Читать книгу Chelsea Wives - Anna-Lou Weatherley - Страница 17

Mylo was having a problem. One helluva frickin’ problem. No matter what he did, what angle he shot from, the chick in front of him just wouldn’t look anything other than fierce.

‘That’s it, baby, to the left a little. Give me a grimace. Yeah, like that. Grrr. Like you’re an animal. I bet you’re an animal, right? A proper little tigress in the sack, huh?’

Imogen inwardly winced. This photographer was a total arsehole. What were L’Orelie thinking employing such a sleazebag? From the moment they had started shooting he had bombarded her with a torrent of schoolboy sexual innuendo and loaded remarks about her ‘tits and ass’. It was unprofessional, not to mention disrespectful. Moreover it was putting her off. She’d half a mind to complain but had quickly decided against it. At least until Cressida got here. She’d sort him out in a second with the sharp end of her tongue. If she ever bothered to show, that is.

Imogen glanced at the wall clock; Cress, who was due in on the next flight after hers, was a little over an hour late turning up for the shoot. Quite unlike her, she thought. Cressida was always an absolute stickler for timekeeping.

Standing with her back to the camera, Imogen flicked her head round and flashed her devastating smile. Sleazy though the photographer was, she was still loving every minute of being back in front of the lens and was upset Cress was missing it all.

‘Let’s take five, huh, pussy cat?’ Mylo winked, letting his camera drop down to his side. It was all part of his plan, the sleazy photographer bit – not that he’d had to dig too deep to appear convincing.

In truth, Mylo kind of resented having to make out to this woman that he was a total douchebag. It bothered him that she might think him cheap and tacky – a first for him. Mylo’s insouciance was his trademark; usually, he couldn’t have given a toss what any chick thought at the end of the day – just so long as she said ‘yes.’

He was nervous too; Imogen Forbes was a complete fox. Mylo could see that without some serious intervention, this chick would walk it. The gig was hers the moment she had strutted through the double doors, dressed in regular JBrand Jeans and a plain white t-shirt; her dark glossy hair scraped back from her sun-kissed face, looking a million frickin’ bucks, even before hair and make-up.

Imogen smiled at Mylo, nodded and walked off set towards the make-up artist, Rhianna, who stood, brush poised in hand, waiting for her.

Glancing around the studio at all the terribly cool people milling around, attempting to look integral to the day’s events, Imogen noticed a young girl, little more than a teenager really, with bleached yellow hair, too much make-up and not enough skirt, sitting on a bean bag. The girl was watching Mylo’s every move. Her eyes filled with longing as he stood in front of a laptop uploading images and talking animatedly to his assistant, Josh. Imogen strained a little in an attempt to hear their conversation but the sound of Beyonce’s voice on the stereo in the background drowned out their voices.

Imogen’s iPhone beeped and she picked it up, assuming it was Cressida with an explanation. She wanted this stay in LA to be memorable for Cress, as well as herself. It was her chance to say her final goodbyes to her friend and she had hoped to build lasting memories, ones she would be able to look back on with fondness.

But the message wasn’t from Cressida, it was from her daughter, Bryony.

Imogen felt her heart lift. Bryony was such a thoughtful girl; she had remembered her mother would be shooting today and had wanted to send her best. Imogen felt a small pang of guilt as she read the message. It seemed wrong somehow, her beautiful girl a million miles away from her, texting her best wishes while she was attempting to resurrect her career in LA.

‘My daughter,’ she held the phone up to Rhianna. ‘Wishing me luck.’

‘Your daughter, huh? I bet she’s a little knockout, right? Just like her momma.’

‘She is,’ Imogen beamed and began to text her daughter back.

‘We’re having cocktails after the shoot today. Y’all should join us you know, honey. It’d be nice to have some female company. Help me hold my own against Dumb and Dumber over there.’ Rhianna nodded in the direction of Mylo and his assistant.

Imogen stifled a giggle.

‘So what’s the deal with the photographer anyway?’ she asked, intrigued.

Rhianna pulled a face and snorted.

‘Y’see that little lady over there?’ She pointed her comb in the direction of the bored looking young blonde. ‘The one with the short skirt and over made-up face?’

Imogen nodded.

‘Well, that’s Candy. My little sister. She’s completely ga-ga about Mylo. Reckons he’s the one, ya know?’

Rhianna sighed ruefully. ‘Poor baby. He said he’d help her. Get her doing some shots and all – she’s like, so desperate to be a model. But I told her, “honey, the only person that guy is gonna help is himself”.’ Rhianna leaned in closer, her tanned, powdered face almost touching Imogen’s. ‘I heard a rumour that he’s more than a lil’ friendly with the number one at L’Orelie. Y’all know what I’m saying?’

Imogen raised an eyebrow and looked over at Candy, desperate to be noticed. She felt sorry for the young girl. Mylo had ‘user’ written all over him.

‘When Cressida gets here, I’ll ask her to have a chat with her. She can put her in contact with some people who might be able to help her – Cress knows everyone.’

‘Y’all would do that? Oh my, honey, that’s so kind of you. Candy will love you forever.’

Imogen smiled, glad to be of assistance. But inside she was beginning to worry. Where was Cressida?

*

‘Fuck, man!’ Mylo cursed under his breath. The images staring back at him were some of the best he’d ever taken. If only he could bottle what this broad had and sell it on to the constant stream of wannabe models he encountered on a daily basis; he’d be the richest dude on earth. Mylo thought hard for a moment, so hard you could almost hear the cogs turning inside his brain.

‘Listen, Josh.’ He turned to his young, enthusiastic assistant. ‘I want you to fiddle around with these shots on the computer.’

Josh nodded emphatically as if he’d been asked to undertake the most important mission of his entire life. ‘Make her face a little rounder, her nose a little flatter. Lighten her eyes a bit and mess around with the symmetry. Know what I’m saying?’

Josh looked puzzled. He might be a novice but even he knew the idea was to try and improve a shot.

‘But these pictures, boss,’ he shrugged, perplexed, ‘they’re pretty damn perfect as they are. You know, like, if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it n’ shit.’

Mylo smirked as he put his arm around his shoulder in a mock friendly gesture.

‘You like working as my assistant, Josh?’ he asked.

‘Sure,’ Josh nodded. ‘It’s way cool, man.’

‘Good,’ Mylo hissed, his soft tone taking on a subtle sharp edge. ‘If you wanna keep it cool then do the fuck as I ask and don’t ask questions, got it?’

Josh shrugged.

‘Sure. You’re the boss, boss.’

Mylo clapped him on the back.

‘I think we’re done here,’ Mylo called over to Imogen and Rhianna.

‘We are?’ Imogen replied, a little shocked. They’d only been shooting for five minutes. She’d not even had an outfit change.

‘Hey, guys,’ Mylo called out to the rest of the studio. ‘It’s a wrap!’

Rhianna shrugged at Imogen.

Perplexed, Imogen padded over to where Mylo and Josh stood, the rest of the studio watching as she moved with supermodel grace and purpose.

‘Can I see the shots?’ Imogen asked, pointing at the computer. Josh nodded, standing back a little to make way for her.

Imogen cocked her head to one side and scanned the pictures of herself on screen. Despite always being her own worst critic, even she had to conclude that she looked fantastic. Her skin glowed and her smile lit up the frame. She had that ‘everyday with an edge’ look about her, just the brief Cressida had told her L’Orelie wanted.

‘You pleased with them?’ She glanced up at Mylo tentatively.

‘Sure. They’re hot,’ he said, refraining from making eye contact with her. He felt a little rush of guilt then, seeing the look of disappointment on her beautiful face, and had to visualise himself cruising around in that Ferrari until it passed. ‘You did good.’

Imogen felt herself relax a bit, though she cursed Cressida for not being here to give her objective opinion. Cressida would’ve made him take more film, give the client as much choice as possible, she felt sure.

‘What about the others, Mylo?’ Candy suddenly piped up from her beanbag seat.

‘Others?’ Imogen asked, puzzled.

‘The shots I saw Josh working on …’ she offered helpfully.

‘There are no others,’ Mylo shot back a little too defensively, causing Imogen to look at him in alarm.

Josh nodded his agreement.

‘Yeah, there were no others,’ he added a little too emphatically.

‘Oh, but I thought I saw …’

‘Hey, Candy,’ Mylo snapped, his tone nasty. ‘Were you even invited on this shoot, huh?’

Candy stared up at Mylo, a wounded look on her young, impressionable face.

‘Well, like … not exactly, but I just thought that seeing as though you and me …’

Mylo had only slept with the girl a handful of times and now he couldn’t get rid of the bitch; she was like a particularly persistent case of herpes.

‘You and me?’ He stifled a chuckle. ‘Baby, there ain’t no you and me. You got that, huh, Candy?’

A crushed looking Candy nodded slowly, her head dropping down onto her voluminous chest. Imogen shot Mylo a disgusted look. This guy was a complete arsehole.

‘Good,’ Mylo said, abruptly snapping the lid of his laptop shut, signalling the end of their little discussion. ‘Alrighty,’ he said brightly, addressing the rest of the studio who were pretending not to have listened to his little outburst. ‘Who’s up for a Bud?’

*

Imogen stepped into the shower and let the powerful jet of water wash over her, the hotness prickling her naked skin. Soaping herself with the complimentary Aveda products, she thought of the evening’s events and smiled, blowing water from her lips.

He certainly had some neck, that Mylo character, coming onto her like that.

‘I’ll say something for you British broads, you know how to turn it on for the camera,’ he’d said as he’d moved in on her, his ‘ironic’ neon pink Paul Frank hoodie glowing in the low evening light as his pungent Armani aftershave filled the soft, cool air around her.

‘Thanks,’ she had graciously replied. ‘We try our best.’

‘Hmm, I’ll bet you do,’ he’d said, casting his wide blue eyes over her body, a half smile on his lips. ‘You got plans for the rest of your stay?’

‘Yes, as a matter of fact, I have,’ Imogen had smiled sweetly up at him. This was all she needed, the prick-of-a-photographer making a move on her. She inwardly sighed. Some things in the industry, it seemed, never changed.

‘It wasn’t a question,’ Mylo replied, smirking as he watched her face flush a little pink.

He’d embarrassed her. It was kinda cute.

‘I have to get back to meet my agent,’ Imogen stammered. ‘She was supposed to be at the shoot but she must’ve been waylaid. She’ll probably be waiting for me back at the Marmont.’ Imogen cursed herself. She’d just let on where they were staying and hoped Mylo wouldn’t take this accidental admission as a green light.

‘Cool digs,’ he smiled, slurping his bottle of Bud and placing his arm against the wall in a makeshift barrier to prevent her from escaping.

‘Anyways, there’s this hot new club opened downtown, The Playground. I’m on the guest list, so how about you and me …’

‘Mylo,’ Imogen interrupted him, ‘let’s get one thing straight,’ she looked up at him earnestly and said with as much sarcasm as she could inject into her voice, ‘there is no you and me.’

Mylo began to laugh.

‘Touché, lady,’ he grinned, glancing over at Candy who was hovering nearby. ‘But you’re way more my “cup of tea” as they say in England, or so I’m told. She don’t mean nothing to me.’

He gave a nonchalant shrug.

‘And that’s the problem, Mylo,’ Imogen raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s the problem.’

*

Drying herself and wrapping a cream silk Calvin Klein robe around her, Imogen stepped out onto the 1,500 square foot private terrace and let out a little ‘ooh’ of pleasure as she surveyed the breathtaking panoramic views of Hollywood that surrounded her.

Hollywood, Los Angeles; the City of Angels, a place where dreams became reality. Imogen looked up at the sign, blinking in the darkness at the enormous iconic letters emblazoned into the horizon. The gentle evening breeze lifted her robe a little and she exhaled softly. Try as she might, she could not seem to shake this terrible sense of melancholy. The feeling of her past becoming her present once more.

Heading back into the penthouse, keen to distract herself from her thoughts, Imogen decided to order room service. A club sandwich perhaps. Settling onto the king-sized bed and pulling a cashmere throw up around her, she switched on the huge flat-screen TV.

Flicking through the channels she stopped at CNN, concerned voices catching her attention. She heard her iPhone beep in her Mulberry tote, momentarily distracting her. The newsreader was saying something about a plane crash. She hit the volume button.

‘… Virgin Atlantic flight VA02367 from London Heathrow to LAX. Reports suggest a defective latching mechanism in the cargo door was to blame causing the 747 to fail in flight resulting in decompression and loss of hydraulic control. This is one of the worst aircraft accidents of the century, Barbara,’ the all-American presenter said gravely, turning to his on-screen partner.

‘I know, John. It’s shocking stuff,’ the schmaltzy blonde responded, equally full of gravitas. ‘329 dead, including all 15 crew members and 2 pilots …’

Imogen put her hand to her mouth in horror as she listened to the on-screen voices. ‘329 dead … no survivors …’ Her phone beeped again and she scrabbled for her bag, unable to take her eyes from the screen. She had seven new messages! She placed the phone down on the bed and continued to watch the reportage on CNN.

‘Jesus,’ she shook her head, visibly shocked. All those poor people and their families. That was a lot of dead bodies, she thought, a mix of guilt and relief suddenly engulfing her. She could’ve been on that flight herself! Imogen shuddered. It didn’t bear thinking about.

Shaken by the news, she felt the urge to order something alcoholic, and, picking up the room service menu she briefly scanned it. She’d get Cress something too, some Dom Perignon and a club sandwich with a side of fries perhaps. She was always so vocal about how much she loathed in-flight food and … Plane journey. London Heathrow to LAX. No survivors. And suddenly it hit her like a comet.

‘OH MY GOD!’ Imogen screamed as the room service menu slid from her grasp. ‘CRESSIDA!’