Beautiful People

by Wendy Holden

  He shrugged, then smiled at her, and again she felt that electric flash. She looked away hurriedly.

  After the Cojones shoot, Sam was exhausted but triumphant. The fiery Spaniard had been reluctant at first, but once Sam had explained that if this shoot went wrong, they all went wrong, Cojones had suddenly seen reason. He had used a lot of shadow on Darcy to slim her down as much as possible. The test shots had looked good. Sam was fairly confident that Brooke, who had demanded to see the results immediately, would be satisfied.

  Darcy had been less keen. "I look pretty skinny," she had said, squinting critically at the test shots. "Sort of thin and ill."

  "Oh, get real," Sam had snapped, frustrated. "Times are thin, okay? Thin, thin, thin. There's a racehorse vibe, a legs spilling everywhere thing, kind of newborn colt, y'know?"

  Darcy had giggled. "You make modelling sound like a farmyard."

  "Yeah, well that isn't so far from the truth," Sam snapped. "It's full of shit; you deal with a lot of pigs and a helluva lot of cows. And the figure on the bottom line," the agent added, as inspiration struck her, "is usually zero. Or double zero."

  "Well, I'm a long way from that," Darcy returned, comfortably.

  Sam shot her an exasperated look. You said it, baby.

  Darcy had now gone to an art gallery, and Sam needed to get back to London. She decided to walk back to the hotel. She had no intention of waiting around for a taxi, and, besides, her London habit of spotting talent on the hoof could just as easily apply here. As she walked along, she looked closely at the people passing her. Returning to her agency with a new face in the bag would more than make up for the trouble she was having with one of her most recent.

  Orlando was holding Morning now. It made a touching sight, Emma thought: the gangling, broad-shouldered, god-like youth cradling the small dark child. "Lovely baby!" Orlando crooned now, peering down at the infant, who chose that moment to stir, open his big eyes with their liquid chocolate pupils, and give Orlando a huge pink smile.

  "You've got a way with babies," Emma observed. "You must have held lots of them before."

  Orlando, who had, in fact, never held a baby before Morning, was secretly staggered that he wasn't crying. He had thought all babies did that as soon as you picked them up. But holding one was far easier than he had imagined; they snuggled into you, their warm little heads tucked against your chest. He was surprised at how enjoyable it felt.

  "You know," Emma said consideringly. "You could easily be a nanny. You're really great with children."

  He looked at her in astonishment. "A nanny?"

  She raised a wry eyebrow. "Try not to sound so, like, disgusted. It's what I do, after all."

  "I'm sorry, I didn't mean…"

  "So what did you mean?"

  "I meant, you know, that…men don't…I mean, they aren't…"

  "Yes, they are," Emma said firmly. "Male nannies are trendy. They're called mannies."

  "Mannies!" He gave a shout of laughter. Then the amusement died from his expression. "But I can't…I mean, who would give me a job?"

  "I would, like a shot," Emma assured him.

  "But you haven't got a nursery."

  "Not yet." She was thinking aloud again. "But I might one day. I just might."

  A nanny, Orlando thought. It was a thought, definitely. It was true he liked children. And now he came to think of it, it would be great—really great—to work with them.

  His mother wouldn't think so, of course. Georgie was determined he would be something impressive, preferably famous and definitely rich. He sighed heavily, raised his eyebrows, and looked up at the sunny, blue sky.

  "Oops," said Emma now, as Morning's bottle rolled off the table and fell to the cobbled floor.

  "I'll get it," Orlando offered, holding Morning carefully as he reached downwards. His hand crossed Emma's. He felt her begin to jerk it away and caught it.

  Her lips, Orlando saw, were very close. His heart began to thunder, and his mouth felt as if a very strong magnet were pulling it forward. Before he knew it, he was kissing her. As Emma's lips parted, he felt a flicker of surprise. Gently, he touched her soft, warm tongue with his. A judder went through his entire body, followed by a spreading sense of wonder. So this was what it felt like.

  In the depths of her Luella tote, Sam's mobile phone was ringing. She dragged it out.

  "Brooke Reed," came the piercing nasal voice of the NBS studio PR. "These pictures, I got 'em."

  She was entering a large, sunny square, Sam saw. She pointed herself towards the nearest bar. A celebration drink would, after all, be in order within minutes.

  "And?"

  "She looks like a sumo wrestler."

  "Sumo wrestler!"

  "You heard me," Brooke replied crisply. "It's a bad angle to start with—who is this photographer guy?"

  "Carlos Cojones. We talked about him," Sam said tightly, feeling her professional integrity was being called seriously into question. "He's up and coming."

  "Not anymore he ain't. He's down and gone. He's obviously photoshopped these shots a bit, but Darcy's still got a double chin. Not to mention pork roast."

  Sam groaned. Pork roast was not good news.

  "Those tight, strappy sandals, with flesh bulging out between the straps?"

  "I know what pork roast is," Sam grumbled.

  "Well it looks like Sunday lunch here. I haven't even shown 'em to Jack. I daren't. And I can't begin to imagine what Arlington will say."

  Arlington Shorthouse. The studio head. This was big-time stuff, Sam knew, for him to get involved.

  "She's gotta start a diet and exercise regime now," Brooke ordered. "Otherwise she's out of the picture."

  "Right," muttered Sam, feeling rather stunned by the machinegun rattle of words from L.A.

  "Jack can hold her scenes for a week. Luckily, we'd already talked about this."

  "You had?" There didn't seem anything too lucky about it to Sam.

  "It was the worst-case scenario," Brooke drawled. "We had to plan for it. Hit emergency mode. You know, I was seriously thinking about sending her off to a hard-core juicing camp in Thailand that I know. But I guess a thinstructor would be better."

  "A thinstructor," repeated Sam. Hollywoodese, she knew, for a personal trainer. She would have liked to object, put some ideas forward at any rate; Darcy was her client, after all. But there was no stopping Brooke in full, determined, emergency-mode flow.

  "There's one guy," the L.A. end rasped. "'He's actually known as the Hero of Zero. I've used him before. He gets people down from size six into something you can barely see side-on in time for the awards season."

  "Right." A diet and exercise regime, Sam thought glumly. How the hell was she going to get this one past Darcy? She loved food—had been stuffing her face with pizza at the shoot when Sam had arrived, in fact. And Sam had a feeling that she wasn't big on exercise.

  "Saw him at an industry awards ceremony just the other night," Brooke was saying of the thinstructor. "He's pretty busy, though. Said he had four lots of A-list batwings and some Golden Globenominated cellulite to deal with, plus some thunder thighs in Pacific Palisades that might be up for Best Actor. But I can call in some favours. Get him out to you."

  "Great," Sam said heavily, as Brooke's end went dead.

  "Signora?" A waiter had appeared.

  "Double Jamesons," Sam snapped.

  She pulled out her mobile and dialled Mitch Masterson. "Houston? We got a problem."

  "Tell me about it," Mitch groaned. "I've just had Arlington Shorthouse on to me. If Darcy doesn't drop two dress sizes by the end of next week, she's out of the picture. Brooke's sending in some crack personal trainer."

  "That's right. So when are you going to tell her?"

  "Me tell her?" exclaimed Mitch. "I thought you…"

  "You're her agent," Sam said firmly.

  "Yeah, and you're her model agent. It falls within your remit."

  "No it doesn't."

  "Yes it does."<
br />
  "Doesn't."

  "Does."

  "Okay," Mitch sighed. "Let's toss for it."

  "Over the phone?" gasped Sam. "Where I can't see it?"

  "Don't you trust me?" Mitch's tone was indignant.

  "No. You're an agent."

  "So are you."

  "Exactly."

  "Okay. I'll tell her." He'd known he would have to all along. Domineering women always got their way with him. It was, he supposed, a sort of fetish.

  Sam's drink now arrived. She took a great swig; the fiery liquid blazed a trail to her stomach, and she felt immediately better.

  Now more in control, she started to look around her, assessing the clientele. There were some pretty good-looking people in this bar. Take that boy over there.

  Sam narrowed her eyes. He really was handsome. She watched the hollows beneath his cheekbones catch the sun as he pushed back his gold-flecked hair. He was laughing, his full lips parted, his long eyes sparkling beneath his brows.

  Excitement gripped Sam, as it rarely did. As it only did, in fact, when she received vast checks or came across someone truly exceptional who could result in vast checks. And this boy was exceptional. Every nerve in her body was shrieking the fact. She was panting. She felt hot. She hadn't felt this excited since she had spotted The Hunk That Got Away in Covent Garden.

  Suddenly, Sam gasped, a tearing gasp that felt more like a choke. Could it be? Hurriedly, she scrambled in her bag, fishing for her mobile again. She grabbed it—it fell from her frantic, fumbling grip—then pinged it open. Within seconds, she had found the picture of the boy she had taken. Her eyes ricocheted back and forth, from the fuzzy image to the living young man some tables away, gathering the evidence. She felt almost sick with excitement. My God. It really looked like…it really could be…

  It was. It was him. She had no doubt at all. The face that had, to her eternal regret, got away. But it wasn't going to get away again. The hell it was.

  Stealthily, as one stalking a butterfly might, Sam drained her whisky glass and raised her ginger-suede bottom from her chair.

  Up until the point Orlando's lips actually touched hers, Emma had not really believed that it was actually going to happen. And when it did, and she had melted into it, the kiss had been altogether deeper, more protracted, more tender than she had imagined possible.

  And then, obeying a shy, yet joyful impulse, he bent over and kissed her nose. As his lips moved down her face to her mouth again, a great plunge of desire swept through Orlando.

  She felt she were drowning in the green of his eyes.

  Then something looming over them made them both look up.

  Orlando stiffened in horror. He recognised her instantly. That awful pushy model-agent woman from Covent Garden. Oh, no. Not in front of Emma. The embarrassment would be excruciating.

  He leapt to his feet. "Look, I've got to go…I'll be back…"

  "Hey!" cried the woman. "Wait!"

  "I can't!" Emma cried after him. Her hand clasped Morning. "We have to go too…"

  She watched helplessly as the tall, blond figure rushed off across the square and disappeared into the crowd.

  Chapter Forty-six

  So violently had Darcy opposed the idea of a personal trainer from America that her agents had eventually given in. Running alone was no fun, but preferable at least to the prospect of sprinting through Rocolo accompanied by someone calling himself the Hero of Zero.

  Her victory was not absolute, however. Within days, a pair of DVDs addressed to Darcy arrived from L.A. via a courier. Apprehensively, she took them into the villa's large, light, stone-walled sitting room and slipped them into the gleaming, state-of-the-art player. Immediately the enormous, gleaming, state-of-the-art plasma screen was filled with some gleaming, white, obviously state-of-theart teeth. The camera panned back to reveal a maniacally grinning man with big hair, a pink mesh vest, and a glistening caramel tan.

  "Hello, Darcy!" he exclaimed with showbizzy emphasis. "I'm Rupert. Otherwise known as the Hero of Zero."

  Darcy stared, stunned, at the shining, black, swept-back hair, unlined forehead, and superhero jaw. He was extremely thin. His legs reminded her of pipe cleaners, very brown ones.

  "Otherwise known," the dazzling teeth on the screen continued, "as the Captain of Thindustry and the Queen of Lean. The guy the stylists to the stars all have on speed dial." He made a little exuberant, skipping movement. "And why? Because, dear, I can make you thin. I'm the man the model agencies call in times of crisis. And you're one lucky lady to have me make an exclusive and tailor-made programme just for you!" He rubbed his hands together gleefully.

  There was a tinny, ringing sound. Rupert rolled his eyes. "Hold on, dear. My Thighphone. It's going crazy."

  Darcy stared as Rupert lifted his bright-pink mesh vest to reveal a row of slender mobiles slipped into holders strapped along a belt. "All on vibrate, for emergency use only. It's a service I offer ultra- triple-A-list clients—people like you, Darcy," he added triumphantly, "when they have a problem. All part of my very special service," he explained to the camera with a smile like a flashgun.

  "Each of these phones relates to a different part of the body," the Captain of Thindustry now revealed. "Clients ring the number relating to their particular body issue zone. This," he pointed to the first pocket, "is the Batphone. That's for batwings and bingo wings. This,"—the second pocket—"is the Buttphone—self-explanatory, obviously. Then the Bellyphone—my little joke, dear, rhymes with telephone. And, last, but by no means least, the Thighphone and the Pork Roast Hotline," he added, indicating the others. "Hold on, hold on, I'm coming," he exclaimed, pulling out the Thighphone and frowning at the number. "Yes, Nicole?"

  He listened for a few minutes, his face grave. "Okay, Nicole. Not a problem."

  He put the phone away, flashed another grin, and proceeded to bound about the screen like a young gazelle. "We'll do some cardiovascular every day, of course," he told Darcy brightly. "Tricep dips to streamline those upper arms. My special Butt Blaster lunges—you'll enjoy those, dear. Everyone does. And running, of course. A good brisk jog with some uphill for an hour a day at least…"

  Running! Pure aversion seized Darcy. She hated running. Anything but that. It was painful, hot, and boring. Whenever, in the past, she had done it—usually in pursuit of an about-to-depart train—her chest had heaved violently; painful cramps had stabbed her sides; and her lungs had gulped agonisingly for air. She had always felt amazement that anyone could run for fun—could run at all—without a gun being pointed to his or her head. Running for her life was the only sort she could envisage.

  "…the quickest and most effective way to shed those naughty unwanted pounds…"

  Darcy lunged for the DVD player and switched him off.

  She slipped the other disc in. This one was about food and featured the Hero of Zero in a bright, white kitchen with a white apron over his pink mesh vest. The horror that had gripped Darcy during the first disc started to subside. If it was about food, it could not be all bad, surely.

  "Pasta's off, dear," Rupert beamed. "Ditto bread. It's all about low carb, low cholesterol, low fat…"

  Low fun, thought Darcy in dismay. She strained to listen. Had he really just said egg white omelette, poached chicken fillet, steamed broccoli, and as much undressed salad as she wanted to eat? How much undressed salad did anyone want to eat?

  "Seaweed protein shakes and tree syrup are an option…" Rupert was beaming. "And if you've got any food allergies, now's the time to really let them rip. Or else develop some. Food allergies can be very useful…"

  Crouched on the cool stone floor, Darcy groaned. It was bad enough from her point of view, but what the proud cook Mara was going to make of it hardly bore thinking about.

  The voice from the plasma screen trilled blithely on. "Finally, let me tell you something about diet food. Which is that nothing, absolutely nothing, tastes as good as…"

  He paused. Darcy, eyes riveted on the screen, h
eld her breath. Was some stomach-filling, acceptably tasty low-fat wonderfood about to be mentioned?

  "Nothing tastes as good as thin feels," Rupert finished triumphantly.

  Darcy switched him off and sat gazing, unseeing, into the sitting room's great empty fireplace with its carved canopy.

  Never had the ridiculousness of Hollywood seemed quite so ridiculous. Nor was the Hero of Zero the only example of it; Darcy had now read the script and discovered that bidding other equally unlikely sounding characters to "Come forth, loyal servant of my late father" seemed to be the main function of her role as the Grand Duchess of the Galaxy. It was not a part to get excited about in any artistic sense or in any sense, it was increasingly beginning to seem.