Before she knew what was happening, Christopher had lifted her apron in his manly fingers and was inspecting it with a nail. ‘Might scratch off…’
‘Careful, Christopher, it might be catching!’
Emily joined them, quick as a snake, her eyes flashing, and laughed to make light of the horrid comment. ‘That is to say, you don’t know where it’s been.’ Julia saw her adversary stare pointedly at the maid’s costume but knew the implication concerned what—or who—was beneath it.
‘Come, come!’ she sang, looping her arm through his.
Christopher acquiesced. ‘I was seeing if I couldn’t help a lady in distress…’ He winked at Julia. ‘Sorry, what’s your name?’
‘Julia Chambers—’
But Emily had already dragged him off. Julia watched them go, anger building inside her, rising and rising like an unstoppable tide until it threatened to steal the breath from her lungs.
She would get revenge on Emily Windermere if it were the last thing she did.
Next week’s live appearance. It was meant to be.
Chapter Five
Shopping used to be a pleasure—before she’d started getting recognised!
Of course Emily embraced the adulation, being stopped for her signature or to listen to a teenage girl rhapsodise about what an inspiration she was. Part of her job was to give back to her fans (especially after a magazine piece last month had labelled her ‘snotty’ and ‘detached’—how dare they?) and she considered herself generous to permit the intrusion, on a day like today when all she was after was a Mulberry plum leather handbag. Still, it wasn’t fair that only Emily Windermere got to enjoy Emily Windermere—aside from Christopher Fenwick, of course, who was enjoying her too.
Unable to get down to any serious retail pursuits (in Louis Vuitton she’d been chased by a furiously whispering duo to the point where she’d been afraid to use the changing rooms), she emerged from the shopping centre, adjusted her huge sunglasses against the morning light and made her way to her brand new Audi R8.
A flurry of paparazzi blocked her path.
‘Emily, are the rumours about you and Christopher Fenwick true?’
‘Do you dispute allegations you’re sleeping with a married man?’
‘Have you got a message for his wife and children?’
Managing to battle through, Emily wrenched open the driver’s side and slipped in, slamming the door behind her on the cacophony of shouts and flashing bulbs. The horde chased her to the road, aimlessly snapping, and she kept her face impassive lest the tinted windows let her down.
That was it: she’d have to get a bodyguard. Everyone who was anyone had security—she bet Nina Tarot had bloody security—and besides, when it came to this level of harassment it was surely a question of safety. The car could have crashed! Admittedly only into a bollard on its way out of the car park, but even so.
As she concentrated on steering the vehicle through a jam of west London traffic, hands shaking on the wheel, Emily realised what had vexed her. It wasn’t the paparazzi’s persecution—it was the reason for their hounding. Somehow her trysts with Christopher had shifted in the press from a teasing, sexy possibility that no one took too seriously, to an altogether more sinister and unsavoury accusation. Perhaps public feeling towards her was changing, rumbles of objection beginning to rise from the ranks. It was one thing to have people merrily speculating on a fact they couldn’t prove and another entirely to be thrusting a mic into your face and demanding you pay penance to a middle-aged woman whose husband was banging everything in sight. It made her feel like a tacky wannabe who’d slept with a married footballer.
Emily was destined for more than that. Wasn’t she?
Arriving on set half an hour later, she scanned the grounds for Christopher. He was nowhere to be seen.
‘How’s that feeling?’ asked the wardrobe girl as she tightened Emily’s bodice. There was so much boning in it she felt like she’d been gobbled up by a wild animal and was now gasping for air inside its ribcage.
‘Fine,’ she squeaked, unwilling to admit to a slow asphyxiation because that might mean she’d put on weight. Next came the painstaking arrangement of her hair, which required several hundred hairgrips and so much Elnett that had someone struck a match anywhere nearby she would have gone up in a puff of smoke.
A folded tabloid was sticking out of the stylist’s bag. Emily could make out the glaring headline—MY STEAMY NIGHT OF PASSION WITH LORD LOVE!—and Christopher’s brooding picture beneath it, alongside a busty blonde with barely anything on. Her face burned. You had to take these kiss and tell scandals with a pinch of salt, but the story was hardly outside the realms of possibility.
She grabbed the paper and skipped through the article. We went for hours…the most amazing lover… He begged me to strip… I kept on my stilettos; he likes a woman in heels…
Well, that last bit was true.
Disgusted, Emily flipped the page with force. How could he? Wasn’t having the most beautiful actress in England between his sheets enough? Clearly possessing a fridgeful of steak didn’t mean you weren’t partial to a KFC once in a while. How humiliating! She would never be taken seriously as the actress of her generation while she was associated with sleazy scoops like this.
As Emily was about to demand to be released, already reeling through the catalogue of insults she could throw Christopher’s way, her attention snagged on the subsequent spread.
CACATRA ISLAND—PLAYGROUND OF THE RICH AND FAMOUS.
She frowned, remembering Nina’s infuriating claims about her mega-selective luxury spa. A quick glance revealed it was the same. The piece was studded with images depicting the highest order of indulgence: sparkling turquoise sea and alabaster sand; chalky cliffs and lush green palms; A-list starlets frolicking in bikinis as they swam and caught the rays; bare-chested actors gunning jet-skis and enjoying a cold beer on the beach; helicopters and jets coming to land on the island’s private airstrip… There was a photograph of Reuben van der Meyde, the world-famous entrepreneur, casually leaning against the balustrade of his whitewashed mansion and looking decidedly pleased with himself. So he owned it. That made sense.
Your own stake of Eden hidden away in the Indian Ocean, the jewel in Reuben van der Meyde’s crown is stunning Cacatra Island. Ultimate holiday destination to a galaxy of stars, Cacatra’s opulent shores promise a shelter from the spotlight, guaranteed to cleanse the spirit and soothe the soul. A week’s stay will set you back—
Emily baulked at the expense.
But rest assured this is no ordinary retreat. By invitation only, access to ‘the closest thing on Earth to Paradise’ is reserved exclusively to those with the cash—and credentials—to pay for it.
‘All done, Ms Windermere,’ said the stylist, applying a finishing blast of hairspray. ‘Looks incredible, doesn’t it?’
Emily surveyed her reflection in the mirror. ‘It’s fine.’
‘I
