'There's an electrostatic charge as it goes one way, a vacuum the other. That way the ink is bonded like glue to the substrate we're using. In the case of your job — and most building wraps — we use a PVC mesh. It allows the builders working on the scaffolding behind to see out. Obvious safety benefits.'
Graham looked at the roll. Each time the printer head returned to the far end of the rail, the length of PVC moved round a few centimetres. On the small area of exposed material he could make out a fraction of the mobile phone's image. Each button was the size of his head. The model's unique selling point was a facia that could swivel right round. Graham was convinced it would prove a massive seller. Tom thought it was crap.
As soon as the train door shut behind his client, Tom turned away and started walking quickly towards the station's toilets. His jaw muscles ached from maintaining a smile for so long. Finding his way barred by pristine new turnstiles, he scrabbled around to find a twenty-pence piece, cursing the fact you now had to pay in order to piss.
When he had locked the cubicle door behind him, he lowered the toilet seat lid, sat down and extracted the sachet from his pocket. After taking a dab of the powder, he sat back and shut his eyes, waiting for the drug's reassuring grip. A few minutes later he stepped back out into the real world, feeling charged up once more.
'Sarah? Anything I should know?' he asked, marching back towards his car, mobile phone pressed to his ear. 'A Mr Austen Rogers from X-treme called regarding their…'
'Next,' interrupted Tom.
'Giles Peters and Sarah Palmer from Cussons will be here at six o'clock.'
'For what?'
'Rhodes and Co? Your table is booked for 7.45.'
Shit, thought Tom, only now remembering the dinner date. When, he wondered, would he have any time to spend with Charlotte?
Chapter 15
July 2002
Once Ges reached the bottom of the stairs, Creepy George emerged from behind his bank of computer monitors and walked over to the window. He watched as the large figure emerged on to the street and walked slowly off to his parked car.
Satisfied he wasn't coming back, George relaxed — he had the office to himself at last. Back at his computer, he loaded up the path-shredder programme to destroy the trail of his internet wanderings. Then he keyed in the address for his favourite portal and scrolled down the screen to see which girls had been posting up entries that day. There were a few promising images but nothing that really got him excited. That was the problem with having to rely on other people's images; he could spend hours trawling the internet and still not find anything ideal.
Lifting up the black briefcase on to his desk, he entered the combination for the lock and opened it up. Next to the digital camera with its collection of lenses was a small stack of adult contact magazines. Picking up the top one, he turned to the section he wanted and traced a finger over the small boxed ads, selecting the section for the north-west. There she was; height, build and even hair colour very similar to Julie's.
The phone was answered after the second ring. Female voice, accent a little too strong for his liking — but what she sounded like hardly mattered.
'Are you posing tonight?' he asked in a low voice.
'Yes. For a half an hour, starting at eight o'clock. It'll be forty quid.'
George decided to go for it, but couldn't be bothered to speak with her any more. Instead he just hung up and then closed down his workstation. After doing up the top button of his shirt, he pulled out a tie from the bottom drawer of his desk and retrieved his suit jacket from the cabinet. He liked to look smart for any photo session — not like some of the drooling scum that shuffled up to events.
By seven fifty he was parking on a small estate of new houses just outside Leigh. Looking around he saw a basketball hoop mounted above a garage door. A tricycle lying on its side on a tiny patch of front lawn. Curtains drawn, tellies on — just average people completely unaware of what went on just around the corner.
After retrieving the briefcase and his suit jacket from the boot of his car, he walked the short distance to the house, arriving at the same time as another man. Each glanced at the other's briefcase and they didn't need to speak. The door was answered by a tall, thin bloke in his late thirties — perhaps her husband, perhaps not. He showed them through into what was obviously the spare room. A double bed occupied the top part of the room, stripped down to the undersheet, the obligatory little photo album placed on the bed like some sort of menu. Three other men were already there. Cameras mounted on tripods, they fiddled around with lenses and light meters while avoiding each other's eyes.
'Forty pounds please, gents,' the man said. George and the other man produced the cash. 'I'll give you a few minutes to set up. She's keen to get going at eight on the dot. Now she's got a few uniforms. Photos are on the bed over there,' he said, pointing towards the booklet. 'If you want her in anything, just shout.'
The other newcomer stepped over to the bed and picked up the album, eagerly flicking through the images. George stayed where he was, knowing the chances of his particular tastes being met were unlikely in the extreme.
The room stayed completely silent until the door opened again five minutes later and a woman in her early twenties stepped inside. Five pairs of eyes greedily appraised her. 'Anyone want me to dress up?' she asked.
The men remained as silent as an audience being addressed from the stage. She shrugged, then without hesitation strode over to the bed and threw off her dressing gown. Announcing to no one in particular, she said, 'If you want any particular pose, just say. Otherwise I'll do my own selection.'
She lay down and the men's faces were sucked towards their viewfinders. As the half hour went by, marked by the steady click of cameras, the odd request came from the men around him. But George was hardly interested in the performance. He took a few snaps for appearance's sake, but quickly decided to save the memory in his digital camera for a more promising scenario.
At 8.30 exactly the man who had answered the front door said, 'Time!'
The woman climbed from the bed and put her dressing gown back on. As the others packed up their equipment, George approached the man. He coughed lightly to get his attention. 'Would the lady be interested in posing for a few more pictures?'
'Private session?' the man asked matter of factly.
George nodded.
'What sort of stuff?'
'Nothing other than she's just done, really,' answered George. 'It's just that I'd like to use my own background cloth. She would merely have to recline with her eyes shut.'
The man shrugged. 'I shouldn't think she'll mind. Hang on.'
He went over and spoke quietly in her ear. Adopting a bowed and shy posture, George pretended to fiddle with his camera, aware of her eyes glancing over him. Her harlot's eyes, assessing and judging. He wanted them shut, wanted their crawling appraisal to stop. He clamped his face in a neutral expression, afraid his features would betray the loathing he felt at her power.
The man came back over. 'Forty quid for ten minutes.'
'That's fine,' George replied, handing over the cash, keeping his eyes down.
As the man showed the other photographers out, she spoke to him. 'So how do you want me?' Her hands were straying to the waistband of her dressing gown.
'No, no. Please stay robed. If you could simply recline on the bed and close your eyes.'
She looked at him for a moment longer, then uncertainly lay back and lowered her eyelids. 'Like this?'
Her posture was far too rigid, but George whispered, 'Yes,' and the camera began to click. After a couple of minutes shooting from various angles he said, 'That's good. And just let your head fall to the side.' More photographs. 'Lovely. Now, um…'