She’d had enough drugs in her system to tranquillise a horse. In fact one of the drugs was for tranquillising horses. It was a spoiled, desperate scene. All that mindless excess, it wasn’t her thing.
Stevie’s last job had been working as PA to the director of a firm dealing in high-profile celebrity court cases: divorces, injunctions, political scandals, they’d handled it all. As part of that she’d been obliged to attend the occasional industry bash and had found each one unbearable. Cash made these people invincible, or so they thought. Stevie recalled him working flat out on a case shortly after she joined involving a married news anchor who’d been filmed dressing up four twenty-something Russian prostitutes as characters from The Wizard of Oz—it was their job to keep the press off the scent. She resisted the memory. That had been the case that started it. The late nights … the way he’d stand at the window loosening his tie, the spires of London behind, silhouetted in gold … the invitation of a drink, and then.
‘You do like men, don’t you?’ Bibi interrupted her train of thought. ‘Because this one time I kissed my best friend, who’s a girl, at holiday camp when I was, like, sixteen.’
Stevie shook her head. ‘So …?’
‘So are you gay?’
‘No.’
‘Just checking. Cos there are plenty of girls I could set you up with.’
‘Who says I want to get set up?’ Stevie removed her glasses and went to clean one of the lenses on her T-shirt. ‘Believe it or not, I like being by myself.’
Bibi bit her thumbnail. ‘Can you see without those on?’
‘Pretty much. I just can’t see things far away.’
‘You should get contacts.’
‘Hmm.’ She slipped them back on, returning to her computer.
‘You’re really not coming, then?’ Bibi folded her arms.
‘I’m really not coming.’
‘OK.’ One of the nice things about Bibi was that she’d try for her own way, but was quick to identify defeat and get over it without a struggle. ‘I guess you need to save yourself for Linus Posen’s party, anyway.’
‘Who?’
Bibi had made to leave, and turned now, feigning surprise. ‘Oh! Didn’t I mention it?’
Stevie raised an eyebrow. ‘No.’
‘You must have heard of Linus Posen.’
She hazarded a guess based on Bibi’s usual array of friends—and the more the name settled, the more she thought she recognised it. ‘Director? Producer?’
‘The first. My rep’s going, she’ll get us in. Honest, it’s the party of the season. And Linus is a very big deal.’ She clapped her hands together excitedly. ‘If I play this right, he could really make things happen! So you will come, won’t you? For moral support?’
Stevie cringed.
‘For me?’
‘That’s not fair.’
‘You’re in New York City, now, sugar, you’ve got to live a little.’ Bibi winked as she closed the door behind her. ‘Stick with me and you’ll be just fine.’
7 Lori
Tony Garcia folded his copy of La Opinión and slid it quietly on to the table. Lori noticed the stack of unopened envelopes gathered there, the red-stamped final warnings just visible in the windows. Dark circles shadowed her father’s eyes.
‘The shame!’ Angélica, at her husband’s wilted shoulder, had her thin arms folded and her black hair secured in a tight bun. Her lips were a bloody shade.
‘I’ve done nothing wrong,’ Lori replied coldly. She still had her bag slung over one shoulder, had scarcely returned from Tres Hermanas before Angélica embarked on her tirade. Anita and Rosa—those bitches, those putas—had grassed her up.
The tiny kitchen was the scene of their dispute. The house had barely been big enough for three when her mother was alive, but they had loved each other so it hadn’t mattered. Now, Lori felt the walls closing in on her, unbearably close. Dirty plates piled up in the sink, awaiting her attention; laundry heaped in a corner, a pair of Anita’s knickers thrown carelessly over the top; grime and squalor on every surface, tasks the women deemed beneath them.
‘Rico loves me,’ she attested, lifting her chin. ‘He takes care of me.’
‘Enrique Marquez is not one of us,’ spat Angélica, as if this closed the matter. ‘You are a disgrace to this family, Loriana.’
‘What family? You’re not my family. You’ll never be.’
Angélica’s eyes blazed. ‘Tony, tell your daughter to show me some respect!’
Tony was an echo. ‘You heard her, Lori. Show some respect.’
She wanted to hit him. Come on, she willed her father, stand up for yourself! Grief changed a man—but how much longer till she got him back?
‘His people are dangerous,’ blasted Angélica.
‘You know nothing about Rico and his family.’
‘I know about the dead baby!’ she rasped triumphantly. ‘Don’t think for a second we don’t know about her.’ Rico’s mother had given birth to a stillborn daughter the previous year: everyone knew it was the drugs.
‘His brother will go the same way, you can be sure of that,’ Angélica raged on. ‘They are dirty, Loriana. They are immigrants.’
‘And what does that make us?’
‘Tony!’ Angélica put a hand out to steady herself, appalled by the mere suggestion that she and her daughters should be classed in the same way.
Lori knew Anita and Rosa were behind her in the hallway, listening in. She pictured their rapt expressions and experienced a fresh surge of injustice. Nothing they did was ever wrong; everything she did was. She was an outcast in this house.
‘You want to complain about people who don’t work to support themselves? Fine. Ask your daughters. They’re lazy; they do nothing. Nada. The work falls to me—just as it does here.’ Her voice cracked. ‘Mama would be so disappointed.’
There was a flicker in Tony’s expression, but as soon as it appeared it was gone. Fury reignited Angélica, who was unable to tolerate reference to her predecessor.
‘You ungrateful puta!’ she spat. ‘Do you think you would fare better on your own? Go ahead, then—try! You’re living under our roof, remember—’
‘I don’t recall this house being yours,’ interrupted Lori. ‘And anyway, if you’d had your way I wouldn’t even be here, I’d never have been born. So why don’t
