Star Struck (Yorkshire Romances #2)

Chapter Eighteen

The velvet clung to me like a removable pelt. Its dark crimson shone against my skin, making my features glow and my hair look a deep, untouchable colour. As I clasped the wristbands around my arms and the collar around my neck, I felt very alien.

‘Wow. No, really. Wow.’ Felix stood back to let me out of the bathroom. ‘That is incredible.’

The Dowager Queen of Skeldar, in all her glory. Or, at least, me in her clothes. Of all the outfits that Jack had sent up, this one revealed the least skin and also gave me a borrowed dignity. The headpiece pulled my hair back from my face, which had given me a few moments of uncertainty until Fe assured me that the scar was mostly covered by the dangling fake jewels. I had to lace the bodice quite tightly to make the floor-length dress fit my body perfectly, although the shoes supplied with it were too high and slightly too big; the actress who wore it was a shoe size and a dress size larger than I was, but, on the plus side, the heels made me walk more regally.

‘Does make you look a bit like a Christmas tree, but apart from that ?. . .’

I aimed my Shadow rifle at him. ‘Shut up. Better a Christmas tree than a pimp.’ Felix had begged a costume, and was, in consequence, wearing the get-up of a Shadow Planet refugee, mock-fur coat with big Ugg-type boots and Ray-Bans against the solar glare. ‘You look like you’re trying to break into rap music.’

‘I am going to boil .’ Fe waved his arms up and down to create a draught. ‘How does anyone manage to wear this on a film set?’

‘The wardrobe girl told me, when she brought the costumes up, that these are for publicity shots. On set they have to wear stuff they can actually walk in without sweating like carthorses.’

‘Figures.’ He reached inside his furs and flapped his T-shirt. ‘So, I guess dirty dancing is out?’

‘Dirty anything. We have to hand these back after the ball, undamaged and unstained. I promised. And, since it looks like anything involving you also involves stains ?. . .’

Felix looked at me, eyes shining. ‘I can’t believe I’m going to be doing this for real come next January,’ he whispered. ‘ Fallen Skies . You are such a clever girl, Skye.’

‘Yeah.’ I didn’t feel clever. But then, neither did I feel the sense of dread at attending a gathering of fans which had so paralysed me only a couple of days ago. I wasn’t going to be the life and soul of the party, but I could face walking into a room full of people, and the thought of going home to my little terrace in York now filled me with warmth, not the urge to board the next plane back. ‘You were pretty clever too, Fe, getting me out here. Forcing me to face up to things.’

Felix had his back to me. ‘You think you’ve faced up to things?’ His voice sounded odd. A bit choked.

‘Not so much faced-up to, but more? . . . I dunno, worked through, perhaps. I was thinking, all those panic attacks that they kept telling me were “stress related”, maybe they weren’t. Perhaps the doctors got it wrong. I’m starting to think that they were all symptoms of depression.’ Yeah, Skye, you miserable cow.

‘You think you were depressed.’ Not a question, I noticed, and an odd stress on the words.

‘Maybe not, not proper clinical depression but? . . . I wasn’t very well. So maybe you forcing me to come here kind of kicked me out of a destructive sort of slump. Made me realise that there is more to life.’

‘And, play your cards right, you could get to take home the biggest trophy of all. Mr Whitaker clearly can’t wait to have you back on home soil, and I use the term having you in all its possible contexts.’

‘Jack? . . . I like Jack.’ I adjusted the lie of the skirt. It raked across my hips to fall behind me in a heavy train, body-tight in the front and yet fluidly generous behind. ‘I just don’t think he’s interested in me like that. And, anyway, I don’t want to jump in and replace Michael.’

‘Don’t you?’ Felix’s voice was oddly high-pitched.

‘Michael was my fiancé. We were going to get married. I can’t just up and start? . . . well, anything with someone else after only eighteen months, it’s not right.’

Felix turned and the expression on his face looked misplaced, as though he’d stuck it on the front of his head to cover his real feelings. ‘There’s always Gethryn.’ He gave a grin which also looked out of place.

‘That was more of a crush than anything real.’

I waited for Felix to disagree but, disappointingly, he didn’t. Instead he sighed and began to strip, until he’d pulled off the coat and boots and was left in his T-shirt and jeans. He poked his feet back into his shoes but kept on the glasses. ‘Right. Now I’m going downstairs, get stuck into the Jack Daniels. I’ll see you there.’

‘Glasses?’

He paused a moment. ‘Reckon they make me look mysterious, don’t you think, darling? I’ll keep them on.’

I sat on the edge of the bed, appreciating the costume. The weight of it hung from my shoulders and stiffened my spine; it swept along the floor with a delicious sound and, as a bonus feature, it made my boobs look pertly luscious. For the first time I knew why so many women have a Cinderella complex. ‘See you later, Fe.’

The door closed on his smug expression. Tonight I was going to relax. Gear myself up for tomorrow. Decide whether to take Jack up on his offer of an escort to the ball.

And what was stopping me? Was it really loyalty to Michael? According to Fe my relationship with Michael had been high-octane and frantic. He could never have been accused of intensity or moodiness, only of a desire to live life as fast and as frenetically as possible, dragging me along with him in his rocket-fuelled search for the bigger, the better, the most superlative.

Or was it Jack himself? He was so self-contained, there was something very shut-in about him. He laughed and smiled but all the time I felt there was something else going on behind it all, something he kept tightly confined. Some emotion that he didn’t want spotted. And, to be honest with myself, I was afraid. That year of memory loss and the fuzzing-out of preceding years had affected me more deeply than I’d ever thought it could. If I couldn’t remember even my own fiancé , could I even remember who I was? And if I couldn’t remember that, then how did I know how to be with someone else? How did I know who to be? And what was it that Felix knew?

Even so. It was a ball, a fancy dress ball, not an arranged marriage. And I’d look such a dork walking in on my own in this frock-of-frocks. And Jack was undeniably attractive . . .

The phone rang and made me jump. Horribly cautiously — who knew where I was? — I picked it up. ‘Skye Threppel, right?’ said the voice on the other end. ‘Do you have a costume picked out for tomorrow?’

I didn’t recognise the voice. Pure American, pure business. ‘I’m just trying it on.’

‘Great. My name’s Erlon, I run The Shadow Planet.’

‘Oh,’ I said, disconcerted. ‘That had better be the online fanzine, because otherwise you ought to get help.’ In the series the Shadow Planet was run by the Skeel, and Erlon was most definitely not a Skeel name.

A laugh. ‘Yeah. I wonder if I could get a couple shots of you and Gethryn in your outfits? No use trying to do it tomorrow, when everyone will be getting in on the act, so I figured, tonight’s my chance. I spoke with Geth earlier, he says to meet him in his trailer at twenty after seven, then I’ll get some pictures of the two of you. Post ’em on the ’zine.’

‘I suppose so.’ I fingered the skirt, feeling the softness. ‘Yes. Okay.’ Erlon would be there, I wouldn’t be left alone with Gethryn and it would be nice to be able to talk to him, to indulge my crush without alcohol intruding and blurring his actions into borderline harassment. To establish that he was a decent human being, and that what had happened out in that car park had been the result of overexcitement and unwise come-ons on my part. Besides, he was hardly going to tear all my clothes off in front of other people, was he?

It was already ten past seven, so I decided to leave immediately. For one thing, in these heels it would probably take me ages to get down to Gethryn’s Winnebago, and for another, I didn’t dare do anything whilst wearing the dress in case I ended up in another embarrassing situation from which Mr Whitaker had to rescue me. In fact I’d ruled out doing anything at all, apart from standing very still and never going to the toilet.

I adjusted my cleavage, hitched up the train and set off down the back stairs. Part way down I had to stop and haul the skirts up over my arm until it looked as though I was carrying a very heavy set of curtains. This outfit was definitely made to be seen, which was ego-boostingly reassuring, and was surprisingly comfortable to walk in, but it did spend a lot of time trying to escape off me. The weight of the velvet train almost pulled it from my shoulders, and it was only the laced-up bodice which kept my boobs from being further uncovered with every step. The whole dress swayed sensuously and rhythmically whilst trying to reveal my body a little bit at a time, as though it was a kind of mobile strip-club. I tottered down the last few stairs and arrived at the side door leading directly out onto the yard, fabric cascading around me but at least managing to prevent public indecency. A couple headed past me into the motel and did a double-take but I kept on walking, head straight, eyes forward. No-one else was about. Everyone was still too busy getting things signed, putting the final touches to their costumes, or mixing it in the bar, at least, that was what I was banking on.

I wafted around the outside of the motel until I reached the Winnebago, whirling through the dust in my draperies like a soft furnishings removal business. About a hundred yards away from the van two men in Security vests were sitting in collapsible chairs under a sunshade, watching a small TV screen. They both looked pretty fed up, arms folded, wearing Day-Glo jackets and sullen expressions, despite the hearty laughter track from the TV. I wondered about saying something to them, giving some kind of excuse for being there, but since neither of them acknowledged my passing, and neither looked as if they were up for taking a bullet for Gethryn, I didn’t bother. However, outside the van a harassed-looking girl wearing a headpiece on top of punishingly short hair and carrying a clipboard stopped me.

‘Is Mr Tudor-Morgan expecting you?’

But then she had a call on the mobile clipped to her belt and headed off away from me to answer it. I was really not about to stand around sweating in velvet, so I tiptoed up the steps and tapped on the metal door. ‘Gethryn? It’s Skye.’

There was no answer. I knocked again, harder. Then I tried the handle and the door swung outwards, nearly knocking me down. There was no outraged shout so I walked in.

The door led into an enormous living area with sofas and a central table, which gave onto a kitchen bigger than the one in my house. It contained a vast refrigerator, a microwave you could have stabled a horse in and enough leather seating for about fifty people, but no visible sink or way of preparing anything more than TV dinners. There was no-one else about.

‘Hello,’ I called as I stared. ‘I’ve come for the photoshoot.’

Still no answer. Maybe I hadn’t called loudly enough. Maybe Gethryn was giving Erlon a tour of the mobile home. Maybe they’d snuck off to get away from Her Outside with the prison haircut.

I walked further in. The floor was carpeted a deep grey which made the place look very dark, and there were signs of recent habitation in a shirt dropped over the back of a couch, a half-eaten apple turning slowly brown on the table. I picked up the shirt and self-consciously sniffed it. It smelled of some unknown cologne, something musky and citrusy, like the smell of sex itself, with an undertone of something alcoholic.

As I stood, breathing in the smell of Gethryn, I heard a sound. A low groan, as if coming from the back of a throat. I put down the shirt and moved towards the noise, picking my way down a mirror-lined corridor until it opened out into a vast bedroom. In the middle stood a bed too large to be called king-sized, it had to be emperor-sized, or possibly dictator. Spread-eagled face up across the bed with his hair dangling from one side, lay Gethryn, surrounded by a much stronger smell of alcohol. In fact, if I’d struck a match, the air would have flamed like a Christmas pudding.

‘Gethryn?’ I approached cautiously, keeping one eye on the distance between me and the door.

Another groan.

‘Are you all right?’

A hand waved. It had a bottle in it. So, now I came to look at it, did the other hand. Liquid had poured over the bed sheets, over Gethryn’s clothes, and his hair was damply roped with it. I took a step back and put one hand on the wall to steady myself.

‘I think I’d better fetch Jack.’

At the sound of the name, Gethryn sat up, still clutching both bottles. ‘No! Don’ wan’ that bastard in he’. Am havin’ day off. Entitled to day off, aren’t I? For rest and? . . .’ he sloshed the bottle in his right hand, ‘relaxation.’ Now he got to his knees, carefully. ‘Why you come here, anyway, Skye? You here to keep me company? Man needs company on his day off. Have a drink.’ He held out a bottle my way, his whole body bouncing slightly as the bed moved underneath him.

‘No, thanks.’ My heart was pushing blood into my throat, where I could feel it bashing the walls of my veins and, beneath my feet, the carpet felt dry and full of electricity. ‘I ought to . . .’ Not wanting to turn my back on him, I began shuffling in reverse towards the doorway with the skirt tangling around behind my legs like an over-affectionate cat. ‘The others will be here in a minute anyway,’ I said quickly, just in case he decided to make a lunge for me. ‘I came for the photoshoot. For the e-zine? Us in our ball costumes?’

‘Fuck photoshoot.’ Geth walked forward on his knees to come closer. ‘They can’t make me do it. Only had to appear at the convention to fulfil terms, after the ball I’m free as a bird! More free, in fac’.’ He clambered down off the bed to stand in front of me, swaying slightly. ‘Tired of filming in bloody cheap places, all sandy and Canadian. I’m goin’ to Holwoody.’

Even unfocused those yellow eyes were fascinating. ‘You mean Hollywood,’ I said, transfixed by his stare.

‘Yeah. That.’ He leaned in and sour breath bounced off my cheek.

‘But you told Erlon that you’d do the shoot for him. He said he’d spoken to you?’ I shuffled back a few more steps, the thick carpet snagging at my heels with a crisp sound. The adrenaline flooding me tasted sour and my heart was beating so fast I wondered that I wasn’t airborne. Deep in the skirts of the dress I bunched a fist in case of a sudden swoop.

A long pause. Then, ‘Fuck. Yes. Did. Bollocks. Mustn’t know I’ve been drinking.’

‘Erlon mustn’t know you’ve been drinking?’

A vigorous head shake that made his snakes of hair whip his cheeks. ‘No! Not Erlon, Erlon’s lovely guy. Lovely. Drinks tequila with the little worm in. An’ brandy. Jack. Don’ wan’ Jack to know I’ve had a drink. He’ll tell people I’m a drunk. I’m no’ drunk, he’s a bastard. Doesn’t like me drinking, but thass bollocks, isn’t it, lovely? Just ’cos he’s on some Ten-Step programme thing, reckons we should all give up the booze. Bastard,’ he repeated.

‘Jack doesn’t drink?’ I found I was fascinated, despite my fear.

Gethryn squinted. ‘He’s not told you then? Oh, thass good, that is, the Iceman not telling the pretty little girlie allllllll about his lousy habits.’ He hiccupped. ‘Our Iceman, he’s a bit handy with a bottle, bach . Didn’t wan’ to give up, oh no. Had to. That or lose the show.’ He took another shaky step towards me and suddenly wrapped both arms around me. I heard the bottles clang as they made contact behind my back. ‘Oh, our Jack’s got them secrets just pilin’ up. You look ve’ sexy in that dress. What do you look like out of it?’

A wobbly finger ran along my spine. I felt the slow trickle as the bottle he was holding tipped and spilled drink down my back. This dress was going to smell like a winery. ‘Erlon will be here in a few minutes,’ I said, scared to move in case it encouraged him. My pulse began to race again, and I checked the distance to the door, not sure how capable he’d be of stopping me getting away. My hands readied themselves to claw, to punch, to fight my way out.

‘Shit. Bugger.’ Gethryn wobbled dramatically and only managed to steady himself by holding onto my shoulders. More liquid rolled over the dress, beads of it sinking into the soft fabric.

Golden eyes narrowed to take in my face, golden hair wrapping itself against me. I saw the small blond prickles of stubble breaking out on his chin, the little indent under his lower lips that jutted his mouth forward in a permanent half-kiss. He was beautiful. Very, very lovely. But he wasn’t Lucas James. He was a mixed-up drunken actor, that was all, and I’d made the classic mistake of confusing the actor with the script. All that heartbreakingly wonderful language, all that emotion. It was Jack’s. Without knowing it, I’d fallen for Jack, a man who could only express his locked-down feelings by giving the words to someone else to say.

‘You can kiss me, though. Come on, girl, gi’ us a kiss.’ He blinked hard and screwed his eyes up as though trying to bring my face into focus. ‘Bet you go like a train, doncha?’ A hand rolled down my neck and squeezed at the front of the dress, where boning and corseting protected my breasts and a knee tried to brush aside my skirts. ‘Where d’you keep the good stuff then, eh, girlie? ’S got to be under here somewhere ?. . .’ The hand stopped trying to fondle my boobs and groped futilely amid the masses of velvet, trying to locate me underneath it all. ‘Gonna show you a goo’ time ?. . .’

And then I realised that I wasn’t scared, not any more. Gethryn wasn’t a threat, with his posturing and his leery eyes; he was a sad drunk with terrible people skills and absolutely no chat-up lines at all. A single slap to the cheek was all it took to knock him sideways and from there it was ridiculously easy to push him backwards onto the bed with one hand to his solar plexus almost knocking him completely off his feet and sending him sprawling down onto the soaked bedding. ‘Stop it, Gethryn.’

‘Playin’ hard to get, eh?’ It was pathetic really, to hear him trying to talk sex when he couldn’t even manage to rock himself to his feet. ‘Like my girlies to fight a bit, I do. Bit of life, d’you see? No’ juss lyin’ back and lettin’ me? . . .’

‘So you do it even if they’re fighting you off?’ I tried to brush the droplets of liquid off the plush fabric with the back of my hand, keeping half an eye on Gethryn’s attempts to get up. ‘Don’t you think it might have meant that they wanted you to stop?’

‘Nah. They wanted Lucas James, all of ’em.’ He hiccupped loudly again, swore and shook his head, looking at me out of each eye alternately. ‘Think I’m gonna be sick,’ he muttered.

I looked around. ‘Bathroom?’

A hand waved towards a mirrored wall. ‘’hind there.’ A cheesily ominous belch followed, and I dragged him off the bed towards the indicated wall, flinging myself at it until I hit whichever secret button opened the door, and flung Gethryn inside with a strength I hadn’t known I’d got until it came to potentially getting vomit on the dress. It was going to be bad enough with the alcohol, but at least I could hang it up outside and pray for that to evaporate — sick was pretty much terminal.

Gethryn began making unpicturesque noises. ‘I’ll go find you some water,’ I said, whisking the dress out of reach.

He raised a bleary face. ‘Not gonna offer to hold my hair back for me? Oh, shit . . .’

I looked at him sternly. ‘I think you’ll manage.’

I was in the kitchen, investigating the potential of the enormous fridge for ice cubes, when there came a hammering on the van door. Not just a gentle knock but a proper, closed-fist banging. Then a voice. ‘Skye! Are you in there?’

Jack.

Oh God.

If I let him in, he’d know about Gethryn. That he had been — not just drinking, what Gethryn was went way beyond being merely domestically drunk; he was gloriously shooting out of the far side of sloshed, and Gethryn clearly didn’t want Jack to know, for whatever reasons of his own. But, if I didn’t let Jack in, he’d make assumptions. He might even think that I’d come back to finish what Geth and I had started out in the car park under those merciless stars, and I didn’t want Jack to think of me as a girl who went back for seconds of that sort of thing.

‘Hold on a second,’ I called, flinging a few sad ice-drops into a glass and dashing as best as I could in the long dress back to the bathroom, where Gethryn was now lying on the floor. ‘Jack’s here,’ I said succinctly.

Gethryn just groaned.

‘You’ve got to sober up.’ This could mean his career, didn’t he realise ? ‘Can you stand?’ And there, in that tiny bathroom which was almost flooded with the smell of vomit, I began to strip Gethryn Tudor-Morgan naked.

Oh, how many times had I imagined slowly undressing Geth, gradually revealing the Celtic tattoo which lay along one jutting hip, just asking for a tongue to trace its smooth length? How many ways had I conjured of watching my fingers pass over his taut, muscular stomach, tanned as golden as the rest of his skin? But in none of my daydreams had Gethryn actually peed in his tight, button-fly jeans, or had to be helped to pull his shirt over his head because his balance was too unsteady for him to let go of the wall.

‘Just get in the shower.’ And I turned it on, viciously, to extreme chill, and gave him a shove. His golden nakedness immediately puckered and pimpled as the cold water hit, and he gave a scream, plunging helplessly directly under the impressive torrent. I half-ran, half-tottered from the room back through the acres of Winnebago and opened the door. Jack, looking customarily furious, stood on the steps with a large, bestubbled man who appeared to have no chin, just an expanse of face sloping gently down into his neck.

‘Erlon?’ I ignored Jack and held out a hand to shake. ‘Gethryn’s just? . . . ummm ?. . . He’ll be out in a minute.’

‘Cool.’ Erlon moved past me and began fiddling with the camera in his hand. ‘In here’s good. On the sofa, maybe?’

Jack stayed in the doorway with a bitten-back expression on his face. ‘What took you so long?’ he asked me in the sort of furious hiss that mothers use to ask questions to which they already know the answers. Then he sniffed suspiciously. ‘What have you been doing with Gethryn?’

I was desperate not to lie to Jack. As I watched his expression alternate between moody and frustrated, I had to work quite hard not to reach out and touch him, to reassure him that he was allowed to lighten up every now and again.

‘And stop bloody staring at me! Just tell me, what are you doing over here?’

Keep him talking. ‘I came over for the photos. Of course. You know that. Why are you here, couldn’t Erlon manage to take the pictures on his own?’

‘Vanessa told me you’ve been here for nearly half-an-hour. You stink of booze. And worse.’

I presumed Vanessa was the punitive-haircut girl outside. ‘I had a drink while I was waiting for Gethryn. And I’m all sweaty; it took me ages to walk over in this dress.’

‘So where’s Geth?’

‘Having a shower.’ Now I couldn’t miss the look Jack was giving me. It was two-thirds contempt and the rest was made up of scorn. Maybe with half a percent left for pity. ‘And will you stop eyeballing me like that? I’ve not been having rampant sex with him, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

‘Right.’

‘Get a look at this dress, Jack. I doubt I could brush my teeth wearing this, let alone get down and dirty.’ I wafted a hand at myself. His eyes followed the hand.

‘Looks good on you.’ There was a bit of a spark in his eyes now. ‘I’ll just go get Geth ?. . .’

‘No!’ If he set one foot in that reeking bedroom he’d know that Gethryn had been on a bender. Jack eyeballed me a bit more and the spark died. ‘I’ll go and fetch him.’

As I spoke I tottered out, down the hallway again and into the bedroom, where Gethryn was just emerging, tawny and splendid, from the shower. ‘Hey, girl.’ He sounded steadier. ‘What’s the rush?’

My eyes were transfixed by his chest, which rivulets of water were still navigating, passing between nipples so perfectly brown and round they looked like pennies, and down into uncharted regions, now concealed beneath a fluffy blue towel. Even with all I knew about him now, I still felt a little tremor of lust — Felix was right, I was shallow. ‘Erlon’s here,’ I started to say, but my voice went all thick at the way his fringe split into fragments, each with its own diamond-tip of water over those treacle-golden eyes. ‘And Jack.’

‘ Fuck .’ Gethryn muttered something I couldn’t hear, but it didn’t sound good. ‘Better get back out there, cariad . Don’t let him in here, he’ll know something’s up. Like a bloody terrier that man is. Just? . . .’ he swiped a hand over his wet hair and blinked hard, ‘just keep him talking. Okay?’

‘Right.’ Again I tottered down the hallway, arriving just as Jack had started to walk towards the bedroom and we ended up nose-to-nose. I performed a little jig to prevent him from getting past me without pressing me into the opposite wall. From the look on his face, pressing me anywhere at all was a long way from being on the agenda.

‘What is going on?’ We were back to the hiss again and the spark in his eyes now was one of anger.

‘I want to go to the ball with you.’ I’d meant to lead up to it, to smile and soften his expression first, but it just came out, I don’t know why. First thing in my head, probably, pushed out by that smouldering look on Jack’s face, the way his eyes burned into me. He was like a cold supernova, a black hole. Dragging me in with his gravitational field.

‘ What? ’

‘Remember, you asked me? To go to the ball? I want to. Please,’ I added. ‘You said you could dance.’

He looked curiously behind me, towards the bedroom. ‘You’re behaving very strangely. What’s going on back there — have you left Geth dead on the bed or something?’

‘No.’

‘Then why are you? . . . why choose now to tell me you want to come with me to the ball?’

‘What’s wrong with now?’

We stared at each other again, until Erlon interrupted, clearing his throat. ‘’Um, maybe I could just do one or two of you first? Maybe, with Jack?’ He waggled his camera under his non-existent chin. ‘While we wait.’

‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea.’ Jack spoke with his teeth clenched.

‘Aw, go on. Just be natural.’ Erlon led me to the velvet couch, onto which the dress snagged like Velcro. ‘Look as if you’re chatting.’ Defeated, Jack slumped beside me, folded his arms and dropped his head down onto his chest. If we were chatting, it could only be about death and despondency. ‘Now, put your arm around Skye.’ The world’s most reluctant hug commenced as Jack slid one arm between my neck and the couch, leaving his hand flopping onto my shoulder. ‘Ah, that’s great.’

Erlon’s digital camera didn’t have the decency to go ‘click’ so we didn’t know when it was safe to relax. Jack remained with one hand behind my back, the other loosely in his lap, as though covering up some furtive groinal activity, and both my arms lay lifelessly along the seams of the wine-dark dress. We looked like a mannequin and a mannequin fetishist.

‘Hey, Jack.’ Gethryn wandered in, fully dressed in his uniform. He smelled very strongly of aftershave and his eyes were a bit unsettled, but apart from that he looked sober. ‘Erlon. So. Pictures then?’

I thought I heard Jack mutter, ‘Thank God,’ but it might have been something else, as he made way for Gethryn to pose alongside me. Geth looked lip-lickingly tasty in the tight uniform, hair still curling damply down his neck but, when he sat beside me, there was a distinct whiff of sourness on his breath and his pupils were shrunken. Erlon took a few shots, then made us stand up, arms around one another, smiling into the lens. My smile was tight, I could feel tremors running up and down Gethryn’s body and there was a faint alcohol-scented sweat breaking out on his neck.

To think, only a few weeks ago I would have eaten my own arm for the chance to stand this close to Gethryn Tudor-Morgan. I’d seen him naked for God’s sake! And now? . . . now that the glamour had broken and I’d seen Gethryn for who and what he truly was, I could still admire that sexy physique and that sculpted face, but I was glad that there were other people with us. Gethryn had clearly been in another room when the self-control was being handed out.

Jack was gazing at us both with a very odd expression on his face.

As soon as Erlon had the last picture satisfactorily in his camera, Jack hustled me out of the van. He almost manhandled me down the steps and around the side of the motel, not letting me stop to hitch up my skirt and I had to settle for letting most of it trail behind me in the dust, where it sent up little flurries of worried sand as I moved.

Finally we reached the yard near the dumpsters, and Jack let go of my arm. ‘Well?’

‘Well, what?’ I reeled in as much of the skirt as I could and tried to brush the worst of the dirt off with my hands.

‘Gethryn didn’t hurt you, did he?’ Jack leaned back against the wall and managed to find a cigarette somewhere about his person. God knows where from, his jeans were skin-tight and the grey shirt had no pockets. ‘Just tell me. If he hurt you, I’ll? . . .’

I looked down at my velvet hem, slightly ragged and dusty. ‘No.’

‘Are you sure ?’

‘What, you think I might not have noticed him trying to grope my boobs and shove his tongue down my throat? No, I shan’t fall for that one again, Jack, whatever you might think, I’m not that desperate.’

‘Oh for God’s sake.’ Jack got the cigarette lit and the first puff visibly relaxed him. ‘I’m not saying anything like that. But you were very odd when Erlon and I got there. Like something had happened and you were covering it up. Although why you’re not yelling sexual assault from the rooftops already I can’t fathom.’

Jack smoking. Worried. Perhaps I should tell the truth. ‘He was? . . . a bit pissed when I arrived.’

‘How pissed?’

‘How am I supposed to tell?’

‘How many bottles did he have?’ Jack wasn’t looking at me now; his eyes were following the smoke as it trailed lazily into the hot air.

‘Two. That I could see. But he could still walk and talk. And anyway, he’s a grown man, what was I supposed to do?’

He sighed. ‘Nothing. I was worried, that’s all. When you opened that door, I was scared that he might have? . . . he takes advantage of who he is sometimes. Well, you know that already, I guess. It’s okay, Skye, it’s not you I’m angry at, it’s Geth. He’s behaving like a total pillock? . . .’ A long exhale. ‘It’ll be the end of him. Professionally, I mean, he’ll never work over here again. In fact, given the way reputations travel, he’ll be lucky to get a job filming public information videos in Uzbekistan.’

‘He said he was going to Hollywood.’ I brushed the skirt down once more.

‘Yeah. I bet he did.’ Jack sounded tired. ‘Did I tell you yet that the dress looks fantastic on you? Very sumptuous .’

Distracted and pleased I pulled some imaginary fluff from the bodice. ‘Thanks.’

‘You’re welcome.’ A sudden turn and he bent to stub out the cigarette, grinding it into the floor beside his feet as though he had a personal grudge against that particular bit of dirt. ‘Okay. Better get back to work. I’ve scripts to deliver, so—’

‘What’s the rush?’

He stopped and turned around, looking baffled and switching back hair from his face as though it annoyed him. ‘What? I just said, two scripts to finish.’

‘I mean, why are you wanting to quit the show and go back to Britain?’

Jack stared at me. He really did have beautiful eyes, I thought, and there was something about the way he stood, the way he was , that was inherently attractive. ‘What makes you ask that?’ He had to clear his throat to speak and his fingers were fiddling, searching for another cigarette.

‘Just wondering. If you needed to get home for anything specific.’

A sudden smile, and he’d turned away. ‘Nah. Need a change, new challenge. I’ve done the TV thing now, I’m not a novelty to them any more. And, like I told Liss, my editor wants more novels.’ His voice dropped a tone. ‘And I miss Yorkshire. You get a bit sick of relentless sunshine and OJ. I’m pining for drizzle and curd tarts.’ And then he was walking away, slamming the heavy door that led to the stairs without looking back.

I found my fingers were picking at each other again; Jack wasn’t the only one with a habit he indulged when he was stressed. But this time I wasn’t thinking about the past, or fretting over the loss of Michael, or Faith. I was thinking about Jack Whitaker. About the weight of longing in his voice when he spoke about Yorkshire, about how looking at him made me think of the dark infinity of the whole of space. Of how I wanted to give myself up to him but didn’t know how or whether he even wanted that from me. Of how I could hardly offer him anything when I didn’t even know what I had to offer.

* * *

He walked to the base of the stairs and punched the motel wall hard enough to make his fist sting. Buggerbuggerbugger! ‘Sumptuous’! He’d told Skye she looked like a fucking sofa ! And then she’d caught him out, cut right through to what was at the heart of everything right now, and there’d been nothing he could say or do without telling her she’d hit it spot on. Home. He wanted to go home. And, yes, it was specific.

I want to go home with you, Skye. I want to show you where I live, that lovely little white house set on its own in the dale. I want to walk in the air with you, sit and write in the office while you? . . . I dunno, do whatever it is that you do. I want to feel that you’re close by? . . .

He raised his head and stared a challenge at the ceiling. Yeah, he wanted it. But he’d wanted an awful lot of things over the years. Starting with death and working his way up to success, which, now he had it, didn’t look like such a great deal any more. Success came with debts to the life he’d had before.

Without thinking, he rolled the leather lace through his fingers and knew he didn’t deserve the life he’d got. Didn’t deserve Skye. Couldn’t have her. Push it away, Jack. Keep the feelings down. If you don’t feel, you don’t hurt? . . . And definitely don’t let Geth see . If Gethryn knew Jack cared? . . . if he knew Jack could hurt, then he’d hurt him.

He’d been totally blasted; even Skye’s best efforts hadn’t totally sobered him up — what was he playing at? He must know his career was on the line here. Had he stopped caring? If Geth ever even suspects I feel anything, anything at all for Skye? . . . Jack bit a fingernail, chewed it down to the quick as he stood, using the pain to distract himself from the horrible inevitability of Skye finding out what a bastard he was. Not just a bastard either, he could have dealt with that? . . . A sharp jab of adrenaline hit him in the gut, as though he was looking down from a great height, preparing to fall. If this wasn’t just a day off’s unwinding then? . . .

Shit. Everything is blowing up in my face. And Jack remembered the compassion in Skye’s eyes when she’d asked him if he needed help, wondered how far that compassion would stretch. Would she have been there for him, if she’d known him in the old days? Would she have talked him down, held him when the demons came calling with their vicious, insinuating claws digging deeper and deeper every day?

He chewed at his forefinger in the absence of another cigarette and contemplated the newly rising emotion that beat away inside him as though he’d swallowed a seagull. Skye. She made him feel? . . . different. She makes me feel. All that passion, all that nerve-scraping stuff that had once made him so alive, all that stuff that he’d locked down so tight that nothing really got through any more. She drew it all to the surface, like the poison in an abscess. Like all the stuff worth living for.

Jack shook his head hard, still mouthing around his knuckle. He was letting her get to him, that was all. Skye was like a cat which had been kept indoors all its life suddenly allowed out into the big world, creeping around, almost afraid of each new discovery. Be afraid, Skye, be very afraid. Most of those things you discover have the potential to turn septic underneath you. Like me. You should stay away from me . . .

Okay, Jack. Now say it like you mean it . . .