Читать книгу Breaking the Rules - Barbara Taylor Bradford - Страница 13

Frank Farantino was one of the best-known and most successful photographers in New York. In the world, in point of fact. And as he walked out into the entrance foyer of his large studio, he stopped dead in his tracks when the tall young woman wearing a white cotton shirt and black trousers turned around to face him.

He held his breath for a split second as he took in her dark, exotic beauty, her unique looks. Thank you, Geo, thank you very much, he thought. He knew at once that his old friend had sent him a winner, and he was extremely pleased – thrilled, if he was honest with himself – that this extraordinary girl was standing here.

A wide smile enlivened his saturnine face, made it come alive, and then he strode across the floor, his hand outstretched as he stopped in front of the young woman.

‘Frankie Farantino,’ he said, shaking her hand.

‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr Farantino,’ M answered politely, as was her way, smiling back. ‘Thank you for seeing me today.’

‘My pleasure, and drop the Mr Farantino, would you, please? The whole world calls me Frankie. And your name is … M?’ He threw her a questioning look. ‘I am correct about that?’

‘Yes, you are. And before you ask me, my full name is Marie Marsden. My nickname at school was M and M, and I decided it might be better, wiser, to drop one M when I started my modelling career.’ She grinned.

He grinned back at her. ‘English, eh? Geo didn’t tell me that. So, how long have you been in New York?’

‘I came here in June, and I’ve been looking for work ever since. I’m afraid I haven’t been too successful, but then I haven’t been here all that long.’

‘How did you meet Georgiana Carlson?’

‘Through a young man I know … he’s called Dax. He’s a model and an actor.’

‘Oh, sure, I know Dax. I’ve used him from time to time. Geo’s boyfriend.’

‘That’s right. And he’s gone off to the West Coast to try his luck.’

‘He’s smart. So let’s go into the main studio, give it a whirl. How much modelling have you done?’

‘A little. In London.’

‘Did you bring any pictures?’

‘Yes. They’re in my tote.’ As she spoke she picked this up and hurried after him, following him into the studio. ‘As for actual modelling, I haven’t done much of that … been on the catwalk, I mean,’ she admitted, looking suddenly rueful.

‘Let’s see the pictures.’ Frankie Farantino stared at her intently, immediately understanding that she was a novice, a young woman looking for that first break, but this did not trouble him at all. He preferred young women who had not been coached, trained – and often tainted – by other photographers. One of the things he most enjoyed as a photographer was moulding a girl, actually creating her, in a sense, giving her a special look of his own invention. Taking the batch of photographs that M handed to him, he flicked through them swiftly, then glanced at her and half smiled. ‘They’re not bad, and at least I can see you photograph well. But these just don’t do you justice.’ He handed them to her.

‘I suppose not,’ she murmured, and swiftly put them back in the tote, deciding not to show them to anyone again, especially a photographer.

‘Okay, so let’s get started,’ Frankie said. ‘Go and stand over there on that raised platform, and turn slowly, in a circle, so that I can view you from every angle, study you.’

She did as he instructed, stepped up onto the platform, slowly turning, and turning again when he told her to keep moving. ‘Slowly, very slowly,’ he intoned.

Watching her intently, and with concentration, Frankie saw a lot of remarkable things simultaneously. She was lithe, moved gracefully like a dancer and, although she was rather tall, her height was balanced by a good figure and a special kind of inbred elegance. Her face fascinated him … she reminded him of someone he could not quite place. That vague, elusive image flickered at the back of his mind; just as he thought he was about to grasp it, have it fully revealed to him, it floated away – and maddeningly so.

‘Come on down,’ he said at last, and stretched out his hand to help her off the platform. ‘You brought a skirt, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, I did, and a dress. A simple black sheath. High heels, and a pair of flats.’

‘Good. There’s a dressing room over there.’ He indicated a door set in one of the soaring walls. ‘Please change into … well, anything you want.’

M nodded and hurried into the dressing room. She selected her flared, red cotton skirt, which went well with the pristine white shirt, added a wide black leather belt, slipped her feet into her favourite black ballerina slippers. Glancing at herself in the mirror, she decided to pull her hair back into a ponytail, added hoop earrings, and used a brighter red lipstick to define her mouth.

Frankie was loading his camera and looked up when M walked out into the studio. Instantly he knew exactly whom she resembled. A young Audrey Hepburn. He felt sudden excitement surge through him; he could hardly wait to capture her image on film. Only then would he know what he really had, what her potential was.

‘You look great, M!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’d like you to stand over there, in front of that white picket fence with the backdrop of a green field behind it.’

Frankie followed her, put his camera on a side table, and explained, ‘Move around a little, honey. Move your arms, strike a few poses you’re familiar with. Like this.’ He gave her a quick demonstration, picked up his camera and stepped away from her. ‘It’s okay, practise for a few seconds. Don’t look so worried. Smile, M, give me a few dazzling smiles.’

She did as he suggested, and proved so adept he started to shoot immediately, constantly throwing out encouraging words. ‘That’s great! Right on! Now turn left, move your body more. Hey, honey, you’re a natural. Wow! That’s great! Hold that pose. You’re fabulous!’

He went on photographing her for half an hour, exclaiming encouragement and praise, only stopping to grab a different camera, or reload film. Finally he stopped, sat down on a tall stool, and beckoned to her. ‘Stand here, M, stand here in front of me.’

‘Was I all right?’ she asked quietly. ‘Did I move the way you wanted?’

‘Absolutely. And you’re great. But I need to ask you something … have you ever had bangs?’

‘Do you mean a fringe?’ She ran her first finger across her forehead. ‘That’s what we call it in England … a fringe. And no, I haven’t.’

‘What about short hair? Or have you always worn it long?’

‘Mostly, but it was short when I was much younger – when I was a little girl, actually. Why? Don’t you like my hair?’

‘It’s magnificent. Beautiful. So long and glossy, and yes, even dramatic. There’s a lot you can do with long hair.’ Frankie pursed his lips, held his head on one side, and then, suddenly turning away from her, he shouted, ‘Caresse! Come on in here, would you, please?’

A moment later the petite red-headed pixie was running into the studio. ‘Yes, Frankie, here I am. What do you need?’

‘Where’s Agnes? Is she here?’

‘She said she’d arrive by two. With Luke Hendricks, remember? He’s doing that shoot for the ad agency with you.’

Frankie looked at the big round clock on the opposite wall. It was almost one. Turning to Caresse, he said crisply, in an urgent voice, ‘Find Agnes. Try her mobile. Ask her if she can come in a bit earlier, as soon as possible, in fact, and locate Marguerite Briguet, please. Tell her I want her to do a very special makeup job. Okay?’

‘Right away, Frankie!’ Caresse scooted off.

Leaning forward, Frankie Farantino gave M a hard, penetrating stare. ‘I need to give you a whole new look. It will be wonderful for you, but we might have to cut your hair.’

M gasped, taken aback, then stood there gaping at him, her dark eyes widening. She was momentarily speechless. Cut off her hair?

Frankie murmured in a gentler tone, ‘I promise you it will change your life. And it will be a truly unique look, very special to you—’

‘A reinvention?’ she asked, cutting in. ‘Is that what you’re suggesting?’

He nodded, continuing to stare at her speculatively. ‘That’s what I mean. Will you go for it?’

‘Absolutely. I love reinventions, Frankie.’

‘I really don’t want to cut this hair,’ Agnes Manton said softly, smoothing one hand down the long black hair that was one of M’s great assets. ‘Look at it, Frankie, it’s like a … a mantle of shining black silk. It would be criminal to cut this off, truly a criminal act.’

‘Don’t be so melodramatic,’ Frankie shot back, a brow lifting. ‘It is only hair, for God’s sake, and so it will grow back again, Agnes.’

‘I don’t mind,’ M interjected, swivelling her head to look up at the hairdresser. ‘And Frankie’s right, you know, I can grow it back if I want to.’

Agnes nodded, but remained silent, studying the young woman carefully, liking her.

Frankie said, ‘I want to show you something. Just a minute.’ He stepped away from the dressing table in the hair and makeup room at the back of the vast studio, headed for the bookcase at the far end. Taking down a picture book, he flicked through it, quickly found the photographs he wanted, and walked back to the two women.

‘Look at these, Agnes, and you’ll better understand what I’m aiming for. Here.’ He handed her the book, indicating several pages.

When Agnes saw the title ‘audreystyle’, and stared at the first few pictures he was referring to, she knew at once what he wanted. A replica of Audrey Hepburn with one of her short gamine hairdos. Nodding, Agnes said to Frankie, ‘I can still create the look you want without cutting off all of M’s hair.’ She flipped through the book, showed him several other photographs, explained, ‘Here, take a look at this one. Bangs, but with the back in a tight chignon. I should try this first, don’t you think? I just don’t want to be hasty, cutting off all this gorgeous hair.’

Frankie took the book away from her, glanced at the particular photograph she was talking about, and had to agree that there was some truth in what Agnes was saying. With bangs and a twist at the back, Audrey did look more sophisticated and elegant, but she was still Audrey Hepburn.

M said, ‘Can I see the book, Frankie, please? So I know what the two of you are talking about.’

He gave it to her without a word.

M exclaimed, ‘Oh, my goodness, Audrey Hepburn! Is that what you want to do, turn me into a new Audrey?’

Frankie laughed. ‘You got it, kid. Any objections?’

‘No, not at all. I’d love it, actually.’

‘Okay then, let’s do it.’

‘I don’t want to do any cutting,’ Agnes reminded him, a warning look on her face.

‘That’s okay with me,’ Frankie answered, and then said to M, ‘You told me you’d brought a black sheath and high heels. Correct?’

‘Yes. Would you like me to go and put them on?’

‘No, not for the moment. Agnes is going to copy this hairstyle here.’ He turned to the stylist, said in a firmer voice, ‘You must cut the front, though, because I want M to have bangs, and copy this upswept look, please. It’s a very elegant Audrey here … this photo is from Roman Holiday, I believe.’

‘But …’ Agnes began, and stopped when she saw the adamant expression on Frankie’s face. She had worked with him for years and knew when to stop arguing with him.

‘Bangs okay with you, M?’ he asked. He took the book from her, found the picture he wanted, then handed it back to M, pointing his first finger at a page.

‘Bangs are okay, very okay with me,’ M responded, and stared down at the book, then smiled at Agnes. ‘Let’s do it, shall we?’

Placing a cotton cape around M’s shoulders, Agnes picked up her most expensive scissors, took a deep breath and began to cut M’s hair at the front, creating the bangs Frankie insisted on.

M sat back in the chair, watching Agnes work, saying nothing, secretly loving the idea of becoming an Audrey Hepburn look-alike. That really was genuine reinvention, and then some. She smiled inwardly, wondering why she hadn’t thought of this herself. God knows her brothers had often teased her about having such a marked resemblance to the famous actress.

Frankie announced, ‘I’ll leave you to it, Agnes, and when Marguerite arrives I’ll send her in immediately.’ Resting one hand on M’s shoulder, he added, ‘Marguerite is another genius, and between Agnes and her they will turn you into the woman in these pictures. You’ll be the image of the real thing, par excellence.’