took minutes for her to gather herself. It’s nothing. It’s nobody. She was knackered, that was all; it was the jet lag. So what if some psycho got off on the sound of her voice? It was common enough in this industry.
Back in the audition, Barney mouthed, ‘Everything OK?’ and Robin nodded, smiling as brightly as she could. There was no point raising it; she’d only get told what she already knew. Besides, since when did she let herself get spooked?
She resolved to brush it off and focus on the job.
As she observed the next group fall into position, one particular dancer caught her eye. Robin checked his picture against the list. Farrell. Twenty-one years old. With his light chocolate skin and bright green eyes, he reminded her of someone.
Leon Sway.
Idiotically she had Googled him the previous night. She’d drunk too much champagne at a launch with Barney, and on returning to her hotel had heard him mentioned on the radio.
Countless sites had sprung up, led by an article beginning Leon Christopher Sway, born 1988 in East Compton, Los Angeles…which she’d meant to open but hadn’t. Instead she had been drawn to the line of thumbnail shots running below and had clicked on Image Results. Most of the snaps saw the Olympian breaking through the finish in London, face to the open sky, arms stretched wide—she could think what she liked of him, but that body…In others he was alongside Jax Jackson, head to head, neck and neck, the man he couldn’t beat, the photos mocked up to present the athletes locked in mortal combat. A glance showed there were hordes of blogs and fan sites devoted to him.
Sexiest man in the world. Ultimate boyfriend. Superhuman. The list went on.
One picture had jumped out. It was Leon with a woman, snapped at LAX. The woman was kissing him, her arms around his neck, and Leon was grinning dizzily through the adulation. Ridiculously, something in Robin had sunk. She’d snapped the laptop shut.
‘I don’t like him,’ she said to Marc now, nodding to Farrell as the routine struck up. ‘Front row, tall, grey sneakers. Let’s not see him again.’
The meet with Puff City took place the following afternoon at Slink Bullion’s mansion on Long Beach—he liked to keep things relaxed, apparently. As Robin’s car cruised through the sweltering grid of LA, reaching the ocean with its silver, glittering harbour and wide straight roads lined with majestic palms, she gathered her nerve. As a rule she didn’t let other people daunt her, but Puff City were a notorious crew. If they agreed on collaboration, not only would it be a personal triumph, it would seal her fate as the one to watch in America. With her Beginnings tour fast approaching, the game was on.
She pulled out her iPhone and checked her emails.
Wait till you see this place. B x
Barney had attended a lunch with record execs and had planned to meet her there, but, while normally she didn’t mind going places alone, on this occasion she was glad he’d made it first. She scrolled through several unread messages before deciding she was too anxious to absorb them properly. Before she closed the account her eye fell on Turquoise da Luca’s name. Robin had contacted her the morning after Friday Later: she’d been surprised at Turquoise’s sudden withdrawal and couldn’t forget the haunted look in her eyes. What was going on?
Sorry to split, Turquoise had mailed back. Run down, that’s all. Let’s do it next time.
The car changed lanes and peeled away from the beach, pulling up moments later at an awesome set of twisting gates. Robin’s driver spoke into the intercom and the entrance swung open, revealing a lush spread of verdant gardens, through the middle of which threaded their path. At its summit was the infamous mansion: it had appeared once on MTV Cribs, inciting alternate waves of marvel and disgust across media forums. Did anyone seriously need sixteen bedrooms and as many en suites? Were a private gym, games room and spa really necessary? Could both an indoor and outdoor Jacuzzi swimming pool be justified when there were people starving in the world? But Slink Bullion lived by his own rules. From the streets of Brooklyn to the castles of LA, Slink had strived for every cent and couldn’t care who knew it.
Seven (she had to count) vehicles were parked out front, ahead of a garage Robin suspected housed yet more: a burnished black Rolls-Royce Phantom; an ice-white Mercedes McLaren SLR with flashing alloys; a two-hundred-thousand-dollar Ferrari 458; a colossal red Hummer Pickup…and the rest. Each boasted a personalised licence plate, which put paid to any doubt that they all belonged to Slink. SL1NK A. SLNKWISE. 5LINKY.
A woman in hot pants and a sparkly bikini top met her at the door.
‘Yeah?’
‘I’m Robin.’
‘And?’
‘I’ve got an appointment.’
The woman looked her up and down a tad bitchily: she was Shawnella, Slink’s live-in, long-suffering lover, a gorgeous black girl with legs that went on for miles.
‘Baby!’ she yelled into the hall. ‘You got a visitor.’ She blew a strawberry bubble in Robin’s face and fixed her with a stare.
‘What’s up, Robin Ryder?’ Slink came to greet her, a heavy black guy in a Red Sox sweatshirt, a baseball cap wedged over his cornrows. ‘Good t’ finally meet you.’
‘Likewise.’
‘Come on through.’ He patted Shawnella’s ass. Robin saw how she pouted at having to share his attention, and shot a dark grimace Robin’s way before disappearing inside.
Barney had been right. This was more a palace than a mansion. Slink’s dominion went on for miles. ‘This is my hall of fame right here,’ he informed her as they passed through a gallery covered wall to wall in awards and accolades, not a spare strip to be seen. ‘I should take y’all on a grand tour but y’all be here for a week.’
Eventually they arrived at the living room—one of them. Barney Grant was seated uncomfortably on a leather couch and clutching a fat cigar he didn’t want to smoke.
‘Y’know my main man G.’ Slink gestured to a guy in a checked shirt and cardigan, who grinned and held his hand out: G-Money, he had been part of the City since the start.
‘Hey,’ he said warmly, ‘how’s it going?’
‘An’ this here’s my brother Principal.’
Robin got a cooler vibe off Principal 7. He was a toughened-up white kid with something to prove, lifting his chin in grudging acknowledgement and regarding her with suspicious, mistrustful eyes. ‘Wassup?’ he muttered sullenly.
‘Y’all want somethin’ t’drink?’ asked Slink.
Robin clocked the fully stocked bar, next to which a second girl, this one with slightly more on but still in a state of partial undress, awaited instruction. ‘A beer would be good.’
The girl popped open a bottle of Corona Light and brought it over.
‘What did you think of the tracks?’ asked Barney.
Slink took a seat, ankle on knee, and smiled, exposing a glinting silver tooth. ‘You got it down, girl, an’ I ain’t even lyin’. So word up, we should make music together.’
‘Last record we dropped sold a million in seven days,’ put in G-Money, real name Gordon Rimeaux. Unlike the rest of the crew G-Money was clean-living, educated, had swept his act up after a difficult childhood: Robin respected him. ‘That’s one week, man, and that’s some crazy shit right there. It’s like even after all these years there’s love on the streets for the City.’
‘What’s she bringin’ to the party?’ Principal folded scrawny arms across his oversized T-shirt. ‘I say we stick to the script and no messin’.’
Robin was confused. ‘What script?’
‘There ain’t no script,’ said G-Money, ‘only my man Principal’s not wise enough in the