Seven Point Eight The First Chronicle - By Marie A. Harbon Page 0,51

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.