The Tangled Web (17 page)

‘We need a model.  All we have to do is find a model and
we’ll use her picture.  What about Pamela?  She’d love to do some modelling!’
Flic brightened.

‘She under eighteen.  We’d have to ask my parents.  And
she’s gobby as well.  Too risky,’ Vicky shook her head, refusing to even
consider the idea.  Pamela would ask too many questions and the more people who
knew, the greater the chance of getting caught.

‘How about we get a random?  Just use Google,’ Flic
blurted.

‘And what if the person whose picture we use is a famous
person?  A famous person we don’t know but he does…and I’m sure it would be
illegal to use a picture of anyone who didn’t give us permission.  No, there’s
so many things that could go wrong using a random picture,’ Vicky asserted.

‘We’re not thinking about this professionally.  What would
a professional do if they needed a model?’ Flic frowned.

Their eyes met.  Vicky felt enlightened.  Of course!  Why
hadn’t she thought of this before?  They shouldn’t have been using their own
pictures anyway!

‘We hire a model,’ she smiled.

Flic grinned in response.  ‘We need a pretty girl, who’s
desperate for cash and will spare us a couple of hours to take some pictures. 
How do we go about this?’

‘I don’t know anyone who wouldn’t ask questions.  Or anyone
I’d feel comfortable asking to do this,’ Vicky realised.

Flic smirked and her eyes crinkled mischievously. ‘Don’t
worry.  I know exactly how to go about this.’

*****

‘I feel like I should be reading a newspaper and have two
eyeholes cut out in front of my face,’ Vicky chortled.

‘Just act natural.  We’re only looking at the moment,’ Flic
advised.

‘I hope you’ve got the balls to approach someone and ask
them to model, because I definitely don’t!’ Vicky admitted.

‘Of course I do.  Remember, we’re talent scouts and they’re
damn lucky we’re even considering them.  We’re in control.  If they say no,
it’s their loss,’ Flic brazened.

‘Mmm,’ Vicky nodded, trying to force herself to believe
Flic. 

They’d braved driving into town in the snow and come to the
Eastgate Shopping Centre in search of a fame hungry wannabe who would grab the
chance to have her picture taken for money and ask few questions.  There was
certainly no shortage of possible candidates.  It was impossible to tell who
had a good figure and who didn’t under all the winter woollies, but there were
countless girls with pretty faces who looked the part.

‘What about her?’ Vicky offered, nodding towards a rosy cheeked
red-head laughing with her friends.  She had perfectly straight white teeth and
tossed her head back as she laughed.  She would be a great model, Vicky decided
to herself.

‘No.  She’s got friends with her.  We need someone who’s
alone.  If SHE didn’t ask questions, her friends would,’ Flic warned her.

‘Right.  Of course.’  There was so much that Vicky hadn’t
thought through.  She was starting to believe she wasn’t devious enough for
this. 

The pale tiled floor was wet and grimy from slushy feet and
Vicky reached down to retrieve a toy monkey Sasha had just slam-dunked before
it was trodden on.  She shoved it into the woven pouch underneath her
stroller.  She hated being a spy today.  She would rather have been in bed with
some tea and toast.  The pretty girls they were looking at made her feel ugly. 
Sasha wouldn’t behave.  And Flic was so cunning compared to her.  She felt
naïve and stupid.  Not to mention the fact that no matter how their hunt for
possible Dianas went, she had to drive home in the snow.  And she was not a fan
of cold weather driving.

‘What about her?’ Vicky nodded towards a petite brunette
pushing a pram. 

Flic shook her head.  ‘No, she’s not George’s type.’

Vicky rolled her eyes.  ‘Do I need to be here?  Everything
I suggest is wrong.  I don’t know George’s type.  Why don’t you just do this
yourself?’ she snapped.

Flic raised her eyebrows and sighed.  ‘Why don’t you head
to Starbucks and get yourself a drink.  I’ll find us a suitable Diana and bring
her to you.’

‘Make it Debenhams.  More child friendly,’ Vicky huffed. 
‘I’m heading to HMV first to get Pamela a birthday present.’

‘Fine,’ Flic humphed. 

Vicky stood and almost immediately slid on the wet floor. 
She inhaled deeply and fought back a curse. 

‘Today is not my day,’ she muttered before manoeuvring the
stroller across the slippery tiles towards her destination and then slipping
again as she reached the door of HMV.  She felt her boot skim the floor and
attempted to support herself with her arm, grabbing for the shoulder-high alarm
sensors.  There was a split second when she felt her heart race and knew she
was about to fall on her backside in front of everyone and hopefully not take
Sasha’s stroller down with her.  Then she felt a hand grab her elbow and
support her weight.

She panted from relief and steadied herself by grabbing the
mystery saviour’s arm with her other hand.  She let out a little laugh – purely
from nerves as she saw no humour in the situation. 

‘Thank you so much!  I thought I was going to fall on my
bum there!’

‘That’s ok,’ the girl smiled.  Her voice was slightly
accented, although Vicky couldn’t pin-point the nationality.

Vicky recognised the girl’s face, but couldn’t place it. 
She had weather-beaten cheeks and a rosy nose.  She licked her cracked lips and
let go of Vicky’s arm.  Vicky watched as the girl clutched her shoulder bag and
surveyed the shop floor.  The boniness of her hands gave away that the girl was
thin, but all Vicky could see was layer upon layer of clothing.  Yes, it was a
cold day, but her rescuer looked ready for an expedition to the arctic. 

She straightened herself up and smiled shyly at the
security guard rocking himself back and forth on his heels.  He returned her
smile then paced forward.

‘I’d check you still have your purse, if I were you,’ he
winked.

Vicky shook her head.  ‘It’s in my bag, down there.’  She
pointed to the basket under the stroller.  He simply nodded in response, and
then indiscreetly followed the girl who had helped Vicky.

Vicky watched with interest to see where the girl was
heading and noted she was going to the reggae section – just as she was.  She
marched across the shop floor and came to a halt next to her.  Vicky flashed
her another smile and reached for the new UB40 CD.  She could tell the girl
would be pretty if she made a bit more of an effort.  Sensing there would be no
conversation, having not received a smile back, Vicky joined the queue to pay
for the CD and an iTunes gift card.  She couldn’t shake the feeling that she
knew this girl from somewhere.  

The queue moved slowly and Vicky alternated between people
watching and glancing down at Sasha, who had fallen asleep.  She became aware
of the accented voice behind her.

‘Can you please tell me if you’re looking for any staff at
the moment?’

‘No, sorry,’ was the blunt reply.

‘I know from your website you are looking for a sales
person for merchandising.  I know a lot about music – not just British music. 
I am highly knowledgeable about international music too.’

‘You need sales experience,’ the man countered.

‘I do!  I have this.  I’ve been working for The Big Issue
for many months and have been very successful.  I manage my own workload, and I
am responsible.  It’s really like running your own business.’

Yes!  That’s where she recognised her from!  She was the
girl who sold The Big Issue outside the shopping centre!

‘Position’s not available.’

‘Ok, I understand.’ 

Vicky watched the girl hold her head up and confidently
walk out of the shop.  She noted the obvious disappointment in her eyes, even
if her demeanour was all defiance.  In her head, Vicky started to piece
together an imaginary jigsaw.

This girl was young, needed money, wouldn’t be recognised
by George, and was attractive – or at least she would be once Vicky had worked
her make-up magic on her.  Would this work?

She reached the front of the queue and considered ditching
the CD and gift-card so she could follow the girl.  She decided against it, but
hopped from one foot to the other as she mentally urged the cashier to get a
move on.  She paid for Pamela’s present, but was certain the cashier was
working ever slower, the more anxious she appeared. 

Finally, the transaction was complete.  She grabbed her
plastic bag and sped off, only slowing down when she reached the door because
she didn’t want to slip again.

She frantically scanned the shopping centre, looking for
her potential Diana, but quickly came to the realisation that she was gone. 
Perhaps she could call Flic and ask her to look for the girl outside the
shopping centre.  After all, she had to start selling her magazines again. 
Saturday must be her most rewarding day.  That’s when the shops were busiest.

‘Flic!  It’s me.  I found the perfect model!’ she trilled
into her phone.

‘Is she with you?’ Flic demanded.

‘No, but I know where she’ll be.’

‘Ok.  I’m at Starbucks.  I’ve just been trying to design a
business card.  Got you a hot chocolate.  Meet me there.’

Vicky sighed.  She had specified Debenhams.  ‘Ok, be there
in a second.’  She let Flic’s choice of meeting place slide as she was feeling
satisfied that she managed to find someone before Flic did. 

Her eyes went directly to Flic as soon as she entered the
seating area of the coffee shop.  Flic was wearing a long damson coloured coat,
unbuttoned to show her black figure hugging turtle necked dress, fishnet tights
and knee length black boots.  Vicky felt a tad scruffy in comparison in her
jeans, Doc Martens and red duffle coat.  Flic had positioned herself at a table
that definitely wouldn’t allow space for Sasha’s stroller.  Vicky sat at a more
suitable table and rang Flic’s mobile.

‘You’ll have to come over to your left…Sasha won’t fit in
there…yeah, here.’  She waved to Flic as their eyes met.

‘Sorry babe, forgot all about the pushchair.  Amazing the
things that don’t enter your mind when you’re free and single.’

Vicky ground her teeth in annoyance.  She reminded herself
Flic hadn’t meant anything derogatory with her comment.  She was just having a
sensitive day.  And Flic was just being Flic.  She hugged her mug of hot
chocolate for comfort and double checked Sasha was still asleep before she
began her pitch.

‘I’ve found the perfect Diana.  She’s young, she’s pretty,
she needs the money and I doubt if she’ll ask questions,’ Vicky announced.

‘Who?’

‘The girl who sells The Big Issue outside!’

‘Oh my.  You’re not serious, are you?  I bought a copy from
her yesterday.  She’s a mess,’ Flic sniggered

‘She’s not!  I looked at her face up close and I think with
a bit of make-up, and a good wash, and some nice clothes, we could have the
perfect Diana,’ Vicky insisted, sipping from her mug.

‘Ok, so we do a makeover, and what if she’s still
repugnant?  We’ll have wasted our time and money.’  Flic shook her head
dismissively and sipped her latte.

‘Have you done your sums?  How much is this going to cost
us?’ Vicky grimaced.

‘Well, I added it up and I think we charge a fifty pound
flat fee for taking the case on, a tenner for each social network we have to
add him on – found him on five so far – so that’s a hundred quid, then there’s
the twenty pound per week charge for each week we have the case on our books. 
I reckon it could take as little as a month to build up a rapport.  Add fifteen
quid per hour for each chat.  Maybe two or three a week.  Then seventy-five
pence for each text.  Could make about three hundred quid, easy,’ Flic
concluded.

‘We could pay this girl thirty pounds for the photos.  Not
bad for an afternoon’s work.  Plus she gets a makeover,’ Vicky added.

‘Even if she wanted to keep the clothes we use for the
makeover, we’d still make a couple of hundred quid.  Ok, let’s go and have a
look at her and see if she’s interested,’ Flic nodded.

They drained their mugs and made their way to the entrance
of the mall, Vicky placing each step very carefully to avoid any more
embarrassment.

‘Do you think she’s really living on the streets?’ Flic
pondered.

‘No, she’s probably not.  You know, a lot of the people who
actually sell the magazine aren’t living in cardboard boxes.  She probably just
has housing issues,’ Vicky convinced herself.  Flic didn’t look won over on
that point.

‘I wonder how long it would take her to make fifty quid
selling magazines?’ Flic wondered aloud.

‘She would probably have to sell at least fifty or sixty
magazines to make that much,’ Vicky noted.

‘Do you think it would be as many as that?’ Flic gasped.

‘Yeah, they have to buy the magazines first and then they
sell them on at twice the price they were when they bought them,’ Vicky
advised.