Kitabı oku: «The A-List Collection», sayfa 15

41

Cole Steel’s Gulfstream private jet soared high above the clouds, its sleek white body glinting against a flesh-pink sunset. Vegas was less than an hour away.

‘Have a drink, it might cheer you up,’ said Cole. Lana stayed quiet.

Cole knew he had to draw his wife back to him, as one might a mistrustful pet, if they were going to convince waiting paparazzi that the marriage was rock-solid. The way Lana was acting, it was as if she were being taken to the gallows.

He leaned over. ‘What’s up with you?’ he asked through gritted teeth. Still she didn’t say anything, just kept staring out the window. ‘Christ!’ he spat, losing his temper. This was a complication he could do well without. He turned back and flipped open a magazine with force.

The jet, one of four in Cole’s fleet, was palatial. Its interior was a fine palette of neutral creams complete with gilt finishes, and on each leather seatback the letters CS were embroidered in gold. Crystal lamps adorned the cabin, a fusion of modern and classic, and a bar at one end stocked a wealth of refreshments.

Lana stayed where she was. She could not look at her husband, could not bear to look inside the cabin even, too stark a reminder it was of where she was going. Instead she preferred the view outside, the uncomplicated spread of the sky.

Cole got up and stormed to the bathroom, muttering something on his way past. Lana watched him go, a tide of nausea washing over her as nerves tightened their hold.

Robbie Lewis was down there somewhere. He was close.

The past threatened to overwhelm her; that last part that hurt her heart the most and left her awake at night, wrung out with guilt. She battled it with all her strength.

Cole resumed his seat and began tapping furiously on his laptop. Lana glanced across at him with a stab of pity. She could not love him, not ever. Thank God the end was within reach: in two years their marriage would be over and she would be free to love whomever she chose.

Closing her eyes, she imagined what Robbie might say if she told him this, if she dared to confess that she still had feelings for him. Would he laugh at her? No. Would he be mad? Maybe. Was it possible, even the tiniest possibility, that he felt the same?

Hope blossomed, just a vulnerable shoot but hope all the same. Yes, it was possible. There was still a chance; they could still have a future. It didn’t have to be over.

‘On second thoughts, I will have that drink,’ she told Cole.

He looked up and smiled at her, relief softening his features. He summoned his attendant. ‘Make it strong,’ she added.

There was no other way. She would go to Robbie tonight, talk to him alone and tell him how she felt. That as soon as the contract with Cole was up, she wanted to be with him. That she was sorry for the heartache and for all she had put him through, but that she could never know peace with another person in the way she knew it with him. They would confess to everything if they had to.

Lana watched the blazing sun dipping below the horizon, a purple glow cast in its wake.

Suddenly the world had changed. There was hope, at last.

42

Belleville, Ohio, 1999

Afterwards they went to the police, their story ironed dead straight. Laura didn’t need to fake her tears–they were real enough–and neither did Robbie his part as the concerned boyfriend.

They told their account of that night countless times over the next days, weeks … time soon lost its meaning. They’d been in the park, had seen smoke billowing into the sky and heard the shouts and cries for help. Running to its source they’d got closer, ever closer to her brother’s trailer until they were right on it. The scene had been worse than they could have imagined–the magnitude of the blast, the reach of the inferno and the panicked screams of the gathered crowd. Flames spat and hissed into the night, thrashing the trailer to pieces, scorching everything inside. Anyone unlucky enough to be in there wouldn’t have stood a chance.

As Laura had predicted, once the drama of the fire blew over nobody paid much attention to the loss of Lester Fallon. It was no great surprise that the loner drunk had finally been dumb enough to set fire to his own home–they just thanked God he hadn’t taken his little sister with him. As a result the inquiry was faint–hearted, it was as good as a closed case. The community was a better place without Fallon-the bum had got what was coming to him. It turned out the police had taken him in on several occasions previously, mostly on alcohol-related counts, and knew he was a vicious, unpleasant man.

A social worker came to visit the week after Lester died, and it was decided that Robbie and his family would look after Laura until she came of age. But they had to get out of Belleville. The compulsion to start afresh was greater than ever.

Two months later Laura and Robbie left for Columbus, where within weeks Robbie began working at an accountancy firm while studying for his business course in the evenings. They moved into a tiny one-room apartment and Laura took a job waiting tables in Harry’s Burger Bar. While it wasn’t the most glamorous of jobs, it was a start.

One busy afternoon a young man came into Harry’s, ordered a double cheeseburger, introduced himself as a talent scout and asked Laura if she’d ever considered acting. She wasn’t tall enough to model but she had a classic beauty that would look great on screen. It wasn’t the first time a customer had commented on her looks, so she didn’t think much of it. When she told Robbie that evening she expected him to find it funny, but instead he encouraged her.

‘Why not?’ he asked, glancing up from his papers. ‘You’ve got nothing to lose.’

‘An actress?’ She laughed. ‘Come on, Robbie, get real.’

He shrugged. ‘You can do anything you want. You’re certainly not flipping burgers the rest of your life.’

Laura had kept the man’s card, but didn’t feel ready to pursue it just yet. With the crime they had run from, it hadn’t occurred to her to dream of a future much beyond the next couple of weeks. The fear was still there that if she pushed her luck even a fraction too far, it would all come crashing down.

They never spoke about that night. She had sworn to Robbie that she wouldn’t let it affect them–no regrets–and that meant burying it deep. What she wanted to do was thank him for saving her life. She might not have died at Lester’s hands on the trailer floor, but he would have killed a part of her she could never get back.

For the first six months things were good. They were happy, in love and the future was there for the taking. Robbie was excelling in his course and was already in touch with his father about the move to Vegas.

But not long after, things started to change. The rot set in. For Laura, it began with the nightmares: her brother pinning her down, pushing his way inside, attacking her body. The look on his face when the deadly blow had struck; the gash on his skull that ran so deep. But worse, the way she had so ruthlessly destroyed the evidence, dousing the place in gasoline and lighting the match. It wasn’t what Robbie had wanted: he’d wanted to do the honest thing. She was the poison, damaging everything and everyone she touched, ruining it, killing it. It was only a matter of time before the same happened to him.

She found she was unable to explain these horrors to Robbie, the dark images that flashed across her mind in the dead of night in that lonely, terrible way. The only certainty was that if she stayed with Robbie, she would endanger him.

Robbie tried everything, desperate to find a way to reach across that space and comfort her. His worst fears had come true: guilt was a persistent beast, and it refused to relinquish the woman he loved. There was nothing he could do. When he reached for her body, she pulled away. When he told her he loved her, she pretended not to hear. There had always been fight in him, but he didn’t know if he could fight for both of them.

Close to a year after they had first arrived in Columbus, Robbie awoke on a grey, still morning to find she was gone.

There was a note. Some crap about sparing him; some meaningless martyr bullshit.

For weeks he was angry. He half expected her to come back, to say their love was worth more than this and that they’d try to make it work. When she didn’t he called her again and again, left countless messages, all saying things he didn’t really mean and not one that said what he really meant. No reply. He guessed she’d changed her number. He tried a couple of leads, sat in Harry’s for days on end, hoping for a clue–maybe she’d mentioned something to someone, anyone. Nothing. She had gone, vanished like a ghost into the night.

He drank for a while. Slept with women without knowing their names. Every morning he woke and looked in the mirror, hating what he saw.

Murderer.

Dark shadows round his eyes. Black stubble he couldn’t be bothered to shave. But most of all the intense sadness that clung to his shoulders like fog.

He scraped a pass on his course, though Christ knew how.

Then, in the New Year, he called his father.

‘I’m coming to town,’ he declared. ‘I need to start over. Vegas is it. ‘

43

Los Angeles

Harriet Foley’s mansion sat in the heart of Beverly Hills, a magnificent white building set in a cluster of palms and furnished with a staggeringly expensive collection of contemporary art. Guests milled poolside under a violet sky pierced with stars. The evening smelled sweet, like money and sex and the December sun bleeding out of the day.

Chloe hadn’t felt like coming. Since her afternoon with Nate a few days ago, she’d felt dreadful–she hadn’t seen him since. All her instincts told her to run back to London, back to the house in Hampstead and curl up in bed, shutting the curtains and forgetting the world. But she couldn’t. And anyway, the UK was the worst place she could be right now.

She couldn’t find the courage to break up with him. She didn’t know if she could do it by herself. And what if she’d misunderstood? What if she’d misread the situation? But, despite these brief intervals of hope, she always reached the same conclusion: whichever way she looked at it, Nate was guilty as sin. It killed her.

‘Hey,’ said Brock, taking her arm as they were ushered inside to take their seats, ‘everything all right?’

She nodded. She had to pull herself together–this was an important evening.

Harriet’s dining room was more like a greenhouse, with lush jade foliage hanging down each side. An absurdly long table, as it would need to be to cater for this number of diners, was decorated with lavish flower arrangements and spotted with baskets of multi-seeded bread. A small, tastefully decorated Christmas tree stood in one corner, as if to show willing.

‘You know,’ Brock nudged her, ‘Harriet’s been looking at you all night. She likes what she sees.’

Chloe had dressed carefully in an all-black trouser suit, Louboutin heels and bold silver jewellery. With her glossy black hair and cat-like grey eyes, the effect was simple but striking. She knew she ought to feel more excited, but couldn’t get rid of this lead weight in her stomach. The thought of Nate with all those other women or, arguably worse, with just one …

‘I’m glad.’ She forced herself to smile.

‘Good.’ Brock reached into an ornate Japanese bowl for an edamame bean pod. ‘Stop looking so glum.’

A starter of tempura prawns arrived–only two, resting self-consciously on a tiny nest of watercress. While Brock turned to an agent friend of his, Chloe searched for someone with whom to start a conversation. She found the women difficult to approach, had been especially sensitive to it since the reception she’d had from Kate diLaurentis. Apart from a kid actor opposite who she vaguely recognised, she was probably the youngest person here–and guessed that didn’t do her any favours. She wondered where Lana Falcon was tonight. Probably with Cole, enjoying a dreamy romantic evening.

Chloe clenched her fists in her lap. She couldn’t bring herself to think where Nate was tonight. Or with whom.

‘Excellent,’ said Brock, dragging her back to the moment. ‘Here’s Jimmy.’

She heard the accent first, a little bit Americanised but still very much there, then looked up as a lofty, shambolic-looking man swept in, apologising profusely in the British tradition, greeting his host then falling into the seat next to Chloe, where he promptly did justice to the plate in front of him.

‘What a fucking day,’ he said, chewing loudly. His wine glass was filled and he slugged half of it back in one.

It was past nine o’clock and Chloe suspected his late arrival wasn’t the best etiquette, but seeing Jimmy now she understood how he could get away with things like this–in that bumbling, awkward way people like Hugh Grant might.

Chloe felt Brock tense. ‘Jimmy,’ he said in an undertone, ‘what’s going on?’

Jimmy glanced up, ready to placate his agent, when he clapped eyes on Chloe and his face froze. It was a classic double-take.

‘Good, you’re not drunk,’ Brock said out the side of his mouth, topping up Jimmy’s water glass all the same. ‘Jimmy, meet Chloe French. Lana Falcon’s new protégée.’

He stared at her, a prawn suspended between his finger and thumb.

‘I’m Jimmy,’ he said finally, holding out his other hand. He had a nice face, with scratchy lines round the eyes that suggested he smiled a lot. His top teeth came out a fraction over his lower, which gave him an unpretentious, quite geeky look, and his hairline was receding in a sexy Jack Nicholson-type way. Yes, Chloe thought, he was definitely attractive. Not that it mattered one way or the other.

‘Nice to meet you,’ she said. He had a good, firm shake. She thanked the waitress as her glass was refilled.

‘Which part of London are you from?’ he asked, not taking his eyes from her.

‘North,’ she answered, glad to have someone to talk to, ‘Hampstead. And you?’

‘Even further north. Manchester, originally.’ He looked down at the prawn, appeared surprised, as though someone had put it there without him noticing, and popped it in his mouth. ‘Don’t go back to the UK so much any more–except for work, which isn’t the same.’

‘Do you miss it?’ she asked.

He made a face. ‘Yeah. Not so much it as, well, me.’ A pause. ‘That sounds weird.’

‘No, it doesn’t.’

He grinned. ‘You’re sweet.’ His gaze was so intense that Chloe felt the rest of the room retreating, as if she and Jimmy were the only people there. He was not what she had expected: she’d seen him in a few things, including that awful film where they put him in a fat suit, and had always thought him borderline cringy. In the flesh he was surprisingly charismatic and charming.

When the main arrived Chloe found she had lost her appetite. But this time it wasn’t because she was sad, it was something different. She’d never been able to eat in front of someone she fancied.

A pang of guilt shot through her, before she remembered what Nate had done. A little flirtation was nothing compared with his betrayal.

‘Aren’t you going to eat that?’ asked Jimmy.

Chloe was embarrassed–she didn’t want him to think she had a problem. ‘I’m not hungry,’ she told him.

He seemed unfazed. ‘Mind if I …?’

‘Go for it!’ She laughed, nudging across her plate.

‘Thanks,’ he said, forking a chunk of meat into his mouth. ‘There’s barely food at home, have to grab it when I can.’ He winked and she wasn’t sure if he was joking.

‘Really?’

It was his turn to look embarrassed. ‘I’m exaggerating,’ he said, a little uncomfortably. ‘My wife’s on a permanent diet, that’s all.’

Chloe all but slapped a palm to her forehead. Of course, he was married to Kate diLaurentis. For a moment she’d totally forgotten.

‘How is Kate?’ she asked politely, not really caring how Kate was. She couldn’t believe such a nice man was married to that bitch.

‘She’s fine,’ he said abruptly, stabbing at the food. He was clearly ill at ease talking about his wife.

Chloe sipped her drink. A snippet of information was swimming to the light, something she remembered Lana telling her. Wasn’t Jimmy a serial cheat, forever doing the dirty?

They all are, she thought bitterly. Everybody cheats.

‘Kate’s in Italy. She’s working on some fashion range, meeting designers and stuff.’ He shook his head. ‘Don’t know too much about it, actually …’

‘That’s interesting,’ said Chloe, wondering how many girls he was bedding in his wife’s absence. Much as she disliked the woman, she now knew how it felt.

And how her father must have felt.

Chloe gritted her teeth. Trust. There was a joke of a word.

Fortunately Brock cut in and the men struck up a conversation about some casting Jimmy had been to. Chloe was relieved and decided not to talk to him again this evening–it was a shame, she’d liked him, but now she was learning that the only person she could really rely on was herself. This town would make her tough. Maybe it was what she needed.

Dessert arrived, a chocolate concoction with a blood-red jus, and Chloe, regaining her appetite, shovelled it in.

‘You like sweet things,’ observed Jimmy. ‘You know, I could tell you a terrible chat-up line.’

‘Don’t bother,’ said Chloe, finishing.

Jimmy grinned, happy with her feisty response. ‘Sweet, but with a twist.’

With a screech she pushed back her chair and stood, excusing herself.

In the bathroom she sat on the loo with her head in her hands, trying not to think about Nate. The number of times he must have chatted up other women, taken them home, done things to them that she’d thought were only theirs. How many? How long had it been going on? Her mind flipped back sickeningly through the times they’d shared in London, that crazy night in Kentish Town that she’d thought had been a one-off but maybe hadn’t, looking for the signs. She’d been blind, thinking he loved her. What was love anyway? Growing up, it had been what her parents had; then it had been what she shared with Nate. Now she didn’t have a single fucking clue.

When she came back to the table, people were up and mingling. She caught Jimmy Hart watching her and pulled her shoulders back, for a moment enjoying his attention. If she’d wanted Jimmy, not that she did, she knew she had him hook, line and sinker.

She and Brock mingled for a while before he suggested they make an early exit.

‘But it’s only just gone eleven,’ Chloe protested, a little drunk, as he wrapped a coat round her shoulders.

‘Always be among the first to leave, darling,’ he advised. ‘Remember it.’

They said their goodbyes to Harriet, who air-kissed Chloe in dramatic fashion, enveloping her in a cloud of citrusy perfume. A tiny piece of spinach was clinging to her top lip, which no one was daring enough to tell her about.

‘Call me,’ she told Brock, giving him a meaningful look.

On the way out a tall, curly-haired figure stepped in front of Chloe, blocking the way.

‘Leaving so soon?’ Jimmy asked, swaying a bit.

Chloe nodded. ‘It was good to meet you.’

‘Can I see you again?’ he asked quietly. She saw his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. It was clear what he wanted and he was practised at getting it.

Suddenly Chloe felt reckless. She was tired of being the good little girl that everybody crapped on, left behind, got bored with.

‘You can take my number,’ she found herself saying. She expected it to come out shaky but instead it came out firm, like a new voice.

If Nate could do it, why the hell couldn’t she?