Chapter Two 1974
Chapter Two
We’re meeting Pattie and George at Annabel’s. Get your glad rags on!”
Astrid’s roommate and fellow model, Birgit, stands in the doorway, a mass of tangled blond locks, golden legs that go on for days, in a tiny pair of red silk panties.
“I can’t,” groans Astrid. “I was shooting for Bailey all day. I’m exhausted. I need to sleep.”
“You can sleep when you’re dead, darling,” drawls Birgit in her thick Swedish accent.
“Here. Wear my Halston.” She throws over to the bed a red chiffon dress that doesn’t quite make it and lands in a heap on the floor, covering the platform sandals Astrid kicked off a couple of hours earlier.
“Better pick that up quickly so it doesn’t crease.
” Birgit turns on her heel and goes into the bathroom, leaving the door open for Astrid to hear her peeing.
“Close the bloody door!” shouts Astrid.
“I don’t care if you can hear me!” says Birgit, who has no issue with nakedness or bodily functions, and for whom privacy is an alien concept. “Just get up and get ready. There’s a rumor Callum Blake’s joining us.”
Astrid kicks back the duvet and plants her feet on the floor.
Callum Blake is worth getting out of bed for.
The former lead singer of the Leopards, he left for a solo career and is now the biggest rock star in the world.
Also undeniably the sexiest. It isn’t just the movie-star looks, but also his intelligence, a humility that appears to be real rather than performative, and dimples that have made every woman under the age of fifty weak at the knees. And quite a few over.
He’s a renowned womanizer; his intense love affair with Saba, the stunning Ethiopian model who is gracing this month’s Vogue cover, has just ended, according to the tabloids, making Callum eminently more interesting.
At least to Birgit and Astrid.
“Astrid Lane!” Louis, the doorman at Annabel’s, greets her with a kiss on each cheek before turning to Birgit.
“You both look beautiful.” He turns to their companion.
“Mr. Oldham. What a pleasure to see you again. I believe you’re at Mr. Harrison’s table.
They are not here yet, but some of the party is. Let me take your coats.”
Annabel’s is dark, cozy, mysterious. The basement of a grand building in Berkeley Square, it’s where the rich, the famous, and the royals go to get away from the press, the gossips, the ordinary.
It’s where they can let loose and let their hair down, in the tiny club where the walls are plastered with paintings, the booths welcoming, the tiny dance floor guaranteed to be heaving with rock stars, movie stars, and a bevy of tall blond models by the end of every night.
Astrid looks out for Callum Blake as they make their way to the table. She and Birgit are stared at as they walk through, the two most famous models of the moment. People wave, jump up and kiss hello, or merely whisper to each other as the two leggy beauties make their way to the table.
“Oh shit,” whispers Astrid. “Callum Blake is here.”
Birgit grins. “May the best woman win.”
“Well, well. Look at these two beauties.” The man sitting next to Callum Blake lights up as they approach. He stands up and goes to kiss them as Astrid recoils slightly. Everything about him feels lascivious, and she wishes she wasn’t squeezed up next to him.
Birgit has ended up next to Callum Blake. This is not how Astrid was hoping the evening would play out.
“Vic Roth,” the creepy man introduces himself once they have sat down. “I’m the power behind the throne.”
“I know who you are,” says Astrid, polite, but cold. Everyone knows who Vic Roth is, the genius manager who discovered many of the biggest bands today. Known to be brilliant, and ruthless. And to have a penchant for leggy blondes.
Astrid discovers this for herself when she finds his hand on her leg minutes later. She removes it, only for it to be put back, this time higher, inching its way up. She glares at him, and he laughs, amused by her disdain. “Do you know how many women would pay to have Vic Roth’s hand on their leg?”
“Not this one,” she says firmly, excusing herself to go powder her nose.
In the bathroom she takes a deep breath. London is filled with men like Vic Roth, newly wealthy, newly successful, with scores of women who fling themselves at them. Astrid has never been a woman turned on by wealth, nor fame. She’s turned on by warmth and wisdom, by curiosity and a killer smile.
“Urgh.” She shudders as she reapplies her lip gloss and tosses her hair.
Birgit and Callum are doubtless already all over each other, before Astrid even had a chance to introduce herself.
Never mind, she tells herself. Plenty more Callum Blakes in the sea.
But there is a pang of disappointment that she can’t ignore.
Exiting the loo, she walks straight into someone.
“I thought I’d find you here,” says Vic, who uses his heavy, besuited frame to pin her against the wall. His face looms toward her, his fleshy, wet lips suddenly planted on hers.
“Get off.” She squirms, trying to push him away, as he laughs.
“Oh. A feisty one. I like that.” He pins her again, his lips moving back to hers, his hand suddenly grabbing her between the legs, until, as suddenly as he was on her, he is off.
“What the fuck are you doing, man?”
Astrid is breathing heavily, her eyes wide with shock as she sees Callum Blake holding Vic Roth away.
Vic raises an amused eyebrow. “Oh? Did you have designs? Are we going to have a duel?”
“Just leave her alone. Your whiskey arrived. Go and drink it. And keep your hands to yourself.”
“It’s only because you’re my favorite rock star that I’ll let you have her. You can report back in the morning.” He winks at Callum, who doesn’t bother to hide the disgust on his face, before lurching back along the corridor.
“Are you okay?”
Astrid nods.
“He’s drunk. But he’s also a wanker. If he wasn’t such a brilliant businessman, I’d get rid of him, but he saved me. I owe him everything.”
Astrid recalls the news story. How Callum’s previous manager had signed away all his rights in his first deal. He was the biggest rock star in the world, but was earning a pittance. Vic Roth was the one who changed all that.
“You don’t have to apologize for him.”
“I know. But I will. You’re Astrid Lane, aren’t you? Forgive me for not introducing myself properly. I’m Callum Blake.”
“I know.”
He tilts his head as he looks at her, and Astrid’s stomach does a small flip. “I’m guessing you probably don’t want to go back to the table. Do you want to go and get coffee? We could go to La Chasse. It’s open most of the night, and it’s quiet.”
Astrid thinks about Birgit, whether she’ll be angry, whether she should say something, say goodbye. May the best woman win, she remembers, before smiling up at Callum.
“That would be lovely.”
La Chasse is dimly lit, smoky and intimate.
They settle on red velvet banquettes as soft jazz plays in the background.
Astrid feels as if she might have fallen asleep and this might be a dream.
Callum Blake. Those dimples! But more, his sincerity.
His sweetness, and the fact that she has never felt more comfortable with anyone in her life.
They talk about astrology. Callum has been studying the stars, and declares, with a wink, that Astrid’s Gemini is a perfect match to his Aquarius.
They talk about meditation, about Callum’s visit a few years ago to the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi at his retreat in Wales, where he learned Transcendental Meditation.
They talk about psychedelics, Astrid telling him she’s been on holiday with Timothy Leary, where she experienced ego death during a transformative acid trip.
They talk about their childhoods, where they grew up, how crazy it is that each of them is living the life they are living.
“You’re not who I expected you to be.” Callum gazes at her across the table.
“No? In what way?”
“You have such depth. And you’re clever. Really insightful.”
Astrid lets him light her cigarette and exhales a thin stream of smoke. “Thank you. You know I got a scholarship to Cambridge? I should have gone.”
“What happened?”
“I got spotted walking along Fulham Road by Bob Story. He leaped out of his Bentley and insisted on signing me as a model. I was posing for David Bailey within two days, so . . . well. Cambridge seemed far less exciting. And by the way, you’re not what I was expecting either.”
Callum grins. “You were expecting something?”
“Rock stars and their giant egos.”
He plays looking wounded. “Do I have a giant ego?”
“That’s the point. You don’t. You have a sweetness. And a curiosity that most famous people I’ve met don’t have. They expect everyone to be interested in them, and everyone is interested in them. They don’t usually ask questions of others.”
There is a silence. “I’m interested in you, Astrid Lane.”
She grins as her heart leaps. “I might be interested in you, Callum Blake.”
“Shall we have dinner tomorrow? I’ll pick you up.”
Astrid thinks. She has no plans the following night, but she doesn’t want to appear too eager. “I can’t tomorrow. Wednesday?”
“Wednesday it is.”
He sits back in his chair as they both look at each other, then look away. Both of them with Cheshire cat smiles on their faces.