Hollywood Sinners

87



Lana remembered the last time she had been on Cole’s jet. Then she had been searching for purpose, escape, a new direction. Now she was on the cusp of a fresh beginning, whatever that would be. The best thing was the novelty of not knowing.

As the jet soared off the runway, she watched her husband. That famous Hollywood profile, his composed, contained expression. He gave nothing away, not even to her. Since their last conversation, during which she’d seen more of Cole than she ever had throughout their marriage, he had reassembled his armour, retreating back to a place she couldn’t reach him–and no longer had the right to try. They had barely spoken over the past weeks, had deliberately avoided contact. And yet she had no concern that their red-carpet appearance would be anything short of perfection.

Lana felt a stab of nerves when she thought of tomorrow. Following an early start it would be an endless, exhausting chain of press conferences and photo ops, all executed and scheduled in uncompromising detail. She was used to it: it was like buckling in for a ride over which you had to completely relinquish control. All you had to do was let go. With a hand on her belly, she realised it was harder with someone else to think of.

Fortunately she wasn’t showing in an obvious way–she had a modest bump but it would be easy enough to conceal. She had a number of gowns to choose from ahead of the red carpet and had insisted on dressing herself before hair and make-up took over–the papers would speculate on the fluid dress style, one that nipped below the bust and fell in a straight line to the floor but, then, any decision she made would be scrutinised in unnecessary detail.

She was glad they were staying at the Orient. Press would be camped outside the Parthenon tonight waiting for the influx of A-listers–unless they’d had a tip-off they wouldn’t know that she and Cole were being accommodated elsewhere. Management would take them direct to their suite for an early night and, knowing Robert was nearby, she felt sure she’d sleep deeply and her dreams would be sweet.

Tomorrow would be good. It was the start of the rest of her life.

Kate diLaurentis kissed her children goodbye, stopped once in front of the entrance-hall mirror for a final consultation then followed her husband out to the waiting limousine.

Their driver stood stiffly by the car door, opening it smoothly as Kate approached, her white-blonde hair whipping out behind; Jimmy trailing after with a bundle of cosmetics bags. She slipped into the dark leather interior, managing her outfit carefully so as not to give the chauffeur any added perks. These days that was for her husband’s eyes only.

Jimmy clambered in after her, hot and noisy as a dog. As the car moved off she awarded him a secret sort of smile, sealing the partition. Sliding closer, she took his hand and drew it to the base of her skirt, where it cut across her knees in a straight line. They still had unfinished business from that morning.

Kate leaned back as Jimmy’s hand moved higher, hearing his breath quicken as he realised she hadn’t bothered with underwear.

Oh, she had him back now. Jimmy knew when he was on to a good thing, and the past month had shown him his wife was the only thing he needed.

As Kate moved with him, she wondered what tricks that bitch Chloe French had employed to get her husband going. Whatever they were, they hadn’t worked.

Stifling her climax in Jimmy’s kiss, she rode the waves of pleasure. He pulled away, adoration in his eyes.

‘Vegas, here we come,’ she breathed.

Chloe thought Nate looked more nervous than she felt.

‘Are you OK?’ she asked as their car pulled up outside the Parthenon’s grand entrance.

‘Yeah, course, babe, why?’ He sounded twitchy. She put it down to the weirdness of them being here together. To be honest, she was surprised he had agreed to come–after all she’d severely damaged his ego. But then, she figured, there was enough of Nate’s ego to bounce back relatively unharmed.

With Nate there she had back-up. She was safer as two than as one.

‘No reason.’ She spotted Brock and waved, suddenly feeling excited. Kate had probably been bluffing anyway–she’d never risk tarnishing her own image at an event like this. Everything would be just fine.

The door opened and a throng of paparazzi surged forward, scarcely believing their luck at Chloe French and Nate Reid arriving together.

In his office on the thirtieth floor of the Orient, Robert St Louis straightened his tie. Downstairs was a frenzy of activity in preparation for tomorrow’s screening.

He thought of Bernstein and hoped the man would be able to refocus and regroup–since the day of Elisabeth’s revelation he hadn’t spoken to his daughter or to Alberto Bellini. Robert was surprised–he’d never seen Bernstein like it before. He was disconnected, remote, refused to discuss anything other than business. Sure, the affair had been a shock, but it seemed to have affected her father more than it had him.

As long as Bernstein could hold it together for the event, Robert was a happy man. This evening the Parthenon would be the centre of attention as celebrities arrived in their masses, preparing for a weekend of hard work and hard glamour.

Except Lana and Cole. They would be at the Orient in a matter of hours. Robert knew that as soon as he saw Lana again everything would seem so simple. Tomorrow’s premiere was no longer the most important night of his career: it was something he was doing for the woman he adored.

But for now it would stay hidden. He and Elisabeth had agreed to maintain their relationship this weekend for press purposes. A break-up drama was the last thing they needed–it would only draw focus away from the main attraction.

Robert looked down at the magnificent Strip and adrenalin coursed through him. He knew how to use it–it was what made him perform.

Checking his watch, he prepared to enter the fray. It was beginning.

Frank Bernstein had already fired two people and it was barely past lunch. They were just kids, new on the job, but he wasn’t in the mood for f*ck-ups.

In the Parthenon’s ground-floor bar he ordered himself a stiff drink. His nerves were shot to shit. He swore he was on the verge of a goddamn heart attack.

She’d have read Linda’s note by now, surely she would–and she’d come to him when she was ready. Oh, he knew Elisabeth had taken it that day in his office: it couldn’t have been anyone else. On reflection he’d decided it could work out better that way, if she heard it from her own mother–Linda would have found the words he couldn’t. His plan had been to tell her once she was married, felt a bit more secure, but if she wanted to find out the truth sooner then that was her decision. For once he wasn’t going to interfere, just as Elisabeth always said she wanted.

He’d assumed she’d read it straight away–obvioulsy she hadn’t. And now it was too late.

What the hell have I done?

He couldn’t face either of them. Shame, guilt and revulsion writhed like a pit of snakes.

His concierge appeared. ‘Boss, you’re needed out front.’

Bernstein knocked back the thick poison in one and headed into the foyer. Sam Lucas’s new muse Chloe French had just arrived with her rock-star boyfriend, some long-haired kid with black-clad legs like an insect. They were both posing for photographs, a beefy blond guy hovering close by.

He braced himself.

Elisabeth felt weak. She had been drinking nothing but liquorice tea and eating almonds for what seemed like for ever–as Donatella kept telling her, the voice was an instrument that needed maintenance. To her horror she had woken yesterday with a scratch in her throat. Alberto had rushed to her bedside, full of concern. He looked so romantic with a bandage over his broken nose, if a little pathetic.

All morning she had been at the Orient’s function space, aware she was getting in the way of the organisers but deciding not to care. She had to focus on tomorrow night–it was what was keeping her going.

Back at the mansion she had a quick sleep, a shower and tried not to think about her father. She knew her relationship with Bellini was difficult to come to terms with, but she couldn’t imagine he hadn’t faced worse in his time. Now he was making her feel like an outcast, refusing to speak to her, look at her, nothing. She was surprised by how much it upset her. Her father’s meddling had once been what caused her pain, now it was his neglect.

She looked round the bedroom. Robert had moved out to one of the other suites until after the premiere and the split was announced. She closed her eyes, thinking how irrevocably things had changed.

And then she remembered.

Springing to her feet, Elisabeth crossed to her dressing table. With all the drama of the past few weeks, she’d almost forgotten about her mother’s note. Glad, in the end, that she’d saved it–with her father’s lack of support she needed it now more than ever–she slid open the top drawer and reached in.

There it was. The crisp, clean lines of its edges. An envelope untouched since her mother had sealed it thirty years before.



Elisabeth



She ran her nail along its seal and opened it.

Jessica Bernstein threw down a beautiful AW dress on her bed in disgust.

‘I can’t wear this!’ she squealed at a pitch only dogs could hear. Her stylist recoiled, frantically fumbling for something that might tick all of Jessica’s impossible boxes.

‘Christie, hair up or down?’ She stood in just her underwear, gathering up her thin hair in an alarmingly tight knot before letting it loose again.

Christie Carmen looked up from picking her fingernails. ‘Up,’ she said, as enthusiastically as she could. ‘Up looks hot.’

Jessica turned round. ‘Good, that’s what I thought.’ She enjoyed having a faithful, adoring puppy trailing after her all day.

Christie got up to visit the bathroom.

‘Where are you going?’ Jessica demanded, eyes flashing as her stylist attempted something different. ‘I need you here.’

‘I just wanted to—’

‘Sit!’ Jessica ordered, and Christie did as she was told.





88

Las Vegas



Lana and Cole arrived at the Orient through the back entrance and under tight security.

They were met by their management and shown to the Pagoda Suite. Inside was a luxury hamper packed with champagne and caviar, smoked salmon, wines and cheeses, as well as a hot feast of filet beef and wilted spinach. A lavish bouquet of lilies welcomed them both to the hotel, as well as personalised gifts: a watch for Cole and a bracelet for Lana, a silver chain studded with emeralds. She could tell that Robert had chosen it.

The greetings were extravagant and she admired them as such. Cole didn’t bother.

He had been in a terrible mood since they’d landed. Downstairs it had been all smiles and charm, the conduct of a consummate pro, but now they were alone he went crashing through the rooms, pulling open closet doors and slamming things with unnecessary vigour.

‘It’s one night, Cole.’ She sat down on the bed. ‘I won’t let you down, I promise.’

A piece of hair had escaped from the immaculate grey sculpture atop his head. ‘We both know what the repercussions of one night can be,’ he said bitterly.

She nodded, aware she deserved it. ‘Let’s get some sleep. It’ll be non-stop tomorrow.’

He sat down and picked disinterestedly at some of the meat. ‘You’d better eat something,’ he advised, giving her a grudging look. But as soon as she joined him, he was up again.

‘I’m taking a shower,’ he announced, stepping out of his shoes and whipping off his tie.

Lana heaped a plate with food and poured herself some cordial. She felt so hungry that at first she didn’t notice that Cole was removing his clothes.

It was like watching a stranger undress. Awarding the food an excessive degree of concentration, she averted her gaze. Never before had she seen her husband naked and she had no desire to now. The suite was big enough for them to avoid each other entirely–the fact he was choosing to do this in front of her was deliberate, though she couldn’t figure out why.

No sooner were his trousers and shirt in a heap than he scooped them up, folded them into precise squares, stalked into the adjacent room and placed them neatly on the bed.

Thankfully he kept his shorts on. As he disappeared into the bathroom she caught a glimpse of her husband’s form: the tiny, compact upper body; the short, almost bowed legs; the little-boy flat shape of his backside. Everything was totally hairless.

When she was sure the water was running, Lana padded into her own room, lay on her bed and closed her eyes. She felt unbelievably tired.

Just as she was drifting off, there was a knock at the door.

Frowning, she checked the time. She felt confused, unsure if she’d been asleep. But the shower continued to run so she decided she couldn’t have been out that long.

She sat up and looked at the door. The knock came again, startling her, louder this time. Reluctantly she got up to answer it.

Checking the peephole, she saw a suited man, his head bowed.

She opened the door. ‘Hello.’

‘Hello.’ Robert’s handsome face broke into a smile. ‘How are you?’

She lowered her voice. ‘Cole’s in the bathroom, I can’t talk.’

He gave a curt nod, remembering this was business and they were his guests. ‘I had to catch you before things kick off–I don’t think either of us will have a spare minute.’

Lana glanced behind her nervously. The water was still on full force–Cole was ritualistic about washing his body. ‘I’m glad you came.’

‘Me, too.’

They stood like shy kids.

‘Look,’ he offered eventually, ‘it’s good to see you …’

‘You, too.’

‘And I just wanted to say that when all this is sorted …’ He nodded over her shoulder. ‘Just let me find you. OK? No more waiting.’

She smiled. ‘I’d like that.’

‘Good, because it’s happening.’ He was serious now. ‘The wedding’s off. Elisabeth and I are over.’

Her heart skipped a beat. ‘How did she take it?’

Robert ran a hand through his dark hair. ‘Actually,’ he shrugged, ‘surprisingly well. Let’s just say there’s more to it than I thought.’

This time Lana forgot to check her voice. ‘I’m happy.’

‘So am I.’ He took her hand. ‘No more running.’

‘No more running.’

They heard the shower stop.

And then he was kissing her. It happened so quickly and in such a way that it fitted, like the final, perfect piece of a puzzle slipping into place; the place it had been made from and to which it had been waiting all its life to return. His hands were on her, his thumbs stroking the contours of her face like a forgotten landscape. She felt the breath knocked out of her, and by kissing him back she could fill up again on the thing that kept her alive. It was the same as it had ever been, the way he touched that tender spot beneath her ear, the smell of his skin so close to hers.

Only when the bathroom door was unlocked did he pull away.

‘I want to kiss you for ever,’ she told him in a whisper.

‘For ever starts here.’ His hand dropped hers and in a heartbeat he was gone.





89



The following day passed in a whirlwind of activity. Chloe forgot how many photos she’d posed for, how many people she had bossing her about, telling her to stand here and there and next to so-and-so, to get against the backdrop so she was squashed between a certain two letters and a certain Sam Lucas, who was sweating profusely under the bright lights. Her face had gone rigid with all the smiling. At the Q&A she’d blabbed about her character, apparently said something she shouldn’t, and had been cut short–and, she thought, quite rudely–by Brock.

But that seemed to be how people got on with it. What she couldn’t believe was how closely it resembled a military operation. It was how she imagined a day in the army, with everyone barking orders and shouting directions. She didn’t know how someone of Sam’s age managed it–he’d been in interviews all afternoon, answering the same questions over and over, and didn’t seem tired in the least. For Chloe, her part was downright exhausting.

Perhaps that was why, back at the Parthenon suite she shared with Nate, she had started to feel ill. It was early evening and she’d just received information that her stylists were on their way. So far it hadn’t been at all like she’d expected, not nearly so glamorous and an awful lot of work, but she knew tonight would make up for it. The red carpet awaited, and so did the performance that would make her career.

So why couldn’t she shake this bloody queasiness? She’d been fine all afternoon and through the conference, then she’d got back here, had a bath, and almost immediately started to get ill. It was nerves, Nate said, she’d get over it.

Three storeys up and eleven doors down, Kate and Jimmy were preparing for the most important public display of their marriage. Hours from now they would be on the red carpet, genuinely together for the first time in years. For Kate, it couldn’t come soon enough.

It was a pity her hair person was so useless. Didn’t these people learn the basics in beauty school? This girl was hovering maddeningly round the dressing table, trying to trap Kate’s beautiful golden mane in a hopelessly outdated style. The new Kate diLaurentis always wore her hair loose–it knocked five years off her, if not more. She was rapidly losing patience.

Kate grabbed the tray of brushes and serums and the stylist retreated, horrified. Taking matters into one’s own hands, as she well knew, was the only way of making sure a job was done properly.

As she blasted a cloud of hairspray, Kate watched her husband’s reflection in the mirror. Yes, she was definitely remembering how to find Jimmy attractive. They had spent all day in their suite making up for lost time, and every flicker of distraction she detected in him had been punched out by a strip tease or a blow job–she wasn’t having him think about his latest conquest for a single second. He could leave that up to his wife.

Over at the Orient, Cole Steel dressed and prepared himself in record time. The good thing about these affairs was that he was so practised he could do it all on autopilot, which was convenient if he was filled to the brim with dread and loathing.

Tonight would be the toughest performance of his acting career.

Earlier he had accompanied Lana on her press circuit. It was customary, but this time he had a reason other than supervision. He had a good lead to suspect that the father of Lana’s child was here, and one look at the cast line-up told him straight away who it was. The kid couldn’t take his eyes off Lana, but it wasn’t desire in his eyes–it was fear.

The kid was dumb but, then, that was no surprise. He’d thought he could f*ck Cole Steel’s wife and get away with it–he was never going to be a genius. No, this afternoon, under the hot glare of scrutiny, Parker Troy had signed his own death warrant.

If it hadn’t been such an important night he’d have gone over there right now–set a few things straight the Cole Steel way.

But he was a professional. Troy would wait.

Cole straightened his bow-tie. He and Lana would be the last to arrive on the red carpet this evening–the night’s main attraction. Listening to the steady wash of the shower, the way the water changed pitch when she moved her body under it, he realised it would be the last time.

Under the hot needles of water, Lana washed away her exhaustion. It had been a long, tiring day but the worst part was over–now she just had to focus on getting down the carpet and making sure she kept Cole happy. Giving a great show for the cameras was the last thing she could do for him. And she was looking forward to seeing Eastern Sky–she was always deliberate about not seeing her movies before this stage, it meant she could share in the audience’s reaction. She experienced a flurry of butterflies.

Cole stayed in the adjacent room while she dressed, and when hair and make-up showed he took an uncharacteristic back seat. The girls kept things natural: Lana was already radiant in a dark blue Chanel gown that kissed the floor, she didn’t need much else. Diamonds glinted at her ears, her porcelain skin illuminated by their sparkle, and on her wrist she wore the thin band of emeralds that Robert had given her.

There was a lot of fussing until everyone was satisfied, then, briefly, for the first time since Lana had woken at six that morning, she was left alone with Cole. Well, almost. She looked down at her stomach.

It was about to begin.





90



Mickey Galetti had worked as a doorman for six years, two of them at the Orient. He was in his thirties, had yellowing teeth and suffered from acute self-consciousness in crowds, which was ironic since he was entirely unremarkable to look at.

Mickey pushed open the fire doors and stood out by the trash, attempting to light a cigarette. It was a circus in there. Wait till he told Brenda about it–the place was packed out like one of the celebrity magazines she liked to take to bed. But if imagining George Clooney got her wanting the hot stuff then who was he to complain? Thinking about his wife and their little boy, a first child only six months old, made him smile. When he was done here he could go home to his family, spend some time in the real world. Much as he loved the Orient, tonight wasn’t it.

He wrestled with the light some more, trying to get it to catch.

‘Need some help, pal?’ Someone was in the shadows. He could tell it was a man, but the voice was sort of high, like a boy’s.

Mickey looked into the darkness but couldn’t see anything. ‘Who’s there?’

Silence. Then the voice again, more menacing this time. ‘I asked you a question, buddy. Didn’t your mama teach you manners?’

The alley was empty. Suddenly the cigarette didn’t seem like such a good idea.

‘I’m cool, man,’ Mickey said shakily. He turned to go back inside.

A hand descended on his shoulder. ‘Hey,’ the stranger said calmly, ‘I got a light. You want it or not?’

Mickey whirled round, his heart racing. Shit. Brenda was always telling him to quit the smokes–why didn’t he listen to her? A pale face loomed into view. It was chalky-white, curiously devoid of emotion; its small eyes mean and empty. A bad smell assaulted him.

‘Honest, man, I’m good.’ Mickey trembled. ‘I don’t need your help.’

‘That’s interesting,’ said Lester Fallon. ‘Because I need yours. See, you’ve got one or two things I need.’





91



Every station was buzzing with news of the premiere. Lester parked the Saab in the hotel’s underground lot and sat in the gloom, listening.

‘Once again we’re out among the stars and this time we’re coming at you from Las Vegas, where Lana Falcon’s new movie Eastern Sky is premiering. In less than an hour Lana and her gorgeous husband Cole Steel will take to this very carpet and we’re here to ask them a couple of questions …’

He cracked his bony knuckles at the sound of her name. Nobody knew what a murdering bitch she was. But they were about to find out. Oh, yes, she’d hidden her nasty little secret for way too long.

Lester punched the dash in a fury. After a brief crackle the station changed.

‘… coming to you live from Las Vegas, Nevada, at the Eastern Sky premiere. Plenty of excitement here as the celebrities start to arrive …’

‘Shut up!’ he shouted, clamping his hands to his ears.

Drawing his knees up to his chest, Lester sat whimpering in a ball, his head against the window.

Stupid, crying little boy. What would your poor dead mommy and daddy think?

‘Shut up,’ he said again, but this time it was a wet splutter.

He sat like that for several minutes, intermittently releasing an involuntary, high-pitched howl, before gathering strength. Quickly and smoothly, like peeling off one mask and slipping on another, Lester parcelled his emotion and prepared himself for the task ahead.

He took his time getting changed, not that easy in a cramped back seat, and made sure every crease was smoothed out of the uniform. It was important to be smart for such a special occasion. That mommy’s boy had got seen to all right, wetting his pants all down his leg like a freaking mutt–thank Jesus he’d already taken the clothes.

It was the way the world worked: some people were made to beat up; some people got beat. Unfortunately for that jackass, he belonged to the latter. Still, Lester had shown mercy that had not been shown to him: the guy would have some headache when he woke, but he’d live.

Shrouded in darkness, he ran a comb through his thin hair, revealing pale strings of scalp with each measured stroke. When the cameras arrived and they awarded him his badge of honour, he wanted to look his best.

When he was ready, Lester grabbed a small black canvas bag from the back seat and secured it in the waistband of his trousers. He fixed the red cap tight against his ears, opened the car door and slid on a pair of black patent shoes. They were a little tight and pinched his toes. But he wouldn’t be walking far.

Lester stepped out of the car and locked the door behind him. His clean, precise footsteps echoed around the empty parking lot.





92



Nate Reid paced the room, wiping his palms on the pleat of his tux trousers. God, his hands were sweaty. He must be shitting it.

He went to the window, looked out across at the Orient. Cars were arriving in droves down below like hard-backed beetles, depositing their cargo at a strip of red that ran on and on, wide as three motorway lanes, bright as a lick of fire.

Chloe had been in the bathroom ages. Eventually he heard the loo flush.

When she emerged, her face was the colour of the inside of an avocado.

‘I feel sick,’ she said fuzzily, putting a hand to her head.

He nodded. ‘You said, babe. But come on, get it together, this is a big night.’

‘I’m serious, Nate,’ she moaned, groping for the edge of the bed. ‘I feel really rough. I keep thinking I’m going to be sick and then just … spitting.’ She curled up in a ball. ‘I think I’m dying.’

The melodrama relieved his tension. ‘Don’t be stupid, Chlo. Come on.’ Then he teased, ‘You didn’t drag me all the way out here for nothing, did you?’

She looked at him with sunken eyes.

‘I’m going to barf.’ A strange gurgling sound came from her stomach and she stumbled blindly back to the bathroom.

Someone knocked on the door. Nate called after her, ‘Time to get dressed, babe, sort it out!’

Chloe’s stylist bustled through with an air of such impenetrable self-importance it was more like fog.

‘She’s not feeling well,’ explained Nate, in response to the retching sounds emanating from the loo.

The woman looked unperturbed. ‘Of course she isn’t,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘They’re always vomiting right about now.’

Chloe managed to get through the fitting without splurging all down her designer dress. She’d just thrown up five times, her stomach was in knots and her throat felt like she’d swallowed a set of knives.

It was like being prepared for execution, never mind her first red-carpet appearance. How could they all expect her to go down there like this? She couldn’t be spewing all over the cast and TV crews–it was sheer and utter mortification! In fact, Chloe had always had such an aversion to the very idea of being sick in public that she always took a small plastic bag around with her in case of an emergency. How would it look if the whole entire world was watching her stumble past with her head buried in an old carrier?

Make-up was on her next, like the second horseman of the apocalypse. What fresh hell awaited her still?

During the fleeting interlude she had writhed around on the bed, not caring if she rumpled her gown. ‘Please,’ she’d begged, ‘kill me.’ Then she’d burped and headed back to the reassuring confines of the toilet. After being sick again she’d felt slightly better, thinking that she might be able to get through the evening so long as it came in waves that she could anticipate. But just when things were starting to look up, the stabbing pains resumed and she was back with her head stuck in the bowl. What was it? Had she eaten something?

It didn’t help that the make-up girl’s breath smelled like milk. Midway through the precise application of eyeliner, it was enough to tip Chloe over the edge.

‘Back in a sec,’ she said through a mouthful, bolting to the bathroom.

The make-up girl looked worried. Nate shrugged. ‘She’ll be fine,’ he said, trying to sound confident, though inside he was cacking himself.

‘Tell her to go,’ Chloe sobbed from behind the closed door. ‘I’ll do the rest myself.’

The girl objected. ‘She won’t get the right—’

Nate cut her off. ‘She’ll be fine,’ he said, ushering her out with her bundle of brushes. He smiled awkwardly before he shut the door in her face. ‘Hey, don’t take it personally.’

Tentatively he knocked on the bathroom door. When it opened, he stuffed Chloe’s cosmetics bag through the crack.

He heard her retch once or twice.

‘Babe,’ he enquired weakly, ‘you OK?’

Silence. Then, ‘Nate, I need a doctor.’ She sounded like death. ‘I need a doctor now.’





93



The red carpet was alive. Paparazzi and TV crews stood three deep along the gangway, vying for the best position; reporters warred for the killer spot, shouting out the biggest names, desperate to catch the A-listers on their way past as they battled for a chat with the movie’s hottest stars. Producers and agents ushered the train along, guiding the commodities into all the right interviews; fans clamoured for autographs and wept with adoration into their sleeves, while on the other side white teeth flashed and cameras popped.

‘Lana Falcon will be right here on the red carpet any moment now, accompanied by her husband Cole Steel,’ wittered one journalist. ‘Hotly tipped for an Award nomination for her performance in Eastern Sky, Ms Falcon will no doubt be nervous tonight in anticipation of how her efforts will be received …’

Robert St Louis surveyed the scene with satisfaction. It was a spectacular event-the Eastern Sky backdrop that ran along the length of the carpet was echoed in the soaring peaks of the Orient that towered overhead. Several cast members had dressed in theme, in commissioned designs of sumptuous peacock blues and jet black.

Lana would be the last to arrive. Right about now she and Cole would be preparing to meet the car that would bring them round: the grand arrival of the stars they’d all been waiting for. He had to admire Cole–it took balls to tell the world one thing when the truth was another. Perhaps the men were more similar than they thought.

Bernstein appeared by his side in an Armani suit that was too tight under the arms. Jessica hovered behind.

‘Have you seen Elisabeth?’ Robert asked.

‘Beats me.’ Bernstein’s expression was hard.

‘I can’t get hold of her. I need her to run through the number.’

‘She’s probably off with her rank old boyfriend,’ said Jessica.

Bernstein pretended not to hear. ‘Jessica’s helpin’ out, though, ain’t ya, puss-cat?’ He clapped her on the back, sending a wash of jasmine champagne spilling down her chin.

‘Daddy!’, she cursed, hoping the cameras had missed it. Clad in aquamarine, she looked quite upmarket for a change.

‘My girl’s been takin’ care of guests over at the Parthenon,’ Bernstein told Robert, with an unusual note of pride. ‘She’s got the magic touch.’

‘Oh, be quiet,’ Jessica snapped. But Robert noticed the flush of pleasure.

‘See what I mean?’ chortled Bernstein.

Robert looked between the two. ‘I suppose.’

‘I ran into Nate Reid in the lobby, that’s all,’ she explained irritably. ‘We go back.’

Robert raised an eyebrow.

‘Suddenly Daddy’s all over it like it’s some big f*cking deal. Some big f*cking embarrassment, more like.’

‘The guy’s an asset!’ clarified Bernstein. ‘I’m tellin’ you this for free: my Jessie sure knows how to charm the right people.’

Jessica was appalled. ‘Jessie?‘

‘It’s cute.’

‘It’s horrendous.’

Bernstein smiled proudly. ‘I gotta say, she surprises me. Cut out for this sort of work from day one.’

‘Ah,’ said Robert, understanding.

Jessica bristled. ‘Why?’

‘What?’

‘Why are you surprised?’

Bernstein made a face. ‘Never thought you had it in you, kid.’

She chucked back more champagne. ‘Are you kidding? I get so bored most days I think I’m going to kill myself. Or somebody else.’

Her father laughed, as if she’d said something sweet. ‘She’s a Bernstein, all right.’

As Robert turned to scan the crowd, a peculiar, disorienting feeling like vertigo came over him. Instinct told him something was the matter. Concerned, he made his excuses and he headed inside. It wasn’t like him to lose his cool.

He took a moment to gather himself and had a quick word with the organisers–he’d been mistaken, everything was running to plan. Guests were being led into the auditorium; the screening would start shortly; the crowd seemed happy. It was a false alarm: he just needed to stop his imagination running wild.

There was nothing to worry about. Tonight was going to go off without a single hitch.