Idol

by Carrie Duffy

  They had dined at Lloyd’s – a reassuringly expensive establishment that shunned showbiz clientele and considered celebrity chefs terribly downmarket. Lloyd’s was unapologetically old school, reeking of money and class, and styled like a gentleman’s club. The menu was the same – uncompromisingly carnivorous. Vegetarianism was dismissed as some crazy Californian fad from the 1970s, and the dishes consisted purely of fare that the clientele could have shot on the estate that morning. Puddings were homely, just like nanny used to make, and the wine list was outrageous. Paul had winced as he’d ordered a Château Lafite 1995 and charged it to the company credit card. William Davis-Wright was going to go crazy but he had no choice. Paul was a desperate man.

  Lately he’d been haemorrhaging clients, his portfolio shrinking faster than an anorexic teenager. He badly needed an injection of cash and had hoped that Vivian would oblige him. But the old hag had refused to play ball. She’d shaken her head, said that Thomas, her eldest son, had taken a look at the reports Paul had been sending and was concerned. He would be in contact in due course, but for the moment no more money was forthcoming.

  Paul had hidden his fury, his hand gripping the fish knife so tightly that his knuckles went white. He could cheerfully have plunged it into the old bag’s wrinkled décolletage.

  But he wasn’t defeated yet; Paul could charm for England and went all out, flirting and flattering until he sickened himself. In his desperation he’d briefly considered making a pass at her – Vivian had probably not had sex for at least a decade, but there was life in the old bitch yet. Paul reckoned she’d be incredibly grateful that such a handsome younger man was taking an interest. But as she chewed on a sliver of venison he saw her false teeth slip a little, a white ball of saliva foaming up at the corner of her mouth. The repulsion he felt was so strong he’d had to excuse himself to use the bathroom.

  Outside on the pavement, Paul watched as the silver Bentley rounded the corner and disappeared out of sight. Ideally he would have liked nothing better than to take the rest of the afternoon off and forget about work – call up a girl and check into a hotel somewhere. That’s what he would have done in the old days, no hesitation. But lately he couldn’t afford to do that. He needed to get back to the office and start putting in the hours, rediscover that famous Austin killer instinct.

  Paul waved away the taxi hovering hopefully on the other side of the road and set off walking at a brisk pace. The trip across town would clear his head and hopefully allow him to think more clearly.

  The afternoon was warm, and Paul slipped off his bespoke suit jacket, luxuriating in the quality of the fabric. Things like this were tangible. They couldn’t be taken away from him. He didn’t want to consider the things that could – in a spectacularly risky move he’d remortgaged the family home, the beautiful, red-brick townhouse in Marylebone, using the money to prop up his ailing client accounts. He figured it would just be a temporary move, until he hit his previously infallible lucky streak and the investments started paying out again. Any day now, they would start to come good …

  The walk took him a good hour as he worked his way eastwards, taking the backstreets to avoid the tourists and savouring the impersonal feel of the city. No one paid him any attention as he marched along, breaking a light sweat. The physical exercise felt good; his gym attendance had lapsed recently as he worked longer and longer hours.

  It was late afternoon by the time Paul arrived at the Broadgate Tower, the imposing glass building thrusting high into the sky, dominating those around it. He swiped in and headed for the lift; the doors opened with a gentle hiss, and he was quickly whisked up to the twenty-fourth floor. He held his head high as he strolled through the office, greeting everyone who spoke to him and trying to look as though he didn’t have a care in the world. Image was everything. There were already enough rumours flying around that his neck was on the line, and those malicious bastards he called his colleagues loved a good dose of Schadenfreude.

  As he reached the sanctuary of his office, Angela scrambled to her feet behind her desk. She looked agitated, a deep furrow forming between her eyebrows as she frowned.

  ‘Mr Austin, I need to speak to you—’

  ‘Not now, Angela,’ Paul brushed her off. ‘I don’t want to be disturbed for the rest of the afternoon. Hold all my calls.’

  ‘But—’

  Paul swept into the office, slamming the door behind him. Once inside he sat down at his desk, letting his head drop into his hands. Angela had become increasingly problematic over the past couple of months, and it was starting to get out of hand.

  He’d broken the golden rule and slept with her. That one night in the office, when she’d caught him at a weak point. She’d been all puppy-dog eyes and breathy comments, going red whenever he looked at her for too long. Did she think he hadn’t noticed the way her skirts got shorter every day, the way she was slapping on make-up in a badly judged effort to appear more attractive? Hell, she was practically begging him for it.

  Paul could never understand why women let men wield such power over them, but he was more than willing to take advantage. He’d been careful about screwing around on his own turf – one too many threatened lawsuits had kept him in check of late – but this time frustration had got the better of him.

  He knew he should have just called up his usual escort agency, and got them to send over a girl, but against his better judgement he’d made a move on Angela. It had been brief. Perfunctory. He’d taken her over the desk; from behind, so he couldn’t see her face.

  But his lapse had made her ten times worse. She seemed to think they were in some kind of relationship. She was always hovering in his office, making suggestive comments or lingering too long by his desk. Lately she’d changed tack – she mooned about looking pale-faced and distressed, begging to speak to him. He didn’t know how long he could put up with the situation. He found her pathetic, desperation emanating from her like a bad smell. Paul didn’t believe in regrets, but his dalliance with Angela was definitely being filed under Bad Decisions.

  Perhaps he should speak to that hot new thing in HR. Mariette or … Marianne, that was her name. She looked stunning, but didn’t seem to be the brightest guest at the party – just the way Paul liked them. Yeah, he’d have a friendly chat with Marianne, see if he could persuade her to help him get Angela moved to another section. Preferably in a broom cupboard somewhere so he wouldn’t have to see that hangdog face staring mournfully at him whenever he passed through the office.

  He picked up his phone. ‘Angela, could you schedule me an appointment with Marianne in HR?’

  ‘But Mr Austin—’

  ‘That’s all Angela.’ Paul replaced the receiver.

  He felt better now that he knew he’d soon be rid of her. That was one problem sorted; if only everything else could be resolved so easily. Swivelling in his chair, Paul flicked on his PC. Instantly, dozens of new emails popped up. That was not a good sign. He glanced at the subject lines and felt his stomach plummet. He would deal with those later.

  He opened another screen to check the markets – the Stock Exchange would close soon, and the Dow Jones had been open for a couple of hours. A quick scan indicated it had been another fucking awful day for him. Paul clicked on more files, opening programs and databases in the hope that he would find something positive. The figures were dire, however he tried to calculate them. Paul set his mouth into a grim line. It was going to be another late night.

  Outside, Angela was quietly seething.

  After everything she’d done for her boss, and now he was treating her like crap. Well, he’d just have to learn that she wasn’t going to go away without a fight. She wasn’t like all those other girls he’d used and discarded. Angela was different.

  In fact, there was one key distinction between her and the others. One vital difference that was going to make Paul sit up and pay attention.

  Angela placed a hand on her stomach, feeling the light swell of her belly under her clothes.
Too small to be noticed yet, but it was definitely there, and within a few weeks everyone would know.

  Angela was carrying Paul Austin’s baby.

  Sadie was sitting on her bed in the house in Henderson, her phone and laptop beside her. The rest of the girls were outside by the pool, working on their tans and listening to music, but Sadie had stayed inside. She needed the solitude to concentrate; silence was a rare commodity when living in a house with four other women.

  She took a sip from the chilled can of Diet Coke on the bedside table and, hardly thinking, typed Paul Austin’s name into Google. Maybe something new would come up. She’d already scoured his company website, reading up on how the business worked, their mission statement and their overseas affiliates. She’d read client testimonials, endless press releases and learned more about investments than she’d ever wanted to know. But still she couldn’t find anything concrete, that vital chink in the armour that would allow her and Jenna to really pin him down. There were rumours flying like wildfire – she’d found references in the trade papers suggesting that he’d lost his touch and was no longer the golden boy of Willis & Bourne. There was even a whisper on an anonymous society blog that he was having marital problems. Sadie snorted – that was hardly surprising.

  Jenna had been ringing daily for updates – the two had formed a temporary truce, managing to stay civil for the short phone conversations – and Sadie was working flat out around the Kandy Girls’ shows. Well, almost flat out. She’d been on a few more dates with Tyrone Cole – it was the NFL’s off-season, so he was staying in Vegas for a while. They were keeping it low key, but she was really enjoying herself. Brooke had been wild with excitement, but Sadie had sworn her to secrecy. She could do without snide comments from Heidi or jealous looks from the others.

  Tyrone had taken her to see Cirque de Soleil’s latest show at the Mirage. It was mind-blowing and Sadie had been captivated, unable to take her eyes off the performance. ‘I think I’ve found a whole new career,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I’d love to do that.’

  Tyrone had smiled indulgently, his brown eyes warm and full of affection. He adored Sadie’s lust for life. He knew he was falling for this girl; she was something pretty special.

  Another time they’d gone for dinner in his suite. Sadie had been a little hesitant about going to his hotel, wondering if he would think she was a guaranteed lay. She wasn’t ready for that yet. Men and hotel rooms inevitably brought back memories of Paul, dredging up feelings that she wanted to suppress. What she had with Tyrone was turning into something really good and she didn’t want it tainted by what that piece of shit had done to her.

  But she’d choked down her qualms and accepted the invitation. She was glad she had – his suite at the Palms was something else. It was enormous, boasting a pool table and two full-length bowling alleys. They’d played both and he whupped her at every game. She’d protested loudly, but Sadie was glad he hadn’t let her win. She hated it when guys did that.

  They’d had fun. A lot of fun. And Tyrone had been the perfect gentleman. He’d kissed her lightly at the end of the night and Sadie had responded eagerly, amazed at the sensations that were pulsing through her body. Brooke was right – it had been too long since she’d got laid.

  Just like the night outside the Mexican restaurant, Sadie’s body was instantly on fire, crying out for his touch. She could tell Tyrone felt the same way, but something was holding him back. It was maddening, and not what Sadie was used to. She didn’t realize he was playing a very clever game – taking it slowly, determined not to initiate anything no matter how much he wanted to. He was going to let Sadie make all the running. And it was working. Gradually he was breaking down her boundaries and she was starting to trust him – something she thought might never happen again after her experience with Paul. But Tyrone was different. She felt bad when she remembered how she’d had him down as just another beer-swilling, bimbo-dating player, out for what he could get. In fact, he was one of the sweetest guys she’d ever met.

  The laptop beeped, breaking Sadie’s reverie. She sighed as she scanned the search results. Nothing. She’d been working so hard, following up every possible lead, but they were all turning out to be dead ends. She’d even contacted her old temp agency, wondering if they’d ever supplied people to Willis & Bourne. After a little arm-twisting and a lot of sweet-talking, she was given a name and a mobile number. Sadie had rung her but the girl wouldn’t say anything. As soon as she heard Paul Austin’s name she hung up. Sadie tried to call back but it went to voicemail every time.

  Then there had been one of Carla’s friends who’d taken a job as a porter at the May Fair Hotel. Sadie had emailed him a photo of Paul, and the guy confirmed he came in regularly with a number of different women. The thought made Sadie feel sick, but it didn’t prove anything. He could sleep with anyone he wanted to, but it wouldn’t bring back Jenna’s money.

  Sadie was almost out of ideas. Almost. There was one name that kept circling round in her head, a woman who could hold the key to everything. Sadie had been considering calling her for some time, but never yet gone through with it. Now she knew she needed to. Time was running out, and this could be the best chance she had.

  She glanced briefly at her watch – it would be early evening back in the UK, but Sadie knew she rarely left the office before seven.

  Taking a deep breath, she picked up her phone. She was ashamed to say she had never deleted the number. It rang twice, and then a woman answered. ‘Willis and Bourne.’

  For a moment Sadie didn’t speak, the familiar voice shocking the breath out of her. Then she composed herself. ‘I’d like to speak to Angela Lee.’

  30

  Dawn was breaking over New York City, the sun filtering through the early morning mist and reflecting off the Hudson. The enormous glass and steel skyscrapers glistened in the pale light, and the effect was breathtaking. The city was waking up and it was going to be a scorching summer’s day.

  Annie Cho, newly promoted creative director with Guess clothing, was standing in the Tribeca penthouse that the company had leased for the day. It was 3,000 square feet of polished parquet flooring, solid concrete pillars and a wrought-iron spiral staircase that led up to the mezzanine level and out onto the rooftop. The building was forty-four storeys high and the view from the top was spectacular, offering panoramic views over Manhattan. It was perfect for the shoot.

  The problem was that their star model hadn’t turned up. Amber, the Guess girl of the moment, spokesperson for the brand and star of their ad campaign, was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Where the fuck is she?’ Annie barked into her cell phone. She clearly didn’t get the reply she wanted and exhaled sharply. ‘Don’t call me back till you’ve got answers.’

  Two hours later, Amber arrived. There was an audible intake of breath as she stumbled through the door – and not in a good way. She looked like hell. Her jeans were hanging off her, and her baggy tunic couldn’t disguise the fact that she was barely more than a skeleton. There were scabs on her arms, and her skin was dry and pasty, with an ugly break-out of spots along her lower jaw. She looked as though she hadn’t slept for a month. But the scariest thing were her eyes – flat and devoid of life. She looked as far from the sexy, voluptuous, all-American Guess girl as it was possible to be. As she crossed the room towards them, her top slipped, exposing her nipple. She didn’t even notice.

  ‘Holy shit,’ swore Annie. ‘Get her into hair and make-up.’

  Deanna, the make-up artist, gave her a look that said: You expect me to do something with that?

  Annie walked over to Deanna as Amber was seated in a chair. ‘Just do your best. I know you can work miracles.’

  ‘The only thing that can make her look better is formaldehyde,’ Deanna deadpanned. But she respected Annie and didn’t want to argue. She walked over to where Ken Travis had started work on Amber’s hair. He made a face at Deanna, as he pulled off Amber’s baseball cap to reveal the greasy, flaky mess benea
th. Deanna raised an eyebrow and began applying moisturizer to Amber’s parched skin. It was going to take an awful lot of work to make her look human.

  In the chair, Amber was oblivious to what was going on around her. She was exhausted, having rolled in from a party less than an hour ago. What kind of a fucking stupid call time was five a.m. anyway? They weren’t paying her enough to get out of bed that early. She could hear the hair and make-up people chattering over her head. They were annoying her, and the stupid hairdresser kept pulling too tight. She closed her eyes, hoping to block everything out.

  ‘Amber?’ Deanna asked gently. ‘You okay?’ She exchanged a look with Ken as Amber’s head lolled forward, her breathing heavy.

  Ken stifled a giggle. ‘Is she asleep? Poke her.’

  Tentatively, Deanna shook her by the shoulders. Amber’s eyes flew open, and she pushed Deanna out of the way. ‘Just piss off, would you,’ she snapped, irritably waving them away. She leaned over and rummaged through her handbag, pulling out a small bag of coke and a credit card. Then she picked up a hand mirror of Deanna’s and began chopping out a line.

  ‘Amber, you can’t do that here.’ Deanna was horrified. She wasn’t naive – she knew a lot of models took coke before a shoot to give them that extra edge. But most were discreet, slipping off to the bathroom. Amber was clearly well past that stage.

  ‘Oh go fuck yourself,’ she growled. ‘You’re nobody.’

  The line of powder disappeared up Amber’s right nostril. She blinked rapidly a few times, swallowing as the chemical taste hit the back of her throat.

  It was gone noon by the time they were finally ready to start shooting. Amber had been transformed – gone was the exhausted coke-head that had crawled in through the door this morning, and in her place was something approaching the supermodel she was meant to be. Ken had added hair extensions, transforming Amber’s shoulder-length cut into long, copper waves that tumbled down her back. They’d been styled with oversized rollers, giving luscious bounce and volume. Her eyes were lined with liquid liner, imbuing them with a feline quality, and her lips were plumped and glossed.