‘Still waiting for those two little ticks to turn blue?’ asked Malcolm as he stomped across the stage with his stepladder ready to check the lighting rig.
I hastily swiped from WhatsApp back into camera mode and tried to act as if I’d been taking pictures all along rather than spending the last ten minutes staring at my phone screen willing a response to appear.
‘I don’t know what you mean, Malc. Now, can you hold still for a second so I can get a picture of you in action for my behind-the-scenes blog post?’
Malcolm rolled his eyes, whether at my deliberate evasion or at being made to pose for marketing material, I couldn’t tell. I snapped a couple of shots of him setting up the ladder, and hoped he’d let the subject go. But as soon as I finished with the pictures, he fixed me with a sympathetic look.
‘Ah, Amy hen, I don’t understand it, a lovely young woman like yourself all alone and working late on a Friday night. It’s not right. I hear Colin from the box office is back on the market if you’re looking for a date.’
I tried not to shudder. Creepy Colin, as I privately thought of him, had a tendency to address my chest rather than my face, plus I’d never seen him do a jot of work, despite always claiming to be run off his feet.
‘Cheers for the thought, Malc, but no thanks. I’m perfectly content being the last woman standing in my friendship group.’
It was totally true, but while I valued the independence that came with being a single pringle, I couldn’t help but miss the fun that I used to have with my pals before they all coupled up and started forgetting to return my calls. I’d taken to filling the gaps in my social calendar by putting in some unpaid overtime at work, hoping my colleagues would admire my apparent dedication to the job. It was disappointing to discover that it had made them feel sorry for me instead.
‘Mankind’s loss is the Variety’s gain,’ said Malcolm in a tone which suggested that he still thought Creepy Colin was a better prospect for me, pervy layabout or not. ‘Well, as you’re here, could you hold on to the bottom of the ladder while I switch out the gels? We had a phone call from that comedian chappy’s agent blaming the lighting for half the audience walking out last night. Apparently the “unflattering blue tones” put them off him. Nothing to do with the fact that he’s criminally unfunny, of course.’
‘Naturally,’ I agreed. ‘At least none of the reviewers I invited bothered to turn up. We could do without yet another gig getting bad press. We’re beginning to get a reputation.’
My workplace, the Edinburgh Variety, had started life as a Victorian music hall with some of the biggest performers of the era treading its boards. Sadly, its days of being packed to the rafters with enthusiastic audience members applauding elite entertainers were long over. Now we lurched from one August to the next, praying that the proceeds from the Edinburgh Festival Fringe month would keep us going throughout the rest of the year. Hard as I tried to drum up business in my role as the marketing and communications manager, more often than not at least half the seats in the venue remained empty.
Malcom frowned as he leaned back to check that the light was still at the correct angle. I wished I wasn’t holding the ladder so I could get a few more pictures for the socials. The low pre-show lighting was very flattering, casting a gentle glow on the gilded plasterwork and rich velvet curtains which framed the stage, while allowing the tattier details of the auditorium to hide in the shadows. It was a shame there was never much of an audience to appreciate the theatre’s faded beauty.
‘Right, I think that’s all I can do for now,’ he said. ‘Let’s clear the stage and allow the audience to come in. I’m sure both of them will be wanting to sit down. I hope they aren’t too embarrassed that they’re going to be outnumbered by the performers.’
‘Shh,’ I said, smothering a laugh. ‘You know what the acoustics are like. Please try not to make tonight’s act feel too depressed before they’ve even taken to the stage.’
‘Hmm, from what I heard during their rehearsal this afternoon, they’re exactly the type to thrive on being miserable. Do you think the boss has ever considered that it’s the terrible choice of acts which is causing our issues, rather than anything else?’ Malcolm didn’t bother waiting for a response. ‘Right, I’d better get to the booth. And as for you, Ms Cameron, please tell me you’re not going to hang around for the rest of the night? You’re setting a dangerous precedent with your voluntary overtime. We don’t want to give management ideas. You’re not working this weekend, are you? Go and hit the town, come back with some stories to entertain us with on Monday.’
‘You know me, I’ll do my best,’ I said, trying to sound convincing. To my surprise and right on cue, my phone pinged, and my stomach lurched with a hopeful feeling I forced myself to ignore. ‘There we go, that’s my signal to depart. See you next week, hope the show goes well, Malc.’
I hurried to the admin office to get my coat and bag, waiting until I was by myself to check my phone screen.
Despite having already prepared myself for the eventuality, I couldn’t help feeling a pang of disappointment when I saw the message on the group chat from my best friend Cass saying she was too tired to meet up this weekend. But at least she’d replied, which was more than could be said for Meg and Jodie, who formed the rest of our gang of girls. They’d definitely read my WhatsApp suggesting a gathering, but as it often seemed nowadays, life must have got in the way of them replying. I sent Cass a thumbs up in acknowledgement and then decided to treat myself to a takeaway in compensation. It had been a long week.
I headed down the dimly lit alleyway which the Variety was hidden away on, then emerged into the bright bustle of Rose Street. The music was thudding in the bars, and the tang of alcohol was already starting to permeate the air. I pulled my coat tighter and wove my way through the groups of chattering friends and good-natured party people, trying to avoid getting jostled. It was a while since I’d been part of that fun-filled crowd and I was ashamed to find myself envying their easy high spirits. Maybe next weekend I’d be among their number, I told myself. The girls wouldn’t be busy forever. But in the meantime, I had an important date with Netflix and my sofa to look forward to.
I put my headphones on and selected my favourite podcast, ‘Join Us’, to keep me entertained on my walk back home, feeling the tension ease from my shoulders as I smiled at the happy banter filling my ears. The show had been started by three friends who chit-chatted about everything and nothing, darting between topics and teasing each other relentlessly, acting as if the listener was an extension of their friendship group. If truth be told, that sense of having company was the main reason I liked it so much. While my actual friends were otherwise engaged, at least the podcast gang could provide me with some virtual comrades.
The walk home took precisely an episode and a half, as usual, and I arrived at the front door of my block of flats at the same time as the pizza delivery guy. I chose to congratulate myself for my excellent sense of timing, rather than acknowledge the perfect coordination was a sign I’d grown far too accustomed to this lifestyle of the solo Friday night takeaway.
‘Cheers, you got a busy one tonight?’ I asked as he pulled the greasy box out of his insulated rucksack, the cheesy aroma instantly making my stomach grumble with anticipation.
The delivery guy checked his watch. ‘Not too bad. It’ll get busier later when folk arrive home from the boozer with the munchies. It’s fairly steady away at this time. Only a few regulars like you to tick off this list. Now you have yourself a good night.’
And with that he was gone, pedalling off into the darkness. Making a mental note to vary my takeaway provider for the next few weeks until I lost the moniker of ‘regular’, I started the haul to my top floor flat. When I’d first moved into this shoebox-sized place in one of the less salubrious areas of Leith, living by myself had seemed the ultimate luxury, despite the large dent it made in my very modest wage. But now, as I climbed the stairs towards my empty home, I experienced an impending sense of melancholy at the prospect of the whole weekend stretching out in front of me with absolutely nothing to fill it.
‘Stop with the pity party,’ I said out loud as I put my key in the lock.
‘Who’s that out there? Oh, it’s you, Amy,’ said my neighbour, Harold McTavish, sticking his head around his front door. His two cats took advantage of the small gap to dart out onto the landing and start winding their way around my legs, purring loudly.
‘Hello, Eliza. Good evening, Fraser.’ I leaned down so the pair could carefully examine the back of my hand. After a moment of indecision, the bolder of the two pushed her head into my palm, a clear indication that I was now allowed to stroke her.
‘They’re looking well, Mr McTavish,’ I said. While I was on first-name terms with the cats, I’d not quite summoned up the courage to try it with their owner, who I imagined might have been an army captain or the headteacher of an old-fashioned boarding school in his younger years.
Mr McTavish tutted. ‘So they should be. I spent a fortune buying them one of those fancy water fountains, but will they drink from it? Absolutely not. They mewl at me in the bathroom until I leave the tap dripping for them, as apparently that water is nectar from the gods.’
‘Sounds about right.’ I smiled. ‘These two have certainly landed on their paws, best billet in town.’
Mr McTavish’s expression softened. ‘They don’t appreciate how lucky they are, that’s for sure. I’m glad I caught you actually. I’m going to be away for a few days at the beginning of next week and I was wondering if you could keep an eye on the felines? They don’t need much looking after. In fact, I often think they look after me, rather than the opposite.’ He cleared his throat, as if surprised by the admission he’d made. ‘Anyway, would you mind? Do you need to check your commitments and come back to me?’
‘It won’t be a problem, I promise,’ I said. I didn’t need to look at my calendar to know that I’d be free. Besides, I was touched that he’d asked me, and pleased to feel needed for once. ‘I’m happy to help, any time. Seriously, any time at all.’
‘Good, good.’ He cleared his throat again. ‘Well, I’ve kept you from your meal long enough. It will be getting cold by now. Come, Eliza, come, Fraser, let’s leave the young woman to enjoy her food in peace.’
‘Have you eaten yet?’ I found myself saying. ‘Only I ordered a large pizza because it was on special offer but there’s no way I’ll get through it all by myself. I was going to keep some in the fridge for lunch tomorrow but it’s always better eaten fresh.’ I took a breath and told myself to get to the point rather than rambling on like someone who’d forgotten how to string a proper sentence together. ‘What I’m trying to say is, would you like to share it with me? An impromptu top-floor social, if you will.’
Mr McTavish looked surprised, as well he might. As neighbours we’d never really graduated beyond the occasional superficial exchange about the cats or what day the bin men were due. When I’d first moved in, I’d spend more hours dashing around the city centre having fun than at home, and in more recent times, I seemed to have unwillingly developed the ability to fade into my surroundings. In other words, I’d long ago missed the window of opportunity for us to have the kind of relationship where me suggesting a spontaneous pizza party was anything but weird.
He tilted his head to one side as if hearing an imaginary phone ringing back in his flat, tactfully preparing me for the rejection which I knew was about to come. ‘That’s very kind of you, but I have dinner plans in town. In fact, I really must be getting myself sorted. I’ll drop a note through your letterbox over the weekend with a spare key and the cats’ list of demands. Thank you for agreeing to help me, I appreciate it. Have a pleasant evening, and enjoy your pizza.’
And with that, he was gone, taking his furry companions with him. I scurried into my flat, dumped the pizza box on the work surface and held my hands up to my cheeks, wondering if they appeared as hot as they felt. Did Mr McTavish really have plans, or had it been a polite way of excusing himself from the unwelcome invitation from the stranger across the hall? I analysed the exchange, trying not to cringe at how I’d given myself away. Now my elderly neighbour would be pitying me for my lack of a life, just like my colleagues already were. Was I the only person in Edinburgh sitting alone at home tonight? Suddenly the pizza didn’t seem quite so tempting. I left it on the side, and slumped onto the sofa, ready to indulge in some social media distraction instead. At least there was plenty of company in the virtual world, even if certain platforms felt like an increasingly angry space nowadays.
And that’s when I noticed the email.
From: donotreply@exhibits.org
To: a.cameron@myemail.com
Date: 13 Jan, 17:19
Subject: Your work
Hello,
My name is Pixie Packwood, and I’m the proprietor of the Packwood Gallery in London. We specialise in photographic art, with an emphasis on work which celebrates interesting landscapes and unusual wildlife. Each year we hold an exhibition highlighting an up-and-coming photographer, and I was hoping you would like to submit a portfolio for consideration. Naturally there is a selection process, but I claim proprietor’s privilege in being able to make the occasional unsolicited approach to an artist I am particularly keen to encourage to throw their hat into the ring. If you are interested, please click on the link below to submit your portfolio.
www.submit.packfordgallery.org.uk
The closing date for applications is the 14th of February.
Kind regards,
Pixie Packwood
Pixie Packwood might be an admirer of this person’s work, but unfortunately she wasn’t a big enough fan to have got his or her email address correct. I hit reply and typed out a quick message explaining that the invitation had been sent to the wrong person. But within seconds, my inbox pinged with a delivery fail notice. I tried clicking on the link provided and explored the Packwood Gallery website further, eventually finding a generic ‘Contact us’ button hidden at the bottom of one of the pages. But when I tried clicking on that, a ‘This page no longer exists’ alert popped up on the screen. This was a potentially career-changing opportunity. What if all that stood between a talented photographer and their greatest wish was Pixie Packwood’s typo when sending her email? Or worse, my own failure to do something about it? I thought about how I would have felt receiving an email like this back in the days when pursuing my own dreams seemed like a worthwhile ambition. It could have made all the difference to me. Things hadn’t worked out for me the way I’d imagined, but it didn’t mean that that had to be the case for this person.
I clicked onto the internet browser and typed ‘A Cameron photographer’ into Google. Naturally about a gazillion random results appeared. I sighed, wondering how on earth I was going to find the right Cameron. I quickly reread the email and noticed that Pixie Packwood had specifically mentioned landscapes and wildlife photography. That helped narrow down the options. I carried on scrolling through them, and there, on page three of the search results, which as anyone in marketing knows might as well be page three hundred, I found him. Or rather, I found a photograph of a murmuration of starlings which had a watermark attributing it to one ‘Cameron A’. This had to be the guy.
The picture was almost unreal, a giant soundwave silhouetted against the backdrop of a blushing sunset, an utterly captivating sight. Although the birds were frozen in time, something about the composition of the photograph conveyed a sense of their movement, and I wondered what it must have been like to stand there and have one of nature’s most amazing dances playing out in front of you. I zoomed in on the image to get a closer look at the individual starlings which created the mesmerising spectacle, marvelling at the delicate white spots standing out among their sleek brown plumage. I scrolled down to read the brief caption which must have been attached to the article the image originally appeared in. It said, ‘Cameron specialises in wildlife photography and has a particular interest in ornithology. He visited this site in Mersea for three nights in a row to photograph the starlings, and told us this was his favourite frame from the thousands he took because it reflected the joyful noise the birds were making.’ And then in even smaller font, ‘For image licensing requests, contact cameron.a@myemail.com’
I was no artist, but I could tell that this man had a talent that deserved recognition. It was worth a try. Hoping that the email address was indeed the one I was looking for, I started typing.
From: a.cameron@myemail.com
To: cameron.a@myemail.com
Date: 13 Jan, 20:47
Subject: Fwd: Your work
Hi Cameron,
Forgive the random email. My name’s Amy Cameron (A.Cameron) and I’ve received an email which I believe was meant for you (Cameron.A) – see below. It sounds like a really good opportunity. Well, I’m saying that as a layperson who doesn’t have the first clue about photography, but even so, I reckon having your own exhibition is one of those game-changer moments. Anyway, I hope your work gets chosen to go on display in the Packwood Gallery, if that’s what you want. Maybe you could let me know? If you wish, of course, no pressure!
All the best,
Amy