‘Mac Valerie.’ He thrust out his hand with all the grace and ceremony of a wooden stick. He didn’t seem interested in chitchat and gestured for them to settle beneath a wide cream parasol, from where he’d presumably been watching the round. Judging by the shambolic array of photographs and paperwork laid out on the table, Lori had the impression that Mac’s business meetings were normally quite relaxed.
‘You wanna be my Valerie girl, then, do ya?’ He slipped on a pair of shades and sat back, plump fingers locked over a generous stomach.
Desideria answered. ‘Lori has an irresistibly fresh look. She’s a healthy contrast to what’s out there right now.’
Mac spotted someone inside the house and yelled, ‘LEMONADE!’ Then he turned to the women. ‘You like lemonade?’
‘Sure.’ Desideria smiled tightly. ‘Who doesn’t like lemonade?’
Mac removed his sunglasses and squinted at Lori. ‘What makes you think you’ve got what it takes? I got broads queuing for this contract, big names, too.’
‘Lori may be new to the industry,’ put in Jacqueline, ‘but we’ve had a fantastic reaction to her across the board. People are ready to embrace something different. She’s a
real woman
, not just skin and bone. That’s who the Valerie brand speaks to. Real women. We see it as the perfect partnership.’
‘No offence, lady, but can you do me a favour and zip it?’
As Jacqueline had suspected, Mac Valerie was a jerk-off. A huge-breasted blonde wandered out brandishing a tray. She was clad in a lime bikini, the bottom part of which did little to cover her ass. As she deposited the drinks and turned to go back inside, Mac slapped her on it.
At last his gaze fixed on Lori. ‘Well?’
Lori wanted this contract. She needed it. It was another step away from the life she’d left behind, and another step towards the only thing she truly wanted.
‘What Jacqueline said is true,’ she began. ‘A super-skinny image of women isn’t helpful to anyone. As I understand it, the Valerie range is about creating a natural, glowing look, something that makes women feel well and that makes us happy in our own skin, working with what we already have instead of fighting against it. And when
we feel well, we look well, whatever our shape and size. I believe I can be the person who says this for you.’
Mac slurped his lemonade. Without preamble he snapped at her with a Polaroid camera, flapping the prints in the sun. Lori noticed how hairy his hands were, loads of hair all down the knuckles and wrists, like a wolf. On his fingers he wore fat gold rings. The hair on his head was receding and the diamonds left by its retreat sweated in the sun.
‘Pretty nice.’ He scrutinised the photos. ‘She’s got what my wife calls “best friend eyes”. But that kinda depends who’s lookin’ at it, don’t it?’
‘“Best friend eyes” sums it up,’ confirmed Jacqueline, pleased.
‘She’s … cute. Like if I were a girl I’d wanna talk to her, confide in her, whatever women do.’ He raised a bushy eyebrow. ‘But if I were a guy … well, to be frank, I’d wanna f—’
‘You’d have Lori exclusively as the Valerie Girl for a twelve-month contract,’ Desideria interjected. ‘She’ll be all yours—and, guaranteed, Mac, this is going to be an electric year for her. Valerie needs a fresh style, it needs reinvigoration, and none of the old names can do it for you. It’s time to innovate, push things forward.’
Lori held her hands together in her lap, tightly, as though she didn’t trust herself not to reach out for a golden opportunity that was close enough now to touch. She thought of the sticky salon walls at
Tres Hermanas
, the flies that buzzed round the counter and her stepsisters’ bitching and whining. It was miles away. She thought of her father, of Corazón on her veranda back in Spain, listening to her radio. And Rico, the boy she’d adored but never loved—if
love was what she felt for JB Moreau—alone, in jail. The totems of her old life.
‘I like her,’ announced Mac. ‘And it’s about time I did business with Moreau.’ The name, in whoever’s mouth, was like a poem. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
They didn’t have to wait. Mac called on the drive back to La Lumière.
‘No point seein’ the others,’ he told Desideria. ‘It’s her I want.’
A week later, JB invited them to celebrate. The Mac Valerie contract was a coup.
‘Moreau doesn’t meet with everyone,’ Desideria told her. ‘Consider yourself lucky.’
Lori did. This was it, at last, her big chance. She hadn’t seen him since the Frontline Vegas event, a night that had made clear the gulf between them. Perhaps now she had tied the deal with Mac they would finally have a legitimate reason to speak. His behaviour had puzzled her at first, but now she understood. When JB Moreau, mogul of the fashion world and a man with both reputation and responsibilities, had walked into her life that day, he’d never expected to be confronted months later with the same girl. No wonder he had closed up. He had probably felt as embarrassed as she had. And what real occasion had they had to speak candidly about what happened? None whatsoever. She felt certain that this lunch invitation was a sign of his intentions. She had secured this contract for them both: for the sake of what might be.
She spent ages deciding what to wear. It was strange having this much choice—her wardrobe now consisted of gorgeous clothes she would never have dreamed of owning
but had been told to keep after shoots—and while every one was beautiful in its own way, none was quite right. It looked as if she was trying too hard.
That’s because I am
.
In the end she plumped for a cream vest top, silk highwaisted trousers and shoe boots, her hair tied back in a ponytail.
They were lunching at exclusive LA eaterie La Côte. In the car, Lori spritzed fragrance in the hollows behind her ears and attempted to slow her breathing. She was so accustomed to JB in pieces, fragments she would take away with her and turn over in her hands and her memory—glimpses of him at the agency, at parties, facts people told her—that the realisation of him in his entirety was difficult to fathom. What would he say to her? What would she say back? Would there be a chance to talk alone?
La Côte boasted an ocean view of Venice Beach, the glittering green of the Pacific carving a line through the hot sands of her anxiety. She asked the car to drop her a block away. Her heart was thrumming wildly. Several times she started towards the restaurant then turned back, walked the avenue and gathered herself.
This is so dumb! He’s just a guy!
Only, he wasn’t. He was something else.
Passers-by regarded her strangely. They seemed so carefree, enjoying the LA sun, the beach and the shimmering blue as they bladed waterside, caught a tan and licked ice cream.
Remember the way he kissed you. He meant it, he meant it …
She took a deep breath.
Do it before you change your mind
.
As Lori had imagined, he was seated on the terrace with
Desideria, Jacqueline and Mac. She spotted them straight away, made as if she hadn’t, so Desideria had to wave and gesture for her to come on over. The walk to that table was the longest of her life.
JB stood to meet her. In seconds she had absorbed every detail, attraction honing her powers of observation to something animalistic. Loose white shirt rolled up at the sleeves, open at the neck; hair darker than she remembered, but those on his arms were lighter, bleached by the sun; a smile that lifted, just a fraction, the groove of his scar. She recalled kissing it, the strange pleat that had felt against her lips that much more pronounced, like a tongue probing a missing tooth.
‘Lori.’
He made her name sound like a marble he was rolling around inside his mouth. He kissed her on both cheeks—properly, not one of the air kisses to which she was getting accustomed—and the smell of him was achingly clean and new, like something just born, but at the same time steeped in the experience of vast ages, as if a part of him had been living for ever.
‘Sit down, please, we were waiting to order.’
‘Thanks.’ She was amazed it came out as steady as it did. ‘Sorry I’m late.’
JB leaned back in his chair, reaching behind to a chilled wine bucket. A waiter dashed over to assist but was dismissed with a subtle gesture.
‘You’re in time for champagne.’ She loved the way he said ‘champagne’.
‘A Valerie Girl should always be a bit late.’ Jacqueline smiled, lifting her glass for JB to fill. ‘Isn’t that right, Mac?’
Mac Valerie winked, his squat dark head protruding
out of a garish shirt. ‘Nothin’ like makin’ an entrance.’ He tossed an olive into his open mouth. ‘An’ I should know.’
‘To the new Valerie Girl,’ proposed JB, raising his own glass. As he drank he watched Lori over the top of it. ‘And to all she will become.’
Lori peeled her eyes away. She couldn’t look at him. He made her feel naked. How could the others fail to notice the effect he was having? She felt like a quivering schoolgirl, all the confidence and courage she’d willed back at the apartment evaporated like steam.
The women fell into conversation with Mac. JB signalled their waiter and ordered oysters as an appetiser. At last, he turned to Lori.
‘Was it a surprise?’ he asked.
His question threw her. ‘Excuse me?’
‘I said: Was it a surprise?’
From his tone Lori didn’t think he was asking about the Valerie contract. Then again, maybe he was. ‘Yes,’ she answered.
‘It was for me, too.’
The blue eyes shone and she remembered what Desideria had told her:
All he has to do is snap his fingers and they come running … The next day, they’re history …
Groping for something to say, Lori noticed the extra place set at the table.
‘Is Val joining us?’ she enquired.
At this, Mac flipped open his menu, greedily eyeing its wares. ‘No, thank Christ. Which means I’m orderin’ a feast guaranteed to shoot my cholesterol to shit.’
Desideria made a face, which she concealed in her champagne glass.
‘Rebecca’s running late,’ she explained to Lori, with an expression of apology.
Lori was confused. Who was Rebecca?
But Desideria’s eyes switched to JB’s and in that moment she felt the light slip out of her, discreet as a door closing on a sleeping child.
‘Rebecca?’ she asked, in a voice too small.
The oysters arrived, pearlescent innards on a shell like rock. The smell of the sea.
JB gestured for them to begin. ‘I’m sure she won’t mind.’ He glanced at Lori, and before he even said it she knew.
‘Rebecca is my wife.’
28
Present Day
Island of Cacatra, Indian Ocean
Three hours to departure
‘Sonofa
bitch
!’
Reuben van der Meyde exited the shower, cursing under his breath. Couldn’t a man get ten minutes’ peace ahead of a major event? It seemed not. No sooner had he digested his crisis meeting with JB than he got buzzed with news that one of his A-list guests had arrived early. The guy clearly deemed himself so important that he thought nothing of rocking up hours before he was due. Fucking stars!
Reuben charged down the stairs, stark naked and dripping with water. He favoured stalking about nude. Towels were a constraint.
‘Miss Jensen,’ he bellowed when he reached the hall. In moments, his housekeeper appeared, unsurprised by his nakedness but conscious that his young son was about.
‘Mr V!’ she chided, presenting him with the first thing
that came to hand, one of Ralph’s comics. In truth she was disgusted by Reuben’s body—how dare he parade around in such a state? Was he playing with her, teasing her? Did he imagine she found him desirable? The sight of his shrivelled penis, hanging miserably in its greying fuzz of coppery pubic hair, revolted her. His pale, muscular thighs and short, bulbous calves … the picture was horrifying. She heaved at the memory of her own nakedness entwined with his all those years ago, the way, for he had been a skilled lover, she had enjoyed it and begged for more. Small comfort was the thought that his body had been different then, though whether it really had, or if it was just her view that had changed, she wasn’t sure.
‘I’m not available till seven, understood?’ he snapped, snatching the comic and tossing it to one side. ‘No matter who shows up.’
Margaret nodded. ‘Are you expecting an early arrival?’ She hoped her contact hadn’t fouled up before they were even out of the starting gates: after all, he was only young. The slightest whiff that Reuben suspected anything amiss sent her heart plummeting.
‘Already here,’ Reuben said bitterly, hands on hips. ‘And take a wild guess who?’
Margaret had no time to respond before they heard a commotion on the patio steps that sounded dangerously like a star with his entourage.
‘Goddamnit!’ Reuben turned and shot up the main steps, two or three at a time, like a bare-bottomed monkey mounting a tree. ‘Stall ‘em, you got it? I’ll be there in a minute.’
It was five minutes, in fact, till Reuben appeared out front, pristine in white shorts and a loose cotton shirt, reddish chest visible where the top buttons were undone. He
spotted his guest straight away, a marvel of a man with his broad back to the house, clad in a vanilla linen suit as he faced the wide ocean. A crew of ten or fifteen hangers-on fussed around him.
‘Jax Jackson,’ Reuben boomed, extending his hand to greet the Olympic megastar, ‘this is an unexpected pleasure.’
Jax Jackson turned, his manner and bearing that of someone who knew there was a part of every man that wanted to be him—not be
like
him, but
be
him. It was a nice philosophy.
‘What’s up, Roob?’ He shook Reuben’s hand, who tried not to baulk at the crass abbreviation. ‘Not a bad place you’ve got.’ He leaned against the marble balustrade, tilting his face to the sun so it gleamed off his black skin. If Jax had been a painting, or a sculpture, he would have been hailed a masterpiece. At over six feet tall, he was a pillar of pure dark muscle, as strong and graceful as a stallion. His was the body of a god, a warrior, a titan: physically, he was nothing short of exquisite. He was also the fastest man on the planet, the World Record Holder for the 100-metre sprint. Jax’s Olympic training meant he was often booked into the rejuvenation spa for rest and recuperation, hence the over-familiar greeting, no doubt.