factory. He had taken a lease out on it when the lower three floors were almost derelict. Since then they had been split into units and let out to design companies, marketing agencies and recording studios, and Ben paid less for nearly twice as much floor space than any of the tenants in the cramped, post-renovation quarters.
He let himself in and turned off the alarm system. The sunlight was dazzling through the three large skylights he'd had fitted to replace the rotting originals, and through the floor-to-ceiling windows that ran the ful white-painted length
of the east-facing wal . In the afternoon it would be equal y bright through the windows on the other side. One of the reasons he'd taken the place was because it was perfect for shooting in natural light; the only way he could have got more would have been either to go outside or have the roof taken off.
It also made it like a greenhouse. Ben turned on the big overhead fan, and as it cranked up like the idling blades of a helicopter, he went to the drawstrings that lowered the blinds over the skylights and windows. The sunlight was reduced to a soft, muted glow.
He slipped off his shoes and socks, enjoying the feel of the varnished floorboards on his skin. He preferred working barefoot in summer, although Sarah had grumbled about the state of his feet when he got home and made him wash them before he got into bed. It gave him a sense of freedom that he knew was slightly ridiculous, as he was as much dependent on the income from his photography - and on pleasing his clients - as any office worker. But he felt it put him in contact with the studio itself; feeling the bare boards beneath his feet, he could walk around without taking his eye from the viewfinder, relying on their touch alone to guide him.
He was arranging the big reflective screens for that day's shoot when the door opened and Zoe came in. She flung her canvas rucksack on to one of the two overstuffed couches.
Tucking Tube strikes.'
'Morning, Zoe.' She fanned herself with the tight black T-shirt that showed a band of skin above her white jeans. 'I'm real y sorry I'm late, but I was stuck in traffic on the fucking bus for nearly an hour before I gave up and walked, and now I'm sweating like a pig! God, what's happened to your hairY
'I felt like a change.' Zoe tilted her head to one side, considering it. She was in her early twenties, slim but without the angular shapeliness of a model. Her own hair was cropped and currently dyed black, although the colour changed regularly. Not long ago it had been blond; before that red. Once it had been green, the accidental result of a cheap dye. She hadn't been fit to talk to for days.
'Looks okay,' she said. Judgment given, she resumed the heated account of her journey. Ben took no notice. Zoe was bad at mornings, and in the twelve months since he'd hired her as his assistant he'd grown to ignore her pre-eleven o'clock tirades. It was just her way of geeing herself up for the day.
He began sorting through a drawer for a screwdriver as she slammed around the studio. 'Oh, great! We're out of fucking milk!' The fridge door was banged shut. 'Have they phoned to say what time the clothes are going to arrive? What time is it? Half past ten? Shit, they should be here by now! Where's their fucking number?' The waterfal of words and curses was actual y quite soothing, a balm of normality after the solicitude he had been smothered in. The first day he had gone to the studio after Sarah had died, Zoe had awkwardly told him she was sorry, then crept around as though the slightest noise would make him shatter, shooting him anxious glances every few minutes until final y he had turned on her and told her to for God's sake stop it. She had looked hurt and shocked, and Ben had thought, Jesus, phase don't let her start crying, because he didn't think he'd be able to stand it. Then her cheeks had flared red and she'd thrown down the armful of clothes she had been
He let himself in and turned off the alarm system. The sunlight was dazzling through the three large skylights he'd had fitted to replace the rotting originals, and through the floor-to-ceiling windows that ran the ful white-painted length
of the east-facing wal . In the afternoon it would be equal y bright through the windows on the other side. One of the reasons he'd taken the place was because it was perfect for shooting in natural light; the only way he could have got more would have been either to go outside or have the roof taken off.
It also made it like a greenhouse. Ben turned on the big overhead fan, and as it cranked up like the idling blades of a helicopter, he went to the drawstrings that lowered the blinds over the skylights and windows. The sunlight was reduced to a soft, muted glow.
He slipped off his shoes and socks, enjoying the feel of the varnished floorboards on his skin. He preferred working barefoot in summer, although Sarah had grumbled about the state of his feet when he got home and made him wash them before he got into bed. It gave him a sense of freedom that he knew was slightly ridiculous, as he was as much dependent on the income from his photography - and on pleasing his clients - as any office worker. But he felt it put him in contact with the studio itself; feeling the bare boards beneath his feet, he could walk around without taking his eye from the viewfinder, relying on their touch alone to guide him.
He was arranging the big reflective screens for that day's shoot when the door opened and Zoe came in. She flung her canvas rucksack on to one of the two overstuffed couches.
Tucking Tube strikes.'
'Morning, Zoe.' She fanned herself with the tight black T-shirt that showed a band of skin above her white jeans. 'I'm real y sorry I'm late, but I was stuck in traffic on the fucking bus for nearly an hour before I gave up and walked, and now I'm sweating like a pig! God, what's happened to your hairY
'I felt like a change.' Zoe tilted her head to one side, considering it. She was in her early twenties, slim but without the angular shapeliness of a model. Her own hair was cropped and currently dyed black, although the colour changed regularly. Not long ago it had been blond; before that red. Once it had been green, the accidental result of a cheap dye. She hadn't been fit to talk to for days.
'Looks okay,' she said. Judgment given, she resumed the heated account of her journey. Ben took no notice. Zoe was bad at mornings, and in the twelve months since he'd hired her as his assistant he'd grown to ignore her pre-eleven o'clock tirades. It was just her way of geeing herself up for the day.
He began sorting through a drawer for a screwdriver as she slammed around the studio. 'Oh, great! We're out of fucking milk!' The fridge door was banged shut. 'Have they phoned to say what time the clothes are going to arrive? What time is it? Half past ten? Shit, they should be here by now! Where's their fucking number?' The waterfal of words and curses was actual y quite soothing, a balm of normality after the solicitude he had been smothered in. The first day he had gone to the studio after Sarah had died, Zoe had awkwardly told him she was sorry, then crept around as though the slightest noise would make him shatter, shooting him anxious glances every few minutes until final y he had turned on her and told her to for God's sake stop it. She had looked hurt and shocked, and Ben had thought, Jesus, phase don't let her start crying, because he didn't think he'd be able to stand it. Then her cheeks had flared red and she'd thrown down the armful of clothes she had been
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