the aftermath of her climax.
She had barely had time to fling a shirt over her nakedness when the door opened. Robin didn’t know which happened first: the contestant’s face dropping as fast as his pants had ten minutes earlier; or her attempt to dismount disastrously striking the switch that jolted the chair meteor-quick towards their visitor like some sort of warped sacrificial offering.
‘Oh,’ said their caller as Robin scrambled to conceal herself. Instead of a mortified exit (which would have been the polite thing), he stood there, an infuriating grin on his face.
Light flooded the room. ‘Shit, man,’ gabbled the contestant helpfully. ‘Shit, shit, shit.’
‘Do you mind?’ she raged, so mortified she couldn’t bear to turn round.
‘Sure.’ She could hear the smirk in his voice. ‘Perhaps I should come back later.’
*
It was a miracle she made it through the show without punching him.
Leon Sway, Olympic sprinter, was guesting on tonight’s panel. Since the summer Games had decreed him a World Personality, the athlete was hotly in demand for every broadcast going. Leon was mixed race, with close-cut black hair, strong cheekbones and an all-over movie-star look: it was little wonder he had been gracing billboards across the globe with a ream of sponsorships and modelling contracts; and now here he was making a star appearance on the adjudicating Launch line-up – what the hell did he know about music?
‘I’ve been a fan of yours from the start,’ Robin told a quivering choirgirl after an impressive rendition of Adele. ‘That was a brilliant performance; I really felt it. Well done.’
‘Sure that’s not all you felt?’ came the murmur from her neighbour, just loud enough for her to hear. She tried not to scowl – either that or turn to Leon and chuck her glass of water in his face. It wasn’t in Robin’s nature to wish for the ground to open up and swallow her whole, but tonight had to be the exception. As the acts ran through their numbers and the board delivered their verdicts, she tried not to dwell on what parts of her anatomy might have been unveiled before they’d even been introduced – not easy with Leon’s supercilious bulk to her left, interspersed with a hot flash of shame every time she recalled his untimely intrusion.
‘Do you think she can win?’ asked a producer mogul who had been tagged as her ‘rival’ on the show. ‘With those nerves I can’t see her pulling off any live gigs.’
‘This is a live gig, isn’t it?’ Robin snapped. She could sense Leon staring at her. Why did he have to be such a smug, full-of-himself …? Ugh, she couldn’t even think of the word.
‘Well, yes …’
‘I absolutely believe in her,’ commented Robin, battling through her disgrace. ‘This is where I got my break and it took me time to grow, of course it did. If she were cutthroat at this point you’d be tearing her apart for being difficult to work with. Which is it going to be?’
The arena shouted its approval. Robin’s image filled the screens on either side of the stage, the people’s champion: she was petite, her hair chopped short but with a trademark sweep still long enough to obscure her eyes, which were cat-like and aglow with dramatic make-up. Hers was a cautious demeanour that belied the tough, attitude-fuelled work that had made her name: Robin’s music spoke of more years lived and more experiences earned, and had consequently secured her the first ever talent-show-spawned album to be nominated for – and win – a Brit Select Award. The victory had made Robin Ryder, at just nineteen, the hottest thing on the UK scene. She believed in putting everything into her art, the offering up of her heart and her soul, because for a long time she had imagined that both those things were damaged beyond being any use to anyone.
When the time came for that contestant to take the spotlight, she grimaced. Leon couldn’t resist fixing her with a stare throughout the entire introductory VT.
‘It wasn’t for me,’ he judged afterwards. ‘It kinda felt like you were distracted.’
‘I disagree,’ put in Robin. ‘For me it was a very focused, determined performance.’
Leon turned to her. ‘Are you complimenting his performance?’
The blush threatened to engulf her. ‘Sure,’ she managed, the double entendre squatting resolutely between them. ‘I am.’
‘Focused and determined – that’s how you like it, then?’
She returned his glare. ‘Who doesn’t?’
The host, confused, went to ask another panellist their view.
‘It seemed like he had something else