Chapter 4
CHAPTER 4
I arrived at Image Ink at ten minutes to eight – no mean feat considering the chaos that had greeted me when I walked into the kitchen after showering and dressing in record time that morning. Still, Matthew put on a brave face.
‘Dazzle them with your brilliance,’ he’d said before kissing me goodbye.
After spending twenty minutes finding a parking space, I turned off the car engine and swivelled the rear-vision mirror so I could see my face. I rubbed off a layer of blush overzealously applied in darkness, checked my lipstick and gave myself a final once-over – black sling-back shoes, long black skirt, black shirt and black jacket. #funeraldirector
I pushed open the front door, anxious, but also excited, determined to observe workplace culture, do my best to fit in, be always professional, enthusiastic, punctual, work hard and work fast. Sure. No pressure.
Several corridors sprang from the bright purple main foyer, and I had no idea where to go.
I didn’t know which magazine I’d be working on, but it didn’t bother me. I could find interest in most things: people, flowers, animals. I wasn’t too keen on photographing food or cars, but aside from those, I was open to snapping anything. Given I’d spent the last months taking photos of Robyn’s expanding girth, I was ready for a new challenge.
I followed several people rushing down a hall. At the end of the walkway, a huge studio was being transformed into a Yuletide Turkish bathhouse. People dashed around with clipboards, others spoke into microphone headsets and several builders made a lot of noise with hammers and saws creating impressive faux marble baths and fountains.
‘Katie,’ Fern boomed. She looked amazing, wearing a sixties-inspired navy satin shift, elegant peep-toe heels and minimal make-up. I self-consciously touched my thin mumsy hair and regretted wearing Lexi’s ‘too pink to be true’ lip gloss. ‘You’re here.’
‘Yes, am I supposed to be?’
‘Not likely. This is jock central, part of a holiday advertorial campaign for Action Sports .’ She waved her hand. ‘Deodorant,’ she said by way of explanation. ‘Sorry, I don’t have much time to brief you. It’s absolute bedlam. Come with me.’ Together, we walked out of the studio, back up the hallway and into the foyer. ‘You’ll be working upstairs assisting Graeme Grafton on Delicious Bites . His focus is on the monthly print edition, and I want most of your attention centred on the daily digital title. He’ll show you the ropes.’
My heart pounded. ‘Food?’ I knew Graeme by reputation. A former Bachelor of the Year, Graeme was not quite pretty boy, not quite handsome. A master photographer, he was a sometime charmer and an absolute nutter to boot.
She nodded. ‘Didn’t I tell you yesterday?’
‘No.’ My ringing mobile momentarily halted further conversation. Matthew. ‘What’s up?’ I asked .
‘He’s lost his homework,’ Matthew shouted over Angus’s incoherent ranting.
‘In his backpack,’ I replied. Pause. ‘And don’t forget he has soccer after school.’
‘Can’t you handle that?’ he asked.
‘Yes. I’m just reminding you so you can remind Gus to take his boots.’ I tried hard to stay calm.
‘Okay. Look,’ – Matthew sounded uptight, verging on angry – ‘I’m already late for work and Angus is going ballistic over his shoelaces. Who knows where Lexi is? We’ll have to work out something better for the morning routine.’
Where had my lovely supportive husband of an hour ago disappeared to? Breakfast reality with the kids had set in, that’s what. I wouldn’t be able to keep up this charade for two days let alone two or three weeks.
‘Adjustment issues?’ Fern asked as she led me upstairs, past the Delicious Bites hub and into the white-on-white studio, where, presumably, I’d be spending most of my time. I was entering the frightening world of food photography, temperamental chefs, ambitious food stylists and precious photographers.
I recognised Graeme straight away: tall and slim, not weak-knee-inducing gorgeous, but interesting, nonetheless. Fern and I watched for a few moments as he focused his lens on a plate of what looked like spaghetti marinara – I’ve been around long enough to know it’s near to impossible to photograph that dish well (most seafood looks colourless and that’s before you notice the anaemic squid comes across as being covered in acne) – while a woman hovered slightly outside the frame, muttering. She darted forward every now and then with tweezers to rearrange a tiger prawn or iceberg lettuce leaf.
Seizing an opportunity while a crisp red napkin was being positioned for the fifth time, Fern introduced us. ‘Graeme Grafton, Creative Director. Kate Cavendish, Photographer extraordinaire.’
I was a little flustered. I’d never met a Bachelor before. He shook my hand.
‘Graeme,’ Fern continued, ‘you know Kate’s sister, Robyn?’
He smirked. ‘Once sought-after influencer? Now scrambling to remain relevant?’
Rude. His mop of sandy-blond hair threatened to hijack his dark-rimmed glasses. Blue eyes.
He glared at Fern. ‘We’re on a deadline.’
She waved her hand. ‘Every day’s a deadline.’ Fern turned to me. ‘Graeme’s just returned from Canberra. He judged a national photography competition last night.’
‘Crap! Total rubbish. I disqualified all the contestants. None of their photos were even worthy of a retirement home fête. I would have preferred being locked in a public toilet cubicle for six hours. Without my phone.’
Bah humbug!
Unfazed, Fern indulged Graeme with a wide smile, then said to me, ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ before disappearing out the door.
Graeme shot me a piercing stare. ‘So? You up for it?’
‘I don’t?—’
‘Relax, Katie-Kate. Do as I say. Humour me on the rare occasion I get precious, and you and I will get along fine.’ He flashed a megawatt smile and laughed.
What had I let myself in for?
‘I’m not as volatile as people say, I just can’t abide imbeciles. Hey, Mara?’ He glanced at a woman dressed in a black skivvy shirt, black jeans and black ballet flats, who had just walked into the room.
Mara Milton, the Delicious Bites editor and head chef, was an Aussie icon, revered for her innovative take on traditional cooking. Our very own Nigella Lawson. Her restaurant, Milton , had been awarded three Michelin stars. She’d also been invited to appear on the new season of MasterChef: The Professionals, beginning next February.
Mara tossed him a benevolent smile and strode over to introduce herself.
‘Lovely to meet you,’ I stammered. ‘I was so sorry when Milton closed. It was one of my favourites.’
She smiled. ‘Thank you. I’ll open another restaurant some day, but for now?—’
‘Enough with the love fest, ladies.’ Graeme’s glare was piercing.
Further conversation terminated, he dismissed me with an extensive list of fruit and vegetables and other ingredients he needed immediately for the afternoon shoot. I hurried out of the studio, past a huge open-plan office and, once I’d asked the receptionist for directions, set off to a nearby grocer.
After loading up with assorted green vegetables – peas, beans, broccoli, zucchini and lettuce; berries, cherries – I headed to a hardware shop for lacquer spray, then on to the two-dollar shop, where I bought celebratory baubles, garlands, and other trimmings. I was well qualified for this, given all the costumes I’d created for school and dance concerts over the years, not to mention my extensive knowledge of even the rarest vegetables in the world.
Graeme thanked me by having me make him a cup of coffee. ‘Strong, black, two cubes of sugar. No instant sludge, either.’
I soon found out that as Graeme’s assistant, my first job every morning would be to make his plunger coffee according to his written instructions, which he handed to me on a piece of white palm-sized cardboard with his initials embossed in silver in the top right-hand corner.
My elegant black shoes were going to be my downfall, among other things. I could feel the blisters growing on my toes. I’d thought they’d get me through the day, the week, the month maybe. They were practical… enough. Though in fairness, I’d only worn them once before… to a restaurant, where the furthest I’d walked was the ten metres from the Uber to the chair where I’d sat on my backside for four hours.
I was washing green broad beans when my mobile rang. The alarm at home was going off. Six sensors were beeping, and the security company had phoned the police. I called Matthew, but he was in a meeting and couldn’t be disturbed. Of course. I tried Mum. No answer on the landline, and she didn’t have a mobile. Very convenient. I thought about calling Robyn but quickly came to my senses.
So much for good first impressions.
Thirty minutes later, I arrived home to find a security guard and two police officers hanging out on the front verandah.
‘No apparent sign of a break-in,’ one of the officers told me calmly as he took my keys and unlocked the front door.
As the four of us walked inside, I positioned myself at the rear of the group in case the burglars were still there.
No burglars. Merely animals rampaging hysterically through the house. Why couldn’t Matthew have put Rupert in the backyard and Cleo in her catio before turning on the alarm?
I made my apologies to the police and to the gum-chewing security guy who said, ‘No problem, fills in my day.’
After they departed, I took the opportunity to change shoes. My crippled feet thanked me as I rushed back to the car.
It was close to one thirty by the time I arrived back at Delicious Bites . So far, I’d achieved little more than foot comfort and superfluous set decoration. I was no closer to picking up a camera than I’d been yesterday or the day before.