The Modeliser

by Havana Adams

  “Dad.”

  “You look so much like him,” Helena said sadly. Alex reached for the picture frame taking it out of her hands to stare at it. In the right hand corner of the photograph was a scrawled inscription; Vogue shoot, Corsica, September 1968. Though their father had become a legend in the fashion photography world, he himself had hated having his photograph taken and now Alex glanced in awe at this rare photo of their dad. A face so much like his own stared back at him from the photograph. Elliot Golden looked tanned and relaxed and carefree, so unlike his last days tortured by alcoholism and depression. Alex set the photo frame down gently.

  “What’s wrong?” Helena asked quietly. He was silent for a moment as he fought to articulate the sense of discontentment that he had been fighting these last few months.

  “I don’t know, I guess I feel like it’s all slipping a way from me and I don’t know why.”

  “Don’t be crazy…” Helena said. But Alex shook his head.

  “I just feel so…” Alex trailed off.

  “Off balance,” Helena asked, completing his sentence and Alex nodded. “Me too,” she said. “Me too. Since Gramps died, it’s like I’m seeing my whole world with new eyes and I feel like I want something more or something different.” Helena leaned back against the wall and she looked down to the photograph of their father.

  “I've been thinking about him a lot recently. Do you know he was the same age as me, when he died?” Alex gestured at the photograph. “At my age he had 2 kids…” Alex trailed off.

  “He was also saddled with our mother as a crazy ex-wife and a spiralling drug and drink problem. Alex you’re nothing like him, you won’t end up like him.”

  Alex smiled at his sister, feeling something ease as he finally admitted the fear that had been pressing down on him.

  “What’s all this stuff?” He asked gesturing at the black boxes dotted around the attic.

  “Looks like gramps kept all of dad’s cameras, his notebooks… It’s amazing.” Alex smiled at the look of enthusiasm on Helena’s face as she sifted through the box of vintage cameras and old proofs; she had always been more interested in photography and their dad’s work than him. She’d even wanted to be a photographer once upon a time, before the world of fashion had grabbed her.

  Helena rose to her feet and picked up the photo frame with their dad’s picture. “I think I’ll keep this one,” she told him and he nodded. Alex glanced around and stilled as something else caught his eye. It was a poster advertising the film Hiding Places, his first film; the role that had changed everything. He stared at the image of himself in the poster, so young. Who was that person?

  “Damn, it’s getting late,” Helena muttered behind him. “Do you want to grab some dinner?” There was a silence as Alex continued to stare at the poster. “Alex?” she prompted him.

  “I’ll stay,” Alex said. He turned around to face his sister, a look of determination in his eyes. “I’ll stay in London for now, help sort this place out.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Tamara had left nothing to chance. She had plans for Vassily Romanov and as far as second impressions went, she had every intention of hitting this one out of the park. The news about Romanov buying up Offside Television, coupled with the triumphant opening of the Imperium hotel had led to a flurry of media interest about the Russian Oligarchs changing the face of London. For the first time in her life, Tamara had read the business pages with interest. Forewarned was forearmed and she planned to execute her campaign to win Vassily Romanov with military precision. Her forays onto the Internet had given precious few clues about his private life or his personal history but it was clear that his business interests had taken him all over the world. He had amassed a fortune rapidly after the fall of the Soviet Union and though there were whispers about the legality of his operations, so far none of the allegations had been proven. In the time before he had arrived in London, Vassily had been photographed with a sizeable share of eligible and very beautiful women. In New York, he’d been papped in The Hamptons with a Vanderbilt, he had spent last New Year in Miami with the step-daughter of a Venezuelan billionaire and at the launch of his super casino on the Chinese Island of Macau, he’d been accompanied by the supermodel Franka. He liked beautiful women, Tamara had concluded, so on that score at least, she had little to worry about.

  As she stepped out of her car outside Katie and Ian’s stucco double-fronted Chelsea townhouse, Tamara took a series of deep breaths. She’d made sure that her scenes were filmed early that morning so that the rest of her day could be devoted to pampering in the run up to the night’s gathering. Carefully, she smoothed down the canary yellow Body-Con Victoria Beckham dress that she had chosen for the evening. Her blonde hair was piled on her head and her shoes in brave contrast to the dress, were a colourful blast of jade green satin, which as she moved flashed a glimpse of the signature red Louboutin sole. Her skin was golden courtesy of a St Tropez session and in her hand she carried a cerise Python-skin clutch from the Mulberry Spring/Summer collection. The colours, against the healthy glow of her skin and her blonde hair, made her stand out; an exotic flower in the midst of the conservative, well heeled set in the Chelsea enclave. Tamara looked a million dollars and she knew it.

  As she moved slowly up the small stoop of stairs, she reflected once again at the stroke of luck that had thrown Katie into the path of Ian Parsons, a man from Australian old money who, alongside the Murdochs and the Packers, were slowly taking over the world’s media. But for a different throw of the dice, she might be mistress of this £12 million plus, Edwardian period Chelsea townhouse. Katie and Ian’s neighbours included an Oscar winning director, a young American who was one of the founders of a phenomenally popular Internet search engine and at the end of the terrace a ravishing young divorcee with a popular television cookery show who was now rumoured to be the mistress of a senior member of the royal family. Across an expanse of green reserved solely for the residents of the small terrace of houses, was the imposing façade of the new Saatchi Gallery.

  “Welcome Ms Fearson.” Tamara had barely paused at the door before it was opened by a beautiful young woman with an iPad in her hand and a discreet earpiece in her ear, which no doubt allowed her to communicate with the security that would be patrolling the environs. The girl tapped something on the iPad screen; it seemed the lowly clipboard was a thing of the past. “Do come in. Artus will take your wrap and show you into the gazebo where drinks are being served.” The girl spoke with a smile in her cut-glass English accent. On this side of town, even the help had been privately educated. Tamara marvelled; this was Katie’s idea of a small gathering! To Tamara’s highly tutored eyes, she could tell that the door-girl was clad in Dolce and Gabanna. She shook her head with a smile. They really did do things differently in SW3.

  Tamara fell into step behind Artus, a slim hipped boy with bronze skin, as they moved in the direction of gentle violin music. Her heels tapped gently along the marble floors and she looked at the art that hung on the walls. She spotted a pair of Rothkos and holding pride of place was an imposing Jackson Pollock canvas, which Katie had once admitted that she found ugly and depressing but which apparently never failed to impress American friends and potential investors whenever they had them over for dinner. As they approached the double doors that would take her into the garden, Tamara paused for a moment on the step as Artus melted away back into the house. She looked out onto this glittering playground of influential and powerful men and their wives. The garden had been decorated with a series of Chinese lanterns and flickering lights, which lent the atmosphere that of a gorgeous, secret wonderland. In a corner, a quartet, all clad in white outfits played music as waiters and servers meandered through the guests ensuring that glasses were topped up and that the delicious entrees were always on hand. Tamara gave a smile of satisfaction, she let the power flow through her. Fake it to make it, she chanted in her head and her chin rose as this affirmation flowed through her. She had learned a long
time ago, that no weakness should be admitted to. Especially in England, you had to fake it to make it or you would never enter the inner sanctum of the wealthy and fabulous. She looked down once again, about to take a step into the party, when she froze. Vassily Romanov had separated himself from the group and he was watching her approach. His jaw was set and there was a challenge in his eyes. Slowly Tamara continued her descent down the steps into the garden. She would not let him get to her. In her Louboutins, she carefully glided towards the other guests. A waiter offered her a glass of champagne, which she rejected with a small shake of her head, instead taking a tall glass of lemonade. Vassily was still watching her and closer now she saw that there was something else in his eyes, a challenge but also some wariness. As their eyes met and connected, there was a flair of interest, which he immediately blinked away. As she approached where he stood, almost brushing past him, Tamara smiled mockingly.

  “Vassily,” she murmured quietly in greeting and then turned as her own name was called out.

  “Tam..” Katie said, engulfing her in a hug.

  “Darling, everything looks wonderful,” Tamara replied returning her friends hug. She could still feel Vassily’s eyes on them and in her head Tamara was elated, Vassily was going to have to work.

  All night she had felt his eyes on her. Katie had pulled out all the stops for her 18 guests. The food was by Graham Northcote, Michelin Starred chef from The Savoir Hotel and servers had outnumbered the guests by 2 to 1. The desserts, exquisite concoctions of Macaroons, Coupe Isfahan and Chocolate Zabaglione mousse had been flown in especially from Paris. Tamara had tucked into the foie gras starter and followed it with the main – a divine ravioli of lobster, langoustine and salmon. She had watched the looks of horror and envy on the faces of the other women as they’d watch her eat. Tamara had also noticed the glances of frank admiration and desire on the faces of some of the men. In this world, a woman who enjoyed her food was almost unheard of and men had started to equate a woman who ate with some kind of incredible sexual appetite.

  “You are so lucky to be able to eat and keep that figure,” the timid third wife of some important Hedge Fund Manager had whispered to her and Tamara had smiled with false self-deprecation. She had no intention of telling anyone that for the last 5 days she had lived on egg white omelettes, carrot batons and daily vitamin supplements. Katie’s table arrangement was, as always, masterful and Vassily was seated across from her, one place to her right. She was always in his line of vision and throughout the night Tamara had felt his gaze on her, even as she had made a great show of maintaining conversations with those around her – the CEO of a sports Network and an Italian correspondent on a popular sports show. Finally as she laid down her dessert fork, sipping from the glass of chilled Fiji water, Tamara allowed her eyes to meet Vassily’s.

  “You surprise me,” he stated without preamble and Tamara liked him even more. She liked his directness.

  “I do eat, yes,” she replied smartly and then turned her attention back to the Italian.

  As the night wore on, she could see that Vassily struggled to contain his confusion at her attitude. Perhaps he had assumed she would throw herself at him again, he’d been primed and ready for a full frontal assault and she could see that her casual amusement with him was starting to rankle. Men, she thought. Vassily was renowned as a ruthless business operator and yet, he was standing baffled in the face of female games. She rose from the table and made her escape to the Ladies room. Here too Katie had ensured that there were attendants on hand. As she dried hands and slathered on liberal amounts of Crème De La Mer hand cream, she heard someone sneak into the bathroom after her.

  “You haven’t said a word to Vassily all night.” Katie hissed. Tamara smiled as she turned to her friend.

  “I’m playing the game,” she replied confidently even as Katie shook her head at her.

  “You don’t play games, not with a man like Vassily,” Katie stated.

  “Katie, trust me.”

  Kate sighed. “Well I hope you know what you’re doing,” she said. And together they exited the bathroom.

  After dinner, they moved into Katie and Ian’s sitting room and Tamara could see why they were so proud of this room. The interior of the house had been designed by Louise Standish, interior designer to the stars and the guests lounged in exclusive, one of a kind furniture that had been sourced from all over Europe. Here too Katie and Ian’s impressive art collection was in evidence and Tamara stood before a small and yet beautiful Modigliani painting. She sensed Vassily by her side but continued to stare at the painting.

  “Are you going to ignore me all night?” He finally asked. Tamara smiled and turned to face him for a moment. Her eyes searched his face, his blue eyes, the beginnings of stubble on his strong jaw and his cropped blonde hair. Vassily was perfection.

  “No,” she replied and then turned back to continue to gaze at the painting. He was quiet for a moment.

  “Do you like this?” He asked gesturing at the Modigliani.

  “It’s beautiful,” she answered honestly.

  In the small town near Adelaide where she had grown up, there had been neither the time nor the money and certainly not the inclination to grow to appreciate art. But when she had first arrived in London, lonely and alone, she had taken to walking around the National Gallery, the paintings becoming like long lost friends. Tamara sensed his eyes on her again.

  “We got off to a bad start, I think,” he said.

  “Oh,” Tamara countered.

  “It was rude of me…, to miss our dinner,” Vassily continued. Tamara turned to face him now.

  “Is that an apology?” She asked lightly. From now on she would make nothing easy for Vassily Romanov.

  “Yes, I suppose it is.” He smiled broadly, as though proud of himself.

  “Should I be impressed?” Tamara queried not bothering to hide the tartness in her tone.

  Vassily shrugged. “Impressed? Probably. I never apologise,” he finished. Tamara gave a small nod.

  “Well,” she said, “this was certainly interesting.” As she walked away towards the throng of identikit wives, Tamara was dancing a jig in her head. She had hooked him and in her own time, she would reel him in.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Talia woke to sunshine flooding into the bright airy room where she slept. She stretched in bed before opening her eyes slowly, listening to the faint chatter emanating from the radio beside her. The bed in which she slept was the only furniture in the room. It was two weeks since she had had to leave her rented flat when Nina had completed the sale on the property and departed for Cuba, leaving her homeless. Once again Helena had come to her rescue. Alex had all but completed the clear out of their grandfather’s home and for now the house stood empty. Talia had gratefully accepted her friend’s offer that she stay in the house, though she had insisted on paying some rent. She still had some pride but in this area of town, what she was paying, she realised was little more than a token amount. Even as she’d moved her bags into the property, Talia had swallowed a measure of shame. At the grand old age of 29, she should have her own home, her own independence, she should not still be counting on the kindness of friends.

  Talia thought back to the email that she’d hastily deleted the night before, another one from her ex Steven, pleading to meet again. Talia sighed, without her career to focus on, it was hard to ignore the depressing state of her love life. The TV industry was no place to meet a man, not unless you had a thing for gay men or fancied an affair with some assistant director whose wife didn’t understand him. Talia let her thoughts drift back to Steven, one of a handful of disappointing dates she’d met through an online dating site. Steven was a frustrated writer who turned his nose up at Encounters but wasn’t above using her for free script editing on his work in progress. As she sat up in bed, Talia shook off thoughts about the sad state of her romantic life, what she needed was to sort herself out a job.

  Slowly, Talia climbed out of
the bed and opened the curtains to stare out onto the lush green of Hampstead Heath. In the weeks following her disastrous meeting at Rough Draft Productions, her emotions had been a rollercoaster. She had suddenly realised that all around her doors were closing, jobs that once she would have walked into now seemed closed to her; all her contacts and leads were amounting to nothing. Talia had reluctantly accepted a freelance position writing film reviews for an online website. The wage was little more than minimum pay but at least it was enough to tide her over until… and here Talia’s thoughts usually stuttered to a halt. For the first time in her life, she had no contingency, no back up plan. List-maker extraordinaire that she was and yet even she had had no comeback for the spectacular derailment of her career. Across on the Heath, she watched a young woman jogging with a dog scampering excitedly beside her. She turned away from the window with a sigh. Flicking off the radio, she headed out of the bedroom to the shower. She had five reviews to write up before lunch.

  Talia whistled under the spray of hot water as she tried to figure out what to do with her day. The reviews would take hardly any time, the best films were reserved for the staff writers and all of the reviews that were assigned to her were invariably third rate horror or chick flick movies of the soulless, predictable variety. She could write the reviews in her sleep and for the first time in her life, she found herself phoning it in. She felt no sense of responsibility or ambition, hardly cared what kind of impression she made on the editor; she truly had lost her mojo. Talia stepped out of the shower already planning an afternoon run on the Heath, there was no excuse now not to get fit. Her wet and rapidly shrinking curls she’d pulled up in a band but water still dripped on to her shoulders. Talia grabbed a towel and roughly squeezed the droplets out of her hair. She began towelling her body, as she walked out of the bathroom and then stopped short, her mouth dropping open. Alex Golden was standing right outside the door and he was staring at her naked breasts. For a moment they were both frozen. It was Talia who recovered first.