Storms Over Blackpeak (25 page)

The man looked at her kindly. ‘You want to try another card?’

Ella looked down dubiously at her emergency credit card. She’d never used it before. It had a pretty low limit, and the camera would take up most of it. But that would be okay, wouldn’t it? If she had to walk out of here now empty-handed, she’d die of shame. And besides, her last month’s invoices would be paid into her New Zealand account on Monday. She just had to transfer the money across. How much of an emergency could there be in the next three days? Especially since she’d be in a hotel in Prague on expenses for two of them? She had a hundred bucks in her wallet. Surely that would get her through. With a deep breath, she handed the card over.

‘Here you go.’ He pulled the receipt out of the machine. ‘You want me to box it for you?’

Picking the camera up, she shook her head.

‘Enjoy it, honey.’ He reached under the counter. ‘Tell you what. I’ll throw in your first roll.’

Ella looked at the film carton he gave her. Black and white — of course. Her heart lifted. She was in New York, in a heat wave, with a Leica M2 …

Hours later, she arrived back at the studio, footsore, shoulders aching from carrying her gear, and happier than she had felt in weeks, her first thirty-six frames on the Leica exposed. Having dropped off Damian’s film and the gels, she headed up to the apartment. It was after seven o’clock. His lunch date had to be over by now. She couldn’t wait to show him what she’d bought.

Reaching the upper floor, she opened the door of the elevator and slid back the cage. A woman in a short, sleeveless silk dress was walking towards the cage door, Damian two steps behind her. The last of the evening light streaming through the windows was catching her copper hair, and Ella couldn’t help but stare. Not because the woman was stunning — although she was — but because there was something deeply familiar about her. Not her face, but … Ella blinked. Her
body
. The way she carried herself.

‘You must be Ella.’ At the elevator door, the woman paused, a little smile on her regal face. She must be older than Lizzie, Ella realised, stepping out of her way. As they passed, the woman bent her long neck to Ella’s ear. ‘Good luck.’

‘I’ll walk you down.’ Ushering her inside the elevator, Damian closed the doors behind them.

Crikey. Ella put her bag on the kitchen counter, taking in the remains of lunch on the table and trying not to look at Damian’s bed. They’d certainly powered through some wine, she noted.

‘Who was that?’ she asked, fascinated, as Damian walked back in.

‘You didn’t recognise her?’ Damian looked amused. ‘That was Orla.’

Ella felt her jaw drop. Orla?
The
Orla? The famous subject of the nude studies that were still the best-known work Damian had ever done?

‘You know the series?’ Damian enquired, looking even more amused. ‘I thought you might be too young.’

‘I’m familiar with it,’ she told him wryly. Who wasn’t? True, the coffee-table book had come out several years before she was born, but they’d studied it at art school. People still had the prints on their walls — in fact, she’d seen one for sale the day before yesterday in a vintage collectables store in Soho. Ella shook her head in disbelief. She’d just met
Orla
.

Wandering over to the table, Damian picked up the nearest bottle. Finding it empty, he tried the next, with the same result. Ella watched him head for the fridge.

‘Have you always kept in touch?’

‘We have.’ He disappeared behind the fridge door. ‘You know, it’s funny. A body that famous, but nobody knows her face.’

That would have its advantages, Ella thought. Although it was a lovely face.

In the kitchen, a cork popped. He was moving on to champagne? Really? Now?

‘Here.’ Damian handed her a glass.

‘Are we celebrating something?’ she enquired.

‘We are.’ Knocking back half his glass, he strode to the open window. ‘Work!’

Well, he was certainly in an expansive mood. Ella had never seen him quite like this.

‘The Orla series,’ he demanded. ‘It was good, right?’

‘It was great.’

‘I hadn’t wanted to make another image like that for thirty years.’ He turned towards her, a glitter of triumph in his eyes. ‘But I do now.’

Ella caught her breath. He was planning another Orla book? Was that what he wanted the film stock for? That would be historic! And
she’d
get to work on it? God, wait until she told the rest of her art class. They’d die.

‘That’s fantastic,’ she told him eagerly.

‘I’m glad you think so.’

‘The concept — it’s so beautiful,’ Ella went on, tearing up a little just at the thought of it. ‘You and Orla, together again, after all this time.’

‘Not Orla.’ Damian stared at her. ‘You.’

Jesus. What? Ella stared back at him. Her? What did he mean, her?

‘Ella, I want you to pose for me.’ He strode back towards her. ‘Really pose, I mean.’

‘You mean,’ she stammered, ‘pose nude?’

Damian shrugged. ‘Of course.’

‘I …’

‘The work will be great. You said so yourself.’

She didn’t doubt that it would. And it wasn’t that she was a prude. It was art; she’d done enough life drawing herself to understand that. But she wasn’t a model. And being naked in front of Damian? The thought made her squirm.

‘Don’t you think,’ she suggested, trying to let him down gently, ‘that would be a bit weird?’

‘Why would it be weird?’

‘Because I’m your assistant. We work together.’ Ella looked away from him in embarrassment. ‘I can’t just — suddenly take my clothes off. We know each other too well.’

‘Maybe the real problem is,’ Damian said slowly, ‘we don’t know each other well enough.’

What?

‘If I were your lover’ — his hand met her arm — ‘could you be naked in front of me then?’

Ella’s mind froze as he kissed her. Jesus Christ. They didn’t teach you what to do about
this
in art school.

‘You just need practice,’ Damian’s voice whispered into her ear, his lips moving over her throat.

As he unhooked her bra strap, her brain sprang back to life, delivering a powerful desire to knee him in the balls. Ella settled for a shove to the chest.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ She struggled to refasten her bra.

‘Come on, Ella.’ Damian moved in again. ‘You can’t tell me you haven’t thought about this. I’ve seen that look you get when I’m shooting you.’

‘If I get any kind of
look
,’ Ella spat, taking a rapid step backwards and giving up on her bra, ‘it certainly isn’t meant for you. I can guarantee you I’ve never thought of you for a
second
as anything other than my boss.’

‘Ella …’ He held up his hands.

‘For God’s sake, Damian, you’re old enough to be my grandfather.’ She gave an involuntary shudder.

His face closed down. ‘I’m sorry you see it that way.’ Turning his back on her, he returned to the window.

Ella watched him nervously. The streets behind him were nearly dark. ‘I — I should go,’ she suggested, after what felt like a year of silence had passed. Indeed. She’d like nothing more than to get the hell away from him. As far as she could. But go where? She didn’t know a soul in New York. She waited for Damian to contradict her.

‘Yeah,’ he said coldly. ‘You probably should.’

With a growing sense of unreality, she picked up her bag.

Turning at last, Damian poured himself another glass of
champagne, downed it, and poured a second. ‘You can leave the keys on the counter.’

In the elevator, Ella managed, at last, to re-hook her bra. Seconds later, standing outside on the street, she looked around at the shuttered-up warehouses. Suddenly, industrial chic didn’t look so inviting. She rubbed her bare arms. God, she hadn’t even thought to pick up a coat. Or a toothbrush. Could she ask him to buzz her back up? Ella felt a wave of revulsion. Just the thought of hearing his voice made her sick. Walk away, she told herself. Just walk. There was absolutely no need to panic. It was only eight o’clock in the city that never slept. The town was full of hotels. She’d be okay.

‘I’m so sorry, miss.’ The girl behind the hotel check-in desk gave Ella a sympathetic look. ‘I’m afraid your second credit card’s been declined also.’

Ella stared at her numbly. She had tried every hotel on her phone within walking distance of Damian’s apartment. It was ten o’clock, and she was exhausted. There wasn’t a subway station for long, scary blocks — even if she knew where to take a train.

‘Is there—’ Ella cleared her throat, trying not to let her voice catch. ‘Do you know of anywhere cheaper?’

‘If you take a cab uptown—’

Ella shook her head. She couldn’t afford to spend money on that.

The girl hesitated. ‘If you keep going east a couple of blocks, there are some older-style places along there.’

‘Thank you,’ Ella managed, hoarsely, turning for the doors.

‘Be careful,’ the girl said, behind her.

Great. Heading east down the empty street past apartment blocks in ever-worsening states of repair, Ella tried not to let
her imagination get the better of her. New York was just as safe as London. That noise behind her was just — just a rat.

In a doorway, a homeless man stirred at her approach. ‘Spare some change, miss?’

‘I’m sorry.’ She met his eyes. ‘I’m afraid I really can’t just now.’

‘That’s okay, honey.’ He nodded. ‘You have a safe night.’

Ella walked on. The way things were going, she might be back to ask him if he could spare some cardboard. Oh, come on, she told herself. Don’t be so melodramatic. This was America. There had to be an all-night diner or something somewhere. If the worst came to the worst, she’d just have to sit out the night there and try not to get robbed until— Until what? Until it was morning and she had no money and nowhere to stay?

Up ahead, at last, Ella saw a cluster of hotel signs. She quickened her pace. At the top of a set of peeling steps, she walked into a lobby that smelled strongly of old cigarette smoke and sweat.

‘No working girls.’ The elderly man behind the desk gave her the briefest of glances before turning his attention back to the TV.

‘Excuse me?’ she stammered.

‘No coat, no suitcase, no stay.’

‘But—’

‘Go on, get out of here.’ He switched channels impatiently. ‘This is a nice place.’

Ella fled. On the steps outside, she paused, taking stock of her other options.

‘And you can’t stand there either!’ the man’s voice pursued her.

Across the street, a blue neon vacancy sign blinked wearily in the window of the Hotel Manhattan. At least, she assumed
that was what its name was supposed to be. The
h
and a
t
were missing. Ella hurried towards it. Inside, she approached the dilapidated desk with some trepidation.

‘Yeah,’ the woman told her, without enthusiasm. ‘I got a room.’

‘How — how much is it?’

‘Eighty dollars.’

Ella felt a wave of relief. She had that much in her wallet. ‘I’ll take it,’ she said, quickly.

The woman looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Two night minimum,’ she added. ‘Paid upfront.’

Oh, for God’s sake. But she was hardly in a position to bargain. ‘Here’s ninety in cash,’ she said, as nonchalantly as she could manage, given the circumstances. ‘I’ll put the rest on my card.’

Wordlessly, the woman ran the card through the machine. ‘Okay,’ she nodded.

Okay? Oh, thank God. Ella’s eyes started to blur as the woman slid a registration form across the counter.

‘Here’s your key. Third floor on your left. Elevator’s down, so you’ll have to take the stairs. Bathroom’s at the end of the hall.’

In her eagerness to get to the room — any room — Ella barely heard her. It wasn’t until she’d shut herself inside and bolted the door that she really looked around her. Ugh. Jesus. And the bathroom was
where
?

She sat down wearily on the bed, then, on closer inspection of the bedspread, wished she hadn’t. Peeling the cover off between thumb and forefinger, she discovered the quilt beneath it was even worse. Okay. Okay. It was cleaner than the pavement, right? And it was hotter than hell in the room anyway. Having stripped the bed to its stained sheets, she turned the decrepit air-conditioning
unit to full. Oh, Jesus! Ella smothered a shriek as a three-inch cockroach ran out.

She felt herself starting to shake. She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t
be
here. She couldn’t— Ella took a deep breath. Shuffling into the centre of what she very much hoped were freshly washed sheets, she drew her knees up and pulled her phone out of her bag. Now she was safely off the street, she could call her mother again. Surely she’d reach her this time.

Again, Lizzie’s phone went straight to voicemail. Ella checked her watch. Of course. It was Saturday in New Zealand. Lizzie would be at Carr’s. She wouldn’t be getting voicemail. Or texts. What was up with her email, though?

With an increasing sense of desperation, Ella listened to Glencairn’s phone ring. And ring. Where
were
they? Giving up, she pressed her forehead to her knees, tears trickling down her bare legs. What the hell was she going to do?

Richard! He must know people in New York. Ella blew her nose and tried to calm her breathing. Could she actually speak? With a final sniff, she brought up Richard’s number. It was awfully late — or rather, early — in London. But he had always said she could call him any time …

‘The fucking bastard!’ Richard exploded, all trace of sleepiness disappearing from his voice. ‘He can’t get away with that. We’ll sue him.’

The tears took over again. ‘I don’t know what to do.’

‘Ella, it’s all right. Don’t cry. What does Lizzie say?’

‘I can’t find her,’ Ella sobbed.

There was a pause. ‘Right. Okay. Sweetheart, don’t worry. We’ll sort this. Are you safe where you are?’

Watching the cockroach begin a lap of the skirting board, Ella tried to keep a grip on the bigger picture. ‘Yes.’

‘All right, you hold tight there. I’ll find someone to come
and get you—’ There was another pause. He must have just realised how late at night it was in New York. ‘First thing in the morning.’