Hearts and Diamonds

by Justine Elyot

  ‘Jay,’ she called. ‘Jason.’

  No reply. Damn. She was going to have to get out of bed.

  Gone were the days when she could shag all night and spring back into shape like a bath sponge. A twinge of regret that Deano, rather than Jason, had enjoyed those years of insouciant flexibility added itself to all the other twinges as she hobbled around the room looking for her dressing gown.

  ‘Jen, you’re thirty-five not ninety,’ she chided herself, stretching out her limbs before slipping on the silk robe. ‘Get your act together.’

  She was almost out of the bedroom and in the open-plan living area before it occurred to her that Jason’s clothes were not where he had left them. He had obviously dressed. Perhaps, she thought with a burst of optimism, he had ordered a room service breakfast and it would be waiting for her, together with copious amounts of coffee, when she walked out of the room.

  But no.

  Nobody was in the living area, or the bathroom.

  He’d popped out for some fresh air, perhaps, although there was a balcony for that. The sun shone brightly through the gauzy curtains that covered the balcony door. She would get some coffee brought up and drink it out there, she thought.

  Before ordering, she grabbed her phone and tried to dial Jason on the contract smartphone she’d bought him the week before.

  She swore under her breath as it chirrupped back to her from the other side of the bedroom. Wherever he was, he was incommunicado.

  She took the coffee, once it was delivered, and went out to the balcony, deciding to try and enjoy her enforced wait. He’d be back soon, no doubt. Gone out for a paper or a quick stroll round the block. Freedom was still a wondrous novelty to him after all those weeks cooped up at Harville Hall. He was stretching his wings. It was fine.

  From the balcony, the lush green expanse of Hyde Park stretched out before her, Kensington Palace visible at a distance above the flourishing tree tops. The London morning was busy as always. Down on Park Lane, cabs and buses filled the road. Speakers’ Corner was already open for business, a small crowd building up around the soapboxes. On the pavement, artists attached their paintings to the railings, ready for another day’s business. Here and there, a tourist or two stopped to admire the work of a pavement artist, drawing their portraits, or those of a famous person, in chalk.

  Jenna’s idle gaze stopped roving and she focused abruptly. She got up from the small table and peered from the balcony edge, squinting to make sure that she was seeing right.

  ‘Oh God!’ she said, abandoning her coffee and running to the shower for the quickest douse under the warm needling water before dressing and hurrying out.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she demanded, down on the pavement. She wore sunglasses and a headscarf tied in a fifties style under her chin, hiding her hair. Even so, she couldn’t be sure a couple of faces in the small crowd that had gathered hadn’t lifted in recognition.

  Jason looked up from the chalk fantasy that now encompassed half a dozen slabs. His face was dusty, in several pastel colours.

  ‘What’s it look like?’ he said carelessly. ‘Earning a crust.’

  He waved a hand over to a battered cap in which several coins and even a few notes lay.

  ‘I tried to phone you,’ she said.

  ‘I told you,’ he answered, in a tone of long-suffering patience. ‘I’ll use that phone once I’ve paid you back for it. You can call that your first instalment.’

  He picked up the cap and proffered it to her.

  She took it without further remark, for she had just noticed what the chalk art represented. Amidst a backdrop of orchards and birds and flowers and trees was her face, exquisitely rendered, like a da Vinci.

  ‘That’s . . .’ she whispered.

  ‘Yeah, Jenna Diamond,’ he said loudly, so that she caught on that he was trying to preserve her anonymity amongst this crowd. ‘Well recognised.’

  ‘Looks just like her,’ commented a woman at her side. ‘Though I think she’s overrated myself. I mean, she’s no Cheryl Cole, is she?’

  Jenna wasn’t keen to hear much more of this.

  ‘Have you forgotten?’ she urged under her breath. ‘We have an appointment at eleven. It’s after ten already.’

  ‘Right. The Italian bloke.’

  ‘Alfonso, the best men’s stylist in London, I think you’ll find. Come on. You need a wash. I can’t take you there all covered in chalk.’

  Sighing, Jason packed up his chalks, waved to his admiring onlookers and took his leave.

  ‘Shame the rain’ll wash it all away,’ he said, looking back at his handiwork.

  ‘Yes, isn’t it?’ said Jenna, unsure whether to be annoyed with Jason or moved by the beautiful portrait he had made of her. ‘That’s why you should be concentrating on making a proper, lasting career of your art, rather than busking on street corners.’

  ‘Every little helps,’ he said. ‘And you can stop telling me off. I’m not some snotty kid in your class or something.’

  ‘Sorry. I just wish you’d let me know where you were going.’

  ‘I left a note.’

  She stopped and looked at him.

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Yeah. On the table in the living room.’

  ‘Oh, God, I didn’t realise. I didn’t see it. Sorry.’

  ‘Apology accepted,’ he said, so loftily that she immediately wanted to snap at him again.

  But she refrained and, once in the lift, offered him a compliment on the portrait instead.

  ‘You weren’t working from a photograph?’ she said.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘From here.’ He put a hand on his heart and all her residual irritation faded clean away.

  It didn’t return until, washed and brushed up, they were in the cab heading for Alfonso’s Shoreditch consultancy office.

  ‘So this is like a clothes shop?’ said Jason. ‘Where we’re going?’

  ‘No,’ said Jenna. ‘Alfonso is a stylist. He doesn’t sell clothes. He suggests looks for you.’

  ‘What’s the point of that? Why not cut out the middleman and just go shopping? If we must,’ he added in a sulky undertone.

  ‘Jason,’ said Jenna, slipping without realising it into a professional lecturing tone, ‘all successful people in the public eye need styling. The days when you could get away with wearing what you thought looked good on you are gone. With so many magazines and papers selling copies on the back of pictures of celebrities who made bad style choices, you can’t afford to get caught out like that any more. Believe me, if you put a fashion foot wrong, it will be all the way around the world before you can blink. That’s the frightening reality of modern celebrity.’

  ‘Yeah, but it’s shit, though. Just because something’s shit doesn’t mean you have to go along with it.’

  Jenna couldn’t even begin to formulate an answer to this, not least because, somewhere near the core of her consciousness, she had a nagging feeling that he could be right.

  Instead, she chose to bluster. ‘Trust me, Jason. This is what I do. I know what I’m talking about. Think about the pop music you grew up with. Which acts broke through the quickest? Was it the most talented? Was it the ones with the best songs? No. It was the ones with the strongest style. The Spice Girls, Take That, Britney and all those others. The public love their stars to be instantly recognisable, to be unique and yet also easy to copy. Madonna pulled that trick off brilliantly. So did Michael Jackson.’

  ‘What about Susan Boyle? What about Johnny Rotten?’

  ‘Johnny Rotten was styled to within an inch of his life,’ she said, on surer ground now. ‘Believe you me. But that’s an interesting thought. We go left field, do something nobody’s expecting. I’ll discuss it with Alfonso.’

  ‘You’d better not make me look like a tosser. I won’t be made to look like a tosser.’

  ‘Why would I want that?’ Jenna snuggled her head into his shoulder. ‘I still have to fancy you, don’t I?’

  ‘I should bl
oody well hope so. And don’t forget. There’ll be payback for this later.’

  Somehow she didn’t think threats of payback were meant to make her feel quite so hot and bothered, but this one did.

  She was still tingling mildly when the taxi disgorged them and they mounted the narrow stairs to Alfonso’s office in a converted warehouse.

  The floor on which he held his premises was an open-plan space filled with small business units. In one, a group of women cut cloth and worked at sewing machines; in the next, a younger mixed group sat on a circular sofa huddled over iPads. Inspirational posters and strangely-clad tailors’ dummies were rushed past until Jenna located the unit she needed to get to.

  ‘Alfonso,’ she called, and a short, dark man in an outsize pinstripe shirt and neon yellow skinny jeans burst out from behind a screen, arms spread wide.

  ‘Oh my God, you are real,’ he cried, tackling her into a hug. ‘I thought someone had cloned your voice pattern or something when you made the appointment before. I didn’t dare to hope.’

  He stood back, laughing all over a good-natured, pointy-bearded face.

  ‘Still a goddess,’ he said.

  ‘Still a bullshitter,’ she grinned back. ‘But fantastic to see you, all the same. I’ve watched your progress from behind my desk in LA. You’ve got some of the hottest clients in town. Congratulations on the Girl Crush gig.’

  ‘Oh, those bitches are hell on wheels to work with,’ he exclaimed, then he lowered his voice, putting a finger to his lips, although his eyes still twinkled. ‘But you didn’t hear that from me. Come into my lair, darling. Oh God.’ He stopped dead, staring at Jason. ‘I’m so sorry. I was so bowled over by the goddess Jenna that I didn’t even . . . Do excuse me. Alfonso Vannetti.’

  He offered Jason a hand to shake. Jason took it and shook it awkwardly, muttering, ‘Jason Watson.’

  The three retired behind a pair of giant screens plastered all over with photographs of Alfonso’s celebrity clients on various red carpets and podiums. In his large corner space, he had racks upon racks of clothes samples and little else beyond a desk on which a slim silver notebook computer lay shut, and a very large, very plush, very marabou-trimmed sofa.

  ‘Take a seat on my sofa of the stars,’ he offered, pulling out a mobile and speed-dialling. ‘Freya, Alfonso. Champagne, please, and three glasses.’

  Jenna could feel Jason’s discomfort radiating out from him in waves. He was sitting stiffly, looking at the clothing rails with some dismay.

  ‘She won’t be a moment,’ said Alfonso, perching himself on the corner of his desk. ‘She’s not my secretary as such – we all chip in here for a general receptionist, so Freya does this kind of thing for all of us. She’s marvellous but we could do with three of her, to be honest. So.’ He bent forward, scanning Jason with a professional eye. ‘I take it this is my raw material?’

  Jenna laughed nervously and held up a hand.

  ‘Alfonso, you are awful. This is the most talented artist you’re ever likely to meet, on the cusp of getting his first gallery show.’

  There was a slight pause.

  ‘Am I right,’ said Alfonso slowly, ‘in thinking that this is the same Jason that was all over the news recently, linked with you and your house?’

  ‘I was fitted up,’ snarled Jason. ‘That’s all done with now.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I wasn’t implying anything! I just recognised you, that’s all.’

  Freya appeared with a smoking bottle and three glasses. The diversion was welcomed by all.

  ‘Well,’ said Alfonso, raising his own flute. ‘Here’s to a fruitful business partnership. To you, Jenna, and to Jason.’

  ‘To us,’ said Jenna.

  Jason said nothing but knocked back the champagne in one, then gagged as the bubbles fizzed in his throat.

  ‘Horrible stuff,’ he muttered, once he had spluttered himself back to equilibrium.

  ‘Now,’ said Alfonso, ‘we can get down to work. Talk to me, Jenna.’

  ‘Well, as I’ve said, Jason is an artist. He’s a serious artist, so I want his style to reflect that, but I also want him to appeal to more popular tastes as well. The trick – the one you’ve mastered so thoroughly – is to give him a look that’s distinctive and yet not open to ridicule. I so admired your work with Dial M on that music video you did with him. Toned him down, and yet made him even more watchable than ever.’

  ‘OK. An artist. So, Jason, Jenna emailed me photos of some of your work. It’s got a feel that’s a bit modern, a bit street and yet also quite classical, even formal at times. I was really hard-pressed to categorise it. What would you call it?’

  Jason shrugged. ‘Art,’ he said.

  Jenna bit her tongue. Why did Jason have to be so awkward all the time? She realised, with a rush that touched her heart, that he was shy, even unconfident. She had seen this in some of her other protégés, raised to stardom from obscurity. They would start out so tongue-tied that they came across as rude. She usually sent them to an exclusive ‘finishing’ college for a course in etiquette and social poise. She’d have to get in touch with Georgina at the Margery Mountjoy Institute. In the meantime, it was up to her to give him a few pointers herself.

  ‘Art,’ repeated Alfonso, completely deadpan, giving him another chance.

  Jason seemed a little shamed by Alfonso’s good tempered tolerance, and he tried harder this time.

  ‘Yeah, I mean, all those things you said. I’ve tried to learn whatever I can pick up from the old dead guys – Van Gogh and Rembrandt and all them – but I want to be me as well. I want to be what I am, and what I am is a deadbeat from a dead-end town. It’s important that people know that. I want people to see and recognise where I’m from and how it’s made me. And how it’s making this country.’

  ‘So . . . your work has a strong political slant? I was picking some of that up.’

  ‘All art does,’ said Jason. ‘If it’s going to mean anything.’

  ‘That’s a strong statement,’ said Alfonso, raising his eyebrows.

  Jason’s passion brought Jenna up short, almost breathless. Whatever his shortcomings were, he was no pushover. He believed in what he did and he’d live or die by his beliefs.

  ‘If you say so,’ said Jason, keeping eye contact with the stylist.

  Alfonso looked vaguely intimidated, which Jenna found both interesting and unusual.

  He coughed. ‘Yes, well, let’s see what we’ve got to work with, first. Stand up, will you, Jason? I want to get the measure of you.’

  Jason rose and stood with his chin out and shoulders back, as if modelling for a sculpture of a victorious general. His tight T-shirt and jeans showed off his tall, well-made figure to perfect advantage and Jenna thought she could almost see Alfonso’s mouth watering.

  ‘You could wear anything,’ murmured Alfonso, darting around to take him in from all angles. ‘In fact, you could model. If you’re ever short of a pound or two and worried about starving in your garret, give me a call. I can fix you up with a photographer or two.’

  ‘I’m not poncing around on no catwalk,’ said Jason, thrusting his chin out still further.

  ‘Well, the offer’s there if you want it. What are you? Six foot? Six one?’

  ‘Six and a bit.’

  ‘Great shoulders, good legs, a dancer’s build, almost. Do you dance?’

  ‘Bit of head-banging at the disco on a Friday night.’

  ‘That’s a no, I take it?’

  ‘I’m not Billy Elliot, no.’

  ‘And what’s your personal style? I mean, I love what you’ve got on now. Clean, simple. Very young Marlon Brando, James Dean. It could almost work just as is. If you had a big budget to spend on clothes, what would you buy yourself?’

  Jason shrugged. ‘Back home, I just wore trackies. Hoodies. I never cared that much what I wore. I suppose I might get myself a decent leather jacket, but I dunno. More likely to spend the money on good paints, cost a fucking fortune, they do.’

  ‘R
ight. I’m getting a Wild Ones vibe off you, Jason, if you don’t mind my saying.’

  Jason looked rather flattered.

  ‘Sound,’ he said. ‘So what does that mean? What kind of dress-up doll do I get to be?’

  Alfonso smiled widely, daring to put a hand on Jason’s shoulder and manipulate him gently into a less aggressive pose.

  ‘I think you have such a wealth of natural attractiveness and charisma that we can afford to keep it simple.’ Ostensibly, he spoke to Jason, but Jenna knew that he was really addressing her. ‘You’ve got a great body, a really strong face. You’re sexy and you know it. There’s no need to overegg that.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Jenna eagerly. ‘And he looks like an artist already. Those eyes – such soul.’

  Jason snorted. ‘Yeah, baby. You know I’ve got soul.’

  Alfonso stepped back, appraising his client as if fixing him in final memory.

  Then he went over to the racks.

  ‘I think I know what I’m aiming for,’ he said, rummaging among the coat-hangers. ‘But let me try a few things. Just for fun, and to perfect my focus.’

  He came out with a checked shirt, a pair of very tight, bright green skinny jeans, a fringed scarf and a pair of Converse high-tops.

  ‘Get bent,’ said Jason, eyeing the jeans. ‘They look like agony.’

  ‘This is the current artistic look, Jason. Try it for size. You might like it.’

  Alfonso directed him behind one of his screens and Jenna waited, grinning at the various exclamations of discomfort and disgust that filtered out from it.

  When he came out, with legs like pea green poles, she laughed with delight.

  ‘I look a right tool,’ he grumbled, as Alfonso rushed forwards with a pair of spectacles and a beanie hat.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with my eyesight.’

  ‘No, but put them on. They’ve got plain glass in them. Honestly, people wear them to look cool these days. My God. You just need to cultivate that bit of beard you’ve got, and you’re totally Hoxton Square.’

  ‘I’m not sure he’s meant to be,’ cautioned Jenna, and Jason demonstrated wholehearted agreement by pulling off the beanie hat.

  ‘I wouldn’t be seen dead in this,’ he said with finality.