Temptation Island

‘Anything for you.’

‘We should dye it as well,’ said Aurora. ‘Bleach it. So it’s kinda white.’

Ramon grinned. ‘I like it.’

Sherilyn ground out her Marlboro. ‘Are you sure? It sounds extreme …’

‘I am extreme, Mom. And this is my party.’

‘All right, if that’s what’ll make you happy …’ She drifted out to the pool.

‘Is your mom doped?’ asked Ramon.

‘Probably,’ said Aurora as he began mixing the colour. ‘I don’t blame her. I’ve been a bitch lately.’ And she did honestly feel bad about the pool-table thing, but the fact was that in its aftermath her life hadn’t changed at all. Some days she thought her mother could do with an electric shock, or a cattle prod, something that frazzled her; something that brought her back to life. But if that hadn’t done it, what would?

Ramon applied the cold mixture to her roots and didn’t comment.

Aurora was watching a shirtless guy string lights in the trees by the pool. So was her mom by the looks of it. Ew! Weren’t you meant to switch those bits off when you got married? An image popped up of Sherilyn and Tom getting it on. Maybe they didn’t any more, seeing as they were now, like, way old. But they must have—at least once. Yuck yuck YUCK.

She spied a gossip rag poking out of Ramon’s bag. On the front was her so-called best friend Farrah Michaels wearing a solemn expression above the headline: BFFs AT WAR: ‘AURORA NASH SHOULD BE IN JAIL!’ It was hardly a war, thought Aurora, since it was entirely onesided: she wasn’t the one mouthing off to the press at every available opportunity, all for a bit of cheap publicity. Farrah was just bitter because she’d split with Boy-Band-Christian after he was found cheating on her with a dwarf while on tour in Vegas.

She tossed the magazine down, pissed.

‘Hold still!’ commanded Ramon, swiping at her head with his brush. The dye stank and she told him so. ‘Your hair will stink too if you don’t do as I say.’

Outside, Sherilyn was on the phone. She was frowning and nodding. When she came back in, Aurora demanded to know what was going on. Weirdly, her mother ignored her. Instead, she addressed Ramon.

‘How long will this take?’

‘Don’t hurry him, Mom, it’s important.’

‘So is this.’ Sherilyn closed her cell. ‘That was your father. He’s got some news to share with you.’ She took a deep breath. ‘He’s taking us for lunch at Il Cielo.’

‘Is it about the party?’

Sherilyn hesitated. ‘Not exactly,’ she said.

‘What, then?’

A pause. ‘Let’s wait till lunchtime, shall we?’

She could feel Ramon’s curiosity wafting off him like heat. ‘What was that about?’ he asked when Sherilyn had disappeared next door.

Aurora yawned. ‘I expect Dad’s bought me another car,’ she mused. ‘They’ll want it to be a surprise, but I guess they have to tell me if they want to co-ordinate it with the arrival of the stallion. To be honest, I don’t know where I’ll keep another one—and anyway, I don’t even have my permit!’

‘Your mother and I have one last gift for you,’ said Tom over lunch. The waiter refilled their water. Cubes of ice tinkled and cracked in the glass, melting slowly in the afternoon sun. Il Cielo boasted a gorgeous terrace and, as ever, Tom Nash and his family had secured the best table.

Aurora, admiring her new bleached-blonde hairstyle in an enormous window, grinned. ‘Cool! What is it?’

A gaggle of fans approached. Tom swore under his breath at the fresh interruption but smiled pleasantly enough as he and Sherilyn signed scraps of paper and the backs of tabs. Women fancied Tom Nash like crazy: his alpha vibe rendered them babbling incoherent wrecks. They fell for his Southern charm with its twist of LA polish; they adored his vocal Republican stance. Tom was all about tradition, about core values, work ethic and the importance of family. They lapped it up like kittens.

On the other hand, everyone regarded Aurora, and her new hairstyle, with a pinch of trepidation, as though she were a sitting bomb that could blast off at any second. Fine, fuck the lot of them. Aurora sighed loudly, impatient for her dad to spill.

Sherilyn forked her barely touched crab linguine. ‘Go on, Tom,’ she said softly.

Aurora frowned. What could they have bought her? Maybe it wasn’t a car, after all. Maybe it was something sicker that even she hadn’t imagined—and she’d imagined most things.

At last, Tom spoke. ‘We’re sending you to England.’

Aurora was pleased. ‘London? Can I stay at the Dorchester again?’

‘Not exactly a shopping trip, honey,’ said Sherilyn.

There was an uncomfortable pause.

‘Boarding school,’ said Tom, clearing his throat. WHAT?

‘What?’ shrieked Aurora, horrified.

Her parents exchanged glances. ‘That’s right,’ said Tom. ‘And it’s not in London. It’s a prestigious, little-known school in the North. You’ll receive the attention you need there.’

Aurora’s mouth was hanging open. She couldn’t believe it.

‘You can’t do this to me,’ she squawked. ‘I won’t go. I’m not going. Boarding school?’ The very word conjured images of prison bars and child labour.

Sherilyn touched her arm. ‘We didn’t take this decision lightly,’ she crooned. ‘But we do think it’s the best thing for you. After what happened with—’ she cleared her throat ‘—Sebastian Ortega. And crashing the Ferrari. And Mink Ray.’

‘What do you know about Mink Ray?’ Aurora’s face was burning. Had they been spying on her?

‘You’ll be home every few weeks for vacation,’ said Tom. ‘And we’ve organised a guardian for you in London so you can be there for exeats.’

Aurora didn’t even know what the word meant. This was a fucking outrage!

‘You can’t make me go,’ she said, lip wobbling.

But Tom remained uncharacteristically steadfast. ‘It’s for your own good,’ he said, sawing his veal in a manner that suggested the end of the discussion. ‘Therapy doesn’t work, rehab doesn’t work … This is our last option and we believe it will be the making of you.’

‘And this is meant to be my birthday present? Are you kidding me?’

Tom’s face softened. ‘Well—’ he put down his cutlery and smiled tentatively ‘—I was going to wait till tomorrow, but since you asked … We’ve got you that Porsche you wanted as well.’

‘Fuck the fucking Porsche,’ lashed Aurora, scraping her chair back and getting to her feet. She lifted her mother’s glass of red wine and emptied it pointlessly over the ciabatta rolls.

She was going to England over her dead body. There was no fucking way.

12 Stevie

Stevie woke to the glare of sunlight. She had a slight headache brought on by too many cocktails the previous evening, and foggily remembered the bar that she and Will Gardner had ended up in. Weeks had passed since they’d met at Linus Posen’s party and she supposed they’d begun a relationship of sorts, insofar as nights out and occasional sex went. Will knew little of her life and she saw no reason why he should: she’d been frank at the outset that she wasn’t in it for a relationship and he’d claimed he was happy with that.