One.

Taylor.

It’s mid-morning, and I’m sitting in my room with my feet up on the chair in front of me, waiting for the black nail lacquer to dry, an old Misfits CD playing in the background, and watching the rain trickle down the window in large teardrops. My gaze gravitates towards my watch and I realise my client is late. By seventeen minutes and counting.

I tilt my wrist to the light a bit more. I do like my watch. Granted, it’s a Gucci knock-off that I got in Ayia Napa last summer for about thirty Euros (God, what a simply fantastic holiday, I can’t wait to go back), and the glass is a bit scratched, but I like it anyway. The strap is thick brown faux leather with the watch face itself on a separate strap fastened on top. The hands glow in the dark and the numbers are represented in Roman numerals. There is a smudge of a fingerprint on the glass and I rub it away with the hem of my shirt. Doing that only reminds me that I’ve been waiting too long for this client who most likely won’t show up now, so I should go and do something else.

Just as I swing my legs down from the chair and stand up there is a soft knock at the door and a head pops round, topped with scruffy auburn hair and covered in freckled.

“Taylor?” he murmured quietly. Damn it. I was hoping for some free time.

“That’s me.” I smile at him cheerfully and gesture to the chair in front of me. “Have a seat, Mr…?”

“Thomas. Jonathan Thomas.” He edges slowly into the room, jacket slung over one arm in a casual manner but I can see his knuckles are white from entwining his fingers so tightly into the fabric. I glance up at his face – he does look pale. He looks like the kind of man who wouldn’t be out of place at a business convention about finance: neatly trimmed hair and moustache, beige suit, overly shined shoes. A briefcase swings from one bony hand.

“How are you feeling? A bit nervous?”

“No! Well. Yes, I suppose. A little bit.” His movements are jerky as he sits down primly on the very edge of the chair. He’s so far forward on it that I’m actually worried it might topple forwards.

“I can understand that.” I open a cupboard door to my left and take out a few things. “Have you been here before?”

“No. I’ve never really had anything like this done before.”

“Really? Just a spur of the moment type of thing, then.”

“Not really.” I can see a bead of sweat trickling down between his eyebrows. “My girlfriend wanted me to get this done. She’s really into all this.” He gestures around jerkily at the prints on my walls, the photos pushed into the frame of the mirror, images of my previous clients, the ones I’m most proud of. He swallows audibly, shifting his weight constantly. “Can we get this over with?”

“I’ll be as quick as I can, Mr Thomas. Don’t worry. I know the first time can be a bit nerve-wracking – believe me, I’ve been in your shoes. But you’re in good hands with me.” I smile reassuringly and pull on a pair of gloves (the non-Latex kind. I found out the hard way that I was allergic to it). “Could you just pop your jacket on the chair and come lie down on the bed for me?” He does so, looking as if he’s about to pass out with fear. “Great. Now, you know exactly what you want, yeah?”

He nods and tells me. I’ve done this a hundred times, so the procedure is quick, simple and relatively painless. The colour does go out of his cheeks completely, and I advise him to stay lying down for a moment afterwards while I get him a glass of water. I then run through a quick set of aftercare instructions for him, and hand him a laminated leaflet explaining in more detail. When he’s ready – I respectfully turn my back and busy myself at the sink, tidying up while he composes himself once more – we go out into the reception and I nudge past Alex to get to the desk. Checking the computer to make sure I have all his details just in case we need to contact him further, I smile and tell him the fee.

He grimaces at the price. “Really? I thought you were cheaper than that.”

An apologetic smile always goes a long way. “Prices went up last week sir, I do apologise.”

He grunts, but pays me anyway. We chat for a second longer, before he shoots off, looking pale, terrified, yet slightly relieved, gets into a sleek Volkswagen and drives away looking significantly happier to be on his way back to his accounting job (or whatever he did for a living. He did look like an accountant). I put the receipt for the credit card transaction in the till and close it, sliding up to sit on the windowsill behind the counter. I look down at my toenails, touching them gently to see if the varnish has dried, to find that it had. My little toe is smudged though. I’ll have to redo it later.

“Bless him. Honestly, the poor guy looked about to shit a brick. Said his lady wanted him to come here. Honestly, the day I let a man boss me around like that…” Alex isn’t even listening. He’s got his head buried in the latest edition of OK! which some client of his left behind this morning. I expect he practically begged her for it. “Never mind.”

I check the computer schedule, then the appointment book to see what I have in this afternoon: a small tattoo and a couple of labret piercings. I tell Alex I’m going out to buy my lunch and that he’s in charge (I get a murmur in response). But when I come back downstairs with my wallet and car keys, a client has walked in wanting her ears pierced for a third time, and since I’m the only one available for the next half hour, I say I’ll do it and ask her to follow me back upstairs to my room and get her to fill in a form stating that she’s over 18, what she’s allergic to, etc, etc, etc. Twenty minutes later and I’m all done, pulling my hood up to keep out the rain and running the hundred feet along the street to where my car is parked.

That’s what I do for a living. I’m a body artist, working six days a week for a company that Alex and I started from scratch in the heart of Notting Hill. And I honestly mean it when I say I adore my job.