Breaking the Rules. Barbara Taylor Bradford

that one needed the stamina of a bull, the skin of a rhinoceros, the brain of Machiavelli and the looks of a Greek god to make it in Dreamland, as he had called it. Perhaps her brother was right … and so she would say a prayer for Dax. He would need lots of prayers. And luck.

      Frank Farantino’s photographic studio was on the second floor of what had once been a meatpacking warehouse. The huge black wooden door, decorated with brass nailheads, had FARANTINO painted on it in bright red, and there was a bright red arrow painted above the doorbell. RING IT had been written out in brass nailheads, and she did as she was instructed.

      A moment later the door was pulled open by a petite, very pretty woman with startlingly blue eyes and bright red hair cut in a short spiky style. She was dressed entirely in red: T-shirt, tights and cowboy boots.

      ‘Hi!’ she exclaimed, craning her neck, staring up at M. ‘You’re the appointment, right? The friend of Geo’s?’

      ‘Yes, I am.’

      Opening the door wider, the girl said, ‘Come on in then, don’t stand there. What’s your name again? I’ve forgotten it.’

      M laughed. ‘It’s very simple … I’m called M, as in a capital M.’

      ‘I see. What’s it stand for? The M, I mean.’

      ‘Marie.’

      ‘So why don’t you call yourself Marie?’

      ‘I prefer to be called M.’

      ‘I guess a lot of girls are calling themselves by an initial these days. So it must be the “in” thing. My brother saw it on YouTube, or some such thing. Maybe it was on Facebook. Or MySpace.’

      ‘Actually, it’s not something that’s particularly new. The Duchess of Devonshire, who lived long ago, was called G. That was G for Georgiana, by the way.’

      ‘Who?’ The girl stared at her, a look of puzzlement flashing across her delicately boned face.

      ‘Never mind, it’s not important. And may I know your name?’

      ‘Caresse.’

      ‘It’s pretty, very unusual. I don’t think I’ve ever heard that name before.’

      ‘I hope not, because I invented it. I didn’t like my own name, so I came up with my … invention.’

      ‘What was your real name before you changed it?’

      ‘Helen. Ugh. So dull.’ She made a face.

      ‘Helen,’ M repeated softly. ‘The face that launched a thousand ships. A very famous name, in fact.’

      ‘What do you mean?’ The red-headed pixie gave her a hard stare.

      ‘Helen of Troy … she was so beautiful her husband and her lover fought a terrible and ultimately tragic battle over her … it was known as the battle of a thousand ships.’

      ‘When was that then?’

      ‘Twelve hundred years before the birth of Jesus.’

      Caresse gaped at her, slowly shaking her head. ‘How do you know that?’

      ‘I learned it at school.’ Clearing her throat, M went on quickly, ‘Anyway, here I am to see Mr Farantino.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘And I’m on time. It’s exactly noon.’

      ‘I’ll go and get him,’ Caresse announced, and hurried away.

      M watched her go, frowning to herself. Caresse had seemed very young at first glance, but now she thought this pretty, pixielike creature was nearer to thirty than twenty. But she seemed so nice, and M had taken an instant liking to her.

SIX

      Frank Farantino was one of the best-known and most successful photographers in New York. In the world, in point of fact. And as he walked out into the entrance foyer of his large studio, he stopped dead in his tracks when the tall young woman wearing a white cotton shirt and black trousers turned around to face him.

      He held his breath for a split second as he took in her dark, exotic beauty, her unique looks. Thank you, Geo, thank you very much, he thought. He knew at once that his old friend had sent him a winner, and he was extremely pleased – thrilled, if he was honest with himself – that this extraordinary girl was standing here.

      A wide smile enlivened his saturnine face, made it come alive, and then he strode across the floor, his hand outstretched as he stopped in front of the young woman.

      ‘Frankie Farantino,’ he said, shaking her hand.

      ‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr Farantino,’ M answered politely, as was her way, smiling back. ‘Thank you for seeing me today.’

      ‘My pleasure, and drop the Mr Farantino, would you, please? The whole world calls me Frankie. And your name is … M?’ He threw her a questioning look. ‘I am correct about that?’

      ‘Yes, you are. And before you ask me, my full name is Marie Marsden. My nickname at school was M and M, and I decided it might be better, wiser, to drop one M when I started my modelling career.’ She grinned.

      He grinned back at her. ‘English, eh? Geo didn’t tell me that. So, how long have you been in New York?’

      ‘I came here in June, and I’ve been looking for work ever since. I’m afraid I haven’t been too successful, but then I haven’t been here all that long.’

      ‘How did you meet Georgiana Carlson?’

      ‘Through a young man I know … he’s called Dax. He’s a model and an actor.’

      ‘Oh, sure, I know Dax. I’ve used him from time to time. Geo’s boyfriend.’

      ‘That’s right. And he’s gone off to the West Coast to try his luck.’

      ‘He’s smart. So let’s go into the main studio, give it a whirl. How much modelling have you done?’

      ‘A little. In London.’

      ‘Did you bring any pictures?’

      ‘Yes. They’re in my tote.’ As she spoke she picked this up and hurried after him, following him into the studio. ‘As for actual modelling, I haven’t done much of that … been on the catwalk, I mean,’ she admitted, looking suddenly rueful.

      ‘Let’s see the pictures.’ Frankie Farantino stared at her intently, immediately understanding that she was a novice, a young woman looking for that first break, but this did not trouble him at all. He preferred young women who had not been coached, trained – and often tainted – by other photographers. One of the things he most enjoyed as a photographer was moulding a girl, actually creating her, in a sense, giving her a special look of his own invention. Taking the batch of photographs that M handed to him, he flicked through them swiftly, then glanced at her and half smiled. ‘They’re not bad, and at least I can see you photograph well. But these just don’t do you justice.’ He handed them to her.

      ‘I suppose not,’ she murmured, and swiftly put them back in the tote, deciding not to show them to anyone again, especially a photographer.

      ‘Okay, so let’s get started,’ Frankie said. ‘Go and stand over there on that raised platform, and turn slowly, in a circle, so that I can view you from every angle, study you.’

      She did as he instructed, stepped up onto the platform, slowly turning, and turning again when he told her to keep moving. ‘Slowly, very slowly,’ he intoned.

      Watching her intently, and with concentration, Frankie saw a lot of remarkable things simultaneously. She was lithe, moved gracefully like a dancer and, although she was rather tall, her height was balanced by a good figure and a special kind of inbred elegance. Her face fascinated him … she reminded