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Chapter 14
The front of the studio is unrecognisable when I arrive for the grand opening. Only the depressing presence of Nora’s café next door and the chemical smell from the dry cleaners provide any clues that this is the same place. The cracked sign with the swirly writing has gone, replaced by a stylish modern one with ‘Toby Roberts Photography’ written on it. The paper has been removed from the windows and, at first glance, it does look a little like an art gallery. There are huge prints of some of his photos lit by bright overhead lights in the area at the front and people are milling around with glasses in their hands, chatting and admiring the artwork. The entrance is guarded by an attendant and, as he searches the list for my name, I notice a sign next to the door that says ‘By Appointment only’; there is a phone number and website address, which I tap into my phone so I can have a look at the website later.
I feel like I’ve stepped into another world once I’m inside. I imagine that most of the people here are in the fashion industry; they’re tweaked and plucked to perfection and some of them have interpreted the phase ‘black tie’ very loosely, with brightly coloured jackets and shirts. I notice lots of air-hugging and air-kissing as they greet one another with loud cries of ‘Daaaahling!’ I accept a glass of wine from a passing waiter and start to circulate. Although there are a few faces I recognise, mostly models that I’ve seen in magazines, I don’t know anyone well enough to strike up a conversation, so I’m relieved to spot Paul in the kitchen area, looking surprisingly smart in his DJ.
“Are you hiding out in here?” I ask as I join him.
“Maybe, just a little,” he smiles. “This is very much Toby’s crowd, not mine. I think most of them have come down from London. I’ve met a few of them when they’ve been at my studio and they’ve all been vile. Do you know why they all call each other ‘Darling’ in that incredibly annoying way?”
“It’s a fashion thing, isn’t it?”
“It’s because they’re all so full of their own self-importance none of them can be arsed to remember anyone else’s name. Some of them are probably so full of coke that they’d struggle to remember their own names.”
“There’s something I don’t understand,” I tell him. “If the fashion industry is centred around London, why would they bother coming all the way to Sevenoaks, or Maidstone? Wouldn’t it be easier to use a studio in London?”
“Good question. It’s partly cost, because studio space is much more expensive in London, but it’s also travel time. Toby’s played a blinder with this place, because it’s probably faster to get here than it is to cross London in some cases. Also, if you’re high profile, you’re much less likely to get papped out here in the wilds of Kent than you are in London. Travel down in a limo with blacked out windows, come in through the back door, do your shoot, back in the limo. No paparazzi and much less stress.”
We’re interrupted by a stick-thin creature, who I imagine must be a model of some sort. She’s not one I recognise, but she has the classic androgynous look that is so popular with fashion magazines at the moment. She’s talking into her phone and, although she notices us, we obviously don’t register as remotely important as she turns her back on us to continue her conversation. We can’t help but listen in as she’s practically braying into the handset. She has an annoying upward inflection, which makes every sentence sound like a question.
“Yah,” she’s saying, “I’m at Toby Roberts’ new place? Yah, like no idea? Yah, had to get, like, a train? Total nightmare. Yah, toe-dally fucking provincial, right? I didn’t want to come, but my bitch agent said I, like, had to?”
At that moment I spot Toby in the crowd. He looks up and gives me a little wave, and I wave back. The model obviously thinks he’s waving at her, as she instantly drops her call and totters over to him.
“Tobe! Looove the new place. Yah, when Lisa told me about it I was like, I’ve toe-dally got to see it for myself, you know?”
We don’t hear the rest of the conversation, but from her animated air-kissing and gesticulating, I imagine she’s not telling him how ‘toe-dally fucking provincial’ she thinks his studio location is. After a while, he disentangles himself from her and comes over to us.
“Tobe!” I cry, and exaggeratedly air-kiss him, before dissolving into a fit of unladylike snorts of laughter. Thankfully he’s laughing too.
“I know. She is awful, isn’t she? But the designers and editors adore her because she’s a natural and, believe it or not, she works her socks off. As long as she doesn’t speak, she’s fine. Have you had a chance to look around yet? What do you think?”
I admit that I haven’t got any further than the kitchen, and Paul offers to show me the rest so that Toby can get back to his audience. I feel like I know most of it intimately from the previous weekend’s painting, but the dressing room is a revelation. It’s light and airy, painted in a delicate shade of yellow. There is a mirror that runs along the entire length of the right-hand wall, with lights and plug sockets at regular intervals. Below the mirror is a wide shelf with four comfortable-looking castor chairs pushed underneath it. On the wall at the end are two more mirrors, full-length this time, and there is a clothes rail running all the way along the left-hand wall. I’m no expert, but it looks like it has everything a model or a make-up artist would need. As we make our way round the main studio, I’m surprised to note that there don’t appear to be any photographic lights or anything.
“They’re all piled up in the flat, in their boxes,” Paul tells me. “The last thing you want is one of this lot tipping their champagne into one. He’ll bring them down before he starts work on Monday. He’s also covered over the bottom of the infinity wall to protect it from scuff marks, if you look.”
Suddenly, I spot a familiar figure and my heart rate quickens. It’s Mark, the commissioning editor for Voyages Luxes. Hopefully he will have read my Courchevel piece by now, and I’m desperate to know what he thinks of it. My chances of getting to set the record straight about the Bellavista, and probably any future work, depend on him liking it. I make my excuses to Paul and go over to him.
“Hello Mark,” I say, trying to keep my voice natural. I realise that my palms are sweating a bit, and I grip my glass a little tighter to stop it from slipping out of my grip. The last thing I need right now is to smash a glass and cover him in wine.
“Hello Madison, how are you? I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” he replies, warmly. This is a good sign, and my heart slows a little. Either he hasn’t read it yet, or he likes it.
“I’m fine, thank you. I was just wondering if you’d had a chance to read my Courchevel article?” I ask him.
“Read it. Loved it. Showed it to Oliver, who loved it too. The whole ‘she thought….he thought’ thing was brilliant, and it was an inspired idea to book Toby into the ski school for a beginner’s perspective. His photos are stunning too, but that’s no great surprise. Of course, the moment we publish, our competitors will be looking to copy it, but I reckon we’ve stolen a march on them for now. Great stuff, Madison. I’m talking to hotels in Corfu with a view to you travelling in April. Are you OK to firm it all up with Toby?”
“Yes, no problem.” I tell him, trying to hide my relief. “Let’s just hope he can fit me in.”
“I’m sure he’ll find time for my favourite freelancer!” Mark assures me, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. Any reservations I might normally feel about the familiarity of the contact are far outweighed by my relief at being back in favour, and I smile widely at him.
We agree that I’ll book flights on dates that suit both me and Toby, and he’ll send me the list of hotels as soon as he’s firmed it up. We discuss some other possible assignments, and he promises me that he’ll be in touch with other concrete proposals soon.
As the evening wears on, the crowd begins to thin out until there are just a few stragglers left. The London contingent have disappeared, mainly by train, although I did spot one or two black limousines gliding off into the night. The waiters are now rinsing the glasses and loading them into crates, and Toby and Paul are collecting up discarded napkins and other detritus into black sacks. Without thinking, I kick off my heels and grab a broom from the store cupboard.
“You don’t need to do that!” Toby calls, when he spots me sweeping up.
“It’s OK, I don’t mind,” I tell him.
After another half an hour the final stragglers have left, the waiters have finished packing up, and the studio looks like the party never happened.
