At last, Tony snapped. The kitchen plunged into silence. Lori knew she had gone too far, but she had wanted a reaction, any reaction. Now she had got one.
But it wasn’t the one she expected.
‘If that is the way you feel,’ said Tony evenly, ‘then we will not stop you leaving. In fact, we will encourage it.’ He rubbed his eyes, and when they met hers, red-rimmed with fatigue, she saw they were empty as a well.
‘If you insist on seeing this boy, we will have no choice but to send you to Corazón.’
She was appalled. ‘In Spain?’ Corazón was Lori’s elderly grandmother on Tony’s side. The woman lived in the middle of nowhere in a remote mountainous part of the country.
Tony nodded. ‘Angélica and I believe it is for the best.’
It made sense. ‘That’s exactly the way you want it,’ she told her stepmother, almost admiring her nerve. ‘Get me out of the way, maybe I’ll never come back.’
‘We are giving you a choice,’ said Angélica, dripping mock-fairness. ‘If you continue to see Enrique Marquez, you will leave us with none.’
Lori pushed her way through to the hall. Anita and Rosa scurried out of sight; Rosa’s large behind waddling noisily up the stairs to the bedroom she shared with her sister.
She was blind with anger. It was unthinkable to split from Rico—he was her only refuge, the only thing in life that made her feel there was some escape, however, whenever. But equally she could not risk being sent to Spain. Her grandmother was about to die, she must be a hundred at least, and it would be like being sent to the graveyard herself.
‘Loriana, you come back here!’ screamed Angélica from inside the house, furious that she should be walked out on. ‘I haven’t finished with you!’
The beach drew her, the only place she could think of to go. She was desperate to call Rico but couldn’t bring herself to tell him what had been said. Angélica’s cruel words echoed, chaotic, in her memory, like a bird she had seen once, trapped in a room.
A truck horn sounded as she crossed Ocean Boulevard. A guy stuck his head out of the window and shouted something appreciative. In frayed denim shorts and a plain string vest, two thin hoops glinting in her wild black hair, Lori was a siren without a clue how to use her beauty—and that was the best use of all.
The ocean was still. It wasn’t yet dark. Lori removed her shoes and padded across the golden sand. At the water’s edge, she stopped.
So this was the choice: quit seeing Rico or go to Spain. The irony was that if it were anywhere else she would have jumped at the chance—wasn’t it the breakout she’d been wishing for?—but if she felt now like her life was moving nowhere, it would be nothing compared with the situation at Corazón’s. Lori recalled the house in Spain only distantly, in the mists of her childhood, but the fragments she assembled created an image of quiet and loneliness and loss. What could there possibly be for her there? More waiting … waiting for her life to pass her by.
Mierda! Frustration gave way to unhappiness. She refused to weep; she was stronger than that. Tears achieved nothing. She needed a plan.
In the distance, a boat edged slowly across the horizon. Lori closed her eyes. In the months following her mother’s death, she had pictured an island, somewhere remote and far away, the place she always went to when she needed to remember there was a wider world waiting to be found. She could picture it so clearly: its sweeping white shores and sparkling green waters, the chalky heat and the blazing sun. Now, at the ocean’s lip, sensing the great expanse at her feet, she could almost believe such a place existed. An island that was all hers, her fantasy alone, which nobody else could touch.
One day …
Hers was a different fate. Maybe she knew it because of her mother: she had to live a life that was big enough for two. Maybe it was because she spent too much time poring over romance novels, gateways to those other glittering treasure-filled worlds. Or maybe, just maybe, it was because she was right. Her heart believed it and she trusted her heart.
Lori breathed the salty air deep into her lungs. One day she would visit her island, see it made real. See the destiny that awaited her there.
It was obvious what had to happen.
She and Rico had talked about it. Now they just had to do it.
They were going to run away.
8 Aurora
Tom Nash examined his reflection in the glass terrace doors. The record label was taking him out. Clad in tight leather slacks and an open white shirt, he teased the final element of his highlighted hairstyle into place. Aurora watched him.
‘Don’t you get hot in those pants?’ she asked, sparking up a thin joint and reclining on the poolside lounger. Even through her Ray-Bans the sun was blazing, filling her vision with dots when she opened her eyes. ‘They look like they’re melting on your legs.’
Her father didn’t appear to hear; he was way too concerned with his appearance. Aurora thought he was looking quite orange these days, understandable since they’d just had a sunbed installed in the mansion’s basement, along with a gigantic spa, sauna and steam room. Tom was the only one who seemed to make use of it. Her mother, by comparison, was a pale-skinned beauty with a chronic fear of melanoma. She only appeared outdoors wearing wide-brimmed hats and covered in material head to toe. Physically, Aurora was unlike either of them.
She was used to being ignored when her father was preening. Her parents’ latest hit ‘Steady Rock’, a gently lilting country ballad, emanated from inside the mansion, but was mercifully drowned out when Aurora screwed in her iPod and blasted some vintage Pearl Jam. Stretching out, she lost herself in the music. Oh yeah, she majorly dug rockers. A few weeks ago she’d attended a gig at the White Rooms, an indie group from Wisconsin on the cusp of a breakthrough, and ended up having sex with the lead guitarist right here in her mom and dad’s pool. She turned to the blue water and remembered it with a tug of yearning: the way she had gripped on to the marble rim, each rough thrust sending an exquisite pain rushing through her, a spill of water over the side … Hmm. She was definitely hooking up with him again. These days she was certainly mixing with far cooler, and more mature, people than Farrah was. In fact she hadn’t seen much of her best friend since the night she’d totalled the car. Personally she couldn’t see the attraction in Boy-Band-Christian. She doubted he even had pubic hair.
A shadow loomed over her. Aurora opened her eyes a crack and reluctantly removed an earphone. She stank of weed but Tom pretended, as ever, not to notice.
‘I gotta go, baby,’ said her father, in a rich Texan drawl which years in LA hadn’t completely washed out. He ruffled her hair affectionately. ‘Be good, OK?’
‘Always am,’ she replied.
Tom raised an eyebrow. Once upon a time that line might have worked, but given her recent disgrace it didn’t say a great deal.
‘Where’s Mom?’
‘Out.’
‘Isn’t she going with you?’
Tom made a non-committal gesture. ‘She’s
