‘Are you having some kind of a laugh?’ Jack snapped.
Chester walked ahead of him into a messy office with a huge glass desk in the middle of it.
‘Absolutely not. You’re still able to draw effortless column inches.’
‘Why does Evie no longer use your services?’ Jack cut in.
Chester sat down, leaned back in his chair and fiddled with a gaudy paperweight.
‘She’s decided to bow out of the public eye. Something about not wanting to trade on the Staverton-Lynch name.’ He threw an incredulous hand up. ‘Thing is, Jack, without the name and the glossy lifestyle, who the hell is she? The public don’t want to watch some nobody living a normal life. Sometimes you might have to fudge reality a little bit but what the hell? The viewing figures speak for themselves. Evie understood that.’ He shrugged. ‘At least I thought she did.’
She’d sacked Chester Smith? The man who’d masterminded her reality TV career. Bringer of the glossy glamour photograph and the talking-head fashion interviews. Bowing out of the public eye? What the hell was going on here?
* * *
The shop was tiny. Not the glossy, candy-pink premises that he’d seen on the Purple Productions website; this was in a side-street, off the beaten track. No sign outside with the Miss K logo on it. Instead the painted sign, teal-blue background with a black handwritten font, said Amelia Jewellery. Not a Staverton-Lynch name drop or a TV tie-in in sight. The window was full of jewellery samples, swirls of silver, pendants, rings, carefully displayed.
He went inside.
She was minding the place herself. No minion in charge while she swanned off having her nails done. Instead she stood behind the small counter at the side of the shop, layers of delicate blue tissue paper lying ready for gift-wrapping. The place wasn’t exactly mobbed but a couple of female shoppers left as he walked through the door, taking a ribbon-tied bag with them.
Her face froze when she saw him and he ran a hand nervously through his hair.
‘Amelia Jewellery?’ he said, because he didn’t know where to start. Maybe he could somehow gauge his reception through small talk. If that was the case, it didn’t bode well. Her voice channelled coldness.
‘It was my mother’s name,’ she said. There was a pause, during which he waited for her to just tell him to leave. When she didn’t, the tightness around his heart loosened the tiniest bit. ‘I didn’t want to trade on the TV show, but then I realised to properly do this on my own I’d have to drop the family name too. Even though I left the show people still recognise Staverton-Lynch. They think they know me.’
The barbed point hung in the air between them.
‘Why didn’t you tell me you left the show?’ he said.
‘Would you actually have been interested?’ she asked. She held his gaze for a moment questioningly, then seemed to think better of it, dropping her eyes and crossing to a glass display shelf of swirly silver pendants. She moved a few items around, not looking at him.
‘Of course I would.’
‘I wanted to go it alone for once,’ she said. ‘Without hedging my bets by using the Miss Knightsbridge name, or any kind of front for that matter.’
‘That’s great,’ he said, meaning it. She’d had so much to be confident about but had never taken that final jump before. It couldn’t have been easy to give up her fall-back position.
‘Thanks,’ she said.
The awkwardness hung between them. He groped for a place to start that wouldn’t sound utterly crap.
‘I told my father about the shop,’ she said conversationally. ‘About leaving the TV show.’
‘Was he pleased?’
She laughed out loud.
‘You’d think! He liked the name of the shop. But in every other way he was exactly the same gruff nightmare that he always is.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘Don’t be,’ she said. ‘It was exasperating. After all his complaints about my TV stuff, I stop the show and he still isn’t happy. But then I went away and thought it over and I realised that exasperated is a lot better than crushed. A few months ago I’d have been gutted at yet another knockback from him. Now I just feel...resigned. He’s not going to change, no matter what I do.’ She shrugged. ‘Maybe it’s the military man in him. I think you were right about that. He’s dealt with everything in the same way since my mother died, as if it’s an army exercise. Arrangements in place for me and my brother. Every detail taken care of and never mind the affection. He’s giving me all he can give. I can respect that.’ She paused. ‘For my mother I can respect that.’
She moved behind the counter and began unpacking some gift bags from their cellophane binding.
‘I realised when we were together, I have to stop letting the past affect everything I do. There I was, preaching to you about that, about not letting decisions you can’t change stop you moving forward now, and all the time there I was defining myself by the last twenty-odd years of feeling inadequate.’ She laughed a little. ‘I need to accept reality. Stop trying to be something I’m not because I’m so desperate to be liked that I’ll dance to anyone’s tune.’
Bloody hell, she sounded well adjusted. He’d been counting on a bit more missing him and a bit less looking to the future if he was honest.
* * *
Did he have any idea how difficult it was to keep a positive expression on her face since he’d just walked through the door as if nothing had happened? It made her cheeks ache and so she retired to the counter to mess about with the gift-bag delivery, just so she wouldn’t need to keep looking at him and channelling positivity and happiness when her broken heart was still at the stage of healing where ripping the plaster off would set the wound right the way back to square one. She wasn’t going to stand for that. It had taken all the strength she could muster to walk away from what she knew. Her own tried and tested way of feeling as if she wasn’t a total failure. Not signing the new contract for Miss Knightsbridge had been almost unthinkable, but she’d done it anyway. Somewhere along the way she’d lost sight of her own hopes and dreams in favour of those of her party-girl alter ego, and if she was ever to be happy with who she really was, the alter ego had to go.
‘I’m sorry about the breakfast show,’ he said. ‘Really sorry.’
She drew in a breath.
‘So you said at the time,’ she said.
‘Evie...’ he began.
She talked over him loudly, not wanting the explanation, not wanting to be swayed. She’d got her head straight now, she was moving forward, the last thing she needed was him coming here and throwing a wrench into the middle of that.
‘Have you any idea what it meant to me to find you?’ she asked him. ‘To finally find someone who was interested in what I’m really like? In my hopes and dreams instead of all the trappings, the TV image. None of that stuff is real. It was such a relief to be myself that weekend with you, even if it came with mud and horrible food and outdoor living. I kept thinking at any moment you’d back off, you’d realise that actually I’m not all that after all.’ A smile touched her lips at the thought. ‘I knew you were reluctant to go public but I didn’t realise I meant that little, that you’d clearly never planned to go beyond it being our little secret.’
She stacked a pile of flat gift bags beneath the counter, the perfect occupation to stop herself looking at him. If she did that she wasn’t sure she could keep channelling that-ship-has-sailed.
‘I wish I’d followed my instincts at the start, after the Highlands weekend,’ she said. ‘Just left it where it belonged, as an ill-judged fling.’
‘Don’t say that!’
She faced him down.
‘It’s the truth.’
He stepped towards the counter and seized her hand in his. Her heart, lagging behind her brain, gave a delighted skip at his t
ouch.
‘I was afraid to go public with our relationship,’ he said. ‘It had nothing to do with being ashamed of you. I don’t deserve someone as lovely as you. I was scared, Evie, because of the way I’ve let people down in the past.’
‘People?’
‘Helen.’ He swallowed hard. ‘I put myself first, joining up, without a second thought as to what that might mean for her and my mother. By the time I came home the damage was done—it was too late for me to change things for her. The charity work, the kid’s stuff, they’re all ways of making myself feel better about that, but somehow nothing was ever quite enough. Because when the going got tough, I walked away, no matter what devastation I might be leaving behind.’
‘It’s past history,’ she said gently. ‘You can’t let yourself be defined by that or you’ll never be able to move forward. You’ll spend your life paying for something that’s done and dusted. And I’m a big girl. If it didn’t work between us, then it didn’t work, but at least have the balls to properly try.’
‘I was scared that it did define me,’ he said. ‘Because my father behaved in exactly the same way. Only ever there when the going was good. Disappearing the second things got difficult. Leaving us to whatever might come. I was scared, Evie. Scared of letting anyone get close to me again in case, somewhere down the line, things got difficult. Would I have that same instinct? To just choose the easy option and leave? I couldn’t stand finding out that really was the measure of me after all, so I made sure any relationship stayed casual. With you, it was so obviously more than that, and denying it, keeping it between us, that somehow felt like keeping it non-serious, non-dangerous.’ He closed his eyes briefly. ‘Of course I was kidding myself. I could keep it as quiet as I wanted—it didn’t change the fact that I was falling for you.’
He heard her sharp intake of breath and then her hand crept gently into his. He looked down at it, squeezed her soft fingers.
‘You are not your father,’ she said. ‘You did what he never did. In spades. You came back when you realised what was wrong. You’ve spent your whole life trying to put things right. You’ve been there for your family ever since and you’ve done so much for youth charities and to help kids develop interests and self-esteem so they don’t fall into the same rut as Helen. Those are things to be proud of. You’ve spent all this time making up for what you think was your mess,’ she said. ‘You need to let it go. Helen has. I read her interview.’
He stared for a moment as his mind processed that piece of information, wondering if he’d heard correctly.
‘Her interview?’
She nodded.
‘She did a really inspiring interview for one of the women’s national magazines. All about her experience and how she’s come through it with your help. She’s hoping to train as a drug counsellor for youngsters. She sounded lovely.’
‘She is,’ he said shortly. Why the hell had Helen spoken to the press without asking him first?
He checked himself. Clearly because she felt ready and able to, and because she didn’t need to live her life with him being overprotective. It had been staring him in the face for ages. Helen was in a good place, looking forward. Maybe it was time he took a step back.
‘I’ve got a copy of the article back at my flat.’ She paused as if debating whether asking him to drop by was a good idea and obviously decided it wasn’t. ‘I’ll post it on to you,’ she said.
His mind was so reeling with the revelation that Helen had gone public that for a moment he didn’t register that Evie had crossed the tiny shop floor and opened the door. He realised she was waiting there, for him to leave, and his heart plummeted.
‘Forgive me,’ he said.
She threw up a hand.
‘What exactly do you want from me, Jack?’ she said.
He crossed the room to her and took both her hands in his.
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘I don’t want you to think for a second about what I might or might not want you to be. I want us to give this thing a go, without constraints, without worries about who either of us ought to be and without reference to anyone else.’
She looked up at him.
‘None of that counts for anything if it’s going to be some kind of dirty secret,’ she said. ‘If we’re going to be together it has to be out in the open, and not because I’ve forced you into it but because you want it to be like that.’
He tugged his smartphone from his pocket. She stared at him, incredulous.
‘You’re making a phone call? We’re in the middle of relationship crisis talks and you’re going to call someone? The door’s over there...’
Her voice trailed away as if she’d lost communication between her brain and her mouth. He was holding up the screen of his phone so she could speed-read.
A comment online...
@SurvivalJackT: Just to confirm the rumours. @evieITgirl is my girl.
He swiped to the next screen.
A social network update...
Jack Trent changed his status to In A Relationship with Evie Staverton-Lynch.
She somehow managed to regain control over the hinge on her mouth. Her mind reeled as she processed what he’d done, that he wanted to be with her and he didn’t care who knew it.
‘I wasn’t sure I had any chance of persuading you to give it another go with me,’ he said. ‘I figured I’d just delete them if you kicked my arse out of the door. But they’re out there. No secrets. I would have shouted it from the rooftops but I think it’ll reach a few more people this way. What do you think? I want to share my life with you.’
He swallowed hard. The social-media thing had been a bit of a gamble but he hadn’t known how else to prove he was serious.
She was silent for so long that he couldn’t stand it.
‘Evie,’ he groaned.
She held up a hand.
‘There’s just one thing.’
‘Anything,’ he said immediately. ‘Anything at all. What is it?’
‘The word “share”...’ she said.
Her hands crept up either side of his chest and happiness rushed through him. He curled his hands around her waist. They fitted there perfectly. Of course they did. She belonged with him.
‘What about it?’
Her face tilted upwards to meet his.
‘Just what exactly does sharing with you entail? Would I have to eat bugs in this scenario? Or spend time in freezing rivers?’
He smiled.
‘Only if you wanted to,’ he said.
She narrowed her eyes. His heart stuttered.
‘A good answer,’ she said, and kissed him.
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from TURNING THE GOOD GIRL BAD by Avril Tremayne
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ONE
...he tugged at the chignon at her nape. Hairpins scattering, the tight knot unwound. His fingers slid through the heavy chestnut silk—
‘Cathy!’
Catherine North jumped in her seat, scoring a bright red mark across the manuscript page she’d been poring over.
Max.
Her boss.
Back early from his over
seas trip.
She cast one horrified glance at her computer screen, where the ardent love moves of her fictional hero, Alex Taylor, screamed Disaster! at her. A second glance went to the printer, which was delivering Passion Flower page by steamy page at precisely timed intervals.
‘Cathy? I’m back!’ came the bellow.
Catherine’s breath jammed like a fork in her throat. Heart leapt. Sweat popped.
She shoved at the edge of her desk and shot backwards across the floor on her wheeled chair to the printer. Grabbed the pages. Used her feet to leverage another whizzing roll back to her desk. Shuffled the fresh pages behind the others she’d be marking up. Stopped, panting like a woman in labour. What next?
A click from the printer galvanised her. Duh! She should have cancelled the print job first. She started jabbing, lightning-fast, at the keyboard. Find the printer. Jab. The print queue. Jab, jab. Dammit, where is it? Where is it? Where—
She heard a curse, looked up. Saw Max’s brown leather briefcase swinging into sight, rounding the corner. Froze as six feet and two inches of lean, elegantly suited frame descended on her with its usual churning impatience.
No time to stop the printer. No time to save her changes. No sudden frantic moves now if she didn’t want to look seven shades of guilty.
Catherine dragged in a breath around the fork in her throat as Max came to a stop in front of her desk. A waft of his expensively delicious cologne slid up her nostrils. She looked up at him, smiled serenely, and with an admirable imitation of calm, slid the damning pages under the thick report that was mercifully sitting in her in-tray.
‘Good morning, Mr Rutherford.’
‘Huh,’ he said. Or maybe asked.
Max had become pretty free lately with that slightly mystified ‘huh’, but Catherine hadn’t worked out what the ‘huh’ said about his state of mind and she was not going to start interpreting it today. She just wanted him to go into his office. Like, right that second.
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