Black Diamond

“Nice dress,” she drawled. Lola watched her mother’s eyes narrow and then Scarlet handed the glass back to her.

“I paid a fortune for that rehab clinic, so stay away from the champagne.”

“Of course, Mother.” The last word was laced with malice and Lola smiled as she saw her mother wince. They’d agreed, when Lola was five years old, that she would always call her Scarlet and there was nothing quite like going back on that rule to make Scarlet furious. And Lola suddenly realised that she wanted to make Scarlet furious, she wanted to goad her mother into some sort of reaction. Lola took another sip of water and flicked her long, straightened brown hair over her shoulders, turning her back on Scarlet. She stared at the glittering white lights that illuminated the grid of streets of downtown Los Angeles and forced a soothing breath out of her chest as she tried to relax. She’d spent three long months in the Arizona desert with no one to talk to, no phone, no TV, no contact at all with the outside world and she felt a seductive desire to lash out at someone.

“It was nice of you to visit me,” Lola said as she turned around to face her mother again. As they stood toe to toe, Lola felt a thrill of realisation; she and Scarlet were now the same height, when had that happened?

“Don’t turn this into a big deal,” Scarlet muttered looking everywhere but at her. At her mother’s words Lola felt a wave of anger, she had an overwhelming desire to upend the contents of her glass over Scarlet’s head but instead she took a deep breath and tried to remember the calming techniques that they’d discussed in group therapy.

“You look pretty in that dress, I picked that for you.”

Lola shook her head with a small smile, always the same Scarlet. Why bother with an apology when a pointless compliment might do the job? Lola felt the anger drain out of her. She was done being Scarlet’s trophy, she had her own life to lead and a plan that she had set in motion months ago.

“I’m moving to New York next year,” Lola said firming her shoulders. “I’ll get my GED and I’m going to NYU, to the drama school.” For a long moment, mother and daughter stared at each other and then Scarlet spoke.

“Do I get a say?”

“No,” Lola replied and then stopped as Scarlet reached for her, her mother’s hand snaking out to grasp her forearm. They so rarely touched each other that it surprised Lola and she looked into Scarlet’s eyes surprised by what she saw. Scarlet seemed almost regretful.

“Lola, the thing is…”

“Heeeeey!” Both Scarlet and Lola jumped at the squealed interruption and even as Lola was stepping away from her mother, another body was launching herself at her, flinging skinny arms around her neck. “You’re back.” Amber. Lola smiled and turned to her best friend of ten years, barely noticing that Scarlet had disappeared back into the house, melting away into the throng of party guests.

“I am fucking back,” Lola replied taking a look at Amber who was spilling out of a Tom Ford for Gucci dress, with a giant cut-out side that exposed her tiny waist.

“Six months goes so fast,” Amber said. Lola grimaced.

“Not if you’re the one locked up in hell.”

“Sorry sweetie, God was it awful? Did they keep you on lockdown and give you sponge baths, did someone try to make you their bitch?” As always, words seem to leap out of Amber’s mouth, as though she didn’t need to pause for breath or even thought. Lola smiled, she was back.

“Amb, it was a $4000 a night rehab facility not prison. Trust me there were hot showers, cordon bleu chefs and more than a few Teen Beat heart throbs.”

“For real?” Amber squealed. “Let’s blow this place, get a drink and you can tell me everything.” Noting the tightening of Lola’s expression, Amber shrugged. “Fine, you’ve changed, I’ll drink and you can be our designated driver.”

“I can’t blow this place yet. Scarlet wants me to mingle and be the perfect daughter.” Amber sighed.

“Fine, I guess I can get wasted here.”

“For sure,” Lola smiled as they moved towards the house together.

They were turning heads.

Lola and Amber had always turned heads, from grade school to high school, wherever they went. It was no surprise given that they were total opposites. Where Lola was black, tall with curves that supermodels went under the knife to achieve, Amber was tiny, only just hitting 5ft, with freckled, milky-white skin and fire-engine red hair. What she lacked in height, Amber more than made up for in curves and personality. It helped too that both Lola and Amber were as close to royalty as Hollywood got.

Lola, as the only child of actress Scarlet Wilde, always commanded interest and though Scarlet had largely disappeared from the public eye, Lola still raised interest among the Californian elite in which she’d been raised. Her adoption, her expulsions from various prep schools and her notoriously rocky relationship with Scarlet, who’d realised too late that you couldn’t back out of motherhood when it started to impinge on your social life, had become the stuff of legend. Lola’s first arrest had briefly made it on to the Entertainment Weekly round-up, on a slow news day. Like her mother before her, it was said that Lola knew how to put the wild in Wilde. As for Amber Logan, daughter of the renowned cinematographer Lucien Logan and the deceased Alicia Logan, Playmate of the Year 1987, she too had had a similarly documented childhood. Like her best friend, Amber was known to play hard but unlike Lola, Amber’s greatest skill lay in her ability to never get caught.

“So you’re being a good girl tonight.”

Lola grimaced as she felt the whispered words against her ear and a persistent hand stroking her shoulder. She should have stayed in the living room, in full view of the other guests. On the deserted back patio, Lola glared at Stefano, step-father number three or was it number four? She stepped away giving herself some distance from Stefano who, even in his days as her “daddy”, had always had a touch that lingered too long.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Lola replied sharply and looked back into the kitchen window, where she could see Amber was glugging down another Absinthe cocktail while holding court with some producers. Lola had had enough. “I’m going,” she told Stefano shortly and began to walk back into the house. She felt his clammy paw on her arm, pulling her back and she had no choice but to stop.

“Lola, you break my heart,” Stefano said, throwing a hand to his head in a melodramatic flourish. Stefano’s melodramatic flourishes had won him several awards as a musical composer but Lola had always been wary of him.

“Stefano, I’m going,” she repeated as firmly as she could without causing a scene. She tugged at her arm and after a moment Stefano let her go. Without a backward glance Lola marched towards Amber, determined to get them away from the party.

“Oh Jesus Amber,” Lola stepped back and watched as her friend emptied the contents of her stomach into the toilet bowl. Lola held up a hand towel to her friend as Amber washed her face in the basin and then stumbled out of the en suite into her bedroom, where she sprawled onto Lola’s bed.

“Sleep,” Amber muttered and within seconds, her eyes were closed, her chest rising and falling evenly.

“Shit,” Lola muttered and, with a sigh, she turned the lamp down, leaving only a small orange glow in her large bedroom and then she exited the room, closing the door gently behind her. From downstairs, Lola could hear the dull murmur of conversations and the occasional clink of glasses and bursts of laughter. She contemplated heading back to the party, when suddenly, in the darkened hallway, she felt arms on either side of her body. Immediately, Lola froze and then she began to struggle against the warm heavy bands that caged her against the door.

“It’s only me.” Stefano’s slurred words came against her ear and Lola recoiled as he tried to kiss her.

“Stop it,” she shouted but almost immediately his hand was against her mouth, smothering her words.

“We don’t have to pretend any more.”

With a muffled scream of fury, Lola forced her mouth open and she sank her teeth into Stefano’s fingers. He let out a scream and in that split second, Lola raised her knee to his groin and felt a wave of satisfaction as he doubled over.

“You fucking bitch,” Stefano screamed. He lashed out with one of his arms but Lola ground down on his foot with her stiletto and watched him yelp in pain.

“You are a disgusting pig and I wouldn’t fuck you if you were the last man on earth. I am going to New York and I don’t ever want to see you near me. You ever come near me again and I will call the cops. ” Lola started for the stairs, knowing that Stefano’s inebriated fog was clearing. It was the furthest he had ever gone and she could already see him starting to rationalise his actions.

“Lola, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He moved towards her but Lola backed away, ready to strike out at him.

“I’m warning you…” Lola saw something leap in Stefano’s eyes.

“You’re warning me. Stupid little girl, go to New York, go to NYU.” Lola felt a muscle twitch in her eye and she saw the glint of triumph in Stefano’s eyes.

“How do you know about that?” The words were torn from Lola as a dark suspicion took shape in her mind and started to grow. Stefano gave a hoarse laugh still rubbing at his bleeding hand.

“You thought you got in, on your own merit?” Stefano gave another snort of laughter. “Stupid, stupid girl. You didn’t even graduate high school. You’re good for nothing, fucking and screwing maybe, but not much else. Scarlet paid them, promised to build their new drama wing. She wants you gone…” But Stefano did not get to finish his words because Lola’s closed fist had shot out and in a single focused punch she shattered his nose.

Lola staggered down the stairs reeling from Stefano’s revelations. She felt as though the walls were closing in on her and she darted out the front door, avoiding the party guests. She could not see Scarlet, didn’t know what she might do if she had to confront her mother right now. Lola ran towards her car, when suddenly a tall, solid body blocked her way.

“Where are you going?” Wearily, Lola speared Lucas with a glance.

“Go away, Lucas.” For a moment Lola thought he might heed her words but she saw the way his eyes darted over her, saw the tightening of his gaze as he saw the tear in her dress.

“What happened?” He demanded and Lola was startled by how much Lucas had grown. He was still only sixteen and yet he seemed older, commanding even.

“Lucas, leave me alone.” Lola stepped around him and wrenched open the door to her Porsche.

“Whatever you’re going to do, don’t do it. Please.” That last word stilled Lola for a moment, and she caught a glimpse of the boy that had trailed around after her one long, hot summer.

“Lucas, stop trying to be my guard dog.”

“I owe you, remember?”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Lola answered as she slammed into her car and sped out of the driveway.

“Southern Comfort, no ice.”

The barman stared at Lola for a moment and then shrugged, pouring out a measure of the golden-brown liquid into a glass. He set the glass down in front of her, lining it up alongside the growing number of empties in front of her.

“Are you OK?” he asked.

Lola downed the drink in one and smacked the glass down on the oak bar.

“Another,” she said.

“I can’t. Should I call someone to come get you?”

“Another!” Lola demanded, spitting the words uncaring that she was slurring, her eyes bloodshot, her hair a tangled mess.

“I’m cutting you off,” the barman snapped, finally losing patience. He watched as Lola stumbled off the bar stool onto her feet. She swayed for a moment and he wondered if he would have to leap over the bar to stop her crashing to the floor.

“Do you know who I am?” Lola demanded. “Another,” she snapped and she punctuated her demand by slamming her glass back down onto the bar, where it immediately shattered. At the smash of glass, Lola saw that two security guards were already descending on them. “Fuck you then,” she snapped and made for the exit.

Lola slammed out into the cool night air. Her fingers shaking, she drew her keys out of her purse and prowled up the road.

“Hey, you can’t drive,” The barman had followed her outside but Lola shook away the words as she saw her Porsche Boxster. “Hey,” the voice said again. “I’m calling the cops.” But Lola had already jumped into the car and slammed the door shut. For a moment she sat and let her head fall back against the headrest. She felt as though she was on the deck of a boat, on choppy water, rocking from side to side. Lola reached for her cell phone and keyed in her mother’s number.

“I’m not here. Leave a message.”

She wasn’t surprised when Scarlet’s voicemail clicked in. Scarlet never answered her cell, not even for her own daughter.

“You paid NYU, you paid them. This was my thing and you had to fuck it up. Everything you touch turns to shit for me. Maybe you should have left me in that fucking orphanage, maybe you should have left me there to rot. You should have sent me back there when you got bored with me.”

Lola threw the phone over her shoulder into the backseat and then she gunned the engine on. She slammed her foot down on the gas, barely acknowledging the screech of tyres as she pulled sharply into the road and cut in front of another car. Lola gripped the steering wheel and pushed down on the gas pedal, floored it, shooting down Santa Monica Boulevard like a speeding silver bullet. She was already past the red light when she noticed it. Her reactions, dulled by the alcohol, kicked in way too slow to make a difference.

The bus seemed to come out of nowhere. Lola spun the steering wheel as she tried in vain to avoid the collision. She locked the wheel all the way left but suddenly she was out of control. She slammed into the central reservation. The car spun round and round. The Boxster flipped. Lola heard a scream that she realised was her and still the car was spinning and spinning and then coming to a halt, with a screech of metal in the middle of the road. Suddenly, Lola could see another set of headlights, another car heading straight for her. She was dead in the water as these white lights gained on her. She raised her arms up in front of her as though somehow this might save her from the imminent collision. And then, in a smash, she was thrown again, the Boxster was thrown up and she was airborne, hurtling towards she knew not what and then finally there was oblivion.

CHAPTER 2

Grace slammed into wakefulness with a sharp gasp.

For a long moment she stared into the darkened room, the only sound her own rapid, shallow breaths. Her legs were tangled up in the sheets and after a moment she realised that her arms were raised up in front of her as though to ward off an onslaught. An onslaught from what, Grace wondered. She reached over to the bedside table and flicked the lamp on, bathing the room in a dull orange glow. Her room was a small rectangular shape and if she stood in the middle of the room and stretched her arms out either side of her, she could easily touch both walls. Along one wall her bed rested and on the opposite wall her desk with a neat pile of books and notebooks. Grace stared at the peeling floral wallpaper and once again wished she was allowed to cover them with posters, flyers, pictures, anything, but The Pastor didn’t permit anything like that. Once, she had placed a Boyz II Men band poster up on the wall but the slap she had received had quickly quelled any further thoughts of rebellion. The only decoration on her wall was a framed illustration of the Baby Jesus that The Pastor himself had nailed into the wall.

Slowly, Grace lowered herself back onto the bed and stared up at the peeling paint and lines of damp on the ceiling. Her mind returned to the dream that had woken her up, but as was always the case, she could remember nothing. All that lingered was the same sense of anxiety and confusion that accompanied so many of her dreams. At least this time she hadn’t screamed. The nightmares were not new. For as long as she could remember, Grace had had trouble sleeping. She often woke panicked and in fear, with a bewildering conviction that somehow she had woken up in the wrong place. Grace glanced at the small clock-face beside her bed: 6 a.m. It was New Year’s Eve. She sighed and swung herself out of bed.

Grace walked to her wardrobe and swung the door open to reveal a full-length mirror inside one of the doors. She stared at her reflection and a deep sigh rose in her chest. It was New Year’s Eve and she was eighteen years old and yet she wouldn’t be going out tonight, wouldn’t be ringing in the New Year with her friends. A ball of anger rose in her chest and she blinked back tears. A friend from school had got them tickets to an under-21s club event that night. For once, Grace had dared to hope, dared to dream that perhaps The Pastor might relent or maybe just for once her mother might champion her cause. The Pastor had glanced at the ticket and with a sneer he had ripped it cleanly in half and dumped the pieces in the dustbin. Grace knew she was lucky to have escaped with just the harsh look he had thrown her way.

Grace turned her attention back to her reflection in the mirror and a small angry snort of laughter burst from her. What was she thinking? Of course she wasn’t going out on New Year’s Eve. Look at you. Grace stared at her short Afro hair that had been shorn close to her head, when The Pastor had decreed that hairdressers’ costs were too high and that she had become vain with her love of her thick, loosely curled natural hair. Grace’s gaze travelled down her body and she felt a swell of despair rise in her. There was no other way to put it. She was fat. Not curvy or sassy. She had no discernible waist, her tummy jutted out like a pregnancy bump and her thighs rubbed uncomfortably together whenever she walked. She belonged at home, where no one would see how hideous she was. Grace’s eyes drifted up to her face. Her eyes had always been her best feature – an unexpected hazel colour that lit up her round brown face, and if not for the thick-lensed glasses that almost completely hid them, they might have drawn attention away from her spotty skin. Grace stepped away from the mirror and slammed the wardrobe door shut. Her eyes slid once again to the clock. It was almost time for church and in The Pastor’s house, no one was ever late for service.

“You must give back to your community in any way you can. You must give back to your fellow man and woman. You must give to your Pastor. Give to your church.” With every phrase The Pastor uttered, the congregation nodded and the sound of their “Amens” filled the hall. From her seat at the back of the church, next to her mother, Grace watched as the collection baskets were passed around and the congregation dipped into their pockets and purses, quickly filling the baskets with money. Where the money went, Grace had never been able to tell. Certainly not to the upkeep of the hall that housed The Pastor’s weekly ministry, which like their house was a small, dank place that was too cold in winter and far too hot in summer. Next to her Simbi, her mother, nodded at a member of the congregation and Grace felt a beat of anger, that they were once again consigned to the back row. The Pastor had decided that the front row should be left for special VIPs and high-value donors. At the front, The Pastor rose again and headed for his pulpit.

“And now at this time when people are shopping and buying decorations and drinking and carving turkeys, I will remind you of the true meaning of the season.” Grace felt her stomach dive and she felt a warm hand creep to hers and quickly squeeze her hand. Grace looked up into her mother’s eyes and willed the tears away. The Pastor was going to tell his favourite story.

“I was a young man newly married. I travelled from Nigeria and started my ministry in Cape Town, South Africa. God did not see fit to bless me and my wife Simbi with children. Our only surviving child, a son, died at birth. My wife was barren but it is a burden we bore.” Grace and her mother held hands and stared straight ahead as The Pastor continued. The airing of their private lives was a humiliation they had grown used to over the years.

“And then one day we went to an orphanage and we saw a girl. Grace. Nine years old and abandoned there since birth. Nobody wanted her; nobody loved her. She was sickly, weak. And I saved her. I brought her to England. I did my duty to God. Like the Innkeeper who took in Mary and Joseph, you too must open your doors…” Grace watched and felt sick as the congregation rose to their feet, singing and clapping and turning to nod at her and her mother. Grace felt a mist of rage settle over her and even as The Pastor beckoned her forward to be paraded on the altar like a prize calf, she remained sitting. The Pastor waved her over again and next to her, she felt her mother prod her.

“Grace go.” But Grace remained silent and stayed sitting. The Pastor had turned to join the choristers, but Grace knew that before the day was done, she would pay for her transgression. She sighed heavily as she thought about The Pastor, her adopted father, though she could never, ever think of him as her father, not after the pain and hurt he inflicted on her and her mother daily. The word Dad always stuck in her throat, in her head, he was only ever The Pastor. Why does he hate me so much? Was it because she wasn’t the son that he had lost? Was it because her imperfections were so obvious? Grace sighed again, there was no point trying to understand The Pastor. He was who he was and she was stuck.

“You think you are somebody?” The word was bellowed into her ear and then two slaps followed in quick succession. Grace gritted her teeth as tears fell silently. Another slap this time on her upper arm and pain seared all the way up her shoulder into her neck. Grace bit her lip hard and tasted blood.

“Just leave her alone, Michael.” And suddenly Grace was free. The Pastor spun around.

“This is your doing.” Grace heard the smash of fist against flesh and she felt shame rise up in her. Her rebellion had put her mother in the line of fire. “You and the stupid, useless girl. We should have left her there to die. You gave me no children and then you bring this useless one home, with a heart that isn’t right. You cursed us. You dragged me down.” And with one last slap that sent her mother sprawling in a heap on the hallway floor, The Pastor slammed out of the house.

Slowly, Grace rose from her crouching position on the stairs. Her arm and neck felt sore, her cheek ached and blood leaked from her split lip. She moved towards her mother and sank to her knees and cradled the only person who had ever shown her love.

“I’m sorry,” Grace said remorse swimming through her. Once again her selfishness had landed them both in trouble.

“We can’t make him angry, you know that.” At her mother’s words Grace felt anger dilute her remorse. Why would her mother never fight back, two against one would surely be better? And yet in the decade since they had taken her from the orphanage, the decade since they had lived in London, not once had her mother ever defended herself and slowly Grace had started to resent her for this.

Later, as she sat in her darkened room wrapped in a faded duvet, Grace ran a finger up and down the fading scar that bisected her chest, running vertically between her breasts about three inches in length. She had always been a sickly child, unable to walk quickly or run or play in the yard like all the other children at the orphanage. Matron had said that every birthday she lived was a miracle.

“You were supposed to die,” Matron had said once. And Grace hadn’t known how to respond. The Pastor and her mum had brought her to England and here finally she had been properly diagnosed. It was a small hole in her heart, a small defect, easily corrected.

“You must be one hell of a fighter,” the doctor had said smiling at her before they took her into surgery. “You’ve survived this long and you’ll be even better after.”