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But, it did. Somehow, it did.
They rode the freeway on Rico’s bike. Lori loved the feel of the wind in her hair, the way it whipped round her legs and filled her lungs with air. For those moments she could forget. She could be a new woman, whoever she wanted.
Rico lived in a beat-up apartment with his mother but she was out of it on drugs and didn’t hear them come in. His father wasn’t around, and his brother Diego, chief of El Peligro, the most feared gang in Santa Ana, hadn’t been home in a week. No one asked why.
‘We should leave,’ said Lori when they were in his room. ‘Just go.’
Rico put music on. ‘Where?’ He lit a cigarette.
Lori sat cross-legged on his bed. It was a mess, strewn with unwashed clothes, and Rico hauled his T-shirt over his head with one hand and tossed it on to the crumpled mound. She knew he had it worse than she did. Her family was poor, the women were unkind, but at least she knew when she got in at night that she wouldn’t find her father overdosed in a chair, vomit down his front and his tongue bit in half. The first time Rico had found his mom, he’d been only ten.
‘Anywhere,’ she said. ‘Anywhere’s better than here. I’m tired of LA.’
Rico inhaled smoke. ‘You’re tired of your end of it.’ He opened the window and leaned out. A group of boys were fighting in the dusty street and the sound of it washed in, a dry shower of curses and the exploratory flare of violence. ‘We just got the bad deal, didn’t we? Everything you dream about is right here, Lori, just around the corner. You’re on top of it. It’s that close.’
‘Hollywood?’
Rico lifted his shoulders. ‘Something like it. You’re pretty enough. Damn it, you’re beautiful.’ He set his jaw. ‘You can do anything you want.’
‘That’s not what they say.’
‘What do you care what your family thinks?’ Rico’s voice tightened. He knew the Garcias looked down on him. They and their stupid Spanish friends treated him like shit because he was poor, from a bad lot, and his parents had been first-generations. Hadn’t they all started out in the same place? Hadn’t they all crossed a border at some point? Just because the Garcias had been in this city longer they felt able to spit on him, judge him, dismiss him.
‘Move in with me,’ he said bitterly. ‘Forget them.’
‘You know it’s not that easy.’
Rico tossed his smoke out of the window and joined her on the bed. ‘I wish you knew how special you are,’ he said, gathering her into his arms. Perhaps Lori was right—they should pack up and leave, go somewhere no one could find them. But his mother needed him. He wasn’t going to quit on her as his father had.
Lori breathed in her boyfriend’s scent: salt and sweetness, heat and hard work. Was this love? It must be. She didn’t want to lose Rico; he was all she had. And yet, as she felt his hands begin to roam, she was already preparing how to turn him away. Was there something wrong with her? None of the girls she knew had a problem with sex.
‘You drive me crazy,’ murmured Rico. He trailed his fingers down the front of her dress and over her curves. Man, she was hot. He didn’t know how much longer he could wait. It would be her first time and she wanted it to be right, he got that, but this was sending him wild. He was far from inexperienced himself, but recently he’d forgotten what sex felt like.
Lori let herself be kissed and reclined uncomfortably, putting her head back when Rico buried his face in her neck. Every so often she experienced a brief, sharp dart of desire, but it fizzed and died like a match in water. Maybe she was incapable of it—some people were. Other girls talked about getting so turned on by their boyfriends they were prepared to do anything, anywhere, but, as always, the moment Rico’s attentions became too fervent, a sense of claustrophobia overcame her and she had to get away.
‘Rico, don’t …’
He was moving down her body now, his hands on her breasts, attempting to free them as he kissed and bit her skin.
She didn’t want to offend him, knew she kept leading him on only to let him down. What was he doing with her? ‘No, Rico.’
‘Relax,’ he responded, just a muffle, ‘I promise I won’t hurt you.’ She felt his touch trail the inside of her thigh and hook the elastic of her knickers.
Roughly she pushed at him. ‘I told you, I’m not ready.’ She sat up, pulling down the hem of her dress, her face flushed.
Rico bit back his frustration. Instead he put his arms around her. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t have …’ The early evening sun spilled in and drowned his golden chest with light, the pool of ink there blacker, more absolute, because of it. ‘You know I’ll wait however long it takes. I’d never force you. I promise.’
Lori felt guilty. She was being unfair. What was she holding out for? She had to do it eventually—and it might as well be with a man she knew adored her.
‘Do you trust me?’ Rico asked.
‘Of course.’
He nodded. ‘I love you.’
She met his eyes. ‘I love you, too,’ she said, but she didn’t know what the words meant.
5 Aurora
Aurora gunned the engine of her cherry-red Ferrari Spider. It purred beneath her as she waited at the lights. The sky was apricot and the air smelled sugary, the sun a melting orb that dipped hot below the horizon.
She and her girlfriends were on their way to Basement, their favourite Hollywood hangout. It was Friday night, which meant all the names that meant anything would be out and ready to party. Kids of famous parents, heiresses and socialites, child stars, models, they’d all be there: wholesome favourites with secret coke addictions, virgin starlets who’d spend the night promising a blow job to their managers, alpha-male young actors with an eye for the boys as well as the girls … Inside the car, a bottle of vodka was being passed round. Joints were being rolled. Lines being cut. They were totally baked and the night hadn’t even begun.
At a red light, Aurora caught sight of a super-hot Latino guy on a bike next to her. He had more than a passing resemblance to Rafael Nadal, who she had a major thing for. A pretty girl was clinging to his waist—she looked like a gypsy, with masses of black hair and long, tanned legs. For a fleeting moment Aurora imagined being in bed with both of them at the same time. Maybe she was a fucking nympho—the thought had occurred to her before.
The lights changed and the boy sped off. In his place, an open-top Jeep packed with surfers on their way back from the beach. They were shirtless, still wet, whooping at the girls to get their attention, their piercings glinting in the fading light. One of them made an obscene gesture at Aurora.
‘You strapped in?’ she asked the others. Farrah Michaels, her best friend and daughter of the head of a mega Hollywood production studio, sniffed and coughed. Her eyes were glassy.
‘Your dad’s gonna freak if you waste the car.’
Aurora revved the engine. Someone beeped. The driver of the Jeep winked. One of the guys stood up, pulled down his shorts and slapped his bare ass. The girls squealed. Jenna Reynolds, in the back, lifted her top and jiggled two enormous breasts in response.
‘Jerk-offs.’ Aurora floored it and the Ferrari roared to life, nought to sixty in a matter of seconds. The other car didn’t stand a chance. In the rear-view mirror Aurora saw the Jeep recede to a pinpoint before vanishing completely.
Jenna was thrown back against the seat. She struggled to get her top down. ‘Ow!’ she complained. ‘Fucking hell.’ Farrah was laughing.
Aurora took another swig from the bottle. She turned on to Sunset at speed. The Ferrari’s tyres squealed.
‘Uh, hello?’ complained Farrah, grappling to retrieve her smoking paraphernalia. ‘Some of us are trying to get high?’
Moments later they pulled up outside Basement. Aurora was striking in a clinging white minidress, killer heels and statement arm jewellery. Her pale blonde crop looked incredible against her bronzed skin. Her blue eyes were lined with kohl. The other girls, though each attractive in her own right, paled in comparison.
The paparazzi were out in force. They clamoured for Aurora the instant she exited the vehicle. ‘Aurora! This way! Look this way, Aurora! Aurora, over here!’
She chucked her keys at a waiting valet. He fumbled the catch and dived to the floor to retrieve them. Aurora led the way inside.
The club was pounding. She headed for the VIP area and proceeded to order them all shots. Farrah, a pretty redhead, scoped the place for the member of a teen boy-band sensation she’d heard would be making an appearance. To the public the band were all good innocent Christians, but rumour said different of at least one. Apparently he was into dildos.
Aurora was used to the looks she got. Everyone in this town knew who she was and who her parents were. A British DJ had remixed one of Sherilyn Rose’s songs and it was currently storming the download charts. No doubt they’d play it tonight in her honour. Secretly she found it embarrassing. She was tight with her dad but her mom was another matter. Maybe it was the same with all moms: they were a reminder of what you could look like in fifty years or whatever. OK, not fifty, but close. She shuddered.
Last week had been her parents’ anniversary. For some reason, every year, they celebrated it by buying her a gift, like she was the reason they were still together, or something. It was messed up. But she wasn’t about to say no to a two-hundred-thousand-dollar ride, was she? Hence the Ferrari. Farrah had been right: Tom would throw a shit fit if he knew she was using it to party, but, still, what he didn’t know couldn’t hurt him. Aurora was his little girl and nothing she did could be anything short of wonderful. Did he even know where she was tonight? She couldn’t work out if he and Sherilyn genuinely had no idea about her lifestyle or if it suited them to be ignorant. She guessed they had enough else to think about without a tearaway daughter who was bedding everything in sight.
Aurora ended up on the lap of Olympic idol Jax Jackson, who had a cock that was allegedly so huge it had acquired a myth-like status. From where she was perched it didn’t feel like much. He had masses of bling around his neck and a solid-gold watch that probably cost more than the car. Across the bar she spotted Farrah pressed up against Boy-Band-Christian. Jenna, who’d starred in several kids’ adventures when she was seven but had never lost the puppy fat, was dancing in a circle of admiring males. Aurora felt bored.
‘Why’n’t we skip the bullshit,’ proposed Jax, ‘an’ you come home with me?’ He shifted on the banquette, pressing his growing erection into her backside. ‘Throw our own little party, whaddaya say?’
Aurora had never done it with a black guy; it’d make a change. But she was wasted, properly wasted. She felt kind of sick. Abruptly, she stood up. ‘I’m leaving.’
‘Jeez.’ He slid his attentions to an adjacent blonde. ‘Suit yourself.’ It was an effort to get across the club. She managed to peel Farrah away from her boyfriend—’boy’ being the operative word—and shout in her ear that she was going.
‘Already?’ Farrah was shocked. ‘How’m I gonna get home?’
Aurora couldn’t be bothered to answer. That was Farrah’s problem. Either she was coming or she wasn’t.
‘I’m not coming,’ said Farrah. Boy-Band-Christian grabbed her chin and stuck his tongue in her mouth. Aurora saw it slide in like a horrible slug and she experienced an intense rush of disliking her best friend. This whole scene was tired out. She’d had enough of it. Every day the same: endless partying, endless guys, endless everything.
If Farrah was staying, she could sort Jenna out, too.
Outside, the cameras lunged at her. In seconds her car was brought round and she jumped in, switching the ignition. Fuck. She was out of her head, shouldn’t be driving, probably. But no one told her so. No one ever told her so.
She’d been on Sunset for a minute, maybe two, when she started feeling properly like shit. She’d done too much: her eyelids were heavy, her limbs shutting down.
I’m going to pass out, she thought. Car horns blared.
The last thing she remembered was her head hitting the wheel, hard, painfully. Then everything went black.
6 Stevie
Bibi Reiner was a firework. She was tiny, everything about her compact, with this amazing scrawl of frizzy auburn hair and huge, wide green eyes. Since welcoming Stevie at the door of her apartment over a month ago, she had barely stopped talking.
‘You and me are gonna have such a blast!’ she’d gabbled as she led Stevie through her place on West 54th, at once assuming their living together was a done deal, something Stevie found incredibly friendly. They were at the top of an impressive redbrick with views over Central Park, and inside were bright white walls, spotlights and parquet flooring. Stevie’s room was spacious, light and airy, with tons of storage and a luxurious king-size bed. Over the summer it had been occupied by Bibi’s brother, like her an aspiring actor, but he’d since relocated to LA, leaving the room free. Stevie had called at the right time. She couldn’t believe her luck.
‘How was your flight?’ Bibi had chattered. ‘What’s going on in London? I love London. What do you do? What do you eat? I’m a vegan, which means I don’t eat meat or dairy, but I will have a hot dog once a year because I love them. Also, I’m a Buddhist. I don’t drink alcohol but I do drink champagne. I have to get nine hours’ sleep every night otherwise I don’t function and my skin turns to crap. Your skin’s amazing, what do you use? You’re so pretty, far prettier than me. I’d love to have hair like yours; it’s so straight. Mine’s a total mess. Don’t you think? I’ve tried everything. Go on, be honest, it’s too much, isn’t it? I should dye it. Red? Or pink. I was thinking pink. And I want to get a tattoo on my back, here, of a butterfly.’ She’d reached awkwardly around, failing to get to the exact spot and laughing at herself. ‘Just a little one because they’re cute. But my agent says I’m limiting roles. I just wanna stand out, ya know?’
Bibi didn’t stop. But she was lovely, she was funny; she was sweet and she was kind. And for Stevie, who only talked when there was something to say, she was in many ways the ideal person to share with. The girls were different but they clicked instantly. Bibi thought Stevie was the most gorgeous creature she had ever seen because she had this air of calm and wisdom, something Bibi had always coveted in others because she herself was a ditz: things popped into her head and she just blurted them out, pouf!
Despite the fact that Stevie had moved in five weeks ago, she was still struggling to find work. Her rent was fair, in fact it was better than fair, but she was already scraping the barrel of her savings. It wasn’t for lack of trying—she’d walked the city till her feet gave in, leaving her CV anywhere that looked as if it might need staff—but in honesty her lack of progress was more down to the fact that Bibi was constantly suggesting lunches out, parties, shopping and coffee with her friends so Stevie could be introduced. She was infinitely generous, with everything.
It was a Thursday. Stevie was lying on her front on the bed, intermittently yawning, her chin resting in the cup of one hand while the other tapped aimlessly through job sites. She didn’t even know any longer what she was looking for. Every time she landed on one that seemed suitable, she’d spot that the closing date had already expired, or she had to be based in a different city, or it required a proven qualification she didn’t have.
Always academic at school, she’d opted out of university to the disappointment of her teachers. Her dad had walked when she was fifteen and there followed an awkward few years: she’d wanted to get out into the real world and earn a living, because he’d left them with next to nothing and she’d decided that never again would she be in a position of dependency. Well, that was the reason she gave herself. More likely was that her mum was trying to raise and provide for an army of kids and a slug of university fees was the last thing they could sustain.
Working life hadn’t been as glamorous or as productive as Stevie had imagined, however she’d found a niche that paid well and played to her skills. She’d been a PA now, in varying degrees of responsibility, for nearly ten years. She was efficient, organised and unflustered. Or, she had been, up until a year ago. But that depended on who you were working for.
There was a knock at the door. A beaming Bibi stuck her head round.
‘Can I come in?’
‘Sure.’ Stevie smiled back. Her smile was one of the best things about her, the sort of smile she gave her whole face to. In repose she could appear quite solemn: it was more concentration than anything else, but all the same it made the contrast a dazzling surprise.
Bibi, dressed in faded dungarees and an eighties-style bandana, bustled in with two mugs of coffee. She laid them down and flopped backwards on to the bed.
‘I need a boyfriend!’ she announced dramatically.
Stevie snapped shut her laptop. ‘You don’t need a boyfriend; you want a boyfriend. There’s a difference.’
‘Are you a feminist?’
‘Aren’t you?’
Bibi shrugged and looked at the ceiling. She covered one eye, then the other, and did this a few times. ‘I can see better out my left.’
‘Maybe you need glasses.’
‘Maybe. Wanna go out?’
Stevie sat up. ‘I can’t afford it, B.’ She rubbed her forehead. ‘I need to find a job.’
‘You need to?’
‘Yes. Otherwise what am I going to pay you with at the end of the month?’
‘Come on,’ said Bibi, not listening. She yawned in her usual theatrical way, stretching her arms wide. She’d assured Stevie that the apartment belonged to some distant aunt and she was getting a ‘ridiculously sweet’ deal, but Stevie saw no reason why she should take advantage of this, and anyway she disliked not having work, it made her feel like a waster.
‘Oh my God!’
Stevie was alarmed. ‘What?’
‘My friend’s having a party tonight!’ She sprang up. ‘I just remembered! We should go!’
Stevie stared balefully at her laptop.
‘Let’s go now!’ And she bounced off the bed.
‘It’s three o’clock.’
‘So? We’ll go shopping on the way.’ At Stevie’s expression, she added slyly, ‘There’ll be guys there. And you know what guys mean? Flirting. And you know what flirting means?’
‘Waking up in someone’s bed the next day without a clue what their name is?’
Bibi looked innocent. ‘I was going to say a bit of banter, but if you—’
Stevie threw a cushion at her.
‘Come on—’ Bibi checked her reflection in the mirror and adjusted the bandana above her ears ‘—they’re actors, it’ll be fun!’
This was a further disincentive. Stevie loved Bibi and had no doubt that one day she’d be a famous and very talented actress—it was all she had ever wanted to do, Bibi vowed, her whole entire life—but she had, apart from where Bibi was concerned, a slight phobia of that world. Take the Aurora Nash scandal, for instance. Stevie felt sorry for the girl, she was only fifteen or something, and her mug shot had been all over the papers. Last month she’d crashed the car Daddy had bought her and ended up getting arrested. She’d had enough drugs in her system to tranquillise a horse. In fact one of the drugs was for tranquillising horses. It was a spoiled, desperate scene. All that mindless excess, it wasn’t her thing.
Stevie’s last job had been working as PA to the director of a firm dealing in high-profile celebrity court cases: divorces, injunctions, political scandals, they’d handled it all. As part of that she’d been obliged to attend the occasional industry bash and had found each one unbearable. Cash made these people invincible, or so they thought. Stevie recalled him working flat out on a case shortly after she joined involving a married news anchor who’d been filmed dressing up four twenty-something Russian prostitutes as characters from The Wizard of Oz—it was their job to keep the press off the scent. She resisted the memory. That had been the case that started it. The late nights … the way he’d stand at the window loosening his tie, the spires of London behind, silhouetted in gold … the invitation of a drink, and then.
‘You do like men, don’t you?’ Bibi interrupted her train of thought. ‘Because this one time I kissed my best friend, who’s a girl, at holiday camp when I was, like, sixteen.’
Stevie shook her head. ‘So …?’
‘So are you gay?’
‘No.’
