Wicked Ambition (15 page)

‘Ready to go?’ the director called as Robin stepped out of her robe.

With the majestic bridge in the background, historic seal of the capital with its twin golden strongholds and sky-blue suspensions, Robin’s venture was deliberately grass roots. Her American tour was less than two months away and she had been advised to remind fans where her priorities lay, plus the legacy of the summer Games meant that for the first time in a while the city was pervaded by a tentative patriotism.

Her track pumped up and Robin fell into step with ease. Even when drowned out by the recording, she preferred to sing: her face didn’t move right when she was miming.

‘Why does it have to be a competition? What are we
fighting for? Baby, this is my extradition, and still you’re wanting more…’

Every few lines they would stop and take it again, stop and take it again, until she and the director were satisfied. It was exhausting, repetitive work, characterised by fits of faltering rain during which Robin and the crew would shelter under enormous umbrellas and glance beseechingly at the sky. Each time they did, fans hollered for her—’Robin! Over here! We love you!’—and she’d wave back, driving them nuts, while thinking how weird it was that these people were standing around getting wet just to watch what had to be one of the most drawn-out and uneventful video shoots in history.

Afterwards she had three hours of back-to-back interviews lined up at a nearby hotel. No encounter was ever quite the same. From an earnest inquisition with a Sunday paper about the sentiment behind her new single, to a fun glossy mag piece where she spilled her make-up secrets, it never got boring. Robin loved all the people she got to meet, and the easy conversation they fell into as soon as they realised she wasn’t a bitch who was going to sit there scowling and worrying about what angle they were getting her at.

The car arrived at six to pick her up. Barney was accompanying her to the evening’s premiere at Leicester Square, a Brit action film in which Robin’s friend had a supporting role.

They pulled up at the Odeon ten minutes later, Barney trying to be chilled but covertly checking his phone every five seconds because he had fallen out with his boyfriend and they were meant to be going to Barcelona at the weekend. The theatre was plastered in ginormous billboards and
sweeping purple lights. Outside an army of fans huddled against the cold.

Robin received a rapturous reception as she stepped from the car and waved to her supporters. Her Grecian Versace drape dress was a stunning vision in grey lace, a departure from her usual urban style that was both sexy and sophisticated.

‘Robin, can we get just a second of your time? Can you tell us about your tour? Is it good to be back in England?’

Barney steered her along the line, politely declining the queue of waiting microphones and journalists begging for a word.

Inside, the foyer was teeming. Barney peeled off to fetch them cocktails, just as Robin scanned the room and landed straight into the gaze of Leon Sway. It was like walking into sunlight. He raised a hand in acknowledgement. She ignored him.

‘Robin, hi,
great
to see you.’ She was joined by one of the judges from her series on
The Launch
. Barney came back with the drinks and the three of them chatted, Robin trying not to steal glances in Leon’s direction, and feeling the heat of his gaze whenever his eyes fell on her. With him was Jax Jackson. Even from this distance she could sense the friction between the men. Jax was donning a gold tie, his victory statement clear, and puffing his chest out like a prize peacock. At least the cock part was accurate.

‘Are we going in yet?’ The idea of sitting in a dark room and switching off from all social interaction was appealing. The day had taken it out of her.

‘Another one of these and I’m there.’ Barney held up his empty glass. ‘Anyone else?’

‘I’ll go,’ Robin offered, heading to the bar.

She’d just had time to collect the drinks when a voice at her side said:

‘Hey. You never called.’

She was struck by how crisp his scent was, nothing like aftershave, nothing chemical, just a clean skin smell. He was warm, and the fabric of his suit jacket soft, grazing against her bare shoulder. She hadn’t stood this close to him before and realised how much shorter than him she was, the top of her head only just meeting his throat.

‘I know,’ she replied.

‘You didn’t come back on my messages.’ He grinned. ‘I left a lot of messages.’

‘I know.’

‘Did you like the flowers?’

‘I’m not into flowers.’

‘Are you into any romantic gestures?’

Robin held up the cocktails, the surly kid in her raising one finger. ‘How about this?’

‘Touché.’

Shrugging, she took a sip. ‘What are you doing here?’ Finally she appraised Leon properly. He was stupidly handsome.

‘Got a dinner in Soho. We’re not staying for the movie.’

‘Good of you to come, then,’ she said drily. ‘What’s this about Puff City?’

‘You heard about that?’

‘I take it you’re not keen.’

Leon nicked his thumb across his top lip. ‘It was Jax’s idea, so no, generally speaking, I’m not keen.’ A roaming photographer lurched in to snap their picture. Leon hooked
an arm round Robin’s shoulders, drawing her in. It happened so quickly it seemed truculent to object.

‘Perfect.’ The photographer was thrilled: easily the snap of the night.

‘It’s patronising,’ said Leon.

Robin was still thinking about the photo. ‘No shit it is. Can you try not to paw me in public next time?’

‘Next time? Are you asking me out?’

She blushed.

‘I meant the Puff City thing,’ he put in. ‘It’s patronising.’

‘To you?’

‘Not to me: to kids who live with that every day. The single’s anti gun crime, ‘cept the only reason Jax wants to get involved is in pursuit of his own glory—that and the fact he’s bored now the Games are over. He hasn’t got a clue what those kids face but since he figures he’s got it in him to be a hip-hop artist he’ll use it as the hook to get him there.’

‘But if it helps raise awareness?’

‘Of Jax? Definitely. Slink Bullion? For sure. The issue? I doubt it.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘I like your new track, by the way.’

‘You can’t have heard it,’ she countered. ‘It’s not out yet.’

‘I asked to hear it.’

‘Why?’

Leon regarded her sideways. ‘You’re not getting it yet, are you?’

‘Getting what?’

‘That when I want something, I don’t quit.’

‘Such a man,’ she remarked.

‘Are you so different?’

‘From a man? I’d like to think so.’

‘You know that’s not what I meant.’ He held her gaze.

Barney interrupted them. ‘Ready, honey?’

Leon took her arm as she moved off. ‘Come out with me tonight?’

‘I thought you had a dinner.’

‘I do. Afterwards. Sack this gig off.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Come on. Eight o’clock, my hotel?’ He gave her the name.

‘Your
hotel
?’

His laugh took her by surprise. It was nice, spontaneous. ‘The bar there’s private but it’s not
that
private. We could go public, if you prefer, but…’

‘You’ll get mobbed by screaming fans?’ She recalled the woman he’d had slung around his neck at LAX. What was she doing even having this conversation?

‘I was thinking more of you.’

‘Thanks, but no, thanks. It was good seeing you, though.’

‘So good that you don’t want to do it again?’

‘Have fun at your dinner.’

‘I won’t be there long, because I’m leaving to see you.’ He didn’t wait for a reply.

As Robin entered the theatre she tried to forget the encounter. Where did Leon get off, asking her out and then
assuming
she’d come? He thought he could get any woman, and the fact he’d concluded she was just like the rest was the only answer she needed.

A niggling voice asked:
Who are you playing against, Robin—him, or you?

And a second one, softer, reassured her that maybe he’d try again.

Leon caught a cab back to his hotel at seven-thirty. Making his excuses hadn’t been difficult: he was getting booked for countless appearances all across the world and his management accepted that some he’d have to call short.

The truth was, he couldn’t wait to see Robin. Man, she got to him. He’d accepted the premiere invite when he’d heard she would be there. His team had been surprised given how skeptical he’d been about the Puff City venture; surely another PR stunt would have been way off the agenda. But the Puff City gig was different. Perhaps it was because Jax was involved, but it had danger written all over it. Leon had met the crew and hadn’t liked them: they’d greeted him shiftily, unable to meet his eye. Slink wanted to record back in LA two weeks from now, and as far as Leon was concerned it couldn’t be over with soon enough.

The taxi pulled up outside the Langham and a doorman welcomed him. Staying in splendour felt weird. As Leon made his way through the pristine lobby, his footsteps smacking across its gleaming floor, he couldn’t help but think of his mom back in Compton, how he and his siblings had been raised with so little, with nothing, really, except love—but how when it came down to it that was the only thing that mattered.

He had to remember what he was doing this for. Leon could outpace a wild animal, but he would never escape the shadow at his heels—not unless he turned and faced it. Until the day he found his brother’s killer and made that person pay, he would never be able to rest.

He reached his suite, slicing his key through the door.
Discarding his suit, he showered and dressed quickly. Downstairs, he spoke to his people about procuring a space.

Eight o’clock came and went. He ordered a second bottle of beer and waited…

And waited.

Eight-thirty passed. Nine o’clock. At nine-fifteen he realised she wasn’t coming. Foolishly he had taken it for granted that she would, because despite Robin’s playing hard to get there was a connection between them and it burned. He remembered her hair scented like cinnamon, the curve of her waist and her full red mouth. Standing next to her at the premiere, electricity had sparked like crazy. Touching her had been like fire. Hadn’t she felt it too?

Egotism was Jax’s style, not his, but even so Leon wasn’t accustomed to rejection. One thing his coach always said:

Keep your eyes on that line till you cross it. Nothing else, just the line
.

Robin was his.

At the elevators Leon was set upon by a group of women, who blushed and giggled as he signed scraps of paper. Back in his room, he settled on the bed, flipping open his iPad and typing
Robin Ryder
into the search engine.

He clicked on the first entry and scanned the article:

Robin Louise Ryder (born Hackney, East London, 1993) is an English singer and songwriter who rose to fame after the release of her debut album
, Beginnings
. She is best known for her breakthrough single ‘Lesson Learned’, which held the UK number one for eight weeks and enjoyed international success and widespread critical acclaim. At eighteen Ryder was famously discovered on the UK television music competition
The Launch
…

Leon scanned the document, taking in the awards Robin had claimed and the praise she had attracted—
the voice of a generation…relevant and inspiring…
—until he reached the section on her personal life. It comprised several lengthy paragraphs and numerous citations and references. Frowning, he read. With each revelation his heart sank.

Ryder was abandoned as a newborn in one of the most controversial cases of this type in the early nineties, sparking debate between pro-/anti-abortion groups and child welfare organisations. She was found in Victoria Park, East London, by a walker, wrapped in a plastic bag and hours from death. Neither Ryder’s mother or father has ever been located…Ryder entered the care system aged two but was removed from her adoptive parents after reports of violence…A series of foster homes followed before Ryder took to the streets. Ryder auditioned for
The Launch
after tackling drug and alcohol problems that she has since attributed to ‘a difficult phase in my life’…

Reaching the end of the article, Leon stared out of the window. London glittered below, a city busy building dreams as quickly as it broke them. It felt wrong reading this stuff, prying into a life that had been sad beyond measure, a life he’d had no idea she’d lived. He wanted to see her. He wanted to talk to her. He wanted to hold her.

No wonder Robin had front. Anybody would. Shock turned to empathy, gave way to compassion, and hardened to respect. He was filled with the need to protect her.

Whatever Robin had gone through before, Leon vowed she would never be lonely or frightened again. She was too special to let go.

The woman who had given her up hadn’t known it, but one thing was sure:

He did.

19

T
he North London high rise had been built in the sixties, a grim lump of towering concrete, part-derelict, its lower windows smashed and filled with tarpaulin that whipped angrily in the hollow draft. Climbing from a twist of roads, the block loomed immovable, ugly, on bright afternoons casting dark and giant shadows across the metropolis. It was part of the city yet rejected by it: a place nobody wanted to live.

On the seventeenth floor, in flat 39B, Ivy Sewell and her mother disturbed no one. They saw no one, they spoke to no one; the world outside was fearsome, too much of it, too plural, too menacing. On the street they called Ivy names—
weirdo
,
loser
,
freak
—and they were right. Ivy was rotten on the inside, beyond redemption, useless. That was what Hilda had always told her. It would have been better if she’d never been born.

An orange glow seeped through the blinds in a weary, perpetual stream, illuminating the frayed sofa and mottled chair in the living room. No living went on here. Hilda was
slumped on a cushion, glaring out to nothing. Occasionally a TV flickered to life. Game shows were her favourite; she liked the prizes and shiny cars and the host with his straight white smile. In a still hour, when the traffic had died and the world outside was bathed in slumber, a coarse breath escaped as she slept. But neither Sewell slept soundly. The walls knew their secrets.