Emma cradled the child, now finishing the bottle, infinitesimally tighter.
"Hey! Look at that! He's going to sleep," Belle breezed, picking up the two brimful champagne glasses. "You've obviously got a way with babies."
Yes, I feed them, Emma thought. She studied the child's contented face, tiny and dark brown against the white cotton wrap. He was snuggled up so trustingly in her elbow. She felt a powerful surge of affection for him.
"We'll talk contracts in the morning," Belle announced over her shoulder as she left the kitchen.
Emma stared after her. It was obviously taken for granted that she would be looking after the baby from now on. But did she want to? Neither Niall nor Belle seemed particularly…what was the word. Pleasant?
But did she really have a choice?
Chapter Twenty-seven
Sam Sherman, head of the Wild Modelling Agency, London, sat tapping her desk impatiently in her glass-walled office. Her round hazel eyes, ringed firmly with kohl as usual, blazed through her curtains of heavily highlighted beige hair. She was giving an interview, which she never enjoyed. Especially since all the stupid fuss about Size Zero, journalists were apt to ask difficult questions.
Sam assembled her slightly heavy but nonetheless still handsome features in as obliging an expression as she could manage and answered each query with smiling acquiescence and the phrases "I'm glad you asked me that" and "Good question!" in rotation. Flattering the journalist, Sam had learned over the years, led to better copy. It also made it harder for writers to be nasty and ask difficult questions. Anything about Size Zero, for example.
Eye contact was also important; it made you look sincere. Nonetheless, Sam could not help the occasional glance away from the beady scrutiny of the woman opposite and through the transparent walls of her goldfish-bowl office, where twenty-seven lissome twentysomethings, all dressed in skinny hipster jeans and clinging T-shirts in the agency's signature black, buzzed about the business of beauty. Something loud and fast boomed from the stereo as showcards were shoved in envelopes, tickets were booked, visas arranged, and details finalised on any number of contracts.
One of them, Sam noticed, was Irina, a fifteen-year-old Ukranian and the agency's most recent signing. Their last Russian, in fact, Sam had vowed. Irina was very now, with her wide-eyed feral face and its thick, wolfish brows. But she was also very naughty. She had a habit of going AWOL for days on end before phoning in from some hippy festival in Cornwall. Or Wales. Anywhere other than where she was supposed to be.
"Er…could you repeat that?" Sam smiled apologetically at the writer, having completely missed the last question. Hopefully it wasn't Size Zero-related.
The journalist, crop-haired, red-lipsticked, and wearing a figurehugging, plum polo-neck, rearranged her long, bare legs beneath her grey, pleated miniskirt. They were good legs, Sam had noted, smooth, lightly tanned, and with no sign of thread veins or bruises. She guessed they were being displayed for her benefit.
Most young female journalists who came to see her were not, Sam knew, after a career-making scoop about the modelling industry at all. What they were longing to hear was something completely different—those six words that could tip them from the nine-to-five to a glittering, perfumed world of heady fame and untold riches: "Have you ever thought of modelling?"
The question she had missed, now repeated, confirmed Sam's hunch that this girl was as eager as the rest to make the jump from grind to glamour. "What are you looking for when you spot a new model?" the journalist asked.
Sam had, by now, decided that the legs being displayed for her benefit had no commercial value. They were slightly too thick at the ankle. The girl was too old too. But frankly, anything much over fourteen was old these days.
"That's a good question," Sam remarked as she prepared to trot out her stock response. "The difference is a lot of things. But mainly, it's what I like to call…" she took a deep breath and paused importantly.
The girl was rapt. Her eyes urged Sam on. "Skinniness?" she suggested, with a provocative smile.
Sam gave a deep stage laugh. And of course thinness wasn't the only issue. Girls were successful for other reasons too. A rock star father never hurt; a film-star mother, any other kind of celebrity or billionaire, come to that, and, of course, aristocratic backgrounds in particular seemed to breed a certain sort of strangely elongated waif. But, of course, what they all had in common was thinness. Extreme thinness in many cases.
How did they achieve it? Officially, it was due to high metabolisms and genetics. Unofficially, of course, was a different and rather murky matter, and one Sam had no intention of discussing with this woman.
"The difference is what I like to call atmosphere," finished the agency head.
"Atmosphere?"
Not for the first time, Sam congratulated herself at coming up with this one. The idea of atmosphere intrigued people, injecting an air of mystery and individuality into a business which frequently lacked both. "Yeah, atmosphere. The sort of feeling that surrounds a girl. All my most successful girls have had atmosphere. And boys."
Across Sam's mind scampered, as it often did, the ever-irritating thought of the beautiful boy who had escaped her in Covent Garden. She had never seen him again, and, despite her urging them to keep their eyes extra-peeled, none of her scouts had either. The only compensation was that, so far as she was aware, none of Sam's rival agencies had snapped him up. But she was prepared any minute for some new campaign to be announced by Gucci, Armani, or some such, featuring the Hunk Who Had Got Away.
The writer seemed to be making packing-up movements. Sam, wrenching her thoughts away from the long-lost god, cheered herself up by reflecting on the skill with which she had avoided the Size Zero quicksand.
Then the writer looked up. "One more thing." She smiled.
"Sure," muttered Sam, glancing at the BlackBerry at her elbow on which was displayed her schedule, updated every morning by one of her two assistants. A meeting with a Spanish photographer was slated next. Carlos Cojones had a hook nose, wild curls, and the usual bad-boy photographer reputation. As well as the usual hatred of waiting. He would, Sam knew, expect to sweep into her office the moment he arrived. Better get this wittering woman out as soon as possible.
"I'd just like to ask you, by way of winding up the interview, what you think about the Size Zero debate."
Sam, who had lifted a glass of water to her lips, stopped herself with difficulty from spluttering. "Good question," she muttered. "I'm glad you asked me that."
Eventually, and having parried the thrust, Sam saw the journalist off without having conceded ground. She felt exhausted but relieved.
With a mixture of satisfaction and dismay, she saw Carlos Cojones had arrived at reception. He was stamping from foot to foot like a flamenco dancer, his skin flushed dark with annoyance.
"Call for you, Miss Sherman." The light whisper of Xanthe, who had replaced the uppity Nia, came through.
"I can't take a call now," Sam thunderered. "Who is it?"
"Someone called Brooke Reed. She says it's important, but I can tell her to go away," Xanthe pleaded in her almost inaudible voice.
Sam groaned. Brooke Reed was the extremely forceful head of public relations for NBS Studios, Hollywood. Iron-haired, ironwilled, iron-clad, she was the original and, many maintained, the best Hollywood PR. She knew everyone and everything. Sam was scared of very few people; Brooke Reed, however, was one of them.
Her fingers worrying at the turquoise beads around her throat, Sam looked nervously over at Cojones, who was now circling the reception desk like a matador coming in for the kill. But even Cojones would have to wait if Brooke Reed was calling.
"Shall I tell Mr. Co-Jones to wait?" Xanthe fretted.
"Brooke. So nice to hear…"
"Yeah, sure," Brooke's rasping tones cut in. "I'm calling about
Galaxia
."
"Okay," said Sam, expectant beneath her businesslike manner. She knew about the impending Saint film. Everyone in the fashion and media industries did.
"I want R and P on some talent," Brooke informed her shortly.
Sam understood this code. R and P stood, in Brooke-speak, for repackaging and polishing. Talent meant an actor, presumably the female star of a new film. It was standard NBS procedure. Part of the studio's preparations for any big movie would be Brooke contacting the Wild agency to help launch the female star by arranging high-profile shoots with top photographers and leading glossy magazines.
Sam watched Cojones still pacing the reception area. Whereas before he had looked like the matador, now, with his powerful leather-covered shoulders and the horn-like twists of his unruly black hair, he resembled the bull, pawing the ground threateningly. She could almost see the steam coming out of his nostrils. But he could wait.
"Who's the girl?" Sam asked
"Completely unknown. British."
"British?"
"Yeah. And with the usual British sense of style. Second-hand clothes, no idea about make-up, hair like a friggin' rat's nest…" Brooke, for all her elegant appearance, could be very earthy.
"You mean vintage and unstructured," Sam corrected. She owned a model agency; she had to keep her end up.
"I mean," snapped Brooke, "that she looks a friggin' mess."
"Right," said Sam hurriedly. There weren't many people who could talk to her like this, but Brooke was definitely one of them.
"Get Lagerfeld," the studio PR instructed. "That should do it."
Sam's round eyes flexed in surprise. Karl Lagerfeld? The allpowerful German uber-designer and photographer? Brooke, as usual, wasn't asking much.
"Er…I know he's pretty busy right now," Sam hedged. She knew this because four glossy magazine editors in the last week alone had called and asked her to use her influence with him on their behalf. Unfortunately, her influence, while considerable, was not of the mountain-moving variety.
"What about Carlos Cojones?" Sam suggested, as inspiration struck. Talk about killing two birds with one stone. Cojones, certainly, looked about to kill something. Catching his dark, burning eye, Sam felt sufficiently heartened to flash him a grin.
"Popinjay," said Brooke, witheringly.
"He's very hot."
"Hot now, sure. Ten minutes from now he'll have icicles dangling off him."
"I could try Rumtopf," Sam suggested.
There was a considering pause from the other end. "Mmm," said Brooke. "Rumtopf's definitely a thought."
He was, Sam knew. Although not a legend on the Lagerfeld scale, the Swiss designer-photographer Rumtopf certainly had ambitions in that direction. He was a definite name and—Brooke, as ever, was right about this—definitely better than Cojones.
"I'll try Rumtopf then. What's this girl's name by the way?"
"Darcy Prince," rasped Brooke. "You heard it first here. See ya."
Sam's phone buzzed immediately. "Mr. Co-Jones has left the building," Xanthe whispered dolefully.
Chapter Twenty-eight
For all the obvious glamour and wealth of her new employer, Emma found Belle utterly impossible to pin down about terms and conditions.
"Later!" the actress would snap whenever Emma attempted to ask about money, hours, and holidays. "I'm busy learning my lines, okay?"
"Learning my lines," Emma soon realised, was a euphemism for disappearing into the bedroom with Niall and having prolonged and very noisy sex, after which Belle, in particular, was given to parading about the penthouse naked.
Emma was beginning to despair of gaining an audience with Belle outside actually going to the one in the theatre when, one afternoon after the matinee, the actress returned, most unusually, alone. Realising there would be no sexual activity until Niall returned, Emma seized her chance.
Belle looked at her, her strangely coloured green eyes filled with irritation. "You want to talk? About your job? Now?"
"Now," said Emma, gently but firmly.
Tutting and tossing her head, conveying with every fibre of her body just how inconvenient this was, Belle led the way into the suite's drawing room. Here, she perched on a striped sofa and, directing a narrow-eyed smile at Emma, clasped small, bejewelled hands round knees in tight, white jeans.
"Okay, so you want to talk terms," she said ungraciously. "And here's the first one. You sign a confidentiality agreement, okay?"
Emma nodded.
"The agreement is as follows," Belle announced, holding Emma in her cold blue gaze. "You work for Mr. and Mrs. Smith."
"Oh. I thought I worked for you."
"We're Mr. and Mrs. Smith."
"Oh, I see."
"You never talk about us to anyone."
Emma nodded again. It was obvious that that would be a clause in a confidentiality contract.
"You call me Miss Murphy at all times."
"Not Mrs. Smith?"
"No! Not Mrs. Smith!" There was a crack as Belle drove her fist impatiently into her palm. "Mr. and Mrs. Smith is what you call us if you talk about us to anyone else."