Dressed to Thrill

‘Oh, Michael—for heaven’s sake, she’s in her bed! She’s been working all week and she’s only young. Try to remember what it was like and give her a little rope. Hmmm?’ Angelica flicked on the coffee-maker and swept about, producing crockery and cream.

The trouble was he remembered only too clearly what it was like to be young. Not the details, but enough to know that night was day, uppers balanced downers and sex was available everywhere. Enough to realise that it was a carefully choreographed disaster, directed by his management and enjoyed by his fans. And had he not had the cold shower of his mother’s death it might have ended up for him the way it had for too many others.

So when Angelica suggested ‘a little rope’ he would be using it to tie Fernanda down until she was mature enough to cope with it. Different story if she’d been like Angelica—but she was too volatile still. And this interest in the fashion scene was a worry. One that had to be carefully watched. Starting now.

‘Breakfast? Have you eaten?’

‘No, thanks—nothing.’

He walked on into the apartment and up to the spare bedroom, knocked swiftly on the door, cocked an ear and entered. The smell of booze hit him square in the face. He walked to the sleeping mound and stood over her. She was zoned out. Totally. So she had hit a wall last night.

He moved to the window and pulled open the curtains. Then back to the bed.

‘Morning, Fernanda.’

‘She needs to sleep, Michael—leave her be.’

Angelica had come in and was fussing about, lifting clothes and folding them. The room looked like a thrift shop. There was a huge glass of water at the side of the bed and jewellery and clothes trailed everywhere.