Yet he came all the same, because the publicity he’d gained since his adventures had been televised had given him clout that was worth something. His survival-course business had skyrocketed. A meeting here, a party or a photo opportunity there, and now he was at a point where he could kick his actions up to another level, beyond just fund-raising. His carefully devised courses for kids were on the brink of being a reality, a way at last to make a real difference that might compensate for his past mistakes. He hadn’t needed to come to the city that often to keep his agent happy and his popularity high. And with the launch of this new course he needed that popularity more than ever.
The unexpected revelation that the Internet was awash with a rumour that his notoriously tough survival-skills documentaries were actually bullshit was so unbelievable that at first he thought it was a joke. Surfing the Internet wasn’t at the top of his priority list at any time, certainly not when he was in the middle of nowhere risk-assessing potential sites for river crossings. As a result the rumour was at full pelt in the media before he knew a thing about it. A phone call from one of his employees informing him that he was currently trending online confirmed that, no, unfortunately, it was perfectly true. He’d watched the offending video and he’d had plenty of time on the train to read about the backlash in the press, invariably accompanied by an endless collection of glamour shots of Evangeline Staverton-Lynch.
By the time he reached London he had all the sorry details and if the situation wasn’t rectified to his satisfaction, heads would roll. No matter how pretty they might be.
* * *
Evie got into the car next to Chester the following morning with her head held high, hair and make-up perfect, her pink designer suit carefully chosen because it was the furthest thing in her wardrobe from demure black. She’d had plenty of time to get her frame of mind right because she’d barely slept, not that anyone else needed to know that. She’d grimly painted out the dark shadows under her eyes with concealer and added a slick of pink lip gloss. Ready to channel defiance, because in her experience contrite got you nowhere.
The part of her that hadn’t slept wanted to grovel apologies at Jack Trent and then hide in her little flat in Chelsea for possibly the rest of her life. She refused obstinately to listen to that Evie. That Evie was the same one who even after twenty years still wanted her mum, who’d ached to go home when she was dropped at boarding school and who’d tried everything she could think of to secure her father’s good opinion. Instead, his particular blend of parental indifference had spiralled down the years into disapproval until the only thing that seemed to spike his interest was a climbing scale of outrageous or shocking behaviour. And so that was what she’d delivered. In spades.
After finding that he wouldn’t bother turning up at school for shows or open days but would descend on the place in full and scary military uniform when she was reprimanded for smoking and for dancing on the tables during prep, a brand-new Evie had come to the fore. This new incarnation was a master at I-don’t-care. And she’d had her feet under the table for so long now that the Evie who felt mortified and guilt-ridden at the grief she’d caused Jack Trent most certainly wasn’t about to surface and take the flak.
It was a beautiful spring morning, cold but sunny. Perfect for a spot of shopping in South West London and then maybe coffee at a pavement café. Chance would be a fine thing. The way things were right now any beverage drunk in public might very well be tipped over her head by an indignant pensioner. Jack Trent’s supporters were everywhere and age was no boundary.
‘We’re meeting the executive producer of Miss Knightsbridge and some of the production team,’ Chester briefed her as the car nosed its way through the London morning traffic. ‘They want to talk through the situation, explore some options.’
‘You mean they want to sack me.’
His lack of reply didn’t instil confidence.
She followed Chester through the glossy reception of Purple Productions, its walls festooned with glossy stills from its string of über-successful shows. Behind the reception desk she saw a shot taken from Miss Knightsbridge of herself walking down Brompton Road with armfuls of designer carrier bags. Unfortunately a few rows along her eyes fell on a photo of Jack Trent, up to his neck in hideous river water as he manoeuvred his way with a machete through dense reeds and river debris. His face was smeared with mud. Her stomach gave a nervous churn.
She could feel the disapproving eyes of the rubbernecking office staff boring into her as she walked. It felt as if she were about to be lynched. Right now she wished she’d bitten off her own tongue before she’d spoken so recklessly.
It was immediately obvious on entering the boardroom why the typing pool had been looking at her as if she were an interesting new species of worm. Jack Trent was leaning back in his chair on the opposite side of the meeting table with an expression on his face that implied he’d quite like to see her head on a spike. Her stomach plummeted like a stone. The photo in Reception and the glimpses she’d caught of him on TV or in the odd magazine hadn’t done him justice. He had the broadest chest of any man she’d ever seen, solid muscle beneath the tailored shoulders of his dark jacket. His light brown hair was very short, not much more than military buzz cut, and his face sported a small scar high on the left chiselled cheekbone and a tan the depth of which could only be achieved from spending days on end outdoors without wearing anything so namby-pamby as sunblock. He met her gaze with green eyes that might have been stomach-melting if they hadn’t been furious. He was without a shred of doubt gorgeous eye candy of the highest order. If you liked the cold-hearted, detached, wants-to-kill-you soldier look, that was.
She didn’t.
Also around the table she recognised members of the Miss Knightsbridge production team. Hostility radiated from them and she curled her hands into damp fists at her sides and averted her eyes from the antagonistic expressions. She’d made a stupid smartass comment; she’d never meant it to be repeated publicly; it was a mistake, nothing more. She did not deserve to be hung out to dry. She gritted her teeth, determined not to give away that she was upset. She would brazen it out, exactly the way she always did. Defiant brave face, that was the thing. Tried and tested, relied on throughout her life.
Even so, humiliation bubbled hotly upward from her neck and and boiled in her cheeks as she took a chair as close to the door as possible, in case the brave-face thing didn’t work and the suppressed urge to bolt and just hide for the next ten years in her flat in Chelsea got the better of her.
* * *
Jack Trent watched Evie walk into the boardroom with her perfectly coiffed head held high. She wore her hair loose, its glossy waves threaded with perfect tones of toffee and gold that looked deliciously touchable but which surely depended on endless wasted hours in a top salon. Her eyes were wide and baby blue, there was a tiny spray of freckles on her nose, and her mouth with its deliciously full lower lip was painted pale pink. She was the perfect example of English rose. She was tall and slender in the beautifully cut pink suit with short skirt and his mind insisted on treating him to a delectable flash of the photos he’d seen of her in the press on the way here, wearing a silk slip and a very cute smile.
He looked away, not without some difficulty, and refocused his mind carefully on the unbelievable mess she’d single-handedly made of his reputation with a couple of sentences.
‘Jack, this is Evangeline Staverton-Lynch,’ the company PR said at his elbow.
He took a breath and met her gaze across the table. She held his eyes with her own clear blue defiant ones, and if he’d been expecting a grovelling apology he’d apparently be waiting a long time. Clearly she was just another vacuous self-obsessed TV wannabe—only interested in her own fame and fortune. He knew the type only too well.
She nodded at him from across the table and beamed a perfect smile as if she hadn’t thrown the survival of his pet project into the b
alance. Four years ago this month since he’d left the army, and it had taken this long to reach a point where he could maybe begin to siphon off some of the guilt at what had happened while he’d been away. He’d believed enlisting would be the answer to all his problems, and it had been. His own slate wiped clean, a fresh start for him. The payoff had been the life left behind for his mother and sister and the nightmare Helen had drifted into without him there to look out for her. Too late now to change the past for Helen, but his work could still make a difference to others like her. He’d put his heart and soul into it and now, thanks to this diva, it looked as if the whole thing was going to fail before it even got off the ground.
‘I should be in Scotland right now,’ he snapped before anyone else could speak. ‘Working on the final kit list for my kids’ twenty-four-hour survival-skills course. It’s meant to be piloting in schools next month. I’ve been working towards this for the past two years, it’s the sole reason I’ve kept up the TV shows, and now I find the whole thing is hanging by a thread because of some libellous comment made by you. You don’t even know me.’
Evie straightened her back and pressed her teeth together to keep the not-my-fault smile in place. It would have been so much easier somehow if his TV show were the limit of his remit. A small twist of envy knotted her stomach at the thought of his survival business, at his drive and direction in life. The Jack Trent that existed outside the TV screen clearly had a lot more substance than Evie Staverton-Lynch did when you stripped away her own media image.
She resorted to the method that had dug her out of many a scrape throughout school: do not admit responsibility. And followed it up by pasting on a smile and mustering up as much charm as she could manage.
She leaned forward in her chair and offered him a demure smile.
‘Look, Jack—can I call you Jack?’
He stared at her incredulous but she carried on regardless.
‘This has all been a vile misunderstanding. It was a private comment, taken completely out of context. Filmed without my knowledge or consent. Honestly, these people have no respect for anyone’s privacy. But please don’t worry.’ She sat back and nodded reassuringly as if she had the whole ridiculous debacle under some level of control. In her dreams. ‘I issued an immediate retraction via social media.’
‘Are you having some kind of a laugh?’ he shouted. ‘A retraction via social media? Too little, too bloody late.’ He held her gaze angrily until she finally dropped her eyes. ‘Half the country have heard you bad-mouthing me. The papers are full of it. Mud like that sticks.’
She pushed her hands into her hair and stared down at the table.
‘I’m truly sorry for any inconvenience this has caused you but I can’t be responsible for something filmed without my knowledge. It wasn’t directed at you. I was having an argument with my father and I spoke without thinking. If I could take it back I would. If there’s anything I can do to fix the situation, I will.’
She smiled winningly at him. He scowled back.
‘Delighted to hear you say that, because we have a solution.’ The executive producer at the head of the table interrupted and held her hands up for silence. ‘Miss Knightsbridge and Survival Camp Extreme are, as you know, both made by Purple Productions. Very different, admittedly, but both are under our control. As such, this is why the current media backlash is so damaging. The tabloids have been quick to notice the connection and it lends credence to the accusations made against Jack.’
Evie felt Jack’s eyes on her again and she forced herself to look right back at him. The green eyes didn’t flicker as he stared her down. Her charm offensive didn’t seem to be having much of an effect. What the hell else could she do? This whole damn thing had been blown out of all proportion.
‘These are our two top-rated shows and without some intervention there’s likely to be a knock-on effect on the ratings of both.’ The producer took a breath. ‘Fortunately we’ve been able to come up with a suggestion that will harness this backlash and turn it into something positive.’
‘Harness it?’ Jack said. His voice was strong and deep. Indeterminable accent—no clipped Britishness like her father. She caught herself wondering vaguely what his background was, where he was from.
‘There’s no such thing as bad publicity, Jack. Remember that.’ Chester, the only person in her camp and he was paid to be there, pointed his pen at Jack’s angry face from his seat next to Evie.
‘There is when it undermines everything I’ve worked for,’ he growled.
‘What we’re proposing is a one-off special.’ The producer spoke over them and then paused for effect. ‘Miss Knightsbridge Meets Survival Camp Extreme.’
There was a stunned silence around the table.
TWO
‘Are you saying what I think you’re saying?’ Evie’s stomach felt suddenly as if a brick had been dumped inside it. She had absolutely no desire to spend even a single second more in the company of Jack Trent. And from the way he was looking at her it was clear the feeling was mutual.
The producer clapped her hands together excitedly.
‘Absolutely. You guest on Jack’s show. One of his usual survival quests. It’s not such an off-the-wall suggestion—he’s had guests on before, demonstrating survival techniques, sampling bush tucker, that kind of thing. A day or two with the bare essentials, during which you experience Jack’s survival skills at first hand. It will take advantage of the massive public interest and makes it work to our advantage. Think about it. Could there be a better retraction than that?’
She beamed an encouraging smile in Evie’s direction. ‘You know the kind of thing. I’m thinking you serve up some kind of foraged meal and sleep in a shelter made of sticks you’ve built yourself. Perhaps do a river crossing. The public will lap it up. You can eat your words on national TV, you restore Jack’s reputation and hopefully we boost the ratings of both shows in the process. Really, it’s genius.’
‘No way!’
Evie was on her feet to protest, beaten by a split second by Jack Trent on the opposite side of the boardroom table. He was a good foot taller than her, a dark green shirt beneath his jacket picking out the darker tones in his eyes, and he certainly commanded attention. The eyes of everyone around the table, including her own, swivelled in his direction. Even his choice of daywear came from a camouflage colour palette. Shock-horror. For the first and possibly the last time, he agreed with her.
* * *
‘You’re not messing with the Survival Camp format,’ Jack said shortly. ‘This ridiculous charade has nothing to do with me. Reprimand the socialite princess if you want to, drop her show, sue her for damages, I really don’t care. I’m not the one who’s done anything wrong here.’
Socialite princess? How dared he?
‘Excuse me?’ she snapped at him indignantly.
‘Legal action is a possibility,’ the PR manager sitting on Jack’s right said.
Cold tendrils of dread thundered into Evie’s heart. She glanced sideways at Chester in a panic, her mouth paper-dry as the implications of that raced through her mind. Chester had turned an interesting shade of grey, undoubtedly thinking of his own commission. They could probably take her to the cleaners over this. Jack probably could too, if the mood took him. Months of tabloid coverage yawned terrifyingly ahead of her. Her reputation and her new jewellery business would be in tatters. The thought of her father’s reaction made her feel sick.
‘Although it’s not necessarily the best option,’ the PR continued.
A tentative surge of relief kicked in because although it was clear from this that there was another option, it clearly wasn’t going to be pleasant.
‘Doesn’t really matter who’s wrong or right.’ The executive producer took over again at the head of the table. ‘I don’t care and the viewing public don’t give a toss either. The
only thing that’s important is that putting the two of you together right now is TV gold. The public are siding with Jack right now but the tabloids are still sowing that nugget of doubt. The tide could turn at any moment.’ She looked directly at Jack. ‘Mud really does stick. Doesn’t matter that there’s not an ounce of truth in it, it’s been repeated so much now in so many places that public belief in the credibility of your skills is bound to be called into question. The best way to refute this is to take it and run with it. On screen.’
‘Survival Camp is a serious premise,’ Jack said. ‘Not some reality-show fluff. It has a serious message behind it. Look at her.’ He waved an incredulous hand in Evie’s direction. ‘She wouldn’t last five minutes. Absolutely no way.’
The instant dismissal fired up a surge of defiance in her belly.
‘I’m as fit as you are,’ she snapped at him.
He laughed out loud and indignant anger burned in her cheeks, undoubtedly clashing horribly with her pink designer suit.
‘You really think a few yoga classes can give you the stamina to cross a river unaided, sweetheart?’ he shot back.
‘I don’t think you understand,’ the producer cut in. ‘You’re both under contract to do more shows. We’re within our rights to change the format as we see fit—just take a peek at the small print. Plus Adventure Bars are making noises about withdrawing sponsorship of Jack’s show. I’ve managed to talk them round on the strength of the potential publicity of this joint show. I don’t think either of you realise what a mess this is.’
‘Adventure Bars?’ Evie said.
The producer flapped a hand at her.
‘Nutritional snack bars for hardcore outdoor types. They sponsor Jack’s show. They are also,’ she added in a pointed aside to Jack, ‘sponsoring that spin-off outdoor activities initiative you’re hoping to roll out in schools. You really think that’s going to get off the ground if your main sponsor pulls out and you can’t restore public confidence?’
Man vs. Socialite Page 2