Diva. Carrie Duffy

Luis Fernandez.

      Just saying his name sent a thrill right through Dionne. She’d never heard of him, but Dash assured her he was the best and Dionne wanted to believe it. He could get her a spot in W or Harper’s – maybe even European Vogue, Dash had told her. He’d slipped her Fernandez’s card, told her to be there Monday afternoon.

      ‘I’ve got school,’ she blurted out stupidly. She was still only sixteen.

      Dash raised an eyebrow as the intimidating crowd of black-clad heavies who were never far from his side laughed patronizingly. ‘Skip it,’ he told her, menacingly.

      Dionne bit her lip nervously, but didn’t argue. If there was one thing you didn’t do, it was piss off Dash Ramón.

      So that morning she’d remained huddled under her sheets while her younger sisters got ready around her.

      ‘Are you sick, honey?’ asked her mother, running a cursory hand over Dionne’s forehead.

      ‘I don’t feel too good, Momma,’ Dionne swallowed weakly. She knew her mom would be in too much of a rush to argue – her shift at the local deli started at seven a.m., and she couldn’t afford to be late.

      ‘I really can’t stay home …’ Natalie Summers looked torn.

      ‘I’ll be fine. I just need to rest. You get off to work, Mom.’

      Dionne lay immobile, waiting until the sounds in the house had died down and the front door had banged half a dozen times, signalling that everyone had left. Well, almost everyone. Her daddy would still be in bed but Dionne wasn’t worried about him. He’d be out cold until he dragged himself up around midday, slumping in front of the TV and working his way through a bottle of Jack until her mother came home from her gruelling twelve-hour shift to fix him some dinner. Earl Summers hadn’t had a job since he’d been let go from General Motors more than five years ago, and since then it had been down to Dionne, as the eldest of the six kids, to help her momma keep everything together.

      As soon as she’d turned sixteen, she’d found herself a Saturday job, working as a salesgirl in Macy’s over at Oakland Mall. It was a prestigious job, one which wouldn’t normally have been given to a young, black kid from the wrong side of the tracks, but Dionne was possessed of a natural charm and a disarming beauty, and she’d persuaded the manager to give her a chance. He hadn’t regretted it: Dionne was a born saleswoman and had no trouble persuading the rich suburban housewives to part with their husbands’ hard-earned cash. She gave her basic salary straight to her momma for housekeeping, but the commission she made was all hers. She’d opened up a savings account, and already there was almost a thousand dollars in there.

      But if Luis Fernandez liked her, she’d be made for life, Dionne thought, offering up a quick, silent prayer that Ramón’s contact would give her the break she needed.

      She knew she looked a million dollars. She’d spent yesterday in the African Princess salon, having her luxurious afro relaxed so that it hung straight and sleek down her back. She’d had her legs and bush waxed, her nail acrylics reapplied and decorated with small crystals.

      And now she was tottering along Twelfth in tight, plastic heels that were already hurting her feet, her tiny skirt leaving little to the imagination. She’d made herself up carefully, applying fake eyelashes and clear lip gloss that made her bee-stung lips even more enormous. Dash had once told her that the first thing a man thought of when he saw her was what it would be like to be sucked off by those lips. Dionne had simply smiled and blown him a kiss. She hadn’t been blessed with much in life; she figured she might as well make the most of what she did have.

      Dionne stopped, searching through her purse and checking the address she’d been given. She studied the badly printed card on its cheap paper, then glanced up at the house in front of her. It didn’t look anything special. In fact, it was a typical example of the houses in downtown Detroit – sprawling, ramshackle and falling to pieces, so the rent was dirt-cheap. The place looked as if it hadn’t been painted since the ’67 riots, and the garden was a jungle.

      Taking a deep breath, Dionne pressed the buzzer firmly. Then she thought better of it and knocked; the buzzer looked like it had long since been disconnected.

      ‘Yeah?’ A small, wiry Hispanic guy opened the door just a crack and peered suspiciously at Dionne.

      ‘Mr Fernandez?’ she asked, trying to sound confident.

      ‘Depends who’s askin’.’

      ‘I’m Dionne Summers. Dash Ramón sent me. For the casting?’

      ‘Diane, hi!’ His lips crawled back over his teeth as he smiled charmlessly, his gaze flickering over her appraisingly. Dionne could tell he liked what he saw.

      She smiled politely as she followed him into the house. It was a pigsty. Discarded takeaway cartons with their half-eaten contents rotting inside littered the floor, barely covered by the old newspaper cuttings and torn magazine articles that were strewn carelessly around the lounge. A couple of twists of foil lay on the stained coffee table, surrounded by crumpled beer cans. Fernandez didn’t even seem to notice the mess.

      As he pushed open the door to one of the back rooms, Dionne began to feel a little calmer. It was set up with professional-looking equipment; a couple of large studio lights on adjustable stands, a silver reflector lying in a corner and a neutral-coloured backdrop hanging from a rail.

      There was a camera mounted on a tripod that looked like an antique. Fernandez didn’t touch it. He simply picked up a cheap, digital camera and told her, ‘I’m gonna take a few test shots first.’

      Dionne stepped tentatively into the centre of the room, trying to look as if she knew what she was doing. ‘What do you want me to wear?’ she asked, hoping that Fernandez might suddenly produce a selection of beautiful designer gowns.

      He didn’t even look up. ‘What you’re wearing’s fine. Don’t worry about it.’

      Dionne nodded, pouting self-consciously and jutting out her hips in what she hoped was a provocative pose.

      Fernandez fired off a few shots and checked his camera. ‘Hey, babe, lose the jacket. It’s not the fuckin’ Arctic in here,’ he yelled.

      Silently, Dionne did as she was told. She didn’t want to piss him off and have him tell Ramón she was no good.

      She shrugged off her fake-fur bomber jacket to reveal a white tank with a deep V-neck that couldn’t fail to draw attention to her full breasts and silky, dark-brown skin.

      Fernandez let out a low whistle and Dionne felt a pang of triumph. He liked her! This was going to be a success!

      ‘Okay, honey, I want to see innocent,’ Fernandez commanded as Dionne tried her best to oblige, changing her body and her expressions the way Luis instructed.

      Fernandez was pleased with what he saw. Yeah, she was getting more natural, more confident at playing with the camera. The girl – what was her name again? – definitely had something. And she was starting to trust him.

      Luis smiled lasciviously, walking across his makeshift studio towards Dionne. He stood close to her, but she didn’t flinch. Guys invading her personal space was nothing new. Slowly, Fernandez looked her over, then his eyes caught on the gold necklace that sat just above her cleavage. He twisted it between his thumb and forefinger, his fingertips brushing her skin.

      ‘Nice,’ he commented.

      Dionne’s gaze didn’t falter. ‘It was a present.’

      ‘From your boyfriend?’

      ‘From my parents.’

      Fernandez flashed that sleazy smile again, seeming pleased with the answer. ‘Okay, take off your top.’

      ‘What? I—’

      ‘Just take it off,’ he drawled, suddenly sounding impatient.

      The request was unexpected,