by Hyland, Tara
“Well, I’d say that you’re foolish to turn me down,” Ed said. “But I have a feeling you know exactly what you’re doing.”
Cole grinned. “Always have, always will.”
A tentative knock on the door interrupted them. A moment later, Cole’s assistant, Sumiko, entered. With the rapid expansion of his company, he’d set up a small head office a few months earlier, renting a modest suite of rooms on the top floor of a ramshackle townhouse in the heart of Soho. One of his first tasks after moving in had been to recruit Sumiko. At nineteen, she was young, but she had the main qualifications he was looking for—she was native Japanese and also spoke fluent English.
She came over to his desk with some letters, waiting quietly, eyes lowered, as he put his signature on them.
“Would you like me to stay around tonight?” she asked softly once he’d finished.
“No thanks, Sumiko. Have a good evening.”
Ed’s eyes followed her out the door. “Cute,” he said, once she’d gone.
“Well qualified,” Cole countered.
Ed raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, I bet.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Come on. She looks like she just stepped out of Asian Babes.”
Cole scrunched his face in disgust. “Jesus, Ed. She’s nineteen.”
“That old?”
“Hey, buddy, you need to get yourself a girlfriend.”
Ed chuckled lightly. “Believe me, that’s the last thing I need.” He took a sip of water. “So, are you all set for next Thursday?” he asked, changing the subject.
“Pretty much.” It was the five-year anniversary of Kobe’s opening, and Cole was planning a big celebration. “Are you still coming? Or are you too bitter after I turned you down today?”
Ed grinned mischievously. “That depends. Will Sumiko be there?”
Cole’s smiled disappeared. “Hey, Ed, leave it alone.” There was no mistaking the warning in his voice. “She’s just a kid.”
“Yeah, I suppose you’re right.” He gave Cole a sideways look. “And it’s not like she’d be interested in me, anyway.”
Cole didn’t bother to ask what Ed meant. He was aware that Sumiko had a crush on him, but it was something he was trying hard to ignore. It was harmless enough—more hero worship than anything else. As long as it wasn’t interfering with their working relationship he could overlook it, and she’d lose interest eventually, he was sure.
Ed waited a moment before asking the logical next question. “And how’s Elizabeth doing? Rumor has it things are manic over at Melville.”
“You know Elizabeth,” Cole said evenly. “She’s coping very well.”
The answer was vague. But it spoke volumes.
That night, Cole got home to find his elegant Chelsea townhouse empty again. Elizabeth had left a message earlier to say she was going to be late. No big surprise there. He contemplated the long evening ahead. He could hit the gym, but he’d been there every day for the past two weeks. He could see his muscles straining through the sleeves of his shirt—at this rate he was going to look more pumped than the steroid-loaded trainers. Screw it. He’d kick back, crack open some beers, order a pizza, maybe watch some basketball on Sky Sports.
Grabbing a Bud from the fridge, he headed upstairs to change out of his suit. The bedroom, like the rest of the house, looked immaculate, like something out of House & Garden. The cleaner was due in tomorrow. What a joke! Kicking the wardrobe door closed, he flopped down on the bed in his boxer shorts and a Knicks T-shirt and flicked on the television. Elizabeth hated him watching TV in bed—didn’t much like him eating and drinking there either.
“It’s so vulgar,” she’d told him once.
But she wasn’t here to nag, so he didn’t care. In fact, he half-hoped she’d come home just as he was tucking into his last slice of pizza. Right now, he’d relish a fight. It would be an opportunity for him to get some stuff off his chest.
The truth was, Cole wasn’t happy. He hadn’t been since they’d moved back to England six months earlier. Elizabeth had always been a workaholic, but lately it had gotten ridiculous. They hardly ever went out together, she’d forgotten all about their anniversary dinner, and the other week she had started dropping hints about canceling their next holiday. He never got to see her. She was always traveling. Three continents, ten countries a month. When they’d run a feature on him in the Sunday Times business section, he’d had to ask three times before she’d take a look at it. It was six weeks since they’d last had sex. And this was a couple who used to do it every night without fail. He’d read the other day that 70 percent of marriages were sexless. That was one statistic he didn’t want to end up part of.
And that was about the time he’d started to notice Sumiko.
He finished the beer, cracked open another.
He knew he’d been defensive earlier with Ed. And there was a very good reason. He was more aware of Sumiko than he wanted to admit.
He remembered the first time he’d met her. He’d been interviewing for an assistant all day. He’d seen some good people, but he’d wanted to make sure the chemistry was right. Sumiko was the last candidate to turn up for the job interview. In a formal black suit, she’d been overdressed and horribly nervous. She’d sat on the edge of her seat, her voice barely above a whisper, as he’d quizzed her about her previous experience and why she thought she’d be suited to the job. Usually he couldn’t stand shrinking violets, especially not in his business, but he’d surprised himself by taking a liking to her. He’d offered to make her coffee, and by the time he came back into the room she’d pulled herself together. Beneath her initial deer-caught-in-the-headlights exterior, she’d turned out to be smart and organized. He’d surprised himself by hiring her on the spot.
She’d worked out better than he’d expected. She was calm and efficient, and more than happy to work late. It hadn’t taken long for him to figure out that she had a thing for him. It was also hard not to feel flattered. He was coming up on forty. She was nineteen and hot in that sweet, feminine way: silky dark hair to her waist, wide, soft eyes, and a tiny frame, small but perfect. At five feet three, she made him feel like a giant.
If he was honest, he liked the way she looked up to him, hung on his every word. He’d never really been into submissive types—but lately he could see the attraction of having a girl who’d let you do whatever you wanted with her. There were times he’d be sitting at his desk and his mind would wander . . . he’d imagine calling Sumiko into his office and ordering her to get down on her knees and suck him off. She’d do it right then and there, that curtain of long silky hair falling across his thick, bare thighs. Sometimes he thought about what it would be like to screw her over the desk, imagine her little mew of pleasure as he stuck it into her.
And then he’d catch himself and wonder where the hell those thoughts had come from. He loved Elizabeth, right? He’d made a commitment to her; she was the only woman he should want.
Except lately he hadn’t been feeling so guilty when image of Sumiko popped into his head. After all, there was no harm in fantasizing, was there?
He checked the clock by his bed. Twenty minutes until the pizza arrived. He switched off the TV and lay back on the pillows. As his hand slipped down the front of his boxer shorts, he was aware that the woman in his head wasn’t a blonde like his wife. In fact, she was most definitely a brunette—a petite, compliant, silky-haired brunette. He tried not to let it bother him.
45
_________
The evening started with an argument. Not that there was anything unusual about that. Living with Johnny wasn’t quite the fairy tale Amber had imagined. It was more like riding a giant roller coaster, unpredictable and sometimes scary. Some days, he treated her like a princess. After they’d made love—that’s how she liked to think of it—he would prop himself up on one elbow, stroke her hair away from her face, and look down at her as though she was the most precious thing in the world. That was wh
en Amber was at her happiest, when she felt nothing could touch her.
But there were the other days, too—dark days, when every little thing she did seemed to irritate him. She lived in constant dread of getting on the wrong side of him, of doing something to set him off. But she put up with it because she loved him. And she knew deep down that he loved her, too. He must, to have moved in with her. It was the first time someone had made a commitment to her like that.
But that particular Friday evening she had a bad feeling from the start. Johnny got off the phone with Brett, his manager, in a black mood. He’d just found out that the record deal he’d thought was a sure thing hadn’t come through. As a consolation, Brett had offered him a two-week stint playing the casinos in Vegas. Johnny reacted by ripping the phone out of its socket and throwing it across the room. “Fucking useless asshole,” he screamed.
The receiver landed inches away from where Amber sat cross-legged on the slipcovered white sofa, flipping through Vogue. She didn’t even flinch as the phone came her way. She was used to Johnny’s outbursts by now. She’d had worse objects thrown at her.
“So are you going to take it?” she asked absentmindedly. Immediately she realized she’d said the wrong thing.
“Take it?” Johnny’s voice came out like a hiss. “Did you seriously ask me if I was considering taking this fucking shit offer?”
She put down the magazine.
“No, Johnny, of course not.” She sounded nervous now, conciliatory. But it didn’t seem to have any effect.
“I mean, is that all you think I’m worth?” He was advancing toward her now. She shrank against the back of the couch, her heartbeat quickening. “Am I no better than a ten-minute slot squeezed in between a two-bit stripper and an eighty-year-old magician? Do you think that’s what I deserve?”
He was a few steps away from her when the anger suddenly left him. His shoulders dropped, and he said, somewhat forlornly, “Hell, maybe you’re right.”
Amber hated it when he was like this—it was almost worse than the rages, this defeatism and loss of hope, beating himself up about the opportunities that hadn’t come through. It was especially hard for him when he saw how well she was doing. She’d almost been relieved when she’d lost out on the contract to represent Get Fit Sportswear last week.
Jumping up, she went over to stand in front of him, putting her arms around his neck. Standing on tiptoe, she placed a kiss on his unyielding mouth.
“I’m sorry, baby.” She started to cover his neck in tiny little kisses. “Really, I am.” Then, “Maybe I could do something to make it up to you . . .”
But he shrugged her off. “Quit it. I’m not in the mood, all right?”
As he walked over to the bar and poured himself a whiskey, she tried not to feel hurt by his rejection. It wasn’t personal, she told herself. She knew how he got when his music didn’t work out.
“Why don’t we go out?” She managed to say it with a brightness she didn’t feel. “That new club, Dynamite, is opening tonight. Everyone’s going to be there.”
Finally he turned around and smiled at her, and even though she could tell it was an effort for him, she felt a surge of relief that another full-blown argument had been averted.
“Why not?” he said.
* * *
The improvement in Johnny’s mood was short-lived. He barely spoke to her on the ride to the club, and once they were inside, he headed off to hang out with some of the guys, leaving her alone. Whenever she went over to him, he would turn his back on her, as though he hadn’t seen her. She chewed her lip. She hated it when he was like this with her, refusing to touch or acknowledge her.
“Fancy some blow?”
It was Luke, one of her modeling friends, offering. Amber hesitated. She’d been trying to lay off lately—in public at least. Rich was always warning her that it wasn’t great for her reputation. Plus, she was already feeling lightheaded from all the tequila shots. But then she happened to glance across the room and saw Johnny talking to Mercedes Maguire. Rumor had it that Mercedes was the one who’d taken the Get Fit contract away from her. An all-American blonde, with Daisy Duke tits, a wide smile, and tousled hair, she’d swept onto the L.A. scene six months earlier and hadn’t been off the front pages since. As far as Amber knew, Johnny and Mercedes had never met. But maybe she was wrong. They looked pretty cozy together in that booth.
She turned to Luke. “Yeah, that sounds good.”
The coke did its job, made her feel confident and powerful again. She hit the bar with a vengeance. Eventually her old crowd turned up, and she started to enjoy herself, dancing with Devon, flirting with Jim-Bob. Unfortunately Johnny didn’t seem to notice. He was still holed up in the booth with Mercedes. Another tequila shot made her feel better.
“Hey. Take it easy, Amber.”
She laughed at JB’s worried expression. “No, you take it easy.” She slapped at his shoulder, missed, and fell off the bar stool instead, landing straight on her knees. There was laughter all around. Hands helped her up.
Toilet. She needed the toilet, she realized. She walked unsteadily across the room. People and chairs kept getting in her way. Everything seemed to be tilting at an angle. It was like being on a ship, she thought idly.
Somehow she made it to the ladies’ room in one piece. There was a long line. She tried to count how many people were in front of her but gave up. Damn it. She wasn’t sure she could wait. She might end up peeing right here on the floor. She giggled at the thought. The girl in front turned and glared at her, as if to say, What the hell are you laughing at? Amber ignored her. She waited until someone came out of the cubicle and nipped in before anyone else could. There was a cry of complaints from the line. But there wasn’t much they could do once she’d locked the door.
It took a surprisingly long time to get her skirt up and her panties down. She sat heavily on the plastic seat, resting her head against the cool partition. She must have dozed off for a little bit, because when she came to, someone was knocking on the door.
“Are you all right in there?” a voice called.
“Yeah, yeah,” she mumbled, shaking off the tiredness. She struggled to pull her panties back up. Fuck it, she decided finally. She’d just go without. No one would notice. And it’d be a nice surprise for Johnny on the way home.
She left her underwear in a ball by the sanitary receptacle and headed outside to find him.
She never did. Twenty minutes later, she was rushed to the hospital to have her stomach pumped. But not before an off-duty reporter had managed to snap a whole roll of film of her.
She made the front cover of Celebrity magazine. A picture of her lying unconscious on the couch at Dynamite, two lines of coke on the low drinks table in front of her and—just in case someone hadn’t gotten the point—white specks of power dotted around her nose, which she swore had been graphically enhanced. Worst of all, the photographer had aimed the shot straight up her skirt. Although the magazine had blanked out the essentials, it was still pretty damned obvious that she had no underwear on. Underneath the photo, the headline read: Is This Really the Face of Glamour?
The magazine hit the stands the day she got home from the hospital. Amber was feeling fragile enough and could have done without the extra publicity.
Johnny thought the whole incident was hilarious. “So you got caught with your cunt hanging out,” he said, throwing the magazine to one side. “Who gives a fuck?”
He flicked the TV on, signaling the end of the discussion. That made her feel slightly better for a while, until Rich finally returned her call. She could tell from his somber tone that the news wasn’t good. He didn’t attempt to sugarcoat it.
“Glamour has terminated your contract.”
“They can’t do that!”
He sighed deeply. “They can. There’s a clause saying that if you do anything to embarrass or damage the brand, the contract can be instantly terminated. I wouldn’t bother fighting it, if I were you. I’ve already talk
ed to your lawyers, and they don’t think your chances are good. Fifty percent of Glamour’s customers are teenage girls. To be frank, you’ll be lucky if they don’t sue you for loss of sales after this.” He paused. “But they’ve basically said that they won’t take you to court if you go quietly.”
For once, Amber didn’t have a snappy comeback. She swallowed hard. She didn’t like the way Rich had said “your lawyers”; in the past, it had always been “our.”
“But it was just a stupid mistake,” she said in a small voice. “I didn’t mean to end up in the papers like that.”
Rich didn’t say anything. She had a feeling she wasn’t going to get much sympathy from him. He’d been warning her for weeks that something like this was going to happen. She cleared her throat.
“Fine,” she said with false bravado. “It’s a shame about Glamour, but there’ll be other contracts. Night & Day begged me to sign with them. And what about Hiltman jeans? I’m still representing them, aren’t I?”
“Hiltman are cutting you, too.” He sighed heavily again. She got the feeling he was enjoying this, the I-told-you-so call. “Amber, I don’t think you understand the gravity of what you’ve done. I’ve been on the phone all morning. No one’s going to offer you another contract. No one wants to touch you.”
He waited a moment for the reality of her situation to sink in. When he spoke again, his voice was softer.
“There’s only one way forward after this, honey.”
“What’s that?”
“You’ve got to go into rehab. It’s the only way. And you’ve got to get Johnny Wilcox out of your life.” He paused before delivering the final blow. “Otherwise I’m walking, too.”
She refused to go to rehab. She refused to get rid of Johnny. By the time she got off the phone half an hour later, Rich had resigned as her manager. Somehow that seemed worse than losing the Glamour contract. Rich had been there from the beginning for her. She wasn’t sure how she was going to get by without him. Maybe he was right, and this was the end of her career.
