About a Girl (14 page)

Despite my best efforts to avoid it, I caught my reflection in the huge window behind the table. Hair looked OK, dress was a little bit bright, but the lights were dim and the sun had almost set. Everyone looked better at sunset. See how much I knew about lighting? I was definitely a natural photographer. Just then the window slid open and a man stepped out.

‘Vanessa Kittler.’

Oh. Of course.

It was the man from the beach.

He walked round the table with an easy grace, dressed in perfectly fitted jeans, bare feet and a white shirt that set off a disgustingly good tan. He had an English accent with a transatlantic lilt, but he obviously hadn’t spent a lot of time in the UK over the past few months, unless that golden glow was a sunbed tan. And I really hoped it was, because that would make him a complete dickhead and that would distract me from how very handsome he was.

‘Hello.’ I cleared my throat, stood up, held out my hand and made a concerted effort not to knock anything over. ‘Nice to meet you.’

‘Oh, we’ve met, on the beach this morning? You don’t remember?’ He sat down in the seat opposite me, ignoring my outstretched hand. Hmm, rude. I wished I had a presentation to give. I was definitely a PowerPoint person. Without it, I only had my mouth to rely on, and my mouth was stupid. ‘You dressed for dinner. How thoughtful.’

‘I didn’t know how formal it would be.’ There was a slight stammer in my voice and I felt every inch of my skin burning. I wanted to slap myself. And then him. And then myself again. ‘T-shirt and knickers seemed a bit casual.’

‘Gutted.’ He reached over the table and pulled a sweaty bottle of white out of a silver wine bucket and poured himself a glass. Didn’t even offer to pour me one. ‘I’m Nick.’

‘Nice to meet you.’ I couldn’t stop staring. My blood was up and I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to slap him or shag him. It was not my natural state. I was very confused. ‘Again.’

He inclined his head very slightly. ‘So. Vanessa.’

‘Yes?’ I waited for his follow-up but nothing came.

After almost a minute of silence, I realized Nick wasn’t asking me a question. He was just fucking with me. Instead of filling the air with polite and meaningless small talk like normal people, he just sat there holding his wine glass close to his lips, a small smile threatening to make an appearance on his face. I pushed my champagne glass as far away from me as possible to avoid chugging the whole thing just for something to do. Silence made me nervous. Attractive men made me nervous. Unanticipated situations made me nervous. I was fucked.

‘So how long have you been out here?’ I asked, looking past my dinner companion and into the house. It was a ghost town. A cool glow lit up one of the windows on the top floor for just a moment, but it flickered out almost as soon as I noticed it. ‘Did you get in today?’

Nick didn’t answer me. Instead his smile broadened and he sipped his wine. My breaking the silence meant he had won ? it was written all over his face. I pressed my lips together in a tight line and forbade myself from speaking again. I would not say another word. I would just sit here and look at his self-satisfied grin. And his crinkly light blue almost grey eyes. And the perfectly toned forearms that were peeking out of his rolled-up shirt sleeves. I was a mug for forearms and crinkly eyes. It all came off a bit Daniel Craig as James Bond, but with fewer physical beatings and marginally better hair. There was no point pretending otherwise ? he was hot. But not my type. My type was, after all, pretty specific.

‘So you’re staying in one of the cottages too?’

The words were out before I realized it. My mouth was such a traitor.

‘I can’t believe we haven’t met before.’ He spoke with a slow, steady voice and I knew right away why he was such a good journalist. Between the baby blues and the slightly gravelly but desperately sure-of-itself voice, I couldn’t imagine anyone holding out on him in any way, shape or form. ‘I know you by, well, reputation.’

‘As a photographer?’ I asked.

‘Sure,’ he replied, unable to keep from laughing. ‘I know your reputation as a photographer.’

Brilliant. I’d escaped my shitty situation in London and stranded myself in a tropical paradise with a hot, rude man who thought I was a slag. And as much as I considered myself a feminist, I couldn’t really blame him. Vanessa was, to be fair, a bit of a slag. Silence seemed like my best defence, so I reached over to my champagne, tried to sip slowly, and prayed for dinner to come out quickly. I was starving.

‘You think you’re up to this job?’ Nick leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. ‘Seriously?’

‘Do you think
you’re
up to this job?’ I bounced the question back, classic holding technique. ‘Seriously?’

‘Yes,’ he replied without missing a beat. ‘I’m the best at what I do. That’s why I’m here. Are you?’

‘If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t be here,’ I said as confidently as I could. ‘Would I?’

‘You’re here because Dan Fraser, Oliver Voss, Erica Ishugruo and at least five other photographers, as far as I’m aware, were already booked and this was the only week in the next six months Bennett would give us.’ Nick didn’t flinch, didn’t pause, didn’t look away. ‘You’re here because your agent has the editor of
Gloss
in her pocket. You’re here because no one else could be.’

‘Right. Brilliant.’

That was me told.

‘And just repeating my questions back to me won’t work,’ he said, rolling up his shirt sleeves a tiny bit further. ‘I’m a journalist. I ask questions professionally.’

‘Right. Brilliant.’

I pressed my lips together, making my mouth into a terribly attractive tight little line, and stared back at the man across the table. He was really, really starting to piss me off.

‘It would have been easier if I had taken the photos myself.’ Nick’s voice was low enough that I couldn’t quite tell if I was supposed to be able to hear him or not.

‘You’re a photographer as well as a writer?’ I asked with forced brightness.

He raised an eyebrow and stared me down.

‘No.’

Breathing out forcefully, I rubbed my thumb along my fingernail, feeling the ragged edges where I had bitten it on the plane. Didn’t help. I prayed for Kekipi to bring out some food for me to shove in my face before I put my fist in Nick’s. His gaze was unwavering and I was completely unsettled. Mostly because he looked like he was really enjoying himself. The more awkward he could make things for me, the happier he became. I grabbed a bread roll from the basket in front of me and tore off a chunk, turning towards the horizon and ignoring the fact that I couldn’t seem to sit still while I was looking at him. Stupid vagina – it wasn’t the boss of me.

‘Tell me about yourself, Vanessa.’

Of course he waited until I’d stuffed a fistful of bread into my gob before asking me the world’s most annoying question. I chewed, coughed, swallowed and held a hand in front of my face.

‘Not much to tell,’ I replied. It wasn’t a lie, per se. Compared with the people he must have interviewed, I had to imagine that even a newly minted compulsive liar such as myself wouldn’t be terribly interesting.

‘Favourite book?’

‘Um. I don’t know.’

‘Favourite record?’

‘I like all sorts.’

‘Favourite piece of art?’

‘Do most people have a favourite piece of art?’

‘Favourite film?’

‘
Top Gun
,’ I answered in an instant.

‘That’s your boyfriend’s favourite film,’ he replied just as fast. ‘What’s your favourite film?’

I replied with a stony stare. My turn not to play fair.

‘Oh.’ He sipped at his wine again. ‘Recent break-up, is it?’

With absolutely no idea how to respond, I shoved another pawful of bread into my mouth and chewed slowly. My forced silence didn’t seem to have the same impact on Nick as his had on me. In fact, it appeared to have completely the opposite effect. He was grinning right at me.

‘Dinner is served.’ Kekipi strode out of the main house followed by a small army of waiters, each one laden with a platter of joy. I let the sight and smell of the food distract me from Nick’s ridiculous questioning and tried to decide what I would eat first while wondering whether Bertie Bennett always had a small army of waiters at his beck and call. I assumed he did. ‘Can I get you anything else?’

‘We’re fine, thanks, Kekipi,’ Nick answered for both of us before I had a chance. Another thing to go on the List of Reasons to Punch Him in the Face. ‘This looks spectacular.’

‘
Mahalo
, Mr Miller,’ Kekipi replied with his professional smile. ‘We’ll just be inside. Please ring the bell if you need anything at all.’

Nick did not tell Kekipi to call him Nick. Dickhead.

‘Wait, there’s a bell?’ I couldn’t quite believe it when Nick held up a small golden hand bell.

‘Fuck me,’ I breathed.

‘Maybe after dinner,’ he replied, carefully placing the bell back on the table far out of my reach while I choked on absolutely nothing. I blushed and quietly pinched myself under the table to check this was actually happening. What an absolute dickhead.

For as long as I could possibly manage, we ate in silence. I piled mounds of pork, chicken and fish onto my plate and attempted to balance it out with a respectable amount of salad for appearances. I was never going to eat that salad. After my second helping of kalua pig, I caved.

‘Have you met Mr Bennett before?’ I tried to keep my voice light and casual and not give away the fact that I’d spent almost as much time trying to work out what was a safe question to ask as I had trying not to spill a load of pig down my dress. I hoped I’d done a better job of the question than I had of getting food safely into my mouth.

‘No.’ Thankfully, Nick decided to play nice and just answer. ‘He doesn’t give interviews. This is kind of a big deal.’

‘Have you interviewed lots of fashion people?’ I pushed on while I was on a roll. And eating a roll.

‘Not many.’ He shook his head, looking as though he’d eaten something unpleasant, which I knew for a fact he hadn’t. ‘I talk to people with actual stories. There are very few fashion people with real stories.’

‘Surely everyone has a story?’ I asked. ‘Like how they say everyone has a book in them?’

He shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose before replying.

‘Not everyone does have a book in them. Some people don’t even have a Post-it note.’

‘It’s just something people say,’ I sniffed, wiping greasy fingers on my heavy napkin and feeling guilty about the greasy finger marks. ‘You really don’t think it’s true?’

‘You do?’ Nick asked. ‘Take you, for example. According to you, you don’t have a favourite book, a favourite band, a favourite movie. What story would you write?’

‘For all you know, I am a fantastic writer,’ I said, starting to get a bit angry again. Fuelled by the overconfidence of far too much food, I slapped the table. It hurt. ‘How do you know I’m not writing an amazing novel about a dystopian society where a reanimated Henry VIII falls in love with a squirrel?’

‘Well, look at you and your completely insane imagination.’ He laughed a little and for the first time it didn’t sound patronizing, even if his words were. ‘I should get your back up more often if you’re going to come out with gems like that. And you should write that book. I’d read it.’

‘Whatever.’ I was annoyed. He was a game player and I hated playing games. That was one of the many wonderful things about Charlie. He was easily as handsome as this douche nozzle, if not more handsome, but he didn’t mess people around. He never fell for girl tricks and he never said anything just to provoke a reaction. Not that I was thinking about Charlie.

‘You’re really not going to tell me about the break-up?’ Nick asked, pushing a bowl of vegetables at me. ‘It was that bad? You should try those, they’re good.’

‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ I replied, heaping some carrots on my plate and pretending they were still healthy even if they were dripping with butter. ‘There’s nothing to talk about.’

‘So there was a break-up.’ He flashed his eyebrows up and down and I stared at my plate. Tricksy bastard. ‘How about a deal. I’ll ask you a question and then you can ask me a question. Sound fair?’

‘Not really. You’re a professional question asker,’ I replied tartly, ‘and I’m a photographer.’

‘Well, I can tell you’re not a wordsmith, anyway,’ he rallied. ‘Professional question asker?’

The wordsmith in me winced. One week out of my job and I’d already lost my grasp on the English language.

‘Question: where do you live?’ I asked before I lost my temper.

‘I have a flat in London and an apartment in New York, but I wouldn’t say I live anywhere,’ Nick replied. ‘I do like a girl with an appetite. Nice. My question: what do you value most above anything else?’

‘Oh, I, um …’ I was stumped. And still trying to work out if he’d just called me fat.

‘You don’t get to think, you just have to answer,’ he said, clicking his fingers over and over and over. ‘Come on, Vanessa.’

‘My friends.’ I shook my head. ‘My best friends. Best friend. Amy. My turn: how old are you?’

‘Thirty-six,’ he said. ‘I know, I look great. Question two: what’s your proudest achievement?’

‘I …’

‘No hesitation.’

‘Getting my first job before I graduated.’ I waved my hands in the air, trying to slow myself down. ‘Before I was a photographer. Full-time photographer. Me again: do you have a girlfriend?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I don’t,’ Nick replied. ‘And that’s two questions for me.’

I wasn’t nearly as good at this game as he was. Over the next ten minutes, I answered every one of his abstract, nonsensical questions. I told him what colour I felt like, I told him I would never move back to where I grew up, I told him I preferred birthdays to Christmas and preferred the city to the country, the country to the beach and that I had never, ever cheated on anyone. All I managed to learn about Nick was that he was born in London, he had lived in New York, Paris and Argentina, that he didn’t have a driving licence, was a night owl rather than an early bird, and his favourite colour was blue. He was right ? I was not a professional question asker.