heat…
‘Julia?’ A nudge in the ribs brought her back to reality. Isaac was gesturing to the front of the crowd where their producer was preparing to address the assembly.
She tore her eyes from Christopher but was only half listening. It was the following day and they had been summoned on the lawn for news that the Heriscombe estate was hosting a live charity ball in a week’s time, and as publicity for the forthcoming film Christopher and Emily would be appearing onstage to present an award. Millions would witness the teaser—helped along by rampant public interest in the couple’s are-they-aren’t-they? love affair. Everyone knew Christopher was a player—the question was had sweet, English-rose Emily been able to resist succumbing to his charms? The answer was no.
Julia knew she shouldn’t care. All Emily’s life she had been the centre of attention and this was no exception: a while ago she’d imagined basking in the warmth of the spotlight, how it might feel to attract such veneration, but some things just weren’t meant to be. While Emily was up there next week, pouty and pert as she charmed her fans and blew them kisses from a cupid’s bow mouth, Julia would be making tea in a back room with some work experience adolescent who was only talking to her because they wanted Emily’s autograph.
There was a smattering of applause. It was directed at the PR team who had secured the stunt but Julia noticed that Emily herself refrained from clapping, instead contributing only a beatific smile in the assumption that the accolade was for her.
‘Don’t suppose you fancy grabbing a drink later?’
‘Hmm?’ The group dispersed. Across the courtyard she saw Christopher take Emily’s hands, kiss them in turn and then draw her into an embrace, in the clutches of which Emily bobbed up and down with excitement. Inwardly, Julia groaned.
Isaac shifted his weight from one foot to the other. ‘You know, just to the pub or whatever, or, um, we could get something to eat, if you prefer…’
‘OK.’ Julia watched as Nina Tarot attached herself to Christopher’s side, exclaiming about the live show. Emily’s face dropped like a stone.
‘Really?’
‘Sure.’ Julia took Isaac’s arm as they headed up to the house. ‘Why not?’
‘Great. There’s this wicked place I went to with my mates—it’s got a beer garden and a games bit and stuff. Not that I’m saying you’ve got to down pints and play me at pool—unless you wanted to, I mean, I’m not being sexist or anything—’
‘She’s cool, isn’t she?’
Isaac blinked. ‘Who?’
‘Nina.’
‘Er, yeah.’
‘She’s pissed Emily off.’
‘Which makes you her number one fan.’
‘I just think it’s time someone made her sweat.’
Isaac stopped at one of the stagecoaches and rested his elbow on the driver seat. ‘Sounds like Christopher’s already doing that.’
‘Whatever,’ Julia said sulkily.
‘What’s so great about him anyway? He’s a vain, conceited tool. Come to think of it, they’re made for each other.’
‘He’s not vain.’
Isaac raised an eyebrow. ‘You don’t believe that for a second.’
‘Maybe I do, maybe I don’t.’
‘Come on, Jules, you’re better than them. A million times.’
She didn’t believe that for a second either. ‘Thanks.’
‘So…’ Isaac chewed his lip, ‘…tonight?’
She scanned the cast, landing on Christopher and Nina chatting amiably while Emily lurked moodily behind. ‘What about tonight?’
‘The pub?’
‘Oh yeah. Course.’
‘Meet you at the main gate at six?’
‘Sounds good.’
Isaac grinned. She noticed what a nice smile he had.
‘OW!’ The teacup, spewing hot liquid, flew to the ground. ‘My God, how on earth do you expect me to handle boiling-point liquids and remember my lines?’
‘CUT!’
Shakily Julia deposited her silver tray, stepping forward to collect the discarded china and help stamp out the wet patch spreading through the rug.
‘You asked for the tea to be fresh, Emily,’ commented the director. Emily insisted on her scenes being as ‘real’ as possible, including props, so had commanded that if Lucinda were drinking Earl Grey, so should she be.
‘But palatable, at least!’ she snapped. Her hazel eyes landed on Julia. ‘It’s Maud Screwe’s fault. Couldn’t you have let it cool down, I don’t know, a degree, before forcing it on me?’
Julia’s mouth went dry. ‘I thought that was how you wanted it,’ she managed.
‘Well next time why don’t you bring the whole bloody kettle through and chuck it all down my dress? It’d save us the china, wouldn’t it?’
Oh, how she’d love to.
‘Let’s go again,’ intervened the director. ‘From: Remember you taught me the “Suite Bergamasque”?’
Julia retrieved the tray and took her position against the fireplace. The scene began with Lord Ackland giving Lucinda a piano lesson. When they were interrupted by Nina Tarot’s character, Vivian, Lucinda was relegated to a nearby couch to watch as the two duetted (and what a proficient pianist Christopher was!), devoured by jealousy that Julia suspected was only partly acted and clutching her too-hot tea.
Afterwards, Emily stalked off to have words with the director. Julia scratched under the cap—the cotton made her itch—and was fidgeting with a stain on her apron when she heard a deep, seductive voice enquire, ‘Are you all right?’
Christopher Fenwick was standing right there. He was talking to her.
‘Y-yes,’ she stammered. ‘Thanks.’
He placed one hand on the wall and regarded her mockingly. Julia couldn’t help but glance down. As she did, she took in his stance. Those breeches were tight.
‘Can’t think what’s got into her,’ observed Christopher, as though he were chatting to an old friend. ‘I thought it was jolly rotten the way she spoke to you.’
Julia resisted returning something catty like, I’m used to it—you should’ve seen her at school! and concentrated on removing the teastain, all the while burning with embarrassment and thinking, Why can’t I speak to him?
‘Need
