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Instantly she felt better. Why should she care a jot about Nina Tarot? Let them go ahead and get their knickers in a twist if that was what they wanted. Emily was the star of this production and no one, least of all a brassy American, was going to compromise that.
‘Isn’t she great?’
Emily yawned. ‘Who?’ she asked boredly, though she knew full well.
‘Nina, of course.’ The boy was as captivated as everyone else gathered in the parlour. Emily recognised him as one of the footmen but had never bothered to register his name: he had floppy brown hair and would probably be handsome in a couple of years. ‘She’s been telling us about her rehabilitation—it’s inspiring.’
‘I’m sure,’ Emily responded drily, sipping her slimline tonic. Drinks had been arranged post-shoot to welcome their new addition and the way they were all hanging on to Nina’s every word was sickmaking.
‘This is a fresh start for her,’ the footman wittered on. ‘Her first job since she came back from the island.’
‘What island?’
The footman seemed surprised to have engaged her in conversation.
‘I don’t remember the name,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to ask Nina.’
Emily made a face. ‘I’m sure I’ll survive not knowing.’
As far as Emily was concerned, the less she had to endure concerning Nina Tarot, the better. The actress’s execution of the drawing-room scene had inspired a litany of adoring praise from cast and crew—Emily grudgingly admitted she was talented—and now her speaking to the extras and assistants was securing the lowlies’ devotion as well. Who on earth was she, Mother bloody Teresa?
Christopher certainly seemed to think so. All through their scene he’d been eating out of the palm of Nina’s hand—undoubtedly he’d be eating out of her lap soon enough if Emily didn’t put a stop to things—and now he was rapt at Nina’s side, abandoning his leading lady in favour of some cheap American trash.
‘Well,’ Nina was saying, and for some reason that accent was ten thousand decibels louder than an ordinary one, ‘I just feel incredible. That place…it’s magical. It made me feel—’ a toss of the head, a bat of the eyelids—what a performer! ‘—I can’t describe it: alive, again, I guess.’
‘I’ve heard about it,’ piped up one of the scullery maids. ‘Isn’t it, like, the most exclusive place on the planet?’
Nina giggled. ‘That depends, honey. The island is paradise—and paradise doesn’t come cheap.’
‘But it’s more than that…right?’ Now meek Julia Chambers was getting involved. ‘I read an article. You have to be someone important for them to let you in.’ Julia chewed her lip. ‘You have to be someone, at least.’
Christopher drained his glass of Scotch. ‘And Nina most certainly is someone, so I’d say that was a fair observation.’
Emily despised both the remark and Julia’s flushed reaction to it.
There followed a string of excited speculations:
‘Apparently you have to be on a waiting list for, like, five years—’
‘I heard you’ve got to be royalty, or related to royalty, or—’
‘You need to have fifty million dollars in the bank—’
‘You need to get a secret password—’
‘You’ve got to own a small country—’
‘You’ve got to own a jet—’
‘All I’ll say,’ Nina interrupted, waiting for the thrill to subside, ‘is that the island changed my life. There’s nowhere like it.’ She paused till once more the limelight came to rest.
‘I swear to God, you’ve got to see this place to believe it…’
Emily excused herself to visit the bathroom. She stayed a long time fussing over her appearance, with each strand tweaked and dab of gloss reapplied reminding herself that she was the prime cut on this movie. Just because Nina Tarot had been a big Hollywood star in the nineties, just because she’d worked alongside legends, it didn’t detract from the fact she’d fallen spectacularly off the rails and her career had shot down the pan. What kind of actress let that happen?
All that made Nina ‘someone’, did it?
Well, Emily was more of a someone than she’d ever be—and if it took gaining access to some silly little island to prove it, then so be it.
Chapter Four
She loved the back of Christopher Fenwick’s neck. It was wide and bronzed and strong; the way his hair touched the collar of his waistcoat, damp from the heat…
‘Julia?’ A nudge in the ribs brought her back to reality. Isaac was gesturing to the front of the crowd where their producer was preparing to address the assembly.
She tore her eyes from Christopher but was only half listening. It was the following day and they had been summoned on the lawn for news that the Heriscombe estate was hosting a live charity ball in a week’s time, and as publicity for the forthcoming film Christopher and Emily would be appearing onstage to present an award. Millions would witness the teaser—helped along by rampant public interest in the couple’s are-they-aren’t-they? love affair. Everyone knew Christopher was a player—the question was had sweet, English-rose Emily been able to resist succumbing to his charms? The answer was no.
Julia knew she shouldn’t care. All Emily’s life she had been the centre of attention and this was no exception: a while ago she’d imagined basking in the warmth of the spotlight, how it might feel to attract such veneration, but some things just weren’t meant to be. While Emily was up there next week, pouty and pert as she charmed her fans and blew them kisses from a cupid’s bow mouth, Julia would be making tea in a back room with some work experience adolescent who was only talking to her because they wanted Emily’s autograph.
There was a smattering of applause. It was directed at the PR team who had secured the stunt but Julia noticed that Emily herself refrained from clapping, instead contributing only a beatific smile in the assumption that the accolade was for her.
‘Don’t suppose you fancy grabbing a drink later?’
‘Hmm?’ The group dispersed. Across the courtyard she saw Christopher take Emily’s hands, kiss them in turn and then draw her into an embrace, in the clutches of which Emily bobbed up and down with excitement. Inwardly, Julia groaned.
Isaac shifted his weight from one foot to the other. ‘You know, just to the pub or whatever, or, um, we could get something to eat, if you prefer…’
‘OK.’ Julia watched as Nina Tarot attached herself to Christopher’s side, exclaiming about the live show. Emily’s face dropped like a stone.
‘Really?’
‘Sure.’ Julia took Isaac’s arm as they headed up to the house. ‘Why not?’
‘Great. There’s this wicked place I went to with my mates—it’s got a beer garden and a games bit and stuff. Not that I’m saying you’ve got to down pints and play me at pool—unless you wanted to, I mean, I’m not being sexist or anything—’
‘She’s cool, isn’t she?’
Isaac blinked. ‘Who?’
‘Nina.’
‘Er, yeah.’
‘She’s pissed Emily off.’
‘Which makes you her number one fan.’
‘I just think it’s time someone made her sweat.’
Isaac stopped at one of the stagecoaches and rested his elbow on the driver seat. ‘Sounds like Christopher’s already doing that.’
‘Whatever,’ Julia said sulkily.
‘What’s so great about him anyway? He’s a vain, conceited tool. Come to think of it, they’re made for each other.’
‘He’s not vain.’
Isaac raised an eyebrow. ‘You don’t believe that for a second.’
‘Maybe I do, maybe I don’t.’
‘Come on, Jules, you’re better than them. A million times.’
She didn’t believe that for a second either. ‘Thanks.’
‘So…’ Isaac chewed his lip, ‘…tonight?’
She scanned the cast, landing on Christopher and Nina chatting amiably while Emily lurked moodily behind. ‘What about tonight?’
‘The pub?’
‘Oh yeah. Course.’
‘Meet you at the main gate at six?’
‘Sounds good.’
Isaac grinned. She noticed what a nice smile he had.
‘OW!’ The teacup, spewing hot liquid, flew to the ground. ‘My God, how on earth do you expect me to handle boiling-point liquids and remember my lines?’
‘CUT!’
Shakily Julia deposited her silver tray, stepping forward to collect the discarded china and help stamp out the wet patch spreading through the rug.
‘You asked for the tea to be fresh, Emily,’ commented the director. Emily insisted on her scenes being as ‘real’ as possible, including props, so had commanded that if Lucinda were drinking Earl Grey, so should she be.
‘But palatable, at least!’ she snapped. Her hazel eyes landed on Julia. ‘It’s Maud Screwe’s fault. Couldn’t you have let it cool down, I don’t know, a degree, before forcing it on me?’
Julia’s mouth went dry. ‘I thought that was how you wanted it,’ she managed.
‘Well next time why don’t you bring the whole bloody kettle through and chuck it all down my dress? It’d save us the china, wouldn’t it?’
Oh, how she’d love to.
‘Let’s go again,’ intervened the director. ‘From: Remember you taught me the “Suite Bergamasque”?’
Julia retrieved the tray and took her position against the fireplace. The scene began with Lord Ackland giving Lucinda a piano lesson. When they were interrupted by Nina Tarot’s character, Vivian, Lucinda was relegated to a nearby couch to watch as the two duetted (and what a proficient pianist Christopher was!), devoured by jealousy that Julia suspected was only partly acted and clutching her too-hot tea.
Afterwards, Emily stalked off to have words with the director. Julia scratched under the cap—the cotton made her itch—and was fidgeting with a stain on her apron when she heard a deep, seductive voice enquire, ‘Are you all right?’
Christopher Fenwick was standing right there. He was talking to her.
‘Y-yes,’ she stammered. ‘Thanks.’
He placed one hand on the wall and regarded her mockingly. Julia couldn’t help but glance down. As she did, she took in his stance. Those breeches were tight.
‘Can’t think what’s got into her,’ observed Christopher, as though he were chatting to an old friend. ‘I thought it was jolly rotten the way she spoke to you.’
Julia resisted returning something catty like, I’m used to it—you should’ve seen her at school! and concentrated on removing the teastain, all the while burning with embarrassment and thinking, Why can’t I speak to him?
‘Need someone to look at that?’
‘Oh! No. I’m fine. I mean, it’ll come out—’
‘Here.’ Before she knew what was happening, Christopher had lifted her apron in his manly fingers and was inspecting it with a nail. ‘Might scratch off…’
‘Careful, Christopher, it might be catching!’
Emily joined them, quick as a snake, her eyes flashing, and laughed to make light of the horrid comment. ‘That is to say, you don’t know where it’s been.’ Julia saw her adversary stare pointedly at the maid’s costume but knew the implication concerned what—or who—was beneath it.
‘Come, come!’ she sang, looping her arm through his.
Christopher acquiesced. ‘I was seeing if I couldn’t help a lady in distress…’ He winked at Julia. ‘Sorry, what’s your name?’
‘Julia Chambers—’
But Emily had already dragged him off. Julia watched them go, anger building inside her, rising and rising like an unstoppable tide until it threatened to steal the breath from her lungs.
She would get revenge on Emily Windermere if it were the last thing she did.
Next week’s live appearance. It was meant to be.
Chapter Five
Shopping used to be a pleasure—before she’d started getting recognised!
Of course Emily embraced the adulation, being stopped for her signature or to listen to a teenage girl rhapsodise about what an inspiration she was. Part of her job was to give back to her fans (especially after a magazine piece last month had labelled her ‘snotty’ and ‘detached’—how dare they?) and she considered herself generous to permit the intrusion, on a day like today when all she was after was a Mulberry plum leather handbag. Still, it wasn’t fair that only Emily Windermere got to enjoy Emily Windermere—aside from Christopher Fenwick, of course, who was enjoying her too.
Unable to get down to any serious retail pursuits (in Louis Vuitton she’d been chased by a furiously whispering duo to the point where she’d been afraid to use the changing rooms), she emerged from the shopping centre, adjusted her huge sunglasses against the morning light and made her way to her brand new Audi R8.
A flurry of paparazzi blocked her path.
‘Emily, are the rumours about you and Christopher Fenwick true?’
‘Do you dispute allegations you’re sleeping with a married man?’
‘Have you got a message for his wife and children?’
