and in demand, she would be loved, respected, and—
‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’
Dionne jumped up from the couch and grabbed a nearby dustsheet to cover her body. Fernandez had been kneeling at the foot of the chaise longue, pointing the camera between her legs.
He grinned lecherously. ‘You know, you’re even more beautiful when you’re mad. And you’re the best bit of cunt Ramón’s ever sent me.’
Dionne felt sick.
‘Give me that camera,’ she yelled, lunging at him.
But Fernandez was too quick for her.
‘’Fraid not, cutie pie,’ he sneered. ‘I ain’t letting these go. You’re a natural, you know that? You should be a model.’
‘I am going to be a model,’ Dionne insisted, blinking back tears.
Fernandez laughed loudly and Dionne pulled the sheet more tightly around her. ‘You ain’t never gonna be no supermodel, honey. The public – they don’t like black trash, see? And that ass ain’t never gonna fit into any sample sizes.’
‘Give me those pictures!’ Dionne screamed again, snatching furiously at the camera. But Fernandez held on to it tightly.
‘Get the fuck out of my house,’ he snarled, pushing his face up close towards her. Dionne could smell the stench of his breath, see his yellowed teeth.
With a sob, she grabbed her clothes and ran down the corridor, leaving the door open behind her as she ran outside. Tears were streaming down her face as she sprinted barefoot into the street, her thick, black hair streaming out behind her. Passing cars honked their horns, amused by the spectacle of this beautiful girl running down the road with only a sheet wrapped around her, but Dionne was too upset to care.
How could she have been so fucking stupid? She’d thought this was going to be her big break, but he was just some fucking pervert. Jesus, he had those pictures of her – God only knew what he’d taken when she wasn’t paying attention. He’d been pointing the camera right between her legs, right up …
Dionne stopped running and collapsed into sobs. The photos would go all round Dash Ramón’s crew, she knew that. She wanted to kill him for humiliating her like this. She thought he’d been doing her a favour, but Dash Ramón was only looking out for himself, as usual. Shit, what if her daddy saw those photos?
‘Hey, Dionne! You okay?’
It was Trey Williams, one of the guys from her neighbourhood. They hung out with the same crowd and she’d slept with him a couple of times.
‘Baby, what happened?’ he asked, looking genuinely concerned as he pulled his car over to where Dionne was standing, shivering, on the sidewalk. ‘Come on, get in,’ Trey told her, opening the passenger side door.
Miserably, Dionne did as she was told.
‘What happened?’ Trey repeated, as she slid into the seat beside him.
‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ Dionne insisted, wiping her eyes furiously on a corner of the filthy sheet.
‘You wanna go back to mine – get yourself fixed up?’
Dionne nodded. He was a nice guy, and she didn’t want to go home yet.
‘Oh, Dionne, baby, you’re so good …’
Dionne lay back lifelessly as Trey writhed and moaned on top of her.
‘I told you Trey would cheer you up, didn’t I, baby?’ he whispered, pushing deeper into her.
Dionne lay silent, closing her mind as he used her body.
She didn’t mind, not really. It was all the same to her. Men always wanted sex, and she wanted to feel loved. It was a fair trade.
Dionne lay back passively, running over her options as Trey thrust inside her, grunting and squirming. She had to get out of here. She’d known it for years, but this afternoon had made her see there was no future for her in Detroit.
Ever since she was a kid, people had told her she ought to model. She was beautiful, with soft, flawless skin, high cheekbones, huge, liquid-brown eyes and legs that went on forever. But as she’d grown up, her body had refused to cooperate with her dream. Dionne had wanted to be tall and skinny with a flat chest and no hips, but nature wouldn’t play ball, obstinately blessing her with large breasts and a full-on booty that never seemed to get any smaller no matter how much she exercised. Whenever Dionne tried the big agencies, she always got the same answer: ‘Try glamour work. You haven’t got the right look for runway modelling.’
But Dionne refused to let them crush her dream and turned her attentions to Europe; after all, didn’t they like different-looking girls over there? Dionne was no Cindy Crawford, no all-American, California-tanned cheerleader type. But in Europe, the fashion world adored the tiny, bohemian Kate Moss, the doll-like Lily Cole and the Amazonian Naomi Campbell.
Trey began to thrust faster, and Dionne could tell he was close to climax. Obligingly, she moaned and arched her back, clenching herself around him. With a final groan, Trey came and collapsed onto her. He was heavy and sweating, and Dionne hoped he’d get off her soon.
‘Dionne, you’re the best, you know that?’ he told her, pulling out and rolling away from her. ‘I told you I’d cheer you up,’ he winked, clearly pleased with himself as he lit a spliff and lay back contentedly.
Dionne smiled weakly. ‘Thanks, Trey,’ she said, getting up and dressing hastily. ‘I’d better head off.’
‘Sure,’ he told her, unconcernedly. ‘I’ll see you around.’
Dionne paused. ‘Yeah, see you around.’ She let herself out, closing the door behind her, and stepped into the grimy streets, breathing in the polluted air. Suddenly she knew with absolute certainty that she had to get out of here, whatever it took. If she didn’t, the city would grind her down, her life becoming a carbon copy of her mother’s – marriage to a deadbeat drunk, a cluster of kids, a minimum wage job that exhausted her and made her look old before her time. There was no way she could let that happen. Dionne Summers wanted something more from life.
She thought of the money in her savings account. A thousand dollars. Enough to buy a plane ticket, a motel for a few nights. The possibilities swirled tantalizingly in her mind. She could go to Europe, find work, be a model. It all seemed so easy, so obvious.
Dionne looked around her, taking in the familiar streets for one last time. She felt something harden inside her, like steel, and she knew what she had to do.
2
Manchester, UK Eighteen months later
Alyson Wakefield scurried out of school into the freezing February air. Her head was bowed, her shoulders rounded in her habitual pose, in a desperate effort not to be noticed. Standing just shy of five feet eleven in flats, with a rail-thin body and endless, coltish legs, being unobtrusive was not something that came naturally to seventeen-year-old Alyson Wakefield.
Her
