at kids and the interest had blown him away. He knew better than anyone about what a difference something like this could make to a generation of bored couch-potato kids who were either hanging around street corners waiting to be sucked into crime or were hooked on TV and video games. His sister Helen crossed his mind, never far away. If he could divert one kid from the path she’d taken, all the hard graft would be worth it. But no matter how hard he worked, taking it to the next step depended on consumer confidence and investment. Thanks to Princess Knightsbridge over there, both those things now hung in the balance and he was prepared to do anything to pull that situation back.
He realised with a burst of fury that he would have to do the one-off show. It could be the only way to make sure he obliterated all doubts about his integrity. And if she thought he’d be giving her an easy ride she was deluded.
The executive producer looked at Evie.
‘Without this show, Evie, I’m afraid renewing your contract for Miss Knightsbridge will be out of the question. Without the joint show we’d have to find alternative ways to minimise the bad publicity. The best course of action would probably be to quietly write you out. Of course we’d have to find a new central character for the show—’
‘I’ll do it,’ Evie cut in immediately. What choice did she have? Without this show her public image was worth nothing. There would be no more magazine articles, no more talking-heads fashion slots on daytime TV. Her fledgling jewellery business would fail before it even began. She’d be back to the quiet life, cruising along alone with no aim or direction, and this time the quiet life would probably come with hate mail. ‘I’ll do the foraging and the sleeping outside and the rubbing sticks together to make fire.’ As an afterthought she added, ‘I’d prefer not to do water though.’
Jack laughed out loud mirthlessly.
‘You think you can get through an outward-bound weekend without getting wet, sweetheart? You obviously haven’t watched the show. Think again.’
Of course she hadn’t watched the show—was he insane? She didn’t do the great outdoors. The nearest she’d ever got to it were camping holidays as a small child, and they’d never happened again after her mother died. As her Miss Knightsbridge image demanded, she did luxury hotels, spa treatments and shopping. On her own time she did comfy pyjamas, tea and toast, and American TV show box sets. Not a foraged meal in sight in either her public or private persona.
He was already up, striding towards the exit, his entire demeanour exuding white-hot anger. So all she had to do to regain public affection, keep her TV show and stop her fledgling jewellery business from going under was survive a weekend in rough terrain with a companion who hated her guts.
Just bloody great.
* * *
‘You’re going on a TV show with Evie Staverton-Lynch?’ Helen’s voice on the phone practically bubbled with interest. ‘Miss Knightsbridge?’
‘Unfortunately.’
‘Oh, I just love her! Her clothes are to die for. Can you ask her where she got that butterfly necklace she wore on last week’s show?’
Jack drew in an exasperated breath. All the girl did was wear designer clothes and hang out in swanky bars. And now it seemed his own sister was as sucked in by all the TV crap as everyone else.
‘She’s a reality TV star,’ he pointed out. Someone had to. ‘It doesn’t require a modicum of talent. Why is she so popular? What is it about her?’
‘It’s the whole different world thing, isn’t it? The way the other half live, the money they spend. It’s cult viewing. Everyone watches it and everyone has an opinion on it. Don’t you know that?’
Helen’s tone had a hint of you’re-too-decrepit-to-understand. The eight years between them yawned canyon-wide.
‘Evie Staverton-Lynch is really cool and funny,’ she added.
‘Did you not see the trouble she’s caused me?’ he said.
Helen made a vague dismissive noise as if she was distracted. He could just imagine her watching TV while she talked to him. Multitasking, splitting her attention down the middle. A fond smile touched his lips. He loved her in-your-face attitude. It hadn’t been long enough since she’d been holed up in the hospital, too weak to speak. And then there had been rehab. Would it ever be long enough?
‘It’s all just a publicity stunt,’ she said. ‘All designed to get more attention. Probably staged.’
‘I need it like a hole in the head,’ he said.
‘You need to lighten up’, she said. ‘With any luck you might even come out of this looking a bit hip. Your shows have been looking a bit nerdy recently.’
He could hear the teasing smile in her voice.
‘Nerdy?’ A grin spread across his face at her cheek. He could never hear enough of that.
‘This could get you a whole new audience.’
‘Will you be watching?’
Her voice softened.
‘I always watch.’
‘And you’re feeling OK and your college course is going fine?’ he checked.
‘For the hundredth time, will you stop fussing? I’m perfectly fine, I promise.’
He restrained himself from picking endlessly at her. There was a constant need to be certain she was on track, doing fine, clean. It had barely diminished since that first shocking sight of her at rock bottom, a journey she’d taken while he’d been on the other side of the world, oblivious, revelling in his army career.
‘I’ll call you as soon as I get back from filming,’ he said.
‘Evie Staverton-Lynch has the best fashion sense in the country. She’ll soon have you out of that camo green you keep wearing. Good luck!’ She blew him a kiss and put the phone down.
For Pete’s sake.
* * *
‘You don’t have to go through with this.’
Annabel Sutton leaned back against the plump pink cushions on Evie’s sofa and as usual said exactly what Evie wanted to hear. Annabel pulled a face as she sipped her coffee. Not her usual table in her favourite Chelsea café and clearly Evie wasn’t up to supplying the usual standard of beverage. After the reaction Evie had got in the street this morning when she’d nipped to the corner shop to buy milk, she’d insisted Annabel come to her flat instead of going out. An irate pensioner had informed her that she ought to be ashamed of herself, saying those awful things about that ‘nice young man’.
‘None of this is your fault,’ Annabel soothed. ‘Total overreaction by the TV company—the whole thing’s been blown out of proportion. And it’s not like you’re on the breadline, sweetie. You’ve got a whopping great allowance, this lovely flat, a country estate. You don’t need to take this.’ She paused. ‘The production company really suggested cutting you from the show, did you say?’ She gazed up at the ceiling. ‘How awful. I wouldn’t blame you if you walked away after that lack of support. I guess they’ll move one of the rest of us into
