Wicked Ambition

‘We’ll see you in groups of thirty, three rows of ten,’ Marc Delgado told them. ‘When I hold my hand up like this, front row goes to the back and the next comes forward. Clear?’

The studio was a kaleidoscopic jumble of leg warmers, slashed T-shirts and hairstyles that rivalled even her own. California-tanned bellies peeked out above hip-hugging slouch pants, and smooth, powerful limbs practised stretch warm-ups with ease. There couldn’t be more than an ounce of fat in the room. Robin didn’t think she’d ever seen so many gorgeous people in the same place: African, Asian, Caucasian, Hispanic, each was as cute as the next.

‘This is going to be tough,’ she said, grabbing a coffee and taking her place alongside Marc and Barney. Barney was flipping through the dancers’ profiles.

‘Jeez, where do we start?’

‘Stamina,’ Marc advised. ‘These guys need to be able to perform night after night and week after week. Today should give you an idea of how they keep pace. We’ll have the finalists moving for an hour or more, but any sign of flagging, breathlessness or ill-coordination and it’s a no as far as I’m concerned.’

‘Harsh!’ said Robin.

Marc shrugged. ‘But true.’

The routines fired up to Robin’s opening number ‘Told You So’ and an army of bodies slipped into the choreographed routine. Marc had arranged a killer string of steps, jagged one minute, supple the next, and the dancers adhered with poise and precision.

After the first round the panel conferred, starring the names of those they’d call back and striking through any who hadn’t made it. Marc explained it was a rigorous process and the dancers selected would be made to endure several gruelling cycles before decisions were made. He found Robin’s determination to employ a majority of women refreshing, and unlike most stars he’d worked with she was unthreatened by their beauty. ‘If you’re doing me a hot show, Marc, then I want the hottest girls there are.’

Take two surrendered some formidable talent. The competition was brutal. Several dancers quit, short of air or fumbling their steps, and once the momentum was broken it was hard to get back. Robin had taken basic training when her star began its ascent, in how to cover the stage, how to move while holding her voice and how to execute a basic catalogue of struts, but not nearly enough to compete with the professionals. To be dismissing them felt cruel, but as Marc kept pointing out they had to get the numbers down somehow.

It was a thrill to be amassing her troupe. They would be like one big crew on the road, and she wasn’t just picking a bunch of randoms to take the stage, she was picking people with whom she’d be content to spend time, people who might become friends.

‘Like them,’ Barney had counselled on the way over, ‘but trust them more.’

A runner put his head round the door. Marc went to shoo him off but he gestured at Robin with a tentative, ‘Sorry to disturb. Phone call for Ms Ryder.’

Robin looked up. ‘Who is it?’

‘The girl says it’s family. I wouldn’t have interrupted otherwise…’

Robin was puzzled. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, ‘this won’t take long.’

Family?

Outside the corridor was deserted, quiet apart from the shouts of kids passing on the street several storeys below. There was a booth, the phone resting expectantly on a little plastic counter. Robin scooped it up. ‘Hello?’

Nothing.

‘Hello?’ she repeated.

She went to replace the receiver, thinking the line must have been cut off, when she began to detect a very faint breathing, so delicate it was hardly there.

‘Who is it?’ she demanded. ‘Who is this?’

The breathing was quickening, deepening, getting louder. Thickly she remembered the walker at her heels in London. The dodgy fan mail. And then three words, faint and rattling, so muffled that she couldn’t be at all sure but she thought a female voice rasped:

‘I’m watching you…’

Robin slammed the phone down. Her heart was in her throat and her fingers were trembling. I’m closer than you think…

It took minutes for her to gather herself. It’s nothing. It’s nobody. She was knackered, that was all; it was the jet lag. So what if some psycho got off on the sound of her voice? It was common enough in this industry.

Back in the audition, Barney mouthed, ‘Everything OK?’ and Robin nodded, smiling as brightly as she could. There was no point raising it; she’d only get told what she already knew. Besides, since when did she let herself get spooked?

She resolved to brush it off and focus on the job.

As she observed the next group fall into position, one particular dancer caught her eye. Robin checked his picture against the list. Farrell. Twenty-one years old. With his light chocolate skin and bright green eyes, he reminded her of someone.

Leon Sway.

Idiotically she had Googled him the previous night. She’d drunk too much champagne at a launch with Barney, and on returning to her hotel had heard him mentioned on the radio.

Countless sites had sprung up, led by an article beginning Leon Christopher Sway, born 1988 in East Compton, Los Angeles…which she’d meant to open but hadn’t. Instead she had been drawn to the line of thumbnail shots running below and had clicked on Image Results. Most of the snaps saw the Olympian breaking through the finish in London, face to the open sky, arms stretched wide—she could think what she liked of him, but that body…In others he was alongside Jax Jackson, head to head, neck and neck, the man he couldn’t beat, the photos mocked up to present the athletes locked in mortal combat. A glance showed there were hordes of blogs and fan sites devoted to him.

Sexiest man in the world. Ultimate boyfriend. Superhuman. The list went on.

One picture had jumped out. It was Leon with a woman, snapped at LAX. The woman was kissing him, her arms around his neck, and Leon was grinning dizzily through the adulation. Ridiculously, something in Robin had sunk. She’d snapped the laptop shut.

‘I don’t like him,’ she said to Marc now, nodding to Farrell as the routine struck up. ‘Front row, tall, grey sneakers. Let’s not see him again.’

The meet with Puff City took place the following afternoon at Slink Bullion’s mansion on Long Beach—he liked to keep things relaxed, apparently. As Robin’s car cruised through the sweltering grid of LA, reaching the ocean with its silver, glittering harbour and wide straight roads lined with majestic palms, she gathered her nerve. As a rule she didn’t let other people daunt her, but Puff City were a notorious crew. If they agreed on collaboration, not only would it be a personal triumph, it would seal her fate as the one to watch in America. With her Beginnings tour fast approaching, the game was on.

She pulled out her iPhone and checked her emails.

Wait till you see this place. B x

Barney had attended a lunch with record execs and had planned to meet her there, but, while normally she didn’t mind going places alone, on this occasion she was glad he’d made it first. She scrolled through several unread messages before deciding she was too anxious to absorb them properly. Before she closed the account her eye fell on Turquoise da Luca’s name. Robin had contacted her the morning after Friday Later: she’d been surprised at Turquoise’s sudden withdrawal and couldn’t forget the haunted look in her eyes. What was going on?

Sorry to split, Turquoise had mailed back. Run down, that’s all. Let’s do it next time.

The car changed lanes and peeled away from the beach, pulling up moments later at an awesome set of twisting gates. Robin’s driver spoke into the intercom and the entrance swung open, revealing a lush spread of verdant gardens, through the middle of which threaded their path. At its summit was the infamous mansion: it had appeared once on MTV Cribs, inciting alternate waves of marvel and disgust across media forums. Did anyone seriously need sixteen bedrooms and as many en suites? Were a private gym, games room and spa really necessary? Could both an indoor and outdoor Jacuzzi swimming pool be justified when there were people starving in the world? But Slink Bullion lived by his own rules. From the streets of Brooklyn to the castles of LA, Slink had strived for every cent and couldn’t care who knew it.

Seven (she had to count) vehicles were parked out front, ahead of a garage Robin suspected housed yet more: a burnished black Rolls-Royce Phantom; an ice-white Mercedes McLaren SLR with flashing alloys; a two-hundred-thousand-dollar Ferrari 458; a colossal red Hummer Pickup…and the rest. Each boasted a personalised licence plate, which put paid to any doubt that they all belonged to Slink. SL1NK A. SLNKWISE. 5LINKY.

A woman in hot pants and a sparkly bikini top met her at the door.

‘Yeah?’

‘I’m Robin.’

‘And?’

‘I’ve got an appointment.’

The woman looked her up and down a tad bitchily: she was Shawnella, Slink’s live-in, long-suffering lover, a gorgeous black girl with legs that went on for miles.

‘Baby!’ she yelled into the hall. ‘You got a visitor.’ She blew a strawberry bubble in Robin’s face and fixed her with a stare.

‘What’s up, Robin Ryder?’ Slink came to greet her, a heavy black guy in a Red Sox sweatshirt, a baseball cap wedged over his cornrows. ‘Good t’ finally meet you.’