Wicked Ambition

by Victoria Fox

  He hauled on his jeans and went about finding his T-shirt.

  ‘Over there,’ she said, pointing to a heap on the floor. She waited awkwardly while he dressed, unsure how to make it better. Finally, shoulders slumped, Farrell turned.

  ‘I like you,’ he said. ‘A lot.’

  ‘Maybe it’s not just fun between us, then.’

  ‘Maybe not to me.’

  He watched her expectantly. This was her chance. She said nothing.

  ‘I’ll see you at rehearsal.’ With the click of the door, Farrell was gone.

  Robin spent the rest of the day in a slump. Down time was always a jolt to the system, and after this morning’s disaster it was worse than usual. Welcome distraction arrived with news that Shawnella Moore, Slink Bullion’s girlfriend, was in town launching a fashion line with a D-list movie star. Her arrival had attracted a ripple of media interest and, after making the necessary phone calls, Robin headed to the warehouse on Colorado Boulevard.

  A gaggle of paps was hanging around outside. The appearance of Robin Ryder was an unexpected bonus to the tedious hours waiting for Shawnella and her friend to emerge, and they trailed her up the steps like hopeful puppies, fended off at the door. Barney didn’t like her going without security but she knew that was a slippery slope: if she insisted on going everywhere accompanied she would lose her independence for good. No matter how she’d been frightened that was not a ransom she could accept. Yes, there were nutcases out there, but you had to assume that ninety-nine per cent of the time they intended no harm.

  In any case, Robin didn’t want a chaperone on this particular jaunt. What she intended to discuss with Slink’s girlfriend wasn’t for anyone else’s ears but theirs.

  A rickety lift packed with studio props took her to the sixth floor. She tugged at the door before it gave, drawing it back to reveal Shawnella posturing in a catsuit and the D-list movie star swinging her legs from a stool at the make-up hub, totally uninterested. A rail of clothes was being wheeled on to set—samples from the line, presumably: a clash of fuchsias, lilacs and blues, dresses and hot pants, playsuits and shorts, some more identifiable than others because they had holes ripped into them as if they’d been attacked by the claws of a wild animal. The materials were plasticky and iridescent in the photographer’s light, sort of a nineties shell suit wet-look, and Robin couldn’t think of a single person she knew who would wear them. The ‘Demand Moore’ collection had some way to go.

  She took a seat at the back. Shawnella gave it all, slipping in and out of the costumes with the commitment and endurance of a pro, while the movie star, deigning herself to be above it while the fact remained that nobody knew her name, kicked up a fuss about having to wear ‘bulgy’ outfits and heels that were so uncomfortable she couldn’t walk in them, which struck Robin as a dubious claim to make about your own collection.

  Shawnella was surprised to see her when they broke for lunch. There was a ripple of interest as Robin was recognised. The movie star slunk towards the exit, pissed off.

  ‘Can I take you for coffee?’ Robin asked.

  The elevator was bust so they had to take the stairwell, Shawnella getting a lift from one of the assistants because her shoes were pinching.

  Downstairs, she was suspicious. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘It’s half an hour of your time,’ said Robin. ‘Please?’

  Shawnella hesitated and Robin added, ‘It’s important.’

  The day was hot and the fresh air a welcome shift from the stuffiness of the studio. Robin preferred to be in an open space anyway for what she was preparing to say, so the women grabbed a drink and took it to City Park. It was perversely easier to be incognito in a public place: the more people there were, the less you got noticed.

  Shawnella wasn’t one for small talk, so Robin jumped straight in.

  ‘I need to ask you something,’ she began. ‘It might sound mad, I might be way off the mark, but I have to know and I can’t think of anybody else I can trust with this right now.’

  The implied confidence secured Shawnella’s attention. ‘Yeah?’

  She took a deep breath, deciding to just come out with it.

  ‘Did Slink have anything to do with Marlon Sway’s murder?’ She searched her companion for a reaction. ‘Back in 2000…the guy got shot. He died. They never found the person responsible. I’ve got reason to suspect Puff City know more than they’re letting on.’

  Shawnella blinked. It was a fraction too late. In that microsecond Robin recognised acceptance: this was a secret Shawnella had kept for her boyfriend for far too long.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she said, the flat denial Robin had expected.

  ‘I overheard Slink and Principal,’ she explained, ‘at the party in Seattle. Shawnella, they said his name; they said Marlon’s name. They said G-Money was getting close to Leon and how that couldn’t happen because Leon was Marlon’s brother, and how G was a weak link and now he couldn’t handle his conscience—’

  ‘Then you heard wrong.’ Shawnella rounded on her. ‘You heard wrong.’

  ‘How can I have? Come on, it’s written all over your face. Are you going to be Slink’s yes-girl your whole life? This is serious. This matters. Someone was killed.’

  A group of children were playing nearby, splashing each other with water. A mother came and grabbed one of their fists, dragging the boy off to a wailing soundtrack.

  ‘It ain’t none of my business,’ said Shawnella, getting up and walking away.

  Robin leapt after her. ‘This is your chance,’ she said, keeping pace, ‘to step up and be you, not just the sometime girlfriend of a guy who couldn’t care less—and that’s by your own admission, not mine. Wait. Please, would you listen to me? This is important. This is the single most important thing you or I will ever have done.’

  ‘You’re talkin’ some crazy shit, girl.’ Shawnella couldn’t meet her eye. ‘The kinda shit that’s gonna get you into trouble.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Robin yanked her to a stop. ‘But that’s a risk I’m prepared to take.’

  Shawnella narrowed her eyes. ‘Why would you?’ she challenged. ‘Have you any idea what Slink would do if he knew you and I were having this conversation?’

  It was the admission she had been waiting for. Not explicit, but enough.

  ‘I’ve got my reasons.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  Robin shook her head. ‘You’re covering for them.’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘You really think you don’t have a reason? What about all that stuff you said to me about how Slink treats you, all the women you share him with, all the promises he’s made? What about those? He’s got you exactly where he wants you. He’d never imagine you’d dare do anything with the facts and that’s exactly why he doesn’t think twice about you knowing. He’s taken that for granted—just as he’s taken everything else about you for granted. Is that the way it’s going to be, today, tomorrow, for ever? You’re saying you’re happy with that?’

  Shawnella looked blank.

  ‘We can’t let it happen,’ urged Robin. Now she knew, beyond any doubt, there was no way she could turn her back—not when Leon was in the dark; these men he thought he trusted harbouring a deception as huge as this. Leon was the person she did it for: the person who, in some ridiculous way, she was doing everything for.

  ‘We have to bring them to justice,’ she declared.

  ‘It’s too dangerous.’

  ‘Bullshit. I’m not afraid.’

  ‘I am.’ Shawnella pinned her with a stare. ‘You don’t know them like I do.’

  ‘Then let’s do this together.’

  She retreated. ‘Leave it, Robin. Don’t ever speak about this again, for your own sake. You have no idea what you’re getting involved in.’

  ‘It’s too late.’

  ‘It will be for you, if you don’t give up.’

  ‘I never give up.’

  ‘Then you’re on your own.’ Shawnella star
ted walking. She didn’t look back.

  51

  They said that guilt was a creeper, and grew with a life of its own. For Gordon Rimeaux, what had started as a seed of discomfort had matured into a giant canopy, casting dark, broad shadows across the ground that once had been his shelter. Guilt was a killer.

  ‘Go easy, brother,’ advised his training partner. They were at LA’s Bench gym and Gordon was pumping hard on the free weights, hoping that the pain and burn might come close to matching his inner chaos. No matter how hard he worked, they didn’t.

  He strained under another muscle-wrenching lift and in the wall mirror scoped his biceps clenching and relaxing, the beads glistening on his arms. Exercise helped him to focus on his body, not his mind.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘You don’t look fine, man,’ observed his partner, ‘you look tired. Rest up a while?’

  Gordon had no doubt that was the truth. In recent weeks he had been waking at two a.m., bathed in dread. It kept happening. Dreams were cruel. He’d resumed smoking grass to knock him out, but every night went the same. Sometimes he would stay out till four but those were the exceptions: more often he would surface with a jolt into the dark, heart frantically drumming and saturated with memories so steeped in shame that he could barely breathe through their aftershock. The gunshot, the kid running, the bleeding body, the mother’s cry as it ricocheted off the glossy road…and their cowardly, indefensible escape.

  He’d sit it out till seven and watch the sun come up over the ocean, burning endless cigarettes. When the day arrived he would pursue every diversion he could.

  Lungs and ligaments straining, Gordon accepted defeat and took to the sides, snapping open a bottle of water and struggling to harness his breath.

  It could not continue.

  The workout dragged on, with each repetition sealing in his mind what he had to do.

  He had to do the right thing.

  Gordon pushed through another hour, cancelled his afternoon studio slot and went home, where he showered, ate mechanically, without appetite, and picked up the phone.

  Leon answered on the fourth ring.

  ‘Can we hook up?’ asked Gordon, weirdly calm now he was actually doing it. He would go to jail. He would take all of Puff City with him. He might lose his life.

  But none of that could be worse than this purgatory.

  ‘I’m kinda tied up right now,’ said Leon.

  ‘Tomorrow, then?’

  ‘Hey, this sounds serious!’ His voice was teasing. ‘What’s up?’

  You’ll know soon enough.

  ‘Lisa and I are heading to the coast for the weekend,’ said Leon. ‘Can it wait till next week? I’m flat-out training till then.’

  Gordon clenched his fist. He would be hanging on to his balls a few days yet.

  ‘Yeah,’ he agreed, swallowing hard, ‘for real. Catch you later.’

  52

  The premiere of True Match, Turquoise da Luca and Cosmo Angel’s first joint project, took place at Hollywood’s Colossus Theatre. The movie wasn’t only tipped to break box office records; it was bringing together in its co-stars and director three industry superweights whose product would respond to months of conjecture.

  Turquoise had hoped to arrive before the rush, slip in quietly and sit tight until the showing was done. It wasn’t to be. As her car pulled up at the carpet she spotted Cosmo and Ava working the cameras, hand in hand, laughing and kissing like the perfect couple they were deemed to be. Cosmo was darkly suited and brooding while Ava looked resplendent in a floor-sweeping liquid-gold gown, a stream of blonde gliding down her back.

  ‘Turquoise! Over here! Turquoise, this way! Smile for us, Turquoise!’

  She turned for the press, one hand resting on her hip to show off the borrowed million-dollar diamonds linked around her wrists. Her dress was shoulder-baring Versace, vampish black and split to the thigh, her jet hair and red lips completing the look.

  Arriving alone meant she would spawn a ton of headlines about how such a successful and coveted woman could possibly be single. She had become used to it, and would rather have been by herself than hauling along a two-week boyfriend and forcing him to swim for his life in a shark-infested sea of speculation. Bronx had asked to accompany her—wouldn’t she feel safer, he’d challenged: all that attention, it had to be a lonely spotlight? But for the couples here tonight she felt no envy. Up ahead the legendary Cole Steel was posing with his young wife, Chloe French. Since the marriage Chloe had looked drawn and unhappy, older than her years, while Cole seemed to flourish like a parasite on her dejection. If Turquoise knew anything, it was that having a partner wasn’t the answer.

  She pushed thoughts of Bronx away. Long ago she had accepted that a relationship couldn’t work—not just with him, with anyone. That was OK. It was how things had to be.

  Inside the theatre she felt calmer. Cosmo and Ava were several seats down, on the same row, and she swore she could smell Ava’s cloying perfume…or was it the smell of the mansion that they carried with them, toxic and sweet? Each time she stole a glance in their direction she was disgusted, not so much by her own experiences as with to what extent they were tricking every single person in the room. Worshipped. Wanton. Wicked.

  Watching the film was as uncomfortable as she had expected. What she hadn’t expected was how emphatically the audience reacted: every revelation generated an audible gasp, every love scene commanded reverential silence, every twist and turn conjured a fizz of shocked whispers until, finally, the credits rolled and the place erupted in applause.

  ‘A masterpiece,’ enthused Sam Lucas at the reception, pulling Turquoise under one arm and throwing the other round Cosmo. ‘I’ve got these two to thank.’

  ‘Did you enjoy penning your first movie?’ A reporter thrust a mic in Cosmo’s face.

  He didn’t hesitate. ‘Once I knew we had Turquoise,’ he replied greasily, ‘it was easy. She fit the part so perfectly. People ask me how it is writing women…well, with a woman like Turquoise, it’s not hard. It was almost as if she was playing a sister, or a friend, wasn’t it, Sam?’ Sam nodded fervently. ‘Almost as if she was playing herself.’

  Turquoise tightened her grip on the stem of the champagne flute until she felt she could snap it, if not with her strength then by the force of her hatred alone.

  ‘Something like that,’ she said, slaying him with a glare.

  Juggling the movie’s release with her own ventures was as tiring as Donna had promised. Friday night she had an appearance in Italy and dozed fitfully on the jet, exhausted after press commitments had left her with two hours’ sleep. She flew the show on autopilot and took the next day to recover at a Tuscan spa resort recommended by her choreographer, before planning to return to the US the following morning to resume promotion for the movie.

  Surrounded by rolling fields, burned by the sun and infused with honey scent warmed on the Italian breeze, the quiet calm of the retreat couldn’t have been further from LA. Following a massage, Turquoise padded out to the pool, threw a towel on her lounger and dived cleanly into the water. Carved into the cool stone, the sparkling blue was as refreshing as a glass of cola on a sweltering day, the sunshine bouncing off its ripples as still and bright as the canopy above. Not a sound could be heard save for the occasional whistle of birdsong. She floated on her back, one by one removing distractions from her mind and casting them to the sky.

  Relaxation was difficult. At least when she was working she didn’t dwell on it, but as soon as she switched off, there her archenemy was. True Match had been favourably received and Cosmo and his wife were riding high on the adulation. For Turquoise, it meant the roles were flooding in: Donna was in talks about a sci-fi android-with-a-heart starring role and an antidote rom-com, as well as her musical ventures. She would throw herself into them because it was the only way through. Donna was convinced she needed time out but truth was that time out scared her senseless.

  Working with Cosmo meant facing the pa
st every single day of her life. Her own suffering she could deal with, she had wrestled with the horrors long enough, but recently it had been a different ghost knocking in the dark hours of the night.

  The girl who’d died.

  The girl they’d buried.

  The girl who, while Turquoise knew in her marrow she had done everything to save, had been concealed beneath the dry, blistering desert for almost a decade now. What about her parents? What about her family, her friends? Did she have anyone who cared about her, or had her vanishing been a pebble in a lake, a few soft ripples and then still?

  Turquoise endured nightmares of being buried alive, terrors from which she woke with a mouthful of sand, only to fumble through the dark, gasping for water, for clarity, and find it was all in her head. The girl visited her in dreams, sometimes the age she’d been and sometimes the age she was now. In one she had clawed her way out of the shallow grave, hair matted in stiff, gritty tendrils, ringing at Turquoise’s mansion with a grin on her cracked lips.

  Surprise.

  Even now she couldn’t help listening to a Missing Persons bulletin. Every time an unidentified body was found her heart skipped a beat. She searched for the girl in every homeless soul on the street and in the eyes of every woman she passed, tricked into seeing something that wasn’t there. Turquoise knew how easily she could have wound up dead herself: she had slipped through its clutches too many times. It wasn’t right that she forgot.

  The truth gnawed at her. She had to make it right…but she had no idea how.

  As she climbed from the pool she noticed a figure sitting in the shade of a pine tree, wearing a black swimming costume, a large floppy-brimmed hat and huge sunglasses. A pale blonde pigtail snaked down one shoulder and the girl’s face was absorbed in a book.

  Turquoise patted herself dry, wringing out her hair and securing it in a high knot.

  ‘Kristin White?’

  If she’d given herself time to think about it she might have stayed quiet: Kristin was in mourning, she’d be here in pursuit of solitude, but the name was out before she checked it.