by her association with something so unashamedly commercial, but not quite able to turn down the money . . .
She felt a disdain for her subjects, all chasing fame as though it meant a damned thing – popularity, talent, success – when in fact it was pure vanity and ego. None of the stars sitting for her even objected to being cast as a redux of someone else already famous and so far she’d done the ‘new Naomi’, the ‘new Tarantino’, the ‘new Ronaldo’, the ‘new Ellen’, the ‘new Trudeau’ . . . Today they had the ‘new Kit Harrington’, though she didn’t go in much for TV herself. What was his name? Max something . . .
Whatever, she already knew today was going to require juggling his ego (her role) and his PR’s nerves (Bart’s). A high-profile shoot like this, for a publication like Black Dot . . . these were his first steps into the big time and he was going to want the fantasy – the fawning, the prepping, the flirting. They all did. Her only nod to that was getting Bart to buy the king-size, traditionally baked stroopwafels from the Lanskroon Bakery on his way in.
‘So remind me – this guy we’ve got today . . .’ she asked Bart, walking over to the set and picking up a speck of lint that would glow like a firefly against the black drapes.
‘Matteo Hofhuis.’
‘Hofhuis, right.’ She clicked a finger as though in recognition, though her eyes remained blank. A frown developed. ‘And who is he again? Why do we care?’
‘Played the lead in the Netflix series Liar Liar and now the object of housewife fantasy across Europe. Supposedly Barbara Broccoli’s eyeing him as the new Bond.’
Lee emitted a small groan.
‘And he’s just been announced as a new Unicef ambassador.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Oh God, of course he has,’ she muttered.
‘Bills, Lee.’ Bart gave a shrug every bit as cynical as her words. Lee walked back over to the two-metre-long workbench where she saw he had left Matteo’s file open. She grabbed her heavy-rimmed glasses and studied the headshots again – black-and-whites, slumped on a chair, muscular legs long and splayed, his shirt half-open to reveal gym-honed muscles, aggressive eye contact with the camera. He was good-looking and he knew it. She looked at the other images. Tuxedo looks. Barefoot in jeans with a chunky jumper. So far, so clichéd. He was the handsome stranger, the boy next door . . . She glanced across at the rail of clothes the stylist had sent over – some well-cut suits, crisp shirts, an overcoat, a fine roll-neck sweater. Everything was manicured, precise, so very tasteful and safe. His managers clearly wanted her to stay on message.
The sound of voices in the hall made her and Bart both look up. They could hear the PR’s shrill voice as she issued directives. He was here already? He was twenty minutes early. Christ, he really was keen. The rest of her own team – hair and make-up – wasn’t even here yet.
‘Pastries?’
‘Done,’ Bart murmured, jerking his head in the direction of the Sub Zero fridge just as the door burst open and a young twenty-something redhead in black skinnies, boots and a grey blazer led the charge.
‘Hi! Lee?’ she asked, almost breaking into a run at the sight of her standing by the bench.
Lee shook her hand, forgetting to smile for a moment. ‘Hey.’ She pushed her glasses further up her nose, feeling extra tall and mannish in her battered boyfriend jeans, slouchy polo neck and hi-tops compared to this petite waif. It wasn’t a particularly unusual feeling for her, nor an unwelcome one.
‘I’m Claudia, Matt’s PR.’
‘Hi, Claudia. Lee.’
‘We’re so pleased this was booked. It’s been a personal ambition of Matt’s to work with you. He’s a huge fan of your work.’
‘Oh. How kind.’ Lee knew the ‘work’ in question was her commercial stuff, the images where she was paid to flatter, not reveal.
‘No, really – he says you’re a visionary. That your eye is completely unsurpassed. He says no other photographer—’
‘—can get to the essence of someone the way you do.’
She looked up to find the man himself standing there. His hair was longer than in his photographs, a five-day beard getting to the point where it was soft and not scratchy (Lee knew beards). Only his eyes remained true to the pictures she had seen – beautiful, arrogant, imperious. She was expected to fall in love with him, she already