by Jody Klaire
“How do I fit?” Both Zoë and Darcy protected Susannah. Susannah, like Kate, didn’t understand. How could she ever understand? To her, Darcy could just do something else. She and Zoë could open a shop or something. Did they even need to work?
“The same way Zoë did for so long, although Susannah likes you a great deal, and there’s no reason to hide it from her now…in private. In public, we will always be friendly, but never more. It’s all I can offer.” Darcy stretched out her shoulders. “But you need to figure out if you can live with it.”
“Wow, I feel so cheap.” She got up and strode out the door.
The picture of Zoë and Darcy looked back at her. Fit the label, Darcy’s label, just like she’d fit Bennie’s label and Laura’s label. She headed down the stairs, somehow knowing Darcy wasn’t going to follow. Not a show of if she cared or not—who knew what Darcy felt—but a statement of what was expected. If she didn’t fit the label, the scissors would come out; that’s what Blanche had muttered about Darcy calling her. Fit the label, be a model… No, an unthinking dummy who just did as told. She shook her head as she hurried out of the door. Cameras flashed, and she stumbled down the steps. A label.
She scowled, wiping the tears from her eyes. She’d always hated labels.
Chapter 29
Darcy focused on mundane tasks: laundry, mopping, polishing, even though Gladys had done a good job. Snow had fluttered down from the late-February sky. She tried to ignore the gnawing clench in her stomach and the flutter of excitement from replayed moments. Over and over, she replayed Kate’s eyes filled with hurt. She’d been honest—what more did Kate want? Did she truly expect some public announcement? Did she think that she was in a romance novel?
As she vacuumed the stairs, the evening dusk eased in until she needed to flick on the hallway light. She sighed and flicked the wires around the vacuum cleaner and stared up at the nautical barometer on the wall. Duplicitous. Her father had been two different people. He’d flitted from one home to another with no thought of the damage. She’d hated him for it, never spoke to him again for it. So then, why did it feel as if she had become him?
“Honey,” Zoë said as she strode into the hallway, shaking off her coat. “You gonna make me a coffee? It’s freezing out.”
Susannah trudged in behind her and shook the snow out of her hair. “I’ll get it.” She walked over, kissed Darcy on the cheek, and looked at her like she was some kind of hero. “Is Kate in the kitchen?”
Yes, the same look Darcy had gazed up at her father with. Would Susannah come to hate her as much? “No, she went out.”
Susannah nodded and waltzed off, bouncing as she went. Made a nice change from the skulking teenager.
“What did you do?” Zoë let out a long sigh and took the vacuum cleaner from her.
“What do you mean?” Why did Zoë have to pick up on everything? Wasn’t it bad enough she knew her so well? Why did she have to prove that every five seconds?
“Housework.” Zoë tapped the vacuum cleaner. “You only do the housework when you’re stewing.”
“I am not stewing.” Much. “Now, why are you here? Shouldn’t you be at the apartment or with that twig of yours?”
Zoë raised an eyebrow. “We’re attending your book launch. If you can call someone else writing your words your work.”
Darcy frowned. She headed to the calendar in the kitchen—some things from her mother were embedded—and chewed on her lip. “Marge wants it as part of the program.”
“Yeah. So where’s Kate? Need me to go offer ice?” Zoë’s tone was far too teasing. Darcy tensed. Susannah raised her eyebrows. She dropped the spoon in the cups, making coffee jump up at her, and Zoë laughed. “You know, in case you socked her one?”
Susannah sniggered and seemed to discount any assumptions. “Hope you took your ring off first, or she’ll get a scar like Marshall.”
Darcy glared at Zoë.
Zoë studied her, then scowled. “Oh, you didn’t mess it up already?”
“Excuse me?” She heard the irritation in her voice. Odd. Sounded like Zoë had hit a sore spot.
“You did, didn’t you?” Zoë threw her hands in the air. “The woman goes and says she loves you to millions of viewers, and, what, you tell her you gotta be some fake face?”
“It’s none of your business what I told her.” She turned from Zoë and headed into the hallway. She would have to dress, find something fitting for the occasion. She needed a shower. How could she have forgotten?
“Not my business?” Zoë stormed after her and caught her elbow. “You gonna shove me out the door again too?”
“You walked out of your own accord.” And her voice was getting higher. Silly to rise to baiting. Calm. “I didn’t shove you anywhere.”
“No?” Zoë gripped her by the arms. “Just because you don’t say the words out loud doesn’t mean you aren’t saying it with your eyes.” She flicked her hand toward the door. “What you tell her? She gotta shut up and put up?”
“Yes.” Her voice had a gritty sound. She rubbed at her throat. Needed a lemon tea, yes. Would do no good to read from a book when she was hoarse.
“Are you stupid?” Zoë gripped her arms tighter like she wanted to shake the sense into her. “Someone actually loves you for the bitch you are and you send her running?”
“She doesn’t know me.” And that was a growl. She shrugged Zoë off and stomped to the stairs. And the temper was bubbling. “You don’t know me.”
“Don’t I?” Zoë stomped up after her. “You gonna lie to yourself about that too? You gonna lie and say that your mom didn’t take it out on you that your dad was a slimeball?” She stomped closer. “You gonna lie and say that you couldn’t bear the family who took you in when your mom died, that you couldn’t bear the thought of playing the same play your parents did? You gonna be a fake or a failure like them?” She stepped into her space. “You gonna lie and say that watching me and Kate walk out the door didn’t rip a hole right through you?”
Smack. She slapped Zoë across the cheek.
Zoë blinked.
Susannah put her hands over her mouth at the bottom of the stairs. Wonderful. Not only was she her father, but she’d added in her mother too.
“You have no idea what you did to me, walking away,” she whispered, glaring into Zoë’s eyes. Blurry. Tears? That was helpful. What did crying solve? “You broke me.”
Zoë’s eyes glinted. “You broke me first.”
“So let the girl go home when the show’s done and save her the trouble of a broken heart.” She turned and strode up the stairs. The best way not to be her parents was to ensure no one had to live with her scars.
Chapter 30
Kate wandered up and down the riverbank of the murky, swirling Thames. Snow filled the air, and people hunched over, hurrying home from work or scurrying from the bus to the shop or Tube stations. It was so different to Wales. People smiled or said hello in Wales. They didn’t have to know you. But in London—maybe because everything about it felt so cold—people seemed harsher, unfriendly, suspicious. The metal lampposts speared into the snowy mist and glinted in an eerie glow that cast itself over the Gothic stone architecture of Westminster to the fairground ride of the London Eye. She passed the crowds lined up to see buildings from a glass bubble, and her heart sank with a swell of loneliness. Stupid to fall in love with someone she didn’t know. Stupid to think someone like Darcy could love her. What had she been thinking?
“Kate?” Some woman called out. Sounded older. She turned over her shoulder. Who did she know in London?
The woman was in her fifties, perhaps—big, thick, puffy jacket and a big beaming smile on her face. Her two friends, also ladies around the same age in matching puffy coats, waved and pulled out their phones.
“Ooh, it is you!” The woman hurried over and peered at her like she was in exhibit. Er, h
ad they taken a wrong turn in the museum? “Can we have a picture?”
“Sure.” She held out her hand. Maybe they just wanted someone to get the London Eye in the background. “You want to huddle together?”
The woman laughed. “No, we want a picture with you.” She pulled out her phone and shoved a selfie-stick in it. “That okay?”
Surrounded by three puffer jackets, what could she say? At least it was warm. “Um…okay?” Maybe they knew Mum?
“You were so brave.” One of the friends said. “You bared your heart, you did, and I hope Darcy appreciated it.” She bumped Kate’s shoulder with hers. “Not sure she’s on your team, though.”
The other friend leaned across the front of Kate and poked her friend. “She’d be lucky to have her, Bev.” She grinned up at Kate. “I’m as straight as they come, and I’d have had a moment over that.” She chuckled a husky chuckle. “So romantic.”
The first woman nodded. “Me too. We loved the show before, but it’s miles better with you in it.”
They pointed up to the camera and Kate faked her best smile. Weird. That’s what this conversation was: weird. It was the kind that Mum had with her mates out shopping or at whatever faddy exercise class they were into.
“You know, Wardie loved the bra,” the second friend said with a titter. “I said to him, ‘Luv, if my boobs weren’t hitting my kneecaps, I’d stick one on for you.’”
The first friend reached across Kate and patted the other friend, howling with laughter. “Oh, my Bill goes all silent when you’re on, Kate. He’s got the hots for you, he has.”
“Don’t blame him,” the first woman said, squeezing Kate’s arm. “You’re a looker, you are.”
The three women giggled.
Oh wow. This was just getting weirder. Now she had images of large breasts drooping into a lacy bra, some man having the hots for her, and the three women heckling her about it. A flash popped again. She clamped her eyes shut. Ow. She scowled through the blue dots at some guy with a camera. He’d been following her? Yeah, she’d seen him behind her a few times.
“Did you get to talk to her?” the first woman asked, focus on her. “I heard she was sick.”
The second friend frowned. “I heard she went over that Gregory what’s-his-name’s house. There were pictures of her.”
The first friend “shh’d” her and glanced up at Kate. “Nonsense. She’s better than him.”
“She was better than that Marshall bloke too,” the second friend shot back. “Didn’t stop her holidaying with him in the Canaries, did it?”
All three looked to her like they wanted an answer, and the guy with the camera’s flash popped again. Right, should she answer? What did she say? Yes, she just spent the night with her, and then Darcy had treated her like a fling? That she’d felt so…important? Special? Cherished? Then, come the morning, like some cheap tart with just a simple conversation.
“Hey, Kate!” a guy yelled out from the queue to the London Eye. “I’ll marry you!”
A few people from the queue looked over, then grinned. Some just stared from the guy to Kate.
“Kate, did she tell you she loves you back?” another guy asked, walking up to her with a group of tourists with backpacks. “Does she love you?”
“Kate? Hey, that’s Kate Bonvilston!” someone else yelled, and people turned to fix on her. Creeped forward toward her.
“Kate, can I have your autograph?” From the left.
“Selfie? I want a selfie.” From the right.
Flash popped.
“Kate, we love Mikey. Will you tell him?” Right. Left. Front. Back. People moving at her, towards her. The three women bustled closer. Flash popped again. Crowd around her, tugging at her for attention. She stumbled backward. Wow, why were they so set on her? What did a picture with her mean? She wasn’t anyone.
“Kate, you think you have a chance with her?” Flash popped again. “You think some dog-faced stalker like you will get her attention?” Flash popped more. Blue shapes. Blinding light. “Come on, Kate, smile for the camera.”
She stumbled towards the road, and a car screeched to a halt. The door opened. Zoë grabbed her and yanked her inside, and the car screeched off.
“Are you trying to get mobbed?” Zoë muttered at her, checking her over. “Great, they ripped your jeans.”
She righted herself. “Why were they so crazy?”
“Are you kidding? You got more hits than the national soccer team.” Zoë rubbed at her shoulders. “You must be freezing.”
“Huh, yeah.” She was shaking, she knew that much. Crazy flipping people. “I don’t get it.”
“I know.” Zoë met her eyes. “Look, Darcy is like a national institution. An international star. Not only that, everyone knows her. If they know Gucci or Dolce and Gabbana, Calvin Klein underwear, Hilfiger, not to mention any beauty product, she’s been their face. Everyone knows her face.” She leaned in and tapped her on the forehead. “The show is just small fries to her.”
“I get that. If they were mobbing her, I’d get that.” She frowned. “Why me?”
“She’s been that face, that personality, that poise, since she was sixteen. No one gets to see beyond the veneer. No one.” Zoë sighed and sat back, smiling at the driver. “You, you just dismantled her in front of millions of eager viewers.”
“I didn’t. She’s been the same.” Hadn’t she? Darcy was as she always was: professional, edged with bitchy, glossed over with a stunning smile.
“No. No one has ever seen that much personality from her. I can’t remember when I did.” Zoë smiled at her as the driver roared them through the lightening traffic. “You got through the chink.”
Kate laughed. Sounded confused and shaky. “I got a spiel telling me to keep my mouth shut or I could walk.”
“You got a defensive reaction to the fact she let you stay over.” Zoë stared out at the passing shops, the people, the buses. “She flipped when I pressed her this afternoon.”
“She did?” When did Darcy ever show more than a prickle of irritation?
“Yeah. She slapped me.” Zoë wheezed out a breath. “She even managed to cry in front of me. That’s something I haven’t seen in a long time.”
Darcy had cried? That hurt. That dug into her aching stomach and cramped it up. “I didn’t mean to make her cry.”
Zoë met her eyes. “It means she cares. She can’t hide that she cares.” She nodded to the crowd of people outside some building and the red string barrier. “And she needs you.”
Kate rolled her eyes. “The show needs me to show up. Darcy McGregor doesn’t need anything from me.” So Zoë had rescued her to drag her back in to play nice. Great. “I don’t want to play nice.”
Zoë nodded, understanding in her eyes. “So don’t.” She held the door handle. “I let her get away with it. You don’t have to.”
“If you couldn’t get through to her, what chance do I have?” She folded her arms. No, she couldn’t. She couldn’t be beaten by Darcy’s smile, her shimmering look, her kiss, her icy barbs.
“More than you realise.” Zoë smiled at her and squeezed her hand. “You know, she spent three years writing this stupid book.” She glanced out at the crowd. “I know what it’s about, but when did book launches ever look like that?”
“I can think of a few, but not nonfiction.” She shrugged. She read a lot. She wasn’t one for book launches, though. She downloaded books. Quicker.
“Exactly.” Zoë squeezed her hand once more. “And she needs you here personally right now. Forget the show. The book is really important to her.”
She’d never heard Darcy mention it. She gazed at Zoë in disbelief.
“Yeah, if she’s silent about it, it means something.” Zoë shoved open the door and held out her hand. “If you get out, my wife may not beat me.”
Kate sighed and to
ok her hand. Flash, flash, flash. Calls, cheers. “I really dislike attention,” she muttered as Zoë led her along the carpet.
“Wave and smile, honey.” Zoë flashed dazzling smiles at the cameras. “Just wave, smile, and walk on.”
Kate waved, must have looked pathetic—elbow clamped to her side and a flap of her hand. Should she go for a Queen-style wave? That’d look crazy.
“You look like you’re at the dentist,” Zoë said with a chuckle. “Wave!” She grabbed Kate’s arm and thrust it into the air. “Smile like you aren’t freezing.”
“I have a hole in the backside of my jeans,” she muttered back. Hadn’t the cameras seen enough of her underwear?
“Wear it like no one is looking,” Zoë whispered and ushered her along the row of people all yelling and thrusting microphones at them. Zoë chatted and charmed. The interviewers loved her.
Kate stepped back as Zoë engaged the camera, and she snuck in through the doors. Wearing things like people weren’t looking was for models. She was not a model.
Susannah spotted her and smiled, beckoning her over with a wave. Darcy stood chatting to another interviewer inside and glanced over. Her eyes filled with relief. Was it relief? Her shoulders eased downward like it was. Kate sighed and nodded, hoping Darcy couldn’t see the hole in her jeans. Not a model, no, but she would grin and bear it for now.
Chapter 31
Darcy fiddled with the ring on her finger. The large bookstore, one of only few remaining, was filled with celebrities, with VIPs, reviewers, a camera crew reporting for some entertainment channel, Marge and a skeleton crew for the show, Zoë, Blanche, Susannah…and Kate. Why was she here? Her tone had been quite clear that she wasn’t going to put up with being discreet. Why was she acting like they hadn’t argued? And why were her jeans missing an entire back pocket? Had Zoë abducted her?
“You ready?” her agent, Paul, asked with a smile. He’d been stunned when he’d read her manuscript—as if being beautiful meant her brain had fallen out. Zoë was sure she’d just hired a ghostwriter and lied. She rolled her eyes. Zoë would have done that. Not Darcy. It was too…exposing to have someone dig at her private thoughts.
