‘Thanks,’ he said to the teacher as he completed the photo-shoot and high-tailed it out of the door as quickly as he could.
Adam trudged back to his car and slung his camera in the boot. He felt bad about avoiding Cara, but he hadn’t quite decided how he should play this yet.
Pulling his mobile phone from his pocket, he dialled Chris’s direct line at the office.
‘Love Rats Anonymous,’ Chris said when he answered.
‘Yes, very funny,’ Adam said. ‘Is she there?’
‘Who? Space cadet?’
‘Yes. Is Cara there?’
‘Why didn’t you ring her number?’
‘Because I don’t want to talk to her.’
‘Am I missing something here?’ Chris asked. ‘Maybe you should talk to her. She’s been looking for you. All morning.’
‘Has she?’ Adam could hear the panic in his own voice.
‘Shall I pass you over?’
‘No, mate,’ Adam said hurriedly. ‘I’ve got to dash. I just wanted to know if she was in work.’
‘You’re going to have to face her sometime,’ Chris said.
‘Yeah,’ Adam sighed, ‘but not yet.’
‘Are we still going to Toff’s studio tonight?’ Chris asked.
‘Yeah,’ Adam said. ‘Let’s meet up for a drink at the Jig first.’ He was going to need some sort of Dutch courage. ‘About eight.’
‘What do you think I should wear?’ Chris said.
‘Get a life, Christopher,’ Adam advised. ‘We are going to Toff’s studio for the purposes of research and to decide whether I should change career direction.’
There was a disappointed-sounding pause. ‘So we’re not going to see naked women?’
‘They are purely arbitrary to the process,’ Adam stated.
Chris brightened. ‘But there is always the chance that they might fancy us?’
‘Yes,’ Adam admitted wearily. ‘There is always an outside chance.’
He could hear Chris clapping his hands together and he wished that he could get as excited as his friend over the simple things in life. ‘Great!’
‘I’ll see you later,’ Adam said, and hung up before he could get drawn into an extended discussion about the selection of Chris’s outfit.
Leaning on the steering wheel, deep in thought, Adam considered his options. There was another job-sheet tucked in his pocket for this afternoon – a man working for a computer firm was having his head shaved for charity – but he had a couple of hours to kill before then. He could follow his usual pattern and head straight to Café Blanco for a couple of convivial coffees and a ciabatta. But if Cara was safely ensconced in the offices of the Hampstead Observer, then that might well mean that Emily would be at home alone.
It was very weird because he felt that he already knew the infamous Emily, even though he’d never clapped eyes on her in the flesh, as it were. It was high time that they did meet. Adam wondered how she’d feel about him turning up, unannounced, on her doorstep to discuss what a bollocks he’d made of his one-night stand with her friend. He looked at his watch. He could just pop in for five minutes.
Adam started up the Vectra and, still not sure whether he was doing the right thing or whether he was going to make a bad situation very much worse, he turned and headed towards Cara’s house.
Chapter Sixty-Eight
I am terrified. I’m walking back home towards Cara’s house, but I can’t feel my feet on the pavement at all. I might as well be treading on sponge cake. Everything is numb from the neck down. I’ve collected Cara’s now spick and span dress from the dry cleaners, but I’m not sure how.
I have my appointment all booked up with Sebastian Atherton, but how in heaven’s name I’m going to get through it is another matter. To think that women strive for years to get their photograph on page three of the Sun and here’s me having to strip off because I feel backed into a corner. I know that I won’t get any sympathy from Cara, so there’s no point discussing it with her, but I need someone to understand why I’m doing this. Partly, I think, because I don’t myself.
The High Street is still busy. It’s getting towards lunchtime and I should think about eating, but can’t. I just want to be at home, back in the safety of the house, four solid walls surrounding me when everything else in my life is formed of ever-shifting shapes.
Adam was parked outside Cara’s front door. It was purple, something which he hadn’t noticed as he’d carried her through it last night or as he’d tiptoe-rushed out this morning. It was probably purple because it was an auspicious colour, knowing Cara. It couldn’t be anything as basic as having dreadful taste in paint.
Before he could think better of it, he swung out of the car and headed with determined step up the path. Once at the door, he knocked, loudly and bravely before his courage departed. It was nearly lunchtime. Emily would surely be out of bed by now. He leaned on the wall as he waited, a tight curl of nervousness unfurling in his stomach. It seemed so unfair; it was the first time he’d made love to anyone in a long, long time and it had got him in a right royal pickle – despite the fact that he’d rather enjoyed it at the time. Chris, on the other hand, was intent on blithely shagging his way through the entire female population of the Western world without one moment of regret, remorse or retribution. That boy was born lucky.
Adam gave another cursory knock at the door. It was clear that Emily wasn’t at home. A quick sandwich and then he would make tracks for the head-shaving extravaganza. One of these days he might yet get to meet Cara’s mate. He sighed and turned back down the path. He had tried, but Plan A had failed. Now he had to think very hard what Plan B might entail.
The same dark green Vectra I saw departing this morning has just pulled away from Cara’s house. I’m sure of it. Well, I’m not really. I’m not sure of anything any more. I stand and watch it drive down the street, straining to catch a glimpse of the driver. Not that I would know Adam from Adam, if you see what I mean. There must be a million dark green Vectras in the world and they don’t belong exclusively to journalists and photographers. It could be anyone in a Vectra. I think the fact that I’m about to launch my body into the public domain again is making me paranoid. I forgive Michael Jackson anything he does with monkeys now. I think he’s fully entitled. He must live in a mad, mad world.
I let myself into the quiet, incense-scented house and hang Cara’s killer dress on the coat-stand in the hall. This afternoon I’m going to get rid of my Chestnut Burst and go back to being bimbo blonde – although it says Light Honey Gold on the box of hair colour I’ve bought. If the cap fits, wear it, that’s what I say. I need to have a trawl through my wardrobe again to see what’s suitable. But what exactly do you wear for an appointment when you know you’re going to be required to take all your clothes off anyway? Once again, I curse my luck for ever having clapped eyes on Declan O’Donnell. He has ruined my life. No man will ever do that to me again.
But as I climb the stairs, I ruefully acknowledge that, for the second time in a matter of weeks, I have agreed to get my clothes off for a man armed with that most dangerous of weapons – the camera.
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Adam was feeling furtive, whereas Chris, always excitable at the best of times, was at his hyperactive worst. He was gabbling at ninety to the dozen about nothing remotely interesting as he leafed through Toff’s portfolio of scantily clad females, his conversation interspersed with appreciative, guttural snorts and mutterings. Beside Chris, Beavis and Butthead would have looked like a pair of smooth-talking sophisticates.
Toff was setting up his studio and Adam watched as he worked. Their friend always made everything look so easy. His movements were pared to the bone, calm, fluid and confident. Everything Toff did was laid back. He lived in a borderline world of serenity somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. He’d probably only break into a saunter to escape from a burning house. However, this unhurried manner belied a business brain that was sharp and professional, and Toff’
s attention to detail was that of an utter perfectionist. Adam wondered how his friend had ever coped with stuff like World Milk Day and charity head-shaving contests.
‘Come through, guys,’ Toff said as he waved them into his studio. ‘Our model is waiting for us.’
Adam shuffled through, blocking the way of Chris, who had shot off his stool with all the charm of a rampaging bull. This was ordeal enough. Why on earth had Toff said that Chris could come? It was like setting a bulimic loose in a biscuit factory.
A pretty Oriental girl draped in a silk kimono sat with her knees tucked up on a precisely placed low velvet couch, bare legs and feet exposed. Her long, silken black hair trailed to her waist. Just looking at her nonchalant composure gave Adam butterflies.
‘This is Leila,’ Toff said. ‘Leila, these are my good friends, Mr Adam Jackson and Lord Christopher Seymour.’
‘Hi,’ Leila said, smiling at them. Adam nodded back while Chris tried to keep his recently upgraded peer-of-the-realm tongue off the floor.
‘Adam is a respected photographer,’ Toff informed her. ‘He may be coming to work with me.’
‘Nice to meet you.’ She smiled at Adam again.
Chris nudged him in the ribs and announced in the loudest stage whisper Adam had ever heard: ‘You’re in there, mate.’
Adam wanted to curl up and die. Leila smiled some more. Two steel mesh chairs had been arranged at the back of the studio and Adam and Chris sidled into them.
‘Wish we’d got some popcorn,’ Chris mumbled.
‘Quiet in the Dress Circle, please.’ Toff took up his position behind the camera. ‘By the way,’ he said over his shoulder, ‘these are for your friend Mr O’Donnell.’
Which, very effectively, shut both Adam and Chris up.
‘When you’re ready,’ Toff spoke soothingly to Leila.
The model lay back and draped the kimono more provocatively and then proceeded to pout and pose in a very inventive manner. Chris started to slobber. Toff fired off shot after shot, but said little save the odd encouraging ‘Yes’ every now and again. Adam had imagined that Toff would sort of prowl around, barking orders like David Hemmings had in the 1960s film Blow-Up – woefully, Adam’s only experience of the giddy world of glamour photography.
Adam wondered if he was really cut out for this. He felt deeply embarrassed. Leila, however, seemed not the slightest bit concerned about baring her body. But then it was a very nice body she had to bare. Could he ever be as confident and cool as Toff?
‘Tell me,’ Chris leaned over and muttered in his ear, ‘why are you thinking about doing this as a job?’
Adam looked blankly at him.
‘If I were you,’ Chris went on, ‘I’d be biting Toff’s arm off before he changes his mind.’
Adam lowered his voice. ‘But—’
‘Adam,’ Chris interrupted, ‘there aren’t any buts. It’s better for you. It’s better for Josh.’
‘But—’ Adam said again.
‘Tell me,’ Chris said, ‘what would you rather do? Stand on a windy, rainswept touch-line on a Saturday afternoon photographing Golders Green United in the vain hope that they might score a goal, or be here in a nice, warm, centrally heated studio photographing some of the most beautiful and least-clothed women in the world?’
‘But—’ Adam tried.
‘And when you reply,’ Chris interrupted again, ‘please give me an answer that doesn’t make you sound as if you’re criminally insane.’
What was the decision? Adam thought frantically. If he were to have any hope of gaining custody of Josh, he had to get a job with more regular hours. OK, this was a late-night session for Toff, but that was because he couldn’t keep up with the workload he had as he was in such high demand. A nice position to be in, Adam thought.
Chris was right, he should grab this chance in a million. It was a world away from the Hampstead Observer. Better pay, great flat, a garden for Josh to play footy in and, he glanced over at the beautiful exotic Leila, a few other perks he could mention. It wasn’t going to meet his lofty ideals of making a difference to world peace, but maybe he could do that in other ways; there must be a charity somewhere that could use a few of his skills. Besides, didn’t the worthy cause of his own dear son take priority over everything else?
Toff’s voice brought Adam back down to earth. ‘Want to take a turn behind the camera?’ he asked.
Adam blinked a South Park blink. ‘Me?’ he squeaked.
‘Yes,’ Toff laughed. ‘Come on, don’t be shy. Leila won’t bite you!’
‘She could bite me any day,’ Chris exclaimed under his breath.
Adam stood up and wiped his clammy hands on his T-shirt, suddenly realising that Toff had set this up just for him. All at once he felt quite emotional. What had he done to deserve such kind treatment from his friend? Toff was bending over backwards to make this easy for him. Surely it would be churlish to refuse his offer?
Adam stepped up to the camera, and Toff took his place next to Chris. Adam chewed nervously at his lip. This should be like falling off a log. It wasn’t as if he was trying to fight his way to the front of a press scrum. He had all the time in the world to get some good shots. And Leila was the ultimate professional. It would be impossible to take a bad photograph of her. She smiled an encouraging, pouty smile and knelt up on the velvet couch, ruching the silky material of her gown until one pert little handful of buttock pointed his way. And as Adam positioned himself and looked through the viewfinder at Leila’s beguiling pose, inexplicably, an image of the woman-in-the-wine-bar flashed through his brain.
Chapter Seventy
I can’t go in. I just can’t. I cannot go in.
It’s a freezing cold night. Brass monkey weather, my father would call it, but I’ve no idea what that means. I expect it’s rude. My father always favours the hearty, Anglo-Saxon turn of phrase. I think it runs in the family. I’ve certainly muttered a few myself in the last few minutes.
My trusty little Peugeot is parked several streets away, due to all the parking restrictions round here, and I’ve been pacing up and down now on the pavement outside Sebastian Atherton’s photographic studio for the best part of half an hour. I wish I’d thought to have this agony of indecision while I was still inside my car with the heater on. I’ve got my coat pulled tightly round my doubtful choice of clothing. I opted for jeans and a jumper – goodness knows why. My reasoning was that if Sebastian Atherton wants me to wear anything at all, then I’m sure he’ll supply it. I get a vision of scarlet crotchless knickers and a feather boa and want to race for the nearest loo. My knees are knocking like a band of mad woodpeckers.
The only thing I feel confident about is the fact that my hair is now happily restored to its rightful colour. I chickened out of adding a blonde rinse to my chestnut locks, fearing some sort of colour-mixing mayhem – I didn’t want to end up lime green for my first professional photo shoot. And so, credit card in sweaty hand, I popped along to A Snip In Time. Lorraine, my hairdresser and fount of all knowledge, told me that the fair-haired gene is recessive and that very soon there’ll be very few of us natural blondes around. Some people might think that’s for the best. Whatever. We’ll all be getting it out of a bottle one day. In the time-honoured tradition of spilling the beans to your hairdresser, I confessed my impromptu Internet appearance courtesy of Declan the Dirty-Deed-Doer. Lorraine has a boring boyfriend and wishes he had the balls – her phrase, not mine – to put her arse on the Worldwide Web. It takes all sorts.
I suppose I should have consulted my new guru, Jonathan Gold, on my change of image. But, hey, it’s my hair, my life and it’s probably the only thing I’ve still got some control over. If I want to be blonde again, I’ll damn well do it! I have a comforting chew on a fingernail. Hope he doesn’t go bonkers though.
I wish I’d told Cara I was coming to see Sebastian Atherton so that she could have come with me for back-up or talked me out of it – whichever. But I didn’t. I sneaked out without telling her wh
ere I was going and now I’m regretting it. I could ring her on my mobile and ‘fess up and get her to rush her butt down here – but I think she’d just give me the bollocking of a lifetime and I’m feeling far too delicate to cope with that.
I arrived here massively early and have spent all that time vacillating. Why did I ever think I’d have the nerve to go through with this? There’s a world of difference between romping around with your boyfriend and a digital camera, and setting up a cold-blooded, pre-meditated professional photographic session. Sebastian Atherton might expect me to know what I’m doing. Everyone in Hampstead seems to smoke Gauloises cigarettes and I wish I did – I’d have puffed my way through about ninety by now!
I have agreed to take my clothes off for a guy I don’t even know. How sensible is that? Not very, I think you’ll agree. He could drug me and parcel me up in a crate and send me to Bangkok to be a white sex slave and no one would be any the wiser. Perhaps you think my imagination is getting the better of me, but he could. These things happen. Look what happened when I got my kit off for someone I did know!
I have a quick glance at my watch for only about the zillionth time. I’m due in now. Right this very minute. Shitshitshit! I think I must be having an adrenaline rush because all my veins have gone fuzzy and indistinct. I cross the road and do loitering right near Sebastian Atherton’s front door. It does look very salubrious, I must say. He inhabits a grand Georgian mansion and if it was a person, not a house, it would be someone with not a hair out of place. Not quite the premises you’d expect for a white slave-trader. But it doesn’t do a great deal to calm my nerves, which by now are screaming, ‘Run away, run away!’
I count to ten, practise some deep breathing, abandon that and do a bit of creative visualisation, but that scares me to death, because the last thing I want to visualise is me in my birthday suit adorning the pages of the News of the World. Pushing it all to one side, I march up to the front door and brace myself to ring the bell. Instead of doing so, I hop about from foot to foot. It’s such a tiny bell and all I have to do is give it one little push.
A Compromising Position Page 27