He put his hand over Stella’s and looked into her eyes.
‘I’ve been talking with the agency and they reckon that if my career is going to take off Stateside then I need to decamp over there for a little while. I mean it makes sense, doesn’t it? I’ve no idea how Jude Law managed to be so bloody successful living in London.’
Stella looked at him aghast, her happy mood starting to crumble.
‘LA? But what about us? You know my work is here!’
‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ he said handing his black AMEX card to the waiter. ‘What about going back to Cate Glazer?’
She jerked her hand away from his, sending a dessert fork clattering to the floor.
‘First, leaving Milford isn’t an option,’ she snapped, ‘and second, you know how miserable I was at Cate’s.’
‘What about my career?’ he pouted, ‘in twelve months I’ll be rich enough for you never to have to work again.’
‘Aren’t we the progressive husband?’ she said tartly.
‘Fiancé,’ replied Johnny. ‘We’re not in any rush to get married, are we?’
Stella glared at him.
‘The way you’ve been acting tonight it’s as if you don’t want to get married at all.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. I just think with my career taking off, there’s no big hurry is there? And anyway, you know how birds get if they think their heartthrob is completely off the market. At least if you’re only engaged they still think they’re in with a chance. We want to keep the box-office receipts rolling in, don’t we?’
Stella stood up, throwing her napkin down on the table.
‘I’m going home,’ she said shaking her head incredulously.
‘Keep your voice down,’ he hissed. ‘I’m coming with you.’
They drove back to Stella’s house in silence. Once inside, Johnny took off his coat, flung it over the sofa and flopped down in an armchair.
‘You do understand where I’m coming from,’ he said finally. She looked at him and almost laughed at his beautiful, insolent good looks. He was so self-assured, so self-confident, so selfish. He really didn’t think she would mind.
‘Of course I understand,’ she said quietly, too tired and disappointed to argue with him any longer. She walked into the kitchen to make some coffee and noticed her answerphone was flashing red. She pressed the button.
‘Stella, it’s your father. Please call me.’
Stella looked at the machine, puzzled.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Johnny, kicking off his shoes.
‘My dad,’ she replayed the message. ‘He sounded upset. I should call him back.’
Johnny swung his feet onto the coffee table and switched on the TV.
‘Sure, babe, bring us a beer first, eh?’ he called, not taking his eyes off the screen. Stella threw him a bottle, slightly harder than was necessary, and took the cordless phone into the kitchen.
‘Dad. It’s me. Sorry it’s late but I think you called earlier. I forgot to take my mobile out with me.’
There was a long silence.
‘She’s left me, Stell.’
Stella felt a flood of panic. ‘Who’s left you, Dad?’ knowing the answer to her question before she’d even asked.
‘Chessie,’ he croaked.
‘But she’s seven months pregnant,’ said Stella, doing a quick calculation on her fingertips. ‘She can’t leave you now.’
‘She can and she has and she wants half the house. I’m going to have to sell Trencarrow.’
Stella felt a hot flush of rage.
‘She can’t have Trencarrow!’ she snapped. ‘You’ve been there forever, it’s your home! God, she’s such a gold-digging cow.’
‘Stella, please. That’s unfair.’
‘Whose side are you on?’ she exploded. ‘She’s trying to take you for every penny you have and you’re defending her?’
She could hear a faint echo down the phone; either it was a very poor line or he was crying.
‘Dad, please. Come on, everything is going to be all right,’ she said, feeling helpless, guilty and sad, wishing she could be there with him to nurse him with a hot toddy and a hug.
‘Yes,’ he said so faintly she could barely hear it.
‘I’m going to come down tomorrow.’
‘Please don’t. I want to be on my own.’
‘Dad. I’m coming. I’ll call you tomorrow. You just try to get some sleep, OK? I love you.’
Stella hung up the phone gently, thinking of her father all alone in his dark farmhouse in Cornwall.
‘What did he want?’ asked Johnny, taking a long swig of beer and glancing away from a boxing match on television.
‘Chessie’s left him,’ said Stella softly.
Johnny looked up and seeing the expression on her face, turned down the sound.
‘Shit. What does that mean?’
‘It means he’s heartbroken,’ snapped Stella. ‘It means he’s going to lose the house he loves.’
‘Well, I hope it doesn’t mean that you’re going to have to look after him.’ He took another swig of beer and turned back to gaze at the TV. ‘I’m dreading it when my folks start getting really old, although my dad took so many drugs in the Seventies he’ll probably cark it before he’s sixty.’
She sat down on the arm of the sofa and looked at Johnny. It was just typical of him to turn the conversation around to himself.
‘Well, I’m going to have to go to him,’ she said. ‘He sounded distraught.’
‘What about his other kids?’
‘My stepbrother and – sister live in Scotland. I haven’t seen them in ten years. I’ll speak to them tomorrow but they are both pretty useless. They see Dad less than I do.’
Hearing the wobble in her voice, Johnny finally put down his beer and moved over to her, putting an arm around her shoulders.
‘But baby, it’s only fair you share the load, you can’t take the weight of everyone’s troubles on your shoulders. Just because you’re a wonderful person, don’t let people take advantage of you.’
‘He’s my father and his wife has left him,’ said Stella firmly. ‘That’s hardly taking advantage.’ She was beginning to realize that Johnny wasn’t thinking about the situation entirely altruistically. She looked at him, her eyes pleading.
‘Can we drive down tomorrow in your car? Mine is in the garage having a service.’
‘To St Ives?’ said Johnny, frowning. ‘Out of the question, honey. It’s at least four hours each way and it’s my mum and dad’s dinner party tomorrow night. Sam Mendes is going to be there, I can’t miss that, can I?’
Stella stood up, shrugging his arm off. She was losing patience rapidly.
‘You don’t have to come,’ she said. ‘Can’t I just borrow the car?’
‘But I need you to come to the dinner,’ said Johnny, a little whine entering his voice, ‘my mum will get so pissy if you don’t come, she wants to hear all about the Vanity Fair shoot. Surely we can drive down to your dad’s on Monday? I’ll be free for the week then unless I get a recall for filming.’
‘You selfish bastard,’ snapped Stella. ‘A dinner party! You think a bloody meal’s more important than my father?’
Johnny stood up and moved towards her, his arms open.
‘Stell, come on. You’re upset. We’ll go first thing Monday and I’ll stay as long as you like.’
‘Oh, just leave me alone,’ she said shaking her head angrily as she stalked towards the bedroom. ‘I’m going to bed – you can sleep in the spare room.’
‘For fuck’s sake,’ he muttered under his breath, turning the television back up again. ‘Moody, bloody women.’
It was pitch black when she awoke. Stella turned on the lamp and glanced at her watch. Four a.m. Her head was pounding and her mouth was dry. Desperate for a glass of water and an aspirin she got out of bed, peeping into the spare bedroom before she went downstairs. Johnny was fast asleep, snoring lightly, a long, tanned leg peeking from u
nder the duvet. She longed to climb under the covers with him but shook the thought off. If he thinks he can get around me that way, he can think again.
She walked into the kitchen, now fully awake and feeling unaccountably anxious. Knowing she wouldn’t be able to fall back to sleep, she drank the water and went over to the computer in the living room to check train times to St Ives. She kept all the lights off except for a small lamp; she didn’t want to wake Johnny and spark another confrontation. After a few minutes she heard a low insistent beep coming from somewhere in the room. She tracked it down to Johnny’s coat on the sofa: the beep indicating an unread text. Curiosity needled her. Who would text Johnny in the middle of the night? Knowing it was wrong, she pressed the ‘read’ button on the phone.
Left you a message. Must speak to confirm a few details before we run story. Elsa x
She stared at the phone, feeling nausea rising from the pit of her stomach. Elsa? What story? Elsa. Elsa. She’d met a reporter called Elsa at the Dugdale Festival in the summer, a pretty showbiz writer for the Sunday Herald. Elsa x. That kiss was familiar: far too familiar for her liking. Feeling guilty at the intrusion, but needing to know, Stella dialled 1-2-1 to listen to his messages.
‘Message left at 1.35 a.m., 25 November.’
‘Hi Johnny, Elsa here,’ said a bouncy voice. ‘Listen, great to speak earlier. Stella’s dad divorcing – wow! So sorry, but it’s a great tip-off and you know that if you look after us, we’ll look after you. I hope to get the story into Monday’s issue. We want to be the first on this one, so it will probably go in the main paper rather than the showbiz pages. I’m rambling. It’s late. Call me first thing. Need to know how long Chessie and Chris were married for, plus a few details on how cut-up Stella is: “A close friend revealed”, you know the sort of stuff. Anyway, call me. Ciao.’
Stella sat there, stunned in disbelief. If he wanted to peddle stories about himself that was fine, but deeply personal stories about her and her family? The bastard!
‘Get up!’ she hissed, standing over his bed. Johnny groaned and turned away.
‘I said GET UP!’ she yelled, pulling his pillow from under his head.
‘Hey!’ he protested, rolling over and blinking at her, ‘What’s happening?’
His bed-head hair was sexy and tousled, his pale blue eyes squinted at her sleepily.
‘You’ve told the papers about my Father,’ she growled, fury building inside her.
‘What?’ he replied groggily. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Don’t bother fucking denying it!’ she shouted. ‘You phoned that tart Elsa at the Herald! You told her! And what else have you told her? I suppose the pap turning up outside China Tang was your work too? Plus all the other little details of our relationship that seem to get out on a weekly basis.’
Johnny sat against the bedstead and rubbed his face.
‘Don’t be so bloody naïve and hypocritical, Stella,’ he said sharply. ‘You’re quite happy to be one part of the new hot couple, aren’t you? You love the attention, the party invites and the free holidays. And you love being called the new Stella McCartney and getting all that free publicity for Milford. How do you think it happens? Simply by being talented? Grow up. The media creates stars and you have to give them a helping hand. When we’re big enough, established enough, then we hire a publicist to keep the attention away from us but we’re not A-list yet. We need the attention right now, any way we can get it.’
‘Get out,’ she snarled. ‘I’m sick of it – sick of you, sick of your selfishness and sick of your self-obsession.’
He laughed nervously.
‘You’re kicking me out?’
‘It’s over.’
‘Over! What about Vanity Fair?’
‘Get out!’ she screamed, pulling the silver band off her wedding finger, the stand-in ring for the engagement rock he hadn’t quite got around to buying, like all the other things he had never got around to doing, not when there was his career to consider.
‘And by the way,’ she added, ‘your cock is tiny.’
She threw the ring at his chest and stormed out.
After Johnny had called a taxi and retreated to his parents, Stella went back to bed, unable to do anything but cry.
When she finally arose at 11 a.m., red-eyed and exhausted, she went downstairs, opened the French windows and stood outside inhaling the air, oblivious to the cold.
The last thing she felt like was a long train trip to Cornwall; it was going to take nine hours with the sketchy Sunday service. But now she needed to see her father more than ever.
She poured herself a glass of red wine from the bottle that had been left on the coffee table from last night. She was all out of tears. Sinking into an armchair she looked around her; Johnny’s scarf in a corner, the coffee cup he had drunk from the night before, the faint outline of his body on the sofa cushion. Tiny painful reminders of how things were, tiny reminders of how things could change so quickly.
The door bell rang. She took a deep breath and rubbed her eyes before she opened it, expecting it to be Johnny.
Tom Grand was standing at the door. She’d seen him at the Feathers on Friday night and they’d made a vague plan to all have Sunday lunch.
‘I hope I’ve not disturbed you.’
‘No, come in,’ she said with faux verve.
‘I was just passing. Johnny’s not answering his mobile. I was wondering if we were still on for lunch today.’
His smile made her feel less alone.
‘Are you OK?’ said Tom, finally examining her face.
‘Yes.’
‘You’re not.’
‘You’re right,’ she laughed sadly, puffing out her cheeks so they looked like little round apples on her face.
Tom made coffee while she told him what had happened.
She didn’t spare a single detail. She knew Tom was Johnny’s friend but it was cathartic, and anyway, she had always considered Tom to be kind and fair if one of the flakiest men she’d ever met.
‘Johnny’s a twat,’ said Tom angrily, swigging his coffee. ‘As for this Chessie character. Why would she leave her husband, seven months pregnant?’
They both looked at each other. ‘Someone else.’
‘Typically my car is in the garage and the trains are going to take forever.’
‘I can drive you if you want,’ Tom said, shrugging.
‘Are you sure?’ She didn’t know Tom well and it was a big ask, especially as he was Johnny’s friend.
‘You promised me Sunday lunch. We can get it on the way to St Ives.’
45
Cassandra touched back down again in London on Sunday evening and immediately directed her driver to take her straight to Giles’s apartment on a tree-lined street in Chelsea.
‘Cassandra. This is a surprise,’ said Giles, opening the door with a glass of wine in his hand. Over his shoulder, Cassandra could see a grey-haired forty-something man hovering at the kitchen door.
‘This is Stephen, my friend from Norfolk,’ said Giles smiling. ‘We were just about to eat. Squid-ink pasta and scallops: there’s enough for three.’
There was a delicious smell permeating around the flat, but she was in no mood to eulogize about his delicious cuisine.
‘Whatever you’re cooking, I think you’d better turn it off. I’m here to talk not eat.’
‘Is there something wrong?’
She ignored his question and instead walked into the small, immaculately furnished living room, taking a position by the large bay window. Glancing at his friend, Giles followed her and shut the door behind him.
‘Cassandra, what on earth is wrong?’ he said, now looking very concerned.
She stood quietly for a moment, arms folded in front of her chest.
‘You’re fired,’ she said finally.
Giles’s mouth dropped open.
‘Are you joking?’ he stuttered, his face paling.
‘No, Giles, I am not,’ she said simply,
picking up a photo from the window-sill and examining it. Giles sank into a blue leather wing-chair.
‘But why?’
She looked at him, his eyes welling with tears, and felt no pity. She had helped him, trusted him, and this is how he repaid her. It only confirmed to her that her philosophy of life had been correct all along: trust absolutely no one.
‘You knew the Georgia Kennedy shoot was confidential and yet you told Glenda McMahon.’
‘I did not,’ he said quietly. ‘I never would do that.’
She snorted. ‘You were in New York last week. Look me in the eye and tell me you did not visit US Rive.’
Colour had stained his cheeks and his aristocratic façade was visibly shaken.
‘Yes, I went in to see Alannah, the features director. But she’s my friend. We met to go for coffee.’
Cassandra met his gaze full on.
‘Of course,’ she said walking to the door.
Giles sprang from his chair and grabbed her by the arm.
‘I swear I did not tell a soul about the Georgia Kennedy shoot. After all our time working together – after our years of friendship – you should believe me.’
Cassandra snorted. ‘After all my time in the industry, Giles, I believe no one.’
She looked down at his restraining hand until he finally released her, his arm flopping by his side.
‘Goodbye, Giles,’ she said. ‘Enjoy your squid.’
46
Tom drove Stella down to Trencarrow in Julia’s car, fearing his own beaten-up Mini might not make it past Bristol. Stella winced every time Tom lit one of his red label Marlboros, trying not to breathe the noxious fumes that filled the car. But she knew she was in no position to complain. It had been so nice of him to drive her down to her father’s farm in St Ives and he seemed more than willing to listen to her relationship traumas as they hurtled down the A303. It wasn’t until they were passing Stonehenge that Tom finally noticed Stella’s polite coughs.
‘Sorry, are my ciggies bothering you?’ Tom asked, frantically rolling down the window. ‘God, I’m such a selfish pig.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ she smiled. ‘I feel so on edge, I’ve been tempted to bum a fag off you ever since we left Chilcot, even though I haven’t smoked since I was fifteen.’
Guilty Pleasures Page 41
