Nothing — not even the truth — prepared me for the horror of the photographic session with Andreas. I felt as though I was hurtling on a fast train towards Dante’s Ninth Circle, the one where the treacherous are sealed in ice and eternally ripped apart by Satan’s teeth. But I’d betrayed Jakey, so I deserved to be ripped apart.
I sat in a little side room in front of a mirror lined with lit bulbs, wearing only an old make-up-stained dressing gown. The wireless claimed it was the hottest day of the year. It was impossibly stuffy in the huge Wimbledon studio Cy Markovitz had hired for the afternoon, but I still couldn’t stop shivering. I knew I looked terrible. I had covered my yellowing suntan with dark-brown make-up, but it didn’t stop my ribs sticking out like a Belsen victim. I had poured half a bottle of blue drops into my eyes but they were still red-veined and totally without sparkle.
In one corner of the studio, an amazing faggot called Gabriel with very blue eyes and streaked strawberry blond hair, clad only in faded kneelength denim trousers and a snake bracelet, was whisking about supervising two sulky, sweating minions into building a set for me. It consisted of a huge bed with a cane bed head, silver satin sheets, and a white antique birdcage. One minion kept staggering in with huge potted plants, the other was pinning dark brown patterned Habitat wallpaper to a huge rolled-down screen. Gabriel was arranging a Christopher Wray lamp, a silver teapot and glass paper weights on a bedside table.
‘Andreas asked for something really classy to set you off, darling. I’ve never known him to take so much interest.’
In another corner of the studio to an accompaniment of popping flashbulbs and Ella Fitzgerald on the gramophone, Cy Markovitz was photographing a spectacular looking black girl with 44-20-44 measurements. She was wearing red lace open crotch pants, heels with nine inch spikes, and was writhing against a huge fur rug which was pinned against the wall.
‘It’s to make her black boobs fall better,’ explained Gabriel with a shudder. ‘In the pix, it’ll look as though she’s lying on a bed.’
I turned back to the mirror, sweat already breaking through my newly applied make-up. Then I heard the noise of men laughing; my mouth went dry, my shivering became more violent. Next moment the curtain was pushed aside and Andreas came in reeking of brandy and aftershave, a big cigar sticking out of his mouth. Even heat and drink hadn’t brought any flush of pink to his man-tanned cheeks. He was carrying a bottle of Charles Heidsieck and two glasses which he put on the dressing table. I clutched the white dressing gown tighter round me. For a long time he stood behind me looking into the mirror, his eyes as triumphant as they were predatory. Then he said in his oily, sibilant voice,
‘You look a bit rough, baby. Been up against it, have you?’
‘I’ve been working hard.’
Andreas laughed.
‘You’re not cut out for a career, I always warned you. And Gareth Llewellyn’s ditched you; I knew he would. You must listen to Uncle Andreas in future.’
He seemed to revel in my utter desperation.
‘Never mind,’ he went on soothingly. ‘I’ll see you right. A few weeks of cushy living and you’ll soon get the ripe peachy look you had at Grayston.’
He ran his hands over me, lingeringly and feelingly, like a child trying to gauge the contents of a wrapped Christmas present. I gritted my teeth, trying to suppress the shudder of revulsion. He let go of me, and started to take the gold paper off the top of the champagne bottle. I watched his soft white hands in horror. God knows what they wouldn’t be doing to me later this evening.
I took a deep breath. ‘Can I have the cash now?’
Andreas shook his head. ‘Uh-uh. You get the cash when you deliver the goods, and they’d better be good.’
The top shot off the bottle into the rafters. Andreas filled a glass and handed it to me.
‘That should relax you,’ he said. ‘Make you feel nice and sexy.’
I took a belt of champagne, wondering if I was going to throw up.
‘Come in boys,’ shouted Andreas over the curtain, and we were joined by a couple of Andreas’ hood friends, flashing jewellery, sweating in waisted suits. They were the sort of guys who’d give even the Mafia nightmares.
‘Meet Mannie and Vic,’ said Andreas.
He must have brought them along to show me off. They were obviously disappointed I wasn’t as fantastic as Andreas had promised but were too wary of him to show it.
‘You wait till she’s been with me for a bit,’ purred Andreas, pinching my cheek. ‘You won’t recognize her.’
‘Fattening her up for Christmas, are you?’ said Mannie, and they all laughed.
Cy Markovitz, having finished with the black girl, wandered over and said he was almost ready. He was a tall, exhausted and melancholy man in his late forties, wearing army trousers, sneakers, and a khaki shirt drenched with sweat.
‘Come and meet Octavia,’ said Andreas, re-filling my glass. ‘She’s a bit nervous, first time she’s done anything like this, so treat her with care. Lovely isn’t she?’ he added, smoothing my hair back from my forehead.
Cy Markovitz nodded — he was, after all, being paid vast sums by Andreas — and said the camera would go up in smoke when it saw me.
‘You needn’t worry about the pix,’ he went on. ‘We’ll shoot through a soft-focus lens with the emphasis on the face and the direct gaze, very subdued and elegant.’
Oh God, what would Gareth say if he ever saw the results. I imagined him suddenly stumbling across them as he flicked through magazines on some foreign news-stand, his face hardening with disapproval, then shrugging his shoulders because he’d always known I was a bad lot. Was it really worth going through with it to help Xander? Was blood really thicker than water?
‘Ready when you are darlings,’ said Gabriel, popping his golden head round the curtain.
Andreas gave me a big smile. ‘Come on baby, you’ll enjoy it once we get started.’
I sat on the silver satin sheets, gazing in misery on the forest of potted plants. The studio seemed to be very full of people, all watching me with bored appraising eyes. I huddled even deeper into my dressing gown.
Cy Markovitz came over to me.
‘You’re not going to need that,’ he said gently.
As I took it off, even Markovitz caught his breath. Andreas’ thug friends were trying to preserve their poker faces, but their eyes were falling out.
‘I told you she was the nearest thing to a Vargas girl you were ever likely to see,’ said Andreas smugly.
Cy was gazing into the viewfinder. His assistant took some Polaroid pictures, peeling them off like a wet bikini. Andreas and Cy pored over them.
‘We’ll need the cold blower to stiffen her nipples,’ said Cy.
Andreas was determined to get his 112 lbs of flesh. Two agonizing hours later, I had been photographed in every conceivable position and garment, including a white fox fur with a string of pearls hanging over one breast, a soaking wet cheesecloth shirt, black stockings and a suspender belt, and nothing but an ostrich feather.
Gabriel, who was fast losing his cool, had been sent out to hire a Persian cat for me to cuddle, but after 30 seconds of popping flash bulbs the poor creature, having lacerated my stomach with its claws, wriggled out of my clutches and took refuge in the rafters.
Now I was stretched out on the satin sheets, wearing a sort of rucked up camisole top. Cy Markovitz clicked away, keeping up a running commentary.
‘Lovely, darling, just pull it down over your right shoulder, look straight into the camera. A bit more wind machine, Gabriel, please. Come on Octavia, baby, relax, and let me have it, shut your eyes, lick your lips and caress yourself.’
‘No,’ I whispered. ‘I won’t do that.’