In the next instant she was racing down the length of the garden, waving her own arms, yelling “Don’t! Ryan! No!”
At the very moment she caught sight of the cameraman lurking in the trees, she stepped into a hole, and went down with a cry of horror and pain. The strap on one of her delicate shoes tore away from the sole, and she hit the ground hard. Sprawled in the summery grass, she knew her ankle was ruined, but she held her breath. Like a child hiding in a cornfield, if she made not a peep, maybe they wouldn’t find her. Were all of them in danger from Ryan Velez? She curled herself up between the grassy walls, ankle throbbing, wishing herself invisible.
But within seconds her mortification was complete. Ryan, Fleet, the New Zealand reporter and the cameraman—through his lens—peered down at her. Their faces were a mixture of concern, confusion, amusement and, for the reporter, satisfaction. This footage was gold.
“Oh my God.” She hid her face in her hands, pain mingling with humiliation. The camera kept rolling.
Then she heard Ryan tell the camera crew to get the hell away. There was a kerfuffle, followed by serious voices some distance away. She still didn’t want to look, but then Fleet said, in his gentle voice, “Come on. It’s okay.”
She opened her eyes again and saw him reaching down to her. He helped her up, holding his hat on with one hand. When her foot with its dangling shoe touched the ground she gasped with pain, but he put his arm around her and helped her towards the house. Looking back, she could see Ryan talking to the reporter. The cameraman was not filming.
Finally they reached the house, passing the now-dented equipment case, lying where she’d dropped it on the paving stones. Fleet sat her in an old rocking chair in the kitchen, her foot up on an amp. He seemed entirely unfazed by her unexpected—and melodramatic—arrival. He dug some ice out of the freezer and wrapped it in a slightly manky tea towel. She took off her shoe, and pressed the tea towel to her ankle. Even the lightest touch was agonising.
“I’ve got whisky, somewhere,” he said, looking around. He went back out into the garden, then came back and offered her the smudgy glass of amber-gold liquid. She took it gratefully.
He slopped a generous amount into a teacup for himself and tucked the bottle under his arm. “Sorry, do you mind?” He opened a corner of the tea towel and fished out a couple of ice cubes, then dropped them into his drink. “Thanks. Are you okay?”
With the whisky warmth inside, her ankle was starting to improve, but the agony of her media ambush was not. It was bad enough that they’d found her at all—how much worse that she’d made such a spectacle of herself. Thinking about it made her want to crawl into a hole, or under one of Fleet’s piles of detritus. She held out her glass for more whisky, and he topped her up, then lowered his skinny frame into an under-stuffed armchair.
“I seem to have a habit of embarrassing myself,” she told him.
“That’s not embarrassing,” he said. “Not really. You should see half of what I’ve been up to.” He reflected for a moment. “Though I can’t remember a lot of it, to be honest.”
He took another sip of whisky and gave her a sweet, resigned smile, and she could see, then, a little of what the tousle-haired girls saw in him.
She laughed, despite her ankle. “Maybe you should google yourself.”
“I probably already pay someone to do that for me,” he said vaguely, fingering the beads around his neck. “Do you google yourself?” He made it sound almost erotic.
“Hell no, too scared.” It was the truth.
He looked at her with interest from under the brim of his hat. “Really? What have you been up to?”
But then Ryan put his head around the kitchen door. “Fleet, can I have a word? Won’t take long.” He disappeared again, and Fleet levered himself out of the armchair and followed, taking his teacup with him.
She waited, sipping her own drink and holding the now-soggy tea towel against her ankle. A cat wandered in and sat just out of reach on the flagstone floor, giving her a disdainful catty look.
“I know,” she said. “Did you see that? What an idiot.” She sighed.
It was very quiet. Where were they? She was suddenly acutely aware of how stuck she was. In the kitchen of a notoriously off-the-rails rocker—albeit a supposed creative genius—and at the mercy of a death-obsessed American. Add a reporter who’d come around the world to…to what, actually? Get more footage to promote the humiliation she’d already been through?
Well, she didn’t have to sit here like a sack of potatoes and wait for more. She might have time to sneak away before they came back. The keys for the Saab were in her pocket, but her phone and other belongings were in Mia’s case. She’d just have to retrieve it from the back garden, and shuffle her way out.
She pushed the tea towel off her ankle and put her glass down next to the rocking chair. As she struggled up her head spun, either from the pain, or whisky on an empty stomach, or both. She only made it a few hops across the kitchen, scaring the cat out the door, before she was overcome and crumpled to the floor. The awkward landing twisted her ankle again. It hurt like hell.
For a moment she sat gathering herself together, holding her head in her hands. Then she heard footsteps. All four of them were back, looking down at her from the doorway. Damn, damn, damn. She sat up as straight as she could.
“Could someone please help me up?”
Ryan and Fleet helped her back into the rocking chair and gave her back her whisky. She held the glass firm and her dignity firmer. “Thank you.”
The kitchen was crowded now. “I wasn’t expecting so many visitors today,” Fleet said mildly.
Livi drained her glass. Now she knew what to do with two of the unexpected visitors. She may be stuck, but at least she could get some answers.
Thirty
Time for the truth, for better or worse. She eyeballed the reporter. “How did you know I was here?”
“How do you think? We followed you from London. While you were simpering at the gates with the other girls we just went around the back and climbed a few fences.”
He obviously wasn’t setting out to make friends, so she held her ground. “And why exactly are you following me?”
“The network’s putting together a programme to promote the next season of Dance ’til You Drop. Where are they now, blah blah.” He sneered. “Back to obscurity, most of them, where they belong. It wasn’t hard to find you.”
She decided to ignore the insult. “How did you find me?”
He sighed. “Rob knew you were working at a hairdresser somewhere in London. We just did some research.” His tone implied that he was talking to a simpleton. “The salon’s website didn’t have your photo, but it had your first name. When we saw you coming and going with the other girl, we guessed you lived together. And once someone has their name on a few bills, the right person can find them. It’s not rocket science.”
“So Rob talked to you?” Even though she’d expected better, it wasn’t that big a surprise.
“It’s in his best interests. Contractually. They’ve asked him to go on the show again this season.”
“What, so he can be the ladies man again?” She couldn’t hide the disgust in her voice, didn’t try to.
He rolled his eyes. “As if that was his idea. That Therese is a cunning bitch. She knows what makes good television, and she knows ratings. She doesn’t give a shit who gets caught in the crossfire.”
Livi sat still while everything shifted in her head. Therese. She could believe it. She’d lost count of the times she’d heard ‘Therese says’ from an enthusiastic Rob. What had Therese been saying about her? Or about Rob himself, the newly minted golden boy? In the end, maybe he’d begun to believe Therese’s version of his own publicity.
But then, even with Therese as puppet-master, it wasn’t like sequins girl forced herself on him. The image was still right there in her head. The girl on high-heel tiptoe, Rob’s fingers buried in her hair, his hand cupping her neatly curvaceous
bottom. He was remorseful enough afterwards, but remorse wouldn’t undo what was done. And broadcast to the nation, splashed across the papers, debated on talkback radio, and discussed online. She’d never seen the footage of herself, caught in shock, and she never wanted to. What she had wanted, was to know why. Let’s just play the game, he’d said. In the end, maybe the game played him. She’d had her doubts, but she never guessed how that game would end. How they would end.
Now she shook her head. “I just don’t know why he had to do it.” By the time the end did come, she knew they couldn’t have lasted—but it was a spectacularly public finish.
“Why do people do anything for fame or money? They get a little whiff, and it changes them. Look at this guy.” He gestured at Fleet. “Do you think he was such a wreck before he got his big break?”
She waited for Fleet to react, but he just shrugged and raised his teacup.
“Maybe that’s why they call it that,” she said. “Because it actually can break you.”
“Maybe,” the reporter replied. “Anyway, it’s not going to happen to me. I’m going to get my break, and I know what to do with it. I’m not chasing after nobodies like you my whole life.”
If she wasn’t temporarily crippled, she’d have got up and slapped him. She had to make do with leaning violently in his direction. “I’d rather be a nobody in the media and a somebody in real life, than the other way around.”
But Ryan stepped in. “That’s enough,” he told the reporter. “You can go. I’ll be in touch.”
“You’d better be, Captain America. If I don’t get what I came for, I have to reimburse the network for all our expenses. Believe me, I will not be happy.”
The cameraman trailed out after him.
“I’m going to see them out,” Fleet said. “And I’d better see who’s at the gate. Rude not to, if they’ve come all this way.”
He was clearly relishing the prospect of the gate girls. Well, he’d been away a while, Livi thought, as she watched him follow the other two out. Why wouldn’t he? When they were gone, she sat, processing. Despite her best efforts, her past had caught up with her.
Ryan leaned against the chipped Belfast sink and waited, his arms folded across his artfully faded flannel shirt. Even in her current state she couldn’t help but admire him. With his dark eyes and effortless charm, he was absolutely magnetic. Maybe it was his aura. She wondered what colour Journey would see.
Finally he broke the silence. “So, that was a dramatic entrance.” He laughed as she squirmed with embarrassment. “I have to ask—what are you doing here?”
She shook her head, putting off the inevitable. “You first.”
“Okay then.” He sat in Fleet’s armchair. “From the beginning. I live in Silver Lake, in LA.”
“Not in Idaho?”
“Idaho’s still home, but there’s no work there for me. I’m kind of a go-to guy for filmmakers, but I specialise in the music industry. Locations, research, making connections. Greasing the wheels. Whatever needs doing, you know. One of my clients is doing a documentary for MTV about how rock stars live on after they die—their legacy—and they want Fleet to front it.”
“Ah.” That explained Brian, and Keith, and Jim. “Are they expecting him to go next?” It had to be said.
“Well, obviously it wouldn’t be right for them to hope for someone’s death…” He gave a wry grin. “Anyway, they want him to film some segments himself. That’s why I was showing him the camera.”
“Oh. That makes sense.”
“What did you think?” He was going to make her say it.
“I thought you were…” She pressed the whisky glass against her forehead. “I thought you were going to shoot him.”
He had every reason to be offended but, to her relief, he laughed. “With a camera?”
“No, obviously not with a camera. I thought maybe the package in your satchel was a gun.” No thanks to Steve for putting that idea in her head.
He raised his eyebrows. “I don’t think you would have got a gun through Eurostar security.”
“Oh…no.” Of course not. She knew that. Where was her head at? God, she’d been all over the place lately.
He shook his head, amused. “I knew you were a bit crazy the first time we met.”
“No, actually, I’m really not at all,” she said, but he looked unconvinced. “It’s just that things kind of…got away on me.”
“That’s okay, it’s a charming kind of crazy.”
“I don’t know if the viewers will agree.” She imagined the glee with which Therese would receive the footage of her mad gallop and subsequent tumble. She must have looked completely unhinged.
“I can help you there.”
“Really?” She couldn’t think how.
“He told us the story, what happened to you in New Zealand. And we did a deal. He’s deleted the footage of your grand entrance, in return for an exclusive with Fleet.”
“Thank you!” Sheer relief made up for him knowing her inglorious backstory. “That’s amazing.”
He shrugged. “With his ego, it was an easy sell. He thinks he’s too cool for the local news round. If he plays it right, an exclusive could launch him into a new career.”
She hoped not.
“And some positive PR wouldn’t do Fleet any harm at the moment—he’s earned his reputation.” He paused. “But the reporter has still got the assignment. So you’ll have to do an interview.”
“Oh, no.” Her heart dropped again.
“At least now it’s on your terms. No ambush.”
“Okay.” No escape after all. She sighed. “I don’t know how things got in such a state. I seem to be lurching from one mishap to another these days.”
“Well…” He seemed to be considering whether or not to say something. “If it’s all too much, come back to the States with me.”
She laughed. “Don’t be silly.”
“Why not? You might be a bit unpredictable, but you’re a breath of fresh air compared with the kind of California craziness I’m usually surrounded with. And you seem like the kind of girl who’ll take a chance.”
This was so far from how she saw herself that she had to laugh. But then, recent events had proved otherwise. “I suppose it might look that way, but I think the California craziness has rubbed off on you.”
He shrugged again, his smile teasing, and for a moment she let herself consider the idea. Another step across the water. Was there any point in keeping on moving, when her previous life had already tapped her on the shoulder? On the other hand, if she had nothing more to lose, why not make a leap for that next rock in the stream? She looked at him—legs outstretched, his easy, sun-baked confidence making even the shabby armchair look desirable. The company would be pretty good. Although when it came to the crunch, surely he wouldn’t really follow through on such an impulsive proposal.
She imagined telling Cam. At least she wouldn’t have to do it in person this time, with him going home any minute. He wouldn’t say anything much, she knew. But she also knew he wouldn’t think it was a good idea. Charisma had no power over him. Well, he wouldn’t be here to say it, or not say it, and make her second-guess herself. She put him firmly out of her mind, along with her Parisian memories, and focused on the man in front of her.
“You might have fun.”
His eyes held the wicked suggestion of all kinds of fun. Maybe he did mean it. It was a tempting idea, she had to admit. Mad, but tempting. She was only human, after all. “I might…” She leaned back in the chair, accidentally making it rock, and winced with pain.
He left the question unanswered. “Come on, I think we’d better get someone to look at your ankle.”
“Thanks, Captain America.”
His grin was superhero dazzling. “Glad to be of service, Ma’am.”
Thirty-One
Ryan went down the road and got the Saab, then helped a barefoot Livi back down the path. She was too distracted by her ankle to fully appreciate
being held so near. Chrome dome one and two were still at the gate, but only a handful of girls were left, looking despondent after Fleet’s selection of a fortunate few.
Getting the dodgy ankle into the car proved a bit difficult. The front seat was too uncomfortable, so with some careful manoeuvring Ryan helped her into the back. She stretched her leg out along the seat, and took a sip of whisky from the near-empty bottle he handed in. Despite being famous for his recreational drug taking, there wasn’t a single paracetamol to be found in Fleet’s house. In desperation, Livi made do with self-medication of the liquid kind.
Waiting at the local medical centre, she noticed that the other women in the room kept glancing at Ryan, in between dealing with grizzly children. He was oblivious, or maybe ignoring them. Well, he’d be used to it, she assumed. Even with the ankle, she couldn’t help glancing herself. He propped her leg up on a plastic chair, and found her a magazine.
“We’re going back to London tomorrow,” he said, sitting down next to her with a dog-eared copy of NME. “Maybe I can drive you in your car, instead of going with Fleet and his guys, and meet them there.”
“That would be great, thank you,” she said. She was starting to feel decidedly queasy now, and her ankle was an alarming size. Driving herself back to London, even tomorrow, was obviously out of the question.
She texted Mia and Cass to update them. Replies came straight back, Cass’s punctuated with exclamation marks. She saw the whole thing as a perfect opportunity to get to know Ryan better…much, much better. Livi couldn’t deny that the thought had occurred to her, especially as the whisky bottle emptied—but the deep, throbbing pain in her ankle was a definite hindrance.
When they finally saw the doctor, he confirmed that it was sprained, but not broken. She gripped the edge of the bed tightly as he flexed her foot, testing.
“This is a reasonable sort of sprain,” he said. “Keep it elevated as much as you can, until the swelling goes down. You can take paracetamol, but I’ve prescribed you codeine, for the pain. It can cause drowsiness.” He handed her the prescription. “Take it with food. And avoid alcohol.”
The Near & Far Series Page 76
