12

‘I was getting big points for two things that go down well with High Res – loyalty and availability.’ Sam is telling one of the models about her time with High Res. They have wrapped up the shoot in the village near St Tropez and the team is basking on the hotel veranda. In the warm sunshine, others of the crew are standing around having a drink before the mini-bus arrives to take them to Nice, and then home the following morning. The relief shows in the rise and fall of laughter and in the laid-back conversations. Champagne and cocktail glasses sparkle. Below them lush rows of pink, crimson and white bougainvillea surround vineyards ripening while they sleep in the sun. Some lavish god has sprinkled the Mediterranean with a thousand glittering diamonds. Big yachts are resting in the bay.

You could put your shirt on Sam; never lets you down. The Sam brand does what it says on the packet. At the beginning her job was to make sure the models were there on time, book the flights, hire the stylist, get local camera staff if needed, and make the reservations in the hotel. ‘I’m a call girl – a dogsbody,’ she used to joke to Philip when she spoke on the phone to London.

Different now from when she first joined High Res, when she was straight from the Smurfit with an honours diploma – fourth in a class of twenty-seven – with no intention of remaining a dogsbody. She had her sights set on the creative director’s job, but, as a commerce graduate, she was at a disadvantage, since her rivals had come from schools of art and design, or had a background in literature and drama. Still, she had her foot in the door, and she would do anything – be at their beck and call, if needs be.

A blip in the Rome shoot, Sam. Need you to go on the next flight.

Sure.

London, Oslo, the Cliffs of Moher. Wherever. She would jump through the hoops. Having helped to fix the problem, she then waited while the cameraman got the light to his satisfaction, or when the art director and a temperamental photographer were being bitchy about the way a shoot should be done. Jaded from fixing and peace-keeping, she would trudge to her hotel room after dinner.

Sam was drawing a fair weather picture for the model: she was hiding the ruthless streak that meant that she would stop at nothing to get her way.

As when she paid close attention to what Pamela, the creative director, was doing for 80k. She could do it better, so when Pamela went on maternity leave, Sam was asked if she would fill in – on a temporary basis – and for less money. The board admired her attitude: they took a mental note. She had determination and was willing to help them out. Loyal to the company – a good sign.

Sam grabbed the baton and ran with it, and by the time Pamela returned, she had made her mark: she was smart and cost-effective. And most of all – not a pain in the arse, like Pamela could be at times with her snooty English ways. Eventually, Sam edged out Pamela, who left High Res to start up a public rela-tions business.

On the way to Nice in the bus, they chat with the others, but after dinner contrive to be on their own to walk along the Promenade des Anglais, and then go for drinks to a quiet bar away from the hotel.

The crew was doing a final wrap-up of what was her concept in the first place, so she was able to stand back, like someone admiring the house she herself had designed; and had time also to look closely at the faces of the models, who seemed bored until they were called to smile, or stare, or pout. The way the director took control of a model infuriated her: a touch under the chin; a hand around the small of her back to bring her breasts into prominence, as if she were just another item in the miscellany of equipment.

The director cut several times. The photographer wanted more knee showing: the female model was to lean back against the oak tree. The male model, in a dress suit, needed to position his leg between hers. ‘And show off the watch, Ross – that’s the whole fucking point of the shoot,’ the director called out as he pranced around, sizing them up from different angles. As if watching a circus in which she herself was the ringmaster, Sam wanted to slap the director across the face.

In the almost empty bar, she shares her contempt with the model. Some distance away, a woman about her own age, with a strained look, is staring intently at a computer, typing some more and then taking a sip from her glass.

Sam had always liked talking with the model; they had done a shoot in the Lake District, and the Aran sweaters one in Killarney. Now the martini is working its velvety way into their bloodstreams. The mask of restraint Sam wears each morning in the office is slipping, and the reserve she maintains with all professionals is dissolving in martinis: another successful shoot in the can, for which she and High Res will be paid handsomely.

In the background, a muted Frank Sinatra is ‘spreading the news’ about New York.

‘You get weary at times.’ She shrugs. ‘Maybe it’s me.’

‘No,’ says the model, ‘you’re dead sound. We’re there for the sake of a fucking product to be foisted on people. Airheads who leaf through the Sunday supplement and imagine they’ll be transported to a desert island because of some brand of drink we’re supposed to be enjoying. And we’re expected to be all over a self-preening guy who happens to look like George Clooney.’ A smile breaks about her lips. ‘All the drink will do is to rot their liver, and George Clooney, more often than not, is either gay, or a moron who thinks you’re dying to get in the sack with him.’

‘Wow,’ says Sam. ‘Some speech!’

‘I know you’re heavily invested in the business, Sam, but it’s a fucking lie. Enticing some sap to think that she will be changed by wearing what we’re peddling.’

‘Why then?’

‘Why what?’

‘Model.’

‘Yeah, well, this is my last shoot. Going back to teachers’ training college: should’ve stayed there in the first place. A clothes peg. You strut your stuff on the cat walk. Today it’s some brand of watch, tomorrow it’s a bra and knickers. Not for me any longer – no way. In any case, models have a limited shelf life and then you’re for the landfill.’

After two more martinis, Sam is intimating that all is not well with Philip and herself, and how her children are proving to be a handful lately, especially Zara. Her chief source of comfort now is her therapist. ‘I’d be lost without the weekly visit. Same as Mam’s generation went to confession on a Saturday evening, except that my therapist won’t consign me to hellfire if I fuck up.’

‘It helps?’

‘Yes. Things don’t … well … don’t go according to plan,’ she hears herself saying. ‘You know about all the separations, but you tell yourself it won’t happen to you. No, your marriage will be different. You’re so well matched, made for each other.’ She lowers her head, and plays with the olive stick in her drink: ‘I don’t think I’m into the maternal thing that much either. Never was. And I kind of know what’s behind the marriage issue.’

‘Meaning?’

‘The price I’m paying for giving everything to the job. I can’t stop myself now. Like a junkie.’ A weak smile plays about her mouth; she runs her finger up and down the stem of the glass: ‘I owe my soul to the company store. We both sold out. Going to La Salle was supposed to change things. A fresh start.’ She raises her glass: ‘Anyway, I vowed when I joined High Res I would one day – one day become a creative director, and then have my feet beneath the table.’

But she brightens, and both are laughing a lot when they return to the hotel in the balmy night. Across the bay, planes are landing and taking off; the airport lights cast orange streamers on the water, and the scent of rosemary fills the air.

‘Come on, girls, we haven’t got all day’, says Sam suddenly, putting on the high-pitched tone of Desmond the cameraman. She struts ahead, one hand on her hip. Both of them are now in fits. Sam continues to swagger until she stumbles, causing the model to reach out and save her from falling. They hug for a moment in a way that is warm and instinctive.

‘Thanks for the chat,’ Sam whispers into her ear.

The following morning, they sit with the others at one of the breakfast tables. The model is catching a flight for Paris, where she has another shoot; Sam is returning to Dublin with the crew. In the lobby, the air is filled with the faint smell of coffee drifting from the dining room, and with announcements of taxis arriving. Guests are booking in; others are leaving. A stack of bags on a trolley stands to one side of the elevator; the hotel staff, behind the desk, are filling in forms and answering telephone calls.

Sam rests her hand on the model’s forearm: ‘Thanks for listening. We’ll do it again.’

‘Sure, I’ll be in college in September.’

‘Right. Bewley’s. That’s a promise.’