The Modeliser

by Havana Adams

  “He’ll be here.” Helena bit back, not wanting to admit, that the painstaking organisation she’d put into her grandfather’s funeral now seemed about to fall apart. Slowly Helena turned to Talia, who was gazing at her mother her eyes wide. Not for the first time Talia was struck by Sula’s exquisite looks.

  “God, your mother looks amazing,” Talia whispered. Helena grimaced, even as she privately conceded that Sula did look incredible, inappropriate for a funeral, but incredible nonetheless.

  “I think that modern medical science, rather than God should take credit for her looks,” Helena muttered, an uncharacteristic show of bitterness in her voice. Helena saw the surprise in Talia’s face.

  “You OK?” Talia asked her quietly, not hiding the worry in her voice. In their decade or so of friendship, Helena’s relationship with Sula had been one of their few no-go areas.

  “I’m fine,” Helena returned firmly. Quickly switching subjects, she glanced to the back of the church again. “If Alex doesn’t turn up, I’m going to have to do the Eulogy myself.” With a look of resignation, she turned back to the front of the church, staring straight ahead. Moments later, the Priest accompanied by two altar boys took up position at the altar. As one, the mourners rose.

  “We are gathered here to celebrate the life of Richard Golden…”

  Throughout the service, Talia’s fury had been growing on her friend’s behalf. Though Helena had remained composed, Talia had sensed her tension, which grew with every moment as the time for the Eulogy approached. Talia had met Alex only a few times and she hadn’t liked him much. He’d seemed to her to epitomise everything that she hated about spoilt celebrities. If she was honest, Talia knew that her dislike of Alex Golden was a little excessive. He was probably no worse than any of the spoilt egos that she’d dealt with in television, but she consoled herself with the thought that her irritation with Alex was because he so often let her best friend down. Talia had seen the disappointment in Helena’s eyes when Alex had missed her 21st birthday, she’d pretended not to notice the tears that Helena had shed when for her 25th birthday, Alex had invited them to LA, only for them to arrive to an empty mansion because he was away with his current model girlfriend. Talia’s mental flaying of Alex’s character continued as the priest instructed them to take a moment’s silence. Her head was bowed when she felt a shiver up her spine. She sensed him almost as soon as he arrived. Her head darted round quickly to the back of the church and there he stood, the wanderer returned. He looked tired she thought and a little bit lost. Immediately, she bit down on this charitable thought. Alex was a shit.

  “And now for the Eulogy.” The priest looked up expectantly. Talia watched as Alex strode confidently up the aisle towards the podium. Whatever uncertainty she might have sensed from him moments ago was gone. He walked with confidence and the silent mourners seemed suddenly charged and energised. Talia wanted to keep her face forward but almost against her will she found herself glancing to watch as he continued up the aisle. She felt a thrill of shock as their eyes met and immediately her head whipped back round to face the priest, even as her cheeks burned. Bastard.

  “Thank God,” she heard Helena mutter next to her as Alex stepped up onto the altar. Talia kept her head down, her face burning. Finally she looked up again and there he stood, Alex Golden looking out on the congregation. Against her will she felt a pull of something, which she quickly pushed aside with the thought that he had no business looking so beautiful at a funeral. She watched him adjust the microphone even as a frisson of excitement spread through the mourners. From the corner of her eye, Talia could see that some of the women stood up straighter, preened a little. She watched the look of pride on Sula’s face as she stared up at her son. Talia shook head. It’s a funeral; she wanted to yell. But suddenly he was speaking.

  “Richard Golden was… is the only father I have ever known.” The rest of his words were lost to Talia as she glanced around the mourners. Like sunflowers bending towards to the sun, so they cleaved towards Alex, were moved by his words. Talia felt a surge of irritation and she reached a hand out to pat Helena reassuringly. Alex Golden could always be counted on to make an entrance, how could she have forgotten that? She was drawn back to the present as he finally stepped down from the podium, shaking hands with the priest before he moved determinedly towards their pew. He gave his mother a small kiss and Talia watched as he turned to Helena, enveloping her in a hug. Talia thought he seemed almost nervous but she brushed the thought aside quickly, Alex Golden didn’t do nervous. Around them, the other mourners had begun to disperse moving towards the exit from the church. Talia looked around and was stunned to find herself staring into Alex’s eyes. Her anger with him must have shown because he raised an eyebrow in a sort of question. She stared defiantly back at him and then blinked as he looked away. She watched for a moment and then turned away as Alex suddenly folded his little sister into his arms as Helena wept. Reluctantly Talia turned away to allow them some privacy. She felt a lump in her own throat but she pushed it aside, she wasn’t about to forget how often Alex let Helena down or hadn’t been there when she needed him. She turned and began to walk towards the exit from the church.

  It was already late afternoon by the time they returned to the Hampstead House from the crematorium. The news of Alex’s presence had predictably spread and as he exited the car outside his grandfather’s house, he was met with another barrage of photographers and a few passers by. Though it was a cloudy day with no sunshine, Alex pulled his sunglasses on, covering his eyes as he pushed through the throng, keeping his head down until he finally entered the house.

  Already a select group of close family friends were gathered. As he carelessly shrugged off his blazer hooking it on the banister in the hallway, Alex spotted his mother holding court. Emanating from somewhere in the house was the sound of Edith Piaf and Alex smiled at this, noting that Helena had made sure that their grandfather’s favourite songs were playing. As far as wakes went, Alex noted, this one was something else, some of the country’s most notable actors and writers, who had worked with his grandfather were gathered around reminiscing and Alex felt a beat of melancholy. He would miss Gramps.

  “Wonderful Eulogy Alex.’ Alex gave a brief nod as Eleanor Samson placed a kiss to his cheek.

  “Lovely to see you Eleanor.” He responded with a genuine smile. In his first professional stage role, Eleanor had played his mother and he’d long held a great deal of affection for her. Alex watched as she seemed to search his face for a moment.

  “You’ve been a stranger for too long,” she announced. “You must do some theatre.” Alex smiled with a nod. “And come for supper soon.” He watched Eleanor disappear and he pushed further in to the house, searching the faces for his sister. He turned towards the kitchen and sighed as he spotted Helena’s friend, the one who’d shot him a venomous look in the church. She was standing by the back door, her body resting against the doorframe. There was a stillness about her that made Alex feel as though he was intruding. He searched his memory for her name, Talia. That was it. He must have coughed, because she spun round startled. For a moment they stared at one another and Alex was struck by the unguarded look of unhappiness in her eyes. He saw her blink quickly and the look was gone, replaced by the irritated look that he was more familiar with.

  “Talia.” He murmured moving towards her.

  “Alex,” she said the words cautiously with a question in her eyes as he came to stand directly in front of her.

  “It’s been a while,” he said staring into her face, surprised that she seemed even smaller than he remembered. In his head she’d always been his sister’s little friend and it was probably close to a decade since he’d last seen her and then she would have been only 18 or 19. She was radiating keep away signs and something about the look in her eyes, made Alex want to test her. He leaned in close to her noting that her breath hitched in surprise and then stilled. Gently he kissed her softly along her cheekbone. “You look exactly t
he same,” he said and with a smile he turned and walked out of the kitchen with a smile, knowing that if she could, Talia would have spat daggers at him.

  Helena reclined in the weathered leather Eames chair in her grandfather’s study. As a founding partner in one of the country’s oldest literary agencies, Richard Golden had had a hand in nurturing some of the country’s finest playwrights and he had continued working right up to the end, still negotiating contracts for the stable of writers that he represented. From downstairs Helena could hear the dull hum of conversations from the wake but she leaned back in the chair closing her eyes, breathing in deeply to smell the books and papers, smells that were inexorably linked in her mind with her grandfather. She took a moment to savour the sense of him that was still in the room, knowing that before long, this tangible feeling of his presence would start to fade. She turned to a framed photograph that stood on a bookshelf, carefully picking it up. It was one of the last pictures of her grandfather and she herself had taken it. She stared at it for a long time before setting it back down on the shelf. For a moment she closed her eyes, not ready yet to let tears fall. She took a deep breath and then opened her eyes slowly, just as Alex entered the study.

  “This is where you’re hiding,” he said with a wry smile, closing the door gently behind him. They had had little time to talk at the crematorium and Helena watched the way he ran his hands down the back of his neck as he perched on the edge of their grandfather’s desk. She smiled, amused at the gesture, a sign of nervousness that only those who knew him well could spot. She watched him squirm for a moment, looking anywhere but at her. “I didn’t see Grant,” Alex continued and Helena winced.

  “I imagine he took his fiancée home,” Helena replied, unable to keep some tartness from her voice.

  Alex blanched and then he looked embarrassed. “When did you guys break up?” He finally asked.

  “Six months ago,” Helena replied, not bothering to hide the look of hurt and accusation in her eyes.

  “You’re mad with me,” Alex said.

  Helena shrugged. “I just wish you’d been here. Gramps kept asking for you.”

  “I would have been here if I’d known.”

  Helena pushed herself up from the leather chair, turning her back on him to look out of the window, noting that even as the light was fading, a few photographers still waited outside. She spun around to face her brother. “That’s always your excuse. You’re never here, not for anyone,” she snapped, her voice hoarse and scratchy as the frustration she’d been holding back finally burst out. She watched his face tighten.

  “I said I was sorry.” He pushed the words out through gritted teeth.

  “You know who you sound like? Mother. She was always sorry too.” Helena watched Alex, saw the way his face paled even under his LA tan and for a moment she wished she could take the words back, knowing that she had struck too close but then she shrugged. “I’m going downstairs,” she said walking past him.

  Talia stuffed another exquisite macaroon into her mouth and allowed the rush of sugar to revive her. She looked around the room as a waiter moved discreetly through the thinning group of mourners with a tray of sweet delicacies.

  “You OK?” Talia turned at Helena’s words.

  “I should be asking you that,” she replied. Behind her friend she saw Alex enter the room, a tight expression on his face as he watched her and Helena. “Is he alright?” Talia asked nodding towards Alex. Helena shrugged and turned back to Talia just as a loud and unmistakeable voice rang out.

  “These canapés are to die for.”

  Talia spun round, her mouth falling open as she spotted Tamara in a body con Herve Leger dress, laughing as she flaunted her lush curves in the face of a notable and very married theatre director.

  “What is she doing here?” Talia hissed the words in quiet fury, turning to Helena who shrugged.

  “Maybe Alex asked her,” Helena replied. Talia’s eyes drifted to Alex but the surprise she saw in his face, made her doubt that he had extended an invitation to Tamara. She watched him push forward towards her, greeting her with a kiss on each cheek. Talia felt rage boil up in her as the events of her last day at work flooded back. With a start of mortification she realised that a tear had welled up and fallen down her cheek. Helena stared at her and then linked arms with her, manoeuvring her out of the room.

  “We’re going upstairs and you’re going to tell me exactly what’s going on.”

  Talia lay on the flowery bedspread of Helena’s childhood room. Her shoes were discarded on the floor and Helena was sprawled across from the bed in a rocking chair, with her feet crossed under her. On the walls, all around them were photographs – black and white ones, colour ones and even a few Polaroids, testament to the teen and University years when Helena had rarely been seen without her camera, always snapping off pictures of everything.

  “I never liked Tamara.”

  Talia grimaced her attention drawn away from the photos on the walls. “What are you going to do? You’ve got to sue, this is unfair dismissal,” Helena continued and Talia groaned at her friend’s words.

  “Helena, you know better than that. I sue and I’ll never work again.”

  “But they used you. Framed you.”

  “And I have to deal with it. These things happen all the time in TV, it’s a nest of vipers.” Quietly Helena nodded, she knew better than to try to talk Talia out of a decision when she’d made her mind up.

  Talia sat up in the bed, once again her attention drawn to Helena’s photographs on the wall.

  “You’ve not taken any pictures in ages,” she said. Helena shrugged.

  “No time, with work and everything,” Helena replied not hiding the regret in her voice. “Gramps was always telling me I needed to make more time for the things I love…” They were both silent for a moment before Talia spoke again.

  “Don’t you need to be downstairs?” Helena shook her head.

  “Let Alex deal with things for once.” At this they both giggled. “Or better yet,” Helena continued, “my mother can make herself useful.” Helena snorted even more loudly a hint of bitterness on her face. Talia looked at her friend but just as quickly the look was gone.

  “So what are you going to do about work?” Helena asked. Talia sighed, a long deep sound that echoed loudly in the quiet of the bedroom. Finally she spoke.

  “Tomorrow, I start again.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Tamara stepped smartly out of the chauffeur driven Jaguar that she had ordered especially for the night.

  “I won’t need you anymore tonight,” she barked at the driver with supreme confidence. Tonight Vassily Romanov would be hers. As the car rolled away down the road, Tamara glanced around the chi chi restaurants and bars of Beauchamp Place and allowed a brief look of pleasure to flicker across her face. Knightsbridge really wasn’t her scene – old money and even older men; titles and hereditary peers with crumbling stately homes, who were more posh than they were rich. But that was all changing. The Russian oligarchs and the Indian steel magnates were coming and slowly, subtly the area was changing and with smart and fashionable bars and restaurants springing up every day, Knightsbridge was finally pulling in a younger, moneyed crowd.

  As she strode forwards towards San Lorenzo, Tamara was aware of double takes from a few people, even the snobby rich watched television and she was an immediately recognisable face. Tonight, she looked dynamite and she knew it. William, her personal stylist had once again done her proud. The dress she wore was a limited edition one-shouldered, Nicholas Ghesquiere number, achingly simple and suitably playful for a summer evening and yet it showcased her breasts and tiny waist to perfection. No one could rock a little white dress quite like Tamara. On her feet she wore a vertiginously high pair of gold Manolo Blahnik gladiator style stilettos and her look was pulled together by a white and gold Vintage Chanel clutch bag. Her long blonde hair, William had curled with a barrel tong, before catching it up in a small clasp, allowing c
urling tendrils to escape to frame her face. Her makeup was a master-class in simplicity and to the untutored observer it might seem that her flawless skin was bare with only a hint of a rose lip-gloss. In truth, William had painstakingly applied Touche Éclat foundation and a series of concealers and nude shadows to create her look. Tamara smiled to herself; most people would be astounded by quite how much product it took to convey “the natural look.”

  As she approached the restaurant, an alert security guard opened the door for her and Tamara stepped carefully down the stairs, entering San Lorenzo with a confident smile. The Maitre De was at her side at once.

  “Signorina Fearson, you do us an honour.” He smiled, speaking with a flamboyant and no doubt wholly fake Italian accent and Tamara smiled back, flattered that he had immediately placed her. Princess Diana had been a regular diner at the restaurant and even now as she cast her eye casually around the dining room, she could see that it was filled with It Girls, older couples and wealthy tourists. Vassily was nowhere to be seen. For a moment Tamara paused, it was already 8.20, she had made sure to be fashionably late. She turned back to the Maitre De.

  “I will be dining with Vassily Romanov,” she said, hoping that perhaps there was a private room where Vassily might be waiting.

  “But of course, this way please.” The maitre de led her to a table in the centre of the dining room. “Our best table,” he murmured as he pulled a chair out for her. “The gentleman isn’t here yet,” he said. Tamara gave a studied smile, hiding her irritation, she hated being kept waiting. “Anything to drink, while you wait? The man asked.

  “A glass of Champagne,” Tamara replied smartly. “Something festive.”

  “But of course.” The Maitre De smiled back knowingly. He had seen it all before, women who punished their lovers by ordering the most expensive thing on the menu. “How about the Dom Perrignon 1968?” He asked.