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‘What about equipment?’ he asks. ‘Do I need to get skis, poles and all that sort of stuff?’
‘Skis, ski boots, poles and helmet we can rent when we get there. It saves you capital outlay and it’s also something we can charge to expenses. You will need a suitable jacket, gloves and salopettes though,’ I tell him.
‘What on earth are salopettes?’
‘They’re ski trousers. Look, if it helps and you’re free, I’m happy to come to the shop with you to help you get the right stuff. How about Saturday?’
There’s a pause while he consults his diary.
‘I’ve got a shoot in Maidstone on Saturday morning,’ he says, ‘but that should be done by midday. How about Saturday afternoon?’
‘I’ll pick you up at midday,’ I tell him. ‘That way we can grab something to eat first. What’s the address?’
‘Are you always this bossy?’ he laughs.
‘I prefer to think of it as assertive, and yes. Last thing – I need all the details from your passport to make the booking. Have you got it to hand?’
While I’m waiting for him to find his passport, my brain is already working out how to jigsaw these two trips together. I’ll have to write up the Istanbul trip during any downtime I get on the ski trip, and then work flat out when I get home to finish both of them by the deadline. As long as I’m disciplined and don’t get distracted, I reckon I can pull it off.
Toby gives me his passport details, directions to the studio in Maidstone, and we end the conversation. As soon as he’s off the phone, I busy myself with booking flights, transfers and the hotels. One of the joys of using a pen name is that I can remain anonymous when I travel under my real name. Lucy Swann is fairly well known in the travel industry, but nobody knows who Madison Morgan is. I book Toby into a ski school that seems reasonably accessible from all three hotels, as well as a spa session at the Mirabelle, restaurant tables at all three, and ski hire. I also book ski passes for both of us, in the hope that I will be able to get a reasonable amount of skiing in while I’m there. I need to be able to write about the slopes; they’re the primary attraction for this type of holiday, after all. Although I’ve been to Courchevel before, it was several years ago, so I’m looking forward to re-acquainting myself with it.
The following Saturday, I find myself outside the studio just before twelve o’clock. The building is a beautiful old red-brick warehouse that’s obviously been divided up into offices and workshops. Next to the main door there are a number of buttons, each with the name of a different business next to it. The buzzer for the photo studio is just over halfway down. I check my watch and, as it’s now midday, press the button. An unfamiliar voice answers, and I give my name and explain that I’m there to meet Toby.
‘No worries,’ the voice tells me. ‘He’s just putting everything away. Come on up. We’re on the first floor.’
The door buzzes and I push against it. Disappointingly, the interior of the building looks nothing like the exterior. It’s all drab beige partition walls and cheap brown carpet. Whoever did the conversion obviously valued low cost over aesthetics. I find the stairs and walk up to the first floor, where I eventually discover a door with the name of the studio on it. I knock and wait.
The door is opened by a man who I guess is in his fifties but is desperately trying to project a younger vibe. His long grey hair is tied back in a ponytail, and he has a little goatee beard. He’s wearing a lumberjack shirt and faded jeans, with battered Converse sneakers on his feet.
‘Hi,’ he says with a smile, ‘I’m Paul. Come on in.’
I follow him past a small kitchen area and a closed door with ‘Dressing Room’ written on it, into the main studio. Toby is packing up various bits of expensive-looking equipment, and he gives me a wave when he spots me.
‘I won’t be long,’ he calls. ‘Paul’s a great guy, but heaven help you if you use his studio and don’t put everything back exactly how you found it.’
‘The place has got to look like he was never here,’ Paul explains to me, smiling. ‘Just because I’ve known him forever and he’s some hotshot ’tog doesn’t make him exempt from the studio rules, and he knows it.’
‘’Tog?’ I ask.
‘Sorry, short for photographer,’ he explains. ‘So, how do you know Toby, Madison?’
‘I don’t really know him at all,’ I tell him. ‘I just met him for the first time the other day. I know his work though. What about you?’
‘I’ve known him since before he started out,’ Paul replies. ‘He pitched up here, years ago, begging me to take him on as an apprentice. I liked him, took him on, taught him all I know, and now he earns sums that I can only dream of.’ Paul grins to show that he has no hard feelings about it.
‘He’s a good guy,’ he continues. ‘Of course, I would say that, being his mate, but he is. Some ’togs are real prima donnas, throwing hissy fits if the models don’t understand what they want immediately, but he’s always calm and explains things very clearly. As a result, the models go the extra mile for him; he really knows how to put them at ease and get the best out of them.’
‘What’s he been shooting today?’ I ask.
‘Fashion,’ Paul tells me. ‘The outfits were all sent down by one of the Sunday supplements – I forget which one. They arrived by courier yesterday and the editor brought the model today. The model was fine, but the editor was a demanding little bitch, like so many of them are. I was biting my tongue, I can tell you!’ He chuckles again, and I decide I like him.
Just as I’m about to ask him for more details, Toby appears with a large rucksack on his back.
‘Sorry for keeping you,’ he says to me. ‘Shall we go?’
We say our goodbyes to Paul, and I follow him out of the building. He stows his rucksack safely in the boot of his car before getting into mine.
‘Where to?’ he asks.
