‘Ooh, exciting,’ says Tatiana. ‘How many did you do?’
‘Eight.’
‘Okay, so you’re not thick, then.’
Gemma feels a bit mournful. ‘Most of my friends did ten. And my friend Hattie did thirteen.’
‘Not all at once!’
‘No. She did two last year,’ she says. ‘My mum was pissed off with me that I didn’t, too.’
A tiny hiatus. Something about the mention of her mother has caught their interest.
‘I only got seven, of course,’ says Tatiana, and there’s more of a hint of and now look at me about the way she says it. ‘So … sixth form?’
Julia starts shooting her again.
‘They want me to,’ she says gloomily.
‘But you don’t?’
She pulls a face. The prospect of going back to school, back into having her day divided up by the ringing of a bell, makes her glum. She longs for life to start properly. To no longer be stuck doing what her parents say because they’re the ones with the money.
‘Darling,’ Tatiana looks up at Julia, ‘I don’t suppose there’s any chance of a glass of fizz, is there?’
‘Darling, of course!’
Julia puts the camera down and opens one of the cupboards that line the wall behind the desk. Inside is a fully stocked bar. A row of the sorts of branded alcohol her dad and Caroline keep at home. A collection of glasses sparkles under the spots inset in the ceiling. A black leather ice bucket, a set of chrome bar-keep’s tools. She opens a little fridge and brings out a bottle of Krug. Collects three flutes and brings them over.
‘I assume you’ll be joining us?’ She flashes a charming smile.
‘I … ’ Is this another test?
Tatiana laughs. ‘Oh, darling. We won’t tell if you don’t!’
Julia pops the cork and fills the glasses. ‘After all, we have something to celebrate. Just chew some gum on your way home.’ She hands her a glass. It is full almost to the brim.
‘So what are your ambitions, Gemma?’ Tatiana holds out her glass to clink and puts it to her mouth. She doesn’t purse her lips the way Gemma usually sees women do when drinking from a flute; but nothing escapes as she tips champagne between her lips. If Gemma’s mum tried that, it would be all down her front.
Gemma takes a sip. It’s unlike anything she’s tasted before. Not like the fizz she’s drunk at weddings, not like the sour stuff her parents used to open at Christmas. A million miles from that carbonated plonk Naz swears by – prosecco. It’s dry, but not the sort of dry that makes you pucker. And the bubbles are tiny. There – definitely there – but not-there. Like a ghostly memory of bubbles on her tongue.
‘I don’t know,’ she says reluctantly. She’s so used to her dreams being pooh-poohed, she doesn’t really want to expose herself to another round.
‘Well, obviously you want to be a model,’ says Julia.
‘Well, yes,’ she says. Braces herself and adds, ‘Maybe an actress more, though.’
Both women smile. ‘Yes, good,’ says Tatiana. ‘I can see that.’
‘To be honest, you’re a bit on the short side for modelling,’ says Julia. ‘Though I’m sure there’s work for you. While you establish yourself.’
‘Catalogues and that,’ says Gemma, and takes another sip of the lovely, lovely wine.
They both laugh. ‘Oh, darling! The Beech Agency isn’t in the catalogue market!’ says Tatiana.
‘It’ll do you no harm, though,’ says Julia. ‘A bit of modelling. Spot of spokesmodelling. Wearing people’s collections at social things. You’d be surprised how much the designers sell that way, rather than at shows. Going to a few parties. A lot of buyers like to see the collections on real people rather than beanpoles. And of course, good clothes show you right off. We know lots of people in showbiz, don’t we, Tat?’
‘Can’t get away from them,’ says Tatiana.