Читать книгу Wicked Ambition - Victoria Fox, Victoria Fox - Страница 16

Turquoise hit London for a charity gig. Hyde Park was teeming with crowds, the festival spirit so indigenous to this country, as girls in torn vests perched with sunburned shoulders on their boyfriends, waving plastic pints under a warm autumn sky. Balloons were released into the air along with the heady smell of pot. Nearer the front the fans were younger, bright-eyed and awestruck, holding aloft banners that rippled in the light breeze.

TURQUOISE IS MY IDOL. I HEART KATY. ROBIN RYDER ALWAYS.

Her set flew. New single ‘Wild Girl’ was an uncontested hit. Turquoise ran an extended version and by the end was throwing the mic to the audience, getting their arms in the air and waving along so the throng of gold shook before her like a field of corn. Cameras flashed as she powered to the bass, her silver catsuit teamed spectacularly with her whipping stream of hair and impressive five-inch heels that miraculously she managed to dance in.

One thing Turquoise had nailed beyond reproach was stage presence. It didn’t matter if her arena was a hundred or a hundred thousand, she unleashed fury and energy on her routines that was unrivalled by anyone else in the business. Undisputed mistress of bringing a crowd together, she infused every show with a sense of togetherness and shared purpose that had them rallying for more, but matched this with an illusion of intimacy, as if she were performing for each person individually and giving them their own experience to cherish.

Six sequences weren’t enough and so as encore she performed a ballad, her first number one on both sides of the Atlantic. It was called ‘The Best of Me’ and proved why Turquoise deserved every ounce of her mega celebrity. She wasn’t just a killer performer or someone who could hold a tune; she could sing, in a way that demanded quiet from her listeners, the same seductive still that settled every time it was just her and a microphone and a voice, no frills, no extras. She didn’t need it. To anyone who believed that commercial success couldn’t be married with honest, inherent talent, it was the only response she needed.

‘Nights I still think of the pain you put me through; never gonna know what it took to forget you…’ Turquoise would always be fond of the song, it had been her revolution and the birth of her star, but it was too close to home to ever be easy. Perhaps that was what had made it special. People recognised the sentiment and identified it with their own lives, taking it to their hearts and making it one of the biggest-selling singles of the noughties. She lived on the principle that it wasn’t possible to write a good song unless there was a piece of you in it, unless you had given something in exchange. But anger was a more straightforward emotion to represent—passion, rage, uprising; all the sentiments that powered her dance tracks.

Sadness, regret…guilt. Those were the hard ones to bear.

Afterwards, Robin Ryder took the stage. Turquoise liked Robin’s style; the girl had swagger and wasn’t afraid to use it. ‘Lesson Learned’ was a catchy, urban record overlaid with Ryder’s trademark London chorus. Turquoise felt fortunate to be working at a time when there was such exciting talent pushing through the industry.

‘You did a great job out there.’ She introduced herself once Robin’s set was done.

‘Thanks. Compared with you, it was average, I’m sure.’ With candour, Robin added: ‘I’m a bit star-struck.’ She smiled. ‘It was you and Slink Bullion that made me want to do this. You both got me through a tough time in my life.’

Turquoise was humbled. ‘You know Slink?’

‘No,’ Robin admitted, ‘but we’re in talks to team up.’

‘Between you and me, Puff City aren’t the easiest crew to work with.’

‘Oh?’

‘Can I grab you for a moment?’ Turquoise’s manager intervened.

‘Are you staying in town?’ asked Robin.

‘Just a flying visit.’

‘I’m in LA next month. Shall we make a date?’

‘I’d like that.’ They kissed on both cheeks before Turquoise was pulled away. ‘I’ll have my assistant get in touch.’

Turquoise’s manager was a woman called Donna Cameron. She was Australia-born but hadn’t been back in twenty years because when she did ‘life stood still’. Her books were notoriously sparse: she represented just a handful of clients, all of them major.

‘You hungry?’ Donna asked.

‘Not especially.’

‘OK. We’ll do drinks, then. Nobu?’

‘Who with?’ Turquoise was tired and had been looking forward to an early night. Her return flight to LA left at dawn.

Donna smiled with controlled pleasure. ‘Sam Lucas,’ she revealed, tagging the famous movie director. ‘He wants to cast you in his new project. He doesn’t care what it takes, he says, it has to be you. Turquoise, this is the golden opportunity.’

It was. They had been talking about a move to the big screen since last year. Turquoise had reached the pinnacle of success in her music and now there was nowhere to go but sideways, expanding her empire and building on the fan base she already had.

‘It’s the right project?’ Her heart ached with pride when she thought of Emaline, how they had watched their old movies in the fading afternoon and dreamed of Hollywood.

That’s going to be you one day. My little star…

‘Sam and his group are in London,’ said Donna. ‘He can give us the script tonight. From what I’ve been told, it’s tailor-made. This is a classic empowerment story and you’re the one to tell it. It’s going to appeal across the board. It’s a big budget production and they’ve got some huge names attached. Cosmo Angel, for one.’

Turquoise froze. Her mouth went dry.

‘Tell me about it,’ commented Donna. ‘If I wasn’t twice divorced I’d seriously consider marrying the guy. If he wasn’t with Ava, of course.’ She winked.

‘Cosmo’s in the movie?’ She could barely stand to say his name.

Donna shot her a quizzical look, perplexed that at her stage in the game Turquoise should get misty-eyed about even the biggest hitters on the A-list.

‘He’s your love interest.’

She couldn’t do it. There was no way.

‘It doesn’t sound like a role he’d want to sign.’ Turquoise tried to imagine Cosmo as a man subjugated by a woman, and couldn’t. He would always be the victor.

‘Is everything all right?’ Donna was concerned. ‘I thought you’d be pleased.’

Turquoise opened her mouth to respond. No words came. How could she begin to explain? Where would she start?

‘I don’t know if it’s the best thing for me right now,’ she offered weakly, thinking only, I have to get out of this; I have to get out of this.

‘But we’ve cleared it.’ Donna was trying to understand. ‘We’ve talked this through before, Turquoise. Hollywood has always been on the cards, hasn’t it?’

‘Yes. But…’

‘At least come meet Sam, see what they have to say?’ She gave Turquoise’s arm a reassuring squeeze. ‘I know you’re tired,’ she said kindly. ‘You’ve been working all hours; it’s no wonder you’re finding it tough to summon enthusiasm for a new project. Let’s ride out tonight. Once we have the facts we can make an informed call. Sound all right?’

Turquoise found herself nodding. There was nothing else she could do. ‘Fine.’

She would figure it out. She had to figure it out. Because one thing was certain: she was never going near Cosmo Angel again as long as she lived.

Grace Turquoise da Luca should never have said yes to the ride. If she hadn’t, she might have had a different fate. She might have perished on the road, just lain down and waited for dreams to take her, or surrendered to delirium and stumbled out in front of a truck. Or she might have made it to the next town and found help. She might have been rescued. She might have got into a car with anyone else but Denny Malone.

Denny was twenty-three and had a haggard, drug-addled face that made him look ten years older. His had been a tough life and he had the livid white scars on his arms to prove it.

They arrived in Denny’s home city early morning. Grace drifted in and out of sleep, startled awake then shivering back to oblivion. Denny had an apartment and he told her to shower. He didn’t offer her a phone call, but then whom would she have rung?

‘Can I have some clothes, please?’ she asked, trembling cold and wrapped in a towel.

‘Lemme get a look at you first.’ Denny was on the couch, smoking. He narrowed his eyes and flashed her that smile. ‘Drop it.’

Grace Turquoise wished she had never become a woman. She wished she had never found the blood in her knickers, because it meant she had to do things she didn’t want.

‘Bit thin,’ he diagnosed when she was stripped. ‘Good tits though.’ He told her to come over and roughly he clasped her ass, patting it when he was done like a piece of meat. ‘We’ll give you a couple of months then you’re ready to go.’

Ready to go where? She didn’t know. She was scared.

Six weeks later, she was getting sick. ‘What’s wrong with you?’ Denny demanded. ‘You ain’t knocked up or something?’ He took her to a friend of his who worked out of a backstreet surgery. There, the man prodded her insides with coarse, long fingers that hurt when they went all the way up. She wept and bled, and bled and wept, and prayed a miracle would happen and Emaline would appear next to her, holding her hand and kissing her head like she used to do when there was a thunderstorm and she woke from a nightmare.

Now, there was no waking up.

The abortion set back Denny’s plan, but two months later, after her fifteenth birthday, Grace Turquoise was sent to her first client. He was a bald, overweight businessman with a lust for young girls, and as he ordered Grace to undress, drooling with anticipation and sucking wetly at her nipples, she closed her mind and body to everything except the house where she grew up, the rustling palms and the ocean breeze, Emaline and her lime cordial and all the songs they used to sing. When the man pummelled into her, just as the pastor had done that horrifying night, Grace accepted that this was the world. This was what men did.

Denny was pleased with the twenty dollars she produced. He kept it all and said that next time, if she did another good job, he’d let her take a piece.

Her next call-out was a young guy, in his twenties, who wanted to watch her play with herself. She hadn’t done that before and had to be shown how. Then he crouched over her and dangled his thing in her mouth. That was worse than the pummelling and cost him thirty dollars, which Denny kept all over again.

‘I don’t want to do it any more,’ she told him. ‘Please don’t make me.’

Denny was counting out a stack of cash. She’d seen other girls at the apartment, sent to do the same things. They were older than Grace and she didn’t want to end up like them. ‘You wanna hit the streets, go right ahead,’ he growled. ‘Ain’t no easy ride out there.’

One of the girls, Cookie—‘not my real name, honey, but then whose is?’—was sent out with her one night. A twitchy Vietnamese man met them at his hotel room and tugged his penis while he watched them make out. Cookie made her swallow two tiny pills that made everything fuzzy and not so bad, even when the man had sex with them both, one then the other then Grace again until he spurted all over her, and afterwards Cookie hugged her and told her to forget, not to worry, because it was just a job and you had to leave it at the door.

They were a popular duo. Denny was raking it in. He’d started giving Grace a percentage of her earnings, enough to buy food. Grace preferred doing things with Cookie because she was gentle, and sometimes when Cookie kissed her down there she got a tingle that made her lift her back and forget for a second that there was anyone else in the room.

‘Call this number,’ Cookie instructed her the day she turned seventeen. ‘They specialise in girls your age. Get shot of Denny, he’s a bad lot.’

Grace did as she was told. She spoke to Madam Babydoll on Cookie’s phone, sent her photograph and a week later was packing her scant belongings and catching an overnight bus to Los Angeles. She felt nothing about leaving Denny. She hated him.

Madam Babydoll ran a different ship. She employed sixteen carefully selected girls and housed each in her mansion in the hills. Grace couldn’t take in the world she had entered. It was dazzling with sunshine and promise. This was where people went to make their dreams come true. Was she leaving her nightmare at last?

Not quite. Madam Babydoll provided under-eighteen girls to a moderate rank of Hollywood star. Lily Rose, a sugary-pretty Californian with a deep golden tan, explained to Grace how important it was to make a good impression, because you never knew who was going to strike it big one day. Grace couldn’t work out why Lily Rose was here because she had a family in LA and she dressed smart and spoke nice.

‘Why are you doing this?’ she asked her once. Lily Rose shrugged. She’d just returned from an encounter with an up-and-coming producer. ‘I could go home if I wanted,’ she mused, ‘but this is way more fun. Some day I’m gonna be an actress, just you watch. The way I see it, it’s an opportunity to get noticed. My clients never forget who I am.’

The clients were cleaner and richer than Denny’s, but they didn’t treat her with any more respect. She came to learn that actors were the worst. They were preoccupied with seeing themselves, whether it was having her against a mirror or recording an encounter to watch afterwards—Madam Babydoll permitted this only if her girl could verify its deletion—while Grace sucked and licked till they came. They wanted her to worship their bodies, and, while it was preferable to having her own attacked, the younger and more virile could take hours and she often left sore and stiff, forced to wait days before she could work again.

Others had perversions. The older ones, mostly, who were married or had kids and wanted her to dress as a schoolgirl; or who wanted to dress up themselves and be held. Some brought wives and she’d play with them both. But Madam Babydoll paid out sixty per cent of every cheque, and soon Grace Turquoise had several thousand in the bank—enough to quit, if she’d wanted, but she didn’t know what else she’d do. Over four years she had seen it all. She’d had sex with countless men and women and had learned to view the ordeal as simply her trade, her talent, the thing she had been trained to do. She hadn’t sung a note in years.

It was a Friday in June when Madam Babydoll told her she had a ‘very special’ client to visit. The girls were envious. Was it someone important, someone famous?

She was instructed to wear a black coat with nothing underneath except a lace thong. As Grace Turquoise headed to the rendezvous, hair immaculate and lips perfectly glossed, the professional that Denny Malone had groomed and Ivan Garrick before him, she could never have imagined who would be waiting for her, or what he would ask her to do.