Diva

CARRIE DUFFY

Diva

To Amy and Cleo

My Selby divas!

Table of Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Part Two

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Part Three

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Read on for an exclusive Q & A with Carrie Duffy…

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by Carrie Duffy

Copyright

About the Publisher

PART ONE

1

Detroit, Michigan, USA

Dionne Summers sashayed down Rosa Parks Boulevard in cheap white heels and a butt-skimming mini that revealed acres of firm, chocolate-brown thigh.

‘Hey, Dionne. Lookin’ good!’

‘Drop dead, Mikey,’ snapped Dionne to the twelve-year-old kid who was checking her out. She wasn’t wearing any underwear and she wondered how much he could see.

‘Headin’ someplace special?’ Mikey persisted, cycling alongside her on a beaten-up BMX. Cocky, overweight, and dripping in fake gold jewellery, he hung around in the same gang as Dionne’s younger brother, Shawn, and like every poor kid on the block he was desperate to get out of Detroit.

‘I said leave me the fuck alone,’ Dionne growled, bending down towards him and unintentionally flashing eye-popping amounts of cleavage.

Mikey shrugged. ‘Hey, doll, if you want a good time, you know where I live,’ he quipped, before flipping her the bird and pedalling off.

Dionne laughed in disbelief. The kid was twelve, for chrissakes!

But today she had more important things to consider than the growing pains of pre-teen wannabes. She had a meeting about a modelling job – no, a casting, that was the right word. After all, if she was going to walk the walk she ought to learn how to talk the talk, Dionne grinned to herself.

Dash Ramón had set it up for her. The burly Colombian was a powerhouse in Dionne’s neighbourhood, a guy who made a formidable ally and a deadly enemy, and now he had a soft spot for Dionne, thanks to all the effort she’d put in over the last few weeks. She’d spent evenings at his favourite club, bringing him his favourite drink, looking fabulous and saying little before he finally agreed to do her this favour and organize a meeting with Luis Fernandez.

Luis Fernandez.

Just saying his name sent a thrill right through Dionne. She’d never heard of him, but Dash assured her he was the best and Dionne wanted to believe it. He could get her a spot in W or Harper’s – maybe even European Vogue, Dash had told her. He’d slipped her Fernandez’s card, told her to be there Monday afternoon.

‘I’ve got school,’ she blurted out stupidly. She was still only sixteen.

Dash raised an eyebrow as the intimidating crowd of black-clad heavies who were never far from his side laughed patronizingly. ‘Skip it,’ he told her, menacingly.

Dionne bit her lip nervously, but didn’t argue. If there was one thing you didn’t do, it was piss off Dash Ramón.

So that morning she’d remained huddled under her sheets while her younger sisters got ready around her.

‘Are you sick, honey?’ asked her mother, running a cursory hand over Dionne’s forehead.

‘I don’t feel too good, Momma,’ Dionne swallowed weakly. She knew her mom would be in too much of a rush to argue – her shift at the local deli started at seven a.m., and she couldn’t afford to be late.

‘I really can’t stay home …’ Natalie Summers looked torn.

‘I’ll be fine. I just need to rest. You get off to work, Mom.’

Dionne lay immobile, waiting until the sounds in the house had died down and the front door had banged half a dozen times, signalling that everyone had left. Well, almost everyone. Her daddy would still be in bed but Dionne wasn’t worried about him. He’d be out cold until he dragged himself up around midday, slumping in front of the TV and working his way through a bottle of Jack until her mother came home from her gruelling twelve-hour shift to fix him some dinner. Earl Summers hadn’t had a job since he’d been let go from General Motors more than five years ago, and since then it had been down to Dionne, as the eldest of the six kids, to help her momma keep everything together.

As soon as she’d turned sixteen, she’d found herself a Saturday job, working as a salesgirl in Macy’s over at Oakland Mall. It was a prestigious job, one which wouldn’t normally have been given to a young, black kid from the wrong side of the tracks, but Dionne was possessed of a natural charm and a disarming beauty, and she’d persuaded the manager to give her a chance. He hadn’t regretted it: Dionne was a born saleswoman and had no trouble persuading the rich suburban housewives to part with their husbands’ hard-earned cash. She gave her basic salary straight to her momma for housekeeping, but the commission she made was all hers. She’d opened up a savings account, and already there was almost a thousand dollars in there.

But if Luis Fernandez liked her, she’d be made for life, Dionne thought, offering up a quick, silent prayer that Ramón’s contact would give her the break she needed.

She knew she looked a million dollars. She’d spent yesterday in the African Princess salon, having her luxurious afro relaxed so that it hung straight and sleek down her back. She’d had her legs and bush waxed, her nail acrylics reapplied and decorated with small crystals.

And now she was tottering along Twelfth in tight, plastic heels that were already hurting her feet, her tiny skirt leaving little to the imagination. She’d made herself up carefully, applying fake eyelashes and clear lip gloss that made her bee-stung lips even more enormous. Dash had once told her that the first thing a man thought of when he saw her was what it would be like to be sucked off by those lips. Dionne had simply smiled and blown him a kiss. She hadn’t been blessed with much in life; she figured she might as well make the most of what she did have.

Dionne stopped, searching through her purse and checking the address she’d been given. She studied the badly printed card on its cheap paper, then glanced up at the house in front of her. It didn’t look anything special. In fact, it was a typical example of the houses in downtown Detroit – sprawling, ramshackle and falling to pieces, so the rent was dirt-cheap. The place looked as if it hadn’t been painted since the ’67 riots, and the garden was a jungle.

Taking a deep breath, Dionne pressed the buzzer firmly. Then she thought better of it and knocked; the buzzer looked like it had long since been disconnected.

‘Yeah?’ A small, wiry Hispanic guy opened the door just a crack and peered suspiciously at Dionne.

‘Mr Fernandez?’ she asked, trying to sound confident.

‘Depends who’s askin’.’

‘I’m Dionne Summers. Dash Ramón sent me. For the casting?’

‘Diane, hi!’ His lips crawled back over his teeth as he smiled charmlessly, his gaze flickering over her appraisingly. Dionne could tell he liked what he saw.

She smiled politely as she followed him into the house. It was a pigsty. Discarded takeaway cartons with their half-eaten contents rotting inside littered the floor, barely covered by the old newspaper cuttings and torn magazine articles that were strewn carelessly around the lounge. A couple of twists of foil lay on the stained coffee table, surrounded by crumpled beer cans. Fernandez didn’t even seem to notice the mess.

As he pushed open the door to one of the back rooms, Dionne began to feel a little calmer. It was set up with professional-looking equipment; a couple of large studio lights on adjustable stands, a silver reflector lying in a corner and a neutral-coloured backdrop hanging from a rail.

There was a camera mounted on a tripod that looked like an antique. Fernandez didn’t touch it. He simply picked up a cheap, digital camera and told her, ‘I’m gonna take a few test shots first.’

Dionne stepped tentatively into the centre of the room, trying to look as if she knew what she was doing. ‘What do you want me to wear?’ she asked, hoping that Fernandez might suddenly produce a selection of beautiful designer gowns.

He didn’t even look up. ‘What you’re wearing’s fine. Don’t worry about it.’

Dionne nodded, pouting self-consciously and jutting out her hips in what she hoped was a provocative pose.

Fernandez fired off a few shots and checked his camera. ‘Hey, babe, lose the jacket. It’s not the fuckin’ Arctic in here,’ he yelled.

Silently, Dionne did as she was told. She didn’t want to piss him off and have him tell Ramón she was no good.

She shrugged off her fake-fur bomber jacket to reveal a white tank with a deep V-neck that couldn’t fail to draw attention to her full breasts and silky, dark-brown skin.

Fernandez let out a low whistle and Dionne felt a pang of triumph. He liked her! This was going to be a success!

‘Okay, honey, I want to see innocent,’ Fernandez commanded as Dionne tried her best to oblige, changing her body and her expressions the way Luis instructed.

Fernandez was pleased with what he saw. Yeah, she was getting more natural, more confident at playing with the camera. The girl – what was her name again? – definitely had something. And she was starting to trust him.

Luis smiled lasciviously, walking across his makeshift studio towards Dionne. He stood close to her, but she didn’t flinch. Guys invading her personal space was nothing new. Slowly, Fernandez looked her over, then his eyes caught on the gold necklace that sat just above her cleavage. He twisted it between his thumb and forefinger, his fingertips brushing her skin.

‘Nice,’ he commented.

Dionne’s gaze didn’t falter. ‘It was a present.’

‘From your boyfriend?’

‘From my parents.’

Fernandez flashed that sleazy smile again, seeming pleased with the answer. ‘Okay, take off your top.’

‘What? I—’

‘Just take it off,’ he drawled, suddenly sounding impatient.

The request was unexpected, but Dionne wasn’t ashamed of her body. Hesitating for only a second, she pulled her vest over her head. Hell, it was only like a bikini shoot, right?

Fernandez stared at her cheap white bra and raised an eyebrow.

‘As well?’ Dionne asked. ‘Do I really need to?’ Alarm bells were beginning to ring.

‘Come on, honey, I ain’t got time for this. If you want out, get out.’

He gestured towards the door, but Dionne remained motionless.

‘I’m serious. I ain’t gonna kidnap you or nuthin’. If you don’t wanna do this, then get out and stop wasting my time. But if you do wanna make it big, you gotta be prepared to start gettin’ ’em out. Look at Kate Moss – she’s always naked in the Europeans. French, Italian Vogue – do you read ’em? You should do if you’re serious about this industry. And you can’t move for the titties on their pages.’

Dionne hesitated. She remembered the precious stolen moments she’d spent poring over an ancient copy of British Vogue. The cover had shown a model giggling as she slipped a hand inside another girl’s dress, pretending to touch her breasts. Maybe it was the norm over there.

Reaching round to her back, Dionne unhooked her bra and let it fall away. Her breasts were heavy, the large, dark nipples swaying deliciously on her superb body.

Behind the camera, Luis Fernandez broke into a sweat. He checked three times that he had enough battery – he wasn’t going to miss getting those babies on camera – and fired off a dozen shots without a pause, as Dionne raised her arms above her head like he told her to. ‘It makes them look higher, more pert,’ Luis explained.

More pert? thought Dionne indignantly. She was sixteen years old. How much more pert did he want?

‘Right, I wanna try something different,’ he barked, as he crossed the studio and dragged an ageing chaise longue into the middle of the floor. It was covered in fading red velvet, heavily worn and edged in dark wood. Dionne could tell it had been nice … once. Now it was covered in unsavoury-looking stains and leaking yellow stuffing. Dionne sat down tentatively on the edge.

‘How about we try a few nude shots?’ suggested Fernandez, hastily wiping his perspiring forehead. Jesus, was it hot in here, or was it just the girl? He rearranged his trousers uncomfortably. Maybe she’d let him bang her after the shoot. ‘Upmarket stuff, of course,’ he continued. ‘Nothin’ funny. That’s why I brought the couch.’

He gestured to the dilapidated chaise longue, and Dionne looked at him doubtfully.

‘Look, sweetheart,’ he began, trying to sound kind. He placed a hand on her naked shoulder and Dionne flinched. ‘I know you’re only a kid, but you’ve got a great future ahead of you. I’m gonna put the word out about these shots, and I guarantee you’ll have jobs lined up like that,’ he insisted, clicking his fingers. ‘But I gotta have something to show my contacts, and the wider your portfolio, the better. They wanna see all the different things you can do – you gotta be able to project different images y’see, kid – that’s what makes you sellable.’

Dionne nodded.

‘Now I’m doing you a favour here, because you’re a friend of Ramón’s and he’s an amigo of mine. I ain’t charging you nuthin’ for these pictures, but they’re gonna be your passport to the big time.’

‘So what’s in it for you?’ Dionne challenged him. She was poor, from a neighbourhood full of Hispanics, African Americans and a handful of Eastern European migrants, but the one language everyone talked was money.

‘Me? I get to help make a big star. I have faith in you, Diane, and if you get to the top, I want you to repay the favour to Luis Fernandez. I make my money from shooting the big jobs – Vogue, Women’s Wear Daily, ad campaigns, see? It means I can afford to do a favour for a friend and help out a kid with huge …’ his eyes lingered on her breasts … ‘potential.’

Dionne took a deep breath. ‘Okay,’ she agreed, standing up and slipping out of her skirt to reveal a perfectly waxed pussy.

Fernandez nearly fell over. Christ, the kid was bald! Was she really that young?

‘Just lie back on the couch,’ he told her, trying to keep his cool. He didn’t want to alarm the girl – he had her exactly where he wanted her. ‘Put your arms above your head, and relax … that’s it … Make like some British rich bitch. You’re born to this kind of life. Elegance, luxury, that’s what we want …’

Dionne suppressed a giggle. It was hard to portray elegance and luxury when she was stark naked. If she’d been dripping in diamonds, it might have been different. She arched her back slightly, trying to get comfortable, and Fernandez caught his breath.

‘Legs a little wider, honey … that’s it …’

Unconsciously, Dionne did what he told her, following his instructions and letting her mind wander over the scenario he had set up for her. She was the lady of the manor – rich, beautiful, glamorous … she had servants to look after her mansion, and a devastatingly handsome, successful husband who bought her everything she wanted – fast cars, trinkets from Tiffany …

Fernandez moved slowly across the room towards her, his feet silent on the grotty carpet. ‘I’m just gonna do some close-ups,’ he said softly.

Dionne barely heard him. There would be no more clothes from the Goodwill, no more sharing a room with three of her sisters in a grotty, roach-infested house that smelt of damp and stale bourbon. Instead she would be treated like a princess and hold grand balls in her country house, where exquisitely dressed, beautiful men and women would flock to her parties. She wanted it so badly it was almost tangible. She would be admired and in demand, she would be loved, respected, and—

‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’

Dionne jumped up from the couch and grabbed a nearby dustsheet to cover her body. Fernandez had been kneeling at the foot of the chaise longue, pointing the camera between her legs.

He grinned lecherously. ‘You know, you’re even more beautiful when you’re mad. And you’re the best bit of cunt Ramón’s ever sent me.’

Dionne felt sick.

‘Give me that camera,’ she yelled, lunging at him.

But Fernandez was too quick for her.

‘’Fraid not, cutie pie,’ he sneered. ‘I ain’t letting these go. You’re a natural, you know that? You should be a model.’

‘I am going to be a model,’ Dionne insisted, blinking back tears.

Fernandez laughed loudly and Dionne pulled the sheet more tightly around her. ‘You ain’t never gonna be no supermodel, honey. The public – they don’t like black trash, see? And that ass ain’t never gonna fit into any sample sizes.’

‘Give me those pictures!’ Dionne screamed again, snatching furiously at the camera. But Fernandez held on to it tightly.

‘Get the fuck out of my house,’ he snarled, pushing his face up close towards her. Dionne could smell the stench of his breath, see his yellowed teeth.

With a sob, she grabbed her clothes and ran down the corridor, leaving the door open behind her as she ran outside. Tears were streaming down her face as she sprinted barefoot into the street, her thick, black hair streaming out behind her. Passing cars honked their horns, amused by the spectacle of this beautiful girl running down the road with only a sheet wrapped around her, but Dionne was too upset to care.

How could she have been so fucking stupid? She’d thought this was going to be her big break, but he was just some fucking pervert. Jesus, he had those pictures of her – God only knew what he’d taken when she wasn’t paying attention. He’d been pointing the camera right between her legs, right up …

Dionne stopped running and collapsed into sobs. The photos would go all round Dash Ramón’s crew, she knew that. She wanted to kill him for humiliating her like this. She thought he’d been doing her a favour, but Dash Ramón was only looking out for himself, as usual. Shit, what if her daddy saw those photos?

‘Hey, Dionne! You okay?’

It was Trey Williams, one of the guys from her neighbourhood. They hung out with the same crowd and she’d slept with him a couple of times.

‘Baby, what happened?’ he asked, looking genuinely concerned as he pulled his car over to where Dionne was standing, shivering, on the sidewalk. ‘Come on, get in,’ Trey told her, opening the passenger side door.

Miserably, Dionne did as she was told.

‘What happened?’ Trey repeated, as she slid into the seat beside him.

‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ Dionne insisted, wiping her eyes furiously on a corner of the filthy sheet.

‘You wanna go back to mine – get yourself fixed up?’

Dionne nodded. He was a nice guy, and she didn’t want to go home yet.

‘Oh, Dionne, baby, you’re so good …’

Dionne lay back lifelessly as Trey writhed and moaned on top of her.

‘I told you Trey would cheer you up, didn’t I, baby?’ he whispered, pushing deeper into her.

Dionne lay silent, closing her mind as he used her body.

She didn’t mind, not really. It was all the same to her. Men always wanted sex, and she wanted to feel loved. It was a fair trade.

Dionne lay back passively, running over her options as Trey thrust inside her, grunting and squirming. She had to get out of here. She’d known it for years, but this afternoon had made her see there was no future for her in Detroit.

Ever since she was a kid, people had told her she ought to model. She was beautiful, with soft, flawless skin, high cheekbones, huge, liquid-brown eyes and legs that went on forever. But as she’d grown up, her body had refused to cooperate with her dream. Dionne had wanted to be tall and skinny with a flat chest and no hips, but nature wouldn’t play ball, obstinately blessing her with large breasts and a full-on booty that never seemed to get any smaller no matter how much she exercised. Whenever Dionne tried the big agencies, she always got the same answer: ‘Try glamour work. You haven’t got the right look for runway modelling.’

But Dionne refused to let them crush her dream and turned her attentions to Europe; after all, didn’t they like different-looking girls over there? Dionne was no Cindy Crawford, no all-American, California-tanned cheerleader type. But in Europe, the fashion world adored the tiny, bohemian Kate Moss, the doll-like Lily Cole and the Amazonian Naomi Campbell.

Trey began to thrust faster, and Dionne could tell he was close to climax. Obligingly, she moaned and arched her back, clenching herself around him. With a final groan, Trey came and collapsed onto her. He was heavy and sweating, and Dionne hoped he’d get off her soon.

‘Dionne, you’re the best, you know that?’ he told her, pulling out and rolling away from her. ‘I told you I’d cheer you up,’ he winked, clearly pleased with himself as he lit a spliff and lay back contentedly.

Dionne smiled weakly. ‘Thanks, Trey,’ she said, getting up and dressing hastily. ‘I’d better head off.’

‘Sure,’ he told her, unconcernedly. ‘I’ll see you around.’

Dionne paused. ‘Yeah, see you around.’ She let herself out, closing the door behind her, and stepped into the grimy streets, breathing in the polluted air. Suddenly she knew with absolute certainty that she had to get out of here, whatever it took. If she didn’t, the city would grind her down, her life becoming a carbon copy of her mother’s – marriage to a deadbeat drunk, a cluster of kids, a minimum wage job that exhausted her and made her look old before her time. There was no way she could let that happen. Dionne Summers wanted something more from life.

She thought of the money in her savings account. A thousand dollars. Enough to buy a plane ticket, a motel for a few nights. The possibilities swirled tantalizingly in her mind. She could go to Europe, find work, be a model. It all seemed so easy, so obvious.

Dionne looked around her, taking in the familiar streets for one last time. She felt something harden inside her, like steel, and she knew what she had to do.

2

Manchester, UK Eighteen months later

Alyson Wakefield scurried out of school into the freezing February air. Her head was bowed, her shoulders rounded in her habitual pose, in a desperate effort not to be noticed. Standing just shy of five feet eleven in flats, with a rail-thin body and endless, coltish legs, being unobtrusive was not something that came naturally to seventeen-year-old Alyson Wakefield.

Her fine blonde hair had been hastily tied back with a simple band, revealing razor-sharp cheekbones and enormous blue eyes. With her clear porcelain skin and enviable poise that naturally lent itself to elegance, Alyson was on the verge of blossoming into a true beauty. But all she saw when she looked in the mirror were startled eyes and a skinny body that never filled out, no matter how much she ate. With her lean, gangly frame she felt clumsy and masculine, gauche and out of proportion compared to the other girls in her class. The boys teased her about her flat chest and towering height, the daily taunts ringing in her ears so that it was impossible for her to be anything other than self-conscious about the way she looked.