Surprise Me(56)

‘I guess!’ I give a nervous laugh. ‘Ready as I ever will be.’

‘And Dan?’ She peers round to next door, as though he might suddenly pop up.

‘He thinks I’m at book group.’ I grin. ‘You might have to bullshit about our interesting discussion on Flaubert.’

‘Flaubert!’ She gives a short laugh. ‘Well come on in, Madame Bovary.’

I’ve been googling ‘boudoir photos’ pretty solidly over the last three days, and as a result, I’m equipped. More than equipped. I have procured: a spray tan, a manicure, a pedicure, blow-dried hair, false eyelashes, a bag of pretty underwear, a bag of racy underwear, a bag of super-racy/trashy-whore underwear and a massive long string of fake pearls from Topshop. I also have a few accessories which arrived in a plainly packaged box – I told Dan they were new ballet shoes for the girls – but I’m not sure about those. (In fact, I’m thinking the ‘vintage fur rabbit mask’ was a definite mistake.)

Every chance I’ve got, I’ve been posing in the mirror, squinting at my bum to see how big it looks and practising an alluring expression. Although I think I’ll need a glass of Prosecco beforehand to loosen up. (I’ve brought that, too.)

‘What do you think?’ Tilda bustles me into her sitting room, and I gasp. She’s moved half the furniture out and it looks like a photographer’s studio. There are big lights on stands, and a white umbrella-type thing and a single sofa in the centre of the room, plus a folding screen and a full-length mirror.

‘Amazing!’

‘Isn’t it?’ Tilda looks pleased. ‘If this goes well, I thought I might go into the business properly. It’s quite a racket, this boudoir photography.’

‘Have you ever used equipment like this before?’ I ask, curiously touching the umbrella-type thing.

‘No, but it’s all fairly obvious.’ Tilda waves an airy hand. ‘I’ve been googling. Is the house warm enough for you?’

‘It’s sweltering!’ I’ve never known Tilda’s house so hot. Usually she’s of the ‘heating is for wimps’ mentality.

‘You want to be nice and warm and relaxed. Nice eyelashes, by the way,’ adds Tilda admiringly. ‘And what have you brought?’ She reaches into one of my bags and pulls out the string of pearls. ‘Ah, very good. A boudoir classic. The “draping shot”, as we boudoir photographers call it.’

She sounds so expert, I want to laugh. I’m also quite touched she’s taking it so seriously.

‘You can change behind the screen,’ Tilda continues, opening up the Prosecco and pouring it out. ‘And then we’ll go into the first pose.’ She hands me a glass and consults a handwritten list headed Sylvie – Poses. ‘Sit on the sofa, then gradually slide off. Your head should be thrust upwards, right leg bent, left leg relaxed, back arched, shoe dangling …’

‘Uhuh,’ I say doubtfully. ‘Can you show me?’

‘Show you?’ Tilda looks aghast. ‘Well, I can try, but I’m not very supple.’

She sits on the sofa, then slides off. Halfway towards the floor she freezes, one leg pinned to the floor, the other swinging akimbo, and her head thrust back in a painful-looking rictus. She looks like she’s giving birth. That can’t be right.

‘Ow.’ She flops to the floor. ‘You see?’

‘Er … kind of,’ I say, after a pause.

‘It’ll be fine!’ she says breezily. ‘I’ll direct you. Now, what are you going to wear?’

Choosing the first outfit is a lot of fun, and takes us nearly half an hour. I went a bit overboard with the underwear shopping so we have lots of choice and eventually get it down to a white lace set with white seamed stockings and suspenders. As I emerge from behind the screen, I feel genuinely sexy and excited. Dan won’t believe his eyes!

‘Amazing!’ says Tilda, who is fiddling with her light counter. ‘Now, if you get into position …’

I sit on the sofa, slide down and freeze in the same way that Tilda did. Almost at once, my thighs start burning. I should have done the boudoir workout.

‘Ready?’ I say, after what seems like ten minutes.

‘Sorry,’ says Tilda, glancing up. ‘Oh, you look gorgeous. Lovely!’

She takes a few pictures, peering at me between shots.

‘Really? Are you sure?’

I want to say, ‘Do I look like I’m giving birth?’ only that might sound weird.

‘Try putting your hands behind your head,’ suggests Tilda, snapping away. ‘Oh, yes! Now sweep your hair back. Lovely! Do it again!’

Twenty hair-sweeps later my legs can’t take it any more and I collapse on to the floor.

‘Great!’ says Tilda. ‘Shall we have a look?’

‘Yes!’ I scrabble to my feet and hurry over to the camera. Tilda scrolls back through the shots and we both gaze in silence.

The images are so far from what I imagined that I’m speechless. You can barely see my face. You can barely see the sexy underwear. The whole photo is dominated by my legs in their white stockings, which are lit up so brightly, they look like luminous surgical stockings. In half the photos, my hair is over my face, not in a sexy way, but a dishevelled, crap-looking way. And I do look like I’m giving birth.