The Prawn Sandwich

If it hadn’t been for the prawn sandwich, Lena might never have seen the detail that identified a murderess. Her Grandmother used to tell her: ‘Watch out for the little things, for they often hold the most consequence.’ but, of course, it’s the big things that tend to occupy us, and the little things too often go unnoticed.

If Lena had been paying greater attention in the mini supermarket on the way to the photo-shoot that fated January day, then she would have looked more closely at the sandwich packet she picked absently from the shelf and paid for, while otherwise occupied reading this week’s copy of ‘Bleat’ celebrity gossip magazine; which contained, most interestingly, an article on Ashleen Bright, celebrity-model-du-jour, the subject of said photo-shoot. You see; it was a very significant sandwich.

Ashleen Bright was tall, thin and red-haired. She had that freckled, porcelain look so beloved of fashion photographers and casting agents, incongruously large breasts for her slender frame, (and therefore, probably a purchase from a surgeon rather than a gift from God), and a well-documented inability to say ‘no’ to booze and drugs. She had also, according to ‘Bleat’, been caught on camera stumbling out of a rather famous actor’s townhouse at three o’clock last Saturday night, or, rather, Sunday morning, after accompanying said actor to the première of his latest film, thirty hours before his cleaner discovered his pickled and drug-addled body on the Monday. The accompanying photograph, claimed the magazine, was proof that Ms. Bright had been present at the scene of the actor’s death and was most certainly involved, if not responsible.

Lena studied the photograph carefully: the long red hair; the pinched-looking face, half-hidden behind dark glasses; the tall, thin frame; the fragile-looking legs, appearing strangely exposed in the short, gold dress. She must have been freezing, thought Lena, outdoors in the middle of the night, in January, without a coat. Perhaps the alcohol and drugs were insulation enough.

And so, today, Ms. Bright had agreed to be photographed, (rather tastelessly, thought Lena), in a cemetery, for an interview in which she declared her innocence and distress over the ‘shocking and unexpected’ death of her famous lover… Lena was the photographer’s assistant. And now, thanks to ‘Bleat’, she was late.

‘For Christ’s sake, Lena, what time do you call this?’ hissed Ed Shotwell, her boss, struggling to support a large camera case, a tripod bag, another bag full of props and other equipment, and a large, paper cup of coffee. ‘Damn!’ he cursed, as, in turning to tell off Lena for being late, a stream of frothy, hot coffee had run down the front of his skinny, designer jeans and across his white-laced gym shoe.

‘Sorry,’ gasped Lena, rushing to help him negotiate the black, wrought iron gates of the cemetery.

‘She’s on her way!’ announced Max, Ashleen’s press agent, arriving stylishly, (he imagined), on an electric scooter.

Lena suppressed a giggle and hid her face behind the tripod bag, thinking that there was something altogether undignified about grown men on electric scooters. Or scooters of any kind, for that matter.

‘Morning!’ breathed Janice, the hair and make-up artist, blowing smoke in their direction from her position astride one of the tombs.

‘Are you sure that’s entirely respectful?’ asked Max, carefully dismounting.

‘Coming from someone who tries to hide dirty laundry for a living, that’s rich,’ observed Janice, lighting a second cigarette from the first and handing it to Ed.

‘Ms. Bright will have two hours, no more, for the shoot,’ announced Max, taking control. ‘We want serious, we want demure, we want grief-stricken innocence, ok?’

Ed smiled. ‘Whatever you say. You have read the draft article, though, right?’

Max blanched, slightly. ‘You know I can’t control what she says when she’s… errr….’

‘Drunk?’ laughed Ed. ‘High? You want to get her into rehab quick, before she pulls an Amy Winehouse on you. She’s already delusional.’

‘What does it say?’ Janice enquired, in a bored voice.

‘She’s denying ever being at his house, silly girl. That photograph’s all over the press. It’s unmistakably her.’ Ed frowned. ‘She’s not even claiming to have left while he was still alive. They were together all evening, starting with the première. Talk about a body of evidence; there’s hundreds of photos splashed all over the Internet.’

Max blushed. ‘I’ve tried to have the rehab conversation. She won’t hear of it. But it might be her only option now, if the police can’t find any other witnesses and this goes to court. She’ll have to claim severe drug and alcohol abuse, rendering her incapable of culpability. They were probably spurring each other on to greater excesses when it all got out of hand…’

Lena sighed, sorting out cameras, checking battery life, unpacking lights. Celebrities could get away with murder, when it came to bad behaviour. Something was bothering her; something she couldn’t put a finger on. Was it simply a case of justified ‘life’s not fair’-ness? She attributed her sense of mild doom to the fact that she was surrounded by tombstones and dead people, and rummaged in her bag for her bottle of Diet Coke.

Ashleen Bright arrived, shivering, wrapped in a long, fur coat, more than half an hour late. She greeted Max and Ed with air kisses and forced smiles, before depositing herself on a portable stool in front of Janice and, removing her inevitable dark glasses, presented her bare, pale face to be made up. She looked tired and wan, with large, black shadows hanging under her eyes.

Lena busied herself with a light meter, taking readings, getting the white balance sorted on the cameras. Ed always said the only way to learn was to do, which meant that she did everything, and he pointed and clicked and took most of the credit. She used a secondary camera on most shoots and, on more than one occasion, he’d actually used her photographs, claiming they were his. He called it ‘paying your dues’.

‘God, I’m starving. You wouldn’t happen to have anything to eat with you, would you?’ Ashleen Bright stared beseechingly up at Lena and Janice. Janice shook her head, concentrating on selecting just the right mascara from her makeup toolbox.

Lena pursed her lips. She was hungry too, and she only had one sandwich. Still, Ashleen was skin and bones, and looked as if she could do with eating something. Lena decided to be generous.

‘I’ve got a sandwich. Would you like that?’ she offered, digging in her bag for the packet. Extricating it from the depths, she handed it, albeit with a fleeting feeling of reluctance, to the model.

‘Hey, would you look at that?’ laughed Ashleen, brightening and pointing to the label. ‘It says ‘Egg Mayonnaise’ on the label, but it’s clearly a prawn sandwich in the wrong packaging!’ She shrugged and opened it anyway, taking a bite and trying to chew without moving her face too much, while Janice perfected her eyelashes.

Lena grinned to herself. She hated seafood, so it was just as well she had given it to the model.

‘Bloody freezing, today, isn’t it?’ Ashleen tried to make conversation. Janice grunted, never one to speak much to her subjects.

Lena nodded. ‘Yes, although warmer than last weekend.’

‘Much warmer,’ agreed the model, frowning, while fishing a stray prawn out of her ample cleavage. ‘Not that I went out.’ She stared at Lena until Lena dropped her gaze. ‘It wasn’t me, you know,’ Ashleen said, softly, before taking another bite. ‘They’re saying it might have been sabotage, that his death was no accident. A lovers’ tiff. It’s been suggested that I made him take an overdose. The police have questioned me for hours, trying to get me to change my story. I wasn’t even there. Hard to argue with a photograph, though, isn’t it?’

She took another bite of the sandwich, while the question, which Lena hoped was rhetorical, hung between them in the air. Janice kept quiet, busying herself with the long, red hair.

‘A picture tells a thousand lies…’ Ashleen sighed, waiting until Lena looked at her again. ‘You know that, being in the business.’

Lena didn’t know what to say. ‘I’m sure the truth will come out.’ She tried to reassure the model, who was suppressing tears.

‘Don’t cry!’ admonished Janice, finally breaking her silence. ‘We’ll be another hour fixing it, if you make a mess of your face.’

That night, the model’s words haunting her, Lena pored over her copy of ‘Bleat’, looking rather more closely at the photograph of Ashleen Bright. That long, red hair; those slender, pale legs; that freckled, porcelain face, eerily white in the camera flash, half-hidden by dark glasses. Something wasn’t right, for the girl in the picture was curiously flat-chested, while, only a few hours before, Lena had been holding up a light meter to Ashleen’s enormous, pale bosom, which had been prominently displayed in a low-cut dress for the photographs. She recalled the errant prawn, nestling happily, if briefly, between Ashleen’s breasts. Errant, indeed, for it had been masquerading as Egg Mayonnaise in the wrong sandwich box.

‘It’s not her!’ she breathed, incredulously. ‘She’s not wrong: it’s someone else, in her packaging! Prawn masquerading as Egg.’

She searched the photograph for other clues.

‘Hang on,’ she muttered, opening her laptop and typing furiously into Google. ‘I just need to find a shot of her from the première.’

A few clicks later, there she was: Ashleen Bright, clutching the actor’s arm; her long, red hair flowing down either side of her ample chest, over that short, skintight gold dress. Endless legs tapered down from the brief hem and came to rest in a pair of patent, high-heeled, black shoes. Black shoes with unmistakably red, designer soles. Red, designer soles that matched the red carpet.

Lena grabbed ‘Bleat’ again: the subject of the photograph wore patent, high-heeled, black shoes, certainly, but there was no trace of red soles. The wrong packaging, just like the prawn sandwich. Little things, with massive consequences. Her Grandmother’s face floated briefly before her eyes, then winked at her, conspiratorially.

But what was she going to do about it? Could she really go to the police with an allegation of mistaken identity, based on breast size and shoe sole colour, in what might turn out to be a murder or manslaughter case? Could one photograph really prove someone’s innocence? And who would want to blame Ashleen Bright for the accidental death of her lover? Unless it had been murder… unless there was somebody else who had wanted the actor out of the picture…

Suddenly, things clicked into place in Lena’s head. Someone had wanted the actor dead; someone who had seen the dress Ashleen had bought to wear to the première; someone who knew that a photographer would most likely be waiting for a shot that could ruin a career or, worse, a life. Or had the photographer been a plant, all part of the cover-up? What if whoever had wanted to frame Ashleen had staged more than the doppelganger?

Lena grabbed her phone. ‘Ed? Yes, I’m sorry, I know it’s late, but I really need to talk to you.’

As predicted, the police had dismissed Lena’s theory out of hand. They’d stood, two middle-aged detectives, looking slightly amused, in Ed’s office, while Lena attempted to persuade them to compare breasts and shoes.

Ashleen Bright had already been arrested and charged with murder when the article came out, splashed unashamedly across the glossy pages of a famous fashion magazine, her big, blue eyes peering out of the main photograph, surrounded by tombstones and naked trees. The headline, ‘The Wrong Shoes: Proof that Fashion Can Save Your Life’, brought a smile to Lena’s lips. She enjoyed the resultant clearing of Ashleen’s name and the arrest of the actor’s ex-wife, found to be in possession of a short, gold dress, a long, red wig, and a pair of patent, high-heeled, black-soled, black shoes…