by Emma Grey
He looks at her, and the connection does things to her that she is completely powerless to describe. She’s never felt attraction like this.
‘Oh my God,’ Caitlin says. ‘Could you make it any more obvious, Tilly?’
‘Make what any more obvious?’ she answers, still gazing at Reuben, before she remembers he’s listening. She takes an earbud out and tries to explain. ‘Sorry, it’s my friend, Caitlin. She’s having trouble digesting my recent change in, er . . . circumstances. She’s a huge fan.’
‘Tilly! Stop!’ Caitlin protests.
But Reuben has taken Tilly’s earbud from her hand and leaned across the seat, nudging her shoulder gently as he inserts himself into the frame on her phone, much to Caitlin’s unrestrained delight. ‘Hi, Caitlin,’ he says warmly. ‘Sorry for kidnapping her.’
Caitlin does her best to stay as low key as possible, and fails. Tilly is struggling herself, if she’s honest. Does he feel that zing where their arms touch? He is so practised at this – staying cool in the face of female adoration – he seems not to notice any of it.
He checks his watch, and she loves that he still wears one. ‘We’re about twenty minutes away from the apartment I’ve arranged,’ he observes. ‘I haven’t told you this, Maguire, but it’s called The Writer’s Penthouse. Top security, which is the main thing. Over a thousand books in the studio. Framed handwritten letters on the walls. Juliet balcony. Reading room. Writer’s desk. If you can’t make progress on your novel there, you won’t be able to write it anywhere.’
He’s organised all of this for her? This fast? She finds herself unable to speak. Eventually, Caitlin inserts words where they should be.
‘You’re amazing!’
He shrugs slightly. Booking the perfect London penthouse is all in a morning’s work for someone with his connections, Tilly guesses.
‘I’ve got a meeting with the publicist for our new album after lunch, and the new Bond movie premiere tonight,’ he explains.
‘She accepts!’ Caitlin squeals, and Reuben laughs.
Tilly glares at her friend. A red-carpet event? Already? She’s mentally booked a pyjama date with her Juliet balcony and Reuben’s laptop . . .
‘You don’t have to come,’ he says.
‘Who else is going?’ she asks, like they’re back at school, discussing a house party.
‘Everyone, Tilly! It doesn’t matter!’ Caitlin nags.
He waves at Caitlin, takes the earbud out and hands it back to Tilly. ‘It’s totally up to you, but as A-list events go, movie premieres are a good introduction. Two hours in the dark, not having to talk to anyone. It’s pretty safe.’
‘Two hours in the dark with him,’ Caitlin translates. ‘More like wildly dangerous . . .’
Tilly knows it. And she also knows that she’s eighteen, with an embarrassing lack of life experience, and she’s trying to write a novel. The more she hides herself away from the world, the less compelling her words will be. And besides, Reuben is right. It’s just a movie. What’s the worst that could happen?
Chapter 30
‘I haven’t asked anything of you in a long time, Belle. Why are you making this hard?’
Belle gets nervous, the way she always has since she was a teenager and Jack Guthrie first lobbed one of his secret threats in her direction. There’s never any predictability to his emotional manipulation. He keeps her on edge, never knowing when he might strike. It’s his signature style.
‘This is a pretty simple request,’ he says over the phone. ‘Tell me about Tilly Maguire.’
‘I don’t know anything about her,’ Belle says. It’s almost true. She certainly doesn’t know much. Jack is only interested in Tilly because Reuben seems to be. He can’t let any of them be happy.
‘Is Reuben with her or not?’
See? Difficult to answer. Belle just wants her friend to be happy, and she can’t do anything to jeopardise his opportunity for that.
‘I can always ask Angie,’ Jack says. ‘I’ve got her number right here.’
She feels sick. He always seems to know exactly which buttons to push.
‘Either I go to Angie, or to the media . . . and that photo I’ve got from high school is explosive. What would your parents think? You and that girl, kissing —’
Maya Hamilton.
When she was fourteen, Belle had already had one kiss with a boy at a party. She’s forgotten his name. He was as disappointing as the kiss itself, which had left her feeling somehow cheated.
She remembers thinking, Is that it? She hadn’t been sure what she’d been expecting – something straight out of the romantic comedies Olivia would make her watch, probably. But whatever she’d imagined, that boy’s kiss had fallen flat.
She remembers worrying about it, afterwards. What if I’m broken?
Then along came gorgeous Maya, on exchange from a school in Canada, thoroughly enjoying the liberation of being away from her very strict parents. Belle had been nominated as Maya’s ‘buddy’. She was supposed to show her around and make her feel at ease in her new environment.
In reality, their roles were reversed. It was Maya who had ended up showing Belle around. Maya who made her feel more at ease than ever. Maya who’d helped her discover a part of herself she hadn’t previously understood – which, once revealed, became so unarguably her, she wondered how she’d ever been so clueless.
‘We were children,’ she says to Jack on the phone. ‘When are you going to let this go?’
‘You weren’t behaving like children though, were you. You both look very grown up in this photo.’
It’s probably hard to argue with that. The girls had broken away together from a stuffy official function at school one night. When they were sufficiently far away from the floodlighting in the grounds, laughing over their ‘crazy’ escape, Maya had unexpectedly taken Belle’s hand and pulled her into the shadows, behind the thick trunk of an oak tree.
‘Kiss me,’ Maya had instructed, and Belle hadn’t known what to do. She’d only known that, suddenly, and without any conscious warning of it, she wanted to kiss Maya Hamilton more than anything else in the world.
As the more experienced of the two, Maya had taken the lead, just like that forgettable boy had at the party. She had moved in close, cradled Belle’s face in her hands, leaned in, threaded her fingers through Belle’s regulation ponytail, and she had kissed her – just as he had. Except very, very differently. And Belle had realised in that moment that she wasn’t broken at all.
She always regarded Maya’s kiss as her first.
Unfortunately it was also her last, because Jack had walked up having followed her out, as usual. He’d seen them. He’d taken the photo and he’d quickly realised his power over her.
She’d been distraught and had begged him not to tell her parents. Begged him not to tell a soul. And that’s how their particular arrangement had begun. Invitations to events, introductions to various people, the mere satisfaction of being seen and photographed, often, in her circle. If he couldn’t have her, he could still control her. Reuben was always puzzled about why her boundaries were so good with everyone else, but he never saw her say no to Jack. Maybe she should tell Reuben about this, now . . .
It had always been an open and shut case of homophobia. And Jack never could stand the fact that she wasn’t interested in him. He hated it even more that she spent years by Reuben’s side – ‘a scholarship kid with a single mum’. It never seemed to matter that it was always completely platonic.
‘Imagine if this got out,’ Jack says, bringing her out of her reverie.
She does imagine it. Often. Until thinking about it gives her a migraine and she has to try to push the information back in self-preservation, until the next time he wants something.
‘Give me something on Tilly Maguire before I flip a coin. It’s either Angie or the editor of the Mirror.’
Belle panics. She has to keep Angie out of this. How can she get through it with the minimum amount of collateral da
mage? And why is this the second time in twenty-four hours that she’s had to think about how to bribe people to keep her deepest secret private? This is why she can never fall in love. Well, she can fall in love, but never act upon it. It feels like she’ll be miserable for the rest of her life!
‘What does Tilly want?’ Jack asks, and almost immediately he’s interrupted by an incoming call, which he takes, rudely, knowing Belle isn’t going anywhere until this is sorted out.
Her conversation with Reuben flashes back. Tilly wants a publishing contract . . .
Belle thinks of the USB that Reuben had in his room, with something of Tilly’s saved on it. For all Jack’s faults, his parents are well-respected publishers. If the rumours are true, and Tilly really has what it takes, couldn’t this somehow work out in everyone’s favour . . .
Belle tries to think, fast. Jack would be egotistical enough to pounce on the idea of stealing the attention of Reuben’s muse. The arrangement would seem like the natural result of Tilly’s talent for writing, details of which the tabloids have been digging up since the intern scandal broke. Viral blog posts, sassy social media, writing competition wins — it’s all there. Belle doesn’t know what this current book is about, but surely Jack would go for a manuscript from England’s latest Insta-celebrity. Imagine the PR! And isn’t that why Tilly’s come here? To break into all of this?
Reuben won’t love the idea, of course, but that’s a risk Belle has to take. She has to keep her secret safe. Tilly will get a huge career break, do this one book with Jack, and then the ball will be in her court. Jack will acquire a manuscript from a hot emerging author and might back off Belle for a while. This is a workable solution, surely? As desperate plans go, isn’t this almost flawless?
Chapter 31
Tilly had made a very unremarkable entrance to her Year 12 formal. She’d felt so ‘acceptable’. So ‘dress and shoes and clutch and fake tan and make-up-done-at-the-departmentstore-counter’ predictable.
It is absolutely not the image she intends to present on the red carpet of the Bond movie premiere this evening, even if she’s only scraped in as a last-minute attendee, and would be the only one not officially ‘dressed by’ a designer brand. And potentially, the only one not in a dress . . .
Angie had collected her suitcase from the Hampstead flat where Heathrow’s lost luggage service had delivered it after she was officially sacked by Henrietta, and Tilly had been reunited with the strapless jumpsuit Caitlin had let her borrow for the trip. A warm print of black and white, red and orange in silk crepe. She steps into it and adjusts the fitted bodice, tied at the waist. It’s whimsical. But, more to the point, it’s so comfortable she could curl up on the couch and read a book wearing it if she wanted to. Which she very much does right at this moment.
Angie beams in appreciation when Tilly lets her into the foyer of the penthouse. The accommodation is ridiculously extravagant, and Tilly doesn’t want to offend anyone, but she’d be much more comfortable in a one-bedroom flat somewhere.
‘What is this outfit!’ Angie squeals.
‘It’s different, isn’t it?’ Tilly swings a leg to the side to admire the fall of the wide-legged jumpsuit in the mirror and touches the low, side ponytail the hotel’s hairdresser had magicked earlier.
‘Different? They won’t know what’s hit them! Reuben’s been held up in his meeting, by the way, so you’ll have to meet him there. I said you’d be fine with that. I know this is new, but I’ll brief you in the car and he’ll meet us outside the theatre. Okay?’
New? It’s actually crazy. Who lands in London and finds themselves at a red-carpet film opening days later? Research. That’s what Caitlin had called it. And what was it Angie had advised the other day? Just play the part.
But as the car swings into Piccadilly Circus minutes later, Tilly is feeling a lot less confident. Angie is going through a running sheet so she’ll know what to expect and when, and all Tilly can think about is the magnitude of the opportunity she has to muck this up. Maybe her mum was right. She’s not up to this. Whatever made her think she was? Her overactive imagination and her anxiety seem to have conspired on some sort of mutual trajectory where she’ll inevitably drop the wrong names or trip on her wedges or say something excruciatingly awkward to the entertainment reporter and earn herself a place in the viral ‘five people having a worse Monday than you’ post on the internet.
Heat flashes from deep within her chest and stings her face. Not now. Angie is reading the guest list out loud, but her voice fades to a blur, along with the sight of the London streets as they flash past. It’s happening again. Just like at the ball! Tilly loses connection with the world outside her body. Nothing exists but the uncontrollable shaking in her stone-cold hands. The desperate struggle for breath. The erratic thump of her heartbeat as it pumps wildly, pushing fear through her veins until she knows with certainty she is going to be sick. She is. Not just sick. Something worse.
She feels her phone vibrate on her leg. A text from Reuben. Popcorn or choc top? and a smiley face.
She tells herself to breathe out, long and slow, like her psych has taught her. She tells herself this is a panic attack. She tells herself she is safe. But she isn’t safe! All those other times were panic attacks. This is real, this time . . .
The car swings through an intersection and pulls over behind several others in a queue, each pausing briefly outside the theatre as someone alights into an explosion of flashes. This is not her life. She seriously can’t do this . . .
‘You’re next,’ Angie says calmly.
It all happens fast. The car draws up, stops, a door opens, Reuben leans in and offers her his hand, which she grasps the way she’d latch onto a life buoy if she was drowning. She wants to pull him inside the car with her, but finds herself emerging from it, instead. The cameras go wild as Reuben draws her beside him, slipping his hand firmly around her waist and says in her ear, ‘I don’t know what this thing is that you’re wearing but it totally works, Maguire.’ Tilly feels his hand leave the small of her back and find her own.
‘Do you want to be that annoying couple at the party who keep to themselves all night?’ he asks, ignoring the reporters’ pleas for them to stop and talk. ‘Because I’m suddenly not in the mood to socialise with anyone else.’
‘Reuben . . .’ she says urgently, sending a nervous sideways glance at the line-up of the film’s actors as every cell in her body seems to lose its oxygen at once and her limbs seem to dissolve.
‘Remember this moment, Tilly. We’ll be on this carpet again one day, at the premiere of the movie based on your book. You know that, don’t you?’
Can’t he see what is happening? Doesn’t he realise? It’s like one of those nightmares where you’re on the outside of a window looking in, pounding on it. Screaming. Trying desperately to get the attention of the people inside who haven’t noticed you even standing there.
Flashbulbs. Shouting. Hundreds of people watching. Not one person really seeing.
Chapter 32
There is something seriously wrong with Tilly. Reuben noticed it the second she took his hand when he reached into the car. This isn’t ordinary nervousness. He’d tried to distract her with small talk but it isn’t working.
Lit up in the media spotlight, she is radiant – on the surface. He loves that she’s there with him. But the stance is all wrong. Not ‘wrong’ in the sense of getting the angles just right for the perfect pictures. He is so over that stuff. Wrong, as in, ‘I cannot be here’.
He needs to get her off this red carpet and inside the theatre, somewhere quiet. Somewhere they can talk. Or even just sit. ‘Come with me,’ he says, and she follows him as he purposefully threads them through the crowd. He feels like Jack sweeping Rose away from the first-class deck in Titanic. Except he’s the one in first class.
The door staff nod as they pass quickly, slipping through the vacuous mingling in the foyer, dodging waiters carrying silver trays of piping hot hors d’oeuvres and drinks in c
rystal glasses. There’s a side corridor, barricaded off with a red rope hooked to the wall. Reuben is about to dismantle it, when Tilly scissors over it in her pants outfit in a way that is unlike anything his previous red-carpet dates would have contemplated. Ever.
She power walks ahead and he follows her. There’s a door marked ‘Restricted Area’, which she throws her shoulder against, falling through it before skipping up some carpeted stairs. Safely hidden on the second flight, she grabs the railing and sits down on the step, the heels of her hands digging into the tread on either side as she exhales and shuts her eyes.
Reuben leans against the wall and stares at a patch on the plaster opposite, listening to her breathe. It takes a few minutes, but eventually she settles, and opens her eyes again.
‘Reuben . . .’
He swings down and sits on the step beside her, resting his forearms on his knees, one of which he uses to playfully nudge her leg. ‘This is a restricted area, Maguire. You’re leading me astray.’
She gives him a faint smile. ‘Reuben. I am so …’
‘Stop! Don’t even think about apologising for what just happened.’
She frowns at him. ‘But wouldn’t you rather be downstairs with your friends scoffing smashed white beans and kale quesadillas?’ she asks.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Tilly. I’d have the skewered quail egg with lightly scorched carrot. And seriously, I don’t even know those people.’
She snorts. Then she takes a big breath. ‘I’ve got anxiety,’ she explains redundantly. ‘Clinical, diagnosed anxiety. I’ve been seeing a psychologist about it for two years. My parents tried to talk me out of this trip, and that was before everything went catastrophically wrong with it, but I thought I’d come so far. I really thought I could do this . . .’
She lets out another deep breath, like the act of telling him is a weight off her.
