I should have got the shot. I’ve got no excuses. But suddenly all sorts of weird questions start fighting for room in my head, like does this mean he gets off looking at me, and do people really get off to Knitting Weekly?
‘Excellent,’ Amber continues. But Tom, he doesn’t say anything. He just grabs his jacket from the top of the velvet sofa that sits to the left of shot, and disappears into the bathroom at the back of the studio. Leaving me alone with Amber and her black lace lingerie and little silver tongue stud and the glob of Tom’s spunk that is slowly making its way down towards her left nipple. She doesn’t seem to have noticed it. ‘When will I be able to see the shots?’
‘Wednesday,’ I say. Another lie. Everything is digital. She could have a look at them right now. But usually I give myself a couple of days’ leave, time to delete any pictures that might give the impression that I don’t know one end of a camera from the other. I don’t want my clients to think I’m the sort of person who makes mistakes. It’s just that sometimes, I lose my focus a little.
‘Brilliant!’ she says, getting to her feet. The glance she darts towards the back of the studio doesn’t escape my notice. ‘He’s hot,’ she says. ‘And did you see the size of it?’
‘I was working,’ I say quickly. ‘Not letching on Tom Hunt.’ I need to get both of them out of here so I can think.
‘It’s always the quiet ones you’ve got to watch out for,’ she continues. ‘I mean, look at you.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes! Who would think quiet, sensible Ellie Smithson is a pornographer?’
‘Photographer,’ I say automatically. ‘I’m a photographer.’ From now on, that’s exactly what I am. Nothing more, nothing less. I only wish I’d made that decision before Amber dragged Tom Hunt in here and sucked him off in front of me.
‘I’ll get dressed then,’ she says, with another glance at the bathroom door, which sends my mind into a frenzy. Obviously she wants to get him out of here. She’s probably going to take him home and they’re going to fuck each other silly, which they’re entitled to do.
But that doesn’t stop a nasty little seed of jealousy settling down inside me. I want the man my best friend has just had. I want him so badly. I turn away; pack my camera away into its silk lined case, start turning off the lights. My blouse is sticking under my arms. So now I’m not just a jealous bitch, I’m a sweaty jealous bitch. What’s really bugging me is that the fact that it’s him hurts more than the fact that she told someone I know that I take erotic photographs.
‘Use the screen,’ I say, waving my arm in its general direction. That’s why I invested in it, not just because I like the Chinese dragons weaving their way over the faded red silk. This post-sex bit is always tricky, and the screen gives people somewhere to hide. They usually avoid eye contact too, though Amber is having no problems making it with me. ‘Thanks!’ she says cheerily. Then she moves towards me and gives me a hug. ‘Thanks for doing this, Ellie. You’re the best.’
Five minutes later she’s gone, and she hasn’t taken him with her. Two minutes later, he emerges from the bathroom. His tie is straight, his shirt tucked neatly into his trousers, and he’s tamed his hair. He’s also shivering.
‘Fuck me,’ he says, ‘it’s cold in there.’
Tom Hunt just said fuck. The man who does my accounts and lectures me about my awful handwriting just said fuck. I don’t know why this shocks me so much, given what I’ve just watched him do, but something about that little word sends an electric tremor through my insides. The same thing happened when he opened his shirt and I first saw that tattoo, and when he opened his pants and pulled out his enormous cock.
It occurs to me that Tom Hunt isn’t the person I thought he was, which is terrifying to say the least. ‘Oh,’ I say, my mouth fumbling for the words. ‘Right. Yes. I probably should have told you about that. You have to flick the switch on the wall to turn on the heater. It takes ages. I wasn’t expecting you to come, so I didn’t turn it on earlier. Sorry about that.’
He raises an eyebrow, and I realise what I’ve just said, and the inevitable blush is fast and fierce. Tom Hunt is too much and too here for me to deal with right now, but there are so many questions banging round inside my head. The inevitable happens. One of them spills out. ‘Why did you do it?’
He fastens his jacket. ‘Why did I do what?’
Why did you look at me when you came? ‘Why did you agree to have those photos done with Amber?’
He shrugs. ‘Because she asked me to.’
‘Because she asked you to? Seriously?’
‘She was stood behind me in the queue at the bank,’ he says. ‘We got chatting, and she was telling me about her boyfriend getting engaged to someone else. She seemed pretty cut up about it. I suggested she fuck one of his friends, but she said no, she had a better idea.’ He straightens his tie. ‘She told me about your little sideline, and asked if I fancied a blowjob. You know the rest.’
I’m blinking too fast. I’m breathing too fast. ‘Please don’t say things like that.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like the…the word with f in it.’ He’s so casual about it. I can’t even say it. ‘And the other thing.’
‘Why not?’
‘It…’ I fumble for an excuse. ‘It’s not appropriate, that’s all.’
He stares at me for a long moment, as if he’s trying to figure something out. The weight of those blue eyes on me is too much. I turn away, start fiddling with a light, but it’s worse, somehow. I give in and turn back to face him. ‘Aren’t you worried that people will know it’s you?’
‘No,’ he says, his forehead creasing as if it’s only just occurred to him that this is a possibility. ‘No one is going to recognise me from my dick.’
He said dick. My insides go all sort of squirmy. ‘What about that tattoo?’ I blurt out, pointing in the general direction of his lower stomach. ‘It’s pretty distinctive.’
Tom rubs a hand over the back of his neck. ‘Yeah, I guess there is that.’
I pick up my camera and take it over to the desk where I keep my laptop. I turn it on, then go over to the windows and open the blinds. I’d like to have a big place, the kind with separate rooms and permanent sets, and an office. Who am I kidding? I’d like to be Annie Leibovitz. But at the moment I’ve just got this place, and it’s pretty cool. It used to be a jeweller’s, a seriously high-end classy place, until one day the police raided it. The place was empty for so long after that that the rent is dirt cheap, which is how I can afford it.
The back of my neck starts to prickle, and it occurs to me that he isn’t picking up his briefcase and leaving. Why isn’t he leaving? I don’t want to be rude, but I don’t want to beat about the bush, either. We’re not strangers but neither are we best buddies. Just because once a month I sit in his office and listen to him tut, and because sometimes when he walks past me in the street, I think about what it would be like to shag his brains out, doesn’t mean that I feel OK being here alone with him.
Because I most definitely do not
