The A-List Collection: Hollywood Sinners / Wicked Ambition / Temptation Island. Victoria Fox
Robbie tried everything, desperate to find a way to reach across that space and comfort her. His worst fears had come true: guilt was a persistent beast, and it refused to relinquish the woman he loved. There was nothing he could do. When he reached for her body, she pulled away. When he told her he loved her, she pretended not to hear. There had always been fight in him, but he didn’t know if he could fight for both of them.
Close to a year after they had first arrived in Columbus, Robbie awoke on a grey, still morning to find she was gone.
There was a note. Some crap about sparing him; some meaningless martyr bullshit.
For weeks he was angry. He half expected her to come back, to say their love was worth more than this and that they’d try to make it work. When she didn’t he called her again and again, left countless messages, all saying things he didn’t really mean and not one that said what he really meant. No reply. He guessed she’d changed her number. He tried a couple of leads, sat in Harry’s for days on end, hoping for a clue–maybe she’d mentioned something to someone, anyone. Nothing. She had gone, vanished like a ghost into the night.
He drank for a while. Slept with women without knowing their names. Every morning he woke and looked in the mirror, hating what he saw.
Murderer.
Dark shadows round his eyes. Black stubble he couldn’t be bothered to shave. But most of all the intense sadness that clung to his shoulders like fog.
He scraped a pass on his course, though Christ knew how.
Then, in the New Year, he called his father.
‘I’m coming to town,’ he declared. ‘I need to start over. Vegas is it. ‘
Los Angeles
Harriet Foley’s mansion sat in the heart of Beverly Hills, a magnificent white building set in a cluster of palms and furnished with a staggeringly expensive collection of contemporary art. Guests milled poolside under a violet sky pierced with stars. The evening smelled sweet, like money and sex and the December sun bleeding out of the day.
Chloe hadn’t felt like coming. Since her afternoon with Nate a few days ago, she’d felt dreadful–she hadn’t seen him since. All her instincts told her to run back to London, back to the house in Hampstead and curl up in bed, shutting the curtains and forgetting the world. But she couldn’t. And anyway, the UK was the worst place she could be right now.
She couldn’t find the courage to break up with him. She didn’t know if she could do it by herself. And what if she’d misunderstood? What if she’d misread the situation? But, despite these brief intervals of hope, she always reached the same conclusion: whichever way she looked at it, Nate was guilty as sin. It killed her.
‘Hey,’ said Brock, taking her arm as they were ushered inside to take their seats, ‘everything all right?’
She nodded. She had to pull herself together–this was an important evening.
Harriet’s dining room was more like a greenhouse, with lush jade foliage hanging down each side. An absurdly long table, as it would need to be to cater for this number of diners, was decorated with lavish flower arrangements and spotted with baskets of multi-seeded bread. A small, tastefully decorated Christmas tree stood in one corner, as if to show willing.
‘You know,’ Brock nudged her, ‘Harriet’s been looking at you all night. She likes what she sees.’
Chloe had dressed carefully in an all-black trouser suit, Louboutin heels and bold silver jewellery. With her glossy black hair and cat-like grey eyes, the effect was simple but striking. She knew she ought to feel more excited, but couldn’t get rid of this lead weight in her stomach. The thought of Nate with all those other women or, arguably worse, with just one …
‘I’m glad.’ She forced herself to smile.
‘Good.’ Brock reached into an ornate Japanese bowl for an edamame bean pod. ‘Stop looking so glum.’
A starter of tempura prawns arrived–only two, resting self-consciously on a tiny nest of watercress. While Brock turned to an agent friend of his, Chloe searched for someone with whom to start a conversation. She found the women difficult to approach, had been especially sensitive to it since the reception she’d had from Kate diLaurentis. Apart from a kid actor opposite who she vaguely recognised, she was probably the youngest person here–and guessed that didn’t do her any favours. She wondered where Lana Falcon was tonight. Probably with Cole, enjoying a dreamy romantic evening.
Chloe clenched her fists in her lap. She couldn’t bring herself to think where Nate was tonight. Or with whom.
‘Excellent,’ said Brock, dragging her back to the moment. ‘Here’s Jimmy.’
She heard the accent first, a little bit Americanised but still very much there, then looked up as a lofty, shambolic-looking man swept in, apologising profusely in the British tradition, greeting his host then falling into the seat next to Chloe, where he promptly did justice to the plate in front of him.
‘What a fucking day,’ he said, chewing loudly. His wine glass was filled and he slugged half of it back in one.
It was past nine o’clock and Chloe suspected his late arrival wasn’t the best etiquette, but seeing Jimmy now she understood how he could get away with things like this–in that bumbling, awkward way people like Hugh Grant might.
Chloe felt Brock tense. ‘Jimmy,’ he said in an undertone, ‘what’s going on?’
Jimmy glanced up, ready to placate his agent, when he clapped eyes on Chloe and his face froze. It was a classic double-take.
‘Good, you’re not drunk,’ Brock said out the side of his mouth, topping up Jimmy’s water glass all the same. ‘Jimmy, meet Chloe French. Lana Falcon’s new protégée.’
He stared at her, a prawn suspended between his finger and thumb.
‘I’m Jimmy,’ he said finally, holding out his other hand. He had a nice face, with scratchy lines round the eyes that suggested he smiled a lot. His top teeth came out a fraction over his lower, which gave him an unpretentious, quite geeky look, and his hairline was receding in a sexy Jack Nicholson-type way. Yes, Chloe thought, he was definitely attractive. Not that it mattered one way or the other.
‘Nice to meet you,’ she said. He had a good, firm shake. She thanked the waitress as her glass was refilled.
‘Which part of London are you from?’ he asked, not taking his eyes from her.
‘North,’ she answered, glad to have someone to talk to, ‘Hampstead. And you?’
‘Even further north. Manchester, originally.’ He looked down at the prawn, appeared surprised, as though someone had put it there without him noticing, and popped it in his mouth. ‘Don’t go back to the UK so much any more–except for work, which isn’t the same.’
‘Do you miss it?’ she asked.
He made a face. ‘Yeah. Not so much it as, well, me.’ A pause. ‘That sounds weird.’
‘No, it doesn’t.’
He grinned. ‘You’re sweet.’ His gaze was so intense that Chloe felt the rest of the room retreating, as if she and Jimmy were the only people there. He was not what she had expected: she’d seen him in a few things, including that awful film where they put him in a fat suit, and had always thought him borderline cringy. In the flesh he was surprisingly charismatic and charming.
When the main arrived Chloe found she had lost her appetite. But this time it wasn’t because she was sad, it was something different. She’d never been able to eat