Platinum Coast. Lynne Pemberton
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shot in a misty dawn light against the backdrop of the Pennine Chain. Her hair was loosely caught up in a diamante pin, and stray locks tumbled down to play about her face and shoulders.
‘They don’t look like me at all,’ Christina gasped. ‘I look like a wanton young gypsy girl.’
Kate tapped the sheet. ‘They do look like you, but in a different guise. Like I said, they’re fantastic.’ She sounded excited. ‘Colin is a bloody expensive photographer but he’s worth every penny. These could make you a fortune.’
The light in Kate Mason’s eyes suddenly reminded Christina of a similar expression she had seen so often shining in her father’s, before he had killed himself chasing impossible dreams.
‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ Kate looked at her expression, baffled. ‘I thought you’d be pleased. This shoot is the best I’ve seen for years.’
Christina stared at the composite sheet.
‘I am pleased, believe me, Kate. Sorry, I was miles away. Colin promised he’d destroy that one.’
Kate looked at the photograph showing Christina clad in nothing but tiny black panties, her hand covering one breast whilst she pointed an accusing finger at the camera. Her head was thrown back and she was laughing.
‘On the contrary, Christina, Colin has already told me he’s sold that one to Penthouse.’ Kate’s voice was deadly serious.
Christina looked shocked. Before she could speak, Kate burst out laughing. ‘Only joking! But don’t write the girlie magazines off, they pay bloody good money.’
Christina shook her head. ‘No thanks, I’d be far better off working in Tesco.’
Several heads turned as Christina walked into the foyer of the Midland Hotel.
She had dressed carefully for her dinner date with Stephen Reece-Carlton. Fifty pounds drawn out of the bank and twenty borrowed from Susie had bought her a mid-calf-length dress and jacket in a dark emerald-green jersey wool. She had chosen black suede shoes and carried a matching suede clutch-bag. Her mane of hair had been blow-dried by Anthony at Headlines and fell past her shoulders in glossy soft waves.
She wore fake diamond stud earrings and a delicate antique watch which had been her grandmother’s.
‘Christina!’ She heard her name called as she walked through the hotel reception heading for the bar.
She turned, an anticipatory smile lighting her face, expecting to see Stephen Reece-Carlton. Instead she was surprised to see Martin Ward waving to her from the reception area. He was a prominent figure in the city, having been signed recently by Manchester United as their great white hope of a goal-scorer for the eighties. She waved back and watched him excuse himself from the two people he was talking to and walk over to where she was standing in the lift lobby.
‘Christina, how are you? Long time no see.’ A wide smile lit up his boyishly handsome face. She laughed.
‘The last time I saw you, Martin Ward, you were so drunk I don’t think you could see or hear anything.’
He hung his head in mock shame, and she noticed how his longish blond hair curled slightly in at the nape of his neck.
‘I do remember some things about that evening. You were wearing red and I was wearing black.’ He looked at her with amusement in his grey-green eyes.
She laughed, ‘I never wear red with this hair.’ She lifted a strand. ‘And to be honest, I can’t remember what you were wearing.’
She glanced at her watch. It was 7.45; she was late. He noticed.
‘Got a date?’
‘Yes, I have, and I’m late. Lovely to see you. Oh, by the way, how’s Carol?’
Martin pulled a face.
‘Carol has progressed to pastures greener. She met a man with more money than sense who is at this moment indulging her every fantasy.’ He winked. ‘Well, not every fantasy – you know Carol! – but she seems to be having fun.’
‘Sorry to rush, Martin, but I really do have to go.’
‘It seems like every time we meet we’re either in a hurry or with other people. How about we change that pattern and I take you out for a meal?’
Christina nodded. ‘I’d like that. You’ve got my number – call me.’
‘The club is organizing a big dinner-dance in a couple of weeks’ time, so if you can get the ball-gown and tiara out of wraps, I’d love you to be my guest.’
‘I would like Christina to be my guest this evening, if possible.’ Both Christina and Martin turned at the sound of the voice.
‘Stephen.’ Christina looked flustered. ‘Sorry, I met an old friend.’
‘Not so much of the old!’ Martin smiled with the confidence of a young man who has found fame and fortune in his early twenties. Stephen did not. An awkward silence followed, broken by Christina’s bright voice saying, ‘Stephen Reece-Carlton – Martin Ward.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ Stephen said, his voice curt.
‘Likewise,’ Martin said, equally abruptly, and he turned to Christina with a smile. ‘Hope to see you soon. Take care.’
He walked back to join his friends. Stephen glanced at his watch.
‘I think we’d better push straight off. I made a reservation for 8.30.’
‘Where?’
‘A surprise,’ he replied, and took her gently by the arm, steering her towards the hotel entrance.
A uniformed doorman held open the door of a dark-blue Mercedes coupé, and Christina noticed that Stephen gave him a pound-note tip.
They drove south out of Manchester.
‘How long have you been modelling?’ Stephen asked after they had been driving for about five minutes.
‘For almost a year, since I left school with bad A-level grades. I met a woman called Kate Mason at a friend’s party. She’s the top agent in Manchester and suggested I should become a model. I got work very quickly and easily, and as you probably know, the money when you’re working regularly is pretty good.’
Stephen detected a flat note in her voice. ‘You don’t sound very enthusiastic’
‘I’m not, really. I get so many boring jobs to do I sometimes feel I’m wasting my time.’
‘Like opening shopping centres?’
She laughed. ‘I’m afraid standing for ten hours in a busy shopping centre is not exactly the stuff of modelling dreams.’
‘I know that, but like you said on Saturday, a gal has to eat.’
‘I wish I could eat a little better sometimes,’ she said, and glanced at his firm profile.
‘Well, Miss O’Neill, I can guarantee you are going to eat well tonight.’
‘Where are we going? Please tell.’ Stephen thought she sounded like an excited schoolgirl.
He looked at the speedometer. ‘Ten more miles and all will be revealed.’
Fifteen minutes later they drove into the picture-postcard village of Prestbury, and pulled into the car park of the Legh Arms.
Christina let out a whoop. ‘The Legh Arms! I’ve always wanted to come here. Wait until I tell Susie. She’s going to be so green.’
‘Who’s Susie?’ Stephen asked.
‘My flatmate. She once said to me we would have to save up for a year to come to the Legh Arms.’
Stephen was pleased. He jumped out of the car and helped her out. Christina walked into the smart