sake Octavia,’ his voice rose, almost womanish, ‘I’ve helped you out enough times in the past.’
It was true.
‘All right, I’ll get you the money,’ I said.
‘How?’
‘I’ve got a friend who’s offered me ?1,500 to do some modelling,’ I said, ‘I guess I can push him up to ?2,000.’
As soon as Xander had gone I went out to a telephone box and dialled Andreas’s number.
I imagined him pushing aside a blonde, and climbing over a huge pair of tits to answer the telephone.
‘Hullo,’ said the husky, oily, foreign voice.
‘Andreas,’ I said. ‘This is Octavia.’
There was a pause.
‘Octavia Brennen.’
‘I know,’ he said softly. ‘Just let me turn this redhead down. I was expecting a call from you.’
‘You were?’ I said sharply. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘Well, the grapevine said you were having rather a lean time, and you’d left the flat. Pity. It was a nice situation, that flat. Anyway, what can I do for you?’
I swallowed. ‘Do you remember what you said about photographing me for
‘Sure do.’ He had difficulty keeping the triumph out of his voice.
‘You were talking in terms of ?1,500,’ I said.
‘I must have been crazy.’
‘Could you make it ?2,000?’
‘Inflation’s clobbered everyone, baby.’
‘Not that much. Your circulation’s booming. I read it in
‘Well, if you make yourself available for — er — dinner and other things afterwards, I might consider it.’
He waited. I could almost feel him writhing like a great snake in anticipation. What the hell did it matter? Gareth was caput as far as I was concerned. What did anything matter?
‘All right,’ I said, ‘that would be nice. But can I have the cash tomorrow?’
‘Greedy, aren’t we? I hope there’s nothing the matter with you, Octavia. I’ve never known you haggle before. Take it or leave it, that’s the sort of duchess you always were. I wouldn’t like you to be any different. It’d make me think things had a certain impermanence.’
‘I need the bread,’ I said.
‘All right.’ His voice suddenly businesslike. ‘Cy Markovitz is in London at the moment. I’ve booked him all day tomorrow. Come along at two.’
In utter misery I realized I would have to cut the presentation. But getting the money for Xander had to be more important than anything else.
‘All right,’ I said.
He gave me the address and then added softly.
‘And don’t wear anything tight. We don’t want crease marks all over you. Till tomorrow, darling. You won’t regret it, I promise you.’
After that I had to go and waitress. When I got home I washed my hair and made pathetic attempts to get my body into some sort of shape to be photographed. I then spent hours writing and tearing up letters of explanation to Jakey. Even the final result didn’t satisfy me. I was so much on the blink, I could hardly string a word, let alone a sentence, together and nothing I said could change the fact I was doing the dirty on him. Monkey lay on the bed, dozing, unsettled by the change in routine. Every so often he gave a yawn which turned into a squeaking yelp. I refused to go to bed, it was too hot to sleep anyway, and if I did sleep I would have to wake up and face afresh the truth about Gareth and Lorna.
Nothing — not even the truth — prepared me for the horror of the photographic session with Andreas. I felt as though I was hurtling on a fast train towards Dante’s Ninth Circle, the one where the treacherous are sealed in ice and eternally ripped apart by Satan’s teeth. But I’d betrayed Jakey, so I deserved to be ripped apart.
I sat in a little side room in front of a mirror lined with lit bulbs, wearing only an old make-up-stained dressing gown. The wireless claimed it was the hottest day of the year. It was impossibly stuffy in the huge Wimbledon studio Cy Markovitz had hired for the afternoon, but I still couldn’t stop shivering. I knew I looked terrible. I had covered my yellowing suntan with dark-brown make-up, but it didn’t stop my ribs sticking out like a Belsen victim. I had poured half a bottle of blue drops into my eyes but they were still red-veined and totally without sparkle.
In one corner of the studio, an amazing faggot called Gabriel with very blue eyes and streaked strawberry blond hair, clad only in faded kneelength denim trousers and a snake bracelet, was whisking about supervising two sulky, sweating minions into building a set for me. It consisted of a huge bed with a cane bed head, silver satin sheets, and a white antique birdcage. One minion kept staggering in with huge potted plants, the other was pinning dark brown patterned Habitat wallpaper to a huge rolled-down screen. Gabriel was arranging a Christopher Wray lamp, a silver teapot and glass paper weights on a bedside table.
‘Andreas asked for something really classy to set you off, darling. I’ve never known him to take so much interest.’
In another corner of the studio to an accompaniment of popping flashbulbs and Ella Fitzgerald on the gramophone, Cy Markovitz was photographing a spectacular looking black girl with 44-20-44 measurements. She was wearing red lace open crotch pants, heels with nine inch spikes, and was writhing against a huge fur rug which was pinned against the wall.
‘It’s to make her black boobs fall better,’ explained Gabriel with a shudder. ‘In the pix, it’ll look as though she’s lying on a bed.’
I turned back to the mirror, sweat already breaking through my newly applied make-up. Then I heard the noise of men laughing; my mouth went dry, my shivering became more violent. Next moment the curtain was pushed aside and Andreas came in reeking of brandy and aftershave, a big cigar sticking out of his mouth. Even heat and drink hadn’t brought any flush of pink to his man-tanned cheeks. He was carrying a bottle of Charles Heidsieck and two glasses which he put on the dressing table. I clutched the white dressing gown tighter round me. For a long time he stood behind me looking into the mirror, his eyes as triumphant as they were predatory. Then he said in his oily, sibilant voice,
‘You look a bit rough, baby. Been up against it, have you?’
‘I’ve been working hard.’
Andreas laughed.
‘You’re not cut out for a career, I always warned you. And Gareth Llewellyn’s ditched you; I knew he would. You must listen to Uncle Andreas in future.’
He seemed to revel in my utter desperation.
‘Never mind,’ he went on soothingly. ‘I’ll see you right. A few weeks of cushy living and you’ll soon get the ripe peachy look you had at Grayston.’
He ran his hands over me, lingeringly and feelingly, like a child trying to gauge the contents of a wrapped Christmas present. I gritted my teeth, trying to suppress the shudder of revulsion. He let go of me, and started to take the gold paper off the top of the champagne bottle. I watched his soft white hands in horror. God knows what they wouldn’t be doing to me later this evening.
I took a deep breath. ‘Can I have the cash now?’
Andreas shook his head. ‘Uh-uh. You get the cash when you deliver the goods, and they’d better be good.’
The top shot off the bottle into the rafters. Andreas filled a glass and handed it to me.
‘That should relax you,’ he said. ‘Make you feel nice and sexy.’
I took a belt of champagne, wondering if I was going to throw up.
‘Come in boys,’ shouted Andreas over the curtain, and we were joined by a couple of Andreas’ hood friends, flashing jewellery, sweating in waisted suits. They were the sort of guys who’d give even the Mafia nightmares.
‘Meet Mannie and Vic,’ said Andreas.
He must have brought them along to show me off. They were obviously disappointed I wasn’t as fantastic as
