The Modeliser (25 page)

“I’ll take this,” she said.

The
usual drugs weren’t working. Not shopping, not yoga, not even solo orgasms had
improved Tamara’s mood. Her casual date with Cornelius Alexander, an American
banker that she’d known on and off for years had done little to take the edge
off the frustration that gnawed at her. Never mind that Cornelius had taken her
to the latest restaurant opening from Michelin starred chef Angela Lane, days
before its official opening or that as always he’d arrived to pick her up with
a trinket from Cartier. The fact was Tamara was in the throes of a deep funk,
unlike any she had experienced in a long, long time. She wanted something that
she simply could not have.

She slammed into her dressing room and sank down into a chair
and she felt a strange sensation as though tears might fall but of course that
was absurd. Tamara never cried, could not remember when last she had shed
tears. Any tears that she may have shed were strictly for the cameras. She reached
for some cotton pads and began to wipe her face, when her phone rang. She
reached for it.

“Yes,” she snapped.

“Tamara it’s me.” Recognising the gruff, needy voice, she
terminated the call at once. Just then there was a knock on the door and Casey
entered. Tamara turned on her.

“Didn’t I ask you to block Damian’s number?”

“Well…”Casey began

“Well what, it is a simple fucking request. I do not want him
calling me, so get the phone company to block any calls from him,” Tamara
yelled.

“I’m sorry Tamara, they can’t..” Casey was cut off by the
mobile phone, which sailed out of Tamara’s hand, flying across the distance
between them, to smack into her forehead before bouncing of the wall and
clattering to the ground.

“I don’t want your fucking excuses Casey. When I want
something done I expect you to do it. Understand?” Tamara’s rage was a palpable
force and she turned to Casey who was crying quietly. “Oh get out of here.”
With a small sob, Casey ran from the room.

Slowly Tamara sank back down into her chair. She was losing
control and that frightened the hell out of her.

For a
man who had fucked countless women, Alex could safely say he was no closer to
understanding what made them tick. Even the ones who seemed straightforward
confounded him. What he liked about Talia, her straightforwardness, her
seriousness, her straight talking, which was in so many ways so very un-British
had made him imagine that she was in some way different from most of the women
he encountered but it seemed that when it came to handbags, all women were the
same. After they’d left the shop, they stopped for a drink at the bar at nearby
Claridges Hotel. Even as they’d talked easily about books, film and nothing in
particular he could tell that Talia had been distracted. She’d stroked the bag
lightly, like it was a lover and he’d had the fleeting and uneasy wish that she
would touch him that same way. She’d stayed for only a couple of drinks telling
him she still had scripts to read. As she’d jumped off her perch on the bar
stool, she’d surprised him by leaning in and kissing him on the cheek. And for
the longest moment after she left, Alex wished he’d put his hand out and
stopped her from leaving.

Later, after downing several more drinks he’d left Claridges
winding his way down the backstreets that ran parallel to Oxford Street. On the
fringes of Hyde Park, he’d stopped to buy a London baseball cap from a stall
selling souvenirs to tourists. He’d pulled the cap low on his head, hoping that
he might walk the streets for once unnoticed. Alex walked without aim at first,
through Hyde Park, past the Diana Memorial Fountain and then the statue of
Peter Pan. Slowly though his footsteps gained focus, he exited the park at
Knightsbridge; ducking through the side streets alongside Sloane Avenue until
eventually he stood in Sloane Square outside the Regent Court Theatre. For a
moment he looked up at the place and was assailed by a powerful nostalgia.
The
more things change, the more they stay the same
. The last time he’d been on stage had
been here. Could he ever be that young again he wondered? Did he even want to
be that young again? That afternoon he’d told Talia – “you have to bet on
yourself.” Somehow he’d stopped taking his own advice but that changed now. He
knew exactly what he had to do. With the decision made, Alex ascended the steps
and walked into the theatre.

It had proved easy to get Margot’s schedule from her chatty
assistant and as he eased into the back of the Lowood Theatre downstairs, Alex
allowed his eyes to slowly adjust to the darkness as he took a seat in the back
pew. A rehearsal was in progress and he watched the actors. Still on the page,
the actors moved about the stage, learning their cues and marks, taking
directions and discussing the finer points of the text. Alex felt something
stir in his blood – it was an unfamiliar feeling – engagement,
interest – something he hadn’t felt in a long time. As the actors worked
through the choreography on a complicated fight scene he found himself leaning
forward in his seat, he ate it up, watching intently everything that was
happening on stage. For the first time in a long time, he felt at home.

“Let’s take a break for 15,” the director called and the
actors began sloping off the stage. Alex rose and moved with purpose towards a
white-haired woman who had also been observing the action. Margot. The agent
who had nurtured his theatre career, who had got him the audition for Hiding
Places and whom he had quickly left behind as soon as Hollywood and Avital came
calling. His treatment of Margot had contributed to the rift between him and
his grandfather and Alex was filled with a desire to make amends. He felt
nerves and guilt as she turned towards him.

“Margot,” he said leaning in to kiss her weathered and yet
beautiful face.

“Dear boy,” Margot said without surprise. “Well, it took you
long enough,” she said with a twinkle in her eye and Alex finally allowed
himself to exhale.

Across
town, Talia too was taking a step into the unknown. She had ridden the tube
home on autopilot, the Mulberry handbag clasped to her as Alex’s words were
ringing in her head.
Bet on yourself, bet on yourself
. For too long, she had placed
her faith in others and by the time she reached the house, a plan had
crystallised. Talia opened up her laptop. She stared at the stack of scripts
that were still waiting to be read. She shifted them off the table and instead
opened up her notebook – to the doodles and sketches that were a constant
part of her routine but which had never before developed into anything beyond
unfinished ideas and snippets of dialogue in her head. Her eyes zeroed in on
the one idea that had been clamouring in her mind louder than the others, the
idea that she had mentioned to Helena, the idea that she most wanted to write.
She clicked an icon on her laptop and watched as the standard Final Draft
screenwriting programme opened. She held her breath and for a long time she
stared at the blank white screen, she had never been more scared.
Bet on
yourself
, she
thought and as she finally exhaled, she began to type. EXT – CARPARK
– DAY. When she finally looked up, she had written one scene, just one
scene but it was the first step for Talia, screenwriter.

And she began to smile. She had finally made a start.

Tamara
was drinking alone. She was not a woman who liked to share her problems and her
temper tantrums of late were starting to rank as a problem. She’d continued to
avoid Katie’s calls, the last thing she needed was to expose her open wounds
for cooing and scrutiny. Usually the cool surroundings of the Gaslight members
club on Portobello Road could be counted on to lift her spirits but today it
aggravated her more than ever. She downed her drink wincing at the bitter
aftertaste and strolled down the stairs and out of the bar. She had begun the
walk through the antique market when she heard a voice call her name. Her
instinct was to ignore it, the last thing she needed now was some autograph
hunter. The voice called out again and Tamara turned, usually the autograph
hunters called her by her character's name.

“Tamara,’ the voice was hesitant and husky, a girl. Tamara
turned using her hand to shield her eyes against the sun. Before her were three
girls, young girls though they were decked out in high fashion. Even with only
a cursory glance, Tamara could spot Balenciaga, Chloe and Ralph Lauren. “Hi
Tamara,” the tallest of the girls said again. And in a flash Tamara recognised
her, Vassily’s lover. The girl moved forward awkwardly and Tamara felt her
curiosity grow. Why on earth would this girl speak to her? She remained silent
waiting for her to continue.

“We didn’t meet properly the other night,” the girl said.
“I’m Sasha.” Tamara stared in fascination as the girl held her hand out to her.
Slowly she stretched her own out, coolly shaking the girl’s hand.

“Sasha,” Tamara said unable to stop the bubble of curiosity
that spread through her.
 

“I love your show,” Sasha continued. “We all watch
Encounters.” Tamara held back a wince. Oh Vassily, she thought, she’s a child.
Sasha glanced back behind her; her friends were growing impatient and already
drifting away down the market. “Anyway it was nice to meet you.” Tamara watched
as Sasha reached into her bag to retrieve a pen, quickly scrawling something
down on a piece of paper. “If you ever want to come by,” she said handing the
paper to Tamara. Tamara glanced down at the piece of paper, on which was
scrawled a telephone number and an address in Chelsea.

“Why…?” Tamara began but the girl continued to speak.

“He really likes you.” Sasha said. “I think it’d be good for
my dad, to get to know you,” she finished quietly and then turned quickly in
pursuit of her friends, disappearing into the throng of Portobello Road.

Tamara
continued to stare after her for a long time as realisation finally pierced
through her alcohol compromised senses. Sasha wasn’t Vassily’s lover. She was
his daughter.

Helena
was lost in a delicious dream. She was on a white sandy beach and hot sunshine
beat down on her as she sipped from a tall cocktail. Suddenly, the idyll was
ruptured by the insistent beeping of the alarm on her Blackberry. Sighing she
reached an arm out from under the covers and grabbed the phone off the bedside
table, pressing the snooze button to stop the sound. She stretched in the bed,
luxuriating in the comfort of the mattress and the crisp sheets. Few hotels
could do comfort quite like the Ritz in Paris. Keeping her eyes closed and
allowing herself to enjoy the precious last few moments before she had to get
out of bed.

Slowly the events of the last few days drifted back into her
mind and Helena sighed. In the days since they had arrived in Paris, Sula still
hadn’t to re-appeared and she and Gabe had instead focused on getting the
centenary issue together. After a series of heated conference calls back to
Tobias in London, they were almost ready to put the issue to bed; only the
cover shots remained to be finished. Tobias had made it clear, in no uncertain
terms, that they had to deliver Sula – several of the key advertisers
that they had lined up for the issue were dependent on Sula being on the cover.

Helena finally opened her eyes – it was time to get
started with the day. Her room was in darkness; the heavy curtains shut tight,
keeping out the light and the sounds of the bustling thoroughfare of the Rue
Saint Honore. She pushed back the covers and froze as she sensed something. She
was not alone. Helena jack-knifed out of the bed and snapped the bedside lamp
on. The room was immediately bathed in a dim orange light and she let out a
sound halfway between a gasp and a shriek as she found herself staring into the
mocking gaze of Gabe, who was perched on one side of her bed.

“Gabe!” Helena squealed as fear quickly gave way to anger.
The adrenalin from her fight or flee response was still coursing through her
and she wanted to yell or throw something, anything to wipe the smug expression
off Gabe’s face.

“You know you sleep like the dead,” Gabe said.

“What the hell is wrong with you? How long have you been in
here?” Helena demanded full of suspicion. Gabe looked down and Helena saw that
his camera, a Pentax 67, lay on the bed next to him. She watched as he reached
for it and fiddled with the shutter for a moment. With growing irritation she
sat up in bed, folding her arms across her chest as she glared at him.

“You have got a serious problem.” She snapped the words at
him and then shrieked once again as he suddenly raised the camera and snapped a
rapid series of shots of her.

Suddenly Helena was aware of the brief cotton shorts and the
thin white vest that she had worn to bed. She dived for the robe that she had
discarded on a chair the night before, wrapping it around her body before she
turned back to face Gabe.

“If you don’t get out of here, in five seconds I’m calling
for the police to remove you.”

“You’re not calling the police.”

“Try me,” Helena snapped already moving towards the phone.
She had picked up the receiver and begun to tap in a number, when she heard him
move. She turned back towards him and saw that he had lowered the camera. He
was, she noticed, trying to look contrite. He wasn’t very convincing.