MAKE ME UP

I’M NOT BONNIE TYLER

Rumours had been circulating all morning about how Lincoln Huxley had won the day. He managed to render the infamous, take no prisoners, and get them on the ropes, Carrie Chitham, speechless in the first five minutes of their interview. Apparently, he had itemised the inconsistencies in the stories that had been printed about him, while pointing out that it wasn’t possible for him to be in three places at the same time. Desperate to save face, Carrie had to transform the interview topic into a discussion about the impact these false reports had upon the artist. There hadn’t been a dry eye in the audience by the end. My fellow ‘colleagues’ were looking at me like I was his defense lawyer, and I couldn’t help but scoff at their reaction, as if he hadn’t thought about the obvious holes in the report, before he listened to our conversation this morning.

In the morning break, I finally received my access fob from a very pleasant, but shy, member of the technology team. I could now leave the make-up room in search of a canteen, which was perfect as my stomach had been reminding me that it was lunchtime for the past two hours. I was delighted when I had been told that photo passes weren’t used at the BTC, and to be honest, it had made the job more appealing to me. I didn’t want my image to be used in the wrong context, and nobody knew better than me that even if you tick the privacy box, having your wishes respected was still entirely connected to whether somebody could be bothered to read your form and follow GDPR regulations properly. The main example of this is the ‘inclusive’ dietary requirements section on forms. It doesn’t matter how many times you tick that you need gluten-free options, it is never available, although I’m often offered a diary-free option as if that’s a suitable alternative. This is one of the main reasons I forego the offer of a free lunch. Even though it would save me money that I desperately need, I prepare my own food.

Understandably, there wasn’t a queue in the canteen, and lunch was starting to come to an end by the time I got there. Retrieving the pot of soup from my bag, I approached the lunchtime staff.

“Hello, would it be possible for you to heat up my soup in the microwave for two minutes?”

The lady looked at my recycled jar, with the same expression I would expect to see on a person's face who had just been handed a sample of the bubonic plague. It was at this exact moment that I decided the next thing I would buy myself, for my eighth month living alone gift, would be a thermos.

“I’m upcycling my jars, doing my bit to save the planet.” I lie, and I’m instantly mad at myself for trying to provide an explanation for her, rather than letting the silence run on.

After all, it’s her problem, not mine.

“We can’t heat up food that isn’t made on the premises. Sorry about that”. She says insincerely, before walking straight into the kitchen.

Seething, I sit down on the nearest seat, and look in my bag for my spoon. My life is a joke. Not only do I have to try and swallow my cold soup, I’m going to have to drink it from the jar, like I’m completing a bush tucker trial.

I make it to the halfway mark before I give up. The remaining half will be my tea tonight.

Clicking from a camera instantly makes me wary. I can see that a photographer is taking candid pictures of people eating their lunch and socialising. Instantly, I cover my face, but I know it’s too late. Warmth makes my skin uncomfortable, as he clicks another batch, but this time I’m sure I’m in the background. My heart is racing at an uncomfortable pace, but I know I have to get those pictures deleted.

“Hi, excuse me…” I start politely, but I’m met with an eye roll, and my hopes for a simple request to be acted upon are readjusted.

“Can I ask what those pictures are for?”

“They are photos that will be used in our recruitment campaign. It shows that we offer a relaxed and friendly workplace environment. We will put them on our posters and social media platforms to entice applicants”. He answers, reluctantly.

“I see. I want any of the photos that have my image in them to be deleted…please” I add on my manners as an afterthought.

“You’re in nearly all of them!” He answered, astonished that I would ask such a thing.

“You have just told me that you’re planning on publicising my image, without permission. You can’t do that, and you need to delete them.” I persevere, but he can tell that standing my ground doesn’t come naturally to me.

“Listen, my deadline is today. The dining room is now empty, and these are the only pictures I have. I’m not deleting them”. The dangerous thing about disagreements, is that sometimes a person can say one thing, and all your reluctance to argue suddenly flies out of the window.

“All I’m hearing are 'you' problems. You should have asked if anyone didn’t want to be involved in the shoot, but you didn’t. You should have started earlier, so you would have had more time and people, but you didn’t. You being s**t at your job shouldn’t have to inconvenience me, but it is. Now, delete those pictures, before I list the catalogue of your errors to your superior, and point out the irony that you are trying to portray a positive work environment, while we are arguing about this”. I practically growl at him.

My father loves western movies, especially if there’s a fast draw. He loves the close-ups and the tension before the trigger is pulled. Somehow, on my first day at my new job, which I really need, I’m in the middle of a verbal gun fight with the happy snapper from publicising. I can feel my fingers itching to call HR.

“Is there anything I can help you with?”

Just when I thought my day couldn’t get any better, Lincoln Huxley, struts in. He’s like the Clint Eastwood hero, but I’m not sure if either me or the photographer are in need of his intervention.

“She wants me to delete all the work I’ve done this afternoon. All the pictures that she’s in. She doesn’t want them to be posted on social media.” My enemy explains, I guess one of did need a champion to rescue them.

“Well, she’s right. You need to delete them if you don’t have her permission to take them. Hand me the camera.” He demands, and with no qualms, Lincoln Huxley is given exactly what he asked for with no debate.

Flicking through the folder with me, he deletes all the images that I am in. In every single one, I’m pouring my soup down my gullet, and I think in some I’m heaving. Mortified. I only nod when they are all gone, and the photographer makes a sheepish getaway.

Was I happy that the photos had been removed? Absolutely. Surely, a thanks should be in order now, so I was surprised by what came out of my mouth next.

“Do I look like Bonnie Tyler to you?”

Lincoln looks confused, and I realise he doesn’t see the link.

“I’m not holding on for a hero. Did you leave your white horse and armour in the car park before you came to my rescue? I had that under control, plus the fact that he handed over the camera to you straight away, but was arguing with me about keeping it is everything that is wrong with the world”. I gritted at him.

He looks astounded, and a little hurt.

“I’m sorry, I won’t help you again”. He leaves me in the canteen, and I presume he went to fix his saddle and drink his milk.

The rest of the day trickles by slowly, but by the time I was cleaning my work station I couldn’t help but feel torn. The unquestionable way that his authority was capitulated to had my inner feminist fighting to be let out and challenge the gender imbalance. On the other hand, he had tried to help me, and had succeeded, and for his trouble I yelled in his face, and quoted lines from eighties power ballads at him. Acknowledging that many of my past complaints had been handled on my behalf and this could be the reason that this had ended so badly did cross my mind. I’m thirty, and I’ve forgotten how to establish myself. Suitably embarrassed, I just had to hope that I wouldn’t see Lincoln Huxley again, and I could forget about the entire incident.