Spitting Feathers. Kelly Harte

arrangement for me to go to his restaurant the following day. And if he liked what he saw, he casually told me, he might well consider using me on his book. I was naturally cock-a-hoop about this, but since I hadn’t yet seen the results of my efforts I wasn’t exactly counting my chickens. It didn’t stop me indulging in a mental shopping binge, however, not to mention a few choice imaginings about being up close and personal with a popular TV chef. I’d be the envy of housewives everywhere.

      I was a third of the way through the second delicious cinnamon-topped cappuccino when the conversation became a little more intimate. I was telling him about the problems I’d been having with certain females lately—no actual names mentioned—and he said it might have something to do with what he called my ‘refreshing openness’.

      ‘That’s not a euphemism for crass insensitivity, is it?’ I queried wryly, and then related the tale of Miss Chilli-Pepper.

      ‘Sounds like good advice to me,’ Taylor said with a shrug. ‘Anyway,’ he added after a moment’s thought, ‘why do you mind so much if people don’t like you?’

      ‘I don’t know, but I do,’ I said, surprised at my answer. I did know, really—but, nice as he was, I didn’t think it was time to tell Taylor the sad story of my early life.

      ‘Well, I like you,’ he declared, and the creases around his eyes deepened.

      I felt my face colour slightly, and steered the focus back to him. It was obvious that things had worked out well for him professionally since he’d arrived in the city, so I threw in a few subtle questions about his social life.

      ‘I haven’t really had time for much relaxation,’ he said. ‘Sure, I know people, but there isn’t anyone—well, you know…special.’

      I found myself frowning as it struck me as odd that a man who was lusted after by thousands of women didn’t have a girlfriend. Of course he could be gay, I supposed briefly, but it wasn’t the signal he was giving out. I couldn’t state with any certainty that he’d been flirting with me, that he was attracted in the fancying sense, but I did get the impression he was quite looking forward to meeting up with me again, and I couldn’t help but be flattered.

      It was getting on for two o’clock when I took my leave, having reluctantly declined a third cup of coffee. Which was just as well, really, because three large cups of full-fat milk would have been getting on for the equivalent of another chip butty, and that would have meant forgoing yet another meal if I was to stand any chance of hanging on to my ‘neat little figure’. The reflection of which kept catching my eye in the windows of shops as I practically skipped down the road back to the tube station.

      I was still on a high when I stepped off the train at Hampstead—still feeling hopeful about the future despite the uncomfortable proviso that I still had a few hurdles yet to overcome. I’d picked up the developed photographs on my way to the station, but I hadn’t dared look at them yet for fear of spoiling my excellent state of mind. A lot was now riding on the shots having turned out well, and I was anxious to delay any disappointments. However, having arrived at my destination early, and with half an hour’s heel-kicking time on my hands, temptation got the better of me.

      Miss Chilli-Pepper had been nice enough, now that we’d got over our small misunderstanding, but for some reason dark thoughts had crept into my head. I began to imagine that I’d detected a hint of smirk on her face as I picked up the package, which I now felt certain had been directed at the quality of my work. I tried to adopt a What-does-a-would-be-model-know? sort of stance, but I didn’t have the confidence to sustain it, and eventually, at the end of the street where Mrs Audesley lived, I decided to put an end to all the suspense.

      There was quite a strong breeze going on, but it was warmish and fine, so taking out the pictures seemed safe enough as I perched on a low brick garden wall and delved into my bag. I was starting to have serious doubts now, because without any special lighting I’d resorted to flash, and that can look a little bit amateurish. Still, I tried assuring myself as I lifted the flap of the first envelope, if all else failed I still had my famous watermelon pic to fall back on.

      I took a deep breath and slid out the prints, and the photo on top cheered me a bit. It was of a plate of bacon and egg, set on one of the Formica tables and with one of Felix’s customers, knife and fork eagerly poised, grinning toothlessly at the camera. It wasn’t a great photograph, but it was good. Encouraged, I thumbed through the rest and my heartbeat gradually slowed to its regular pace. The market shots weren’t bad either, especially the ones of the French cheeses, which a genuine Frenchman brought over from France every week.

      ‘Brick Lane market,’ somebody said in my ear, and I jumped so much the photos nearly shot out of my hand. I looked up to see a youngish man leaning on the gatepost next to me. He wasn’t bad-looking, with rich brown, longish hair and a cute smile, but he had a damn nerve looking over my shoulder, so I gave him my best haughty expression.

      ‘Not bad,’ he said now. ‘Are you a professional?’

      This warmed me slightly to him, I suppose—but, flattered or not, I still wasn’t about to engage in cheery banter with a rather scruffy, ill-mannered stranger. He was wearing old jeans with mud on the knees, and a red and white striped rugby-type shirt that was clean enough but raggy and frayed at the edges. I slipped the photos back in their envelopes and glanced at my watch. It was five to three. Time to be off. I stood up and to my surprise, but not yet alarm, the stranger fell into step beside me.

      ‘We seem to be going in the same direction,’ he said nonchalantly.

      ‘Not for long, I trust.’

      ‘You’re from the North, aren’t you?’ he said, not put off by my disdainful tone for a moment. ‘Me too. From Black-pool, originally, but I’ve been living down here for a few years now.’

      I recognised the familiar accent now, and I almost dropped my guard for a moment—until he spoilt it with his next words.

      ‘I take it you’re new in town.’

      I didn’t like him pointing out that it was so obvious, and since he was now following me down the path to Mrs Audesley’s house I was getting a bit nervous at his persistence.

      ‘I don’t think that’s any of your business,’ I said, and then I stopped and looked at him sharply. ‘Look, if this is how people do their pick-ups round here, forget it. I’ve come here for an important appointment and I’d like you leave now.’

      ‘Can’t do that, I’m afraid,’ he said with a shrug of his admittedly broad shoulders. ‘And, no, this isn’t the way that we “do our pick-ups”, as you so charmingly put it. It’s got the same name here as it has in the North. It’s called being friendly.’

      But I was still stuck on the first bit of what he’d said. ‘What do you mean, you can’t leave?’

      ‘I can’t leave because I too have an important appointment with Mrs Audesley,’ he answered lightly.

      I was so busy feeling defensive and foolish at the way he put so much emphasis on the word ‘important’, as if he was making fun of me, that my confusion didn’t kick in for a moment. Then, when he spoke again, it hit me big time.

      ‘And I also happen to live here.’

      I felt a bit queasy then, as I glanced over the railing to the gardener’s flat in the basement.

      ‘Oh,’ I said, trying to make amends with a silly smile as the penny dropped, ‘you must be the gardener, then.’ He wasn’t what I’d imagined at all. I’d being expecting an elderly retainer type, with a cap and dentures.

      He looked amused at my discomfort. ‘And I guessed who you were when I saw you sitting on the wall.’ He glanced at his wristwatch. ‘It’s precisely three o’clock,’ he added coolly now, ‘and our Mrs Audesley sets great store by punctuality.’

      4

      ‘Ah,’ Mrs Audesley declared when she opened the door, ‘so