The Golden Locket (Unbreakable Trilogy, Book 2) by Primula Bond Page A

dress.
    ‘Serena, come in. How lovely. Welcome!’
    She is silhouetted by the huge arched window behind her. The low winter sun is a perfect backlight, shafting straight through the voile fabric of her dress and rendering it see-through. I step further inside and the door snaps quietly shut behind me. Mrs Weinmeyer rotates one foot in a gold Louboutin sandal and I can see that her incredibly slim thighs are slightly parted, flickering with impatient muscles. She raises her leg to take a step down the stairs and the slit cut into the dress makes it float open at the top of her legs.
    I drop my bags and equipment on the floor and get out my bigger Canon. ‘Hold it there!’
    ‘Why, sugar, what’s wrong?’ Mrs Weinmeyer halts as instructed, one knee cocked in front of the other, her slim arms reaching to each banister in an angular, Cecil Beaton pose. Her face is in shadow, but as I adjust the exposure I can see through the viewfinder my subject’s fuchsia-painted lips parting slightly in surprise, showing perfect American white teeth.
    My finger slips on the shutter. ‘I didn’t mean to shout at you, Mrs Weinmeyer, but please could you hold that pose? Because I think I’ve got my Grace Kelly shot!’
    ‘Your cute English accent.’
    Mrs Weinmeyer shrugs one pale shoulder, glances over it deep into my lens, twists this way and that, then continues to descend the stairs as I click the shutter. She has the taut, toned body of all upmarket New Yorkers, which makes them look as if they never bite into a Krispy Kreme. Not ideal for a photographic subject, but who am I to comment? If anything, that makes my job all the more challenging. Finding the curves and angles, the planes and shadows, in a body with little substance.
    As for her cool, pale face, I daren’t speculate if she’s had work done. The camera will tell me later. I remind myself to inform all my new clients that I discourage any form of post-production touching up, but if they insist then the charges will be suitably astronomical.
    ‘Come along with me, sugar,’ the lady of the house purrs into my thoughts. ‘There will be many other shots, I can assure you. Just follow me round the domain and tell me where you want me.’
    The reception rooms at the front are decorated with a mixture of old European grandeur, wooden cornices, comfortable chintzy soft furnishings, some exquisite rose- and cherrywood pieces that look as if they would splinter if you so much as brushed the dust off them, and an array of paintings and photographs on every available surface of wall. The effect is full but not cluttered, elegant but not spare. From the clear north light filtering through from the rear I’m guessing that the other half of the house has been extended and totally modernised.
    I follow my client as room flows into room, watching the way Mrs Weinmeyer’s bottom twitches under the fuchsia silk as she walks ahead. The way her little buttocks catch the material between the cheeks, then softly release it again. Every so often I take a shot as my hostess pauses casually by a sofa, a fireplace, a mirror.
    ‘So, Serena, tell me how you want to play this. As the hookers say, I can be whatever you want me to be.’
    Mrs Weinmeyer gives a girlish giggle. I know she’s watching me as I pace round the wood-panelled drawing room she has finally led me into. Maybe she’s wondering how such an ordinary-looking girl could have taken the erotic photographs she saw exhibited in London. Maybe she’s doubting my ability to fulfil this commission.
    I must keep my cool. The walls are crammed with paintings and photographs but what also catches my eye on a window shelf is a row of vases and goblets and delicate sea creatures all made of glass. The muted light filters through them, making them look as if they are filling with smoke.
    ‘Ah, you’re admiring my exquisite glass collection. Do you like it? It’s from Murano, but a little-known, very specialised manufacturer.’
    Her