‘A glorified launch party for the show,’ Dev explained. ‘We invite a range of people with an interest in the exhibition, plus as many journalists as we can get, to come and see it before it opens to the public. Everyone drinks champagne, nibbles on canapés and says howmarvellousit is. Which, of course, it will be, hahaha. If we’re lucky, #NoFilter gets mentioned as the hottest ticket in town inHello!magazine, as well as coverage inGraziaand all the weekend papers.’
‘Wow,’ Rachel said, a little taken aback.
‘You’ll be there, of course,’ Dev went on. ‘Everyone who worked on the show will come along on press night, as well as all of our models.’
‘Speaking of whom …’ Tom put in, pulling an iPad out of his backpack. ‘Let me show you the latest snaps.’
He perched on the top step of the staircase that led from the high point of the gallery to the floor below, then patted the space next to him, beckoning for Rachel to sit. She squeezed into it, ending up pressed far closer to Tom than she was used to. He smelled lemony and clean. It was the scent that still lingered on the sweatshirt he’d given her.
Tom flipped through a selection of images featuring an almost unrecognisable Alyssia Ahmadi. She was grinning artlessly into the camera – a far cry from her usual smile, which was the smug grin Rachel associated with macrobiotic types who insisted positive thinking was the key to success, while blithely letting their wealthy parents pay the mortgage.
Tom had photographed Joey Nixon outside, which in itself was noteworthy. His followers rarely saw him without headphones or a console control pad in his hand. In the exhibition images he was surrounded by nature: trees just coming into blossom, a moody-looking River Thames and – in one photo – a black Labrador that had shaken off its owner, bounded into shot and licked Joey’s face.
Rachel felt like she might burst with admiration. ‘These are amazing, Tom,’ she said. ‘It’s like they’re different people, but in a good way.’
‘Want to see some of the shots I’ve done of the normals too?’ he asked, grinning.
‘Ugh,’ Dev groaned. He was at their backs, looking over their shoulders. ‘I’ve been bracing myself for these. Some of the mental health advocates look like vagabonds – overgrown beards, ill-fitting tunic tops and hideously dehydrated skin. I’m slightly worried they’ll ruin the whole aesthetic of the show. Are you absolutelysurewe can’t airbrush them?’
‘Of course we can’t,’ Tom laughed, scrolling through shots of doctors, campaigners and politicians. None of them were as beautiful as the influencers, but he’d managed to catch every face looking open, honest and good.
‘I love these too,’ Rachel said. ‘How is it that we’ve known each other four years, Thomas, and it’s onlynowI’m realising you might be a genius?’
He shrugged and smiled at her. ‘I guess I hide it well.’
‘All right, you two,’ Dev said from behind them. ‘I could live without the love-in. These are solid, Tom. They’ll fit in fine with the client shots.’
Tom heaved himself back up to standing, then reached for Rachel’s hand to help her do the same. ‘I’ll send you low-res copies of the final shots we select for the show, Rach. You can use them while you’re working on the text. Just shout if there’s anything else you need.’
Rachel replied, ‘Cool,’ then followed Tom as he began making his way down the gallery’s four flights of stairs.
‘Well done, both,’ Dev said as they approached the front door. ‘Things are shaping up nicely. Before I forget, Tom: there are one or two influencers I’m still trying to get on board. If we have last-minute additions, we might have to accommodate them as part of photo shoots we’ve already booked.’
‘Not a problem,’ Tom said. ‘Just keep me posted.’
‘Will do. Right, I’m off. Wedding planning,’ Dev moaned. ‘I ask you: how can it be that there are six hundred people coming to celebrate my marriage?’
Rachel’s mouth dropped open. ‘I don’t think I evenknowsix hundred people.’
‘Knowing them isn’t the point,’ Dev said. ‘Invitingthem is. A good chunk of them I’ve probably never even met – like Aditi’s old piano teacher from when she was eleven, plus her husband. And they’ll jolly wellcometoo. At least I’m not the one paying for the samosas.’
He shook his head as Rachel and Tom laughed, then bustled away.
‘What are you up to now?’ Tom asked. ‘Fancy lunch and a fruit beer? That bar you liked is only round the corner and theirpommes fritesare spectacular. I can fill you in on all things Oscar-related.’
‘Honestly, I’d love to,’ Rachel said, and meant it. ‘But I’ve been drafted in for wedding duty this afternoon too. Anna’s asked me to meet her in Muswell Hill. I think we’re looking at dresses.’
‘Ah. Cool. Well, have fun,’ Tom said. ‘By the way – the next big influencer photo shoot isn’t for a while, but I wondered if you might want to come along? It’s the session with Sophie French, and she seems very keen on being reinvented.’
‘Definitely! Let me know when it is and I’ll make sure I don’t double-book myself.’
‘Will do. Enjoy this afternoon. And Rach …?’
‘Yeah?’
He was looking at her gently – with an expression that was kind and concerned, but somehow managed not to seem patronising.
‘It’s going to be okay, you know, all this wedding stuff.You’regoing to be okay. I promise.’