Wicked Ambition

by Victoria Fox

  ‘Call this number,’ Cookie instructed her the day she turned seventeen. ‘They specialise in girls your age. Get shot of Denny, he’s a bad lot.’

  Grace did as she was told. She spoke to Madam Babydoll on Cookie’s phone, sent her photograph and a week later was packing her scant belongings and catching an overnight bus to Los Angeles. She felt nothing about leaving Denny. She hated him.

  Madam Babydoll ran a different ship. She employed sixteen carefully selected girls and housed each in her mansion in the hills. Grace couldn’t take in the world she had entered. It was dazzling with sunshine and promise. This was where people went to make their dreams come true. Was she leaving her nightmare at last?

  Not quite. Madam Babydoll provided under-eighteen girls to a moderate rank of Hollywood star. Lily Rose, a sugary-pretty Californian with a deep golden tan, explained to Grace how important it was to make a good impression, because you never knew who was going to strike it big one day. Grace couldn’t work out why Lily Rose was here because she had a family in LA and she dressed smart and spoke nice.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ she asked her once. Lily Rose shrugged. She’d just returned from an encounter with an up-and-coming producer. ‘I could go home if I wanted,’ she mused, ‘but this is way more fun. Some day I’m gonna be an actress, just you watch. The way I see it, it’s an opportunity to get noticed. My clients never forget who I am.’

  The clients were cleaner and richer than Denny’s, but they didn’t treat her with any more respect. She came to learn that actors were the worst. They were preoccupied with seeing themselves, whether it was having her against a mirror or recording an encounter to watch afterwards—Madam Babydoll permitted this only if her girl could verify its deletion—while Grace sucked and licked till they came. They wanted her to worship their bodies, and, while it was preferable to having her own attacked, the younger and more virile could take hours and she often left sore and stiff, forced to wait days before she could work again.

  Others had perversions. The older ones, mostly, who were married or had kids and wanted her to dress as a schoolgirl; or who wanted to dress up themselves and be held. Some brought wives and she’d play with them both. But Madam Babydoll paid out sixty per cent of every cheque, and soon Grace Turquoise had several thousand in the bank—enough to quit, if she’d wanted, but she didn’t know what else she’d do. Over four years she had seen it all. She’d had sex with countless men and women and had learned to view the ordeal as simply her trade, her talent, the thing she had been trained to do. She hadn’t sung a note in years.

  It was a Friday in June when Madam Babydoll told her she had a ‘very special’ client to visit. The girls were envious. Was it someone important, someone famous?

  She was instructed to wear a black coat with nothing underneath except a lace thong. As Grace Turquoise headed to the rendezvous, hair immaculate and lips perfectly glossed, the professional that Denny Malone had groomed and Ivan Garrick before him, she could never have imagined who would be waiting for her, or what he would ask her to do.

  10

  Robin’s Beginnings tour was to be her first foray into America. She hadn’t realised the extent of what her team had planned until she sat in on a meeting at Barney’s Kensington office.

  ‘This is the stage set.’ A Perspex model was deposited on the table in front of her, over which the show’s art director peered for her reaction over steel-rimmed glasses.

  ‘Wow.’ It was the only word that sprang to mind. The stage backdrop was ink-black save for a white imprint of Robin’s face, just the silhouetted contours, the line of her brow, nose and lips—and of course the hallmark fringe. A glass birdcage hovered over winding silver steps. Metallic moving platforms extended to the audience. It was stylish to the max.

  ‘You like?’

  ‘I love.’

  ‘We open with “Told You So”,’ explained the director. ‘Spotlight, then bam! You’re up in the cage. Fade to black and in a blink you’re down on the boards, free as a bird. Magic.’

  ‘How do I get there?’

  ‘Let us worry about that.’ He gestured to the flanks of the model. ‘This is your series of pulleys and platforms; it’s the oldest trick there is. All you need to be is in the right place at the right time—oh, and be happy to get thrown about like a pinball.’

  ‘Sounds like fun.’

  Drummer Matt leaned back and put his hands behind his head. ‘Seriously, you’re gonna recreate this at every single venue?’

  ‘Sure we are,’ said Barney. ‘All this, it’s the point of Robin’s show. The whole outlook: style, sex, a let’s-see-what-you’ve-got-then stance…’

  The tour was to kick off at the start of next year. They were covering multiple sites across North America, major arenas she had never imagined filling but incredibly tickets were shifting and one had sold out in hours. Her success over the Atlantic had been thanks to a recent US version of The Launch, which had sparked interest in its British counterpart. Word of mouth had taken her the rest of the way; an underground rumble that began via YouTube and in an overnight surge had fans addicted to her tunes. Her album Beginnings had been released at a time when the Billboard 100 had been saturated with manufactured groups (boy band Fraternity had held the number one spot for eleven weeks) and had offered a welcome contrast. There was no one quite like Robin Ryder. She was quintessentially British but at the same time identifiable to and representative of females worldwide.

  ‘Did you hear about Puff City and the US track team?’ Polly asked when they were done. The women grabbed a coffee in the canteen.

  ‘No.’ In spite of herself Robin’s tummy flipped at the connection to Leon Sway. Why? He was nothing to her. ‘What about them?’

  ‘Jax Jackson wants to release a single.’

  ‘Fuck off!’

  ‘I know. My bet is he was laughed out of town before someone with half a brain realised they could make a charity gig out of it. Anyhow it’s going ahead.’

  ‘With Puff City?’ She was agape.

  ‘Yeah. You should ask them about it at your meet. Anti gun crime or something? Jax wanted to go it alone but he’s been forced to rope in the rest of the team.’ Polly rummaged in her purse for red lipstick. ‘I wish you could smoke in here.’

  ‘I’m surprised they said yes. Isn’t Jax a bit of a dick?’

  ‘He’s a lot of a dick,’ said Polly. ‘But, honey, Jax and the guys are in demand. And if they’ve got a cause attached to it then, well, who’s going to be able to say no?’

  It would certainly give Leon the screw he was so obviously after, Robin thought. Not that he would be short of offers, sending bunches of hackneyed flowers all over town and relying on his looks to make up the rest. She had seen in the Metro that he’d returned to LA. He probably had seventeen girlfriends queuing up at home that he couldn’t wait to get back to, not to mention The Waltons family set-up.

  ‘D’you know what? I’d rather talk about the tour.’

  Polly nodded. ‘Nervous?’

  ‘Nah.’ Robin grinned. ‘Not my style. Far as I’m concerned, they can bring it.’

  Later that afternoon she returned to her flat, electing to walk because being cooped up in Barney’s HQ all day had made her feel foggy, and she had a song that had been niggling her for ages that she wanted to get on paper before sunset.

  All the way back she had the sensation of being followed. It was hard to pinpoint, an instinct she would subsequently put down to imagination, or a weary mind playing tricks, but every corner Robin turned, every street she crossed, she was conscious of footsteps trailing behind. Normally she avoided taking a route through the super-busy heart of the borough, instead cutting across a quieter park, but not today. She moved swiftly through the hordes of people, anonymous in the swarming masses, and must have managed to lose her tracker—if they were even there in the first place—because by the time she arrived home, she was alone.

  11

  Leon landed at LAX to a feverish re
ception. Paparazzi were jostling over the barriers for a clean shot, lights flashing and cracking and his name repeated so many times it lost its beginning and end. ‘Leon! Leon! Leon!’ He had hoped to fly back quietly and avoid the uproar, but no such luck. Something told him he had better get used to it.

  ‘How is it being back in LA?’ reporters demanded. ‘What have you got to say to Jax Jackson? Can you defeat him at the 2013 Champs?’ Microphones lunged and he had to shield his eyes from the glare. A woman got past the rope and clung to his shoulders, and before he could do anything to stop it she planted a kiss on his mouth.

  ‘Step away, ma’am.’ Airport security dragged her off.

  Leon had been thrust into the realms of the super-famous and now it seemed like everyone wanted a piece. Being on home ground meant the hype was ready to hit new heights, beginning with this hare-brained idea of Jax’s to record a single. Frankly Leon found it embarrassing. How could he say no when it was for charity? He couldn’t be the only one who turned his back, especially when it was supposedly making a stand against gun crime.

  Jax wanted stardom, that was the distinction between them, and The Bullet didn’t care how he got it. For Leon, it was different. He trained, he ran and he focused. Yet his first steps back on American soil and he was being treated like a movie star. He’d never got into it for celebrity; he didn’t care about that. He ran to win.

  ‘Do you think you’ll ever beat him?’

  Leon stopped. ‘Sure, I’ll beat him. This isn’t the final score.’

  ‘Is The Bullet impossible to outrun?’

  ‘Nothing’s impossible.’ An image of Jax’s trademark gold vest clouded Leon’s vision. Emblazoned on its back was the tip of a bullet in flight. ‘When you’re at the top, the only way is down. Jax is on borrowed time. I’m the one to watch.’

  The Compton house where Leon grew up was like any other on the street, a grey one-storey villa protected behind a barred steel gate. Out front was a yard—his mom kept it nice as she could but the grass was tired and yellowing and a football lay part deflated by the trash. There was nothing remarkable about the place, nothing to suggest it had once been the scene of a brutal crime, but scratch the surface and the scars were there. They said that the years would heal, but each time Leon returned it ached as deeply as it had twelve years ago.

  Paint was flaking off the gate, the catch stiff. If only they would let him buy them someplace else, his mom and sister, but they refused. Memories were all they had left.

  A couple of kids rode past on their bikes. Leon turned, dipping his cap so he didn’t get recognised, but even so they circled a few times at the end of the street.

  ‘You’re Leon Sway, right?’ one of them asked. ‘No way, this is dope! My mom said you used to live round here!’

  ‘Tell your mom I said hi.’

  ‘No shit, I will. You hanging for a while?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘You’re the coolest, man. How’d you get to be so fast?’

  ‘Practice. Discipline.’

  ‘Doesn’t it get boring?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘If you raced a bike who’d win?’

  ‘Me.’

  ‘If you raced a car who’d win?’

  ‘Me.’

  ‘If you raced a lion who’d win?’

  ‘Me.’

  The kid laughed uncertainly. ‘You’re funny.’

  ‘See you around.’

  The boys rode off. The one who’d spoken did a wheelie and thumped the arm of the other kid, calling him a wuss for staying quiet.

  Leon put his key in the lock, stopping to ready himself against the ghosts of the past. In another life Marlon would be on the other side, his arms wide open.

  Hey, little bro. Want to shoot some hoops?

  But it was this life that counted. And his brother wasn’t here any more.

  Marlon Sway had been nineteen when he’d died. As one of the most promising athletes on the circuit, he had been destined for greatness, the Sydney Games locked in his sights. He’d been returning from the club one night when a street fight had broken out. Somehow he had got mixed up…a gang conflict spun out of control…a stray bullet…a wrong place, wrong time…Perhaps he had tried to intervene, ever the peacemaker, but wasn’t that worse? He had been caught in the crossfire. Marlon had staggered home with a punctured lung. Yards from his front door, he had collapsed on the road and his heart had stopped beating.

  It had been twelve years and still Leon couldn’t pick at the scab, afraid it would bleed as easily as it had when the wound was first made.

  He remembered it as if it were yesterday. A deafening sound that split the world in two; the unmistakeable crack of ammo tearing the sky. Instinct had compelled him to run from their home, out on to the street, a feeling in his gut that this was bad. He hadn’t known what it was to run until that moment. Time had fallen away quicker than water as his brother’s body, slumped and lifeless, had lurched closer. Be faster…be faster…

  Each and every race he ran, in Tucson, in London, in Athens, in whatever competition and wherever it was, he was there, on that rainy night in Compton when his brother was lost. The splinter of the starting pistol was all he needed. Instead of the line, he’d see Marlon. He’d hear his mom screaming, a violent, feral sound. His brother’s eyes, empty. Marlon hadn’t looked asleep, he hadn’t looked peaceful; none of the things people said were true.

  If I’d been quicker, I could have beaten this. I could have stopped it.

  It was the need to always be faster, to make it in time that powered Leon’s sprint from that day and in all the days to come. For as long as he came in second, he wasn’t fast enough. He was too late. He was tormented by the idea that had he reached Marlon sooner there could have been a chance at life, a flickering ember he could have roused…

  Or at least to have been there when his brother died, so that he hadn’t been alone.

  Before he turned the key to his family home, Leon rested his forehead against the door. Twelve years, and it might as well be twelve days. Closing his eyes, he let the memory settle, waiting for it to scatter like light on water. He missed his brother so much.

  Marlon was the reason he ran. For him he would run and run until he couldn’t run any more, he would run till his heart gave up and his strength gave in. That was his destiny.

  If anyone stood in his way, they would be taken down. Jax Jackson included.

  ‘Leon, honey, is that you?’

  The door clicked open and his mother emerged from the kitchen.

  ‘Hello, Ma,’ he said, squeezing her tight. ‘I’m home.’

  12

  ‘Gorgeous.’ The photographer clicked away as a stylist rushed to adjust the hem of Kristin’s gown. ‘And lift your arms one more time? That’s it! Beautiful.’

  She was shooting cover art for her new album, Heaven, which involved being suspended from the rafters of a studio warehouse with stirrups digging in under her arms. A shimmering halo was bolted to the back of her head and the robes had to be twenty feet long at least, pooling to the floor in swathes of frosted ivory that were meant to look celestially sylphlike but were in fact dragging her down like a lead anchor.

  So this was what it felt like being an angel for the afternoon…uncomfortable.

  ‘Smile, then, Kristin!’ her mother barked from the floor.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Not from where we’re sitting.’ Ramona White was cross-legged at the wardrobe girl’s table, busy applying lipstick. ‘Think of the fans. Do you think they want to see you looking miserable? You’re selling a lifestyle, remember, not just a handful of ditties.’

  Kristin hated when her mother insisted on coming to shoots and interviews and anything else she was perfectly capable of handling alone. She’d been years in the industry now and didn’t need Ramona to hold her hand. It was humiliating; it undermined her reputation and made her appear weak and unable to make decisions, hauling Mommy along to look out for her. Doubly challengin
g when her mother insisted on criticising everything she did, which made Kristin invariably revert to the role of frustrated teenager storming off and slamming her bedroom door. For the sake of today, she bit her tongue.

  ‘Almost done,’ the photographer lied. Kristin knew it would be an hour at least before she could be brought back to earth and the stills hit the can. ‘Everything OK up there?’

  She was determined to retain her professionalism despite her mother’s carping. ‘Fine.’

  ‘If we could have you gazing up, eyes nice and wide, that’s it…Let’s try one with hands together, in prayer…Loving it, sweetheart, that’s awesome…’

  ‘I don’t like it,’ snapped Ramona. ‘She looks too whimsical.’

  ‘That’s what we’re going for, Mrs White.’

  ‘It’s Mz.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘What about those poor kids, saving up their allowance to spend on this? They want to see friendly big-sister Kristin, don’t they? Not some scowling pre-Raphaelite.’

  ‘Kristin’s fan base is growing and we should grow with them.’

  Ramona’s mouth set in a grim line. Kristin could practically hear the thoughts turning over in her head. I’ve been doing this since the beginning, you moronic upstart. I created Kristin White and everything she is, every dime she’s made and every record she’s sold. Your fucking paycheck today comes down to me! But her mother stayed quiet.

  ‘Kristin, what do you think?’ asked the photographer, attempting diplomacy.

  ‘I’m happy with this approach.’

  ‘Then look it!’ crowed Ramona. The camera popped as Kristin fired a scowl in her mother’s direction. She couldn’t win. It was about control and always had been: the outcome was less important than the means used to reach it, and as long as Ramona had the last word and the final approval, she was content to proceed. Bunny abided by the same rules. Her sister was currently curled on a beanbag by the props closet, tapping away on her cell phone. She had a competition tonight, the last before the Mini Miss Marvellous rounds began, and according to Ramona could risk nothing in the run-up to ‘the ultimate pageant of all time’. Kristin wished she could take Bunny to the movies, or bowling, or a trip to the mall where they could get milkshakes and whisper behind their hands about boys—normal things that normal sisters did. Bunny was fourteen in two weeks’ time and was being made to dress and act like a forty-year-old. When would Ramona let up? Never?