Kitabı oku: «Breaking the Rules», sayfa 3

FOUR

She could not fall asleep; she lay there in the dark, as still as a mouse, listening to the house, listening to its many voices.

She had grown up in old houses, and she knew them intimately. To her, they were living things … they breathed and sighed, and groaned or moaned, especially in winter. And they frequently rattled their ancient bones, and sometimes shifted on their poor old feet. Her grandfather had once told her that the foundation of a house was like a pair of feet, and she had never forgotten this. She smiled to herself now, remembering him. Popsi, she had called him, remembering how he had confided that it was merely the wood used in the structure of the house that was expanding and contracting, and that she mustn’t be afraid of the noises. ‘A house is a safe harbour,’ he had said that day. ‘The one true haven.’

M was well aware it was not the creaking house that was keeping her awake, but her many anxieties. Earlier that evening, she had been scared out of her wits when she had heard those noises downstairs, and had instantly understood there was an intruder on the prowl. How thoughtless Geo had been – and yes, stupid – to come into the house with such stealth. And all because of a man. Dax.

M turned over onto her back, staring up at the ceiling, suddenly thinking of the house where she had grown up and had lived, until very recently, with her parents. She and her siblings had been assiduously schooled to always put the alarm system on, and especially at night, and with such constant and nagging persistence it was forever engraved on her mind.

She had broached the subject of the alarm system here in the old brownstone before coming up to bed tonight. Only when she had finally volunteered to split the cost of having it checked out and properly fixed, if this was necessary, had Geo reluctantly agreed.

This decision had brought a degree of relief to M, and she was determined to make sure it was carried out. Certainly she had no intention of leaving this job to Geo, who, once she was lost in her painting, was lost to the world, with all practical matters obliterated from her mind.

M was a pragmatist by nature, and she believed she had inherited her wonderful practical mind-set from her mother, who had always had her feet firmly planted on terra firma. Her mum was diligent, disciplined, a stickler for work, and shrewd to boot. She loved her mother and father; they were extra special. She knew no one else who had fabulous parents like hers, and she missed them tremendously. But even if she had been in London at the moment, it would have been the same state of affairs. They had gone to Australia for six months, mostly to see her grandmother, her mother’s mother, and M knew she would have been alone in London, except for her favourite sister, which wasn’t a bad thing, after all; but all of her other siblings were abroad, living the life, or so she supposed. And working, of course. That was a certainty.

The Protestant work ethic had been drilled into them, force-fed into them by a couple of crazy zealots, their parents, who believed they were all going to be struck dead if they didn’t work their bums off.

She and her siblings knew that if they didn’t work they wouldn’t get breakfast, lunch, supper, or whatever. ‘You’re positively Dickensian in your attitudes!’ M would yell at her parents, and they would simply laugh and give her the famous V for Victory sign, a la Winston Churchill. And then, relenting, they would cuddle her, spoil her, and congratulate her, telling her she truly was a chip off the old block and was really earning her stripes. And then they would take her somewhere special or buy her a unique gift.

And now here she was, in Manhattan, doing sweet nothing, and getting bored. Dax would go to the Coast, M was convinced of that, and she must endeavour to get a job of some kind. She was not used to lolling around – that was the way she thought of it. Tomorrow she would make an effort to get a part-time job as a waitress. Or a shop assistant. No, waitress. Easier in so many ways. They were looking for somebody at the All-American Cheese Cake Café, not far from West Twenty-Second Street, and it would be something to do and it would give her extra money. Yes, she would go there tomorrow. Talk to the manager. He liked her. Always gave her a big smile.

M turned restlessly in her bed, suddenly focusing on her plans to become a model. Well, she would, she knew she would. After all, she had come here to reinvent herself, to become someone else.

She was seeking obscurity and anonymity, and now she laughed out loud. How truly ridiculous she was. Seeking to go unnoticed, yet she would put herself on a runway. Or in front of a camera to be featured in a magazine fashion spread. A contradiction? Surely.

On the other hand, perhaps not. She was a different person now, no longer the young woman she had been when she first arrived in New York. Anyway, reinvention was exactly that – taking on a new persona. And how simple it was to accomplish. A new name, first off, that was essential, but one close enough to the old to be easy to respond to it instantly, without hesitation. A new set of personal facts about one’s life, also as close to reality as possible, so as not to get into a muddle.

And then reinvent … adding new facts to the best parts of the previous earlier life. This is what she had done; she had even been able to obliterate the bad things, and most especially the one true Bad Thing. She never thought about that; it was currently buried deep, very deep indeed. She would never speak about it, she had never done that, never told anyone anything. It was her big secret. Private, extremely personal, and therefore verboten. Nobody would ever know. Gone. It was gone. It had never happened … push it away. A deep sigh escaped, and then M turned on her side, closing her eyes.

Sudden and unexpected things happening without rhyme or reason still tended to alarm her. And yet she had always been intrepid, even as a child. Nothing had ever fazed her, then or later, when she was growing up. Her brothers said she had total courage and fortitude, and neither of them was prone to pay her compliments needlessly. She had lost her courage for a while, but it had come back in Manhattan. To her surprise she felt extraordinarily safe in this great metropolis, was at ease in this glittering city. Furthermore, it was not very hard to reinvent oneself here.

No one bothered about where you’d been to school, what your parents did, whether or not you had a pedigree, an aristocratic background, or came from wealth. It was truly a classless society, that’s what she liked about it. In fact, this was a society of achievement. Brains, brilliance, talent and tenacity, drive, ambition and success. Those were the things that made the biggest impression in Manhattan, and made it the place to be, as far as she was concerned. She had been content here.

As she lay contemplating the future, and what she was going to do, M suddenly thought of her rules: Be brave, be true to yourself, and realized she had broken one of her most important rules, rule three in her book: KEEP BUSY. Quite unexpectedly, she understood how much time she had wasted with Dax … going to coffee shops, taking in movies, listening to him pontificate about his life, watching TV shows with him, keeping him company. Because he was lonely. And so was she, if she was truthful.

Being a member of a big family, with a number of siblings, meant she had been brought up in a crowd, always surrounded. And she had been teased, applauded, sometimes taunted and shouted at, but always very much loved … and rarely alone.

I’m going to go out and get a job, she promised herself now. It would keep her busy, fill up her spare time, and the money would be useful. When she had arrived in New York she had brought enough money to last her for a year, providing she was careful. She had opened a bank account and used the money very sparingly, for rent, food and transportation, although mostly she walked everywhere. Locked up in the suitcase under her bed was an envelope of traveller’s cheques that her sister had forced on her before leaving London. She hadn’t wanted to accept them, but knew only too well not to argue with her darling Birdie, who termed the envelope of cheques ‘your safety net’ – and that’s how she thought of them. They were meant to be used only in extreme emergency.

Starting tomorrow, she would find a job, a part-time job, so she could continue to haunt the modelling agencies, and hopefully Geo would keep her promise and contact the two photographers she said she knew. They were old friends Geo had known through her sister.

Fingers crossed, M thought, and very shortly she fell asleep. It was an exhausted sleep, and dreamless.

FIVE

M was filled with excitement and anticipation, and there was a spring in her step as she walked down West Twenty-Second Street. She was on her way to see Frank Farantino, the photographer, who had told Geo to send her along to his studio today.

In one sense she had lost a friend with the departure of Dax to Los Angeles; on the other hand, she had gained a friend in Georgiana Carlson.

After that debacle in the middle of the night, a few weeks ago now, Geo had tried her hardest to make amends. Keeping her promise, Geo had spoken to Hank George and Frank Farantino about her, and several days ago both photographers had at last been back in touch with Geo, and appointments had finally been made.

The first was with Farantino, at his studio in the Meatpacking District, which was an easy walk for M from Geo’s brownstone, and especially on this beautiful September day. The sky was a soft pale blue, puffed up with wispy white clouds, and it was sunny and balmy, but not too hot because of the light breeze blowing off the Hudson River to the west.

Ever since she had come to live in Manhattan, M had done a lot of walking, wanting to get to know the city, to become well acquainted with some of her favourite areas. In particular, she loved West Chelsea where she lived, was captivated by its art galleries and cafés, and those lovely tree-filled streets in the West Twenties.

But to M there was something extra special about the Meatpacking District. Now considered the most fashionable part of New York, it had recently been named a Historic District. Over a hundred years ago it had been full of slaughterhouses and meatpacking warehouses, some two hundred and fifty of them. Almost all of those buildings had gone, and in their place were some of the most elegant stores belonging to top fashion designers, as well as nightclubs, bars, cafés, restaurants and spas. It had become a chic place for the young, the hip and the upwardly mobile, and it was littered with celebrities day and night.

M smiled to herself at that thought. Some of her family were quite well known, and certainly she didn’t need to meet strangers who were famous. Dax loved to party with them, and although she liked to hang out with him in the MePa, as it was called, she had managed to slip away when he set his sights on movie stars and the like, becoming oblivious to her.

Dax had gone, taken a plane to the West Coast to seek his fame and fortune, and she wished him well. Deep down she felt a gloomy, gnawing feeling inside; she knew enough about Hollywood to understand it was a world of pain and heartbreak, disappointment and disillusionment.

He had come to say goodbye, her lovely friend Dax, with his eye-catching blond handsomeness, quirky personality and flashing smile. And his rather childlike innocence. He had also had dinner with Geo before flying away, and later Geo had confided that their romantic relationship was indeed over, but they remained friends, and Geo seemed relieved about this.

M was well aware that Dax had gone alone to the West Coast; his entire being was now fully concentrated on his career. He, too, had confided in her … about his love life. Apparently he had not only said farewell to Geo, but also to his new love, Jason. He wanted a fresh start, he had told her; wanted to concentrate wholeheartedly on his career.

Giving her a big hug he had whispered against her hair, ‘I took your advice to heart, M. The only thing I am going to think about is becoming a movie star. Nothing else matters.’

She thought about this now as she continued to walk towards the Meatpacking District, heading in the direction of Frank Farantino’s studio for her appointment at noon. ‘Movie star.’ If that was what Dax wanted to be, and wanted it enough, then he might well get it. Certainly he had the looks, and a unique kind of charisma, a presence. But could he act? Well, that didn’t really matter, did it? Some movie stars were great actors; others couldn’t act their way out of a paper bag. Yet this didn’t seem to prevent them getting work. He had willpower, and that would help him. But was he ruthless? She pondered that. And was he tough enough to withstand the battering, the rejections, and perhaps, most important of all, the competition? She wasn’t sure; she could only hope that he was, for his sake.

Someone she knew very well had once done a stint in Hollywood, and had explained that one needed the stamina of a bull, the skin of a rhinoceros, the brain of Machiavelli and the looks of a Greek god to make it in Dreamland, as he had called it. Perhaps her brother was right … and so she would say a prayer for Dax. He would need lots of prayers. And luck.

Frank Farantino’s photographic studio was on the second floor of what had once been a meatpacking warehouse. The huge black wooden door, decorated with brass nailheads, had FARANTINO painted on it in bright red, and there was a bright red arrow painted above the doorbell. RING IT had been written out in brass nailheads, and she did as she was instructed.

A moment later the door was pulled open by a petite, very pretty woman with startlingly blue eyes and bright red hair cut in a short spiky style. She was dressed entirely in red: T-shirt, tights and cowboy boots.

‘Hi!’ she exclaimed, craning her neck, staring up at M. ‘You’re the appointment, right? The friend of Geo’s?’

‘Yes, I am.’

Opening the door wider, the girl said, ‘Come on in then, don’t stand there. What’s your name again? I’ve forgotten it.’

M laughed. ‘It’s very simple … I’m called M, as in a capital M.’

‘I see. What’s it stand for? The M, I mean.’

‘Marie.’

‘So why don’t you call yourself Marie?’

‘I prefer to be called M.’

‘I guess a lot of girls are calling themselves by an initial these days. So it must be the “in” thing. My brother saw it on YouTube, or some such thing. Maybe it was on Facebook. Or MySpace.’

‘Actually, it’s not something that’s particularly new. The Duchess of Devonshire, who lived long ago, was called G. That was G for Georgiana, by the way.’

‘Who?’ The girl stared at her, a look of puzzlement flashing across her delicately boned face.

‘Never mind, it’s not important. And may I know your name?’

‘Caresse.’

‘It’s pretty, very unusual. I don’t think I’ve ever heard that name before.’

‘I hope not, because I invented it. I didn’t like my own name, so I came up with my … invention.’

‘What was your real name before you changed it?’

‘Helen. Ugh. So dull.’ She made a face.

‘Helen,’ M repeated softly. ‘The face that launched a thousand ships. A very famous name, in fact.’

‘What do you mean?’ The red-headed pixie gave her a hard stare.

‘Helen of Troy … she was so beautiful her husband and her lover fought a terrible and ultimately tragic battle over her … it was known as the battle of a thousand ships.’

‘When was that then?’

‘Twelve hundred years before the birth of Jesus.’

Caresse gaped at her, slowly shaking her head. ‘How do you know that?’

‘I learned it at school.’ Clearing her throat, M went on quickly, ‘Anyway, here I am to see Mr Farantino.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘And I’m on time. It’s exactly noon.’

‘I’ll go and get him,’ Caresse announced, and hurried away.

M watched her go, frowning to herself. Caresse had seemed very young at first glance, but now she thought this pretty, pixielike creature was nearer to thirty than twenty. But she seemed so nice, and M had taken an instant liking to her.

SIX

Frank Farantino was one of the best-known and most successful photographers in New York. In the world, in point of fact. And as he walked out into the entrance foyer of his large studio, he stopped dead in his tracks when the tall young woman wearing a white cotton shirt and black trousers turned around to face him.

He held his breath for a split second as he took in her dark, exotic beauty, her unique looks. Thank you, Geo, thank you very much, he thought. He knew at once that his old friend had sent him a winner, and he was extremely pleased – thrilled, if he was honest with himself – that this extraordinary girl was standing here.

A wide smile enlivened his saturnine face, made it come alive, and then he strode across the floor, his hand outstretched as he stopped in front of the young woman.

‘Frankie Farantino,’ he said, shaking her hand.

‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr Farantino,’ M answered politely, as was her way, smiling back. ‘Thank you for seeing me today.’

‘My pleasure, and drop the Mr Farantino, would you, please? The whole world calls me Frankie. And your name is … M?’ He threw her a questioning look. ‘I am correct about that?’

‘Yes, you are. And before you ask me, my full name is Marie Marsden. My nickname at school was M and M, and I decided it might be better, wiser, to drop one M when I started my modelling career.’ She grinned.

He grinned back at her. ‘English, eh? Geo didn’t tell me that. So, how long have you been in New York?’

‘I came here in June, and I’ve been looking for work ever since. I’m afraid I haven’t been too successful, but then I haven’t been here all that long.’

‘How did you meet Georgiana Carlson?’

‘Through a young man I know … he’s called Dax. He’s a model and an actor.’

‘Oh, sure, I know Dax. I’ve used him from time to time. Geo’s boyfriend.’

‘That’s right. And he’s gone off to the West Coast to try his luck.’

‘He’s smart. So let’s go into the main studio, give it a whirl. How much modelling have you done?’

‘A little. In London.’

‘Did you bring any pictures?’

‘Yes. They’re in my tote.’ As she spoke she picked this up and hurried after him, following him into the studio. ‘As for actual modelling, I haven’t done much of that … been on the catwalk, I mean,’ she admitted, looking suddenly rueful.

‘Let’s see the pictures.’ Frankie Farantino stared at her intently, immediately understanding that she was a novice, a young woman looking for that first break, but this did not trouble him at all. He preferred young women who had not been coached, trained – and often tainted – by other photographers. One of the things he most enjoyed as a photographer was moulding a girl, actually creating her, in a sense, giving her a special look of his own invention. Taking the batch of photographs that M handed to him, he flicked through them swiftly, then glanced at her and half smiled. ‘They’re not bad, and at least I can see you photograph well. But these just don’t do you justice.’ He handed them to her.

‘I suppose not,’ she murmured, and swiftly put them back in the tote, deciding not to show them to anyone again, especially a photographer.

‘Okay, so let’s get started,’ Frankie said. ‘Go and stand over there on that raised platform, and turn slowly, in a circle, so that I can view you from every angle, study you.’

She did as he instructed, stepped up onto the platform, slowly turning, and turning again when he told her to keep moving. ‘Slowly, very slowly,’ he intoned.

Watching her intently, and with concentration, Frankie saw a lot of remarkable things simultaneously. She was lithe, moved gracefully like a dancer and, although she was rather tall, her height was balanced by a good figure and a special kind of inbred elegance. Her face fascinated him … she reminded him of someone he could not quite place. That vague, elusive image flickered at the back of his mind; just as he thought he was about to grasp it, have it fully revealed to him, it floated away – and maddeningly so.

‘Come on down,’ he said at last, and stretched out his hand to help her off the platform. ‘You brought a skirt, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, I did, and a dress. A simple black sheath. High heels, and a pair of flats.’

‘Good. There’s a dressing room over there.’ He indicated a door set in one of the soaring walls. ‘Please change into … well, anything you want.’

M nodded and hurried into the dressing room. She selected her flared, red cotton skirt, which went well with the pristine white shirt, added a wide black leather belt, slipped her feet into her favourite black ballerina slippers. Glancing at herself in the mirror, she decided to pull her hair back into a ponytail, added hoop earrings, and used a brighter red lipstick to define her mouth.

Frankie was loading his camera and looked up when M walked out into the studio. Instantly he knew exactly whom she resembled. A young Audrey Hepburn. He felt sudden excitement surge through him; he could hardly wait to capture her image on film. Only then would he know what he really had, what her potential was.

‘You look great, M!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’d like you to stand over there, in front of that white picket fence with the backdrop of a green field behind it.’

Frankie followed her, put his camera on a side table, and explained, ‘Move around a little, honey. Move your arms, strike a few poses you’re familiar with. Like this.’ He gave her a quick demonstration, picked up his camera and stepped away from her. ‘It’s okay, practise for a few seconds. Don’t look so worried. Smile, M, give me a few dazzling smiles.’

She did as he suggested, and proved so adept he started to shoot immediately, constantly throwing out encouraging words. ‘That’s great! Right on! Now turn left, move your body more. Hey, honey, you’re a natural. Wow! That’s great! Hold that pose. You’re fabulous!’

He went on photographing her for half an hour, exclaiming encouragement and praise, only stopping to grab a different camera, or reload film. Finally he stopped, sat down on a tall stool, and beckoned to her. ‘Stand here, M, stand here in front of me.’

‘Was I all right?’ she asked quietly. ‘Did I move the way you wanted?’

‘Absolutely. And you’re great. But I need to ask you something … have you ever had bangs?’

‘Do you mean a fringe?’ She ran her first finger across her forehead. ‘That’s what we call it in England … a fringe. And no, I haven’t.’

‘What about short hair? Or have you always worn it long?’

‘Mostly, but it was short when I was much younger – when I was a little girl, actually. Why? Don’t you like my hair?’

‘It’s magnificent. Beautiful. So long and glossy, and yes, even dramatic. There’s a lot you can do with long hair.’ Frankie pursed his lips, held his head on one side, and then, suddenly turning away from her, he shouted, ‘Caresse! Come on in here, would you, please?’

A moment later the petite red-headed pixie was running into the studio. ‘Yes, Frankie, here I am. What do you need?’

‘Where’s Agnes? Is she here?’

‘She said she’d arrive by two. With Luke Hendricks, remember? He’s doing that shoot for the ad agency with you.’

Frankie looked at the big round clock on the opposite wall. It was almost one. Turning to Caresse, he said crisply, in an urgent voice, ‘Find Agnes. Try her mobile. Ask her if she can come in a bit earlier, as soon as possible, in fact, and locate Marguerite Briguet, please. Tell her I want her to do a very special makeup job. Okay?’

‘Right away, Frankie!’ Caresse scooted off.

Leaning forward, Frankie Farantino gave M a hard, penetrating stare. ‘I need to give you a whole new look. It will be wonderful for you, but we might have to cut your hair.’

M gasped, taken aback, then stood there gaping at him, her dark eyes widening. She was momentarily speechless. Cut off her hair?

Frankie murmured in a gentler tone, ‘I promise you it will change your life. And it will be a truly unique look, very special to you—’

‘A reinvention?’ she asked, cutting in. ‘Is that what you’re suggesting?’

He nodded, continuing to stare at her speculatively. ‘That’s what I mean. Will you go for it?’

‘Absolutely. I love reinventions, Frankie.’

‘I really don’t want to cut this hair,’ Agnes Manton said softly, smoothing one hand down the long black hair that was one of M’s great assets. ‘Look at it, Frankie, it’s like a … a mantle of shining black silk. It would be criminal to cut this off, truly a criminal act.’

‘Don’t be so melodramatic,’ Frankie shot back, a brow lifting. ‘It is only hair, for God’s sake, and so it will grow back again, Agnes.’

‘I don’t mind,’ M interjected, swivelling her head to look up at the hairdresser. ‘And Frankie’s right, you know, I can grow it back if I want to.’

Agnes nodded, but remained silent, studying the young woman carefully, liking her.

Frankie said, ‘I want to show you something. Just a minute.’ He stepped away from the dressing table in the hair and makeup room at the back of the vast studio, headed for the bookcase at the far end. Taking down a picture book, he flicked through it, quickly found the photographs he wanted, and walked back to the two women.

‘Look at these, Agnes, and you’ll better understand what I’m aiming for. Here.’ He handed her the book, indicating several pages.

When Agnes saw the title ‘audreystyle’, and stared at the first few pictures he was referring to, she knew at once what he wanted. A replica of Audrey Hepburn with one of her short gamine hairdos. Nodding, Agnes said to Frankie, ‘I can still create the look you want without cutting off all of M’s hair.’ She flipped through the book, showed him several other photographs, explained, ‘Here, take a look at this one. Bangs, but with the back in a tight chignon. I should try this first, don’t you think? I just don’t want to be hasty, cutting off all this gorgeous hair.’

Frankie took the book away from her, glanced at the particular photograph she was talking about, and had to agree that there was some truth in what Agnes was saying. With bangs and a twist at the back, Audrey did look more sophisticated and elegant, but she was still Audrey Hepburn.

M said, ‘Can I see the book, Frankie, please? So I know what the two of you are talking about.’

He gave it to her without a word.

M exclaimed, ‘Oh, my goodness, Audrey Hepburn! Is that what you want to do, turn me into a new Audrey?’

Frankie laughed. ‘You got it, kid. Any objections?’

‘No, not at all. I’d love it, actually.’

‘Okay then, let’s do it.’

‘I don’t want to do any cutting,’ Agnes reminded him, a warning look on her face.

‘That’s okay with me,’ Frankie answered, and then said to M, ‘You told me you’d brought a black sheath and high heels. Correct?’

‘Yes. Would you like me to go and put them on?’

‘No, not for the moment. Agnes is going to copy this hairstyle here.’ He turned to the stylist, said in a firmer voice, ‘You must cut the front, though, because I want M to have bangs, and copy this upswept look, please. It’s a very elegant Audrey here … this photo is from Roman Holiday, I believe.’

‘But …’ Agnes began, and stopped when she saw the adamant expression on Frankie’s face. She had worked with him for years and knew when to stop arguing with him.

‘Bangs okay with you, M?’ he asked. He took the book from her, found the picture he wanted, then handed it back to M, pointing his first finger at a page.

‘Bangs are okay, very okay with me,’ M responded, and stared down at the book, then smiled at Agnes. ‘Let’s do it, shall we?’

Placing a cotton cape around M’s shoulders, Agnes picked up her most expensive scissors, took a deep breath and began to cut M’s hair at the front, creating the bangs Frankie insisted on.

M sat back in the chair, watching Agnes work, saying nothing, secretly loving the idea of becoming an Audrey Hepburn look-alike. That really was genuine reinvention, and then some. She smiled inwardly, wondering why she hadn’t thought of this herself. God knows her brothers had often teased her about having such a marked resemblance to the famous actress.

Frankie announced, ‘I’ll leave you to it, Agnes, and when Marguerite arrives I’ll send her in immediately.’ Resting one hand on M’s shoulder, he added, ‘Marguerite is another genius, and between Agnes and her they will turn you into the woman in these pictures. You’ll be the image of the real thing, par excellence.’