The Modeliser

THE MODELISER © 2013 HAVANA ADAMS

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

To my friends and family for believing in me and for
all their support.

Table
of Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER
ONE

CHAPTER
TWO

CHAPTER
THREE

CHAPTER
FOUR

CHAPTER
FIVE

CHAPTER
SIX

CHAPTER
SEVEN

CHAPTER
EIGHT

CHAPTER
NINE

CHAPTER
TEN

CHAPTER
ELEVEN

CHAPTER
TWELVE

CHAPTER
THIRTEEN

CHAPTER
FOURTEEN

CHAPTER
FIFTEEN

CHAPTER
SIXTEEN

CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER
NINETEEN

CHAPTER
TWENTY

CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER
TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER
TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER
TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER
THIRTY

CHAPTER
THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER
THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER
THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER
THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER
THIRTY-FIVE

EPILOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

On
the night, aged 26, that he was catapulted from obscurity, from jobbing theatre
actor and TV bit part player to Oscar winner, Alex Golden looked out at the
great and good of Hollywood, he stared beyond the flashing lights and cameras
at the legends of the silver screen, he imagined the millions, perhaps billions
watching the telecast of the ceremony and the words of his Grandfather came to
mind.

“Son,” he’d once counselled Alex, “the thing about peaking
too soon, is the certain knowledge that the only place to go is down.”

Alex shrugged off the pessimistic thought and loped towards
the podium in a long, easy stride, oozing the confidence and charisma that
would go on to make him a household name.

“Thank You,” he said in that husky voice that would make him
the favourite of women, gays and schoolgirls the world over.

Later, it wouldn’t be the words that he’d uttered on that
stage that were remembered, instead it would be those piercing blue eyes,
framed by thick, dark lashes, the English accent that added gravitas, the easy
smile that showed that he didn’t take himself too seriously. In short Alex
Golden’s acceptance speech: witty, assured, relaxed announced him as
Hollywood’s newest star.

“We are back live in 15 seconds. Camera One - ready.
Presenters - Best Adapted Screenplay to the stage. Live in 10, 9, 8…” As the
award show’s director barked out instructions, Alex walked backstage in a daze
as a whirlwind of activity spun around him. Immediately, he spotted a woman in
a striking crimson dress watching him from across the chaos of the green room.
His palm was warm against the surprisingly heavy gold statuette and though
outwardly composed, inside he was in a state of shock, drinking in the sight of
Streep and Nicholson as they swept by him onto the stage to present the next
award. Alex’s eyes were once again drawn to the woman who was watching him. In
the sea of famous faces and celebrities, producers, PRs and hanger-ons, somehow
this woman, in her red dress, held his attention.

She pushed forward, coming to stand in front of him, her
right hand already held out. Close up, Alex saw that she was older than he’d
initially thought. Yet for a woman who must be in her forties, the body was
still killer. His eyes ate her up, skimming from the large breasts, which oozed
over the top of the corseted red dress, to the slim waist and then the flare of
generous hips. His gaze moved back up to her eyes and with a start Alex saw
that the woman’s eyes were narrowed, with a hint of knowing amusement. This
wasn’t the usual response that he got from women. He switched the gold
statuette to his left hand and gave her a firm handshake. He was sure that he
didn’t know this woman, but in the three weeks of meetings, junkets and
publicity since he had landed in LA, he’d learned that people did this here,
that sometimes for no reason at all, they’d stop to talk to you, that somehow,
everybody, just everybody was in the business and wanted to know about his
“little English movie.”

Before he could say anything, the woman spoke, her hand still
grasping his in a surprisingly firm grip. Her words were brisk and precise,
almost like orders being barked out, in the kind of no-nonsense New York drawl
that brooked no disagreement.

“My name is Avital Silver. And I’m going to make you a
superstar.”

TEN
YEARS LATER

The
shot was worth a million bucks.

Any paparazzo worth his salt would kill to capture the image
of movie star Alex Golden, Hollywood’s legendary Modeliser, sprawled almost
naked but for a pair of Gucci board shorts that hung low down on his hips,
revealing a perfectly smooth chest and tanned, ripped, Hollywood perfected abs.
Next to him lay a woman whose triple threat of lips, breasts and legs had made
grown men weep, and more besides. Alex reclined on a sun bed, as he stared out
on the startling Azure blue sea at the exclusive resort on the Mexican
coastline. In the distance came whoops and squeals of a group of people on
powerful jet skis as they skimmed across the horizon, shooting plumes of water
in the air behind them. Just watching them made Alex feel tired and he pushed
his sunglasses down on his face.

“Christ my head is pounding,” he muttered the words with a
small groan but was met with silence. He turned with a lazy glance, reaching
out to touch the woman next to him. His hand skimmed her flat abdomen, before
falling away. They hadn’t stayed long at the film premiere after-party the
night before. Just long enough for Alex to be photographed next to his
ambitious young co-star, model turned actress Tyler Link, and of course long
enough for him to be nursing a hangover as a result of too much Vintage Perrier
Jouet champagne, which had been free-flowing at the VIP After-Party. For a
moment Alex was filled with a beat of nostalgia,
you’re getting old
a voice in his head taunted
him. Shaking the thought away, Alex rose to his feet, turning to stand over the
sun lounger next to his.

“You’re blocking my sunlight.” Isabella finally spoke,
pouting sulkily and yet so prettily as the words whispered out of her pink and
improbably plump lips. Alex watched her for a moment. Most of her face was
obscured by the large brim of a white Dior sunhat but what was visible of her
was still incredible. Still recognisable as the face and body of Isabella
Murada, one of the world’s highest paid supermodels. She and Alex shared a
publicist, who had introduced them at some charity benefit in Los Angeles. Alex
had only just ended another headline-grabbing fling with a swimwear model and
the timing had been good. That same night he’d taken Isabella back to his suite
at Chateau Marmont and they’d been together the last five months, which by his
usual standards, was practically an eternity. He continued to stare down at
Isabella knowing that she would soon snap. A devoted sun worshipper, Isabella
hated the possibility of tanning unevenly. He stared at her lips, which were
thrust forward sulkily and his eyes drifted lower to the unselfconscious way
that she tanned topless. He leaned down to stroke a finger across her nipple.

“Come into the water,” he asked softly. Her breasts were
large, gorgeous and fake, of course, but still with enough softness and
movement in them to fool the untutored observer. He, however, was an expert.
How could he not be, after ten years of fucking models and starlets?

It had started quite by accident this reputation of his, but
slowly it had transformed into an unshakeable part of his reputation. Sure,
there was the occasional actress thrown into the mix, the odd solo singer and
famously once, a pair of burlesque performing twins but for the most part, Alex
Golden lived up to his reputation as The Modeliser.

He pressed a kiss to Isabella’s breasts and then stretched to
his full 6ft and 4 inches. “Come in to the water,” he asked again.

“No.” Isabella snapped back.

Mostly Alex liked the rough Portuguese twang in her Brazilian
accented English, but some days like today, the harsh sounds grated. “You’re
not still angry?” He gritted his teeth. Isabella could carry a grudge and her
silent treatments had been known to last for days.
 
With a sigh he banked down his building irritation with her.
“Isabella,” he cajoled softly.
 

“You embarrass me at the premiere, laughing and joking for
the cameras with that, that… model.” Her words were hissed out of pursed lips
and Alex fought to hide his disinterest, which was laced too with some
amusement. The contempt with which she spat the word model, might lead anyone
to think that she wasn’t one herself.

“Tyler is my co-star, I didn’t have much choice.” Alex sighed
as Isabella folded her arms beneath her breasts and turned her head away so
that all that he could see was her jaw and the perfect, unblemished profile
that had fronted countless cosmetic campaigns and adorned billboards in Milan,
Paris, New York and London. “Fine,” he said and with a shrug he turned and
walked towards the pool and dived in with a clean, perfect arc that caused
barely a ripple.

After
pounding the length of the pool for several long minutes; as much to escape the
heat of Isabella’s building temper as to cool down, Alex levered himself out of
the pool and again looked towards the sea. She was no longer in her sun
lounger. Grabbing his towel, he dried his hair roughly, even as the hot sun
rapidly dried his skin, till only a few droplets kissed his muscular shoulders.
A little way from the house, he spotted a movement and grimaced watching as the
blistering sun, flashed and reflected against something hidden behind the
bushes. It was a tell which Alex had grown familiar with these last ten years;
the paparazzi had found them.

The ever-present paparazzi who knew his itinerary even before
he did, who skulked around for scandal, which more often than not he provided
for them and their vast hoards of gossip-hungry readers. Alex continued to dry
his hair and with the trademark cool that had made him a star, he dropped his
towel, stretching his arms high above his head, uncaring of his near nakedness
and the telescopic lenses trained on him and then slowly he padded barefoot
towards the house.

For the first time in the last few weeks, Alex felt the
tension drain away from him; his feet warmed by the terracotta of the stone
brick floors, which baked in the sun as he moved into the house. Though Avital,
his agent, hid it well, he had sensed her tension, had known that she and the
studios were closely watching his latest film. He was no brainless himbo, he
too had noted that though they were still hitting number one, his films weren’t
doing what they used to at the Box Office. He knew without anyone telling him
that Deadlock had to reach number one and stay there.

As he padded around the villa, there was still no sign of
Isabella and he was not inclined to go and find her. Now, with a clearer head,
he looked around the opulent open plan living room. Their stay here had come
courtesy of millionaire producer and Hollywood royalty, Milo Levy. The
paintings that last night he and Isabella had brushed past without even a
glance were in the light of day revealed to be Picasso sketches and vibrant
Modigliani nudes that wouldn’t be out of place in some national gallery
somewhere. Alex smiled and slumped down onto a white chaise lounge in the
living room, fumbling around for the TV remote, which he used to flick on the
massive plasma screen TV that was mounted on a wall. For a couple of minutes,
he channel surfed without interest, finally tossing aside the remote as he
spotted his Mulberry overnight bag where he had carelessly dumped it the night
before. He reached into it pulling out a platinum Vertu mobile phone. He had
several missed calls, most of which he wouldn’t return. The last name on the
list was his sister’s and he clicked on it, feeling a twinge of guilt. He’d missed
several telephone calls from her in the last few days and with the crazy
schedule of promotion in the lead up to the film’s release, he’d not had a
chance to call her back. Leaning back into the sofa, he prepared to return his
sister’s call when something on the television caught his attention. It was an
image of himself.