She unzipped the standard-issue backpack and peered into it.
‘What the hell is this?’
He winked at her and she tried to ignore the fact that when he smiled his green eyes took on a hint of wicked melt because it made her stomach go soft. Why couldn’t he have looked like some gnarly mountain man, perhaps with a beard big enough for a rodent to live in? It would make concentration on the task at hand much easier without her stomach in knots. Then again, he surely wouldn’t be such a darling of the public if he looked like some hairy hillbilly.
‘Torch, water bottle, purification tablets, matches, basic food rations... This is the kit I issue to all attendees of my survival course. Since you’ve single-handedly sabotaged my very successful business, I thought we’d use this weekend to showcase it and drum up some interest for the special kids’ survival courses I’m about to launch. Essentially, you’re trying out one of my courses and you owe me. So hand over the lip balm and let’s get on with it.’
He held her gaze with his own, and was there a hint of enjoyment in the green eyes? Was he actually getting off on this? She noticed, not without a touch of admiration, that he’d managed to get in a plug for the kids’ initiative thing that he was so hung up on. Maybe she should have smuggled along a bit of her jewellery and tried for a bit of product placement.
He whipped the tube of lip balm out of her hand with a flourish, lobbed it into the designer handbag and threw the whole thing to the production minion.
Then again, she’d have been hard pressed to get as much as a necklace past him.
‘And cut.’
She wheeled around, so absorbed in her standoff with Jack-bloody-Trent that she’d forgotten the camera was even there. Which was probably the point.
‘Fantastic banter, exactly what we’re looking for. Keep that up for the next couple of days and we’ll be talking TV gold.’
Terrific. So all she had to do to make this stupid programme a success was to spend the entire weekend at Jack Trent’s throat. Shouldn’t be too difficult since he was obviously not going to cut her an inch of slack.
‘Shall we?’ he said, ushering her towards the door with a flourish and a wicked grin.
She trudged mutinously to the exit. The wind swept across to buffet her the second she put her nose outside the door. She followed him through the mud for a short distance until he left what passed laughably for a road and headed off across the open terrain. The camera filmed their departure as she trudged after him and then presumably the cameraman would catch up with them on the way to their first checkpoint, whatever the hell that was. Probably set up ready for the filming of some horror bush-craft task. She tried not to think about her cosy flat back in London as she hooked her gloved hands into the shoulders of her standard-issue backpack. She concentrated on walking behind Jack in the hope that his muscular bulk might cut out some of the wind.
He clearly thought he was spending the weekend with some socialite Barbie type and that she wouldn’t last five minutes. She wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction. She’d managed to pull off It-girl party princess with aplomb, surely she could tweak that and channel girl adventurer if she put her mind to it—exactly how hard could it be?
* * *
Biting winds, perpetual freezing drizzle. Sharp craggy rocks, inclines lined with bogs, heather, rough spiky tufts of grass, and the greyest skyline Evie had ever seen. The cameraman trudged along at a distance behind them, occasionally stopping to take shots of the skyline and surroundings that she supposed would be edited into the footage of her and Jack to give a sense of the bleak wilderness.
With the outward-bound centre long out of sight and dense trees and foliage up ahead, Jack came to a stop and offloaded his rucksack. She watched him, shifting from one foot to the other, wondering what horrible task was ahead of her. The cameraman set himself up to one side and got the film rolling.
‘Like I said back at base,’ Jack began, ‘blending in is the first rule of survival in a hostile environment, so let’s start with that. It’s not just about carrying the right rucksack.’
He paused, during which the camera swept across to Evie to catch her eye-roll at the designer dig.
‘There’s always more ways to improvise—it’s just a matter of thinking outside the box.’ He looked at Evie amenably enough. ‘Can you see anything in your immediate surroundings that might help?’
She pursed her lips and looked around at the craggy wilderness. She could feel the camera zooming in for a close-up of her make-up-free and undoubtedly pink-cheeked face. Annabel’s advice danced through her mind. You don’t need to take this. She squashed it hard.
‘Nope,’ she said.
‘OK, what about this?’
He got down on one knee and scooped up a handful of mud from the nearby ditch, then in one movement drew his fingers in stripes across his face. She could imagine the nation’s female contingent swooning at the sight of his mud-streaked rugged cheekbones. Just great. He looked up at her expectantly.
Oh, you must be bloody joking.
‘Really?’ She pulled a disbelieving face. ‘You’re actually suggesting I put that stuff on my face?’
He held up a muddy hand and failed to stop a hint of amusement lifting the corner of his mouth. So that was it. Get your own back.
‘It’s all about embracing the experience,’ he said. ‘Survival is all about stripping back all the window dressing and using what you can find around you. Miss Knightsbridge is all about window dressing and luxury consumer durables. Girls these days are quite happy to use fillers or have cosmetic surgery as a quick fix but you’re on edge about smearing a bit of natural mud on your cheeks. Your lifestyle is obviously so far removed from what’s important that all sense of initiative has gone.’
She knew perfectly well that he was simply trying to provoke a reaction from her for the camera but knowing that didn’t seem to count for much when it came to keeping calm. He had absolutely no clue about her life or that the luxuries with which her father fobbed her off meant nothing because they were his way of keeping her out of his life. How the hell could she expect someone like him to understand that? He took self-sufficiency to the nth degree. He probably had no need for anyone or anything in his life to validate him. Well, lucky, lucky him.
Before she knew what she was doing his self-righteous judgemental claptrap tipped her temper into the red and she was on her knees at his feet, water soaking through the awful trousers at both knees. She leaned into the ditch and scooped up a massive blob of the mud in each hand, then stood up and looked him right in the eye as she held her hands up. He took a defensive step backwards at the implication that she was about to lob it in a huge splat at his grinning face and if it hadn’t been for the knowledge that Jack Trent’s fan base would probably issue a lynch mob, she might have done exactly that.
Instead she drew herself up to her full height and worked survival girl for all she was worth.
‘For your information,’ she shouted, ‘I do not...’ pause to slap a huge wodge of the cold oozy mud on her left cheek ‘...use fillers!’ She slapped another handful on her right cheek and swirled the hideous stuff over her chin and forehead. It felt cold and gritty against her skin, its damp and earthy smell filling her nostrils.
The cameraman, clearly desperate to record every nuance of her mud-smothered expression, was in her personal space and she shoved him hard enough in the chest that he sat down with a squelch and the lens zipped sharply upwards to take in a random shot of the grey cloud-filled sky. The soundtrack wasn’t affected and Evie’s exasperated yell was clearly audible.
‘Get that thing out of my face!’
* * *
Jack watched as she lifted her backpack and channelled defiance so palpable he could feel it. Her eyes looked bluer than ever in her muddy face. A spike of heat fired up low in his stomach. In th
at animated moment when she’d smeared the mud, flashing anger lighting up her eyes and the wind whipping her golden hair every which way, she’d looked absolutely magnificent.
He’d based his impression of Evie entirely on her rich background and expensive lifestyle. How could a girl with an unattainable life, who’d been handed everything on a plate, possibly be a good role model? Helen’s phone call crossed his mind. Evie Staverton-Lynch is really cool and funny. On some level the ludicrous Knightsbridge show had engaged the viewing public, girls like Helen. And against his expectation, Evie hadn’t walked off set at the first sign of hard work. A tiny spark of cautious admiration flared. She had some defiance and drive about her. Was that so bad an example to girls like Helen? His judgement of her went back to the drawing board.
* * *
Ten minutes later and the cameraman walked behind them at a safe distance, lens cap firmly on. The wind had dropped a little, just a little, mind you, and the drying mud felt gritty on her cheeks.
Glancing sideways she saw that Jack was grinning at her, that lopsided delicious grin that melted the hearts of the nation’s women. She raised eyebrows at him.
‘What?’
‘Nothing. I just wasn’t convinced you’d run with the camouflage thing.’ His voice sounded a hell of a lot warmer than it had throughout this whole hideous experience so far. ‘You know, after last night’s request to go easy on you.’
Had to keep bringing that up, didn’t he?
‘No kidding.’ Her cheeks felt facepack-tight with the gritty drying mud. ‘Was I supposed to walk off the show at the first hurdle? Sorry to disappoint.’
A small boost of triumph spurred her on. She wasn’t going to give anyone the satisfaction of being able to say she was a lightweight. It was mind over matter, that was all.
‘You didn’t disappoint,’ he said, then shrugged. ‘That was actually pretty cool.’
She didn’t reply, surprised at the prick of satisfaction that comment caused, because really she didn’t care one bit what Jack Trent thought about her.
‘And I never thought you did,’ he said.
She frowned.
‘Did what?’
He looked sideways at her, the grin touching his eyes now too. Even smothered in mud he was drop-dead gorgeous—how absolutely unfair.
‘Use Botox. I was just talking it up for the camera, trying to psych you up. Sometimes on the courses you have to get in there and motivate people or they just give up before they’ve begun.’
It irked her that he’d just assumed she would have walked away rather than smear a bit of mud on her face if he hadn’t talked her up. For some reason it had bothered her from the beginning that he bought so easily into the spoilt-brat image she’d built up in the media, instantly dismissing that there could possibly be anything more to her than shallow It-girl Miss Knightsbridge.
In the last year, with the show at the pinnacle of its success, she’d become used to people being delighted to meet her and had assembled a wide circle of ego-boosting friends who told her whatever she wanted to hear. The diva-socialite persona that had done so well at charming the public seemed to do absolutely zilch to impress Jack Trent. He simply accepted the stereotype at face value. He’d assumed she’d never be up to tackling this weekend under her own steam. But how could she blame him for taking her at face value when that was the face she’d chosen to put on?
And why the hell did she even care? It wasn’t as if their paths would ever cross again after this weekend. Unless the stupid show won an award.
‘Let’s get one thing straight,’ she snapped. ‘I don’t need psyching up, thanks very much. I certainly didn’t slap mud on my face because of anything you said. I was just...sizing up the situation before I got stuck in. I’m perfectly capable of getting through whatever you throw at me.’
He held both hands up.
‘OK, OK. I’m sure you are. I didn’t mean to imply otherwise. I just wasn’t sure how you’d take to this stuff, what with you being so...’ she waited as he floundered, poised to sink his foot back into his mouth, eventually choosing ‘...city based.’ She pushed a hand through her hair. Hmm. Could have been worse.
Another few minutes of silent trudging and her stomach twisted into a knot of tension. He’d tried to be friendly and she’d knocked him back. She felt a pang of regret now. However hideous the tasks were likely to be, she was on her own with him for the bulk of the next two days. That would be a whole lot easier if they were at least on friendly terms.
‘You didn’t answer my question,’ she said.
He looked sideways at her.
‘Question?’
‘Last night. How does someone get into this kind of thing?’ she asked. ‘I mean, look at this place. It’s freezing, cold, wet.’ She waved a hand at her own face. ‘We’re covered in mud, for Pete’s sake. People actually pay you to come and do this stuff?’
She shifted her backpack a little to make it a fraction less uncomfortable.
He gave her an amused sideways glance at her sudden interest after the grouching of a few minutes earlier and she shrugged and gave him a half-smile.
‘We’re stuck with each other for the next forty-eight hours. We may as well make some kind of attempt to get along.’
‘A real attempt, you mean? Or a manipulative style attempt to get me to go easy on you?’
‘A real attempt,’ she said. ‘But you can’t blame me for trying.’
‘I don’t blame you.’ He caught her eye and gave her a wicked smile that crinkled the edges of his green eyes. Her stomach give an unexpected flip in response and she gripped the straps of her rucksack hard. ‘If you feel like trying again, don’t let me stop you.’
Her stomach was in full flip-flop mode now.
‘Not that it will get you any special treatment. I’ve dealt with people like you in the past. I’m immune to any charm offensive.’
‘People like me?’
Her flipping stomach lurched to a halt. Just what the hell did that mean?
‘TV stars. Darlings of the media. So seduced by the idea of fame that the real world passes them by.’
Angry warmth crept upward from the turned-up collar of her coat at the injustice of that and the accompanying frustration that she was the one who’d cultivated that very impression. He was simply taking her TV image at face value, assuming there was nothing more to her than clothes-obsessed party girl. She turned to him indignantly, unable to focus on the fact that she really shouldn’t care what the hell he thought of her.
‘You don’t know the first thing about me,’ she said.
‘I know everything I need to know. Just the fact you’re doing this show speaks volumes.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m not making a judgement. Each to their own.’
His short cryptic answers made him impossible to read, just like her father. Did they offer training on that in the military? Was there some kind of bloody course?
‘I’m doing it, among other reasons, to save your arse,’ she pointed out irritably.
His amenable attitude melted away like smoke and she held up her hands as he stared at her.
‘No, no. No need to thank me,’ she said.
‘Thank you? You’re the one who caused all this trouble in the first place with your bloody à la carte comment.’
‘Which I’ve apologised for so many times now that I’ve lost count. Has it occurred to you that I could just have refused to go ahead with this charade of a TV show, just left your reputation in tatters instead of trying to put things right?’
‘Of course it’s occurred to me. It’s not like you need the money, is it? But you’re obviously so wrapped up in your own fame that you couldn’t possibly contemplate leaving the Evil Evie image intact, so you’ve agreed to do this in the hope it will redress the balance. And heaven forbid that there m
ight actually be anything deeper to it all than what the best choice is for your TV success.’
He kept walking at the same grim trudging pace, eyes now fixed straight ahead of him. She had to work to keep up with his stride.
‘I’m no different from you,’ she panted. ‘You said it yourself—you’ve only kept your TV shows up because the publicity feeds into your own business, these damn survival courses of yours. You need your public image just as much as I do to keep your profits up, so don’t try and take the moral high ground. I have my own reasons for doing the TV show and they have nothing to do with being fame crazed.’
He came to a sudden standstill and she nearly crashed into him with the momentum she’d built up in keeping pace.
‘You think what I do is about making a profit?’ he snapped. ‘Why am I even surprised?’ He shook his head disbelievingly and looked skyward. ‘I’ve spent years organising charity expeditions, rounding up donations from people like you who are only interested in what’s in it for them. And this new kids’ initiative will be non-profit-making for me. Everything that comes from it will be ploughed right back in. Because actually there’s more important things in life than counting your bank balance.’ He paused and then added in contempt, ‘Or your social media followers.’
He strode off again and this time she didn’t try and keep up.
FOUR
Four hours in and it was freeze-your-arse-off cold, and not just from the elements. The vibes coming from Jack Trent were icy and why was she even surprised? Ex-military, just like her father. Uncommunicative, giving nothing away. No discussion, no opportunity to hear her reasons for being here. Just his own assumptions about her and her situation. And his opinion was apparently the only one with any validity.
The churn of unease in her stomach refused to let up. Channelling self-righteous should come easily to the made-for-TV version of herself. Miss Knightsbridge’s It-girl Evie wouldn’t give a toss about offending Jack Trent. She certainly wouldn’t apologise for it. But it seemed to be getting harder to hang onto that carefully crafted persona out here, away from all the luxury trappings of her London life, without yes-people hanging around her for handy validation. Was she really bothered about upsetting him, about his good opinion of her? Or did it have more to do with how she felt about herself right now? Everyone wanted to be liked, Evie included, and with him shooting daggers her way she felt a little as if she were back at her first day at school.
Man vs. Socialite Page 5