‘He never met my daughter,’ said Molly, her eyes staring vacantly at a notice board pinned with posters on flu jabs and leaflets on healthy eating.
‘Your family left about an hour ago, I think. I can arrange for a taxi to take you home, as I’m sure you’ll all want to be together,’ said the nurse patiently.
‘A taxi?’ Molly looked at the woman blankly, then suddenly jumped to her feet, picking up her handbag and slinging it over her shoulder. ‘Yes, a taxi. That would be very kind of you,’ said Molly. ‘I’m sure I’ve taken up enough of your time.’
The car dropped her off outside the Metropole Hotel in the city centre. She checked into a suite, and phoned room service to bring her a club sandwich and two bottles of their best red wine. Plundering the minibar, she poured four miniatures of Scotch into a tumbler and drank it in two gulps.
She ran a bath, removed her clothes and answered the door naked to a startled waiter, taking the wine and a glass from him without a word. Sinking into the hot suddy water, the claret slipping down her throat like warm honey, images of her past and present whirled and merged, echoing around her head like an empty hospital corridor. As she drifted into semiconsciousness, her eyelids growing leaden, she didn’t notice her shoulders sliding slowly down the curve of the bath, the coolin
g water edging up towards her ears, her head lolling onto her shoulder as exhaustion and alcohol washed over her. She just didn’t notice.
If Summer had ever harboured any ambitions to be an actress, she had not realized it until she was at the Serpentine Gallery party and had overheard a delicious piece of gossip. ‘Darling, haven’t you heard?’ gushed Daria Vincenzi, a gorgeous Italian model with a plummier voice than the Queen. ‘Luc Balzac – you know, the maverick French film director? He’s making an action movie at Pinewood Studios for like a hundred million dollars and they want to cast a complete unknown for the female lead. Isn’t it just the best?’
Summer sidled up to Allegra Fox, the aristocratic face of numerous fashion brands. Allegra was the best connected and least discreet model she knew. If anyone knew the full skinny, she would.
‘Oh yes, I had a meeting with Imogen Sanders, the casting director, only yesterday,’ she boasted. ‘Officially it’s open auditions, but Imogen is calling in all the top girls from the big agencies.’ Allegra gave Summer a dismissive look to suggest she wasn’t in the same league. ‘Although, apparently the script is terrible, so it might not be the right move for me right now.’
As Molly had thankfully lost interest in ‘managing’ Summer’s career, she decided to take matters into her own hands, and the next day went into her agency, IMP, as early as she dared. Just off Regent Street, IMP was London’s most powerful agency, with some of modelling’s biggest names on their books. The office was a slick, open-plan affair, with one big circular table in the centre at which sat the agency’s bookers, yelling into their headsets like a fashionable version of King Arthur’s knights. Summer’s agent, Michael Tantino, had an office of his own. He had just been promoted to head booker – signing the Karenza girl hadn’t done his cause any harm at all – and he was delighted to see Summer.
‘Summer!’ he cried, throwing his arms in the air as she walked in to his sparse chrome and glass office. ‘My favourite model in all the world!’
A flamboyant half-Tunisian, half-Spaniard, Michael had skin the colour of butterscotch. His black fitted shirt was left open to give Summer an eyeful of his freshly waxed chest. ‘Although I do say that to everyone. How can I help you, honey?’
‘Do you have any dealings with Imogen Sanders?’ asked Summer, sitting on a orange sofa.
Michael gave a half-shrug. ‘Sometimes, darling. Why do you ask?’
Michael winced inwardly. He knew exactly what Summer was referring to, but he didn’t want to hurt her feelings. Imogen Sanders was one of his oldest friends and had called him for recommendations on beautiful girls who could act. He had not put Summer’s name forward. As head booker, he was fiercely protective of the agency’s reputation and had only sent his biggest girls to see Imogen Sanders. The girls who could command $50,000 a day, and the ones who had the seven-figure contracts with the giant cosmetic houses. The cream of the cream. Summer Sinclair was beginning to bring in good money for the agency, sure. And she was hot, no question of that; GQ was on the phone every week wanting her to do a cover. But he didn’t think she was ready for Hollywood.
‘… Only I was talking to Daria last night,’ continued Summer, ‘and she said you’d sent her to see Imogen.’
Michael pulled a face. Summer was such a modest, timid little thing. She might have landed that TV show, but she didn’t have the big bubbly personality like Cameron Diaz or the celebrity boyfriend like Jude Law who had sent Sienna Miller’s career into overdrive.
‘Yes, honey, that’s true, but I really don’t think the time’s quite right for you right now. How about we start you off on this music video I’ve heard about …’
Summer took a deep breath, imagining what Molly would do in this situation. She certainly wouldn’t allow him to fob her off. She might not be a ‘top girl’, but she wanted it. She wanted it badly. And if she was going to be an actress, now would be a good time to start.
‘Listen, Michael,’ said Summer, mimicking Molly expertly, ‘I know they’re having open auditions; there was even an advert in The Stage, for goodness’ sake. This job is not a secret.’
She leant forward and tapped her nail on Michael’s desk for emphasis. ‘I’ll contact Imogen myself if I have to. But if I get the gig I might just be looking for a new agency. I’m sure Models 1 would be very welcoming if I—’
‘Okay. Okay,’ interrupted Michael, holding up hands. ‘I’ll call Imogen. In the meantime, there’s a casting tomorrow for some pop video for some James Blunt kind of guy. Apparently he’s hot. The record company are seeing people tomorrow. They’ve seen your book already.’
‘Okay, give me the details,’ said Summer, allowing herself an inward sigh of relief. ‘And you won’t forget to call Imogen, will you?’
‘I won’t forget,’ teased Michael. He looked at her and felt a little sad. She had big dreams that were getting bigger. She was a good kid. He didn’t want her to get chewed up and spat out. She was too good for that.
39
Erin hadn’t heard from Julian for nearly a week. She had tried to call him and had left at least a dozen messages with both his assistant and on his answering machine. But so far, all she was hearing back was a yawning silence, which wasn’t good news however she looked at it. If he’d been in an accident, surely his secretary would have mentioned it, ditto if he’d been out of the country, which only left her staring down the barrel of rejection. The previous night she had cried until her eyes were sore, wondering what she could have possibly done or said that made him lose such rapid interest. But her broken heart was just the half of it. Not only had Julian disappeared, but with him had vanished his drawings for Belvedere Road. She badly needed those plans to secure planning permission and, the longer she left it, the more of Erin’s very limited supply of money was pouring down the drain. Money she had inherited from her father. Her nest egg. At this rate she was going to have to sell the property on again without having done an iota of work on it. She knew her father wouldn’t have wanted that.
‘Erin! Get Marcus.’ Adam usually used the telephone to speak to her, but right now she could hear his booming voice coming all the way from his desk. Marcus came up straight away and there was a heated exchange that Erin couldn’t help but overhear.
‘Fucking Dreamscape Construction have undercut us on the London Gallery,’ said Adam.
Erin’s ears immediately pricked up. The London Gallery was perhaps the biggest contract that Midas Construction had been pitching for this year. A major art gallery, to rival the National Portrait, it was part of a vote-winning initiative for the current government, who were playing the caring-sharing ‘spaces for the people’ card. The project had taken them months of planning, presenting and schmoozing of ministers and advisors.
‘How could this happen?’ snapped Marcus, pacing around the room. ‘Our proposal was fantastic. I’d be fucking amazed if anyone had a design as good or could cost it so low. What the hell’s going on?’