English at Thorpe Hall, the local private school where Ryan Cooper goes. They’re both well known in the community.
They’re only together because of some misplaced sense of social standing (and because no one else would have them). They can barely be in the same room as each other any more. Mum’s always in the kitchen, cooking, marking, moaning at me. Dad’s always in his office, looking at his paintings and his books, but mostly looking out the window, as if he’d like to be anywhere but here with us. So they continue with this ridiculous web of pretence. The older I get the more I see it and the more I hate being around either of them.
But Mum won’t give up. She insists on trying to find out what ‘makes me tick’. (I am so tempted to say one day, ‘Sex, drugs and rock and roll . . . ’ just to watch her freak out. ) And I know she only wants to go shopping so she can try to get me to buy some clothes that she approves of (loafers, A-line skirts, roll-necks). I don’t know how many times I have to tell her that I like my old, holey jeans, my battered Converse and array of flannel shirts, army-surplus jumpers and short skirts.
‘Shall we go to Topshop dear? Or Mrs Selfridges?’ She smiles desperately at me now and tries to link my arm. I swiftly pull it away.
‘ Miss Selfridge,’ I hiss. ‘And I wouldn’t be seen dead in there.’ I lift my Nikon F50 to my face from where it permanently hangs around my neck. It’s an early Christmas gift – and their attempt to buy my approval. At least now I can escape my miserable present by focusing my attention (and my lens) on my future career as a photographer. It’s all I’ve wanted to do for as long as I can remember. Mum and Dad tell me that the reason there are hardly any photos of me as a toddler was that I’d always run around to whoever was taking the photograph and stand behind it too, desperate to see what they were seeing. I picked up a camera for the first time aged four. It was Christmas and I can still remember looking through the little square window and secretly loving the fact I knew exactly what to do without anyone forcing me to learn. I didn’t need lessons, unlike the ballet I’d been sent to once a week since I was three. With this, I could just look and click. And I seemed to understand instinctively how to do it well. There were no chopped-off heads in my pictures, even at that age. That camera became my third eye. I walked around looking through it all the time. I remember thinking, when I was about seven, that it was like Dad’s glasses, it made me see better. Now I realize that it was because my photos captured real emotions instead of the fake ones people always seemed to portray for everyone else. It made me feel powerful, like they couldn’t keep any secrets from me whilst I was looking through it. I didn’t always take actual photographs though – Mum and Dad rationed my films to two a month, but I’d pretend, seeing, visualizing, adjusting, framing. As I got older I’d write notes in a book about light, shadow, composition and focus, and I became obsessed with famous photographers like Henri Cartier-Bresson, a master of candid photography who developed the street-style reportage photography that I’m inspired by.
And now, seeing the wet, rainy High Street of Southend shimmer through my viewfinder makes the day – not to mention this shithole seaside town – seem brighter somehow, turning it from something depressing into something beautiful. Sometimes I wish I could have the camera permanently attached to my eyes. Life looks so much better through it. Plus there’s the added bonus that it would hide my face enough for Ryan Cooper not to spot me.
‘Mrs Carter!’ he calls, hitching his sports bag up on his shoulder and increasing his pace as he swigs sexily from a Lucozade bottle.
Shit. He’s seen us. I busy myself changing the film in my camera, so I don’t have to acknowledge his presence.
‘Shouting at me
They’re only together because of some misplaced sense of social standing (and because no one else would have them). They can barely be in the same room as each other any more. Mum’s always in the kitchen, cooking, marking, moaning at me. Dad’s always in his office, looking at his paintings and his books, but mostly looking out the window, as if he’d like to be anywhere but here with us. So they continue with this ridiculous web of pretence. The older I get the more I see it and the more I hate being around either of them.
But Mum won’t give up. She insists on trying to find out what ‘makes me tick’. (I am so tempted to say one day, ‘Sex, drugs and rock and roll . . . ’ just to watch her freak out. ) And I know she only wants to go shopping so she can try to get me to buy some clothes that she approves of (loafers, A-line skirts, roll-necks). I don’t know how many times I have to tell her that I like my old, holey jeans, my battered Converse and array of flannel shirts, army-surplus jumpers and short skirts.
‘Shall we go to Topshop dear? Or Mrs Selfridges?’ She smiles desperately at me now and tries to link my arm. I swiftly pull it away.
‘ Miss Selfridge,’ I hiss. ‘And I wouldn’t be seen dead in there.’ I lift my Nikon F50 to my face from where it permanently hangs around my neck. It’s an early Christmas gift – and their attempt to buy my approval. At least now I can escape my miserable present by focusing my attention (and my lens) on my future career as a photographer. It’s all I’ve wanted to do for as long as I can remember. Mum and Dad tell me that the reason there are hardly any photos of me as a toddler was that I’d always run around to whoever was taking the photograph and stand behind it too, desperate to see what they were seeing. I picked up a camera for the first time aged four. It was Christmas and I can still remember looking through the little square window and secretly loving the fact I knew exactly what to do without anyone forcing me to learn. I didn’t need lessons, unlike the ballet I’d been sent to once a week since I was three. With this, I could just look and click. And I seemed to understand instinctively how to do it well. There were no chopped-off heads in my pictures, even at that age. That camera became my third eye. I walked around looking through it all the time. I remember thinking, when I was about seven, that it was like Dad’s glasses, it made me see better. Now I realize that it was because my photos captured real emotions instead of the fake ones people always seemed to portray for everyone else. It made me feel powerful, like they couldn’t keep any secrets from me whilst I was looking through it. I didn’t always take actual photographs though – Mum and Dad rationed my films to two a month, but I’d pretend, seeing, visualizing, adjusting, framing. As I got older I’d write notes in a book about light, shadow, composition and focus, and I became obsessed with famous photographers like Henri Cartier-Bresson, a master of candid photography who developed the street-style reportage photography that I’m inspired by.
And now, seeing the wet, rainy High Street of Southend shimmer through my viewfinder makes the day – not to mention this shithole seaside town – seem brighter somehow, turning it from something depressing into something beautiful. Sometimes I wish I could have the camera permanently attached to my eyes. Life looks so much better through it. Plus there’s the added bonus that it would hide my face enough for Ryan Cooper not to spot me.
‘Mrs Carter!’ he calls, hitching his sports bag up on his shoulder and increasing his pace as he swigs sexily from a Lucozade bottle.
Shit. He’s seen us. I busy myself changing the film in my camera, so I don’t have to acknowledge his presence.
‘Shouting at me
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