The Modeliser (14 page)

“Wow,” Helena replied. Rough Draft were without question the
biggest production company in England, they’d made a name making romantic
comedies that performed well internationally and were the only real player in
town. A small frown furrowed Helena’s brow. “You’re going dressed like that?”

Talia sighed as Helena’s eyes moved up and down her body,
taking in her scuffed Converse shoes, her wide leg jeans and the faded T-shirt
that had seen better days. She could feel a lecture coming. Helena’s silence
lengthened and Talia defiantly took a large mouthful of sushi, coughing and
spluttering as a mouthful of spicy wasabi sauce went down badly. She gulped
down some water quickly.

“I’m just not in the mood for fashion,” Talia finally bit out
defensively. It wasn’t the first time that Helena had gently tried to talk her
into spending more thought on her choice of clothes. “My work should speak for
itself,” she finished lamely.

“Perhaps you’re right,” Helena said with a musing look in her
eyes, “maybe what you’re missing is that hunter instinct.” Talia rolled her
eyes as her friend carried on. “Listen to me Tal, you’ve lost your get-go, your
mojo, that stupid job sucked it out of you…”

“Helena…” Talia said warningly as danger signs began to flash
in her head and she saw the determined set of her friend’s chin. Helena had a
plan.

“Seriously Talia, I love you but you’ve let yourself go a
little bit. You forgot what you really wanted. Did you dream of Encounters or
did you dream of Hollywood?” she said. “You deserve to be a star and whatever
it takes, I’m going to help get you back on your feet.” With that Helena rose
to her feet signalling for the bill. Talia watched her warily.

“What are you doing?” She asked.

“I’m not letting you go to the Rough Draft meeting dressed
like that.” Helena firmly removed the glass of water that Talia gripped in her
hand and set it down gently on the table. “Come on, I’ve got 90 minutes before
my meeting. I’m taking you shopping.”

Also
lunching in Central London, this time at The Wolsely, the destination of choice
for media types intent on being seen, was Tamara who sat shifting her fork
through an exquisite Nicoise salad that she’d taken no more than two mouthfuls
of. Sat across from her was the closest thing to a best friend that she had,
Katie Wincup, the nation’s favourite sports presenter and all round English
rose. Tamara watched fascinated and with a smidgen of envy as Katie tucked with
gusto into a Chicken, Ham and Leek pie. Slowly Tamara sipped from her glass of
sparkling water as she watched her friend. The daughter of a revered English
international football star, Katie could get away with looking healthy but for
Tamara, her enviable figure had been honed through a punishing mix of exercise
and a rule that she’d learned during her brief modelling days. She had eaten
only two meals a day for almost 20 years now, either breakfast and dinner or
breakfast and lunch.

“That was delicious,” Katie said without embarrassment as she
finally put down her fork and knife. “Yours?” She asked Tamara with an amused
smile, she’d grown used to Tamara’s eating habits when they’d shared a grotty
apartment in London more than a decade before.

“Delicious,” Tamara deadpanned. “So how’s life and Ian?”
Tamara asked the question with little interest. Since Katie had married Ian, an
Australian tycoon and owner of the biggest sports channel in the country, she’d
turned into one of those irritating women constantly fixated with home
furnishings, doulas, IVF and socially respectable Day schools.

“Ian is wonderful, but that’s not why I called.” Katie leaned
forward with a conspiratorial look in her eyes, lowering her voice as she
spoke. “Ian has just negotiated the sale of the channel.
 
100 million smackers.”

Tamara
leaned forward too, impressed; Katie really had landed on her feet.

“Guess who’s buying?” Her friend pressed and Tamara shrugged,
she was hardly au fait with the major players in big business.

“Don’t know. Who?” She asked with what she hoped was suitable
interest, even as she was mentally itemising the tasks she had lined up for the
afternoon ahead.

“Vassily Romanov,” Katie breathed the name with reverence and
a smile spread across her face as she registered that she now had Tamara’s
undivided attention.

“Really,” Tamara drawled, schooling her features into polite
interest, not wanting to seem too eager. As close as she and Katie were, Tamara
had never told her about being stood up by Vassily. Even between friends there
were some humiliations that should remain hidden.

“Oh don’t be coy. I know you targeted him at the launch of
Imperium.” Tamara grimaced.

“Well, I was rather bored but I have Alex to play with
now," she finished, smiling even as Katie waved her hand dismissively in
the air.

“Alex Schmalex, who wants some insecure actor, when you can
have a billionaire?” Privately Tamara agreed but Vassily’s actions had more
than made it clear that she wasn’t in with much of a chance with him.

“I’m not sure I’m his type,” she said, managing to convey a
measure of bafflement that any man might be able to resist her. “Perhaps he’s
gay?” She wondered aloud.

“Not gay, I have that on good authority. Married once, wife
died in mysterious circumstances. Billionaire, well connected, buying up
everything; property, football teams and TV channels, you’d be perfect for
him,” Katie finished. “Aren’t you tired of TV? Those production hours have got
to be killing you?” Tamara shrugged as her friend continued. “I have a plan, a
way for you to meet him and make a better second impression.”

Tamara leaned forward in her seat. In spite of her desire to
play it cool, Katie’s words were drawing her in. Perhaps her opening salvo had
been too brash, these Russian oligarchs were known for wanting to maintain
their privacy after all. Perhaps something could still be salvaged and perhaps she
could forgive Vassily the humiliating scene at San Lorenzo, which thankfully
hadn’t made it into the papers; the pictures of her leaving Alex’s hotel had
seen to that.

“What do you have in mind?” Tamara asked.

“Well to toast the deal, Ian and I are having a small
gathering at the house, he’ll be there and of course my best friend in the
world will also be invited,” Katie said with a wide smile. Tamara leaned
forward and laughed.

“Darling you are one in a million."

“Of course,” Katie replied smartly. "Besides, if we can
pull this off, you’ll owe me.”

Talia
walked gingerly down a side street, her strides small and decidedly feminine as
she fought to retain her balance in the designer high heels that Helena had
ordered her to wear. Their whirlwind shopping trip had taken them to Selfridges
and within moments of hitting the 3
^rd
floor, Helena had scrambled
two of the waiting personal shoppers with a series of instructions. Talia had
had to put her foot down when she’d caught a glimpse of the pricetag on the
Marc Jacobs shift dress that her friend had pronounced adequate for a chat at
the country’s most successful film production company.

“It’s £550,” Talia had hissed.

“This chat could get your career back on track and I get a
discount,” her friend had retorted quietly but Talia had held firm.

“I have no job and will soon be homeless, can’t we just go to
Topshop?”
 
With a look of
resignation, Helena had followed as she led the way down the escalators to the
high street concessions area of the department store. They’d eventually agreed
on a pencil skirt from Topshop teamed with a fitted, silk, polka dot blouse.
The shoes were Helena’s own. The mark of a true friend she had taken them off
her feet to hand them to Talia, changing into the Chanel ballet pumps, which
she always carried at the bottom of her bag. Helena had then hustled her to the
MAC counter in the main Selfridges beauty hall and had made sure that Talia’s
face was made up to her satisfaction. Alone, she might have stopped at just a
coat of clear gloss on her lips but Helena had been insistent that she get some
foundation, some colour in her cheeks and an intricate mix of shadows, liners
and bronzers on her eyes.

“You don’t have enough vanity,” Helena said.

Talia looked to her friend, the epitome of chic, un-showy
style in a white peasant shirt from Theory and a pair of skinny fitting coupe
cigarette pants. It went without saying that a lack of style wasn’t something
that Helena suffered from, but then fashion was already in her DNA. How many
women could boast an entire collection of original Biba in her attic? “You need
to raise your game,” Helena continued firmly. “Life, especially in our worlds,
is all about appearances, even the people who pretend not to give a shit,
really do care.”
 

Talia’s steps slowed as she finally arrived at the Fitrovia
offices of Rough Draft Productions. With a deep breath, she began to ascend the
steps that would take her into the offices. Catching a glimpse of her
reflection in the glass doors, Talia gave herself a small smile to steady her
nerves. The clothes were making a difference, she was carrying herself
straighter and she felt a small burst of confidence. This meeting really could
get her back on track. She pulled hard on the heavy doors and stepped into the
building. She was ready for this.

Helena
hopped out of a black cab outside Époque House, a dominating building that
overlooked an impressive square, across from the old American Embassy. She
handed several crisp bills to the driver, stepping out of the cab, her long
strides carrying her quickly through the lobby and into the lift. Even in the
Chanel flats, Helena still stood out and could easily have been mistaken for
any of the models who sashayed in and out of the building almost daily for
castings. Finding herself in the lift alone, Helena resisted the urge to simply
head back down to the lobby, take a cab home and hide under her duvet.
Does
this make you happy?
A voice in her head piped up and with effort Helena gritted her teeth.
This was her chance, she reminded herself, the editorship was within reach, all
she had to do was stay focused. She took a deep breath and dragged her mind to
the meeting ahead. Époque’s Centenary loomed but planning for the special
celebratory issue appeared to have hit a wall and now the publisher had called
an emergency meeting. Where Vogue now seemed to be chasing teenage girls and
the populist market, Époque still strived for exclusivity, to be the magazine
of choice for the uber stylish and the uber connected. It was a magazine less
about fleeting fashions and more about the kind of style that endured. But of
course such exclusivity came at a price and the recent downturn had seen
falling circulation. The weeklies had bitten into their profits hard and this centenary
special had to make a mark that would bring a whole new demographic to the
magazine, without alienating the existing readers.

These thoughts whirred around Helena’s head and by the time
she stepped out on the 14
^th
floor her doubts and ambivalence had
been packed away. Ducking into her small office, she dumped her tote down and
Talia’s ugly laptop bag, which she’d confiscated after the makeover. She
grabbed her notebook and headed out to the conference room, dreading the
meeting that lay ahead. As she moved down the corridor, Chloe an ambitious
assistant editor fell into step beside her.

“It’s going to be a bloodbath,” Chloe whispered gleefully.
Inwardly, Helena grimaced. Chloe was good at her job but her tendency to gossip
and a rather liberal attitude with merchandise from shoots was starting to earn
her a bad reputation around the office. The girl just never knew when to shut
up. “Apparently Poppy’s back on the sauce,” the girl mimed sipping a drink and
giggled. Helena remained silent as they entered the meeting room. They were the
first to arrive. Poppy Silver, Époque’s editor had a long running battle with
alcoholism and it often fell to Helena to cover for her and fulfil her
responsibilities. Poppy’s problems had been kept under wraps at first, but in
an industry like theirs, tongues were soon wagging and Poppy’s addiction was
now an open secret in the business, exactly the kind of publicity that the
magazine didn’t need. There had been whispers that the publishers had finally
grown tired of cutting her slack. Where did this leave the centenary issue?
Helena wondered worriedly just as the door opened to admit the rotund frame of
Tobias Vintage, the publisher of the magazine. From his face Helena knew that
the news wouldn’t be good.

“Tobias,” she greeted noticing belatedly that Tobias wasn’t
alone. Beside her, Helena heard a quiet gasp from Chloe, as into the room
walked a man who needed no introduction. A man whose reputation as a
photographer had been cemented by legendary sexy images of supermodels, a
professional reputation that was second only to the rumours about his sexual
prowess. Gabe Tynan was the hottest photographer that Époque had ever produced.
His editorials were on a par with Leibovitz, his covers as spectacular as any
that Testino had produced. In short, Gabe Tynan was something of a god in
fashion. Hearts had been broken when he’d quit the world of fashion photography
to take up film directing but even there he’d tasted success with his first
independent feature film, which had received critical praise. Though she had
never met him, Helena had heard plenty about him and now she leaned forward,
her hand outstretched.