Divas (34 page)

‘Wow!’ Evie said, still hypnotised by the amount of zeros on the cheque. She dragged her eyes away from it to look up at the James Bond guy.

Does he have the hots for me?
she wondered.
Is that what this is really about – a down payment on some private dancing? Jeez, as if a guy who looks like that ever had to pay for
it!

But then, meeting – she read his name on the cheque again – Niels van der Veer’s grey eyes, she saw immediately that she had got it wrong. This guy wasn’t after anything
from her. In her short, eventful life, Evie had got very experienced at reading men, and she could tell that this one was a million miles away. Even though Evie was nearly naked under her thin
robe, her skin still glittering with silver dust, her golden hair curling down her back – looking pretty damn sexy, though she said it herself – he wasn’t registering any sexual
interest in her.

If he wasn’t into Evie, especially Evie all dressed up like Diamond, that could only mean one thing: some other woman had her hooks into him real good.

Lucky bitch
, Evie thought ruefully.
He’s gorgeous
and
loaded. Lucky, lucky bitch.

Oh well, maybe he’s got a needle dick too.

‘We’ve drawn up a contract for you, Diamond, ’ Pete said. ‘Just a rough one for now, but we can iron out the creases over the next couple days. We’d like to book
you exclusively for Maud’s for the next six months. That’s huge, you know? We’ve never done this before. But we want to show you how much we value you as a performer.’

Niels van der Veer nodded.

‘Take your time, look it over, ’ he said. ‘Get a lawyer to check it out for you if you want. Meanwhile, I’ve got my limo waiting for you out back. It’ll take you
wherever you want to go.’

‘Wow, thank you, ’ Evie said gratefully. ‘I’ll read this over’ – she waved the contract – ‘and get back to you.’

And I’ll deposit the cheque first thing tomorrow morning, believe me.

‘Do you think you’ll be OK to go on tomorrow?’ Pete asked anxiously.

Evie couldn’t help grinning. Pete was so transparent; he was desperate for the publicity, the table sales, if she did her act tomorrow night.
I’d better not make it too easy for
them
, she calculated
. That way, they’ll value me more.

‘I’ll rest up tomorrow and see how my bruises are doing. But I’ll do my best to make it in, ’ she said, lowering her eyes.‘I’ll call you in the morning to
confirm, is that OK?’

‘Sure, sure, ’ Pete said, jumping down from the desk and pressing her hands eagerly again. ‘Anything you want, Diamond. Anything you want.’

Evie had been repressing it the whole time she was in Maud’s, but she couldn’t help the huge smile breaking out as soon as the chauffeur closed the door of Niels
van der Veer’s limo behind her. Ten grand! Ten grand just for a couple of bruises! And a contract with Maud’s, the best burlesque joint in New York! Visions of even more success floated
before her eyes. With this money, she could hire a publicist. She could start making appearances at parties, maybe get a residency in Vegas once Maud’s had made her name, maybe even work up
to the ultimate dream for a burlesque dancer who couldn’t sing for shit and thus would never be asked to be in a pop group: endorsements.

She thought of Dita von Teese, the famous burlesque star who had come from some nowhere town in the Midwest and was savvy and ambitious enough to be the ambassador for Cointreau, a spokeswoman
for M.A.C. Viva Glam lipstick, have her own lingerie line, a deal with Swarovski. Dita was a brunette: why shouldn’t there be room for a blonde out there too, with her own special gymnastic
skills?

Evie poured herself a glass of cognac from the limo’s built-in bar and lounged back in the leather seat, savouring the rich golden taste. Boy, this was a great way to end the day. From the
moment she’d woken up, she’d been on tenterhooks about how her debut act would be received: could a stripper really make the transition to burlesque artist? Or would she be booed off
the stage?

Well, she knew the answer now. Her act had been a triumph, even without Lola Fitzgerald’s intervention. They’d been cheering her on, yelling louder for her than any other act this
evening. She was making good money without having to spread her legs for it, without having to whore herself for Benny.

But you’re still being driven back to Bushwick,
a voice inside her head reminded her.
You’re still living in one room in an illegal warehouse with a shower you have to
share with three other people and a boiler that cuts out every half an hour. And yesterday Laura saw a rat the size of a small cat running down the stairs. OK, ten grand sounds like a hell of a
lot, but with rents in Manhattan the way they are – plus deposits and agent’s fees and all that crap – it’d get swallowed up straight away if you use it to move out.

Besides, you don’t want to throw money away in rent, fuck it. Renting’s a mug’s game. You had a lovely apartment, your dream place, and Benny told you it’d be yours
forever. You earned that apartment, goddammit.

I want my apartment back. And I want my pasties back.

I still want everything that bitch Carin took from me, just as badly as I ever did.

Plus, I want her to pay for killing Benny.

Ever since she’d started working up her burlesque act, Evie had been so focused on survival that she hadn’t given herself time to think about anything but her new routine, on endless
hours spent devising it, rehearsing it with feedback from her new housemates, pushing herself to exhaustion and crashing out every night with the hope that this could be her ticket to a new and
better world. One where she didn’t have to fuck anyone she didn’t want to, because she made enough money on her own.

Evie had fucked Benny for money, and she hadn’t been paid for it. Carin Fitzgerald owed her, big time.

And Evie owed Carin Fitzgerald, for having killed a guy who’d been nothing but good to Evie. Sure, he’d cheated on his wife. But he didn’t deserve to be killed for that. And,
after tonight, Evie was sure it was Carin who had killed him. Evie had looked into that soft little spoilt princess’s eyes as she yelled that Carin had killed her father, and Evie had
believed she was telling the truth.

Evie yawned, a slow, deep yawn that came right up from her toes. Today had been the biggest day of her life. She could have sacked out right here, in this incredibly comfortable leather back
seat.

But tomorrow, she was going to strategise. Because it was time for Carin Fitzgerald to get her comeuppance. And Evie Lopez was just the girl to give it to her.

S
ipping her coffee, staring out over Central Park from her bedroom window, Lola caught her reflection in the glass and winced. She hadn’t got
to bed till five, when Jean-Marc had finally crashed out, helped along by a sleeping pill. This morning it had taken half a pint of Benefit’s Ooh La Lift under her eyes to get rid of her
circles, and she was doused in Stella McCartney’s Peony scent: rose, amber and black pepper, floral and sweet, she’d hoped it would pick up her spirits. It wasn’t helping as much
as she had anticipated.

The bedside phone buzzed, and she jumped for it, not wanting the ring to wake up Jean-Marc.

‘Miss Fitzgerald?’ said a voice. ‘It’s the front desk. Um, there’s a young lady down here asking for you. She won’t give her name.’ The concierge
cleared his throat. ‘Normally I would insist, but she says it won’t mean anything to you, and these are kind of special circumstances. Um, I think you should probably come downstairs to
see her. Meet her, ’ he corrected himself.

Lola had no idea what was going on, what was concealed behind the awkward, slightly embarrassed tone of voice the concierge was using. But she didn’t care; she was feeling so
claustrophobic that she would have grabbed at any excuse to leave the apartment for a little while.

‘I’ll be right down, ’ she told him, hanging up the phone.

It was only as she was crossing the lobby that it occurred to her that the woman waiting for her downstairs might be Patricia, and she froze in the middle of the huge marble floor. Then she
noticed a small, slight woman standing beside the concierge’s desk, wearing a baseball cap, and saw the concierge’s nod, and Lola relaxed. Apart from anything else, the fleece workout
top the woman was wearing was close-fitting: it would have been impossible for Patricia to disguise the two huge melons on her chest to that extent.

Spotting Lola, the woman started walking towards her, so quick and lithe that Lola instantly re-categorised her to girl. And then, as Lola got a glimpse under the cap, she stared at the girl for
a second longer in utter disbelief, realising instantly why the concierge had sounded so uncharacteristically awkward on the phone.

It was that little whore. Diamond. The girl outside her father’s house, all dressed up in pale-pink Chanel. The girl on the pole, wearing just a few strategically placed pasties.

Lola felt her fingers twitch with the impulse to stride up to the girl and slap her across her face. The paparazzi were just outside; she could see them massed beyond the glass doors. Lola
couldn’t take the risk. She just couldn’t trust herself to control her actions around her father’s mistress. Who looked so much like Lola that they could be sisters.

Lola spun on her heel and ran back for the lifts.

‘Lola! Wait! I really need to talk to you! Wait for me!’

Evie sprinted after Lola, her fantastic physical condition making it effortless for her to hit a racing speed from a standing start. Still, Lola Fitzgerald was no slowcoach herself, Evie had to
admit that. Probably put in a lot of gym time. All these rich girls were obsessed with being as skinny as possible.

Lola didn’t seem to be listening to Evie. She shot across the lobby and disappeared round the far corner. Terrified that Lola would disappear, that she’d lose her one shot at saying
what she’d come to say, Evie sped along so fast she was almost a blur of motion as she rounded the corner.

In a flash, she took in the scene in front of her: more lavish marble with, in the centre, a bank of elevators, gleaming with chrome and brass fittings. In front of them was Lola Fitzgerald,
slender and elegant in a grey sweater and slim-cut jeans, her long legs making her look much taller than her five feet five inches. She was jabbing desperately at the call button with one slim
finger. Just then an elevator pinged further down the line, and Lola turned and raced for it.

Evie wouldn’t have thought that she could lengthen her stride even more. But after all, she was a superb athlete. She practically flew the last few feet, bounding across the marble as if
it were the yielding sprung-floor of a gymnastics studio, and she threw herself at the closing elevator doors as if she wasn’t in serious danger of hitting them headfirst.

She made it into the elevator by the skin of her teeth, slamming into the crack between the doors so fast that she shot right across the cabin, her hands coming up just in time to pound flat
into the mirror on the far wall. The mirror, which was actually hung there as if it were a real room, not a steel-framed cage, rattled ominously under the impact, and Evie had to hold it there with
all her light weight so it didn’t come loose and fall to the ground.

‘Fuck!’ she said, breathing hard. ‘Thank fuck that didn’t break! The last thing I need right now is seven years
more
bad luck!’

Behind her, the elevator doors opened again, the sensors automatically pulling them back so that anyone trapped could jump clear. Which meant that Lola Fitzgerald had the chance to dash to the
front desk and tell security to throw Evie out on her ass. Evie’s one precious opportunity of talking to her could be over before it had even begun.

And then Evie heard something completely unexpected.

Laughter.

Lola Fitzgerald was laughing.

Sure, it was pretty dry, as laughs went; but still, she was laughing. Then she said, in the snotty, upper-class English accent that Evie remembered all too well from last night:

‘Believe me – the last thing
I
want is seven years extra bad luck either!’

And, taking a step towards Evie, she grabbed the edge of the mirror, steadying it: helping Evie to make sure that it wasn’t going to fall and shatter on the elevator floor.

‘I know you didn’t kill your dad, ’ Evie said intently, her eyes fixed on Lola.

Standing on the apartment terrace struggling to light a cigarette, her hair whipped by the wind, Lola was unprepared for this statement. She finally managed, more through luck than skill, to get
her cigarette drawing, and swung round to stare at Evie.

‘Why would you say something like that?’ Lola demanded.

Evie still couldn’t get over how much this girl looked like her.

‘Because you’re not the type, ’ Evie said frankly.

She leaned back on the balustrade, the roar of Fifth Avenue traffic muted to a dull steady rumble thirty storeys below her. Lola had brought her up here, to the private terrace of the apartment
she was staying in, and it took Evie’s breath away. This was the way the rich saw New York, with Central Park spread out before them like a magical forest. They were so high up here that the
huge spreading trees down below looked like a moss garden, the Great Lawn like a shiny piece of green velvet. Through the trees, the water in the lake by the south-east corner of the park glistened
in the sunlight. Even the air was fresher up here, less humid. No stink from tyre recycling firms or meat processing plants on this part of the island.

And Lola lived like this. Lola took this kind of luxury for granted. It was hard for Evie not to feel just a little intimidated.

But she was damned if she’d show it. She took a cigarette of her own and lit it, ducking over the lighter, twisting her hand round to cover it and the cigarette, with the skill of a girl
who’d grown up in the projects and was more than used to lighting up thirty storeys in the air. Though Evie’s experience came from windswept concrete balconies covered with graffiti
tags, not castles in the sky.