Chapter Twenty-One
The Daily Mirror headline that morning:
MCBRIDE OR MCMISTRESS?
Spotted! It looks like the sexy on-screen romance between married TV star Brad McBride and his sexy co-star Felicity Shaw has spilled over into reality, if our sensational pictures are anything to go by. Shots of the couple smooching in a booth at The Roof Gardens emerged this morning, along with further images of a distinctly sheepish McBride leaving Shaw’s London flat in the early hours of New Year’s Day.
‘They couldn’t keep their hands off each other in the club, they didn’t seem to care who saw them,’ one reveller, who didn’t wish to be named, told the Mirror. ‘I saw them leave in a cab just after midnight; from the way they were going at it in the club, I bet that cabbie had an eye full!’
Representatives for both McBride and Shaw have so far declined comment.
‘Alice, it’s not what it looks like. I can explain.’
Alice slowly lifted her eyes from the salacious images splashed across the morning papers to the man standing in front of her with his hands spread wide, his eyes saying the opposite of his mouth. Brad McBride. He’d been a burn-your-fingers hot struggling actor when she’d met and married him more than half a decade ago. All that had changed when he landed a role in a new cop drama that had caused a sensation on both sides of the pond, catapulting him straight from struggling-actor status to celebrity darling, and from Alice’s darling into the arms of his leading lady, if the papers were to be believed.
It was pretty tricky not to believe them, truth told. There weren’t many conclusions to draw from the photos of Brad and Felicity Shaw besides the glaringly obvious ones. Brad could always have been inspecting Felicity’s tonsils with his tongue in a purely platonic way, or maybe she was sitting in his lap with her dress around her thighs because her legs had suddenly stopped working, and there was always the outside chance that he’d been caught leaving her bijou townhouse looking rumpled at dawn because his car had mysteriously broken down right outside on the night of the infamous New Year cab strike that never was. That would be the same night three days ago, the very same one that Brad had called her on to say that he couldn’t make it back for the weekend as early as planned because filming had run over schedule. It had surprised her that they’d filmed during New Year week, but Alice hadn’t made a fuss. She’d had to get used to her husband being public property since he’d been catapulted into stardom, and as his wife she’d quickly had to get used to being photographed for publicity and showbiz events. She didn’t enjoy it but knew Brad needed her to smile for the cameras, and she’d be forever thankful that it had allowed them to buy Borne Manor, the Shropshire country pad of their dreams. Or Alice’s dreams, in any case. Brad had liked the place well enough, but London was calling for him in a way it just wasn’t for Alice. It seemed simple enough – they’d keep their London flat as a base and buy the Shropshire house as their long-term family home. Except there was no family as yet, and it seemed from the photographs that Brad had decided that life with Alice wasn’t quite bright lights, big city enough for him any longer. Folding her arms wearily, she looked her husband in the eyes.
‘Go on then.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘Go on then what?’
Pack your case and leave. ‘Explain,’ she said. ‘You said you could explain the pictures.’ Alice glanced down at the newspaper on the table. ‘I’m listening.’
She wrapped her dressing gown closer around her as she slid into one of the dining chairs, weary already even though it was barely eight a.m. The expensive dove grey cashmere robe had been a Christmas surprise from Brad just a week or two ago. Alice found herself wondering if Felicity Shaw was at that very moment wearing the same thing. Her husband was big on efficiency; she could well imagine him doubling up on identical presents.
Brad paused, tongue tied and uncertain.
‘Erm, well …’ He shoved his hands through his dark hair and then scrubbed his palms over his cheeks, unable to meet her eyes head on. If she’d have been looking for classic signs of lying, the red flags were all there. Touching his
