LOVE'S GHOST (a romance)

by Ellis, T. S.

  It took all my powers of concentration to stop me from smiling at his joke. My lips trembled, but I made myself think sad thoughts and they stopped. I don’t think he noticed any movement.

  I made him wait a while, then slammed him down onto the canvas. “I’m not single.”

  He scowled. But it only made him more attractive. If a top designer could design a scowl, this would be it.

  “That’s strange,” he said.

  “Why is it strange?”

  “It’s one thing I’m very good at — judging whether people are single.”

  I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything. I picked up my bag and took out my fashion magazine.

  4. Losing it at work

  ULTERIOR MODELS IS a model agency that was set up by former magazine editor Polly Warner. The story goes that one day the publisher criticised her choice of models for a fashion spread, so she took all the layouts that were spread out across her desk and set fire to them with a match. She walked out and started the agency the next day.

  Outbursts like this were commonplace for Polly. Nobody could get inside her head to find out why she did this. Nobody wanted to take that risk. But the fashion industry loved her.

  She was invited to parties because the hosts hoped she would trash the place. And that by trashing the place, they themselves would get some media coverage. They just had to hope that the extent of the media coverage would outweigh their repair costs. Build an ice sculpture and Polly would melt it. Book the hottest band of the moment, and Polly would smash their guitars before they got a chance to perform.

  Polly didn’t like the fashion industry. So she sought revenge on it by supplying them with an endless stream of ugly models. However, Polly’s idea of ugly was other people’s idea of quirky, individual, unique.

  Polly Warner wasn’t stupid, she’d known this all along. But it didn’t stop her hating the fashion industry, hating all the models on her books, hating everybody who worked for her.

  But for some reason she didn’t hate me. She didn’t love me, either. Polly thought me a curious specimen. I wasn’t pushy enough to be a model booker, she used to tell me. Growl, she would urge me. Bare your teeth, she would beg.

  The only reason I hung on to my job, I think, was that I had “discovered” a model. That model, Sienna, went on to become the agency’s biggest earner, by a long way.

  It gave me a couple of years of grace. But three months, disaster struck the agency. Sienna decided to give up modelling. She said she’d grown out of it. That wasn’t quite the truth. She was about to marry a Russian billionaire who had very traditional views on how a wife should behave.

  The agency threw a leaving party for Sienna, which she attended for half an hour before being whisked away to a restaurant hired for the evening by her husband-to-be. We weren’t invited. She didn’t even say goodbye to me. I was hurt by that. I knew she wouldn’t ring up late to apologise. With her new social status, Sienna never had to say sorry to anybody ever again.

  Soon after Sienna’s departure, Polly started treating me differently. She began to turn the screw.

  "Anna has to go," she said as she strode past my desk.

  I went to say something, but she'd already gone by before I could think of what I wanted to say.

  Anna was a model I’d spotted while out shopping about a year before. I thought she had just the look that we specialised in — attractive but quirky, beautiful but not perfect. The most surprising thing of all was that she was a nice person, too. I don’t know if it’s just bad luck, but the models I get to work with tend to be a little… how should I put this?… Difficult.

  But Anna was nice. She was normal. She had no inflated view of her own self-importance. I could talk to her about things other than her portfolio. She even sent me a card on my birthday.

  And yet there was a problem with Anna. She hadn’t captured the imagination of the magazine editors. And advertising agencies didn’t want to know. They didn’t want her face to endorse any of their products. I couldn’t convince them, no matter how hard I tried.

  When I showed them her portfolio of photographs, they would look at me as if I’d lost my marbles. Then they would recover their composure and agree with me that she was unique, quite stunning in her own way. But that was just to cover their backs. No creative director likes to criticise a girl, in case somebody else hires her and she turns out to be a roaring success. But nevertheless, they hated her.

  This morning, Polly had left the door to her office open. I knew it was a sign for me to follow her in. But I was hesitant. This was a conversation I didn’t want, not now. A scrunched up ball of paper, a missile, bounced on my desk before continuing its journey. It was meant to hit me.

  “Fay!” Polly shouted.

  I stood up from my desk, took a deep breath, and walked into Polly’s office. The walls of the office were all made of glass. The transparency appealed to the exhibitionist in her.

  She was scrunching up another piece of paper. I don’t know how many sheets she got through in a day, but there was always a pile of them in the corner of her office. I’m not even sure she recycled.

  Polly tossed her latest ball from hand to hand. “She’s got to go, Fay. She’s got to go. She’s earned this agency peanuts. Well, less than peanuts. Next to nothing. It’s no reflection on you.” She thought about it for a moment. “Well, yes, actually it is a reflection on you. But the girl’s not an earner.”

  I couldn’t argue with her. Anna hadn’t earned back the agency’s investment in her — which was the amount of time I’d spent plugging her. But she was a nice girl. She was only seventeen years old. And when I’d discovered her, she’d been working in a factory that made pies. After we signed her up, she initially earned enough to leave that job. But it still wasn’t enough for a top London agency to justify keeping her on. I knew that.

  “But she’s so nice,” I said.

  “I don’t care,” Polly retorted.

  It was a turnaround on her previous position. She’d said we’d stand by her. I’d told her that Anna had a face that would come into fashion. And because of my success with Sienna she believed me. I couldn’t remind her of this, because the paper ball that she was tossing from hand to hand would be thrown straight at me.

  “Nice people are evil,” said Polly. “They suck you in with their niceness, lead you to make irrational decisions.” I didn’t believe her words for one minute. Polly was quite capable of irrational decisions on her own, with or without the influence of nice people.

  “Take her to a nice restaurant. Tell her tonight. Actually, make it a cheap restaurant. We don’t want to spend more on her leaving meal than she’s earned for us.”

  I went to speak, but Polly raised a finger to her lips. Polite gestures were out of her range. Manners were for suckers in Polly’s world.

  But she was right — there was nothing more to say. I stood up from the chair and walked out of her office.

  Oh, dear. I didn’t want to do it. But if it had to be done, it was better to do the deed quickly, without thinking too much about it. But I still felt sick to the stomach.

  I picked up my mobile phone and called Anna. We arranged to meet at Carluccio’s in Covent Garden. It’s not as if Carluccio’s is expensive, but I’m sure Polly would have preferred McDonald’s.

  I was playing with the salt cellar as Anna came in. She’s taller than me, towers over most women and more than a few men.

  “Hi,” I said. I didn’t want my tone to be either too pleased to see her or too laden with doom and gloom. Somewhere in-between. What came out sounded strangled. I’d never done this before, never fired a model from the agency. Polly usually performed the hiring and firing. But I guessed that she was placing Anna’s failure to capture the hearts of fashion’s great and good squarely on my shoulders. And, to make amends, I had to be the one to break the news to Anna.

  “Fay, good to see you. How are you? Are you still with that lovely Russell?”

&n
bsp; “Yes,” I said. She remembered my boyfriend’s name, even though we hardly ever saw each other. “What about you?” I asked.

  “Oh, you know, they come they go.” She paused, stared at me for a moment, as if she’d noticed something. Then the colour drained from her face. “Oh God,” she said. “I’ve just realised. This is to tell me Ulterior Models don’t want me anymore. That’s what this is for, isn’t it?” I must have failed in trying to hide a look of concern on my face.

  I felt my mouth dry up. I managed to get some words out, but they were the first ones I could find, and not entirely appropriate. “No, not at all. No, no, no.” Oh, why did I say that?

  “It is though. I can tell by your face.”

  “No,” I repeated. “No, no, no.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “That’s a relief. I know I’m not pulling my weight. I try to impress when I get a casting. I don’t want to let you down, Fay.”

  I waved at the waiter like the witness to a traffic accident who needed help. “Can we have a bottle of wine, please?”

  We settled down and ordered our meal. I kept trying to turn the subject of the conversation to Anna, but she just wanted to talk about me. I wasn’t used to this in a model. It took some getting used to. Later on, she turned the conversation to a subject we both had an interest in.

  “Tell me about men,” she said. “Because I really don’t understand them.”

  I think she saw me as the older sister she didn’t have. But it was a subject I didn’t want to address. Not at the moment. She’d caught me on a bad day. I thought back to my meeting with the mysterious stranger on the train. How dare he say that I looked single.

  “I’m the last person to tell you about men,” I said. I thought I’d be able to hold back the emotions, but my voice cracked a little.

  “Are you okay,” she asked.

  “I’m fine.” I waved away her concern with my hand.

  “If you want to talk, I’m a good listener.” It was the sort of concern you’d expect from somebody twice Anna’s age. But that was Anna all over, very mature for her age, always considerate of others.

  I tried to turn the conversation to other things. Music was a more comfortable topic. She’d discovered a Canadian singer-songwriter called Feist that she was enthusing about. She took out her iPod and we listened with one headphone each. I liked the song.

  But then she asked me again how I was feeling, saying that she detected a sadness in my eyes. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  I did my best not to cry. But a tear did escape. I quickly wiped it away with my napkin. Some people, when they see you’re upset, think it’s better to encourage you to wallow in it. I’ve never subscribed to that thought. If I want to wallow in any sadness I’m suffering, I prefer to do it with a bottle of wine, hunched up in the corner of the living room. And anyway, I wasn’t sad. I just didn’t want to tell her that her modelling career was over at seventeen years of age.

  She left her seat and came round to the banquette I was sitting on. She gave me a hug. Luckily we were the only diners in this corner of the restaurant.

  “Man trouble?” she asked.

  “No, no, no. I’ve just been working so hard. Are you sure you want to be a model, Anna? It’s a very cutthroat industry. Very dog eat dog. Or cat eat cat.”

  “After you’ve worked in a factory, anything’s fantastic.”

  I returned her hug, but I just wanted to get home.

  5. Overheating

  AT WORK I tried to avoid Polly. Luckily, she didn’t bring up the subject of Anna. I think she was so used to people doing her bidding immediately, without question, that she just assumed that I had carried out her instructions, that Anna was no longer represented by the agency.

  It was a first for me. I’d never disobeyed Polly before. I’m not sure why I did it. I think it was because I wanted something good to happen that day, something that would chase away the rain, chase away the low, dark clouds.

  I should have felt a rush of excitement. But I didn’t. It wasn’t much of a gesture, and it was only delaying the inevitable. And yet, I did feel better about life. But I had to follow it up with action. I wondered what else I could do to find Anna work.

  Polly was busy. She was arguing with the publisher of one of the fashion magazines. I was surprised they still took her calls. But I guess they enjoyed the verbal tongue-lashing, men and women alike. It was a way for them to indulge in a bit of sadomasochism while at work.

  “What do you mean there’s no more room left in the issue? Sell more advertising space. This’ll be the first month one of our girls isn’t in one of your magazines. I’m going to come round there with a bottle of Chanel and pour it into your eyes.”

  It shocking to hear a woman talk like that. I know it shouldn’t be, but it was. Polly wasn’t a man trapped in a woman’s body, though. She was an ever-hungry tiger trapped in a woman’s body. She did make us bookers smile with outbursts like this. I think it was partly a relief that somebody else was drawing her ire. Although, this morning, I didn’t feel like smiling.

  Tania, one of the other bookers, smiled at me. But I didn’t have it in me to smile back, so I shrugged.

  I enjoy my job. If a booker becomes too intense about the process, it’s easy to operate like the stereotypical car-salesman: “Got a couple of early models here, good condition, not many miles on the road, careful owners.” But I’ve never taken that approach with the girls I represent. I take a more laid-back approach. Sometimes I forget to mention the models at all when I’m talking fashion editors or advertising execs. Except Anna. In fact, I’d probably mentioned her too much and ruined her chances with overexposure.

  I was glad to get out of the office that evening. The train home was usually less busy than the morning commute. This was because I avoided the heave of the rush-hour, sometimes working late just to avoid the crush.

  Walking along the platform at Waterloo, I glanced at the first class carriage. I don’t know what I would have done if that annoying stranger had been there — that annoying but very handsome stranger. Actually, I do know what I would have done. I’d have bowed my head and kept walking. How dare he assume that I was single, claim that he had special powers of observation which told him so.

  But confidence is attractive. I’ll give him that.

  It’s an uncertain world, and a person who can fly in the face of that does possess a certain allure. Not to mention the fact that he was… I hate to use the word… but he was… hot.

  Anyway, I tucked myself away with the evening’s free copy of the Evening Standard and wondered what to cook when I got home. I had to be in the mood to cook, and tonight I wasn’t. I’d just knock up something that was quick. That would be the answer. Perhaps I’d buy a pizza from the local mini supermarket.

  But I resisted that urge. Instead, I decided that when I got in I’d just warm up some baked beans and throw them over some burnt toast. I hate toasters. I haven’t yet found one that can toast the bread evenly on both sides.

  I put the key into the latch and drearily trudged up the stairs to my front door. There was a soft light glowing, creeping under the door. I switched keys and opened that door, too.

  The first thing that hit me was the aroma. It was the sweet scent of my favourite candle — a blend of jasmine and lilac from Heyland and Whittle. There must have been more than one in the flat as the smell was quite strong. I walked past the bathroom and peeked inside. Sure enough, there were six of these candles flickering. And a bath had been drawn — only recently because there was steam rising, curling.

  “Voila,” said Russell, creeping up behind me.

  I jumped a little. “What are you doing home already?”

  “I got away early.”

  I should have been delighted but I wasn’t. I was perturbed. This was such a beautiful gesture. A romantic show of thoughtfulness. But it wasn’t a gesture that Russell had ever made before.

  What was wrong w
ith me? Why couldn’t I just enjoy it? The man had taken off from work early.

  “Are you okay?”

  He must have seen the confusion in my face. I draped my arms around his neck. “I’m very much okay. I’m just a little overwhelmed. Thank you. Thank you so much.”

  He kissed me on the lips, gently at first, then passionately. I held on to his muscly back, gripping it for all I was worth.

  “I bought you that bath oil you had your eye on,” he said. “That one in Harrods that you said was too expensive.”

  I looked around and saw the frosted glass bottle of Czech and Speake Neroli Bath Oil. Harrods sold it for seventy-five pounds a bottle. Wow. Russell had finished his day of loss adjusting for a top City firm and then travelled to Harrods in Knightsbridge to buy this for me.

  What a gesture!

  But I just wanted to cry again. I couldn’t believe he would do this. It was too much. But it was so romantic. I couldn’t prevent a tear coursing down my cheek.

  “No tears. You’ve had a tough time lately. It was the least I could do. I thought I’d cook you my famous risotto tonight. Is that okay?”

  I nodded, not wanting to risk trying to speak, in case my voice broke up.

  “It’ll take about forty-five minutes to cook in total. So you take your time in the bath.”

  He kissed me a second time, then headed off to the kitchen, leaving me alone in the candlelit bathroom. I took off my clothes and gingerly dangled a foot over the side of the bath. I was worried that the water would be too hot, as the steam was still rising.

  But I needn’t have worried. The warmth of the water transferred itself to my body, snaking up my calf, then up the rest of my leg as I sat down. The temperature was perfect. Russell couldn’t have timed it better. The bath oil made the water feel more dense. It clung to my body and made my skin feel so soft and velvety.

  I watched the steam rising, the candles making it look like a lithesome dancer stretching, then taking flight away from the water.