‘Really?’ India’s eyes widened. ‘I thought he was being amazing! We were all saying how lucky you were to have him still around!’
I am, Lola thought dryly. Considering he was the only person to offer to help me, I’m pretty bloody lucky to have Jean-Marc in my life.
‘It’s his brother, ’ Lola sighed. ‘He keeps coming round and telling Jean-Marc to throw me out. There’ve been the worst scenes. I hear them screaming and shouting. Niels even told Jean-Marc he thought it was me that turned Jean-Marc gay.’
India’s eye sockets were so enlarged by now her eyeballs were popping out dangerously.
‘No!’ she breathed. ‘That’s mad!’
‘I know!’ Lola shrugged helplessly. ‘He completely hates me!’ She pulled a face. ‘Don’t tell anyone, will you, India? Jean-Marc would be so cross if he knew I was talking about it – his brother embarrasses him so much.’
‘Oh, I won’t, ’ India promised eagerly. ‘Lola, I’m so sorry – that must be so difficult for you—’
‘What’s up? Talking secrets? Ugh, are you two pigging out?’ Devon said in disapproval, entering the kitchen. ‘Is that rice?’
‘I ordered some, ’ India stammered guiltily. ‘Madison says I have to finish it or throw it out—’
‘Oh God, give me a spoon, ’ Devon said greedily. ‘Just a little bit. I get so terrible when I’m drinking.’
‘India, would you get my cigarettes?’ Lola asked. ‘They’re in my bag. If I don’t have one I’ll just keep eating . . .’ She pulled a self-deprecating face.
India scurried out of the kitchen, always willing to help. Lola exchanged a glance of complete affection with Devon.
‘I can’t believe she got in rice, ’ Devon said, grinning. She allowed herself one heaped teaspoon of rice, chewing it slowly and making little noises of appreciation. ‘Not even brown rice. India is such a little piglet.’ She looked Lola up and down. ‘You’re thin as a rake, ’ she commented.
‘I think it’s the medication, ’ Lola said lightly. ‘Jean-Marc got this doctor in to see me when I came back from the bail hearing. She put me on some sort of antidepressant. I haven’t wanted a bite to eat ever since.’
‘Really? Do find out what they are, won’t you?’ Devon exclaimed.
Lola looked panicked. ‘Don’t tell anyone about the pills, Dev. The lawyer says it might look bad if it gets out I’m on anything at all, what with the coke photos and everything.’
‘Of course not! Oh God, will you listen to me?’ Devon tossed the spoon in the sink and threw her arms around Lola, hugging her tightly. ‘I’m going on about diets and how thin you are, as if all that stuff was important, with what you’re going through! My God, they’re stalking you through the streets!’
Devon put up a hand to stroke Lola’s hair.
‘Poor Lo, ’ she said, her voice soft. ‘What you’ve been through! We came over as soon as we could.’
‘Dev! Stop hogging Lola!’ Georgia draped herself decoratively against the lintel of the door. She never merely stood when she could fall into an artistic pose. ‘Come through, we’ve got a great idea for something to do tonight! Madison just thought of it!’
‘Aren’t we staying in?’ Lola asked, following Georgia down the corridor as Devon threw the empty rice container guiltily into the dustbin and swept some loose grains off the counter top.
‘We were—’ Georgia said, ‘but Mad’s got such a good idea—’
‘I really shouldn’t go out at all, ’ Lola said doubtfully.
‘Oh God, don’t worry! Just put on that awful wig again! No one’ll recognise you in that!’ Georgia assured her blithely.
‘Georgia, can I ask you something? In confidence?’ Lola paused momentarily in the corridor.
‘Of course!’ Georgia turned to look at her, the thick red curls sweeping over her face. Gold earrings dangled to her shoulders, swishing against the white skin amply revealed by Georgia’s emerald silk top.
‘I’m thinking of getting some work done . . .’ Lola confessed. ‘I saw myself in all those press photos, and it made me feel really bad about my—’
‘Oh my God! Your tits! You’re getting a boob job!’ Georgia pronounced instantly, her gaze dropping to Lola’s admittedly small (30B) breasts.
‘No!’ Lola said, insulted.
‘Bigger’s always better, ’ Georgia said smugly, regarding her own magnificent 32Ds.
‘I like being able to get into any clothes I want, ’ Lola contradicted, still offended. ‘Anyway, I was thinking of getting my chin shaved down a little bit. It looked really pointy in the photos, especially when I’m in profile.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t bother, ’ Georgia said instantly. ‘Remember when Dev got hers done and she was so cross because no one could tell the difference?’
‘Don’t tell anyone, ’ Lola begged. ‘I don’t want people to know I’m thinking about it – it would look so bad, with just being arrested and everything—’
‘God no! Don’t worry, I won’t say a word!’ Georgia assured her.
‘So!’ Madison announced triumphantly, tossing Lola her wig. ‘Put that on, and plaster on some more of that horrible make-up!’ She jumped up. ‘Georgia, call a limo! I know exactly where we’re going to have a good time and distract poor Lola from all her troubles!’
‘I shouldn’t go out, ’ Lola protested. ‘I shouldn’t even be here. My lawyer said I mustn’t go anywhere at all, just lie low for a couple of weeks.’
‘Don’t be silly!’ Madison overrode her. ‘No one will know it’s you! And you’ll go mad if you stay cooped up inside for weeks and weeks!’
‘It’d do you good, Lo, ’ Georgia coaxed. ‘Take your mind off your troubles.’
‘Where are we going?’ Devon asked, reaching for her bag.
‘Maud’s!’ Madison said. ‘It’s this new, hot vaudeville club on the Lower East Side. Tables cost $2, 000, but we’re getting one for free, because I did some PR for the guy who owns it, and he said to bring as many sexy girls as I could. Oh, and we’re drinking for free all night too.’ She winked at Devon. ‘Nothing like saying you’re bringing a marchioness!’
‘I never have to spend a penny in New York, ’ Devon said complacently.
‘I really don’t know if I should go, ’ Lola said weakly. ‘It sounds like there’ll be photographers everywhere—’
‘Not inside, darling, ’ Devon assured her, carefully patting Dior lip gloss onto the bow of her bottom lip to make it look fuller. ‘Never inside. Or no celebs would ever go.’
‘Maybe it’s not such a good idea, ’ India said doubtfully.
‘Oh, don’t be a party-pooper, India!’ Madison waved a hand at her dismissively.
‘Here, Lo, have some of this, ’ Georgia said, dumping a gram of coke out of its tidy little wrap onto Madison’s glass coffee table. ‘This’ll get you in the party spirit.’
‘Can’t we just stay here?’ Lola pleaded.
‘What, with the hottest vaudeville club in New York reserving us a table?’ Georgia laughed, expertly hoovering up a fat line of coke with a cut-off straw. ‘Are you joking?’
‘I should really just go home, ’ Lola said, looking around for her bag.
‘And curl up on the sofa with Jean-Marc and his boyfriend being all lovey-dovey?’ Madison snorted. ‘Don’t be crazy! Come out with us instead!’
Lola was rummaging through the nasty plastic tote bag, pulling out her disguise clothes, but as Madison’s words sank in, she stopped, staring down at the sickly lime-green sweater in her hands. She didn’t want to put this cheap acrylic thing on, slip back into those scratchy trousers, and trudge back to the apartment to spend yet another night on the sofa with Jean-Marc watching the Lifetime TV movies to which, post-rehab, he was currently addicted.
Lola hadn’t realised till that moment how much she was longing for a girls’ night out, the first one since her hen night. The realisation of how much had changed since then couldn’t help but horrify her. She no longer had a fianc�
�. Her father was dead and she was accused of killing him. And she was living on charity – handed out very willingly by her ex- fiancé, but still, charity.
She had never before been so aware of how precarious existence could be.
India was still looking concerned. But when Devon refilled Lola’s glass of champagne, and Georgia handed her the straw, winking at her to take her turn at the cocaine, and Madison grinned at her encouragingly, all Lola’s demons flooded in to tempt her; even though she knew she shouldn’t, she couldn’t seem to help choosing drink-and-drug-fuelled distraction from her woes over the sensible option of going home and having an early night and perhaps a bedtime cup of camomile tea . . .
‘You’re all so naughty, ’ Lola sighed, taking a healthy gulp of her champagne and then bending down over the coffee table, straw at the ready. ‘I know I’m going to regret this somehow . . .’
But her demurral was drowned out by the cheers and whoops from almost all of the girls.
Chapter 21
‘Take it off! Take it off!’ Georgia was howling.
‘Um, Georgia, it’s not a strip clu—’
‘Take it off!’ Georgia whooped, deaf to anything but the charms of the six-foot-six, oiled, and frighteningly flexible contortionist onstage, who was busy twisting himself like a pretzel between his own legs and up his own back.
‘You can’t take her anywhere, ’ Devon sighed, as the contortionist, mercifully, squished and packed his long, glistening limbs up into the tightest of balls and somehow managed to roll himself offstage.
Tumultuous applause rewarded him. Above the stage, a big metal hoop lowered with a girl draped inside it, covered in what looked like nothing but gold body paint and glitter. It revolved slowly, glitter trickling down over her, distracting the audience, as it was supposed to, from the black-clad stagehands setting up the stage for the next act.
‘Pretty!’ Georgia exclaimed. Her eyes were shining feverishly and her focus was blurred: by now she had half of Colombia’s annual coke harvest up her nose and about the same percentage of France’s vintage champagne swilling around in her stomach.
‘She’s always like this when people start taking their clothes off, ’ India reminded them. ‘Remember Lola’s hen night? Her and that stripper guy in the club? I think they actually did it behind the banquette. Oh – sorry, Lola—’
Lola waved a hand airily.
‘Honestly, you can talk about my hen night all you want!’ she said happily. ‘It wash – was – a lovely evening, we all had a very good time—’
‘And now you can spend all Jean-Marc’s money without being married to him, which is the ideal arrangement!’ Devon said, raising her own champagne glass.
Everyone toasted to Lola’s perfect arrangement as the next act took the stage.
‘Ugh, fire-eaters, ’ Georgia said loudly. ‘Who cares?’ She waved her glass of champagne around wildly. ‘I want people to be naked. Don’t you, Lola? Don’t you want people to be naked?’
‘Please stop saying my name!’ Lola hissed.
Lola had barely drunk a drop of alcohol for the past few days, and the combination of not much food, a lot of champagne and a few helpings of Georgia’s Colombian marching powder was making her feel dizzy, fizzy, and divine. She was off her head in the nicest possible way, all her worries and cares, the death of her father, her own arrest, washed temporarily away on a sea of bubbles and nose candy.
Still, the one thing she was clinging to was that no one must realise that, underneath this dowdy wig, spackled-on make-up, Missoni sweater and narrow jeans was one of the most notorious women in New York: Lola Fitzgerald. Paparazzi were doubtless camped outside the Plaza still, waiting to see if she was going to try to sneak out under cover of darkness. The doorman had told David that they didn’t go home till at least two a.m. At the rate they were going, she wouldn’t get home till way past that. But if anyone here heard Lola’s name being bandied around, and rang the tabloids, she’d really be in trouble.
Lola looked around her. They were sitting at a table in what had once been the stalls section of this little theatre, which had been decorated to resemble a miniature version of the Royal Opera House, if it had been left to decay for a century or so and then been taken over by artistically dishevelled squatters. The upholstery was red plush, the carved woodwork around the balconies and proscenium arch painted gold, but everything was faded and distressed and ripped to look in a state of decadent decay. Tattered silk canopies hung from the ceiling; the chandeliers were sculptures, wax stalactites dangling from their gilt curlicues, the candelabra on the walls draped with strings of tarnished pearls. The wait staff wore 19th-century-styled outfits, corset tops laced too tight, black chokers round their necks, hair piled up loosely on top of their heads or dyed and curled into weird shapes, their faces decorated with beauty spots and smudged red lipstick.
And the patrons, the people rich enough to pay thousands of dollars for a table and hundreds more for drinks, were all decadent enough themselves to fit into the theme perfectly. Their eyes were glittering, their mouths open, pumped up for the next sexy or dangerous act that would appear onstage. At the next table, Lola saw a girl with a vial hung around her neck unscrew the cap, lift it to her nose and sniff, taking a hit openly. A plump boy in a silk jacket was snorting vodka up his nose with a straw. A girl still in her teens, as long and thin as a toothpick, wearing only a miniskirt and a ripped T-shirt, lounged on the lap of a man twice her age; as he slid one hand up her skirt and the other into the rips in her top, her expression was as bored as if she were in school listening to a teacher explain calculus.
‘Put your hands together for Diamond, boys and girls, making her debut here in an act created specially for us!’ piped the MC, a dwarf wearing a shiny Lurex jumpsuit and a top hat. ‘Ever lusted after the Little Mermaid? Well, get ready to go crazy for this one!’
And, suddenly, a series of spotlights picked out a glimmering silver pole in the centre of the stage.
Drums rattled, bubbles burst, and ‘This must be underwater love . . .’ sang a girl with a deep alto voice and a faint Spanish accent. ‘This is eet – underwater love . . .’ There was movement high above, a flash of silver and green and the audience in the stalls tipped their heads back as one, curious to see what was up there.
They saw her hair first, a tumble of gold glinting with silver dust, and then her silvery arms, half-hidden by the hair. She was sliding down the pole as smoothly as if she were swimming down it into the depths of the ocean, her torso slender and silvered too. And then they saw her tail, and everyone gasped. It was green and sewn with a million tiny sequins that caught and refracted the light, dazzlingly beautiful. She twisted round the pole as she descended, the music swirling around her, dreamy and slow, and when she reached the ground she paused for a while in a handstand, her tail flapping in long graceful movements. Then she sank to the floor and arched back, and the audience, seeing her upper body for the first time, naked apart from two silver shells over her nipples, whooped their applause.
It was a kind of dancing, bending into a full arch, leaning into the pole, body-rocking against it, wrapping herself around it, flicking her tail up it, twisting up and down its length, so sexy and elegant and athletic that the audience was soon moaning with appreciation.
‘Christ, I wanna fuck that little mermaid so bad!’ groaned the plump boy at the next table.
And then, like a snake shedding its skin, the mermaid began to slither out of her tail, teasing the audience, letting them see every pump and grind of her slender hips as she worked herself free. It was a strip act, but the novelty of the reveal was so effective that it kept a jaded set of spectators on the edge of their seats, mouths open, screaming with excitement when her bottom worked free and they could see her whole, slim, near-naked, silvered body slipping from the green tail, which she turned to kick deftly into the wings.
‘You know something weird, L – um, sorry?’ Devon said, turning to look at Lola. ‘She looks almos
t exactly like you!’
‘Oh my God! She does!’ Georgia exclaimed, staring at the mermaid’s face.
The mermaid was fully lit now by the spotlights at the front of the stage, her long golden hair falling over one slim bare shoulder, her brown eyes made huge with fake eyelashes and green and silver glitter. Despite the heavy theatrical make-up, her resemblance to Lola was suddenly, dizzyingly obvious.
‘She could be your sister!’ Georgia giggled. ‘You don’t have a secret twin, do you?’
The transformed mermaid was twined around the pole again, gripping it between her legs in a way she couldn’t have done in her tail, flipping herself upside down as she tossed her hair from side to side and played with the shells covering her nipples in a way that was making the plump boy at the next table grunt like a pig in heat.
‘Ah, just take them off, baby!’ yelled a man from the mezzanine, and the theatre went mad with applause and cheers seconding his suggestion.
But Lola could hear nothing but the blood pumping in her head. She saw the mermaid on the pole through a red filter, as if the blood were filling her eyes, working her up to a level of anger so extreme she had no control over it. The champagne, of course, didn’t help; nor did the coke or the nicotine, making her heart beat faster, fuelling her fury at the girl on stage.
Because she recognised her now. Of course she did. As soon as Devon had pointed out the resemblance, it had all flashed back. The girl in the pale-pink Chanel suit, blonde hair twisted demurely at the crown of her head, looking like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, standing on the steps of her father’s house. The girl who had actually dared to think that Lola was like her – another one of Ben Fitzgerald’s mistresses.
Well, so much for the Chanel suit and the elegant hairstyle! This was who that little slut really was, a stripper! Was this how the girl had met Lola’s father – whoring herself on a pole in front of a crowd of people whooping and yelling at her? The thought of Lola’s father, staring at this girl hanging from a pole, getting turned on by her, this girl who looked so like his own daughter, made Lola’s stomach churn. She could feel the bile rising, bitter and acid at the back of her throat.
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