Wicked Ambition. Victoria Fox

I grab you for a moment?’ Turquoise’s manager intervened.

      ‘Are you staying in town?’ asked Robin.

      ‘Just a flying visit.’

      ‘I’m in LA next month. Shall we make a date?’

      ‘I’d like that.’ They kissed on both cheeks before Turquoise was pulled away. ‘I’ll have my assistant get in touch.’

      Turquoise’s manager was a woman called Donna Cameron. She was Australia-born but hadn’t been back in twenty years because when she did ‘life stood still’. Her books were notoriously sparse: she represented just a handful of clients, all of them major.

      ‘You hungry?’ Donna asked.

      ‘Not especially.’

      ‘OK. We’ll do drinks, then. Nobu?’

      ‘Who with?’ Turquoise was tired and had been looking forward to an early night. Her return flight to LA left at dawn.

      Donna smiled with controlled pleasure. ‘Sam Lucas,’ she revealed, tagging the famous movie director. ‘He wants to cast you in his new project. He doesn’t care what it takes, he says, it has to be you. Turquoise, this is the golden opportunity.’

      It was. They had been talking about a move to the big screen since last year. Turquoise had reached the pinnacle of success in her music and now there was nowhere to go but sideways, expanding her empire and building on the fan base she already had.

      ‘It’s the right project?’ Her heart ached with pride when she thought of Emaline, how they had watched their old movies in the fading afternoon and dreamed of Hollywood.

       That’s going to be you one day. My little star…

      ‘Sam and his group are in London,’ said Donna. ‘He can give us the script tonight. From what I’ve been told, it’s tailor-made. This is a classic empowerment story and you’re the one to tell it. It’s going to appeal across the board. It’s a big budget production and they’ve got some huge names attached. Cosmo Angel, for one.’

      Turquoise froze. Her mouth went dry.

      ‘Tell me about it,’ commented Donna. ‘If I wasn’t twice divorced I’d seriously consider marrying the guy. If he wasn’t with Ava, of course.’ She winked.

      ‘Cosmo’s in the movie?’ She could barely stand to say his name.

      Donna shot her a quizzical look, perplexed that at her stage in the game Turquoise should get misty-eyed about even the biggest hitters on the A-list.

      ‘He’s your love interest.’

      She couldn’t do it. There was no way.

      ‘It doesn’t sound like a role he’d want to sign.’ Turquoise tried to imagine Cosmo as a man subjugated by a woman, and couldn’t. He would always be the victor.

      ‘Is everything all right?’ Donna was concerned. ‘I thought you’d be pleased.’

      Turquoise opened her mouth to respond. No words came. How could she begin to explain? Where would she start?

      ‘I don’t know if it’s the best thing for me right now,’ she offered weakly, thinking only, I have to get out of this; I have to get out of this.

      ‘But we’ve cleared it.’ Donna was trying to understand. ‘We’ve talked this through before, Turquoise. Hollywood has always been on the cards, hasn’t it?’

      ‘Yes. But…’

      ‘At least come meet Sam, see what they have to say?’ She gave Turquoise’s arm a reassuring squeeze. ‘I know you’re tired,’ she said kindly. ‘You’ve been working all hours; it’s no wonder you’re finding it tough to summon enthusiasm for a new project. Let’s ride out tonight. Once we have the facts we can make an informed call. Sound all right?’

      Turquoise found herself nodding. There was nothing else she could do. ‘Fine.’

      She would figure it out. She had to figure it out. Because one thing was certain: she was never going near Cosmo Angel again as long as she lived.

      Grace Turquoise da Luca should never have said yes to the ride. If she hadn’t, she might have had a different fate. She might have perished on the road, just lain down and waited for dreams to take her, or surrendered to delirium and stumbled out in front of a truck. Or she might have made it to the next town and found help. She might have been rescued. She might have got into a car with anyone else but Denny Malone.

      Denny was twenty-three and had a haggard, drug-addled face that made him look ten years older. His had been a tough life and he had the livid white scars on his arms to prove it.

       They arrived in Denny’s home city early morning. Grace drifted in and out of sleep, startled awake then shivering back to oblivion. Denny had an apartment and he told her to shower. He didn’t offer her a phone call, but then whom would she have rung?

      ‘Can I have some clothes, please?’ she asked, trembling cold and wrapped in a towel.

       ‘Lemme get a look at you first.’ Denny was on the couch, smoking. He narrowed his eyes and flashed her that smile. ‘Drop it.’

      Grace Turquoise wished she had never become a woman. She wished she had never found the blood in her knickers, because it meant she had to do things she didn’t want.

      ‘Bit thin,’ he diagnosed when she was stripped. ‘Good tits though.’ He told her to come over and roughly he clasped her ass, patting it when he was done like a piece of meat. ‘We’ll give you a couple of months then you’re ready to go.’

      Ready to go where? She didn’t know. She was scared.

      Six weeks later, she was getting sick. ‘What’s wrong with you?’ Denny demanded. ‘You ain’t knocked up or something?’ He took her to a friend of his who worked out of a backstreet surgery. There, the man prodded her insides with coarse, long fingers that hurt when they went all the way up. She wept and bled, and bled and wept, and prayed a miracle would happen and Emaline would appear next to her, holding her hand and kissing her head like she used to do when there was a thunderstorm and she woke from a nightmare.

      Now, there was no waking up.

      The abortion set back Denny’s plan, but two months later, after her fifteenth birthday, Grace Turquoise was sent to her first client. He was a bald, overweight businessman with a lust for young girls, and as he ordered Grace to undress, drooling with anticipation and sucking wetly at her nipples, she closed her mind and body to everything except the house where she grew up, the rustling palms and the ocean breeze, Emaline and her lime cordial and all the songs they used to sing. When the man pummelled into her, just as the pastor had done that horrifying night, Grace accepted that this was the world. This was what men did.

      Denny was pleased with the twenty dollars she produced. He kept it all and said that next time, if she did another good job, he’d let her take a piece.

      Her next call-out was a young guy, in his twenties, who wanted to watch her play with herself. She hadn’t done that before and had to be shown how. Then he crouched over her and dangled his thing in her mouth. That was worse than the pummelling and cost him thirty dollars, which Denny kept all over again.

       ‘I don’t want to do it any more,’ she told him. ‘Please don’t make me.’

       Denny was counting out a stack of cash. She’d seen other girls at the apartment, sent to do the same things. They were older than Grace and she didn’t want to end up like them. ‘You wanna hit the streets, go right ahead,’ he growled. ‘Ain’t no easy ride out there.’

      One of the girls, Cookie—‘not my real name, honey, but then whose is?’—was sent out with her one night. A twitchy