Remember My Name. Havana Adams
to see who was making such a loud entrance. Talia glanced again at her friend, noting that the colour had drained from her face. Helena looked more fragile than ever.
“It’s my mother.” Helena said the words flatly and then resolutely she turned back to face the front of the church her face hard, as she stared at the coffin.
Sula Golden had always turned heads and even now at the ripe old age of 61, that hadn’t changed. Whilst Naomi Campbell and Kate Moss were little more than glints in their parents’ eyes, long before Linda Evangelista had pronounced that she wouldn’t get out of bed for less than $10,000 and way before the word Supermodel had even been coined, Sula had led the new wave of fashion models in London in the swinging sixties. Alongside Twiggy, she was an icon of the era, the original Supermodel. The image of her naked on a white horse riding along the Kings Road in a photograph taken by her then husband photographer Elliot Golden, before his early death, was an unforgettable image and even today Sula was immediately recognisable.
Whispers had started to spread through the pews and a palpable excitement began to build. Sula, who had taken up residence with an Italian Count on the French Riviera, was rarely seen on English shores and though tales of her escapades and her young lovers were splashed across the Eurotrash tabloids, few close-up photographs of her ever made it into the papers. Many suggested that she’d lost her looks, perhaps time had finally caught up with her. Some gleefully commented that maybe she had gained weight. But now as she strode slowly up the aisle in a form-fitting Balenciaga gown in an inappropriate shade of blush for a funeral, it was clear that Sula was as beautiful as she’d always been. Her skin was flawless, her blonde hair was caught in a simple ponytail and at first glance one might easily mistake her for a woman still in her early thirties.
“Darling,” Sula murmured as she reached the first row and bent down to air kiss a stiff Helena. “Poor Richard. Isn’t it terrible?”
Helena winced at the choreographed grief that her mother was channelling for the benefit of her rapt audience. Her mother and grandfather had never got on and Sula had severed ties with her father-in-law when he’d stopped her allowance. Helena was sure it would surprise many to know that it had been more than a decade since Sula and Richard had last spoken. But her mother could always be counted upon to show up for any event that might launch her back into the limelight. Reluctantly Helena shifted up the pew to allow her mother to take a seat next to her.
“Talia, darling.” Sula smiled briefly in greeting before her eyes returned to Helena, who stiffened as she felt her mother’s assessing gaze run up and down her dress. Helena steeled herself for the veiled insult that was sure to follow and which was their usual mode of communication. So, Sula’s next question surprised her.
“Where’s your brother?” At this, Helena bit her lip. The service would begin any minute and Alex, who was supposed to deliver the eulogy, was still nowhere to be seen.
“He’ll be here,” Helena bit back, not wanting to admit that the painstaking organisation she’d put into her grandfather’s funeral now seemed about to fall apart. Slowly Helena turned to Talia, who was gazing at her mother her eyes wide. Not for the first time Talia was struck by Sula’s exquisite looks.
“God, your mother looks amazing,” Talia whispered. Helena grimaced, even as she privately conceded that Sula did look incredible, in poor taste for a funeral, but incredible nonetheless.
“I think that modern medical science rather than God should take credit for her looks,” Helena muttered, an uncharacteristic show of bitterness in her voice. Helena saw the surprise in Talia’s face.
“You OK?” Talia asked her quietly, not hiding the worry in her voice. In their decade or so of friendship, Helena’s relationship with Sula had been one of their few no-go areas.
“I’m fine,” Helena returned firmly. Quickly switching subjects, she glanced to the back of the church again. “If Alex doesn’t turn up, I’m going to have to do the eulogy myself.” With a look of resignation, she turned back to the front of the church, staring straight ahead. Moments later, the priest accompanied by two altar boys took up position at the altar. As one, the mourners rose.
“We are gathered here to celebrate the life of Richard Golden…”
Throughout the service, Talia’s fury had been growing on her friend’s behalf. Though Helena had remained composed, Talia had sensed her tension, which grew with every moment as the time for the eulogy approached. Talia had met Alex, her friend’s older brother, only a few times and she hadn’t liked him much. He’d seemed to her to epitomise everything that she hated about spoilt celebrities. If she was honest, Talia knew that her dislike of Alex Golden was a little excessive. He was probably no worse than any of the spoilt egos that she’d dealt with in television, but she consoled herself with the thought that her irritation with Alex was because he so often let her best friend down. Talia had seen the disappointment in Helena’s eyes when Alex had missed her 21st
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