Hollywood Sinners. Victoria Fox
and the biggest one said something mean about her.
‘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 he grabbed her roughly and suddenly 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 retreated, their confidence 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.’
‘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 around 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.
17
St Tropez
Robert 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 round. 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