by Victoria Fox
Yet here he was, besieged and cursed, tripped and taunted in the endless labyrinth of his waking nightmare. His palms were sweating. He wiped them on his trousers. He checked the mirror again. The black car was still in pursuit.
‘Here we are.’ Oliver was all business as their vehicle pulled up at the studio. Mitch sank down in his seat. The black car slid past, its windows opaque.
‘Senator Corrigan, it’s an honour, thanks again for joining us.’ A smiling producer led him through the rear entrance, and he was encouraged by Oliver to raise a hand to the waiting band of paps shouting his name. Ten minutes in Make-up and he was set.
Mitch had to wait backstage while Jerry Gersham’s star billing took the stage. Noah Lawson was that rare concoction to which every actor aspires: looks, charm and talent. It was why he was Hollywood’s hottest property. Mitch knew that while he himself had done an OK job, somehow garnering his handprint on the Walk of Fame, he had hardly been the most versatile of players. In fact, his acting was shit.
‘Side with me if you want to ride with me.’ Good grief.
The studio audience went crazy as Noah told a joke. The actor ran his hand through his blond hair and gave them an easy grin. So charming, so relaxed …
Mitch wished it could be that straightforward for him.
The studio lights burned. A trickle of sweat travelled down his neck and into his collar. His tongue bloated. His lungs squeezed. Panic rose in his belly.
The house at Veroli flashed terribly through his mind. The thing …
Mitch released a strangled cry. He could take it no longer. He felt his asshole begin to protest, that horrid twitching dance it forced him into whenever it recoiled against a further assault, as if still reeling from the penetration two years before, as if so certain it was about to happen again: his poor, vulnerable, raided asshole.
‘And now, ladies and gentlemen, please welcome my final guest for this evening. D’you want to ride with him?’ Cue roar. ‘It’s Senator Mitch Corrigan!’
But it was too late. The wings were empty. Mitch had already fled.
14
New York
Tawny Lascelles was partying in a club on Gansevoort Street, less with friends than with tolerable randoms who were out to get papped with anyone who was anyone and, better still, the most desirable supermodel on the scene. Who cared if the hangers-on were genuine, so long as they were the right level of attractive? Which basically meant attractive enough to act as a plumping cushion for Tawny’s irresistible jewel, but not so pretty as to rival her in any discernible way. Tawny did not like to be rivalled.
It was survive on your own in this industry, or don’t survive at all.
Tawny was fresh from this afternoon’s FNYC shoot, her first for Angela Silvers’ tag as it announced the launch of its hyped new range. Working with the upcoming label was her most envied gig to date. She treasured the bitten expressions on her fellow models’ faces as yet another deal went her way. Tawny snagged all the major names. Why? Because she was outrageously stunning, she chilled with the right people and she flirted on that line between innocence and danger that, for all the hard work in the world, models either possessed or they didn’t.
‘Everyone in here’s, like, staring at you,’ teased her wardrobe girl, Minty.
Tawny sighed, sipping vodka as her blue eyes scoped the room.
‘Check out Tess Barnes’ sherbet drainpipes!’ she purred. ‘So unflattering.’
‘I know, sack the stylist.’
‘I like her T-shirt though.’
‘Not as cute as yours.’
‘Serious?’
‘Sure. She’s too bony.’
‘Or I’m too fat?’ Tawny’s retort was quick as a whip.
‘Shit, no! God. You, fat? Come on, you’re the only model that exists right now, far as the bookings go. Tess Barnes is so yesterday. You, babe, are today.’
Minty’s deft brushwork, credited with awarding Tawny the most striking and replicated eyebrows of the decade, was almost as impressive as her charm offensive, which was subtle enough not to be noted by Tawny but sufficiently forceful as to make her utterly indispensable to her number-one client. Tawny, like most models, thrived on compliments. Minty was the best at giving them.
‘I’m bored,’ said Tawny, as Kevin Chase’s new record came on and everyone flocked to the dance floor. ‘Wanna get high?’
The girls vanished into the bathroom. Tawny took a compact from her purse. When she had first been snapped with halos of powder round her nostrils, her manager had freaked and several pussy brands had backed out of their contracts. Now, it was expected—even encouraged. She was a supermodel, not a role model.
Tawny clocked him as soon as they emerged.
‘Great,’ she said. ‘There’s that jerk-off I met in LA.’
‘Who?’
Tawny flicked her mane. ‘Jacob Lyle.’
‘Really? Where?’ Minty’s voice dropped. ‘Shit, he’s sexy, isn’t he?’
‘If you say so.’
‘Not for you?’
‘He’s so full of himself it’s coming out his ass.’
Minty giggled. ‘Should we go say hello?’ she asked.
‘No way—he’s a fucking perv.’
But Minty saw how Tawny narrowed her eyes, checking that if Jacob Lyle were indeed a perv, then he would be perving exclusively on her. It was the same story wherever they went: Tawny had to be the most attractive girl in the room and, eleven times out of ten, she was. What was it with models? They had been given exteriors most girls could only dream of, yet however gorgeous or successful they became, the jaws of insecurity went eternally snapping at their Louboutin heels. Tawny was legendary for her constant appraisal of other women. Despite being tagged the World’s Most Beautiful, the Sexiest American or the Most Significant Style Icon Since Marilyn Monroe, the supermodel existed in fear of her crown being snatched.
Other women were perpetual and dreadful threats. Minty recalled a gallery opening they had been invited to last year, from which Tawny had demanded to leave almost immediately. She never admitted it, but Minty knew. Another woman at the function had been enticing male attention: Celeste Cavalieri, the Italian jeweller. Celeste’s allure was at the other end of the spectrum from Tawny’s: she was thin and petite, with a pixie crop of sable hair and deerskin-brown eyes. Celeste’s beauty was quiet. It did not shout from the rooftops and it did not flaunt or strut. It did not even know itself.
Celeste hadn’t noticed the attention—let alone cared. Tawny couldn’t bear it.
‘Did Jacob come on to you?’ Minty asked now, keeping their exchange on safe ground.
‘Yeah.’ Tawny polished off the vodka. ‘Course.’
‘What did he say?’
‘I can’t remember.’
But that was a lie. Tawny remembered every word. Sometimes she replayed it in her mind and it turned her on so much that she had to vanish into the nearest toilet cubicle and plunge her fingers into her knickers until she came.
‘If you’re so hot on Mr Lyle,’ Tawny commented, ‘he’s all yours.’
It stank of bullshit. The thought of Minty Patrick receiving Jacob’s attentions was unthinkable. Jacob had been enamoured by her, by Tawny; his tongue had practically been hanging out of his mouth. Tawny knew he was a blatant, shameless womaniser, the kind of arrogant that, while you sussed it, was irritatingly appealing, and she recalled the flutter of interest when it emerged he’d once referred to university campuses (Jacob’s preferred haunts for checking out fresh talent, business or otherwise) as ‘cam-pussies’, for the sheer number of girls he bedded. This sort of thing ought to send women screaming for the hills, but somehow, with Jacob’s swag, had them screaming in their beds at night with a dildo vibrating between their legs.
Tawny was the fairest of them all—and she planned to make Jacob work for it.
‘We’re going.’ She grabbed her purse.
‘What? Already?’
‘Tell JP to send a car.’
After another toilet refreshment, the women took the elevator down to the street. It was a cold night and Tawny wrapped her fur tighter as they were ushered into a hovering car. Deliberately she faced away from the road opposite. The only downside to her beloved Tower Club was its neighbouring joint, the gritty, grimy Rams & Rude Girls Dancing Bar. As usual, the memories clung on, dripping poison.
Tawny had been a different girl when she had first arrived in New York.
Another life. One she could never, ever go back to.
She’d had nothing and no one. Running from Sunnydale, the hick town where she’d grown up, Tawny Linden had been an ugly duckling desperate to make something of her future. Maybe she would become an actress, or write a film script, or find a rich boyfriend. Instead, she had been picked up by Nathan, a man who made his living skulking the subway and collecting waifs and strays like old coins.
Beyond her lank hair, train-tracks and wide, trusting eyes, Nathan had seen Tawny’s potential. Bar work, he’d sold it as. Good pay. The start of a new chapter …
She should go with him, he said. He would look after her.
Nathan certainly did—and then some. He looked after her every morning. Every night. Every hour in between, until she was sore and ragged and weeping …
Tawny Linden had been powerless to leave. She could not go back. The Rams was the closest thing she had to a home and, over the coming months, as her beauty surfaced and her duckling became a swan, she began to bat for the big league.
That was when the competition really got going.
It was always a question of which Rams girls the punters wanted that night, who was prettiest and who they were prepared to pay most for. That was how the girls earned their keep. From the beginning Tawny understood she had to be the chosen girl, always, every time—she had to be the hottest, the most willing, the sexiest and the best—in case the Rams decided she wasn’t bagging the dollars and fired her ass out onto the street. She’d have ended up a hooker, just another sunken-eyed junkie begging for dimes. OK, the work wasn’t easy—the men she was forced to service, the things they had made her do—but it was a damn sight better than that.
Thank Christ she had gotten out when she did.
‘You OK?’ asked Minty. ‘You look like you saw a ghost.’
Manhattan rushed past. The Mercedes was warm, the seats plush. Tawny lit a cigarette and opened the window, flicking the butt with red-painted talons.
‘I’m better than OK,’ she said. ‘I’m Tawny Lascelles.’
Minty gave a nervous laugh.
‘No kidding,’ she said. ‘Haven’t you always been?’
But Tawny didn’t reply.
15
Celeste Cavalieri held the diamond up to the light. It twinkled and dazzled between her fingers, a plum-sized explosion of brilliance. She angled it, examining the way it refracted and dispelled the gleam, her eyes trained to hunt out the tiniest imperfection. The clarity was superb, a fifty-two carat Peruzzi with faceted girdle. Bright white.
She would never consider lifting a piece such as this, but the magnetism was always there. It wasn’t about the value, or even the object itself—it was simply the thrill of the steal. Once, Celeste had taken a comb from a woman’s open bag, next to her at an exhibition. Once, she had slipped from a Paris department store with a silk scarf folded away in her purse. Once, she had removed a silver-plated espresso cup from a bistro in Bruges. It didn’t matter what it was. It mattered that she took it.
‘Are you nearly done?’
Celeste jumped. She turned to the museum overseer, who had popped his head round the door. ‘Sorry,’ she smiled, ‘you startled me.’
‘It gets quiet in here, huh.’
‘Sure does.’
He returned her smile. ‘Let me know when you’re ready?’
Celeste nodded. The door closed behind him and she exhaled.
Never again! But every time was the last. Every time she swore she was through. Celeste Cavalieri was revered, a trusted asset to the world’s richest families. As if she had to push that trust, a dare, to see how far it would strain …
She touched the bracelet on her wrist, ruby and silver. Her first ever steal, from a castle in Hungary. She could see it now: buried deep in the forest, its turrets rising like a drawing in a fairytale. The owner had been an ex-banker, living there with his son. Their names escaped her now. Strange people. The son had a stammer.
Celeste had been summoned to value a painting of the banker’s deceased wife, commissioned to the finest artist of the decade. A portrait of a woman, hung dourly in the castle’s Great Hall, the oil thick and dingy and the features encased in shadow …
A channel of cold seeped down her spine.
Carefully, reverently, Celeste replaced the museum diamond in its casket. The jewel shone as a nugget of treasure on the ocean floor, seductive and dangerous.
Exiting the building on Central Park West, she was met by a bustling hive of rush-hour workers and sky-facing tourists. As she hailed a cab, her attention was caught by a bizarre headline on a nearby newsstand. She did a double-take, scarcely believing her eyes. It read:
ITALIAN INDUSTRIALIST INVOLVED IN ALIEN HOAX.
Celeste approached. The accompanying photograph showed Signor Rossetti being escorted from the Veroli house she had run a valuation at back in February.
Detectives stormed the financier’s hidden-away mansion at the weekend and described what they found as ‘a grave and bold deception’. Rossetti and his wife were arrested on suspicion of three counts of fraud, including extortion of money from a group of as yet unnamed conspiracy theorists. Claiming their estate to be a UFO crash site, the Rossettis’ replica was ‘impressive’ and ‘high-concept’, prompting Rossetti to be tagged ‘the Martian magician’ …
Celeste was startled. No doubt about it, the Veroli house had been peculiar, even by the standards she was used to—these old money clans were invariably eccentric, their half-forgotten-about painting, battered coffer of Grandmother’s gems or relic hidden in a drawer fetching enough to sustain any ordinary person for a lifetime.
But this?
She remembered something else, too—the truly unusual part. Among the clandestine meetings she had witnessed, one visit in particular stood out. Celeste had been locked in the Veroli library, stifled behind shrouded windows and permitted to leave the room only under escort. But she was trained to decipher nuance, it was her trade, and no detail escaped detection: a smack of footsteps drifting in from the gallery, a series of closed doors and an American accent, gruff and male, speaking with authority but at the same time deep unease. Celeste had placed it right away.
Republican senator Mitch Corrigan—movie star turned government royalty. Family man. All-American hero. Toast of Washington. What was he doing here?
Rain spitting against glass, Celeste had dragged up a stool and peeled open the drapes. The Veroli courtyard spilled into view. Out on the cobbles stood a billowing structure, a shed draped in tarpaulin, flanked by two sentries in protective helmets and boiler suits. The visitors were given the same, and after a short dialogue were admitted. Twenty minutes later they emerged, faces ashen, eyes thick with horror.
Shocked, she’d stumbled down. What was in there? What had they seen?
Celeste thought no more of it. She wasn’t paid to ask questions. Even so, she’d been intrigued when, a week later, reporter Eve Harley left a private appeal on her voicemail. As a rule, Celeste didn’t liaise with the press and, despite further attempts, hadn’t been in touch. Here, then, was why. A group of as yet unnamed conspiracy theorists …
Senator Corrigan would be wild with fear at the exposé.
‘Hey, lady, you want a ride or not?’ The cab driver leaned out of his window, chewing gum.
Hastily, Celeste bought the paper. People never failed to amaze her. Humans were more complex and subtle fakes than any gem she could uncover. She made her living from citing forgeries, from scratching the surface and find
ing what lay beneath. Knowing when something wasn’t all it appeared. She herself was no exception.
Climbing into the taxi, she slammed the door hard.
Back at the Plaza, she undressed, folded her clothes into a neat, even-sided block and brushed her teeth, once, twice, a third time. Celeste spent minutes brushing, always did, before and after every meal and sometimes in between. It made her feel clean, and the fiercer she brushed the more she stripped away. She didn’t need her shrink to tell her it was all connected: the theft, the OCD, the insecurities, the throttling habits, the damaging relationship she’d been in for five years now, so that every trip away she was counting the days till she could leave, just to get away from him …
Slipping beneath crisp white sheets, she flicked on the TV and landed on a biopic of Tawny Lascelles—Rise of a Fashion Icon. Tawny was gabbling into camera at a fashion shoot, chatting to reporters at a red carpet line-up then posing on the arm of her latest boyfriend, her dress split to the thigh and her scarlet lips pouting.
Celeste was ready to switch over, but something about the model held her in thrall. She had met Tawny once, a while back. Though she mixed regularly with the rich and famous, she still found their company challenging—all that show and glitz, it wasn’t her thing. Discretion and caution were the hallmarks of her career and over the years she had honed them to perfection. In a crowd she could blend in, become hidden, and that was exactly the way she liked it. Anonymous.
The supermodel had been even more striking in real life than she was in pictures: goddess-like, with long, caramel legs and tousled blonde hair. Celeste had felt outshone by her in every conceivable way. On introduction she had extended the arm of friendship, warmly saying hello, but all Tawny offered in return was a sniff of disdain, as if an unpleasant smell had passed under her nose. She had scanned Celeste up and down, deemed her unworthy of comment—worse, offensive to her in some way—and proceeded to whip round and stalk off without a single reply.
