The A-List Collection. Victoria Fox
with about six years left? But while her head told her one thing, her heart said another.
‘You must tell St Louis,’ said Alberto. ‘Before the premiere.’ He gazed at her a moment, a little sadly, she thought, before he climbed out of bed and headed into the shower. The steady beat of water followed soon after.
The blackmailers’ ultimatum hung off her like a cross. They’re bluffing, she told herself, knowing she was a coward. They might not know anything. It’s an empty threat.
She put her head on her knees. Lana Falcon had been here for nearly two weeks and Robert was the happiest she had ever seen him. She had never made him that happy.
At least she had something she was keeping close to her heart.
With a flutter of reprieve she remembered the envelope she had found in her father’s office. It had to be from her mother, it just had to be. She’d seen Linda’s handwriting on things over the years and she’d recognise it anywhere. To think that her mother had left her this note, this little piece of her meant for Elisabeth’s eyes only, shone a bright light through the confusion in her heart. She’d hidden it away where no one could find it, savouring its potential, had nearly opened it several times before telling herself to wait–it was too good to rush.
Her father had no idea she’d taken it–maybe he was waiting till she was married to give it to her–and, in a situation over which she felt she was rapidly losing control, it gave her a thrilling sense of power.
Swinging her legs off the cotton sheets, Elisabeth slid open the bathroom door. Alberto’s naked form was just visible through the crystal glass.
She passed her reflection in the mirror, the back of her head a nest of sex hair. Brushing it out, she pinched her nipples to harden them and drew across the shower panel. Her lover’s white hair was sudsy and his body slick with water. She stepped in.
‘My darling …’
‘Shh.’ She put a finger to his mouth.
His cock hung sadly between them. Squeezing gel on to her palms she massaged till he was coaxed to attention, just about. She pushed him back on to the tiled seat and mounted him.
Whoever was threatening her had underestimated the strength of her armour. Her body was a weapon they could never defeat.
‘Breathe in; breathe out, and now deliver the note!’
Elisabeth delivered a note, but whether it was the right one or not was up for debate.
‘OK,’ said Donatella, her vocal coach, brushing back a thick mane that was more like fur than hair. Gold bangles, one in the shape of a snake twisted round her wrist, moved with her. ‘Claude, from the top, please.’
Claude, a mini-Liberace at the piano, raised his shoulders in an elaborate preparation for play then thundered down on the keys like his life depended on it. He swayed from side to side as if he were caught in some dreadful musical tide.
Elisabeth attempted to keep up with Claude pummelling on the ivories, looking at her for accompaniment with eyes wild, and Donatella cueing her in like a demented maestro.
It was the same afternoon and they were gathered at Bernstein’s mansion to practise Elisabeth’s premiere piece. It was a song she had written herself–with a little help from Donatella, who’d been in the music business since the seventies–and was made up of a number of component parts, in the tradition of Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody. It began quietly then built to a crescendo, before shying back to a pianissimo, then finishing with an operatic belt-out.
Donatella called time. ‘What’s wrong with you today?’ she frowned. ‘Your pitch is way off. Concentrate, Elisabeth.’
A fearsome woman in her late sixties, but from the back could have passed for forty, Donatella’s face was like tangerine peel, stretched by surgical procedures and swollen with Botox. In a black suit jacket and drainpipe jeans, with a good square foot of copper-coloured chest on show, her die-hard eighties style had finally come back in as a retro fashion choice.
‘Sorry,’ Elisabeth mumbled. ‘Can we start from “Starry night"?’
Donatella nodded briskly. Not many people could get away with telling off Elisabeth Sabell, but Donatella had been working with the family for decades: she had coached the great star Linda Sabell before her daughter. But while Elisabeth was the mirror image of her mother she had none of her vocal talent. She could hit the note–most of the time–but her voice was lacking something special. Still, it didn’t really matter these days, Donatella thought with a pang for the past industry. A good producer could work wonders, the voice was normally secondary.
Claude took it from verse two and the room erupted once more. Elisabeth felt like she was straddling a runaway horse, trying desperately to cling on as the music swept along, galloping towards the money note that she knew she couldn’t hit.
‘Tell me a story, tell me a lie; if you tell me the truth I surely will die. ‘
Donatella marched on, her breasts shaking with the rigour of her direction. Elisabeth felt her mouth go dry, the notes shrivelling up in her throat.
Focus.
I can’t. I’ve got to tell Robert I can’t marry him.
Rushing towards the highest point, Elisabeth’s voice cracked and she delivered the final punch as more of a limp slap. The note escaped her mouth then died on the floor in front of them like a wingless bird.
‘Ach!‘ Donatella shook her head. ‘You’ve got a lot of practice to do.’
Elisabeth looked at Claude, who was wearing an expression of such concerned pity that she wanted to smack him round his orange face.
‘I’ll do it,’ she said, out of breath.
‘I hope so,’ said Donatella, passing Elisabeth a glass of water, which she accepted gratefully. ‘The premiere is in less than eight weeks.’
‘I know,’ she mumbled.
‘You need to be ready,’ Donatella said, grabbing her purse. ‘Claudy!’
Claude sprang to attention like a dog.
‘This premiere will make you,’ she said sagely. ‘I’ve a feeling it’ll be a night to remember.’
Lana lay back on her bed at the Orient, staring up at the ornately decorated ceiling. The past two weeks had been bliss.
Since she’d arrived in Vegas she’d felt anonymous, uninhibited, but most of all free, which was ironic given her circumstances. She’d been forced to stay largely in her rooms, so had found time to be quiet; to read, to watch old movies–even to attempt a letter to Arlene. It was difficult. She hadn’t known where to begin, or how to account for her years of silence. Finding it near impossible to put it all into words, she’d suggested a meeting, maybe after the baby was born. It seemed important to explain in person everything that had happened, right from that day when they had taken her away. But then, partway through, she’d realised she didn’t even know if Arlene was still alive. With all her heart she prayed she still had the chance to make things right.
She checked the time. Eleven o’clock. Robert would be coming for her any minute. He’d been so generous–never had she encountered such a busy man, and yet he was unconditionally there for her. He’d visited her daily, sometimes just for minutes at a time depending on his schedule, and they’d caught up on the lost years. It was beyond the call of duty. She wanted him as fiercely as she ever had, but had been strict with herself–she was in enough of a mess already. Besides, Robert belonged to Elisabeth. He was in love with her, and she with him.
She hoped his company would restore her faith in men.
Lana