Intimations of Mortality - 19
Being a series of random but loosely connected musings on my life, the world I have lived in and what the future - what's left of it - may hold.
Life settled. Up? Down? I would argue "up". Things for me were better. I was seventeen years old - and a bit. I had a small degree of independence, within strict boundaries. I had regular income from my boutique and bar work. I had access to smart, fashionable clothes for the rare evening out I managed to negotiate. As long as the garments were returned clean, undamaged, ready for sale on the Monday, the boutique owners were happy.
Part of my sales pitch often ran along the lines of, in a hushed voice, admitting the customer to the inner circle, "… and I believe this very dress was seen on a young model at Club X last Saturday night!" All completely true.
It became easier to occasionally extend my curfew. Even half-past midnight was not unheard of on a Saturday night. I think my mother convinced my father that if I didn't meet some mildly unsuitable young man and get myself knocked up, I would never be off their hands.
Of course, I had already met my more than mildly unsuitable and not so young man. Tony and I worked together. We made love together. He paid me for the work. He didn't pay me for the sex. It seemed very proper to me. Unsuitably proper.
Evenings when I had no bar work, I would spend an hour or so at his studio. Here, he started his collection of private images, intimate portraits, in some of which I wore some clothes. At the end of the session, he would take me, quickly, there on the set. Then I would dress and run to catch my bus.
Gradually, I reduced my appearances at the Camera Club. Fortnightly, for a while. Then monthly. As demand for the work Tony produced with me increased, and brought in greater fees, my need for the Camera Club money diminished. We had regular commissions from what I would call the second tier of fashion and lifestyle magazines. Although I can't recall having heard anything referred to as "lifestyle". In my part of de-industrialised industrial northern England, people had lives and they had deaths. Style didn't have much to do with either.
It was clear that Tony was not happy with me posing for other photographers, even if they were rank amateurs. He didn't see them as professional rivals but I was his model and his girlfriend. He was, I realised later, insanely jealous. For all his cool, his sharp suits and his shades and his Disque Bleus, he was a typically insecure guy who wanted to possess his partner. Because I loved him (I thought I loved him and so I did. What did I know then about love? What do I know now?) I welcomed his jealousy. It gave me an undeserved sense of importance. I was happy, in the end, to have the power to make him jealous. And the power to make him happy.
Which I did. A couple of months later, after yet another of the ever popular "schoolgirl" sessions, I collected my fee from the Club Chairman and told him I would not be appearing again. I thanked him for everything, asked him to say goodbye to the members for me. And left.
Life settled. Up? Down? I would argue "up". Things for me were better. I was seventeen years old - and a bit. I had a small degree of independence, within strict boundaries. I had regular income from my boutique and bar work. I had access to smart, fashionable clothes for the rare evening out I managed to negotiate. As long as the garments were returned clean, undamaged, ready for sale on the Monday, the boutique owners were happy.
Part of my sales pitch often ran along the lines of, in a hushed voice, admitting the customer to the inner circle, "… and I believe this very dress was seen on a young model at Club X last Saturday night!" All completely true.
It became easier to occasionally extend my curfew. Even half-past midnight was not unheard of on a Saturday night. I think my mother convinced my father that if I didn't meet some mildly unsuitable young man and get myself knocked up, I would never be off their hands.
Of course, I had already met my more than mildly unsuitable and not so young man. Tony and I worked together. We made love together. He paid me for the work. He didn't pay me for the sex. It seemed very proper to me. Unsuitably proper.
Evenings when I had no bar work, I would spend an hour or so at his studio. Here, he started his collection of private images, intimate portraits, in some of which I wore some clothes. At the end of the session, he would take me, quickly, there on the set. Then I would dress and run to catch my bus.
Gradually, I reduced my appearances at the Camera Club. Fortnightly, for a while. Then monthly. As demand for the work Tony produced with me increased, and brought in greater fees, my need for the Camera Club money diminished. We had regular commissions from what I would call the second tier of fashion and lifestyle magazines. Although I can't recall having heard anything referred to as "lifestyle". In my part of de-industrialised industrial northern England, people had lives and they had deaths. Style didn't have much to do with either.
It was clear that Tony was not happy with me posing for other photographers, even if they were rank amateurs. He didn't see them as professional rivals but I was his model and his girlfriend. He was, I realised later, insanely jealous. For all his cool, his sharp suits and his shades and his Disque Bleus, he was a typically insecure guy who wanted to possess his partner. Because I loved him (I thought I loved him and so I did. What did I know then about love? What do I know now?) I welcomed his jealousy. It gave me an undeserved sense of importance. I was happy, in the end, to have the power to make him jealous. And the power to make him happy.
Which I did. A couple of months later, after yet another of the ever popular "schoolgirl" sessions, I collected my fee from the Club Chairman and told him I would not be appearing again. I thanked him for everything, asked him to say goodbye to the members for me. And left.
61-69, F
