Kitabı oku: «The A-List Collection», sayfa 9

22

Belleville, Ohio, 1997

‘D’you need some help with those?’

Laura turned round at the school gates, her arms laden with books. She regarded him with wide, serious eyes.

‘No, thanks.’ She kept going.

Undeterred, he followed. ‘Come on, I’ll walk you home.’ He went to take the books off her and she flinched as though she’d been stung.

‘I said I can manage.’ Her green gaze stared at the ground, too afraid to look at him. But there was a catch to her voice that belied her assurance.

He shrugged. ‘Suit yourself. I’m going this way anyway.’

She seemed to hesitate a moment. Then from nowhere a stampede of boys rushed past, knocking into her and sending her armful thumping to the ground. She stooped to gather the books, humiliation burning. The boys’ shouts faded into the distance.

Robbie knelt to help. ‘Jerks,’ he said.

He picked up one of the heavy tomes and flipped it over, scanning the spine. ‘You can’t be reading all these,’ he teased. When he passed them over he pretended not to notice the cut on her lip. Or the mottled grey bruise that wrapped itself round her delicate white wrist, visible when her sleeve pulled back.

The ghost of a smile. ‘I like stories,’ she said, brushing a lock of copper hair from her eyes. Getting to her feet, she gripped the books to her like armour.

They walked together for a while.

‘You don’t talk much,’ he observed.

She opened her mouth to think of an answer and he smoothly lifted the stack from her. Without it she looked defenceless, and folded and unfolded her arms as if she didn’t know what to do with them.

‘Why are you doing this?’ she asked, meeting his eye for the first time.

‘Doing what? ‘

‘Being nice to me.’ She couldn’t understand it. At seventeen Robbie Lewis was nearly three years older than her, clever and popular and handsome. His friends must have put him up to it–let the poor little orphan imagine for a second that she had a chance.

His expression was difficult to read. ‘What do you mean?’

Laura wasn’t stupid. Boys were only after one thing. She’d learned that from her own brother. Sometimes he brought a girl home after she’d gone to bed: she’d lie down in the darkness, listening to the filthy scrabble of rats and mice, and among them, below them, the weird frantic sounds coming from Lester’s room.

But if he didn’t go out it was worse. It meant he would stay with her, watching her sideways, and if he got drunk enough he would do that terrible thing and make her undress for bed in front of him. Just sitting there, not daring to touch, his lizard eyes soaking up every inch of her body. She, racked with shame, would stand shivering, with each shaky breath fighting the instinct to cover herself. But she knew she could not: one time she had put a hand on that part between her legs and Lester had hit her across the face, so hard she couldn’t hear properly for a week. And recently he had developed a taste for that.

‘There’s nothing wrong with being nice,’ said Robbie.

Tears sprang to Laura’s eyes and she turned her head so he couldn’t see.

Robbie kept pace as she quickened her step. ‘Wait up a second, what’s the big hurry?’

‘Just leave me alone.’

‘Hey, hang on—’

Abruptly she stopped.

‘I’m not interested,’ she said primly, sticking her chin in the air. ‘In what?’

‘You know.’

Robbie frowned. ‘Not really.’

Laura was so unlike all the other girls at school, those catty girls he’d heard gossiping in the corridor, saying mean things about her old clothes and her messy hair. She was a thousand times more lovely than they’d ever be. And yet his urge was to protect her, to look after her. He’d seen her walking with her head bowed; rigid, like with each step she defied collapse. He’d seen the sadness in her eyes.

And he knew why. He knew her brother was a drunk, a bully. A month back his father had returned from a business trip and Lester Fallon had started a brawl in the local bar–Vince had got caught up in it and come home with a black eye and a mouthful of blood. God only knew what he was doing to his little sister.

‘Well, anyway,’ she said. ‘You can forget it.’

Her defiance made him smile. Seeing this, she laughed a little. It was a clean, honest sound, he thought, straight as water.

He kept trying to glimpse her as they walked. Her hair was the colour of autumn, a fire at the corners of his vision. Her eyes were green, but darker in recent months, and there was something resilient about her stare, a belief that refused to be crushed.

When they reached the trailer park she stopped. He didn’t want to let her go, not back to that trailer and whatever was waiting for her there. But he didn’t know what to say to stop her. This was bigger than he was.

‘Thanks,’ she said, lifting the books from him.

He fumbled for words, knowing that whatever came out would be laced in pity. ‘You live here?’ he said at last.

Her gaze hardened. ‘Why? Not everyone can afford to live in a house like yours. ‘

Chastened, he went to apologise. Laura got there first.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said quickly. ‘I didn’t mean that. I shouldn’t have said that.’

‘It’s OK.’

‘It’s not.’

A beat. ‘Yes, it is.’

She bent her head to the books and grazed the lip of one with hers. ‘I should go.’

‘Sure.’

There was a moment’s pause, before she gave him a brief, brave smile. It squeezed his heart. ‘See you at school.’

He watched her for a long while, picking her way across the scratched-out land towards her brother’s trailer.

Eventually she disappeared from sight.

‘If he touches her again,’ Robbie Lewis vowed, ‘God help me, I’ll kill him.’

PART TWO

Winter

23

Los Angeles

Chloe French touched down at LAX looking like she’d just stepped out on to a catwalk, not like she’d just spent seven hours on a plane. Her trademark hair hung dark and loose, and she wore a black blazer-style jacket, grey leggings and thigh-high boots teamed with chunky gold jewellery.

She was greeted by a swarming crowd of British paparazzi.

‘Chloe, how does it feel to be in LA?’

‘Is it true you’re shooting a film out here? Can you tell us anything about that?’

Giving a series of succinct answers, having been briefed in militant detail by Melissa, she anxiously scanned Arrivals for her name. When she spotted it she was excited to see the man holding her card was a blond, blue-eyed beefcake with the kind of caramel skin you only found in California. It was too cute.

‘Hi!’ she said, extending her hand. ‘I’m Chloe.’

‘Gawd, sorry!’ he drawled. ‘I didn’t recognise you. Have you changed your hair?’

Chloe patted it self-consciously. ‘Um … not in about six years.’

‘Anyway, whatever, sweetie, we found each other. I’m Brock Wilde for LA Scout–Melissa must’ve told you about me.’ His face split into a grin and his teeth were so dazzling she thought about putting her Ray-Bans back on. How did he get them so straight?

They exited the airport and stepped out into the November sunshine. Wow, it was hot. Heading for his parked Ford Mustang, Chloe saw that on the back window was a sticker that read watch the rear.

It turned out Brock’s teeth were the only straight thing about him.

‘Let’s get down to business,’ he announced, brushing a stray lock of corn-coloured hair from his eyes and waggling a finger at her. ‘Your road to superstardom starts right here, honey, and I’m the one that’s going to make it happen. In a year’s time you’ll remember it was me who got you started in this town and you are never gonna forget it.’ He pulled open the driver’s side. ‘But this morning I got a taste in my mouth like a dog took a crap in there and I’m working a schedule the size of my ass. That means no hanging around. Got it?’ He slammed the door.

Chloe stood, half expecting him to drive off. Then she heaved her suitcase into the boot and slipped in next to him, trying to keep up. ‘Got it,’ she said with as assured a smile as she could muster.

They headed out on to the freeway towards Venice. Brock drove like a maniac, undertaking and yapping insults whenever anyone picked him up on it.

‘You met Sam Lucas before?’ he asked, wildly dodging a yellow Lamborghini, a marvellously handsome black man at the wheel. ‘Hello,’ whistled Brock as he caught sight of him.

Chloe shook her head and gripped the seatbelt. ‘No, actually, I—’

‘You will,’ he cut in. Then he laughed knowingly. ‘You will.’

‘What does that mean?’ she asked, worried. She’d heard horror stories from actresses starting out in Hollywood, but that didn’t mean Sam Lucas expected more from her than the job he’d hired her for … did he?

‘Well,’ said Brock, giving her a sideways look, ‘he was very particular about you.’

She narrowed her eyes. ‘He saw Sophie in me, right?’

‘Chuh! And the rest.’ He smacked the radio and the Pussycat Dolls filled the car. ‘Don’t get me wrong, darling, Sam Lucas is a genius. He is also a sexy man; a powerful man. If I had tits he’d be over me like a rash, and let’s put it this way, I wouldn’t be complaining. Hope your boyfriend’s not the jealous type.’

Chloe smiled as she thought of Nate. There’d never been need for jealousy between them.

Brock was singing along in an impressive falsetto.

‘Well,’ she said with a confidence she didn’t feel, ‘he’ll not be getting his rash on anywhere near me.’ She flipped down the sunshield and checked her reflection. On Melissa’s advice she had gone natural, just a slick of nude lipstick, gloss and mascara.

‘I need to pick up some stuff from the office,’ said Brock, ‘then we’ll head to Sam’s.’

‘Sam’s?’

‘You want to meet him, don’t you?’

A rush of nerves. ‘Of course.’

They turned on to Sunset and Chloe’s mouth dropped open. ‘Wow,’ she said. She knew she sounded green but she couldn’t help it. It was just as it had been in her dreams. Better.

The Boulevard was wide and lined with majestic palms. Overhead the cloudless blue sky, bold as a lick of paint, bathed everything in golden light. Billboards, cafés and shop fronts rocketed past as Brock cut through the traffic at startling speed. The people were so … perfect. The women had flawless California tans and sported barely-there cut-off denims and bikini tops; every bloke she clapped eyes on looked like a model, or an actor.

The car pulled into a side road opposite the agency, a low-lying glass building with a white portico.

‘ Voila, Brock said, killing the ignition. ‘Leave your bags in the trunk–we’ll hit Malibu after, I’ll show you the villa.’

Chloe couldn’t wait for that. What would the apartment be like? Would she have a pool? A gym? Oh, it was too exciting for words! She was so looking forward to hooking up with Nate and telling him everything–he’d been out here a week already and she missed him like crazy.

A guy with a metal bolt through his eyebrow greeted them at Reception with a bored ‘Hey’.

Brock nodded a hello but didn’t introduce Chloe. ‘Temp,’ he said by way of explanation once they were in the lift.

LA Scout was unbelievably smart–much grander than the London branch. They got out at the top floor and Brock led her into a massive office that boasted stunning views of Hollywood. It always happened that things in real life just weren’t as good as they’d been in the imagination, but this was different. This was amazing.

‘Do you want a drink?’ asked Brock, grinning as she took in her new surroundings.

‘Sure, have you—?’

‘Well, well, well,’ came a booming voice from behind. ‘There she is.’

Chloe turned, startled. Sam Lucas himself was standing in the doorway, wearing a dark blazer suit, a raspberry handkerchief blooming from his top pocket. He was shorter than she’d expected.

Brock looked just as alarmed. He extended his hand and stepped forward. ‘Sam, hello. We were expecting to come to you, if you’d called—’

‘I was passing,’ he said crisply, keeping his eyes fixed on Chloe. ‘Fiona told me you’d be stopping by–I hope you don’t mind, I couldn’t wait to see her.’ A crocodile smile split his face.

‘Hello, Mr Lucas,’ she said graciously.

‘She’s perfect,’ he announced, as though Chloe were a rare antique he’d had shipped over from foreign parts. He approached and kissed her on both cheeks. She misjudged the second one and to her intense mortification their lips brushed clumsily together.

Chloe flushed tomato-red. If he’d had any doubt that an upcoming starlet would drop her knickers for him in a second, it was long gone.

Great, now he thinks I fancy him.

Brock was conducting a brisk telephone conversation then moments later another woman entered the room. Sharply dressed and very beautiful, she introduced herself as Fiona Catalan, head of LA Scout.

‘Let’s get to business, shall we?’ she said, gesturing for them all to sit down.

God, this was happening fast, and not at all in the way Chloe had expected. But she was determined to remain unflustered and do whatever it was she needed to. She remembered her father’s advice, the glisten in his eye when she’d told him she was leaving.

‘Be good, darling,’ he’d said. ‘I’ll always be here for you.’

It was what she had needed to hear–she didn’t want her dad to feel that she was abandoning him. Her fears were irrational, of course, but they were there all the same.

Brock pulled out some paperwork and removed the cap from a pen with a proficient flourish. Chloe was amazed at the transformation from party-boy-slash-hazardous-motorist to über–professional-but, then, he was sitting next to Fiona. She was impressed. She was a little less impressed by Sam Lucas’s insistence on calling her Sophie–her character’s name–throughout the meeting. Fiona and Brock corrected him several times, but after that they just let him get on with it.

There was a silence. Chloe’s mobile sprang to life and she fumbled in her bag, hot-faced, to switch it off.

Sam sat back and a smile played across his lips. He watched his muse for a long time before passing her several sheets of paper.

‘Read this,’ he instructed. ‘Dazzle me.’

It was her scene. Sam–or some unfortunate lackey–had scrawled messy red circles round her lines, which actually made them harder to spot, not easier. But Chloe had gone through them enough times in her bedroom back at home. She took a deep breath. She could do this.

Chloe read tentatively at first, but as the character took shape and she warmed to the role, a quiet, controlled passion entered her voice and breathed life into the words. There wasn’t much material there, but from what there was she squeezed every last drop. She loved the feeling of assuming a character, a different girl in a foreign time and a distant country.

When she finished nobody spoke. Then Sam Lucas said simply, ‘It’s yours.’

She looked up at the director and in his eyes was barely concealed desire. The scene had rendered her bare and now Sam Lucas’s gaze was prowling across her young body like a wolf’s. She felt a shudder race up her spine.

‘We’ve got ourselves a deal, then,’ Fiona said. It wasn’t a question.

Still Sam didn’t take his eyes off Chloe. ‘Damn right you’ve got yourself a deal,’ he said, rubbing his hands on his trousers. ‘She’s the one.’

24

Round the corner on Santa Monica, The Hides were deep in session at the Blue Water recording studios. Nate had arrived in LA the previous week armed with enough material for five albums and, with the mutual focus that a new project brought, everything was coming together. The band was in sync and it felt good.

When Nate got a thumbs-up from the control room he called a band meeting and they all went outside for a cigarette.

‘I’ve got a suggestion,’ he said, flicking the top off a can of Pepsi.

Spencer, their lead guitarist, offered fags around. ‘Yeah? Let’s hear it.’

‘I want to change the name of the band.’

‘What?’ Chris spluttered, a Marlboro hanging limply from his mouth. ‘Why?’

‘Let me finish,’ Nate told his drummer. God, he was burning up in this leather jacket–but he had to keep it on, at least outside, in case the paps took any interest. ‘It’s a slight change, nothing really. You’ll barely notice.’

‘What is it?’ Spencer turned to Paul. Their bassist’s blank expression indicated he was way out of it. ‘Do you know?’

Paul wasn’t vocal at the best of times and shrugged disinterestedly. He was stoned. ‘Whatever. I don’t give a shit, man.’

Nate was exasperated. ‘You’re meant to give a shit,’ he said crossly. He was the only one who really cared about this band. Hence the name change.

‘Nate Reid and The Hides,’ he declared. Before anyone could butt in he went on, ‘I’ve been giving it a lot of thought and—’

‘What’s that?’ Felix Bentley, their producer, opened the studio door just in time to catch Nate’s suggestion. He wore a concerned expression.

Nate felt embarrassed–he’d wanted to sound the guys out first before getting Felix involved. ‘Nothing,’ he mumbled, hoping they’d just forget it.

But Spencer wasn’t letting go. ‘No way, man, no way. Every one of us is on a level–we said that from the start.’

‘And it’s not like …’ Chris shook his head. ‘I mean, you’re not, like … established, man. Isn’t that what people do when they’re … I dunno …’ He searched for the word before finishing, ‘Established?’

Nate made a face. ‘I am established.’

‘Yeah,’ Chris muttered, ‘as Chloe’s other half—’

‘What?’ Nate roared, a pellet of spit firing from his mouth.

‘Come on, guys, stick with it.’ Felix lit up. ‘We’re on the right track. No name changes.’

Felix Bentley was one of the most dynamic and innovative music producers in town. He was London-born and had moved to LA in his twenties. Always fond of going back to the big smoke, he had spotted The Hides at a private gig in Camden last year and had immediately got into talks with the guys’ record label. Felix was determined that the band would succeed in the US–their music was world-class, even if their lead singer was a bit of an acquired taste.

‘That’s kind of what I think,’ said Spencer.

‘Sure,’ said Nate, as casually as he could, ‘it was just an idea.’

‘You guys sounded good in there,’ said Felix, ‘seriously good. As far as I’m concerned we can expect big things from this album, with a little bit of work. So let’s focus, not get distracted.’

‘And now let’s get a beer,’ said Nate, deciding to call it a day. The others agreed, and after Felix had wrapped things up in the studio they caught a cab down to Venice.

On the way Nate’s thoughts turned to Chloe, who’d have landed this morning. How dare Chris imply she was more famous than him? It was a fucking outrage. And it sure as shit wasn’t why he’d got together with her in the first place.

In truth he was pretty pissed off at his girlfriend coming to LA, had been looking forward to a bit of freedom. Recently it had become increasingly difficult–the press in London were way too on it. It was weird to be in a place where the names Nate Reid and Chloe French didn’t mean anything, at least not yet. It was liberating. He’d heard Californian chicks were wild and, damn it, he wanted to claim his share.

He supposed he ought to call her. After a few rings the line went dead. Ah, well, at least he’d made the effort.

Felix recommended a bar called Pellys that did the best draught lager he’d found. They got the drinks in and settled into a booth out back. After a while the conversation turned to Hollywood.

‘Actresses are the bollocks,’ supplied Paul, slumped in a corner. ‘Plus American chicks dig the accent, right?’

‘Apparently,’ said Chris, yawning. ‘Nate knows all about that.’

Nate gave his drummer the finger. Chris was referring to the disastrous night he had spent last year in the company of Jessica Bernstein, that snotty heiress from Vegas. She’d been a little raver in the sack but that could work both ways, as Nate had painfully learned when afterwards he hadn’t been able to walk properly for a week.

‘Oh, yeah?’ Felix turned to Nate.

‘Forget it,’ he sulked, still feeling a bit put out. ‘D’you know Chloe’s out here, trying to break into the industry? Like the rest of the world,’ he added cruelly.

Spencer looked confused. ‘She’s in LA?’

‘Yup.’

Chris whistled through his teeth. ‘You’re on a tight leash, my friend.’

‘Hardly,’ said Nate cockily. As if to prove a point, he delivered a wink to a buxom blonde standing at the bar.

‘Is she filming anything?’ asked Felix politely. He’d bumped into Chloe on a video shoot a few years back and remembered how friendly she was.

Nate shrugged. ‘Not sure,’ he said, but he buried the last bit in his beer.

Three hours and countless drinks later, Nate and Chris stumbled out of Pellys.

‘Let’s carry on the party at our place,’ said one of the girls. They had managed to pull two red-headed identical twins, one of whom was slightly more attractive than the other. Nate knew if it came to it then he’d get dibs on her–but who knew what kind of twisted shit twins liked to get up to.

‘Lead the way, ladies,’ said Chris, as the four of them piled into a cab.

The twins’ apartment in Westwood was sprawling and filled with girly possessions, most of which were strewn carelessly about the place. Nate decided they must be extremely rich. It was definitely a single ladies’ pad–skimpy bikini tops hung from the backs of chairs, floor-to-ceiling mirrors covered the walls, sun creams and perfume bottles lay open on their sides and an array of pastel knickers littered the floor. He smirked, imagining they must spend a lot of time walking around naked.

Within two minutes of entering the apartment, Slightly-Less-Attractive Twin dragged Nate down on to a sofa and pinned him with her elbows. ‘You’re so sexy!’ she snarled, attacking his mouth with hers, which was sticky with lip gloss.

Out the corner of his eye Nate saw that the same thing was happening to Chris, only Chris had managed to pull the prettier one. It was a funny thing, like his one’s features were exactly the same only a little bit … off centre. He needed to steer this thing back on track.

‘Whoa, whoa,’ he said, gently pushing her away. In response she peeled off her top and buoyantly sprang free. No bra needed there, then.

She looked across at her twin and the other girl did the same. They were giggling and touching themselves up at the same time, which was a weird combination.

Chris looked like a little boy in a sweet shop.

‘Let’s just cool it a minute,’ said Nate, producing some smoking paraphernalia from the back pocket of his jeans. ‘Smoke a little, chill a little.’

Slightly-Less-Attractive Twin pouted and reached for her top.

‘No need to do that,’ clarified Nate quickly.

‘Let’s all get totally naked!’ squealed the other one. Yes, she was definitely much prettier. Nate would have her later–if he quickly swopped them round he doubted Chris would know the difference anyway.

Chris, scarcely believing his luck, stood to unzip his jeans.

Nate paused in rolling the joint and made a ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ gesture. His friend immediately sat back down.

God, Chris needed some serious tuition in the art of getting girls into bed–the trick was in keeping your cool, not giving away too much too soon. Deciding the same didn’t apply to the twins, he instructed them to remove the rest of their clothes.

It was pretty crazy, this seeing double malarkey. Both girls had identical bodies–there was no doubt their chests were surgically enhanced but the rest seemed real enough–apart from one having a mole to the left of her tummy button. Nate was pleased to see the cuffs matched the collar, which was definitely a turn-on. Yup, it was red-head all the way.

Chris was slack-jawed. It struck Nate that he didn’t get laid all too often.

After smoking a couple of joints one of the girls disappeared into the bedroom and emerged with a bag of coke. Things were looking up.

Several lines and lethal rum cocktails later, everyone was naked. Nate didn’t know any more which twin he was getting off with–at one point he might have been getting off with Chris-and he didn’t much care. His dick felt amazing: it was huge, a tower, the centre of the universe as the twins lapped at it and its length disappeared into one of their mouths, both, everyone’s. The rest of his body became a mere appendage to the pursuit of his cock, and the thought occurred that the rest of him might be shrinking as it grew and swelled, until he was nothing but a great big cock and that great big cock was set to take over the world.

Vaguely he was aware of Chris going down on one of the girls. Then the other one, or maybe it was the same one, was slipping a condom on, but it felt like it only covered the very top. Nothing was big enough to contain him. And, as he slid into heaven, he closed his eyes and gave himself up.

He was in America. He had arrived. And what Chloe French didn’t know couldn’t hurt her.