by Victoria Fox
Within moments, her headless body naked and violated. It was hardcore. Brutal. Twisted. Old and young, skinny and fat, men and women, front and back.
Of course, Posen’s name wasn’t attached to it. Even if it had been, the thing would stay underground. She wondered who else was in on it—Hollywood’s prominent hustlers dipping their fat hands in the honey pot for some extra cash. She remembered the way Dirk Michaels had ogled her at Bibi’s party. Men so powerful they were above the law. Never mind the law of the state of California—the laws being contravened here were ones of human decency and respect.
Once she’d gathered herself, she stormed into Ben’s room. He was lying facedown on the bed with a pillow over his head.
‘I hope you’re ashamed of yourself,’ she said grimly.
Ben tossed the pillow aside. She saw his eyes were red-rimmed, his complexion ashen, but she dug around for sympathy and found none. Yes, his discovery was heinous, but any man who got a hard-on for that kind of brutality deserved every inch of it.
‘How was I s’posed to know?’ he whinged. ‘It’s not like I was getting off on the fact she’s my. It’s not like I could tell she was …’ He baulked, flirting once more with nausea. ‘This is fucked up. I can’t be dealing with this.’
‘You can’t be dealing with it? Try asking B how she feels!’
Ben stood. He retrieved his smoking miscellany from the chest of drawers. ‘I need to be alone,’ he said. ‘I need to think this shit through.’
‘What, so you can wank off on it again?’
‘Fuck off, Stevie.’
‘It’s people like you who let it continue,’ she raged. ‘You let it happen in the first place!’
‘What? You’re blaming me now for the entire porn industry?’
‘Supply and demand.’
‘Get a life. At least she got a cheque at the end of it. ‘S more than some of us have.’
Stevie wanted to slap him. The arrogant, ignorant little—
‘Face it,’ he snapped, whipping round, ‘you’ve been handed all this on a fucking plate, haven’t you? What about Bibi, huh? All this was meant to be hers and you stole it, right from under her. So don’t you stand there and tell me I’m to blame when you know full well she’d be in a different position right now if it weren’t for you.’
Stevie’s heart froze over. ‘Don’t you dare talk to me about B. Not after what I’ve just seen. Not after you’ve been salivating over that dirty little skin flick, you prick.’
‘Oh yeah?’ He barked a laugh. ‘And where were you, then, Saint Stevie? Well? Off living your glamorous movie star life in Vegas while she was back here getting boned up the ass? If I hadn’t downloaded that scene you’d never have known!’
‘I’m not having this conversation.’
‘Get out of my fucking room, then.’
She was glacial. ‘It’s not your room any more. I want you out.’
‘Tough shit. I’m staying.’
‘You’re not.’
‘What’re you gonna tell B, hey? The truth? That you caught me whacking off to her latest release and now I’m being thrown out on to the street?’
‘If I have to.’
But she wouldn’t. She couldn’t tell Bibi—it would break her. And Ben knew it.
She tried a different tack. ‘We’ve got to find a way out of this,’ she said hollowly. ‘We have to help her.’
He sparked up the joint. ‘I’m keeping out of it.’
‘That’s helpful of you.’
‘What else am I meant to do?’ he snarled, returning to the bed. ‘If I don’t forget like it happened I’ll drive myself insane. I’ll end up in a fucking asylum.’
‘Do you ever think about anyone but your goddamn self?’
‘Leave me alone.’ He switched on the TV and turned the volume up till Stevie could no longer hear her own voice shouting over the noise.
She left the room and closed the door, wondering what the hell she was going to do.
Stevie was desperate to speak to Bibi but knew she had to handle it carefully. Eventually she resolved to call the one person whose integrity she felt she could trust: Xander Jakobson. They’d agreed to stay in touch, having become close during filming, and, in spite of how Stevie felt about him, she figured she’d sooner have him in her life in a platonic capacity than not at all.
They arranged to meet for a drink at a low-key bar downtown. Xander listened while she spilled everything—about Bibi’s situation, about Linus and finally about Ben.
‘Her own brother?’
‘Yes.’ Saying it out loud was so bizarre that she fought the urge to burst out laughing.
‘Jeez.’ Xander shook his head and ran a hand over hisnshaven jaw. About Bibi’s situation, he didn’t appear shocked.
‘I feel for her,’ he said. ‘You’d think in this day and age this sort of thing might have gone out of fashion, but it’s more rampant than ever.’
‘Can we do anything?’
He raised his glass to his lips. She liked that he drank draught lager.
‘You could expose it,’ Xander reasoned. ‘But you’d be opening up a shitstorm of controversy if you did. These people run the town, they’re big fish.’
‘And in comparison I’m a tadpole?’
‘Something like it. Look, the industry’s old as time and now it’s more accessible than ever. It doesn’t make it right, it’s as abusive and wrong as it ever was, but it thrives. Sex always does. Over time these movies are likely to gross more for Posen than his above-board projects.’
‘You don’t seem surprised.’
‘I’m not. I’ve heard talk of Posen and his cronies before. Dirk Michaels is another one. Nobody cares that much, Stevie. People let him get on with it.’
‘He’s conned Bibi,’ she said tightly. ‘He promised her a different life.’
Xander raised an eyebrow. ‘And he might yet get it for her. It’s in his interests, after all.’
‘How?’
‘If your friend’s career does one day take off, in a legitimate field, then her appearances in these sidelines are going to spell gold dust.’
‘I didn’t think of that.’
‘Hmm.’
Stevie put her head in her hands. ‘I should have noticed. I feel awful.’
‘It’s not your fault,’ commented Xander. ‘And it’s not too late to try and help. My advice would be to speak to her.’
‘And say what?’
‘That you want to get her as far away from this guy as possible. Once you do that, you can decide objectively whether or not you want to take this battle on. Not all fights are worth it.’
‘You sound like you speak from experience.’
He nicked his jaw with his thumb. ‘Experience I’d sooner forget.’
‘She’s marrying him.’
‘Then stop her.’
Stevie sat back. ‘You’re wise,’ she observed.
‘It’s easy to be wise when you’re not involved.’ Xander signalled for the check. ‘But you know what you’re doing—you’ll find a way.’
They sat in comfortable quiet for a moment, before Xander said, ‘I never asked you about the Frontline Fashion gig. How was it?’
‘It was fine. A bit boring, actually. It’s fun to see the models for the first five minutes then they all sort of blend into one. The clothes go over my head, if I’m honest.’
‘Some clothes do that.’
‘Ha.’
A pause. ‘You saw the man himself?’
‘JB Moreau? Yeah.’ She was so bound up in thoughts of Bibi that she forgot Xander’s strange reaction when the name had come up back in Vegas, and didn’t pick up on his tone now.
‘How did he look?’
She remembered only too well. Moreau’s appearance was unusual because it flirted on that line between impossibly good-looking and an edge she could only describe as cruel. It brought to mind the pleasure/pain theory, the notion that something could be so exquisite that the endurance o
f that exquisiteness required a degree of suffering, and only in that suffering could the exquisite truly exist. Moreau was beauty and he was pain; she knew it from looking at him.
She didn’t bother saying any of this to Xander, of course. ‘Handsome,’ she said instead.
‘Who was with him?’
Stevie recalled a dark-haired woman with a chignon. ‘I’m not sure,’ she said, making a mental note to ask Wanda Gerund about it. ‘Reuben van der Meyde was.’
Xander was visibly uncomfortable. Just as she was about to enquire after the significance of the men, he seemed to recover his demeanour. ‘A friend of mine works for the agency. She’s been telling me about a new protégée of hers, a Spanish girl. Lori Garcia.’
‘I saw her.’ Stevie remembered the gorgeous—and that was the only word for her, really—girl sitting on the opposite bank, a few rows back from Moreau. She’d been like Eva Mendes, with a pinch of Natalie Wood in West Side Story.
‘I think she’s quite taken with her.’
‘It’s not hard to imagine.’ A beat. ‘You should have come.’
‘I wasn’t in the mood.’
The bill came and they split it.
Stevie asked the question that had been bugging her. ‘Do you know JB Moreau?’
Xander grabbed his jacket, electing not to answer. ‘It was good seeing you.’
She wasn’t sure if he’d heard the question. Maybe he hadn’t. Anyway, what business was it of hers? He’d been good enough to her already.
‘Of course. I’ve kept you.’
‘Not at all. Let me know how your friend gets on?’
‘Sure.’ She stung at his imminent departure. She thought of Ben, rotting in his mortification back at her apartment, and poor dear Bibi and what on earth they should do. ‘Look me up next time you’re in town.’
He pulled on his jacket. ‘As it goes, I’m in town tomorrow—and I know a great place for dinner. Want to join me?’
27
Lori
Mac Valerie—the Mac Valerie of Valerie Cosmetics—wanted to meet her. Desideria called Lori early on Wednesday morning with the news.
‘Get ready,’ she breathed. ‘Your star’s about to shine.’
Lori couldn’t believe it. Mac Valerie was the big league, the biggest there was. If she secured this, the world would be there for the taking.
And so, surely, would the man she desired.
She caught a cab to the beauty mogul’s Bel Air mansion. Desideria was waiting outside, dressed entirely in black and drawing on a thin menthol cigarette. The night in Vegas was never mentioned, for which Lori was grateful: she’d woken in the morning feeling foolish, could only imagine how Desideria felt. But since then she’d been the epitome of businesslike.
Another woman was with her. She was in her twenties, blonde, with shrewd green eyes and a dimple in her chin. Desideria introduced her as Jacqueline Spark, a PR princess on her way to the top at One Touch, the publicity firm used by La Lumière. Jacqueline shook Lori’s hand with purpose and gave her a warm, friendly smile.
‘You look great,’ she said, taking in Lori’s plain camisole and hip-tight jeans, a fresh white jacket thrown over the top. ‘Ready for this?’
‘Always. What do I need to do?’
‘Be yourself,’ advised Desideria, extinguishing her cigarette. ‘Mac’s seeing four girls today, so we need to impress. Don’t talk unless he asks you a question. You’re just the face, remember. The rest is for me and Jacqueline to look after.’
Jacqueline added more tactfully, ‘We want to make sure he hears the right noises. Personally I think the other girls will be out soon as he claps eyes on you.’
Mac Valerie’s place was a sprawling one-storey villa with a glinting crescent-shaped swimming pool, bordered by palms that rustled in the balmy LA breeze. Lori told herself to be cool even though she’d endured a twist of anxiety in her stomach since breakfast. This was the big boys’ playground. The gatehouse alone was the size of her childhood home.
As they approached the main entrance a scrabble of white tight-curled poodles shot out on to the drive, their claws scratching the melting ground. Some had pink bows nestled in their hair, their wet, shiny noses searching the new scent.
‘Trixie! Tiara! Tillie! Come back here, you naughty dogs!’
A woman in a coral-coloured jumpsuit with candyfloss hair hurried out after them, precarious on a pair of tiny-heeled slippers with feathery baubles on the front. She scooped the dogs up, her painted fingernails buried incongruously in their fur. Two of the dogs licked her face with quick, sandpapery tongues. Lori guessed the woman was in her fifties, or even sixties, though she’d had a lot of surgery. Chalky foundation gathered beneath her eyes and set in the crinkly skin like clay.
‘Val Valerie!’ she cried. ‘Mac’s wife. Come with me, you must be Loriana.’ Formal introductions were made and she led the way inside.
‘Val Valerie?’ Jacqueline mouthed as the three of them followed. Lori tried not to laugh.
They were taken through the main atrium and out the other side, where Lori was surprised to see a lush green golf course stretching away as far as the eye could see. A squat man wearing Hawaiian-print trunks and sporting a very dark hairy chest was in conversation with two more formally dressed players. When he saw the party, he came puffing over.
‘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.
