The Modeliser (22 page)

“Hel…,” che cajoled softly and then watched stunned, as the
always so poised Helena blushed red. “Oh my god,” Talia exclaimed. “You’ve had
sex with him.”

“Shush,” Helena urged as the couple in the next booth turned
to them with interest. “I have not. Nothing’s happened. Well not nothing...”

“Oh my god. Who are you?” Talia laughed enjoying her friend’s
discomfort.

“Look he took me skinny dipping, saw me naked and now has
this crazy idea about me modelling.” Talia’s mouth dropped open but she
resisted the urge to carry on teasing her friend, as Helena looked genuinely
frazzled.

“OK, I’ll ignore the skinny dipping for now and deal with the
modelling. Why is it a crazy idea? I know you don’t like to talk about things
with your mother, but you’re the spitting image of her, this sounds like a
no-brainer.” She watched her friend process her words.

“Give me a camera any day and I’ll take pictures for you.
That I can do, that I love. But I hate having my picture taken. Hate it. I want
to be editor not one of those people who thrusts themselves into the limelight
at every opportunity. Besides Sula would never go for it, trust me.”

“Well maybe that’s your out then. Let them put it to her, she
says no and you’re off the hook.”

“God I hope so,” Helena said as she drained the rest of her
Jasmine tea. “So how’s it been, working for Alex?”

“Pretty good actually, interesting.” Talia lowered her voice
and then leaned into her friend. “I have this idea and I’ve been thinking about
writing a script myself.”

At
this Helena squealed in approval.

“Good. Finally. Just do it and it’ll be amazing.” Talia
shrugged at her friend’s words.

“I don’t know about that but it probably can’t be that much
worse than half the stuff I’m reading by established and represented writers.”

“Just get it written and see how it goes. I’m so proud of
you,” Helena said, before looking down to glance at her watch. “You don’t mind
but I told Alex we’d be here tonight and he thought he might stop by. It might
be nice for him to take a break from being on the cover of Heat or US Weekly,”
Helena added rolling her eyes.

“Of course.” Talia smiled. And she realised that she didn’t
mind, that somehow she and Alex had started to find a groove where they could
get by without wanting to kill each other.

“Speak of the devil,” Helena said and Talia looked up to see
that Alex was striding through the restaurant. You could tell the moment that
the other diners started to recognise him. There was silence, a tangible,
loaded silence and then the whispering, which carried around the restaurant.
They’d chosen a table at the back of the room and Alex had to traverse the
length of the restaurant to reach them. Talia watched him as he walked towards
them, his head held high, his eyes slightly vague, never settling on any one
person for more than a split second. She felt a moment of compassion for him;
she could not imagine what it must be like to always be under scrutiny, for
nothing to be private. But she squashed the thought down quickly, Alex Golden,
multi-millionaire moviestar didn’t need her compassion.

“There you are,” he said as he dropped into a chair at their
booth, even as the other diners continued to stare, snap pictures and chatter
excitedly about his presence.
 

Tamara
was perched on the sofa in the private personal shopping section of Harvey
Nichols. She sipped from a Champagne flute but ignored the tray of macaroons
and fresh fruit that had been placed on the coffee table in front of her.
Strictly speaking, a mere television star wouldn’t normally warrant this level
of VIP treatment, which was usually reserved for Saudi Royals but the stylists
had jumped into action as soon as William and Tamara arrived. William was a
celebrity stylist who’d worked with Oscar winners and supermodels and this was
enough to command the lavish attention of the Personal Shopping team at the
famous department store. Tamara’s recent dalliances with Alex Golden, which had
been breathlessly covered in the weekly magazines had also propelled her higher
up the food chain, in recent weeks.

Tamara sighed and shook her head as yet another gown was
consigned to the pile of rejected ones. From Philip Lim 3.1 to Alexander Wang,
to Lanvin, Jason Wu and Stella McCartney – no dress, no designer, no
style had yet come up to the lofty image that Tamara had in mind and even the
ever-perky William was starting to wilt.

“Tam hon, with someone as beautiful as you, you know it’s not
about the dress. You’d look amazing in anything.”

As
much as she liked being flattered Tamara shook her head – she had always
trusted her instincts and she knew that nothing had been right.

“I’m exhausted,” she announced placing the Champagne flute
down and rising to her feet. Even after hours of shopping she still looked
fresh and unrumpled.

“Of course Tam. I’ll have a think and come up with a new
strategy,” William said.

As
Tamara swept out of the room, the personal stylists watched her go.

“What a bitch.” One of them muttered. The other stared
enviously after Tamara’s retreating back and nodded.

“That bitch apparently has Alex Golden on tap and I’ve heard
she was out with Vassily Romanov.” The two assistants sighed.

“Bitches always get to live the dream,” the first assistant
finally said. And then, they began the task of tidying away the dresses that
Tamara had deemed beneath her.

“She’s really pushing herself hard,” Alex commented to Talia
as they watched Helena pacing outside the restaurant her mobile phone jammed to
her ear.

“This issue is a big deal and she might make editor on the
back of it,” Talia replied watching as Helena weaved her way back through the
restaurant towards them. Helena looked frazzled.

“What’s up?” Alex asked.

“That was Tobias on the phone, I need to go in,” Helena said
with an irritable sigh as she grabbed her handbag.
   

“Now?” Talia asked.

“Yep apparently he’s had Gabe on the phone telling him about
his brilliant idea.” Talia grimaced in sympathy with her friend. “Looks like if
I want to keep my job and get a shot at editor, I’d better be ready for my
close-up.”

Alex smiled at his sister. “Some women would kill to be a
cover girl, it might not be that bad,” he finished.

“You understand that they want me to model, to spend time,
with our mother,” Helena hissed, lowering her voice as once again the other
diners turned to stare at their group with interest.

“My bad,” Alex said, raising his hands in a placating
gesture.

“Sorry to bail out on you Tal.” Talia nodded sympathetically
as she watched her friend grab her handbag and slip into her jacket.

“Don’t worry. Take care and call me if you need to,” Talia
said as Helena walked away towards the exit. Talia looked up awkwardly as she
suddenly took in the fact that she now found herself alone with Alex Golden in
an intimate booth.

“So what next?” Alex asked.

“Helena and I were going to the cinema,” Talia confided and
immediately wished she’d kept her mouth shut.

“Great! Off to the movies it is,” he said already raising his
hand to call for the bill. In her seat, Talia squirmed as she noted the glances
that she and Alex were getting from the other women in the restaurant. She had
dressed for a quiet evening with a female friend but as she tugged at the
sleeves of the old shirt dress that she’d thrown on over leggings she suddenly
wished that she was one of those women who made a bit more of an effort. She
could feel the looks, almost hear their assessing comments, who was this
ordinary girl dining with the god that was Alex Golden? Talia smiled
discomfited as Alex turned to her.

“You ready?" He asked her and she nodded rising to her
feet. She and Alex were going to the movies together. Life just got stranger
and stranger.

Tamara
had allowed William to coax her into a quick drink and they’d strolled into the
VIP area of the Knightsbridge club Valhalla. Tamara could tell at once that
this new hotspot wasn’t her scene. The queue outside of pre-teen girls who
looked like WAG wannabes had been off-putting, but at least they had been kept
out. Inside though, things were scarcely any better. Sloaney types of 19 and 20
danced to hip-hop music whilst footballers reclined on the zebra print sofas
that dominated the space. One particularly confident looking Premiership player
had even sent over a bottle of Cristal. Tamara had been impressed but not
enough to pursue it beyond a nod of thanks across the room. After a rather
messy relationship with a football player in the early Noughties, she had sworn
she would never date another one again, perhaps not even a professional
sportsman. Sportsmen, she’d reasoned, were just far too unpredictable and none
more so than footballers. Sure they had oodles of disposable cash but
everything, everything revolved around the game, match day and the season and
the club not to mention how fragile knees and ankles could be. A footballer had
only a limited shelf life and even then injury could cut that time in one fell
swoop and then one would be stuck with defective merchandise and no source of
income. Businessmen were better bets. Tamara had sipped the champagne with a
gracious nod at the player before turning back to William who was glugging the
stuff down like it was water.

As moist heat, spread through the rapidly filling club and a
footballer at the next table began spraying Champagne over a pair of barely
clad girls dancing on a table, Tamara realised that it was way past time that
she exist this party. William had found himself a couple of playthings and
Tamara eased out of the club making sure to exit through a side entrance
– she had no desire to be papped leaving this place. She was grateful for
the jacket she’d brought with her and she draped it over her shoulders walking
towards the bank of taxis lined up outside the Park Lane Hilton. The cool breeze
was a welcome balm to her skin and she resolved to have Casey book her a facial
the very next day. As she walked past another club, the Bourbon Mix nightclub,
which had become one of the most talked about new spots in London, Tamara’s
eyes were drawn to a couple, who appeared to be locked in some sort of
argument. The man and woman stood toe to toe with each other and though she
could not hear their words, Tamara could discern the aggression in both their
poses. The man’s back was to her but the girl Tamara could see was young, with
coltish long limbs exposed to perfection in a very short Chloe playsuit. The
girl waved her arms in anger only to be grabbed by the man, who took her arm
and began to frogmarch her towards the street. As they turned towards her, she
finally caught a full view of the man’s face. It was Vassily Romanov.

Tamara was frozen as the couple moved quickly towards her.
The girl’s arms sulkily folded across her chest, as Vassily strode beside her,
his own face betraying annoyance. Tamara had nowhere to go and within moments
they had reached her position.

“Tamara!” Vassily said, his expression betraying surprise and
something else. Guilt, Tamara thought. Vassily looks guilty. She watched his
eyes shift to the girl who stood alongside him and who was now glancing between
Vassily and Tamara with interest.

The girl spoke, “How do you…” But Vassily cut her off with a
curt nod.

“Get in the car.” Sulkily, the girl climbed in to the car, a
black Mibok with tinted windows that had silently pulled up alongside them
without Tamara noticing.

Vassily
moved towards her and Tamara stood her ground, trying to school her expression
into one of blank amusement, trying to hide the bitter disappointment that was
coursing through her.

“I thought you were away on business.” Tamara winced as she
heard herself speak. She was not that type of woman; one who made scenes over
men and certainly not in public places. And yet she felt this disappointment
lance through her with an unexpected force. She was thrown. Vassily had
surprised her and it was a long time since any man had managed to do that. They
were all cheats and liars. No woman with any sense trusted her wellbeing to any
man. It was a lesson that she had learned at an early age. She was not like
other women, she wasn’t fooled, was never sucked in by the talk or the
feelings. But now she realised that Vassily had wormed his way past her
defences. The painting. It was the painting that had let him in.

“Look Tamara, this is…” Vassily floundered for a moment and
he uttered a word that Tamara assumed must be an expletive in Russian. “Things
are complicated.” Tamara allowed a peal of laughter to ring out.

“Aren’t they always,” she replied dryly, still chuckling.
Slowly she backed away and then glanced down at the waiting car, where the
young girl had wound down the window to glare up at them. She really was
beautiful, Tamara thought, and so very young. “I’ll leave you to your evening’s
entertainment,” she finished and then turned on her heel.

Vassily would not see the pain in her eyes. He would not know
the disappointment that dashed through her. The girl could not have been more
than 18 or 19 and Vassily it seemed like all rich men was simply another
cliché. Tamara’s walk was purposeful and confident. Within minutes she had
stepped into a cab that carried her north of the city towards her home. In the
back of the cab she closed her eyes and though it was dark she pulled on her
sunglasses forestalling any conversation from the cabbie, whom she knew had
recognised her. When she arrived home, Tamara slowly removed all her make up
and then showered the smell of the club from her body. At her vanity mirror she
brushed her hair until it shone. She brushed her skin vigorously with the
Elemis skin body-brush and she drank a tall glass of water. She did not deviate
from her nightly routine, slowly compartmentalising her disappointment,
crushing it over and over in a mental vice until she lobbed it into the waste
bin in the back of her mind, where so many old hurts and disappointments
resided. By morning she would have everything back in perspective. She had
never much liked the idea of being the second string mistress. But, for a
billionaire, well, perhaps needs must.