Bad Girls (53 page)

‘How did you even
know
about this?’ Skye couldn’t help asking.

‘Petal’s mum.’ Amber pulled a face. ‘She isn’t exactly Mother of the Year. But she turns out to know a lot of people in the porn industry.’

‘This isn’t—’

‘Don’t even
start
!’ Amber said martially. ‘I
know
you didn’t want to do this! You told me you didn’t want to do it!’

‘That was before you came in and took that movie part from me!’ Skye said equally furiously, her own hands on her hips now. Her palms were making oil prints on her skirt, her clothes were sticking to her revoltingly. She’d have to throw everything away. ‘You cosied up to Joe and batted your eyes at him and got him to pull strings for you! Behind my back! You make me want to puke!’

‘I got out of the way of you and Joe as soon as I realized—’

‘Oh, yeah? Is that why you turned up at Cascabel in his limo?’

‘He was giving me a lift!’ Amber protested. ‘We’re just friends!’

‘You can’t tell me he didn’t try it on with you!’ Skye said accusingly.

Amber flushed. ‘We’re just friends,’ she repeated, though a little less vigorously. ‘Skye, the important thing here is, if you do this, you can never take it back. You need to—’

‘Don’t you
dare
tell me what I need to do!’ Skye yelled at full volume. ‘You’ve got
everything
, and you’re lecturing
me
? When you pose sexily, it’s for fucking
Sports Illustrated
, OK? Well, I don’t have the height for that, and I don’t have model looks! I don’t have that little-lost-bird thing that has Joe and Dr Raf and the guy who’s currently paying your rent duking it out to look after you! I’ve got nothing but my tits and my face, and I’m going back in there right now and earning some money with them, because I don’t see any rich guys queuing up for the honour of paying
my
fucking rent!’

It was impossible to turn on her heel and storm off successfully while oiled up and wearing flip-flops, but Skye managed as best she could, the plastic soles squeaking against her slippery feet with every step she took.

The photographer, the makeup girl and a couple of the
Hustler
execs had come out of the studio and were standing by the door. Skye squelched back to them, her jaw set with determination.

‘Right!’ she said furiously, turning to give Amber the finger. ‘
That
’s told her where she can get off! Let’s go back in there and pour some more oil on me!’

I
can’t believe I did that, Amber thought, watching Skye march back inside the studio, followed by the rest of the
Hustler
crew. What on earth is happening to me? All these impulses keep bubbling up inside me, and I just keep following them.

No wonder I was scared to be sober, she reflected, with the ghost of a smile. It’s pretty frightening to have impulses like this. Let alone act on them.

The door of the studio banged shut. Skye was gone. Sadly, Amber turned back to the waiting car.

At least I did everything I could, she thought with deep regret. She was very worried about Skye. Agreeing to the
Hustler
shoot – presumably it had offered more than
Playboy –
was the first step on a very steep slope. Once Skye had done this, they’d be circling her like vultures, wanting her to make porn films, to capitalize on her brief notoriety.

Linda had described this all too well, when Amber had been getting her to track down the location of Skye’s shoot. They’d offer a comparatively huge amount of money for the first one, cast an actor who looked as much like Joe as possible – Amber had winced at this – and persuade Skye to re-enact as many scenes from the rehab tape as she could.

‘And no one ever stops at doing one porno,’ Linda had said, shrugging. ‘She’s young, she’s hot, the money’s amazing. They’re really good at talking you into stuff, as well. You wouldn’t believe. And after that . . . well, you’re talking yourself into it, you know? Because you want the cash. It’s sort of like drugs,’ she’d added, warming to her theme. ‘They get you hooked, and then you’re chasing them. You can do pretty well out of it too. Porno, I mean. Marry a singer, or a boxer, or something. Get knocked up, you got an income for the next eighteen years.’

Linda had cast a rueful look out of the window at Petal, sitting by the pool house, on the phone to one of her friends in London.

‘But that only works if you get custody of the kids,’ she’d said gloomily. ‘You get shitloads of money when you have custody. I was too young, you know? I didn’t think that through. I should’ve held on to her with both hands. It’d’ve been worth a fortune.’

Poor Petal, Amber thought now, as the car pulled away from the parking lot. I know she can be a terrible brat, but she didn’t stand much of a chance, growing up. Her father may have done an awful job, but she’d have been even worse off with her mother.

And, inevitably, that snapped Amber back to thinking about one of her biggest problems: the Slava situation. Slava was dealing with Amber’s declaration of independence from men by using the technique she had honed so well over the years. She was simply refusing to think about it. Her line was that Amber was too hysterical and confused at the moment by her therapy to have any idea what she really wanted. Every time Amber insisted that she had made up her mind, that Slava would have to get used to a lot of changes in their lives, Slava waved it away, smiling benignly and saying that it was much too early for Amber to make any big decisions.

She had even headed out to Rodeo Drive that morning, saying that maybe Amber was right, maybe they were living too much on top of each other. Slava had been watching reality shows set in LA ever since they had arrived here, seeing golden children of privilege stroll down its wide sidewalks, laden with shopping bags. Clutches from Judith Leiber, diamonds from Harry Winston, high heels from Stuart Weitzman; Slava had collected a list of shops she wanted to visit, dressed in her smartest clothes, and booked a car to take her to the corner of Wilshire and North Rodeo in great excitement.

I should be looking forward to having the house to myself, Amber thought, but somehow the prospect felt more lonely than she had expected. The scene with Skye had not only been upsetting, because she had completely failed in what she’d set out to do; it had drawn on reserves of courage and energy she hadn’t even known she possessed.

Remembering something Joe had talked about at Cascabel, she leaned forward and tapped on the glass partition that separated her from the limo driver.

‘Can you take me to Runyon Canyon?’ she asked. ‘I need to get some fresh air.’

God! Amber thought forty minutes later, collapsing onto a sun-warmed rock. I can’t believe I’m so unfit!

Mind you, a fashionable LA canyon was not the ideal choice of place to try climbing a steep hill for the first time in your entire life. Every single person making the same ascent up the wide path had passed Amber; many had been running, leaping past her as easily as mountain goats, but even the walkers had sped past her, casting pitying glances back over their Lycra-clad shoulders as she wheezed and heaved herself grimly upwards in her tight jeans. Men bare to the waist in running shorts; women in snug-fitting capri pants and exercise bras they barely needed, their hair bouncing in ponytails. All of them with earbuds plugged in and iPod shuffles strapped to their waists or upper arms, light sweat on their smooth tanned bodies, looking in good enough shape to do triathlons every weekend. She’d envied the dog walkers, towed along by their leashes; a German shepherd or a Great Dane on each arm would have helped tremendously to propel her upwards.

I need to join a gym, Amber thought, her chest still heaving as she fought to get her breath back to anything resembling normal. This is totally embarrassing. I don’t want to have a heart attack at twenty-seven just from trying to walk up a hill.

She had never had to work out before, being lucky enough to be born with one of those bodies that had a naturally firm musculature. But never having used those muscles for any real physical activity meant that they were all screaming at once right now, shocked at what they’d been asked to do.

She pulled at the waistband of her jeans, which was cutting into her. They were tucked into boots, and the zip of the boots had been harder to pull up over her calves this morning than it had ever been.

Those pills Matka gave me did more than just stop me being anxious all the time. They made me forget about food. Now I’m eating more than I ever did when I was popping pills. I can feel it. My bras leave red marks on me when I take them off. I wore that Diane von Furstenberg dress to Cascabel because it wraps round me, so I wouldn’t have to struggle with zipping up one that was too tight.

It should have been a gloomy thought, but Amber realized she was smiling instead.

I’m not going to do that part. The bikini girl, in Joe’s friend’s film. I probably won’t even look good enough in a bikini by the time they start shooting. And I’m not going to starve myself back to my modelling weight. If I start that, I’ll find it really hard not to reach for the pills again.

Skye can do it. I’ll ring the producer and tell him I’m pulling out. He really liked her. If he thinks Joe wants him to, he’ll be happy to give her the part instead.

I have to take a different road from now on. I’ve got to stop doing jobs where I’m judged by how good I look in a bloody bikini. If I have to put on an apron instead and clear tables, that’s what I’ll do.

She pulled her phone out of her jeans pocket, wincing at how tightly it was wedged in there, and dialled Tony’s number. I should have done this days ago, she told herself. But it was with great relief that she heard his answerphone message, rather than his voice.

‘Tony?’ she said, tentatively at first, but gaining confidence as she went on. ‘Tony, it’s Amber. I’m sorry to do this by leaving you a message, but I need to tell you this now. I can’t date you. I’m so sorry, but I can’t. I’m looking for somewhere Mum and I can live, and I’ll move us out as soon as we can. We’re giving up the flat in London. I don’t know where we’ll end up, but we’ll be fine. Don’t worry about us. And thank you so much for all you’ve done, Tony. I wish I could date you, but I can’t. I’m sorry.’

She clicked off and put the phone back in her pocket.

It’s done
, Matka
. You can’t talk me out of it. No Joe, and no Tony.

If I can’t have Dr Raf, I don’t want second best.

Suddenly, she felt very weary. The sun, beating down on her, the thought of the scene with her mother when Slava got home that afternoon to Amber’s announcement that she’d turned down the part and said a definitive ‘no’ to both Joe and Tony . . . she grimaced, overwhelmed by how excruciating the next few days were going to be.

Stuck with
Matka
, trying to get my life together, trying to keep her as happy as I can, trying to cope with the fact that Dr Raf is going to marry Dr Lucy and I’ll never see him again
. . .

Oh God
. . .

Closing her eyes, Amber slid down the rock, resting her back against it, grass under her legs. A niche in the rock cradled her head, surprisingly comfortably, and she let herself slip off into a much-needed drowsy reverie. Sun bathed her face, and she didn’t even care;
I’m not a model any more. I can get a suntan if I want
. Dr Raf’s face floated into her dreams; his face, his hands, his body against hers.

I can’t believe I’ll never see him again, she thought, as she drifted away into a daytime sleep. I just can’t believe it . . .

Amber was swimming in a sea of vodka with Vicodin islands floating in it. The islands were sharp-edged, and when she bumped into them, they cut her; dully at first, but then the pain started to blossom. Her left arm felt as if it had been sliced open. Something was trickling down it, something heavy that itched her, irritated her, made her want to rub it away. She lifted her hand, and gasped in pain; she must have caught her fingers between two of the islands, slammed them between them somehow, because they felt bruised to the bone—

No
.
Not islands. A door.

Someone slammed your fingers in a door when you tried to open it.

The door of your bedroom.

You’re not floating in a sea at all, you’re lying on your bedroom carpet, bleeding.

And someone’s trying to kill you.

Her eyes snapped open.

Someone was calling her name, from very, very far away, so distantly she couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. It was so muffled it might have been coming through layers of padding wrapped around her head.

And she seemed to have gone blind.

She turned her head from side to side in panic, starting to thrash around, realizing that she couldn’t breathe, because there was something pressing on her face. Stopping her from seeing anything. Stopping her from taking a breath—

The pain in her arm, in her hands, was blocked out now in her panic to stop herself suffocating to death. With everything she had, she reached up and hit at the heavy cloud enveloping her head. And through it, she felt something else.

A pair of hands, holding it down. Holding a pillow over her face, trying to suffocate her.

The rush of strength that Amber had summoned up earlier that day, dragging a naked Skye off the porn set, flooded back through her now. She twisted sharply to the side, using her hands pressed on the carpet, her shoulders rising up, to heave the weight off her face. Dragging a deep breath back into her lungs, she managed a yell for help.

It was a hoarse, rasping shout, more like a bark than a human sound. She couldn’t believe it had come out of her mouth.

‘Shut up!’ the woman said violently.

And Amber realized for the first time what she was hearing.

She started to scream again, her vocal cords warmer now, more sure of producing something audible; but the next second the pillow came back over her face, and she writhed against it, fighting as hard as she could. She was on her knees, her hands coming up to the pillow, trying to push it away; she thought she heard her name being called again, but for all she knew, she was so desperate for rescue that she might be hallucinating.