A Girl Called Summer Page 7

  Poppy nodded.

  ‘Wanna join me up here? The view’s great . . .’

  ‘Really? ’ Poppy couldn’t believe her luck. Her bosses were so going to love this.

  ‘Help her up, Grizz,’ Filthy shouted over to his friend, before launching back into song.

  ‘See you later, darling,’ Poppy grinned at Damian, handing him her beer before clambering over the Merc’s wound-down window into Grizz’s enormous arms.

  Once on top of the tour bus, she took around half a minute’s footage of all the people cheering from their cars, of the mountains and the desert, before training her phone back on herself.

  ‘This is Poppy Wallace, reporting from the road to Coachella, and boy, have we got a treat in store for you. I’m standing on top of Filthy Meadows’s tour bus – yes, you heard that correctly – the Filthy Meadows – and he’s treating us all to a free desert concert! See for yourselves.’ She turned the phone on to Filthy, who had come to the end of the song.

  ‘Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls,’ he shouted. ‘Nothing like a captive audience, huh?’ A ripple of laughter ran through the crowd. ‘I’d like to dedicate my next one to this lovely lady standing right next to me up here on top of the world. Poppy Wallace, this is for you.’ And he launched straight into the unmistakable chords of ‘Sexy Green-Eyed Woman’.

  This is one of those moments that you’ll remember for the rest of your life, Poppy told herself, unable to stop the enormous smile spreading across her face, but keeping a steady hand on her phone, professional to the last.

  Damian, watching her with pride and awe, finished both their beers. And then he thought: Fuck. Tamara’s going to go apeshit.

  *

  Tamara, 20,000 feet in the air above them, was blissfully unaware that her father-in-law-to-be was serenading another woman with what she had come to think of as ‘her song’.

  Jack’s private jet was luxuriously appointed, with thick cream carpets and large armchairs upholstered in the softest cream leather. Jack and Ben, sitting towards the front of the plane, were getting excited about the festival and drunk on champagne.

  Natalia, not wanting to make small talk with Tamara, was flicking through the latest Vogue as she sipped her champagne. Her silk Pucci minidress with its signature brightly coloured swirly patterns was not what you’d call Coachella-chic, but Natalia didn’t do dressing down – not since that brief blip when she’d gone incognito in Thailand a couple of years back. She couldn’t have cared less about the festival, but she realized it was important for Ben to be seen there with his Hollywood buddies; she intended to stay in the background as much as she could.

  Tamara, bored and petulant as she stared out of the jet’s window at the desert and mountains below, wasn’t excited about the festival either. Jack and Ben were engrossed in boy chat about which rock bands they were most psyched about seeing, and hadn’t paid her nearly enough attention for the duration of the flight. But the main reason she wasn’t looking forward to Coachella was that everybody got so fucking wasted at festivals. And when you were sober, there was nothing more boring than being surrounded by drunken, drugged-up assholes.

  Tamara remembered the hell of drying out – three times – all too vividly. Even though she’d been incarcerated in the most expensive rehab centres in the States, no amount of freshly laundered linen, no number of sparkling swimming pools could compensate for the nightmares, nausea, shakes, sweats and sheer physical pain she had endured in order to get clean. There was no way she’d risk going through that again; even one drink could be enough to send her straight back on the road to misery.

  But the Coachella pantomime had to be played out. Tamara had to appear in all the magazines looking cool as she and Jack outdid their Hollywood peers with gratuitous public displays of affection. Even if it did mean putting up with a load of drunken garbage over the next few days.

  She took a Chanel compact out of her flashy Gucci handbag and checked her reflection, which cheered her up a bit.

  ‘Hey, Natalia, how do I look?’

  Natalia glanced over the top of Vogue.

  ‘Great,’ she said.

  Like a cheap Vegas slut, Natalia thought, conveniently forgetting her own background for a second.

  Tamara had gone down the shorts, boots and bikini top route that a lot of girls followed for Coachella. But her silver chainmail bikini top barely covered her fake boobs, her white denim hotpants showed way too much butt cheek and the green suede platform boots that matched the darkest of her contact lenses reached halfway up her smooth fake-tanned thighs. It was hardly the insouciant festival look that Poppy had nailed so effortlessly.

  Jealous old bitch, thought Tamara, turning to stare moodily out of the window again.

  *

  ‘Pretty cool, huh?’ smiled Jack, as he and Tamara walked into what was to be their bedroom for the next few days.

  Manny Brookstein, Antony & Cleopatra’s producer and one of the richest men in Hollywood, had lent Jack his holiday home for their Coachella vacation. Built in Palm Springs’ Fifties heyday, the sprawling modernist mansion was a monument to mid-century design. With its clean lines, walls made of glass, interesting geometrical quirks and emphasis on indoor/outdoor living – the entire low-lying edifice was built around a vast pentagonal swimming pool – the ‘Brookstein House’ was a classic example of what had become known as ‘desert modernism’. Jack could imagine Frank Sinatra hanging out with his Rat Pack buddies here, flirting outrageously with beautiful women as they drank potent cocktails by the pool.

  ‘Oh my God, it is!’ Tamara suddenly sounded excited, girlish even, and Jack was reminded, not for the first time, how much of her childhood she had lost. ‘It’s awesome!’ He watched indulgently as she ran through the ultra-cool Fifties suite, throwing cupboards open, bouncing on the huge double bed and putting an original vinyl LP of Patsy Cline singing ‘Crazy’ on the vintage turntable next to it.

  She ran over to the sliding glass doors that led to a crazily paved patio, complete with pentagonal bubbling hot-tub that looked out over mountains now glowing deep red in the setting sun. Tall palm trees cast long shadows over the desert.

  Jack followed her out, his eyes never leaving her as she danced beside the jacuzzi singing along huskily to Patsy Cline, her lovely body silhouetted against the spectacular view.

  ‘Come dance with me, Jack.’

  Jack put his arms around her and together they swayed and spun across the terrace, smiling into one another’s eyes, every nuance of the music exaggerated by the magnificence of the scenery.

  ‘Hey, this is just like being in a movie,’ Tamara joked and Jack laughed out loud, pulling her closer to him.

  ‘I know the next few days are going to be hard for you,’ he whispered into her freshly washed hair. ‘I’m proud of you for being so strong, and thought this place might cheer you up some, when we escape the craziness of Coachella.’

  Tamara smiled gratefully. That was thoughtful of him, she had to admit.

  Jack bent his head to kiss her and her arms entwined themselves around his neck. After a few seconds she pulled away, and before Jack had time to catch his breath, she was standing in front of him fully naked, save for her green suede thigh-high boots. She hadn’t been wearing anything underneath the tight white denim hotpants, which were held together by poppers that went all the way between her legs, so she’d been able to whip them off easily. The friction against her bare skin, and anticipation of Jack’s reaction had been turning her on all day.

  Jack felt himself getting hard immediately. God she was sexy, with that lustrous dark hair tumbling over her slender shoulders, those amazing breasts, slender waist, hips and thighs, the green suede boots leading his eyes straight to ground zero. Her long-lashed green eyes were doe-like now as she gazed up at him with barely concealed mischief.

  ‘Oh God, Tammy, we don’t have time for this . . .’ They had agreed with Ben and Natalia that they’d dump their bags in their rooms, have a q
uick freshen up and join them aboard the helicopter they were taking for the final leg to the festival.

  ‘I think we do,’ Tamara put one finger inside herself, lifted it to her lips and sucked provocatively, still looking him in the eye.

  Just as Jack was starting to weaken, his phone beeped in his jeans pocket.

  What’s taking you so long? he read. Nat and I are on the chopper already. Can’t wait to get there now.

  He put the phone back in his pocket with regret.

  ‘Ben and Natalia are already on the chopper. We shouldn’t keep them waiting . . .’

  The sting of rejection was more than Tamara could bear, a metaphorical slap in the face.

  ‘Shouldn’t keep them waiting?’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘What about keeping me waiting? Oh no, silly me. Nothing’s more important than darling Ben. Are you in love with him, Jack? Is that what it is? Is that what your fucking bromance is all about?’

  The shriller her voice became, the more swiftly Jack’s hard-on deflated.

  ‘C’mon, Tammy. I’m sorry, but it’s their first Coachella. We can always do this later . . .’

  ‘You’ll be too fucking stoned to get it up later.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Jack repeated, meaning it. ‘C’mon, honey, let’s put on some warmer clothes and get out there. It’s cold in the desert at night.’

  *

  Damian kissed Poppy’s damp forehead and rolled off her with a groan.

  ‘Great though that was, it’s probably wiped me out for the rest of the day.’

  ‘Where’s your stamina, darling?’ She raised herself up onto her elbows to look him in the eye, then collapsed back onto the pillow. ‘Fuck it. Think I spoke too soon.’

  ‘Spent. Utterly spent.’

  Their first night at Coachella had been a wild one. They’d ended up backstage with Filthy, several other of the headlining acts and their entourages. The predictable quantity of quality intoxicants had been ingested, and now they were paying the price.

  ‘You realize we’re going to have to do it all again later?’

  ‘Let’s just enjoy our surroundings for a minute.’ Damian put his arm around his wife and gazed up at the ceiling fan whirring overhead. ‘Do you think this is actually the coolest hotel in the world?’

  The Ace Hotel was certainly the coolest hotel in Palm Springs. An original motel, built in the same era as the Brookstein House, and revamped and overhauled as a kitschy boutique hotel, it had a reputation as the hipster hangout in Palm Springs. Poppy and Damian were in one of the Ace Suites, which were decorated in earthy shades and a quirky combination of modernism and Navajo-chic. Mid-century leather furniture sat on cowhide rugs, the whitewashed breeze-block walls of their outdoor shaded patio were adorned with large Native American hangings, and the patio’s semicircular stone fireplace kept out the nightly desert chill. Bottles of every type of booze that one could feasibly require lined the shelves of the little kitchenette – several already a tad depleted after Poppy and Damian had toasted love, life and the mountains on their return from Coachella in the early hours of the morning.

  ‘Possibly,’ smiled Poppy. ‘It sounds like the party’s started out there.’ She nodded her head in the vague direction of the pool, where the jolly sound of laughter, loud voices and DJs spinning classic house confirmed what she was saying.

  ‘Shall we clear our heads with a swim, then get some breakfast before we head off?’ suggested Damian. ‘I’m starving. You don’t have to start filming for a couple of hours yet, do you?’

  ‘Nope, we’ve got plenty of time. Oooh, they were thrilled with the Filthy footage, weren’t they?’

  ‘They certainly were, you clever thing.’ Damian leaned over and kissed her again.

  ‘I’d say more lucky than clever – in this instance only – but thanks anyway!’

  ‘Tamara wasn’t quite so thrilled, of course.’

  ‘No.’ Poppy grimaced. ‘Oh well, it was only to be expected. She needs to get over herself. I’m bloody glad we’re staying here, however glam their modernist mansion sounds.’ She started to rise to her feet. ‘Come on, let’s head out. A swim and breakfast are sounding more and more appealing by the minute.’

  *

  In the Brookstein House, Ben and Natalia were preparing to go their separate ways.

  ‘Sure you don’t mind, sweetie?’ asked Natalia. ‘But it’s so not my scene.’ Her Ukrainian accent now had a slight Valley Girl twang. ‘All those people, that stupid little bitch, and today the paparazzi too?’ She shuddered.

  ‘Don’t worry, Nat.’ Ben smiled and shut her up with a kiss. ‘I know it’s not your thing. You enjoy yourself by the pool.’

  Tamara had been at her most poisonous the previous night, flirting outrageously with Ben, Damian and pretty much every random male in the VIP area: she was clearly trying to make Jack jealous, though nobody could quite figure out why. She’d been insufferably rude to Natalia, with constant barbed references to her age and background. And once she’d found out that Filthy had serenaded Poppy with ‘Sexy Green-Eyed Woman’ (‘her’ song – even though her eyes weren’t really green), she’d lost it completely, stamping her green suede feet, screaming and refusing to have anything to do with any of them, finally demanding that Jack take her back in the chopper immediately. Natalia hadn’t been too bothered to leave the festival so abruptly, but both Jack and Ben had, and the (thankfully brief) flight back to the Brookstein House had been fraught with tension. Once they’d landed, Tamara had flounced off to bed, leaving Jack, Ben and Natalia to play cards under the stars and avail themselves of their host’s well-stocked drinks tray.

  ‘Oh, I intend to.’ Natalia was looking forward to a day on her own, reading under a parasol. She’d already been down to check out the pool area that morning, and the sunloungers looked unbelievably comfortable. ‘Thanks, sweetie. I hope you have a vooonderrrful day.’

  Ben laughed as she hammed her old accent up. ‘It’ll probably be OK. But something tells me you’ve picked the long straw here.’ He gestured out of the floor-to-ceiling windows at the spectacular surroundings, the sparkling pentagonal pool flanked by desert palms and overlooked by those rugged snow-capped mountains.

  ‘But this is your first Coachella,’ Natalia couldn’t help teasing him. ‘I thought you were, like, so excited!’

  ‘I am.’ Ben grinned boyishly.

  Natalia wasn’t particularly bothered about the temptations that might confront him at the festival. He faced far worse at work, and there had, in fact, been one near indiscretion since they’d been together. It was only to be expected, beautiful people acting out sex scenes with other beautiful people, and Natalia, of all people, knew how men could be tempted away from their other halves. She had been a professional temptress, after all.

  Having got wind of excessively flirty behaviour on set, she’d thought about approaching the girl, but reconsidered. In his job, there would always be other girls. No, much better to go to the source.

  ‘Sweetie,’ she’d said, one evening when Ben had returned late, yet again, from a cast after-party. ‘I am very happy that you are becoming so successful . . .’

  ‘Thanks, darling.’ Ben had smiled.

  ‘. . . but if you ever . . .’ Natalia’s voice had risen steadily ‘. . . do anything to hurt me . . .’ Ben’s grin had faded ‘. . . I shall disappear. And this time it will be for ever.’

  ‘Oh, Nat—’ He had put his arms around her, but she had shaken him off angrily.

  ‘You told me that you loved me, that I would never be unhappy again . . .’

  Ben had been overcome with remorse as he remembered all the promises he’d made only a year or two previously; the absolute need he’d felt to protect Natalia, having learned the dreadful details of her past.

  ‘I promise you, Nat, I promise,’ he’d told her. ‘And I’m sorry.’

  Natalia had rewarded him with a night of sex he’d never be able to forget, and he’d realized that whatever the temptations, she really was too
special to lose. He’d had no doubt that she’d act on her threat if he strayed, and he’d come to the conclusion, as Paul Newman had so memorably put it, ‘Why go out for a hamburger when you have steak at home?’

  For Ben, most of his past conquests had been little more than ego boosts, a reflection of his own gorgeousness; now he had the adoration of millions of fans, he didn’t need to risk losing Natalia for one more meaningless ego boost.

  Now he looked over in the direction of the helipad, and saw Tamara and Jack approaching. Jack was holding an enormous parasol to protect Tamara’s face from the searing noonday sun.

  ‘Shit, Nat, I’ve got to go. Much as I’d love to keep Madam waiting, it’s not fair on Jack. We’ll make up for it later, though. I’ll miss you today.’

  Natalia shrugged. ‘Never mind. I’ll miss you too. Now run along . . .’ She kissed him on the lips and he took her face in his hands, leaning in for a proper snog that went on for nearly a minute.

  ‘I said run along.’ Natalia grinned. ‘You don’t want to anger it.’

  *

  Tamara and Jack walked hand-in-hand around the sun-drenched VIP field, whispering sweet nothings and giggling like a couple of lovesick teenagers. Every few minutes they stopped to gaze into each other’s eyes and kiss, giving anybody who was interested a number of perfect photo opportunities. Today Tamara was a little more appropriately dressed, in a short printed dress and cowboy boots, with a Navajo-style headband tied around her long glossy hair. Jack was bare-chested in a pair of old Levis, his lean, well-muscled torso with its scattering of dark hair drawing admiring glances from all the females in the vicinity.

  After an hour or so of this charade, Jack pushed a lock of hair behind Tamara’s left ear and whispered into it, ‘OK, I think we’re all acted out. There should be enough material to keep them in magazine sales for months. I could use a beer now.’