Remember My Name

Wearily she stood up and grimaced as she caught sight of last night’s make-up now smeared all over her face. She’d been too exhausted to wash it off when she’d finally rolled in, dropped at her front door by a black cab after three in the morning. Thinking about last night brought a smile to Talia’s face. The Gilded Cage, a top London club that routinely welcomed celebrities from all over the world, had played host to the summer party of Encounters, the highest-rated soap opera on television. Talia as a storyliner on the show had been there, albeit with some reluctance. She hated parties; she’d often told herself that she simply didn’t have the party gene. She could never hear above the music, never knew how to approach people and start off conversations, and she didn’t drink enough for alcohol to save her either. She might have found an excuse not to go but one of her closest friends, Simone, who also worked in television, had extracted a promise from her that she would make an effort and turn up, if only for her career’s sake.

Darting through the throng of paparazzi and autograph hunters determined to catch a glimpse of the show’s stars, Talia had planned on staying only an hour or two, get her face seen and then leave but surprisingly she’d found she actually enjoyed the party. No expense had been spared, from fire eaters, to stilt walkers to fortune tellers, and she had been glad that she’d forced herself to put on the only sexy dress in her wardrobe, a Diane von Fürstenberg, a gift from her best friend, Helena, which she had never worn before. Even Tamara, the show’s resident bitch both on and off screen, had paid her a compliment.

“Darling, what a transformation, very dramatic.” Tamara had smiled, air kissing in her general direction before disappearing through the crowd, leaving Talia dazed in a heavy cloud of Chanel No 5.

The DVF dress, a dramatic statement against her brown skin, was a distinctive print of vibrant yellows, reds and greens, the kind of bright colours that Talia usually shunned, but from all the compliments she’d received the night before, she’d realised that perhaps colour should play a larger part in her wardrobe. She’d teamed the dress with the high Charlotte Olympia heels. The heels also came from Helena who, as an editor on style bible Époque, had access to an apparently limitless fashion cupboard, which meant she was constantly pressing beautiful designer accessories on Talia. Between Helena and Simone, Talia often found herself being lectured about her refusal to engage with fashion.

“I’m not into pain and all these clothes are just not comfortable or even practical,” Talia had once told Helena, but her friend had simply snorted and the gifts continued. It wasn’t that Talia couldn’t see the beauty in designer clothes; it was simply that her budget didn’t stretch to the frothy, outlandish garments that were a part of Helena’s world. For Helena, fashion was life. But for Talia, nothing was more important than her career at Encounters. She liked comfortable, practical things and, as she’d found, tottering around in the platform shoes the night before, fashionable and comfortable didn’t seem to go hand in hand.

Nevertheless, she had actually enjoyed the party and danced to every song on the dance floor. Once during the night, she’d found herself pressed against a wall by an insistent First Assistant Director from the show.

“You look so fucking gorgeous in the dress, I should have talked to you before now.” The drunken confession had been followed by a very wet kiss. For Talia this was pretty much unheard of and she allowed a small smile. She could practically hear Helena’s voice now – “You should have gone home with him.” She might not have followed Helena’s standard advice but Talia still allowed herself a small pat on the back at her small progress. She’d not pushed the AD away immediately; she’d allowed him to kiss her for a moment, never mind that the smell of beer on his breath slightly turned her stomach.

In the room next door, Nina and her lover had finally subsided and Talia flicked on the radio then moved to the small desk in the corner of her bedroom. She powered up her MacBook, as she did every morning without fail. As the laptop loaded up, Talia pulled some clothes out of the wardrobe, paying slightly more attention than usual to what she picked out. It was appraisal day today and she wanted to look smart. She’d already been prepped for what to expect and Talia felt a shiver of excitement, which she quickly banked down. As the sound of the computer starting up rang out, an image appeared on the screen for a moment and Talia felt a buzz of appreciation run through her. It was a photograph of a bag; a bag of the finest burnished leather, an oak-coloured Mulberry Bayswater designer handbag. Though she usually had little interest in high fashion, something about this bag had captured Talia’s imagination and she had decided that she would buy herself one, when she received her promotion. That day was today. All her slogging on the story team, all the late nights and early mornings, would finally pay off. Talia thought back to the conversation she’d had last week with her boss.

“So, Martin’s decided to move to LA and write movies.” Rick had strolled into her office drawling the words with a confident smirk as Talia had paused in her typing to look up at him.

“What?” she had squealed. “He has a contract.” Rick had smiled then.

“Don’t worry, he’ll be back. We pay them well, they get too big for their boots, think they’re going to LA to run things.” Rick had snorted. “Martin is very well looked after here, he won’t last in LA for long, being a very small fish writer from England in a very big pond.”

Talia had nodded. Rick was right but it didn’t solve their immediate predicament. “But what do we do while he finds himself? We’re already a writer short on the core team and we’ve got some major storylines coming up. Martin knows this show better than anyone.”

“Not better than you,” Rick had fired back at her. Talia looked up at him confused.

“What do you mean?” she’d finally asked, her heart already racing.

“I mean that you’re getting what you wanted. As of next week, after your appraisal, you’ll be the newest member of the core writing team.”

“What!” Talia had spluttered, shocked, even as she was filled with nervous excitement.

“Tal, you’ve rewritten half the scripts for the last two years and ghosted the other half. You’re a great writer and it’s what you want, isn’t it?” Rick had shot her a challenging look.

She’d nodded. It was what she wanted, more than anything. Finally she would be a writer, writing on the show that had consumed her life the last few years. “I won’t let you guys down. I promise.”

Talia leaned back in her chair as the image of the designer handbag disappeared. Today, that conversation would finally be made official. She clicked an icon on the computer screen and watched as the story document loaded up. She tapped in the obligatory password that the screen demanded before she could access the confidential storylines that marked out the next year of stories on the show. Even after four years in which she’d battled her way up the ranks, she still felt a frisson of pride and excitement whenever she typed in her password. She’d always been good at keeping secrets and there was something potent about knowing how stories would play out, how characters loved by the entire country would be doing in one year’s time. Though many had tried, Talia was scrupulous about never giving anything away and eventually her friends had stopped asking for hints or spoilers.

Within minutes, she was lost in the world of Melanie, Jordan, Eloise and Carlos and the other workers at the Encounters boutique who kept TV audiences spellbound and kept the show at the top of the ratings. These stories, which would be her last as storyliner, promised a bombshell Christmas revelation; she’d definitely saved the best for last. After today, she was heading for the writers’ room. Not merely devising the stories but now actually writing the dialogue, the scripts – the whole nine yards. Talia smiled, imagining her rosy future, and then she gasped, leaping to her feet as she caught sight of the clock. She’d miss her train at this rate.

She showered quickly, throwing on clothes at breakneck speed. She skipped breakfast and was ready to head out in less than twenty minutes even though her brown hair hung in damp frizzy tendrils around her shoulders and face. It was a bright day and the sun already shone over London, with the weather forecast promising a fine summer’s day. As she passed the hallway mirror, Talia sighed as she caught a glimpse of her deep brown hair, which was already drying in untidy curls around her face; so much for the sleek look she’d hoped to present for the meeting that afternoon. Her eyes darted to the clock; she’d probably miss the train anyway, she might as well take the time to tame her hair. Decision made, Talia allowed her battered workbag, an ageing leather satchel, to drop to the floor and she made her way into her room, grabbing the hairdryer. As she vigorously dried her hair, a man emerged from Nina’s bedroom. Talia was relieved to see that he was dressed; they weren’t always. The man was heading out but he stopped as he spotted Talia through her open bedroom door.

“Hi,” Talia nodded at him, surprised that she actually recognised him. In the seven months she’d lived with Nina, she’d gained a breezy insouciance in dealing with strange men who never made a repeat appearance but this one, Javier, had been around several times in the last few weeks. If any man could make Nina give up her life of one-night stands, she supposed this was a pretty fine choice. He was tall, around 6ft, she guessed and could very well be in the dictionary next to the description for tall, dark and handsome.

“Good morning, Talia.” He smiled at her as he spoke, his voice deep with an accented inflexion that hinted at his Cuban roots. “Good party last night?”

Talia nodded. “I didn’t wake you when I came in, did I?” She felt a moment of guilt; perhaps she’d been less than considerate when she’d tottered in, unsteady in her heels.

“Of course not. It’s good to have some fun, no?” Javier smiled. “I’ll see you later,” he said as he moved to the front door.

She watched him go with a small twinge of irritation. Why did everybody think that she didn’t have any fun? She heard the front door open and close and she continued briskly straightening her hair till it framed her face. Digging into her bag, which was heavy with scripts, rehearsal drafts and story documents, Talia pulled out her battered make-up bag, the same one she’d carried for years. Most of the make-up contained in it hadn’t been changed in ages. She dabbed on some foundation and followed that with a dash of bronze eye shadow, an unevenly drawn line of black across her lids and then she pouted into the mirror as she layered a thick gloop of gloss on her lips. Talia smiled at the effect, it was rare for her to take the time to wear make-up and she’d always thought that one day she would like to take a make-up class and learn to apply it properly. After all the sacrifices she’d made to make it as a storyliner and cross over to writing, perhaps now she might get the chance to take that make-up class, or do yoga – maybe she’d finally do all those things she’d been meaning to do the last few years. Talia smiled a rueful smile; she wasn’t fooling herself. She was a workaholic, always had been. Whatever she turned her mind to had always consumed her. She glanced again at her watch; still a few minutes before she had to leave home to catch the next train to the studios. It was a sunny morning and she decided to walk slowly and grab a coffee on the way to the station. Just then Nina’s door opened once again.

Oomph! Before Talia could say anything she was enveloped in a hug from Nina.

“Morning, Tal.” Slowly Talia untangled herself from the embrace. She looked into her roommate’s face looking for some sign that might explain this utterly uncharacteristic display of affection.

“What’s wrong?” she asked. Nina laughed, that deep dirty laugh that wouldn’t be out of place in a smoky club but which in broad daylight always seemed slightly indecent and rather too filthy for company.

“Silly, nothing’s wrong,” Nina said as she took Talia by the arm and walked her to their open-plan kitchen. “Shall I make you a coffee?” Now Talia was worried, it was almost unheard of for Nina to offer to do anything to help anyone.

“Sure,” she murmured, even as Nina was already flicking the kettle on and casting around for a mug, looking like a stranger adrift in her own kitchen. Talia watched her with distracted confusion; it wasn’t that she didn’t care about Nina’s dramas, but she really didn’t want to miss her next train. Nina handed her a cup of comically white coffee and Talia sipped it warily, aware that her roommate watched her with what could only be described as a beatific smile on her face.

“So I have some news,” Nina smiled and suddenly Talia knew. She’d had enough of these conversations, after all. Like bottles falling off the wall, so too all the women of a certain age of her acquaintance were being picked off.

“Javier and I, we’re getting married.” The last words came out of Nina’s mouth in a squeal of drama and excitement and even though a wash of dismay filled her, Talia took her cue.

“Congratulations! Honey, congratulations.” She rushed around the kitchen table to press a hug on Nina. “Wow, that’s amazing.”

“Isn’t it?” Nina murmured wrapped in a cocoon of happiness. Now Nina held her hand with a nod of understanding in her eyes and Talia knew what was coming, what always followed. Dammit, she’d actually believed all of Nina’s “I’m supposed to be single, I can’t do monogamy” rubbish.

“The thing is, Tal, you know how much I love living with you it’s just that Javier and I, we’ve decided to move to Cuba.” For a moment Talia felt a surge of hope, perhaps she might stay in the flat and wouldn’t once again, for the fourth time in as many years, be required to pack her bags. “So I’ve decided to sell the flat.” The bubble of hope deflated quickly and Talia nodded what she hoped was a supportive nod. “I know you’ll find somewhere that’s just perfect for you.” Now Nina looked down, her long lashes resting on her cheekbones. “You’re not cross with me are you?”

She’s playing me, Talia thought with a flash of irritation. She’d seen Nina use that same look many times with men. “Don’t be silly. I’m just so happy for you.” At this her roommate breathed a sigh of relief.

“Great.” Then she looked seriously again at Talia. Now she wore her sincere expression, the one she used when talking about designer shoes. “Honey, I know you don’t like to talk about these things, but you’ll find your own prince… How’s Steven?” Talia’s smile had started to feel strained and at this mention of Steven whom she’d disastrously dated for five long months after meeting him on the dating site everafter.com. Talia felt the start of a headache. She hated when her newly engaged friends started to hand out relationship advice, like newly converted Christians determined to bring everyone else into the fold.

“Thanks, hon,” Talia murmured with false sincerity and her eyes darted again to her watch. “Listen, I’ve got to run to catch the train. But cocktails later to celebrate?”

“Yay,” Nina smiled. “Isn’t it your big appraisal today?” Talia started in surprise; Nina really was making an effort, she was rarely interested in anything that wasn’t about her.

“Yes, gotta run.” As she moved quickly towards the front door, her hardly-worn Mary Jane shoes clicking on the wood floors, Talia fought to get her mind back on work and away from Nina’s bombshell.

“Good luck,” she heard Nina call out as she slammed the front door shut.

By the time she sat down in the carriage having just, by the skin of her teeth, caught the train, Talia had already started to get her perspective back. Good for Nina. Who knew that the high priestess of sex, booze and food could fall in love? Get married no less. She squashed down the uncharitable thought that she’d had tubes of toothpaste for longer than Nina had known her intended. She hoped it would work out for them. As for her fears about moving again, perhaps it was the perfect time for her to look into getting her own place. With the promotion to the writing team, she’d get a raise and surely that would be enough to fund renting alone whilst she built up a deposit to buy her own flat. As the train headed northwards to the outskirts of London where the Encounters studio was located, Talia felt happier. Her life was finally starting, everything she’d worked for was coming together; it was only right that she moved on from Nina’s flat. Across the aisle from her, a fellow commuter reached into her bag and dug out a copy of Soap Lives magazine. Talia smiled and felt a moment of pride as she spotted the cover of the magazine. Two of the characters from Encounters stared back at her, the stars of a storyline that she’d created. Finally, Talia allowed herself to relax; everything she’d worked for was within her grasp.

CHAPTER 3

Tamara Fearson was coming down from a blissful orgasm.

An all-consuming, earth shattering, lose all sense of time and place kind of orgasm; the kind she’d never been able to reach with any man. Once, there’d been a man who’d been able to push her buttons, push her close to the edge, almost make her forget who she was, but that was a long time ago and the less Tamara thought about him, the better. Men made women weak, she thought, and she could not afford to be weak. Slowly, she allowed her boneless, enervated body to sink deeper into her silk sheets and chuckled quietly to herself. The triumph of the night before was still in her blood. She lifted a limp arm to wipe at the sheen of perspiration on her forehead and then, she rolled over onto her side, feeling her heartbeat finally start to slow down. With a languorous move, Tamara kicked the thin sheet to the end of the bed, exposing her nude body to the coolness of her bedroom.

Hazy sunlight flickered through gauzy curtains, which hung in the window of her Primrose Hill mews house. Across from the bed was a floor-to-ceiling mirror and Tamara lay perfectly still, luxuriating in the reflection of herself that greeted her. She stared at herself critically but with a measure of pride. At thirty-six, she looked better now than she had at sixteen, when she’d first boarded a plane out of the small Australian town where she was born. By twenty-one she’d been modelling in Sydney before she’d landed in an Aussie soap that was watched all over the world.

Tamara rose slowly from the bed with unhurried movements, uncaring that her driver would soon arrive to ferry her to set. Tamara always slept in the nude, so that every morning she was greeted by this full-length reflection of her body – no wrinkle, no unsightly extra inch, no blemish would be missed. Ruthlessly she hunted down, dissected and where necessary rectified her own faults before anyone else could take her to task about them.

Standing directly in front of the vanity mirror, Tamara stared at herself, taking a deep breath. Her natural golden blonde hair was a silken wave down her back. Her eyebrows, just a shade darker than her hair, were thick, fashionably so for this season. Her eyes, a unique shade of green-blue, were the same aquamarine of the sea, where she’d been born. Her frame was small but her breasts, pert with dark raspberry nipples, were a touch larger than one would expect on her frame. And at 5’9”, Tamara was tall. Men often said that it was a toss-up with Tamara Fearson, legs or breasts, for she had both in abundance; the siren who could lure both breast and leg men. Her look was that of the angelic blonde, a princess, and yet, as her success on Encounters showed, her public loved her best when she was playing a bitch from hell. Tamara stretched her arms high above her head, luxuriating in the feeling of her body being stretched almost to the edge of pain. With a series of deep yogic breaths, she slowly lowered her arms. Right on cue there was a knock on her door and Casey walked in, carrying her daily dose of vitamins and a health shake that had been specially concocted for her by her personal nutritionist.

“Morning, Tamara,” Casey smiled, placing the tray down on a table before laying down a stack of magazines and the day’s papers. Barely sparing a glance for her young assistant, Tamara moved towards the table and one after the other popped the large vitamin pills into her mouth before washing them down with the rather odious-looking green drink. Her assistant didn’t bat an eye at her nudity, having long since grown used to her tendency to walk around the house naked.

Tamara watched as Casey busied herself picking up the clothes that she’d dropped on the floor when she arrived home the night before. The dress was a green whisper of the finest silk, a vintage Tom Ford for Gucci original that would have to be sent to a specialist cleaner. The shoes – a staggeringly high pair of Christian Louboutins with the distinctive red sole, Casey tidied into Tamara’s shoe closet, alongside the hundred or so pairs of stilettos that were her trademark.

“Papers!” Tamara’s demand shot across the room and Casey immediately returned to read the morning’s headlines to her boss. Tamara watched as Casey nervously shuffled the mix of papers, magazines and the scurrilous weeklies, whose avowed mission seemed to be to shame TV stars by publishing unflattering photographs of them.

“‘Tamara Fearson dazzles in Dior.’” Tamara smiled as Casey showed her the photograph on the cover of one of the tabloids. The photo had been taken outside The Gilded Cage when she’d arrived for the Encounters party.

“Anything else?” she fired back at Casey, for her triumph last night hadn’t been at the Encounters party. It was the party afterwards that Tamara was most interested in.

“Well this one says…” Casey trailed off nervously. Just the week before she had been at the receiving end of a flying copy of Vogue when Tamara had learned that her young co-star Angelina Starling had been featured in the magazine.

“Carry on,” Tamara snapped and with a gulp Casey pushed on.

“It says, ‘The Botox has landed’.” Casey breathed a sigh of relief as a peal of laughter rang out from Tamara.

“Botox,” Tamara snorted, “if only they knew.” Tamara leaned forward brushing aside Casey’s hands to flick through the papers herself. And then she smiled as she finally found what she was looking for. On the cover of one of the tabloids – Daily World –was a photo of Angelina Starling, a rather tawdry photograph of the nation’s sweetheart, caught in flagrante. A shiver of delicious malice ran through Tamara as she stared at the photograph; careers had been destroyed by less. “Are there more like this?” She didn’t bother to conceal her glee.

“All the tabloids have picked it up,” Casey responded. “Poor Angelina.” At Tamara’s raised eyebrow, Casey quickly schooled her expression into a more neutral one.

“Well, that’s that for her then.” From the start Tamara had detested the young upstart, but the girl had gone too far. Bad enough that she’d been selected for a Vogue profile when Tamara herself had never been featured, but to refer to her as a ‘mother figure’. It was then that Angelina had sealed her fate. Nobody crossed Tamara. With a smile, she consigned her young co-star to the back of her mind and turned back to the papers. “Anything else of me?”

“Just this one.” Casey pulled out another paper and breathed a sigh of relief at the smile that Tamara bestowed on her. It was a photograph of Tamara taken the night before, not in the Dior dress that she’d worn to the Encounters cast party but in her second outfit of the night – the vintage Tom Ford, as she’d arrived at the launch of Imperium, the latest hotel venture by Russian magnate Vassily Romanov.

“Bingo,” Tamara said to herself, quickly flicking to page eight to read the columnist’s piece. Slowly, a wide smile spread across her face as she read the copy. ‘Actress Tamara Fearson arrives at the launch of Imperium. Moments later, she stole a march on all the socialites in attendance by convincing billionaire oligarch Vassily Romanov to leave his own party with her. Quelle scandale! We’ll be following this story with interest.’