Breaking the Rules. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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slender, lithe, she moved with grace and had an inbred elegance.
Her clothes were simple; she was wearing a sleeveless black cotton shift and ballet slippers, her only jewellery large pearl earrings and a watch. She carried a battered old black Hermès Kelly bag, well polished, which had obviously seen better days, but looked just right on her arm.
The rain was coming down in torrents and she was already drenched, but she no longer bothered to look for a cab. There was no point; they were all taken. She was heading home and much to her relief she wasn’t very far away now. Two blocks down and three avenues to cross and she would be at West Twenty-Second Street and Ninth Avenue.
A month ago, through her only friend in New York, a young man called Dax, she had found the perfect place: a comfortable room with two good-sized closets and its own bath in a brownstone on this rather lovely old street. Being in Chelsea reminded her of London, gave her a sense of wellbeing, and she felt at home here.
When she had left London, she had left behind her name; she was known as M, and M did not mind the rain today. It was cooling on this blistering August afternoon. Earlier, around lunch time, it had been at least a hundred and one in the shade. Leni, the young receptionist at the Blane Model Agency, had announced with a big grin, ‘Betcha we could fry eggs on the sidewalk today, M. How about giving it a try?’
M had laughed with her, wanting to be nice. Leni had endeavoured to be helpful since the first day they had met. She had gone to Blane’s within days of arriving in Manhattan, two months ago now. Although the agency had not found work for her so far, they had been encouraging, and Leni’s friendliness had helped. M knew she was going to make it as a model. She had to; she had no choice. Not only had she something to prove to her family, but to herself as well, and nothing was going to stop her.
Glancing at her watch, M winced. It was already four o’clock, nine at night in London, and she usually called her sister on Fridays around this time. Although M was in her early twenties and considered herself to be very capable, her elder sister worried about her being alone in New York. But then she worried about everything: that was her nature. M loved her, missed her, but making it on her own had been too compelling to ignore. So here she was trying to be a model, trying to become another Kate Moss. She smiled inwardly at that idea. If only, she thought. Increasing her pace, she crossed Seventh Avenue, striding out towards Eighth, in a bigger hurry now.
The brownstone was in the middle of Twenty-Second, between Ninth and Tenth, and as she drew closer she saw somebody huddled on the top step, leaning up against the front door. At once she realized it was her friend, Dax. They’d met at the Blane Agency when she’d first come to New York. Dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, he was protecting himself with a newspaper, which he held over his head. He was as drenched as she was, and the minute she ran up the steps she saw he was shivering, looked pale, pinched.
‘Dax, what are you doing here?’ she exclaimed, pulling the door key out of her bag.
‘Getting decidedly wet,’ he shot back, grinning at her.
‘So I see, let’s get you inside. You’re shivering … are you sick?’
‘I’ve got a bit of a cold,’ he answered, ‘that’s all,’ and standing up he followed her inside.
The two of them stood dripping water in the tiled entrance for a moment until M took hold of his arm and led him into the small cloakroom, reminding him that Geo, from whom she rented her room, always insisted her house was kept pristine. ‘Get undressed in here and dry yourself, Dax. There’re towels in the cupboard next to the coat rack. I’ll be back with something dry for you in a minute.’
‘Thanks,’ he answered, still shivering, offering her a wan smile.
M went out, took off her wet ballet shoes and ran upstairs to her room. Within seconds she had shed her soaking dress and underwear, thrown them in the bathtub, rubbed herself dry and put on cotton trousers, a cotton T-shirt and dry shoes. Taking a large towelling robe out of the wardrobe, she went downstairs, knocked on the door of the cloakroom, and when it opened she put the robe over Dax’s outstretched arm. ‘That should fit you, Dax. You’ll find me in the kitchen … I’m going to make us a pot of really hot tea.’
‘The English cure-all for everything,’ he muttered.
‘Don’t knock it,’ M said, hurrying into the kitchen. Once the kettle was on the stove, she pulled her mobile phone out of her trouser pocket and dialled her sister in London. ‘Hi, it’s me!’ she exclaimed when the phone was answered at the other end. ‘I’m alive and well and kicking! How are you, Birdie?’
‘I’m fine, darling, very okay this week, and listen to me. You know I hate that nickname you gave me when you were little. Let’s forget it, shall we?’
Hearing the laughter in her voice, M chuckled, then went on, ‘How’s business? Has everything been going well?’
‘Yes, it has, and I heard from Mummy and Dad. They send their love. So does Gran.’
‘How is Gran? Is she feeling better?’
‘Loads, yes, and I’m sure it’s because Mummy and Dad are in Australia. You know how our mother cheers everyone up; makes them instantly feel better. And Gran’s no exception to the rule: having her much-loved daughter there has really helped.’
‘I’m glad to hear Gran’s better. I’ll give her a call over the weekend. Any other news?’
‘Not really …’ The sisters talked for a few minutes longer, and then said their goodbyes. Putting her mobile phone on the counter top, M opened the cupboard and took out her large brown teapot, which she had bought when she had moved into the brownstone.
After putting six English breakfast tea bags into the pot, she poured the boiling water over them. Her thoughts remained with her sister; M was concerned about her constantly now that she was on her own, a widow. Tragically, her sister’s husband had died of a heart attack two years ago and M was well aware she was still grieving. But that was natural. They had been so close, so very much in love, joined at the hip to M’s way of thinking. Then suddenly, unexpectedly he was gone … just like that, in the flicker of an eyelash. He had been only thirty-three, far too young.
At the time, her elder brother had said life was full of surprises, 75 per cent of them bad. She had disagreed with him, chiding him, calling him a cynic, but now she wasn’t so sure that he was wrong. Life did have a way of coming up to hit you in the face. Her father’s comment during this conversation had been typical of him. He had reminded her, and her brother, that what was meant to be would be, and that life had its own rules, and they were rules no one could change. M sighed under her breath, stood with her hand on the teapot, thinking about her sister, missing her more than ever at this moment. They had always been close, best friends.
‘Did I offend you, M? About the tea, I mean?’
M jumped, startled, and swung around to face Dax, exclaiming, ‘I didn’t hear you come into the kitchen. You made me jump.’
‘Sorry.’
M grinned at him. ‘Of course you didn’t upset me, Dax. I’m not so easily offended, you know.’ She frowned at him, added, ‘You still look chilled to the bone. This hot tea will help.’ She reached into the cupboard as she spoke, took out two mugs, poured the tea and added milk. Carrying the mugs to the table under the window, she went on, ‘Come along, Dax, come and sit with me here.’
Tightening the belt of the towelling robe, shrugging into it for warmth, he joined her, sat down opposite and put his hands around the mug. ‘I came looking for Geo,’ he volunteered after a few seconds. ‘But I’m glad she’s not here. I realize it’s you I want to talk to … I feel more comfortable with you when I need to discuss my problems.’
‘You know I’ll help if I can,’ M murmured, eyeing him carefully, thinking that perhaps it was Geo he wanted to talk about. She couldn’t imagine why he said he felt more comfortable discussing his problems with her, when he had never done such a thing in the past. It’s just his way of