Overnight, Summer’s life had changed. The executive producer of ‘On Heat’ had been delighted with the segments Summer had shot in Monaco and now wanted her on board for every production meeting. Her arrival back from Monte Carlo also coincided with the appearance of the Karenza spring/summer advertising campaign. It was nothing short of sensational: Summer’s body, naked except for a tiny white thong, the sheen of Caribbean water on her skin sparkling like diamonds, her skin so tanned and polished it looked as if she’d been dipped in molten gold. Best of all, the ads were everywhere: Vogue, Harper’s, Elle, Marie Claire, even on selected crash-inducing billboards around London. AdWeek called it the sexiest campaign since Brooke Shields told the world what came between her and her Calvin’s, and the Advertising Standards Authority denounced it for its ‘gratuitous sexual content’. That was enough to turn a great ad campaign into a public event. The Daily Mail ran an angry editorial about the damage Summer’s body was doing to impressionable young minds, while the Sun ran a centre-spread image with a ‘Who’s That Girl?’ headline. Summer had arrived and she was on a high. Even Sarah Simpson had taken the news of her replacement by Summer surprisingly well. She’d met an Italian at the casino and she was considering relocating to Milan to be with him.
Molly, of course, was delighted, and decided to take her daughter’s success into her own hands. She fired La Mode agency and put in a call to IMP, who had taken Summer onto their books, immediately being snowed under with offers. The fashion industry were like sheep; if there was a hot girl in a hot campaign, then everybody wanted to use her. Molly’s interest in Summer’s career wasn’t entirely altruistic, however. Two days after Summer appeared in the Sun centre spread, Molly’s agent Eric Snowdon gave her a call for the first time in years. ‘Remember what Twiggy did for Marks and Spencer?’ he said. Apparently Playboy were also interested. The fee was huge but Molly reluctantly told Eric to turn them down. She gave him some faux-modest flannel about being too long in the tooth, but the truth was Molly was embarking on another career now. True, there were some men who liked seeing their girlfriends in Playboy. But not many. Not Marcus, not Adam, and certainly not Alex Delemere.
Molly was already at Le Caprice, flicking through a copy of Tatler, when Summer arrived to a flurry of platitudes from the maître d’. She put down the magazine to embrace her daughter and kiss her fondly.
‘It’s so nice being able to do lunch,’ gushed Molly as they sat down. ‘And table seven,’ she whispered, referring to the restaurant’s most sought-after spot.
‘Shall we get a bottle of wine?’
‘Actually yes,’ smiled Summer, who usually stuck to water at lunchtime. ‘We have something to celebrate.’
‘Yes, we do,’ said Molly, already speed-reading the list of champagnes. ‘I’ve been doing some thinking and I’ve decided to become your manager.’
Summer felt a blur of conflicting emotions all at once: flattered and excited that her mother thought that much of her, but insulted and mildly panicked that Molly would now be controlling her life even more than before. Summer didn’t need a shrink to tell her that the thing she had really enjoyed about the Karenza campaign was that she had done it all herself without any interference from her mother.
‘But I already have an agent,’ said Summer quietly.
‘Different things, darling. IMP are fabulous and you need them for shoots, but they’ve got hundreds of other great girls on their books who are essentially in competition with you. I, on the other hand, will proactively steer your career in the direction I think you should take.’
‘Which is what?’ said Summer suspiciously.
‘Darling, you could be the new Heidi Klum.’ She stabbed her fork into her tomato galette.
‘Heidi’s the cleverest model out there. She knows she’s not the most cutting-edge girl on the circuit, but does she go crying into a copy of Spoon magazine? No. She’s designing for Birkenstock and jewellery houses, making millions with Victoria’s Secret. And she still makes the cover of American Elle. Modelling’s not everything, darling. It’s just the start.’
Summer took a breath. ‘Thanks for the offer, Molly. But don’t you think you’re too busy with the job at Midas?’
Ignoring her, Molly pressed on. ‘I don’t know why you are bothering with this presenting business. It’s not really the right image.’
‘Heidi Klum does TV.’
‘She also gets to be executive producer,’ said Molly sagely.
Summer felt herself bristle. Filming in Monaco had been the most fun she’d ever had working. Already she had been to a production meeting at Silverland Media and had spent an hour bouncing ideas around, brainstorming episodes and even coming up with ideas for other shows she could be involved in. She had loved it and she was not going to let Molly sabotage it.
‘Mother, I’m not going to—’
‘At least you’ll be going to the right places with this TV thing, I suppose,’ interrupted Molly. Summer looked surprised at her mother’s turnabout. ‘Because my number one priority is to find you a boyfriend.’
Summer sighed. So Molly hadn’t changed her tune, after all; she just wanted to get her married off to some fat hairy millionaire.
‘I mean, have you even had a date since you’ve been back in London?’ asked Molly.
Summer shrugged. She had had plenty of men offer to take her on dates, alright. They stopped her on the streets, at the gym, on photo-shoots, but she liked to keep her distance. For a moment she allowed herself to think about Charlie McDonald, wondering if he had ever got his record deal. Molly grabbed her daughter’s hand across the white starched tablecloth.
‘Darling, you are the star of the sexiest ad campaign of the summer and you should be capitalizing on this. Plenty of good men have become available recently, and we all know they don’t hang around for very long. I’m going to set you up on a date.’
Summer couldn’t help but giggle nervously. ‘I thought you wanted to be my manager, not my pimp.’
Molly threw down her fork. ‘Don’t be ridiculous! I’m your mother and I want the best for you. I always have.’
Maybe Molly was right. It was a long time since she had had any fun; she could do with some male company. No, it wouldn’t do any harm to go on one date, would it?
It wasn’t exactly a blind date. Molly had taken Summer out for dinner to Cipriani and had invited half a dozen friends, who spent the entire evening knocking back Bellinis and talking excitedly about where they were spending the summer. It was like an episode of ‘On Heat’, Summer thought to herself with a smile. She found herself seated next to Ricardo Lantis, a second-generation Panamanian businessman whose family had made millions in supplying food to supermarket chains around the world. He looked in his early forties; skin tanned, expensively dressed in a blue open-necked shirt, a hint of black chest hair. Ricardo had a permanently serious expression, but lively green eyes and his powerful charisma made up for his rather average looks. Molly had whispered that he had a house in Belgravia and a sprawling estate on Mykonos, where he held the ‘most decadent’ parties every July.
‘It’s impossible to think why we have never met before,’ said Ricardo to Summer as his lobster linguine arrived.
‘It’s probably because I’ve been living in Japan for the last four years,’ she said. ‘It’s been strange coming back. Things seem to have changed completely.’
‘Well, you must let me show you around,’ he said, pouring her a glass of Chablis. ‘London is so underrated, but it is far more exciting than Tokyo, Paris, New York, or wherever your modelling exploits have been taking you.’ He paused, ‘Your mother’s been telling me all about your glittering career.’
Summer wondered how well he knew her mother. She was intrigued by Ricardo, but found him a little intimidating, with his stories of international business. He told her he had studied law at Harvard, but he quit his studies at the age of twenty-four when the lure of the family business – one of the biggest wholesale food businesses in the world – became too much to resist. Now Ricardo was a multimillionaire and commuted between Panama City and London twice twice weekly. On top of that success, he had climbed the Matterhorn, competed in a triathlon and was a black belt in tae kwon do. He was the archetypal alpha male; just the sort her mother approved of.
When the dinner party disbanded, Ricardo proposed leading a party in the direction of Annabel’s, but Summer made her excuses – she had a meeting at a cosmetics giant in the morning – a possible campaign, said her agent.
‘Oh come on, darling,’ hissed Molly, who was clearly taking advantage of the fact that Marcus was in Dubai on business.
‘I can’t, mum,’ said Summer. ‘Tomorrow is business.’
As they waited in the street for their drivers, Ricardo asked Summer for her number.
‘How about we do dinner on Thursday?’ he said, handing her a card. ‘I’ll send the car to collect you at eight. You can text me your address beforehand.’
As she pulled away in a taxi, Summer sank back in the seat with a satisfied feeling. Her mother certainly seemed pleased for once, and Ricardo was interesting company. Not drop-dead gorgeous but, yes, he was certainly attractive. She closed her eyes and began to look forward to Thursday.