by Havana Adams
“Don’t do it.” He said softly. Tamara did not open her eyes, frightened of what he might see in them. “Don’t try to run.”
Tamara was stung into retorting. “I’m not running.” Her eyes opened and she saw the smile on Vassily’s face.
“Yes you are. You have nothing to fear from me.” Slowly Tamara opened her eyes and stared at him. Dare she trust him? Dare she break the habit of a lifetime and trust a man?
“I love you,” the words were a whisper and Tamara was awed and shocked and scared as she uttered them for the first time in her life and meant them. Vassily smiled and stroked a hand over her face.
“Of course,” he said, once again all supreme confidence. “You and me, we’re the same.”
Tamara swung around to face him, uncaring that the sheet had slipped down. She glared at him.
“You’re supposed to say it back,” she snapped.
“Of course I love you, how could I not,” Vassily admitted quietly. “But more than that you are under my protection – no one can ever hurt you again.” And Tamara believed him. He reached out and pulled her down on top of him and as he wrapped his arms around her, she was filled with a sense that for the first time in two decades she was not alone.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Sitting at a shaded table by the pool of the luxurious, West Hollywood hotel that had been her home for the last two months, Talia was filled with an acute wash of loneliness, which she quickly banked down, taking a sip of the bright pink smoothie in front of her. She was living the dream, she reminded herself. She had everything she wanted. Talia smiled, feeling hollow and watched as beautiful young starlet strutted to the pool’s edge, in a tiny bikini, basking in the confident knowledge that every eye by the poolside was on her.
Talia took another sip of the cool drink, it was still only 9 in the morning and already she could feel the building humidity, by midday the temperature would be scorching. She turned and stared out at the smoggy view of the Hollywood Hills, trying to focus on the script meeting that lay ahead of her. Yet another of the almost daily meetings, which seemed designed to tear her confidence to shreds and pull her script apart under the guise of development.
It had all happened so quickly. She had been flown Business class to Los Angeles by the studio. First she had met her agent – a polished, super confident Harvard Grad who had the look of someone who had just stepped off a yacht in The Hamptons. There was no denying that Josh Levine was beautiful to look at in that polished, pristine Hollywood agent way and yet after seeing Josh in action, Talia had come to the conclusion that he was hardly man at all and in fact all shark; perfect for an agent. Josh was enthusiastic, pushy and Talia had found to her surprise that he had a surprisingly good sense of humour. Though it was her script Undone, that had brought her to LA, Josh had arranged meetings all over town. Talia had met with producers at Matrix, Revolution, Syndicate… after a while the names all started to merge into one. She had got to grips with the freeways and driving on the left and manic LA rush hour and hill parking and had shuttled herself from meeting to meeting all over town. Ideas that had percolated in her head for years were suddenly channelled into pitches and outlines and treatments; ideas were being optioned and she was actually being paid to write. She was living the dream. Talia laughed hollowly again as a waitress set down her breakfast of wholewheat toast and an egg white omelette. She’d got what she wanted and yet something, someone plagued her dreams and was always on her mind. A line from a Rolling Stone song floated on the edges of her memory, something about the difference between getting what you wanted and getting what you needed. With a sigh, Talia turned to her breakfast. On her tray was a folded copy of the Los Angeles Times. She shook it open, turning to the front page and then she froze. On the cover was a photograph of Alex. She fought the urge to toss the paper into the pool and forced herself to read the caption. Alex Golden arrives at JFK to begin an already sold out Broadway run of The Debt.
Talia felt her stomach begin to churn; they were once again on the same continent. She’d tried to keep him from her thoughts but Alex was everywhere, rumours swirled around his name and Talia had fought the bitterness that assailed her when she heard that he and Isabella were back together, that Isabella was pregnant. She rubbed at her temples, even as she felt a wave of nausea and then she pulled herself together. The man was a hypocrite of the worst kind. He’d fucked half the model population of the world; he had no right to judge her. She folded the paper decisively and took a bite of her toast as a shadow fell over her. It was Max. Talia forced a smile as he sat down at the table. As usual Max kept his sunglasses on, though their table was in the shade.
“Aren’t you meeting the producers today?” He asked even as the waitress was quickly setting down his usual fruit salad. Max popped a grape into his mouth as he looked at Talia.
“Yep I’m heading over there later,” Talia tried but failed to keep the frustration from her voice. Though the studio execs had adored her script, so much so that they had quickly attached Max to be the lead in the film, what had followed was an endless series of notes until now Talia could not really recognise the script she’d written, could hardly tell what was up and what was down.
“Talia, notes are part of the process. Just remember how lucky you are?” Talia nodded even as Max’s words grated on her nerves. After he had been attached to the script they had met up again and picked up where they’d left off but deep down she knew he simply wasn’t right for her. It wasn’t his fault that he wasn’t Alex. Max frowned as he watched Talia take another bite of toast.
“You’re eating carbs?” Talia rolled her eyes, another reason that she needed to get rid of Max. Since she’d come to LA he’d taken a disproportionate interest in her diet, her wardrobe, in making sure she presented the right image. Not that he’d ever let himself be photographed with her. Talia was always several paces behind or going through another doorway. “You know what it’s like,” Max had told her with the winning smile, which now irritated the hell out of her.
Talia laid down the piece of toast and stared at Max. Always jumpy and unpredictable, since he’d returned from New Zealand with the production of Defender on hiatus, Max had been snappy and even more critical. Though she’d tried to turn a blind eye, Talia was sure that Max’s drug use was far more prolific than she’d realised. All in all, she’d had quite enough of releasing her inner bad girl. Tonight, she thought, tonight she would end it. She’d be losing her only friend in LA but she was tired of pretending, of hanging off Max’s arm like a mindless idiot. She was ready to be herself again.
Across the country, in a quiet out of the way table at Mr Chows in the Meatpacking District, Alex was being sweet-talked. Folded into a chair that was only just about adequate for his tall frame, he watched with detached amusement as Cole Sidney flanked by Avital made his big pitch.
“Alex, I’m just going to say it. I fucked up,” Cole admitted. “You were always perfect for the role but I was seduced by Max and then cameras rolled and basically, he’s not the real deal. His range is limited, he’s arrogant and way too much of a jerk to learn.” Alex leaned further back in his seat. He felt no satisfaction just mild amusement at the irony of it all. The Debt had been a sell out hit in London and tickets for the Broadway run were already changing hands for vast sums. A film adaptation was in the works with names like Howard, Stone and Bigelow vying to direct it. Alex had earned an Olivier nomination for Best Actor and already Tony buzz surrounded the play. He was back. So why then did he feel this detachment as though one way or the other, it didn’t really matter? He watched the anxious glances that passed between Cole and Avital; they were waiting for his answer.
“So all the talk about the technology and the CGI not being ready?” Alex asked.
“Bullshit,” Cole said. “Face-saving for Max, wait for the heat to die down and then re-cast.”
Alex leaned back in his chair idly looking around the restaurant, acknowledging but not encouraging the smile a tall
beautiful girl was throwing his way. He was back in New York City; ground zero for The Modeliser, where every other girl was signed with some agency, where they all seemed to be carrying their portfolios and yet, since arriving back, Alex had found no woman who could stir his interest. Nightly, he threw himself into his performance and every night he went to bed alone. Page 8 had taken to concocting stories, faking quotes and peddling library photos – it was inconceivable that The Modeliser had changed his ways.
“How do I know I’m not just getting this because Max is tied up elsewhere?” Alex asked and Avital butted in.
“He was doing that project that your reader girl scripted,” Avital waved a dismissive hand and carried on. “But apparently studio is pulling the plug on it. Max asked for all these re-writes and now the script isn’t working.”
Alex froze as he tried not to betray any emotion. Talia wasn’t his problem, it wasn’t his responsibility to save her project and yet he felt a wave of protectiveness rise up in him. He ran his hand through his hair and sighed, even as Avital and Cole were watching him expectantly, demanding an answer. Everybody wanted something.
“I don’t know that I want to spend half the year in New Zealand,” he finally said.
“Alex, just think about it. I’ll work around your schedule. Defender is your film,” Cole said. Alex nodded already rising from the table.
“I’ll get back to you,” he said. He strode across the dining room and moments later, he heard the click of heels behind him. He turned to see that Avital had followed him out.
“Alex darling…” But he raised his hand to cut her off.
“Avi, while I was in London, I heard rumours that you were trying to sign Max.” Alex saw the look in Avital’s eyes as she weighed up whether to bluff her way out of trouble.
“Alex darling, I was a fool.” Alex snorted at Avital’s approximation of humility.
“Good, because I’ve had offers and I wouldn’t want to have to leave you.” Avital nodded and Alex knew that his warning had been received loud and clear, he was taking the power back. He began to walk away and then he turned back to face his agent.
“Margot has found me a great play for next autumn.” He watched the dismay on Avital’s face. “You guys will work together to sort out my availability.” Again Avital nodded, Alex’s currency was, one again, through the roof; she would not risk losing him.
All the way back to his West 4th street apartment Alex thought about Talia’s script, now dead in the water with the studio. No doubt some junior exec would be dispatched to break the news to her. He slammed into the $7 million duplex that had been leased for his entire Broadway run. The duplex was the kind of property that was designed to impress – hand-trowelled Venetian plastered walls, Brazilian walnut wood floors and vaulted ceilings and exposed beams and yet he had barely noticed any of it, had not even brought anyone back here. As he jogged up the floating chrome staircase his mind was drawn back to that opening night in London. “You were magnificent.” Even now months later, Talia’s words chased about his mind, stopped him from sleeping and fired him up when stepped onto the stage each night. He had overreacted; he admitted that now. But something about the thought of Talia with Max, with anyone that wasn’t him filled him with rage. He, who had spent the last decade on a fucking spree, now suddenly acquiring a moral centre. The irony wasn’t lost on him.
Even after a shower, he could not clear her from his mind and a plan was forming. Finally he gave up and made the call uncaring that it would be the middle of night in London. When the call was finally picked up, he spoke.
“Vassily Romanov?” Alex asked and then he began to set out his plan.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
It was the perfect place for a romantic meal. Talia grimaced at the thought as her eyes took in the intimate, narrow, galley style dining room of the Lower Eastside restaurant where she and Helena had agreed to meet. Helena was late. Talia frowned; Helena was never late, at least the old Helena was never late. Talia allowed a small smile as she considered all the changes, the revolutions that had taken place in both of their lives. Here she was a paid up screenwriter, albeit one who was freshly sacked from her project. And Helena the ultimate fashionista was swapping Chanel 2.55 bags for a practical, hardwearing photographer’s bag. She had been filled with pride when she’d opened the issue of Glare magazine to see Helena’s first published photographs – portrait shots of a group of up and coming musicians and artists. And now Helena was here in New York an editor at large for Époque. She would be combining her writing abilities with her photography skills; things it seemed couldn’t have worked out better.
Talia gave a small sigh as she poured a glass of water from a heavy glass jug. She thought back to the conversation with Josh the day before.
“Talia, you know how things work, it’s not personal.” Talia had nodded. How many times had she seen writers fired off scripts at Encounters, thrown off at second draft stage before they could be given the chance to make it better and improve the script? Josh was right; this was simply how the system worked.
“Still, you’ve got people knowing your name and you’ve got that treatment with Blue Tide.” Talia had nodded but the disappointment cut deep. Her very first script and she was off the project. She was stung too by Max’s betrayal. Not that she’d ever really trusted him but the level of malice had stunned her. Behind her back he’d been pulling the strings – suggesting ideas and changes that would only worsen not improve the script. Even now as she thought back to their final confrontation, Talia couldn’t believe that she’d let him manipulate her.
“Get over yourself, it was just some stupid script,” Max had shouted across her suite.
“Just some script.” Talia had gasped. “You bastard..”
“Alex sorted you out once. Give him a call, I bet he can fix you up again.” Max had bitten back and suddenly Talia had got it. It had never been about her. Max was obsessed with Alex; he’d ruined her film just to get to him.
“This was about Alex, wasn’t it?” Max’s eyes had darted away and Talia had known then. She fought the urge to cry and prayed that the rumours circulating around town were true, that Max had lost out to Alex on Defender. She had carried her case out of the room without a backward glance.
And now she found herself in New York City on an overnight stopover before she headed back to London. If not burnt, her fingers had certainly been singed and yet she was wiser. Talia took another sip from her glass and once again glanced at her watch. She reached down to her bag, retrieving her mobile phone and was beginning to scroll through her contacts to find Helena’s number when a shadow fell across the table. Talia looked up a smile on her face and then she froze as she took in the form looming over her, standing next to the table. It was Alex.
Boredom caused wrinkles, Tamara thought, as she stared into a small compact mirror, which she snapped shut as Vassily strode out of his office and into the sitting room where she was perched on a sofa, ostensibly reading a new batch of scripts. She’d completed filming on the reality talent series and her presence had been such a success that the producers had already offered her a 100% increase on her salary, even before the second series commission had come. Though with their viewing figures a second series commission seemed a certainty. A glossy magazine supplement for a Sunday paper had offered her a column. And even Vogue had come calling with a 4-page spread on offer. Tamara was back and yet she was bored. Reality TV bored her, auto-cues sent her to sleep, what she wanted was drama and scripts and memorising lines and finding the heart of a character.
Vassily lowered himself onto the sofa beside her. In this one area at least, Tamara was content. Content. She had struggled at first to identify this feeling of calm, wellbeing and eventually she had realised what it was: contentment. This was what it was like when the beast was calmed, when the green-eyed monster wasn’t on high alert. She had eyes only for Vassily. And he had been true to his word. Within days, she had moved into his Chelsea home, he had
instructed the most sought after interior designers to make any changes that she requested and for their one week anniversary she had woken to find on their bedroom wall another Modigliani painting. Of course she still had her moments; discreet checks through his mobile phone and the occasional glance at his emails when he’d left his laptop unattended but, so far, she had found no causes for concern.
Tamara leaned back as Vassily pressed a kiss along her jaw and then nuzzled her neck. Dressed for dinner, she wore an embellished Jason Wu jacket atop a Jade Green YSL dress and her feet were strapped in to pair of Alexander McQueen shoes that looked like a feat of engineering.
“Haven’t we got reservations?” she asked as Vassily continued to press tiny kisses along her neck moving down to her collarbone. Reluctantly he pulled away, his fingers still stroking her skin.
“We do but I prefer to stay in,” he finished slowly, his hands already busy at the neckline of her dress.
“Oh thank god,” Tamara squealed, launching herself across the sofa back at him so that she straddled him. Since the night in her house, she wanted him with a force that was wholly unexpected. For so long she had thought that men gave her no real pleasure and yet with Vassily – desire could speed through her like an inferno, a forest fire running unchecked. She no longer cared about dining in the most exclusive eateries, didn’t care about being photographed or being on the pages of Hello! All that she wanted was to be with him and where possible always in proximity to a bed, a wall, a bathroom, a lockable door. After an embarrassing incident in a disabled toilet at the Royal Opera House, which thankfully had only made it into Popbitch and only in the most cryptic of ways, Tamara was more than happy to stay in, especially tonight with Sasha away in Paris with friends. She pressed a kiss to Vassily’s jaw and then his cheek.
“I have something for you,” he said seriously. Tamara nodded her attention still focused on working his shirt buttons open. She felt his hands move up her hips, pausing for a moment to stroke her thigh through the thin silk of the dress and then his hands continued upwards, stroking up her waist and then up her arms until he gripped her hands, stopping their progress up his chest.
