Chapter 7
CHAPTER 7
W hen I walked into the studio on my second day, Graeme was in full flight with Mara.
‘I asked for green grapes and sparkling frigging mineral water, Mara. Not green grapes and still frigging mineral water. There’s a difference, you know. The assistants are imbeciles. I won’t shoot until I have the right water.’
‘Yes sirree, captain.’ Mara saluted, and Graeme stalked out of the room.
‘You’ll get used to working with Graeme,’ she said, noticing me creeping behind her.
‘Will I?’
‘Probably not but do as I do and ignore him… and when that fails, ignore him anyway. With Simone injured and several others on annual holidays, I’m all about multi-tasking and doing what I can to ensure a seamless flow. Graeme’s a pain, but unfortunately, necessary.’
I nodded.
‘And a word of warning about napkin colours: always agree with him. It’ll make your life easier. In addition to being a pain, Graeme’s completely obsessive. ’
‘He’s got a certain way about him.’
‘Thinks he’s a world conqueror.’
‘I don’t think , Mara, dear, I know.’ Graeme appeared out of nowhere. ‘Kate, where did you study?’
‘Sydney College of the Arts with Jacques Miller.’
‘Should have guessed. His methods don’t work in the magazine industry. Banging on about natural light – what a joke. Dead now, isn’t he?’
I couldn’t tell whether he was joking or serious. ‘I don’t think so,’ I said, though I couldn’t be sure; I’d been out of the loop for years.
‘Really?’ Graeme said, glaring at me. ‘Are you only interested in photographing in natural light, too?’
‘If there’s a choice, I’d prefer not to use artificial lighting, but in a studio, you have to.’
‘And the work that comes out of a studio, Kate,’ Mara said, ‘would you agree it’s not exceptional to see every shot well done?’
I hesitated. ‘I’m… I’m not sure.’
‘Technically at least,’ Mara continued, ‘once the lighting’s been determined and the camera’s positioned on the tripod?—’
‘So anyone can do it?’ Graeme’s cheeks were blazing. ‘A monkey, for example?’
Mara smiled. ‘Oh, Graeme, you might need to train the monkey for an hour.’ She paused. ‘Maybe two.’
To be fair, with food photography, lighting was everything, or almost. Making a two-dimensional image look as three-dimensional as humanly possible usually came down to lighting.
Fern whizzed into the studio, phone to ear, smiling. ‘All getting along, are we?’
‘Great,’ I sparkled, feeling anything but. However, I could take inspiration from her, a woman who had it all. The confidence. The enthusiasm for life.
She handed Graeme an invoice to sign and breezed out again.
Don’t go, I inwardly shouted. I felt safe when Fern was around because, truthfully, I wasn’t sure I was cut out for this.
Exhaling, I took in my surroundings. Concrete floors, stainless-steel benches, and the smooth white walls upon which Graeme’s huge and vibrant canvases hung. Rustic bowls bursting with vivid multicoloured tomatoes hung on one wall, a five-metre fried egg covered a back wall, and a bright orange cut butternut pumpkin dominated another. The images were striking.
At the fried egg end of the studio, Mara arranged several desserts. While the preparation and cooking took place in the kitchen down the corridor, the finishing touches were added here. At the other end, the all white end, Graeme muttered as he set about hooking up the Hasselblad to a Mac – way beyond my experience, but I was trying not to let it show. Several cameras lay nearby. A darkroom for monochrome printing was off to one side near a bank of computers and huge colour printers.
Near Graeme, I spied the infamous wobbly ladder, the whole reason I was here in the first place. I happened to be at the right (or wrong) place – the swimming pool – at the right (or wrong) time, when Simone, the assistant photographer, fell off that exact wobbly ladder and broke her ankle.
Fern knew I had no experience with food photography – an ex-newspaper photographer taking mostly outdoor shots, filling shadows and dodging reflections, making the transition to stylised food photography? A huge leap. Not only was lighting an issue, but it was hard work. Cooking shows had a lot to answer for. Regardless of how appetising the cuisine looked on MasterChef , you barely had minutes before food (any food) looked like yesterday’s garbage – fried food became greasy, ice cream melted, sauces congealed. It’s a nightmare.
But Fern was obviously desperate, and now, here I was, desperate to prove I could photograph anything thrown at me. That is, when finally given a chance to pick up a camera, whenever that might be.
I aspired to be like Fern. She seemed to breeze through most things, and I bet she didn’t have to contend with her adolescent daughter’s boyfriend wearing pornographic T-shirts. She wouldn’t lie awake at night agonising over the spreading cellulite on her buttocks, the multiplying crow’s feet, or her sagging breasts.
‘So, are you up for it, Mara?’ Graeme asked.
Her eyes visibly protruded. ‘Up for what?’
‘Some slap and tickle under the table. What do you think? It’s Friday, for Christ’s sake. Let’s shoot this frigging shit so I can get the hell outta here. You may not have a life, my dear, but I certainly do.’
‘You have no idea how truly charming you are, Graeme.’ Mara slammed several plates on the bench and walked out of the room.
He threw back his head and laughed before following her. I stood in the middle of the stark silent room and considered whether their little show had been for my benefit.
‘Hey, I know you,’ came the voice of my dreams, interrupting my worries that the pavlova’s whipped cream would start to melt. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Arnaud? I didn’t recognise you without your soccer shorts on,’ I said, then blushed.
With wild curly black hair, and sporting a three-day growth, Arnaud was wearing a black polo shirt with dark faded jeans and black work boots. He looked rather bohemian and had a rugged sexuality about him – nothing like the soccer coach I knew. But he was definitely the man I went to bed with last night. My body shivered at the memory.
‘And, in answer to your question, it’s my second day as a photography assistant on Delicious Bites . Just a couple of weeks, helping a friend.’
‘Graeme Grafton?’
‘Yes, well no. His boss, Fern McLeod. And to tell you the truth, I have no idea what I’m supposed to do. Food photography is new to me. All I seem to be doing is running errands and putting out fires. There’s been no camerawork so far.’
‘Ah, join the club. I write for Action Sports . I know how to play soccer but writing about it, in English? Well, this is new for me, too.’
This day was getting odder by the minute. Arnaud was working here, in this very building, as a writer and resident football pro? I hadn’t realised how privileged Angus’s team was. No wonder the parents took the club games so seriously.
Still, I wasn’t sure if having Arnaud so close was such a good idea.