‘Where the hell’ve you been, darlin’? If you miss another session, without giving me any notice or any reason, I’ll be out looking for other talent. And there’s plenty of it around.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘You look bloody awful.’

‘I had a bad week.’

‘They don’t give a toss what kind of week you’ve had at Mary Quant or Tatler. And neither do I. I just want to earn my living.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Yeah, I’m sure you are. You toffs are all the same at the end of the day. You don’t give a fuck about anyone. You think your posh family connections will pull you through every time you screw up and can’t be bothered to get out of bed in the morning. You’re spoiled rotten, all of you.’

‘I’m not like that, Ricky.’

‘What are you like, then?’ He sauntered towards her, tossing his cigarette aside and pulling her into his arms. ‘Come on then, darlin’, show us what you’re really like.’

His mouth was surprisingly soft as he kissed her, and she inhaled the smell of tobacco and whisky on his breath. She felt his hands working up her back underneath her shirt and sliding round to touch her breasts and she pushed him away.

‘Get off me, you fool!’ She was laughing but a little shaky. ‘We’ve been through all this before. Some photographers might wind up on top of all their girls, but I’m not going down that road. Not with you or anyone.’

‘Not unless they’re a lord, or a banker or something.’

‘Oh come on, Ricky! Don’t give me any shit about it being a class thing. You know I don’t think that way.’

‘I sometimes wonder if you think at all, if ideas can sprout and grow in that icebox you call a head.’

‘You’re supposed to be a photographer, not a psychologist,’ she said, ruffling his hair. ‘What day are we going to Scotland? It’s bound to be cold and wet, so you should bring wellies and a Barbour jacket like those toffs you’re always talking about. And you’d better behave, or I’ll put a few lead pellets into your backside. I’ve been shooting in Scotland before, and not with cameras. Come on – let’s go somewhere for a drink and some dancing.’

It was cold on the moors, and raining. Ricky was evil-tempered, frustrated by the weather and the light. Camilla consoled herself with large plates of porridge and cream in the mornings, and after the first disastrous day on the moors she sat down at the bar of the hotel and ordered single malts for both of them.