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His expression was difficult to read. ‘What do you mean?’
Laura wasn’t stupid. Boys were only after one thing. She’d learned that from her own brother. Sometimes he brought a girl home after she’d gone to bed: she’d lie down in the darkness, listening to the filthy scrabble of rats and mice, and among them, below them, the weird frantic sounds coming from Lester’s room.
But if he didn’t go out it was worse. It meant he would stay with her, watching her sideways, and if he got drunk enough he would do that terrible thing and make her undress for bed in front of him. Just sitting there, not daring to touch, his lizard eyes soaking up every inch of her body. She, racked with shame, would stand shivering, with each shaky breath fighting the instinct to cover herself. But she knew she could not: one time she had put a hand on that part between her legs and Lester had hit her across the face, so hard she couldn’t hear properly for a week. And recently he had developed a taste for that.
‘There’s nothing wrong with being nice,’ said Robbie.
Tears sprang to Laura’s eyes and she turned her head so he couldn’t see.
Robbie kept pace as she quickened her step. ‘Wait up a second, what’s the big hurry?’
‘Just leave me alone.’
‘Hey, hang on—’
Abruptly she stopped.
‘I’m not interested,’ she said primly, sticking her chin in the air. ‘In what?’
‘You know.’
Robbie frowned. ‘Not really.’
Laura was so unlike all the other girls at school, those catty girls he’d heard gossiping in the corridor, saying mean things about her old clothes and her messy hair. She was a thousand times more lovely than they’d ever be. And yet his urge was to protect her, to look after her. He’d seen her walking with her head bowed; rigid, like with each step she defied collapse. He’d seen the sadness in her eyes.
And he knew why. He knew her brother was a drunk, a bully. A month back his father had returned from a business trip and Lester Fallon had started a brawl in the local bar–Vince had got caught up in it and come home with a black eye and a mouthful of blood. God only knew what he was doing to his little sister.
‘Well, anyway,’ she said. ‘You can forget it.’
Her defiance made him smile. Seeing this, she laughed a little. It was a clean, honest sound, he thought, straight as water.
He kept trying to glimpse her as they walked. Her hair was the colour of autumn, a fire at the corners of his vision. Her eyes were green, but darker in recent months, and there was something resilient about her stare, a belief that refused to be crushed.
When they reached the trailer park she stopped. He didn’t want to let her go, not back to that trailer and whatever was waiting for her there. But he didn’t know what to say to stop her. This was bigger than he was.
‘Thanks,’ she said, lifting the books from him.
He fumbled for words, knowing that whatever came out would be laced in pity. ‘You live here?’ he said at last.
Her gaze hardened. ‘Why? Not everyone can afford to live in a house like yours. ‘
Chastened, he went to apologise. Laura got there first.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said quickly. ‘I didn’t mean that. I shouldn’t have said that.’
‘It’s OK.’
‘It’s not.’
A beat. ‘Yes, it is.’
She bent her head to the books and grazed the lip of one with hers. ‘I should go.’
‘Sure.’
There was a moment’s pause, before she gave him a brief, brave smile. It squeezed his heart. ‘See you at school.’
He watched her for a long while, picking her way across the scratched-out land towards her brother’s trailer.
Eventually she disappeared from sight.
‘If he touches her again,’ Robbie Lewis vowed, ‘God help me, I’ll kill him.’
Winter
Los Angeles
Chloe French touched down at LAX looking like she’d just stepped out on to a catwalk, not like she’d just spent seven hours on a plane. Her trademark hair hung dark and loose, and she wore a black blazer-style jacket, grey leggings and thigh-high boots teamed with chunky gold jewellery.
She was greeted by a swarming crowd of British paparazzi.
‘Chloe, how does it feel to be in LA?’
‘Is it true you’re shooting a film out here? Can you tell us anything about that?’
Giving a series of succinct answers, having been briefed in militant detail by Melissa, she anxiously scanned Arrivals for her name. When she spotted it she was excited to see the man holding her card was a blond, blue-eyed beefcake with the kind of caramel skin you only found in California. It was too cute.
‘Hi!’ she said, extending her hand. ‘I’m Chloe.’
‘Gawd, sorry!’ he drawled. ‘I didn’t recognise you. Have you changed your hair?’
Chloe patted it self-consciously. ‘Um … not in about six years.’
‘Anyway, whatever, sweetie, we found each other. I’m Brock Wilde for LA Scout–Melissa must’ve told you about me.’ His face split into a grin and his teeth were so dazzling she thought about putting her Ray-Bans back on. How did he get them so straight?
They exited the airport and stepped out into the November sunshine. Wow, it was hot. Heading for his parked Ford Mustang, Chloe saw that on the back window was a sticker that read watch the rear.
It turned out Brock’s teeth were the only straight thing about him.
‘Let’s get down to business,’ he announced, brushing a stray lock of corn-coloured hair from his eyes and waggling a finger at her. ‘Your road to superstardom starts right here, honey, and I’m the one that’s going to make it happen. In a year’s time you’ll remember it was me who got you started in this town and you are never gonna forget it.’ He pulled open the driver’s side. ‘But this morning I got a taste in my mouth like a dog took a crap in there and I’m working a schedule the size of my ass. That means no hanging around. Got it?’ He slammed the door.
Chloe stood, half expecting him to drive off. Then she heaved her suitcase into the boot and slipped in next to him, trying to keep up. ‘Got it,’ she said with as assured a smile as she could muster.
They