I should start taking my job seriously.

Maybe then I wouldn't lose my camera lenses on the day that I got the biggest gig of my career.

I mean, I'm sure I left them out last night so I wouldn't forget where they are today. How ironic is that? It's days like this that I wish I was born into some rich aristocratic family so I wouldn't have to work. Boy, wouldn't that be something?

At any rate, it wouldn't do me any good to be both late and a pure nick - if I can't find the camera lenses, then I have to at least look presentable. After applying light makeup and tying my hair up in a tight, neat ponytail, I grab a menstrual cup in case I have to replace the one I'm currently wearing. I decide I may also need to change my trousers and pants - mistakes happen.

I pull open the drawer in my messy bedroom, and I am awash with relief when I find my camera lenses inside. Why would I place £480 lenses in the drawer instead of my camera bag? Again, I need to start taking my job seriously. I retrieve them quickly - along with my jeans and underwear - and bolt out of the room.

I walk through the cloud of marijuana smoke that fills the passage and doesn't get the chance to ever leave because everyone around here smokes like a chimney. I used to be one of them, but after going to rehab twice and having been put into hospital after drinking a dangerous amount of alcohol, something had to give. I know I should move out of this place, but I can't afford anything other than this at the moment. The landlord has been nice enough to not increase our rent for the past three years; so, I guess I'll be here for the foreseeable future.

I take the stairs to reception and check for any mail and, when I learn that I have none, walk out to my VW Beetle parked on the sidewalk. As I'm about to step into the car, I hear a familiar, monotonous voice:

"Edgar?"

I turn around and come face-to-face with a dirty tramp - Charlie - smiling to reveal the yellow of the few teeth he still has.

"Were yaouw really guin ter leave wiouten bidden me tarra?"

"Fuck you," I reply coldly as I hop into my car and shut the door. I drive off at full speed, but not before revving my wheels and leaving Charlie in a cloud of smoke.

It's nothing new. He's a loser, nonsense speaker with a depressing voice.

I drive into West Brompton, and it's like I'm in a completely different country as I watch, in resentment, the tall, medieval buildings pass me by, and I stare in wonder at how people can afford to stay here when some of us are barely managing to pay our rent in the run-down part of town. I wade my car and my mind through the insults continuously being thrown at me - though I'm not sure if the buildings are responsible for the harsh words, or if the greater perpetrator is me. A sight that especially upsets me is that of a young woman jogging down the street, dressed in a pink tracksuit, air pods in her ear. She stops and takes a single air pod out to raise her hand in a wave, a great smile beaming on her face, extending from one ear to the other to show me her perfectly lined, perfectly white teeth. I ignore her. I wish she were dead. I wish I were her.

I finally stop in the middle of West Brompton as I reach a building with the words 'THE ECHELON' etched in gold above the entrance. My small Beetle looks out of place parked in between a Ferrari and a Porsche in this fucking town. I wouldn't be surprised if I came out and found that it's been towed away.

I need to become a billionaire. Fast.

I pull down the mirror and fix my makeup - my car already looks like it belongs to a hobo, I can't walk in there looking like one as well. Right at that moment, my mobile buzzes in the passenger seat and I move to grab it.

RAVEN

I swipe right.

"Busy?" she asks snappily. I've heard reading Hemingway does that - from Raven actually.

"Hi, Raven." I assume Charlie's tone and accentuate it with an air of indifference. "Yes, I told you weeks back that I'm shooting Chelsea F.C."

She groans. "I'll never understand why you chose to take photos of those illiterate imbeciles."

"Come now, don't be mean."

"You can't be mean to jocks; it's literally impossible."

Fair enough. "What do you need?"

"A date. The Indie Service is performing tonight; so, I thought you might want to come."

The Indie Service is an underground band, and Raven is seeing the lead singer - Harry. He and I used to fuck around but it never really grew into anything serious.

"Okay, I'll come over to your place after this and we can get ready together. Cool?"

"Cool."

I step out of the car and shove my mobile into my hind pocket before making my way inside the gallery.

I walk into the lobby, where I find Edward - my director and friend - speaking into the mobile, in a voice dangerously low: "... oh, really? Rea-you think the world stops just because your car broke down? It fucking doesn't! ... oh? And how soon is soon? ... I swear, if you don't make it here in thirty minutes, I will chop your dick off! You and your entire team!"

Ergo, I'm scared of gay men.

He turns and his features slightly soften at the sight of me. "Edgar. I didn't hear you step in," he says with a happy sigh, moving to pull me in a hug.

"How could you - with all that talk of chopping people's dicks off?" I return his embrace. "Is there anyone here other than you?"

"Most of the stars are here; the lighting crew has been delayed. I just hate when I feel like my time is being wasted."

Which is probably why he has money, and I don't.

"I'm getting a coffee. D'you want one?"

"Black with no sugar, please."

He walks quickly, and - in just a second - he's out of sight.

Maybe I ought to take a few notes from him.

Contradicting that thought, I find myself walking to the changing rooms - I like to stir up trouble whenever I can. Sure, athletes aren't the smartest people on the planet, stereotypically speaking, but I'm not about to be passed up by the chance to see half-naked Greek gods. One of the first doors I meet and find interesting is one with a gold star and plaque that reads: 'ALEJANDRO GARCÍA - CAPTAIN.'

People have been talking about this guy - apparently, he was bought from CF Badalona for £120 million after Chelsea lost its captain to a near-fatal car accident. And he's a superstar: I've heard he took Catalonia to the semis in La Liga, although they ended up losing to Spain. That's pretty impressive considering that Catalonia wasn't shite until they had him.

I decide all that makes him more interesting than anyone else here, and I push the door open. I find the room mostly bare, the walls bleakly white, with a steel bench being the only source of slight variance. I can hear the shower running on the other side of the partition in front of me, but it almost immediately stops as soon as I step inside.

"Who's there?" a slightly deep voice comes from the other side. I keep quiet. He asks again. I wonder what is going through his head.

Wet footsteps start slowly - almost hesitantly - toward me. "Okay, guys. I'm not in the fucking mood, okay?" His voice is starting to get shaky; he seems to struggle separating the words from each other. "I'm going to come out now. And you'll all be in fucking trouble. So, I'll ask one last time: who's there?"

And he steps out - first popping his head out to scan the place - and then fully stepping out when he finds only me. He emerges, a low-slung, fluffy towel over his hips. Nothing on him seems human - not the perfectly tanned skin with no missed spots; not the muscle that lies shamelessly above the towel and on his arms and chest; not the garden of dark swirls that covers his skin. Nothing seems off limits as far as the ink goes, going all the way to his neck and wrists, ranging from skulls and roses to religious imagery and some writing in an ancient looking language. His hair - black as the Earl of Hell's Waistcoat - is quite short, the wet strands at the front barely kissing his browbone. Oh, and his cheekbones are sky-high.

Do I still know how to move?

Do I want to move?

"Who the fuck are you?" he asks with the darkest glare. His words blend into each other more freely now that he's no longer scared, and his vocal inflection at the end doesn't rise as it should when one asks a question.

I repress the urge to snort.

"Hi," I reply. "I'm Edgar - your photographer."

"Okay. Good to know. Now, do you mind not being a creep and getting out of my room?"

Arrogant too, huh? Double whammy.

"Don't worry, lover boy. I was just checking up on you to see if you're fine." My smirk doesn't leave my face as I turn on my heel and walk out, letting the door swing shut behind me. "I'll see you around, García."

Well, I'm glad I took this gig.

It would be fun to scare all the other guys, but I do remember that I sent Edward for a coffee, and - knowing him - he's probably already waiting for me, stomping his foot to the ground impatiently; therefore, I make my way back to reception.

I find Edward uncharacteristically calm at the reception, and I start entertaining the idea that maturity may be calming the storm that has - up until this point - seemed to be not just an element of his personality, but an extreme extension of him, almost as though nature followed his blueprint on how to devastate. It seems impossible, but people change every day. Despite this rationale, I still proceed with caution: he may be trying to fool me into thinking he's calm when, in fact, he's ready to bite my head off.

"What's wrong with you?" he asks when he notices my stiff demeanour.

"Nothing. I just thought I'd find you mad is all," I squeak.

"Why would I be mad?"

"I don't know... because I wasn't here when you got back?"

He rolls his eyes. "I couldn't give two shits what you do with your time here. I've got more serious things to worry about - like the lighting crew, who still aren't here."

I guess that's fair.

Back when we were still in university, I was more of a perfectionist and was more serious about school than Edward; however, over the years, he's grown to be more serious - probably because he's got a serious job while I'm just freelancing.

I notice that he's brought three cups of coffee.

"Who's joining us?"

His eyebrows knit together as he squints his eyes at me.

"The other coffee?"

"Oh! That's mine."

I nod slowly. "You do know that you've got a problem, don't you?"

"I do." He laughs. "I do."

We hear a car pull up outside and Edward fixes the collar on his shirt, preparing to unleash a storm on the unknowing lighting crew. He leaves me without another word.

Well, I would hate to be part of lighting right this moment.

This could be a great time to go into the boys changing rooms so I can fuck with their minds. Deciding not to overthink it, I start towards my target, but my fun is dampened when I find that they're dressed and ready for the shoot.

I find everyone in a group at the break room except the captain, who is sitting alone at the island, seemingly lost in his thoughts, but a quick glance shot my way lets me know he's aware of his surroundings.

"Everyone's here. Now, please start making your way to the gallery so we can start working."

They all shuffle out of the room while the captain stays put in his chair, still facing the (still) bleak, white wall opposite me. All the walls look the same, which worked in the gallery, but in the break room and the changing rooms? It looks depressing. It looks like they wanted people to spend as little time here as possible as everything looks like death, save for the occasional wooden accessories here and there.

I clap hands to get his attention. "Oy! Mate! Move your arse! We haven't got all day!"

He remains unflinching and cool; I'm surprised he hasn't turned into stone. "I'll be there in a sec."

I feel my face crinkle. "What? You need a line?"

He whips his neck to face me, his eyes darkening and his face hardening. "What are you talking about?"

"Easy, tiger. I'm just fucking with you."

He sighs. "Just get out."

"Whatever, loser," I mutter as I go.

Making my way back to the gallery, I find that almost everything has been set up. The walls have a turquoise wallpaper panelled by gold trimmings - they were covered with that colour a few days back for the shoot - and a hearth has been placed at the end of the room. A huge, lush red couch sits on the other end of the room with a wooden coffee table placed atop a cream white rug. To top it all off, each wall panel is fitted with an ancient portrait of a member of the royal family.

Edward comes up to me. "Where's the cap?"

"I don't know. He said he'll be here in a jiffy."

"D'you tell him we're starting?"

I nod.

"I hate people that think the world revolves around them."

Just then, the captain emerges from the changing rooms dressed in his football gear as is the rest of the team. He walks leisurely, with the greatest confidence I've ever seen on anyone. Unsmiling, he walks to join the rest of the team.

"Butthole," Edward mutters and walks to the lighting crew. "Okay, so we've lost a lot of time. We need to try and make the most of everything. I was kind of hoping we wouldn't go for a glossy look this time. Instead, how's about we tone the colour down all the way to sunset-gold?"

"Only you would call gold toned down," I mutter under my breath, but a glare from Edward lets me know that not only did he hear my comment, he was also not very appreciative of it.

"Well"-- Anton - the head of lighting - pulls a face-- "that won't work. We've already shut the blinds and the entire gallery is already too dark. Sunset-gold just won't work."

Edward rolls his eyes. "Really? You're seriously going to try and act like a genius right now? After you came in late?" Lull. "I didn't think so."

This guy is a pussy. Sunset-gold it is.

We all take our places and start with the shoot, at first an awkward, stifled affair, but the boys grow more confident with each flash of the camera, their poses growing more outlandish with each one, their chatter in between the shots growing louder, until the entire studio is painted with their insane energy. Normally, I wouldn't be impressed with boys being boys; but right now, their boisterous energy just livens up the entire shoot. The star of the team is visibly annoyed as he scoots to the edge of the seat and just generally tries his best to get away from everyone else. Maybe that's why I enjoy this entire shoot. Every time I take a photo, my chest fills with pride and joy as I see the displeasure set hard on his face.

After about an hour and thirty minutes and two set changes - one at the adjacent mini gallery and another one outside in the garden - we thank the team and prepare for the final set change for a shoot with the captain.

I holler at him as the team makes their way outside, and he rolls his eyes. Quelle surprise.

The team doesn't seem to care much for him - they don't tease him as guys normally do when one is the odd one out. Instead, they just stick to their business and continue talking about some party and their bet to see who will pick up the most girls there.

Men are disgusting.

"What is it?" It's almost not so much a question as it is a challenge.

"I really like you; you know that?" I smirk. "We need you for a few intimate shots. Edward thinks you can pull the 'Born in the U.S.A.' look off and make it sexy, but I don't think you can. Want to help me win twenty quid?"

He eyes me steely and chews on a gum. "I'm not sure I want to take 'intimate shots' with you."

"Yeah, I'm also not so sure you can do anything intimate; so, you might want to not waste my time, big shot."

He loses his cool and guffaws out of the blue. The walls absorb his voice and send it back a couple of dozen times until they manage to take it all in.

He recovers and his gaze lands on my lips. "Where is my outfit?"

I shove a Guess jean to his chest. Wow, I'm really short, aren't I?

He makes himself scarce and Edward approaches.

"What's your deal with that boy?" he asks coolly.

"Nothing. He thinks he's the ish and he isn't."

He cocks an eyebrow and bites his lip. "Okay."

For some reason, I feel an anxiety warp around me at the thought that Edward may not be believing what I've just told him - the way his voice went up suggests he doesn't. "What's that?"

"What's what?"

"That 'okay' - I don't like it."

"Sweet stuff, I couldn't give two shits what you like." And he starts walking the opposite direction from me.

"Edward, tell me what you're thinking, or I'll chop your dick off."

"That doesn't scare me. That line's my motto. I live that line."

Well, fuck him.

"But if you must know, I think he likes you."

Now I really want to chop his dick off. "You think he likes me? Why aren't you using your cane?"

He rolls his eyes. "You can't see it because you like him too, you know? Straight people are too dumb to tell when they like someone. It's not your fault; it's your genes."

"That's bullshit!"

"I'm just saying, if you were gay, you'd be asking: 'My place or yours?' right this moment."

"That only proves that gay men are promiscuous!"

"Okay, homophobe." He turns to the rest of the crew. "Here's what I want us to do: Eva's going to interview this guy and ask about his childhood playing with goats in Catalonia or whatever, right? So, I want us to pay homage to his country by having him pose in front of Catalonia's flag and have him face it á la the Born in the U.S.A. cover. Here's where it gets interesting: instead of a cap in his pocket, he has a flag of Chelsea F.C. How genius is that?"

We all nod in agreement. Edward turns to Anton: "I need you to brighten the lights a bit; not so bright that this guy looks pale, but lose the warmth."

Just then, the captain emerges, topless, wearing just his jeans and walking barefoot, wearing the most arrogant smirk on his face. "How is this for 'can't do anything intimate'?"

I roll my eyes when I see Edward smirk and direct the guy to his spot.

The shoot goes relatively well considering that we're working with a pretty uninspiring model here. We all pull to the best of our abilities and manage to make things work and after an hour, it kind of gets exhausting and Edward decides to call it a day. He takes my camera to see if he's satisfied with the photos.

"I'm doing something for everyone to celebrate the shoot. Coming?" Edward asks as soon as the captain is out of sight.

"No. I have a thing with Raven. Rain check?"

"I still don't get why you hang out with that girl. Didn't she steal some guy from you or something?"

I chuckle. "No. We'd already broken up and we were never really anything serious."

"Only you would see the difference." He slides his dark shades onto his face. "Well, see you around, then."