was filled with excitement and anticipation, and there was a spring in her step as she walked down West Twenty-Second Street. She was on her way to see Frank Farantino, the photographer, who had told Geo to send her along to his studio today.

In one sense she had lost a friend with the departure of Dax to Los Angeles; on the other hand, she had gained a friend in Georgiana Carlson.

After that debacle in the middle of the night, a few weeks ago now, Geo had tried her hardest to make amends. Keeping her promise, Geo had spoken to Hank George and Frank Farantino about her, and several days ago both photographers had at last been back in touch with Geo, and appointments had finally been made.

The first was with Farantino, at his studio in the Meatpacking District, which was an easy walk for M from Geo’s brownstone, and especially on this beautiful September day. The sky was a soft pale blue, puffed up with wispy white clouds, and it was sunny and balmy, but not too hot because of the light breeze blowing off the Hudson River to the west.

Ever since she had come to live in Manhattan, M had done a lot of walking, wanting to get to know the city, to become well acquainted with some of her favourite areas. In particular, she loved West Chelsea where she lived, was captivated by its art galleries and cafés, and those lovely tree-filled streets in the West Twenties.

But to M there was something extra special about the Meatpacking District. Now considered the most fashionable part of New York, it had recently been named a Historic District. Over a hundred years ago it had been full of slaughterhouses and meatpacking warehouses, some two hundred and fifty of them. Almost all of those buildings had gone, and in their place were some of the most elegant stores belonging to top fashion designers, as well as nightclubs, bars, cafés, restaurants and spas. It had become a chic place for the young, the hip and the upwardly mobile, and it was littered with celebrities day and night.

M smiled to herself at that thought. Some of her family were quite well known, and certainly she didn’t need to meet strangers who were famous. Dax loved to party with them, and although she liked to hang out with him in the MePa, as it was called, she had managed to slip away when he set his sights on movie stars and the like, becoming oblivious to her.

Dax had gone, taken a plane to the West Coast to seek his fame and fortune, and she wished him well. Deep down she felt a gloomy, gnawing feeling inside; she knew enough about Hollywood to understand it was a world of pain and heartbreak, disappointment and disillusionment.

He had come to say goodbye, her lovely friend Dax, with his eye-catching blond handsomeness, quirky personality and flashing smile. And his rather childlike innocence. He had also had dinner with Geo before flying away, and later Geo had confided that their romantic relationship was indeed over, but they remained friends, and Geo seemed relieved about this.

M was well aware that Dax had gone alone to the West Coast; his entire being was now fully concentrated on his career. He, too, had confided in her…about his love life. Apparently he had not only said farewell to Geo, but also to his new love, Jason. He wanted a fresh start, he had told her; wanted to concentrate wholeheartedly on his career.

Giving her a big hug he had whispered against her hair, ‘I took your advice to heart, M. The only thing I am going to think about is becoming a movie star. Nothing else matters.’

She thought about this now as she continued to walk towards the Meatpacking District, heading in the direction of Frank Farantino’s studio for her appointment at noon. ‘Movie star.’ If that was what Dax wanted to be, and wanted it enough, then he might well get it. Certainly he had the looks, and a unique kind of charisma, a presence. But could he act? Well, that didn’t really matter, did it? Some movie stars were great actors; others couldn’t act their way out of a paper bag. Yet this didn’t seem to prevent them getting work. He had willpower, and that would help him. But was he ruthless? She pondered that. And was he tough enough to withstand the battering, the rejections, and perhaps, most important of all, the competition? She wasn’t sure; she could only hope that he was, for his sake.

Someone she knew very well had once done a stint in Hollywood, and had explained 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, pixie-like creature was nearer to thirty than twenty. But she seemed so nice, and M had taken an instant liking to her.