Members of the press

There were two other journalists staying in the hotel with me, both of them from France. He was short and she was shorter, neither coming much above my shoulders.

Julie, that was her name, had smooth skin and wide eyes. Her hair was thick – maybe thickened by the humid air – and held back behind one ear with a child’s clip, which struggled to restrain her ample mane and, though she seemed to have no wrinkles creasing her face, her hair was streaked with grey. She smoked cigarettes rolled thick between her fingers and her teeth were stained from the tobacco and the coffees and the wine. She chatted to me often and when she couldn’t think of the word in English she’s whistle to fill its place and

Nicolas, that was his name, was thin and had bad posture. He wore dark glasses with dark rimmed, which is swapped for dark rimmed specs when he moved into the shade. As his back curved it pointed his nose towards the ground, and he had to use the muscles in his neck to lift his face and look forwards. He had paper-pale skin and black hair and a large Adam’s apple that pushed out through his stubble. His voice was nasal and low and when he moved his mouth the words made ripples up his cheeks to his ears. 

Julie kept her press pass in her huge handbag and Nicolas kept his in his pocket. I wore mine around my neck like a uniform, like an apron in a kitchen, like it gave me a reason to be there next to them with my extra inches and lack of experience.