Wicked Ambition. Victoria Fox

throne-like chair was a prop, used in the early audition stages: when a judge liked what they saw they hit a lever, prompting the seat to rush forward on a pair of rails. Thankfully for Robin the gimmick had been relegated backstage once the live nights began—she’d proved a hit during those first weeks where her inclination to back everybody had her getting motion sickness every ad break. After all, The Launch was where she herself had begun: now she was the nation’s darling, drawn from obscurity, a rough diamond polished through song. Robin had risen to fame through the very show she was tonight judging.

      The public loved Robin’s voice, raw and sensuous, somewhere between pain and deliverance. They loved how she wore her heart on her sleeve. They loved her guts, and her honesty. They loved her story—loved that she’d been hurt and wanted to seize her dues. Over twelve months Robin had soared to a dizzying stratosphere, invited to every party, on to every red carpet, booked for every event. Her gift was undeniable and her smile lit up a room.

      ‘Do you want it?’ the contestant was panting, his sweat-slicked six-pack glistening in the half-glow. ‘Right there, do you want it?’ He was this year’s favourite, tough guy with the voice of an angel—and a heavenly body to match.

      She came in a crash, a bursting galaxy of dazzling confetti as she writhed on the brink of paradise. Sex was Robin’s release. It enabled her to feel that warmth, that closeness, without risk of being wounded. You got what you came for and you left. She didn’t get why people wanted to stick around afterwards anyway; she had never understood this sleeping-in-each-other’s-arms thing. She’d got this far alone and she didn’t need anyone else.

      ‘That was amazing,’ he groaned, cradling her, kissing her over and over as she gasped through the aftermath of her climax.

      She had barely had time to fling a shirt over her nakedness when the door opened. Robin didn’t know which happened first: the contestant’s face dropping as fast as his pants had ten minutes earlier; or her attempt to dismount disastrously striking the switch that jolted the chair meteorquick towards their visitor like some sort of warped sacrificial offering.

      ‘Oh,’ said their caller, as Robin scrambled to conceal herself. Instead of a mortified exit (which would have been the polite thing), he stood there, an infuriating grin on his face.

      Light flooded the room. ‘Shit, man,’ gabbled the contestant helpfully. ‘Shit, shit, shit.’

      ‘Do you mind?’ she raged, so mortified she couldn’t bear to turn round.

      ‘Sure.’ She could hear the smirk in his voice. ‘Guess I’ll come back later.’

      It was a miracle she made it through the show without punching him.

      Leon Sway, Olympic sprinter, was guesting on tonight’s panel. Since the summer Games had decreed him a World Personality, the athlete was hotly in demand for every broadcast going. Leon was mixed race, with close-cut black hair, strong cheekbones and an all-over movie-star look: it was little wonder he had been gracing billboards across the globe with a ream of sponsorships and modelling contracts; and now here he was making a star appearance on the adjudicating Launch line-up—what the hell did he know about music?

      ‘I’ve been a fan of yours from the start,’ Robin told a quivering choirgirl after an impressive rendition of Adele. ‘That was a brilliant performance; I really felt it. Well done.’

      ‘Sure that’s not all you felt?’ came the murmur from her neighbour, just loud enough for her to hear. She tried not to scowl—either that or turn to Leon and chuck her glass of water in his face. It wasn’t in Robin’s nature to wish for the ground to open up and swallow her whole, but tonight had to be the exception. As the acts ran through their numbers and the board delivered their verdicts, she tried not to dwell on what parts of her anatomy might have been unveiled before they’d even been introduced—not easy with Leon’s supercilious bulk to her left, interspersed with a hot flash of shame every time she recalled his untimely intrusion.

      ‘Do you think she can win?’ asked a producer mogul who had been tagged as her rival on the show. ‘With those nerves I can’t see her pulling off any live gigs.’

      ‘This is a live gig, isn’t it?’ Robin snapped. She could sense Leon watching her. Why did he have to be such a smug, full-of-himself…? Ugh, she couldn’t even think of the word.

      ‘Well, yes…’

      ‘I absolutely believe in her,’ commented Robin, battling through her disgrace. ‘This is where I got my break and it took me time to grow, of course it did. If she were cutthroat at this point you’d be tearing her apart for being difficult to work with. Which is it going to be?’

      The arena shouted its approval. Robin’s image filled the screens on either side of the stage, the people’s champion: she was petite, her hair chopped short but with a trademark sweep still long enough to obscure her eyes, which were cat-like and aglow with dramatic make-up. Hers was a cautious demeanour that belied the tough, attitude-fuelled work that had made her name: Robin’s music spoke of more years lived and more experiences earned, and had consequently secured her the first ever talent-show-spawned album to be nominated for—and win—a Brit Select Award. The victory had made Robin Ryder, at just nineteen, the hottest thing on the UK scene. She believed in putting everything into her art, the offering up of her heart and her soul, because for a long time she had imagined that both those things were damaged beyond being any use to anyone.

      When the time came for that contestant to take the spotlight, she grimaced. Leon couldn’t resist fixing her with a stare throughout the entire introductory VT.

      ‘It wasn’t for me,’ he judged afterwards. ‘It kinda felt like you were distracted.’

      ‘I disagree,’ put in Robin. ‘For me it was a very focused, determined performance.’

      Leon turned to her. ‘Are you complimenting his performance?’

      The blush threatened to engulf her. ‘Sure,’ she managed, the double entendre squatting resolutely between them. ‘I am.’

      ‘Focused and determined—that’s how you like it, then?’

      She returned his glare. ‘Who doesn’t?’

      The host, confused, went to ask another panellist their view.

      ‘It seemed like he had something else on his mind,’ Leon steamed on before he could, ‘something more interesting than being up on that stage. Don’t you feel that’s an issue?’

      ‘Whatever drives him is fine by me,’ she replied stiffly, knowing that every word she uttered was laced in innuendo. ‘After all, what would a sprinter know about vocals?’

      It was a cheap shot, she ought to know better, but humiliation had forced her into a corner. A blood-hungry cheer erupted and she could all but hear the producers salivating.

      ‘Well, he is the bookies’ favourite,’ supplied the mogul.

      ‘Not just the bookies’…right, Robin?’ Leon joked, a crescent-moon dimple appearing on one side of his all too slappable face. His insinuation was obvious. There was a horrible silence. Robin’s cheeks flamed. She tried to think of something to say and nothing came. She was so angry she could scream. This was live TV!

      ‘Excuse me?’ she spluttered.

      But the presenter moved on, instructed to sever it at the point of maximum speculation.

      Afterwards, everyone assured her that it hadn’t sounded that bad. Robin wasn’t stupid. It would be all over the papers tomorrow thanks to that insufferable bastard Leon Sway! The contestant looked hopefully at her as she fled: that was the end of him.

      Her car took her straight to Soho’s Hideaway Club, where she found scant solace in ordering the strongest concoction she could find. Her band met her there.

      ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ she said, before Polly, her bassist, had a chance.

      Polly