Pictures of Lily

can’t take that risk. Should I try to find him again?
    Lily, what the hell are you thinking? This is crazy talk. Ben is gone. Richard is your here and now, and he’s a good here and now. No, better than that, he’s a great here and now. Of course you have the odd little argument, but so does everyone. I can’t believe you’re even contemplating finding Ben.
    I swivel to face Josh and open my mouth to speak, but quickly close it again.
    ‘What?’ he asks.
    Too late. Can’t stop the words from coming out. ‘Does Michael ever hear from Ben?’
    ‘Ben who?’
    ‘Ben Whiting. You know – Ben who used to work at the conservation park.’
    ‘Oh, him.’ Recognition lights up Josh’s face and my heart jumps. ‘No,’ he replies, making it wither again. ‘Not that I know of. I didn’t think you knew him that well.’
    ‘I didn’t.’ I try to cover my tracks. ‘But he looked after me when I started work and I wondered what became of him after he got married.’
    Josh shrugs as the Opera House comes into view. He’s soon distracted while I stand there, full of guilt and kicking myself for taking steps towards a path that could potentially devastate my relationship, my boyfriend – and of course, me.
    As predicted, Nicola asks me for Josh’s email address when I get back to work on Tuesday. Josh left yesterday morning and he admitted he was quite looking forward to getting back to his ‘bird’.
    ‘Sorry. No can do.’
    ‘Come on!’ Nicola cries.
    ‘Don’t shoot the messenger.’ I shuffle some papers on my desk, trying not to meet her eyes.
    ‘What do you mean, “messenger”?’ she asks. ‘Did he tell you not to give it to me?’
    ‘Technically speaking, he said “phone number”, but it amounts to the same thing.’
    ‘It does not.’
    ‘It does.’
    ‘Not.’
    ‘Does!’
    ‘What are you two going on about?’ Mel breaks us up as she arrives for work.
    ‘Nothing,’ Nicola mutters, a little flustered as she refocuses on her emails.
    I could try to placate her, but I don’t think there’s anything I can say so I get on with checking my own emails instead.
    Jonathan Laurence, the Editor-in-Chief of Marbles magazine, walks in.
    ‘Good morning,’ he says to Nicola and me. Mel has gone to make tea so he’ll have no flirty chat today. ‘Good weekend?’
    ‘Great, thanks,’ I answer pleasantly.
    Nicola manages a small shrug, but that’s it.
    ‘Can I ask you girls a favour?’ Mr Laurence says.
    Mr Laurence? His name is Jonathan . Now I’m sounding like Mel!
    ‘Sure,’ I respond.
    Nicola says nothing, so Jonathan directs his attention at me.
    ‘Our editorial assistant is ill and our picture assistant is on holiday this week, and we’ve got a bunch of photographers coming in with their portfolios. Could you have them wait down here and call up to me when they arrive?’
    ‘Of course,’ I tell him. ‘Do they have allocated time slots?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Shall I make a note of them, and then I won’t bother you if you’re still with the one before?’
    He looks relieved. ‘That would be great.’ He rummages around in his briefcase and pulls out a diary, flicking through to the correct week. ‘Here they are.’ He passes it across the reception desk to me and I glance down at the notations under today’s date. I quickly scribble down the names and times on my pad and hand back his diary, but not before my curious eyes have unwittingly scanned the next couple of day’s worth of entries.
    Wednesday: Lisa flowers
    Thursday: Anniversary/Pier Frank launch
    Pier Frank . . . I know that name. That’s right, he’s a photographer. I remember seeing an article about him in . . . I think it might have been Marbles magazine, actually. Not that I read Marbles – it’s a glossy men’s title – but we try to keep up with what’s happening in all our publications.
    ‘Thanks so much for that – sorry, I don’t know your name.’ He looks apologetic.
    ‘Lily.’ I smile. ‘And it’s not a problem.’
    ‘Are you English?’ he asks as Mel returns with our tea. I see her momentarily falter and tea sloshes over the side of one of the cups. She winces as the heat scalds her hand, but skilfully manages to stay quiet.
    ‘Yes, I grew up there.’ I answer his question.
    ‘Good morning, Mr Laurence,’ Mel chirps.
    ‘Good morning, Melissa,’ he says back.
    ‘Good weekend?’
    ‘Lovely, thanks. Yourself?’
    ‘Fab.’
    ‘Great. Well, thanks for that, Lily.’
    ‘You’re