Kitabı oku: «The A-List Collection», sayfa 8

18

London

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

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

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

‘Voila. My work here is done.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Nate!’ Chloe broke free and turned to kiss him. He wore a white shirt, tight tweedy waistcoat and skinny jeans. His hair was styled to within an inch of its life and Chloe thought he must have spent longer getting ready than she had.

‘What did you think of the show?’ she asked.

‘Not bad, babe,’ he said, wrapping his arms around her waist. ‘You were the best thing in it.’ He leaned in to kiss her again.

Melissa cleared her throat. ‘Chloe?’

She pulled away. ‘God, sorry! You were saying?’

‘Can we have a chat?’ Her agent’s eyes flew to Nate.

‘Oh,’ said Chloe, waving her hand, ‘anything that concerns me concerns him, too.’

They took a seat. A blonde model with glittering blue eyes and an upturned nose flitted past, catching Nate’s attention and batting her lashes.

‘Do you know her?’ asked Chloe.

Nate shrugged. ‘Never seen her before in my life, babe.’

‘OK,’ said Melissa, ‘it’s about LA.’

Chloe’s hands flew to her face. Nate frowned.

‘The part’s yours, if you want it.’

‘Oh, Melissa!’ Chloe jumped up and embraced her agent, who was caught off guard and took in a mouthful of black hair. ‘I’m ecstatic, truly. Thank you thank you thank you.’

‘What?’ said Nate, looking from one to the other.

Ignoring him, Melissa went on. ‘You’ll need to meet with the director, but it’s just a formality. As soon as the producers saw your photo, they knew you were it. You’ve got the right image, the right reputation’–she threw a glance at Nate–’and the right profile. Congratulations.’

‘Hang on a minute,’ he interrupted. ‘What’s all this about?’

Chloe was unable to contain her smile. ‘I wanted to wait till it was confirmed before I told you. The right part finally came along, Nate.’

‘It did?’

She nodded happily. ‘And I’m filming with Lana Falcon.’

Nate was taken aback. ‘Lana bloody Falcon?’

‘That’s right!’

Nate’s mouth fell open.

‘I know–unbelievable, isn’t it?’ Chloe took his hand. ‘But I don’t want you to worry about us, you know, the long distance thing. I’m totally committed to—’

Melissa stood up. ‘Chloe, I’ve got to dash. I’ll send the script over tomorrow and you can review your part.’ She smiled. ‘I’ve looked at it myself and it’s a gem of a role.’

‘I’m so made up, Melissa. A million thank-yous.’

‘Don’t thank me–it’s on your own merit.’ She winked, gave her client a final hug goodbye and was gone.

Chloe sat back down. Nate’s mouth was still hanging open.

‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.

Nate found his tongue. ‘Just a bit of a shock, that’s all,’ he said, refusing to meet her eye.

There was a brief pause. ‘Aren’t you glad for me?’ she asked quietly.

‘Of course I am,’ he said quickly. ‘It’s just that Hollywood’s kind of a fucked-up place. Maybe you’d be better off staying here.’

Chloe reached for him. ‘You’re so sweet to always think about me first. But I promise you, it is the right thing for me.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘It’s something I have to do, Nate.’

After a moment Nate seemed to find his feet. ‘As it goes, we might not be so long distance as you thought.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Seems I’ve got some news of my own.’ Nate shrugged, smoothly reclaiming the limelight. ‘We’ve been signed up to work with this shit-hot producer on the new album. In LA, as it goes. Everyone thinks with a bit of hard work we might break the US market.’

Chloe was thrilled. ‘No way!’ she exclaimed. ‘Oh, that’s so awesome-we’ll be out there together!’

Nate gave a weak smile. ‘Hmm.’

‘I’m serious!’ She kissed him. ‘I can’t wait. I’m so glad you’re coming with me.’

Nate laughed and stroked her hair. ‘Or you’re coming with me.’

Chloe frowned. ‘Whichever.’

Jared dashed over, frantically waving his arms. ‘Car’s here, let’s go!’

They were hitting Movida, where the couple were scheduled to make an appearance. The paparazzi would be out in full force. Chloe and Nate were definitely the people to arrive with.

19

Los Angeles

‘I’ve got to fuck you. Now.’

Stark naked, Parker Troy lay back, already hard to bursting. He feasted his eyes on Lana’s magnificent figure. Those perfect breasts; that nipped-in waist and beautiful ass, her creamy skin that always smelled clean, like lemons. She was a hundred per cent real.

‘Shh,’ said Lana, taking his hands and straddling him, ‘don’t speak.’ Deftly she slid on protection. There was no time for foreplay, never had been. And this wasn’t about tenderness–it wasn’t about the other person at all. For both Lana and Parker it was a selfish act of make-believe: a high-risk, utterly irresistible ride right into the heart of the storm.

They raced to the climax quickly, urgency running thick in their blood. For Lana, who was starved of sex and craved it like air, it was a necessity. For Parker, as it was every time, the experience was one of ecstasy and just a pinch of disbelief, as he looked up at the woman he and his frat buddies had jerked off over at college.

‘That was incredible,’ he gasped, a rash of pink spreading across his chest. ‘I’m addicted to you.’

Lana dressed quickly. ‘Don’t say that. We’re not going there.’

They were at Parker’s Malibu penthouse overlooking the ocean. Lana had requested she run through a pivotal scene with Parker before shooting the following week–Cole’s driver had dropped her twenty minutes ago and was currently waiting outside. She’d greeted Parker cordially at the door for appearances’ sake, but once inside they hadn’t spoken. This was anything but a professional engagement.

Parker sat up. ‘Do you have to go?’ Behind him the beach stretched out, a spread of golden sand running down to sparkling water. He sat back on the pillows and gazed at it dreamily, like something out of a romance novel. ‘We could take a walk.’

Lana fastened her bra. ‘Not in this lifetime.’

‘In that case,’ he reached for her, ‘come back to bed.’

She resisted. ‘Forget it, Parker. Cole’s waiting.’

The colour drained from Parker’s boyish face at the mention of Lana’s husband. Cole’s name was taboo.

‘You freakin’ brought him here?’ he squealed.

Lana gave him a look. ‘Of course not. One of his goons.’

He threw his arms up in the air. ‘Christ! Don’t do that to me again.’

‘I’m careful, Parker, we both are.’ She grabbed the script, tucked it under her arm. ‘Long as it stays that way, we’ve got nothing to worry about.’

A noise interrupted them. The sound of the door going.

They looked at each other.

‘Get the hell out!’ Parker hissed, throwing himself off the bed. The sheets got tangled in his legs and he tripped on to the floor. ‘Shit!’

Lana hauled open the window, clambering out on to the balcony. ‘Who is it?’

He shook his head, bundling her purse out after her. ‘It’s Ashlee, she’s home early. Holy freakin’ shit!’

‘I thought you’d broken up!’

‘We’re on and off.’ A clumsy kiss on the lips. ‘Make like we sat on the terrace, I don’t know. If Cole finds out, I’m a dead man.’

‘Thanks for the heads-up,’ she said wryly. He slammed the window shut.

Staying low, Lana skirted round the side of the building. A murmur of voices could be heard from inside the apartment–she hoped Parker could handle himself: the last thing they needed was his girlfriend running to the papers.

Before she emerged she dusted off any dishevelment and pulled her cap down hard over her ears. The whole encounter had taken less than half an hour.

Cole’s car was waiting on the opposite side of the road. Its driver had his head buried in a paper.

This is getting dangerous, she told herself. You’re pushing it too hard.

But she couldn’t help it. These days it was the only thing that made her feel alive.

‘Poor baby, let me get you something to drink.’

Parker Troy made a pathetic face and lay back, half closing his eyes. He watched through the cracks as his girlfriend fussed around–he’d had to feign illness when she’d found him semi-naked amid a knot of bed sheets.

With Ashlee gone, he checked his cell. He could only assume Lana had got out OK. Parker was playing with fire and he knew it–this was Cole Steel’s freakin’ wife. Every man in Hollywood knew it was as good as putting a loaded gun to your balls, but that only made it more of a drug.

How in the hell he’d managed to bed Lana Falcon he simply did not know. Parker himself was a part-time celebrity, had been in several poorly produced teen films that had raised his status to that of the kind of minor heart-throb girls poster up on their walls but don’t exactly know the name of. His part in Eastern Sky as Lana’s brief fling–how life imitated art-was a major break. When she’d made her intentions clear in the first week of shooting, he couldn’t believe his luck. It was a risk, but Parker was a man who thrived on adrenalin. Life was for living in the moment–he’d think about the consequences later.

Ashlee came back in with a glass of water and some drugs. She sat down next to him, put a hand to his forehead.

‘You’re working too hard,’ she told him, kissing his fevered lips. ‘It’s exhaustion, that’s all.’ She held out the pills.

Obediently Parker swallowed them, the chalky powder sticking in his throat.

20

‘Go on, honey, go play with Su-Su.’ Kate diLaurentis gestured frantically to the Puerto Rican nanny, who came hurrying over to take her daughter.

‘Why don’t you play with her, Kate?’ asked Jimmy Hart, fixing himself a drink from the granite-topped bar.

‘Fuck off, Jimmy,’ Kate snarled. ‘It’s hardly like you’re father of the year.’

The nanny gathered up both children and ushered them out of the room, trying to cover their ears as best she could.

Kate sauntered out to the pool in their expansive Bel Air mansion. She needed some downtime–kids were so exhausting.

‘That’s right,’ muttered Jimmy, ‘another day, another sun-tan.’

Kate chose not to rise to it. Arranging herself on a lounger by their infinity pool, she closed her eyes and tried to block out her husband’s moaning. A moment later she heard him pad out on to the terrace.

If only he wasn’t such a goddamn bastard.

‘As a matter of fact,’ she told him, sitting up and sipping a Perrier, ‘I went for a casting this morning.’

‘What for?’ he asked in a bored way.

Already thinking about your next little conquest, are you? Kate thought angrily. ‘It’s Carl Rico’s new venture.’

‘Carl bloody Rico?’ Jimmy was outraged. ‘Make you get your tits out, did he?’ Carl Rico was a director with a reputation for targeting ageing actresses looking to get back into work. ‘Bit desperate, Kate.’

Kate whipped off her sunglasses. ‘You try being an actress in your forties and then tell me I should be picky!’ she blazed.

Jimmy shook his head in exasperation and wandered back into the house. He couldn’t talk to his wife when she was like this. Where had the old Kate diLaurentis gone, the woman he had fallen in love with? She’d been gorgeous, funny, smart, an actress with wisdom and ambition. He knew these days she felt like she was way past her best, but all the surgery coupled with a sharp whiff of panic wasn’t helping one bit.

With shame he admitted he was making it ten times worse by shagging around. But what was a man supposed to do? A diagnosed sex addict, at that? Over the past year his wife had barely allowed him under her nightgown–a nightgown? What were they living in, the nineteenth century?–and every time he tried to cop a feel she froze up like a rabbit in headlights. He wasn’t ready to join a monastery just yet.

Kate followed him in, her Louis Vuitton wedges pounding the floor.

‘Don’t you walk away from me,’ she fumed.

‘What are you going to do, Kate?’ Jimmy asked. ‘Batter me to death with one of your shoes?’

On cue she pulled off one of her wedges and threw it at his head. It narrowly missed and went crashing into a Ming-style vase.

‘Oh, nice,’ said Jimmy. ‘Real fucking nice.’

‘I hate you!’ she screamed, turning on one heel and storming lopsided back to the pool.

‘And just what is it that I’m supposed to have done?’ Jimmy was calling her bluff. He winced in anticipation of her response.

Kate refused to look at him. She swallowed back her tears. If only she knew how to deal with all this … frustration. She hadn’t been sleeping. She was depressed, anxious, jealous. She needed her pills–they were the only things that calmed her. But that would only give her husband something else to grumble on at her about.

Slumping on to a lounger, she put her head in her hands, waiting for him to come and comfort her. It wasn’t the first time she had hurled something at him.

Moments later she felt him sit down next to her and, sure enough, a gangly arm came to rest across her shoulders. ‘What is it?’ he asked gently.

Oh, how she was tempted to tell him all she knew. Just the other day she had found proof he was at it again. Tucked down the back of the bed was a pair of lilac panties she could have flossed her teeth with.

‘Jimmy, I …’ She shook her head, it was no use. Despite his extra-marital activities she couldn’t tolerate the thought of losing him–she absolutely refused to suffer the humiliation of becoming a divorcee twice over. And then there were the children to think about …

Jimmy patted her back as he might a friend’s and said swiftly, ‘Forget it, it’s no big deal.’ He stood up. Phew, that was a lucky escape.

Kate nodded and gazed up at him with red-rimmed eyes. Had she been so naive as to imagine she deserved her own love affair? After the arranged marriage to Cole Steel, the dreadful enforced celibacy, she had hoped for a second partnership based on trust, respect, but most of all passion. Hadn’t she earned it? The trouble was she just didn’t feel sexy any more: she felt old and ugly and stupid.

As if reading her mind, he held out a hand. ‘Come inside,’ he said throatily.

Weakly she got to her feet, took off the one remaining wedge and trailed after him. Maybe it would be better this time, she thought grimly, as they mounted the grand staircase.

In the bedroom, Jimmy pulled the blinds and tried not to think about the blonde actress-slash-model he’d been shagging. Long gone were the days when Kate would arrange herself into those ambitious positions.

Kate sat down on the edge of the bed and removed her bikini top. She crossed her arms over her breasts to cover them and lay back, rigid, looking blankly up at the ceiling.

‘Talk about the undead!’ As soon as the words escaped he knew it was the worst possible thing he could have said. Still, once upon a time she would have found it funny and teased him about being a terrible comedian.

Instead she gasped and sat up. ‘Fine, forget it, then.’ She reached for her bikini.

But he was on her in an instant, leaning her back against the pillows, finding her lips with his. ‘Sorry,’ he murmured, ‘that was a grave mistake.’ And thought he saw the trace of a smile.

Trying to relax, Kate arched her back as Jimmy planted kisses on her neck, then lower, past her collarbone, and finally he reached her nipples. Though she’d had an augmentation and a lift she still felt crinkly and unattractive. Instinctively she tensed.

‘Jimmy, I …’

‘Just take it easy,’ he soothed, his hand moving ever lower until it arrived at the band of her bikini briefs. As he sneaked a finger in and felt the brush of hair there, she pulled away.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, rolling on to her side and pulling a sheet up to cover herself. ‘I just don’t want to.’

There was a brief silence, and before Kate could stop herself she spilled, launching into a monologue about how she thought the problem was that he didn’t make her feel wanted, loved, all those things that mattered. She talked about how she felt old and washed-up and how she knew he preferred a younger model and how was she supposed to compete? Still she couldn’t bring herself to raise the issue of his affairs, but it was the next best thing to air what was on her mind. They said the bedroom was the place for intimacy, and right now this was exactly the kind of intimacy she needed.

Minutes later she wound to a halt, feeling exhausted but definitely lighter.

‘Well?’ she said softly. ‘Does that make sense to you?’

A moment passed before he began to snore.

‘Jimmy?’ She turned over to see his prostrate form, mouth hanging slack, a rivulet of drool escaping down one side.

‘Oh, fuck it!’ she fumed, swinging her legs off the bed. Was this what her marriage had come to? It was almost as much of a joke as the years she’d spent with Cole. At least that hadn’t involved any … expectation.

Wrapping a towel around her, she slipped from the room, closing the door quietly. She would use a guest bedroom to bring herself the pleasure she knew, deep down, she deserved. These days it was the only way.

21

St Tropez

Elisabeth Sabell stood from the table and tucked in her chair. She and Robert were dining with investors at La Parisienne, an exclusive harbourside restaurant favoured by the rich and famous.

‘Everything OK, puss?’ asked Bernstein, firing Robert an accusing look.

‘Fine,’ said Elisabeth, ‘if you’ll just excuse me.’ She made her way through the tables and into the cool marble of the bathroom. She felt queasy. Pushing open an empty cubicle, she closed the door and leaned back, breathing deeply.

The trip had been extended. Stupidly she hadn’t brought next month’s Pill. She’d been ready to tell Robert that they’d need to use other precautions, before thinking at the weekend, Why should we? They both wanted kids, they’d discussed it before. Since arriving in France conversation had been so scant that sex was the only real communication they were sharing. Perhaps a baby would help get things back on track.

Now her period was late.

She extracted the test from her purse.

For the first time since she and Robert had got engaged, she wasn’t entirely sure what she wanted it to say.

Robert St Louis was trying to ignore the fact that one of his investors’ wives, a sharp-featured English woman with a tightly drawn chignon, had been giving him the come-on all night. Earlier, on the way to the restroom, she had pushed herself up against him and promised in a husky upper-class voice, ‘Later.’ Somehow he knew that later would never come.

The waiter came to take their order. It was a big table: as well as Robert, Bernstein and his two daughters, they were dining with three key financiers and their immaculately groomed wives. But what was taking Elisabeth so long?

‘Here she comes,’ droned Jessica, stirring her martini.

Elisabeth, her cheeks flushed, resumed her seat. She took the menu. ‘Are we ready?’ she asked in a strained voice.

While the others ordered food, Robert caught his fiancée’s eye and she gave him a wobbly smile. She looked radiant tonight in a bronze figure-skimming dress, her blonde hair piled high on her head. He smiled back, made a face that enquired if everything was OK. She nodded briefly.

‘So I say to them, it’s all about the vision.’ Bernstein tore off a hunk of ciabatta, dunked it in oil and threw it into this mouth. ‘Time an’ again we’ve proved it, it’s not all about the casinos, the gaming enterprises–I’m talkin’ development of conference space, shopping facilities—’

‘Time spent in our hotels,’ interjected Robert. ‘We know what people want before they know it themselves. It has to be about our guests. Everything in this business is.’

Bernstein pointed a chunk of bread at him. ‘Exactly.’

‘And growth into Europe,’ noted Jerry Gollancz, an elderly man with pink-tipped ears and watery eyes.

‘In time,’ said Robert. ‘We’re considering all routes carefully. You’ll see my plans in the spring.’

As the food came, talk turned to leverage and dividends, capital pools and portfolios, and Robert noticed that Elisabeth’s attention was elsewhere. How could Bernstein imagine she was really interested in getting into this business?

But there was more to it. She was on edge tonight: she seemed anxious and jumpy, kept shooting nervous smiles in his direction. He had hoped this trip would bring them closer together, force him to stop thinking about Lana Falcon. Instead it seemed to be having the reverse effect.

‘I assume you’re working towards Asian expansion?’ Jerry Gollancz enquired.

Robert tuned back in. ‘Wynn Resorts has done it,’ he answered smoothly, ‘I don’t see why we can’t. Macau is incredibly fertile casino territory.’

Bernstein refilled his elder daughter’s glass. ‘Elisabeth knows all about that, doncha, doll? She’s been to Macau.’

Jessica snorted loudly. ‘Yeah, on vacation. What does she know?’ She drained her martini and instantly ordered another, without asking anyone else if they wanted anything.

Elisabeth took a moment to tune back in. ‘Sorry?’ she asked, a bit dazed.

‘Are you OK?’ asked Robert.

‘Yes, of course,’ said Elisabeth, a little snappily. The table plunged into silence.

Jessica, blissfully unaware, broke it. ‘What is this?’ she demanded loudly, holding up her fork, upon the end of which hung a sad-looking anchovy. ‘It’s hairy!’

Ellen Fontaine, the woman who had propositioned Robert earlier, leaned over to explain. She regarded Jessica with some distaste, before turning her gaze to Robert and suggestively feeding a stick of grissini into her mouth.

‘Eat up and go to bed, cookie,’ Bernstein told his younger daughter. ‘It’s no fun for you.’

‘Like hell I will,’ said Jessica, fishing for the olive in her fresh vermouth.

‘Frank tells me you’ve got Sam Lucas’s premiere coming to the Orient next year,’ said Glenn Fontaine, steering the conversation on to safer ground.

‘Yes,’ said Robert, relaxing. ‘It’s a bold move.’

‘I’d love to be there,’ enthused Ellen, touching a hand to her white throat, where a grape-sized diamond clung to her skin. ‘We met Lana Falcon at something or other last year, didn’t we, darling? And that rather wonderful husband of hers.’

‘How was she?’ Robert jumped in, without thinking. Elisabeth’s eyes darted to his.

The question threw Ellen, but before Robert could begin to unpick it, she answered, ‘Well, we didn’t speak to them for long. I remember thinking how charming she was.’ Then, to be polite, she asked, ‘Do you know her?’

The quiet felt longer than it actually was.

‘No, I don’t,’ said Robert. ‘I don’t know her at all.’

‘What is it about goddamn Lana Falcon?’ stormed Elisabeth. ‘Every time I bring up her name you go all weird on me. Look at you now, it’s like you’ve seen a ghost!’

They reached the jetty, where a boat was waiting to take them back to the moored yacht. The others had gone ahead.

Robert stared straight ahead. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘It’s nothing.’

‘You can tell me it’s nothing all you like,’ she said tearfully. ‘I wish you could be honest with me. Is that too much to ask?’

Robert watched her beautiful, expectant face and felt suddenly sorry. How could he possibly explain to her the history he and Lana shared? Elisabeth, so upstanding, so respectable; and he hiding a terrible secret, a monstrous crime that would bury them both. No, she didn’t know what he was capable of–and she didn’t want to.

‘It’s not too much,’ he said. He wanted to say more but the words didn’t come. It was hopelessly inadequate.

Instead he guided her on to the boat, slipping an arm round her bare shoulders as they took a seat on the padded leather bench. ‘You look wonderful,’ he murmured.

She nodded, not looking at him.

The dark water below glinted in the moonlight. As they moved off the smell of salt filled the night air.

Elisabeth feared that if she spoke she would burst into tears. She watched the open water and the bobbing, distant red lights of vessels on the horizon.

Back on the yacht they had fumbling, drunk sex before Elisabeth fell asleep.

Robert lay awake for a while, the gentle rock of water beneath him, before giving up and going out on deck. The still-warm air filled his lungs and he looked out across the black sea, stars twinkling above like air-holes punched in the sky. And that was what they were, for he could breathe better at night. He could be alone and remember the evenings he had spent all those years ago in Belleville, before the tragedy. When they had been young and innocent and free and in love.

He wondered what she was doing now. Was she thinking about him? For all his money and success he didn’t have the one person he would give it all up for in a heartbeat. She couldn’t be happy with Cole Steel, could she? Not the same kind of happiness they had shared.

It couldn’t go on. He had to tell Elisabeth the truth, and if it was out in the open he could decide if they still had a future. And yet it was a risk. He hated himself for still caring this way, couldn’t understand why he did, but, damn it, he had to protect Lana.

But, then, it wasn’t Lana who had done that awful thing back in Belleville, was it?

It was him.