by Harlan Coben
Laura began modeling when she was only seventeen. Her Cosmo debut was followed by Mademoiselle and Glamour covers in the same month, and then Sports Illustrated' s annual swimsuit issue made her name somewhat household. The cover photo was taken during a sunset on Australia's Gold Coast about 500 miles from Palm's Cove. In the photograph, Laura was wading knee-deep in the water, her eyes staring into the camera as she pulled back her wet hair. She wore a black, strapless one-piece that molded to her curves, her shoulders bare. It ended up being the best-selling issue Sports Illustrated ever had.
From there, the amount of covers and layouts grew along with Laura's bank account. Sometimes she appeared on the cover of the same magazine for four or five months in a row, but unlike other models, there was never a backlash to too much exposure, never an overkill. The demand did not let up.
It was all very odd. As a child, Laura had been fat and unattractive. Her classmates had teased her mercilessly about her weight, about her stringy hair, about her thick glasses, about her lack of make-up, about the way she dressed. They called her names and taunted her with the painful insults of cruel children. Their oral barrages never slackened or let up. In the cafeteria, in the hallways, in the schoolyard, in gym class, Laura's classmates were relentless in their savage attacks upon their defenseless victim.
They made her childhood a living hell.
Sometimes, a group of the really popular girls would beat her up in the woods behind the schoolyard. But physical abuse never hurt little Laura as much as the cruel words. The pain of a kick or a punch went away. The cruel words stayed with her always.
In those days, Laura would come home from school crying to a mother who had to be the most beautiful woman in the world, a woman who could not understand why her baby was not the most well-liked girl in her class. Mary Simmons Ayars had always been unusually gorgeous, had always been popular amongst her peers. Girls had always wanted to be her friend; boys had always wanted to carry her books and maybe hold her hand.
Laura's father, her dear, sweet father, would be heartbroken over the situation. It tore at Dr James Ayars's stomach to see his daughter spend every night crying alone in a corner of her darkened bedroom. He too tried to help, but what could a father do in a situation like this?
Once, when she was in seventh grade, Dr Ayars bought his daughter an expensive white dress with a designer's label on it. Laura loved the dress. She was sure that it was going to change her whole life. She looked pretty in it. Her father had said so. And Laura was going to wear it to school and all the popular girls were going to think she was pretty too. They would all like her -- even Lisa Sommers, the prettiest girl in the class. They would ask her to sit with them during lunch instead of by herself in the back of the room. They would ask her to play hopscotch with them during recess instead of making her stand away from them where no one would talk to her. And who knows? Maybe Lisa Sommers would invite her to go over her house after school.
Laura was so excited she could hardly sleep. She got out of bed very early the next morning, showered, and put on her new dress. Her older sister Gloria, who was really popular with the boys, helped her get ready. Gloria brushed Laura's hair out, curled it, and even added light touches of make-up. When Gloria was finished, she stepped back and let Laura look at herself in the mirror. Laura tried to be critical but she could not help it. She looked pretty.
'Do I really look okay?' she asked her sister hopefully.
Gloria hugged her and stroked her hair. 'Just perfect.'
When she came down to breakfast, her father smiled. 'Well, well, just take a look at my little princess.'
Laura giggled happily.
'You look lovely,' her mother added.
'The boys will be fighting in the playground today,' her father chipped in.
'Do you want me to walk you to school?' Gloria asked.
'That would be great!'
Laura beamed with joy as she headed to school with Gloria. When they reached the edge of the playground, Gloria turned to her little sister and gave her another big hug. Laura felt warm and secure in her sister's arms. 'I have cheerleading practice after school,' Gloria said. 'I'll see you at home later tonight, okay?'
'Okay.'
'You can tell me all about your day then.'
Laura watched her sister start walking down the hill toward the high school. Then she turned and faced her own schoolyard. Laura could not wait to hear the comments of her peers when they saw the new Laura. Finally, it was going to be her day. With a deep breath she crossed over to where her schoolmates were playing.
The first comments came before the bell. 'Hey, look! Tubby Laura is wearing a new tent!' Cruel voices came from everywhere. 'She looks like a great white whale!' 'Hey, Four-Eyes Fatso, since you're wearing white, we can use you as a movie screen!'
Lisa Sommers walked up to her, looked her up and down, and then held her nose. 'You're disgusting!' she shouted with glee.
And the cruel laughter. The cruel laughter that scraped at Laura's young heart with a jagged piece of glass.
She ran home with tears streaming down her face. She put on a brave face and tried to hide the rip that Lisa Sommers had made in her new dress during recess. But parents are very sensitive to the pain of their children. When her father found the torn dress, he was furious. He burst into the principal's office to report what had happened. The girls responsible were punished.
And of course, that only made the popular girls hate her even more.
During her anguished childhood, Laura studied as hard as she could. If she could not be popular or even liked, at least she was going to be smart.
And she had Gloria. Laura often wondered if she could have survived those long years without her only two friends: her school books and her older sister Gloria. Physically, Gloria was the buxom bombshell all the high-school boys lusted after. But she was also big-hearted and kind to a fault. When Laura felt the world was coming to an end, Gloria would comfort her with warm words and warm hugs. Gloria would tell her that everything was going to be okay and for a little while, everything was. Sometimes, Gloria even canceled dates with boys just to stay home and console Laura. She took Laura to the movies or to the big department stores or the park or the roller rink or wherever. Laura knew that she had the greatest sister in the whole world. She loved Gloria very much.
That was why Laura had been devastated when Gloria ran away from home and came very close to committing suicide.
Laura's physical metamorphosis took place in the summer before her junior year of high school. Yes, she exercised. Yes, she started to wear contact lenses. Yes, she dieted (stopped eating actually). But that would not have been enough to explain the change. Those things may have accelerated the process, but the transformation would have occurred anyway. It was simply her time. She suddenly blossomed and no one in her school could believe their eyes. A little while later, a modeling agency spotted her and she was on her way.
At first, Laura could not believe she was beautiful enough to be a fashion model. Fat, ugly Laura Ayars a fashion model? Uh, uh. No way.
But Laura was neither blind nor stupid. She could look in a mirror and see for herself what everyone else was talking about. She soon got used to the whole idea of being attractive. By some queer twist of fate, the homely child had turned into a high-paid supermodel. Suddenly, people wanted to be with her, to dress like her, to be her friend. Just because she was now physically appealing, those who had wanted to spit on her and tease her thought she was something special. Laura became more than a little suspicious of people's motives.
Modeling was easy money for Laura. She made over half a million dollars when she was just eighteen. But modeling was not an occupation she particularly enjoyed. While the hours were at times grueling and tedious, the work was never what she would call demanding. There was little challenge to be found in posing for a series of snapshots. It was downright boring actually. She wanted to do something more but the world seemed to have forgotten she had a
brain. It was all so ridiculous. When she was ugly with glasses, everybody thought she was a bookworm. Now that she was beautiful, everybody assumed she was an airhead.
Laura did not do many location shootings in those days - just the one in Australia and two on the French Riviera - because unlike many of her colleagues, she did not leave school. It was no simple task but she managed to finish high school and graduate from Tufts University four years later. Once Laura received her degree, she was ready to take on the fashion and cosmetics industries. The industries, however, were ill prepared for her onslaught. June 1983 marked her last cover appearance on a women's magazine as Laura retired from modeling at the ripe old age of twenty-three. She invested her substantial earnings to develop her own concept, Svengali, a company for the woman-on-the-move, blending practical, intelligent and sophisticated looks with the feminine and sensual.
The slogan: Be your own Svengali.
To say the concept caught on would be the fashion understatement of the eighties. At first, critics scoffed at the model-playing-business-tycoon's success, claiming it was just another in a series of fads that would disappear in a matter of months. Two years after promoting women's clothes and cosmetics, Laura expanded into casual shoes and fragrances. By the time she was twenty-six, Svengali had gone public with Laura the majority stockholder and Chief Executive Officer of a multi-million-dollar conglomerate.
The taxi made a sharp right turn. 'Peterson's office on the Esplanade, right, missy?'
Laura chuckled. 'Missy?'
'It's just an expression,' the cabbie explained. 'No offense meant.'
'None taken. Yes, they're on the Esplanade.'
Copycat corporations began to crop up like so many weeds beside her thriving flower. They were all vying for a slice of the profitable Svengali business, all searching for the secret of Laura's success. But like so many other bothersome weeds, they were pulled out of the corporate world before they could truly take root. Laura's close administrators knew the secret that competitors sought, the aspect that made Svengali unique: Laura. Her hard work, determination, brains, style and even warmth steered every phase of the organization. Corny, yes, but also true. The woman was the company.
Everything had gone according to plan -- until she met David Baskin.
The taxi slowed to a stop. 'We're here, luv.'
The Pacific International Hotel in Cairns was not far from the Peterson office. It was near the center of town and across the street from the Marlin Jetty where most of the sightseeing and diving boats set sail. The hotel was a popular vacation spot, ideal for those who wanted the tropics of Australia but did not crave absolute seclusion.
But the occupant of room 607 was not here to vacation.
The occupant looked out the window but did not notice or care about the breathtaking beauty. There were more important things to worry about. Awful things. Things that had to be taken care of no matter how tragic the consequence. Things so horrible that even the occupant of room 607 had no idea of their full scope.
And they had to be taken care of now.
The occupant turned away from the breathtaking view that past visitors had gazed upon for countless hours and walked toward the phone. There had been very little time to plan. Now, as the occupant lifted the receiver, there was a moment to wonder if there was another option left open.
No. There was no other option.
The occupant lifted the phone and dialed.
'Reef Resort. Can I help you?'
The occupant swallowed away the terror. 'David Baskin please.'
The meeting droned on steadily. The first two hours had moved smoothly enough and the deal was nearly set. But now they were getting down to details and, as usual, a few snags tangled up the works. Laura eyed her watch and realized she was going to be back later than she originally anticipated. She asked if she could use a phone, excused herself and dialed the hotel. When there was no answer in their room, she asked to be transferred to the front desk. The same receptionist was on duty.
'Your husband went out a few minutes ago,' he informed her. 'He left a note for me to give you.'
'Could you read it to me?'
'Of course. Would you hold on a second?'
She heard the phone being dropped heavily to the wooden desk and then the sounds of somebody stumbling around echoed into the receiver. 'Here it is.' Paper was unfolded. Hesitation. 'It's . . . it's rather personal, Mrs Baskin.'
'That's okay.'
'You still want me to read it?'
'You already have,' Laura replied.
'True enough.' He paused and then, reluctantly, he read David's words. 'Stepped out for moment. Should be right back.' The receptionist cleared his throat before continuing. 'Black garter belt and stockings are on bed. Put them on and wait for me . . . my, uh, my little sex kitten.'
Laura stifled a laugh. 'Thank you very much. Would you mind giving my husband a message when he gets back?'
'I'd rather not, ma'am. He's rather large, you know.'
This time she did laugh. 'No, nothing like that. Just tell him I'll be back a little later than originally planned.'
His voice was relieved. 'I can do that,' he said. 'Yeah, sure, no worries.'
Laura replaced the receiver, took a deep breath, and returned to the negotiating table.
Two hours later, the deal was set. The few minor obstacles had been removed and soon, department stores throughout Australia and New Zealand would be inundated with Svengali products, maybe even before the Christmas season. Laura sat back in the taxi's plush cushion and smiled.
So much for business.
By the time the taxi dropped her in front of the hotel, night was beginning to settle in, snatching the spare rays of the sun that still lighted Palm's Cove. But Laura was not tired. Business rejuvenated her -- business and the thought that David was only a few feet from where she now stood, waiting for her . . .
'Mrs Baskin?'
It was the receptionist. She walked toward the desk with a bright smile.
'Another note from your husband.'
'Would you like to read this one to me too?' she asked. He laughed and handed her an envelope. 'I think you can handle this one all by yourself, thanks anyway.'
'Thank you.' She opened the sealed envelope and read.
LAURA, BE BACK SOON. WENT FOR A SWIM IN THE OCEAN. I WILL LOVE YOU FOREVER. ALWAYS REMEMBER THAT.
DAVID
Puzzled, Laura folded the note and went to the room.
The black stockings were on the bed.
Laura slid them over her ankles and then slowly rolled them up her slender legs. She unbuttoned her blouse and removed it. Her hands reached behind her back and unclasped her lace brassiere. It fell forward and slipped down her arms.
She strapped on the garter belt and attached the stockings. She stood and looked in the mirror. Then she did what few people who beheld such a magnificent sight would do.
She laughed.
That man has made me completely loony, she thought with a shake of her head, remembering what a different person she had been before David entered her life two years ago. Thinking back, Laura recalled that she and David did not hit it off right away -- to be more precise, their first meeting had been about as romantic as a two-car accident.
They had met on a humid Boston night in July of 1986 at a gala black-tie party for the Boston Pops. The place was packed. Everyone who was anyone in Boston society was there.
Laura hated such events. She especially hated the reason she attended them (she felt she had to) and she hated the phony smiles and the phony lines everyone handed out. Even worse were the men who showed up for such functions -- cocky, persistent and overbearing neo-playboys with egos that were nearly as vast as their insecurities. She had been hit on so many times at these things she felt like a stubborn nail jutting out of a piece of plywood. Over the years, her manner of dealing with such approaches began to border on the rude. But at times, only a cutting phrase could slow down a charging bull.
At this particular party, she had been standing a few yards away from the buffet table, watching with disbelief as the well-dressed patrons attacked the food like the poor in Bangladesh. That was when she turned away and bumped into David.
'Excuse me,' she said without looking at the man.
'Grim sight,' David replied, motioning toward the ravenous savages at the buffet table. 'Welcome to Day of the Locust.'
She nodded and began to walk away.
'Wait a minute,' David called after. 'I don't mean to sound like a groupie but aren't you Laura Ayars?'
'Yes, I am.'
'Allow me to introduce myself. My name is David Baskin.'
'The basketball player?'
'The same. Are you a basketball fan, Miss Ayars?'
'Not in the least bit, but it would be impossible to live in Boston and not hear your name mentioned.'
'I blush in modesty.'
'I'm sure you do. If you'll excuse me . . .'
'The brush-off already? Before you go, Miss Ayars, may I just say that you look enchanting this evening.'
Her voice was tainted with sarcasm. 'Original line, Mr Baskin.'
'David,' he replied calmly. 'And for the record, I'm not handing out lines.' He paused. 'May I ask why you don't like basketball?'
Typical jock, Laura thought. He thinks that the planet Earth could not possibly spin without grown men grunting and sweating while running back and forth in a meaningless wave. This guy shouldn't take long to get rid of. He's probably not used to carrying on a conversation that involves complete sentences.