I kept wiping.
‘You know it’s time, don’t you?’ he asked. ‘To get over what he did?’
Wiping, wiping.
‘Evangeline?’
I turned, wanting to say something, but nothing popped conveniently into my head. Jack was right. Drew was right. My other best friend, Chloe, was right. My family. Everyone was in agreement on this one point, even me: it was time to get over it! But I seemed to have a Pavlov’s dogs kind of thing happening – see a photographer, freak out and bolt. I hated how much it still got to me. Hated the way the memory of what Sam had done still made my insides churn.
Jack was waiting for me to say something.
‘It’s a phobia,’ I managed eventually.
‘Phobias can be treated. You can … I don’t know, desensitise yourself.’ Shrug. ‘Or something.’
Eye roll. ‘There speaks a man who has never been a public laughingstock. All those columns about me – can you believe I didn’t even recognise myself, despite devouring them week after week along with the rest of the country? Because I can’t believe it.’ I shuddered. ‘So freaking stupid.’
‘Yeah – he’s an arsehole. You’ll do better next time.’
That intent look was back on his face, and it made me shiver. ‘Anyway, opening night,’ I said, flustered. ‘That’s got to offer a desensitisation opportunity, given how the media will be crawling all over the place. Moving right along, right?’
‘Moving right along,’ Jack repeated slowly. ‘That’s a good motto. Because Sam’s ancient history.’
‘A year is not ancient history in my world, Jack. Only in yours.’
He stepped closer, and it seemed as though half the air in the room was suddenly sucked out – either that or I was developing a claustrophobia-related, asthmatic lung condition, because it was suddenly hard to breathe in that tiny kitchen. ‘There aren’t two worlds, Evangeline,’ he said. ‘Only one. And we’re both in it.’
I edged away. ‘Except your part of the world comes with paparazzi oozing out of the woodwork and an array of worthless hangers-on.’ I held up my hand as he opened his mouth to argue. ‘And, hey, I’m now officially a hanger-on, too. I mean, come on, Guy McKinsey and an opening night? I’ll be president of someone’s fan club any moment now.’
‘Are you hanging-on on your own for the opening night?’
‘Am I what?’
‘Do you need an extra ticket?’
‘You mean for the play? Why would I?’
‘As in, do you want to bring someone?’ he asked, a little impatiently. ‘As in, are you dating someone?’
My turn to stare. ‘You know I’m not dating anyone, Jack. Why do you think Drew’s taking me out tonight to try and get me laid?’
Jack started as though he’d been cattle-prodded. ‘What the fuck?’ he asked. Except it wasn’t really a question.
I burst out laughing at the look on his face, and had to take a moment to catch my breath. ‘Oh my God! I g-guess that means Drew d-doesn’t tell you everything after all.’
‘It’s not funny, Evangeline. It’s … it’s … yuck.’
Yuck? That set me off again. Jackson J Stevens, who’d had more lovers than you could poke a stick at, getting all ‘yuck’ and moral about little old me going on a sex hunt?
‘Seriously, not funny,’ Jack said testily.
But I was still laughing, so hard I had to lean against the fridge.
‘Evangeline!’
Jack’s expression grew steadily darker as I tried – and failed – to control myself enough to choke out some words.
‘It’s not funny,’ he said again.
‘Sorry,’ I said – well, gasped. And then I blew out a couple of quick breaths and managed an unsteady, ‘But it is.’ Another quick blow out. ‘Because you are so late to the party.’
‘What the hell does that mean?’
Whew. Under control. Just. ‘You seriously don’t know about the get-Evie-laid project? Because it’s been going on since that night I first met you – the charity dinner. It’s why I was there.’
‘You were there to meet me.’
‘Um – sorry to break it to you, but no. That was a fringe benefit. I was there because Drew was sure we’d find me a lusty philanthropist amongst all those do-gooders. You know, because it was for charity and there might be someone I wouldn’t turn my nose up at. How bloody unfair that it was Drew who ended up snagging the only hot guy in the place.’
‘What the fuck!’
‘Yeah – you said that already,’ I said, and started laughing again.
‘You’ve been doing this for three months?’ Both of Jack’s hands dived into his hair, which had got to a very bohemian length over the past three months. ‘And you – And – Is it – What – Have –?’
Not joking – he was that incoherent.
‘Cat got your tongue?’ I asked, and had to bite hard on the inside of my bottom lip to stifle another laugh as Jack glared at me.
He took a deep breath and it seemed to steady him. ‘Three months,’ he said. ‘Right.’ Back under control. ‘So what’s the score, Evangeline?’
‘The score? Oh, the score. How many times I’ve been laid!’ Spluttering laugh. And then I threw in a nice, exaggerated sigh. ‘Sadly, zero.’
Another deep breath. ‘Nothing sad about that.’
‘Well, I’m sad,’ I said shakily. ‘Because according to your brother my spark is “dormant” and needs to be “reignited”.’
Jack just stared at me, speechless – twice in one night. Amazing.
‘Whew,’ I said, and bit my lip again, which was only slightly quivering now. ‘That was funny.’
‘I keep telling you, it’s not funny.’
I wiped my eyes. ‘I mean you! Like an uptight Victorian guardian protecting my virtue, when you’ve got starlets chasing you up the yin yang. Not to mention hordes of female fans throwing their panties at you.’
‘They don’t throw their panties.’
‘Liar, liar, panties on fire.’
‘Well, I don’t catch them,’ he said, sounding goaded.
I pinched my lips together, managing to stifle the next laugh before it erupted. ‘Oh, I’d say you’ve caught your fair share of panties, Jackson J Stevens.’
‘Throw yours, Evangeline, and we’ll see.’
Nope – there was no holding it in. The laugh erupted after all. ‘Was that supposed to be your sexy look, Jack? That lowered eyelids thing?’
‘It needs practice, obviously,’ he said dryly.
‘Not on my account – because you’d throw my underwear right back at me.’
His eyes lit up at that, slid over me. ‘So, what kind is it – your underwear? G-string? Sports bra? French knickers? Matching sets? White? Black? Nude? Pink? Cotton? Lace? Silk?’
‘It’s not the kind you’re going to see, Jackson J,’ I said, and laughed again. And then, for no apparent reason, an image of the plain, red, boy-leg briefs and sturdy black bra I was wearing popped into my head. Followed – yikes! – by a second image, of Jack in his underwear. My eyes dropped automatically to the front of his jeans. And I swear that although he didn’t move, Jack’s hips seemed to thrust forward and there was an actual bulge there. The image in my brain sharpened. And I stopped laughing and started blushing, in my mortifying I-am-a-kewpie-doll way – for sure there would be two round discs of red smack bang in the middle of my cheeks. I dragged my gaze back up to his face to find him watching me with his half-mast eyelid look that now didn’t seem so funny.
I took a step to the side, getting a little more space – and air – between us so I could take a proper, calming breath. I forced another laugh, trying to get my equilibrium back. ‘Anyway, the answer to your earlier question is no: I am not dating anyone. So it’s just me, Chloe and Drew for opening night. And strictly speaking, it should only be me and Drew, because Chloe’s supposed to be at Marcus’s charity football game that night. But she’s playing hooky.’
‘She’s picking me over her boyfriend
? That’s more like it.’
‘Oh dear – breaking all sorts of news to you tonight, but sorry, Chloe isn’t picking you per se. She’s picking Hugh Jackman. She’s heard he might be there.’
‘You really are determined to crush my ego. Ah well, if I’m going to lose out to someone, there are worse guys than Hugh. Who’s on your perv list for the night, Evangeline?’
‘I don’t suppose Guy McKinsey’s making a surprise appearance?’
‘Sorry, Guy opted not to make the flight from London.’
‘Well that sucks. Chloe gets to perve, Drew will be ogling a full dozen hot guys, and I get … who?’
That quicksilver smile. ‘You’ll have to make do with me. On the bright side, at least I’m in the same country, unlike Guy. And there’s no need to go bar-hopping to pick me up.’
Snort. I turned to get two mugs out of the cupboard. ‘I have other fish to fry, thank you.’
‘Right. What does your fish look like, Evangeline?’
‘Guy McKinsey, obviously,’ I said, and laughed. ‘But with Stephen Hawking’s brain. And I’m baiting my line at the Tiki Tonga bar tonight, so check with me tomorrow and maybe I will need that extra ticket.’
I opened the tin, smiling at him over my shoulder. ‘You do know that it’s only you movie stars who get to pick and choose their lovers; the rest of us take your leftovers, which is why it’s taking me so long to hook one.’
‘We can pick, but that doesn’t mean we’re chosen, you know,’ he said.
I opened a drawer, took out a spoon. ‘Yeah, right.’
‘Hey – I’m practically a monk,’ he said.
Eye roll, as I spooned the tea crystals into the mugs.
‘It’s true,’ he protested.
The kettle clocked off and I reached for it. ‘Not according to the gossip magazines.’
‘I’ll happily tell you every detail of my unexciting love life, if you’re interested.’
‘Well, I’m not.’
‘You know, the gossip mags might just as easily report I’m having an affair with you.’
Okay – that definitely needed a snort! ‘Oh puh-lease! As if anyone would believe that.’
‘You’d be surprised what people will believe,’ he said. ‘Which is why I protect you from that.’
I turned. ‘Huh?’
‘I … fix … the situation. Make sure your name is kept out of the papers.’
The very idea startled me. ‘How?’
‘Positioning people between us when we’re in public. Making sure I don’t look at you or talk to you for too long. Stuff like that.’
I shifted again. Needing more space. More air. For my newly asthmatic lungs. I reached for the kettle again. ‘It never occurred to me that people would think that,’ I said. ‘And I’d hate it if they did – so, thank you.’
I found my fingers were trembling as I poured water into the first mug. First some mysterious lung condition, now a neurological disorder that made my appendages quiver. Great. Jackson J Stevens was not good for my health.
Jack sighed. ‘I suppose that means you’ll ban me from being anywhere near you from now on.’
I concentrated on pouring hot water into the second mug. ‘I’ll just be more careful, so I don’t make things harder for you.’
‘Oh for God’s –’ He broke off, dashing his hand through his hair again, looking irritated. ‘You don’t have to be careful.’
‘Hey, I’m offering to do you a favour.’ I put the kettle down. ‘There’s no need to get snarky about it!’
‘I’m not snarky.’
‘Not snarky?’ Snort.
‘Okay, a little snarky. Because I know you. Next time we’re in public together, you’ll take to your heels in some misguided attempt to spare me the effort of playing decoy with the paparazzi.’
‘I would think you’d want me to stay away from you. Me and Chloe and whoever else you do that stuff for.’
‘Only you.’
‘Only me?’ My voice was a squeak.
‘You’re the one with the phobia, remember?’ He stepped closer to me. ‘But now that we’ve decided it’s moving right along time …? Well, fair warning, Evangeline – if you do try to run away, I will chase after you and haul you up on your toes and kiss you so passionately and for so long, you’ll make the news on five continents.’
Another snort. But also that horrible breathlessness. ‘If you wear that expression, people will think you’re about to strangle me, not about to kiss me.’
‘I’m not joking, so skip the snort. And I won’t be about to kiss you – I’ll be kissing you.’
‘All right, I get it – no running away.’ I stepped back. Quick, relieved breath. Then I waved a hand – which was, of course, trembling – in the direction of the living room. ‘Okay, you’ve supervised the tea-making, now go and sit down while I load up – that brooding movie-star look of yours is making me nervous.’
‘I thought brooding movie-star looks were finally in fashion around here,’ Jack said, but – thank God – he exited the kitchen.
I gave the tea an unnecessary stir, then initiated a search of the cupboards for something edible, giving myself time to get over this latest attack of Jack-induced nerves.
Jack had been living and working in the United States when his brother Drew (the laid-back, sophisticated one), Chloe (the ambitious, redheaded goddess) and I (the socially conscious idealist) met in our first year at university four years earlier. We were all studying communication, but targeting different careers – events, journalism and public relations respectively – and we clicked like a three-piece puzzle.
During one of Jack’s infrequent visits home, he’d met Chloe, but he’d never met me. Which wasn’t surprising, because while Chloe had quickly inveigled an introduction like the good journalist she is, I would have rather died than ask to meet a celebrity, no matter whose brother he happened to be. But three months ago when Jack was in Sydney for what was supposed to be a short visit, Drew had dragged me to that infamous charity event where Jack was the guest of honour.
My main memory of the night was terror at the sheer number of photographers swarming around Jack. My attitude had been so stay-the-hell-away-buddy, our relationship got off to a very rocky start. And somehow it had never recovered. It must have really piqued Jack to meet the one woman on the planet he couldn’t charm into gaga-ness, because ever since that night he’d kept trying. And Drew said he would keep on keeping on, trying to win me over to Team Jack, because that was just what he did. Kept going until he won.
Frankly, the whole thing was unnerving. In particular, Jack’s intent look, like he was trying to read inside my head to figure out what tactic would work. Zeroing in. Watching. Waiting. It could give a girl the wrong idea if she didn’t have her head screwed on right. My head was properly bolted on, of course. And as a determined save-the-world-don’t-entertain-it type, I was largely immune. But it nevertheless made me want to fiddle with the buttons on my shirt when he looked at me like that, and I always had to make a concerted effort not to fiddle.
Once, when Drew was asking why I didn’t just do what Chloe did and treat Jack like a big brother so we could all relax, I tried to explain the phenomenon of that through-the-eyeballs stare of Jack’s. Drew, of course, opted to try the look himself over the next week, and reported back that everyone he’d tried it on had laughed hysterically – the only person who’d been freaked out by it was Chloe’s boyfriend Marcus, in a WTF? kind of way – so he wasn’t convinced the look even existed.
But Drew, God love him, just didn’t have Jack’s edgy sense of stillness, which was essential to carrying the look off. The way I put it was that Drew was like a weekend in Las Vegas, whereas Jack was an African canoe safari. At night. In the heat of the jungle. Danger. Suspense. That description had caused Drew to convulse with laughter, but Drew had never been the recipient of the look, so what the hell did he know?
And at that moment, I wasn’t looking forward to another dose of j
ungle fever, undiluted by the presence of others. But since my quest for something edible to serve hadn’t unearthed anything that wasn’t a desiccated embarrassment, I took a deep breath and paddled my canoe into the living room.
I handed Jack his mug and took a seat on the couch an arm’s length away from him.
Jack took a sip and made a face. ‘God, that’s sweet.’
‘Here we go! What’s wrong with it?’
He put his mug on the coffee table. ‘Evangeline, that is basically a mug of tooth decay.’
‘You mean those perfect teeth of yours aren’t insured up the wazoo?’
‘Hard-arse,’ he said, but he was smiling. ‘And no, they are not insured.’
I nodded at the DVDs on the coffee table. ‘So, don’t tell me you’ve actually met him or I might throw myself on you and beg for details.’
‘Does seeing him on stage in London count?’
Whimper. ‘Was he good?’
Up went the supercilious eyebrow. ‘Aren’t you supposed to throw yourself on me when you ask that?’
‘Be serious.’
‘I’m as serious as a Broadway opening night review, Evangeline. Come on – throw!’
I snorted – couldn’t help it! ‘Serious serious.’
‘He was very good,’ he said, relenting, and when I sighed gustily he had the audacity to snort too. ‘I’m so going to enjoy this crush of yours. When I remember that night we met –’
‘Oh, come on, we are not having that discussion again, are we?’
‘– with you going on all night about the cult of celebrity. No wonder you didn’t get laid that night! Everyone was running for cover. All those jabs about narcissism, and groupies, and how vacuous –’
‘Yes, well,’ I interrupted. ‘I guess it is poetic justice that I’ve ended up with a crush on one of your brethren. Too bad that’s not going to get me laid either.’ I giggled. ‘Because you know, Drew says getting laid is the failsafe cure for everything that ails everyone anywhere on the planet, and who’s to say my phobia won’t disappear with my first fling?’
Jack reached out to pull on one of my curls again. But this time, something weird happened. Instead of the usual quick, teasing tug, he held on, slowing the action, dragging the ringlet through his fingers and straightening it to its full length, halfway down to my elbow. The back of his fingers slid against my cheek, then the side of my neck, down my sleeve. Slowly, warmly.
Wanting Mr Wrong Page 2