commented, then, before Robert could steer him away, he said, ‘By the way, I didn’t catch your name?’
Robert glared in their direction. ‘Stephen, Charles won’t wait much longer.’
He ignored the impatient voice and smiled at her, showing even white teeth.
‘My name’s Christina.’ She paused. ‘Christina O’Neill.’
‘I’ll see you later, Miss Christina O’Neill.’ His tone was emphatic.
‘Come on,’ Robert shouted, walking ahead.
Christina watched the two men walk away before being tapped on the shoulder by the tattooed arm of the punk rocker who insisted on showing her his fascinating assortment of chains attached to various parts of his anatomy. He took a dozen free offers and asked her out for a drink, much to the amusement of his motley crew of friends, who collapsed into shrieks of laughter when she refused the date.
She spent the next six hours giving away hundreds of free special-offer coupons, chatting to pensioners about the cost of living, placating fraught babies, fending off the unwelcome advances of gangs of unemployed youths, and being battered by an assortment of baby buggies, prams, and huge shopping bags.
‘A free gift of six bags of sugar, three jars of coffee and four boxes of tea with every purchase of food over £50 in Tesco.
‘A record voucher with every two LPs bought at Virgin Mega Store.
‘Two for the price of one with every purchase of an exotic new fragrance from Estee Lauder.
‘A holiday for two in Majorca in the Westside bumper holiday draw.’
Christina’s voice had lost all its sparkle and her throat and head ached as she repeated the list of free offers for the final time and handed out the last of her brochures.
It was seven o’clock and the last few stragglers were leaving the shopping centre. ‘Thank God that’s over,’ Christina said to Janine, a girl she knew vaguely from the same model agency, as they walked into the staff-room.
Janine sighed. ‘It’s bloody slave labour. I wish someone had warned me modelling was going to be like this.’
She took out a packet of cigarettes and handed one to Christina.
‘No thanks, I don’t smoke, but at this rate I think I might have to soon.’
They both sat down on a narrow wooden bench. Christina eased her aching feet out of the high-heeled black patent-leather shoes and wiggled her swollen toes.
‘Look at the state of me,’ she sighed, peeling the snagged black fish-net stockings down her slim legs and pointing to a large, sticky stain on her gaudy red-lace basque where a child had pressed a melting ice-lolly.
‘Whoever said modelling was glamorous ought to be shot,’ she commented.
Janine, clad in G-string panties with a stetson obscuring part of her face, was trying to pull a cowboy boot off one of her bruised feet. She nodded and replied through a haze of cigarette smoke.
‘It’s glamorous, Christina, when – or should I say if – you get into one of the big agencies in London. My friend Sharon works for Models One. She’s just finished a big calendar shoot with Patrick Lichfield. She went to the Caribbean for three weeks, came back really tanned and got signed up three days later to do another big tropical location shoot for Cosmo.’
Janine looked down at her distorted feet and then back at Christina.
‘Now that’s what I call glamorous modelling.’
Christina nodded and sighed, ‘I must admit I’ve thought about going to London lots of times, and if I have to do many more jobs like this I’ll be on the next train.’
Janine pushed the stetson to the back of her head and took a long drag on her cigarette, staring at Christina’s even profile.
‘You should go. You’re definitely pretty enough.’
Christina was about to accept the compliment when the girl went on, ‘I’m stuck here in Manchester whether I like it or not – that is, until my little boy gets older. At least here I can rely on my mum to look after him, and whatever I earn helps.’
Christina watched Janine stand up and pull on faded 501s and a blue chambray shirt.
‘How old is your son?’ Christina asked, and began to pull her own clothes out of a small leather grip.
‘Eighteen months.’ Janine hesitated before continuing, ‘He’s only got me, you see. I don’t even know where his father is.’ She shrugged, a resigned look on her pretty face. Picking up a shabby canvas bag, she said brightly, ‘Hope to see you around some time. I’m sure I will.’ She smiled warmly and her big brown eyes twinkled. ‘But take my advice and get yourself up to London. That’s where the real money and glamour are.’
‘Maybe I will,’ Christina replied, and waved as she left. She finished dressing, thinking about what the other girl had said. Perhaps it was time for a change, to try her luck in London? What had she to lose after all?
It was a few minutes after eight and raining heavily when Christina arrived at her small flat in West Didsbury, five miles south of Manchester city centre.
‘Susie, I’m home,’ she called as she turned the key in the front door and stepped into the narrow hall of the terraced house’s ground-floor flat. There was no reply. A few moments later she remembered that her flatmate was going out with Nick, her boyfriend, that night.
Christina was pleased to be alone. She was dog-tired and relieved not to have to listen to Susie’s incessant chatter. She walked into the tiny kitchen, planning to go to bed early with a large glass of white wine, a giant bag of Golden Wonder crisps, and Yuki, her Siamese cat, hopefully to be in a deep sleep before Susie and Nick could arrive back and keep her awake with their noisy lovemaking.
‘Shit.’ She slammed the fridge door shut angrily. ‘Thanks, Susie,’ she muttered, thinking how typical it was of her flatmate and the obnoxious Nick to drink the last drop of Christina’s Frascati.
She poured herself a large gin instead, filled the tumbler with warm tonic, and managed to find half an ice-cube under an out-of-date packet of frozen peas.
Christina picked up her cat, and carrying her under one arm, the gin and tonic in the other hand, and the bag of crisps held between her teeth, padded towards her bedroom.
There was a message sellotaped to her bedroom door, penned in Susie’s almost illegible scrawl.
Kate Mason from your agency rang. She asked if she could give a Mr Stephen Reece-Carlton your telephone number. He was trying to reach you urgently.
If he is the same Reece-Carlton I think he is, you’ve snared a big one, Chrissy!
Don’t wait up for me. Nick has been away for a week and is as horny as hell – had to do it before we left the house, so God knows what time I’ll emerge in the morning!
Sleep tight.
Susie.
‘Stephen Reece-Carlton?’ Christina said the name out loud. ‘Where have I heard that name before?’ she asked herself, and searched her memory whilst peeling off her clothes and hanging them carefully in the small fitted wardrobe.
She lay on top of the bed in a big baggy nightshirt and took a deep gulp of her gin and tonic. Yuki crept across the bedspread and snuggled close to her. Christina tickled the cat’s tummy, enjoying the softness of her warm coat.
It was then she remembered where she had seen the name before. Stephen Reece-Carlton was co-owner with Robert Leyton of the Westside Shopping Centre – his name had been mentioned in the Manchester Evening News a couple of weeks ago. Stephen … she remembered Robert Leyton’s behaviour towards the man she had been talking to at the mall. They had obviously been business