The Modeliser (19 page)

The very next day after the party, she had woken to a bouquet
of flowers. She had known at once that someone on Vassily’s team had done their
homework. The bouquet of lush roses was mixed with the exotic Australian
Plumeria rose bouquet, her favourite flower, a species rarely found outside of
remote areas of Australia. Tamara had been impressed at the effort but would
not deviate from her plan. She’d sent him a single sentence of thanks on her
personalised Smythson stationary. Days later, another bouquet had arrived, this
time at work. Her colleagues had assumed that it was Alex bombarding her with
flowers and Tamara hadn’t bothered to correct this mistaken assumption, she
always played her cards close to her chest. By the sixth day, her home and
dressing room at work were fragrant with the smell of roses and other more
exotic flowers.

“When are you going to put him out of his misery?” Katie had
demanded when they’d met for cocktails the night before at a Central London
Private Members club. Tamara had shrugged. “Just get him to bed already before
some 24-year-old Chelsea girl snaps him up,” Katie had finished.

“I’m playing the long game this time,” Tamara replied. I’m
not letting anything as dispensable as sex ruin my future.” She’d continued
through gritted teeth. “When the time is right…”

But, for the first time in her life, Tamara found herself
struggling. She usually had no trouble withholding sex; not with the American
banker who’d bought her half of Cartier before she’d finally gone to bed with
him or the Brazilian property mogul who’d been back and forth in his personal
jet for months before she’d finally let him show her his private cabin. Yet,
she wanted Vassily in a way that she hadn’t wanted any man in a long time and
the intensity of that desire was in itself a source of concern. She had to keep
her head. If she needed any confirmation of Vassily’s desire for her, it was
made clear by the Cartier bracelet that had arrived one morning, the day after
she and Alex had been papped together walking through Primrose Hill. Vassily
was jealous.

As for Alex, since their night together, they had settled
into a comfortable friendship – lunches, tennis, the occasional dinner.
Alex was a pragmatist like her, not above having a friend with occasional
benefits but they had quickly acknowledged that after all these years, they
made better friends than lovers. Still, Tamara was not above using him to stir
up Vassily’s jealousy either.

“Gosh that’s a gorgeous bracelet Tamara,” the make up
assistant gushed.

“Isn’t it?” Tamara replied smugly glancing down at the white
gold Cartier band around her wrist, which was adorned with a series of small
gems. Just then someone else entered the make up room and in the mirror Tamara
made eye contact with Angelina Starling. The poor thing had returned from her
suspension following the scandalous pictures but since her return, she’d been
subdued and quiet.

“Angelina, darling,” Tamara said. Her good fortune with
Vassily made her almost magnanimous.

“Hi Tamara,” Angelina replied warily as she took a seat in
the chair next to Tamara’s.

“How have you been?” Tamara asked.

“OK,” Angelina shrugged. “Getting on with it.” Her voice
broke and tears welled in her eyes. Tamara leaned over to rub her arm. “He’s
gone back to his wife,” Angelina muttered miserably.

“These things blow over, you’ll be fine,” Tamara said and
Angelina nodded brushing the tears away from her eyes. Tamara turned to the
make-up assistant. “Are we done?” She asked, already rising from the chair.

“Of course Tamara,” the assistant responded quickly, she knew
well enough not to try Tamara’s patience, who knew when she might snap out of
this uncharacteristic good mood. Tamara peeled off the smock she’d worn to
cover her costume and straightened the sexy white uniform that her character
wore at the day spa that she ran. Tamara turned to Angelina with a false smile.

“If you ever need to talk, you know you can turn to me,” she
said, air kissing the still teary Angelina. Tamara turned to the door just as
Casey entered, struggling to carry a large rectangular package that was wrapped
in a simple blue paper.

“This just arrived for you,” Casey stated as she rested the
package on the chair. “The writing, it’s Vassily’s.” Casey burst out excitedly
and then bit her lip as Tamara shot her a scalding look. Tamara’s dalliance
with Vassily Romanov was, for now, under wraps. Angelina turned curiously in
her chair.

“That looks exciting,” the make up assistant said, angling
forward for a better look as Tamara carefully tore open the wrapping.

“Casey help me with this,” Tamara snapped stepping back for
her assistant to continue to unwrap the package until it was fully revealed.

“Oh my god!” Tamara gasped, her hand flying to her throat in
shock as she stared at the exquisite Modigliani painting, similar to the one
that she had admired at Katie and Ian’s. The same one she had stood and looked
at, at the National Gallery all those years ago when she had first come to
London.

“What is it?” Angelina asked as she stared nonplussed at the
painting.

“It’s a Modigliani,” Tamara whispered awed and shocked.
Slowly she reached a finger out and touched it. Lightly she ran her finger over
the tiny signature. There was an awed silence in the room until finally the
make up assistant spoke.

“It’s got to be a reproduction right?”

Tamara
shook her head slowly and watched the make up girl pale. “But that’s got to be
worth like millions of pounds,” she squeaked out.

Slowly
a smile spread across Tamara’s face.

“Casey, get that painting home for me will you,” she barked
at her assistant and with her trademark cool she walked out of the room. As she
continued down the corridor towards the set, Tamara made a decision. The time
was right. Now, she would start to reel Vassily in.

“This is good.” At Gabe’s words, Helena looked up from the
proof photographs to glance at him across the table where he had just finished
reading the latest copy that a writer had turned in.

“Isn’t it,” she replied with a smile moving towards the
massive desk that they shared. She watched as Gabe picked up a stack of
photographs – test shots that she herself had taken in the last week.
Gabe stared closely at one of the photos and then looked up at her.

“You have a good eye,” he said, not hiding the surprise and
Helena felt a flush of pride. Her father had taught her well. She’d always
loved taking photographs and the chance to get out of Gabe’s studio and start
working out the visual look of the issue had been a welcome break. “Do you know
how many photographers would have killed to have Elliot Golden teach them,”
Gabe continued not hiding the admiration in his voice.

“He was a pretty exacting teacher,” Helena replied with a
small smile as she began to flick through the test images laid out on the
table. In the days since Gabe had hit on the perfect theme for the centenary
issue, things had moved fast. It was amazing how many of Époque’s past cover
girls were eager to be featured and the miracle of modern science meant that
several of them looked hardly different from their cover girl days. The
daughters too had been revelatory – successful and beautiful, exactly the
kind of aspirational copy that Époque was striving for.

“We still don’t have a cover though,” Gabe said heavily,
looking up at her.

“We’ve some great images,” she countered but Gabe was already
shaking his head.

“I don’t want great, I want unforgettable, iconic. This cover
has to pull together 100 years of exceptional beauty, style and character.” He
rose from his lounging position, padding to stare out of the windows, down onto
the bustling, alternative scene of Shoreditch. It was after 11pm on a Wednesday
night. Helena sighed; she couldn’t remember the last time she had worked this
hard. Gabe was a relentless taskmaster. She watched him in profile and then
looked down as he caught her staring. Helena felt a spurt of embarrassment, all
the long hours and the enforced proximity of their working situation had been
playing havoc with her. She’d found herself growing more and more aware of him.

“Shit! Is that the time?” Gabe asked as he glanced at the
clock.

“Yeah that’s the time,” Helena replied with a laugh. Working
with Gabe, time wasn’t even a factor, he was a perfectionist and night after
night they’d kept going until the task at hand was complete. The book was now
almost done but before it could go to Tobias, they needed a cover.

“Your boyfriend must hate me,” Gabe stated with a laugh and
yet there was a loaded quality to his question. It was the first time, since
their initial meeting that Gabe had made any remotely personal remark and she
felt her face heat up. At her silence, Gabe raised his eyebrows.

“No boyfriend? Really?” He asked.

“Why so surprised?” Helena asked. “Perhaps I don’t want a
boyfriend.” She said waiting for the usual snort of derision that usually
greeted her when she made this statement.

“Really,” Gabe asked seriously. “You don’t want a boyfriend?
How come?” Now it was Helena who felt silly.

“I was engaged for a while…”

“And?” Gabe prompted. Helena wrinkled her brow as she thought
about Grant.

“And he was a lawyer, good looking, odd taste in suits but I
cured him of that but it didn’t work out,” she finished lamely.

“Why didn’t it work out?” Gabe probed and suddenly Helena
felt uncomfortable, the way some of his models must feel when he zoomed his
camera lens on them.

“He was perfect; decent and a bit boring, exactly what I
thought I wanted but I guess I was fooling myself,” Helena finished.

“You wanted to marry a boring lawyer?” Gabe queried, the
amusement shining in his eyes.

“I wanted someone who’s not in this crazy industry. Not that
there are many men who are straight in our world,” she finished. Something
about talking to Gabe about relationships was making her feel distinctly
lightheaded.

“What about sex?” He asked and Helena winced.

“Well…” she said airily, “I’m going to need a few drinks
before we tackle that one.” Gabe laughed for a moment and their eyes met.
Helena felt a frisson of electricity pass between them.

“What the lady wants...” Gabe replied. Helena watched in
confusion as he slipped on some loafers and grabbed a jacket.

“What are we doing?” She asked.

“We’ve done enough for today,” he said, handing her her bag
and the jacket she’d slung over a chair. “Let’s go and get a drink.” And he
grabbed her hand leading her out of the door.

Helena
could not remember the last time she had drunk a beer, let alone necked one out
of the bottle but that was what she found herself doing in a crowded East
London bar, long after she should have been crashed out in bed. They’d walked
the short distance from Gabe’s studio to the cavernous bar, which was heaving
with the kind of hip, alternative crowd that was an integral part of the
neighbourhood’s appeal. For a moment Helena had felt out of place in her APC
shift dress, very much the older sister amidst the crowd of vintage clad,
Converse wearing teens and early twentysomethings but Gabe had worked through
the crowd with ease; her small hand still gripped in his much larger one. She’d
watched as Gabe had nodded greetings all around them, and it was clear to
Helena that he was a regular at the bar. Within minutes, he had somehow
circumvented the dense throng waiting to be served at the bar, to get them some
beers and they perched side by side on a small ledge in a corner of the bar
next to the DJ’s booth. On the decks, Helena recognised Kemi, a hip, British
Nigerian model who was as famous for her DJ’ing skills as she was for her head
turning appearances at all the major events in town. Dancing on one of the
tables was Paloma Chase, one of the hottest young British models who, when not
strutting down Paris and Milan catwalks, was moonlighting as a Classics student
at Cambridge. Helena sipped from her beer delicately and then froze as she felt
Gabe’s hand snake around her neck to pull her close. The music was so loud that
she had to lean in, almost cheek-to-cheek with him, to hear his words. Helena
felt the roughness of his stubble against her skin. Usually she detested
stubble but there was something dangerous and seductive about feeling Gabe’s
rough chin against hers.

“It’s too fucking loud, isn’t it?” Gabe stated and Helena
nodded as he took her now almost empty beer bottle from her. Slowly she
followed in his wake, for once determined not to think too much about what she
was getting herself into it.

“What is this place?” Helena asked as Gabe punched a code
into a door and they entered a darkened building.

“Shush,” Gabe said as he de-armed a bleeping alarm system.
Helena glanced at her watch; it was after 2am.

“Gabe,” she called, slowly feeling her way into the darkened
lobby. “Gabe,” she whispered again into the darkness.

“Relax,” Gabe suddenly whispered. Somehow, he was now behind
her and Helena felt the warmth of his breath against her ear. She allowed him
to take her by the hand again and slowly they ascended a winding set of fire
escape stairs. At the top of the stairs Gabe shouldered open a door and then
turned back to her.