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‘I do have a slot free on Friday afternoon next week, from two until five. It’s a cancellation. After that the earliest slot I could give you would be…’ I hear him flicking through the pages in his diary, ‘April the fifteenth.’
‘Next Friday is good. I cannot wait until April.’
‘Let’s get you booked in then. Can I take your name?’
‘Name is Kristina.’
‘And your surname?’
‘Vot for you need my surname?’ I ask, trying to sound angry. This accent is terrible, and I’m struggling not to laugh.
‘I don’t technically need it. It’s just a detail I normally take, along with your address and email.’
‘Surname is Olgatov. But no address. No email. Must be vairy discreet, I told you.’
‘I normally email the studio address and a copy of the paperwork that needs to be signed.’
‘Vot paperwork?’ Shit, I didn’t consider that I might need to sign stuff.
‘Because of the intimate nature of the shoot, I need proof that you’re over eighteen years of age, and written consent from you that you’re participating of your own free will.’
‘But I can sign this on Friday, no? Ven I come? I can bring passport with me.’
Again, he pauses.
‘I suppose so,’ he says. ‘OK, the cost of the session is four hundred pounds, and I normally take a deposit of one hundred pounds from your debit or credit card to secure the booking.’
How much?? Bloody hell, no wonder Mark complains about how expensive he is.
‘No credit cards. I pay cash,’ I tell him.
‘I understand that, but I do need a deposit to secure the booking, I’m afraid.’
Damn. Another factor that I didn’t take into account. How am I going to pay the deposit without him finding out who I am? I decide to get money from the cashpoint, but I need to figure out a way to deliver it without revealing my identity. I look at my watch to see how long I have before the shops shut.
‘Text your address to this number. I vill get driver to post deposit in cash through your front door tonight.’ I tell him. ‘Envelope will say “From Kristina”, so you know is from me. Ven you have money, you text again to confirm.’
‘OK. This is all highly unusual, but I can see you’re keen to protect your privacy, Ms Olgatov. I look forward to meeting you next Friday. I normally include a list of items to bring with you on the confirmation email, shall I text those as well?’
‘Yes. Text is good. Goodbye.’ I ring off and punch the air with sheer relief. I’ve done it! I’m going to see Toby again. Now all I have to do is work out how to stop him from slamming the door in my face, but I’ve got a week and a bit to figure that part out. I plug the burner phone in to finish charging and, within a few minutes, it pings to let me know that I’ve received new text messages. The first text contains the studio address, which of course I already know. The second one contains advice about hair, make-up, nails and waxing, and a list of items I might want to bring with me, including lingerie (obviously), high-heeled shoes and boots, a white shirt, plus fetish wear if I want to.
‘I don’t want to, thank you,’ I say to the phone.
I had a boyfriend once who was very into fetish gear, and I was curious enough to give it a try. I hated it. Apart from anything else, the squeaking sound the rubber made had the same effect on me as someone dragging their nails down a blackboard, which was a massive turn-off. It was also very difficult to get into and out of, and I sweated profusely in it. Unsurprisingly, the relationship didn’t last. I do have some sexy lingerie – the type that’s scratchy and uncomfortable but not designed to be worn for very long – but I think I might treat myself to some new stuff for this. I’m not actually sure whether I’ll go through with the photo shoot, but I ought to be prepared, just in case it’s the only way I can buy enough time to force him to hear me out.
It’s just after two thirty, which means I have plenty of time to get to Bluewater, do some shopping and, most importantly, get a hundred pounds out of the cashpoint to post through Toby’s door on the way back. I grab a suitably sized envelope, write ‘From Kristina’ on it (taking care to disguise my handwriting), stuff it into my bag and head down to the car.
* * *
I love Bluewater. To be fair, I love most shopping centres, but Bluewater is the closest one to me and therefore has a special place in my heart. The post-Christmas sales are still on, but it’s not too busy now that most people are back at work. I decide to go for two different styles of lingerie. In Ann Summers I buy a very tarty-looking push-up basque set in black, with crimson detailing. In Rigby & Peller I spend a fortune on a beautiful matching bra and knickers set; I like it so much I decide this is the first underwear I want Toby to see me in for the shoot, if it happens. Next, I pop into M&S, where I buy a man’s white shirt. I don’t currently own any high heels; I’m tall enough as it is, so I would tower over people if I wore heels. Despite that, I decide to push the boat out and end up spending far more than is decent on a pair of red stilettos in Russell & Bromley.
By the time I come out, it’s dark and I’m ready to put the next part of my plan into action. I stuff the hundred pounds I’ve just withdrawn into the envelope and set off for Sevenoaks. When I get there, I pull my hoodie up and keep my head down as I approach the studio, so that he can’t see it’s me if he’s watching. I hurry away as soon as I’ve posted the money through the door. By the time I arrive home, another text has arrived on the burner phone.
Dear Ms Olgatov, I can confirm that I have received your deposit, and I look forward to seeing you on Friday 12 January at 2 p.m. Regards, Toby Roberts.
We’re on.
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