Читать книгу Temptation Island - Victoria Fox, Victoria Fox - Страница 17

Linus Posen’s party, or ‘gathering’, as it was creepily called on Bibi’s invitation, took place in his penthouse New York apartment on a Sunday night. As soon as she saw Linus, Stevie understood he was exactly the sort of person who threw parties on Sundays, changing the rules simply because he could. He was a massive presence, tall and fat, and possessed a booming baritone of a voice and mean, quick little eyes that looked like raisins squidged into raw dough.

Stevie decided on sight that she didn’t like him. Typically she’d never be so quick to judge, but his air of bored arrogance sat uncomfortably with her.

‘Are you sure I look OK?’ trilled Bibi as they stood at the entrance to the sprawling warehouse, suffused with mood beats and the hum of conversation. It wasn’t like Bibi to be insecure about anything, but she hadn’t relaxed since they’d set off.

In the cab, Stevie had been surprised. ‘Don’t tell me you fancy him.’

‘Of course I do,’ Bibi had confessed, insofar as Bibi could ever make a confession, because Bibi never seemed to be embarrassed or apologetic about anything. ‘Linus Posen is shit-hot, Steve. He’s the director that could build my career! My agent says he’s casting for his new movie. Matthew McConaughey’s tipped to star.’

‘It doesn’t mean you have to find him attractive.’

‘McConaughey? Gimme a break.’

‘Linus Posen, silly. Isn’t he old?’

‘Fifties, is my bet.’ Bibi had checked her face in her compact for the millionth time. ‘Frankly, I don’t care. He could be in a wheelchair and I’d still show him the Bibi Reiner magic!’

‘That’s sick.’

‘That’s sensible.’

‘What about whether or not you like him?’ She knew she was giving Bibi a hard time. Just because she’d succumbed to a man with power didn’t mean the disaster that had befallen her was going to befall everyone. It was just that she didn’t want Bibi getting hurt, and instinct told her that Bibi didn’t always think things through properly. Then again, that was hypocritical.

‘That comes afterwards,’ Bibi had explained patiently. ‘All I care about right now is getting him to notice me.’

The party was packed with famous faces, some of whom Stevie recognised and some she didn’t. The girls wound their way through the chatting, exclaiming sea of bodies. It reminded Stevie of the handful of celebrity soirées she’d attended through Simms & Court in London, but even she had to admit this was of a higher order. Back at Bibi’s apartment she’d teamed a pair of black skinny jeans with boots and a top: it was definitely her style, not that she’d admit to having one, of quiet, understated glamour. Bibi had tried to insist she borrow a dress but she’d turned it down, compromising by letting her hair loose and slipping on a pair of heels, to which Bibi had exclaimed, ‘We’re the same size, ohmygod, it’s meant to be!’

She regretted her decision. All the other women were in gowns and skirts and Stevie felt criminally underdressed, especially next to Bibi, who was clad in an imitation (a good one) Versace minidress and fierce heels.

‘Are you OK?’ asked Bibi, taking her arm.

‘Sure. Why?’

‘You seem a bit … I dunno, quiet. Is everything all right?’

It wasn’t the first time Bibi had attempted to get her to open up. Being a relentless gossip, she’d been on at Stevie about ex-boyfriends and past experiences pretty much as soon as she’d got here, and doubtless could tell something was the matter. It wasn’t as though Stevie didn’t feel able to confide in her—on first impressions Bibi was a live wire, but underneath all that was a deeply caring and unselfish friend—it was more that she didn’t want to think of it herself. She’d done a stupid thing, a reckless thing, and she regretted it. That was all there was to say.

‘Honest, B. I’m fine.’

Bibi accepted it: she knew when to push her luck. She plucked two flutes of gold champagne from a passing tray and nudged Stevie in the ribs. ‘There he is,’ she murmured, the champagne vanishing in one. ‘Let’s go.’

‘Will he know who we are?’ Stevie disliked feeling like a groupie. She had no desire to meet Linus and even less to witness his ego being fawned over.

Bibi grabbed her hand and pulled her towards the group surging around the director, nearly colliding with an oncoming array of canapés that was more artwork than food. ‘If he doesn’t now,’ she promised, ‘he will soon.’

They got held up by Bibi’s agent for a few moments, a flinty-eyed woman named Carrie Pearce, who had bobbed hair the colour of rat. From the way she spoke to her client it was clear she deemed Bibi incredibly lucky to have her representation. Stevie couldn’t work out why, since Bibi seemed to go for endless auditions and never secure any lasting work.

‘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.