The Modeliser (10 page)

“Tal,” she greeted her best friend with a weak smile,
relieved that for now at least she didn’t need to put on a brave face. Like
her, Talia was dressed in a sombre black dress and dark tights teamed with flat
ballet pumps. Talia moved across the room and engulfed her in a hug and
suddenly Helena felt the tight control that she’d been keeping on her emotions
start to slip away.

“How are you doing?” Talia asked the question as they pulled
out of the embrace and Helena knew that her friend was asking the question
seriously, that she really did want to know how she was doing. Helena shrugged.

“The hearse has been round the block three times. Mother is
not here and Alex…” Helena trailed off, swiping away tears with the back of her
hand, still careful not to smudge the subtle eye make up that she had applied
that morning. “Alex…isn’t here, I can’t believe he’d miss Gramps’ funeral.”

“He won’t. He’ll be here.” Talia said the words firmly, even
as inside she felt a spurt of anger at her friend’s brother. Helena glanced
once again at her watch and then she turned to Talia with a small frown.

“We have to go.” Slowly Talia rose and arm in arm, they
walked towards the door.

Across
London at Heathrow Airport, Alex emerged to a shock. He had forgotten how in
England, summer was simply a word to collectively describe the months of June
to August and often had no bearing on the actual weather one might encounter.
The grey day that met him seemed to mirror his mood and he buttoned up the
casual Jill Sanders blazer that he wore and strode, passport in hand towards
the fast track aisle that awaited VIPs and moviestars. The immigration guy gave
him a broad smile, glancing only cursorily at the passport, before saying,
“Welcome home, sir.”

Alex acknowledged him with a small nod, aware as he walked
towards the arrivals hall, that all eyes were on him. Keeping his eyes fixed in
the middle distance, never making eye contact with anyone, Alex stepped on to
the escalator that would take him past the baggage carousels, towards the exit.
As he approached the exit into the main Arrivals hall, with every swish open
and then closed of the sliding doors, a barrage of snapping flashbulbs would
ring out. The paps were waiting. Alex stopped, he was unused to emerging into
the throng without an entourage and he continued forwards cautiously, moving
through the automatic doors, which brought him out directly into a melee of
photographers.

Usually he would have Shay on hand to lead him towards some
waiting car but still feeling the effects of the alcohol from the plane and the
onset of jet lag, Alex was momentarily disoriented as the flashbulbs started
up. Suddenly he was surrounded: voices rang out, even as the click and flash of
rapid snaps blinded him. Alex spun round and in his head he cursed Avital, who
no doubt would have had a hand in leaking the news of his arrival at Heathrow.

“This way sir.” Alex gave a smile of relief as several burly
Heathrow security men, stepped between him and the wall of photographers.
Slowly they left the braying group behind eventually emerging from a side exit
where a Mercedes with blacked out windows waited for him. As he settled into
the back seat, Alex leaned his head back against the headrest, the beginnings
of a hangover making his head pound.

“Where to sir?” The driver turned back to him and waited
expectantly. Alex glanced at his watch with a sigh; he was late.

“St Luke’s Church in Hampstead, please.” Ready or not, he was
going to have to face them now, all those faces he’d left behind.

The
church, one of the oldest surviving Catholic Churches in London was stunning.
Tall stained glass windows allowed light to flood the space and ornate
religious iconography decorated the walls but it was the people filing sombrely
in through the open double doors that held Talia’s attention. Several times
she’d had to force herself not to stare as some of the most famous English
stars of stage and screen joined the growing group of mourners. Talia saw Dame
Eleanor Samson of the Samson acting dynasty as she took her seat, behind her
sat the Oscar-winning director Christopher Elgin, next to him was James
Adebayo, the first black Actor to play a Shakespearean king for the Royal
Shakespeare Company. A cellist sat in an upper gallery playing a haunting
lament that echoed throughout the church.

It was four days since she had lost her job, four days since
she’d gotten the sad news from Helena and in that time, Talia had been thankful
to be able to focus on her friend, anything other than the miserable state of
affairs of her career. In the front pew, Talia sat next to Helena and she knew
that her friend was working hard to hold it together. Talia leaned toward her
friend.

“You OK?” She asked though she knew it was a silly question
in the circumstances. Helena gave a small shake of her head.

“Dad’s funeral was here too,” she said quietly and Talia felt
her heart go out to the young child Helena must have been watching her father’s
funeral. Talia rested her hand gently on Helena’s arm, offering what little
comfort she could. She glanced around again and her back stiffened as she
watched a tall man, walk up the aisle towards them. Talia felt indignation rise
in her.

“What is it?” Helena asked worriedly. With both her mother
and Alex MIA, she was already anxious and on edge, the last thing she needed
was another surprise.

“It’s Grant,” Talia hissed back quietly and Helena relaxed
slightly in her seat.

“I invited him, he and gramps got on well,” she replied with
a shrug.

Talia glanced around again, noting the petit blonde hanging
on Grant’s arm as they took their seats. “He brought her with him.” She told
Helena, making no effort to hide her irritation. Helena smiled and patted
Talia’s arm gently. Though she had tried to convince her best friend that the
break up with Grant had been amicable, the speed with which Grant had become
engaged to a young associate at his firm meant that everyone viewed him with
suspicion. Helena glanced around, making eye contact with Grant. She gave him a
small nod, noting that he was wearing a two-button Armani suit. He might have
traded her in for a boring lawyer, but at least her style tips had survived.
Helena allowed herself a small smile, when suddenly her attention was drawn by
a commotion at the door. Helena looked down the aisle and stiffened.

“What is it?” Talia asked, squinting down the aisle, noticing
that everyone in the church had turned to see who was making such a loud
entrance. Talia glanced again at her friend, noting that the colour had drained
from her face. Helena looked more fragile than ever.

“It’s my mother.” Helena said the words flatly and then
resolutely she turned back to face the front of the church her face hard, as
she stared at the coffin.

Sula
Golden had always turned heads and even now at the ripe old age of 61, that
hadn’t changed. Whilst Naomi Campbell and Kate Moss were little more than
glints in their parents’ eyes, long before Linda Evangelista had pronounced
that she wouldn’t get out of bed for less than $10 000 and way before the word
Supermodel had even been coined, Sula had led the new wave of fashion models in
London in the swinging Sixties. Alongside Twiggy, she was an icon of the era,
the original Supermodel. The image of her naked on a white horse riding along
the Kings Road in a photograph taken by her then husband photographer Elliot
Golden, before his early death, was an unforgettable image and even today Sula
was immediately recognisable.

Whispers had started to spread through the pews and a
palpable excitement began to build. Sula who had taken up residence with an
Italian Count on the French Riviera was rarely seen on English shores and
though tales of her escapades and her young lovers were splashed across the
Eurotrash tabloids, few close-up photographs of her ever made it into the
papers. Many suggested that she’d lost her looks, perhaps time had finally
caught up with her. Some gleefully commented that maybe she had gained weight.
But now as she strode slowly up the aisle in a form fitting Balenciaga gown in
an inappropriate shade of blush for a funeral, it was clear that Sula was as
beautiful as she’d always been. Her skin was flawless, her blonde hair was
caught in a simple ponytail and at first glance one might easily mistake her
for a woman still in her early thirties.

“Darling,” Sula murmured as she reached the first row and
bent down to air kiss a stiff Helena. “Poor Richard. Isn’t it terrible?”

Helena winced at the choreographed grief that her mother was
channelling for the benefit of her rapt audience. Her mother and Grandfather
had never got on and Sula had severed ties with her father-in-law when he’d
stopped her allowance. Helena was sure it would surprise many to know that it
had been more than a decade since Sula and Richard had last spoken. But her
mother could always be counted upon to show up for any event that might launch
her back into the limelight. Reluctantly Helena shifted up the pew to allow her
mother to take a seat next to her.

“Talia, darling,” Sula smiled briefly in greeting before her
eyes returned to Helena, who stiffened as she felt her mother’s assessing gaze
run up and down her dress. Helena steeled herself for the veiled insult that
was sure to follow and which was their usual mode of communication. So, Sula’s
next question surprised her.

“Where’s your brother?” At this, Helena bit her lip, the
service would begin any minute and Alex who was supposed to deliver the eulogy,
was still nowhere to be seen.

“He’ll be here.” Helena bit back, not wanting to admit, that
the painstaking organisation she’d put into her grandfather’s funeral now
seemed about to fall apart. Slowly Helena turned to Talia, who was gazing at
her mother her eyes wide. Not for the first time Talia was struck by Sula’s
exquisite looks.

“God, your mother looks amazing,” Talia whispered. Helena
grimaced, even as she privately conceded that Sula did look incredible,
inappropriate for a funeral, but incredible nonetheless.

“I think that modern medical science, rather than God should
take credit for her looks,” Helena muttered, an uncharacteristic show of bitterness
in her voice. Helena saw the surprise in Talia’s face.

“You OK?” Talia asked her quietly, not hiding the worry in
her voice. In their decade or so of friendship, Helena’s relationship with Sula
had been one of their few no-go areas.

“I’m fine,” Helena returned firmly. Quickly switching
subjects, she glanced to the back of the church again. “If Alex doesn’t turn
up, I’m going to have to do the Eulogy myself.” With a look of resignation, she
turned back to the front of the church, staring straight ahead. Moments later,
the Priest accompanied by two altar boys took up position at the altar. As one,
the mourners rose.

“We are gathered here to celebrate the life of Richard
Golden…”

Throughout
the service, Talia’s fury had been growing on her friend’s behalf. Though
Helena had remained composed, Talia had sensed her tension, which grew with
every moment as the time for the Eulogy approached. Talia had met Alex only a
few times and she hadn’t liked him much. He’d seemed to her to epitomise
everything that she hated about spoilt celebrities. If she was honest, Talia
knew that her dislike of Alex Golden was a little excessive. He was probably no
worse than any of the spoilt egos that she’d dealt with in television, but she
consoled herself with the thought that her irritation with Alex was because he
so often let her best friend down. Talia had seen the disappointment in
Helena’s eyes when Alex had missed her 21
^st
birthday, she’d
pretended not to notice the tears that Helena had shed when for her 25
^th
birthday, Alex had invited them to LA, only for them to arrive to an empty
mansion because he was away with his current model girlfriend. Talia’s mental
flaying of Alex’s character continued as the priest instructed them to take a
moment’s silence. Her head was bowed when she felt a shiver up her spine. She
sensed him almost as soon as he arrived. Her head darted round quickly to the
back of the church and there he stood, the wanderer returned. He looked tired
she thought and a little bit lost. Immediately, she bit down on this charitable
thought. Alex was a shit.

“And now for the Eulogy.” The priest looked up expectantly.
Talia watched as Alex strode confidently up the aisle towards the podium.
Whatever uncertainty she might have sensed from him moments ago was gone. He
walked with confidence and the silent mourners seemed suddenly charged and
energised. Talia wanted to keep her face forward but almost against her will
she found herself glancing to watch as he continued up the aisle. She felt a
thrill of shock as their eyes met and immediately her head whipped back round
to face the priest, even as her cheeks burned. Bastard.

“Thank God,” she heard Helena mutter next to her as Alex
stepped up onto the altar. Talia kept her head down, her face burning. Finally
she looked up again and there he stood, Alex Golden looking out on the
congregation. Against her will she felt a pull of something, which she quickly
pushed aside with the thought that he had no business looking so beautiful at a
funeral. She watched him adjust the microphone even as a frisson of excitement
spread through the mourners. From the corner of her eye, Talia could see that
some of the women stood up straighter, preened a little. She watched the look
of pride on Sula’s face as she stared up at her son. Talia shook head. It’s a
funeral; she wanted to yell. But suddenly he was speaking.