Temptation Island (18 page)

Her sisters were apoplectic with jealousy when they heard about the mystery scout and the modelling agency.

‘
You?
A
model
?’ they screeched, as, on her first night back, Lori relayed her news. They trailed her up to her bedroom, shouted through her closed door. ‘You’ll never make it. They probably just felt sorry for you!’ But it was when she explained she was moving out and quitting her position at
Tres Hermanas
that the shit properly hit. Horrified, they appealed to Angélica. ‘Mama,
do
something!’ The thought of Lori pursuing something they weren’t involved in was abominable, something as glamorous as this, monstrous.

Over the phone, Corazón pleaded her case with Tony. It
didn’t mean Lori was running away, nor did it mean she was set on misadventure—what it meant was that she had to grasp opportunities when they came along and explore a world separate to the one she had grown up in. To deny her that freedom would be to lose her. It wouldn’t be Rico Marquez who took her away, or rebellion, or drugs or sex or any of that—it would be the slow suffocation of a life in which no decision had been hers to make.

Two weeks later, Tony helped her move her possessions into a modest, basic apartment in West Hollywood. As she explored the plain grey block, for once she didn’t notice her father’s quiet.

‘Spain was good for you,’ he observed. ‘I was right about something. You’re different, Lori, you’ve grown.’

It was true. The last time she’d been in LA was as a child. Now, she was a woman.

‘I haven’t been here for you,’ he admitted. ‘It’s been easier not to be … a coward’s excuse, but an honest one. I’m sorry.’

Corazón had helped her understand. Tony might not have been much of a father over recent years, but he had done his best. ‘You don’t need to explain,’ she said.

He ran a hand through his thinning hair. She saw his regret was real. ‘You will always be my daughter, the most important thing to me. You do understand that, don’t you?’

They embraced. Tony held on so tight that Lori felt a tear spill from her eye, like he had squeezed it out of her.

The apartment was comprised of just two rooms that she planned to divide into independent living areas. Lori had few belongings and positioned them with care, relishing the novelty of her own space. She thought about the giant mansions
in Beverly Hills and didn’t know how people could live in them—it would be like a penny rattling around in a jar.

The walls were bare, awaiting her imprint. She hung two pictures: one, a photograph of Corazón when she was a girl, young and full of laughter, standing on the
Puente de los Peligros
where Lori herself had been just a few weeks before; the second, an image she had spotted in a glossy publication on her flight home. It showed a private island called Cacatra, an exclusive celebrity rehab spa in the middle of the Indian Ocean, owned by a South African business entrepreneur whose name was often in the press. The mansion featured in an article about the world’s most desirable places to live: JEWEL OF THE OCEAN—A PRIVATE PARADISE. With its sprawling grounds, golden sands and lush foliage, it had easily stolen the top spot.

Lori had torn the picture because it mirrored so closely the island of her imagination, the one she visited in her dreams. Over the years she had fleshed the image out in such detail that, the moment she saw its counterpart, the resemblance was astonishing. Not the grand house or the pleasure cruisers or the luxury villas, but the landscape and the water, the fundamentals, like if the island had been a painting it would have been the canvas that drew her, not the oils.

As the golden sun set over Hollywood, Lori ordered takeout and settled on her bed. She withdrew a file of paper she’d put together at Corazón’s and studied it with intent: everything she could remember about the man who had come to
Tres Hermanas
—what he looked like, what he wore, the car he drove. The latter was the only real lead she had, and, after tapping ‘Mercedes’ into a Google search
and trawling through the catalogue of images it supplied, she’d at last landed on the model she recognised. How she cursed herself for not memorising the licence plate. In her mind it began with a J, but after that, nothing. What she did recall was the very specific colour: a silvery charcoal-grey, like wet slate, with black-tinted windows. It wasn’t much to go on, but it was a start. Determination would carry her the rest of the way.

Tomorrow, her search would begin. What would she do when she found him? Would he take her in his arms once more, tell her he was glad she’d come? While in every other respect her musings on the stranger were ripe with colour and invention, here her imaginings hit a wall. He just didn’t seem
real
; she couldn’t picture him in any context other than the strange dreamscape of that mystifying afternoon. Routine, the mundane, didn’t fit. Where did he live? She couldn’t see him in a house. Where did he work? An office, a desk, wasn’t right. Who were his friends? What did he talk to them about? What made him happy? What made him sad?

Always her thoughts returned to the same. What did she think she could offer him? A poor Spanish girl from the wrong part of town … she had nothing he could possibly need.

Cautiously, Lori withdrew Desideria Gomez’s card and ran a thumb across its surface. All was dependent on securing work with La Lumière: it was the only way she could afford to see this through. She vowed to call them in the morning.

The La Lumière offices were on Sunset, a stuccoed building with an expansive parking lot out front filled with
gleaming vehicles. Lori felt conscious of her plain string dress and the battered satchel she had slung over one shoulder—she ought to have bought a new outfit, but after paying her deposit and buying in basic groceries she’d had no money left. Approaching the main entrance, she gripped the card in her hot palm till its edges went soft.

A friendly redhead called Hayley greeted her in the lobby. Four aubergine-leather banquettes were positioned in facing pairs, a glass table between them, on which was centred a neat square stack of fashion publications. Headshots of beautiful women were arranged on the walls behind the main desk. All were black and white, but each incorporated just one splash of vibrant colour: the bleeding-crimson of a top lip, the vivid purple of a smear of eye shadow, the fiery orange of a lock of hair.

‘Didn’t they tell you not to wear make-up?’ Hayley asked as she led the way to the bank of elevators. She walked on sharp heels and her hair bounced glossily around her shoulders.

Lori nodded. ‘I’m not wearing make-up.’ They had told her to come natural so she had worn her curls untamed and scrubbed her face clean.

Unconvinced, Hayley pushed the button to the eleventh floor. The girl’s features were too dark, too intense: people just didn’t look that … extreme. Even the models she was used to working with needed a little help to achieve their optimum glow.

Desideria was waiting for them, along with a short woman with bobbed black hair and glasses, who flashed a brief, professional smile. She introduced herself as Kirsty Belafonte, the agency’s managing director, and shook Lori’s hand with purpose.

‘Didn’t I tell you she was something else?’ said Desideria, pleased. ‘She’s even lovelier than I remember.’

Kirsty put a hand on each side of Lori’s face and peered in close. Lori didn’t know what to do. She felt self-conscious. The other woman was so near she could have kissed her.

‘She’s beautiful,’ said Kirsty in a matter-of-fact way.

Hayley was dismissed. Lori stayed standing as the women moved around her, nodding to each other, touching her hair and scanning her body, every detail absorbed. Gently Desideria drew her shoulders back and put a finger under Lori’s chin to lift it.

‘Quite short, isn’t she?’ Kirsty commented. ‘What are you, five-seven, five-eight?’

‘Five-seven.’

‘Hmm.’

‘She’ll be magic with the camera,’ put in Desideria. ‘We needn’t use her for runway.’

Kirsty nodded. ‘OK,’ she said briskly. ‘Let’s get some pictures.’

They travelled down to the building’s basement. A rangy photographer was snapping at a pouting brunette with stringy pale legs.

‘Be with you in a minute, darlin’,’ he called out in a British accent.

A frazzled stylist rushed over and took her arm. ‘This way!’ She checked a clipboard. ‘Loriana, you’ll be doing me a favour if you can move quickly. We’ve got a lot to get through.’

Behind a curtain she was shown several rails of clothes. Only they weren’t clothes, exactly, more like scraps of material. It was about stripping the models down, encouraging
their looks to shine through. Several girls were in today—like her, they had been talent-spotted. Today was about meeting Kirsty and getting a feel for the camera. The successful candidates would go on to meet the owner of La Lumière, the boss Desideria had mentioned back in Murcia. He would decide whom the prestigious agency took on.

She ended up in a torn pale pink top with a wide, loose-fitting neckline, and an ordinary pair of blue shorts. Despite the shapelessness of the outfit, against the deep shade of her skin the effect was dizzying. Her curves were enhanced, her hair a windswept mass. When she emerged into the studio, Desideria audibly gasped. Kirsty smiled and the women exchanged words, though Lori couldn’t make out what they were saying.

Initially she was self-conscious in front of the camera, but as the photographer guided her through with instructions to look this way and that, smile and not smile, run a hand through her hair, sit down, stand up, cross her legs, turn around, bite her lip, tilt her head, she settled into the rhythm and began to fall into the poses without trying. It was the quickest ten minutes of her life. The photographer kept consulting with Kirsty. ‘Gorgeous,’ he said, over and over. ‘Every single shot, she’s absolutely gorgeous.’

Desideria helped her get changed. ‘You did great,’ she said, leaning against the dresser as Lori stepped out of her shorts. ‘I knew you’d be a natural.’

Adrenalin was charging through Lori. She was still buzzing when Desideria took her back upstairs to the lobby.

‘We’ll call you once we’ve shown the boss your prints.’ Lori must have looked unsure because she added, ‘Try not
to worry. Mr Moreau isn’t as terrifying as people say. At least, not once you get to know him.’

‘Moreau?’

The name was familiar. She had seen it in magazines, on expensive shopping sites, heard it on the lips of celebrities walking the red carpet—
’I’m wearing Moreau; no one dresses me like it’
. He was the son of the legendary Paul and Emilie Moreau; so the rumour went, their reluctant heir. Before the Moreaus’ untimely deaths—they had been killed in a tragic boating accident while holidaying with their son—they had been designers on a par with Valentino and Lagerfeld. As two of the industry’s greatest innovators, the celebrity circuit had clamoured to work with them: from movie stars to supermodels, politicians to royalty, they had dressed the world’s most famous silhouettes. Their son and successor was notoriously private and rarely seen out in public. Word was he had little to do with his inheritance, masterminding the Moreau fashion house from behind the scenes but employing a dedicated team to execute affairs.

It couldn’t be the same man … could it?

Lori felt giddy. She was way out of her depth.

‘That’s right.’ Desideria looked amused. ‘You seem surprised.’

‘I didn’t realise—’

‘Welcome to the big league, honey. You just wait till he sees you.’ They made their way into reception. ‘If you don’t already know,’ she elaborated, ‘JB prefers to keep a low profile. He’s very—how should I put this?—
secluded
. The industry respects that. He won’t make it easy for you, he hasn’t for any of us, but once you’ve earned it, he’ll do anything for you.’

‘Earned what?’

Desideria smiled. ‘Trust.’

The door behind Lori opened. She heard someone step inside, shoes on a polished floor.
Smart, controlled, precise …

Something gave way in her chest, an underwater explosion, like footage she’d seen once of a submarine torpedo. Devastating and silent.

Desideria straightened. Lori thought she saw a shadow of conspiracy pass across the woman’s features, a kind of confirmation, there and then gone, quick as a flashlight.

‘Ah,’ she said. ‘How about that for timing?’

When Lori turned, it was his scar that caught her attention. Then the line of his jaw, square and straight, absolute, as if it had been drawn cleanly, in one stroke, with a sharp pencil.

He was sexy. Sexier than she had made him, even in her fantasies. He was sex.

‘JB Moreau,’ said Desideria, ‘I’d like you to meet Lori Garcia.’

22
Aurora

Aurora passed the spring half term at Creekside, her father’s Texan ranch retreat. Tom Nash had spent his childhood in the South and when fame hit had purchased the land as a hideaway. With its six hundred acres of rolling hills and prairie land, catfish lakes and cattle farms, it was an opportunity to get back in touch with nature: his own personal slice of Utopia.

Not what Aurora needed after months buried in a rural craphole in England. But Sherilyn had decided that Hollywood life might risk unpicking the work St Agnes had done, so she’d been directed to the lodge in Texas, where Tom was busy writing material for their new album.

It seemed to Aurora that her parents weren’t spending much time together at all these days: whenever she’d Skyped or called from the UK, they’d scarcely known the whereabouts of the other. She hoped they weren’t on the
brink of a divorce. Despite the wealth of clichés attached to their names, this was one they had so far managed to avoid.

There were several cabins and lake houses on the ranch, of which Creekside was the biggest. It was a rambling wooden lodge with bearskins on the floor and antlered deer heads bolted to the walls. Aurora thought it was weird since her dad was the least macho guy she could imagine. In fact, with all his cosmetics and clothes and his gentle manner, he was quite, well, feminine. He hadn’t hunted the beasts down himself, of course, but it was as if he enjoyed parading the alpha thing. Sometimes, when he was writing, he’d pace the floor, hands on hips, and stand wide-legged in front of one of them, Stetson on tousled head, for minutes on end. A man with highlighted hair gazing into the eyes of a stuffed dead deer. One mousse looking at another moose. She supposed it was his creative prerogative.