His closet–as large as a room–had suits lined up like a regiment of soldiers. Shirts, crisp and white–more than a hundred. Sweaters, shoes, belts, ties. It was all too overwhelming, like being in a fancy department store. His bathroom was filled with many different kinds of lotions and grooming products, plus numerous bottles of pills that she didn’t dare touch.
As the years passed, she’d often roamed around the old house whenever she was sure it was safe to do so. Sometimes she’d sit in the oak-panelled library, flicking through his collection of leatherbound books. Other times she’d attempted to teach herself the piano. One of her favourite things to do was make up lyrics to the songs she planned on writing one day. Young as she was, music was her passion.
One day she’d decided to curl up in the middle of his bed just to see what it felt like. She’d stretched out and lain down. The bed was very comfortable and roomy, soft too. She had pulled a cashmere blanket round her and promptly fallen asleep, only to be discovered an hour later by Mr Diamond himself.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ he’d screamed, prodding her in the back with his steel-tipped ebony cane. ‘Get out!’ he’d yelled, red in the face. ‘Get out of my room, you nasty little intruder. How dare you invade my privacy? Get the hell out!’
She was twelve and feisty, and in the three years of living in his house this was their first encounter. She had jumped off the bed, stuck out her tongue at him, and yelled defiantly, ‘You don’t scare me, old man.’ Then she’d raced from the room.
That night a very distressed Mama said things were difficult with Mr Diamond and it was best if she went to live with her aunt Aretha and cousin Cindi for a short while. ‘You’ll be happier there,’ Mama had said, staring at the floor. ‘An’ it’ll only be until I can talk Mr Diamond into having you back.’
As if she had a choice.
‘Cool with me,’ Liberty had answered, holding back tears, because it really wasn’t cool at all: she had no desire to be sent away. ‘I hate it here, anyway,’ she’d added defiantly. ‘It stinks. An’ I hate that horrible man you work for. He stinks. I hate everything!’
‘Maybe in a few months you’ll come back,’ Mama had said, holding back tears of her own. ‘Mr Diamond’s not such a bad man, you’ll see.’
‘No, thanks!’ she’d said fiercely. And she’d meant it.
Moving back to Harlem to live with her aunt and cousin turned out to be a pleasant surprise. They’d recently relocated to New York from their home in Atlanta after the death of Cindi’s father. Aunt Aretha–her mother’s sister–was the total opposite of Mama. Overweight, cheerful and full of laughter, Aretha worked in a cake factory and obviously enjoyed her job, especially the perks. Nobody was crazy enough to turn down free cakes and cookies, not in Aretha’s world.
Cindi, who was three years older than Liberty, welcomed her like a sister. The two of them connected immediately, and for the first time since moving to Mr Diamond’s house, Liberty felt like she had a family.
The really good news was that she got to go back to her old school and there was Tony, fifteen and more handsome than ever. The bad news was that he had a girlfriend, a skinny white girl with lank yellow hair and a gap between her front teeth.
Liberty confided her crush to Cindi, who immediately decided that the girlfriend presented no problem, and that they could easily do something about it. So, on Liberty’s thirteenth birthday, Cindi helped fix her makeup and straighten her hair so that it wasn’t a mass of unruly frizz. Next, Liberty put on her tightest T-shirt and skinniest jeans, adding a pair of high-heeled sandals, borrowed from Cindi, which were too big, but who cared? Then the two of them made their way to the bowling alley where Tony had a night-time job.
At thirteen Liberty was already a knock-out, and with the makeup, tight jeans and new ‘do’, she looked at least sixteen. Tony couldn’t help but notice and, with a little coaching from Cindi on how to behave, Liberty got herself a boyfriend.
Cindi’s coaching had included a lesson on how to give a boy oral sex. ‘You don’t have to screw ’em,’ Cindi had informed her matter-of-factly. ‘All you gotta do is give ’em a little of this,’ she’d added, demonstrating with her generous mouth on a banana. ‘Do it right, girl, an’ the dude’ll be yours for as long as you wanna keep him.’
I want to keep him forever, Liberty had thought, so she did as Cindi suggested, and Tony put up no objections.
Unfortunately, a year later Tony graduated from high school and moved to Miami with his mom, which was a big blow because having a boyfriend was a whole new deal: it had made Liberty feel important, like she mattered to someone.
After Tony left there was no stopping her. Getting boys was easy. Cindi was right: give ’em a few minutes of what they liked best, and they hung around until you were done with them. She soon became an expert at pleasing whichever boy she fancied. Oral sex was no big deal and, as President Clinton had informed the nation, it wasn’t really sex.
She didn’t get into the real deal until she was sixteen and fell madly in love with the lead singer in an amateur rock group. He was a white rapper from England who emulated Eminem. Skeleton thin, with piercing eyes and a tough demeanour, he soon had her totally hooked–not only sexually, but sometimes he let her sing with his group, a real high. He also encouraged her to keep writing her songs, which she did with great enthusiasm.
Once again she thought she’d found the perfect boy.
‘Watch it, girl,’ Cindi had warned her. ‘Stud’s a player–I’m on it every time.’
Liberty didn’t care whether he was a player or not. He had her juices flowing–creative and otherwise–and that was enough.
But, of course, Cindi was right. He turned out to be just another bad boy, who gave her a dose of the crabs and left her for a skanky teenage stripper with huge fake boobs.
She never did move back to the Diamond mansion, although Mama asked her to on many occasions. It was more real hanging with her aunt and cousin, both of whom enjoyed having her around.
Mama visited once a week on Sunday, her day off. Sometimes Liberty felt that Aretha was her mom, and her real mom was just a distant relative, someone she didn’t know that well. Aretha was nurturing and caring, showering both girls with equal amounts of love.
Now, seven years after leaving, she found herself stuck in her mama’s cramped apartment with a sprained ankle and a burned arm.
Great! She could just imagine the lectures she would have to endure for the next few days.
It simply wasn’t fair.
Surely it was time she scored a break?
Chapter Six
After settling into Sam’s apartment, Jett started making calls. After a three-year absence he wasn’t planning on spending his first night back in New York hanging out by himself, especially with the thought of seeing Red early in the morning looming over him. Dear old Dad. What a trip he was.
In a way Jett was wary of a face-to-face. On the other hand, what the fuck? He was no longer a snivelling little kid lurking in the background, waiting for his father to beat the shit out of him. Screw Red Diamond. He could handle anything the old man dished out.
Checking out his Palm, he avoided calling any of his former pals who, at the time he’d left, had been heavily into the drug scene. This didn’t leave him with many options, but after a couple of calls he connected with Beverly, a striking make-up artist originally from Guiana. Beverly was an ex-girlfriend of Sam’s, and she’d been in on his intervention.
‘How’re you doin’?’ she asked, sounding as if she might really care.
‘Not too bad,’ he replied. ‘Thanks to you and Sam and a few others who gave a fast crap whether I lived or died.’
‘Hey, you were such a screw-up we needed to get you outta here.’
‘Don’t remind me.’ He groaned, not anxious to revisit old memories. There were too many, and they were too embarrassing.
‘Okay, okay,’ Beverly said, laughing. ‘I won’t go there.’
r /> ‘Thanks.’
‘Anyway, word is you’re doin’ fine in Italy, so it all worked out.’
‘Yeah, mainly ’cause of you,’ he said gratefully, for it was Beverly who had arranged the introduction to the Italian modelling agency who’d signed him.
‘It was your time to catch a break, an’ I’m psyched it happened for you,’ Beverly said warmly.
‘I guess this means I owe you, so I was thinking that maybe I can buy you dinner tonight. Like an old-friends kinda deal.’
‘Me and my new guy?’
‘There’s a new guy?’
‘Honey, there’s always a guy. An’ you’ll like him.’
‘I will?’
‘Would I stick us with a dud?’ she said playfully.
‘It’s happened,’ he countered.
‘How would you know?’ she said, laughing again. ‘You were always so outta it…’
‘Hey, Bev, I might’ve been stoned, but there’s certain things a person never forgets.’
‘Okay, okay,’ she admitted, ‘there could’ve bin a couple of short-term losers.’
‘A couple?’ he exclaimed, snorting with laughter.
‘Thanks, Jett,’ she said, mock-serious. ‘But I gotta tell you–this one’s a keeper.’
‘Bring him. Where d’you wanna go?’
‘How about Il Cantinori, eight thirty?’ she suggested. ‘Remember Il Cantinori?’
‘Sure,’ he said ruefully. ‘I only hope they don’t remember me. I gotta sneaking suspicion I wrecked the place one night.’
‘You did. But Frank, the owner, is a cool guy, so don’t sweat it. Besides, you’re with me,’ Beverly said confidently, adding casually, ‘Anyway, that was then, this is now–an’ you’re a changed person. Right, baby?’
‘You’d better believe it.’
He clicked off his cell and thought about calling Max or Chris. Then he decided, why do that? He’d barely heard from either of them since their father’s seventy-fifth birthday celebration four years ago when he’d really been out of his mind and embarrassed everyone with his behaviour. Shit! Falling into a three-tier cake with an under-age Puerto Rican hooker he’d picked up on the street was truly not the way to go. Especially with his pants off.
Thinking back, he considered it quite funny, although he would bet money his family didn’t. They were probably still talking about his bad behaviour.
Well, they’d be shocked tomorrow when the new, sober, semi-successful-in-a-career-they-wouldn’t-approve-of Jett showed up.
Yeah. He was certainly going to surprise everyone.
Max wondered if being summoned to his father’s house had anything to do with his upcoming wedding. Probably not. He’d done the proper thing and sent Red and Lady Jane Bentley an invitation. So far he had received no response. He wasn’t surprised: it was just like Red to be rude–the old man had no manners. Of course Red would come, but because of who he was he didn’t feel it necessary to reply.
Red Diamond was a much-married lecherous snake who’d managed to get rid of each of his wives as soon as he was ready to move on. Max often wondered about the demise of his own mother, Rachel. She’d given birth to him, and apparently died of heart failure six months later in her sleep. A perfectly healthy woman, twenty-six years of age. Max wasn’t sure he believed it. A vibrant young woman with no health problems. How had something like that happened?
Sometimes, late at night, the thought crossed Max’s mind that maybe Red was in some way responsible. But then he always dismissed it as impossible. Red couldn’t possibly be that bad.
Or could he?
After Rachel’s death, Red had married another beauty, Olivia, and she’d given birth to Chris. The new marriage hadn’t stopped him screwing around, for when it came to sex, Red was insatiable, preying on any woman he could. Eventually he’d divorced Olivia and married Jett’s mother, Edie, whom he’d managed to turn into a raging alcoholic.
Quite frankly, Max didn’t give a damn if Red showed up at his wedding or not. Why should he allow Amy to be contaminated? His bride-to-be had yet to meet the snake–what a treat she had waiting for her.
Nancy Scott-Simon was outraged at Red Diamond’s lack of manners. ‘How am I supposed to seat your father and Lady Jane?’ she’d demanded, glaring at her soon-to-be son-in-law. ‘And what about the rehearsal dinner? Will your father be giving one since I am handling the wedding?’
‘No rehearsal dinner,’ Max had said at first. But Nancy was having none of it, so to keep the peace he’d arranged to give it himself. He was taking over a room at the Waldorf Astoria, and a hundred and fifty people were attending on Sunday night. He had not invited Red or Lady Jane, deeming it unnecessary.
Tomorrow night was his bachelor party. There was nothing he looked forward to less.
Birdy Marvel was pretty in a trashy, vacuous way. Petite and stacked, she was only just eighteen, and an idol to the entire teenage female population. Her records sold in the millions, and her fans faithfully followed everything she did. There was an elite group of young girl singers–Britney, Hilary, Lindsay, and the Olsen twins, but right now Birdy Marvel was top of the heap.
When Birdy was sixteen, Chris had guided her through the process of becoming emancipated from her parents. Young as she was, Birdy could be a sharp number: she’d been singing and dancing since she was eight, and felt–quite rightly–that her parents were frittering away her millions on themselves.
Chris had won her the freedom she desired, and along the way he’d negotiated ten per cent of her future earnings.
Birdy had helped make him rich, and he’d helped her career soar.
Problem was, rich didn’t last when he blew most of his money at the gaming tables in Vegas.
Birdy had her own problems. She was a little coke freak who loved to party and get down and dirty. She coupled those dangerous habits with a knack for always picking the wrong men. Birdy had an eye for bad boys who treated her like crap. Her current companion was Rocky, a biker she’d picked up on the beach in Santa Monica. Recently she’d given him the title of tour executive, and insisted that he was paid a generous salary.
Coke supplier might have been a better title.
Rocky went everywhere she did. With his shaved head, black leather outfits, chains, and muscled arms, tattooed from his fingers to his massive shoulders, he was quite a menacing figure. The tabloids were having a blast with this one: there were new outrageous headlines every week. Birdy didn’t seem to mind the headlines calling her everything from a white-trash princess to a teenage tramp. ‘Any publicity is good publicity,’ she warbled, quoting her brain-dead PR, who also happened to be her second cousin.
Birdy greeted Chris at the party in a stoned state. For an eighteen-year-old she sure looked rough, in spite of a dressed-to-thrill outfit of micro-mini, red leather bustier that concealed little, major midriff action with a diamond navel piercing, and short white go-go boots. Her hair was in its usual tousled state, lips sticky with pink gloss, eyes rimmed with jet black kohl, and she was chewing gum–another of her addictions. He noticed that she’d added a couple of new tattoos. A small dove on her left shoulder, and a skull and crossbones on her exposed hip-bone.
Chris always had to remind himself that she was only eighteen, and would grow out of this rebellious stage. He tried to protect her as best he could, but as her lawyer he could only do so much.
‘Chris!’ she yelled, running over and hugging him. ‘I’m totally psyched you made it! Wasn’t the show, like, amazing?’
‘Amazing,’ he agreed.
‘Like, what a wild audience, huh? Totally out there.’
‘Dynamite.’
‘I’m so happy you’re here,’ she cooed, grabbing his hand and squeezing it hard. ‘There’s something we gotta talk about.’
‘Now?’
‘Yeah, but it’s personal stuff,’ she said, edging closer. ‘Which means we gotta hang somewhere private.’
No chance of that since, as usual, Birdy Marvel wa
s the centre of attention. Several photographers were busy catching her every move, while Rocky hovered nearby, eyeing Chris suspiciously. He didn’t like Chris. The feeling was mutual.
‘Where are you staying?’ Chris asked his young client.
‘Trump International. Oh, yeah, an’ I’m thinking of buying a condo in the Time Warner building. Wouldn’t that be like the coolest? The views are to die for!’
Yeah, Chris thought. I’m sure Rocky would love it. ‘I’ll try to come by sometime tomorrow afternoon,’ he said. ‘That way you can tell me what’s going on without an audience.’
‘That’d be totally awesome.’ Then, lowering her voice, she added, ‘Not a word to Rocky. Like, call me on my cell an’ we’ll fix a time.’
‘Trouble in Bikerland?’ he asked, hoping she was about to dump the overgrown biker.
‘No, silly!’ She giggled, rubbing the tip of her snub nose with a stubby finger. ‘Rocky is like totally the most awesome dude on the planet.’
‘I believe you,’ Chris said drily. ‘Thousands wouldn’t.’
‘Don’t be so mean,’ she said, giggling again. ‘He’s a real hottie.’
‘We’ll catch up tomorrow,’ Chris said, not wishing to get into a discussion about how hot Rocky was.
‘Promise?’ she said, fidgeting like an anxious little kid.
‘Absolutely.’
He already had his day planned. The meeting with Red in the morning. Lunch with a client. A couple more meetings. Dinner with another client. Then on Saturday morning he’d catch an early flight back to L.A. And on Sunday, Vegas.
It was all work. He could handle it.
Chapter Seven
With her wedding only a week away, Amy’s co-workers at Courtenelli had decided she needed one wild night out on the town. She’d tried to put them off, but they were having none of it. ‘You’re getting married,’ Yolanda, a big-bosomed Latina brunette, informed her. ‘We have to celebrate.’