Over the following months the business ticked along nicely. It was easy enough to pick up prospective models from amongst the tour guides, tourists, back packers and so on. Then of course there was the private clients from amongst the cabin cruisers moored at the various marinas along the coast. I had continued to frequent the marinas, speaking to possible clients among the wives and mistresses of the wealthy. They were a very lucrative source of income, and paid in cash of course. I preferred cash, and they were happy paying cash because there was no documentation, so another lair of secrecy and discretion, which suited me fine. However, nothing quite prepared me for my next client, and if anyone had told me such a story, I wouldn't have believed it either.
I got a call one day, about three or four months after I had started. To be honest, I thought it was a hoax at first. The voice was quite refined, and he spoke excellent English, with a slight accent. He asked if I would be prepared to photograph his wife, and I said of course I would, but only on the understanding that he wasn't there. There was a long silence, and I thought for a moment that he had hung up, until he asked me why, so I told him. I don't do shoots with spectators, because I've found to my cost that amateur models just don't relax and build that essential rapport with the photographer when someone else is present. Especially husbands, because every time I ask them to do something they look at their husband as if to get his permission. It kills the flow of the shoot, and it just becomes hard work. If you want the best result from your photo shoot I explained, take her here, leave her, and once the shoot is finished come and collect her again. He asked if it was okay to come over and have a look at the villa, and I agreed. He could be there in ten minutes he said, and that suited me.
Almost exactly ten minutes later, a big black luxury car pulled up outside the villa, all windows blacked out, and a chauffeur got out and opened the back door. What looked like an Arab prince, or an extra from, 'Lawrence of Arabia,' stepped out, dressed in flowing white robes, including the headdress, or Keffiyeh, and strode confidently towards me. We shook hands and he introduced himself, and bugger me, it turned out he was a Prince. I invited him inside.
'I wish you to photograph my wife,' he began, 'but it must be understood that complete and utter discretion must be guaranteed. If any rumours or gossip of this escapes, the consequences could be very dire... not only for me, and her, but also for you,' he warned. I assured him that complete discretion was the foundation stone of my business, and explained the security measures I had put in place. He seemed happy with that, and asked when I could organise a shoot, so I looked at my diary, and offered the next day. He thought for a moment, and then confirmed that tomorrow would be fine.
'Before we go any further your highness,' I said. 'What exactly do you require? You know that I specialise in glamour and nude photography, so I presume that's how you want me to photograph your wife? He confirmed that my suspicion was correct, and that was exactly how he wanted her photographed.
'She is my most beautiful, dutiful and loving wife, and I want her photographed so I can remember her beauty when we grow old together,' he declared. It seemed like a reasonable request, and so the appointment was made. He spoke into his mobile, which he produced from some inner pocket; a rapid burst of what I presumed was Arabic, then he looked up at me. 'She is coming to meet you now,' and two minutes later an apparition, dressed entirely in black from head to toe appeared through my open front door. She seemed to glide rather than walk, her slippered feet making no sound on the tiled hallway. She didn't raise her head to look at me, her eyes firmly fixed on the floor. 'Look up, my sweetness,' he said, and she looked up at me. 'Aren't those the eyes of an angel,' he said proudly, and oh my god he was right. They were so dark they were almost black, clear, and sparkling as she looked at me. I could tell she was smiling at me despite the veil that covered everything but her eyes. I told her that I was honoured to meet her, and she bowed her head in acknowledgment, but said nothing. He told me her name, but for the sake of security, I'll just call her Layla, as in the ancient Arabic tale of Layla and Majnun. I reckon if it was good enough for Eric Clapton, which is where he got the name for that song, 'Layla,' from, then it was good enough for me.
Next day, the big black car pulled up outside my door, and the Prince got out, followed by Layla. She was dressed exactly the same as she was the day before, a shapeless black dress, (burkah?) He led her inside, handed me a small suitcase, and asked how long it would take. I replied that I wasn't sure, probably three hours maximum, but if Layla had a mobile, she could call when we were near the end of the shoot and arrange to be picked up. That seemed agreeable to him, and so he left me alone with his wife.
I asked her to follow me, and led her up the stairs. I could see her looking at the photographs, just as curious as any of the other women who came to be photographed, and then I led her into the bedroom where the shoot would take place. She placed her suitcase beside the bed, and opened it to reveal some stunningly beautiful lingerie.
'You know,' I said, 'I don't even know your name,' so she told me, and I heard her voice for the first time. She had the most wonderful low-pitched velvety voice, 'That's a lovely name,' I said, and meant it.
'It's not my real name,' she informed me. 'My real name is very Arabic, hard for westerners to pronounce, so I use one that's easier for you to say.' She had virtually no accent, her English was impeccable, and when I remarked upon that, she informed me that she had been educated at a girl's school in England, then on to Oxford University where she had gained a first-class honours degree. This young woman was full of surprises, and my worries about being able to communicate with her vanished. 'And then I got married,' she said, making it sound like it was a complete anti-climax, sounding rather disconsolate.
'You would have preferred to get a job after university?' I asked, and she said she would have liked that. To use her education for something other than producing more Saudi princes. I felt sorry for her.
'But' she said, hesitating for a moment, 'as a Saudi princess, I was expected to do my duty and obey, so here I am today.' Bloody hell I thought, how many photographers get the chance to photograph a real princess? 'Don't worry,' she assured me, as if reading my thoughts, 'I'm nothing special. Princesses are ten a penny where I come from,' and she laughed, it was a lovely throaty laugh.
As we were talking, I had been going round, switching on the studio flash units, checking things, but now I was ready, so I turned to her.
'Ready?' I asked, and she said that she was. 'Normally,' I informed her, 'I start with the model fully dressed and strip down to lingerie, and that's as good a place as any to start. Are you going to put on some of that beautiful lingerie I see in your suitcase.' She told me she was fully prepared, and was already wearing suitable lingerie, so if I just told her what to do, she would do as I asked. Don't forget now, she was dressed in a long black robe, full facial veil, and head-dress, so first of all I got her to sit down on the edge of the bed, and took a few pictures of her there, moving in for a close-up. I did a series of shots of her eyes, demure at first, looking away, then let her turn the full power of those glorious eyes on me, and they
were
