Temptation Island

by Victoria Fox

  Not that her husband seemed to care. People said fathers were always closer to their girls: that the mothers got left out in the cold. Perhaps that was it. Perhaps she was jealous of their connection, a bond she had tried so hard to feel, to engage, and, failing that, to manufacture. It hadn’t worked. How could it, when week after week she was subjected to yet another reminder of her daughter’s monstrosity?

  What on earth had she and Tom raised?

  Whatever it was, she knew they deserved every bad thing they got.

  Aurora’s first impression was that her mother could do with a visit from her own stylist: a recent dye job had rendered her hair the same colour as Barbie’s and she wore tight frayed jeans and precarious white shoe boots. Dated.

  She hitched herself on to a stool by the patio doors, making sure she could see the poolside arrangement and issue preferences if necessary, while Ramon, young with a Mohawk, plonked down his cosmetics bag and laid out his tools. He was so clearly gay that any notion of chaperoning was absurd. Still, Aurora adhered to the new rules—it was a novelty to actually be made to do something.

  ‘OK, honey,’ he said, running his fingers through Aurora’s blonde hair. ‘What are we doing today?’

  Sherilyn lit a cigarette and surveyed her daughter. Aurora noticed how her hands trembled with each puff. ‘How about some layering in the length …’

  ‘I want it all off,’ announced Aurora.

  Ramon was appalled. ‘Shaved?’

  Aurora rolled her eyes. ‘Not shaved. But nearly. Really short, like a boy’s.’

  Sherilyn blew out smoke. ‘Darling, no!’

  ‘Do you mind?’ Ramon gestured to Sherilyn’s cigarette, then to his cosmetics case filled with mousse and sprays. ‘I’ve got flammable substances here.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Aurora nodded decisively. ‘Dramatic. You can do drama, can’t you, Ramon?’

  ‘Anything for you.’

  ‘We should dye it as well,’ said Aurora. ‘Bleach it. So it’s kinda white.’

  Ramon grinned. ‘I like it.’

  Sherilyn ground out her Marlboro. ‘Are you sure? It sounds extreme …’

  ‘I am extreme, Mom. And this is my party.’

  ‘All right, if that’s what’ll make you happy …’ She drifted out to the pool.

  ‘Is your mom doped?’ asked Ramon.

  ‘Probably,’ said Aurora as he began mixing the colour. ‘I don’t blame her. I’ve been a bitch lately.’ And she did honestly feel bad about the pool-table thing, but the fact was that in its aftermath her life hadn’t changed at all. Some days she thought her mother could do with an electric shock, or a cattle prod, something that frazzled her; something that brought her back to life. But if that hadn’t done it, what would?

  Ramon applied the cold mixture to her roots and didn’t comment.

  Aurora was watching a shirtless guy string lights in the trees by the pool. So was her mom by the looks of it. Ew! Weren’t you meant to switch those bits off when you got married? An image popped up of Sherilyn and Tom getting it on. Maybe they didn’t any more, seeing as they were now, like, way old. But they must have—at least once. Yuck yuck YUCK.

  She spied a gossip rag poking out of Ramon’s bag. On the front was her so-called best friend Farrah Michaels wearing a solemn expression above the headline: BFFs AT WAR: ‘AURORA NASH SHOULD BE IN JAIL!’ It was hardly a war, thought Aurora, since it was entirely onesided: she wasn’t the one mouthing off to the press at every available opportunity, all for a bit of cheap publicity. Farrah was just bitter because she’d split with Boy-Band-Christian after he was found cheating on her with a dwarf while on tour in Vegas.

  She tossed the magazine down, pissed.

  ‘Hold still!’ commanded Ramon, swiping at her head with his brush. The dye stank and she told him so. ‘Your hair will stink too if you don’t do as I say.’

  Outside, Sherilyn was on the phone. She was frowning and nodding. When she came back in, Aurora demanded to know what was going on. Weirdly, her mother ignored her. Instead, she addressed Ramon.

  ‘How long will this take?’

  ‘Don’t hurry him, Mom, it’s important.’

  ‘So is this.’ Sherilyn closed her cell. ‘That was your father. He’s got some news to share with you.’ She took a deep breath. ‘He’s taking us for lunch at Il Cielo.’

  ‘Is it about the party?’

  Sherilyn hesitated. ‘Not exactly,’ she said.

  ‘What, then?’

  A pause. ‘Let’s wait till lunchtime, shall we?’

  She could feel Ramon’s curiosity wafting off him like heat. ‘What was that about?’ he asked when Sherilyn had disappeared next door.

  Aurora yawned. ‘I expect Dad’s bought me another car,’ she mused. ‘They’ll want it to be a surprise, but I guess they have to tell me if they want to co-ordinate it with the arrival of the stallion. To be honest, I don’t know where I’ll keep another one—and anyway, I don’t even have my permit!’

  ‘Your mother and I have one last gift for you,’ said Tom over lunch. The waiter refilled their water. Cubes of ice tinkled and cracked in the glass, melting slowly in the afternoon sun. Il Cielo boasted a gorgeous terrace and, as ever, Tom Nash and his family had secured the best table.

  Aurora, admiring her new bleached-blonde hairstyle in an enormous window, grinned. ‘Cool! What is it?’

  A gaggle of fans approached. Tom swore under his breath at the fresh interruption but smiled pleasantly enough as he and Sherilyn signed scraps of paper and the backs of tabs. Women fancied Tom Nash like crazy: his alpha vibe rendered them babbling incoherent wrecks. They fell for his Southern charm with its twist of LA polish; they adored his vocal Republican stance. Tom was all about tradition, about core values, work ethic and the importance of family. They lapped it up like kittens.

  On the other hand, everyone regarded Aurora, and her new hairstyle, with a pinch of trepidation, as though she were a sitting bomb that could blast off at any second. Fine, fuck the lot of them. Aurora sighed loudly, impatient for her dad to spill.

  Sherilyn forked her barely touched crab linguine. ‘Go on, Tom,’ she said softly.

  Aurora frowned. What could they have bought her? Maybe it wasn’t a car, after all. Maybe it was something sicker that even she hadn’t imagined—and she’d imagined most things.

  At last, Tom spoke. ‘We’re sending you to England.’

  Aurora was pleased. ‘London? Can I stay at the Dorchester again?’

  ‘Not exactly a shopping trip, honey,’ said Sherilyn.

  There was an uncomfortable pause.

  ‘Boarding school,’ said Tom, clearing his throat. WHAT?

  ‘What?’ shrieked Aurora, horrified.

  Her parents exchanged glances. ‘That’s right,’ said Tom. ‘And it’s not in London. It’s a prestigious, little-known school in the North. You’ll receive the attention you need there.’

  Aurora’s mouth was hanging open. She couldn’t believe it.

  ‘You can’t do this to me,’ she squawked. ‘I won’t go. I’m not going. Boarding school?’ The very word conjured images of prison bars and child labour.

  Sherilyn touched her arm. ‘We didn’t take this decision lightly,’ she crooned. ‘But we do think it’s the best thing for you. After what happened with—’ she cleared her throat ‘—Sebastian Ortega. And crashing the Ferrari. And Mink Ray.’

  ‘What do you know about Mink Ray?’ Aurora’s face was burning. Had they been spying on her?

  ‘You’ll be home every few weeks for vacation,’ said Tom. ‘And we’ve organised a guardian for you in London so you can be there for exeats.’

  Aurora didn’t even know what the word meant. This was a fucking outrage!

  ‘You can’t make me go,’ she said, lip wobbling.

  But Tom remained uncharacteristically steadfast. ‘It’s for your own good,’ he said, sawing his veal in a manner that suggested the end of the discussion. ‘Therapy doesn’t work, rehab doesn’t work … This
is our last option and we believe it will be the making of you.’

  ‘And this is meant to be my birthday present? Are you kidding me?’

  Tom’s face softened. ‘Well—’ he put down his cutlery and smiled tentatively ‘—I was going to wait till tomorrow, but since you asked … We’ve got you that Porsche you wanted as well.’

  ‘Fuck the fucking Porsche,’ lashed Aurora, scraping her chair back and getting to her feet. She lifted her mother’s glass of red wine and emptied it pointlessly over the ciabatta rolls.

  She was going to England over her dead body. There was no fucking way.

  12

  Stevie

  Stevie woke to the glare of sunlight. She had a slight headache brought on by too many cocktails the previous evening, and foggily remembered the bar that she and Will Gardner had ended up in. Weeks had passed since they’d met at Linus Posen’s party and she supposed they’d begun a relationship of sorts, insofar as nights out and occasional sex went. Will knew little of her life and she saw no reason why he should: she’d been frank at the outset that she wasn’t in it for a relationship and he’d claimed he was happy with that.

  Will’s arm was thrown across her. She watched his sleeping face, handsome in repose, the eyelashes long and the jaw peppered with stubble. Will was good-looking, funny, and nice company—he was a good bet, surely, for any girl. Sex with him was fine, it was pleasant, but she rarely came and when she did it was only on top. Before Stevie had started at Simms & Court she’d had a string of short-lived boyfriends with whom sex had been the same way. Was she destined always to judge others against the man who had changed that? Why should she, when he had treated her so badly? It made her hate him more and more, because nearly a year after their parting he still had her in his clutches, refusing to let her go.

  What had it been about him? What made him so special? Was it the way he’d listened to her, after years at home of being one voice among many, as if she were the most captivating woman on earth? Was it the attention he’d lavished, the compliments he’d given? Was it his authority, his age, his influence? That made her sound like a floozy secretary, and of course she knew it was the mother of all stereotypes. Boss works after hours, assistant fixes the drinks, maybe she even calls his wife to let her know he’ll be home late … To her disgrace, she’d done that once. The sound of the other woman’s voice would never leave her, and it was only after they were over that she was able to analyse what she’d heard in it: resignation, disappointment, but most of all sadness. Infinite, profound sadness—for Stevie understood now that it had happened before, probably many, many times. And through her inability at the time to think outside how she admired him, and how his marriage, she’d been told, was all but over, she’d pushed the woman to the back of her mind and pretended she didn’t exist. It was shameful.

  It was also what her father had done to her mother. That was the worst part.

  Will opened his eyes, a contented smile spreading across his face. He rolled on to his back, and in an effort to forget the past Stevie moved to kiss him, feeling him reach around her waist, pulling her close. A groan escaped as he grew between her hands. She manoeuvred herself on top, desperate for release, slipping on protection and gasping as he entered.

  Will gripped her as she began to rock back and forth. ‘You’re gorgeous,’ he breathed, sitting to embrace her, grazing her breasts, moving with her, kissing her chin and then her lips.

  Stevie’s rhythm became more frantic. She could feel the surge rising and pushed Will back on to the pillows, riding him harder now, wanting him to fill her up and force her to forget everything. She gripped his hands, threw her head back and felt him free his fingers so he could stroke her throat and her tits, kissing her over and over.

  She came fiercely, releasing a cry and feeling the blood in every fibre of her body. Will continued to thrust into her warmth, drawing out her climax, threatening to take her all the way again. He lifted her hips and withdrew, moving her on to her back and raising her legs high so her feet were on either side of his neck. Violently he pounded back into her, forcing himself so deep that Stevie had to push back on the wall behind her head to keep herself from slamming into it. Seconds later he reached his pinnacle.

  ‘Christ, Stevie,’ he breathed, burying his head in her shoulder as he rode it. ‘What are you doing to me?’

  She pulled on a shirt and padded to the bathroom. The shower blasted scalding hot then freezing cold. Will’s downtown loft apartment was crummier than the one she shared with Bibi, but most times they slept together here. She preferred the detachment of it—plus she could do without Bibi’s cross-questioning the morning after.

  Speak of the devil. The minute she got out, Bibi called.

  ‘I need you to come to an audition with me today,’ she announced.

  Stevie put her glasses on and sat down on the bed. Will released the knot on her towel, letting it fall to her waist. Lazily he stroked her back.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I need a partner.’

  Stevie hitched the towel up and stood. ‘For what?’ She could see from the bulge under the sheets that Will was ready to go again. She returned to the bathroom and ran a comb through her hair, which wasn’t easy with a phone under one ear.

  ‘It’s gonna make all the difference,’ Bibi explained, ‘if I read with someone I know—and I’ll be most comfortable with you. And if I’m comfortable then I’m relaxed and when I’m relaxed I know I can shine. That’s the problem with every other gig they’ve sent me for, Steve! I’ve been so nervous I totally blew it! So, I figure, if you’re there too then it’ll be just like it is when you help me at home, and you’re really good, you know? You always bring out my best. So I need you.’

  ‘I don’t know, B—’

  ‘Please,’ Bibi begged, ‘it’s a serious part—the first one that’s come up for me in ages! I really want it. Please, will you come?’

  Stevie was puzzled. If the work her friend was doing for Linus Posen wasn’t ‘serious’ then what was it? Since his party, Bibi had been collaborating with the director on several projects—she’d tried to cajole Stevie into phoning him too but had given up after a series of repeated refusals—but was always cagey about exactly what it was she was doing. All Stevie knew was that her engagements with Linus always took place at some undisclosed location and Bibi, when she reappeared, was terse in her replies about where she’d been. It was unlike her: Bibi waxed lyrical about everything, especially when it came to her career.

  ‘But—’

  ‘All I’m asking is for you to say a handful of lines,’ Bibi barrelled on, ‘that’s all. I’m desperate for this, Steve, please. I mean it. Please say yes. Please?’

  It was the least she could do after Bibi’s kindness. ‘Yes.’

  Will approached her from behind, lifting the towel and pressing his erection against her.

  ‘When do you need me?’ she asked into the phone.

  ‘Now,’ he murmured, attempting to direct himself inside.

  Bibi’s relief was audible. ‘Park Avenue. Two o’clock. I appreciate it, I really do.’

  ‘Are you all right?’ Stevie asked. ‘You sound funny.’

  There was a brief silence, before: ‘I’m fine!’

  She tried to bat off Will’s attentions. ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Sure. Just be there, OK?’

  ‘I will.’

  Stevie clicked her phone shut, concerned about her friend. Something wasn’t right. But then maybe she just hadn’t spent enough time with Bibi recently. She had to rectify that.

  ‘I’ve got to be somewhere,’ she said.

  Will took her hips in his hands and tilted her forward. ‘Five minutes,’ he growled. ‘And then I’ll let you go.’

  The casting took place on the second floor of an old office building on Park Avenue. There was a little waiting space outside the room, packed with hopefuls. When Bibi and Stevie arrived, they attracted a wave of catty looks that Bibi assured h
er was par for the course. They went down the corridor to get a watered-down coffee.

  ‘Here,’ said Bibi, thrusting a wodge of paper into her hands at the same time as a boiling hot drink, ‘this is it. You read Jerry.’

  ‘Is it a man?’ Stevie asked, fumbling before putting the coffee down. She flicked through the pages.

  ‘No. Like Jerry Hall.’ She grinned. ‘Or like Steve!’

  ‘Oh …’ Stevie had never done anything like this before. ‘And who’re you?’

  Bibi adopted a dreamy expression. ‘I’m Lauren. Secretly I’m in love with your husband, but you can’t ever know because we’re best friends. But even more secretly, you’re in love with me! And you’re like a really prim housewife and you can’t begin to contemplate leaving your marriage for another person, let alone a woman! Shock, horror and all that. Juicy, isn’t it?’

  ‘Jerry’s part sounds more interesting than Lauren’s.’

  Bibi shrugged. ‘But Lauren’s part is bigger. The whole movie’s about her, basically. Which means—’ she struck a pose ‘—that if I get it, the whole movie’s going to be about me! Oh, I really hope I get it!’ She chewed her lip.

  ‘I thought things were going well with Linus’s projects,’ Stevie said softly. She was determined to tread carefully. ‘You seem awfully keen to try something new.’

  Bibi linked arms with her. ‘Come on, or we’ll miss our call.’

  The audition went adequately. Stevie managed to speak her lines clearly and not let Bibi down, which was a feat for her because she didn’t like performing and spent the first few minutes fudging the phrasing until she hit her stride. Unhelpfully, the panel—two producers and a casting agent—asked her to remove her glasses halfway through, which made the task of reading a challenge in itself. Bibi herself delivered a melodramatic performance that was more reminiscent of Shakespeare than a Hollywood independent. Stevie thought she had great charisma, but couldn’t help feeling she was running a little over the top: the script required a degree of subtlety, an invitation to viewers to draw their own conclusions about who was feeling what. But what did she know? She wasn’t the actress.