A judge of character

Laura became suspicious as soon as she entered the breakfast room of
the small hotel in Bayswater.
The model agency had hyped this assignment to such an extent that she
expected the interview to be conducted in a more congenial place, like
the Ritz, not in a low grade establishment like this. The place was
decent enough, clean and tidy, but it had an utilitarian look with the
plastic table covers and vases of artificial flowers. Her prospective
employer was sitting with the remnants of his collation strewn in front
of him. He had short cropped hair and was wearing a black leather
jacket underneath which she could see a turtle neck sweater of the same
colour. The five o'clock shadow on his chin gave him the appearance of
a villain from the television series The Bill.
Laura's instinctive reaction was to walk away but the curiosity of
knowing how the situation would develop kept her rooted to the
spot.
'You must excuse the humble surroundings', he said with a smile, 'but
my penthouse in Mayfair is being refurbished.'
'And if you believe that ', thought Laura, 'you'll believe
anything.'
He asked the waitress to clear the table and ordered a fresh pot of
coffee. After a gesture that she took as an invitation to sit he poured
her a cup. At least the coffee was good; things might not be too bad
after all. He introduced himself but she was not concentrating and only
caught his first name, Norman. She passed him her portfolio and he
started to leaf through it while she prattled about her experience,
which in truth did not amount to much. Though ambitious, Laura had not
yet achieved a breakthrough. He seemed not to pay much attention to
what she was saying and seemed more interested in her photographs with
which Laura had always felt uncomfortable. They were very artistic, but
she thought that the photographer had put too much emphasis on her
physical attributes. The pouting lips, the provocative poses and
plunging necklines, with tantalising glimpses of her firm rounded
breasts, did not reflect her true personality. When she first saw them
the word risqu? had come to mind. She had a beautiful body and should
have been pleased that its perfection had been captured on film for all
to see. 'It isn't me, Pete,' she had complained to the photographer,
but to no avail. He had brushed aside her objections with a shrug:
'Nonsense, dearie. People want glamour!'
And, much to her dismay, the head of the agency had endorsed his views.
Yet she still had reservations; sensed that voyeurism rather than
artistic appreciation was uppermost in many people's mind. This
impression was now heightened by the fact that Norman seemed to be
practically drooling over the shots while outlining his forthcoming
project. She felt the tips of her ears going pink with
embarrassment.
There was no place for sentiments in the cut-throat business of fashion
and inhibitions had to be shed in order to make inroads in the chosen
career, nevertheless she had moral principles which she was not
prepared to compromise; a strong belief that one could be successful
and still keep one's conscience intact. While her thoughts wandered, he
was waxing lyrical about travels to the Middle East, cruises down the
Nile and to cap it all a photo-shoot in Casablanca. The mere mention of
this location conjured up visions of sordid deals and of girls being
lured into white slavery by the promise of golden opportunities. Laura
had heard accounts of harrowing experiences and narrow escapes and was
determined not to fall into the same trap. A sense of panic pervaded
her, though she tried to maintain a semblance of normality. She hardly
remembered what was said but she must have turned down his offer
because, before she left, Norman had handed her a card and said: 'Well,
should you change your mind here is my telephone number.'
As she reached the open air, she was able to relax once more. Here the
only pollution to be found was the one generated by the fumes of the
cars on the congested road.
***
The sisters could not have been more different, not only in looks but
attitudes. Laura, with blonde hair, blue eyes and a lissom figure, was,
at eighteen, the younger of the two; she had a sense of purpose that
Naomi - jet-black hair and deep dark eyes, and equally attractive -
lacked. The latter was more carefree. She had not yet embarked on a
career path and she lived her life on the fringe of an artistic circle
of friends. Her flat in Wardour Street was often the venue of parties
frequented by actors, producers and film directors. Her lifestyle was
more cosmopolitan than Laura's and she frequently jetted off to some
place or another.
She laughed hilariously on hearing her sibling's vicissitudes which
Laura was recounting with a deep frown. Then, fingering Norman's
visiting card, said in jest: 'You are so naive, sis. To put your mind
at rest I'll give him the once over.' Laura regarded her with
affection; Naomi, although giving the impression of being a
scatterbrain, was always able to offer wise counsel and moral support.
She wanted to express her gratitude by hugging her; instead she simply
asked: 'A cup of tea?'
***
Laura paused briefly at the entrance of the store. She felt as lifeless
as the inanimate mannequins on parade in the shop window, with their
shaven heads and truncated limbs, not yet dressed for the day ahead. At
the back Julie, the window dresser, barefoot and nimble, was sorting
out the garments with which she would adorn the dummies. She gave a
friendly wave. Laura waved back before entering the building.
They were good friends as well as colleagues, sharing their dreams in
the canteen at lunch time or at tea break. Julie's aim was to become a
fashion designer and to this end was studying for an Open University
course.
Laura made a beeline to the Cosmetics Department on the ground floor
where she was employed as a Beauty Consultant; in truth a euphemism for
sales assistant. Well, it was a regular income while she waited to hit
the big time.
There were very few customers lolling around and she stood behind the
counter watching with amusement an elderly lady in a fur coat, with all
the trappings of newly acquired wealth, trying out all the free samples
on display before deciding on the purchase of a cheap lipstick.
The advantage of this job was that it gave her ample time for
reflections. She was now thinking about the last time she had heard
from Naomi, six months ago. A hurried telephone message left on the
answering machine: 'Hi sis, how are you? Guess what? I have met him and
I quite like him. Sorry, have to dash. My date has arrived.' The faint
ring of the doorbell could be heard in the background. Then this
morning a postcard from Cairo had arrived with the usual
wish-you-were-here kind of message and lots of love from your loving
sister.
Their worlds were poles apart, both geographically and socially, and
while she would not deprive her sister of her pleasures, she wished
they could return to the togetherness which they had once shared; the
cosy chats and intimate conversations. Laura's resolve to see her own
face on the cover of Vogue was waning with every passing day now that
Naomi's encouragement was not available.
Before she realised, it was time for a break. She made her way to the
canteen where she could indulge in further reveries. The place was
almost deserted and she found a quiet spot in a corner to savour a
steaming cup of coffee and relax. She fished out of her bag one of the
glossy magazines to which she subscribed and looked at the cover whose
caption read: "A new super model has burst onto the scene. See
exclusive coverage on centre pages." She was always eager to read about
success and flicked through the publication until she got to the
relevant section. With a look of astonishment she saw that the entire
spread consisted of a set of Naomi's pictures in several poses with a
backdrop of the Egyptian desert. It was the last person she expected to
see. She could have been knocked down by the proverbial feather!
Now she understood the significance of the postcard. But did the
message convey the wish that Laura should be there instead of her or
that both should rejoice in her good fortune?
Naomi had often tried to bring her out of her shell and perhaps this
was a way of showing her that with more determination and courage
things could be accomplished.
She was still pondering about the situation and thinking that she
didn't know her sister after
all when Julie joined her brandishing the latest edition of the daily
paper. 'Have you seen this?' she exclaimed, 'a bit of a fairy tale,
don't you think?' Laura cast a glance at the screaming headline: 'LOCAL
GIRL TO WED ECCENTRIC MILLIONAIRE.' The text that followed gave a more
detailed account: 'Rumour has it that Naomi Mitchell, the newly crowned
queen of the catwalk, is to marry Norman Beaton, the Mayfair
entrepreneur who launched her career.'
'It won't come to anything, trust me,'- said Laura with a sardonic
smile - 'I am a shrewd judge of character.'

© Luigi Pagano