Temptation Island

‘Stevie’s from England,’ said Bibi, in a way that managed to make it sound exotic.

Carrie looked bored. ‘It must be quite something for you to be at a party of Linus Posen’s,’ she said unpleasantly. ‘Are you in the business?’

Stevie shook her head. ‘I’m a sales assistant,’ she told her, correctly anticipating the admission would pass like a bad smell under Carrie’s nose and feeling satisfied when it did. Why should she be made to feel self-conscious? After much searching, she’d finally landed a part-time position at a clothes store on Broadway and was proud of every cent she earned.

Carrie smiled tightly as Bibi blathered on, her eyes skipping across the room for a more interesting and important person to talk to. Stevie became aware of someone watching her and was compelled to turn round. A man with longish brown hair that curled under his ears was standing several feet away, his gaze unwavering even at having been found out. He raised his glass in her direction. He had a cute smile. She smiled back, regretted her haste and looked away.

‘Come on!’ sang Bibi, linking her arm once Carrie Pearce had departed. Stevie followed her friend through the crowd where, excruciatingly, they had to join a sort of queue to speak to Linus. She saw his spongy white head gleaming under the considerable lighting.

When at last Bibi’s turn came to speak to the famous director, she introduced herself as though they were old friends, chatting away happily while Linus impassively listened, every so often chucking a soft salty devil-on-horseback between his fleshy lips and chewing ferociously. He ate with his mouth open, sweet prune pulping on his tongue, and stared blankly and brazenly at Bibi’s breasts for the duration. Stevie, hovering behind, felt disgusted.

Men like Linus made her skin crawl. They believed their position gave them entitlement to any woman they felt like pursuing, confident there’d be plenty in reserve if that one said no. It didn’t mean anything. They could speak all they liked of love and the future, of leaving their wife, of making it real—and they didn’t mean a damn word. And before the object of their attentions could snap out of it, the spell cast—of sleepless nights and pining and lusting, of dreaming pointlessly of a happy ever after—she woke one day and realised she’d abandoned who she was, the morals and standards that she’d stood by, all for the sake of …

‘Bibi, are you going to introduce me to your … ravishing friend?’

Stevie blinked. Linus was gawking straight at her. Bibi was bouncing up and down in the background and pointing frenetically: because she rarely drank, the champagne had gone straight to her head and her cheeks were flushed pink. Her eye make-up had smudged. ‘Of course!’ she squealed, ecstatic. ‘Stevie Speller, this is Linus Posen.’ She gave Stevie a little excited thumbs-up when Linus leaned in to take her hand.

‘The pleasure’s all mine,’ he said huskily, and she shivered as his lips met her skin.

‘Steve’s rooming with me,’ said Bibi proudly. There was a protracted silence during which Stevie could practically see a reel of corresponding images turning over in the director’s mind. ‘Isn’t she a doll?’

Linus smirked, his eyes hooded. ‘I’ll say,’ he leered, absorbing Stevie’s classic beauty, her pale, oval face and the dark, almond-shaped eyes hidden behind her glasses. A good girl. Sensible. The kind of girl who’d tell you off for misbehaving. ‘She’s irresistible.’

Discreetly Linus folded a card into Bibi’s hand, then into Stevie’s. For politeness’s sake, Stevie took it. It didn’t look like a business card, more a private one: simply the director’s initials and a phone number. ‘Look me up if you ever need work,’ he said meaningfully. ‘I sincerely hope you will.’ And she could tell he was in no doubt of receiving her call: the cards had been dispensed with the same tolerant indulgence as with sweets to children.

Bibi seized hers with enthusiasm. ‘Did you hear that?’ she chirruped when he’d gone. ‘He just offered me a job! Steve, he offered us a job! Can you believe it? This is it for us! It starts right here!’ She clutched Stevie. ‘Oh. My. God. We’ll be like a double act. We’ll be famous, like a famous duo, like Cagney and Lacey! Or Thelma and Louise!’

‘I’m not sure, B, this seems a bit—’

‘What do you mean, you’re not sure? This is the hugest break ever! He’ll make us stars, both of us! Everything he touches turns to gold!’

Stevie turned the card over. ‘It looks kind of dodgy to me.’

‘Dodgy!’ Gleefully Bibi deposited her empty champagne flute and picked up another. She spotted Carrie Pearce and peeled off to tell her the good news. Stevie should have been relieved that Bibi was seeking her agent’s advice, but something told her Carrie did not have her client’s best interests at heart. She was unable to help the anxious feeling that had taken root.

Oh, she needed to get a grip! Linus might not be to her taste but it didn’t automatically mean he was evil. She had to get over feeling as if every man was a threat and she was on some crusade to save womankind from surrendering to his charms. She didn’t want to end up bitter and alone, but if she didn’t get over it then that was exactly the way she was going.

Pocketing the card, Stevie scanned the room and landed on the guy who had been—and clearly was still—watching her. He mouthed ‘hello’ and she found herself mouthing it back. He was attractive, even though she knew the continually replenished glasses of champagne were likely contributing to that, and making his way over, taking her reciprocation as an invite.

‘Hi.’ He held his hand out. ‘I’m Will.’ He was maybe a few years older than her, with a dent in his chin that deepened when he grinned.

She shook it. ‘Stevie.’

‘I like your accent,’ he said.

‘Thanks.’ She smiled, slipping into the groove of flirting though she’d left it to rust so long. ‘I like yours.’

There was a lapse in conversation while Will’s eyes lingered on her. He smelled good, like cinnamon. Stevie found herself wondering if it might help: just to do it, to be with someone else, so the time with him wasn’t the last time it had happened, like listening once more to a song that caused you heartache because you had to face that pain and let it be before it went.

‘D’you want to get out of here?’ he asked, lifting an eyebrow.

Stevie glanced over at Bibi, who was happily chatting on at her agent.

‘Sure,’ she said, before she could change her mind. ‘Why not?’

Will offered his hand. She took it.

Maybe New York was looking up, after all.

10 Lori

The hair got everywhere. Lori felt the coarse scratch of it beneath her nails, kept finding webs caught between her fingers, on her clothes, appearing on her pillow when she got into bed, bone-tired after another relentless day. She’d never imagined something so anodyne could cause her such torment. She was strangled by it, caught in a trap; it seemed to follow her, a constant reminder of the closed doors of her life, each strand thick as a chain.

But not any more. Today was her last at Tres Hermanas. After these final few hours, she would be shot of this city for good.

City of Angels. It hadn’t been for her. There had been no one watching out for her here.

‘Loriana!’ Anita’s summons sounded from the counter, where she was busy painting her talons, now so long they formed a corkscrew. ‘Go get us coffee, an’ make it quick, wouldya?’

Lori was prepping foils. ‘I’ll be right there,’ she called, swallowing a biting response. If her sisters caught on, they could blow the whole plan with Rico apart.

She headed to a local bar for the drinks, distracted as she put her order in. It was no matter: the Hispanic baristo knew it by heart.

‘There’s a mess out back needs cleanin’,’ commanded Anita when she returned, scarcely looking up to take the drinks as she pulverised a stick of gum. She was reading a magazine article about tearaway starlet Aurora Nash going into rehab—again. The way the young girl had so many opportunities and yet had flown in the face of all of them confused Lori. What did she have to be so angry about? Surely with a life like that there could be no room for unhappiness. Aurora had money, fame, success … and parents who loved her.

Uncomplaining, Lori moved to her next task. Anita seemed confused by her lack of retort and threw in for good measure: ‘The john could do with a scrub while you’re at it!’

A carton of juice had been spilled and left to congeal on the lino. It had attracted flies and Lori got to her hands and knees to lift the sticky, cloying mess, dousing it with hot water and towels, wiping the floor with one hand and the film of sweat from her brow with the other.

She had given up complaining since the fallout with Angélica. Instead she had kept quiet, pretended her relationship with Rico was over and held her tongue over her sisters’ taunts. All that time, she and Rico had been saving what little money they had and planning their route across America. She didn’t care how it turned out—she was thinking only of tomorrow and what it would feel like to wake up in a different place. She could almost taste independence, could touch it, like something physical. It was close.

The yard was dusty and Lori picked her way over the lot to the heap of stinking trash, adding her load to it with an upsurge of flies. A cockroach scuttled out and across her foot. She pushed thoughts of her father away, of what it meant to abandon him in this squalor and near-poverty. But she could not carry on like this. When she was settled elsewhere, working as many hours as she could, for nothing could be as backbreaking as the toil she had known here, she would send him the money he needed. It wasn’t abandonment; it was necessity.

As she was turning to go back inside she heard the rumble of an engine.

Rico. He pulled into the yard on his bike.

‘What are you doing?’ Lori cried, gesturing frantically for him to cut the ignition. ‘If someone sees you …!’ She didn’t dare finish.

Obligingly Rico jumped off the bike and wheeled it towards her. Lori kept the door to the salon open and pulled him into the shadow behind it. She was about to reiterate her anger before she saw how pale he looked. The white vest he was wearing was covered in mottled dirt.

‘Are you OK?’ she asked, putting a hand to his head. ‘Are you sick?’

‘I’m not sick.’

‘What’s the matter? You look bad.’

‘Nothin’.’ He seemed to be in a hurry.