Sasha didn’t reply, her voice choked by anger and fear.
‘Maybe we need to turn your hair red,’ said Hilary. ‘It can limit you, of course, but it might give you a bit of stand-out.’
‘But it’s just a matter of time before ...’
Hilary wasn’t listening. She gestured towards Sasha’s face. ‘We definitely need to fix that bump on your nose too,’ she said almost conversationally. ‘I know a great plastic surgeon who can do it for under two grand. If it’s too expensive up front, we can think about taking it out of your fees. It heals much quicker than you’d think.’
Sasha swallowed and forced herself to take a deep breath. Hilary wasn’t being nasty, she told herself; in fact she was just trying to be kind. It was a brutal business and you had to be tough to survive.
‘Thanks, Hilary,’ she said, standing up. ‘I’ll think about it.’
‘Just let me know.’
Sasha gave her a weak smile and walked out of the office into the cold street. It looked like it was trying to snow. As she passed a shop window, the mannequins, dressed in glittery red dresses like Santa’s little helpers, their arms and legs grotesquely slender, seemed to be mocking her, their featureless faces saying ‘Whatever made you think you could do this?’. Arctic wind lashed against her face. She pulled the collar of her jacket further up around her neck.
Maybe they’re right, she thought. Maybe I’m not suited to this business. She looked again at the window. Or maybe it was just a matter of choosing a different path, doing a little lateral thinking. One thing was sure: Sasha Sinclair was never going to get caught out ever again. Next time she would make the right decision.
13
February 1991
Maureen Doyle was a magician; it was the only way she could manage. Since the death of her husband Clive ten years before, leaving her nothing but empty gin bottles, she had been forced to become an expert in performing magic tricks with money and time, especially as she had to keep her son Alex in a fancy private school. Plate-spinning was her greatest party piece – simultaneously managing her part-time job in the newsagent’s, the cleaning shifts, the envelope-stuffing sideline she did while watching her beloved soaps, while also keeping her own Macclesfield terraced house spotless. But Maureen didn’t mind; it was all for her Alex. God only knew why He had seen fit to send her such a talented son, but He had and Maureen was going to do everything in her power to make sure that talent wasn’t wasted – everything.
‘Going out, love?’ she asked, looking up from her Green Shield stamp book.
‘Yeah,’ mumbled Alex from the doorway of the lounge, pushing a piece of toast into his mouth, spraying crumbs over his Fred Perry T-shirt. ‘I’ll probably be back late.’
Maureen fought back a surge of di
sappointment; she had barely seen Alex all week and she had been looking forward to watching the telly with him tonight. Yes, their separate lives were partly to do with Maureen’s eleven-hour working days, but there was also something else: Alex seemed to be retreating from the outside world and it worried her. Is it me? she asked herself. She had always done her best. The house was always full of Irn Bru and biscuits; she’d bought a second-hand portable telly from the classifieds section of the Macc Express and put it in his room. He had his own set of keys and could come home as late as he liked without being asked questions. She had even told him that he could bring any lady friends back if he wanted. But still her son seemed dreadfully, fundamentally unhappy. She stood up to face him, unsure of what to say. Maureen was not a confrontational woman and she was aware that life hadn’t always been easy for Alex, but still . . .
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Alex, catching the look on his mother’s face.
‘Nothing,’ she said quickly.
‘Don’t you want me to go out?’
‘No. I’m glad,’ she said. Finally she took a deep breath and forced herself to say it. ‘I’ve just been worried about you, love, spending all this time alone.’
Before she’d even finished her sentence she knew how stupid she sounded. She knew that teenagers would rather spend their time listening to records than watching Coronation Street with their mothers. But his physical withdrawal upstairs – sleeping all day, locking his bedroom door – echoed a change in his personality that Maureen did not think was simply due to age. Looking back, the change had begun the moment he had come home from that trip to the Caribbean and announced he was going to turn down his place at the Royal Academy. Maureen had been upset, of course – it was exactly why she’d worked so hard all these years, why she hadn’t had a new winter coat since the mid-eighties – but if Alex was going to be unhappy there, then she wouldn’t force him. Secretly, she was happy to have him home. She’d missed him desperately when he was away at Danehurst, but he hadn’t just withdrawn from her, he had kept away from all his friends too – refusing to take phone calls from Miles Ashford and showing little interest in meeting old friends from Macclesfield. She knew she should have listened to her sister. ‘You don’t want him going to no posh school,’ Rita had warned. ‘Won’t fit in properly there. Won’t fit back.’ Maureen was worried she had been right.
‘I’m fine,’ said Alex defensively.
Maureen nodded sympathetically. ‘But you will tell me if you’ve got problems?’
Alex frowned. ‘Problems?’
‘Oh, girl trouble . . . drugs,’ said Maureen, feeling unusually flustered.
‘Don’t be daft.’
‘No, I was cleaning for Dr Gilmore the other day and I was telling him about it and he said that depression is very common in young men. If you’re depressed, we can get help.’
‘Don’t worry about me, Mum,’ replied Alex with the hint of a smile. ‘I’m not depressed.’
‘But I do worry, love. You had everything mapped out. Your place at the Academy, you were going to be a musician. And now what are you going to do?’
‘I’m still going to be a musician, Mum. Just a different kind. I’m going to be a rock star, and a degree from the Royal Academy isn’t going to help me with that.’