The nudity hadn’t bothered him either. He looked good walking around with a tiny towel between shots and he was at that point in his career when he’d do anything to prove ‘artistic integrity’. It helped that Lee took a matter-of-fact approach to these things, offering to close the set for him – but it was only her, Bart and Claudia anyway, as she had sent away both the hair and make-up artists upon their arrival.
Claudia hadn’t realized the full extent of what was happening with her client until it was too late, Bart getting out the king-size stroopwafels at the pertinent point when Lee had brought out the clippers. She had started the shoot gently, taking the stool away and standing him in the black space in the very clothes he’d arrived in, getting him used to the camera as she prowled around him like a cat, changing height, perspective, coming in tight, pulling away, insisting he keep his eye locked on the lens at all times. She had got Bart to turn up the thermostat and as the studio warmed and his layers came off, as the minutes ticked past, she had seen the change happen in him that she’d been gently prodding for – the studied poses and eager willingness to perform for her gradually yielding to something less contrived and conscious, the novelty beginning to pall, boredom to surface, until the camera was no longer something to play to but to endure. The eyes had flattened, becoming harder, the jaw had relaxed, and steadily the act, the public persona, had fallen away until it was just her and him, even the camera being forgotten. They had been connected by the lens, divided by it, as he fell back into being the man of his private moments when he moved unobserved. Unjudged. It had been like watching a wax figure melt, blue-eyed chiselled distinction blurred out so that only the core remained. It was the moment she always strove for – naked truth. Basic humanity. Shared experience. Equality.
Lee had taken this box-fresh housewife’s hero and recast him into something so much more than a stud in a suit. If he wanted Bond, this was his golden ticket. Or Hamlet. Or Atticus Finch. Or Mr Darcy. Doors were going to open on the strength of these images.
‘Hmm,’ she said with a pleased nod, straightening up and walking briskly towards the door. ‘Not a bad day’s work. Who’ve we got next?’
‘The last one, you’ll be pleased to hear. An author. He’s the new . . . hmm.’ Bart thought for a moment, trying to pigeonhole their next subject. ‘A. A. Milne meets Eckhart Tolle.’
‘Who?’
‘Mindfulness, Lee – gratitude, acceptance, kindness. It’s a thing,’ he said wryly.
She rolled her eyes, not needing to be told. She’d seen quite enough of the schmaltzy quotes being passed off as deep insight on social media to know what he was referring to. Insta-wisdom.
‘So he’s on Monday morning, ten o’clock start; then you’re done – unless they want a re-shoot of Haven, the “new Billie Eilish” girl. I know there’s not supposed to be any editorial interference but her management can be very tricky . . .’ He pulled a face.
‘Ugh.’ She used to creep through jungles and over burnt-out cars to show the world images that mattered. How had she ended up pandering to the ego of an eighteen-year-old singer who hadn’t even been alive when she’d bought her coat?
‘Bills, Lee,’ Bart murmured, reading her mind.
‘. . . Yeah.’ She sighed and turned away again.
‘Talking of which—’
‘No!’ she called over her shoulder, knowing exactly what he was going to say: the gallery again. She was in a good mood, but not that good. ‘See you tomorrow, Bart.’
The doors closed behind her and she stepped back outside. It was dark already, the city lamplit to an amber glow and looking postcard-perfect in its night-time guise. It always fascinated her how the city, with such a mannered masculinity by day – all lean lines and sombre colours – switched to a more expansive mood by night: lights glowing on the water, threaded through the trees, arching with the bridges and pooling on the cobblestones, the famous narrow, multi-windowed buildings now as pretty as gingerbread houses.
She unlocked her bike, giving her daily prayer of thanks to the Bike Gods that it was still there, and pushed off over the cobbles. The air was crisp, the first notes of a frost beginning to lace her breaths, and she felt her cheeks grow pink, her good mood bloom further as she pedalled. The cold was still something of a novelty for her and maybe always would be; it had been one of the things she had missed most in her old life and part of why she’d been drawn back here. She had swapped red dust for rain and slush, quite deliberately. She had wanted an opposite existence to her old life.
She glided past the townhouses’ overly large windows like a shadow, silent but for the whirr of her wheels, feeling lighter than she had on her way in this morning. It was a struggle for her to feel accomplishment after these intense days in the studio, to feel that any of this glossy, airbrushed reality she helped create actually mattered. Today had been different though; she had captured something real through her lens and made contact – a transitory but honest connection – with another human. It wouldn’t change the world but it had shifted hers, just a little.
She smiled, the gold streamers Jasper had begged her to buy at a Christmas market last year fluttering and flapping from the handlebars like a cheerleader’s ribbons as she rode with her usual languid grace and unflinching aggression, using her voice and not her bell, cheerfully shouting at people to ‘Move!’ as she approached. She would not be made late for her child by ‘influencers’ trying to get a shot.
Twenty minutes later, she and Jasper were home again and she closed the front door behind them with a sigh of relief. Another day was done. Jasper gave a shout of joy to be home – she felt much the same herself – and, throwing his bag down, he pulled off his shoes and tore up the stairs to the open-plan kitchen and living area on the first floor. Lee put on the three bolts and two chains on the door and carefully slid his little trainers to the wall, out of the way, hearing his socked feet pounding on the wooden floors above her and echoing through the three-storey house. Going straight into the utility room at the back of the house, she switched this morning’s laundry load from the washing machine into the tumble dryer and double-checked the back door was locked. The guest bedroom was across the hall from the bottom of the stairs and she stopped in the doorway, as she always did, checking there were no signs of disturbance.
The curtains were drawn, naturally – she would never subscribe to the Dutch preference for unobscured windows; she rated privacy (and security) above light – and she switched on the light, trying to appraise the room with fresh eyes. She rarely actually came in here, but she knew it wasn’t the most successful space – the double bed was fitted without a headboard, the lamp shade was a cheap Ikea rattan number that looked more like a lobster pot and the pillows were different thicknesses so the turquoise kantha quilt lay on a slope. Still, she had painted the walls a rich blackish-green, which felt luxurious, and a thick creamy imitation Moroccan rug felt good underfoot.
She turned out the light again and pulled the bedroom door to, and was about to walk up the stairs when someone rang the bell. She turned and stared at it in shock. It was half past five. She’d said eight. Surely—? She stood there for several moments more – it could just be kids messing about, tourists wanting directions, someone with the wrong address . . . She walked over, but just as she was about to look through the spyhole, she heard a cough.