by Victoria Fox
‘You know where I am if you change your mind,’ he said gravely, turning to award her one final glimpse of what she was missing.
‘Sure.’
Sulkily, he closed the door. When she was sure he’d gone, Lori lay back and turned the light off. For a long time she stayed awake, unable to get to sleep. She thought she heard intermittent yelps from the opposite end of the mansion—Peter bringing himself the pleasure he’d promised her? Snaking her hand down past the band of her shorts, she closed her eyes and, to her disappointment, thought of JB Moreau. Nighttime was perilous, dark and sweet, a landscape for dreaming. She wondered what he would look like naked.
‘I’m not kidding. He just turned up in the middle of the night! You’ve got to talk to his management again about whatever it was you agreed.’
Jacqueline was appalled. ‘Lori, I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘This is awful.’
‘It’s OK.’ She dismissed her concern. ‘It’s just annoying. And it’s like Peter’s dead-set on this campaign now to get me into bed. He won’t take no for an answer! ’
Jacqueline straightened in her office chair. ‘“No” is the word we made absolutely clear throughout the negotiations.’ Again Lori thought of the puppy. It was as if Peter were in toilet training—next she’d be teaching him to walk at her heel. ‘It’s completely unacceptable,’ her publicist went on. ‘Completely unacceptable. Leave it with me. I’ll sort it out.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Don’t thank me. Just stick with it. It sounds like you handled it great.’
A thought occurred to her. ‘Surely everyone else imagines we’re … doing it?’
Jacqueline nodded. ‘That’s the beautiful thing. Peter’s a renowned ladies’ man and you’re a virgin. As far as the press are concerned, he’s met the woman he’s prepared to wait for … or has he? Peter might have switched you. I guess they’ll never know. Him being partnered with you makes everyone see him from another angle; you being partnered with him achieves the same. That’s why we were keen to get you together.’
‘So long as we don’t actually have to get together, in that sense, it’s fine by me.’
‘And it’s fine by me, too.’
Desideria Gomez was throwing a dinner party to mark her fortieth birthday. Peter was out of town so Lori attended by herself, the low-key affair marked by just a knot of photographers outside the host’s beachfront apartment.
Desideria herself looked stunning in a killer dress and heels, her glossy black hair caught in a long low ponytail at the nape of her neck. She greeted Lori at the door, enveloping her in sensual musk, and Lori presented her gift: a solid silver bracelet bearing the engraving DG. Desideria bit her lip with pleasure when she opened it.
Guests mingled inside. Lori spotted Dante, a gorgeous shaven-headed black man new to the modelling circuit, and Pearl, a six-feet-plus redhead with legs that went on for an eternity. Both were represented by La Lumière.
‘Hey, sweetie,’ crooned Dante, kissing her. He grinned wickedly. ‘How’s Peter?’
Lori didn’t want to think about Peter. ‘Another time,’ she said.
‘Have you seen the face on that?’ Dante murmured, nodding over her shoulder.
Lori turned. Dante was known for his catty one-liners and backstage bitching—she wondered what poor soul was on the receiving end this time.
Rebecca Stuttgart.
She was in conversation with a man Lori didn’t recognise. Lori’s attention flitted anxiously across the room, half wanting JB to be there and half unable to trust herself if he was. The strength of her dislike impelled her to march straight up and chuck her drink in his face.
‘You wouldn’t think she was bedding the sexiest guy on the planet,’ crooned Pearl, licking rosy-pink lips. ‘Imagine sleeping with JB Moreau every night.’
‘Excuse me!’ Dante was indignant. ‘The sexiest guy on the planet is standing right here.’ He sighed. ‘But I do kind of agree with you.’
To her intense discomfort, Lori was seated next to Rebecca Stuttgart at dinner. Her husband was nowhere to be seen.
‘How’s Mac Valerie treating you?’ Rebecca politely enquired, placing two fingers over her wineglass when the waiter tried to fill it.
‘Great,’ said Lori, wondering why a reminder of JB had to be there every damn way she turned. Her conscience buckled each time she tried to meet Rebecca’s probing gaze. Did the woman know? She’d certainly had that impression when they’d met at La Côte. Had JB confessed to what had happened? Had he lied to cover his tracks, vowing Lori to be the one who kissed him, not the other way around? Perhaps she had been? She could no longer be sure of anything that happened that day. Had they laughed about it, the silly child clinging on for a recurrence? Or was Rebecca suspicious of every La Lumière model she met, knowing the predator her husband had become? ‘I’m proud to have the contract.’
‘So you should be.’ Rebecca eyed her for a moment then said, ‘JB thinks a lot of you.’
Lori didn’t respond. She had the sensation of being mocked, invited to join a game whose rules she couldn’t grasp and which she would never win. She didn’t know whether to feel ashamed or embarrassed and so settled for both. Did they have kids?
If I’d known he was married, would that have made a difference?
There was a brief hiatus while their appetisers arrived, followed by a smattering of polite appreciation for the food.
Rebecca smiled stiffly. ‘What I mean to say is, he’s fond of you all at the agency.’
‘I’m sure.’
Gently, Rebecca pressed the back of her fork into the salmon mousse. ‘JB’s out of town right now,’ she said, ‘in Europe. With his family.’
Lori wondered why she was telling her this. ‘In France?’ she asked, to be gracious.
Rebecca took a small, controlled bite and chewed without relish. ‘Italy. Capri.’
‘I’ve never been.’
There was an uneasy pause, so Lori enquired, ‘Will you join him?’
‘I don’t think so. I ought to be heading home this week.’
‘You don’t live in LA?’
‘JB has a place here,’ said Rebecca. ‘But it’s not our home.’
Home, with its connotations of safety and warmth and all things familiar, didn’t fit with a man like JB. She was surprised he had married at all. What was the point of marriage if you spent your whole time pursuing other people? It was possible they had an open relationship, something she was encountering more and more in Hollywood and which was anathema to her. Marriage was sacrosanct, a bond, a pledge. It was for always.
‘Where’s home?’
Rebecca looked blank.
‘I’m sorry,’ she tacked on hastily. ‘I’m prying.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Rebecca, sipping from her water glass and leaving a stain where her lips touched. She didn’t volunteer the information, so Lori took it the conversation was over.
Fortunate diversion came from Desideria making a toast to her guests. It lasted long enough for the tension of their discussion to dissipate, and for there to be no obligation afterwards for either woman to resume it.
33
Aurora
‘Come to Italy.’
A week before term began, Pascale called. Aurora jumped at the invitation. One last blowout before Mrs Durdon sank her vampire teeth back in. And eight weeks in LA had felt like a long time, even in spite of the renewed focus Rita Clay had given her. Rita was working overtime laying the foundations of her so-called comeback: exciting things were planned for when she left school in a year’s time and returned here permanently.
Permanently.
The thought freaked her out. What if she didn’t want to? What if she wanted to go somewhere quiet and be anonymous for a while? She hadn’t told Pascale about her anxieties because she knew what Pascale would say: that she should quit LA for good and do something ‘meaningful’ with her life. Only it wasn’t that simple.
Gisele and Arnaud Devereux had
a villa on the island of Capri. Having never visited Italy before, Aurora hadn’t heard of it (though she had heard of Capri pants: not a good look). She flew out to Naples early September, where Pascale greeted her impassively at the airport.
‘I missed you!’ cried Aurora. They kissed each other briefly on the lips.
Pascale led her through the terminal. ‘We’ve got a boat to catch.’
A cab took them to Naples harbour. The ferry ports were swarming with tourists dragging over-stuffed wheelie suitcases at their ankles. Aurora and Pascale bypassed the crowds, located the Devereux Bombardier Bowrider and climbed aboard with the help of two swarthy Italians. One, clad in crisp white shorts and a shirt with insignia across it, was at the wheel.
‘Grazie, signor,’ Pascale said, before uttering something else in Italian that was incomprehensible to Aurora.
The rocky peaks of Capri could be made out across the water, the low, thick haze of the midday heat obscuring the crags. As the girls whipped from the quay, abandoning the dirt and dust of Naples in their wake, Aurora breathed deeply the sea-salty air and heard the receding clamour of Italians on the mainland, quickly drowned beneath the humming engine of the speedboat.
‘Pretty, don’t you think?’ said Pascale, slipping on her Gucci shades.
‘Totally.’ Immediately Aurora wished she hadn’t said ‘totally’. She needed to get a handle on what Pascale would call ‘this crass American thing’. She was in Europe now. With Arnaud and Gisele Devereux. She wished she had just a pinch of Pascale’s sophistication.
Twenty minutes later, they reached the island. There was a queue of vessels waiting to come to ground: one by one, tourists were being assisted to shore on the solid bronzed arm of a young Italian. Open-top taxis, all white, hovered to take visitors to their hotels or apartments, or over the winding, jagged cliffs to the southern, older town of Anacapri. Aurora noticed how the Devereux boat had its own docking space and a flock of men descended as it landed, seizing the ropes, tying them down and helping the girls out with their belongings.
Pascale located her father’s driver right away. Aurora reckoned he must have a different one for every place in the world.
Arnaud and Gisele’s house was set on a rugged outcrop, a golden three-storey pied à terre sporting a huge, sea-facing semicircular veranda. Olive-green shutters, paint peeling in the warmth, lent an old-world glamour entirely at home on the island. Lemon trees burst with ripe, thick-skinned fruit, and a lagoon-like plunge pool dazzled in the sun.
It was windy. They were at the highest point of the island. Below, the chalky outcrops of the town of Capri, above, wide blue sky.
The villa was empty. Gisele had left a note, penned in flamboyant script, on the refrigerator. While Pascale scanned it, Aurora wandered aimlessly through the lofty, cool space, running her fingers across ornate dressers and cabinets, the frames of paintings and the spines of books, grooves and hollows soft with dust. Inside, the place was more like the English churches she had been forced to go to at St Agnes—quiet and chill, echoey, and smelling of oldness.
‘They’re out,’ said Pascale, stating the obvious. ‘Want to go into town?’
‘Sure,’ said Aurora. ‘Where are they?’
Pascale tucked the note into the waist of her jeans. ‘Meeting my cousin.’
Aurora’s interest was aroused. ‘JB’s here?’ She remembered the conversation she’d had with Gisele in Paris, the photograph of him in Pascale’s dormitory.
‘Didn’t I say?’
‘No.’
‘You’ll get to meet him in the morning. Papa’s taking us out on the boat.’
‘The one we came on today?’
Pascale laughed. ‘Don’t be silly,’ she said. ‘That one’s just a toy.’
The boat they ended up sailing was a majestic ninety-foot superyacht with on-board games room, casino and fully stocked bar. They travelled at speed across the glinting sea, hot wind and sun and sparkle on the water. Smaller vessels passed—Italian, French, German flags rippling in the breeze, cresting on the waves the mammoth yacht left in its wake.
Over the bow, a swimming pool was carved out of the deck and framed by plush recliners, several uniformed staff ready to jump at the first signal. Gisele was sunbathing, her dark hair secured beneath an elegant turban headscarf and her enviable figure encased in a cutaway black swimming costume with a cluster of jewels at the cleavage. Pascale was beneath one of the parasols reading a book.
‘Mind if I take a look around?’ Aurora asked, unplugging her iPod.
Pascale didn’t raise her head. ‘So long as you keep to this end.’
‘How come?’
A shrug. ‘They’re talking business.’
Aurora wondered if she’d ever get a chance to corner JB by himself. Since he’d come aboard, Pascale seemed to be trying everything to keep them at a distance. ‘He’s married, you know,’ she’d said primly when they had set sail at dawn, yet another smaller boat coming to collect them from the island and take them to where Arnaud’s ‘princess’ was moored, a great white cut-out in a canvas of blue. ‘So?’ Aurora had countered, reminding herself she was so over boning whatever guy happened to be there at the right time.
Yet on seeing the cousin in the flesh, Aurora was forced to acknowledge first that JB Moreau was about as far from Billy-Bob Hocker as it was possible to get, and second, not since before Paris had she fancied anyone so much. Plus the fact remained that he was a huge deal: he was one of the biggest names in fashion. When she’d let slip to Farrah—regrettably—that she’d made friends with his family, she’d been barraged with questions. Was he superhot? Was he a weirdo? Was he shy? Was he divorced from his ancient wife yet? Not that Aurora had been able to dispense many details: Pascale was just as cagey about Moreau as her parents were.
‘Back in a sec,’ she said breezily, choosing to ignore her friend’s sidelong glance. If she could catch JB’s eye on her way past and tempt him into one of the cabins then what Pascale didn’t know couldn’t hurt her.
A panel of frosted glass doors opened to the grand saloon. Aurora glimpsed the men at the stern, engrossed in conversation on the L-shape banquettes. JB was wearing a white shirt that was shivering in the wind, open to his navel.
He didn’t look over.
Fuck.
She’d get his attention some other way. It was a dead cert he fancied her. How could he not? Weeks in LA had banished the waxy pallor awarded by St Agnes and restored Aurora to the all-American long-legged sweetheart men found impossible to resist. The moment they’d been introduced, she’d caught him scoping her out. If Pascale hadn’t been there she’d have ramped her flirt banter into overdrive, but no such luck. His gaze was mesmerising, as unnerving as it had been in the photograph at school—intense, straight on, unblinking, even in sun. It was weird to meet him. She realised she must have been carrying his image in her head all that time without knowing it, because the truth of him was uncanny, as if he were a figure in a remembered painting come miraculously to life.
Below deck, Aurora found herself in a wood-panelled corridor adorned with works of expensive art. She perused at leisure, liking what she saw but not understanding it. She decided that one day, when she had her own place, she’d fill it with stuff like this that would have people coming past and oohing and aahing and drawing conclusions about what it said about their host, even if their host hadn’t an idea what that was herself. Yes, she’d be intriguing. She’d be mysterious. She’d be—a word Pascale liked—beguiling.
‘Hello.’
The voice came from behind. It was deep, and even in those two syllables carried an accent far stronger than Pascale’s or her parents’.
‘Oh,’ she stammered, turning, putting a hand to her chest in surprise and pissed he had caught her off guard. ‘You frightened me.’
‘Sorry.’ JB smiled. His eyes were the bluest she had ever seen. It looked like he was wearing contacts or something. He raised a hand so it was resting just beneath the picture ra
il, leaning his body in close. The movement parted the material of his shirt.
‘I—I thought you were upstairs,’ she fumbled. It sounded like such a dumbass thing to say. Where were her playful one-liners and glittering repartee?
‘I was,’ he replied. ‘Now I’m here.’
‘Guess so.’
‘Looking for something?’
‘Just exploring.’ Great—now she sounded like a five-year-old with a bucket and spade. She bristled, on the defence because it was easier. ‘What’s it to you?’
JB made a very French expression, a sort of shrug. God, he was sexy up close. Especially the scar, which was less pronounced than she’d envisaged but which gave his top lip a malice that was totally and utterly fucking ruinous.
‘Making sure you keep out of trouble.’
Bingo! He was flirting. ‘Trouble’s not such a bad thing.’ Aurora glanced up at him through sun-kissed eyelashes, at last hitting her stride. ‘Is it?’
‘That depends how often you get into trouble.’
Coquettish, she lifted an eyebrow. ‘Oh?’
‘You know what I mean.’
Abruptly, his demeanour changed. Aurora suddenly felt as if they weren’t flirting at all. There was an unsettling awareness about JB, as though he knew every single thing she was thinking, had ever thought, the colour of his stare beaming into her like a laser.
‘You should look after yourself better,’ he said, drawing back.
The words threw her off course. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘Your body is a precious thing, Aurora. You shouldn’t give it to anyone who asks.’
‘Whatever,’ she spluttered, unable to fathom that he was now assuming to give her some shitting lecture. ‘You’re not my dad.’
‘Someone ought to be.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Guidance. It’s important.’
‘How dare you? You’ve never even met my dad! You know nothing about him!’
‘I know that you’re too young to behave the way you do.’
She was raging. ‘What would you know about the way I behave?’
‘I know when someone wants me to make love to them.’
