The Modeliser

by Havana Adams

  “Tobias,” she greeted noticing belatedly that Tobias wasn’t alone. Beside her, Helena heard a quiet gasp from Chloe, as into the room walked a man who needed no introduction. A man whose reputation as a photographer had been cemented by legendary sexy images of supermodels, a professional reputation that was second only to the rumours about his sexual prowess. Gabe Tynan was the hottest photographer that Époque had ever produced. His editorials were on a par with Leibovitz, his covers as spectacular as any that Testino had produced. In short, Gabe Tynan was something of a god in fashion. Hearts had been broken when he’d quit the world of fashion photography to take up film directing but even there he’d tasted success with his first independent feature film, which had received critical praise. Though she had never met him, Helena had heard plenty about him and now she leaned forward, her hand outstretched.

  “Gabe Tynan, a pleasure,” she murmured quietly, her mind already buzzing. If Gabe Tynan were to come back to Époque, it would mark an incredible coup for the magazine. She focused as she heard Tobias introducing her.

  “Gabe, this is Helena Golden, one of our finest, I predict great things for her,” Tobias said with a wink that grated on Helena’s nerves. “Of course you’ll know of her mother, Sula and her father Elliot Golden.” Helena felt the smile tighten on her face; she hated it when her parents were trailed after her name, as though their celebrity status explained her success.

  “The pleasure is mine,” Gabe was saying. He held his hand out to her and as their eyes met, Helena felt a moment of discomfort as though Gabe had sensed her irritation with Tobias. She shook the thought off, she’d learned from an early age to school her features to betray nothing. She grasped his hand and as his fingers folded around hers, Helena felt an instinctive desire to pull away from him. She fought it but couldn’t avoid the mocking smile in his eyes, as he finally let go. Helena watched him as he turned to shake hands with Chloe and she was left with a discomfiting sense that somehow he knew that he’d got to her.

  Three hours later, the existing plans for the Centenary issue had been trashed and Helena fought the desire to put her head in her hands and weep as she realised exactly what she was up against. Poppy had been dispatched to another clinic to dry out and in her absence it fell to Helena to pick up the slack and create a new Centenary issue. Chloe would take on Helena’s normal duties, leaving Helena to work exclusively with Gabe on the special edition. After Chloe and Tobias had finally departed, the temporary arrangements agreed upon, Helena had watched with a growing sense of helplessness as Gabe began with a stream of instructions and they agreed that the next day she would arrive at his East London studio so that they could begin the process of creating from scratch a centenary issue that would put the name Époque back on the lips of every fashionista worth his or her salt.

  “Great,” Helena said rising from her chair, as their meeting seemed finally to have come to a close. “I’ll get the old book to you tonight…” but Gabe broke into her sentence cutting her off.

  “No need,” he said waving his arm dismissively. “Tobias has given me absolute discretion on this project. Forget the book. We start from scratch.” Helena’s eyes narrowed and she felt herself bristle at his arrogance though she bit down on the impulse to defend her old editor. Poppy might no longer be at the top of her game but some of her ideas for the issue were still worth salvaging but there was a look in Gabe’s eyes that made Helena realise that for now at least, it was best to simply go where he led. She nodded.

  “So I’ll see you tomorrow in Shoreditch,” she said with the kind of glacial smile that had in the early years of her career given rise to the nickname of Ice Princess. This look was usually enough to ensure that people backed off. But it seemed that Gabe wasn’t most people. He moved towards her, coming around the table that had separated them until he stood directly in front of her. There was a pregnant pause and then he spoke.

  “I understand you recently suffered a bereavement,” he said. His voice was low and for the first time she caught the faint burr of his Irish roots in his accent. “My condolences.” Their eyes met and held and Helena was filled with the discomfiting sense that he wanted to see her rattled.

  “Thank you,” she said simply, her expression one of utter detachment. Her grief had no place at work and especially with this man, she would show no weakness. With a nod, Helena grabbed her Moleskine notebook off the desk and turned smartly, feeling her face heat up, knowing that he was watching her walk away.

  “Helena,” he called her name out quietly but there was an air of command and she turned round to face him. “You’re not what I expected,” he said quietly and after a moment, he dropped back into his chair and began scrolling through emails on his iPhone. She had been dismissed. Holding back a hiss of irritation, Helena walked out of the room. What had he expected, she wondered. As she rode back down in the lift, she laughed bitterly. Of course she knew what he’d expected. Her mother was an iconic model, a free-loving, champagne-swilling embarrassment and her brother was best known, not for his prodigious talent, but for the revolving door to his bedroom. And as for her father… And here Helena stopped. She had worked hard to escape the burden of her family name. Her conservative demeanour often surprised people, perhaps disappointed them, but she was fine with that. Her composure restored, Helena emerged back onto her floor, striding towards her office. By the time she sat back down at her desk, her mind was abuzz with ideas for the special centenary project; this might just be the project to fire up her passion again and as she turned to her computer screen, she made herself a promise. Gabe Tynan would not get to her.

  In the bright reception of Rough Draft Productions, Talia sat with her knees primly together, feeling grateful that she had allowed Helena to make her over. Rough Draft was unlike most of the film offices around London; for one thing their offices were located in one of the most expensive parts of town and not some poky rented space above a sandwich shop somewhere in Soho. The purpose built space was bright and aspirational, all glass doors, exposed brick walls and sofas in primary colours, like some New York City loft apartment. Rough Draft wore their success for all to see. From her vantage point on the sofa in reception, Talia watched girls as beautiful as models and louche boys who wouldn’t be out of place in a Francois Truffaut film stride about the offices. The walls were adorned with film posters marking out the many critical and commercial successes of the company. Talia inhaled deeply as a beat of excitement began to pump through her veins. This place smelt of ambition and aspiration and success. In a place like this, one could really make things happen. She allowed a small bubble of hope to punch through her. She had allowed herself to be sucked into the quagmire of television but it was film that she had loved first, film that was in her blood. She wanted to work here.

  “Talia hi.” Talia was interrupted from her excited musings by the approach of a tall girl. “I’ll just show you in to see Sara Adamson.” Talia looked up in surprise, she'd been expecting to meet Andy Hail, the senior executive whom she had sent her email to and who had replied to ask her to come in.

  “Great,” Talia said with enthusiasm. I must not be intimidated by the assistant, she chanted in her head, as they walked through the offices. As she followed the willowy assistant, who no doubt had a double-barrelled surname and a trust fund somewhere, Talia felt the beginnings of a new concern as she thought about her long-standing friendship with Sara Adamson, though to call it a friendship was probably overstating things. Talia thought back to when she and Sara had both been young freelance script readers knocking on doors all over town, reading for screenwriting competitions and trying to get in-house staff positions. Talia had landed an assistant job in TV and Sara had become a runner for Rough Draft and there, their paths had diverged, until now. The assistant was talking again.

  “Can I get you some water or a coffee?” She asked Talia as they approached a door. Talia shook her head as through the glass partition, she caught a glimpse of a woman sitting at a desk on a
telephone call. The woman waved at them and belatedly Talia realised that it was Sara. As she entered the office and took a seat, Sara mimed to Talia that she would be done any minute. Talia watched awed at the transformation in her old friend. For one thing she was no longer a blonde. Her hair was a head-turning auburn, which caught the afternoon sunlight, and her face was painstakingly made up with a slash of scarlet on her lips.

  Sitting in the armchair, Talia allowed her gaze to rove around Sara’s bright corner office. Floor to ceiling windows flooded the room with light and one wall was dominated by scripts and DVDs and framed film posters. Squinting Talia noted that one of the framed images was a cover of Variety magazine commemorating the $100 million plus box office of Star Crossed one of Rough Draft’s most successful productions. Finally Talia took in the view, which was nothing short of spectacular looking out onto one of the gorgeous and quintessentially English Squares that could be found dotted around Central and West London. Talia felt a sense of foreboding as she watched Sara surreptitiously and tried not to listen too obviously to her phone conversation.

  "Of course she can follow the money and go with an LA studio but what she gets with us is an English producer with a track-record of taking big book adaptations to the screen. We actually understand her vision and we won't suddenly move the locations from Cambridge to California or turn the netball team into cheerleaders.” Sara turned to Talia now, rolling her eyes heavenward apologetically. “Look, talk it over but our offer won't be on the table indefinitely." Sara finished as she terminated the call and swivelled around in her chair to face Talia.

  "Talia darling,” she gushed rising from her seat to air kiss the space around Talia's head before she moved back behind her desk.

  “Sara...” Talia replied gazing in wonder at this poised, perfectly coiffed creature who was poured into what could have been no more than a size 8 Anthroplogie shift dress and a pair of kitten heels. The Sara of old had been a loud, buxom, dyed-blonde girl, with a strong Liverpool Scouse Accent, who had a tendency to squeeze herself into too-tight Lycra tops and leggings finished off with clumpy Doc Marten boots.

  "Look good, don't I?” Sara commented and Talia smiled. The Northern accent might have been smoothed into plummy London middle class vowels but that arrogance was pure Sara of old. "Boob reduction on the NHS, best thing I’ve ever done and with the personal trainer and the fags, I can squeeze into sample sizes," Sara finished triumphantly. "So….” Sara’s gaze probed Talia. “How about you?”

  "Actually I thought I was seeing Andy,” Talia volunteered.

  "Oh who needs Andy?” Sara interrupted with a smile. “He mentioned he was seeing you but I told him I knew you.” The unease in Talia deepened as she recognised the snake-like smile on Sara’s face. The hair colour and the body might have changed but the ambition, the willingness to pimp her own grandmother in the service of her career that was still the same. Sara had performed a textbook manoeuvre, Talia realized; she had cock-blocked her. Sara would never allow another person to join the company that could prove to be competition, especially not someone of similar age, with a similar level of experience to her.

  "So, you are finally moving on from TV? About time,” Sara said with a laugh. “What was that show you were working on?” Sara feigned disinterest and Talia felt her blood boil as her last four years of hard work were dismissed as nothing.

  “Encounters,” she replied through gritted teeth.

  “Right, one of the soaps.” The curl of Sara’s lips as she said the word soap left Talia in no doubt of how little Sara thought of her career in TV to date. “You’ve been out of the film game a while and a lot has changed,” Sara continued, a look of false commiseration on her face. “TV credits well, they don't really translate do they.” Talia felt the last vestiges of hope die in her, so long as Sara was at Rough Draft, the door would be closed to her.

  "Well it was good of you to see me," Talia murmured quietly determined not to give Sara any more satisfaction. She watched the snake-like smile spread again across Sara’s face. It often worked out this way in the industry - contemporaries who started out together would in the end wind up as adversaries. There was no room for friendships, not really.

  “We do sometimes have some freelance script reading,” Sara said. “Payment is per script and you'd have to do a trial script report, you understand.” Talia gritted her teeth as the desire to rip Sara limb from limb rose up through her. She’d rather eat her laptop than do trial coverage, like some brand new intern or something.

  “Well thanks again,” Talia repeated rising from her seat.

  “I've got your CV,” Sara said waving the sheet of paper and Talia knew that by the time she hit the downstairs lobby, her resume would be lining Sara’s dustbin.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Another Edith Piaf song greeted Alex as he entered his grandfather’s Hampstead house for the first time since the reading of the will had named him the new owner of the property. Alex had been filled with a confusing mix of emotions at the news. The house held his happiest childhood memories but now added to those memories was a sense of guilt that he had let his grandfather down. America was his home now and he'd even started the process to take US citizenship, he had no real need for a permanent London base. The place would have to be sold he had mentally decided, even as he tried to push aside niggling thoughts about keeping the house.

  “Lex, is that you?” Alex turned at the sound of Helena’s voice and he bounded up the stairs in the direction that her call had come from.

  “Hey,” he called back, stepping gingerly over a pile of books that were piled precariously high. He entered his grandfather’s study and found a maze of boxes already being filled and his sister crouched down as she rifled through the contents of a drawer. “What are you doing down there?” He asked.

  “Thought I’d make a start.” Helena replied.

  “Anything interesting,” Alex asked, stepping over more books and playscripts to go and crouch next to her.

  “It’s all interesting, gramps threw nothing away,” she exclaimed. “Look at this,” Helena handed Alex a play programme.

  “My god. My first stage role.” Alex started at the programme, which was yellow with age. From the cover an image of his 12-year-old self stared back at him.

  “I know,” Helena replied. “You used to be so good looking as well.”

  “Thanks.” Alex ran his hands through his hair as he looked around the densely packed office, and this was just one room. “Maybe we should get someone to do this,” he asked. “Like professional house clearers?” The look Helena shot him, made Alex realise that he had said the wrong thing.

  “You really want some stranger rifling through gramps’ things, through our things?”

  “I didn’t mean it like that, but come on, it’ll take forever to do everything. You can’t do this all by yourself,” Alex finished. He watched as a look crossed Helena’s face and she bit her lip. “What?” He asked.

  “Actually, after today, I won’t really be able to help much.” Helena said.

  “What… why?

  Helena sighed. “There’s a bit of a panic over the centenary issue of Époque and I’m working with a new Creative Director to turn it around before our print deadline. It’s going to be long hours…”

  “All the more reason to get a professional to do this,” Alex stated firmly. Helena stared at him for a moment and then she stood up seeming not to care that she had dislodged another pile of books, which tumbled to the floor clattering about their feet. Slowly Alex straightened up until they faced each other across the wide desk.

  “I have to get back to LA,” Alex said, determined to get his opinion in before she could attack.

  “Why?” Helena retorted. “You said you had no projects lined up till maybe next year, so why so quick to run back?” She demanded. Alex clicked his tongue in irritation; he’d forgotten how stubborn his little sister could be.

  “Why is this so important? Why is it so impor
tant that I stay? I mean we’re selling the house anyway,” Alex finished. The flare of shock in Helena’s eyes made him realize his mistake. It hadn’t occurred to his sister that he might not want to keep the place.

  “What?” She practically shrieked.

  “Helena…”

  “You’d actually consider selling this house?”

  “I have no need for it,” Alex replied. “But you can have it, if you want it.”

  “He left it to you, for a reason. Jeez Alex, you owe him this much. Take responsibility for something, just for once in your life.” Alex watched as Helena spun out of the room. He listened as her footsteps echoed up the stairs all the way into the attic. He ran his hands through his hair and sighed, wanting to throw something. Why, he wondered, did women always want so much?

  Alex slowly climbed the stairs into the attic, hoping that he’d given Helena enough time to calm down. Her words had sown a seed in his head. Perhaps he should stay, tidy the house up, he had no real reason to rush back to LA and truth be known, he could do with being off the scene for a while to give the whole Max and Defender story time to die down. After all, Avital was still plotting his next moves.

  “Hey,” he said quietly as he spotted his sister sitting in a corner of the attic room, holding something in her hand. He moved next to her and sat down. As he saw what she held, the breath died in his throat.