Remember My Name

“This way, sir,” she said with a wink.

Her moan was muffled and in the side-on reflection Alex could see that she bit her lip to keep from crying out. He looked away again; he had no need to see them reflected. It was, after all, a scene that he’d played myriad times before – different flights, different girls and different first class washrooms. Even in first class, room was tight, but nonetheless there was enough space for him to bend the attendant over, her tight skirt pushed up and gathered around her waist. He’d regretted it almost as soon as she’d led him in here. The grateful look of excitement had grated on him. His hands tightened on her bony hips and he thrust into her hard, his hand drifting around between her thighs to stroke her roughly, drawing her own wetness to her clit which he pinched gently. The loud moan that burst from her told him he was getting her off.

“That’s so good.” She practically squealed the words as she came, contracting around him like a vice, tipping him over into his own orgasm. He slumped over her with a grunt and then as his breath slowed, he eased himself out of her. She turned around to face him. Slowly she reached down between his legs, peeling off the condom which she’d provided. Almost lovingly she wrapped it in a tissue and dumped it in the bin. With a wink she smiled at him. “Like I said, if there’s anything you need, you just have to ask.” Alex gave her a small, tired smile. In the cramped space their bodies were crushed together, almost chest to chest, as she adjusted her blouse, rearranged her stockings and then straightened her skirt, smoothing it over hips as slim as a boy’s. “I’d better get back to work.” She pushed out of the bathroom, leaving him alone in the cubicle and Alex was filled with the sense that he’d just helped her tick something off a list she had somewhere. Fuck a movie star – Check.

He stared at himself in the mirror, noting the tired lines around his eyes and the beginnings of stubble. He glanced at his watch – only an hour till they landed. At least the diversion with the hostess – her name had already escaped him– had kept him from dwelling on what lay ahead.

CHAPTER 9

Helena Golden glanced at the understated Piaget watch wound around her slim wrist and clapped her hands together in a burst of irritation, the sound ringing out harshly in the silent room.

“I can’t bloody believe him.” The words snapped out of her, even as the anger behind them seemed immediately to dissipate. With a sigh she dropped her hands down by her sides as she tried to hold in the frustration building inside her. She stood still in the middle of her grandfather’s sitting room, taking long deep breaths, as she tried to calm down. She smoothed down the sleeveless black Lanvin dress that she wore, which was typical of her style, demure and understated and yet elegantly classic. There was something regal about her bearing, men often thought her remote, but as she caught a glimpse of herself in the large gilt mirror above the mantelpiece, Helena paid little attention to her appearance. Looking out on the grey day through the Juliet balcony in the sitting room, which opened onto a glorious view of Hampstead Heath, Helena’s eyes were drawn to the black hearse that waited outside the house, the hearse that carried her grandfather’s coffin. A tear gathered in the corner of her eyes but she wiped it away angrily as once again her eyes were drawn to her wristwatch. Alex was late. Helena turned as she heard a sound on the stairs and moments later the sitting room door opened.

“Tal,” she greeted her best friend with a weak smile, relieved that for now at least she didn’t need to put on a brave face. Like her, Talia was dressed in a sombre black dress and dark tights teamed with flat ballet pumps. Talia moved across the room and engulfed her in a hug and suddenly Helena felt the tight control that she’d been keeping on her emotions start to slip away.

“How are you doing?” Talia asked the question as they pulled out of the embrace and Helena knew that her friend was asking the question seriously, that she really did want to know how she was doing. Helena shrugged.

“The hearse has been round the block three times. Mother is not here and Alex…” Helena trailed off, swiping away tears with the back of her hand, still careful not to smudge the subtle eye make-up that she had applied that morning. “Alex…isn’t here, I can’t believe he’d miss Gramps’ funeral.”

“He won’t. He’ll be here.” Talia said the words firmly, even as inside she felt a spurt of anger at her friend’s brother. Helena glanced once again at her watch and then she turned to Talia with a small frown.

“We have to go.” Slowly Talia rose and, arm in arm, they walked towards the door.

Across London at Heathrow Airport, Alex emerged to a shock. He had forgotten how in England summer was simply a word to collectively describe the months of June to August and often had no bearing on the actual weather one might encounter. The grey day that met him seemed to mirror his mood and he buttoned up the casual Jil Sander blazer that he wore and strode, passport in hand, towards the fast-track aisle that awaited VIPs and movie stars. The immigration guy gave him a broad smile, glancing only cursorily at the passport, before saying, “Welcome home, sir.”

Alex acknowledged him with a small nod, aware as he walked towards the arrivals hall that all eyes were on him. Keeping his eyes fixed in the middle distance, never making eye contact with anyone, Alex stepped onto the escalator that would take him past the baggage carousels, towards the exit. As he approached the exit into the main arrivals hall, with every swish open and then closed of the sliding doors, a barrage of snapping flashbulbs would ring out. The paps were waiting. Alex stopped; he was unused to emerging into the throng without an entourage and he continued forwards cautiously, moving through the automatic doors which brought him out directly into a melee of photographers.

Usually he would have Shay on hand to lead him towards some waiting car but, still feeling the effects of the alcohol from the plane and the onset of jet lag, Alex was momentarily disoriented as the flashbulbs started up. Suddenly he was surrounded: voices rang out, even as the click and flash of rapid snaps blinded him. Alex spun round and in his head he cursed Avital, who no doubt would have had a hand in leaking the news of his arrival at Heathrow.

“This way, sir.” Alex gave a smile of relief as several burly Heathrow security men stepped between him and the wall of photographers. Slowly they left the braying group behind, eventually emerging from a side exit where a Mercedes with blacked out windows waited for him. As he settled into the back seat, Alex leaned his head back against the headrest, the beginnings of a hangover making his head pound.

“Where to, sir?” The driver turned back to him and waited expectantly. Alex glanced at his watch with a sigh; he was late.

“St Luke’s Church in Hampstead, please.” Ready or not, he was going to have to face them now, all those faces he’d left behind.

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 21st

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