When She Was Bad... (6 page)

‘I can only give you six months,’ he said, reluctant to take the lease out of his pocket. She had jumped on it so quickly it probably meant he could have asked for an extra two hundred a month. ‘And there’s no rent control on this place.’ °

‘That’s fine. Sign the lease, please,’ Lita said.

‘Maybe I need to look it over first,’ he said, eyes narrowing. ‘And maybe I need to call the Housing Department. This place doesn’t even have a full kitchen, which means you’re trying to rent an illegal apartment. My brother works for them over in the Bronx. I could ask him to investigate this for me.’

The man paled behind his moustache. ‘Sure, kid, whatever. Sign here.’

Lita took his leaky ballpoint and signed will a flourish. What did she need a kitchen for? She was going to be eating out every night. She folded the lease neatly into her purse and held out herhand for the keys.

‘Wetback bitch,’ her landlord muttered just loud enough for her to hear as he stormed out of the apartment.

Lira grinned. Music to her ears. She wouldn’t have any trouble from him. If he’d had any balls, he’d have said it to her face.

9

The phone was wired in. She wiped down the receiver and called her mother. Let Pappy be in charge of renting the place downstairs. Mama agreed placidly. They had been expecting Lita to move out for some time now. Their roles had been totally reversed - her parents were in awe of her, and did whatever she suggested.

Lita was going to sleep here tonight. She thought about her clothes. Chico could bring them in the truck tomorrow. Within one week, she’d be totally settled in.

She locked up and headed for Filene’s Basement.

‘Veree nice.’

Chico lit a cigarette and stood in her living room, taking it all in. His sister - his stuck-up, arrogant sister - was living like a millionaire. He ignored the small size of her place, and the fact that most of her furnishings and drapes came from thrift stores in the East Village. He only took in the style. Lita had gone for an Indian effect, very P,.avi Shankar, with Paisley drapes and purple and gold cushions on her bare couch. There was a hardwood floor, already meticulously clean, covered with a threadbare, cool-looking oriental rug, and mismatched pieces thrown together. She had a lot of closets and they were all full of her

clothes. There was a scent of sandalwood and spices.

‘Makin’ a lot of dinero, Lita.’

It was a statement, rather than a question.

‘I do OK. I send half to Pappy.’

‘Sure you do.’ Chico burned with resen[ment. Miss Goody Two Shoes, now she was acting like a tramp, getting her picture took and living like a movie star. To get money, he had to work on a building site or jack up some chump. Why her? There were prettier chicks than her. ‘You got too much cash. You should give me some. At least get me a

job. I can manage you.’

‘I got an agent.’

‘Who can look out for your needs better than family?’

‘I can’t do that.’ Lita burned with embarrassment. She felt so removed from her brother it wasn’t true. He had taken from their parents, bummed through his life, and now he wanted a free ride off her. ‘But Chico, I got an idea.’

‘I’m waiting,’ he said, annoying her even more.

‘My place downstairs. I was going yo rent it out, but who knows what damage a tenant would do. Tell you what. You can have it. Live there yourself or rent it out to somebody responsible. You could keep the rent.’

He shrugged. ‘Yeah. You need me to do you a favour.’

3°

favour! She had only put it that way so he could save face. ‘If you don’t want it …’

‘I want it. I’ll tell Pappy. I got to go, Lita. See you some time,’ Chico said.

He walked out, not bothering to shut her door.

Lita flopped on a cushion and tried to calm herself. Forget her brother. He was a good-for-nothing and he’d always be that way. She knew she had to move on. Her family was in her past now. She loved them, but she was heading for a new life.

She wished Rupert Lancaster would call.

A

‘Come in,’ the young man said. He had lanky blond hair coming over his collar, and he wore a pair of tight jeans and a flower-print shirt with wide lapels. Just another hippie, Lita thought dismissively. She shrugged

off her Dior swing coat and glanced around the room.

‘Where’s Rupert?’

‘Who? I’m Freddie Wilson. The director.’

Lira shook his hand, a little impatiently. ‘Rupert. Lord Lancaster. From Benson and Bailey.’

She hadn’t heard from him all week. In fact, she hadn’t heard from him at all. Yesterday, at seven, just when Bill was going to head out for the night, he’d gotten a call from some woman at Zane Productions, the hot commercials house, for Lita to come in for a test this morning. She had hardly been able to sleep, thinking he would finally be here.

‘Oh, the client? They never send people to the shoots. Just watch the results, I guess.’ He gestured to a chair in the corner. ‘Sally will see to your make-up, OK?’

Lita slipped into the chair, annoyed. Great. What a frigging snub. He wasn’t even here, and she’d wasted at least four hours of sleep on

nothing. She had hollows under her eyes and she was extremely tired. With an effort, she focused on Sally.

‘How are you doing.’ Lita gave her a grin. M.ake-up people could be a girl’s worst enemy; the snotty models that treated them as though they didn’t exist always seemed to look just that bit worse than the others. ‘I hope you got some strong concealer in that bag.’

There was no point getting annoyed. Right now she had a job to do. Bill had obviously been right about Lancaster just going through the motions with this test. It was her job to shake him out of his complacency.

‘What’s your name, sugar?’ the director asked when they’d finished. He had a thin sheen of sweat on his brow. The way that model had swung her hips, smoothed the fabric over her tits, flashed those dark eyes … she was an out-and-out diva. She was a carnival in Rio all on her own.

32

He wanted her so bad it hurt. Screw Bill Fisher and his warnings to stay away.

‘FZosalita Morales,’ she said.

‘You got something. You really got something.’

‘Oh, I know,’ she said.

Then, before he could offer her a spliff, she grabbed her coat and sauntered out.

Bitch, Freddie Wilson thought. She could at least show him some gratitude for this amazing test he’d just shot of her. Who did she think she was, some kind of movie star or something? He wished he could just junk the test, but Benson and Bailey wanted results. And, besides, he had a nasty feeling that she was going to make it. If so, he didn’t want to be on her bad side. He shot a look at Sally. She was ten pounds too heavy and no model, but she was pliant. She’d have to do. He needed something.

‘But she’s peoCect,’ lLochman said. ‘You’re a genius, Lord lupert.’

Rupert smiled lightly and didn’t bother to correct him. ‘She is rather good for the brand. I can negotiate an excellent rate for you, too.’

‘Hmm,’ tLochman said, not taking his eyes off the screen. Lita was smiling invitingly, dancing against a white backdrop. In the actual commercial there would be rows of coffee plants, she would be wearing a garish, fake Costa tLican costume and she’d be shaking a fistful of coffee beans. But he totally got the girl. She had liquid eyes and a slanting, arrogant face. Pure sensuality. Housewives would run to get his jars of weak instant coffee; they’d see it as exotic and daring. Maybe he could even start selling to teenagers and those drugged-out college kids. She was young, fresh and still somehow knowing. He wanted her himself

‘Cast her. Maybe I’d better attend the shoot if she’s so inexperienced.’ ‘She seems to be doing OK there,’ Rupert pointed out. His aristocratic face was impassive. ‘I normally supervise the commercial shoots. But if you have a personal reason to be there …’

‘No. Nothing personal,’ Bob Rochman said hastily. He couldn’t afford any turnouts; his best friend had just got taken for almost fifty per cent in their nasty divorce settlement. ‘You”d better go. Set it up soonest. I want to get this baby on the air.’

‘Certainly, Mr lLochman,’ lupert said, and stood-up, smiling. He was looking forward to this.

Lita tried to stop her heart thudding and act casual. This was such a big deal - her first TV campaign, with Bill and the agency suddenly failing

33

over themselves to lick her boots, and real money for the first time, and having an assistant drive out to the Passport Office to provide her with an emergency travel document - but all she could think about was the limey account executive.

She had never been on a plane before. A limo arrived to take her to the airport, and she rode out to JFK in air-conditioned silence, trying to calm herself. She’d dressed like Audrey Hepburn - little cut-off white pants, a silk shirt, huge wraparound sunglasses, a string of fake pearls. Her luggage was Louis Vuitton. She had bought it with her signing bonus, without even looking at the bill. Sure, an insane indulgence, but Lita wanted Rupert to be impressed. It mattered more to her even than saving money.

She checked her small suitcase in and was instantly greeted by an airport rep.

‘Miss Morales? Lord Lancaster asked me to take you right to him.’ He put her on a little cart and drove her right through the throngs of people, down a semi-empty corridor, and stopped right before a little door. ‘Have a great flight,’ he said, hovering for a second before disappearing. Too late, she realized he’d been waiting for a tip. She still wasn’t used to that. Giving money away was a foreign concept to her.

Lira pushed the door open. It was a small, luxurious haven, with chairs and couches upholstered in velvet, a bar with coffee, tea, alcoholic drinks, fruit and snacks. Women lounged around in Chanel and Fendi. Papers and magazines were suspended from mahogany racks, and a

butler moved around, offering refreshment t( the bored, monied crowd. She loved it.

Lita breathed in, deeply. This was it. She had arrived.

‘Lira.’ She spun around to see lLupert Lancaster standing there. He towered over her. He wore another well-cut dark suit and carried a neat briefcase in maroon leather. She noticed a discreet coronet with his initials under it embossed on the front. ‘I take it is Lita, not 1Losalita?’

‘Yes,’ she muttered. Suddenly she didn’t want to look him in the face. He was so achingly gorgeous. What was it Bill had said? Strictly a four-F guy? She remembered her brother Chico, that pig, literally scoring notches into his bedpost. Rupert Lancaster was too European to do that, but the concept remained the same. This man was all clubs and gigs, and everybody knew how the groupies gave it up. Lita had watched the TV news shots of Woodstock totally mystified. Drugs, mud, naked girls letting themselves be groped and ogled, all in the name of love.

But she knew her brother and his friends too well for that. It sure was free. For men. And who was to say Rupert wasn’t just the same thing, except in a suit?

34

She didn’t want to look at him. She was almost afraid to.

But there was no getting around it. leluctantly Lita raised her eyes to his.

‘Maybe I’m getting ahead of myself. Would you still prefer Miss Morales?’

‘No, that’s OK. Uh, my lord.’

He grinned. ‘Rupert and Lita, then. Never say that again. Only servants say the “my lord” stuff. And I hope that we’re going to have an excellent working relationship.’

‘Absolutely,’ Lita said, feeling a fresh stab of disappointment. Working relationship. Of course. She had caramel skin, and she was a girl from the Bronx. What else could he possibly want with her?

‘And after that, a friendship. If I’m not being too presumptuous.’

Lita felt his smile break over her like the sun blazing through the

clouds. A wash of warmth rushed right across her skin.

‘I’d like that,’ she said.

They took three days and two nights to shoot the commercial. Lira turned in a relentlessly professional performance, not even wincing at the cheesy costumes. The light was blackish, gathering storm clouds sweeping over the green mountains, so that they had to take an extra day. Lira loved it. She got to stay in the hotel with P,.upert. She wished they could be marooned for ever.

Benson Bailey had booked them in at the optimistically named Hotel Superior. The crew and the director bitched about the lack of air conditioning, the wooden walls, the local food, but Lita ignored all that. From her window, there was a glorious view sweeping down to the valley; the mountains, deeply, wetly green, thrusting up to the clouds, and the sun brilliant in the sky the colour of a robin’s egg. She loved goat, and chicken, the local cheeses and the unnamed, heady red wine. And best of all, Rupert’s room was right next door.

On the second night, he invited her to eat with him.

‘I didn’t see you in the cantina last night,’ Lita ventured, when she got into his room.

‘Rice and beans?’ Rupert lifted a brow. ‘I’m not a rice and beans kind of chap.’

She wanted to ask if he’d ever actually tried rice and beans, but she didn’t dare.

‘Please, sit down.’ He indicated a small table in the middle of the room. It had been set with a white linen cloth, silver cutler9 and Crystal wineglasses. Lita’s eyes rounded.

‘Where did you get this? I didn’t think this was that kind of place.’ Rupert pulled out her chair, and Lita nervously sat down, trying to

35

remember from the TV shows she’d seen what rich people did at dinner. Self-consciously she shook out the thick napkin and gingerly smoothed it across her lap. She tried to relax and ‘be herself’. Except that suddenly she wasn’t sure if herself was really good enough.

‘It’s not.’ He gave her a sly wink. ‘I make it a rule never to touch the local cuisine. I had this shipped from London.’

He indicated a small trunk in the corner of his room. It had linens and silverware in the lid, and a wicker hamper of food from somewhere called Fortnum & Mason underneath.