LITMIR.BIZ

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the story of my private view revelations will run in the industry press for weeks afterwards.

      ‘I didn’t get a picture of that initiation ceremony, unfortunately. I was stuck by the door. If I’d started fumbling around for my camera under that stolen habit they’d have seen me. Probably got me on the floor and whipped me, too.’

      I look round calmly, enjoying the eyes all fixed on me as if I have become some kind of oracle. I point at the next enlargement showing the young nun in her cell.

      ‘And this is Sister Perpetua, later that same night.’

      The heads turn to follow my finger, as if they are all students in a riveting lecture. Several cameras follow me. We all stare at the picture, the bony line of the nun’s bare shoulder, the moonlight streaking the bars of the arched window across her spine.

      ‘I’ve never told anyone this. But I did speak to this one. She saw me. I watched her standing in the room, her nightdress falling off her, and I watched her whip herself. The other, older sisters were doing it, but I didn’t get many shots of the others, because she warned me not to. I saw them, though. There were no doors on the cells. No privacy. They just wandered in and out of each other’s rooms if they wanted. It seemed to make them less inhibited, not more, like they knew they were being watched. And they were so wrapped up in what they were doing they probably wouldn’t have noticed if I’d walked right into the cells stark naked and offered myself for a bit of punishment.’

      ‘And did you?’

      Gustav’s voice cuts through the murmuring. He’s folded his arms now. It must be time to wrap this up. Well, let him stew. I leave a deliberately dramatic pause, and lick my lips lasciviously. Crystal drops one black painted eyelid very slowly and winks at me. I don’t know which is more shocking. My nun whipping herself, or a wink from the wooden Crystal.

      ‘They were all far too busy seeing to themselves, to be honest. Flagellating the sins, getting the impure thoughts out of their heads, but this looked much more like pleasure than punishment. Pulling off their nightgowns to flick the switch across their bare skin, so white in the moonlight, a really sickening thwack against their tender flesh; I have tried to show here the marks they left on their skin. You can see how they tilt their heads back so sensuously, the little shimmy in their bare feet when the blows have landed. All positively orgasmic.’

      My rapt audience waits for more. Only the first harsh flurry of what looks like snow pattering on the window disturbs the quiet.

      ‘I stayed as long as I dared. Some of them went to sleep. But even the sleeping sisters looked restless, flailing around on those horrible horsehair mattresses. I wonder now if they were dreaming of their past lives, lovers, lovemaking, the lost sensation of naked limbs and bodies, sweat, tears, men kissing and touching them, maybe even other women. All denied to them forever. They can’t all have been virgins in their former lives.’

      ‘Did you ever find out where the nun had been?’ It was Crystal this time. ‘Surely it was forbidden for her to be running round the city?’

      I shake my head. ‘Sadly, no. I shudder to think what her punishment would have been if she’d confessed to what she’d been doing, even to me. Intriguing, isn’t it?’

      ‘It’s a shame you didn’t manage to interview them all, as well as getting such graphic visuals,’ murmurs the journalist, and others nod in agreement. ‘Have you thought of a career in photojournalism?’

      ‘Not until this moment, but you might have something there for the future!’

      More laughter, but glasses are empty now and feet are fidgeting.

      ‘One more question,’ another man pipes up. ‘Your plans for the future?’

      Crystal has materialised beside me and I take another drink. ‘Let’s see how well I do with this exhibition, first! But yes, I’d like to do more people-watching. You’ll see from this picture of the couple kissing in Paris that another influence is Robert Doisneau. His apparently candid shots were actually set up, but I would like to explore that idea further. Either catch people unawares, or ask them to pose for me.’

      Crystal nods once, rubbing finger and thumb together to mime the making of lots of money.

      I notice that Gustav has put away whatever he was working on and once again is dangling the silver chain up in front of him, letting it glint under the lights. I smile back, lift my hand high to show him my bracelet.

      ‘And as I’ve already admitted to being a voyeur, I’m thinking doors and windows, open and closed, will be the theme for my next show. Walking down a street in the evening, spying at the life unfolding in the houses you pass as the lights are switched on. Lifts. Sliding doors. Sexiness, secrecy. One night I could be outside your house!’ I raise my glass with a wide grin. ‘After all, that young nun, and her sisters in their convent, they thought they were alone. They were dancing like nobody’s watching.’

      I smile round at them and Gustav and Crystal start to clap. The applause is brief but enthusiastic, and then I’m alone in the middle of my crowd.

      I acknowledge a pleasing number of compliments as I move towards Gustav. I see a few people lining up by the desk, Crystal busy filling in a form on her clipboard.

      What I haven’t told them is that I stole one of the little flagellating whips when I fled the convent at dawn. I hid it underneath the habit when I slipped through the gate when the gardener unlocked it. I have the little weapon still, tucked into the bottom of my rucksack.

      But there it has stayed. My dark secret waiting for the right moment. What would these smart Londoners think if I produced it now, whipped myself, right here, in front of them? Would it sell my pictures faster?

      What if I reached up now to unhook my dress, let it fall away from me like the nun’s simple nightdress? She untied it, standing in front of the arched window of her cell, and let it fall to the stone floor. I’ll admit it. I wanted to step inside the cell, come up behind her and touch her.

      What if everyone saw my breasts falling out of this sexy red dress, bare, the nipples shrinking under their gaze? All of them looking at me bared before them, performing my own photographs. What would Gustav say? Would it really, really turn him on?

      I take another long sip of champagne. He is at the other end of the room, in front of the Halloween witches, and he wants me to come to him. I refuse to catch his eye. I’m not moving.

      What if I had the whip with me now, exhibit A, stood with my back to them like the little nun did, what if I used her technique, right now, a quick flick of the wrist to bring the tails down on my bare shoulder? I know how it would feel, sharp and shocking, tight on one spot. I tried it later, back in my hotel. I would tilt my head back sensuously, as my young nun did, and the tickle would become tingling, radiating through me. Then I would flick it again. Everyone in this big room would be able to see the vicious tail cutting red across my skin, like a line of fire rushing along a trail of dynamite, but after a few moments the sharp sting would diffuse into intense, invigorating heat.

      What if I touched myself intimately with the whip? I saw some of the nuns do it. The blunt leather handle, sliding down. The men in this crowd wouldn’t know what to do with themselves. Their hands would wander into their pockets. Their eyes would be watering because they would want to get this load off. In fact they would want to do me, bare as I am in front of them, showing them the pale sweep of my spine, my thighs.

      They would see my hand taking the length of thick woven leather, spreading myself open. These sophisticated city slickers would become voyeurs lusting for my pale skin striped with punishment. They would line up to take their turns with me. They want to put their hands on me, the same hands that have driven sleek cars or written cheques or typed emails or lifted espressos all day today.

      My chattering audience is oblivious to my randy thoughts. But not Gustav. I’m certain he can read every iota scrolling through my mind. Every itch of my fingers. He’s watching me as I stand there, soft and wet, beside the image of my young nun with her head turned sideways, moonlight a halo round her shaved head

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