, packages up my pastry and sets the coffee machine running. By the time I reach the front of the queue, I’m ready and waiting with my £4.90 — I’ve got the right change today — and we go through our usual daily routine of asking each other how we are, even though we don’t even know each other’s names. It’s reassuringly familiar, though.

I leave the shop and turn right, in the direction of the office. I don’t even see him there until it’s too late.

‘s**t! Sorry,’ he says, placing a reassuring hand on my upper arm as he bends down to pick up the pastry packet from the pavement. ‘My fault. I wasn’t looking where I was going.’

‘Honestly, don’t worry,’ I reply, as I take the pastry from him, being careful not to spill my coffee too.

‘No, really, it was my fault. Let me buy you another one.’

I shake my head. I just want to get to work. ‘It’s fine. It’s packaged up so it’ll be alright.’

‘Nonsense,’ he says. ‘It’ll be a bag full of crumbs now. Let me buy you another one. Please. I insist. I’ll feel dreadful all day if I don’t.’

He looks me in the eye in a way which makes me think I’ll feel like a complete s**t if I say no. If he wants to buy me another pastry, why not?

‘Alright then,’ I say. ‘If you insist.’

Back in the shop, the queue has died down, but we still have to wait for a minute or two.

‘I wasn’t even paying attention out there,’ the man says, still going on about it.

‘It was an accident,’ I reply. ‘It happens.’

‘I know, but it’s still my fault. I’ve had my head in the clouds for the past few days and I should’ve been paying attention. Relationship break-up,’ he adds, giving me information that I didn’t ask for.

‘Sorry to hear that.’

The pastry replaced, we leave the shop and I thank him.

‘Oh, just a second,’ he says, putting his hand on my arm again — not in a creepy way, but a reassuring one. ‘I told myself in there I wasn’t going to mention it, but I thought I should. No regrets, and all that. I run a modelling agency, just down the road here. I mean, I’m a photographer by trade, but I’ve got a lot of friends in the fashion industry and I quite often do a bit of talent spotting for them, if you see what I mean. I don’t mean to be rude, and I hope you’re not offended, but you’ve got fantastic bone structure and a great figure.’ He hands me a business card from his back pocket. ‘Just in case it appeals. You know. No pressure or anything, but I think you’d be great. It’s good fun, and some of the people I’ve referred have gone on to make great money. Just a thought.’

He shows me his friendly smile. There’s something in the way he said it. Something reassuring. But now really isn’t the time or place for me to be thinking about a change of career.

‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘I’ll bear it in mind.’

‘Sure. Give me a call or a text if you fancy it, alright? No charge, naturally. There are some places who make money by charging people for photos. Between you and me, they just throw them in the bin. The only time I make money is the referral fee I get when my contacts take on a model I’ve referred to them. So you’ve got nothing to lose.’

‘Sounds good. I’ll give you a call,’ I reply, not really having any intention of doing so, but wanting to get to work.

We go our separate ways, and I walk up the high street in the direction of the office — with a spring in my step that surprises even me.