Wicked Ambition

‘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 musky 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 there, 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.

When she arrived, the club was hammering a dirty, sexy stream of beats, and was packed with grinding bodies. Robin was taken through a concealed entrance towards an alcove. Kiss-Kiss had been built on the relics of an old church. From vaulted ceilings dripped bruised candelabra, huge colour-stained windows depicted rock gods old and new, while a glittering altar boasted a fearsome set of decks from which bled the new religion: music.

Robin spotted Polly’s beehive right away and her friends Sammy and Belle. It had been difficult to form bonds with people in her old life, moved as she was from place to place, and it was only when she’d quit the system and gone it alone that she had been able to make her own choices. That had brought with it a whole heap of struggle but at least it had been a struggle she’d had a say in—and through it she’d met Sammy and Belle, people who knew her before all this took off. Sammy had been the one who had encouraged her to audition for The Launch in the first place.

‘Check out the bar,’ said Belle as she sat down. They already had a rainbow of free drinks on the go and Robin helped herself. ‘We’re in for a treat.’

‘What is it?’

‘Jax Jackson and Leon Sway.’

She couldn’t believe it. ‘You have to be kidding me.’

The last thing she wanted was to encounter that self-righteous idiot, and enduring the attentions of Jax Jackson wasn’t far behind. Jax might be an Olympian but he didn’t do it for her: he was a notorious womaniser and by all accounts a chauvinist. The fact he had the Hugh Hefner bunny tattooed on his bicep along with the strapline Come and Play said it all, really.

‘I thought those guys were sworn enemies,’ Robin observed. Leon was silver to Jax’s gold: the men were archrivals, on the track and off. Word was they couldn’t stand each other.

‘Maybe they called a truce,’ suggested Sammy.

Polly scoffed. ‘Gimme a break: you should see how much coverage they get in the States. It’s insane. They’re, like, hotter than Hollywood. For the first time Jax has got some stiff competition. Testosterone, girls: he’s freaking about the guy on his tail—’

‘Stiff competition? A guy on his tail?’ Robin prompted the others to giggle. ‘Now there’s a story I’d be interested in.’

‘Jax’d sooner die,’ commented Belle wryly. ‘Talk about macho alpha bollocks.’

The same went for Leon, evidently. Robin was filled with fury remembering his indiscretion. She tried to see through the wall of people. A cluster parted just long enough to award her a view of Leon on the periphery of the group. He was wearing a grey T-shirt beneath which she could detect the lines of his muscle, the hard strength of his stomach and the clean, swift strokes of his arms. His green eyes caught the light.

‘Pretty, isn’t he?’ said Belle.

‘If you like egotistical, tactless dickheads.’

Sammy grabbed her. ‘Let’s go say hello.’

‘Uh-uh, no way.’ Robin kicked back. It was tempting to stride over and explain to Leon exactly what she thought of him, but she refused to give him the satisfaction.

Jax Jackson came into view, making a chump of himself as a Nicki Minaj track came on and drunkenly he toasted the air. Jax was a couple of inches shorter than Leon and more hulking. Not that she was making the comparison.

‘Why not?’ Polly teased. ‘Jax has already made it clear he’s a fan…’

‘He bought us a drink,’ she said, recalling his come-on at the Hideaway. ‘Big deal.’

‘Bet you’ll go over when you see who they’re with.’

‘Who?’

‘Puff City.’

Robin baulked. ‘No way.’

‘Yes way. Go ahead, check it out.’

Sure enough, at the bar with Jax was the inimitable Slink Bullion. He was wearing a baggy white sweater and reams of gold jewellery. The Puff City crew skulked behind. Robin recognised Principal 7, the esteemed white rapper filling Eminem’s shoes, and G-Money, who was cool in a preppy way and whose real name was Gordon or something.

Downing another shot, she stood and closed the gap between them.

‘Hi.’ She interrupted the exchange. Jax was momentarily irritated by the disruption before succumbing to a smile. Annoyingly Slink was dragged off by his girlfriend.

‘Hey, lady, it’s you.’

‘Yeah, it’s me. And it’s not lady, it’s Robin.’

‘Kinda thought you blew me off the other night, Robin.’

Jax towered over her. His frame was extraordinary, huge and light and built for speed. He was smirking in the way of a man who imagined every female to want to fall in a faint at his feet. She scouted for the rest of Puff City but they’d melted away.

‘I didn’t know the drinks came on condition,’ Robin retaliated.

‘They didn’t. But here’s another chance to give me your number.’

‘Thanks, that’s sweet.’

‘We’ve been hearin’ a lot about you.’ Jax grinned. ‘Seems like you’re the place to be right now, a hot little hotel in paradise. I wouldn’t mind a trip there myself.’

‘That’s disgusting.’

He held his hands up. ‘Just sayin’. And you should know I don’t mind a challenge. Hell, I like it. It don’t happen often but when it does, I’m there like a bitch in heat.’

‘I’m feeling better by the second.’

‘Back off, Jax, she’s not interested.’

Robin turned to find herself face to face with Leon Sway. The surprise of him at such close range tied her tongue in a knot. Before she could slam her brain into gear, Jax said:

‘What’s it t’do with you?’

‘You’re drunk. Step away.’

‘Nah, you step away.’ Jax pushed him. His fists on Leon’s chest elicited a thump, rock on rock. Leon squared up to him, spoiling for a fight.

So now he was playing the hero? If she weren’t so livid she’d have laughed.

‘Get used to it, man,’ taunted Jax. ‘You’re a second-rate citizen around here.’

‘Funny, I thought I almost beat you.’

‘In your dreams, punk—that ain’t never gonna happen. You hear me? Never.’

‘You keep telling yourself that.’

‘Don’t need to. Facts speak for themselves.’ Jax shoved him again. Leon returned it, harder. Jax lost his footing and flailed embarrassingly against the bar. Disgraced, he took a wild swing at his rival, swiping at air as Leon evaded the impact and delivered in return a clean punch on the jaw. Jax fell backwards into his assistant’s arms.

The assistant stooped to gather his ward, securing Jax under the armpits. Jax staggered upright and shrugged himself free, mouth curled, jabbing a finger in Leon’s direction. ‘I’ve got your number, asshole,’ he hissed, trembling with fury. ‘I’m comin’ for you. Know your place. The man Jackson don’t forget, you got that?’

Leon looked blank. ‘I’m terrified.’

‘You should be.’

‘Good of you to intervene,’ snapped Robin when Jax had been steered away, ‘but I was handling that myself.’

Leon drank from his bottle of beer. ‘Thought you could use a little help, that’s all.’

‘I don’t need your help.’

‘Then should I get you a drink?’

She laughed. ‘Good one.’

‘What’s funny?’

‘What’s funny,’ she explained, ‘is that your messed-up idea of a pick-up is running my name into the ground in front of the entire nation—on prime-time TV.’

He held his hands up. ‘I’m sorry about that. Really. I was just messing.’

‘Just messing?’ She couldn’t believe his audacity. ‘D’you know how much stick I got? And out of interest, what the hell has it got to do with you who I hook up with?’

Leon grinned. ‘I didn’t exactly ask to walk in on you…’

Embarrassment soaked her. ‘Yeah, well, try knocking next time.’

‘Sorry. I know I should have left it. It’s just it was kind of irresistible.’ There was that maddening smile again. ‘You’re kind of irresistible.’

She was momentarily thrown. ‘I bet you reckon anyone can jump on, right?’ she blustered. ‘Well if you think I’m going anywhere near you, you are seriously mistaken.’

Leon regarded her, amused by some hidden joke, in a way that might have been sexy were he not such a categorical prick. Leon Sway had one of those textbook-perfect faces, the nose straight, the green eyes sparkling; white teeth and smooth skin, the right angle square-sharp where his jaw met his neck. Clean-looking. Way too conventional and boring for her.

‘OK,’ he said eventually, ‘can we start again?’

‘Start what again?’

‘Whatever this is that’s going so spectacularly wrong.’

‘Let me give you a clue. This? It’s nothing. It’s less than nothing.’

‘Hey, cut me some slack. I haven’t had a lot of practice with this fame stuff.’

‘Really? Aren’t you meant to be Sexiest Man in the World or some such bollocks?’

As soon as Robin said it she regretted it. Leon had been awarded the title in a women’s magazine. Bringing it up made her sound as if she had a schoolgirl crush, which she most definitely and emphatically did not.

‘I’ll go for “some such bollocks”,’ he replied. ‘If you get over your problem with me.’

‘I don’t have a problem.’

‘You do, because everything I say you’re hating on. Why’re you so defensive?’

‘Don’t presume to know anything whatsoever about me.’

‘I might make less mistakes if you gave me an easier time.’

‘I’m not easy.’

‘I never said you were.’

‘You might as well have done.’

A muscle twitched by his eye. ‘Let me take you to dinner.’

‘Dream on.’

‘I’m not kidding. I want to make it up to you.’

Robin sighed. With his rumpled T-shirt and steady grin and boyish bravado, Leon was the kind of person she would never in a thousand years be able to relate to. He was probably from some over-achieving American family who baked cookies and sat around a campfire singing and played tennis on a private lawn in summer. He was rich, clearly, and her guess was he always had been. That upbringing, the kind of anchor she herself had always yearned for, was exactly why he was able to make her feel so small.

‘Don’t bother,’ she threw back, moving to go.

‘Look,’ Leon said, less patiently, ‘I’m trying, OK? I’m only being friendly here.’

‘Make friends with someone else,’ she said, and turned and walked away.

5

Kristin loved kissing her boyfriend. Scotty Valentine’s lips were pink as candyfloss and just as sweet, his tongue soft and hesitant as it explored her mouth. She could spend hours simply kissing, running her fingers through his caramel hair and staring into his Pacific Ocean eyes.

They were in her bedroom, making out to a Turquoise ballad. Kristin took Scotty’s hand and guided it to her breast—he never instigated it, he was too gentlemanly—and lifted to meet his touch. She peeled off her T-shirt and the lacy sweetheart bra beneath. Scotty had only seen her topless once before and looked as uncomfortable now as he had the first time.