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I physically shudder when I foolishly read the words again. This person doesn’t even know me, I tell myself. This is my usual mantra when I read something negative. I scroll on to the next message because I’ve found the best response to nasty messages is no response at all.
As quickly as the disturbing feelings welled up inside of me, they are pushed back down. And when I read the next positive DM from a young girl who wants to be a model one day, it’s soon forgotten. This last campaign is a very public national one. You don’t get much bigger than a billboard in Times Square and one on Sunset Boulevard unless it’s another Vanity Fair cover. No, I’m hoping the next Vanity Fair cover I’m involved in will be as the photographer. It’s there on my five-year business plan I completed yesterday. I’m a believer in manifesting those goals.
I scroll through a few more positive comments, some making me laugh out loud. Maybe I am getting some enjoyment out of this spike in my social media reach. I’m still pondering this when my cell flashes with an incoming call from Katie. I settle back against the headboard of my bed, stretching my legs out in front.
“Hi, Katie.”
“Hi. Is that my famous friend who is on a billboard in Times Square?”
I laugh. “No sorry this is her PA. Allie’s too busy only taking calls from influencers and eligible billionaire bachelors … Oh yeah, that’s right you’re a publishing heiress. I guess I can spare you a few minutes.”
She laughs along with me. “It’s good to know you’ve got your priorities right. And speaking of billionaire bachelors, how is it going with my darling brother?” Katie asks.
“Oh, stop it. You know I don’t mean him,” I answer too quickly.
Her laughter filters down the line. “Tell me, is everything hectic with the campaign release?” she asks, moving on to a new topic more readily than I expected.
“It feels odd that all those years I’ve dreamed of national campaign exposure like this and the week I do my last photoshoot, I finally get it.” It still all feels surreal. I knew it was going to be a big advertising campaign, but the reality of a giant-sized picture of me in Times Square is hard to handle.
“Hunter sent me a video of your billboard. You look amazing, girl. It’s bucket list stuff, my friend, and I’m so proud of you.” Her words make my heart swell.
“Thanks, hun. Now I’m onto the next bucket list item, sought-after fashion photographer.” I fill her in on my latest plans to find a small studio. I’ve got a couple of appointments booked for later today to view some options.
My friends are all so supportive, but I get the feeling Katie isn’t just calling to congratulate me again. She already did that the day the billboard went up, then followed it up with a massive bunch of flowers. We chat a little more about her latest weekend visiting Sarah. Sarah lives in Bath, a couple of hours by train from London and the two of them catch up every few weeks. I should surprise them and gatecrash the next time. It’s a pipe dream though with my schedule busier than it’s been for a year.
Circling back, Katie asks, “How is Logan doing?”
“Come on, Katie, don’t pretend you don’t speak to him nearly every day.” I roll my eyes, even though she can’t see me.
She laughs. “True, but you know he hates talking to people, even me. And then it’s usually about business or something to do with my budget. He never tells me what’s going on between you two.”
Funny, Logan had no problems talking to me last night for nearly an hour. I was reading in the living room when he came in and flopped down onto the sofa. He ended up telling me about his day and I showed him the studio spaces I’m going to visit today.
I know Katie won’t stop asking until I give her what she wants. “Fine. I don’t want to kill him in his sleep anymore or steal his remote or do anything else horrible to him. We’re getting along just fine. You could say we’re almost friends.”
“Really? That’s great. But Dana said you were furious with him the other night for ruining your chances with some guy at Shorties.” I roll my eyes again, glad she can’t see me. So that’s what this call was about though I’m surprised it’s taken her this long. She’s usually a lot quicker at tracking down some juicy gossip.
“The guy was trying his best lines on me, unsuccessfully I might add, and Logan stepped in. He was just grumpy because I was meant to be getting the drinks and I was taking too long.” I know this isn’t quite how it went, but now that Logan has apologized and we are friends, I don’t want his sister to say anything to him.
It’s so hard trying to explain the relationship between Logan and me to my best friend when he’s her brother. Especially as most of the time I wouldn’t even be able to work out what categorization I could put us in.
Maybe we were frenemies and now we’re friends. Or maybe we are nothing more than roommates.
***
Exhaustion has me slumping back against the elevator walls as it whizzes me up to the seventeenth floor. This setting up a business from scratch is hard work. The good news is I think I’ve found my new studio. I did a walk-through with Jacques on FaceTime, and he agrees that the small warehouse space, with amazing natural lighting, wood floors, and pockmarked red brick walls is ideal. It even has a tiny closed-off office in one corner with an adjoining bathroom. Sure, it needs a lot of work to clean it up and put in new cabinetry, but then it will be perfect. A blank canvas just waiting to be transformed into a cool photographic studio. When I become more established, I’ll look for something bigger, but for the moment this will work.
Opening the door to the apartment, a delicious aroma instantly hits me and my stomach rumbles in appreciation. I was so busy today I didn’t even have time for lunch, and it feels like my fruit yogurt for breakfast was so long ago it could have been yesterday.
I drop my things in the hall and follow my nose toward the kitchen where the rich scent of roasted tomatoes, onion, and garlic is coming from. But nothing prepares me for the sight I find. Logan barefoot in T-shirt and sweats, standing in front of the industrial-sized gas stove, stirring a bubbling pot of goodness that smells tasty. Is there anything sexier than a man cooking, I think not.
Logan looks over his shoulder. “Hi, Sunshine. Hope you’re hungry, I’ve cooked enough chili to feed an army. Or my brothers.”
“Are you expecting guests?” I ask, still confused and surprised to see Logan cooking like he’s some kind of domestic god. I guess it’s feasible that he knows how to cook, I just haven’t seen him show any signs of being capable of it in the last four weeks. Also the family rumor is that he burns everything he attempts to make. Seems like that urban myth has just been busted.
“No, just us,” he tells me. “Can you open the bottle of red wine and pour a couple of glasses?”
“Sure, let me just pick up my jaw off the floor.” He turns fully in my direction, and I see for the first time he’s wearing a full apron. From the back, it looked like a simple black one, but on the front it has My Happy Face above a photo of Grumpy Cat.
