Game

by Justine Elyot

  He has set me up to fail.

  ‘Damn you, Ellison,’ I murmur, picking up the business card.

  She is called Sasha Margetts. She has all the right letters after her name, but underneath it I read ‘Boudoir and Erotic’. Is this where wannabe porn starlets go for their portfolio shots? I wonder. Will she have me licking suggestively on a lollipop while I shake my airbrushed booty? Or will it all be dead tasteful with soft lighting and feathers covering the rude bits? Only one way to find out …

  I reach for the phone at least a dozen times before finally going through with the call. I contemplate ringing Lloyd first and haranguing him for picking such an odious task, but that would only give him some kind of perverse satisfaction, so I don’t. I’m not going to fail this on the nursery slopes.

  ‘Hello, Sasha Margetts.’

  ‘Hi, my name’s Sophie Martin.’

  ‘Oh, yes, my afternoon booking! Is it still OK? Can you make it?’

  ‘I think so. Not sure of the exact time though – I didn’t make the booking myself.’

  ‘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.’

  ‘That’s terrific. That’s what we need to discuss. How do we best express you, your personality and your individuality, through the medium of my camera?’

  Stumped, I look for inspiration amongst the portraits on the wall. Most are innocuous enough – beautiful girls in cashmere wraps or naked but for jewellery. Until you look at their faces. Rapt, caught in another world, another state of being. Their vulnerability is shocking and arousing.

  ‘Seems to me,’ I say, trying not to let my voice tremble, ‘that I won’t get much choice in that. One’s face does what it does at that crucial moment.’

  ‘Yes, you can’t fake it.’ Sash appears at my shoulder, inspecting her work along with me. ‘It’s a moment when you are nothing but yourself. The masks peeled off, the face metaphorically bare.’

  ‘That’s a strangely frightening thought.’

  She puts her hand on my shoulder. I’m not tactile, outside the bedroom, and I flinch a little.

  ‘You’re not the first person to think so. Come on. Sit down and we’ll talk about your needs.’

  I take my tea and perch on her white leather sofa. ‘Didn’t Lloyd give you any idea of what was wanted?’

  She laughs. ‘Oh yes, he did. But I’m starting with you. You’re the girl in the picture. What are you getting out of this?’

  A win. I’m getting to win.

  ‘I’m getting to represent myself as what I am.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘An insatiable whore.’

  She is taken aback. For a moment, all she can do is stare at me.

  ‘Sorry not to put it more delicately,’ I say. ‘I suppose people generally say that they want to express their flowering sexuality or their empowering femininity or whatever. But I don’t dress it up. I’m not a flowery feminine sexually empowered blah-de-blah. I’m an insatiable whore. That’s what you’ll see. That’s what you’ll get.’

  Sash sips at her tea.

  ‘Oh,’ she says. ‘You sound a little bit angry. Are you sure you want to do this?’

  ‘I’m only angry because people don’t like insatiable whores. Well, they do really, but they won’t admit it, so we get bad press. It’s not fair, is it?’

  ‘I suppose not. So, when we pick props you want something fairly full-on? Aggressively sexual, almost?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I think of Lloyd looking at the photos, knowing that I hate standing behind a camera. I want him to know how I feel about it. ‘Aggressively sexual. That hits my spot.’

  ‘That’s a powerful concept. We could build some strong images around it. You’re a woman in charge of your sexuality, using it freely, without guilt. Actually, I can really work with that.’ Sasha’s face lights up. ‘This could be a wonderful set. Come and pick some props.’

  Sasha has every type of luxe fabric and body decoration imaginable. I run my fingers through marabou and faux fur and lace and ropes of pearls. In another box, she has her kinky stuff. It looks tempting, but I’m not going to be tied up or trussed for this shoot. I’m going to be free.

  ‘I don’t want props,’ I decide. ‘Maybe just that chair. Just me, in the buff, on a chair. Keep it simple, yeah?’

  ‘I think simplicity will be the key to this set. It’s all about you and your attitude. Are you ready? Do you want to take off your clothes now?’

  I distract her while I strip off my business suit by talking about the make and model of her camera. I want her to know that I know my stuff. I want her to know what she is dealing with.

  By the time I’m down to my black bra and knickers, we have covered image processors and the respective merits of manual and automatic focus adjustment.

  ‘Do you
want some underwear shots first?’ she asks politely.

  ‘Nah.’ I look her in the eye as I unhook my bra then ease down my panties. I maintain a smile that I hope isn’t too forced. ‘Let’s start as we mean to go on.’

  I fling up my arms to reveal everything, my breasts rising to optimum presentability as my hands stretch high.

  ‘OK, OK, keep this pose, legs wide, arms up, looking straight at me. Lovely, perfect, that’s great, Sophie.’

  Light flashes, pow pow pow, while I face down the lens, my expression almost a scowl. Not a come hither, but a come and get it if you dare.

  I move to the chair and sit, legs akimbo, imagining the photographs and how Lloyd will feel when he sees them. I glare, thrust out my chest, kick out my legs, cup my breasts, snarl, muss my hair, bend my knees and, finally, when Sash has melted away and become her camera, I put my hand flat on my crotch, between my pussy lips and throw back my head.

  ‘Are you ready for this, Sophie?’ Sash’s voice is gentle and breathy. I wonder briefly if this turns her on. Is this her perversion?

  ‘Ready to wank for the camera? Bring it on.’

  She exhales, almost whistling, and lines herself up behind the viewfinder, hand on the button. Not the same button I have my hand on.

  ‘Tell me what gets you off, Sophie. What do you think about when you touch yourself?’

  ‘I think about how much I need it. How much I want a cock. How much I want to be bent over with something thick and hard pushing into me, pinning me down.’

  ‘Lovely. Go on.’ Pow pow pow. I draw languid circles around my clit.

  ‘I think of all the men I’ve had. Men and women. All the tongues that have licked me, all the arms that have held me down, all the come I’ve swallowed, all the cocks I’ve had in my cunt and my arse, so many, loads of them, loads of loads, all shot in me.’

  Pow pow pow. I breathe more deeply, dig more deeply, rubbing faster.

  ‘Are you really insatiable?’

  ‘God, yeah, ask anyone at the hotel. Ask Lloyd. He can do me four, five times a day but I’ll still try for more. Before we got together I used to pick up strangers, just because I wanted to. They used to offer me money, think I must be a prostitute. When they found out I was just a slut, they thought all their Christmases had come at once. They came back, and they brought their friends, and my life was one long, hot gang-bang, cock after cock after cock …’

  ‘But now Lloyd’s fucking you?’

  ‘Yeah, but he likes to watch too. He gets off on me being this horny bitch who needs it all the time. That’s why I’m here … I think … I can’t remember …’

  ‘Stop thinking. Just work yourself, get yourself there.’

  ‘He wants the world to know it. He wants everyone to know I’m a sex-mad whore with a cunt that’s open all hours. Everyone will see this, everyone will look at my face and see it … oh.’

  That’s it. It’s done. I have been staring at the camera lens all the while, but now, after one stunned stretch of my eyes I have to screw them shut, have to hide from that implacable gaze while the impulses sweep and swoop through my nervous system and gush out through my clit.

  ‘Oh Sophie,’ whispers Sash, clicking her last and rushing over to take my hands and stroke them. ‘That was perfect. That was astonishing. Are you all right?’

  ‘Uh-huh. Gimme a minute.’

  The doorbell rings.

  ‘Ah, that’ll be him.’

  I stop lolling and sit bolt upright, thighs clamped shut, arms crossed over breasts. Him?

  The solo shots are done, but there is more to come.

  Sash slips away down the stairs. I hear her unbolt and open the door, but the voices are too faint to pick up. As the sound of feet hits the steps again, I grab a fur throw out of the prop box and wrap myself in it before the company arrives.

  ‘Oh, don’t cover up on my account.’

  ‘Lloyd!’

  I give him my fiercest glare, but he is unruffled, threading his way past the tripod and camera towards me.

  ‘Who’s looking after the hotel?’

  ‘Kathleen’s fine for a couple of hours. There’s nothing exciting going on.’

  ‘Famous last words.’

  He touches the side of my face, just above my temple, but I draw away, angry with him about all kinds of things, only some of which I can identify.

  ‘Chill,’ he says. ‘Smile. You’re on candid camera.’

  ‘A bit too bloody candid,’ I grumble.

  ‘I thought you’d be in your element.’

  ‘Do you want to see what we’ve got so far?’ invites Sophie, and he goes to join her as she fast-forwards through a few digital stills.

  ‘Come and see, Sophie,’ he says, but I don’t want to look at them. ‘Suit yourself,’ he mutters.

  I watch him from the corner of my eye. His lips are curled up at one side, as if something amuses him, but his eyes are intensely focused, almost anxious. ‘I remember when you used to look at me like that,’ he says.

  ‘I was looking at you.’

  ‘Back when I worked in the cocktail bar. You always had this look. Kind of “I want you, but I hate that I want you, so I’ll pretend to myself that I don’t.” Remember?’

  ‘No. Because I didn’t want you. Not back then.’

  ‘Yes, you did.’

  His flat assertion needles me, and makes me question myself. Is he right? Did I want him without knowing it? What were the implications of that? Were my thoughts not to be trusted?

  Sash switches off the viewer and claps her hands, dispelling the tension. ‘So. Lloyd. You had some ideas for this section of the shoot, I believe.’

  ‘Yeah. Soph, come over here.’

  He sounds conciliatory, a little exasperated. He sits on the sofa and pats the space beside him. I wonder if he wants me to fail or succeed. Which would be the better outcome for him?

  I sit next to him, but not on the side he indicates. Instead, his discarded jacket lies between us, a no-man’s-land of light-grey pure wool.

  ‘What are you going to make me do?’

  ‘Oh goodness, I only photograph consenting subjects!’ exclaims Sasha. ‘There’s no forcing involved.’

  Lloyd turns so his face isn’t visible to her and mouths the word ‘Fail’ with a raise of his eyebrows. I have to save this if I want to pass the test.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘Lloyd and I … we have this sparring kind of relationship. It’s just our idea of fun.’

  ‘I see,’ says Sash, but I doubt she really does.

  ‘We like to push each other’s boundaries,’ he adds. ‘Challenge each other. That’s what this is all about, really.’

  ‘A challenge?’

  ‘Exploring limits,’ he says. ‘Isn’t it, Soph?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘So, I told Sasha we could do some action shots.’

  ‘By action you mean …?’

  ‘Sex.’

  ‘Porn?’

  ‘No!’ trills Sasha. ‘I don’t do porn. I do erotic and boudoir. These will be sensual, non-explicit shots of your faces and upper bodies during the act of love.’

  I nearly vomit. The act of love. With his customary presence of mind, Lloyd speaks hastily over my incipient snort.

  ‘Of course, we understand that. Sophie’s being cheeky.’ He gives my wrist a little tap. ‘Bad Sophie.’

  The bastard has me hot again. Fuck him. How dare he?

  I move a little closer to him, rumpling the jacket. He reaches an arm behind me, pressing a fingertip to the nape of my neck, a small but devastating connection. I start to believe that I can do this. My breathing deepens.

  ‘So, I can fold out the couch for you to use,’ suggests Sash. ‘Or I can put cushions on the floor, or in the cupboard I have a sex chair, even a swing …’

  ‘A swing! Ooh, exciting! Can I see?’

  ‘I was going to say I don’t really recommend the swing. I have to be seriously on top of my game to get good shots from
it. It’s just so … swingy.’

  ‘Well, the sex chair then? Lloyd?’

  ‘Yeah, sex chair sounds interesting.’

  ‘OK, I’ll get it out. Can I get you two a drink while I set it up?’

  ‘No,’ says Lloyd. ‘We’ll just get warmed up.’

  And, without warning, he tilts my head and swoops down to claim my lips. God knows what happens to his jacket, but we crush it between us, too caught up in arms and legs to care about its pristine creaselessness.

  ‘So,’ he questions me, between thrusts of tongue, ‘did you come just now? For the camera?’

  ‘Shut up. You know I did.’

  ‘I wondered if you would.’ Tongue goes back in, tongue draws back out. ‘But you’re so flushed. I love it when you’re flushed.’ More kissing. ‘I can’t wait to see the pictures.’

  ‘Who says I’ll show them to you?’

  ‘Oh, they’ll come to me first. I’m paying for them.’ His leg wedges itself over mine, trapping me underneath it.

  ‘I hate to think how much they’ll cost.’

  ‘Hmm, well, yeah, so do I.’ He kisses me again, the longest, dirtiest snog so far. ‘But I’m thinking of it as an investment.’

  ‘Oh my!’ Sash interrupts us from the centre of the floor. ‘Please come and do that for my camera. You have such chemistry.’

  I cast a bleary look over to the chair she has assembled. It’s not what I imagined. For some reason I thought it would be a dungeon fixture with cuffs and stuff – in fact, it is a simple padded S-shape in expensive-looking zebra print leather. It’s almost more a bed than a chair, good and wide and full of possibilities.

  ‘So this is a sex chair?’ Lloyd rises to his feet, freeing me from my limb bondage.

  ‘There are various designs,’ says Sash.

  ‘I know. I haven’t seen this type before though. It looks so comfortable.’

  She laughs, patting the padded upholstery. ‘It is. Come and see for yourself.’

  She flits back to her camera, preparing for the highlight of the set. ‘So then, Lloyd. Time for your striptease. Now, you’re a male model, you need to bust out the moves.’

  He mock-snarls at me and does that whip-cracking belt buckle thing that makes my knees weak. It lands on the floor in a curl of shiny leather, reminding me of all the times I’ve been struck with it.