by Carrie Duffy
She had reached the doorstep of her house and swung round to face him. It was raining harder now, and her hair streamed out wildly behind her, her face accusing and streaked with mascara.
‘Jenna, I’m so sorry,’ Ryan apologized. He looked at her worriedly, aware of the commotion they were making in the quiet street. There didn’t seem to be anyone around, but the last thing he wanted was to draw attention to the pair of them. ‘Look, I’ll come in with you and we’ll get you a drink, get you sorted out, and it’ll all be okay. Come on,’ he added, resting a hand on her back as he led her into the house.
‘I’m just going to go and freshen up a little,’ said Jenna as they stepped into the entrance hall, feeling embarrassed about the way she must look.
‘Okay.’ Ryan stood awkwardly in the corridor, not sure where to go as she disappeared upstairs. ‘Can I make you a drink?’ he yelled after her.
‘Sure, coffee would be great,’ Jenna shouted back.
Ryan looked around him, trying to work out which direction the kitchen was in. The Holland Park house was undeniably gorgeous. Designed by the Candy brothers, the interior was modern and dramatic, all sleek furniture and a neutral colour scheme broken up by stunning statement pieces. The contemporary style belied the ‘Old England’ appearance of the exterior, with its white stone walls, wrought-iron balconies and potted bay trees either side of the heavy black door.
Inside it was very tidy and somewhat devoid of personal items – Ryan got the impression that Jenna probably didn’t spend a lot of time there. I can sympathize with that, he thought, remembering how in the early days when the band were trying to break through, they’d toured incessantly, spending months on end away from home. He’d married young and started a family almost immediately but, despite the pressure, he and Kelly had got through it. Not everyone had been quite so lucky, he realized, thinking of Zac and his ex-wife Jessica.
Having located the kitchen, the kettle had just boiled when Jenna walked in. Her face was clean of make-up, but her eyes were still puffy and her cheeks were more flushed than normal, betraying her earlier outburst.
‘You shouldn’t drink coffee at this time of night. I made you some tea instead,’ Ryan said, pouring out the water. ‘I’ve been in England for a few days now so I think I’ve got the hang of it,’ he grinned.
‘Thanks,’ smiled Jenna. Their fingers brushed as she took the mug from him.
‘Careful. It’s hot,’ warned Ryan.
‘I’ll be careful,’ Jenna teased, blowing gently across the top of the mug. She realized Ryan was watching her and wiped her eyes self-consciously.
‘I hate the way I look when I cry,’ Jenna explained shyly. ‘My eyes swell up and I look like a pig.’
Ryan laughed. ‘Well, you’d have to be the cutest pig I’ve ever seen,’ he answered clumsily.
‘Gee, thanks,’ Jenna replied, but she was laughing as she led the way through to the magnificent living room. It was located at the back of the house, a huge, high-ceilinged room with long, full-length windows looking out onto an impressive expanse of garden. The lounge was largely minimalist, with buttercream walls and pale furniture; only the ostentatious gold and crystal chandelier, and the gilt candlesticks over the fireplace, added a touch of drama to the otherwise muted room. Jenna plopped down on one of the squashy cream sofas, and Ryan joined her.
‘God, I’m so tired,’ Jenna yawned, resting her head against the soft fabric.
‘It must be the stress,’ commented Ryan, taking a sip of his tea. ‘You’ve had a hard day.’
‘Yeah, I’ll say,’ agreed Jenna. She paused, listening to the rain falling against the windows. ‘Am I just being stupid, Ryan? I mean, am I completely overreacting to everything, and just annoying the hell out of the rest of you?’
She looked so earnest, her beautiful green eyes open wide in anguish, that Ryan smiled.
‘Of course not,’ he reassured her. ‘We’ll get there. It’s new to us all, and it’s just going to take time. Zac’s having a harder time adjusting than we are, that’s all. It’s nothing personal.’
Jenna smiled gratefully. ‘Thanks.’
‘And I’d think the attention Nick gives you more than makes up for it.’
Jenna grinned, squirming with embarrassment. ‘He’s terrible, isn’t he? I bet he’s like that with everyone,’ she commented carefully, feeling her heart begin to race a little.
‘Hell, I don’t know really,’ Ryan lied, trying to avoid the subject. ‘He’s always had quite an eye for the ladies. But I’d say he really likes you,’ he added quickly, as Jenna’s face fell.
‘It’s okay, I know what he’s like,’ she admitted. ‘I know it’s just fun, and I enjoy it. It’s such a dream even working with you guys.’
‘We’re not that special,’ Ryan shook his head.
‘Millions of fans can’t be wrong,’ Jenna grinned, as she lay down on the couch and closed her eyes. Neither of them spoke as Ryan drained his tea.
‘You really like him, don’t you?’ he asked Jenna gently. ‘Nick, I mean.’
‘I don’t know. Well … yeah,’ she admitted drowsily. ‘Don’t tell him though, will you? He’s big-headed enough already.’
‘I won’t,’ Ryan promised.
There was a long pause as Jenna snuggled down on the sofa. Eventually, she spoke, her voice sounding slow and distant. ‘Yeah, I do like him,’ she confessed sleepily.
‘Just be careful, yeah?’ Ryan urged. But Jenna didn’t respond. Her breathing was regular and slow, and Ryan realized she was asleep. He checked his watch – just after midnight. Carefully, so as not to wake her, Ryan climbed off the sofa. When he reached the door he paused for a few moments, thinking how beautiful she looked – so innocent and vulnerable, almost childlike, with her long, blonde hair tumbling over her face, and her skin cleansed of make-up. Then he turned and hurried back down the corridor, noiselessly opening the front door and letting himself out. The silent street appeared deserted as he climbed back into the Range Rover and drove off.
Jenna woke groggily from a deep sleep, wondering why her limbs ached so badly. Sunlight streamed in through the high arched windows and, as Jenna slowly opened her eyes, she was shocked to realize she’d slept all night on the sofa.
Blearily, she glanced up at the wall clock: 9.50 a.m.
‘Shit,’ she swore, wondering what time she was due in the studio that day. Oh well, she shrugged, deciding she didn’t care. They could damn well wait for her. Let Ryan explain why she might be a little late, Jenna thought drowsily, as the events of last night began to come back to her.
Last night. What had happened exactly? Oh God, groaned Jenna, as she rolled over and buried her head in the cushions. Had she made a complete fool of herself? She remembered flirting outrageously with Nick, and then Ryan had brought her home … Oh no, she’d been really upset – she remembered yelling at him in the street. Shit, how embarrassing.
Ryan had been sweet though. He was such a nice guy, and hopefully he wouldn’t hold her behaviour against her. She just hoped it didn’t get back to Zac – he already thought she was acting like a diva, and she didn’t want him to know that he had upset her so badly.
I’ll show him, Jenna insisted, pushing last night’s feelings of insecurity out of her mind. Letting her emotions run out of control was not the way she had got to the top, Jenna reminded herself. Today, she would be completely in command.
She stretched luxuriously in an effort to shake some of the heaviness from her limbs. She needed to start getting a handle on her life. She had been so stressed and tired last night that she hadn’t even made it to bed – hell, her standards were really slipping. Thank God she’d taken off her make-up when she got in, Jenna thought, reaching up to touch her face. It felt soft and smooth, and Jenna sighed with relief; the last thing she needed was a break-out on top of everything else.
Sitting up carefully, Jenna swung her long legs over the end of the sofa and paused. She needed a glass of water – or maybe some co
ffee; rocket fuel would certainly get her going. Picking up the empty tea mugs, Jenna padded through to the kitchen. While she was waiting for the kettle to boil, she flicked on her laptop.
‘Oh fuck, no. Oh Jesus!’ swore Jenna as she logged on to TMZ and saw the lead story.
8
The offices of Willis & Bourne were located on the twenty-fourth floor of the Broadgate Tower, in the heart of London’s Square Mile. Paul Austin, as a senior executive, had a private office at the far end of the corridor, guarded by his PA. As the early morning sun filtered through the tinted windows, Paul sat behind his kidney-shaped desk, leafing through a copy of the Financial Times. There was an unfavourable report on a Japanese telecoms firm in which he’d just invested a large portion of his clients’ money. It did not make for happy reading. Irritably, he tossed the paper aside and turned his attention to the Internet, flicking through share prices, business headlines and breaking news.
One headline caught his attention – it involved Jenna Jonsson. Paul read swiftly through the article and found himself even more interested. So, Miss Jonsson wasn’t as squeaky clean as she made out, it seemed, and some lucky guy was getting to bang her. Paul’s cock leapt in his pants at the very thought of it. Jenna was one hot piece of ass – he’d have sold his own grandmother for a fuck with Jenna. Then again, Paul Austin would willingly have sold out his grandmother for a lot of things in life – loyalty was not one of his defining traits.
Paul’s interest in Jenna went beyond that of the casual voyeur or horny teenager. As of last month, she was one of his newest clients. It was still fresh in his mind, the way she’d strutted into his office dressed like Business Barbie, in a tight pencil skirt that showed off her high, round butt, and a low-cut white blouse that strained against her tits every time she leaned forward. Of course, she’d brought her manager with her, some jumped-up flunky in a suit who’d watched Paul’s every move like a hawk, so he’d had to keep things professional. He’d talked at length about dry stuff – real estate in Bulgaria, mineral mining in South Africa, investment yields, long-term trends and so on. She’d nodded that pretty little head and all he’d been thinking about was how much he’d like to put his dick between those luscious, glossy lips and force it deep into the back of her throat until she gagged.
It was highly unusual for a client of that calibre to visit him in his office – usually it was a question of their accountant contacting him directly and all communication went through them. But he gathered she’d been on some kind of independence kick since her mother died. Wanting to take over her own affairs, manage her own money or some such bullshit. Stick to singing, sweetheart, thought Paul with a sneer.
But hell, as long as it had led Jenna Jonsson straight to his office, who was he to complain? Maybe next time he could get her to come over without that ape of a manager. He could ring her up with some spurious excuse; pretend to be consulting her because he really valued her opinion on whether they should invest in American pharmaceuticals or ethical fashion in India. They could conduct business over dinner. Or in a hotel room. Yeah, that’s the kind of business he’d like to conduct with her …
Which reminded him …
‘Come through please, Angela,’ he requested, pressing a button on his phone. Angela Lee was his PA. She was in her mid-thirties, short and a little on the chunky side, with mousy hair cut into a bob and black-rimmed glasses. It was better that way. In the past Paul had hired a succession of attractive and willing temps, but numerous affairs and one narrowly avoided harassment claim later, he’d plumped for the plain yet capable Angela.
She arrived in his office with her notebook and pen at the ready. Her clothes were smart, and she’d made an effort with her make-up, Paul noticed, wondering whether to point it out. He decided not to. ‘I’d like you to order something for me.’
‘Yes?’ Angela gazed up at him, her expression eager to please.
‘Well, when I say for me, I really mean for a friend of mine,’ he smirked, as Angela pressed her lips into a disapproving line. She knew what was coming – it wasn’t the first time he’d made this request.
‘I’d like you to order some lingerie. The recipient’s name is Sadie Laine and I’ll email you the address. Get something from Agent Provocateur. Something red and trashy.’ If Sadie was going to behave like a whore, he’d treat her like one.
‘What size?’ Angela’s pen hovered above her notepad.
Paul sat back in his ergonomic chair, brushed a piece of lint from his Gieves & Hawkes bespoke suit and looked her over appraisingly. Behind him the wide glass windows offered a stunning panoramic view over the City, the world’s financial hub where billions of dollars were traded every day by the rich and powerful. They were the Masters of the Universe. Men like Paul Austin were untouchable and they made their own rules.
‘I’m not sure exactly.’ He pretended to consider the issue. ‘She’s considerably thinner than you are – she works out, you see. You don’t go to the gym, do you Angela?’
Cheeks flaming, Angela shook her head. She made a mental note to join tomorrow.
‘I didn’t think so. She has a flat stomach, slim hips.’ His eyes trailed over Angela’s body, coming to rest on her chest. ‘And her breasts are larger than yours. Do you think you can work out the sizing from that, hmm? Just do your best, sweetheart.’
‘I will,’ Angela assured him. Her face was still flushed from the way his gaze had lingered on her breasts. She found herself wondering who his latest floozy was – where she lived, what she looked like. What she had that Angela didn’t …
Over the months that she had worked for him, Angela had seen a string of mistresses come and go, one after the next, all at the beck and call of Paul Austin. He didn’t seem to realize that Angela was waiting for him, ready to fulfil his every desire. No matter how hard she tried with her appearance – skirts getting shorter, outfits tighter and more revealing – he rarely paid her a second glance.
She knew she was a walking cliché, the wistful secretary in love with her boss, but she couldn’t help herself. She regularly found herself wondering what it would be like to be the wife of a man like Mr Austin. Angela had never been the pretty girl, the popular girl that all the boys wanted. When the women in the office went on a night out, Angela was never invited. She would see them in the toilets on Friday evenings, applying lip gloss and styling their hair, all chattering and laughing, and she longed to be part of that group. She knew that dating someone like Paul Austin would bring her instant status. If she was with him, they would have to be nice to her. They would have to treat her with respect.
Instead, Angela spent her Friday nights at home in her dingy studio flat, dreaming of the day when Mr Austin would finally notice her as something more than his über-efficient secretary. She would curl up in her lonely bed and let her hands slip down between her legs, wrapped up in the fantasy, imagining him striding masterfully across the office towards her and …
She realized she’d been staring at him. He was looking at her, an amused expression on his handsome face. ‘Is everything okay, Angela?’
‘Fine.’ She recovered herself. ‘Fine. Will there be anything else?’ she asked, trying to keep the hopeful note out of her voice.
‘I think that’s everything.’ Angela turned to go but Paul stopped her. ‘Oh, have there been any messages for me?’
‘Yes.’ Angela checked her notepad and made a face. ‘Your wife called. She said not to forget that you’re having dinner with John and Melissa Van Nordstrom, and if you could try to get home early because the boys have been asking to see you.’
‘Thank you,’ Paul said smoothly, not displaying the slightest trace of conscience over having his PA juggle his wife and mistress.
If she was being honest with herself, Angela knew her boss could be a complete and utter shit. But that didn’t stop him being the most attractive man she’d ever laid eyes on. There was something magnetic about him, a confidence and charisma that drew women in. She knew he wa
sn’t happy with his wife – that was obviously the reason he had so many affairs. Angela could make him happy, she felt sure of it. All she needed was an opportunity.
‘One two three four, cross turn slam change. Good. And again …’
Sadie was sweating hard. She felt it trickle down her back, beading between her breasts as the dance teacher issued rapid staccato instructions, rattling them off like a machine gun. Behind his voice was the hard pounding of some underground R’n’B track, a relentless beat as the singer rapped over the top. It was turned up so loud that the windows vibrated.
She was at a hip-hop class at Danceworks, the dance studio just off Bond Street. Around her the young and gorgeous gyrated and grooved, all united in one purpose: to dance. Beside her was a sexy mixed-race guy with a shaved head and a tight white vest. His body was ripped, his muscles bulging; it was incredible to Sadie how such a big guy could move with such precision and swiftness. To her right, a girl with backcombed, dirty-blonde hair and grey jogging bottoms rolled up to her knees ran through the steps as if she’d been born doing them. Their moves were fast and sharp, their attitudes fierce. They revelled in the physicality, the sheer joy of movement.
Sadie was locked in concentration, trying to master the complicated routine. She knew she needed to just let loose and feel the moves, but she couldn’t seem to relax. It was over a month since she’d attended a dance class and her body was letting her down. In frustration, she swiped a hand across her forehead. Despite the chilly day outside, the studio was baking and the large standing fans did little to cool it. Sadie had pulled her dark hair back into a tight ponytail, but strands were working loose as she danced, plastering themselves to her damp cheeks. She was wearing an ancient pair of baggy black drawstring pants and a loose white vest top. The laid-back clothes emphasized her long, lean limbs with their sinewy muscles. Her breasts were small and sharp through the thin cotton top, her stomach flat and toned. She looked like a dancer. She looked fantastic.