‘Something useful,’ he said. ‘Go on, open it!’
It was a pink satin eiderdown, the thick, soft kind filled with feathers. All she had was one rough grey blanket she’d taken from the room in Westbourne Park Road, and she’d only thought of helping herself to that this morning when she suddenly realized she didn’t have any bedding at all. But for Beetle’s thoughtfulness she would have been sleeping with all her clothes on tonight.
She went to hug him, the tears welling up again. ‘Come on now,’ he said gruffly. ‘Don’t get all soppy on me and spoil your makeup, Bob’s waiting to take the pictures. There’s something else I’ve got to tell you too. Tomorrow you’ll be doing the session with Mark Kinsale.’
Josie gasped and looked at Beetle in astonishment. She’d heard the other girls talking about this man, who was a famous photographer. They said he came in here periodically to check on Beetle’s girls in the hope of finding someone special.
‘Me?’ she said stupidly. ‘But why?’
Beetle laughed. ‘Because you’re young and pretty, why else?’
The four hours with Bob flew by, Josie was in such a dream. She didn’t mind sitting in rather lewd poses astride a chair, or him getting her to take her bra off and leave her shirt undone, for she was imagining herself in evening gowns, bridal wear and fur coats.
Beetle not only gave her the fifteen pounds for the day’s session, but the other fifteen for the following day too, explaining he wouldn’t be there, and had given Mark the key to let himself in. ‘Now, don’t you be late, twelve on the dot, and don’t argue with Mark about anything he tells you to do. Your whole future depends on him liking you.’
It was half past three when Josie left the studio, carrying the big bag with the eiderdown, and she took the bus straight to World’s End, for there were lots of second-hand furniture shops there, and she intended to try to find a cheap bed.
Her luck was in. The very first place she went into had a double divan that was in really good condition, at only five pounds, and the owner of the shop promised to deliver it to her on his way home at six that evening.
At five-thirty she was staggering up the stairs at Elm Park Gardens laden with her bulky purchases. She’d bought a set of sheets and pillowcases, a pink blanket, two pillows and a table lamp.
As she waited for the bed to arrive she was on cloud nine, hardly able to believe her good fortune. Tonight she would sleep in luxury, and tomorrow, if all went well with Mark, she’d be on her way to stardom.
Later that evening she lay on top of her new bed revelling in its comfort. She had never enjoyed anything so much as making it, smoothing down the sheets, doing hospital corners the way her mother had taught her, and finally placing the eiderdown on top of the blankets.
The new table lamp was sitting on her suitcase, which she’d turned into a bedside table by covering it with a pink dirndl skirt she’d brought from home. Only this morning she’d been tempted to throw it out because it was so old-fashioned, but she was glad she hadn’t now.
‘A dressing-table next,’ she murmured to herself gleefully. ‘Some curtains, maybe a pretty chair. Then I’ll start on the lounge.’
It was so wonderful to be able to have a bath, to keep her milk and butter cool in a fridge, to press up against the radiators and know that when winter came she’d be cosy and warm. She stood at the window looking down at the quiet tree-lined street below, humming along with the music on the radio and dreaming dreams of when the flat would be all furnished and she’d have dozens of friends to invite round here to share it all with her. She didn’t think she’d ever felt so happy in her entire life.
Chapter Twelve
‘You must be Jojo?’
Josie could only gulp, as speech was beyond her. The man lounging on the couch in the studio who had greeted her was far beyond even her wildest imaginings of what a famous photographer would be like. This was Mark Kinsale!
He looked about thirty, slender, with straight raven-black hair so long it almost touched his shoulders. His skin was deeply tanned, and he had a long bony face with an aquiline nose. The arrogant way he was lounging made her think of a Roman, even though he had no laurel wreath or toga. But then, he was wearing clothes unlike any she’d ever seen on a man before, even in pictures of pop stars – dark green velvet trousers tucked into long snakeskin boots, and a black leather jacket over a collarless shirt.
‘Mr Kinsale?’ she managed to get out. ‘Yes, I’m Jojo. I’m not late, ami?’
Beetle always called her Jojo, and she’d started using the name herself as it sounded infinitely more chic than Josie. But she didn’t feel chic now, not even wearing her favourite black mini-skirt and skinny rib sweater. She felt she looked what she really was, a fifteen-year-old from Falmouth with funny corkscrew ginger hair who had no business to be in the same room as this famous man, let alone imagine he was going to turn her into a top model.
‘Take that ribbon out of your hair,’ he ordered her, still not moving from the couch. ‘I hate those stupid bows, they look like something out of the eighteenth century.’
Her hands fluttered up behind her head to remove the offending ribbon. She had noticed all the smartest girls in London wore their hair tied back at the nape of their necks with a Tom Jones bow, and had copied it. Now she was mortified.
‘Now, put your head down to your knees and shake out your hair,’ he ordered.
Josie did as she was told. She hoped he knew what he was doing because she knew exactly what she’d look like when he made her stand up, a madwoman or a witch.
‘Stand up.’
Josie could feel a blush spreading all over her body, but she obeyed him.
‘Great,’ he said. ‘We’ll start.’
‘What do you want me to wear?’ she asked, appalled that he intended her to leave her hair all wild and bushy.
‘What you’ve got on will do fine,’ he said looking her up and down. ‘Over there!’ He pointed towards a plain wall already lit by one of the big lights.
The other photographers always told her exactly what they wanted, it was usually a sexy pose or as if she’d been taken by surprise. But with no directions and no props she felt silly and awkward. She stood there expectantly, hands clasped in front of her, waiting for Mark to move from the couch and disappear behind a camera, but instead he just stayed where he was, staring at her.
Just as she was about to open her mouth to ask him what he wanted her to do, he moved, uncoiling himself slowly from the couch in an almost feline manner, and she saw he had a small camera in his hands.
It was so strange; he just prowled around her taking pictures from different angles without saying a word.
‘Do you want me to smile?’ she asked after a bit.
‘Do you feel like smiling? Has anything struck you as amusing?’ he asked. His deep voice seemed to echo around the studio.
‘Well, yes.’ She couldn’t help but smile then because the whole thing struck her as funny.
‘That’s nice,’ he said, as she put her hand up to her mouth to stifle a giggle. ‘You look like a naughty school-girl.’
His words broke the ice and suddenly she realized he wanted to see the real Josie, not the manufactured one the others photographers liked. So she acted just the way she used to back at home when she was playing at being a model, moving around, running her fingers through her hair, looking thoughtful and sometimes sad. His silence seemed to say she was doing the right thing, and as he kept reloading his camera with film, he was clearly satisfied.
Later he did get her to put on a different outfit, a plain long dress that was in the studio wardrobe, and he got her to add a little more makeup. But there was no suggestion of ‘glamour’ shots, and it wasn’t until right at the end that he asked her to put on a bikini.
In over three hours he couldn’t have said more than fifty words to her, so she was staggered when after he’d told her to get dressed again, he said he was taking her for something to eat.
Maybe her face registered her shock, for he laughed. ‘I’ve got you on film,’ he said. ‘Now I want to know a bit about you.’
He took her to a Chinese restaurant close to the studio and ordered for her, as if he knew she’d never eaten Chinese food and wouldn’t have had the first idea what she wanted. He had a large Scotch while they were waiting for the meal, but he ordered her a Coke.
‘Tell me how you met Beetle,’ he said curtly. ‘I want to know where you come from, how old you really are, and about your parents. Don’t think of telling me a pack of lies. If I’m to use you in the future I need to know the truth.’
She told him exactly that, and it was a relief not to have to make out she was seventeen, or had family in London. She told him about Will, Westbourne Park Road, the cafe she’d worked in and how Tina and Candy had invited her to meet Beetle.
By the time she’d finished the story, throughout which he hadn’t said a word, the food arrived. She stared at all the little dishes of things she didn’t recognize and he laughed.
‘Put a bit of everything on your plate and try it,’ he said. ‘You’ll find it doesn’t taste as strange as it looks. You’re too thin. I suppose you hardly eat anything?’
This was true – since she’d left the café she hadn’t had one proper meal, only ready-made sandwiches, crisps and the occasional hamburger. So she dug into the food and found she really liked it, even if she didn’t know what it was.
‘If you are set on being a model you’ll have to learn to look after yourself,’ Mark said sternly. ‘You won’t keep that clear complexion on a diet of cigarettes and chocolate. You need a balanced diet with plenty of fruit and vegetables. Exercise too and enough sleep.’
She nodded. Sleep was one thing she did have plenty of, she had nothing much else to do when she wasn’t working.
‘I’ll make sure I eat more,’ she agreed. ‘Beetle’s always telling me that too. He’s very kind to me. He even bought me an eiderdown as a flat-warming present.’
Mark gave her a very strange look, one dark eyebrow slightly raised.
‘What is it?’ she asked, worried she’d said something wrong.
‘Beetle’s a rogue,’ he said abruptly, startling her. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got the first idea that most of the so-called photographers who take pictures in his studio haven’t even got film in their cameras?’
Josie frowned. ‘But why would they do that?’ she asked. She wondered then if Mark was a little crazy.
‘Because they get their kicks out of seeing girls with very little on and are prepared to pay for the privilege.’
Josie was winded and for a moment she could say nothing. Then she remembered all those films she’d seen Mark put in his camera, the sounds of winding on, and the finished films which made his jacket pockets bulge. It was very rare to see or hear that in the studio. ‘You mean they just look at us?’ she whispered, remembering all the times they’d asked her to expose a breast, or lie on the floor with her legs in the air.
Mark nodded. ‘If you girls weren’t so greedy for money you’d have worked it out for yourselves,’ he said tersely. ‘In a real assignment the model is told what the pictures are for, there’s a makeup artist and hairdresser standing by, the company provides the clothes needed for the job. How you girls can be so thick I can’t understand. Who on earth would want photographs of a girl playing with a beach ball on a fake beach?’
‘Beetle said they were for holiday brochures,’ she said in a small voice, recalling with horror how one of the men had made her keep jumping so that her breasts jiggled around. It had made her feel uneasy, but she’d thought that was part of the job.
‘He does handle a small amount of commercial work, for calendars, the tacky end of the girlie mags, stuff like that, but he’d be living in a council flat in Ladbroke Grove and you girls would be earning less than waitresses if it wasn’t for the kinky bastards who like to play at being David Bailey’
The secure feeling Josie had enjoyed for the past few weeks vanished. She had been duped, and now she knew the truth what on earth was she going to do? She couldn’t afford to live in Elm Park Gardens on a waitress’s wages. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she gave Mark a pleading look, hoping he’d laugh and say he was joking.
‘What are you crying for?’ he asked brusquely.
‘Because I don’t know what I’m going to do now,’ she said, dabbing at her eyes. ‘I only moved into a new flat yesterday, it’s very expensive.’
Mark shook his head; his expression was remarkably like the one her father always had when she’d done something stupid. ‘Then you are lucky Beetle spotted that you might have real model potential, and didn’t stick you in with any of the real weirdos, and that he called me over to take a look at you.’
It appeared by that statement that all wasn’t quite lost. ‘Have I got any potential?’ she asked timidly.
He looked at her for a moment as if considering the question. Josie held her breath and crossed her fingers.
‘Yes, you have,’ he said eventually.
Josie beamed.
‘Don’t look so joyful,’ he said dourly. ‘You may have a pretty face and gorgeous hair, but it takes more than that.’
‘I’ll do anything,’ she gasped. ‘Whatever you tell me to do.’
Mark sighed. ‘Look, Josie, it’s not as simple as that. There’s such a thing as the look of the moment, and no one can forecast what that next look will be. Fashions are changing rapidly at the moment, what’s “in” one day is out the next. Besides, there’s your age, the estrangement from your family. You are in fact a runaway. That could backfire on me.’
‘But I left home almost three months ago now, they haven’t come searching for me, so they don’t care, do they?’ she said defiantly. ‘Besides, there’s no law against working away from home at fifteen.’
‘That would depend on how your parents viewed the work you were doing,’ he said. ‘If they believed you were in moral or physical danger, they could have you made a ward of court.’
‘They wouldn’t do that,’ she said with a touch of scorn. ‘As long as they get letters from me now and then and know I’m doing okay they won’t want me back.’
He sighed deeply. ‘I’ll have to think all this over, Jojo. I’ll get the pictures I took today printed, show them around and see what interest I get. Then I’ll get back to you.’