The same could not be said for Maria; she waited all night for Franco to return. She dressed in a sexy cream and black silk baby doll number, with matching stockings, suspenders and peek-a-boo bra, the whole shebang.
She lit scented candles, decked herself out in full hair, makeup, and jewels and lay out seductively on the bed. She didn’t like sex; it was a tedious, uncomfortable, messy chore that helped her get what she wanted from men. She was well practised in going through the motions, dressing the part, stroking the ego and faking the orgasm, with perfect inflection, timing and volume control… God bless men, but they fell for it every time.
She set the seduction scene and patiently waited, lounging across the bedspread, drifting in and out of sleep. Suspender clips, hooks, elastic and whale bone dug hard into her thin skin as she tried to get comfortable.
By the morning, the candles had burnt out, her hair looked a mess, her makeup had slid down her face, and her body was itching to get out of the now scratchy seduction gear. Her sexy little number had lost its charm in the glare of the early morning sun, as it crept through the curtains to sting bloodshot eyes.
Tara hadn’t slept; she’d gone through the days shoot with Seb the night before, over a large brandy. Then booked a taxi to whisk her off to the airport in the early hours. She left a note to Mimi and Tony, thanking them for all their hospitality, and apologizing for her early departure - she had to rush back to work.
Another note for Mark and Anton, thanking them for a great job; they were stars, they would all meet up and have a drink on her when they got back, keep up the good work. P.S. Anton, try not to frighten Tony too much, he doesn’t get the group hug thing!!!
Chapter Thirty-Four
Even though he hated her for what she’d done, Franco was gutted when he arrived back at the villa early the next morning to find her gone. The place felt empty, the excitement of the shoot gone. He wanted to get the whole thing over and done with, get back to London and on with training, back to what he knew, where he had control. Anything to take his mind off her.
He sat down with Seb over breakfast, having apologized for the left hook the night before.
“No problem, mate; broken nose makes me more attractive to the ladies, so Mimi says,” Seb kindly wrote it off, grateful that they were still talking.
They went through the change in layout of the day’s filming. They had originally been briefed to take holiday-type footage of the couple at play, but obviously under the circumstances it would have resembled more of a bloodbath than a holiday, so Tara had gone to her superiors with some cock’n’bull story about the model being taken ill and a re-jigging of the shoot to still make the deadline and, per chance, improve the storyline…blah blah. They’d agreed and she’d left for London.
They would film Franco searching for the woman he’d lost, walking through the haunts seen in the previous day’s pictures, keeping with the ‘Gotta See Her’ theme. Franco agreed, he just wanted to get it over and done with.
Shit, he suddenly remembered Maria. Where the hell was she? Upstairs sleeping most likely, she never was an early riser. He didn’t want to see her, so rushed everyone into action, they were all up and out, setting up the first shoot, before they could say, “err… what about breakfast?”
He needn’t have worried about Maria; she looked like death, she had no intention of leaving the bedroom until they were all out of sight. She had some major repair work to do on her appearance. The thought of anyone seeing her, least of all Franco, in this state made her panic. She needed time to get her act together.
She’d seen Tara leave in the early hours and then heard Franco’s Jeep arrive later that morning. While relieved that he hadn’t come to the now locked bedroom door, she was angry that he’d not even tried to see her; he’d ignored her. She scrambled herself together by popping a few pills, applying mountains of polyfiller to her face, and doing a few press-ups. The pills picked her up, the polyfiller covered the evidence and the press-ups got the blood pumping around her body, giving her a healthy glow and speeding up the hit from the pills.
Finally feeling ready to meet her public, she put her sunglasses on and started to go down to breakfast, or brunch, it was midday. On the stairs, her cell phone rang, making her jump out of her skin. Jesus, her nerves were shot. It was Franco.
“Hello,” she said cautiously. “Get your act together by the time I get back, we are leaving for the airport at 6 p.m.”
Click, the line went dead, short and sweet. He sounded pissed off; the journey home was not going to be a bundle of fun. Forgetting breakfast, she turned on the staircase and went back to the bedroom. She popped a few more pills and fell asleep on the bed.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Sixteen years earlier, Heddington Hall Boarding School.
Dear David
Thank you for such a sweet letter. It was very nice of you to say such lovely things. I had no idea how you felt.
This is very difficult to put into words without hurting your feelings, but, you must know that I think of you as just a friend. I see you as Hel’s lovely little brother. It would be too weird to have a relationship with my best friend’s little brother.
I am so sorry I don’t feel the same way, and apologise if I have led you on, I did not mean to. I feel a complete bitch writing this and understand if you don’t want to talk to me again.
You are a very good looking young man, and will have no problem meeting lots of girls when you leave school. You will break many hearts, they will be lucky to know you, you sound like a very passionate person.
Take care
T
He held his breath as he read and reread her words, the joy and excitement of moments earlier drained his dazed body. He lay in disbelief, zombiefied; she had said no, how could that be?
Holding the letter over his head, he gazed at the shapes of the letters that made up the words, the sentences, her feelings. How could such simple shapes etched on paper have the power to give this pain? If he rearranged them he could change their meaning, spell out the opposite, reclaim his angel, be with her forever. The letters blurred together as tears filled his eyes.
He scrunched the page into a ball and held it to his chest. Staring at the ceiling, he concentrated on the cool path of tears that trickled down his cheek, over his ears to the back of his neck. The realisation of betrayal crept over him, he began to shiver. It was all a lie, she didn’t love him, she wouldn’t save him, she saw him as a silly little boy. He imagined her and his sister laughing over his letter, dissecting the intimate words of love; it would provide bountiful bullying material for Helen.
All those years of dedicating his life to her, suffering the abuse, being the Headmasters willing whore, believing she would absolve him, save him, protect him… all a lie. She’d conspired with the Headmaster, not been his guardian angel – but surely the Devil had given her to him?
Lost and confused he rolled onto his side, curled into the foetal position and he cried for hours. The years of abuse seeped through his young body, rotting away the last remnants of David, the boy. Someone had to pay for what had happened to him. In those moments a vengeance seed was sown, ‘payback’ became a light at the end of the tunnel, his reason to survive. He swore to impose a brutal penance on those who hurt him, he would help them repent their sins and bring them closer to their god… right up close.
KNOCK KNOCK, KNOCK KNOCK, KNOCK KNOCK
Loud banging stole into his thoughts, someone was at the dorm door… shit! He was probably in trouble for having missed the morning lessons. He rapidly wiped his face, clearing up the tell-tale tears and stuffed the letter under his pillow. A young first year popped his head around the heavy oak door.
“Howard… Head wants you in his study, now… chop! chop!” his message delivered the boy turned tail and ran back down the corridor, his footsteps echoed into the distance.
David sneered to himself, just what he needed, a session with the Head… let’s show the fucking bastard
who’s boss now shall we, I’ ll cut his rancid dick off… bring it on. Jumping off the bed with renewed strength, he ran all the way to the Head’s study.
Not bothering to knock, he burst into the musty old room. The Head sat at his large wooden desk writing a letter, papers and books strewn across its leather surface. He ignored the impertinence of a child walking in uninvited and waved David to the chair facing him.
“Sit down, boy; I have some bad news for you.”
His solemn tone took David by surprise; he stood still in the middle of the room, unsure of what to do. The desks surface was not cleared of papers in readiness for their act.
“Sit boy, NOW,” he shouted, carrying on with the letter.
David swallowed hard, defiance drained from his face; he stepped sheepishly to the chair, not quite trusting. Surely nothing ever got in the way of the Head’s pleasure, was this a different game?
“I have just had a call from your father, he spent the night at the hospital, your mother was involved in a serious car crash… she did not make it I am afraid, she died an hour ago,” he finished the letter with a swirling signature.
David didn’t understand. He heard the words but couldn’t take them in. He put his hands over his ears and stared into the Head’s eyes, was he telling the truth? Was this one of his cruel games? He began to shake for the second time that day, he couldn’t take any more. The only person to have ever truly loved him couldn’t be dead? Please let this be a game, please let it be a lie.
“Nooooooooooooooo,” he bellowed in disbelief. “You’re lying, she’s my mum, she can’t be dead.”
He lunged toward the table and threw himself over it, sliding forward, stopping inches from the old man’s face, piles of papers tumbled to the floor. The Head continued to date his signature, ignoring the prostrate boy across his desk. David flopped flat out, his face landing on the letter, smudging the fresh ink, he stretched his arms into a crucifix and splayed his legs, in readiness for their private act.
“NOOOOOOOOOOOO,” he screamed into the table.
The Head tut tutted at the smudged ink. David looked up at him, he looked normal, any minute he would walk around the desk, unzip his cock and sink it into him, it would all be ok, just one of his cruel games. But the old man remained seated, calmly blotting the ink, pen still in hand.
“Get off the desk boy; this is not the time for that… later maybe.”
It was not a game.
“YOU LIAR,” David spat up at him, their faces uncomfortably close, “YOU HAVE ALWAYS LIED.”
“Boy, now calm down,” wiping spittle from his mouth. “Sister will be here in a minute to give you some medicine, now calm down, I say,” how tedious, the child was making a scene, this was not going well.
“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.”
The sound of a pain tore through the Headmasters office and down the corridor. The sound he should have cried out years ago when he first lay across that desk. The sound that had been pent up deep inside for ten long years. The sound of abuse, stolen innocence, lost childhood… finally released.
David slid to the floor in tears, taking books and papers with him. He scrambled to his feet and, as if seeing the desk for the first time, he reeled back from it in disgust. It had been his dirty secret, his bed of torture. He stumbled, hugging his stomach, doubled up in pain. His mother never knew, he should have told her, not put his faith in Tara.
“I SHOULD HAVE TOLD HER,” he screamed.
He couldn’t breathe, he had to get away. He ran out of the study, down the corridor, on and on until he could no longer hear the Head shouting after him. He should have run a long time ago.
Back in the peace and quiet of the dormitory, he tore off his clothes and stood naked in front of the wall. He smashed his head against it, over and over, dulling the pain, calling for his mother, sobbing his heart out - what little heart he had left.
At the other end of the building, a boy, Seb Maloney, rushed through corridors, late from cricket practice.
Chapter Thirty-Six
The Sporjakk campaign hit the ground running.
As soon as the crew returned from Italy, Seb printed up the negatives and biked them over to the production team, who worked day and night, prepping the best shots, there were plenty to choose from. Franco looked even better than in the original shoot, and suitably despondent in the final days footage, having lost his girl, searching everywhere for her. Maria was right, he was a great actor, he looked suicidal.
Two weeks later the country was blanketed with posters, press, radio, television and cinema advertisements. Sporjakk was everywhere. A rerecording of the sexy soul track ‘Gotta See Her’ was commissioned; it was released as a single and used as the backing track for the film and radio ads. It jumped into the top ten and quickly became a number one download. The music video, an edited mix of snippets from the shoot, became a favourite on music channels and YouTube’s most viewed; radio stations couldn’t get enough of Franco searching for his girl.
Football stadiums around the country echoed its catchy chorus; fans added their own inspired lyrics as only ingenious football supporters can. Wherever you went you either saw or heard it. It became the favoured song for talent show contestants and karaoke singers. From posters on the sides of buses to debates on prime time television. The big question on everyone’s lips was who is the mystery girl?
Looking for Frankie’s girl became a popular pastime; girls (and some boys) wore ‘I’m Frankie’s Girl’ T-shirts, bookies were taking bets and rewards were set up by the media for those giving information on her identity. The whole country and beyond got involved, there were a few bogus attempts to collect reward monies, but these were verified as false by the Harvinger Larvsen Advertising Agency. The mystery captivated the nation’s heart, the timing was right; with the spiralling economy crunch the nation needed some light hearted fun.
The picture most frequently used in the campaign was the final shot of Tara and Franco naked and soaking wet, with Franco cupping Tara’s head in his hands and kissing her forehead. She was holding on tight, her back to camera. As Anton had predicted, the Sporjakk logo had been added to her back, it could be seen peeking out between strands of blonde hair on her right shoulder blade. Tattoo shops were swamped with wannabes for the look. Young girls flocked to hairdressers for copycat cuts; much debate was had about how the front was shaped. Even Franco’s out-dated shaggy look had a revival.
They were a beautiful couple. Franco looked so broken hearted without her that the public felt sorry for him. The icing on the cake was that his fee for the campaign was going to charity; this was unheard of in the greedy world of football. The public loved him all the more for it.
The country had ‘Gotta See Her’ fever. The campaign was an advertising agency’s dream, capturing people’s imagination and uniting them in their search for Frankie’s mystery girl. It took on a life of its own. Sales figures for Sporjakk rocketed, Harvinger Larvsen’s client list trebled.
It was spinning out of control; everyone wanted part of the act, except Tara, Franco and Maria. Tara was petrified, her fear in being found out magnified daily, surely it was only a matter of time. She was flavour of the month in the office, but lived in fear of the moment it all came crashing down, her compounded lie to the bosses discovered. She took to wearing her hair in a ponytail or bun and was considering having it cropped short; maybe she should just leave the country.
She prayed that all those who worked on the shoot would keep quiet, especially when rewards started coming out for her identity. She knew that Anton could capitalize on the fame of the hairstyle alone, never mind the reward for naming her, but he was an honourable soul. Seb’s staff worshiped the ground he walked on, he was a good boss and rewarded them handsomely for their loyalty, besides, they were inundated with work as a result of the campaign, so didn’t want the rollercoaster to stop. Seb had also worked his magic on the original model by taking her on as a trainee stylist, and setting her up with a drug rehab program
.
She hated admitting it, but she missed Franco. They had ignored each other since their return. But she couldn’t go anywhere without being reminded of him, reminded of that glorious day when he’d held her face in his hands and proposed to her.
She would buy a paper, a full sized Sporjakk ad would be in the front pages, and he would feature on the back sports pages. She would buy a coffee and the ‘Gotta See Her’ track would be pumping out of the radio. She would walk past a building site and builders would be whistling the tune. She would take a taxi and get stuck in traffic, lined up right beside a bloody bus carrying a ten-foot poster of him kissing her. People everywhere would have it as their ringtone. She would turn on the radio or television and Sporjakk ads would be aired, in between shows offering rewards for her name… shit! It was driving her nuts.
She guessed ‘he’ was still shacked up with the bitch from hell. Why was it that she always came second in relationships? Was this a pattern forming? Maria was a nasty conniving piece of work; it was a punch in the guts for him to choose a witch over her. The only grain of happiness was that this campaign must be annoying her as well. She guessed Maria would have put two and two together and knew that she was the mystery woman. Franco had managed to keep her quiet somehow, thank God.
She was happy for Seb; he was now the King of Soho, London’s media neighbourhood, everyone wanted to work with him. His fees doubled overnight, he was in the big league.
“Hollywood beckons, baby,” he teased on one of his many excited voicemail messages left on her phone, he was forever thanking her.
The Penance List Page 22