The Modeliser

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The Modeliser Page 18

by Havana Adams


  “Thanks,” she finally replied. Since the incident with Buzz magazine and following her shopping trip with Simone, Talia had started to take her appearance seriously. She’d not yet managed to convince herself to wear make up everyday but with her hair cut and the new clothes, she felt confident that she was making a good start. She watched Alex glance at her – she wore a white sundress and she saw his gaze lower, as he tilted to the side of his chair to stare at her feet which she’d slipped into a pair of red wedge heels that morning and which lengthened her legs but were still comfortable to walk in.

  “New look?” He asked with interest. And Talia raised an eyebrow at him, fighting to keep a look of embarrassment from her face.

  “Trust you to notice,” she replied. “But if you must know – yes.” Talia said nervously playing with a strand of hair. “Did you see some of those comments about me in Buzz?” She snapped and then tried to take the sting from her tone, it wasn’t Alex’s fault that women could be cruel. Alex looked blankly at her. “There was a photo of us in that…. rag,” she explained. “And they weren’t very kind about me.” Talia saw a nod of understanding on Alex’s face and then he laid his hand over hers on the table.

  “You really shouldn’t read that shit.”

  “I don’t usually,” she admitted. “But sometimes these things are unavoidable.”

  “Sure they are,” Alex replied. “I never read any of those things.”

  “Never?” Talia asked.

  “Never.” He confirmed firmly. Talia shook her head, no wonder famous people could be so out of touch but then her one tiny experience of being in the press made her realise that perhaps for one’s sanity avoiding the papers altogether was a necessity.

  “So what do you think of the new look?” She asked and then immediately bit her tongue. Even to her ears, the question sounded flirtatious and she had no business and no interest in flirting with Alex. Their eyes met and held.

  “I like,” he said quietly before he broke eye contact and turned his gaze to her laptop screen, which had gone into screensaver mode. A photograph of the Mulberry bag that she coveted was now floating about the screen. “You like handbags?” He asked.

  “Oh it’s silly,” Talia muttered. “I should change it.”

  “Why was it there?” He asked.

  “It was supposed to be my gift to myself when I got the promotion, on Encounters… but obviously that didn’t quite work out.” Talia finished quietly. Alex was quiet as he watched the shadowed expression that flitted across Talia’s face.

  “You don’t need them.” He finally said.

  “Oh I don’t know,” Talia said lightly. “According to your girlfriend, I’m just some nobody...” She watched the confusion on Alex’s face. “Tamara,” she elaborated not hiding the contempt in her voice.

  “Yes – Helena mentioned that you two had a run in..”

  “A run in! That silly bitch destroyed my career for no reason,” Talia snapped. She was spoiling for a fight and if Alex defended Tamara she might just hit him.

  “She’s not my girlfriend,” he replied. Talia snorted as he leaned back in his chair. She watched as a gleam entered his blue eyes.

  “What?”

  “It’s too hot to work,” he said snapping her laptop shut. “Let’s do something.”

  Talia had not expected something to lead them to the Mulberry store on Bond Street.

  “What are we doing here?” She demanded as they jumped out of a black cab. As Alex paid the driver, there had been second and third glances as the mix of shoppers and tourists suddenly noticed the movie star in their midst. Alex turned to her taking her arm and they strolled into the store. For a moment Talia gloried in the surroundings, all around her handbags were displayed to perfection and then she snapped out of it. “Alex what are we doing here?”

  “You are going to buy that bag.” He stated as he cast his eye around the displays as though looking for something. “That’s it isn’t it?” Talia turned and Alex was pointing at the exact bag that she’d wanted.

  “Alex, I can’t buy that bag.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t have that kind of money and I should be saving and it’s an unnecessary extravagance.” She finished lamely. It was boring she knew but unlike Helena and Alex, she didn’t come from money.

  “You want this bag, so you should have it. It’s your two fingers up to those bastards at Encounters, show them that you are a star, that you will make it without them, that they will eat your dust.” Alex’s words dug into her consciousness and slowly Talia let herself reach out and touch the bag. She picked it up from the display and tested it on her shoulder.

  “This bag is what I would pay in a month for rent,” Talia said quietly.

  “You’ll make the money,” Alex replied confidently.

  “I don’t know that. You don’t know that.”

  “Sometimes you’ve got to bet on yourself. If you won’t who else will?” The question hung in the air between them and Talia continued to stare at the bag. Tamara’s words came back to her. “You’re a nobody.” And Talia’s heart hardened. She would show them all. With a determined stride, she marched to the cash desk.

  “I’ll take this,” she said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The usual drugs weren’t working. Not shopping, not yoga, not even solo orgasms had improved Tamara’s mood. Her casual date with Cornelius Alexander, an American banker that she’d known on and off for years had done little to take the edge off the frustration that gnawed at her. Never mind that Cornelius had taken her to the latest restaurant opening from Michelin starred chef Angela Lane, days before its official opening or that as always he’d arrived to pick her up with a trinket from Cartier. The fact was Tamara was in the throes of a deep funk, unlike any she had experienced in a long, long time. She wanted something that she simply could not have.

  She slammed into her dressing room and sank down into a chair and she felt a strange sensation as though tears might fall but of course that was absurd. Tamara never cried, could not remember when last she had shed tears. Any tears that she may have shed were strictly for the cameras. She reached for some cotton pads and began to wipe her face, when her phone rang. She reached for it.

  “Yes,” she snapped.

  “Tamara it’s me.” Recognising the gruff, needy voice, she terminated the call at once. Just then there was a knock on the door and Casey entered. Tamara turned on her.

  “Didn’t I ask you to block Damian’s number?”

  “Well…”Casey began

  “Well what, it is a simple fucking request. I do not want him calling me, so get the phone company to block any calls from him,” Tamara yelled.

  “I’m sorry Tamara, they can’t..” Casey was cut off by the mobile phone, which sailed out of Tamara’s hand, flying across the distance between them, to smack into her forehead before bouncing of the wall and clattering to the ground.

  “I don’t want your fucking excuses Casey. When I want something done I expect you to do it. Understand?” Tamara’s rage was a palpable force and she turned to Casey who was crying quietly. “Oh get out of here.” With a small sob, Casey ran from the room.

  Slowly Tamara sank back down into her chair. She was losing control and that frightened the hell out of her.

  For a man who had fucked countless women, Alex could safely say he was no closer to understanding what made them tick. Even the ones who seemed straightforward confounded him. What he liked about Talia, her straightforwardness, her seriousness, her straight talking, which was in so many ways so very un-British had made him imagine that she was in some way different from most of the women he encountered but it seemed that when it came to handbags, all women were the same. After they’d left the shop, they stopped for a drink at the bar at nearby Claridges Hotel. Even as they’d talked easily about books, film and nothing in particular he could tell that Talia had been distracted. She’d stroked the bag lightly, like it was a lover and he’d h
ad the fleeting and uneasy wish that she would touch him that same way. She’d stayed for only a couple of drinks telling him she still had scripts to read. As she’d jumped off her perch on the bar stool, she’d surprised him by leaning in and kissing him on the cheek. And for the longest moment after she left, Alex wished he’d put his hand out and stopped her from leaving.

  Later, after downing several more drinks he’d left Claridges winding his way down the backstreets that ran parallel to Oxford Street. On the fringes of Hyde Park, he’d stopped to buy a London baseball cap from a stall selling souvenirs to tourists. He’d pulled the cap low on his head, hoping that he might walk the streets for once unnoticed. Alex walked without aim at first, through Hyde Park, past the Diana Memorial Fountain and then the statue of Peter Pan. Slowly though his footsteps gained focus, he exited the park at Knightsbridge; ducking through the side streets alongside Sloane Avenue until eventually he stood in Sloane Square outside the Regent Court Theatre. For a moment he looked up at the place and was assailed by a powerful nostalgia. The more things change, the more they stay the same. The last time he’d been on stage had been here. Could he ever be that young again he wondered? Did he even want to be that young again? That afternoon he’d told Talia – “you have to bet on yourself.” Somehow he’d stopped taking his own advice but that changed now. He knew exactly what he had to do. With the decision made, Alex ascended the steps and walked into the theatre.

  It had proved easy to get Margot’s schedule from her chatty assistant and as he eased into the back of the Lowood Theatre downstairs, Alex allowed his eyes to slowly adjust to the darkness as he took a seat in the back pew. A rehearsal was in progress and he watched the actors. Still on the page, the actors moved about the stage, learning their cues and marks, taking directions and discussing the finer points of the text. Alex felt something stir in his blood – it was an unfamiliar feeling – engagement, interest – something he hadn’t felt in a long time. As the actors worked through the choreography on a complicated fight scene he found himself leaning forward in his seat, he ate it up, watching intently everything that was happening on stage. For the first time in a long time, he felt at home.

  “Let’s take a break for 15,” the director called and the actors began sloping off the stage. Alex rose and moved with purpose towards a white-haired woman who had also been observing the action. Margot. The agent who had nurtured his theatre career, who had got him the audition for Hiding Places and whom he had quickly left behind as soon as Hollywood and Avital came calling. His treatment of Margot had contributed to the rift between him and his grandfather and Alex was filled with a desire to make amends. He felt nerves and guilt as she turned towards him.

  “Margot,” he said leaning in to kiss her weathered and yet beautiful face.

  “Dear boy,” Margot said without surprise. “Well, it took you long enough,” she said with a twinkle in her eye and Alex finally allowed himself to exhale.

  Across town, Talia too was taking a step into the unknown. She had ridden the tube home on autopilot, the Mulberry handbag clasped to her as Alex’s words were ringing in her head. Bet on yourself, bet on yourself. For too long, she had placed her faith in others and by the time she reached the house, a plan had crystallised. Talia opened up her laptop. She stared at the stack of scripts that were still waiting to be read. She shifted them off the table and instead opened up her notebook – to the doodles and sketches that were a constant part of her routine but which had never before developed into anything beyond unfinished ideas and snippets of dialogue in her head. Her eyes zeroed in on the one idea that had been clamouring in her mind louder than the others, the idea that she had mentioned to Helena, the idea that she most wanted to write. She clicked an icon on her laptop and watched as the standard Final Draft screenwriting programme opened. She held her breath and for a long time she stared at the blank white screen, she had never been more scared. Bet on yourself, she thought and as she finally exhaled, she began to type. EXT – CARPARK – DAY. When she finally looked up, she had written one scene, just one scene but it was the first step for Talia, screenwriter.

  And she began to smile. She had finally made a start.

  Tamara was drinking alone. She was not a woman who liked to share her problems and her temper tantrums of late were starting to rank as a problem. She’d continued to avoid Katie’s calls, the last thing she needed was to expose her open wounds for cooing and scrutiny. Usually the cool surroundings of the Gaslight members club on Portobello Road could be counted on to lift her spirits but today it aggravated her more than ever. She downed her drink wincing at the bitter aftertaste and strolled down the stairs and out of the bar. She had begun the walk through the antique market when she heard a voice call her name. Her instinct was to ignore it, the last thing she needed now was some autograph hunter. The voice called out again and Tamara turned, usually the autograph hunters called her by her character's name.

  “Tamara,’ the voice was hesitant and husky, a girl. Tamara turned using her hand to shield her eyes against the sun. Before her were three girls, young girls though they were decked out in high fashion. Even with only a cursory glance, Tamara could spot Balenciaga, Chloe and Ralph Lauren. “Hi Tamara,” the tallest of the girls said again. And in a flash Tamara recognised her, Vassily’s lover. The girl moved forward awkwardly and Tamara felt her curiosity grow. Why on earth would this girl speak to her? She remained silent waiting for her to continue.

  “We didn’t meet properly the other night,” the girl said. “I’m Sasha.” Tamara stared in fascination as the girl held her hand out to her. Slowly she stretched her own out, coolly shaking the girl’s hand.

  “Sasha,” Tamara said unable to stop the bubble of curiosity that spread through her.

  “I love your show,” Sasha continued. “We all watch Encounters.” Tamara held back a wince. Oh Vassily, she thought, she’s a child. Sasha glanced back behind her; her friends were growing impatient and already drifting away down the market. “Anyway it was nice to meet you.” Tamara watched as Sasha reached into her bag to retrieve a pen, quickly scrawling something down on a piece of paper. “If you ever want to come by,” she said handing the paper to Tamara. Tamara glanced down at the piece of paper, on which was scrawled a telephone number and an address in Chelsea.

  “Why…?” Tamara began but the girl continued to speak.

  “He really likes you.” Sasha said. “I think it’d be good for my dad, to get to know you,” she finished quietly and then turned quickly in pursuit of her friends, disappearing into the throng of Portobello Road.

  Tamara continued to stare after her for a long time as realisation finally pierced through her alcohol compromised senses. Sasha wasn’t Vassily’s lover. She was his daughter.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Helena was lost in a delicious dream. She was on a white sandy beach and hot sunshine beat down on her as she sipped from a tall cocktail. Suddenly, the idyll was ruptured by the insistent beeping of the alarm on her Blackberry. Sighing she reached an arm out from under the covers and grabbed the phone off the bedside table, pressing the snooze button to stop the sound. She stretched in the bed, luxuriating in the comfort of the mattress and the crisp sheets. Few hotels could do comfort quite like the Ritz in Paris. Keeping her eyes closed and allowing herself to enjoy the precious last few moments before she had to get out of bed.

  Slowly the events of the last few days drifted back into her mind and Helena sighed. In the days since they had arrived in Paris, Sula still hadn’t to re-appeared and she and Gabe had instead focused on getting the centenary issue together. After a series of heated conference calls back to Tobias in London, they were almost ready to put the issue to bed; only the cover shots remained to be finished. Tobias had made it clear, in no uncertain terms, that they had to deliver Sula – several of the key advertisers that they had lined up for the issue were dependent on Sula being on the cover.

  Helena finally opened her eyes – it was time to get started wi
th the day. Her room was in darkness; the heavy curtains shut tight, keeping out the light and the sounds of the bustling thoroughfare of the Rue Saint Honore. She pushed back the covers and froze as she sensed something. She was not alone. Helena jack-knifed out of the bed and snapped the bedside lamp on. The room was immediately bathed in a dim orange light and she let out a sound halfway between a gasp and a shriek as she found herself staring into the mocking gaze of Gabe, who was perched on one side of her bed.

  “Gabe!” Helena squealed as fear quickly gave way to anger. The adrenalin from her fight or flee response was still coursing through her and she wanted to yell or throw something, anything to wipe the smug expression off Gabe’s face.

  “You know you sleep like the dead,” Gabe said.

  “What the hell is wrong with you? How long have you been in here?” Helena demanded full of suspicion. Gabe looked down and Helena saw that his camera, a Pentax 67, lay on the bed next to him. She watched as he reached for it and fiddled with the shutter for a moment. With growing irritation she sat up in bed, folding her arms across her chest as she glared at him.

  “You have got a serious problem.” She snapped the words at him and then shrieked once again as he suddenly raised the camera and snapped a rapid series of shots of her.

  Suddenly Helena was aware of the brief cotton shorts and the thin white vest that she had worn to bed. She dived for the robe that she had discarded on a chair the night before, wrapping it around her body before she turned back to face Gabe.

  “If you don’t get out of here, in five seconds I’m calling for the police to remove you.”

  “You’re not calling the police.”

  “Try me,” Helena snapped already moving towards the phone. She had picked up the receiver and begun to tap in a number, when she heard him move. She turned back towards him and saw that he had lowered the camera. He was, she noticed, trying to look contrite. He wasn’t very convincing.

 

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