Christmas Actually
Chapter 1
CHAPTER 1
I never thought I’d be the sort of person to submit to a mid-life crisis. I’m not sure I ever believed in such an event. Mid-life crisis? Surely a phrase made up to name ongoing boredom, malaise, and restlessness?
As for my dreams? Well, I certainly never thought I’d give up on them.
When I was twenty, in my final year of photography studies, I hoped by the time I turned forty, I’d have:
A gorgeous, happy husband and two sweet-natured children (sex didn’t matter) to whom I’d be like a big sister.
A successful photography business that allowed me creative freedom and financial independence as well as time to lunch, shop and travel.
The confidence and desire to pursue my dreams.
Whenever I fantasised about my future, I saw myself living the perfect life.
Well, I’m about to celebrate that milestone and I’m not exactly where I’d hoped I’d be. I’ve got the family part happening, but as far as the illustrious photography career?—
Maybe my poor mood was because Christmas was looming and I hadn’t put up the tree, decorated the house, or hung fairy lights. My festive spirit was seriously lacking.
I glanced at my vibrating mobile. My sister Robyn.
What I didn’t have on my future bingo card was my younger (by two years) sister becoming an Instagram sensation, a high-profile, social-media influencing, Instagramming smash hit. Who could have predicted that?
‘Katie?’ Robyn’s high-pitched voice bordered on hysterical. ‘I’m about to have a baby. I’m… labour… need photos. Documentation. If I don’t follow up immediately…’
She was referring to her latest Insta post a few days ago which had garnered over 400,000 likes. Captioned Sun-Kissed and Salty, I’d photographed Robyn on the beach in a fetching indigo bikini, pale-azure chiffon wrap and oversized straw hat (with lollipop-pink ribbon) and she’d posted it together with the following: #32weeks #livingmybestpregnancy #bodypositive #selfcare #greenjuice #cleansedontdiet #juicecleanse #grateful #blessed
Instagram Perfect: staged, styled, angled, face-tuned (together with a smattering of cute freckles) and airbrushed. Bouncy hair. Blemish-free skin. Flawless.
Never let reality get in the way of your dream life. #makebelieve
At what point did my photos cease being documentations of real life and become #distortions #exaggerations #sendups #cartoons ?
After reassuring both of us Robyn was not in labour and promising to take more Insta perfect photos of her as soon as humanly possible, I hung up.
Once upon a time photography was my passion. My grandmother lit the spark when I was six. She had a fabulous collection of black-and-white photos, and I was struck by their significance, each print linked to a fascinating adventure, be it camel racing in Egypt or marching for peace in Sydney during the Vietnam War.
‘History, Katie,’ she’d say, examining a beloved photo through a magnifying glass. ‘The exact moment this image was captured will never come to pass again.’
On my seventh birthday, she gave me her cherished Hasselblad. It fascinated me – learning the intricacies of the fixed-focus lens, discovering the dual positions for sun and cloud, and using the disposable flash for indoors. I still treasure it. After school, I turned my passion into a career goal, attending Sydney College of the Arts. In my final year, I won a photography scholarship overseas.
Back then, I had ambition. It seemed reasonable to want it all. After six months abroad and only a year at a leading Australian newspaper , I went out on my own and managed a hectic freelance schedule. I was one of those people who could cope with unpredictable weather and produce amazing photographs. My portfolio of natural-disaster photos was particularly impressive – bushfires in southern Victoria, drought in central New South Wales, cyclones and widespread flooding in Queensland. You name it, I was there, capturing images which revealed emotions that couldn’t be put into words.
After Lexi, my now thirteen-year-old, was born, walking the tightrope between career and family became increasingly difficult. I retained my favourite clients and still did my best work outdoors, although I drastically cut back my hours. But I soon realised unless you keep accepting jobs and upping your profile, people forget you. Someone with newer, fresher ideas and a sharper eye comes into focus – and whammo, they’re the ‘next big thing’ and you’re a distant memory. So, when Lexi turned two, I went back to full-time work to rebuild my portfolio. The tightrope tightened further.
Fast forward two years. Seven months pregnant with Angus, I drove to northern New South Wales to photograph rampaging grasshoppers threatening to take over the small agricultural town of Moree. Those photos won several awards and led to a spate of commissions from Australian Geographic.
Not that I could fulfil them.
I assumed I’d keep working at the same frenetic pace after Angus was born, but who was I kidding? ‘Having it all’ proved impossible, what with a daughter starting school, a baby, breastfeeding, housework, life.
My photography career came to a standstill. I wasn’t offered top assignments because I couldn’t dash off at a moment’s notice to flood-ravaged plains and infernos threatening the bush. After a while, I settled for a two-day-a-week job at a portrait studio where I was stuck indoors. I didn’t last long.
Angus is eight now. I have no career and my personal and professional confidence is at an all-time low. So much for the perfect life.
While on the phone with Robyn, my mobile beeped with a new voicemail: ‘ Hi, Katie, it’s Fern. Can you help me out of a fix? Our assistant photographer is a no-show for a couple of weeks, right as our Christmas campaign is launching. I immediately thought Katie. You’d be perfect. Give me a call .’
A rush of adrenaline flushed my cheeks.
Thinking about getting back behind the camera professionally was thrilling… and terrifying. My skills haven’t advanced since the late noughties and these days it was mostly digital – downloading SD cards and retouching on computer screens.
I listened to Fern’s message again. … you’dbeperfectgivemeacall . She always ran her words together. I hesitated, worried I couldn’t live up to Fern’s expectations, and regarded the mountain of groceries that my cat, Cleo, was currently pawing on the kitchen bench.
I gently set her down on the floor. ‘Thoughts?’
Fern and I met doing photography at college. After our first year, she switched to a Bachelor of Commerce at Sydney University, deciding she was more suited to corporate life. We remained great friends though, even flatting together for six months.
These days, Fern is a guru in the magazine world. She’d started as the editor of global corporation, Image Ink’s Home Interiors , before being promoted to Australian Group Editor in charge of six lifestyle magazines. A couple of years ago, she advanced to Australasia’s Editorial Head for all of Image Ink’s more than twenty titles, digital and print, ranging from health and beauty through to sports, parenting and gossip rags.
I’d hardly seen her in the previous ten years and then, I’d seen her twice in as many days, the most recent being at Angus’s swimming lesson today. We talked and she told me she had four kids, all under ten, one still in nappies. Phone to one ear, she was madly cheering on three of her children as they practised their strokes. And she looked immaculate. Immaculate. Matching toe, nail and lip colours. Hair styled, she dazzled in a merry pink sundress.
Meanwhile, I was wearing ancient jeans and a faded blue T-shirt, sitting on the most uncomfortable plastic chair, slumped in a heap, with barely enough enthusiasm to nod as Angus swam past me. Seeing her made me want to crawl into a hole and die.
I punched in her number.
‘Kate, thankgoodnessyoucalled. I’m in a spot. Short story, our photographic assistant had an accident this afternoon. I need a fill-in for two, three weeks max in the lead-up to Christmas. Minimal travel, flexible hours, great pay. You’d be doing me and Santa’s elves a huge favour and it’d be great if you could start tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow?’ Fear and excitement pulsated. I couldn’t possibly start a new job tomorrow. I’m too busy… but was I really?
Clearly distracted, Fern took my question as a statement.
‘Great, Katie, you’re a doll. Tomorrow, here at Image Ink, say eight o’clock. I’ll give you the lowdown then.’ The line went dead before I could protest.