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