Diva

by Carrie Duffy

  CARRIE DUFFY

  Diva

  To Amy and Cleo

  My Selby divas!

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Part Two

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Part Three

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Read on for an exclusive Q & A with Carrie Duffy…

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by Carrie Duffy

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  PART ONE

  1

  Detroit, Michigan, USA

  Dionne Summers sashayed down Rosa Parks Boulevard in cheap white heels and a butt-skimming mini that revealed acres of firm, chocolate-brown thigh.

  ‘Hey, Dionne. Lookin’ good!’

  ‘Drop dead, Mikey,’ snapped Dionne to the twelve-year-old kid who was checking her out. She wasn’t wearing any underwear and she wondered how much he could see.

  ‘Headin’ someplace special?’ Mikey persisted, cycling alongside her on a beaten-up BMX. Cocky, overweight, and dripping in fake gold jewellery, he hung around in the same gang as Dionne’s younger brother, Shawn, and like every poor kid on the block he was desperate to get out of Detroit.

  ‘I said leave me the fuck alone,’ Dionne growled, bending down towards him and unintentionally flashing eye-popping amounts of cleavage.

  Mikey shrugged. ‘Hey, doll, if you want a good time, you know where I live,’ he quipped, before flipping her the bird and pedalling off.

  Dionne laughed in disbelief. The kid was twelve, for chrissakes!

  But today she had more important things to consider than the growing pains of pre-teen wannabes. She had a meeting about a modelling job – no, a casting, that was the right word. After all, if she was going to walk the walk she ought to learn how to talk the talk, Dionne grinned to herself.

  Dash Ramón had set it up for her. The burly Colombian was a powerhouse in Dionne’s neighbourhood, a guy who made a formidable ally and a deadly enemy, and now he had a soft spot for Dionne, thanks to all the effort she’d put in over the last few weeks. She’d spent evenings at his favourite club, bringing him his favourite drink, looking fabulous and saying little before he finally agreed to do her this favour and organize a meeting with Luis Fernandez.

  Luis Fernandez.

  Just saying his name sent a thrill right through Dionne. She’d never heard of him, but Dash assured her he was the best and Dionne wanted to believe it. He could get her a spot in W or Harper’s – maybe even European Vogue, Dash had told her. He’d slipped her Fernandez’s card, told her to be there Monday afternoon.

  ‘I’ve got school,’ she blurted out stupidly. She was still only sixteen.

  Dash raised an eyebrow as the intimidating crowd of black-clad heavies who were never far from his side laughed patronizingly. ‘Skip it,’ he told her, menacingly.

  Dionne bit her lip nervously, but didn’t argue. If there was one thing you didn’t do, it was piss off Dash Ramón.

  So that morning she’d remained huddled under her sheets while her younger sisters got ready around her.

  ‘Are you sick, honey?’ asked her mother, running a cursory hand over Dionne’s forehead.

  ‘I don’t feel too good, Momma,’ Dionne swallowed weakly. She knew her mom would be in too much of a rush to argue – her shift at the local deli started at seven a.m., and she couldn’t afford to be late.

  ‘I really can’t stay home …’ Natalie Summers looked torn.

  ‘I’ll be fine. I just need to rest. You get off to work, Mom.’

  Dionne lay immobile, waiting until the sounds in the house had died down and the front door had banged half a dozen times, signalling that everyone had left. Well, almost everyone. Her daddy would still be in bed but Dionne wasn’t worried about him. He’d be out cold until he dragged himself up around midday, slumping in front of the TV and working his way through a bottle of Jack until her mother came home from her gruelling twelve-hour shift to fix him some dinner. Earl Summers hadn’t had a job since he’d been let go from General Motors more than five years ago, and since then it had been down to Dionne, as the eldest of the six kids, to help her momma keep everything together.

  As soon as she’d turned sixteen, she’d found herself a Saturday job, working as a salesgirl in Macy’s over at Oakland Mall. It was a prestigious job, one which wouldn’t normally have been given to a young, black kid from the wrong side of the tracks, but Dionne was possessed of a natural charm and a disarming beauty, and she’d persuaded the manager to give her a chance. He hadn’t regretted it: Dionne was a born saleswoman and had no trouble persuading the rich suburban housewives to part with their husbands’ hard-earned cash. She gave her basic salary straight to her momma for housekeeping, but the commission she made was all hers. She’d opened up a savings account, and already there was almost a thousand dollars in there.

  But if Luis Fernandez liked her, she’d be made for life, Dionne thought, offering up a quick, silent prayer that Ramón’s contact would give her the break she needed.

  She knew she looked a million dollars. She’d spent yesterday in the African Princess salon, having her luxurious afro relaxed so that it hung straight and sleek down her back. She’d had her legs and bush waxed, her nail acrylics reapplied and decorated with small crystals.

  And now she was tottering along Twelfth in tight, plastic heels that were already hurting her feet, her tiny skirt leaving little to the imagination. She’d made herself up carefully, applying fake eyelashes and clear lip gloss that made her bee-stung lips even more enormous. Dash had once told her that the first thing a man thought of when he saw her was what it would be like to be sucked off by those lips. Dionne had simply smiled and blown him a kiss. She hadn’t been blessed with much in life; she figured she might as well make the most of what she did have.

  Dionne stopped, searching through her purse and checking the address she’d been given. She studied the badly printed card on its cheap paper, then glanced up at the house in front of her. It didn’t look anything special. In fact, it was a typical example of the houses in downtown Detroit – sprawling, ramshackle and falling to pieces, so the rent was dirt-cheap. The place looked as if it hadn’t been painted since the ’67 riots, and the garden was a jungle.

  Taking a deep breath, Dionne pressed the buzzer firmly. Then she thought better of it and knocked; the buzzer looked like it had long since been disconnected.

  ‘Yeah?’ A small, wiry Hispanic guy opened the door just a crack and peered suspiciously at Dionne.

  ‘Mr Fernandez?’ she asked, trying to sound confident.

  ‘Depends who’s askin’.’

  ‘I’m Dionne Summers. Dash Ramón sent me. For the casting?’

  ‘Diane, hi!’ His lips crawled back over his te
eth as he smiled charmlessly, his gaze flickering over her appraisingly. Dionne could tell he liked what he saw.

  She smiled politely as she followed him into the house. It was a pigsty. Discarded takeaway cartons with their half-eaten contents rotting inside littered the floor, barely covered by the old newspaper cuttings and torn magazine articles that were strewn carelessly around the lounge. A couple of twists of foil lay on the stained coffee table, surrounded by crumpled beer cans. Fernandez didn’t even seem to notice the mess.

  As he pushed open the door to one of the back rooms, Dionne began to feel a little calmer. It was set up with professional-looking equipment; a couple of large studio lights on adjustable stands, a silver reflector lying in a corner and a neutral-coloured backdrop hanging from a rail.

  There was a camera mounted on a tripod that looked like an antique. Fernandez didn’t touch it. He simply picked up a cheap, digital camera and told her, ‘I’m gonna take a few test shots first.’

  Dionne stepped tentatively into the centre of the room, trying to look as if she knew what she was doing. ‘What do you want me to wear?’ she asked, hoping that Fernandez might suddenly produce a selection of beautiful designer gowns.

  He didn’t even look up. ‘What you’re wearing’s fine. Don’t worry about it.’

  Dionne nodded, pouting self-consciously and jutting out her hips in what she hoped was a provocative pose.

  Fernandez fired off a few shots and checked his camera. ‘Hey, babe, lose the jacket. It’s not the fuckin’ Arctic in here,’ he yelled.

  Silently, Dionne did as she was told. She didn’t want to piss him off and have him tell Ramón she was no good.

  She shrugged off her fake-fur bomber jacket to reveal a white tank with a deep V-neck that couldn’t fail to draw attention to her full breasts and silky, dark-brown skin.

  Fernandez let out a low whistle and Dionne felt a pang of triumph. He liked her! This was going to be a success!

  ‘Okay, honey, I want to see innocent,’ Fernandez commanded as Dionne tried her best to oblige, changing her body and her expressions the way Luis instructed.

  Fernandez was pleased with what he saw. Yeah, she was getting more natural, more confident at playing with the camera. The girl – what was her name again? – definitely had something. And she was starting to trust him.

  Luis smiled lasciviously, walking across his makeshift studio towards Dionne. He stood close to her, but she didn’t flinch. Guys invading her personal space was nothing new. Slowly, Fernandez looked her over, then his eyes caught on the gold necklace that sat just above her cleavage. He twisted it between his thumb and forefinger, his fingertips brushing her skin.

  ‘Nice,’ he commented.

  Dionne’s gaze didn’t falter. ‘It was a present.’

  ‘From your boyfriend?’

  ‘From my parents.’

  Fernandez flashed that sleazy smile again, seeming pleased with the answer. ‘Okay, take off your top.’

  ‘What? I—’

  ‘Just take it off,’ he drawled, suddenly sounding impatient.

  The request was unexpected, but Dionne wasn’t ashamed of her body. Hesitating for only a second, she pulled her vest over her head. Hell, it was only like a bikini shoot, right?

  Fernandez stared at her cheap white bra and raised an eyebrow.

  ‘As well?’ Dionne asked. ‘Do I really need to?’ Alarm bells were beginning to ring.

  ‘Come on, honey, I ain’t got time for this. If you want out, get out.’

  He gestured towards the door, but Dionne remained motionless.

  ‘I’m serious. I ain’t gonna kidnap you or nuthin’. If you don’t wanna do this, then get out and stop wasting my time. But if you do wanna make it big, you gotta be prepared to start gettin’ ’em out. Look at Kate Moss – she’s always naked in the Europeans. French, Italian Vogue – do you read ’em? You should do if you’re serious about this industry. And you can’t move for the titties on their pages.’

  Dionne hesitated. She remembered the precious stolen moments she’d spent poring over an ancient copy of British Vogue. The cover had shown a model giggling as she slipped a hand inside another girl’s dress, pretending to touch her breasts. Maybe it was the norm over there.

  Reaching round to her back, Dionne unhooked her bra and let it fall away. Her breasts were heavy, the large, dark nipples swaying deliciously on her superb body.

  Behind the camera, Luis Fernandez broke into a sweat. He checked three times that he had enough battery – he wasn’t going to miss getting those babies on camera – and fired off a dozen shots without a pause, as Dionne raised her arms above her head like he told her to. ‘It makes them look higher, more pert,’ Luis explained.

  More pert? thought Dionne indignantly. She was sixteen years old. How much more pert did he want?

  ‘Right, I wanna try something different,’ he barked, as he crossed the studio and dragged an ageing chaise longue into the middle of the floor. It was covered in fading red velvet, heavily worn and edged in dark wood. Dionne could tell it had been nice … once. Now it was covered in unsavoury-looking stains and leaking yellow stuffing. Dionne sat down tentatively on the edge.

  ‘How about we try a few nude shots?’ suggested Fernandez, hastily wiping his perspiring forehead. Jesus, was it hot in here, or was it just the girl? He rearranged his trousers uncomfortably. Maybe she’d let him bang her after the shoot. ‘Upmarket stuff, of course,’ he continued. ‘Nothin’ funny. That’s why I brought the couch.’

  He gestured to the dilapidated chaise longue, and Dionne looked at him doubtfully.

  ‘Look, sweetheart,’ he began, trying to sound kind. He placed a hand on her naked shoulder and Dionne flinched. ‘I know you’re only a kid, but you’ve got a great future ahead of you. I’m gonna put the word out about these shots, and I guarantee you’ll have jobs lined up like that,’ he insisted, clicking his fingers. ‘But I gotta have something to show my contacts, and the wider your portfolio, the better. They wanna see all the different things you can do – you gotta be able to project different images y’see, kid – that’s what makes you sellable.’

  Dionne nodded.

  ‘Now I’m doing you a favour here, because you’re a friend of Ramón’s and he’s an amigo of mine. I ain’t charging you nuthin’ for these pictures, but they’re gonna be your passport to the big time.’

  ‘So what’s in it for you?’ Dionne challenged him. She was poor, from a neighbourhood full of Hispanics, African Americans and a handful of Eastern European migrants, but the one language everyone talked was money.

  ‘Me? I get to help make a big star. I have faith in you, Diane, and if you get to the top, I want you to repay the favour to Luis Fernandez. I make my money from shooting the big jobs – Vogue, Women’s Wear Daily, ad campaigns, see? It means I can afford to do a favour for a friend and help out a kid with huge …’ his eyes lingered on her breasts … ‘potential.’

  Dionne took a deep breath. ‘Okay,’ she agreed, standing up and slipping out of her skirt to reveal a perfectly waxed pussy.

  Fernandez nearly fell over. Christ, the kid was bald! Was she really that young?

  ‘Just lie back on the couch,’ he told her, trying to keep his cool. He didn’t want to alarm the girl – he had her exactly where he wanted her. ‘Put your arms above your head, and relax … that’s it … Make like some British rich bitch. You’re born to this kind of life. Elegance, luxury, that’s what we want …’

  Dionne suppressed a giggle. It was hard to portray elegance and luxury when she was stark naked. If she’d been dripping in diamonds, it might have been different. She arched her back slightly, trying to get comfortable, and Fernandez caught his breath.

  ‘Legs a little wider, honey … that’s it …’

  Unconsciously, Dionne did what he told her, following his instructions and letting her mind wander over the scenario he had set up for her. She was the lady of the manor – rich, beautiful, glamorous … she had servants to look
after her mansion, and a devastatingly handsome, successful husband who bought her everything she wanted – fast cars, trinkets from Tiffany …

  Fernandez moved slowly across the room towards her, his feet silent on the grotty carpet. ‘I’m just gonna do some close-ups,’ he said softly.

  Dionne barely heard him. There would be no more clothes from the Goodwill, no more sharing a room with three of her sisters in a grotty, roach-infested house that smelt of damp and stale bourbon. Instead she would be treated like a princess and hold grand balls in her country house, where exquisitely dressed, beautiful men and women would flock to her parties. She wanted it so badly it was almost tangible. She would be admired and in demand, she would be loved, respected, and—

  ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’

  Dionne jumped up from the couch and grabbed a nearby dustsheet to cover her body. Fernandez had been kneeling at the foot of the chaise longue, pointing the camera between her legs.

  He grinned lecherously. ‘You know, you’re even more beautiful when you’re mad. And you’re the best bit of cunt Ramón’s ever sent me.’

  Dionne felt sick.

  ‘Give me that camera,’ she yelled, lunging at him.

  But Fernandez was too quick for her.

  ‘’Fraid not, cutie pie,’ he sneered. ‘I ain’t letting these go. You’re a natural, you know that? You should be a model.’

  ‘I am going to be a model,’ Dionne insisted, blinking back tears.