𝐒𝐨𝐮𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐫. ⁽⁽⁽ᵐᵃᵗᵗʸ ʰᵉᵃˡʸ⁾⁾⁾

lovely manners.

The piece was published later that week, late on Thursday. The reception was so forceful that by Friday morning I had to change the notifications on my phone to avoid it crashing altogether. I hadn't anticipated this, thinking that at best the article would be a nice addition to my portfolio, exemplary of my abilities outside the confines of a studio, and at worst sink into the virtual ether. But the comments and mentions were incessant: i've never seen him look so good! - omg where is this?? - who even took these? i wanna KNOW.

Of course, Vice had taken the liberty of naming my subject in their strapline, and now my name had entered the consciousness of his followers. My social media accounts amassed another couple of hundred followers each, and some of them had joined the dots, seeing older posts about editorials with models or actors they recognised. I hadn't photographed many musicians; it was a saturated market, so I didn't feel the need to elbow my way in.

They were the most vocal commentators, but as I swiped gingerly through the various tags and notifications, I could see a few names cropping up from another sphere entirely. Bergmann turns her lens to indie man-of-the-moment Matty Healy, an arts update account on Instagram announced. A 'Young Photographers' Twitter account was fielding breathless interrogation from curious fans, and several direct messages from old St Martins' friends congratulated me on my work. It felt strange to absorb all this praise, in the knowledge that it was the result of some lazy shooting for personal entertainment, and as I scrolled and considered the reaction, it smarted a little to realise that the key difference this time was Matty's apparently famous face. Perhaps it seems churlish now to complain about the nature of the attention when it was obviously terrific publicity for my work, but I still wished that it had been instigated by something more thoughtful, something that took more creative initiative on my part. Still doesn't mean these photos aren't special, my ego batted back defiantly. Maybe it's well-deserved because of something innate. That essence nobody else could capture. Neither an accident nor a conscious effort: a talent. I sat with this thought while I read an email from another photographer I had met in New York last year, begging me to come back and do an editorial for the launch of a new bi-monthly.

Frankie and I had lunch scheduled in Granary Square whilst he was on a break from a day's filming in King's Cross, so I had to tear myself away from the online havoc. He was already perfectly aware of the feature's success, and enjoyed knowing he was one of the subjects, so I had appealed to his vanity in this way.

'You've made me look quite suave. I was just thinking the other day how I'd been looking rough lately, needing a haircut or something... and you've boosted my ego completely. All except for this one,' he pulled up the article on his screen, scrolling through the frames. 'You did me dirty here, Al. Or he did, rather.' It was the shot of them sitting side by side on the sofa, Matty's hand flipped out in support of whatever point he was making, his palm up, and Frankie resting his chin in his hands, leaning back into the cushions.

'What are you on about?' I said. 'You're just sitting, listening. You look perfectly normal.'

'Maybe so, but next to that unearthly being, I could be a swamp creature. No wonder it's set Twitter alight.'

This made me snort in disbelief over my coffee. 'That's the absolute last thing I set out to do. Don't put yourself down Frankie, you've already been namechecked by Vice. And look, they've named you in the caption too!'

'Mm, and they've spelled your name right for once, two Ns.'

'The bar is on the floor,' I rolled my eyes.

'Farah asked me if you were going to Fashion Week in March,' Frankie continued airily. 'I think it'd be a great idea.'

'Oh, I don't know,' I sighed. 'It's just glorified paparazzi, isn't it?'