As the blaze of a township shack fire dies down, an elderly woman stands cradling two orphaned children – identical twin baby girls. Lola and Grace are sent to the local orphanage, but their shared journey soon ends there. Lola is chubby, pretty and healthy, while Grace is weak, thin and sick.

When Hollywood actress Scarlet decides she wants to adopt a South African baby, she visits that same orphanage and chooses Lola immediately. She is never even told about Grace – who is hidden away, and given just weeks to live. Lola goes on to lead a privileged and pampered life in LA with Scarlet, while Grace, who miraculously survives, is raised by the strict and violent Pastor in North London.

Although their lives progress on different continents, the same sense of abandonment still haunts them both. But when fate eventually draws them together in the most unexpected of ways, will they like what they find?

Black Diamond

Havana Adams

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2014

Copyright © Havana Adams 2014

Havana Adams asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © June 2014 ISBN: 9781472096401

Version date: 2018-07-23

HAVANA ADAMS

is a London girl who left her heart in New York City and she spends a lot of time plotting trips back across the pond. Growing up she was most often found with her head in a book, glued to a television or sneaking off to the cinema. And today, not much has changed. When she's not plotting novels, Havana works in the film and TV industry. Havana loves visiting new places and travelling the world as inspiration for her writing. She’s also a keen runner, baker and foodie.

Big thanks to my first readers who gave me invaluable notes, feedback, pep talks and encouragement. In particular Karen, Destiny, Monique, Bryony and Jasmine.

I’d like to thank my University friends Vicky, Helen, Ros and Laura for their encouragement and for thankfully being totally unlike The Gatsbies.

A big thank you to the NANOWRIMO writing community who, every year, give me the kick I need to sit down and get writing.

I’d also like to thank Rowan Lawton for her advice on the publishing industry and Lucy Gilmour at Carina UK for picking up my book, signing me and making my publishing dream come true.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Prologue

PART ONE: BROKEN MIRROR

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

PART TWO: FRAGMENTS

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

PART THREE: REFLECTIONS

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Endpages

About the Publisher

For their unstinting support I’d like to thank my family.

PROLOGUE

A shriek pierced the still night air and then moments later a single hoarse word was screamed out.

“Fire!”

In the ramshackle township of Ivory Crossing, on the outskirts of Cape Town, no word could provoke panic and fear quite like this word. Even as the voice shrieked again, “Fire, Fire,” the word was gathering pace on the night air, repeated now by a growing clamour of voices. The silence of the night had been ruptured.

Bodies spilled out of their makeshift homes. Babies wailed. Women screamed. Men began to run, gathering their meagre possessions even as the flames grew. By now orange flames fanned out, leaping from house to house. A blaze lit up the inky blue-black of the African sky. Panic had seized the township.

As they ran, a crush of bodies tripping over each other, pushing and shoving and jostling, few turned back to look at the small tin-roofed shack that seemed to be the epicentre of the blaze.

Hours later, in the watery grey dawn, a scene of destruction greeted the survivors. A half-mile radius of homes had been levelled, the scorched earth still smouldering in the cool morning air. An old woman, her shoulders hunched over the precious bundle in her arms, stood barefoot and stared unblinking at the devastation. The shawl around her shoulders had slipped to the ground but she continued to stare at the shack where it had all begun. A faint mewling sound drew her attention to the bundles in her arms, to the two babies, mirror images of each other, that she cradled against her. The mewling subsided and the babies settled back into deep sleep. The only evidence of the terror in which they had been caught up was the dark sooty smoke marks that marred their brown skin. The woman turned to the tall uniformed man who stood alongside her.

“This one is Grace,” the woman said indicating the baby in the crook of her left arm who sucked her thumb in sleep. “And this is Lola.” The officer barely afforded the twin babies a glance, his eyes focused on the smouldering remains of the rest of the township. Finally, he turned to the woman.

“Where are the parents?” The old woman shrugged, tilting her head towards the charred, burnt-out remains of what had once been the twins’ home.

“The fire started in their house, they didn’t make it out,” the woman said with a long deep sigh. There had been many fires in the township but the ferocity of this blaze, the speed with which it had spread, tearing through homes and destroying lives, twisted the woman’s gut and she knew she would never forgot this day. “What will happen to the babies now?” she asked, remembering their beautiful and yet serious mother, a teacher, who had worked tirelessly to ensure that the children in the township received some kind of education. She thought too about their father who had worked in the mines. The old woman had always been struck by his kindness, he had a gregarious charm that drew people to him and yet he was the first to help her fetch water and offer her extra kerosene to light her lamps.

In her arms, one of the twins stirred and the woman looked down at them. “What will happen to them now?” she asked again. The police officer shrugged, barely sparing the tiny babies a glance.

“They are orphans now,” he answered already turning his back.

A small jet taxied down a private airstrip, slowing before it finally came to a complete halt. On board the jet, Scarlet Wilde stared out at the open landscape of rusty red sand that was visible, in every direction, for as far as the eye could see. The sun blazed down on the tarmac, bouncing off the runway to create a blinding glare. Even with her trademark white blonde hair swept back away from her face and wearing only a minimal amount of make-up, Scarlet was still recognisable as Hollywood’s favourite fallen angel. For every peak in her short and yet prolific screen career, there had been a corresponding crash in her personal life. The Oscar win had been followed by love affairs gone bad, lovers that sold their stories and most recently a marriage heralded with fanfare that had faltered after a mere 73 days of what the papers had christened unholy matrimony. It was true to say that for Scarlet Wilde, success and strife went hand in hand.

“Whenever you’re ready, ma’am.”

The First Officer hovered at the entrance to the cabin but Scarlet barely afforded him a glance and instead continued to stare out of the window, noticing that from within a single-storied building men in suits were hurriedly emerging, scurrying out like ants towards the stationary plane. Scarlet watched the flurry of activity in the otherwise still landscape. Amongst the group of men stood a small woman, her assistant, Riley. Scarlet allowed herself a smile as she watched her and the men slowly advance towards the plane.

It was rare for Scarlet to travel alone without her trusted assistant by her side. But, in this matter, Scarlet had known that she could trust only one person to go ahead and smooth the waters for her. Scarlet let her thoughts drift through what had brought her to South Africa. The news had broken just as she had been flying out of LAX; Scarlet Wilde was adopting a baby from Africa. Scarlet shook off the tension and melancholy that had settled over her during the flight. She shook off the memory of that last argument with Jared, her husband of 73 days.

“You can’t take care of a pair of shoes, let alone a child,” he’d screamed and she had lunged for him then, tearing at him. The vintage claw ring on her finger ripped into his face, immediately drawing blood. At the sight of his blood she had gasped and stopped, shocked, but the damage was done. It was not the worst fight that they’d ever had but she’d crossed a line and within the hour Jared had filed for divorce. Scarlet took another deep breath and shook away the memories. She centred herself back in the airplane cabin and thought of what lay ahead. She was beginning a new chapter in her life and she would show them all. Scarlet Wilde was ready to prove everybody wrong. She deserved to be a mother; she would be a good mother. Scarlet rose quickly to her feet. She grabbed the cashmere wrap that had warmed her through the flight, picked up her tote bag and strode towards the exit.

“Thank you,” she said with only a momentary glance at the pilot and before he could respond, she was gone.

Scarlet emerged into the close heat of the mid-afternoon sun and even for a girl raised in the humidity of South Carolina, she blanched. She pulled her sunglasses off her head and onto her face as Riley moved towards her, engulfing her in a momentary hug.

“We all set?” Scarlet asked anxiously.

“All set,” Riley replied with a smile. “We’re going to three orphanages today.” Riley gave an apologetic nod towards the men in suits. “I couldn’t stop them coming, official welcome brigade from the government.” Scarlet nodded and turned to shake the hands that were offered to her, accepting the greetings and congratulations. As they moved towards the terminal building a car pulled up. As Scarlet stepped into the car, Riley was already instructing the driver about their destination. Moments later, a partition went up, allowing them privacy and Riley turned to face Scarlet as the car pulled out of the airstrip.

“Are you ready for this?” Riley asked. After only a split second’s hesitation Scarlet nodded. She was ready to be a mother.

The Matron was running.

As she dashed as quickly as her thick bowed legs could carry her, a buzz took up and spread through the Tumaini orphanage. Matron never ran. Nobody ever ran at Tumaini House. Not the three hundred or so children cramped in the inadequate, dated facilities and not the staff, not unless they wanted to be rewarded with one of Matron’s hot slaps. Running was reserved for outside during football games or for escaping great danger. Nobody ran indoors and yet here she was, Matron, lumbering down the long corridors, past the cracked walls, the boarded-up windows, the constant stench of urine, her breath laboured and panting noisily out of her. The children stared at her in amazement and then looked away for fear of inviting her anger but they knew at once that something momentous must be afoot.

Matron burst into Mr Peters’s office without knocking, another first. Mr Peters leapt up, a look of irritation giving way to one of concern as he took in the panting form of Matron, her heavy breasts heaving up and down in seismic shifts beneath her patterned, brightly coloured kaftan. Mr Peters watched as she fought to gulp down air.

“What is it?” Peters asked. He watched as Matron sucked in air and prayed she wouldn’t keel over dead in front of him before she could give up her news.

“She’s…coming…here.” Matron finally pushed the words out.

“Who?” Peters asked none the wiser. Matron shook her head.

“The actress, the famous one, from Hollywood. She’s here, in South Africa to adopt a baby. Scarlet Wilde…” Peters’s eyes widened as he grasped Matron’s words. He had only a vague idea of who Scarlet Wilde was, his interest running more to African dramas and Bollywood musicals rather than Hollywood blockbusters, but he knew as well as Matron what an adoption from an American star would mean. In a neighbouring town some American pop star had adopted a boy and they had seen the flood of money that had poured into that orphanage. Peters had watched the head of that orphanage swap his modest Peugeot for a Mercedes. White people adoptions meant money and famous white people adoptions; well, the sky was the limit.

Matron had slumped into one of the chairs, her breath almost completely back. “She has already been to Tiberi and Kaluu,” she said, referring to the neighbouring orphanages. “But she hasn’t seen what she wants there.” Peters nodded slowly.

“Then we must make sure she finds what she wants here,” he finally said. In his mind’s eye he was already sifting through the babies they had in the dorms upstairs – the beautiful ones, the ones that didn’t cry, the ones with nicely kept hair and the right shade of black for white people – not too dark. They were short of boys, but white people Peters had learned were different, often they actually preferred girls. And slowly, a smile crept across Peters’s face. He had it.

In a room filled with twenty-five cots, most over-filled with three or four babies, Peters and Matron zeroed in on one. They stared down at the sleeping forms of nine-month-old Grace and Lola.

“That one,” Peters said, his finger pointing directly at Lola. Almost as though she knew that her fate rested on this man’s decision, Lola’s eyes opened. Thick lashes fluttered open to reveal wide, hazel eyes. Lola rarely cried and now she stared quietly at Peters and Matron as they stood whispering above the cot.

“What about the other one?” Matron asked in hushed tones and their gazes shifted to the still sleeping Grace. Lola’s chubby arm reached across to her twin, as though she might ward off the attentions of Peters and Matron. Peters shook his head as he stared at Grace. She was thin and in sleep, she gave a pitiful, hacking cough. That they were twins, mirror images of each other, was still clear to see, but slowly in their six months at the orphanage Grace had started to wilt where Lola had grown chubby, robust and healthy. There was little money for medical care at the orphanage and so nothing had been done to help Grace. She would get better on her own or she wouldn’t. That was all there was to it. Peters shook his head again and he turned back to Lola and smiled.

“No,” he said. “Just this one.” Lola was a beautiful child, there was no denying that and, with thoughts of the BMW that would be his should the adoption go through, he plucked Lola from the cot and turned and started to walk out of the baby room.

“But sir…” Matron began, her eyes darting to the still-sleeping Grace. “We can’t separate them, can we?”

Peters stared hard at Matron. The silence between them lengthened and in that instant Matron knew that to defy Peters would be an act of folly; he could make life very hard for her, she knew. And so she nodded and fell into step next to Peters as he carried Lola out of the room.

From the moment their eyes met, it was a done deal. Freshly washed and clothed and now housed in the other baby room that was used only when VIPs visited the Tumaini orphanage, Lola’s natural beauty was unmistakeable. Where other babies had smiled or wailed, Lola simply stared, her wide hazel eyes almost assessing. Slowly, Scarlet reached for the girl and Lola came to her willingly, without fuss. As she’d cooed at the girl, finally Scarlet had won a smile and she knew then that this was the baby for her. The paperwork was already in process and by nightfall that day Lola Biko, born in a shantytown, would be sleeping in a cot in the grandest five-star hotel that South Africa had to offer.

A week later, after all the excitement had died down, Peters heaved a deep sigh of satisfaction. It had all gone off without a hitch. The news outlets, always eager for human-interest stories and new angles on the apartheid story, had embraced their story. Peters had been interviewed by news stations, he had spoken of the plight of these parentless African children and what the outside world could do to support and help. Already letters stuffed with dollar bills, pounds sterling, German Marks had been arriving. All their fortunes were rising.

Peters strolled slowly through the darkened corridors of the orphanage and inhaled deeply on a cigarette. He thought about the changes he would make: the peeling walls would be transformed, they’d get more beds so fewer children would have to sleep on the floor, maybe they’d get a typewriter for the classroom. So what if he happened to get a Mercedes too? Or perhaps a BMW. Everybody wins, he thought to himself.

As he approached the baby room, he saw that a light was still on. Matron was completing her checks and now she lingered by the last cot in which Grace lay alone. Peters approached Matron and together they stared down into the cot. The girl’s hazel eyes were open, glassy and unfocused and she made a weak croaking sound.

“She won’t eat,” Matron said quietly.

Peters stared at the girl. She looked even thinner than she had just days ago and her breath was loud and laboured. Grace stared intently, eyes identical to Lola’s stared straight at him and for a moment Peters felt a shaft of fear; he fancied that he saw something like reproach in her eyes. Then, he shook it off. He was a modern man, educated; he did not subscribe to old African superstitions. Slowly, her hazel eyes closing almost unwillingly, as though she was fighting it with as much strength as she could muster, Grace settled into sleep. And Peters gave a small sigh of relief.

“What about her? What if anyone finds out?” Matron asked softly. Peters sighed and stared at the girl again. That she was in decline was clear for anyone to see. Peters had seen the same thing time and time again, babies that came to the orphanage that simply wasted away. He took the cigarette butt from his lips and ground it out underfoot and then he spoke.

“She is wasting. Look at her, she’ll be dead before the month is out.”

And then Peters turned and walked away putting Grace firmly to the back of his mind.

In sleep, Grace reached out, her tiny fist grasping at air, where her twin sister had been.

PART ONE

BROKEN MIRROR

CHAPTER 1

SEVENTEEN YEARS LATER

By the end of the night, Lola Wilde would be back to her bad old ways.

But for now she was a vision in a sparkly Gucci mini dress that by her past form was remarkably modest. The terrace of her mother’s home in the Hollywood Hills was decorated in twinkling fairy lights and the lit pool sparkled an iridescent blue in the cool Californian night. The glass doors into the house had been thrown open and Lola stared at the gathered crowd of her mother’s people. To call them friends would be overstating, Lola thought, Scarlet never really made friends. She just seemed to collect hangers-on, ex-husbands, wannabes.

Lola stared at the tall Christmas tree that sparkled inside the house and she sighed deeply and wished she might be anywhere but here. The murmur of conversation drew Lola’s gaze and she stared without interest at the guests that had gathered for Scarlet’s annual holiday party. It was the usual crowd of industry people – actors and producers who had long since passed their peak, rather like her mother. The uncharitable thought caused a smile to spread across Lola’s face. As she continued to scan the crowd, a deep, masculine laugh drew her attention and she turned in the direction that the sound had come from. Lola stared at the tall, broad back of a young man in a white shirt who commanded the attention of a pair of blondes, all three were still laughing. Lola shifted slightly to get a better look at the man. He was tall and his Afro hair was shaved low. Something about his profile was familiar and a memory teased at the corner of Lola’s mind. As though sensing her scrutiny, the man turned to stare directly at Lola. Surprise lit up her face. It was Lucas, the pesky kid from next door who had followed her around one summer after he’d developed a crush on her. When had Lucas filled out and shot up? The last time she had seen him he’d barely grazed her shoulders, now he resembled some young male model fresh off the European catwalks. Not that she should be surprised. Lucas Carter’s equally beautiful parents formed the band The Carters, and they were Soul legends, Motown Hall of Famers. Lucas was always going to grow up pretty. Her surprise must have shown on her face, because Lucas raised a glass with a small smirk and Lola had no choice but to raise her own back in a silent toast. For a moment, she thought he might come over but he turned back to his two companions and Lola felt an unexpected burst of rejection.

“What the hell are you doing?” Lola’s attention was wrenched away from Lucas and she barely had time to react to the words before the glass she held in her hand was grabbed by Scarlet. Lola watched as her mother took a sip from the glass that she’d been slowly nursing all night. She saw the grimace of surprise on her mother’s face. “Water,” Scarlet said.

Lola gave her mother a challenging stare and then her gaze drifted up and down to appraise Scarlet’s body, which was sheathed in an eye-catching red creation that made her look like Jessica Rabbit.

“Nice dress,” she drawled. Lola watched her mother’s eyes narrow and then Scarlet handed the glass back to her.

“I paid a fortune for that rehab clinic, so stay away from the champagne.”

“Of course, Mother.” The last word was laced with malice and Lola smiled as she saw her mother wince. They’d agreed, when Lola was five years old, that she would always call her Scarlet and there was nothing quite like going back on that rule to make Scarlet furious. And Lola suddenly realised that she wanted to make Scarlet furious, she wanted to goad her mother into some sort of reaction. Lola took another sip of water and flicked her long, straightened brown hair over her shoulders, turning her back on Scarlet. She stared at the glittering white lights that illuminated the grid of streets of downtown Los Angeles and forced a soothing breath out of her chest as she tried to relax. She’d spent three long months in the Arizona desert with no one to talk to, no phone, no TV, no contact at all with the outside world and she felt a seductive desire to lash out at someone.

“It was nice of you to visit me,” Lola said as she turned around to face her mother again. As they stood toe to toe, Lola felt a thrill of realisation; she and Scarlet were now the same height, when had that happened?

“Don’t turn this into a big deal,” Scarlet muttered looking everywhere but at her. At her mother’s words Lola felt a wave of anger, she had an overwhelming desire to upend the contents of her glass over Scarlet’s head but instead she took a deep breath and tried to remember the calming techniques that they’d discussed in group therapy.

“You look pretty in that dress, I picked that for you.”

Lola shook her head with a small smile, always the same Scarlet. Why bother with an apology when a pointless compliment might do the job? Lola felt the anger drain out of her. She was done being Scarlet’s trophy, she had her own life to lead and a plan that she had set in motion months ago.

“I’m moving to New York next year,” Lola said firming her shoulders. “I’ll get my GED and I’m going to NYU, to the drama school.” For a long moment, mother and daughter stared at each other and then Scarlet spoke.

“Do I get a say?”

“No,” Lola replied and then stopped as Scarlet reached for her, her mother’s hand snaking out to grasp her forearm. They so rarely touched each other that it surprised Lola and she looked into Scarlet’s eyes surprised by what she saw. Scarlet seemed almost regretful.

“Lola, the thing is…”

“Heeeeey!” Both Scarlet and Lola jumped at the squealed interruption and even as Lola was stepping away from her mother, another body was launching herself at her, flinging skinny arms around her neck. “You’re back.” Amber. Lola smiled and turned to her best friend of ten years, barely noticing that Scarlet had disappeared back into the house, melting away into the throng of party guests.

“I am fucking back,” Lola replied taking a look at Amber who was spilling out of a Tom Ford for Gucci dress, with a giant cut-out side that exposed her tiny waist.

“Six months goes so fast,” Amber said. Lola grimaced.

“Not if you’re the one locked up in hell.”

“Sorry sweetie, God was it awful? Did they keep you on lockdown and give you sponge baths, did someone try to make you their bitch?” As always, words seem to leap out of Amber’s mouth, as though she didn’t need to pause for breath or even thought. Lola smiled, she was back.

“Amb, it was a $4000 a night rehab facility not prison. Trust me there were hot showers, cordon bleu chefs and more than a few Teen Beat heart throbs.”

“For real?” Amber squealed. “Let’s blow this place, get a drink and you can tell me everything.” Noting the tightening of Lola’s expression, Amber shrugged. “Fine, you’ve changed, I’ll drink and you can be our designated driver.”

“I can’t blow this place yet. Scarlet wants me to mingle and be the perfect daughter.” Amber sighed.

“Fine, I guess I can get wasted here.”

“For sure,” Lola smiled as they moved towards the house together.

They were turning heads.

Lola and Amber had always turned heads, from grade school to high school, wherever they went. It was no surprise given that they were total opposites. Where Lola was black, tall with curves that supermodels went under the knife to achieve, Amber was tiny, only just hitting 5ft, with freckled, milky-white skin and fire-engine red hair. What she lacked in height, Amber more than made up for in curves and personality. It helped too that both Lola and Amber were as close to royalty as Hollywood got.

Lola, as the only child of actress Scarlet Wilde, always commanded interest and though Scarlet had largely disappeared from the public eye, Lola still raised interest among the Californian elite in which she’d been raised. Her adoption, her expulsions from various prep schools and her notoriously rocky relationship with Scarlet, who’d realised too late that you couldn’t back out of motherhood when it started to impinge on your social life, had become the stuff of legend. Lola’s first arrest had briefly made it on to the Entertainment Weekly round-up, on a slow news day. Like her mother before her, it was said that Lola knew how to put the wild in Wilde. As for Amber Logan, daughter of the renowned cinematographer Lucien Logan and the deceased Alicia Logan, Playmate of the Year 1987, she too had had a similarly documented childhood. Like her best friend, Amber was known to play hard but unlike Lola, Amber’s greatest skill lay in her ability to never get caught.

“So you’re being a good girl tonight.”

Lola grimaced as she felt the whispered words against her ear and a persistent hand stroking her shoulder. She should have stayed in the living room, in full view of the other guests. On the deserted back patio, Lola glared at Stefano, step-father number three or was it number four? She stepped away giving herself some distance from Stefano who, even in his days as her “daddy”, had always had a touch that lingered too long.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Lola replied sharply and looked back into the kitchen window, where she could see Amber was glugging down another Absinthe cocktail while holding court with some producers. Lola had had enough. “I’m going,” she told Stefano shortly and began to walk back into the house. She felt his clammy paw on her arm, pulling her back and she had no choice but to stop.

“Lola, you break my heart,” Stefano said, throwing a hand to his head in a melodramatic flourish. Stefano’s melodramatic flourishes had won him several awards as a musical composer but Lola had always been wary of him.

“Stefano, I’m going,” she repeated as firmly as she could without causing a scene. She tugged at her arm and after a moment Stefano let her go. Without a backward glance Lola marched towards Amber, determined to get them away from the party.

“Oh Jesus Amber,” Lola stepped back and watched as her friend emptied the contents of her stomach into the toilet bowl. Lola held up a hand towel to her friend as Amber washed her face in the basin and then stumbled out of the en suite into her bedroom, where she sprawled onto Lola’s bed.

“Sleep,” Amber muttered and within seconds, her eyes were closed, her chest rising and falling evenly.

“Shit,” Lola muttered and, with a sigh, she turned the lamp down, leaving only a small orange glow in her large bedroom and then she exited the room, closing the door gently behind her. From downstairs, Lola could hear the dull murmur of conversations and the occasional clink of glasses and bursts of laughter. She contemplated heading back to the party, when suddenly, in the darkened hallway, she felt arms on either side of her body. Immediately, Lola froze and then she began to struggle against the warm heavy bands that caged her against the door.

“It’s only me.” Stefano’s slurred words came against her ear and Lola recoiled as he tried to kiss her.

“Stop it,” she shouted but almost immediately his hand was against her mouth, smothering her words.

“We don’t have to pretend any more.”

With a muffled scream of fury, Lola forced her mouth open and she sank her teeth into Stefano’s fingers. He let out a scream and in that split second, Lola raised her knee to his groin and felt a wave of satisfaction as he doubled over.

“You fucking bitch,” Stefano screamed. He lashed out with one of his arms but Lola ground down on his foot with her stiletto and watched him yelp in pain.

“You are a disgusting pig and I wouldn’t fuck you if you were the last man on earth. I am going to New York and I don’t ever want to see you near me. You ever come near me again and I will call the cops. ” Lola started for the stairs, knowing that Stefano’s inebriated fog was clearing. It was the furthest he had ever gone and she could already see him starting to rationalise his actions.

“Lola, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He moved towards her but Lola backed away, ready to strike out at him.

“I’m warning you…” Lola saw something leap in Stefano’s eyes.

“You’re warning me. Stupid little girl, go to New York, go to NYU.” Lola felt a muscle twitch in her eye and she saw the glint of triumph in Stefano’s eyes.

“How do you know about that?” The words were torn from Lola as a dark suspicion took shape in her mind and started to grow. Stefano gave a hoarse laugh still rubbing at his bleeding hand.

“You thought you got in, on your own merit?” Stefano gave another snort of laughter. “Stupid, stupid girl. You didn’t even graduate high school. You’re good for nothing, fucking and screwing maybe, but not much else. Scarlet paid them, promised to build their new drama wing. She wants you gone…” But Stefano did not get to finish his words because Lola’s closed fist had shot out and in a single focused punch she shattered his nose.

Lola staggered down the stairs reeling from Stefano’s revelations. She felt as though the walls were closing in on her and she darted out the front door, avoiding the party guests. She could not see Scarlet, didn’t know what she might do if she had to confront her mother right now. Lola ran towards her car, when suddenly a tall, solid body blocked her way.

“Where are you going?” Wearily, Lola speared Lucas with a glance.

“Go away, Lucas.” For a moment Lola thought he might heed her words but she saw the way his eyes darted over her, saw the tightening of his gaze as he saw the tear in her dress.

“What happened?” He demanded and Lola was startled by how much Lucas had grown. He was still only sixteen and yet he seemed older, commanding even.

“Lucas, leave me alone.” Lola stepped around him and wrenched open the door to her Porsche.

“Whatever you’re going to do, don’t do it. Please.” That last word stilled Lola for a moment, and she caught a glimpse of the boy that had trailed around after her one long, hot summer.

“Lucas, stop trying to be my guard dog.”

“I owe you, remember?”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Lola answered as she slammed into her car and sped out of the driveway.

“Southern Comfort, no ice.”

The barman stared at Lola for a moment and then shrugged, pouring out a measure of the golden-brown liquid into a glass. He set the glass down in front of her, lining it up alongside the growing number of empties in front of her.

“Are you OK?” he asked.

Lola downed the drink in one and smacked the glass down on the oak bar.

“Another,” she said.

“I can’t. Should I call someone to come get you?”

“Another!” Lola demanded, spitting the words uncaring that she was slurring, her eyes bloodshot, her hair a tangled mess.

“I’m cutting you off,” the barman snapped, finally losing patience. He watched as Lola stumbled off the bar stool onto her feet. She swayed for a moment and he wondered if he would have to leap over the bar to stop her crashing to the floor.

“Do you know who I am?” Lola demanded. “Another,” she snapped and she punctuated her demand by slamming her glass back down onto the bar, where it immediately shattered. At the smash of glass, Lola saw that two security guards were already descending on them. “Fuck you then,” she snapped and made for the exit.

Lola slammed out into the cool night air. Her fingers shaking, she drew her keys out of her purse and prowled up the road.

“Hey, you can’t drive,” The barman had followed her outside but Lola shook away the words as she saw her Porsche Boxster. “Hey,” the voice said again. “I’m calling the cops.” But Lola had already jumped into the car and slammed the door shut. For a moment she sat and let her head fall back against the headrest. She felt as though she was on the deck of a boat, on choppy water, rocking from side to side. Lola reached for her cell phone and keyed in her mother’s number.

“I’m not here. Leave a message.”

She wasn’t surprised when Scarlet’s voicemail clicked in. Scarlet never answered her cell, not even for her own daughter.

“You paid NYU, you paid them. This was my thing and you had to fuck it up. Everything you touch turns to shit for me. Maybe you should have left me in that fucking orphanage, maybe you should have left me there to rot. You should have sent me back there when you got bored with me.”

Lola threw the phone over her shoulder into the backseat and then she gunned the engine on. She slammed her foot down on the gas, barely acknowledging the screech of tyres as she pulled sharply into the road and cut in front of another car. Lola gripped the steering wheel and pushed down on the gas pedal, floored it, shooting down Santa Monica Boulevard like a speeding silver bullet. She was already past the red light when she noticed it. Her reactions, dulled by the alcohol, kicked in way too slow to make a difference.

The bus seemed to come out of nowhere. Lola spun the steering wheel as she tried in vain to avoid the collision. She locked the wheel all the way left but suddenly she was out of control. She slammed into the central reservation. The car spun round and round. The Boxster flipped. Lola heard a scream that she realised was her and still the car was spinning and spinning and then coming to a halt, with a screech of metal in the middle of the road. Suddenly, Lola could see another set of headlights, another car heading straight for her. She was dead in the water as these white lights gained on her. She raised her arms up in front of her as though somehow this might save her from the imminent collision. And then, in a smash, she was thrown again, the Boxster was thrown up and she was airborne, hurtling towards she knew not what and then finally there was oblivion.

CHAPTER 2

Grace slammed into wakefulness with a sharp gasp.

For a long moment she stared into the darkened room, the only sound her own rapid, shallow breaths. Her legs were tangled up in the sheets and after a moment she realised that her arms were raised up in front of her as though to ward off an onslaught. An onslaught from what, Grace wondered. She reached over to the bedside table and flicked the lamp on, bathing the room in a dull orange glow. Her room was a small rectangular shape and if she stood in the middle of the room and stretched her arms out either side of her, she could easily touch both walls. Along one wall her bed rested and on the opposite wall her desk with a neat pile of books and notebooks. Grace stared at the peeling floral wallpaper and once again wished she was allowed to cover them with posters, flyers, pictures, anything, but The Pastor didn’t permit anything like that. Once, she had placed a Boyz II Men band poster up on the wall but the slap she had received had quickly quelled any further thoughts of rebellion. The only decoration on her wall was a framed illustration of the Baby Jesus that The Pastor himself had nailed into the wall.

Slowly, Grace lowered herself back onto the bed and stared up at the peeling paint and lines of damp on the ceiling. Her mind returned to the dream that had woken her up, but as was always the case, she could remember nothing. All that lingered was the same sense of anxiety and confusion that accompanied so many of her dreams. At least this time she hadn’t screamed. The nightmares were not new. For as long as she could remember, Grace had had trouble sleeping. She often woke panicked and in fear, with a bewildering conviction that somehow she had woken up in the wrong place. Grace glanced at the small clock-face beside her bed: 6 a.m. It was New Year’s Eve. She sighed and swung herself out of bed.

Grace walked to her wardrobe and swung the door open to reveal a full-length mirror inside one of the doors. She stared at her reflection and a deep sigh rose in her chest. It was New Year’s Eve and she was eighteen years old and yet she wouldn’t be going out tonight, wouldn’t be ringing in the New Year with her friends. A ball of anger rose in her chest and she blinked back tears. A friend from school had got them tickets to an under-21s club event that night. For once, Grace had dared to hope, dared to dream that perhaps The Pastor might relent or maybe just for once her mother might champion her cause. The Pastor had glanced at the ticket and with a sneer he had ripped it cleanly in half and dumped the pieces in the dustbin. Grace knew she was lucky to have escaped with just the harsh look he had thrown her way.

Grace turned her attention back to her reflection in the mirror and a small angry snort of laughter burst from her. What was she thinking? Of course she wasn’t going out on New Year’s Eve. Look at you. Grace stared at her short Afro hair that had been shorn close to her head, when The Pastor had decreed that hairdressers’ costs were too high and that she had become vain with her love of her thick, loosely curled natural hair. Grace’s gaze travelled down her body and she felt a swell of despair rise in her. There was no other way to put it. She was fat. Not curvy or sassy. She had no discernible waist, her tummy jutted out like a pregnancy bump and her thighs rubbed uncomfortably together whenever she walked. She belonged at home, where no one would see how hideous she was. Grace’s eyes drifted up to her face. Her eyes had always been her best feature – an unexpected hazel colour that lit up her round brown face, and if not for the thick-lensed glasses that almost completely hid them, they might have drawn attention away from her spotty skin. Grace stepped away from the mirror and slammed the wardrobe door shut. Her eyes slid once again to the clock. It was almost time for church and in The Pastor’s house, no one was ever late for service.

“You must give back to your community in any way you can. You must give back to your fellow man and woman. You must give to your Pastor. Give to your church.” With every phrase The Pastor uttered, the congregation nodded and the sound of their “Amens” filled the hall. From her seat at the back of the church, next to her mother, Grace watched as the collection baskets were passed around and the congregation dipped into their pockets and purses, quickly filling the baskets with money. Where the money went, Grace had never been able to tell. Certainly not to the upkeep of the hall that housed The Pastor’s weekly ministry, which like their house was a small, dank place that was too cold in winter and far too hot in summer. Next to her Simbi, her mother, nodded at a member of the congregation and Grace felt a beat of anger, that they were once again consigned to the back row. The Pastor had decided that the front row should be left for special VIPs and high-value donors. At the front, The Pastor rose again and headed for his pulpit.

“And now at this time when people are shopping and buying decorations and drinking and carving turkeys, I will remind you of the true meaning of the season.” Grace felt her stomach dive and she felt a warm hand creep to hers and quickly squeeze her hand. Grace looked up into her mother’s eyes and willed the tears away. The Pastor was going to tell his favourite story.

“I was a young man newly married. I travelled from Nigeria and started my ministry in Cape Town, South Africa. God did not see fit to bless me and my wife Simbi with children. Our only surviving child, a son, died at birth. My wife was barren but it is a burden we bore.” Grace and her mother held hands and stared straight ahead as The Pastor continued. The airing of their private lives was a humiliation they had grown used to over the years.

“And then one day we went to an orphanage and we saw a girl. Grace. Nine years old and abandoned there since birth. Nobody wanted her; nobody loved her. She was sickly, weak. And I saved her. I brought her to England. I did my duty to God. Like the Innkeeper who took in Mary and Joseph, you too must open your doors…” Grace watched and felt sick as the congregation rose to their feet, singing and clapping and turning to nod at her and her mother. Grace felt a mist of rage settle over her and even as The Pastor beckoned her forward to be paraded on the altar like a prize calf, she remained sitting. The Pastor waved her over again and next to her, she felt her mother prod her.

“Grace go.” But Grace remained silent and stayed sitting. The Pastor had turned to join the choristers, but Grace knew that before the day was done, she would pay for her transgression. She sighed heavily as she thought about The Pastor, her adopted father, though she could never, ever think of him as her father, not after the pain and hurt he inflicted on her and her mother daily. The word Dad always stuck in her throat, in her head, he was only ever The Pastor. Why does he hate me so much? Was it because she wasn’t the son that he had lost? Was it because her imperfections were so obvious? Grace sighed again, there was no point trying to understand The Pastor. He was who he was and she was stuck.

“You think you are somebody?” The word was bellowed into her ear and then two slaps followed in quick succession. Grace gritted her teeth as tears fell silently. Another slap this time on her upper arm and pain seared all the way up her shoulder into her neck. Grace bit her lip hard and tasted blood.

“Just leave her alone, Michael.” And suddenly Grace was free. The Pastor spun around.

“This is your doing.” Grace heard the smash of fist against flesh and she felt shame rise up in her. Her rebellion had put her mother in the line of fire. “You and the stupid, useless girl. We should have left her there to die. You gave me no children and then you bring this useless one home, with a heart that isn’t right. You cursed us. You dragged me down.” And with one last slap that sent her mother sprawling in a heap on the hallway floor, The Pastor slammed out of the house.

Slowly, Grace rose from her crouching position on the stairs. Her arm and neck felt sore, her cheek ached and blood leaked from her split lip. She moved towards her mother and sank to her knees and cradled the only person who had ever shown her love.

“I’m sorry,” Grace said remorse swimming through her. Once again her selfishness had landed them both in trouble.

“We can’t make him angry, you know that.” At her mother’s words Grace felt anger dilute her remorse. Why would her mother never fight back, two against one would surely be better? And yet in the decade since they had taken her from the orphanage, the decade since they had lived in London, not once had her mother ever defended herself and slowly Grace had started to resent her for this.

Later, as she sat in her darkened room wrapped in a faded duvet, Grace ran a finger up and down the fading scar that bisected her chest, running vertically between her breasts about three inches in length. She had always been a sickly child, unable to walk quickly or run or play in the yard like all the other children at the orphanage. Matron had said that every birthday she lived was a miracle.

“You were supposed to die,” Matron had said once. And Grace hadn’t known how to respond. The Pastor and her mum had brought her to England and here finally she had been properly diagnosed. It was a small hole in her heart, a small defect, easily corrected.

“You must be one hell of a fighter,” the doctor had said smiling at her before they took her into surgery. “You’ve survived this long and you’ll be even better after.”

Grace traced the scar slowly and blinked away tears. The Pastor hated her for not being his own flesh and blood child, he hated her because she made a mockery of his faith. He could not love her the way he counselled his flock to love their neighbour. She was no fighter. She couldn’t even look after her mother. Outside, a rapid barrage of popping sounds had started and Grace raised her curtains slightly and watched as the North London sky was set aglow with greens and reds and golds; fireworks ringing in the changes. It was midnight. A new year had begun.

“I have to get out.” She uttered the words into the darkness and thought about the form that she had secretly sent off weeks ago. Grace thought with sadness about her mother; she couldn’t bear the thought of leaving her alone with The Pastor. But worse even than that was the thought of staying here herself, of living another year in fear and under their roof. “I have to get out,” she whispered again with a quiet conviction and, for the first time in her life, she felt like her destiny might actually be in her own hands. This time next year, she would not cry herself to sleep.

CHAPTER 3

The biting mid-January wind slashed into Grace, cutting through the inadequate coat that she wore but Grace barely noticed. She walked quickly down the scruffy North London high street. For once, she didn’t notice the smashed-in shop windows and the boarded-up stores; Grace’s mind was focused only on the letter that she gripped between her cold fingers. The letter was still sealed and once again she looked down at it. It was addressed to her but above her name and address was the unmistakeable crest of Oxford University. Thank God she had reached the post before The Pastor.

“I can’t do it.” Grace slumped onto the edge of a desk and stared across at her teacher Stephen in the empty classroom.

“Grace, just open it,” Stephen said coming around his desk and holding out the letter to her. Grace stared at him and felt as though she was standing on the edge of a precipice. She had pretended that it meant nothing as she’d filled out the form but now this eggshell-coloured envelope laid waste to her pretence of indifference. Inside it was a possibility, a chance of something, a beginning. And yet another part of Grace piped up, perhaps it would be just another closing door, the way they always seemed to close for her, the way that opportunities always seemed to be less than the sum of their parts.

“If you don’t open it, I will,” Stephen said and as he made to start tearing into the envelope, Grace jumped up and grabbed it from him, ripping the tab open in one swift action. She looked up at her teacher and by his smile she knew that he’d deliberately provoked her. Though she had always excelled, Stephen was the only teacher who had ever made any effort to get to know her, to dig beneath the predictability of her A grades to find out what drove her. Grace was filled with a burst of gratitude towards him and she looked down at the open envelope and pulled out the single sheet of white paper. Her eyes scanned quickly and she felt relief wash through her.

“I’ve got an interview.” She whispered the words incredulously and stared at Stephen who smiled broadly at her.

“Of course you have. You’re a perfect candidate,” he said and without thinking, Grace found herself throwing her arms around his shoulders in a bear hug. Stephen stilled for a moment and then he hugged her back before stepping away.

“Thank you,” Grace said. “Thank you for believing in me.”

As she walked to her next class, Grace was filled with a frisson of excitement that she quickly banked down. It never paid to get too excited about anything in her world. As she had learned time and time before, beacons of light on the horizon could be snuffed out in the blink of an eye. As she turned her mind to the impending interview, three whole days in Oxford, her chance to prove herself, Grace felt her elation freeze as another thought slammed into her: she would have to explain her three days away, she would have to tell The Pastor where she was going. All at once the flicker of excitement that Grace had felt began to dim.

Her lungs would explode. Grace sucked in air as fast as she could.

“Come on, fatty, come on.” Even through the fog of pain, the sound of her own panting breath ringing in her ears and her thighs rubbing together, stinging with her every step forwards, Grace could hear the taunts. She could always hear the taunts. She didn’t bother to glance back to see who it was; it was always the same trio of boys from her class. How she hated cross country running. But in her excitement about her Oxford interview, Grace had been unprepared with an excuse that would let her miss games, which is why she came to be bringing up the rear, by a long margin on the fourth and final mile. The rest of her class were long gone, already showered and heading off home. Her tormentors had stayed behind especially for her.

Grace had forever remained the new girl. From the day she arrived in England with her mum and The Pastor, she’d struggled to fit in. She’d never quite learned how to make friends, how to latch on to become part of a group. Right from the start, her accent had been wrong, her hair too uncool compared with all the black girls in her class with their easy London confidence. And that perpetual new-girl feeling felt so thoroughly imprinted on her that she’d carried it from primary school to secondary school and now even into 6th form.

And still Grace kept moving, not fast but always forward, her feet sinking into the muddy ground and rising and repeating. Never mind that her mother had forbidden her to take part in any sports, for Simbi still feared that one day Grace’s heart might give out. It was a fear that Grace herself shared but something else was greater than this fear, something that she had struggled to give a name to, until some months earlier when Stephen had named it for her. She had been forced into another cross-country run and had finished twenty minutes after everyone else. Grace had been cornered by the bullies as she’d re-entered the school, tears had risen in her eyes as they’d shouted their insults – fatty, chubber and then from nowhere Stephen had emerged and dispatched detentions all around. As Grace had stood shivering, mud caking her legs, fighting back tears, her teacher had turned to her.

“You hung in there and you finished because you’re a fighter, nobody can take that away from you.” Always this word: fighter. Why, Grace had wondered, did everything have to feel like a fight? But now as she pushed through, coming to the end of the course, her heart pounding like it was about to explode, Grace remembered those words. She was a fighter. And a fighter she would have to be because when she got home, she would have to tell The Pastor about the interview.

It was even worse than she’d expected.

“Who gave you the right?” The Pastor bellowed and Grace ducked just in time as her father’s fist darted out. The letter was gripped tightly in The Pastor’s hand and Grace saw with a dart of sorrow that the once pristine sheet was crumpled. As she and her mother watched, The Pastor tore it into several small pieces. “You, useless and you think you can go to Oxford, you think you can walk out on us, after all we’ve done. Who will pay for it? You think you are better than us?” With every word The Pastor rained down slaps on them both. He was in control again and the slaps landed on their backs, their arms, nowhere that might leave a visible mark to his congregation. Beside her, Grace sensed her mother crying silent tears and then after one last slap that connected hard with her mother’s arm, The Pastor strode out, dropping the pieces of the letter onto the floor. As far as he was concerned that was the end of that.

They continued to sit there, both sprawled on the kitchen floor and the only sound that remained was the sound of the pot of cooking rice bubbling over on the heat. Grace watched her mother rise to her feet and flick the cooker off. Slowly Grace stood up and waited for her mother to turn and face her.

“Why did you do this? You know he doesn’t like change.” Grace closed her fist and struggled to contain the stream of anger that rose in her.

“This is what I want,” she finally said.

“But Oxford. Where would we get the money from?” her mother asked. “Those places, they aren’t for people like us. You won’t fit in there,” her mother said gently. Grace closed her eyes for a moment.

“But I don’t fit in here either.” Crouching down, Grace gathered the pieces of the letter and walked out of the kitchen.

It had been three days since The Pastor had decreed that no word would again be spoken about Oxford. And so it had been. Grace had cut school for the rest of the week and instead sat in the local library all day, reading books, throwing herself into other worlds so that she could pretend that she wasn’t living the life she was. And now it was Sunday and once again they would go to service and present a united family front. Grace struggled into the cream skirt suit that she wore to church most weeks. Ignoring the pieces of the letter that lay on her desk, she winced as she caught sight of her reflection. How had she managed to gain weight?

Other people shed when they were heartbroken but as she glanced back at her bed and saw the empty wrapping of two boxes of cookies, she had her answer. Grace shook her head at her appearance. The suit with the boxy jacket and fishtail skirt had been unflattering enough when The Pastor had presented it to her two years earlier but now, carrying so many extra pounds, she looked like a beached whale. Grace sighed, ran a comb through the little hair that she had and walked downstairs.

Throughout the service, Grace had sat stony-faced. She had started to realise that without The Pastor’s permission, her dream of escaping to Oxford was dead in the water. The collection baskets were going around for the second time when Grace felt her mother shift beside her. Grace looked up in surprise as her mother rose to her feet and began to walk up the central aisle towards The Pastor’s pulpit. Grace felt a shaft of fear: what was her mother doing? A few of the congregation were starting to look up interested, for it was rare to see The Pastor’s wife take to the pulpit. Grace’s eyes darted anxiously and she saw the instant that The Pastor saw his wife. His eyes narrowed, his nostrils flared, Grace was sure that his fists might have flexed but here in front of his congregation he could do nothing but watch as his wife took to the pulpit, angling the microphone down towards her. By now the choir had gone quiet and Grace watched, her heart almost in her mouth, as her mother began to speak.

“Hallelujah,” Simbi said. And the congregation echoed her with hallelujahs of their own. Grace watched as, her voice faltering, her mother spoke again.

“The Pastor and I have some happy news to share with you. Our beautiful daughter is going to Oxford University for her interview this month, so pray for her, pray for her success and her courage and that she will take the right path in life.” As her mother spoke, a burst of applause spun through the church. The congregation were on their feet applauding. “And praise my husband The Pastor, for his foresight in encouraging Grace to be the best she can be.” And once again the congregation were clapping, the choir had broken into song. And The Pastor knew that he had been bested by his wife. Grace watched the flicker of emotions that he fought to conceal – fury, rage, incredulity. His wife, who never fought back, had utterly outmanoeuvred him and for now, at least, there was nothing he could do about it. He’d been backed into a corner.

Grace felt a pat her on the back, someone else was shaking her hand and another woman pressed a £20 note into her palm, for her books. Grace rose to her feet joining in with the clapping and singing that swelled through the church. There would be hell to pay, but for now as she stared at her mother, frail and yet determined up on the altar, Grace vowed that she would nail that interview, she would ace those exams. She would go to Oxford. She would do whatever it took to make her mother proud.

CHAPTER 4

What a difference a few months made.

Lola walked down the steps of the LA County Court and shook her hair over her shoulder. It was months since the crash that had put her in hospital but luckily a few cracked ribs and a broken arm had been the worst of the damage. Lola had emerged with only a probation sentence, she’d survived yet another stint in rehab, she’d weathered the two lawsuits from the other drivers that night and one thing was clear: Lola had emerged from it all with the potential to be a star.

A local magazine had acquired her mug shots and suddenly Lola had gained almost cult status in her neighbourhood with people wearing T-shirts with her picture on them. Lola had all the makings of a modern star: glamour, celebrity status and of course being a car crash both literally and figuratively helped. Whoever said there was no such thing as bad publicity clearly knew Hollywood well because in the time it took to write off a one hundred thousand dollar Porsche, Lola Wilde had gone from Hollywood offspring brat to celebutante in her own right. Not since Paris Hilton’s sex tape had any celebrity profile been so utterly transformed overnight. Flanked by Amber and her lawyer Gayle, Lola basked in the LA sunshine and the relief that her liberty was secure. As they climbed into the waiting Escalade with blacked-out windows, Lola gave a sigh of relief.

“Thank God that’s over.” She turned to Gayle. “Thank you so much.”

“Don’t thank me, you heard the judge, let’s keep clean and sober and not have to go back in there?”

Lola nodded, she had no intention of ever going back in there. She turned to Amber.

“So what now?” Amber smiled one of her mischievous smiles and Lola gave her friend a warning look.

“We are not going drinking.”

Amber pouted. “Who said anything about drinking? I’m not going to be your enabler.”

“OK. So what have you got up your sleeve?” Lola asked, her curiosity piqued but the only response she got was Amber’s smirking profile. Lola watched as her friend tapped into her cell phone.

“Amb?” Lola asked again.

“Well, let’s just say that since you’re the new and improved Lola, I’m the new and improved Amber.” Lola grunted.

“And that tells me what exactly?” Amber gave a small laugh and Lola felt all the more unnerved.

“You’ll just have to trust me.” Sitting back in the plush leather seats, Lola watched as the freeway gave way to the ocean views of Santa Monica. She thought with foreboding about every other time that Amber had uttered the words “trust me” and she felt a knot of disquiet grow in her stomach. She couldn’t afford to end up in any more trouble.

They’d dropped Gayle off at her office and finally the Escalade came to a halt outside a nondescript building several streets away from the beach on 7th Avenue.

“What are we doing here?”

“You’ll see.” Lola had no choice but to follow Amber as they walked through the cool reception. The receptionist on the desk, a blonde with a pixie cut, immediately stood to attention.

“Ms Wilde, Mr Longwall is expecting you both.” And with those words Lola had her answer. As they followed the receptionist down another corridor Lola turned to Amber and mouthed a question at her.

“Tyler Longwall?” But they were already entering a spacious conference room and Lola knew she’d have to wait to get any answers. Behind a huge antique oak desk, Tyler Longwall, surfer dude turned TV presenter turned media mogul in the making, rose and came around to greet them.

“Amber, Lola, great to see you. Has Peyton offered you anything to drink? Coffee, water, protein shake?”

“Two diet cokes is fine,” Amber answered for them both as they settled into a plush sofa and faced Tyler.

“You’ll be wondering why I got Amber to bring you here,” Tyler said. Lola smiled, grateful that he was cutting to the chase. “The thing is, Lola Wilde, I think you have something. I think you have what it takes to be a star.” Tyler let the sentence hang in the air and Lola stared at him wondering how best to react. For a moment, she felt her heart soar, perhaps Tyler Longwall would be the man who made her into somebody, not just Scarlet’s rebellious daughter. And then she was brought sharply to earth. Tyler Longwall didn’t create critically acclaimed actresses; he grew reality TV stars and farmed them out 24-7. There was no quibbling with the numbers, Tyler won ratings battles, but it was a fact that when it came to his brand of entertainment shows, talent was optional. Lola took a deep breath and stared at Tyler’s expectant face. Lola felt a subtle kick at her ankle from Amber who was practically glaring at her.

“She’s just overwhelmed,” Amber said and there was a small laugh between the three of them. Lola took a sip of the coke that the receptionist had quietly set down.

“How would you do it?” she asked. “How would you make me a star?” Her curiosity had got the better of her; it always did, Lola thought ruefully.

“Everything,” Tyler replied. “We’d start small – public appearances, openings, then a one-off fly on the wall documentary, the real Lola Wilde, something like that, tasteful, and then a series, endorsements, perfumes, fashion lines, the sky is the limit. Look at Paris, Nicky, Nicole…”

“But what would I actually have to do?” Lola asked confused. She hated asking questions that might reveal her to be dumb but she pushed on. “What would I actually be doing?”

“You’d just have to be yourself.”

At his words, Lola’s heart sank; the one thing she didn’t want to be was herself.

“Just think about it, Lola, your profile is high right now, you have to capitalise and monetise. You’ve got people making money off you right now, using your name as a punchline, selling stuff with your image. It’s time for you to make your own money, secure your own future.”

As Tyler spoke, his fingers moving through the air to punctuate his points, Amber was nodding along and Lola felt her anxiety ease away. His words were working their magic – what she wouldn’t give to have her own money, her own independence. Her trust fund wouldn’t mature till she was thirty and she thought about the way Scarlet used the threat of cutting her allowance off to control her. It was time to earn her own money and get out from under Scarlet. For all her desire to be a mother, for all her good intentions, Scarlet simply hadn’t been able to change. Film roles and being famous had somehow always ended up coming before her child. Lola thought back to all those times growing up when Scarlet had abandoned her with practical strangers, had disappeared on weekend benders with new boyfriends and left Lola alone in the mansion. The only thing Scarlet had ever given freely was her money and even that now she kept threatening to withhold. Lola nodded at Tyler.

“Do you seriously think we can do this, that you can make me my own money?” Lola asked quietly. Tyler reached across the table and took her small hand in his own.

“Trust me.”

And for once Lola let her wariness drift away; she would let Tyler take care of things.

As they emerged from the building, Amber let out a whoop of excitement.

“He is going to make us millionaires,” she squealed.

“Us?” Lola queried. Amber spun around, her hands on her hips, and looking as threatening as a five-foot-nothing woman in primary colours ever could.

“As your manager, I’ll expect 10% plus expenses.”

“My manager.”

“Yes your manager, we agreed this in grade school,” Amber pointed out waspishly. And Lola laughed a rich, loud sound. They had agreed back in grade school that whatever Lola ended up doing, Amber would be her manager. For a fleeting moment, Lola wondered how wise this all was. It was all beginning to feel real and wasn’t there some rule about never doing business with friends or family? Lola brushed the thought away; she and Amber went way back, they knew everything about each other, where all the skeletons were stashed, where all the bodies were buried. If she wanted anyone by her side in all this, it had to be Amber.

“So what’s it going to be then?” Amber asked tapping her foot, her hands still on her hips though her lips were already moving into a smile.

“Your first official job as my manager is to find us the best Burrito that Santa Monica has to offer. I need some carbs.”

Amber smiled and, threading her arm through the crook of Lola’s elbow, they walked towards the beachfront.

CHAPTER 5

The Radcliffe Camera stood out starkly against the bright blue sky and Grace had been staring up at it for so long that she’d started to feel dizzy. The Radcliffe Camera, or the Rad Cam as the students tended to call it, was her favourite of all of Oxford’s lavish buildings. Something about this monumental, circular library always filled her with awe and even now, after six months at Oxford, Grace still marvelled at the exquisite architecture, marvelled that a place of such beauty could exist so close to the inner London neighbourhood where she had grown up. Grace had read about the dreaming spires, she’d seen the lists of the University’s illustrious alumni – Presidents, Prime Ministers, Oscar winners, Nobel Peace Prize winners, traitors, saints; intellectually at least, she’d understood that this place was immense. And yet, from the moment she had set foot on Broad Street all those months ago for her interview, Grace had fallen in love. She had survived the interviews and had returned to her school a hero, the first pupil in sixteen years to earn a place at Oxbridge and when summer had come she had aced her exams – straight As. And now here she was, standing in Radcliffe Square, metres away from the Bodleian and the Sheldonian Theatre and the Bridge of Sighs and all those places that had once been just names in books about lives; white people’s lives, a place that was not for the likes of her. And yet in her months here, she’d excelled, academically anyway. Grace loved her lectures, she’d shone in tutorials, her peers called on her to talk through essay questions. But the social part of things, in this Grace stuttered. Grace felt heat warm her face as she thought about last night and the boozy party at the bar that she’d left early. Once again she felt like the perpetual new girl, unable to relax and drink and get merry, like all the other confident undergrads at college.

“Shit!” Grace gasped as a clock began to chime. Once again she’d dawdled and would only just have enough time to get back to her room in College to change before she had to start her shift. Grace hustled up Parks Road, passing the grand academic buildings, then took a short cut, darting across the dense green space of the University Parks until she reached Lady Henrietta College, or Hennies as everyone called it.

“All right, Grace?” Grace nodded and waved in greeting to Paul, the head porter. She walked through the main quad towards her room. Entering her small single room, she immediately began to pull off her clothes, her usual uniform of black sweatpants and an oversized hoodie were quickly exchanged for the white shirt and black skirt that were required for her job over at Newman College.

By the time she’d changed, there was little time left before she’d be really late for the dinner shift she was covering and so Grace jumped on her hated bike. The city of Oxford was awash with bikes and in the summer as she’d prepared to leave London, Grace had bitten the bullet and set about doing something that no child in the orphanage had ever had any need to learn: she’d learned to ride a bike. She’d forced herself to ignore the laughing little kids, who’d already left behind their stabilisers. She’d picked herself up after the falls, she’d persisted with the same doggedness with which she’d approached cross country running, until suddenly she’d been flying, cycling unaided, round and round and round. In that moment, as she’d completed her first complete loop of Pymmes Park, Grace had known that she was ready for Oxford; that if she could do this, there was nothing that she couldn’t handle.

Grace screeched to a halt as she spotted a spare bit of railing to which she locked her bike before rushing through the grand arch that marked the entrance to Newman College. In a city renowned the world over for its beauty and architecture, a city known for its pomp and grandeur, Newman was without a doubt the grandest college of them all. Grace entered the college through the main entrance, walking quickly across the vast intimidating quad towards her destination – the College kitchens. She dashed up the service entrance stairs to the kitchens and hoped fervently that Nessa would not be on duty.

“Cutting it fine, aren’t you?” Grace’s prayers were not to be answered and she turned to face Nessa Hughes, her supervisor.

“Sorry I’m late, Nessa,” Grace said, curbing her impulse to roll her eyes. She needed this job, needed every penny of her meagre wage to maintain herself at Oxford. The job had seemed a godsend at first, a job at another college working as a server. But Grace had naively failed to consider what it would be like to serve students, peers, whom she might encounter in the lecture halls the very next day.

“Always one excuse after another with you,” Nessa grated, watching as Grace pulled off her coat and quickly donned a crisp blue apron over her skirt. “You watch yourself,” she continued and then strode away disappearing with a click of heels. Grace sighed. Things had not always been bad with Nessa. At first they’d bonded, talking about London and exchanging stories about the city. One day, Grace had mentioned her heavy course load at Hennies and from that moment everything had changed. She hadn’t intentionally misled Nessa about her student status, she had assumed that Nessa, like everyone else, knew she was also a student at Oxford but from that moment Nessa had reserved for her a cutting coldness, always ready to pounce on any misdeed by Grace, real or imagined. It seemed that Nessa was determined to remind her to know her place. In the kitchen, the other servers were already lined up and Grace risked a small wave at Vicky, her only real friend there, who like her was also a student at the university.

“Vicky, Melissa, Jack and Liam on mains. Grace, Janet and Martin – veg and sides.” Grace bit back on a groan. She hated being on veg, everybody did. With main courses at least all you had to do was set down the plate but with veg and sides, discourse with the students was always required. “Potatoes or salad, broccoli or spinach.” Grace nodded at the sympathetic look that Vicky had thrown her way and then, lest she give Nessa any cause to dock her wages or pull her up again, she grabbed the serving tray of sides and made her way towards the dining hall.

Newman’s Dining Hall was exquisite, a long oak-panelled room that dated back to the 14th century with ornate stained-glass windows and walls lined with portraits of dons and alumni of note. Long, heavy, wooden tables illuminated by small orange lamps stretched the length of the room and newcomers were always stopped short by the beauty of it, by the sense of history that one was assailed with on entering this hall.

Grace had learned to ignore the impulse to stare around the Hall and instead get her serving duty over as soon as possible because even as Newman was known to be the grandest of all the colleges, its undergrads were also acknowledged to be some of the most obnoxious in the whole university. Grace was never more aware of being other than when she stepped into this Hall to serve these students. Her uniform always felt too tight, the spills of fat above her waistband always felt even more visible, her myopic eyes and her thick glasses felt even more of a burden. At Newman, Grace was never more aware of being black.

“Potatoes or salad?” she asked.

“Both, please.” Grace was grateful that at least this student was one of the ones who actually noticed her and answered. Often the students would be so engrossed in their conversations, so wrapped up in their laughs that she would stand there seemingly invisible. Grace moved on to the next group, deftly serving up the potatoes or veg as required. Her platter was almost empty, she would have to return to the kitchen soon. As she started towards the exit, Grace’s eyes were drawn to a young blond man at the centre of a group of laughing students. She watched the young man gesticulate, as his blond hair flopped over his forehead, while he regaled the table with a story that had them laughing again. Something about their carefree laughter held Grace and then she looked up and froze as she found a pair of blue-grey eyes staring intently at her. Someone at the table had noticed her scrutiny.

The din of the Hall died down as she found herself staring at the most beautiful man she had ever seen. He sat casually on the periphery of the laughing group and Grace felt her mind go blank and then suddenly the link was broken, the man with the jet-black hair and piercing eyes had turned his attention back to his friends. Grace’s gaze drifted back to the dark-haired man and then her gaze took in the whole table.

“Grace, what are you doing?” Grace spun around to see Vicky staring at her. Grace felt her cheeks grow warm; she’d been standing in the middle of Hall mooning over a hot boy. “Nessa will kill you if she sees you hanging around with an empty platter.” Grace nodded and she quickly headed back to the kitchen to refill.

Later that night, exhausted after three hours on her feet, Grace sat by the dim light of her lamp and completed her essay on the law of theft, yawning all the way through it. Though she was exhausted, as always sleep eluded her and she lay for a long time in the dark, running through the list of essays she had to do and jobs she’d need to apply for in time for the summer break. As she finally fell asleep, the last thing she thought of was the piercing blue eyes and the look that she had shared with the nameless boy in Hall.

CHAPTER 6

“Lola! Smile!”

Lola watched the look of derision that Amber shot at the lone photographer that greeted their arrival at the Chateau Marmont. Lola could practically read her friend’s mind. Paris would have twenty photographers; this lone snapper was an insult. Lola and Amber linked arms and together they walked into the infamous Hollywood landmark. It was a scorching Los Angeles afternoon and Lola pursed her lips, hardly bothering to hide her irritation.

“We should be by a pool,” she muttered. She tensed as she noted Amber’s frown. Too often, in the last few months, she’d seen her best friend frown at her. Lola was starting to worry that having her best friend as her manager was quickly going to become a buzz kill.

“Tyler wanted to meet,” Amber replied as they stepped into the ornate dimly lit lift that would take them down to the Chateau’s garden dining area.

“We could have met at his office, at least that’s by the beach,” Lola replied. Amber sighed and once again Lola felt that she was somehow failing to live up to expectations.

“What good would that have done?” Amber snapped. “The point is to be seen, to raise your profile.”

“I’m seen everywhere, I’m out every night,” Lola snapped back and she felt a dart of anger as she saw Amber roll her eyes. When did Amber start rolling her eyes at me? It used to be the two of them against the world. Silently, they stepped out of the lift and Amber waved across the dining area at Tyler who was seated at a prominent table at the centre of the garden. As they walked towards him, Lola was aware of a few surreptitious glances thrown their way. She recognised a famous Swedish actor that her mother had once worked with and an award-winning screenwriter who was tapping away into a laptop. As they approached Tyler, Lola took a moment to appraise him. In his pressed jeans, button-down shirt and sun-streaked blond hair, Tyler looked like every wannabe surfer dude that had ever walked the Thirty Mile Zone with a dream. By rights, like every one of those dreamers, Tyler should have wound up doing porn or working as a pool boy in Brentwood, while flirting with the co-ed daughter of the house. And yet, somehow, Tyler had shaken off the shackles of low expectations. He’d hustled his way up from runner to reporter at a cable entertainment station. He had tenaciously made the jump from reporter to presenter and, displaying the kind of smarts that no one would ever have suspected, given the artfully highlighted hair, he’d parlayed his way into producing. The Cable Network where he’d once been the go-to guy for coffees, now counted his production company and the revenue from his shows as the sole reason for its continued existence.

“Lola, Amber. Goddesses, as always.” Tyler stood as they approached, smiling with a flash of his blinding white teeth. “So how have you been?” Tyler directed his question at Lola as they took their seats.

“Good, we’ve gone out a whole lot,” she admitted. “And I checked, we were on one of those live blog things after the benefit last week. That’s good, right?” Lola asked. Tyler gave a non-committal nod.

“It’s a start,” he replied, leaning back in his chair and for just a moment Lola caught a flash in his eyes, a flash of the shark that must lurk beneath the laid-back, Californian beach boy exterior. “But the thing is, we’re not even in the ball park yet, babe. We want you to be everywhere, not just on blogs. We want you on TV, on magazines, on red carpets, at the Super Bowl and maybe eventually on movie screens.” Lola stared in dismay at Tyler. She thought her renewed push had been good. For someone who’d partied since she was thirteen, she hadn’t imagined that it could ever become a chore but in the last two weeks she and Amber had been to everything. What more could they do?

“How do we do that?” she asked quietly. Tyler nodded at Amber.

“Amber and I have been talking and we think what you need is a boyfriend. A celebrity boyfriend.”

Whatever Lola had expected to hear, this wasn’t it and she stared open-mouthed at Tyler.

CHAPTER 7

“His name is Nico.”

Grace looked up at Vicky’s words as they strolled through the University Parks on another sunny day. Across the field, a rowdy group of cricketers were engaged in a nets session, whooping loudly as one of their number was caught out. Several joggers had lapped them several times making Grace feel exhausted. Even as she relished the feeling of the warm sunshine on her skin, with the thought of the impending summer also came other fears, not least that she would have to abandon her thick sweats and hoodies for clothes that might reveal more of her far too ample body. Once again her healthy eating regime had failed to take, just last night as she waded through the Law of Property Statutes, she’d chomped down on an 18-inch pizza all by herself.

“His name is Nico,” Vicky repeated.

“Whose name is Nico?” Grace asked though she knew she wasn’t fooling her friend. Vicky gave a low laugh and Grace felt her face warm.

“Old Steamy eyes,” Vicky replied punctuating her words with a long smooching sound.

“Stop it,” Grace hissed, her eyes darting quickly around. Grace allowed herself to think about the boy whose blue-grey eyes had stopped her in her tracks at Newman. She had seen him several times during her shifts and every time he’d been in the company of the same group of beautiful people. Grace’s eyes darted around to make sure no one had heard Vicky’s comment. Not that it was likely that Nico or indeed any of The Gatsbies would ever make it this far out of town.

The Gatsbies, that is what they were called, Grace had learned. And she understood the nickname absolutely, evoking as it did the decadence and wealth and glamorous luxury of the book The Great Gatsby. Nico and his friends were modern-day Gatsbys with their reputed millions and their country homes and yachts and glamorous star-studded parties. Since that day when she had met eyes with Nico Andreou, her serving stints at Newman had been tinged with a charged frisson of something. What that thing was, Grace had avoided putting a name to. By design she’d always ended up serving on the other side of Hall from where The Gatsbies always sat and so there had been no chance for any more eye contact. Not that it was likely to happen again, Grace told herself sternly, for Nico Andreou was not merely out of her league, he was utterly out of her stratosphere; in another universe altogether. Once, when she’d been flicking through the magazines at a local bookstore, she had stopped shocked as she’d caught sight of Nico within the pages of a glossy celebrity magazine. On his arm had been a famous European pop star and next to him a dashing older couple that could only be his parents. Grace had devoured the article. Nico’s mother was a former Brazilian swimwear model and his father a billionaire Greek industrialist whose business influence reached all over the world. Grace had set the magazine back down on the shelf and walked quietly home, more aware than ever that she’d stepped into a world where she didn’t belong.

By now, she and Vicky had emerged from the Parks and they snaked their way past the Museums and the Science Buildings towards Cornmarket, where they parted company.

“Have fun at home,” Grace called and was rewarded with a wave from her friend. For a moment, Grace watched as her friend disappeared down the road towards the train station. Vicky was going home to Birmingham and Grace felt a pang of guilt. All term she had avoided going home. Her last visit had been fraught and she’d sworn to avoid The Pastor for as long as she could. But now she thought about her mother, who’d seemed even more frail and tired when she’d last seen her. Grace thought about her mother’s voice on the phone, when they’d spoken the week before. Her mother, always quiet, had seemed even more withdrawn, lifeless almost. And yet, Grace could not bring herself to go home, not till term was over. For as long as possible she wanted to keep The Pastor at bay.

Grace walked into Newman, glancing at the ornate clock-tower at the far end of the quad. She smiled; for once she was early. As she entered the kitchens, Grace gave Nessa a winning smile. Her essay for the week was done and with her tutorial the next day re-scheduled, Grace would have time to do her favourite things – mooch around Oxford, catch a film, borrow fiction books; not even Nessa would dampen her spirits today.

“Grace, did you hear me?” Grace was thrown from her sunny imaginings by Nessa’s harsh voice. “You take High Table and the right corner today.” Grace felt her stomach sink. Today, like it or not, she would be serving The Gatsbies.

The lights in Hall were their usual dim orange and yet Grace felt as though a heavy spotlight was blinding her. Totally belying her name, she had never been graceful, anything but, and tonight her feet felt comically heavy. With every step into Hall, Grace felt nerves unsettle her. Perhaps they wouldn’t be here tonight. Grace gave a fervent prayer to whoever was up there but as her eyes darted to the far right corner of Hall, she saw her prayers would not be answered. They were there. All of them.

The Gatsbies always commanded attention. Even in a University the size of Oxford, with the disparate colleges, somehow their moniker preceded them. Once, while sitting at lunch in her College, Grace had listened intently as another Fresher had breathlessly recounted every detail of her encounter with The Gatsbies at a ball.

“There was Nico. Greek, billionaire dad, hot as fuck, mainly shags Poppy when he’s between pop stars and supermodels. Then The Right Honourable Poppy Hewson-Chambers, total aristocrat, everyone calls her The Right Hon – blonde, goddess, number one on Tatler’s most eligible list. JoJo De Vere, South African, diamond heiress, knows the royals, lots of skulduggery and white mischief shenanigans. Then there’s Matt Downing, wealthy London parents in hotels or something and his girlfriend Laura Sugar-Naylor, old money, sugar plantations, very yah!”

Long after she’d finished her sandwich, Grace had continued to sit, eavesdropping shamelessly on the tales about The Gatsbies and their exploits, the balls they went to, the suites they hired at The Randolph for weekend drinking parties, the holidays at a moment’s notice to their private islands, the hampers from Fortnum & Mason…

As she sidled over towards their table, Grace felt like a stone was weighted in her stomach.

“Potatoes?” she asked and blushed, realising that her word had emerged croaky and probably incomprehensible. “Potatoes,” she tried again and winced. This time her voice had come out sharply, far too loud. Conversation stopped and The Gatsbies turned as one to face her. Could one be blinded by beauty? Wasn’t there a Greek myth about that, Grace wondered as she stared at the most beautiful group of people she had ever seen. Up close, they looked like a pre-posed spread straight out of Vanity Fair. Grace swallowed and tried to focus on the task at hand. She focused on the girl closest to her, Poppy, who looked every inch “The Right Hon” that the boys called her. Her regal blonde head angled towards Grace, Poppy nodded as Grace carefully scooped the potato onto her plate. Perhaps it was her nerves but Grace gasped in horror as somehow the potato slipped from within the spoon and bounced across the table to land in Poppy’s lap. There was a scandalised gasp.

“You clumsy oaf,” Poppy squealed. Grace stood frozen as her worst nightmare was made manifest; everybody was staring at her.

“Don’t they train you people?” Laura gasped, shaking a napkin open and passing it to Poppy. By now Nico, who’d been in conversation with JoJo, had turned to stare at her too.

“I’m so sorry,” Grace stuttered and blanched as she met Poppy’s hard stare.

“You should be,” the girl slammed back at her.

“Oh bloody hell, it’s a potato not a grenade.” Grace turned and sought out the face of her defender. She found herself staring at the other boy, the one who was always cracking jokes, the one who must be Matt. He gave her a small smile. “We’ll be fine.”

Grace watched as Matt reached for the renegade potato and put it into his mouth whole.

“I promise I won’t hurt you,” Matt mimed and within moments Poppy and the other girls were laughing. Grace turned and fled, uncaring of what an ungainly sight she must make, her heavy feet thudding on the wooden floors of the great hall.

Grace shook off the groggy feeling that had dogged her all morning, she had only one lecture that day, after which she planned to take the afternoon off to enjoy the warm weather. As the students spilled out of the lecture theatres, Grace moved to the side of the stairs to tuck her folder into her rucksack. As she zipped up the bag, she felt a shadow fall across her. Grace looked up and her stomach plummeted. Poppy, Laura and JoJo stared at her with a look of surprise.

“What are you doing here?” Poppy didn’t hide the incredulity in her voice and Grace felt a wave of mortification.

“I’m a student here. I’m studying...”

Before Grace could finish her sentence, a peal of laughter rang out from Laura.

“Seriously?” Laura asked, a look of astonishment on her face and Grace felt another warm wash of embarrassment.

“Laura...” JoJo spoke up, a warning in her voice.

“Look…” Grace said, weighing her options when she felt a presence behind her. She turned, surprised to see that it was the same boy from the night before. Matt, her defender.

“You can be a real bitch, you know that,” Matt said, his cold gaze directed at Poppy and Laura.

“What?” Laura cried. Poppy shook her head with a smirk.

“Let’s leave Matt and his new friend alone.”

Grace watched as they spun around, descending the stairs like women who knew that the world was their catwalk. She turned back to her rucksack and wrestled it onto her back. Grace began to walk, her head firmly down, staring at her worn, faded trainers. She felt Matt fall into step beside her.

“I’m sorry about that,” he said.

“You didn’t do anything,” Grace snapped and winced inwardly; she sounded like a sulky child.

“I know that, but they can be shits,” Matt said and Grace felt a wave of gratitude that one of these beautiful people was actually seeing things from her perspective. “You’re a student here?” Matt asked. Grace nodded wondering why he was still speaking to her. “Law?”

“Yes,” she replied quietly. They had reached the edge of the road; turning left would take her out towards Hennies and right was the path back towards Newman. Grace looked up at him and was struck by his handsome, open face. She watched as he pushed his overlong blond hair away from his face and a well of gratitude rose up in her. In those brief moments as the three girls had stared at her, she’d felt like an insect. “Thank you,” she said quietly. Matt waved her thanks away and instead he raised his hand towards her.

“Matt.” Grace stared at the long fingers of his hand and his golden, tanned skin. She raised her own small hand and shook it. For a moment, she was thrown by the rough sensation of calluses on his palm and then she smiled at him.

“Grace.”

Matt nodded.

“See you around, Grace,” he said and then he turned and walked towards a bike stand. Grace watched him unlock his bike and mount it. She watched until he’d disappeared around the bend in the road. And then finally, she began the walk towards Hennies. All the way home, she thought not of the fallen potato humiliation nor of the scathing looks from The Gatsbies, instead she was filled with an unexpected lightness.

CHAPTER 8

They were a match made in PR heaven.

Lola stifled a yawn and let her eyes drift around Valhalla, the hottest new restaurant opening in West Hollywood. Across the room, she noticed a group of yuppie agent types laughing and joking at a prestigious corner table. Standing at the bar behind them were a group of young men in sports coats, who looked like they were out past their bedtime. Lola’s eyes lingered on the group as she caught a glimpse of Lucas at the centre of the group. As their eyes met, Lola looked quickly away; she wasn’t in the mood for Lucas’s superior attitude. Finally, she turned back to her dinner date Brody Evans, who was still regaling her with a tale about an incredible play he’d made during the big game the night before.

“You were amazing,” Lola said, knowing that this would be enough contribution from her to keep Brody satisfied. In the aftermath of their lunch at the Chateau Marmont, Tyler and Amber had moved quickly and this show-mance had been borne out of what Tyler called their mutual needs. Brody had spent two seasons on the bench because of a knee injury and needed to broaden his profile if he was to hold on to his endorsement deals and for Lola the romance would accelerate the perfume deals and up her Personal Appearance fees.

“What do I actually have to do?” Lola had asked. And Tyler had given an amused smile.

“You’re hot, he’s hot, do what beautiful people do and I’ll make sure the photographers are there to capture every beautiful moment.”

Lola took a sip from her glass of sparkling water and stared at Brody again, watching as he chomped down on a piece of steak and stared at his cell phone. When he wasn’t talking about football, Brody tended to fall silent. Lola saw that he was texting on his phone, occasionally guffawing at a text message. This was the pattern their dates had taken – stilted conversation, awkward smiles that didn’t quite meet their eyes and then silence. Brody had that Midwest gentleman thing going for him, but to Lola he seemed almost childlike and there was zero spark between them.

“Do you want to hit a club?” Lola asked, the words spilling out before she could think them through. She’d been on her best behaviour for months now, but slowly Lola had started to feel the old restlessness creep back. She was bored, this scene bored her, the new power-driven Amber bored her; she needed to scratch an itch. Brody looked up startled. And Lola concealed another sigh. This was another problem. Brody didn’t like to go out. What kind of NFL player was he? It was practically un-American and yet their every date had ended with a chaste kiss and then Brody had driven off into the night. Perhaps he was gay, Lola mused, that would explain why he needed to be fixed up on a faux-mance.

“Tonight?” Brody asked. “I’m pretty beat and I was going to drop in on the guys, pump some iron…” Lola had heard enough.

“That’s OK,” she answered sweetly, though it really wasn’t.

As they emerged from Valhalla a small cluster of photographers snapped off several pictures, but Lola barely paid them any attention. She stalked ahead of Brody, not caring whether or not he was behind her. She was tired of playing nice. With her licence still suspended, Lola was stuck with being chauffeured around everywhere and she sighed with relief as her car rounded the corner.

“Thanks for dinner,” Lola said brusquely, her air kiss metres away from Brody’s cheek.

“We should hook up…” Brody began but his words were cut off by the slam of Lola’s door. She’d already hopped into the back of her car.

Lola curled up in the plush leather seats of the car and watched Saturday night unfold all along Sunset Boulevard. She longed to jump out of the car, leave the tinted windows behind and be part of the life happening on the streets. How had she become this shadow of herself? Once she had been the life of the party. And suddenly Lola was enraged, she wanted to fight and she knew exactly where to take her rage.

“Mom!”

Lola’s call echoed through the house but the only response was silence. It had been months since she had set foot in this house. Months since Scarlet had let it be known that she was no longer welcome here. Lola’s gaze darted around the vast open living space. She stared at the huge Warhol mounted above the fireplace and she had an urge to shove a knife through the canvas and destroy her mother’s pride and joy.

Lola toed off her platform shoes and padded barefoot to the kitchen. Without thinking about it she reached for a bottle of her mother’s most expensive whisky and twisted the top off, pouring a generous measure into a coffee mug.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Lola spun around, startled to see Scarlet staring at her, red-faced and furious. A slow smile unfolded across Lola’s face and she took a deliberate sip of the whisky. She felt the tension uncurl within her as the warm liquid hit the back of her throat.

“What does it look like?” Lola’s retort had Scarlet shaking her head.

“I don’t have time for this.”

“I thought you might have missed me, Mother,” Lola sniped and was rewarded by a reddening of Scarlet’s cheeks.

“You’re a fucking liability,” Scarlet shrieked and Lola gloried in seeing her mother lose control. Scarlet Wilde, Hollywood’s serial bride might have reinvented herself as a veg-eating, animal rights-loving teetotaller, but Lola knew what still lurked beneath the surface. Scarlet’s conversion had come in the wake of a string of flop movies and Lola knew that her mother would do anything to be back in the A-List, pity for her then that a woman of almost fifty was probably more likely to be eaten by a unicorn on Malibu beach than star in a studio movie.

“I’m a liability, I’m a liability,” Lola laughed and took another sip of the whisky. “Well I guess I learned from the best.”

“You are an embarrassment,” Scarlet lashed out again. “Parading around everywhere waiting for the photographers to see you. Jeez, you’d think you’d have more class.”

“This from a woman who gets married more often than most women change their panties.”

Lola didn’t see Scarlet move, didn’t see the hand coming. The hand that struck her was swift, the slap ringing out in the quiet kitchen and then a deathly silence fell. Slowly, Lola put her cup down; she saw the shock on Scarlet’s face.

“I didn’t mean…” her mother began. But Lola was already walking away. She heard her mother’s bare feet slapping on the tiled floors as she scurried after her.

“You think I’m an embarrassment now?” Lola snapped as she spun around to face her mother. Lola gave a dangerous smile as she met Scarlet’s gaze. “Just you wait.” Scooping up her high-heeled shoes, Lola swept out of the house and slammed the front door so hard that paintings on the wall shook.

CHAPTER 9

The sun was setting over the River Cherwell as Grace walked back from her tutorial, crossing over Magdalen Bridge. Grace slowed her steps, moving to lean over the bridge as she watched the sky. From below, there was a burst of laughter and Grace looked down to see a group of students on two punts pushing through the water, with more enthusiasm than skill. Grace sighed. Trinity Term, the Oxford summer term, was over, her room back at Hennies had been packed up, there was no avoiding it now; she had to go home for the summer. The sun had almost completely disappeared and the punters were disappearing around a bend in the river. Reluctantly, Grace grabbed her bag up and continued the walk back to College. The last few weeks of term had flown by and Grace had been aware of a certain lightness in her; even Vicky had noticed the difference.

“Why are you smiling?” she’d asked Grace once, as they’d completed another shift serving dinner at Newman. Grace had shrugged and said nothing but Vicky had thrown her a knowing smile and rolled her eyes. Grace had recounted the events to Vicky – the dropped potato and then the incident outside the lecture theatre and talking with Matt.

“You shouldn’t get all moony about him,” Vicky said with her usual pragmatism. Grace rewarded her friend with a glare.

“I’m not mooning,” she snapped.

“You barely even noticed when Nessa screamed at you.” Grace shook her head and they’d carried on towards College.

But now as she slowly threaded her way down Turl Street, she knew that Vicky had seen through her. Since that day, when they had talked, Matt nodded to her whenever he saw her, he greeted her with a smile on the rare occasions when she’d ended up serving him in Hall. He had never purposely sought her out and yet somehow Grace knew that he was protecting her from The Gatsbies. There had been sidelong looks and glances from Poppy and the others, but none of the unkind words that Grace had feared; there was no doubt about it, Matt was her protector. Grace was embarrassed and yet she found herself daydreaming about Matt, wondering how she might orchestrate a meeting with him. And then she would catch sight of herself in a mirror and the fantasy would be broken. Matt would never look at anyone like her.

Grace sighed and she turned her mind to the journey home. By claiming pressures of college work and taking a job on the cleaning staff of the College during Easter, Grace had managed to stay away from London, away from The Pastor for most of the academic year. She had not seen her mother in months. Grace had longed for her mother to come up to Oxford, just for the first day but The Pastor had forbidden it. Grace felt a sting of guilt. She had abandoned her mother these last few months, but she gritted her teeth and pushed the feeling aside; she had done what she needed to do.

As she walked through the University Parks, Grace noticed in the distance a small group of people. Several picnic hampers had been carelessly discarded, a kissing couple slow danced and several bodies lazed on checked picnic blankets in the dull glow of the setting sun. Grace adjusted her glasses and squinted as she tried to make out their faces and then she froze. It was The Gatsbies. Her eyes turned back to the couple slow dancing and now she saw them clearly. It was Matt and in his arms was Laura. Grace felt her stomach plummet. All the inchoate fantasies that she had hardly allowed herself to give name to scattered in the wind and behind her glasses, she blinked hard. Her head down, Grace continued towards the exit that would take her to Hennies. As she stamped down on the mournful emotions that threatened to rise up in her, she thanked the gods that this time at least, her humiliation had been private.

CHAPTER 10

“You got a light?”

Lola looked up and in the dim light of the narrow alleyway at the back of Gin, yet another hot new bar, she watched a tall, powerfully built man move towards her. Long dreadlocks were pulled away from his face in a ponytail and as he walked, the long rope of hair swung from side to side, halfway down his back, almost touching his elbow. There was a directness about his gaze that disconcerted Lola and made her feel defensive. She stared back at him, determined to hold her ground. Close up, she saw that he wore the distinctive pinstriped Issey Miyake waistcoat that was the uniform of all the wait staff in the bar. As he stopped in front of her, Lola took a deep drag on her cigarette and she gave him a brief nod. She reached for his cigarette and for a moment their fingers touched. He had clean fingernails. Lola placed his cigarette against the smoking end of her lit one and watched, mesmerised as the orange glow kissed the unlit cigarette to life. She handed it back to him and continued to watch him as she exhaled.

He was tall, really tall and built. Beneath the waistcoat he wore nothing, and Lola could see his bare chest and the beginnings of a light dusting of chest hair and well defined pecs. Down one arm, snaking out from beneath the waistcoat, were an impressive set of sleeves, zigzagging up and down his biceps all the way to his wrist.

“Nice ink,” Lola said nodding at his tattoos. The waiter smiled.

“She speaks,” he replied and Lola was unprepared for the smile that crept across her face, before she quickly resumed the pout that was fast becoming her default expression.

“Don’t tell anyone,” she drawled, wondering why she was still standing outside with the help.

Lola watched the waiter lean back against a dumpster and drag deeply on the cigarette. His lips were thick and Lola looked away quickly, surprised at the flare of lust that slammed into her. Lust was no part of her life, not really. Sure there were the random hook-ups and the orchestrated ones that made it into a few magazines and the blogs, but the wash of lust as she stared at this quiet waiter with the watchful eyes was unexpected and not entirely unwelcome.

“How’s the party?” The waiter spoke and Lola shrugged.

“It’s work,” she replied unthinkingly.

“For me too.” Lola winced. She was unused to dealing with real people with real jobs.

“So how does it ‘work’ for you?” the waiter asked, his brow furrowed, and Lola dragged on the last of the cigarette and then ground the butt beneath her boot.

“New bar, wants to get a buzz, so they pay some celebrities to come hang out and be seen here.”

“Nice.” The waiter half smiled again. “How much do they pay you to do that?” His bluntness surprised her.

“How much do they pay you?” Lola shot back.

“Six bucks an hour,” he replied without missing a beat and Lola felt her skin flush as she watched him angle his head, his dreads swinging over one shoulder as he stared intently at her. “You?” he prompted again.

“Fifteen thousand.” A low whistle emerged from his lips and the waiter turned to face her directly. Lola was struck once again by how tall he was. “Paris and Kim get double that,” she muttered, wondering why she felt it necessary to justify herself to this stranger.

“Nice work if you can get it.” Lola nodded and looked up at the clear, black sky. The tedium of the conversation and the air kissing and the bullshit inside the bar had gotten to her, but as the awkward silence lengthened, all Lola wanted was to get back inside away from this silent watchful stranger, who was provoking unexpected feelings.

“You work here all the time?” Lola winced inwardly. Why was she prolonging the conversation? She turned towards him, but he was glancing at his watch. Quickly, he stubbed out his cigarette.

“Here, the Italian place at The Grove, a few places,” he finished with a smile. “Break’s over.” A rueful smile flickered across his face. Lola smiled back, a feeling of relief mingling with something else. “Have a good night,” the waiter said and in a bang of double doors, he was gone.

CHAPTER 11

The next day, Lola woke in a bad mood.

She’d tossed and turned all night and then at 5 a.m. as the sun was starting to rise, she’d fallen into a restless sleep. When she finally dragged herself out of bed, to start the day, she had the dreadlocked waiter on her mind. Hitting the gym, she put herself through a gruelling workout with the punch bags, determined to knock away the unease that had settled in the pit of her stomach and which seemed unwilling to leave. This was the problem with doing business with friends, Lola thought darkly. Once upon a time, she might have called Amber so they could hit the shops on Rodeo or at The Grove, but these days Amber was all work and no fun. Amber was always talking about strategy and media presence and ways to monetise. Lola sighed. Despite the fact that she’d been thrown out of every exclusive high school on the West Coast, she was, it seemed, finally getting a career; shame it had to come at the expense of her best friend.

After she had showered, the thought of returning to the empty apartment filled Lola with a dread that she chose not to examine too closely and instead she swung her car down Fairfax towards 3rd and headed to The Grove Mall. After she’d valet-parked Lola walked to the main thoroughfare of the mall. She glanced at her watch and sighed. She was bored and boredom, with her, usually led to trouble. With that thought she headed towards Barneys. As she strode through the high-end department store, flicking through the racks of merchandise without really noticing them, Lola bit back a sigh of irritation and flipped open her cell phone. She waved away an eager-looking assistant and listened as the phone rang and rang. No response. Lola felt anger and frustration course through her. It was happening, she thought, she was losing Amber too.

In her world, people always left. She had learned that young. Deep down, she had always marvelled that her friendship with Amber had survived quite so long. But as with everything in her life, Lola had known that it was just a matter of time.

“This is Amber, you know the drill.” Lola ended the call without leaving a message, carelessly dropping the phone into her bag. She turned back to the department store and gave it her full attention. Lola felt a thrill run through her that had little to do with the exclusive, expensive designs on display. She could buy half the store and the other half, designers would gladly gift to her for free. Since childhood, her mother’s name had meant that bundles of free designer goods routinely turned up and since her turn as Miss Golden Globe, the summer she had turned sixteen, hot up and coming designers would often ensure that packages of their latest collections made their way to her. Who better to showcase their wares for free than one of Hollywood’s up and coming It girls? But the itch that Lola longed to scratch wasn't one that shopping could reach, the adrenalin that coursed through her had little to do with embellished LBDs or this season’s Manolos. The pressure that had been building in her chest these last days would be solved by only one thing.

She grabbed the first thing, a dress and then another item and another and another, barely glancing at the items and not bothering to check sizes. These things would never be worn. Barely pausing to draw breath Lola moved towards a fitting room, drawing the curtain firmly behind her. She stared at the stash of clothes barely seeing them, feeling only the thrum of excitement. Quickly, she stashed the items into her oversized Gucci tote bag and with a deep breath she emerged from the fitting room. Lola strode towards the exit with her head held high. She nodded at the assistant, who waved her off. She gave a wide smile at a stylist she’d known for years. Lola lived for these moments, the charge of excitement coursing through her, her heart beating fast and then faster, as the exit came into sight, as she saw the daylight that lay beyond. She already had one foot outside of the store when she heard a voice.

“Miss Wilde.” Lola turned, her heart in her mouth, her pulse accelerating off the scale. “Have a nice day,” the security guard said.

Lola gave him a brilliant smile.

“You too,” she replied and continued out of the store, losing herself in the throng of mid-afternoon shoppers, her loot a pleasing weight at the bottom of her bag.

The buzz never lasted long. And by the time she had walked the length of the main concourse of the mall, Lola was already feeling altogether earthbound. She was no longer flying and she was left again with a niggling feeling of dissatisfaction. As she contemplated another session of lifting her eyes were drawn to a small Italian restaurant with its doors thrown wide open. Her position on the sidewalk gave her a clear view of the long wooden bar inside and there, behind the bar, was the dreadlocked waiter from the night before at Gin. For a moment, Lola wondered if this was what had really drawn her to The Grove today, this dreadlocked waiter who had hovered in her dreams last night. Before she could question her motives, she found herself changing direction, her legs carrying her into the restaurant. As she took a seat at the bar, casually resting her handbag and its weighty contraband on the bar stool next to her, Lola made a sudden realisation. She was nervous. She sat on the stool, waiting until finally he turned to her. What if he didn’t remember her, Lola thought suddenly. But he was already moving towards her, a half smile lighting his face.

“Hello again.”

“Right back at you,” Lola replied, working to keep her voice cool even as she felt an unexpected sense of anticipation start to grow.

“Simon.” The waiter held his hand out across the bar and Lola took it, her own small hand engulfed in his huge paw. For a moment she just stared at him and then with an embarrassed start, she realised that he was waiting for her to order. Her eyes darted across the board.

“Just a lemonade,” Lola said hurriedly and busied herself glancing at a food menu. Moments later he set a tall glass in front of her before taking her food order and advising her of the day’s specials.

“You’re from England?” Lola asked finally placing the hint of an accent that had been teasing at her.

“Mostly,” Simon smiled, hovering in front of her as he wiped down the bar. “My mother is from Jamaica and my dad is English, I’ve lived in both places.”

“Nice.” Lola took a sip of her drink and paused as the silence between them lengthened. She watched as Simon turned to serve another customer, watched as his biceps flexed and the tattoos that ran the length of his arm seemed to ripple. Lola wondered what it was that drew her to him. He wasn’t her type that was for sure. For one thing, he didn’t seem particularly on the scene and he was a waiter and yet here she was contemplating ordering carbs, just so that she could stay and continue talking to him.

Lola downed the rest of her lemonade and considered bolting for the door. She imagined what Amber might say if she saw her here now. Amber was an inveterate snob. Dating the help won’t get you on the cover of US Weekly, Lola could practically hear her friend’s voice, and that was enough to keep her rooted to the bar stool. When Simon finally turned back to her, Lola had made her mind up.

“What are you doing when you get off?” She sounded braver and more confident than she felt. Simon was silent and for a moment they stared at each other. He was not the first man that she had propositioned, not by a long shot and yet something about Simon made Lola feel like this was a noteworthy occasion. He seemed above the usual bullshit that she expected from the city. He had not mentioned her mother, had not pressed his demo CD or showreel into her palm, had not yet tried to find out who in her contacts book might be of use to him. For all of these reasons, Simon stood out, stood apart from the wannabes and the users that had been a part and parcel of her life for as long as she could remember. And so Lola held her breath and waited and hoped.

“I don’t know, you tell me,” Simon finally replied. And the breath whooshed out of Lola. “I get off at five.”

“Then I’ll see you then,” she replied.

It was approaching five when Lola emerged from the movie theatre where she’d wiled away the time, watching a film. She was striding briskly towards the restaurant where she had arranged to meet Simon when she heard someone call her name.

“Miss Wilde.” Lola turned with an irritated expression as a tall man approached her. She squinted at him, noting the stern expression on his face as he advanced towards her. “Miss Wilde,” he said again and suddenly Lola’s heart began to race as she recognised him: the security guard from the department store.

“I’m late for an appointment,” Lola said vaguely gesturing in the direction of the car park.

“This won’t take long,” the guard stated and Lola could see from the set of his mouth that this man would not be won over with smiles and flirting.

“I really have to be going.” Lola turned but the guard stepped around her to block her way. They stared at each other and Lola was filled with real panic, not the manufactured thrill that she got from lifting but a real fear that this might escalate. She was still on probation and with the wrong judge she might actually end up behind bars.

“Ma’am,” the guard spoke again. As Lola cast around for a way out of her predicament, she heard a voice.

“What’s going on?” Lola spun around and her heart sank as she saw Simon advancing towards them.

“Shit,” she muttered under her breath. Just perfect. By now Simon stood alongside them and his gaze swept from Lola to the security guard.

“Jason, man, how’s it going?” Lola’s eyes narrowed and she watched as Simon shook hands with the security guard. “Anything I can help with?” The security guard stared hard at Lola for a moment.

“There might have been some kind of….misunderstanding.” Lola watched as realisation dawned in Simon’s eyes. She looked down, unable to meet his gaze. Instinctively, she knew he would not be like any of her usual crowd, he would not cheer on her lifting.

“I’m sure it’s a misunderstanding we can fix, right buddy?” Simon said as he glanced up at the man who held her fate in his hands. Lola held her breath. She watched Jason, the security guard, shift from foot to foot and then finally he spoke.

“If the lady happened to return to the store and return or make good on her purchases, then yes this misunderstanding could be overlooked, this time.” The last words were stated with emphasis and Lola knew she was busted, that there would be no more lifting for her, not in this neighbourhood.

“Thanks, man,” Simon said watching as the huge guard lumbered slowly back towards the department store.

Lola dared a look up at Simon’s face and winced as she saw the curiosity in his eyes. There was surprisingly no judgement and yet Lola didn’t relish being looked at like a peculiarly confounding insect. Simon stretched his hand out towards her and Lola looked at him in confusion.

“What?”

“The bag,” Simon stated firmly. Lola recoiled at the thought of handing Simon her bag. Her loot was her secret treasure, she never wore anything she lifted, she stored them in a trunk and sometimes she would simply take them out, look at them, let the fabrics slide through her fingers so that she could recapture that shot of life that lifting infused her with. Lola shook her head but Simon continued to hold out his hand. “You heard the man.”

With a reluctant nod, Lola relinquished her Gucci tote. She looked down as Simon glanced into her bag. Lola felt herself deflate, she had been looking forward to her date with Simon, but she doubted getting to know you while sipping lattes was still on the cards.

“Wait here,” Simon said and Lola watched as he disappeared into the department store.

Now was her chance and after a moment, Lola began to walk towards the valet. She need never see Simon again or relive this humiliation. As she approached the valet parking section, Lola halted as she realised that all her personal information and cards were in the bag that Simon had taken from her; he would find her easily, if he chose to. Why would he want to? A voice in Lola’s head piped up. Lola hovered, torn, and then she turned to see that Simon was approaching her, her tote held in his hands. He swung the bag out towards her and Lola had to catch it with both hands. After a moment Simon spoke.

“You’re a bit of a screw-up, aren’t you?” Lola bristled even as she realised that he was right. Somehow when she wasn’t looking she had turned into the clichéd Hollywood brat, screwing up everywhere they went. She was her mother’s daughter after all. Lola bit her lip. “So what are we doing?” Simon asked. And Lola was unable to hide her shock. She gaped at him, her expression asking the question that she couldn’t voice.

“We’re still going out,” Simon stated drily. “I’m neck deep in it with Jason now, so you definitely owe me, besides it’s a story for the grandkids. I stopped grandma from being arrested on our first date.”

Lola felt a burst of wellbeing zap through her. And, just like that, she knew something had begun.

CHAPTER 12

“Two Eggs and Chips coming right up.”

Grace scrawled the order onto the small pad and walked quickly towards the chipped and faded Formica bar, slapping the order down. She glanced at the clock and breathed a sigh of relief as her manager Wendy emerged from the back.

“Take your break. I’ll cover you.”

Grace gave a grateful nod, quickly whipping off her apron as she scrambled to get out of the stuffy diner with its ever-present stench of fried oil. Pulling on her Hennies hooded top, Grace emerged into a sunny day. She pause for a moment and leaned against the wall in the alleyway that ran behind the diner. Eight weeks in and the job had taken its toll. Being constantly on her feet should have helped her shed some pounds but the free greasy food, which she indulged in far too often, meant she’d barely lost any weight at all. They were already in the dying days of August, college would restart soon and she’d not lost a pound. Her health kick had never got started and her skin, always troublesome, was now a mass of blackheads and pimples courtesy of her stint managing the deep fat fryer. Grace sighed. Once again, it seemed that the summer when she would emerge a swan would have to be pushed back.

Pushing away from the wall, Grace started towards the busy street market a few minutes from the diner. On the plus side, she thought, at least she had completed all her reading for next term’s subjects. When she hadn’t been working she’d made sure to stick to the library, anything to keep out of The Pastor’s way. On the busy market street, Grace hovered for a moment unsure of what to do. Her eyes darted past a small coffee shop and her gaze stopped on the fruit and veg seller at the edge of the market. With a decisive nod, Grace made her way towards that stall; she would have a healthy lunch. Grace appraised the fruit and winced at the handwritten prices. That was another reason why she ate so badly, healthy food was never cheap.

“What can I get you, love?” Grace glanced up into the smiling face of the fruit seller, who greeted her every morning as she walked by. He was in his mid-fifties she judged and had the look of someone who could sell snow to an Inuit.

“Just some plums and two bananas, please.” The grocer nodded and began picking Grace’s fruit just as there was a sound of rustling and crashing from a covered area behind the stall. The smiling grocer glanced around calling out.

“Don’t mess up all my boxes down there. Just stack them properly.” Turning back to Grace, the grocer shook his head with a smile. “My nephew. You can’t get the staff these days.” Grace smiled, watching as he weighed her order. “You work round here?” he asked.

“Just at the diner,” Grace replied with a smile, watching as he deftly bagged up her fruit.

“£2.30 please.” As Grace counted the money out of her purse, the fruit vendor spoke again, nodding at the emblem on Grace’s hooded jumper.

“Lady Henrietta, you at college then?”

“University,” Grace replied, wishing he’d hurry up, her lunch hour was ticking away.

“Which uni?” he asked. Grace blushed as she always did when asked this question. The responses always embarrassed her, ranging from incredulity, to disproportionate pride and congratulations and occasionally, too, censure as though she had somehow sold out.

“Oxford,” Grace said quietly.

“Oxford, really. Good for you. One of our lads is up there.” Grace looked up surprised at the response; she had not expected that.

“Really?” she asked her curiosity piqued.

“Yeah, hang on.”

Grace watched as the seller turned around, shouting into the back of the stall.

“Oi, Monkey, get out here.” There was more rustling and banging as the grocer spoke. “My nephew, he’s up at Oxford too.”

Grace watched as a tall, smiling young man emerged, coming forward towards them. He looked first at his uncle and then he turned to Grace and the smile died on his face.

And suddenly Grace felt as though she had somehow stepped off the edge of the world as she stared into the eyes of Matt.

Three days later and he was back at the diner again.

Grace took a deep breath and looked away from Matt and continued wiping down a table. In just ten minutes her shift would be over and she would be able to do what she’d done every day these last three days. Slip out of the back and rush home, thereby avoiding Matt. Grace breathed a sigh of relief as the clock hit 7 p.m. and she headed out the back. In the locker room, she unclipped her apron and pulled on her cardigan. Even days later, she struggled to understand the revelations. Matt. One of The Gatsbies, except he wasn’t. Wasn’t rich. Wasn’t posh. He was like her from inner London, the son of a pub landlord, nephew of a market stall trader. He was just like her; they should have been allies. Except he wasn’t like her, he was white and that meant he could pass, with just the right adjustments to his accent, his attitude, he could pretend to be one of them.

The evening was cool as Grace stepped out into the alleyway and she pulled her cardigan closed and gasped. Matt stood waiting for her. For a moment, Grace froze and then she kept her head down and ploughed forward. She hoped he would move. He didn’t.

“Can you get out of my way, please.”

“We need to talk,” Matt said, his voice little more than a whisper.

“There’s nothing to say.” Grace sidestepped him. She felt his hand rise as though to prevent her passing him but then it dropped back down to his side.

“Grace, please.” Unable to stop herself her eyes rose to his face and that was her mistake. Matt looked worn and tired and there were dark circles under his eyes. He looked desperate and utterly unlike her confident defender from Oxford. And Grace knew then that he had her. Slowly she turned around to fully face him.

“What do you want from me?”

“What you saw, who I am…” Matt began.

“What about it?” Grace cut, in striving to hold onto the coldness that had settled in her heart.

“They can’t find out. None of them can know.”

“Who? The Gatsbies?” Matt winced as she uttered the name and made real his fears.

“You know what they’re like at Newman. Someone assumed and I just went with it.”

“Lucky you,” Grace snapped bitterly even as a small part of her applauded his audacity. He’d played The Gatsbies, was still playing them.

“I just need to keep it up, till graduation, get a good job, use the connections… What’s so wrong with that?”

“It’s one hell of a secret,” Grace said slowly.

“Please don’t say anything,” Matt continued. Grace heard the pleading note in his voice. She saw the fear in his eyes and suddenly something shifted. For the first time in her life Grace felt the thrill of power.

For the last three weeks of the summer Grace had nursed the secret like a precious stone. In the day, she forced it to the back of her mind, waited her tables, ran the gauntlet of the market nodding at Matt’s uncle. Sometimes, she would see Matt watching, fear and desperation still etched on his face. He was still waiting for her answer. Only at night, long after another tense dinner with The Pastor and her mother, only in the dark in her stuffy bedroom would she take the secret out, exposing it to the light of her scrutiny.

The more she thought about it, the more Grace marvelled. Matt must be smart, really clever to have sustained his double life, to have been able to convince The Gatsbies. Another fact filled Grace with a frisson of excitement – only she knew Matt’s secret. In the moment before she closed her eyes, Grace smiled at the realisation that for once, she had something that Poppy or Laura did not have. For now at least, she had the real Matt.

“What are we going to do?” Matt asked nervously. He’d looked surprised to see Grace lurking outside the pub on a Sunday morning.

“What do you want me to do?” Grace asked, meeting Matt’s gaze head on. She no longer shied away from his gaze, no longer felt embarrassed to let him see her staring, that was the thing about power. Suddenly, for the first time power had shifted into her hands and it made Grace feel something that she had never felt before, it made her feel almost fearless.

“Just don’t say anything, don’t throw me to the wolves…” Grace shook her head, weighing up her words, leaving Matt hanging.

“You’ve been hanging with The Gatsbies for too long,” she finally said. “Why would I expose you?” Grace saw the relief flood through Matt. She saw the tension drain from him and his shoulders sagged.

“You promise?” he asked.

“’Course,” Grace replied. “I like knowing something that none of those bitches will ever know.”

“I swear if there’s any way I can ever help you…” Matt trailed off. “Thank you,” he said.

Grace nodded and was stunned as she felt Matt engulf her in a hug that took the breath out of her. For a moment Grace was frozen and then slowly she let her own arms move around Matt’s body. She allowed herself to squeeze him back and then suddenly he was pulling back away from her and Grace felt deflated, as though a shiny new trinket had been presented to her and then snatched away before she could fully explore its possibilities. Grace lowered her eyes to the ground to hide the yearning that had blasted through her.

“I’ll see you back in Oxford then,” Matt said. “What’s your mobile number?” Reaching into her bag, Grace scrawled her number onto a piece of paper. She handed it to him and raised her eyes to meet his again. Matt had started to turn away and then he stopped. “I’m glad you know,” he said. “I know I can trust you.” And then he was gone, disappearing back into the pub.

For several long minutes, Grace stood there, staring up at the pub signage that was gently swinging in the breeze, her heart soaring as she wondered what her second year at Oxford might bring.

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