Her bathtub was an antique, separate from the wall. It was raised a few inches off the ground by golden eagles’ feet, and the taps were antiqued brass. I turned the hot tap on and the whole house began to shake and scream as the water made its way through the piping. I waited for steam to rise from the bath then quickly held my left foot under the hot water hoping it would cause it to swell a little. But I just burnt it.
‘Are you all right in there?’ she called from outside the bathroom door.
‘Yes!’ I said.
I went to the room near the entrance and closed the door behind me. Through the large windows I could see my car parked on the street. There was a blue-grey backdrop stuck on the wall behind me, a stool in the centre of the room. Her floors, like mine, were made of wood, but they were much wider, yellow and recently polished. I sat down on the stool and watched my feet hanging there stupidly at the bottom of my legs. Now, thanks to my ingenious plan, the left foot was not only visibly smaller, but also red instead of white.
Suddenly the door burst open and she came walking in, a gust of wind following her.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I forgot to close the front door properly. It’s windy today, hey?’
‘Yeah.’
She fiddled with her camera. Her fingers were fidgety, but she didn’t seem nervous. She looked like a possessed person, totally focused on what she was doing.
‘OK, Byron, I want you to just push that aside. The stool. And then stand. OK?’
I tried to hide my left foot behind my right, then swapped it around and tried to hide the right behind the left. Then I tried to stand on the floor, and nearly tripped over myself.
‘Oopsy,’ I said, and tried to laugh.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Nothing.’
I stood up straight and moved my right heel backwards so that the toes of my right foot were level with those of the left. She had the camera to her eye and was focusing it on me. My fingers nervously picked at the leather skins. Moving my right foot back causes my body to go slightly out of line, and my right knee to look unnaturally straight.
‘No,’ she said. ‘You really don’t need to do that.’
She dropped the camera from her face and looked at me with her eyes. She smiled, and shook her head.
‘You really don’t need to do that.’
And so I didn’t.
I smiled at her, and suddenly felt completely relaxed. It was as if we had discussed the issue at length. As if lawyers representing both parties had met and drawn up a prenuptial understanding, that the feet were fucked up, but that it was fine.
She laughed some more, and shrugged her shoulders.
Then she raised the camera to her eyes again and focused it, while directing my body into the right position. Then she paused for a moment and again dropped the camera from her eyes.
‘There’s something,’ she said. ‘It’s not uniform thinking. Well what is, I suppose? But I think it’s important. Things must be accurate. Even where the lens can’t see.’
‘All right,’ I said. I didn’t have a clue what she was talking about.
‘It’s just that well. Here’s the thing. Real tribesmen. And Scots too. You know. With their kilts. They don’t. Ug. OK. Please would you take your underwear off?’
Now that we were past the feet, the request felt suspiciously normal.
She raised her shoulders and laughed some more. But now her laugh was more like a little girl’s giggle. She held her purple-gloved hand over her right eye, and said ‘Am I being rude? I don’t know. I’m sorry.’
‘No.’ I shook my head.
‘It’s weird I know. But, it’s important.’
‘OK.’
‘I’ll cover my eyes if you want.’ She raised both hands over her eyes, and made an obvious show of peeping through them.
‘No peeking,’ she said, and started laughing again.
‘OK,’ I said.
She dropped her hands from her face. I leant against the blue grey backdrop and pulled up the back of my skirt. I felt like one of the dirtier hobos I’ve seen in my neighbourhood, pooing against the wall of a house. I blocked the thought out of my mind, and slipped my fingers around the elastic and pulled the underwear down my legs, making sure never to lift the front of the dress up too high. Victoria kept covering her eyes with the front of her hands, then dropping them again.
‘Sorry,’ she said, and started laughing. ‘It’s just a bit funny.’ Then she raised her hands to her face, covered her eyes again and said, ‘No it’s not. I’m only joking. I feel so awkward now. Should I feel awkward?’
‘No.’
When I’d taken them right off, I sent them skidding across the floor towards where she was standing.
‘Those look quite um, sorry. But they look quite uncomfortable.’
‘We need them to protect ourselves.’
‘I see. OK. I’ve just had an idea. I’ll be back. Wait. Just wait.’
She ran out of the room and returned a moment later with an extension chord and a fan. She left again and came back with a collection of boxes under her arm. There were clearly more than she could manage and so she had to stand at an awkward angle, and keep shifting them about to stop them from falling. I made no attempt to help her, I felt like my feet had sunk into concrete.
She made a little pile out of the boxes, constantly shifting them and rearranging the order in which they were placed. She was muttering under her breath, and seemed oblivious of my existence. When the boxes were ordered she placed the fan on top of them .
‘Come stand above it,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘Yes, above it. And hold your dress down. Like Marilyn Monroe.’
‘OK,’ I said, and did as she asked.
She leant down and turned the fan on, adjusting it to its strongest output. It blew straight up my skirt and the cold air caused the sensitive skin on my balls to harden and the penis to curl up a little.
‘Yes, yes!’ she kept saying as she moved around the room. As I got used to it, I started enjoying the freedom of wearing no underwear, I even began to fancy the tickle of air against my scrotum. All the little hairs on my balls stood up and an involuntary smile made its way across my face. Yes, I do believe I was the happiest I’d been in ages.
But after we’d finished taking the pictures and I had changed back into my clothes I started getting nervous again.
‘I have dinner,’ I said.
‘Oh. I was going to. But you must come again. To see the pictures. Alright.’
‘Sure. Yeah. I’ll come.’
* * *
There was something about the way I’d felt standing above the fan, my feet had melted away, my balls felt free and I couldn’t help associating this freedom with her. I wanted more. And so, when she called me again and invited me back, I agreed, honestly.
Her property was quite high up the mountain, and because her flat was on the corner of the block from where I parked, I was able to see right down the steep road to the ocean. It was early evening, a Friday, and the sounds of the bustling Sea Point centre below came drifting up the valley. The sky was almost black but still had traces of blue and I was feeling a little cold, but in high spirits. On the inside of her security gate someone had stuck a note written in large black