15. Mr Snappy
FIFTEEN
Mr Snappy
Friday, 10 May, 3.00am
I’ve been Googling ‘common illnesses in the elderly’ and frightening myself. Mum’s always so robust and healthy, I can’t bear it if she’s sick. We’re meeting in Soho. Why there? Maybe it’s a private clinic. My mind is racing with the potential scenarios, all equally horrendous.
11.30pm
I didn’t get back to sleep this morning. Was feeling terrible and looking awful with dark shadows under my eyes when I arrived at Ground Café to meet Mum at 9.30am. She was so stylish in her black palazzo pants and a drapey top with horizontal black and white stripes, finished off with a cashmere coat and pristine trainers. I hope I’ll look that good when I’m eighty. Who am I kidding? I don’t look that good now.
‘Hello, Sophia Lovely, thanks for coming.’ I love it when she calls me Sophia Lovely. She likes to tell the story (and I like it too) of how she came up with this pet name for me. Apparently, by the time I was three years old, I would pick my own clothes in the morning, inspect myself in the mirror and ask, ‘Sophia lovely?’ Ha ha, not much changed there.
‘But what’s the matter? You look so pale. Why didn’t you put on some makeup?’ she said.
I didn’t rise to it and said I was tired.
‘You’ve been very mysterious, Mum. Where are we going?’ I asked, dreading the answer.
‘You’ll find out soon enough.’ We finished our coffees, and I followed her down Old Compton Street turning into Wardour Street, halfway down which she stopped at a door and rang the bell. Just a door with a bell, no brass plaques with names of doctors with letters after their names. My mind was racing by the time the lift doors opened on the second floor.
‘Surprise,’ Mum said with a huge grin and jazz hands. We were in a studio and people were preparing for a photoshoot.
‘Hello Betty. You’re looking gorgeous today,’ said a rather attractive man with a camera around his neck. I guessed he was in his late forties, with thick salt-and-pepper hair, cut short like Steve McQueen’s in The Thomas Crown Affair , black jeans and a T-shirt emblazoned with the Rolling Stones’ hot lips image. I perked up from my insomniac lethargy and wished I was wearing makeup.
‘Thank you,’ Mum said, blushing. ‘This is my daughter, Sophia.’
We shook hands. I watched him walk back to the set and thought, you can point your telescopic lens at me any time .
‘Mum, what is going on here? I thought we were going for a doctor’s appointment. I thought you were sick. I didn’t sleep all night, for God’s sake,’ I blurted.
‘I’m sorry, Lovely. I didn’t mean to worry you. I wanted to surprise you. A few weeks ago, I went to a birthday party at my new friend Phyllis’s house. Her son’—she nodded towards the man—‘is a fashion photographer and he asked me if I’d be interested in modelling swimwear for Pour Vous , and that’s why we’re here. I wanted someone with me, and your dad doesn’t approve, so…’ she trailed off, apparently realising that her mystery-making had gone a bit too far. ‘I’m sorry.’
I teared up with relief and hugged her. ‘That’s fantastic, Mum. What a great opportunity. Trust you to breeze into a modelling job.’ My mum is a swimwear model at eighty years old.
‘Also’—she paused—‘he’s single.’ She winked and tapped her nose.
What I thought was going to be one of the worst days of my life was turning out to be rather fun with hunky-man potential. Coffee and pastries on the table. Don’t mind if I do. A large coffee, one pain au raisin and one pain au chocolat later, and I started to feel human again. I nosed around the studio, having surreptitious glances at Mr Snappy and trying to radiate nonchalant sexy vibes.
Mum came out of makeup and joined the other models for an inclusive group shot. She was wearing a red one-piece, gold sandals, red lipstick, and hoop earrings, wind machine blowing her long white hair, all of which was stunning against the newly applied fake tan. Yes, she was the oldest of the models there, but she looked the part. After a while, I sneaked out and found a cool shop in Greek Street, where I bought some makeup and a T-shirt with the words ‘Free Hugs’ on the front. I slipped back into the studio, makeup applied, wearing my new T-shirt, and sat watching Mum being photographed in a hot pink swimsuit and matching sarong. I was feeling a bit more confident, a bit more myself. At the end of the day, prosecco and beers came out and Mr Snappy came over and invited us to stay for drinks.
‘I’m exhausted, Lovely. I’m going to catch the train home and see if your dad is still talking to me. Why don’t you stay?’
‘Your mother is such a good sport and for an amateur she acted rather professionally. I think Pour Vous will be pleased with the images,’ Mr Snappy said, after Mum had left. Then, as if he’d noticed me for the first time, ‘I can see where you get your looks from. And yes please.’ He nodded towards my emblazoned chest.
Hello, was he flirting? I perked up one more notch and gave him what I thought was a pouty smile, then regretted it at the sight of my reflection in the mirror behind him. Still haven’t mastered the art of the pout. He left me to mingle with the team, and apart from a few stolen glances, we didn’t interact much. As the party started to wind down, I went to say goodbye.
‘Why don’t you stay a bit longer? I’d love to take some shots of you.’
‘Erm … I’m not sure,’ I said, remembering I hadn’t washed my hair this morning.
‘Stay, it’ll be fun.’
‘But I’m not dressed for a photoshoot.’ I was torn between wanting to stay but being afraid I’d look awful in the pictures.
‘Trust me, you’ll look great.’
‘OK,’ I said, hesitant but excited at the prospect of spending time with him.
When we were alone, he sat me on the floor, with my pleated neon pink skirt fanned out around me, then shone a light directly over my head. He showed me the first few snaps, and they were beautiful. Go Sophia. I relaxed then and got into it.
‘How about one without the T-shirt?’ he asked.
‘Do you want me to wear something else? I don’t want to wear anything my mum wore. That would be weird,’ I said with a laugh that came out as a snort.
‘No, I was thinking in your bra. You have a marvellous figure.’
My face flooded. Where was he going with this?
‘No, I don’t think so.’ I was acting cool but feeling flustered.
‘I want to do an arty shot. Warm light from a single dimmed spotlight bathing your body, black background, and you framed by your neon pink skirt. It’ll be tasteful,’ he persisted.
Come on, Sophia. Where is your spirit of adventure? Mum would do it. Why not you? Why not show off your toned figure?
‘OK. As long as you promise it’ll be stylish.’
‘I promise. Absolutely.’
I peeled off my T-shirt and thanked the lingerie gods for guiding me to put on a pink lacy bra this morning.
‘Wow, the pink bra and skirt sure zing in this light. And your silver necklace reflects light beautifully around your face.’
‘It’s an old one I designed myself when I had a jewellery store,’ I said.
He whistled. ‘Creative and a businesswoman. Why did you stop designing?’
‘It just took its course and one day I decided I wanted a change and sold the business.’
It was nice chatting and I felt more comfortable, my confident posture returning. We peered at the shots in his camera viewer – standing so close, I felt the warmth of his breath – and the pictures were indeed arty.
‘Now without the bra?’ he asked, and I obliged, by then acting like Kate Moss, shaking my hair out, posing with my arms raised over my head and looking straight into the camera. ‘If you don’t mind my saying, your breasts are a knockout. Can I ask how old you are?’
‘Thank you,’ I said, ignoring his question.
‘You didn’t answer my question.’
‘Not that it matters, but I’m sixty,’ I said, jutting out my chin.
‘Oh, sixty? Really?’
‘It sounds older when you say it.’ I laughed but he didn’t. He fiddled with the setting on his camera and took a few shots on autopilot. No more flirting.
‘I think we’re done here,’ he said, without looking at me, as he started packing up.
I got up and pulled on my clothes, suddenly feeling very naked. I needed to get out of that place and away from him.
‘If you want copies of the photos, leave me your address and I’ll send them on,’ he said over his shoulder.
‘Send them to my mother.’ I rushed to the lift, which took forever to come up. I kept the tears in until the lift doors had closed.
Saturday, 11 May, 7.30am
I don’t know why I allowed myself to be taken in by him. And a photographer to boot. Aargh. What a cliché. It’s not as if it hasn’t happened before. I get pursued by a younger man. They think I’m great and we’re getting along fine. Then the ‘how old are you?’ conversation pops up, and suddenly, I’ve gone from perfect to past-sell-by-date, like that time when Jilly set me up with her friend at a party. She knew my age, but he didn’t. We were having a nice chat and he seemed keen. When I came back from the loo, he’d disappeared. Jilly said he’d asked her my age and decided I wasn’t for him. In his forties, he was probably looking for someone to have children with, and I would have been a double whammy being older and infertile. I should give up on young men and date an attractive older man so I can take the youthful high ground.
10.30am
Mum phoned.
‘How are you, Lovely? Did you enjoy “the shoot”?’ I could just see her saying this in quotation marks, pleased with herself for using the right lingo.
‘You looked gorgeous, Mum. I’m so proud of you.’
‘Thank you, Lovely. It’s a shame your dad doesn’t feel the same way. He hasn’t talked to me much since I told him about the modelling job. It’s so unlike him to sulk like this. I think he imagines I’m going to be an international supermodel, travel the world and leave him on his own. It’s flattering, but there’s no need for the silent treatment.’
‘Are you going to be an international supermodel?’
‘I did enjoy it and I wouldn’t mind at all if I was asked to do it again.’
‘Go Betty, go Betty.’
Mum giggled, then asked me about Mr Snappy and I told her he was too young for me.
‘I’ll talk to Dad if you like. Persuade him to be more supportive? You know he adores you. He can’t stay mad at you for long.’
‘Would you, Lovely? You are a good girl.’
I melted in the glow of praise. Then I wished she’d told me I was gorgeous when I was younger. I wished she didn’t think I looked ill without makeup. I wished she didn’t give me that look every time I reached for a chocolate. I wished I was enough.
1.00pm
Joy turned up two hours late. It’s like she can smell heartache. She didn’t follow her usual cleaning routine, but instead hovered around me, polishing the coffee table to within an inch of its life.
‘Ah Sophia, you look sad. Had a bad date again?’
I scowled.
‘Maybe you give up dating, ha? You too old.’
Water off a duck’s back.
‘How’s Jasmine doing? She must be about fourteen?’ I asked.
Her face lit up and she got her mobile and showed me a picture of her daughter in her school uniform. ‘Yeah, she’s a big girl now, and clever in studies,’ she said.
So, she’s a single mum, runs a cleaning company, does my actual cleaning and nannies in the week. Superwoman.
Sunday, 12 May, 11.30pm
Sara didn’t ring to see if Mum was OK. You’d think she’d be worried after my call on Thursday. I texted and told her everything was OK and about the modelling. She just said, ‘Yes I heard.’ I despair. I want to shout at her and shake her by the shoulders but of course I mustn’t upset her. Sometimes I just want to tell her I know about everything and be done with it.
Called Dad and mentioned Mum’s modelling to see why he’s being so grumpy about it.
‘I’m not being grumpy. If your mum wants to go galivanting, that’s her business. Who am I to stop her? I’m only her husband,’ he said.
I told him it was a great opportunity, and he should be proud of her, but he didn’t want to talk about it. What the hell is happening with my family?
Monday, 13 May, 11.30pm
Andrew, AKA Mr Sex on the Kitchen Island emailed to ask if it was possible to have heating under the decked area outside the kitchen. How many more areas are going to have heating for sex? Though it could become my interior design USP. I could change my company name from SinteriorS to SexteriorS. I’ve only just realised SinteriorS sounds like an S&M club. Why didn’t anyone tell me?