Sasha shrugged. ‘Yes, I’m with Elan Models.’
‘Well, you really have great personal style. Most people would look like Metal Mickey in that outfit, but you look . . . futuristic. Like a sexy robot.’
Sasha narrowed her eyes. Was this woman hitting on her?
The blonde laughed and stubbed out her cigarette. ‘Sorry,’ she said, holding out a hand. ‘Venetia James. I’m a clothes bore, I’m afraid.’
‘Sasha Sinclair. What do you do at D&D?’
‘I’m freelance. I had a job on one of their commercials yesterday and they invited me to this. I’m a stylist.’
‘A stylist?’ said Sasha, looking at her with more interest. ‘You mean like a fashion editor?’
‘Kind of. Except I don’t work for a magazine. I used to, though, for Vogue.’
‘Wow!’ said Sasha, letting her pose of bored indifference drop. ‘I bet it was amazing!’
Venetia smiled sadly. ‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you? Bloody hard work and I earned a pittance. Didn’t have a trust fund or rich boyfriend like most of them.’
‘So what do you now?’ Sasha asked, intrigued.
‘Catwalk, editorial, record company promos, lots of commercial stuff. Catalogues pay the most, even though I wouldn’t dream of telling anyone I work for them. I’ve got a few personal clients as well. My workload is getting crazy. Actually, you should think about styling, you’ve obviously got a good eye.’
‘Thanks,’ said Sasha, ‘but I do think I am just one break away from a big modelling career.’
Venetia smiled kindly. ‘That’s what I said ten years ago.’ She grinned and reached into her bag. ‘Let me give you my card anyway. You never know when our paths might cross. When I might need an assistant. You really do have a great look.’
Sasha thanked the woman and moved into the crowd. It was always good to make new contacts, but she was still keen to track down the Venus executive. She felt sure she’d screwed up the audition and would do whatever it took to remedy the situation.
‘Well, well, well,’ said an amused man to her left. ‘I didn’t know we’d had D&D staff auditioning to be the ice-cream girl.’
At first Sasha didn’t recognise him – he wasn’t wearing his John Lennon glasses and had swapped the turtleneck for a blue shirt. She breathed a sigh of relief: it was the art director from the casting.
‘You,’ she said.
He grinned. ‘I don’t why you’re so surprised, I work at D&D, remember?’
‘And I’m here with a friend,’ said Sasha vaguely.
‘Remind me of your name . . .’
She felt a pang of disappointment. Surely she must have left some impression?
‘Sasha Sinclair. And you are?’
‘Martin Newsome.’
‘Well, Martin Newsome,’ said Sasha as she shook his hand, ‘I think my agency are expecting to hear from you about my recall.’
‘So you think it went well?’ He grinned.
She smiled coquettishly. ‘You tell me.’
‘Kim and I are talking it over tomorrow. There’ll be a recall on Monday.’
‘And am I going to be hearing from you?’ she pressed. She knew she should be playing it cool, but she couldn’t face another night on Caroline’s camp bed.
‘We’ll see. Shall we go somewhere a bit quieter?’