Victoria Fox - Temptation Island

On the bench was a girl she hadn’t seen before. She had long straight black hair, pale skin and a compact, petite body.

‘How come you’re out?’ asked Aurora moodily as she slumped down.

‘I don’t like exercise,’ said the girl, not bothering to look up. She was reading a book, and when Aurora peered over she saw it was written in another language.

‘What’s that?’ she asked, sipping from a bottle of water and crossing her legs. She thought she spied Mr Faulks loping into the Science block and adjusted her bib to reveal a little more flesh.

‘It’s a book,’ the girl said flatly. This time Aurora noticed the strong accent.

‘You’re French?’

‘Bravo.’

Aurora kind of liked her blatant lack of interest—it piqued her own. ‘I’m Aurora Nash,’ she said, sticking out her hand.

Finally the girl looked up. She was startlingly pretty, with a perfect white complexion, blood-red lips and cat-like green eyes.

‘I know who you are,’ she said. ‘The loud American.’ She frowned. ‘Is your tan real?’

Aurora was unoffended. ‘West Coast sun, baby.’ She withdrew her hand and sat back. ‘You should get some.’

‘I don’t like how it looks.’

‘Thanks very much.’

The girl returned to her book.

‘Sport sucks for me, too,’ Aurora said. ‘How come you get off?’

‘I refuse to do it.’

‘Sounds like a great tactic.’

The girl flipped her book shut. ‘I am exempt from these lessons. My parents have a doctor friend—he wrote me the diagnosis.’

‘Which was?’

She shrugged. ‘Simply, I am not a team player.’

Aurora laughed with genuine amusement. ‘What are you, then?’

‘I’m me.’

She raised her left brow. ‘Does “me” get high?’

The girl narrowed her eyes. ‘Do you imagine you can be my friend?’

Aurora pulled up her scratchy, fashion-bankrupt socks. ‘I don’t care either way.’

‘Because I’m not here to make friends.’

‘Suit yourself.’

They sat in silence for a bit, watching Eugenie Beaufort roar and pump the air with her fist whenever her team scored a goal.

Aurora noticed the girl didn’t reopen her book. After a while she turned to Aurora. ‘I’m Pascale Devereux,’ she said, and held out a small, pale hand.

Aurora took it. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

‘You will be.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Because now you have,’ said Pascale, ‘things around here are about to get a lot more interesting.’

Stevie took the part. How could she not? There it was, laid out before her, the role thousands of girls had dreamed of. Including Bibi Reiner.

‘B, this was meant to be yours,’ Stevie said when the role was formally offered. ‘You wanted Lauren. I wasn’t even supposed to be here.’

Bibi kept her smile in place. She was not the sort of girl to begrudge a friend’s success, even if her pride stung. Stevie could never know why she’d wanted the role so much, why she’d had her heart set on a gig free from Linus Posen’s grip—she probably thought it was just another failed audition. Bibi was used to rejection, wasn’t she?

‘Take it, Steve,’ she said, giving her a hug, and despite her disappointment pleased for her. ‘Your turning it down won’t bring it my way, will it?’

‘If it would …’ She meant it.

‘I know. Really, it’s OK.’

Stevie felt bad. She had never harboured desires to be an actress, far from it, and yet the opportunity had landed straight in her lap. To her surprise the script in its entirety interested her, and people were telling her she had talent and that maybe she should give it a go. What did she have to lose? The studio had long been searching for an antidote to blonde-haired blue-eyed California, captured perfectly in Stevie’s cool, detached beauty, which, once the spectacles were off (she’d finally succumbed to lenses), everyone agreed was astounding.

‘You’ve changed my life, B,’ she told her friend. ‘I owe you so much.’

Bibi squeezed her hand and promised herself her time would one day come. It had to.

In the meantime, she asked Stevie to run her a small favour. Lie to Me would be filmed in Los Angeles, where the studio would put her up in a modest apartment complex. Bibi’s younger brother was already in the city, struggling to get parts, heavily in debt and currently residing on randoms’ sofas. Would she be able to accommodate him for a while?

Naturally, Stevie agreed.

Six weeks later, she was filming on location. Dirk Michaels, Hollywood powerhouse and legendary money-spinner, was producing. Stevie was living out of her suitcase in LA and getting four hours’ sleep a night. Things were moving unbelievably quickly, her name public property virtually overnight, her image suddenly appearing on Google and friends she hadn’t seen in years clamouring to make contact and claim they’d once been close. Everyone wanted a piece of her. She was being invited to an endless stream of parties and functions, awards ceremonies and photo shoots, scarcely having time to register that this was a world she’d been set against for years but now had welcomed her with open arms. Word was spreading about the hottest new actress in town: Stevie Speller was being billed as the next Great British Star, combining all the haughty London beauty of Keira Knightley with the shy intellect of Natalie Portman.

After the awkwardness of that first audition with Bibi—at least she’d felt it was awkward—she found herself taking to the game with surprising zeal. Her first time on set had been terrifying, she felt like a total sham, but before she knew it the director was calling ‘Cut!’ and the scene was nailed. All her life, as for so many, she’d been OK at a lot of things but never excelled in one. When she was immersed in a role, speaking words that had already been written, living a life in which the outcome was safe and known, she found refuge. She was able to forget where she’d been and what she’d done. When she watched her performance she was amazed to see so many versions of herself coming back. Ways of behaviour she’d never thought she had.

It was a sunny Hollywood Wednesday morning and Stevie was in her agent’s downtown office. Marty King was top dog, a power agent with a host of superstars on his books. She couldn’t believe it when he’d approached, and when she told Bibi over the phone the other girl squealed, ‘I just peed in my pants!’ Bibi went on to inform her that Marty King was renowned for his knack of spotting a star on her way to the top. He also represented major Hollywood blockbuster names like Cole Steel. Cole’s films had been staple viewing in Stevie’s family while she’d been growing up and the idea of sharing representation with him was mind-blowing.

‘Have you got a boyfriend?’ Marty asked. For a second she thought it was a loaded question—she’d heard enough about fledgling actresses getting promised the stars and ending up on their hands and knees—but he regarded her seriously from across his desk. Marty had ruddy cheeks and a soft thatch of orange hair. Stevie could tell he’d been handsome in his younger years, and he had a genuine smile she was learning was rare to come by in this town.

She thought of Will, who’d been less than enamoured with news of her moving out to LA. ‘I’m not sure,’ she replied.

Marty made a face. ‘That means no.’

‘It does?’

He picked something out from between his teeth—a remnant from lunch, perhaps—and examined it before sucking it off his fingers. It told Stevie all she needed to know about how powerful Marty was. He didn’t need to impress; his name spoke for itself.