The Modeliser Page 3

  CHAPTER THREE

  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 on to 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 36, she looked better now, than she had at 16, when she’d first boarded a plane out of the small Australian town where she was born. By 21 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 blond 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, which lay in a pool of silk on the floor 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 trademark 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 for 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 8 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 withou
t 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 re-start 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 raise 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 lounge.

  “Casey, why don’t you take the day off?” Tamara bestowed a bright smile on her assistant.

  “Oh. Thanks Tamara.” Casey all but ran from the room, such largesse from Tamara was almost unheard of and she wasn’t hanging around for her boss to change her mind.

  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 card rights, Vassily Romanov would ensure she never had to work again.

  After a long soak in her antique freestanding bathtub, Tamara emerged to find Casey already waiting to wave her off. She would be late to set, but this didn’t worry Tamara unduly, she was always late and they always waited.

  “Someone called Dom rang you. He didn’t leave a message.” Casey told her as they emerged into the sunny London day.

  “Dom,” Tamara’s brow furrowed momentarily and then she felt a twinge of guilt. That poor mousy storyliner didn’t know what was about to hit her. “Oh don’t worry about him.” With a shrug of disinterest, Tamara walked towards her waiting car as Casey followed her, carrying her Hermes Birkin handbag and the script pages for the day.

  “And Damian called, a sixth time.” At this Tamara sighed. Married men were the worst, so needy. She would have to end things with Damian. Ignoring Casey, Tamara climbed into the back of the Black Mercedes that the broadcaster provided to take her to and from the studio.

  “Bruno darling..” She cooed sweetly at her driver.

  “Morning Miss T.” As the driver started the engine, Tamara took the script that Casey handed to her.

  “Casey, talk to the phone company, see about blocking Damian’s calls.” Casey nodded; this wasn’t the first time that Tamara had demanded that the phone company block a caller. “And give William, a call, tell him I need a dress tonight, something worthy of a billionaire.”

  “Sure thing Tamara.” But before Casey could finish talking, Tamara had already pressed the button to wind the window up and the car was moving off down the small lane, past the exclusive terrace of mews houses.

  In the car, Tamara put on a large pair of Chanel sunglasses and leaned back, contemplating the events of the night before. She had been working for 20 years and she was exhausted. For now, she would have to continue to play the TV game but the future, she’d decided, was in men like Vassily Romanov; rich men, powerful men, the kind of men who could provide her with the life she had always wanted. Tamara had never been the kind of girl to wait for things to happen and she wouldn’t start waiting now.

  Vassily Romanov would be hers, one way or another. And with this thought she finally picked up the script pages and began to memorize her lines for the day.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “Oh my god!”

  The squeal of shock laced with a building excitement pierced through Alex’s inebriated fog and he looked up to see two women standing over him, one slim and the other round and curvy. Alex had ventured out of the cosseted luxury of the villa to explore the surrounding town, eventually settling in this small bar, little more than a shack really, where local fishermen and Mexican families seemed to gather to watch cable television, smoke, drink and have dinner. There’d been few tourists to behold and it had amused Alex when one of the locals attempted to sell him a bootlegged copy of his latest film. He’d handed over a few dollars and bought a copy just to get to the guy to leave him in peace.

  These two women were the first non-Mexicans he’d seen in the bar since he’d been coming there.

  “Oh my god.” The tall slim one breathed the words again, more quietly this time. “You’re Alex Golden.” Alex forced himself to focus on them and he re-adjusted his initial impression. They were young, hardly more than girls. The curvy one stood back, allowing her slim blonde friend to do the talking. Alex s
wayed slightly as he rose to his feet, with the trademark smile that he’d perfected over the years. He leaned close to the girl.

  “Shush,” he said. “That’s our little secret.” The girl seemed to be holding her breath, her eyes drilling into him as they stood toe to toe. Alex stared at her flawless youthful skin, she was tall he realised, able almost to stare straight into his eyes. He smiled again as unthinkingly he laid his hand on her shoulder, to give her a reassuring pat. He’d grown used to this over the years; young girls, women and sometimes even men, who looked ready to faint at the sight of him. Sometimes it still amused him but now craving anonymity, he simply wanted them to get their picture and go. The hand on her shoulder seemed to reanimate the girl and she turned to her friend and then back to Alex.

  “Can we get a picture?” she asked. Alex heard the twang of the American Mid-West in her surprisingly husky voice.

  “Sure.” He replied, as the girls immediately stepped either side of him. One of the Mexican fishermen quickly obliged, taking the photo with a knowing wink at Alex that made him realise that perhaps he had not been quite as incognito as he’d thought.

  “Thanks,” the blonde girl said. Her dark haired friend smiled shyly at Alex, chiming along her own thanks. Relieved he sank back down into his seat, watching as the girls wound their way through the tables and chairs and out of the bar. He would finish this beer and then head back to the villa. But before he’d taken even one sip of his rapidly warming beer, he felt a shadow once again fall across him. He looked up; it was the blonde girl again.

  The unfocused desire he’d seen in her eyes had crystallized now into intent. Alex watched her idly. She really was stunning. Her face was free of makeup and those legs, which seemed to go on forever were encased in the briefest of khaki shorts that revealed slim tanned thighs. How old could she be? Youthful innocence seemed to shine off her but Alex wasn’t fooled, he’d met too many starlets, pin ups and porn stars that channelled that same look. He watched her silently; curious about how far she would go. What had she done with the friend he wondered? Slowly she leaned down until her chin was level with his and she stared into his eyes. No doubt she knew that he had a direct view down the thin white vest that she wore. He could see her small breasts, which hung free under the thin tank top. She stared at him and against his will he found his interest stirring. It was two days since Isabella had left in a fury, finally realising that she was on her way out. The fact that Page Six had run a story about his fling with her Pilates instructor had been the final straw. There had been righteous anger and indignation but no tears and certainly no begging; Alex admired Isabella for that. She’d packed her bags and simply left. Though he’d got the outcome that he wanted, Alex suddenly realised the truth of that statement that women bandied about. There’s no better way to get over someone than to get under someone else. Not that he needed to get over Isabella but being in this hot, steamy climate without anyone in his bed was a less than satisfactory outcome. He stared at the coltish blonde, watching the desire in her eyes grow.