About the Author

VICTORIA FOX lives in London. She was born in 1983 and grew up in Northamptonshire with her parents, sister and cat Thomas. At thirteen she went to boarding school in Bristol, where she learned what you can get up to when your parents aren’t around, liked English best and avoided games lessons at all costs.

From there she went on to study English and Media at Sussex University, where she made her first attempt at writing a bonkbuster novel. It was titled The Hardest Part and was truly dreadful.

Victoria worked as an editor in publishing before leaving to write full-time. Hollywood Sinners is her first novel.

www.victoriafoxwrites.com

Hollywood Sinners
Victoria Fox

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thanks to my agent, Madeleine Buston, for her commitment, faith and brilliance. To the fabulous team at HQ, especially Kim Young, Maddie West and Bethan Ferguson. To Sophie Ransom and Tory Lyne-Pirkis at Midas PR. To Emma Rose for her excellent notes. Special thanks to Rebecca Saunders for her early advice and encouragement.

For friendship, support and ideas, thanks to Victoria Stonex, Chloe Setter, Sarah Thomas, Laura Balfour, Kate Wilde, Jo Oakley, Caroline Hogg, Emily Plosker, Suzanne Fowler and Penelope Skinner. Thanks to Simon Oxley for helping me with industry-related queries: any inaccuracies are my own.

Finally, to my parents for giving me every opportunity; and to Mark Oakley, for living every day of this book with me, thank you for everything.

For Toria

PROLOGUE

The Parthenon Hotel, Las Vegas, Summer 2011

The woman studied her reflection in the bathroom mirror. To an onlooker she was flawless, but close, much closer, there was an uncertainty in her eyes that gave her away. Fear was a dangerous thing. However hard you pushed it down, it always found a way back.

Turning her head to one side, she attempted a practised smile and almost convinced herself. She was a professional–it was her job to make people believe.

In a white toga-style dress amid the stylised opulence of one of Vegas’s most renowned hotels, the woman resembled a Greek goddess. Tomorrow morning her image would appear in magazines all across the world. Fashion editors would appraise her gown. Reviewers would dissect her performance. Gossip columnists would speculate on the man she was with. Fame. Celebrity. Stardom. She had imagined this moment for a long time, and now she had arrived.

It’s one night, she told herself. Nobody knows.

The woman stood back. Blood rushed to her head and she struggled to focus. A hot wave of sickness washed over her.

It was karma. Everybody had to pay for the mistakes they made.

This is what you deserve.

She touched the palm of one hand flat against the marble wall. It felt cool.

‘Just not tonight,’ she begged, her lips cracked and dry. ‘Please, not tonight.’

‘Are you OK?’

The woman jumped, less at the shock of remembering he was out there as at the concern in his voice. But the second time he spoke it was with the familiar bitterness.

‘Limo’s here in five. Let’s move.’

She breathed deeply, smoothed down her dress for a final time and reached for the lock on the door. It was show time.

The Parthenon Tower Suite was vast. Four lavishly designed bedrooms backed on to a sprawling living area complete with champagne bar and wall-to-wall plasma television, a private games room and sumptuous spa. Floor-to-ceiling windows boasted a panorama of the glittering Vegas Strip, its pink and gold lights laid out below like a chain of jewels. On both sides multi-billion-dollar hotels stood shoulder to shoulder like giants, each one more impressive than the last. The Mirage, the Luxor, the Palazzo, the Desert Jewel. Fountains of fire and water set the night sky ablaze and billboards dazzled with news of the hottest show in town. In the casinos, players and hustlers vied for the big time. This was Sin City, the pounding heart of the desert. Everybody was working a game of chance.

And in the middle of it all, the man she was supposed to be in love with. He was standing at the panorama, adjusting his tie.

When he turned to her, his eyes were cold.

‘Is everything all right now?’ he asked quietly.

‘Everything’s fine.’ What was the point in telling the truth? They had gone way beyond honesty a long time ago.

The man took a step forward. For a crazy moment she thought he might kiss her.

‘Tonight matters,’ he said instead. ‘You understand why.’

She nodded. In a matter of minutes they would appear together at the Orient Hotel, host to tonight’s movie premiere. The world’s press would be gathered on the red carpet, everybody who was anybody in the business walking the runway, and they all wanted a super-couple at the top of their game. Paparazzi had camped out for days for their hundred-thousand-dollar shot. If they could expose what nobody else saw–the faltering smile, the glimmer of doubt in a moment of privacy–then they’d be looking at the big money. She imagined the flashing lights, the waiting crowd. For one night their performance had to be flawless; their kisses for real.

‘I’m ready,’ she told him.

‘Good. Don’t let me down.’

Unexpectedly her phone shrilled to life. Reaching to retrieve it from her clutch, she noticed a flash of unease pass across his face.

‘Who is it?’ he demanded.

It was a private number.

‘I’ll take it outside.’ She crossed to the sliding doors and stepped out on to the terrace. The fresh air was invigorating and she experienced a rush of hope.

It’s just one night. How much can go wrong?

She flipped it open. ‘Hello?’

At first, only silence. Then the voice began to speak. It was low and distinctive. She recognised it immediately.

Fighting a wave of panic, the woman gripped the balcony rail, her knuckles bleeding white in the darkness. Forty storeys below traffic throbbed down the Strip.

‘I know about you, sweetheart. Remember? I know everything. Get ready, baby–because now it’s payback time.’

PART ONE

Autumn One year earlier

1

Venice

‘Lana, over here! Lana, Cole! How’s the marriage?’

Lana Falcon adjusted her pose for the cameras, hand on hip, shoulders back, and delivered her trademark megawatt smile. She held it in place and counted the seconds, careful not to let it drop. Against the red carpet her midnight-blue gown trailed like dark water.

She took pity on the reporter, who was slightly overweight and sported a beard that looked like he had drawn it on himself.

‘You’re half of America’s most famous couple,’ he gasped, scarcely believing his luck as Lana came to the side. ‘How does it feel?’ The film festival was a hive of energy: paparazzi and TV crews lined the carpet in thick numbers; fans with arms outstretched reached helplessly for their heroes–catching these two together was the biggest coup of his career.

On cue Lana felt an arm slide round her waist, smooth as a snake. She turned to the man next to her, caught the familiar line of his profile and the gleam of his teeth, the charcoal-grey of his immaculate hair. Cole Steel. Her husband.

Cameras flashed and sparked in throbs of light. He didn’t blink.

‘It feels great,’ she told the reporter with a friendly smile. ‘We’re very happy.’

Paparazzi jostled for the best shot. ‘Cole! Lana, Cole, let’s see you together!’

‘Any plans to add to the family?’ The reporter was sweating now.

‘Watch this space,’ said Cole, with a startlingly white grin. He planted a dry kiss on Lana’s neck, just below her ear. The photographers went wild.

‘Let’s move on,’ he instructed, just loud enough for her to hear.

Lana obliged. The smell of Cole’s skin lingered–sweet, slightly minty. When he took her hand it was cold.

‘Tell us about your new movie!’ the reporter babbled, craning the mike after her, knowing he’d already lost them. ‘Tell us about Eastern Sky!’

Lana moved into her customary position on the carpet, a little in front of Cole, his hands at her waist, steering her forward. At twenty-seven she was Hollywood’s most desirable young actress. Regularly voted one of the world’s most beautiful women, she was, with her burnt-chestnut hair, wide green eyes and warm smile, a killer combination of sex siren and girl- next-door. Women wanted to be her friend. Boys wanted to take her home to their mothers. Men jacked off over her, torn between fantasies of white cotton panties and crimson-red lingerie–the fascination was that Lana Falcon could pull off either. And, boy, did they dream she did.

‘Cole, Lana, this way!’

Cole guided his wife into a series of poses, his hands moving round her body with the precision and grace of a dancer.

‘Beautiful!’ came the approving clamour.

Somebody shouted, ‘Could we get a kiss?’

Cole laughed with the press like chums. Lana observed as he shot at them with pretend pistols, firing from the first two fingers of each hand.

Lana followed direction. Tilting her chin to meet his, she saw her surroundings–the deep reds and pure, billowing whites; the rich, syrupy gold of the event’s majestic lions–taper sharply into her husband’s approaching features until her view was suffocated entirely by his face, and the sad rub of his lips.

Cole Steel. Hollywood’s highest grossing actor and a giant of the American film industry. Cole Steel. At the top of his game after nearly thirty years and tipped here to take a Volpi Cup. Cole Steel. The husband with whom Lana Falcon lived, attended parties, posed for photographs, but had never, had never …

All around, bulbs popped and flared. As Lana pulled away she searched her husband’s eyes. As a good actor he could fill them with every emotion a role required–he was at his most convincing when assuming a character. As a man, as himself, he was blank. Cole’s eyes were like a shark’s: flat and empty. When she looked into them, Lana saw nothing.

‘Let’s get on the line,’ said Katharine Elliot, Lana’s publicist, discreetly ushering her client forward. ‘They’re queuing for a word.’

‘We’re not done here yet,’ snapped Cole through gritted teeth. His smile didn’t move.

Katharine stepped back. Cole was a man she did not want to piss off.

Together he and Lana refreshed their poses, the jewel in the crown of megastars gracing the Venice carpet, floating like creatures from another world, delighting with a look or a smile.

‘Assholes,’ muttered Cole, clapping eyes on a young, handsome actor and his Mother Earth wife. Cole claimed not to like the man because he’d beaten him to a part last year, though Lana suspected it was more because the couple paraded a soccer team of children, a brood to which they were still adding. It was something she and Cole could never achieve.

Beyond the press pit Lana caught sight of a young female fan, her desperate face streaked with tears as she was pushed and shoved amid the throng of people trying to catch a glimpse of the action. Lana took care to catch her eye, smiling warmly and giving her a wave.

Toughen up she thought, remembering herself at that age. It’s the only way to survive. Trust me. She blinked against the memories. Too often they kept her awake at night.

‘It’s time,’ Cole told her, placing a small, pale hand on her back. The cameras followed every move. Together, husband and wife were the ultimate American love story. He, one of the greatest actors of his generation; she, the girl who had come from nothing, from tragedy, to having it all.

Linking her arm with his, Lana walked alongside, nodding and smiling her way into the Palazzo del Cinema. She glanced at her wedding ring, a great cluster of diamonds that weighed heavy on her hand. In the frenzy of snapping bulbs it winked back, as if they shared a terrible secret.

2

Las Vegas

Elisabeth Sabell, legs wrapped tight round her fiancé’S waist, examined with satisfaction the ten-carat antique engagement ring on her third finger.

‘Fuck me!’ she gasped, clasping his muscular shoulders. ‘Fuck me fuck me fuck me!’ The ring caught the light as they moved together, the sheets of their mammoth four-poster bed damp with sweat. As he pounded deeper, his rhythm quickening, the marvellous jewel came towards Elisabeth’s enraptured face in shuddering frames, a glorious, insistent reminder that she would, before long, be Mrs St Louis.

‘Tell me what you want, baby.’ The man grabbed her ass, pulling himself in further. ‘Tell me what you want.’

‘I want you to fuck me hard, Robert St Louis!’ she cried in abandon, raking livid-pink lines down his bronzed back, lifting her foot and trailing with her big toe the dip where his spine met his ass. ‘Fuck me like you’ve never fucked me before!’

In one deft movement he hooked an arm beneath her, flipping them round, holding on for the ride. Elisabeth, on top, ran her hands across his broad chest, wondering at the strength of his arms, the gentle slope of his biceps and the hard muscle of his stomach. Tightening her grip, she pinned him beneath her.

‘Strap in, baby,’ she told him, throwing her head back to gaze at the trompe l’oeil ceiling. ‘This is as close to heaven as it gets.’

Elisabeth began to rock, grabbing his hands, reaching higher, faster, like her life depended on it. Her golden mane fell in waves down her back, her pearl-white neck tilted to the ceiling. She could feel Robert’s hands on her tits, her waist, her thighs; on her throat, pressing those points beneath her ear lobes that made her knees go weak. She howled out, the pinnacle in sight.

With a final thrust they both climaxed, their bodies slick with release. Elisabeth rode the swelling tide, blinking back stars, her chest rising and falling, the pulse within her a steady, exquisite, delicious beat.

Robert St Louis moved on to his elbows and gave her a lopsided smile. He brought her face towards his and kissed her slowly, tasting her mouth.

‘You’re beautiful,’ he told her, planting a kiss on her chin, her nose, her forehead.

Elisabeth kissed him back. Together, she knew they made a staggering couple. Robert St Louis had been the most eligible bachelor in America. Now, two years on, he was hers.

Billionaire owner of two of the city’s most infamous hotels, the Orient and the Desert Jewel, he was the most handsome, and the most powerful, man in Vegas. With his dark hair, almost-black eyes, warm as melting bitter chocolate, and wicked, honest grin, he was the most devastating man she had ever laid eyes on.

‘I know,’ she told him, peeling herself off the bed and heading for their palatial en suite.

He watched her go. ‘Your father called,’ he said.

‘Do you have to tell me that right after we’ve had sex?’

He laughed. ‘Sorry.’

‘And?’

‘Says he’s got some news–I’m gonna want to hear it, apparently.’

Elisabeth rolled her eyes. She turned the shower on. ‘I’ll bet he has,’ she muttered.

As Elisabeth stepped under the pounding water, she reflected it was a good job she loved Robert like she did–as daughter of the legendary Vegas hotelier Frank Bernstein, Elisabeth had her future in the city cut out from the start. She was destined to marry a businessman, someone of her father’s choosing. It had always been that way–Bernstein made the decisions and there was no argument. Elisabeth was thirty-two now, she had a residency on the Strip and a loving, committed relationship, but still he had the power to make her feel like a bullied little girl.

Robert called something from the bedroom.

‘What?’ Elisabeth yelled over the rush of water. She ran a gloop of shampoo through her blonde hair.

The door slid open. ‘I said: Any ideas?’ He stepped in behind her. ‘Bernstein couldn’t keep a secret from you if he tried.’

‘None whatsoever,’ Elisabeth said primly. ‘It’s probably another attempt to hurry the wedding along. I wish he’d butt out. Just because he introduced us doesn’t give him carte blanche to interfere in every aspect of our lives.’

Robert knew not to press his fiancée on the sensitive subject of her father.

‘Come on,’ he said instead, helping her rinse her hair, ‘or we’ll be late.’

The Orient Hotel, Robert St Louis’s multi-billion-dollar baby and the heart of his hotel empire, was a breathtaking project. He and Elisabeth arrived an hour later in a blacked-out car, the main attractions at tonight’s charity gala event.

Two soaring towers, each peak like a closed flower, flanked a colossal central pagoda. Little square windows lit with gold travelled up as far as the eye could see, thousands of feet into the sky, until they became stars themselves. Dragons crouched at the entrance, fire screaming from their open mouths. Sparking fountains and flaming torches circled the majestic structure.

Robert’s doorman greeted them like royalty. ‘Good evening, boss.’ He dipped his head, always nervous when the top gun was in the house. ‘Ms Sabell.’

Elisabeth nodded.

‘Evening, Daniel.’ Robert knew every last one of the Orient’s staff–he had hired them all personally, from pit boss to restroom cleaner. ‘How many for the gala?’

‘Six hundred. They’re waiting for you both in the Lantern Suite.’

Robert checked his watch. ‘Frank Bernstein here yet?’

‘Not yet, sir.’

‘Make the most of it,’ Elisabeth muttered drily as they stepped into the foyer.

Robert chuckled. ‘Come on, he’s not so bad.’

Elisabeth loved the Orient. It was, in her opinion, the greatest hotel in the city. She’d grown up on the Strip, knew them all like the back of her hand, but the Orient was special, it was different. Huge china urns, big as cars, squatted in the five corners of the pentagonal lobby, overflowing with jade stalks and huge leaves sprayed in gold. Gilt-edged mirrors lined the walls beneath glowing red paper lamps. Below, the marble of the floor gleamed clear as water, like standing on the surface of a silver pool, so that your reflection made it difficult to tell which way was up and which was down. It thrilled Elisabeth to know that soon, once she and Robert were married, she would be its queen.

They swept past Reception to the waiting elevator. As they rose to the sixteenth floor, Robert took her hand.

‘I’m proud you’re on my arm,’ he told her.

‘You’re on mine, St Louis.’ She winked as they alighted.

At news of the couple’s arrival, a reverential hush fell over the assembled investors and Vegas notables. Jowly men with ruddy cheeks and fat wallets stood next to their glamorous wives, whose priceless gems dripped from their fragrant, powdered skin.

The women watched enviously as Elisabeth let the fur drop from her shoulders, revealing a glittering kingfisher-blue gown that matched her eyes. Every last one of them wanted Robert St Louis and, seeing Elisabeth now, understood why they never would.

Her fiancé took easily to the floor. ‘I’m pleased to see so many of you here,’ he said, clapping his hands together and approaching the waiting lectern. ‘It’s a special night. The Orient has been working closely with the causes here this evening …’

Elisabeth smiled, quietly greeting one of the wives with a brief air kiss.

As she watched Robert, she felt powerful. No longer was she merely Frank Bernstein’s daughter: she was part of a team that had nothing whatsoever to do with him, a team that would lay the foundations of a new Vegas dynasty. This was hers alone–she didn’t have to involve her father at all.

Nothing could come between her and Robert.

If ever it did, she would fight it to the death.

3

London

Chloe French held her expression as she reclined on the leopard-print chaise longue and followed the photographer’s instructions.

‘That’s gorgeous,’ he told her, clicking away. ‘Anyone ever told you you’ve got the face of an angel?’

They had, actually. At nineteen Chloe French was the sweetheart of London’s fashion circuit–a raw, unaffected beauty and a fledgling star on her way to the top. She was tall, nearly six feet, with a sheet of jet-black hair that fell to her waist and glittering slate-grey eyes.

A make-up girl wearing too-tight denim hot pants rushed over and reapplied pink lipgloss, fanning Chloe’s hair out around her and repositioning the vintage clutch.

‘Thanks,’ Chloe called when she scurried off.

‘Stop saying thanks,’ instructed the photographer, an Emo guy with thick Elvis-Costello-style glasses, ‘you’re disrupting the shot.’

‘Sorry,’ said Chloe, cringing. The camera popped as she pulled the face.

Chloe French had been spotted four years ago outside Topshop on Oxford Street, feeling rough amid a horrible winter cold and wearing an old hoody with a ketchup stain down the front. She’d been modelling ever since. Over that time she had worked with some of the biggest names in fashion, but she still couldn’t shake the little knots of self-consciousness that accompanied a shoot like this. There just seemed to be so much fuss.

Consulting his assistant on the stills, the photographer grinned. ‘That’s the one.’ Chloe’s slight awkwardness, so unlike the other models he was used to working with, came off brilliantly on camera as coy vulnerability.

‘Have you got what you need?’ she asked, sitting up. ‘I’m meeting Nate.’ She beamed at the mention of her rock-star boyfriend.

‘And all the world’s press?’ The photographer made a face, remembering the last time Nate Reid had come to the studio. He’d been trailed by a troop of devoted paparazzi, supposedly unintentionally, though nothing about Chloe’s boyfriend appeared to be without intention.

She laughed. ‘Don’t worry, Nate’s discreet.’

‘He is?’ The photographer raised an eyebrow. ‘I can’t open a London paper without seeing you two.’

Chloe shrugged. ‘For a musician.’

‘Yeah, the Pied fucking Piper,’ he muttered, remembering the cameras dancing at Nate’s heels.

On cue the studio door opened and a rakish figure appeared in the doorway, a wiry silhouette crowned with artfully tousled hair.

‘Nate!’ cried Chloe, jumping up and running over.

‘Great,’ the photographer said with a roll of his eyes, ‘just what we need.’

Nate Reid, frontman with The Hides, held out his arms to embrace her. Nate was the epitome of rock and roll–or at least he liked to think he was. As the hottest property in British music, he wasn’t conventionally good-looking, a little on the rangy side and quite short, but what he lacked in stature he made up for in charisma. With piercing green eyes, a fuck-you attitude and an anarchic reputation, he was, in Chloe’s eyes, everything that was wonderful in the world.

‘Hey, babe,’ said Nate, kissing her deeply. She tasted of cherries.

Chloe smiled down at him–she tried not to let the height difference bother her.

‘Are you done yet?’ he asked, a tad irritably. ‘I’ve been waiting.’

Chloe gave a hopeful expression to Emo-guy.

‘Yup, we’re done,’ he said, busy with the stills.

When she turned back she was just in time to catch Nate scoping out one of the other models, before his eyes slid swiftly back to her.

‘Let’s go,’ she said, linking his arm tightly.

Unsurprisingly, the press had caught wind of Nate’s arrival. As the couple emerged on to the street, a circus of shouting and flashing bulbs erupted. Nate held up a hand as they bustled through to the waiting car, as if the whole thing was a massive inconvenience. He parcelled Chloe away and turned to the paps, treating them to a couple of clean shots.

‘You heading out tonight, Nate?’ one of them asked. ‘Chloe going with you?’

‘Classified information, boys,’ said Nate, editing out the tip-off he’d fed through earlier. He turned to get in the car.

‘Is it true Chloe’s moving to LA?’

Nate gritted his teeth. ‘Not true.’

‘There’s talk that—’

He climbed in and slammed the door.

An army of lenses swooped in on the windows, clicking insistently, aimlessly, in the hope of catching a killer shot. The car moved off.

‘You’re so patient with them,’ Chloe said, tying her hair back. ‘I can never be arsed.’

‘’S no big deal.’

She kissed his cheek. ‘Come on, I’ve got the house to myself this afternoon.’

Nate brightened. He was a little worn out after a marathon bedroom session that morning, but he’d never been able to resist Chloe. ‘Sounds good, babe.’

Chloe gazed across at her boyfriend and felt her heart swell. Nate Reid was her hero–the night they’d met was proof of that.

So what if she caught him checking out other girls from time to time, it didn’t matter. It was her he was committed to and that was the important thing. Right? Relationships required work–she knew that from her own experience. You couldn’t just give up if you loved someone. And she loved Nate Reid. Nothing, and no one, was going to change that.

4

Los Angeles

The man on top of Lana Falcon let out a low groan as he slipped a hand between her legs. She could feel his growing hardness, hot and thick against her skin. At the sudden quickening of his breath, a rhythm she knew so well, she could tell he was desperate to be inside her. ‘I want you now,’ he whispered hoarsely, his hand diving under her ass and pulling her up to meet him. Only when his fingers found the gusset of her modesty underwear and he momentarily slipped himself in did she bite down hard on his bottom lip.

‘Ow!’ Parker Troy pulled back, a hurt expression on his face.

‘Cut!’ the director called, not noticing. ‘Lana, that was perfect. Real authentic. It’s a wrap, people.’

Lana raised her arm and the wardrobe girl came rushing over, covering her with a gown. The crew made a polite attempt not to notice her knock-out body as she shrugged on the thin material. She had requested a closed set–as she did with all topless scenes–but even so every last one of the guys was fighting down a raging hard-on.

‘That was excellent,’ said Sam Lucas, striding over. The director was a rotund, shiny-headed bald man in his late fifties with thin, very round glasses. ‘You’re bringing something exceptional to this role–that was a hard scene to get right.’

It was certainly hard, Lana thought. She tried not to notice that Sam’s eyes, disconcertingly enlarged behind the lenses of his glasses, kept darting to her breasts. Gritting her teeth, she decided to forgive the transgression–Sam was one of the industry’s die-hard movie elite and thousands of actresses would kill to be in her position. Eastern Sky, a historical romance set in 1920s China and Sam’s directorial comeback, could earn her an Award.

‘Thanks, Sam,’ she said, wanting to get dressed. ‘It means a lot to have your support.’ When he didn’t respond she asked, ‘How are the dailies?’

‘Good,’ said Sam, meeting her eyes momentarily before they slid back to the main attraction. ‘Real good.’

Lana folded her arms, mortified that her nipples were standing to attention. Couldn’t they make these gowns a bit more substantial? She couldn’t tell if it was because she was under scrutiny or whether she was still hot from Parker’s touch, but whatever it was, Sam Lucas was drinking it in. He might as well be licking his lips for all his discretion.

‘Well, I’ll, uh, be with you first thing,’ she said hurriedly, relieved to see the wardrobe girl returning with a clipboard and an efficient smile.

‘Yeah,’ said Sam, back to business. ‘Call-time nine o’clock.’ And he headed off in the direction of his assistant.

Ten years in this town and she still wasn’t used to it. Men who thought she owed them something, thought her body was a kind of recompense. She’d had enough of it to last a lifetime.

‘Can I get you anything, Ms Falcon?’ the girl asked, noticing Lana’s anxious expression.

‘Thanks, I’m OK.’ Lana gave a friendly smile as they made their way back to base camp. It saddened her to think the girl was too afraid to continue the conversation, as if Lana belonged now to a world in which people couldn’t converse without fear of tripping up. Her marriage to Cole Steel was lonely. She missed friendship, especially the easy intimacy that women shared. It was why she had embarked on the reckless affair with Parker Troy: she craved the warmth.

Lana stole a quick glance over her shoulder and caught her co-star chatting to crew, his dirty-blond hair falling over his eyes. He had a slightly pug nose and his jaw was chunky in a Matt Damon-type way. At twenty, he was younger than Lana and somewhat airheaded, but she wasn’t in it for the conversation. This was a mindless, red-hot, dangerous romance–barely a month old–and one she had to conceal from her husband at all costs. Parker had been foolish, getting carried away on set today: never mind that she was fucking him in her own time–when they were filming it had to be on her terms. All it took was one witness to bring the whole thing crashing down, and nobody would pay a higher price than her.

At her trailer Lana showered, changed into sweat pants and drank a litre of water. She checked her watch, wondering if Parker would call. Come on, baby, she thought, I’ve got pick-up in five. When her cell buzzed, she snatched it up.

It was Rita Clay, her agent. Rita was legendary in Hollywood, a tall, strikingly attractive black woman in her late thirties and one of LA’s top ball-breakers.

‘Hey, movie star, how was the shoot?’

Lana ran a hand through her hair. It was good to hear a friendly voice that told it like it was. On a sea of bullshit, Rita was one who managed to stay afloat. ‘Good. What’s up?’

‘Come to lunch.’

‘I’ll have to check my schedule—’

‘It’s done. Friday, twelve-thirty, Campanile.’

Lana laughed. ‘Fine.’ Rita talked as fast as she worked.

It had been the same when they’d first met. Lana had been seventeen when she’d walked into Rita Clay’s downtown office, had possessed the poise and determination of someone unafraid to lose. If the place she was running from couldn’t break her, neither could this big, bad industry. She didn’t talk about the past and Rita didn’t ask–it didn’t matter where she’d come from; it mattered where she was going.

‘You’ve got talent and you’re beautiful,’ Rita had said after their meeting, grinding out a cigarette and immediately lighting another. ‘Believe me, it’s rare. We’re going straight to the top, sweetheart.’ Her agent had gone on to secure a string of small but carefully selected TV deals, and a little over a year later Lana had landed her first break: a starring role in one of America’s most beloved sitcoms. Since then she’d gained precious credibility in a couple of cleverly positioned independent films, and in the months that followed LA’s casting agents were over her like a rash.

‘And don’t forget Kate diLaurentis’s dinner party next week,’ said Rita, dragging her back to the present. ‘I know it’s not easy with the Cole situation.’

‘Hmm.’ Lana felt a crunch of dread. Kate diLaurentis was a ruthless actress in her forties with balls of iron and a face full of Botox. She was also Cole Steel’s ex-wife.

‘My advice? Conserve your energies,’ Rita said matter-of-factly. ‘She’s invited press so you and Cole are gonna have to look the part.’

Lana closed her eyes, giving in to the alternate notes of exhaustion and fear that his name evoked.

‘You still there?’

‘I’m here.’ She checked the time and started to get her bag together. Cole’s driver would be turning up in minutes and she couldn’t be late for the car–anything extraordinary would arouse her husband’s attention.

‘I know it’s difficult,’ said Rita, blowing out smoke. ‘We never thought it would be easy. But you’re doing it, girl, and that’s what matters.’

The women said their goodbyes and Lana hung up. She’d do anything to be able to confide in Rita about the affair with Parker Troy, but she knew she couldn’t–there was too much at stake. No, if anyone knew the importance of keeping a secret, it was her.

When her pager beeped Lana scooped her bag on to her shoulder, pulled on a baseball cap and headed out of the trailer. Keeping her head down and ignoring one especially persistent paparazzo who had been trailing her for days, she made her way through to the car. Cole’s driver was waiting, a big Hispanic guy with arms folded across his broad chest.

Nodding an acknowledgement, she slipped into the Mercedes’ black leather interior.

When the door closed and darkness enveloped her, she knew she was going home.

5

Cole Steel stepped out on to his glass-bottomed terrace and squinted against the afternoon sun. Drawing a pair of shades from the top pocket of his crisp, white shirt, he ran a manicured thumb around each lens until it gleamed.

With the sheer expanse of his gated Beverly Hills mansion spread out below, his beautiful wife due home any moment and his role in a sure-fire action adventure tied up just this afternoon, Cole was a happy man. In the acting game since the eighties, he had realised pretty quickly that you had to work your balls off for this kind of life. And you had to know who to trust.

On cue a security camera to his left–one of thirty-six on the property–turned on its pivot, sensing motion. These cameras were like highly trained dogs: anything Cole needed to know about and they’d be hot on it. The bottom line was that these pieces of kit were loyal–they told him everything. People, on the other hand, did not.

He checked the time on his Tag watch and frowned a little, careful not to let the lines run too deep. Just last month he had been for his first Botox session and had decided never again. For days after his expression had been totally blank–thank God it had been rectified before Venice. He recalled spending an hour in front of the mirror, eyes staring wild from a frozen mask like something out of a horror movie. Not to mention the panic at one side of his mouth going slack as though he’d had a stroke. No, never again. All that filler shit, none of it was for him–he was a serious actor, for crissakes: his trophy room was testament to that.

He buzzed the intercom. The house was so big he needed a network of them to oil things efficiently. ‘Consuela, get me a fresh lemonade.’

The Spanish maid was with him in seconds. He took the drink without thanking her.

Where the hell was Lana? She was due back by now. Leaning on the balustrade, he narrowed his eyes at the view. In recent weeks he had been prey to a niggling feeling that his wife was hiding something. She was staying in her rooms a lot more these days and, he was sure, avoided looking at him directly. Whatever it was, he’d get to the bottom of it.

In the meantime, Lana needed to sort out her attitude and fast. It wouldn’t do for Cole Steel’s wife to be touring LA looking miserable–she was married to royalty!

Taking a slug of the cool drink, Cole felt something small and hard catch at the back of his throat. He gagged, gasping for air, the force of it dislodging his sunglasses.

Consuela came rushing out, nervously knotting her hands in her apron. ‘Mr Steel? Is everything all right?’

He spat on to the terrace and out flew a lemon pip. ‘No, it isn’t, as a matter of fact,’ he hissed, eyeing her fiercely over the shades that hung drunkenly off his immaculate face. ‘Can’t you squeeze a piece of fruit, you freaking idiot?’

The Spanish woman felt her cheeks flush. She nodded furiously.

‘Forgive me, sir. It was my mistake.’ She nodded to where the pip had landed on the terrace, embarrassed in its solitude. It was about half the size of a fingernail. ‘I will clean.’

Cole turned to go inside. He felt nauseated. ‘Make a thorough job of it,’ he said grimly. And then, for effect, ‘I want to see my face in this before the sun goes down.’ Yeah, that sounded great: maybe he should write it into one of his movies.

With a mild sense of panic Cole headed to the west bathroom to clean his teeth, realising this would throw off his five o’clock session. He brushed eight times a day at two-hourly intervals–they didn’t say he had the best smile in Hollywood for nothing. Now that dumb maid had compromised his routine, something he didn’t like. He’d fire her tomorrow.

Downstairs, he checked his schedule. Tomorrow’s go-green fundraiser, that launch in Chicago he’d promised his agent he’d attend at the weekend, Kate diLaurentis’s dinner party on Wednesday. He grimaced. The thought of spending an evening with his monstrous ex-wife and her can’t-keep-it-in-his-pants comedian husband left a sour taste in his mouth. If only it didn’t pay to keep her sweet.

Before taking Lana as his wife, Cole had been married to Kate diLaurentis for seven long years. These days she was barely recognisable as the fresh-faced actress he had once known: pumped to bursting with every filler going and practically comatose on prescription tranquillisers, she had wound up a sad, fading actress watching her career spin rapidly down the shitter. Prone to barking pithy digs after one bottle too many, Cole thanked Christ she had never found out about him, the reason why he couldn’t …

Fiercely he shook his head. No, that was something he had never told anyone. He’d take it to his grave.

Turning off the solid silver faucets, Cole appraised himself in the gilt-framed mirror and liked what he saw. Yes, he’d be set for the week. There was no one in Hollywood who came close to Cole Steel and, smirking knowingly at his reflection, he conceded it was hardly a surprise. Perfection was a difficult thing to achieve, but it was even harder to maintain. Cole had it nailed. Since his boyhood he had imagined being the man he now saw in front of him. Some days he wasn’t entirely sure he hadn’t dreamed himself up.

As the Mercedes slid through the black cast-iron gates and snaked up the winding driveway, Lana was stunned, as she was every time, by the magnitude of Cole’s mansion.

She tapped on the partition glass and the top of the driver’s head came into view. His black hair was plastered to a slightly perspiring forehead and his lips were fleshy and pink.

‘I’ll get out here,’ Lana said, testing him. They were only a hundred yards from the house, but to her it was a matter of principle.

‘Boss says different,’ the driver grunted, his flinty eyes meeting hers in the rear-view mirror. ‘I ain’t pissin’ him off.’ The partition slid back up as her husband’s black-bottomed infinity pool came into view. It winked in the sunlight.

Lana slumped in her seat. She thought briefly of Parker Troy and craved the heat of his body, remembering how good it had felt when he’d touched her; the thrill of it in front of the crew. Rebellion was what kept her going.

They rounded Cole’s stone water feature, a giant, staggered structure modelled on the Trevi Fountain, and pulled up next to his silver Bugatti. The car was the jewel in Cole’s crown. He’d spent a million dollars on it–to Lana, who had grown up in extreme circumstances and was still, even now, acclimatising to the extravagance of her lifestyle, it was a shocking amount of money. She could tell he was torn between housing it in the garage with his assortment of Bentleys and his much-loved tangerine Lotus Elise, or leaving it here for everyone to admire. In the end, as usual, vanity had triumphed.

Two sleek black Dobermans, still and silent as her husband, crouched like sentries on either side of the mansion door. The dogs panted when they saw her, recognising her scent, their tongues pale pink in the heat. One of them came too close and emitted a low growl, perhaps smelling another man on her skin. She hurried inside.

Silence. Lana dropped her bag and walked across the empty hall, her footsteps echoing round the vaulted ceiling. Paintings of Cole adorned the walls–his most cherished, an abstract piece entitled The Moment I Met Myself, was suspended above the main stairs.

‘Hello?’ she called out. Her own voice winged back at her.

It was the quiet she couldn’t stand–it made the loneliness that much more acute. She craved a visit to the staff quarters, where she could have a proper conversation with somebody, and it galled her to think that they must consider her a grade-A bitch. And why wouldn’t they? She was married to the most powerful man in Hollywood. She’d fallen for the fame and she’d chased the money, just like they all did.

Or at least that was how it looked.

Lana fixed herself a drink at the bar. She listened to the ice tinkle against the glass.

‘You’re home.’

Cole was at the foot of the stairs, watching her carefully. How did he approach her so quietly? It gave her the creeps.

‘Drinking in the afternoon?’ he demanded, unable to help himself. Cole didn’t like his wife enjoying alcohol, even in such small quantities.

Lana took a breath. Just because he drove his ex-wife to drink doesn’t mean he’ll do the same to you.

‘I’ll do what I like, when I like, Cole,’ she told him evenly.

Abruptly his handsome face broke into a winning smile. He took the stool next to hers.

‘You know I’m just teasing,’ he said in an artificially playful way that made her feel queasy. ‘I wanted to catch you while I could, I’m aware we haven’t spent much time together recently.’ He paused. ‘We’ve got a mutual appearance next week—’

‘Kate diLaurentis’s party.’ Lana nodded, keeping her eyes down. ‘It’s under control.’ She stopped herself saying ‘I know the drill’ and drained the last of her vodka.

Cole extended a white, moisturised hand and settled it self-consciously on his wife’s leg. She tried not to look at him–on camera he was a handsome man but in real life he was plastic on a good day and on a bad one plain bizarre. Lana knew he’d had a filler done recently and regretted it–as a result his skin had taken on an unnerving sort of sheen, like rubber. He looked sticky, like someone had taken him out of a box and polished him.

Trying to ignore the contact, which seemed uncalled-for given the circumstances, Lana ran a finger across the solid oak bar.

‘Do you ever get tired of it?’

His eyes were blank, unreadable. ‘What?’

Lana shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ She hadn’t expected an answer. Cole Steel was as closed to her now as he’d been when she was growing up, watching his movies.

He placed his glass on the bar, using both hands to position it squarely. When he was satisfied, he turned and pinned his wife with a stare.

‘It’s our job,’ he said hollowly. ‘You’ll wear the green dress at Kate’s, the off-the-shoulder Gucci. Open-toe sandals and that diamond necklace I bought you. Make sure we show them your left side if that blemish hasn’t cleared up.’

Lana touched the soft skin under her eye, feeling the tiny scratch that had appeared there. She nodded. The conversation was over and, as always, Cole had ended it.

Armed with her instructions, she headed up the back staircase to her private quarters. The quiet was deafening. It was married life.

6

Las Vegas

‘What a voice!’ exclaimed Elisabeth’s stage manager, his jauntily positioned trilby almost slipping off with the excitement of it.

Elisabeth Sabell smiled as she swept into the wings, rapturous applause filling the Desert Jewel auditorium. Her heart was racing.

‘It was good?’ she breathed, fully aware it had been.

‘It was magnificent,’ he told her, kissing both cheeks. ‘We had a full house tonight.’

The crew rushed over, showering Elisabeth with compliments. Somebody trod on the skirt of her scarlet gown but she was too euphoric to care.

‘Thank you!’ she cried, graciously accepting armfuls of gifts: bouquets of sweet-smelling flowers; notes from well-wishers; and on top of that an assortment of soft toys, a couple of bug-eyed ones clutching felt hearts that she could have done without.

Her PA rushed forward. ‘Mr Bellini would like to see you, ma’am.’

Elisabeth bit her lip. I’ll bet he wants to see me. Alberto Bellini was General Manager at the Desert Jewel, the second of Robert St Louis’s epic hotels, and worked under her fiancé’S supervision. He was an Italian in his sixties, a born Lothario, drinker and gambler, and one of her father’s cronies.

‘Thank you,’ she said, offloading the gifts into her assistant’s arms. One of the toys squeaked in protest. ‘I’ll be there.’

As Elisabeth made her way to her dressing room, charming admirers along the way, she hoped Alberto Bellini wasn’t about to give her a lecture. Some crap about how she should quit singing–that it had been her mother’s thing, not hers–and get to grips with Bernstein’s hotel legacy. Over and over everyone tried to fit her into her father’s pocket. What about her own ambitions?

She’d earned her right to sing tonight. All through her twenties Elisabeth had worked long and hard to make a name for herself, and now she had she sure as hell wasn’t getting swallowed up by her father’s empire. Bernstein considered her whimsical, that music was just a phase born out of longing for her dead mother. But she’d proved him wrong. For years she’d performed in smoky bars on the Strip, hauling her way to the top, and now she’d made it she sure as hell wasn’t letting anyone bring her down.

Smiling to herself, she pulled open the door to her dressing room. As soon as she saw Alberto Bellini, she knew he hadn’t come to lecture her. On the contrary, in fact.

‘Bellissima,’ he crooned in a thick accent, standing to greet her. ‘You were sensational tonight.’ He presented her with the hugest bouquet of roses she had ever seen–whites, yellows, reds, pinks, all bound up with a violet ribbon.

‘Thank you,’ said Elisabeth, taking a seat at her dressing table. In the mirrors she could see the old Italian, now reclining in a red velvet chair with his legs crossed. He was tall and sinewy, with thick pure-white hair and a hook nose. The room stretched out behind him, fragments caught in diamond shapes like a kaleidoscope. He was watching her intently.

‘What’s this?’ she asked, reaching for a black velvet box with a little card from Robert tucked inside.

‘Never mind that,’ Alberto said, coming to her. He placed his dry hands on her bare shoulders and leaned down to whisper in her ear. ‘A star is born tonight.’

Elisabeth rolled her eyes. It was no great secret that Alberto harboured a schoolboy crush–it’d been that way for ages. She and Robert laughed about it.

‘Oh, give it up,’ she told him, applying a flush of rouge. ‘I don’t need to sleep with you to keep this gig. You work for my fiancé, remember?’

Alberto chuckled. ‘You are right, bellissima. When you do sleep with me, it will be of your own free will.’

Elisabeth turned round. ‘Don’t hold your breath,’ she told him. ‘You’re an old horse, Bellini, it’d probably kill you.’

‘You kill me a little every time.’ He held his arms up and made a face like a sad clown.

‘I’m sure,’ she said, narrowing her eyes. She’d known Alberto since she was a little girl–he’d always been around when she’d been growing up–but she could never tell if he was being serious or not.

‘When is the wedding?’ he asked now, turning away, his hands linked behind his back. His distinguished frame was at ease in the opulent den of her dressing room. Modelled on the Egyptian pyramids, its gold fabrics swept grandly from a sphinx gargoyle in the middle of the ceiling. Baskets of fruit, olives and nuts were clustered in one corner, and a small fountain of mineral water stood proud at its centre.

‘Robert and I are yet to set a date.’ Elisabeth picked up the velvet box, extracted the note from her fiancé and smiled. Inside was a diamond necklace, an exquisite chain of gems, each one in the shape of a heart.

Alberto did not turn to face her. ‘But you do want to marry him.’

Elisabeth frowned. ‘Of course I want to marry him.’

‘It is what your father wants.’

‘I’m sure it is.’ Her voice tightened. She fastened the necklace and sat back to admire it.

‘It is what the city wants.’

‘I’m aware of that.’

‘It is not what I want.’

Abruptly Elisabeth stood up. ‘I haven’t got time for this, Bellini. Is there anything else?’

He came to her, his expression wistful. ‘I fear I should not tell you this,’ Alberto licked his lips, ‘but I cannot help myself.’ He took her hands. ‘You are so like your mother, Elisabeth. So headstrong, so forthright, so … beautiful.’

Elisabeth was taken aback. Linda Sabell, one of the greatest singers of the seventies, had been killed in a plane crash when Elisabeth was only three. Her father never spoke her name; Bellini was the only one who seemed to recognise she’d gone.

‘Thank you,’ she said, tears threatening. She cleared her throat, cross with herself for showing weakness.

‘When I look at you.’ Alberto searched her eyes, looking for what she couldn’t tell. ‘My darling, your mother lives again.’

Elisabeth was transfixed a moment, before blinking and dropping his hands.

‘I am sorry. I have said too much.’

She wrapped her arms round herself, turning away. ‘Please, go.’

‘I did not mean to upset you.’ His voice was gentle.

Elisabeth shook her head, refusing to look at him. ‘I’m fine.’

A moment later she heard the door shut quietly. She closed her eyes, dragging herself together. Linda was so seldom mentioned that each time it hurt like the first. The mother she had never known, the woman whose legacy she felt it her duty to maintain. Oh, to have had a female in her life when she’d been growing up, someone to be close to. Instead she had been raised almost exclusively by men. Bernstein, Bellini, her grandfather before he’d died–it had made her tough, sure, but what she wouldn’t give for five minutes with the woman she couldn’t even remember.

Thank God for Robert St Louis. He cherished her independence, always said it was one of the things he loved best. Linda would have liked him.

Elisabeth turned back to the mirror. She gave her reflection a reassuring nod. Once they were married, a new future would begin; one her mother would be proud of.

7

London

Chloe French arrived home in Hampstead feeling tired and interrogated. She’d spent the afternoon at a photo shoot for a Sunday paper supplement–the sharp-featured woman interviewing her had insisted on asking all manner of difficult questions about her upbringing, rather than focusing on her modelling and her relationship with Nate Reid, either of which she would have preferred to talk about.

Thank God for PR, thought Chloe, tossing her bag down in the empty hall.

‘Dad?’ she called out. Silence.

She checked the time. Maybe he’d gone out.

Padding into the kitchen, Chloe tried to remember a time when it hadn’t been like this–a house so quiet and still that it seemed to be in mourning for times gone by. Before the divorce her parents had thrown a party nearly every week: Chloe recalled sitting at the top of the stairs when she was little and meant to be in bed, listening to the grown-ups’ conversations; the tinny ring of wine glasses and the distant, merry laughter.

The doorbell went. It was Nate.

‘Hey!’ she said, stepping out to kiss him. ‘How was the studio?’

Nate pushed through. ‘Get me in, I’ve got a pap on my tail.’

Chloe frowned, looking past him. ‘I can’t see anyone.’

‘Buggers don’t let up,’ he said, stalking past in his Jagger swagger.

She followed him into the kitchen. He had his head in the fridge and was picking at an open packet of Parma ham.

‘They were shitty at the Bystander.‘ She pulled out a chair and flopped down.

‘Did they ask about me?’

‘Nah, it was all Mum and Dad.’ She bit her thumbnail. ‘I’m tired of talking about it–it’s like everyone has to have a sob story or something. What’s the big deal?’

Nate snapped open a jar of pickles. ‘Our story’s better,’ he said insensitively, tossing in a gherkin. ‘You should have got them off the subject, started talking about me.’

Chloe smiled faintly. He was only trying to take her mind off it.

‘They’re all over us, babe,’ he went on, popping the jar on the shelf and closing the door. ‘They love all that shit.’

Nate was referring to the night he and Chloe had got together a couple of years before. Under any other circumstances, people might have baulked at the idea of them being an item–sweet, stunning Chloe French and a slightly grimy rock star with an alleged drug problem. But this was a modern-day fairy tale, or at least that was how the press saw it.

It had all happened at a wild party in Shoreditch. Chloe didn’t remember much, just knew she’d had way too much to drink come midnight. She’d fallen seriously ill, spewing up all over the place and blacking out–later it transpired she’d had her drink spiked. Thankfully Nate Reid, supposedly the wildest child of them all, had intervened, got his head together and taken her to the nearest A&E. The following morning iconic images were splashed across the London papers: bad-boy Nate carrying good-girl Chloe in his arms, folding her limp body into a car, waiting at the hospital, taking her home, holding her hand.

For Chloe, Nate was her knight in shining armour.

‘You should have told that to the woman who interviewed me.’ Chloe made a face. ‘She was so uptight, I think she was jumped up on something. I needed the loo halfway through and felt too uncomfortable to say anything.’

Nate snorted. ‘You’re weird, babe.’

‘Yeah, well.’

‘Your dad’s bird’s here,’ he stated, nodding out to the modest garden.

‘She is?’ Chloe should have known–the place was too tidy for her father to be alone, the washing-up had been done for a start. His girlfriend Janet had all but moved in these past few months.

Sure enough, at the far end of the lawn and enjoying the last of the late-summer sun, was Gordon. He and Janet were seated on a blanket, with a bottle of wine and a scattering of food. Her two young sons, frizzy-haired twins with slightly crossed eyes, mucked about nearby. Chloe watched them for a while with a strange mix of sadness and relief. She was happy her father had found someone, but couldn’t help feeling the outsider. The two of them had managed together when Audrey, her mother, had left, and when Chloe had started to make her own money she had decided to stay at the family home, not wanting her father to be alone.

Audrey had walked when Chloe was twelve. She’d met a poet through one of her evening workshops called Yarn–it was actually spelled Jan but for Chloe it remained as it had when she’d first heard it, that strange, foreign sound. Yarn had long hair, no money and a face the colour of the moon. Chloe had met him once, when Audrey had still been interested in maintaining contact. They had been for a strained coffee in Highgate and Chloe had noticed how her mother smelled different, sort of clammy and yeasty, not like she used to smell at all. Audrey had hung on to every word Yarn said, even though Chloe–in the first stage of adolescence but pretty much with the right idea–had thought it was all a lot of sweet-smelling bullshit. She’d known then that she had lost her mother, at least the one she had grown up with. There had been a handful of meetings since and the necessary birthday and Christmas cards, but that was it.

‘Let’s go upstairs,’ said Chloe, taking Nate’s hand. ‘I feel sad.’

Nate grabbed a bottle of beer. ‘Bet I know how to cheer you up.’

‘I know you do,’ smiled Chloe, relieved she had someone as committed to her as Nate. Growing up she’d thought her mum and dad would be together for ever–it had been horrible when they’d split. What happened to her parents wouldn’t happen to them.

They mounted the stairs, she going backwards, his face in her hands. She kissed him hard, unbuckling him as they came to the landing. He tasted kind of stale, like he hadn’t cleaned his teeth in a while. It wasn’t unpleasant.

Nate tripped at the top step and they fell back. A slosh of beer leaked into the carpet.

‘Shit!’ Chloe laughed as she landed on her bum.

Nate didn’t see the funny side. He began unbuttoning her shirt, feeding a hand through, roughly cupping her breast. ‘I’ve got to fuck you,’ he whispered.

‘Not here,’ she managed between kisses, feeling the scratch of the rug beneath her back.

Nate pierced her with a green stare, slowly running his fingers down to the waist of her jeans, sliding towards the heat of her knickers. ‘Here.’

‘No!’ she laughed, attempting to wriggle free.

‘Why not,’ he said flatly, pinning her down. He held her arms above her head with one hand, used the other to unclasp her bra.

‘Because someone might see,’ she said anxiously, aware from the bulge in Nate’s boxers that he could be right outside on the picnic blanket for all it mattered to him.

‘So?’

Chloe made a face. ‘Come on, Nate,’ she said, pushing him off.

Grudgingly he followed her into the bedroom, his erection leading the way. Chloe always played it so safe. It was why, just occasionally, he needed to get his kicks elsewhere.

When Chloe woke, her mobile was ringing. Disorientated, she grappled for it. Night had descended in a purple cloak, close against her window. Nate had gone.

Foggy-eyed, she checked the display. It was Melissa Darling, her agent at Scout.

‘Hello?’ She propped herself up on one elbow, stifling a yawn.

‘Chloe, it’s Melissa. Have you got a minute? It’s important.’

Chloe sat up. ‘Sure, what is it?’

‘You remember the LA proposition we discussed?’

Chloe nodded. The agency had been looking at moving her into acting for some time now and had been waiting for the right part to come along. ‘Yes?’ she said cautiously.

‘There’s a small role I’m looking at in America, a historical romance.’ Melissa took a breath. ‘I think it’s perfect for you. Exactly the right vehicle to launch you over there.’

‘Really?’ Chloe couldn’t contain the squeak in her voice. Melissa’s tone told her this was a big deal.

‘Really.’ Another pause. ‘It’s not in the bag yet, but I’m working on it. It’s a Sam Lucas production–you’d be filming your scene opposite Lana Falcon.’

‘Lana Falcon?’ She was wide awake now. Chloe practically bounced off the bed. ‘You’re kidding!’ She paced the room, scarcely believing the conversation was happening. Maybe she was still dreaming.

Melissa laughed. ‘I thought you’d be happy–and I hope they will be, too. There’s been a schedule collapse in LA: they’re after someone with the right UK profile and, I’m pleased to say, you fit the bill.’

Chloe caught her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were sparkling; her cheeks flushed red with excitement. ‘Melissa, I’m so thrilled,’ she said.

‘Don’t book any holidays for the next month, OK?’

‘OK.’

After the women hung up, Chloe sat at the end of her bed, her hands shaking. Sam Lucas. Lana Falcon. This was what every girl dreamed of; what she herself had dreamed of in this very room for the past ten years. And now it was coming true.

She looked around at the shadows of her childhood; a dolls’ house she couldn’t bear to part with; a book she’d been read every night before bed. It was the past. Her father didn’t need her any more. The time had come to move on.

Wait till she told Nate, he’d be so made up. It was all going to be perfect.

8

Las Vegas

‘Let’s go, sweet-cheeks. I ain’t got all day, ya know.’

The woman at the craps table was a tired-looking specimen with thin fair hair and too much red lipstick. She volleyed a strike of insults at Robert’s dealer. The poor guy knew the boss was observing and his shoulders tensed.

Robert caught the boxman’s eye and nodded. The woman was wearing diamonds, real ones, but her clothes told a different story. She’d been hustling the tables all week. He gave an imperceptible signal to one of the overhead cameras–the eyes in the sky would pick her up.

It was a daily schedule: each afternoon Robert St Louis walked the labyrinth of his casinos, touched base with his managers for word on the take and warmly greeted the high rollers. Blackjack, roulette, baccarat, this was where the big money spun. The Orient’s chief casino was a grid of mazes, no natural light, no clocks; no indication of time passing.

Robert’s job was to get the players in and keep them there. Nobody did it better.

The St Louis name had been a commanding force in Vegas since Robert’s father founded the Desert Jewel in the early nineties. Vincent St Louis, real name Vince Lewis, a hotelier from Belleville, Ohio, had made his fortune through dedication and hard toil. Robert had joined him in his early twenties, shadowing his father and studying the business: everything he knew about hotels he’d learned from those eighteen months at the Desert Jewel. When Vincent had died, Robert had assumed his place at the helm. In that year alone takings had trebled–Vinny’s son had the killer knack, everybody said it; it was instinctive. Word got around and investors started to listen. That summer Robert began working up plans for his own baby, the Orient: the most extravagant, opulent hotel in the world.

Robert paused at the east slots. Even in all his years of gaming, these were the people he was most fascinated by. Players who stayed in the same place all day and all night, scooping tokens from a metal tray only to put the same straight back into the machine.

That was Vegas all over, he reflected as he summoned the elevator: a machine. You took money out of it; the money went back in. They were spinning. That was all they were doing.

On the thirtieth floor, his last appointment of the day was waiting: Elisabeth’s father. Frank Bernstein, proprietor of the Parthenon Hotel and Casino, was a cut-throat member of the Vegas power elite. He was short and stocky, just on the right side of fat, with a bush of grey hair and sharp, watchful eyes. You couldn’t get a thing past Bernstein–he had the eyes of a hawk.

‘St Louis, you an’ me have got some talkin’ to do.’ He slapped Robert on the back.

‘So I understand.’ Robert opened the door to his office. ‘Come on through.’

Robert’s office at the Orient was an imposing room, decked out in mahogany panelling and leather furniture. Contemporary art adorned the walls, bold, clean shapes and precise lines. A photograph of a smiling Elisabeth sat proud on his desk, next to a wooden box of Havana cigars. The magnificent Strip rolled out behind.

‘I got news for ya, kid,’ said Bernstein, helping himself to a smoke. That was Bernstein all over: what was Robert’s was also his. It took some getting used to.

Robert shrugged off his suit jacket, loosened his tie and took a seat. He was wary of Bernstein: the older man had been in the business thirty years, had known Vegas when it had been run by the mob. Even though the Chicago Outfit had long since been driven out of town, it was a badly kept secret that Bernstein still had connections. Back in the eighties he had acted as lawyer to some of the boys and as a result of that was a trusted asset, whether he liked it or not. And Bernstein did like it, even if Robert tried not to dwell on the implications.

‘What’s that?’ he asked.

Bernstein lit the cigar and drew on it deeply, making a pa-pa-pa sound with his lips. ‘Take a look at this.’ He threw down a copy of People magazine.

Robert raised an eyebrow and picked it up.

It was her.

The face he knew so well; those green eyes, that smile. He had seen her before, of course, countless times–she was everywhere, on the front covers of magazines, on the TV, on billboards right across the country. He ought to be used to it by now, hated that he wasn’t; hated that still, even after all these years, she could make him feel this way.

Lana Falcon.

‘Pretty little thing, ain’t she?’ Bernstein rubbed his hands together in an excited way.

Robert did his best to look disinterested, though his heart stung. Belleville was a lifetime ago–he’d refused to think about it, battled it to the ground and buried it deep, and for a while he’d thought the memory was fading. But whenever he saw her.

‘What’s this about?’ he asked eventually.

Holding the cigar between his lips and taking a seat opposite his protégé, Bernstein gave a satisfied grin that exposed a wall of gleaming teeth.

‘Sam Lucas has got a movie in production–Eastern Sky. It’s gonna be big.’

‘And?’ Robert tried to control the snap in his voice. ‘What’s it got to do with Lana Falcon?’

Bernstein guffawed. ‘Are you kidding? She’s the freakin’ star of the movie—’

‘I don’t need a who’s who of Hollywood,’ said Robert abruptly. ‘Get to the point, Bernstein.’

‘OK, OK, don’t tie your balls in a knot. I got some money behind it, ya know, gotta keep the wheels turning.’

Robert nodded. He knew Bernstein was a keen investor in anything set to make money: he had eyes and ears in every city, including LA. If this movie was tipped to be hot property, it went without saying that Bernstein would somehow be involved.

The older man took a moment, savoured it before delivering the news. ‘It’s coming here, pal. Next summer. The Eastern Sky premiere’s coming straight to the Orient.’

Robert didn’t think he’d heard correctly. ‘You’re kidding.’

Bernstein grinned. ‘Nice little deal, huh? I knew you’d jump at it.’

There was a brief silence. ‘How? I mean—’

‘Me an’ Sam go back,’ Bernstein said, puffing away and looking satisfied with himself. ‘I got a vested interest in him; he’s got a vested interest in me. Y’know how it is.’

Robert stood, shaking his head in disbelief. Then, as the implications began to sink in, a grin broke across his face. ‘This is a major coup, Bernstein.’

‘Damn right it is.’ Bernstein ground out his cigar in a Lalique ashtray–he had an expensive habit of only ever smoking the very top. ‘I woulda taken it for the Parthenon but, ya know, the movie’s got a theme, ain’t it. Chinese an’ all that. The producers wanted the Orient.’ He shrugged. ‘What the hell–I did, too.’

Robert held his hands up. ‘What can I say? I’m grateful. Thank you.’

As the men shook hands, it crossed Robert’s mind that Bernstein had an ulterior motive–Bernstein always did. He wasn’t getting any younger, wanted his daughter married and fast. He wanted, Robert suspected, to bring him and Elisabeth in on whatever deal he had going with Chicago. Securing his future son-in-law the Sam Lucas premiere was a bold statement, and in doing so Bernstein was applying that necessary bit of pressure.

‘You just bring the money in, kid. An’ you can fix me a drink while you’re at it.’

Robert poured them both one–Scotch on the rocks with a twist of lemon. Thoughts of Lana Falcon threatened to surface, but he forced them down. If he kept focused on the business, he wouldn’t have to think about seeing her again.

Damn! They’d be reunited after ten years apart. He hadn’t seen her or heard from her in all that time. It was too much of a risk for them to know each other any more. Not after what they’d done.

‘So when you gonna make an honest woman of my daughter?’ Bernstein took a hefty swig, served up with a lethal crocodile grin.

Robert let her go. Lana Falcon was nothing but trouble.

‘In my own good time, Bernstein.’

‘It’s the way forward, kid.’ He reached for another Cuban and lit it with a flourish. ‘Elisabeth’s a beautiful girl—’

‘You don’t need to tell me that.’

‘And she ain’t gettin’ any younger neither.’

Robert laughed. ‘She’s thirty-two, Bernstein.’

‘In my day a broad woulda been divorced twice already by now.’ He sat back.

Robert raised an eyebrow. ‘It’s a good job times have changed, then, huh?’ He drained his glass and winced as the alcohol blazed a trail down his throat.

Bernstein pointed a fat finger in Robert’s direction and gave him a wink. ‘An’ they’re gonna change again.’ He ground the cigar out in a twist of smoke. ‘Talk to me once you’re married–I’ve got plans for you, St Louis.’

9

Los Angeles

The Bel Air mansion shared by Kate diLaurentis and Jimmy Hart was a magnificent cream Spanish-style villa lined with bottle-green palms. An enormous, sweeping driveway led up to the circular front, where Kate surveyed all arrivals, including her ex-husband’s, from a huge rounded window that stretched from one side to the other, as big as one of her Egyptian cotton bed sheets.

Lana and Cole’s limousine pulled up alongside a dam of waiting paparazzi. Their shouts filtered through the dark windows, camera lenses pushing against the glass.

‘I like how you look tonight,’ commented Cole, taking his wife’s hand. It wasn’t genuine affection; it was preparation for their performance, like warming up for a well-practised routine.

‘Thank you,’ she said, not looking at him. She would deliver, but not until she had to.

The car door opened to a rage of noise. Lana stepped out carefully, security shielding her from the more persistent photographers who came right up close and snapped and grabbed at her like a piece of meat. The onslaught made her panicked; it brought back too much of the past.

Cole was with her in a flash and, with head up, back straight and eyes ahead, they smiled and charmed their way through to the party.

‘I told you I wanted Beluga caviar on these blinis, Tina,’ said Kate diLaurentis in a scarcely controlled voice, brandishing the tray beneath her caterer’s nose. ‘Would you mind telling me what the hell this is?’

Tina, a harried-looking woman who appeared older than her thirty years, swallowed hard. ‘Ms diLaurentis, I, uh, I must have misunderstood—’

‘Do I pay you tens of thousands of dollars to misunderstand.?’ Kate felt her temper ignite and struggled to retain composure. Her guests were milling outside on the terrace, the hum of conversation drifting into the catering kitchen–it wouldn’t do to blow her load before the canapés had even been served.

Where the hell was her husband? Jimmy had been AWOL since she’d glimpsed him this morning, and even then they had barely uttered a hello.

He had better show up soon, she thought bitterly. Too many stories of Jimmy Hart’s exploits had been leaking in recent weeks. She knew he fucked around, she wasn’t an idiot, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t show the rest of the world a united front; a stable marriage that defied the Hollywood cliché. Didn’t he realise how crucial tonight was?

Kate laid down the tray of smoked salmon, closed her eyes and smoothed her Armani white linen trouser suit. She realised her fingers were trembling. Why could you never rely on anyone else to do a proper job?

‘Tina,’ she hissed, opening her eyes–she was much taller than the other woman and her height added to the general air of intimidation–’this is the last time I hire your company for one of my events. If you do not achieve perfection in every other aspect of this dinner party I will slam your business into the ground. Do you understand me?’

As Tina hurried to prepare the soba noodle starter, she pretended not to notice Kate pulling open a cupboard and grabbing her trusty Xanax. She popped a couple, swallowed them with water, poured herself a large glass of Sancerre and headed out to mingle with her guests.

The terrace looked magical, a Mediterranean-style space with overhead grape vines, sweet-smelling lemon trees and fairy-lights strung up against the purple sky like stars. Kate, all smiles, weaved between her guests, stopping occasionally to chat and enquire after somebody’s husband/children/latest movie with a practised, easy charm.

Yes, thought Kate, satisfied as she looked around at the assembled company sipping on Krug and enjoying her practically homemade (she had chosen it from the menu) green olive tapenade, my parties matter. I matter.

‘Darling, you look divine.’ A fashion editor wearing sharply tailored Valentino drifted over, air-kissing Kate on both cheeks. ‘You’ve had a peel, I can tell.’

When Kate raised a hand to her face in a moment of self-consciousness, the fashionista crowed, ‘Don’t be embarrassed!’ and inadvertently exposed a stain of red lipstick on one of her front teeth. She leaned in closer. ‘We do all we can, Kate.’

Kate made a polite noise about needing to check on the table and moved away. Secretly she was mortified that a woman in her fifties–however glamorous she might be–had lumped her in the same camp. Kate was forty-three. Forty-three! It was hardly old–didn’t everyone go on about it being the new twenty? Somebody ought to tell the casting agents she’d had look down their noses at her in recent weeks. Despite having a wealth of experience to her name, the work had steadily trickled off: as soon as they sniffed out the F word it was game over. Nobody wanted to see a sad pair of tits.

Avoiding the fashion editor’s eye, Kate spotted her ex-husband and gave him a polite wave. Cole Steel. Charming, handsome, dripping with success. It was a different story for men, wasn’t it? If anything, Cole had become more promotable with each year that passed. And of course it was acceptable for him to take a wife twenty years his junior, no one batted an eyelid at that–though she knew from experience that Lana Falcon wouldn’t be getting any. An Eskimo had warmer balls than Cole Steel. Seven years with him had almost broken her, but she had survived to tell the tale. Or not, as the case may be.

Kate approached them with her tight smile firmly in place. Hollywood’s number one A-list couple. A power set-up she had once been part of.

Cole was wearing sunglasses on his head, even though it was nine o’clock at night. She grudgingly admitted that Lana Falcon looked good in a dark green that set off her eyes to staggering effect.

Cole placed a palm on the small of his wife’s back in a show of solidarity. Kate recognised it as the show of possession it was.

‘Hello, Cole,’ said Kate coolly, leaning in to kiss him on both cheeks.

‘Good to see you, Kate.’ Then he asked, ‘How are the kids?’ Kate and Jimmy had two children aged three and five, though they were raised almost exclusively by their nanny.

Kate seemed surprised by the question. ‘Very well, thank you.’ She patted her hair. ‘And, Lana, my darling, don’t you look …’ The compliment caught. ‘Charming,’ she finished.

Lana smiled warmly. ‘I love this space,’ she said, looking around. ‘Did you design it yourself?’

What a sickly sweet bitch, thought Kate, hating how lovely the other woman looked. Just the sort of thing that got her bastard husband going.

‘As a matter of fact I did,’ said Kate. She’d picked out the colours, which was basically the same thing. ‘Please excuse me while I go and check on the food.’ Then she added in a quite hysterical way, ‘You know how these caterers can be!’

Turning back to the house, Kate quickly scanned the crowd for Jimmy. He was still nowhere to be seen.

Her husband might be a comedian but he wasn’t making a joke of her. If he was sticking it up some tart she didn’t know what she would do.

Jimmy Hart rolled the girl over on to her front and parted her legs.

‘Watch out, baby,’ he breathed, ‘Daddy’s coming to town.’

The girl, an aspiring actress-slash-model, gasped as his cock slid into her, driving back and forth. Fuck, this was a monster. She still couldn’t believe she’d got him into bed–and so easily, too! Jimmy Hart was a movie star, a comedy genius–just this afternoon she had served him coffee downtown and in minutes he had invited himself back to her apartment. They’d already been at it for hours and he showed no signs of letting up.

‘Fuck me, big boy!’ the girl moaned, throwing her head from side to side, raising her hips to allow him deeper access.

As Jimmy thrust on, his cock burning hot, he grabbed a handful of white-blonde hair. It was cropped short–he remembered how it had framed the girl’s face in the coffee shop, her eyes big and blue. ‘How old are you?’ he rasped now. ‘Tell me again how old you are!’

‘Eighteen.’ She eased off and turned round, wrapping her legs around his neck and guiding him back in. Actually she was twenty-one but she looked young, and she guessed it was what he wanted to hear. ‘Take me straight to heaven and back, baby.’

Jimmy resumed the task with renewed vigour, plunging into her, grabbing for her tits as he reached the summit. She wasn’t a virgin but he couldn’t afford to be picky–she had the face of an angel and skin like a peach: it was good enough for him.

He climaxed loudly and rolled off her.

‘That was amazing,’ the girl murmured, leaning over to run a pink tongue over his nipple. He was too thin and tall for her usual taste, but he was famous, so whatever.

Jimmy knew she hadn’t come and thought he should probably offer to go down on her, but time was running away. He caught sight of the alarm clock on the side table. Shit! He was late. Kate would be furious. She’d been going on about this goddamn soiree for weeks.

The thought of his wife had an instant effect and his hard-on shrank back like a frightened animal.

‘I’m taking a shower,’ he told the girl, knowing he wouldn’t see her again.

The girl pulled the crisp white sheet up to cover her breasts. ‘Hey, Jimmy?’ She opened her eyes wide as he hauled himself up and the scale of him came into full view. ‘Do you think I could be in one of your movies?’

As the guests took their seats for dinner, Lana searched the table for a friendly face. She thought she had seen Katherine Heigl at the drinks but could have been mistaken. Instead it was the usual array of get-aheads, with Lana positioned between Cole and a singer with a drug addiction.

Kate surveyed all regally from the top of the table, not a platinum-blonde hair out of place. She was quaffing wine and wore a slightly worried look, though it was difficult to be sure since she’d obviously gone for another lift, so taut was the skin around her eyes. Lana felt like a bitch for noticing.

‘And so I turned to this guy, never directed a movie in his life, and I just said, “So make me!"’ Cole was cruising through the evening, enchanting the company with anecdotes from his extensive on-set back catalogue. He sat back and roared with laughter at his own joke, and naturally everybody else followed suit. Lana had to admit he was good. The best.

The starter came and went, with Cole still holding fort. Felix Bentley, a cocky London music producer with an affected trans-Atlantic accent, kept trying to interject, but it was a losing battle. Lana tried to make conversation with the singer next to her but the girl kept leaving to visit the bathroom. Though she couldn’t be sure, Lana suspected she was throwing up.

‘Cole, tell us again how you and Lana met,’ said Harriet Foley, editor of fashion giant In. She was a formidable woman with a severe black bob and tortoiseshell glasses.

Cole savoured the moment. ‘I gotta tell you, Harriet,’ he said, looking adoringly at his wife, ‘it was love at first—’

The dining-room door slammed open. A tall, lanky figure bustled through, somewhat dishevelled in a dark suit. His hair was messy and his tie skewed.

Jimmy Hart. Lana thought he looked like a child’s drawing.

‘Apologies, everyone,’ he said with an easy grin. ‘Kate redecorates so often I can forget which part of the house I’m in!’

It was a pathetic excuse. Nevertheless everyone laughed politely, the reason for his lateness quietly dissolved. Kate looked flustered as she allowed herself to be chastely kissed then quickly motioned her husband to sit down. Lana noticed the stony glare that followed his back as he came to take a seat opposite her.

‘So I was saying …’ resumed Cole, who didn’t like to be disturbed.

Jimmy pulled back his chair with a shriek. Lana felt, rather than saw, Cole grit his teeth.

‘Sorry, mate,’ said Jimmy, sloshing wine into his glass.

Lana hid a smile. Despite his shameless behaviour, she liked Jimmy. There was something so brazen about him, a kind of unapologetic mischief. Though she had never told Cole, just last year they had been at a similar gathering during which Jimmy had tried to get her to touch his hard-on under the table, while maintaining a conversation with his wife about the versatility of cannellini beans. Lana had been shocked–not just at the advance but at how suddenly Jimmy’s cock had swollen to frankly unreal proportions. She was surprised he hadn’t pulled the tablecloth off with it.

‘Excuse me,’ she said quietly, pushing back her seat.

Cole broke off, drawing unnecessary attention. ‘What is it?’ he said, a slight snap to his voice. Nobody else would notice, just her.

‘Excuse me while I visit the bathroom,’ she clarified.

Relieved to get away, Lana made her way through the hall.

After washing her hands and re-applying some lipstick, she stood for a while at the mirror, trying to recognise the person looking back.

She wanted to spend the weekend by the ocean. No cameras, no contracts, no obligations–just the ocean … and the man she loved.

But that man wasn’t Cole Steel, her husband. And it wasn’t Parker Troy, her lover. It was Robbie Lewis, the boy from her childhood, now a multi-billionaire and the most handsome man in the world. The man who had saved her.

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to blot out the memory of the trailer park in Belleville, of the childhood that had been stolen from her. That awful night. The raging fire. The escape. And the beautiful boy she had left behind.

Robbie Lewis, my Robbie …

Shaking her head, trying to clear it, Lana took a deep breath. She had to stop thinking about the past, playing it over and over. It was gone, dead, buried. Robbie Lewis was gone from her life and he wasn’t ever coming back. Why would he? She had ruined him. Her marriage to Cole might feel like a prison, but it was nothing compared with the real thing.

Forget him, Lana. He doesn’t exist any more. He’s in Vegas, baby. Get over it.

On the way back to the table Kate passed her in the corridor, careening on her heels. She stumbled into the wall, her full glass of wine slopping over the rim.

‘Lana Falcon,’ she slurred, adjusting her hair as it attempted escape from a tightly wound chignon. ‘America’s sweetheart.’

Lana forced herself to engage with the present. ‘Kate, I think—’

‘Don’t tell me what you think. Why would I want to know that? Get back to your fucking husband.’ Then she leaned in close so Lana could smell the alcohol on her breath. ‘But not to fucking your husband, isn’t that right?’ She laughed cruelly. ‘I know the score, and don’t you forget it. I’ve been there before you. Things aren’t quite as perfect as they seem, now, are they?’

Lana didn’t know what to say.

‘Tell me something, darling,’ Kate spat. ‘I’m dying to know. Can he get it up for you?’

Lowering her gaze, Lana tried to skim past her host before she could embarrass herself further. Kate would never know that Cole was the last man on her mind right now–for nothing and no one could chase the memories of Robbie away.

10

Belleville, Ohio, 1992

In the back of the station wagon, Laura Fallon sat quietly with her small hands held together in her lap. She looked out the window at the driving rain and tried not to be sad. Next week was her ninth birthday and she knew she should feel like a special little girl, just like Arlene, her foster mom, had told her. But instead she felt frightened.

‘Are we nearly there?’ she asked. The woman driving was wearing a brown skirt and jacket and had greasy hair. Earlier, when she had collected Laura from her foster family, she had ticked off lots of boxes on a piece of paper. Arlene had been trying not to cry, which didn’t make sense because Arlene had told her there was nothing to be sad about.

When they stopped at a red light the woman turned round and smiled. Laura saw that a tooth at the back of her grin was missing, a grotesque detail she hadn’t noticed before.

‘You’ve been waitin’ long enough, huh, cupcake. We’re finally takin’ you home.’

Home. That was the word Arlene had used as well. But she had already known two homes and now both of them had been taken away–what would make this one any different?

The first had been with her parents, before the accident. She squeezed her eyes tight shut when she thought of it. The policemen with their kind eyes and their smart uniforms, who had come to get her out of bed in the middle of the night and had sat her down and held her hand. One–he had a shiny head and a thick brown moustache that drooped at the edges–had told her in a quiet, gentle voice that her mommy and daddy had died. A truck had gone into their car as it waited to turn on to the freeway. He’d looked so sad.

Grown-ups didn’t get sad; they sorted things out, which was just what her big brother Lester would do. Lester was fifteen and brave and strong, the tallest boy in his class. He always promised that he would look after her, his best little sister. She idolised him.

But some time that night, in the darkest hours, the Lester she knew and loved had disappeared. For months he cried like he was filling up an ocean, and at night when Laura slept fitfully she dreamed she was swimming in its black waters, reaching for him, trying to keep hold of his hand. When she woke up she was bathed in sweat.

For the first few months with their foster family, Lester stayed in his bedroom. Sometimes he didn’t come out for days and days, and when he did, it was only after dark. He’d disappear until the next morning, when he’d slip into the house unnoticed and lock himself away.

One day Laura woke up and he was gone, just like that. Arlene explained that he was so sad it had made him sick, and he’d been taken to a special hospital to get better. She could still go see him any time she liked. But Laura didn’t want to see him. He scared her. He was a different Lester now, not the happy boy she used to know.

‘Please take me home,’ she said now. ‘I want to go back to Arlene.’

‘Sorry, kid,’ said the woman. She was chewing gum loudly–Arlene would have told her off for that. ‘Blame the system, not me. ‘

They had told her he was well again. And he was eighteen now, could look after her. They should be together, a family–brother and sister reunited, that was how it was meant to be.

He was living in a trailer park outside a town called Belleville. It was somewhere with a school where Laura would make new friends and finally be able to settle. That was why they shuffled their pieces of paper, why they smiled at Arlene and shook her hand and said that everything had worked out for the best. That was what they said, but Laura knew it wouldn’t be like that. She hadn’t seen her brother in two years. As far as she was concerned, Lester Fallon was a stranger.

The car turned off the freeway and the woman driver wound down the window, holding the steering wheel steady with her knee while she lit a cigarette. When she flicked the ash some of it blew into the back seat.

‘Almost there, honey,’ she said, scanning Laura in the rear-view mirror. Poor freakin’ kid. Those huge green eyes were enough to break your heart.

Soon after they came to a cluster of houses. Some were tall, with shuttered windows and pretty white fences, the kind Laura dreamed about living in. Two boys, a little older than she was, played out front with their bikes. One of them had messy brown hair and as he looked up, he caught her eye. He had very dark eyes. She smiled at him.

Laura knew her brother lived in a trailer but so long as it was near this town she thought she might not mind too much. But the car kept going and soon they were winding through a series of rundown, shabby-looking buildings with boarded-up windows. Beyond that a grassy space opened up, but the grass was yellowish instead of green, with bald patches here and there like scars.

She squinted, looking ahead through the windshield, and recognised her brother straight away. He was standing outside one of the trailers and was wearing a grey shirt. He hadn’t changed, she could tell, even though he was dressed better and had a tidy haircut. It was still the same Lester, the one who had run out on her.

He was waving now, and as the station wagon pulled up he said in a childish voice, like she was simple, ‘Hi, Laura! Hey, little sis!’

Laura was wary. The woman came round and let her out of the car, smiling as she brandished her papers and clipboard. Lester tried for a hug and she felt the hard lines of his ribs as he folded over her, but she stayed closed. She didn’t say anything.

‘It’s the shock, is all,’ said the woman, sympathetic and efficient at the same time. ‘Let’s go inside.’

The trailer was small, the kitchen just a plastic counter with a square refrigerator tucked underneath and two chairs with broken backs. Laura’s bedroom was tiny, a single mattress and feeble-looking closet, next to which hung a cracked oval mirror. The door didn’t close properly.

At the rear was a bathroom, but while the woman and Lester went to inspect it, Laura stayed where she was. She didn’t like it. The flowers were fake and when she lifted a framed photograph of her mom and dad from the side, she saw the board wasn’t on properly, like he’d done it in a hurry. He had drawn the curtains back with a rubber band.

When the woman returned she was furiously ticking her boxes again.

‘Perfect,’ she said, glad to have tied up this particular loose end. The kid would soon get used to it and realise this was as much of a happy ending as anyone could hope for. A family, such as it was, together again.

The woman went to leave, but even though Laura didn’t particularly like her, she didn’t want her to go. She didn’t want to be left alone with Lester. The darkness was still there. She could see it in his eyes and she didn’t even have to look that hard.

The door slammed and they were alone.

Lester watched her. ‘Looks like it’s just you and me now, kid.’

11

Las Vegas

Elisabeth Sabell watched as a dripping piece of steak disappeared into her father’s mouth. She heard him chew on it noisily. They were dining in a private booth at the Desert Jewel’s Oasis restaurant, a dreamscape of golden sands and lush palms.

‘She causin’ you trouble yet, Bellini?’ Bernstein chased the meat down with a hunk of bread. He signalled the waiter for another bottle of champagne.

‘Of course not,’ said Alberto Bellini smoothly, not taking his eyes from Elisabeth’s face.

‘She’s wasted playin’ goddamn beauty pageants.’ Bernstein gave Robert a look. ‘Soon as she’s married there’ll be more important things to think about.’

Elisabeth picked at her walnut salad. ‘I’m not having this conversation again.’

‘No need, puss,’ Bernstein said through a mouthful, ‘me and St Louis got plans—’

‘We have?’ Robert caught his fiancée’s eye across the table and briefly shook his head, dispelling her fears. ‘News to me, Bernstein.’

His authority brought out the wild side in her. Elisabeth extended a long, honey-coloured leg, found her lover and grazed a toe up towards his groin. In seconds he was hard.

‘All’s I’m sayin’ is you two got opportunities,’ said Bernstein, oblivious. He lowered his voice. ‘Chicago needs someone they can trust, not some all-singin’, all-dancin’ fairy fuckin’ cabaret act.’ Next to him his girlfriend, a voluptuous twenty-something showgirl named Christie Carmen, shot him a dirty look.

‘Charming,’ she hissed, adjusting her generously proportioned bust.

Elisabeth began trailing over Robert’s erection, slowly, teasing, in the way she knew he liked it. Miraculously his face was giving nothing away.

‘Why’d she have to get all the fucking attention?’ Jessica Bernstein pouted, a nasal whine creeping into her voice. She turned to her father with an accusing expression.

‘Be quiet, Jessica,’ said Elisabeth, wishing her younger sister could grow up a bit. Half-sister, she kept reminding herself. They couldn’t be less alike if they tried: where Elisabeth was sensible, stable and set on her own destiny, Jessica was impulsive, hedonistic and spoiled.

‘Fuck you,’ Jessica retorted.

‘Now, now,’ Bernstein interjected, giving the table a mock-exasperated look. His younger daughter, only twenty, was a firecracker, just like her mother had been. Sleeping with renowned casino hustler Trixie duChamp had been one of his bigger mistakes. The year Jessica had turned eleven Trixie had rolled up dead of a drug overdose. They’d found her naked in bed at the Parthenon with a silk scarf tied round her neck and a pair of dice up her ass.

‘Why’n’t you tell everyone about my little gift to the both of you?’ Bernstein said, steering the conversation back to Robert and Elisabeth. He drained his glass of Rémy and immediately poured another. ‘Call it a wedding present.’

Elisabeth frowned. ‘What gift?’ She applied a little more pressure to Robert, surprised that he felt different to normal … thinner. Alberto Bellini, seated next to her fiancé, raised a beautifully shaped eyebrow and made a gruff sound in his throat, adjusting himself. Mortified, she pulled away, her cheeks flushed.

‘Your father’s bringing Sam Lucas’s premiere to the Orient,’ Robert explained, carefully taking a drink. He put the glass down slowly and cleared his throat. ‘Next summer.’

‘He is?’ Elisabeth gritted her teeth. In her book gifts were given freely.

Jessica was examining her nails. ‘I know it, the one with Lana Falcon.’

Elisabeth noticed Robert tense. She threw him a questioning expression. He met her eye briefly then looked away.

‘It’s going to be magnificent,’ said Robert automatically. Still he didn’t look at her.

‘Damn right,’ said Bernstein. ‘An’ you two are gonna be headin’ up the whole thing.’

Elisabeth spluttered. ‘What about you? I’m sure you’ll be involved. Isn’t that what daddies are for?’

‘We all will,’ he said, loosening the neck on his shirt.

‘Ha!’ Jessica barked. ‘Don’t make me laugh. You wouldn’t want me getting in the way and messing things up.’ She hiccupped. ‘Because that’s all I’m good for, isn’t it?’

‘Now, now, Jessica,’ said Bernstein.

‘It’s true!’ she moaned. ‘It’s always Elisabeth this, Elisabeth that, the story of my fucking life. What’s so special about her?’

Jessica pouted and pushed back her brown hair. She was pretty in a pretend kind of way, but her nose was a fraction too long, her skin two shades too orange and, she was convinced, her hair too thin. Her stylist called it ‘fine’ but Jessica was appalled by the idea she could be bald by thirty. She didn’t have the natural beauty Elisabeth possessed and she knew it–nor did she have the attentions of their father. Jealousy defined her behaviour.

‘Fuck all of you,’ she said, taking a slug of her drink. ‘You’re all assholes.’

‘Could you pass the bread rolls, please?’ asked Alberto. The basket was right beside Jessica but she made no attempt to pick it up. Robert leaned across and obliged.

‘Honey, I gotta go to the little girls’ room,’ Christie Carmen whined, bobbing up and down in her seat. They would have forgotten she was there if it weren’t for her trussed-up breasts spilling into the soup starter.

‘Go on, then, baby,’ grumbled Bernstein. Then he imagined the blow job he’d be receiving later and instantly felt better. After two marriages, young and dumb was order of the day.

Christie Carmen was a hot broad with big tits and a nice tight pussy–it was everything he required from his women these days.

‘Get that ass back here quick.’ Bernstein winked as he patted his girlfriend’s retreating behind. She tottered off in a silver mini-skirt and four-inch heels, drunkenly weaving into an oncoming dessert trolley. Maybe he’d get lucky and she’d come back without her knickers.

How depressing, Elisabeth thought, observing her father’s latest accessory stagger off in her imitation Jimmy Choos. She glanced at Robert, who had gone uncharacteristically quiet. He was folding his napkin into exact squares. His dark eyes were unsettled.

She could sense Alberto Bellini watching her from across the table, the tip of his tongue just visible between his lips.

The photograph was face down, its edges mottled and stiffened by time.

Alberto drew it from the oak chest of drawers, clasping it to his chest. He closed his eyes, his breath escaping in a hoarse, thin stream, like air seeping from a punctured tyre. It reminded him that he was old.

Supper tonight had exhausted him. He didn’t know how much longer he could bear it–loving Elisabeth entirely and yet knowing she belonged to another man.

He scanned the picture one more time, before slipping it back and closing the cabinet. The sound reverberated through the rooms of his expansive Italian-castle-themed mansion.

Linda Sabell.

She was gone. She had never been his in the first place. He had to forget her.

Yet how could he, when every time he clapped eyes on Elisabeth it was like walking straight back into the past? Frank Bernstein would murder him if he ever found out. Or get someone else to do it for him. Though Bernstein never admitted as much, it was clear to all of them that precious Elisabeth was his favourite daughter. If only he, Alberto, could have shared a child with Linda.

Alberto grimaced. He poured himself a brandy and chucked it back. He was getting tired of this game, he wanted out. Too many years he’d spent drinking and gambling, chasing women in an attempt to forget the only one he had ever loved …

Linda.

She was dead, and yet he saw her every day, every time he watched the show at the Desert Jewel, every time he caught her mirror image laughing with Robert St Louis.

Linda had loved him, he knew that much, and he had made her happy where Frank Bernstein could not. Elisabeth was the gift she had left behind.

Alberto had wanted Linda’s daughter for years, way before Robert St Louis had come on the scene. Only now, with her wedding fast approaching, the time had come to take action.

Elisabeth belonged to him.

As far as he was concerned, resistance was futile.

12

‘I’ve got an idea,’ said Elisabeth, peering over the top of her D&G shades. ‘I’ll sing at the premiere.’

At the opposite end of their Olympic-sized pool, Robert shook out his muscles. She watched as he plunged into the crystal water, his impressive body gliding down its length, a bronzed Adonis shimmering in the blue.

He emerged, shook his dark hair and used two strong arms to pull himself out. Droplets of water glistened on his skin.

‘Whatever you like,’ he said, taking a seat on the lounger next to hers.

It was the following morning and the couple were relaxing on their poolside patio. The terrace was just one feature of their immense Vegas home, a near-two-acre estate modelled on a European palace Robert had spoken at several years ago.

‘I think it’ll send a very clear message,’ she said, adjusting her gold bikini.

Robert raised an eyebrow. ‘Come on, you’re above all that.’

‘Am I?’ she snapped. ‘I’ve got to stand up for myself, Robert. Show my father I’m serious about this.’

‘He knows you are,’ said Robert, flipping open a copy of the Vegas Business Reporter. ‘He just doesn’t want to admit it.’

‘Why the hell not?’

Robert laid the paper across his chest. The edges turned grey as they absorbed the water from his body. ‘Do you want to know what I really think?’

‘Of course.’

‘I think Bernstein’s scared you’ll go the same way as your mother.’

Elisabeth chewed her lip. ‘What, he thinks he’s going to lose me in some freak plane crash? Don’t make me laugh.’

Robert shrugged. ‘You know what I mean. Lose you some other way, perhaps.’

Elisabeth was quiet a moment. ‘Are you happy about hosting this premiere?’

‘Of course.’ He resumed reading. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

‘You just seem a bit … on edge about it.’

‘I’m never on edge.’

Elisabeth smiled, entwining her fingers with his. She adored Robert’s hands–they were strong and capable, the hands of an artist. ‘I know. That’s why I love you.’

He didn’t say it back. She pretended not to notice.

Picking up her celebrity magazine, Elisabeth flipped past a piece on Kate diLaurentis and her goofy–though strangely attractive–comedian husband. Kate had been pulled over for speeding in a white sports car and she had been photographed in conversation with a policeman, a borderline manic look on her face. Two miserable kids stared out from the back of the vehicle.

‘Ugh, welcome to Hollywood,’ she muttered. ‘Vegas is in for a treat.’

Over the page she caught sight of A-list movie star Lana Falcon and her husband Cole Steel. Cole was remarkably handsome but Elisabeth thought Lana had a slightly weak look about her. These days they called it the ‘girl-next-door’ appeal, but surely that was just a euphemism for ‘rather plain’.

‘Ah, the main attraction,’ she said, waving the magazine in front of Robert’s face. She read out the article headline: ‘CoLa–I can’t bear it when they do that–more in love now than ever?‘ She chuckled. ‘Not sure I believe it.’

Robert glanced up, caught sight of the page and instantly averted his gaze.

She’s a different woman, he told himself. Not the girl you knew.

‘Lana Falcon,’ he said flatly. Her alias died on his tongue. ‘I guess so.’

Elisabeth squinted. ‘Do you think they’re happy?’

He cleared his throat. ‘Who?’

‘These two. Lana and Cole.’

‘God knows. Who cares.’

She looked at him sideways. ‘You obviously do.’

Robert’s head snapped up. ‘What’s that supposed to mean? ‘

Elisabeth laughed. ‘Do you know her?’ ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘It’s only a question.’

‘It’s a stupid one.’ He resumed looking at the page, though the words were little more than a blur. ‘I’ve never met Lana Falcon before in my life.’

It wasn’t a complete lie.

Elisabeth stared at him. She’d never seen Robert lose his cool over anything, not even her father’s constant interfering. ‘There’s no need to get aggressive,’ she told him.

A muscle went in Robert’s jaw.

She decided to change the subject. ‘Her husband clearly adores her.’

Robert stood up. He could bear it no longer. There were many things he wanted to tell Elisabeth, but none of them he could: how once upon a time he had adored Lana; he’d carried her, helped her, saved her damn life. Not this Cole Steel jackass, whoever he was.

‘I’m going for a swim,’ he announced. He dived cleanly into the water.

When he emerged, Elisabeth had joined him. Her blonde hair was secured in a knot and she had removed her bikini top. A pair of golden breasts bobbed invitingly on the surface.

‘Let’s not fight,’ she said, reaching for him.

Robert swam up and put his arms around her. ‘Do you fancy a trip?’

‘OK,’ she laughed, pleased he was no longer cross. She kissed him, feeling his growing hardness. ‘You always take me where I want to go.’

He smiled. ‘No, I mean, like a vacation.’ He kissed her back. ‘I’m meeting investors in the South of France. We leave at the weekend.’

She put a finger over his mouth and wrapped her legs around his waist. ‘St Tropez?’

Robert put his hands on her ass, pulling her close. Deftly she freed him from his shorts.

‘It sure is,’ he managed, the words catching as she pulled aside her bikini bottoms.

‘In that case, yes,’ she said, lowering herself on to him. ‘Yes yes yes!’

13

London

Chloe French stepped out of the car into the cold September evening, cursing her decision to wear such a flimsy dress. She wanted to look special for Nate, especially as she couldn’t wait to tell him her big news.

There was some commotion at the entrance to the club, a renowned hotspot in Mayfair and venue for tonight’s gig. She punched a number into her phone. It rang a few times before he picked up.

‘What?’ Nate said snappily. ‘We’re testing, I can’t talk.’

‘Can you come let me in?’

The line crackled. ‘Why?’

‘There’s more people out front than I thought.’ Silence. ‘It’s more discreet?’

‘For fuck’s sake.’ There was a pause while Nate mumbled something to the band. She heard them laughing in the background. ‘All right,’ he grumbled. ‘Come round the side in three, I don’t want to get mobbed.’

He made her wait at least five. Just as she was contemplating calling him again, the door sprang open and Nate stuck his head through.

‘Come on,’ he said twitchily, scanning for groupies, ‘I’m on in ten.’ He briefly put his tongue in her mouth by way of hello and gave her tit a quick squeeze, which seemed distinctly unromantic. She decided to forget it.

Chloe trailed him through the dark corridor, the low thump of music bleeding in from the lounge. The club was famed for its unusual decor–glinting chandeliers dripped from the ceiling while tired old sofas crouched down below, their stuffing bursting free at the seams. It was a fusion of the sophisticated and the shabby that was perfect for young, rich clientele who couldn’t decide which camp to affiliate themselves with.

She knew Nate didn’t like to be distracted before a gig, but couldn’t wait to spill her LA news as soon as the time was right.

‘What’re you doing after?’ she asked his back. She noticed his jeans were hanging so low he had to wear two belts to keep them up. Maybe that was the point.

‘Dunno, babe.’

‘I’ve got something to tell you, it’d be good if we could …’

When they got backstage Nate turned round in front of his band mates. ‘You’re not pregnant, are you?’

Chloe was embarrassed. ‘No, don’t be silly.’

‘Hey, man,’ said Chris, the band’s drummer, ‘for luck.’ He produced a bag of white powder from his pocket and threw it at Nate, who caught it with his left hand. Then, turning to Chloe, ‘All right?’

‘Fine, thanks,’ said Chloe. ‘Break a leg.’ There was something about Chris that Chloe didn’t trust: the way he and Nate talked together about women, and how they sometimes shared private glances when they thought she wasn’t looking. He was a bad influence on her boyfriend. Plus he had greasy hair that went down way past his shoulders–yuck.

Twenty minutes later The Hides were on stage. Watching them in action was a kick, and when they broke into their top ten single ‘Red Rock Road’ the crowd went wild.

Chloe was up front in the swarming mass of devotees next to a pretty weekend TV presenter called Erica Lang and a balding socialite in tragic slacks, apparently a friend of Prince Harry. Her hair kept getting pulled and someone trod on her foot, which hurt. This is a million miles from Hollywood, she thought excitedly, just as a man in a sweaty black T-shirt with living legend across the front sloshed beer down her back.

Nate looked gorgeous and she got a thrill when she remembered he was hers. Every girl in the room wanted a piece of the sexiest frontman in London, but it was only her he wanted. She remembered the first time she’d seen him–a photo in one of the papers of him stumbling out of a Kensington hotel room with whippet-faced heiress Jessica Bernstein, daughter of Frank Bernstein, the Las Vegas hotel magnate and all-round powerhouse. She’d felt a stab of attraction, unable to forget his come-to-bed green eyes and wiry leather-clad body. When they’d turned up at the same party a couple of months later, Chloe couldn’t believe her luck. The rest was history.

The Hides moved into a slow song, one of Chloe’s favourites. Nate lit a cigarette in a minor act of rebellion. The song was about a girl who was just so beautiful that it was impossible to capture her in words, and Chloe liked to imagine that she was the inspiration, even though it had been written way before she and Nate had met–and actually not by him, but by his lead guitarist, Spencer. But Nate was crooning into the mike and every so often he looked over and she knew he was singing it for her.

Melissa, her agent, hadn’t been enamoured with the partnership at the time. Chloe was the sweetheart of the fashion world and could be jeopardising future contracts by associating herself with his lifestyle–but the press had gone crazy for the romance. And the irony was, of course, that in reality Nate Reid–full name Nathaniel Buckley-Reid–was a lot posher than either of them: in fact he was aristocracy. His own father, Lord Fergus Buckley-Reid, and mother Penelope lived in a great country pile in Wiltshire and were friends of the royals. Naturally this was all kept under very tight wraps and Nate was unremittingly sensitive about it: his whole working-class-boy-done-good persona was, as it turned out, fake.

The band was getting pumped up now as they launched into the single that had made them famous. Nate strutted across the stage like a prehistoric bird.

‘He’s amazing!’ squealed Erica Lang, so close to Chloe’s ear it was painful. ‘You’re so lucky!’

Chloe smiled to herself. She was. With Nate Reid in her life, she was a very lucky girl indeed.

Later a gang of them fell into two black cabs and there was a brief quarrel about where they should go to continue the party. The paps were having a field day.

Somebody suggested a flat in Kentish Town, which to Chloe, who just wanted to get Nate into bed, sounded quite squalid. But before she could object they were on their way. Nate liked to shun the extravagances he could well afford, and while he didn’t quite stretch to the night bus, a cab would do well before a private car.

Chloe placed a hand on Nate’s leg and gradually moved it higher until she heard his breath catch. In the darkness of the taxi, everybody squeezed in tight, she was able to attend to the rapidly expanding bulge in his jeans without anyone much noticing.

Erica Lang, opposite Nate, was staring. Chloe had caught her eyeing up her boyfriend several times and was shocked by her inability, or reluctance, to conceal it.

When they arrived everyone piled out into the cold. Nate put an arm round Chloe’s shoulders and she caught Erica giving her a bitchy look.

There was a problem getting into the building and it soon transpired that none of them actually lived there–it belonged to some mate of a mate. After several failed drunken phone calls they found a back way in and trailed through a dark, damp-smelling corridor. A couple of spongy mattresses and a telly in one corner suggested they had come to the living room.

‘What is this?’ Chloe whispered.

‘Just a place to crash,’ Nate said casually, sparking up a joint. This was part of his image, she thought, this whole mock-poverty thing. The hypocrisy of it bugged her–but everyone had their niggly things, didn’t they? When he saw her anxious expression he said, ‘Chill out, babe,’ and flopped down on to a misshapen couch.

A man wearing skinny white jeans and pointy cowboy boots the colour of English mustard put some music on. Bottles of beer and badly rolled joints were passed round but Chloe refused both: she didn’t drink much anyway because it was bad for her skin, and she wasn’t in the mood to get stoned. But as the atmosphere changed and everyone started laughing about things and she couldn’t understand why they were funny, she began to feel bored. Erica Lang had appeared on the other side of Nate and was listening with rapture to everything he said, which sounded like a deeply serious monologue about music transcending class boundaries.

Chloe sighed and sat back, disappointed that she wouldn’t be able to deliver her news in quite the style she’d imagined. Oh well, maybe it could wait–it might be safer for Melissa to confirm the part was hers anyway before she told anyone. In the meantime, she could hold the promise close to her chest and savour its possibility.

The guy in skinny jeans passed her a soggy joint and Chloe held it between her fingers a moment before thinking, What the hell. She drew the smoke into her lungs and coughed embarrassingly. Nate finally forgot about Erica and turned to his girlfriend, delighted.

She dragged on it a few more times before passing it on.

In seconds another came round and she toked on that as well. A few minutes later she was starting to feel quite spacey, but it was a nice, warm feeling. A short fat girl told a joke and it was the wittiest thing Chloe had ever heard. Clever, too. God, actually it was completely profound.

By the time another smoke was passed over she felt buzzy and completely happy to sit and listen to all the wonderful, intelligent things people were saying. She became aware that Nate was kissing her, and that other people on the floor were kissing each other as well. Nate’s hand roamed over her breast and it was the most erotic thing she had ever experienced. She thought if he touched her nipple she would just come straight away.

‘Can we find a room?’ she found herself saying. Somehow Nate had managed to manoeuvre her legs around his waist and was reclining her on the sofa in front of everyone.

‘No one’s looking,’ he said throatily, kissing her neck. ‘They’re doing their own thing.’ He was fumbling with the buckle on his belt. Vaguely she recalled he was wearing two belts–how hilarious!–nd she burst out laughing.

‘Shh,’ he murmured, sticking a tongue in her ear. It felt huge and thick like a slug.

‘I don’t want to do it here,’ she protested with some effort. Turning her head, she saw that Mister Cowboy Boots and Short Fat Girl were having it off and one of Short Fat Girl’s boobs was hanging out. This was the craziest night ever!

‘Take me to bed, Nate,’ she purred, disentangling herself.

Desperate to get into his girlfriend’s pants, Nate stood up and extended his hand. Hitching down her dress, Chloe followed him into the room next door. It was completely empty apart from some piled-up cardboard boxes. There were no curtains on the window.

Before she knew what was happening, Nate had her on the floor, his hands unbuttoning her and sneaking underneath her bra. It felt so good she didn’t even care about the splintery wood beneath her back. She ran her fingers through his hair and said something about how amazing he was and how she wanted his big cock inside her right now, all the stuff men wanted to hear. With deft hands he unclipped her bra and peeled down her top half, exposing her breasts.

Chloe’s head was swimming. Everything felt amazing. The world was amazing. Nate Reid was amazing. She was completely, totally, madly in love.

Gradually Chloe was aware of the door opening. A pale shaft of moonlight illuminated the thin figure waiting there. It was Erica Lang.

‘Room for one more?’ she asked, pulling off her high-necked shirt to reveal virtually non-existent tits with alarmingly dark, extended nipples.

Nate made a guttural sound in his throat as she came closer. ‘Can we, babe?’ he asked Chloe, his hand finding its way past the elastic of her knickers.

Chloe was floating. She wanted the pleasure to go on and on and never end. As Erica knelt to join the party she closed her eyes and gave herself up.

LA, just you wait, she was able to think before ecstasy took over. You won’t know what hit you.

14

Los Angeles

Cole Steel stepped off his state-of-the-art treadmill and wiped his brow. Not that there was much perspiration there–Cole was a man who did not break sweat.

‘Are we done yet?’ his agent Marty King gasped in desperation, taking a breather at the rowing machine. He was a squat man in his fifties with jowls, ginger spray-on hair and a face like a fat Gene Wilder. His eyes were shifty and a touch watery with age, and when he exerted himself his skin broke out in a patchy pink rash. He was also the canniest agent in Hollywood, with a catalogue of A-list clients and major deals to his name.

‘Not yet,’ said Cole, polishing off a two-litre bottle of mineral water. ‘I didn’t get that martial arts equipment installed for nothing.’

Marty King sighed and wiped his own, copiously sweating, face. They were in the bespoke home gym at Cole’s Beverly Hills mansion, complete with its own indoor pool, hot tub, sauna and steam; and of course all this goddamn kit–Marty died a little bit every time, he swore it. But Cole was a man who liked to work out, and even more so when he was talking business.

‘Put this on,’ said Cole, slamming a body protector at his agent.

Marty grimaced but did as he was told. When Cole started pumping iron he was like a maniac and you just had to strap in for the ride. It was the same mind-space he adopted when acting: complete immersion and total focus. Marty himself was grossly unfit–was partial to his steak, his women and his cigars–and had spent the last half-hour with the rowing machine on its lowest possible setting, still managing to wear himself out. And now the sparring. Jeez, it was enough to kill a man.

Cole strapped on his strike pads and took a couple of early punches. Each one practically winded Marty and he was relieved when, five minutes later, it was over. Cole moved on to a kick spinner, lifting his leg high into the air, karate-style, and pounded the shit out of the bags. Marty was grateful to sit out.

‘How was Chicago?’ he asked. How the hell did this guy manage it? His client was barely out of breath.

‘Good,’ said Cole.

‘And Lana?’

He kicked the bag especially hard. ‘Fine.’

‘Cute piece on you both in LA Star,’ observed Marty, taking a drink of water. ‘Very domestic. More in love than ever, or something?’

‘You got that right.’

Marty sat back. ‘And the movie?’ Cole was shooting a family drama about an alcoholic father trying to make contact with his estranged son. ‘Everything OK?’

Cole did an impressive rotating kick and the bag nearly flew off its spring. ‘Everything’s fine, Marty.’

Marty was quiet a moment, sensing trouble. The men had been working together for over twenty years and he could tell when something was on his client’s mind. But Cole Steel was, even after all this time, a closed book. If he didn’t want to talk, nothing would make him.

‘I heard Lana’s movie is premiering in Vegas,’ Cole said, unstrapping his pads.

Christ, thought Marty, he really did have eyes and ears all over this town. He doubted even Lana or the rest of the cast knew yet.

‘I heard that, too,’ said Marty carefully. ‘Frank Bernstein’s got money behind the production.’

Cole’s eyes narrowed. ‘Vegas is vulgar. Eastern Sky is a sophisticated piece of work, it deserves better. I’m not happy about it.’ His jaw clenched. ‘And I don’t like the look of that Robert St Louis or whatever his fancy name is–the guy’s got ideas, I can tell.’

‘Not a lot I can do,’ said Marty, holding out his arms.

Cole grabbed a towel and pressed it to his face. His hands were pink and hairless, like a little boy’s, or a mouse’s.

He took a seat next to his agent, opened his mouth to say something then closed it again. Then, after a moment: ‘Lana’s not happy, Marty.’

Marty shrugged. ‘Not relevant. The point is what the public sees, end of story.’

‘Even so,’ mused Cole. ‘She’s evasive about her past, always has been—’

‘Who isn’t?’ interjected Marty. ‘I’ve sure as shit done things I’d sooner forget.’

‘But there’s something … something I can’t put my finger on.’

‘You’re paranoid,’ diagnosed Marty, starting to think about lunch. ‘Forget it, Lana’s a sweet kid. Remember what Clay told us? Her whole freakin’ family’s dead. How much d’you think she wants to talk about that?’

Cole stood. ‘Let’s eat.’

Upstairs they dined on Cole’s private terrace beneath the shade of a palm tree. Cole picked disinterestedly at his lobster spaghetti while Marty devoured his.

‘You don’t eat much,’ he observed, wondering if he could tuck into Cole’s plate once his was done. ‘What’s the matter, work-out didn’t get you an appetite?’ His client better not be worrying about his weight like some lollipop starlet–if anything, he could do with gaining a few pounds.

Cole made a face. ‘Just got things on my mind.’

‘Well, get over it.’ Marty chewed enthusiastically before washing down his mouthful with a slug of iced tea. ‘We got everything we wanted, right? You got yourself a beautiful wife and no one’s any the wiser. You’re clean, you’re makin’ good movies. Lana’s about to break through to the big time—’

‘Maybe that’s the problem,’ said Cole, dabbing his mouth with a pristine white napkin.

‘What?’

Cole took a deep breath. ‘I gave Lana this opportunity, so her success, in effect, belongs to me. Now I’m hearing good things, excellent things, about her performance. She’ll almost certainly get an Award nomination, if not win the damn thing.’

‘Wasn’t that the point?’ asked Marty, shovelling in some more spaghetti. Tomato sauce clung to the corners of his mouth. ‘It was in the terms of the contract. There’s got to be something in it for her, too, Cole.’ At his client’s stormy expression, he clarified, ‘Apart from marriage to the most famous man in the world, of course.’

‘I accept that,’ Cole said generously. ‘But the feedback I’m getting exceeds even my initial expectations. Lana’s going to be big, Marty. And the point is that her career’s set to go stellar just as our marriage ends. How is that going to make me look?’

Marty waved away his concern. ‘We went through this right at the start. Irreconcilable differences, OK? You’ll stay friends, secretly she’ll still love you, blah-blah-blah. Then it’s on to the next.’

Cole locked his fingers together on the table. ‘I want to keep this one,’ he said.

Marty took some time to digest this. He finished his mouthful, drained his glass and put his cutlery together before saying easily, ‘So we’ll renew the contract with Lana. Whatever you want, Cole.’

‘It’s not that easy, though, is it?’ Cole hissed. A drop of spittle flew from his mouth and landed on Marty’s knuckle. ‘She’s unhappy. I know it. She can’t wait to get out.’

‘You treat her good, don’t you?’ asked Marty, surreptitiously wiping his hand under the table, knowing they were skirting the issue.

‘Of course I do,’ said Cole. ‘I’m kind to her, I look after her; I give her everything she wants. Except …’

Marty made a gruff sound in his throat. ‘Well, that’s another problem,’ he said. As soon as the words were out of his mouth he knew they were a big mistake.

‘Problem?’ Cole leapt on it like a lion on its prey. ‘Is that what you call it? A problem?’ His agent could never know the true root of his impotence, why he was forever this way–to him it was an affliction, a sickness, a disease.

‘Of course not,’ said Marty calmly. ‘It’s just—’

‘Just what? You think it’s my fault I can’t get it up?’

‘Shh!’ Marty looked panicked. ‘You don’t know who’s listening.’

‘No one’s fucking listening. All ears here belong to me–that’s how powerful Cole Steel is. Tell me, Marty: who needs a hard cock when you’ve got that kind of respect?’

Marty tried not to look alarmed. Cole had gone completely red in the face.

After a moment Cole slumped back in his seat, suddenly defeated. ‘And if Lana leaves me, that’ll be two failed marriages.’ He pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘It’s only a matter of time before some smartass reporter traces it back to the bedroom.’

‘That won’t happen,’ said Marty, as kindly as he could. ‘At most it’ll be idle rumour–no one’s gonna seriously believe that Cole Steel can’t–you know, won’t–you know—’

‘You’re right.’ Cole pointed a finger at his agent. ‘Nobody touches me, you got it?’

Marty nodded. He felt sorry for Cole. The very idea of impotence filled him with a cold dread, and seeing the cost of it paid in full by his client was the stuff of nightmares. They’d tried Viagra, the works, but nothing had made a difference–Cole’s prick was about as responsive as a fish out of water. Nothing turned Cole Steel on these days apart from his own glory.

‘As long as that Kate diLaurentis bitch keeps her big mouth shut,’ Cole growled.

Marty laughed hollowly. ‘We paid her enough goddamn money, she won’t say a word.’

Cole rubbed his chin thoughtfully. The kitchen staff came to clear their plates and he waited until they’d hurried off before continuing.

‘Apparently she’s losing it,’ he said, looping a finger up next to his head. ‘Loco.’

‘Yeah, I’m sure,’ sighed Marty, ‘everyone likes to say that about Kate. Thing is they don’t realise she’s a sharp little cookie. She’d never reveal anything, wouldn’t dare. Besides, she’s got her own failing reputation to think about.’

‘You think I’ve got a failing reputation?’

‘No,’ said Marty firmly, ‘I don’t. Because it’s my job to manage that and I don’t lose. I never lose.’

Cole nodded. ‘That’s good,’ he said, ‘I like that. But the fact still remains I want to hold on to my wife, and you’re going to make sure that I do.’ He pushed his chair back from the table. It screamed on the tiles.

Marty made a helpless gesture.

‘You never lose, right?’ Cole raised a cleanly plucked eyebrow. ‘Find a way to make it happen. Whatever it takes.’

15

‘She said what?’ Rita Clay put down her Americano and looked at Lana in disbelief.

‘Yup.’ Lana nodded. ‘Kate asked if Cole could get it up for me. Can you imagine? It was a miracle the other guests didn’t hear. She’s a liability.’

It was a beautiful day and Lana and her agent were having coffee at the Beverly Wilshire. Lana wore a baseball cap and sunglasses to deter paparazzi but had been photographed twice on the way in.

Rita emptied a sachet of sugar into the steaming liquid. She was arrestingly beautiful–tall, with dark, smooth skin and a cap of cropped, dyed blonde hair.

‘Kate’s afraid, that’s all,’ she said. ‘Her career’s in freefall, her husband’s a cheating goddamn sex addict and her children barely know who she is.’ She checked her reflection in a silver compact and applied a slick of plum lipstick.

‘So?’ Lana sipped her drink. ‘Doesn’t that give her more reason to spill?’

‘She’d never risk it, Lana. This is the last ten years of Kate’s career we’re talking about, her heyday. Do you think she’d want the world to know that was as much of a sham as her life is now?’ Rita shook her head. ‘No way. She’s a livewire but she’s certainly not stupid.’

Lana nodded while she digested this. Rita had a point.

‘How are things?’ her agent asked quietly, knowing how tough the arrangement was. It was a move they had discussed at length when Cole’s people had approached.

Lana’s first instinct had been to turn the offer down–she was adamant about making her own way forward and told Rita in no uncertain terms that she did not want marriage. But the counter-argument was strong: Lana, who’d been twenty-four at the time, would not see an opportunity like this again. It was a sensible, logical step for the advancement of her career. Knowing this, Cole had scouted a number of suitable young actresses and settled on one for whom the contract would be difficult to ignore: Lana could spend a lifetime chasing success like that and even then would only catch a sniff of it. Hadn’t she arrived in LA determined to forge a new identity; hadn’t she told Rita when they’d first met that she wanted to change her name, forget the past, become a new person? This was her one-way ticket.

‘It’s not the easiest,’ she admitted, ‘but I can hardly complain. The house is beautiful, I have a job I love … Cole doesn’t beat up on me, he doesn’t treat me badly. Countless women have it a hell of a lot worse.’

‘Are you happy?’ asked Rita.

Lana took a moment to consider this, before saying without a hint of bitterness, ‘I don’t know if that has anything to do with it.’

It was a five-year marriage contract–that was all. Before signing on the dotted line she’d remembered the hellish years she’d spent growing up in Ohio. Marrying a man she didn’t love was nothing compared with that. It had been goodbye, poor little Laura and hello, blockbusting movie star Lana Falcon. Cole was king of this town: as his queen she would be untouchable.

So what if she didn’t love him? Since when did that matter? She had given her heart only once before, given everything, and look where that had got her.

‘Lana?’ Rita looked concerned and reached out to touch her friend’s arm. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Sure.’ She frowned. ‘I didn’t sleep great last night. I’m just tired.’

Rita winced. ‘Talking of the whole sleeping thing …’ Her expression was sympathetic.

The women’s eyes met and after a moment they both burst out laughing.

‘Don’t,’ cried Lana, ‘it’s not funny!’

‘Sorry,’ Rita managed, wiping her eyes, ‘I can’t help it.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I know it’s not funny, I know it’s not.’

‘It’s a small price to pay,’ Lana nodded.

‘I expect it is,’ agreed Rita, and they fell about again.

Lana suspected some kind of impotence was at the root of the no-sex clause, but it was impossible to be sure. Cole expressed no sexual desire whatsoever, about anything–she guessed he was just programmed that way. When she had first moved into his mansion she had expected him to visit her rooms at night–she wasn’t stupid enough to think that a couple of lines in a contract would get in the way of a red-blooded male. But Cole had been steadfast to his word. Her first thought was that he must be getting it somewhere else–as long as he was discreet, she would turn a blind eye; after all they were nothing to each other–but that didn’t seem to be the case. For some time she had assumed he was gay, but men didn’t appear to do it for him either.

‘You must be so …’ Rita searched for the word, before whispering it. ‘Frustrated.’

Lana shifted in her seat. If only she could tell her friend about Parker Troy, but there was no way. It was an appalling breach of her contract and as her agent Rita would be outraged.

‘It’s worth it,’ she said, dodging the question. And it was: Lana’s abstinence was reflected handsomely in the financial terms of the contract.

Rita narrowed her eyes. ‘Hmm,’ she said, tapping a long red fingernail on the table.

‘I suppose it’s more that I sometimes feel … I don’t know, caged,’ said Lana quickly, trying to move the subject on.

‘Well,’ said her agent, sipping her drink, ‘that’s because you are. For another two years.’

‘But Cole keeps tabs on everything. I’m forever having to lie about filming running on.’

‘Lie?’

Lana met her gaze. ‘You know, if I need more time on set.’ She bristled. ‘We’re all entitled to a little freedom, aren’t we?’

Rita’s face broke into a smile. ‘Sure, sure.’ She pulled out her purse. ‘I’m just saying, Cole has eyes all over Hollywood. I just don’t think you can hide anything from him.’

‘I’m aware of that,’ said Lana evenly. ‘It’s precisely my point.’ Did Rita know something? No way–she couldn’t.

But Cole’s controlling ways were becoming more extreme with each day that passed. Just two weeks back she hadn’t been able to sleep and so had ventured out into the mansion’s grounds to have a walk and clear her head–and to think, to her shame, about Robert St Louis.

The night had been dark and quiet, with just the sparkle of the Hills glittering in the distance. Then, stepping beyond the perimeter, the security lamps had surged to life and flooded her in white light. The dogs had sprung up from their stations, barking furiously, their chains rattling. She had felt like a fugitive about to be arrested, especially when she had looked up to see Cole silhouetted against a window in his dressing gown, arms folded, looking down at her with an unreadable expression.

‘How’s the movie?’ asked Rita briskly, signing off the check.

Lana forced herself back to the real world. ‘Good.’ She smiled. ‘It’s great to have a role I can really sink my teeth into. It’s a fabulous part–so much depth.’ She knew she had been lucky securing the Eastern Sky gig, and that, too, was down to Cole and the arrangement. Within weeks of entering the contract she and Rita had been approached by Sam Lucas. At the time Cole had informed her in a meaningful way that the right performance could gain her an Award nomination.

‘That’s excellent,’ said Rita, meaning it. ‘Oh, that reminds me: they’re bringing in new blood for the part of Sophie, the English girl.’

Lana nodded.

‘They’ve already found someone they want.’ Rita pulled on her jacket. ‘She’s a model in London, apparently, wants to get into acting.’

‘Poor girl,’ said Lana wryly.

‘Well, Sam Lucas thinks she’s the soul of virtue. I heard he took one look at her shot and knew’–Rita raised her hands in a grand gesture–‘"It’s Sophie."’

‘Ah, the immortal accolade every actress wants to hear.’

‘She’ll be over in a few weeks. Bet she can’t wait to meet you.’

As Lana grabbed her things she remembered when she’d first started out herself. Ten years she’d been in LA. Ten years since she’d last seen Robbie Lewis. Ten years trying to forget.

She’d kept it brief when Rita had asked about Belleville: she was from a broken family; she didn’t wish to discuss it but she was happy to agree to the right story for press purposes. They had settled on a smart bio, a family tragedy not far from the truth, and Rita sent out clear messages to the industry that Lana Falcon did not like to talk about her upbringing as an orphan–who would? Even Cole hadn’t been so unkind as to ask her too many questions when the contract was finalised. If anything it made her more promotable–in an industry where reality TV exposed an individual’s every private sanctum, Lana Falcon was that rare thing: an enigma.

‘New York, right?’ asked Rita as the women made their way out to the car.

One of Cole’s drivers was waiting.

‘Hmm?’ Lana asked as he opened the door.

‘Whoa, you really are a million miles away today, huh?’ said Rita, exasperated. ‘You’re going with Cole to NYC?’

‘Oh, yes, yes, of course,’ said Lana, distracted, as she rummaged in her purse. She checked her cell and had a missed call from Parker. Shit. He’d have to wait till she got back. Cole was filming scenes on location and a press opportunity had been lined up.

‘I’ll call you in the week,’ said Rita, giving her a hug. ‘Be in touch if you need anything.’

Lana smiled. ‘Thanks for the coffee.’ She squeezed Rita’s hand before slipping into the back seat of the car. ‘And thanks for everything.’

Rita watched as her friend vanished behind the tinted glass. Something about Lana today hadn’t been right. Marriage to Cole Steel wasn’t for the faint-hearted, but instinct told her it was more than that.

Lana Falcon had always been a mystery. And she was determined to find out why.

16

Belleville, Ohio, 1992

The first few weeks were bearable.

Lester had a job in the local garage and at the start he made an effort to put food on the table, clean up after himself, make sure she was OK. But slowly, gradually, the mask slipped. Laura had known it would happen. At first, the drinking. Then, the violence. At night, the animal noises that kept Laura awake when he brought home a girl and did things to her.

Laura counted the days till she could start school. Until then she would be responsible for what Lester called ‘a sister’s special jobs’: washing the dishes; mopping the floors; and making sure his meal was prepared every night when he got home. If her brother wasn’t happy with what she had done, he would hit her across her cheek and leave her red skin stinging.

Before bed she undressed carefully in the bathroom, locking the door and stuffing the keyhole with toilet paper. She didn’t know why she did that, but it made her feel safer. Lester was a man, no longer a boy, and she was frightened of what that meant.

On Monday Laura got up early and made herself breakfast. Lester was still asleep, would be late for work: she hadn’t seen him the night before and when he’d staggered in at four in the morning he had fallen over the couch, sending a smash of beer bottles to the floor. She cleaned the mess, knowing what would happen if she didn’t. Then she surveyed the options. The only food in the trailer was stale bread with little buds of green mould flowering on their crusts, so she cut these off and made toast. She found a soft banana and stuffed it in her bag.

At school Laura registered quickly and was shown to her class. The other kids looked much smarter than her and had proper uniforms. Everyone looked at her funny.

‘Hi, I’m Marcie.’ The girl sitting with her in homeroom had fair hair and lots of freckles.

Laura liked her right away. ‘I’m Laura. ‘

Unfortunately the others weren’t so friendly. At recess a group of bigger boys came over and started calling them names. The boys were laughing at Marcie and the biggest one said something mean about her.

‘Get lost,’ Laura told him, hands on hips, scowling.

‘An attitude,’ he nodded approvingly, ‘not bad for a kid with no mommy or daddy.’ Then he grabbed her roughly and suddenly the other boys were pulling her hair and pushing her between them. Marcie started crying, begging them to stop.

‘Quit messing around, Greg,’ came a voice, and the crowd instantly dispersed.

The boy who had spoken stepped forward, squaring up to the biggest in the gang. Laura recognised him as the same boy she had seen when she first arrived in town, the one with the bike. He couldn’t be more than twelve or thirteen.

‘Pick on someone your own size,’ he said calmly, in a voice that sounded like it belonged to someone much older.

‘What’s it to you?’ snarled Greg, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

The other boy waited. ‘You heard what I said.’

‘Is that a threat, Lewis?’ said Greg, shoving the boy’s chest, hard.

The rest of the gang retreated, their confidence slipped.

Laura waited to see what the boy would do. He didn’t fight back. He just kept staring at Greg, his eyes so dark they were nearly black.

‘Come on, shithead,’ crowed Greg, moving to shove him again. This time the boy caught Greg’s wrist and twisted him round, forcing him to his knees.

‘Ow! Let me go!’ yelled Greg, struggling to free his arm. He fought to right himself but the dark-haired boy had him pinned.

‘Say you’re sorry.’

‘You’re gonna pay for this, Lewis!’

The boy pushed against him harder.

‘OK, OK!’ Greg howled, his face contorted. ‘Sorry, OK? I’m fucking sorry.’

Released, he slumped on to the dusty ground and clutched his arm to his chest, whimpering. Laura wanted to do something, but she no longer knew who the good guy was.

At last Greg stumbled to his feet, dusted himself off and looked at his crowd. He was trying to appear defiant but you could tell where the power was. The rest of them respected this boy more than they respected Greg, and Greg, for all his stupidity, knew it.

‘Let’s split.’ He glowered, signalling the gang and sauntering off. ‘Stinks of crap around here anyway.’

When they were gone the stranger turned to Laura. Everything about him was so dark: his eyes and his hair were one shade off black. He wore a very serious expression. She felt a little bit afraid of him.

‘Are you OK?’ he asked.

‘Sure.’

‘You new?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Forget those guys–they’re creeps.’

Marcie wiped her eyes and looked shyly at the boy. She nudged Laura with her elbow, prompting her to speak.

‘Thanks,’ she said eventually. ‘He won’t come after you, will he?’

The boy shoved his hands in his pockets. ‘Nah.’

There was a short silence.

‘Cool.’ He kicked the ground with his feet before starting to walk away. ‘Guess I’ll see you around.’

Before Laura could stop herself she blurted out, ‘What’s your name?’ Then felt like an idiot.

He stopped and turned round.

‘Robbie,’ he said, and for the first time he smiled. It was in a surprised sort of way, like his name was a brilliant idea he’d just thought of. She noticed he had a dimple in his chin. ‘Robbie Lewis.’

Then just as suddenly as he’d appeared, he was gone, his sneakers kicking up dust as he ran back across the yard.

17

St Tropez

Robert St Louis’s luxury super-yacht cut through the sparkling Mediterranean, a white diamond on a sea of blue.

‘Which do you want?’ asked Jessica Bernstein, strolling out on to the sun deck with a cocktail in each hand. ‘Mojito or daiquiri?’

The women were relaxing on Robert’s private, fully staffed ninety-foot vessel. He kept it moored in Europe year-long for business trips and for weekend breaks in France, Greece and his favourite country of all, Italy. He and Bernstein were spending the day in talks with a slot-machine manufacturer in Monaco who was stumping up cash for an expansion they had in mind.

Elisabeth looked up from under her wide-brimmed hat. ‘The green one.’

‘I’m having that.’ Jessica flopped down on to a towel and handed her sister the other glass. ‘God, I’m so bored,’ she moaned. ‘Daddy practically begged me to come and now he’s just left me rotting out here in the ocean.’

Elisabeth stayed quiet. It wasn’t Bernstein who had begged but the other way round. No wonder he had given in-there was only so much of Jessica’s bitching a person could tolerate. Most days she found it reasonably amusing but knew her father did not.

‘Hello?’ griped Jessica, fumbling with her iPod. ‘Are you even fucking listening to me?’

‘You’re ungrateful, Jessica–and your mouth’s awful. Quit cursing for five minutes.’

‘Fuck off.’

‘Charming.’

After a moment Elisabeth got up and pulled her lounger into the shade of a parasol.

‘Yes, better,’ said Jessica. ‘It’s age, you know. Old skin can’t handle the sun.’

‘Oh, go flick your bitch switch.’ Elisabeth arranged her towel, watching as her sister extracted a bottle of fuchsia nail varnish from a Gucci beach tote and unscrewed it.

Elisabeth lay back and tried to distance herself from the petty bickering. She and Jessica were born sparring partners–despite their age gap it had defined their relationship since Jessica had hit her teens. Elisabeth supposed she ought to rise above it, but part of her enjoyed the familiar territory of the banter. Her sister was the only person in the world with whom she could violently fall out with one day, only for it all to be forgotten about the next.

‘There isn’t anything to do on this boat,’ Jessica lamented, yanking out one of her earphones.

‘There’s a pool, a bar, table tennis—’

‘And I’m supposed to play that with you, am I?’ Jessica threw a glance at Elisabeth’s nails. ‘Won’t you chip a claw?’

Elisabeth rolled her eyes. ‘Stick it up your ass.’

‘Stick it up yours.’

‘No, thanks. And besides, I know very well what’s on this yacht.’ She played her trump card: Jessica couldn’t hold on to a man for more than five minutes. ‘It’s my fiancé’S, remember?’

‘Yeah, and he’s been looking real happy about that.’

There was a moment’s pause before Elisabeth stood up. Jessica had gone too far–she knew Robert was strictly out of bounds.

‘You haven’t a clue about how relationships like ours work.’

‘Relationships like yours?’ Jessica squawked gleefully as she stalked off. ‘What are you, the King and Queen of England?’

Elisabeth reached the bow and looked over. Glittering blue water sliced apart below her; above a matching sky and the rugged hills of the Azure coastline. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, feeling the wind whip through her Thomas Wylde silk kaftan.

But Jessica was right. Robert had been acting funny, and it was ever since that damn film premiere had been announced. Despite his assurances he still got defensive whenever she mentioned it, and even more so when she brought up Lana Falcon. What was going on?

And why hadn’t they settled on a date for the wedding?

They’d been engaged for months now. She hoped he wasn’t getting cold feet.

‘Get over it!’ shouted Jessica. ‘Desperation is so unattractive, you’re probably putting him off.’

Elisabeth turned, unable to bite back her catty response. ‘Put some more sun cream on, Jessica–you’re looking horribly pink.’ She reminded herself that Jessica was only bitter–she’d give anything for a man like Robert.

Resuming her seat under the parasol, she watched her sister apply yet more Sun Perfect to an already perfectly bronzed, and not at all burned, body.

‘He’s just got a lot on his mind at the moment,’ she said with a decisive nod.

‘Sure.’

‘Don’t be jealous,’ she mimicked, ‘it’s so unattractive.’

Jessica made a face. ‘Hardly.’ She rubbed the cream into her feet. ‘Well, if Robert doesn’t make sure he gets you down that aisle soon, Daddy will.’

Elisabeth closed her eyes, suddenly tired. ‘He can do all he wants, it’s Robert’s and my day and it’s our decision.’

‘Why is he so set on getting you two married?’

She opened her eyes a crack. The question sounded genuine.

‘Beats me.’

‘Robert thinks it’s to do with Chicago.’

‘Yeah, might be. Bernstein’s living in a dream world if he thinks either one of us wants in on that.’

‘I think it’s something else,’ Jessica said, adopting the tone she used when gossiping with her girlfriends. ‘Something Daddy’s not telling us.’

Elisabeth stretched out her toes. ‘Whatever.’

‘Aren’t you curious?’

‘Not really.’ She yawned. ‘As far as I’m concerned he’s an interfering old man. He just wants a grandson or some such crap. It doesn’t take a genius to work that out.’

Jessica rolled her eyes. ‘Think what you like. My money’s on something way juicier.’

‘Like what?’

‘That’s what I’m trying to find out.’

‘You’re just bored. It comes from sitting around all day doing nothing.’

Jessica shrugged. ‘Suit yourself. I’ll try not to say “I told you so".’

‘Fine. Shut up about it now.’

‘Why should I?’ Jessica raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m your sister, it’s my job.’

‘I’m tuning out.’ Elisabeth slid on a huge pair of sunglasses and lay back. ‘Save your gossip for someone who actually cares.’

Hours later, laden with bags, the two sisters collapsed into a café on the lively market square. St Tropez was boutique heaven.

Jessica ordered two champagne cocktails to celebrate.

‘I don’t want to get drunk,’ said Elisabeth.

‘I don’t want to get bored.’ But they ordered two bottles of La Croix all the same.

‘Delicious!’ Jessica clapped her hands together like a seal as the drinks arrived. Taking a sip, she extracted a pair of pink Rondini sandals from a huge paper bag and held them out. It was amazing how seriously she took the pursuit of shopping–of spending money in any capacity, really. Elisabeth had spent, too–mostly on her weakness, jewellery, in Gas Bijoux–but nowhere in the same league as her sister. For Jessica retail therapy was a full-time occupation: clearly it filled a gap where something else was missing.

Elisabeth checked her cell. Still nothing from Robert. She suspected they’d be leaving Monaco on Bernstein’s boat by now. Why hadn’t he been in touch? She had to stop worrying–there was nothing wrong with her fiancé; everything would be just fine.

‘I love France,’ Jessica mused, sitting back and running a hand through her hair. She gazed round at the architecture. ‘There’s so much American influence here.’

Elisabeth snorted.

‘Maybe I’ll move to Europe one day,’ her sister went on. ‘Marry a count.’

‘As if.’

‘Oh, I’m very well practised in the European ways. And by “European ways", of course I mean “European men".’

Elisabeth couldn’t help but laugh. It had been ages since she and Jessica had enjoyed each other’s company–much as her sister got under her skin, Elisabeth had to admit she was fun. Plus Jessica’s bravado on the subject of men, she knew, only concealed her desire for a meaningful relationship. The more insecure Jessica was definitely easier to love.

‘You’ve never had a French guy, admit it.’

Jessica shrugged. ‘I’ve had an English.’

‘Not the same thing.’

‘A sexy English.’

Elisabeth looked disgusted. ‘Not that hideous London one with the long hair. Wasn’t he in a rock band? Not that I’ve heard of them.’

‘Nate Reid,’ Jessica nodded, ‘is an incredibly hot guy. Seriously. I can get myself off just thinking about him.’

‘Jessica!’

Then she added, ‘I’ve got a feeling he’ll be big. I know that already, but musically speaking.’

Elisabeth raised an eyebrow. ‘Whatever you say.’

‘And anyway,’ Jessica fiddled with her earlobe, ‘he practically is a count. Or something. His family’s major-rich. I think we’re well-suited.’

‘Good for you.’ She stirred the sugar at the bottom of the cocktail.

‘It’s the Italians who really know what they’re doing …’

‘Not if Alberto Bellini’s anything to go by,’ muttered Elisabeth, wondering why the old man had sprung to mind. It must be the champagne.

‘What do you mean?’ Jessica leaned forward, keeping her voice hushed. ‘Has he tried it on with you?’

Champagne bubbles fizzed down Elisabeth’s throat. ‘He’s forever trying it on, you must know that.’ She added without a trace of arrogance, ‘It’s no secret he’s in love with me.’

‘But I mean, has he ever tried it on … physically?’

‘God, no!’ Elisabeth giggled. ‘He’s ancient.’

‘The old ones are the worst,’ Jessica said sagely.

‘Maybe.’

Elisabeth looked out at the bustling square. Against her will she felt a stir at the mention of Alberto; the memory of what he’d said about her dear mother; his unconcealed adoration such a far cry from Robert’s recent behaviour. It was the cocktails, that was all.

‘Let’s get another,’ she said on impulse. Jessica beamed. ‘I’m feeling reckless.’

18

London

‘Just hold steady, that’s it, eyes wide … Perfect!’

Chloe had been in hair and make-up for what seemed like for ever. The catwalk show was a star-studded fundraiser for a children’s hospital, a cause she felt passionate about–she was desperate to hit the runway, if for nothing else than to stretch her legs.

Jared, her make-up guy, was a paunchy artiste with a shiny black Mohawk and shockingly dark, sculpted eyebrows. He stood back.

‘Voila. My work here is done.’

In the spotlit mirror, Chloe absorbed her reflection–her hair, normally worn long and loose, was secured in an elaborate cascade of curls; her eyes a smoky grey. The other models, with many of whom she had worked but none she had become great friends, watched her from gaunt, pale faces, eaten up with envy. Chloe was naturally lovely–she didn’t have to try.

‘Thanks, Jared.’ She smiled. She could hardly wait for Nate, in the front row in the audience, to see her tonight.

The show went off brilliantly. Chloe was the main attraction and first out on the walk, donning a striking collection of silver high-necked, short-length dresses from a debut designer. The heels they put her in made her about six-five and she had visions of toppling over and landing with her face buried in Anna Wintour’s lap. A row of slim, neatly crossed legs lined the length of the runway, sharp suits and straight backs, as famed spectators knew they were as much on show as the models.

Afterwards Melissa Darling met her backstage. It was like a mannequin production line, with long, slender limbs in various states of undress.

‘Melissa!’ Chloe greeted her, giving her a kiss on both cheeks. She was half-naked and struggling into a pair of jeans–Melissa didn’t seem to notice.

‘You were fabulous,’ said Melissa. She was in her twenties, with light brown hair that was pulled into a thick, swinging ponytail. Always managing to strike a balance between glamour and ‘What, this old thing?’, she wore leggings with chunky boots and a cashmere wrap.

‘Thanks! Did you see Nate?’ Chloe let her hair down, tried to get a brush through it before it got well and truly stuck, and laughed.

Melissa shook her head. ‘No, but listen, if I could just grab a word—’

‘Somebody said my name?’ a cocky voice interrupted. A pair of hands covered Chloe’s eyes from behind.

‘Nate!’ Chloe broke free and turned to kiss him. He wore a white shirt, tight tweedy waistcoat and skinny jeans. His hair was styled to within an inch of its life and Chloe thought he must have spent longer getting ready than she had.

‘What did you think of the show?’ she asked.

‘Not bad, babe,’ he said, wrapping his arms around her waist. ‘You were the best thing in it.’ He leaned in to kiss her again.

Melissa cleared her throat. ‘Chloe?’

She pulled away. ‘God, sorry! You were saying?’

‘Can we have a chat?’ Her agent’s eyes flew to Nate.

‘Oh,’ said Chloe, waving her hand, ‘anything that concerns me concerns him, too.’

They took a seat. A blonde model with glittering blue eyes and an upturned nose flitted past, catching Nate’s attention and batting her lashes.

‘Do you know her?’ asked Chloe.

Nate shrugged. ‘Never seen her before in my life, babe.’

‘OK,’ said Melissa, ‘it’s about LA.’

Chloe’s hands flew to her face. Nate frowned.

‘The part’s yours, if you want it.’

‘Oh, Melissa!’ Chloe jumped up and embraced her agent, who was caught off guard and took in a mouthful of black hair. ‘I’m ecstatic, truly. Thank you thank you thank you.’

‘What?’ said Nate, looking from one to the other.

Ignoring him, Melissa went on. ‘You’ll need to meet with the director, but it’s just a formality. As soon as the producers saw your photo, they knew you were it. You’ve got the right image, the right reputation’–she threw a glance at Nate–’and the right profile. Congratulations.’

‘Hang on a minute,’ he interrupted. ‘What’s all this about?’

Chloe was unable to contain her smile. ‘I wanted to wait till it was confirmed before I told you. The right part finally came along, Nate.’

‘It did?’

She nodded happily. ‘And I’m filming with Lana Falcon.’

Nate was taken aback. ‘Lana bloody Falcon?’

‘That’s right!’

Nate’s mouth fell open.

‘I know–unbelievable, isn’t it?’ Chloe took his hand. ‘But I don’t want you to worry about us, you know, the long distance thing. I’m totally committed to—’

Melissa stood up. ‘Chloe, I’ve got to dash. I’ll send the script over tomorrow and you can review your part.’ She smiled. ‘I’ve looked at it myself and it’s a gem of a role.’

‘I’m so made up, Melissa. A million thank-yous.’

‘Don’t thank me–it’s on your own merit.’ She winked, gave her client a final hug goodbye and was gone.

Chloe sat back down. Nate’s mouth was still hanging open.

‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.

Nate found his tongue. ‘Just a bit of a shock, that’s all,’ he said, refusing to meet her eye.

There was a brief pause. ‘Aren’t you glad for me?’ she asked quietly.

‘Of course I am,’ he said quickly. ‘It’s just that Hollywood’s kind of a fucked-up place. Maybe you’d be better off staying here.’

Chloe reached for him. ‘You’re so sweet to always think about me first. But I promise you, it is the right thing for me.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘It’s something I have to do, Nate.’

After a moment Nate seemed to find his feet. ‘As it goes, we might not be so long distance as you thought.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Seems I’ve got some news of my own.’ Nate shrugged, smoothly reclaiming the limelight. ‘We’ve been signed up to work with this shit-hot producer on the new album. In LA, as it goes. Everyone thinks with a bit of hard work we might break the US market.’

Chloe was thrilled. ‘No way!’ she exclaimed. ‘Oh, that’s so awesome-we’ll be out there together!’

Nate gave a weak smile. ‘Hmm.’

‘I’m serious!’ She kissed him. ‘I can’t wait. I’m so glad you’re coming with me.’

Nate laughed and stroked her hair. ‘Or you’re coming with me.’

Chloe frowned. ‘Whichever.’

Jared dashed over, frantically waving his arms. ‘Car’s here, let’s go!’

They were hitting Movida, where the couple were scheduled to make an appearance. The paparazzi would be out in full force. Chloe and Nate were definitely the people to arrive with.

19

Los Angeles

‘I’ve got to fuck you. Now.’

Stark naked, Parker Troy lay back, already hard to bursting. He feasted his eyes on Lana’s magnificent figure. Those perfect breasts; that nipped-in waist and beautiful ass, her creamy skin that always smelled clean, like lemons. She was a hundred per cent real.

‘Shh,’ said Lana, taking his hands and straddling him, ‘don’t speak.’ Deftly she slid on protection. There was no time for foreplay, never had been. And this wasn’t about tenderness–it wasn’t about the other person at all. For both Lana and Parker it was a selfish act of make-believe: a high-risk, utterly irresistible ride right into the heart of the storm.

They raced to the climax quickly, urgency running thick in their blood. For Lana, who was starved of sex and craved it like air, it was a necessity. For Parker, as it was every time, the experience was one of ecstasy and just a pinch of disbelief, as he looked up at the woman he and his frat buddies had jerked off over at college.

‘That was incredible,’ he gasped, a rash of pink spreading across his chest. ‘I’m addicted to you.’

Lana dressed quickly. ‘Don’t say that. We’re not going there.’

They were at Parker’s Malibu penthouse overlooking the ocean. Lana had requested she run through a pivotal scene with Parker before shooting the following week–Cole’s driver had dropped her twenty minutes ago and was currently waiting outside. She’d greeted Parker cordially at the door for appearances’ sake, but once inside they hadn’t spoken. This was anything but a professional engagement.

Parker sat up. ‘Do you have to go?’ Behind him the beach stretched out, a spread of golden sand running down to sparkling water. He sat back on the pillows and gazed at it dreamily, like something out of a romance novel. ‘We could take a walk.’

Lana fastened her bra. ‘Not in this lifetime.’

‘In that case,’ he reached for her, ‘come back to bed.’

She resisted. ‘Forget it, Parker. Cole’s waiting.’

The colour drained from Parker’s boyish face at the mention of Lana’s husband. Cole’s name was taboo.

‘You freakin’ brought him here?’ he squealed.

Lana gave him a look. ‘Of course not. One of his goons.’

He threw his arms up in the air. ‘Christ! Don’t do that to me again.’

‘I’m careful, Parker, we both are.’ She grabbed the script, tucked it under her arm. ‘Long as it stays that way, we’ve got nothing to worry about.’

A noise interrupted them. The sound of the door going.

They looked at each other.

‘Get the hell out!’ Parker hissed, throwing himself off the bed. The sheets got tangled in his legs and he tripped on to the floor. ‘Shit!’

Lana hauled open the window, clambering out on to the balcony. ‘Who is it?’

He shook his head, bundling her purse out after her. ‘It’s Ashlee, she’s home early. Holy freakin’ shit!’

‘I thought you’d broken up!’

‘We’re on and off.’ A clumsy kiss on the lips. ‘Make like we sat on the terrace, I don’t know. If Cole finds out, I’m a dead man.’

‘Thanks for the heads-up,’ she said wryly. He slammed the window shut.

Staying low, Lana skirted round the side of the building. A murmur of voices could be heard from inside the apartment–she hoped Parker could handle himself: the last thing they needed was his girlfriend running to the papers.

Before she emerged she dusted off any dishevelment and pulled her cap down hard over her ears. The whole encounter had taken less than half an hour.

Cole’s car was waiting on the opposite side of the road. Its driver had his head buried in a paper.

This is getting dangerous, she told herself. You’re pushing it too hard.

But she couldn’t help it. These days it was the only thing that made her feel alive.

‘Poor baby, let me get you something to drink.’

Parker Troy made a pathetic face and lay back, half closing his eyes. He watched through the cracks as his girlfriend fussed around–he’d had to feign illness when she’d found him semi-naked amid a knot of bed sheets.

With Ashlee gone, he checked his cell. He could only assume Lana had got out OK. Parker was playing with fire and he knew it–this was Cole Steel’s freakin’ wife. Every man in Hollywood knew it was as good as putting a loaded gun to your balls, but that only made it more of a drug.

How in the hell he’d managed to bed Lana Falcon he simply did not know. Parker himself was a part-time celebrity, had been in several poorly produced teen films that had raised his status to that of the kind of minor heart-throb girls poster up on their walls but don’t exactly know the name of. His part in Eastern Sky as Lana’s brief fling–how life imitated art-was a major break. When she’d made her intentions clear in the first week of shooting, he couldn’t believe his luck. It was a risk, but Parker was a man who thrived on adrenalin. Life was for living in the moment–he’d think about the consequences later.

Ashlee came back in with a glass of water and some drugs. She sat down next to him, put a hand to his forehead.

‘You’re working too hard,’ she told him, kissing his fevered lips. ‘It’s exhaustion, that’s all.’ She held out the pills.

Obediently Parker swallowed them, the chalky powder sticking in his throat.

20

‘Go on, honey, go play with Su-Su.’ Kate diLaurentis gestured frantically to the Puerto Rican nanny, who came hurrying over to take her daughter.

‘Why don’t you play with her, Kate?’ asked Jimmy Hart, fixing himself a drink from the granite-topped bar.

‘Fuck off, Jimmy,’ Kate snarled. ‘It’s hardly like you’re father of the year.’

The nanny gathered up both children and ushered them out of the room, trying to cover their ears as best she could.

Kate sauntered out to the pool in their expansive Bel Air mansion. She needed some downtime–kids were so exhausting.

‘That’s right,’ muttered Jimmy, ‘another day, another sun-tan.’

Kate chose not to rise to it. Arranging herself on a lounger by their infinity pool, she closed her eyes and tried to block out her husband’s moaning. A moment later she heard him pad out on to the terrace.

If only he wasn’t such a goddamn bastard.

‘As a matter of fact,’ she told him, sitting up and sipping a Perrier, ‘I went for a casting this morning.’

‘What for?’ he asked in a bored way.

Already thinking about your next little conquest, are you? Kate thought angrily. ‘It’s Carl Rico’s new venture.’

‘Carl bloody Rico?’ Jimmy was outraged. ‘Make you get your tits out, did he?’ Carl Rico was a director with a reputation for targeting ageing actresses looking to get back into work. ‘Bit desperate, Kate.’

Kate whipped off her sunglasses. ‘You try being an actress in your forties and then tell me I should be picky!’ she blazed.

Jimmy shook his head in exasperation and wandered back into the house. He couldn’t talk to his wife when she was like this. Where had the old Kate diLaurentis gone, the woman he had fallen in love with? She’d been gorgeous, funny, smart, an actress with wisdom and ambition. He knew these days she felt like she was way past her best, but all the surgery coupled with a sharp whiff of panic wasn’t helping one bit.

With shame he admitted he was making it ten times worse by shagging around. But what was a man supposed to do? A diagnosed sex addict, at that? Over the past year his wife had barely allowed him under her nightgown–a nightgown? What were they living in, the nineteenth century?–and every time he tried to cop a feel she froze up like a rabbit in headlights. He wasn’t ready to join a monastery just yet.

Kate followed him in, her Louis Vuitton wedges pounding the floor.

‘Don’t you walk away from me,’ she fumed.

‘What are you going to do, Kate?’ Jimmy asked. ‘Batter me to death with one of your shoes?’

On cue she pulled off one of her wedges and threw it at his head. It narrowly missed and went crashing into a Ming-style vase.

‘Oh, nice,’ said Jimmy. ‘Real fucking nice.’

‘I hate you!’ she screamed, turning on one heel and storming lopsided back to the pool.

‘And just what is it that I’m supposed to have done?’ Jimmy was calling her bluff. He winced in anticipation of her response.

Kate refused to look at him. She swallowed back her tears. If only she knew how to deal with all this … frustration. She hadn’t been sleeping. She was depressed, anxious, jealous. She needed her pills–they were the only things that calmed her. But that would only give her husband something else to grumble on at her about.

Slumping on to a lounger, she put her head in her hands, waiting for him to come and comfort her. It wasn’t the first time she had hurled something at him.

Moments later she felt him sit down next to her and, sure enough, a gangly arm came to rest across her shoulders. ‘What is it?’ he asked gently.

Oh, how she was tempted to tell him all she knew. Just the other day she had found proof he was at it again. Tucked down the back of the bed was a pair of lilac panties she could have flossed her teeth with.

‘Jimmy, I …’ She shook her head, it was no use. Despite his extra-marital activities she couldn’t tolerate the thought of losing him–she absolutely refused to suffer the humiliation of becoming a divorcee twice over. And then there were the children to think about …

Jimmy patted her back as he might a friend’s and said swiftly, ‘Forget it, it’s no big deal.’ He stood up. Phew, that was a lucky escape.

Kate nodded and gazed up at him with red-rimmed eyes. Had she been so naive as to imagine she deserved her own love affair? After the arranged marriage to Cole Steel, the dreadful enforced celibacy, she had hoped for a second partnership based on trust, respect, but most of all passion. Hadn’t she earned it? The trouble was she just didn’t feel sexy any more: she felt old and ugly and stupid.

As if reading her mind, he held out a hand. ‘Come inside,’ he said throatily.

Weakly she got to her feet, took off the one remaining wedge and trailed after him. Maybe it would be better this time, she thought grimly, as they mounted the grand staircase.

In the bedroom, Jimmy pulled the blinds and tried not to think about the blonde actress-slash-model he’d been shagging. Long gone were the days when Kate would arrange herself into those ambitious positions.

Kate sat down on the edge of the bed and removed her bikini top. She crossed her arms over her breasts to cover them and lay back, rigid, looking blankly up at the ceiling.

‘Talk about the undead!’ As soon as the words escaped he knew it was the worst possible thing he could have said. Still, once upon a time she would have found it funny and teased him about being a terrible comedian.

Instead she gasped and sat up. ‘Fine, forget it, then.’ She reached for her bikini.

But he was on her in an instant, leaning her back against the pillows, finding her lips with his. ‘Sorry,’ he murmured, ‘that was a grave mistake.’ And thought he saw the trace of a smile.

Trying to relax, Kate arched her back as Jimmy planted kisses on her neck, then lower, past her collarbone, and finally he reached her nipples. Though she’d had an augmentation and a lift she still felt crinkly and unattractive. Instinctively she tensed.

‘Jimmy, I …’

‘Just take it easy,’ he soothed, his hand moving ever lower until it arrived at the band of her bikini briefs. As he sneaked a finger in and felt the brush of hair there, she pulled away.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, rolling on to her side and pulling a sheet up to cover herself. ‘I just don’t want to.’

There was a brief silence, and before Kate could stop herself she spilled, launching into a monologue about how she thought the problem was that he didn’t make her feel wanted, loved, all those things that mattered. She talked about how she felt old and washed-up and how she knew he preferred a younger model and how was she supposed to compete? Still she couldn’t bring herself to raise the issue of his affairs, but it was the next best thing to air what was on her mind. They said the bedroom was the place for intimacy, and right now this was exactly the kind of intimacy she needed.

Minutes later she wound to a halt, feeling exhausted but definitely lighter.

‘Well?’ she said softly. ‘Does that make sense to you?’

A moment passed before he began to snore.

‘Jimmy?’ She turned over to see his prostrate form, mouth hanging slack, a rivulet of drool escaping down one side.

‘Oh, fuck it!’ she fumed, swinging her legs off the bed. Was this what her marriage had come to? It was almost as much of a joke as the years she’d spent with Cole. At least that hadn’t involved any … expectation.

Wrapping a towel around her, she slipped from the room, closing the door quietly. She would use a guest bedroom to bring herself the pleasure she knew, deep down, she deserved. These days it was the only way.

21

St Tropez

Elisabeth Sabell stood from the table and tucked in her chair. She and Robert were dining with investors at La Parisienne, an exclusive harbourside restaurant favoured by the rich and famous.

‘Everything OK, puss?’ asked Bernstein, firing Robert an accusing look.

‘Fine,’ said Elisabeth, ‘if you’ll just excuse me.’ She made her way through the tables and into the cool marble of the bathroom. She felt queasy. Pushing open an empty cubicle, she closed the door and leaned back, breathing deeply.

The trip had been extended. Stupidly she hadn’t brought next month’s Pill. She’d been ready to tell Robert that they’d need to use other precautions, before thinking at the weekend, Why should we? They both wanted kids, they’d discussed it before. Since arriving in France conversation had been so scant that sex was the only real communication they were sharing. Perhaps a baby would help get things back on track.

Now her period was late.

She extracted the test from her purse.

For the first time since she and Robert had got engaged, she wasn’t entirely sure what she wanted it to say.

Robert St Louis was trying to ignore the fact that one of his investors’ wives, a sharp-featured English woman with a tightly drawn chignon, had been giving him the come-on all night. Earlier, on the way to the restroom, she had pushed herself up against him and promised in a husky upper-class voice, ‘Later.’ Somehow he knew that later would never come.

The waiter came to take their order. It was a big table: as well as Robert, Bernstein and his two daughters, they were dining with three key financiers and their immaculately groomed wives. But what was taking Elisabeth so long?

‘Here she comes,’ droned Jessica, stirring her martini.

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