by Karen Swan
‘Half ten last night. Got the red eye from New York. D’you sleep well?’
She shook her head. ‘Jetlag. I’d forgotten it’s such a killer.’
She sat the children at the far end of the table with Cress’s lot, who were sitting with Greta.
Mark poured her a juice. ‘What time were you awake?’
‘Four.’
‘Ouch.’
‘Yuh! How are you, Cress?’ Tor asked, as she took her seat. ‘Still got that headache? You know she’s been getting these headaches?’ she directed to Mark.
‘No,’ Mark said, mildly irritated. ‘Since when? You didn’t say anything,’ he said accusingly to Cress.
Cress just winced and waved his questions away. The pressure in her head had intensified to the degree that she kept seeing black screens after she blinked, and it hurt her to move or turn.
‘I think you need to see a doctor, Cress,’ Tor said, putting her hand on her friend’s. She knew she wouldn’t have slept a wink last night, worrying what Harry’s next move would be. ‘It’s clear you’re in pain.’
‘It’s just jetlag, I’m fine,’ Cress dismissed, pulling herself up a little so as not to look quite so feeble, but the scrape of a nearby chair against the floor made her drop her head again in agony. They all looked over, and saw James holding Amelia Abingdon’s chair for her as she sat down.
Tor immediately looked away. Cress’s head was back in her hands.
‘Right, that’s enough. You’re going to lie down. You’re in no fit state to be up. Come on.’
She looked at Mark, feeling inexplicably cross that he wasn’t doing more to look after his wife. ‘Mark, is it OK if I leave the kids here with you for a second? They’ll be fine with croissants and juice.’
‘Yes, no problem. We’ll be OK, won’t we, Greta?’
‘Sure,’ Greta smiled, giving Mark a satisfied look. He held her gaze openly. ‘The more children, the better.’ She had long since learnt that to win out over Cress she had to compete not as a woman, but as a mother.
Cress winced again.
‘Come on.’ Tor took Cress by the arm and led her towards the lobby.
‘Heard from Harry?’ Tor whispered, trying to find a route that would subtly lead them away from James’s table.
‘No. Doubt I will either.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, the manuscript may be back in his possession but what’s he going to do to me? If he reveals my lies, he has to reveal his own, and he certainly can’t afford to take that chance. If anyone ever found out he didn’t write Scion, he’d be destroyed. All yesterday means is that he’s broken free. Stolen back his freedom. He’ll terminate his contract with Sapphire and move on to bigger and better, and I won’t be able to stop him. Not now that I don’t have any proof.’
‘What will happen to Sapphire when he goes?’ Tor asked, realizing there was no way around the tables without doubling back on themselves. They would have to go straight past James.
‘Well, we’ve still got one lifeline. The Wrong Prince is well on course to become a global best-seller and the film rights have just been negotiated. That deal alone is worth about eight million dollars to us, so we won’t be left completely high and dry.’
Tor steeled herself to give a cursory nod as they passed, but James stood up.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, concerned, as he saw Cress’s evident pain.
‘I’m fine. It’s just a hangover,’ Cress dismissed.
‘Must be pretty bad,’ he said, unconvinced. His eyes slid over to Tor and she looked away. Amelia was watching.
‘It’s my advanced age,’ Cress said caustically.
‘Tor, I’m so pleased to see you,’ Amelia said, awkwardly getting to her feet too. ‘I’ve been so keen to meet up with you. I sent you a postcard but . . . it must have got lost in the post.’
Tor felt her smile freeze. ‘Yes, it must have,’ she said weakly.
Amelia looked down at her bump and shrugged. ‘I need a nursery,’ she said almost apologetically. ‘Quite urgently.’
‘I can see that! When are you due?’
‘The day before yesterday.’
‘Oh!’ Tor paused, thinking back. ‘But didn’t you say you wanted to do up the place in Pimlico?’ she asked.
‘I do! I know it’s crazy me being out here this late in the pregnancy, but – it’s the Best Actress award! I may never be nominated again.’ She shrugged. ‘And anyway, I’ve got James on tap, so I’m in safe hands.’
‘That you are,’ Tor said casually, not daring to look at him. His hair was still wet from the shower, a droplet of water trickling down his cheek towards his lip.
Lucky droplet, she thought, before she could catch herself.
She steeled herself to stay in NCT mummy mode. ‘How are you feeling? Any aches yet?’
‘Not yet, thank heavens. I just need a couple extra hours . . .’ She crossed her fingers. ‘And then this baby can come.’
‘The organizers must be having kittens you’ll go into labour.’
Amelia shrugged. ‘They’re quite used to it, actually. Rachel Weisz, Catherine Zeta Jones, Annette Bening – they all attended ready to drop.’
‘Oh yes. So they did.’
Amelia paused. ‘I don’t suppose – I don’t suppose you’ve got a minute to come to my room and just look at some swatches I’ve got.’
Tor shrugged apologetically. ‘I’ve really got to get Cress back to bed. She’s dead on her feet.’
‘I’ll take you,’ James offered, smiling at Cress. ‘I owe you.’
‘No you don’t,’ she said, but he took her arm anyway and led her to the lifts.
‘You really should stay and have your breakfast,’ Tor said to Amelia, aware she sounded like a midwife.
‘I’ll have them send it up,’ she said casually. ‘It’s more important I get your expert eye on my curtain fabrics. I’m a total disaster when it comes to colours and things.’
‘I don’t believe that,’ Tor said generously. As much as she didn’t want to like Amelia, she did. It was damned annoying.
They rode up in the lifts, stopping on the eighth floor, where they all got out. There were only four suites on the floor. James took Cress to her room, while Tor and Amelia carried on to hers, the Emperor Suite.
The door was opened for them by the – legitimate – butler as they approached.
‘Oh, Stephen, would you mind awfully arranging for my breakfast to be sent up here after all?’ Amelia said smilingly, without stopping.
The door closed behind them and Tor tried not to gawp as she took in the unrestrained opulence. She’d never seen such lavishness. It was like a mini Versailles. An eight-foot crystal chandelier hung from the domed ceiling in the hall, with arched double doors leading off from all sides, the floor hewn from tumbled marble.
A ten-foot mirror hung on one wall, and Tor saw her hair had dried into natural waves. She put a hand to her face, feeling conspicuously bare of make-up and out of place.
‘Come through,’ Amelia called from the drawing room. Tor walked in and her gasps finally escaped her. Bouquets and sprays of flowers were absolutely everywhere. It was as though the walls were hung with petals, with Lalique vases of yellow, cream, white and red roses standing proud against the more eclectic irises, camellias, orchids and tuberose. The air was heady with their scent.
Stephen came in.
‘A call for you, Miss Abingdon. It’s Mr Howard.’
Amelia’s shoulders slumped. ‘Sorry. Do you mind if I take this? I’ll only be a few minutes.’
Tor raised her hands. ‘No, of course not.’
Tor stood in the middle of the flowers, wondering how on earth she found herself in this position – standing in the middle of Amelia Abingdon’s suite on the day of the Oscars, discovering Cress had been blackmailing Harry Hunter, that Harry was an absolute fraud, that he’d robbed Cress . . . She shook her head and checked her watch.
Oh God! It was nearly nine. She ha
d to be at Harry’s apartment by ten. The Reynolds was arriving today, and as his representative to sign on the dotted line at Bonham’s, she was the only one authorized to receive it. The last thing she wanted now was to help out Harry – to work for him – but the security for flying it over from London had been shocking and she knew there’d be so much more hassle if she didn’t just receive the damned thing.
‘Psst.’
Tor spun around.
James was leaning against a doorway, one ankle crossed over the other. His hair had dried and he was staring at her with an intensity that just about made her clothes fall off.
‘James!’ she cried. ‘Is Cress OK?’ she managed.
‘No. But she won’t let me examine her. She’s still maintaining it’s a hangover.’
He stared at her but said nothing. Cress would have to wait.
‘Come over here. I’ve got something for you,’ he said instead.
Tor didn’t move.
‘Come on. I won’t bite,’ he smiled, and she hated the teensy little voice in her head that rather wished he would, that it could be fun . . .
He moved into the bedroom behind him and Tor tentatively followed, telling herself, ‘He’s a lying bastard, he’s a lying bastard, he’s a . . .’
His dinner suit – that one he always looked so damned good in – was hanging on the wardrobe door. She looked around to see if she could see Amelia’s dress, or, even better, her jewels – they were bound to be priceless – but they were nowhere to be seen. In fact, there was no evidence of Amelia anywhere in the room at all. She has a separate dressing room, Tor thought, peeved.
He held out a large flat parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. ‘This is for you,’ he said quietly.
Tor looked at him, steeling herself to say what she had to say. ‘I don’t want anything from you, James. I thought I made that clear.’
He winced. ‘Please, Tor. Just look at it, at least,’ he said finally.
She moved forward and took the package. James sat down on the bed and looked up at her, watching the confusion and conflict cross her face.
She bit her lip and slowly removed the string. She peeled back the paper and gasped with surprise as she saw the oil of the three children playing on the beach.
‘I can’t accept this!’ she cried.
‘Please, Tor,’ he urged.
‘But – but how did you even know?’
He paused for a moment, leaning back on his elbows. ‘I was there,’ he said simply. ‘I saw you sitting with Anna. And when I saw your face light up at this, I knew I had to get it for you.’
‘I don’t know what to say,’ she murmured. No one had ever done anything like this for her before. She just wasn’t that sort of woman.
‘Don’t say anything,’ James said, encouraged by her fluster. He couldn’t believe she was here, so close. He got up and stood in front of her, pushing a tendril of hair back behind her ear, cupping her face, forcing her to look at him. He was just inches away and she gave a little shiver as she tried to focus and resist and remember why it was that this shouldn’t be happening. But she was just so tired. And he made it impossible for her to think when he insisted upon looking at her like that with those dark, dark eyes. And his hands, which were sliding slowly down her arms – she didn’t remember them being so big, or so warm, or so very dextrous . . .
There was a sudden knock at the door and Tor leapt away.
‘Sorry to interrupt, Mr White, but I’m afraid Miss Abingdon needs you.’
Tor saw James’s jaw clench with frustration.
‘She thinks her waters may just have broken,’ he added with impressive understatement, as James failed to move.
James put his hands on his hips and dropped his head. ‘Christ! Timing.’
The momentary interruption was all Tor needed to gather her wits about her.
‘I was just leaving,’ Tor said primly to Stephen. She walked past James but he grabbed her arm and held her fast.
‘Please, Tor! Stay here,’ he said urgently. ‘We need to talk. We have got to clear things up. Just give me a couple of minutes.’
‘I’ll hand it to you, James, you’re very good,’ Tor said calmly, tossing the painting on to the bed. ‘The expensive painting, the flash suite. Pregnant girlfriend in the other room! Oops, how easy it is to forget,’ she said sarcastically. ‘Just what is it you think you’re doing with me, James? Why do you keep chasing me? You’ve already had me. Wasn’t that the point? Or did the fact that I threw you out mean I was a new challenge all over again?’
‘Pregnant girlfriend? But Tor, she’s not my girlfri––’
He was cut short by Amelia giving out a cry that even James, in all his desperation, couldn’t ignore. He stood there staring at Tor for a couple of seconds, then marched across the room and picked up his doctor’s bag.
‘We need to talk about this properly. You’ve got it all wrong,’ he tried, as Amelia’s whimpers carried across the hall.
‘I’m really not interested in hearing more excuses from you, James,’ she said bleakly, heading towards the door. ‘It’s never going to happen. There’s too much that’s wrong.’
‘But we’re not together,’ he called after her.
But she kept on walking.
‘Damn it, Tor!’ he shouted angrily, punching the door in frustration. He dropped his head back against the door frame and tried to get it together. But the sight of her walking away from him again . . .
With a shaking hand, Tor pressed the down button. The lift doors pinged open almost immediately and she practically fell in, relieved and devastated to have escaped.
Chapter Fifty-two
‘Come on baby,’ Kate said huskily, straddling Harry as he sat at the desk, and pushing her luscious breasts in his face. ‘It’s been nearly a week. You’re driving me crazy,’ she pouted, raking her hands through his hair, nibbling on his ear, her hands wandering all over his chest and down, trying to wake him up and get him going.
God, it was hard work these days. How the tables had turned! With the pregnancy well established, her hormones were rampaging through her and Harry couldn’t be less enthused.
‘Kate, look . . .’ He tried to look around her at his notes. He’d been working on it for hours, but he still couldn’t get his acceptance speech quite right. ‘Not now, OK?’
‘But I can’t wait any longer. You’ve got me too wet for you,’ she said, taking him in her hand and whispering filth in his ear to turn him on. He loved that. She felt him harden but it was still against his will.
‘S’not the time, Kate, OK? . . . Later . . . I promise.’ But his breathing was becoming ragged as her hands became more insistent.
‘That’s what you always say,’ she said, pushing a magnificent breast towards his mouth. ‘Come on, baby, let’s go,’ she said, her breath getting quicker with her hands. She lowered herself down on him and threw her head back, her feet resting on the sides of the chair. She wasn’t going to let him get away this time.
She wound her fingers in his hair and felt his hands pulling down on her shoulders, forcing her down on him, harder, faster, faster, faster.
He groaned just as she couldn’t keep her own eyes open any longer and she buried her face in his neck, relieved, relaxed, sated.
‘Well now, isn’t that better?’ she said finally, a wicked grin on her face. She leaned back on the desk triumphantly, her elbow knocking some papers on to the floor.
‘Look what you’ve done!’ he said angrily, grabbing her around the waist and hoisting her off him.
‘Oh, lighten up, Harry!’ Kate retorted, stung by how little effect their lovemaking had had on his mood. ‘I’ll deal with it for you. Look! I’m picking them up. It’s no big deal.’ She scooped a handful of the papers into a messy pile.
‘They weren’t like that – I had them . . . Oh, just give them to me!’ Harry fumed.
‘Uh-uh-uh. Not until you chill out.’ Kate held the papers above her head, a coquettish smil
e on her face.
‘I’m not in the mood for this, Kate. I just want to get this speech written. Just give me the bloody papers.’
Kate waggled the papers but didn’t hand them back.
Harry got up from the desk but she scampered behind the armchair cheekily. ‘Come and get them,’ she smiled, ducking and weaving as Harry snatched at her.
‘Now, Kate! I mean it.’
Kate made a dash for the door, but Harry was too quick for her and he grabbed her elbow, jerking her backwards roughly and causing the papers to scatter wildly around the room again.
‘Jesus, Harry!’ Kate cried, rubbing her wrenched arm, shocked by his roughness. ‘What’s the matter with you? You could have hurt the baby.’
‘The baby, the sodding baby! That’s all you bloody think about,’ he said sharply. He sat back down at the desk with his back to her.
Kate tied her dressing-gown tightly around her and sat quietly on the edge of the armchair for a moment. She knew he was under the most enormous stress.
There was no doubt Emily had scored a knockout. Kate had completely underestimated her. She’d been so immersed in her own personal life, she’d taken her eye off the ball.
But it wasn’t the many sordid and lascivious details of the statutory rape allegations being spelled out that were such a problem. It was that they had collectively forced a sea-change and turned the public mood. Harry had morphed from fallen angel – flawed but gilded – to national disgrace, and the dramas that had once titillated the public now appalled them.
The broadsheets’ reporting of his civil action against James – who was defended mightily as the esteemed royal physician – painted Harry as pernicious and vindictive, and set the new moral tone, adding momentum to the campaign to make an example out of him and have him prosecuted, if not by Emily, then by the CPS.
Usually Kate would have been on the phone, calmly threatening to hang an editor by his balls, all the while munching on a croissant. But stuck here in LA, she was eight hours behind everyone else. The day’s news was chip wrappings by the time she found out about it, and Moreton’s were pushing her ever more out of the loop. She was barely consulted on anything now, and when they did contact her, it was as the client, not the brief.
