‘Mmmn, great bone structure,’ Emilio murmured to the new girl as Natalya stalked out, looking as nonchalant as she could in sheer bra and thong.
Natalya got dressed in the corridor and reached into her bag for her scrappy blue notebook, which, after its postal adventures, was by now almost falling apart. The address for her next casting was Dean Street. At least that was still in W1. She’d been to five castings already today and had one more to go. Walking to castings was a good way to keep fit, but she often had to rush to get to them on time so it was easy to end up spending a fortune on taxis. She clutched her portfolio – her ‘book’, as the agencies called it – and flipped through the pages: Natalya on a beach frolicking by the shore; Natalya in a series of evening dresses and haughty hats; Natalya and a sultry boy in matching tweed outfits; Natalya entwined round a perfume bottle. She stopped at the perfume campaign. Now that had been great money – not that she’d seen much of it. She remembered with bitterness that the agency had kept most of her wage to pay the rent on the model flat in Paris, where she’d done the shows for a season. The grotty apartment crammed with malnourished Eastern Europeans, Brazilians and a Sudanese girl had felt more like a camp for asylum seekers than a chic Parisian base, and she was sure the agency had held back far more than it was worth.
Suddenly she felt weary. She resolved to skip the last casting and run herself a relaxing bath at home. Oh and she could look Claude up on the net again, in case there was something she missed.
The first entry that appeared when Natalya typed in ‘Claude Perren’ was a Wikipedia biography she already knew by heart. It read:
Swiss self-made billionaire and business tycoon … Raised in Geneva … By the 1990s, Perren entered the Forbes top 100. Forbes estimated his personal and family’s fortune at $7.3 billion on its 2009 list of the world’s richest people. The bulk of his fortune was made in construction and property, and Perren has interests stretching from Shanghai to Paris… A dedicated family man, Perren was devastated by the death of his wife Helen in May 1999. … In 2000, on the occasion of the graduation of his son from Harvard University, Mr Perren made the naming gift for what became the Claude F. Perren Building, home of the university’s…
Jackpot! Natalya shut off the computer and glided to her en-suite bathroom to pour some essential oils into the bath. The female booker’s tinny laugh rang in her ears, mocking her. I won’t need to pander to the likes of you for much longer, she thought, as she slid into the water and closed her eyes. Natalya was unaware that a dark, new chapter in her life was about to begin.
****
‘Willy Eckhardt offices,’ said a deep bass voice.
‘Oh, good morning sir, could I speak to Ms Gloria Dwyer please?’
‘Speaking,’ the voice boomed.
‘Oh, er, oh I see, sorry, er Ms Dwyer. I … I’m calling about the job. It’s Sarah.’
‘Ah, Sarah. Good. Well, what do you say?’
‘I’ll take it. Thank you so much. I’m delighted. I’ll take the job.’
****
The first letter arrived the next day. An elated Natalya, assuming it was from Claude, felt a sudden chill shoot through her body when she saw how her name had been scrawled on the envelope in a handwriting that was both childish and menacing. The writer had pressed the blue ball-point pen with such force upon the envelope that the imprint of her name could be clearly read on the paper it encased. The letter itself was brief. It had been typed on a computer, and the two lines of small black font seemed absurd on the A4 sheet of plain white paper.
Natalya,
If you want to stay safe, get out. Go home. I know about
Stan.
Shaking, Natalya collapsed back on to the red leather sofa, one of the only flashes of colour in the luxurious but bland cream-themed apartment that Gregory had rented for her. She knew that many people were jealous of her, some even despised her. But nobody – absolutely nobody – knew about her father. She always lied about him if people asked. She would tell them her real father had been dear Janis, who had died so suddenly and so needlessly, from a curable illness for which he hadn’t been able to afford treatment. She had never written about Stan, never said anything; she hardly knew a thing about him herself. Other than that she loathed him.
She closed her eyes and thought back to the moment her mother had told her what had really happened on the night of her conception. Natalya had been eight years old. Until then, she had thought her father was a charming man called Stan who had gone to live in England where he could work hard and earn lots of money – enough to buy Natalya a big pony. That he wanted Janis to keep mummy company, but that he loved his daughter and would come back to find her. But at just eight years old, Natalya, hardened by poverty and the weight of supporting her mother emotionally since Janis’s death a year earlier, had begun to question this story. ‘Mummy, is my real daddy really going to come back? I don’t believe that he really loves me,’ she had asked one day while she helped weave a basket she would sell in the market at the weekend. She had stared at the big basket in her small hands, which, if she was lucky, would fetch enough to buy a few days’ worth of vegetables. She could not bring herself to look at her mother because she had known, just known, that she was about to learn something terrible.
‘Your father got me to do something I did not want to do. That I should not have done,’ Daina began.
She took Natalya’s hands in hers and her voice was choked with tears, although Natalya didn’t look up to see them. She didn’t understand, but she sensed that something was deeply wrong. She felt a sadness and something more. Something that was to feature greatly in her life and which she was later to identify as disgust. She had felt dirty. And now, thirteen years later, Natalya was frustrated that she couldn’t actually remember the rest of what had been said in that conversation, a conversation which had shattered a delusion that had comforted and sustained her for years. Her traumatized eight-year-old mind had immediately blotted out the details, the horror, the odd tone of her mother’s voice that had frightened her, leaving only a sense of intense revulsion.
For a short time after that conversation she had hated her mother, though she hadn’t known quite why. She’d felt revolted every time her mother touched her, or called her name. Was it because of what had been done to her? Or because she had shattered a dream? Or something entirely different? She hadn’t really known, but life wasn’t the same after that. Then, four years later, her attitude towards her mother changed again.
Natalya was twelve years old. It was sunny outside and she was doing as she always did on a Saturday morning, helping her mother sell the woven baskets at the market. She was wearing a battered old dress of her mother’s, cinched in with an old leather belt, and didn’t care in the least that it looked silly. She just wanted to sell as many baskets as possible.
She had just set up her stall as nicely as she could when she noticed a tall, thin man of about forty staring intensely in her direction. Pleased, she adjusted the baskets; he didn’t look like the sort who usually bought them, but he had been standing there a while so she supposed he must be interested. Slightly nervous under the ferocity of the man’s continuing stare, she fiddled with the baskets again, piling them on top of each other until one fell off the rickety old table. Natalya bent down to pick up the basket, and inspected it crossly. Glancing up at the man, anxious that he would still want to buy something, she saw that his gaze had now moved from her face to her chest. She looked down and was embarrassed to see that the oversize dress was hanging well away from her body and her small budding breasts were completely exposed. Clutching the thin material to her, she quickly rose and repositioned the basket.
But she noticed something in the way that man had looked at her chest. He had been enraptured. It had been a look stranded somewhere between intense pleasure and intense pain. Suddenly Natalya understood what lust was. She sensed it was a powerful force; certainly more powerful than her poor, lovely mother, who had been only
three years older than herself when she had first given birth.
But Natalya also sensed that such lust gave a woman power. At that moment in the market when she saw the man’s eyes mist over, somewhere beneath her disgust and fear she had enjoyed it. She had caused such a reaction. Instinctively, she smiled at the man, who flushed slightly and moved on. He never did buy a basket.
It seemed that after that incident boys and men watched her everywhere she went. They watched the sway of her skinny hips as she rushed to and fro. They watched her long, long legs, which were always on show for she was taller than most and could only afford second-hand clothes. These men were irrevocably drawn to her nipples when she wore dresses made out of thin fabric. They were mesmerized by her soft skin, which was lightly tanned and flawlessly smooth. And most of all they looked at her face: at her red lips, which had developed a fullness to match her growing breasts, and at her eyes, which were big and innocent and the brightest blue. It was a face as vulnerable and as beautiful as an angel’s, and though she was young, she knew her height made her appear older than she was.
Chapter 11
‘See you later, hon, we’re off.’
Abena waved a final goodbye to Tara as she raced down the front steps to Sebastian’s black Range Rover. She could see Tara through the kitchen window, pouring herself a glass of wine. Taking in the plush car and Abena’s sexy version of country dress – skinny denim, tight cashmere, and slouchy flat boots – Tara raised an eyebrow and winked. Sebastian was about to drive off, when Tara emerged, barefoot, on the road. She’d pulled a pale blue chiffon skirt over her chest to become a sheer dress, and a Prada turban was perched on her head. She leaned into the car through Abena’s open window.
‘Just before you go, Sebastian, I was going to suggest that you and Alex come round to ours for supper one evening? We can have an intimate little St Tropez reunion …’
Sebastian thought for a moment then shrugged. ‘Not a bad idea.’
‘Don’t sound too excited.’ An indignant Tara forced a laugh.
‘I’m just not sure what Alex’s movements are for the next few weeks. I think he said something about Ibiza and Paris.’ And then, turning to smirk at Abena, he added, ‘And besides, I want to be … alone with this one. Can you blame me?’
‘For Christ’s sake let’s go before we make Tara sick,’ Abena laughed, elated. The car pulled away in the direction of Sebastian’s family’s estate in West Sussex. ‘And put some clothes on, Tara,’ she shouted back at her friend.
Sebastian squeezed Abena’s leg and leaned forward to put on some music. Abena shivered at his touch, and then screwed up her face as Coldplay’s Chris Martin assaulted her ears. ‘Aaaaah-woooooo-oooo’ he wailed through the speakers, like a cow in labour. ‘Noooobody saaaaid it was easy … no one ever saaaaid it would be soooooooo-OH hard …’.
‘Obviously I love Coldplay – who doesn’t – but I’m in the mood for something … more upbeat?’ Abena pleaded. After all, if she felt like listening to an ex-public schoolboy having a good old whinge then she could talk to Sarah’s boyfriend. ‘I see you have Buena Vista Social Club, how about that?’
‘Whatever the lady wishes.’ Sebastian watched appreciatively as Abena threw her arms up above her head and wiggled in time to the invigorating Cuban beats. His eyes squinted when he smiled and his uneven teeth gleamed white. He became more dazzling each time she saw him.
‘So, er, what do you do?’ she asked. Crazily, her leg still tingled from his touch.
‘Shocking question.’ Sebastian leaned over and kissed her.
‘Drive, Sebastian, please! I’d love to be alive for my first ever visit to your country house.’ From his reluctance to answer, Abena guessed he did nothing.
‘But you, darling, must be a model?’ Sebastian looked again at Abena and nearly veered off the road.
‘What, are you joking? Come on, I’m only five foot three!’ Abena laughed. ‘I just graduated actually, from Oxford,’ she said with a hint of pride.
‘I couldn’t be arsed with university, Sebastian countered. ‘I’d much rather get stuck into business straight after school than waste time in some college bar. Anyway everyone gets a degree these days, there’s no cachet any more. I left school five years ago and did internships for a couple of investment banks, and now I’m taking time off to see if I want to do the family thing, or something of my own.’
Abena realized it was Daddy’s advertising empire bankrolling five years of ‘casual’ dinners at Cipriani every night. The summer internships would only have been ten weeks long. Five years was a long time off to choose a path.
Changing the subject, she remarked that they must be roughly the same age then.
‘Exactly. I guess I seem older?’
‘Actually, yes, you do.’
‘I guess not going to uni matures you. You know, you’re out there working before your contemporaries.’
After a couple of hours, Sebastian announced they were nearing his home.
‘You’ll love it here darling, it’s my hang-out. I’m so glad you’re not just one of those model party girls. I’m fed up with that shit. I like a woman with a brain, so we can hang out and talk about things – you know, life … philosophy … life philosophy.’
The tall black gates to the estate opened and Sebastian’s car sped down the gravel drive, through acres of neatly landscaped garden, to the house. Abena got out and surveyed her surroundings. Alongside the gigantic mock-Georgian main house were some cottages, presumably for the staff, as well as grass tennis courts, a squash court and what looked like an entire golf course. She looked back at Sebastian, who had taken off his sweater and unintentionally pulled his T-shirt off with it. She tried not to stare at the neat ripples of muscle that lined his stomach and torso; he was perfectly worked-out without being bulky and clearly made regular use of the sporting facilities.
‘I’m not surprised this is your hang-out!’
‘Come on,’ Sebastian took her hand, ‘I’ll show you round.’
Inside, the house was like a five-star hotel: immaculately clean and tidy, with furnishings made from the highest-quality materials and not a hint of shabbiness. There was trophy art on the walls, including a Picasso, the frame of which must have been lovingly shined-up on a regular basis. Even the large pillows on Sebastian’s super-king-sized bed were blindingly white and perfectly plumped up atop the smooth white duvet. She looked around for books or any sign of culture, but all she could see by way of personal touches were countless photos of Sebastian partying with good-looking people, most of them well-known models or the kids of famous musicians. Then she saw a row of postcards of stunning women, most of whom she’d watched in films. Picking one up she turned it over: ‘Sebastian, sweetheart, amazing working with you. You’re welcome to come stay in LA anytime. Pamela A x’.
‘Oh, you found those.’ Sebastian waved a dismissive hand. ‘I had a crush on her as a kid so I got my father to hire her for one of our ad campaigns. She’s become a friend now. Good girl actually.’
Before Abena’s jaw could drop, Sebastian strode across the room. ‘But you are irresistible,’ he said, lifting her into his arms and kissing her, then collapsing on to the bed with her still firmly in his grasp.
‘Aren’t you supposed to be giving me a tour of your grounds?’ she teased, shaken once again at how aroused his touch made her, and desperate to retain some composure.
‘I think, sweetheart, after all that driving the least I deserve is a snog-break.’
Abena felt herself melting as Sebastian slipped his hand under her sweater and gently squeezed her breasts. He dropped his head and kissed the nape of her neck, then he pulled off her sweater and let it fall to the floor. He unhooked her silky black and purple bra and buried his face in her chest, moaning softly before taking her left nipple in his mouth and sucking it, pinching the right one as he did so. Growing more frantic, he tugged at her tight jeans and growled ‘Take these off.’ Before she had even finished pulling them
down he had ripped at her lace thong and now she was completely nude. Still fully clothed, he pulled her on top of him and ran his hands greedily all over her skin, grabbing at the flesh of her high, round bottom, enjoying every curve of her soft but toned body. ‘Do you have a johnny?’ Abena whispered, in between his frenzied kisses.
Sebastian undressed faster than Abena had thought humanly possible. As he stood at the foot of the bed enjoying her with his eyes, she marvelled at him too. His impressive cock stood hard and upright under his flat, tennis-honed belly. Abena knelt on the edge of the bed and pressed herself up against him, stroking and kissing him greedily. He pushed her back down, parted her legs and positioned his face so he could tease her clitoris with his tongue and squeeze her erect nipples at the same time. As she began to shake with the first throes of orgasm he climbed on top of her and thrust himself inside her. When he could contain himself no longer, he rolled her over so that she was on top of him, arching her back in ecstasy. ‘I … I … I’m coming’, he breathed, closing his eyes and grabbing at her tiny waist, bouncing her feverishly on himself.
Then his face contorted as though he was in pain and the strong hands around Abena’s waist squeezed her so hard that she really was in pain. He raised his head and let out an almighty howl. Then he howled again for five full seconds and his pelvis shook and jerked a few more times before he dropped his head backwards and relaxed, staring at Abena with a glazed expression.
She lay on top of him, and they remained, wordlessly, for minutes while he slowly stroked her back. She smiled dreamily down at him and kissed him lingeringly on the mouth, feeling him grow hard once more.
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