by Susan Lewis
‘That girl’s really getting to me,’ she sighed to Roy. ‘She’s such an innocent she makes me feel a hundred years old, and I actually like her for it.’
‘Nothing to do with the fact that she’s making you rich?’ he queried.
‘Cynic,’ she bit back.
‘Which reminds me, the fund is running low and we’ve got an expensive few months coming up.’
‘I know,’ Deidre answered. ‘The glossies wanted an arm and a leg to put her on their front covers for August at such short notice – anyway, she should be on all editions now, New York, Rome, Paris and London. Last-minute – or should I say, instant – publicity doesn’t come cheap, as well you know. And I’m not only talking about bribery, I’m talking about the practicalities of turn-around.’
‘Out of interest, are you paying her anything at all? A wage, as it were?’
‘No. All her fees go straight into the fund. But it goes without saying that all the money is spent on her or to benefit her. But do you know, she hasn’t even asked me about money.’
Roy shrugged and reached into his top pocket for his diary. ‘She seems to have so much, she doesn’t need to,’ he said. ‘Want to go over things now, while we’re here?’
‘Why not?’ Deidre took her diary from her bag. ‘Tell me what’s coming up when we get back from New York.’
‘Right. The day you come back there’s a party at Silverstone, following the Grand Prix. I think she should go to that, she can always get over her jet lag the day after, and Dario’s keen to photograph her with the sporting fraternity. We’ve missed Twickenham and the FA Cup Final, but Lords is just around the corner, we’ll get her lined up with the players.’
‘OK,’ Deidre said, writing it in her diary.
‘Now, on the English social calendar there’s Royal Ascot the week after next, then polo at Windsor, then Henley.’
‘All arranged,’ Deidre said. ‘We’ll be going with Charles Anstey-Smythe’s party, so we’ll have all the right passes etcetera. As far as I know Paul’s coming too, though he can’t make New York. By the way, Madeleine tells me things could be looking up for him on the publishing front.’
‘Good. Ask her for a bit more loot and we’ll see what we can do about getting him to the top of the best-sellers.’
‘She’s already offered it.’
‘That’s my girl. They’ll be quite the golden couple if he succeeds.’
‘Now,’ Deidre went on, ‘there’s a royal film première coming up’ – she flicked over a couple of pages – ‘ah, here it is. Can you speak to Dario about the photographers?’
‘No problem.’
‘The BBC are interested in making a documentary about her and her rise to fame. Can we fit that in sometime in August, they want to know?’
Roy pondered that a moment. ‘It’ll be difficult, she’s pretty busy, but we’ll see if we can’t squeeze it in somewhere.’ He made a note of it, then slapped his forehead as he suddenly remembered something. ‘Pirelli. They want Madeleine and Shamir for their next calendar. Just the two of them. South of France, middle of September.’
Deidre chuckled. ‘Just wait until I tell Madeleine, she’ll be cock-a-hoop. Nothing she likes more than taking her clothes off.’
‘No,’ Roy said, drawing out the word and nodding towards the other side of the room where the Fairplay session was by now in full swing; and with their diary meeting more or less complete, he and Deidre sat back to watch.
Madeleine’s hair fell in wisps about her face, and her chambermaid costume was hanging from her shoulders, revealing her left breast. She clung to a bedpost, gazing imploringly up at the man, who was looking to his wife for further instruction. Shamir, sitting at a jewel-laden dressing-table, watched the proceedings with an expression of pure contempt. The photographer and the editorial staff of Fairplay were milling about the set, arranging detail no one would ever notice, and giving instructions to the three models.
As Madeleine’s clothes were taken from her body and draped about the set, so the tension in the studio increased. Her sexuality was so potent that even the women in the room were reacting to it, and whether playing for the camera or not, Madeleine was constantly aware of the effect she was having. Between shots Deidre and Roy watched as she searched out one man at a time, fixing him with half-closed, penetrating eyes and filling the air between them with the kind of promise guaranteed to set his pulses throbbing.
‘Shit, she’s even getting to me,’ Roy muttered, as Madeleine circled her lips with her tongue and gazed into the eyes of an electrician. By now she wore only white frilly drawers and stockings that were at that moment being wrinkled round her knees. A make-up artist was coating her breasts in baby oil, and when she’d finished Madeleine tweaked the nipples so that they stood out as red and firm as the rubies on Shamir’s fingers.
When she was ready, Shamir’s ‘husband’ slipped his hand in under the elastic of the white drawers and Gerry, the photographer, reeled off his shots. Then Fairplay’s editor stepped in and talked quietly with Madeleine. Gerry joined them, and a few minutes later called out for everyone to take ten.
The set-designer and his team stripped the bed, littered it with jewellery from the dressing-table and put up a screen.
The screen was there only to protect Madeleine’s modesty as she removed her final garment. Deidre had to choke back the laughter when someone told her this – Madeleine didn’t know the meaning of the word. Still, she was intrigued; Madeleine was obviously up to something.
When it happened, it took even Deidre’s breath away.
It was almost lunchtime by now, and with only the final sequence to shoot Madeleine was aware that she was losing everyone’s attention. She wasn’t unduly worried, because within seconds of Gerry giving the word there wouldn’t be one person in the room whose eyes weren’t concentrated just where she wanted them to be.
As someone yelled for quiet, Madeleine removed the frilly drawers and handed them to a dresser. The make-up girl applied a few finishing touches, then nodded to Gerry. Gerry gave the answering signal and Madeleine stepped out from behind the screen.
There was an audible gasp. Roy’s lips parted in what sounded like a whimper and even Deidre shifted in her chair. Madeleine’s expression was one of mortal shame; her hands hung loosely at her sides and her breasts jutted proudly toward the camera. But just as she had known it would be, every eye in the room was focused on the join of her legs. There, she was as smooth and exposed as the day she was born.
When she was sure of everyone’s full attention, Madeleine turned to Gerry. His face gave nothing away, but his hand shook slightly as he guided her to the bed and led her down amongst the jewellery. After the first shots had been taken, his assistants moved the camera to the foot of the bed, the lighting was reset and Madeleine parted her legs for Gerry to drape a ruby and sapphire necklace between them.
‘That’s a wrap!’ someone shouted ten minutes later. Two secretaries came in with bottles of wine and glasses on a tray, and the editor of Fairplay poured. Madeleine was surrounded by men, throwing back her head and revelling in their admiration and lust. She made no attempt to cover herself, and every now and again turned to catch her reflection in the mirror.
Deidre was caught up with more people from Fairplay but kept an eye on Madeleine, mildly shocked that, now her impact had been made, she didn’t get dressed. Then she noticed several glances being directed towards the door, and when, ten minutes later, Paul walked in, Deidre understood.
The room was still in semi-darkness, with only one or two studio lights left on. Paul remained at the door, hands in pockets, watching with amusement as Madeleine paraded about the set, not yet having seen him. When she did see him, Deidre felt her skin burn. The sheer concupiscence that leapt between them was like nothing she had ever witnessed before. Everyone in the room felt it; voices thinned into silence and the hush that engulfed them started to simmer with expectancy.
Madeleine handed her glass to Shamir, t
hen reaching up, she pulled the clip from her hair and let it tumble round her shoulders. All the while she was looking at Paul, and he at her.
At last she started to walk towards him, and Deidre’s breath locked inside her as Madeleine’s incomparable body moved from the shadows into dusty blue-grey shafts of sunlight. The orange glow of a studio lamp lit her from behind, and in that strange pattern of light she looked almost ethereal. No one moved, not a sound was heard above the gentle pad of her bare feet. Her breasts careened gently with her movements, her skin shimmered, and all Deidre could think was, If only Sergio could see her now.
As she drew closer Paul’s hands moved from his pockets, his lips parted, and as Madeleine came to a stop in front of him he took her in his arms. His mouth covered hers, and as Deidre saw their tongues entwine she felt a tidal wave of pure eroticism spread through her loins. Like everyone else she was transfixed, and watched shamelessly as Paul’s long fingers splayed across Madeleine’s back, then started to move slowly down to her buttocks. Then he stopped. Madeleine laughed, and the immobilising air in the room evaporated.
There was a sudden surge of activity and Paul and Madeleine were swallowed into the crowd. Occasionally Deidre caught a glimpse of them whispering to one another and laughing as though there was no one else present. Paul’s arm was round her shoulders, and every now and again he put his glass to her mouth for her to sip his wine. Deidre wondered if anyone else felt the sense of intrusion she was feeling, but if they did they weren’t showing it.
Gradually the party started to break up, and while Paul remained in the studio talking to Roy and the editor of Fairplay, Deidre, Madeleine and Shamir went upstairs to the dressing-rooms. Madeleine was in a hurry now, and didn’t want to keep Paul waiting, so Deidre had time only to remind her not to be late for their flight the day after tomorrow – and then to be surprised when Madeleine enquired about the movements of one of the male models over the next week or so. It was the second time Madeleine had asked, so as they walked down the stairs together Deidre casually enquired why.
‘Oh, it’s just that a friend of Paul’s has got his eye on him,’ Madeleine answered. ‘I said I’d try and fix them up. But anyway, he’s definitely in London next week?’
‘He is,’ Deidre confirmed.
‘Then I’ll give Paul his number, see if he can get the two of them together while I’m away.’
‘I never had you down as a cupid for gays, Madeleine,’ Deidre laughed. ‘Now don’t forget, the flight’s at . . .’
‘Eleven o’clock in the morning. I have to be there at nine thirty. The flight number’s . . .’
‘All right, all right,’ Deidre interrupted. ‘Just make sure you’re there.’
‘I will be,’ Madeleine assured her, then handing her holdall to Paul, who was waiting at the door, she gave Deidre a quick peck on either cheek and followed him into the car park.
As they drove off in Paul’s Range Rover, on their way home to change before going on to Glyndebourne, Deidre stood in the car park with Roy and waved. She felt inexplicably sad, and wanted more than anything to speak to Sergio. Seeing Paul and Madeleine together, and so much in love, had heightened her need for him. Then she smiled, and waiting until they were out of sight, opened her handbag and dropped Madeleine’s cheque inside.
Paul was sitting in his study at the back of the mews house, looking at the framed photograph of Madeleine that hung on the wall opposite his desk. Her face was now being heralded as ‘The Look’ of the year, and everywhere he went he saw her; on billboards, in magazines, on TV and in newspapers. The cosmetics campaign, now entering its third week, was already an unprecedented success. Phillipa Jolley’s dress collection was being copied by every high street chain, and the photographs Dario’s team had taken in Paris hung in every other shop window from Land’s End to John O’Groats. And now there was to be a perfume named after her, she’d informed him the night before, but she’d know more about that when she got back to England.
She would be away for several more days yet, and though she called every night with news of the ‘influential people’ she was meeting, the ‘fabuloso restaurants and nightclubs’ she was being taken to and all the shopping she’d done for him, he was missing her badly. He loved to hear her voice and imagine she was there in the room with him, struggling with her grammar and insisting that he put her right. He loved, too, the way she described the places she’d been to as ‘fab’ or ‘brilliant’ or ‘supremo’, and most of all he loved the way she ended each call by saying ‘Miss you with all my body, love you with all my heart.’ Such simple words, yet they touched him in a way no poetic eloquence ever could.
The longer he stared at Madeleine’s picture, the more he found himself becoming perturbed – and then angry. It had a power over him that he was finding impossible to resist. It was as though he had taken the Russian doll to pieces, and while putting it back together, had somehow locked himself deep inside one of the layers. He could no longer look at Madeleine objectively because he was trapped inside her, and though he had no desire to escape, he knew he must – before he filled the empty shells so full of love that his longing to write became stifled by it.
Before she left she’d given him the telephone number of a male models and each time she called she asked if he’d arranged things yet. He hadn’t, though the camera was there, he had installed it the day before; the will to do it was strong in him, too, stimulated by her and her ambition for them both; and the numbers were sitting on his desk, waiting to be dialled. But he just couldn’t bring himself to pick up the phone.
Morality played no part in his reluctance. What delayed him was that he suspected there might be something supremely, excitingly exploitable in what he was about to do – and if only he weren’t so in love with Madeleine, he might be able to see what it was.
– 14 –
It was eleven o’clock at night and Marian had just left Bronwen at her pied-à-terre in Sidney Street, where they’d had a take-away dinner while talking over an itinerary for Florence. When she left, Bronwen hadn’t been too happy about the idea of her walking home alone, even though Stephanie’s flat was only ten minutes away, but Marian had insisted. It was such a lovely night, she’d said, and the cool air would make a welcome change after the intense heat of the day.
As she strolled down the Fulham Road she let all thoughts of Olivia Hastings and Florence ebb to the back of her mind, and concentrated on the weekend ahead. While she was looking forward to seeing her mother, she knew that the visit wasn’t going to be easy, for she had finally come to accept that she could no longer go on pretending about Madeleine. The rift would hurt her mother deeply, which was why Marian had fought shy of telling her about it for so long. But now that Madeleine’s fame was increasing at such an incredible rate, it was proving impossible to continue shielding Celia from the truth. Marian smiled sadly. How bewildering it must all seem to Celia, tucked away down there in Devon with not the first idea what her two girls were really up to in London. Though Marian was sure her mother must have guessed by now that something was amiss – Celia might be naive and simple-hearted, but she wasn’t stupid. The problem, really, was that once Celia knew her girls had fallen out to such a degree that they no longer saw or spoke to one another, she would be bound to want to contact Madeleine, and Marian couldn’t bear the idea of Celia putting herself in a position where Madeleine could hurt her.
Suddenly a car horn blasted through the tranquil night, breaking her reverie, and realising she’d been dawdling, Marian hooked her bag higher on her shoulder and quickened her step. It wasn’t until she was outside the Brompton Hospital that she became aware of someone walking behind her. The close proximity made her uncomfortable, and she slowed down to let the person pass. But though the footsteps drew closer there was no attempt to overtake her. At first she tried to shrug it off – there were several people about, the traffic was still flowing, and it was a clear night. Nevertheless she stepped up her pace again, and for a moment th
ought that whoever it was had turned off into the mews she’d just passed. But as she reached the corner of Old Church Street, and had to stop before crossing the road, a man came alongside her at the kerb. She kept her eyes fixed straight ahead, telling herself he was probably quite harmless, just taking a stroll home like her; but her hands were clenched tightly in her pockets and her nails dug painfully into the palms. A couple passed behind them and Marian struggled with the impulse to follow them, but then the lights changed and she started to cross the road.
To her horror, the man kept abreast of her, and as they reached the other side he laid a hand on her arm. Her eyes flew to his face, but it was hidden by shadows, and as his grip tightened on her arm she opened her mouth to scream.
‘No,’ he hissed. ‘Please don’t be frightened. I’m not gonna hurt you. All I ask is that you follow me. There’s a café down the road here where we can talk. It’s about Olivia.’
Marian stared at him, her eyes achingly wide, her mouth slack and her heart thudding like a hammer. She tried to move but found she couldn’t – it was as if she had suddenly been hypnotised. The American voice, Olivia’s name, and the extraordinary drama of his approach, had pushed her into that bizarre, dreamlike-state she had been in in New York. It was as if she was once again an actress playing a role, and she blinked as the man moved on ahead of her – as if she was trying to remember what was expected of her. Dumbly, she started to follow, and tried to recall whether she’d seen that red shirt or those jeans anywhere before. From the quick glimpse she’d had of him, the man’s face looked thin and his hair sparse. She didn’t know him, she was certain of it. But he seemed to know her.