by Jill Mansell
Erin's heart sank like an anchor. This was what she'd been dreading all week. Anything could happen now.
'What d'you reckon, Barbara? How about this for our Angie's wedding?' A middle-aged woman reverently stroked a pale green matching dress and jacket. 'Lovely material. Here, have a feel. Eighty pounds, but it's Frank Usher. Ooh, I've always wanted an outfit by Frank Usher.'
'Eighty pounds?' Stella clicked her tongue in disbelief. 'I should open a shop like this.' Reaching over to take a closer look at the dress and jacket, she said to the woman, 'It's a pity you didn't try the Salvation Army shop on Hill Street yesterday morning. You could have bought it in there for six pounds fifty.'
Erin's heart dropped still further. The middle-aged woman and her friend instinctively took a step back from the outfit and turned to look at her in shocked disbelief.
'That's not true.' Erin shook her head at the two women. 'Just ignore her. It's not true.'
'Oh come on, we all know that's what you do. I gave three bags of clothes to the church jumble last summer and most of that stuff ended up in here too.'
Another outrageous lie, but the prospective customers in her shop weren't to know this. Erin said, 'I keep a record on this com puter of everyone who brings clothes into this shop to resell.'
'I'm sure you do. I'd make up a list of names and pretend that's how I got them as well,' Stella said sweetly. 'Otherwise it might look bad, don't you think? By the way, did you ever hear back from that woman who complained about the cardigan she'd bought from you, the one with maggots in the pocket?'
The two women backed out of the shop. The other three glanced at each other before silently following suit, the last one to leave sur reptitiously wiping her palms on the side of her coat.
'She's lying,' Erin called out before the door clanged shut behind them.
'Worked though.' Stella looked pleased with herself. 'Didn't it?'
'You can't do this.'
'Just did.'
'It's not fair.'
'I think it's fair,' said Stella. 'I think you deserve it.'
'I didn't steal Fergus from you.' Erin shook her head; if she said it another fifty thousand times, would Stella believe her?
'Now you're the one who's lying.'
OK, maybe not. She tried another tack. 'The thing is, marching in here like this and causing trouble isn't going to make Fergus want to come back to you.'
'I know that. I'm not stupid.' Her chin raised and her shoulders stiff, Stella said, 'Until the other night, I thought it might happen, but now I know it won't. Thanks to you, I'm not going to have the life or the family I'd planned to have. Which, funnily enough, I find really upsetting.'
'But I didn't—'
'Oh give it a rest, little Miss Innocent.' Stella's disparaging gaze slid down to Erin's hips. 'Actually, not so little.'
Trembling, Erin said, 'I don't want you coming into this shop again.'
'Don't worry, I won't. But just remember.' Stella paused with her hand gripping the door. 'You've hurt me. And now it's my turn to hurt you.'
Chapter 17
'THERE'S A PHOTOGRAPHER UP a tree across the street.' Clutching the phone, Kaye ducked away from the window before he could get a shot of her. 'And a load more milling around on the sidewalk.'
'Sidewalk,' mimicked Max, six thousand miles away. 'Get you and your fancy Americanisms.'
'Max, shut up.' She knew this was his way of attempting to lighten the mood, but it really wasn't working.
'OK, sorry.' After so many years of marriage, they understood each other. 'But it'll blow over, won't it? Give them a day or two and people will lose interest, move on to the next bit of gossip.'
'I hope so.' Except she wasn't so sure, and now an outside broad cast truck was pulling up outside. She hadn't been arrested—the police had released her without charge after an excruciating couple of hours down at the station—but she already knew Charlene wasn't going to let it go. Journalists contacted by Charlene had been ringing for her response. And this was Hollywood. The right story happening to the right people at the right time could be picked up and whipped into overdrive; it could spread like wildfire, detonate a media frenzy. And let's face it, who wouldn't love the idea that one of the stars of Over the Rainbow—the cute British red-headed one, no less, who seemed so ladylike—was in reality a jealous, man-hungry, puppy murdering psychopath?
'Hey, you'll be fine,' Max said helpfully. 'Just tell everyone to fuck off.'
'Oh yes, that'll work.' A reporter was standing outside the house wielding a microphone and addressing a camera.
'Threaten to sue the mad bitch.'
'Max, you're starting to get on my nerves now.'
'OK then, come home. Just jump on a plane and get out of there. We'll look after you.'
Kaye's eyes abruptly filled with tears, because what he was suggest ing was so tempting and so impossible. If this story took off, running away would be, more than anything, what she'd want to do.
'Except I have this little thing called a job,' she reminded Max. 'And a killer shooting schedule and a contract for next season about to be renewed. And something tells me the studio wouldn't be too thrilled if I did a bunk.'
Above a faint tapping sound, Max said, 'Well, we're here if you need us. Don't let the buggers get you down. If anyone contacts me I'll tell them—bloody hell.'
Oh God, what now? Had an outside broadcast truck just pulled up outside the house in Roxborough? Her mouth dry, Kaye said, 'What is it?'
'I've got the laptop here. I've just been Googling you. There's a piece about it on one of the gossip sites.'
'Saying?' She braced herself.
'They're calling you the bunny boiler of Beverly Hills.'
'Poor Mum.' Three days had passed and wildfire wasn't the word for it; the Hollywood gossip machine had gone into meltdown and Kaye was now officially the most reviled woman in America. Clicking on to the next link, Lou was confronted with a photograph of Charlene tearfully hugging a portrait of Babylamb. The accompanying article was headlined: 'I don't know how I'm going to get through the funeral. I just want to die.'
Tilly said, 'Stop reading them now.'
'I can't. That's my mum they're talking about. Look, here's a photo of her being carted off to the police station. She had one glass of wine and passed the breathalyzer, but they're still trying to make out she's got a drink problem. If she didn't have before, she'll end up with one at this rate.'
Tilly peered over Lou's shoulder at the photograph of Kaye, understandably upset and disheveled and with her skirt torn, taken on the day of the accident; of course they'd used the shot where she'd been blinking so her eyes were half-closed and she looked as if she'd been on a week-long bender.
'Perfect English Rose or Deranged Drunk?' screamed the headline.
'The perils of jealousy,' said the next. 'Kaye McKenna's career is in tatters, thanks to an unrequited crush on her boss and a moment of murderous madness.'
'Denzil Weintraub is in his sixties.' Lou shook her head in disgust. 'Why doesn't it occur to any of them that my mum wouldn't be interested in some fat old director with a failed hair transplant and a nose like a potato?'
'Because he's a multimillionaire super-successful fat old direc tor.' Tilly pointed to the relevant line of text.
'My mum isn't like that! She doesn't chase after ugly old men just because they're rich!'
'We know that. Don't worry, she'll get through this. Turn off the computer now, sweetheart.'
'Are you by any chance trying to stop me reading the next link?' Amused, Lou tweaked the mouse and said, 'It's OK; I've already seen it. The loopy psychologist claiming that Mum's having a belated breakdown because her husband turned gay on her. It's all rubbish.'
Tilly gave her narrow shoulders a squeeze. 'Of course it is.'
'And I can't turn the computer off yet either. I've got to look up some stuff about Shakespeare. He's so boring.'
'We did Macbeth for our standardized test.' Tilly pulled a face; she c
ould sympathize with that.
'We're doing Romeo and Juliet. Half the time I can't even work out what everyone's trying to say, the dialogue's so twiddly and com plicated. I mean, why can't they just talk proper English?'
'My daughter the philistine,' Max announced, coming into the kitchen with a design board. 'If it isn't Heat magazine, she's not interested.'
'Thanks for that, Dad. I'll have you know I'm actually very intel ligent. I just don't happen to like Shakespeare.'
'That's because you haven't seen it being performed. Right, let's do something about it. Shift your backside.' Dumping the design board, Max expertly nudged Lou out of her seat and took her place in front of the laptop. 'Royal Shakespeare Company, Stratford. Here we go. Richard the Third… maybe not. Coriolanus, hmm.' Jabbing at keys, he scrolled through the events diary. 'Twelfth Night, you'll like that. Right, fetch my wallet, we'll book the tickets now. Tilly, you up for this?'
Startled, Tilly said, 'Are you serious? You really like Shakespeare?'
'Ha, she thinks I'm too common to appreciate the Bard. But I'm not.' Max wagged a finger at her, 'He's bloody brilliant. Just go with the flow and you'll be hooked, I'm telling you. Oh yes, I'll drum a bit of culture into your heads if it kills me. Bugger, I can't do the Wednesday or Thursday, I'm up in London with a client. It'll have to be Friday the twentieth.'
Phew, reprieve.
'I can't make that. It's the night of the charity ball. What a shame,' said Tilly.
'Charity ball?' Lou looked interested.
'In Cheltenham. Jack invited her. I'll just book the two seats then.' Max busied himself inputting his credit card information.
'Jack invited you?' Grinning, Lou said, 'Oo-er! I thought you said you weren't interested in becoming another notch on his bedpost.'
'I'm not.' For heaven's sake, now she was being teased by a freckly thirteen-year-old. 'It's not a date, he just asked me along to get him out of a tight corner.'
Lou nodded with the air of someone who knows sooo much better. 'You'll have to watch he doesn't get you into one.'
The atmosphere on set hadn't improved. Everywhere she went, Kaye encountered groups of people whispering together then shutting up and melting away the moment she came into view. It wasn't the most welcoming sensation; this was probably how it felt to be a homeless person who really smelled.
She was also aware that the team of writers had been called back and were currently holed up in a Winnebago, working away on last minute alterations to the script for the final episode of the series.
Hmm, wonder what that could possibly be about? And she was still waiting for her contract to be renewed. Funny that.
In the makeup trailer, the only sound came from the TV tuned to one of the entertainment channels.
'…And now, we move on to the Kaye McKenna affair,' an nounced the presenter.
Dryly, Kaye said, 'Just for a change.'
Ellis the makeup girl put down the blusher brush she'd been using on her cheeks. 'Want me to change channels?'
'No, leave it. I don't care anymore. Let's see what they're saying today.'
'And this morning, we have here in the studio three guests who all have something in common with Charlene Weintraub.' The presenter paused significantly, her mouth pursed like a cat's bottom to indicate that this was really serious, before indicating the first woman on the left. 'Paula here says she was walking along the street minding her own business one day last year when a car driven by Kaye McKenna came careering at top speed towards her. If she hadn't leapt out of the way she's convinced she would have been killed, just like Babylamb.'
'Oh my God…' breathed Ellis, glancing in horror at Kaye's reflection in the mirror. 'You did that?'
'No of course I didn't do that! I've never seen the woman before! I'm a careful driver!'
'Next we have Jason, who tells us that Kaye McKenna deliber ately tried to run over his pet dog, Brutus.'
'How can they be allowed to go on television and say this?' Kaye demanded.
'And finally, we have Maria who says she and her grandmother were verbally abused in the street by a deranged and clearly under the influence red-headed woman whom they now believe to have been Kaye McKenna.'
'I should sue them all! How dare they?' bellowed Kaye.
There was a tap at the door, then Denzil entered the trailer. Ellis hurriedly switched off the TV.
'Denzil. You won't believe the things they're saying about me on there.' Kaye indicated the blank screen. 'It's all lies. People are just going on television and making stuff up.'
'Kaye, you know what my lawyer said. I can't discuss any of that with you.' Hovering in the doorway, Denzil said gruffly, 'Can we just get this new scene shot?'
'OK. Sorry.' She saw that he'd come empty-handed. 'Do I get to see the script?'
'No need.' Denzil's chins wobbled as he shook his head. 'You don't have any dialogue.'
Kaye looked steadily at him, her all-too-brief acting career flash ing before her eyes. 'Let me guess. Am I going to be floating face down in a swimming pool?'
He couldn't even bring himself to meet her gaze. His tone abrupt, Denzil said, 'Something like that.'
Chapter 18
'NO THANKS. JUST WATER for me.' Tilly was going to hang on to her faculties tonight if it killed her.
Jack said, 'Hey, the whole point of getting a taxi here was so we didn't have to worry about driving home. We can relax, have a few drinks, and enjoy ourselves.'
'You don't say.' Honestly, did he think she wasn't aware of that? It was exactly why she was sticking to water.
'One glass of wine wouldn't hurt, would it?'
A glass of wine would be heaven but she wasn't risking it. Tilly said perkily, 'I don't need alcohol to enjoy myself.'
Yes, perkily.
'Bloody hell, I've brought Pollyanna along to the ball.' But he was clearly amused by her attitude; grinning at the waiter with the wine bottle, Jack confided, 'She's scared I'll seduce her.'
The waiter in turn pulled a Graham Norton type face and stage whispered in Tilly's ear, 'Go for it, darling. Lucky old you.'
Which was a great help.
'I'm not going to,' said Jack. 'I gave my word I wouldn't. And I always keep my promises.'
'Don't worry.' The waiter winked at Tilly. 'I'm sure you can persuade him to change his mind.'
Just the thought of it made her go hot. Tilly grabbed a glass of sparkling water from a passing waitress and gulped it down. Glad of the reprieve as the young waiter minced off and Jack was collared by a couple of florid businessmen, she stood back and surveyed the scene.
The ball was being held at a huge wedding cake of a hotel in Cheltenham; the ballroom was glamorous, vast, and high-ceilinged, and thronged with people chatting and dancing along to the band. The noise level was impressive and the ages of the guests ranged from twenty upwards; it wasn't, as Tilly had feared, confined to a scrum of oldies with clacking false teeth and walking sticks. It was a colorful, friendly crowd and Jack knew a great many of them. He was also, despite the fact that she wasn't drinking, becoming more attractive by the minute.
OK, stop that, must behave. She wasn't anybody's notch…
'Oh, don't you look lovely in that dress!' An older woman re splendent in purple silk came swishing up. 'I've been meaning to come over and say hello! Dorothy Summerskill, from the commit tee,' she introduced herself. 'And you're Jack's girlfriend.'
'Friend,' said Tilly. 'We're just friends.'
'Oh, right! Probably safer that way!' Dorothy had a jolly laugh. 'Hard to keep up with Jack's social life these days. Then again, who'd begrudge him some fun? We all love him to bits, you know. He's done so much for our charity. One of our greatest supporters here in Cheltenham.'
'Is that because a member of his family had Alzheimer's?'
'Actually, it was through Rose, his fiancée. Darling Rose, we miss her still. Her grandmother was affected, which is how Rose got involved with fundraising for the society. After she died, I have to tell
you, we didn't think we'd see Jack again. But he's stayed on board. Wonderful for us. And hopefully we'll see you again after tonight.' Dorothy's eyes sparkled. 'Any friend of Jack's is a friend of ours.'
After dinner, the dancing began in earnest. Having been intro duced to plenty more people, Tilly spent the next couple of hours being twirled around the dance floor by them, with varying degrees of success. Dorothy's husband Harold was an enthusiastic amateur mountaineer and danced just like one. A cheerful accountant called Mervyn had a gurgling laugh and a penchant for knock-knock jokes. Patrick the farmer looked like an all-in wrestler but danced like Fred Astaire. And their wives and girlfriends were fun too. Great, uncom plicated company. Barely even aware that she still wasn't drinking, Tilly was having a whale of a time.
