by Karen Clarke
It sounded straightforward enough, yet the thought of Jay Merino agreeing to a picture – even if I managed to meet him – was impossible to visualise. ‘I’ll try,’ I said, adjusting the straps of my rucksack before clambering back on my bike. ‘I’d better go.’
‘Why do you need proof?’ Dolly passed the tray to Charlie, her eyes scanning my face for clues. ‘You’re not planning to blackmail him, are you?’
I gave a nervous laugh. ‘Of course not. Why would you even think that?’
‘I can’t think why else you’d need proof.’
‘It’s a long story, Mum.’ Charlie took a gulp from one of the coffee cups on the tray. ‘We’ll tell you about it one day.’
‘Just remember, Natalie, you’ll never do better than this one.’ Dolly showcased her son with a game-show sweep of her hands while he closed his eyes in despair, and I cycled away smiling, his cry of good luck ringing in my ears.
By the time I reached Saint-Martin-de Ré, I’d been overtaken by a family of five – three of them under eight – and felt sweaty and out of breath. Normally, I couldn’t fail to be charmed by the unspoilt beauty of the capital village; the dramatic, star-shaped fortifications surrounding the old resort; the gleaming yachts and speedboats crammed in the marina; the seafood market, and the cafés and restaurants that filled up in summer when most of Paris seemed to descend on the island. But I barely took in my surroundings today, except to note it was much quieter than when we’d last visited, on Dad’s birthday in March, when we’d eaten scallops at La Salicorne and Dolly told Dad he was a ‘catch’ (I’d thought at the time she might have her eye on him) and Charlie had insisted on speaking French all evening. Instead, I focused on finding the hotel, which wasn’t difficult as it overlooked the harbour, sunshine dusting the stone with golden light.
I pedalled along the quayside, past shops, boutiques, a boulangerie – where a tantalising smell of baking bread drifted out – and the newsagent’s, until I reached the front of the hotel, which I’d once recommended as ‘a place to stay’ in my column (I never had, though I’d been to look around it). It wasn’t a large building, more classy than flashy, despite a flag-studded turret and its name in discreet gold lettering above the entrance. It contained twenty rooms and suites, all individually decorated and named after historical characters, and I wondered which one Jay Merino was staying in, and whether the secret girlfriend I’d spent the night convincing myself he must have was staying with him. They were probably just waking after a night of heavy passion, hair rumpled (in her case; Jay didn’t have enough), clothes carelessly tossed on the floor, debating whether they had time for another session, while the baddie who’d been sent to kill him prepared to abseil through the window… I’d pulled the scene from his last movie and mentally shook myself.
I extracted a bottle of water from my rucksack and took a long swig, eyes skimming the shuttered windows as if Jay might suddenly appear. If he did, I’d look suspicious hanging about, gawping at the hotel as if it were a spaceship, so I cycled round the corner and across the road, noticing some barricading up at the end – even in such an unspoiled place, roadworks were sometimes necessary – and propped my bike against the harbour wall, making sure I locked the chain. I didn’t fancy the long walk back to Chamillon if it got stolen. There were several parked cars nearby, alongside a couple of big white lorries taking up most of the space, and a handful of people were clustered outside the Office de Tourism, as if waiting for it to open.
I rearranged my hair, wondering whether I should leave it loose, but it felt too heavy around my shoulders, so I wrangled it back up, then rummaged in my rucksack and swiped my lips with A Hint of Raspberry so at least they matched my cheeks – exercise didn’t do my colouring any favours. I’d settled for wearing a plain, scoop-necked top with my vintage jeans, and a pair of ancient trainers, figuring if I was supposed to ‘bump’ into Jay, I wouldn’t be in a show-stopper dress and heels on an ordinary weekday morning. Not that I wore show-stopping dresses these days. I had one, bought for a media event in London – which Matt had refused to attend as ‘everyone would look down on him’ – but hadn’t brought it to France.
I took out my bag, with phone, pen and notepad inside, and flung it across my body, feeling faintly silly now I was here. I needed a better plan than aimlessly wandering about, hoping to catch sight of Jay, but couldn’t think of one. It was no good going into the hotel and demanding to speak to him, or inventing a reason to get him to talk to me – even if I could think of one that didn’t involve pretending to be his long-lost sister. Journalists had no doubt tried every trick in the book in the past and failed, so there was no reason to think he’d be willing to engage with me.
As the group of tourists moved away, I fell into step behind them as they walked towards the hotel, excitement mounting when the door swung open and a tall man emerged, in baseball hat and shades. It could be Jay’s bodyguard, going to fetch him a newspaper (though I couldn’t imagine why).
He was walking purposefully in the direction of the boulangerie I’d passed earlier, and as the group in front of me followed him, I did too, hoping one of them wouldn’t swing round and ask me what I was doing. Maybe if I could speak to the bodyguard, I could ask him to pass Jay a message. Tell him he’d made me a promise a long time ago and I was here to make sure he kept it. Too menacing. I was someone from his past, wanting to catch up. Still too menacing. I was the girl on the swing he’d kissed and run away from, after talking about escaping his life and making something of himself. Better, but Jay Merino wasn’t about revisiting his past, so he was unlikely to be swayed.
I decided to wing it, and waited while the man paused by the bakery and peered inside as if looking for someone, or something, pretending to check my phone as a couple of the tourists paused too, chatting together in French. One of them gave me a suspicious look and said something to her companion and I quickly looked through the window of the bakery, pretending to admire a row of plump eclairs. My hands were clammy, my heart was racing, and I’d probably chewed all my lipstick off, but I knew this might be my only chance to get to speak to Jay. I had to give it a try, even if it meant losing dignity. I’d plead, if I had to.
When the man turned and started walking back the way he’d come, I waited for a moment, before moving after him. One of the tourists called after me, and someone else – a woman – shouted something I didn’t catch. Not daring to look back (had they guessed I was pursuing him?), I picked up my pace, heat fizzing in my cheeks. I’d vaguely planned to stop him when he reached the hotel, but to my surprise, he walked past and down the Quai de la Poithevinière, where I’d parked my bike, and kept going. He gave off an air of watchfulness, as if, in spite of his casual clothes – black T-shirt and jeans and a nondescript bomber jacket – he was on the lookout for danger (or strange women following him). He was obviously security, but why wasn’t he back at the hotel, keeping an eye on Jay?
As I sped up, determined to talk to him before I lost my nerve, I became aware of more shouting – lots of shouting, coming from all directions. Swinging round, I caught a glimpse of a man in spectacles windmilling his arms, but the man in front didn’t turn. He was wearing earphones, so probably hadn’t heard and as I hurried to catch up, he looked at his watch, as if he had somewhere to be.
‘Oi!’ The bellowed word behind me was followed by another, extremely rude one beginning with ‘c’. I gasped and half-turned, in time to see a crop-haired woman in a metal-studded jacket peel away from the wall of the restaurant opposite. She strode towards the man, one arm outstretched, and I realised with a lurch of horror that she was holding a gun – an actual gun, not a finger-one – and pointing it straight at him.
Instinctively, I hurled myself forwards with a warning cry that came from the depths of my lungs. There was barely time to register the man’s open-mouthed shock as he swivelled to face me, before I barrelled into him and knocked him flat.
As I lay on top of him, legs straddling his waist, my f
ace pressed into his shoulder, I had a horrible vision of Dad being asked to identify my bullet-riddled body in a back-street mortuary, and a white-faced Charlie murmuring that he should have insisted on coming to Saint-Martin with me.
I twisted my head and saw a pair of heavy biker boots planted on the cobbles. ‘Please don’t shoot,’ I said, my voice constricted by the difficult angle (and fear). ‘Whatever’s going on here, we can talk about it.’
‘What the hell are you doing?’ More feet joined the boots – a male pair in leather loafers – and then we were surrounded by feet. I could hear footsteps and shouting, and the ragged breathing of the man lying beneath me. I prayed that some of the feet belonged to the police.
The man was moving now, muttering something about his collarbone being broken, and then I was being lifted by forceful hands and the man was sitting up, reaching for his shades and hat, which must have flown off on impact. The second his eyes met mine, I realised.
The man whose life I’d just saved was Jay Merino.
Seven
‘You!’ I stared, as if I’d never seen a human being before, trying to wriggle free of the strong hands gripping my upper arms. I couldn’t believe Jay Merino was out and about, wandering around in public. ‘I… I thought you were a bodyguard,’ I stuttered. He was oddly familiar close up, and not just because I’d seen his films, or spent a couple of minutes lying on top of him. And it wasn’t his close-cropped hair, or the band of stubble obscuring his lower face, which hadn’t been there the last time we’d spoken. It was his eyes. Even tightened with suspicion, they were the same suede brown I must have committed to memory all those years ago, the lashes long and dark beneath thick brows. ‘Are you OK?’ I said, wondering why he wasn’t getting up. Probably in shock.
‘Who are you?’ The man holding me had a hard-edged London accent and gave me a little shake. ‘And what the hell do you think you’re doing?’
‘Excuse me!’ I finally pulled free and spun round to face my captor, rubbing the skin on my arms where his fingers had pressed. ‘I just saved his life, in case you hadn’t noticed.’ Glancing around, I saw to my astonishment that among the assembled crowd was the gun-toting woman, her weapon dangling loosely by her side. Unbelievably, she was smirking.
Confusion sizzled through me. ‘Has anyone called the police?’
‘Not yet,’ said the man, who was obviously the real bodyguard. He was big and menacing, biceps bulging from the sleeves of a fitted black T-shirt, a ring pushed through his eyebrow. A massive biker beard counterbalanced his baldness. ‘Do you want to explain what that little display was all about?’
‘She was going to shoot him!’ I pointed at the grinning woman – who looked familiar now I thought about it – and I saw a couple more people smiling and shaking their heads. ‘Why isn’t anyone taking this seriously?’
‘She clearly didn’t get the memo.’ The woman spoke in a honeyed American drawl at odds with her outfit and gun. ‘We’re filming, honey, and you just ruined the take.’
My ears buzzed. ‘What did you say?’
She jerked her head and I swivelled slowly and let my gaze travel over everything I’d missed; the tourists – obviously, extras – a man by the restaurant holding a camera, another with a boom that I hadn’t even spotted as I’d kept my gaze narrow, focused on following the man I’d thought was Jay Merino’s bodyguard. And the man who’d shouted and waved at me was presumably the director, warning me to shift out of shot. ‘Cut!’ That was the word he’d bellowed. Probably. He’d joined Biker Beard and was furiously glaring up at him. ‘Where the eff were you?’ he ground out. ‘You’re supposed to be security.’
‘I needed the toilet,’ Biker Beard muttered, shooting me a bloodcurdling look. ‘I didn’t see her until it was too late.’
The director rubbed the groove between his eyebrows and I had the impression he was silently counting to ten. He pushed his glasses up into his white hair, and trained his gaze on me. ‘You’ve really effed things up,’ he said. ‘What the hell were you thinking?’
I fought a surge of nausea. I hadn’t saved Jay’s life. I’d wandered into his film and humiliated myself.
‘Oh God.’ I turned to Jay, a hand pressed to my mouth. He’d finally risen and was regarding me with such intensity, I automatically took a step back. ‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered through my fingers. ‘I’m such an idiot. I didn’t realise, I thought…’
‘You’re English.’ It was the first time he’d spoken clearly and I realised his voice was the same as I remembered – slightly more cultured, but closer to his original accent than the gravelly half-Irish twang that belonged to his character, Max Weaver.
‘Y… yes.’ My hand dropped. ‘I live in Chamillon with my father. I came here on my bike.’ Could I sound any weirder? ‘You know everything is protected here? The entire town is a UNESCO World Heritage site.’ Apparently, I could. ‘I didn’t realise you were filming,’ I rattled on. ‘I honestly thought that woman was going to kill you.’ I realised now she was Susie Houlihan, who played Nova, a recurring villain in Maximum Force, who never quite managed to carry out her assassination because she was secretly in love with Max Weaver.
‘And you thought you’d save me?’
‘It was instinct.’ My face felt scorched. Charlie would have a field day with this. I wasn’t even sure I could tell him. ‘I saw the gun and panicked, it was pure adrenaline.’ There was a mumble of voices around us, but I couldn’t tell whether they sounded sympathetic or pissed off. ‘I really am sorry.’
‘It’s all right, Brian.’ His gaze had flicked over my shoulder. ‘Can we take a break?’
The director sprang to Jay’s side, throwing me a filthy look. He was shorter than Jay by about six inches, his stomach straining the buttons on his faded shirt. ‘We need to wrap this scene by midday,’ he said, flipping his glasses back over his eyes so they looked magnified. ‘You know we’re on a tight schedule.’
‘Ten minutes, Brian.’ Jay’s tone was pleasant, but defied argument.
Brian’s shoulders slumped. ‘Fine, ten minutes.’ He shoved past, making a throat-cutting gesture that I hoped wasn’t meant for me. ‘Somebody had better go and fetch me a coffee.’
‘Simon will get one for you.’
I realised Jay had directed the words to his bodyguard – who should surely be called Popeye or Gunner – and risked a glance to see him glaring at me with open hostility. Even his tattooed bicep-serpent looked angry. ‘You want one?’
I jumped. ‘Er, no, I’m good, thank you.’
As the group dispersed, grumbling among themselves, I understood why the street had been quieter than usual and barricaded at one end, and why there’d been big lorries in the parking area. There’d obviously been a notice of filming for locals, with only the restaurant and bakery owners in their usual posts. ‘I really can’t apologise enough,’ I said to Jay. ‘I feel like I’ve ruined everything.’
‘I normally manage a scene in one take, two at the most.’ He pulled on his baseball cap, which suited him a lot better than the one that Dad had tried on. ‘They can afford the occasional interruption.’
It was kind of him to phrase it that way, but I knew I’d derailed a tightly planned itinerary, and from his furrow-browed stare and defensive posture, I guessed Jay was being polite. ‘Listen, I know I shouldn’t have been following you—’
‘Your hair,’ he interrupted, angling a gaze at my head, and I remembered with a pulse of embarrassment that I’d had it cut short before the party and Gemma’s brother had nicknamed me Bubblehead. ‘Have we met before?’
‘Actually, we have.’ I scraped a handful of curls behind my ear. My clip had sprung out when I launched myself at Jay, along with his earphones. ‘About fifteen years ago, at a friend’s house. Her brother had a party and your brother…’ I stopped. His expression had transformed from wary to delighted surprise, a smile spreading over his face that was like the sun chasing away a raincloud.
‘I remember.’ He stepped
closer, wagging his shades at me. ‘You wanted to be a writer.’
My breath caught. ‘You do remember.’
‘Of course.’ His eyes skimmed my face, as though matching it to a memory. ‘Our conversation that night was the first I’d ever had with a girl as nice as you.’
‘Really?’ I tucked my chin in, ridiculously pleased. ‘I find that hard to believe.’
‘Why?’ He cocked his head. ‘Remember, I was nobody back then, and you were…’ His smile crept back. ‘You were lovely.’ Oh my God. ‘You kissed me,’ he said with a full-blown, eye-crinkling smile.
Blood rushed to my head so quickly, I felt faint. ‘You kissed me, actually.’
‘OK, we kissed each other.’
A bolt of incredulous laughter shot out of my mouth. ‘I can’t believe you remember,’ I said. ‘You must have kissed…’ I waved a hand. ‘I don’t know, thousands of women since then.’
‘You always remember your first kiss.’
‘That was never your first kiss.’
‘The first that made an impact.’
‘So much so, you ran away.’
‘Yeah. Well, I was young and stupid,’ he said with mild embarrassment. ‘I had big plans and a girlfriend wasn’t one of them.’
‘That’s OK.’ I still felt as if I’d stood up too quickly, even though I hadn’t moved. This wasn’t a conversation I’d imagined having, even in my wildest dreams. ‘I had big plans, too.’
‘So, are you a writer?’
‘Actually, I am.’ This was going so much better than I’d planned. Apart from leaping on him out of the blue, and interrupting filming. ‘I worked for a magazine in London and now I’m… working over here.’
He grimaced, and rapped his forehead with a knuckle. ‘This is going to sound awful, but the one thing I can’t remember is your name.’
‘I’m not sure I ever told you.’