“They are either gay, married, or into skinny young fings. Young fings are safe, cause they are not wise enough to know ‘ow lousy they are in the sack,” informed Josie, as she won a quick tug of war with Tara, and snatched the butter dish out of her reach.
“All the beautiful, fun, fit ones are gay! It’s so bloody annoying,” sighed Helen. “They should teach us these things in school: blow jobs, reverse parking, understanding the wine menu, and spotting dodgy men.”
“I can’t imagine Sister Stanislaus turning the next page of our text books: ‘Now girls, page 12, Chapter 4, Blow Jobs, who did their homework last night?” mimicked Tara in her best Dublin accent.
“Helen Howard, D minus, that’s outrageous! Have you learnt nothing? Your Blow Jobs are a disgrace, detention after school for you young lady!”
Click, click… he caught a close-up of the stretch of her neck as she threw her head back with laughter, and wondered whether he should place an incision across her neck.
He checked his watch, it was time to leave. He packed the camera into its case, popped on his shades, and slipped out of the café. The staff turned to the sound of the door closing; cold air whipped around their legs.
Tara shuddered.
“Ooohh, someone just walked over my grave,” she giggled to the others, more light-heartedly than she felt. “Talking of school, how’s that brother of yours, Hel? Haven’t seen him in years, he still taking weird pictures of earthworm’s innards and sitting in dark corners watching people?”
“Oh, I guess he’s fine, you know us, never could stand each other, I bet he still has a crush on you though, such bad taste,” Helen shook her head, teasing, topping up wine glasses.
“Let’s toast to T’s next shag, to the end of her dry patch.”
They raised their glasses, giggling at the faces of the fellow diners who had turned to hear Helen’s (a little too loud) toast.
Chapter Six
David’s six foot six frame lorded it down the Brompton Court Road towards his flat. His glossy dark hair blew across his face, his long black trench coat, spread out behind him, flapping in the wind. With his hooded cunning eyes and regal hooked nose, he had the look of a bird of prey, towering over pedestrians as they scrambled out of his way. He was intimidating, compelling and frightening. Beautiful yet ugly. Those unfortunate enough to catch his eye would flinch with fear and scurry away, head down, hoping to go unnoticed.
He walked past the Brompton Court Tube, a central underground train station where the three main tube line arteries to London’s city centre converged; it was as grimy and busy as ever. Vagrants, beggars, drug addicts, prostitutes, office workers, schoolchildren and tourists spewed in and out of its gaping mouth, onto the traffic relentless Brompton Court Road. As trains passed beneath, warm tunnel air bellowed up the escalators and out the entrance, lifting abandoned rubbish and chasing it around the ankles of pedestrians. A fine layer of black soot covered the surface of surrounding buildings for a 50 metre radius.
A collection of norm and abnorm under one dirty rat-infested roof. He likened it to Hades. He felt comfortable there. If he had time, he enjoyed leaning against the pillared entrance and watching, absorbing the energy. Sometimes, if the mood took him, he would sniff out a fellow depraved soul, to take home and fuck. Juices would be exchanged but names wouldn’t.
He often laughed at the pathetic presence of police. They had no control. The street lifers, tramps, drunks, beggars, drug pushers, prostitutes, pimps, ruled the tube entrance with fear. It was their domain. When you walked through, you walked fast, with purpose, no eye contact, no looking back, just keep on moving. Tourists would catch on too late; muggings were abundant.
Sadly, he’d no time for watching or tarting now; he’d fresh film to develop. His apartment was a short walk from the tube. He liked to live in the middle of all the action. 24/7 traffic and footfall heaved past his front door. The Brompton Court Road never stopped.
From the outside, the big old house, split into five apartments, looked haggard, diseased, in need of repair. No burglar would deem it worthy of breaking in to, for fear of catching something… this suited him.
‘Shithead’ had been graffitied in large black letters on the front wall. Other equally charming words and symbols had blossomed out around this fitting address. He skipped past the entrance pillars with the non-existent gate, vandalized and torn off long ago, down the dark steps, to the side of the house, past the line of overflowing dustbins, to his front door. The smell of damp, stench ridden rubbish filled his lungs; he loved that smell, it helped give him privacy. Breathing deeply, he sighed.
“Aahh… home sweet home.”
The keys slid into three locks and he stepped inside his private world. The noise of the ceaseless traffic abated as he closed his heavy oak front door.
The contrast was breath-taking, something out of a glossy designer magazine. The light airy apartment spread throughout the basement of the large old house. High white ceilings, white wooden floors, decadent French gold-framed mirrors. A spacious sitting area with an open plan kitchen and dining area. A large central fireplace and white grand piano.
The only colour came from the tasteful paintings, sculptures, and vast urns brimming with exotic cut flowers. Double French windows framed with plentiful cream silk drapes opened onto a luscious jungle garden, its patio crammed with flourishing terracotta pots.
Two marble bathrooms, an en-suite sunken hot tub for eight, and a wet room. A pure white, cream and glass bedroom with king-size bed. Cream carpet, chaise lounge, muslin drapes, cushions and bedspread. Wall-to-wall mirrored built-in wardrobes and white glass dressing table and drawers. A clinical white and cream, mirrored cocoon, a cleaning lady’s nightmare.
Daddy had died, leaving him millions to play with. He was single, no need to work, money in the bank; what more could you ask for? A passion to fill your time with? He had that also; his very own plaything, his private obsession.
“ She” lived around the corner, so when the flat had come on the market, tastefully owned and decorated by a talented gay designer, he snapped it up, fixtures, fittings, the lot. Well over the asking price, an estate agent’s dream, but worth it. The only changes were to the second bedroom, his den.
He chucked the keys onto the hall table, briefly checked his perfect reflection in the full length mirror, and turned left down the corridor, past the wet room and bedroom, straight to the den at the end of the hallway. His secret place, not even his cleaner got to see. He punched in the code for the door lock.
Originally it was the second bedroom, positioned at the back of the basement under the road. It was very dark, with light from only one small dusty window. The window had a view, through rusty cobwebbed security bars, to the dustbins. Sometimes he would idly watch prostitutes ply their trade against his outside wall. They thought they were safe, hidden from view, little knowing he could spy on them, take pictures … these women were cheap, no one would notice if they went missing.
He’d gutted the room, painted it deep burgundy red, and fitted low spot lighting. A darkroom area for processing his ‘special’ films was built against one wall, he preferred film to digital, trolleys of glistening surgical instruments beneath shelves of electronic equipment lined another. The other two walls were covered in his favourite photographs, collated over the years.
In the far corner, an enormous television screen hung from the ceiling, twisted at an angle like a huge bird of prey swooping over its domain. A large leather reclining chair sat in the middle of the room, facing the screen, his private cinema for one.
He was a collector of visuals, a voyeur. He liked to watch, he particularly liked to watch her. Sometimes he got to touch and taste her also, during their private time. He could almost taste her now… he gently tugged at his cock through his trousers as he savoured the thought… later, later, he promised himself. He would jerk off over one of today’s photographs.
Now, he had Devil’s work to do. He couldn’t wai
t to see the fruits of the day’s spying, Friday lunches were always productive. He had all three of them together on film; she was looking particularly good.
He picked up remote controls and bleeped the television screen and music system into life. Music filled the room; his favourite Mozart track was on repeat. The screen flickered into life; a loop of black-and-white photographs began to play out, over and over.
Humming cheerfully to the music, he meticulously prepared trays of solutions for his film. Visions of Tara played out in the air above his head.
Chapter Seven
Seb Maloney’s Photographic Studio, Soho, London.
Tara burst into the studio, late as usual.
Lunch with the girls had gone on too long, she could have stayed all afternoon, it was great therapy. She hated breaking up the party. Why did she have to work, why couldn’t she have loads of money like Helen and just hang out all day? She must remember to meet God halfway and buy a lottery ticket.
“I am SO sorry,” she announced apologetically to the room. “Dodgy traffic… Knightsbridge is all road works, just for a change,” no one was listening.
She chucked her jacket and bulging, ridiculously large designer bag onto the nearest sofa, while signalling to the bored receptionist for a much-needed sobering coffee. She was slightly tipsy; such a lightweight, two glasses of vino and she was anybody’s.
She took a deep breath… right; time to get into work mode. She surveyed the room in a swoop of her lashes. The atmosphere was dreadful… who died? She recognized the hairdresser, the lovely Anton de Menton. He, the makeup artist and Mark, the photographer’s assistant were huddled in a corner by the coffee machine gossiping. She could hear cursing and mumbling coming from somewhere in the back of the studio... hmmm, no music, a big no-no.
The studio was a large, light, airy loft space that made good use of its vast Victorian bay and roof windows. It belonged to celebrated photographer, Seb Maloney. London’s current hottest property, he was young, trendy, roguishly attractive and had a soft Irish accent to die for. He also had a great eye for catching soulful, edgy fashion shots. The media loved him; he had something different, an Irish passion the critics called it, he modestly put his talent down to simple hard work and painstaking, mind-numbing, attention to detail.
Tara and he had known each other from boarding school days; he was ‘one of the girls’, one of the few men that could keep up with their banter. He and Tara loved each other dearly and booked to work with each other whenever possible. Seb had dated Helen a few years back; luckily, they’d survived the disastrous interlude as mates.
“Seb, angel, where have we got to?” she shouted towards the mumbling.
“You’re late,” he spoilt child grunted, from behind a vast sky-blue backdrop.
Seb hated sports gear jobs. It was whoring, but paid good money. Cheap logo, drab clothes, dim-witted overrated sports celebrities unable to string a sentence together, with their interfering managers and hangers-on, who had more of an ego than the star themselves.
At least today’s guy came alone, no entourage, just an ex-army action man, squeezed into an uncomfortably tight chauffeur’s uniform, parked up outside. Franco Rossellini didn’t say a lot. Some Italian pin-up footballer on £200 grand a week, no doubt. He wasn’t into football himself, more of a rugby man, but he’d heard this guy was great on the pitch, pity he was ‘Mr No Personality’ off it.
The brief for the shoot was typical: drape vastly overpriced clothing over the back of a famous drop-dead gorgeous guy, drape a blonde on top as bait, imply that ‘wearing this crap you too could have a cool sexy lifestyle’… the fact that the guy would look good in a bin liner with a nappy on his head doesn’t feature. Manipulative brainwashing drivel but it paid the bills.
Sadly, the model he’d been sent for this job was finding it difficult to look remotely attractive. She needed a good meal and to stop snorting the unhealthily large amount of cocaine stashed in her makeup bag. The incessant talking, fidgeting and sniffing was driving him mad. They had taken five rolls of film and got nothing. All Franco needed to do was cuddle the girl in various poses. Fun, smiling, relaxed, the ‘just got out of bed’ look. Just getting into a coffin more like.
Franco was either very nervous or thoroughly bored. He held the giggling sniffing blonde at arm’s reach, as if he would catch something, looking totally ‘do not want to be here’. The model, who was initially chatting happily, fancying herself as the next hot football WAG (Wives and Girlfriends), had tried desperately hard to put him at ease, but was now feeling snubbed and on the verge of getting over emotional. He felt a drama queen moment coming on.
To top it all off, Franco was sweating profusely under the lights, his face shining, driving the makeup artist to distraction. She’d put so much powder on it was now beginning to clump in unsightly patches. Thank God they’d booked the ever-professional multi-talented hairdresser, Anton de Menton, who was managing to allay her fears, whispering comfort to her over the coffee pot, as she dragged heavily on her Gitane cigarettes.
“…it’s terribly sexy to be shiny, darhling, SO now. He is, after all, expected to sweat, being a highly trained athlete an’ all. Do you know how much that there body is worth, honey? Lordy, that sweat is pure gold nectar, dahling… now quit smoking, honey, it’ll give you craggy lips and yellow teeth,” he waved away the strong-smelling smoke. “Pooh!”
At last Tara was here. She was a good producer, had a knack of putting people at ease, and got the job done. Maybe they would hit the deadline tonight after all.
“Tara, over here,” he came out from behind the backdrop.
They greeted one another with a big bear hug, all anger at her being late dissolved. He smelled the whiff of alcohol and cigarettes in her hug and felt a pang of jealousy; she’d been having fun whilst he’d been slaving away…God, I need a pint.
“Haven’t got it yet, but trying a softer backdrop. Franco was lookin’ a bit too mean and moody with the grey. The blue might do something with his eyes, in fact Tara…” his voice lowered to a whisper, for her ears only. “… Jeysus, it’s a total bloody disaster. I know the guy’s worth £45 million, feckin’ punt, but not in the modelling business, mate, and the girl is coked out of her feckin’ brains, if she had any… what a feckin’ mess.”
Eyes skyward, he clapped his hands loudly and walked out into the middle of the room.
“Ok everyone!” he shouted. “Let’s try again. Lights… positions same as before.”
Anton squealed with excitement and shooed the others into action, the room lit up as Seb and his assistant, Mark, busied themselves around the camera and adjusted the lights. Tara went to the back of the studio, gratefully received the coffee from the expressionless receptionist, and slumped onto the sofa.
A young beautiful model skipped, a little too excitedly, out of the changing room, followed by the legend, Franco. Tara had only seen him briefly on TV clips from sports programs she would accidentally hit on while channel surfing. Had never paid much attention before; wasn’t into footballers, far too fragile and feminine looking, had slimmer calves then she… rugby players were more her scene, but he was delicious, or was it the wine from lunch?
What a body! She resisted the urge to wolf whistle. She could have sworn she heard the wonderful Anton sigh. Looking over at him, she giggled and they gave each other a conspiratorial wink. Anton began feverishly waving the air in front of his face to cool down.
The tune ‘It’s Raining Men’ came to her mind… yo! where are the girls when you need them, they would have loved this, he’s beautiful.
She wasn’t prepared for the sight of Franco; it was all she could do to keep her mouth from gaping. She made a note to get a life and end the dry patch, it was making her desperate and reducing her quality control. A footballer, for chrissakes! She was hardly WAG material, being over thirty, more like GAG material, ‘grandmothers and girlfriends’.
Beginning to feel the heat of a hormonal flush, she shifted
her body deeper into the sofa, took a deep breath, and crossed her legs, trying to calm, get some control over her man-starved body. She hadn’t squirmed like this over a guy since Ed, it was pathetic schoolgirl stuff. She crossed and re-crossed her legs, still not comfortable; her skirt rose up her thigh.
Franco caught the movement and looked over at her, bored.
He was so unfootball, not at all poncy, spoiled, delicate looking, but built like a strong, rugby-playing thug. The type that verbalized with a grunt rather than words. He had the ‘Me Tarzan, you Jane’ thing going on, and that John Wayne walk, wide open legged as if his manhood led the way… why do guys walk like that, she mulled… is it something to do with the muscle structure, do they overwork that inner thigh muscle thing? She must remember to ask a gym trainer, actually, she must start going to the gym again… urrgh, she hated gyms.
A footy boy and an Italian stallion… ohmigod, Tara, don’t even go there, asking for trouble, serious tacksville, be calm, be professional, work. Her heart began to speed up; it had been so long since she’d felt man-induced palpitations like this… must be the caffeine.
The model sat on the stool in front of the heavily lit backdrop. Franco begrudgingly sauntered up behind her, a bored circus lion having performed his act a thousand times before. He didn’t notice Tara as she crept up to the camera to get a closer look, hovering behind Seb as he shouted instructions. She watched quietly, as two films were painstakingly taken.
Franco was asked to hold the model in front of him and smile cheekily over her shoulder at the camera, ‘the guy who had it all’ look. They tried various positions, all looked like cardboard. The model was lovely enough, but Franco was obviously not into it. Tara watched him closely; his intense lash-laden dark eyes followed direction from Seb, but he wasn’t enjoying it. He was too intelligent for this playing the puppet lark. It was highly likely that he may walk out. She couldn’t afford to let that happen; it was her job to keep everyone in line.
The Penance List Page 3