There’s no clock in the studio.
She never wears a watch.
And her phone’s dead.
But she knows it’s her ninth hour in the studio because it’s after exactly this long that Fernando starts acting like a dick.
By the standards of normal human behaviour he acts like a dick every waking hour. And probably while he’s asleep as well.
But by the standards that prevail in the studio he’s only in these last few minutes transformed into Fernandick.
“Clear up this fucking floor! Like, now!”
“Where the fuck is my tea?!”
Unless he’s asked for coffee. Or tequila.
There are no windows in the studio, so between shoots, when May is sent out for tea/coffee/drinks/cigarettes/magazines for bored models, she’s often surprised by the time of day, the weather, the fact that no one ever asks for directions to the studio, despite its location in a tiny alley in Kilburn, with no access to cars.
Thirteen hours in a row is her record for the longest shift.
Please, please don’t let this be the record breaker.
It’s not even hour nine and a quarter yet.