Читать книгу Remember My Name - Havana Adams - Страница 20

CHAPTER 10

The church, one of the oldest churches in London, was stunning. Tall stained- glass windows allowed light to flood the space and ornate religious iconography decorated the walls but it was the people filing sombrely in through the open double doors that held Talia’s attention. Several times she’d had to force herself not to stare as some of the most famous English stars of stage and screen joined the growing group of mourners. Talia saw Dame Eleanor Samson of the Samson acting dynasty as she took her seat; behind her sat the Oscar-winning director Christopher Elgin; next to him was James Adebayo, the first black actor to play a Shakespearean king for the Royal Shakespeare Company. A cellist sat in an upper gallery playing a haunting lament that echoed throughout the church.

It was four days since she had lost her job, four days since she’d got the sad news from Helena and in that time, Talia had been thankful to be able to focus on her friend, anything other than the miserable state of affairs of her career. In the front pew, Talia sat next to Helena and she knew that her friend was working hard to hold it together. Talia leaned toward her friend.

“You OK?” she asked though she knew it was a silly question in the circumstances. Helena gave a small shake of her head.

“Dad’s funeral was here too,” she said quietly and Talia felt her heart go out to the young child Helena must have been watching her father’s funeral. Talia rested her hand gently on Helena’s arm, offering what little comfort she could. She glanced around again and her back stiffened as she watched a tall man walk up the aisle towards them. Talia felt indignation rise in her.

“What is it?” Helena asked worriedly. With both her mother and Alex MIA, she was already anxious and on edge, the last thing she needed was another surprise.

“It’s Grant,” Talia hissed back quietly and Helena relaxed slightly in her seat.

“I invited him, he and Gramps got on well,” she replied with a shrug.

Talia glanced around again, noting the petite blonde hanging on Grant’s arm as they took their seats. “He brought her with him,” she told Helena, making no effort to hide her irritation. Helena smiled and patted Talia’s arm gently. Though she had tried to convince her best friend that the break-up with Grant had been amicable, the speed with which Grant had become engaged to a young associate at his firm meant that everyone viewed him with suspicion. Helena glanced around, making eye contact with Grant. She gave him a small nod, noting that he was wearing a two-button Armani suit. He might have traded her in for a boring lawyer, but at least her style tips had survived. Helena allowed herself a small smile, when suddenly her attention was drawn by a commotion at the door. Helena looked down the aisle and stiffened.

“What is it?” Talia asked, squinting down the aisle, noticing that everyone in the church had turned to see who was making such a loud entrance. Talia glanced again at her friend, noting that the colour had drained from her face. Helena looked more fragile than ever.

“It’s my mother.” Helena said the words flatly and then resolutely she turned back to face the front of the church her face hard, as she stared at the coffin.

Sula Golden had always turned heads and even now at the ripe old age of 61, that hadn’t changed. Whilst Naomi Campbell and Kate Moss were little more than glints in their parents’ eyes, long before Linda Evangelista had pronounced that she wouldn’t get out of bed for less than $10,000 and way before the word Supermodel had even been coined, Sula had led the new wave of fashion models in London in the swinging sixties. Alongside Twiggy, she was an icon of the era, the original Supermodel. The image of her naked on a white horse riding along the Kings Road in a photograph taken by her then husband photographer Elliot Golden, before his early death, was an unforgettable image and even today Sula was immediately recognisable.

Whispers had started to spread through the pews and a palpable excitement began to build. Sula, who had taken up residence with an Italian Count on the French Riviera, was rarely seen on English shores and though tales of her escapades and her young lovers were splashed across the Eurotrash tabloids, few close-up photographs of her ever made it into the papers. Many suggested that she’d lost her looks, perhaps time had finally caught up with her. Some gleefully commented that maybe she had gained weight. But now as she strode slowly up the aisle in a form-fitting Balenciaga gown in an inappropriate shade of blush for a funeral, it was clear that Sula was as beautiful as she’d always been. Her skin was flawless, her blonde hair was caught in a simple ponytail and at first glance one might easily mistake her for a woman still in her early thirties.

“Darling,” Sula murmured as she reached the first row and bent down to air kiss a stiff Helena. “Poor Richard. Isn’t it terrible?”

Helena winced at the choreographed grief that her mother was channelling for the benefit of her rapt audience. Her mother and grandfather had never got on and Sula had severed ties with her father-in-law when he’d stopped her allowance. Helena was sure it would surprise many to know that it had been more than a decade since Sula and Richard had last spoken. But her mother could always be counted upon to show up for any event that might launch her back into the limelight. Reluctantly Helena shifted up the pew to allow her mother to take a seat next to her.

“Talia, darling.” Sula smiled briefly in greeting before her eyes returned to Helena, who stiffened as she felt her mother’s assessing gaze run up and down her dress. Helena steeled herself for the veiled insult that was sure to follow and which was their usual mode of communication. So, Sula’s next question surprised her.

“Where’s your brother?” At this, Helena bit her lip. The service would begin any minute and Alex, who was supposed to deliver the eulogy, was still nowhere to be seen.

“He’ll be here,” Helena bit back, not wanting to admit that the painstaking organisation she’d put into her grandfather’s funeral now seemed about to fall apart. Slowly Helena turned to Talia, who was gazing at her mother her eyes wide. Not for the first time Talia was struck by Sula’s exquisite looks.

“God, your mother looks amazing,” Talia whispered. Helena grimaced, even as she privately conceded that Sula did look incredible, in poor taste for a funeral, but incredible nonetheless.

“I think that modern medical science rather than God should take credit for her looks,” Helena muttered, an uncharacteristic show of bitterness in her voice. Helena saw the surprise in Talia’s face.

“You OK?” Talia asked her quietly, not hiding the worry in her voice. In their decade or so of friendship, Helena’s relationship with Sula had been one of their few no-go areas.

“I’m fine,” Helena returned firmly. Quickly switching subjects, she glanced to the back of the church again. “If Alex doesn’t turn up, I’m going to have to do the eulogy myself.” With a look of resignation, she turned back to the front of the church, staring straight ahead. Moments later, the priest accompanied by two altar boys took up position at the altar. As one, the mourners rose.

“We are gathered here to celebrate the life of Richard Golden…”

Throughout the service, Talia’s fury had been growing on her friend’s behalf. Though Helena had remained composed, Talia had sensed her tension, which grew with every moment as the time for the eulogy approached. Talia had met Alex, her friend’s older brother, only a few times and she hadn’t liked him much. He’d seemed to her to epitomise everything that she hated about spoilt celebrities. If she was honest, Talia knew that her dislike of Alex Golden was a little excessive. He was probably no worse than any of the spoilt egos that she’d dealt with in television, but she consoled herself with the thought that her irritation with Alex was because he so often let her best friend down. Talia had seen the disappointment in Helena’s eyes when Alex had missed her 21^st