Bad Girls

by Rebecca Chance

  From miles away across the room, the door swung open, knocking against the wall.

  ‘Oh, sorry! I didn’t realize you were still in here.’

  It was the blonde girl from before, the girl who’d come in when Amber had knocked the magazines over.

  ‘That’s fine, Skye, we were just finishing up,’ Dr Raf said hastily, letting go of Amber’s hand. ‘Amber . . . um, Daniyel will show you round and make sure you have what you need. I’ll see both of you in group.’

  He nodded to Skye and was gone; Amber’s eyes followed him out of the door, not turning back to look at the girl called Skye until he was long gone.

  ‘Amber, this is your roommate, Skye. You remember her from last night at all?’ Daniyel said briskly.

  Amber shook her head.

  ‘You were pretty dopey,’ Skye said, smiling at her.

  ‘Amber, you OK to walk?’ Daniyel asked. ‘I could take you through to the kitchen if you think you can manage it. Fix you some toast, maybe. Or a bowl of cereal. We should get something in your stomach.’

  ‘I can do that,’ Skye said cheerfully.

  She’s really pretty, Amber thought, and she couldn’t help but be jealous: Skye’s blonde, blue-eyed good looks were so perfect, so exactly what men generally wanted. Too small to model, too busty for fashion, but the Barbie blueprint of the ideal girlfriend, adorable and dainty-featured. With her wide eyes and slightly up-tilted nose, she resembled a cute Pekinese.

  Swinging her legs out of bed, standing up cautiously, Amber, who was nearly five foot ten, towered over her roommate.

  ‘I’m bored out of my mind, honestly,’ Skye was assuring Daniyel. ‘It’ll give me something to do, showing Amber round.’

  But Amber had just caught sight of herself in the mirror and let out a little scream. Bird’s nest hair, no makeup at all, and a dent in her cheek where she must have lain on a corner of the pillow. Her skin was dull, and there were bags under her eyes.

  Oh no – the first time I meet Dr Raf, and that’s what I look like. No wonder he was staring at me – he must have been shocked at how awful I looked . . .

  ‘I need to shower first,’ she said firmly. ‘And blow-dry my hair, and do my makeup. God, I hope my mother packed my straighteners! And my tongs!’

  When he sees me again, she told herself, I’m going to look fantastic. I’m going to look like I just stepped out of that Sports Illustrated shoot. I’m going to smell wonderful and – shit, did Matka pack me any perfume at all?

  She was down on her knees, rummaging through her suitcase frantically. Skye cracked a grin. ‘Well, we’ve definitely got something in common!’ she said. ‘And look, hon, you can always borrow my straighteners, OK? I know how important they are to a girl . . .’

  Skye’s straighteners weren’t the GHD to which Amber was addicted – Slava hadn’t thought to pack either those or the tongs that Amber used to flip the ends of her hair. Still, Amber had over a decade’s experience of grooming herself to the kind of high-gloss shine expected from a top model, and when you were travelling all round the world, you didn’t always have your favourite tools to work with. An hour later, she emerged from the ensuite bathroom so transformed that Skye, lying on her bed reading InStyle, gaped when she saw her roommate.

  ‘Wow,’ she said. ‘You clean up nice.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Amber said a little warily. She wasn’t used to girls paying her compliments and meaning them; the isolation of her life with Slava, combined with the vicious competitiveness of the modelling world, had made her cautious about trusting anyone. Especially a girl as pretty as Skye.

  Still, Skye wasn’t lying. Amber surveyed herself in the bedroom mirror. Citizens of Humanity jeans clung to her slender legs, the slight bootcut making them seem impossibly endless. Her fitted tank top was emerald green to match her eyes, while the pale grey, feather-light oversized silk cashmere cardigan hung off her shoulders, its wrap front dangling down elegantly, the translucent fabric part-showing off, part-veiling the curves of her body as she moved.

  She was in a cloud of perfume: lilac, white cedar and peony. Thank goodness, Slava had packed her favourite daytime scent, Éclat d’Arpège. Her hair was a silky, tawny mane, her eyebrows perfectly plucked and pencilled, her long lashes mascaraed dark brown, her cheeks and lips stained lightly with the same dark rose. Amber had gone as natural as she dared; instinct told her that Dr Raf preferred women without too much obvious artifice.

  ‘You hungry?’ Skye asked, putting down the magazine.

  It was a question Amber never knew how to answer truthfully. She was always hungry, but that had been her normal state for so long that she barely noticed it any longer.

  ‘I suppose I should eat something,’ she said. ‘Cereal sounded nice.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Skye said wryly. ‘They’ve got skim milk here.’

  Amber was in a haze the whole time Skye showed her round the clinic. Her near-obsession with Dr Raf made it almost impossible for her to take in anything Skye was telling her; the garden, the kitchen, the gym, the communal lounge area, the people Skye introduced her to, passed in a blur. She spooned up the Cheerios Skye had poured into a bowl for her without tasting them – they might have been made of cardboard for all she knew. All she was aware of was that in a short while, she would see Dr Raf again, hear his voice. It was extraordinary, and unprecedented; she’d had crushes on men before, of course, but never had she felt anything this strong, this all-encompassing.

  By the time Skye, checking the time, announced that it was time for afternoon group therapy, Amber’s impatience was almost unbearable. Not that you could read any of that on her face. She was so used to presenting a beautiful, impassive mask to the world that all Skye, or anyone, could see was an exquisite, poised model, dressed and made-up so perfectly that she could be ready for a shoot at any moment.

  ‘Don’t get too freaked about the group,’ Skye said, leading Amber into a large, sun-filled room. ‘Everyone’s cool. And you just go at your own pace, you know? I mean, you don’t have to talk about stuff you really don’t want to.’

  A semicircle of square, red armchairs was arranged facing another, single, red armchair. Apart from the chair setup, the room was decorated like an ideal living room in a show flat for an upmarket development, from the circular, orange-striped rug on the floor, to the abstract prints on the walls, to the wooden shelves in staggered lines, which held ornamental glass vases in shades of gold and silver. The floor-to-ceiling windows looked out onto the garden, but thick hibiscus shrubs clustering close to the glass provided reassuring privacy.

  Amber glanced over at Skye as they sat down in chairs next to each other, her curiosity finally stirred.

  ‘So what are you here for?’ she asked.

  Normally, Amber would never have asked something that direct. But something about passing out in London and waking up in Los Angeles, in an environment where everything was unfamiliar, away from every reassurance and security she knew, was making her strangely unlike herself.

  And Skye didn’t seem to mind. Flashing a beautiful smile, she said easily: ‘Sex addiction.’ She tilted her head to one side. ‘I’m an exotic dancer. Or I was. One of my clients got this huge crush on me. Didn’t like that I was screwing around – you know how it is.’

  Amber found herself nodding in agreement.

  ‘So he’s stumped up for me to come here to get cured,’ Skye concluded. ‘Then I guess he thinks he’ll put me on his white horse and ride off into the sunset.’ She rolled her big blue eyes.

  Great story, huh? Skye thought smugly. And I came up with that all by myself – Kevin didn’t help out. I’m turning out to be a pretty good actress.

  ‘Hey, baby,’ drawled a man’s voice.

  Amber turned in her chair, recognizing the voice. And when she saw him, she was sure she’d met him before; it took a good ten seconds for the penny to drop.

  Wow, Joe Jeffreys. He’s just as handsome in person. And he’s really into Skye – look how he’
s grinning at her.

  ‘Hey back atcha,’ Skye was saying, flipping her long blonde hair over one shoulder, arching her back to show off her firm round breasts, smiling bewitchingly at Joe Jeffreys as he took a seat across the semicircle from the two of them, stretching his long, long legs out in front of him, his frame a little too large for the chair, which looked insubstantial by comparison with his big, strongly muscled body.

  So he can get a good view of Skye.

  ‘Hey, a newbie!’ Joe said, taking in Amber’s presence. ‘I’m Joe.’ He leaned forward, tilting over the axis of his legs, to shake her hand. ‘You look kind of familiar. You act, sweetie?’

  ‘I used to model,’ Amber said, surprising herself with the past tense.

  ‘Oh, right.’ He looked her up and down, his eyes full of appreciation. ‘Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you.’

  Beside her, Amber heard Skye stir in her chair. But just then, a bustle of movement signalled other arrivals: a skinny, unhappy-looking young man with two nose rings, an older guy in chinos and a button-down shirt, and a girl barely out of her teens with a flaming-yellow bob of hair, a lot of dark makeup smeared around her eyes, and a sulky pout to her mouth. She flung herself into the chair closest to the door, scowling furiously as she wrapped herself into a cocoon with the plaid blanket she’d brought with her.

  ‘Hey, Petal,’ Joe said to her.

  ‘Fuck off,’ the girl called Petal snapped back at him.

  ‘Nice to see you too,’ Joe said, not a whit fazed, leaning back and crossing his legs at the ankles. He exchanged a brief, amused look with Skye, who wiggled her eyebrows at him in response.

  The door shut.

  ‘Good afternoon, everyone,’ said Dr Raf, and Amber’s heart leaped into her throat; for a long moment she couldn’t breathe.

  ‘I’m just going to pull out a second chair,’ he said, ‘because Dr Lucy Tennant is joining us today. Some of you have already met Dr Lucy, I know.’

  ‘Hi, everyone,’ said Dr Lucy, striding into view around the edge of the semicircle, her jaw pegged at a high angle, her hands in the pockets of the white coat hanging loose over her fitted shirt and flat-fronted beige trousers.

  I hate her, Amber thought instantly. She looks like the kind of woman who thinks she’s always right and everyone else is always wrong. And why is she wearing that coat? To show us she’s a doctor? I mean, Dr Raf doesn’t need to wear a white coat to be authoritative . . .

  But then Amber realized that Dr Raf’s shirtsleeves were rolled up, showing off his forearms, and she completely lost her train of thought as she stared at him, watching him lift the armchair as easily as if it weighed nothing at all, swinging it round and placing it next to his, gesturing courteously at Dr Lucy to sit down before he did.

  I can look at him as much as I want, and no one will think it’s weird, Amber realized, a tide of excitement surging in her. He’s our doctor – we’re supposed to be focusing on him, that’s the point of these sessions, isn’t it?

  And just then, as Dr Raf surveyed the group, his steady dark gaze met Amber’s. The naked longing in her eyes was impossible to disguise; somehow, in his presence, she felt that she had absolutely no control over her reactions. There was nothing flirtatious about Amber; she’d never learned how to be coquettish. All the cute tricks she’d seen Skye use on Joe were completely alien to her. She just looked at Dr Raf as she had never looked at any man, with her heart and soul in her green eyes.

  And she could have sworn that she connected with him completely for that moment. That he saw her, fully, and that it was genuinely hard for him to drag his eyes away from her and turn to the next person in the circle.

  ‘Um, let’s start as we always do, OK?’ Dr Raf said gruffly, his light tenor voice a little rougher than usual. ‘We’ll go round the circle and say our names. And if you’re feeling up to it, why don’t you tell us why you’re here?’

  He looked encouragingly at the far side of the circle from Amber, at the man dressed like a mid-level executive at a corporate retreat.

  Hands on his chino-clad knees, the man muttered, staring at the floor: ‘I’m Mitch. Coke addict. Third time round.’

  ‘I’m Brian,’ the boy with the piercings contributed. ‘Only I fucking hate my name, so I’m changing it when I come up with something better. I’m an addict. Crystal meth, mainly.’

  Dr Raf and Dr Lucy were following the progress with their eyes, and now they were both looking at Petal, curled up in her blanket, whose turn it was next.

  ‘Petal?’ Dr Lucy prompted finally. ‘Will you introduce yourself?’

  Ugh, she has a horrible voice, Amber observed. Squeaky and nasal. Amber had met plenty of American women – fashion editors, models – with that voice, and they had all been snobbish and entitled.

  ‘I’m Petal,’ the girl mumbled finally, shaking her bright yellow bob over her face. ‘Like you all didn’t sodding know already. And I’m here ’cause my fucking hypocrite bastard of a dad says I’m doing too much coke. I hate it here, I miss my boyfriend and my mates, and the food here’s total shit.’

  Brian choked back a giggle.

  ‘Thanks, Petal,’ Dr Lucy said seriously, as Joe, next in line, said with great good humour, running one big tanned hand through his blond hair: ‘Hey, you guys. I’m Joe and I’m a sex addict, but I’m here to get cured!’

  ‘Praise the Lord!’ Skye added irrepressibly, as Joe flashed her a huge grin that was so sexy even Amber blinked at the sheer energy he could project just by smiling at a girl.

  ‘Skye,’ Dr Lucy reproved. ‘Please.’ Her dark, perfectly threaded brows pulled together, but her smooth pale forehead didn’t move at all.

  Botox, Amber recognized instantly, contemptuously; she was proud of never having had any surgical interventions.

  ‘Sorry.’ Skye ducked her pretty head, flashing a swift blue conspiratorial glance at Joe under her eyelashes. ‘I’m Skye, and I’m a sex addict. Oh, and I’ve totally hit the coke too heavily from time to time.’

  It was Amber’s turn. She sat there, suddenly paralysed, her heart pounding: she hated having to speak in front of people, let alone confess personal stuff to them. One of the reasons she’d been such a success as a model was, paradoxically, her shyness. She would infinitely rather have her body communicate for her. Her facial expressions, her poses, were all the more eloquent because her body told stories her lips could not.

  Dr Lucy started to speak, but Dr Raf raised his hand slightly, heading her off.

  ‘Amber?’ he said very gently. ‘Do you feel up to saying anything?’

  Amber looked straight at him, and the rest of the people present, the entire surroundings, faded away like an effect in a film, the focus so tight on Dr Raf that everything else was blurred and meaningless. All she could see was Dr Raf, vivid and clear: so clear that she could see the faint five o’clock shadow on his jawline, the slight part of his lips, his white teeth. She almost thought she could hear him breathing.

  ‘I’m Amber,’ she heard herself say clearly. ‘And I’m addicted to painkillers. Muscle relaxants, downers . . .’ she remembered how Dr Raf had described them, ‘. . . opiates. Since I was in my teens. I took too many and had an overdose. I didn’t mean to. Or –’ she couldn’t lie when she was looking at Dr Raf, ‘– I don’t think I did. All I really wanted was the pain to stop.’

  There was a long pause, during which Amber and Dr Raf’s eyes never left one another.

  It was broken only by Dr Lucy saying eventually in clear, sharp tones: ‘Very good, Amber! Excellent sharing!’

  As Amber’s concentration on Dr Raf was broken, she realized with a shock that her face was wet. Tears were pouring from her eyes; she hadn’t even been aware of it. Skye was pushing something at her – a tissue box.

  ‘Skye, I know you’re trying to be sympathetic,’ Dr Lucy said brightly, ‘but what’s the rule here about handing people Kleenex?’

  ‘God,’ the girl called Petal observed sarcastically, ‘sometimes you so
und exactly like my form teacher at kindergarten.’

  Both Joe and Brian, the young man with piercings, snorted with amusement at this sally.

  Dr Lucy’s head snapped round; even more brightly, she said: ‘Petal, could you tell us the rule about Kleenex, please?’

  Petal rolled her eyes.

  ‘Don’t-offer-anyone-else-tissues-’cause-it’s-like-you’re-telling-them-to-stop-crying,’ she recited.

  ‘That’s right.’ Dr Lucy looked back at Amber. ‘We want everyone here to be free to feel their feelings,’ Dr Lucy said, smiling compassionately.

  ‘I just thought Skye was being nice,’ Amber heard herself saying. ‘I mean, my face was all wet.’

  ‘It totally was,’ Brian said, leaning forward enthusiastically. ‘You know what you just had? Buddha’s tears. Daniyel was talking about those in meditation class last week. It’s when you don’t really feel like you’re crying, but, like, this tap gets turned on inside you to cleanse everything out.’

  ‘Thanks, Brian,’ Dr Raf said. ‘Very empathetic.’

  Dr Lucy cleared her throat. ‘I was going to do some work this session on body image,’ she said, reaching up one perfectly manicured hand and smoothing her already sleek dark hair back along her skull. ‘Skye, I wonder if we could talk briefly about your T-shirt? I thought we could use that to open a discussion about how people perceive us.’

  Skye looked down at her tight, hot-pink T-shirt. Over her breasts, in wriggly lines, was written: ‘My body’s not a temple – it’s an amusement park’.

  ‘What kind of message do you think that sends out?’ Dr Lucy asked. ‘And do you think it’s in keeping with the house rules of Cascabel?’

  God, does this woman ever ask a question she doesn’t know the answer to? Amber thought.

  Skye widened her big blue eyes and said in her best little baby-girl voice: ‘Oh! You’re saying that it’s like I’m telling people I’m a ride! Whoops!’