Page 25 of Not The Man I Thought He Was

Later that evening, as I’m soaking in the bath with a well-earned glass of wine, Charley rings.

‘Ed’s feeding Amelia and I’m desperate for adult conversation,’ she confides. ‘Tell me of life in the normal world, where everything doesn’t revolve around the contents of nappies, or sleep patterns.’

I fill her in on my weekend and my invitation for next Saturday.

‘You spent the whole weekend painting his studio for him?’ she asks incredulously.

‘It was relaxing, in a weird kind of way. You kind of lose yourself in it. I haven’t done any painting and decorating since I bought my flat, and I’d forgotten how much I enjoy it. Toby was good company too, so it’s been a nice weekend.’

‘GBF?’ she asks.

‘He’s definitely getting there,’ I reply, with a smile.

14

FEBRUARY

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 cleaner’s 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 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 phrase ‘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, when I’ve finished laughing. ‘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!’ she screeches. ‘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 in front of the camera. 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 neutral shade of grey. 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 forVoyages 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 hand. 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.

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