Temptation Island

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‘But I don’t want to be safe!’ Lori found her hands were shaking. She thought about how reckless she had felt that afternoon at Tres Hermanas. How until that moment she had lived her safe, miserable life and no one had been there to show her there was more; a different way of feeling. Until him. ‘That’s the point! I want to be more than just the poor kid whose mama died.’

Corazón shook her head with infinite sadness. ‘No, querida. That is not how it is.’

‘I hate Angélica.’ She threw the vegetables into a waiting pan. Blue heat licked up the sides. ‘And I hate her daughters. If it weren’t for them—’

‘The blame cannot rest with Angélica. Tony changed after your mother died, and he did that all by himself … Maria was the love of his life.’

Lori nodded, biting her lip to stop the tears.

‘I cannot know what has been in his mind,’ continued Corazón, ‘the places he has gone to. But I can understand his decision to be with Angélica. She is strong, she takes control—’

‘She is unkind, she is hurtful … she has spent all our money—’

‘She is your father’s wife.’ Corazón watched her. ‘Whether you like it or not.’

Eventually her grandmother put a brittle arm round her shoulders. ‘Come,’ she said. ‘Didn’t I promise good things would happen to you here? You don’t get to my age without learning to trust your instincts.’ She kissed Lori’s head. ‘Wait and see, Loriana. Wait and see.’

Lori took the bus into Murcia twice a week. She hadn’t seen it after dark before, so, the following evening, Corazón encouraged her to venture into the city.

‘Are you sure?’ Lori had asked. She was nearing the end of her stay. ‘What about you?’

Her grandmother had smiled. ‘Go, have fun,’ she said, settling into her favourite chair with the radio by her side. Her eyes closed. ‘Watch the river for me.’

There was a fiesta happening in Murcia, a vibrant band of colour pouring through the streets. Locals in costume sang and blew fire into the night, the air was alive and the atmosphere infectious. Lori had worn her hair loose, an abundance of thick curls tumbling past her shoulders, and a simple yellow dress. The tan she had acquired in Spain was rich and deep, a burned amber—the sun was different here, more intense. Two small hoops glinted at her ears. She crossed the Puente de los Peligros, stopping to look out at the black and gold rush of the Segura. Beyond the rooftops and the spire of the gothic cathedral, mountain ranges soared into the sky. Lori imagined he was standing next to her. He would feel for her hand and hold it, his touch on her pulse, the engine of her blood.

She settled in a café in the Glorieta, the city square, and did not notice the woman staring at her from the bar, checking a small leatherbound book and then making her way over. Lori ordered a glass of red wine that was so sticky and viscous it clung to the sides like syrup.

‘Excuse me?’ a voice asked in Spanish.

Lori glanced up to see a striking woman, older than her, with a long sheet of glimmering dark hair. She had an unusual face with fine, high cheekbones and a large beauty spot in the middle of her cheek. ‘Could I use your ashtray?’

Lori didn’t smoke. She offered it to the woman. ‘Sure.’

Uninvited, the woman pulled out a chair. ‘I’m Desideria Gomez,’ she said, extending her hand. ‘I caught sight of you earlier, from the bar. I hope you don’t mind me joining you.’

Tentatively, Lori shook it.

‘Que linda.’ She lit her cigarette with a flourish. ‘You are very beautiful.’ With a questioning expression, she slid the pack across the table.

Lori smiled uncertainly. ‘No, thanks.’

‘Do you live here?’

‘I live in America. Los Angeles.’

The woman was surprised. ‘Really? That’s a coincidence. My company has a branch in LA.’ Desideria started talking English and Lori thought she was less attractive when she did. She blew out smoke in a thin, efficient stream. ‘I’m a talent scout, which means I get to do a lot of travelling—and hopefully, though rarely, come across girls like you.’

Lori wasn’t sure what her companion was getting at. There was a silence during which Desideria didn’t elaborate. Instead she continued to stare at Lori, so intently that after a while Lori began to feel uncomfortable. For something to say, she volunteered, ‘I’m vacationing with my grandmother. She lives out of town.’

‘But you’ll be going back? To LA, I mean.’

‘Yes.’ Her face must have betrayed regret because Desideria leaned forward.

‘What’s your name?’ she asked in Spanish.

‘Loriana Garcia Torres.’

Desideria put her head to one side. ‘Lori Garcia. I can see it.’ She appraised her. ‘I work for La Lumière.’

Lori waited.

‘Modelling agency? Best in the world?’ She flicked ash on to the ground, making Lori wonder why she’d wanted the ashtray in the first place. ‘Though, I suppose I would say that.’

‘That sounds fun.’

Desideria grinned, as if she couldn’t quite work the younger woman out. ‘Would you be interested?’ she asked.

‘In what?’

‘Work.’

Hope soared. ‘Yes, yes, I would,’ Lori began. ‘As it goes I have a job in a beauty salon already—nothing impressive, but I have a lot of skills, with hair, make-up and clothes as well as treatments. And I’m a very fast learner so anything you show me how to do, I’ll be quick to pick it up …’ She trailed off when Desideria started laughing.

‘I meant on our books.’ She sat back, her face moving in and out of shadow as lights from the carnival seeped over.

‘What books?’

‘As one of our models?’

Lori was baffled. ‘Your models,’ she repeated blankly.

‘You’re very sweet,’ observed Desideria, nodding as though a previous notion had been confirmed. ‘Innocent.’

‘A model?’

‘But with a sexy edge.’

Lori was embarrassed at the compliment.

‘It was a lie,’ said Desideria, ‘when I said I’d spotted you from the bar. The truth is I’ve been following you all evening. If you’re working behind a salon counter now, sweetheart, I can guarantee you won’t be for much longer. You’re gorgeous.’ She eyed her keenly, licked her bottom lip. ‘I mean,’ she said huskily, ‘I take it you’re straight?’

‘Yes.’ Lori wasn’t sure what that had to do with anything.

‘Do me a favour,’ said Desideria, reaching into her purse for a smart black card. On it, a stylish spotlight illuminated her name and number. ‘Soon as you’re back in LA, call me. We’ll bring you in for a shoot, see if the camera likes you, and, if it does, we’ll sign you up.’

Lori was dumbfounded. She took the card.

Again, Desideria laughed. ‘Promise me you will?’

‘I promise.’

‘Good.’ But Desideria insisted on scribbling Lori’s details down all the same. ‘I’m going to tell my boss about you.’ She looked up. ‘He’s a very big deal. If I don’t bring you back, Lori, he’ll never forgive me.’

19 Aurora

Pascale Devereux was something else. Within days the two girls were inseparable. Never had Aurora met such an impressive, strong-minded person, so different from her so-called friends back in LA who thought only about cars and clothes. Pascale was cultured, she had travelled; she was intelligent and interesting; she told Aurora things about the world and taught her what she didn’t know. She was clever and spirited and defiant in the face of the St Agnes teachers—she was also someone who, for whatever reason, the other girls, including Eugenie Beaufort, didn’t want to mess with. Pascale’s parents were Gisele and Arnaud Devereux, French politicians who held high positions in their country’s government. She was from powerful stock.

At last, Aurora felt she had met her match.

The girls did everything together—they sat in a disgruntled pair in lessons, they bunked off when they felt like it, they crept into each other’s dorms at night and lay in bed whispering secrets, they sneaked out of school after dark and smoked and drank miniatures that Pascale kept in a locked box under her bed. The nearest settlement was miles away, but somehow, with Pascale, it didn’t matter where they were. Aurora could talk to her new best friend for hours.