Stolen Beginnings

by Susan Lewis

  He unwound himself. ‘You’re not listening. The jerk of an editor wants changes.’

  ‘Tell him you won’t do them.’

  ‘Then he won’t publish.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Philip Hoves will be here in a minute. I’m going to tell him just where this Harry Freemantle gets off.’

  ‘You can’t do that.’

  ‘Like hell I can’t! It’s my book. I thought about it in the cab on the way over, I’ve made up my mind. For God’s sake, will you stop reading that paper!’

  ‘No, don’t screw it up, Paul.’ She tried to snatch it back. ‘I haven’t read my horoscope yet.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake!’ he exploded.

  ‘Don’t you want to know what yours is?’ she offered, hoping it might calm him down. ‘They might say something about . . .’

  He shot to his feet and in a flash she was beside him, grabbing his arm to pull him back. He shrugged her off, and then she saw that Philip Hoves had arrived. The two men shook hands, and Madeleine stooped awkwardly to give the agent a quick peck on the cheek before they all went upstairs to the restaurant.

  Madeleine struggled to keep up with the conversation. Knowing how important all this was to Paul, she tried to voice some support, but her efforts were ignored. Then, just after the table had been cleared and coffee was being poured, Paul suddenly slammed his hand down on the table and declared that she was the answer to the problem. Philip looked uncomfortable and shook his head, but Paul was behaving as though he had lighted upon a solution to Catch 22. Madeleine didn’t have the faintest idea what they were talking about, and since it was approaching two o’clock she got up to leave. Paul got up too and walked her down to the car.

  ‘Knock ’em dead,’ he said, as he closed the door behind her. She wound down the window and he leaned in to kiss her. ‘Tell me you love me,’ he murmured.

  She did, and added: ‘After this session everyone will see my body, but it belongs to you, Paul. Everything of mine belongs to you.’

  ‘Just you remember that,’ he said, brushing his hand lightly over her breasts. ‘I’ll be waiting when you get home.’

  When she arrived at the Marmoth Studios Madeleine was led through a maze of corridors by a pimply young boy who prefaced everything he said with a giggle. She asked what the red lights were above the doors, and when he told her that they signified the studios were in operation, she asked if they could take a peep.

  ‘You can’t do that,’ he tittered. ‘The photographers don’t like just any old person looking in.’

  ‘What, not even the models?’ she said huffily.

  He wrinkled his nose and looked her up and down. ‘You a model?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  Scratching his head, he looked down at the clipboard he was carrying. ‘Aren’t you Sandra Turnham from St. Ivel?’

  Madeleine stopped dead. ‘No, I am not!’

  He looked at his list again. ‘Then who are you?’

  Her nostrils flared. ‘My name is Madeleine Deacon.’

  His mouth dropped open, then slapping a hand against his head, he giggled, ‘Of course. You’re the one for Page Three, aren’t you?’ He tucked his clipboard under his arm and turned round. ‘We’re going the wrong way. Herbie Prosser’s doing The Sun today. He’s in Studio 6. He’s doing Faye Broad’s shots at the moment, so I’ll take you straight to the make-up rooms if that’s all right.’

  Madeleine followed him back down the corridor, then up some stairs and through a door marked ‘Authorised Personnel Only’.

  The room beyond was stark white – white tiles, white chairs, white lights, white windows. Even the towels that had been tossed casually aside were white. There were three girls already in the room, two sitting at mirrors tissuing off make-up, and one massaging fake tan into her body. They were all naked, and not one of them turned so much as a hair when the pimply boy yelled, ‘Chrissie!’

  One of the girls got up from the mirror and padded across to a washbasin. As she passed, she gave Madeleine the once-over. Madeleine smiled, but the girl’s face remained stony.

  ‘Chrissie!’ the boy yelled again.

  ‘She’s gone to get some coffee,’ the girl with the fake tan answered.

  ‘Oh,’ he giggled. He glanced up at Madeleine, then shrugging, he said, ‘I’ll leave you to it, then. I’ll give you a shout when Herbie’s ready.’ He looked at his watch. ‘About half an hour I expect, maybe a bit longer. You ready, Dawn?’

  Dawn put down the fake tan and unhooked a robe from the door that led into what Madeleine presumed to be Chrissie’s office. As she followed the boy out of the make-up room, she didn’t even glance in Madeleine’s direction.

  The last thing Madeleine had expected to feel was nervous, but her stomach gave a horrible lurch as the door closed and she turned back into the room. What should she do now?

  The girl who was still sitting at the mirror came to her rescue. ‘Hi,’ she said, looking at Madeleine’s reflection. ‘You new?’

  Madeleine nodded.

  The girl, who was Indian and had the most glorious mane of black hair Madeleine had ever seen, turned round. ‘Thought so. My name’s Shamir. There are lockers in Chrissie’s office to hang your clothes in. Might just as well get undressed now, be ready for her when she gets back. What’s your name, by the way?’

  ‘Madeleine.’

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Actually,’ Madeleine answered, trying to sound modest, ‘I’m doing Page Three.’

  Shamir nodded. ‘What of?’

  ‘Exchange and Mart.’ The girl by the washbasins shrieked with laughter as she said it.

  Madeleine swung round. ‘For The Sun, actually,’ she drawled, emphasising the last word.

  ‘Oooh! Are we supposed to be impressed?’

  ‘Take no notice of her,’ Shamir whispered, ‘she’s like that with everyone. Anyway, if you’re doing The Sun that means you’ll be with Herbie, so you’ll be safe. He’s a queen. Lucky girl, getting him your first time out. I take it it is your first time?’

  Madeleine shrugged. ‘More or less. I did some shots a couple of weeks ago, but they were done in my agent’s studio by one of her partners. They weren’t for anything particular.’ She wanted to say how excited Deidre had been when she’d seen the results, but decided it might sound a bit big-headed.

  ‘Who’s your agent?’

  ‘Deidre Crabb.’

  Shamir seemed perplexed for a minute, then her beautiful face brightened. ‘She’s my agent too. I didn’t know she represented girls like . . .’ She stopped quickly, realising she was about to be rude. ‘Hear that, Vera?’ she called out. ‘Madeleine’s agent’s Deidre Crabb.’ Then in a lower voice, ‘Her name’s Lynn so we call her Vera, she hates it.’

  The other girl didn’t bother to answer, and seeing that Shamir was laughing, Madeleine grinned, and walked into the office to get undressed.

  When she went back into the make-up room, Shamir was at the washbasin shampooing her hair, and Vera had gone.

  Madeleine wandered over to a chair and sat down. ‘What are you doing?’ she asked Shamir.

  ‘Already done it,’ Shamir called back. ‘Dubonnet on a tropical beach in sunny Wembley with Randy Roger, just thank God the client was there.’ She rinsed off her hair, then just as she was wrapping a towel round it, the door opened and a round, jolly figure backed into the room, carrying a tray of coffee.

  As she turned round and saw Madeleine, she started, sloshing the coffee over the sides of the cups. ‘Oh my goodness, you must be Madeleine,’ she cried. ‘Sorry I’ve been so long, couldn’t find any milk. You’ve got yourself undressed, good girl. I’m Chrissie, by the way. I’ll just buzz down to Mervyn and tell him you’re here. Like a coffee while you’re waiting?’

  ‘Mervyn?’ Madeleine asked.

  ‘Costume. They’re dressing you up a bit. Here.’ She passed Madeleine a polystyrene cup. ‘Sugar?’

  Madeleine shook her head, and watche
d Chrissie as she tore the wrapper off a Kit-Kat and bit into it.

  ‘That’s better,’ she sighed, her mouth still half-full. ‘I was absolutely starving.’ She jumped. ‘Oh, Shamir, I didn’t see you over there. Dawn gone down, has she?’

  ‘Ten minutes ago,’ Shamir answered. Then looking at Madeleine, she gave a long, low whistle. ‘Well, well,’ she said. ‘Stand up, let’s look at you.’

  Madeleine put down her cup, straightened her back and rose gracefully from the chair.

  ‘Turn round,’ Shamir demanded. Madeleine did. ‘Chrissie, will you just take a look at those legs. And those tits. Jesus, I hate you, Madeleine.’ She turned to Chrissie who was devouring the remains of her chocolate bar. ‘Is she perfect, or is she just perfect?’

  ‘Fabulous,’ Chrissie confirmed. ‘Now let’s get Mervyn up here.’

  Twenty minutes later Madeleine’s eyes were laden with make-up and she was dressed in an assortment of black leather and rubber. Girls swarmed in and out of the make-up rooms, either ignoring her totally or hissing barbed comments about all the attention she was receiving. Madeleine stuck her nose in the air and paraded up and down the room for Mervyn to inspect his work. He was a short man with frizzy grey hair and a neat beard. As he watched Madeleine, his right hand hung limply from his wrist and his left rested on his hip.

  ‘OK,’ he said, ‘take it all off, one item at a time, let’s see what happens. Are you watching this, Chrissie?’

  ‘I’m watching!’ she cried from the office, and then she appeared at the door.

  ‘Right, Maureen . . .’

  ‘Madeleine!’ Madeleine interrupted.

  ‘Sorry, hen. Right, Madeleine, unzip the skirt to just above the pubes and stick out your ass.’

  Madeleine did.

  Mervyn nodded. ‘OK so far. Now, take hold of the cups of the bra – no, no, at the edges, just under your arms, that’s it. Now pull . . . Harder!’

  Madeleine yanked at the flimsy material – there was the sickening sound of ripping fabric and to her dismay she looked down to find the cups of the bra in her hands and the frame around her body.

  ‘It works!’ Mervyn squealed. ‘I’m a genius! It’ll be up to Herbie how he wants it, all I needed to know was that they would come off. Tell him there are peepholes in the cups, they’re held together with velcro too, he might prefer them. Now, let’s see if we can get these cups back on again. Take the bra off, darling, it’ll be easier.’

  Madeleine unhooked the bra and passed it over. She was about to complain that the boots were too small when Chrissie said, ‘I think you’d better have a haircut.’

  Madeleine’s head snapped up, and she was already backing away. ‘Oh no,’ she said, shaking her head vigorously, ‘you’re not touching my hair.’

  ‘Not on your head, ducky, down there. We’ll just give it a trim.’

  At that point the pimply-faced youth came into the room. ‘Ready for you, Madeleine.’

  ‘Two minutes, Derek,’ Chrissie answered, and taking the hem of Madeleine’s leather skirt in both hands, she heaved it up over her bottom. ‘Legs slightly apart,’ she said, turning her round and reaching into her pocket for a pair of scissors. ‘Just a quick snip, that’s it. Much better. Now let’s look at the face again before we go.’

  After her final check Madeleine put the bra back on, did up the skirt and followed Derek and Mervyn out of the room. Chrissie came after her with a robe, and draping it round her shoulders, she said, ‘As it’s your first time I’ll come down with you. Normally one of my assistants supervises in the studio, but I’m not expecting anyone else until five.’

  The studio was dark when they walked in, with just a small pool of light around a platform near the back. Once her eyes had adjusted, Madeleine realised there were several people moving quietly about the room. Then a man stepped out from behind a screen and walked towards them.

  ‘Madeleine?’ he said, looking at her.

  Madeleine nodded.

  ‘This is Herbie Prosser,’ Derek whinnied. ‘He’s the photographer.’ He looked up at Herbie with saucer-like eyes, but Herbie ignored him and held his hand out to Madeleine.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said. ‘This shouldn’t take too long. We’ll just keep it straightforward, nothing fancy. Let’s see what Mervyn’s come up with.’

  Chrissie whisked the robe from Madeleine’s shoulders, and Herbie stood back to survey her costume. It took him all of three seconds before he turned abruptly and snapped, ‘Get it off!’

  Madeleine looked at Mervyn, Mervyn looked at Madeleine, then they both looked at Herbie. He was walking back across the studio.

  ‘Herbie! Herbie!’ Mervyn cried, mincing after him, ‘I’ve gone to a lot of trouble to make up that . . .’

  ‘Get it off!’ Herbie repeated. ‘Straight tits and ass, that’s all they want.’

  Looking like a kicked puppy, Mervyn turned back and nodded sadly at Madeleine. He and Chrissie helped her remove the skirt and bra, and with relief she kicked off the boots.

  ‘Put the boots back on,’ Herbie called. ‘They’re great.’

  Madeleine pulled a face, heaved a sigh, and pushed her feet back into them.

  ‘OK, let’s get the show on the road,’ someone shouted, and Chrissie took Madeleine by the arm and led her over to the lights.

  After one or two test polaroids which were handed round the room, Herbie waited for his assistant to load the camera, then stepped up to the tripod and pressed his eye to the viewfinder. ‘Hands on hips,’ he barked, ‘head back, left leg up. That’s it. And another. Head further back, look up at the ceiling, bring your left shoulder round to the camera. That’s it. And another. Spread your fingers, baby oil on the nipples, someone; that’s it, lift that leg higher, that’s it.’ It went on like that for several minutes, then Herbie moved away from the camera while it was reloaded. ‘Relax,’ he told Madeleine. Then at the top of his voice, ‘Who the hell keeps walking in and out back there?’

  No one answered, and scowling, he turned back to Madeleine. She was perched on the edge of the stage, the towelling robe round her shoulders again and Chrissie standing over her, flicking at her hair. Herbie walked over to them, sat down next to Madeleine and told Chrissie to scarper.

  ‘Actually,’ he whispered in Madeleine’s ear, ‘I’m just a cuddly old teddy bear who’s squeak has turned into a squawk. No one’s in the least bit frightened of me, they just humour me by pretending.’

  Madeleine’s relief was evident in the way she laughed.

  ‘Now,’ he said, ‘that was just for starters. What I’m after really is the face. The look. I’ve heard all about it from Dario, so do you think you can turn it on for me?’

  ‘I expect so,’ Madeleine answered, still not entirely sure what her ‘look’ was. She’d heard enough people talk about it – Deidre, Roy, Dario and now Herbie – but as far as she was concerned, she just looked into the camera and thought about what Dario had told her to think about.

  ‘Imagine that man of yours, heaving away on top of you,’ he’d said. ‘What’s his name? Paul, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Does he make you come? I mean really come?’

  ‘Yes, he does,’ Madeleine had giggled shyly.

  ‘Then think of him, think of what he’s doing to you when you come, imagine he’s right here with you, then look straight into the lens.’

  And when Herbie was ready and waiting, that was exactly what she did. And it wasn’t until half an hour later, as he called the session to an end, that Madeleine realised no one had spoken a word during the entire shoot. She gazed round the room, slightly startled by the sea of faces she was sure hadn’t been there before. They were all watching her, as though they were in some kind of trance. Her eyes darted uncertainly to Herbie, who expelled a prolonged breath and laughed.

  ‘Wow!’ he said, walking over to her and draping an arm round her shoulders. ‘Now I know what all the fuss is about. You’ve even given me a hard-on, and that’s someth
ing no woman’s been able to do in years. That man of yours must be sensational.’

  ‘You know about . . .’

  ‘Dario told me. Now put something round you before one of these guys loses his grip.’

  When she got back to the make-up room it was teeming with naked bodies. Chrissie started to lead her through the crowd, but then a voice hissed, ‘It’s her!’ and as though someone had grabbed a tuning fork, the hum of conversation stopped dead.

  Madeleine’s eyes moved from one face to the next, at first baffled, then suspicious, then, as realisation dawned, supremely and unashamedly disdainful. They had all been there, watching her, and they were all, every last one of them, creeping sick with jealousy.

  – 10 –

  The small suite of offices, just off Dean Street in Soho, was normally buzzing with activity. Messengers came and went, together with editors, make-up artists, costume designers and actors. Marian met them all, since they had to come to her office first, where she sat at her desk sorting the mail, operating the fax machines and the photocopier, and attempting to master a word processor Stephanie had had installed just after her arrival. Every telephone call came through Marian, too, and she fielded them out to Stephanie, who was in the office upstairs, and Matthew if he was there. Stephanie’s partner, Bronwen Evans, was in America at present so Marian hadn’t met her yet, but she had spoken to her on the phone. Bronwen’s was one of the very few friendly voices she’d heard in the four weeks since Stephanie had driven to Bristol to collect her and her worldly possessions – which hadn’t amounted to much – and brought her up to London.

  She couldn’t get used to the way people had so little time for one another, and avoided each other’s eyes in the street as they rushed about their business. The Underground was nothing short of a nightmare to her, so she took the number fourteen bus to work, passing Harrods, the Ritz and Piccadilly Circus – that, and the bright theatre lights of Shaftesbury Avenue, was all she’d seen of London so far. She travelled alone and spent her evenings alone. Stephanie’s flat in Chelsea was small, but as Stephanie was so rarely there it didn’t matter – however, Marian longed for company. She missed Madeleine more as time went on, and any thought of Paul inflamed the hurt so badly that all she wanted was to hide from the world in an effort to shield herself from any more pain. Her self-confidence was now even lower than it had been before she met him, and though she tried hard to fight her feelings of inadequacy, each time she looked in the mirror the same pallid, stricken expression seemed to haunt her face, mocking her with the evidence of her rejection. That he could have effected such a transformation in her, first with his love and then with his treachery, made her heart cry out for a reason why he should have done it. She called her mother on the pretence of telling her about the actors she’d met, but really to find out if Madeleine had been in touch. But every time her mother said the same thing: ‘Our Madeleine still hasn’t rung me, dear. What’s she up to? Has she got a job yet?’ Marian’s replies were always vague. Her mother thought they had gone to London together.