Another Woman (9781468300178)

by Vincenzi, Penny

  ‘But Tilly, I can’t afford to have expensive photographs taken.’

  ‘You don’t have to afford it. The agency pay. They reckon to get it back later.’

  ‘You seem to have had a very long conversation with them,’ said Rosemary wearily.

  ‘Mum, that’s the whole point. She’s nice. She’s careful. I swear you’d like her. And think. If I make it I’ll make lots of money, and we can get a smart house up West somewhere, and you can leave that foul job.’

  ‘Oh Tilly,’ said Rosemary with another heavy sigh. ‘Don’t start daydreaming too soon. You’re just going to be more and more disappointed. When – when could we see this woman?’

  ‘Saturday,’ said Tilly, sensing victory. ‘She said she’d come in any time. We could go just before teatime and then we could go round Uncle Ron’s for a Chinese. He asked us the other day, I forgot to tell you.’

  ‘Oh – well, I suppose there’s no harm talking to her,’ said Rosemary.

  ‘Oh Mum, thanks!’ Tilly flung her arms round her mother’s neck. ‘You’re ace, Mum. Listen, do you want a cup of tea or something?’

  ‘Yes please. Something. Camomile. There are some leaves in the jar.’

  Tilly sighed. Her mother loved all that herbal rubbish. It was a hangover from her seventies youth. Tilly hated the smell of it even, it turned her up. But she’d have gone out and grown the leaves herself, she was so happy. She went over to the kitchenette, made the tea, singing.

  ‘You won’t regret this, Mum. Honest. I’m gonna change our lives.’

  Rosemary took the cup, smiling slightly anxiously at her. ‘Tilly, please don’t get too hopeful. It’s a fairy story really.’

  Tilly looked at her mother sitting on the saggy old sofa, at her pale worn face, her long, rippling, faded blonde hair, her still beautiful hands, oddly graceful in her long flowing skirt, and thought how much she loved her. It wasn’t cool to love your mum, most of her friends hated theirs, never spoke to them from one week’s end to the next except to row with them or ask for money. But then she and her mum were different, battling away alone against the world, just the two of them, fighting for their corner and their place in it, no dad to come between them, no brothers or sisters to claim attention – and then, as she so often did on such an occasion, at some important point in her life, Tilly thought about her, about the other one, the other one who should have been there, sitting with them. Would she have been part of this adventure, would Felicity have approached her too, seen the two of them? Maybe she would – if she had been an identical, as much like her as, say, Gary Redburn was like Garth, with the teachers not able to tell which of them was in the lesson and which wasn’t and who was fighting and who had bunked off and not knowing who to punish.

  Well, no use even wondering. She wasn’t here, she wasn’t anything, never had been, not for a minute, not even for a moment probably, and that was that, thanks to that bastard. Bastard. One day, thought Tilly, settling into the familiar, outraged contemplation that was almost meditative, one day she’d get him. She’d get him as her mother, too gentle, too sick at heart, too overawed by him had finally failed to do, she’d get him and tell everyone and make sure he suffered for it.

  Her thoughts clearly showed, for Rosemary suddenly said, very softly, ‘Tilly, I know what you’re thinking, and don’t. Sometimes, I wish I’d never told you.’

  ‘I’m just so glad you did,’ said Tilly, hauling herself back to reality. ‘I’d still feel there was something of me missing and I wouldn’t know why. More tea, Mum?’

  It was history now: a short sweet history of almost instant recognition, of a too tall, awkward, rebellious schoolgirl become a superstar, a top model, sought after, at only fifteen years old, by the haut monde of the fashion business; of photographers, fashion editors, art directors fighting to book her from the moment Felicity had released her first upon London, then Paris and New York; of dozens, hundreds of fawning articles about her, interviews with her, of her face on television, on hoardings, on buses. Famous she became, known simply as Ottoline, swiftly, suddenly famous, gazing with her raw, rich, gawky sensuality out of the pages of every magazine in the world, stalking down the catwalks with her light, arrogant tread, photographed at airports as she arrived for collections, at charity shows, and soon, surprisingly soon, in the gossip columns, for like all creatures famous for their beauty she was required to bring that beauty to grace all number of occasions: parties, premieres, charity openings. Right through the latter part of the eighties she queened it, an icon for her time, smoothly rough, sharp, flashy, newly rich, outrageously sexy; there were famous affairs, with the glitzy superstars of the eighties, with photographers, rock stars, designers, and she took to it with delighted ease, loving it, laughing with patent, infectious pleasure at it all.

  By the time the decade had drawn to its painful Armageddon-like end, lurched into the frugality of the nineties, she was safe – rich, famous, still hugely in demand. She had bought her mother not the smart house up West, which Rosemary had in any case not wanted, but a pretty little cottage in Peckham Rye, from which Rosemary ran her own business as an aromatherapist. It had been Tilly’s idea that; she had done a beauty photograph for Vogue, and the make-up artist was studying aromatherapy.

  ‘You’d love it, Mum, right up your street, all herbs and God knows what. I’ve brought you a pamphlet, you should do a course and get going on it.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Tilly, how can I do a course at my age and who’d pay for it?’

  ‘I’d pay for it,’ said Tilly, carelessly happy at her new power to give. ‘It’s nothing, only a few hundred quid, and you could do it from home, it’d be great.’

  And Rosemary had first remonstrated with her daughter for speaking of ‘only’ hundreds of pounds, had warned her of seven-day wonders and houses built on sand, and then had sat down to read about aromatherapy and at the end of the evening had said to Tilly, smiling, that she did think it sounded very nice, very interesting and she’d certainly like to consider it as an option.

  ‘Bloody hell, Mother, you’ll be pushing the daisies up before you’ve done anything at this rate,’ said Tilly impatiently and made inquiries herself, and before she knew what was happening Rosemary was studying aromatherapy and loving it as Tilly had predicted.

  Tilly had started out living in Peckham with her, but on her eighteenth birthday had moved out to Kensington: ‘We’re going to start fighting otherwise, and you’re going to get upset and I’m going to get awkward and I don’t want that, and nor do you. I’ll be round to you lots and lots, but not all the time. OK?’

  ‘OK, Tilly,’ said Rosemary.

  She got to the studio at seven. Mick McGrath, looking even more seedy than usual, was sitting drinking coffee, reeking of garlic, reading the London Times.

  ‘Hi, babe.’

  ‘Hallo, Mick,’ said Tilly coolly.

  ‘Good day. The light’s really nice. I’ve told that group of freeloaders in there to pull their fingers out and get you ready fast. I want to be out by eight o’clock latest. In the Place des Vosges, in your wedding frock.’

  ‘OK, OK,’ said Tilly, rummaging in her bag for her Gauloises. ‘But don’t blame me if they don’t deliver. You know what Laurent’s like, he starts out slow and gets slower as he warms up.’

  ‘Hey, that’s good,’ said McGrath, smiling at her. ‘I like that. You’re getting witty in your old age, Til. Yeah, well I’ll keep on his tail. Oh, and you have to call your agency. Soonest. Felicity’s at her desk waiting for you now. Keep it brief, for Christ’s sake, though. Coffee?’

  ‘What do you think? Black.’

  She called the agency. Felicity’s calm voice came down the line: ‘Tilly, hi.’

  ‘Hi, Felicity.’

  ‘I know I’ve got to be quick. Mick told me so in his inimitably charming way. But it’s important. Tilly, I’ve had a call from Meg Rosenthal.’

  ‘Yeah?’ said Tilly. She was struggling to find her cigarettes, and couldn’t;
she dropped her bag, everything spilled out on the floor. ‘Shit.’

  ‘Not quite the reaction I was expecting.’

  ‘Sorry. Spilt all my make-up. Including that gorgeous powder she gave me.’

  ‘Who, Meg? Have you tried the foundation yet? It’s all gorgeous, I must say. And the colours –’

  Rosenthal was the new word in cosmetics: more haute couture than Lauder, more brilliantly fashionable than Saint-Laurent, more expensive than Chanel. Launched simultaneously in Britain, America, France and Italy, sales were soaring after only nine months, and rich women everywhere were filling their dressing tables and make-up purses with it.

  ‘Yeah, they’re great. Love it all.’

  ‘They want you, Tilly.’

  ‘You mean – really want me?’

  ‘I mean really want you. A two million-dollar contract and that’s just for starters.’

  ‘Shit,’ said Tilly again. Mick’s tiny office spun slightly. It wasn’t just the money, nor was it the thought of the fame; it was that a top-of-the-range cosmetics company should decide to stake everything on her. A black girl. Not Christy, not Cindy, not Linda, not your archetypal WASP glamour babe, but her. She knew what it meant, and it was quite literally breathtaking. It meant they saw her as twice as beautiful, twice as inspirational, twice as desirable, as all of them: simply because she was black. It was that simple. For a black girl to sell beauty to rich white women, she had to be twice everything. Probably three times. She had to be perceived not as black, not as white, not as anything – except absolutely, one hundred percent beautifully, glossily, stylishly perfect. No messing. That was the only way it wasn’t a gamble, wasn’t a political gesture, wasn’t a statement. These guys were only interested in one thing and it wasn’t statements. Well, except financial ones. ‘Shit,’ she said, for a third time, and then, ‘What’s it mean?’

  ‘Most relevantly, money apart, it means you have to move to New York almost at once …’

  ‘Why?’ asked Tilly.

  ‘They’re in a hurry. They want to announce it, promote you, start touting you around absolutely straight away. They really do need you, Tilly. It’s just huge.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Tilly. She was trying to take it in, to work out what it might mean to her, today, tomorrow, next week, next year. Belonging to someone else, that’s what it meant, becoming a piece of property, her every move mapped and studied and ordered. The one thing she most hated, most dreaded. On the other hand – well, on the other hand, it was a lot of what Tilly called the fuck-off factor. It would turn her into a very powerful force. Very powerful indeed. Which meant – ‘Oh God, Felicity,’ she said, ‘Felicity, I don’t know. What do you –’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Tilly, I told you to be quick. Get off that phone.’ Mick McGrath’s black eyes were snapping dangerously.

  ‘Felicity, I have to go. I’m sorry. And I have to think. I’ll – I’ll call you tonight. Promise. With an answer.’

  ‘OK, I think that’s fair. I’ll tell them. Bye, Tilly.’

  ‘Bye, Felicity.’

  Tilly put down the phone, stood there briefly concentrating on what she had just heard, what she was feeling, and then almost visibly shook herself back into the present. She would think about it later, maybe tonight: not now. One of the reasons she was so successful, so sought after, was the way she gave herself entirely to the job in hand, whether it was a million-dollar deal or a one-off editorial shoot. She went into the dressing room; a small pale creature, with a wild mop of black hair, dressed in black T-shirt, black trousers and black plimsolls sat playing cat’s cradle with a very long hair ribbon.

  ‘Hi, Laurent.’

  ‘Hi, Tilly.’ He looked at her, dropped the ribbon. ‘Who cut your hair? It look like sheet.’

  ‘Thanks, Laurent. I’ll tell Nicky.’

  ‘ ’Oo is Nicky?’

  ‘Laurent, you know perfectly well who is Nicky. Nicky Clarke. Très famous.’

  ‘Très terrible as well. Oh well, I must try. Let us start with the makeup. You are to be a bride, n’est-ce pas?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right,’ said Tilly absently. Suddenly, sharply she properly realized what day it was. Cressida’s wedding day. Of far more importance than any job, any deal, any contract. And what was she doing? Leaving them to enjoy it in peace, leaving Cressida to mince down the aisle on her father’s arm, and him to smile complacently upon her and the congregation as she did so.

  ‘You’re crazy,’ said Tilly aloud, ‘fucking crazy.’

  ‘Comment?’ said Laurent, distracted from a deep study of whether navy or purple mascara would suit Tilly’s surprisingly long eyelashes better. ‘Qu’est ce que tu as dit?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Tilly, ‘just thinking aloud. Christ, Laurent, you’re not putting that filth on my mouth? And if you are I want another coffee first.’

  ‘Tilly, you cannot have another coffee,’ said Laurent, his rather small mouth setting petulantly. ‘Mick wants you all done by eight and is already ten off eight now.’

  ‘Oh – all right,’ said Tilly. ‘Where’s the frock?’

  ‘Here,’ said Mick’s assistant and stylist, a rather fierce Sloaney girl called Emma. She had got the job against fierce competition purely by virtue of her background; Mick, who had been raised in a council block in Tower Hamlets, was famous for his ferocious snobbery and while being foul-mouthed and deeply unpleasant to almost everybody he ever came in contact with, could be unctuously charming in pursuit of an invitation to a charity ball, a weekend at a country house, a society wedding. He liked to hear Emma’s clipped bossy tones on the phone, arranging bookings, demanding things, telling people he was too busy to speak to them; it made him constantly, gloriously aware of how far he had come.

  ‘It’s going to be a bit too short, even if you don’t wear any shoes,’ said Emma, ‘so we’ll have to shoot a bit carefully. They just refused to let it down.’

  ‘I expect they did,’ said Tilly. ‘What’s it cost, a million francs?’

  ‘More I should think,’ said Emma. ‘Pretty, though.’

  Tilly looked at the clouds of cream slubbed silk, studded with pearls, and sighed. It did seem doubly ironic that she should be modelling wedding dresses today of all days.

  ‘Best get going then,’ said Emma. ‘Mick’s having a baby out there. You’ll have to put it on there, Tilly, no way you can walk along in it, and we certainly can’t get you into a car. It’s only a five-minute walk and you can change in a shop doorway. OK?’

  ‘OK,’ said Tilly equably. She was famous for her unfailing good humour. She had once posed naked in a rainstorm on the top of Beachy Head and, while everybody else shivered and complained, had got the giggles and stood there shrieking with laughter for a full five minutes. The pictures had made headlines round the world.

  They walked along the narrow, still quiet streets; the Place des Vosges, the sun shafting through its vaulted arcades, had a cathedral-like quality. It had been worth the effort, the early start. Tilly looked at her watch: still not eight, not quite seven in England. She was standing in the doorway of a shop that sold outrageously expensive bric-à-brac, dressed only in her pants, the dress supported by Emma and Laurent poised over her head, when Mick’s portable phone rang.

  ‘Yeah,’ she heard him say, as the dress settled around her, ‘yeah, she’s here and, no, of course she can’t come to the phone. She’s working for fuck’s sake. You heard of work, mate? It’s what she gets paid ten thousand a day for. Yeah, well, it is a lot of money. Tell me about it. What? Is it really urgent? Oh, all right. But make it quick, OK?’ He handed the phone to Tilly. ‘It’s for you,’ he said. ‘I wish you’d tell your boyfriends not to call you on the job.’

  ‘Oh go fuck yourself,’ said Tilly equably, fiddling with the silk roses on the neckline of her dress. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It’s Rufus somebody something. Very upmarket, darling.’

  ‘Yeah?’ said Tilly sharply, freezing in her task. ‘Give me the phone, Mick. Rufus? Yea
h, it’s me. What’s the matter?’

  Rufus’s light, public-school voice, high with anxiety, cut into the peaceful, golden morning.

  ‘Tilly, I’m sorry to ring you there, but I simply had to speak to you. Something awful’s happened, it’s an absolute nightmare. Mungo and I’ve been up with Oliver most of the night. He says – well, he says he can’t go through with it. It was Mungo’s idea to call you. Tilly, what the hell do we do?’

  Chapter 5

  Susie 8am

  Susie liked waking up. Being an intrinsically happy person, she enjoyed surfacing slowly into the day: reflecting upon it and its content, the shape she had planned for it, the people she would see. She would lie there, smiling, going through the gentle stretching and relaxing programme that her body trainer had taught her (for Susie did not like to waste so much as a moment), and then reach out for the thermos jug that contained her hot water, pour it into the cup on her bedside table, add two pieces of lemon from the covered container at its side, and leaning on one elbow would sip it slowly, consideringly, before getting up and pulling on a swimsuit, tracksuit and trainers and running down the stairs and out into the street where her silver Mercedes convertible was parked. She lived with her husband and her two younger children (Annabel, aged seventeen and Tom fifteen) in a house of extraordinary beauty on Chiswick Mall; it was a short drive therefore to the Riverside Health Club, where she swam thirty brisk lengths. She was back in the house, bathed and dressed by 7:30, listening to Annabel’s complaints that her alarm hadn’t gone off, that her head/stomach/back hurt, that someone had taken her tights, that there was no orange juice, that the spot on her chin was worse, and to Tom’s desperate groans as he sat at the kitchen table trying to do two hours’ prep in fifteen minutes. And then, when they were finally gone (Annabel to St Paul’s, Tom to Westminster), she would take a large cup of strong tea, with two sugars, up to her husband, wake him with a tender kiss and tell him his bath was running. Susie was exceptionally nice to her husband; she felt it was the least she could do after marrying him when she did not love him in the least. She had made him very happy, and he had provided her with a very pleasant life; it seemed to her a perfectly fair exchange. The fact that she had conducted an adulterous liaison with another man for most of the twenty-nine years of her marriage seemed to her neither here nor there. Susie was not given to introspection; what mattered was what lay on the surface of life, and the surface of hers was calm and charming.