A human table wearing a glow-in-the-dark fireman's hat. He'd just got WhatsApp, he told me. By seven, one of the guys who'd scouted me in central Mumbai had arrived, carrying three crappy phones, two of which he was speaking into simultaneously. Upon arrival I hung around in the Green Room for an indeterminable length of time while the "Client" whose identity is very rarely revealed decided which of us were lucky enough to be allowed to work. Some of the girls—from my experience, mainly Russians—work full-time on contracts. In the end, I can hardly complain of exploitation as a result of my alabaster skin in a country where millions are exploited every day for having the "wrong" skin tone. I guess you could call it positive exploitation. Why the hell else would I be doing this?