Black Diamond

CHAPTER 3

The biting mid-January wind slashed into Grace, cutting through the inadequate coat that she wore but Grace barely noticed. She walked quickly down the scruffy North London high street. For once, she didn’t notice the smashed-in shop windows and the boarded-up stores; Grace’s mind was focused only on the letter that she gripped between her cold fingers. The letter was still sealed and once again she looked down at it. It was addressed to her but above her name and address was the unmistakeable crest of Oxford University. Thank God she had reached the post before The Pastor.

“I can’t do it.” Grace slumped onto the edge of a desk and stared across at her teacher Stephen in the empty classroom.

“Grace, just open it,” Stephen said coming around his desk and holding out the letter to her. Grace stared at him and felt as though she was standing on the edge of a precipice. She had pretended that it meant nothing as she’d filled out the form but now this eggshell-coloured envelope laid waste to her pretence of indifference. Inside it was a possibility, a chance of something, a beginning. And yet another part of Grace piped up, perhaps it would be just another closing door, the way they always seemed to close for her, the way that opportunities always seemed to be less than the sum of their parts.

“If you don’t open it, I will,” Stephen said and as he made to start tearing into the envelope, Grace jumped up and grabbed it from him, ripping the tab open in one swift action. She looked up at her teacher and by his smile she knew that he’d deliberately provoked her. Though she had always excelled, Stephen was the only teacher who had ever made any effort to get to know her, to dig beneath the predictability of her A grades to find out what drove her. Grace was filled with a burst of gratitude towards him and she looked down at the open envelope and pulled out the single sheet of white paper. Her eyes scanned quickly and she felt relief wash through her.

“I’ve got an interview.” She whispered the words incredulously and stared at Stephen who smiled broadly at her.

“Of course you have. You’re a perfect candidate,” he said and without thinking, Grace found herself throwing her arms around his shoulders in a bear hug. Stephen stilled for a moment and then he hugged her back before stepping away.

“Thank you,” Grace said. “Thank you for believing in me.”

As she walked to her next class, Grace was filled with a frisson of excitement that she quickly banked down. It never paid to get too excited about anything in her world. As she had learned time and time before, beacons of light on the horizon could be snuffed out in the blink of an eye. As she turned her mind to the impending interview, three whole days in Oxford, her chance to prove herself, Grace felt her elation freeze as another thought slammed into her: she would have to explain her three days away, she would have to tell The Pastor where she was going. All at once the flicker of excitement that Grace had felt began to dim.

Her lungs would explode. Grace sucked in air as fast as she could.

“Come on, fatty, come on.” Even through the fog of pain, the sound of her own panting breath ringing in her ears and her thighs rubbing together, stinging with her every step forwards, Grace could hear the taunts. She could always hear the taunts. She didn’t bother to glance back to see who it was; it was always the same trio of boys from her class. How she hated cross country running. But in her excitement about her Oxford interview, Grace had been unprepared with an excuse that would let her miss games, which is why she came to be bringing up the rear, by a long margin on the fourth and final mile. The rest of her class were long gone, already showered and heading off home. Her tormentors had stayed behind especially for her.

Grace had forever remained the new girl. From the day she arrived in England with her mum and The Pastor, she’d struggled to fit in. She’d never quite learned how to make friends, how to latch on to become part of a group. Right from the start, her accent had been wrong, her hair too uncool compared with all the black girls in her class with their easy London confidence. And that perpetual new-girl feeling felt so thoroughly imprinted on her that she’d carried it from primary school to secondary school and now even into 6th form.

And still Grace kept moving, not fast but always forward, her feet sinking into the muddy ground and rising and repeating. Never mind that her mother had forbidden her to take part in any sports, for Simbi still feared that one day Grace’s heart might give out. It was a fear that Grace herself shared but something else was greater than this fear, something that she had struggled to give a name to, until some months earlier when Stephen had named it for her. She had been forced into another cross-country run and had finished twenty minutes after everyone else. Grace had been cornered by the bullies as she’d re-entered the school, tears had risen in her eyes as they’d shouted their insults – fatty, chubber and then from nowhere Stephen had emerged and dispatched detentions all around. As Grace had stood shivering, mud caking her legs, fighting back tears, her teacher had turned to her.

“You hung in there and you finished because you’re a fighter, nobody can take that away from you.” Always this word: fighter. Why, Grace had wondered, did everything have to feel like a fight? But now as she pushed through, coming to the end of the course, her heart pounding like it was about to explode, Grace remembered those words. She was a fighter. And a fighter she would have to be because when she got home, she would have to tell The Pastor about the interview.

It was even worse than she’d expected.

“Who gave you the right?” The Pastor bellowed and Grace ducked just in time as her father’s fist darted out. The letter was gripped tightly in The Pastor’s hand and Grace saw with a dart of sorrow that the once pristine sheet was crumpled. As she and her mother watched, The Pastor tore it into several small pieces. “You, useless and you think you can go to Oxford, you think you can walk out on us, after all we’ve done. Who will pay for it? You think you are better than us?” With every word The Pastor rained down slaps on them both. He was in control again and the slaps landed on their backs, their arms, nowhere that might leave a visible mark to his congregation. Beside her, Grace sensed her mother crying silent tears and then after one last slap that connected hard with her mother’s arm, The Pastor strode out, dropping the pieces of the letter onto the floor. As far as he was concerned that was the end of that.

They continued to sit there, both sprawled on the kitchen floor and the only sound that remained was the sound of the pot of cooking rice bubbling over on the heat. Grace watched her mother rise to her feet and flick the cooker off. Slowly Grace stood up and waited for her mother to turn and face her.

“Why did you do this? You know he doesn’t like change.” Grace closed her fist and struggled to contain the stream of anger that rose in her.

“This is what I want,” she finally said.

“But Oxford. Where would we get the money from?” her mother asked. “Those places, they aren’t for people like us. You won’t fit in there,” her mother said gently. Grace closed her eyes for a moment.

“But I don’t fit in here either.” Crouching down, Grace gathered the pieces of the letter and walked out of the kitchen.

It had been three days since The Pastor had decreed that no word would again be spoken about Oxford. And so it had been. Grace had cut school for the rest of the week and instead sat in the local library all day, reading books, throwing herself into other worlds so that she could pretend that she wasn’t living the life she was. And now it was Sunday and once again they would go to service and present a united family front. Grace struggled into the cream skirt suit that she wore to church most weeks. Ignoring the pieces of the letter that lay on her desk, she winced as she caught sight of her reflection. How had she managed to gain weight?

Other people shed when they were heartbroken but as she glanced back at her bed and saw the empty wrapping of two boxes of cookies, she had her answer. Grace shook her head at her appearance. The suit with the boxy jacket and fishtail skirt had been unflattering enough when The Pastor had presented it to her two years earlier but now, carrying so many extra pounds, she looked like a beached whale. Grace sighed, ran a comb through the little hair that she had and walked downstairs.

Throughout the service, Grace had sat stony-faced. She had started to realise that without The Pastor’s permission, her dream of escaping to Oxford was dead in the water. The collection baskets were going around for the second time when Grace felt her mother shift beside her. Grace looked up in surprise as her mother rose to her feet and began to walk up the central aisle towards The Pastor’s pulpit. Grace felt a shaft of fear: what was her mother doing? A few of the congregation were starting to look up interested, for it was rare to see The Pastor’s wife take to the pulpit. Grace’s eyes darted anxiously and she saw the instant that The Pastor saw his wife. His eyes narrowed, his nostrils flared, Grace was sure that his fists might have flexed but here in front of his congregation he could do nothing but watch as his wife took to the pulpit, angling the microphone down towards her. By now the choir had gone quiet and Grace watched, her heart almost in her mouth, as her mother began to speak.

“Hallelujah,” Simbi said. And the congregation echoed her with hallelujahs of their own. Grace watched as, her voice faltering, her mother spoke again.

“The Pastor and I have some happy news to share with you. Our beautiful daughter is going to Oxford University for her interview this month, so pray for her, pray for her success and her courage and that she will take the right path in life.” As her mother spoke, a burst of applause spun through the church. The congregation were on their feet applauding. “And praise my husband The Pastor, for his foresight in encouraging Grace to be the best she can be.” And once again the congregation were clapping, the choir had broken into song. And The Pastor knew that he had been bested by his wife. Grace watched the flicker of emotions that he fought to conceal – fury, rage, incredulity. His wife, who never fought back, had utterly outmanoeuvred him and for now, at least, there was nothing he could do about it. He’d been backed into a corner.

Grace felt a pat her on the back, someone else was shaking her hand and another woman pressed a £20 note into her palm, for her books. Grace rose to her feet joining in with the clapping and singing that swelled through the church. There would be hell to pay, but for now as she stared at her mother, frail and yet determined up on the altar, Grace vowed that she would nail that interview, she would ace those exams. She would go to Oxford. She would do whatever it took to make her mother proud.

CHAPTER 4

What a difference a few months made.

Lola walked down the steps of the LA County Court and shook her hair over her shoulder. It was months since the crash that had put her in hospital but luckily a few cracked ribs and a broken arm had been the worst of the damage. Lola had emerged with only a probation sentence, she’d survived yet another stint in rehab, she’d weathered the two lawsuits from the other drivers that night and one thing was clear: Lola had emerged from it all with the potential to be a star.

A local magazine had acquired her mug shots and suddenly Lola had gained almost cult status in her neighbourhood with people wearing T-shirts with her picture on them. Lola had all the makings of a modern star: glamour, celebrity status and of course being a car crash both literally and figuratively helped. Whoever said there was no such thing as bad publicity clearly knew Hollywood well because in the time it took to write off a one hundred thousand dollar Porsche, Lola Wilde had gone from Hollywood offspring brat to celebutante in her own right. Not since Paris Hilton’s sex tape had any celebrity profile been so utterly transformed overnight. Flanked by Amber and her lawyer Gayle, Lola basked in the LA sunshine and the relief that her liberty was secure. As they climbed into the waiting Escalade with blacked-out windows, Lola gave a sigh of relief.

“Thank God that’s over.” She turned to Gayle. “Thank you so much.”

“Don’t thank me, you heard the judge, let’s keep clean and sober and not have to go back in there?”

Lola nodded, she had no intention of ever going back in there. She turned to Amber.

“So what now?” Amber smiled one of her mischievous smiles and Lola gave her friend a warning look.

“We are not going drinking.”

Amber pouted. “Who said anything about drinking? I’m not going to be your enabler.”

“OK. So what have you got up your sleeve?” Lola asked, her curiosity piqued but the only response she got was Amber’s smirking profile. Lola watched as her friend tapped into her cell phone.

“Amb?” Lola asked again.

“Well, let’s just say that since you’re the new and improved Lola, I’m the new and improved Amber.” Lola grunted.

“And that tells me what exactly?” Amber gave a small laugh and Lola felt all the more unnerved.

“You’ll just have to trust me.” Sitting back in the plush leather seats, Lola watched as the freeway gave way to the ocean views of Santa Monica. She thought with foreboding about every other time that Amber had uttered the words “trust me” and she felt a knot of disquiet grow in her stomach. She couldn’t afford to end up in any more trouble.

They’d dropped Gayle off at her office and finally the Escalade came to a halt outside a nondescript building several streets away from the beach on 7th Avenue.

“What are we doing here?”

“You’ll see.” Lola had no choice but to follow Amber as they walked through the cool reception. The receptionist on the desk, a blonde with a pixie cut, immediately stood to attention.

“Ms Wilde, Mr Longwall is expecting you both.” And with those words Lola had her answer. As they followed the receptionist down another corridor Lola turned to Amber and mouthed a question at her.

“Tyler Longwall?” But they were already entering a spacious conference room and Lola knew she’d have to wait to get any answers. Behind a huge antique oak desk, Tyler Longwall, surfer dude turned TV presenter turned media mogul in the making, rose and came around to greet them.

“Amber, Lola, great to see you. Has Peyton offered you anything to drink? Coffee, water, protein shake?”

“Two diet cokes is fine,” Amber answered for them both as they settled into a plush sofa and faced Tyler.

“You’ll be wondering why I got Amber to bring you here,” Tyler said. Lola smiled, grateful that he was cutting to the chase. “The thing is, Lola Wilde, I think you have something. I think you have what it takes to be a star.” Tyler let the sentence hang in the air and Lola stared at him wondering how best to react. For a moment, she felt her heart soar, perhaps Tyler Longwall would be the man who made her into somebody, not just Scarlet’s rebellious daughter. And then she was brought sharply to earth. Tyler Longwall didn’t create critically acclaimed actresses; he grew reality TV stars and farmed them out 24-7. There was no quibbling with the numbers, Tyler won ratings battles, but it was a fact that when it came to his brand of entertainment shows, talent was optional. Lola took a deep breath and stared at Tyler’s expectant face. Lola felt a subtle kick at her ankle from Amber who was practically glaring at her.

“She’s just overwhelmed,” Amber said and there was a small laugh between the three of them. Lola took a sip of the coke that the receptionist had quietly set down.

“How would you do it?” she asked. “How would you make me a star?” Her curiosity had got the better of her; it always did, Lola thought ruefully.

“Everything,” Tyler replied. “We’d start small – public appearances, openings, then a one-off fly on the wall documentary, the real Lola Wilde, something like that, tasteful, and then a series, endorsements, perfumes, fashion lines, the sky is the limit. Look at Paris, Nicky, Nicole…”

“But what would I actually have to do?” Lola asked confused. She hated asking questions that might reveal her to be dumb but she pushed on. “What would I actually be doing?”

“You’d just have to be yourself.”

At his words, Lola’s heart sank; the one thing she didn’t want to be was herself.

“Just think about it, Lola, your profile is high right now, you have to capitalise and monetise. You’ve got people making money off you right now, using your name as a punchline, selling stuff with your image. It’s time for you to make your own money, secure your own future.”

As Tyler spoke, his fingers moving through the air to punctuate his points, Amber was nodding along and Lola felt her anxiety ease away. His words were working their magic – what she wouldn’t give to have her own money, her own independence. Her trust fund wouldn’t mature till she was thirty and she thought about the way Scarlet used the threat of cutting her allowance off to control her. It was time to earn her own money and get out from under Scarlet. For all her desire to be a mother, for all her good intentions, Scarlet simply hadn’t been able to change. Film roles and being famous had somehow always ended up coming before her child. Lola thought back to all those times growing up when Scarlet had abandoned her with practical strangers, had disappeared on weekend benders with new boyfriends and left Lola alone in the mansion. The only thing Scarlet had ever given freely was her money and even that now she kept threatening to withhold. Lola nodded at Tyler.

“Do you seriously think we can do this, that you can make me my own money?” Lola asked quietly. Tyler reached across the table and took her small hand in his own.

“Trust me.”

And for once Lola let her wariness drift away; she would let Tyler take care of things.

As they emerged from the building, Amber let out a whoop of excitement.

“He is going to make us millionaires,” she squealed.

“Us?” Lola queried. Amber spun around, her hands on her hips, and looking as threatening as a five-foot-nothing woman in primary colours ever could.

“As your manager, I’ll expect 10% plus expenses.”

“My manager.”

“Yes your manager, we agreed this in grade school,” Amber pointed out waspishly. And Lola laughed a rich, loud sound. They had agreed back in grade school that whatever Lola ended up doing, Amber would be her manager. For a fleeting moment, Lola wondered how wise this all was. It was all beginning to feel real and wasn’t there some rule about never doing business with friends or family? Lola brushed the thought away; she and Amber went way back, they knew everything about each other, where all the skeletons were stashed, where all the bodies were buried. If she wanted anyone by her side in all this, it had to be Amber.

“So what’s it going to be then?” Amber asked tapping her foot, her hands still on her hips though her lips were already moving into a smile.

“Your first official job as my manager is to find us the best Burrito that Santa Monica has to offer. I need some carbs.”

Amber smiled and, threading her arm through the crook of Lola’s elbow, they walked towards the beachfront.

CHAPTER 5

The Radcliffe Camera stood out starkly against the bright blue sky and Grace had been staring up at it for so long that she’d started to feel dizzy. The Radcliffe Camera, or the Rad Cam as the students tended to call it, was her favourite of all of Oxford’s lavish buildings. Something about this monumental, circular library always filled her with awe and even now, after six months at Oxford, Grace still marvelled at the exquisite architecture, marvelled that a place of such beauty could exist so close to the inner London neighbourhood where she had grown up. Grace had read about the dreaming spires, she’d seen the lists of the University’s illustrious alumni – Presidents, Prime Ministers, Oscar winners, Nobel Peace Prize winners, traitors, saints; intellectually at least, she’d understood that this place was immense. And yet, from the moment she had set foot on Broad Street all those months ago for her interview, Grace had fallen in love. She had survived the interviews and had returned to her school a hero, the first pupil in sixteen years to earn a place at Oxbridge and when summer had come she had aced her exams – straight As. And now here she was, standing in Radcliffe Square, metres away from the Bodleian and the Sheldonian Theatre and the Bridge of Sighs and all those places that had once been just names in books about lives; white people’s lives, a place that was not for the likes of her. And yet in her months here, she’d excelled, academically anyway. Grace loved her lectures, she’d shone in tutorials, her peers called on her to talk through essay questions. But the social part of things, in this Grace stuttered. Grace felt heat warm her face as she thought about last night and the boozy party at the bar that she’d left early. Once again she felt like the perpetual new girl, unable to relax and drink and get merry, like all the other confident undergrads at college.

“Shit!” Grace gasped as a clock began to chime. Once again she’d dawdled and would only just have enough time to get back to her room in College to change before she had to start her shift. Grace hustled up Parks Road, passing the grand academic buildings, then took a short cut, darting across the dense green space of the University Parks until she reached Lady Henrietta College, or Hennies as everyone called it.

“All right, Grace?” Grace nodded and waved in greeting to Paul, the head porter. She walked through the main quad towards her room. Entering her small single room, she immediately began to pull off her clothes, her usual uniform of black sweatpants and an oversized hoodie were quickly exchanged for the white shirt and black skirt that were required for her job over at Newman College.

By the time she’d changed, there was little time left before she’d be really late for the dinner shift she was covering and so Grace jumped on her hated bike. The city of Oxford was awash with bikes and in the summer as she’d prepared to leave London, Grace had bitten the bullet and set about doing something that no child in the orphanage had ever had any need to learn: she’d learned to ride a bike. She’d forced herself to ignore the laughing little kids, who’d already left behind their stabilisers. She’d picked herself up after the falls, she’d persisted with the same doggedness with which she’d approached cross country running, until suddenly she’d been flying, cycling unaided, round and round and round. In that moment, as she’d completed her first complete loop of Pymmes Park, Grace had known that she was ready for Oxford; that if she could do this, there was nothing that she couldn’t handle.