The Penance List Read online

  He looked great, wrapping himself around the lucky blonde. His top was creased and had sweat patches on it (from his previous exertions? Seb wondered), but as Tara had said, this all added to the authenticity of the product; it was a sweatshirt, after all. He looked as if he’d just had a very healthy workout and the clothes still looked great, attracting a glamorous lifestyle and hot women, all part of the branding. Ad man, eat your heart out.

  They played with each other in front of the camera for two hours, they got through a further six outfits, all with the same theme. It really worked, even when, on the last few shots, Tara, who knew by then it was in the can, sneakily whisked up Franco’s top over his body, revealing the most exquisite six pack she and the crew had ever seen. They all went berserk. Anton nearly fainted. Wolf whistles, screams of laughter, and chants of “more, more…”

  Franco looked shy for a moment, but took it in good stead and pretended to retaliate by attempting to pull up her top, this made for great shots and everyone laughed until it hurt.

  Seb was in his element. He loved the energy in the room. Tara and Franco had real chemistry between them. He did not know what happened in the ‘Gents’ but whatever it was, he wanted to bottle it and use it again sometime. The two of them were magic to watch. He couldn’t wait to get the film developed.

  Six o’clock, Franco’s driver, Michael, walked into the studio, putting an end to the day. Seb started organizing the crew to pack up, ordering the messenger for the processing lab to collect the films. He bear-hugged Tara, kissing her repeatedly from cheek to cheek with gratitude; he whispered, “I don’t know what you did, but it worked, you and he were great. I take everything back I said about footballers. He’s a sophisticated one, that one, a good sport, Mozart indeed. Call me tomorrow, I’ll get the prints biked over to you.”

  He gave her another huge hug of thanks, squeezing the life out of her as she giggled to get free of his grip, and rushed off in a whirl of importance, screaming instructions to his crew in his delicious Irish brogue, ending with “and then, mine’s a pint…”

  Franco had been watching their hugs, kisses, and intimate whispering from the other side of the studio. He suddenly felt foolish; the girl was into the photographer, they were laughing at him.

  Tara turned to catch him observing, smiled, and hurried across the studio to walk him to his car; he seemed distant. Outside, Michael was waiting in the large black Mercedes, fingers impatiently tapping the steering wheel, the passenger door open, the engine purring.

  “Thank you, you were great, I haven’t had so much fun in a long time,” she said, smiling at him, meaning it. She wondered how to subtly give him her number without coming across as a forward slut WAG wannabe.

  He looked at her coldly and shook her hand politely, which seemed strange after all they had been through in the last few hours. Why the sudden change?

  “It was a pleasure, Miss…err…?” he asked straight-faced, no hint of a smile.

  She blushed with embarrassment. He didn’t even know her name, and they had just been sucking face and ripping each other’s clothes off.

  “Warr…T…Tara Warr,” she faltered.

  “Thank you, it was a pleasure Miss Warr, thank you for your help and professionalism. Goodbye.”

  With that he turned, stepped into the car, and slammed the door a little too forcefully. She stared open-mouthed at the car door; tinted windows reflected her own gob-smacked image back at her. She quickly closed her mouth. The car slid effortlessly off the kerb to join the rush-hour traffic, leaving her alone on the pavement feeling bereft, confused, dropped from a great height.

  “What the hell! Men! Honestly… what planet are they on? I suppose he does this sort of thing all the time,” she huffed, confused. “Of course I was only doing my job, it didn’t mean anything to me either!” she yelled at the car as it turned smoothly into a side street, her words lost in the deafening din of London traffic.

  She checked her watch. It was too late to go back to the office. The girls may have gone on for drinks somewhere. She deliberated joining them, but feeling adrift, wanting to be alone, she opted to go straight home and wandered off down the street in search of an elusive black cab. She normally had the car, but didn’t drink and drive on girlie lunch days.

  “Typical, bloody rush-hour traffic, bad time to get a taxi, I’ll probably have to walk for hours, and in these heels,” she mumbled to herself, her mood having plummeted in just ten seconds.

  “I hate men.”

  What a shame, he’d felt good, comfortable, funny. She could almost have fallen for him. Wrapping her arms around herself, she could still feel him on her, still taste his kiss on her lips.

  “I wonder if he tastes mine? He probably still tastes the garlic… urrrgh… my love life stinks!”

  Chapter Eight

  Franco’s black Mercedes sped smoothly away from Seb’s studio, winding through the streets of London. Luckily Michael had the knowledge of a London cab driver; he knew the cheeky little back streets and one-way systems to twist in and out of, especially during rush-hour traffic.

  Franco lounged back into the soft leather seats. What the hell was all that about? The last thing he needed right now was a woman messing with his head. He groaned at the memory of the past few hours. He had the urge to turn and look back at her, standing in the street. But refused himself, keeping eyes sternly ahead like a stubborn child.

  “Michael, music please,” he quipped.

  Franco avoided his driver’s eyes in the mirror. Michael would have sussed something was up, and he didn’t want conversation right now. Michael knew better, and at the press of a button, the elegant strings of Beethoven’s Symphony No.1 filled the car.

  Franco took a deep breath and started to relax. The rich smell of leather filled his nostrils. The air-conditioning began to kick in. London sped past his window.

  She was something else. How dare she treat him like a fool? It was a cheap setup with that photographer, whispering away to each other. She wasn’t into him, had just been using him to get the job done, and he’d fallen for it, let his guard down… prick teasing putana!

  All women are the same. Easy to lay, hard to shake off. All they wanted was your money. Why can’t he find a woman with style? She probably had a boyfriend at home, poor kid. He’s busy earning the money to keep her happy while she drops her panties all over town, giving it away... I did not even know her name… Warr, what kind of name is that anyway?

  He flicked the lid of his cell phone, it buzzed into life. Twenty-two messages… shit! With a sigh, he patiently dialled up his voicemail and listened through them; at least they would take his mind off her.

  A few messages from his agent, Ned Bromley, Brommers to his friends, filling him in on some contract changes with Brompton FC, who Franco had been signed to for the past three seasons, helping them acquire a few pieces of silverware for the Directors’ Box cup cabinet. Brommers was renewing his player contract, all was going well. He was a good agent, of the old school, when footballers were ‘men’ not ‘overpriced drama queens’ and the Board of Directors were true lovers of the game, not corporate raiders.

  Franco was an injury-free hot property at the moment with, allegedly, a few attractive offers on the table from other clubs. Brommers could therefore afford to squeeze the BFC Board on their deal. He had a charming knack of screwing a good deal out of club chairmen without pissing them off. He was one of the few agents that were respected within the industry. Never too greedy, no bungs, and made sure the club came out feeling they had got their money’s worth.

  He was in demand. A naturally quiet, private man, he would reluctantly get dragged out to speak at football industry seminars, or advise clubs and governing bodies on a variety of player/manager matters. His direct, no airs and graces approach had earned him the name in the press of Bulldog Brommers.

  Disquiet had been growing within the industry with the way less-than-scrupulous agents operated, their carnivorous abuse of power
when conducting the financial movements of players. Brommers shared this unease and, with like-minded chairmen and governing bodies, was pushing for new laws and stipulations to be put into force to protect the club, the player, and ultimately the fans. But inevitably, where obscene amounts of money were involved, greed often triumphed.

  Brommers had been around a long time. He kept his word; the world of football was very small. He knew the importance of respecting and nurturing all relationships, from kit man to chairman to the press. Be careful whom you shit on, they could be sitting across a boardroom table from you one day, making decisions about you or your ‘boy’s’ future.

  He only took on players with a professional, hard-working ethos, had no time for babysitting spoiled egos. Before taking a player on, he would look at the parents. He had a general rule that a player with a solid family support system behind him was less likely to go off the rails once the damaging amounts of money and fame rolled in, therefore a better bet to invest years of nurturing, some players were just out of nappies, they needed caring protectors, not hangers-on and users.

  He wasn’t a saint, he would be on call 24/7 if his boys really needed him but expected them to be grownups, run their own day-to-day minutia of life. Pick up their own laundry, know how to avoid volatile nightclub situations, know what present to buy their girlfriend/mother, know when to say no to a press-hungry glamour girl, or a prematch curry piss-up with the boys. Know what clothes to wear, what bills to pay, what laws to adhere to. To turn up on time and drug-free for training, to get on with the manager and work their socks off. He didn’t want to be bothered with their private life every five minutes; that was their business, he respected them to get on with it. This encouraged a mutual respect with his players, kept their feet on the ground, maintained street sense and touch with reality.

  Brommers way of working suited Franco. His last agent had tried to wet-nurse him; it got on his nerves. It worked for some players, but was dangerous, you could too easily get used to someone doing everything for you. Before you knew it, you were incapable of doing anything for yourself. You became reliant on the agent, frightened to leave him, even if he was no longer right for you, you’d outgrown him, your fear of organizing the smallest details in life alone tied you to him like a resentful, expensive marriage.

  Brommers also had respect for a true sportsman. Not pushing too hard for just the money-making deals, he would encourage space for training, rest periods, and family. He saw the player as a long-term investment, well after the playing days were over, encouraging whatever the player’s forte, be it TV and media or management and coaching.

  Too many agents just looked at the main chance of the day, at lining their own pockets. They would fill a players’ diary with sponsorship deals, photo shoots, interviews, book launches, the opening of a paper bag, with an eye only on their own percentage. Before you knew it, the player was overexposed and out of control. The press and public owned him, stalked him, burned him out. Yes, he was very pleased with Brommers. They had a mutual respect.

  Hating the phone and idle chit-chat, Brommers got straight to the point; communiqués were curt. Franco did not need to call him back today unless he disagreed with the points raised. They would speak tomorrow.

  Other messages were from his coach, his physio, his ex (Maria: seventeen missed calls!), and his newly acquired interior designer, Felicity Ramsey-Jones. Some arty-farty lady his chairman’s wife had kindly put him in contact with. Not knowing anyone else in the interiors business, he nervously took her on.

  His new apartment in Chelsea had taken up more time and money than expected, but he was determined to be part of its creation and not leave it completely to a stranger’s taste. It would be his nest. He knew the feel he wanted but didn’t know how to create it. He had a sneaking suspicion that he and Miss Arty-Farty did not speak the same language, and it could cost him dear in the end, but he didn’t have time to traipse around stores choosing fabrics, paints and furniture, not to mention the public chaos his fame tended to cause. The traffic stopped if he stepped out to buy a newspaper.

  Maria, his ex, a stunning, six-foot, emotionally challenged Brazilian twiglet of a model, had called seventeen times; she was driving him mad. They had dated for only three months, during which time they had split up three times. She had selective memory; each time she would conveniently ignore the fact that they were over and carry on as if nothing had happened. The making-up sex was great, although he suspected that it was the only time she ever really made an effort in the sack.

  Why did he get bored so quickly? Would he ever find Miss Right? Like a good Italian boy, he’d been spoiled by his strong, intelligent, independent, warm, loving, great cook of a mother. No one lived up to her strength of character; she was strong as an ox, yet soft as butter. A real looker in her day.

  Poor Maria, she may be a top model, with legs up to her armpits, but she didn’t stand a chance against his mum. He would not be returning her calls, emails, letters, or text messages… what part of ‘it’s over’ did she not understand? He wondered what the Portuguese translation was.

  Tara bounced back into his thoughts. A picture of her cute face made him smile. He licked his lips; he could still taste her, smell her. Shit, she turned him on, he hadn’t met anyone quite like her, she oozed sex. He tried to shake her face out of his head, but it remained, the warm feel of her body wrapped itself around him… he relented.

  Closing his eyes, he leaned back in his seat and let himself remember the feel of her. She had an immediate reaction to his touch, maybe she was genuine. Maybe she liked him and wasn’t a using whore… nah… he chided himself for being naive. She was easy an easy lay, had that photographer not interrupted, he would have been inside her in seconds.

  The thought excited him.

  “Shit, stop this,” he said aloud, shaking his head.

  Michael looked up into the mirror.

  “Sorry Boss?”

  “Oh, nothing, talking to myself, Michael, forget it,” Franco waved away the words.

  The boss had it bad, thought Michael… bet my bottom dollar it’s that bird he left back there on the street, not a bad bit of posh totty. Maybe she turned him down. Better than that snooty bitch of a stick-insect, Maria, any day. A model bird was ok for five minutes, but what do you do wiv em once you’ve shagged em? Convo isn’t exactly riveting… guess you could discuss colonic irrigation verses laxatives or the price of false eyelashes, but after a while it’s a bit boring. What the boss needs is a decent bird with a bit of meat on her… and a brain.

  Michael turned the car into a discreet side street off the Kings Road. He flicked a remote control to open private gates and expertly manoeuvred it into the tight confines of the underground car park that nested beneath a block of luxury apartments, Franco had the penthouse. He said goodnight to Michael, agreed on the pick-up time for morning training and took the lift from the car park to the top, the eighth floor.

  In the lift, he checked his appearance in the mirror and thought about the photo shoot. He’d really enjoyed it. He hadn’t noticed anyone else in the room but her. They had laughed and laughed, it felt natural, easy, they just played with each other like children. He had relaxed and opened up to her, acted the fool to entertain her. But as they were leaving she clicked off, job done, mission accomplished, giggling with the photograph, patting each other on the back. He realized it was all part of the job for her, it didn’t mean anything. He felt stupid, used. She probably did this all the time, but he was private and found it difficult to trust so readily, not for the camera, not for anybody.

  Doubts began to seep in as to whether it had been a good idea to take on the campaign. He could imagine the stick he was going to get from his teammates, not to mention the opposition, when the advertisements came out, his big grin everywhere. He had a reputation of being a tough, silent type. This wussy romantic stuff may blow it for him, he could look a right plonker.

  Staring blankly at his image in the mirror, wai
ting for the lift to chug its way to the top, he thoughtfully stroked his chin. He never smiled, but for the past few hours he’d smiled so much his cheek muscles hurt. Remembering her laughter, another smile came to his face. Maybe he should give her another chance.

  Yep, he would think of a way to meet up and test her out; everyone deserves a second chance. At worst he might get a shag out of it. But if he were honest, it would be good to finally find someone who lasted longer than a few dates. He was getting old and lonely of late, sensing it was time to settle down on the female front, find a soul mate with hot chemistry, and get cosy in the nest he was building; all he needed was the right bird to share it with. Tara Warr might not be her, but he would have fun finding out.

  The doors of the lift opened to the sound of a cheerful ‘ping’… yeah, he would give her another try… watch out, Miss Warr, Franco is out to get ya.

  “Ready or not, here I come,” he sang, as he gave a cheeky little sauntering walk to his front door, Mozart forgotten.

  Chapter Nine

  Josie sat at her overburdened dressing table, staring blankly at her reflection in the vanity mirror, lost in a childhood memory of watching her mother apply makeup, longing for the day when she could do the same. As a little girl she dreamt of growing up to be a beautiful princess like her mum.

  Truth was she was the result of drunken one night stand, well not even a night, it was a five minute fumble back stage at an after show party with the lead singer of a struggling rock band. He’d never been seen again, her mum, a struggling single parent on benefits, gave her all the love she could, when she wasn’t hitting the bottle. She grew up an Oxfam kid, dressed in second hand charity shop clothes; she was never likely to be a princess. How did her life ever get this complicated?