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5

Cole Steel stepped out on to his glass-bottomed terrace and squinted against the afternoon sun. Drawing a pair of shades from the top pocket of his crisp, white shirt, he ran a manicured thumb around each lens until it gleamed.

With the sheer expanse of his gated Beverly Hills mansion spread out below, his beautiful wife due home any moment and his role in a sure-fire action adventure tied up just this afternoon, Cole was a happy man. In the acting game since the eighties, he had realised pretty quickly that you had to work your balls off for this kind of life. And you had to know who to trust.

On cue a security camera to his left–one of thirty-six on the property–turned on its pivot, sensing motion. These cameras were like highly trained dogs: anything Cole needed to know about and they’d be hot on it. The bottom line was that these pieces of kit were loyal–they told him everything. People, on the other hand, did not.

He checked the time on his Tag watch and frowned a little, careful not to let the lines run too deep. Just last month he had been for his first Botox session and had decided never again. For days after his expression had been totally blank–thank God it had been rectified before Venice. He recalled spending an hour in front of the mirror, eyes staring wild from a frozen mask like something out of a horror movie. Not to mention the panic at one side of his mouth going slack as though he’d had a stroke. No, never again. All that filler shit, none of it was for him–he was a serious actor, for crissakes: his trophy room was testament to that.

He buzzed the intercom. The house was so big he needed a network of them to oil things efficiently. ‘Consuela, get me a fresh lemonade.’

The Spanish maid was with him in seconds. He took the drink without thanking her.

Where the hell was Lana? She was due back by now. Leaning on the balustrade, he narrowed his eyes at the view. In recent weeks he had been prey to a niggling feeling that his wife was hiding something. She was staying in her rooms a lot more these days and, he was sure, avoided looking at him directly. Whatever it was, he’d get to the bottom of it.

In the meantime, Lana needed to sort out her attitude and fast. It wouldn’t do for Cole Steel’s wife to be touring LA looking miserable–she was married to royalty!

Taking a slug of the cool drink, Cole felt something small and hard catch at the back of his throat. He gagged, gasping for air, the force of it dislodging his sunglasses.

Consuela came rushing out, nervously knotting her hands in her apron. ‘Mr Steel? Is everything all right?’

He spat on to the terrace and out flew a lemon pip. ‘No, it isn’t, as a matter of fact,’ he hissed, eyeing her fiercely over the shades that hung drunkenly off his immaculate face. ‘Can’t you squeeze a piece of fruit, you freaking idiot?’

The Spanish woman felt her cheeks flush. She nodded furiously.

‘Forgive me, sir. It was my mistake.’ She nodded to where the pip had landed on the terrace, embarrassed in its solitude. It was about half the size of a fingernail. ‘I will clean.’

Cole turned to go inside. He felt nauseated. ‘Make a thorough job of it,’ he said grimly. And then, for effect, ‘I want to see my face in this before the sun goes down.’ Yeah, that sounded great: maybe he should write it into one of his movies.

With a mild sense of panic Cole headed to the west bathroom to clean his teeth, realising this would throw off his five o’clock session. He brushed eight times a day at two-hourly intervals–they didn’t say he had the best smile in Hollywood for nothing. Now that dumb maid had compromised his routine, something he didn’t like. He’d fire her tomorrow.

Downstairs, he checked his schedule. Tomorrow’s go-green fundraiser, that launch in Chicago he’d promised his agent he’d attend at the weekend, Kate diLaurentis’s dinner party on Wednesday. He grimaced. The thought of spending an evening with his monstrous ex-wife and her can’t-keep-it-in-his-pants comedian husband left a sour taste in his mouth. If only it didn’t pay to keep her sweet.

Before taking Lana as his wife, Cole had been married to Kate diLaurentis for seven long years. These days she was barely recognisable as the fresh-faced actress he had once known: pumped to bursting with every filler going and practically comatose on prescription tranquillisers, she had wound up a sad, fading actress watching her career spin rapidly down the shitter. Prone to barking pithy digs after one bottle too many, Cole thanked Christ she had never found out about him, the reason why he couldn’t …

Fiercely he shook his head. No, that was something he had never told anyone. He’d take it to his grave.

Turning off the solid silver faucets, Cole appraised himself in the gilt-framed mirror and liked what he saw. Yes, he’d be set for the week. There was no one in Hollywood who came close to Cole Steel and, smirking knowingly at his reflection, he conceded it was hardly a surprise. Perfection was a difficult thing to achieve, but it was even harder to maintain. Cole had it nailed. Since his boyhood he had imagined being the man he now saw in front of him. Some days he wasn’t entirely sure he hadn’t dreamed himself up.

As the Mercedes slid through the black cast-iron gates and snaked up the winding driveway, Lana was stunned, as she was every time, by the magnitude of Cole’s mansion.

She tapped on the partition glass and the top of the driver’s head came into view. His black hair was plastered to a slightly perspiring forehead and his lips were fleshy and pink.

‘I’ll get out here,’ Lana said, testing him. They were only a hundred yards from the house, but to her it was a matter of principle.

‘Boss says different,’ the driver grunted, his flinty eyes meeting hers in the rear-view mirror. ‘I ain’t pissin’ him off.’ The partition slid back up as her husband’s black-bottomed infinity pool came into view. It winked in the sunlight.

Lana slumped in her seat. She thought briefly of Parker Troy and craved the heat of his body, remembering how good it had felt when he’d touched her; the thrill of it in front of the crew. Rebellion was what kept her going.

They rounded Cole’s stone water feature, a giant, staggered structure modelled on the Trevi Fountain, and pulled up next to his silver Bugatti. The car was the jewel in Cole’s crown. He’d spent a million dollars on it–to Lana, who had grown up in extreme circumstances and was still, even now, acclimatising to the extravagance of her lifestyle, it was a shocking amount of money. She could tell he was torn between housing it in the garage with his assortment of Bentleys and his much-loved tangerine Lotus Elise, or leaving it here for everyone to admire. In the end, as usual, vanity had triumphed.

Two sleek black Dobermans, still and silent as her husband, crouched like sentries on either side of the mansion door. The dogs panted when they saw her, recognising her scent, their tongues pale pink in the heat. One of them came too close and emitted a low growl, perhaps smelling another man on her skin. She hurried inside.

Silence. Lana dropped her bag and walked across the empty hall, her footsteps echoing round the vaulted ceiling. Paintings of Cole adorned the walls–his most cherished, an abstract piece entitled The Moment I Met Myself, was suspended above the main stairs.

‘Hello?’ she called out. Her own voice winged back at her.

It was the quiet she couldn’t stand–it made the loneliness that much more acute. She craved a visit to the staff quarters, where she could have a proper conversation with somebody, and it galled her to think that they must consider her a grade-A bitch. And why wouldn’t they? She was married to the most powerful man in Hollywood. She’d fallen for the fame and she’d chased the money, just like they all did.

Or at least that was how it looked.

Lana fixed herself a drink at the bar. She listened to the ice tinkle against the glass.

‘You’re home.’

Cole was at the foot of the stairs, watching her carefully. How did he approach her so quietly? It gave her the creeps.

‘Drinking in the afternoon?’ he demanded, unable to help himself. Cole didn’t like his wife enjoying alcohol, even in such small quantities.

Lana took a breath. Just because he drove his ex-wife to drink doesn’t mean he’ll do the same to you.

‘I’ll do what I like, when I like, Cole,’ she told him evenly.

Abruptly his handsome face broke into a winning smile. He took the stool next to hers.

‘You know I’m just teasing,’ he said in an artificially playful way that made her feel queasy. ‘I wanted to catch you while I could, I’m aware we haven’t spent much time together recently.’ He paused. ‘We’ve got a mutual appearance next week—’

‘Kate diLaurentis’s party.’ Lana nodded, keeping her eyes down. ‘It’s under control.’ She stopped herself saying ‘I know the drill’ and drained the last of her vodka.

Cole extended a white, moisturised hand and settled it self-consciously on his wife’s leg. She tried not to look at him–on camera he was a handsome man but in real life he was plastic on a good day and on a bad one plain bizarre. Lana knew he’d had a filler done recently and regretted it–as a result his skin had taken on an unnerving sort of sheen, like rubber. He looked sticky, like someone had taken him out of a box and polished him.

Trying to ignore the contact, which seemed uncalled-for given the circumstances, Lana ran a finger across the solid oak bar.

‘Do you ever get tired of it?’

His eyes were blank, unreadable. ‘What?’

Lana shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ She hadn’t expected an answer. Cole Steel was as closed to her now as he’d been when she was growing up, watching his movies.

He placed his glass on the bar, using both hands to position it squarely. When he was satisfied, he turned and pinned his wife with a stare.

‘It’s our job,’ he said hollowly. ‘You’ll wear the green dress at Kate’s, the off-the-shoulder Gucci. Open-toe sandals and that diamond necklace I bought you. Make sure we show them your left side if that blemish hasn’t cleared up.’

Lana touched the soft skin under her eye, feeling the tiny scratch that had appeared there. She nodded. The conversation was over and, as always, Cole had ended it.

Armed with her instructions, she headed up the back staircase to her private quarters. The quiet was deafening. It was married life.

6

Las Vegas

‘What a voice!’ exclaimed Elisabeth’s stage manager, his jauntily positioned trilby almost slipping off with the excitement of it.

Elisabeth Sabell smiled as she swept into the wings, rapturous applause filling the Desert Jewel auditorium. Her heart was racing.

‘It was good?’ she breathed, fully aware it had been.

‘It was magnificent,’ he told her, kissing both cheeks. ‘We had a full house tonight.’

The crew rushed over, showering Elisabeth with compliments. Somebody trod on the skirt of her scarlet gown but she was too euphoric to care.

‘Thank you!’ she cried, graciously accepting armfuls of gifts: bouquets of sweet-smelling flowers; notes from well-wishers; and on top of that an assortment of soft toys, a couple of bug-eyed ones clutching felt hearts that she could have done without.

Her PA rushed forward. ‘Mr Bellini would like to see you, ma’am.’

Elisabeth bit her lip. I’ll bet he wants to see me. Alberto Bellini was General Manager at the Desert Jewel, the second of Robert St Louis’s epic hotels, and worked under her fiancé’S supervision. He was an Italian in his sixties, a born Lothario, drinker and gambler, and one of her father’s cronies.

‘Thank you,’ she said, offloading the gifts into her assistant’s arms. One of the toys squeaked in protest. ‘I’ll be there.’

As Elisabeth made her way to her dressing room, charming admirers along the way, she hoped Alberto Bellini wasn’t about to give her a lecture. Some crap about how she should quit singing–that it had been her mother’s thing, not hers–and get to grips with Bernstein’s hotel legacy. Over and over everyone tried to fit her into her father’s pocket. What about her own ambitions?

She’d earned her right to sing tonight. All through her twenties Elisabeth had worked long and hard to make a name for herself, and now she had she sure as hell wasn’t getting swallowed up by her father’s empire. Bernstein considered her whimsical, that music was just a phase born out of longing for her dead mother. But she’d proved him wrong. For years she’d performed in smoky bars on the Strip, hauling her way to the top, and now she’d made it she sure as hell wasn’t letting anyone bring her down.

Smiling to herself, she pulled open the door to her dressing room. As soon as she saw Alberto Bellini, she knew he hadn’t come to lecture her. On the contrary, in fact.

‘Bellissima,’ he crooned in a thick accent, standing to greet her. ‘You were sensational tonight.’ He presented her with the hugest bouquet of roses she had ever seen–whites, yellows, reds, pinks, all bound up with a violet ribbon.

‘Thank you,’ said Elisabeth, taking a seat at her dressing table. In the mirrors she could see the old Italian, now reclining in a red velvet chair with his legs crossed. He was tall and sinewy, with thick pure-white hair and a hook nose. The room stretched out behind him, fragments caught in diamond shapes like a kaleidoscope. He was watching her intently.

‘What’s this?’ she asked, reaching for a black velvet box with a little card from Robert tucked inside.

‘Never mind that,’ Alberto said, coming to her. He placed his dry hands on her bare shoulders and leaned down to whisper in her ear. ‘A star is born tonight.’

Elisabeth rolled her eyes. It was no great secret that Alberto harboured a schoolboy crush–it’d been that way for ages. She and Robert laughed about it.

‘Oh, give it up,’ she told him, applying a flush of rouge. ‘I don’t need to sleep with you to keep this gig. You work for my fiancé, remember?’

Alberto chuckled. ‘You are right, bellissima. When you do sleep with me, it will be of your own free will.’

Elisabeth turned round. ‘Don’t hold your breath,’ she told him. ‘You’re an old horse, Bellini, it’d probably kill you.’

‘You kill me a little every time.’ He held his arms up and made a face like a sad clown.

‘I’m sure,’ she said, narrowing her eyes. She’d known Alberto since she was a little girl–he’d always been around when she’d been growing up–but she could never tell if he was being serious or not.

‘When is the wedding?’ he asked now, turning away, his hands linked behind his back. His distinguished frame was at ease in the opulent den of her dressing room. Modelled on the Egyptian pyramids, its gold fabrics swept grandly from a sphinx gargoyle in the middle of the ceiling. Baskets of fruit, olives and nuts were clustered in one corner, and a small fountain of mineral water stood proud at its centre.

‘Robert and I are yet to set a date.’ Elisabeth picked up the velvet box, extracted the note from her fiancé and smiled. Inside was a diamond necklace, an exquisite chain of gems, each one in the shape of a heart.

Alberto did not turn to face her. ‘But you do want to marry him.’

Elisabeth frowned. ‘Of course I want to marry him.’

‘It is what your father wants.’

‘I’m sure it is.’ Her voice tightened. She fastened the necklace and sat back to admire it.

‘It is what the city wants.’

‘I’m aware of that.’

‘It is not what I want.’

Abruptly Elisabeth stood up. ‘I haven’t got time for this, Bellini. Is there anything else?’

He came to her, his expression wistful. ‘I fear I should not tell you this,’ Alberto licked his lips, ‘but I cannot help myself.’ He took her hands. ‘You are so like your mother, Elisabeth. So headstrong, so forthright, so … beautiful.’

Elisabeth was taken aback. Linda Sabell, one of the greatest singers of the seventies, had been killed in a plane crash when Elisabeth was only three. Her father never spoke her name; Bellini was the only one who seemed to recognise she’d gone.

‘Thank you,’ she said, tears threatening. She cleared her throat, cross with herself for showing weakness.

‘When I look at you.’ Alberto searched her eyes, looking for what she couldn’t tell. ‘My darling, your mother lives again.’

Elisabeth was transfixed a moment, before blinking and dropping his hands.

‘I am sorry. I have said too much.’

She wrapped her arms round herself, turning away. ‘Please, go.’

‘I did not mean to upset you.’ His voice was gentle.

Elisabeth shook her head, refusing to look at him. ‘I’m fine.’

A moment later she heard the door shut quietly. She closed her eyes, dragging herself together. Linda was so seldom mentioned that each time it hurt like the first. The mother she had never known, the woman whose legacy she felt it her duty to maintain. Oh, to have had a female in her life when she’d been growing up, someone to be close to. Instead she had been raised almost exclusively by men. Bernstein, Bellini, her grandfather before he’d died–it had made her tough, sure, but what she wouldn’t give for five minutes with the woman she couldn’t even remember.

Thank God for Robert St Louis. He cherished her independence, always said it was one of the things he loved best. Linda would have liked him.

Elisabeth turned back to the mirror. She gave her reflection a reassuring nod. Once they were married, a new future would begin; one her mother would be proud of.

7

London

Chloe French arrived home in Hampstead feeling tired and interrogated. She’d spent the afternoon at a photo shoot for a Sunday paper supplement–the sharp-featured woman interviewing her had insisted on asking all manner of difficult questions about her upbringing, rather than focusing on her modelling and her relationship with Nate Reid, either of which she would have preferred to talk about.

Thank God for PR, thought Chloe, tossing her bag down in the empty hall.

‘Dad?’ she called out. Silence.

She checked the time. Maybe he’d gone out.

Padding into the kitchen, Chloe tried to remember a time when it hadn’t been like this–a house so quiet and still that it seemed to be in mourning for times gone by. Before the divorce her parents had thrown a party nearly every week: Chloe recalled sitting at the top of the stairs when she was little and meant to be in bed, listening to the grown-ups’ conversations; the tinny ring of wine glasses and the distant, merry laughter.

The doorbell went. It was Nate.

‘Hey!’ she said, stepping out to kiss him. ‘How was the studio?’

Nate pushed through. ‘Get me in, I’ve got a pap on my tail.’

Chloe frowned, looking past him. ‘I can’t see anyone.’

‘Buggers don’t let up,’ he said, stalking past in his Jagger swagger.

She followed him into the kitchen. He had his head in the fridge and was picking at an open packet of Parma ham.

‘They were shitty at the Bystander.‘ She pulled out a chair and flopped down.

‘Did they ask about me?’

‘Nah, it was all Mum and Dad.’ She bit her thumbnail. ‘I’m tired of talking about it–it’s like everyone has to have a sob story or something. What’s the big deal?’

Nate snapped open a jar of pickles. ‘Our story’s better,’ he said insensitively, tossing in a gherkin. ‘You should have got them off the subject, started talking about me.’

Chloe smiled faintly. He was only trying to take her mind off it.

‘They’re all over us, babe,’ he went on, popping the jar on the shelf and closing the door. ‘They love all that shit.’

Nate was referring to the night he and Chloe had got together a couple of years before. Under any other circumstances, people might have baulked at the idea of them being an item–sweet, stunning Chloe French and a slightly grimy rock star with an alleged drug problem. But this was a modern-day fairy tale, or at least that was how the press saw it.

It had all happened at a wild party in Shoreditch. Chloe didn’t remember much, just knew she’d had way too much to drink come midnight. She’d fallen seriously ill, spewing up all over the place and blacking out–later it transpired she’d had her drink spiked. Thankfully Nate Reid, supposedly the wildest child of them all, had intervened, got his head together and taken her to the nearest A&E. The following morning iconic images were splashed across the London papers: bad-boy Nate carrying good-girl Chloe in his arms, folding her limp body into a car, waiting at the hospital, taking her home, holding her hand.

For Chloe, Nate was her knight in shining armour.

‘You should have told that to the woman who interviewed me.’ Chloe made a face. ‘She was so uptight, I think she was jumped up on something. I needed the loo halfway through and felt too uncomfortable to say anything.’

Nate snorted. ‘You’re weird, babe.’

‘Yeah, well.’

‘Your dad’s bird’s here,’ he stated, nodding out to the modest garden.

‘She is?’ Chloe should have known–the place was too tidy for her father to be alone, the washing-up had been done for a start. His girlfriend Janet had all but moved in these past few months.

Sure enough, at the far end of the lawn and enjoying the last of the late-summer sun, was Gordon. He and Janet were seated on a blanket, with a bottle of wine and a scattering of food. Her two young sons, frizzy-haired twins with slightly crossed eyes, mucked about nearby. Chloe watched them for a while with a strange mix of sadness and relief. She was happy her father had found someone, but couldn’t help feeling the outsider. The two of them had managed together when Audrey, her mother, had left, and when Chloe had started to make her own money she had decided to stay at the family home, not wanting her father to be alone.

Audrey had walked when Chloe was twelve. She’d met a poet through one of her evening workshops called Yarn–it was actually spelled Jan but for Chloe it remained as it had when she’d first heard it, that strange, foreign sound. Yarn had long hair, no money and a face the colour of the moon. Chloe had met him once, when Audrey had still been interested in maintaining contact. They had been for a strained coffee in Highgate and Chloe had noticed how her mother smelled different, sort of clammy and yeasty, not like she used to smell at all. Audrey had hung on to every word Yarn said, even though Chloe–in the first stage of adolescence but pretty much with the right idea–had thought it was all a lot of sweet-smelling bullshit. She’d known then that she had lost her mother, at least the one she had grown up with. There had been a handful of meetings since and the necessary birthday and Christmas cards, but that was it.

‘Let’s go upstairs,’ said Chloe, taking Nate’s hand. ‘I feel sad.’

Nate grabbed a bottle of beer. ‘Bet I know how to cheer you up.’

‘I know you do,’ smiled Chloe, relieved she had someone as committed to her as Nate. Growing up she’d thought her mum and dad would be together for ever–it had been horrible when they’d split. What happened to her parents wouldn’t happen to them.

They mounted the stairs, she going backwards, his face in her hands. She kissed him hard, unbuckling him as they came to the landing. He tasted kind of stale, like he hadn’t cleaned his teeth in a while. It wasn’t unpleasant.

Nate tripped at the top step and they fell back. A slosh of beer leaked into the carpet.

‘Shit!’ Chloe laughed as she landed on her bum.

Nate didn’t see the funny side. He began unbuttoning her shirt, feeding a hand through, roughly cupping her breast. ‘I’ve got to fuck you,’ he whispered.

‘Not here,’ she managed between kisses, feeling the scratch of the rug beneath her back.

Nate pierced her with a green stare, slowly running his fingers down to the waist of her jeans, sliding towards the heat of her knickers. ‘Here.’

‘No!’ she laughed, attempting to wriggle free.

‘Why not,’ he said flatly, pinning her down. He held her arms above her head with one hand, used the other to unclasp her bra.

‘Because someone might see,’ she said anxiously, aware from the bulge in Nate’s boxers that he could be right outside on the picnic blanket for all it mattered to him.

‘So?’

Chloe made a face. ‘Come on, Nate,’ she said, pushing him off.

Grudgingly he followed her into the bedroom, his erection leading the way. Chloe always played it so safe. It was why, just occasionally, he needed to get his kicks elsewhere.

When Chloe woke, her mobile was ringing. Disorientated, she grappled for it. Night had descended in a purple cloak, close against her window. Nate had gone.

Foggy-eyed, she checked the display. It was Melissa Darling, her agent at Scout.

‘Hello?’ She propped herself up on one elbow, stifling a yawn.

‘Chloe, it’s Melissa. Have you got a minute? It’s important.’

Chloe sat up. ‘Sure, what is it?’

‘You remember the LA proposition we discussed?’

Chloe nodded. The agency had been looking at moving her into acting for some time now and had been waiting for the right part to come along. ‘Yes?’ she said cautiously.

‘There’s a small role I’m looking at in America, a historical romance.’ Melissa took a breath. ‘I think it’s perfect for you. Exactly the right vehicle to launch you over there.’

‘Really?’ Chloe couldn’t contain the squeak in her voice. Melissa’s tone told her this was a big deal.

‘Really.’ Another pause. ‘It’s not in the bag yet, but I’m working on it. It’s a Sam Lucas production–you’d be filming your scene opposite Lana Falcon.’

‘Lana Falcon?’ She was wide awake now. Chloe practically bounced off the bed. ‘You’re kidding!’ She paced the room, scarcely believing the conversation was happening. Maybe she was still dreaming.

Melissa laughed. ‘I thought you’d be happy–and I hope they will be, too. There’s been a schedule collapse in LA: they’re after someone with the right UK profile and, I’m pleased to say, you fit the bill.’

Chloe caught her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were sparkling; her cheeks flushed red with excitement. ‘Melissa, I’m so thrilled,’ she said.

‘Don’t book any holidays for the next month, OK?’

‘OK.’

After the women hung up, Chloe sat at the end of her bed, her hands shaking. Sam Lucas. Lana Falcon. This was what every girl dreamed of; what she herself had dreamed of in this very room for the past ten years. And now it was coming true.

She looked around at the shadows of her childhood; a dolls’ house she couldn’t bear to part with; a book she’d been read every night before bed. It was the past. Her father didn’t need her any more. The time had come to move on.

Wait till she told Nate, he’d be so made up. It was all going to be perfect.