Expanding my portfolio

Having been the very essence of moderation all January, I am in need of diversion. My somewhat delusional attitude towards budgeting means that I am also in need of cash.

I am therefore embarking on a new career path. Academic qualifications are unnecessary and I need neither update my CV nor dress to impress, although good presentation skills would be helpful.

I am going to take up modelling. Not that size-zero catwalk nonsense, but good old tits ‘n’ ass.

No photos: I might be President one day. Nothing less than oils will do. Yes, dear reader, Lady V is about to be immortalised, in the manner of goddesses and great ladies of antiquity, on canvas. The British Public has been crying out for such a vision. I shall no doubt become known as one of the great muses of the 21st century and a beauty of my time. Art-lovers will flock to the Royal Academy to feast upon the sight of me in all my glory, naked apart from a couple of strategically placed grapes and a bunch of coriander.

How did this giddy ascent into the world of High Art come about? I hear you ask.

Yes, well.

I am in the British Library lunch room (scuffed carpets, broken coffee machine, lone diners eating unidentifiable leftovers out of tupperware) when my phone rings. In a panic (chatting is frowned upon in these surroundings) I answer without checking to see who it is.

‘Hi, this is Tim. We met at Simon’s wedding in the summer.’
Ah. THAT wedding. There is absolutely no way that this conversation will ever lead to anything good.
‘I don’t know if you remember me?’
I make a non-committal, strangled sort of sound.
‘We talked about art for a long time.’
‘Hmm.’
‘And you said that you’d be interested in doing some modelling for me.’
If people are going to start holding me to the things that I say in the early hours of the morning, I am going to be in trouble.
‘Uh, did I?’
‘You seemed to quite like the idea.’
‘I like most ideas after that much booze!’ I snort, then remember where I am and stare down at my congealed pasta. ‘What sort of modelling, anyway?’
‘Well, nude.’
‘Nude! I squeak, and knock my fork off the table. I drop to my knees and scrabble about underneath it, wishing I could stay there, away from the eavesdropping academics. I have just said nude in the British Library lunch room. I want to die.
‘You seemed very relaxed about it. I think you’d be a natural.’

I can hear him smirking as he speaks. My face is now the colour of the pasta sauce. I do, unfortunately, remember my downfall that evening, draping myself, intoxicated and semi-naked over the bonnet of an open-topped Cadillac in the middle of the dancefloor. It was hardly surprising that I was relaxed, having spent the day fulfilling my duty as best man by keeping the groom (and myself) topped up all the stimulants that we could get our hands on in an attempt to get through the occasion. I wasn’t relaxed, I was semi-catatonic.

‘So what do you think?’ Would you be up for it? I’d pay you, of course,’ and he names a sum of money that is roughly twice what I earn doing worthy but rather dull work for charities.

I have a brief but heated debate with myself. I bet Virginia Woolf never spent her lunch hours in the library arranging to take her clothes off for cash. On the other hand, I’ve always quite fancied being an artist’s muse. When people ask me what I do I could say I'm a writer-turned-model and give off an aura of being brainy yet chic.

My inner radical feminist asks me sternly how I can even consider objectifying myself by pandering to the gaze of the patriarchy for money. Her slaggy little sister hitches up her bra strap, lights a fag and tells me it’ll be a laugh.

I am torn, but then, in a moment of inspired clairvoyance, see myself as an old woman taking my great-granddaughter to the Louvre to see the lovely portrait of Granny in her prime and I feel suddenly reckless.

‘Oh alright then,’ I say. ‘Why not?’
‘Great’ he says, and tells me to come to an address in Brick Lane at 2pm on Friday.
‘And, uh, should I wear anything in particular?’ I ask, trying to sound professional.
‘Nothing tight. It’ll leave marks when you take it off.’
‘Right. No tight clothes,’ I repeat, and write it down in my notebook.

When I put down the phone, the old man sitting at the next table peers at me over his spectacles.

I have booked an emergency bikini wax and embarked on a crash diet. My reputation in London’s art world depends on it. My reputation in the library is, however, sadly, lost.