The injustice of it all made anger sear through Jack’s veins. He had to admit that the revelation that his sponsors were getting cold feet was news to him. He dug nails into his palms.
He’d piloted an outdoor survival course aimed specifically at kids and the interest had blown him away. He knew better than anyone about what a difference something like this could make to a generation of bored couch-potato kids who were either hanging around street corners waiting to be sucked into crime or were hooked on TV and video games. His sister Helen crossed his mind, never far away. If he could divert one kid from the path she’d taken, all the hard graft would be worth it. But no matter how hard he worked, taking it to the next step depended on consumer confidence and investment. Thanks to Princess Knightsbridge over there, both those things now hung in the balance and he was prepared to do anything to pull that situation back.
He realised with a burst of fury that he would have to do the one-off show. It could be the only way to make sure he obliterated all doubts about his integrity. And if she thought he’d be giving her an easy ride she was deluded.
The executive producer looked at Evie.
‘Without this show, Evie, I’m afraid renewing your contract for Miss Knightsbridge will be out of the question. Without the joint show we’d have to find alternative ways to minimise the bad publicity. The best course of action would probably be to quietly write you out. Of course we’d have to find a new central character for the show—’
‘I’ll do it,’ Evie cut in immediately. What choice did she have? Without this show her public image was worth nothing. There would be no more magazine articles, no more talking-heads fashion slots on daytime TV. Her fledgling jewellery business would fail before it even began. She’d be back to the quiet life, cruising along alone with no aim or direction, and this time the quiet life would probably come with hate mail. ‘I’ll do the foraging and the sleeping outside and the rubbing sticks together to make fire.’ As an afterthought she added, ‘I’d prefer not to do water though.’
Jack laughed out loud mirthlessly.
‘You think you can get through an outward-bound weekend without getting wet, sweetheart? You obviously haven’t watched the show. Think again.’
Of course she hadn’t watched the show—was he insane? She didn’t do the great outdoors. The nearest she’d ever got to it were camping holidays as a small child, and they’d never happened again after her mother died. As her Miss Knightsbridge image demanded, she did luxury hotels, spa treatments and shopping. On her own time she did comfy pyjamas, tea and toast, and American TV show box sets. Not a foraged meal in sight in either her public or private persona.
He was already up, striding towards the exit, his entire demeanour exuding white-hot anger. So all she had to do to regain public affection, keep her TV show and stop her fledgling jewellery business from going under was survive a weekend in rough terrain with a companion who hated her guts.
Just bloody great.
* * *
‘You’re going on a TV show with Evie Staverton-Lynch?’ Helen’s voice on the phone practically bubbled with interest. ‘Miss Knightsbridge?’
‘Unfortunately.’
‘Oh, I just love her! Her clothes are to die for. Can you ask her where she got that butterfly necklace she wore on last week’s show?’
Jack drew in an exasperated breath. All the girl did was wear designer clothes and hang out in swanky bars. And now it seemed his own sister was as sucked in by all the TV crap as everyone else.
‘She’s a reality TV star,’ he pointed out. Someone had to. ‘It doesn’t require a modicum of talent. Why is she so popular? What is it about her?’
‘It’s the whole different world thing, isn’t it? The way the other half live, the money they spend. It’s cult viewing. Everyone watches it and everyone has an opinion on it. Don’t you know that?’
Helen’s tone had a hint of you’re-too-decrepit-to-understand. The eight years between them yawned canyon-wide.
‘Evie Staverton-Lynch is really cool and funny,’ she added.
‘Did you not see the trouble she’s caused me?’ he said.
Helen made a vague dismissive noise as if she was distracted. He could just imagine her watching TV while she talked to him. Multitasking, splitting her attention down the middle. A fond smile touched his lips. He loved her in-your-face attitude. It hadn’t been long enough since she’d been holed up in the hospital, too weak to speak. And then there had been rehab. Would it ever be long enough?
‘It’s all just a publicity stunt,’ she said. ‘All designed to get more attention. Probably staged.’
‘I need it like a hole in the head,’ he said.
‘You need to lighten up’, she said. ‘With any luck you might even come out of this looking a bit hip. Your shows have been looking a bit nerdy recently.’
He could hear the teasing smile in her voice.
‘Nerdy?’ A grin spread across his face at her cheek. He could never hear enough of that.
‘This could get you a whole new audience.’
‘Will you be watching?’
Her voice softened.
‘I always watch.’
‘And you’re feeling OK and your college course is going fine?’ he checked.
‘For the hundredth time, will you stop fussing? I’m perfectly fine, I promise.’
He restrained himself from picking endlessly at her. There was a constant need to be certain she was on track, doing fine, clean. It had barely diminished since that first shocking sight of her at rock bottom, a journey she’d taken while he’d been on the other side of the world, oblivious, revelling in his army career.
‘I’ll call you as soon as I get back from filming,’ he said.
‘Evie Staverton-Lynch has the best fashion sense in the country. She’ll soon have you out of that camo green you keep wearing. Good luck!’ She blew him a kiss and put the phone down.
For Pete’s sake.
* * *
‘You don’t have to go through with this.’
Annabel Sutton leaned back against the plump pink cushions on Evie’s sofa and as usual said exactly what Evie wanted to hear. Annabel pulled a face as she sipped her coffee. Not her usual table in her favourite Chelsea café and clearly Evie wasn’t up to supplying the usual standard of beverage. After the reaction Evie had got in the street this morning when she’d nipped to the corner shop to buy milk, she’d insisted Annabel come to her flat instead of going out. An irate pensioner had informed her that she ought to be ashamed of herself, saying those awful things about that ‘nice young man’.
‘None of this is your fault,’ Annabel soothed. ‘Total overreaction by the TV company—the whole thing’s been blown out of proportion. And it’s not like you’re on the breadline, sweetie. You’ve got a whopping great allowance, this lovely flat, a country estate. You don’t need to take this.’ She paused. ‘The production company really suggested cutting you from the show, did you say?’ She gazed up at the ceiling. ‘How awful. I wouldn’t blame you if you walked away after that lack of support. I guess they’ll move one of the rest of us into the central role.’
Secondary player on Miss Knightsbridge, Annabel had a part-time PR job in a glossy art gallery and a fabulously supportive family who were distantly related to the Queen. It occurred to Evie that Annabel was seeing this a bit too much like an opportunity to really pull off supportive.
‘The threat of legal action was bandied about,’ Evie said shortly. ‘For potential loss of income relating to Jack Trent’s TV series, his business interests... I do this show, I avert the possibility of that.’
That would make sense to Annabel. A reason that was related to finance. Evie didn’t mention that the money was the least of her worries. The thing that really ached the most was the loss of support, the way the public had t
urned on her after making her feel special for once. What she really wanted, if she was honest, was to find a way to turn that around, to get things back to the way they were. To launch her jewellery business to rapturous reviews, perhaps secure a concession in one of the department stores, instead of sinking out of sight under a cloud of public dislike.
‘Plus I might be able to turn off the Internet but I still can’t leave the flat without grief from the public.’
‘Since when have you given a damn what other people think?’
Annabel was familiar with Evie’s perfected I-don’t-care-bring-on-the-fun persona. At school Evie had quickly learned that attitude earned friendship from the most popular girls. In South West London she’d continued to work at being one of the crowd, the need to belong somewhere as important to her as ever. She wasn’t sure what her friends, or the TV viewers for that matter, would make of her if they knew that given the choice of falling out of a glossy nightclub and curling up with a box set, the TV show would win every time.
‘Since I can’t put my head outside the door without pensioners accosting me.’ She thought back to this morning’s encounter. It seemed age was no barrier to the charm Jack Trent held over the opposite sex.
‘And you’re sure Jack Trent isn’t the real reason you’re up for this?’ Annabel said slyly. ‘I mean, did you see him shirtless in the papers? Utterly jaw-dropping and totally eligible. He’s never photographed with the same woman twice. I can think of people I’d rather kick out of the tent.’
Evie suppressed a flash of interest in scanning the tabloids online. Never the same woman twice? Familiar alarm bells clanged madly in her head. She’d fallen for looks and charm once too often only to find the person they were actually interested in bedding was TV’s Miss Knightsbridge, along with her glossy life. Once they’d reached that base, interest in the real Evie seemed to disappear like smoke, with the possible exception of one D-list pop star she’d dated who’d spun out the charade a bit longer because he wanted a spot on the TV show. She had absolutely no interest in spending time with Jack Trent beyond salvaging her own reputation. What he looked like without a shirt and his marital status had no place in the debate.
‘According to what I’ve read about his survival courses, I’ll be lucky to even get a tent,’ she said.
* * *
The evening before filming started and Jack arrived at the Scottish hotel habitually used by the production crew when making his TV series, and presumably the hotel Evie Staverton-Lynch had referred to in her libellous comment.
He took a small amount of pleasure in the knowledge that it was a two-star basic place, chosen because of its convenient proximity to his outward-bound centre and definitely not for its accommodation standards. No duck-down pillows and absolutely no gourmet menu. Fiercely defensive of their TV star guest, they’d given Evie the room above the kitchens with the view of the bins and an aroma of chip fat should she make the mistake of opening the windows.
The rest of the crew were predictably holed up in the hotel bar as per usual. There was no sign of Miss Knightsbridge anywhere although he’d expected her to descend on the place with a trail of staff behind her. He ordered a soft drink and flipped through the day’s newspapers lying in a pile to one side of the bar, the front pages of nearly all the red tops featuring some gleeful article about the up-and-coming show. The production company would be made up at the media interest.
He turned a page and choked on his mineral water.
Evie Staverton-Lynch’s PR team had clearly been working overtime. A double-page spread featured a colour photo of Evie looking clear-eyed at the camera and wearing a forest-green Jack Trent’s Survival Camp Extreme T-shirt and what looked like nothing else. She had the longest, most delectable legs he’d ever seen. His mouth leached of all moisture and he took an exasperated slug of his drink. He had no wish to find her so hot and it might help if he didn’t keep inadvertently coming across full-colour photos of her in varying delicious states of undress. He forced his eyes to the accompanying article instead. The interview hit just the right tone of contrite. ‘I made a stupid untrue comment in a moment of stress. Taking the survival course is payback for that. I hope it will show how sorry I am and that Jack Trent’s show is the genuine article.’
Since when had denial of all responsibility gone out of the window in favour of doing all she could to restore his good name? He allowed himself a last look at the shapely legs and peach-glossed pout before he closed the paper. Genuine remorse or media spin? He had his doubts. He knew from past experience that people like Evie Staverton-Lynch played the press to their own advantage, changing their attitude at a moment’s notice to suit themselves. Not that he should care one bit either way as long as his reputation came out of this without a smear.
To his enormous surprise, when he checked with Reception for her room number, she hadn’t made any complaint about the sparse facilities. He got the impression from the over-attentive Reception staff that the lack of diva uproar was something of a disappointment.
‘She just arrived on her own, checked in and took herself up to the room. Didn’t even ask for the concierge to take her bags,’ the over-attentive receptionist, who according to the pink badge strategically placed on her low-cut blouse was called Sally, said. ‘Haven’t heard a peep from her since except for a call to Room Service.’
The staff had clearly been expecting her to storm back down as soon as she saw the room and felt cheated at the lack of bratty behaviour. For the first time he found himself wondering just how much of the spoilt socialite impression Evie gave was genuine. Small contradictions at first, lack of diva complaints about the crappy facilities when there was no camera around to witness the tantrum. The fact that she’d travelled up here completely alone. Where were the rich family and glossy friends and hangers-on?
He knew about using a public image to your advantage, despite the fact it made him feel uncomfortable. The media spotlight had done wonders for his charity work and his survival business. When in London he had a shortlist of on-off girlfriends to provide him with the perfect date when he needed to attend anything public. Models or starlets who shared the same showbusiness agent as him and were more than happy with the exposure of being seen out with him at charity functions or parties. He kept things casual at all costs. Enjoy the moment then move on; that was the way he liked it.
The tabloid press gleefully wrote about his glamorous girlfriends and his daredevil outdoor exploits and largely ignored his family background. And as a result the public at large had no clue about his youth, his past failures or about the selfish way he’d let his sister down. That was the way he intended to keep it.
Evie Staverton-Lynch’s success was based entirely on manipulation of the media. That didn’t necessarily mean there wasn’t more to her than the papers gave away.
The hotel lift wasn’t working so he took the stairs.
* * *
Expecting Room Service with what was bound to be a substandard lasagne, Evie jumped a little in surprise when she opened the door to see Jack Trent leaning laconically against the door jamb.
‘What, no entourage?’ he said. The green eyes held a hint of amusement, which crinkled them at the corners and made her stomach give an extremely ill-judged flutter. For Pete’s sake, she was not attracted to a man who was going to take pleasure in making her crawl through mud this time tomorrow.
She kept hold of the door.
‘Excuse me?’ she said.
‘Don’t people like you have a gang of hangers-on that accompany you everywhere? You know, for hair and make-up and general love-ins.’
Did he have any idea of the ludicrousness of that comment? None of her friends were prepared to desert their luxury London lives for somewhere as devoid of consumer durables as this in order to offer her some support. In fact, there’d been a marked drop in contact from her social circle in t
hese last few days. Supportive friendship apparently didn’t hold much weight in the face of disassociating yourself from the bad-mouthing Jack Trent media scandal. On her own, therefore, in the middle of nowhere, she’d spent the past hour flicking through the laminated ‘Hotel Information’ brochure, working out that with no satellite TV the choice of movie that evening was reduced to one—a sci-fi blood-fest, just bloody great—and wondering if she could bear the alternative: watching something else on the tiny screen of her phone via the somewhat erratic Wi-Fi.
‘Love-ins?’ she snapped. ‘Have you not been following the media? The entire country wants to see me fall flat on my face. Ideally in a swamp.’
The public interest showed no sign of abating, much to the glee of Purple Productions. Any hope that the furore might die down had long since disappeared. Her only hope, according to Chester, was to play the apology card for all she was worth, take the flak, and hope the tide would turn in her favour.
‘That could be arranged,’ he said.
She looked up to see a grin touch the corner of his mouth. It wasn’t entirely unfriendly. It occurred to her that getting him onside could make this whole hideous situation a million times easier so she offered him a smile in return.
‘Did you want something?’
‘I thought I’d run through the kit list with you, check you’re ready for tomorrow. I like to check in with all the candidates for my courses the night before, answer any questions, that kind of thing.’
‘Very professional,’ she said.
He waited, eyebrows raised, until she pushed the door back and let him step past her into the horrible hotel room.
One of the narrow twin beds was piled high with kit delivered by an enthusiastic production minion who was clearly beside herself with glee at the prospect of Evie Staverton-Lynch freezing her arse off for the weekend in the most repellent, unglamorous set of garments she’d ever come across. She tried to imagine a single situation prior to today when she might have considered wearing waterproofs and failed to come up with one. She was a city girl; she hadn’t been near the great outdoors since the childhood camping holidays her mother had loved, and they were long gone. Her father’s strategy for moving on from the past had involved avoiding nostalgia trips of any kind. A new family holiday destination was quickly slotted in with the purchase of a house in France, to which she and Will were despatched a few times a year, always with a nanny. Revisiting the idea of outdoor living held an undertow of uneasiness at what memories it might dredge up.
Man vs. Socialite Page 3