his betrayal.
‘Aren’t you going to eat that?’ asked Jimmy.
Chloe was embarrassed–she didn’t want him to think she had a problem. ‘I’m not hungry,’ she told him.
He seemed unfazed. ‘Mind if I …?’
‘Go for it!’ She laughed, nudging across her plate.
‘Thanks,’ he said, forking a chunk of meat into his mouth. ‘There’s barely food at home, have to grab it when I can.’ He winked and she wasn’t sure if he was joking.
‘Really?’
It was his turn to look embarrassed. ‘I’m exaggerating,’ he said, a little uncomfortably. ‘My wife’s on a permanent diet, that’s all.’
Chloe all but slapped a palm to her forehead. Of course, he was married to Kate diLaurentis. For a moment she’d totally forgotten.
‘How is Kate?’ she asked politely, not really caring how Kate was. She couldn’t believe such a nice man was married to that bitch.
‘She’s fine,’ he said abruptly, stabbing at the food. He was clearly ill at ease talking about his wife.
Chloe sipped her drink. A snippet of information was swimming to the light, something she remembered Lana telling her. Wasn’t Jimmy a serial cheat, forever doing the dirty?
They all are, she thought bitterly. Everybody cheats.
‘Kate’s in Italy. She’s working on some fashion range, meeting designers and stuff.’ He shook his head. ‘Don’t know too much about it, actually …’
‘That’s interesting,’ said Chloe, wondering how many girls he was bedding in his wife’s absence. Much as she disliked the woman, she now knew how it felt.
And how her father must have felt.
Chloe gritted her teeth. Trust. There was a joke of a word.
Fortunately Brock cut in and the men struck up a conversation about some casting Jimmy had been to. Chloe was relieved and decided not to talk to him again this evening–it was a shame, she’d liked him, but now she was learning that the only person she could really rely on was herself. This town would make her tough. Maybe it was what she needed.
Dessert arrived, a chocolate concoction with a blood-red jus, and Chloe, regaining her appetite, shovelled it in.
‘You like sweet things,’ observed Jimmy. ‘You know, I could tell you a terrible chat-up line.’
‘Don’t bother,’ said Chloe, finishing.
Jimmy grinned, happy with her feisty response. ‘Sweet, but with a twist.’
With a screech she pushed back her chair and stood, excusing herself.
In the bathroom she sat on the loo with her head in her hands, trying not to think about Nate. The number of times he must have chatted up other women, taken them home, done things to them that she’d thought were only theirs. How many? How long had it been going on? Her mind flipped back sickeningly through the times they’d shared in London, that crazy night in Kentish Town that she’d thought had been a one-off but maybe hadn’t, looking for the signs. She’d been blind, thinking he loved her. What was love anyway? Growing up, it had been what her parents had; then it had been what she shared with Nate. Now she didn’t have a single fucking clue.
When she came back to the table, people were up and mingling. She caught Jimmy Hart watching her and pulled her shoulders back, for a moment enjoying his attention. If she’d wanted Jimmy, not that she did, she knew she had him hook, line and sinker.
She and Brock mingled for a while before he suggested they make an early exit.
‘But it’s only just gone eleven,’ Chloe protested, a little drunk, as he wrapped a coat round her shoulders.
‘Always be among the first to leave, darling,’ he advised. ‘Remember it.’
They said their goodbyes to Harriet, who air-kissed Chloe in dramatic fashion, enveloping her in a cloud of citrusy perfume. A tiny piece of spinach was clinging to her top lip, which no one was daring enough to tell her about.
‘Call me,’ she told Brock, giving him a meaningful look.
On the way out a tall, curly-haired figure stepped in front of Chloe, blocking the way.
‘Leaving so soon?’ Jimmy asked, swaying a bit.
Chloe nodded. ‘It was good to meet you.’
‘Can I see you again?’ he asked quietly. She saw his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. It was clear what he wanted and he was practised at getting it.
Suddenly Chloe felt reckless. She was tired of being the good little girl that everybody crapped on, left behind, got bored with.
‘You can take my number,’ she found herself saying. She expected it to come out shaky but instead it came out firm, like a new voice.
If Nate could do it, why the hell couldn’t she?
Las Vegas
The Orient was just as Lana had dreamed, a mine of gold shimmering in the desert.
Christmas had come to Vegas in glittering style–a great, sparkling tree soared into the sky outside the hotel, cherubs and baubles dripping from its flanks; three reindeer, their antlers tough and wide, stood with their keeper in a little wooden stable, their noses gently patted by tourists under a snow-capped roof. To Lana it was scarcely real, like finding a door to her imagination. She half expected to feel a hard pinch and wake up back in LA.
An army of waiting paparazzi swarmed out front, cameras brandished like weapons. Lana held her breath as the car pulled up. Word had got out: hordes of screaming fans, a crowd three-deep, waited to catch a glimpse of Hollywood’s most famous couple.
Cole adjusted his tie and smirked. ‘Ready?’ he asked, as he always did. A flush wrapped round his neck like a scarf, a badge of adrenalin at what was to come.
He had produced a new gown for her to wear this evening: a backless silk cream dress that clung in all the right places. She wore her auburn hair loose and only a light dusting of make-up. Cole liked to have the final say in her wardrobe.
Lana nodded. He seemed to have forgotten their earlier dispute–not that she expected him to act any different when there was press waiting.
She took a deep breath. Robbie Lewis was seconds away. She fought down panic, remembering what she had to do and what she had to tell him. What was it they said? In Vegas, anything was possible.
In Vegas, you can be whoever the hell you want.
The door was pulled open and noise flooded in like water. The force of it was like a vacuum and Lana had to push herself to step out into it, smile in place, the luckiest woman in the world. And there was Cole’s hand taking hers, moving her forward, presenting her to the cameras. She knew the routine and didn’t put a foot wrong.
They were calling for her over and over until it didn’t make sense any more. It wasn’t her: it was just two words, a made-up name.
Cole guided her inside, stopping once or twice to look into her eyes, whisper something in her ear and make her laugh. The whisper was always a direction, like ‘Left, three o’clock’, and they would both giggle like besotted lovers before turning in sync to any camera that had missed the killer angle. Cole was a masterly director, and in part she was thankful to him for steering her through. She did not have to think at all, just smile, always smile and never let it slip.
Inside the lobby, Lana took in the sheer opulence of it and shook her head in wonder.
‘Wow,’ she said.