When Eleanor Martin took a last look in the mirror, a small yelp of amusement escaped her. The transformation was extraordinary. She looked younger than her 23 years. Eighteen at most. It was partly the hair – cut short by a gay Columbian with a shaven head at a cost that had made her gasp. But what the hell. The magazine had paid. They'd helped with the make-up too, Sarah quietly steering her towards a plum-coloured lipstick and the sort of glittery silver eyeshadow she might have worn at Christmas but probably wouldn't. She experimented with a smile. Yes - young, brazen, but still vulnerable - the face looking back at her was perfect.
Against Mandy's advice she'd rejected the offer of a wire. It would be just one more thing to worry about and hard to conceal under the t-shirt and stretch jeans. Mandy had wanted her to hand the story over to someone with more experience, but Eleanor resisted. She might have come straight from university but she was never going to be able to prove her worth as a journalist unless they gave her the chance. In the end Mandy had shrugged and given in, peering at her over the top of her glasses like a disapproving headmistress.
Eleanor turned and considered her profile. The budget had provided the underwear too. It was the only thing she was really pleased with. Light and understated. You'd have to look closely to see she was wearing a bra at all. Her nipples were still defined under the thin cotton of her t-shirt. For a moment she wondered if this might be asking for trouble? But she pushed the thought to the back of her mind. She looked good. And besides, despite what Mandy and the others thought, she could take care of herself.
When she'd first heard the girl's story, sitting over a mug of coffee in Starbucks, she thought it might make a couple of paragraphs. Young girl with a head stuffed full of ideas by television. It was only when she'd gone to the web to find the pictures that the scale of the operation hit her. Some of the girls didn't look old enough to be out on their own.
In the taxi she dialled the office and killed the call before anyone answered. Checked the number was on the redial button. Then asked the driver to drop her round the corner from the hotel. It wasn't what she'd expected. She made a mental sketch of the foyer. Club chairs, glass topped tables, a carpet deep enough to muffle a stampede. There was nothing low-rent about this place. She wondered what he was paying for the room. A hundred? A hundred and fifty? She could easily phone up later and check.
The man behind the desk didn't bat an eyelid when she gave the name.
"Is Mr Solomon expecting you?"
"Yes."
"316. Third floor. Turn left out of the lifts."
He offered a distant professional smile. The sort you paid for at a place like this, she thought. Eleanor was pleased with the observation and filed it away for later.
It was quiet upstairs. The anonymity was unsettling. She passed a young girl pushing a laundry trolly. She waited until she had disappeared before she found the room.
There was a Do Not Disturb sign on the door of 316. For a moment she hesitated. She was surprised to find how nervous she was. But that was no bad thing. The last thing she needed was to seem self-assured. She was perfectly safe. The magazine knew she was coming. How much worse it must be for the girls who really thought that this door – or one very like it – was going to open onto a future under the bright lights of a film studio. When she knocked her knuckles seemed to make no impression on the heavy door. She tried again. This time someone turned the handle from the other side and the door swung open. Solomon was talking on a mobile. He waved her into the room and stood looking out of the window as he finished his call.
"Four o'clock" he was saying, "if she can't do that, forget it."
Eleanor looked round the room. The usual anonymous décor. Some flowers on the night table. Black metal tripod. A surprisingly small camera lying on the big bed among a litter of video boxes. The only chair had a leather coat with a torn lining draped over it.
"I've got 24 hours, that's all. So no more fucking about, ok?" The call was evidently over. Soloman threw the mobile down onto the bed. "Prick."
He wasn't a big man. Round shouldered. About 45. She could see the hair curling on his neck and imagined the pelt that must cover his back under the tee shirt. But there was an energy about him. Something animal-like. A heavy gold bracelet bumped at his wrist.
He turned to look at her for the first time.
"Hi", she said, more confident than she felt. "I phoned this morning..."
But Solomon held up his hand to stop her. And continued to stare. He was openly measuring her. No man had looked at her like this before. He studied her face. Her breasts and legs. His appraisal was disconcerting. She knew this man cared nothing about her. He wasn't interested in her intelligence, her personality – in any of the things that made her who she was. This man was interested only in one thing. Her potential for sexual arousal.
Solomon walked slowly round her, inspecting her from every angle. Under this scrutiny she felt a moment's panic. Worrying what she would say if he just shook his head. Said, no, she wasn't up to it. She was wasting her time. When he'd come full circle he looked at her again. And then he smiled. She felt absurdly grateful.
"What's your name?"
"Jenny."
"Real name?"
Before she could answer he waved his question aside.
"Doesn't matter. Who gives a shit, eh?"
He pointed to the bed.
"Sit down. Make yourself comfortable."
Eleanor did as she was told while Solomon recovered the camera and began slotting cassettes into the video machine. She felt the bed give under her as she sank into the expensive mattress, perching on the edge and crossing her long legs. Released from his gaze she found her professional persona reasserting itself. Yes, she thought, I can see how it happens. A young girl with no experience of the world and perhaps just a few fumbling encounters with boys who knew less than they did. What chance would she have against this kind of certainty? Solomon was still talking. She forced herself to concentrate.
"It's a tough business. Most people have no idea what's involved. But what can you do?"
He looked at her and smiled. She found herself returning the smile, grateful to be sharing the conspiracy.
"You've got a good body, you know that? Sure you do. Look at you."
He lifted the camera. Her image appeared on the television screen and surged towards her as he worked the zoom.
"It's a difficult business. A lot of frauds. But I don't have to tell you that. And so many girls. Jesus, you wouldn't believe how many. They think it's just a question of looking good. If only it was that easy. But this is the real world. If they're going to make it, they have to want it. I have to say the legal shit about you being here. Just to keep us clean. You're here under your own will aren't you? "
"Yes – I'm – Yes, of course."
