Page 64 of Shout Out To My Ex

‘Right,’ says Cass, ‘we’d best be off – our car is due any minute now.’ The team help us load up and soon we’re on our way to a photographic studio just north of Central London.

Poppy’s there when we arrive but, thankfully, Leo isn’t, giving me time to get my bearings and calm my building nerves before he does. But even sans Leo, the studio is thrumming with activity. There are three hair and makeup stations, aphotographic assistant walking about a light meter, and several technicians moving lights and reflectors into position. Across the studio, three models, who are only wearing under garments, are trying on Leo’s shoes. Interesting.

We’re met by the sort of person you can tell organises for a living – a twenty-something woman wearing simple, yet stylish, clothing and sporting a slick not-a-hair-out-of-place bun and a makeup-free face. She’s even wielding a clipboard.

She introduces herself, but as nervous as I am, I don’t retain her name. She signals for two people to relieve us of our garment bags, which are taken directly to the racks on the other side of the studio, where another team begins unpacking them. Clipboard woman instructs me to head over to hair and makeup.

‘I’ll stay here, Elle,’ says Cass, indicating the sofa where Poppy has set up shop, a tablet in one hand and a mug of tea in the other.

Ooh, tea.

‘Um, excuse me, would it be possible to have a cup of tea?’ I ask clipboard woman.

She lifts her head and telepathically summons an eager-faced girl who can’t be more than fifteen and is probably on work experience. The girl peers at me eagerly.

‘Um, tea, please. White with one sugar.’

‘I’ll take one too, please,’ says Cassie. ‘The same.’

The girl disappears behind a stark-white curved wall. In fact, the entire space is white, including the floor. I wish I’d brought sunglasses.

Clipboard woman clears her throat and when I meet her eye, she says, ‘Hair and makeup.’ She’s not being rude – not at all – but if sheweren’twielding a clipboard forNouveau, keeping everything running smoothly and everyone in check, I suspect she’d make an excellent secondary school teacher.

I head towards hair and makeup, where two of the scantily clad models are now being coiffed and painted. I’m greeted by a smiling older woman, who reminds me of Nana on our mum’s side. She introduces herself as Sylvie.

‘Now, love, are you one of the designers or one of the models?’ she asks, and I know right away that Sylvie is a good egg.

‘Just one of the designers,’ I say, climbing onto the empty chair beside her. Tall chairs, even ones that have a footrest like this one, are not made for people of my stature. I appreciate that Sylvie neither attempts to help nor calls attention to my considerable efforts. When I’m seated, she stands behind me and makes eye contact in the mirror. She leans in close, bringing with her the fragrance of lilies.

‘Never say “just” when referring to yourself as a designer, love. If it weren’t for designers, none of the rest of us would be here.’ She adds a wink, setting me further at ease. ‘Right, I assume you’ve been briefed on the concept for the shoot?’

‘Er, no, actually. We were asked to email photos of the looks we’ve brought, but we weren’t told anything about the concept.’ This isn’t my first photoshoot, of course, but even if it were, it wouldn’t matter. Each photographer has a distinct approach.

Sylvie consults a sheaf of papers on the table in front of her, as if reminding herself of what she is supposed to do with me. She lifts page one and scans page two, a slight frown on her face, then lifts page two and scans page three. This is not instilling confidence.

I look over at the models who are being made up – or rather, made under, as the makeup artists seem to be working towards a no-makeup look – essentially, the opposite of the dark brows and bold lip my models wore down the runway last week.

‘Wait here, love,’ says Sylvie, leaving me.

The work experience girl arrives with my tea, but Sylvie’s departure has wound me up even more and I’m terrified I’ll spill the tea down my front. I let it sit there, cooling, as I crane my neck to see who Sylvie’s talking to. She returns a minute later with a tall, slender woman of about fifty, who has cropped grey hair, a lean lived-in face, tan-coloured skin, and dark-blue eyes.

‘Elle Bliss,’ says the woman with a warm smile, ‘I’m Tally.’

Oh my god,that’swhy she looks so familiar. I am being photographed by Eleni Talbot – AKA Tally – AKA one of the best fashion photographers on the planet. How did no one tell me this?!

‘Er, hello,’ I reply, silently willing myself not to vomit on her shoes – two-toned Oxfords in tan and white, by the way.

‘Sylvie says you weren’t briefed on the shoot?’ It seems to be a rhetorical question, but I answer anyway.

‘No, no I wasn’t. Is there something specific I should know?’

With the way Tally hedges, my nerves rapidly mutate into full-blown terror.

‘Sophia,’ Tally calls out across the studio. Clipboard woman appears almost instantaneously. In a low tone, but not low enough that I don’t hear, Tally asks, ‘Do you know who was responsible for briefing the designers?’

Sophia inhales through her nose the way some people do when they’re being challenged.

‘I was. I emailed the briefs to the two additional designers yesterday, I’m sure of it.’ She takes a phone out of her pocket and sets it on the clipboard, scowling intensely as she taps away.

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