A Summer Fling (21 page)

The tiny woman held her hand straight out and shook Anna’s with the strength of a WWE wrestler. Close up, Maria looked like an ancient-faced snow pixie with anger management issues.

‘Maria is a master. I work with no one else,’ said Vladimir, going on to translate what he had just said for Maria. She nodded, without smiling, at the compliment.

‘Can I get you some refreshment?’ Leonid asked, looking at Anna’s shaking hands. ‘A glass of wine maybe?’

He held up a long crystal decanter full of dark red liquid.

‘Maybe just a little one,’ said Anna, receiving the pewter goblet that he handed to her. It was strange drinking out of something which had a taste of its own. But it was a lovely, fiery wine.

‘That’s nice,’ said Anna. ‘What sort is it?’

‘It’s a wine local to the part of Romania where I come from.
Sânge de virgina,’
said Vladimir.

‘What’s that mean?’ said Anna.

‘The nearest translation would be “Maiden’s Blood”,’ said Vladimir with a twinkle in his eye, as Anna had a sudden choking fit and then tried to explain that her wine had gone down the wrong way.

‘We’ve been doing a few shots around the house,’ said Jane, flicking her long caramel-highlighted hair over her shoulder. ‘It’s absolutely fantastic. I am
so
in love with it. It’s going to make a great programme. Vladimir tells me he discovered you at a railway station.’

She said ‘discovered’ like Anna was a top model, like Twiggy was ‘discovered’ in a hairdressing salon. Anna had to clamp down on the sudden urge to giggle.

It was late and the film crew had a lot to get through, so Anna was shoved in a chair and stripped of make-up by Maria and a lot of swoops of cotton wool.

‘Aarrgh, I’ve got no make-up on – get the crucifixes out, everyone!’ laughed Anna, then she clamped her hands over her mouth. Not the most appropriate joke to make in this house.

The camera was quite a frightening piece of equipment, Anna decided, as its big lens-eye trained on her for the first shot. Everything went quiet and Anna did as she was directed, which wasn’t difficult because all she had to do was stand there while Jane and Vladimir talked about her.

‘Why did you pick Anna to be the face of your “Every Woman has a Darq Side” project then, Vladimir?’

‘I could see instantly that Anna feels she is much older than she is and as a result her confidence has gone. I am going to show women that whatever their size or age, there is always a goddess in them waiting to show herself.’

‘Cut!’ said Mark.

There were a lot of short ‘action’ sequences, Anna noticed. It was quite fascinating to be part of a TV show. Not as glamorous as she had imagined by any stretch though.

Anna was feeling quite relaxed until the moment when the director asked if she could strip off now. She had a sudden and awful vision of Malcolm seeing her norks on the box.

‘Just to your undies, Anna. We need to ask Vlad why he thinks they are so bad.’

Anna took a deep breath and slipped off her shirt and skirt. She imagined that everyone would burst out laughing, or throw up. What she didn’t bargain for was, and unfairly so she soon realized, that they were professionals doing a job and they’d probably seen more boobs and bras and backsides in their time than the porn king Ron Jeremy.

Leonid took some shots of Anna with a very big and heavy-looking camera. They needed some stills, he explained. She hoped those pics wouldn’t turn up on any
Readers’ Wives
pages.

Filming commenced again.

‘So, Vladimir,’ began Jane. ‘What is wrong with Anna’s underwear?’

‘What is right with it?’ He laughed without humour. ‘The bra is too small, she is wearing the wrong size completely, and there is no support at all for a bust.’

‘It’s pretty though,’ put in Jane.

‘Pretty bad, you mean. Look how the straps are making a groove in her shoulders,’ he carried on, lifting up the said strap and showing the camera the indentation it was making on her skin. ‘As for the pants . . .’ He made a sound of despair.

‘Cut,’ called Mark. ‘Excellent. Anna, there’s a screen in the corner; can you change into some more underwear and we’ll do the same.’

It appeared Vladimir couldn’t find words bad enough in English for the second and third lots of undies. There seemed to be a lot in Romanian though. Then Jane held several coloured scarves against Anna’s face and she went through which shades would work with her skin tones. That was interesting. Apparently black worked very well, which was lucky because that was more or less all that Anna had in her wardrobe. Vladimir waved away the ‘colours’ theories. He said that if a woman had inner confidence she could carry off the most inappropriate hues and still look fantastic. Anna tried to imagine herself pulling off clothes in bright colours the way Christie did. She concluded that she wouldn’t stand a chance.

Then Anna had to stand in front of the mirror and tell Jane what she saw in her reflection. Where to start?

‘My bust is too big, my waist isn’t thin enough, my hips are too wide . . .’ The list went on and on. By the time she had got to her knees looking like crêpe paper the tears were shining in her eyes. She tried to stuff them back but couldn’t. They plopped down her cheeks as she ’fessed up that she felt totally worthless and hideous and old. She was so deeply embedded in her self-massacre that she forgot the camera was there.

‘Cut!’ called Mark. ‘I think that’s enough for today, boys and girls. Let’s get this equipment packed up and out.’

‘Sorry,’ said Anna as Jane pulled a tissue out of her pocket and handed it over.

‘You were fab and so natural,’ said Jane supportively, rubbing Anna’s shoulder. ‘Women everywhere will identify with you.’

‘Anna, before you go, please try something on for me,’ said Vladimir. He held up a stiff, dark red corset. Even keeping her eyes forward, Anna could tell that her chest was three feet higher with the garment on than it was without it. Vladimir leaned over her from the back and she could smell his cologne. Something she had never come across before: exotic and spicy but at the same time as fresh as wild Christmas trees.

He expertly laced up the back then stepped away to look at her. Then he marched forward again and straightened her shoulders.

‘
La naiba!
As soon as I look at you, you try to curl into a ball! You are wearing a Vladimir Darq exclusive, how can you wilt like a dead flower?’ he said crossly. He backed off again, only to come striding forward, growling, ‘Stop doing that, you are driving me crazy!’

Thus reprimanded, Anna pulled her stomach in and pushed out her chest. He nodded by way of approval. At least she assumed it was approval. It appeared that if he wasn’t disapproving, then he was approving.

‘You are married?’ he asked.

‘No,’ said Anna. ‘Engaged.’

‘I couldn’t work out if you were unhappy because you are with a man or unhappy because you are without a man.’

‘Both,’ said Anna as she placed her hands on her waist, which felt very much smaller. Where had all the flab gone? No doubt it was all crushed up inside the material, but she couldn’t feel it if it was.

‘What does that mean?’

‘My partner left me in February.’

‘For another woman?’

‘Yes. Don’t pull any punches, will you?’

He ignored the barb.

‘That explains the sloping shoulders.’ He pulled the ribbon tighter at the back of her and made her yelp.

‘Ow! His aren’t sloping.’

‘No, he is parading like peacock, huh?’

Yep, that just about summed Tony up. A peacock. One with two dicks as well.

‘Men can be such monsters,’ Vladimir then said in a surprisingly soft way. Which, she thought, was a bit rich coming from a bloke who probably got his nutrients from draining people of their blood. ‘OK, that’s enough for today for me too.’ And he started to unlace her. She hadn’t noticed the camera was still rolling and Bruce was smiling behind it. He’d get major brownie points for this when Mark saw the footage.

The next day, Grace was washing up the Sunday dinner plates when there was a knock at the back door and she opened it to a smiling Charles in a smart, pale blue shirt and jeans. He really was a good-looking man.

‘Come in, Charles, Laura won’t be long. Would you like a cup of tea?’

‘Thank you, but no, I won’t,’ he said. ‘Oh hello, Mr Beamish . . .’ Gordon had walked into the kitchen. He stared at Charles’s hand that was outstretched in greeting, then his eyes lifted to Charles’s face.

‘Who are you?’ said Gordon coldly.

‘I’m Charles, Charles Onajole. I’m a friend of Laura’s, and young Joe’s, of course,’ came the courteous reply. His hand was still outstretched but more awkwardly now as Gordon had not come forward to return the greeting. There was an uncomfortable silence in which Charles was eventually forced to let his hand drop back down. Gordon’s jaw tightened and he said in a quiet voice, which was nevertheless full of menace, ‘I think you’d better get out of my house, lad.’

Charles’s eyes flickered as his brain tried to fathom what on earth he had done to earn such a reaction to his cheerful greeting. But it was painfully obvious, because there was really no mistaking that look on Gordon’s face. Silently, Charles turned and went out of the door. Grace, watching this interchange, was dumbstruck by Gordon’s rudeness to a guest.

‘Gordon, what on earth—’

Then Laura came down with Joe’s bag and Joe trotting behind and Grace bit down on what she was about to say.

‘Was that Charles?’ she asked, then picked up on the vibe in the room. ‘What’s up?’

‘There was a nigger in my house, that’s what’s up!’ snarled Gordon, not seeming to care that Joe was present.

‘For God’s sake, Gordon!’ Grace was horrified at the words coming out of his mouth, the swear words that followed.

‘Joe, go and join Charles in the car,’ said Laura quickly, pushing her son out of the door. She was shaking when she turned back and Gordon rounded on her immediately.

‘I don’t want you in here either, if you’re sleeping with
that
!’ He was stabbing his finger in the direction of where he supposed Charles to be now.

Laura looked from Grace to her father, unable to really comprehend why he was being like this and where this hate had suddenly come from. They were all right as rain less than two minutes ago.

‘Dad, what’s the matter with you?’

Gordon laughed as if everyone in the house was being obtuse. ‘Well,’ he turned to his daughter. ‘All I can say is – thank God you can’t have any more kiddies!’

‘Gordon!’ Grace cried out in disgust.

Laura burst into tears. It was beyond cruel, and Grace leaped to her daughter’s side.

‘God forgive you for that, Gord—’

But Gordon was in no mood for listening. He made a none-too-gentle grab at his daughter’s arm.

‘You. Out!’ he raged. Grace stepped forward to put herself between father and daughter and ended up being pushed into the table where a cup fell off and covered her skirt in cold tea.

‘Mum, are you OK?’ said Laura, coming forward to help her mother.

‘Laura, love, go,’ said Grace, pushing Laura safely out of the house. ‘I’m fine.’ Although she wasn’t fine at all, she was shaking with the worst mix of emotions, but her priority was to get her daughter out and away from this awful atmosphere and any more vicious, wounding words.

Grace closed the door and turned to face her husband who was standing frighteningly still and breathing tightly. He looked like a bomb due to explode at any minute, a dangerous, harmful one full of nails and burning sugar, intent on causing the most damage it could.

‘Did you know? Did you know he was a blackie?’

‘Stop it, Gordon. Stop talking like that!’

Gordon shook his head in disbelief and stared at Grace as if she was insane. ‘The world’s gone bloody mad.’

He marched out, towards the soothing calm of his allotment no doubt, leaving Grace still in shock, her heart thumping and her limbs quivering. She didn’t know this man, swearing and hating like something out of the Deep South in the 1920s. Yes, she had witnessed his temper spill on a few occasions over the years, but not to the extent that she was seeing it these days. And now it seemed that two of her children weren’t welcome in the house. ‘Whatever next?’ she said, still shaking as she swept up the remains of the cup, a present from Sarah that read: ‘World’s Best Dad.’

‘Oh, come here, you’re useless,’ said Elizabeth Silkstone, reaching up to straighten the knot on her husband’s tie as they were about to go into church. John Silkstone was a big man and he carried a suit well. He made her knees knock in a suit, still. She was aware that he was staring intently at her while she unloosened his clumsy effort and started again.

‘What are you staring at?’ she snapped.

‘I’m not,’ he lied. Had she not opened her mouth then, he would have told her his burning suspicion that Raychel Love, the wife of his newest worker, young Ben, was closely related to her – was possibly the child of her sister who went missing nearly thirty years ago. It was bursting out of him to say something. But it wouldn’t be fair, not today. They would be witnessing their friend Helen’s wedding in less than half an hour. Helen was marrying a gentleman solicitor, Teddy Sanderson, although not so much of a gentleman, they’d laughed, seeing as Helen would be saying her vows with a five-month-old son growing inside her.

What John had to say would have to wait until later. There was a time and a place – and this was neither.

‘Crikey, did you see that programme last night?’ said Dawn as she breezed into the office after the weekend. The next part she directed at Anna. ‘If you thought your love life was bad, wait till you start wanting to hump buildings!’

‘Thanks for that, Dawn,’ said Anna, smiling. Dawn was the most verbally clumsy person she thought she had ever, or would ever, meet. But there was something simple and totally non-malicious about her that was refreshing and funny. She didn’t know much about the woman, but she was pretty sure that Dawn would be gutted if she ever thought she had upset anyone with her gauche way of speaking her mind.