Second Chance At The Ranch. Maxine Morrey

      

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       Chapter 1

      ‘Yes! Just like that! More! More!’ Hero Scott turned her head this way and that, lifted her arms up, then down, the movements almost automatic now as the photographer prompted her unnecessarily. Her long dark hair swayed like a glossy curtain as she tilted her chin down further, maintaining the serious look the photographer had demanded for the shoot.

      The studio was lit, almost over-lit, in accordance with the style wanted for the designer’s advertising campaign. Loud music by the hottest current DJ blasted from speakers. Hero closed her eyes briefly from the glare, trying to halt the progression of a headache that had been rumbling in her skull for the last half an hour. Her throat was dry and she turned to one of the assistants hovering around the set and made a quick mime of drinking. The assistant grabbed a bottle of water, undid it and stuck a straw in the top. Just as she stepped towards Hero, the photographer roared.

      ‘What are you doing?’

      The assistant froze, colour immediately flooding her face as she stood, half on, half off the background roll.

      ‘I … erm …’

      ‘You’ve ruined the perfect shot! Ruined it! Where do we find these people, for God’s sake?’ he asked, turning on one of the others hovering around the shoot.

      ‘I’m sorry. It won’t happen again,’ came the reply from a short but perfectly dressed woman, as a vicious glance was sent towards the assistant whose eyes were now brimming with tears.

      ‘I cannot work with such—’

      ‘It’s my fault, Armand.’ Hero’s educated tones rose above the noise, interrupting the photographer’s rant mid-flow.

      Everyone turned to look at the supermodel. She casually tucked one hand behind her, the pose confident yet aloof. Behind her back, her other hand balled into a tight fist.

      ‘I was thirsty and asked her to get me a drink. I’m sorry if it upset your process but I thought you were taking a break for a moment. So, the fault is completely mine, not hers.’ Hero gave the briefest of smiles as she turned back to the young woman and took the bottle from her, placed the straw between glossy, deep-plum-coloured lips and took a brief sip. It wasn’t enough, but Hero knew better than to test this particular photographer. He was well known for his diva-type tantrums and had the ability to end a budding career with just one vicious text. Hero had known him for over fifteen years now, both of their careers blooming at a similar time. Unfortunately, as Armand’s career had blossomed so had his ego – something which hadn’t been all that small to begin with.

      No one spoke. No one moved. All were waiting for the explosion they knew was to come.

      Instead, Armand let out a dramatic sigh and made a Gallic ‘pfff’ sort of noise. Hero met his eyes, the short nails on the hidden hand biting in to the soft skin of her palm.

      ‘Fine. Let her keep her job. This time!’ He held up his finger, highlighting the magnanimity of his decision. Hero nodded, and beside her the young assistant let out a strangled sob of relief.

      ‘OK. Now! Can we get on?’

      Hero dropped back into action as the shutter continued on and on, the music still pounding, her throat still dry and the headache now full blown. Armand had returned to the shoot with even more drama than it had already been infused with. Hero had been there since 5 a.m., having make-up applied, touched up, and completely changed as fashion editors assigned assistants to curate outfits for the shoot. Hero stood patiently, being handed various clothes to try. Belts put on, belts taken off, her body moved this way and that as if she were no more than a shop mannequin. Which, in some ways, she supposed she was.

      The incessant shutter finally ceased as Armand scrolled through a few of the last frames, his thin face becoming even more pinched as he frowned at the back of the camera. Hero took the opportunity to stretch her body, trying to ease the tension in her back and neck as she did so. Glancing across the studio, she smiled as she saw her best friend, Anya, a blonde, willowy Swede, talking to the assistant from earlier. Anya gave her a hug and bent to say something private to her. Whatever it was, Hero was glad of the smile it brought to the young woman. There were days she hated this world. But she knew she couldn’t leave. Not yet.

      Anya glanced up and over at Hero, her beautiful smile and funny double thumbs up making her friend grin and giggle.

      ‘What are you doing?’ Armand’s attention, and ire, was now directed at Hero. She’d protected someone else, but Armand had to be seen to win. She knew the game.

      ‘What is this?’ he yelled, pulling a sarcastic version of the supermodel’s wide smile. ‘I do not want this! I want serious. Sultry! Mysterious! I do not want Coco the Clown! If I want to photograph clowns, I will go to the circus! Yet today I am wondering if the circus has not been brought to me!’

      The photographer blustered on through his tirade. Hero knew Anya was trying to catch her eye again, but this time she refused to meet it. Instead, she blanked her expression, applying the metaphorical mask of disinterest she wore in these, and many other, situations now. They wouldn’t get to her, she told herself. At least they wouldn’t see, even if they had.

      ‘Hey!’ Anya hurried over to her friend once the photo shoot finally ended, and gave her a hug. ‘You OK?’

      Hero nodded. ‘Yes, fine, thanks. You know what he’s like.’

      Anya rolled her eyes in agreement.

      ‘Is that assistant all right?’ Hero asked as Anya waited for her to change back into her own clothes.

      ‘She’s fine. I know her boss pretty well and had a gentle word.’

      Hero flicked a glance up as she sat and tied the lace on her designer boots. ‘Gentle?’

      Anya shrugged, then grinned. ‘The poor thing. Armand can be so awful sometimes. He thinks far too much of himself.’

      Hero stood and pulled her hair into a low ponytail before pulling a baseball cap on. They had dinner reservations at a restaurant’s opening night and, now that the photo shoot had run on far longer than it was supposed to, she didn’t have time to go home and change. The make-up was much heavier than she would normally wear for something like this, but it would have to do now. The cap lent an air of casualness to her look and she knew, like so much in this world, if she acted like she was confident about it, no one would know the truth.

      ***

      ‘How’s your head?’ Anya asked as they stepped out from the Tube carriage and into the mass of life that was a London Underground station at rush hour.

      ‘It’s going off, thanks.’ Hero smiled.

      The women exited the station within a swarm of others before managing to disentangle themselves from the crowd to walk the short distance to the restaurant. Anya tugged on her friend’s sleeve to slow her.

      ‘What’s the matter?’

      Anya looked at her. ‘You.’

      Hero frowned.

      ‘You