Acquired Tastes

by Simone Mondesir

  'Looks like our little problem has arrived,' he said in a theatrical whisper.

  They both stood and turned to face the newcomers.

  Vanessa was surprised to see that the bald man was only about twenty-four or five. He had pale, coffee-coloured skin and features that looked as though they had been sculpted by a latter-day Michelangelo. The body under his black Levi's and sleeveless white T-shirt was tightly muscled and he moved with a dancer's poise.

  'Damien, I'd like you to meet Vanessa Swift and Dr Fergus Archibald,' Hugo said.

  Vanessa put on her most seductive of smiles and held out a hand.

  Damien gave her a cursory nod, his dark gaze fixed on Fergus. He crossed his arms and walked over, looking Fergus up and down. Then he walked slowly around him, all the while making little 'tsk tsk' sounds and shaking his head.

  'Oh dear, you were right as always. We do have a teensy-weensy bit of a problem, don't we?' He raised an eyebrow and looked at Hugo.

  Hugo shrugged and perched on the back of one of the sofas.

  Damien took a tuft of Fergus's beard between his thumb and forefinger and pulled a face. 'Do you want to keep this?' he inquired of Hugo, completely ignoring Fergus's glare. 'I personally think beards are a hygiene risk.' He turned Fergus's face into profile. 'The problem is, they so often hide a multitude of sins - a weak chin or possibly no chin at all.' He prodded Fergus's face where his chin ought to be. 'Perhaps we can trim this one down and give it a more sculpted shape so that it makes a stronger statement. At the moment it just says woolly wild man to me.'

  He stepped back and crossed his arms again.

  'The hair will have to be thinned out too, and I would recommend it being relaxed just a tad, with maybe a little highlight here and there? This boy looks as though he ate all the crusts on his bread when he was little.'

  Hugo snickered.

  An angry dark flush crept up Fergus's neck. 'Now look, you little …'

  Damien held up an imperious hand. To Vanessa's astonishment, Fergus lapsed into a bad-tempered silence.

  'You're going to have a bit of a problem with his complexion under the lights, Hugo,' Damien continued. 'He has the dreaded beetroot tendency. I suggest a little green in his make-up base to tone down the red. I would also suggest a good facial and liberal use of a toner on that skin as he's got a real problem with his nose.' Damien sighed, 'If only men would look after their pores better. You could drive a juggernaut through the potholes on the average Englishman's face!'

  'I'm a Scotsman, you ignorant son-of…' snarled Fergus but stopped as Vanessa's long nails bit into his arm.

  Damien gave Fergus's beard a little tweak. 'I should have known. That northern climate does nothing for the complexion and less than nothing for the figure.'

  He turned to Hugo. 'Did you know that the Scots have the most unhealthy diet in Europe, if not the world, and that's your biggest problem,' he said, pointing to Fergus's large stomach. 'I can paint and I can primp, but you can only disguise so much, and I'm no miracle worker. I can recommend a super personal trainer, but we're still talking months, if not years.'

  Fergus's throat began to emit noises that sounded like a volcano ready to erupt. Vanessa decided it was time to intervene.

  'I think we should be practical. We've got a tight budget and an even tighter schedule. We're in the studio in one week's time, so I think we should concentrate on the things we can actually change, like clothes.'

  Damien looked at Hugo, who nodded agreement.

  Damien shrugged and draped an arm around Hugo's shoulders. 'For this little love bunny, anything.' Then he walked across to his drawing board and started sorting through swatches of different coloured material.

  'Much more of this and I'm going to do something one of us is going to regret,' Fergus growled to Vanessa.

  'You are going to do no such thing,' Vanessa hissed. 'We have an agreement and I'm going to hold you to it.'

  Their eyes locked for a long moment before they were interrupted by Damien.

  He draped swatches of material in shades of gold, green and brown over Fergus's right shoulder.

  'There, I was right. He is most definitely an autumn person.' Damien wagged his finger at Fergus. 'You really shouldn't wear blue. It isn't your colour, far too cold.'

  Fergus brushed the pieces of material off his shoulder and dug his hands into his pockets. A vein on his right temple began to throb.

  Damien linked his arm through Hugo's and they both considered Fergus. 'When you said Freud to me, Hugo, I immediately saw high collars. But now I've seen his neck, I think the casual college campus look. You know, chinos, button-downs and loafers would be better. Such a pity as I found this darling Edwardian-style bottle green suit, so very Freudian, but one really can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear. What do you think?'

  Hugo shrugged. 'Anything you can do will be much appreciated, Damien, but I have a problem with greens or browns as I want the dominant colour theme of the set to be fuchsia pink. I talked it over with Gabriella at lunch yesterday and she simply adores the idea, but I just can't see how he will blend in. There's something so very unpink about him.'

  Vanessa gave Hugo a sharp look. She did not like the idea of Gabriella and Hugo getting on well. It edged the balance of power further away from her. She wondered what else they had discussed over lunch.

  'Now there's a woman who's a star down to her toenails, ' Damien said approvingly. 'Since you had lunch with Gabriella yesterday, she's called me three times to discuss designers and we're having a little tête-à-tête tonight in her hotel suite with a few samples.' He walked over and patted Fergus on the shoulder. 'However, in the meantime, I will try to do my best with this chunk of unreconstructed northern man here.'

  Damien indicated one of the sofas to Vanessa. 'If Madam would like to make herself comfortable, I shall now wave my magic wand and see if I can turn a pumpkin into a gilded carriage so that Cinderella here can go to the ball, but I'm not promising miracles, just a little sprinkle of fairy dust.'

  Vanessa settled herself on to one of the sofas. Hugo sat down beside her.

  Damien pulled a dust sheet off a rail of clothes and pushed it into the centre of the room. 'You said large Hugo, so I asked for everything in extra large just to be sure.' He selected a mustard yellow velvet jacket and turned to Fergus. 'Right, strip off, and God forbid, let's take a look at the bare canvas.'

  Fergus glared at him. The tic on his temple was now executing a pulsating duet with a vein on the side of his neck.

  'Fuck off.'

  'Oh, come now,' Damien said, impatiently advancing on Fergus with the jacket in one hand and a shirt and a pair of trousers in the other. 'We're all friends here. I don't suppose you've got anything the rest of us haven't seen before and if you have, I'm sure we'd all enjoy seeing it.'

  Damien addressed this last remark to Hugo, so he didn't see the large fist which hit him on the side of his face, lifting him off his feet and landing him flat on his back on the floor.

  He lay still for a moment, a surprised look on his face. Then he shakily raised himself on one elbow and put his other hand to his nose. When he took it away he saw blood.

  He gave a low moan and fainted.

  Twenty-Five

  'Gabriella, please. I thought this was something we could settle like old friends over a drink,' pleaded Philip, and then hesitated as his chest started to constrict.

  He searched hurriedly for his pills and popped two into his mouth. His face involuntarily screwed up with disgust at the unpleasant taste. He drank a mouthful of mineral water, but it didn't help much. What he really needed was some good malt whisky, but his doctor had ordered him to avoid rich foods, alcohol and stress. So much for his doctor understanding a television executive's life, Philip thought bitterly.

  Gabriella sipped her champagne cocktail, avoiding Philip's hurt look. A waiter delivered their main course. Gabriella's was a large pink-brown crab artfully arranged on a sea of feathery endive, surrounded by ca
rrot starfish, radish sea anemones and pasta shells in a creamy sauce. Philip looked morosely at his undressed green salad and unseasoned steamed fish.

  Gabriella gazed around the restaurant as she thoughtfully munched a carrot starfish. They had come here at her insistence, Philip had suggested a quieter and less expensive place, but she wanted it known she was back in town. People were nodding in her direction. She raised her glass at a table occupied by a group of men she had known as junior production staff, and who were now the heads of their respective companies. They smiled and nodded back.

  Gabriella noted their receding - and in one case vanished - hairlines with pleasure. At least two of them were younger than her. Her choice of restaurant had been perfect.

  She turned back to Philip.

  'People still admire and respect me. What do you think it would do to my credibility rating if it got around that I had agreed to share the billing with an amateur quack on what is rapidly turning into some cut-price show?'

  Before Philip could reply, Gabriella switched on a gracious smile for two more suited men walking by their table. They stopped to shake her hand and murmur greetings, barely acknowledging Philip's existence.

  'Did you see that?' Gabriella asked triumphantly after they’d gone. 'I'm still a big name in this town. I'm sure I could get a better deal elsewhere.'

  Philip massaged his chest with one hand. Had Gabriella been away so long that she had forgotten what celebrity culture was like? Even a faded celebrity was worth a handshake if it meant some grey suited nonentity to later claim her intimate acquaintance in private.

  He watched her graciously acknowledge several other people. Not one of them would take a chance and employ her at the moment, he thought, but if she was a success on his show, they would come swarming round her like sharks at a feeding frenzy, all wanting a piece of her.

  'Gabriella.' Philip tried to recapture her attention. 'Gabriella, please. I simply can't offer you a better deal at the moment because my budget is very restricted. But if we get the ratings and I promise you we will, then we can renegotiate.'

  Gabriella's voice was business-like, even as she smiled radiantly at someone walking through the door. 'I want that in writing - an agreed rise for every percentage point I push up the ratings after the first show.'

  'I wouldn't like to be quite as specific as that,' Philip said hastily, 'but I'm sure we can come up with a form of words that we will both find agreeable.'

  Gabriella picked up a crab claw and with the silver pincers provided, expertly cracked it open, exposing its soft white flesh. Deftly hooking out a morsel, she dipped it into some mayonnaise and with a little mew of satisfaction popped it into her mouth.

  Philip listlessly prodded his fish with his fork, and then reached for the salt cellar. Gabriella wagged an admonitory finger at him. Philip sighed and put his fork down. He had lost his appetite.

  Gabriella examined the claw to see if there was any meat left and then dropped it on her plate. She looked across at Philip. 'And what about this other presenter? I don't like working with amateurs. They're worse than animals. At least you know there's a good chance an animal is either going to bite or shit, but you can never tell what an amateur might do.'

  'Let's just try him out on the pilot, and if it doesn't work out, then we can lose him. Anyway, I would like you to think of Dr Archibald as our resident expert, someone for you to occasionally address questions to, not your co-presenter. He will also be the perfect foil for your great beauty. A case of beauty and the beast - rather apt imagery for a series about sexual fantasy, don't you think?' Philip chuckled, but there was no answering warmth in the look on Gabriella's face.

  'My dearest girl…' He reached across the table for Gabriella's hand.

  She picked up her glass.

  Philip felt a stab in his chest that wasn't anything to do with his indigestion. In a world in which the old certainties seemed to have gone, he had thought that Gabriella at least would remain constant to their past. But perhaps she was right. Sentiment should take second place to business. He straightened up.

  'I have complete faith in your abilities, Gabriella,' he said crisply. 'But Archibald is a psychologist with expertise in these matters, and I anticipate we are going to have a lot of detractors in the current political climate. Having him on the show gives us academic credibility. However, you have my assurance he will not be allowed to interfere in any way.'

  Even as he said the words, the vision of Fergus punching Damien on the nose rose up before him. He tried to swallow it along with a little water.

  Gabriella looked unconvinced and toyed with a radish. Philip had always been so malleable in the past. One smile from her and he would agree to almost anything. But there was an air of determination tinged with something akin to desperation about him now, and it was not a combination that bode well. She would just have to change Philip's mind for him once they got into the studio, Gabriella decided, as she snapped another claw in half. She could easily make this Archibald man look a complete fool without damaging herself. She smiled. After she had finished with him, Philip wouldn't be able to get rid of Archibald fast enough.

  Philip mistook her smile for agreement and smiled back. Gabriella scooped out a fork-load of dark flesh from the crab's body and offered it to him. He waved it away. His digestive system was in no condition to accommodate shellfish.

  Gabriella popped the crab into her mouth and then searched around for any further flesh. After two more mouthfuls she was satisfied there was no more to be found and with a sigh of pleasure, pushed her plate away. It was piled high with the shattered remnants of the dismembered corpse. Philip held out a napkin as she dabbled her fingers in the finger bowl. Gabriella smiled as she took it from him and carefully dried her hand.

  'Philip darling, I trust you. Haven't I always? I'll do my best with this psychiatrist fellow if you will agree to just one or two teeny weeny little things for me.'

  Philip crunched on another pill.

  'First of all, I'd like my own make-up artist. Most of the girls these days think they're house painters, but I know this absolute sweetie of a little man - Joan and Britt and Gina all swear by him - and secondly, I'd like all my outfits to come from Cesar. I simply adore his designs, they're so me.'

  Philip choked. Gabriella handed him a glass of water. Philip drained it in one gulp.

  'Cesar.' Philip's voice was little more than a hoarse croak. The flamboyance of Cesar's clothes was only matched by the extravagance of his prices.

  'Cesar,' Gabriella repeated firmly, 'and now if you don't mind darling, I simply must fly. I have another appointment.'

  Two waiters rushed forward to hold Gabriella's chair as she prepared to leave. She pecked Philip lightly on the cheek before sweeping out of the restaurant, waving regally to the other tables as she went.

  Philip sat motionless for a few moments. The crab's lifeless eyes stared back at him from Gabriella's plate. He signalled to a waiter.

  'A large whisky,' he demanded hoarsely.

  Outside the restaurant, Gabriella started to hail a taxi and then changed her mind and decided to walk to her hotel. Today she wanted to feel the warmth of the sun on her face and the pavements of London beneath her feet again. As she walked, she felt like singing aloud. London was going to be her town again. She had seen it on the faces of those men in the restaurant. She was on her way back, and she was going to do it on her terms. She had been ignominiously forced to leave England when her debts escalated and nobody returned her calls. When she was back on top, she would remember all those people whose secretaries had told her they were in meetings and would call back later.

  Her hotel was just off Piccadilly. It was small, discreet and very smart. She smiled at the thought of what Philip's face would look like when he received the bill. He really had become such an old stick in the mud. He had never been much of a good looker, but he'd had a certain style in the old days, with his long blond hair, dark glasses and battered MG sports car. He drove
it open-topped winter and summer, and there had always been a crate of the very best champagne in the boot. He had been such fun then.

  She hurried up to her suite to change out of the tailored, charcoal grey suit she had worn for lunch. She wanted to create just the right impression for this interview. Most of the new school of female television presenters looked as though they had been cloned out of the same shop window dummy mould, and a chain store shop window, at that. They were plastic and colourless and so anxious to be taken seriously, they didn't dare be sexy unless you thought Barbie dolls were sexy. She'd never been scared of being a woman, and woe betide the man who hadn't taken her seriously.

  After some deliberation, she decided on a black, figure-hugging polo-necked dress with a clever cut-out at the front, which artfully revealed a large expanse of cleavage which she dusted with a little blusher. The dress was trimmed at the neck and cuffs with fake leopard skin. She draped a stole casually over one shoulder, and then perched a Cossack-style hat cheekily on one side of her head to complete her outfit - both matched the fur trim on her dress. In the old days the leopard skin would have been real, she thought regretfully, but a girl had to move with the times.

  From her jewellery casket, she selected large diamante earrings in the shape of snarling leopards' heads, and slipped several real diamond rings on her fingers.

  She was just retouching her scarlet lipstick when a quiet purr from the phone alerted her to the arrival of her visitors. Gabriella instructed the receptionist to keep them waiting for nine minutes exactly, no less and no more, and then poured a drink from the bottle of pink champagne she had ordered earlier. She replaced the bottle in the ice bucket and drank the champagne down in one.

  Ten minutes later the doorbell rang. Gabriella checked her smile in the mirror before opening the door.

  'Mr Spittle, I'm delighted to meet you.' She held out her hand to a tall thin man. He looked uncomfortable.

  'I'm Eddie,' said a tiny ferret-faced man whom Gabriella hadn't noticed because he barely came up to the other man's elbow. He jerked his head at the thin man. 'This is Sid, my photographer.'