The Office Girl by T.H. Sandal Page A

money, furnishings to match.
    The place he'd rented was a maisonette taking up the bottom
three stories of a terraced house on Brunswick Square. You can
check out pictures of the type of property via google if it takes
your fancy, otherwise just imagine a house with a huge bay front,
immense windows on the first floor easily twice your height
overlooking an wide street with plush cut grass in the middle and,
to the left, a view out to sea.
    It was a beautiful late Summer day, the sun shining down onto
the Brunswick Square and creeping round to reach the huge bay
windows. We'd positioned ourselves in large bedroom at the front of
the house, more of a sitting room in fact, with appropriate
comfortable furniture towards the window and the bed against the
back wall.
    Trev thought the light might get a bit intense, but he'd taken
a liking to a particular chaise long – an ornate antique, newly
covered in an expensive looking fabric – which he'd moved towards
the centre of the room. It was an open style chaise, without the
side panel, but with a back rest on one end.
    The other furniture had been moved aside; enough to create
some space around the chaise, but not so much to make the scene
look false and the chaise was backed to one side by the bay window
and to the other by the fireplace above which was a huge fancy
mirror, expensive enough to be without imperfection, and spotlessly
clean.
    Knowing how Trev worked, I was sure that he'd be moving his
cameras around the two opposing sides, though with an effort to
avoid stupid reflections in the mirror. His main camera, an
expensive video with all the trimmings, was positioned on a tripod
facing the window and looking straight down the length of the
chaise. Apart from raising and lowering the tripod, he liked to
keep that camera stationary.
    Apart from a boom mike and its necessary sound recording
equipment, the playback screen from the stationary camera and a
lap-top to upload video from the portables, and a couple of serious
looking studio lights and their attendant tripods, apart from all
that, the bedroom also contained Trev, his two cameramen, the sound
man. And me. Lounging on the bed.
    The first to arrive who wasn't going to be behind any of this
equipment was the male actor for this first session. To save his
embarrassment, and to give him a sense of the exotic, we'll call
him Felix. He'd probably like that better than his real name,
which, to be honest, is a little boring and doesn't at all match
his persona which can be summarised as threatening.
    By which I mean that he wasn't, in his appearance, obviously a
nice bloke. With his hair short, cut to a close grade, a sharp
angular face and close-set eyes, he didn't look like the kind of
bloke a young lady might want to meet socially. He was also fit.
Wearing fashionable jeans and a fairly tight t-shirt, there was no
mistaking the fact that he worked out and while there wasn't, to a
cursory inspection, much or any fat to speak of, there was plenty
of muscle on show.
    His nick-name amongst those in the trade was two-stroke . Which should suffice.
    The female actor, much to Trev's consternation, was a bit late
and was announced not by her appearance at the door, but by the
irritating ring tone of Trev's mobile. He seemed to know it was her
because he immediately talked by name – Alice will do – but rather
than go through with the conversation in earshot, he took himself
and his phone through the door.
    Some minutes passed before he returned. In place of the phone,
but attached to the same hand, was Alice. The office girl. I call
her that simply because of how she looked, rather than any personal
knowledge that she was, in fact, employed in an office. But if she
wasn't, she should have been.
    Maybe in her mid-twenties, perhaps a little older, from feet
up, she was wearing black court shoes without heels, black sheer
stockings, a tight, well-fitted skirt that finished perhaps three
or four inches above the knee, a plain