Bad Girls (15 page)

Amber stared at Mara in horror as the words sank in.

‘It’s worse than I thought it would be,’ Mara said plaintively, ‘but it pays so well! I keep saying I won’t go back, but then I think how much I’ll make, and I tell myself it’s just a week . . .’ She grabbed another tissue, her nails perfect pale pink varnished shells. ‘There’s one guy I actually really like, I look forward to seeing him, I just always worry he won’t pick me the next time and I’ll get someone really gross – oh God, I’m making it sound so awful, and it’s really not
that
bad! I mean, ninety per cent of the time it’s the most fabulous place to be . . .’

Amber had so little experience of taking care of a crying girl who was sharing her secrets that she didn’t know what to do. With every fibre of her being, though, she wanted to help Mara feel better. So she did the only thing she could think of: she unzipped her clutch and pulled out two orange plastic vials of pills, Xanax and Klonopin. Silently, she proffered them to Mara, who was wiping her eyes now, gulping deep breaths of air.

‘Do you want to take something?’ Amber asked.

Mara looked at what Amber was holding out, and gasped in laughter. ‘Oh God, no, that’s the last thing I need!’ she said, standing up. ‘Downers, the way I feel right now? I’m going to do a couple of big fat lines and put my face back on!’

She went through into the bathroom, calling over her shoulder: ‘Do you have any makeup on you?’

Of course Amber did. Her clutch bag was packed carefully with a whole armoury of travel-size touch-ups. She followed Mara into the bathroom and helped her make up her face to perfection once more, a final dusting of the violet-scented pastel beads of Guerlain’s Les Meteorites giving Mara’s pale peach skin a delicate, healthy glow. Then Mara flicked open a silver cardholder, pulled out a wrap of coke and cut herself a pick-me-up on the glass shelf beneath the mirror.

‘Models, coke and toilets,’ she said drily, throwing back her head and inhaling hard to make sure all the cocaine had been sniffed down her nasal cavities. She flashed herself a quick look in the mirror, licking her finger and running it round her nostrils to remove any faint white stains. ‘It’s like the ultimate combination.’

Amber nodded: how many times had she seen this scene play out in front of her? She flicked out a Klonopin and swallowed it with a swig of water.

Seeing this, Mara smiled wryly. ‘I like to go up, you like to go down. We’d never be best drug buddies, would we?’

‘Thank you for telling me about Dubai,’ Amber said seriously.

‘Look, I got a bit hysterical. I’m sorry,’ Mara said, grimacing. ‘Champagne always makes me a bit morbid. Forget what I said before. You should definitely come. The money really is amazing. And we could look out for each other.’ She arranged her blonde curls around her face, tilting her head to get the styling just right. ‘Well! Time to go back to the party! I
really
need another drink. Or three.’

‘Come home with me,’ Amber blurted out as they walked back into the bedroom, so unexpectedly that she took herself by surprise.

‘
What
?’ Mara’s eyes dilated in shock. ‘Amber? I didn’t think you went that way . . .’

‘No,’ Amber said. ‘I meant – don’t go back to the party. Come back to mine instead. My mum’s there, we could just watch some TV, have a quiet evening . . . We’ve got vodka and wine at home, if you want some . . .’

Mara took a deep breath, leaned forward and hugged Amber as tightly as Amber had previously hugged her.

‘You’re a really nice girl,’ she said into Amber’s hair. ‘I appreciate the offer, OK? Don’t think I don’t. But out there –’ she gestured to the window of the bedroom, through which they could see the party on the terrace, now bathed in the soft golden light of sunset, laughter and the sound of glasses clinking audible through the open window – ‘might just be my future husband! Or at least the man who’ll take me away from all this! I was really hitting it off with that guy from SunSeeker – he’s divorcing a Russian girl right now – I mean, who knows if he’s ready for a rebound?’

She dropped a quick kiss on Amber’s cheek, light enough not to smudge either of the girls’ makeup, but still full of affection.

‘You’re a really nice girl, Amber,’ she said again. ‘I wish I’d got to know you years ago. We’ll have a great time in Dubai together, OK?’

And then, in a swirl of Valentino Rock’n Rose perfume and leopard-print chiffon, Mara opened the bedroom door and threw herself into the swing of the party without looking back.

‘
B
abe!’ Maria croaked two hours later, looking Skye up and down as she walked into the changing room at the Lounge.

‘What the hell! You moved to Park Avenue all of a sudden?’

‘Don’t worry,’ Skye said wryly, pulling her baby-blue hotpant outfit from her clutch and waving it at Maria. ‘I got my scanties right here.’

‘Well,
that’s
a relief!’ Maria chortled, sipping coffee. ‘I thought you were going off to work in some fancy art gallery!’

‘Yeah, making a couple of hundred bucks a day if she’s lucky,’ Jada said, smoothing down her flyaways with heavy-duty hair cream.

But Skye barely heard them. She was staring down at the tiny wisps of fabric in her hand, shiny sequined Lycra that looked even more cheap and tacky than ever in contrast with the classy, expensive sweater and pants she was wearing.

Weird. I don’t want to put these on, she thought in surprise. The admiring glances from the men in the Bryant Park Cellar Bar, from guys on the street as she hailed a cab to take her across town to the Lounge, must have had more of an effect on her than she realized. She’d spent the early evening looking like a Manhattan career girl, sleek and groomed, the kind of woman you’d want on your arm. Now she was about to take off almost all her clothes, and turn herself into the kind of woman you’d pay to sit on your lap. The idea was growing less and less attractive.

‘What happened with that journalist guy?’ Jada asked, turning away from the mirror, her cornrows now perfectly defined.

‘I can’t tell you,’ Skye said absently, still looking down at her handful of pale blue Lycra.

‘Oh my God – it was
that
freaky?’ Jada’s eyebrows shot up practically to her hairline. It was really hard to imagine any proposal that could shock an exotic dancer so badly she couldn’t even talk about it.

Skye laughed drily. ‘In a way. But I mean I literally can’t talk about it. They paid me to sign a confidentiality agreement.’

‘You’re
kidding
,’ Jada breathed, enthralled now.

Skye shook her head. She felt strangely detached: her body was here in the dilapidated, sweat-and-smoke-stinky dressing room, but her mind was still back at the table in the Cellar Bar two hours ago, her eyes wide with amazement as she exclaimed: ‘A grand just for
listening
to you?’

‘And for signing this.’ Kevin Sanders had extracted a piece of paper from his briefcase and slid it across the table, where it joined the discreet white envelope containing a grand in twenties that Lew had just placed in front of Skye. Lew James wasn’t an experienced
National Investigator
journalist for nothing; he knew there was no better way to focus a subject’s mind than showing them the cash up front.

‘Take your time, honey,’ Lew said amiably. ‘Read it through. All it says is you can’t talk to anyone about what we’re going to propose to you, OK? It ain’t exactly that enforceable, but the legal department loves this shit.’

Kevin flinched.

‘Hey, she’s a smart girl, and we want her on our side, Kev,’ Lew said, as Skye scanned through the document, nodded, and reached for the pen that Kevin was holding out to her. She signed at the bottom. Then she took the envelope, opened her D&G clutch and wedged the cash firmly inside, snapping the clasp. Whatever they proceeded to suggest to her, she was damn well holding onto that grand.

Lew snorted a laugh of approval as Kevin said: ‘Skye, you ever had Joe Jeffreys in your club?’

She shook her head. ‘I wish.’

‘That’s good,’ Kevin observed, looking at Lew. ‘She’d be fresh meat.’

‘Excuse me?’ Skye said sharply.

‘Sorry, no offence meant,’ Kevin said, adjusting his wire-framed glasses and leaning forward. ‘You read the
Investigator
? You read that Joe likes the strip clubs, big-time? Watches the ladies dancing, drops big bucks, gets his liquor on, parties hard. And you know who he always picks to get up close and personal with? Pretty blondes like you. The all-American type, if we can say that any more.’

‘Nah,’ Lew muttered. ‘You can’t.’

‘Everyone’s got a type,’ Skye said, sipping her mojito, waiting to see where this was going. Joe Jeffreys’ name definitely had her full attention. Not only was he a huge movie star – A+ list, no question – but he was super-hot. Skye had straightforward tastes in guys. No skinny Williamsburg hipsters or short, spectacled intellectuals need apply. She liked her men muscly and well built: square-jawed, with handsome faces. All-American guys, like Joe Jeffreys – or Bike Boy. She bit her lip in self-reproval at the memory of what she’d done last night.

‘Joe Jeffreys is engaged to Jennifer Downs, which probably isn’t news to you either,’ Kevin continued. ‘They’re America’s sweethearts. Big movie about to open, huge publicity push being planned. Only problem is—’

‘He can’t keep it in his pants,’ Lew finished.‘We’ve got photos of him in a strip club, getting it on with a young lady who’s pretty much a dead ringer for you.’

‘And you want me to pretend to be the girl in the photos?’ Skye said, baffled. ‘Because she won’t come forward or something?’

‘Uh-uh,’ Kevin said, shaking his head. ‘That’s all sewn up. We got her story, done and dusted. Nah, we’re after the next scoop. Joe’s people are making him go into rehab for sex addiction. Cascabel, in California. Only way to spin this. He’ll be in there for a few weeks, they’ll say he’s cured, and he’ll have to swear off the strip clubs from now on.’

‘But just
imagine
,’ Lew said, hunching his elbows on the table to put his face closer to Skye’s, ‘if while Joe was in rehab for sex addiction, he met a chick who’s
exactly
his type, and got it on with her? And there were photos? Or even a
video
? I mean, how hot would
that
be? We’d all make fucking fortunes!’

Skye had just taken another ladylike sip of her mojito when the significance of Lew’s words made her snort it up her sinuses in shock. Managing to find the tabletop with her glass, if only barely, she said, ‘You want me to go
into rehab
?’

‘Sure! We’ll pay for everything, of course!’ Lew beamed. ‘You can pick your addiction – drugs, booze, sex – whatever you like. We’ll set you up with a spycam in your bag; Kevin already found some orderly there who’ll smuggle it in for you. Then you get to work on Joe. You do him, you get it on film, we give you a big old bonus, everyone’s happy.’

‘Get to work on him?
Do
him?’ Skye pushed her chair back from the table furiously. ‘I’m not a
whore
!’ she said, her voice rising. ‘How dare you? Just because I work in a strip club – I don’t even get
naked
!’

And then she remembered herself, just last night, taking off her G-string because that Wall Street creep had paid her a thousand bucks extra, and she felt a red angry flush flooding her face as she jumped to her feet. She stalked out of the bar, her head high, her demeanour so completely that of a respectable young woman who has just been deeply offended by an indecent proposal that heads turned, shocked, to stare in her wake at the two men at her table who had clearly suggested something absolutely filthy to her.

Now, looking down at her handful of costume, Skye felt like the biggest hypocrite in the world. Who was she kidding? She stripped for money all the time. She’d done naked dances in the private room, of course she had. She’d come pretty close, on occasion, to being a whore. Or at least, she’d walked a line so fine that it would be almost invisible to the naked eye.

‘Baby girl, you just went somewhere else,’ Jada said, laughing. ‘That must have been one hell of a conversation you had.’

‘You better get changed, Skye,’ Maria said warningly. ‘Your shift’s starting, and you know what Paulie’s like about timekeeping. Here.’ She poured Skye a mug of coffee and tipped in some Kahlúa. ‘That’ll get you going.’

Slowly, automatically, Skye dropped the tiny top and hotpants on the bench in front of her locker, undid her Tiffany necklace, and started to pull the sweater over her head. She was standing there in her black minimizer bra and cigarette pants when she heard a sound that made her heart sink to the soles of her suede ankle boots.

Dog nails, clicking on the painted concrete floor. Clicking heavily, because the body above them was so overweight that the nails were carrying much too much pressure. And a painful wheezing sound, rasping, panting for breath. Skye closed her eyes for a moment, hoping that when she opened them she wouldn’t see what she was expecting to see.

But the sight before her was exactly what she knew it would be. It was a small pug, the beige of dirty cream, and so fat its rolls of flesh were stacked one against the other like doughnuts lined up on their sides. Skye could barely see its feet; they were hidden under the mass of its flesh.

‘Lev just
loves
Auntie Maria!’ cooed a harsh, familiar voice. ‘Lev couldn’t
wait
to get to Auntie Maria, could you, Levski?’

‘Oksana . . .’ Maria started, as Lev came to a halt in front of Maria’s chair and squatted down in front of her, jaw open, tongue lolling, whining for a pat. Reluctantly, Maria leaned down to drop a couple of taps on the dog’s head. ‘He shouldn’t be here, you know, Oksana. Paulie don’t like you bringing him in,’ she said.

‘Oh, Lev can sleep under Aunt Maria’s chair, can’t he?’ Oksana insisted. ‘Lev
loves
it under Aunt Maria’s chair!’

‘Oksana, you gotta get that fucking dog out of here,’ Jada said firmly. ‘It gave Sugar a damn asthma attack last time you brought it in.’

‘Lev is a he! My little lion! He is not an it!’ Oksana squealed.