Temptation Island

As she was turning to go back inside she heard the rumble of an engine.

Rico. He pulled into the yard on his bike.

‘What are you doing?’ Lori cried, gesturing frantically for him to cut the ignition. ‘If someone sees you …!’ She didn’t dare finish.

Obligingly Rico jumped off the bike and wheeled it towards her. Lori kept the door to the salon open and pulled him into the shadow behind it. She was about to reiterate her anger before she saw how pale he looked. The white vest he was wearing was covered in mottled dirt.

‘Are you OK?’ she asked, putting a hand to his head. ‘Are you sick?’

‘I’m not sick.’

‘What’s the matter? You look bad.’

‘Nothin’.’ He seemed to be in a hurry.

‘It’s all right, they’re inside,’ said Lori, misreading his concern. ‘Even so, we shouldn’t risk it—you can’t stay. Is everything ready for tonight?’

‘That’s why I’m here.’

Fear seeped through her. Rico wasn’t bailing—not now, when they were so close.

‘I’ll be late,’ he said. ‘An hour, maybe. There’s somethin’ I gotta do first.’

‘What?’

‘It don’t matter. It’s just I can’t make midnight. I didn’t want you waitin’ around, thinking I wasn’t gonna show.’

Lori searched his eyes. ‘Is everything cool?’

‘Everything’s fine.’

There was something he wasn’t telling her.

‘OK,’ she said uncertainly. ‘Same place?’

‘Same place.’ He grabbed her hands. ‘I love you, Lori.’

‘I love you, too.’

‘Do you?’ He met her gaze, and there was desperation there. ‘Because we’ve never … you know, we haven’t. I’ve never loved you properly. In the way you know I mean.’

Lori looked away. ‘We’ve talked about this.’

‘I know.’

‘And I can’t say sorry.’

‘I’m not asking you to.’ He lifted her hand and kissed it. ‘I just have to make sure you’re not holdin’ out on someone else. Someone better? Like I’m not good enough.’

She shook her head. It wasn’t a question of being good enough. But if it wasn’t that …

Fairytales don’t exist, remember?

‘Take this.’ He fed a hand into the pocket of his shorts and produced a modest silver band. She let him slip it on to her ring finger. It glinted in the afternoon light and reminded her of a ring her mama had once bought, years ago when Lori was a little girl, but they’d been forced to sell it when the business began to fail.

‘Why?’

‘It’s a promise.’ He kissed her fingers again and she saw he wore a matching one. ‘Between you and me. OK?’

She was confused. ‘OK.’

‘Whatever happens.’

‘Rico, what is this—?’

‘Shh.’ He touched his forehead to hers. ‘I’ll see you tonight, yeah?’

Lori kissed his cheek. ‘Yeah.’

Noiselessly he moved across the yard and mounted his bike, seconds later vanishing in a cloud of bitter dust.

It was cold. The moon shone bright in the clear sky like a pearl, an occasional gossamer cloud drifting across its spotlight.

Lori pulled her cell from her bag and checked the time. He was supposed to have shown up half an hour ago. Where was he?

They had arranged to meet partway down the Santa Ana Freeway, where Rico had organised a car to take them out of the city. Lori had planned her exit from the Garcia house with precision. She’d gone to bed early, leaving the volume on the TV high while she grabbed her stuff and hauled up the narrow window, which always stuck halfway. From outside she’d clicked off the set, tossing the remote back through. They wouldn’t be any the wiser till daybreak.

Lori wrapped her jacket more tightly around her. She looked up at the star-punctured sky, the dwarfed outline of an aeroplane silhouetted against the giant moon.

Several cars stopped. Each time she was aware of her vulnerability—either the driver thought she was looking for business or she was hitching to the Southside. She moved between states of fear and upset at Rico’s no-show and anger at him letting her down. What was he doing? Why hadn’t he called or messaged?

What if he’s changed his mind?

I should never have pushed him into it. It was me who wanted this, not him.

She twisted the ring on her finger.

It’s a promise …

The wind was picking up. She would wait another half-hour. What else was she going to do? She dumped her pack on the ground and settled on it, huddling her bare knees up under her chin. Every time the glare of headlights filled her vision, each time a vehicle seemed to slow, her heart soared in hope, only to be dashed when it quietly passed by.

She waited half an hour. She waited another, then another. Three a.m. came round. She knew he wasn’t coming.

She put out her arm and waited for a ride to stop.

Rosa was making breakfast when Lori emerged next morning.

‘I heard you come in last night,’ she commented.

Lori fetched a glass of water and didn’t reply.

‘Cat got your tongue?’ Rosa slathered her pancakes with syrup and bit into them, releasing a clear grease that ran down her chin.

It was six. Lori had barely slept, maybe for an hour when she eventually collapsed into bed. Tres Hermanas opened shortly. The thought of returning to the salon she thought yesterday she would never have to see again was unbearable.

‘I know you were out meetin’ Rico.’ Rosa slurped her coffee. ‘Hope he was worth it. Because when Mama and Tony find out.’ She raised a painted-on eyebrow.

Lori turned her back, stared blankly at the wall. ‘Tell them what you like. I don’t care. Tell them to send me to Corazón if that’s what they want. It doesn’t matter any more.’

Rosa pouted, mocking her. ‘He break up with you or somethin’?’

Lori didn’t know. It was possible. Maybe he hadn’t found the guts to tell her and that was what the ring had been about. She found it with her thumb.

‘Quit feelin’ sorry for yourself.’ Rosa flicked on the radio. ‘You’ll get over it.’

The news reporter’s voice filled the kitchen.

‘In the early hours of this morning a young man was shot dead outside a convenience store in Santa Ana, California. Police have arrested twenty-year-old suspect Enrique Marquez, believed to have connections with the El Peligro gang, who were linked last year with six acts of violence in the area, two of which were fatal. Reports suggest Mr Marquez is the younger brother of Diego Marquez, thought to hold high rank in the organisation. The victim’s family have been informed and a spokeswoman for them is expected to talk to the press later today …’

The pancake Rosa was holding fell to the floor with a slap.

‘Lori, what the hell—?’

The item had moved on but the reporter’s words looped hideously through her mind.

It couldn’t be. It couldn’t.

Lori fell into a chair. Thought she was going to be sick.

‘You were there,’ babbled Rosa, backing away. ‘You were there!’

‘No,’ she managed to mumble, ‘I—I wasn’t. He never showed up.’

‘Oh, you wait till Mama finds out,’ Rosa spluttered. ‘Rico Marquez, a murderer! We always knew it would happen, that he’d go the exact same way as his brother and the rest of that useless family—’

‘Shut up.’

‘—and now he’s proved us right. What did Mama tell you? We were right!’

Lori put her hands over her ears. ‘Shut up!’

Rosa gave a burst of hysterical laughter. ‘You’re in so much shit it’s not even fair! Loriana Garcia, in love with a murderer—’

Lori stood and slapped her sister round the face. It made a clean, sharp sound and left Rosa’s cheek burning pink. She wanted to do it again, and again, till Rosa was silenced and she could be left in peace to think straight. It was impossible to focus. Her vision was swimming.

She remembered Rico’s words in the salon yard: There’s somethin’ I gotta do …

The floor seemed to bend and shake till Lori realised it was her legs that were giving way. She collapsed against the wall. Rosa went for her, pulling her hair, calling her a bitch, a killer, clawing with her nails, but Lori didn’t feel a thing.

11 Aurora

Rehab was a total waste of time. Aurora had known it would be—after all, she had only gone to please her parents and to help her mother get over the trauma of walking in on her young daughter in a state of such disarray, and everyone said that rehab only worked if the person genuinely wanted to change. She’d had a blast that day with Sebastian, got horny even now just thinking about it, and while it was unfortunate—and just a tad embarrassing—to have Sherilyn walk in at such an inopportune moment, she didn’t regret it.

What she did regret was that Julieta had got fired from her housekeeping duties. On top of that being a rough ride for a poor Mexican family, it was also the end of any rough rides she could expect to enjoy with Sebastian again.

She’d spent a month at the Tyrell Chase Center with her consultant, a gnarled old shrink called Dr Lux, but it was always ‘Call me Ed’—it wasn’t the first time she’d been. Dr Lux went over the same tired ground: her reckless behaviour was down to overindulgence, hedonism, lack of boundaries, blah blah fucking blah. Sherilyn took this diagnosis as a personal affront and always wept heartily after a meeting with Dr Lux: she hated Aurora going into rehab as much as Aurora did. Had she been a bad mother? Where had she gone wrong? Was Aurora suffering from being an only child? While Aurora sat and picked her nails, wondering when the hell they could get out of there.

By the time she did eventually get out, it seemed Sherilyn had just about recovered from the shock. Her father informed Aurora she’d been upping her sessions with Lindy the Therapist—no doubt Lindy would have several things to say about the pool-table episode—and had some new pills to pop that came in a fancy pink packet and sat serious as a Bible by her mother’s bed.

Today was the eve of Aurora’s sixteenth birthday party. They’d had people attending the mansion all week: caterers and planners, stylists and organisers, even a horse trainer attempting to map a route from the drive to the pool, where a white stallion would enter with the birthday girl on its back. She even suspected Tom was sorting a guest appearance from the Black Eyed Peas, and MTV was coming to film a special all-star Super Sweet—it was going to be amazing!

‘You’re lucky we’re going ahead with this,’ Tom had said when they’d talked about the celebrations. ‘After the trouble you’ve got yourself in.’

‘I know, Daddy,’ she’d said, eyes wide. ‘You and Mom are so kind and generous—I know I don’t deserve it!’

‘As long as you’ve learned your lesson,’ Tom had gone on, as stern as he’d ever be and always with a twinkle that suggested he didn’t think whatever she’d done was that bad, ‘we’re not going to deny you your sweet sixteen.’

He’d ruffled her hair, and that had been that.

Ramon, her hair stylist, arrived. He was doing a colour before her big appearance tomorrow. Sherilyn had insisted on sitting in on the session: Dr Lux had told her she wasn’t to be left alone with men—the girl had a sex addiction that temptation did nothing to ease.

‘Mom!’ she yelled up the stairs. The word bounced hollowly off the high ceilings, precise as a tennis ball. ‘Ramon’s here!’

Upstairs, Sherilyn Rose applied a flush of rouge to her alarmingly pale complexion. She looked bad. The lighting in her dressing room was unflattering, but, even so, she was tired, overworked and under-slept. Opening a drawer in her vanity table, she extracted a bottle of little red pills. She chucked a handful into her mouth and took a slug of water.

‘All right, sweetheart!’ she sang, her soft Alabama tones melting down the stairway to her waiting daughter. Sweet-As-Pie-Mom was a hard act to maintain, she thought grimly. It used to come to her naturally—recently she felt like a gruesome monster wearing a little girl’s skin. Ugh, that was horrific. But that was the sort of image residing in her head these days.

It was hardly any wonder her nerves were shredded. The pills Lindy had given her were the only things that allowed her to sleep at night. She had been enduring terrible dreams of late: memories that she’d thought were buried deep in the past. And yet every time Aurora misbehaved—this latest episode the worst yet—they returned to her in vivid, appalling detail.

The vast Indian Ocean. The island. That man …

If it ever came out, the reasons why they’d done it, her life would not be worth living.

Another couple of tablets, that was all. Shakily she chucked them down her white throat.

Was her life worth living now?

Sherilyn took a deep breath, in through her nose, out through her mouth, just as Lindy had taught her. She tried to smile, making her way slowly down the mansion stairs, one step at a time. As always, she shuddered when she passed the open games room, its equipment cleanly polished and disinfected on her instruction. Nothing could have prepared her for the sight of her daughter in that context. It disgusted her.

Not that her husband seemed to care. People said fathers were always closer to their girls: that the mothers got left out in the cold. Perhaps that was it. Perhaps she was jealous of their connection, a bond she had tried so hard to feel, to engage, and, failing that, to manufacture. It hadn’t worked. How could it, when week after week she was subjected to yet another reminder of her daughter’s monstrosity?

What on earth had she and Tom raised?

Whatever it was, she knew they deserved every bad thing they got.

Aurora’s first impression was that her mother could do with a visit from her own stylist: a recent dye job had rendered her hair the same colour as Barbie’s and she wore tight frayed jeans and precarious white shoe boots. Dated.

She hitched herself on to a stool by the patio doors, making sure she could see the poolside arrangement and issue preferences if necessary, while Ramon, young with a Mohawk, plonked down his cosmetics bag and laid out his tools. He was so clearly gay that any notion of chaperoning was absurd. Still, Aurora adhered to the new rules—it was a novelty to actually be made to do something.

‘OK, honey,’ he said, running his fingers through Aurora’s blonde hair. ‘What are we doing today?’

Sherilyn lit a cigarette and surveyed her daughter. Aurora noticed how her hands trembled with each puff. ‘How about some layering in the length …’

‘I want it all off,’ announced Aurora.

Ramon was appalled. ‘Shaved?’

Aurora rolled her eyes. ‘Not shaved. But nearly. Really short, like a boy’s.’

Sherilyn blew out smoke. ‘Darling, no!’

‘Do you mind?’ Ramon gestured to Sherilyn’s cigarette, then to his cosmetics case filled with mousse and sprays. ‘I’ve got flammable substances here.’

‘Yeah.’ Aurora nodded decisively. ‘Dramatic. You can do drama, can’t you, Ramon?’

‘Anything for you.’

‘We should dye it as well,’ said Aurora. ‘Bleach it. So it’s kinda white.’

Ramon grinned. ‘I like it.’

Sherilyn ground out her Marlboro. ‘Are you sure? It sounds extreme …’

‘I am extreme, Mom. And this is my party.’

‘All right, if that’s what’ll make you happy …’ She drifted out to the pool.

‘Is your mom doped?’ asked Ramon.

‘Probably,’ said Aurora as he began mixing the colour. ‘I don’t blame her. I’ve been a bitch lately.’ And she did honestly feel bad about the pool-table thing, but the fact was that in its aftermath her life hadn’t changed at all. Some days she thought her mother could do with an electric shock, or a cattle prod, something that frazzled her; something that brought her back to life. But if that hadn’t done it, what would?

Ramon applied the cold mixture to her roots and didn’t comment.

Aurora was watching a shirtless guy string lights in the trees by the pool. So was her mom by the looks of it. Ew! Weren’t you meant to switch those bits off when you got married? An image popped up of Sherilyn and Tom getting it on. Maybe they didn’t any more, seeing as they were now, like, way old. But they must have—at least once. Yuck yuck YUCK.

She spied a gossip rag poking out of Ramon’s bag. On the front was her so-called best friend Farrah Michaels wearing a solemn expression above the headline: BFFs AT WAR: ‘AURORA NASH SHOULD BE IN JAIL!’ It was hardly a war, thought Aurora, since it was entirely onesided: she wasn’t the one mouthing off to the press at every available opportunity, all for a bit of cheap publicity. Farrah was just bitter because she’d split with Boy-Band-Christian after he was found cheating on her with a dwarf while on tour in Vegas.

She tossed the magazine down, pissed.

‘Hold still!’ commanded Ramon, swiping at her head with his brush. The dye stank and she told him so. ‘Your hair will stink too if you don’t do as I say.’

Outside, Sherilyn was on the phone. She was frowning and nodding. When she came back in, Aurora demanded to know what was going on. Weirdly, her mother ignored her. Instead, she addressed Ramon.

‘How long will this take?’

‘Don’t hurry him, Mom, it’s important.’

‘So is this.’ Sherilyn closed her cell. ‘That was your father. He’s got some news to share with you.’ She took a deep breath. ‘He’s taking us for lunch at Il Cielo.’

‘Is it about the party?’

Sherilyn hesitated. ‘Not exactly,’ she said.

‘What, then?’

A pause. ‘Let’s wait till lunchtime, shall we?’

She could feel Ramon’s curiosity wafting off him like heat. ‘What was that about?’ he asked when Sherilyn had disappeared next door.

Aurora yawned. ‘I expect Dad’s bought me another car,’ she mused. ‘They’ll want it to be a surprise, but I guess they have to tell me if they want to co-ordinate it with the arrival of the stallion. To be honest, I don’t know where I’ll keep another one—and anyway, I don’t even have my permit!’

‘Your mother and I have one last gift for you,’ said Tom over lunch. The waiter refilled their water. Cubes of ice tinkled and cracked in the glass, melting slowly in the afternoon sun. Il Cielo boasted a gorgeous terrace and, as ever, Tom Nash and his family had secured the best table.

Aurora, admiring her new bleached-blonde hairstyle in an enormous window, grinned. ‘Cool! What is it?’

A gaggle of fans approached. Tom swore under his breath at the fresh interruption but smiled pleasantly enough as he and Sherilyn signed scraps of paper and the backs of tabs. Women fancied Tom Nash like crazy: his alpha vibe rendered them babbling incoherent wrecks. They fell for his Southern charm with its twist of LA polish; they adored his vocal Republican stance. Tom was all about tradition, about core values, work ethic and the importance of family. They lapped it up like kittens.

On the other hand, everyone regarded Aurora, and her new hairstyle, with a pinch of trepidation, as though she were a sitting bomb that could blast off at any second. Fine, fuck the lot of them. Aurora sighed loudly, impatient for her dad to spill.

Sherilyn forked her barely touched crab linguine. ‘Go on, Tom,’ she said softly.

Aurora frowned. What could they have bought her? Maybe it wasn’t a car, after all. Maybe it was something sicker that even she hadn’t imagined—and she’d imagined most things.

At last, Tom spoke. ‘We’re sending you to England.’

Aurora was pleased. ‘London? Can I stay at the Dorchester again?’

‘Not exactly a shopping trip, honey,’ said Sherilyn.

There was an uncomfortable pause.

‘Boarding school,’ said Tom, clearing his throat. WHAT?

‘What?’ shrieked Aurora, horrified.

Her parents exchanged glances. ‘That’s right,’ said Tom. ‘And it’s not in London. It’s a prestigious, little-known school in the North. You’ll receive the attention you need there.’

Aurora’s mouth was hanging open. She couldn’t believe it.

‘You can’t do this to me,’ she squawked. ‘I won’t go. I’m not going. Boarding school?’ The very word conjured images of prison bars and child labour.

Sherilyn touched her arm. ‘We didn’t take this decision lightly,’ she crooned. ‘But we do think it’s the best thing for you. After what happened with—’ she cleared her throat ‘—Sebastian Ortega. And crashing the Ferrari. And Mink Ray.’

‘What do you know about Mink Ray?’ Aurora’s face was burning. Had they been spying on her?

‘You’ll be home every few weeks for vacation,’ said Tom. ‘And we’ve organised a guardian for you in London so you can be there for exeats.’

Aurora didn’t even know what the word meant. This was a fucking outrage!

‘You can’t make me go,’ she said, lip wobbling.

But Tom remained uncharacteristically steadfast. ‘It’s for your own good,’ he said, sawing his veal in a manner that suggested the end of the discussion. ‘Therapy doesn’t work, rehab doesn’t work … This is our last option and we believe it will be the making of you.’

‘And this is meant to be my birthday present? Are you kidding me?’

Tom’s face softened. ‘Well—’ he put down his cutlery and smiled tentatively ‘—I was going to wait till tomorrow, but since you asked … We’ve got you that Porsche you wanted as well.’

‘Fuck the fucking Porsche,’ lashed Aurora, scraping her chair back and getting to her feet. She lifted her mother’s glass of red wine and emptied it pointlessly over the ciabatta rolls.

She was going to England over her dead body. There was no fucking way.

12 Stevie

Stevie woke to the glare of sunlight. She had a slight headache brought on by too many cocktails the previous evening, and foggily remembered the bar that she and Will Gardner had ended up in. Weeks had passed since they’d met at Linus Posen’s party and she supposed they’d begun a relationship of sorts, insofar as nights out and occasional sex went. Will knew little of her life and she saw no reason why he should: she’d been frank at the outset that she wasn’t in it for a relationship and he’d claimed he was happy with that.

Will’s arm was thrown across her. She watched his sleeping face, handsome in repose, the eyelashes long and the jaw peppered with stubble. Will was good-looking, funny, and nice company—he was a good bet, surely, for any girl. Sex with him was fine, it was pleasant, but she rarely came and when she did it was only on top. Before Stevie had started at Simms & Court she’d had a string of short-lived boyfriends with whom sex had been the same way. Was she destined always to judge others against the man who had changed that? Why should she, when he had treated her so badly? It made her hate him more and more, because nearly a year after their parting he still had her in his clutches, refusing to let her go.

What had it been about him? What made him so special? Was it the way he’d listened to her, after years at home of being one voice among many, as if she were the most captivating woman on earth? Was it the attention he’d lavished, the compliments he’d given? Was it his authority, his age, his influence? That made her sound like a floozy secretary, and of course she knew it was the mother of all stereotypes. Boss works after hours, assistant fixes the drinks, maybe she even calls his wife to let her know he’ll be home late … To her disgrace, she’d done that once. The sound of the other woman’s voice would never leave her, and it was only after they were over that she was able to analyse what she’d heard in it: resignation, disappointment, but most of all sadness. Infinite, profound sadness—for Stevie understood now that it had happened before, probably many, many times. And through her inability at the time to think outside how she admired him, and how his marriage, she’d been told, was all but over, she’d pushed the woman to the back of her mind and pretended she didn’t exist. It was shameful.