Divas (38 page)

Lola nodded slowly.

‘So now I know, ’ she said. ‘And I think I always knew that I could trust India. I mean, I got her to set up Lawrence as Carin’s trainer. I could never have done that if
I didn’t believe she’d keep it a secret.’

‘Now you know, honey, ’ David confirmed. ‘The truth will set you free. You’d better delete those three other bitches’ numbers from your phone right now.’

‘I just don’t understand why they would
do
this, ’ Lola said sadly.

‘Money, for starters, ’ David said, raising his eyebrows. ‘You could get a few grand for juicy info like this, babe. You’re a hot topic right now.’

‘Yes, but none of them need the extra cash, ’ Lola protested.

David rolled his eyes.

‘Honey, we
all
need extra cash. I don’t care how rich you are, everyone likes a bit of extra moolah. Look at how rich people love a bargain! Rich people are the worst for
trying to get free stuff!’

Lola couldn’t help but acknowledge the truth of this.

‘Plus, they’re jealous, ’ David added.

‘
Jealous?
’ This elicited a bitter laugh from Lola. ‘I’ve lost
everything!
I don’t have a home, a fiancé, or a trust fund. I attacked my
dad’s mistress and now I look like a psycho in the press. My father’s dead and next month I’m going to stand trial for his
murder
, for God’s sake!’

‘And before that you were a total celebrity, more than any of them, ’ David said accurately, ‘because you and Jean-Marc were such a gorgeous couple. Girl,
I
used to read
about you in magazines and go green with envy! Plus lust after Jean-Marc, of course, ’ he giggled. ‘And now you’re an even
bigger
celebrity. You’re on every magazine
cover, Lola, you know that? Those bitches don’t see the downside, what you’re really going through, because their hearts are tiny cold pieces of lead. All
they
see is how famous
you are and how much everyone writes about “Can Beautiful Tragic Lola Really Be Guilty?”’

Lola looked at him doubtfully.

‘Trust me on this, ’ David said with a little nod.‘You need info on jealousy issues, honey, you come to a gay man. I know what I’m talking about.’

The doorbell chimed.

‘It’s Jean!’ David carolled happily. He checked his watch. ‘Nearly half-past six – that’s later than I thought he’d be! I hope that means he had a good
first day at rehab.’ He jumped up and ran out of the office, eager to see his boyfriend.

Lola followed more slowly. Partly to let David have the chance to greet his boyfriend alone, and partly because she needed to collect her thoughts. The news about Madison, Georgia and Devon had
been devastating. The list of people she could trust had shrunk down now to such a small group of names that it was humiliating for her to picture how tiny it was.

Jean-Marc, who, after his collapse, was in full-time outpatient rehab: he could hardly look after himself, let alone anyone else.

David, who she’d barely known for a fortnight.

George Goldman.

Simon Poluck, because if she didn’t trust her criminal lawyer, she was in the worst trouble imaginable.

And out of all the girls who’d been at her hen night, just one left: India.

She wasn’t counting Niels; she couldn’t trust him to do anything but jeer at her and make her come like a train. If she asked him for help, he’d probably laugh in her face.

And Evie and Lawrence weren’t on that list yet: how could they be? She barely knew them. And yet they were her only hope of finding something –
anything
– to break a
hole in the wall that Carin had so carefully built around Lola, the wall that was going to entomb her alive if she didn’t find a way to save herself. Unless Lawrence’s access to Carin,
and her house, could somehow dig up some proof of Carin’s guilt, Lola was going to be convicted of murdering her father.

It was a very slim chance on which to base her hopes of avoiding a life sentence.

Strapped to Lola’s slender feet were a pair of dark purple Manolos with ribbon ties that fastened round her ankles and stiletto heels nearly five inches high. But such was her depression,
thinking of how few friends she had, and how tiny were her chances of staying out of jail, that she felt as if she were making her way slowly and painfully through a muddy field in a pair of
fishing waders.

And that was why it took her so long to realise that David was sobbing hysterically.

‘What is it?’ she exclaimed, emerging into the foyer.

David was in Jean-Marc’s arms, his head buried in his boyfriend’s shoulder. Jean-Marc’s face was very pale, his arms wrapped tightly around David’s slender, Armani-clad
back. And in the background was a third man, a tall, white, bulky, balding man with an impassive expression on his face, wearing nondescript clothes.

‘Jean-Marc has decided to go into residential rehab, ’ the third man informed Lola.

Her eyes widened.

‘I really need to go, Lola, ’ Jean-Marc said quietly. ‘I’ve been talking about it with my sponsor all day. He totally thinks I should be in residential care.’

The balding man nodded.

‘This is Frank, my sober buddy, ’ Jean-Marc said. ‘He’s going to escort me to California.’

‘Jean-Marc has booked himself into the Cascabel rehab facility, ’ Frank said in a low, rasping voice. ‘They have a room already reserved and waiting for him.’

‘It’s so far away!’ David sobbed, still clinging to Jean-Marc.

‘I need to do this, sweetie, ’ Jean-Marc said, stroking David’s shoulder. ‘And there’s nothing to be afraid of. I’m going to come back stronger.’

Wow,
Lola thought.
Jean-Marc suddenly sounds like a grown-up.

‘I’m going to miss you so much!’ David wailed.

And that’s turned David, who was always the more mature one in the relationship, into a baby,
Lola observed.
Is that how relationships work? You take it in turns to be the
grown-up and the baby?

She’d never really had a relationship, she realised. Not a real, true one. Her engagement to Jean-Marc had been a nonsense, nothing real about it at all. The closest she’d ever been
to a man, weirdly enough, was her beloved father. So she didn’t know much about how adult relationships worked.

‘Oh baby, I don’t know if I can bear to have you gone—’ David was crying. ‘Don’t go! You can do rehab here as an outpatient! Don’t go! Don’t leave
me!’

Jean-Marc burst into streaming tears.

‘I have to!’ he wailed. ‘I have to, David! I don’t think I can do it in New York! There are so many temptations – what if Patricia comes back? I’m so
frightened of her! At least in rehab I’ll be able to walk around – talk to people, have a swim in the pool, sit in the fresh air – I can’t just stay trapped in here,
terrified every time someone rings, in case it’s Patricia—’

Lola’s phone buzzed. She pulled it out of her pocket and looked at the screen. George Goldman was calling. Oh God, more bad news . . .

She clicked the phone open, walking into the hallway, as she said: ‘Hi, George, ’ hearing how nervous her voice sounded.

‘Lola, honey? I got news. It’s about your dad’s funeral. It’s happening tomorrow afternoon.’

‘Tomorrrow
afternoon?
’ Lola’s eyes widened. ‘I didn’t know they’d even released his body!’

‘Yeah, well, ’ George said, ‘that’s why you’re paying a fortune to Simon Poluck, honey. He’s got serious connections in the DA’s office. Carin’s
got no obligation to inform you, but she goddamn well can’t keep you away from your dad’s funeral!’

He paused.

‘You got someone to go with? I could come with you. Tell you what, I’ll pick you up at three, OK? And Lola?’ George cleared his throat. ‘You should really call your mom
and let her know.’

Lola hadn’t been expecting this at all. It took her completely by surprise. Ever since her mother had refused to help her financially, Lola had been so resentful that she hadn’t
taken any of Suzanne’s phone calls. Her mother had rung many times, but Lola wouldn’t respond. But now, as George made the suggestion, Lola could feel the resentment draining away.
Jean-Marc was leaving. She was more alone than ever. And suddenly, she found herself wanting her mother.

‘Don’t you think?’ George said. ‘I mean, she was married to the guy for twenty years . . . ‘

Slowly, Lola nodded her head.

F
or late spring in Manhattan, it was an unexpectedly cool day.

Clear blue New York skies, a bright sun that cast a gentle heat, and a fresh breeze blowing from the Hudson River, which glittered in the sun, beyond the roaring traffic on the wide cement
ribbons of Riverside Drive and the West Side Highway. For someone who loved Manhattan as Ben Fitzgerald had done, it was the perfect burial spot: a stunning view across the river to the rich
greenery of the Palisades beyond, illuminated at night by the stacks of light on the George Washington bridge. No one knew how many strings Ben had had to pull to secure a crypt here, in Trinity
Cemetery, on an island so tightly packed that there was no room for any more live people, let alone dead ones.

The
New York Post
that morning had reported that Ben had contacts at the mayor’s office, who knew someone who ran Trinity Church’s real estate division, and that he had paid a
hefty sum towards church repairs as well as $50, 000 for the plot. But that could only be the tip of the iceberg. Major bribes must have been taken to ensure that Ben Fitzgerald snagged this ideal
burial plot in the highest part of Washington Heights, on a smooth mound of grass sweeping down to Riverside Drive and the Hudson beyond it. Behind the grave were the imposing marble walls of the
mausoleum, lined by a row of huge elm trees, their elegant dark-green leaves moving gently in the river breeze, whispering against each other.

The congregation who had attended Ben Fitzgerald’s funeral service were filing out of the church, following the pallbearers carrying his coffin. Made of mahogany with gold clasps, it was
huge, custom-made, like everything Ben had worn for the last ten years of his life, when he really started to pile the weight on. Instead of the customary six pallbearers, Ben Fitzgerald’s
enormous coffin needed ten, and even they were struggling a little under the combined bulk of the man they were carrying and the solid weight of fifty pounds of dense mahogany.

Lola stood at the side of the knoll and watched the procession approach. She had tried to go into the church for the service, but had been barred by Carin’s bodyguard, and though she was
pretty sure that no one could actually prevent you from going into a church, she hadn’t wanted to make the kind of scene that would be eagerly snapped up by every single funeral-goer and
repeated excitedly to everyone they knew the moment they were back in their waiting limos.

‘It doesn’t matter, ’ her mother had said, squeezing her hand. ‘It doesn’t matter about the service, darling. We’ll see him laid to rest. That’s the
most important thing.’

So they had walked slowly to the empty grave, and stood beside it, waiting, for half an hour, shivering slightly in the breeze. There were enough of them so that they didn’t look
completely forlorn: Lola; Suzanne; Neville, Suzanne’s companion; George; and India.

Still holding her mother’s hand, Lola realised how glad she was that Suzanne had come. Barely off the plane from London, Suzanne had only had time to run a brush through her hair, pin it
up into a loose bun and pull on an old black crepe trouser suit. Of course, because she was Suzanne Myers, an ex-supermodel, she still looked as if she were about to be shot for
Vogue
. The
trouser suit was Donna Karan, cut to show off Suzanne’s endless legs. Her pearl necklace glowed against her skin, making its tan look healthy, rather than weather-beaten. And because Suzanne
never dressed as lamb instead of mutton – because her suit, and the simple black blouse underneath it, was perfectly appropriate for a glamorous 55-year-old – she looked at least
fifteen years younger than her real age.

The skinny, goateed, ponytailed young man at her mother’s side was wearing a shabby black suit and scruffy shirt and tie; he looked more like an undertaker’s assistant than a mourner
at a society funeral. This was Neville, who seemed to have been promoted from gardener to Suzanne’s boyfriend, judging by the fond glances they kept giving each other and the affectionate way
Suzanne had straightened his tie earlier.

I’m glad she’s happy,
Lola thought.
I mean, he’s not who I’d have pictured as my mum’s boyfriend, but I’m glad she’s happy. And he’s
obviously madly in love with her
. . .

She exchanged glances with India, who smiled back gravely. Lola had told India about the other girls’ treachery, and India had been so shocked she hadn’t been able to get a word out
for ages. Lola had texted the other three to say she knew they’d sold stories about her and to stay away in future, and ignored the flood of pleading calls, texts and emails that had
inevitably poured in.

At least I know who my friends are
, she thought, tightening her grip on her mother’s hand as the coffin approached.

‘Your father will love it here, ’ Suzanne said bravely, her voice beginning to crack with grief, staring down at the huge hole that had been cut to accommodate the plus-size coffin.
‘I see just why he bought it. Astors and Audubons, a famous battlefield – it’s got high society, history, river views. The whole package.’

‘Oh, Mummy . . .’

Tears pricked at Lola’s eyes as she and Suzanne hugged each other tightly.

‘I know we didn’t agree on anything by the end, ’ Suzanne cried against Lola. ‘I know we wanted completely different things. I just didn’t want him to leave me,
like that, for
her
. I never thought he’d actually want a
divorce
, not after all the years we’d had together.’

‘Daddy always loved you, I know he did, ’ Lola said, hugging her mother even closer. ‘But you knew Daddy, he always needed to know where the next party was. And, Mummy, you
never wanted that kind of life. You were complete opposites.’