The Modeliser (11 page)

“Richard Golden was… is the only father I have ever known.”
The rest of his words were lost to Talia as she glanced around the mourners.
Like sunflowers bending towards to the sun, so they cleaved towards Alex, were
moved by his words. Talia felt a surge of irritation and she reached a hand out
to pat Helena reassuringly. Alex Golden could always be counted on to make an
entrance, how could she have forgotten that? She was drawn back to the present
as he finally stepped down from the podium, shaking hands with the priest
before he moved determinedly towards their pew. He gave his mother a small kiss
and Talia watched as he turned to Helena, enveloping her in a hug. Talia
thought he seemed almost nervous but she brushed the thought aside quickly,
Alex Golden didn’t do nervous. Around them, the other mourners had begun to
disperse moving towards the exit from the church. Talia looked around and was
stunned to find herself staring into Alex’s eyes. Her anger with him must have
shown because he raised an eyebrow in a sort of question. She stared defiantly
back at him and then blinked as he looked away. She watched for a moment and
then turned away as Alex suddenly folded his little sister into his arms as
Helena wept. Reluctantly Talia turned away to allow them some privacy. She felt
a lump in her own throat but she pushed it aside, she wasn’t about to forget
how often Alex let Helena down or hadn’t been there when she needed him. She
turned and began to walk towards the exit from the church.

It
was already late afternoon by the time they returned to the Hampstead House
from the crematorium. The news of Alex’s presence had predictably spread and as
he exited the car outside his grandfather’s house, he was met with another
barrage of photographers and a few passers by. Though it was a cloudy day with
no sunshine, Alex pulled his sunglasses on, covering his eyes as he pushed
through the throng, keeping his head down until he finally entered the house.

Already a select group of close family friends were gathered.
As he carelessly shrugged off his blazer hooking it on the banister in the
hallway, Alex spotted his mother holding court. Emanating from somewhere in the
house was the sound of Edith Piaf and Alex smiled at this, noting that Helena
had made sure that their grandfather’s favourite songs were playing. As far as
wakes went, Alex noted, this one was something else, some of the country’s most
notable actors and writers, who had worked with his grandfather were gathered
around reminiscing and Alex felt a beat of melancholy. He would miss Gramps.

“Wonderful Eulogy Alex.’ Alex gave a brief nod as Eleanor
Samson placed a kiss to his cheek.

“Lovely to see you Eleanor.” He responded with a genuine
smile. In his first professional stage role, Eleanor had played his mother and
he’d long held a great deal of affection for her. Alex watched as she seemed to
search his face for a moment.

“You’ve been a stranger for too long,” she announced. “You
must do some theatre.” Alex smiled with a nod. “And come for supper soon.” He
watched Eleanor disappear and he pushed further in to the house, searching the
faces for his sister. He turned towards the kitchen and sighed as he spotted
Helena’s friend, the one who’d shot him a venomous look in the church. She was
standing by the back door, her body resting against the doorframe. There was a
stillness about her that made Alex feel as though he was intruding. He searched
his memory for her name, Talia. That was it. He must have coughed, because she
spun round startled. For a moment they stared at one another and Alex was
struck by the unguarded look of unhappiness in her eyes. He saw her blink
quickly and the look was gone, replaced by the irritated look that he was more
familiar with.

“Talia.” He murmured moving towards her.

“Alex,” she said the words cautiously with a question in her
eyes as he came to stand directly in front of her.

“It’s been a while,” he said staring into her face, surprised
that she seemed even smaller than he remembered. In his head she’d always been
his sister’s little friend and it was probably close to a decade since he’d
last seen her and then she would have been only 18 or 19. She was radiating
keep away signs and something about the look in her eyes, made Alex want to
test her. He leaned in close to her noting that her breath hitched in surprise
and then stilled. Gently he kissed her softly along her cheekbone. “You look
exactly the same,” he said and with a smile he turned and walked out of the
kitchen with a smile, knowing that if she could, Talia would have spat daggers
at him.

Helena
reclined in the weathered leather Eames chair in her grandfather’s study. As a
founding partner in one of the country’s oldest literary agencies, Richard
Golden had had a hand in nurturing some of the country’s finest playwrights and
he had continued working right up to the end, still negotiating contracts for
the stable of writers that he represented. From downstairs Helena could hear the
dull hum of conversations from the wake but she leaned back in the chair
closing her eyes, breathing in deeply to smell the books and papers, smells
that were inexorably linked in her mind with her grandfather. She took a moment
to savour the sense of him that was still in the room, knowing that before
long, this tangible feeling of his presence would start to fade. She turned to
a framed photograph that stood on a bookshelf, carefully picking it up. It was
one of the last pictures of her grandfather and she herself had taken it. She
stared at it for a long time before setting it back down on the shelf. For a
moment she closed her eyes, not ready yet to let tears fall. She took a deep
breath and then opened her eyes slowly, just as Alex entered the study.

“This is where you’re hiding,” he said with a wry smile,
closing the door gently behind him. They had had little time to talk at the
crematorium and Helena watched the way he ran his hands down the back of his
neck as he perched on the edge of their grandfather’s desk. She smiled, amused
at the gesture, a sign of nervousness that only those who knew him well could
spot. She watched him squirm for a moment, looking anywhere but at her. “I
didn’t see Grant,” Alex continued and Helena winced.

“I imagine he took his fiancée home,” Helena replied, unable
to keep some tartness from her voice.

Alex blanched and then he looked embarrassed. “When did you
guys break up?” He finally asked.

“Six months ago,” Helena replied, not bothering to hide the
look of hurt and accusation in her eyes.

“You’re mad with me,” Alex said.

Helena shrugged. “I just wish you’d been here. Gramps kept
asking for you.”

“I would have been here if I’d known.”

Helena pushed herself up from the leather chair, turning her
back on him to look out of the window, noting that even as the light was
fading, a few photographers still waited outside. She spun around to face her
brother. “That’s always your excuse. You’re never here, not for anyone,” she
snapped, her voice hoarse and scratchy as the frustration she’d been holding
back finally burst out. She watched his face tighten.

“I said I was sorry.” He pushed the words out through gritted
teeth.

“You know who you sound like? Mother. She was always sorry
too.” Helena watched Alex, saw the way his face paled even under his LA tan and
for a moment she wished she could take the words back, knowing that she had
struck too close but then she shrugged. “I’m going downstairs,” she said
walking past him.

Talia
stuffed another exquisite macaroon into her mouth and allowed the rush of sugar
to revive her. She looked around the room as a waiter moved discreetly through
the thinning group of mourners with a tray of sweet delicacies.

“You OK?” Talia turned at Helena’s words.

“I should be asking you that,” she replied. Behind her friend
she saw Alex enter the room, a tight expression on his face as he watched her
and Helena. “Is he alright?” Talia asked nodding towards Alex. Helena shrugged
and turned back to Talia just as a loud and unmistakeable voice rang out.

“These canapés are to die for.”

Talia spun round, her mouth falling open as she spotted
Tamara in a body con Herve Leger dress, laughing as she flaunted her lush
curves in the face of a notable and very married theatre director.

“What is she doing here?” Talia hissed the words in quiet
fury, turning to Helena who shrugged.

“Maybe Alex asked her,” Helena replied. Talia’s eyes drifted
to Alex but the surprise she saw in his face, made her doubt that he had
extended an invitation to Tamara. She watched him push forward towards her,
greeting her with a kiss on each cheek. Talia felt rage boil up in her as the
events of her last day at work flooded back. With a start of mortification she
realised that a tear had welled up and fallen down her cheek. Helena stared at
her and then linked arms with her, manoeuvring her out of the room.

“We’re going upstairs and you’re going to tell me exactly
what’s going on.”

Talia
lay on the flowery bedspread of Helena’s childhood room. Her shoes were
discarded on the floor and Helena was sprawled across from the bed in a rocking
chair, with her feet crossed under her. On the walls, all around them were
photographs – black and white ones, colour ones and even a few Polaroids,
testament to the teen and University years when Helena had rarely been seen
without her camera, always snapping off pictures of everything.

“I never liked Tamara.”

Talia grimaced her attention drawn away from the photos on
the walls. “What are you going to do? You’ve got to sue, this is unfair
dismissal,” Helena continued and Talia groaned at her friend’s words.

“Helena, you know better than that. I sue and I’ll never work
again.”

“But they used you. Framed you.”

“And I have to deal with it. These things happen all the time
in TV, it’s a nest of vipers.” Quietly Helena nodded, she knew better than to
try to talk Talia out of a decision when she’d made her mind up.

Talia sat up in the bed, once again her attention drawn to
Helena’s photographs on the wall.

“You’ve not taken any pictures in ages,” she said. Helena
shrugged.

“No time, with work and everything,” Helena replied not
hiding the regret in her voice. “Gramps was always telling me I needed to make
more time for the things I love…” They were both silent for a moment before
Talia spoke again.

“Don’t you need to be downstairs?” Helena shook her head.

“Let Alex deal with things for once.” At this they both
giggled. “Or better yet,” Helena continued, “my mother can make herself
useful.” Helena snorted even more loudly a hint of bitterness on her face. Talia
looked at her friend but just as quickly the look was gone.

“So what are you going to do about work?” Helena asked. Talia
sighed, a long deep sound that echoed loudly in the quiet of the bedroom.
Finally she spoke.

“Tomorrow, I start again.”

Tamara
stepped smartly out of the chauffeur driven Jaguar that she had ordered
especially for the night.

“I won’t need you anymore tonight,” she barked at the driver
with supreme confidence. Tonight Vassily Romanov would be hers. As the car rolled
away down the road, Tamara glanced around the chi chi restaurants and bars of
Beauchamp Place and allowed a brief look of pleasure to flicker across her
face. Knightsbridge really wasn’t her scene – old money and even older
men; titles and hereditary peers with crumbling stately homes, who were more
posh than they were rich. But that was all changing. The Russian oligarchs and
the Indian steel magnates were coming and slowly, subtly the area was changing
and with smart and fashionable bars and restaurants springing up every day,
Knightsbridge was finally pulling in a younger, moneyed crowd.

As she strode forwards towards San Lorenzo, Tamara was aware
of double takes from a few people, even the snobby rich watched television and
she was an immediately recognisable face. Tonight, she looked dynamite and she
knew it. William, her personal stylist had once again done her proud. The dress
she wore was a limited edition one-shouldered, Nicholas Ghesquiere number,
achingly simple and suitably playful for a summer evening and yet it showcased
her breasts and tiny waist to perfection. No one could rock a little white
dress quite like Tamara. On her feet she wore a vertiginously high pair of gold
Manolo Blahnik gladiator style stilettos and her look was pulled together by a
white and gold Vintage Chanel clutch bag. Her long blonde hair, William had
curled with a barrel tong, before catching it up in a small clasp, allowing
curling tendrils to escape to frame her face. Her makeup was a master-class in
simplicity and to the untutored observer it might seem that her flawless skin
was bare with only a hint of a rose lip-gloss. In truth, William had
painstakingly applied Touche Éclat foundation and a series of concealers and
nude shadows to create her look. Tamara smiled to herself; most people would be
astounded by quite how much product it took to convey “the natural look.”

As she approached the restaurant, an alert security guard
opened the door for her and Tamara stepped carefully down the stairs, entering
San Lorenzo with a confident smile. The Maitre De was at her side at once.