Chloe glanced up at him. Some small, old part of her thought, You’re a real arsehole.
Jimmy seemed to think about sitting down, then padded to the opposite end of the pool and shook out his muscles. He looked troubled.
‘What’s this, an attack of conscience?’ she taunted. ‘This is real life, Jimmy–you make your choice and you pay the price.’
He disappeared into the pool with barely a splash and swam the length underwater. When he emerged at her end he grabbed hold of her knees. ‘That’s what you think I want you for?’ he mocked. ‘Real life? This is just fantasy, Chloe, and you’re part of it.’
‘We’re not getting married then?’ she flirted, kicking gently and sending a glittering splash into his face.
He looked at her funnily. His eyes were kind, she thought. Once upon a time he’d probably have been the perfect husband. If such a thing existed.
‘Not yet,’ he said, his gaze holding hers as he fed a hand between her legs. ‘Not yet.’
Sureiny Vélez was having a bad day. She’d woken up with a headache, had the children refuse to eat their breakfast then on the way to kindergarten the car had got a flat. Eventually she had dropped them off, but not before sitting on the sweltering verge with two screaming under-sixes for half an hour while Kate’s cover turned up. By the time she got back to the mansion, she was not a happy woman.
Even less so when she saw Jimmy cavorting outside by the pool with his new lady friend. Chloe French was very pretty, Sureiny conceded, dropping her bags in the kitchen, even if she thought it acceptable to run around outside without her top on. She’d seen more than enough of the girl in the past few days, in all senses of the word.
It wouldn’t be the first time he’s broken his blonde rule, she thought, patting her own dark hair. When Sureiny had first been employed by Kate diLaurentis four years ago, as a fresh-faced twenty-one-year-old, she had been shocked when Jimmy had propositioned her in the kitchen one night. Right here, in fact, she thought now, running her fingers over the hob. She remembered how he had approached her from behind, slipping his long fingers round her waist until the milk she had been warming had burned and frothed over … The next morning, it was as if nothing had happened. He’d had his piece and that was enough. Sureiny was left in no doubt as to who was the boss.
She slammed the fridge door shut. Every time Kate was away he did the same thing, bringing girls back to the house, installing them for a few days and having his piece of fun. Maybe this one had more backbone than the rest of them, wouldn’t go running and crying when he called it off. Just like she had.
Sanamagan!
She’d had enough. Jimmy Hart was a user, a liar, the worst kind of cheat. The time had come for quiet little Su-Su to speak up. His wife deserved to know exactly what was going on.
Turning away from the window, she lifted the phone and dialled.
London
Nate Reid belted out the final line of The Hides’ number-one single and the Apollo ruptured in applause. Chris’s drum roll wheeled on and Nate grabbed the mike stand, raising it aloft his head like a weightlifter, mouth open, roaring back at his fans. They clamoured for an encore, stamping their feet and chanting his name.
‘Nate! Nate! Nate!’
It was electrifying. Banners rippled in the audience, girls telling him that they loved him and they wanted to marry him. They craved him. Every single person here did.
Chris counted in the first song of their farewell set, a slower number that had people waving lighters and sending whistles into the air like balloons.
Nate looked out at his minions with pleasure. Since the release of Nowhere Town, The Hides had been the hottest band in British music. And, in a move that surprised everyone save Felix Bentley, they were now smashing the charts in America. The past few months had been a roller-coaster of wild parties, champagne and cocaine, drink, drugs and groupies; girls who did things they didn’t even know had been invented yet.
When Nate came away from the mike the whole auditorium took on the lyrics–he’d given this to them; he’d given them someone to love.
‘This girl’s the only one for me; tell her I love her, she just cannot see …’
It was a song he had written for Chloe, one of the many times he’d resolved to try keeping it in his pants. Focusing on the lyrics, he fought the rising surge of fury that accompanied her name. It had been three months since the night she’d castrated him–and she may as well have done for the lack of action he’d received in the ensuing weeks. Fortunately things had picked up again, in almost direct correlation with his growing status, but still her rejection stung like nothing he had experienced before.
‘This girl’s the only one for me; can’t she see I want her, can’t she see we’ll be …’
He almost stumbled over the words when he remembered how brutally Chloe had done it, the force of her character assassination and how public a humiliation it had been. Well, fuck that. Things had been shit for a while but he’d managed to steer things back on track. He’d done a few interviews that had set the record straight: finally he had broken free from a stifling, claustrophobic relationship with clingy Chloe. Yeah, he was a ladies’ man, he was born that way. It complemented his image to a T. Possibly more than Chloe ever did.
Two harder numbers later, the lights went down and the cheers went up. Cameras flashed in the crowd like stars. By the time The Hides had left the stage, the noise was deafening. Nate clapped his bandmates on the back and they shared a sweaty, euphoric embrace. The band was rock royalty–and, fuck it, he was the king.
The after party took place at 17 Village, a private club in Kensington favoured by the fashionable London set.
Nate settled in one of the booths and draped an arm across the shoulder of the blonde beauty either side of him. One of them placed a possessive hand on the inside of his leg; the other leaned in and sucked his earlobe.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ the plumper one purred. Bite-sized patches of flesh peeped through her netted dress, the straps digging in a bit, making her look like a Sunday joint prepped for roasting.
Nate knocked back the rest of his beer. Felix was partway through a DJ set and he had no intention of going anywhere. Besides, he could have the pick of any woman there.
Spencer ambled over with a clutch of vodka shots. ‘Check it out–Kate diLaurentis is at the bar. Random or what?’
Nate peered over his guitarist’s shoulder. He recalled meeting Kate at the Romans’ wedding last year. She was also an acquaintance of Felix–he must have invited her. Nate wondered if she’d seen The Hides perform.
Yes, it was her all right. Only she looked … different. She was dressed casually, in a loose-fitting trousersuit and boots, her platinum hair falling around her shoulders. It was a far cry from the uptight Hollywood wife he remembered–for a start, she looked ten years younger.
Kate was chatting to a balding British actor, a renowned Lothario, who had been doing Shakespeare in the West End. Something about her face had changed, too–it was more animated, kinder, more composed. Either she had a very good surgeon, he reckoned, or she was finally getting some: the cure, in Nate’s world, for most ailments.
Nate threw back a shot, then another one.
Spencer held his hands out. ‘Oi!’ Peeling off both blondes, Nate ambled over. Once he would have felt weird approaching a Hollywood legend like Kate, but not