The Modeliser (16 page)

“Hey,” he called back, stepping
gingerly over a pile of books that were piled precariously high. He entered his
grandfather’s study and found a maze of boxes already being filled and his
sister crouched down as she rifled through the contents of a drawer. “What are
you doing down there?” He asked.

“Thought I’d make a start.”
Helena replied.

“Anything interesting,” Alex
asked, stepping over more books and playscripts to go and crouch next to her.

“It’s all interesting, gramps
threw nothing away,” she exclaimed. “Look at this,” Helena handed Alex a play
programme.

“My god. My first stage role.”
Alex started at the programme, which was yellow with age. From the cover an
image of his 12-year-old self stared back at him.

“I know,” Helena replied. “You
used to be so good looking as well.”

“Thanks.” Alex ran his hands
through his hair as he looked around the densely packed office, and this was
just one room. “Maybe we should get someone to do this,” he asked. “Like
professional house clearers?” The look Helena shot him, made Alex realise that
he had said the wrong thing.

“You really want some stranger
rifling through gramps’ things, through our things?”

“I didn’t mean it like that,
but come on, it’ll take forever to do everything. You can’t do this all by
yourself,” Alex finished. He watched as a look crossed Helena’s face and she
bit her lip. “What?” He asked.

“Actually, after today, I won’t
really be able to help much.” Helena said.

“What… why?

Helena sighed. “There’s a bit of a panic over the centenary
issue of Époque and I’m working with a new Creative Director to turn it around
before our print deadline. It’s going to be long hours…”

“All the more reason to get a
professional to do this,” Alex stated firmly. Helena stared at him for a moment
and then she stood up seeming not to care that she had dislodged another pile
of books, which tumbled to the floor clattering about their feet. Slowly Alex
straightened up until they faced each other across the wide desk.

“I have to get back to LA,”
Alex said, determined to get his opinion in before she could attack.

“Why?” Helena retorted. “You
said you had no projects lined up till maybe next year, so why so quick to run
back?” She demanded. Alex clicked his tongue in irritation; he’d forgotten how
stubborn his little sister could be.

“Why is this so important? Why
is it so important that I stay? I mean we’re selling the house anyway,” Alex
finished. The flare of shock in Helena’s eyes made him realize his mistake. It
hadn’t occurred to his sister that he might not want to keep the place.

“What?” She practically
shrieked.

“Helena…”

“You’d actually consider
selling this house?”

“I have no need for it,” Alex
replied. “But you can have it, if you want it.”

“He left it to you, for a
reason. Jeez Alex, you owe him this much. Take responsibility for something,
just for once in your life.” Alex watched as Helena spun out of the room. He
listened as her footsteps echoed up the stairs all the way into the attic. He
ran his hands through his hair and sighed, wanting to throw something. Why, he
wondered, did women always want so much?

Alex
slowly climbed the stairs into the attic, hoping that he’d given Helena enough
time to calm down. Her words had sown a seed in his head. Perhaps he should
stay, tidy the house up, he had no real reason to rush back to LA and truth be
known, he could do with being off the scene for a while to give the whole Max
and Defender story time to die down. After all, Avital was still plotting his
next moves.

“Hey,” he said quietly as he spotted his sister sitting in a
corner of the attic room, holding something in her hand. He moved next to her
and sat down. As he saw what she held, the breath died in his throat.

“Dad.”

“You look so much like him,” Helena said sadly. Alex reached
for the picture frame taking it out of her hands to stare at it. In the right
hand corner of the photograph was a scrawled inscription;
Vogue shoot,
Corsica, September 1968
. Though their father had become a legend in the fashion
photography world, he himself had hated having his photograph taken and now
Alex glanced in awe at this rare photo of their dad. A face so much like his
own stared back at him from the photograph. Elliot Golden looked tanned and
relaxed and carefree, so unlike his last days tortured by alcoholism and
depression. Alex set the photo frame down gently.

“What’s wrong?” Helena asked quietly. He was silent for a
moment as he fought to articulate the sense of discontentment that he had been
fighting these last few months.

“I don’t know, I guess I feel like it’s all slipping a way
from me and I don’t know why.”

“Don’t be crazy…” Helena said. But Alex shook his head.

“I just feel so…” Alex trailed off.

“Off balance,” Helena asked, completing his sentence and Alex
nodded. “Me too,” she said. “Me too. Since Gramps died, it’s like I’m seeing my
whole world with new eyes and I feel like I want something more or something
different.” Helena leaned back against the wall and she looked down to the
photograph of their father.

“I've been thinking about him a lot recently. Do you know he
was the same age as me, when he died?” Alex gestured at the photograph. “At my
age he had 2 kids…” Alex trailed off.

“He was also saddled with our mother as a crazy ex-wife and a
spiralling drug and drink problem. Alex you’re nothing like him, you won’t end
up like him.”

Alex
smiled at his sister, feeling something ease as he finally admitted the fear
that had been pressing down on him.

“What’s all this stuff?” He asked gesturing at the black
boxes dotted around the attic.

“Looks like gramps kept all of dad’s cameras, his notebooks…
It’s amazing.” Alex smiled at the look of enthusiasm on Helena’s face as she
sifted through the box of vintage cameras and old proofs; she had always been
more interested in photography and their dad’s work than him. She’d even wanted
to be a photographer once upon a time, before the world of fashion had grabbed
her.

Helena rose to her feet and picked up the photo frame with
their dad’s picture. “I think I’ll keep this one,” she told him and he nodded.
Alex glanced around and stilled as something else caught his eye. It was a
poster advertising the film
Hiding Places
, his first film; the role that had
changed everything. He stared at the image of himself in the poster, so young.
Who was that person?

“Damn, it’s getting late,” Helena muttered behind him. “Do
you want to grab some dinner?” There was a silence as Alex continued to stare
at the poster. “Alex?” she prompted him.

“I’ll stay,” Alex said. He turned around to face his sister,
a look of determination in his eyes. “I’ll stay in London for now, help sort
this place out.”

Tamara
had left nothing to chance. She had plans for Vassily Romanov and as far as
second impressions went, she had every intention of hitting this one out of the
park. The news about Romanov buying up Offside Television, coupled with the
triumphant opening of the Imperium hotel had led to a flurry of media interest
about the Russian Oligarchs changing the face of London. For the first time in
her life, Tamara had read the business pages with interest. Forewarned was
forearmed and she planned to execute her campaign to win Vassily Romanov with
military precision. Her forays onto the Internet had given precious few clues
about his private life or his personal history but it was clear that his
business interests had taken him all over the world. He had amassed a fortune
rapidly after the fall of the Soviet Union and though there were whispers about
the legality of his operations, so far none of the allegations had been proven.
In the time before he had arrived in London, Vassily had been photographed with
a sizeable share of eligible and very beautiful women. In New York, he’d been
papped in The Hamptons with a Vanderbilt, he had spent last New Year in Miami
with the step-daughter of a Venezuelan billionaire and at the launch of his
super casino on the Chinese Island of Macau, he’d been accompanied by the
supermodel Franka. He liked beautiful women, Tamara had concluded, so on that
score at least, she had little to worry about.

As she stepped out of her car outside Katie and Ian’s stucco
double-fronted Chelsea townhouse, Tamara took a series of deep breaths. She’d
made sure that her scenes were filmed early that morning so that the rest of
her day could be devoted to pampering in the run up to the night’s gathering.
Carefully, she smoothed down the canary yellow Body-Con Victoria Beckham dress
that she had chosen for the evening. Her blonde hair was piled on her head and
her shoes in brave contrast to the dress, were a colourful blast of jade green
satin, which as she moved flashed a glimpse of the signature red Louboutin
sole. Her skin was golden courtesy of a St Tropez session and in her hand she carried
a cerise Python-skin clutch from the Mulberry Spring/Summer collection. The
colours, against the healthy glow of her skin and her blonde hair, made her
stand out; an exotic flower in the midst of the conservative, well heeled set
in the Chelsea enclave. Tamara looked a million dollars and she knew it.

As she moved slowly up the small stoop of stairs, she
reflected once again at the stroke of luck that had thrown Katie into the path
of Ian Parsons, a man from Australian old money who, alongside the Murdochs and
the Packers, were slowly taking over the world’s media. But for a different
throw of the dice, she might be mistress of this £12 million plus, Edwardian
period Chelsea townhouse. Katie and Ian’s neighbours included an Oscar winning
director, a young American who was one of the founders of a phenomenally
popular Internet search engine and at the end of the terrace a ravishing young
divorcee with a popular television cookery show who was now rumoured to be the
mistress of a senior member of the royal family. Across an expanse of green
reserved solely for the residents of the small terrace of houses, was the
imposing façade of the new Saatchi Gallery.

“Welcome Ms Fearson.” Tamara had barely paused at the door
before it was opened by a beautiful young woman with an iPad in her hand and a
discreet earpiece in her ear, which no doubt allowed her to communicate with
the security that would be patrolling the environs. The girl tapped something
on the iPad screen; it seemed the lowly clipboard was a thing of the past. “Do
come in. Artus will take your wrap and show you into the gazebo where drinks
are being served.” The girl spoke with a smile in her cut-glass English accent.
On this side of town, even the help had been privately educated. Tamara
marvelled; this was Katie’s idea of a small gathering! To Tamara’s highly
tutored eyes, she could tell that the door-girl was clad in Dolce and Gabanna.
She shook her head with a smile. They really did do things differently in SW3.

Tamara fell into step behind Artus, a slim hipped boy with
bronze skin, as they moved in the direction of gentle violin music. Her heels
tapped gently along the marble floors and she looked at the art that hung on
the walls. She spotted a pair of Rothkos and holding pride of place was an imposing
Jackson Pollock canvas, which Katie had once admitted that she found ugly and
depressing but which apparently never failed to impress American friends and
potential investors whenever they had them over for dinner. As they approached
the double doors that would take her into the garden, Tamara paused for a
moment on the step as Artus melted away back into the house. She looked out
onto this glittering playground of influential and powerful men and their
wives. The garden had been decorated with a series of Chinese lanterns and
flickering lights, which lent the atmosphere that of a gorgeous, secret
wonderland. In a corner, a quartet, all clad in white outfits played music as
waiters and servers meandered through the guests ensuring that glasses were topped
up and that the delicious entrees were always on hand. Tamara gave a smile of
satisfaction, she let the power flow through her.
Fake it to make it,
she chanted in her head and her
chin rose as this affirmation flowed through her. She had learned a long time
ago, that no weakness should be admitted to. Especially in England, you had to
fake it to make it or you would never enter the inner sanctum of the wealthy
and fabulous. She looked down once again, about to take a step into the party,
when she froze. Vassily Romanov had separated himself from the group and he was
watching her approach. His jaw was set and there was a challenge in his eyes.
Slowly Tamara continued her descent down the steps into the garden. She would
not let him get to her. In her Louboutins, she carefully glided towards the
other guests. A waiter offered her a glass of champagne, which she rejected
with a small shake of her head, instead taking a tall glass of lemonade.
Vassily was still watching her and closer now she saw that there was something
else in his eyes, a challenge but also some wariness. As their eyes met and
connected, there was a flair of interest, which he immediately blinked away. As
she approached where he stood, almost brushing past him, Tamara smiled
mockingly.