Power Games. Victoria Fox

when he was halfway through his shrimp appetiser …

      ‘Wrong,’ corrected Oliver, ‘we tell them what to be interested in. Once we confirm our White House campaign, they’ll soon see where our priorities lie.’

      Mitch felt exhausted by the whole thing. Along the line he guessed he must have signed up for this demented full-throttle ride, first Hollywood, then Washington, then a fucking presidential bid. Why was he doing it to himself? Fame was a cruel mistress. She had brought him notoriety, but she hadn’t brought him happiness.

      In the vehicle’s wing mirror he spied the same black car he had noticed trailing them on to the freeway. Mitch narrowed his eyes. His knee juddered.

      Quietly he eased back in his seat.

      ‘Everything OK?’ asked Oliver.

      ‘Fine,’ he replied.

      Mitch couldn’t confide in Oliver. He couldn’t confide in anyone. They would pour scorn on his revelations: Too many drugs with the Screw Crew? That had been the name of his actor clique, years ago when the A-listers had stalked Sunset for babes and tallied up their victories. Maybe he had taken too many drugs. Maybe he had lost his shit at too many parties. Maybe the whole thing was a delusion brought about by his longevity at the top of a precipitous fame mountain: a gradual decline.

      Mitch could forget all about a White House campaign if the world uncovered a breath of what he knew. Who would have thought it? This was the man who, back in his heyday, had been king of the silver screen; he had wrestled crocodiles, battled felons, shot at hijackers from a swooping chopper and flown missiles into Vietnam …

      Yet here he was, besieged and cursed, tripped and taunted in the endless labyrinth of his waking nightmare. His palms were sweating. He wiped them on his trousers. He checked the mirror again. The black car was still in pursuit.

      ‘Here we are.’ Oliver was all business as their vehicle pulled up at the studio. Mitch sank down in his seat. The black car slid past, its windows opaque.

      ‘Senator Corrigan, it’s an honour, thanks again for joining us.’ A smiling producer led him through the rear entrance, and he was encouraged by Oliver to raise a hand to the waiting band of paps shouting his name. Ten minutes in Make-up and he was set.

      Mitch had to wait backstage while Jerry Gersham’s star billing took the stage. Noah Lawson was that rare concoction to which every actor aspires: looks, charm and talent. It was why he was Hollywood’s hottest property. Mitch knew that while he himself had done an OK job, somehow garnering his handprint on the Walk of Fame, he had hardly been the most versatile of players. In fact, his acting was shit.

      ‘Side with me if you want to ride with me.’ Good grief.

      The studio audience went crazy as Noah told a joke. The actor ran his hand through his blond hair and gave them an easy grin. So charming, so relaxed …

      Mitch wished it could be that straightforward for him.

      The studio lights burned. A trickle of sweat travelled down his neck and into his collar. His tongue bloated. His lungs squeezed. Panic rose in his belly.

      The house at Veroli flashed terribly through his mind. The thing …

      Mitch released a strangled cry. He could take it no longer. He felt his asshole begin to protest, that horrid twitching dance it forced him into whenever it recoiled against a further assault, as if still reeling from the penetration two years before, as if so certain it was about to happen again: his poor, vulnerable, raided asshole.

      ‘And now, ladies and gentlemen, please welcome my final guest for this evening. D’you want to ride with him?’ Cue roar. ‘It’s Senator Mitch Corrigan!’

      But it was too late. The wings were empty. Mitch had already fled.

       14

       New York

      Tawny Lascelles was partying in a club on Gansevoort Street, less with friends than with tolerable randoms who were out to get papped with anyone who was anyone and, better still, the most desirable supermodel on the scene. Who cared if the hangers-on were genuine, so long as they were the right level of attractive? Which basically meant attractive enough to act as a plumping cushion for Tawny’s irresistible jewel, but not so pretty as to rival her in any discernible way. Tawny did not like to be rivalled.

      It was survive on your own in this industry, or don’t survive at all.

      Tawny was fresh from this afternoon’s FNYC shoot, her first for Angela Silvers’ tag as it announced the launch of its hyped new range. Working with the upcoming label was her most envied gig to date. She treasured the bitten expressions on her fellow models’ faces as yet another deal went her way. Tawny snagged all the major names. Why? Because she was outrageously stunning, she chilled with the right people and she flirted on that line between innocence and danger that, for all the hard work in the world, models either possessed or they didn’t.

      ‘Everyone in here’s, like, staring at you,’ teased her wardrobe girl, Minty.

      Tawny sighed, sipping vodka as her blue eyes scoped the room.

      ‘Check out Tess Barnes’ sherbet drainpipes!’ she purred. ‘So unflattering.’

      ‘I know, sack the stylist.’

      ‘I like her T-shirt though.’

      ‘Not as cute as yours.’

      ‘Serious?’

      ‘Sure. She’s too bony.’

      ‘Or I’m too fat?’ Tawny’s retort was quick as a whip.

      ‘Shit, no! God. You, fat? Come on, you’re the only model that exists right now, far as the bookings go. Tess Barnes is so yesterday. You, babe, are today.’

      Minty’s deft brushwork, credited with awarding Tawny the most striking and replicated eyebrows of the decade, was almost as impressive as her charm offensive, which was subtle enough not to be noted by Tawny but sufficiently forceful as to make her utterly indispensable to her number-one client. Tawny, like most models, thrived on compliments. Minty was the best at giving them.

      ‘I’m bored,’ said Tawny, as Kevin Chase’s new record came on and everyone flocked to the dance floor. ‘Wanna get high?’

      The girls vanished into the bathroom. Tawny took a compact from her purse. When she had first been snapped with halos of powder round her nostrils, her manager had freaked and several pussy brands had backed out of their contracts. Now, it was expected—even encouraged. She was a supermodel, not a role model.

      Tawny clocked him as soon as they emerged.

      ‘Great,’ she said. ‘There’s that jerk-off I met in LA.’

      ‘Who?’

      Tawny flicked her mane. ‘Jacob Lyle.’

      ‘Really? Where?’ Minty’s voice dropped. ‘Shit, he’s sexy, isn’t he?’

      ‘If you say so.’

      ‘Not for you?’

      ‘He’s so full of himself it’s coming out his ass.’

      Minty giggled. ‘Should we go say hello?’ she asked.

      ‘No way—he’s a fucking perv.’

      But Minty saw how Tawny narrowed her eyes, checking that if Jacob Lyle were indeed a perv, then he would be perving exclusively on her. It was the same story wherever they went: Tawny had to be the most attractive girl in the room and, eleven times out of ten, she was. What was it with models? They had been given exteriors most girls could only dream of, yet however gorgeous or successful