Fast Friends (29 page)

Roz, however, was obviously so delighted to learn that
they were both on the same sinking ship that she couldn’t stop talking
about it, speculating and giving advice – most of
it in the form
of dire predictions.
She was, in fact, being more boring than
Loulou had believed possible.

‘
. . . and then you have
to go along to these revolting ante
natal classes where everyone else
looks even more cowlike than
you do and the
sadistic old bitch who runs it shows video
nasties about giving birth. It’s all perfectly disgusting,’ con
cluded Roz languidly, although Loulou detected a
flash of
triumph in her narrowed, dark eyes.

‘
I don’t want to know,’ she said, her voice
firm.

‘
But you
should
know,’ Roz insisted, pointing at her swollen brown stomach, ‘I
know
you,
Lou. You’re just pretending that it isn’t happening, but you can’t, not this
time. It isn’t going to go away of its own accord. Well,’ she amended with a
faint smile,
‘there’s always a slim chance
that it might, I suppose, but as far
as I can make out miscarriages only
happen to women who are desperate for children. So you and I have to be
prepared for the whole bit.’

‘
Hey, you really know how to cheer a girl up,’
said Loulou draining her glass. ‘Ever thought of joining the Samaritans?’

‘I’ve
thought of phoning them.’

She was really enjoying this, Loulou realized. ‘Well, I
told Camilla yesterday,’ she retaliated crossly, ‘and
she
said having
babies was a fantastic experience. She really enjoyed being pregnant.’

‘
All fourteen stones of her,’ remarked Roz
cuttingly. So
Loulou had told Camilla first,
she thought with a stab of
jealousy.

‘
She weighs
less than nine now, and looks great,’ Loulou countered, realizing that Roz was
beginning to irritate her. ‘And that new business she set up is really taking
off.’

‘
I did her a favour then, having a fling with
her husband.’

‘
Don’t be such a bitch.’ God, it was so tempting . .
. the urge
to tell Roz about Camilla and Nico .. .

‘
I am a bitch,’ said Roz sadly. ‘I know I am, but I
can’t help
it. Blame it on my upbringing.’

‘That’s no
excuse.’

‘
It’s the best one I’ve got. And if it makes you feel any
better,’ she added with a burst of honesty, ‘being a bitch isn’t
that much
fun. I’m not particularly happy, you know.’

Loulou, hiding the surprise she felt
at hearing what practic
ally
amounted to a confession, pulled a face. ‘Who is, at the moment?’

‘
Camilla, by the sound
of it,’ Roz twisted the halter-neck tie
of her bikini around her index
finger. ‘Do you know, I’m almost jealous of her. Whoever would have thought it?
Me,
jealous of
Camilla.’

Still not
quite able to take in the fact that working could be so
absorbing and enjoyable, Camilla was doing as much as possible
as fast as possible, as if afraid that there was
some kind of
unwritten time-limit upon the enjoyment.

Not that working for Nico had been awful, of course; it
was just that that had been housekeeping, much the same as she had
done when she had been married to Jack – but with
better company. This was entirely different, a
proper
job, whose
success
depended upon her own abilities and capacity for hard work. And Zoë’s too, of
course, for where would she have been without Zoë, her knowledge and her
contacts?

Camilla could still recall in absolute detail the sunny
morning in April shortly after she had moved in with Zoë, when she had admired
her new landlady’s grace and perfect posture, as she finished washing Fee, her
three-year-old daughter. Dressed in
daffodil
yellow leggings and an ancient yellow and white
sweatshirt, with her bright russet corkscrew curls piled on top
of her head with the aid of three clothes-pegs,
she wore not a
scrap of make-up and yet her beauty was irrefutable.

‘You could be a model,’ observed Camilla, and Zoë promptly
dissolved into fits of laughter.

‘I’m afraid you’re ten years too late, Cami, but thanks
all the same,’ she giggled, picking Fee out of the bath.

‘But you
could,’
persisted Camilla. Scooping Fee up
into her arms, she breathed in the delicious scent of just-bathed toddler.

‘
Ten years ago,’ said
Zoë, crossing her arms and leaning
against
the sink, ‘I couldn’t leave the house without being
recognized. I dreamt
of the day when people would no longer know who I was. You’ve just made me
realize that that day has well and truly arrived.’

Seeing the confused expression on
Camilla’s face, she
continued:
‘I
was
a model, darling. Catwalk, photographic,
Vogue . . .
the lot. It was hard work, but lots of
fun. I even met
the Queen once . .

Camilla groaned. ‘I’ve put all my feet in it again. The first
time I ever
met Nico I didn’t recognize him. And now you, too. But why on earth did you
give it up if you enjoyed it so much?’ Zoë threw a pointed glance in the
direction of her youngest
child. ‘Why does
any model give up when the going’s good?
Babies. There isn’t much call
for a catwalk girl with a forty-
two-inch waistline. And my husband wasn’t thrilled with the
idea of me carrying on working afterwards. And then . . . and
then . . .
I realized that I was simply too far out of touch and too bloody old. So there
you are,’ she concluded with a self-mocking
smile.
"Tragic, isn’t it? The rise and fall of Zoë Sheridan, all in
the space of three and a half years. Chuck over my
walking
sticks, Cami – I’m going to
hobble into the sitting-room and
have another bash at that knitting.’

‘But that’s crazy!’ exclaimed Camilla, outraged by Zoë’s
flip
comments. ‘You’re only twenty-nine, for
heaven’s sake. And
you haven’t got a husband to contend with now. Why on
earth don’t you go back to it if you enjoyed it so much?’

Zoë shrugged and helped herself to a
chocolate biscuit. ‘It
just seems
a bit daunting, I suppose, the whole idea of starting
again from scratch. I’ve kept in touch with quite a few of the
girls from the old days and they all feel much the
same. The
hassle of getting
everything sorted out is simply too much,
what with the kids and those snooty agencies. It’s a tough
business,
Cami, and we’re just not tough enough any more to compete.’

‘
Aren’t there any
friendly agencies who will help you get
back on your feet?’ asked Camilla and Zoë laughed at the
naivety
of her question.

‘Why should they bother, when they have more than enough
models who don’t need help? People like us – out
of touch and
tied down with children
– are more trouble than they’re worth
as
far as they’re concerned. If I were an
organized
person, with
a
nanny and an understanding agency, I’d do it like a shot. But here I am,’ she
popped the rest of the chocolate biscuit into her mouth and paused while she
swallowed it, ‘thoroughly disorganized and quite unemployable. Now why are you
looking at me like that? Are you scheming, Camilla, or have you gone into some
kind of trance?’

Sheridan’s had been born that night,
when the children had
been put to
bed. Sitting Zoë down with a bottle of Rioja, Camilla had outlined the plan
which had materialized almost of its own
accord
in her mind, and Zoë had listened with rapt attention,
her conker-brown
eyes registering at first astonishment, then growing interest and finally undiluted
excitement. She was the one with the know-how, and Camilla the one with the
time and energy to put the plan into action. The agency should be called
Sheridan’s because, although Camilla in her ignorance had not
recognized Zoë, people in the industry would still
remember
the name. Zoë’s friends, all
those with young children, would
leave
them at Zoë’s house while they worked. No model ever
threw away her old
portfolio so it needed only to be updated. Camilla would organize the
advertising, the bookings – all the time-consuming work which the girls found
so daunting. She would be able to manage all this because the agency would be
small, with maybe just a dozen clients on its books . . .

And now here she was just three short months later,
working
twelve-hour days in order to
co-ordinate the assignments of
fifty-six models, all of whom had been
introduced to Sheridan’s
by word of mouth,
and who between them possessed eighty-
seven children.

As the agency had expanded the idea
that either Zoë or
Camilla would look
after the offspring of working models had
rapidly
become impractical. Instead, she had scouted around
and finally managed
to discover a barely used church hall less than a quarter of a mile from the
house. Having organized a
lease for a more
than reasonable rent, the créche was now run
by two qualified child-minders and a flexible rota of model-
mums. As a result, those mothers were able – for a
modest sum
– to leave their children
at the crèche whenever they were
required
to work, safe in the knowledge that they were both
happy and expertly
cared for.

The existence of Sheridan’s itself had become known to
advertising agencies, department stores and
magazines, largely
by word of mouth as well – their own advertising
campaign had been cleverly chosen and pared down to the absolute minimum;
any more had proven quite unnecessary, since
fifty-six ex-
models had their own
extended network of contacts and news
of
this new, cleverly co-ordinated agency which employed
utterly trustworthy, wonderfully experienced girls
had spread
like wildfire throughout
the circles which mattered most.
Sheridan’s
girls, professional and all thrilled to be working
once more, were still
undeniably beautiful, but they also had an
extra,
hard-to-define quality which was solely due to the fact
that they were women rather than girls. They had
more
personality, somehow, and this showed through in their work.
Happy to be working, doing what they had always
known how
to do best, happy to be earning once more, and secure in the
knowledge that while they worked their children
were being
well looked after at the boisterous Sheridan crèche, their
true personalities shone, unhampered. They had
élan,
charisma and
character.

Sheridan’s girls, the clients all agreed, were a delight, an
absolute
joy to work with.

’Oh shit,’ said Camilla aloud. Pen in one hand, she had
been flipping through the
Daily Mail
with the other, because Zoë
was featured on the fashion pages modelling city
suits. And
there on page eleven,
hitting her like a body blow, was a
photograph of Nico.

It wasn’t the first time, of course,
but the reminder of him
still
affected her, and it still hurt like hell.

How to make a complete idiot of yourself in one easy
lesson, she thought bitterly, scanning the piece which accompanied the picture.
Nico was in the States on a promotional tour and was
rumoured to be about to start work on a single with Stevie
Wonder.
The report also stated that while his erstwhile ‘friend’ Roz Vallender remained
at home in the Cotswolds to await the
birth
of her child, Nico had been spotted dining out with a
young American
actress, star of the latest Jackie Collins miniseries.

That hurt, too, despite everything Camilla had learnt
about
press reports while she was living
with Nico. For some time
now she had been nursing the tentative idea
that she might see him again, explain her terrible behaviour and beg him to
forgive
her for it. In her wildest dreams,
he did. In real life, however,
she
knew deep down that she had wounded Nico’s pride,
betrayed his kindness and killed his trust in her
too thoroughly
to allow him to forgive.