Victoria Fox - Power Games

Angela didn’t give a shit about any of that. She had the balls and the brains of any man—bigger, better—and had demonstrated she could easily trounce her brothers when it came to business. Setting up Fit for NYC by herself was testament to that.

‘You’re drunk,’ she said, switching seamlessly to a smile for their guest of honour, supermodel of the moment Tawny Lascelles. Tawny was blonde, wide-eyed and sultry. She was four years younger than Angela but the gap felt wider—the way Tawny behaved in the press was naïve to say the least, snorting coke, flashing her knickers (or lack of them), creeping into cabs with married men … It hadn’t stopped her snagging contracts with Burberry, Mulberry and Chanel—and her attendance tonight was surely to make certain that Angela’s brainchild was next.

‘Tawny, how great to see you, thank you for coming …’

The model delivered a tight air-kiss, sniffed the air and moved on.

Orlando smirked. ‘Why are models always baked?’

‘Yeah, well, at least one of us is on top of our game.’

‘Which is why you’ve been AWOL for the past half hour?’

Angela conceded that her pre-party dalliance with Noah hadn’t exactly been the height of professionalism. She couldn’t help it. Snatched moments, hidden trysts, each second savoured to carry them to the next encounter, always an eternity away. Both public figures, a glimpse would be splashed across the web in a nanosecond—already rumours simmered dangerously. Noah had implored her, but still she said no.

Damn! She could not live beneath her father’s jurisdiction for ever.

‘Well?’ Orlando pressed. ‘Gonna let me in on your vanishing act?’

‘It’s none of your damn business.’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Want me to tell Dad?’

‘Tell him what?’

‘You know what.’

‘I know you can fuck off.’

‘You’re a shitty liar, Angela.’

She wanted to hit him. ‘And what makes you such a saint?’

Orlando shrugged. ‘Nothing. Guess I’m better at hiding it than you.’

It had been too much to hope for her brother’s support. Only Noah had believed she could do this. Only he’d had faith. Despite the way her family had treated him in the past, Noah had been adamant that victory was in her blood—and if the men could do it, why couldn’t she? Ever since her great-grandfather had founded a modest Boston department store, through the decades growing it from strength to strength, winning had been the name of the game. On the crest of success her father had expanded into wider markets still: hotels, casinos, fashion labels; on to the Middle East, Tokyo and Singapore …

Today the Silvers brand was a worldwide lifestyle force. Angela was dead-set on running the ship one day. In the meantime, if her father wouldn’t stake her a role, she would simply go up against him. She had to prove herself one way or another.

Gianluca joined them. Together, the Silvers brothers reeked so strongly of a Harvard Business degree it settled like fog.

‘Dad’s got an announcement,’ said Luca, with his irritating I-know-something-you-don’t-know pout. Luca’s wide, thick-lashed eyes and high brushstroke cheekbones were trademarks of the family. Women went crazy for him.

‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Orlando took another drink. ‘He’s retiring—and you know what that means. Silvers is coming straight to me, baby.’

Luca arranged his jacket. ‘Yeah?’

‘I’m the eldest.’ He swigged. ‘But hey, don’t worry, I won’t fire you.’

Luca smirked. Then he said: ‘May the best man win.’

‘Or woman.’

‘Forget it,’ Luca dismissed, waving a hand about, ‘haven’t you already got this … sideline?’

‘Which is a damn sight more than you’ve got,’ Angela shot back.

A tinkling glass put paid to the dispute. Angela seized the platform, welcomed the sea of guests and press and recounted her journey, from a teenage summer in Paris that had ignited her passion for couture, to the first flame of her Fit for NYC idea; from the funding she’d secured—independently from her father—to the glory of this opening night. She imagined Noah next to her, encouraging her and urging her on.

When the applause died down, echoes of light still dancing from the raft of cameras, she invited her father, as arranged, to offer his congratulations.

As Donald Silvers approached, she fixed her determined gaze on his.

In spite of it all, Angela knew that he believed in her. She had never been the daughter he’d anticipated—she’d been more.

He shook her hand, equal to equal.

Now was her chance to prove it.

Los Angeles

Kevin Chase was watching his manager’s mouth. He noticed for the first time that it was a small mouth, the teeth crowded, and the jowly cheeks bolstering it brought to mind a yapping dog wedged between two cushions. The mouth was moving, but no sound was coming out. In the years since becoming America’s biggest solo artist—scratch that, the world’s—and the definitive pin-up for a squillion screeching tweenies (when was his fan base going to grow ?), Kevin had honed the art of appearing to concentrate while actually not listening to a single word.

‘Kevin, are you paying attention? C’mon, buddy, this is serious.’

‘Yeh.’

‘Well, what have you got to say for yourself?’

Kevin slumped further into the squishy leather couch in Sketch Falkner’s downtown office and grudgingly lifted his shoulders.

‘Dunno,’ he grumbled. ‘One of those things, I guess.’

Sketch contained his exasperation and came to the front of the desk. He had been in this game thirty years. He had seen it all. As the industry’s top talent spotter and head of the board here at Cut N Dry Records, he knew how to handle his clients.

‘What in hell were you thinking?’ he encouraged.

Kevin folded his arms, stared ahead and refused to reply. His gold FNYC cap was wedged on sideways. His slouch jeans were massive, gangsta style despite his suburban upbringing, and strapped partway down his ass. He wore a white vest adorned by hefty chains, and on his feet were his cherished purple SUPRAs, one of which was jiggling up and down as if he needed the bathroom. Several tattoos were splashed self-consciously across his upper arms, the biggest depicting his ex-girlfriend, pop princess Sandi—and, as if having Sandi’s image branded onto his skin for all eternity wasn’t bad enough, the artist had given her some weird-ass dangly skirt that made it look like Kevin had a thing for chicks with dicks. His frame was slight despite rigorous gym sessions, and the wisps around his chin refused to mature beyond fuzz. The overall impression was one of a junior who had raided his big brother’s closet, or else a snowman that had melted in the sun, leaving only a jumble of clothes behind.

Eventually he said: ‘I want another Coke.’

‘ Please ,’ put in his mother Joan, seated at his shoulder like a parrot.

‘Please,’ Kevin grunted.

The truth was that a kid in Kevin’s position didn’t need to pay attention. Not really. Kevin Chase had three platinum albums to his name. He was the most talked about performer of his generation. He had scooped a raft of awards: Best Artist, Best Male, Best Single, Best Pop Act, Best Dance Act, Best Video, even Best Hair, which was only right because he took fucking good care of his hair, damn it. He was the ultimate twenty-first-century poster boy. He had close to sixty million followers on Twitter. His adoring fans, referred to as the Little Chasers, treated him like the Second Coming of Jesus. He blew up the media. He played sell-out gigs across the globe. He had his own fashion line, his own fragrance and produced his own movies. He had waxworks of his image in five major cities. He owned a chopper and a mega-yacht and so many properties that half the time he didn’t even know what countries they were in. He was a phenomenon, a philosopher (who could forget the profound opener to ‘Touch My Kiss’? Girl, this life can get so serious ) and a poet ( You make me so delirious; I’m on this like mysterious ) . He owned a dachshund named Trey.