by Victoria Fox
‘Wait.’ Xander stopped her. ‘What are you doing?’
A couple in front shot them a look to be quiet. Reuben had taken to the mic, was tapping it for sound as he prepared to welcome the assembly on board.
‘… to see so many of you here,’ he began, ‘so many faces from over the years …’
Stevie’s voice was barely a whisper. ‘The sooner this is over,’ she told her husband, ‘the sooner we can leave.’
‘We’re on a boat,’ Xander reminded her. ‘We can’t just leave.’
‘Don’t be facetious. You know what I mean.’
The woman turned again. ‘Shh!’
‘I’m speaking to Moreau first.’
‘Why? There’s no point.’
But Xander held on to her tightly. Maybe he was right. She had to be patient. They weren’t here to start a revolution; they were here to help Bibi.
Reuben was perspiring in his suit. ‘When I acquired Cacatra,’ he was saying, ‘I had no idea how important it would become. Not only to me but to everyone here …’
I’ll bet, Stevie thought bitterly.
‘Tonight is as much about the island we love as it is about me.’
‘Fine,’ she muttered to her husband. ‘But when this is over, you’re tracking him down.’
Lori visited the bathroom on the upper deck. It was quiet, just a few straggling guests returning from a brief exploration, disappointed to have missed Reuben’s address.
The bathroom was decked in gold and mahogany. Mood music piped through invisible speakers and classic leather armchairs adorned the marble floor.
Lori met her reflection. She wondered how many women had stared themselves down in these waters. How many hopeful mothers had visited Cacatra and heard of van der Meyde’s solution and looked so deep into themselves and their conscience that it hurt.
JB’s involvement was atrocious. How could he consent to such a thing? The treachery, the dishonesty, the brutal deceit … And yet it accounted for so much. For how he had come for her that day, for how he had seemed to know her in a way no one else did, for how he’d been forced to retreat when she’d arrived at La Lumière. And once Lori had overcome the impact of Rebecca Stuttgart’s revelation, it became clear that this was Reuben’s business and his alone. Involvement was not the same as initiation. It made sense that JB would seek refuge with the man who had been his parents’ ally. Could she punish him for that?
When JB had stepped into Tres Hermanas all those moons ago he had been there to save her—and not just from Diego Marquez. Women sourced were paid and protected for life. If JB had approached her with the offer, helping immeasurably her father, Rico and, yes, herself, could she honestly promise that, hand on heart, she would have refused?
He became obsessed by you, Rebecca had said. You were too special to let go.
It clouded Lori’s mind, intoxicating her with sweet promise.
She thought of Omar and his beautiful blue eyes.
The family they could be.
Aurora drank in the fresh air like a desert wanderer stumbling across water. The sheltered aft deck was host to a handful of guests, smoke from their cigarettes snatched by the breeze as they talked animatedly beneath heat-lamps. She made her way up to the bow. It was empty.
The sun was slipping away. A canopy of tentative stars winked overhead.
Aurora leaned on the bow, one foot on the bottom tread. One move would be all it took, just one, a leap of faith. What would it feel like? Cold and salty and going down for miles. She pictured the endless fathoms, the mammoth great white sharks that prowled these waters.
Cacatra was far behind them now. Amid open sky and open sea, halved by the horizon, the earth revealed its curvature.
Down in the cabin, Reuben had finished speaking. She had not felt able to be part of his audience, grovelling over his phony magnificence. It was the last audience van der Meyde would ever have, the last speech he would ever make. He had entered the last hour of his life and he hadn’t got a clue. For once, the man who knew everything knew nothing.
Aurora set her jaw. She stared ahead, the power of the vessel in line with her intentions, driving her forward and confirming her fate.
She fingered the knife, adjusted its position so the tough handle was ready to grasp.
Like killing a deer, a clean quick slice to the throat.
Almost too easy. Almost unfair. He would not have a chance to beg for his life.
Lori exited the bathroom and ran straight into Maximo Diaz.
‘I’ve been looking for you.’
She backed against the wall, fending him off. Every time he came close she was swamped by dread.
‘We should go back,’ she said tightly.
‘Should we?’ Maximo attempted to kiss her but she dodged his lips. ‘Relax, Lori, it’s a beautiful night. We’ll be married soon …’
A fashion editor in L’Wren Scott passed, smiled awkwardly and disappeared into the restroom. Lori managed to dilute her look of reluctance before it was noted. Maximo ran a thumb across her chin. ‘I am going to ask you, you know.’
‘You wouldn’t dare.’
‘It’s what everybody wants.’
‘Except me.’
‘Hey,’ he teased menacingly, ‘I know you don’t like to rush things, Lori. I mean, you walk out of my life one day and ask me to be a father to your child the next…’
‘Keep your voice down, please.’
‘There’s no one here.’
‘We’ve talked this through a thousand times. You said you understood—’
‘I know, I know.’ He held his hands up like he’d only been kidding, but Lori was noticing he referred to the pact more and more. It was as if the longer she held out on Maximo physically, the greater risks he was prepared to take with their discretion.
The beauty editor re-emerged and he took the opportunity to kiss Lori full on the lips, knowing she wouldn’t be able to pull away. She let him, even tolerated his tongue in her mouth. When she was sure the woman had gone she shoved him off.
‘You’re making a mockery of me.’
‘No more than you of me.’
And with those words Lori knew she had signed her life away for ever to Maximo Diaz.
He insisted on holding her hand. As they passed down the corridor, Lori felt compelled to turn back. Someone had been watching them; she had sensed it at her neck.
The figure disappeared out of sight, so quick she could have been mistaken. It was a man, hidden in shadow: just a movement, there and then vanished, like the dark wings of a bird.
As far as the patrol on the island was concerned, Juan Romero, aka Enrique Marquez, had never boarded Reuben van der Meyde’s boat in the first place.
As Enrique stepped into the lower deck quarters for a smoke, he reflected on what an easy gig Margaret Jensen was getting. All the old lady had to do was stick to a story.
‘Three minutes, Romero.’ His supervisor collared him on the way past.
With a smirk, Enrique blew out smoke. He’d been playing truant all day, taking breaks without permission, making eyes at the women and giving attitude to the men, anything that gave trouble to the organisers. Later, when he appeared bleary-eyed amid claims he’d fallen asleep on the job, they’d decide it was little wonder he had missed his cue when finally the yacht departed.
Grinding out the cigarette, he made his way back inside. In the galley, signature cocktails were being prepared in sparkling V-shaped glasses. The V formed part of a VDM silver stirrer, on top of which was a 60 made of edible jewels.
In reality, Enrique would have worked his ass off like never before to get to dry land. His part required both mental and physical vigour. First, the disposal of evidence: the detonator tossed over the escape boat, the airplug released on the dinghy, his own clothes stripped off and flung wide so they looked like debris thrown from the wreck. Then the final, critical push. He would imagine the gathered panic on the beach as, on the distant horizon, the world’s glitterat
i perished in pieces on a bomb-wrecked ocean. Margaret Jensen would come rushing, the child’s hand in hers, feigning shock, screaming and crying like the rest.
Under cover of darkness, Enrique wouldn’t be heading to the northern shore. Instead he would swim east, towards the dry, duplicate uniform Margaret had left for him.
It was almost a pity there would be no one to congratulate him on his genius.
Enrique barely noticed as his serving trays were loaded and he turned to re-enter the fray.
JB Moreau passed him on the stairwell. Enrique had to flatten himself against the wall to stop being knocked into. Invisible to the end.
59
Lance Chlomsky was terrified of slipping up. A fortnight’s intensive training might have prepared him for the physical work, but being around all these famous people and not tripping or spilling or making an ass of himself? Forget it.
Tonight was a chance to make something of his life. Six months in a correctional facility for bringing an armed weapon into school … well, his mom had told him then that his future was as good as over. How could you be so stupid, boy? But he’d only done it because the other kids told him to. They’d said he could be in their gang if he passed the initiation and Lance had never had any friends. He was lanky, scrawny, with a face full of red spots: a loner and a loser.
One night working for Reuben van der Meyde was his big break. It had been a lottery, too many underprivileged kids to pick from, but for once Lance had been lucky.
He put forward his tray and watched as it was filled. Tiger prawns, swordfish and calamari; fish roe, scallops and lobster.
JB Moreau himself was in the galley. Lance felt the stickiness on his brow, the way he’d felt at school when the big boys ganged up on him.
The Frenchman surveyed the space with sharp, appraising eyes that eventually settled on Lance. The kid looked away, embarrassed.
Moments later he heard a voice, an accent, close to his ear.
‘You’re going to do me a favour,’ it said. ‘You’re going to listen carefully to these instructions, and then you’re going to execute them. Do you understand?’
Stevie needed air. She pushed open the doors to the rear deck and emerged straight into the satisfied regard of Dirk Michaels.
It was cold now, almost totally dark. They were alone.
‘I was hoping you’d come,’ he growled, a wedge of tobacco between his fleshy lips.
‘Lay off Bibi Reiner,’ she told him. ‘I don’t want a fuss; I don’t want a scene. And trust me, neither do you.’
He chuckled, a horrid, humourless sound. ‘Trust you? That’s funny. Seems like you know exactly what the broad’s been up to.’
‘I know what you and Linus did to her.’
‘I admit nothing.’
‘Really? I’d have thought it was in your nature to brag about it.’
Dirk leaned in so she could smell his breath. ‘The whore deserved everything she got. She loved every second, was begging us for more.’
‘You and Linus abused her. You made her suffer.’
‘And?’
‘You made her life hell and you know it,’ Stevie spat. ‘Linus tricked her into starring in those movies, then you and he imagined it gave you rights to assault her.’
‘She’s still alive, ain’t she?’
‘You would have ended up killing her. If she hadn’t killed herself first.’
Dirk eyeballed her. ‘I’d watch what you say. There’re plenty people here who’d be very interested to know what happened the night Linus died. So much for a heartbroken widow! The bitch is a killer.’
‘You blackmailed her.’ Stevie stood her ground. ‘Here, on Cacatra. Van der Meyde allowed it to happen. We know everything, Dirk.’
‘That’s an interesting theory.’
‘Don’t fuck with me.’
He grinned, enjoying himself. ‘Far as I can tell, there’s only one way out of this.’
She shot him daggers. ‘And I’m not going to like it.’
‘Ever since he saw you in New York, he wanted you both. Bibi was only ever half his vision. It was the package he craved.’
‘Linus was sick,’ Stevie told him. ‘And so are you.’
Dirk moved closer. Above, the stars froze like spectators at a death match. ‘We’re businessmen,’ he said. ‘We’re commercially minded. You know he wanted you as well. I made it clear to the mourning widow when we were last in touch. She stays involved in my … projects—’ he shrugged as if it were simple ‘—and she promises to bring you in, too. There, you have my word. The recording is destroyed.’
‘Fuck you.’
‘What option do you have?’
‘I’ve got dirt on this place you’re too thick to even guess at.’
He smirked. ‘I’m sure.’
‘You’d better be. Don’t make me use it, Dirk, because I don’t want to. It affects too many people, innocent people I don’t want to bring into it. You might think you’re tight with van der Meyde but you’re not in on the half of it.’
‘I’m giving you an opportunity.’ He ignored her words, heard them for diversion. ‘I’d take it, if I were you.’
‘Thank God you’re not.’
‘Then be prepared to face the consequences.’
Stevie slid open the door. ‘Likewise.’
‘It’s awful, isn’t it? To lose your husband so soon.’ Christina Michaels lowered her voice. ‘And under those circumstances … Bibi Reiner must still be in pieces!’
It was a relief to Xander that Christina appeared to know nothing of her husband’s ploy, though not a surprise. Dirk would hardly want to advertise his extramarital curriculum.
‘I suppose she’s destined for the trash heap,’ Christina mused, with a shade of glee. ‘Imagine that! Burned out and washed up in Hollywood before she’s even begun.’
Xander spotted JB Moreau entering the saloon. He had known this man long enough and well enough to be sure when JB had things on his mind. It was in the way he stood.
Summoning his courage, Xander made his excuses and threaded through the throng. JB possessed radar for incoming challenges, and his eyes landed on Xander’s in accordance.
‘We need a word, Moreau,’ he said when he came close. ‘In private.’
Aurora travelled to the lower deck and through a wood-panelled corridor. It wasn’t anything special and she decided it led to the crew’s quarters. Beyond, through a glass partition, the lavish guests’ accommodation opened out.
Handmade wallpaper, intricate in design, adorned her route. She pushed one of the cabin doors and was surprised when it opened. Inside, a white-silk four-poster bed sat amid ornate bamboo furniture, at the foot of which was a retractable plasma-screen TV. Two gold-framed portholes looked out to night. She stood at one, unable to see through impenetrable darkness.
Aurora lowered herself on to the bed. It was deathly quiet.
She caught her image in the porthole and glimpsed her mother—the woman she had believed to be her mother—before her own, tortured reflection replaced it.
Feeding a hand into her dress, she grabbed the blade and extracted it. It was long and glinting, the grip made of bone.
Aurora pressed the point of it into her fingertip until the soft pad flowered with blood.
Then the tears came, at first because it hurt and then because it seized a deeper ache, one she could bleed out for years and years but never be rid of, and once she started, her head in her hands, she found she was unable to stop.
Lori noticed the kid. He was short and scrawny with a mean-set jaw and a rash of toxic pimples. He’d been hanging around her and Maximo for ages, as if he wasn’t interested in attending to any of the other guests, and it was starting to make her uncomfortable.
She knew why van der Meyde had hired staff from an unconventional source. It was acknowledgement that he, too, had come from nothing and that chances in life were few.
Or was it guilt?
Did a man like van der Meyde have a
conscience?
Certainly the move had been publicised enough: Reuben was shrewd to the last. But this kid was like a bad omen. Each time she steered Maximo away, he followed.
Memories of the hate mail swamped over her. What if that person was here tonight?
What if he was watching her now?
Lance Chlomsky could not stop staring at Maximo Diaz. The actor reminded him that he had been dealt one of life’s great injustices: ugliness. Since his boyhood, Lance had never understood why some people got it all: the face, the body, the height, and how, as if that weren’t enough, those very things fed into life’s twin triumphs—girls and money. While others, like him, spent their lives squeezing pustules in the mirror and pleasuring themselves by their own hand, the accompanying lack of confidence and self-esteem meaning they would for ever be that way.
Maximo alongside Lori Garcia—they had to be Hollywood’s best-looking couple. With dead certainty, Lance knew he would never, not in a million years, know what it felt like to love a woman like that.
It was impossible to take his eyes off them, but all the same it hurt, like trying to look at the sun and catching it only in brief, dazzling bursts.
‘Is everything OK?’ Lori appeared at Stevie’s side.
‘I’m looking for Xander,’ she said, scanning the saloon for her husband. She thought she spotted his dark head moving among the sea of bodies but was mistaken. ‘Have you seen him?’
‘Not since earlier.’
Stevie crossed the cabin and followed a winding spiral to the upper level. A couple were embracing where the stairs ended and pulled apart self-consciously. Quickly she dipped into the smaller salon and checked the upstairs bar. Nothing.
As a last refuge she travelled to the lower deck, making her way through the guest quarters, marvelling at and repelled by her surroundings. No wonder van der Meyde wanted this part open. He was a show-off and this was about as impressive as you could get.
She was about to turn back when she heard, faintly, the sound of someone crying.
