Temptation Island

Recovered, Lori dressed and padded down the dark corridor to the bathroom, where she vigorously washed her hands. She saw her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were darker than they’d ever been: total black, the most basic of colours.

Shame washed through her. What had she done? She had heard about people who touched themselves … It was wrong; it was dirty; it was sinful. She scrubbed at her fingers and splashed cold water on her face, before killing the light and returning to her bedroom.

The next time she closed her eyes, she fell instantly asleep.

16 Aurora

St Agnes School for Girls was a massive, austere building in the heart of England’s Lake District. Grey, bleak and circled with turrets, it resided next to the slate quarry from which it had been built. Aurora thought it the ugliest, most miserable thing she had ever seen.

Her chauffeur-driven car wound up the imposing gravel drive, rounded a stone figurine with its roots submerged in a stagnant oval pond, and deposited her at the main entrance. Immediately she lit a cigarette, smoking moodily while she figured out what to do. She’d get expelled, that was it. There was no way she was staying here longer than a week. What had her parents been thinking? Clearly they had never laid eyes on this shitfest: all she had to do was send a picture to Tom and she felt sure her father would remove her at speed. He would never consent to her suffering. She’d turn the tears on for her first call home and then it would be over.

A woman with a grey bob was bustling across the drive. Grey, grey, grey—even the sky here was grey. How fucking depressing.

‘Can I help you?’ she demanded in a clipped English accent. She had a little moustache tickling her top lip and a mouth tight as a dog’s ass.

Aurora blew smoke in the woman’s face. ‘I’m new,’ she said, enjoying how her brash accent made the lady wince. She spoke louder to make the most of it. ‘Name’s Aurora Nash.’

‘We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow.’

‘What do you want me to do, camp in a field? I’d like you to show me to my room and then I want a phone call.’ This was just like getting arrested—only it looked as if this cow wasn’t going to be won round with a sob story and a reapplication of Clive Christian No. 1.

‘We do not permit our girls smoking,’ said the woman. ‘I’m sure you understand.’

Aurora pulled on her cigarette. ‘Not really.’

Plucking the stick from Aurora’s hand, the woman tossed it to the gravel and ground it out with a steel-toed boot.

‘Hey!’

‘I am Mrs Durdon,’ she said briskly, ‘your housemistress. From now on you will do exactly as I say—or you’re going to wish you’d never set foot in this school.’

‘No kidding,’ Aurora muttered grimly.

‘Come with me.’

Mrs Durdon led the way through the main doors, a scowling Aurora loping behind. She was all too accustomed to spoiled teenage girls needing taking down a peg or two. The international ones were the worst. Here they had them all: princesses, heiresses, daughters of sheiks and oil barons, and, her least personal favourite, the brats from America with famous parents. Glimpsing the girl out of the corner of her eye, she sensed this one would spell no insignificant amount of trouble.

Aurora wondered why no one was offering to take her bag. Where was the doorman? Instead she had to drag her impractical Louis Vuitton wheels behind her as they entered the hall. Grave portraits of headmistresses-past glared down at her from their frames on the wall; an enormous fireplace sat cold and unused beneath a great black hood; doors peeled off from the space, most of them closed. There was a disgusting smell like soup.

‘You’ll meet the Head this afternoon,’ said Mrs Durdon as she mounted the staircase. ‘I’ll let her know you’ve arrived.’

‘Great,’ Aurora mumbled. She was tired of lugging her stuff. ‘Where’s the elevator?’ She stopped and leaned against the wide mahogany banister, folding her arms.

Mrs Durdon was revolted by the word. ‘We do not have a lift, I’m afraid. If you can’t manage, leave your things down here and you’ll have to come and collect them piecemeal.’ She eyed the suitcase, bursting at its seams. If there were drink or drugs in there, the school would soon rinse them out. ‘We’ll need to organise you a trunk. That … bag is hardly suitable.’

Aurora didn’t know what a trunk was but it sounded far from hot. ‘Can’t you get one of your staff to carry it?’

A frigid smile. ‘This way.’

Upstairs, a door opened and a gaggle of girls came rushing past. Aurora had to back up to avoid being slammed into.

‘Girls!’ Mrs Durdon boomed. ‘No running in the halls! ’

Giggling among themselves, the girls slowed their pace, arms linked as they vanished into what appeared to be a dining room. Aurora caught a glimpse of long regimented tables: as the heavy door opened a massive waft of the soupy smell came rushing through to greet her.

‘Don’t they have their own clothes?’ asked Aurora, grossed out by the grey skirts and shapeless jumpers. So unflattering!

‘That’s the school uniform,’ Mrs Durdon confirmed. There was a carpeted corridor at the top of the stairs. Several doors down, she stopped. ‘And this is your dormitory.’

Aurora raised a hand. ‘Wait a second,’ she said. ‘First, I’m not wearing some dumb uniform. I’ve got a fashion line to protect. And second, I am not sleeping in a dormitory. I demand a private room. I’m sure my dad paid for one, so I’d appreciate you taking me to it, please.’ She lifted her chin.

Mrs Durdon was amused. ‘All girls share dormitories,’ she said. ‘You’ll get used to it.’

When the door opened, Aurora knew categorically and absolutely that she would never get used to it. There were at least ten beds in here! It was like some ghastly hospital room. Where was she going to put all her clothes? A small closet parked by each mattress wasn’t going to come close. What the fuck? What was this place?

‘Uh-uh, no way,’ said Aurora. But Mrs Durdon was charging down the central aisle between the beds until she stopped by the one closest to the window.

‘This one is yours,’ she said smugly. The revelation of the dormitories was always her favourite bit. Aurora Nash wore a look of sheer horror. ‘I’ll find your guide—we assign every new student here one—and she will help you unpack your suitcase. Once you’ve settled in you can meet Mrs Stoker-Leach.’ She departed without another word.

Aurora felt like bursting into tears. She missed LA, she missed her dad; she missed the glittering ocean and the warm sunshine. She even missed Farrah and Jenna. How had this happened? How did she end up in this raging dump? She stormed to the window and gazed bleakly out. It had started to rain. Down below, girls in navy blue skirts ran pointlessly around a hockey pitch and a fat Games teacher with pasty legs blew a harsh whistle. Beyond the school gates, the severe, rugged line of the hills stood cold and immovable, trapping her, forcing her into this unimaginable situation. Did anyone seriously live here? Never mind the castle-slash-orphanage-slash-prison she was expected to reside in, but the whole freaking place was abysmal. All she had seen on the drive up was endless motorway going into hills, hills and more hills. She couldn’t imagine how anyone could exist here in Dullsville and not want to shoot themselves between the eyes after about five minutes.

In the quiet deadness of that empty dormitory, Aurora felt acutely alone. Fine, it was kind of her fault for getting into trouble, but hadn’t her parents gone a bit far? Wasn’t this total abandonment? Didn’t people get arrested for this kind of neglect?

She could see her reflection in the pane, distorted as the rain pooled and slithered and ran in rivulets down the glass. They looked like tear drops.

Fuck it—she wasn’t a crier, and this place wasn’t going to make her one.

All she needed to do was come up with a plan. Fast.

Her guide was a girl called Fran Harrington, Queen Dork of Dorkdom. She had mouse-coloured hair and the most boring face Aurora had ever seen—in fact it was so boring it didn’t even merit description. Her personality was boring, too. Everything about her was boring. Everyone in the whole school was boring. The world was boring. Aurora was bored, bored, bored. She craved California and lamented the parties she was missing; the guys she was missing. She was desperate to fuck. The frustration! That was another matter entirely.

A week had passed since her arrival and she was learning a few things about St Agnes School for Girls. First, it didn’t matter how boring everyone was because they’d never need worry about acquiring a personality: all the students were daughters of shipping magnates, government officials, royalty … In comparison, being Tom Nash and Sherilyn Rose’s kid meant squat. Second, they were all suck-asses and never seemed to do anything even remotely rebellious. The girls she shared a dorm with were mostly English and called things like Camilla and Verity and Poo-Poo. Third, the teachers seemed to hate her. They were all ancient with bad breath. The only decent one was Mr Faulks, who taught Chemistry and was reasonably sexy if you looked at him through squinty eyes, but the one time she’d attempted to flirt with him had backfired when she’d got her substances confused and caused an explosion in one of the research chambers. Fourth, Mrs Stoker-Leach was a total witch. No surprises there. Was it possible for someone with that name to be anything but?

It was Tuesday afternoon. This meant only one thing: hockey with Eugenie Beaufort.

Eugenie Beaufort was a grade-A bitch. Her mother was a screenwriter Aurora had never heard of but was apparently famous in the UK. She walked around as if she owned the place, while her devoted troop of followers—weak-chinned girls who nodded and yah-yahed to everything she said—trailed her like puppies. Her dislike for Aurora seemed to be instant. Whenever they shared a lesson, Eugenie would glare at her from across the room. Whenever she ate lunch by herself in the dining room, Eugenie was gossiping and looking over, laughing and sneering with her friends. One night Aurora had found a dead spider in her bed, and some of the girls she shared with had collapsed in tinkling laughter—the next day they were sitting with Eugenie. Aurora didn’t care: they were morons. What was more, they were fakers. Eugenie was always rattling on about how she’d hung out with Prince William and Kate Middleton the previous summer on a snowboarding holiday, an acquaintance Aurora could tell was exaggerated because Eugenie went on about it in a way she wouldn’t have to if they were, like, her real friends. The stories Aurora herself could tell about the rich and famous … Whatever, it didn’t impress her, she was way over it. She doubted half the girls had even heard of some of the stuff she’d done to Hollywood’s celebrity cocks. Let them suck on that if they wanted scandal.

Aurora had never cared much for sport and wore a lacklustre expression as she changed into her Goal Defence bib.

Within minutes Eugenie Beaufort was attacking her legs.

‘Fuck off,’ Aurora told her as they locked sticks.

‘Fuck off yourself,’ Eugenie hissed. Her dark hair was plastered unattractively over her forehead. She was one of those girls to whom team sports meant everything. Winning was the be-all and end-all. Aurora was already thinking about when they could finish so she could sneak into the bushes for a joint. Maybe if she broke Eugenie’s shins she might get suspended.

‘OW!’ Eugenie howled out in pain as Aurora’s hockey stick slammed into her. She lifted her leg and clutched it at the knee, hopping up and down.

‘Oops, sorry,’ said Aurora sweetly. The fat Games teacher came panting over and blew her whistle unnecessarily close to Aurora’s ear.

‘Off!’ she blasted, red-faced and angry as she pointed to the sides. Eugenie appeared satisfied, as if being sent off mid-match was the worst fate she could imagine. Aurora didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. That was the punishment? She’d have to come up with something far worse if she was going to make it home within the month. Her phone call to Tom last week had been rushed and unsatisfactory—her father had a spa session he was loath to miss—and despite her declaration that St Agnes was worse than death row (mainly because there was no chance of a lethal injection at the end of it), her tearful pleas and impassioned begging that eventually descended into a litany of I hate you!s, he had remained firm: she was to see out her first two terms and then they would rediscuss. Yeah. Like that was going to happen.

On the bench was a girl she hadn’t seen before. She had long straight black hair, pale skin and a compact, petite body.

‘How come you’re out?’ asked Aurora moodily as she slumped down.

‘I don’t like exercise,’ said the girl, not bothering to look up. She was reading a book, and when Aurora peered over she saw it was written in another language.

‘What’s that?’ she asked, sipping from a bottle of water and crossing her legs. She thought she spied Mr Faulks loping into the Science block and adjusted her bib to reveal a little more flesh.

‘It’s a book,’ the girl said flatly. This time Aurora noticed the strong accent.

‘You’re French?’

‘Bravo.’

Aurora kind of liked her blatant lack of interest—it piqued her own. ‘I’m Aurora Nash,’ she said, sticking out her hand.

Finally the girl looked up. She was startlingly pretty, with a perfect white complexion, blood-red lips and cat-like green eyes.

‘I know who you are,’ she said. ‘The loud American.’ She frowned. ‘Is your tan real?’

Aurora was unoffended. ‘West Coast sun, baby.’ She withdrew her hand and sat back. ‘You should get some.’

‘I don’t like how it looks.’

‘Thanks very much.’

The girl returned to her book.

‘Sport sucks for me, too,’ Aurora said. ‘How come you get off?’

‘I refuse to do it.’

‘Sounds like a great tactic.’

The girl flipped her book shut. ‘I am exempt from these lessons. My parents have a doctor friend—he wrote me the diagnosis.’

‘Which was?’

She shrugged. ‘Simply, I am not a team player.’

Aurora laughed with genuine amusement. ‘What are you, then?’

‘I’m me.’

She raised her left brow. ‘Does “me” get high?’

The girl narrowed her eyes. ‘Do you imagine you can be my friend?’

Aurora pulled up her scratchy, fashion-bankrupt socks. ‘I don’t care either way.’

‘Because I’m not here to make friends.’

‘Suit yourself.’

They sat in silence for a bit, watching Eugenie Beaufort roar and pump the air with her fist whenever her team scored a goal.

Aurora noticed the girl didn’t reopen her book. After a while she turned to Aurora. ‘I’m Pascale Devereux,’ she said, and held out a small, pale hand.

Aurora took it. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

‘You will be.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Because now you have,’ said Pascale, ‘things around here are about to get a lot more interesting.’

17 Stevie

Stevie took the part. How could she not? There it was, laid out before her, the role thousands of girls had dreamed of. Including Bibi Reiner.

‘B, this was meant to be yours,’ Stevie said when the role was formally offered. ‘You wanted Lauren. I wasn’t even supposed to be here.’

Bibi kept her smile in place. She was not the sort of girl to begrudge a friend’s success, even if her pride stung. Stevie could never know why she’d wanted the role so much, why she’d had her heart set on a gig free from Linus Posen’s grip—she probably thought it was just another failed audition. Bibi was used to rejection, wasn’t she?

‘Take it, Steve,’ she said, giving her a hug, and despite her disappointment pleased for her. ‘Your turning it down won’t bring it my way, will it?’

‘If it would …’ She meant it.

‘I know. Really, it’s OK.’

Stevie felt bad. She had never harboured desires to be an actress, far from it, and yet the opportunity had landed straight in her lap. To her surprise the script in its entirety interested her, and people were telling her she had talent and that maybe she should give it a go. What did she have to lose? The studio had long been searching for an antidote to blonde-haired blue-eyed California, captured perfectly in Stevie’s cool, detached beauty, which, once the spectacles were off (she’d finally succumbed to lenses), everyone agreed was astounding.

‘You’ve changed my life, B,’ she told her friend. ‘I owe you so much.’

Bibi squeezed her hand and promised herself her time would one day come. It had to.

In the meantime, she asked Stevie to run her a small favour. Lie to Me would be filmed in Los Angeles, where the studio would put her up in a modest apartment complex. Bibi’s younger brother was already in the city, struggling to get parts, heavily in debt and currently residing on randoms’ sofas. Would she be able to accommodate him for a while?

Naturally, Stevie agreed.

Six weeks later, she was filming on location. Dirk Michaels, Hollywood powerhouse and legendary money-spinner, was producing. Stevie was living out of her suitcase in LA and getting four hours’ sleep a night. Things were moving unbelievably quickly, her name public property virtually overnight, her image suddenly appearing on Google and friends she hadn’t seen in years clamouring to make contact and claim they’d once been close. Everyone wanted a piece of her. She was being invited to an endless stream of parties and functions, awards ceremonies and photo shoots, scarcely having time to register that this was a world she’d been set against for years but now had welcomed her with open arms. Word was spreading about the hottest new actress in town: Stevie Speller was being billed as the next Great British Star, combining all the haughty London beauty of Keira Knightley with the shy intellect of Natalie Portman.

After the awkwardness of that first audition with Bibi—at least she’d felt it was awkward—she found herself taking to the game with surprising zeal. Her first time on set had been terrifying, she felt like a total sham, but before she knew it the director was calling ‘Cut!’ and the scene was nailed. All her life, as for so many, she’d been OK at a lot of things but never excelled in one. When she was immersed in a role, speaking words that had already been written, living a life in which the outcome was safe and known, she found refuge. She was able to forget where she’d been and what she’d done. When she watched her performance she was amazed to see so many versions of herself coming back. Ways of behaviour she’d never thought she had.

It was a sunny Hollywood Wednesday morning and Stevie was in her agent’s downtown office. Marty King was top dog, a power agent with a host of superstars on his books. She couldn’t believe it when he’d approached, and when she told Bibi over the phone the other girl squealed, ‘I just peed in my pants!’ Bibi went on to inform her that Marty King was renowned for his knack of spotting a star on her way to the top. He also represented major Hollywood blockbuster names like Cole Steel. Cole’s films had been staple viewing in Stevie’s family while she’d been growing up and the idea of sharing representation with him was mind-blowing.

‘Have you got a boyfriend?’ Marty asked. For a second she thought it was a loaded question—she’d heard enough about fledgling actresses getting promised the stars and ending up on their hands and knees—but he regarded her seriously from across his desk. Marty had ruddy cheeks and a soft thatch of orange hair. Stevie could tell he’d been handsome in his younger years, and he had a genuine smile she was learning was rare to come by in this town.

She thought of Will, who’d been less than enamoured with news of her moving out to LA. ‘I’m not sure,’ she replied.

Marty made a face. ‘That means no.’

‘It does?’

He picked something out from between his teeth—a remnant from lunch, perhaps—and examined it before sucking it off his fingers. It told Stevie all she needed to know about how powerful Marty was. He didn’t need to impress; his name spoke for itself.

‘Sure it does.’ He linked his hands across his belly. ‘From here on in it’s about who you’re associated with. Stevie Speller spells class, she spells … sophistication. Some boyfriend you couldn’t give two craps about ain’t gonna cut it.’

‘Who said I don’t give a crap about him?’

‘I said two craps. You might give one: you’re still with the bozo. Do I know him?’

‘No.’

‘Good. The ones I know are the ones that cause me trouble. Take my advice and stay single. It’ll make my life a hell of a lot easier, not to mention yours.’

‘OK …’

‘With your looks and talent,’ he said matter-of-factly, ‘there’s no place to go but up. That accent right there’s gonna have every major studio shitting money out their asses to sign you.’

She laughed. He didn’t.

‘You heard of Xander Jakobson?’ Marty asked.

‘Yes.’ He was a thirtyish actor-turned-director, quite handsome. He’d been nominated last spring for an Award.

‘I want him to see you.’ Marty rolled up his shirtsleeves. ‘His new project’s got your name all over it.’ There was a knock on the door. He looked up, distracted. ‘Yes?’

A pretty blonde opened the door. ‘Rita Clay called. I told her you were in a meeting but she made me promise to ask you personally to return it.’

Marty pinched the bridge of his nose. He stayed like that for several seconds before saying, ‘Thank you, Jennifer.’

When his secretary had gone, he turned to Stevie. ‘In the middle of a complicated negotiation,’ he said by way of explanation. Stevie shrugged; it was none of her business.

‘Xander Jakobson?’ she prompted.

‘See what you make of the script, I think you’ll like it. Let me get on to him. I’m sure we can strike a deal.’

On impulse she asked, ‘What do you know about Linus Posen?’

Marty sat back and narrowed his eyes. One whole wall of his office was glass and outside the green tops of palm trees quivered in the warm breeze. ‘Why d’you ask?’

Stevie shrugged.

‘I know you’re not gonna be working with him any time soon,’ said Marty.

‘Oh?’

‘You met him?’

‘In New York, last year. He offered me work. I thought I should mention it.’

‘What kind of work?’

‘He didn’t say. He gave me his card but I never called.’

‘You know what line he’s in?’

As far as she knew Linus directed mindless action blockbusters. She told Marty so.

‘That’s right,’ he said, and she detected a note of caution in his voice. He let the silence hang before adding, abruptly back to business, ‘So it’s not what we’re going for.’

‘I didn’t think so.’

‘Good,’ said Marty. ‘Take my advice, it’s what you pay me for, and steer well clear.’

When Stevie got back to her apartment, Will Gardner was waiting for her. Bibi’s brother was due to arrive this afternoon and her first reaction was one of annoyance. Couldn’t Will have called?

‘Hello, beautiful,’ he said when she exited the cab, drawing her into his arms and planting a kiss on her lips. She didn’t know what to say.

‘What are you doing here?’ she asked eventually.

‘Do I need a reason other than this?’ He looped his arms around her waist and kissed her again. Stevie was hot and her top was clinging to the skin on her back: she wanted to get in the shower, change into a baggy T-shirt and sit by herself. It had been a hectic week and she realised now that Will was the last person she felt like seeing.

She didn’t want to be a cow about it. ‘Come in,’ she said. ‘Sorry it’s a bit of a mess.’

The apartment was in a basic, unfussy compound, laid out like the motels she had seen in films: a one-storey cream building that formed an L-shape around a central shared swimming pool. She doubted if the novelty of a pool would ever wear off. Since arriving she’d adopted a routine of early-morning swim followed by a healthy breakfast and a review of the day’s scenes.