9
The Golden Girl
I left Tehran and arrived in London on the 30th of September 1962, apprehensive in respect of what I’d been signed up to. It had been several years since I’d lived in England, and I noticed the difference in temperature straight away. It was a shock to the system being thrown from desert weather to the climate of England.
Mr. Richardson met me at the airport himself. For such a wealthy man, he displayed chivalrous behaviour and helped me with my possessions, tipping a porter generously to transport the heavy luggage to his car. He had a fine vehicle in dark green, an Aston Martin DB4, whatever that means, and he reeled off a list of specifications that made as much sense to me as Chinese. All I remember is that it was fast, and I felt my back press into the seat as we pulled away. Suffice to say, it didn’t take long to reach our destination.
Throughout the journey though, I felt uncomfortable due to the way he looked at me. Despite his age of approximately forty years, he was very handsome with no trace of grey in his dark hair, but my previous intuitions held. His heart was hardened in some way, although I couldn’t figure out why. What lay beneath his perfect gentleman persona? When I looked into his eyes, I saw glimpses of two personalities. One suggested kindness, while the other…I don’t know. Which aspect of him dominated? Maybe Mr. Richardson could be any one of these at the drop of a hat. However, I believed he meant a lot to my future in some way. He could make things happen, and I wanted to bask in his powerful aura.
He took me to a place called The Institute, my new home and place of work. It looked so austere – how could I stay in this clinical place? The lady of the house, Miss Tynedale, didn’t seem to like me but Mr. Richardson ushered me up the stairs. I noticed the paintings on the wall as he escorted me, recognising Albert Einstein and Isaac Newton, although none of the others. He took me to a room on the top floor and paused outside, hand on the door knob.
“I have a surprise for you,” he said.
When he opened the door, I didn’t see a cold and austere room. Someone had taken the time to decorate and furnish it Middle Eastern style. Orange and gold drapes hung at the dormer window, and there were cushions scattered over the bed, which had an iron frame. I saw some possessions I thought I’d left behind, like my favourite childhood toys. Not knowing what to say, I felt overwhelmed and stood in the middle of the floor.
Mr. Richardson walked up to me, and carefully brushed the hair away from my face with affection. I got the feeling this was a rare moment for him and he appeared to want to say something which would make him vulnerable, but he drew back.
“I hope you like your new home, Tahra, I had the decorators in to make you feel at ease.”
What a thoughtful gesture. I told him ‘thank you’ with sincerity, showing my appreciation and this seemed enough for him, for a while at least. His generosity made me nervous, but he made me feel accepted. I’m often the odd jigsaw piece, maybe because of my gifts but also due to my ethnicity. Mr. Richardson honoured both of these qualities, and I started to believe my time here would be a blessing. Maybe I’d give him the benefit of the doubt.
***
Max sat quietly in his private study at home, watching the first burnished leaves fall from the trees in his garden. Although his new protégé, Tahra Mamoun, had only been in his life a month, he’d become preoccupied with her, which disturbed him. He’d secured her a place on a psychology course at university, her choice of subject, while drawing up a programme of research based on her talents. However, he’d invested his time and emotions above all, organising her life, helping her settle, and extending his kindness. He’d seen the gratitude in her eyes and hadn’t requested anything in return. Did he wish to make a move?
The night before the first test, Max decided to take her to a restaurant for fine wine and luxurious food. Tahra accepted graciously and at seven o’clock that evening, he waited in the entrance hall of The Institute. She strode elegantly down the stairs, wearing a deep red dress with paisley swirl that reached her knees, and a black coat. During her time in London, she’d discovered make up and had accentuated her dark eyes with black eyeliner and mascara, and her lips with a crimson shade of lipstick. She crossed the hall like a panther and stood before Max, presenting herself like a delicious buffet which he wanted to devour.
“I hope this is appropriate,” she said, gesturing to her dress, “I’ve never been to a restaurant in London.”
Hopelessly enamoured, Max finally found his tongue. “It’s perfect.”
She offered her arm and Max took it, leading the way to the taxi waiting outside. It whisked them straight to a restaurant in the West End, and it pleased Max to see Tahra so happy. His previous dates were impervious to the wonders and freedoms London had to offer, whereas Tahra reacted as a child would in the toy department of Harrods. When she entered the restaurant, heads turned and eyes watched her. Max felt honoured to be her date.
They perused the menu and reached a decision, awaiting their meal over a glass of wine. Tahra’s upbringing had been based around her father’s Islamic beliefs, so alcohol had been a no-no, therefore she enjoyed the taste and savoured the freedom of being able to drink it. In London she felt like a liberated young woman, protected but not smothered. There was no reason to return to Tehran, not with a salary and a course of study at university to look forward to. It seemed as if she really had the world in the palm of her hand.
Max pondered her presence here over his glass of wine.
“You look very beautiful tonight,” he said, with more humility than he would normally show.
Tahra smiled and lowered her eyes. Although she’d become used to his acts of kindness, his direct compliment and apparent physical intentions towards her perturbed her. Could she reciprocate? Should she encourage him by accepting his invitation, for what was intended to be a romantic meal? Or was she entitled to sample some freedom with a wealthy and handsome escort?
“I value your kindness, Mr Richardson. You’ve made me feel more than welcome.”
“You can call me Max, you know,” he said, dismissing formalities.
“Max…I won’t let you down, I promise I’ll be worth your trouble.”
He seemed unsure how to take her comment, but replied. “I’m sure I won’t regret bringing you here.”
When their meals arrived, he regularly glanced over at her, watching her lick her lips to catch a dribble of sauce, and he couldn’t help but imagine it elsewhere... She caught his gaze, although didn’t know how to respond.
“I’m so happy about the test tomorrow,” she declared, as if trying to divert his attention. “I want to show you what I can do.”
“Actually, I’m so confident you can deliver that I’m skipping the initial tests.”
Tahra gave him a puzzled look. “Why would you do this?”
After a pause, he decided to be truthful. “Until recently, I had an advisor…a very trustworthy advisor who recommended I go to Tehran to headhunt you. She informed me that you had…superior abilities.”
“Then it was no accident….it did seem strange, you being in Tehran.”
“So, you understand why I’ve invested so much time and money in you?”
Was he trying to distract her from his physical attraction, in favour of his belief in her as his business protégé? Was he trying to convince himself? Most of all, did she believe him?
“Yes, I understand my responsibilities,” she replied.
They ate silently for a few moments, Max demonstrating mounting sexual tension on his behalf and Tahra coming to realise that maybe he did expect more of her. Finally, she decided to mellow the atmosphere.
“Why are you so interested in people with special talents?”
Her question surprised him, but he attempted to answer. “My mother was an amazing woman, highly perceptive, wise, and clairvoyant. She told me where to find you, just before she died. My mother’s gift helped put me in the position I’m in today.” He paused to take a mouthful of wine and pondered his next point. “I believe everyone at The Institute has an important place within the context of the cosmos as a whole, but I don’t really under the significance. I think my mother did.”
He toyed with his glass, unsure whether to continue with what he was about to say. Tahra looked at him with persuasion, as if aware he might reveal something significant and formative about his personality.
“I had a series of strange experiences when I was eighteen.” He remained contemplative for a moment. “These experiences changed my life…I wish they’d lasted forever, but they didn’t.” In that poignant moment, he decided not to continue the conversation.
They ate their meal silently for a while, as Max seemed retrospective but finally, they made light conversation. As the date progressed, Max’s admiration for her grew and he got the impression that she developed a sense of respect for him. He paid the bill promptly and helped her into her coat, standing close enough to smell her perfume and latent sexuality.
Tahra felt his warm breath on the back of her neck. In that moment, she wondered how it would feel if he put his arms around her, or what the consequences would be of an affair with her benefactor. Did she want him, or did she merely want him to desire her? There was clearly a difference.
***
Back at The Institute, Max walked her to her room, realising the time had come to declare his intentions. He felt nervous, like a teenager waiting to ask his first crush for a kiss. She opened her door but didn’t flick on the light, pausing in the doorway in realisation of the inevitable. Max saw the opportunity, she’d left it open. He stood close to her, gently lifting her chin so she could meet his gaze.
“Tahra, I’d like to make love to you.”
Her eyes widened in surprise and she fell silent for a moment, before finally replying.
“Max, I’m a virgin. I’ve never been with a man before.”
Jesus Christ, he thought. He hadn’t seen that one coming. In fact, it only served to arouse him further. All his women were well experienced…too experienced and the thought of taking Tahra’s virginity made him feel special.
“I promise to be gentle,” he reassured her.
She appeared to contemplate it then voiced her concerns.
“I don’t want to be a mere conquest.”
Max wondered what she knew of his past, but then acknowledged the fact that it wasn’t possible to hide things from psychic people. Maybe he had the aura of a womaniser.
“That won’t happen.”
Tahra looked apologetic. “I will only give my virginity to my future husband.”
He didn’t expect that, she had principles. It wasn’t the time to push for sex, so he asked for an alternative.
“Can I at least kiss you?”
Tahra smiled then nodded, allowing him to make the first move. Aware of how his actions could dictate the final outcome, he gave her a tentative kiss on her lips, awaiting her reaction. She reciprocated, therefore he pulled her close and kissed her more passionately, knowing it would be the climax of the evening.
Tahra appeared to submit and become aroused too, perhaps almost feeling as sorry as he did that there’d be no finale that night. For a moment, he thought she might change her mind, but she merely smiled, flicked on her bedroom light and closed the door. Max stood outside, not knowing what to think or do. No woman had ever turned him down, and being confronted with uncharted territory left him speechless. Had he said or done something wrong? He stood there for what seemed an eternity, while Tahra rested her head against the door in her room, conscious of his presence for a while until he left.
Part of her wanted him to make love to her, but she felt reticent too. He was the perfect gentleman now, but what of the future? Were her previous intuitions correct? Was he a saint or Satan? She ended the night in a state of inner turmoil.
***
Why did rejection just simply drive him crazy? Max arrived home an hour later, also in a state of inner turmoil. He’d courted fire, this young woman who was the most sexually alluring female he’d ever met, and she didn’t believe in sex before marriage. What kind of twist of fate was this? Could he get her to change her mind, or would he have to contemplate marrying her? That would be an extreme conclusion to the matter.
He paced the room several times, wondering how to deal with a refusal, a factor that only seemed to arouse him further. With the next party two weeks away, he picked up the phone and heard a familiar voice at the end of the line.
“I need a woman tonight,” he told the person on the other end.
In response to the query, he described his nightly requirements then showered, poured himself a scotch, and reclined in his favourite armchair. The bell rang and on answering the door, he found a dark haired woman standing there. While she wasn’t Tahra, she was acceptably close though.
Certain of his requirements for the night, he instructed his agent of relief to kneel down as he reclined in the armchair. After a few minutes, he closed his eyes and substituted the woman for Tahra, a fantasy that fuelled his level of arousal. As he reached his peak, he dug his nails into her skin, oblivious to any discomfort she was experiencing. The enormous relief was tainted with a sense of shame, and it didn’t agree with him having to pay for it, but it was better than nothing.
After she rose to her feet, he got up from the armchair, avoided meeting her gaze and disappeared into the bathroom. The money already sat on a side table, so she took it and left swiftly, her taxi waiting outside. In the bathroom, Max gazed at his reflection and didn’t see a powerful, wealthy man staring back. He saw a man who was afraid. He didn’t like it, not one bit.
***
Max arrived early at The Institute the next day and sat in the dining area, with a cup of coffee and a newspaper. He kept asking Miss Tynedale if Tahra had woken yet and been down for breakfast. She just assumed it was because he was concerned about the test running smoothly and to schedule.
Tahra came down for breakfast ten minutes later, surprised to see Max sitting there. He ushered her over and she sat at the table with him, making light conversation over toast and cereal.
“Is everything set up ready?” Max asked Miss Tynedale.
She smiled kindly at Max, noting the look he gave Tahra. “Yes, we’re using Room 7 as normal.”
After breakfast, Max insisted on escorting her upstairs. He opened the door to Room 7, and Tahra found it to be minimally furnished, with a cine camera set up to point directly at the table and chair in the centre of the room. A large white envelope sat on the table. Max asked her to sit down, and a faceless technician started the camera rolling.
“In a moment, Tahra,” Max instructed, “I want you to open the envelope. Inside, you’ll find a photograph of a warehouse and a map. I’d like to know what’s inside the warehouse.”
She nodded, unsure what to expect. Max took a seat near the cine camera, waiting to see what she’d reveal and hopeful of her excellence.
Aware of the eyes watching her intently, she pulled out the photograph and map. The warehouse appeared to be in the middle of a desert, and its location had been circled on the map. After studying them, she placed the resources back on the table and closed her eyes.
Going through the same process as visiting Annie in her childhood, she felt a rushing sensation in her head and her focus projected away from her body. In her mind’s eye, she saw the warehouse begin as a shimmering mirage in the distance, becoming lucid in a matter of seconds.
She moved towards the door and reached out, extruding through it with no effort at all, as if it wasn’t even there. Because of the darkness inside the warehouse, it took a while for everything to become clear. She didn’t see any crates stacked, or signs of equipment used to transport goods and if anything, the place seemed deserted. Why had Max asked her to look inside this warehouse?
This is just a test, or a trick, she thought.
Tahra moved her consciousness around and found a few offices at the back, so she decided to check them out. To her surprise, in one office she discovered two men chatting, smoking, and laughing…nothing to report. Before she focused elsewhere, she noticed they possessed rifles, which were propped up against the wall.
Why the hell did they need guns in the middle of nowhere?
It all began to feel quite sinister. Now she understood the necessity of exploring this warehouse.
What else would she find?
She tried to listen in on the conversation but found it difficult, most of the time it sounded garbled, as if the words were spoken underwater.
Giving up on listening, she shifted her consciousness to the other office, taken aback by what she saw.
“There’s a little girl in there!” she gasped.
A young girl lay on the floor, bound and gagged. Tahra realised with horror what had happened. These men had kidnapped her, a crime had been committed. Distressed, she withdrew her consciousness and opened her eyes.
Max raised an eyebrow.
“What does she look like?” he asked, keeping his cool.
Tahra composed herself and stated, “She has long, blonde hair.”
“What is she wearing?”
“Blue trousers, and a yellow blouse with flowers.”
Max sat back in his hair, a smile of satisfaction and relief spreading over his face. He turned to the head technician.
“Tell Miss Tynedale to ring Mr. Holmes immediately. We have confirmation of his daughter’s location.”
“There are two men, they have rifles,” Tahra said.
Max nodded his appreciation.
“Don’t worry, she’ll be safe now.”
He let Tahra return to her room and disappeared for a short while. In the meantime, the head technician removed the reel and took it to the viewing room, waiting for Max to reappear, which he did. The two of them scrutinised the reel to evaluate her performance, surprised to see something quite unexpected.
They watched as Tahra closed her eyes, a flash of light popping into existence at the top right of her head. Max asked for it to be replayed, and they both viewed it again.
“What’s that?”
“I assume it’s a ray of light reflecting off a surface behind her,” the technician replied. “I’ve never seen this occur on previous tests with George and Oscar though.”
Max looked dubious.
“There’s nothing in there that would reflect light in that manner.”
The technician shrugged, unable to give any rational explanation other than what he’d already offered.
“Let’s see if it happens on the next test,” Max said.
He left the viewing room to visit Tahra. After knocking and entering, he found her lying on her bed. For a moment, he surveyed her slim and lithe body, laid out like a sacrificial child for the gods.
“Did my talent please you?” she asked him.
Max sat down on the bed next to her, and she looked up at him with the most outrageous bedroom eyes.
“You knocked me for six, Tahra.”
“Will anyone rescue that little girl?”
“Don’t worry,” he reassured her, “the process is already underway. The perpetrators will be dealt with.” There was a hint of ruthlessness in his voice as he said that.
Max kissed her on the forehead and stood up.
“You really are special,” he said, with a lingering glance as he left the room.
She smiled as she’d performed something important that pleased her benefactor. The world was really her oyster.
Downstairs, Max spoke briefly to Miss Tynedale.
“In ten days, it’s Tahra’s eighteenth birthday. I’d like to make it a memorable one, so pull out all the stops.”
“Where will we hold the party?”
“Here,” Max replied, “I want to make sure she gets to know everyone. I’ll be away on business for six months shortly after, and I don’t wish her to be lonely.”
“It can be arranged,” she said, eyeing him with curiosity.
“And while I’m away, can you make sure that she doesn’t get…involved with any men?” Miss Tynedale gave him a quizzical look. “Well, we don’t want our new star to fall pregnant, or lose her to some handsome young man, do we?”
Miss Tynedale watched him leave the office, concerned the green monster of jealousy was raising its ugly head. She had the uncanny feeling that someone was going to get hurt, but for once, it wasn’t going to be the object of his affections. Max had found someone who willingly, or unwittingly, was able to push the right buttons.
Tahra’s eighteenth birthday fell on the 7th of November, overshadowed by The Cuban Missile Crisis. The disagreement had escalated to the point where nuclear war seemed inevitable, so the world had prayed for peace and marched in London. As a peaceful solution neared, Tahra felt a sense of serenity and belonging at The Institute.
Max had called off all afternoon testing for the preparations and festivities, and everyone looked forward to socialising together, as it rarely happened. Most hadn’t met Tahra either, due to the fact their tests didn’t coincide. Caterers came into The Institute for the first time, Miss Tynedale emerged in a chiffon dress, and the main room got decorated with balloons and assorted paraphernalia.
Tahra made her entrance, amazed to find a group of people waiting for her.
“Surprise!”
A few of the technicians presided over the music and kick started the party with a chorus of party blowers. Tahra stood in the centre of it all, delighted in the effort made to celebrate her coming of age. Immediately after the introductory trumpeting, rock and roll music began to fill the room, to the amusement of the party goers.
She surveyed the smiles, expressions of curiosity or caution, and wondered if she met their expectations. These strangers were part of her life now, yet she dared not communicate with them and struggled to find the words to greet them.
‘Great Balls of Fire’ rang out and Oscar, the Afro-Caribbean remote viewer, took the initiative and her hand, inviting her to dance. She accepted and allowed him to spin her around, fifties rock and roll style. He moved well and twirled her around the floor, an act that caused the usually serious Max to laugh.
Max stood back and allowed her to mingle, as she needed to socialise with the others. Neither did he want to draw too much attention to his feelings for her, although the trouble he’d taken to organise this party had already raised some eyebrows.
Beth, one of the mediums, stood by Emilie, the fresh faced telepath.
“Why so quiet?” Beth asked.
Emilie didn’t answer immediately, so Beth had to prompt her.
“I can see there’s something wrong.”
Emilie looked at her and asked her a question.
“Have you noticed….anything strange about our new recruit?”
They exchanged knowing glances.
“I know Grace is sometimes by her side,” Beth commented.
Emilie didn’t receive the answer she wanted, so decided to reveal all.
“I can’t sense anything from her,” she stated. “I’ve never known that to happen.”
“Do you know why?”
Emilie shrugged. “No, I do not.” Her French accent became thicker as she said that.
Beth decided to confide in her further.
“She has more spirits around her than is usual, I find that quite odd.”
“Do you know why?”
“No,” came the reply.
They both watched Max, whose eyes were solely upon Tahra.
“She seems blissfully unaware that Max actually has feelings for her,” Beth said, almost wistfully. “I hope Grace knew what she was doing.”
Emilie gave her a questioning look.
“Grace is the reason Tahra is here, and Max hung on her every word,” Beth explained.
She looked on with curiosity at this ingenuous and lithe figure, while Emilie viewed her with suspicion. How could any female be so oblivious to Max’s obvious intentions towards her? What a lucky girl. Did Tahra know, care, or even bother to care?
Meanwhile, as Oscar danced with Tahra, he took the opportunity to introduce himself properly.
“My name’s Oscar Duvalier, I’m one of the other remote viewers in this place.”
“Pleased to meet you. My name is Tahra Mamoun.”
“It’s good to see new blood,” he commented, “and I’ve heard you’re amazing.”
She laughed with confidence.
“I want to be the best I can be.” After a pause, she added, “Aren’t you worried by my presence here?”
“There’s enough work to keep us all busy,” he shrugged.
“That’s very gracious of you.”
“God brought you here for a reason, I’m sure it’s part of his greater plan.”
Tahra considered his words.
“I wish I understood the plan for me. Max came to find me in Tehran, you know. He believes in me.”
Oscar gave her an enigmatic smile.
“Yes…yes he does. I’ve never seen him take such a personal interest in any of his….subjects before.” Tahra met his gaze, knowing exactly what he meant. “Be careful,” he warned her.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I can handle Max.”
Oscar gave her a quizzical look at her rather blasé comment, shrugged, and put his arm around her waist as they danced away.
The remaining residents mingled, chattered, or tapped their feet in time to the music, even the normally staccato and reticent Sakie. No one really noted the conspicuous absence – Paul. Most assumed he’d been assigned elsewhere, but Miss Tynedale wondered if there were other, underlying motives for his nonattendance.
Another song graced the air, Chubby Checker singing ‘The Twist’, which motivated the majority of the partygoers. Max didn’t often dance but Oscar was stealing his fire, so he cut in. Tahra expressed delight in seeing him loosen up and have fun. It seemed odd at first to feel his arm around her waist and to see his response to the music, but he had excellent coordination and whirled her around the floor in a style that rivalled Oscar’s moves. It pleased him to dance with her, and to see the enjoyment clearly written in her face.
Oscar danced with Beth, and they both exchanged knowing glances watching the two of them together.
Max considered this to be one of the happiest moments he’d experienced in a long while, and it seemed such a shame to tell her about the business trip tomorrow.
***
Her eighteenth birthday party had been a high point in her life, which until now had been staid and unexciting. However, an unexpected interruption followed the next day. Max told her he was going to be away on business for around six months, and Tahra didn’t receive the news well.
“But you can’t be away for such a long time,” she protested. “I’ll get lonely.”
Max seemed touched that she cared about his absence, and Tahra began to feel angry for having become so dependent on him. She fought the tears as best she could.
“I’m sure the others will look out for you while I’m away,” Max tried to reassure her.
“It’s not the same.”
He reached out to wipe her cheek.
“I promise I’ll write to you,” he stated, “but please realise, I have to go away on business to ensure all my people here have work.”
Work filled Max’s life, and she’d relied on him too much. Sensing her desolation, he placed his fingers under her chin, lifted it gently and kissed her. The love and attention of a handsome, wealthy man was intoxicating and she didn’t see how she’d manage without it. For the first time since she’d met him, she actually felt like she wanted him, and she put her arms around his waist, laying her head on his chest. This took him by surprise, and he hugged her in return.
They stood like that briefly, cherishing that sincere moment as it wouldn’t always be like this. He eventually stepped away from her and walked down the stairs, watching her fondly. When he disappeared out of sight, she looked over the stair rail and noticed him speak quietly to Miss Tynedale. After leaving instructions with her, he picked up a briefcase and walked out of the door.
Now she’d have to make her own way in the world.
***
The first few days were tough. She spent most of the time in her room listening to music and reading. The government had lifted the ban on ‘Lady Chatterley’s Lover’ and she read it with fervour, finding the Derbyshire dialect very difficult though. However, the sexually explicit material titillated and fascinated her. Was this what Max had in mind for her? She began to wonder what making love was like; should she have given in to Max, or was she right to hold out?
After a few days of solitude, she heard a knock at her door and opened it to find Oscar standing there, with a broad grin on his face.
“You lonely, girl?”
She rested her body against the door frame, looking forlorn and nodded.
“Well, I’m the answer to your prayers, step this way.”
He offered his arm, she took it graciously and they went for a walk around London, despite the cold and miserable winter day. She’d been absent from the place since 1955 and the changes to the city surprised her. A few blocks of flats had sprung up, along with some characterless new housing in place of the run down old terraces. She also noticed new factories in and around the housing, and vans pulled up outside people’s houses, delivering brand new washing machines or televisions. She discovered new cars too such as the Austin Mini, her favourite.
People and fashion had changed. The flat caps, plus short back and sides on the men had gone, now they let their hair grow to the top of their collar, and the women…
“Skirts above the knee!” she commented. “This is more like it!”
My father would be disgusted though, she thought to herself, which made the fashion even more appealing.
Tahra began to feel somewhat outdated, and made a quick mental note of some ideas for clothing that would help develop her personal style.
They finally arrived in St. James Park, near BuckinghamPalace, after a long walk around the city. Oscar pulled a few things out of his pockets, including flavoured crisps! They delighted in the taste of cheese and onion crisps, such a novelty after years of plain crisps with the salt packet hiding down at the bottom. While wandering by the pond, they talked about their families.
Tahra learned about Oscar’s family in Barbados, who loved to fish and sing, and she talked of her parents back in Tehran. They also discussed how they first discovered their ability to ‘shift our consciousness’, as Oscar put it, and the tale of her miserable childhood saddened him. She admitted that she’d not always used her gifts rightfully, but he empathised and enquired what other gifts she possessed. Tahra explained her emotional power while Oscar nodded quietly.
“You are one unique woman,” he said. “Just don’t go down the wrong path, I’d hate to see you angry.” Although spoken in jest, he meant what he said.
They sat on the grass and she didn’t feel threatened by him, as he desired nothing more than companionship. Did she detect a hint of loneliness there? She closed her eyes and sent a subtle feeling of warmth over to him.
“Let’s go on a journey,” he said, sighing with contentment.
Tahra wondered if they were both thinking the same thing.
“I want to see Barbados,” she said.
Oscar took a photograph of his family and home out of his pocket, and gave it to her to focus on. They lay back, closed their eyes and let go, allowing their consciousnesses to snap to the location on the photograph. Within a moment, she saw the house and some children running around on the beach. She followed them into the sea and watched them splash around, wishing her physical body was there too because it looked like fun.
“My nieces and nephews,” Oscar explained.
When Oscar began to get homesick, they pulled back. Tahra suggested a trip out to Tehran and he agreed, but unfortunately she didn’t have a photograph. Could she ‘hook’ his consciousness and tow it along with her? She hadn’t tried this before or even thought of it but, nevertheless, she asked him to hold his consciousness above his body and focus it into a ball of light, if he could. Although Oscar didn’t find it easy, eventually she saw a small orb floating above his head. With imaginary fingers, she reached out and grabbed the orb, which caused Oscar to stiffen his body slightly.
“Just relax, trust me,” she told him, in a soothing voice.
She visualised her hands cupping the orb and re-focused her consciousness, seeing home in Tehran in her mind’s eye. Summoning enormous emotive power, using her loneliness and love of her new life, she towed his consciousness.
“Are you still with me?” she asked.
Oscar was breathing rapidly, but managed to confirm her query. Tahra’s home came into view, and she saw her parents preparing their evening meal.
“Can you see them too?” she asked.
“Yes, yes, you have a white mother and….”
A boy’s football struck her in the stomach, and they jolted back into their bodies. Although the boy apologised as he retrieved his ball, Tahra expressed her displeasure. Oscar lay on the grass, still and quiet. She was worried for a moment and didn’t know if there’d be any ill effects, so she shook him.
Tahra felt relieved when he began to chuckle.
“No one’s ever done that before,” he laughed, “boy, I can see why Max believes in you.”
She gave him a more serious response.
“He’s only seen a warm up.”
Oscar looked thoughtful.
“All the more reason to stay on the right path then.”
***
However, life was far from ideal. I only got the chance to explore beyond The Institute if I had a chaperone, and Oscar wasn’t always available. Miss Tynedale rarely yielded when it came to my requests for a little freedom, so I relied on Oscar. Sometimes, I couldn’t see the difference between this and my childhood, and I got subdued with a guilt trip because so much had been invested in me. Everyone else had their duties firmly cemented at The Institute too, and I soon realised that Max kept a tight rein on his investments.
Not that my life at The Institute filled my life with misery. I’d never celebrated Christmas and that December, I finally came to be a part of the festivities. Everyone there found it hard to believe that as a child, I’d never received any presents, put up the decorations or a tree, and engaged in the festivities. As a result of this, they made a point of each and every aspect of the celebrations.
The week prior to the special day, we wrapped our presents in decorative paper. We had a genuine pine tree which was really tall, Max didn’t believe in doing things by halves. Beth and I placed all the baubles, tinsels, and fairy lights on it and Peter topped the tree with an angel. Sakie and I made paper chains out of crepe paper, and George and Peter attached them to the ceiling with drawing pins. We created a snow scene in the window with cotton wool and glitter. The communal living area was transformed, creating a sense of excitement throughout The Institute.
On the day, we all helped prepare the huge turkey and vegetables. The living area was full of presents, arranged neatly around the tree, including gifts from each other and some from Max, who was still in America at that time. I saw a huge parcel from him to me. Everyone stared at me and I felt somewhat embarrassed, especially when I realised the others had, in comparison, much smaller gifts from him. No one begrudged it, except Emilie.
We opened our presents and I liked every gift. I received books, clothing, and jewellery while Oscar had given me a framed photograph of Barbados to remind us of that journey we took. He also gifted me a record.
“I know you love music and it’s a new band that I think you’ll love. It seems to be selling well,” he explained.
I gazed at the seven inch record, called ‘Love Me Do’ by a band called the Beatles. Looking around for the record player, I put it on straightaway and became infected with the sound and the melody, with the harmonica and simple lyrics.
Max’s gift was the biggest and I saved it until last. It was full of beautiful clothes and jewellery from New York, no expense spared, and I was amazed at how he’d chosen things that I loved. The colours and styles were perfect, and I reminded myself to write a long thank you note.
After our meal, we all sat around the aging television, a fine piece of furniture in a teak cabinet. We watched the Queen’s speech, which was always on at three o’clock. The picture wasn’t very compliant today, but Peter had just the right touch and gave the cabinet a good smack on the top, which reset the picture. We enjoyed thirty year old repeats of Laurel and Hardy films, and laughed hard over our glasses of sherry and port. All in all, it had been a day to remember for me.
Filling my time with music and television, I immersed myself in British culture, soaking up ‘Ready Steady Go!’ on a Friday evening. Short broadcasts slipped in between the entertainment in those days, informing the general public what to do in a nuclear attack and I tried not to let myself become afraid of this happening. During the evenings in my room, I used a small transistor radio to tune into Radio Luxembourg on two hundred and eight metres medium wave, fiddling with the knob to try and get a good reception. It played a good selection of hits.
On the rare days out with Oscar, I stocked up on records and clothes, adopting a more casual look with jeans or A-line dresses.
Through the radio and television, I followed current affairs. The Profumo affair intrigued me how the power of a woman, Christine Keeler, caused so much trouble for an influential man. He tried to claim to the House of Commons that there had been no impropriety, but I didn’t believe that, she is a beautiful woman and he is just a man, no matter his position. Emilie, however, begged to differ and reminded me that she was nothing more than a whore looking for fame. Whichever way, the story captivated me.
I got lonely and bored though, especially with Oscar on leave. The Institute had become a prison, something I never signed up to, and something I’d never accept. I developed cabin fever, feeling quite depressed on quiet days at the facility. One day late in March 1963, I’d had enough. Sick of asking permission to go out, despite being an adult, I threw caution to the wind. Sneaking into the office, I discovered my bank account information and located a spare key to the front door.
Time to pull the same stunts I often achieved in my childhood. Free at last! Miss Tynedale would never find out.
***
Tahra felt the exhilaration of liberation as she strode out of the bank the next day, a few hundred pounds in her pocket. It hadn’t been too difficult to withdraw money with the necessary paperwork. With fierce independence, she circumnavigated the Tube and after a jostled ride, emerged from Oxford Circus station. The best shops were on King’s Road in Chelsea, plus Carnaby Street.
She browsed for a while, in awe of the fashionable iconic shops such as Mary Quant. However, after the fifth shop, she plucked up the courage and tried on a dress, purchasing it along with a plastic necklace comprised of large circles, a black polo neck jumper, and a pair of flared jeans. Pretty exhausted, she finally sat down in a café and ordered some food and a drink.
Destiny intervened that day.
As she drank her tea, she noticed someone scrutinising her. He had shoulder length hair, and wore flared trousers coupled with an outrageous belt. Tahra began to feel uncomfortable.
He’s got to be some kind of weirdo, she thought. Maybe he’s going to follow me and kidnap me.
She tried not to rattle the cup on the saucer as she trembled slightly.
Don’t make eye contact with him, and he’ll go away.
Eventually, he plucked up the courage and moved over to Tahra’s table, standing to her left. She stared into her cup, feeling quite vulnerable and exposed.
“I don’t mean to startle you....” he said, tentative. “Um, I’ve never done this before… Let me introduce myself, my name is Malcolm Greene, I’m a fashion photographer.”
He stuck out his hand. Tahra didn’t know what to say, so accepted his hand and shook it, cautiously.
“How are you?” he asked, a little flustered.
“I’m good,” she said, “I’ve been shopping.”
He laughed in a nervous manner.
“Mind if I sit down?”
Tahra decided he was harmless.
“Yes, would you like to drink tea with me?” she offered.
He purchased another drink and they chatted. She introduced herself and talked a little of her background, however, she didn’t mention The Institute. He finally moved the conversation to his reason for approaching her.
“I couldn’t help but notice how striking your looks are. You’d look fantastic on camera. I’d really like to photograph you, if that’s okay?”
“Me?”
“Of course, you. You’re beautiful in a really exotic, mystical kind of way. This may be really forward, but I have access to a studio nearby… I wondered if you’d come over and let me take you through a quick shoot.”
She didn’t expect this at all, yet a number of thoughts ran through her mind.
Will I be safe?
What about returning to The Institute?
I thought remote viewing for Max was my destiny.
Maybe I should explore this opportunity further though, it sounds exciting.
Oh, to hell with Max, he isn’t here. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
“Look,” he admitted. “I know what you’re thinking, you’ve just met me, I could be a nutcase, I know but I assure you, my intentions are genuine and I have a girlfriend, she’ll be there at the studio. My interest is purely professional.”
Tahra decided to trust her instincts, so they finished their drinks and she accompanied him to the studio. From the outside, it looked like an old three-storey house, much like The Institute but when they entered, she clearly saw the difference. A pretty blonde woman sat behind the reception desk, backed by cream and brown walls and tapestries hung on them, with repeating leaf motifs in green and cream. On seeing Tahra, the receptionist gave her a suspicious stare.
“Who’s this?” she asked Malcolm.
“This is Tahra. I’ve brought her back for a quick shoot. Oh, Tahra, this is my girl, Carol.”
Carol looked relieved, and assisted Tahra in the changing room while Malcolm prepared the studio. Wracked with nerves, she changed behind a screen, using some of her new clothes, and edged out into the studio. She saw a number of huge lights, a big fan, and a white backdrop.
“I’m just going to take some test shots,” Malcolm explained.
She found it difficult to relax at first, but he eased her through it and encouraged Tahra to open up. The thought of her first Christmas created a mellow smile, and Malcolm started shooting. He made comments such as ‘great’ and ‘fantastic’, and directed her to turn her head this way and that. They moved through a number of poses, and a range of varied emotions. After the shoot, Carol ushered her back to the reception.
“How did you find that?” she asked.
“Well,” Tahra began, “at first I felt clumsy, but then I started to enjoy it.”
Malcolm came downstairs and sat next to her on a brown sofa.
“The photos will be ready tomorrow. Can I give you a call then?”
Now that would be a problem. If Miss Tynedale picked up the phone, Tahra would have a lot of explaining to do.
“I…can’t take phone calls at the place where I’m staying.”
Malcolm looked puzzled, and changed his approach. He wrote down his number and said, “Well, call me tomorrow then.”
Tahra grasped the card, realising that opportunity may be knocking on the door. Briefly, she thought of her parents…how would they react?
She left the studio on cloud nine, dizzy with the new prospects for her life. As she drew closer to home, Tahra began to feel a sense of trepidation. What would be waiting on the other side of the door?
Well, I can see what’s in a warehouse hundreds of miles away, so I can certainly look behind the door before I enter.
She closed her eyes and allowed her consciousness to drift ahead. The empty hallway of The Institute came into focus, and on investigating Miss Tynedale’s office, Tahra found it vacant too. Maybe she’d run an errand.
Making the most of this opportunity, she used the spare key and slipped through the door. After sneaking up the stairs, she lay on her bed with relief.
I escaped The Institute for an afternoon, with no consequences!
The sense of danger this gave her elicited a thrill. She had a new mission in life: become a fashion model as well as a psychic spy. All she had to worry about now was making that phone call tomorrow, and keeping her secret from Miss Tynedale.
***
She woke early, tingling with nervous energy in anticipation of the phone call she needed to make. Over breakfast, she deliberated whilst chewing her toast. The office phone would prove too risky, but she recalled seeing a red phone box at the end of the street.
Waiting until lunch, when Miss Tynedale disappeared into Room 7 to oversee some tests in Max’s absence, Tahra found some loose change and slipped out the front door. Glancing around, she tried not to appear too shifty as she opened the heavy door of the bright red phone box.
It smelled stale, and contained a neatly stacked pile of local telephone directories. Her hands trembled slightly as she pulled the card from her pocket, on which Malcolm had scribbled his number. Dialling the digits, she waited for an answer, keeping her eyes on the street in case she had to duck for cover. After a few rings, Carol answered.
“It’s me, Tahra,” she almost whispered, as if it were some covert operation.
“Oh, great, Malcolm’s just here, I’ll pass you over.”
She heard chatter in the background, then Malcolm spoke.
“Hey there, how you doing?”
“I’m good. Did you like my pictures?”
“You look absolutely fantastic, a star in the making. I feel confident I could get you a modelling contract.”
The news rendered her silent for a moment. This could change everything. Yes, she did have commitments to The Institute but maybe she could work this around the testing days.
“Really? That’s….amazing!”
“There’s a shoot coming up next week, here in London. You know, I bet I could get you on the catwalk within a year, if not sooner. You’ll get noticed real quick.”
The implications of this began to excite her.
“What do I need to do?”
“Meet me here at the studio next Wednesday, I’ll take you over. 10:00am sound good?”
Quickly, she ran through her testing schedule and the shoot didn’t clash.
“I’ll be there.”
Replacing the receiver, she released a little squeal, clenching her fists.
I’m going to be famous! Wow, I’ll get to travel to some fantastic destinations…for real, without remote viewing!
On the walk back, she used her abilities to check the hallway and office, letting herself in carefully.
The stakes had risen, and the situation became more precarious. Could she pull this off, and keep Miss Tynedale in the dark? Furthermore, when Max finally returned, would she be able to conceal it from him? What a perilous game she needed to play.
***
Wednesday arrived and with sweaty palms, she stole the spare key from the office again. Leaving the door ajar as she’d found it, she paused in the hallway, heart pounding away in her chest. The first floor landing creaked, as it often did and Tahra froze, wondering if Miss Tynedale would descend the stairs. She didn’t dare breathe in case it gave her away.
After a long minute in which she stood like a statue, Tahra realised everyone was too busy in Room 7. As she’d left the radio on in her room, they’d think she was just relaxing and reading, as usual.
Turning the handle with caution, she quickly glanced upstairs, breathing a sigh of relief that no one saw her exit. Tahra hurried down the street, a rush of adrenaline overwhelming her. She’d escaped again. Bye-bye Institute.
When she reached Malcolm’s studio, they grabbed some kit and bundled everything into his car. It took over half an hour to reach the shoot, and immediately, Tahra felt the eyes of the other girls bear down on her. They looked at her in disdain, her milk chocolate skin contrasting against a sea of white.
Just like my childhood, she thought.
However, the photographers loved her.
“You did great,” Malcolm praised.
When he dropped her off at the studio, she seemed exhilarated and discussed the shoot with enthusiasm.
“You’re going to explode with delight at the piece of news I’m going to deliver,” Malcolm declared.
“Why? What piece of news?”
“Hold onto your hat, but a couple of American agents want to meet you. I’ve arranged a meal at a restaurant next Tuesday evening. Can you make it?”
Tahra did indeed want to spontaneously combust with excitement. However, giving Miss Tynedale the slip during the evening would prove difficult. Malcolm detected her reticence.
“Is that okay?”
Tahra forced a smile and replied, “Yes, that’s absolutely fantastic.”
How the hell was she going to attend the meal without arousing suspicion?
***
The night before, Tahra paced her room, desperate to figure out how to exit The Institute while everyone enjoyed their early evening meal in the dining area. Because the tables stood in front of the bay window, they’d witness her walking down the street in a demure dress, made up like a Hollywood starlet. She’d ordered a taxi, requesting a pick up at the end of the street so she just needed to slip out of the door undetected.
On the evening itself, Tahra tried to calm her nerves as she applied mascara. If anyone were to knock on her door now, she’d have some explaining to do, standing there in her red dress with the paisley swirl.
Now for the crunch.
A few hours ago, she’d given an excuse regarding dinner so nobody expected her downstairs. However, it left her with a challenge which sat on a par with The Great Escape. While she couldn’t use the door or tunnel out P.O.W. style, it left one option. She’d have to climb out a window, childhood style.
Being familiar with most of the rooms in the place, Tahra ventured down to the first floor and found Room 5 still open. It had an accessible window which opened onto the fire escape, and overlooked the alley running down the left hand side of the house. Therefore, she wouldn’t need to cross in front of the bay window.
Sliding the sash window up, she popped her shoes in her handbag and slipped through the gap. Being an expert in covert operations, she slid the window down, double checking she had the spare key to re-enter through the door, once everyone had gone to bed.
With the cool metal of the fire escape under the soles of her bare feet, she practically tip-toed down the steps and slipped her shoes on at the bottom. Tahra had enough time to stride elegantly down the street and catch her taxi.
***
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!”
“You relinquished your choices when you came here. Now, you’re going to ring this photographer and tell him that you won’t attend any more shoots.”
“I will not.”
Max bit his lip, acknowledging the impasse. He required a new strategy.
“Okay, if that’s how you want to play it. I’ll simply lock you in this room until you accept the inevitable.”
Max released his grip on her and walked out of the room, closing the door and turning the key. She couldn’t believe it, how dare he lock her in like a naughty child! In frustration, she kicked the door and pounded on it with her fists but at that moment, he’d already gone downstairs.
Realising he wasn’t going to change his mind and open the door, she walked over to the window with defiance and opened it. However, she saw with horror that her room sat on the top floor. It was a long way to the ground, with nothing to hang onto and the fire escape was located on the other side of the house. Tahra sighed and started to feel less empowered, anger and bitterness taking hold of her heart instead. She sensed her resolve would inevitably crumble.
Meanwhile, Max sat in the office and realised his hands were shaking. He began to feel a sense of guilt as he’d come so close to hitting her, something he’d never done, which was strike a woman. He’d never needed to in the past, as all his protégés and women had done as they were told. Tahra was different though. She wasn’t afraid of him, she wasn’t besotted by him. Maybe that excited him, and maybe that scared him too. With trepidation, he began to wonder what the hell he’d got himself into. It was beginning to look as if he’d opened Pandora’s Box.
***
The next day, Tahra heard a knock at her door, the key turned in the lock and Max entered. He looked a lot calmer and found her feeling rather depressed.
“Have you made your decision?” he asked, with a cool and rather arrogant demeanour.
She gave him a stare of resentment.
“Yes.”
“Have you realised the futility of your interest in modelling?”
“I’ve realised the futility in thinking you care about what I want,” she answered.
Max sighed.
“Have I got to lock the door again?”
“No,” she said, face deadpan, “I’ll ring him.”
He looked unsure if he could trust her but nevertheless, she followed him downstairs to the office, where he showed her to the phone. Max sat in the chair while Tahra dialled Malcolm’s number. She felt sick with remorse as she told him the bad news.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t model for you anymore.”
After a long silence, Malcolm responded.
“What do you mean by ‘can’t’?”
“I…have other commitments and responsibilities.”
At that point she started to cry, despite her urge to suppress the tears and she sobbed into the phone. Max looked on nonchalantly.
“What’s wrong?” Malcolm enquired. “You’ve got me really worried now.”
“I just don’t have any choice at the moment, it’s not my decision to make.”
“Of course it’s your decision, you’re a grown woman.” The concern in his voice sounded genuine. “Tell me what’s wrong, please.”
“I can’t tell you,” she sobbed.
“Tahra, hold on, I’m coming over.”
“No, no, please….”
He’d already hung up. Tahra didn’t say anything to Max. They just stared at each other; she through her tears and he with a sternness that disturbed her.
“Are you happy now that you’ve ruined my life?” she said, with scorn.
“I think the term is ‘saved it’. As I said, you relinquished your choices when you came here.”
Miss Tynedale entered the office at that point, and offered a total lack of sympathy. In fact, she’d alerted Max the day Tahra stumbled in drunk. It turned out that the night she tripped up the stairs, Miss Tynedale awoke, fearing a burglar and just caught sight of Tahra in her dress as she staggered into her room. She knew of Tahra’s hangover and had phoned Max in the States. He’d responded by flying back to London the following day.
“Tahra,” Max said, “you’re going to have to accept a few home truths. What you’re doing here is vitally important, too significant to throw away on a modelling contract.”
“Did it occur to you that I wanted to see the world?”
She’d stopped sobbing but still wiped the tears away from her eyes.
Max sighed.
“A strange thing to escape the lips of a very talented remote viewer.”
She sniffled, crestfallen then told Max exactly what she felt about him.
“I hate you.”
The words were toxic to him. She saw him swallow hard and a look of panic briefly flickered across his face, but then he brushed it aside, leaving the office in silence. Tahra wandered into the communal living area, slumped in a chair and stared out of the window, wondering what could have been. Max returned to his office for a short while, shuffling papers and preparing to get back to business as usual.
Half an hour later, she heard a knock at the door and because Max lingered in the hallway at that moment, he answered it. Tahra watched from the doorway of the living area.
“Hello, Tahra lives here, doesn’t she?”
Malcolm had remained true to his word and come to her aid. Tahra was touched by this and stepped into the hallway.
“I’m here,” she said.
He saw her, face still tearful and stepped inside, much to the chagrin of Max. Looking around the hallway of The Institute, he wondered what on Earth this place was.
“You all right?” he asked, moving towards her.
She couldn’t answer and he put his arms around her. Max stepped forward, anger rising again.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“What have you done to her?” Malcolm demanded of Max, who tried to contain his indignation.
“Merely told her the truth.”
Malcolm looked exasperated.
“What is this place?”
“I can’t tell you,” she replied.
“Why? I don’t understand.”
Malcolm looked at her, finding a tearful silence then he looked at Max, accusingly.
“What are you running here, a brothel?”
Max narrowed his eyes.
“The operations that run here are strictly confidential. You’re intruding in an area where you are not welcome so I suggest you get the hell out, now. You don’t know what you’re getting yourself involved in.”
Malcolm looked at Tahra with a genuine sympathy in his eyes.
“I can’t leave you in this awful place.”
Tahra just wanted to hug him and Max eyed the way he gazed at her.
“Did you f*ck her?” he asked, with an icy conceit.
Malcolm looked confused.
“What do you mean, ‘did I f*ck her’?”
Tahra felt embarrassed and gazed down at the floor.
“It’s a simple enough question,” Max stated, and repeated the question with vehemence. “Did you f*ck her?”
Malcolm looked as if something had clicked within. He and Max stared at each other for a short while, Max trying to control his temper and Malcolm resisting the urge to punch Max. He turned to Tahra.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t win with this a*shole in charge of your life.”
In response, Max seized him by the collar of his jacket and shoved him hard up against the wall. They locked eyes, hateful of each other for different reasons, and Max vented his frustration by repeatedly slamming him against the wall. Tahra tried to intervene and break up the altercation.
“Leave him alone, he doesn’t deserve this. Let him go.”
Keeping Malcolm tight up against the wall, he ceased his actions and fixed him with a stare. The conflict appeared to hold in a stalemate until Max finally released him. He concluded the matter by virtually hurling him into the street.
“And stay out!” he barked.
Malcolm straightened his jacket and gave Tahra an exasperated look, as she viewed the scene with consternation and embarrassment. Fixing his eyes on Max with an expression of disdain, he delivered his parting words.
“You know, your jealously will destroy her eventually.”
Malcolm walked out of Tahra’s life, giving her one last glance of apology. Max closed the door, victory written all over his face. With a vehement and icy stare, Tahra stormed up the stairs and returned to her room. Flinging herself on the bed, she sat there dejectedly for a minute, frustration boiling up.
Unable to contain herself any longer, she picked up shoes, a brush, books, the radio…anything, and one by one, she hurled them at the door with a scream.
What the hell had she gotten herself into?
***
Max and Tahra ignored each other for a few days but when he re-appeared at her door, he looked troubled. Turning him away wasn’t an option, so she let him in and he sat on her bed. Despising his proximity, she sat in the chair in the corner of the room. Silence made the air thick, and Max broke the tension.
“Do you really hate me?” he said.
She didn’t answer immediately but eventually conceded, “Yes, I do.”
He accepted the answer but then proceeded to defend his actions.
“I only want what’s best for you, Tahra. As I said, you’re too important to be wasted.”
It did little to reverse her acrimonious feelings.
“What can I do to change your mind?” he asked.
“Let me go,” she answered promptly.
“You know I can’t do that, I have an agreement with your father.”
She sighed.
“Okay then,” she figured she’d test him out, “show me the world, show me the life you denied me.”
He fell silent for a moment, a long moment and she didn’t expect a reply but he gave her the one she least anticipated.
“Okay.”
Tahra almost performed a double take.
“What?”
“Okay,” he repeated. “I have contacts in the States and I can find work for both of us. Visas can be obtained quickly. You want to see the world, I’ll show it to you.”
“Really?”
The atmosphere in the room began to thaw.
“Absolutely. We can leave in a few weeks.”
How could she refuse? He must have felt some remorse and she realised that, in his own way, he must care enough to make this concession for her. She began to feel both a sense of nervousness and excitement.
“Thank you,” she said, and meant it.
Max looked relieved and stood up, Tahra copied. She couldn’t read his expression, but did he regret making the offer or was he getting something he wanted too? It looked like he had nothing more to say and he moved to open the door, as obviously now there were plans to make but he paused before leaving.
“Did you….have sex with that photographer?” he asked, this time with humility.
She met his concerned gaze and replied, “No, I didn’t.”
He seemed satisfied with the answer and left. She sat on her bed, contemplating a new future. It compensated for the grievous past two days and gave her a sense of hope, however, what did Max expect of her? Was she prepared to return his feelings? Would they just fight? For a while, it would be just the two of them, in the States. Tahra decided she couldn’t give in to him, she just couldn’t.