Lynne Pemberton - Platinum Coast

‘When?’ Susie demanded.

‘How should I know? He might never call. He’s a busy guy, got property developments going on all over the place.’

‘What kind of car did he have?’

‘A Mercedes,’ Christina replied, her voice impatient. ‘What difference does that make?’

Susie grimaced. ‘You try going out in a sports car that leaks most of the time, feels like you’re in a wind tunnel and if you’re not careful your foot drops through the passenger floor … believe me, it makes a hell of a lot of difference.

‘So what did you have to eat?’

Christina moaned. ‘I think I had more to drink than I had to eat.’ She slid down the bed and pulled the covers over her face.

‘I can see you don’t want my company, Miss O’Neill.’

Christina’s head moved up and down under the covers.

‘Okay, I know when I’m not wanted. I’ll see you later. Don’t forget I’m going to Paul Colville’s party tonight and you promised to lend me your black dress.’

Christina’s head moved in the affirmative, and Susie left the room, switching off the light before she left.

Christina went back to sleep, to be woken four hours later by the telephone ringing.

She reached the phone located in the hall on its final ring.

‘Christina! At last!’ It was Kate Mason’s husky voice.

‘Yes, sorry. Kate. I overslept. Had a late night.’

‘Model girls should not have late nights; they need their beauty sleep,’ said Kate in her best schoolma’am’s tone.

Christina felt like telling her to shut up, but Kate continued talking. ‘I’ve got some great news for you, Christina. A big photographic shoot in two weeks’ time for an American glossy. Five days’ work for a big fat fee of £400!’

‘That’s great.’ Christina could hardly believe what Kate was saying. Five days’ work at a rate far higher than usual.

‘The shoot is in London with a top photographer, so no more late nights for you, young lady. I’ll see you later if you stop by the office. I’ve got a couple of small jobs for you this week.’

‘What are they?’ Christina asked.

‘One is for the Milk Marketing Board and the other for a small old-fashioned lingerie house. They want a nasty cross-over bra and big knicker advert.’

‘They both sound like a bundle of fun.’

‘As I keep reminding you, Christina, they’re your bread and butter.’

‘I know, I know.’ She looked at the hall clock. ‘I’ll see you about 2.30, okay? I’ve got a couple of things to pick up before I come into town.’

‘No later,’ Kate informed her. ‘I’ve a meeting at three. See you, then. Bye.’

Christina walked back to her bedroom, thinking about the photographic shoot and Stephen’s words to her on parting last night.

Perhaps, Mr Reece-Carlton, she thought, I may be able to buy my own champagne in the not too distant future.

Susie was arranging twenty-four long-stemmed red roses in a water jug when Christina came home later that day.

‘They arrived just as I did.’ Susie pointed to the flowers, sighed, and said in an affected voice, ‘I can’t begin to imagine who they are from.’

She held out a small white greetings card. Christina tore it open.

‘I had a marvellous evening – thanks for your company,’ she read aloud.

‘Smoothie, smoothie!’ Susie yelled.

‘You’re only jealous,’ Christina commented, and drew out one red rose. Holding it to her nose, she inhaled deeply.

‘By the way, I got a fantastic job offered to me today. Five days’ work in London for £400.’

‘Wow!’ Susie grabbed her friend’s hands and squeezed them tight. ‘That’s great. Perhaps you’ll be able to pay me back the eighty quid you owe me? I’m a bit short this month.’

Christina bit her lip. ‘I’m sorry, Sue, but you know how it is in this game – always waiting so long for your money.’

She looked in concern at Susie’s round, amiable face and bright-blue eyes.

‘I’ll pay you back with interest this time, I promise.’

Susie winked. ‘I was only joking. Anyway, you know me. As I’ve always said, a friend in need is a pest – and you are the best pest I’ve ever had.’

Christina laughed and drew her arms around the small, plump girl.

‘And you, Susan Philips, are the funniest, kindest and best friend I have ever known.’

‘I’ll drink to that,’ Susie said, and produced a bottle of sparkling wine from the fridge. ‘Not quite Dom Perignon, Chrissy, but it’s all we’ve got, and if we drink enough it will have the same effect.’

‘Just one more shot, Christina … Good … Drop your left shoulder, moisten those lips. Come on, now, sultry eyes, mouth slightly open – wonderful! More teeth, wide eyes, left hand on leg. Imagine you’re in bed with Robert Redford.’

She pulled a long face.

‘Well, whoever turns you on, darling,’ the photographer urged. ‘Come on, baby, think sensual. You’re making love to the man of your dreams. He’s an Adonis, he’s fantastic in bed. Imagine him caressing you.’

Christina imagined what she would actually like – a long hot bath, then, dressed in furry slippers and cosy bathrobe, a large gin and tonic in her hand, to curl up in front of a TV movie. It worked.

Max Raynor shouted: ‘ Bellissima , Christina. Hold it like that. Don’t move.’

The camera clicked furiously before he raised his head. ‘Wonderful stuff. You’re a gem.’

He looked at her, draped across an antique French day-bed. ‘That’s it, baby. We can wrap it up now.’

She relaxed and let her head drop onto the back of the padded chaise.

‘I’ve got some great shots. You’ve worked really hard. Thanks.’

He stretched his lean frame and walked across his studio towards an assortment of transparencies scattered in disarray across a huge desk. ‘Mmm, very nice,’ he commented as he flicked through them, his trained eye picking out the best images at a glance.

He rummaged in a drawer under his desk and, producing a small tobacco tin and cigarette papers, began to roll a joint.

Christina massaged the back of her neck and said, ‘Kate should have warned me I was going to be working with a slave-driving maniac who I now know has a reputation for overworking his models and sacking those who can’t stand the pace.’

Max was one of the top photographers in Europe and could afford to be choosy.

With a dismissive shrug of his narrow shoulders, he said, ‘A lot of girls are lazy. If they want to work with me, that’s exactly what they have to be prepared to do. Work.’

He handed her the joint.

Christina shook her head. ‘No thanks, I don’t, but I’d love a glass of wine.’

‘One glass of plonk coming up.’

Max poured a tumbler full of cheap red wine and handed it to Christina, who screwed up her small nose when she tasted the bitter Chianti.

He noticed her grimace and shook his head. ‘Not good, eh?’

‘I have had better.’ She took another sip and added, ‘I have had worse as well.’

He joined her on the sofa, ‘So, Miss O’Neill.’ Max eased his thin body close to hers, crossing his legs – a habit she detested in men. ‘You’re leaving me to rush back to darkest Manchester tonight? I can’t for the life of me understand why when you could stay at my place. The bed is clean, and I know a very chic little Italian restaurant I think you’d love.’

Max inhaled the marijuana deep into his lungs and closed his deep-set dark-blue eyes.

Christina was very tired. She was also acutely disappointed. Stephen had been in France all week but had promised to get back for the weekend. A brusque telephone call earlier that day from his secretary had informed her that Mr Reece-Carlton was delayed in Paris and would call her on his return tomorrow morning.