Platinum Coast

‘I think they’d like us to go, don’t you?’ she whispered to Stephen after her second Cointreau.

They were the only people remaining in the restaurant apart from two waiters hovering conspicuously behind their table. It was after twelve when Stephen paid the bill and they left.

‘Be careful.’ He grabbed her arm and saved her from falling as she tripped on a deep step at the front door.

She giggled. ‘I’m afraid I’ve had a little too much to drink.’

‘I think we both have, but my capacity is probably larger than yours, that’s all.’

He opened the passenger door for her and she slipped into the seat. Her skirt rode up to her knees and he stared at her long, slim legs for a moment before slamming the door. He walked round the car and eased himself into the driving-seat.

‘So tell me about yourself? I know so little about you. We seem to have spent the entire evening talking about me and my business.’

‘There isn’t much to tell, really. I was born in County Cork in Ireland and came to live in England at eighteen months old. We lived in several different parts of the country. My father was, as my mother put it, a dreamer, always chasing rainbows.’ Christina stopped speaking and Stephen glanced at her.

‘What is it?’

‘I lost my father two years ago – I was only seventeen. It was a bitter blow. I adored him, you see. I know now he was a hopeless romantic who found his dreams in the bottom of too many whisky bottles, but he was everything to me. After he died I was unable to concentrate. I flunked my exams. My mother went back to Ireland to be close to her sister and her three squabbling offspring, and I stayed on in Manchester and started work for Kate Mason. I accepted a job a week ago to open the Westside Shopping Mall, and now here we are.’

Christina’s voice was light, but with a sidelong glance he saw how sad she looked. He had a strong urge to stop the car and take her in his arms. They travelled on in silence for a few minutes before she said, ‘And what about you? You’ve talked about your office blocks and the shopping centres and car parks you build, the interesting places you go to and people you meet, but what about your real life? Age, where you live …’ She paused. ‘And who with.’

Christina looked at Stephen, but his face was a mask of concentration. It had begun to rain, and he was driving carefully on the narrow country lanes.

‘I’m thirty-four, born in the north-east, left in my early twenties to seek fame and fortune in the south. My father’s dead. My mother and half-brother still live in South Shields. I work too hard, don’t play hard enough. I have a country house in Sussex and a central-London flat. No steady girlfriends. That’s about it, really; not a lot to tell.’

She sensed he did not want to open up any further to her.

‘Just answer one question – are you married?’

‘I was, but she died.’

Christina looked straight ahead. ‘I’m sorry.’ Trust her to open her big mouth and put her foot in it!

‘I have had a wonderful evening; I can’t thank you enough,’ Christina said as Stephen pulled the car up in front of the little terraced house.

He turned off the ignition.

‘The feeling is entirely mutual. I’d love to do it again sometime.’

She was about to invite him in for coffee when he jumped out of the car and ran around to the passenger door to help her alight. She decided not to do as he probably expected.

‘You’ve got my number; call me next time you’re in town.’

‘Goodnight, Christina.’ He leaned forward and pecked her on the cheek. She turned her face towards his and returned the kiss, lightly brushing his lips with her own.

‘Goodnight, Stephen, and thanks again for a memorable evening.’ She paused for a moment before saying, ‘If I never see you again, at least I can tell everyone I’ve been to the Legh Arms and drank Dom Perignon.’ She started to walk away.

‘You will be seeing me again, Christina, I promise,’ he said softly in the deserted street.

The following morning Christina awoke with a splitting headache. She staggered to the bathroom, almost bumping into her flatmate coming out.

Susie looked at Christina’s pale face and narrowed eyes. ‘You don’t look too good this morning. Good night, was it?’

Christina groaned, holding her head in both hands.

‘Too good. Do you have any aspirin?’

‘Hang on a tick, I’ll get you a couple. Go back to bed and I’ll bring them to you. It’s only seven o’clock.’

‘Thanks, Sue, you’re a pal.’

Christina shuffled back into her bed. The thundering in her temples increased as she lay down.

Susie appeared a few minutes later with two paracetamol, a large glass of water, and a cup of weak tea. ‘Come on, sit up. This will put you right.’

Christina did as she was told and threw the tablets down her throat, swallowing them with two deep gulps of water.

Susie propped three pillows behind Christina’s head and handed her the mug of tea.

‘So how was it?’

She couldn’t wait for Christina’s head to ease; she had to know now. ‘Where did you go?’

‘The Legh Arms,’ Christina mumbled over the top of the mug.

‘You jammy thing!’ Susie sat on the edge of the bed, her eyes wide and excited.

‘Nick would have to sell his old MGB to afford to wine and dine me in the Legh Arms.’ Her voice was resigned. ‘So when are you going to see him again?’

Christina shrugged her shoulders and downed the last drop of tea.

‘He said he would call me.’

‘When?’ Susie demanded.

‘How should I know? He might never call. He’s a busy guy, got property developments going on all over the place.’

‘What kind of car did he have?’

‘A Mercedes,’ Christina replied, her voice impatient. ‘What difference does that make?’

Susie grimaced. ‘You try going out in a sports car that leaks most of the time, feels like you’re in a wind tunnel and if you’re not careful your foot drops through the passenger floor … believe me, it makes a hell of a lot of difference.

‘So what did you have to eat?’

Christina moaned. ‘I think I had more to drink than I had to eat.’ She slid down the bed and pulled the covers over her face.

‘I can see you don’t want my company, Miss O’Neill.’

Christina’s head moved up and down under the covers.

‘Okay, I know when I’m not wanted. I’ll see you later. Don’t forget I’m going to Paul Colville’s party tonight and you promised to lend me your black dress.’

Christina’s head moved in the affirmative, and Susie left the room, switching off the light before she left.

Christina went back to sleep, to be woken four hours later by the telephone ringing.

She reached the phone located in the hall on its final ring.

‘Christina! At last!’ It was Kate Mason’s husky voice.

‘Yes, sorry. Kate. I overslept. Had a late night.’

‘Model girls should not have late nights; they need their beauty sleep,’ said Kate in her best schoolma’am’s tone.

Christina felt like telling her to shut up, but Kate continued talking. ‘I’ve got some great news for you, Christina. A big photographic shoot in two weeks’ time for an American glossy. Five days’ work for a big fat fee of £400!’

‘That’s great.’ Christina could hardly believe what Kate was saying. Five days’ work at a rate far higher than usual.

‘The shoot is in London with a top photographer, so no more late nights for you, young lady. I’ll see you later if you stop by the office. I’ve got a couple of small jobs for you this week.’

‘What are they?’ Christina asked.

‘One is for the Milk Marketing Board and the other for a small old-fashioned lingerie house. They want a nasty cross-over bra and big knicker advert.’

‘They both sound like a bundle of fun.’

‘As I keep reminding you, Christina, they’re your bread and butter.’

‘I know, I know.’ She looked at the hall clock. ‘I’ll see you about 2.30, okay? I’ve got a couple of things to pick up before I come into town.’

‘No later,’ Kate informed her. ‘I’ve a meeting at three. See you, then. Bye.’

Christina walked back to her bedroom, thinking about the photographic shoot and Stephen’s words to her on parting last night.

Perhaps, Mr Reece-Carlton, she thought, I may be able to buy my own champagne in the not too distant future.

Susie was arranging twenty-four long-stemmed red roses in a water jug when Christina came home later that day.

‘They arrived just as I did.’ Susie pointed to the flowers, sighed, and said in an affected voice, ‘I can’t begin to imagine who they are from.’

She held out a small white greetings card. Christina tore it open.

‘I had a marvellous evening – thanks for your company,’ she read aloud.

‘Smoothie, smoothie!’ Susie yelled.

‘You’re only jealous,’ Christina commented, and drew out one red rose. Holding it to her nose, she inhaled deeply.

‘By the way, I got a fantastic job offered to me today. Five days’ work in London for £400.’

‘Wow!’ Susie grabbed her friend’s hands and squeezed them tight. ‘That’s great. Perhaps you’ll be able to pay me back the eighty quid you owe me? I’m a bit short this month.’

Christina bit her lip. ‘I’m sorry, Sue, but you know how it is in this game – always waiting so long for your money.’

She looked in concern at Susie’s round, amiable face and bright-blue eyes.

‘I’ll pay you back with interest this time, I promise.’

Susie winked. ‘I was only joking. Anyway, you know me. As I’ve always said, a friend in need is a pest – and you are the best pest I’ve ever had.’

Christina laughed and drew her arms around the small, plump girl.

‘And you, Susan Philips, are the funniest, kindest and best friend I have ever known.’

‘I’ll drink to that,’ Susie said, and produced a bottle of sparkling wine from the fridge. ‘Not quite Dom Perignon, Chrissy, but it’s all we’ve got, and if we drink enough it will have the same effect.’

Chapter Two

‘Just one more shot, Christina … Good … Drop your left shoulder, moisten those lips. Come on, now, sultry eyes, mouth slightly open – wonderful! More teeth, wide eyes, left hand on leg. Imagine you’re in bed with Robert Redford.’

She pulled a long face.

‘Well, whoever turns you on, darling,’ the photographer urged. ‘Come on, baby, think sensual. You’re making love to the man of your dreams. He’s an Adonis, he’s fantastic in bed. Imagine him caressing you.’

Christina imagined what she would actually like – a long hot bath, then, dressed in furry slippers and cosy bathrobe, a large gin and tonic in her hand, to curl up in front of a TV movie. It worked.

Max Raynor shouted: ‘Bellissima, Christina. Hold it like that. Don’t move.’

The camera clicked furiously before he raised his head. ‘Wonderful stuff. You’re a gem.’

He looked at her, draped across an antique French day-bed. ‘That’s it, baby. We can wrap it up now.’

She relaxed and let her head drop onto the back of the padded chaise.

‘I’ve got some great shots. You’ve worked really hard. Thanks.’

He stretched his lean frame and walked across his studio towards an assortment of transparencies scattered in disarray across a huge desk. ‘Mmm, very nice,’ he commented as he flicked through them, his trained eye picking out the best images at a glance.

He rummaged in a drawer under his desk and, producing a small tobacco tin and cigarette papers, began to roll a joint.

Christina massaged the back of her neck and said, ‘Kate should have warned me I was going to be working with a slave-driving maniac who I now know has a reputation for overworking his models and sacking those who can’t stand the pace.’

Max was one of the top photographers in Europe and could afford to be choosy.

With a dismissive shrug of his narrow shoulders, he said, ‘A lot of girls are lazy. If they want to work with me, that’s exactly what they have to be prepared to do. Work.’

He handed her the joint.

Christina shook her head. ‘No thanks, I don’t, but I’d love a glass of wine.’

‘One glass of plonk coming up.’

Max poured a tumbler full of cheap red wine and handed it to Christina, who screwed up her small nose when she tasted the bitter Chianti.

He noticed her grimace and shook his head. ‘Not good, eh?’

‘I have had better.’ She took another sip and added, ‘I have had worse as well.’

He joined her on the sofa, ‘So, Miss O’Neill.’ Max eased his thin body close to hers, crossing his legs – a habit she detested in men. ‘You’re leaving me to rush back to darkest Manchester tonight? I can’t for the life of me understand why when you could stay at my place. The bed is clean, and I know a very chic little Italian restaurant I think you’d love.’

Max inhaled the marijuana deep into his lungs and closed his deep-set dark-blue eyes.

Christina was very tired. She was also acutely disappointed. Stephen had been in France all week but had promised to get back for the weekend. A brusque telephone call earlier that day from his secretary had informed her that Mr Reece-Carlton was delayed in Paris and would call her on his return tomorrow morning.

‘Thanks for the offer, Max, but I’ve got to get back to Manchester. I have someone waiting for me.’

She fervently wished it were true.

‘Woe is me.’ Max pulled a long face. ‘Is there no way I can tempt you?’ He paused and then said, ‘How about the promise of the front cover of Vogue next month?’

Christina stood up wearily. Every muscle in her body ached. She walked to the back of the studio and picked up her overnight bag.

‘Just going to get changed. I won’t be long.’

Max waved, a faraway expression on his face.

Christina squeezed into the tiny bathroom and peeled off the black-velvet boned bodice and long handkerchief chiffon skirt she was wearing. She then took off a heavy gold chain, earrings and assorted bangles, placing them carefully into a jewellery box.

Dressed in her own pale-blue leather trouser-suit and boots, she walked back into the studio, the clothes draped over one arm and the jewellery box in her other hand.

‘Where do you want me to leave this stuff, Max?’

He ignored her question and took one last drag of the joint before grinding it into a cracked saucer.

Christina watched him run grubby hands across his groin.

‘Bloody good dope,’ he said. ‘I feel so fucking randy. Are you sure I can’t persuade you to stay?’

She shook her head.

‘Sorry, Max, I’ve got to get back to Manchester.’

She dropped the clothes and box onto a small chair next to her, eager now to leave. Stephen had let her down. She wanted to get home and sleep for a week.

Max stood up and crossed the few feet that separated them. Taking both her hands in his he said, ‘Don’t take any notice of me. I’m just a little stoned; it always makes me horny. Anyway, I fancy you like mad.’

The blush that spread over Christina’s face seemed to encourage him, and he tried to pull her closer.

She backed off and chose her words carefully.

‘Really, Max, I’m very tired. And, like I said, someone’s waiting.’

‘Okay, okay, I get the message.’ He dropped her hands. ‘It’s been great working with you. I’ve been in this game a long time and believe me when I say you have a lot of potential.’ His voice was sincere as he leaned forward and pecked her on the cheek.

‘Thanks, Max, I really appreciate that,’ Christina said.

‘Off you go, then.’

He steered her towards the door, and patted her gently on the bottom.

‘Back to the sticks, baby. Bye bye.’

She let herself out of the studio in Elm Park Mews into a warm, dusky evening. Fading sunlight glinted on the windows of the pretty, shuttered houses, where gaily coloured flowers spilled in profusion from window boxes and an assortment of terracotta and stone pots.

She recognized the number-plate, SRC 20, as the dark-blue Mercedes turned the corner into the mews.

Christina waved furiously, and was unable to stop a wide smile from transforming her face as the car pulled to a halt next to her and Stephen jumped out.

The exhaustion she had felt only moments previously evaporated, to be replaced by a feeling of euphoria when he ran towards her.

‘I’m so pleased I caught you.’ Stephen raked his fingers through dishevelled dark-brown hair. ‘I’ve driven like a maniac from Heathrow to get here. I finished in Paris quicker than I thought and literally raced out to Charles de Gaulle. The flight took off moments after I boarded. Then I ran through Heathrow, and had a real up-and-downer with the customs boys who stopped me. The traffic was dreadful on the M4 … I really didn’t think I’d make it.’

He stopped for breath, and Christina said, ‘I was on my way back to Manchester. Your secretary left a message to say you were delayed.’

‘Excuse me, is that your car?’ an irritated voice intervened. ‘I can’t get out.’

‘Sorry,’ Stephen said to the irate driver, and, picking up Christina’s bag, he led her to his car, which was double-parked. He backed quickly up the narrow mews.

‘I’ve rung the studio three times in the last two days. The phone either rings continuously or else some dimwit of a girl answers and seems incapable of taking a message coherently.’

‘We’ve been out on location for two days and the girl you are referring to is Max’s assistant, Pippa, a complete air-head.’

Stephen stole a swift sideways glance at Christina, feeling ridiculously pleased to see her.

Her face was flushed and her eyes were bright with anticipation. She caught his glance and a surge of excitement passed between them.

‘Fancy something to eat?’ he suggested.

‘I’m absolutely starved. I haven’t had a good meal for five days. Max seems to live on sandwiches and take-away Chinese and Indian.’

‘Okay. What sort of food?’

‘I really don’t mind. As my father used to say, I could eat a scabby horse between two mattresses.’

Stephen chuckled. ‘I’ve got just the place, and it’s only round the corner. Fingers crossed it’s not fully booked.’

Christina lifted both her hands and crossed two sets of fingers. Stephen turned the car into Roland Gardens and pulled up outside Blake’s Hotel.

‘You jump out while I try to park,’ he said.

Christina did as she was told, and walked up three deep stone steps into what resembled a very chic London town-house. Entering the small reception area, she felt as if she was in a private home, and stood awkwardly next to the discreet reception desk manned by a trendy young man.

‘Can I help you?’ he asked pleasantly.

‘I’m waiting for someone, actually,’ she replied in a small voice, and turned as she heard the young man say, ‘Mr Reece-Carlton, how are you?’

‘I’m fine, Rupert. And you?’

‘Overworked, underpaid, and busy,’ he replied, and then added, ‘So what’s new?’

Stephen led Christina to the head of a narrow open-tread staircase, calling to Rupert before they descended, ‘See you soon. Take care.’

‘You obviously come here often,’ Christina said before she reached the bottom of the steep stairs.

‘I used to stay here a lot before I bought a place in London.’

‘Monsieur Reece-Carlton, long time no see.’ The head waiter came forward.

‘I’m afraid I don’t have a reservation, Philippe.’ Stephen’s voice was apologetic.

The small man glanced at his reservations list and his watch. It was 8.30.

‘I can give you a table now, but I’m afraid you will have to vacate it by 10.30. I have an after-theatre reservation.’ He looked at Stephen. ‘Is that okay?’

‘That’s fine by me.’ Stephen stood back to allow Christina to follow the head waiter to their table, which was located in the far corner of the small restaurant.

‘Aperitifs, I presume?’ Philippe asked as they sat down.

‘I would like a large glass of Perrier, please, with lots of ice and lemon,’ Christina said.

Stephen ordered a glass of champagne.

‘What a fantastic place.’ She looked around the dimly lit restaurant, fascinated.

There were long-stemmed white lilies spilling out of several tall glass vases and unusual feathery tulips in the palest shade of pink on every table.

The dark, narrow bar was packed with smartly dressed people, and Frank Sinatra’s voice crooned in the background. Their drinks arrived along with the menus.

Christina, determined not to make a fool of herself again, asked, ‘Can you advise me what to have, Stephen? You must know the menu pretty well by now.’

‘It does change, but there are some firm favourites.’ He glanced at the carte.

‘Why don’t you try the soup followed by fish? It’s always very good here.’

Christina took his advice.

The food was delicious. She ate most of her cream of leek soup with two chunks of crusty granary bread, all of the baked fish with tomato sauce, and polished off her portion of potatoes dauphinoise and most of Stephen’s. They drank vintage champagne followed by a Château Petrus.

It was almost 10.30 when Stephen suggested they have a nightcap in the small, deep-seated area located off the restaurant. Christina was a little tipsy as she sank into the soft Oriental cushions. Stephen joined her.

Brandy and chocolates arrived a few moments later.

‘You must try one of these chocolates. They’re out of this world.’

He pointed to the tiny dish of very thin, flat, dark chocolates. She nodded, and he was about to pick up the dish to hand her one when she leaned forward, her wide mouth slightly open. In a teasing voice she said, ‘You give me one, please.’

He picked up a sweet and very slowly placed it in her mouth. She licked his fingertips before he withdrew them, then her own lips.

She looked into Stephen’s pale-green gaze, and neither of them spoke for a couple of moments until Christina said, ‘Absolutely delicious. May I have another one?’

He grinned. ‘The same way?’

‘Yes, please.’

He placed the chocolate in her mouth, only this time traced her slightly parted lips with one finger whilst she chewed, slowly and deliberately.

His fingertips trailed down her neck and brushed lightly across her shoulders.

Christina shuddered.

‘Do you want to go now?’ Stephen’s voice was thick when he whispered in her ear.

‘I thought you’d never ask.’

They left the restaurant ten minutes later and drove to his flat in Kensington. Neither of them spoke much during the fifteen-minute drive. They were both absorbed in their own thoughts.

Stephen’s flat, though not as big as she had expected, was exquisitely furnished.

‘It looks like something out of a glossy magazine,’ she commented on entering the big open-plan living-room, dominated by two enormous, deep-cushioned beige sofas, covered in piles of assorted cushions.

A two-inch-thick glass-topped coffee table housed stacks of glossy magazines and books, plus framed photographs and a beautiful antique dish containing pot pourri.

‘Have a seat.’ Stephen indicated the sofa. ‘Drink?’

‘I think I’ve had enough to drink.’

‘A final nightcap,’ he said, opening a bottle of champagne.

‘Okay, you twisted my arm.’ Christina took off her jacket and draped it over a delicately carved occasional chair.

‘You have wonderful taste.’ She sank into the luxurious sofa, running her hand across the smooth surface of a silk cushion.

‘Not guilty,’ Stephen said, pouring two glasses of champagne. ‘My wife was born with several silver spoons in her mouth and grew up surrounded by beautiful things. She became an interior designer. All this …’ – he gestured casually – ‘is her work.’

He joined her on the sofa, handing her a glass as he sat down.

Christina took a sip of champagne.

‘Mmm, this is lovely.’