money for a photography course and camera, and I was going to launch this amazing new
creative career, and it was going to be the start of my new life
Except it didn't quite happen like that.
I mean, for a start, do you have any idea how much a photographer's assistant gets paid?
Nothing. It's nothing.
Which, you know, I wouldn't have minded if anyone had actually offered me a photographer's
assistant's job.
I heave a heavy sigh, and gaze at my doleful expression in the mirror behind the bar. As well
as everything else, my hair, which I carefully straightened with serum this morning, has gone
all frizzy. Typical.
At least I wasn't the only one who didn't get anywhere. Out of the eight people on my course,
one became instantly successful and now takes photos for Vogue and stuff, one became a
wedding photographer, one had an affair with the tutor, one went travelling, one had a baby,
one works at Snappy Snaps and one is now at Morgan Stanley.
Meanwhile I got more and more into debt, and started temping and applying for jobs which
actually paid money. And eventually, eleven months ago, I started as a marketing assistant at
the Panther Corporation.
The barman places a vodka and tonic in front of me, and gives me a quizzical look. 'Cheer
up!' he says. 'It can't be that bad!'
'Thanks,' I say gratefully, and take a sip. That feels a bit better. I'm just taking a second sip
when my mobile starts to ring.
My stomach gives a nervous flip. If it's the office, I'll just pretend I didn't hear.
But it's not, it's our home number flashing on the little screen.
'Hi,' I say, pressing green.
'Hiya!' comes Lissy's voice. 'Only me! So how did it go?'
Lissy is my flatmate and my oldest friend in the world. She has tufty dark hair and an IQ of
about 600 and is the sweetest person I know.
'It was a disaster,' I say miserably.
'What happened? Didn't you get the deal?'
'Not only did I not get the deal, I drenched the marketing director of Glen Oil in cranberry
drink.'
Along the bar, I can see the air hostess hiding a smile, and I feel myself flush. Great. Now the
whole
world knows.
'Oh dear.' I can almost feel Lissy trying to think of something positive to say. 'Well, at least
you got their attention,' she says at last. 'At least they won't forget you in a hurry.'
'I suppose,' I say morosely. 'So, did I have any messages?'
'Oh! Erm no. I mean, your dad did phone, but um you know it wasn't' She tails
off evasively.
'Lissy. What did he want?'
There's a pause.
'Apparently your cousin's won some industry award,' she says apologetically. 'They're going
to be celebrating it on Saturday as well as your mum's birthday.'
'Oh. Great.'
I slump deeper in my chair. That's all I need. My cousin Kerry triumphantly clutching some
silver Best-travel-agent-in-the-world-no-make-that-universe trophy.
'And Connor rang, too, to see how you got on,' adds Lissy quickly. 'He was really sweet, he
said he didn't want to ring your mobile during your meeting in case it disturbed you.'
'Really?'
For the first time today, I feel a lift in spirits.
Connor. My boyfriend. My lovely, thoughtful boyfriend.
'He's such a sweetheart!' Lissy is saying. 'He said he's tied up in a big meeting all afternoon
but he's cancelled his squash game especially, so do you want to go out to supper tonight?'
'Oh,' I say, with a flicker of pleasure. 'Oh well, that'll be nice. Thanks, Lissy.'
I click off and take another sip of vodka, feeling much more cheerful.
My boyfriend.
It's just like Julie Andrews said. When the dog bites, when the bee stings I simply
remember I have a boyfriend and suddenly things don't seem quite so completely shit.
Or however she put it.
And not just any boyfriend. A tall, handsome, clever boyfriend, whom Marketing Week called
'one of the brightest sparks in marketing research today.'
I sit nursing my vodka, allowing thoughts of Connor to roll round my brain and comfort me.
The way his blond hair shines in the sunshine, and the way he's always smiling. And the way
he upgraded all the software on my computer the other day without me even asking, and the
way he he
My mind's gone blank. This is ridiculous. I mean, there's so much that is wonderful about
Connor. From his his long legs. Yes. And his broad shoulders. To the time he looked after
me when I had the flu. I mean, how many boyfriends do that? Exactly.
I'm so lucky, I really am.
I put the phone away, run my fingers through my hair, and glance at the clock behind the bar.
Forty minutes to go before the flight. Not long now. Nerves are starting to creep over me like
little insects, and I take a deep gulp of vodka, draining my glass.
It'll be fine, I tell myself for the zillionth time. It'll be absolutely fine.
I'm not frightened. I'm just I'm just
OK. I am frightened.
16. I'm scared of flying.
I've never told anyone I'm scared of flying. It just sounds so lame. And I mean, it's not like I'm
phobic or anything. It's not like I can't get on a plane. It's just all things being equal, I