Praise for

Victoria Fox and her debut book,Hollywood Sinners

‘This summer’s hottest novel. Hollywood Sinners … is giving Jackie Collins a run for her money.’ That’s Life!

‘Sure to be a huge hit and perfect for the beach’

Sun

‘We should’ve seen the twists in this sinful bonkbuster coming, but two of the surprises were so shocking that we ended up startling the other commuters on the bus!’

Now

‘The heady mix of corruption, glamour, lust and power is guaranteed to keep you up late into the night.Get your scandal fix here!’

Closer

‘This debut novel is full of sex, glamour and divas!’ 4 stars

Star

‘Scandalous. Glamorous. Sexy. Victoria Fox’s sassy, sparkling debut puts the bonk back into bonkbuster!’

Lovereading.co.uk

‘A juicy tale of glamour, corruption and ambition.

A cracking read’

Jo Rees, author of Platinum

‘A glorious, sexy story of high-octane Hollywood intrigue—I loved it.’

Lulu Taylor, author of Heiresses and Beautiful Creatures

‘Just what the devil ordered—salacious secrets, illicit sex and wicked deception’ J J Salem, author of The Strip and Tan Lines

‘For a trip to ultimate escapism, take the Jackie Collins freeway, turn left at Sexy Street, right at Scandal Boulevard.Your destination is Victoria Fox’s Hollywood.’

dailyrecord.co.uk

Temptation
Island
Victoria Fox

For Mark

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thank you to my editors Kim Young and Jenny Hutton, whose wisdom, guidance and commitment has meant the world to this book. To the whole team at HQ, especially Mandy Ferguson, Tim Cooper, Nick Bates, Oliver Rhodes, Claudia Symons, Elise Windmill, Jason Mackenzie, Clare Somerville, and Donna Esiri and Debbie Clements for the beautiful covers. To Madeleine Buston for being a phenomenal agent, and to Clare Wallace, Mary Darby and Rosanna Bellingham for their stellar work. I’m also grateful to Tory Lyne-Pirkis at Midas PR who is the best publicist I could wish for.

Special thanks to Victoria Stonex and the Consultancy for her ideas at the beginning and her insight at the end. Also to Kieran Lynch for an afternoon of plotting in a Lake District pub; to Jo and Jeff Croot for bringing tea in the morning and wine at night; to Seth Dawes for talking to me about New York; to Ross and Angie Freese for their friendship (and to Louis for when he’s older); to Kate Furnivall for her advice and encouragement; to Emily Plosker, Joe Martin, Matt Everitt and Ben Sanders. To Chloe, Sarah, Laura, Jimmy, Tay, Finny and everyone from school who remembers the LBM. To Mum and Dad. And to Mark Oakley for his patience, his imagination, and for believing that anything is possible.

Prologue I

Present Day

Island of Cacatra, Indian Ocean

Had it not been such a clear night, the moon so bright and the air so still, her body might not have been visible where it moved uncertainly, facedown, at the surface of the water. As it was, the pale skin of her shoulder glowed sickeningly in the silver light, one strap of her gown fallen and bound to her like seaweed, its jewels glinting bright as the stars that pierced the sky above.

In the distance, the low thump of music and faraway cries of merriment. The megayacht twinkled on the horizon, its outline lit gold against the black ocean, a winking diamond guillotining the depths. The grand vessel was scene to the birthday party of the year: a lavish, abundant celebration for which no expense had been spared. On board, a host of VIPs, from Hollywood stars to Olympic idols, from dazzling supermodels to the government’s elite, from singers, actresses and dancers—beautiful people the globe over—to the cream of the entrepreneurial world, partied as midnight came and went. All were oblivious to the quiet outside, around, below: unaware that, beneath their feet, a secret was drowned, soundless and stifled in the endless deep.

She had not been dead long, half an hour at most. The tide was strong, had rocked her body towards the shore, gently so as not to wake her, the water kissing her cold skin. Her arms were spread wide, her hair tangled like the ropes of a shipwreck, once bound to great beauty but now cut loose on the strange unknown. Her dress had been torn in the struggle, a red slit bleeding uselessly where the dagger had entered.

If she had been asleep, the coarse shingle would have woken her now. A scratch to the belly before, with a final, sad push, the water deposited her. Quiet as silk, it noiselessly retreated.

A little way down the beach, a small boy was hunting for sea turtles. His father had told him they came in to lay their eggs at night, leathery things whose shells shone white in troughs of sand. He wasn’t supposed to be here—Miss Jensen, the housekeeper, would murder him—but it was boring waiting inside the mansion. He squinted at the yacht, hundreds of miles away, it seemed, and wished he could be there instead of here. They told him that one day it would all be his: his great inheritance. Crouching at the water’s edge, the palm of one hand cradling his chin and the other blindly raking the beach, it was hard to believe. His knees were damp from where he’d been on them, combing the smooth, still-warm sand for that final, important discovery.

His fingers curled round it instinctively at first, like a baby’s around its mother’s thumb. It felt like net, the ones he caught crabs in, but it clung to him too unhappily for that, as if by holding on it could force him, maybe, to look.

When he did, he knew it was bad. His fist was buried in a knot of wet stuff, too sticky, too like cobweb, too … human. Strands of it across his skin, darkened by its journey over the water, a thickness so much like hair, and the solid bump of skull beneath; the yielding scalp.

The boy’s scream ruptured the quiet. It came from somewhere in him that until then he hadn’t known existed, somewhere basic and raw. The island gasped with the force of it, trembling in the vastness of its ocean pillow, and seemed to open one eye in recognition, as if it knew all along it was about to be discovered.

II

One day earlier

Twenty-four hours to departure

Reuben van der Meyde disembarked his yacht with the air and importance of a king. And he was a king, damn it—at least in this part of the world, where it was easy to forget that land and civilisation existed beyond the clean blue line of the horizon. The end of the earth, the van der Meyde sightline: as far as Reuben was concerned, Cacatra was it.

Despite the lightweight linen shirt he’d had his housekeeper leave out, Reuben was sweating buckets. He could feel it down his back, pooling in a horseshoe under his arms and sticking in the doughy folds he was trying halfheartedly to shift. Christ! When did he start perspiring out of his ears? Removing his baseball cap with an irritable swipe, he patted his head with a handkerchief and dug about a bit in his ear-holes. At last, satisfied, he strode purposefully off down the beach, thoughtfully scratching the ginger fuzz on his chin.

Preparations were in order: he had checked the boat, talked to the organisers, sorted the charity raffle … what next? In twenty-four hours everybody who was anybody would join him to celebrate his sixtieth birthday, a party in honour of, arguably (though Reuben saw no point in arguing an indisputable fact), the richest and most powerful man on the planet. Each guest had received their invite months previously, but it was hardly as if they could forget the only social event worth bothering about this year. All that time his people had been fielding calls from neglected stars—singers and models and actresses, politicians, art dealers, writers; names and faces who’d thought they were good acquaintances but clearly hadn’t made the cut. He’d had to slash a few loose. You didn’t get to where Reuben was without making a few sacrifices.

Initially he had purchased Cacatra as a business enterprise: an exclusive island getaway for the rich and famous, a destination for relaxation and rehabilitation, shelter from the glare of the spotlight. But these days he was living here more and more. The island’s lush vegetation, its azure water and golden sands, offered a man exiting middle age the kind of respite he needed. Cacatra was a safe place, a beautiful place. There weren’t enough of those left in the world.

Set back from the beach, up a series of winding stone steps, was the van der Meyde mansion. A white colossus overlooking the ocean, circled by glittering fountains and emerald palms, it had been built to a template of exacting standards and now, as voted for several years ago in a major US lifestyle publication, boasted the title of Most Desirable Residence in the World. It wasn’t sufficient. Reuben had plans to improve the place further, beginning with extending the already gargantuan swimming pool to a multi-tiered affair that fed directly into the ocean. It was his entrepreneurial spirit, exactly how he had made his fortune: he would think of the most outrageous idea he could and then test himself—dare himself—to go ahead and do it.

Not today. He had a party to get on with first.

Margaret Jensen, his housekeeper, was waiting at the main entrance. She was a small, birdlike Englishwoman in her forties with poker-straight mouse-brown hair that hung limply to her shoulders and quick, darting eyes. She moved swiftly, purposefully and with a touch of fuss, in the way efficient people sometimes do.

‘Is everything all right, Mr V?’ she enquired as he swept past, flip-flops slapping the polished floor. It was what he liked to be called. ‘The boat looks impressive.’

‘Fine.’ Reuben’s brutal Johannesburg accent pinched the word thin. He threw his cap on to a dark-wood chest, a grossly expensive African piece he’d had sourced at an auction in the spring. The slogan across the front of the cap read: DO IT BEFORE YOU CHANGE YOUR MIND.

Reuben opened the door to his office, wishing that Miss Jensen could keep to the point and not feel it necessary to stick her beak in. He supposed she imagined she had the right.

Ill at the thought, he closed the door and strode over to his desk. Of course the yacht was impressive: that was the whole bloody point. Everything Reuben van der Meyde did was in pursuit of admiration. He was a god, and he expected his people to treat him as such.

He flicked on his Mac, wondering if he’d heard back about the Asian possibility. There was one unread message in his inbox, from a coded address he didn’t recognise, and he clicked on it lazily, easing himself back in his chair with a greasy squeak of leather. Behind him the panoramic ocean view stretched out.

I’m one of them.

Tomorrow the truth comes out.

Reuben watched the message for a moment. He leaned in. He frowned at it. Then he got up from his desk and pulled open the door.

‘Margaret.’

Instantly Miss Jensen appeared in the hall. ‘Yes, Mr V?’

‘Where is Jean-Baptiste?’

Margaret swallowed her nerve. JB was the man every woman wanted. It was wrong, because the things he did were terrible. She knew he was as cool and ruthless as her boss, and yet the Frenchman wore his secrets well. His were uncharted waters; she had always thought so. She would catch him, sometimes, deep in thought, and the way he was with the boy …

But Reuben only ever used the man’s full name when something was the matter.

‘I haven’t seen him,’ she said carefully. ‘Is there anything I can help you with?’

Reuben forgot his manners. ‘Do you really think an issue for which I require Jean-Baptiste could possibly be one you would be capable of handling?’

‘I’m sorry—’

Reuben slammed the door.

It was a hoax. But how had this person got into his private account? Only a small clique was permitted: Jean-Baptiste being one of them, and a handful of selected clients.

Pinching the material of his shirt between two fat fingers, Reuben fanned air on to his sweaty chest. Despite his self-assurances, his heart was throbbing against his rib cage.

Thump, thump, thump.

Fuck it. No one was more powerful than him. This party was going to go off without a hitch and then he’d trace whatever joker had dared stray into his personal business. For that was what it was: business. He was a businessman. The things he’d done … well, they were to make money. And make money they most certainly had. He wasn’t about to start unravelling a moral fibre he wasn’t even sure was there. Conscience was for pussies—not for him.

This time he buzzed for Margaret, couldn’t tolerate facing her scarcely concealed rapture at whatever drama had now been thrown his way.

‘Get me a girl,’ he instructed as soon as she came on the line. ‘And make it quick.’

There was only one thing he needed right now: a fucking blow job.

Book One

2008-9

1 Lori

Loriana Garcia Torres was reading a novel. It was a good one. The hero was about to enter, a brooding, misunderstood lover with vengeance in his heart.

Dark hair fell over her face and she pulled the wild curls back with one hand, gathering them at the base of her neck. The Tres Hermanas beauty salon, a dusty-walled, graffiti-plastered enterprise in LA’s Eastside was, as usual, empty.

Anita approached the counter. ‘Trash needs takin’ out,’ she sneered, her features contorted with their usual combination of spite and boredom. ‘Get to it.’

Lori tore herself away. At seventeen, with skin the colour of the desert at sunrise and wide, thick-lashed gold-black eyes, she was sexy, even though—perhaps because—she had never had sex. Hers was an irresistible age. On the cusp of womanhood, she still possessed a childlike innocence that rendered her very Spanish beauty incomparable. Her stepsisters, themselves a few years older and with none of Lori’s charm or kindness, hated her for it.

‘I’ve been here since six,’ she replied. ‘This is my first break.’

‘This is my first break,’ Anita mimicked as she chewed gum with an open mouth. It was obscene, the way she did it, because she was wearing so much lipgloss. The hand on her hip was crowned with curled fingernails, each one several inches in length, and heavy hoops pulled fatly at her earlobes. ‘Been busy readin’ that garbage?’ She snatched the book, regarding its pages with disdain. ‘There’s jobs gotta be done round here, quit makin’ excuses.’

‘I’m not. I haven’t stopped all day …’ Lori trailed off under the scorch of Anita’s glare.

‘And you won’t now.’ Anita smiled sweetly and turned up the Jay-Z track on the radio. ‘Or I’ll tell Mama and Tony about Rico. And you wouldn’t want that, would you?’ Rico was Lori’s boyfriend. The Garcias could never find out she was seeing him—they’d go crazy.

Lori’s gaze raked over Tres Hermanas: the cracked mirrors bolted to the walls; the sickly pink of the salon seats, damp and rubbery in the sticky summer heat, their mock leather peeling like sunburned skin; the stained porcelain bowls where she washed through all that tough hair; the acrid smell of ammonia. She hated it. Every second she was here she hated it.

Life hadn’t been easy since her mother had died, ten years ago now. Tony, her father, had swiftly remarried, acquiring a new family: Anita and Rosa, jealous of her beauty and dead-set on making her life a misery, and a stepmother, Angélica, whose mean stare and sideways looks gave Lori the impression she could well do without the nuisance of a ready-made daughter. Unable to abandon the hopes and dreams of her parents, Lori had left school and joined the business, working till her bones ached and her feet blistered. It wasn’t enough. Her sisters’ attitude had driven clients away and now the salon was spiralling rapidly into debt and disrepair.

Lori had no money and no prospects. The days were long and the pay virtually non-existent, and while Anita and Rosa wasted no time spending their share, on cheap clothes, cigarettes and men, Lori put hers straight back into the enterprise. She did it because she loved her father and she didn’t want him to suffer—not more than he already had.

It wasn’t a life. It was endurance.

Rosa emerged from the back, where she’d been smoking out in the yard. Rosa was the eldest and overweight. She sported a cap of slick dark hair, which she tweezed into little hook-like curls at the sides of her face.

‘Loriana thinks she’s done enough for one day,’ chirruped Anita. ‘Got better stuff to do.’

‘Oh, yeah?’ Rosa shot Lori a scornful look. ‘Like what?’

Defeated, Lori rose from the counter. It was easier than arguing. Once upon a time she’d have stood up for herself, given as good as she got, but the reality was she was outnumbered. The only person on her side was Tony—or, he had been. These days he seemed to have given up, the endless loans and threats from the bank and demands for payment finally wearing him down. He’d become weak, let Angélica take over with her punishing schedules and harsh government, at least where Lori was concerned. No, she was by herself. That was all there was to it.

The salon door opened and Rosa’s only appointment of the afternoon wandered in, a mean-faced black girl with a tired weave. She slumped into one of the salmon-coloured chairs and threw a glance Lori’s way. ‘I want hair like hers,’ she declared. It wasn’t the first time a client had requested curls like Lori’s, something that was impossible to pull off. Rosa glowered.

Anita released a satisfied puff as Lori began mopping the floor. ‘You’re lucky to have a job here, y’know,’ she mused, leaning over the counter and lazily examining her nails. She’d always been a bully, was born with it in her character, intrinsic as genetics.

‘My family started this place,’ Lori fired back. ‘So don’t tell me I’m lucky to be here.’

It was a petty observation, but nevertheless the truth. Lori’s parents had been proud, God-fearing, hard-working people: they’d been dirt poor but they’d been happy, arriving in America with barely two cents to their name and taking out a loan to build their own business. Purchasing one of a chain of beat-up shopfronts in a down-and-out part of LA, over the years they had watched it grow into something about which they could be proud.

Then her mother had died. Too quick, too sudden, too horrible. Through a shroud of grief, Tony had allowed himself to be comforted by the first person who claimed they wanted to listen. Angélica had pounced on a vulnerable man and an exploitable business. In the weeks that followed, Pelobello had become Tres Hermanas, and from there it had begun its descent. Lori tried desperately to keep its head above water but she worked thankless, endless hours. After a while, it got to a person. It made them feel useless and hopeless. It made them feel broken.

Lori refused to accept this was her future. A light glimmered inside her. Some days she thought it was her mother, still with her; others, the glowing, insistent ember that kept her alive. Change would come. She’d know when it did.

‘I’m done,’ she said now, shoving the mop back in its corner. Anita’s horrified expression appeared in one of the salon mirrors.

‘Don’t you dare think about it!’ she crowed.

‘I’m not thinking about it.’ Lori grabbed her bag. She changed from the uncomfortable plastic heels made obligatory by Angélica into her favourite worn Converse. ‘I’m doing it.’

‘You can’t leave,’ Rosa bitched, jabbing a pair of styling scissors in Lori’s face. ‘You’ve got another hour and you’re workin’ every second of it!’

‘Or what?’ She scooped up a stack of battered paperbacks from under the counter.

‘You’d better not be meetin’ Rico!’ one of them screeched, but she couldn’t tell which. ‘You won’t get away with it!’

Lori pulled open the door, hearing the familiar, hated metallic buzz that announced her departure. She held the books tightly to her, remembering the worlds they kept inside: other worlds she dreamed of when she lay in bed staring into darkness, imagining what opportunity, what possibility, tasted like. Sweet, she decided, like honey.

Things would be different. It was only a matter of time.

I will get out of here, Lori Garcia vowed. One day. One day I’m going to be free.

2 Aurora

‘So, do you want to fuck?’

Mink Ray, sixty-something rock star fresh from a comeback tour with The Bad Brothers, put down his brush and gazed, stoned, at the canvas he’d been working on.

‘Looks like shit,’ he complained.

Aurora Nash ground out her half-smoked joint and sat up. She was naked. ‘I’m offended.’

‘I doubt it.’

‘Let’s see.’ She peeled herself off the couch, one of several sunken offerings in Mink’s Hollywood apartment. Aurora was tall, about five-nine, with short ice-blonde hair and glacial blue-grey eyes. Her tits were small and high on her chest, the nipples dark and stiff. She hooked an arm round Mink’s waist. He was wearing his customary leather jacket and it felt weird, quite horny, against her skin. ‘It’s not that bad,’ she pouted, secretly thinking it was dire. She couldn’t work out if it was meant to be abstract or if Mink was just a crap artist.

‘What’s that?’ She pointed at a jagged torpedo thing in the middle of the picture.

‘Your tit,’ he commented lazily, sparking up a cigarette and ambling to the bar, where he poured them both drinks.

‘You promised me it would be tasteful,’ Aurora teased, not minding at all. How tasteful was it ever going to be? She was posing nude for her friend’s dad, rock star legend and now, apparently, frustrated artist.

‘It is,’ Mink said, chucking back the dark liquid and immediately filling another. ‘You couldn’t tell what it was, could you?’

Aurora faced him, unabashed. She put a hand on her hip and felt Mink’s gaze rake over her young body. Her skin was smooth, flawless, smelled fine … and she knew it. ‘My turn.’ She arched an eyebrow at his leather-clad crotch. ‘Let me draw you.’

Mink snorted by way of reply. He fingered the blinds on the window, allowing a sliver of mid-afternoon light to stream in. It illuminated the crags on his face, features addled by years of alcohol and drug abuse and who knew what else. Aurora found it sexy. When he let go, the apartment returned to its den-like state. Aurora joined him at the bar and slipped on to a stool, crossing her long legs and in doing so folding away the light triangle of butter-coloured hair between them. She caught Mink watching.

‘Wanna get bombed?’ he asked, squinting as she took a slug of her drink.

‘What are you offering?’ She trailed her pinkie around the rim of the glass.

Mink knew he should suggest she wear a robe. He didn’t.

‘How old are you anyway?’ he growled.

‘Old enough to fuck.’

‘Yeah, right, missy.’

‘I’ll be nineteen next year.’ Aurora was guessing this was an acceptable number to him. Mink must’ve done all sorts in his day.

He narrowed his eyes. ‘More like eighteen.’

‘Whatever.’ Finishing the drink, she pushed her glass out for a refill. Mink obliged. As she padded back to the couch she could feel Mink’s gaze fixed on her ass.

Actually, Aurora was fifteen, but she was old for her age. She knew loads of girls who said that, but in her case it was actually true. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d slept with someone older than her dad. Mink wanted her; she could tell it a mile off.

Settling on the couch, she tucked her knees up under her chin. Mink was getting an eyeful. Around her neck was a silver locket, from which she produced a vial of white powder. She tipped a small mound on to her little finger and expertly sniffed it up each nostril.

‘Hey, let me in on summa that.’ Mink swaggered over, glass in hand. He wore a lot of chunky rings with skulls and panthers on them and things like that, and his nails looked grubby. There was paint on his knuckles.

Aurora obliged and they both sat back. Whoa, that was good. She felt Mink’s hand on her leg, creeping higher.

‘I don’t fuck kids your age,’ he pronounced.

‘I don’t fuck men your age,’ she countered.

He regarded her out of the corner of his eye, the way her chest was rising and falling as she breathed, the peaks of her tits coming closer and then receding, tempting him, teasing the growing bulge in his pants. When was the last time that had happened? These days it took more than a nice rack to get him hard. This girl was hot, real hot.

‘Guess that makes us as bad as each other.’ Desire curdled his voice.

Aurora smiled. The light in the room was purplish, and she could see tiny dust motes floating close to the floor. ‘My parents wouldn’t approve,’ she said innocently, gazing up at him through pale lashes. She could see Mink struggle with the turn-on of her virgin-daddy’s-girl protest and the undeniable truth of it.

Aurora Nash was the daughter of Tom Nash and Sherilyn Rose, mega-selling country rock legends and all-round respectable American couple. Initially they’d had separate careers—Sherilyn the sweetheart of the country and western scene; Tom regarded far more seriously than Billy Ray Cyrus but still attracting the comparison, one that pissed him off no end—but when album sales tailed off in the nineties they had joined forces and become a formidable duo, singing songs about the great and good of America, the land of opportunity, all that stuff Aurora privately thought was horse shit. It sold, though—boy, did it sell. They’d made millions.

As her parents’ only daughter, Aurora had never wanted for anything. Every whim was indulged, every desire satisfied. The word ‘no’ didn’t feature in her vocabulary. She liked her life, it was fun—and it was fulfilling, even if recently she’d been jumping from project to project without feeling much about any of them. Everything got handed to her on a plate, and it wasn’t like she was complaining about it, it was just that she never, ever had to try. Then again, who wanted to try? Trying was boring. Succeeding was what it was about. In the last year alone Aurora had released her own teen-queen album, collaborated on a fashion range with a music icon, and launched a perfume called, fittingly, ‘All Mine’. And she wasn’t even sixteen yet.

‘Who says your old man has to know?’ Mink took her hand, guiding her towards the protuberance jutting tent-like from his pelvis.

He unzipped his fly and whipped his dick out. It was gigantic.

Aurora felt like laughing. But Mink was dead serious. ‘You gonna suck my cock like a good little girl?’ he breathed, the words catching at the back of his throat. One hand was absent-mindedly caressing the shaft, the other applying pressure to the back of Aurora’s head. She resisted against it and Mink pushed harder.

‘Wait your turn,’ she told him, manoeuvring her body round. She lay flat on her back and parted her legs. Mink’s mouth fell open, which was a good start. ‘Girls go first.’

3 Stevie

There was a certain romance to exiting a New York yellow cab. As Stephanie Speller slammed the door and hauled her bag out of the trunk, watching as the vehicle rejoined a blaring stream of downtown traffic, she gazed up at the surrounding skyscrapers and believed, for the first time in a while, she had arrived.

It was like stepping on to a movie set. Drivers hollered from car windows. Commuters rushed past brandishing steaming coffee, bursts of animated conversation reaching her from every angle in layers of astounding clarity and detail. The aroma of something sweet from busily toiling street vendors, pretzels or doughnuts, masked the sourer odour of trash sweating it out in the summer heat. Stevie had to put her head right back, looking up and up and up till her neck hurt, trying to see the tops of the buildings, and even then—

Someone slammed into her, the force of impact nearly sending her flying.

‘Hey, lady, get outta the street!’

‘Sorry,’ she mumbled, blinking behind her glasses. She’d developed the habit a lot of English people have where they say sorry for something when it’s not really their fault.

She took refuge in a café with an Italian name, all red leather booths and an overhead ceiling fan, tickets being shouted for lattes and Americanos, and bustling, harassed baristas. After putting in her order and grabbing a folded copy of the New York Times, Stevie slid into one of the booths and took her phone out of her bag. She pushed the bridge of her glasses up on her nose, a nervous tendency she indulged in even when she wasn’t wearing them.

As often they were, her phone proved to be a useful distraction. A guy sitting in the adjacent booth was eyeing her keenly. She was surprised at his unabashed scrutiny: she’d never before considered that looking someone up and down actually meant looking someone up and down. He was wearing a suit—it being a little past seven a.m.—and, judging by the laptop and stack of paperwork in front of him, ought to be focusing on something other than her. He was short, at least his top half was, and bald, with a muscular neck and shoulders. Parts of his body appeared inflated, as if someone had put a bicycle pump up a vital orifice and filled him with air.

Stevie glanced away. Even if she had found the man attractive, and even if she had become accustomed to picking up strangers in cafés within hours of arriving in a new city, the attention made her uncomfortable. What gave him the right? Was it the suit, the expensive shoes, the bulging wallet? It was the last thing she needed or wanted. It was the reason she’d come here in the first place, why she’d boarded a plane back in London and vowed never to look back.

Her drink arrived and she thanked the waitress, her English accent piquing the guy’s interest. She focused on her phone, scrolling down the accommodation sites she’d had a brief trawl through before arriving. Any of her friends would have laughed at the idea that sensible Stevie would just turn up somewhere without a place to stay, but the decision had been so immediate that there’d been little opportunity for preparation. And anyway, they didn’t know the context. She’d spent her whole life planning and arranging and playing by the rules, and look where that had got her: to a reflection in the mirror she barely recognised.

At twenty-seven, towards the elder end of six siblings, Stevie had always been described as the quiet, studious one. With that big a family it was easy to blend into the background and be tagged with a character, as much a means of identification as anything else. But it wasn’t always possible to be how everyone else expected you to be, and, in any case, nobody was that clear-cut: nobody was immune to stepping out of themselves if the circumstances were right. Her behaviour over the past few months would stun them all.

She was tired after the flight and put more sugar than usual in her coffee. As she did so she made the mistake of briefly meeting her admirer’s eye. She imagined how he saw her. Shy, probably. Nervous. Maybe a bit geeky, certainly she had been at school, when she’d worn braces and been timid with boys and hadn’t grown into her face yet.

Stevie was petite, with dark, serious features and a precise, angular, pale-skinned beauty that had been described in the past as both ‘classical’ and ‘timeless’. She was never sure how to take this: it made her think of the marble busts at the British Museum with their Roman noses and blank, staring eyes like peeled boiled eggs. Her hair was very dark red like the skin on a cherry, and she wore it back, in a neat ponytail. She used mascara but no other make-up—one of the preferences she’d recently reclaimed, because he’d liked a woman to look a certain way, and that had meant shadows and powders and waxy lipsticks. Stevie didn’t need any of this. She was beautiful, in the way only someone without a scrap of vanity can be.

‘Excuse me?’

Would it be rude to ignore him? Yes.

Reluctantly, she looked up. The man had packed his stuff away and appeared to be heading out.

‘I couldn’t help overhearing you,’ he said. ‘Are you from London?’ Up close he had crescents of sweat under each eye. She didn’t think she’d ever seen someone sweat there before.

‘Yes,’ she replied, with a smile that was neither encouraging nor dismissive.

‘Great city,’ he enthused. ‘Is it your first time in New York?’

She nodded.

‘Need someone to show you around?’

Stevie thought how to articulate her response: he seemed friendly enough, but she had no intention of getting attached to someone this quickly. Besides, while she hadn’t been to New York before, she felt as if she knew it, however wrongly or remotely, from films she’d seen and friends who’d visited, and was confident she’d find her feet soon enough.

‘Thanks.’ She lifted her mobile to indicate she already had a network, and with it came the inspiration of a lie. ‘I’ve got family here.’

‘Sure, sure.’ He grinned. ‘But if you change your mind …?’ From his pocket he removed a business card and slid it on to the table. His hands were soft, the nails clean. She sensed he had a lot of money.

When the man had gone, she returned to the flat-sharing site. Nothing new had come up since she’d last checked, and tapping in revised criteria didn’t help.

The necessities of a flat and a job were about as far ahead as she could consider. When she’d made that snap decision only a few days ago, waking up one morning too many with the familiar hollow sickness, America had been the obvious place to go. Her father had originally been from Boston—he’d left when Stevie was a teenager, into the arms of another woman, and she had neither seen nor heard from him since: a while ago news came he’d died of a heart attack while skiing in Austria—and her American passport gave her a window to find work here and ascertain where she was heading … whether this really was a bolt hole or something more permanent. The way she felt right now, she never wanted to see London again.

She’d check into a hotel, at least for tonight. Tomorrow, she’d start her search in earnest.

Gathering up her things, save for the business card, Stevie downed the last of her coffee and rooted for some coins for a tip. She wasn’t sure it was the done thing, but following a gruesome waitressing stint in her teens she’d been a strict twelve-per-center.

It was only as she was leaving that she noticed the bit of paper stuck to the café window. There were other notes, too, pasted over each other, photos and contact details and petitions—for lost dogs, nanny work, Pilates classes—but it was this one that jumped out at her. She crossed to look at it. The advertisement was scrawled erratically in red pen, an address and a number and a lot of exclamation marks, concluding with: AND I PROMISE WE’LL HAVE AN ADVENTURE!!!!

Stevie tapped the digits into her phone. Without thinking too much about it, she stepped out on to the street and pressed the green call button. She held it to her ear and waited.

And that was how she found Bibi Reiner.

4 Lori

Enrique Marquez worked the boats at the harbour at San Pedro. Lori spotted him straight away, bent over the rigs on one of the bigger pleasure cruisers, his jet tattoo creeping like oil from where it began at his collarbone and travelled down one arm. He was bare-chested, his black hair tied in a short high ponytail, strands escaping. His jeans were low-slung on his waist and a white rag, covered in some kind of grease, was thrown over one shoulder.

‘Hello, stranger.’

He turned at the sound of her voice, a smile breaking out across his boyish face.

‘I nearly forgot how gorgeous you are,’ he said.

Lori waved away his compliment, but the fact of their time apart rang true. They hadn’t been able to see each other for days—it was hard to escape her responsibilities at Tres Hermanas and, once she got home, forget it. Her father would explode if he suspected she was seeing a Mexican boy. Worse, one from the notorious Marquez family.

‘Come here.’ Rico held out his hand.

Lori stepped off the pier and on to the yacht. The LA sun bounced off the sleek white surfaces and crisp flat sails. Rico’s strong grip encircled her waist and he drew her into a kiss. When the kiss became more fevered, Lori pulled away.

‘This one’s beautiful,’ she commented, scoping the length of the boat. ‘Whose is it?’

Rico shrugged broad shoulders. ‘Beats me,’ he said, ‘I’m just paid to make sure it goes.’ He grinned, showing his dimples. ‘Someday I’ll be the guy some kid’s sweating his balls off for. I’ll be the owner of a piece like this, you’ll see.’

‘And would you sail me a long way away?’

‘Wherever you wanted to go.’ He kissed her again, his hands running down her short dress and over her luscious hips. She felt him harden, his tongue slip into her mouth.

‘Not getting distracted, I hope?’ a voice admonished from behind. Lori turned her head to see a rotund man removing his shades and rubbing them on his shirt.

‘Almost done here, boss,’ said Rico, holding Lori firmly to him.

Rico’s supervisor frowned. He scanned Lori’s body, from her mane of wild hair to her bronzed calves and scuffed sneakers. ‘You know I don’t let girlfriends on the boats, Marquez.’

‘It won’t happen again.’ But still he didn’t release her.

The man watched them uncertainly before moving off down the boardwalk.

‘Can you let me go now?’ Lori teased.

‘Can we wait till I’m in a position to move?’ Rico laughed.

‘Oh.’

‘Yeah, oh. You know what you do to me.’

Lori glanced away. It was unfair of her to hold out on Rico—she liked him; he was good, he was kind and he treated her right. Yet instinct kept telling her she wasn’t ready. She wasn’t sure what she was waiting for: marriage, soul mates, a new life.? People talked about meeting The One, that single person you wait and hold out for because you love them more than anything else in the world and you’ll always be together, always always no matter what. but that was fantasy, a plot from one of her books. Stories, only stories. Real life didn’t work out that way.

Then why did it scare her that she didn’t feel those things with Rico? If they didn’t exist, why should it count?

But, it did. Somehow, it did.

They rode the freeway on Rico’s bike. Lori loved the feel of the wind in her hair, the way it whipped round her legs and filled her lungs with air. For those moments she could forget. She could be a new woman, whoever she wanted.

Rico lived in a beat-up apartment with his mother but she was out of it on drugs and didn’t hear them come in. His father wasn’t around, and his brother Diego, chief of El Peligro, the most feared gang in Santa Ana, hadn’t been home in a week. No one asked why.

‘We should leave,’ said Lori when they were in his room. ‘Just go.’

Rico put music on. ‘Where?’ He lit a cigarette.

Lori sat cross-legged on his bed. It was a mess, strewn with unwashed clothes, and Rico hauled his T-shirt over his head with one hand and tossed it on to the crumpled mound. She knew he had it worse than she did. Her family was poor, the women were unkind, but at least she knew when she got in at night that she wouldn’t find her father overdosed in a chair, vomit down his front and his tongue bit in half. The first time Rico had found his mom, he’d been only ten.

‘Anywhere,’ she said. ‘Anywhere’s better than here. I’m tired of LA.’

Rico inhaled smoke. ‘You’re tired of your end of it.’ He opened the window and leaned out. A group of boys were fighting in the dusty street and the sound of it washed in, a dry shower of curses and the exploratory flare of violence. ‘We just got the bad deal, didn’t we? Everything you dream about is right here, Lori, just around the corner. You’re on top of it. It’s that close.’

‘Hollywood?’

Rico lifted his shoulders. ‘Something like it. You’re pretty enough. Damn it, you’re beautiful.’ He set his jaw. ‘You can do anything you want.’

‘That’s not what they say.’

‘What do you care what your family thinks?’ Rico’s voice tightened. He knew the Garcias looked down on him. They and their stupid Spanish friends treated him like shit because he was poor, from a bad lot, and his parents had been first-generations. Hadn’t they all started out in the same place? Hadn’t they all crossed a border at some point? Just because the Garcias had been in this city longer they felt able to spit on him, judge him, dismiss him.

‘Move in with me,’ he said bitterly. ‘Forget them.’

‘You know it’s not that easy.’

Rico tossed his smoke out of the window and joined her on the bed. ‘I wish you knew how special you are,’ he said, gathering her into his arms. Perhaps Lori was right—they should pack up and leave, go somewhere no one could find them. But his mother needed him. He wasn’t going to quit on her as his father had.

Lori breathed in her boyfriend’s scent: salt and sweetness, heat and hard work. Was this love? It must be. She didn’t want to lose Rico; he was all she had. And yet, as she felt his hands begin to roam, she was already preparing how to turn him away. Was there something wrong with her? None of the girls she knew had a problem with sex.

‘You drive me crazy,’ murmured Rico. He trailed his fingers down the front of her dress and over her curves. Man, she was hot. He didn’t know how much longer he could wait. It would be her first time and she wanted it to be right, he got that, but this was sending him wild. He was far from inexperienced himself, but recently he’d forgotten what sex felt like.

Lori let herself be kissed and reclined uncomfortably, putting her head back when Rico buried his face in her neck. Every so often she experienced a brief, sharp dart of desire, but it fizzed and died like a match in water. Maybe she was incapable of it—some people were. Other girls talked about getting so turned on by their boyfriends they were prepared to do anything, anywhere, but, as always, the moment Rico’s attentions became too fervent, a sense of claustrophobia overcame her and she had to get away.

‘Rico, don’t …’

He was moving down her body now, his hands on her breasts, attempting to free them as he kissed and bit her skin.

She didn’t want to offend him, knew she kept leading him on only to let him down. What was he doing with her? ‘No, Rico.’

‘Relax,’ he responded, just a muffle, ‘I promise I won’t hurt you.’ She felt his touch trail the inside of her thigh and hook the elastic of her knickers.

Roughly she pushed at him. ‘I told you, I’m not ready.’ She sat up, pulling down the hem of her dress, her face flushed.

Rico bit back his frustration. Instead he put his arms around her. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t have …’ The early evening sun spilled in and drowned his golden chest with light, the pool of ink there blacker, more absolute, because of it. ‘You know I’ll wait however long it takes. I’d never force you. I promise.’

Lori felt guilty. She was being unfair. What was she holding out for? She had to do it eventually—and it might as well be with a man she knew adored her.

‘Do you trust me?’ Rico asked.

‘Of course.’

He nodded. ‘I love you.’

She met his eyes. ‘I love you, too,’ she said, but she didn’t know what the words meant.

5 Aurora

Aurora gunned the engine of her cherry-red Ferrari Spider. It purred beneath her as she waited at the lights. The sky was apricot and the air smelled sugary, the sun a melting orb that dipped hot below the horizon.

She and her girlfriends were on their way to Basement, their favourite Hollywood hangout. It was Friday night, which meant all the names that meant anything would be out and ready to party. Kids of famous parents, heiresses and socialites, child stars, models, they’d all be there: wholesome favourites with secret coke addictions, virgin starlets who’d spend the night promising a blow job to their managers, alpha-male young actors with an eye for the boys as well as the girls … Inside the car, a bottle of vodka was being passed round. Joints were being rolled. Lines being cut. They were totally baked and the night hadn’t even begun.

At a red light, Aurora caught sight of a super-hot Latino guy on a bike next to her. He had more than a passing resemblance to Rafael Nadal, who she had a major thing for. A pretty girl was clinging to his waist—she looked like a gypsy, with masses of black hair and long, tanned legs. For a fleeting moment Aurora imagined being in bed with both of them at the same time. Maybe she was a fucking nympho—the thought had occurred to her before.

The lights changed and the boy sped off. In his place, an open-top Jeep packed with surfers on their way back from the beach. They were shirtless, still wet, whooping at the girls to get their attention, their piercings glinting in the fading light. One of them made an obscene gesture at Aurora.

‘You strapped in?’ she asked the others. Farrah Michaels, her best friend and daughter of the head of a mega Hollywood production studio, sniffed and coughed. Her eyes were glassy.

‘Your dad’s gonna freak if you waste the car.’

Aurora revved the engine. Someone beeped. The driver of the Jeep winked. One of the guys stood up, pulled down his shorts and slapped his bare ass. The girls squealed. Jenna Reynolds, in the back, lifted her top and jiggled two enormous breasts in response.

‘Jerk-offs.’ Aurora floored it and the Ferrari roared to life, nought to sixty in a matter of seconds. The other car didn’t stand a chance. In the rear-view mirror Aurora saw the Jeep recede to a pinpoint before vanishing completely.

Jenna was thrown back against the seat. She struggled to get her top down. ‘Ow!’ she complained. ‘Fucking hell.’ Farrah was laughing.

Aurora took another swig from the bottle. She turned on to Sunset at speed. The Ferrari’s tyres squealed.

‘Uh, hello?’ complained Farrah, grappling to retrieve her smoking paraphernalia. ‘Some of us are trying to get high?’

Moments later they pulled up outside Basement. Aurora was striking in a clinging white minidress, killer heels and statement arm jewellery. Her pale blonde crop looked incredible against her bronzed skin. Her blue eyes were lined with kohl. The other girls, though each attractive in her own right, paled in comparison.

The paparazzi were out in force. They clamoured for Aurora the instant she exited the vehicle. ‘Aurora! This way! Look this way, Aurora! Aurora, over here!’

She chucked her keys at a waiting valet. He fumbled the catch and dived to the floor to retrieve them. Aurora led the way inside.

The club was pounding. She headed for the VIP area and proceeded to order them all shots. Farrah, a pretty redhead, scoped the place for the member of a teen boy-band sensation she’d heard would be making an appearance. To the public the band were all good innocent Christians, but rumour said different of at least one. Apparently he was into dildos.

Aurora was used to the looks she got. Everyone in this town knew who she was and who her parents were. A British DJ had remixed one of Sherilyn Rose’s songs and it was currently storming the download charts. No doubt they’d play it tonight in her honour. Secretly she found it embarrassing. She was tight with her dad but her mom was another matter. Maybe it was the same with all moms: they were a reminder of what you could look like in fifty years or whatever. OK, not fifty, but close. She shuddered.

Last week had been her parents’ anniversary. For some reason, every year, they celebrated it by buying her a gift, like she was the reason they were still together, or something. It was messed up. But she wasn’t about to say no to a two-hundred-thousand-dollar ride, was she? Hence the Ferrari. Farrah had been right: Tom would throw a shit fit if he knew she was using it to party, but, still, what he didn’t know couldn’t hurt him. Aurora was his little girl and nothing she did could be anything short of wonderful. Did he even know where she was tonight? She couldn’t work out if he and Sherilyn genuinely had no idea about her lifestyle or if it suited them to be ignorant. She guessed they had enough else to think about without a tearaway daughter who was bedding everything in sight.

Aurora ended up on the lap of Olympic idol Jax Jackson, who had a cock that was allegedly so huge it had acquired a myth-like status. From where she was perched it didn’t feel like much. He had masses of bling around his neck and a solid-gold watch that probably cost more than the car. Across the bar she spotted Farrah pressed up against Boy-Band-Christian. Jenna, who’d starred in several kids’ adventures when she was seven but had never lost the puppy fat, was dancing in a circle of admiring males. Aurora felt bored.

‘Why’n’t we skip the bullshit,’ proposed Jax, ‘an’ you come home with me?’ He shifted on the banquette, pressing his growing erection into her backside. ‘Throw our own little party, whaddaya say?’

Aurora had never done it with a black guy; it’d make a change. But she was wasted, properly wasted. She felt kind of sick. Abruptly, she stood up. ‘I’m leaving.’

‘Jeez.’ He slid his attentions to an adjacent blonde. ‘Suit yourself.’ It was an effort to get across the club. She managed to peel Farrah away from her boyfriend—’boy’ being the operative word—and shout in her ear that she was going.

‘Already?’ Farrah was shocked. ‘How’m I gonna get home?’

Aurora couldn’t be bothered to answer. That was Farrah’s problem. Either she was coming or she wasn’t.

‘I’m not coming,’ said Farrah. Boy-Band-Christian grabbed her chin and stuck his tongue in her mouth. Aurora saw it slide in like a horrible slug and she experienced an intense rush of disliking her best friend. This whole scene was tired out. She’d had enough of it. Every day the same: endless partying, endless guys, endless everything.

If Farrah was staying, she could sort Jenna out, too.

Outside, the cameras lunged at her. In seconds her car was brought round and she jumped in, switching the ignition. Fuck. She was out of her head, shouldn’t be driving, probably. But no one told her so. No one ever told her so.

She’d been on Sunset for a minute, maybe two, when she started feeling properly like shit. She’d done too much: her eyelids were heavy, her limbs shutting down.

I’m going to pass out, she thought. Car horns blared.

The last thing she remembered was her head hitting the wheel, hard, painfully. Then everything went black.

6 Stevie

Bibi Reiner was a firework. She was tiny, everything about her compact, with this amazing scrawl of frizzy auburn hair and huge, wide green eyes. Since welcoming Stevie at the door of her apartment over a month ago, she had barely stopped talking.

‘You and me are gonna have such a blast!’ she’d gabbled as she led Stevie through her place on West 54th, at once assuming their living together was a done deal, something Stevie found incredibly friendly. They were at the top of an impressive redbrick with views over Central Park, and inside were bright white walls, spotlights and parquet flooring. Stevie’s room was spacious, light and airy, with tons of storage and a luxurious king-size bed. Over the summer it had been occupied by Bibi’s brother, like her an aspiring actor, but he’d since relocated to LA, leaving the room free. Stevie had called at the right time. She couldn’t believe her luck.

‘How was your flight?’ Bibi had chattered. ‘What’s going on in London? I love London. What do you do? What do you eat? I’m a vegan, which means I don’t eat meat or dairy, but I will have a hot dog once a year because I love them. Also, I’m a Buddhist. I don’t drink alcohol but I do drink champagne. I have to get nine hours’ sleep every night otherwise I don’t function and my skin turns to crap. Your skin’s amazing, what do you use? You’re so pretty, far prettier than me. I’d love to have hair like yours; it’s so straight. Mine’s a total mess. Don’t you think? I’ve tried everything. Go on, be honest, it’s too much, isn’t it? I should dye it. Red? Or pink. I was thinking pink. And I want to get a tattoo on my back, here, of a butterfly.’ She’d reached awkwardly around, failing to get to the exact spot and laughing at herself. ‘Just a little one because they’re cute. But my agent says I’m limiting roles. I just wanna stand out, ya know?’

Bibi didn’t stop. But she was lovely, she was funny; she was sweet and she was kind. And for Stevie, who only talked when there was something to say, she was in many ways the ideal person to share with. The girls were different but they clicked instantly. Bibi thought Stevie was the most gorgeous creature she had ever seen because she had this air of calm and wisdom, something Bibi had always coveted in others because she herself was a ditz: things popped into her head and she just blurted them out, pouf!

Despite the fact that Stevie had moved in five weeks ago, she was still struggling to find work. Her rent was fair, in fact it was better than fair, but she was already scraping the barrel of her savings. It wasn’t for lack of trying—she’d walked the city till her feet gave in, leaving her CV anywhere that looked as if it might need staff—but in honesty her lack of progress was more down to the fact that Bibi was constantly suggesting lunches out, parties, shopping and coffee with her friends so Stevie could be introduced. She was infinitely generous, with everything.

It was a Thursday. Stevie was lying on her front on the bed, intermittently yawning, her chin resting in the cup of one hand while the other tapped aimlessly through job sites. She didn’t even know any longer what she was looking for. Every time she landed on one that seemed suitable, she’d spot that the closing date had already expired, or she had to be based in a different city, or it required a proven qualification she didn’t have.

Always academic at school, she’d opted out of university to the disappointment of her teachers. Her dad had walked when she was fifteen and there followed an awkward few years: she’d wanted to get out into the real world and earn a living, because he’d left them with next to nothing and she’d decided that never again would she be in a position of dependency. Well, that was the reason she gave herself. More likely was that her mum was trying to raise and provide for an army of kids and a slug of university fees was the last thing they could sustain.

Working life hadn’t been as glamorous or as productive as Stevie had imagined, however she’d found a niche that paid well and played to her skills. She’d been a PA now, in varying degrees of responsibility, for nearly ten years. She was efficient, organised and unflustered. Or, she had been, up until a year ago. But that depended on who you were working for.

There was a knock at the door. A beaming Bibi stuck her head round.

‘Can I come in?’

‘Sure.’ Stevie smiled back. Her smile was one of the best things about her, the sort of smile she gave her whole face to. In repose she could appear quite solemn: it was more concentration than anything else, but all the same it made the contrast a dazzling surprise.

Bibi, dressed in faded dungarees and an eighties-style bandana, bustled in with two mugs of coffee. She laid them down and flopped backwards on to the bed.

‘I need a boyfriend!’ she announced dramatically.

Stevie snapped shut her laptop. ‘You don’t need a boyfriend; you want a boyfriend. There’s a difference.’

‘Are you a feminist?’

‘Aren’t you?’

Bibi shrugged and looked at the ceiling. She covered one eye, then the other, and did this a few times. ‘I can see better out my left.’

‘Maybe you need glasses.’

‘Maybe. Wanna go out?’

Stevie sat up. ‘I can’t afford it, B.’ She rubbed her forehead. ‘I need to find a job.’

‘You need to?’

‘Yes. Otherwise what am I going to pay you with at the end of the month?’

‘Come on,’ said Bibi, not listening. She yawned in her usual theatrical way, stretching her arms wide. She’d assured Stevie that the apartment belonged to some distant aunt and she was getting a ‘ridiculously sweet’ deal, but Stevie saw no reason why she should take advantage of this, and anyway she disliked not having work, it made her feel like a waster.

‘Oh my God!’

Stevie was alarmed. ‘What?’

‘My friend’s having a party tonight!’ She sprang up. ‘I just remembered! We should go!’

Stevie stared balefully at her laptop.

‘Let’s go now!’ And she bounced off the bed.

‘It’s three o’clock.’

‘So? We’ll go shopping on the way.’ At Stevie’s expression, she added slyly, ‘There’ll be guys there. And you know what guys mean? Flirting. And you know what flirting means?’

‘Waking up in someone’s bed the next day without a clue what their name is?’

Bibi looked innocent. ‘I was going to say a bit of banter, but if you—’

Stevie threw a cushion at her.

‘Come on—’ Bibi checked her reflection in the mirror and adjusted the bandana above her ears ‘—they’re actors, it’ll be fun!’

This was a further disincentive. Stevie loved Bibi and had no doubt that one day she’d be a famous and very talented actress—it was all she had ever wanted to do, Bibi vowed, her whole entire life—but she had, apart from where Bibi was concerned, a slight phobia of that world. Take the Aurora Nash scandal, for instance. Stevie felt sorry for the girl, she was only fifteen or something, and her mug shot had been all over the papers. Last month she’d crashed the car Daddy had bought her and ended up getting arrested. She’d had enough drugs in her system to tranquillise a horse. In fact one of the drugs was for tranquillising horses. It was a spoiled, desperate scene. All that mindless excess, it wasn’t her thing.

Stevie’s last job had been working as PA to the director of a firm dealing in high-profile celebrity court cases: divorces, injunctions, political scandals, they’d handled it all. As part of that she’d been obliged to attend the occasional industry bash and had found each one unbearable. Cash made these people invincible, or so they thought. Stevie recalled him working flat out on a case shortly after she joined involving a married news anchor who’d been filmed dressing up four twenty-something Russian prostitutes as characters from The Wizard of Oz—it was their job to keep the press off the scent. She resisted the memory. That had been the case that started it. The late nights … the way he’d stand at the window loosening his tie, the spires of London behind, silhouetted in gold … the invitation of a drink, and then.

‘You do like men, don’t you?’ Bibi interrupted her train of thought. ‘Because this one time I kissed my best friend, who’s a girl, at holiday camp when I was, like, sixteen.’

Stevie shook her head. ‘So …?’

‘So are you gay?’

‘No.’

‘Just checking. Cos there are plenty of girls I could set you up with.’

‘Who says I want to get set up?’ Stevie removed her glasses and went to clean one of the lenses on her T-shirt. ‘Believe it or not, I like being by myself.’

Bibi bit her thumbnail. ‘Can you see without those on?’

‘Pretty much. I just can’t see things far away.’

‘You should get contacts.’

‘Hmm.’ She slipped them back on, returning to her computer.

‘You’re really not coming, then?’ Bibi folded her arms.

‘I’m really not coming.’

‘OK.’ One of the nice things about Bibi was that she’d try for her own way, but was quick to identify defeat and get over it without a struggle. ‘I guess you need to save yourself for Linus Posen’s party, anyway.’

‘Who?’

Bibi had made to leave, and turned now, feigning surprise. ‘Oh! Didn’t I mention it?’

Stevie raised an eyebrow. ‘No.’

‘You must have heard of Linus Posen.’

She hazarded a guess based on Bibi’s usual array of friends—and the more the name settled, the more she thought she recognised it. ‘Director? Producer?’

‘The first. My rep’s going, she’ll get us in. Honest, it’s the party of the season. And Linus is a very big deal.’ She clapped her hands together excitedly. ‘If I play this right, he could really make things happen! So you will come, won’t you? For moral support?’

Stevie cringed.

‘For me?’

‘That’s not fair.’

‘You’re in New York City, now, sugar, you’ve got to live a little.’ Bibi winked as she closed the door behind her. ‘Stick with me and you’ll be just fine.’

7 Lori

Tony Garcia folded his copy of La Opinión and slid it quietly on to the table. Lori noticed the stack of unopened envelopes gathered there, the red-stamped final warnings just visible in the windows. Dark circles shadowed her father’s eyes.

‘The shame!’ Angélica, at her husband’s wilted shoulder, had her thin arms folded and her black hair secured in a tight bun. Her lips were a bloody shade.

‘I’ve done nothing wrong,’ Lori replied coldly. She still had her bag slung over one shoulder, had scarcely returned from Tres Hermanas before Angélica embarked on her tirade. Anita and Rosa—those bitches, those putas—had grassed her up.

The tiny kitchen was the scene of their dispute. The house had barely been big enough for three when her mother was alive, but they had loved each other so it hadn’t mattered. Now, Lori felt the walls closing in on her, unbearably close. Dirty plates piled up in the sink, awaiting her attention; laundry heaped in a corner, a pair of Anita’s knickers thrown carelessly over the top; grime and squalor on every surface, tasks the women deemed beneath them.

‘Rico loves me,’ she attested, lifting her chin. ‘He takes care of me.’

‘Enrique Marquez is not one of us,’ spat Angélica, as if this closed the matter. ‘You are a disgrace to this family, Loriana.’

‘What family? You’re not my family. You’ll never be.’

Angélica’s eyes blazed. ‘Tony, tell your daughter to show me some respect!’

Tony was an echo. ‘You heard her, Lori. Show some respect.’

She wanted to hit him. Come on, she willed her father, stand up for yourself! Grief changed a man—but how much longer till she got him back?

‘His people are dangerous,’ blasted Angélica.

‘You know nothing about Rico and his family.’

‘I know about the dead baby!’ she rasped triumphantly. ‘Don’t think for a second we don’t know about her.’ Rico’s mother had given birth to a stillborn daughter the previous year: everyone knew it was the drugs.

‘His brother will go the same way, you can be sure of that,’ Angélica raged on. ‘They are dirty, Loriana. They are immigrants.’

‘And what does that make us?’

‘Tony!’ Angélica put a hand out to steady herself, appalled by the mere suggestion that she and her daughters should be classed in the same way.

Lori knew Anita and Rosa were behind her in the hallway, listening in. She pictured their rapt expressions and experienced a fresh surge of injustice. Nothing they did was ever wrong; everything she did was. She was an outcast in this house.

‘You want to complain about people who don’t work to support themselves? Fine. Ask your daughters. They’re lazy; they do nothing. Nada. The work falls to me—just as it does here.’ Her voice cracked. ‘Mama would be so disappointed.’

There was a flicker in Tony’s expression, but as soon as it appeared it was gone. Fury reignited Angélica, who was unable to tolerate reference to her predecessor.

‘You ungrateful puta!’ she spat. ‘Do you think you would fare better on your own? Go ahead, then—try! You’re living under our roof, remember—’

‘I don’t recall this house being yours,’ interrupted Lori. ‘And anyway, if you’d had your way I wouldn’t even be here, I’d never have been born. So why don’t you let me go out with a dangerous boy? See if I might wind up dead sometime. You never know, you might get lucky!’

‘Stop!’ At last, Tony snapped. The kitchen plunged into silence. Lori knew she had gone too far, but she had wanted a reaction, any reaction. Now she had got one.

But it wasn’t the one she expected.

‘If that is the way you feel,’ said Tony evenly, ‘then we will not stop you leaving. In fact, we will encourage it.’ He rubbed his eyes, and when they met hers, red-rimmed with fatigue, she saw they were empty as a well.

‘If you insist on seeing this boy, we will have no choice but to send you to Corazón.’

She was appalled. ‘In Spain?’ Corazón was Lori’s elderly grandmother on Tony’s side. The woman lived in the middle of nowhere in a remote mountainous part of the country.

Tony nodded. ‘Angélica and I believe it is for the best.’

It made sense. ‘That’s exactly the way you want it,’ she told her stepmother, almost admiring her nerve. ‘Get me out of the way, maybe I’ll never come back.’

‘We are giving you a choice,’ said Angélica, dripping mock-fairness. ‘If you continue to see Enrique Marquez, you will leave us with none.’

Lori pushed her way through to the hall. Anita and Rosa scurried out of sight; Rosa’s large behind waddling noisily up the stairs to the bedroom she shared with her sister.

She was blind with anger. It was unthinkable to split from Rico—he was her only refuge, the only thing in life that made her feel there was some escape, however, whenever. But equally she could not risk being sent to Spain. Her grandmother was about to die, she must be a hundred at least, and it would be like being sent to the graveyard herself.

‘Loriana, you come back here!’ screamed Angélica from inside the house, furious that she should be walked out on. ‘I haven’t finished with you!’

The beach drew her, the only place she could think of to go. She was desperate to call Rico but couldn’t bring herself to tell him what had been said. Angélica’s cruel words echoed, chaotic, in her memory, like a bird she had seen once, trapped in a room.

A truck horn sounded as she crossed Ocean Boulevard. A guy stuck his head out of the window and shouted something appreciative. In frayed denim shorts and a plain string vest, two thin hoops glinting in her wild black hair, Lori was a siren without a clue how to use her beauty—and that was the best use of all.

The ocean was still. It wasn’t yet dark. Lori removed her shoes and padded across the golden sand. At the water’s edge, she stopped.

So this was the choice: quit seeing Rico or go to Spain. The irony was that if it were anywhere else she would have jumped at the chance—wasn’t it the breakout she’d been wishing for?—but if she felt now like her life was moving nowhere, it would be nothing compared with the situation at Corazón’s. Lori recalled the house in Spain only distantly, in the mists of her childhood, but the fragments she assembled created an image of quiet and loneliness and loss. What could there possibly be for her there? More waiting … waiting for her life to pass her by.

Mierda! Frustration gave way to unhappiness. She refused to weep; she was stronger than that. Tears achieved nothing. She needed a plan.

In the distance, a boat edged slowly across the horizon. Lori closed her eyes. In the months following her mother’s death, she had pictured an island, somewhere remote and far away, the place she always went to when she needed to remember there was a wider world waiting to be found. She could picture it so clearly: its sweeping white shores and sparkling green waters, the chalky heat and the blazing sun. Now, at the ocean’s lip, sensing the great expanse at her feet, she could almost believe such a place existed. An island that was all hers, her fantasy alone, which nobody else could touch.

One day …

Hers was a different fate. Maybe she knew it because of her mother: she had to live a life that was big enough for two. Maybe it was because she spent too much time poring over romance novels, gateways to those other glittering treasure-filled worlds. Or maybe, just maybe, it was because she was right. Her heart believed it and she trusted her heart.

Lori breathed the salty air deep into her lungs. One day she would visit her island, see it made real. See the destiny that awaited her there.

It was obvious what had to happen.

She and Rico had talked about it. Now they just had to do it.

They were going to run away.

8 Aurora

Tom Nash examined his reflection in the glass terrace doors. The record label was taking him out. Clad in tight leather slacks and an open white shirt, he teased the final element of his highlighted hairstyle into place. Aurora watched him.

‘Don’t you get hot in those pants?’ she asked, sparking up a thin joint and reclining on the poolside lounger. Even through her Ray-Bans the sun was blazing, filling her vision with dots when she opened her eyes. ‘They look like they’re melting on your legs.’

Her father didn’t appear to hear; he was way too concerned with his appearance. Aurora thought he was looking quite orange these days, understandable since they’d just had a sunbed installed in the mansion’s basement, along with a gigantic spa, sauna and steam room. Tom was the only one who seemed to make use of it. Her mother, by comparison, was a pale-skinned beauty with a chronic fear of melanoma. She only appeared outdoors wearing wide-brimmed hats and covered in material head to toe. Physically, Aurora was unlike either of them.

She was used to being ignored when her father was preening. Her parents’ latest hit ‘Steady Rock’, a gently lilting country ballad, emanated from inside the mansion, but was mercifully drowned out when Aurora screwed in her iPod and blasted some vintage Pearl Jam. Stretching out, she lost herself in the music. Oh yeah, she majorly dug rockers. A few weeks ago she’d attended a gig at the White Rooms, an indie group from Wisconsin on the cusp of a breakthrough, and ended up having sex with the lead guitarist right here in her mom and dad’s pool. She turned to the blue water and remembered it with a tug of yearning: the way she had gripped on to the marble rim, each rough thrust sending an exquisite pain rushing through her, a spill of water over the side … Hmm. She was definitely hooking up with him again. These days she was certainly mixing with far cooler, and more mature, people than Farrah was. In fact she hadn’t seen much of her best friend since the night she’d totalled the car. Personally she couldn’t see the attraction in Boy-Band-Christian. She doubted he even had pubic hair.

A shadow loomed over her. Aurora opened her eyes a crack and reluctantly removed an earphone. She stank of weed but Tom pretended, as ever, not to notice.

‘I gotta go, baby,’ said her father, in a rich Texan drawl which years in LA hadn’t completely washed out. He ruffled her hair affectionately. ‘Be good, OK?’

‘Always am,’ she replied.

Tom raised an eyebrow. Once upon a time that line might have worked, but given her recent disgrace it didn’t say a great deal.

‘Where’s Mom?’

‘Out.’

‘Isn’t she going with you?’

Tom made a non-committal gesture. ‘She’s got a session with Lindy.’

Lindy was her mother’s therapist. Sherilyn had been seeing her since the couple discovered—shortly after Aurora was born—that they were unable to have any more children. Aurora found her continued reliance on Lindy and whatever psychobabble she regurgitated a touch offensive. Wasn’t Aurora enough? She was enough for Tom.

‘When’s she back?’ Aurora was pleased at the thought of an afternoon alone in the mansion. Maybe she could invite Farrah round, see if she had goodies to share. And maybe Boy-Band-Christian had an older brother.

Tom didn’t know. It amazed her how career-wise her parents did everything together, but when it came to personal stuff they seemed to live practically apart.

‘I mean it,’ Tom said, trying his best to be stern. ‘Behave.’

Aurora gave him her most winning smile. ‘I’ll be good, Daddy,’ she said innocently.

Tom wasn’t convinced, and who could blame him? Two months back Aurora had passed out at the wheel of her vehicle with a cocktail of drugs in her system. She could have died. The cops had arrived at the scene, realised the state she was in and taken her immediately to hospital, where she’d had her stomach pumped and been sick into a tray until her insides ached. Then came the inevitable arrest—and that photo. It had been splashed across the world’s media: little Aurora Nash, once the bouncing blonde baby of two of America’s most famous, most conservative and most clean-living country and western stars, was, now, at fifteen, a bleary-eyed mess, doped up on who knew what and, so it was widely reported, moments from death. But it was the attitude that seemed to shock people: the hard-edged glare in her eyes, the been-there-done-it-all weariness so at odds with her youth.

The Ferrari had been trashed, its hood concertinaed like an accordion. At first Tom and Sherilyn had been angry—well, as angry as they’d ever be. She’d been grounded for a week, but with Jenna’s help had sneaked out on the second night. They never noticed. Tom had bought her a replacement car, though she’d had to wait a month—and she still wasn’t permitted by the authorities to drive. Who knew how long she’d be without a ride! She was going out of her head.

‘This has got to change,’ Sherilyn had told her, but more with sympathy than rage. Sometimes she wished her mom had more balls. ‘Perhaps you should come see Lindy.’

God! Seeing Lindy was a fate worse than death. She’d probably make them have mother/daughter sessions or something equally horrific. No, she’d handle this herself in the same way she always had: sweet smile, big eyes, promises to be good. Bingo.

‘See you later, kiddo,’ said Tom now, bending to kiss her cheek.

‘See ya, Dad.’

After he’d gone, Aurora unclasped her bikini top and lay back down, slipping her earphones back in and letting her mind wander back to the sexy guitarist and the pool.

The next thing she knew, it was cold. Shit—she must have fallen asleep. The sun was fading and the temperature had dropped. How long had she been out?

She checked the time: almost seven.

Gathering her things, she padded through the vast sliding doors and into the Nash/Rose mansion. It was a huge ranch-style place, with a mix of LA grandeur and Tom’s more earthy Texan roots. She grabbed herself a glass of lemonade from the refrigerator. Tom’s avocado facemasks littered the vegetable compartment.

The second the door shut, she jumped.

‘Who the fuck are you?’

A man—at a guess he was only a year or two older than her—was standing in the doorway, arms laden with brown grocery bags. He was dark-skinned and dark-haired, short, with green eyes and a young, smooth-skinned face. He looked as startled as she did.

Aurora became aware that she was topless. She folded her arms across her breasts, but could see the effect her nakedness had already had on him. The boy’s cheeks were aflame.

‘Er … I am … My mother is …’ His English was bad. Distantly Aurora remembered the Mexican housekeeper her parents had hired recently.

‘You’re Julieta’s son?’

‘Yes,’ he said, relieved, but still not knowing where to look. ‘She not well today … I come to help … The lady boss says is fine …’

‘You’ve spoken to my mother?’ Aurora demanded. She let her hands drop as she sipped the lemonade. It was cool inside, the air con made it so, and she felt her nipples stiffen.

The boy nodded swiftly. He dumped the bags on the central island.

‘I will leave. You are busy …’

‘You’re not going to help me tidy these things away?’ Aurora asked, gesturing at the groceries. ‘I thought you’d come to help.’

He nodded. She’d never seen a blush under such dark skin before. He was five-six at a push, not the calibre of man she would normally go for, but something about him was attractive and she felt a stirring ripple through her. She wondered if he was a virgin.

‘What’s your name?’ she asked.

‘Sebastian.’

‘Well, Sebastian,’ Aurora said, setting her glass down and slinking round the counter. Her bikini briefs were tiny and she leaned over the bags, pushing her ass out for him to admire. ‘Shall I show you exactly where I want you to … put things?’

He rustled pointlessly with the bags.

Aurora smiled, lifted herself up on to the counter and crossed her legs. His eyes were level with her breasts. ‘Do you play pool?’ she asked.

The boy gulped, gaze darting to the water outside.

‘Not that sort of pool,’ Aurora clarified, though she imagined they could have several entertaining games out there as well. Instead, she took his hand. He didn’t object. She drew it to her right breast and felt his fingers cup tentatively round the soft flesh. His eyes were transfixed on her body, his mouth slightly open, in fear, desire or disbelief it was impossible to say. When she drew her own hand away, his remained. They stayed like that for several moments, the groceries between them. Sebastian’s touch became firmer, beginning to knead, before his other hand seized the second breast and then he was pushing them together, squeezing and releasing. Abruptly he leaned in, took one of their peaks between his lips and sucked.

‘Come,’ she told him, slipping off the counter and leading Sebastian through to an adjacent games room. Centre stage was a magnificent green-felt pool table, the triangle of gleaming balls laid out in perfect arrangement and two slim wooden cues down each side.

Aurora settled on the edge of the table, enjoying the smooth, glossy veneer beneath her bare thighs. ‘Strip,’ she told him. When he looked confused, she added more softly, ‘Take your clothes off.’

Fumbling, Sebastian removed his T-shirt, unbuckled his belt and stepped out of his jeans. He had a broad chest, muscular, and stocky, virtually hairless legs. The hard-on visible through his underwear was modest, but sufficient. Aurora raised an eyebrow. He peeled them down and over his ankles, kicking them to one side.

She appraised his dick. It was rock-hard and reasonable in length, his balls ripe and buoyant in a nest of dense black hair. Slowly she took off her own briefs, and the minute she parted her legs, he dived for her like an animal, plunging in with force.

‘Fucking hell, hang on!’ She pulled back, easing him out. ‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’

Sebastian’s face had taken on a slack, robotic expression. He sank to the floor and started rummaging about in his jeans, at last removing a coloured wrapper. So much for being a virgin. The second time he entered her Aurora was thrown back on to the table, scattering the pool balls wide. She raised her arms and grabbed each of the top pockets with her fingers, the boy pummelling into her, deeper and deeper, all the way in then driving back out, his hands under her ass. He was half up on the table now, one knee bent on the felt, the other foot steadying him on the floor. Aurora didn’t think she had ever in her life been nailed with such conviction.

He mounted the table, crouching, and flipped her round. She saw two of the yellow balls rush into the top pockets, heard the velvety plunk of one vanishing in another. Gripping under her belly with one hand, the boy pushed into her from behind, snatching her tits with the other, tugging them hard. She felt the slap of him against her and she grabbed one of the pool cues, sliding its length underneath till she could move the cold, flawless line of it back and forth, bringing her off. The boy took the lead, clasping its end and driving it between them. As she was on the cusp of coming he whipped it out from under her, slid his cock out and replaced it with the butt of the cue. With a strangled groan he ejaculated. Rocked forward with the motion, Aurora screamed aloud on the crest of her orgasm. The boy collapsed forward and they stayed motionless on the table, wrapped in sweat, gasping for air.

‘Fuck,’ was all Aurora could say. ‘You’re an outrageous fuck, Sebastian.’

He began kissing the length of her spine, from behind her neck to the top of her ass. She was still riding the gentle spasms of her first climax when he bent to lick her. Lazily she smiled, parting her legs to receive his tongue, feeling it flick and plunge between her till she was coaxed to the edge of another rising swell. He used his fingers, wetting them before, on the point of making her come a second time, he dipped the tip of his thumb into her ass.

Aurora cried in ecstasy, so loud she didn’t hear the door to the games room open.

Sherilyn Rose dropped whatever it was she was carrying. Sebastian clambered back off the table, tripping over on to the floor, struggling to get his jeans on, mumbling something incoherent in Spanish.

Shit.

Triple shit.

Aurora looked up, blew the hair out of her face. ‘Hey, Mom.’

9 Stevie

Linus Posen’s party, or ‘gathering’, as it was creepily called on Bibi’s invitation, took place in his penthouse New York apartment on a Sunday night. As soon as she saw Linus, Stevie understood he was exactly the sort of person who threw parties on Sundays, changing the rules simply because he could. He was a massive presence, tall and fat, and possessed a booming baritone of a voice and mean, quick little eyes that looked like raisins squidged into raw dough.

Stevie decided on sight that she didn’t like him. Typically she’d never be so quick to judge, but his air of bored arrogance sat uncomfortably with her.

‘Are you sure I look OK?’ trilled Bibi as they stood at the entrance to the sprawling warehouse, suffused with mood beats and the hum of conversation. It wasn’t like Bibi to be insecure about anything, but she hadn’t relaxed since they’d set off.

In the cab, Stevie had been surprised. ‘Don’t tell me you fancy him.’

‘Of course I do,’ Bibi had confessed, insofar as Bibi could ever make a confession, because Bibi never seemed to be embarrassed or apologetic about anything. ‘Linus Posen is shit-hot, Steve. He’s the director that could build my career! My agent says he’s casting for his new movie. Matthew McConaughey’s tipped to star.’

‘It doesn’t mean you have to find him attractive.’

‘McConaughey? Gimme a break.’

‘Linus Posen, silly. Isn’t he old?’

‘Fifties, is my bet.’ Bibi had checked her face in her compact for the millionth time. ‘Frankly, I don’t care. He could be in a wheelchair and I’d still show him the Bibi Reiner magic!’

‘That’s sick.’

‘That’s sensible.’

‘What about whether or not you like him?’ She knew she was giving Bibi a hard time. Just because she’d succumbed to a man with power didn’t mean the disaster that had befallen her was going to befall everyone. It was just that she didn’t want Bibi getting hurt, and instinct told her that Bibi didn’t always think things through properly. Then again, that was hypocritical.

‘That comes afterwards,’ Bibi had explained patiently. ‘All I care about right now is getting him to notice me.’

The party was packed with famous faces, some of whom Stevie recognised and some she didn’t. The girls wound their way through the chatting, exclaiming sea of bodies. It reminded Stevie of the handful of celebrity soirées she’d attended through Simms & Court in London, but even she had to admit this was of a higher order. Back at Bibi’s apartment she’d teamed a pair of black skinny jeans with boots and a top: it was definitely her style, not that she’d admit to having one, of quiet, understated glamour. Bibi had tried to insist she borrow a dress but she’d turned it down, compromising by letting her hair loose and slipping on a pair of heels, to which Bibi had exclaimed, ‘We’re the same size, ohmygod, it’s meant to be!’

She regretted her decision. All the other women were in gowns and skirts and Stevie felt criminally underdressed, especially next to Bibi, who was clad in an imitation (a good one) Versace minidress and fierce heels.

‘Are you OK?’ asked Bibi, taking her arm.

‘Sure. Why?’

‘You seem a bit … I dunno, quiet. Is everything all right?’

It wasn’t the first time Bibi had attempted to get her to open up. Being a relentless gossip, she’d been on at Stevie about ex-boyfriends and past experiences pretty much as soon as she’d got here, and doubtless could tell something was the matter. It wasn’t as though Stevie didn’t feel able to confide in her—on first impressions Bibi was a live wire, but underneath all that was a deeply caring and unselfish friend—it was more that she didn’t want to think of it herself. She’d done a stupid thing, a reckless thing, and she regretted it. That was all there was to say.

‘Honest, B. I’m fine.’

Bibi accepted it: she knew when to push her luck. She plucked two flutes of gold champagne from a passing tray and nudged Stevie in the ribs. ‘There he is,’ she murmured, the champagne vanishing in one. ‘Let’s go.’

‘Will he know who we are?’ Stevie disliked feeling like a groupie. She had no desire to meet Linus and even less to witness his ego being fawned over.

Bibi grabbed her hand and pulled her towards the group surging around the director, nearly colliding with an oncoming array of canapés that was more artwork than food. ‘If he doesn’t now,’ she promised, ‘he will soon.’

They got held up by Bibi’s agent for a few moments, a flinty-eyed woman named Carrie Pearce, who had bobbed hair the colour of rat. From the way she spoke to her client it was clear she deemed Bibi incredibly lucky to have her representation. Stevie couldn’t work out why, since Bibi seemed to go for endless auditions and never secure any lasting work.

‘Stevie’s from England,’ said Bibi, in a way that managed to make it sound exotic.

Carrie looked bored. ‘It must be quite something for you to be at a party of Linus Posen’s,’ she said unpleasantly. ‘Are you in the business?’

Stevie shook her head. ‘I’m a sales assistant,’ she told her, correctly anticipating the admission would pass like a bad smell under Carrie’s nose and feeling satisfied when it did. Why should she be made to feel self-conscious? After much searching, she’d finally landed a part-time position at a clothes store on Broadway and was proud of every cent she earned.

Carrie smiled tightly as Bibi blathered on, her eyes skipping across the room for a more interesting and important person to talk to. Stevie became aware of someone watching her and was compelled to turn round. A man with longish brown hair that curled under his ears was standing several feet away, his gaze unwavering even at having been found out. He raised his glass in her direction. He had a cute smile. She smiled back, regretted her haste and looked away.

‘Come on!’ sang Bibi, linking her arm once Carrie Pearce had departed. Stevie followed her friend through the crowd where, excruciatingly, they had to join a sort of queue to speak to Linus. She saw his spongy white head gleaming under the considerable lighting.

When at last Bibi’s turn came to speak to the famous director, she introduced herself as though they were old friends, chatting away happily while Linus impassively listened, every so often chucking a soft salty devil-on-horseback between his fleshy lips and chewing ferociously. He ate with his mouth open, sweet prune pulping on his tongue, and stared blankly and brazenly at Bibi’s breasts for the duration. Stevie, hovering behind, felt disgusted.

Men like Linus made her skin crawl. They believed their position gave them entitlement to any woman they felt like pursuing, confident there’d be plenty in reserve if that one said no. It didn’t mean anything. They could speak all they liked of love and the future, of leaving their wife, of making it real—and they didn’t mean a damn word. And before the object of their attentions could snap out of it, the spell cast—of sleepless nights and pining and lusting, of dreaming pointlessly of a happy ever after—she woke one day and realised she’d abandoned who she was, the morals and standards that she’d stood by, all for the sake of …

‘Bibi, are you going to introduce me to your … ravishing friend?’

Stevie blinked. Linus was gawking straight at her. Bibi was bouncing up and down in the background and pointing frenetically: because she rarely drank, the champagne had gone straight to her head and her cheeks were flushed pink. Her eye make-up had smudged. ‘Of course!’ she squealed, ecstatic. ‘Stevie Speller, this is Linus Posen.’ She gave Stevie a little excited thumbs-up when Linus leaned in to take her hand.

‘The pleasure’s all mine,’ he said huskily, and she shivered as his lips met her skin.

‘Steve’s rooming with me,’ said Bibi proudly. There was a protracted silence during which Stevie could practically see a reel of corresponding images turning over in the director’s mind. ‘Isn’t she a doll?’

Linus smirked, his eyes hooded. ‘I’ll say,’ he leered, absorbing Stevie’s classic beauty, her pale, oval face and the dark, almond-shaped eyes hidden behind her glasses. A good girl. Sensible. The kind of girl who’d tell you off for misbehaving. ‘She’s irresistible.’

Discreetly Linus folded a card into Bibi’s hand, then into Stevie’s. For politeness’s sake, Stevie took it. It didn’t look like a business card, more a private one: simply the director’s initials and a phone number. ‘Look me up if you ever need work,’ he said meaningfully. ‘I sincerely hope you will.’ And she could tell he was in no doubt of receiving her call: the cards had been dispensed with the same tolerant indulgence as with sweets to children.

Bibi seized hers with enthusiasm. ‘Did you hear that?’ she chirruped when he’d gone. ‘He just offered me a job! Steve, he offered us a job! Can you believe it? This is it for us! It starts right here!’ She clutched Stevie. ‘Oh. My. God. We’ll be like a double act. We’ll be famous, like a famous duo, like Cagney and Lacey! Or Thelma and Louise!’

‘I’m not sure, B, this seems a bit—’

‘What do you mean, you’re not sure? This is the hugest break ever! He’ll make us stars, both of us! Everything he touches turns to gold!’

Stevie turned the card over. ‘It looks kind of dodgy to me.’

‘Dodgy!’ Gleefully Bibi deposited her empty champagne flute and picked up another. She spotted Carrie Pearce and peeled off to tell her the good news. Stevie should have been relieved that Bibi was seeking her agent’s advice, but something told her Carrie did not have her client’s best interests at heart. She was unable to help the anxious feeling that had taken root.

Oh, she needed to get a grip! Linus might not be to her taste but it didn’t automatically mean he was evil. She had to get over feeling as if every man was a threat and she was on some crusade to save womankind from surrendering to his charms. She didn’t want to end up bitter and alone, but if she didn’t get over it then that was exactly the way she was going.

Pocketing the card, Stevie scanned the room and landed on the guy who had been—and clearly was still—watching her. He mouthed ‘hello’ and she found herself mouthing it back. He was attractive, even though she knew the continually replenished glasses of champagne were likely contributing to that, and making his way over, taking her reciprocation as an invite.

‘Hi.’ He held his hand out. ‘I’m Will.’ He was maybe a few years older than her, with a dent in his chin that deepened when he grinned.

She shook it. ‘Stevie.’

‘I like your accent,’ he said.

‘Thanks.’ She smiled, slipping into the groove of flirting though she’d left it to rust so long. ‘I like yours.’

There was a lapse in conversation while Will’s eyes lingered on her. He smelled good, like cinnamon. Stevie found herself wondering if it might help: just to do it, to be with someone else, so the time with him wasn’t the last time it had happened, like listening once more to a song that caused you heartache because you had to face that pain and let it be before it went.

‘D’you want to get out of here?’ he asked, lifting an eyebrow.

Stevie glanced over at Bibi, who was happily chatting on at her agent.

‘Sure,’ she said, before she could change her mind. ‘Why not?’

Will offered his hand. She took it.

Maybe New York was looking up, after all.

10 Lori

The hair got everywhere. Lori felt the coarse scratch of it beneath her nails, kept finding webs caught between her fingers, on her clothes, appearing on her pillow when she got into bed, bone-tired after another relentless day. She’d never imagined something so anodyne could cause her such torment. She was strangled by it, caught in a trap; it seemed to follow her, a constant reminder of the closed doors of her life, each strand thick as a chain.

But not any more. Today was her last at Tres Hermanas. After these final few hours, she would be shot of this city for good.

City of Angels. It hadn’t been for her. There had been no one watching out for her here.

‘Loriana!’ Anita’s summons sounded from the counter, where she was busy painting her talons, now so long they formed a corkscrew. ‘Go get us coffee, an’ make it quick, wouldya?’

Lori was prepping foils. ‘I’ll be right there,’ she called, swallowing a biting response. If her sisters caught on, they could blow the whole plan with Rico apart.

She headed to a local bar for the drinks, distracted as she put her order in. It was no matter: the Hispanic baristo knew it by heart.

‘There’s a mess out back needs cleanin’,’ commanded Anita when she returned, scarcely looking up to take the drinks as she pulverised a stick of gum. She was reading a magazine article about tearaway starlet Aurora Nash going into rehab—again. The way the young girl had so many opportunities and yet had flown in the face of all of them confused Lori. What did she have to be so angry about? Surely with a life like that there could be no room for unhappiness. Aurora had money, fame, success … and parents who loved her.

Uncomplaining, Lori moved to her next task. Anita seemed confused by her lack of retort and threw in for good measure: ‘The john could do with a scrub while you’re at it!’

A carton of juice had been spilled and left to congeal on the lino. It had attracted flies and Lori got to her hands and knees to lift the sticky, cloying mess, dousing it with hot water and towels, wiping the floor with one hand and the film of sweat from her brow with the other.

She had given up complaining since the fallout with Angélica. Instead she had kept quiet, pretended her relationship with Rico was over and held her tongue over her sisters’ taunts. All that time, she and Rico had been saving what little money they had and planning their route across America. She didn’t care how it turned out—she was thinking only of tomorrow and what it would feel like to wake up in a different place. She could almost taste independence, could touch it, like something physical. It was close.

The yard was dusty and Lori picked her way over the lot to the heap of stinking trash, adding her load to it with an upsurge of flies. A cockroach scuttled out and across her foot. She pushed thoughts of her father away, of what it meant to abandon him in this squalor and near-poverty. But she could not carry on like this. When she was settled elsewhere, working as many hours as she could, for nothing could be as backbreaking as the toil she had known here, she would send him the money he needed. It wasn’t abandonment; it was necessity.

As she was turning to go back inside she heard the rumble of an engine.

Rico. He pulled into the yard on his bike.

‘What are you doing?’ Lori cried, gesturing frantically for him to cut the ignition. ‘If someone sees you …!’ She didn’t dare finish.

Obligingly Rico jumped off the bike and wheeled it towards her. Lori kept the door to the salon open and pulled him into the shadow behind it. She was about to reiterate her anger before she saw how pale he looked. The white vest he was wearing was covered in mottled dirt.

‘Are you OK?’ she asked, putting a hand to his head. ‘Are you sick?’

‘I’m not sick.’

‘What’s the matter? You look bad.’

‘Nothin’.’ He seemed to be in a hurry.

‘It’s all right, they’re inside,’ said Lori, misreading his concern. ‘Even so, we shouldn’t risk it—you can’t stay. Is everything ready for tonight?’

‘That’s why I’m here.’

Fear seeped through her. Rico wasn’t bailing—not now, when they were so close.

‘I’ll be late,’ he said. ‘An hour, maybe. There’s somethin’ I gotta do first.’

‘What?’

‘It don’t matter. It’s just I can’t make midnight. I didn’t want you waitin’ around, thinking I wasn’t gonna show.’

Lori searched his eyes. ‘Is everything cool?’

‘Everything’s fine.’

There was something he wasn’t telling her.

‘OK,’ she said uncertainly. ‘Same place?’

‘Same place.’ He grabbed her hands. ‘I love you, Lori.’

‘I love you, too.’

‘Do you?’ He met her gaze, and there was desperation there. ‘Because we’ve never … you know, we haven’t. I’ve never loved you properly. In the way you know I mean.’

Lori looked away. ‘We’ve talked about this.’

‘I know.’

‘And I can’t say sorry.’

‘I’m not asking you to.’ He lifted her hand and kissed it. ‘I just have to make sure you’re not holdin’ out on someone else. Someone better? Like I’m not good enough.’

She shook her head. It wasn’t a question of being good enough. But if it wasn’t that …

Fairytales don’t exist, remember?

‘Take this.’ He fed a hand into the pocket of his shorts and produced a modest silver band. She let him slip it on to her ring finger. It glinted in the afternoon light and reminded her of a ring her mama had once bought, years ago when Lori was a little girl, but they’d been forced to sell it when the business began to fail.

‘Why?’

‘It’s a promise.’ He kissed her fingers again and she saw he wore a matching one. ‘Between you and me. OK?’

She was confused. ‘OK.’

‘Whatever happens.’

‘Rico, what is this—?’

‘Shh.’ He touched his forehead to hers. ‘I’ll see you tonight, yeah?’

Lori kissed his cheek. ‘Yeah.’

Noiselessly he moved across the yard and mounted his bike, seconds later vanishing in a cloud of bitter dust.

It was cold. The moon shone bright in the clear sky like a pearl, an occasional gossamer cloud drifting across its spotlight.

Lori pulled her cell from her bag and checked the time. He was supposed to have shown up half an hour ago. Where was he?

They had arranged to meet partway down the Santa Ana Freeway, where Rico had organised a car to take them out of the city. Lori had planned her exit from the Garcia house with precision. She’d gone to bed early, leaving the volume on the TV high while she grabbed her stuff and hauled up the narrow window, which always stuck halfway. From outside she’d clicked off the set, tossing the remote back through. They wouldn’t be any the wiser till daybreak.

Lori wrapped her jacket more tightly around her. She looked up at the star-punctured sky, the dwarfed outline of an aeroplane silhouetted against the giant moon.

Several cars stopped. Each time she was aware of her vulnerability—either the driver thought she was looking for business or she was hitching to the Southside. She moved between states of fear and upset at Rico’s no-show and anger at him letting her down. What was he doing? Why hadn’t he called or messaged?

What if he’s changed his mind?

I should never have pushed him into it. It was me who wanted this, not him.

She twisted the ring on her finger.

It’s a promise …

The wind was picking up. She would wait another half-hour. What else was she going to do? She dumped her pack on the ground and settled on it, huddling her bare knees up under her chin. Every time the glare of headlights filled her vision, each time a vehicle seemed to slow, her heart soared in hope, only to be dashed when it quietly passed by.

She waited half an hour. She waited another, then another. Three a.m. came round. She knew he wasn’t coming.

She put out her arm and waited for a ride to stop.

Rosa was making breakfast when Lori emerged next morning.

‘I heard you come in last night,’ she commented.

Lori fetched a glass of water and didn’t reply.

‘Cat got your tongue?’ Rosa slathered her pancakes with syrup and bit into them, releasing a clear grease that ran down her chin.

It was six. Lori had barely slept, maybe for an hour when she eventually collapsed into bed. Tres Hermanas opened shortly. The thought of returning to the salon she thought yesterday she would never have to see again was unbearable.

‘I know you were out meetin’ Rico.’ Rosa slurped her coffee. ‘Hope he was worth it. Because when Mama and Tony find out.’ She raised a painted-on eyebrow.

Lori turned her back, stared blankly at the wall. ‘Tell them what you like. I don’t care. Tell them to send me to Corazón if that’s what they want. It doesn’t matter any more.’

Rosa pouted, mocking her. ‘He break up with you or somethin’?’

Lori didn’t know. It was possible. Maybe he hadn’t found the guts to tell her and that was what the ring had been about. She found it with her thumb.

‘Quit feelin’ sorry for yourself.’ Rosa flicked on the radio. ‘You’ll get over it.’

The news reporter’s voice filled the kitchen.

‘In the early hours of this morning a young man was shot dead outside a convenience store in Santa Ana, California. Police have arrested twenty-year-old suspect Enrique Marquez, believed to have connections with the El Peligro gang, who were linked last year with six acts of violence in the area, two of which were fatal. Reports suggest Mr Marquez is the younger brother of Diego Marquez, thought to hold high rank in the organisation. The victim’s family have been informed and a spokeswoman for them is expected to talk to the press later today …’

The pancake Rosa was holding fell to the floor with a slap.

‘Lori, what the hell—?’

The item had moved on but the reporter’s words looped hideously through her mind.

It couldn’t be. It couldn’t.

Lori fell into a chair. Thought she was going to be sick.

‘You were there,’ babbled Rosa, backing away. ‘You were there!’

‘No,’ she managed to mumble, ‘I—I wasn’t. He never showed up.’

‘Oh, you wait till Mama finds out,’ Rosa spluttered. ‘Rico Marquez, a murderer! We always knew it would happen, that he’d go the exact same way as his brother and the rest of that useless family—’

‘Shut up.’

‘—and now he’s proved us right. What did Mama tell you? We were right!’

Lori put her hands over her ears. ‘Shut up!’

Rosa gave a burst of hysterical laughter. ‘You’re in so much shit it’s not even fair! Loriana Garcia, in love with a murderer—’

Lori stood and slapped her sister round the face. It made a clean, sharp sound and left Rosa’s cheek burning pink. She wanted to do it again, and again, till Rosa was silenced and she could be left in peace to think straight. It was impossible to focus. Her vision was swimming.

She remembered Rico’s words in the salon yard: There’s somethin’ I gotta do …

The floor seemed to bend and shake till Lori realised it was her legs that were giving way. She collapsed against the wall. Rosa went for her, pulling her hair, calling her a bitch, a killer, clawing with her nails, but Lori didn’t feel a thing.

11 Aurora

Rehab was a total waste of time. Aurora had known it would be—after all, she had only gone to please her parents and to help her mother get over the trauma of walking in on her young daughter in a state of such disarray, and everyone said that rehab only worked if the person genuinely wanted to change. She’d had a blast that day with Sebastian, got horny even now just thinking about it, and while it was unfortunate—and just a tad embarrassing—to have Sherilyn walk in at such an inopportune moment, she didn’t regret it.

What she did regret was that Julieta had got fired from her housekeeping duties. On top of that being a rough ride for a poor Mexican family, it was also the end of any rough rides she could expect to enjoy with Sebastian again.

She’d spent a month at the Tyrell Chase Center with her consultant, a gnarled old shrink called Dr Lux, but it was always ‘Call me Ed’—it wasn’t the first time she’d been. Dr Lux went over the same tired ground: her reckless behaviour was down to overindulgence, hedonism, lack of boundaries, blah blah fucking blah. Sherilyn took this diagnosis as a personal affront and always wept heartily after a meeting with Dr Lux: she hated Aurora going into rehab as much as Aurora did. Had she been a bad mother? Where had she gone wrong? Was Aurora suffering from being an only child? While Aurora sat and picked her nails, wondering when the hell they could get out of there.

By the time she did eventually get out, it seemed Sherilyn had just about recovered from the shock. Her father informed Aurora she’d been upping her sessions with Lindy the Therapist—no doubt Lindy would have several things to say about the pool-table episode—and had some new pills to pop that came in a fancy pink packet and sat serious as a Bible by her mother’s bed.

Today was the eve of Aurora’s sixteenth birthday party. They’d had people attending the mansion all week: caterers and planners, stylists and organisers, even a horse trainer attempting to map a route from the drive to the pool, where a white stallion would enter with the birthday girl on its back. She even suspected Tom was sorting a guest appearance from the Black Eyed Peas, and MTV was coming to film a special all-star Super Sweet—it was going to be amazing!

‘You’re lucky we’re going ahead with this,’ Tom had said when they’d talked about the celebrations. ‘After the trouble you’ve got yourself in.’

‘I know, Daddy,’ she’d said, eyes wide. ‘You and Mom are so kind and generous—I know I don’t deserve it!’

‘As long as you’ve learned your lesson,’ Tom had gone on, as stern as he’d ever be and always with a twinkle that suggested he didn’t think whatever she’d done was that bad, ‘we’re not going to deny you your sweet sixteen.’

He’d ruffled her hair, and that had been that.

Ramon, her hair stylist, arrived. He was doing a colour before her big appearance tomorrow. Sherilyn had insisted on sitting in on the session: Dr Lux had told her she wasn’t to be left alone with men—the girl had a sex addiction that temptation did nothing to ease.

‘Mom!’ she yelled up the stairs. The word bounced hollowly off the high ceilings, precise as a tennis ball. ‘Ramon’s here!’

Upstairs, Sherilyn Rose applied a flush of rouge to her alarmingly pale complexion. She looked bad. The lighting in her dressing room was unflattering, but, even so, she was tired, overworked and under-slept. Opening a drawer in her vanity table, she extracted a bottle of little red pills. She chucked a handful into her mouth and took a slug of water.

‘All right, sweetheart!’ she sang, her soft Alabama tones melting down the stairway to her waiting daughter. Sweet-As-Pie-Mom was a hard act to maintain, she thought grimly. It used to come to her naturally—recently she felt like a gruesome monster wearing a little girl’s skin. Ugh, that was horrific. But that was the sort of image residing in her head these days.

It was hardly any wonder her nerves were shredded. The pills Lindy had given her were the only things that allowed her to sleep at night. She had been enduring terrible dreams of late: memories that she’d thought were buried deep in the past. And yet every time Aurora misbehaved—this latest episode the worst yet—they returned to her in vivid, appalling detail.

The vast Indian Ocean. The island. That man …

If it ever came out, the reasons why they’d done it, her life would not be worth living.

Another couple of tablets, that was all. Shakily she chucked them down her white throat.

Was her life worth living now?

Sherilyn took a deep breath, in through her nose, out through her mouth, just as Lindy had taught her. She tried to smile, making her way slowly down the mansion stairs, one step at a time. As always, she shuddered when she passed the open games room, its equipment cleanly polished and disinfected on her instruction. Nothing could have prepared her for the sight of her daughter in that context. It disgusted her.

Not that her husband seemed to care. People said fathers were always closer to their girls: that the mothers got left out in the cold. Perhaps that was it. Perhaps she was jealous of their connection, a bond she had tried so hard to feel, to engage, and, failing that, to manufacture. It hadn’t worked. How could it, when week after week she was subjected to yet another reminder of her daughter’s monstrosity?

What on earth had she and Tom raised?

Whatever it was, she knew they deserved every bad thing they got.

Aurora’s first impression was that her mother could do with a visit from her own stylist: a recent dye job had rendered her hair the same colour as Barbie’s and she wore tight frayed jeans and precarious white shoe boots. Dated.

She hitched herself on to a stool by the patio doors, making sure she could see the poolside arrangement and issue preferences if necessary, while Ramon, young with a Mohawk, plonked down his cosmetics bag and laid out his tools. He was so clearly gay that any notion of chaperoning was absurd. Still, Aurora adhered to the new rules—it was a novelty to actually be made to do something.

‘OK, honey,’ he said, running his fingers through Aurora’s blonde hair. ‘What are we doing today?’

Sherilyn lit a cigarette and surveyed her daughter. Aurora noticed how her hands trembled with each puff. ‘How about some layering in the length …’

‘I want it all off,’ announced Aurora.

Ramon was appalled. ‘Shaved?’

Aurora rolled her eyes. ‘Not shaved. But nearly. Really short, like a boy’s.’

Sherilyn blew out smoke. ‘Darling, no!’

‘Do you mind?’ Ramon gestured to Sherilyn’s cigarette, then to his cosmetics case filled with mousse and sprays. ‘I’ve got flammable substances here.’

‘Yeah.’ Aurora nodded decisively. ‘Dramatic. You can do drama, can’t you, Ramon?’

‘Anything for you.’

‘We should dye it as well,’ said Aurora. ‘Bleach it. So it’s kinda white.’

Ramon grinned. ‘I like it.’

Sherilyn ground out her Marlboro. ‘Are you sure? It sounds extreme …’

‘I am extreme, Mom. And this is my party.’

‘All right, if that’s what’ll make you happy …’ She drifted out to the pool.

‘Is your mom doped?’ asked Ramon.

‘Probably,’ said Aurora as he began mixing the colour. ‘I don’t blame her. I’ve been a bitch lately.’ And she did honestly feel bad about the pool-table thing, but the fact was that in its aftermath her life hadn’t changed at all. Some days she thought her mother could do with an electric shock, or a cattle prod, something that frazzled her; something that brought her back to life. But if that hadn’t done it, what would?

Ramon applied the cold mixture to her roots and didn’t comment.

Aurora was watching a shirtless guy string lights in the trees by the pool. So was her mom by the looks of it. Ew! Weren’t you meant to switch those bits off when you got married? An image popped up of Sherilyn and Tom getting it on. Maybe they didn’t any more, seeing as they were now, like, way old. But they must have—at least once. Yuck yuck YUCK.

She spied a gossip rag poking out of Ramon’s bag. On the front was her so-called best friend Farrah Michaels wearing a solemn expression above the headline: BFFs AT WAR: ‘AURORA NASH SHOULD BE IN JAIL!’ It was hardly a war, thought Aurora, since it was entirely onesided: she wasn’t the one mouthing off to the press at every available opportunity, all for a bit of cheap publicity. Farrah was just bitter because she’d split with Boy-Band-Christian after he was found cheating on her with a dwarf while on tour in Vegas.

She tossed the magazine down, pissed.

‘Hold still!’ commanded Ramon, swiping at her head with his brush. The dye stank and she told him so. ‘Your hair will stink too if you don’t do as I say.’

Outside, Sherilyn was on the phone. She was frowning and nodding. When she came back in, Aurora demanded to know what was going on. Weirdly, her mother ignored her. Instead, she addressed Ramon.

‘How long will this take?’

‘Don’t hurry him, Mom, it’s important.’

‘So is this.’ Sherilyn closed her cell. ‘That was your father. He’s got some news to share with you.’ She took a deep breath. ‘He’s taking us for lunch at Il Cielo.’

‘Is it about the party?’

Sherilyn hesitated. ‘Not exactly,’ she said.

‘What, then?’

A pause. ‘Let’s wait till lunchtime, shall we?’

She could feel Ramon’s curiosity wafting off him like heat. ‘What was that about?’ he asked when Sherilyn had disappeared next door.

Aurora yawned. ‘I expect Dad’s bought me another car,’ she mused. ‘They’ll want it to be a surprise, but I guess they have to tell me if they want to co-ordinate it with the arrival of the stallion. To be honest, I don’t know where I’ll keep another one—and anyway, I don’t even have my permit!’

‘Your mother and I have one last gift for you,’ said Tom over lunch. The waiter refilled their water. Cubes of ice tinkled and cracked in the glass, melting slowly in the afternoon sun. Il Cielo boasted a gorgeous terrace and, as ever, Tom Nash and his family had secured the best table.

Aurora, admiring her new bleached-blonde hairstyle in an enormous window, grinned. ‘Cool! What is it?’

A gaggle of fans approached. Tom swore under his breath at the fresh interruption but smiled pleasantly enough as he and Sherilyn signed scraps of paper and the backs of tabs. Women fancied Tom Nash like crazy: his alpha vibe rendered them babbling incoherent wrecks. They fell for his Southern charm with its twist of LA polish; they adored his vocal Republican stance. Tom was all about tradition, about core values, work ethic and the importance of family. They lapped it up like kittens.

On the other hand, everyone regarded Aurora, and her new hairstyle, with a pinch of trepidation, as though she were a sitting bomb that could blast off at any second. Fine, fuck the lot of them. Aurora sighed loudly, impatient for her dad to spill.

Sherilyn forked her barely touched crab linguine. ‘Go on, Tom,’ she said softly.

Aurora frowned. What could they have bought her? Maybe it wasn’t a car, after all. Maybe it was something sicker that even she hadn’t imagined—and she’d imagined most things.

At last, Tom spoke. ‘We’re sending you to England.’

Aurora was pleased. ‘London? Can I stay at the Dorchester again?’

‘Not exactly a shopping trip, honey,’ said Sherilyn.

There was an uncomfortable pause.

‘Boarding school,’ said Tom, clearing his throat. WHAT?

‘What?’ shrieked Aurora, horrified.

Her parents exchanged glances. ‘That’s right,’ said Tom. ‘And it’s not in London. It’s a prestigious, little-known school in the North. You’ll receive the attention you need there.’

Aurora’s mouth was hanging open. She couldn’t believe it.

‘You can’t do this to me,’ she squawked. ‘I won’t go. I’m not going. Boarding school?’ The very word conjured images of prison bars and child labour.

Sherilyn touched her arm. ‘We didn’t take this decision lightly,’ she crooned. ‘But we do think it’s the best thing for you. After what happened with—’ she cleared her throat ‘—Sebastian Ortega. And crashing the Ferrari. And Mink Ray.’

‘What do you know about Mink Ray?’ Aurora’s face was burning. Had they been spying on her?

‘You’ll be home every few weeks for vacation,’ said Tom. ‘And we’ve organised a guardian for you in London so you can be there for exeats.’

Aurora didn’t even know what the word meant. This was a fucking outrage!

‘You can’t make me go,’ she said, lip wobbling.

But Tom remained uncharacteristically steadfast. ‘It’s for your own good,’ he said, sawing his veal in a manner that suggested the end of the discussion. ‘Therapy doesn’t work, rehab doesn’t work … This is our last option and we believe it will be the making of you.’

‘And this is meant to be my birthday present? Are you kidding me?’

Tom’s face softened. ‘Well—’ he put down his cutlery and smiled tentatively ‘—I was going to wait till tomorrow, but since you asked … We’ve got you that Porsche you wanted as well.’

‘Fuck the fucking Porsche,’ lashed Aurora, scraping her chair back and getting to her feet. She lifted her mother’s glass of red wine and emptied it pointlessly over the ciabatta rolls.

She was going to England over her dead body. There was no fucking way.

12 Stevie

Stevie woke to the glare of sunlight. She had a slight headache brought on by too many cocktails the previous evening, and foggily remembered the bar that she and Will Gardner had ended up in. Weeks had passed since they’d met at Linus Posen’s party and she supposed they’d begun a relationship of sorts, insofar as nights out and occasional sex went. Will knew little of her life and she saw no reason why he should: she’d been frank at the outset that she wasn’t in it for a relationship and he’d claimed he was happy with that.

Will’s arm was thrown across her. She watched his sleeping face, handsome in repose, the eyelashes long and the jaw peppered with stubble. Will was good-looking, funny, and nice company—he was a good bet, surely, for any girl. Sex with him was fine, it was pleasant, but she rarely came and when she did it was only on top. Before Stevie had started at Simms & Court she’d had a string of short-lived boyfriends with whom sex had been the same way. Was she destined always to judge others against the man who had changed that? Why should she, when he had treated her so badly? It made her hate him more and more, because nearly a year after their parting he still had her in his clutches, refusing to let her go.

What had it been about him? What made him so special? Was it the way he’d listened to her, after years at home of being one voice among many, as if she were the most captivating woman on earth? Was it the attention he’d lavished, the compliments he’d given? Was it his authority, his age, his influence? That made her sound like a floozy secretary, and of course she knew it was the mother of all stereotypes. Boss works after hours, assistant fixes the drinks, maybe she even calls his wife to let her know he’ll be home late … To her disgrace, she’d done that once. The sound of the other woman’s voice would never leave her, and it was only after they were over that she was able to analyse what she’d heard in it: resignation, disappointment, but most of all sadness. Infinite, profound sadness—for Stevie understood now that it had happened before, probably many, many times. And through her inability at the time to think outside how she admired him, and how his marriage, she’d been told, was all but over, she’d pushed the woman to the back of her mind and pretended she didn’t exist. It was shameful.

It was also what her father had done to her mother. That was the worst part.

Will opened his eyes, a contented smile spreading across his face. He rolled on to his back, and in an effort to forget the past Stevie moved to kiss him, feeling him reach around her waist, pulling her close. A groan escaped as he grew between her hands. She manoeuvred herself on top, desperate for release, slipping on protection and gasping as he entered.

Will gripped her as she began to rock back and forth. ‘You’re gorgeous,’ he breathed, sitting to embrace her, grazing her breasts, moving with her, kissing her chin and then her lips.

Stevie’s rhythm became more frantic. She could feel the surge rising and pushed Will back on to the pillows, riding him harder now, wanting him to fill her up and force her to forget everything. She gripped his hands, threw her head back and felt him free his fingers so he could stroke her throat and her tits, kissing her over and over.

She came fiercely, releasing a cry and feeling the blood in every fibre of her body. Will continued to thrust into her warmth, drawing out her climax, threatening to take her all the way again. He lifted her hips and withdrew, moving her on to her back and raising her legs high so her feet were on either side of his neck. Violently he pounded back into her, forcing himself so deep that Stevie had to push back on the wall behind her head to keep herself from slamming into it. Seconds later he reached his pinnacle.

‘Christ, Stevie,’ he breathed, burying his head in her shoulder as he rode it. ‘What are you doing to me?’

She pulled on a shirt and padded to the bathroom. The shower blasted scalding hot then freezing cold. Will’s downtown loft apartment was crummier than the one she shared with Bibi, but most times they slept together here. She preferred the detachment of it—plus she could do without Bibi’s cross-questioning the morning after.

Speak of the devil. The minute she got out, Bibi called.

‘I need you to come to an audition with me today,’ she announced.

Stevie put her glasses on and sat down on the bed. Will released the knot on her towel, letting it fall to her waist. Lazily he stroked her back.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I need a partner.’

Stevie hitched the towel up and stood. ‘For what?’ She could see from the bulge under the sheets that Will was ready to go again. She returned to the bathroom and ran a comb through her hair, which wasn’t easy with a phone under one ear.

‘It’s gonna make all the difference,’ Bibi explained, ‘if I read with someone I know—and I’ll be most comfortable with you. And if I’m comfortable then I’m relaxed and when I’m relaxed I know I can shine. That’s the problem with every other gig they’ve sent me for, Steve! I’ve been so nervous I totally blew it! So, I figure, if you’re there too then it’ll be just like it is when you help me at home, and you’re really good, you know? You always bring out my best. So I need you.’

‘I don’t know, B—’

‘Please,’ Bibi begged, ‘it’s a serious part—the first one that’s come up for me in ages! I really want it. Please, will you come?’

Stevie was puzzled. If the work her friend was doing for Linus Posen wasn’t ‘serious’ then what was it? Since his party, Bibi had been collaborating with the director on several projects—she’d tried to cajole Stevie into phoning him too but had given up after a series of repeated refusals—but was always cagey about exactly what it was she was doing. All Stevie knew was that her engagements with Linus always took place at some undisclosed location and Bibi, when she reappeared, was terse in her replies about where she’d been. It was unlike her: Bibi waxed lyrical about everything, especially when it came to her career.

‘But—’

‘All I’m asking is for you to say a handful of lines,’ Bibi barrelled on, ‘that’s all. I’m desperate for this, Steve, please. I mean it. Please say yes. Please?’

It was the least she could do after Bibi’s kindness. ‘Yes.’

Will approached her from behind, lifting the towel and pressing his erection against her.

‘When do you need me?’ she asked into the phone.

‘Now,’ he murmured, attempting to direct himself inside.

Bibi’s relief was audible. ‘Park Avenue. Two o’clock. I appreciate it, I really do.’

‘Are you all right?’ Stevie asked. ‘You sound funny.’

There was a brief silence, before: ‘I’m fine!’

She tried to bat off Will’s attentions. ‘You’re sure?’

‘Sure. Just be there, OK?’

‘I will.’

Stevie clicked her phone shut, concerned about her friend. Something wasn’t right. But then maybe she just hadn’t spent enough time with Bibi recently. She had to rectify that.

‘I’ve got to be somewhere,’ she said.

Will took her hips in his hands and tilted her forward. ‘Five minutes,’ he growled. ‘And then I’ll let you go.’

The casting took place on the second floor of an old office building on Park Avenue. There was a little waiting space outside the room, packed with hopefuls. When Bibi and Stevie arrived, they attracted a wave of catty looks that Bibi assured her was par for the course. They went down the corridor to get a watered-down coffee.

‘Here,’ said Bibi, thrusting a wodge of paper into her hands at the same time as a boiling hot drink, ‘this is it. You read Jerry.’

‘Is it a man?’ Stevie asked, fumbling before putting the coffee down. She flicked through the pages.

‘No. Like Jerry Hall.’ She grinned. ‘Or like Steve!’

‘Oh …’ Stevie had never done anything like this before. ‘And who’re you?’

Bibi adopted a dreamy expression. ‘I’m Lauren. Secretly I’m in love with your husband, but you can’t ever know because we’re best friends. But even more secretly, you’re in love with me! And you’re like a really prim housewife and you can’t begin to contemplate leaving your marriage for another person, let alone a woman! Shock, horror and all that. Juicy, isn’t it?’

‘Jerry’s part sounds more interesting than Lauren’s.’

Bibi shrugged. ‘But Lauren’s part is bigger. The whole movie’s about her, basically. Which means—’ she struck a pose ‘—that if I get it, the whole movie’s going to be about me! Oh, I really hope I get it!’ She chewed her lip.

‘I thought things were going well with Linus’s projects,’ Stevie said softly. She was determined to tread carefully. ‘You seem awfully keen to try something new.’

Bibi linked arms with her. ‘Come on, or we’ll miss our call.’

The audition went adequately. Stevie managed to speak her lines clearly and not let Bibi down, which was a feat for her because she didn’t like performing and spent the first few minutes fudging the phrasing until she hit her stride. Unhelpfully, the panel—two producers and a casting agent—asked her to remove her glasses halfway through, which made the task of reading a challenge in itself. Bibi herself delivered a melodramatic performance that was more reminiscent of Shakespeare than a Hollywood independent. Stevie thought she had great charisma, but couldn’t help feeling she was running a little over the top: the script required a degree of subtlety, an invitation to viewers to draw their own conclusions about who was feeling what. But what did she know? She wasn’t the actress.

Afterwards, the jury conferred among themselves for a while before dismissing them with a brisk, ‘Thank you, that’s all.’

‘How great was that?’ squealed Bibi when they were back outside.

Stevie smiled encouragingly. ‘You did brilliantly. I don’t know how you memorise all those lines. I don’t think I could.’

‘Ah, don’t be dumb.’ But she blushed at the compliment. ‘You really think I did OK?’

‘Definitely,’ Stevie reassured her. Bibi had been word-perfect and her enthusiasm was second to none. ‘When are you likely to hear?’

‘Carrie will be in touch as soon as they are.’ She hailed a cab. ‘Keep your knickers crossed for me!’

‘My knickers?’

‘Sorry,’ said Bibi, in a much better mood than this morning. ‘On the contrary! I forgot you were with Will.’

‘That’s gross. And anyway, I’m not “with” Will. I’m not with anyone.’

Bibi narrowed her eyes. ‘You’re a commitment-phobe,’ she said. ‘That’s what it is.’

Stevie laughed. ‘I’m not,’ she said. ‘Fine, maybe I am, but just for the time being.’

‘Ah, but love’s the best thing in the world.’ Bibi pressed her palms exaggeratedly to her chest as a cab pulled up. ‘Love richly and love well. Isn’t that a saying?’

‘I don’t think so.’

Bibi pulled open the door. ‘You know what I’m getting at.’

She did. Only she’d been the one loving. He hadn’t said he loved her at all. Not even when she got rid of the baby.

‘Thanks for coming today, Steve.’

‘Any time,’ she replied, with a faint smile. ‘It was kind of fun.’

As she was climbing in, a young woman with a scruffy blonde ponytail emerged from the building, glanced once up and down the avenue then waved in their direction. Stevie recognised her as the casting agent from their audition. She had to nudge Bibi to get her attention.

‘B, that woman’s waving at you—look!’

Bibi followed her gaze. She covered her mouth with her hands. ‘My God, Steve! Do you think she wants to offer me the part? What if she offers me the part? What do I do?’

Stevie giggled. ‘You say yes.’

The woman strode over. ‘Are you able to come back inside?’ she asked, eyebrow arched. ‘We’d like to hear you read again.’

‘Of course.’ Bibi flushed with pleasure.

The woman’s gaze flicked over Bibi, as if she’d only just noticed her. ‘Not you,’ she said dismissively, turning back to Stevie. ‘We’d like to hear you read again, for Lauren this time. We’ve been looking for someone like you for a very, very long time. We think you’re absolutely right for the part.’ She grinned, exposing a row of small neat teeth. ‘What do you say?’

13 Lori

When Tony and Angélica found out about Rico’s involvement in the gang homicide, they resolved to send Lori to Spain without further delay.

‘It’s the only place we can be sure you’ll stay out of trouble,’ her father said.

The last Lori had heard from her boyfriend was a rushed phone call shortly after he was arrested. She had asked him if the reports were true. They were. It broke her heart. She didn’t know him any more. Rico, the gentle Rico with the kind eyes and the tender promises, was gone. He was a killer, capable of taking another person’s life.

Things moved fast. Her flight was tomorrow. When she arrived, she would take a taxi out of Murcia and travel south, to the outskirts of a remote town where her grandmother resided in the same rural house Tony had grown up in. It was falling apart, too sprawling and dilapidated for one person to look after. Ancient, tired out, like its sole occupant.

Tony was dropping her off at Tres Hermanas for the last time.

‘Please don’t send me away,’ she begged. ‘Can’t you see I’ve been punished enough?’

Angrily, Tony changed lanes. ‘I’ve done everything to make things right, Loriana—I’ve tried my best with that business, I’ve tried to secure you the future your mama wanted. I found us another family—’

‘I never said I wanted another family. I had you.’

‘And who did I have?’

Her voice was small. ‘Me.’

‘You were a child. I had to look after you.’

Lori tried to reach him. ‘Mama always said it didn’t matter how small you were, you could always make a difference.’

Tony pulled over amid an explosion of sounding horns. ‘Will you stop?’

‘Stop what?’

‘Accept that she’s dead.’ His voice was bitter. ‘I’ve been trying for ten years to find a different happiness, while you dream only of the past—’

‘Moving on isn’t the same as forgetting.’

‘Do you think I can forget? Do you? How can I, when I look at you and all I see is her?’

‘Is that why you want me gone?’ Lori wept then, proper tears she had been keeping in check for too long. For a second she thought Tony might comfort her, but the embrace she had been hoping for didn’t come. Instead he signalled and rejoined the stream of downtown traffic.

‘You are going to Corazón because it is the right thing,’ Tony said evenly, ‘and because I hope it will put an end to this pointless rebellion. That boy and his family are dangerous. I cannot lose you as well.’

The working day began like any other. There was no reason to suspect what was to come, the event that would change Lori’s life irrevocably and for ever. Her sisters had spent all morning doing zero work, gloating about how miserable she would be bundled away in Europe with a rotting old crone, while Lori answered the phones, sorted the orders, prepped the treatments and cleaned up after them. Her head was numb and her heart was numb, going through the motions and that was all: a living doll, with a face and hair and arms and legs, but when you unscrew its neck and turn it upside down and shake it around, nothing inside, just empty.

It was a little after two o’clock and she was alone, unpacking a delivery on the salon floor. Anita and Rosa had slipped cash from the register, informing her they were ‘heading out’, which meant they were down on the beach sipping coladas, examining their nails, bitching about her, and would be till half an hour before close.

The boxes were heavy, filled with stuff they didn’t need and could not afford, but the girls had to spend their time somehow and it would be Lori who made the returns. A guy in a van had dumped them by the door and told her to sign. Afterwards, she would remember scribbling her name in the space he indicated, and would that night, and in the nights to come, think back to how it was a different girl signing from the one she was now: that the Lori Garcia she’d been before had given her very last autograph and was finally checking out.

She was bent, her back to the door, when she heard someone come in.

Preparing to apologise for her sisters’ absence, since this was no doubt a forgotten appointment, she turned—and came face to face with a man. He was dark, short and stockily built, with a hard, low brow and a nose beaten out of shape. He possessed deep-set, unblinking eyes, and wore a black vest that exposed meaty, painted flesh at the neck and shoulders. His arms were sketched with tattoos, a cobra winding up one arm, its head emerging beneath his thick jaw, cut from a bad shave, where the serpent’s thin forked tongue escaped.

Diego Marquez. Rico’s brother.

‘What do you want?’ Lori asked coldly.

Diego’s mouth moved into a thin, satisfied smile. ‘A word, chica. That is all.’

‘I’m busy.’

‘So am I.’ He kicked the door shut with one foot. ‘Which is why you’re going to give me what I need and you’re going to make it quick.’

She backed off. ‘Don’t come any closer.’

‘What you gonna do about it?’ His eyes flicked behind her, scoping the place. ‘Looks like you might be getting a little lonely in here.’ He reached out, attempted to touch her but she pulled away. ‘You saying you don’t want company?’

‘I mean it. I’ll call the police.’

He laughed. It was cold, dead, utterly without humour. Lori felt the push of wood against her back as she came into contact with the counter. Diego was close now, his breath in her face.

‘An’ how d’you think that’s gonna look? One Marquez boy not enough for you?’

Panic was rising, a steady, obliterating tide. ‘Please. I won’t tell anyone you were here.’

Diego narrowed his eyes. She could see the hard sinews in his neck, a trapped muscle pulsing like there was something living beneath his skin, writhing, contorting, trying to get out.

‘Oh no,’ he snarled. ‘Not until I get what I came for.’ This time, he grabbed her chin, the impact of it so hard, so sudden, she bit the inside of her cheek. ‘Are you gonna be a good girl and tell me what happened that night? Think carefully, now, ‘cause I don’t want no mistakes.’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Sure you do. You were with Enrique. You were with him the whole time, the whole damn night. He never left your side, not once.’

‘That’s a lie. You know it is.’

Diego tightened his grip. ‘D’you think Enrique gives a fuck about the truth where he is right about now?’

Hate burned in Lori’s eyes. ‘You’ve done nothing for Rico,’ she countered. ‘You never have. All you’ve done is hurt him and ruin him and take away any chance of a life he might—’

This time Diego pressed his iron-hard body against her, pinning her in place. She could feel every contour, heavy as a brick, inescapable, suffocating. He made a sound of teasing disapproval, shaking his head with grim amusement. Up close she could smell him—the scent was of rotten sweat and something sharper, more astringent, like vinegar.

‘No, no, no,’ he taunted, ‘you’re not listening. This is how it works. I ask you for something, Loriana. You give it to me. Easy. Shall we try again?’

‘I’m giving you nothing.’

‘Then I won’t spare you nothing.’ Diego lunged for her—to kiss her, to take her by the throat?—but she was too quick. Darting from his grip, she ran. She went for the door, forgetting she had cleaned that morning and the floor was still slick with wet. Her feet vanished from under her. Uselessly she reached out to break the fall, spraining her wrist, and when her chin hit she felt a warmth of blood escape, so quick, as always blood was, as if her skin were an eggshell, or a balloon filled with water, thin-membraned and fit to rupture. A heavy foot landed across her back, pushing down on her lungs so that it hurt to breathe.

She heard the click of a cigarette being lit. Seconds later, the door opened, tantalisingly close to Lori’s desperate, upturned face, but at the same time impossibly far away. For a brief moment she imagined help had come.

It hadn’t.

Three other men walked in. Her ears felt cloudy so it was difficult to understand what they were saying. Her mouth tasted thick, the smell of antiseptic in her nostrils.

‘She causin’ you trouble?’ One of the boots nudged her lightly with its toe, then, when she didn’t protest, a bit harder, like a child prodding a frightened animal with a stick.

Diego hauled her up, holding Lori to him, her arms behind her back.

‘Let me go,’ she whimpered, making a futile attempt to break free.

One glance told her that wasn’t going to happen. Circling her was Diego’s gang. She looked from one to the next, with each pinched, expressionless face feeling hope dwindle—then, worse, a shoot of fear that blossomed and spread, climbing into her throat. The way they were eyeing her, sharply, greedily, and with a satisfied reticence that she had not the experience to consider but knew instinctively put her body at risk. One had a long, thin ponytail down his back. He licked dry lips.

‘Try again,’ said Diego, menacingly quiet in her ear. ‘And get it right this time or we are gonna fuck you up so bad that when you look in the mirror you won’t even know who’s lookin’ back. You got that, chica?’

‘Rico didn’t show,’ she spluttered. ‘It’s the truth. I don’t know what more you want.’

Diego tugged her backwards. Pain shot up her arm. ‘Give it to us, Loriana.’

She knew what they wanted. An alibi. The words that would set Rico free.

He was her boyfriend. The man I’m supposed to love. But she couldn’t.

‘I can’t lie for him,’ she choked. ‘I can’t.’

‘Aw.’ Diego arranged his mean features into something like pity. ‘There was me thinkin’ you were his girl.’ Roughly, he pushed her. She landed in the scrawny grip of the guy with the ponytail. ‘Girls do right by their men, wouldn’t you say, boys? But then if you ain’t his girl, then we ain’t gonna treat you like his girl. We’re gonna treat you just like what you are—a dirty fuckin’ whore.’

The scrawny grip was wrestling her. Violently she was thrust into another pair of arms, then another, and another, passed between them, playing with her like a kitten on a string, making her dizzy, her vision gather and dissolve like ink in water. The shoving got more and more forceful, she was conscious of hands seizing parts of her, wrenching at her with ferocity. She heard her dress tear. Someone kicked her, pulled her hair.

‘Stop,’ she begged. ‘Please, please, stop!’

‘Nah—not till we’ve had our fun.’ She didn’t know who spoke. Through the ringing in her ears she thought she heard a belt buckle being unclasped.

‘You heard her.’ A new voice. ‘Stop.’

Lori was thrown to the floor. Through red panic a splinter of blue appeared, like water poured on flames. A hot current travelled down her spine, the hairs at the back of her neck prickling, thousands of needlepoints, each tip like fire. She became aware of her breathing, low and shallow, and her frantic heart.

Diego spoke. ‘This ain’t nothin’ t’do with you, man. Back away.’

The stranger moved. She heard the clean smack of his step as he approached. Smart, controlled, precise. ‘Wrong. Let her go.’

Lori raised her head, taking the newcomer in in pieces—the oil-black shoes, the expensively tailored suit pants, the way a strip of crisp white shirt emerged from each sleeve of his jacket. His suit was the sharp, thousand-dollar sort she had seen on models in magazines and on businessmen who dealt in money and gambling and sex with their secretaries. He was tall. One of his hands was visible. Strong knuckles. His hair, the colour of sand after the tide’s been in; his precise profile and square-sharp jaw; his mouth. In his right earlobe he wore a flat black stud, which was ill-matched with the attire and spoke of something exotic.

The man regarded her directly and with a gaze that was bluer than the colour itself, light blue of a kind that seemed artificial. She saw his top lip was scarred, a jagged groove that ran like lightning, almost ugly, through his philtrum.

‘You got no business comin’ round here,’ warned one of Diego’s gang. They were hesitant with the stranger—they outnumbered him and yet they did not make a move. ‘Walk away now an’ no one gets hurt.’

The man reached down to Lori and held out his hand. With the gesture, his sleeve lifted a fraction and she saw a thin band of leather encircling his wrist.

‘Get up,’ he told her.

Diego was quick but the stranger was quicker, bringing Lori to her feet as if she weighed nothing at all. Smoothly, swiftly, he positioned his body in front of hers, simultaneously catching Diego’s punch in one of his fists.

‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you.’

Diego’s eyes flashed a caution. One of his guys freed a gun. The weapon was raised.

‘We ain’t gonna tell you again,’ growled Diego. ‘Walk away. ’

One of the crew lunged but the man seized the strike, twisting the elbow back at such an angle that the body crumpled to the floor.

‘My arm!’ the guy howled. ‘My fuckin’ arm, you’ve broken it, you sonofabitch!’

A second swing; the audible rush of swiped air as he evaded the blow, landing his own fist squarely in the throat of his assailant, who performed a sickening pirouette and was slammed back against the wall with a force that made something crack.

The next she knew, they had the gun. The last of Diego’s crew still standing was making a run for it. ‘Fuckin’ get outta here, man!’ he urged his chief. ‘Fuckin’ let’s go!’

Diego stared down his own weapon. ‘You don’t know who I am,’ he said. ‘Do you?’

The gun didn’t waver.

Lori saw Diego hesitate, a ripple of fear behind his eyes.

‘Take your men away from here,’ the stranger said, in an accent she could not place. ‘And don’t ever come back. If you come back, you will disappear. Nobody will know what happened to you. Your wives will not know. Your friends will not know. Your brothers will not know. Your children will not know. Your lovers will wait for you in a cold room in a cold bed but you will never come. Do not doubt this will happen. If you come here again, it will happen to every last one of you.’

And in a rush that felt like flying, the stranger had taken her hand, she was with him, next to him, and they were moving, out of the door and into the blazing sun. She saw his car, a gleaming, purring Mercedes, black and silver, opened to an interior of plush, heavy-scented leather, a secret world. She hadn’t time to question her actions. They were inside, the door slammed shut; he was pushing a button and giving instructions to someone up front, concealed behind a screen of dark glass, to drive. He turned to her, eyes so blue, so blue.

‘I won’t let you go until I know it is over. I’m not going to hurt you. You’re safe with me.’

She found her voice, only it sounded like someone else’s. ‘Do I know you?’

‘No.’

The car was moving at speed. ‘Who are you?’

‘I am no one.’

Lori wanted to touch him. She wanted to touch him in a way she had never before encountered—raw, necessary, primal. The stranger was facing away, his profile still, his mouth set in a line of grim determination, as though he were trying to resist unseen temptation.

And then, she didn’t know how it happened, they were kissing each other, their bodies apart one second and together the next. His lips, his tongue, that scar she had noticed that felt, beneath her mouth, like danger. The smell of leather and the smell of him: his neck, his skin, the softness of his mouth and eyelashes. His hands held her face, one thumb on her chin where it was cut, the fingers behind her jaw, beneath her earlobes. She had never been kissed like that. She could kiss him for ever. She could kiss him till her mouth bled.

Not once did his hands move lower, though she ached for them to. She wanted him to touch her in all the places she had refused her boyfriend: all the emotions she was meant to feel with Rico but hadn’t, imagining something must be the matter with her. His fingers reached round and pressed the very top of her spine, his touch so deft, electricity, the heat of his body and the soft insistency of his mouth, and she felt the blood rush like fever, trembling, to between her legs. For the first time in her life, Lori experienced desire. Prolonged, exquisite, concentrated desire that entered her like a knife and twisted her heart, sliding its smooth blade down her stomach, opening her up to that place whose existence she had always denied.

The car stopped. The man pulled away, his expression closed, but angry, like an argument happening behind a shut door.

The only sound was their breathing, painfully intimate in the silence.

Lori sensed the certainty of their parting and grasped for more, abandoning restraint because that was what he had done to her.

‘I have to find a way to thank you—’

Sunlight flooded in, hurting her eyes. They were back outside Tres Hermanas. His driver stood on the sidewalk.

The man took her hand. ‘You’ll be all right,’ he told her, in that soft, strange accent. ‘I’ll make sure of it. I always will.’

Lori was helped on to the street, the light blinding: a new world. She was shaking.

His arm reached to close the door.

‘Wait! Will I see you again? What’s your name? You have to tell me. I have to know.’

The man lifted his mouth slightly, the corners, not much, like a cat that wakes from a deep sleep and raises his head once to look around before settling again. It wasn’t a smile. It didn’t come close to the eyes, whose look of benevolence had hardened like a frozen lake.

‘It does not matter who I am.’

And with a last, lingering stare, as quick as he’d come, he was gone.

14

Present Day

Island of Cacatra, Indian Ocean

Four hours to departure

Reuben van der Meyde was a self-made industrial entrepreneur with tens of billions in the bank. He had come from nothing: orphaned as a baby, he had grown up with a lukewarm, uninterested foster family in the South African city of Johannesburg. At thirteen, after being expelled from school for bad behaviour, he had started his own trade on the streets, selling stolen cut-price jewellery to travelling businessmen. One such businessman, an unhappily married tycoon who had recently lost a son Reuben’s age, took him under his wing, trained him and served up a job in one of his fledgling telecommunications companies. With the Soweto sprawl in the seventies came massive investment in the suburbs—Reuben was in the thick of it and, as each year passed, his flair for business grew. Aged twenty, he launched VDM Communications. Soon he was rivalling the man who had taught him everything and, as his business swelled, so did his fortune, his reputation, and his ambition. Today, VDM was the most lucrative company in the world.

Reuben van der Meyde was not a man prepared to be taken down.

He paced the terrace, pausing occasionally to put his hands on the balustrade and glare darkly at the water. He checked his chunky silver watch, grimaced when the links caught the reddish hairs on his arms. Four hours. It wasn’t enough.

‘I’m telling you, JB, the damn thing’s got me in a sweat. I’m like a pig in shitting heat.’ He removed his cap and swiped at a persistent fly.

Jean-Baptiste Moreau loosened the knot on his tie and didn’t respond. He was facing the ocean, concentrated on calmer waters. Emerald palms rustled in the salty breeze.

‘I hope to fuck you’re coming up with a solution,’ said Reuben. ‘Because it’s not just me being threatened, boy, it’s you as well.’

JB remained where he was, on one of the high-backed wicker chairs that peppered the rugged veranda of his white-stone villa. Despite the sun, he did not perspire. His dark-blond hair was immaculate, neat at the neck, and his expression still. The only betrayal that he was deep in thought was the slight twitch to the scar across his top lip, a giveaway since he was a boy.

‘Shit!’ Reuben slammed down his fist. ‘After all the work I’ve put into this—’

‘It might not be what you think.’

‘What else could it be, hey? A fucking strip-o-gram birthday cake?’

Finally JB turned. The strength of his gaze compelled an already struggling Reuben to sit down. His eyes really were extraordinary, an untarnished blue with flecks of silver, uncannily light.

‘Nothing in that message suggests this person knows anything about what we’re trying to protect,’ JB told him. ‘Keep it together.’

Reuben laughed bitterly. ‘You don’t think I’m one of them has a certain ring to it?’ He ground his teeth. ‘I spent all night trying to look at it a different way. Bottom line is I’ve got a bad feeling. This person got into my private mail. When was the last time that happened?’ JB didn’t answer. Reuben sprang to his feet. ‘Let me tell you. Never.’

The Frenchman’s gaze slid back to the ocean. ‘You worry too much. We’re in control.’

‘It’s OK for you, isn’t it?’ Reuben blasted. ‘Swanning around Hollywood, scouting for pretty girls, while one of us is trying to run a business!’ JB didn’t react. ‘Damn! It’s my reputation on the line here, not yours.’

‘Are you insinuating I don’t have my own problems to deal with?’

Reuben caught the menace in his words. ‘It’s not my fault you’re hard up for the Spanish broad,’ he said. ‘I knew that girl was trouble from the start. Ones like her always are. Too wild for what we had in mind. Young, dumb and desperate—remember?’

‘You know nothing about her.’

Reuben grimaced. ‘I know she was meant to be a job, for Crissakes. Try tying your dick in a knot next time—it helps.’

JB stood. Instantly the shorter man, despite his wealth and power, took a step back. He’d regretted the words as soon as he’d said them. Moreau was not a man he wanted to piss off.

‘Keep your voice down,’ he said quietly. ‘Rebecca is inside. And stop cowering like a dog. Fear achieves nothing.’

Reuben matched the younger man’s glare until eventually he was forced to look away. ‘I’ll assume you’re right.’

‘I’m always right.’

One of JB’s assistants emerged from the villa. Reuben was about to explode at her for interrupting a private conversation but stopped when it became clear JB was expecting her.

‘The caterers have arrived, Mr Moreau,’ she said, smoothing her skirt down, chosen because she’d been told it made her ass look good. Ridiculous. One night was all it had been. She knew JB Moreau took women to bed like he ate hot meals, and didn’t know whether to curse herself for having allowed it or to thank everything good in the world for those hours.

‘Thank you, Sara.’

‘What do you want to know about the caterers for?’ Reuben frowned once she’d gone.

‘I’ve requested updates on all arrivals.’

‘Yeah, but I got people looking after that.’

JB ran a hand across his jaw. ‘Let’s stick to business, shall we?’

Reuben leaned in. ‘Fine,’ he said impatiently, ‘but I’ve got enough else to think about without this … inconvenience. The organisers are climbing up my arse and the captain hasn’t bloody showed up yet. It’s all very well decking the place out like a pair of frilly knickers but if the thing doesn’t sail I might as well have a floating turd out there, hey! What am I going to do, give them a swimming lesson?’ He scowled. ‘Believe me: soon as I find out who sent that message I swear I’ll rip their fucking throat out.’

JB had neither the time nor inclincation to watch Reuben fall spectacularly to pieces. He headed inside. ‘I have to make a phone call.’

‘Make it quick. We’ll rendezvous in an hour. This party’s going to be one hell of a stunt to pull, my friend.’

The Frenchman turned at the open door. ‘As long as it’s the only stunt getting pulled, I’ll be happy.’

Margaret Jensen did not like other people being in her kitchen. She worked in this place three hundred and sixty-five days a year, and yet, on these occasions, it counted for nothing. It was like allowing strangers into her home and letting them touch things, move them, put them back in the wrong places. She found it easier to stand apart and let the caterers get on with it. The company hired for tonight’s event ran with a military precision that rivalled even her own.

Hovering at the threshold, she observed the food being prepared. The fastidious detail of the champagne caviar, the pink lobster mousse, the gold-leaf mint and basil tarts, the seven-tiered miniature cakes, belied the chaos: white-aproned staff running back and forth, wanting to get everything perfect. It would never be enough. Mr V would find something to complain about, whatever the standard.

This afternoon, however, Margaret Jensen had more pressing things on her mind.

She wiped her hands on her skirt. She could feel her pulse, fluid behind her clavicle.

The plan she would execute in just a few hours’ time was years in the making. Eight, to be exact. Oh, she hadn’t settled on Mr V’s gruesome fate until more recently—not till she’d met the man who could make it happen—but a long time she had fantasised of a vengeance that fitted his cruelty exactly. His abhorrent scheme was one she had always been privy to. After all, she’d been one of the women who had allowed it to happen. She’d been stupid enough to believe his hollow pledge, his guarantees of money and security and a better future—in exchange for what? The most precious thing in the world. How could she even have considered it? But she’d been a different woman then, a wretched woman with no way out. As they all were.

Only she’d been more than he bargained for. She’d stood up to Mr V. She’d refused to give him what he wanted and he’d been forced to offer her a compromise, a position as his lowly housekeeper, guardian to his son, pushing her to the shadows and pretending she didn’t exist.

He should have known she wouldn’t stay there for ever.

Margaret exited the van der Meyde mansion and stood at the top of the stone steps that led down to the beach. She raised a hand against the glare of the sun and squinted down the pale sandy stretch. Mr V’s yacht was moored a hundred yards away, dark spots milling round it like ants, everybody desperate to get involved in the big man’s day. Adoring minions, nothing more, blinded by his riches and his power, with no idea what he was truly capable of.

It was ambitious. It was outrageous. It was wrong. But it was revenge, and revenge was usually all of those things.

As far as Margaret was concerned, there was only one person to protect.

‘Ralph!’ She called for the boy, knew he’d been playing on the beach all morning.

There was no reply, so she walked a little way down the steps and repeated his name. In moments she caught sight of the child’s small frame weaving haphazardly down the beach. As always, he brought a smile to her face and happiness to her heart. The years hadn’t all been in vain. He waved at her and she waved back.

‘What have you been up to?’ she asked as he ran, panting, up the steps, bursting with enthusiasm. He was carrying a red bucket and held it out for her to see. Inside was a hard, moving scrape of crabs’ legs, their burned-orange shells lifting and dragging over each other.

‘Shall we eat them?’ she asked.

Ralph nodded happily. ‘Where’s JB?’ he said excitedly. ‘I want to show JB!’

‘He’s not here, darling.’

He held out the crabs, his fingers small and sticky where they gripped the rim of the plastic lest anyone try to steal his loot. ‘Do you think Daddy will be pleased?’

Margaret swallowed. Ralph idolised Mr V, more so because he believed him to be his only living parent. It was what he had always been told.

If only.

‘Very,’ she said. ‘Come inside, my love, we’ve got to get you ready. Look at your fingers!’ He had grubby sandmarks under his nails.

‘Can I go to the party?’ he begged as he trailed her inside. ‘JB said the whole world’s coming! That means I have to come!’

Briskly she shook her head. ‘Absolutely not. You heard what Mr V said.’

‘He said I’m not old enough.’

‘And he’s right.’

Ralph was disappointed. ‘Please?’ he tried again, hoping Miss Jensen might be a softer touch. Usually she let him have his way.

‘I’ve said no and that’s the end of it.’ Outside the boy’s bedroom, she turned and crouched down to his level.

‘Besides, we’ll have fun here, won’t we?’ She smiled. ‘Just you and me. Safe on the island. Because, my darling, who knows what could happen at sea?’

Book Two

2009-10

15 Lori

The taxi Lori took from Murcia San Javier airport was driven by a slight, middle-aged Spaniard with a hook nose and thick eyebrows. A rosary swung from his rear-view mirror and the upholstery smelled sweet, like lemons, or vanilla. Dusk had fallen. The gloomy shapes of mountains reared up on both sides as the car wound its way between, tyres throwing up dust.

They drove through a sharp bend, then another, and she realised they were climbing. Each twist required the car to slow completely, almost to a stop, and she knew the ascent must be steep. She wound the window down and breathed the unfamiliar air. Crickets gave off their whistling nighttime rhythm; the sea was close because she could smell its salt.

Lori had travelled an ocean. She had gone halfway across the world. And yet all she had thought about, incessantly and without reprieve, for the past forty-eight hours, was the man who had saved her. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw his face and his hands; the leather band around his wrist; the twist, almost cruel, of his top lip. That day felt like a dream, impossible—something out of a novel about which she’d half laugh, half swoon. The way he’d arrived from nowhere, strange as though he’d come from another world, far far away, and how he had kissed her, the urgency in his eyes as he’d tried to resist … Details became her addiction: a specific suddenly surfacing, shedding new light.

Who was he? Why had he come?

And then the soft comfort of her recollection would be punctured by shame. Guilt at having denied Rico the lie that would set him free; the way she had run from her commitment to him, into the arms of another man. She felt as if she had leapt from an aeroplane into wide blue sky, off the top of a mountain, over the rim of the earth, abandoning every principle that had guided her through seventeen years. Never had she endured a sensation so strong it eclipsed every other, stifling her conscience, making her selfish, reminding her that those same principles by which she’d lived so strictly had never made her happy or fulfilled, and in that way drawing her, tempting her, towards a new horizon.

For what? A stranger she knew nothing of?

Lori ran the bud of her thumb over the ring Rico had given her the day they had planned to escape. It felt like centuries ago, another life, another her.

They passed a red and white church buried in the hillside, momentarily bathed in the gold of the headlamps before retreating to its shroud of darkness. By the side of the road was a box, lit by a lone, uncertainly flickering candle: a shrine for a child, tipped from a crumbling precipice. The motion of the car, winding and turning, rising ever higher, began to lull Lori to sleep.

When she woke, the moon was high and bright in the sky. The car was rumbling along a bumpy track and Lori realised her head must have been resting against the window, for it was this motion that roused her. They were in the middle of nowhere. On either side what looked like orchards, clusters of trees whose fingers brushed questioningly as they passed. At the foot of the drive was the dark shape of her grandmother’s house, bordered by the shadowy outline of an olive grove, and a single lamp glowing in the porch.

She thanked the driver in Spanish and heaved her bag from the trunk. She watched as his red taillights disappeared, listening to the silence of a depth and quality entirely new to her.

There was no sound coming from inside and when Lori knocked it seemed to disturb the sleeping hills. She began to wonder if anyone was in when, eventually, a light came on. The slow patter of footsteps approached, accompanied by a wet snuffling.

When the door opened, something quick and small rushed out and Lori felt a damp nose attacking her legs.

‘Pepe!’ the old woman chided. ‘Come back here. Tsk!’

Lori petted the dog as it sniffed enthusiastically at her knees. Corazón watched her, the old woman’s ancient, pale face cracked by the lines of time and the losses she had known: she had dressed in black since her husband, Lori’s abuelo, passed fifteen years before. Even in the dim glow of the porch her eyes sparkled with happiness.

‘Loriana. Querida, my darling.’ She held her arms out, eyes brimming with emotion.

They embraced, Lori clinging lightly because holding Corazón was like grasping a bundle of sticks and she didn’t want to break them. She told her hello and her grandmother touched her face, her mass of wild hair, and kissed her forehead.

‘Has crecido!’ she marvelled, taking her hands. ‘You have grown. Te heche de menos, Loriana; I have missed you.’

Inside, Corazón boiled a pan of water and gave Lori a cup of sweet, hot liquid that smelled of herbs, and a bowl of vegetable stew that through her hunger and fatigue tasted incredible. Pepe the dog darted between her legs, begging for food and attention. They spoke about Lori’s journey and her memories of Spain (what Corazón called her ‘home country’), and why she had come back here. While Lori didn’t go into detail about her strained relationship with her father, she suspected Corazón knew more than she was letting on.

Despite being over ninety, her grandmother was shrewd. Lori didn’t know if it was the tea and the soup, or her exhaustion, or arriving in Spain after dark, but she soon found herself opening up, telling her about her stepsisters, the way she missed her mother, her hopes for the future—and finishing up with Rico, the killing and the arrest. She didn’t tell her about Diego Marquez, or the stranger with the accent, or what had happened afterwards … This was a secret she kept close, a fragile form she couldn’t yet be sure would survive definition.

The old woman listened patiently, nodding sagely once or twice.

‘I am glad you have come,’ Corazón said at last. ‘Important things will happen to you here. I feel it in my bones.’ She looked down at Pepe. ‘Don’t I, chiquita?’

Lori went to her room a little after midnight. It was humble, just a single bed made with floral linens, a small square closet and a wooden desk. On the desk was a lamp, the only source of light, which cast a pale yellow glow and was not enough to read by. At the head of the bed was a finely carved crucifix. The ceiling was sloped, with thick black beams running across it, and the floor was scratchy and cool beneath her feet. An old rug covered a portion of it.

She opened the window. The catch was stiff and she wondered how long it had been left unused. The air was balmy and still. Outside was what appeared to be a yard, though it was difficult to tell at this time of night. Mountains in the distance, darker than the air that held them, stared back, old as time. Lori drank the air in through her nose, fragrant and sweet.

Whenever she pictured the man in Tres Hermanas, she experienced a nagging throb deep inside, delicious and frightening. She had been feeling it on and off for hours, and it kept coming back, stopping her from sleeping and making it hard to eat. Was this what people called love? How could it be, if she didn’t even know his name?

The moon was full, a white outline in the inky sky. Lori leaned out, imagining that somewhere, wherever he was, by some trick, a hole in the sky, it would mean they were looking at each other.

The dragging sensation in her belly returned. She closed her eyes. Her heart quickened. She tried to picture him, not too hard else the image fell away like shattered glass. She tried to hear him, but could not conjure his voice. What was happening to her? She felt possessed, under a spell, the back of her neck tingling in that spot where his fingertips had touched, the accuracy of it, the assurance, how he knew what she wanted and how he was going to give it to her.

A little while later, Lori shrugged on her white cotton nightdress and climbed into bed. The sheets were cold and slightly damp, but the heat from her skin soon warmed them up. She was tired past the point of being able to sleep, and lay with her eyes open, staring into the black. The pillows released an old, musty scent.

Ten minutes passed, then twenty. She could not sleep. Each time she came close, something woke her: that hot feeling, again and again, in her stomach. After another half-hour, she sat up and flicked the lamp on. The room was as it had been only now it seemed brighter, sharper, as if she was looking at it with renewed vision. She returned to darkness and lay back.

Faintly she became aware of the swell of her chest as she breathed. She realised her nipples were hard against the cotton of her nightdress. A jolt rushed through her and she raised a hand to touch herself. She ran her fingers across her skin, over the material at first and then underneath it, feeling the softness of her breast. The tingling sensation in her gut was stronger than ever, calling her down, telling her what she must do. Exploring the lines of her own body, she trailed her hand over her stomach and parted her legs, releasing a gasp as she met the surprise of her own wetness. She tilted her hips up, her breath lowering to something wilder as she ground against her own touch. Lifting her knees and spreading them, she stroked gently till she discovered a spot so sensitive it whipped the air from her chest. She pictured him lowering his head, in the way she had heard men did, and as her fingers slipped in and around she imagined it was him, exploring her with his tongue, tasting her, wanting her, what would have happened had the kiss gone on, in that car, across the leather, against the windows. The fire was raging now, flames licking down her legs to the tips of her toes and racing to the blinking lights behind her shut-tight eyes till a great blinding wave crashed over her and every fibre in her body surged. She arched her back, meeting the point of ecstasy. Unable to move, she let the current pass through her, shaking, trembling, shivering.

Recovered, Lori dressed and padded down the dark corridor to the bathroom, where she vigorously washed her hands. She saw her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were darker than they’d ever been: total black, the most basic of colours.

Shame washed through her. What had she done? She had heard about people who touched themselves … It was wrong; it was dirty; it was sinful. She scrubbed at her fingers and splashed cold water on her face, before killing the light and returning to her bedroom.

The next time she closed her eyes, she fell instantly asleep.

16 Aurora

St Agnes School for Girls was a massive, austere building in the heart of England’s Lake District. Grey, bleak and circled with turrets, it resided next to the slate quarry from which it had been built. Aurora thought it the ugliest, most miserable thing she had ever seen.

Her chauffeur-driven car wound up the imposing gravel drive, rounded a stone figurine with its roots submerged in a stagnant oval pond, and deposited her at the main entrance. Immediately she lit a cigarette, smoking moodily while she figured out what to do. She’d get expelled, that was it. There was no way she was staying here longer than a week. What had her parents been thinking? Clearly they had never laid eyes on this shitfest: all she had to do was send a picture to Tom and she felt sure her father would remove her at speed. He would never consent to her suffering. She’d turn the tears on for her first call home and then it would be over.

A woman with a grey bob was bustling across the drive. Grey, grey, grey—even the sky here was grey. How fucking depressing.

‘Can I help you?’ she demanded in a clipped English accent. She had a little moustache tickling her top lip and a mouth tight as a dog’s ass.

Aurora blew smoke in the woman’s face. ‘I’m new,’ she said, enjoying how her brash accent made the lady wince. She spoke louder to make the most of it. ‘Name’s Aurora Nash.’

‘We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow.’

‘What do you want me to do, camp in a field? I’d like you to show me to my room and then I want a phone call.’ This was just like getting arrested—only it looked as if this cow wasn’t going to be won round with a sob story and a reapplication of Clive Christian No. 1.

‘We do not permit our girls smoking,’ said the woman. ‘I’m sure you understand.’

Aurora pulled on her cigarette. ‘Not really.’

Plucking the stick from Aurora’s hand, the woman tossed it to the gravel and ground it out with a steel-toed boot.

‘Hey!’

‘I am Mrs Durdon,’ she said briskly, ‘your housemistress. From now on you will do exactly as I say—or you’re going to wish you’d never set foot in this school.’

‘No kidding,’ Aurora muttered grimly.

‘Come with me.’

Mrs Durdon led the way through the main doors, a scowling Aurora loping behind. She was all too accustomed to spoiled teenage girls needing taking down a peg or two. The international ones were the worst. Here they had them all: princesses, heiresses, daughters of sheiks and oil barons, and, her least personal favourite, the brats from America with famous parents. Glimpsing the girl out of the corner of her eye, she sensed this one would spell no insignificant amount of trouble.

Aurora wondered why no one was offering to take her bag. Where was the doorman? Instead she had to drag her impractical Louis Vuitton wheels behind her as they entered the hall. Grave portraits of headmistresses-past glared down at her from their frames on the wall; an enormous fireplace sat cold and unused beneath a great black hood; doors peeled off from the space, most of them closed. There was a disgusting smell like soup.

‘You’ll meet the Head this afternoon,’ said Mrs Durdon as she mounted the staircase. ‘I’ll let her know you’ve arrived.’

‘Great,’ Aurora mumbled. She was tired of lugging her stuff. ‘Where’s the elevator?’ She stopped and leaned against the wide mahogany banister, folding her arms.

Mrs Durdon was revolted by the word. ‘We do not have a lift, I’m afraid. If you can’t manage, leave your things down here and you’ll have to come and collect them piecemeal.’ She eyed the suitcase, bursting at its seams. If there were drink or drugs in there, the school would soon rinse them out. ‘We’ll need to organise you a trunk. That … bag is hardly suitable.’

Aurora didn’t know what a trunk was but it sounded far from hot. ‘Can’t you get one of your staff to carry it?’

A frigid smile. ‘This way.’

Upstairs, a door opened and a gaggle of girls came rushing past. Aurora had to back up to avoid being slammed into.

‘Girls!’ Mrs Durdon boomed. ‘No running in the halls! ’

Giggling among themselves, the girls slowed their pace, arms linked as they vanished into what appeared to be a dining room. Aurora caught a glimpse of long regimented tables: as the heavy door opened a massive waft of the soupy smell came rushing through to greet her.

‘Don’t they have their own clothes?’ asked Aurora, grossed out by the grey skirts and shapeless jumpers. So unflattering!

‘That’s the school uniform,’ Mrs Durdon confirmed. There was a carpeted corridor at the top of the stairs. Several doors down, she stopped. ‘And this is your dormitory.’

Aurora raised a hand. ‘Wait a second,’ she said. ‘First, I’m not wearing some dumb uniform. I’ve got a fashion line to protect. And second, I am not sleeping in a dormitory. I demand a private room. I’m sure my dad paid for one, so I’d appreciate you taking me to it, please.’ She lifted her chin.

Mrs Durdon was amused. ‘All girls share dormitories,’ she said. ‘You’ll get used to it.’

When the door opened, Aurora knew categorically and absolutely that she would never get used to it. There were at least ten beds in here! It was like some ghastly hospital room. Where was she going to put all her clothes? A small closet parked by each mattress wasn’t going to come close. What the fuck? What was this place?

‘Uh-uh, no way,’ said Aurora. But Mrs Durdon was charging down the central aisle between the beds until she stopped by the one closest to the window.

‘This one is yours,’ she said smugly. The revelation of the dormitories was always her favourite bit. Aurora Nash wore a look of sheer horror. ‘I’ll find your guide—we assign every new student here one—and she will help you unpack your suitcase. Once you’ve settled in you can meet Mrs Stoker-Leach.’ She departed without another word.

Aurora felt like bursting into tears. She missed LA, she missed her dad; she missed the glittering ocean and the warm sunshine. She even missed Farrah and Jenna. How had this happened? How did she end up in this raging dump? She stormed to the window and gazed bleakly out. It had started to rain. Down below, girls in navy blue skirts ran pointlessly around a hockey pitch and a fat Games teacher with pasty legs blew a harsh whistle. Beyond the school gates, the severe, rugged line of the hills stood cold and immovable, trapping her, forcing her into this unimaginable situation. Did anyone seriously live here? Never mind the castle-slash-orphanage-slash-prison she was expected to reside in, but the whole freaking place was abysmal. All she had seen on the drive up was endless motorway going into hills, hills and more hills. She couldn’t imagine how anyone could exist here in Dullsville and not want to shoot themselves between the eyes after about five minutes.

In the quiet deadness of that empty dormitory, Aurora felt acutely alone. Fine, it was kind of her fault for getting into trouble, but hadn’t her parents gone a bit far? Wasn’t this total abandonment? Didn’t people get arrested for this kind of neglect?

She could see her reflection in the pane, distorted as the rain pooled and slithered and ran in rivulets down the glass. They looked like tear drops.

Fuck it—she wasn’t a crier, and this place wasn’t going to make her one.

All she needed to do was come up with a plan. Fast.

Her guide was a girl called Fran Harrington, Queen Dork of Dorkdom. She had mouse-coloured hair and the most boring face Aurora had ever seen—in fact it was so boring it didn’t even merit description. Her personality was boring, too. Everything about her was boring. Everyone in the whole school was boring. The world was boring. Aurora was bored, bored, bored. She craved California and lamented the parties she was missing; the guys she was missing. She was desperate to fuck. The frustration! That was another matter entirely.

A week had passed since her arrival and she was learning a few things about St Agnes School for Girls. First, it didn’t matter how boring everyone was because they’d never need worry about acquiring a personality: all the students were daughters of shipping magnates, government officials, royalty … In comparison, being Tom Nash and Sherilyn Rose’s kid meant squat. Second, they were all suck-asses and never seemed to do anything even remotely rebellious. The girls she shared a dorm with were mostly English and called things like Camilla and Verity and Poo-Poo. Third, the teachers seemed to hate her. They were all ancient with bad breath. The only decent one was Mr Faulks, who taught Chemistry and was reasonably sexy if you looked at him through squinty eyes, but the one time she’d attempted to flirt with him had backfired when she’d got her substances confused and caused an explosion in one of the research chambers. Fourth, Mrs Stoker-Leach was a total witch. No surprises there. Was it possible for someone with that name to be anything but?

It was Tuesday afternoon. This meant only one thing: hockey with Eugenie Beaufort.

Eugenie Beaufort was a grade-A bitch. Her mother was a screenwriter Aurora had never heard of but was apparently famous in the UK. She walked around as if she owned the place, while her devoted troop of followers—weak-chinned girls who nodded and yah-yahed to everything she said—trailed her like puppies. Her dislike for Aurora seemed to be instant. Whenever they shared a lesson, Eugenie would glare at her from across the room. Whenever she ate lunch by herself in the dining room, Eugenie was gossiping and looking over, laughing and sneering with her friends. One night Aurora had found a dead spider in her bed, and some of the girls she shared with had collapsed in tinkling laughter—the next day they were sitting with Eugenie. Aurora didn’t care: they were morons. What was more, they were fakers. Eugenie was always rattling on about how she’d hung out with Prince William and Kate Middleton the previous summer on a snowboarding holiday, an acquaintance Aurora could tell was exaggerated because Eugenie went on about it in a way she wouldn’t have to if they were, like, her real friends. The stories Aurora herself could tell about the rich and famous … Whatever, it didn’t impress her, she was way over it. She doubted half the girls had even heard of some of the stuff she’d done to Hollywood’s celebrity cocks. Let them suck on that if they wanted scandal.

Aurora had never cared much for sport and wore a lacklustre expression as she changed into her Goal Defence bib.

Within minutes Eugenie Beaufort was attacking her legs.

‘Fuck off,’ Aurora told her as they locked sticks.

‘Fuck off yourself,’ Eugenie hissed. Her dark hair was plastered unattractively over her forehead. She was one of those girls to whom team sports meant everything. Winning was the be-all and end-all. Aurora was already thinking about when they could finish so she could sneak into the bushes for a joint. Maybe if she broke Eugenie’s shins she might get suspended.

‘OW!’ Eugenie howled out in pain as Aurora’s hockey stick slammed into her. She lifted her leg and clutched it at the knee, hopping up and down.

‘Oops, sorry,’ said Aurora sweetly. The fat Games teacher came panting over and blew her whistle unnecessarily close to Aurora’s ear.

‘Off!’ she blasted, red-faced and angry as she pointed to the sides. Eugenie appeared satisfied, as if being sent off mid-match was the worst fate she could imagine. Aurora didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. That was the punishment? She’d have to come up with something far worse if she was going to make it home within the month. Her phone call to Tom last week had been rushed and unsatisfactory—her father had a spa session he was loath to miss—and despite her declaration that St Agnes was worse than death row (mainly because there was no chance of a lethal injection at the end of it), her tearful pleas and impassioned begging that eventually descended into a litany of I hate you!s, he had remained firm: she was to see out her first two terms and then they would rediscuss. Yeah. Like that was going to happen.

On the bench was a girl she hadn’t seen before. She had long straight black hair, pale skin and a compact, petite body.

‘How come you’re out?’ asked Aurora moodily as she slumped down.

‘I don’t like exercise,’ said the girl, not bothering to look up. She was reading a book, and when Aurora peered over she saw it was written in another language.

‘What’s that?’ she asked, sipping from a bottle of water and crossing her legs. She thought she spied Mr Faulks loping into the Science block and adjusted her bib to reveal a little more flesh.

‘It’s a book,’ the girl said flatly. This time Aurora noticed the strong accent.

‘You’re French?’

‘Bravo.’

Aurora kind of liked her blatant lack of interest—it piqued her own. ‘I’m Aurora Nash,’ she said, sticking out her hand.

Finally the girl looked up. She was startlingly pretty, with a perfect white complexion, blood-red lips and cat-like green eyes.

‘I know who you are,’ she said. ‘The loud American.’ She frowned. ‘Is your tan real?’

Aurora was unoffended. ‘West Coast sun, baby.’ She withdrew her hand and sat back. ‘You should get some.’

‘I don’t like how it looks.’

‘Thanks very much.’

The girl returned to her book.

‘Sport sucks for me, too,’ Aurora said. ‘How come you get off?’

‘I refuse to do it.’

‘Sounds like a great tactic.’

The girl flipped her book shut. ‘I am exempt from these lessons. My parents have a doctor friend—he wrote me the diagnosis.’

‘Which was?’

She shrugged. ‘Simply, I am not a team player.’

Aurora laughed with genuine amusement. ‘What are you, then?’

‘I’m me.’

She raised her left brow. ‘Does “me” get high?’

The girl narrowed her eyes. ‘Do you imagine you can be my friend?’

Aurora pulled up her scratchy, fashion-bankrupt socks. ‘I don’t care either way.’

‘Because I’m not here to make friends.’

‘Suit yourself.’

They sat in silence for a bit, watching Eugenie Beaufort roar and pump the air with her fist whenever her team scored a goal.

Aurora noticed the girl didn’t reopen her book. After a while she turned to Aurora. ‘I’m Pascale Devereux,’ she said, and held out a small, pale hand.

Aurora took it. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

‘You will be.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Because now you have,’ said Pascale, ‘things around here are about to get a lot more interesting.’

17 Stevie

Stevie took the part. How could she not? There it was, laid out before her, the role thousands of girls had dreamed of. Including Bibi Reiner.

‘B, this was meant to be yours,’ Stevie said when the role was formally offered. ‘You wanted Lauren. I wasn’t even supposed to be here.’

Bibi kept her smile in place. She was not the sort of girl to begrudge a friend’s success, even if her pride stung. Stevie could never know why she’d wanted the role so much, why she’d had her heart set on a gig free from Linus Posen’s grip—she probably thought it was just another failed audition. Bibi was used to rejection, wasn’t she?

‘Take it, Steve,’ she said, giving her a hug, and despite her disappointment pleased for her. ‘Your turning it down won’t bring it my way, will it?’

‘If it would …’ She meant it.

‘I know. Really, it’s OK.’

Stevie felt bad. She had never harboured desires to be an actress, far from it, and yet the opportunity had landed straight in her lap. To her surprise the script in its entirety interested her, and people were telling her she had talent and that maybe she should give it a go. What did she have to lose? The studio had long been searching for an antidote to blonde-haired blue-eyed California, captured perfectly in Stevie’s cool, detached beauty, which, once the spectacles were off (she’d finally succumbed to lenses), everyone agreed was astounding.

‘You’ve changed my life, B,’ she told her friend. ‘I owe you so much.’

Bibi squeezed her hand and promised herself her time would one day come. It had to.

In the meantime, she asked Stevie to run her a small favour. Lie to Me would be filmed in Los Angeles, where the studio would put her up in a modest apartment complex. Bibi’s younger brother was already in the city, struggling to get parts, heavily in debt and currently residing on randoms’ sofas. Would she be able to accommodate him for a while?

Naturally, Stevie agreed.

Six weeks later, she was filming on location. Dirk Michaels, Hollywood powerhouse and legendary money-spinner, was producing. Stevie was living out of her suitcase in LA and getting four hours’ sleep a night. Things were moving unbelievably quickly, her name public property virtually overnight, her image suddenly appearing on Google and friends she hadn’t seen in years clamouring to make contact and claim they’d once been close. Everyone wanted a piece of her. She was being invited to an endless stream of parties and functions, awards ceremonies and photo shoots, scarcely having time to register that this was a world she’d been set against for years but now had welcomed her with open arms. Word was spreading about the hottest new actress in town: Stevie Speller was being billed as the next Great British Star, combining all the haughty London beauty of Keira Knightley with the shy intellect of Natalie Portman.

After the awkwardness of that first audition with Bibi—at least she’d felt it was awkward—she found herself taking to the game with surprising zeal. Her first time on set had been terrifying, she felt like a total sham, but before she knew it the director was calling ‘Cut!’ and the scene was nailed. All her life, as for so many, she’d been OK at a lot of things but never excelled in one. When she was immersed in a role, speaking words that had already been written, living a life in which the outcome was safe and known, she found refuge. She was able to forget where she’d been and what she’d done. When she watched her performance she was amazed to see so many versions of herself coming back. Ways of behaviour she’d never thought she had.

It was a sunny Hollywood Wednesday morning and Stevie was in her agent’s downtown office. Marty King was top dog, a power agent with a host of superstars on his books. She couldn’t believe it when he’d approached, and when she told Bibi over the phone the other girl squealed, ‘I just peed in my pants!’ Bibi went on to inform her that Marty King was renowned for his knack of spotting a star on her way to the top. He also represented major Hollywood blockbuster names like Cole Steel. Cole’s films had been staple viewing in Stevie’s family while she’d been growing up and the idea of sharing representation with him was mind-blowing.

‘Have you got a boyfriend?’ Marty asked. For a second she thought it was a loaded question—she’d heard enough about fledgling actresses getting promised the stars and ending up on their hands and knees—but he regarded her seriously from across his desk. Marty had ruddy cheeks and a soft thatch of orange hair. Stevie could tell he’d been handsome in his younger years, and he had a genuine smile she was learning was rare to come by in this town.

She thought of Will, who’d been less than enamoured with news of her moving out to LA. ‘I’m not sure,’ she replied.

Marty made a face. ‘That means no.’

‘It does?’

He picked something out from between his teeth—a remnant from lunch, perhaps—and examined it before sucking it off his fingers. It told Stevie all she needed to know about how powerful Marty was. He didn’t need to impress; his name spoke for itself.

‘Sure it does.’ He linked his hands across his belly. ‘From here on in it’s about who you’re associated with. Stevie Speller spells class, she spells … sophistication. Some boyfriend you couldn’t give two craps about ain’t gonna cut it.’

‘Who said I don’t give a crap about him?’

‘I said two craps. You might give one: you’re still with the bozo. Do I know him?’

‘No.’

‘Good. The ones I know are the ones that cause me trouble. Take my advice and stay single. It’ll make my life a hell of a lot easier, not to mention yours.’

‘OK …’

‘With your looks and talent,’ he said matter-of-factly, ‘there’s no place to go but up. That accent right there’s gonna have every major studio shitting money out their asses to sign you.’

She laughed. He didn’t.

‘You heard of Xander Jakobson?’ Marty asked.

‘Yes.’ He was a thirtyish actor-turned-director, quite handsome. He’d been nominated last spring for an Award.

‘I want him to see you.’ Marty rolled up his shirtsleeves. ‘His new project’s got your name all over it.’ There was a knock on the door. He looked up, distracted. ‘Yes?’

A pretty blonde opened the door. ‘Rita Clay called. I told her you were in a meeting but she made me promise to ask you personally to return it.’

Marty pinched the bridge of his nose. He stayed like that for several seconds before saying, ‘Thank you, Jennifer.’

When his secretary had gone, he turned to Stevie. ‘In the middle of a complicated negotiation,’ he said by way of explanation. Stevie shrugged; it was none of her business.

‘Xander Jakobson?’ she prompted.

‘See what you make of the script, I think you’ll like it. Let me get on to him. I’m sure we can strike a deal.’

On impulse she asked, ‘What do you know about Linus Posen?’

Marty sat back and narrowed his eyes. One whole wall of his office was glass and outside the green tops of palm trees quivered in the warm breeze. ‘Why d’you ask?’

Stevie shrugged.

‘I know you’re not gonna be working with him any time soon,’ said Marty.

‘Oh?’

‘You met him?’

‘In New York, last year. He offered me work. I thought I should mention it.’

‘What kind of work?’

‘He didn’t say. He gave me his card but I never called.’

‘You know what line he’s in?’

As far as she knew Linus directed mindless action blockbusters. She told Marty so.

‘That’s right,’ he said, and she detected a note of caution in his voice. He let the silence hang before adding, abruptly back to business, ‘So it’s not what we’re going for.’

‘I didn’t think so.’

‘Good,’ said Marty. ‘Take my advice, it’s what you pay me for, and steer well clear.’

When Stevie got back to her apartment, Will Gardner was waiting for her. Bibi’s brother was due to arrive this afternoon and her first reaction was one of annoyance. Couldn’t Will have called?

‘Hello, beautiful,’ he said when she exited the cab, drawing her into his arms and planting a kiss on her lips. She didn’t know what to say.

‘What are you doing here?’ she asked eventually.

‘Do I need a reason other than this?’ He looped his arms around her waist and kissed her again. Stevie was hot and her top was clinging to the skin on her back: she wanted to get in the shower, change into a baggy T-shirt and sit by herself. It had been a hectic week and she realised now that Will was the last person she felt like seeing.

She didn’t want to be a cow about it. ‘Come in,’ she said. ‘Sorry it’s a bit of a mess.’

The apartment was in a basic, unfussy compound, laid out like the motels she had seen in films: a one-storey cream building that formed an L-shape around a central shared swimming pool. She doubted if the novelty of a pool would ever wear off. Since arriving she’d adopted a routine of early-morning swim followed by a healthy breakfast and a review of the day’s scenes.

Inside, Will helped himself to some apple juice out of the fridge, which he drank straight from the carton. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and pulled Stevie into an embrace. She felt yucky and wanted to change, but Will’s touch was all over her, his tongue in her mouth, sticky from the juice. Maybe if she slept with him now she wouldn’t have to later.

As they had sex he delivered a virtually non-stop stream of accolades, such as how gorgeous she was, how much he’d missed her, what a great body she had, how she was the hottest lay in the world. It felt wrong. Stevie had never been vocal during sex—and, besides, what was she meant to say back? Thank you. Now would you please hurry up and come? She realised then that Will had always been more into this than she was, despite what he’d said in the beginning. Breaking up would be horrible, but it was unfair to keep stringing him along.

Afterwards, he showered. Stevie took the opportunity to call Bibi. While Marty King hadn’t expressly said anything negative about Linus Posen, his remarks had unnerved her. Bibi hadn’t seemed herself recently: she wasn’t the sparky, carefree girl Stevie had met in New York.

Her friend picked up on the fourth ring. ‘Steve! How’re you?’

Stevie pulled the bed sheet up and lay back. She could hear the steady thrum of the shower, the change in rhythm as Will’s body moved beneath it. ‘Did you know Will’s here?’

‘Wow. I thought you guys were taking it slowly.’

‘So did I.’ She sighed, rubbing her temple. ‘What’s new?’

‘Well,’ began Bibi, ‘I was all set to call you, actually. I’ve got something I’ve been just dying to tell you! ’

Stevie sat up, willing it to be a successful audition. ‘Go on, then, spill!’

‘I’m moving in with Linus!’ Confused, Stevie waited for more. ‘He’s relocating to his house in Beverly Hills, and I’m coming with him! What do you think? Isn’t it incredible?’

‘Really?’

‘Yes!’

‘I didn’t even know you were dating.’

‘We kind of are, we kind of aren’t.’ Bibi cleared her throat, and for the first time in their acquaintance Stevie detected something forced in her enthusiasm. ‘We’re sleeping together. I mean, I don’t know if I’m the only one. But truthfully I don’t mind too much! And he must really like me, right? To ask me to come with him, I mean. Because the stuff I’ve been doing up till now hasn’t been great, but Linus says that once we’re in Hollywood he’s putting me in touch with all the major casting agents and when he starts spreading the word then it’s practically definite I’m going to make it! How can I go wrong? Steve, this is it for me. I know I said it before but this time it’s for real. I’m going to be a star!’

Stevie didn’t know what to say. ‘I’m so happy you’re moving here,’ she said at last, the only honest comment she could think to make.

Bibi and Linus were dating? How had that happened?

‘Tell me about it!’ crowed Bibi. ‘We’re gonna have the best time. I’ve really missed us living together.’

Will opened the door to the en suite and padded naked across the bedroom.

‘Me too,’ she said. ‘Listen, B, I’ve got to run. Call you later?’

‘Sure.’

Stevie put down the phone. Despite the blast of warm steam that had accompanied Will’s emergence, she shivered.

18 Lori

Lori changed while she was in Spain. As the weeks passed, the quiet seeped into her, the stillness and solitude bringing a peace long forgotten to her heart. For hours she would walk in olive groves, read books in her mother tongue, wander the narrow streets of the nearest village or play with the dog. She realised how beneficial loneliness could be.

Though she tried to resist, Rico Marquez was in her thoughts. One minute she worried for him and wondered if he was OK; the next she was consumed with anger at the risk he had brought, quite literally, to her door. Had Rico known about Diego’s visit? Had he requested it? At night, in her dreams, she was terrorised by images of the gang, the hunger in their eyes and the rasp of their threats, of what might have happened if her stranger hadn’t arrived …

Gratitude towards the man whose name she did not know flourished by the day. Time, rather than diminishing her obsession, only heightened it. The thought she would never see him again was unbearable. Once back in LA, she would seek him out. She had no idea how, where she would even begin, but if she did not try she would never forgive herself.

Corazón was old, but she was sharp as a pin. Often they would sit on the veranda, sipping lemonade and playing cards, speaking about the past, or when Tony was a boy, or not speaking at all, just listening to the crickets or the low chatter of her radio. They would prepare meals together. Lori learned recipes she recalled her mother making in happier times: she, too, had been taught them here. In so many ways she felt that she was treading the same stones. It was clear Corazón had cared for her mother like her own daughter.

‘You know that Tony loves you very much, don’t you?’ she asked one night. They were preparing a feast: salted bread and chillis and peppers dark as cherries. Lori was chopping red onion and its sting caught her in the eye, but if Corazón thought it was tears she didn’t say so.

‘It has been difficult for him,’ her grandmother went on.

‘I know.’

‘He remarried quickly because he believed it was best. He wanted you to feel secure.’

Lori couldn’t help herself. ‘He thought he’d better replace Mama, you mean?’

Corazón stopped what she was doing. ‘Oh, Loriana, that is not true. Tony struggled. He did not know how to be both a mother and a father to you.’

‘So he stopped being either?’ Lori wished she could let go of her bitterness. It was ugly, it ate her up, but she couldn’t help it.

‘When Maria got sick, it tore his heart out, right from his chest. I saw it, querida, spooling to the floor like a ribbon and gathering at his feet, and I knew I could never fold it back in. You cannot judge a man’s behaviour because of his grief.’

A long silence followed. Lori returned to the board but there was nothing else to do, she’d cut everything, so she drove the point of her knife into the wood and twisted.

‘He had to keep you safe,’ Corazón said.

‘Safe from what? My own decisions?’

Corazón put her head to one side. ‘Perhaps.’

‘But I don’t want to be safe!’ Lori found her hands were shaking. She thought about how reckless she had felt that afternoon at Tres Hermanas. How until that moment she had lived her safe, miserable life and no one had been there to show her there was more; a different way of feeling. Until him. ‘That’s the point! I want to be more than just the poor kid whose mama died.’

Corazón shook her head with infinite sadness. ‘No, querida. That is not how it is.’

‘I hate Angélica.’ She threw the vegetables into a waiting pan. Blue heat licked up the sides. ‘And I hate her daughters. If it weren’t for them—’

‘The blame cannot rest with Angélica. Tony changed after your mother died, and he did that all by himself … Maria was the love of his life.’

Lori nodded, biting her lip to stop the tears.

‘I cannot know what has been in his mind,’ continued Corazón, ‘the places he has gone to. But I can understand his decision to be with Angélica. She is strong, she takes control—’

‘She is unkind, she is hurtful … she has spent all our money—’

‘She is your father’s wife.’ Corazón watched her. ‘Whether you like it or not.’

Eventually her grandmother put a brittle arm round her shoulders. ‘Come,’ she said. ‘Didn’t I promise good things would happen to you here? You don’t get to my age without learning to trust your instincts.’ She kissed Lori’s head. ‘Wait and see, Loriana. Wait and see.’

Lori took the bus into Murcia twice a week. She hadn’t seen it after dark before, so, the following evening, Corazón encouraged her to venture into the city.

‘Are you sure?’ Lori had asked. She was nearing the end of her stay. ‘What about you?’

Her grandmother had smiled. ‘Go, have fun,’ she said, settling into her favourite chair with the radio by her side. Her eyes closed. ‘Watch the river for me.’

There was a fiesta happening in Murcia, a vibrant band of colour pouring through the streets. Locals in costume sang and blew fire into the night, the air was alive and the atmosphere infectious. Lori had worn her hair loose, an abundance of thick curls tumbling past her shoulders, and a simple yellow dress. The tan she had acquired in Spain was rich and deep, a burned amber—the sun was different here, more intense. Two small hoops glinted at her ears. She crossed the Puente de los Peligros, stopping to look out at the black and gold rush of the Segura. Beyond the rooftops and the spire of the gothic cathedral, mountain ranges soared into the sky. Lori imagined he was standing next to her. He would feel for her hand and hold it, his touch on her pulse, the engine of her blood.

She settled in a café in the Glorieta, the city square, and did not notice the woman staring at her from the bar, checking a small leatherbound book and then making her way over. Lori ordered a glass of red wine that was so sticky and viscous it clung to the sides like syrup.

‘Excuse me?’ a voice asked in Spanish.

Lori glanced up to see a striking woman, older than her, with a long sheet of glimmering dark hair. She had an unusual face with fine, high cheekbones and a large beauty spot in the middle of her cheek. ‘Could I use your ashtray?’

Lori didn’t smoke. She offered it to the woman. ‘Sure.’

Uninvited, the woman pulled out a chair. ‘I’m Desideria Gomez,’ she said, extending her hand. ‘I caught sight of you earlier, from the bar. I hope you don’t mind me joining you.’

Tentatively, Lori shook it.

‘Que linda.’ She lit her cigarette with a flourish. ‘You are very beautiful.’ With a questioning expression, she slid the pack across the table.

Lori smiled uncertainly. ‘No, thanks.’

‘Do you live here?’

‘I live in America. Los Angeles.’

The woman was surprised. ‘Really? That’s a coincidence. My company has a branch in LA.’ Desideria started talking English and Lori thought she was less attractive when she did. She blew out smoke in a thin, efficient stream. ‘I’m a talent scout, which means I get to do a lot of travelling—and hopefully, though rarely, come across girls like you.’

Lori wasn’t sure what her companion was getting at. There was a silence during which Desideria didn’t elaborate. Instead she continued to stare at Lori, so intently that after a while Lori began to feel uncomfortable. For something to say, she volunteered, ‘I’m vacationing with my grandmother. She lives out of town.’

‘But you’ll be going back? To LA, I mean.’

‘Yes.’ Her face must have betrayed regret because Desideria leaned forward.

‘What’s your name?’ she asked in Spanish.

‘Loriana Garcia Torres.’

Desideria put her head to one side. ‘Lori Garcia. I can see it.’ She appraised her. ‘I work for La Lumière.’

Lori waited.

‘Modelling agency? Best in the world?’ She flicked ash on to the ground, making Lori wonder why she’d wanted the ashtray in the first place. ‘Though, I suppose I would say that.’

‘That sounds fun.’

Desideria grinned, as if she couldn’t quite work the younger woman out. ‘Would you be interested?’ she asked.

‘In what?’

‘Work.’

Hope soared. ‘Yes, yes, I would,’ Lori began. ‘As it goes I have a job in a beauty salon already—nothing impressive, but I have a lot of skills, with hair, make-up and clothes as well as treatments. And I’m a very fast learner so anything you show me how to do, I’ll be quick to pick it up …’ She trailed off when Desideria started laughing.

‘I meant on our books.’ She sat back, her face moving in and out of shadow as lights from the carnival seeped over.

‘What books?’

‘As one of our models?’

Lori was baffled. ‘Your models,’ she repeated blankly.

‘You’re very sweet,’ observed Desideria, nodding as though a previous notion had been confirmed. ‘Innocent.’

‘A model?’

‘But with a sexy edge.’

Lori was embarrassed at the compliment.

‘It was a lie,’ said Desideria, ‘when I said I’d spotted you from the bar. The truth is I’ve been following you all evening. If you’re working behind a salon counter now, sweetheart, I can guarantee you won’t be for much longer. You’re gorgeous.’ She eyed her keenly, licked her bottom lip. ‘I mean,’ she said huskily, ‘I take it you’re straight?’

‘Yes.’ Lori wasn’t sure what that had to do with anything.

‘Do me a favour,’ said Desideria, reaching into her purse for a smart black card. On it, a stylish spotlight illuminated her name and number. ‘Soon as you’re back in LA, call me. We’ll bring you in for a shoot, see if the camera likes you, and, if it does, we’ll sign you up.’

Lori was dumbfounded. She took the card.

Again, Desideria laughed. ‘Promise me you will?’

‘I promise.’

‘Good.’ But Desideria insisted on scribbling Lori’s details down all the same. ‘I’m going to tell my boss about you.’ She looked up. ‘He’s a very big deal. If I don’t bring you back, Lori, he’ll never forgive me.’

19 Aurora

Pascale Devereux was something else. Within days the two girls were inseparable. Never had Aurora met such an impressive, strong-minded person, so different from her so-called friends back in LA who thought only about cars and clothes. Pascale was cultured, she had travelled; she was intelligent and interesting; she told Aurora things about the world and taught her what she didn’t know. She was clever and spirited and defiant in the face of the St Agnes teachers—she was also someone who, for whatever reason, the other girls, including Eugenie Beaufort, didn’t want to mess with. Pascale’s parents were Gisele and Arnaud Devereux, French politicians who held high positions in their country’s government. She was from powerful stock.

At last, Aurora felt she had met her match.

The girls did everything together—they sat in a disgruntled pair in lessons, they bunked off when they felt like it, they crept into each other’s dorms at night and lay in bed whispering secrets, they sneaked out of school after dark and smoked and drank miniatures that Pascale kept in a locked box under her bed. The nearest settlement was miles away, but somehow, with Pascale, it didn’t matter where they were. Aurora could talk to her new best friend for hours.

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