‘Quite a set-up you’ve got here.’ He came in, leaving the door open, throwing his kit bag into a corner.

‘It’s not Hollywood, but it’ll do.’ I busied myself with my camera, which was set up on a tripod.

‘Hope you’ve got some film in that,’ said Wright. ‘I’ve heard about dirty old men like you.’

‘Oh yeah. I’ve lured you here on the pretext of taking photos, but I just want to get your knickers off.’

We both laughed, and stopped abruptly at the same time.

‘Shut the door, Wright. You don’t want to be covered in goosepimples.’

‘Christ, no.’ He kicked the door shut. ‘I’ve got to look bloody gorgeous. I brought some chip oil from the cookhouse. Thought it might do.’

‘What on earth for?’

‘You know. They all do it in the mags. Grease themselves up.’

I opened the bottle and sniffed. There was a layer of brown crumbs at the bottom. ‘It stinks.’

‘Well nobody’s going to know that, are they? Give it here.’ He took off his tunic and hung it carefully over the back of a chair. ‘Right then. I suppose I’d better strip off then, hadn’t I?’

‘Yes,’ I said, very busy with the camera. ‘You get yourself ready.’ I couldn’t watch. This was the point at which, in my night-time fantasies, things started to get interesting. My heart was beating too fast, my hands were shaking. I took deep breaths and tried to calm myself.

‘No time like the present, is there?’ I glanced sideways; he was unbuttoning his shirt. His chest was pumped up, his biceps bulging. ‘I did fifty press-ups in the yard before I came in,’ he said.

‘Great …’

His shirt joined his tunic, neatly folded on the chair. The hair on his stomach, where it fanned out from his navel and down to his waistband, was slightly matted.

‘So, stand with your fists up.’

‘Hang on. What about these?’ He picked at the rough blue material of his trousers.

‘You can leave those on. We’ll shoot from the waist up.’

‘And miss my lovely legs? Bollocks to that.’ He bent down and unlaced his boots, his back flaring out from his narrow pelvis, the vertebrae easy to count through his skin. He kicked off his boots and dropped his trousers. Now he was wearing only standard-issue pants and socks.

‘God, I can’t photograph you in those.’

‘Ah! Wait and see.’ He fished around in his trouser pocket, and produced a small bundle of white fabric. Two tiny triangles of elasticated cotton joined at the corners.

‘What the hell is that?’

‘I sent off for it from an advert in Health and Strength.’

‘You read Health and Strength?’ I’d assumed that only people like me read it.

‘Course I do. I’m a bodybuilder, ain’t I?’ He flexed his arms beside his head; the muscles popped impressively.

‘Right. Well you’d better … slip them on.’ I turned away and fiddled with my light meter.

‘Bloke in London sells them,’ he said, ‘mail order. All the muscle boys wear them. Supposed to show it off to its best advantage. What do you think?’