Wicked Ambition (16 page)

Ivy went to her bedroom after midnight. Her mother would stay snoring with her mouth open, bulging ankles forced into slippers that rested like blind, foetal creatures on the tortoiseshell carpet, her head tilted back so that Ivy could detect the sparse white hairs that sprang from her chin. A hostess trolley sat stained in the corner, neglected for years, its innards fragrant with trifles of long ago. Fringed, moth-eaten lamps housed dead bulbs and the corpses of flies littered the electric fire. If Hilda woke she’d drink, a bottle, two, maybe more, drinking for the day when at last the poison killed her, watching the clock and daring it to keep on ticking so that sometimes Ivy wondered if she might not put her out of her misery herself. Ivy imagined Hilda in a bloated coffin, her face greasy and brash with the mortician’s efforts, pickled in her splendour, flaccid as the chicken dinners that swam in their gravy-filled packets and whose membrane had to be pricked with a fork.

Ivy had spent her life in hope of a warm embrace or a gentle word but had been left wanting. If Hilda tried now she could not trust herself to resist wringing what life was left from her bones.
Mother
. The word meant nothing.

Ivy’s bedroom was small, the window sealed, and in the corner a single mattress had split, exposing foam guts. The walls were bare, except for one. No family photos or happy
memories. Instead it was covered in photographs and newspaper clippings:

ROBIN RYDER ROCKS AT HAMMERSMITH!

RYDER CLAIMS COVETED CRITICS’ PRIZE!

ROBIN SOARS TO SECOND NUMBER ONE!

What was visible was only the start of it. Inside drawers and boxes there was more of the same. Every picture Ivy had seen of her twin sister, every article she had read, every recording she had heard, was pinned, taped, labelled, filed, a library of everything Robin had achieved and a reminder of everything Ivy could destroy.

She
longed
to destroy her—oh, how she did. For Robin had escaped.

It had been so delicious to introduce herself, subtly at first: Ivy’s lovingly prepared album; the notepad in which she had executed her most careful handwriting; the tracking of her sister through Camden; the phone call to LA…It had been beyond delectable to hear her voice—just the two of them together, chatting like twins, the way it should be…

Turning to the cracked mirror, Ivy removed her clothes. At nineteen her body was achingly thin. Dark circles ringed her eyes, which glittered dark blue, lit by the flame of revenge. Her chest was flat, her red hair lank, and her stomach concave over her pale cotton knickers. The years had contorted her features, calcified by hatred, so that where they should have been identical they were divided by a twist of difference. Ivy’s skinniness, her dyed crimson locks, the crouching hardness in her eyes and the grim set of her mouth had people glance twice, thinking she reminded them of somebody but not quite enough to say who.

She turned, the light catching the angles of her face in a new way.

There she was, a glimmer of her twin. There was the woman she could have been. Robin’s life should have been hers. The injustice made her tremble.

Ivy had been too young to remember the day Hilda had returned, drunk as usual, saying she’d
got rid of the other one
. The twins’ father, a bum who had drunk his way to the grave when Ivy had been six, relayed it to her one night after Hilda had passed out.

I’ve done it
, Hilda had snarled.
I’ve thrown it away
.

But in abandoning Robin she had set her free. Ivy was the girl who had stayed, and suffered, and been beaten and bruised…The visible scars were never the worst.

I don’t want them. They’ve ruined my life
. Hilda had wanted to dump both babies, had only saved one because he had forced her to.

Never mind the daughter whose life she had created, who had never had a say in whether or not she was born. Ivy hadn’t asked for this. She’d had no choice.

It hadn’t mattered which one had been kept. Hilda hadn’t cared which one she gave up. It could just as easily have been the other way around. If Ivy had escaped her mother’s clutches she could have had a shot at life, had the courage and the confidence to claim what Robin had, for when Ivy sang she heard the exact same voice. They were one and the same.

Two fates decided on the toss of a coin.

Ivy clenched her fists, digging her nails into her palm. Hilda knew who Robin was. She pretended she didn’t, acted as if she didn’t recognise Ivy’s shadow beneath that long
straight fringe, in those deep blue eyes…but Ivy had seen. She knew. She’d seen how the channel changed whenever that show pervaded their TV screen. She’d seen how the radio got switched each time one of Robin’s songs came on. She’d seen how Hilda drank.

Robin’s reprieve had been the grossest wrong. She had been spared, a last-minute pardon from a ghastly execution. And the best part, the almost
funny
part, was that they all felt sorry for her. The stupid public actually
felt sorry for her
. Ivy had read simpering articles, fawning interviews, where Robin had been made out to be some kind of saint who had achieved against the odds. What about the odds Ivy had faced? Robin would
never
be where she was now if their fortunes had been reversed. Did she realise? Of course she didn’t.

So now Ivy had to show her.

She reached out to stroke her reflection.

That meant sweet retribution against her lucky bitch twin. Ivy had done the research. Robin’s tour was going to America and so was she. The plan wasn’t easy, it wasn’t quiet and it wasn’t discreet—it was vengeance, loud, hard, messy, merciless vengeance.

She stepped out into the dark of the flat.

‘Mother?’ she ventured, a lonely silhouette in the doorway. There was no response.

She checked that her mother was breathing, releasing her gnarled clasp on the brandy glass and gently setting it down. Briefly she kissed Hilda’s forehead and left the room.

Watch out, Robin Ryder
. Ivy’s eyes flashed in the moonlight.

I’m closer than you think
.

PART 2

20

J
ax Jackson woke at seven o’ clock on a sunny morning in LA, his cock hard.

Lazily he slid his gaze over the sleeping form next to him, sheet pulled up to her waist and long glossy hair swept over a bronzed shoulder. They all looked pretty much the same from behind, so he pushed himself up on one elbow to get a better look. Cute. Jax lifted the sheet and clocked her ass. Not bad. This one would keep.

Jax swung his legs out of bed and rose to his feet, stretching his arms high till they almost touched the faux-crystal chandelier above his head. He reminded himself to get it removed—damn thing obscured the ceiling mirror. His head felt woozy and there was a taste like soil in his mouth. What had he done last night? He looked at the woman in his bed, the curve of her tits.
Oh yeah
. There’d been liquor involved, people buying him shots all over the joint, and vaguely he recalled racking up lines of coke on a naked back. Whatever, he deserved it. Jax was number one, the don,
el capitán…
fastest man in the world! Technically he was doing them a favour, making the suckers feel special for a night.

He padded to the bathroom, slid his feet into a pair of towelling slippers and checked his reflection in the mirror. There was no getting around it: Jax Jackson was a god. Six foot one of pure dark muscle glared back at him. Sometimes he liked to imagine he’d been carved out of marble, like that Italian dude.
Sculpted
—yeah, that was the word. Raising his right arm, he bent and flexed, marvelling at the way his biceps pushed at the skin, tendons chasing up to his neck where they met the straight hard line of his collarbone. And his arms weren’t even what he was famous for! Turning his attention to his powerful legs, lightly coated in tight coils of black hair, he wondered at their awesome strength. These were the legs that took the world record and knew more speed than any other man on Earth. These were the legs that saw the limit, looked it dead in the eye and broke right through it. They didn’t call him The Bullet for nothing—Jax was faster than a cheetah in pursuit. OK, so his cock could do with a couple more inches, but he didn’t hear the ladies complaining.

It was what he did with it that counted…and he counted, all right.

Smirking at his reflection, Jax tossed back a couple of painkillers, took a piss and stepped into the shower. He ran the water on pummel, feeling its needles drive into his skin. Only when the water was too hot to bear did Jax turn it off and step out to towel himself.

The mirror was clouded but he could just make out his immaculate reflection. With a finger he drew three shapes in the condensation, catching shards of his face with each
stroke. Three numbers: 9.57. The world record for the hundred-metre sprint.
His
world record.

He made his way back into the bedroom. The girl was awake. ‘Hey, baby,’ she purred, sliding a slim brown leg into view. ‘You wanna come back to bed?’

Jax stood at the window and pulled the blind. Sunlight flooded in and he rested a moment, bathed in its golden balm, treating the girl to the full beauty of his profile. He gave her time to drink it all in before turning to face her, a smile playing on his lips.

‘You
know
what I want,’ he coaxed.

The girl laughed, a high, reedy sound that flirted on the line of hysteria.

Jax crossed to the bed in two long strides, stopping so his erection was level with her face. He lifted his watch from the glass side-table and bolted it to his wrist.

The girl repositioned herself, swallowing nervously. ‘I want to, baby,’ she gasped, putting a hand out to touch him, ‘really I do. But I don’t know…it’s too fast—’

‘
Damn
, woman!’ Jax grabbed the back of her head and lunged his face into hers. ‘Course it’s fast, that’s the whole freakin’
point
. Let’s get on it—I gotta race today.’

The mention of Jax’s sport renewed the girl’s interest. She ran a finger over his jaw and dipped it into his mouth. He sucked, rolling his tongue around its tip. Guiding her head towards him, he checked his watch one last time, and only when he felt her lips close around his shaft did he press the button, feeling the seconds run down like water.

Harder and harder, faster and faster, Jax thrust against the girl’s tongue, driving deeper and deeper until he detected a low moan of resistance. He was leaning over the bed now
with the force of it, the girl underneath, trying to contain him. In a rush he caught sight of the end and then he was climbing, getting higher and higher and everything was flashing white and he knew he was going over, way over—

Sonofa
bitch
!

Jax came fiercely, pounding the last out of it, his eyes squeezed shut.

He pushed the girl back, bringing the watch to his perspiring face and examining it. There it was: 12.61 seconds. More than three seconds over.
Damn!

Without looking up he said flatly, ‘I gotta get movin’. Get dressed, I want you out.’

The yellow Lamborghini was his pride and joy, its bodywork second only to the contours of a woman. Jax had caught some late-night freaky TV once about a guy who stuck his dick in car exhausts, getting hot for objects or some shit, but when it came to the Lamborghini he could kind of relate—not that he’d risk getting his own crown jewels doused in diesel or whatever they put up there. (Jax was king of his vehicle but had no clue how it actually worked.)

The sign came up at speed: FOUNTAIN VALLEY ATHLETICS CLUB. Without signalling Jax rounded off Sunset with a screech of tyres, sending up a spray of swirling gold dust. He accelerated, flicking on the radio and settling on a Turquoise dance track.

Sheesh, now there was a foxy female! They had shared a couple of nights once, a long time back when she had got paid for her efforts—and damn fine efforts they were. Not that the industry could ever discover her pre-fame dalliances: they wouldn’t know what to do with themselves if
they found out that the fierce-hot lady at the top of the music charts had once also been on top of a book of clients. Jax had needed release, Turquoise had come with a personal recommendation and, man, she hadn’t disappointed. But Jax didn’t like to dwell on the last of their meetings. That had been years ago, after his first international win—and he’d gone crazy…done things he shouldn’t…things that made him shudder…

Danny Fu, the Chinese gymnast
. They had been celebrating their first gold medals…

Jax shook off the memory. It was like that night had happened to another person, a different man, and on an ordinary day he never thought of it at all. How could he? Each time the details reared up a small part of him shrank and died. Fiercely he changed the frequency.

Soon he would be entering the very same industry—yeah, that was more like it. Jax Jackson, the hip-hop star! Recording with Puff City would make him immortal, unbreakable, a juggernaut…a brighter star than even Turquoise da Luca. It was about time the world got to see what else Jax was capable of. He imagined himself like Biggie without the weight, Snoop without the pigtails, Dre, only younger—screw it, all three combined to make the hip-hop god of the universe! He wouldn’t just be part of Puff City, he’d rule it; he’d be the fucking
mayor
. How hard could it be? Jax could rap about cribs and Krug and cookie jars with the best of them, because, when all was said and done, he was the one living the dream.

‘It’s all about the next competition.’
A familiar voice blared out of the radio.
‘As athletes we’re looking forward, not back. Next stop Rio. That gold is gonna be mine…’

Jax killed the station, his good mood shattered. Who did that punk Leon Sway think he was? Freakin’ kid had a death wish, standing in the line of The Bullet. Jax scowled into the rear-view mirror, flicking the bird at a truck driver who was coming up close.
Touch the paintwork on this and you die, motherfucker
.