‘Oh no, that’s right. It was your agent, wasn’t it? Lloyd?’
I have to take a very deep breath. My agent? ‘S’right,’ I manage.
‘Well, I’ll be ready for you at two. Do you know where we are?’
‘Your card says Carrington Mews – I think that’s quite near here. Sloane Square tube station?’
‘Yes, that’s the closest. We’ll do the solo shots first.’
‘We’ll … solo shots?’ I struggle to make sense of this. Does she mean that there will be another model in some of the photographs?
‘Yes. You don’t need to bring anything, by the way. I’ve a full wardrobe of costumes and props and I’ll do make-up here. So, two o’clock then?’
‘Yeah. Great.’ I put the phone down, and then I can’t prevent myself calling Lloyd. ‘Lloyd!’
He chuckles down the phone at me. ‘You got it then?’
‘What the fuck does she mean? “We’ll do the solo shots first”? What does that mean? What else did you tell her to do?’
‘Wait and see.’
‘I think, as my agent, you should keep me in the loop.’
‘I think, as the orchestrator of the challenge, I should make this as hard for you as I can. Ah, why did I say that? “Hard for you.” I think I am. Thinking about what’s going to happen –’
‘Which is?’
‘As I said before –’
‘Oh, don’t bother.’ I hang up.
I look at the clock. Eleven fifteen. Am I going to do this?
Yes, I am. Failure is not an option.
I think about changing for the appointment, but in the end I turn up in the chichi Chelsea courtyard in the same charcoal-grey skirt suit I wore to work. At least Sasha Margetts will see that I am not some Botoxed bimbo but a bona fide businesswoman who doesn’t get messed around.
Though I suspect I might get messed up.
The door is answered by a smiling woman in her forties, casually but expensively dressed, giving every impression of a model-turned-photographer. In fact, I think I vaguely recognise her.
‘Yes, yes,’ she laughs, responding to my quizzical frown. ‘Sash Derby as was. That’s me.’
‘Oh God. It is you, isn’t it? I remember those perfume adverts you did.’
We climb a staircase, quoting in unison the corny line she had had to speak.
‘I know, dreadful, weren’t they?’ she says, ushering me into a vast white studio space, lined and surrounded with clothes racks and storage units. ‘I much prefer what I do now. No more pouting and trying to look mysterious. Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean …’
‘It’s fine. I’m not really a model. I’m a hotelier.’
‘Oh? But you want to break into the scene, your agent said.’ She stands over by a small sink unit and waves a kettle at me. ‘Tea? Coffee? Or sometimes my models need a tot of something stronger, just to dispel the nerves.’
‘He said that, did he? Oh, tea’s fine. White, no sugar.’
‘Isn’t it true?’
‘Oh, if he says it is, I’m sure it is.’ I’m skirting close to a fail, I think. I have to go with the flow. She has been given a story, and it’s my job to stick to it. ‘The hotel’s great, but I’m looking for something on the side. Where I can express myself.’