Tales Of Temptation: Rivals / Pride / Ambition
Tales Of Temptation: Rivals / Pride / Ambition
Victoria Fox
Tales of TemptationThree mini bonkbusters from the queen of scandal and sin, Victoria Fox Rivals, Pride and Ambition – devour them all and get an exclusive extract from Victoria’s brand new sensational summer read, Wicked Ambition… Out now!Praise for Victoria Fox: ‘Perfect for the Beach’ The Sun ‘Jackie Collins for the modern gal’ – Grazia‘Just too exciting to put down’ Closer‘If you think the Made in Chelsea crew live a glitzy life, you ain’t seen nothing yet’Heat‘600 pages of sin!’ Now magazine‘Pour yourself a glass of Pimms because this summer’s bonkbuster is guaranteed to get you seriously hot’ Cosmopolitan ‘Victoria Fox’s glossy chick-lit novel gives Jackie Collins a run for her money.’ Irish Tatler
Tales of Temptation
Rivals
A Short Tale of Temptation 1
Pride
A Short Tale of Temptation 2
Ambition
A Short Tale of Temptation 3
Victoria Fox
Rivals A Short Tale of Temptation 1
Chapter One
‘It’s unbearably bloody hot. Can someone get me a drink before I burst into flames?’
Emily Windermere fanned herself with small, porcelain hands, gazing whimsically upon her beauty in the make-up girl’s mirror. Even when she was roasting beneath layers of net and taffeta, trussed up in a bodice and choked by a necklace of ribbons, her wide-eyed reflection—those pools of hazel bordered by delicate lashes; that thicket of copper framing a flawless, cream-skinned complexion—remained as serenely lovely as an English garden on the first day of spring.
It was the English summer that was the problem.
‘Ugh! Wasps!’ Irritably Emily batted her arms, causing the make-up girl’s brush to stab her in the eye. ‘My God, is it too much to hope I’m not blind by the end of this?’
‘Here you go, Ms Windermere.’ A nervous runner was proffering a glass of cloudy lemonade, one of the onset requisites stipulated by her management.
‘That’ll explain why I’m getting mauled by insects,’ she complained, accepting it all the same. ‘Can’t we take care of this inside my trailer?’
‘I need the light, I’m afraid,’ said the make-up girl through gritted teeth.
It was Friday morning, a fortnight into filming, and, contrary to the studio’s concerns that a London June wouldn’t produce enough light, they now had rather too much of it. The city was enduring a heatwave that showed no signs of abating, golden sun blazing across Hampstead Heath from an unbroken swimming-pool sky. Cast were sweating through Victorian petticoats and frock coats, while crew chased to allay the disgruntled company, struggling under clipboards and sound equipment and taking occasional refuge for a cigarette in the shelter of a crisp white parasol.
‘They’re ready for you,’ prompted the runner, anxiously smiling as Emily rose with majesty from her seat, mustering her lacy skirts and, with a dainty finger, removing the spot of perspiration that had gathered in her philtrum.
She thought of Christopher Fenwick awaiting her in his breeches.
‘And I’m ready for them,’ she breathed.
‘Oh, Lord Ackland, we mustn’t! Your dear wife—’
‘Why relinquish such precious moments to the folly of resistance?’ Lord Ackland growled, attacking his lover’s neck with the ferocity of a vampire. ‘I’ve caught your shy glances, Lucinda; well aware you are of how I admire thee.’
Lord Ackland’s hands, wide and strong as a bear’s, roamed across her corseted body with the territorial claim of that same animal, deftly unpicking the ties that held her together. His tongue shot into her mouth, rich with tobacco.
‘My lord, we act in haste—’
Abruptly Lord Ackland stepped back, releasing his flap-fronted trousers as the camera panned to Lucinda’s fey, lips-parted stare. She could see him bulging through the cotton and struggled to remember what came next. Fortunately it was his line.
‘The heart hastens unchecked, my dear; it knows not the temperance of reason.’
She’d seen it all before, of course, and as Christopher Fenwick grasped Emily Windermere’s bottom, thrusting a hardness towards her that was most definitely not part of the script, she fought the urge to reach for him in the way she had the previous night and have him surrender to her dexterity right here against the grandfather clock.
‘You almost had me back there, you minx,’ Christopher said to her afterwards as they walked up to camp. He couldn’t resist checking over his shoulder to make sure they were out of earshot. ‘We should be more careful.’
‘Conscience, all of a sudden?’ Emily enquired archly, absorbing her co-star’s profile out of the corner of her eye: he had a prominent forehead, appealingly like a caveman who might wrestle beasts for supper, and a slight underbite that completed the impression. His shoulders were broad and muscular, his hair grown longish so it tickled the starch of his collar. There was no doubt about it: Christopher Fenwick was divine. He was also married with two daughters.
What was it they said about life imitating art?
‘A careful tread isn’t the same as a rampant conscience,’ he observed.
‘Now you’re talking like bloody Lord Ackland.’
He steered her into the shade of an oak. ‘My wife is away this weekend,’ he murmured, pulling her into his arms. ‘I’ll have the place to myself.’
‘Good for you.’
He grazed his nose against hers. ‘Why so petulant?’
Emily shrugged. In part she felt peeved at how cocksure Christopher was—at how cocksure she’d made him, because leaping into bed on the second occasion they’d met had scarcely been playing hard to get—but she also knew he liked her in this girlish mode, fifteen years his junior, and reverted to known tricks the instant his wife was dragged into conversation.
She pouted, shaking her ringlets. ‘You’ll have to make a fuss of me.’
‘You know I will.’
‘And get someone to take that smelly dog of yours. I can’t bear it panting at the door with its tongue hanging out.’
‘Consider it done.’
Emily tilted her head, pretending to reach a decision. ‘Fine,’ she said, with a wistful sigh. ‘I suppose.’
Christopher grinned wolfishly. He reached to squeeze her behind, which was no easy feat through a voluminous bustle.
‘One day you’re going to get in trouble for this,’ he teased.
‘Yes,’ she mused, returning his kiss. ‘I suppose I am.’
Chapter Two
It was their brazenness that did it, how lazy they were about concealing the affair, especially her, tarting about on set as if she ruled the place (which, in a sense, she did), performing her love scenes with overblown gusto just so everyone could know they were sleeping together. Had she no moral fibre?
Julia Chambers swiped the saggy mobcap off her head and scowled.
Maud Screwe. Could her character have been given a more disastrous name? As if it wasn’t bad enough being cast in Emily Windermere’s shadow yet again, the soul-destroying pattern that had first been sown in the girls’ childhood then tended through adolescence and college, eventually flourishing in the wake of their exit from drama school. Why? Because Emily was pretty and precious and made stupid exclamations like ‘Goodness!’ and ‘Fiddlesticks!’, which made Julia want to scream ‘FUCK!’ in her face for as many moments as it took before her throat shrivelled up.
Maud Screwe. Oh, she’d seen Emily’s expression when they’d arrived on location for the first time; the familiar gratification, the raised eyebrow, the ‘Julia, is that you? Fancy us working together again! If I didn’t know better I’d think you were stalking me—’ a tinkling laugh ‘—now, Maud Screwe, what a funny name…’
Emily had landed the part of Lucinda Liddell, naturally, the role Julia had originally auditioned for. It was a simple distinction: Julia wasn’t one of life’s Lucindas—her face didn’t belong in an Edwardian dolls’ house or in one of those ballerina music boxes that played dinky tunes on the harpsichord, it belonged to the trusty friend, the plain Jane, the slightly overweight sidekick. Never mind that she was the better actress—since when had that counted for anything?
Maud Screwe. The Maud was as dour and uninspiring as any of the parts she was offered—maudlin, that pretty much summed it up. And as for Screwe, well, someone was having a laugh. Julia couldn’t remember the last time, and, as always seemed to be the case, her own drought in the bedroom coincided perfectly with Emily’s dalliance with one of the hottest British actors in existence.
Christopher Fenwick. The mere sight of him brought her out in shivers.
‘Everything OK?’
Julia turned, for a stupid moment believing it was Christopher himself before the voice got attributed to Isaac, one of the footmen. Isaac’s character Ned was as downtrodden as poor old Maud and through shared scenes they had identified a kindred soul in the other—Julia decided if anything good were to come from this production it would be her friendship with him.
She realised she’d wandered further from Heriscombe House than she’d thought. The lake was spread before her, glittering silvery light.
‘Hey.’ She sank on to its banks, not much caring if she got mud on her cotton dress—it was already brown—and balling the mobcap in her hands. How she wanted to fling it into the water and never see it again! Why did she always have to be the sodding maid? Was it too much to ask for a scrap of glamour in her life? How was she ever going to attract anyone even remotely of the calibre of Christopher Fenwick while she was bound up in an apron and the only lines she uttered were variations on ‘Yes, my lord’ and ‘As it pleases you, m’lady’?
Isaac flopped down next to her. ‘It can’t be that bad…?’ he prompted.
She looked up at him. ‘I bet you’re obsessing over Emily Windermere like the rest of them.’
He smiled a little. ‘Why would you say that?’
‘It’s pathetic. Men are so shallow. All you care about is looks.’
Isaac scratched the back of his head. ‘That’s a sweeping statement.’
‘It’s true, isn’t it? And why shouldn’t you?’ She picked at the grass, discarding tufts of it till a bald patch started to appear. ‘End of the day, that’s what counts.’
‘Clearly it does to you.’
Her head snapped up. ‘Excuse me?’
‘You can’t accuse us of valuing appearances when you’re one girl slagging off another because of what she looks like.’
Julia opened her mouth to reply but the pithy retort didn’t come.
‘You wouldn’t understand,’ she puffed, getting to her feet and tramping off.
‘Julia, wait.’
She rounded on him. ‘Fine, if that’s what you think. You know nothing about me, or Emily, or—’ She put her hands on her hips. ‘Are you laughing?’
‘No,’ he said, trying not to grin. ‘It’s just…you in that outfit—’
‘What about me in this outfit? You try wearing it!’
‘If you let me finish, what I was going to say was that you in that outfit and me in this—’ he gestured at his livery ‘—for a minute it felt like we were really these people. You know, in another life, another time, or something.’ He went red. ‘Never mind, it sounds silly now I say it out loud.’
Julia sighed. ‘No, it doesn’t. Sorry, Isaac. I’m the one being silly.’
‘What I meant to say was that you shouldn’t waste your time feeling bad over Emily Windermere.’ He scuffed the ground with his heel. ‘OK, she is pretty, but by all accounts she’s poisonous and anyway she’s never said two words to me, so, for the record, I’m definitely not obsessing over her.’
‘Christopher Fenwick is,’ Julia muttered bitterly.
‘And he’s an arsehole.’
‘How would you know?’
‘Because he’s a forty-year-old guy who’s cheating on his wife with every twenty-something starlet who crosses his path? The guy’s a dick.’
They made their way back up to the trailers in silence. Julia wondered if getting to take a dick to bed each night was every bit as bad as Isaac made out.
It wasn’t the first time Christopher Fenwick had visited her in a dream. On this occasion he was dressed as Lord Ackland, strutting in his breeches to the scullery where Maud was occupied with a basket of ripe polished apples, peeling their skins in bright green coils, fragrant and sweet, rolling floury pastry and dusting brown sugar, and he bent her over the wooden table wordlessly, unstrapping himself and tearing her knickers in a practised wrench that made her blood explode. The fruits went rolling, plopping over the rim and on to the floor, dozens of them, as his thrusting got faster and deeper and he was crying out her name—
Julia woke to silence, searched the dark and heard nothing but her heartbeat.
She checked the time: 2.41 a.m.
Unable to return to sleep, she sat and opened a book. The words swam in front of her eyes, making no sense, with each blink dragging her under. Was Emily doing those things with Christopher right now? Was she writhing in ecstasy in some hidden place, just as she had years ago in the gym changing rooms with Julia’s first and only boyfriend? The only boy who had ever looked twice… Well, he’d changed his mind the instant something better came along. Emily with Christopher was hardly the same, it didn’t come close to that terrible betrayal, but he was still a man she craved and a man whom she was forced to watch capitulate to those manipulative charms. Emily saw what she wanted and she went out and got it—regardless of the cost.
At three Julia padded to the kitchen and flicked the kettle on. She leaned against the counter and hugged herself against the cold. Six hours till she had to be back on set, six hours till she had to see envied, enchanting Emily glowing in evidence of the time she’d spent in his arms—time Julia could only dream of.
But tomorrow things would be different. The cast was to be joined by an American, an actress as beautiful as she was troubled, who’d recently emerged from a super-elite island paradise where she’d sought to battle her demons. She’d been drafted in to play a rival for Lord Ackland’s affections. If rumour were anything to go by, Emily Windermere might find she had a fight on her hands.
It was about time.
Chapter Three
Emily took against Nina Tarot on sight. The woman was grotesquely Californiafied, all candyfloss blonde hair and huge white teeth and a chest that looked like a baby’s bum stuffed into her corset. She also had this really grating accent that you could hear a mile off and sounded like a bird squawking in distress.
But the worst thing of all was that Christopher Fenwick had the hots for her.
It was so obvious! Never did it fail to astound her how predictable men were. She supposed it was the slutty demeanour—Nina was, after all, playing a tawdry madam—but it was also the novelty: Emily wasn’t idiotic enough to believe she and Christopher were indulging in a heartfelt love affair; it was sex, plain and simple.
‘Cut her some slack,’ Christopher mooned as they made their way to the drawing room, already adopting these bizarre Americanisms that made her skin crawl.
‘You sound like you’re having a mid-life crisis,’ she threw back, cracking her face into a smile for the director before turning to Christopher, whereupon it vanished completely. ‘Haven’t you a sufficient sense of self to desist from modifying your behaviour whenever you think it’ll help you get a leg over?’
Christopher regarded her blankly. ‘Nina’s been through a tough time—’
‘Oh, spare me!’ Emily waved a hand, drifting across to a mahogany chaise longue and gracefully reclining across it. ‘We all know she’s been in rehab, why such a song and dance? What was it this time? Drink? Sex? Over-the-counter drugs? So LA.’
Christopher smirked. He came closer. ‘This is a change from the obedient little thing I had in my bed last night,’ he hissed excitedly in her ear. ‘As I remember she seemed perfectly content with a mouthful of cock.’
Emily’s face burned up—she hated how he did that to her right before a take! He did it on purpose.
As sound and lighting were finalised, her flustered gaze landed on Julia Chambers hovering anxiously in the corner, clad in an infinitely morose maid’s outfit that did nothing for her pasty colouring. Julia had a crush; it was achingly clear. Milking the moment, Emily looked longingly after Christopher as though their last exchange had been in affection, and adjusted her position on the chaise to appear more alluring. Like the runt of the litter sniffing at her heels, Julia never failed to serve as a convenient reminder of Emily’s uncontested superiority—what a dreadful curse plainness was! Well, at least that made her good for something.
Instantly she felt better. Why should she care a jot about Nina Tarot? Let them go ahead and get their knickers in a twist if that was what they wanted. Emily was the star of this production and no one, least of all a brassy American, was going to compromise that.
‘Isn’t she great?’
Emily yawned. ‘Who?’ she asked boredly, though she knew full well.
‘Nina, of course.’ The boy was as captivated as everyone else gathered in the parlour. Emily recognised him as one of the footmen but had never bothered to register his name: he had floppy brown hair and would probably be handsome in a couple of years. ‘She’s been telling us about her rehabilitation—it’s inspiring.’
‘I’m sure,’ Emily responded drily, sipping her slimline tonic. Drinks had been arranged post-shoot to welcome their new addition and the way they were all hanging on to Nina’s every word was sickmaking.
‘This is a fresh start for her,’ the footman wittered on. ‘Her first job since she came back from the island.’
‘What island?’
The footman seemed surprised to have engaged her in conversation.
‘I don’t remember the name,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to ask Nina.’
Emily made a face. ‘I’m sure I’ll survive not knowing.’
As far as Emily was concerned, the less she had to endure concerning Nina Tarot, the better. The actress’s execution of the drawing-room scene had inspired a litany of adoring praise from cast and crew—Emily grudgingly admitted she was talented—and now her speaking to the extras and assistants was securing the lowlies’ devotion as well. Who on earth was she, Mother bloody Teresa?
Christopher certainly seemed to think so. All through their scene he’d been eating out of the palm of Nina’s hand—undoubtedly he’d be eating out of her lap soon enough if Emily didn’t put a stop to things—and now he was rapt at Nina’s side, abandoning his leading lady in favour of some cheap American trash.
‘Well,’ Nina was saying, and for some reason that accent was ten thousand decibels louder than an ordinary one, ‘I just feel incredible. That place…it’s magical. It made me feel—’ a toss of the head, a bat of the eyelids—what a performer! ‘—I can’t describe it: alive, again, I guess.’
‘I’ve heard about it,’ piped up one of the scullery maids. ‘Isn’t it, like, the most exclusive place on the planet?’
Nina giggled. ‘That depends, honey. The island is paradise—and paradise doesn’t come cheap.’
‘But it’s more than that…right?’ Now meek Julia Chambers was getting involved. ‘I read an article. You have to be someone important for them to let you in.’ Julia chewed her lip. ‘You have to be someone, at least.’
Christopher drained his glass of Scotch. ‘And Nina most certainly is someone, so I’d say that was a fair observation.’
Emily despised both the remark and Julia’s flushed reaction to it.
There followed a string of excited speculations:
‘Apparently you have to be on a waiting list for, like, five years—’
‘I heard you’ve got to be royalty, or related to royalty, or—’
‘You need to have fifty million dollars in the bank—’
‘You need to get a secret password—’
‘You’ve got to own a small country—’
‘You’ve got to own a jet—’
‘All I’ll say,’ Nina interrupted, waiting for the thrill to subside, ‘is that the island changed my life. There’s nowhere like it.’ She paused till once more the limelight came to rest.
‘I swear to God, you’ve got to see this place to believe it…’
Emily excused herself to visit the bathroom. She stayed a long time fussing over her appearance, with each strand tweaked and dab of gloss reapplied reminding herself that she was the prime cut on this movie. Just because Nina Tarot had been a big Hollywood star in the nineties, just because she’d worked alongside legends, it didn’t detract from the fact she’d fallen spectacularly off the rails and her career had shot down the pan. What kind of actress let that happen?
All that made Nina ‘someone’, did it?
Well, Emily was more of a someone than she’d ever be—and if it took gaining access to some silly little island to prove it, then so be it.
Chapter Four
She loved the back of Christopher Fenwick’s neck. It was wide and bronzed and strong; the way his hair touched the collar of his waistcoat, damp from the heat…
‘Julia?’ A nudge in the ribs brought her back to reality. Isaac was gesturing to the front of the crowd where their producer was preparing to address the assembly.
She tore her eyes from Christopher but was only half listening. It was the following day and they had been summoned on the lawn for news that the Heriscombe estate was hosting a live charity ball in a week’s time, and as publicity for the forthcoming film Christopher and Emily would be appearing onstage to present an award. Millions would witness the teaser—helped along by rampant public interest in the couple’s are-they-aren’t-they? love affair. Everyone knew Christopher was a player—the question was had sweet, English-rose Emily been able to resist succumbing to his charms? The answer was no.
Julia knew she shouldn’t care. All Emily’s life she had been the centre of attention and this was no exception: a while ago she’d imagined basking in the warmth of the spotlight, how it might feel to attract such veneration, but some things just weren’t meant to be. While Emily was up there next week, pouty and pert as she charmed her fans and blew them kisses from a cupid’s bow mouth, Julia would be making tea in a back room with some work experience adolescent who was only talking to her because they wanted Emily’s autograph.
There was a smattering of applause. It was directed at the PR team who had secured the stunt but Julia noticed that Emily herself refrained from clapping, instead contributing only a beatific smile in the assumption that the accolade was for her.
‘Don’t suppose you fancy grabbing a drink later?’
‘Hmm?’ The group dispersed. Across the courtyard she saw Christopher take Emily’s hands, kiss them in turn and then draw her into an embrace, in the clutches of which Emily bobbed up and down with excitement. Inwardly, Julia groaned.
Isaac shifted his weight from one foot to the other. ‘You know, just to the pub or whatever, or, um, we could get something to eat, if you prefer…’
‘OK.’ Julia watched as Nina Tarot attached herself to Christopher’s side, exclaiming about the live show. Emily’s face dropped like a stone.
‘Really?’
‘Sure.’ Julia took Isaac’s arm as they headed up to the house. ‘Why not?’
‘Great. There’s this wicked place I went to with my mates—it’s got a beer garden and a games bit and stuff. Not that I’m saying you’ve got to down pints and play me at pool—unless you wanted to, I mean, I’m not being sexist or anything—’
‘She’s cool, isn’t she?’
Isaac blinked. ‘Who?’
‘Nina.’
‘Er, yeah.’
‘She’s pissed Emily off.’
‘Which makes you her number one fan.’
‘I just think it’s time someone made her sweat.’
Isaac stopped at one of the stagecoaches and rested his elbow on the driver seat. ‘Sounds like Christopher’s already doing that.’
‘Whatever,’ Julia said sulkily.
‘What’s so great about him anyway? He’s a vain, conceited tool. Come to think of it, they’re made for each other.’
‘He’s not vain.’
Isaac raised an eyebrow. ‘You don’t believe that for a second.’
‘Maybe I do, maybe I don’t.’
‘Come on, Jules, you’re better than them. A million times.’
She didn’t believe that for a second either. ‘Thanks.’
‘So…’ Isaac chewed his lip, ‘…tonight?’
She scanned the cast, landing on Christopher and Nina chatting amiably while Emily lurked moodily behind. ‘What about tonight?’
‘The pub?’
‘Oh yeah. Course.’
‘Meet you at the main gate at six?’
‘Sounds good.’
Isaac grinned. She noticed what a nice smile he had.
‘OW!’ The teacup, spewing hot liquid, flew to the ground. ‘My God, how on earth do you expect me to handle boiling-point liquids and remember my lines?’
‘CUT!’
Shakily Julia deposited her silver tray, stepping forward to collect the discarded china and help stamp out the wet patch spreading through the rug.
‘You asked for the tea to be fresh, Emily,’ commented the director. Emily insisted on her scenes being as ‘real’ as possible, including props, so had commanded that if Lucinda were drinking Earl Grey, so should she be.
‘But palatable, at least!’ she snapped. Her hazel eyes landed on Julia. ‘It’s Maud Screwe’s fault. Couldn’t you have let it cool down, I don’t know, a degree, before forcing it on me?’
Julia’s mouth went dry. ‘I thought that was how you wanted it,’ she managed.
‘Well next time why don’t you bring the whole bloody kettle through and chuck it all down my dress? It’d save us the china, wouldn’t it?’
Oh, how she’d love to.
‘Let’s go again,’ intervened the director. ‘From: Remember you taught me the “Suite Bergamasque”?’
Julia retrieved the tray and took her position against the fireplace. The scene began with Lord Ackland giving Lucinda a piano lesson. When they were interrupted by Nina Tarot’s character, Vivian, Lucinda was relegated to a nearby couch to watch as the two duetted (and what a proficient pianist Christopher was!), devoured by jealousy that Julia suspected was only partly acted and clutching her too-hot tea.
Afterwards, Emily stalked off to have words with the director. Julia scratched under the cap—the cotton made her itch—and was fidgeting with a stain on her apron when she heard a deep, seductive voice enquire, ‘Are you all right?’
Christopher Fenwick was standing right there. He was talking to her.
‘Y-yes,’ she stammered. ‘Thanks.’
He placed one hand on the wall and regarded her mockingly. Julia couldn’t help but glance down. As she did, she took in his stance. Those breeches were tight.
‘Can’t think what’s got into her,’ observed Christopher, as though he were chatting to an old friend. ‘I thought it was jolly rotten the way she spoke to you.’
Julia resisted returning something catty like, I’m used to it—you should’ve seen her at school! and concentrated on removing the teastain, all the while burning with embarrassment and thinking, Why can’t I speak to him?
‘Need someone to look at that?’
‘Oh! No. I’m fine. I mean, it’ll come out—’
‘Here.’ Before she knew what was happening, Christopher had lifted her apron in his manly fingers and was inspecting it with a nail. ‘Might scratch off…’
‘Careful, Christopher, it might be catching!’
Emily joined them, quick as a snake, her eyes flashing, and laughed to make light of the horrid comment. ‘That is to say, you don’t know where it’s been.’ Julia saw her adversary stare pointedly at the maid’s costume but knew the implication concerned what—or who—was beneath it.
‘Come, come!’ she sang, looping her arm through his.
Christopher acquiesced. ‘I was seeing if I couldn’t help a lady in distress…’ He winked at Julia. ‘Sorry, what’s your name?’
‘Julia Chambers—’
But Emily had already dragged him off. Julia watched them go, anger building inside her, rising and rising like an unstoppable tide until it threatened to steal the breath from her lungs.
She would get revenge on Emily Windermere if it were the last thing she did.
Next week’s live appearance. It was meant to be.
Chapter Five
Shopping used to be a pleasure—before she’d started getting recognised!
Of course Emily embraced the adulation, being stopped for her signature or to listen to a teenage girl rhapsodise about what an inspiration she was. Part of her job was to give back to her fans (especially after a magazine piece last month had labelled her ‘snotty’ and ‘detached’—how dare they?) and she considered herself generous to permit the intrusion, on a day like today when all she was after was a Mulberry plum leather handbag. Still, it wasn’t fair that only Emily Windermere got to enjoy Emily Windermere—aside from Christopher Fenwick, of course, who was enjoying her too.
Unable to get down to any serious retail pursuits (in Louis Vuitton she’d been chased by a furiously whispering duo to the point where she’d been afraid to use the changing rooms), she emerged from the shopping centre, adjusted her huge sunglasses against the morning light and made her way to her brand new Audi R8.
A flurry of paparazzi blocked her path.
‘Emily, are the rumours about you and Christopher Fenwick true?’
‘Do you dispute allegations you’re sleeping with a married man?’
‘Have you got a message for his wife and children?’
Managing to battle through, Emily wrenched open the driver’s side and slipped in, slamming the door behind her on the cacophony of shouts and flashing bulbs. The horde chased her to the road, aimlessly snapping, and she kept her face impassive lest the tinted windows let her down.
That was it: she’d have to get a bodyguard. Everyone who was anyone had security—she bet Nina Tarot had bloody security—and besides, when it came to this level of harassment it was surely a question of safety. The car could have crashed! Admittedly only into a bollard on its way out of the car park, but even so.
As she concentrated on steering the vehicle through a jam of west London traffic, hands shaking on the wheel, Emily realised what had vexed her. It wasn’t the paparazzi’s persecution—it was the reason for their hounding. Somehow her trysts with Christopher had shifted in the press from a teasing, sexy possibility that no one took too seriously, to an altogether more sinister and unsavoury accusation. Perhaps public feeling towards her was changing, rumbles of objection beginning to rise from the ranks. It was one thing to have people merrily speculating on a fact they couldn’t prove and another entirely to be thrusting a mic into your face and demanding you pay penance to a middle-aged woman whose husband was banging everything in sight. It made her feel like a tacky wannabe who’d slept with a married footballer.
Emily was destined for more than that. Wasn’t she?
Arriving on set half an hour later, she scanned the grounds for Christopher. He was nowhere to be seen.
‘How’s that feeling?’ asked the wardrobe girl as she tightened Emily’s bodice. There was so much boning in it she felt like she’d been gobbled up by a wild animal and was now gasping for air inside its ribcage.
‘Fine,’ she squeaked, unwilling to admit to a slow asphyxiation because that might mean she’d put on weight. Next came the painstaking arrangement of her hair, which required several hundred hairgrips and so much Elnett that had someone struck a match anywhere nearby she would have gone up in a puff of smoke.
A folded tabloid was sticking out of the stylist’s bag. Emily could make out the glaring headline—MY STEAMY NIGHT OF PASSION WITH LORD LOVE!—and Christopher’s brooding picture beneath it, alongside a busty blonde with barely anything on. Her face burned. You had to take these kiss and tell scandals with a pinch of salt, but the story was hardly outside the realms of possibility.
She grabbed the paper and skipped through the article. We went for hours…the most amazing lover… He begged me to strip… I kept on my stilettos; he likes a woman in heels…
Well, that last bit was true.
Disgusted, Emily flipped the page with force. How could he? Wasn’t having the most beautiful actress in England between his sheets enough? Clearly possessing a fridgeful of steak didn’t mean you weren’t partial to a KFC once in a while. How humiliating! She would never be taken seriously as the actress of her generation while she was associated with sleazy scoops like this.
As Emily was about to demand to be released, already reeling through the catalogue of insults she could throw Christopher’s way, her attention snagged on the subsequent spread.
CACATRA ISLAND—PLAYGROUND OF THE RICH AND FAMOUS.
She frowned, remembering Nina’s infuriating claims about her mega-selective luxury spa. A quick glance revealed it was the same. The piece was studded with images depicting the highest order of indulgence: sparkling turquoise sea and alabaster sand; chalky cliffs and lush green palms; A-list starlets frolicking in bikinis as they swam and caught the rays; bare-chested actors gunning jet-skis and enjoying a cold beer on the beach; helicopters and jets coming to land on the island’s private airstrip… There was a photograph of Reuben van der Meyde, the world-famous entrepreneur, casually leaning against the balustrade of his whitewashed mansion and looking decidedly pleased with himself. So he owned it. That made sense.
Your own stake of Eden hidden away in the Indian Ocean, the jewel in Reuben van der Meyde’s crown is stunning Cacatra Island. Ultimate holiday destination to a galaxy of stars, Cacatra’s opulent shores promise a shelter from the spotlight, guaranteed to cleanse the spirit and soothe the soul. A week’s stay will set you back—
Emily baulked at the expense.
But rest assured this is no ordinary retreat. By invitation only, access to ‘the closest thing on Earth to Paradise’ is reserved exclusively to those with the cash—and credentials—to pay for it.
‘All done, Ms Windermere,’ said the stylist, applying a finishing blast of hairspray. ‘Looks incredible, doesn’t it?’
Emily surveyed her reflection in the mirror. ‘It’s fine.’
‘I meant Cacatra Island. What I wouldn’t give to swop my Ryanair flights for a trip out there!’
Emily resented the implication that she, too, were contemplating a dismal week in some squat in Alicante. After Kate Middleton she was the loveliest woman in the country. Wasn’t that credentials enough?
‘Keep dreaming, girls.’ A shadow passed over the print and Nina Tarot came to rest in an adjacent chair. ‘That’s where the big kids hang.’
Emily raised a hand to ward off the sun. ‘Excuse me?’
‘The big kids. You know, the most important people alive?’
‘How depressingly hierarchical,’ muttered Emily, whose every perception of the world relied on the presumption of a hierarchy in which she held supreme rank.
‘I wouldn’t say that,’ drawled Nina as the stylist took a brush to her hair. ‘Earn and reward, it’s a straightforward principle.’ Emily tried not to get distracted by the bulge of cleavage bursting forth from Nina’s coral taffeta dress. She looked as if she’d just stepped off the Moulin Rouge.
‘And you earned it, I assume?’
‘If earning it amounts to being a world-famous actress who vacuums up so many drugs she doesn’t know what day of the week it is, apart from the day she catches her darling husband nailing the poolboy up the ass, then, yeah, I did. That island saved my life.’
Emily shuddered.
‘You gotta know people, sweetie. Even those kids who’ve got more money and celebrity than’s good for their health, even then they’ve got to get the invite, and even then they’ve got to sit on a list for however long…’
‘Who do you know?’
Nina looked at her sideways. ‘Why?’
Emily shrugged. ‘In case I wanted to see what the fuss was about.’
This time the American turned to face her. Was that pity in her eyes?
‘Honey, I’ve got to be straight with you. I’m not being mean here, but I really don’t think…’
‘You don’t think what?’
‘I know you’re famous in the UK and all, but…well, to be frank, I’m not sure you fit the bill.’
‘What bill?’ Emily spluttered, humiliated.
Nina sighed, as though obliged to explain something basic to a simpleton. ‘They’re selective,’ she said. ‘Very. I’m talking aristocracy. Government leaders. Olympic idols. It’s an A-listers’ game—’
‘But I’m an A-lister!’ This was unbelievable.
‘Maybe in this part of the world, sugar.’
Emily huffed a laugh. ‘Nina, please be assured that everyone I meet finds me utterly charming.’ She lifted her chin. ‘Your contacts would be safe with me.’
‘But would you be safe with them?’
She squinted. ‘Excuse me?’
‘This is an arena you know nothing about,’ Nina remarked gently. ‘You’ve got no idea what or who you’d be dealing with…’
Emily gritted her teeth. That was enough. She stood, flung the paper down and marched into the house, prompting a cluster of assistants in the main hall to fretfully disperse.
Who had been chosen to present live on Saturday at the charity ball? Who was tipped for an Onscreen Trophy at this autumn’s awards? Who was set for international stardom once this film was released?
Who was Nina Tarot to say she didn’t fit the bill?
Christopher passed her on the stairs. He grinned lasciviously and clasped her waist, drawing her close. ‘Lucinda,’ he rasped under his breath, ‘the mere sight of you fills me with rapture; promise to extinguish my pining.’
‘Sod off, Christopher,’ she said, pushing him away. ‘I’ve got places to be.’
Chapter Six
‘Let me get this straight. Emily Windermere stole your boyfriend?’
‘Yep.’ Julia rested her chin on her hand. They were in a booth in her favourite Italian, days after getting raucously drunk together at Isaac’s promised pub: she had mentioned the restaurant once, ages ago, and he’d remembered. ‘Emily just grabbed him one afternoon and rammed her tongue down his throat. I caught them, in the changing rooms. I hated gym class even more after that.’
‘Did they get together?’
‘No. She got bored after a week.’
Isaac frowned. ‘I’m sorry. That sucks.’
‘She only did it to hurt me. She didn’t even like him.’
‘Why?’
Julia considered it. ‘He had nice eyes, I guess, but he was a bit chubby. And then there was chess club…’
He laughed. ‘No, why did she do it? Why would she want to hurt you?’
‘Because that’s what Emily does: she belittles people. Ever since we were small and our mums made friends at nursery. Whenever we played make-believe I’d be the Post Office clerk to her management, the Jason to her Kylie, the hunchback to her Esmerelda…’ She sighed, batting away Isaac’s amused grin. ‘Pretty much like now.’
‘So she couldn’t handle it when you got a guy.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s a control thing. Insecurity. The thought you might actually be capable of happiness terrifies her. Trust me: it says more of Emily than it does of you.’
‘The irony is, she wasn’t always idolised at school—it was only when she was the first one to get tits and all the boys wanted to date her. Before that she used to get called Windy Rear in the playground!’
‘Nice!’
Julia smiled. ‘Even though part of me wanted to join in calling her names, I didn’t. I was always her friend. And then see how she repaid me.’
‘You’ve got to get over it.’ The pizzas came. ‘I see why you don’t like her, but the fact is you’re in the same business so you’re bound to run into each other—’
‘It’s a jinx. This is the third time we’ve worked together. I mean once, just once, I want to be the one that matters.’
Isaac watched her. ‘You are the one that matters.’
‘Well.’ She prodded her pizza, her appetite gone. ‘I’m not convinced.’
Isaac had invites to an album launch in Soho.
‘Come on, it’ll be fun!’
‘I don’t know, I should probably get a cab…’
‘Are you drunk?’
‘A bit.’
‘If you go home now, you’ll only wake up with a headache. Let’s go.’
They went. Outside the event, a band of paparazzi stood around smoking. They clicked on autopilot as Julia entered, recognising her from a Dickens adaptation she’d been in at Christmas. Emily had been in it, too. It was a matter of seconds before they made the connection.
‘What can you tell us about Emily Windermere and Christopher Fenwick? Are the rumours true? Will we see them tonight?’
Isaac took her hand and steered her through. Julia swallowed a lump of embarrassment: yet again, the moment she attracted one ounce of interest, there Emily was, waiting in the wings to stride on and ruin it all.
‘Come on,’ he said, lifting two drinks from a passing tray. ‘Let’s count how many egos it’s possible to fit in one room.’
Inside, the bar was lofty with sloped, beamed ceilings and a high mezzanine. The place was packed with familiar faces, pop starlets and presenters, comedians and reality TV sensations. Journalists were working the space, bulbs flashing at a procession of VIPS being positioned on a lip-shaped couch. Two topless male models with chests of golden steel posed with models and socialites.
‘D’you think it’ll be like this tomorrow?’ Julia asked as they settled on a couple of stools. A girl in a fifties prom dress came up with a tray of retro sweets. Julia sifted out a candy necklace and wound it round her wrist.
‘What’s happening tomorrow?’
‘The charity ball. It starts at six.’
Isaac rolled his eyes. ‘Do we even have to be there? It’s not like we’ve got to do anything. I thought it was all about Emily and Christopher.’ He held his hands up. ‘And that is the last time her name gets mentioned tonight.’
Julia bit off one of the sweets. ‘I might go anyway,’ she said. ‘Check it out.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Why not?’
Isaac squinted at her. ‘You’re not planning anything stupid, are you?’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know. That’s what worries me.’
Julia stirred her drink. ‘Emily’s going to be in front of the nation, doing what she does best and doing it to perfection. What could possibly go wrong?’
‘Well, if you’re going, I’m going.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah.’ He nicked his chin with a thumb. ‘You know, Julia…’
‘Hmm?’
‘I want to be there. For you. If you’re going to find it hard.’
‘You don’t need to be—’
‘Like I said, I want to.’ He was looking at her funnily, as if he expected her to get something obvious. ‘I always want to be with you,’ he continued carefully, ‘because when I’m with you I feel better than I do with anyone else. Do you get what I’m saying?’
She thought she did. Only, it couldn’t be true. Isaac was good-looking and funny and popular—no one had ever said anything like that to her before.
Julia watched him, waiting for the punchline, searching for the joke, but his gaze was steady. A tentative smile began to spread across her face, but before she had time to articulate her response Isaac’s mouth was on hers and he was kissing her.
Chapter Seven
Emily would never tire of the buzz of a live TV appearance. She’d done it countless times and never got nervous, but the anticipation of knowing you were about to be broadcast into countless living rooms across the country invoked a peculiar, addictive sort of adrenalin. Power, Christopher had diagnosed not twenty-four hours earlier when they had wrapped their scenes for the day. In those moments, darling, you can say or do anything and they can’t do a thing to stop it. You could plant an idea, you could sow a revolution; you could change the world!
Emily wasn’t interested in changing the world. The world changed for her.
One thing of which she was starting to tire, however, was Christopher. She found she got easily weary of men once the initial chase was done, once they had told her how stunning and perfect she was over and over again and they’d experimented with every conceivable sexual position so there was no more mystery to uncover. That was the point at which she became aware of Christopher’s breath in her face and the fact he had hairs growing out of his nose, if you looked closely.
Her stylist had brought a selection of outfits and laid them out now for Emily to choose from. It was refreshing to be able to model her own clothes—recently it had felt as if the Heriscombe House production were taking over her life—and perused the options.
Burberry pearl dress: ‘Too frumpy.’ Ghost knee-length tunic: ‘Too officey.’ Lacy Elie Saab number not a million miles from what her character might wear: ‘Too Lucinda Liddell!’
She raised a beautiful beaded Julien Macdonald.
‘I suppose this will have to do.’ She sighed. It was slightly shorter than she’d wanted—tonight Emily was determined to give the right impression, of a girl who would never contemplate getting involved with a married man, let alone one who was having his end away with everything in a skirt (more to the point, out of a skirt)—but she had to admit the heatwave was unrelenting, and to dress like a nun would only make her sweat and her concealer run.
Part of the heath had been closed off for the ball and people were arriving in droves, milling in conversation as smiling waitresses circulated with trays of fizzing champagne and extravagant canapés. A hundred or more lavishly decorated tables—white linens running to the ground and gold-leaf centrepieces—were arranged in view of the stage, which was decked out in swathes of hanging silk and a glinting podium where she and Christopher would shortly appear to present the award. A raft of cameras was positioned beneath it, lenses pointed like rifles.
Quite what the award was for, she wasn’t entirely sure…something to do with fundraising pioneers? It didn’t matter—what mattered was that she would waft out looking angelic, flash her megawatt smile and appear as graceful and alluring as she always did. A few pretty pictures in tomorrow’s papers would soon quash any murmurs of dissent. It was amazing what the right gown could do.
Emily stepped out into the balmy evening. The sun was cooling, falling behind the trees and bathing the grounds in burnished light.
She was about to go find Christopher so they could practise their banter when something in the trees caught her eye.
Maud Screwe.
Rather, Julia Chambers: but there had always been a Maud inside Julia just waiting to get out. One of life’s born losers; she’d known it the instant they’d met.
Only, for once, Julia wasn’t alone.
The footman was with her; the one who had dared speak to her the night Nina Tarot arrived. And they were holding hands! Were they? Yes, it wasn’t her eyes deceiving her, and now he was stroking Julia’s face—her pasty, plump face! And, yes, it was really happening: he was leaning in to kiss her…! That couldn’t be right. Emily was the pretty one, the one all the boys fancied and all the girls wanted to be—it had been that way for ever and always would be: a fact sure as day followed night, a truth so fixed and final it belonged inscribed in some leather-bound tome gathering dust on a library shelf. Julia was fat and boring and in sixth form had cultivated a spotty back: the concept that a man could be interested in that when Emily Windermere herself was in the vicinity tipped her globe drunkenly off its axis. She endured a rush of dizzy nausea.
Oblivious to the world around them, the couple linked arms. Emily watched them go, incensed, confused, staring for a long time at the spot where they’d been.
Julia mounted the slope behind the house and surveyed the scene. Evening dresses sparkled in the last of the afternoon sun, the fragrant aroma of summer flowers mixing with the heady scent of perfume as guests settled and the ceremony began. The compere was a weekend talk show host renowned for his close-to-the-bone humour: she wondered if he’d be making a quip at Emily and Christopher’s expense tonight.
She realised she didn’t care any more. Maybe she didn’t have to be like Emily to be happy. Maybe there were more important things than recognition and celebrity and being in a constant state of resplendent, detached beauty. Maybe Christopher Fenwick wasn’t as great as she’d thought, after all.
Since the previous night’s launch Julia had been floating on air. She and Isaac hadn’t been able to tear their eyes from each other during filming, and when they’d wrapped he’d caught her hand on the way out of the dining room and pulled her into the shadows, kissing her as she’d never been kissed before.
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Victoria Fox
Tales of TemptationThree mini bonkbusters from the queen of scandal and sin, Victoria Fox Rivals, Pride and Ambition – devour them all and get an exclusive extract from Victoria’s brand new sensational summer read, Wicked Ambition… Out now!Praise for Victoria Fox: ‘Perfect for the Beach’ The Sun ‘Jackie Collins for the modern gal’ – Grazia‘Just too exciting to put down’ Closer‘If you think the Made in Chelsea crew live a glitzy life, you ain’t seen nothing yet’Heat‘600 pages of sin!’ Now magazine‘Pour yourself a glass of Pimms because this summer’s bonkbuster is guaranteed to get you seriously hot’ Cosmopolitan ‘Victoria Fox’s glossy chick-lit novel gives Jackie Collins a run for her money.’ Irish Tatler
Tales of Temptation
Rivals
A Short Tale of Temptation 1
Pride
A Short Tale of Temptation 2
Ambition
A Short Tale of Temptation 3
Victoria Fox
Rivals A Short Tale of Temptation 1
Chapter One
‘It’s unbearably bloody hot. Can someone get me a drink before I burst into flames?’
Emily Windermere fanned herself with small, porcelain hands, gazing whimsically upon her beauty in the make-up girl’s mirror. Even when she was roasting beneath layers of net and taffeta, trussed up in a bodice and choked by a necklace of ribbons, her wide-eyed reflection—those pools of hazel bordered by delicate lashes; that thicket of copper framing a flawless, cream-skinned complexion—remained as serenely lovely as an English garden on the first day of spring.
It was the English summer that was the problem.
‘Ugh! Wasps!’ Irritably Emily batted her arms, causing the make-up girl’s brush to stab her in the eye. ‘My God, is it too much to hope I’m not blind by the end of this?’
‘Here you go, Ms Windermere.’ A nervous runner was proffering a glass of cloudy lemonade, one of the onset requisites stipulated by her management.
‘That’ll explain why I’m getting mauled by insects,’ she complained, accepting it all the same. ‘Can’t we take care of this inside my trailer?’
‘I need the light, I’m afraid,’ said the make-up girl through gritted teeth.
It was Friday morning, a fortnight into filming, and, contrary to the studio’s concerns that a London June wouldn’t produce enough light, they now had rather too much of it. The city was enduring a heatwave that showed no signs of abating, golden sun blazing across Hampstead Heath from an unbroken swimming-pool sky. Cast were sweating through Victorian petticoats and frock coats, while crew chased to allay the disgruntled company, struggling under clipboards and sound equipment and taking occasional refuge for a cigarette in the shelter of a crisp white parasol.
‘They’re ready for you,’ prompted the runner, anxiously smiling as Emily rose with majesty from her seat, mustering her lacy skirts and, with a dainty finger, removing the spot of perspiration that had gathered in her philtrum.
She thought of Christopher Fenwick awaiting her in his breeches.
‘And I’m ready for them,’ she breathed.
‘Oh, Lord Ackland, we mustn’t! Your dear wife—’
‘Why relinquish such precious moments to the folly of resistance?’ Lord Ackland growled, attacking his lover’s neck with the ferocity of a vampire. ‘I’ve caught your shy glances, Lucinda; well aware you are of how I admire thee.’
Lord Ackland’s hands, wide and strong as a bear’s, roamed across her corseted body with the territorial claim of that same animal, deftly unpicking the ties that held her together. His tongue shot into her mouth, rich with tobacco.
‘My lord, we act in haste—’
Abruptly Lord Ackland stepped back, releasing his flap-fronted trousers as the camera panned to Lucinda’s fey, lips-parted stare. She could see him bulging through the cotton and struggled to remember what came next. Fortunately it was his line.
‘The heart hastens unchecked, my dear; it knows not the temperance of reason.’
She’d seen it all before, of course, and as Christopher Fenwick grasped Emily Windermere’s bottom, thrusting a hardness towards her that was most definitely not part of the script, she fought the urge to reach for him in the way she had the previous night and have him surrender to her dexterity right here against the grandfather clock.
‘You almost had me back there, you minx,’ Christopher said to her afterwards as they walked up to camp. He couldn’t resist checking over his shoulder to make sure they were out of earshot. ‘We should be more careful.’
‘Conscience, all of a sudden?’ Emily enquired archly, absorbing her co-star’s profile out of the corner of her eye: he had a prominent forehead, appealingly like a caveman who might wrestle beasts for supper, and a slight underbite that completed the impression. His shoulders were broad and muscular, his hair grown longish so it tickled the starch of his collar. There was no doubt about it: Christopher Fenwick was divine. He was also married with two daughters.
What was it they said about life imitating art?
‘A careful tread isn’t the same as a rampant conscience,’ he observed.
‘Now you’re talking like bloody Lord Ackland.’
He steered her into the shade of an oak. ‘My wife is away this weekend,’ he murmured, pulling her into his arms. ‘I’ll have the place to myself.’
‘Good for you.’
He grazed his nose against hers. ‘Why so petulant?’
Emily shrugged. In part she felt peeved at how cocksure Christopher was—at how cocksure she’d made him, because leaping into bed on the second occasion they’d met had scarcely been playing hard to get—but she also knew he liked her in this girlish mode, fifteen years his junior, and reverted to known tricks the instant his wife was dragged into conversation.
She pouted, shaking her ringlets. ‘You’ll have to make a fuss of me.’
‘You know I will.’
‘And get someone to take that smelly dog of yours. I can’t bear it panting at the door with its tongue hanging out.’
‘Consider it done.’
Emily tilted her head, pretending to reach a decision. ‘Fine,’ she said, with a wistful sigh. ‘I suppose.’
Christopher grinned wolfishly. He reached to squeeze her behind, which was no easy feat through a voluminous bustle.
‘One day you’re going to get in trouble for this,’ he teased.
‘Yes,’ she mused, returning his kiss. ‘I suppose I am.’
Chapter Two
It was their brazenness that did it, how lazy they were about concealing the affair, especially her, tarting about on set as if she ruled the place (which, in a sense, she did), performing her love scenes with overblown gusto just so everyone could know they were sleeping together. Had she no moral fibre?
Julia Chambers swiped the saggy mobcap off her head and scowled.
Maud Screwe. Could her character have been given a more disastrous name? As if it wasn’t bad enough being cast in Emily Windermere’s shadow yet again, the soul-destroying pattern that had first been sown in the girls’ childhood then tended through adolescence and college, eventually flourishing in the wake of their exit from drama school. Why? Because Emily was pretty and precious and made stupid exclamations like ‘Goodness!’ and ‘Fiddlesticks!’, which made Julia want to scream ‘FUCK!’ in her face for as many moments as it took before her throat shrivelled up.
Maud Screwe. Oh, she’d seen Emily’s expression when they’d arrived on location for the first time; the familiar gratification, the raised eyebrow, the ‘Julia, is that you? Fancy us working together again! If I didn’t know better I’d think you were stalking me—’ a tinkling laugh ‘—now, Maud Screwe, what a funny name…’
Emily had landed the part of Lucinda Liddell, naturally, the role Julia had originally auditioned for. It was a simple distinction: Julia wasn’t one of life’s Lucindas—her face didn’t belong in an Edwardian dolls’ house or in one of those ballerina music boxes that played dinky tunes on the harpsichord, it belonged to the trusty friend, the plain Jane, the slightly overweight sidekick. Never mind that she was the better actress—since when had that counted for anything?
Maud Screwe. The Maud was as dour and uninspiring as any of the parts she was offered—maudlin, that pretty much summed it up. And as for Screwe, well, someone was having a laugh. Julia couldn’t remember the last time, and, as always seemed to be the case, her own drought in the bedroom coincided perfectly with Emily’s dalliance with one of the hottest British actors in existence.
Christopher Fenwick. The mere sight of him brought her out in shivers.
‘Everything OK?’
Julia turned, for a stupid moment believing it was Christopher himself before the voice got attributed to Isaac, one of the footmen. Isaac’s character Ned was as downtrodden as poor old Maud and through shared scenes they had identified a kindred soul in the other—Julia decided if anything good were to come from this production it would be her friendship with him.
She realised she’d wandered further from Heriscombe House than she’d thought. The lake was spread before her, glittering silvery light.
‘Hey.’ She sank on to its banks, not much caring if she got mud on her cotton dress—it was already brown—and balling the mobcap in her hands. How she wanted to fling it into the water and never see it again! Why did she always have to be the sodding maid? Was it too much to ask for a scrap of glamour in her life? How was she ever going to attract anyone even remotely of the calibre of Christopher Fenwick while she was bound up in an apron and the only lines she uttered were variations on ‘Yes, my lord’ and ‘As it pleases you, m’lady’?
Isaac flopped down next to her. ‘It can’t be that bad…?’ he prompted.
She looked up at him. ‘I bet you’re obsessing over Emily Windermere like the rest of them.’
He smiled a little. ‘Why would you say that?’
‘It’s pathetic. Men are so shallow. All you care about is looks.’
Isaac scratched the back of his head. ‘That’s a sweeping statement.’
‘It’s true, isn’t it? And why shouldn’t you?’ She picked at the grass, discarding tufts of it till a bald patch started to appear. ‘End of the day, that’s what counts.’
‘Clearly it does to you.’
Her head snapped up. ‘Excuse me?’
‘You can’t accuse us of valuing appearances when you’re one girl slagging off another because of what she looks like.’
Julia opened her mouth to reply but the pithy retort didn’t come.
‘You wouldn’t understand,’ she puffed, getting to her feet and tramping off.
‘Julia, wait.’
She rounded on him. ‘Fine, if that’s what you think. You know nothing about me, or Emily, or—’ She put her hands on her hips. ‘Are you laughing?’
‘No,’ he said, trying not to grin. ‘It’s just…you in that outfit—’
‘What about me in this outfit? You try wearing it!’
‘If you let me finish, what I was going to say was that you in that outfit and me in this—’ he gestured at his livery ‘—for a minute it felt like we were really these people. You know, in another life, another time, or something.’ He went red. ‘Never mind, it sounds silly now I say it out loud.’
Julia sighed. ‘No, it doesn’t. Sorry, Isaac. I’m the one being silly.’
‘What I meant to say was that you shouldn’t waste your time feeling bad over Emily Windermere.’ He scuffed the ground with his heel. ‘OK, she is pretty, but by all accounts she’s poisonous and anyway she’s never said two words to me, so, for the record, I’m definitely not obsessing over her.’
‘Christopher Fenwick is,’ Julia muttered bitterly.
‘And he’s an arsehole.’
‘How would you know?’
‘Because he’s a forty-year-old guy who’s cheating on his wife with every twenty-something starlet who crosses his path? The guy’s a dick.’
They made their way back up to the trailers in silence. Julia wondered if getting to take a dick to bed each night was every bit as bad as Isaac made out.
It wasn’t the first time Christopher Fenwick had visited her in a dream. On this occasion he was dressed as Lord Ackland, strutting in his breeches to the scullery where Maud was occupied with a basket of ripe polished apples, peeling their skins in bright green coils, fragrant and sweet, rolling floury pastry and dusting brown sugar, and he bent her over the wooden table wordlessly, unstrapping himself and tearing her knickers in a practised wrench that made her blood explode. The fruits went rolling, plopping over the rim and on to the floor, dozens of them, as his thrusting got faster and deeper and he was crying out her name—
Julia woke to silence, searched the dark and heard nothing but her heartbeat.
She checked the time: 2.41 a.m.
Unable to return to sleep, she sat and opened a book. The words swam in front of her eyes, making no sense, with each blink dragging her under. Was Emily doing those things with Christopher right now? Was she writhing in ecstasy in some hidden place, just as she had years ago in the gym changing rooms with Julia’s first and only boyfriend? The only boy who had ever looked twice… Well, he’d changed his mind the instant something better came along. Emily with Christopher was hardly the same, it didn’t come close to that terrible betrayal, but he was still a man she craved and a man whom she was forced to watch capitulate to those manipulative charms. Emily saw what she wanted and she went out and got it—regardless of the cost.
At three Julia padded to the kitchen and flicked the kettle on. She leaned against the counter and hugged herself against the cold. Six hours till she had to be back on set, six hours till she had to see envied, enchanting Emily glowing in evidence of the time she’d spent in his arms—time Julia could only dream of.
But tomorrow things would be different. The cast was to be joined by an American, an actress as beautiful as she was troubled, who’d recently emerged from a super-elite island paradise where she’d sought to battle her demons. She’d been drafted in to play a rival for Lord Ackland’s affections. If rumour were anything to go by, Emily Windermere might find she had a fight on her hands.
It was about time.
Chapter Three
Emily took against Nina Tarot on sight. The woman was grotesquely Californiafied, all candyfloss blonde hair and huge white teeth and a chest that looked like a baby’s bum stuffed into her corset. She also had this really grating accent that you could hear a mile off and sounded like a bird squawking in distress.
But the worst thing of all was that Christopher Fenwick had the hots for her.
It was so obvious! Never did it fail to astound her how predictable men were. She supposed it was the slutty demeanour—Nina was, after all, playing a tawdry madam—but it was also the novelty: Emily wasn’t idiotic enough to believe she and Christopher were indulging in a heartfelt love affair; it was sex, plain and simple.
‘Cut her some slack,’ Christopher mooned as they made their way to the drawing room, already adopting these bizarre Americanisms that made her skin crawl.
‘You sound like you’re having a mid-life crisis,’ she threw back, cracking her face into a smile for the director before turning to Christopher, whereupon it vanished completely. ‘Haven’t you a sufficient sense of self to desist from modifying your behaviour whenever you think it’ll help you get a leg over?’
Christopher regarded her blankly. ‘Nina’s been through a tough time—’
‘Oh, spare me!’ Emily waved a hand, drifting across to a mahogany chaise longue and gracefully reclining across it. ‘We all know she’s been in rehab, why such a song and dance? What was it this time? Drink? Sex? Over-the-counter drugs? So LA.’
Christopher smirked. He came closer. ‘This is a change from the obedient little thing I had in my bed last night,’ he hissed excitedly in her ear. ‘As I remember she seemed perfectly content with a mouthful of cock.’
Emily’s face burned up—she hated how he did that to her right before a take! He did it on purpose.
As sound and lighting were finalised, her flustered gaze landed on Julia Chambers hovering anxiously in the corner, clad in an infinitely morose maid’s outfit that did nothing for her pasty colouring. Julia had a crush; it was achingly clear. Milking the moment, Emily looked longingly after Christopher as though their last exchange had been in affection, and adjusted her position on the chaise to appear more alluring. Like the runt of the litter sniffing at her heels, Julia never failed to serve as a convenient reminder of Emily’s uncontested superiority—what a dreadful curse plainness was! Well, at least that made her good for something.
Instantly she felt better. Why should she care a jot about Nina Tarot? Let them go ahead and get their knickers in a twist if that was what they wanted. Emily was the star of this production and no one, least of all a brassy American, was going to compromise that.
‘Isn’t she great?’
Emily yawned. ‘Who?’ she asked boredly, though she knew full well.
‘Nina, of course.’ The boy was as captivated as everyone else gathered in the parlour. Emily recognised him as one of the footmen but had never bothered to register his name: he had floppy brown hair and would probably be handsome in a couple of years. ‘She’s been telling us about her rehabilitation—it’s inspiring.’
‘I’m sure,’ Emily responded drily, sipping her slimline tonic. Drinks had been arranged post-shoot to welcome their new addition and the way they were all hanging on to Nina’s every word was sickmaking.
‘This is a fresh start for her,’ the footman wittered on. ‘Her first job since she came back from the island.’
‘What island?’
The footman seemed surprised to have engaged her in conversation.
‘I don’t remember the name,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to ask Nina.’
Emily made a face. ‘I’m sure I’ll survive not knowing.’
As far as Emily was concerned, the less she had to endure concerning Nina Tarot, the better. The actress’s execution of the drawing-room scene had inspired a litany of adoring praise from cast and crew—Emily grudgingly admitted she was talented—and now her speaking to the extras and assistants was securing the lowlies’ devotion as well. Who on earth was she, Mother bloody Teresa?
Christopher certainly seemed to think so. All through their scene he’d been eating out of the palm of Nina’s hand—undoubtedly he’d be eating out of her lap soon enough if Emily didn’t put a stop to things—and now he was rapt at Nina’s side, abandoning his leading lady in favour of some cheap American trash.
‘Well,’ Nina was saying, and for some reason that accent was ten thousand decibels louder than an ordinary one, ‘I just feel incredible. That place…it’s magical. It made me feel—’ a toss of the head, a bat of the eyelids—what a performer! ‘—I can’t describe it: alive, again, I guess.’
‘I’ve heard about it,’ piped up one of the scullery maids. ‘Isn’t it, like, the most exclusive place on the planet?’
Nina giggled. ‘That depends, honey. The island is paradise—and paradise doesn’t come cheap.’
‘But it’s more than that…right?’ Now meek Julia Chambers was getting involved. ‘I read an article. You have to be someone important for them to let you in.’ Julia chewed her lip. ‘You have to be someone, at least.’
Christopher drained his glass of Scotch. ‘And Nina most certainly is someone, so I’d say that was a fair observation.’
Emily despised both the remark and Julia’s flushed reaction to it.
There followed a string of excited speculations:
‘Apparently you have to be on a waiting list for, like, five years—’
‘I heard you’ve got to be royalty, or related to royalty, or—’
‘You need to have fifty million dollars in the bank—’
‘You need to get a secret password—’
‘You’ve got to own a small country—’
‘You’ve got to own a jet—’
‘All I’ll say,’ Nina interrupted, waiting for the thrill to subside, ‘is that the island changed my life. There’s nowhere like it.’ She paused till once more the limelight came to rest.
‘I swear to God, you’ve got to see this place to believe it…’
Emily excused herself to visit the bathroom. She stayed a long time fussing over her appearance, with each strand tweaked and dab of gloss reapplied reminding herself that she was the prime cut on this movie. Just because Nina Tarot had been a big Hollywood star in the nineties, just because she’d worked alongside legends, it didn’t detract from the fact she’d fallen spectacularly off the rails and her career had shot down the pan. What kind of actress let that happen?
All that made Nina ‘someone’, did it?
Well, Emily was more of a someone than she’d ever be—and if it took gaining access to some silly little island to prove it, then so be it.
Chapter Four
She loved the back of Christopher Fenwick’s neck. It was wide and bronzed and strong; the way his hair touched the collar of his waistcoat, damp from the heat…
‘Julia?’ A nudge in the ribs brought her back to reality. Isaac was gesturing to the front of the crowd where their producer was preparing to address the assembly.
She tore her eyes from Christopher but was only half listening. It was the following day and they had been summoned on the lawn for news that the Heriscombe estate was hosting a live charity ball in a week’s time, and as publicity for the forthcoming film Christopher and Emily would be appearing onstage to present an award. Millions would witness the teaser—helped along by rampant public interest in the couple’s are-they-aren’t-they? love affair. Everyone knew Christopher was a player—the question was had sweet, English-rose Emily been able to resist succumbing to his charms? The answer was no.
Julia knew she shouldn’t care. All Emily’s life she had been the centre of attention and this was no exception: a while ago she’d imagined basking in the warmth of the spotlight, how it might feel to attract such veneration, but some things just weren’t meant to be. While Emily was up there next week, pouty and pert as she charmed her fans and blew them kisses from a cupid’s bow mouth, Julia would be making tea in a back room with some work experience adolescent who was only talking to her because they wanted Emily’s autograph.
There was a smattering of applause. It was directed at the PR team who had secured the stunt but Julia noticed that Emily herself refrained from clapping, instead contributing only a beatific smile in the assumption that the accolade was for her.
‘Don’t suppose you fancy grabbing a drink later?’
‘Hmm?’ The group dispersed. Across the courtyard she saw Christopher take Emily’s hands, kiss them in turn and then draw her into an embrace, in the clutches of which Emily bobbed up and down with excitement. Inwardly, Julia groaned.
Isaac shifted his weight from one foot to the other. ‘You know, just to the pub or whatever, or, um, we could get something to eat, if you prefer…’
‘OK.’ Julia watched as Nina Tarot attached herself to Christopher’s side, exclaiming about the live show. Emily’s face dropped like a stone.
‘Really?’
‘Sure.’ Julia took Isaac’s arm as they headed up to the house. ‘Why not?’
‘Great. There’s this wicked place I went to with my mates—it’s got a beer garden and a games bit and stuff. Not that I’m saying you’ve got to down pints and play me at pool—unless you wanted to, I mean, I’m not being sexist or anything—’
‘She’s cool, isn’t she?’
Isaac blinked. ‘Who?’
‘Nina.’
‘Er, yeah.’
‘She’s pissed Emily off.’
‘Which makes you her number one fan.’
‘I just think it’s time someone made her sweat.’
Isaac stopped at one of the stagecoaches and rested his elbow on the driver seat. ‘Sounds like Christopher’s already doing that.’
‘Whatever,’ Julia said sulkily.
‘What’s so great about him anyway? He’s a vain, conceited tool. Come to think of it, they’re made for each other.’
‘He’s not vain.’
Isaac raised an eyebrow. ‘You don’t believe that for a second.’
‘Maybe I do, maybe I don’t.’
‘Come on, Jules, you’re better than them. A million times.’
She didn’t believe that for a second either. ‘Thanks.’
‘So…’ Isaac chewed his lip, ‘…tonight?’
She scanned the cast, landing on Christopher and Nina chatting amiably while Emily lurked moodily behind. ‘What about tonight?’
‘The pub?’
‘Oh yeah. Course.’
‘Meet you at the main gate at six?’
‘Sounds good.’
Isaac grinned. She noticed what a nice smile he had.
‘OW!’ The teacup, spewing hot liquid, flew to the ground. ‘My God, how on earth do you expect me to handle boiling-point liquids and remember my lines?’
‘CUT!’
Shakily Julia deposited her silver tray, stepping forward to collect the discarded china and help stamp out the wet patch spreading through the rug.
‘You asked for the tea to be fresh, Emily,’ commented the director. Emily insisted on her scenes being as ‘real’ as possible, including props, so had commanded that if Lucinda were drinking Earl Grey, so should she be.
‘But palatable, at least!’ she snapped. Her hazel eyes landed on Julia. ‘It’s Maud Screwe’s fault. Couldn’t you have let it cool down, I don’t know, a degree, before forcing it on me?’
Julia’s mouth went dry. ‘I thought that was how you wanted it,’ she managed.
‘Well next time why don’t you bring the whole bloody kettle through and chuck it all down my dress? It’d save us the china, wouldn’t it?’
Oh, how she’d love to.
‘Let’s go again,’ intervened the director. ‘From: Remember you taught me the “Suite Bergamasque”?’
Julia retrieved the tray and took her position against the fireplace. The scene began with Lord Ackland giving Lucinda a piano lesson. When they were interrupted by Nina Tarot’s character, Vivian, Lucinda was relegated to a nearby couch to watch as the two duetted (and what a proficient pianist Christopher was!), devoured by jealousy that Julia suspected was only partly acted and clutching her too-hot tea.
Afterwards, Emily stalked off to have words with the director. Julia scratched under the cap—the cotton made her itch—and was fidgeting with a stain on her apron when she heard a deep, seductive voice enquire, ‘Are you all right?’
Christopher Fenwick was standing right there. He was talking to her.
‘Y-yes,’ she stammered. ‘Thanks.’
He placed one hand on the wall and regarded her mockingly. Julia couldn’t help but glance down. As she did, she took in his stance. Those breeches were tight.
‘Can’t think what’s got into her,’ observed Christopher, as though he were chatting to an old friend. ‘I thought it was jolly rotten the way she spoke to you.’
Julia resisted returning something catty like, I’m used to it—you should’ve seen her at school! and concentrated on removing the teastain, all the while burning with embarrassment and thinking, Why can’t I speak to him?
‘Need someone to look at that?’
‘Oh! No. I’m fine. I mean, it’ll come out—’
‘Here.’ Before she knew what was happening, Christopher had lifted her apron in his manly fingers and was inspecting it with a nail. ‘Might scratch off…’
‘Careful, Christopher, it might be catching!’
Emily joined them, quick as a snake, her eyes flashing, and laughed to make light of the horrid comment. ‘That is to say, you don’t know where it’s been.’ Julia saw her adversary stare pointedly at the maid’s costume but knew the implication concerned what—or who—was beneath it.
‘Come, come!’ she sang, looping her arm through his.
Christopher acquiesced. ‘I was seeing if I couldn’t help a lady in distress…’ He winked at Julia. ‘Sorry, what’s your name?’
‘Julia Chambers—’
But Emily had already dragged him off. Julia watched them go, anger building inside her, rising and rising like an unstoppable tide until it threatened to steal the breath from her lungs.
She would get revenge on Emily Windermere if it were the last thing she did.
Next week’s live appearance. It was meant to be.
Chapter Five
Shopping used to be a pleasure—before she’d started getting recognised!
Of course Emily embraced the adulation, being stopped for her signature or to listen to a teenage girl rhapsodise about what an inspiration she was. Part of her job was to give back to her fans (especially after a magazine piece last month had labelled her ‘snotty’ and ‘detached’—how dare they?) and she considered herself generous to permit the intrusion, on a day like today when all she was after was a Mulberry plum leather handbag. Still, it wasn’t fair that only Emily Windermere got to enjoy Emily Windermere—aside from Christopher Fenwick, of course, who was enjoying her too.
Unable to get down to any serious retail pursuits (in Louis Vuitton she’d been chased by a furiously whispering duo to the point where she’d been afraid to use the changing rooms), she emerged from the shopping centre, adjusted her huge sunglasses against the morning light and made her way to her brand new Audi R8.
A flurry of paparazzi blocked her path.
‘Emily, are the rumours about you and Christopher Fenwick true?’
‘Do you dispute allegations you’re sleeping with a married man?’
‘Have you got a message for his wife and children?’
Managing to battle through, Emily wrenched open the driver’s side and slipped in, slamming the door behind her on the cacophony of shouts and flashing bulbs. The horde chased her to the road, aimlessly snapping, and she kept her face impassive lest the tinted windows let her down.
That was it: she’d have to get a bodyguard. Everyone who was anyone had security—she bet Nina Tarot had bloody security—and besides, when it came to this level of harassment it was surely a question of safety. The car could have crashed! Admittedly only into a bollard on its way out of the car park, but even so.
As she concentrated on steering the vehicle through a jam of west London traffic, hands shaking on the wheel, Emily realised what had vexed her. It wasn’t the paparazzi’s persecution—it was the reason for their hounding. Somehow her trysts with Christopher had shifted in the press from a teasing, sexy possibility that no one took too seriously, to an altogether more sinister and unsavoury accusation. Perhaps public feeling towards her was changing, rumbles of objection beginning to rise from the ranks. It was one thing to have people merrily speculating on a fact they couldn’t prove and another entirely to be thrusting a mic into your face and demanding you pay penance to a middle-aged woman whose husband was banging everything in sight. It made her feel like a tacky wannabe who’d slept with a married footballer.
Emily was destined for more than that. Wasn’t she?
Arriving on set half an hour later, she scanned the grounds for Christopher. He was nowhere to be seen.
‘How’s that feeling?’ asked the wardrobe girl as she tightened Emily’s bodice. There was so much boning in it she felt like she’d been gobbled up by a wild animal and was now gasping for air inside its ribcage.
‘Fine,’ she squeaked, unwilling to admit to a slow asphyxiation because that might mean she’d put on weight. Next came the painstaking arrangement of her hair, which required several hundred hairgrips and so much Elnett that had someone struck a match anywhere nearby she would have gone up in a puff of smoke.
A folded tabloid was sticking out of the stylist’s bag. Emily could make out the glaring headline—MY STEAMY NIGHT OF PASSION WITH LORD LOVE!—and Christopher’s brooding picture beneath it, alongside a busty blonde with barely anything on. Her face burned. You had to take these kiss and tell scandals with a pinch of salt, but the story was hardly outside the realms of possibility.
She grabbed the paper and skipped through the article. We went for hours…the most amazing lover… He begged me to strip… I kept on my stilettos; he likes a woman in heels…
Well, that last bit was true.
Disgusted, Emily flipped the page with force. How could he? Wasn’t having the most beautiful actress in England between his sheets enough? Clearly possessing a fridgeful of steak didn’t mean you weren’t partial to a KFC once in a while. How humiliating! She would never be taken seriously as the actress of her generation while she was associated with sleazy scoops like this.
As Emily was about to demand to be released, already reeling through the catalogue of insults she could throw Christopher’s way, her attention snagged on the subsequent spread.
CACATRA ISLAND—PLAYGROUND OF THE RICH AND FAMOUS.
She frowned, remembering Nina’s infuriating claims about her mega-selective luxury spa. A quick glance revealed it was the same. The piece was studded with images depicting the highest order of indulgence: sparkling turquoise sea and alabaster sand; chalky cliffs and lush green palms; A-list starlets frolicking in bikinis as they swam and caught the rays; bare-chested actors gunning jet-skis and enjoying a cold beer on the beach; helicopters and jets coming to land on the island’s private airstrip… There was a photograph of Reuben van der Meyde, the world-famous entrepreneur, casually leaning against the balustrade of his whitewashed mansion and looking decidedly pleased with himself. So he owned it. That made sense.
Your own stake of Eden hidden away in the Indian Ocean, the jewel in Reuben van der Meyde’s crown is stunning Cacatra Island. Ultimate holiday destination to a galaxy of stars, Cacatra’s opulent shores promise a shelter from the spotlight, guaranteed to cleanse the spirit and soothe the soul. A week’s stay will set you back—
Emily baulked at the expense.
But rest assured this is no ordinary retreat. By invitation only, access to ‘the closest thing on Earth to Paradise’ is reserved exclusively to those with the cash—and credentials—to pay for it.
‘All done, Ms Windermere,’ said the stylist, applying a finishing blast of hairspray. ‘Looks incredible, doesn’t it?’
Emily surveyed her reflection in the mirror. ‘It’s fine.’
‘I meant Cacatra Island. What I wouldn’t give to swop my Ryanair flights for a trip out there!’
Emily resented the implication that she, too, were contemplating a dismal week in some squat in Alicante. After Kate Middleton she was the loveliest woman in the country. Wasn’t that credentials enough?
‘Keep dreaming, girls.’ A shadow passed over the print and Nina Tarot came to rest in an adjacent chair. ‘That’s where the big kids hang.’
Emily raised a hand to ward off the sun. ‘Excuse me?’
‘The big kids. You know, the most important people alive?’
‘How depressingly hierarchical,’ muttered Emily, whose every perception of the world relied on the presumption of a hierarchy in which she held supreme rank.
‘I wouldn’t say that,’ drawled Nina as the stylist took a brush to her hair. ‘Earn and reward, it’s a straightforward principle.’ Emily tried not to get distracted by the bulge of cleavage bursting forth from Nina’s coral taffeta dress. She looked as if she’d just stepped off the Moulin Rouge.
‘And you earned it, I assume?’
‘If earning it amounts to being a world-famous actress who vacuums up so many drugs she doesn’t know what day of the week it is, apart from the day she catches her darling husband nailing the poolboy up the ass, then, yeah, I did. That island saved my life.’
Emily shuddered.
‘You gotta know people, sweetie. Even those kids who’ve got more money and celebrity than’s good for their health, even then they’ve got to get the invite, and even then they’ve got to sit on a list for however long…’
‘Who do you know?’
Nina looked at her sideways. ‘Why?’
Emily shrugged. ‘In case I wanted to see what the fuss was about.’
This time the American turned to face her. Was that pity in her eyes?
‘Honey, I’ve got to be straight with you. I’m not being mean here, but I really don’t think…’
‘You don’t think what?’
‘I know you’re famous in the UK and all, but…well, to be frank, I’m not sure you fit the bill.’
‘What bill?’ Emily spluttered, humiliated.
Nina sighed, as though obliged to explain something basic to a simpleton. ‘They’re selective,’ she said. ‘Very. I’m talking aristocracy. Government leaders. Olympic idols. It’s an A-listers’ game—’
‘But I’m an A-lister!’ This was unbelievable.
‘Maybe in this part of the world, sugar.’
Emily huffed a laugh. ‘Nina, please be assured that everyone I meet finds me utterly charming.’ She lifted her chin. ‘Your contacts would be safe with me.’
‘But would you be safe with them?’
She squinted. ‘Excuse me?’
‘This is an arena you know nothing about,’ Nina remarked gently. ‘You’ve got no idea what or who you’d be dealing with…’
Emily gritted her teeth. That was enough. She stood, flung the paper down and marched into the house, prompting a cluster of assistants in the main hall to fretfully disperse.
Who had been chosen to present live on Saturday at the charity ball? Who was tipped for an Onscreen Trophy at this autumn’s awards? Who was set for international stardom once this film was released?
Who was Nina Tarot to say she didn’t fit the bill?
Christopher passed her on the stairs. He grinned lasciviously and clasped her waist, drawing her close. ‘Lucinda,’ he rasped under his breath, ‘the mere sight of you fills me with rapture; promise to extinguish my pining.’
‘Sod off, Christopher,’ she said, pushing him away. ‘I’ve got places to be.’
Chapter Six
‘Let me get this straight. Emily Windermere stole your boyfriend?’
‘Yep.’ Julia rested her chin on her hand. They were in a booth in her favourite Italian, days after getting raucously drunk together at Isaac’s promised pub: she had mentioned the restaurant once, ages ago, and he’d remembered. ‘Emily just grabbed him one afternoon and rammed her tongue down his throat. I caught them, in the changing rooms. I hated gym class even more after that.’
‘Did they get together?’
‘No. She got bored after a week.’
Isaac frowned. ‘I’m sorry. That sucks.’
‘She only did it to hurt me. She didn’t even like him.’
‘Why?’
Julia considered it. ‘He had nice eyes, I guess, but he was a bit chubby. And then there was chess club…’
He laughed. ‘No, why did she do it? Why would she want to hurt you?’
‘Because that’s what Emily does: she belittles people. Ever since we were small and our mums made friends at nursery. Whenever we played make-believe I’d be the Post Office clerk to her management, the Jason to her Kylie, the hunchback to her Esmerelda…’ She sighed, batting away Isaac’s amused grin. ‘Pretty much like now.’
‘So she couldn’t handle it when you got a guy.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s a control thing. Insecurity. The thought you might actually be capable of happiness terrifies her. Trust me: it says more of Emily than it does of you.’
‘The irony is, she wasn’t always idolised at school—it was only when she was the first one to get tits and all the boys wanted to date her. Before that she used to get called Windy Rear in the playground!’
‘Nice!’
Julia smiled. ‘Even though part of me wanted to join in calling her names, I didn’t. I was always her friend. And then see how she repaid me.’
‘You’ve got to get over it.’ The pizzas came. ‘I see why you don’t like her, but the fact is you’re in the same business so you’re bound to run into each other—’
‘It’s a jinx. This is the third time we’ve worked together. I mean once, just once, I want to be the one that matters.’
Isaac watched her. ‘You are the one that matters.’
‘Well.’ She prodded her pizza, her appetite gone. ‘I’m not convinced.’
Isaac had invites to an album launch in Soho.
‘Come on, it’ll be fun!’
‘I don’t know, I should probably get a cab…’
‘Are you drunk?’
‘A bit.’
‘If you go home now, you’ll only wake up with a headache. Let’s go.’
They went. Outside the event, a band of paparazzi stood around smoking. They clicked on autopilot as Julia entered, recognising her from a Dickens adaptation she’d been in at Christmas. Emily had been in it, too. It was a matter of seconds before they made the connection.
‘What can you tell us about Emily Windermere and Christopher Fenwick? Are the rumours true? Will we see them tonight?’
Isaac took her hand and steered her through. Julia swallowed a lump of embarrassment: yet again, the moment she attracted one ounce of interest, there Emily was, waiting in the wings to stride on and ruin it all.
‘Come on,’ he said, lifting two drinks from a passing tray. ‘Let’s count how many egos it’s possible to fit in one room.’
Inside, the bar was lofty with sloped, beamed ceilings and a high mezzanine. The place was packed with familiar faces, pop starlets and presenters, comedians and reality TV sensations. Journalists were working the space, bulbs flashing at a procession of VIPS being positioned on a lip-shaped couch. Two topless male models with chests of golden steel posed with models and socialites.
‘D’you think it’ll be like this tomorrow?’ Julia asked as they settled on a couple of stools. A girl in a fifties prom dress came up with a tray of retro sweets. Julia sifted out a candy necklace and wound it round her wrist.
‘What’s happening tomorrow?’
‘The charity ball. It starts at six.’
Isaac rolled his eyes. ‘Do we even have to be there? It’s not like we’ve got to do anything. I thought it was all about Emily and Christopher.’ He held his hands up. ‘And that is the last time her name gets mentioned tonight.’
Julia bit off one of the sweets. ‘I might go anyway,’ she said. ‘Check it out.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Why not?’
Isaac squinted at her. ‘You’re not planning anything stupid, are you?’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know. That’s what worries me.’
Julia stirred her drink. ‘Emily’s going to be in front of the nation, doing what she does best and doing it to perfection. What could possibly go wrong?’
‘Well, if you’re going, I’m going.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah.’ He nicked his chin with a thumb. ‘You know, Julia…’
‘Hmm?’
‘I want to be there. For you. If you’re going to find it hard.’
‘You don’t need to be—’
‘Like I said, I want to.’ He was looking at her funnily, as if he expected her to get something obvious. ‘I always want to be with you,’ he continued carefully, ‘because when I’m with you I feel better than I do with anyone else. Do you get what I’m saying?’
She thought she did. Only, it couldn’t be true. Isaac was good-looking and funny and popular—no one had ever said anything like that to her before.
Julia watched him, waiting for the punchline, searching for the joke, but his gaze was steady. A tentative smile began to spread across her face, but before she had time to articulate her response Isaac’s mouth was on hers and he was kissing her.
Chapter Seven
Emily would never tire of the buzz of a live TV appearance. She’d done it countless times and never got nervous, but the anticipation of knowing you were about to be broadcast into countless living rooms across the country invoked a peculiar, addictive sort of adrenalin. Power, Christopher had diagnosed not twenty-four hours earlier when they had wrapped their scenes for the day. In those moments, darling, you can say or do anything and they can’t do a thing to stop it. You could plant an idea, you could sow a revolution; you could change the world!
Emily wasn’t interested in changing the world. The world changed for her.
One thing of which she was starting to tire, however, was Christopher. She found she got easily weary of men once the initial chase was done, once they had told her how stunning and perfect she was over and over again and they’d experimented with every conceivable sexual position so there was no more mystery to uncover. That was the point at which she became aware of Christopher’s breath in her face and the fact he had hairs growing out of his nose, if you looked closely.
Her stylist had brought a selection of outfits and laid them out now for Emily to choose from. It was refreshing to be able to model her own clothes—recently it had felt as if the Heriscombe House production were taking over her life—and perused the options.
Burberry pearl dress: ‘Too frumpy.’ Ghost knee-length tunic: ‘Too officey.’ Lacy Elie Saab number not a million miles from what her character might wear: ‘Too Lucinda Liddell!’
She raised a beautiful beaded Julien Macdonald.
‘I suppose this will have to do.’ She sighed. It was slightly shorter than she’d wanted—tonight Emily was determined to give the right impression, of a girl who would never contemplate getting involved with a married man, let alone one who was having his end away with everything in a skirt (more to the point, out of a skirt)—but she had to admit the heatwave was unrelenting, and to dress like a nun would only make her sweat and her concealer run.
Part of the heath had been closed off for the ball and people were arriving in droves, milling in conversation as smiling waitresses circulated with trays of fizzing champagne and extravagant canapés. A hundred or more lavishly decorated tables—white linens running to the ground and gold-leaf centrepieces—were arranged in view of the stage, which was decked out in swathes of hanging silk and a glinting podium where she and Christopher would shortly appear to present the award. A raft of cameras was positioned beneath it, lenses pointed like rifles.
Quite what the award was for, she wasn’t entirely sure…something to do with fundraising pioneers? It didn’t matter—what mattered was that she would waft out looking angelic, flash her megawatt smile and appear as graceful and alluring as she always did. A few pretty pictures in tomorrow’s papers would soon quash any murmurs of dissent. It was amazing what the right gown could do.
Emily stepped out into the balmy evening. The sun was cooling, falling behind the trees and bathing the grounds in burnished light.
She was about to go find Christopher so they could practise their banter when something in the trees caught her eye.
Maud Screwe.
Rather, Julia Chambers: but there had always been a Maud inside Julia just waiting to get out. One of life’s born losers; she’d known it the instant they’d met.
Only, for once, Julia wasn’t alone.
The footman was with her; the one who had dared speak to her the night Nina Tarot arrived. And they were holding hands! Were they? Yes, it wasn’t her eyes deceiving her, and now he was stroking Julia’s face—her pasty, plump face! And, yes, it was really happening: he was leaning in to kiss her…! That couldn’t be right. Emily was the pretty one, the one all the boys fancied and all the girls wanted to be—it had been that way for ever and always would be: a fact sure as day followed night, a truth so fixed and final it belonged inscribed in some leather-bound tome gathering dust on a library shelf. Julia was fat and boring and in sixth form had cultivated a spotty back: the concept that a man could be interested in that when Emily Windermere herself was in the vicinity tipped her globe drunkenly off its axis. She endured a rush of dizzy nausea.
Oblivious to the world around them, the couple linked arms. Emily watched them go, incensed, confused, staring for a long time at the spot where they’d been.
Julia mounted the slope behind the house and surveyed the scene. Evening dresses sparkled in the last of the afternoon sun, the fragrant aroma of summer flowers mixing with the heady scent of perfume as guests settled and the ceremony began. The compere was a weekend talk show host renowned for his close-to-the-bone humour: she wondered if he’d be making a quip at Emily and Christopher’s expense tonight.
She realised she didn’t care any more. Maybe she didn’t have to be like Emily to be happy. Maybe there were more important things than recognition and celebrity and being in a constant state of resplendent, detached beauty. Maybe Christopher Fenwick wasn’t as great as she’d thought, after all.
Since the previous night’s launch Julia had been floating on air. She and Isaac hadn’t been able to tear their eyes from each other during filming, and when they’d wrapped he’d caught her hand on the way out of the dining room and pulled her into the shadows, kissing her as she’d never been kissed before.
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Victoria Fox
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современные любовные романы
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
Отзывы: Пока нет Добавить отзыв
О книге: Tales of TemptationThree mini bonkbusters from the queen of scandal and sin, Victoria Fox Rivals, Pride and Ambition – devour them all and get an exclusive extract from Victoria’s brand new sensational summer read, Wicked Ambition… Out now!Praise for Victoria Fox: ‘Perfect for the Beach’ The Sun ‘Jackie Collins for the modern gal’ – Grazia‘Just too exciting to put down’ Closer‘If you think the Made in Chelsea crew live a glitzy life, you ain’t seen nothing yet’Heat‘600 pages of sin!’ Now magazine‘Pour yourself a glass of Pimms because this summer’s bonkbuster is guaranteed to get you seriously hot’ Cosmopolitan ‘Victoria Fox’s glossy chick-lit novel gives Jackie Collins a run for her money.’ Irish Tatler