‘That sounds very interesting. Yes, he is good. You’ve really thought this through. What sort of style would you go for – are we thinking trendy art-house or big-budget commercial?’
‘I love everything, but I’ve never understood the school of thought that says something is only good if nobody gets it. If you’ve got something worth saying then why not say it in a way that everybody can understand? And film is a business. Like every business it needs to be sustainable – so big and commercial for sure!’ Abena laughed. ‘And a nice hunk like Djimon Hounsou in the lead role.’
At nine-thirty they strolled over to Roka, where Carey’s friends had already assembled. Abena had to bite her lip to stop herself from squealing when she saw who they were eating with. What Carey called ‘dinner with a couple friends’ was in fact a banquet with a whole host of famous faces, many of them American. Carey sat Abena beside him, and again she had to suppress a disbelieving laugh. To her right was Bryan Jones – the Bryan Jones! – whose star-turn as the hapless twin brother in the sitcom Smithy & Smith had accompanied her through many a hung-over Sunday. Across the table, a young actress who Abena recognized as the arm-candy of a more accomplished actor – and who seemed to have the opinion that nudity in films was only OK if it was completely gratuitous – introduced herself as Marcie Wharton. Completing her end of the table were actress-turned-political-activist Gizzi Bryson, who had starred in lots of films and adopted lots of babies, and Tom and Kimberly Thompson, a husband and wife who wrote wildly contrasting books. Luckily Abena had read both the husband’s biography of Thomas Cromwell and the wife’s exuberant bonkbuster satirizing the super-rich. They were thrilled to meet somebody who read books purely for enjoyment. ‘They’re usually totally illiterate in the film business, and the few who aren’t only see books as the basis for a film adaptation,’ confided Tom.
Carey nodded at her. ‘I knew you’d be fine with these guys. Some people are intimidated by fame.’
‘Oh we’re all just people,’ Abena countered blithely. She sure as hell wasn’t prepared to let any of them know how star-struck she was.
Secretly, she was also thrilled to prove to herself that she could have such a glamorous evening without Sebastian. She’d noticed lately that, every time he mentioned or took her to anywhere fabulous, he would ask her patronizingly, ‘Do you know it?’ or ‘Have you been here before?’ As though he’d somehow plucked her from a mundane world where high-octane luxury meant a speedy M&S delivery and was now introducing a touch of much-needed Sebastian excitement into her life.
With the exception of Abena, everyone present had met before and knew each other’s work. Unsurprisingly, conversation soon turned to Abena’s occupation.
‘So what is it that you do, Abena? You’re not an actress or I’d know you. Do you do music?’ Bryan asked.
‘I think she’s in fashion,’ announced the author husband.
‘No,’ Marcie said slyly, looking Abena up and down. ‘Your outfit’s far too perfect for that – people in fashion don’t let it show how hard they’ve tried.’
‘I hope you’re a producer? The industry needs more young women coming into the profession. I’ll certainly be encouraging my adopted girls,’ said the more experienced Gizzi.
Abena stalled for time. As an unknown friend of Carey’s she could be anyone. Not just someone who filled in Excel spreadsheets for an ungrateful harridan. Just as she was about to fabricate an elaborate lie, about working undercover at Mallinder as part of her research for a private detecting mission she’d been commissioned to undertake by Kroll, Carey jumped to her rescue.
‘Abena’s actually just graduated from Oxford.’
The Americans really sat up at the mention of such an old English institution.
‘Really?’ exclaimed Marcie, still competitively eyeing her outfit. ‘That must be a challenge. Do you like it there?’
‘I’ve left now, but yes, it was a lot of fun. It’s a stunning place.’
‘Oh my Gaad, soo so nice,’ Kimberly the society satirist added with unnecessary enthusiasm. ‘Taam,’ she nudged her husband, ‘dontcha remember, we did a talk there with all those great kids, up in Aaxford? They wanted to know all about Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous and Daddy I Want a Pony. They just couldn’t believe I’d written them both in such a short space of taaam—’
‘Just took you three months each, didn’t they baby?’ Tom cut in.
‘And the film version was my absolute favourite part ever,’ added Marcie.
‘Yes, your tits did a fantastic job. Had a commanding screen presence.’ Bryan ducked as Marcie threw an edamame bean at him.
‘Behave!’ said Kimberly, theatrically holding up a heavily jewelled hand. ‘Abena you must read my next naarvel. I think you’ll like it – it’s all about underachieving kids in the ghettos …’
‘Intriguing …’ Abena smiled.
‘Abena, you absolutely must come and stay with us in the Hollywood Hills if you’re ever in that part of the world,’ offered Gizzi. Her eyes were so bright and her toothy smile so dazzling that Abena wondered whether she was angling to adopt her too. Gizzi was clearly enthralled by her, and though Abena clicked fairly fast that she was just another means by which Gizzi could try and ingratiate herself with Carey, it was thrilling all the same.
‘Ya know, I ’d like to go back to Aaxford? I’d like to go and do another reading,’ cut in Kimberly. She turned to her husband. ‘I just find when I read in front of students it’s soooooo rewarding.’
Now that the writers had coaxed the conversation back to the topic of themselves, Abena relaxed and started talking to Carey, continuing the chat they’d begun at the hotel bar.
‘It doesn’t sound as if you’ve even started to find your thing at Mallinder Films,’ Carey said. ‘You’re finding it difficult to know what to do because you’re torn. But don’t take the easy route just because you can. Don’t try to, I don’t know, act, just for the sake of it, or get into show business because it sounds sexy. You need to stretch yourself. Produce something, produce a film, or start your own company. It’s fine for you to do something serious – you’re glitzy enough on your own account, you don’t need to go looking for it.’ Abena was unnerved by the intensity of his stare, and the feeling it stirred within her.
‘Wow, you’re pretty forthright with those opinions on someone you’ve only just met.’
‘Sorry, I say what I think. Some people don’t like that.’
‘No, no, it’s great. I … I suppose I just wasn’t expecting such an accurate psychological analysis quite so soon.’
‘I like you, Abena. I think you’re a great girl, and you’re driven, ambitious, but you’ve got a good heart. I wanted a lot too. I like that and I’ll help you in any way that I can.’
‘Well, I’m flattered. I respect your opinion immensely. I’d love to learn from you.’
‘I’m happy to teach – your curiosity inspires me.’
And so began a mutual fascination between the two: mentor and protégé, artist and muse.
Chapter 18
Abena walked into the living room of her flat to find Tara curled up on the sofa, naked apart from a small towel wrapped around her chest, which barely reached the tops of her thighs. She appeared to have just stepped out of the shower and was rubbing moisturizer into her legs while she watched television. Sebastian was sitting on the opposite sofa, watching her.
‘I thought you said you were going home this weekend,’ Abena said with barely disguised annoyance.
‘Can’t be bothered,’ Tara replied without looking up from the TV screen.
‘Why are you getting changed here, Tara? Is there anything wrong with your room? Or the bathroom?’
Tara looked up. ‘I felt like watching television, if that’s OK with you? This is my flat too.’
‘Right, and since when have you ever watched daytime TV? Why don’t you go out and do something? You’ve been moping around the flat all week.’
Sebastian cl
eared his throat and dragged his eyes away from Tara’s legs. ‘Come and stay with us in Sussex, Tara, there’s plenty of space.’
Abena turned on her heel, marched to her room and threw herself on her bed. She tried to hold back the angry tears she could feel welling in the corners of her eyes.
‘You OK? I was just trying to include Tara.’ Sebastian had followed Abena back to her bedroom.
Abena couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Tara was being a selfish cow, and when did Sebastian become Mother Teresa? But there was no way she was going to play the jealous girlfriend. She got up from the bed and yawned.
‘Sure, that’s sweet of you. Shall we make a move soon? I don’t think it’s a good idea that Tara comes with us. She normally goes home for Sunday lunch and she hasn’t been in weeks, her family are worried about her.’
‘Fine, I’m ready, I was just waiting for you to get your stuff together.’
Abena packed the last of her things and Sebastian took her overnight bag out to his Range Rover. Abena made to follow, pausing to pick up the cash she thought she’d left on her bedside table. She was sure she’d left six £20 notes there, in the vain hope that she could get through an entire week on £120, but it was gone. Perhaps she’d spent it and forgotten, or maybe Sebastian had taken it, mistakenly confusing it with his own. She’d better go.
‘Darling, you didn’t see any money lying around my room did you? I seem to have misplaced £120?’
‘No I didn’t, but you don’t need any money now, babe, find it later – it’s probably in one of your handbags.’
‘Yeah, I’m sure you’re right,’ Abena said, getting into the car as Sebastian revved the engine impatiently. She wasn’t so certain though.
They broke the drive to West Sussex with a long lunch at a country pub. Sebastian ordered a beer for himself, a glass of red wine for Abena, and two steaks, cooked rare. Talking excitedly through a mouthful of beef, Sebastian began to tell Abena about a new business idea that had occurred to him during a recent trip to Paris. ‘What I’m going to do,’ he began, ‘is set up an environmentally friendly clothing range.’
‘Tell me more.’ Abena raised a sceptical eyebrow. She couldn’t see how this fitted with his expertise or talents.
‘It’s a fucking joke what we’re doing to the planet,’ he continued. Abena nodded and glanced out of the window to where Sebastian’s shiny Range Rover was parked.
‘But our generation can do something to offset that. In Paris I was talking to my mate Charles-Albert and he came up with the idea. We were thinking we could use only recycled stuff, you know, recycled paper in our offices, and all the clothes would be tie-dyed. Of course nobody wears tie-dyed stuff but we’d hire all the hottest models to advertise our brand. It’ll be awesome – it’ll go totally global and revolutionize the retail industry.’
Sebastian’s eyes were twinkling in anticipation like a toddler on Christmas Eve.
‘That sounds like an ambitious start-up. You’d need loads of seed capital for that, even for the advertising alone. Would Simeon finance it?’
‘My Dad wants me to do something with my life, so, yeah, he’ll chip in a few mill, but it’ll be my thing. I’ll make it successful myself and pay him back. I can build just as huge an empire as he has.’
‘Hmmn, sure. But what about the modelling agency you wanted to set up last week, or the restaurant?’
Sebastian stared at her like she was an imbecile. ‘Obviously, I still wanna do that too. It’s all about delegation. That’s how you take over the world, darling.’
He took a triumphant swig of his beer and leaned across the table to kiss her. His total unwillingness to engage with reality was so irritating but as usual she completely melted at his touch. Looking into his eyes, she kissed him back and convinced herself it didn’t really matter what she thought because it would never happen anyway. She knew that in twenty years from now Sebastian would still be hell-raising all over the world on his father’s fortune and dreaming of building an empire. In a way, his idealism was quite sweet.
‘By the way, what are you doing Monday evening?’ Sebastian asked as they prepared to head off.
‘I’ve got plans, I’m going out with Carey Wa—’
‘Cancel your plans. I’ve been invited to the Tringate Charity Fundraiser and it’s pretty hard to get a plus one for that kind of thing, but I did. You’ll love it, darling. Honestly, you’ve never seen anything like it.’
‘As I was saying, I’ve got my own plans. I’m going to a private film-screening with Carey Wallace and some other friends.’
‘Who’s Carey? Not that old guy you were telling me about? Du-ull. Well this thing is gonna be more of a laugh than some crap film, but no worries, we can hook up afterwards – if you want to see me at all that is.’
‘You’re more than welcome to come out with Carey and me.’
Sebastian ignored her.
****
On Monday afternoon Natalya decided to attend the Mirror Mirror casting. Always aware of her Plan B, she’d felt she should at least keep going to the prestigious castings – you can forget the hair shows or wedding catalogues – until she had a ring on her finger. She’d still have just enough time to return home and get ready for the Tringate Charity Fundraiser. Claude was the chief benefactor, and she was to attend in his absence.
She strode confidently to the casting table and placed down her card. Even on the table’s cluttered surface her magnificent image stood out. She knew there were many more breathtakingly beautiful models to come after her, and they were all in competition with each other. She knew that the chosen model would earn upwards of £60,000 to be the face of Blue Whisper perfume, and all the others wouldn’t receive a penny. But this time Natalya didn’t care. She needn’t pander to power-happy bookers any more. She had been freed. She exuded the nonchalance a Mirror Mirror model needed to project.
‘Great face,’ the tired-looking woman behind the desk commented. Her own face was distinctly not great and Natalya wondered what had made her take such a job in the first place. Was it deliberate masochism?
‘What’s your availability at the beginning of January?’ she asked mechanically.
‘I really couldn’t say right now. I’ll let you know nearer the time if it becomes relevant. Thenk you.’
The woman’s eyes widened. Models at such high-profile castings never spoke to her like that. Unsure quite how to respond, she pursed her lips and scribbled a note on the back of Natalya’s card. If her intention was to unsettle Natalya, it didn’t work. By the time the woman had taken the lid off the pen, the audacious beauty with the elfin haircut had already left the building.
Hurrying back to Mayfair, Natalya worried she may have been unnecessarily rude at the casting, but it couldn’t be helped. She needed to have enough time to dress for tonight’s event, and as she was a sponsor, or representing one at least, all eyes would be on her. She might even bump into some old conquests. She’d show them how far she’d come.
She rushed to her closet, a converted bedroom, and pulled on a skin-tight floor-length backless silver gown. At the front, the dress was slashed to below the navel. Once she’d taped it in place, it moved with her body like a second skin. She slid on vertiginous silver heels, which took her to well over six foot, and reached for the outrageously expensive diamond-drop earrings that Claude had presented her with. She slicked her hair to one side in a quirky, fashion-forward style. There was no point going to the salon when her hair was so short. She admired herself in the mirror. She looked like a mermaid that had been taught to walk.
Natalya was pleased she was going alone. She thought of her third visit to St Tropez and shuddered at the memory. She had decided the time was right to offer Claude her body. So that evening she came down to the poolside in a pink baby-doll nightie, claiming she felt unwell.
‘Please,’ she said in a soft voice, ‘put your sweet child to bed.’
Claude looked at her, a strange expression on his face, and sh
e recognized it immediately – the no-man’s land between pleasure and pain that she had seen in the market all those years ago, and then every day after that. Claude gathered her into his arms and sucked her nose. She suppressed an appalled yelp and looked deep into his eyes.
‘Let me take you up,’ he whispered.
Then he lifted her off the ground and carried her to the lift and into the first-floor master bedroom, where he laid her on the bed. Although she was far from heavy, he took a moment to stop wheezing from the exertion. When he had recovered, he removed her nightie and his own shirt and linen trousers and lay beside her. They did not make love that first night or the night after – it took Claude a few attempts to achieve an erection, but he was content to simply enjoy the sensation of her naked flesh against his whenever he wasn’t able to get it up, and on the third night they did it. On two occasions he requested she insert a newly manicured finger into his anus. That was particularly unpleasant.
Shaking her head to banish the image, she picked up her mobile phone and took a photo of herself. The picture was a triumph, and the earrings glistened, illuminating the entire image. She sent it to Claude’s BlackBerry, accompanied by the message: I am wearing your earrings and thinking of you. N. xoxoxox.
The Tringate Charity Fundraiser was held in a grand converted Georgian stately home outside London. Inside, it was dark and atmospheric, filled with antiques and ancient oil paintings in heavy gilded frames. The evening was to begin with a five-course meal, after which there would be fireworks and dancing in the open-air ballroom. In the concert hall, the Royal Ballet were warming up before their performance of a specially choreographed dance. The biggest draw for most of the guests, however, was the promise of the first live performance in years by legendary band The Samsons, who had re-formed specially for the occasion. This was where Sebastian Spectre expected to spend the vast majority of the evening. First, though, he had to eat, and he was delighted to be seated next to a stunner in a positively indecent silver dress and a cute boyish peroxide-blonde hairdo. In the absence of his girlfriend, she’d do very nicely indeed.
Sin Tropez Page 17
