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Chapter Twenty-One

It’s strange being in this club during the day.

It feels flatter, like some of the life has been sucked out of it.

Dust rises in clouds from the golden tables, and the harsher light reveals the velvet booths are ripped and stained.

I tiptoe across the sticky floor and notice that by day, everything looks more like a shabby stage set than a neon pleasure palace.

“I wish I hadn’t seen this,” I say to Sebastian as we enter. “It spoils the magic.”

He smiles. “You see magic in the most unusual places, don’t lose that special talent.

” It turns out to be the nicest thing he says to me all day, because as soon as the photographer enters the club with his camera swinging round his neck, Sebastian morphs into someone else.

Someone I don’t know. Or, actually, I do know: his television persona.

They’re high-fiving each other over the lamest of jokes, and practically comparing penis sizes as they exchange pictures of each other’s cars on their phones. It’s gross. Verity agrees.

“There’s a certain type of man who thinks their greatest qualities lie not in what they do, or even in what they own but in who they can prove they’re above.

All they care about is status,” she whispers to me, eyeing the pair, while she applies my blusher.

“At this age, it seems all well and good. They attract the string of girls, they reap the perks of looking a certain way and falling for the false promise. But, trust me, I’ve met their type when they’re older and they’ve never learned the true value of life, of friendship, of fun…

And, once the looks are gone and the money begins to feel a little sleazy, they pretend they’re still living it large but, on the inside, they’re crying. ”

“How do you know? They could genuinely be happy,” I say.

“Because a make-up artist sees it all, hun, once the door to the trailer is closed, the men let it all out, sobbing to me about being all alone. No real friends, no solid relationship. Your Sebastian needs to be careful, as they’re all nice, underneath it all, they’ve just been sold the lie that bravado and being as manly as possible is how they’re meant to behave. ”

“He’s not my Sebastian,” I correct.

“Sure, he isn’t,” she winks. “But it’s the same with your Damon, in fact all the men you fall for seem to share those same qualities. And they view you as a prize, a shiny trophy to show off…”

“It’s good to be a prize though, isn’t it?” I’m trying not to sneeze as she dusts even more powder on my cheeks.

“You are a prize, the greatest there is. But what I mean is, men like that see women as raffle prizes, disposable things to show off and discard. You want someone who will treasure you for who you are, not how many front pages you’re on.

Someone that can look at you and think ‘there she is, my one who shines.’”

“Do you have that?”

Verity chuckles. “I realised long ago that I can do that for myself, I can tell myself in the mirror, smile and shine, baby! And this world – for all its fun and sparkle – this is my work. My real life? That’s with my husband and kids. They keep me sane.”

“Can you really have both - a life like this and a family?”

“It’s not easy,” Verity says. “Life’s a juggle and sometimes it means working out what my priorities really are.

Sometimes I feel pulled in different directions.

But so do my single friends, so do my friends without kids.

It’s about carving the life you want, hun, not the life anyone else tells you to want.

” With that, she spritzes my face with a setting spray and yells to the stylist that I’m ready.

Shoots are so much easier now, I’ve obviously adjusted to them but also, there’s no more struggling into clothes, or having to awkwardly ask for different sizes or help with the zip.

They just glide up and, most of the time, the outfits look good on me.

Today I’m trying an array of bandeau dresses in metallic colours – copper, gunmetal and burnished gold.

The shoes, as is always the case, are platform wedges which I wobble on.

The television creates an impression that I am always dressed like this but, truthfully, I much prefer to be casual – in shorts, trainer pumps and t-shirts.

I only really started dressing this way in the house, often borrowing Samantha’s stuff (back when I mistook her for a friend) as I saw that was what Damon seemed to like in girls.

His head was always turned by the glammest, most tanned girl in the club.

“Whit whoo,” Sebastian wolf-whistles as I wobble onto the set.

He then whispers something to the photographer, who gives him this wicked grin and a high five.

What did he say? They’re doing solo shots with me first, and, as always, I move between different poses, trying my best not to look too startled by how bright the flash is.

Photographers tend to coach you through it, telling you what to do, complimenting you and generally trying to get the best angle possible.

The shoot begins how it normally does, a few casual instructions: “hand on your hip, that’s right, babe” and “lean forward a little, nope, too far, back a bit” – that sort of thing.

I’m used to it, this is my job now so I just do as the photographer, stylist and art director say and trust that they will capture the best shot for their story.

But, as the solo shots with me continue, I begin to feel more and more uncomfortable.

He asks me to get down on the floor so he can take shots from above.

I’m close enough that I can smell his sweat and feel the heat radiating off his crotch.

I look up at the camera, and the photographer says, “oh, she does look good from this angle.” I look over at Sebastian, quizzically, a sort of ‘what the fuck’ look, hoping he’ll tell the photographer to stop dicking about and that it’s time for our couples shots. But he doesn’t.

“Um, I’m not sure…” I say to the photographer but my head is swimming, I’ve not eaten anything since that kebab last night, and most of that ended up, deliberately, in the toilet.

Maybe this was part of the plan? Is it supposed to be an edgy shoot?

I’ve never known the weekly mags to be particularly edgy before but perhaps this is all part of a grand plan. I begin to crawl.

“That’s it, girl,” the photographer growls, and I hate the way his voice sounds.

Ever since I arrived he’s treated me like I don’t matter, that I only exist as a public spectacle to be ogled.

I think of Verity’s words, and try to picture him in ten or twenty years, all alone and sobbing in a trailer.

But it doesn’t work. As that’s in the future, and this is now.

“Has anyone got a tie? I’m thinking maybe we could use it like a lead? ”

That’s it. “I don’t like this,” I say, trying to assert authority from where I am, low on the ground.

“I don’t think I was told about this.” Fliss usually attends shoots with me, but as this one is near home, I told her not to bother, as it would be so far to come and I knew what I was doing.

If she was here, there’s no way I’d ever have ended up on the floor.

“What?” he sneers. “You’re happy to cavort in bed on TV but you’re not willing to do this? This is art, sweetheart. Don’t fuck with the vision.”

I look around for the art director of the magazine but he’s nowhere to be seen.

Neither is Verity. It’s just me and this jerk of a photographer, even Sebastian seems to have scarpered to the loo.

No one is on my team. I need to stand up, face this man eye to eye and tell him “no” but these damn platforms and the tightness of the dress mean that every single time I try, I wobble back down to earth again.

“You had some wine already, have you?” he smirks, as I try to get up one more time.

I want to call out for Sebastian to come and help me up but I just know, given the way he’s acting today, he won’t come to my rescue.

God I hate him! Who behaves like this? I find myself hungry and cold on the floor, suddenly desperate for Leo to be here.

He’d know exactly what to do. But, I’m on my own.

I have to muster my inner strength. With a roly-poly ninja move, I roll onto my side and manage, with only one near-miss tumble, to make it to my feet.

“I don’t think this is very arty,” I say to him. “And I’m sorry, but I’m not doing it.”

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry about,” Verity’s stormed in, the art director trailing behind her, looking sheepish.

“Found this one getting stoned round the back, and I’ve got the mood board.

” She brandishes it in the photographer’s face.

“Where on here does it have her crawling around on all fours?”

“I don’t have to follow that to the letter, I have my creative freedom.”

“There’s creative freedom and then there’s being a DICK,” Verity says as Sebastian slopes back in, now he doesn’t have to save the day.

“I’ve worked with you before, I know exactly what you’re like and, believe me, this power trip you’re on won’t last much longer.

Word’s spreading and it’s spreading fast. So, if I were you, I’d take some nice shots of this gorgeous couple, as you’ve been asked and paid to do, and then get us all a very welcome early finish time. Understood?”

The art director is swaying from side-to-side at the back. He just nods and says, “ermm yeah just do what the ladies say.”