This week, I somehow landed a dream test shoot. Luca, a London Fashion Week photographer, Jess, a stylist with effortless cool, and her best friend Ezra, a slightly worse-for-wear hairstylist. Our model, Sienna, had Gemma Ward-esque beauty—wide eyes, flawless skin.
I’d prepped hard: Renaissance portraits, Euphoria-inspired dewy skin, effortless street style. My vision? Raw but intentional, classic but fresh. Jess even secured Pear Mill, a stunning converted warehouse, for free. (I didn’t ask how.) Golden-hour light flooded in as James Blake and The xx set the mood. We were ready.
Sienna sat in my chair, my hands buzzing—creativity or too much espresso? I pressed Saie Glowy Super Gel into her skin with MY BOUNCE BLENDER, dabbed Kosas Concealer only where needed, and blended Rare Beauty’s Soft Pinch Blush high for a fresh, wind-kissed glow.
Then disaster struck. A horrifying noise—Ezra. Hungover from a sambuca-fuelled night, he… well, let’s just say my beloved MY PVC BOX BAG: CLICK-IT took a direct hit. Jess, laughing, promised me a new one. Meanwhile, the show had to go on.
Sienna admired her glow, Jess tousled her hair, Luca clicked away. Despite the chaos, the shoot was a success. Then Jess smirked, “Ezra was my plus-one to Bea Boston’s birthday tonight. Guess you’re coming instead!”
Bea Boston’s private party? What have I just signed up for?
