Unbearable Lightness of Scones

55. Profile of a Talented Talent-Spotter

Bruce’s first photographic session with Nick McNair had been a resounding success. When the photographer had got the shots he wanted, he immediately downloaded them onto his studio computer and invited Bruce to look at the results.

“You know what I’d say, Bruce,” he remarked, tapping at an image on the screen. “I’d say you’ve got it. There’s no other way of putting it. You’ve just got it.”

Bruce leaned forward and stared at the image on the computer. This was one of the serious-looking poses, in which he was staring into the distance with a look of… well, how exactly would one describe his expression? One of determination? Confidence?

“Well, I suppose it looks all right to me,” he said. “I hope that the people in the agency…”

“The people in the agency are going to love you, Bruce,” interrupted Nick. “They can tell it when they see it.”

Bruce shrugged. “Well, there’s plenty more where that came from.”

“I know,” exclaimed Nick. “Oh boy, is your profile going to be raised! You’ll be on that poster in the airport. You know the one that greets you as you come down the steps at Edinburgh Airport? The one that says Welcome to Scotland? Well, it’s going to be you on that poster, Bruce. You – and underneath it’s going to say: The Face of Scotland. That’s the slogan. They’ve already approved that. Cost them two hundred thousand pounds.”

Bruce whistled. “The poster? Two hundred thousand?”

“No, not the poster,” said Nick. “The slogan. The poster cost…” He shrugged. “I don’t know what the poster cost. It’s the words that cost two hundred thousand. Some guy in one of the agencies invented them. That’s what a slogan costs these days. These things aren’t cheap.”

“But two hundred thousand…”

“Yeah, well that’s what quality costs, Bruce.”

Bruce was thinking. “And my face? The image?”

There was a change in Nick’s manner. Turning away from the screen, he faced Bruce. “We’ve got to talk about it,” he said. “I was going to raise the issue with you tomorrow. But we may as well talk about it right now.”

“No time like the present,” said Bruce, suddenly wondering what was going to happen to the joint bank account he had set up with Julia. Would he have time tomorrow to draw something out of that – just his own money, of course – before she closed it down? She might be dim, he thought, but she had shown herself to be fairly astute when it suited her.

Nick rose to his feet. “The thing is,” he said, “we’re in this together. I take the snaps, and you jut the chin. I have a lot of overheads, you know. This place. Getting the shots out to the agency. Lunch with creative directors, and so on. That mounts up.”

And my overheads? Bruce felt like saying. Personal grooming. The gym. That mounts up too.

“Some of the talent gets an agent,” said Nick. “Personally, I don’t like working with agents, and I’m not sure how useful they are to the talent themselves. Twenty per cent for the local market; thirty per cent for overseas. So on, so forth. It all mounts up. And what does the talent get in the end? Far less than he would have got if he’d negotiated the deal directly.”

“So you think I don’t need an agent?” asked Bruce.

“I’m not saying that. I’m not saying that agents are totally useless. It’s just that I think that you have to be careful – especially at the beginning.”

Bruce nodded. It seemed to him that he was getting objective advice from Nick, and they had been at school together, after all. If there was anybody one could trust, then surely it would be somebody with whom one had been at school.

“So what I suggest is this,” Nick went on. “I have a standard form agreement here in the studio. You could sign that right now. It’s a sort of release form and working agreement rolled into one. Pretty standard terms. Sign that now, so that when we get down to brass tacks with the agency tomorrow, everything will be in position.” He paused. “That’s what I’d do if I were you, Bruce.”

Bruce stared at Nick. It was hard not to smile, but he managed to control himself. You must think I was born yesterday, he thought. You really must. “I don’t think so,” he said evenly. “I think maybe I should get an agent after all.” Then he added. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, Nick. It’s not that at all.”

Nick waved a hand in the air. “No, that’s fine. That’s absolutely fine. We can get you an agent tomorrow. No problem there. I know a good one.”

“Great,” said Bruce. “What’s his name?”

“David.”

“David what?”

Nick walked across the studio to pick up a lens hood that he had laid down on the floor. “McNair, actually. Same as me. He’s my brother, actually. He’s really good.”

Bruce’s eyes widened. “Your brother?”

Nick shrugged. “Yup. You’ll like him.” He looked at his watch. “I’m going to have to scoot. When do you need to move into the flat?”

Bruce explained that it would be most convenient if he could move in that evening. “I don’t want to go back to Howe Street,” he said. “If I go back there, even for one night, it’ll raise her hopes. I don’t want to do that.” He made a chopping movement with a hand. “It’s better to make a clean break, I think. Don’t you?”

Nick agreed. He was for clean breaks too. And lucky ones. In fact, any sort of break suited him. “That’s fine then,” he said. “We can go round there now and I’ll show you the place. I have to go out a bit later, but you’re welcome to tag along, if you’ve got nothing better to do. I’m going for a drink and bite to eat with some friends.”

“Suits me,” said Bruce.

They left the studio and made their way to Nick’s car. Bruce noticed that it was a Porsche.

“I had one of these,” he said. “But I got rid of it.”

“Why was that?”

“Noisy exhaust,” said Bruce.

They set off for Leith. Bruce felt the leather of the seat below him; very good. And the model was a better one than his had been; more powerful, more expensive. Talent pays, he thought. Talent pays. There’s a slogan for you, he thought. And it cost nothing.