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“Hello again, Madison. Toby’s been telling me how much he enjoyed the trip with you, even if he’s not sure he’s a born skier,” he says to me, before turning to address Toby. “That skip is already half-full. I reckon we’ll fill it tomorrow. Have you got a replacement lined up?”
“Yes,” Toby tells him. “It should be here first thing on Monday morning, and I’ve got regular changeovers booked through the week.”
“Well, if you boys fancy a quick break. I’ve got some champagne in here to celebrate,” I tell them.
“That sounds brilliant!” Paul enthuses. “I’ll just go and wash out the mugs. Toby hasn’t got any glasses yet,” he adds, by way of explanation.
“Don’t worry, I’ve thought of that.” I reach into the bag and pull out the bottle and the carefully wrapped glasses, setting them on the side in the kitchen area. “I’ve only got two champagne flutes I’m afraid, but I’m happy with one of the wine glasses.”
Toby does the honours, and we drink a toast to his future success. The champagne is still reasonably cold, and it slips down easily.
“So,” I say, after a couple of sips. “Give me the tour.”
Toby, Paul and I wander round the studio together, as Toby outlines his vision. Pretty much everything currently in here is going in the skip, apart from a hideous double bed in one of the corners. The frame is made from ornate wrought iron and it’s currently sporting black satin sheets.
“Are you going to be shooting porn in here, Toby?” I ask, indicating the bed. He doesn’t seem the sleazy type, but maybe I’ve got him wrong.
“No!” he laughs. “I know it looks tacky, but it’s one of the few things that Dave Myers, the previous owner, got right,” he explains when he sees my raised eyebrows. “You’ll just have to trust me that it will look good with the right lighting.”
“But what are you going to use it for?”
“Boudoir. It’s surprisingly popular,” he continues, obviously picking up on my scepticism. “Brides-to-be often like to have some sexy photos to give their new husbands. It’s quite a trend. It’s popular with models too, as it shows their versatility. I can also change the black sheets for white and do nightwear shoots for magazines.
“Now, over here is where the main studio area is going to be. I’ve got a big infinity wall arriving at the end of the week, and we’ll have a whole variety of different backgrounds available too.”
“What’s an infinity wall?”
“It’s a background wall that curves into the base, so there’s no join visible between wall and floor. It makes the model, or the object, appear to float,” he tells me, as we walk towards the door that Paul came through earlier. It leads into a small corridor, and Toby ushers me through. There’s an open door in front of me, which is obviously the back entrance. I can see that there are two car parking spaces behind the building. One of them is currently occupied by the skip and Toby’s car is jammed into the other. To the right, there’s a door marked ‘Private’. Toby unlocks it to reveal a staircase.
“This is the way up to the flat. Would you like to see?” he asks.
“Absolutely, lead on!”
The flat is even more unloved than the studio. It’s not damp or anything; in fact it’s surprisingly warm in here, given the cold winter weather outside. It’s just very tired and dated looking, with textured ceilings and floral borders in abundance. There’s a good-sized sitting room, master bedroom with a horrible avocado green en-suite, another bedroom, an equally horrible bathroom with pink units, and a dated pine kitchen. The carpets are tired and threadbare, which is a relief as it looks like the original patterns would have been migraine inducing. There’s almost no furniture; the master bedroom has a single mattress on the floor, and there are a couple of folding chairs and a table in the sitting room. Toby is full of enthusiasm, telling me about how he plans to modernise it and furnish it. It sounds like it will be lovely when it’s done. One thing niggles me though. Although it’s reasonably spacious, I can see that it’s nowhere near as big as the studio below. Toby sees my confusion and explains.
“There are two flats. The other one is accessed from the front of the building and is let out. I own the freehold of both, so I’ll get some income from the rent. I haven’t met the couple that live in there yet, but they’ve been there for nearly three years and have been no problem, according to the records.”
We wander back downstairs and, after draining my glass, I start to gather my stuff.
“Why don’t you stay and have dinner with us? We’re going to get fish and chips from across the road if you fancy some,” Toby says.
“Tempting offer,” I reply, “but I need to get the write-up to Mark, so I ought to get back and do some work.”
“Another time, perhaps.”
“Yes. I’d really like that,” I say.
