Annabel had a part-time PR job in a glossy art gallery and a fabulously supportive family who were distantly related to the Queen. It occurred to Evie that Annabel was seeing this a bit too much like an opportunity to really pull off supportive.
‘The threat of legal action was bandied about,’ Evie said shortly. ‘For potential loss of income relating to Jack Trent’s TV series, his business interests... I do this show, I avert the possibility of that.’
That would make sense to Annabel. A reason that was related to finance. Evie didn’t mention that the money was the least of her worries. The thing that really ached the most was the loss of support, the way the public had turned on her after making her feel special for once. What she really wanted, if she was honest, was to find a way to turn that around, to get things back to the way they were. To launch her jewellery business to rapturous reviews, perhaps secure a concession in one of the department stores, instead of sinking out of sight under a cloud of public dislike.
‘Plus I might be able to turn off the Internet but I still can’t leave the flat without grief from the public.’
‘Since when have you given a damn what other people think?’
Annabel was familiar with Evie’s perfected I-don’t-care-bring-on-the-fun persona. At school Evie had quickly learned that attitude earned friendship from the most popular girls. In South West London she’d continued to work at being one of the crowd, the need to belong somewhere as important to her as ever. She wasn’t sure what her friends, or the TV viewers for that matter, would make of her if they knew that given the choice of falling out of a glossy nightclub and curling up with a box set, the TV show would win every time.
‘Since I can’t put my head outside the door without pensioners accosting me.’ She thought back to this morning’s encounter. It seemed age was no barrier to the charm Jack Trent held over the opposite sex.
‘And you’re sure Jack Trent isn’t the real reason you’re up for this?’ Annabel said slyly. ‘I mean, did you see him shirtless in the papers? Utterly jaw-dropping and totally eligible. He’s never photographed with the same woman twice. I can think of people I’d rather kick out of the tent.’
Evie suppressed a flash of interest in scanning the tabloids online. Never the same woman twice? Familiar alarm bells clanged madly in her head. She’d fallen for looks and charm once too often only to find the person they were actually interested in bedding was TV’s Miss Knightsbridge, along with her glossy life. Once they’d reached that base, interest in the real Evie seemed to disappear like smoke, with the possible exception of one D-list pop star she’d dated who’d spun out the charade a bit longer because he wanted a spot on the TV show. She had absolutely no interest in spending time with Jack Trent beyond salvaging her own reputation. What he looked like without a shirt and his marital status had no place in the debate.
‘According to what I’ve read about his survival courses, I’ll be lucky to even get a tent,’ she said.
* * *
The evening before filming started and Jack arrived at the Scottish hotel habitually used by the production crew when making his TV series, and presumably the hotel Evie Staverton-Lynch had referred to in her libellous comment.
He took a small amount of pleasure in the knowledge that it was a two-star basic place, chosen because of its convenient proximity to his outward-bound centre and definitely not for its accommodation standards. No duck-down pillows and absolutely no gourmet menu. Fiercely defensive of their TV star guest, they’d given Evie the room above the kitchens with the view of the bins and an aroma of chip fat should she make the mistake of opening the windows.
The rest of the crew were predictably holed up in the hotel bar as per usual. There was no sign of Miss Knightsbridge anywhere although he’d expected her to descend on the place with a trail of staff behind her. He ordered a soft drink and flipped through the day’s newspapers lying in a pile to one side of the bar, the front pages of nearly all the red tops featuring some gleeful article about the up-and-coming show. The production company would be made up at the media interest.
He turned a page and choked on his mineral water.
Evie Staverton-Lynch’s PR team had clearly been working overtime. A double-page spread featured a colour photo of Evie looking clear-eyed at the camera and wearing a forest-green Jack Trent’s Survival Camp Extreme T-shirt and what looked like nothing else. She had the longest, most delectable legs he’d ever seen. His mouth leached of all moisture and he took an exasperated slug of his drink. He had no wish to find her so hot and it might help if he didn’t keep inadvertently coming across full-colour photos of her in varying delicious states of undress. He forced his eyes to the accompanying article instead. The interview hit just the right tone of contrite. ‘I made a stupid untrue comment in a moment of stress. Taking the survival course is payback for that. I hope it will show how sorry I am and that Jack Trent’s show is the genuine article.’
Since when had denial of all responsibility gone out of the window in favour of doing all she could to restore his good name? He allowed himself a last look at the shapely legs and peach-glossed pout before he closed the paper. Genuine remorse or media spin? He had his doubts. He knew from past experience that people like Evie Staverton-Lynch played the press to their own advantage, changing their attitude at a moment’s notice to suit themselves. Not that he should care one bit either way as long as his reputation came out of this without a smear.
To his enormous surprise, when he checked with Reception for her room number, she hadn’t made any complaint about the sparse facilities. He got the impression from the over-attentive Reception staff that the lack of diva uproar was something of a disappointment.
‘She just arrived on her own, checked in and took herself up to the room. Didn’t even ask for the concierge to take her bags,’ the over-attentive receptionist, who according to the pink badge strategically placed on her low-cut blouse was called Sally, said. ‘Haven’t heard a peep from her since except for a call to Room Service.’
The staff had clearly been expecting her to storm back down as soon as she saw the room and felt cheated at the lack of bratty behaviour. For the first time he found himself wondering just how much of the spoilt socialite impression Evie gave was genuine. Small contradictions at first, lack of diva complaints about the crappy facilities when there was no camera around to witness the tantrum. The fact that she’d travelled up here completely alone. Where were the rich family and glossy friends and hangers-on?
He knew about using a public image to your advantage, despite the fact it made him feel uncomfortable. The media spotlight had done wonders for his charity work and his survival business. When in London he had a shortlist of on-off girlfriends to provide him with the perfect date when he needed to attend anything public. Models or starlets who shared the same showbusiness agent as him and were more than happy with the exposure of being seen out with him at charity functions or parties. He kept things casual at all costs. Enjoy the moment then move on; that was the way he liked it.
The tabloid press gleefully wrote about his glamorous girlfriends and his daredevil outdoor exploits and largely ignored his family background. And as a result the public at large had no clue about his youth, his past failures or about the selfish way he’d let his sister down. That was the way he intended to keep it.
Evie Staverton-Lynch’s success was based entirely on manipulation of the media. That didn’t necessarily mean there wasn’t more to her than the papers gave away.
The hotel lift wasn’t working so he took the stairs.
* * *
Expecting Room Service with
