Hollywood Sinners (9 page)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Belleville, Ohio, 1992

T
he first few weeks were bearable.

Lester had a job in the local garage and at the start he made an effort to put food on the table, clean up after himself, make sure she was OK. But slowly, gradually, the mask slipped. Laura had known it would happen. At first, the drinking. Then the violence. At night, the animal noises that kept Laura awake when he brought home a girl and did things to her.

Laura counted the days till she could start school. Until then she would be responsible for what Lester called a sister’s special jobs: washing the dishes; mopping the floors; and making sure his meal was prepared every night when he got home. If her brother wasn’t happy with what she had done, he would hit her across her cheek and leave her red skin stinging.

Before bed she undressed carefully in the bathroom, locking the door and stuffing the keyhole with toilet paper. She didn’t know why she did that, but it made her feel safer. Lester was a man, no longer a boy, and she was frightened of what that meant.

That Monday Laura got up early and made herself breakfast. Lester was still asleep, would be late for work: she hadn’t seen him the night before and when he’d staggered in at four in the morning he had fallen over the couch, sending a smash of beer bottles to the floor. She cleaned the mess, knowing what would happen if she didn’t. Then she surveyed the options. The only food in the trailer was stale bread with little buds of green mould flowering on their crusts, so she cut these off and made toast. She found a soft banana and stuffed it in her bag.

At school Laura registered quickly and was shown to her class. The other kids looked much smarter than her and had proper uniforms. Everyone looked at her funny.

‘Hi, I’m Marcie.’ The girl sitting with her in homeroom had fair hair and lots of freckles.

Laura liked her right away. ‘I’m Laura.’

Unfortunately the others weren’t so friendly. At recess a group of bigger boys came over and started calling them names. The boys were laughing at Marcie and the biggest one said something mean about her freckles.

‘Get lost,’ Laura told him, hands on hips, scowling.

‘An attitude,’ he nodded approvingly, ‘not bad for a kid with no mommy or daddy.’ Then just as suddenly he grabbed her roughly and the other boys were pulling her hair and pushing her between them. Marcie started crying, begging them to stop.

‘Quit messing around, Greg,’ came a voice, and the crowd instantly dispersed.

The boy who had spoken stepped forward, squaring up to the biggest in the gang. Laura recognised him as the same boy she had seen when she first arrived in town, the one with the bike. He couldn’t be more than twelve or thirteen.

‘Pick on someone your own size,’ he said calmly, in a voice that sounded like it belonged to someone much older.

‘What’s it to you?’ snarled Greg, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

The other boy waited. ‘You heard what I said.’

‘Is that a threat, Lewis?’ said Greg, shoving the boy’s chest, hard.

The rest of the gang had dispersed, their confidence having slipped.

Laura waited to see what the boy would do. He didn’t fight back. He just kept staring at Greg, his eyes so dark they were nearly black.

‘Come on, shithead,’ crowed Greg, moving to shove him again. This time the boy caught Greg’s wrist and twisted him round, forcing him to his knees.

‘Ow! Let me go!’ yelled Greg, struggling to free his arm. He fought to right himself but the dark-haired boy had him pinned.

‘Say you’re sorry,’ he said.

‘You’re gonna pay for this, Lewis!’

The boy pushed against him harder.

‘OK, OK!’ Greg howled, his face contorted. ‘Sorry, OK? I’m fucking sorry.’

Released, he slumped on to the dusty ground and clutched his arm to his chest, whimpering. Laura wanted to do something, but she no longer knew who the good guy was.

At last Greg stumbled to his feet, dusted himself off and looked at his crowd. He was trying to appear defiant but you could tell where the power was. The rest of them respected this boy more than they respected Greg, and Greg, for all his stupidity, knew it.

‘Let’s split.’ He glowered, signalling the gang and sauntering off. ‘Stinks of crap round here anyway.’

When they were gone the stranger turned to Laura. Everything about him was so dark: his eyes and his hair were one shade off black. He wore a very serious expression. She felt a little bit afraid of him.

‘Are you OK?’ he asked.

‘Sure.’

‘You new?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Forget those guys—they’re creeps.’

Marcie wiped her eyes and looked shyly at the boy. She nudged Laura with her elbow, prompting her to speak.

‘Thanks,’ she said eventually. ‘He won’t come after you, will he?’

The boy shoved his hands in his pockets. ‘Nah.’

There was a short silence.

‘Cool.’ He kicked the ground with his feet before starting to walk away. ‘Guess I’ll see you around.’

Before Laura could stop herself she blurted out, ‘What’s your name?’ Then felt like an idiot.

He stopped and turned round.

‘Robbie,’ he said, and for the first time he smiled. It was in a surprised sort of way, like his name was a brilliant idea he’d just thought of. She noticed he had a dimple in his chin. ‘Robbie Lewis.’

Then just as suddenly as he’d appeared, he was gone, his sneakers kicking up dust as he ran back across the yard.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

St Tropez

R
obert St Louis’s luxury super-yacht cut through the sparkling Mediterranean, a white diamond on a sea of blue.

‘Which do you want?’ asked Jessica Bernstein, strolling out on to the sun deck with a cocktail in each hand. ‘Mojito or daiquiri?’

The women were relaxing on Robert’s private, fully staffed ninety-foot vessel. He kept it moored in Europe year-long for business trips and for weekend breaks in France, Greece and his favourite country of all, Italy. He and Bernstein were spending the day in talks with a slot-machine manufacturer in Monaco who was stumping up cash for an expansion they had in mind.

Elisabeth looked up from under her wide-brimmed hat. ‘The green one.’

‘I’m having that.’ Jessica flopped down on to a towel and handed her sister the other glass. ‘God, I’m so bored,’ she moaned. ‘Daddy practically
begged
me to come and now he’s just left me rotting out here in the ocean.’

Elisabeth stayed quiet. It wasn’t Bernstein who had begged but the other way around. No wonder he had given in—there was only so much of Jessica’s bitching a person could tolerate. Most days she found it reasonably amusing but knew her father did not.

‘Hello?’ griped Jessica, fumbling with her iPod. ‘Are you even fucking
listening
to me?’

‘You’re ungrateful, Jessica—and your mouth’s awful. Quit cursing for five minutes.’

‘Fuck off.’

‘Charming.’

After a moment Elisabeth got up and pulled her lounger into the shade of a parasol.

‘Yes, better,’ said Jessica. ‘It’s age, you know. Old skin can’t handle the sun.’

‘Oh, go flick your bitch switch.’ Elisabeth arranged her towel, watching as her sister extracted a bottle of fuchsia nail varnish from a Gucci beach tote and unscrewed it.

Elisabeth lay back and tried to distance herself from the petty bickering. She and Jessica were born sparring partners—despite their age gap it had defined their relationship since Jessica had hit her teens. Elisabeth supposed she ought to rise above it, but part of her enjoyed the familiar territory of the banter. Her sister was the only person in the world with whom she could violently fall out with one day, only for it all to be forgotten about the next.

‘There isn’t anything to
do
on this boat,’ Jessica lamented, yanking out one of her earphones.

‘There’s a pool, a bar, table tennis—’

‘And I’m supposed to play that with you, am I?’ Jessica threw a glance at Elisabeth’s nails. ‘Won’t you chip a claw?’

Elisabeth rolled her eyes. ‘Stick it up your ass.’

‘Stick it up yours.’

‘No, thanks. And besides, I know very well what’s on this yacht.’ She played her trump card: Jessica couldn’t hold on to a man for more than five minutes. ‘It’s my fiancé’s, remember?’

‘Yeah, and he’s been looking
real
happy about that.’

There was a moment’s pause before Elisabeth stood up. Jessica had gone too far—she knew Robert was strictly out of bounds.

‘You haven’t a clue about how relationships like ours work.’

‘Relationships like yours?’ Jessica squawked gleefully as she stalked off. ‘What are you, the King and Queen of England?’

Elisabeth reached the bow and looked over. Glittering blue water sliced apart below her; above a matching sky and the rugged hills of the azure coastline. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, feeling the wind whip through her Thomas Wylde silk kaftan.

But Jessica was right. Robert
had
been acting funny, and it was ever since that damn film premiere had been announced. Despite his assurances he still got defensive whenever she mentioned it, and even more so when she brought up Lana Falcon. What was going on?

And why hadn’t they settled on a date for the wedding? They’d been engaged for months now. She hoped he wasn’t getting cold feet.

‘Get over it!’ shouted Jessica. ‘Desperation is
so
unattractive, you’re probably putting him off.’

Elisabeth turned, unable to bite back her catty response. ‘Put some more sun cream on, Jessica—you’re looking horribly pink.’ She reminded herself that Jessica was only bitter—she’d give anything for a man like Robert.

Resuming her seat under the parasol, she watched her sister apply yet more Sun Perfect to an already perfectly bronzed, and not at all burned, body.

‘He’s just got a lot on his mind at the moment,’ she said with a decisive nod.

‘Sure.’

‘Don’t be jealous,’ she mimicked, ‘it’s
so
unattractive.’

Jessica made a face. ‘Hardly.’ She rubbed the cream into her feet. ‘Well, if Robert doesn’t make sure he gets you down that aisle soon, Daddy will.’

Elisabeth closed her eyes, suddenly tired. ‘He can do all he wants, it’s Robert’s and my day and it’s our decision.’

‘Why
is
he so set on getting you two married?’

She opened her eyes a crack. The question sounded genuine.

‘Beats me.’

‘Robert thinks it’s to do with Chicago.’

‘Yeah, might be. Bernstein’s living in a dream world if he thinks either one us wants in on that.’

‘
I
think it’s something else,’ Jessica said, adopting the tone she used when gossiping with her girlfriends. ‘Something Daddy’s not telling us.’

Elisabeth stretched out her toes. ‘Whatever.’

‘Aren’t you curious?’

‘Not really.’ She yawned. ‘As far as I’m concerned he’s an interfering old man. He just wants a grandson or some such crap. It doesn’t take a genius to work that out.’

Jessica rolled her eyes. ‘Think what you like. My money’s on something
way
juicier.’

‘Like what?’

‘That’s what I’m trying to find out.’

‘You’re just bored. It comes from sitting around all day doing nothing.’

Jessica shrugged. ‘Suit yourself. I’ll try not to say “I told you so”.’

‘Fine. Shut up about it now.’

‘Why should I?’ Jessica raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m your sister, it’s my job.’

‘I’m tuning out.’ Elisabeth slid on a huge pair of sunglasses and lay back. ‘Save your gossip for someone who actually cares.’

* * *

Hours later, laden with bags, the two sisters collapsed into a café on the lively market square. St Tropez was boutique heaven.

Jessica ordered two champagne cocktails to celebrate.

‘I don’t want to get drunk,’ said Elisabeth.

‘I don’t want to get bored.’ But they ordered two bottles of La Croix all the same.

‘Delicious!’ Jessica clapped her hands together like a seal as the drinks arrived. Taking a sip, she extracted a pair of pink Rondini sandals from a huge paper bag and held them out. It was amazing how seriously she took the pursuit of shopping—of spending money in any capacity, really. Elisabeth had spent, too—mostly on her weakness, jewellery, in Gas Bijoux—but nowhere in the same league as her sister. For Jessica retail therapy was a full-time occupation: clearly it filled a gap where something else was missing.

Elisabeth checked her cell. Still nothing from Robert. She suspected they’d be leaving Monaco on Bernstein’s boat by now. Why hadn’t he been in touch? She had to stop worrying—there was nothing wrong with her fiancé; everything would be just fine.

‘I
love
France,’ Jessica mused, sitting back and running a hand through her hair. She gazed round at the architecture. ‘There’s so much American influence here.’

Elisabeth snorted.

‘Maybe I’ll move to Europe one day,’ her sister went on. ‘Marry a count.’

‘As if.’

‘Oh, I’m
very
well practised in the European ways. And by “European ways”, of course I mean “European men”.’

Elisabeth couldn’t help but laugh. It had been ages since she and Jessica had enjoyed each other’s company—much as her sister got under her skin, Elisabeth had to admit she was fun. Plus Jessica’s bravado on the subject of men, she knew, only concealed her desire for a meaningful relationship. The more insecure Jessica was definitely easier to love.

‘You’ve never had a French guy, admit it.’

Jessica shrugged. ‘I’ve had an English.’

‘Not the same thing.’

‘A
sexy
English.’

Elisabeth looked disgusted. ‘Not that hideous London one with the long hair. Wasn’t he in a rock band? Not that I’ve heard of them.’

‘Nate Reid,’ Jessica nodded, ‘is an
incredibly
hot guy. Seriously. I can get myself off just thinking about him.’

‘Jessica!’

Then she added, ‘I’ve got a feeling he’ll be big. I know that already, but musically speaking.’

Elisabeth raised an eyebrow. ‘Whatever you say.’

‘And anyway...’ Jessica fiddled with her earlobe ‘...he practically
is
a count. Or something. His family’s major-rich. I think we’re well suited.’

‘Good for you.’ She stirred the sugar at the bottom of the cocktail.

‘It’s the Italians who really know what they’re doing…’

‘Not if Alberto Bellini’s anything to go by,’ muttered Elisabeth, wondering why the old man had sprung to mind. It must be the champagne.

‘What do you mean?’ Jessica leaned forward, keeping her voice hushed. ‘Has he tried it on with you?’

Champagne bubbles fizzed down Elisabeth’s throat. ‘He’s forever trying it on, you must know that.’ She added without a trace of arrogance, ‘It’s no secret he’s in love with me.’

‘But I mean, has he ever tried it on…
physically
?’

‘God, no!’ Elisabeth giggled. ‘He’s ancient.’

‘The old ones are the worst,’ Jessica said sagely.

‘Maybe.’

Elisabeth looked out at the bustling square. Against her will she felt a stir at the mention of Alberto; the memory of what he’d said about her dear mother; his unconcealed adoration such a far cry from Robert’s recent behaviour. It was the cocktails, that was all.

‘Let’s get another,’ she said on impulse. Jessica beamed. ‘I’m feeling reckless.’