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‘I have a friend who moved here about a year ago, she’s paying three thousand dollars a month for some dive in Brooklyn. And we thought London was a rip–off! New York, I am so ready for you,’ she laughed clapping her hands together.
Tess brought through two mugs of tea and they sat down on the sofa.
‘So how’s the Globe?’
Jemma pulled a face. ‘I haven’t sold one set of pictures to them since you left, not even a fifty–quid red–carpet shot. I suppose you know they made thirty people redundant?’
Tess had heard. It was on days like these that she felt as if she had made the right move.
‘Well, it’s going to be no picnic here either,’ she warned. ‘What do they say about the rich? They’re not like you and me? Well, it’s true. They get up to ten times more trouble.’
‘We can handle it,’ said Jemma. There was such a look of resolve on her face, it made Tess smile – it was if she was preparing to do battle. It was amazing the difference the last two years had made, she thought. Back then, Jemma had been a graduate from Wimbledon School of Art and about to start on a career in fashion photography. They weren’t close at first; in fact it had been Jemma’s sister Cat who was Tess’s good friend – she would only see Jemma popping in to say a glamorous hello at drinks parties or dinner. At that time, Jemma had struck her as a bit prissy and precious about her work. She had just landed a job in Paris as second assistant to French fashion photographer François Mitaud, and was full of her own creativity and fabulousness. Twelve months later, Tess had got a call. Jemma was in trouble and needed her help. Working late in Mitaud’s studio, the photographer had tried to seduce her, Jemma had said no. François wouldn’t accept it and had raped her. Tess had got on the Eurostar the next morning. Jemma’s sister Cat was now working in Canada and her parents had emigrated to New Zealand many years before, so Tess was the closest thing she had to family.
Tess had persuaded Jemma to go to the police, but they were unsympathetic and aggressive, insinuating that anyone who worked in the fashion industry only had themselves to blame. The same day, she had received a phone call from François, threatening that she would never work in the fashion industry again. Against Tess’s advice, Jemma had withdrawn her accusation, but the damage had already been done. Word was passed through the world of fashion that Jemma Davies was a troublemaker and she had returned to London broke and wounded. Tess looked at her friend, feeling terribly guilty. Despite knowing everything Jemma had been through, Tess hadn’t shied away from exploiting her either, and she knew she couldn’t keep it a secret any longer.
‘Listen, Jem, I need to make a confession,’ she said. ‘It’s been weighing on my mind since I got here. Those photos of Sean Asgill at the Venus party that we didn’t use? I wasn’t quite straight with you about why they disappeared.’
Jemma cocked her head to one side. ‘I thought you said it was a legal situation.’
‘It was. Sort of. But the truth is I spiked the story because Meredith Asgill asked me to. I wanted this job, so I gave them the photographs.’
Jemma frowned. ‘So what are you sorry for? I thought you said those photos technically belonged to the Globe, didn’t they?’
Tess nodded.
‘Well then, you stitched the newspaper up, not me. And good for you; the Globe management stitched you up by not giving you the editor’s position when you were clearly the best person for the job. So I figure we’re all about even.’
‘Well, that would be true, but you don’t know the whole story,’ said Tess. ‘The Asgills offered me one hundred and fifty thousand pounds for the photographs at first. I turned that down.’
Jemma gave a low whistle. ‘That’s a lot of money.’
‘I know, but it didn’t feel right. Taking a job with them was easier to accept and I’ve always wanted to work in New York. But I feel bad about denying you that money.’
Jemma shrugged. ‘It wasn’t as if I’d snapped Madonna in bed with the Queen, was it? Then I’d have been really pissed off if you’d swiped the pictures!’
She gave Tess a long searching look. ‘Look, so I might have been able to make a little bit of money, but Tess, without you, I’d probably be in some grotty bedsit in Camberwell on benefits. You have been a good friend to me, that’s all that matters.’
Tess closed her eyes and felt the relief flood through her. She’d only done what she could. After the Paris incident, Tess had persuaded the photo editor at the Globe to give Jemma a few shifts on the picture desk. Through that she had begun to talk to the paparazzi and discovered how much money they could make. Jemma still took her camera everywhere and, one night, shopping for Christmas presents just off Oxford Street, she had seen a little group of shoppers laden with parcels standing around a car. As she pushed to the front, she saw the driver was rock star James Bard – he had hit someone crossing the road. Jemma sold the pictures for ten thousand pounds
. In one sense it was the easiest money she’d ever made. In another, the hardest. Jemma had later told Tess how guilty, how dirty she had felt taking pictures of the scene. But with Tess’s encouragement, she hit the streets as a freelance paparazzo, and the second picture she took was easier, and the third and the forth. She set herself ground rules – she would never take a photo that hurt anyone. At least, no one who wasn’t fair game. Tess smiled inwardly; it was funny how those goalposts quickly changed.
‘Listen, Tess, don’t feel badly about any of this,’ said Jemma, gesturing towards the skyline. ‘Look, I’m here in New York, what could be better than that? I do this job because I love the buzz. Maybe it’s a different buzz than seeing my pictures in Vogue,’ she added with a wry smile, ‘But it’s a buzz all the same.’
Tess nodded slowly. She’d heard Jemma’s stories – three months earlier she’d been run off the road when she’d followed an A–lister’s 4x4 on her moped. The bodyguard driving the car had deliberately smashed into her, leaving Jemma and her bike mashed up on a lonely grassy verge. On another occasion, Jemma had been hit over the head with a bicycle pump by one of London’s most famous theatre actors. Some people might say that the paparazzi deserved it, but no one deserved to be killed or injured.
Jemma jumped up and went over to the window, gazing down with undisguised excitement at the yellow cabs in the street.
‘So, do you think you are going to be in my spare room for ever more?’ smiled Tess.
‘Given half a chance,’ grinned Jemma. ‘Now, are we going to paint this town red, white, and blue?’
*
Matt picked up Brooke the following Saturday at 7.30 a.m. It seemed ridiculously early to go for breakfast, let alone lunch, but then Brooke reminded herself that he was an ER doctor, who had his days and hours out of synch. It must be like having permanent jet lag.
Walking out of her building, she glanced left and right. There were no paparazzi she could see, but netherless she had taken precautions. She’d dressed down in dark indigo jeans, her favourite Stella McCartney T–shirt and white pumps, because her ankle was not yet completely healed. Her hair was tied up and covered with a knitted cap. She had also covered her eyes with a pair of wide black sunglasses; it was a bright sunny morning so plenty of people were doing the same. The night before she had almost cancelled today’s day out, feeling unsettled and guilty meeting Matt with David out of the country. But she’d shaken herself out of it. There was nothing to feel guilty about. Matt was just a friend and she was not going to let David, Tess Garrett, or the paparazzi dictate who she was going to be friends with. Was she supposed to go through life avoiding all men just because she was engaged and famous? Somehow going out with Matt felt like regaining control of her life.
‘Now that’s better,’ smiled Matt, pointing to her sunglasses as she got into his car, discreetly hidden in a side street.
