A Twist of Fate

by Joanna Rees

  Romy’s eyes snapped open. ‘Stop,’ she said.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Nico asked, alarmed, as he peered up from behind the camera. ‘It’s going great. You look terrific. Are the handcuffs too tight?’

  Romy shook her head, wriggling her wrists out of them, so that they clattered to the floor around the mocked-up bars. She bent her wrists round. ‘No.’

  ‘Then what?’

  Romy moved away and stood in the centre of the set, her hand on her hip. Her hair had been backcombed beyond recognition and her false eyelashes weighed down her eyes. She fingered the diamond top of the ripped designer vest that barely covered her bronze-dusted chest.

  Beyond the fake prison cell, in the darkness of Nico’s studio, she knew there were a whole host of observers watching today’s shoot. Nico’s assistant, Florence, the make-up and hair crew, as well as the agency people and the client from the cosmetics giant. None of them were going to miss this – the big shoot for the launch of the new fragrance. Nico had been planning it for weeks.

  ‘I’m uncomfortable with this whole . . . prison thing. I think this is the wrong message,’ she said, shielding her eyes from the bright lights.

  ‘Darling, you don’t get to have a view,’ Nico said, through clenched teeth. ‘And we agreed . . . this is what the Art Director wants. This is what they’re paying us for.’

  Nico might be nervous, but he was the talent here, not these people. He was the one they were paying. But that’s what he forgot sometimes, even though Nico had more persuasive powers than anyone she’d ever met, when he wanted to. After all, it had been Nico who’d talked her into modelling in the first place. It was thanks to him that her life had changed beyond all recognition in the last two-and-a-half years.

  Which is why she eyeballed him back now, telling him to hold his nerve, as the Art Director Lorenzo and the ad-agency people strode onset, as well as the pinstriped grey suit who – Romy assumed from the way the others’ panicked looks focused on him – was the client.

  Lorenzo was wearing tight leather jeans and had sculpted facial hair and little black-framed glasses. He spoke in rapid Italian to Nico. Romy looked furious.

  ‘He wants to know why you have stopped,’ Nico said, his tone making it perfectly clear that once again Romy had overstepped her position. He widened his eyes at her, but she brazened it out. She hoped her strength would give him confidence.

  ‘I like this fragrance, but I wouldn’t wear it with this imagery. My point is that there are so many women in prison,’ she said as the crowd of men assembled around her, ‘women who suffer real incarceration – physically and mentally. There is nothing sexy about the smell of fear.’

  For a second she pictured herself standing up in the crate in the aeroplane hold, after her terrifying journey from East Berlin. Stinking and scrawny. None of these people would ever know what they were trying to glorify here. Let alone understand.

  A stunned silence followed. Romy didn’t flinch. They needed her, whatever it was they thought she had. This was the same as poker. It was all a confidence trick. Make them think you held the winning card, and they’d bend to your will.

  Lorenzo started talking rapidly to the man in the pinstriped suit. But Romy interrupted.

  ‘Let me explain,’ she said. ‘Please.’

  The fat man in the suit stepped forward and Romy shook his hand, then led him away from the others by the arm. She was much taller than him, something that clearly intimidated him, as he straightened his back now and attempted to stare her down.

  ‘Listen,’ she said, neutralizing him with a smile and a look – that look, the doe-eyed come-and-get-me look that she was already famous for across Italy. As she continued to talk, in Italian – something that clearly delighted and surprised him in equal measure – she watched his shoulders relax.

  Her tutor in her evening classes had told her that she had a gift for languages, the like of which he’d never come across before. Romy didn’t tell him that she’d made it through this far by becoming a chameleon, and it was always languages that had helped her fit in, allowing her to win and now to keep her precious freedom.

  She used this ability now to get on first-name terms with Tomaz, the suit. Then, once she’d brought a blush to his flabby cheeks, she grilled him about his demographic for the perfume, and explained in his native language why she thought the message was wrong. Then she told him her idea.

  ‘But that’s a whole change of the campaign dynamic,’ Lorenzo spluttered, when Romy explained it to him a few minutes later. But it didn’t matter what he thought now. The fat client, Tomaz, was already convinced. He was gazing across the studio at Romy even now, his eyes glittering. Was he having fantasies, she wondered, of inviting her onto his yacht? Romy knew plenty of models who went out with filthy-rich, ugly men, but she wasn’t ever going to become one of them. She was too busy earning her own money to bother with anyone else’s.

  ‘If that’s what the client – thanks to you – now wants, then that’s what we’ll give him,’ Lorenzo said. His eyes flashed a warning. ‘I just hope, for both of our arses,’ he said, deliberately slipping into English so that no one would understand, ‘you’re right.’

  She knew she was taking a risk, putting her own views on the line like this. Adrenaline burst through her as Lorenzo clapped his hands to get everyone’s attention.

  Romy turned to Florence, Nico’s assistant. She was wearing leggings and an oversized baggy jumper, which accentuated her mop of peroxide-white hair and elfin-like features. ‘Get the doorman up here. Jovo’s his name. Tell him Romy needs a favour.’

  ‘What are you planning now?’ Nico asked.

  ‘You’ll see.’

  Jovo was exactly what she needed. They’d always chatted whenever she came to Nico’s studio, and Romy often brought him cherries from the fruit stall on the corner by her apartment. This morning they’d talked about the crisis in Bosnia, where his family was originally from, and how he was expecting trouble between the Serbs and Croats. He’d once been a boxer back there, he’d told Romy. Now, in his sixties, he was decidedly more fat than muscle. Perfect for what she had in mind. ‘Trust me. It’ll be OK.’

  Ten minutes later Romy had Jovo lying on the floor of the cell on his considerable belly, his hands handcuffed behind his back. Then Romy sat on him, the keys of the handcuffs dangling on her finger.

  ‘Now shoot,’ she told Nico. ‘And Florence, honey, could you get me those Gucci heels we had before, please, darling? I don’t want to do any more shots with bare feet. Not when those shoes are so gorgeous.’

  She let Nico direct her, flicking her head triumphantly. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed Lorenzo nodding approvingly, his arms folded across his shirt. She even thought she saw him smile.

  At the back of the studio, dressed in her regulation black polo-neck jumper and designer slacks, Simona Fiore sucked on her cigarette, concealing with her normal scowl the frisson of excitement that she felt. She didn’t usually come along to her models’ shoots, but she had some special news that she was looking forward to breaking to Romy after the job had finished. Very special news indeed.

  Perez Vadim had requested Romy for his Paris catwalk show on Friday. Perez Vadim. What’s more, the hot designer of the moment had personally called Simona, and she’d wasted no time in demanding a ludicrously high price for Romy’s services. Such a commission would really propel Romy into supermodel status.

  She just hoped that Romy could tow the line before then. It was unheard of for a model to call the shots. But Simona had been in the business long enough for nothing to surprise her. Especially as far as this girl was concerned. But what the hell? She obviously had good instincts, because in a single suggestion Romy suddenly had a room full of self-important men running round her, doing her bidding.

  Romy – the girl was special all right. She had an aura of attitude around her, of toughness that offset her beauty in the most unusual way. Simona had noticed it the very first moment she�
��d seen those shots Nico had sent her, of Romy drying her hair on the beach after taking a swim. She’d called him straight away and told him to sign up the girl on the spot. Offer her triple her salary from whatever stinkpot cruise ship she was working on, and do everything in his power to make sure she didn’t go back.

  By the time Nico had dragged the poor starstruck girl to Madrid, the guy had been as hopelessly and completely besotted with Romy as she had been with him. It had been a tough conversation to break the news to Romy that Nico was gay.

  But that was Romy all over – worldly in some respects way beyond her years, but as naive as a child in others. Perhaps that was why Simona had fallen for Romy too. She’d never had a daughter, or ever bonded with any of the models on her books, but this kid – there was something about her that made Simona favour her above all the others.

  So what if her story about her normal childhood in England didn’t wash? Simona didn’t care where she came from. Romy had a freshness about her that had enabled Simona to orchestrate a total reinvention. She’d styled the girl and shaved a couple of years off her actual age and, looking at Romy flicking her hair, Simona knew in her gut that Romy was the one. The one she’d been waiting for. The one Simona intended to propel right to the very, very top.

  But despite Simona’s reassurances, none of Romy’s new-found modelling experience had prepared her for Paris fashion week. Romy had thought that live modelling would be a similar kind of deal to the studio sessions she’d done, but the second she walked backstage and saw the frenzy of activity, she knew that she was totally out of her depth. Within minutes she was hustled through to the hair stylists, who slicked her hair back with Brylcreem, then hacked some of it off, before she could protest.

  Then after the make-up team had done their extraordinary job on her face, she was dressed in a corset dress, yanked in and trussed up. Everyone spoke in rapid French all around her.

  ‘Fur and lace?’ she said to the designer’s assistant, tugging at the thin mesh top. ‘That’s got to be a first on me.’ But the guy just scowled at Romy as he pinned an elaborate headpiece on her head, his face creased in concentration as he gripped the pins between his lips.

  Almost ready now, Romy peeped through a tiny slit in the blackout curtain, into the cavernous venue where the expectant crowd of fashion aficionados gathered in the darkened auditorium along the sides of an elevated runway. Prince’s ‘Diamonds and Pearls’ boomed out and dramatic lights strobed the stage, illuminating the V-hologram of Perez Vadim’s famous logo.

  ‘Don’t,’ a girl whispered, tugging at Romy’s arm. ‘If Pierre sees you peeping, he’ll go nuts.’

  ‘Who?’ Romy asked, turning to talk to the demure English girl with white skin, who flicked her tawny eyes in the direction of the skinny Frenchman who was concentrating on the skirt of one of the models’ dresses. Even from a distance she could feel the tension radiating from him. Romy hadn’t realized they’d take it all this seriously, but it was more like an art show than a fashion parade.

  ‘He’s in charge,’ the girl hissed. ‘I’m Emma, by the way,’ she added, more kindly. She took out a packet of gum from the pocket of her voluminous denim outfit and offered some to Romy. ‘I’m so pleased to meet another English girl.’

  Romy took the gum and the girl smiled shyly. There was something so vulnerable about her. And she saw something else in the girl’s eyes – something more than just nerves, something closer to fear.

  ‘Hey, you OK? What’s up?’ Romy asked, instinctively reaching out to touch the girl’s shoulder.

  ‘It’s Tia,’ the girl said in a frightened, hushed whisper.

  ‘Who’s Tia?’ Romy asked.

  Emma’s eyes brimming with tears were wide, looking at someone behind Romy. She turned to see a girl in high boots, with a sharp fringe of jet-black hair and the piercing green eyes of a snake.

  ‘She scares me,’ Emma said.

  ‘She’s just a model – the same as you. You have as much right to be here.’

  Emma shook her head. ‘You don’t understand. It’s not like that with her. Look at this,’ she whispered, turning over her arm. There were purple bruises on either side of what looked like nail-marks.

  ‘She did that?’ Romy asked.

  Emma nodded. ‘She does it to everyone.’

  Romy stared over in the direction of Tia again, but she was strutting into the makeshift bathroom. Romy went to follow.

  ‘Don’t,’ Emma begged. ‘Don’t say I said anything.’

  But Romy was already pushing her way through the crowd of bodies and models to the bathroom door.

  For a second Romy stopped dead in her tracks when she saw her own reflection in the long mirror. Her eyes were surrounded in thick black and fluorescent shadows, but the elaborate headdress somehow finished the whole look. It was elegant and yet playful, punky and somehow extremely feminine. The messy fur and lace top tapered into a tweed ra-ra skirt with pink-net petticoats underneath. Then there were slashed fishnets leading down to skyscraping open-toed boots. But considering how outlandish the whole ensemble was, Romy felt oddly comfortable.

  Then she noticed Tia was snorting a long line of white powder from a mirror that she’d rested on the side of the sink.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ Tia said, rubbing her nostril and noticing Romy staring.

  So this was Tia, Romy thought. A bully. She’d seen enough at the orphanage to spot this one a mile off.

  ‘What’s it to you?’ Romy said, suddenly aware that the girl was assessing her too.

  ‘Oh, I know . . . you’re that new English chick from Italy.’ She had a low French accent. ‘The way I heard it, you only got the Perez gig at all because my friend Lula broke her ankle, and I was too busy. But she’ll be back and then you’ll be gone,’ she said, flicking her fingers at Romy, as if she were an annoying insect. Then she brazenly snorted another line of cocaine. ‘So don’t get used to any of this, because, after today, I’ll make sure you’re history. I mean, Christ . . . who told you – you – could be a model anyway? Freak.’

  Romy stood perfectly still, forcing herself to stay calm. She shouldn’t pick a fight. Not here. Not on such an important job, but it was a while since she’d encountered someone so arrogant and rude. No wonder Emma was frightened of her.

  A few moments later, when Tia came back out of the bathroom, Romy heard Tia’s voice above all the others.

  ‘Hey, Pierre,’ she called, without turning round. She shouted in rapid French and Romy became aware that everyone had turned and was staring at her headdress.

  ‘That headdress is better. Give me her headdress,’ Tia said in English, strutting over and trying to rip it from Romy’s head.

  And all of a sudden Romy felt as if she were nine years old again, fighting Fox in the refectory in the orphanage. She shoved Tia backwards.

  Pierre was by Tia’s side in a second, trying to calm her down. Tia snarled at Romy, before turning on her heel and stamping away.

  Pierre glared at Romy.

  ‘What?’ Romy shrugged, adjusting her headdress. ‘You saw what she did.’

  ‘She’s Tia Blanche. She can do what the hell she likes,’ Pierre said. ‘Now get in line. We’re on in less than a minute. Please, new girl, do not upset our top model again. Monsieur Vadim will not be happy.’

  But Tia clearly hadn’t finished with Romy. When Romy saw that they were models one and two out on the catwalk, she knew there’d be trouble.

  ‘Wow,’ Emma said to Romy as they hustled into line, being checked and primped. ‘You really stood up to her.’

  ‘Yeah, well, she doesn’t frighten me,’ Romy said.

  Romy saw Tia preparing herself in the darkness, waiting for the music cue to step into the spotlight.

  ‘You don’t get to walk in front of me, bitch,’ Tia hissed to Romy, as she took her position behind her. ‘You don’t get to be near me. You don’t get to touch me. You do not even step foot out here until I am on my way back and give you my signal.
Capiche?’

  Romy didn’t say anything, but she felt every nerve-end bristling. Then the lights came on and the music boomed out. It was Tia’s cue to move. Just before she went onstage she deliberately took a step backwards, plunging her stiletto heel into Romy’s big toe.

  The pain was so intense that Romy couldn’t stop herself. She gave Tia a massive shove, making her lose her balance and sending her flying. Tia landed in a heap in the spotlight at the back end of the runway.

  Romy heard the audience gasp.

  Everyone backstage froze. Then Tia was up, coming for Romy, screeching with fury. There was an almighty tear, as Romy’s fur-and-lace bodice ripped and Tia pulled her into the spotlight too.

  Romy punched her full in the face, the music thumping out as the audience got to their feet.

  Romy was up first. Shaking her head free, she pulled up the mesh top and secured it in place with the gum from her mouth. Then she marched down the runway, her head held high, working the catwalk, giving it her all in the bright lights, to whoops and applause.

  The rest of the show passed in a blur. Nico came backstage and, having found a first-aid kit, dabbed at the wound on Romy’s toe. It had gone an angry purplish-red and was swollen. But adrenaline still coursed through her body.

  ‘Hey, it was fun to have a catwalk moment,’ she said. ‘In Paris.’

  ‘I think it will be your last,’ Nico said grimly, not rising to her gallows humour. ‘Do you have any idea how furious Simona is?’

  ‘Tia started it, Nico,’ Romy protested, but she knew her outburst had caused a tearful row between Tia and Pierre, and the star model had left the venue before the end of the show. ‘Maybe I’m just not cut out for this.’

  ‘Don’t say that,’ Nico said.

  They both looked up as Pierre shouted, running towards them. ‘You. You’re on. Final bows,’ he said to Romy, his cold look making it clear just how angry he was with her.

  Her knees were shaking as she was hustled to the front of the line of silent models. Judging by their wide eyes, she was in no doubt that she’d just committed the ultimate modelling faux pas. But there, waiting to walk with his models for the final bow, was Perez Vadim.