Seven Point Eight (22 page)

***

Malcolm and Carol met her at the restaurant entrance, and guided her to the table they’d booked. Two men sat waiting, and broke into huge smiles displaying brilliant white teeth.

“Tahra, this is Ben D’Arco and Ian Moore. They’ve come over to
London
from
New York
to scout some new talent.”

Ian appeared to be in his mid-forties, with an expanding midriff and head full of grey hair, while Ben looked like a less formidable version of Max, although not quite as sexually exciting.

They made light conversation over their starters, and the wine flowed profusely.

 
“So, Tahra, what brought you to
London
?” Ben asked her.

Hmmm, how could she tell this crowd of people that she’d been brought over due to her abilities as a remote viewer? The Institute wasn’t a place you discussed with ordinary people.

“I…was sponsored by a wealthy man. In September, I’m going to study psychology at university.”

Ben looked surprised.

“You must be really gifted or something, to attract sponsorship,” he said.

She started to feel edgy about questions regarding her life.

“Yes, I was very successful at school. You could say I’m gifted.”

Now that wasn’t a lie.

“Intelligent and beautiful,” Ian laughed, “there’s gotta be a catch!”

She felt her face flush, hoping they’d change the subject.

“So, who’s this wealthy sponsor?” Ben enquired.

More questions, but she didn’t want to draw suspicion so she answered.

“His name is Max Richardson.”

Ben and Ian said nothing. Maybe they’d never heard of him anyway.

“How would he feel if one of us were to sign you up as a model on our books, and fly you off to the States?” Ian ventured.

She almost choked on her food.
    

“You’re joking,” she responded.

“It would be a joke not to sign you up. I’ve seen your photos Tahra, rarely have I had the pleasure of finding someone with such an incredible photographic presence. Your eyes…such a mystical intensity… I could look at photos of you all day. How do you do it?”

Tahra lowered her eyes momentarily, unaccustomed to such compliments but also mindful of The Institute. This daring game seemed to have a momentum all of its own, and she wondered to what end it would drive her. She’d betray The Institute if she packed her bags and left on a jet plane, assuming they’d allow her to go.

“I’d love to work for you, although I’m not sure how it would sit with my other commitments.”

Ian seemed surprised by her caution.

“These other commitments, you mean your study?”

Could she confess to being a psychic spy? In essence, that was what she was.

“Y-yes,” she said.

“Is there something you’re not telling me?” Ian asked, disconcerted.

A little gasp got caught in her throat but she quickly riposted, “No, I truly want to work for you. Could I model and study?”

“Girl, you may become so successful that you’ll never need to study!”

They drank to that, raising their glasses and Tahra tried to quieten the doubts that clawed at her conscience. Max…he’d feel so jilted by her defection to modelling. Two more glasses of wine later and she not only felt tipsy, but The Institute faded from her mind. The celebrations continued until midnight and by then, she couldn’t walk straight. Tahra didn’t remember revealing her real profession but she did give out her address, forgetting the implications. Ben put her in a taxi, and she looked out of the back window to see him waving.

Half an hour later, the taxi drew up outside The Institute and Tahra almost fell out of it. At the door, she fumbled around in her purse for the spare key then let herself in, just avoiding stumbling over the welcome mat. She closed the door, perhaps not so quietly and tripped on her dress as she attempted to walk up the stairs to bed. She hit the steps with a thud.

On making a loud noise, her heart almost stopped. Lying very still on the stairs, she hoped no one heard her. Did the first floor landing creak? Had someone just got out of bed to investigate? This would be so humiliating.

A few tense minutes passed, but Miss Tynedale didn’t emerge. Tahra breathed a sigh of relief, hiccupped awkwardly and took off her shoes. Lifting her dress, she ascended the stairs with a modicum of stealth and made it to the bed, passing out as soon as her body touched the covers.

***

In the morning, she awoke later than usual to the sound of Miss Tynedale literally banging on the door. Sitting up sharply, she realised she had her first hangover.

“Sorry, I’m not feeling too well,” she murmured, seriously regretting the wine the night before.

Miss Tynedale stopped banging on the door, although she said nothing and Tahra heard her go back downstairs. A few minutes later, she dashed to the bathroom and threw up in the sink, dearly hoping no one noticed she was still wore the dress from last night. After washing the make up off and putting on some drab clothes, she attempted breakfast and when she ate very little, merely stated she was ill. Miss Tynedale gave Tahra a stern look, which shrank her self esteem to the size of a fly.

An hour later, she sat in Room 7, feeling unfocused even though the camera and Miss Tynedale’s eyes burned into her. Once given the task, she closed her eyes, half expecting her consciousness to zip to the given destination. However, nothing happened. When she closed her eyes, the room spun but her consciousness stayed put. Even though she tried harder to concentrate, still it didn’t come to pass.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, “I guess I’m too ill to perform.”

The room fell silent. Miss Tynedale glared at her and without shouting, she just disappeared downstairs. Embarrassed and feeling guilty, Tahra stood up and returned to her room to sleep it off.

She’d failed the test, disappointed Miss Tynedale, and let down The Institute. What consequences would she suffer?

***

Miss Tynedale didn’t speak to Tahra all day, or the next day, which troubled her. To make matters worse, Tahra couldn’t remember if she was supposed to contact Malcolm, Ian or Ben, and as she couldn’t find any contact details for her new American friends, she found an opportunity to slip out and ring Malcolm.

Ian desperately wanted to sign her, and Malcolm had another shoot planned a few days ahead. They agreed a time, Tahra finding this new career thrilling. She loved modelling and rued the day she’d ever have to renounce it.

Thankfully, it didn’t clash with any tests, and Tahra made sure she performed her next assignment for Miss Tynedale to the best of her ability, no more alcohol! The day of the shoot, she slipped out and met Malcolm, who escorted her to the studio. It was a bizarre session with a space age theme for some very avant-garde clothing.

Tahra was almost tempted to leave the make up on, but avoided provoking fate and cleaned it off. When she returned to The Institute, she checked behind the door before she walked in but that day, Tahra should have looked further ahead.

When she entered her bedroom, she found Max sitting on the bed. Tahra’s heart almost stopped and her stomach lurched, words frozen at brain level. For what seemed like an eternity, they stared at each other. It felt strange standing before him again. Copies of her modelling photographs were strewn across the bed. With an expression mixing disappointment, anger, betrayal, and jealousy, he held a picture in his hand, at a loss for words. Tahra didn’t know what to say either.

Seeing him again aroused a mixture of feelings: a craving for his love and attention once more, dread of what he’d say and do, resentment that he’d left her alone for six months, and an admonition that she’d actually coped very well without him.

Max broke the silence.

“So, where have you been today? And,” he waved the photograph in his hand at her, “what have you been up to?”

Tahra was ready to break her silence.

“I’ve been having a life,” she stated, with surprising venom.

Max normally kept his cool whatever the circumstances, but she sensed today that rule was going to be broken.

“Having a life?” he questioned, incredulously. “And this is what you regard ‘a life’?” Again he waved the photograph.

At that point, Tahra realised she had no reason to feel guilty. Yes, it was what she would regard a life…her life.

“The world is opening up for me,” she explained. “There are other options available to me.”

Max started to grit his teeth.

“No, there are no other options, Tahra, because of the time and money invested in you. I’ve just spent nearly six months in the States creating business, work for you! I made a deal with your father to educate you in return for your talents! How dare you talk to me about other options!”

She swallowed hard, this was the first time she’d seen Max lose his cool and it wasn’t pleasant, but she had to stand up for herself.

“You disappeared out of my life for half a year…you hardly wrote to me…you never told me when you were coming back! What did you expect me to do, sit in my room alone? I was going crazy with loneliness! No one would allow me any freedom. This isn’t a prison, or is it? I just went out on my own one day and a photographer approached me. He shot some pictures and said I was amazing…amazing enough to get a modelling contract! This is a fantastic opportunity for me!”

Max looked as if his pride and complacency had been brought back to Earth with a crushing realisation for his ego. He seemed to change his tactic, and answered her in a quieter tone of voice.

“You’re too good for this.”

He waved the photograph again and Tahra took it from him. It was a particularly provocative image from the first shoot, where Malcolm had asked her to express a range of emotions, this one being ‘lust’.

“An agent wants me to go to the States, so he can sign me.”

That hit hard, below the belt, to Max personally and The Institute.

“You can’t do that,” he said. “You have commitments, to me, and to The Institute. With such amazing talents, you’re far too gifted to resort to parading your body, or using your looks to get ahead.”

“I want this,” she pushed.

“You can’t.”

Now she began to feel angry.

“Who are you to tell me what I can and can’t do?”

His response came without warning. He stood up, grabbed her shoulders quite roughly and pushed her against the bedroom wall.

“Who am I? Your goddamn sponsor! Your reason for being here in the first place! You’re an ungrateful little bitch!”

His fingers dug into her shoulders, his face close to hers, eyes full of rage. However, she felt just as angry and outraged that he should act this way. They both stared at each other, eyes flashing with hatred and both breathing heavily.

“You don’t own me!” she pointed out.

Max didn’t return the verbal volley and for an awful moment, she was convinced he was going to hit her. He didn’t, although she saw how the anger seethed within him. They continued the stalemate, breathing hard. With emotions erupting from either side, it seemed to suggest a taste of things to come.

“I forbid you to attend any more photo shoots,” he said, still angry.

“You can’t forbid me to do anything. I’m not a child, I can make my own decisions!”