Part 2

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Donna was starving! Working through your lunch certainly did things to you, no matter how attractive the scenery was. They all seemed to be surviving on sticks of celery or carrot, and mystery substances in little pots that looked like the brush water after a toddler has had a painting session. Whatever it was, they dipped their vegetables into it, when they actually did eat, but they didn't look keen. In light of that, it felt criminal to eat normal, decent food in front of them all. Food that might contain butter, protein, or that horror of horrors, carbs.

From behind the clothing rack, she surreptitiously tried to scoff her sandwich whilst cataloguing the used outfits, in preparation for returning them to the relevant fashion houses at the end of the day. Except her eyes kept fluttering away from her task and led her to gaze at John Smith from afar.

Let's be honest, before that day she had never heard of him. He was just a name on a list. But after meeting him in person, for some reason she was keen to find out more. The question of why, continually berated her.

Men don't bother to deliberately talk to women they don't want to have sex with. It was a well-known fact. And clearly John was not sexually attracted to her, judging by the way he had both spoken to her and stayed determined to ignore her unless it was necessary. Oh well, she could live with that. After all, it wasn't exactly an unusual occurrence.

Yet again her eyes wandered to where he was, talking quietly with Daniel; John was looking very serious as he did so, and Daniel shook his head. It wasn't until the pair of them glanced back at her that she even contemplated the notion they were talking about her.

Now, she was certain.

"Did you want me?" she challenged.

The two men shared a look and then John sauntered nearer. Here it comes, she thought, round two, so she applied her sweetest smile to her face in order to greet him.

"Yes," he quietly said. "Apparently, I need to say 'sorry'."

"Oh? Why's that?" she wondered, not believing any sincerity he might display. The semantics were all wrong, for a start. "Here's a little tip for you: a 'sorry' is genuine if you actually are sorry, otherwise it ain't worth the paper it's written on."

But it wasn't written down, he thought with a frown, until he realised exactly what she meant. "That is for you to judge," he tightly replied.

This situation could easily go nowhere or end up as another slanging match, she thought. They needed to start afresh. "How about we wait until the end of the photoshoot today," she proposed, "and if you still want to apologise to me, we will try this again."

"Very well," he agreed, feeling rather confused. Had he apologised or not? He couldn't quite make it out. But it would seem that he was being made to attempt this again at another time. "It would be handy if I could talk to you later."

"I know!" she trilled, deliberately misunderstanding him. "Isn't it marvellous how we can communicate that way. Talking is brilliant. You open your mouth, words come out, and people understand what you mean, most of the time. Utterly amazing."

Anger flared in him. All he wanted was some info, not her comedy act. "Are you always this sarcastic?" he near spat.

"Nah," she said, turning away to give her attention to her clipboard. "I've been practising."

What! And then a laugh bubbled up through him, making him want to roar with laughter. Yet he had to hide it. Dampen it down to keep up appearances. "Okay," he feebly answered and then walked away as quickly as he could without hurrying.

Well, that went well, she thought, and quietly hummed to herself. No insult and no shouting. Things were on the up. Perhaps she'd manage to crack a decent smile out of him before the day was done?

No, she dismissed that idea. It was too ambitious. She knew it always took much longer than that when the bloke was anti. Anti-her, anti-women, anti-job, it didn't matter what they were anti, it all turned out the same.

She didn't talk to him again until the shoot was over for the day and the models were collecting their belongings to go home. Daniel was happily perusing his taken shots whilst the photographic assistant hastened to pack the equipment safely away. Leaving Daniel in his thoughtful mood, she returned to collecting the final items of clothing from the models.

Taking the last remaining designer shirt from John, she resisted touching his hair as she enquired, "While I think to ask, I've been wondering about your feet. Do you actually walk about in the street like that, without shoes?"

"I left them by the front door. I hate wearing shoes indoors," he testily supplied. "Why do people keep asking me about them?"

"Probably because it flipping hurts to walk on the pavement barefoot," she reasoned. "And there's always some berk who has to accidentally step on your toes as he rushes to catch his train or bus."

"Had a few of those," he admitted, showing almost a hint of a smile. "Seeing as I'm here, I still need to speak to you. Alone. Can we go somewhere private?"

Shocked, she asked, "Exactly how private were you thinking? Because I'm not having any of that nonsense."

Anger flared behind his eyes. "I meant in a professional capacity. Good God. Why would I even…?" Oops! He'd almost thrown out another insult. Not a good idea when you want information.

She glared at him. "Why would you what?" she goaded him to finish his sentence. "Do you know what? You have all the style and grace of a fart, at times."

"What? Don't go," he complained as she turned tail and strode away. "I genuinely need to talk to you."

"Then you had better come up with an improved way to ask me," she cried over her shoulder, "because so far, I couldn't give a rat's what you want."

"Bugger," he mumbled to himself. His investigation was not going to plan.