He must have had the surprise of his life when Desideria brought her back from Spain, a girl he’d written off as too insignificant, too poor and wretched, to ever darken his door. But any small comfort she felt at that was quickly overshadowed by the realisation she was now working for him, entirely under his power, and to walk away from this opportunity, because of the impossible position he’d put her in, was not a sacrifice she was prepared to make.
Whatever had passed between them that day at
Tres Hermanas
, it clearly meant nothing.
She hated JB Moreau. Where once she had nurtured
adoration, she now tended loathing, growing it from the soil, a tangled vine she was eventually able to bind herself in, and in that containment instruct herself to set him free.
Hours turned into days, days turned into weeks, and gradually she learned to forget. Each time he emerged in her memory, she concentrated on holding him down, like someone pushing an adversary underwater and waiting for them to drown. She trained herself to let go and found she had a greater capacity for it than she knew. She stopped replaying every second of the altercation with Diego Marquez and his crew. She stopped thinking about how it felt in the interior of JB’s car. She stopped trying to conjure his voice in the lonely hours of the night. The kiss shivered in her memory until finally it became still.
The mansion was enormous, more space than Lori would ever need. With tennis courts, a basement gym and a huge infinity pool, it was excessive: she would never use half the stuff, and when she crawled, exhausted, between the sheets at the end of another long day, she felt the vastness of her new home around her. Everyone assured her this was fitting for a model in her position—she couldn’t live in that crummy downtown apartment for ever.
In August, she called her father. She’d been putting it off. It wasn’t for lack of wanting to see him, it was because she no longer felt like the girl he’d known and was afraid that would make them strangers.
The sight of him pained her. Tony had dressed for the occasion in a jacket and trousers and smelled of astringent cologne. Lori hugged him at the mansion door, where he presented her with a limp bunch of flowers. In the kitchen
she ran a basin of water and positioned the bouquet so the stems were submerged.
‘Let’s sit outside,’ she said, sensing his discomfort at her new surroundings. She gave him a look between pride and apology, didn’t want him to think she was showing off but aware that was how it might look. ‘Want to try the pool?’
Tony smiled. ‘Aren’t you going to give me a tour?’
She led him upstairs, through the guest suites with their adjacent bathrooms and walk-in closets, then her own bedroom, its stripped floors and mammoth white-silk bed and the views of downtown Hollywood that stretched to the skyline.
He stood at the window, hands in pockets. ‘You took a chance, Loriana.’
‘Some days I feel like it was chance that took me.’
His face relaxed and she caught a glimpse of the father she used to know. ‘Your mama would be proud.’
Lori thought of her mother’s treasured salon, the place in which she’d endured the greatest misery of her years—and, just once, the greatest joy. But she turned her back on that.
‘Did you receive the money?’ she asked.
Tony nodded. ‘You shouldn’t have sent it.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s yours. You earned it. I don’t want you bailing me out, Lori. It’s not your responsibility.’
‘It’s both our responsibilities.’
He appraised her, searching for something. When he found it, he said, ‘Thank you.’
Back downstairs, they settled by the water. Tony appeared awkward, too heavily clothed for the heat, and removed his jacket and loosened his shirt.
‘How are the girls?’ Lori enquired. She couldn’t care
less for Rosa and Anita, but was prepared to acknowledge this was the only common ground she could tread with her father. What she wanted to ask was how they felt about her new-found fame—Angélica, too. But Tony wasn’t saying, and her pride didn’t allow her to ask.
‘The same.’
‘And you? How are you?’
‘Apart from missing my daughter, I’m getting by.’
‘Oh, Papa.’ She touched his arm but he waved away her concern. ‘Now I’m settled we can see more of each other. I’ll make sure of it.’ But the promise was faint.
‘Are you happy?’
She considered the question. ‘I think so.’
‘This is a big place for you to live all by yourself …’
‘It feels it.’
Tony licked his lips, clasped his hands together. ‘And our place is small … for the four of us. What I mean to say is, Angélica feels we might …’
She could tell where this was going. The thought appalled her. She stood up. ‘I’m sorry, the answer is no.’
Tony reached out, caught only the tips of her fingers as she moved away. ‘Angélica wanted me to ask you. She said there was no way you could need all this to yourself—’
‘And what has it got to do with her?’ Lori bit her lip to stop her anger escaping. She’d spent the past few months convinced she’d moved on from that downtrodden girl at
Tres Hermanas
, the unhappiness of her life with her stepfamily, and couldn’t tolerate the notion that all those sensitivities were still there, waiting beneath the surface.
He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned it. I told her it was unreasonable.’
‘Couldn’t she have mentioned it herself?’ Lori folded her arms.
‘She didn’t feel she was welcome.’
‘But she feels welcome enough to invite herself to live in my house, is that it?’
Tony glanced to the ground. Here was the father she had become so exasperated by. What was he now, merely Angélica’s puppet? This was the reason she had got out in the first place. If he thought for one second she could return to that scenario, he was dead wrong.
‘Papa.’ She came to him, her voice softening. ‘You know there is always a place for you.’ Her omission was clear.
‘I understand,’ he said. ‘It was wrong of me.’
‘No, it wasn’t.’ She wanted to add,
It was wrong of Angélica
, but didn’t. Her conscience buckled. If Tony was her responsibility and they, in turn, were his, where did that leave them? She had this whole mansion to herself, while he was cramped in his old age in a tiny house barely big enough for one. Guilt pawed at her. What would her mother tell her to do?
‘I’ll think about it,’ she told him, sick in her soul at the glimmer of hope in his eyes.
‘I have a proposition,’ said Jacqueline, stirring mint tea. ‘His name’s Peter Selznick.’
‘Who?’
‘From
No Husbands Needed
.’ Her publicist cited a mega-hit year-old sitcom. ‘Getting into movies. Tipped to be big.’ She winked. ‘And
very
good-looking.’
The women were at a café on Melrose Avenue. Barely twenty-four hours had passed since the Valerie deal without the women talking, and while Jacqueline had started in
a junior, apprentice-type role at One Touch, with her first client’s stratospheric rise to fame she had swiftly been promoted. Though Lori knew little of the ins and outs of the PR machine, she could tell that Jacqueline was extremely good at her job.
Lori frowned. ‘OK …’
‘It’d do wonders for your profiles to be seen out together. Even better, to take it to the next level.’
‘Sorry.’ She was confused. ‘You’ll have to slow down. The next level?’
Jacqueline smiled triumphantly. ‘Weren’t you saying Bay Heights was too big for you?’
Lori never used the mansion’s formal title—it made it sound like a hotel. ‘Yeah, so.?’
‘So, Peter’s ready to move in!’ She shrugged, as though it were obvious. ‘Everything’s been finalised and we’re all on board. Now we just need your OK.’
Lori was shocked. ‘Hang on: you want a
complete stranger
to move into my house?’
‘He’s not a
complete stranger
; he’s well-known—just not to you.’ Lori tried to make sense of this logic while Jacqueline took the opportunity to plough on. ‘And the house is plenty large enough to accommodate you both leading independent lives. Think of it like advertising for someone to share your apartment! People do that all the time.’
‘Hang on.’ She was struggling to keep up. ‘Why?’
Jacqueline made a so-so face. ‘Think of it like you scratch his back, he scratches yours.’
‘I don’t want to scratch his back.’
‘Come on, you know what I mean. This is a fantastic
publicity opportunity for you
both
, and like I said you’ll only really be roomies. There’s nothing to lose.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘But what? Who knows,’ she teased, ‘maybe after a while you won’t want to keep things so separate.’
Lori blushed. She was conscious of a gaggle of girls on the sidewalk opposite taking her photograph. ‘I hope he wouldn’t be expecting—’
‘Of course not.’ Briskly Jacqueline shook her head. ‘Peter’s fully aware of your situation and the importance of, well…’
‘Keeping me intact?’
Jacqueline smiled. ‘What do you say?’
Lori thought about it. Reporters had been unremitting in asking about boyfriends and fiancés—a handsome guy on her arm could be just what she needed. Even better one who, at last, accepted her virginity.
And it would show JB Moreau I’m over him
.
She ignored the voice that added:
I hope it hurts
.
‘I’d want to meet Peter first,’ she said.
‘Naturally.’
‘And make sure I like him.’
‘Obviously.’
‘And then …’ She recalled the conversation she’d had with her father. Angélica wouldn’t want to move in if she had a man living there, would she? ‘It could work. I guess.’
‘Excellent.’ Jacqueline glanced at her hand. ‘You’ll need to take that ring off for starters.’
Lori followed her gaze. She had gotten so used to wearing Rico’s ring that she could almost forget it was there. Initially there had been speculation, before One Touch had assured the world it was a family heirloom.
‘Oh. Right.’
Jacqueline sensed her hesitation. ‘If you’d rather not …’
‘No, it’s fine.’ Lori twisted it. It caught on the knuckle then slid off with ease. The ring had been on her hand for over a year, and its absence left behind a thin whitish band of skin.
Rico
.
It’s a promise …
‘Will La Lumière know about Peter?’ she asked.
Jacqueline took a sip of her tea and set the cup down. ‘The fewer people are aware of the arrangement, the better—that’s how it works in this town. Though I’d imagine Moreau would back it. He’s tyrannical about his own press, or lack thereof.’
Lori bit the inside of her lip. Of course JB would back it. He’d seen her in the first place as some kind of prostitute—why shouldn’t he pimp her out, invite others to have a go?
The words were out before she could stop herself, a slight but satisfying stab at revenge.
‘Did I mention JB and I met before I was signed to the agency?’
Jacqueline looked up, surprised. ‘No.’
‘He came into the salon where I worked. Some guys were giving me trouble and he stepped in to help.’
‘That’s odd. Are you sure it was him?’
The idea of mistaking JB for anyone else was laughable. ‘Positive. But when we met again at La Lumière, he made like he didn’t know me.’
Jacqueline raised an eyebrow. ‘I wouldn’t think you’re the first.’
‘That’s the conclusion I’ve reached.’
‘Then you’re catching on fast. He probably didn’t remember.’
‘Probably.’
‘Between you and me, he’s an asshole.’
‘Hmm.’
Jacqueline sat back. ‘Oh no.’
‘What?’
‘Not you as well.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Look around, this city’s
packed
with hot guys; he isn’t the only damn one! The way you lot carry on, you’d think he was the last man alive. You’re best off out of it, Lori. I’m sick of seeing women being pathetic over him, he’s not all that.’
‘What about you?’
‘What about me?’
‘Weren’t you ever …?’
‘Tempted? No.’ But Lori saw how her gaze flickered.
‘It’s irrelevant now,’ Lori concluded. ‘I’m over it.’
‘You’d better be,’ warned Jacqueline, pushing back her chair. ‘Because there’s more going on with that guy than you even want to know about.’
‘There is?’
‘Come on.’ Jacqueline grabbed her purse. ‘We don’t want to keep Peter waiting. I’ve got phone calls to make.’
30
Aurora
Aurora was back in LA for summer vacation. It had been ages since she’d returned to the Nash/Rose mansion and she was surprised to discover that she missed England. She missed Europe, she guessed, another continent, because that was where the most momentous events of her life so far had taken place. Here, she was just another starlet with an empty head and pockets full of money. She didn’t want to be that person any more.
Her first night back, Farrah Michaels called.
‘Hey, you wanna party?’ It seemed that, after months apart, Farrah was prepared to bury the hatchet. Aurora couldn’t remember what they’d fallen out so publicly about, but she’d never been one to hold a grudge.
‘Sure.’ Though, her heart wasn’t in it.
They went to Basement—for old times’ sake?—and drank shots of dark, intoxicating liquid and got high in the back of Farrah’s BMW. Aurora couldn’t begin to explain
everything that had happened since she’d started at St Agnes—Pascale, the abortion, Paris—and anyway, Farrah didn’t ask. Instead she yabbed on about how her dad was pulling strings for her to take the lead in one of Searchbeam’s upcoming movies. It went over Aurora’s head; she wasn’t interested. The conversations she had with Pascale were enlightening, intelligent; about real, important things … She drank through the mind-freeze of Farrah’s dialogue and thought about the difference between women and girls.
Farrah could never understand the stuff she’d done. She’d be grossed out at the idea of Pascale and wouldn’t be able to grasp the concept of a connection, a soul mate, regardless of sex. And as for the abortion … For endless nights Aurora had cried into her pillow, hollow inside, worried she was a murderer. Pascale had been hard about it—’Get used to it: nobody cares except you’—telling her she had to forget what happened; even, once, saying how bored she was of being Aurora’s sole confidante. In retrospect it had been her salvation. Pascale’s coolness meant everything was still normal and she wasn’t some victim or leper people had to tiptoe around for fear of contamination. From Farrah’s perspective she’d be both of those and more.