This
bathroom could easily house the upper floor of her two-bed terrace in Glebe Hollow. And nothing
in here could be found within a two-mile radius; the substance was too refined,
other-worldly – and ideal nicking material for some of the frequenters of the Liberal
club round the corner. Part of her would have too. She shoved this squalid part
of her aside and confronted her reflection in a full-length mirror. She
expected to see an intruder. Instead she saw a creature caught off-guard. Her
brow cast angular shadows over her eyes and her mouth was firmly-seamed as
though withholding a lie. Her dress at least looked good. The fabric clung
pleasingly to her pert breasts, although her hips hung a little low. She had
good ankles, slim, tapering. Ankles became a focal point in full body shots. At
least she didn’t have fat ankles. And no ladders to be seen.
Nancy
fished out her makeup bag. She approached the mirror and brought her mascara
brush to her lashes. Her hand tremored. She retracted the brush and drew a deep
breath. A better course of action would be to lead in via eye-shadow, easier to
apply.
Nancy
carefully smudged silver into grey. Having such dark brown eyes required more
blending than usual. She didn’t want to ask herself who the hell is that
hard-eyed slapper standing next to Vincent Jonas on his preamble down the Nexus
steps. The thought of them side by side made her stomach clench into a tight
ball.
She
applied peach lipstick and a little blusher. Blend. Keep blending. Nancy gathered her hair into a large bun-clip,
teasing whorls around her ears. She aimed for a soft, maidenly look. Harsh
outlines only gave her away. Was she merely trying to blur herself out? Nancy
secured the wing-nut of her crystal earrings. They dangled pleasingly within the
whorls of her hair. She could be pretty if she wanted to – a traditional
English rose, not borne of fake tans or Botox. Her face could be seen on an
Edwardian chambermaid, a forties farm lass or a waitress at Kew just before
hitting the big time.
She
zipped her bag. Who was she kidding?
A
rap came to the door. Nancy gathered her handbag and clopped across the tiles.
Her harsh whisper rebounded against the marble tops. ‘Leon?’
His
soulful voice came reassuringly back. ‘We’re ready to go, Nancy.’
She
opened the door. Leon’s expression was sedate as he took her in. His nod seemed
to signify approval. ‘Let’s walk.’ He proffered an elbow.
In
automation, Nancy rested her palm on the crook of his arm. Only the silk fabric
of his suit resisted. Spiced cotton and spearmint teased her nostrils. ‘Just a
few ground rules to guide you, Nancy.’ Leon gently urged her onwards towards
the end of the corridor. ‘You are not to speak to Mr. Jonas unless he asks you
a question. You are certainly not to speak in public. The pap will do their
shoot. Don’t let ‘em phase you, just smile, give ‘em a little wave if you feel
so inclined. You don’t have to do much else, just let Mr. Jonas take the lead.
‘You
will accompany Mr. Jonas to the limo, soon after which you will be dropped off at
a location of your choice.’
Vincent Jonas, the
limo, the paparazzi, the shoot. Nancy’s
comprehension had regressed to a five-year-old. She could barely take it in.
Leon
ended their little stroll at an annex, fronted by a large door. He lowered his
elbow. ‘Just one more thing,’ he uttered facing her. ‘As you leave the
building, you will link little fingers…’ He gently took her hand and deftly
teased her small finger from the others. He entwined his with hers and allowed
their arms to drop. The link remained intact. ‘…like this.’
The
result suggested a coupling but of the most formal and distant kind. This
suited Nancy. She didn’t want to create the wrong impression; the
finger-linking also gave something for her hands to do. Still, she was about to
make physical contact with one Vincent Jonas.
At
that point, Leon gently opened the door.
