– 9 –

When Deidre Crabb got off the train at Stazione Centrale in Florence there was no one waiting to meet her. The May sun was still hot but not uncomfortable, so she decided to walk to her destination, stopping on the way to reacquaint herself with the city she loved above all others.

At Giacosa’s on the Via Tornabuoni she drank negroni and flirted with Gennaro. The old man was pleased to see her and listened as she spoke, understanding the pleasure she gained from rolling her tongue round his language. From Giacosa’s she took a circuitous route, wandering down cobbled alleys that snaked between cracked and crumbling buildings whose façades were a patchwork of russet and sand-coloured stone, until she reached the Duomo and then the Piazza della Republica. There she paused again, listening to the happy sound of waiters in pavement cafés calling to one another while they balanced trays of cappuccino and birra for the tourists. One of them beckoned her to a seat, but she had lingered long enough – he might be waiting for her.

When she arrived at his apartment building on the left bank of the Arno, the shutters were closed – like eyes, she thought, looking up at the wrought-iron balconies where geraniums bloomed in their pots. Using her key, she let herself in and walked up the dusty stone stairway to the third floor. The apartment was airless and dark, so she opened the window that overlooked the Palazzo Torrigiani and the river beyond. Immediately the noise of Florence crescendoed and the sun streamed in, throwing light into a room that was strewn with the paraphernalia of an artist. As she looked around, the smile that curved her mouth was one of indulgence – and pride. The paintings were mostly new to her, though every one she recognised. They were startling and accomplished details taken from the works of Bellini, Giorgione, Carpaccio and countless other Italian Renaissance painters. There were drawings too, done in charcoal or lead pencil, and from the smell she guessed he had recently mixed his own tempera.

The bedroom was empty, the bed unmade. She sighed. Perhaps, after all, she might be in for a long wait.

It wasn’t until noon the following day that he returned. Deidre was in the bathroom, washing his clothes and hanging them out of the window to dry.

He sighed when he saw her. ‘Ah, cara. You do all this for me and I forget you come.’

‘Where were you?’ she asked, after he had kissed her. He was unshaven and his black Armani suit was crumpled and stained with marble dust.

‘At the bottega. There was much to do.’ His finger was under her chin and he looked searchingly into her eyes. ‘You understand?’

Yes, she understood. ‘You must be hungry,’ she said. ‘I’ll makea di pasta, si?’

He laughed, but as she moved away he pulled her back into his arms. ‘I have missed you, mia donna, maybe first we makea di love, no?’

Later, as Sergio slept, Deidre gazed down at him, feasting her eyes on every muscle of his body. At forty his beauty was darker and more heart-breaking than ever. Loving him had always been painful for her, but she knew that it was nothing to what she would suffer if she were to lose him. It was seven years since Roy and Dario had first brought her to Florence to meet him, but it was hard now for her to remember a time when her life hadn’t been filled with loving him. If he’d allowed it she would have given up everything to come and live with him here, but he had refused, and it was Roy who had explained that Sergio was unlike other men and that if she wanted him, she must accept him on his own terms. His terms were that they should never marry, never stay together for more than three weeks at a time, and never have children. He would remain faithful to her, but she must never demand his love, else she would destroy it.

‘But he does love me?’ she had begged Roy.

Roy looked past her and she had turned to see Sergio standing in the doorway. He held his arms out to her and she went to him, melting into his embrace. ‘Yes, I love you, cara,’ he had whispered. ‘But you must understand that I cannot permit you to come between me and my work.’

She had always known that love exacted its own price; for her it was a high one. But she loved him so much that she was prepared to pay, no matter what the cost.

She left him sleeping and went to prepare his pasta. When it was ready she woke him and served it to him on a tray, then she sat beside him on the pillows while he ate, dabbing his lips with a napkin and laughing as he frowned at her.

‘You seem happy, cara,’ he said.

‘I am.’

‘Because of Madeleine?’

‘You know about Madeleine?’

‘Dario told me.’

She stretched out on the bed, and cupping her chin in her hands, she gazed up at him. ‘I’m happy because of you, Sergio. Because I love you, because I’m with you.’

‘How long will you stay?’

‘Forever, if you’d let me.’

A dark look eclipsed the humour in his eyes, and she immediately regretted the mistake. ‘But I have to return in a few days,’ she said quickly.

Putting his plate to one side, he leaned forward and combed his fingers through her rambling mass of hair. ‘Why don’t you tell me about Madeleine?’ he said, smiling, and his black, turbulent eyes reached for hers in a way that seemed to draw her into his very soul.

Her breath shuddered and she rolled onto her back, unable to bear the intensity of him. But, like him, she could pretend, so she kept her eyes from his sinewy shoulders and buttocks as he walked from the room, and waited until he returned. Then while he sketched, she told him about Madeleine.

‘She is a delight,’ she sighed, warming to the sound of his laughter as she told him how Madeleine had removed all her clothes. ‘If you met her in the street you would think her just another pretty girl.’ She corrected herself. ‘No, you would look twice, because there is something about her that demands it. She has a lazy, almost pompous air that smiles in the face of admiration . . . You know, it’s as though she is astonished that you have only just woken up to the fact that she’s beautiful. In fact, I’ve seldom seen a girl so satisfied with the way she looks.’ Knowing that he was only half listening, she stopped for a moment and ran a finger down the length of his leg. There was no response, he was engrossed in what he was doing.

‘But she’s as special as she thinks she is, probably more so. It’s hard to say why – except that there are moments when sexuality seems to ooze from her every pore. There’s a look . . . It starts in her eyes. And I don’t mind admitting that when I first saw it, it even turned me on.’ She cupped the hard flesh at the back of his calf and started to massage it gently. ‘If it weren’t for that look, she’d be brassy; she is brassy, actually, but we’re working on that. I can’t make up my mind whether to try and train the voice; I suppose I’ll have to a little, she sounds like a country bumpkin. Of course that wouldn’t matter if she had even a modicum of intelligence, but sadly for her, and luckily for me, she hasn’t.’

‘Why lucky for you, cara?’

‘She’s paying us to get her to the top. She could get there anyway, but the money will speed things up. It’ll be quite a challenge, getting the girlies to change their centrefolds at the last minute, and the glossies to change their front covers – but Madeleine’s money will make it worth their while. Roy reckons that if we plan it carefully she could be an international name by the summer, or by the end of the year at least.’

Sergio’s hand stopped and he held his head back to survey his work. ‘That would be a great accomplishment, no?’

‘Yes, it would.’

His pencil started to move over the page again, and Deidre yawned contentedly. ‘You know, someone I can’t quite get to the bottom of is her boyfriend. We investigated him, mainly because we wanted to know where Madeleine’s money was coming from, and it turns out that I know him. Well, that’s a slight exaggeration – my family knew his once, about fifteen or twenty years ago. If I remember rightly there was a bit of a scandal when his parents died, but it all got hushed up and I can’t even remember what it was now. Anyway, he inherited a fortune when he was still quite young, and when his aunt died, she left him everything too. He’s worth millions. And that’s the funny thing. He doesn’t use his money – except for the running of his estate, of course – but he has almost nothing to do with it, and neither does he draw a penny of income from it. So he’s not the one who’s financing Madeleine; if anything, she’s financing him. He’s a writer.’

‘This would be good for her image, no?’

‘Absolutely, if he were a published writer. However, Roy’s working on that. We’ve managed to get them both in a couple of the gossip columns, and I have to say I think he’s going to cause almost as much of a stir as she is. If I were ten years younger and not so madly in love with you, Paul O’Connell wouldn’t have too much trouble making my pulses race.’

Sergio’s fingers tensed, leaving a dull smudge across the face of the Madonna. ‘What did you say is his name?’

Deidre rolled onto her front and kicked her legs in the air, laughing. ‘Paul O’Connell. Why? Don’t tell me you’re jealous because I won’t believe it!’

He was looking down at his drawing, his eyes shielded by their lids, but she noticed that his hand was shaking.

‘Sergio?’ she whispered. When at last he looked up it was as though a mask had dropped over his exquisite face, leaving it remote and expressionless. Then, as she looked again his eyes began to dull, as if something inside him was trying to extinguish his life. ‘Sergio,’ she breathed, and when he didn’t answer she felt an icy shiver run down her spine.

As he moved from the bed she could sense the tension in his body; it was as if he were in the grip of a deathly trance. ‘I will take a shower,’ he said, ‘then we shall walk in the sunshine.’

Her eyes followed him across the room. ‘Sergio,’ she said again.

He turned, and seeing her bewilderment, his face softened and the strange, ungodly aura left him. ‘You are unhappy, cara, that I am jealous? I am, you know, but I have no right to be.’ He smiled and walked back to the bed. ‘You look so desirable with your hair spread about you – like the Rosetti Pandora. I think of you like this when you are not here.’

She lifted her arms towards him, and it was as though the movement had freed the breath from her lungs. He was as much of a mystery to her now as he had been seven years ago, but never before had she seen him like this. A sixth sense told her not to question him, and as he embraced her she relaxed into his arms.

She stayed three more days, and in that time they made no mention of Madeleine or Paul again until he took her to the station. ‘Sergio,’ she said, as they walked away from the ticket desk, ‘do you know Paul O’Connell?’

‘Do I know who?’ he asked.

‘Paul, Madeleine’s boyfriend.’

‘But how can I, cara?’

She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. It’s just that your reaction, when I mentioned his name the other day, was . . . Well, it was odd.’

‘It was? I do not remember. But you know how we artists are, we are all odd, no?’

‘Yes,’ she said, laughing as he kissed her. It wasn’t until she boarded the train for Pisa airport that she realised he had neither confirmed nor denied knowing Paul.

‘But why should it matter?’ Roy asked when she told him.

‘I don’t know,’ she answered, flicking through the photographs of Madeleine that Dario had left on her desk. ‘It just bothered me that he reacted in that way.’

‘In what way?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said again. ‘But I have to tell you that for an instant, just a split second, it frightened me.’

‘Frightened you? In heaven’s name, Deidre, aren’t you being a touch theatrical?’

‘I expect so,’ she said, holding a photograph up to the light. After she’d studied it for a moment or two, she put it back on the pile and turned her eyes to Roy. ‘But when he looked at me it was so eerie. I mean, it was as though there was no one inside his body. He looked . . . He looked dead.’

‘Dead?’ Roy burst out laughing, and pursing her lips Deidre carried on through the photographs.

‘I’ve got the answer,’ he said, once his hilarity had passed. ‘Paul O’Connell is Sergio Rambaldi’s doppelgänger. How does that sound?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Deidre said, laughing despite herself. ‘Still, you’ve met Paul, what’s he like?’

‘Decent enough chap, I quite like him. Bit of an intellectual when Madeleine’s not around, but you can’t dislike a fellow for that. What you could dislike him for, though, is those looks.’

‘Oh Dario,’ she muttered. ‘These shots are great as test shots go, but you haven’t captured the look.’

‘Oh yes he has,’ Roy said. ‘Take a gander at the ones in the other envelope.’

She did, and immediately her spirits soared. ‘Shit! How did he do it? How does she do it?’ She put them down quickly. ‘If I look at them any longer I’ll be begging you to fling me down and have your wicked way with me on the sofa,’ she grinned.

‘Always happy to oblige. But back to Paul. I got in touch with that friend of yours, Philip Hoves. He’s going to set up a meeting with Paul and Madeleine, just do it casually, and see what he thinks.’

‘See what he thinks? Didn’t you offer him . . .’

‘I did. And he’s taken it, so Paul’s as good as got an agent. What are you doing now?’

‘Calling Madeleine to tell her she’s being photographed for the Sun next Thursday.’

‘One of the bookers has already done it.’

‘Then I’ll call to tell her I’m back.’

‘While you’re at it, why don’t you speak to Paul, ask him if he knows Sergio?’

‘What for?’

‘You’re the one who was so concerned about it only five minutes ago.’

‘Was I?’ She shrugged. ‘Well I’m not any more. Besides, what difference does it make if they do know one another?’

Roy stared at her, open-mouthed; then shaking his head, he muttered something about women and left the room.

Since Madeleine had been taken in under the Crabb umbrella, she and Paul were out almost every night. They dined at all the well-known restaurants, danced at exclusive night clubs and gambled into the early hours. Everywhere they went, photographers were at hand, and Madeleine’s pleated mini and over-the-knee socks caused a sensation when one photographer caught her whirling round a dance floor and revealing the microscopic G-string she wore underneath. As she was dancing with a distant relative of the royal family at the time, the picture was all over the tabloid press the following day, and thanks to Roy’s and Dario’s friends her name was already starting to appear in gossip columns.

‘It’s me! It’s me!’ she would shriek whenever she opened a paper. ‘What do you think, Paul? Do I look good there? No, I prefer the picture in yesterday’s paper, my hair looked better. Look! You’re here too. Where were we? We must have been coming out of that restaurant. What was it called? Who’s that we’re with? Can you remember their names? Oh, isn’t it the couple who invited us . . . Where did they invite us? Paul!’ And Paul would drag himself from his typewriter, study the picture for a moment or two, tell her she looked wonderful, remind her where they’d been invited, then kiss her before ambling back to his machine.

Madeleine was ecstatic about her new life. She hardly ever thought about Marian or Bristol or her aunt, they belonged to a past so dim and distant that it might have been a dream. And on the rare occasions when they did manage to break through to her conscience, she merely shrugged them to the back of her mind and returned to the mirror. While she watched her reflection she practised laughing, frowning, pouting, eating, and once – after Paul had dragged her out of a nightclub and slapped her face for letting one of Roy’s rock star friends fondle her while they danced – even crying. After the incident Paul had taken her home, and she’d been so aroused by his violent display of jealousy that they’d all but made love in the back of the taxi. It was only when they reached the hotel that she discovered he was still angry.

‘You behave like a common little slut!’ he had snarled as he slammed the door behind him. ‘And the reason you behave like a slut is because you are one. Marian would never dream of making a public spectacle of herself the way you do.’

Madeleine was so shocked by the attack that she could only stare at him; she had thought that the moment they were in the privacy of their room, they would carry on where they’d left off in the taxi. Then he flung the door key onto the dressing-table and told her to get out of his sight before he hit her again. She fled to the bathroom – and that was when she practised crying.

She had remained in the bathroom for over half an hour, determined not to speak to him and planning how to make him suffer. But her anger turned to unease when he made no move to come and get her. After a while she unlocked the door, but still he didn’t come. In the end, her heart pounding with dread that he might have gone, she crept back into the room. He was sitting on the bed with his head in his hands.

‘Paul?’ she said tentatively.

He didn’t look up but reached a hand out towards her. She grabbed it and fell to her knees in front of him. ‘I’m sorry!’ she cried, smothering his hand with kisses. ‘I shouldn’t have done it. I just didn’t think. I’m sorry.’

He snatched his hand away and pulled her into his arms. ‘It’s I who should be sorry,’ he groaned. ‘But I was so jealous, I couldn’t help myself.’ He cupped her face between his hands and kissed her roughly on the mouth. ‘They can look at you, Madeleine, but for God’s sake don’t let them touch you.’

‘No, no,’ she sobbed, ‘I won’t. Not ever again.’

‘If there’d been a photographer there it would have been all over the papers, him with his hand up your skirt. Can’t you see what a fool that would have made of me?’

She nodded, sniffing back the tears.

His hands tightened their grip. ‘There’s no one in the world I’d have left Marian for, except you. Don’t drive me back to her.’

Her eyes widened with terror and she threw herself against him. ‘No! No! Don’t say that. I love you, Paul. I won’t ever do it again, I promise.’

‘It’s all right,’ he said, holding her close and smoothing her hair. ‘It’s all right. I love you, and I’m here. I shouldn’t have hit you, I’m sorry, my darling, but I’ll make it up to you. Tomorrow night I’ll take you to dinner, just the two of us.’ He laughed. ‘We can celebrate surviving our first row.’

She giggled, and wiping away the tears with her fingers, she watched his hands as they unzipped his trousers.

‘Now you can make it up to me,’ he murmured, and pulling her towards him, he guided his erection into her mouth.

On the morning of their move to Holland Park his hangover was ferocious. He was aware that they couldn’t go on celebrating every little thing they did like this – otherwise he’d never finish his second book. However, the pleasure he was getting from Madeleine had far exceeded his expectations, and she was providing the most satisfactory raw material for his writing. At this very moment she was ordering delivery men about and getting MFI wardrobes constructed in the bedroom. Three hundred and fifty thousand pounds she’d paid for this mews house, and she was doing it up from MFI! Still, at least she was keeping her body covered, which made a change. Last night she’d had the idea that he could screw her in the bathroom with the door unlocked while all this was going on, and if anyone walked in, all the better.

Thankfully she seemed to have forgotten that now, and was leaving him alone to loll about on a sofa that would deeply offend his eyes even if he weren’t hung-over. Decent of her, though, to have considered him when she’d been house-hunting; it was quite a study he was going to have – but he would furnish it himself.

Madeleine popped her head round the door. Even with her hair screwed up, no make-up and the sloppy T-shirt that fell off one shoulder, she managed to look desirable. ‘Just nipping out for some food. Keep an eye on the men, will you?’

Paul closed his eyes, lifted a hand to wave her off and waited to hear the car pull away. It was on hire until the cars she’d bought the week before could be delivered. Thank God he’d gone with her on that particular spending spree, otherwise he’d have ended up with a Porsche or, even worse, a Rolls Royce. As it was, she had blown a hundred grand on a Range Rover for him and a Maserati for herself. The cars had been to celebrate the fact that she had her first modelling assignment and he now had an agent. He couldn’t recall now how many days it had been since Madeleine had invited Philip Hoves round to Blake’s Hotel and introduced him as a friend of Deidre’s. Friend of Deidre’s he might be, but Paul knew full well that the man was the biggest independent literary agent in the country. Well, however long ago it was, the chap hadn’t elicited any response from a publisher yet.

Paul fell asleep then, and didn’t stir again until six that evening. Madeleine was sitting in front of a newly installed gas log-ette fire, leafing through photographs of herself and muttering replies to an imaginary interviewer – something she’d been doing ever since Deidre had mentioned coaching her for television appearances. He looked round the room, winced, and closed his eyes again. This time it wasn’t the weight of his hangover that hurt, but the sight of all those ornaments. Horse brasses hanging by the fire, china ladies in hooped skirts decorating the tops of fake wood sideboards, glass vases filled with plastic flowers, and paintings of children with tears in their eyes.

He struggled to his feet, making for his cigarettes on the mantlepiece. He howled as he trod on something, and looking down, saw that he had ended the life of a nodding dog.

‘You idiot!’ Madeleine cried, picking it up.

‘Well, what the hell was it doing there?’

‘I put it there to remind me to take it out to the car – when I get it,’ she added sulkily.

This was too much. He lit a cigarette. ‘Later, Madeleine, you and I are going to have a talk about credibility – and taste. Where are the delivery men?’

‘Been and gone. Do you want to look round?’

‘I’m not sure I’m up to it, not if this room’s anything to go by.’

‘What’s the matter with it?’

‘Everything. Did you get to the bank?’

She shook her head. ‘I got lost, then when I got to the Strand I couldn’t find anywhere to park.’

He didn’t even bother to ask why she hadn’t taken a cab as he had instructed her. ‘So how did you tip the men?’

A light shot to her eyes, and inwardly he cringed. She’d let them fondle her tits, or that’s what she was going to tell him. Knowing her though, he was pretty sure she’d shown them and the fondling bit would be added on to spice up the foreplay. He didn’t feel like sex right now. ‘I’m going to take a shower,’ he said.

He stepped into the bathroom – and then immediately stepped out again. The gold taps and accessories he could just about live with, even the pink-spotted plastic shower curtain, but the picture of the Queen, never!

‘Get out here!’ he yelled.

‘Don’t speak to me like that,’ she grumbled as she sauntered into the hall.

‘Make your choice, Madeleine. That photograph, or me. And that goes for every other piece of tack you’ve got scattered round this house.’

‘How can you call the Queen tack?’

‘It’s where she’s hanging that’s tacky. The throne room. That’s what you were thinking, wasn’t it?’

‘I thought it was witty.’

He groaned. ‘You’re not out in the sticks now, where they write letters on lined paper’ – he was referring to the note of apology she had written after walking out on some minor photographic session – ‘and spray air freshener round the rooms. Shape up!’

‘I happen to like air freshener,’ she snapped. ‘And I like the Queen too. She stays.’

He cast her a glance – and nearly laughed at her mutinous face. A battle of wills. He might not be quite up to it, but he was going to do his best to enjoy it anyway. Lowering the lid of the lavatory seat, he sat down. She waited while he looked round. ‘Even Marian had more style,’ he sneered, knowing it was a remark guaranteed to bring out her claws.

‘Don’t you mention her name to me! You keep doing that. You did it last night, going on with all that crap about ancient egg-heads and the rubbish they talked.’

He grinned. ‘Metempsychosis. Transmigration of the soul. Marian would have known what I was talking about.’

‘She would, wouldn’t she? She’s just as boring.’

Paul watched her agitation increase as she tried to think of something else to say. He knew it was cruel to taunt her with her intellectual inadequacies, but she was so easy to provoke and sometimes her responses were a sheer delight.

‘Anyway, she wouldn’t know what style was if it hit her in the face,’ Madeleine went on. ‘Going about in those baggy Laura Ashley frocks, trying to cover up her fat bum. Christ, it doesn’t even bother her that she’s ugly . . .’

‘I think it does. Besides . . .’

‘Oh yeah? When did you ever see her pluck her eyebrows or paint her nails? There’s something wrong with her. All she can ever talk about is those boring philosophy things, and you encouraged her. If she’d been a bit more like me she wouldn’t be the one wallowing in misery now, would she? Stuck up little bitch! Always had to tell people she’d been to university, just because I hadn’t. Had to let everyone know what a wonderful mother and father she had, always using long words when no one knew what the hell they meant, anything to try and belittle me. Well, she’s no one, and she’s ended up with no one, which is just what she deserves. So why the hell should I feel sorry for her?’

Paul’s eyebrows were raised. ‘So your conscience is troubling you, Madeleine. What a surprise.’

‘What are you talking about?’ she snapped.

He smiled. ‘She’s worth a lot more than you think, your cousin Marian. Beauty isn’t everything, you know.’

‘No, money’s the rest, so just you remember who’s paying the bills around here. And shut your mouth about Marian.’

She slammed the door and ran upstairs to the bedroom. If he didn’t keep flinging Marian in her face, she wouldn’t feel guilty at all. For God’s sake, Marian was a loser, even he knew that. She’d never been able to do anything. It was she, Madeleine, who’d had to go round those pubs, stripping to earn them some money, because Marian had got herself a degree that was no bloody use to anyone. So what if she was on her own now, it would do her good to stand on her own feet for once. And if she wasn’t surviving, what was that to do with her? She couldn’t go on looking after Marian for the rest of her life, she had other fish to fry. And everything was working out fantastically. All the newspapers were calling her gorgeous and glamorous and things like that, and she had Paul, which was even more important, so what did she want with Marian?

An hour later, bathed and shaved, Paul came into the bedroom and found her watching herself crying. He sat on the bed and pulled her onto his lap. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you.’

‘Then why did you have to start on about Marian again? I thought you said you didn’t care about her any more.’

‘I don’t. Now come on, stop crying. It’s your big day tomorrow and you won’t want a puffy face, will you?’

That he minded what she looked like on her big day was more than enough to pacify her. She gave him a look of pure worship and he kissed her gently on the mouth.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘how about showing me some of the poses you think you’ll be striking?’

She shook her head. ‘I want you to explain to me the trans . . . the emigration . . . you know, of the soul.’

He laughed. ‘OK, but only after you tell me exactly how you tipped the delivery men.’

The next morning Madeleine was up early. She didn’t have to be at the studios until three, so there was time for one last sun bed session, and Paul wanted to take her for an early lunch. She loved their togetherness, and the tremors of excitement she felt when he told her how very special their relationship was, reminded her that at last she had someone she could call her very own. Someone who loved her for herself, and not out of pity like her aunt and Marian. She never allowed herself to dwell too long on the fear that he might leave her – as her parents once had; besides, she was doing everything she could to learn things, and prove to him that his career meant as much to her as it had to Marian – more, even.

When she returned from the beauty salon he had left a message for her to meet him at Julie’s Wine Bar. She was disappointed because she had wanted him to check her tan before she went off to Wembley, but when she read the rest of his note she actually jumped up and down with joy. He had gone to see his agent; Freemantle’s, the publishers, were interested in his book.

She was early getting to Julie’s, so she sat down to wait with a newspaper someone had left behind. She didn’t pay much attention to what she was reading, but kept glancing round to see if anyone was looking at her.

The instant Paul walked through the door she could tell he was in a foul mood. He didn’t even bother to kiss her, but flung himself into a chair and started ranting on about characterisation, belief in motive, and structure – none of which Madeleine understood.

‘Anyway,’ he growled, ‘if I make Jim Penn a rich adolescent so that the female readers can fantasise about him – Jesus, anyone would think I was writing for Mills and Boon – then they’ll publish.’

‘That’s fantastic!’ She threw her arms round him. ‘You see, I told you you’d find a publisher once we got in the papers.’

He unwound himself. ‘You’re not listening. The jerk of an editor wants changes.’

‘Tell him you won’t do them.’

‘Then he won’t publish.’

‘Oh.’

‘Philip Hoves will be here in a minute. I’m going to tell him just where this Harry Freemantle gets off.’

‘You can’t do that.’

‘Like hell I can’t! It’s my book. I thought about it in the cab on the way over, I’ve made up my mind. For God’s sake, will you stop reading that paper!’

‘No, don’t screw it up, Paul.’ She tried to snatch it back. ‘I haven’t read my horoscope yet.’

‘For Christ’s sake!’ he exploded.

‘Don’t you want to know what yours is?’ she offered, hoping it might calm him down. ‘They might say something about . . .’

He shot to his feet and in a flash she was beside him, grabbing his arm to pull him back. He shrugged her off, and then she saw that Philip Hoves had arrived. The two men shook hands, and Madeleine stooped awkwardly to give the agent a quick peck on the cheek before they all went upstairs to the restaurant.

Madeleine struggled to keep up with the conversation. Knowing how important all this was to Paul, she tried to voice some support, but her efforts were ignored. Then, just after the table had been cleared and coffee was being poured, Paul suddenly slammed his hand down on the table and declared that she was the answer to the problem. Philip looked uncomfortable and shook his head, but Paul was behaving as though he had lighted upon a solution to Catch 22. Madeleine didn’t have the faintest idea what they were talking about, and since it was approaching two o’clock she got up to leave. Paul got up too and walked her down to the car.

‘Knock ’em dead,’ he said, as he closed the door behind her. She wound down the window and he leaned in to kiss her. ‘Tell me you love me,’ he murmured.

She did, and added: ‘After this session everyone will see my body, but it belongs to you, Paul. Everything of mine belongs to you.’

‘Just you remember that,’ he said, brushing his hand lightly over her breasts. ‘I’ll be waiting when you get home.’

When she arrived at the Marmoth Studios Madeleine was led through a maze of corridors by a pimply young boy who prefaced everything he said with a giggle. She asked what the red lights were above the doors, and when he told her that they signified the studios were in operation, she asked if they could take a peep.

‘You can’t do that,’ he tittered. ‘The photographers don’t like just any old person looking in.’

‘What, not even the models?’ she said huffily.

He wrinkled his nose and looked her up and down. ‘You a model?’

‘What do you think?’

Scratching his head, he looked down at the clipboard he was carrying. ‘Aren’t you Sandra Turnham from St. Ivel?’

Madeleine stopped dead. ‘No, I am not!’

He looked at his list again. ‘Then who are you?’

Her nostrils flared. ‘My name is Madeleine Deacon.’

His mouth dropped open, then slapping a hand against his head, he giggled, ‘Of course. You’re the one for Page Three, aren’t you?’ He tucked his clipboard under his arm and turned round. ‘We’re going the wrong way. Herbie Prosser’s doing The Sun today. He’s in Studio 6. He’s doing Faye Broad’s shots at the moment, so I’ll take you straight to the make-up rooms if that’s all right.’

Madeleine followed him back down the corridor, then up some stairs and through a door marked ‘Authorised Personnel Only’.

The room beyond was stark white – white tiles, white chairs, white lights, white windows. Even the towels that had been tossed casually aside were white. There were three girls already in the room, two sitting at mirrors tissuing off make-up, and one massaging fake tan into her body. They were all naked, and not one of them turned so much as a hair when the pimply boy yelled, ‘Chrissie!’

One of the girls got up from the mirror and padded across to a washbasin. As she passed, she gave Madeleine the once-over. Madeleine smiled, but the girl’s face remained stony.

‘Chrissie!’ the boy yelled again.

‘She’s gone to get some coffee,’ the girl with the fake tan answered.

‘Oh,’ he giggled. He glanced up at Madeleine, then shrugging, he said, ‘I’ll leave you to it, then. I’ll give you a shout when Herbie’s ready.’ He looked at his watch. ‘About half an hour I expect, maybe a bit longer. You ready, Dawn?’

Dawn put down the fake tan and unhooked a robe from the door that led into what Madeleine presumed to be Chrissie’s office. As she followed the boy out of the make-up room, she didn’t even glance in Madeleine’s direction.

The last thing Madeleine had expected to feel was nervous, but her stomach gave a horrible lurch as the door closed and she turned back into the room. What should she do now?

The girl who was still sitting at the mirror came to her rescue. ‘Hi,’ she said, looking at Madeleine’s reflection. ‘You new?’

Madeleine nodded.

The girl, who was Indian and had the most glorious mane of black hair Madeleine had ever seen, turned round. ‘Thought so. My name’s Shamir. There are lockers in Chrissie’s office to hang your clothes in. Might just as well get undressed now, be ready for her when she gets back. What’s your name, by the way?’

‘Madeleine.’

‘What are you doing?’

‘Actually,’ Madeleine answered, trying to sound modest, ‘I’m doing Page Three.’

Shamir nodded. ‘What of?’

‘Exchange and Mart.’ The girl by the washbasins shrieked with laughter as she said it.

Madeleine swung round. ‘For The Sun, actually,’ she drawled, emphasising the last word.

‘Oooh! Are we supposed to be impressed?’

‘Take no notice of her,’ Shamir whispered, ‘she’s like that with everyone. Anyway, if you’re doing The Sun that means you’ll be with Herbie, so you’ll be safe. He’s a queen. Lucky girl, getting him your first time out. I take it it is your first time?’

Madeleine shrugged. ‘More or less. I did some shots a couple of weeks ago, but they were done in my agent’s studio by one of her partners. They weren’t for anything particular.’ She wanted to say how excited Deidre had been when she’d seen the results, but decided it might sound a bit big-headed.

‘Who’s your agent?’

‘Deidre Crabb.’

Shamir seemed perplexed for a minute, then her beautiful face brightened. ‘She’s my agent too. I didn’t know she represented girls like . . .’ She stopped quickly, realising she was about to be rude. ‘Hear that, Vera?’ she called out. ‘Madeleine’s agent’s Deidre Crabb.’ Then in a lower voice, ‘Her name’s Lynn so we call her Vera, she hates it.’

The other girl didn’t bother to answer, and seeing that Shamir was laughing, Madeleine grinned, and walked into the office to get undressed.

When she went back into the make-up room, Shamir was at the washbasin shampooing her hair, and Vera had gone.

Madeleine wandered over to a chair and sat down. ‘What are you doing?’ she asked Shamir.

‘Already done it,’ Shamir called back. ‘Dubonnet on a tropical beach in sunny Wembley with Randy Roger, just thank God the client was there.’ She rinsed off her hair, then just as she was wrapping a towel round it, the door opened and a round, jolly figure backed into the room, carrying a tray of coffee.

As she turned round and saw Madeleine, she started, sloshing the coffee over the sides of the cups. ‘Oh my goodness, you must be Madeleine,’ she cried. ‘Sorry I’ve been so long, couldn’t find any milk. You’ve got yourself undressed, good girl. I’m Chrissie, by the way. I’ll just buzz down to Mervyn and tell him you’re here. Like a coffee while you’re waiting?’

‘Mervyn?’ Madeleine asked.

‘Costume. They’re dressing you up a bit. Here.’ She passed Madeleine a polystyrene cup. ‘Sugar?’

Madeleine shook her head, and watched Chrissie as she tore the wrapper off a Kit-Kat and bit into it.

‘That’s better,’ she sighed, her mouth still half-full. ‘I was absolutely starving.’ She jumped. ‘Oh, Shamir, I didn’t see you over there. Dawn gone down, has she?’

‘Ten minutes ago,’ Shamir answered. Then looking at Madeleine, she gave a long, low whistle. ‘Well, well,’ she said. ‘Stand up, let’s look at you.’

Madeleine put down her cup, straightened her back and rose gracefully from the chair.

‘Turn round,’ Shamir demanded. Madeleine did. ‘Chrissie, will you just take a look at those legs. And those tits. Jesus, I hate you, Madeleine.’ She turned to Chrissie who was devouring the remains of her chocolate bar. ‘Is she perfect, or is she just perfect?’

‘Fabulous,’ Chrissie confirmed. ‘Now let’s get Mervyn up here.’

Twenty minutes later Madeleine’s eyes were laden with make-up and she was dressed in an assortment of black leather and rubber. Girls swarmed in and out of the make-up rooms, either ignoring her totally or hissing barbed comments about all the attention she was receiving. Madeleine stuck her nose in the air and paraded up and down the room for Mervyn to inspect his work. He was a short man with frizzy grey hair and a neat beard. As he watched Madeleine, his right hand hung limply from his wrist and his left rested on his hip.

‘OK,’ he said, ‘take it all off, one item at a time, let’s see what happens. Are you watching this, Chrissie?’

‘I’m watching!’ she cried from the office, and then she appeared at the door.

‘Right, Maureen . . .’

‘Madeleine!’ Madeleine interrupted.

‘Sorry, hen. Right, Madeleine, unzip the skirt to just above the pubes and stick out your ass.’

Madeleine did.

Mervyn nodded. ‘OK so far. Now, take hold of the cups of the bra – no, no, at the edges, just under your arms, that’s it. Now pull . . . Harder!’

Madeleine yanked at the flimsy material – there was the sickening sound of ripping fabric and to her dismay she looked down to find the cups of the bra in her hands and the frame around her body.

‘It works!’ Mervyn squealed. ‘I’m a genius! It’ll be up to Herbie how he wants it, all I needed to know was that they would come off. Tell him there are peepholes in the cups, they’re held together with velcro too, he might prefer them. Now, let’s see if we can get these cups back on again. Take the bra off, darling, it’ll be easier.’

Madeleine unhooked the bra and passed it over. She was about to complain that the boots were too small when Chrissie said, ‘I think you’d better have a haircut.’

Madeleine’s head snapped up, and she was already backing away. ‘Oh no,’ she said, shaking her head vigorously, ‘you’re not touching my hair.’

‘Not on your head, ducky, down there. We’ll just give it a trim.’

At that point the pimply-faced youth came into the room. ‘Ready for you, Madeleine.’

‘Two minutes, Derek,’ Chrissie answered, and taking the hem of Madeleine’s leather skirt in both hands, she heaved it up over her bottom. ‘Legs slightly apart,’ she said, turning her round and reaching into her pocket for a pair of scissors. ‘Just a quick snip, that’s it. Much better. Now let’s look at the face again before we go.’

After her final check Madeleine put the bra back on, did up the skirt and followed Derek and Mervyn out of the room. Chrissie came after her with a robe, and draping it round her shoulders, she said, ‘As it’s your first time I’ll come down with you. Normally one of my assistants supervises in the studio, but I’m not expecting anyone else until five.’

The studio was dark when they walked in, with just a small pool of light around a platform near the back. Once her eyes had adjusted, Madeleine realised there were several people moving quietly about the room. Then a man stepped out from behind a screen and walked towards them.

‘Madeleine?’ he said, looking at her.

Madeleine nodded.

‘This is Herbie Prosser,’ Derek whinnied. ‘He’s the photographer.’ He looked up at Herbie with saucer-like eyes, but Herbie ignored him and held his hand out to Madeleine.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said. ‘This shouldn’t take too long. We’ll just keep it straightforward, nothing fancy. Let’s see what Mervyn’s come up with.’

Chrissie whisked the robe from Madeleine’s shoulders, and Herbie stood back to survey her costume. It took him all of three seconds before he turned abruptly and snapped, ‘Get it off!’

Madeleine looked at Mervyn, Mervyn looked at Madeleine, then they both looked at Herbie. He was walking back across the studio.

‘Herbie! Herbie!’ Mervyn cried, mincing after him, ‘I’ve gone to a lot of trouble to make up that . . .’

‘Get it off!’ Herbie repeated. ‘Straight tits and ass, that’s all they want.’

Looking like a kicked puppy, Mervyn turned back and nodded sadly at Madeleine. He and Chrissie helped her remove the skirt and bra, and with relief she kicked off the boots.

‘Put the boots back on,’ Herbie called. ‘They’re great.’

Madeleine pulled a face, heaved a sigh, and pushed her feet back into them.

‘OK, let’s get the show on the road,’ someone shouted, and Chrissie took Madeleine by the arm and led her over to the lights.

After one or two test polaroids which were handed round the room, Herbie waited for his assistant to load the camera, then stepped up to the tripod and pressed his eye to the viewfinder. ‘Hands on hips,’ he barked, ‘head back, left leg up. That’s it. And another. Head further back, look up at the ceiling, bring your left shoulder round to the camera. That’s it. And another. Spread your fingers, baby oil on the nipples, someone; that’s it, lift that leg higher, that’s it.’ It went on like that for several minutes, then Herbie moved away from the camera while it was reloaded. ‘Relax,’ he told Madeleine. Then at the top of his voice, ‘Who the hell keeps walking in and out back there?’

No one answered, and scowling, he turned back to Madeleine. She was perched on the edge of the stage, the towelling robe round her shoulders again and Chrissie standing over her, flicking at her hair. Herbie walked over to them, sat down next to Madeleine and told Chrissie to scarper.

‘Actually,’ he whispered in Madeleine’s ear, ‘I’m just a cuddly old teddy bear who’s squeak has turned into a squawk. No one’s in the least bit frightened of me, they just humour me by pretending.’

Madeleine’s relief was evident in the way she laughed.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘that was just for starters. What I’m after really is the face. The look. I’ve heard all about it from Dario, so do you think you can turn it on for me?’

‘I expect so,’ Madeleine answered, still not entirely sure what her ‘look’ was. She’d heard enough people talk about it – Deidre, Roy, Dario and now Herbie – but as far as she was concerned, she just looked into the camera and thought about what Dario had told her to think about.

‘Imagine that man of yours, heaving away on top of you,’ he’d said. ‘What’s his name? Paul, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Does he make you come? I mean really come?’

‘Yes, he does,’ Madeleine had giggled shyly.

‘Then think of him, think of what he’s doing to you when you come, imagine he’s right here with you, then look straight into the lens.’

And when Herbie was ready and waiting, that was exactly what she did. And it wasn’t until half an hour later, as he called the session to an end, that Madeleine realised no one had spoken a word during the entire shoot. She gazed round the room, slightly startled by the sea of faces she was sure hadn’t been there before. They were all watching her, as though they were in some kind of trance. Her eyes darted uncertainly to Herbie, who expelled a prolonged breath and laughed.

‘Wow!’ he said, walking over to her and draping an arm round her shoulders. ‘Now I know what all the fuss is about. You’ve even given me a hard-on, and that’s something no woman’s been able to do in years. That man of yours must be sensational.’

‘You know about . . .’

‘Dario told me. Now put something round you before one of these guys loses his grip.’

When she got back to the make-up room it was teeming with naked bodies. Chrissie started to lead her through the crowd, but then a voice hissed, ‘It’s her!’ and as though someone had grabbed a tuning fork, the hum of conversation stopped dead.

Madeleine’s eyes moved from one face to the next, at first baffled, then suspicious, then, as realisation dawned, supremely and unashamedly disdainful. They had all been there, watching her, and they were all, every last one of them, creeping sick with jealousy.