by Victoria Fox
‘I love you,’ she whispered.
And then they both gathered pace at the same time, catching sight of a bright light, climbing towards it like explorers staking new territory, their breath coming quickly, battling to the top, not resting till they reached it.
Stevie came first, Xander moments later, and then she again. He collapsed on top of her, his head in her neck, and she held his strong shoulders till they were both spent.
‘Fuck,’ said Xander, rolling off.
They lay side by side. His fingers found hers and held them. Stevie turned to face him, adoring the way that when he had his eyes closed she could see how long and soft his lashes were as they rested on his cheek. This was how it was meant to be. When she’d come to America she’d never have imagined this would happen: her career was one thing but finding Xander was another. How was it that a heart could be broken, beaten beyond recognition, but still resurface and risk doing it again? Because the risk was worth taking. The prize was too good.
Xander opened his eyes and fixed on a spot beyond her shoulder. It was a look she had become used to, his dark gaze private and pensive, frowning slightly in the manner of someone trying to remember. Remember what? She had decided not to press him. She trusted Xander, and that meant having faith that if there was something she needed to hear, he’d tell her.
Abruptly, he sat. ‘Come live with me,’ he said. ‘Let’s make it official.’
Surprised, Stevie pushed herself up on one elbow. ‘What?’
‘I mean it. Why not?’
She shook her head, sitting straighter. ‘Where’s this come from?’
Taking her hands, he kissed each of them in turn. ‘I know this is right. And you know this is right. Because it’s right.’
She laughed.
‘Marry me.’
‘Xander—!’
He smiled the smile she loved. ‘Come live with me and marry me and let’s live happily ever after.’
‘But we haven’t …’ Giddy, she laughed again. ‘I mean, it’s only been a few months. Are you serious?’
‘Deadly. I know it’s not the most romantic setting, but, hey, this bed means a lot to me.’
She put a hand on his cheek and spoke gently. ‘Ask me again.’
‘I want to be with you always, Stevie,’ he said solemnly. ‘I want us to be together. I want us to be married. Say yes?’
Bibi Reiner had been married to Linus Posen for less than six months, and every moment of it had been hell. Linus wasn’t bothering to conceal his infidelities any longer: he brought girls back to the house like they were going out of fashion. Once upon a time he’d tried to get her involved but he knew not to ask any longer. It wouldn’t matter so much—be a good thing, even—if it put him off sex with her. It didn’t. Soon as her day’s work was done—whatever debased, agonising work he had in store for The Faceless Vixen that week—he wanted to get his own kicks. He loved playing her DVDs while he fucked her, and she would lie there, smothered beneath his damp, revolting bulk, gritting her teeth and praying for it to be over.
Tomorrow, she was attending a very different wedding. Stevie and Xander had wasted no time in organising their big day, an intimate ceremony in the Bahamas, only a matter of weeks after their engagement had been announced.
Stevie knew, of course. The day she’d called, with none of the usual niceties, and asked to meet, Bibi had known instantly why. Her friend didn’t say how she’d come across Goldicocks and the Three Bares and Bibi didn’t ask. She’d told Bibi she was getting her out, away from Linus, flipped open a case on the bed and started bundling belongings into it.
Only it wasn’t that easy. Yes, she was desperate and unhappy; yes, she was damaged and addicted and taken advantage of; yes, she wanted out, but Bibi wasn’t yet ready to accept that the things she’d been subjected to had all been in vain. Where would that leave her? Despite the humiliation of Linus’s movies, he still promised that her big break would come. He was loathsome to her, and at the same time he was essential. Without him, she’d be an ex-porn-star with no chance of switching to the mainstream. With him, she was miserable as sin.
‘Please, B,’ Stevie had begged that day, cradling Bibi’s head as she sobbed her heart out. ‘All that matters is your happiness. You can’t carry on like this.’
But the way Bibi saw it she had no other option. She was close to snapping. There was no way out. How come Stevie’s life had turned out so different? It wasn’t fair.
‘I’ll get you a place,’ Stevie had pleaded. ‘We’ll set you up on your own, OK? Pay me back when you can, money’s not an issue. I’ll put you in touch with Marty—’
Bibi had laughed sourly. ‘Like Marty King’s gonna look twice at me,’ she’d mumbled, wiping her nose. ‘The minute they sniff out my past, it’s over.’
By the time Bibi had persuaded her friend to leave, Stevie was almost more upset than she was. Stevie made her promise they would speak every day, and that if Bibi changed her mind, she’d be there in a heartbeat. What else could she do?
Now, Linus was sprawled in a chair on their hotel terrace, the Caribbean sun pouring on to his globular white body. He was sleeping, tired after their flight, lips parted, snoring. Xander and Stevie had paid for their guests to stay in a resort close to Nassau. The ceremony would take place the following afternoon on the shores of nearby Paradise Island.
The sight of her husband filled her with disgust: his flaccid nipples, the greying hairs on his chest, and his big ugly feet with their claw-like, yellowing toenails.
Bibi unpacked her bag quietly, not wanting to wake him. After sleep he was always horny, would grope for her and pin her down, never mind about foreplay, or if she was sore—Linus thought only of his own satisfaction. She’d lie there and let him tear into her, rip her apart in body and mind, silent, salty teardrops coursing into the pillow. Every time the same. He knew she cried but he didn’t care. If anything, he liked it.
Carefully Bibi extracted her cosmetics bag and slipped into the bathroom, closing the door noiselessly behind her. She chalked up and inhaled the white powder. The day ahead became bearable. She was ready to face the world.
Stevie had wanted a quiet affair, no cameras, no media, no spotlight—just friends and family. The setting, the golden shores of Paradise Island, lent itself perfectly to the occasion. She was resplendent in a dress conceived by an edgy British designer, a classic, demure style with a scoop neck and full-length, Spanish-lace sleeves. With the sighing blue ocean behind them, the warm Pacific air quiet and still, she and Xander were married beneath a petal-strewn pagoda.
Afterwards, they drank champagne on the beach.
‘Congratulations, Mrs Jakobson,’ said Marty King, enjoying the canapés. ‘Have to say, I didn’t see this one comin’.’
‘You didn’t?’ Stevie hadn’t eaten much and the bubbles were making her hot-faced and woozy. ‘And by the way it’s not Jakobson. I’m keeping my name.’
Next to him, Wanda Gerund nodded in approval. ‘Good,’ her publicist said. ‘I always thought Stevie Speller had a ring to it.’
‘She does now!’ Stevie brandished her hand.
‘What I meant,’ elaborated Marty, ‘was that you kids seemed so tight on your careers.’
‘We are,’ said Stevie. ‘It doesn’t mean we can’t be married.’ Their joint project, the Vegas showgirl movie, had been released to critical acclaim. Wanda had warned her that cynics would surmise their marriage was a scam, engineered to hit the headlines in the same week as the film’s release, but it didn’t bother her. Too many conspiracy theorists in the world.
‘You never know, Marty,’ Wanda teased, ‘it could be you next.’
‘I doubt that.’ Marty made a face. He’d been a bachelor all his life, was too busy for a relationship. He was yet to find a woman who could match him ball for ball. In the meantime, career was paramount, always had been.
Stevie spotted Bibi and Linus by the water. Bibi had taken her shoes off and was clutching them under on
e arm so her feet could get wet … a shade of the untroubled girl she remembered from New York. If only her friend would accept her help.
Excusing herself to Marty and Wanda, who were now locked in a fiery conversation about married couples in Hollywood, Stevie made her way over.
‘Here comes the beautiful bride,’ leered Linus, sweat patches gathered beneath the armpits of his grey suit.
Stevie hugged her friend but couldn’t bring herself to greet the director. If it hadn’t been obligatory to invite him she wouldn’t have wanted him within a hundred miles of the event.
‘I was just telling Linus about when we lived together in New York!’ Bibi’s eyes shone. Stevie could tell she was drugged up again. Couldn’t Linus see it, too? Didn’t he care?
‘It was a blast,’ she agreed.
‘Sure was.’ Bibi scanned the guests. ‘How come my little bro didn’t make it?’
Because I didn’t invite him.
‘Something came up,’ she said instead. The truth was she’d only managed to get rid of Ben a matter of weeks ago, when he’d finally acquired a new girlfriend and decided he’d move out and leech off someone else for a while. He’d been useless about the Bibi situation, his own shame and repulsion overriding his sister’s far greater need. By the time he’d left, Stevie found herself loathing him. His selfishness, his indolence, his predilection for cheesy puffs that got orange powder all over the kitchen counters, and how by the time Xander came on the scene he’d lope around the apartment late at night, like a child listening ardently at a bedroom door. The image of him beating off to The Faceless Vixen was scorched for ever into her memory.
‘A job?’ Bibi asked brightly.
‘Not sure.’
Xander joined them, slipping an arm round Stevie’s waist. ‘Hello, lovely wife.’
‘I can’t get used to being called that.’
‘You’d better.’
‘“Wife” is a feeble word,’ Stevie mused. ‘Not like “husband”.’ She said it again: ‘Husband. Hardly fair.’
Bibi giggled, but didn’t express an opinion, just clutched tight to her drink.
Linus screwed up his face. ‘You better keep that one in check,’ he lewdly counselled Xander. ‘Can’t tell what she’s on about.’
In response, Xander regarded him blankly. ‘I always know what she’s on about,’ he replied, with a controlled smile. There was another silence and Stevie felt glad she was drunk.
She saw Bibi turn to the water, lost in thought. The pink sun was kissing the horizon, melting as it got there, the ocean like rippling silk.
‘Are you honeymooning here?’ asked Linus. He winked unpleasantly. ‘I could’ve done with a bit more honeymoon, if you catch my drift. Non-stop, we were.’
‘Actually we’ve decided to hit Europe,’ said Xander, in an attempt to dispel the image. ‘A friend of mine owns a boat off the Italian coast.’
‘Xander’s a competent sailor,’ Stevie proudly confirmed.
‘Europe’s a great place,’ huffed Linus self-importantly. He flashed a look at Stevie. ‘European women, they’re a breed of their own.’
Bibi was still gazing at the ocean. Stevie was conscious of bleating on about her and Xander’s plans, their newborn marriage, their happiness. Touching Xander’s elbow to indicate her departure, she linked arms with her friend.
‘Come on,’ she said, ‘let’s go for a walk.’
The women made their way down the beach, cool clear water washing up between their toes. Stevie held up her dress so the bottom of it didn’t get wet.
When the others were out of earshot, Bibi stopped.
‘Steve,’ she said, facing her. ‘Can I tell you something?’
Stevie frowned. ‘Of course.’ She let the dress go and took Bibi’s hands. ‘Anything.’ Bibi took a deep breath. She closed her eyes. And that was when she revealed her plan.
32
Lori
A month later, Peter Selznick moved in. Peter was an actor, twenty-seven, recently emerged from the hit show No Husbands Needed, in which he appeared as a topless gardener. His first starring role in a movie was due to hit screens early next year, so as far as publicity was concerned there was everything to play for.
Lori had attempted to find him attractive when they’d first met: it would be so much easier. But, she didn’t. He was good-looking, just not for her. Tall, broad and strapping, with a floppy mop of streaky blond hair and a goofy grin, he was a real Californian jock. Nothing he said particularly interested or engaged her—he seemed fond of the phrases ‘Hot chicks’, ‘Sweeeet!’ and ‘No fear, dude!’—and yet nothing about him offended her. He reminded her of a puppy, breathy and enthusiastic and eager to please. Of the many people she could have been made to live with, Jacqueline might have set her up with a great deal worse.
Anyway, they were hardly ever in the mansion at the same time. Lori’s shoots often took her away overnight and Peter was in the first flushes of attending every party going, at some of which they arranged to meet and pose for photos together. It was easy, and the press crowed about what a staggering couple they made.
Tonight they were returning from one such event. Peter employed a Hispanic driver called Santo, whom he spoke to like an imbecile. Lori made a point of conversing with him in Spanish and being as friendly as she could, to make up for Peter’s rudeness. Perhaps they weren’t so unlike a real-life couple after all.
‘They were hot for us tonight, baby!’ Peter rambled as the car pulled up the drive. ‘Jerking themselves right off for a piece of the action!’
Presumably he was talking about the paparazzi. ‘Mmm,’ said Lori, who was tired and thinking of getting into her bed.
So, it seemed, was Peter. Once inside the mansion, without warning, he pinned her arms behind her and pushed her up against the wall.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she demanded.
‘Come on, babe,’ he crooned, his breath smelling faintly of Jack Daniel’s. ‘I know this whole virginity thing’s a loada horse crap. You gotta want me.’
Firmly she drove against him, using the weight of her body because her hands were tied. ‘I don’t,’ she said. ‘Get used to it.’
‘Aw, don’t say that.’ He pressed himself closer and she was alarmed to feel his erection straining through his suit pants. ‘Little Peter’s gonna get upset.’
Little Peter didn’t feel that little. Lori managed to pull her hands free.
‘I mean it,’ she told him, holding them up in surrender. ‘Back off.’
He scrunched his face up. ‘You really a virgin?’ His voice went all high at the end.
‘Yes.’
‘How old are you—twenty-two, twenty-three?’
‘Nineteen.’
‘Sheesh! And you’ve never had cock?’
‘Good night, Peter.’
He grinned, eyes soppy with lust. ‘You know I like a challenge?’
She turned at the stairs. ‘I hope you’re drunker than I think you are,’ she said. ‘Otherwise we’ve got a problem. Sleep on it.’
She was woken by the sound of a handle turning. Sleepily, she consulted the time: two a.m. And the silhouette of Peter Selznick in her bedroom doorway, his outline totally black, only the dim light from the hall illuminating him from behind.
‘Go to bed,’ Lori said wearily, flopping back on the pillows. It occurred to her that she should feel threatened—what exactly did he think he was doing?—but she couldn’t find Peter threatening. Even though he was older than her, most of the time he acted like a kid.
‘I can’t sleep,’ he complained, flicking the light on.
To her alarm he was completely naked—and completely hairless. His entire body had been waxed, it seemed: the smooth golden chest, bursting with pecs, his long, muscular legs. And that part in between … the part of a man she had never seen in the flesh before … Peter’s engorged member sprang proud from his baldness, hairless as the day he was born.
Were they all this huge? She foun
d herself mesmerised by it, couldn’t stop looking. Of course he read this as an invitation.
‘You know you want it, babe,’ he announced, striding in buoyantly. ‘What are we fighting against? You gotta put out some day, why not with me? I can teach you stuff.’ He tugged once at his penis, an odd gesture that was somehow absent-minded. ‘All you gotta do is lie back, relax and let me show you a good time. You know how many girls out there would kill to be in your position?’
Lori sat up, trying doggedly not to stare at his bulging groin. She felt as if someone were trying to sell her a cheap holiday. ‘Peter, I told you. No. I’m not interested. I thought One Touch made it clear to you what the deal was.’
‘One touch is all it takes,’ he panted, clambering on to the bed. Lori recoiled against the wall, aware her tank top and shorts did little to conceal the swell of her breasts and hips. Peter drank it in and, for a second, as his bulk stood to attention only a matter of inches away, she experienced that arrow of desire she had known with Rico. She had no doubt Peter was a practised lover. Yet, as ever, the arrow missed its target and shot straight into the ground.
‘I want you to leave right now,’ she commanded. ‘We’ll talk in the morning.’
‘Why’re you doing it?’
‘Doing what?’
‘Missing out.’
‘Missing out,’ she repeated flatly.
‘On sex. It’s the best there is. More specific, sex with me is the best there is. You’re only punishing yourself.’
‘Go to bed, Peter.’
‘You telling me you don’t want some of this?’ He sat back and gestured to the obscene tower between his legs. She resisted looking.
‘Yes.’
‘Yes, you don’t; or yes—’ he winked naughtily ‘—you do?’
‘Go to bed,’ she said again, pulling the sheet up to cover her.
For a moment Peter weighed up his chances, before releasing an exasperated puff and bouncing off the bed. He headed for the door, swollen staff leading the way. Lori fought the urge to laugh. It wasn’t funny, he was way out of order—but his unabashed attempts at seduction were at least straightforward.
