I draw a bright red fake zit on the end of the bride's
nose and, satisfied, sit back to admire my handiwork.
Sally, who happens to be walking by at the time, stops
behind me and places a hand on my shoulder. "Liv,
sweetheart, if I've told you once, I've told you a
thousand times.You're supposed to be taking them off, not
putting them on."
"Yes, boss." I sigh and, without turning around, pick up
the computer's pen once more and run it over the palette
lying on the desk. I keep right on drawing on the picture
that's up on the screen — the bride in her hotel room
surrounded by a bevy of bridesmaids.This time I add a pair
of horns over the bride's tiara and fangs over her newly
whitened teeth. Still behind me, Sally leans over and
takes the pen out of my hand. Within seconds, little red
dots appear on the bride's eyes. I look up and laugh.
Sally goes over to lean up against the steel counter that
runs the length of one of the studio walls. "Couldn't help
myself.She was a particularly silly cow, remember?"
I don't remember. "I give it three years, max," Sally
says, coming back over to take one last look. I glance up
to see three fingers, then,'Coffee?" she says brightly,
taking off for the kitchen, her lavender sandals making
little clip-clop noises on the polished floorboards and
her glossy,perfectly highlighted blonde hair waving behind
her.
"Yes, thanks," I say, watching as she makes her way around
the tiny galley-style kitchen, filling the pot with coffee
and putting a few biscuits on a plate. I try one last time
to place the couple before I give up. "I don't know why
you make these bets with yourself. Thirty years, three
years, three months…you never find out if you're right or
not."
Sally stops what she's doing and looks at me.'And why
shouldn't I make those bets? I do it with my own
relationships. May as well gamble on everyone else while
I'm at it." She inspects the lip of the mug she's got in
her hand, then rubs it with one finger. Remnants of her
favourite lipgloss, most likely.'I probably am right, you
know. I've always been spot-on with all my husbands.Three
and a half years with Simon, two with Tom, seven months
with Luke…"
I try not to laugh out loud at that. All My Husbands — it
sounds like a good name for a daytime soap. And with
Sally's exes there'd never be a lack of characters to
bribe/maim/kill off/lapse into a coma only to return in
the fifteenth season with amnesia.
I get up and have a stretch before going over to retrieve
my coffee from the bench.The two of us carry our mugs over
to the sitting area and I take the yellow armchair while
Sally stretches out,putting her feet up on the red couch.
She offers me the plate of biscuits, one already sticking
out of her mouth, and groans as she munches away.'See what
you've got me doing? I can't have a fag, so I'll eat half
a packet of biscuits instead."
I take a biscuit.'You can have a fag." 'Only if I beg.And
only outside." 'Hey,it's your rule! I'm only supposed to
be enforcing it, remember?'A few weeks ago Sally had
decided she was giving up the tar sticks of death (her
words) for good.She'd decided the best way to go about it
was to give me,one of the only non-smokers she knew,any
packet she bought.Then,if she wanted a cigarette,she'd
have to give me good reason why. I'd handed out
approximately ten so far,mostly after she'd fielded phone
calls from her third ex-husband regarding their divorce
settlement.Ten seemed an awfully small number seeing as
before this she'd been a pack-a-day smoker.I was starting
to wonder where she was keeping her stash.
"I don't feel like begging. Not on a Friday afternoon.
Change of topic.You geared up for next week? Been taking
your guarana?"
I groan through the biscuit that's in my mouth now. I
don't need reminding that it's Valentine's Day next
Sunday.And not just because of my failed love-life. In the
wedding photography business, Valentine's Day means big
business. Especially since for the last two years the day
has fallen on a Friday and a Saturday.This year it's on a
Sunday.The weekend again.Weekends, of course, are always
the busiest days of the week for wedding photographers.
But when the fourteenth of February falls on a weekend?
Let's just say Sally Bliss Photography has been booked out
a year and a half in advance.
Sally laughs at me.'Look at your face! I can never believe
the change in you around Valentine's Day — you're such a
grumpy-arse. Stop frowning or you'll line for good.Take it
from me,there are just some miracles L'Oréal can't perform
when you get to my age, however much you're "worth it"."
I stop frowning. "That's better." Sally puts down her
coffee.'Anyway, Valentine's Day — just smile, think of the
money and remember our unofficial motto…"
We both put cheesy grins on and lift our hands to our
faces as if holding invisible cameras. Click,
click. "Those who can't, photograph," we sing-song in
unison.And we're definitely two girls who can't, I think
as I lower my hands again. Sally can't stay married, I
can't…well, I can't be bothered.
There's silence as we both return to our caffeine in-take
greedily. I think we're both feeling a lack of energy.As
Sally mentioned,it's Friday afternoon and I've got that
drained feeling that people all over the city are sharing.
"Oh," Sally says, making me look up from my mug. "Don't
forget about Monday. Mrs Batty-Smith's funeral.'And with
that we both look over at Mrs BattySmith's desk in the
corner and stare. "We'll have to order a wreath," she
adds, before pausing to bite her bottom lip.'Are there any
grey flowers?"
"I don't think so." 'I'll order something later.'She
glances at her watch. "Bugger. I've got to get going." She
takes one last sip of her coffee and pushes herself up off
the couch.
"Engagement shoot?"
Sally nods, running her hands down her black capri pants
to smooth out the creases. "I won't be back this
afternoon, so if you could be a darling and close up…" She
winks at me. "I've got a big date tonight."
"Have you just? I thought you were taking a break from
men? Waiting till a decent one came along?"
"Well, I was…" 'For a week?" 'I gave up smoking! I need
some kind of a hobby to keep me busy." She grabs her diary
off the coffee table and has a quick flip
through.'Fabulous.The park at the end of the world again.
Just what I need." She sighs as she stuffs it in her bag
and heads for the door.
I give her a sympathetic look as I get up and take my
coffee over to the computer.The park at the end of the
world is the bane of our lives. Sally includes an
engagement shoot session in all the higher-priced wedding
photography packages,and the couple get to choose the
location. Bliss's studio is a few minutes out of the
city,but somehow just about every couple manages to choose
the park at the end of the world as the location for their
engagement shoot.
"Have fun," I say as the door slams behind my employer.
She gives me a wave through the glass and mouths Ta ta.
I sit back down at my desk and undo the zit, horns, fangs
and little red eye-dots on the computer screen. Just as
I'm about to make a start on the bride's flabby underarm
(by personal request), I catch a glimpse of yellow and
look up to see Sally speed off in her Ferrari. Smoking.
So that's where she's been keeping them, I think. And,
speaking of broken promises, I can't believe she's going
on a date tonight! Just two weeks ago, when divorce number
three finally came through and Sally was crying poor,she
told me in her most sincere voice that she was taking a
leaf out of my book and was going to try being single for
once. Finally she was swinging around to my way of
thinking — men were just too much trouble. Much easier to
take up the ice-cream education style of dating that I'd
adopted (sitting in front of the TV with a new 500ml
flavour to sustain you for the evening — a litre if it had
been a particularly hard day). Either way, Sally's single
girl life hadn't lasted long. Less than a week, if you
figured in when the guy had actually asked her out.
I turn my attention back to the flabby arm, which really
isn't flabby at all, and edge out the tiniest sliver from
underneath. Not too much, not too little. Just enough.
Well, maybe a tiny bit more, I think, sitting back in my
chair to take a look. I would if it was me.
As hard as I'm trying to concentrate as I move the pen
back and forth over the palette, I can't help but keep
catching sight of Mrs Batty-Smith's desk out of the corner
of my eye.The desk Sally and I had both been staring at
before. Still de-flabbing, I think about Monday and how
strange it will be to go to her funeral. Strange because I
know so little about her.
What I do know about Mrs Batty-Smith has been pieced
together over time, gathered from the other wedding
photographers around the city. Everyone knows one thing
for sure — Mrs Batty-Smith was the wedding photographer to
book in the sixties, when she was about my age. She wasn't
Mrs Batty-Smith then, however. Back then she was Miss
Smith and she was the best, commanding the highest fees
anywhere in the country, photographing all the top
weddings.
Celebrities, politicians, you name it — she photographed
the day.
It's the more personal information that everyone's hazy
on. I've been told that her husband left her at the height
of her career, that this caused her to fall apart a touch
and it was all downhill from there.Ten years or so after
that she stopped photographing altogether. She never
remarried, I know that much for sure, and she spent the
rest of her days doing the books for all the wedding
photographers around town.
My eyes drift away from the computer screen and I sit and
stare at her desk.She was a funny old thing,Mrs Batty-
Smith, crotchety as all get out, though she'd talk for
ever about her eighteen cats.If you tried to get onto