Havana Adams - Black Diamond

“Lola, Amber. Goddesses, as always.” Tyler stood as they approached, smiling with a flash of his blinding white teeth. “So how have you been?” Tyler directed his question at Lola as they took their seats.

“Good, we’ve gone out a whole lot,” she admitted. “And I checked, we were on one of those live blog things after the benefit last week. That’s good, right?” Lola asked. Tyler gave a non-committal nod.

“It’s a start,” he replied, leaning back in his chair and for just a moment Lola caught a flash in his eyes, a flash of the shark that must lurk beneath the laid-back, Californian beach boy exterior. “But the thing is, we’re not even in the ball park yet, babe. We want you to be everywhere, not just on blogs. We want you on TV, on magazines, on red carpets, at the Super Bowl and maybe eventually on movie screens.” Lola stared in dismay at Tyler. She thought her renewed push had been good. For someone who’d partied since she was thirteen, she hadn’t imagined that it could ever become a chore but in the last two weeks she and Amber had been to everything. What more could they do?

“How do we do that?” she asked quietly. Tyler nodded at Amber.

“Amber and I have been talking and we think what you need is a boyfriend. A celebrity boyfriend.”

Whatever Lola had expected to hear, this wasn’t it and she stared open-mouthed at Tyler.

CHAPTER 7

“His name is Nico.”

Grace looked up at Vicky’s words as they strolled through the University Parks on another sunny day. Across the field, a rowdy group of cricketers were engaged in a nets session, whooping loudly as one of their number was caught out. Several joggers had lapped them several times making Grace feel exhausted. Even as she relished the feeling of the warm sunshine on her skin, with the thought of the impending summer also came other fears, not least that she would have to abandon her thick sweats and hoodies for clothes that might reveal more of her far too ample body. Once again her healthy eating regime had failed to take, just last night as she waded through the Law of Property Statutes, she’d chomped down on an 18-inch pizza all by herself.

“His name is Nico,” Vicky repeated.

“Whose name is Nico?” Grace asked though she knew she wasn’t fooling her friend. Vicky gave a low laugh and Grace felt her face warm.

“Old Steamy eyes,” Vicky replied punctuating her words with a long smooching sound.

“Stop it,” Grace hissed, her eyes darting quickly around. Grace allowed herself to think about the boy whose blue-grey eyes had stopped her in her tracks at Newman. She had seen him several times during her shifts and every time he’d been in the company of the same group of beautiful people. Grace’s eyes darted around to make sure no one had heard Vicky’s comment. Not that it was likely that Nico or indeed any of The Gatsbies would ever make it this far out of town.

The Gatsbies, that is what they were called, Grace had learned. And she understood the nickname absolutely, evoking as it did the decadence and wealth and glamorous luxury of the book The Great Gatsby . Nico and his friends were modern-day Gatsbys with their reputed millions and their country homes and yachts and glamorous star-studded parties. Since that day when she had met eyes with Nico Andreou, her serving stints at Newman had been tinged with a charged frisson of something. What that thing was, Grace had avoided putting a name to. By design she’d always ended up serving on the other side of Hall from where The Gatsbies always sat and so there had been no chance for any more eye contact. Not that it was likely to happen again, Grace told herself sternly, for Nico Andreou was not merely out of her league, he was utterly out of her stratosphere; in another universe altogether. Once, when she’d been flicking through the magazines at a local bookstore, she had stopped shocked as she’d caught sight of Nico within the pages of a glossy celebrity magazine. On his arm had been a famous European pop star and next to him a dashing older couple that could only be his parents. Grace had devoured the article. Nico’s mother was a former Brazilian swimwear model and his father a billionaire Greek industrialist whose business influence reached all over the world. Grace had set the magazine back down on the shelf and walked quietly home, more aware than ever that she’d stepped into a world where she didn’t belong.

By now, she and Vicky had emerged from the Parks and they snaked their way past the Museums and the Science Buildings towards Cornmarket, where they parted company.

“Have fun at home,” Grace called and was rewarded with a wave from her friend. For a moment, Grace watched as her friend disappeared down the road towards the train station. Vicky was going home to Birmingham and Grace felt a pang of guilt. All term she had avoided going home. Her last visit had been fraught and she’d sworn to avoid The Pastor for as long as she could. But now she thought about her mother, who’d seemed even more frail and tired when she’d last seen her. Grace thought about her mother’s voice on the phone, when they’d spoken the week before. Her mother, always quiet, had seemed even more withdrawn, lifeless almost. And yet, Grace could not bring herself to go home, not till term was over. For as long as possible she wanted to keep The Pastor at bay.

Grace walked into Newman, glancing at the ornate clock-tower at the far end of the quad. She smiled; for once she was early. As she entered the kitchens, Grace gave Nessa a winning smile. Her essay for the week was done and with her tutorial the next day re-scheduled, Grace would have time to do her favourite things – mooch around Oxford, catch a film, borrow fiction books; not even Nessa would dampen her spirits today.

“Grace, did you hear me?” Grace was thrown from her sunny imaginings by Nessa’s harsh voice. “You take High Table and the right corner today.” Grace felt her stomach sink. Today, like it or not, she would be serving The Gatsbies.

The lights in Hall were their usual dim orange and yet Grace felt as though a heavy spotlight was blinding her. Totally belying her name, she had never been graceful, anything but, and tonight her feet felt comically heavy. With every step into Hall, Grace felt nerves unsettle her. Perhaps they wouldn’t be here tonight. Grace gave a fervent prayer to whoever was up there but as her eyes darted to the far right corner of Hall, she saw her prayers would not be answered. They were there. All of them.

The Gatsbies always commanded attention. Even in a University the size of Oxford, with the disparate colleges, somehow their moniker preceded them. Once, while sitting at lunch in her College, Grace had listened intently as another Fresher had breathlessly recounted every detail of her encounter with The Gatsbies at a ball.

“There was Nico. Greek, billionaire dad, hot as fuck, mainly shags Poppy when he’s between pop stars and supermodels. Then The Right Honourable Poppy Hewson-Chambers, total aristocrat, everyone calls her The Right Hon – blonde, goddess, number one on Tatler ’s most eligible list. JoJo De Vere, South African, diamond heiress, knows the royals, lots of skulduggery and white mischief shenanigans. Then there’s Matt Downing, wealthy London parents in hotels or something and his girlfriend Laura Sugar-Naylor, old money, sugar plantations, very yah!”

Long after she’d finished her sandwich, Grace had continued to sit, eavesdropping shamelessly on the tales about The Gatsbies and their exploits, the balls they went to, the suites they hired at The Randolph for weekend drinking parties, the holidays at a moment’s notice to their private islands, the hampers from Fortnum & Mason…

As she sidled over towards their table, Grace felt like a stone was weighted in her stomach.