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“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 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 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 longue 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.
Not that this was an unusual occurrence but curious in spite of himself, Alex threw aside his phone and flicked the volume up with the television remote. Now he spotted that the TV was on Z News, a Hollywood celebrity news channel, which seemed inescapable wherever one was in the world. The presenter was in full flow.
“And Hollywood buzz is saying the Alex Golden is out and Max Maguire is in for the big budget adventure trilogy Defender, we’ll have more on this breaking story as it comes in.” For a moment Alex was frozen as the photograph of Max Maguire flicked off the screen to be replaced by another image as the presenter moved on. He flicked the TV back to silent, noting in a beat that the tension in his neck was back.
Alex had never been especially competitive, but Max Maguire infuriated him as few others could. Somehow he seemed determined to cast himself as ‘The New Alex Golden’ and in recent months they had butted heads and wound up in talks for the same roles. Not that he needed to compete for scripts but something about Max unsettled him, not least that he was five years younger than him. Alex had been determined to land the title role in Defender, a trilogy of films from Australian director Cole Sidney that seemed likely to do for sci-fi what Lord of the Rings had done for fantasy. The buzz was immense and he had assumed, after a chat with the director, that the arrival of an offer was a mere formality. The azure blue of the sea that had been so calming now had little effect on him; all he could feel was the onset of a pounding headache. He would have to call Avital.
He pushed himself off the sofa, just as Isabella emerged from the bedroom, now naked beneath a sheer silk wrap.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” she pouted at him, this time with a hint of the mischievous smile that made men go weak. Alex grimaced; he hadn’t time for Isabella, not now. He turned his back on her, reaching for his mobile phone.
“I have to call Avital.” He tapped at Avital’s name in his speed dial list, even as he could hear the faint slap of Isabella’s bare feet against the floor as she moved towards him. As he was about to connect the call, he felt a whisper of silk, followed by her naked breasts, pressed against his back.
“Do you have to?” she asked, though it wasn’t really a question. She’d already traced her cool hands around his narrow waist and up his chest to his arm before gently squeezing his bicep. She took the phone out of his hand and threw it onto the sofa, where it landed silently on the thick pile of cushions. Then, she snaked her arm around his waist again and pulled him around to face her. Isabella pressed herself against him, pinning him to the cabinet behind them. Her tongue flicked out to lick her bee-stung lips and Alex followed the movement with a hungry look, already diverted from his plan; Avital could wait. She leaned in and teased his lips with her tongue and then, in that way that she did, she kissed him, hard. He’d always been struck by the forceful, almost masculine single-mindedness that Isabella brought to sex; how she always made sure to take her pleasure first. But tonight it seemed her earlier bad mood was forgotten and it was all about him. She kissed him again, her tongue fighting with his, biting his lower lip roughly and then she leaned down to lick his nipple, before slowly sinking to her knees. Freeing him from his swimming shorts, she made a deep appreciative noise in her throat as she gripped him tight before slowly starting to stroke her hand up and down. As she bent to kiss the tip, she looked up and winked at him and Alex gave a short, breathless bark of laughter.
Isabella Murada on her knees with his cock in her mouth; that truly was a million dollar shot. And movie star or not, Alex was still man enough to appreciate it.
Later, as they lay in the massive bed on 750-thread count Egyptian cotton sheets, the windows thrown open so that the silvery white light of the full moon flickered into the room, Alex watched Isabella sleep, as she always did, naked on her back. One arm was flung over her head and the other rested low on her abdomen. Even in sleep she looked ready for sex. He would miss her, he thought. Isabella was a smart girl and in a town defined by transactional relationships, where everyone used everyone, Alex understood her desire to be with him. She had left a Spanish millionaire for him and though the sex was good, great even, Alex wasn’t so arrogant as to think that was the full story. Isabella was 28, in model years practically middle-aged. She was a woman looking for her next step, she wanted to make the crossover from model to actress and she’d decided that he was her ticket there. He hadn’t minded really but somehow this afternoon, he’d realised that he was bored, that he needed something new, some new challenge. He needed to shake things up and as every model that had gone before Isabella had learned, when Alex moved on, he was gone. The shift was brutal and immediate and Alex had perfected a principle of never going back and never looking back. He never hooked up with his exes, never revisited fields that he had already ploughed. There’d be a gift, one phone call – the mark of the English gentleman that he was – but when it was over, it was over. Isabella must have sensed his boredom.
“You and me, we’re good together,” she had reminded him earlier, as she had sat astride him, still panting. And Alex had smiled. But once they were back in LA he knew they’d be over. He’d made a life of loving and leaving women. There was no reason to change his ways now.
CHAPTER 2 (#ulink_e6cb2b79-f906-5923-a77e-8138e6989ff5)
“Harder, do it harder.”
Three days later and half a world away on a bright London morning, Talia Blake was woken by this loud, rasping instruction and she blinked with disorientation even as her bed was shaken, beat after beat after beat, by a pounding from the room next door.
“Oh for fuck’s sake. Nina!” Talia yelled in frustration as she snapped awake and sat upright in bed gritting her teeth, even as the lovers came, apparently simultaneously, in the kind of crescendo of banging and squealing that would make a philharmonic orchestra proud. Not for the first time, she wondered how it was that she always managed to land herself with nymphomaniacs for flatmates. As the aerobics finally subsided, she glanced at her bedside alarm clock: 6.15am; she could still have another half hour in bed. She snuggled down under her thin summer duvet and tried to find a comfortable spot as another squeal rang through the dividing wall. Nina and her gentleman caller were going for an encore performance.
“Shit,” she muttered under her breath and, with a muted scream of frustration, Talia gave up on sleep. She kicked the duvet aside and swung her feet onto the floor. She looked down at the improbably high, attention-grabbing scarlet Charlotte Olympia platform shoes which she’d kicked off last night before falling into bed. Reaching down to grab one of the pair, she banged it hard against the wall giving four hard knocks. It had little effect and the sound of frantic lovemaking continued unabated, if anything getting louder.
Nina had once told Talia with a degree of pride that she was sure she could fuck through an earthquake. Talia was sad to report that she now knew this to be true, probably. To think after her last two disastrous flatmates, she’d deliberately sought out a single roommate. Talia thought longingly about the day when she would finally have a place of her own. She wished she could afford to rent alone or better still, buy a flat of her own. Perhaps it was her Only Child Syndrome rearing its head but so many mornings she longed to lie in for as long as she liked, she longed not to have to race to the shower, not to be confronted by mess that wasn’t hers, she longed not to be confronted by evidence of other people’s sex lives.
Wearily she stood up and grimaced as she caught sight of last night’s make-up now smeared all over her face. She’d been too exhausted to wash it off when she’d finally rolled in, dropped at her front door by a black cab after three in the morning. Thinking about last night brought a smile to Talia’s face. The Gilded Cage, a top London club that routinely welcomed celebrities from all over the world, had played host to the summer party of Encounters, the highest-rated soap opera on television. Talia as a storyliner on the show had been there, albeit with some reluctance. She hated parties; she’d often told herself that she simply didn’t have the party gene. She could never hear above the music, never knew how to approach people and start off conversations, and she didn’t drink enough for alcohol to save her either. She might have found an excuse not to go but one of her closest friends, Simone, who also worked in television, had extracted a promise from her that she would make an effort and turn up, if only for her career’s sake.
Darting through the throng of paparazzi and autograph hunters determined to catch a glimpse of the show’s stars, Talia had planned on staying only an hour or two, get her face seen and then leave but surprisingly she’d found she actually enjoyed the party. No expense had been spared, from fire eaters, to stilt walkers to fortune tellers, and she had been glad that she’d forced herself to put on the only sexy dress in her wardrobe, a Diane von Fürstenberg, a gift from her best friend, Helena, which she had never worn before. Even Tamara, the show’s resident bitch both on and off screen, had paid her a compliment.
“Darling, what a transformation, very dramatic.” Tamara had smiled, air kissing in her general direction before disappearing through the crowd, leaving Talia dazed in a heavy cloud of Chanel No 5.
The DVF dress, a dramatic statement against her brown skin, was a distinctive print of vibrant yellows, reds and greens, the kind of bright colours that Talia usually shunned, but from all the compliments she’d received the night before, she’d realised that perhaps colour should play a larger part in her wardrobe. She’d teamed the dress with the high Charlotte Olympia heels. The heels also came from Helena who, as an editor on style bible Époque, had access to an apparently limitless fashion cupboard, which meant she was constantly pressing beautiful designer accessories on Talia. Between Helena and Simone, Talia often found herself being lectured about her refusal to engage with fashion.
“I’m not into pain and all these clothes are just not comfortable or even practical,” Talia had once told Helena, but her friend had simply snorted and the gifts continued. It wasn’t that Talia couldn’t see the beauty in designer clothes; it was simply that her budget didn’t stretch to the frothy, outlandish garments that were a part of Helena’s world. For Helena, fashion was life. But for Talia, nothing was more important than her career at Encounters. She liked comfortable, practical things and, as she’d found, tottering around in the platform shoes the night before, fashionable and comfortable didn’t seem to go hand in hand.
Nevertheless, she had actually enjoyed the party and danced to every song on the dance floor. Once during the night, she’d found herself pressed against a wall by an insistent First Assistant Director from the show.
“You look so fucking gorgeous in the dress, I should have talked to you before now.” The drunken confession had been followed by a very wet kiss. For Talia this was pretty much unheard of and she allowed a small smile. She could practically hear Helena’s voice now – “You should have gone home with him.” She might not have followed Helena’s standard advice but Talia still allowed herself a small pat on the back at her small progress. She’d not pushed the AD away immediately; she’d allowed him to kiss her for a moment, never mind that the smell of beer on his breath slightly turned her stomach.
In the room next door, Nina and her lover had finally subsided and Talia flicked on the radio then moved to the small desk in the corner of her bedroom. She powered up her MacBook, as she did every morning without fail. As the laptop loaded up, Talia pulled some clothes out of the wardrobe, paying slightly more attention than usual to what she picked out. It was appraisal day today and she wanted to look smart. She’d already been prepped for what to expect and Talia felt a shiver of excitement, which she quickly banked down. As the sound of the computer starting up rang out, an image appeared on the screen for a moment and Talia felt a buzz of appreciation run through her. It was a photograph of a bag; a bag of the finest burnished leather, an oak-coloured Mulberry Bayswater designer handbag. Though she usually had little interest in high fashion, something about this bag had captured Talia’s imagination and she had decided that she would buy herself one, when she received her promotion. That day was today. All her slogging on the story team, all the late nights and early mornings, would finally pay off. Talia thought back to the conversation she’d had last week with her boss.
“So, Martin’s decided to move to LA and write movies.” Rick had strolled into her office drawling the words with a confident smirk as Talia had paused in her typing to look up at him.
“What?” she had squealed. “He has a contract.” Rick had smiled then.
“Don’t worry, he’ll be back. We pay them well, they get too big for their boots, think they’re going to LA to run things.” Rick had snorted. “Martin is very well looked after here, he won’t last in LA for long, being a very small fish writer from England in a very big pond.”
Talia had nodded. Rick was right but it didn’t solve their immediate predicament. “But what do we do while he finds himself? We’re already a writer short on the core team and we’ve got some major storylines coming up. Martin knows this show better than anyone.”
“Not better than you,” Rick had fired back at her. Talia looked up at him confused.
“What do you mean?” she’d finally asked, her heart already racing.
“I mean that you’re getting what you wanted. As of next week, after your appraisal, you’ll be the newest member of the core writing team.”
“What!” Talia had spluttered, shocked, even as she was filled with nervous excitement.
“Tal, you’ve rewritten half the scripts for the last two years and ghosted the other half. You’re a great writer and it’s what you want, isn’t it?” Rick had shot her a challenging look.
She’d nodded. It was what she wanted, more than anything. Finally she would be a writer, writing on the show that had consumed her life the last few years. “I won’t let you guys down. I promise.”
Talia leaned back in her chair as the image of the designer handbag disappeared. Today, that conversation would finally be made official. She clicked an icon on the computer screen and watched as the story document loaded up. She tapped in the obligatory password that the screen demanded before she could access the confidential storylines that marked out the next year of stories on the show. Even after four years in which she’d battled her way up the ranks, she still felt a frisson of pride and excitement whenever she typed in her password. She’d always been good at keeping secrets and there was something potent about knowing how stories would play out, how characters loved by the entire country would be doing in one year’s time. Though many had tried, Talia was scrupulous about never giving anything away and eventually her friends had stopped asking for hints or spoilers.
Within minutes, she was lost in the world of Melanie, Jordan, Eloise and Carlos and the other workers at the Encounters boutique who kept TV audiences spellbound and kept the show at the top of the ratings. These stories, which would be her last as storyliner, promised a bombshell Christmas revelation; she’d definitely saved the best for last. After today, she was heading for the writers’ room. Not merely devising the stories but now actually writing the dialogue, the scripts – the whole nine yards. Talia smiled, imagining her rosy future, and then she gasped, leaping to her feet as she caught sight of the clock. She’d miss her train at this rate.
She showered quickly, throwing on clothes at breakneck speed. She skipped breakfast and was ready to head out in less than twenty minutes even though her brown hair hung in damp frizzy tendrils around her shoulders and face. It was a bright day and the sun already shone over London, with the weather forecast promising a fine summer’s day. As she passed the hallway mirror, Talia sighed as she caught a glimpse of her deep brown hair, which was already drying in untidy curls around her face; so much for the sleek look she’d hoped to present for the meeting that afternoon. Her eyes darted to the clock; she’d probably miss the train anyway, she might as well take the time to tame her hair. Decision made, Talia allowed her battered workbag, an ageing leather satchel, to drop to the floor and she made her way into her room, grabbing the hairdryer. As she vigorously dried her hair, a man emerged from Nina’s bedroom. Talia was relieved to see that he was dressed; they weren’t always. The man was heading out but he stopped as he spotted Talia through her open bedroom door.
“Hi,” Talia nodded at him, surprised that she actually recognised him. In the seven months she’d lived with Nina, she’d gained a breezy insouciance in dealing with strange men who never made a repeat appearance but this one, Javier, had been around several times in the last few weeks. If any man could make Nina give up her life of one-night stands, she supposed this was a pretty fine choice. He was tall, around 6ft, she guessed and could very well be in the dictionary next to the description for tall, dark and handsome.
“Good morning, Talia.” He smiled at her as he spoke, his voice deep with an accented inflexion that hinted at his Cuban roots. “Good party last night?”
Talia nodded. “I didn’t wake you when I came in, did I?” She felt a moment of guilt; perhaps she’d been less than considerate when she’d tottered in, unsteady in her heels.
“Of course not. It’s good to have some fun, no?” Javier smiled. “I’ll see you later,” he said as he moved to the front door.
She watched him go with a small twinge of irritation. Why did everybody think that she didn’t have any fun? She heard the front door open and close and she continued briskly straightening her hair till it framed her face. Digging into her bag, which was heavy with scripts, rehearsal drafts and story documents, Talia pulled out her battered make-up bag, the same one she’d carried for years. Most of the make-up contained in it hadn’t been changed in ages. She dabbed on some foundation and followed that with a dash of bronze eye shadow, an unevenly drawn line of black across her lids and then she pouted into the mirror as she layered a thick gloop of gloss on her lips. Talia smiled at the effect, it was rare for her to take the time to wear make-up and she’d always thought that one day she would like to take a make-up class and learn to apply it properly. After all the sacrifices she’d made to make it as a storyliner and cross over to writing, perhaps now she might get the chance to take that make-up class, or do yoga – maybe she’d finally do all those things she’d been meaning to do the last few years. Talia smiled a rueful smile; she wasn’t fooling herself. She was a workaholic, always had been. Whatever she turned her mind to had always consumed her. She glanced again at her watch; still a few minutes before she had to leave home to catch the next train to the studios. It was a sunny morning and she decided to walk slowly and grab a coffee on the way to the station. Just then Nina’s door opened once again.
Oomph! Before Talia could say anything she was enveloped in a hug from Nina.
“Morning, Tal.” Slowly Talia untangled herself from the embrace. She looked into her roommate’s face looking for some sign that might explain this utterly uncharacteristic display of affection.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. Nina laughed, that deep dirty laugh that wouldn’t be out of place in a smoky club but which in broad daylight always seemed slightly indecent and rather too filthy for company.
“Silly, nothing’s wrong,” Nina said as she took Talia by the arm and walked her to their open-plan kitchen. “Shall I make you a coffee?” Now Talia was worried, it was almost unheard of for Nina to offer to do anything to help anyone.
“Sure,” she murmured, even as Nina was already flicking the kettle on and casting around for a mug, looking like a stranger adrift in her own kitchen. Talia watched her with distracted confusion; it wasn’t that she didn’t care about Nina’s dramas, but she really didn’t want to miss her next train. Nina handed her a cup of comically white coffee and Talia sipped it warily, aware that her roommate watched her with what could only be described as a beatific smile on her face.
“So I have some news,” Nina smiled and suddenly Talia knew. She’d had enough of these conversations, after all. Like bottles falling off the wall, so too all the women of a certain age of her acquaintance were being picked off.
“Javier and I, we’re getting married.” The last words came out of Nina’s mouth in a squeal of drama and excitement and even though a wash of dismay filled her, Talia took her cue.
“Congratulations! Honey, congratulations.” She rushed around the kitchen table to press a hug on Nina. “Wow, that’s amazing.”
“Isn’t it?” Nina murmured wrapped in a cocoon of happiness. Now Nina held her hand with a nod of understanding in her eyes and Talia knew what was coming, what always followed. Dammit, she’d actually believed all of Nina’s “I’m supposed to be single, I can’t do monogamy” rubbish.
“The thing is, Tal, you know how much I love living with you it’s just that Javier and I, we’ve decided to move to Cuba.” For a moment Talia felt a surge of hope, perhaps she might stay in the flat and wouldn’t once again, for the fourth time in as many years, be required to pack her bags. “So I’ve decided to sell the flat.” The bubble of hope deflated quickly and Talia nodded what she hoped was a supportive nod. “I know you’ll find somewhere that’s just perfect for you.” Now Nina looked down, her long lashes resting on her cheekbones. “You’re not cross with me are you?”
She’s playing me, Talia thought with a flash of irritation. She’d seen Nina use that same look many times with men. “Don’t be silly. I’m just so happy for you.” At this her roommate breathed a sigh of relief.
“Great.” Then she looked seriously again at Talia. Now she wore her sincere expression, the one she used when talking about designer shoes. “Honey, I know you don’t like to talk about these things, but you’ll find your own prince… How’s Steven?” Talia’s smile had started to feel strained and at this mention of Steven whom she’d disastrously dated for five long months after meeting him on the dating site everafter.com. Talia felt the start of a headache. She hated when her newly engaged friends started to hand out relationship advice, like newly converted Christians determined to bring everyone else into the fold.
“Thanks, hon,” Talia murmured with false sincerity and her eyes darted again to her watch. “Listen, I’ve got to run to catch the train. But cocktails later to celebrate?”
“Yay,” Nina smiled. “Isn’t it your big appraisal today?” Talia started in surprise; Nina really was making an effort, she was rarely interested in anything that wasn’t about her.
“Yes, gotta run.” As she moved quickly towards the front door, her hardly-worn Mary Jane shoes clicking on the wood floors, Talia fought to get her mind back on work and away from Nina’s bombshell.
“Good luck,” she heard Nina call out as she slammed the front door shut.
By the time she sat down in the carriage having just, by the skin of her teeth, caught the train, Talia had already started to get her perspective back. Good for Nina. Who knew that the high priestess of sex, booze and food could fall in love? Get married no less. She squashed down the uncharitable thought that she’d had tubes of toothpaste for longer than Nina had known her intended. She hoped it would work out for them. As for her fears about moving again, perhaps it was the perfect time for her to look into getting her own place. With the promotion to the writing team, she’d get a raise and surely that would be enough to fund renting alone whilst she built up a deposit to buy her own flat. As the train headed northwards to the outskirts of London where the Encounters studio was located, Talia felt happier. Her life was finally starting, everything she’d worked for was coming together; it was only right that she moved on from Nina’s flat. Across the aisle from her, a fellow commuter reached into her bag and dug out a copy of Soap Lives magazine. Talia smiled and felt a moment of pride as she spotted the cover of the magazine. Two of the characters from Encounters stared back at her, the stars of a storyline that she’d created. Finally, Talia allowed herself to relax; everything she’d worked for was within her grasp.
CHAPTER 3 (#ulink_e6226298-9bae-5334-83f8-d8916c2c3fa2)
Tamara Fearson was coming down from a blissful orgasm.
An all-consuming, earth shattering, lose all sense of time and place kind of orgasm; the kind she’d never been able to reach with any man. Once, there’d been a man who’d been able to push her buttons, push her close to the edge, almost make her forget who she was, but that was a long time ago and the less Tamara thought about him, the better. Men made women weak, she thought, and she could not afford to be weak. Slowly, she allowed her boneless, enervated body to sink deeper into her silk sheets and chuckled quietly to herself. The triumph of the night before was still in her blood. She lifted a limp arm to wipe at the sheen of perspiration on her forehead and then, she rolled over onto her side, feeling her heartbeat finally start to slow down. With a languorous move, Tamara kicked the thin sheet to the end of the bed, exposing her nude body to the coolness of her bedroom.
Hazy sunlight flickered through gauzy curtains, which hung in the window of her Primrose Hill mews house. Across from the bed was a floor-to-ceiling mirror and Tamara lay perfectly still, luxuriating in the reflection of herself that greeted her. She stared at herself critically but with a measure of pride. At thirty-six, she looked better now than she had at sixteen, when she’d first boarded a plane out of the small Australian town where she was born. By twenty-one she’d been modelling in Sydney before she’d landed in an Aussie soap that was watched all over the world.
Tamara rose slowly from the bed with unhurried movements, uncaring that her driver would soon arrive to ferry her to set. Tamara always slept in the nude, so that every morning she was greeted by this full-length reflection of her body – no wrinkle, no unsightly extra inch, no blemish would be missed. Ruthlessly she hunted down, dissected and where necessary rectified her own faults before anyone else could take her to task about them.
Standing directly in front of the vanity mirror, Tamara stared at herself, taking a deep breath. Her natural golden blonde hair was a silken wave down her back. Her eyebrows, just a shade darker than her hair, were thick, fashionably so for this season. Her eyes, a unique shade of green-blue, were the same aquamarine of the sea, where she’d been born. Her frame was small but her breasts, pert with dark raspberry nipples, were a touch larger than one would expect on her frame. And at 5’9”, Tamara was tall. Men often said that it was a toss-up with Tamara Fearson, legs or breasts, for she had both in abundance; the siren who could lure both breast and leg men. Her look was that of the angelic blonde, a princess, and yet, as her success on Encounters showed, her public loved her best when she was playing a bitch from hell. Tamara stretched her arms high above her head, luxuriating in the feeling of her body being stretched almost to the edge of pain. With a series of deep yogic breaths, she slowly lowered her arms. Right on cue there was a knock on her door and Casey walked in, carrying her daily dose of vitamins and a health shake that had been specially concocted for her by her personal nutritionist.
“Morning, Tamara,” Casey smiled, placing the tray down on a table before laying down a stack of magazines and the day’s papers. Barely sparing a glance for her young assistant, Tamara moved towards the table and one after the other popped the large vitamin pills into her mouth before washing them down with the rather odious-looking green drink. Her assistant didn’t bat an eye at her nudity, having long since grown used to her tendency to walk around the house naked.
Tamara watched as Casey busied herself picking up the clothes that she’d dropped on the floor when she arrived home the night before. The dress was a green whisper of the finest silk, a vintage Tom Ford for Gucci original that would have to be sent to a specialist cleaner. The shoes – a staggeringly high pair of Christian Louboutins with the distinctive red sole, Casey tidied into Tamara’s shoe closet, alongside the hundred or so pairs of stilettos that were her trademark.
“Papers!” Tamara’s demand shot across the room and Casey immediately returned to read the morning’s headlines to her boss. Tamara watched as Casey nervously shuffled the mix of papers, magazines and the scurrilous weeklies, whose avowed mission seemed to be to shame TV stars by publishing unflattering photographs of them.
“‘Tamara Fearson dazzles in Dior.’” Tamara smiled as Casey showed her the photograph on the cover of one of the tabloids. The photo had been taken outside The Gilded Cage when she’d arrived for the Encounters party.
“Anything else?” she fired back at Casey, for her triumph last night hadn’t been at the Encounters party. It was the party afterwards that Tamara was most interested in.
“Well this one says…” Casey trailed off nervously. Just the week before she had been at the receiving end of a flying copy of Vogue when Tamara had learned that her young co-star Angelina Starling had been featured in the magazine.
“Carry on,” Tamara snapped and with a gulp Casey pushed on.
“It says, ‘The Botox has landed’.” Casey breathed a sigh of relief as a peal of laughter rang out from Tamara.
“Botox,” Tamara snorted, “if only they knew.” Tamara leaned forward brushing aside Casey’s hands to flick through the papers herself. And then she smiled as she finally found what she was looking for. On the cover of one of the tabloids – Daily World –was a photo of Angelina Starling, a rather tawdry photograph of the nation’s sweetheart, caught in flagrante. A shiver of delicious malice ran through Tamara as she stared at the photograph; careers had been destroyed by less. “Are there more like this?” She didn’t bother to conceal her glee.
“All the tabloids have picked it up,” Casey responded. “Poor Angelina.” At Tamara’s raised eyebrow, Casey quickly schooled her expression into a more neutral one.
“Well, that’s that for her then.” From the start Tamara had detested the young upstart, but the girl had gone too far. Bad enough that she’d been selected for a Vogue profile when Tamara herself had never been featured, but to refer to her as a ‘mother figure’. It was then that Angelina had sealed her fate. Nobody crossed Tamara. With a smile, she consigned her young co-star to the back of her mind and turned back to the papers. “Anything else of me?”
“Just this one.” Casey pulled out another paper and breathed a sigh of relief at the smile that Tamara bestowed on her. It was a photograph of Tamara taken the night before, not in the Dior dress that she’d worn to the Encounters cast party but in her second outfit of the night – the vintage Tom Ford, as she’d arrived at the launch of Imperium, the latest hotel venture by Russian magnate Vassily Romanov.
“Bingo,” Tamara said to herself, quickly flicking to page eight to read the columnist’s piece. Slowly, a wide smile spread across her face as she read the copy. ‘Actress Tamara Fearson arrives at the launch of Imperium. Moments later, she stole a march on all the socialites in attendance by convincing billionaire oligarch Vassily Romanov to leave his own party with her. Quelle scandale! We’ll be following this story with interest.’
If she’d been alone Tamara might have danced across the room. “You can go now, Casey.” With a quick nod, Casey jumped up, scuttling to clear up the tray and the discarded papers. As the door shut behind her assistant, Tamara padded across the room, sliding into a silk La Perla dressing gown. She felt the kind of giddy excitement that she hadn’t felt in a long time as she thought about last night and her meeting with Vassily Romanov. It wasn’t the first time that Tamara had targeted a man but this time she was serious. She’d been furious to learn that the Encounters party fell on the same night as the launch of Imperium, but having worked so hard to wangle an invitation from some high society bitch, she had no intention of missing the launch of the new super-luxury hotel in Knightsbridge. After a hasty change, Tamara had arrived at Imperium, a woman with a plan.
There was something about Tamara Fearson that made men want to beg. At first glance, she seemed an angelic blonde but they quickly realised that she was not one of those women who sought to hide her power. There was steel in her eyes. She was a woman who knew what she wanted, who took what she wanted without apology and what she wanted was Vassily Romanov. She had strolled into the room, uncaring that she knew nobody at the party, that this throng of Chelsea heiresses and Knightsbridge old money was far out of her social circle. She had positioned herself close to the private lift that she knew would bring Vassily down from the penthouse. She’d charmingly but firmly evaded the attentions of a red-faced Lord with wandering hands and as Vassily emerged from the lift, Tamara took her chance, knowing that once he got into the room, the Chelsea girls would get their husband-hunting claws into him and never let go.
Tamara moved forward, a glass of red wine in her hand. She knew at once that Vassily had noticed her. Their eyes met and held and she saw the flare of attraction in his eyes and also grudging respect when she met and fearlessly held his gaze. She moved purposefully towards him, marvelling at the fact that he was actually better looking than his pictures. He was tall, easily over 6ft with a powerfully built physique. There had been rumours and whispers circulating about his connections to the FSB and the Russian Secret Service but however he’d got that toned physique, Tamara was impressed. They would make a perfect couple, she thought, both of them so blonde and tall. She moved towards him, noting that others too had started to notice him and were already turning to make their approach. She did not stop until they were almost toe to toe and then with a flick of her wrist, she tossed the entire contents of her wine glass over him – watching as the red liquid spread across his pale blue shirt.
A shocked gasp echoed through the room. The live band came to an abrupt halt and then silence descended, only for a moment, before whispers began to spread through the guests. Tamara Fearson had just thrown a drink in Vassily Romanov’s face. Tamara watched as through the crowd two men in dark suits pushed forward, Vassily’s security, she imagined. With a smile of total confidence, she leaned in to him.
“We’d better get you out of those wet clothes.” She said the words without any doubt in her voice and she watched the stunned expression on Vassily’s face, the stillness, and then with a small almost imperceptible nod he turned, taking her arm leading her towards his elevator. They’d been followed by shocked whispers and as the elevator doors had whizzed shut, Tamara had smiled, a small smile of triumph at the shocked faces of the Sloanies and heiresses. She might not have their money or titles or connections but she had something that money couldn’t buy. Balls. And she always got her man.
“Now that you have me here, what is the plan?” Vassily’s drawled words intruded on Tamara’s feeling of triumph. She turned to look at him and then flicked a finger out to press the stop button, halting the lift.
“I hadn’t really thought this far,” she replied, surprised by how much his unwavering gaze was affecting her. “God, you really are beautiful,” she muttered already stretching up to pull his head down to hers. The kiss was unlike anything she had ever experienced. Suddenly, she felt like a volcano about to erupt and his hands were around her pulling her into his hard body and then lifting her off her feet until her back was hard against the mirrored wall in the lift. She felt him grind hard into her and then abruptly, he was pulling away.
“This is unexpected,” he said, his voice deeper and huskier than it had been moments before. Reaching back to the lift panel, Tamara pressed a button to restart the lift and then she smiled as slowly she began to unbutton his shirt.
“You really should change out of this, and go back to your party.” She watched his eyebrow rise in surprise.
“And you?”
“You’ll find me I’m sure.” And as the lift doors opened, she stepped out, immediately making her way to the fire escape. “I’ll take the stairs.”
Tamara started as she was jerked from her memories of the night before by another knock at her door. “What is it, Casey?” she snapped impatiently as the door opened to admit her assistant who was carrying a large exquisite bouquet of flowers.
“These just came for you.” Tamara smiled immediately, confident that she knew who they were from. She reached for the card, eagerly opening it and then she sank down into her chaise longue.
“You can go.” Tamara bestowed a bright smile on her assistant, waving her away, her focus on the flowers.
“Oh. Thanks, Tamara.”
As she watched Casey disappear from the room, Tamara looked down again at the card that accompanied the flowers. You owe me a shirt. Bring it to dinner. San Lorenzo, Beauchamp Place, 8pm. VR. With a whoop of delight, Tamara jumped up, ready to face the day on set. If she played her cards right, Vassily Romanov would ensure she never had to work again.
