Wicked Ambition

by Victoria Fox

  We’ve been waiting, he told her. Fear nothing, my angel. You’ve arrived.

  It was six months before his meaning became clear. The last six months of innocence.

  It happened on a Tuesday night. She would always remember the moon, crisp and white like a marble in the sky. Ivan crept to her bedroom and told her to come outside, there was something she needed to see; it was a present he’d bought for her. He was sweating and his fingers trembled, waxy in the dark, but she’d thought it was the puppy she’d longed for and so in her nightgown had descended the stairs and pushed open the door to the yard.

  Outside was a circle of people, dressed in black robes and hoods that covered their faces. They were chanting. At the centre a fire sparked and burned, hot and red and orange, an angry fire that told her this was wrong. Something was wrong. They wanted to hurt her.

  No, she wept, I don’t want to.

  I don’t want to. It became her mantra for the years ahead. But nobody listened.

  And they didn’t listen then. Grace struggled to break free but they pinned her down, tying her wrists above her head and looming like giants, the chant building and gathering pace, becoming frenzied and wild. Through the vestments she recognised the pastor’s eyes, flashing grey and watery with lust as he knelt between her legs…

  Her agony shattered the night.

  The next day, she ran. In a sense the ordeal was the anaesthetic she needed. All Grace could focus on was escape, numb to everything but the terror she had endured and the lone goal of freedom. Ivan was sloppy, a careless, cowardly man. He’d underestimated her spirit. She packed a small bag and left the next afternoon, walking the road out of town, walking and walking until she didn’t care any more if her legs gave in and she lay down and died. She thought of Emaline. It made her cry but it also made her strong. Emaline’s voice told her to keep going and not to give up. Songs she loved played in her head, all the women she’d grown up with walking alongside her, holding her upright and pushing her on.

  Some time before dawn a car picked her up. ‘Hey, baby, you wanna ride?’

  The guy in the driver’s seat was young. He had a nice smile.

  Grace Turquoise pulled open the door. Sleep rushed at her like a tidal wave and she embraced it, secure in the knowledge that now she was saved. Now it was over.

  But she was wrong. It was only just beginning.

  7

  Robin was wired when she came offstage. She had performed her breakout single ‘Lesson Learned’ at the annual Palace Variety to rapturous reception.

  ‘They’re loving you, babe,’ encouraged her manager Barney when she stepped into the wings. ‘Twitter’s going off the wall.’

  ‘One more time for Robin Ryder!’ The host’s voice boomed through the studio.

  ‘Wanna go out?’ Robin headed to her dressing room, Barney in close pursuit. ‘I’ve got an invite to Level 7, the new place off Poland Street. It’s worth checking out.’

  ‘Are we celebrating?’

  ‘We’re always celebrating.’

  ‘We will be when you hear who I’ve been talking to.’

  She turned. ‘Who?’

  ‘I’ve just taken a call from Arcadia,’ announced Barney triumphantly. Arcadia was Puff City’s management. ‘They’re interested in a partnership, Robin. Slink Bullion likes what he sees. Your profile’s rocketed and they want a piece of it.’

  She was elated. ‘That’s the best news I’ve had all week. Get us a meeting?’

  ‘You bet I will.’

  Robin pushed open the door with her name on it. The first thing she noticed was the enormous bouquet of peonies and roses on her make-up table, wrapped in brown paper and tied with a purple ribbon. There was a card sticking out of the top.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘They got delivered to the office,’ said Barney. ‘I had a runner bring them down.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Some kid dropped them by. He said to make sure you received them, or the guy he worked for wouldn’t be happy.’

  She turned the card over. It read:

  But I want to be friends with you

  Robin frowned. She pretended not to know who it was, but she knew straight away.

  ‘Who’re they from?’ asked Barney.

  ‘I have no idea. There’s no name.’

  The last words she’d thrown Leon’s way. Make friends with someone else.

  ‘It’s a fan,’ she said dismissively. ‘And I’d rather this stuff got filtered.’

  She had decided not to tell Barney about the creepy stuff she’d been receiving in the mail recently. Last week a weirdo scrapbook had arrived filled with cutouts of her image and inscribed with the note: I’m closer than you think. Before that a ream of paper, in which her name was reproduced over and over, line after line, page after page, like something from The Shining. She thought the handwriting was the same on both but couldn’t be certain.

  It was freaky but there was no point mentioning it. Some fans were nuts; it went with the territory. She could take care of herself.

  ‘I thought you preferred to see everything?’ said Barney.

  ‘Not any more.’

  Seizing Leon’s bouquet, she crossed to the wastebasket and dropped it in.

  Barney was shocked. ‘Can’t you take them home? They’re hardly offensive. You never know, they might brighten up the place…’

  Robin tried to imagine the arrangement in her flat. It didn’t work for a second. Her first-floor space in Camden was minimalist to the extreme, the walls blank, the bed unmade and the cupboards empty. All she had in the fridge was a half-drunk litre of Coke and some leftover Chinese noodles. A single coffee cup rattled round the kitchen.

  ‘I don’t like flowers,’ she said. ‘They’re sickly.’

  ‘I think they’re pretty.’

  ‘You would. And anyway, I don’t want a stranger’s shit in my space.’ Especially when she didn’t have her own shit in her space. Other people’s houses were stamped with their history, mementoes of a time gone by, but Robin’s displayed evidence of nothing but the necessities of here and now. It came from a life of being constantly uprooted, spat in and out of the system like an unwanted toy—and Robin had been unwanted, she was unwanted by definition. Why else would she have been given up? Her own mother hadn’t wanted her.

  At four days old Robin had been left in a bin in an East London park, wrapped up in a plastic bag. She hadn’t been Robin Ryder then, she’d had another name, one the hospital had given her, but they had never found the woman responsible and Robin had long ago given up on dreams of reunions and forgotten sisters and brothers, replacing that need with the iron resolve that she would never rely on anybody ever again. When things got tough, people abandoned you. It was a fact of life. The only person you could trust was yourself.

  So she didn’t need Leon Sway or his stupid dumb flowers.

  ‘Let’s go,’ said Robin, pulling on her jacket. ‘First round’s on me.’

  ‘Encore, encore, oui, oui, oui!’ The girl arched her back, craving his touch with animal reflex. She had never had a lover like Leon Sway. ‘Vous êtes magnifique!’

  Leon hardened for what time he’d lost count, pulling the girl on top of him and kissing her fiercely. Their tongues entwined, hungry for more.

  She gasped as he filled her. Strapping his powerful hands to her waist, the girl rocked back and forth, marvelling at Leon’s physique, the immaculate, glorious body of a world-class player. Every tendon and sinew was a model of perfection, the summit of strength and beauty; a machine shaped and honed for the sole purpose of winning. Her palms were spread across his pecs, dwarfed by the canvas of his chest, as she moved to his rhythm, quickening and quickening as their hips locked and Leon pulled the hair from her face as she sweated and pulsed on top of him, loving the muscle and the tenderness and how one was indistinguishable from the other, until, in a crescendo, they both reached their pinnacle.

  At twenty-four, Leon was one of the greatest Ameri
can athletes of all time.

  Without contest he was the greatest lover.

  ‘That was amazing,’ she moaned, her accent thick. She collapsed on to him. Leon held her, trailing his fingertips down her arm and listening as her breathing slowed to sleep. It had been too long in the run-up to competition. All that effort and fury, all the passion and drive, had nowhere to go once the finish was crossed. Desire, the simmering volcano Leon had held at bay through months of training, of replacing his urges with the promise of victory and the unwavering commitment that required, fired his run from the splinter of the starting pistol. But now it was over? Another person’s skin; their warmth: the softness of a woman.

  He closed his eyes, trying to picture anything else but what he always did:

  Another man’s tread crashing over the line before his.

  As the sun swam into the darkened room, Leon rolled over and checked his watch. Eight-thirty. He needed to be at the airport. He had been putting off returning home, knew he had his reasons but that didn’t make it right. Somehow there was always a TV appearance to be filmed, a gala to be attended, a photo shoot to make…Each day brought with it a fresh deluge of offers: luxury watch brands pursued him as the face of their sports range; global drinks manufacturers were desperate to secure his allegiance; designer labels coveted him to front their new campaign. Just yesterday he had been stripping off in a Paris studio, replacing a soccer legend as the face of an underwear giant. His almost naked pose, a vision in black-and-white of rippling torso and bulging crotch, had been blown up to the size of an airbus and would already be winging its way across the Atlantic for its debut in Times Square.

  Quietly Leon extracted himself from the bed sheets and parted the blinds. The French capital was spread before him, the glossy River Seine and the glinting Eiffel Tower, in the bronzed early morning like a jewel city. Imposed against its skyline was his own reflection: dark hair, almond skin, green eyes that had stared down a legion of opponents…except one.

  The tyrant he couldn’t defeat, the rival he hated: Jax ‘The Bullet’ Jackson.

  Swiftly Leon showered and dressed. As far as he was concerned, Rio couldn’t come around soon enough. Bring on the competition—because next time, he would win.

  He packed his belongings, checking his phone for a missed call or a voicemail. Nothing. Robin would have received the flowers by now: he had put his digits on the back of the card and wondered if she’d make the move. Leon couldn’t get her out of his head, ever since they’d met—since before they had met, if he were truthful, because he’d noticed her in the press, admired her from afar, and when he’d been offered the spot on The Launch he had taken it partly as a way to meet her. He could never have guessed that their first encounter would be quite so memorable.

  Robin wasn’t his usual type, if he had one, but then she wasn’t his usual anything because she wasn’t at all…usual. He kept replaying that initial face-to-face (though he could think of other ways to describe it); the VIP room he’d been told was empty, the glimpse of Robin’s smooth back, the delicate, bare shoulder, and the curve of her waist beneath the hastily pulled-on shirt. She thought he’d seen more but he hadn’t—honestly he had been as embarrassed as she, and had tried to make light of it but instead it had backfired. How Leon wished he could go back to that night and play it differently. Robin was sexy and feisty and rude and wilful and she fascinated him. Was it the attitude that came off so brutal, yet in a dropped gaze betrayed her fragility? Was it the big fringe, beneath which shone those huge, careful eyes? Was it the way he had seen her laughing with her friends before she’d come over in the club, a generous smile that he suspected she saved for people she loved? He had to see her again. They had to start over.

  ‘Hey.’ Leon woke the girl, brushing her hairline with his thumb. ‘I gotta split.’

  She smiled. ‘Is it too much to ask for a second date?’

  ‘Never say never.’

  ‘Last night was incroyable. So was this morning.’

  He kissed her.

  She tried to pull him back but he resisted. There were things he had to get home to; people who needed him. He made for the door.

  This is a long game, his coach always said. Never lose focus.

  Leon didn’t intend to. It was time.

  Los Angeles: back to the streets where he grew up. Back to where it began.

  8

  Kristin flew with Fraternity to Tokyo. The boys were running a PR tour for their new album and that meant she and Scotty were being separated for long periods of time. She liked to come along where she could, and luckily the trip fell on an opening in her schedule.

  Asian fans were like none other in the world. She knew this from her own forays into the East, but that was nothing compared with the frenzy that the boys incited. The instant they exited the jet a crush of groupies descended, brandishing their camera phones and howling their exaltations. A vast number were wearing Fraternity baseball caps, a different colour for each band member. There was red for Joey, the cute one; green for Doug, the indie one; purple for Luke, the one who could play guitar; yellow for Brett, the one with the best six-pack…and blue for blue-eyed Scotty. Most of the caps were blue.

  As the band was ushered through Arrivals, Kristin saw this was only the start of the Fraternity merchandise. Scotty Valentine bum bags adorned the crowd. Scotty dolls were waved manically in the air. Scotty key rings hung from Scotty wallets as the writhing masses clamoured for autographs with Scotty pens. Faces were painted with love hearts accompanied by Scotty’s name. T-shirts with the band splashed across them were worn by every schoolgirl, some lifted and tied in a knot to show off a smooth pale belly, the navel pierced. There was enough Fraternity merchandise in Narita Airport alone to sink a tanker.

  They were performing at the Tokyo Dome. Kristin was in the VIP section and looked on as the boys opened with ‘I Dig U’, sending the fans into paroxysms, especially when Scotty came forward to kneel to the crowd and croon the bridge: ‘Girl, I’ve been waiting my whole life to find you, now let me put my arms around you and hold you tight, oh, baby, right through the night…’ The fans were screaming so much that Kristin was surprised they could hear the music over the top. But the show was slickly rehearsed and she was impressed at the boys’ flawless dance moves and ability to harmonise while their heart rate had to be spinning through the roof. Towards the finale Brett and Doug took their tops off. This was impromptu and drove the arena wild, with one girl falling into a seizure and having to be lifted over the barriers to safety. Teenagers clasped each other, wailing and snotting and crying, reaching out desperately to touch their heroes. When the rest of the guys followed suit, Scotty included, revealing their chiselled pecs and golden tans (she suspected at least three of them waxed—Scotty did, at least), Kristin thought the crowd might evaporate in a puff of smoke. Fortunately the encore was forthcoming and minutes later they were whisked offstage.

  ‘Superstars, every last one of you!’

  The man who had put Fraternity together was waiting with congratulations. Fenton Fear, the fabled label owner and moneymaker, had been responsible for a glut of staggeringly successful pop groups over the last twenty years, each one manufactured by his own fair hand. Tagged ‘King of the Charts’ for his seemingly failsafe formula for securing a hit, with Fraternity he had hit on his biggest jackpot yet.

  Fenton embraced all his boys heartily and graciously kissed Kristin hello. At forty-something he was a good-looking older man with a thick head of sandy hair and a moustache that tickled Kristin’s cheek. She had always liked Fenton; he was a rock-solid businessman with a kind, receptive ear to his clients’ wants and needs. Moreover he seemed to genuinely care about the boys, especially Scotty, so they already had that in common.

  ‘I need a shag after that,’ pronounced Luke. ‘Someone sort me out?’

  ‘No such luck,’ answered Fenton disapprovingly. ‘Press conference downtown in half an hour, get showered and get going.’

  ‘
Serious?’ There was a smatter of grumbling as the boys wiped their torsos down with a towel. Kristin went to cuddle Scotty and he gave her a brief, limp hug.

  ‘When aren’t I?’ challenged Fenton. ‘Let’s rock it.’

  ‘I might head back to the hotel…’ said Kristin, squeezing Scotty’s hand as the rest of the group trailed after Fenton. She waited for him to object.

  ‘Sure,’ said Scotty non-committedly, already chasing in their wake. ‘Later.’

  Kristin took a car to the Mandarin Oriental. She felt uneasy about Scotty’s behaviour. Ever since that day he’d tried to have sex with her back in LA. Was he embarrassed? Had he gone off her? But he had to still be interested if he wanted to do that…didn’t he?

  On the drive she received a message from Bunny. Her heart lifted. She’d been loath to leave her sister with Ramona—their mother’s pageant obsession was spiralling out of control—but had promised Bunny that when she and Scotty were back they’d take her out, anywhere she liked, to do things that normal thirteen-year-old girls did: not tottering about in high heels while a sweaty middle-aged man appraised her chest-to-leg ratio.

  Can’t wait 4u to come home Scotty OK?

  She tapped back:

  Guys fine. Big sell-out gig, you’d have loved.

  Won’t be long now. C u soon xx

  Bunny was forever asking after Scotty. Kristin liked that her two favourite people got on so well. She remembered her own enchantments at thirteen—being so young you could never hope to disguise how you felt, no matter how many blushes you thought you hid.

  Even so, Scotty had been alarmed when they had gone into Bunny’s room one day and he’d seen the pictures of him strewn from wall to wall. Kristin had been searching for a bracelet her sister had borrowed and he had followed her in.

  ‘What the fuck is this?’ he’d demanded, disturbed. ‘A fucking shrine or something?’ Scotty had never used to be so easily riled, or used such bad language. Since they’d got together he’d become so…ratty.