The Modeliser

by Havana Adams

  “When are you going to put him out of his misery?” Katie had demanded when they’d met for cocktails the night before at a Central London Private Members club. Tamara had shrugged. “Just get him to bed already before some 24-year-old Chelsea girl snaps him up,” Katie had finished.

  “I’m playing the long game this time,” Tamara replied. I’m not letting anything as dispensable as sex ruin my future.” She’d continued through gritted teeth. “When the time is right…”

  But, for the first time in her life, Tamara found herself struggling. She usually had no trouble withholding sex; not with the American banker who’d bought her half of Cartier before she’d finally gone to bed with him or the Brazilian property mogul who’d been back and forth in his personal jet for months before she’d finally let him show her his private cabin. Yet, she wanted Vassily in a way that she hadn’t wanted any man in a long time and the intensity of that desire was in itself a source of concern. She had to keep her head. If she needed any confirmation of Vassily’s desire for her, it was made clear by the Cartier bracelet that had arrived one morning, the day after she and Alex had been papped together walking through Primrose Hill. Vassily was jealous.

  As for Alex, since their night together, they had settled into a comfortable friendship – lunches, tennis, the occasional dinner. Alex was a pragmatist like her, not above having a friend with occasional benefits but they had quickly acknowledged that after all these years, they made better friends than lovers. Still, Tamara was not above using him to stir up Vassily’s jealousy either.

  “Gosh that’s a gorgeous bracelet Tamara,” the make up assistant gushed.

  “Isn’t it?” Tamara replied smugly glancing down at the white gold Cartier band around her wrist, which was adorned with a series of small gems. Just then someone else entered the make up room and in the mirror Tamara made eye contact with Angelina Starling. The poor thing had returned from her suspension following the scandalous pictures but since her return, she’d been subdued and quiet.

  “Angelina, darling,” Tamara said. Her good fortune with Vassily made her almost magnanimous.

  “Hi Tamara,” Angelina replied warily as she took a seat in the chair next to Tamara’s.

  “How have you been?” Tamara asked.

  “OK,” Angelina shrugged. “Getting on with it.” Her voice broke and tears welled in her eyes. Tamara leaned over to rub her arm. “He’s gone back to his wife,” Angelina muttered miserably.

  “These things blow over, you’ll be fine,” Tamara said and Angelina nodded brushing the tears away from her eyes. Tamara turned to the make-up assistant. “Are we done?” She asked, already rising from the chair.

  “Of course Tamara,” the assistant responded quickly, she knew well enough not to try Tamara’s patience, who knew when she might snap out of this uncharacteristic good mood. Tamara peeled off the smock she’d worn to cover her costume and straightened the sexy white uniform that her character wore at the day spa that she ran. Tamara turned to Angelina with a false smile.

  “If you ever need to talk, you know you can turn to me,” she said, air kissing the still teary Angelina. Tamara turned to the door just as Casey entered, struggling to carry a large rectangular package that was wrapped in a simple blue paper.

  “This just arrived for you,” Casey stated as she rested the package on the chair. “The writing, it’s Vassily’s.” Casey burst out excitedly and then bit her lip as Tamara shot her a scalding look. Tamara’s dalliance with Vassily Romanov was, for now, under wraps. Angelina turned curiously in her chair.

  “That looks exciting,” the make up assistant said, angling forward for a better look as Tamara carefully tore open the wrapping.

  “Casey help me with this,” Tamara snapped stepping back for her assistant to continue to unwrap the package until it was fully revealed.

  “Oh my god!” Tamara gasped, her hand flying to her throat in shock as she stared at the exquisite Modigliani painting, similar to the one that she had admired at Katie and Ian’s. The same one she had stood and looked at, at the National Gallery all those years ago when she had first come to London.

  “What is it?” Angelina asked as she stared nonplussed at the painting.

  “It’s a Modigliani,” Tamara whispered awed and shocked. Slowly she reached a finger out and touched it. Lightly she ran her finger over the tiny signature. There was an awed silence in the room until finally the make up assistant spoke.

  “It’s got to be a reproduction right?”

  Tamara shook her head slowly and watched the make up girl pale. “But that’s got to be worth like millions of pounds,” she squeaked out.

  Slowly a smile spread across Tamara’s face.

  “Casey, get that painting home for me will you,” she barked at her assistant and with her trademark cool she walked out of the room. As she continued down the corridor towards the set, Tamara made a decision. The time was right. Now, she would start to reel Vassily in.

  “This is good.” At Gabe’s words, Helena looked up from the proof photographs to glance at him across the table where he had just finished reading the latest copy that a writer had turned in.

  “Isn’t it,” she replied with a smile moving towards the massive desk that they shared. She watched as Gabe picked up a stack of photographs – test shots that she herself had taken in the last week. Gabe stared closely at one of the photos and then looked up at her.

  “You have a good eye,” he said, not hiding the surprise and Helena felt a flush of pride. Her father had taught her well. She’d always loved taking photographs and the chance to get out of Gabe’s studio and start working out the visual look of the issue had been a welcome break. “Do you know how many photographers would have killed to have Elliot Golden teach them,” Gabe continued not hiding the admiration in his voice.

  “He was a pretty exacting teacher,” Helena replied with a small smile as she began to flick through the test images laid out on the table. In the days since Gabe had hit on the perfect theme for the centenary issue, things had moved fast. It was amazing how many of Époque’s past cover girls were eager to be featured and the miracle of modern science meant that several of them looked hardly different from their cover girl days. The daughters too had been revelatory – successful and beautiful, exactly the kind of aspirational copy that Époque was striving for.

  “We still don’t have a cover though,” Gabe said heavily, looking up at her.

  “We’ve some great images,” she countered but Gabe was already shaking his head.

  “I don’t want great, I want unforgettable, iconic. This cover has to pull together 100 years of exceptional beauty, style and character.” He rose from his lounging position, padding to stare out of the windows, down onto the bustling, alternative scene of Shoreditch. It was after 11pm on a Wednesday night. Helena sighed; she couldn’t remember the last time she had worked this hard. Gabe was a relentless taskmaster. She watched him in profile and then looked down as he caught her staring. Helena felt a spurt of embarrassment, all the long hours and the enforced proximity of their working situation had been playing havoc with her. She’d found herself growing more and more aware of him.

  “Shit! Is that the time?” Gabe asked as he glanced at the clock.

  “Yeah that’s the time,” Helena replied with a laugh. Working with Gabe, time wasn’t even a factor, he was a perfectionist and night after night they’d kept going until the task at hand was complete. The book was now almost done but before it could go to Tobias, they needed a cover.

  “Your boyfriend must hate me,” Gabe stated with a laugh and yet there was a loaded quality to his question. It was the first time, since their initial meeting that Gabe had made any remotely personal remark and she felt her face heat up. At her silence, Gabe raised his eyebrows.

  “No boyfriend? Really?” He asked.

  “Why so surprised?” Helena asked. “Perhaps I don’t want a boyfriend.” She said waiting for the usual snort of derision that usually greeted
her when she made this statement.

  “Really,” Gabe asked seriously. “You don’t want a boyfriend? How come?” Now it was Helena who felt silly.

  “I was engaged for a while…”

  “And?” Gabe prompted. Helena wrinkled her brow as she thought about Grant.

  “And he was a lawyer, good looking, odd taste in suits but I cured him of that but it didn’t work out,” she finished lamely.

  “Why didn’t it work out?” Gabe probed and suddenly Helena felt uncomfortable, the way some of his models must feel when he zoomed his camera lens on them.

  “He was perfect; decent and a bit boring, exactly what I thought I wanted but I guess I was fooling myself,” Helena finished.

  “You wanted to marry a boring lawyer?” Gabe queried, the amusement shining in his eyes.

  “I wanted someone who’s not in this crazy industry. Not that there are many men who are straight in our world,” she finished. Something about talking to Gabe about relationships was making her feel distinctly lightheaded.

  “What about sex?” He asked and Helena winced.

  “Well…” she said airily, “I’m going to need a few drinks before we tackle that one.” Gabe laughed for a moment and their eyes met. Helena felt a frisson of electricity pass between them.

  “What the lady wants...” Gabe replied. Helena watched in confusion as he slipped on some loafers and grabbed a jacket.

  “What are we doing?” She asked.

  “We’ve done enough for today,” he said, handing her her bag and the jacket she’d slung over a chair. “Let’s go and get a drink.” And he grabbed her hand leading her out of the door.

  Helena could not remember the last time she had drunk a beer, let alone necked one out of the bottle but that was what she found herself doing in a crowded East London bar, long after she should have been crashed out in bed. They’d walked the short distance from Gabe’s studio to the cavernous bar, which was heaving with the kind of hip, alternative crowd that was an integral part of the neighbourhood’s appeal. For a moment Helena had felt out of place in her APC shift dress, very much the older sister amidst the crowd of vintage clad, Converse wearing teens and early twentysomethings but Gabe had worked through the crowd with ease; her small hand still gripped in his much larger one. She’d watched as Gabe had nodded greetings all around them, and it was clear to Helena that he was a regular at the bar. Within minutes, he had somehow circumvented the dense throng waiting to be served at the bar, to get them some beers and they perched side by side on a small ledge in a corner of the bar next to the DJ’s booth. On the decks, Helena recognised Kemi, a hip, British Nigerian model who was as famous for her DJ’ing skills as she was for her head turning appearances at all the major events in town. Dancing on one of the tables was Paloma Chase, one of the hottest young British models who, when not strutting down Paris and Milan catwalks, was moonlighting as a Classics student at Cambridge. Helena sipped from her beer delicately and then froze as she felt Gabe’s hand snake around her neck to pull her close. The music was so loud that she had to lean in, almost cheek-to-cheek with him, to hear his words. Helena felt the roughness of his stubble against her skin. Usually she detested stubble but there was something dangerous and seductive about feeling Gabe’s rough chin against hers.

  “It’s too fucking loud, isn’t it?” Gabe stated and Helena nodded as he took her now almost empty beer bottle from her. Slowly she followed in his wake, for once determined not to think too much about what she was getting herself into it.

  “What is this place?” Helena asked as Gabe punched a code into a door and they entered a darkened building.

  “Shush,” Gabe said as he de-armed a bleeping alarm system. Helena glanced at her watch; it was after 2am.

  “Gabe,” she called, slowly feeling her way into the darkened lobby. “Gabe,” she whispered again into the darkness.

  “Relax,” Gabe suddenly whispered. Somehow, he was now behind her and Helena felt the warmth of his breath against her ear. She allowed him to take her by the hand again and slowly they ascended a winding set of fire escape stairs. At the top of the stairs Gabe shouldered open a door and then turned back to her.

  “Close your eyes,” he asked. Helena nodded. She felt his hand on her waist as he eased her outside. The air was close and still so warm and a small breeze rustled around them. Helena heard a switch flick and then Gabe was back standing behind her, his hands stroking her arms. “Open your eyes.”

  “Wow,” Helena gasped as she was confronted with an exquisite view of London at night. She spun round realising that Gabe had brought them to the top of legendary London members club Bonfire & Hoxton. A few flickering orange lanterns were the only illumination and then Gabe flicked another switch and the blue base of the open-air rooftop pool was illuminated by a white light. “How on earth? Isn’t this place closed?” She asked unable to keep the hitch of breathless excitement from her voice.

  “I know the owners,” Gabe replied staring into her eyes and Helena felt herself becoming breathless.

  Helena had been to the club on several occasions but tonight, with just the two of them, illuminated by the full moon, she felt something stir in her. Helena whose sartorial choices were conservative almost to the point of prissiness, who dated sensible men like lawyers and dentists, who was never reckless, who worked hard to make editor and who had learned through her parents very public misdeeds never to fuck where you worked. Yet, here she stood alone with Gabe Tynan – toxic bachelor, omni-sexual, drinker, bad boy. Her heart raced in her chest and she felt a heaviness settle in her blood, the sultriness of the night taking her prisoner.

  “Thank you,” she said quietly. “Thank you for bringing me here.” Helena leaned in close and threw caution to the wind. She pulled Gabe down to her, noting the surprise in his eyes as their lips connected and then she closed her eyes, floating on the blissful excitement of giving this new side of herself free rein. She was tentative at first and she knew he was holding back, matching her, seeing how far she was willing to go. She opened her mouth against his and her tongue darted into his mouth and it was like she’d flicked a switch in him. Something like a growl came from deep in his throat and he grabbed her hips jamming them against his, leaving her in no doubt of how much he wanted her. Slowly, he eased the intensity of the kiss, until he was dropping only light kisses onto her jaw, her chin. He began to lick her neck and a spasm of hot desire shot through Helena. She gave a small sound of regret as he finally broke the contact. They stared at each other, the air filled with the sound of their breathing, which was slowly returning to normal.

  “That was…” Gabe stuttered. He was lost for words. Helena laughed at the confusion in his eyes. She didn’t care that his dark stubble would leave red marks on her pale, delicate skin. Or that she’d have a hickey on her neck worthy of a thirteen-year-old schoolgirl. All she cared about was that Gabe Tynan was lost for words and that had to make a woman feel good. Her eyes dropped down to his jeans and the bulge that he made no effort to conceal. She placed her hands on his chest, running down his pecs, stopping for a moment to tease his clearly outlined nipple through his shirt and then finally she reached his belt buckle. Almost casually she ran her hand lightly over the bulge and felt his groan, his hips pushing instinctively into her hand as though to stall her there longer.

  “That cannot be comfortable,” she said teasingly. There was a wildness in Gabe’s eyes that frightened and excited Helena in equal measure. The rumours that she’d heard about him raced through her mind – all the models he’d been with, apparently male and female ones, the rumoured drug fuelled orgies. Helena stepped back from Gabe and for a moment she stared at his face; she was walking on the dark side and she shivered with anticipation. And then with a sweeping movement she unhooked the clasp that held her dress together and let it fall, pooling around her ankles. Gabe’s eyes ate up the space between them, his hand moved to his waistband and he was already popping the buttons on his fly. His tongue darted out to
moisten his lips even as he took in the sight of her pert breasts and the hard pink nipples. His gaze lowered, past her tiny rib cage and then to the simple white bikini panties that she wore. “We should cool down,” Helena said and Gabe watched enthralled as she turned strutting in her high heels, towards the pool-edge before she stepped out of the heels and dived into the pool.

  “And Cut…” the director called out. “That’s you done for the day Tamara, great job. Thanks darling.”

  Tamara flashed a brief smile at the cockney director and breathed a sigh of relief; her day on set had felt even more interminable than usual. The problem with soaps she thought angrily to herself was that there were so many fucking amateurs. For some actors, the soaps proved to be a valuable training ground; you learned your trade and you got out, moved on to better things. But for too many, the soaps had turned into the graveyard where their one-note talent wouldn’t be questioned. Tamara chose not to question too closely where she fitted into in this division of things. The fact was she had been unlucky. Perhaps that was the third category of soap actors. Unlucky actors, good enough to make it into the big leagues but whose breaks simply never came. She’d done some theatre, a critically acclaimed one-off TV drama, even been in two US pilots, which hadn’t been picked up. Her purgatory in the soaps, wasn’t she mused, down to any lack of talent or hard work on her part. The scene should have taken no more than an hour to shoot but her inept co-star seemed unable to remember his cues, his marks or his lines. Tamara had had to work not to lose her temper. Only the thought of the Modigliani painting that awaited her at home had kept her smiling.

  Tamara exited the sound stage barely sparing a glance at the crew. She walked slowly towards her dressing room already plotting how she would signal to Vassily that she was ready to bring him in from the cold, when a hand gripped her forearm, causing her to stumble. She spun round furious.