Tracking shot: Grey stone walls, the interior of the cottage. A solid pine door, opening into a large room with a bare wooden floor. In the centre Lola is squatting, legs beneath her, on the square Breton bed, bedclothes flung back. She is wearing a plain white cotton man’s shirt, with black lingerie underneath. Her blonde hair is tied in a ponytail behind her.
Close up: Her fingers begin to play with the top button on the shirt, very slowly unfastening the garment. The black lace of her bra now comes into view, cleavage peeping over the top, pale white complexion. The luscious purple lips parting to reveal clear white teeth. The navel now gyrating as she sways from side to side to the music she can hear in the background. Something jazzy and cool. Maybe Miles, he isn't sure. Its like a dream now, as Lola removes the white shirt and pouts at the camera. She’s trying not to laugh but there is a sensuality about her, yet something innocent also. Now she turns her back to the camera and looks over her shoulder, breathing heavily.
Close up: She unhooks the catch and lets the black lace bra fall onto the bed. Now her smile is cheeky, as she turns round, arms folded across her chest, keeping her charms covered. Eventually she stretches her arms in a big yawn, and the camera is allowed to feast on her ample bosom. Now she is playing to the lens, and very slowly, so slowly that time seems to stop, she rolls the stockings down her legs.
Goddard can hardly breathe now, as she faces him unashamedly naked, blowing kisses at him, laughing as she pulls the bedclothes over her. He stops the film abruptly, wipes his brow. She is sitting in the bed, arms behind her head, face straight.
What do you reckon, she says
I think, he says, that the camera likes you. But there is a catch
Let me guess, she says. The director wants to sleep with the star
Goddard shrugs as he pulls his shirt over his head.
Don’t they always?
