Breaking the Rules (4 page)

M sat up straighter in the chair and nodded. ‘That would be wonderful if you’d do that, Geo! How sweet of you to offer. Personal recommendations are the best.’

‘Consider it done,’ Geo responded. ‘I’ll get in touch with two of them on Monday. I know Hank George and Frank Farantino are in town, and let’s see how they respond. It’s certainly worth giving it a try. In my opinion, you’d be very photographable.’

s
he could not fall asleep; she lay there in the dark, as still as a mouse, listening to the house, listening to its many voices.

She had grown up in old houses, and she knew them intimately. To her, they were living things…they breathed and sighed, and groaned or moaned, especially in winter. And they frequently rattled their ancient bones, and sometimes shifted on their poor old feet. Her grandfather had once told her that the foundation of a house was like a pair of feet, and she had never forgotten this. She smiled to herself now, remembering him. Popsi, she had called him, remembering how he had confided that it was merely the wood used in the structure of the house that was expanding and contracting, and that she mustn’t be afraid of the noises. ‘A house is a safe harbour,’ he had said that day. ‘The one true haven.’

M was well aware it was not the creaking house that was keeping her awake, but her many anxieties. Earlier that evening, she had been scared out of her wits when she had heard those noises downstairs, and had instantly understood there was an intruder on the prowl. How thoughtless Geo had been—and
yes,
stupid
—to come into the house with such stealth. And all because of a man. Dax.

M turned over onto her back, staring up at the ceiling, suddenly thinking of the house where she had grown up and had lived, until very recently, with her parents. She and her siblings had been assiduously schooled to always put the alarm system on, and especially at night, and with such constant and nagging persistence it was forever engraved on her mind.

She had broached the subject of the alarm system here in the old brownstone before coming up to bed tonight. Only when she had finally volunteered to split the cost of having it checked out and properly fixed, if this was necessary, had Geo reluctantly agreed.

This decision had brought a degree of relief to M, and she was determined to make sure it was carried out. Certainly she had no intention of leaving this job to Geo, who, once she was lost in her painting, was lost to the world, with all practical matters obliterated from her mind.

M was a pragmatist by nature, and she believed she had inherited her wonderful practical mind-set from her mother, who had always had her feet firmly planted on terra firma. Her mum was diligent, disciplined, a stickler for work, and shrewd to boot. She loved her mother and father; they were extra special. She knew no one else who had fabulous parents like hers, and she missed them tremendously. But even if she had been in London at the moment, it would have been the same state of affairs. They had gone to Australia for six months, mostly to see her grandmother, her mother’s mother, and M knew she would have been alone in London, except for her favourite sister, which wasn’t a bad thing, after all; but all of her other siblings were abroad, living the life, or so she supposed. And working, of course. That was a certainty.

The Protestant work ethic had been drilled into them, force-fed into them by a couple of crazy zealots, their parents, who believed
they were all going to be struck dead if they didn’t work their bums off.

She and her siblings knew that if they didn’t work they wouldn’t get breakfast, lunch, supper, or whatever. ‘You’re positively Dickensian in your attitudes!’ M would yell at her parents, and they would simply laugh and give her the famous V for Victory sign, à la Winston Churchill. And then, relenting, they would cuddle her, spoil her, and congratulate her, telling her she truly was a chip off the old block and was really earning her stripes. And then they would take her somewhere special or buy her a unique gift.

And now here she was, in Manhattan, doing sweet nothing, and getting bored. Dax
would
go to the Coast, M was convinced of that, and she must endeavour to get a job of some kind. She was not used to lolling around—that was the way she thought of it. Tomorrow she would make an effort to get a part-time job as a waitress. Or a shop assistant. No, waitress. Easier in so many ways. They were looking for somebody at the All-American Cheese Cake Café, not far from West Twenty-Second Street, and it would be something to do and it would give her extra money. Yes, she would go there tomorrow. Talk to the manager. He liked her. Always gave her a big smile.

M turned restlessly in her bed, suddenly focusing on her plans to become a model. Well, she would, she knew she would. After all, she had come here to reinvent herself, to become someone else.

She was seeking obscurity and anonymity, and now she laughed out loud. How truly ridiculous she was. Seeking to go unnoticed, yet she would put herself on a runway. Or in front of a camera to be featured in a magazine fashion spread. A contradiction? Surely.

On the other hand, perhaps not. She
was
a different person now, no longer the young woman she had been when she first arrived in New York. Anyway, reinvention was exactly that—taking on
a new persona. And how simple it was to accomplish. A new name, first off, that was essential, but one close enough to the old to be easy to respond to it
instantly,
without hesitation. A new set of personal facts about one’s life, also as close to reality as possible, so as not to get into a muddle.

And then reinvent…adding new facts to the best parts of the previous earlier life. This is what she had done; she had even been able to obliterate the bad things, and most especially the one true Bad Thing. She never thought about that; it was currently buried deep, very deep indeed. She would never speak about it, she had never done that, never told anyone anything. It was her big secret. Private, extremely personal, and therefore
verboten.
Nobody would ever know. Gone. It was gone. It had never happened…push it away. A deep sigh escaped, and then M turned on her side, closing her eyes.

Sudden and unexpected things happening without rhyme or reason still tended to alarm her. And yet she had always been intrepid, even as a child. Nothing had ever fazed her, then or later, when she was growing up. Her brothers said she had total courage and fortitude, and neither of them was prone to pay her compliments needlessly. She had lost her courage for a while, but it had come back in Manhattan. To her surprise she felt extraordinarily safe in this great metropolis, was at ease in this glittering city. Furthermore, it was not very hard to reinvent oneself here.

No one bothered about where you’d been to school, what your parents did, whether or not you had a pedigree, an aristocratic background, or came from wealth. It was truly a classless society, that’s what she liked about it. In fact, this was a society of achievement. Brains, brilliance, talent and tenacity, drive, ambition and success. Those were the things that made the biggest impression in Manhattan, and made it the place to be, as far as she was concerned. She had been content here.

As she lay contemplating the future, and what she was going
to do, M suddenly thought of her rules: Be brave, be true to yourself, and realized she had broken one of her most important rules, rule three in her book: KEEP BUSY. Quite unexpectedly, she understood how much time she had wasted with Dax…going to coffee shops, taking in movies, listening to him pontificate about his life, watching TV shows with him, keeping him company. Because he was lonely. And so was she, if she was truthful.

Being a member of a big family, with a number of siblings, meant she had been brought up in a crowd, always surrounded. And she had been teased, applauded, sometimes taunted and shouted at, but always very much loved…and rarely alone.

I’m going to go out and get a job, she promised herself now. It would keep her busy, fill up her spare time, and the money would be useful. When she had arrived in New York she had brought enough money to last her for a year, providing she was careful. She had opened a bank account and used the money very sparingly, for rent, food and transportation, although mostly she walked everywhere. Locked up in the suitcase under her bed was an envelope of traveller’s cheques that her sister had forced on her before leaving London. She hadn’t wanted to accept them, but knew only too well not to argue with her darling Birdie, who termed the envelope of cheques ‘your safety net’—and that’s how she thought of them. They were meant to be used only in extreme emergency.

Starting tomorrow, she would find a job, a part-time job, so she could continue to haunt the modelling agencies, and hopefully Geo would keep her promise and contact the two photographers she said she knew. They were old friends Geo had known through her sister.

Fingers crossed, M thought, and very shortly she fell asleep. It was an exhausted sleep, and dreamless.

M
was filled with excitement and anticipation, and there was a spring in her step as she walked down West Twenty-Second Street. She was on her way to see Frank Farantino, the photographer, who had told Geo to send her along to his studio today.

In one sense she had lost a friend with the departure of Dax to Los Angeles; on the other hand, she had gained a friend in Georgiana Carlson.

After that debacle in the middle of the night, a few weeks ago now, Geo had tried her hardest to make amends. Keeping her promise, Geo had spoken to Hank George and Frank Farantino about her, and several days ago both photographers had at last been back in touch with Geo, and appointments had finally been made.

The first was with Farantino, at his studio in the Meatpacking District, which was an easy walk for M from Geo’s brownstone, and especially on this beautiful September day. The sky was a soft pale blue, puffed up with wispy white clouds, and it was sunny and balmy, but not too hot because of the light breeze blowing off the Hudson River to the west.

Ever since she had come to live in Manhattan, M had done a lot of walking, wanting to get to know the city, to become well acquainted with some of her favourite areas. In particular, she loved West Chelsea where she lived, was captivated by its art galleries and cafés, and those lovely tree-filled streets in the West Twenties.

But to M there was something extra special about the Meatpacking District. Now considered the most fashionable part of New York, it had recently been named a Historic District. Over a hundred years ago it had been full of slaughterhouses and meatpacking warehouses, some two hundred and fifty of them. Almost all of those buildings had gone, and in their place were some of the most elegant stores belonging to top fashion designers, as well as nightclubs, bars, cafés, restaurants and spas. It had become a chic place for the young, the hip and the upwardly mobile, and it was littered with celebrities day and night.

M smiled to herself at that thought. Some of her family were quite well known, and certainly she didn’t need to meet strangers who were famous. Dax loved to party with them, and although she liked to hang out with him in the MePa, as it was called, she had managed to slip away when he set his sights on movie stars and the like, becoming oblivious to her.

Dax had gone, taken a plane to the West Coast to seek his fame and fortune, and she wished him well. Deep down she felt a gloomy, gnawing feeling inside; she knew enough about Hollywood to understand it was a world of pain and heartbreak, disappointment and disillusionment.

He had come to say goodbye, her lovely friend Dax, with his eye-catching blond handsomeness, quirky personality and flashing smile. And his rather childlike innocence. He had also had dinner with Geo before flying away, and later Geo had confided that their romantic relationship was indeed over, but they remained friends, and Geo seemed relieved about this.

M was well aware that Dax had gone alone to the West Coast;
his entire being was now fully concentrated on his career. He, too, had confided in her…about his love life. Apparently he had not only said farewell to Geo, but also to his new love, Jason. He wanted a fresh start, he had told her; wanted to concentrate wholeheartedly on his career.

Giving her a big hug he had whispered against her hair, ‘I took your advice to heart, M. The only thing I am going to think about is becoming a movie star. Nothing else matters.’

She thought about this now as she continued to walk towards the Meatpacking District, heading in the direction of Frank Farantino’s studio for her appointment at noon. ‘Movie star.’ If that was what Dax wanted to be, and wanted it enough, then he might well get it. Certainly he had the looks, and a unique kind of charisma, a presence. But could he act? Well, that didn’t really matter, did it? Some movie stars were great actors; others couldn’t act their way out of a paper bag. Yet this didn’t seem to prevent them getting work. He had willpower, and that would help him. But was he ruthless? She pondered that. And was he tough enough to withstand the battering, the rejections, and perhaps, most important of all, the competition? She wasn’t sure; she could only hope that he was, for his sake.

Someone she knew very well had once done a stint in Hollywood, and had explained that one needed the stamina of a bull, the skin of a rhinoceros, the brain of Machiavelli and the looks of a Greek god to make it in Dreamland, as he had called it. Perhaps her brother was right…and so she would say a prayer for Dax. He would need lots of prayers. And luck.

Frank Farantino’s photographic studio was on the second floor of what had once been a meatpacking warehouse. The huge black wooden door, decorated with brass nailheads, had FARANTINO painted on it in bright red, and there was a bright red
arrow painted above the doorbell. RING IT had been written out in brass nailheads, and she did as she was instructed.

A moment later the door was pulled open by a petite, very pretty woman with startlingly blue eyes and bright red hair cut in a short spiky style. She was dressed entirely in red: T-shirt, tights and cowboy boots.

‘Hi!’ she exclaimed, craning her neck, staring up at M. ‘You’re the appointment, right? The friend of Geo’s?’

‘Yes, I am.’

Opening the door wider, the girl said, ‘Come on in then, don’t stand there. What’s your name again? I’ve forgotten it.’

M laughed. ‘It’s very simple…I’m called M, as in a capital M.’

‘I see. What’s it stand for? The M, I mean.’

‘Marie.’

‘So why don’t you call yourself Marie?’

‘I prefer to be called M.’

‘I guess a lot of girls are calling themselves by an initial these days. So it must be the “in” thing. My brother saw it on YouTube, or some such thing. Maybe it was on Facebook. Or MySpace.’

‘Actually, it’s not something that’s particularly new. The Duchess of Devonshire, who lived long ago, was called G. That was G for Georgiana, by the way.’

‘Who?’ The girl stared at her, a look of puzzlement flashing across her delicately boned face.

‘Never mind, it’s not important. And may I know your name?’

‘Caresse.’

‘It’s pretty, very unusual. I don’t think I’ve ever heard that name before.’

‘I hope not, because
I
invented it. I didn’t like my own name, so I came up with my…
invention.
’

‘What was your real name before you changed it?’

‘Helen. Ugh. So dull.’ She made a face.

‘
Helen,
’ M repeated softly. ‘The face that launched a thousand ships. A very famous name, in fact.’

‘What do you mean?’ The red-headed pixie gave her a hard stare.

‘Helen of Troy…she was so beautiful her husband and her lover fought a terrible and ultimately tragic battle over her…it was known as the battle of a thousand ships.’

‘When was that then?’

‘Twelve hundred years before the birth of Jesus.’

Caresse gaped at her, slowly shaking her head. ‘How do
you
know that?’

‘I learned it at school.’ Clearing her throat, M went on quickly, ‘Anyway, here I am to see Mr Farantino.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘And I’m on time. It’s exactly noon.’

‘I’ll go and get him,’ Caresse announced, and hurried away.

M watched her go, frowning to herself. Caresse had seemed very young at first glance, but now she thought this pretty, pixie-like creature was nearer to thirty than twenty. But she seemed so nice, and M had taken an instant liking to her.