Friends & Rivals

by Tilly Bagshawe

  ‘It’s hardly free,’ laughed Ivan. ‘You could buy a small farm for the amount that place charges for highlights. Anyway, eat up if you can. A salad’s not much and we’ve still got a long day ahead of us.’

  He wasn’t kidding. Sveva, the beautician at The Berkeley, had a friendly, smiling face that belied the ruthless operator beneath. Ava had no idea that the removal of a few, previously unnoticed hairs could be so teeth-crackingly painful. Worst of all was when, having waxed her eyebrows, Sveva decided the symmetry was not perfect and insisted on plucking away further with tweezers, a process that left Ava feeling as if a blackbird were repeatedly pecking away at her forehead. By the time she emerged onto Knightsbridge, red-faced and blotchy from her facial, every square centimetre of her skin stung as if she’d been dipped in acid.

  ‘Put these on,’ commanded Ivan unsympathetically, handing her a pair of oversized Stella McCartney sunglasses and a big YSL scarf as they dived into Harvey Nichols. ‘You don’t want some nosy punter taking a picture of you looking like that.’

  By the time they’d spent two solid hours choosing a new wardrobe with Hillary, the private stylist Ivan had hired and whom he’d used to revamp the images of many of his big-name acts in the past, Ava was ready to drop. She had clothes for day and night, clothes for rehearsals, and outfits for each of the remaining shows before the Talent Quest final. She had handbags and sunglasses and scarves and hats and jewellery. She knew she ought to feel happy and lucky and grateful, and she would tomorrow, after twelve hours’ sleep. But right now, all she wanted to do was go home to Yorkshire, crawl under the sheets of her own bed in her own room, and never, ever leave.

  Ivan drove her back to the hotel in Earls Court where all the Talent Quest contestants were staying, checking his watch impatiently as they pulled up outside. He was already late for dinner with Kendall, never a good move, and he still had a couple of phone calls to make on his way home. Still, it had been worth it. Ava looked great – not remotely trashy, but a better, more polished and commercial version of her sweet, innocent self. As getting her image right could mean the difference between Jester surviving or collapsing, today’s makeover had been an investment well worth making, even if Kendall did bite his head off about it.

  ‘You must feel like Cinderella,’ he said to Ava as she climbed wearily out of the car, still swaddled in her scarf and shades. ‘You deserve it, though.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Ava, fighting back tears and grateful for the ready-made disguise. Ivan had never been anything other than kind to her, but somehow she shied away from showing weakness in front of him. Worse still would be to have him think her ungrateful. He must have spent ten thousand pounds on her today, and she knew that in the morning she’d be delighted with the results. But the homesickness that gripped her now was choking, like a vice.

  Was this what fame felt like?

  ‘See you in the morning, kiddo.’ And with a roar of his exhaust, Ivan Charles was gone.

  Lex Abrahams picked up the rubber stress ball on his desk and squeezed it. Nothing. How did people get away with selling this junk? Standing up, he paced around his glass-walled office, moving the potted palm from one corner to another, rearranging the photographs on his coffee table and plumping up the cushions on the couch-that-nobody-ever-sits-on. It didn’t help. He still felt anxious and restless and, quite frankly, pissed.

  What the hell was Jack playing at?

  On the other side of the glass, Jack watched JSM’s staff scurrying about their business. It was a vibrant, buzzing office, full of light and colour and creativity and ambition and optimism. Lex was MD, and he was only thirty. Most of JSM’s employees were in their twenties, barring a few of the senior agents, and an atmosphere of youthful energy pervaded everything about the company. They’re talented too, thought Lex, and hard-working. And they’re relying on Jack and me to steer their ship safely. Yet here he was, once again alone at the helm, while Jack swanned off on some ill-conceived ‘sting’ against Jester in London.

  He’d called last night, eight o’clock Lex’s time, to announce that he’d ‘successfully’ poached The Blitz from Ivan and signed them to JSM. Lex was furious.

  ‘What? Why? You never even discussed this with me. What the hell do we want Brett Bayley back on our books for? His US career’s in the toilet, he’s totally untrustworthy and he’s a nightmare to work with. Plus, we already have Land of the Greeks. We don’t need The Blitz. Have you considered how those boys are going to react to this news?’

  ‘They’ll be fine,’ Jack bristled. ‘We’ve just taken on four new agents, remember? There’s plenty of room for everyone.’

  ‘It’s a mistake,’ said Lex.

  ‘I disagree,’ said Jack tersely. ‘And I’ve been in this business a lot longer than you have.’

  That was the part that really ticked Lex off. Jack had made him an equal partner. God knew he did at least fifty per cent of the work, more like ninety per cent when Jack took off on one of his mystery tours, like the one he was on right now. But whenever it suited him, whenever he wanted to defend some arbitrarily taken decision, he would play the ‘experience’ card and dismiss Lex’s objections out of hand. Deep down there was a part of Jack that still saw Lex as the photographer kid who used to hang around with Kendall. It drove Lex crazy.

  The other thing that drove him crazy was Jack’s unpredictability. Not only had he taken off to London without so much as a by your leave, just assuming Lex would pick up his clients and workload while he was gone, but he’d given no indication as to when he planned to come back. And why was he in London in the first place? Jack swore blind last night that he’d re-signed The Blitz for purely commercial reasons. But Lex hadn’t forgotten his bizarre comment at Frankie B’s Grammy nomination party, about ‘the best revenge’ being success. If this was all about revenge, then where would it end? Was Jack going to try and take over all Jester’s lame-duck acts, clogging JSM’s carefully cherry-picked client list with dross? If he wanted to sacrifice his own life to some vendetta with Ivan, that was up to him. But he had no right to drag the company down with him.

  Underlying all of Lex’s anger and frustration about Jack’s London trip lurked one, specific fear. What if his ultimate goal was to woo back Kendall? Wiping out Jester would be one thing. But re-signing Kendall would surely be the ultimate revenge? She’d become a symbol in Jack’s mind, the beautiful Helen of Troy who had unwittingly unleashed years of war and bloodshed, and whom he must win back in order to truly defeat Ivan.

  For Lex, however, she was much more than that. The way she’d used him when she was last in LA had wounded him very deeply. Not just because of the selfishness and cruelty of what she’d done. But because it reminded him, beyond any doubt, that he was still hopelessly, helplessly in love with her. Even after all these years and everything that had happened, Kendall touched Lex in a way that no other woman ever had. Or ever would.

  Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds …

  He’d broken up with Leila because he knew he didn’t love her, not in the same way he loved Kendall. Yet, at the same time, if Kendall’s publicity stunt on the Chateau Marmont balcony had shown him anything, it was that she did not return his feelings. She didn’t even care about him as a friend. Friends didn’t set friends up like that.

  So the thought of Kendall coming back to Los Angeles and, worse, being managed by JSM, filled Lex with absolute, abject horror. She would be in and out of the office on a daily basis. He would have to see her all the time. For all he knew, she and Jack might even get together romantically. Kendall obviously still had feelings for Jack, and if Jack was planning to steal her from Ivan, why not go the whole hog? The whole thing was a nightmare, a hideous, ghastly nightmare he couldn’t bear to think about.

  Lisa Marie Evans, Jack’s on-off love interest and one of JSM’s highest-producing new agents, tapped on Lex’s door.

  ‘Hi.’ She smiled sweetly. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve heard from Jack at all? He’s not
returning my calls.’

  ‘No,’ said Lex. ‘I’m just his partner. Why in the hell would he tell me anything?’

  ‘You know he re-signed The Blitz?’ Lisa Marie sounded excited. ‘I’d love to get that account.’

  Lex raised an eyebrow. ‘You would?’

  ‘Sure. They’re still a great brand, but their sales are in the tank. Whoever turns that around is gonna make a fortune.’

  ‘Hmm. I guess so.’

  Maybe he was worrying too much? Overthinking things? If Lisa Marie saw The Blitz as a good signing, perhaps Jack really was basing this on commercial instincts.

  ‘Let me know if you hear from him, OK?’ said Lisa Marie, disappearing back to her own office.

  ‘Sure,’ Lex called after her retreating back. Don’t hold your breath.

  Catriona switched on the radio and sat down at the kitchen table with a well-earned, and much-needed, cup of tea. Stella Bayley had finally gone home to London yesterday after an emotionally draining three-night stay, and Catriona had spent the morning cleaning the house, sorting out her filing, and generally getting her life back on an even keel. The delight of having the house to herself and sipping a big mug of Earl Grey while Classic FM washed over her was quite extraordinary. From now on, she told herself, she would make sure she enjoyed life’s simple pleasures. The garden; spending time with her children; peace, on the rare moments she got it. The romantic side of her life might be over, but she still lived in a beautiful home in a glorious village, she had her photography, her friends (well, Ned), her health. There was so much to be thankful for.

  She’d thought briefly about calling Ivan to let him know about The Blitz’s defection to JSM. She and Ivan had been getting on much better recently, touching base every few days about the children, and in particular Hector, who was making great progress since his return from LA. But on balance she’d decided against it. They weren’t married any more, and it wasn’t really her place to get involved with Ivan’s business problems. The fact that this particular problem involved Jack would only make it more charged and difficult. Besides, he’d find out for himself soon enough.

  A knock on the front door startled her. No one ever used the front door – certainly not the postman, who always came up the twitten to the side entrance like everybody else. Perhaps it was some delivery man from London or Oxford, although she couldn’t remember having ordered anything.

  ‘Hang on!’ she shouted, putting down her tea and running into the hallway. ‘I’m coming.’ She was still in her dressing gown and slippers (oh, the decadence of the work-from-home lifestyle) and suddenly found herself hoping that it wasn’t the vicar or someone from Hector’s school dropping in for a social call. The front door was bolted top and bottom and, as it was never opened, the bolts were stiff. By the time she’d wrenched them free, her cheeks were flushed with exertion and her hair was dishevelled, escaping from its elastic band in strands that stuck out at all angles.

  ‘Sorry,’ she panted, opening the door. ‘We don’t normally use this entrance. I …’

  The words trailed off mid-sentence. Standing on the doorstep in a quite ridiculous outfit that included a beret, a silk cravat tied at the neck and covering half his face, and a pair of Ray-Ban aviator sunglasses, was Jack Messenger.

  ‘Hello, Cat. Can I come in?’

  Numbly, Catriona stepped back into the hallway, letting him inside and closing the door behind them. She had any number of questions to ask him, but the one that came to her lips was, ‘What on earth are you wearing?’

  ‘This?’ said Jack, admiring himself in the hall mirror. ‘It’s my disguise. I’m here incognito, you see. I wouldn’t want any of the neighbours to see me and alert your dastardly husband.’

  He grinned. Was he joking? Suddenly Catriona felt herself feeling quite cross.

  ‘Well, you needn’t involve me in your games,’ she said hotly, walking back into the kitchen. ‘I had Stella Bayley here for three nights in absolute pieces about Brett leaving her. She said you’ve poached him back to LA.’

  Jack followed her, frowning. ‘It’s true I re-signed the Blitz to JSM,’ he said defensively. ‘But that had nothing to do with Brett leaving Stella. He’s having an affair.’

  ‘Yes, with a girl in LA,’ said Catriona. ‘It would have fizzled out like all the others if you hadn’t offered to re-start his career over there.’

  She knew she was being unfair, but her anger needed an outlet, and Stella Bayley’s misery was as good a peg to hang it on as anything else.

  ‘Cat,’ Jack said gently, touching her arm. ‘It’s business.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Catriona sniffed. ‘Bloody backhanded business if you ask me. You only came to London now because you knew Ivan was away in Paris. You’re stealing Jester’s clients behind his back.’

  ‘Hang on …’ began Jack, but Catriona was on a roll.

  ‘It’s the exact same thing that Ivan did to you with Kendall, but two wrongs don’t make a right, you know. Not to mention the fact that if you bankrupt Ivan, you’ll be bankrupting me. But I suppose none of that means anything to you, just as long as you end up getting Kendall back.’

  ‘Kendall?’ Jack looked baffled. ‘This has nothing to do with Kendall. She’s not even here, she’s in Paris with Ivan.’

  ‘I know where she bloody is!’ shouted Catriona.

  For a moment they both stood there in silence. Jack was too scared to say anything else in case he got his head bitten off, and Cat was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Ten minutes ago she’d been full of calm positivity. Now she felt as flustered and awkward as a schoolgirl, sitting down, then standing up again, her hands flapping uselessly like the wings of some flightless bird. Catching sight of her reflection in the window, all wild hair and egg-stained dressing gown, she let out a little moan of horror and ran out of the room.

  ‘Make yourself a cup of tea,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘I’m going to get dressed.’

  Upstairs in the bathroom, Catriona stood naked in front of the mirror, shaking like a jelly.

  Get a grip, she told herself sternly. You must get a grip.

  Letting go of the idea of Jack had been easy. Well, relatively easy. But now that she was faced with actual flesh and blood Jack having a cup of tea in her kitchen, her emotions were whipsawing all over the place. Was she angry because of Stella or because of Jack doing the dirty on Ivan? Or was she angry because he’d been in England for a week and hadn’t bothered to call? Maybe it wasn’t Jack she was furious with at all, but herself, for allowing a ridiculous, childish crush to get the better of her like this.

  A crush! At forty years old, on a man I’ve known more than half my life. It was the very definition of pathetic.

  Jumping into the shower, she turned the jets up to full blast and the water onto cold in an attempt to jolt some sense back into herself. Once dry, she dressed in a pair of slim-fitting dark jeans from Next and the chocolate-brown cashmere polo neck that Ned Williams had bought her last year for Christmas but which she’d been far too fat to wear until now. She deliberately did not wear make-up. Jack was an old friend, not a suitor she was trying to impress. But she did brush her tangled blonde hair and tie it back in a neater ponytail, spritzing on a little Chanel 19 because that was what she always did. It wouldn’t be right to change her habits just because Jack was here, and he’d once kissed her out of pity. Oh God, stop overthinking it. He’s going to think you’re a madwoman and run screaming from the house.

  When she came down, Jack was standing in the kitchen looking out over the walled garden. He turned around when he heard her tread. ‘I’m sorry if I upset you. I didn’t come here to fight about business. I came to visit a dear, old friend.’

  Dear. Old. Friend. Catriona repeated the words in her head like a catechism. That’s how he sees me. That’s what we are to each other.

  ‘It’s me who should be apologizing,’ she said. ‘I overreacted. I just felt terribly bad for poor Stella … and things.’

  Jack loo
ked at his watch. ‘It’s almost twelve,’ he said brightly. ‘Why don’t we drive over to The Fox at Oddington for a bite of lunch? My treat.’

  Catriona racked her brains for a reason to refuse. It was a bit disloyal to Ivan, especially if what Stella had said about Jack raiding his client list behind his back was true. Then again, Jack was an old friend, he had worked miracles with Hector. And it was only lunch.

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘But only if you promise not to wear that ridiculous hat. You look like Hercule bloody Poirot.’

  The Fox was a charming fifteenth-century coaching inn with a bar, snug and formal restaurant in a pretty hamlet near Stow-on-the-Wold. Jack and Catriona took a table in the snug, a cosy room with mellow, uneven flagstone floors covered in tatty Persian rugs, hops hanging in bunches from the beamed ceiling and a huge open stone fireplace in which a pile of pine logs burned and crackled merrily. Too nervous to eat a big meal, Catriona ordered the field mushroom soup and a side salad. Jack had a ‘when-in-Rome’ moment and opted for steak and kidney pudding and a pint of pale ale.

  ‘You look terrific,’ he told Catriona, watching her sip at a Diet Coke. ‘You’ve lost a lot of weight.’

  Catriona flushed, half from pleasure and half from embarrassment. ‘I’ve been running,’ she admitted. ‘And I haven’t had a drink since I left LA.’

  ‘That’s wonderful. Good for you.’ Jack reached across the table and patted her hand. If Catriona needed any more proof that his feelings for her were a hundred per cent platonic, this was it. ‘Do you feel better?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said truthfully. ‘I really do actually. It’s as if everything came together at once. Me getting healthy, Hector getting himself back on track, Ivan and I becoming friends again.’ Jack frowned, but Catriona continued, oblivious. ‘The irony is that it was Hector taking off like that that triggered it all. Not to mention the fact that it brought you back into our lives.’

  The food arrived. Jack’s pie was delicious, the suet pastry just the right side of stodgy and the meat as succulent and tender as he’d tasted anywhere. ‘How is Hector?’ he asked. Catriona spent the next fifteen minutes filling him in on the strides his godson was making at school and at home, her face lighting up as she listed each miraculous step forward. Jack listened eagerly, delighting in her happiness and thrilled to think he might have played a small part in bringing it about.