Man vs. Socialite. Charlotte Phillips
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she wore on last week’s show?’
Jack drew in an exasperated breath. All the girl did was wear designer clothes and hang out in swanky bars. And now it seemed his own sister was as sucked in by all the TV crap as everyone else.
‘She’s a reality TV star,’ he pointed out. Someone had to. ‘It doesn’t require a modicum of talent. Why is she so popular? What is it about her?’
‘It’s the whole different world thing, isn’t it? The way the other half live, the money they spend. It’s cult viewing. Everyone watches it and everyone has an opinion on it. Don’t you know that?’
Helen’s tone had a hint of you’re-too-decrepit-to-understand. The eight years between them yawned canyon-wide.
‘Evie Staverton-Lynch is really cool and funny,’ she added.
‘Did you not see the trouble she’s caused me?’ he said.
Helen made a vague dismissive noise as if she was distracted. He could just imagine her watching TV while she talked to him. Multitasking, splitting her attention down the middle. A fond smile touched his lips. He loved her in-your-face attitude. It hadn’t been long enough since she’d been holed up in the hospital, too weak to speak. And then there had been rehab. Would it ever be long enough?
‘It’s all just a publicity stunt,’ she said. ‘All designed to get more attention. Probably staged.’
‘I need it like a hole in the head,’ he said.
‘You need to lighten up’, she said. ‘With any luck you might even come out of this looking a bit hip. Your shows have been looking a bit nerdy recently.’
He could hear the teasing smile in her voice.
‘Nerdy?’ A grin spread across his face at her cheek. He could never hear enough of that.
‘This could get you a whole new audience.’
‘Will you be watching?’
Her voice softened.
‘I always watch.’
‘And you’re feeling OK and your college course is going fine?’ he checked.
‘For the hundredth time, will you stop fussing? I’m perfectly fine, I promise.’
He restrained himself from picking endlessly at her. There was a constant need to be certain she was on track, doing fine, clean. It had barely diminished since that first shocking sight of her at rock bottom, a journey she’d taken while he’d been on the other side of the world, oblivious, revelling in his army career.
‘I’ll call you as soon as I get back from filming,’ he said.
‘Evie Staverton-Lynch has the best fashion sense in the country. She’ll soon have you out of that camo green you keep wearing. Good luck!’ She blew him a kiss and put the phone down.
For Pete’s sake.
* * *
‘You don’t have to go through with this.’
Annabel Sutton leaned back against the plump pink cushions on Evie’s sofa and as usual said exactly what Evie wanted to hear. Annabel pulled a face as she sipped her coffee. Not her usual table in her favourite Chelsea café and clearly Evie wasn’t up to supplying the usual standard of beverage. After the reaction Evie had got in the street this morning when she’d nipped to the corner shop to buy milk, she’d insisted Annabel come to her flat instead of going out. An irate pensioner had informed her that she ought to be ashamed of herself, saying those awful things about that ‘nice young man’.
‘None of this is your fault,’ Annabel soothed. ‘Total overreaction by the TV company—the whole thing’s been blown out of proportion. And it’s not like you’re on the breadline, sweetie. You’ve got a whopping great allowance, this lovely flat, a country estate. You don’t need to take this.’ She paused. ‘The production company really suggested cutting you from the show, did you say?’ She gazed up at the ceiling. ‘How awful. I wouldn’t blame you if you walked away after that lack of support. I guess they’ll move one of the rest of us into the central role.’
Secondary player on Miss Knightsbridge, Annabel had a part-time PR job in a glossy art gallery and a fabulously supportive family who were distantly related to the Queen. It occurred to Evie that Annabel was seeing this a bit too much like an opportunity to really pull off supportive.
‘The threat of legal action was bandied about,’ Evie said shortly. ‘For potential loss of income relating to Jack Trent’s TV series, his business interests... I do this show, I avert the possibility of that.’
That would make sense to Annabel. A reason that was related to finance. Evie didn’t mention that the money was the least of her worries. The thing that really ached the most was the loss of support, the way the public had turned on her after making her feel special for once. What she really wanted, if she was honest, was to find a way to turn that around, to get things back to the way they were. To launch her jewellery business to rapturous reviews, perhaps secure a concession in one of the department stores, instead of sinking out of sight under a cloud of public dislike.
‘Plus I might be able to turn off the Internet but I still can’t leave the flat without grief from the public.’
‘Since when have you given a damn what other people think?’
Annabel was familiar with Evie’s perfected I-don’t-care-bring-on-the-fun persona. At school Evie had quickly learned that attitude earned friendship from the most popular girls. In South West London she’d continued to work at being one of the crowd, the need to belong somewhere as important to her as ever. She wasn’t sure what her friends, or the TV viewers for that matter, would make of her if they knew that given the choice of falling out of a glossy nightclub and curling up with a box set, the TV show would win every time.
‘Since I can’t put my head outside the door without pensioners accosting me.’ She thought back to this morning’s encounter. It seemed age was no barrier to the charm Jack Trent held over the opposite sex.
‘And you’re sure Jack Trent isn’t the real reason you’re up for this?’ Annabel said slyly. ‘I mean, did you see him shirtless in the papers? Utterly jaw-dropping and totally eligible. He’s never photographed with the same woman twice. I can think of people I’d rather kick out of the tent.’
Evie suppressed a flash of interest in scanning the tabloids online. Never the same woman twice? Familiar alarm bells clanged madly in her head. She’d fallen for looks and charm once too often only to find the person they were actually interested in bedding was TV’s Miss Knightsbridge, along with her glossy life. Once they’d reached that base, interest in the real Evie seemed to disappear like smoke, with the possible exception of one D-list pop star she’d dated who’d spun out the charade a bit longer because he wanted a spot on the TV show. She had absolutely no interest in spending time with Jack Trent beyond salvaging her own reputation. What he looked like without a shirt and his marital status had no place in the debate.
‘According to what I’ve read about his survival courses, I’ll be lucky to even get a tent,’ she said.
* * *
The evening before filming started and Jack arrived at the Scottish hotel habitually used by the production crew when making his TV series, and presumably the hotel Evie Staverton-Lynch had referred to in her libellous comment.
He took a small amount of pleasure in the knowledge that it was a two-star basic place, chosen because of its convenient proximity to his outward-bound centre and definitely not for its accommodation standards. No duck-down pillows and absolutely no gourmet menu. Fiercely defensive of their TV star guest, they’d given Evie the room above the kitchens with the view of the bins and an aroma of chip fat should she make the mistake of opening the windows.
The rest of the crew were predictably holed up in the hotel bar as per usual. There was no sign of Miss Knightsbridge anywhere although he’d