by Victoria Fox
Kristin had found what she’d come looking for. ‘She’s only a kid, Scott,’ she’d told him, closing the door softly behind her. On it was a sign that read STRICTLY NO ENTRY!
‘Don’t you think it’s messed up?’
‘Not really. She’s one of about a trillion so you’d better get used to it.’
He’d shuddered. ‘Girls are weird.’
Kristin remembered his words as they pulled up outside the hotel. A doorman helped her with her bags and within minutes she was safely ensconced in her suite, where she ran hot water and salts into a roll-top bath. Sitting on its edge and guiding her hand through the steaming, fragrant water, she decided to try not to think about Scotty. Just for tonight.
When Scotty Valentine was a boy, he had never imagined he would be waking up at twenty-two with a multi-million-selling album to his name and more wealth and fame than he’d thought possible. Spending his formative years in The Happy Hippo Club had groomed him for a life of entertainment, but he couldn’t have expected anything remotely on this scale.
On his sixteenth birthday the record execs had come knocking. Kristin had already been signed to her label, so had a couple of the other guys, and the pressure was on to get selected. Producer Fenton Fear had been among them, casting through the assembled boys like an emperor through his minions. He had been assembling a band, already had four in the bag…but who would be his missing link? Scotty had auditioned on the spot, posing for a variety of modelling shots, in one of which he’d had to pout in a too-big tuxedo and clutch a bad-tempered rabbit that kept nipping his fingers. ‘Can you sing?’ Fenton had asked, with an expression that implied it didn’t matter if he could or not. But Scotty had surprised everyone: he possessed a rich if inconsistent tone that could be worked upon, and that same tone would soon overtake the other band members and cement his place as lead vocalist in Fraternity.
In a matter of hours Scotty had been settled on: the sublime addition that completed Fenton’s picture. ‘You’re it,’ Fenton had said, as Scotty basked in the sunshine of his praise, enjoying the lunches Fenton took him on to discuss their world domination plan, the lavish spa treatments whenever Scotty needed some down-time, the city breaks Fenton paid for when a change of scene was in order. ‘You’re the most perfect creature I’ve ever seen.’
Now, at a press conference at the Tokyo Grand Hyatt, only half listening as Luke took the first of the questions, Scotty felt insanely insecure. He craved those early days when he had been the apple of Fenton’s eye. Fenton had barely glanced at him all afternoon. On the flight from LA he had chatted with the others, ignoring him, and had barely caught him for a word even after the explosive success of their show. What had changed?
He knew what. It was that Kristin had insisted on tagging along. Scotty had told her no but she’d gone on and on, and in the end he had been forced to capitulate. How could he not? There was no way he could arouse suspicion, especially after the other week’s disastrous sexual episode. The fact was he didn’t want to make love with Kristin. He’d never wanted to make love with her. When he saw her body, he was cold—and she knew it. There was only so long he could stall the process before she started asking the questions that mattered.
Fenton needed time together; Scotty got that. He needed it, too. Tokyo had been the perfect opportunity to release their urges, and then Kristin had ruined it all.
‘Would you say that success has strengthened your friendships or challenged them?’ A journalist stood to deliver the question, holding out her Dictaphone.
‘Aw, we’re all buddies!’ Doug enthused. ‘It’s another family, we’re just like brothers, so, yeah, some days we fall out, but nothing serious…’ He jostled with the others. Scotty made a good fist of joining in but it took every ounce of will he had.
It was such a mess. The label was to blame, deciding that Scotty and Kristin would make the perfect couple, and who cared if Scotty actually wanted to or not? Kristin was like his sister, he felt nothing sexual for her whatsoever, and, while they had shared history and of course he was fond of the girl, that was strictly as far as it went.
Fenton had broken off their secret affair in accordance. If the matter were ever discovered there would be outrage, and four traumatised band members and an army of hysterical teenage girls would be the least of their worries…for Fenton had signed Scotty when he was sixteen, and the industry wasn’t to know that they hadn’t begun sleeping together until two years later. That spelled interference with a minor. But Scotty knew it was more than that. Fenton thought that Kristin would turn him, that after everything he’d wind up finding happiness with a woman. Scotty had asked himself the same. Who knew, maybe if he liked girls after all, wouldn’t that be so much easier? But he didn’t. He never would.
And he hadn’t got over Fenton. He would never get over Fenton. He was in love. The snatched nights they shared, so few and far between, were the hours he lived for. Several times Scotty had suggested they jack it in, Fraternity, their careers, and run away, but Fenton couldn’t. Scotty had his whole life ahead of him, he said: what was he doing anyway with a forty-three-year-old man with a gut and a reliance on hair plugs? Scotty was beautiful, Scotty was his angel, and sooner or later Scotty would wise up and move on. He knew that was how Fenton saw it, and however many times he reassured the man that it was him he wanted, hair plugs and all, insecurity and self-loathing eternally got in the way.
Worse was the fact that Fenton refused to let him split from Kristin. You need a girlfriend, Scotty. I don’t have a wife. Don’t get caught up in that rumour mill…
‘We’ll take a question from the back,’ directed Fenton from his chair at the side of the panel. ‘The woman in the grey jacket, please.’
‘Scotty, I’d love to know: is there a wedding on the cards for you and Kristin?’
Scotty was so deep into his thoughts about Fenton that the rehearsed response failed to trip off his tongue. ‘Er,’ he stalled. ‘No. Absolutely not.’
The woman seized on it. ‘Trouble in paradise?’
‘No, we’re very much together.’ Pull it back, Scotty, you’re good at this. ‘We’re both so busy at the moment, but that doesn’t change the fact we’re totally in love. Who knows, maybe some time next year.’ He flashed the Valentine grin. ‘If she’ll have me!’
Everyone laughed, and Scotty with them. Nobody saw the fleeting glance he threw Fenton’s way, so brief it was hardly there, a promise that he hadn’t meant it, that it was Fenton he adored and craved and it always would be. But Fenton didn’t look back.
9
Turquoise hit London for a charity gig. Hyde Park was teeming with crowds, the festival spirit so indigenous to this country, as girls in torn vests perched with sunburned shoulders on their boyfriends, waving plastic pints under a warm autumn sky. Balloons were released into the air along with the heady smell of pot. Nearer the front the fans were younger, bright-eyed and awestruck, holding aloft banners that rippled in the light breeze.
TURQUOISE IS MY IDOL. I HEART KATY. ROBIN RYDER ALWAYS.
Her set flew. New single ‘Wild Girl’ was an uncontested hit. Turquoise ran an extended version and by the end was throwing the mic to the audience, getting their arms in the air and waving along so the throng of gold shook before her like a field of corn. Cameras flashed as she powered to the bass, her silver catsuit teamed spectacularly with her whipping stream of hair and impressive five-inch heels that miraculously she managed to dance in.
One thing Turquoise had nailed beyond reproach was stage presence. It didn’t matter if her arena was a hundred or a hundred thousand, she unleashed fury and energy on her routines that was unrivalled by anyone else in the business. Undisputed mistress of bringing a crowd together, she infused every show with a sense of togetherness and shared purpose that had them rallying for more, but matched this with an illusion of intimacy, as if she were performing for each person individually and giving them their own experience to cherish.
Six sequences weren’t enough and so as enc
ore she performed a ballad, her first number one on both sides of the Atlantic. It was called ‘The Best of Me’ and proved why Turquoise deserved every ounce of her mega celebrity. She wasn’t just a killer performer or someone who could hold a tune; she could sing, in a way that demanded quiet from her listeners, the same seductive still that settled every time it was just her and a microphone and a voice, no frills, no extras. She didn’t need it. To anyone who believed that commercial success couldn’t be married with honest, inherent talent, it was the only response she needed.
‘Nights I still think of the pain you put me through; never gonna know what it took to forget you…’ Turquoise would always be fond of the song, it had been her revolution and the birth of her star, but it was too close to home to ever be easy. Perhaps that was what had made it special. People recognised the sentiment and identified it with their own lives, taking it to their hearts and making it one of the biggest-selling singles of the noughties. She lived on the principle that it wasn’t possible to write a good song unless there was a piece of you in it, unless you had given something in exchange. But anger was a more straightforward emotion to represent—passion, rage, uprising; all the sentiments that powered her dance tracks.
Sadness, regret…guilt. Those were the hard ones to bear.
Afterwards, Robin Ryder took the stage. Turquoise liked Robin’s style; the girl had swagger and wasn’t afraid to use it. ‘Lesson Learned’ was a catchy, urban record overlaid with Ryder’s trademark London chorus. Turquoise felt fortunate to be working at a time when there was such exciting talent pushing through the industry.
‘You did a great job out there.’ She introduced herself once Robin’s set was done.
‘Thanks. Compared with you, it was average, I’m sure.’ With candour, Robin added: ‘I’m a bit star-struck.’ She smiled. ‘It was you and Slink Bullion that made me want to do this. You both got me through a tough time in my life.’
Turquoise was humbled. ‘You know Slink?’
‘No,’ Robin admitted, ‘but we’re in talks to team up.’
‘Between you and me, Puff City aren’t the easiest crew to work with.’
‘Oh?’
‘Can I grab you for a moment?’ Turquoise’s manager intervened.
‘Are you staying in town?’ asked Robin.
‘Just a flying visit.’
‘I’m in LA next month. Shall we make a date?’
‘I’d like that.’ They kissed on both cheeks before Turquoise was pulled away. ‘I’ll have my assistant get in touch.’
Turquoise’s manager was a woman called Donna Cameron. She was Australia-born but hadn’t been back in twenty years because when she did ‘life stood still’. Her books were notoriously sparse: she represented just a handful of clients, all of them major.
‘You hungry?’ Donna asked.
‘Not especially.’
‘OK. We’ll do drinks, then. Nobu?’
‘Who with?’ Turquoise was tired and had been looking forward to an early night. Her return flight to LA left at dawn.
Donna smiled with controlled pleasure. ‘Sam Lucas,’ she revealed, tagging the famous movie director. ‘He wants to cast you in his new project. He doesn’t care what it takes, he says, it has to be you. Turquoise, this is the golden opportunity.’
It was. They had been talking about a move to the big screen since last year. Turquoise had reached the pinnacle of success in her music and now there was nowhere to go but sideways, expanding her empire and building on the fan base she already had.
‘It’s the right project?’ Her heart ached with pride when she thought of Emaline, how they had watched their old movies in the fading afternoon and dreamed of Hollywood.
That’s going to be you one day. My little star…
‘Sam and his group are in London,’ said Donna. ‘He can give us the script tonight. From what I’ve been told, it’s tailor-made. This is a classic empowerment story and you’re the one to tell it. It’s going to appeal across the board. It’s a big budget production and they’ve got some huge names attached. Cosmo Angel, for one.’
Turquoise froze. Her mouth went dry.
‘Tell me about it,’ commented Donna. ‘If I wasn’t twice divorced I’d seriously consider marrying the guy. If he wasn’t with Ava, of course.’ She winked.
‘Cosmo’s in the movie?’ She could barely stand to say his name.
Donna shot her a quizzical look, perplexed that at her stage in the game Turquoise should get misty-eyed about even the biggest hitters on the A-list.
‘He’s your love interest.’
She couldn’t do it. There was no way.
‘It doesn’t sound like a role he’d want to sign.’ Turquoise tried to imagine Cosmo as a man subjugated by a woman, and couldn’t. He would always be the victor.
‘Is everything all right?’ Donna was concerned. ‘I thought you’d be pleased.’
Turquoise opened her mouth to respond. No words came. How could she begin to explain? Where would she start?
‘I don’t know if it’s the best thing for me right now,’ she offered weakly, thinking only, I have to get out of this; I have to get out of this.
‘But we’ve cleared it.’ Donna was trying to understand. ‘We’ve talked this through before, Turquoise. Hollywood has always been on the cards, hasn’t it?’
‘Yes. But…’
‘At least come meet Sam, see what they have to say?’ She gave Turquoise’s arm a reassuring squeeze. ‘I know you’re tired,’ she said kindly. ‘You’ve been working all hours; it’s no wonder you’re finding it tough to summon enthusiasm for a new project. Let’s ride out tonight. Once we have the facts we can make an informed call. Sound all right?’
Turquoise found herself nodding. There was nothing else she could do. ‘Fine.’
She would figure it out. She had to figure it out. Because one thing was certain: she was never going near Cosmo Angel again as long as she lived.
Grace Turquoise da Luca should never have said yes to the ride. If she hadn’t, she might have had a different fate. She might have perished on the road, just lain down and waited for dreams to take her, or surrendered to delirium and stumbled out in front of a truck. Or she might have made it to the next town and found help. She might have been rescued. She might have got into a car with anyone else but Denny Malone.
Denny was twenty-three and had a haggard, drug-addled face that made him look ten years older. His had been a tough life and he had the livid white scars on his arms to prove it.
They arrived in Denny’s home city early morning. Grace drifted in and out of sleep, startled awake then shivering back to oblivion. Denny had an apartment and he told her to shower. He didn’t offer her a phone call, but then whom would she have rung?
‘Can I have some clothes, please?’ she asked, trembling cold and wrapped in a towel.
‘Lemme get a look at you first.’ Denny was on the couch, smoking. He narrowed his eyes and flashed her that smile. ‘Drop it.’
Grace Turquoise wished she had never become a woman. She wished she had never found the blood in her knickers, because it meant she had to do things she didn’t want.
‘Bit thin,’ he diagnosed when she was stripped. ‘Good tits though.’ He told her to come over and roughly he clasped her ass, patting it when he was done like a piece of meat. ‘We’ll give you a couple of months then you’re ready to go.’
Ready to go where? She didn’t know. She was scared.
Six weeks later, she was getting sick. ‘What’s wrong with you?’ Denny demanded. ‘You ain’t knocked up or something?’ He took her to a friend of his who worked out of a backstreet surgery. There, the man prodded her insides with coarse, long fingers that hurt when they went all the way up. She wept and bled, and bled and wept, and prayed a miracle would happen and Emaline would appear next to her, holding her hand and kissing her head like she used to do when there was a thunderstorm and she woke from a nightmare.
Now, there was no waking up.
>
The abortion set back Denny’s plan, but two months later, after her fifteenth birthday, Grace Turquoise was sent to her first client. He was a bald, overweight businessman with a lust for young girls, and as he ordered Grace to undress, drooling with anticipation and sucking wetly at her nipples, she closed her mind and body to everything except the house where she grew up, the rustling palms and the ocean breeze, Emaline and her lime cordial and all the songs they used to sing. When the man pummelled into her, just as the pastor had done that horrifying night, Grace accepted that this was the world. This was what men did.
Denny was pleased with the twenty dollars she produced. He kept it all and said that next time, if she did another good job, he’d let her take a piece.
Her next call-out was a young guy, in his twenties, who wanted to watch her play with herself. She hadn’t done that before and had to be shown how. Then he crouched over her and dangled his thing in her mouth. That was worse than the pummelling and cost him thirty dollars, which Denny kept all over again.
‘I don’t want to do it any more,’ she told him. ‘Please don’t make me.’
Denny was counting out a stack of cash. She’d seen other girls at the apartment, sent to do the same things. They were older than Grace and she didn’t want to end up like them. ‘You wanna hit the streets, go right ahead,’ he growled. ‘Ain’t no easy ride out there.’
One of the girls, Cookie—‘not my real name, honey, but then whose is?’—was sent out with her one night. A twitchy Vietnamese man met them at his hotel room and tugged his penis while he watched them make out. Cookie made her swallow two tiny pills that made everything fuzzy and not so bad, even when the man had sex with them both, one then the other then Grace again until he spurted all over her, and afterwards Cookie hugged her and told her to forget, not to worry, because it was just a job and you had to leave it at the door.
They were a popular duo. Denny was raking it in. He’d started giving Grace a percentage of her earnings, enough to buy food. Grace preferred doing things with Cookie because she was gentle, and sometimes when Cookie kissed her down there she got a tingle that made her lift her back and forget for a second that there was anyone else in the room.
