Chapter Eighteen
Aurora
‘Put your hand here,’ the photographer points to my hip. ‘And look back at me.’
I do as I’m told. And then I move in a variety of different ways.
It’s instinctive now. And a bit boring. But it pays well.
So I make the face I always make – the one my agent said was ‘the one’ – and hope for the best. I’ve done a few of these shoots over the past few months.
Since I dropped out of uni I’ve been taking on anything going, almost to prove to those who advised me against it that they’re wrong.
This one’s a lingerie campaign in a studio in East London.
They’re a new brand. Aren’t they always?
And the photographer feels rather rookie, but I’m going with it.
He’s trying to be arty, and for a few of the pieces they’ve brought in an oversized home-made sandbox for me to lounge in, which is a little mad.
Liv thinks this weird job is glamorous. Sometimes she’s right.
Today she’s wrong. Massively wrong. This is my least favourite job so far, but I keep professional, do as I’m told.
I glance again at the sandbox. It would have been cheaper to go to a beach surely, even with their plans to CGI the rest of the sand into the shot.
I’m not entirely convinced it’s going to work, but needs must and it’s paying fairly well for a day-shoot.
I’ve got used to these jobs being hotch-potch, and while I wait for my career to really lift off I’m sticking to my guns and saying yes to everything.
I’m not sure my agent is being as selective as she’d normally be.
But maybe that’s because I told her I’d say yes to everything, and I’ve no longer got the time constraints of university weighing me down.
She’s earning good money from me. I’m earning good money from me.
A message lands on my phone from Ben while we pause for a few minutes, and I stand in my next outfit while around me an assistant tries to smooth out the rest of the sand in the box. The rookie photographer is talking about his vision, and I’m standing in the smallest underwear I’ve ever worn.
Lunch? Ben asks.
I wish I could. I feel this one’s going to drag on.
Tell them you’ve got plans.
I don’t have plans, I type.
You do. With me. Right now. Come on.
I can’t. Hopefully not too long.
Don’t forget we’re at my parents’ this weekend, Ben replies.
How could I forget? The delightful Chrissie and David, who can’t make up their mind if they should loathe me even more because I’ve dropped out of university in order to model or if they should be delighted because I’ve got a job that pays well and my face is in a middle-class country-clothing catalogue that Chrissie shops from, making me sort-of-but-not-really recognisable among her inner circle and being something to brag about to all their friends.
They’re stuck somewhere in the middle, unable to land on a particular side of the Is Aurora’s job embarrassing? fence.
Yes, I’ve not forgotten, I reply. I’m looking forward to it.
I’m not sure why I lied, as I’m certain Ben senses how I feel about his family – the same way he must sense how they feel about me.
I don’t know why we’re even doing this weekend, but it’s Chrissie and David’s twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, so there’s a party and I’m expected to be there.
I’ve even brought them a bottle of expensive champagne and had a special label made, with their names and date of anniversary on it, because Ben wasn’t aware he had to purchase a gift for his own parents, so I thought I’d better do it.
Sometimes, with Ben, he’s so happy-go-lucky it’s as if he’s not got much room in his head for anyone else – other than me, which is lovely.
But imagine not buying your own parents a twenty-fifth-anniversary gift.
It’s not like he’s not got the money, either, given the fact they’re still happily bankrolling him.
I do wonder what he’ll do when he graduates, and if he’ll manage to get a job without their support, or even with it.
If not, would they still fund his lifestyle?
I am curious about that. I don’t dare ask, though.
After everything my mum’s done for me over the years, I’m only too happy to be able to give her a couple of hundred quid here and there.
I’d really like her to go part-time and enjoy a few hours for herself, but she insists she loves working.
But then so do I, so it obviously runs in the family.
‘OK, we’re ready,’ the photographer calls over and I’m summoned towards the sandbox.
I groan internally. And think of the money.