people loved watching celebs thrown out of their glitzy worlds and into the deep end. What could go wrong? the TV company had said.
Finn sighed. He supposed it hadn’t been that awful. The guy standing beside him had been okay company, and it had been fun to watch him build his confidence over the last week. Whether the experience would produce a lasting change in the well-known bad boy and womaniser was another matter altogether.
‘So who’s your next victim?’ the actor said, turning to him.
Finn smiled to himself. ‘Anya Pirelli.’
The actor let out a low whistle. ‘The tennis player?’
Finn nodded.
Toby slapped him on the back. ‘Lucky dog.’
‘Just don’t tell my fiancée,’ he said, grinning.
‘You have a fiancée?’ Toby pulled a face. ‘Too bad, man.’
‘Oh, I don’t think I’m doing too badly—she’s Natalie Cross.’
‘The chick who does the nature documentaries?’
Finn nodded, and Toby whistled again. ‘Definitely not doing too badly, mate!’ and then he frowned. ‘But spending a week stranded with Anya Pirelli… She’s not the jealous type, is she, your fiancée?’
Finn laughed and shook his head. He’d been joking. Neither of them were jealous types. That was what made them the perfect match. They both liked their freedom and, even though they were committed to each other, they both understood how destructive the urge to pin someone down and keep them for yourself could be.
‘When’s the wedding?’ Toby asked, and Finn stopped smiling.
He shrugged. ‘When we get around to it.’ They’d been engaged for two years, which seemed a long time to some people, but he and Nat travelled so much for their jobs theirs was almost a long-distance relationship. They’d find a date they could both manage eventually. Just the knowledge they’d agreed to do it some time in the future was enough for now.
‘No… Nat will be fine about it,’ Finn added.
Toby’s eyes glittered wickedly. ‘Still, you’ll be stuck alone with Anya in the jungle somewhere or up a mountain. Who’s to tell?’
Finn gestured over his shoulder to the camera operator who was standing a little way down the slope. ‘Who d’you think?’
Toby slapped himself on the forehead. ‘I’ve got so used to them being there, I kind of forgot we weren’t on our own.’
Finn shrugged. It was easy enough to do. Sometimes he threw himself headlong into risky situations while filming, completely forgetting he wasn’t on his own and that a camera, a producer and possibly a safety expert were trailing along behind him.
He took a few paces away from Toby, tried to create a little bubble of space and silence where he could let all this grandeur and beauty seep into him so it could mingle with all the other memories and experiences he collected on his travels. However, as mind-blowing as each location was, he always felt there was room for more, that a little piece of him ached for the ultimate destination, the ultimate adventure. That was what kept him moving, kept him searching.
There was a glint of silver off to the right in the sky, and Finn lifted his hand to shield his eyes further.
Yep. That was the chopper.
Time for the next adventure. And he couldn’t wait.
CHAPTER THREE
A NEAT stack of newspapers sat on the kitchen table in the basement kitchen. Other than the sound of her own breathing, Allegra could hear nothing. She tore her eyes from the stack and looked at her father.
‘Shall I read them to you?’ he asked.
Allegra shook her head and returned her gaze to the tower of newsprint in front of her. Instead of taking the top one off the pile, she picked one from the middle and eased it from its place. The critic who wrote for that paper was always the hardest to read. Not because he was vicious. He was blunt, yes, but never vicious. It was much, much worse than that.
By some magical power, this man always managed to hone in on those elements of the performance that Allegra fretted about herself and then shone a big, nasty spotlight on them. However, if she could read this review and get it out of the way, the rest would be a piece of cake. At least, that was what she was telling herself.
She pushed the pile of papers to the far edge of the table to give herself space to unfold the broadsheet and carefully turned pages, smoothing each one flat, until she reached the arts section.
There, filling almost half the page, was a grainy black and white photo of her and Stephen in the last act. Stephen, as always, looked like one of those sculpted marble statues, all perfect musculature and good bone structure, as he supported her in an arabesque.
She felt a little of the panic drumming beneath her ribs drain away. She didn’t look too bad herself. And the line of that back leg was perfect, even though she’d only hit that position for a split second before moving through it to the next step. Surely, a picture like that had to be a good omen?
She glanced down at the text beneath the picture and phrases swam in front of her eyes.
‘Astounding.’
‘Technically brilliant.’
‘Allegra Martin didn’t miss a step…’
She released the breath she’d been holding out through her lips and let it curve them into a slight smile. She risked a look at her father, but he was wading through another of the papers. The cup of chamomile tea he’d made her was now almost cold. She reached for it and took a sip, then grimaced.
Now her initial shakiness had subsided she went back to the beginning of the article and read it in whole sentences, taking it in slowly, weighing every word instead of fracturing it into phrases that had a tendency to jump out at her.
It all sounded good but as she switched from the bottom of the second column to the top of the third she started to feel chilly again. By the time she’d read a couple more paragraphs she knew why.
‘I’ve always been a huge Allegra Martin fan…’ the man had written.
The ballerina in question raised an eyebrow. Really? If that was the case, she’d hate to be on his bad side!
‘…but while her performance as the Little Mermaid was technically flawless, I still don’t think she has lived up to her early promise.’
Allegra’s stomach bottomed out and a faint taste of chamomile tea clung to her teeth, making her feel queasy. She read on.
‘Miss Martin seems to have lost the engaging sense of wonder and joy she had as a young dancer and, while I appreciate her virtuosity, I don’t feel she captured either the exquisite joy of first love nor the torture of unfulfilled
