by Thomas Waugh
Tamara appeared from out of the house on her own. She sashayed up to his car. Marshal already had the window down. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought that she had undone another button on her blouse since their first encounter. She bent down, her head nearly poking through the window, as she spoke. He breathed in her perfume, as if taking a drag on a cigarette.
“I hope I didn’t drive too quickly for you earlier.”
“No, it was fine. I’m used to fast women,” Marshal replied, playfully. He may have given his word of honour not to flirt with Grace, but he had made no such commitment relating to the rest of womankind.
Tamara let out a laugh, before tucking a few strands of hair behind her ears.
“Where’s Grace?”
“She just wanted to take a further look around the kitchen and garden. She said she would be no longer than five minutes. She’s really nice.”
“Yes, she is,” Marshal said, with more conviction than he would have replied with an hour ago.
“She mentioned that you used to be in the army.”
Marshal briefly tried to work out whether Grace had been speaking about him, or if Tamara had asked after him.
“Yes, for my sins.”
“How long were you in the army for?”
“Long enough to make a killing.”
The blonde estate agent paused to process the comment before laughing again, witnessing the smirk on the driver’s face.
“You’re funny,” Tamara remarked, or almost chirped, before lightly placing her hand on the driver’s muscular forearm, which rested on the window. The estate agent probably flirted so much, in both her professional and personal life, that she wasn’t always aware she was doing it, Marshal fancied. Tamara had already conducted two affairs with senior colleagues in the office. Junior colleagues had made a play for her, but she preferred men to boys. They had more experience, and money. According to her online profiles Tamara liked shopping, sushi and keeping fit. Her dream, when younger, had been to marry a Premiership footballer. Unfortunately, she only got as far as sleeping with a squad player from one of the lower divisions. She was currently dating a tax lawyer, but it was nothing serious. She had never been out with a soldier before. It might be fun.
Marshal recognised certain indicators of interest and was tempted to ask the estate agent out. A part of him was attracted to her. He knew which part. But he also knew he didn’t have time for another meaningless relationship. He needed to focus on the Albanians. But he would keep her card.
Another burst of braying laughter filled the air – and Tamara placed her hand on the driver’s forearm again – as Grace came out of the house. She found the sound of her laughter annoying, unprofessional. She didn’t stop to consider that her pang of irritation may have been a pang of jealousy.
They were quickly on the road again, heading to the next property. Grace had a schedule to keep and she was keen not to just let the estate agent linger and idly chat to her chauffeur. The model understood that flirting may be part of her job, but there was no need to work overtime.
“She seems to like you,” Grace casually mentioned, angling for Marshal’s thoughts and intentions. But he wasn’t biting.
“She’ll like the commission from any sale even more,” he replied, deflecting, before asking Grace what she thought of the property.
“It was good, but not great. Do you like where you live?”
“There are worse places to live, although the area still needs cleaning up a bit. I have a nice roof terrace, however. I often go up there to work my way through a book or a couple of beers with my neighbour.”
The next viewing was a penthouse at a swanky new apartment building. The views from the large balcony were described as “desirable”. The complex housed its own gym and coffee shop. The interior was modern. Too modern. Ideally, Grace wanted a garden – and a dog. Neither of which the property could facilitate. She couldn’t help but notice how most of the residents didn’t have any curtains or blinds across their windows. Perhaps they were part of the Instagram generation – and happy for their lives to be an open book (but one not worth reading). Or the residents were keen to flaunt their taste and material possessions. One of the residents, surreptitiously or not, stepped out onto his decking in his Birkenstocks, on seeing Grace on the balcony opposite. His unblinking, unwavering gaze made her skin crawl. She later joked to Marshal that he looked like a sex offender. She just couldn’t tell whether he was registered or not. He laughed. He loved a good paedophile joke, it separated the sheep from the goats in terms of people having a healthy sense of humour. It was also a gift that kept on giving for those who rushed to act offended.
Again, Tamara was happy to give Grace some time and space to view the property in private, as she ventured downstairs to chat to Marshal.
The chauffeur grasped the opportunity to stretch his legs and smoke a cigarette during the viewing. He also swapped a few text messages with Porter. Victoria wanted to take her niece out to dinner this evening, in order to catch up with her properly. Porter was tasked with looking after the dog. He would cook a meal and share a bottle of whisky with Marshal.
Grace pursed her lips more firmly and her scowl was more pronounced as she observed Tamara enjoying the company of her driver. She spoke curtly to the agent, asserting that she wanted to view the final property as soon as possible, as she had a packed schedule.
The last house, a renovated Georgian property, had a large garden, which overlooked the Thames. Petals of sunlight glinted across the water. The river always instilled a sense of calm in Grace. A tug chugged along contentedly, and a couple of rowers glided through the water as effortlessly as the swans which swam close to the shore. Close to her prospective home. The house was a good size. She liked the old stone fireplace and original cornicing in the high-ceilinged rooms. The kitchen was largely oak and contained an AGA cooker (Grace was looking forward to baking again, as she had done as a child, with her mum). The house was promising. She already started to plan which room she would convert into an office. Tamara offered to grant the client more time to spend viewing the property on her own, but Grace instructed the agent to remain with her (as opposed to spending time with her driver) in case she had any questions.
“Let me walk you to your car,” Grace kindly remarked, as they came out of the house. “This property ticks a lot of boxes. I will be in touch by the end of the week, to let you know whether we can move forward or not. I’m terribly sorry that I’m unable to discuss things more with you now but I have another important meeting I need to attend to. Thank you so much for your time and help today.”
Tamara was ushered towards her car. All she could do was smile and wave at Marshal. He waved and smiled back.
Ships that pass in the night. He thought. Was the phrase from Longfellow?
Tamara promised herself that she would text the driver, once his contract with her client had ended. What business was it of hers whether she arranged to see James or not anyway?
He’s fit and fun.
“Ciao, for now,” Tamara said. She wasn’t quite sure if she was going to describe the model as “nice” or “a bit of a bitch” when she returned to the office.
Ciao, forever, Grace thought as she offered up her best fake smile and turned her back on the Audi TT and bottle blonde estate agent.
“Where to now?” Marshal asked, as Grace climbed into the back of his car again.
“Somewhere special I hope.”
The sun came out even more.
Grace directed Marshal to turn off into a tree-lined road, towards the end of Chiswick High St, and park outside a parade of shops. They got out the car and walked towards an empty outlet, in between a bakery and bridal shop. A wonderfully camp letting agent, Andrew, stood outside. He was dressed in his best Dior suit. His smile showed off his recently capped teeth, and not a dyed hair on his head seemed out of place. The former fashion student did his best to contain his excitement on meeting the glamourous – fabulous – mode
l. But his best wasn’t good enough. Grace Wilde was a veritable starlet. Or had been. The letting agent didn’t quite know what to compliment the model on first – her hair, flawless skin or kitten heels. It took an almost heroic amount of restraint, not to ask the model about the rumours concerning her and Zac Efron. He blushed on occasion and nearly even swooned at one point, when chatting to “the goddess,” as he had described her to colleagues in the office. Grace was patient and obliging in dealing with her number one fan. She answered a few questions and struck a comical pose for a selfie. Andrew proved professional, however, after his moment, and knew his brief in relation to the property. They went inside and, after a preliminary discussion, Grace asked if she could view the site without the agent present.
“Do you mind if I just show my friend around first? I may well have some questions for you afterwards, should you be free for a coffee.”
Any disappointment Andrew felt at being temporarily dismissed was tempered by the fact that he would soon be having coffee with Grace Wilde. He duly sent out a barrage of messages to his WhatsApp group and giddily replied to the responses as he waited outside the shop.
The space was almost the size of a tennis court. The pinewood flooring had recently been polished, and the smell of fresh paint filled the air. Grace took a breath, surveyed the scene and beamed. She was almost as excited as Andrew had been, when meeting the model.
“I’m opening a bookshop,” Grace said, with visible pleasure and anticipation. “I know there’s a temptation to think that it’ll be a white elephant or money pit, but I think I can make it work. I’ve sweated over the business plan and an old friend, who has worked in both retail and the book trade, will manage things on a day to day level.”
Grace proceeded to chat about how she had already started to book authors to speak at the shop. Her manager was liaising with schools and local businesses to generate account customers too.
“I’d love to get William Dalrymple here for our opening. He’s a local, when he’s not in India. If you haven’t already read his books, you should… A third of the shop will be devoted to children’s books… I should talk to you and Oliver about stocking our History section… I want to create a bay for staff picks and signed books… I’ve already started making a list for the Classics bay too… I’m even looking forward to the papercuts from the books… We’re going to call the shop The Model Reader. My manager thinks we should get some good PR, both in the local papers and trade press… So, what do you think?”
It was Marshal’s turn to be rapt. His mouth was open, agape. In some ways, she was living out his dream, in opening a bookshop. He couldn’t help but be struck by Grace’s infectious enthusiasm and enterprise. They shared a look. It wasn’t ardour. It was something finer. It involved a shared sense of humour and respect.
“This all sounds wonderful, Grace. It’s not often that I get to say that I envy or admire anyone. Dislike, yes. But envy, no,” Marshal remarked, imagining how the space would look, teeming with books and customers.
“I’d love you to come to the launch in a month’s time.”
“I’d be honoured,” Marshal replied, worried that he might have sounded a little sarcastic in his response. But for once, he wasn’t being sarcastic. “I promise to be one of your first customers, when you open your doors. And I’ll buy plenty of books.”
“It’s a date,” Grace said, feeling a little shy and awkward as the words hung in the air, like a reverberating twang from a broken cello string. The throwaway line was suddenly infused with meaning. She realised that, should he have asked her on a date, she would have said yes. Marshal felt awkward too, remembering his promise to Porter. He had a history of breaking hearts, but he was averse to breaking his word.
13.
Grace took Andrew for a coffee to discuss various details relating to her lease. She invited the letting agent to the launch party for the shop. He accepted, nearly breaking his biscotti in excitement as he did so. He gleefully thought about who he might invite to attend the event with him – and who he might be able to upset by snubbing them.
After the meeting, Marshal drove Grace to another estate agency, to arrange more viewings. They then headed back west, towards Windsor. Grace continued to chat about the bookstore, often asking Marshal’s opinion.
“I hope you don’t mind me interrogating you. The truth is that I’ve barely told any of my friends and family about the venture. I also value your opinion.”
“It’s okay, I’m fine to talk shop,” Marshal replied, although he was unsure as to whether Grace picked-up on his bad pun.
During the drive back, the pair chatted about some of the books and authors that The Model Reader should stock and champion.
Grace mentioned she had already ordered Bernard Malamud, Graham Greene, Flaubert, Nathaniel Hawthorne and special hardback editions of Jane Austen.
Marshal mentioned George Macdonald Fraser, Albert Camus, Steven Saylor, Harlan Coben and Barbara Tuchman. Should she be devoting a bay to philosophy then the shop should make sure it stocked key titles by David Hume, Nietzsche and Kierkegaard. When Grace quizzed him about history books to promote, he recommended Gary Sheffield’s Forgotten Victory, Adam Zamoyski’s 1812, Ronald Syme’s The Roman Revolution and Alex von Tunzelmann’s Red Heat.
Grace also confided in Marshal as to why she was opening the shop, realising as she spoke that she hadn’t told anyone before. The car became Marshal’s confessional again. But this time he didn’t mind.
“What little education I have, I owe to books. I’m paying something forward – or paying it back. Before I was signed-up as a model I was signed-up to go to university and study literature. I promised myself I would carry on studying, whilst modelling. But the trade can get its claws into you. Agents want your soul. You try to keep parts of your life sacred, like your family, friends and interests. But you have to give up your Horcruxes in the end,” Grace argued, talking to herself as much as Marshal. He nodded in sympathy, pretending to know what a Horcrux was. “Others may argue that I have had a privileged life. That it’s been a fairy tale or dream. But dreams can turn into nightmares. People who promise you heaven often deliver up hell.”
Grace momentarily paused – and winced slightly – as she remembered going to the hotel suite with the film director Winston Royce. Royce was being hailed by the critics – and progressive liberal elite – as being the next Roman Polanski. His latest movie, telling the story of three women on the Oregon Trail, had won an award in Europe and been given a standing ovation at the Sundance Film Festival. Royce was lauded for championing young black actors, and his fans bullied and behaved like a lynch mob towards anyone who criticised the director for historical inaccuracies and his abusive tantrums on set. He was an artist. A genius. As much as Royce said he was from “the streets,” they were the streets in and around Long Island. He could be charming, as well as abusive. The director met Grace at a party in Manhattan. He said that she should come up to his suite. That mutual friends would be joining them. Grace was keen to discuss the possibility of writing a screenplay (Royce was slightly taken back, as models would normally do anything to act in one of his films). He poured her a strong drink and went into the toilet. He re-appeared, wearing a robe, and suggested that their mutual friends must be tied-up. Grace could still smell his cologne – and sweat. She could still see the rock of cocaine stuck in his wiry nostrils and the white line around his face, where his fake tan ended. It was like he was wearing a mask. She could still feel his chubby, clammy hands on her shoulders, as Royce approached Grace and told her he would make her “a star”. She shivered, in the backseat, as she felt his cold wedding ring on her skin. The entitled director screwed his face up in derision when the model rejected him. He grabbed her more firmly, his eyes glazed with lust. Carnality. The tension in the suite congealed even more, like a scab. Grace grew frightened. Royce asserted that no one said “no” to him. His tone grew firmer. Menacing. For a moment, she believed that he would assault her. But
a moment was more than enough. A knock on the door, from room service, saved her. Grace sobbed, in relief and sorrow, as she rushed out and went home. After she vomited, Grace showered – but she was unable to wash away the memory. Rather it seemed like she was rubbing the nightmare into her. She sobbed again, observing the bruises on her shoulders, from where he had grabbed her. She asked herself if she had somehow led him on. If she should blame herself. If she was the perpetrator instead of the victim. Grace spoke to her agent about the incident. He advised her to remain quiet. Nothing actually happened, he argued. Royce would sue if she made any damaging allegations. A pack of lawyers would descend upon her like jackals. The industry would rally around the liberal poster boy. The supporter of Antifa was also friends with the Clintons. Her career would suffer. The agent declined to mention that his would too.
“My life could have been different,” Grace remarked to Marshal, breaking out of her trance. “Instead of being propositioned by lecherous photographers, I could have attended university and been propositioned by lecherous academics,” the model joked, but did not laugh.
Before Marshal could reply, Grace’s phone rang. She apologised and said she needed to answer it. He didn’t mean to pry, but he couldn’t help but overhear half the conversation.
“I flew in yesterday. I’m sorry I haven’t had time to speak to you properly… There was one property that felt homely. It’s by the river… Thankfully I can afford it as I sold my apartment in Manhattan, and prices there are as inflated as London. The strong dollar has helped too… Yes, I’m still coming to the party tomorrow. Am looking forward to catching up with you… No, I’m not bringing anyone. Nor do I wish to leave with anyone, so there’s no need to try and set me up with a Prince Charmless… I’ve booked a hotel in the area, so there’s no need to put me up. My aunt arranged a driver for me… I can get to you early. Let’s make some time for each other, before the evening starts in earnest… How are your parents?”
