Stolen Beginnings Read online

  Marian shook her head solemnly. ‘I don’t think I could take all that fun.’

  Madeleine grinned, then ran her hand over Marian’s face. ‘Five hundred thousand pounds,’ she said.

  Taking her cue for their favourite game, Marian said: ‘A yacht in the south of France, with big beefy waiters to service all your needs.’

  ‘And a skinny little brainbox to service yours?’

  Marian turned her nose up at that. ‘Lots of photographers and TV cameras waiting on the harbour, because the famous Madeleine Deacon might come ashore any second.’

  ‘An apartment in Cannes?’

  Marian shook her head. ‘A villa in Monaco. And another in Tuscany. A chauffeur, a cook and a butler. And Paul O’Connell begging at the door for you to let him in.’

  ‘Should I?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. But what I do know is that we’ve seen off more than five hundred thousand in a few short sentences. So how about seeing off the remaining ten pounds in the kitty and going to the wine bar?’

  As they dressed, and Madeleine chattered on about the party the night before, Marian was only half listening. Rob’s offer of Tibet didn’t appeal to her in the least, but it had highlighted the probability that, one day, she and Madeleine would go their separate ways. Madeleine was set for stardom, she was certain of it. She would appear on page three of The Sun – her current ambition – and she’d win Paul O’Connell eventually, too, because there wasn’t a man born yet who could resist Madeleine. So when the time came, Marian knew that she would have to let her go. It terrified her. Madeleine might be two years younger, but ever since she could remember Marian had lived in her shadow. And now she knew only too well that without Madeleine she would be consumed by the bitter truth of what she was really like: ugly, dull, and worst of all, a coward.

  The first week of the New Year was a busy one for Madeleine because of all the late Christmas parties in offices and restaurants around Bristol. She enjoyed her job even more at this time of year, when passions ran high and tips were generous. But tonight she was particularly excited because straight after doing a policewoman strip in the Spaghetti Tree, where the CID from Bridewell were having their Christmas bash, she was off to the HTV studios to deliver a French-o-gram for someone’s birthday.

  She was in and out of the Spaghetti Tree in less than half an hour. Stuart, her driver, was waiting outside, and while he drove around the city centre, then headed out towards the Bath Road, Madeleine deftly slipped into a black pencil skirt, skimpy underwired bra, hooped T-shirt and spotted neckerchief. The black stockings and suspenders she was already wearing from the policewoman strip.

  A man called Jimmy was waiting for Madeleine at the studio complex and took her to the club bar, a small but crowded L-shaped room where the birthday boy was sitting over by the windows, surrounded by a particularly rowdy group. Madeleine handed Jimmy her coat, and as she carried her cassette player over to the bar she searched the room to see if she could spot anyone famous. Not that it was actors she was after – it was producers and directors she was really on the look out for.

  Jimmy clapped his hands, and silence fell. As everyone turned to look at Madeleine, the smoky air became charged with expectancy. As usual, the tension stimulated her, and she was already sorry that the rules forbade her to remove anything beyond her bra. Her cheeks were flushed from the wine she’d drunk at the Spaghetti Tree, and as she slipped on her beret she ran her tongue around her full, wide lips while letting her eyes roam lazily from one face to the next. Her Svengali was here, somewhere in this room, she just knew it.

  ‘She’s a stunner,’ she heard someone behind her whisper, and she raised her chin and jiggled her shoulders as though he had caressed her back.

  Before she started the music, she read the ditty her boss had composed, pausing when everyone laughed and responding shamelessly to the hungry looks of Steve, her subject. Then handing him the poem, she pressed a button on her cassette player, and the seductive strains of ‘Je t’aime’ filled the bar.

  The whole room was spellbound as she gyrated her hips, ran her elegant long fingers over her breasts and slowly unzipped her skirt. Hands tightened around glasses as she stepped out of it, revealing the stockings, suspenders and tiny briefs underneath. Hooking her fingers either side of the elastic, she pulled it up over her hips and turned around to show her almost naked buttocks. She danced some more, waiting for the music to build; then taking her beret, she spun it across the room, before lifting her T shirt over her head and throwing that too. When she turned to Steve, placing her hands on the table in front of him and rotating her hips, his face turned crimson – her breasts were spilling from the bra, and she ran her index finger deep into her cleavage before putting it in her mouth and sucking. Then, as the air began to fill with the heavy breathing of the song, she sat down in a chair, lifted a slender leg onto the table, and let her head roll back while her chest heaved with her own deep breaths. Her hands explored her body, her back arched, and as the song chanted to its sexual climax she unfastened her bra and let it fall away. The general gasp was almost a moan, and feeling the thrill of power that male arousal always gave her, she took a copious breast in each hand and sauntered slowly towards Steve. She stood over him, circling her hips and holding her breasts towards him. There was nothing in her mind beyond the pure ecstasy of what she was doing. She wanted the music to go on forever, but finally it petered out and she sank into his lap.

  ‘Holy shit!’ she heard someone mutter into the quiet, then the room was suddenly alive with applause. She laughed, intoxicated by her own performance. Her nipples throbbed, and she almost melted as Steve’s fingers closed around them and everyone cheered.

  The barman brought her a drink, and Steve moved along to make room for her to sit between him and another man. A crowd quickly gathered around the table, and she lapped up the attention, flicking her hair over her shoulders and fixing the men with her luminous violet eyes.

  ‘So which one of you is a director?’ she said, when she was halfway through her second glass of wine. ‘Come on, who’s going to give me my big break?’

  ‘Steve there’s a producer,’ one of them answered, ‘how would that suit you?’

  Madeleine’s eyes widened as she turned to Steve. ‘Are you really?’ she asked.

  He nodded, his small green eyes moving between her breasts and her face. His auburn hair was brushed into a side parting, his ruddy cheeks were pock-marked and unshaven. ‘It’s been a long day,’ he explained, running a hand over his beard as he noticed her dubious look.

  Somebody refilled her glass and she took a sip before saying, ‘I’ve always wanted to be an actress, you know. Or a model. Do you think I’ve got the talent?’

  Steve spluttered in his beer. ‘Oh, sure, you’ve got the talent all right,’ he answered. ‘You’ve got just . . .’

  ‘You’ve got great potential,’ a man on the other side of him interrupted. ‘As a matter of fact, we’re casting next week for a new drama, and there might just be a part in it for you?’

  ‘Really?’ Madeleine gasped. ‘Are you serious? Do you think I could do it? What’s the part?’

  ‘Actually,’ Steve said, catching his mate’s drift, ‘it just so happens we’re looking for a stripper. Can you act?’

  ‘Come on, Maddy, time to go.’ Madeleine looked up to see Stuart standing over her.

  ‘Oh, not yet,’ she groaned. ‘Sit down, have a drink. We haven’t got any more stops tonight, so relax.’

  ‘We’ll take her home, mate,’ Steve chipped in.

  Immediately Stuart shook his head. ‘No, she comes with me.’ He knew there would be hell to pay with the boss if he didn’t get her out, but he also knew how determined Madeleine could be, and he groaned inwardly as she stood up and whispered in his ear.

  ‘I won’t tell,’ she said, giggling as someone groped her bottom. ‘As far as anyone will know, you took me straight home after HTV. Now don’t spoil this for me – that guy with the gin
ger hair’s a producer!’

  Stuart rolled his eyes. ‘You haven’t fallen for that one, have you?’ he said, but Madeleine wasn’t listening.

  ‘Of course I’m staying,’ she was assuring Steve and his friends. She turned back to Stuart. ‘Go on, go,’ she hissed. ‘If it’ll make you feel any better, I’ll ring you when I get in, let you know I’m home safe and sound.’

  ‘Do that,’ he said, and casting an ominous glance around the circle of men, he left.

  Madeleine drank her wine and listened with rapt attention as Steve told her about television – the long hours, the hard work, the actresses who cracked under pressure. ‘It’s a rough, tough world,’ he said, ‘you’ve got to have what it takes.’

  ‘Do you think I have?’ she asked.

  ‘Most definitely. In fact I’m surprised no one’s snapped you up before now. What a find, eh, John?’ he said to his mate, who agreed wholeheartedly.

  ‘John’s going to be directing this drama,’ Steve informed her, ‘so I’d be especially nice to him if I were you.’

  Madeleine shifted in her seat and gave John the benefit of her most beguiling smile. Then suddenly she gasped as her skirt, T-shirt, bra and beret were flung in her face.

  She looked up to see a woman standing in front of her. Despite the fury that blazed from her green eyes, Madeleine couldn’t help noticing how striking she was. She was tall and slim and had a careless elegance Madeleine would have killed for. And her auburn hair, smattering of freckles and subtle pink lips all added to her impeccable chic. ‘Yours, I believe,’ the woman spat. And when Madeleine only continued to look at her, she said through gritted teeth, ‘It’s sluts like you that give women a bad name.’ Her eyes darted to the men on either side of Madeleine. ‘Where the hell’s your self-respect?’ she said. Then turning on her heel, she walked out of the bar.

  ‘Who the hell’s she?’ Madeleine asked, turning to Steve, whose expression seemed to have sobered a little.

  ‘Stephanie Ryder,’ he answered. ‘Some hot-shot producer from London.’

  Madeleine looked at the door in dismay. She’d never given any thought to the fact that producers could be women, and to have one speak to you like that . . . She turned back to Steve, who straightaway realised that Stephanie Ryder’s attack was in danger of spoiling the evening’s sport.

  ‘Take no notice,’ he said. ‘She’s only jealous.’

  Madeleine perked up a bit at that. ‘Silly old cow,’ she said, but it was forced, and though she took a large mouthful of wine to restore her confidence, somehow the mood was broken.

  ‘You’re sure you’re not having me on about being a producer and director?’ she said on the way home, as John drove round the Clifton triangle and up towards the Victoria Rooms.

  ‘Just give us a call at the studios tomorrow,’ Steve answered, turning round to look at her. ‘We’ll arrange for an audition.’

  Madeleine still wasn’t convinced, but whoever they were they worked in television, so they might be able to do something for her.

  ‘Of course,’ John put in, ‘there are quite a lot of others we have to see, so we can’t promise anything.’

  Madeleine’s face fell.

  ‘However, there are ways of getting over that,’ Steve said. ‘Certain things you can do to make sure of getting the part.’

  ‘Like what?’ Madeleine asked.

  Steve and John exchanged a look, then John said, ‘Have you ever heard of the casting couch?’

  Madeleine shook her head. ‘No. What is it?’

  Steve’s eyes magnified with amazement. ‘Tell you what, seeing as you’ve perked up my birthday I think you deserve some special privileges. What do you say, John?’

  John nodded. ‘Definitely.’

  ‘So you invite us in for coffee and we’ll explain the casting couch. It’ll put you streets ahead of the other girls.’

  Madeleine had the flat to herself that night as Marian had gone to Devon to ask her mother for money. Which was just as well, she thought, when she woke with a raging hangover the following morning; two men in one night would have sent Marian into a blinding fury.

  But, when Marian returned two days later with enough money to pay the rent, Madeleine was so miserable about the way things had turned out at HTV that it wasn’t difficult to get out of her what had happened. Madeleine knew now that Steve and John were props men. She also knew that they would be doing nothing to help her career, as they had gone away filming for the next three months.

  Marian hid her anger well, though she did deliver a bit of a lecture, but since Madeleine had heard it all before, she didn’t take much notice. In fact, now that she’d unburdened herself she felt distinctly better, and Stephanie Ryder, the real cause of her misery, was given the status of a frustrated old spinster and forgotten . . .

  ‘I’m finishing early tonight,’ Madeleine said on Friday. She was trying out a new pale pink lipstick, and wondering what she might look like with freckles. ‘Why don’t you meet me at the Chateau, Marian? Everyone else will be there.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Marian answered. She was sitting at the dilapidated dining-table, a pile of bills in front of her and a pay packet that contained fifty-five pounds for one day’s work – all she’d managed to get that week.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ Madeleine insisted. ‘Leave all that, it’ll only get you depressed. Let’s go and get pissed, and to hell with bills – and men.’

  That decided Marian. If Madeleine was intending to get drunk then she wanted to be around to make sure she came to no harm.

  At nine o’clock she was waiting outside the wine bar. Several of Madeleine’s friends passed her as they went inside, but none of them spoke – they didn’t even notice her. Finally at nine fifteen Madeleine turned up, wearing her jeans and a fancy lace top Marian hadn’t seen before.

  ‘Before you say anything, I borrowed it from Jackie,’ Madeleine lied. ‘And what are you doing out here? Why didn’t you go in and wait, everyone’s there,’ she said, peering through the window.

  Marian didn’t answer, but followed Madeleine glumly through the door. Not looking where she was going, she bumped into Madeleine’s back, then glancing up, she saw why Madeleine had stopped. Paul O’Connell was standing in front of them. To Marian’s dismay, Madeleine stuck her nose in the air and walked on. Marian gave him an apologetic look and he grinned. His white, even teeth and intense eyes turned her heart over.

  ‘How are you?’ he said. ‘How did the party go on after I’d left?’

  Marian shrugged, her cheeks were on fire. ‘Oh, not bad,’ she mumbled. ‘It broke up around two.’

  ‘And have your friends gone off to Tibet yet?’

  ‘They went yesterday.’

  He nodded. ‘So you decided life with the lamas wasn’t for you?’

  She smiled at his wry look, and he laughed. Then, giving another self-conscious shrug, she started after Madeleine.

  ‘What did he say?’ Madeleine wanted to know.

  ‘He asked about the party.’

  ‘Bloody cheek.’ Madeleine threw him another nasty look. ‘Did he say anything about me?’

  Marian shook her head. ‘Why did you ignore him like that?’

  ‘Because he deserved it. And besides, now he knows I’m not interested I’ll bet he comes running. Just you watch.’

  Marian bit her tongue. Madeleine’s judgement of character had never been her strongest point. But to Marian’s complete astonishment, when the phone rang the following Monday afternoon it was Paul.

  ‘There’s a lecture on the Italian Renaissance at the museum tomorrow night,’ he told her, ‘I wondered if you’d like to come.’

  Marian froze, and looked at the receiver as if it were playing her some kind of trick. Then, with a pang of disappointment, she realised he had mistaken her for Madeleine.

  ‘It’s Marian here,’ she said, almost laughing now at the idea of Madeleine going to such a lecture – though for Paul O’Connell she would probably suffer it.
‘I think you’ve got us confused. Madeleine’s the tall one with blonde hair. She’ll be back any minute. She’s just popped . . .’

  ‘I know who I’m speaking to,’ he interrupted, ‘and I’m asking you if you’d like to come to the lecture.’

  Again Marian looked at the receiver. ‘Yes. Well, yes, that would be very nice,’ she said, hardly able to speak her insides were in such a commotion.

  ‘Good. It starts at seven. Would you like me to pick you up?’

  ‘No! No, that’s all right. I’ll meet you outside.’

  ‘OK. See you then,’ and he rang off.

  When Madeleine came in ten minutes later, Marian was still in a state of high agitation. Fortunately Madeleine was engrossed in a magazine article and munching on a chocolate bar, which she held out for Marian to take a bite. Marian shook her head and went into the bedroom.

  For half an hour she sat in front of the mirror, too stunned to move. Of course, he didn’t mean anything by the invitation, she told herself, he was just being friendly. And after all, it was only to a lecture. But the question had to be asked, why her? There wasn’t a woman in Bristol who wouldn’t have sold her soul for an evening out with Paul O’Connell. She could just see the reeling shock on everyone’s faces if they were to find out that Marian Deacon, Madeleine Deacon’s boring, fat little cousin, had a date with Paul O’Connell. Suddenly she found herself laughing. Why should she care what Madeleine’s friends thought? Besides, boring and fat she might be, but they’d soon look at her in a different light if she actually started going out with Paul O’Connell.

  Slowly her eyes came into focus again and she looked at her face. The dreamy expression gave her the look of a constipated ferret, she thought, and she grimaced. Paul O’Connell’s girlfriend indeed! The idea was about as credible as a fairy tale. Still, there was no harm in giving a free rein to her imagination once in a while – after all, reality would soon sort it out. She bunched her lank, mousey hair on top of her head and pouted, the way Madeleine did. The result was so absurd that she burst out laughing. Her face was too thin, her hips too wide, and her breasts too meagre to mention. Nevertheless, she was the one he’d asked, and now all she had to do was find something to wear. There was certainly nothing in her tired old wardrobe, so she’d have to buy something new. She was over the limit on her Barclaycard, but there was fifty pounds left on Access, so she’d use that.