Wicked Ambition

by Victoria Fox

  ‘Jesus Christ, what the hell was that?’ Scotty panicked, clinging to the door of the chopper as it began its shaky descent. Kristin giggled and put a comforting hand on his knee. Out of the window they could see the red carpet splashed beneath them like a river of fire, the upturned faces of fans and paps dozens-deep, gazing awe-struck at the approaching marvel.

  Scotty gripped her fingers, white-knuckled, and gulped.

  ‘Relax,’ she soothed, leaning over to kiss him.

  ‘I am relaxed,’ he warbled.

  ‘You’re James Bond,’ she calmed him, ‘remember?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Scotty closed his eyes, holding tighter. ‘I’m Bond. I’m James fucking Bond.’

  When the helicopter touched ground, Scotty was so relieved he grabbed Kristin and embraced her passionately. ‘Wow,’ he raved, ‘that was totally wild!’

  It wasn’t like Scotty to initiate a PDA and Kristin trembled with joy, filled with the brilliance of the moment. Here they were at the peak of their careers, crazy famous and crazy in love. Her tummy lurched at his kiss more than it had at any point over the last half an hour.

  ‘Check out the reception,’ Scotty rhapsodised. ‘This is sick!’ He took her hand with a reassuring squeeze and said, ‘You look really beautiful tonight…you know that?’

  She glowed.

  By the time the door opened Kristin could scarcely hear what her boyfriend was saying because the screams were so loud. Thunder rushed at them, crashing in waves, a wall of sound so solid and suffocating that the whole impression was one of being underwater.

  ‘Scotty, I love you! Scotty, marry me! Scotty, over here!’

  Kristin took Scotty’s hand in hers and held firm as they posed and turned for the circus of cameras. The paparazzi lining the passage shouted their names, encouraging them to stand separately, together, to kiss, the latter of which sent the fans demented, crying out for Scotty once more and snapping him frenetically with their camera phones.

  Dating the subject of a gazillion teenage fantasies was never going to be easy. Kristin tried not to get jealous. You’re my only girl, Scotty would promise. She trusted him.

  A stylist was on hand to rearrange her dress, a pretty lilac fishtail with capped lace sleeves, offsetting to a T her tumbling flaxen waves and creamy porcelain skin.

  ‘Kristin, hi, this is some arrival!’ Entertainment Now! caught her for an interview. ‘Would you answer some questions for our viewers?’ Scotty was happily dragged off to sign autographs. A girl fainted and had to be removed from the throng.

  ‘You’ve written the soundtrack for this movie,’ the reporter enthused. ‘How has it been collaborating with the film industry? Are there any more projects in the pipeline?’

  Kristin delivered the quarter-smile. One of the first things her mother had coached her in was that there was a complex spectrum of smiles and each one meant a different thing, and the quarter was coy, a little bashful, promising more than she was prepared to say. Her mom had worked hard to get Kristin to where she was today: pop princess, the angel every little girl dreamed she would one day grow up to become, strumming on a guitar or gliding across a piano and singing gentle songs about true love and knights in shining armour who whisked their beloveds from towers in the sky. Scotty Valentine as her steady completed the picture.

  ‘The movie’s fantastic,’ Kristin gushed. ‘It’s been a magical experience.’

  ‘You and Scotty look blissful. Has he been supportive through the process?’

  Kristin stole a glance in her boyfriend’s direction. Scotty was talking into someone’s cell, now in his comfort zone and a pro at pleasing his crowd of devotees. She had to remind herself that he was her guest tonight, not the other way around. Kristin had her own following—her last four consecutive singles had shot straight to number one; her trio of albums had gone platinum, selling in excess of sixty million records; and she had claimed more than eighty awards—but Scotty Valentine, with his mop of blond hair and huge, puppy-like blue eyes, was that thing to which, when done right, there was and never would be an equivalent: lead vocalist in the most outrageously popular boy band in US history, a five-guy line-up with the slick tunes and the heartthrob status to take it all the way.

  People had thought the boy band was dead…and then along came Fraternity.

  ‘He’s been great.’ Kristin expanded the smile, unable to help how elated the truth made her. ‘He’s absolutely, amazingly perfect.’

  Scotty was her muse, her inspiration and her reason for everything. Everyone said they made a bankable duo as if in some way that took away from the genuine feeling they had for each other, but Kristin knew it was special. She had never been in love before. Scotty was her first. Being one of millions worldwide who felt the exact same way was just something she’d have to get used to. Couples in the fame game appeared and vanished quicker than a fast-food order, but what made their relationship different was that they had ridden the wave together—they had known each other since they were seven years old, novice entertainers on The Happy Hippo Club. Best friends first; it had made sense that once the innocence of childhood affection wore off they would upgrade to the next level. Kristin had liked Scotty for ages before it became official, admiring him from behind a line she could not cross, until a nudge from their management had finally sealed the deal. It was a true romance, like something from a fairy tale—and Scotty her treasured Prince Charming.

  The golden couple was ushered off the carpet. Away from the cameras Scotty’s smile wavered. He still looked peaky from the helicopter.

  ‘Are you OK?’ she asked, concerned.

  ‘Yeah. Feel a bit sick, that’s all, all the adrenalin…’

  ‘You poor thing.’

  Scotty allowed himself to be comforted.

  ‘I’m so glad you’re here,’ she whispered, inhaling his scent.

  He took her arm. ‘Do we have to stay for the whole thing?’

  ‘Why?’ Kristin asked, disappointed. ‘Do you have someplace else to be?’

  ‘Of course not!’ It came out a touch sharply, before he corrected himself. ‘I mean, forget it, baby; it’s fine. It’s just that whole act out there, it’s kinda exhausting.’ He consulted his reflection in a gilded drinks font. ‘Do I look OK? Not too pale?’

  ‘We’re sitting in a theatre,’ Kristin teased, ‘in the dark. Does it matter?’

  In the event Scotty fidgeted all the way through the boy-meets-girl romance to which Kristin had arranged the score: he never had possessed a long attention span. The movie starred two of Hollywood’s most coveted teen actors; the pretty-faced guy was plastered across every bedroom in Young America. Maybe that was why Scotty got jittery whenever the shot lingered on the actor’s face. He didn’t like it when a challenger arrived on the scene.

  It didn’t matter. Kristin would never notice another guy while he was around.

  The arrangement sounded good and she was pleased with how they had fed it into the final take. At the reception she was congratulated by a mob of industry players.

  ‘Talk about making an entrance!’ they flattered. The retelling of the helicopter story, from which he omitted the finer points of his anxiety, cheered Scotty. Kristin loved seeing him in his element, smiling and charming, her favourite boy in the world.

  She was chatting with the director when Cosmo Angel, A-list action hero whose wife had taken the part of the young mom in the movie, collared her with an alligator smile.

  ‘You really write all those songs yourself?’ he leered.

  ‘I sure did.’

  Cosmo was ridiculously hot but there was also something dangerous, almost unpleasant, about him. Some women liked that, but Kristin wasn’t so sure. Cosmo was of Greek descent, hairy like a wolf, with a full mouth, and thick, bristling eyebrows that met in the middle. His presence was massive, oppressive, looming. He looked as if he could hook an arm around your waist and crush you to death like a snake.

  ‘Well—’ Cosmo stepped closer and she noticed how musk
y and exotic he smelled, an aroma that matched his brooding looks, sort of smoky, not like Scotty, who was vanilla-clean like freshly washed laundry ‘—you know how I like to see young talent emerge…’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said carefully, ‘I appreciate that.’ She wasn’t about to tell him that twenty-two years felt like longer when every waking hour as far back as she could remember was spent in preparation for How To Be a Star. Hence learning to play three instruments by the time she was eight and taking her Grade 9 piano before any of the other kids in her class had learned their times table. No wonder The Happy Hippo Club had snapped her up.

  Scotty joined them. He and Cosmo shook hands and Kristin watched them talk, for a second feeling dislocated from everything and everyone around her, as if she were a stranger to her own life and looking in through a window. Some days she felt fortunate. Others she didn’t know how she had ended up here or even if it had been her choice at all.

  It was crazy, but this was her world. She had never known anything else.

  Thank God for Scotty. So long as he was around she’d be just fine.

  3

  ‘Baby, you know what I am; I’m a wild girl, wild girl…’

  Turquoise da Luca, undisputed queen of the US charts and in possession of the goddess-like status that meant she was known only by her first name, ground to the pulse of her latest single. They were shooting the video for ‘Wild Girl’ in a downtown Los Angeles warehouse, an army of hot male dancers mirroring Turquoise’s every move.

  ‘Honey, you can’t tame me, I’m a wild girl, wild girl…’

  The wind machine picked up and Turquoise’s silky mane of ebony hair blew about her face, relinquishing flashes of the pale emerald eyes that had inspired her name. She could feel the energy of the troupe at her back, the force coming off each choreographed routine as the guys relied on her lead, surrendering to the next arrangement and powerless to stop the rush. Every movement was executed with the slickest measure, every twist and step in sync, and as Turquoise sang to the recorded track she counted the metre in her head like a dual heartbeat. When she fell into the final position she knew it was nailed.

  ‘That’s the one!’ The director incited a celebratory round of applause and Turquoise joined in, congratulating her team. Performing was her ultimate. When she was up onstage, in front of a camera, giving it her all, she was liberated. She was somebody else.

  Shrugging on a robe, she disappeared into her dressing room. Several of the company gazed longingly after her, bathing in the residual mist of intoxicating perfume. Not only was Turquoise one of the most renowned chart-toppers in the world, she was also one of its most staggeringly gorgeous women: a vision of never-ending honey-tanned legs and a waterfall of liquid jet hair that descended to the impeccable swell of her ass. She attracted stares wherever she went. Of supermodel-height but with the curves of an exotic Amazonian princess, Turquoise wasn’t just beautiful; she was astonishing. Lithe and graceful, supple as a panther, she was that rare thing: more radiant in real life than she was on film.

  She’d just had time to kick off her stilettos when there was a knock at the door.

  ‘Hey.’ Her visitor rested one arm against the frame. ‘I had to see you.’

  It was Bronx, her principal dancer. Originally trained in ballet and tap, Bronx had a soaring frame that combined polish and poise with sheer brute strength. They had met on her first video, before she’d hit the big league, and after every encounter, even now, she berated herself. Turquoise knew she couldn’t give him anything more. If Bronx found out about her, if he knew what she’d done and who she really was, he would never want to see her again.

  ‘Aren’t you gonna invite me in?’

  ‘My schedule’s off the wall,’ she replied. It wasn’t a lie: she had a fashion gala still to make and an industry party in New York tonight; there was a flight to catch.

  Bronx was undeterred. ‘I don’t know about you,’ he said, ‘but all that sweat and grease back there left me feeling kinda hot…’

  ‘We’ve talked about this,’ she told him. ‘It’s not going to—’

  Bronx kissed her, finding her tongue with his and flattening his body against hers. His dick was rock-hard. For an instant she responded, unable to resist the promise of his body.

  ‘You’re gorgeous,’ he whispered, trailing his hands across her contours, from her shoulders to her breasts to the dip of her hips, ‘so damn gorgeous. I can’t help it, being with you all day like that and wanting you every second—’

  ‘Don’t.’ Turquoise pulled away.

  ‘When’re you gonna see you and me are made for each other,’ he murmured, ‘that it’s meant to be?’ She pushed against him but he didn’t stop.

  ‘I said, don’t!’ Turquoise bit down hard, tasting blood. It had been a dumb idea to fall into bed with one of her performers, indiscreet and unprofessional and not at all what she was about. Bronx was a good man, true and noble and sincere, and those were the precise reasons why there could never be a future between them. Everything he was, she wasn’t.

  Secrets. They would be the death of her.

  ‘Jeez!’ Bronx pulled back, putting a hand to his mouth. Pain made him angry before he checked himself. He couldn’t understand it, had tried and failed and tried again and would never quit trying because he adored this woman, plain and simple. Fame and riches didn’t matter. If anything, he preferred it when they forgot all about Turquoise’s celebrity, just the two of them in bed, she in his arms, fast asleep, breathing gently. He loved the way her eyelashes rested on her cheeks, the softness of her skin, the bead of perspiration that gathered in her philtrum when they made love. Those nights when she would moan in her sleep, in the throes of a private torture, and would wake in the small hours and stand alone by the window, arms folded, head tilted against the wall, pale and silent and closed off in the moonlight.

  Why wouldn’t she let him in? What was she hiding?

  ‘What’s up with you?’ he asked gently.

  Turquoise was shaking. She hated how that happened, the trembling, but it did, every time she wasn’t in control. ‘Leave,’ she managed.

  ‘Can’t we talk about this—? When can I see you?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She closed the door on his objections, collapsing against it and sinking to the floor, her head in her hands and the thick threat of tears in her throat.

  It was minutes until the shivering subsided. Dragging herself together, Turquoise began to remove her clothes and make-up, gesturing robotically, stripping herself bare.

  Why couldn’t she let go? Why couldn’t she move on? Bronx had never hurt her; she knew he never would. Yet every time she wasn’t the instigator she felt pinioned, backed into a corner against her will, the rising panic, the gathering dread, and worst of all the dead certainty that she couldn’t get away…

  It was over. It was done with. Nobody had to know.

  Turquoise da Luca was a superstar now. What did she have to be frightened of?

  After the commotion of the shoot, the quiet of her personal space was both necessary and frightening. When she was busy, her mind didn’t wander: she was Turquoise, A-list diva, shatterproof, a twenty-six-year-old woman grown out of that past. When she was by herself, she remembered. The last thing she wanted was to remember.

  She steadied herself against the dresser, her knuckles white. And yet…

  She saw too much of the devil responsible. Charming his fans on TV, amiably chatting in gossip columns, inciting adulation on a string of blog posts and starring in a catalogue of acclaimed movies, his pristine white grin gleaming like an infinite taunt…

  Cosmo Angel.

  Hollywood royalty. Twenty-first-century idol. Bastard. An actor so spectacularly handsome it seemed impossible he was made of flesh and bone.

  She knew what he was made of. She knew what lay beneath.

  Cosmo had ruined her. He was evil. As long as he was breathing she knew there was no escape. She could play pretend but it would always be th
ere, prowling beneath the surface, a swamp-like creature scourging the depths, choking her, suffocating her, making her pay.

  Turquoise confronted the mirror, its frame spotlit with glowing pearls, the array of war paint scattered at its base: the tools of her disguise.

  She stared at her reflection for a long time, not moving, until she began to see someone familiar looking back. A young girl, fear in her eyes, too afraid to object and too timid to speak out, beseeching, Why didn’t you save me sooner?

  I couldn’t. I didn’t. And I’m sorry.

  There was a brief, sharp knock and her assistant came in, chattering about the car that had arrived for the gala. The spell was broken. Just like that, Turquoise was rescued.

  4

  A monumental cheer went up as Robin departed the couch on a weekend talk show. Since the wrap of The Launch, and in particular the hysterical rumours she had endured about a certain male contestant, she was frontline on every major TV channel.

  ‘How about that—Robin Ryder, ladies and gentlemen!’

  She turned at the green room and waved. The slot had gone great, the funnyman host’s wisecracks matched evenly by her quick humour and steady banter. As usual she’d been asked about her unorthodox childhood, and was able by now to rely on the stock phrases settled upon by her management. At first it had been painful dredging all that up, it wasn’t as if she wanted to be reminded every day, but in surrendering those facts to the public, in sharing them, the shame had lessened and the impact was gradually relinquishing its hold.

  In her dressing room she changed out of the gown her stylist had picked and swopped it for a bold-print playsuit and leggings, which she teamed with lace-up boots and a pink bolero. A slick of lipstick and she was set. It was eleven p.m. and the night was young. She was meeting her girlfriends at London nightspot Kiss-Kiss, and rumour had it that supergroup LA hip-hop crew Puff City would be there. Robin was a disciple of their work; it was brave and righteous and took no prisoners, everything she aspired to in her own music, and their main man Slink Bullion was a legendary producer and collaborator. She wanted to sound him out about a joint project. Her people had said they would speak to his, but nothing could convince Robin that there was a better way than talking face to face.