by Ellis, T. S.
And I was. It was the first time I had smiled for months. Anna had done it. She’d got her breakthrough.
She said, “I’m surprised Polly didn’t tell you.”
“Well, she wouldn’t. I don’t work there anymore, Anna.”
“You don’t? No. Don’t tell me that.” There was a sound of genuine disappointment in her voice. “What happened?”
I didn’t know whether to fill her in on the details. But I decided not to. I didn’t want to ruin her moment. She’d had to wait long enough for it.
What did make my smile extra wide was picturing Polly’s reaction. I had no idea what had happened and could only imagine. But in my mind at least, the editors at Vogue were clearing out a drawer of models’ head shots and stumbled across Anna. The editor probably asked her staff why this arresting, unique beauty hadn’t been brought to her attention. The editor would then have phoned the agency and asked about Anna. The call from Vogue’s editor would have gone straight through to Polly. The editor of Vogue asking about Anna, that would have flustered Polly for a while. But she would have recovered quickly. I wondered if Polly had tried to apologise to Anna for having let her go, or blamed me, or pretended it hadn’t happened.
“Anna, one thing — did Polly say anything when she rang you with your good news?”
“No. Not really. Like what?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
And it didn’t. The machinations at Ulterior Models were unimportant. By the sound of it, Anna didn’t know my other news, either.
“Where are you working now?” she asked.
“Nowhere. I just wanted to take a break for a while.”
“You deserve one. You worked so hard for me.”
She didn’t know that. I rarely filled her in on what I was doing, on the sheer number of rejections she was getting from the industry. But she was assuming I’d worked hard. And I had worked hard, but that wasn’t the point. She was just so very trusting, which was nice.
“No, you deserve it, Anna.”
“Can you text me your address. Don’t worry I’m not going to stalk you. But I just want to send you a little gift to say thank you.”
“That’s not necessary, Anna. Hearing that you’ve done well is thanks enough. I’m thrilled for you. Just promise me that no matter how successful you become, you won’t change.”
There was a pause. I think I’d confused her.
“Sure,” she said. “No chance. I’ll still be little ole me.” Then another thought struck her. “That time you took me to the restaurant, I was sure you were going to tell me Ulterior Models didn’t want to represent me anymore.”
“No chance. Somebody as gorgeous as you. Of course they wouldn’t have done that.”
“I wasn’t getting any work.”
“Yeah, but the agency believed in you. They knew you would come good in the end.”
I didn’t want to undermine her confidence. If she felt that everybody had been behind her all the way, it would help maintain her confidence in the busy days ahead. There are many pressures on a rising star. But if anybody could cope, Anna could.
There was another silence. Then Anna said, “Do you mind if we stay in touch? I like you, and I’m going to miss you being my booker. Let me take you out to lunch at least.”
“That sounds great. Let’s do that.”
We arranged to meet the following week. I wondered what I could tell her, to arm her for the whirlwind that was sure to follow a Vogue cover. I did hope she wouldn’t change.
The day after my conversation with Anna I received another phone call. And it was very mysterious.
“Is that Fay Brockway?”
“Yes.”
“My name’s Jenny Allen. I’m what they call a headhunter, and I’d like to have a chat with you.”
“Me?” I’d never been phoned by a headhunter before. I thought they only worked with financial institutions, not with humble model bookers.
“Yes, you.”
“Can I ask what it’s about?”
“I’d rather tell you when we met up.”
“Oh. Okay.”
We arranged to meet at a pub in Cheapside, which was not too far away from all the financial institutions of London, including Lloyds and The Bank of England.
As I got off the tube and walked towards the pub, I wished I’d insisted on hearing more details. I was sure she’d got me mixed up with somebody else. Maybe an investment banker? Or the CEO of a major insurance company? I should have searched the internet to see if anybody in one of these companies shared the same name.
And how had she got my number? I suppose finding someone’s mobile number is not that hard these days, if you know where to look. But even so.
She’d told me she’d booked the function room in the pub. That was odd. She’d booked a room just so we could have a chat? It all seemed very clandestine.
I reached the pub and asked the bartender where the function room was. He pointed me to a set of rickety stairs. The pub had very low ceilings and the darkest wooden panels. The windows were narrow, like a medieval church. Whatever the weather outside, this pub would always be dark. It must have been here for a few hundred years. The Stygian gloom didn’t help my nerves. I held onto the bannister as I walked up the stairs, but still managed to slip on the uneven steps.
I hadn’t know what to wear. I didn’t want to look desperate for a job, but I didn’t want to stand out as too casual, either. So I went for something I thought would be somewhere in the middle. It was a green, sleeveless dress, not too tight, but not too loose. It had an embroidered neckline, a brown belt and a scalloped hemline. I had no idea if it was appropriate, but I felt good in it. And what’s more, it hadn’t been a hand-me-down from Polly or one of the models. It was mine.
But I was still nervous.
I reached the top of the stairs and looked along a gloomy corridor. There was a door halfway. I walked up to it and saw the brass nameplate. The function room was called The Pepys Room. I knocked on the door and waited.
“Come in,” ordered the voice.
I opened the door. The room was as old as the rest of the pub. The floorboards looked uneven and like they had sawdust sprinkled over them. It was probably just for effect, to add to the authenticity. The leaded light windows didn’t let in much light here, either. The wall lights, in a Victorian gas-light style, mostly lit the room.
The only person in the room was in her early forties. She wore a pinstriped skirt and jacket with a simple white blouse. My time in fashion had given me the dubitable skill of being able to tell how much an outfit cost just by glancing at it. This outfit was definitely bespoke and would have cost over a thousand I reckoned.
“Fay?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“I’m Jenny Allen.”
“Hello, Jenny.”
We sat down and she poured me a cup of coffee from the silver pot on the table.
“I apologise for sounding secretive on the phone,” Jenny said. “My client doesn’t like having his business spread all over the city. So it’s just a precaution.”
I nodded, already feeling out of my depth.
“We might as well cut to the chase. My client has already decided that he’d like you to work with him. So I’m not here to carry out an interview. I’m hear to ask you if you’re interested. And if you are, we can then go on to talk about your package.”
I’d always hated interviews. I never performed well. In fact, I’d never got a job through an interview alone. The person who hired me had usually met me before at a party or some kind of social event, or through a friend. So I was thankful for not having to go through that hideous process. And yet… what the heck was going on?
Jenny must have noticed the puzzlement on my face. “My client has just acquired a model agency and wants you to run it.”
“Me?” There was a very unprofessional note of astonishment in my voice.
“Yes, you, Fay.”
“But I’m just a model bo
oker.”
“With years of working in the fashion industry, and an eye for discovering up-and-coming models.”
What I nearly said, but didn’t, was that I’d discovered many more potential models who hadn’t made it. A compliment is a compliment, but I was more than a little disconcerted by this offer from out of the blue.
“Jenny, to be honest I don’t think I have the qualifications to run an agency.”
Jenny raised an eyebrow, reacting like a scientist who has turned over a leaf in the Amazon and discovered a new variety of flower. “As I said, Ms Brockway, my client has already decided that you should run this agency. This person doesn’t suffer fools gladly. So, if you’ve been chosen, I’m sure you have all the requisite skills.”
“Which agency is it?”
Jenny checked her paperwork to be sure. “It’s called ‘Ulterior Models’.”
“But Penny Warner owns Ulterior.”
“Not anymore.”
“But… So who owns it now?”
“A newly formed company.”
I tried to think of all the people I had come across in the fashion industry who held me in high regard. It didn’t take long. I’d never boasted about discovering Sienna, rarely ever mentioned it. Polly had certainly never spoken about it to anybody. She liked people to think that she had discovered Sienna. “If it happens in the building, it’s on my watch” — that had been her attitude. And now she had sold the agency.
Of course, I did think of Carl Rask. Would he pull this kind of stunt? But he was an internationally renowned artist, he wouldn’t waste his time interfering in my career. I probably thought of him because I wanted him to be the new owner. But it was a silly thought. He’d showed me how his art meant everything to him. And I think that’s one of the reasons I was so drawn to him. No, he wouldn’t have done this.
Perhaps it was just another excuse to think about Carl.
I’d thought about him often since Russell’s death. But not for long each time. Whenever he did come to mind, I was overcome by guilt. The guilt lessened a little each time, but it remained there like a road block.
He hadn’t told me much at the funeral. He’d been very respectful, and I appreciated that. He hadn’t called me since, or tried to contact me in any way. And I hadn’t tried to contact him. Was it over? Was he the man I needed at one particular time in my life? And was that time over?
I didn’t know. But I wanted to find out.
“Are you interested in the position?” asked Jenny.
25. Retiring
THEY SAY THAT people fear being successful. I’d never understood that. I mean, how can people fear doing well?
But now I finally understood.
I’d been fired, thrown out on my ear. And now the tide had turned. I was on the up. But the thought of running an agency filled me with just as much trepidation as being unemployed. Perhaps I was just so lacking in confidence that I feared both failure and success.
I wouldn’t even know where to start. It’s not as if Polly had ever shown me how to do it.
I’d questioned Jenny about the level of support I’d receive. She said I’d have a chief financial officer to deal with that side of the business. And she recommended I take on a head of accounts if I was worried about client handling. That would then free me up to liaise with editors and advertising agencies and anybody who was vital to the business.
I still wasn’t reassured. It felt like I was being set up for a fall. But that might have been my own insecurity.
After the meeting I tried to find out more about the company behind the takeover. Jenny had eventually told me the name of the company. I’d told her that if she didn’t reveal it, I couldn’t take the job. How could I not know who I was working for?
She told me the company was called Absolute Escape. When I got home, I googled them but couldn’t find a scrap of information about the company. It must have been newly set up, or was one of those anonymous holding companies.
I’d asked Jenny if I could have forty-eight hours to think about it. Although as I didn’t have any other job offers, I knew I would eventually have to take it. Jenny said that was okay, but asked if we could discuss the financial package there and then, so it was in place should I agree to take the position.
I left it a day before ringing her back to tell her that I’d take the job. I’d been nervous about calling her. But I was just as nervous after I’d called her. What was I letting myself in for? I’d been an employee my whole life, not a leader. What was the secret to running a company? I consoled myself with the the thought that it was fashion and I had worked in the industry for several years.
Maybe that was the real problem. Maybe I didn’t want to work in fashion anymore. I’d never felt completely at home. And I would have tried to move on if I hadn’t heard a voice in my head telling me that people would kill to work in fashion. It’s just that the reality didn’t match the dream. It wasn’t glamorous. In effect it was selling. Selling people, I suppose. And I wasn’t one of nature’s salespeople. Come on Fay, I told myself, you can rise to this challenge.
Anyway, after notifying Jenny that I’d take the job, I decided to go to the gym. At the beginning of the year, I’d promised myself that I would visit it at least twice a week. And I had virtually stopped jogging because of the temperamental weather.
But it wasn’t happening. I met friends at the gym for a drink more often than I stepped onto a treadmill. Well, that had to change. If I was going to take this job, I needed to get fit to help with the inevitable stress.
I was pulling on my gym gear in the bedroom with the television on. At least I was making it an early start. So early that the breakfast news was still on the TV.
After they’d finished a story about a flash flood in Devon, the presenter moved on to the next item.
“The art world was shocked yesterday when Carl Rask announced his retirement at the age of thirty-two. He made the announcement at the opening of a retrospective of his work in Stockholm. It was a brief announcement and didn’t go into the reasons why he had made this decision at such a young age. Carl Rask came to prominence seven years ago with his multimedia installation called Lost In Other Worlds. His turbulent private life has also grabbed the headlines over the years. Since making the statement about his retirement, Carl Rask has been unavailable for comment.”
I stared at the TV even as they moved on to the sports news. Retired? At thirty-two years old? What had happened?
I continued putting on my gym gear. But I was slow in pulling up my trousers, losing myself in my thoughts. Glancing out of the window, I saw the sun break through the clouds. It seemed a shame to be stuck inside on such a beautiful spring day.
I put my jogging jacket on in case the weather turned yet again and headed outside. I didn’t want to think about the man, but I couldn’t help it. Why would Carl throw it all away like that?
I wasn’t going to the gym. I was going jogging. I took my usual route, walking towards the river, performing the odd lunge on the way, when nobody was looking, to warm up.
I skipped down the steps to the pathway that ran along the river. I looked both ways. It was a spur of the moment decision to change my route. Instead of turning right, towards Kingston, I turned left.
I hadn’t planned to go far. And I’m not sure exactly when I made the decision to keep jogging towards Carl’s place. What was the point? We hadn’t been in touch with each other for ages. Russell’s death had polluted our dalliance, our fling, our romance. Call it what you will, it had sullied it. If timing is the key to comedy, it’s also a major factor in misfortune.
But despite this, I kept jogging. Sunbury kept getting closer and closer. Eventually, I was outside the large gates of Carl’s house. That’s when I had a wobble. What was I doing here? I didn’t want to push the button on the intercom. I didn’t want to announce my presence. It was a foolish idea.
As I turned to walk away, the large iron gates began to hum and slide apart. I walked thro
ugh them before I could change my mind. I approached the front of the house in all its timbered, natural glory.
The front door was open so I slowly walked in.
“Hello?” I called out. There was no answer. I tried again. “Hello?”
I walked past the flotation room. That evening seemed like a distant memory, and one that belonged to somebody else. So much had happened since that night.
I walked into the living room, then the kitchen. As usual, everything was neat and tidy. Not a sign of him. I turned the corner and glanced into the studio, expecting the usual chaos.
It was like a different room. The floorboards had been cleaned. Considering the mess they had been in, I could only assume they had been sanded down and revarnished. And, as far as I could see, there were no canvases in the room at all.
I decided to go in. I opened the door to the studio and looked in. It had started raining outside, and a wind had got up. The raindrops rattled against the huge window panes. I took my first step into the room and looked to my right. The back wall was clean — all the paint splatters had been painted over in brilliant white paint.
“Good morning.” The voice was coming from my left. It made me jump. I spun round and saw Carl, slumped against the back wall, the side I hadn’t checked as I’d walked in.
He looked like he hadn’t shaved for a couple of days. Stubble dominated his face. He wore ripped jeans and an old, tight t-shirt. His eyes looked heavy with a lack of sleep. But he still looked like Carl. The dark hair, the dark eyes that still had the ability to stare right into me. And yet, there was a glaze over them, a layer of I don’t know what.
“Good morning,” I said.
“You out jogging?”
“Yes. It was such a nice day.”
Carl looked out of the huge windows, at the rain coming down, as if it was the first time he’d looked out that day.
“It was a nice day when I started out,” I said.
He nodded. “It’s funny how quickly the weather can change. You can look all around you and see these white fluffy clouds. Then minutes later, there’s nothing but black ones threatening you.”
