He told me that he never allowed them downstairs after five or before ten in the morning. I wonder if he ever sees them. It seems such a strange and unhappy state of affairs that I am almost tempted to hand in my notice here and now and return home. I will take in mending, laundry, anything . . .
But he was civil enough to me and my rooms here are perfectly satisfactory, if a little cold. I did take a peek at the girls in their nursery beds, but they were fast asleep, looking as angelic as you could wish. I can scarcely imagine hostility tainting those sweet faces at all. The older one made me think of Mary, although she looks nothing alike. Poor Mary. I wonder how she does this night?
‘Good book?’
Jenna looked up, almost startled out of herself. In her mind she had been in this same room, but nearly a hundred and fifty years ago, living Frances’s life along with her.
But she was sure Jason hadn’t been in Harville Hall back then, leaning in from the door frame, casting her a sly smile, as if he knew she’d been up to something.
‘Oh . . . yes. Quite fascinating actually. I found it in the cellar.’
‘Give us a look.’
He came forward, reaching for the diary, but Jenna held her hand over it, protecting it from his view.
‘It’s fragile, Jay. The fewer dirty twenty-first century fingers all over it, the better.’
‘My fingers aren’t dirty,’ protested Jason, but he looked at them all the same and could hardly have failed to notice the paint blackening his nailbeds.
‘Yes, they are. I think this might be her diary, though.’
‘Whose? Fairy Fay’s?’
‘Yes. Except she doesn’t appear to be Harville’s first wife. She’s a governess, looking after his daughters by his dead first wife. Perhaps Lawrence got a mixed-up version of events given to him.’
‘Perhaps darling Lawrence wouldn’t know the truth if it hit him in the face with a wet paper bag full of fish.’
‘No, very likely. He’s either confused or deliberately misinforming me. Not that I can ask him now. God, I hope he gets remanded.’
Jason put a hand on her shoulder.
‘Whatever happens, he won’t be allowed near us. So what’s going on with Fairy Fay? Is it dirty?’
She batted the tip of his nose.
‘No, it is not dirty, for God’s sake. She’s a very proper, very well brought up young Victorian lady.’
‘Ah, those are the worst, if you ask me.’
‘Just as well I’m not asking you then, isn’t it?’
The book lay forgotten as they entered into an energetic play fight, chasing each other around the house and bending each other into amorous contortions before giving up and going back to bed.
Chapter Four
‘I’M STILL NOT sure about this.’ Jason gazed bleakly through the window as field after flat field rolled past, each cow marking a step closer to London.
‘It’s just a meeting. Besides, we’ll have fun. Are there any London attractions you want to see? London things you want to do? Go for it. You can do them all.’
‘Soho?’ he said hopefully. ‘That’s where it all goes on, isn’t it?’
‘You’re probably thinking of its old reputation rather than today’s reality,’ said Jenna. ‘Sorry to disappoint, but there’s only a very small section of it devoted to sex shops and peep shows these days. Most of it’s upscale bars, restaurants and shops. And the odd corporate giant creeping in to ruin the vibe.’
Jason kicked at the footwell, clearly uncomfortable.
‘The Emirates Stadium?’ he said hopefully.
‘Oh God, must we? What about the Olympic Park? That’s bigger and more interesting.’
‘Yeah, I used to support Arsenal though. A bit. I mean, mostly I was a Forest boy but I just liked the name. Arsenal. You get me?’ He winked.
Jenna felt a little prickly at his determination to drag the conversation down to base levels. She knew their relationship thus far had been largely predicated on their outrageous sexual compatibility but surely it must be possible to have some intercourse of a different nature with him? Why must everything be sex, sex, sex? It was beginning to bore her.
‘Maybe, if we have time,’ she said vaguely. ‘What about the London Eye?’
‘Oh yeah, that looks boss. Do you get one of them little pods all to yourself?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
He tutted. ‘Bang goes another good idea.’
She concentrated on exiting the slip road and getting on the motorway then turned to him.
‘Jason, is there anything non-sexual you’d like to do in London?’
‘Why would I want to do anything non-sexual?’ he asked, as if she’d asked him to consider joining the Nazi party. ‘Especially when I’m with you. Can’t we just stay in the hotel when we’re not meeting your posh mates? Room service, en-suite bathroom, all that?’
Jenna wasn’t sure whether to feel flattered or frustrated.
‘I don’t know,’ she said, trying to keep her tone light. ‘I bring you to one of the capitals of world culture and all you want to do is shag.’
‘You bring me? What are you, my mother?’
‘Of course not.’ Jenna considered abandoning the conversation. ‘I’m joking. Stop being so sensitive.’
‘I am sensitive,’ he countered. ‘I’m a sensitive artiste, see. That’s why you love me.’
‘Well, that’s a fair point.’ A sign for some motorway services appeared like a mirage in the desert. ‘Oh look, let’s get a coffee or something. I hate long drives.’
It was an indicator of how annoyed Jenna was that she even considered this. A woman of her international fame was bound to draw a lot of unwelcome attention in one of these places, especially with her tabloid-bait boyfriend in tow. But perhaps they could scoot in, find a secluded corner and keep the rubberneckers at bay.
She parked the car, pulled her sunglasses right up the bridge of her nose, and stepped on to the forecourt with a defiant air that seemed to invite all-comers to ‘bring it on’.
She strutted while Jason slouched. His posture was shocking, she realised. She needed to do something about it – that rolling gait made him look as if he were skulking around a street corner waiting for a drug deal.
‘Straighten up a bit,’ she said through a fixed smile, noticing stares and double-takes from people passing them on the way back to their cars. ‘You look as if you have some kind of degenerative spinal cord condition.’
‘Charming.’
Rather than take her advice, he wrapped an arm around her, his hand landing on her hips.
‘I’ll need you to prop me up, then, won’t I?’
‘Jason. All these people . . .’
‘What? Ashamed of me?’
‘Oh God.’
She took deep breaths, keeping her head down all the way to the glass-fronted building.
The coffee shop was the first concession on the left and she headed purposefully to the counter, catching nobody’s eye and forcing Jason to up his pace if he wanted to keep her by his side.
‘A regular skinny latte, please, and . . . Jason?’
‘A coffee.’
The barista was studiedly polite.
‘Is that a filter coffee or one of our espresso beverages, sir?’
Jason blinked.
‘Like, y’know, a coffee. Brown stuff in a cup with a bit of milk.’
‘I think maybe a regular Americano with some milk from the jug,’ Jenna offered.
‘Americano? What, like, American coffee? What’s the diff?’
Jenna paid and steered Jason away from the counter before any more of this tedious encounter could play out.
‘I’m only asking a question,’ he said, giving Jenna a glare.
‘Jason, it’s just a black coffee and you add your own milk, OK?’
‘Why don’t they call it that, then?’ he persisted. ‘Why doesn’t it say Black Coffee on the menu instead of all this unpronounceable shit?’
‘I take it you don’t frequent coffee shops, then?’
‘No, I bloody don’t. There’s one in Bledburn High Street but it’s a fucking rip off joint. Four quid for a cuppa, they want. I can get four boxes of fucking PG Tips in Poundland for that. They’ve seen the likes of you coming.’
‘They’re very popular,’ Jenna said mildly. ‘Or there wouldn’t be so many of them, would there? Obviously there was a huge gap in the market.’
‘Can’t believe there are so many people with more money than sense. Well, in LA, I guess . . .’
‘Oh, so I have more money than sense, do I?’ Jenna teased lightly.
‘Much more,’ he said, relenting a little. ‘Or you wouldn’t be here with me. Double whammy, doll.’
She leaned into him, and he gave her bottom a brief but unmistakable squeeze.
She heard giggles from behind them.
‘Jason,’ she whispered loudly. ‘There are eyes everywhere. Behave.’
‘You are ashamed of me, aren’t you?’
He removed his hand stiffly and folded his arms, brooding at the counter end while they waited for their drinks to materialise.
‘Of course not. It’s just that anyone’s cameraphone snap can be in the Daily Mail tomorrow, that’s all.’
She put their drinks on a tray.
‘I know you’ve never had to think this way – never had to take anything like that into consideration, and I don’t blame you for not thinking of it. But I’ve had years and years of intense public attention and it’s changed my behaviour. Changed my personality almost.’
They found the furthest flung alcove and took seats in it.
‘It must be weird,’ said Jason. ‘Like being spied on twenty-four seven.’
‘Yeah, it is, a bit. And I feel guilty for bringing you into it, to be honest. You’re so frank and open about everything. I think it’ll be difficult for you to get used to the circus I live in. When it was just us in the house . . .’ She sighed, experiencing a melancholy sense of paradise lost. ‘It’ll never be like that again.’
‘It can be. We can just stay at home,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t bother me.’
‘Oh, Jason. The world wants your art. The world deserves your art. And you deserve the world’s attention. We’ll always have our bolthole when it gets too much – but I think the time for hiding away is over.’
‘The world,’ he echoed, ruminating. ‘Hasn’t done a lot to get me on side so far. I’m not sure why it deserves my . . . I can’t say art. I feel so fucking phoney. I am a phoney. I’m not an artist, Jen. I’m not that kind of person.’
‘But you are. That’s just your low self-esteem talking.’
‘Oh, give me a break! You sound like a fucking counsellor. I saw one of those when I were at school. Poor self-image this, low self-esteem that. What she didn’t want to say was that I was a thick kid from a shitty estate and what did I expect?’
‘OK, what I don’t want you to feel is patronised. How can we stop that from happening?’
Jenna put on her most businesslike, don’t-mess-with-me face.
‘Well, I might have an idea,’ said Jason, stroking the waxed rim of his coffee container.
‘Really? Come on then. Out with it.’
‘You’re going to mess me up, aren’t you? Do a makeover or whatever, except not just with my looks. You’re going to do what you do to those people on the show – what did they call it? Starmaking. I did see a few episodes of it, and I remember you looking straight to camera, all cheesy like, with massive hair and saying, “Time for some starmaking.” It was, like, your catchphrase, yeah?’
‘Yeah.’ She cringed a bit. It did sound cheesy, when he put it like that. ‘There will be an element of that, I suppose. If you can look on it as part of the job, you know, dressing the part, working the room . . .’
‘Whatever. I know. I know what you’re going to do to me. And I know it’ll piss me off, however necessary you think it is. I’m not a fucking dressing up doll.’
‘I know you’re not, I—’
But he waved a hand, indicating that there was more for her to hear.
‘I haven’t said what my idea is yet. Do you want to hear it or carry on with the Starmaker Manifesto?’
‘No, sorry. Say what you want to say.’
She flicked her eyes over to the counter where a group of people were leaning in to the barista, talking and casting covert looks in their direction. She kept her sigh inward. Incognito was over for the day.
‘Here’s my proposal,’ said Jason, leaning forward and holding her eyes with the pokeriest of poker faces, as if he’d watched too many films containing Bigshot Business Deals. ‘If you mess with me, it’s only fair that I should mess with you.’
‘I don’t . . . Not sure what you’re saying.’
‘You’re going to ask me to change a lot of things – the clothes I wear, the way I speak, the way I act. I want to do the same to you. I want you to know how it feels.’
‘I do know how it feels. Once Deano’s band started getting press, we had to reinvent ourselves. We had to learn fast, and we didn’t have anyone to help us. We had to use our intuition – to know when the journos were looking down their noses at us and making fun of our Bledburn accents, and to tweak accordingly. It’s not easy, Jason, and what you don’t seem to realise is that I’m trying to protect you from that. You might not want to believe it but the media in this country is still hugely London-centric and if you don’t want to be classed with the bumpkins . . .’
‘Don’t get all arsey with me. I’m not refusing to do it, am I? Just listen. I do what you ask . . . and you do what I ask. Isn’t that fair enough?’
‘But I don’t understand . . . What are you going to ask of me?’
‘Nothing that’ll make a difference to your precious public image, don’t worry. This is a private game.’
He winked and light began to dawn on Jenna.
‘You mean . . .’
‘Fun and games for Jenna and Jason,’ he said. ‘Let’s start one here. I’ve agreed to come to London and see your gallery friend, so you owe me one and I want to collect. I’m torn, though, between asking you to come over here and give me a proper snog with tongues in front of all those people . . .’
‘I can’t do that!’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s just not professional. Not when we know we’ve got an audience. Outside or in the car, fine. But not in a coffee shop.’
Jason rolled his eyes.
‘That makes me want to do it even more, but all right. Not that, then. Not yet. It’ll have to be the other thing.’
‘What’s the other thing?’ The trepidation in Jenna’s voice seemed to please Jason. He dragged the anticipation out with deliberate enjoyment.
‘I’m warning you,’ he whispered. ‘It’s naughty. Very naughty.’
‘Just tell me. As long as nobody over there knows about it.’
‘Oh, they won’t know. They might guess . . . but they won’t know.’
‘Jason! Cut it out with the suspense.’
‘Go to the Ladies’ and take off your knickers. Put them in your handbag and come back out again.’
‘I can’t do that!’
‘Of course you can.’
‘Jason!’ Her face flamed red, but the idea was more exciting than she could ever bear to admit to him. Just the idea of sitting on that plastic moulded chair with nothing between the gauzy cotton of her skirt and her bare skin . . . That was a point – was the skirt definitely opaque enough? She would have to check in the bathroom mirror . . . but the restrooms would be thronged with people . . . there would be no chance . . .
‘Non-negotiable,’ he said. ‘Do it or we drive straight back to Bledburn. It’s up to you.’
‘You bastard,’ she whispered, looking over again at their growing audience. ‘All right then. I will.’
She took a gulp of her coffee, then stood up and marched, eyes front, out of the coffee shop and towards the toilets.
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As predicted, they were busy, even on this workaday weekday. Business-suited women refreshed their make-up at the mirrors while retirees in slacks and polo shirts chatted by the hand-driers. Small children were helped to the soap by crouching mothers and a gaggle of glossy-haired students – Spanish? – giggled and eyed her from a corner.
She ignored them all to find shelter in the nearest unoccupied stall. There was bank after bank of these. It was hardly the most private place for a private moment. She looked up swiftly on both sides to check nobody was peering down on her. It wouldn’t have been the first time.
She put her bag down on the floor and stared bleakly at the poster on the back of the door, asking her if it was possible she might be diabetic.
‘Hope not,’ she muttered, then she raised her skirt until it sat rumpled around her waist and slowly lowered her knickers. It was difficult, in the space available, not to bang her elbows or head as she bent, but she persevered, catching them slightly on one kitten heel before they were all off and ready to be stuffed in her handbag.
She stood up again, keeping her skirt where it was, trying to assess how this made her feel. Vulnerable, she thought, and a bit furtive. She had the weirdest feeling that, even with her skirt back down, there would be some tell-tale sign on her face, some giveaway.
‘No, there won’t,’ she whispered to herself. She smoothed the skirt back over her bottom and thighs. Oh, how different it felt now against bare skin. It wasn’t skin tight, but it was fitted enough that the fabric would rustle and whisper against her naked curves with each step she took. And what about between her legs? What if she couldn’t keep herself . . . dry? The skirt’s pale colour would show anything up.
Better focus on not getting too excited, girl, she thought. Who knew what a telephoto lens might pick out?
She needed half a minute to clear her head and gather her nerve, to put on her Jenna Diamond face. She felt like Superman emerging from the phone booth when she finally mustered the courage to push open the stall door.
She marched purposefully to the basins, deliberately avoiding her own eye in the mirror. She was trying to ignore the way her thighs were pressed together when a young girl slid into position at the neighbouring basin and said, ‘Please, I think you are Jenna Diamond.’
Hearts and Diamonds Page 4
