Falling for the Bridesmaid. Sophie Pembroke
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It seemed to Tom that no sooner had he closed his eyes than a car door was slamming, then another opening, and cool night air flooded over his face. Followed swiftly by his ears being assaulted by one of The Screaming Lemons’ classic hits being played as an acoustic number.
Normally, he’d be up at the front of the stage, soaking in the moment, tucking the memories away for future articles, trying to find the right words to describe the perfection of that three and a half minutes.
Tonight—or rather this morning—he just wanted it all to go away. Including Violet Huntingdon-Cross.
‘Wake up, Sleeping Beauty,’ she said, in a voice far too jolly for someone who had recently glared at him with such loathing. ‘You’re missing the party.’
He cracked open one eyelid and waited for the yellow blur of her hair, the pale fuzz of her face and the purple blotch that was her dress to come into focus. Then he blinked; she was closer than he’d thought, and suddenly the only things in focus at all were her bright blue eyes, peering down at him.
‘Oh, good,’ she said, straightening up. ‘I thought for a moment I was going to have to leave you here for the night. That or get someone to come carry you to bed. That sort of thing never makes a terribly good first impression, you know.’
Unlike, for instance, pointing out a woman’s sex tape history within five minutes of meeting her. God, when he woke up properly he was going to have to work at getting Violet back onside. As the only daughter living at home, he had a feeling she could make life difficult for him if she wanted.
And he rather suspected she might more than want to. It might actually be her burning life ambition at this point.
‘I’m awake,’ he half lied, forcing himself to straighten up. Another couple of moments and he might even make it out of the car.
Violet grabbed his hand and, even through his sleep fog, he couldn’t help but be aware of the feel of her smooth, cool skin, or the way something indefinable crept up his arm at her touch. Something that seemed to crackle with possibilities.
Something that woke him up completely.
Blinking again, he twisted round to get his feet firmly on the ground and stood up, belatedly aware that he was still gripping onto Violet’s hand, probably rather tighter than she’d like.
He dropped it fast, but her blue, blue eyes were still fixed on his and the puzzled crease between her eyebrows told him that whatever he’d felt, she’d felt it too.
At least he had the excuse of sleep deprivation. What justification was she using?
Violet shook her head and stepped back, nicely out of his personal space. ‘I know you’re exhausted. But given that sleep is likely to be impossible for the next couple of hours at least, and since you are here to observe and interview and write about the band... Why don’t you come and meet Dad?’
Dad. Even after an hour in the company of one of the most famous celebrity kids in the world, it still felt strange to hear her refer to the infamous Rick Cross as ‘Dad’. How different a world must Violet live in to the real one he inhabited, to so casually be able to think of Huntingdon Hall as home, and one of the most recognisable couples ever as Mum and Dad?
Different, certainly, to the kid from New York who never even knew who his father was, only that he wouldn’t have done him any good in life if he’d stuck around anyway. The kid whose mother had so disapproved of the method he’d used to get out of the gutter, she hadn’t spoken to him for three years before her death.
Yeah, there were worlds between him and Violet. And however long he stayed at Huntingdon Hall, he had to remember that.
‘Isn’t he still playing?’ Tom said, hoping it wasn’t painfully obvious he was stalling. Rick had seemed sharp on the phone, the sort to see through people’s masks. He wanted to be on top form when he sat down with Rick for the first time.
Violet tilted her head to the left, listening to the music, he presumed. ‘This is usually his last number. He’ll be off stage soon and still on that performance high. It’s a good time to meet him if you want him to like you.’
‘And do you want him to like me?’ Tom asked. It seemed strange that she would, given everything.
A look of annoyance flashed across Violet’s face, as if she weren’t used to being asked this many questions about her motives and feelings. Maybe she wasn’t. ‘Yes.’
Tom couldn’t resist. ‘Why?’
‘Does it matter?’ Violet tossed her hair back over her shoulder as the last chord rang out from the stage. ‘We’re going to miss him.’
‘You haven’t answered my question.’ Tom folded his arms, leant back against the car and waited.
With an impatient huff, Violet grabbed his hand and started dragging him towards the stage. Tom didn’t budge until she started talking.
‘Because Dad makes up his mind about people and things in an instant, and that’s it. You’re here; you’re going to be writing about him and us. If he likes you, he’ll show you his best side, the stuff I want you to be writing about. If he takes a dislike to you...’
‘Things could get messy?’ Tom guessed.
Violet sighed as they reached the edge of the stage area. Even though the party was obviously filled with friends and family, the cheering as the band came off stage was still as loud as Tom had heard in any stadium.
‘Let’s just say this whole experience will be a lot less fun. For all of us.’
Suddenly, the familiar craggy face of Rick Cross appeared at the top of the stage steps, mouth open and laughing at something his band mate was saying behind him.
‘Showtime,’ Tom whispered, and Violet flashed him a quick grin—the first honest smile he’d seen from her.
Tom took a breath. Time to meet the parents.
VIOLET HID A grin at the slightly shell-shocked look on Tom’s face as Dad and the boys traipsed down the temporary stairs at the side of the stage set, all laughing, chatting and still clearly caught up in their own world—a world that consisted of music, noise and melodies.
She knew the kind of impact they could have, just off stage. When she was younger, just old enough to be allowed to stay up to watch the occasional gig from the wings, she and Rose had found it hard to understand this part—when Dad wasn’t Dad, just for a moment. He was all Rick Cross, rock star, right now. And that was a sight to behold.
The adrenaline would wear off soon enough, Violet knew. He’d come down, hug his wife, ask for a drink, and before too long he’d be heading to bed to sleep it off. Well, maybe after a little more time with his closest friends—drinking and talking and probably singing.
Right now, in this moment, he was exactly who Tom Buckley had come here to interview. She hadn’t lied when she said that this was the best time for Tom to make a good impression with her father. But it was also the best time to remind Tom that this wasn’t just anybody he’d come here to write about.
The press could publish all the stories they liked about her and her sisters—and heaven knew they would. But they couldn’t touch her parents. Rick and Sherry were rock royalty, beyond reproach. There were no affairs, no addictions, no mistakes made—nothing to latch on to and use to make their lives hell. It might have been different back in the day, but not any more.
Now they were national treasures, and Violet was unbearably proud of them for it.
‘Mr Cross.’ Stepping forward, Tom stuck out his hand, smiling warmly. Violet had to give him credit—if he hadn’t been slumped over in her passenger seat for the last forty-five minutes, she’d never have known