‘We don’t normally book photographers who haven’t shot for magazines before,’ says the soft voice of a girl with a tiger’s face on her sweatshirt.
‘Right…’ says James, when what he really wants to say is, ‘Why did you agree to see me then?’
They are sitting in the cafe of Tate Modern overlooking the river. James’s bottom feels cold and bony on the metal chair he’s sitting on.
The girl talks with the high quiet voice of a cartoon mouse.
‘But my art director and I really liked the shots you emailed us. And I do like your portfolio – this one is ace,’ she says, pointing to the elderly groom as she turns the page. ‘I really like the way you can almost see what he’s thinking, like you’re getting into his brain through the light in his eyes.’
James remembers the print in his backpack, equally revealing, more personal. He takes out a tube and unrolls it to show Tammy Newbold, picture editor at The Passenger, London’s coolest men’s lifestyle magazine.
‘Oh I love it. Why’s it not in your portfolio?’
‘It’s recent, I’ll put it in soon.’
‘Well it’s great. I think you’re great,’ Tammy squeaks. ‘If you feel able to handle some of the big celeb egos we shoot then we’d love to give you a go. I’ll talk to my art director and get back to you, probably after the Christmas break now, that OK?’
‘Yeah that’s great. Thanks Tammy,’ says James, surprised by the total turnaround in how he thought this meeting was going.
‘I’d better get back to the office, it’s our Christmas party tonight and we’re trying to put the March issue to bed.’
‘March, wow,’ says James, leaving cash on a small silver circle. ‘I’m used to tight newspaper deadlines, turning around portraits in just hours. It would be nice to really put time and thought into a shoot.’
Tammy smiles, and wraps herself protectively under a blanket shawl. ‘Off anywhere nice now? I guess you don’t have office parties being a freelancer do you?’
‘Not any more. But I’m meeting some mates for a few drinks on Charlotte Street. How about your party?’
‘Oh the usual. A club in Old Street. The features’ girls will be dodging the creep from accounts. Someone who’s normally straight-laced will get wasted and try to dry-hump the MD.’
James laughs quietly, dimples barely reveal themselves, and he slides the cardboard tube back into his backpack, zips up the wallet of his portfolio and says goodbye to Tammy.
‘See you in the New Year, James.’
*
The wintry night beyond the long high windows of the Grand Hall makes the carnival atmosphere inside seem even more sizzling as Nena and former chorus-line colleagues take to the floor in a group samba. The elegant dress from this afternoon has been hitched up to her knickers, showing a brown thigh that reminds Maya of Princess Tam Tam.
A flurry of snow starts to flutter under the light of the black lamp posts on the street outside and Maya surveys the scene inside. Happy. Tired. Glowing from the many compliments she received for her lemon and lavender cake and the macaron tower on top.
This is how I want to remember today.
Maya is never the last one standing at a wedding, so she finds her white stole, props her silver clutch under her arm and pushes open one of the huge doors that leads to the sweeping staircase. At the bottom of the stairs, Maya collects the hatbox from a cloakroom attendant and swings it with abandon by its cord handle, relieved it is empty as she heads out into the frozen flurry.
‘Taxi!’ she calls, into the buzz of Parliament Square.
‘You leaving already?’ A figure standing in the light of a lamp post puffs on a cigarette. Snow falls onto the shoulders of his white jacket and melts.
‘I have to catch my train,’ says Maya. ‘And really, you don’t want to see my lambada.’
‘No really, I do!’ Isaac laughs.
A taxi drives past without stopping.
‘Well it’s always best I leave that to Nena. Taxi!’
Taxis whizz past. Taking politicos back to their constituencies, tourists onto clubs and couples from their office parties to steamy hotel rooms. It is the last Friday before Christmas.
‘Here, let me try. TAXI!’ Isaac yells, as he throws his cigarette butt into a drain.
A taxi stops. Maya feels slightly disempowered. And very cold.
‘Thank you. Again. You had my back earlier with the cake, I appreciate it.’
‘No problem. Hey can I call you sometime, go for a drink?’
Maya looks at Isaac. Tall and dashing with messy sandy blond hair and the same deep-set but twinkling eyes as Tom. She thinks of Tom and Nena and Arlo, who has got a second wind, upstairs on the dance floor in a happy bubble of love.
I want love. I want Train Man, I want James Miller.
‘Can I say no?’ Maya smiles warmly as she shivers.
‘Of course!’ laughs Isaac, taken aback by honesty.
‘You’re lovely, but it’s just if today has taught me anything it’s to follow my heart. The butterflies and all that stuff. It matters. It hits you. Nena could have anyone at uni, she’s never been short of a date since then. But Tom, he just… BOOM, changed everything. And when you know, you know. And when it’s forced, well you know that too.’ Maya is shivering.
‘Are ya comin, love?’ shouts the cabbie, trying not to sound riled.
Maya nods and Isaac smiles as his sturdy arm props the taxi door open.
‘Well you know I was only asking you out for a drink, not to marry me, but it’s cool, I understand.’
They laugh.
‘It was lovely to meet you, Isaac. And I’m sure we will again. Maybe I’ll know how to do the lambada by then too.’
Maya slides her hatbox across the seat of the taxi and gets in after it.
‘Nice to meet you, Macaron Maya.’
‘See you around, Untle Izaat.’
Isaac gives a lackadaisical salute as he closes the door and nods Maya on her way to the train station.