that you?”
“Of course it’s me, Dominic,” she snapped, “who else would it be?” Her eyes narrowed. “Is she there with you now?”
“No, of course she’s not! And we weren’t ‘canoodling’,” he added grumpily as he sat up – alone – in bed. “What the hell does ‘canoodling’ mean, anyway?”
“What’s going on, Dominic? Why are you and this singer,” she invested the word with scorn “so bloody cosy in the Probe?”
On the other end of the phone, Dominic let out a short breath. “Listen, babes, it’s nothing. Christa’s just feeling a bit…overwhelmed. All the sudden fame’s got to her. She needs some time away.”
“Time away from what?” Gemma demanded, and angrily brushed her tears aside. “Being famous, and gorgeous? Yes, that takes so much out of a girl. And what about me, you knob? I could do with a little ‘time away’ myself, you know.”
“I know it’s asking a lot, but try to understand, Gems,” he said, and a note of irritation crept into his voice. “Christa’s gone overnight from being a back-up singer no one’s ever heard of, living in Bethnal Green, to being an international star. It’s doing her head in.”
“Oh, I get that,” Gemma conceded, her voice deceptively calm, “but what I don’t get is why you’ve appointed yourself as her personal tour guide on this little ‘time away’ adventure.”
“Because Christa needs my help,” he said, trying to hold on to his patience, “and because I have the Lear. I offered to take her away from everything for a while, until she gets her head together.”
“Very kind of you, I’m sure.” Her voice dripped sarcasm. “But what about your new solo album? What about your fans? What about me? We’ve only been married a few months. We’re still practically newlyweds.”
“I’ll be back in a week or so. We haven’t started recording yet, so it’s all good.”
“Does Max know about this?”
Max Morecombe, Dominic’s long-suffering agent, was the only person – outside of herself – who could keep the rock star in line.
“‘Course he knows,” Dom grumbled. “He doesn’t much like it, but he understands. Which is more,” he couldn’t help adding, “than I can say for you.”
“I understand this – your story’s a big load of bollocks,” Gemma retorted. “Besides, you need to start rehearsals for your new album soon, and you haven’t even picked out the songs yet—”
“It takes time to write a song! I don’t just crap ’em out like laying eggs, Gemma. Besides, I’m going for a different sound this time around.” Dominic flung the covers aside and stood up. “I can’t be an effing punk rocker for ever, you know. I’m not nineteen any more. I need to grow as a musician. I want to explore other styles—”
“You want to explore Christa’s knickers, you mean.”
Dominic let out a pent-up breath of frustration. “I don’t know why I bother talking to you, Gemma. I really don’t. You always jump to the wrong conclusion. You don’t trust me, not at all. You just don’t get it.”
“Oh, I get it, all right,” she flung back. “You’re doing what you do best – reverting to form and chasing after another skirt.” She leaned back in her chair and eyed her laptop through eyes awash with angry tears. “Now if you’ll excuse me, Dom, I have work to do.”
“Wait!” Dominic protested. “You can’t just ring off in the middle of a conversation.”
“Au contraire, Dominic, I can. And I will. But first,” she lifted her shoulder to keep the mobile phone in place against her ear “I have one last thing to say to you.”
“Yeah?” he snapped. “And what’s that?”
Gemma yanked the wedding ring from her finger and threw it down on her desk. “You can have your ring back. We’re through. Oh… and give my best to Christa. Happy canoodling. Bye.”
And with that, she rang off, and burst into tears.
Good job she hadn’t turned in her notice yet…
A moment later, her boss, Rhys Gordon, appeared in his doorway, a look of concern on his face. “Gemma? What the hell’s going on? Is everything all right?”
She grabbed a tissue from the box he held out to her and blew her nose. “No, it’s not all right! It’s Dominic again… like it always is. We’re through. This time,” she added firmly, “for good.”
Having heard this refrain many times before, Rhys knew better than to believe it. “What’s the little sod done this time? Or should I say…who’s he done this time?”
Gemma sniffled. “Her name’s Christa. She’s half-Indian, half-Anglo, and one hundred percent gorgeous.”
“Christa? Oh, yes. I’ve heard her song on the radio. Repeatedly,” he added. “Natalie loves it.”
“According to Dominic, she can’t cope with the sudden fame. I don’t buy it for a minute, though.”
Rhys shrugged. “Who knows? It sounds reasonable enough. That’s the problem with Dominic – there’s always a tiny bit of truth buried somewhere in amongst the bullshit.”
“Well, I can tell you this much,” Gemma said determinedly, “married or not, I’m through with Dominic Heath. And you can take that to the bank.”
Christa picked up her mobile phone, took a deep breath, and scrolled to her mother’s number. There was no use in putting it off any longer; she owed her mum an explanation for her abrupt departure.
“Hi,” she said when her mother answered. “It’s me.”
“Christa? Where are you? Tell me, what’s going on?” Deepa Shaw demanded.
“Nothing’s going on, Mum, I’m fine. I just needed a break.” She glanced around her at the interior of Dominic Heath’s personal Lear jet. “The paparazzi, the constant interviews and press conferences…it was too much, too fast.”
It was amazing, she reflected with a twinge of guilt, just how easy it was to lie when you were partly telling the truth. “I don’t believe you. I know you better than anyone, jaanu. Tell me – what’s really going on?” her mother pressed.
“Why have you abandoned your singing career, eh? Please tell me you’ve found a nice Goan boy instead?”
“No,” Christa said firmly, “I haven’t, Mum, sorry. And I didn’t abandon my career. I just needed a break from it.”
“A break?” Mrs Shaw echoed. “A break from being famous? Saints preserve us, have you lost your mind? Being famous is all you’ve ever wanted!”
Christa
