THE LOVE ACT

ZARA BELL
Copyright © 2020 by Zara Bell
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means,
including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author,
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. All characters are imaginary. Any resemblance to real events, businesses, or
persons (living or dead) is purely coincidental.
Cover photography is used under license from shutterstock.com:
Nestor Rizhniak/shutterstock.com
Tommaso Lizzul/shutterstock.com
Created with Vellum
 To my sister
who is always brave
 CONTENTS

ACT ONE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
ACT TWO
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
 Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
ACT THREE
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
TWO YEARS LATER
About the Author
Watch out for Zara Bell’s next book
ACT ONE
THE PROPOSAL
 1

IT’S ten thirty PM on a Saturday evening at the Speakeasy Late Night Talk
Show, and for the third time this shift, a woman I’ve never met is sobbing in
my arms.
“My life is over,” she gulps into my shoulder. Mascara drips off her chin
and dribbles down her shirt. She’s cried her own little Alice-in-Wonderland
puddle on the carpet tile floor. The storeroom downstairs has probably just
sprung a leak. “I’ll never be able to look anyone in the eye again.”
I rub her back and subtly check my watch. I was sent in here to chuck her
out of the dingy little dressing room, so it can get cleaned—and dried—for
the next guest. But she’s been humiliated enough for one day, without
getting thrown weeping onto the streets. I need to calm her down first.
“There, there,” I say, uselessly. “You’ll be okay, uh…” I twist and squint at
the call sheet taped to the door, “Maria? You’ll be fine, I promise. In a few
weeks, people will forget this ever happened.”
This is a lie. One of the media interns will have already uploaded Maria’s
live interview to the Speakeasy YouTube channel. It’s there forever now.
The only option left is to change her name, shred her credit cards, and go
off the grid. Build herself a hut in the woods and start a new life. Buy a
black cat and become a forest witch.
I tactfully don’t mention this.
I actually watched Maria’s interview offset. Approximately fifteen minutes
ago, she was ushered in front of the cameras, innocent as a lamb trotting
into an abattoir. She looked pretty and organised and put-together, like she
filed her taxes on time and put vegetables in her morning smoothies. Her
petal-pink heels were the exact same shade as her lipstick. She smiled as
she sat in the hot-seat, introduced herself, and explained to the cameras that
she’d come on the show to talk about her difficulties getting a state-funded
breast reduction surgery.
The show’s host, Paul Nash, sensitively responded that she was a whiny fat
entitled cow, that taxpayers shouldn’t have to pay for her boob job, and that
if she hated her chest so much, she wouldn’t wear such tight tops. He then
read her mean comments from viewers until she was a tear-stained, barely
human pile of mush. She had to be scraped off the interview sofa by two
stagehands and carried back in here.
Maria’s life might be over, but it’s all in a day’s work for Paul Nash, The
Biggest Prat in England. That’s not an insult; it’s his literal title, voted on by
hundreds of thousands of members of the Great British public. A newspaper
ran a poll on the country’s meanest celebrities last year, and he won first
place by a mile. He keeps the plaque in his office. We’re all very proud.
The general structure of the Speakeasy Talk Show is this: Paul lures some
poor unsuspecting guest onto the programme to talk about plastic surgery,
or veganism, or some other Hot Topic they feel strongly about. He promises
them an intelligent debate, then the cameras start rolling, and he viciously
bullies them for ten minutes on live telly, shouting over them every time
they try to talk. At home, thousands of the meanest Brits nod furiously into
their pints, while the more normal ones start Tweeting in outrage. The
network rakes in the views; Paul rakes in the cash; and backstage, I become
an unqualified trauma therapist.
“I thought I’d be allowed to speak!” She sobs, “He just talked over me the
whole time!”
“He does that to everyone,” I soothe, peeling her false eyelashes off her
cheeks. “It’s not your fault.” I pass her a pack of tissues. We always have
them on hand for guests, along with blood thinners, vodka, and a crisis team
phone number.
She shakes out a tissue and buries her face in it. “Everyone was watching,”
she moans. “My parents. My boyfriend. Everyone at work. Why did I ever
think I could this?” She clenches her fists. “God, I hate myself,” she
whispers.
“No!” I give her a hug. Her body spray smells like candy, which breaks my
heart a bit. “Don’t hate yourself. He’s the asshole, not you.” I gently uncurl
her fingers before her spiky pastel manicure draws blood. “Don’t do that,
babe, you’ll hurt yourself. Listen, you’ve done nothing wrong. You came on
here to talk about something that’s important to you. You were brave. Don’t
let him get inside your head, okay? Don’t let him win.”
A rap at the dressing room door interrupts my motivational speech. The
show’s producer, Louise, sticks her head in. “Cassie. We need you.” She
frowns. “What are you doing in here?”
“Um, one of the guests is a bit upset. I’m just helping her.”
She scowls. “Well, come out here. There’s been an emergency; we need all
hands on deck.”
I look down at Maria, who’s clinging to me like a damp newborn calf.
“But… she’s crying.”
Louise turns to her. “Drink some wine and get over it,” she says, with her
characteristic gentle tact and empathy. “Now, Cassandra.”
I give Maria one last squeeze, then get up and scamper after her into the
corridor. My mouth drops open.
It’s complete chaos.
I’ve never seen the studio like this in my life. Staff are sprinting around like
ants, yelling into headsets and phones. Mario, the makeup artist, is combing
the hall, opening all the dressing room doors and peering frantically inside.
Louise surveys the madness, grim as a king overlooking a battlefield.
“What’s happening?” I’m aghast.
“The celebrity guest is missing. He turned up an hour ago, but now he’s
disappeared. We’ve had to rearrange all the segments. If we don’t find him
in the next half hour, we’re fucked.”
“Oh.” On top of the bullying, sometimes celebrity guests come on the show
to promote their latest album or book or movie. Paul’s nice to them, because
he loves money.
I watch Mario yank open the door to the janitor’s closet and scan the
ceiling, I guess in case the guest is a ninja. “He’s probably just hiding out
somewhere,” I offer. “It’s pretty hectic in here.”
She scowls. “He’s not invisible. I think we would notice an entire man
wandering round the studio. He must have escaped, somehow.” She eyes
the air vents suspiciously and reaches blindly toward the catering table; then
makes a wounded sound when she sees it’s empty. The spread of artistically
arranged biscuits and sandwiches I laid out earlier has been demolished into
a few plates of crumbs and half-empty cups of cold tea. Louise is a
dedicated stress-eater. I once saw her consume a packet of Jammy Dodgers
in less than a minute. She was like a boa constrictor—she didn’t even chew.
She starts desperately sifting through the wreckage for something edible.
Mario decides the janitor’s closet is clean and sidles up. “Isn’t he sharing
the slot with his girlfriend? What’s her name, Gina? She could do the
interview alone.”
Louise finally unearths a broken custard cream and looks at it like it’s her
dying child. Then bites it in half. “I sent her packing ten minutes ago,” she
mumbles, covering her mouth. “She’s basically his accessory; there’s no
point her being here without him. We only asked her on for the romance
angle.”
“Surely she’s better than nothing?”
She drains her mug of cold tea with a grimace. “She’s worse than nothing.
She doesn’t matter.” She passes me the empty mug. “Cassie, can you clear
up this mess and make us all some more coffee? And biscuits, please.
Whenever I’m not consuming sugar, my brain stops.”
I nod, relieved to have something nice and easy to do. “Yep. Coffee. On it.”
I set to work clearing up the piles of mugs and plates, stacking everything
onto a tray. Not to brag, but getting coffee is sort of my speciality. I’m a
runner, a bottom-rung assistant on the show. My job is to do any kind of
errand that needs running, with a smile. No job is too big or too small.
Today, I’ve made approximately two hundred cups of coffee, picked up
dinner at four different restaurants, and used a hairdryer to dry the sweat-
marks on Paul’s shirt.
It’s thrilling, really. Love it.
At the end of the hall, the studio door suddenly bursts open, and His
Majesty himself enters. Everyone averts their eyes. This is partially out of
respect, but also because Paul Nash is not a nice man to look at. He’s very
pink and he sweats a lot. It’s like seeing a slab of gammon shoved into a
dull grey suit. He stumps towards us menacingly.
“Mr. Nash! Shouldn’t you be onset?” Louise squeaks.
“Ad break.” He slams his mug on my tray so hard everything rattles. I hate
his mug. It’s white and heavy, and says BLOW ME, I’M HOT on the side.
Every time you give it to him, he points at it and raises an eyebrow, and you
have to pretend to laugh or he fires you. “So? Have you found him?”
Louise shrivels. “Not yet. But we will!”
Paul’s face goes brick red. A cartoon vein throbs in his forehead. He
sputters and rumbles like a volcano. “I CAN’T STAND THESE BLOODY
ACTORS,” he suddenly bellows, and my whole body jerks violently.
I am a very jumpy person. I startle easily, something many very funny
people find incredibly amusing. One of my neighbours has a yippy little
dog, and when she walks him, she puts him in a green day-glo jacket that
says I’m nervous, please give me space. My flatmate got me a human-sized
one for Christmas last year.
When Paul shouts, I jolt like I’ve been electrocuted. My hands instinctively
fly up to shield my face, and the entire tray topples over me. Twenty half-
full mugs avalanche onto my chest and bounce across the carpeted floor.
Lukewarm tea sloshes down my front like a sea wave, soaking into my
shirt, my hair, somehow dribbling into my shoes.
And a tiny splash flicks onto Paul’s hand.
There’s a brief silence. All through the hall, people twist to watch. A rolling
mug hits a door.
Then Paul grasps his wrist and howls in agony. “OW!” He wheels on me,
his eyes lit up like a demon’s. “YOU’VE BURNED ME!” He screeches.
“AM I PAYING YOU TO BURN MY HAND OFF?”
“I am so sorry,” I gasp. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”
He bends down, getting in my face. I cower. “OF COURSE, I’M NOT
OKAY. HOW AM I MEANT TO FILM A SHOW COVERED IN
BURNS?”
“B-but it’s cold,” I blurt out, stupidly.
His nostrils flare like a dragon’s. “What?”
“It’s cold tea, Mr. Nash. Look, I’m covered in it, I’m fine.” His face turns
thunderous. I dig my nails deeply into my palms, and brace myself to be
actually physically beaten in the workplace. “I’m so, so sorry. Do you want
me to make you another drink? Or—or get you a towel?”
One of the nicer sound guys decides my life is worth saving. “Uh, you’re
needed onset, Mr. Nash. We’re back on live in three.”
He grunts, grumbles, and spins on his heel, stomping back down the
hallway. “Someone get me a new shirt,” he cries. “This one is ruined.”
Louise bustles after him, glaring at me.
The crowd disperses, whispering and staring, and I’m left, silently dripping,
in a growing puddle of Earl Grey. I bend to pick up the mugs. My hands are
trembling slightly. The fluorescent above me throbs.
A teenage intern leaps forward with a mop. “I’ve got this, Cassie,” he says,
brightly. We both know he’s probably going to have my job by the end of
the night.
I nod and smile and numbly load up the rest of the mugs, then shuffle
through to the empty kitchen to dump the tray. I find the break sheet and
shakily sign myself out for my ten-minute break. I’ve found that, in times
like this, it’s usually best to get out of everyone’s way, in case someone
looks at you too long and decides to fire you.
Besides, I feel like I’m about to pass out. My hands are slicked with sweat
and all the lights look too bright. Adrenaline simmers in my blood. This is a
bit of an overreaction, but my body has a tendency to be overdramatic.
I push open the back door and stumble, relieved, into the dark street behind
the studio, wedging the door open with my foot. A breeze cools the tea on
my skin and breathes through my hair. I exhale, feeling my blood pressure
sink back to human levels. I’m fine. I’m fine.
A man’s voice suddenly booms out of the darkness. “For fuck’s sake. Can
you please just leave me alone?”
I’m so shocked I let go of the door. It slams shut behind me, and everything
goes black.
 2

IT’S like I’ve suddenly been blindfolded.

I never realised how dark it got down here at night. It’s a back alley, cut off
from the road by tall buildings. There are no streetlights, no illuminated
windows. Nothing. With the kitchen door closed, all I can see are outlines
and menacing shapes. I trip a step back, clutching for the door handle. I
can’t find it. It’s too late. I’m about to get shanked.
“Who are you?” I whisper to the sky, as if the voice might have boomed
down from the heavens.
The man sighs like today is the worst day of his life. “How did you even
find me back here? Well, go on then.” I jump as his voice moves closer to
my side. “Give me something to write on.”
What? I keep frantically stroking the door. Does it not have a handle? “I
don’t have anything to write on? Look, what are you doing out here?”
“Your arm, then.”
Before I can say anything, a big hand touches my shoulder. I freeze and
quiver like a startled deer. Warm fingertips slide slowly down my arm,
trailing lightly over my skin, and stop at the bend in my elbow; I hear a
plastic clicking sound and the air sharpens with the scent of alcohol, and
then something soft pokes my wrist. It swirls hypnotically across my skin.
By the time I realise what’s happening, I’m too shocked to pull away. I hear
him recap his pen and shove it back into his pocket. “There. Now leave me
alone, please.”
Horror dawns slowly. “Did you just write on me?” I whisper.
“You’re welcome.”
“I’m… Why would I want that? Is this your number? You can’t even see
me! I might be hideous!” Men truly amaze me, sometimes.
“I’m definitely not discounting it,” he says, drily. His accent is crystal-cut
BBC news. “Why the Hell would I give you my number?”
“Why else would you write on me?” I twist my arm. My eyes are slowly
adjusting, and the horror-movie blackness is fading into greyscale. I can see
the bins pushed against the opposite wall and rubbish littered on the
pavement. My fear turns into irritation.
I hold my wrist close to my face and can just make out handwriting with big
loops. “What does it say? Is this permanent marker? I can’t finish my shift
like this!”
The hairs on the back of my neck electrify when the man turns to face me.
“Your shift?”
“My shift, yes,” I lick my thumb and furiously rub at the marks. As far as I
can tell, they don’t budge. “I’ve still got hours left, we’re filming ‘til
midnight. Probably later. Some asshole has decided he doesn’t want to do
his interview, he’s holding everybody else up.”
A few beats of silence.
“Oh,” I say. “Oh. Ah. Uh. Um? That wouldn’t happen to be you, would it?”
“It certainly sounds like something I would do,” he says, thoughtfully.
I squint up at where his voice is coming from. I can just make out a huge,
staticky silhouette looming over me. Massive arms, big broad fireman
shoulders. Possibly Bigfoot. “Are you okay?” I ask. He flinches. “Why are
you hiding out here in the dark? Everyone’s running around looking for
you.”
He huffs, annoyed. “I’m not hiding. I was taking a phone call. Then my
phone died. Why don’t you have lights back here?”
“Because this is for bins,” I explain patiently. “Hey, if you come back
inside, I can charge your phone for you, no problem.”
“No.” He says it so icily the air gets colder.
Okay. “Is there a reason you’re not going on? Are you nervous? We can get
you a glass of wine or something, it’s totally normal!”
He snorts. “I’m not nervous. I’ve done this a couple times before.”
“Great.” I wait. “Uh, could you do it again, then, please? Like, right now?
We don’t get paid overtime.”
He’s doesn’t say anything.
I lean against the door. It occurs to me that if I’m the one to find the missing
celeb, Paul might forget what just happened in the hall. I need to find a way
to coax him inside. “Is something wrong?” I ask the void.
I don’t know what’s come over me. I would normally be wary of massive
men on London backstreets, shrouded in shadows, but he doesn’t sound like
an axe murderer. Despite his crisp accent, his voice is deep and soft and
velvety. It’s making my skin hum like a tuning fork. I’ve always said I’m
not that bothered about looks in men, but this is definitely the first time I’ve
been attracted to a disembodied voice. I tentatively decide he sounds too hot
to be a murderer.
That’s probably the kind of thinking that gets people killed and skinned and
turned into taxidermy sex dolls. But for some reason, I feel safer out here
with this annoyed stranger, than back in the studio, where Paul’s always
screaming and women are always crying and the lights are always on.
Our sides suddenly brush, and I recoil as he leans against the wall next to
me. “I’m supposed to be here to promote my latest film,” he says. “My ex-
girlfriend was invited to do the interview with me.”
I wince. “God. Why?”
He sounds unbelievably irritated. “More views. We haven’t announced that
we’ve broken up yet, but my management knows. I was calling them to get
her removed from the interview. I’m not going to act like we’re in a
relationship when we’re not. Which is what we’ll both have to do in front of
your crew, if I go inside now.”
I remember something. “Wait, is your ex called Gia? Or Gina? Something
like that?” He tenses. “I heard that she got sent home, so you don’t need to
worry about her.” I try to pat his arm comfortingly and end up slapping his
stomach like a bongo drum. “Oh, sorry!”
He startles, and I hear something clatter to the ground. “Don’t touch me,”
he mutters, bending to scoop up whatever he dropped. When he straightens,
pain bursts in my scalp.
I let out a squeak and blindly grab him, pulling him back down. “Ow, okay.
Sorry, but I think my hair’s caught on your button.” I tug him further down.
“Sorry. It really hurts.”
He ducks his head to my level. “What are you, an imp? I’m going to break
my back.”
“Maybe you’re just massive,” I mumble, fumbling my fingers across his
chest, trying to unhitch myself. He’s wearing a thin, starched-feeling shirt
that lets out puffs of cologne every time he moves. The scent warms the air
between us. I can feel hard muscles and heartbeats under my palm. I
swallow. I need to make this less awkward.
“So. What’s your name?”
“You don’t know?” His mouth is right by my ear. I get a feeling like silk
tickling down my spine.
“I’m not a lizard, I don’t have thermal vision.” He doesn’t say anything.
“I’m Cassie,” I hint encouragingly.
He grunts and starts helping me untangle myself. His fingers brush my
damp shirt, and he goes very still. “Why,” he says, terrifyingly slowly, “are
you wet?”
“It’s tea.”
“I was wondering why you smelled like that.” He rakes his hand through
my curls, then swears and tries to shake his wrist free. “What’s wrong with
your hair? Is it alive? I think it’s eating my hand.”
I set my jaw and choose not to respond. This is actually a fair comment. My
hair is black, goes down to my waist, and gets tangled every time I move
my head or encounter a slight breeze. If I go to bed without tying it back, I
wake up looking like the result of an illegal breeding experiment between a
human and a mop.
I tug at it frustratedly. The more I pull, the tighter the knots get. It’s like a
Chinese finger trap. “Can we just do this inside? I need light.”
“No.” The word is as final as a door slam.
“Why not? Your ex has gone.”
“I’m too ugly.”
“Oh.” I try to think of what to say to that. “I bet you have a great
imagination, or something.”
He snorts. “Not really, no.”
Somewhere in the city, a church bell starts to toll. More bells join it like
echoes, gonging across London. Eleven PM. My ten minutes is up.
“Crap. I need to go. I’m about to turn into a pumpkin.”
“Don’t be embarrassed. You can do it here, I don’t mind. Stop moving, I
think I’ve got it.” His fingertips brush my cheek, tilting my head closer to
him while he tugs at a curl. Our faces are so close I can feel his breath on
my lips.
A white strobe cracks between us. I blink, briefly blinded, and the broad
silhouette of the man flashes behind my eyelids.
“What was that?” I look around, my vision flooding with black again.
“Lightning?”
The man swears loudly and starts working harder at my hair. “Do you not
own a brush?”
“I did once,” I say sadly.
There’s another flash. And another, and another. If this is lightning, the
silent storm is right over our heads. The lights are giving me little electric
slices of the man, and I can’t stop staring. I’m collecting the pieces, clicking
them together into a full jigsaw. A sharp cheekbone. A hard jaw. Incredibly
broad shoulders in a black suit jacket. Bright blue eyes, lit up like neon,
fixed on mine. He’s all angles and dips and shadows. I shiver.
He swears again and turns. “For fuck’s sake. You’ve got your shot,” he
bellows at the bins.
Paparazzi.
Oh God. What if I turn up on tomorrow’s newspaper? With my hair all over
the place, I probably look like a tiny brown Hagrid.
With one final, triumphant tug, the man frees himself from my hairy snare.
A button pings off his shirt and clicks against the pavement. My hair broke
a celebrity’s shirt.
He puts his hands on my waist and swivels me like a ballerina, pointing me
firmly towards the door. “Go. Now.” He suddenly sounds furious.
Alarmed, I fumble at the door, finally finding the handle. Yellow light spills
into the alley as I push it open, and I get a brief glimpse of a giant in a suit
before he steps back into the shadows. “Hey. Aren’t you coming?”
“No.”
I sigh. “Look, it’s okay that you’re hideous. It’s what’s inside that counts.”
I think I hear his teeth grind together. “If you want to go home that badly,
find the producer and bring her here. I need to confirm if Gina or I’ll be
doing the interview.”
“But I already told you—”
“I don’t believe you.” His voice slices through me. “Go inside before you
do any more damage.”
I sputter. “What damage—”
“Goodbye,” he prompts. Then, over his shoulder. “You. Let me see your
camera.”
Whatever. He looked about eight foot tall, I can’t pick him up and sling him
over my shoulder. I’ll just rat him out to security. I head back inside, with
the weirdest impression of eyes following me.
And immediately smack into a man’s chest.
He reaches out and grabs my elbows, steadying me. “Ah. Sorry. My bad.”
I can’t believe it. A polite person! My first of the night! He’s hot, too:
probably early thirties, with high cheekbones and brown, freckled skin.
He’s impeccably dressed in a plum-purple suit and thick-rimmed glasses,
and he’s balancing a polished wooden cane over his forearm. The whole
look gives off a sort of Sexy Professor vibe.
“Sorry about that.” I smile up at him. “Can I help you with something?”
“Yes, I don’t suppose you’ve seen Jack Hale about, have you? Tall,
blondish-brown hair—” He gestures vaguely at his face, “frowns a lot? I’m
his PR manager. He’s escaped his leash again.”
“Sorry, what?” I ask politely.
“Jack Hale? The actor? You’ll know if you’ve seen him, he’s quite hard to
miss.”
He certainly is; for one thing, his resting bitch-face has been plastered on
the side of my afternoon bus for the last two months straight.
Oh my God.
Jack Hale.
I was imagining the secret celeb was a soap actor, or a West End singer, or
something. Not a Hollywood star with more followers than Rihanna. No
wonder he was such a brat. He was probably throwing a tantrum until he
got exactly twelve bottles of Evian delivered to his dressing room, or a
bowl of only yellow Skittles hand-fed to him, or something. I can’t believe
a man that famous touched my skin.
I glance down surreptitiously at my arm. It’s a barely legible scribble,
throbbing in the low light, but I can definitely make out a J and an H. I
point at the signature wordlessly.
He leans in, examining it. “Ah. Yes. That’ll be him. Where exactly…?”
I smile and jerk my thumb in the direction of the back door. “He’s outside,
contemplating the bins. Tell him Cassie says hi.”
 3

I’M WOKEN by someone hammering at the door of our tiny, mouldy

bungalow. I groan into my pillow and roll over. It’s too early. There’s no
way I have to be up yet. They’ll go away soon.
The knocking gets louder, and I bolt up as my dusty windows rattle in their
frames. Oh, shit, it must be the landlord. I don’t think we missed any bills,
but it’s definitely possible. Maybe even probable.
There’s a muffled, angry yell from outside, and I quickly throw on a pair of
joggers and zip down the hallway, flinging the front door open.
There’s a man there, standing silently on our doorstep.
“Um. Hello.” I smile at him uncertainly. “Can I help you?”
He lifts a very fancy camera and takes a photograph, right in my face.
I’m too shocked to respond for a second, so I just stand still, posing like an
ideal little life-model, as he snaps away at me. Then I remember I’m
wearing a clingy white pyjama top. And no bra.
I slam the door in his face and fumble at the lock. He knocks again,
pounding with his fist, and I jam a chair under the handle, then make a
beeline for Robin’s bedroom. When I sneak inside, he’s still snoring. Robin
famously once fell asleep at a screamo concert, so I’m not particularly
surprised.
“Rob!” I hiss into his dark cave.
No response.
I snap on the light, and he jerks upright. His brown curls are standing up
like he’s been tazed. “Wha—? Why would you do that?” He sounds deeply
betrayed.
“There’s someone—” I go to sit on the bed, and step on a crumpled mound
of fabric. My whole body shrivels. “Oh, God. Am I standing on your
pants?”
“They’re clean,” he grumbles, scrubbing a hand across his face. “That’s
what you get for walking into my room uninvited.” His eyes finally focus
enough to see my expression. “Jesus, I get it, you’re grossed out by my
underwear. There’s no reason to pass out.”
My hands twist together. I look back at the door. “There’s a man outside.”
Robin slumps back in his pillows, unimpressed. “What’s he doing,
threateningly delivering post? Go run after him, it might be my posters for
the community centre.”
“When I opened the door, he started taking pictures of me.”
That gets his attention. “He took pictures of you?”
“I think I’m being stalked.”
“Why would anyone want to stalk you?!”
The rhythmic banging on the front door gets louder, and I clutch my chest.
Robin rolls off his mattress like a manatee and grips my shoulders. “I’ll go
talk to him. Stay back here, so he can’t see you.” He strides off down the
hallway to face his fate in his boxers.
I run after him, grabbing his arm. “No! You can’t!”
“I know you went to drama school, but I really can’t deal with this many
theatrics in the morning,” he says flatly.
“Don’t open it!” I hiss. “What if wants to knock you out with a baseball bat
so he can come and nick all our stuff?”
“What’s he going to steal? My broken laptop, or your two-pound
headphones? This isn’t a movie, Cass. Now shove it.” I shake my head and
stand my ground. I’m not about to let my literal only friend face his death
like this. He rolls his eyes, looping me around the waist and hauling me
behind him. I am very small, so I am sadly pretty easy to haul. “You realise
you’re the size of a Chihuahua, right? I’ll call you if I need a hand beating
him up. Now, off you go.” He claps. “Chop, chop.”
I slouch into our miniature kitchen. Like the rest of the building, it’s
hideous. There are broken tiles on the walls and strange stains on the
cupboard. I stare at one as I fill up the kettle with shaky hands. Why would
anyone want to take pictures of me? A memory tickles my brain, but is
interrupted when Robin suddenly yells “WHAT?” from the front door.
I jump so hard I slosh tap water all over the kitchen table. One of Rob’s
poster designs gets soaked, and I pick it up, grimacing, as it dissolves into
mush in my hand. Luckily, it appears to be a work-in-progress: it’s just a
piece of printer paper with the words, ‘Support, Assure, Finance, Empower.
Help us build a S.A.F.E. London’ written on it in the world’s ugliest font.
There’s a clip-art cartoon heart underneath.
Maybe it’s okay if it gets ruined.
Robin’s grandma died five years ago, and he inherited a tiny fortune off her.
Despite working full time as an ambulance call handler, he didn’t do what
any normal person would do and retire rich; he put all the funds into
starting a charity in her honour, to support people with mental illnesses.
SAFE. In other words, he’s an angel in human form. Goodness shines out of
his pores like holy light.
Sadly, that doesn’t stop him viciously bullying me. He bursts back into the
kitchen as I’m mopping up the mess. “You little slag!” he crows.
“Yes? Hello? Did you want something?” I wave the soggy bit of paper at
him. “I ruined your marketing campaign.”
He waves it off. “Who gets it on in the street behind their workplace? Oh,
Cass, I’m so proud. My only child. All grown up at last.”
“You were a terrible dad,” I mutter, dropping into a chair. It creaks
ominously. Like everything in this building, it’s currently held together with
duct tape and wishes. “What, exactly, are you talking about?”
He sticks his phone in my face. “You didn’t tell me?”
I squint at the screen. And blink the sleep from my eyes.
And squint some more.
It’s a photograph of me kissing Jack Hale. My hands are on his chest, his
are wrapped in my hair, our faces are tilted together, and we both appear to
be pulling back for air after a passionate snog by the dustbins.
I’d been so alarmed by my stalker that I’d forgotten about last night.
Memories click through my head like a slideshow. Fingers on my elbow.
Warm breath in my hair. A very rude man.
Definitely no kissing.
Rob’s grin is going to split his face. “The guy was paparazzi. It’s good to
see you haven’t forgotten how to kiss. How did it feel, to finally be in the
warm embrace of a man again?”
I shake my head, dazed. “I don’t…”
“Jack Hale, Cass! Jack Hale! Pure fucking Greek God Jack Hale! You
literally don’t feel the gentle touch of a man for five years, then you pull
Jack Hale?!”
“Stop saying his name, you might summon him.” I bring the screen right up
to my face, studying every glowing pixel. Looking closely, I can see how
the photographer caught us at an incriminating angle. Half of Jack’s face is
hiding mine—our lips aren’t even touching. “This isn’t right, though. We
didn’t kiss.”
He snorts, jabbing the screen. “Who’s she, then?”
“Looks like A Mystery Girl.”
“Yeah, okay. Did you get his number? Did heavenly choirs of angels
descend and warble in your ears? What did he smell like?” That’s the thing
about Robin, he’s shy.
“It was dark. My hair got caught on his button, he bent down to untangle it.
That’s it.” I scroll down to read the story.

Despite being booked for a live appearance on the SPEAKEASY

TALK SHOW last night, Jack Hale chose to spend his evening
differently. The famous actor made a scene when he kissed a crew
member outside the studio, in full view of paparazzi. Hale is
currently dating fellow actress Gina McClive.
A source close to McClive claims, ‘She’s devastated. She’s used to
desperate women throwing themselves at Jack, but she’s always
trusted him to remain faithful. That he would humiliate her so
publicly is a real blow. He hasn’t apologised, or reached out at all.’
The identity of the young employee remains a mystery.

Robin grabs my wrist. “He signed your arm?” His voice has spiralled so
high, bats can hear it.
I look down in horror at the black permanent marker tattooing my skin.
“Rob, stop it. I don’t like this. I really didn’t kiss him. I don’t know what’s
happening.” My heart is hammering. This isn’t fair. Someone’s made up
this story about me, and I have no way of talking back.
“Wait.” He checks my face. “Seriously?”
I nod, scrolling down to some shots of me and Jack talking. We’re both
gazing at each other very, very intently. I know it’s because we’re both
blind, but I suppose it could look like calf-eyes. If you’re really stupid.
Rob’s phone vibrates in my hand. He grabs it and checks the alert. “Oh,
shit. I’ve got a meeting with a donor. Will you be okay alone? You can
come along if you can be silent and invisible. Use your award-winning
acting skills to be a filing cabinet, or something.”
I plop onto the sofa and curl up. “I’ll be fine.”
He gives me a shrewd look. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. If someone else comes, I’ll just shut all the curtains, put on sound-
cancelling headphones, and pretend I’m in a bunker.”
“Your classic move.” Robin ducks and hugs me, quickly. “Don’t worry.
We’ll sort it when I get back, okay? Promise.”
I shove him off me. “Go. Save the world, you disgusting good samaritan.”
He bolts for the shower, and is out the door in two minutes flat. I flip open
my laptop. The story is everywhere. Everywhere. Facebook, Twitter,
Youtube. Apparently, in her heartbreak, Gina has managed to contact
hundreds of different news outlets in the last nine hours, which is quite
impressive. Apart from the one pap, no one else seems to have worked out
that it’s me yet—but it’s probably only a matter of time. I look through
some comments:

I can’t believe it.

i always thought he was one of the good guys :(

Who is that bitch, anyway?! Who makes out with another girl’s
man???

I tug at my hair, stressed, and head to Jack’s IMDb page. I’m not really a
fan of his, but I recognise a few titles. He mostly does action movies. His
studio, Union, churns out at least five identical blockbusters a year, full of
emotionless hot people and explosions. They’re not really my thing; I prefer
a period romance. I like watching men in top hats helping women into
carriages. Ballrooms heavy with sexual tension. Mr. Darcy climbing
dripping out of a lake.
I scroll to the trivia section at the bottom of the page. Apparently, the studio
crowned Jack ‘Biggest Diva’ four years ago, when he left set during filming
five times. He’s currently starring in a superhero franchise. His superhero
name is The Guard, and his last film, Bound, is due to release this month.
Intrigued, I pull up a video preview, and my mouth goes dry.
It’s a scene of Jack in the shower. Water sprays across his face and streaks
down his chest, licking over hard lines of muscle. Droplets bead on his arms
and collarbone. The glass walls are soft with steam. As I watch, he turns off
the water and climbs out, wrapping a towel around his hips. The camera
angle keeps everything carefully PG. He opens the bathroom door to reveal
a man dressed all in black with a sock on his head, pointing a gun at him.
Jack raises a perfect eyebrow. “That’s not very polite. Can you at least wait
for me to get dressed?”
The socked man lunges at him, and Jack grabs his arm, yanks away the gun,
and wrestles him smoothly to the tiled floor. There’s a brief tussle, which
focusses mostly on wet, bulging biceps. Then a gunshot sounds. Jack stands
up, adjusting his towel.
“I haven’t even had breakfast yet,” he mutters, stepping over the body.
BOUND: IN THEATRES SOON flashes across the screen.

I narrow my eyes.
It’s a pretty dumb teaser, although it’s hard to judge Jack’s performance
skills, since the camera focussed solely on his abs for the entire sequence.
As far as I can tell, The Guard’s superpower is just being very muscly. And
naked. And wet.
I decide I need to do some more research. I’m just loading up a new website
when my phone rings.
Alarm clangs through me. If the photographer worked out my address, he
could definitely find my phone number. I pick my phone up like it’s a
nuclear detonator.
“Hi?” I venture.
“Cassandra?” It’s a deep male voice with a crisp Eton accent. “We met
briefly last night. My name’s Conlan; I’m the PR representative for Jack
Hale.”
I feel cold. “How did you get my number?”
He has the grace to sound embarrassed. “I contacted your studio. They gave
me all of your details. I assume you’ve seen the news?”
“Ah, yes.”
“Good. There’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”
“If you want to sue me, I don’t have any money. Like, at all.” I cough.
“Also, um, I’m not sure I’ve done anything wrong?” Stupid, maybe, but
that isn’t usually punishable by law.
“We don’t want to sue you, Miss Ray. The opposite, actually. Consider this
more of a proposition.”
What’s the opposite of getting sued? Getting paid? “O-kay? What are you
proposing?”
“It’s a bit sensitive. It’s better that I explain it to you in person.” He pauses.
“Do you know the restaurant Ambrosia? In Camden?”
“Yes.”
“Meet us there at noon, please. We’ll explain everything.”
 4

I STARE at Ambrosia’s massive gold doors. My watery reflection stares

back out of the glass. I look very scared and small and young, and definitely
not posh enough to go inside and speak to a celebrity. My black hair is one
waist-length, windswept tangle. The cherry-print sundress I fashionably
grabbed out of my clean-enough laundry pile is slightly wrinkled, and is
being set off nicely by the sweat-glow on my light brown skin. My red
lipstick is too bright, and I still have pen all over my arm. No matter how
much I scrubbed in the shower, I couldn’t get rid of it. I’ve been branded.
To conclude, I look a complete mess.
The door suddenly jerks open, and the maitre d’ peers out at me. “It’s not an
automatic door, ma’am,” he says, helpfully.
“Oh, I know, I was just…” He raises an eyebrow. I scuttle into the quiet
darkness, immediately feeling hopelessly underdressed. The man is wearing
a tuxedo. At midday.
His eyes flicker when he sees me, obviously not used to such straggly
clientele. “Ah—do you have a reservation?”
I swallow back the nerves tangling in my throat. “Um. I’m here to meet
Jack Hale?” It sounds so stupid when I say it out loud. I may as well have
waltzed into the building and asked to have a sit-down with Bugs Bunny.
The man just nods, consulting his list. “Cassandra Ray, is it?” I nod, then
stare when he bobs a little heel-clicky bow. “I’ll show you to his table.”
I look around as I’m led through the dim restaurant, taking in glossy
mahogany tables and jewel-coloured wallpaper. People huddle over tiny
plates of food, speaking in hushed tones. Crystal glassware clinks. I can feel
my heartbeat in my skin. This isn’t a part of London I like to visit anymore.
I’m not big-headed enough to think I might actually get recognised in
public—but a lot of my old cast-mates still work in the theatres clumped
around this street, and I want to bump into them about as much as I want to
bump headfirst into a combine harvester.
The maitre d’ deposits me by a little corner booth dipped in shadows. An
ideal place for some shady dealings. I’m about to step forward when a
silver-haired man I’ve never seen before unfolds himself from the table.
He’s very pale, and is dressed in an old-fashioned suit like a vampire.
“We’ll see,” he tells someone in the booth. “I’m not optimistic.” He turns to
go and spots me standing there. “Oh. Are you Cassandra?”
“Um, yes?”
“Huh.” He runs his eyes over me. “She looks… innocent. People could buy
it.”
I try not to wince, but I get that comment a lot. Innocent little Cassie. Sweet
little Cassie. I feel so wrong swearing in front of Cassie. I’m twenty-five,
but it’s one of the trials of being five foot on a good day. Last month, I got
ID’d buying Robin an energy drink. It doesn’t help that I’m also baby face
personified: round cheeks, no bone structure and eyes too big for my face. I
probably look like an infant marmoset in a dress.
The man inspects me. “You look familiar. Have I seen you before?”
I swallow. “I don’t think so.”
“I could’ve sworn…” he trails off. “Well. You’ve got your work cut out for
you. I’m not signing Hale onto anything until he shows me he can get his
act together. Putting him in a film right now would be tantamount to
throwing the whole thing in the trash.”
Of course, I have absolutely no idea what he’s talking about. “Sorry, what?”
I ask politely.
The guy picks up a glass of wine and gulps it down, then blots his red-
stained mouth with a napkin. “I’m a hard man to convince, Cassandra. The
general public is harder. Good luck.” With that weirdly ominous closing
line, he strides off, leaving the restaurant’s big glass door swinging.
And sitting at the table behind him is Jack Hale.
It’s bizarre seeing him in 3D. He shouldn’t be real. He’s a flat, two-
dimensional character that should only exist in pixel form. But somehow,
he’s here, and he’s massive, and he’s the hottest person I’ve seen in my
entire fucking life.
My brain tries to match up the flashing snapshots I got last night with this
whole, entire man. I remember the high cheekbones and the sharp, square
jawline, scuffed up with stubble. The hard mouth. I thought his hair was
brown, but the restaurant lights are minting it with strands of gold. He’s
almost larger than life, all thick muscle and big scaffolding bones. It’s like
seeing a Viking scrunched into the tiny leather booth.
He makes a sudden flinching movement, and I meet his eyes. They’re this
bright, blinding blue. And he’s giving me a look that would melt metal.
“Oh, good, you’ve found each other,” someone says. I blink back to reality,
and turn to see the PR manager from yesterday, holding a thick envelope
and a glass. His suit is burnt orange and gorgeous. “Thanks so much for
coming, Cassandra. I’ve ordered you a drink, I hope you don’t mind.”
My brain finally whirs back to life. “It’s Cassie, actually. Thank you… was
it Conlan?” I fall into one of the chairs. A glass of white wine is slid in front
of me. I fight the urge to neck it like a dose of medicine.
He smiles at me and sits down too, settling a packet of papers on the table.
“Call me Con. How are you?”
“Okay,” I say, tentatively, glancing at Jack. He’s staring at his name on my
arm. I’m suddenly very aware of my dress tickling against my skin.
“Good, good,” Con says, tapping his papers straight. “I suppose we should
get to business.”
“Please,” I practically beg.
He clears his throat. “You’ve seen the news. This scandal has come at a
very bad time for Jack’s career. His current contract with Union Studios is
ending in a couple of weeks. Right now, he’s doing press for his very last
movie with them, Bound.”
I turn to Jack. “Does that mean you’re done with all the superhero movies?”
Jack ignores me, staring pensively into his whiskey glass.
Con nods. “Exactly. And now he’s looking to branch out into some more…
challenging roles.” He leans across the table, lowering his voice. “Do you
know Axel Mansen?”
“The director?” I nod. He makes these gorgeous, heavily symbolic art-
house movies with endings I have to look up online to understand. “Yeah,
his films are great. What about him?”
Con points at the door with his pen. “You just met him.”
My eyes widen. “The scary guy?”
“Yes. Jack’s wanted to work with him for a very long time, but his contract
with Union was exclusive. Mansen’s starting filming for a new project in a
couple of months—a modern adaption of Romeo and Juliet. He had been
considering Jack for Romeo, before Jack managed to ruin his reputation
completely. Now, we’ve got fans on social media threatening to boycott
anything Jack gets cast in.”
“They’re remaking Romeo and Juliet?” I ask faintly, feeling myself start to
sweat.
“Yes. Mansen’s dropping Jack from the film unless he can improve his
reputation.”
I turn to Jack. “You told me you’d already broken up with your girlfriend.”
Jack silently spins the glass in his hand.
Con swoops in to answer again. “He had. He decided not to make the split
public. But,” he raises a finger, “Gina also doesn’t have any proof that they
were still together. So this is a matter of public opinion.”
“Okay.”
“We can’t undo what everybody’s seen, but we can win back favour. The
public loves a romance. If they see Jack start a really sweet, loving
relationship, they’re more likely to side with him, and see him as a potential
romantic hero. That’s the theory, anyway.”
“Right,” I say, slowly. “I’m sorry; I don’t really get why you’re telling me
this.”
Jack turns to me, and finally, finally opens his mouth. “How are you being
this slow?” He snaps out.
I’m taken aback. “What?”
Con sighs. “Jack. Please.”
Jack plucks irritably at his cuff. “It’s pretty obvious what we’re asking.”
“It would be a bit more obvious if you actually, like, asked it,” I point out,
quite reasonably.
Con straightens, pushing a pastel pink file across the table to me. “Here’s
your copy of the contract I’ve drawn up. We want to hire you to act as his
girlfriend. Mansen’s casting deadline is in seven weeks, so we’d need you
for the next two months. The first meeting would be tomorrow morning at
his hotel—Cassandra?”
I jump up, but my legs get tangled in the chair, and I stagger like a foal. I
grab the edge of the table with sticky hands. “I need to go.”
 5

“WHAT?” Con looks genuinely surprised. Like I should be dropping to my

knees and begging for the privilege of shagging his client. “Are you okay?
Do you want some water?”
I turn on Jack, nausea blooming in my throat. I don’t know if I’m more
angry or scared. “You know there are professionals that will happily have
paid sex with you? It’s kind of unethical to just bribe random poor people.”
Jack just looks up at me impassively, tapping the rim of his glass.
Understanding dawns on Con’s face. “Cassandra, please, sit down, it’s
nothing like that. No one’s expecting you to sleep with Jack. In fact, I’d
highly recommend against it, I’ve heard nothing but bad things.”
I take a deep breath, pushing back my hair. The sounds of the restaurant
flush back into my ears. “Then what?”
“It’ll all just be acting. Think of it as a role in a play. We want you to
pretend to be his girlfriend in public for two months.”
“Well that’s extremely normal!” I sputter.
Con pats my chair, and I reluctantly sit back down. “I took the liberty of
looking you up online. You went to a performing arts college, didn’t you?
I’m sure you’re comfortable acting.”
Terror curls in my stomach. He’s stalked me. I try to subtly look for the exit
from the corner of my eye. “I’m not an actress.”
“Even so, it’ll be an excellent opportunity for you.”
“To do what?” Get my organs harvested?
Con falters. “Well… you work backstage at a TV show. Surely you want a
job in media. Isn’t that the reason most people take those entry-level jobs?”
“Not me,” I tell him earnestly. “I’m just really passionate about making
people tea. I think it might be my calling.” I grab my wine and take a gulp.
It burns my stomach like petrol. “Sorry, this is just a really weird thing to
ask someone to do.”
“We understand it’s unorthodox,” Con soothes, “but it’s honestly quite
common in the industry.” He reaches for my file. “Can I take you through
the paperwork? That might give you a better idea of what we’re asking. I
promise you, it’s all completely legal.” He flips through a few pages.
Reassuringly, they’re not inked in blood. “Here, we’ve got the contract,
release forms for our photographer, the NDA—”
My head snaps up. “NDA?”
“Non Disclosure Agreement,” he explains. “It helps keep sensitive
information private.”
I know what an NDA is. At my old job, we just called them gagging orders.
“What sensitive information?” I ask suspiciously.
“Of course, this whole…well…” he tries to think of a nice word for
‘extensive lie’, “…this charade would be useless if someone found out the
truth. You wouldn’t be able to tell anyone.”
“No one at all?”
“Ah, no. It’s very important this all stays under wraps.” He flicks over
another page, delicately clearing his throat. “Of course, you’ll be well
compensated for your time, since you’d have to quit your current job. We’ll
pay fifty grand a week. That’s four hundred thousand for the full eight
weeks,” he adds, helpfully. “With a bonus hundred thousand if you make it
all the way through. And we’ll cover any wardrobe, living, and travel
expenses, naturally.”
“What?” I think my ears are ringing. “Excuse me?”
Jack rolls his eyes. “Now she’s interested,” he mutters to Con. As if it’s a
bad thing to be interested in half a million quid. It must be nice to be so rich
that you forget other people need money to survive.
Con goes to answer, but his phone suddenly lights up, buzzing all over the
table. He glances at the screen and stands. “I have to get this. It’s Union.
One second.” As he edges out of the booth, he clips Jack hard over the
head.
We both sit quietly when he’s gone. I stare at the contract in front of me.
I’m not actually reading it; I’ve temporarily forgotten how to read. I’m just
sort of staring dazedly at the figures. Fifty grand a week. That’s over twice
what I’ve earned in the last two years combined. What could I do with that
much money? I could pay all of our outstanding bills. I could get rid of my
university debt. I could help keep Rob’s charity afloat. I’m so used to
feeling like I’m suffocating every single time a bill gets pushed through our
letterbox. Living on minimum wage in London is not a joke. It’s scary, a
constant fear that gnaws at you. Sometimes I feel like the anxiety is slowly
killing me.
Jack sets down his glass and crosses his arms. “Just so you know,” he says
quietly, “if you ever do anything like this again, I will take legal action.”
I blink up at him. “Sorry? Do anything like what?”
“Tip off the paparazzi.”
My mouth drops open. “Excuse me?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Do you really expect me to believe a group of
photographers were hidden behind a pile of bins, waiting for me on the off-
chance that I have an affair outside your studio?”
I’m stunned. “But… how could I be working with the paparazzi if you were
there before me? That doesn’t even make sense!”
“How else would they find me in a completely dark alley?”
“I don’t know! I just wanted some fresh air, I didn’t even know who you
were.”
His eyes are like ice. They’re freezing me up inside. “Everyone knows who
I am.”
I gape.
He nods at my arm. “You haven’t even washed my autograph off. Didn’t
you shower this morning? That’s disgusting.”
“You used a permanent marker on my human skin! I’m probably dying of
ink poisoning!”
“I’m just letting you know that this isn’t some kind of reward. Trust me,”
his eyes flick over me. “If we had a choice, you’re the last person I’d pick.”
“JACK.” We both look up to see Con standing over us. He takes a calming
breath, sliding back into his seat. “I know you struggle socially. Let me
explain. When you’re asking someone to do something for you, it’s
generally a bad idea to insult them.”
Jack leans back in the booth like a king reclining on his throne. “I’m not
asking her to do anything for me. I’m offering her a ridiculous amount of
money to go on two months of all-expenses-paid dates with a celebrity.
She’ll get all the press and media attention she wants.”
I stand, reach into my bag, and toss a note onto the table for the drink. “No,
thanks.”
“What?” Con stands. “Cassie, please—”
I start weaving back through the tables towards the door, keeping my head
down. There’s some grumbling and clattering, and then Con’s suddenly
next to me, shoving the file into my arms. “Here’s the contract, and my
number. Think about it, and then call me later. Before midnight, please.”
I try to hand them back to him, but he won’t take them. I end up just
pushing them against his chest. “Sorry, but I don’t want them. I’m not going
to change my mind.”
He moves to stand in front of the door. “Look.” He drops his voice. “I’m
sorry about Jack.”
“Is he having some kind of narcissistic episode?”
Con winces. “He’s not normally this bad. He just doesn’t think this is a
good idea. He’s trying to scare you away.”
“Well. It worked.”
“He’s a suspicious bastard generally, but the woman who claimed to be in
love with him for the last three years just tried to derail his career. He’s a bit
—raw.”
I’m not feeling very empathetic. I just got thrown into international media
as the sluttiest home-wrecker since Helen of Troy. I’m not behaving like an
utter twat.
I do feel kind of bad for Con, though, so I try to soften the blow. “Look. I’m
not the kind of person you’re looking for, anyway. I don’t like crowds, or
yelling, or people staring at me. I’m not celebrity material, I’m boring. I
barely even leave my house, except to go to work or the pub.”
Con smiles, gently. “It sounds like a challenge like this would be good for
you, then. It’s amazing what you can get used to.”
I shake my head, slipping past him. “Goodbye, Con. Thanks for the…
opportunity, I guess. You, um—might want to work on your hiring
practises. They’re weird.” I push open the glass door.
“Cassie?” He calls after me. I spin to face him. “He could really use a
friend, about now.”
Something in me responds to that, because I am a massive tool. I look over
his shoulder. Jack’s still at the table, but he’s stood to watch us. When our
eyes meet, he gives me a look of such deep, burning hatred that I think I
might actually die.
I’m a tool, but I’m not a bloody saint. I give Con an apologetic smile and
shut the door behind me.
 6

“YOU SHOULD DO IT,” Rob says, plonking a fresh bottle of whiskey

onto the kitchen table. I look up from my laptop, where I’m halfway
through an episode of Queens and Lovers. I know Robin is under a lot of
stress with the charity, but I wasn’t aware that he’d lost his entire mind.
“Rob. You can’t be serious. I’m probably going to get kidnapped and
chopped into tiny pieces to feed to his pure-bred greyhounds.”
He stacks together two piles of bills, cracks open the bottle, and glugs
another shot into his glass. I watch with mild concern. He’s been downing
whiskey like a lonely cowboy in a saloon since he got back from work. “I
don’t see why he’d pick you for that. You’re too tiny. You’d barely feed one
single greyhound.”
“I have to trust that he won’t consider me his live-in personal sex slave? It
sounds an awful lot like he wants an escort.”
He wrinkles up his nose. “Don’t really see why he’d pick you for that,
either. No offence.”
I tap the space bar to pause the episode. “Let me get this straight. A strange
man wants me to get into his car and drive to his hotel room every day,
where we will kiss and touch and not fuck, and you think that’s totally
trustworthy.”
“Why not?”
Do men not have self-preservation instincts, or something? “I don’t see why
we’re even discussing this! I don’t need a job. I have a job.”
He rolls his eyes so enthusiastically I’m a bit worried for his health.
“Cassie. ‘Runner’ is not a long-term career goal, unless your goal is to be
very tired and poor. You can’t make instant coffee forever.”
“But I’m so good at it. I think it is my calling.”
“It’s been three years. You need to get back out into the world, live your
life.”
I pick at a string on my dress. “I hate living. I want to stay here, quietly
thriving in our manky bungalow and minding my own business ‘til the end
of my days.”
“Your life is so boring,” he complains. “I’m bored thinking about it.” He
taps my laptop screen. “Look, what if Austen Boy asked you to do it?”
I look at the frozen shot of Troy Spencer, and warmth floods through me.
“Troy Spencer would probably ask me nicely and not make me feel like
something that got stuck to his shoe.”
“But you’d do it?”
“I mean… yes?”
Troy Spencer is easily my favourite actor. He’s everything Jack isn’t. He
acts in funny rom-coms and period dramas, and always plays the charming
romantic hero. Right now, he’s starring in my current TV obsession, the
historical series Queens and Lovers. He plays a gentle, sexy earl. I saw an
interview with him yesterday where he called an intern in front of the
camera and French-plaited her hair while he answered the questions, and I
almost exploded from sheer jealousy.
In case it’s not obvious, I fancy the shit out of him. I blush when he makes
eye contact with me through a screen.
“So it’s clearly not the actual job you have an issue with,” Rob points out.
“You just don’t like Jack.”
“So? He deserves it! He walked into the restaurant assuming I was just
obsessed with him. Like, how big-headed can you get? I’m sorry, I didn’t
realise he owned all of London’s bins. What, should we all evacuate the
street every time he needs to mope?”
“Who cares? It’s just two months, and this could change everything for you.
It would be so good for your acting career, Cass.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “I don’t have an acting career. I’m not an actress.”
Rob sniffs. “Right. Frankly, I’m surprised Assembly’s venue security didn’t
do anything about the strange girl who climbed onstage and interrupted
Shakespeare performances eight times a week for two years straight.”
I grab his arm. “That’s another thing! Guess what movie he’s trying to get
cast in.”
He gulps back more whiskey. “Trolls 5.”
“… Would be an excellent type-cast, but no. Romeo and Juliet.”
His eyes go big. “Cassie, this is fate. This kind of stuff just doesn’t happen.
It’s a sign. And even if he’s an asshole, that kind of money will change your
life.”
I eye the pile of bills avalanching off the table. We’ve been tiptoeing around
the subject since I got in, but clearly something’s wrong. “Um. So.
Speaking of. How did the meeting with your donor go?”
He groans deeply, dropping his head onto the table. “They’re backing out,
too.”
“Were they a big one?”
“It was the local community centre. They brought in ten grand a year, easy.”
He rubs his face. “They said they wanted to change their chosen charity to
something more ‘cheerful’. I think they’re going to adopt panda cubs, or
something.”
“Ah. So that’s where you went wrong. Your mental health charity is too
depressing.” I pick up a bill, read it, and wince. “Won’t your grandma’s
money cover it, though?”
A beat of silence. Then: “It’s gone.” I look up. He’s blinking fast, his green
eyes glassy. He’s trying not to cry. “It’s all gone, Cass.”
“Rob!” I shunt my chair closer to him and pull him into a hug. He buries
himself into me, his breathing uneven and shaky. Hot tears slide my down
my collarbone. “What do you mean?”
“It’s all my fault.” He says, his voice muffled. “I screwed up my
spreadsheets. There was an accounting error. The stupidest fucking error.
We’ve been spending way too much. I assumed donations would go up, not
down, but—shit.” His back contracts with a sob. “I made people trust me, I
told them they were safe, and now I’m taking it away again. All because I
can’t count. This could really screw some people up, and it’s all my fault.”
My throat scrunches. SAFE is mostly volunteering, but it also offers
financial support to people who can’t work. It’s really hard to get disability
benefits for mental illnesses. I know lots of people rely on the charity
donations to buy food or pay rent.
“I’m so stupid,” he whispers.
“Noo. You’re not stupid. Do we need to do some affirmations?” I cuddle
him tighter. “You are smart. You are kind. It’s okay you don’t know what
Excel is. Spreadsheets are toxic.”
He groans and pulls back, ruffling a hand through his curls. “I’m gonna
have to start breaking the news. What am I supposed to say? Sorry, eighty-
year-old lady with no family. I know your PTSD is so bad you can’t leave
the house, but I can’t afford to bring you meals, so I guess you’ll just have
to eat dog food until you wither away into a skeleton no one will even find
for two months?”
“I feel like you could word it a bit more sensitively.” He chokes, and I
stroke his hair. “But Rob, it’s okay. We’ll hold some fundraisers or
something. We can fix it. You’re doing a good thing, don’t beat yourself up
for making a mistake.”
“Yeah. Sure.” He takes a deep breath and sips his whiskey. “I don’t want to
talk about it right now. Can we go back to your problems?”
“No.”
“Yes.” He wipes his cheek on his sleeve.
“Even if I wanted to, I can’t stand in front of camera for two months. I can’t
go to events, and get papped, and give interviews. I was terrified just
meeting up with him in a restaurant. I almost didn’t go in.”
“Hey.” He grabs me by the shoulders, his face stern. “You can do anything,
okay? What is it you always say? Fear is good. Doing scary things is good.”
He stares at the bottom of his glass and reaches for the bottle again.
I swiftly confiscate it and hide it under my chair. “Aren’t you drunk
enough?”
“No, I still have emotions. Give it back.”
“Sounds like you need cheering up.” I open a new tab on my laptop.
“Perhaps you want to look up some cheerful videos of baby pandas?”
“You’re such a bitch.”

Later that evening, I’m nestled in bed trying to write beggy emails to past
SAFE donors. My bedroom heaves around me like a rubbish dump
decorated with fairy-lights. A vanilla candle glows and melts on my bedside
table.
I can’t focus. Every ten seconds, my mind wanders back to the thick pad of
paper sitting next to me on the bed. The contract has eyes, and it’s staring
me down.
It’s that stupid word Con used. Challenge. Maybe a challenge like this
could be good for you.
I don’t like turning down challenges. It makes me feel weak. But this isn’t a
challenge, it’s just a bloody stupid idea. I don’t want to be famous. I just
want everyone to leave me alone.
I’m about to pick up the contract and lob it in the bin when I hear a choked
noise through the paper-thin wall. I freeze, ears perked up, heart thudding.
After a second, Robin sobs again, and I close my eyes.
Can I whore myself out for charity? Nope.
Can I whore myself out for my literal only friend?
Yeah. Yeah, I can.
Con picks up on the second ring. “Cassie?”
I steel myself. “I’m not doing it if I have to sign an NDA.”
There’s a very long, very suspicious pause. “May I ask why?” He
enunciates every word carefully.
I stare at the fairy lights strung on my pin board until they blur into
holographic gold coins. “You’re asking me to spend months with two
strange men I’ve never met before, and you want to legally bind me not to
say anything, if something happens to me? For all I know, you’re
kidnapping me. At the very least, I’m telling my flatmate.”
“Cassie, I assure you, that’s not the purpose of the NDA. It’s to protect
Jack’s personal information.”
I lift my chin. “You’re worried about his shopping lists and telephone
conversations getting leaked. I’m worried about my safety.”
“He would never—”
“Look, I really don’t mean to insult either of you. You both seem—well,
you seem quite nice. But you can’t expect me to do this without any kind of
protection. That would be completely unreasonable. My flatmate’s very
trustworthy, he’s an ambulance call handler. He deals with confidential
information every day. I promise he won’t say anything.”
He’s silent for almost a full minute. I wait, drawing circles on the bedspread
with my finger. “Fair enough,” he says eventually. “We’ll scrap the NDA.” I
hear papers rustle and a pen scribble. “If Jack asks, though, you’ll have to
tell him that you did sign it. This will be a deal-breaker for him. He’s a
very… private person.”
I wince. “You want me to lie to him?” It doesn’t seem like the best start to
our sweeping love story. I missed the tips in Cosmo, but I’m pretty sure all
fake relationships should be built on honesty.
“He’s had some issues with people releasing his personal details in the past.
He won’t agree to this if he thinks there’s a chance that it might happen
again.”
“Fine. I won’t tell him.”
“Excellent. Text me your address, one of our drivers will come pick you up
at noon. We’ll go through the rest of the paperwork tomorrow.” More paper
rustling. “Thank you, Cassie. I think this will be really good for both of
you.”
He hangs up, and fear immediately slashes through me.
“ROB?” I call through the wall.
His grunt sounds like he’s face-down on his mattress.
“I think I did something dumb.”
 7

AT NOON THE NEXT DAY, I step out onto the muggy London street,
just as the Batmobile rolls to a menacing stop outside my house.
I’ve never seen a car like it. It’s black and hideous and only vaguely car-
shaped. As I watch, the driver’s door opens, and a nondescript man in
nondescript clothes steps out. He offers me his hand. “Good morning,
miss.” His voice is like gravel.
“Hi?”
“My name’s Sam. I’m Hale’s head of security. He sent me to drive you to
the hotel.”
“Oh. I was expecting a taxi.” I look politely at the armoured fighting
vehicle.
“He prefers to hire drivers. This is one of his personal cars.”
Well, it’s nice to see Jack isn’t flashy about his fame. Sam opens the back
door for me, and I peek into the endless, cavernous darkness. This car is so
massive, I can’t see all of it. “Um. Could I sit in the front with you?”
“Whatever you’d like, miss.” I reach for the front passenger door, but he
somehow beats me to it, dodging around me and holding it open.
I slide clumsily into the hard leather. “I’m Cassie, by the way,” I say, as he
starts the engine. He nods and checks his mirror.
It turns out that Sam isn’t much of a talker. Which is fine, because I’m not
feeling very chatty, either. I watch the grotty flats of my beloved Wembley
roll by the window, wondering if I will ever set foot on its chewing-gum-
kissed pavements again. I’m still only seventy-five percent sure I’m not
being luxuriously kidnapped.
After an agonising forty-minute drive, we arrive at the Angel Hotel. Two
photographers loitering around the car park perk up when I get out of the
car, and we head quickly inside. The entrance hall is beautiful; all white
marble and crystal fittings. I glance upwards, and my mouth drops open.
The ceiling is painted, Sistine Chapel-style, to look like a pale blue morning
sky, decorated with foamy puffs of cloud.
Sam ushers me along. At the reception, I’m given a keycard and a very
enthusiastic bellboy companion called Henry to lead me to my suite. Sam
disappears, leaving me to my fate.
Henry talks the entire lift ride, nattering on about restaurant spots and hot
stone massages, while I desperately focus on my breathing. I feel like a
timer is ticking down over my head.
“This is it!” He grins, as the lift dings on the twenty-third floor. “Swan
Suite! It’s our most romantic room! It’s actually our honeymoon suite!”
“Oh, good,” I say weakly. We step out into the hall. The rose-pink carpet is
so thick I sink about an inch.
Henry extolls the perks of the suite as he leads me to the door. “There’s a
bell you can ring to call a masseuse straight to your room!”
“Um, I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”
“Rose petal service!”
“Good?”
“And complimentary condoms! Here we are!”
I stiffen outside the suite door, my hand raised to knock. Did Jack know this
was a honeymoon suite? Why would he choose a hotel room with condoms
included in the package?
Henry leans in. “They’re made of lambskin,” he says, in a confidential
whisper. “You can barely even feel them.”
I knock, mostly to get away from him.
Jack opens the door almost instantly. Unlike yesterday, he’s not in a suit;
he’s dressed casual, in a pair of jeans and a white t-shirt that seems to be
struggling with his biceps. He raises a rude eyebrow at Henry. “Why is he
here?” He asks loudly. “Did you honestly need help finding a labelled
door?”
Heat flushes my face, but the boy is apparently used to being abused by rich
people. “Hey, Mr. Hale! My girlfriend is such a big fan! Could I grab a
cheeky pic for her? She won’t believe I met you!”
Jack rubs his temple and gestures for me to go inside, and I duck under his
arm into the room. I’m half-expecting a dark sex dungeon with padded red
walls mounted with whips, but it’s very clean and white, like something
from a holiday brochure. The right side of the suite is a lounge area,
decorated with abstract watercolours, a glass dining table with a fruit bowl,
and squashy marshmallow seats. A glass-front minibar displays drinks and
snacks. The floor is strewn with faux polar-bearskin rugs.
The other side of the suite is the bedroom. There’s an office space, and a
widescreen TV mounted opposite a gargantuan kingsize bed. On the left
wall, filmy gauze curtains flutter over a sliding glass door. I push it open
and step outside onto a pretty terrace decorated with potted roses. You can
see most of central London from this high up. The Shard gleams nearby,
reflecting the colour of the sky. Shakespeare’s globe looks tiny, a wedding
ring dropped by the snaking blue bank of the Thames.
I pad back inside and float nervously to the bed, lightly touching a glossy
satin sheet. It’s so silky, I could dip my fingers in it like a pot of paint. No
bowls of suspicious-looking condoms in sight, thank God. Behind me, Jack
tips Henry something that makes his face change colour, and the door
swings shut, sealing us off from the rest of humanity.
And I am alone in a bedroom with one of the most famous actors in the
world.
I sit down heavily on the bed, watching him.
He watches me back. “Why were you sitting in the front?” His voice is
rougher than I remember.
“What?”
“In the car. I saw you out of the window. Why were you sitting in the
passenger seat?”
What kind of question is that? “Where do you want me to ride? In the
boot?”
“The backseats have reflective windows,” he reasons. “I suppose you
wanted to be seen in my car. I hope the photographers got some nice, clear
shots.”
My mind blanks out. I have no experience dealing with someone this
obnoxious; I literally don’t know how to respond to it. “Where’s Con?” I
sound a little desperate.
“Picking up my suit. He’ll be back soon.” He goes to the fridge and pulls
out a bottle of posh water. He pauses, like he’s about to offer me a drink,
then firmly shuts the door. “What’s wrong with you? You look like you’re
going to pass out.”
I rub the hem of my dress. “Why did we have to come to a hotel room?”
“Well, I’m not letting you in my house, am I?”
“But why the Honeymoon Suite?” I insist.
His cheeks tinge a pale pink. He crosses to the desk and shuffles something
on it. “It’s the studio’s idea of a joke. They’re pissed off at my timing.” He
pauses. “The bathroom drawers are full of condoms. Don’t get any ideas.”
“Right,” I say, faintly. “Good.”
He considers me a moment, then peels a piece of hotel-branded paper off a
pad, and hands it to me with a pen. “Here. Write a list. Things you aren’t
comfortable with.”
“Seriously?”
He gives me a look that suggests that he never jokes. Probably doesn’t have
the pleasure centres for it.
I think for a second, then begin to bullet point. “Well, um. Don’t touch my
arse or my boobs.”
His eyebrows furrow. “I hadn’t planned to grope you. Arm around the
waist?”
“That’s fine.” I scribble a tiny star for the next bullet point. “I guess we’ll
have to kiss for the cameras, but can you please warn me first? And no…
tongue.”
He sighs, deeply. “We’re not going to be Frenching on the carpet.” He
sounds like the idea makes him mildly nauseous.
I end with a doubly underlined flourish. “And I’m pretty jumpy, so don’t,
like, grab me out of nowhere. I might scream.”
“Please don’t.”
I slide the paper across to him, feeling slightly more comfortable. This is a
job, we are in a business meeting, setting terms of an arrangement. That is
all. “You?”
He doesn’t bother picking up the pen. “If I ever see you talking to media
when you’re not supposed to, you’ll be fired. If you’re seen being intimate
in public with another man, you’ll be fired. If you ever tell anybody—
anybody—about the nature of this relationship, you’ll be fired.”
I nod solemnly. “That’s it? Nothing physical?”
He considers. “Don’t kiss my neck.”
I can’t help it; I automatically look at his neck. My eyes follow the hard
angle of his jaw, then slide down the gentler curve of his throat, touched
with golden-sugar stubble.
“Speaking of,” he says pointedly, and I drop my gaze. “We need to figure
out how we’re going to kiss.”
“Um, I know how?” I say, a bit wounded. Does he think I’m so annoying
and ugly that I’ve never gotten any action?
“I’m glad. But that’s not what I meant. When there are photographers, you
have to take other things into account, too. Lighting, angles.” He narrows
his eyes at me. “Stand up.”
I do, and we both balk at the height difference. He towers over me. I could
disappear in his shadow. If we really were dating, he’d accidentally crush
me in his sleep. “Christ. How tall are you?”
I fidget. “Four eleven, maybe five foot. Reports vary.”
“That’s too small,” he says, like it’s my fault.
I bet he’s used to dating models. “You’ll have to stretch every morning, I
guess. You’ll do your back in if you’re not careful.” A thought crosses my
mind. “Have you ever faked a kiss? We could, ah,” I reach up to his face.
He stoops, letting me touch him, and my heart squeezes as I get a breathful
of his cologne. I’ve never smelled anything like it. It’s clean and safe and
comforting, crisp as fresh laundry, and it warms me up inside. Why would
such a cold, mean man wear such a delicious cologne? He smells like a
home. I want to bury my face into him like a pile of sheets hot out of the
dryer.
“Well?”
I put the pad of my thumb very gently over his mouth. His lips are
surprisingly soft. I feel them part. An eyebrow raises, and before he can
start moaning, I tilt up and touch my lips to my thumb. This is a typical
theatre trick: from the side, it should look like I’ve grabbed his face in a fit
of passion. In reality, I’m passionately sucking my own knuckle. Jack
makes a low noise of comprehension in the back of his throat.
Then the door slams open.
 8

CON LOOKS PLEASED. “Am I interrupting something?” He dumps a

garment bag on the bed. “You’re in Armani tonight, Hale.”
I sink back down. I didn’t even realise I was on my tip-toes. I’ll probably
have rock-hard calves by the end of this job.
Jack rubs the back of his neck as he straightens. “What about her?” He eyes
my rainbow polka dot dress. “You look like a bag of Skittles,” he informs
me.
“Thanks.”
Con checks his watch. “Stylist should be here in five. What exactly were
you two doing?”
“We’re working out how we can not kiss each other,” I inform him,
detailing my great plan.
He nods. “If the paparazzi are shooting from a distance, it’ll look good. It
won’t work if they’re in the same room as you, though. If you feel
comfortable with it, a quick peck on the lips will do fine.”
I nod. “I’m fine with that.”
“Great.” He passes me a laptop bag. “I’ve got you a company phone and
computer here. They’re loaded with all of Jack’s films, if you feel like
doing some research. I’ll email you the biggest news stories about the two
of you every day, and make you up a weekly PR packet, so you can get an
overview of current public opinion.”
Jack’s head jerks up. “You want her to read what people are saying about
her?”
“She’s a PR tool,” Con says, as if Jack is incredibly stupid. “She needs to be
aware of her own PR.” He turns back to me. “Jack has a lot of press events
for his upcoming film in the next month, which gives us an opportunity to
get you in front of the camera with him. We’re doing all the press in
London this year. In this hotel, actually. International news outlets will
either fly over or conduct interviews remotely. You’ll hang around during
his interviews, attend press events and the premiere with him, generally just
make sure reporters see you two together. When there’s no press, you’ll be
going on dates.”
I examine the new phone. It doesn’t have any visible buttons. I don’t know
how to turn it on. “It’s all in this hotel? Isn’t there normally a press tour, or
something?”
He shakes his head, smothering a yawn. “No, they’ve removed that clause
from his contract after last year. Some cast members will be flying out, but
Jack will be staying here.”
“What happened last year?” I’m assuming another diva moment.
Con looks uncomfortable. “He was very jet-lagged in an interview, and he
criticised an app which was sponsoring the tour. You know Stormcloud?
The messaging service?” I nod. “After the interview aired, the company
almost immediately went bankrupt.”
“I didn’t do it on purpose,” Jack mutters.
Con reaches across and squeezes his shoulder. “So, this hotel will be your
base until press ends in a month, after the premiere. You’ll come here every
day… excuse me.” He stifles a yawn so massive he looks like a snake about
to eat a small animal whole.
“Are you okay?” I ask. “That one looked painful.”
He rubs his chin ruefully. “Damage control is pretty time-sensitive. There
hasn’t been much time for sleep.”
I feel instantly terrible. “I’m really sorry to have caused you so much
trouble. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”
Jack snorts. Con raps him in the ankle with his cane. “As far as I’m
concerned, you’re an innocent bystander. I’ve been telling Jack he needs to
publicise his split for months, but he wanted to give Gina some breathing
room to get over the breakup, before she got hounded by the press.”
“Can you please not discuss my private life with her?” Jack looks irritated.
“She’s your new private life, Hale. Now.” He turns his eyes on me. “The
event tonight is pretty small. Only a couple hundred people. One of Union’s
sponsors is an electronics company, and they’re launching a new
smartphone, so all the cast and a bunch of other influencers are going to be
there to promote it. We have to start getting you camera-ready.”
“Isn’t the event in like, eight hours?”
Jack goes to the bed and pulls out his laptop. “It’ll be a squeeze. You should
hurry up.”
Before I can process the insult fully, the doors burst open, and a styling
team invades the hotel room; a male stylist dressed all in black, with three
gorgeous women strutting behind him, clutching scary-looking instruments.
The man introduces himself as Aron, looks me up and down, and sniffs.
“We’ve got a lot of work to do,” he announces. Apparently, I am about to
have the makeover of my life, which is a bit embarrassing, since I wasn’t
aware I needed one.
The entire afternoon blurs in a rush of bleaching and plucking and waxing. I
was hoping I’d get to lie back with cucumber on my eyes, but I’m in too
much agony. I’m not even allowed arm hair. Jack sits outside on the terrace,
calmly tapping at his laptop and ignoring my occasional yelps of pain.
When I’m hairless as a mole rat, several layers of my skin get removed to
give me a ‘glowy, youthful look’, then I’m embalmed in body butter like a
dead pharaoh. I scoff down a sandwich while gold polish dries on my nails,
then the makeup bags come out, and the girls dab at my face like master
artists, painting me on giant lips and a bone structure.
At six PM, a valet knocks on the door and delivers my dress. Although
dress seems like a bit of an exaggeration, to be honest. I peer around the
makeup artist and stare at it in horror. “Oh, no. Please. No. I can’t wear
that.”
Aron sighs heavily. He’s been mad at me ever since I told him I don’t have
a skincare routine. “You don’t really have much choice. It’s all anyone
could find at short notice. You’re not exactly sample size.” He holds it up
against me. The iridescent fabric drapes gorgeously, glimmering green, gold
and blue under the light, shifting colours like a soap bubble.
“It’s beautiful,” one of the girls drools.
“It’s transparent,” I point out.
He fusses. “The gloss will reflect flash, make you look really ethereal on
film. You have really big boobs for someone so small, you should show
them off.”
I’m starting to freak out. “It’s just, I don’t normally wear such revealing
stuff—”
He shushes me. “Sex sells, honey. You’ve got to give out the right vibe if
you want the public to like you.” He runs his eyes over my sundress. “Right
now, you’re serving me… bargain-bin Grease extra.”
That’s understandable. I get all of my clothes from charity shops. You can
always find the coolest stuff in there, and a few runs of fabric softener
usually get the stench of mothballs and death right out. He looks at my
shoes with obvious distaste. “And those aren’t your colour at all. What are
you? Spanish? Greek? Italian?”
“Um, I’m mixed. My dad’s from Bangladesh.”
“Do your people a favour, burn all the blue in your wardrobe. Cool tones
make you look dead.”
I’m not a hundred percent sure my people will appreciate the sentiment, but
I keep my mouth shut.
By the time I’m finished, we’re running late. Jack is leaning in the doorway,
wearing an impeccably tailored suit and a look of intense irritation. His
getting-ready routine consisted of having a shower and changing his
clothes. He looks up, and I watch as he takes in my new, hot face.
I smile uneasily. “So? Am I fit to be on your arm?”
He turns away in blatant disgust.
Oh, yeah. Tonight is going to be fun.

Jack says nothing on the twenty-minute drive to the event. Literally

nothing. He sighs once, as we get stuck in traffic for the third time, but
that’s it for vocalisations. I wonder if he’s ever considered a career as a
mime—he’d be a natural. Con’s busy on his laptop, and the three security
guards that have tagged along with us never seem to speak, so I stay quiet
too, fiddling with the hem of my ridiculously flimsy dress and trying not to
panic.
The silence is finally broken when we roll around the corner onto the
correct street, and everybody in the car simultaneously swears.
The wide road is full. Completely full. Stampede-full. It’s clogged and
throbbing with people, and as the car draws closer to the crowd, they start
screaming. Now, I’m not saying screaming isn’t an appropriate reaction to
Jack coming near you, but this seems like slight overkill.
I start to shake a little bit.
Con glares at Jack. “This is your fault, you know. They all want to be the
first to see your new girlfriend.”
Jack gives me a look that could ice up a window—and then does a double
take. I probably look like a shivery, sweaty ghost.
As we pull up outside the building, people start thumping on the sides of the
car. I shrivel into myself. A police officer wends his way through the throng
and taps on the driver’s window to make him roll it down. They both start
yelling at each other over the noise.
“Hey,” Jack says. “Look at me.”
I squeeze my eyes shut and breathe.
He taps my wrist. “Cassandra. Look at me.”
I do. His eyes are very clear and very steady. “You don’t have to do this.”
I just blink at him.
He tips his head toward the window. “You go out there with me, that’s it.
You’re done. Your personal life is over. Your face will become public
property. I know you think you want to be famous, but trust me, you don’t.”
He’s so close to me I can’t look away. His voice fills the whole car. “People
will follow you home. They’ll secretly take pictures of you. They’ll try and
hack your email, they’ll go through your rubbish. You’ll belong to them.”
“Them?”
He jabs a finger at a screaming teenage girl. She squashes her face into the
glass and roars like a monster. “Or, I can get out alone, and Sam will drive
you back home. And people will forget you.”
Sam turns to us. “Hale. We need to go.” Jack doesn’t move, doesn’t look
away from me.
I close my eyes. The car creaks and shifts like a boat. The girl starts
slamming the window by my head, and I duck, expecting a plummet of
glass shards. My heart is hammering so hard my ribs are bruising. Leave,
everything in me begs. This isn’t safe. For God’s sake, get the Hell out of
here.
“Jack,” Sam says. “Now.”
I open my mouth to say, okay, you’re right, take me home, but the words sit
dead in my mouth. My stubborn streak strains and holds.
If I run away from this because I’m scared, I won’t be able to live with
myself.
“I can handle it.” I whisper.
Jack nods, once, and curls his hand around my wrist. My pulse vibrates in
his fingers. “It’ll be over in a few seconds,” he mutters.
The driver counts us down, as if we’re being launched into space instead of
just getting out of a car. On my left, Sam takes my shoulder.
“GO!” Someone yells. The door opens, and I’m pushed forward into chaos.
For a few awful seconds, the entire world is just a horrific jumble of colour
and body heat and bright lights. Camera flashes flood me. Someone yanks
at my dress. The worst part, though, is the shouting.
“JACK! IS THIS YOUR NEW GIRLFRIEND?”
“WHAT’S YOUR NAME, SWEETHEART?”
“HAVE YOU SPOKEN TO GINA?”
Jack wraps his arm around my waist, pulling me into him. I jam my eyes
shut as Sam shoves us both unceremoniously forwards, and I stumble,
losing my balance, staggering blindly into—
Quiet.
The massive glass door swings shut behind us, and the noise from outside
gets sucked away like we’ve been locked inside a vault. Now, all I can hear
is the gentle, dignified hush of rich people.
I look around. We’re in a small reception area. A few guests are clustered
around, chattering softly and shrugging out of thick fur coats and smoking
jackets. In the corner, a couple of photographers are arguing with a security
guard over their tickets. Waiters swan past with gently chinking flutes of
pale champagne.
“Holy motherfucking shit.” I gasp, with all the grace and class befitting the
establishment.
A valet pops up out of nowhere and smiles at us. “Hello Mr. Hale, Miss.
Ray. Thank you so much for coming tonight. Can I take your coats before
you head to the hall?”
Jack’s still holding my hand, probably by accident. He tugs me to face him,
grasping my shoulders and running his eyes over me, assumedly checking
for any visible holes.
“I’m okay,” I tell him, breathlessly. The door opens again, and we both
watch Con get escorted into the room by a guard, limping slightly.
Jack’s face hardens. “This is what you wanted, I suppose.” He drops his
hands. “Welcome to my life.”
ACT TWO
THE LIE
 9

IGNORING HIS TEENAGE DRAMATICS, I beam up at Sam. “You’re

awesome at this. How did you do that? Barely anyone even touched me.”
He gives me a little smile, then turns to Jack. “Hale. Make sure to bring
security whenever you two go out.”
Jack frowns. “But—”
“She’s not as sturdy as you. She’s light enough to knock over, and small
enough to get crushed.”
My heart sinks a bit, just like it does every time someone mentions how
much of a tiny weakling I am.
Jack nods sharply and narrowly misses elbowing me in the boob. I dodge
out of the way. He looks at me expectantly. “Come on, then. We have to go
in.”
Oh. He was offering me his arm. He’d made the chivalrous gesture so
violent I thought he was trying to assault me.
I give him my hand instead. “You’ll look like you’re escorting your nan into
church.” He deigns to take my wrist, pinching it between his fingers, and
pulls me through a doorway into the hall.
“Wow.” I peer around us. Two thousand 2D Jacks scowl back at me. The
room is like a shrine to him. Banners with his face on them hang from the
ceiling. The walls are plastered with Bound posters. An LED screen on the
opposite end of the hall is currently playing his trailer. I was aware this film
focussed on him, but I didn’t realise he was the only character.
Photographers line the walls, taking staged shots of guests shaking hands
and asking women about their dresses. And there’s famous people. Fucking.
Everywhere. I’m afraid to make eye contact with anybody, in case they’re
Oprah. They all stand in little clusters, laughing and chatting and smiling
with their pretty veneers. And here I am, small, soft, and standing in a dress
so flimsy I’m not sure it actually exists in the physical plane.
Jack dips down and starts barking orders in my ear. “Don’t talk to anyone,
don’t touch anyone, don’t flirt with anyone, just-”
“Let you do all the talking and touching and flirting. Got it.” I look at a
poster of Jack holding a gun. “This is the whole Union cast, right? Do you
have any friends here?”
“Just because you’re acting as my girlfriend, doesn’t give you the right to
ask me personal questions. I don’t pay you to talk to me.”
Christ. I didn’t ask for his bank information. I glance up at him. “You do
realise in most relationships, partners communicate, right? For fun?”
His returning look probably gives me acid burns. Out of the corner of my
eye, I spot a group of photographers start creeping towards us.
“There’s photographers.” I try to subtly point.
“They’re all idiots.”
The urge to roll my eyes is almost unbearable. “Okay, but I’m sure at least
one of them has worked out how to operate his camera. Shouldn’t we…
kiss, or hug, or something?”
He sighs deeply. “I suppose we should get it over with.” He arranges me for
a better angle and stoops. “Keep your tongue in your mouth, or you’re
fired,” he mutters, pressing our lips together before I can do something
really unprofessional, like gag.
I’ve done staged kisses before. With people I was attracted to, people I
wasn’t. Straight men, gay men, women—but none of them ever kissed me
like this. Like my mouth was a broken glass bottle, and they were trying not
to get their lips minced. I blot my lipstick with more pressure.
Con appears out of thin air, looking harassed. “Bad news, I’m afraid.” He
pulls short. “What are you doing?”
Jack pulls back and wipes his lips thoroughly with the back of his hand.
“Kissing.”
“Can’t you tell?” I worry.
“Jack looks like he’s trying to resuscitate a CPR dummy.” He turns and
flashes a smile for the cameras. “Now, don’t react, but—”
“Do you have any hand sanitiser,” Jack interrupts.
“What?”
He points at me. “She’s sweating. It’s like holding hands with an eel. Can
you make a note to put her in a more absorbent fabric next time?”
I flush. Con gives him a black look. “Troy Spencer is here.”
Heat wires through me. My blush violently engulfs my whole body. Oh my
God. Oh my God.
I feel the muscles in Jack’s arm turn to granite. “What? Why?” He
demands.
“I guess someone invited him. He is a part of the franchise.”
“That film came out nine years ago, and he played a bloody civilian. He
was onscreen less than three minutes. Does he really have that little to do?”
God, he’s a dick.
Con wipes a speck of lint from Jack’s lapel. “I want you to say hello and
refrain from punching him, please.”
Jack looks like he’s just swallowed shattered glass. “I’m not talking to
him.”
“You are if you don’t want more stories about your ‘ongoing feud’ to pop
up. Is now really the time you want to be dealing with that? Repeat after
me. ‘Hello. It’s nice to see you.’”
“Don’t you like Troy?” I pipe up. “He’s always seemed quite nice. I was
watching his show last night.”
“He’s the most manipulative, self-centred, arrogant bastard in the industry,”
Jack growls.
“Really,” I murmur. It’s certainly impressive, given his competition.
“Stay away from him.” He turns to look me full in the face. “Cassandra. I
mean it. I don’t want to see you speaking to him tonight.”
I cross my arms. “My name isn’t Cassandra, it’s Cassie. Call me by it.”
Con looks between us, pressing his lips together. “There are decomposing
corpses lying on top of each other in mass graves with more sexual
chemistry than the two of you,” he announces. It’s been about ten hours,
and I think we’re already pushing him over the edge. “Please.” He takes
Jack’s hand and puts it on my arm. “Make loving eye contact. Like, any eye
contact. Smile.”
My voice is bitter. “Won’t it seem a bit unrealistic for anyone he’s dating to
be happy? I don’t know how much we can expect the public to suspend
their disbelief.”
Jack puts his hand on his hip. “What do you want me to do? Pretend that I
like you?”
“I don’t understand what you’ve got against me!”
“Let me explain. You watched me. You followed me. You manipulated me
into taking those photographs because you wanted something from me.
Now, I have to give you half a million and let you kiss me whenever you
want? Just looking at you makes me feel disgusting.”
Heat rushes up in me. “For God’s sake, are you still going on about that?
You don’t own the streets of London!”
Con throws up his hands, despairing. “Kavanagh’s manager’s over there, I
need to talk to her. Hale, you’re an actor; do some overtime. Cassie, I know
it’s a struggle, but please pretend he’s bearable.” He leaves.
Jack draws himself up. “So, is it a medical issue?”
“What?”
“The sweating. I’m sure my doctor can prescribe you something industrial-
strength. When I was younger, we sometimes put deodorant on the horses.”
He pauses. “Maybe that’ll help.”
I breathe in through my nose, trying to cool off. Getting in a domestic on
our first official date would probably be disastrous. To be fair, I am
clammy; and it only gets worse as we start circuiting through the little
clumps of people, exchanging polite small-talk. Jack, it turns out, can speak
when he puts the effort in, although that ability only lasts for about thirty
seconds. I hang silent and smiling onto his arm as he drags me around the
room at break-neck speed, leading me through one quickfire conversation
after the other. We’re zooming round a corner like a couple of race-cars
when a beautiful red-haired woman steps into our path.
“Jack Hale.” She crosses her arms and smiles with lots of teeth.
Jack looks at her blankly. “Hello…” he pauses meaningfully.
Her smile turns brittle. “Amanda? Gina’s friend, remember? We’ve met
dozens of times.”
“Right.”
“I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”
Jack looks thoughtfully at the life-size poster of him hanging two feet away.
“No?”
“I thought you’d be too ashamed to show your face. You should be.” She
sniffs. “Gee’s inconsolable, you know. Won’t stop crying.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
“She sobbed all through brunch this morning.”
“I hope you kept her hydrated.”
“In front of the paps, too, poor thing.”
“I’m shocked.”
She frowns. “You should call her. Apologise. It’ll take a lot of begging, but
it’s not too late to get her back.”
“I’ll take that into consideration.” Jack says blandly. “Here is my new
girlfriend.” He pushes me forward like a kid showing off a new toy.
Amanda examines me with vague confusion and disgust. What is this? Her
face says. A worm? She extends a hand, but Jack shakes his head. “I
wouldn’t touch her, she’s very sticky.”
She delicately withdraws. “What’s your name, again?” She asks me.
“Cassie,” I say, after a suspiciously long pause. I sound like he’s paying me,
and that wasn’t even a lie. I try my biggest smile. “It’s nice to meet you.
Were you in the film, too?”
She puts a hand on her hip. “Oh, please. You can’t come here, acting all
sweet, when you just broke my best friend’s heart,” she snaps.
The words hit me like a bucket of cold water. I have no idea how to
respond. “Oh,” I stammer. “Sorry? I didn’t mean to.”
She leans in. “It’s a bit trashy, don’t you think? Showing up with him so
soon after the breakup?”
My mouth opens and closes like a fish. I’ve forgotten my line. I’m blanking
onstage.
“Um,” I say eventually. “Well, he needed a date?”
Jesus, imagine renting a fake girlfriend and getting me. Jack ought to
exercise his consumer rights.
She purses her lips into a pretty red rosebud. “Why would you throw
yourself at him in the first place? It’s not like you didn’t know he was with
someone. It’s pathetic.”
“I, um.” I glance up at Jack, hoping for a cue. Help, I try to scream
telepathically. I spell it out on his hand. I blink it in morse code.
His raised eyebrow very clearly says back, You wanted this.
I turn back to Amanda. “I really didn’t know they were together.”
Jack heaves a sigh. “Because we weren’t,” he reminds me. “Gee and I broke
up in January, Miranda. I’m surprised she didn’t tell you, if you’re such
close friends.”
She snorts. “Like I’m going to believe that.”
“Have you seen us together since?” Jack points out. “Has anybody?”
“Well, I—”
He tows me away while she’s still floundering. His lips touch my ear. “If
you’re doing all this in the hopes of becoming an actress, you might as well
give up. You’re terrible.” I don’t say anything, numbly letting him drag me
along to the next group of people. My head is spinning. Reality is rushing
in.
I’m not just volunteering to pretend to be an actor’s girlfriend; I’m
volunteering to be someone universally hated. And this isn’t a character, it’s
my name. My actual personality. Con’s convinced this will work out,
people will start to like me, but what if they don’t? Is the whole world going
to despise me for something I didn’t even do?
We brush past a small knot of models, and I hear one of them say loudly,
“I’ll never get women who target taken men. It’s gross. She doesn’t even
care she’s destroying a relationship.”
Suddenly, the noise in the hall is too loud. I glance furtively around—
wherever I look, people drop their eyes and whisper to each other. My head
is going all floaty. I’m getting terrible flashbacks to my theatre days.
I tug on Jack’s sleeve. “Can we take a break?” I mumble. “Sorry, I just need
a sec.”
I’m expecting him to mock me, but he just reads my face and nods sharply,
touching the small of my back and leading me to the edge of the room. I
lean against the wall to catch my breath. Jack nabs a glass of champagne
from a passing waiter and nudges it into my hand.
“Thank you.” I gulp it down, barely tasting it.
Jack stands back and watches me like a bodyguard. It’s not doing much for
my nerves. “Is it the dress?” He demands, after a couple of minutes.
“Hmm?” I look down. I’ve got my arm crossed over my boobs like a coy
model in a classy nude.
“Is the dress making you uncomfortable?” He squints at it, like he’s only
just noticed I’m practically naked. “It’s very… see-through.”
“I think it has a thread count in the single digits,” I’m morose. “I personally
only spotted eight.”
He scowls. “You should’ve said something.”
I take another swig of champagne, and the bubbles sting my eyes.
He sighs. “Wait here.” He turns on his heel and stalks off.
And just like that, I’m alone.
I back up against the wall and try to disappear into the shadows. I figure
he’ll only be a minute or so, but five minutes pass. Ten. Fifteen. I text
Robin an update. Another five minutes go by, and my phone screen blurs in
my hand. I put it carefully away in my clutch, taking a deep breath as a
familiar shuddery wave of panic washes over me.
He’s gone.
He’s left without me. I’m stranded, in a room full of famous people who are
probably all laughing at me. There are cameras on me. I have no idea what
to do.
I remember when ‘anxiety’ felt like butterflies in my stomach, and not like
someone had tied a sack over my head and thrown me into a bog. Those
were the glory days.
I forcibly pull myself together. I’ve been ordered to stay a sexy silent statue,
but I know from experience that if I don’t regroup, I’ll have a panic attack
and collapse, which I think will probably look worse. There’s a catering
table set up around the corner, and I make a beeline for it. It’s stacked with
plates of vol-au-vents: tiny steaks and mini burgers and little buckets of
chips. I stare blankly at a pyramid of pink and white cupcakes. The party
hums and blurs around me, and I have to brace myself on the edge of the
table.
“I’d recommend the strawberry, myself,” a voice comes from behind me,
making me jump.
I paste a smile onto my face and turn around. Troy Spencer grins down at
me as if he’s actually happy to see me, and I almost suffer a crush-induced
heart attack.
 10

OH MY GOD, he’s so much fitter up close. Floppy brown hair. Freckles

spangling over his nose. High, pretty cheekbones. He grabs my clutch
before I can drop it. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you! I saw you standing all
by yourself over here and thought I’d come save you.” He points at the
tower. “The vanilla’s good, too.”
I just gape at him.
Concern touches his face. “Are you okay, love?”
I’m shocked back into the present. “Oh, crap. Sorry. Um. Thank you. Hi.
Yes.” I am so smooth.
“I’m Troy.” He sticks out his hand.
I wipe my own off on my dress before I shake it, dazedly. I don’t know
what’s surprising me more—that Troy Spencer is willingly talking to me, or
that not all celebs are disappointing assholes. “I know who you are. I love
you in Queens and Lovers. I was literally watching it last night.”
“Thanks! It’s Cassandra, right?” I stare, and he chuckles easily, leaning
against the wall next to me. “I know who you are, as well. Our studio’s PR
hasn’t shut up about you for the last two days. Feel free to tell Jack it’s a bit
of a dick move to have an international scandal during a press tour.”
“Oh no,” I say, faintly, looking back at the crowd. “They must all hate me.”
“Nah. We’ve worked with Jack for nine years, we know what he’s like.” He
picks out a cake and slowly peels off the wrapper. “How are you coping
with it all?”
“Um.” A photographer notices us talking and creeps stealthily closer, as if I
might not notice he’s pointing a camera the size of a flamethrower at me.
“Okay, I guess. I’m not used to having so many people want to take pictures
of me.”
The chandeliers reflect in Troy’s eyes like little starbursts. “You’re shy. We
don’t see that a lot around here. It’s sweet.” It sounds like he’s teasing me.
This has to be some sort of dream sequence. He takes a delicate bite of
cake, showing a sliver of perfectly white teeth. “Don’t stress about it. You’ll
get used to it. In fact—” he roots around in his pocket, and I take a moment
to admire how well his suit fits his broad shoulders. He looks a little out of
place without a cravat and waistcoat, but it’s still excellent tailoring. He
hands me a business card. “Call me if you need anything, yeah? I love
chatting to newbies, you’re all so cute.”
My cheeks are probably fluorescent. “I—thank you. Wow. That’s so nice!”
He just shrugs and grins, stepping to one side as a waiter appears, carrying a
tray clinking with glasses. “Oh, sorry, mate. Didn’t mean to get in your
way.” He’s so close to me now that our arms are brushing. I’m going to pass
out. “So, how’s life with Jack? I haven’t seen him in ages.”
Oh, right. “He’s… um… nice,” I hedge.
Troy throws back his head and laughs. It’s a booming, attention-grabbing
actor’s laugh, and heads turn towards us from all round the hall. “Nice?
How much is he paying you to say that?”
I simper.
He glances over my shoulder and his eyes spark. “Oh. Speak of the devil.”
I turn and see Jack cutting through the crowd towards us, Con’s green
jacket over his arm, looking like he’s about to commit murder. Which is
pretty rich, since he ditched me for over half an hour. When he reaches us,
he holds out his hand to me, silently. I step forward, and he wraps the jacket
around my shoulders, buttoning it up over my chest.
“Thank you,” I say, stiffly. “You didn’t have to.”
“Are you tired?” He murmurs.
Is he showing an actual interest in my feelings and wellbeing? If you can
die of shock, I’m a ghost. “I’m okay.”
He nods slowly. “I thought perhaps you were so delirious with exhaustion
you forgot who you’re supposed to be dating. Maybe you should carry my
picture, if I’m that unmemorable.”
Luckily, Troy intervenes before I can start crying, or something equally
pathetic. “Hale.” He greets, beaming. “It’s been ages.”
Jack straightens, tucking me firmly under his arm. “That was intentional.”
Troy just laughs. “Yeah, yeah. You haven’t changed much. How have you
been, mate? I heard you got binned off Mansen’s new film. Too bad.”
“I heard every film you’ve been in for the last four years has bombed. How
are you enjoying the low-budget Downton Abbey knockoffs? You never
mentioned being interested in soap operas.”
Troy’s smile goes tight. “Queens and Lovers is a historical drama,” he says,
levelly. “Anyway, I’ve got a new project in the pipeline.” He pauses. If he’s
waiting for Jack to politely ask him to expand, we’ll be standing here until
time wears our skeletons into dust. “I’m going to be trying my hand at
directing. A feature film. You’ve never done that, have you?”
“I’m generally of the opinion that people that can’t direct shouldn’t try.”
Jack touches the top of my hair, very lightly, like he’s flicking away a bit of
fluff. I flinch, and he drops his hand. “What, exactly, were you doing with
my girlfriend?”
“Oh,” Troy smiles at me. “Just chatting. We had a lovely conversation,
didn’t we?”
My brain immediately shorts out again. “I, uh, um, guess so. Er, um.”
Jack’s voice is dryer than rice cakes. “Oh, Skittle here is certainly an
excellent conversationalist. I’m surprised you managed to keep up.”
“Well, you’re lucky. She’s a cute little thing.”
I am going to die.
“I call her thing, too, how did you know?” Jack clearly decides that’s his
social duty complete. He pivots me away. “Well. It’s been nice seeing you.”
Troy grabs him by the arm. “Wait a sec. A few of us were thinking about
doing something for Angelica next month. A little get-together with her
fans, or something. I thought you might want to get involved.”
There’s a beat of stillness, then Jack makes a very sudden move that looks
like he’s about to lunge at the other man. I automatically step between the
two, simultaneously saving Jack’s reputation and Troy’s life. There’s
absolutely no doubt who would win that fight. Troy would probably be too
polite to even throw a punch.
Jack’s hands come around my waist and squeeze. It’s not a romantic move;
he’s trying to shunt me to the side. “Cassandra. Move.”
I plant my feet and stand my ground in my little heels. “No. Learn my
name.”
Troy looks confused. “Is there a problem, mate? I think it’d be good. We
could charge fifty quid for the tickets to cover the costs. Maybe livestream
it.”
Jack shakes me off him. His face is red. “I swear to fucking—”
I suddenly become aware of the cameras flashing around us: the
photographers have all realised something is going down. This isn’t good.
Jack doesn’t look like he’s in love with me at all. If they crop Troy out of
the pictures, it’ll probably look like he wants to kill me and grind my bones
between his teeth. This is our public debut, and so far we’ve been awful. I
glance over his shoulder and see Con looking openly panicked.
A terrible idea hits me.
I turn and grab a cupcake from the pyramid, dipping my fingers into the
thick frosting. Jack opens his mouth to say something life-ruining, but
before he can, I reach up and smear pretty pink icing all down the side of
his face.
The dull noise in the room stops. Everyone turns to look. I even hear a gasp
like we’re in a movie.
For a moment, I think Jack’s too shocked to move. He just stares at me, his
body slowly going rigid and his eyes darkening to black. “What. The. Fuck.
Are you doing?” He snarls. He looks dangerous, a lion about to bite down
on a kill.
“Play along,” I hiss out of the corner of my mouth.
His cheekbones burn. He wipes his temple slowly, stares at the pink on his
hand, then bends down so our faces are inches apart. A strand of toffee-
coloured hair touches my cheek. I hold my breath. I’m staring death in the
face.
He reaches over and smears his sugary fingers all through my perfectly
straightened hair. I feel his touch up to my roots. My scalp prickles with a
man’s large handprint. I vibrate with energy. For a moment, we just stare at
each other, tense and breathless.
Troy suddenly laughs, big and booming, and our little bubble cracks.
“Damn. I’ll leave you two to it, I’m gonna go talk to Goss. Don’t worry
about joining the event, if you don’t want to, Jack. No pressure. I know
you’re a bit of a lone wolf.” He gives me a friendly wink as he brushes past.
“See you around, love. And good luck with him, he’s a real handful.”
After he’s gone, Jack holds me for a few more seconds, letting the cameras
flash around us; then he drops his hands and stalks off, wiping his face. I’m
left alone in the middle of the carpet, still holding the stupid cupcake, as
celebrities laugh and chatter around me.
 11

WHEN I GET into the hotel room at eight AM the next morning, Jack is
sitting alone at the dining table, surrounded by what looks like every single
dish on the room service menu. Massive plates full of eggs and sausages
and mushrooms. Baskets of warm pastries and toast. Big silver kettles and
glass jugs of juice.
“Wow. Hi.” I slide into the seat opposite him and pick out a croissant. “Carb
loading?”
He doesn’t look up, too busy broodily staring at his reflection in a cup of
black coffee.
Right then. “Do you know what we’re doing today?” I try.
No response.
“Um. I’m sorry about the cake thing. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
Nothing.
“Have you ever considered silent movies? I think you could really bring
them back in.”
Not even a flicker.
Thankfully, Con arrives before I get so frustrated I stick a teaspoon in my
eye. “Cassie!” He smiles widely at me and raps the leg of Jack’s chair with
his cane. Jack gets up like a robot and rolls one of the desk chairs to the
table, while Con slides into his vacated seat, thumping a heavy pile of
glossy magazines onto the table. “Good morning. How are you feeling
today?” He immediately starts filling a plate with massive portions of every
dish on the table.
“I’m okay. You?”
“Fine, fine.” Jack sits back down and picks up his coffee, and Con plucks
the cup out of his fingers. To my amazement, Jack just rolls his eyes and
pours another one. If I tried that, I’d probably come away with a stump.
“Thanks so much for coming in early. I thought it was important that you
two talk before interviews start.”
I glance at Jack. “Um. I don’t think he wants to talk to me.”
Con waves me off. “He’s purely non-verbal before five espressos. He
doesn’t want to talk to anyone.”
“Seriously? Five?” I’m far too anxious for coffee. I need to keep my blood
pressure out of the red zone. I riffle through the tea selection and drop a
strawberry teabag in my cup.
“He averages about fifteen a day. I’m thinking of setting him up an IV bag.”
Who drinks fifteen coffees a day? What is he, a reanimated corpse? I jump
when Jack picks up the kettle and pours steaming water over my teabag.
“Thanks.”
No acknowledgement. A pink bloom unfurls in my cup.
“So.” Con stacks another plate with pillowy blueberry pancakes. “I wanted
to discuss last night.”
I decide I should probably defend myself. “About the cake…”
“You’re a natural,” he interrupts me, eyes sparkling.
I blink. “I am?”
Con nods. “Jack looked like he was about to start brawling. That would’ve
caused major issues when his reputation’s in such a rut. You defused the
situation and turned it into a romantic moment, all in one go. It’s very
impressive.”
“Oh.” I feel a little flutter of happiness. “So last night didn’t actually go that
bad?”
“I haven’t gotten to the bad bit, yet.” He passes me a magazine, flipping it
open to a bookmarked page. A hot pink title blares up at me:
A Captivating Couple: Fans Say Jack Hale’s First Public Appearance with
New Girlfriend Looks Like a Hostage Situation
“Oh,” I say. “So, like, it couldn’t have possibly gone any worse?”
Con sips his coffee. “It’s actually a three-page spread.”
I turn the page and examine a picture of us posing. My face is pale and
sweaty. I have frightened deer eyes. Jack’s arm around my shoulder looks
like he’s trying to stop me from bolting. “Oh, no. I’m so sorry.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen two people with less chemistry in my life,”
Con muses.
“Maybe we could put you in heels? It might make you look less awkward
together.”
I wince. “I don’t think my height is the problem.”
Apparently, Jack has now consumed enough caffeine for his vocal chords to
work. “No,” he says, setting down his cup. “It’s your face.”
“Jack!” Con splutters.
He waves a hand. “Her makeup. What the Hell was that stylist doing? She
looked awful. She looks much better now, and she’s currently got crumbs
all over her very unfortunate t-shirt.”
I pick up my tea and inhale strawberry steam. “What do you mean,
unfortunate?”
“I mean that it’s the ugliest t-shirt I’ve seen in my entire life.”
I look down at it. It’s neon yellow and has the word SAFE screen-printed on
it in purple. It’s from a charity run Rob organised a couple years ago,
raising money to buy people therapy dogs. 10K. I almost died on the
course. “It’s from a charity fundraiser.”
“The only real charitable thing to do would be to burn it.”
A bolt of overprotectiveness stabs me. Rob works so hard at SAFE. He puts
everything he has into it. This asshole earns more money in a month than
most hardworking people do in their entire lives, and he has the nerve to
criticise charities.
Con’s still inspecting the picture. “It’s incredible. You really do both look
like you’re being held at gunpoint.”
Jack twists one of his cufflinks. “Well, maybe next time, she should focus
on doing her job, rather than ignoring me and making contacts,” he suggests
archly.
I choke on my tea. “Excuse me? I didn’t ignore you.”
“I gave you one instruction. Don’t talk to Troy Spencer. I looked away for
thirty seconds, and you were on his arm. You either ignored me, or require a
neurologist.”
“Actually, you gave me about fifty instructions, one of which was don’t
speak.” I grab a teaspoon, and am horrified to realise it’s from Tiffany’s,
and now I’ve left grubby little peasant fingerprints on it. I drop it with a
clatter. “I didn’t wander off to speak to Troy. He saw me standing alone for
half an hour and took pity on me.” I jab a finger at the photos. “I look
terrified because you stranded me. I didn’t know what I was supposed to be
doing. I didn’t know if you’d ditched me and I should find my way home. I
didn’t know if you’d done this whole thing just to humiliate me.”
He looks offended. “I wouldn’t do that.”
“How do I know that? You’ve not exactly been welcoming so far, and I’ve
only spent a few hours with you.” I’m kind of amazed at myself for talking
like this. I guess it’s a bonus of his rudeness—I don’t feel shy around him at
all. Just annoyed.
“I didn’t mean to leave you that long,” he says, stiffly. “I had a security
issue.”
“What happened? Did you get accosted by another woman next to a bin?
That seems to happen to you a lot.”
He bristles. “It’s none of your business.”
Con consumes an entire lobster omelette in about three bites. “He went to
get his jacket, for whatever reason, and they found out it had gone missing.
Probably stolen by one of the attendants. His wallet was in his pocket, so he
had to call his bank and cancel all his cards.”
My stomach sinks. “Oh. That’s horrible. Are you okay?”
Jack frowns. “Why wouldn’t I be okay?”
“You just got robbed?”
He blinks, then swiftly changes the subject. “Spencer’s not actually
interested in you, he’s just desperate for the exposure. He’ll do anything to
get on a magazine.”
The grain of sympathy disintegrates. “Why would he need exposure? He’s
almost as famous as you, isn’t he?”
Jack snorts. “He’s gone from blockbusters to cheap period soaps. No one
wants to work with him.”
“Why? Is he a diva?” I remember his IMDb page. “I heard that you have a
bad habit of leaving set mid-filming. Very professional.”
There’s a few seconds of silence. Then Jack demonstrates this skill by
getting up and leaving the room.
“Back in five, Hale!” Con calls out after him. The door claps shut.
I fiddle with my croissant. “Why does he hate Troy so much?”
Con looks thoughtful. “Years back, Troy and Jack were both up to play The
Guard. At the time, Troy had more experience, and was probably better
suited for the part. If he’d been cast, he would’ve been set for life, career-
wise, so he was understandably upset when he lost out to Jack. He made
some statements in the press suggesting that Jack only got the part because
of his mother.”
“That’s it? Christ, Jack acts like Troy killed his family.” I frown. “Who’s his
mum?”
A knock at the door interrupts us. “Come in,” Con calls.
A couple of concierges traipse in, both chewing gum. “Here to set up?”
“Go ahead. Let us know if you need any help,” Con says warmly, stealing a
piece of toast off Jack’s plate. He turns to me. “Now, Cassie. There’ll be a
lot reporters coming in and out of the room, and they’ll all recognise you.
Since you don’t know much about Jack yet, please just politely excuse
yourself when they ask you questions. Journalists can be very tricky.”
I blink. “You don’t want me to say anything? You just want me to sit
silently off-camera?”
Con grimaces. “It’s best if you spend the next couple of days just watching
and learning, I think. It’s a lot to get used to, and one thoughtless comment
could make this whole arrangement useless.”
“But if you don’t want me to talk to reporters, why am I even here?”
“For looks, mostly. This is a great opportunity to have media stations from
across the world see you two together. I can guarantee that they’ll all report
on Jack’s besotted girlfriend sitting through interviews with him. They’ll
get pictures, too.” He smiles. “This is going to be a very boring few days
for you, I’m afraid.”
I assure him that I am very happy to be bored. Bored is so much better than
terrified.
As Con polishes off pretty much every scrap of the breakfast, I watch as the
concierges shunt the normal furniture aside and set up a little interview
station in one corner, with cameras pointing at two chairs in front of a
mock-up of the film poster. As soon as the clock hits nine, the room starts to
fill up, until at least ten people are crammed into the space, with clipboards
and headphones and mics. Jack comes back in, ignoring all the greetings,
and heads straight to his seat. Con directs me to a spot in the corner out of
everybody’s way.
The interviewer settles into her chair, crossing long, oddly shiny legs. “Mr.
Hale. Such a pleasure to see you again.”
“Hello, Natalie,” he says, bored.
“Apparently I’m your first today,” she smiles. “You want me to warm you
up?”
“No.”
“Suit yourself.” She fluffs up her hair, apparently used to him. The camera-
guy counts them down. Jack checks his watch.
And then the most surreal eight hours of my life begin.
 12

AS SOON AS the cameras start rolling, Natalie flicks on like a string of

fairy lights, all twinkling and bright. “Hel-lo lovely people!” She beams.
“We have a real treat for you today! You’ll never guess who our mystery
guest is!”
Jack is literally in frame, so I think the viewers at home will have a fighting
chance at guessing. He nods at the camera. “Pleased to be here,” he
blatantly lies.
She giggles. “So, Jack, tell me: in the films, The Guard has the power to
create forcefields. If you had a superpower, what would it be?”
“Invisibility.”
“Ooh, so you could sneak into places? Listen in on conversations?”
“So people would leave me alone.”

I love watching movie interview clips on YouTube, so it’s pretty interesting

to see what goes on behind the scenes. While the reporter goes through a
list of questions about the film, Con’s standing out of shot, glaring at her
every time she gets off-track and non-verbally directing Jack’s answers on
trickier questions. The two men have a whole silent language worked out. A
language heavy on eye-rolling and raised eyebrows, but I think there’s even
some BSL chucked in there.
The interview lasts ten minutes, and the woman isn’t even out of the door
before the next reporter—a handsome dark-haired man—in sitting in her
place. The process starts all over again. He asks the exact same questions.
Jack gives the exact same answers. I blink, wondering if my mind is playing
tricks on me.
The next reporter comes in, and the same ten minutes repeats again. And
again. And again, for hours. Every single journalist asks the same list of
questions. I’ve fallen into a wormhole. My life is a skipping DVD. I’ve
done theatre press before, but it mostly just meant performing the show in
front of a bunch of critics, then doing a handful of interviews until everyone
got too bored or drunk or tired. This seems more like an enhanced
interrogation technique. Are the journalists going to wait until Jack’s
completely worn down, then demand his credit card info?
Seconds before I go absolutely off the rails, Con checks his watch. “Fifteen-
minute break,” he calls, and two runners enter the room and start handing
out lunch. I’m thrilled to get passed a box of chicken caesar salad! I’ve
never been happy to see a salad before!
Con mutters something in Jack’s ear, and Jack waves me over. “Feed me,”
he commands.
“What?”
He glares, pointing at my salad. “Feed me that.”
Does he want me to head out and pick some palm leaves to wave over him,
while he’s at it? “You’ve got your own, haven’t you?”
“It’s romantic,” he clips out.
Oh. Right. I look furtively around the room. A crew member is still
focussing the camera on us, trying to appear casual as he zooms in.
I pick up my fork, then hover uncertainly for a second. It’ll look pretty
stupid if I just stand next to him feeding him his food, like a roman servant
dangling a bunch of grapes in his face. Crying inwardly, I make a vague
gesture at his thighs. “Can I—sit?”
“I suppose you should.”
I put my hand gingerly on his shoulder and slide onto his knee. He wraps an
arm around my waist so I don’t topple off. I stab a tomato and hold it out to
him, not looking him in the eye.
He doesn’t move.
“It’s supposed to go in my mouth, I think,” he says helpfully.
I glance up. I’m sort of waving the tomato at his throat. I redirect the fork to
his lips, and he takes the bite with a look of deep disgust. “Thank you,” he
says formally, already pushing me off him. “Get off, now.” I scuttle like a
crab back to my corner and try to use my therapy exercises to erase that
memory immediately.
The next interviewer comes in a few minutes later, and the cameras start
rolling again. Immediately, something feels different. Namely: the woman
is obviously incredibly horny for my boyfriend. She can’t keep her hands
off him.
“How did you prepare for the role? You must have had an intense workout
routine,” she purrs, reaching across and squeezing Jack’s arm. He tries to
shake her off, but she clings onto his bicep like a sex-crazed limpet.
“Egg whites. Can you let go of me, please?” His voice is carefully polite.
My mouth falls open as she leans forward and runs her manicured
fingernails down the side of his jaw. “And look at that jawline. Wow. Do
you see this, ladies at home?”
Jack’s hands clench by his sides. “Do. Not. Touch. My. Face.”
She giggles. Con steps forward out of the shadows. “Keep your hands off
my client, please.” He smiles at the woman so coldly, ice crystals start
forming in the air.
She sniffs, turning to her notes. “So, Jack.” Suddenly she’s all business.
“Your character, The Guard, struggles throughout the film with drug and
alcohol issues.”
“Yes,” Jack says. “They’re the motivation for many of his actions.”
“Right. Obviously, we’re all quite aware of your mother’s drug use. Would
you say that the experience of living with an addict helped with your
portrayal of the character?”
There’s a beat of silence. I glance up to see Con frantically signalling
something to the interviewer. It looks like it may be a death threat. There’s
definitely some kind of strangling motion going on.
“What?” Jack asks. His voice sounds strange.
The journalist repeats the question.
Con audibly groans. Jack closes his eyes for a second, then takes a deep
breath. “I am not here,” he enunciates every word very crisply, “to talk
about my personal life. Ask me about the film, or I will leave.”
She looks weirdly triumphant. “Anyone could see the similarities between
your character’s behaviours and hers. Was it painful to have to rehash those
memories?”
Jack’s already shaking his head. “I’m not fucking doing this.” He stands up
and yanks off his lav mic, drops it on his chair with a fizzle of static, then
barrels out of the room, flanked by Con, who gestures to me to follow. I
scramble to my feet and trip down the corridor after them. Con tugs Jack
through a door I hadn’t noticed, holding it open for me too.
“What happened to the list?” Jack storms, unbuttoning his shirt.
“Of no-go questions? I gave it to them. And I told them about fifteen times,
no touching.” Con passes him a plastic bag. “Breathe. Calm down.”
“It’s bullshit.”
Con grimaces. “Buzz always has been full of idiots.”
I look at Jack. “Why do they ask you questions you’ve said you won’t
answer?”
Jack pulls something white out of the bag and shakes it out. Apparently,
he’s never going to speak ever again.
Con takes pity on me. “The press agenda has changed a lot in the last five
years. Thanks to social media, news stations are looking for their clips to go
viral, no matter how awkward they are. If Jack leaves mid-interview, or
swears, or even just looks pissed off, people will share the video, and their
ratings go up.”
An ice cube slides down my throat. “They purposefully provoke you for
views?”
“Not always,” Con says, “but often enough.”
“But that’s horrible!” Even I can tell it’s upset him, and his face usually
looks like a very bored rock to me.
“Just part of the job,” Jack says sharply. “There’s no need to cry about it.”
With absolutely no warning, he shucks off his shirt.
I get a brief glimpse of many, many abs before I snap my eyes shut. “Um!”
“What.”
“Why are you stripping?” I sound ridiculously scandalised.
“Turn around.”
“She has her eyes closed, actually,” Con says. “He’s getting changed for
dinner, Cassie.”
“Why? Is he a messy eater? Can’t he just wear a bib, or something?”
“Because,” Con says, “it’s time for your first date.”
 13

IN THE RESTAURANT, Jack and I are seated at a silk-dressed table next

to a window for maximum exhibitionism. I have five different-sized forks
lined next to my plate, and the napkins are folded into swans. I order
linguini, and then we sit in total silence for half an hour, waiting for the
food.
I can see passers-by on the street outside turning and staring at us. Some
even stop and point their phones at us, snapping pictures through the glass,
which is terrible, because Jack won’t stop tapping away at his phone. I
wonder what he’s up to. Is he playing a very high-stakes game of Snake? Is
he writing a novel? Does he have a more interesting fake girlfriend to text?
Am I being fake stood up? I feel slightly hurt. Is this whole relationship just
going to be me sitting like a lemon while he ignores me? In the end, I pull
out my phone too, and hope people think we’re lovingly playing online
UNO together, or something.
I almost die of excitement when my pasta finally comes, steaming in a
melty, creamy sauce. I beam at the waiter. “Thank you so much! This looks
so good!”
Jack just points wordlessly at his wine glass, and the man sprints off to get
the bottle. Luckily, he ordered a steak, which means he has to put his phone
down to cut it.
I pounce. “So.” I take a massive bite of pasta. This is a terrible decision,
because now I have to chew frantically before I can finish my question.
Jack raises an eyebrow. “Yes?”
I try to force the ball of solid carbs down with a gulp of wine and start to
choke.
His eyebrow goes higher. “Do you need medical assistance?”
“Didn’t know you cared,” I manage to get out, beating my chest.
“It will look suspicious if you die on our first date.” The way he emphasises
‘first’ is very worrying indeed.
I finally manage to clear my airways. “I feel like you should, um, brief me,
right? I mean, I know I’m supposed to be your silent grinning girlfriend, but
sooner or later someone’s going to work out that I speak English. I don’t
want to say anything wrong by accident. What should I avoid?”
He touches his knife and fork together. “Don’t talk to press about my
family. Ever.”
“That’ll be really easy, because I don’t know anything about your family.”
Before the interview this morning, I’d assumed he was grown in a petri
dish. Or cobbled together from extremely handsome cadavers by a mad
scientist.
He stares at me flatly. “My mother is Angelica Hale.”
I nod understandingly. “Yeah, I have no idea who that is.”
He scowls. “From Caught in the Act.”
“Oh, that nineties sitcom? My parents didn’t have a telly when I was a kid,
so I never watched it.” I think back to the interview. “Um…”
Jack reads my mind. “She wasn’t an addict,” he says harshly. “She got ill. It
made her lose a lot of weight. The media latched onto that and decided she
was shooting heroin.”
Oh God. “Is she feeling better?”
“Not really.” He slices into his steak. “She’s dead.”
I drop my tiny fork. “Oh. Shit. Crap. I’m so sorry.”
“I seriously doubt you had anything to do with it. She had a heart attack
three years ago.” He dips his head. Shadows climb over his face. “Reporters
will ask you about her. I don’t want you to ever answer.”
“Okay,” I say, softly. “Sure.”
A photographer presses up close to the window, and I give him a nervous
wave. Jack sighs and takes my hand, holding it like it’s a stinging nettle.
Candlelight flickers over our fingers.
“And your dad?” I’m scared to ask.
“He’s an LA prick. I don’t speak to him. My parents divorced when I was a
kid. We moved here to get away from him.”
“Oh, are you American, then? You don’t sound it.”
He takes another bite of steak. “What about your parents? Are they going to
be a problem? What do they think about you ‘dating’ me?”
“My parents live at the North Pole,” I inform him.
“Are they elves? Is that why you’re so small?”
“Nope. They’re both human, and ecologists. They’re currently bobbing
along in the Arctic sea, looking at organisms from melt ponds under
microscopes.” I take another bite of cheese. “They’re kind of off-the-grid. I
doubt they’ll find out about you until the contract is well over.”
He considers this for a moment. “That’s… convenient,” he says, as if my
family is just a poorly constructed back-up story.
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “You got me, they’re just hired actors. Do
you need a copy of their birth certificates?”
He doesn’t pick up on the sarcasm. “Send them to Con, he’ll check through
them.” He swirls his wine like a knob. “You don’t stay in contact?”
I shake my head. “I only see them about once a year, usually for Christmas.
They’re great parents, but we’ve never been that close, really. We just have
really different interests. They’re always working, or focussed on their next
expedition.”
“Have you ever been with them?”
I shake my head emphatically. “No. I don’t like travelling. I like being
comfortable. At home.” In bed. Eating crisps. “I never got that adventurous
gene off them.”
“Siblings? Grandparents? Aunts, uncles?”
“No siblings. Mum’s an only child, grandparents on her side are dead. And
all of dad’s family lives on a farm in Bangladesh.”
“Were you born there?” He looks like he’s about to ask me for proof of
citizenship.
“Nope. Leicester. I don’t have much connection to Bangladesh at all, really.
I grew up in a tiny all-white village, and my dad didn’t bother to teach me
Bengali. I visited a couple times, but that’s pretty much it.” I still sometimes
dream of being very small, and waking up in a hot bed under a mosquito
net, listening to the call to prayer echoing over the fields and houses. Lots
of smiling women pinching my cheeks and letting me cuddle up in their
saris. Licking sticky rice off my fingers. It’s very odd to miss something
you barely remember.
“You don’t have any family in the country?”
I poke my pasta, suddenly feeling kind of sick. “I’m fine. I keep to myself. I
have a flatmate. I don’t need anybody else.” What I need is a change of
subject. “Hey, so, should we suck up the same strand of linguine and snog
when our mouths meet in the middle?”
Jack looks like he’s about to say something very rude, but we’re interrupted
by a glossy-looking teenage girl in designer clothes. “Hey, can I get an
autograph?” she asks, cracking her gum. “I collect them, and I don’t have
you, yet.”
Jack closes his eyes for a second, then nods jerkily, turning to scribble on
the napkin she thrusts at him. She takes it reverently, like it is the tissue of a
God. “And could I maybe get, like, a picture?”
“I’ll take it,” I offer, and she hands her phone over for me to snap a few
shots. By the time she’s gone, clutching her smudged, bleeding autograph to
her heart, there’s three more people hanging nervously around the table.
When they’re gone, there are five more people. Then ten. Everyone in the
restaurant has apparently decided our dinner date is now an impromptu
meet and greet. Jack undoes the collar of his shirt and loosens his tie, as if
he’s getting hot, and waves forward the next girl. She squeals and bends
down to give him a hug, pressing their faces together.
He immediately stands. “Let’s go,” he mutters to me, grabbing his jacket. “I
can’t breathe in here.” He pushes through the building crowd, and I stumble
after him, trying to keep up. He passes a thick wad of notes to our alarmed-
looking waiter, who’s standing by the door holding a Magnum of
champagne. “Keep the change,” he orders, dragging me outside into the
darkening streets .
I look up at him. His teeth are gritted, his cheeks flushed. “Hey. Are you
angry? That girl just wanted to say hi.”
He drops my arm.

Sadly, I’m not excused after dinner, and Jack and I head back to the
bedroom, where a tailor takes my measurements. The man tries to make
polite conversation while he’s crouched between my legs, recording the
widths of my thighs. He asks about where we live; whether our families get
along; what our plans are. Every single time, I have to smile and awkwardly
change the subject.
I’m soon at my wit’s end. We’re supposed to be madly in love, and the only
thing I know about Jack is that I can’t chat about his dead mum, which I
wouldn’t do anyway. A horrible image pushes itself into my head—me,
floundering in front of the cameras, getting the most basic facts about him
completely wrong. The whole world will know I’m a liar. My chest feels
tight just thinking about it.
I pull myself together. If Jack’s not going to talk to me, I’m going to have to
do some sleuthing myself. Luckily, that’s super easy, since his entire life is
documented online. The tailor takes a break to make a frantic call to
someone about hems, so I slump onto a squashy marshmallow sofa and
open up my new laptop to do some research.
It starts off innocently enough. I look up Jack’s exes and study their
pictures, trying to spot what I’m missing. He definitely has a type. Tall,
blonde, and skinny. They look like the elves of Lothlórien. Sadly, I am none
of those things, but that can’t be helped. Scrolling through the Google
image search, I click to the next photo, and it’s of his mum. She’s beautiful:
a petite woman with curls the colour of a lion’s mane, and a kind, gentle
face. Without even thinking, I click on the linked article and start to read.

Angelica Hale may now be a household name, but she had humble
beginnings. The daughter of an LA shopkeeper, she spent her child
and teen years acting in plays, commercials and low-budget soaps,
desperate to make it into the limelight. It wasn’t until she turned
twenty-one, and scored a role on the classic British comedy TV-
show, Caught in the Act, that she shot to fame. Over the next two
decades, the blonde bombshell became well known for her good
looks, kindness and charitable acts. However, the star’s bright smile
hid a deep, tragic inner struggle—

Jack’s shadow falls over me. “What the Hell are you doing?”
I scroll down, still reading. “Homework.” He doesn’t say anything. I look
around. The hotel room is empty. “Oh, is he done? Can I go?”
“Cassandra. Why would you read that?”
I look up at him and am thrown back into reality when I see his face. His
real, living, breathing, human face. He looks—upset.
He turns on his heel, stalking back to the desk. Shame pours into my belly
like tar. I didn’t even think how horrific a thing it was, to peep into
somebody’s private life like that. For a minute, I forgot that he and his mum
are actually people. How horrible.
I take a deep breath and approach him. He’s sitting at the desk, typing
ferociously. “Jack.”
He doesn’t look up. I’m scared for his laptop screen. If his glare gets any
more acidic, it’ll melt into a pile of liquid crystal goo on the keyboard. “It’s
fine.”
“It’s not. That was a disgusting thing to do. I was just researching you, I
didn’t even think of how awful it was to look into your personal life like
that. I’m so sorry.”
He slams the laptop closed, so hard I jump. “You were researching me?”
I shift uncomfortably. “Well, yeah. I don’t know how I’m supposed to act in
front of the paparazzi. I can’t answer any questions about you. I feel like
I’m getting everything wrong. I’m so sorry. I thought looking you up online
would be less irritating than just sitting and grilling you, but… obviously
not.”
He runs a hand through his hair. “It’s fine,” he says flatly. “It’s not as if it’s
sensitive information. My entire life is in the public domain.”
“It was disrespectful, though.”
“I’m used to it. I don’t suppose you have a Wikipedia page I can read?”
“No,” I say, quickly. I do have a Wikipedia page, kind of. It’s technically a
stub, and it’s about three lines long. The career section basically lists my
two British Theatre awards, and that’s it. But still. I don’t want him to see it.
“Pity,” he says tartly.
I don’t know what else to say, so I tentatively wrap my arms around his
neck and hug him.
“What are you doing,” he asks. His voice is strained and monotone, like an
android in pain.
“It’s called a hug. Have you never done one before? Do you want me to go
through it step-by-step so you can learn?”
His hands come up, and I brace myself, expecting to be shoved into the next
dimension; but he just touches the small of my back, very, very lightly.
“There’s no one here,” he points out.
“Yeah.”
He takes a deep breath, and I feel his chest expand against mine before he
peels me off. “Isn’t there supposed to be a time-limit on those things?”
“I really am sorry, Jack. It was so stupid.”
He nods. “Apology accepted. Please go home.”
 14

‘IT’S INCREDIBLE, what you can get used to,’ Con had told me. To my
utter amazement, he was right. You can get accustomed to five-star luxury
hotels, sixteen-hour workdays, and spending all your time with the most
irritating man in the Northern hemisphere.
My new celebrity routine goes like this:
At seven every morning, a garment bag gets delivered to my house with
whatever outfit I have to wear that day. Thankfully, the clothes are a
massive improvement on the first night, in that they’re actually opaque:
mostly pretty summer dresses and light skirts. I get to the hotel around
eight. Con, Jack and I look over magazines and eat breakfast, then from
nine until six, Jack gives a thousand interviews while I sit in his bed like a
concubine and get pestered by journalists. I usually try and watch one of
Jack’s movies, but it’s incredibly tedious, because they’re all identical.
There’s always some sort of glowing orb or rock or cube that a giant alien
robot wants, and Jack shirtlessly has to find and destroy it. New York city is
destroyed in every single one, which I think is a bit of a continuity error. I
invariably get bored halfway through and switch to an episode of Queens
and Lovers instead.
When Jack’s finished with interviews, we have a date. We eat ice creams in
front of professional photographers. We’re caught cuddling on park benches
in perfect lighting. We wincingly touch lips under lampposts in such a
flawless arrangement that we look like a multicultural stock photo.
Incredibly, the magazines are buying it, and are reporting on all of our dates
like they’re deeply important news items. I kind of can’t believe people are
this thick. Clearly, Jack’s fans have a collectively low IQ.
After our date, we go back to the room, and I get changed into an Evening
Look. It’s actually the most peaceful part of my day. We sit in
companionable silence as Jack answers emails and gulps hot coffee, and I
struggle to get my eyeliner even. There’s no cameras, no fans, nobody
trying to usher us around, just—quiet. It’s nice.
At about nine, we go eat dinner in one of the fanciest restaurants in the city.
I order two desserts. I learnt pretty quickly that Jack never orders pudding
for himself—probably because he’s expected to keep his body fat
percentage in the single digits—but he actually really likes sweets, and will
shamelessly steal mine if I don’t take this precaution. I get back home
before midnight to find a couple of paparazzi loitering around my front
door. I smile, wave, have a little chat, then go inside and fall immediately
into bed. I sleep like a log until I get woken up at seven AM with a new
dress, and it starts all over again.
The days start to bleed together like a smudged oil-painting, reality blurred
by tiredness. The Angel Hotel becomes my second home. I get used to the
stunning view from our terrace. I get used to maids flitting around,
changing my sheets and towels. I start thinking of the Swan Suite’s giant
marital bed as our bed. I even get used to the paparazzi. The trick is to get
them alone. In a group, they’re a herd of sharks; pick one off, and they
usually behave quite human. My favourite hobby is asking them to let me
use their cameras to snap a picture of Jack, which always causes my
boyfriend to glare so hard he probably sprains something.
All in all, I’m getting used to this life. It’s still not easy, though. I’d
underestimated how draining it is to be watched all the time. Everywhere I
go, I’m always thinking about how I’m standing, what I’m saying, what the
cameras can pick up, what people will think of me. I end every day feeling
like I’ve run a marathon. It’s exhausting, and kind of lonely.
It’s so strange. I’ve got a new boyfriend, I’m surrounded by more people
than I’ve ever met in my life, and I feel more isolated than I have in years.
Part of the problem is that Jack and I don’t get along. I don’t mind the
arguing so much, but he keeps trying to fire me. I overheard him moaning
to Con yesterday: “I don’t get why it had to be her. The photo wasn’t that
clear. You could’ve just found another tiny woman with ridiculous hair.”
“Oh, please, she’s a PR dream. She has experience in TV, she’s polite, and
she doesn’t have a secret racist past.”
“Maybe you should check again.”
It gets a bit sad when the one person who is meant to love you obviously
hates your guts.

On day ten of my servitude, Jack, Con and I are all sitting in the hotel room
between interviews. Con’s at the desk, highlighting and annotating a
newspaper. I’m flipping through a magazine and pillaging a box of
complimentary chocolates. Jack’s whipped out his Romeo and Juliet script
and is mumbling his way through it, trying to get the meter right. I should
just keep my mouth shut, but annoying Jack has become one of my only
thrills in life.
“You’re pronouncing that wrong,” I interrupt him, passing him a coffee
truffle I think he’ll like. “In OP, prove rhymes with love, not move.”
He ignores the chocolate. “You’ve clearly studied up,” he mutters, sounding
immensely bored.
“I wrote my dissertation on it. ‘The effects of public opinion on romantic
love in William Shakespeare’s tragedies.’” I pass him a vanilla one, too,
lining them up on his bedside table.
“Hm.” He turns to Con. “Do you have a pen?”
Con bends to crack open his briefcase, and I stare in awe at the
kaleidoscopic array of notebooks, pens, files, sticky notes, highlighters and
other office supplies, arranged in neatly colour-coordinated stacks.
I can’t keep my mouth shut. “Wow. What did you do, rob a Staples?”
Con blushes. “I like stationery.”
He doesn’t just like it; I think he eats it.
Apparently this is completely normal. Jack takes the proffered red rollerball
and starts marking up his script. We’re quiet for a few minutes. I find the
horoscope section of my magazine, and check the predictions for Libras
fake-dating billionaires.
Jack breaks the silence. “What were they?”
I don’t look up, scanning the page. I can’t find anything about strangling
huge Aquariuses. The stars must be smiling on Jack! “What?”
“What were the effects of public opinion on romantic love?”
“Terrible. Everyone died.”
“You don’t strike me as someone who likes Shakespeare.”
He’s probably surprised I can read at all. “What can I say? I think all good
love stories should end in a double suicide.” I imagine most of his come
close.
He yanks my magazine out of my hands, and I swear. “Do you have to read
this crap?”
I’m so frustrated. “Can I do literally anything you won’t complain about?
Please let me know, I think it could save us a lot of time.” I try to grab it,
but he holds it out of my reach. This isn’t hard. Things are rarely in my
reach.
“You’re supporting an industry that makes a living from violating the
private lives of me and most of the people I know.”
“Con says it’s part of my job to read the news coverage on us.” I snatch the
magazine back. My own name jumps out at me.
Who IS Cassandra Ray? All the info we have on Jack Hale’s new fling.
I sit next to him on the bed and point at the title. “See, I’m learning all kinds
of things about myself.” I flick another page and am confronted with a
massive close-up of me and Troy from my first event. The angle makes it
look like his arm is around me, and I’m laughing at something he’s said.
“Well, shit,” I say.
Jack stares at Troy like he wants to set him on fire with his mind.
I hand him the pen. “You can draw a moustache on him if you want,” I say.
“My flatmate Robin says art therapy is very effective for anger management
issues.”
“I don’t have—”
Out of nowhere, a teenage girl barrels into the room and chucks herself at
him.
“Oh my God I can’t believe it’s you!” She screams, wrapping her arms
around his neck. “I can’t believe I’m in the same building as you, oh my
God, this is so crazy, you’re my favourite actor ever—”
I can’t help smiling. Her enthusiasm is really adorable.
Jack’s voice sounds odd. “Please get off me.”
“Please, please can I just get a picture, just—”
“No.” He untangles her. “Get. Off. Me. Get the Hell out of my room.”
I watch, horrified, as her face crumples. She tries to keep it together, bless
her, but I can tell she’s swallowing back tears. She smiles, nods, and runs
back out the door. Jack goes back to glowering at the magazine, apparently
completely unbothered that a teenage girl’s heart just audibly shattered. I
could honestly strangle him.
Con checks his phone and sighs. “Looks like they cancelled last minute, so
we have a bit of a break. Take ten, Jack. Go get some fresh air. Listen to
that album of calming whale sounds we bought you.”
We split. Con slumps in a chair, Jack heads outside, and I go after the poor
girl he traumatised. I find her cowering by the stairs, stabbing at her phone
and crying.
“Oh, no. Are you okay?” I root in my bag for a pack of tissues. “Here.” She
takes them with shaking hands, choking back tears. She can’t be older than
thirteen. She’s wearing a sparkly Alice band and has pink braces. I feel
awful. My fake boyfriend is a wrecking ball. “Hey, it’s alright.”
“Thanks,” she mumbles. “Sorry, I’m being stupid.”
“It’s okay, he has this effect on most people.”
She dabs at her face, wiping off mascara streaks. “He hates me,” she bleats.
“He really doesn’t,” I soothe. “That’s just how he talks.”
“I didn’t mean to annoy him. It’s ‘bring your child to work day’ at my
school. My uncle’s filming an interview with Jack, he said I could come and
say hi. I should’ve waited, but I was just so excited.”
I’m spiked through with irritation. Jack isn’t this important. He shouldn’t be
able to reduce girls to tears without even knowing about it. It’s not right.
“He’s just being grumpy, it had nothing to do with you. I promise.”
She snuffles. I give her a quick hug, then go to hunt him down.
I find him in the hallway outside the room. He’s leaning heavily against the
wall, his head tipped back, eyes closed. His white shirt is rumpling against
the gold wallpaper. I realise I’ve never really seen Jack when he’s alone.
We’re both always acting, even if it’s just for each other. All by himself, he
looks almost empty. Like a lightbulb that’s burnt out.
I touch him lightly on the arm. “Hey.”
He jumps half out of his skin. “What are you doing here? Do I need to file a
restraining order?”
I look around to check that we’re alone. “Just a heads up, babe, boyfriends
don’t usually threaten their girlfriends with legal action when she enters the
room.”
He sets his jaw. “What do you want.”
“You scared that girl to death. She was crying by the stairs. Could you try
being nicer?”
He blinks, like the concept is completely foreign to him. “What?”
“Oh, come on, Jack. It’s not that hard, you’ve met nice people before.”
He bats me away, like I’m an annoying fly. “Go back inside. I don’t need
you here.”
I cross my arms. “You’re not a normal person. These girls idolise you, and
if you look at them like they’re toxic waste, it could really hurt them.”
“She broke into my hotel room.”
“She didn’t break in, her uncle’s with one of the stations. Which you’d
know, if you’d waited, like, five seconds. She just wanted a hug! What is
your problem?”
Jack looks up at the ceiling, exasperated. “For fuck’s sake, I just don’t like
strangers touching me!”
I blink. Oh. That’s such a normal, reasonable issue to have. It makes sense,
now I think about it. He’s such a private person, and he has people
slobbering over him all day. They go home and write Facebook posts about
touching his shoulder. I stupidly assumed that all celebrities enjoy the
attention, but Jack hates people. He probably uses a private jet just so he
doesn’t have to talk to anyone at the airport.
Con sticks his head out of the door. “Break’s over. Back inside. And please;
look into the concept of whispering, guys. You’re both so terrible at this.”
We march back into the hotel room side by side. Jack settles in his chair and
looks around the crew. “Where’s the girl that was here before? I want to
speak to her.”
I expect her to have fled, but she peeks out from behind the door and
approaches like a shy woodland creature. Jack waves her closer. “What’s
your name?”
“Claire,” she whispers.
“I’m sorry, Claire. Fans aren’t usually allowed behind-the-scenes in
interviews, I didn’t realise you were invited in by a crew member. What
was it you wanted?”
“I just… wanted to know if I could get an autograph. It was stupid. But—I
loved you so much in White Stallion, and—”
“Sure. Thanks for your support, it means a lot. Would you like a picture,
too?” He flashes her a brief, dazzling grin. She nods, blushing down to her
skeleton, and I am cut through with something that feels suspiciously like
jealousy. Would it kill him to smile at me? He is supposed to be in love with
me.
I quell that concerning urge.
Con waves me over. “How are you doing, Cassie?” He asks in a low voice.
I try not to obviously watch Claire hugging Jack out of the corner of my
eye. “I’m fine, thanks. Was he really in a film called White Stallion?”
“Yes. It was very popular.”
“I’m sure.” I pause. “Is it a very adult film?”
He snorts. “Listen. You’ve been with us a while now, and you’ve held up
really well. I think you’re ready to start speaking to reporters.” My legs go
weak. I still know absolutely nothing about my boyfriend. This is bound to
end in disaster. “Obviously, you can’t take part in movie press, but I’ve told
a handful of media outlets to hang around this afternoon, so you and Jack
can answer some questions about your relationship. It should only take a
few hours.”
I plaster a smile on my face. “Oh. Great. Yeah, that is so awesome. Totally,
just… awesome. Um, today?”
“Yes, after lunch. Will that be a problem?”
“Not at all,” I assure him.
 15

“SO, CASSANDRA.” The red-lipped interviewer leans in and lowers her

voice conspiratorially, like we’re girls at a sleepover. “How is he?”
“Um.” I smooth down the skirt of my clingy dress and try to smile at the
camera. I’m really tired. Jack and I have been trapped in the hotel atrium
for almost two hours now, filming interviews with what feels like hundreds
of reporters. This has to be the weirdest question yet. Jack might not speak
a lot, but he does actually understand English. “I don’t know.” I nudge him.
“How are you, babe?”
“Bored,” he drones. He’s been quietly standing behind me this whole time,
fiddling with my hair. This is something I’ve noticed about him; when he’s
agitated or frustrated, he fidgets. Tugs at his collar, twists his cufflinks, and
most recently, messes with my curls.
“You’re so lucky you were born that pretty,” I say under my breath. “Stop
touching my hair.”
“It’s the only part of you I can reach,” he mutters back.
The woman squeaks and leans even closer. “Ooh, you know what I mean!”
She bounces in her heels. “How is he in bed?!”
Oh, no. This could be a problem. We’ve never discussed our imaginary sex
life. “Inventive,” I decide. “He has some pretty interesting tastes. I’ve never
met a man so into pool inflatables, but he gets very creative.”
Jack tugs at my hair, like bad dog.
The interviewer simpers, her smile dimming slightly. “Aw, you guys are
such a cute couple! Although, er, visually, I wouldn’t put you two together.”
“We met in the dark,” Jack explains.
“Right. So tell me, if it wasn’t her looks that attracted you, what do you like
about Cassandra?”
There’s a pause, which quickly stretches into an awkward silence. I wilt as
the seconds tick by, and Jack scrambles to think of a single good quality
that I possess. If my ego weren’t torn to shreds, I’d write a few down for
him on a cue card. Now I’m not sure I actually have any.
“She’s very funny,” he says, eventually.
I’m so blindsided, I can’t keep my mouth shut. “I’ve literally never seen
you laugh.”
He doesn’t look at me. “I said you were funny, not amusing.”
My boyfriend, ladies and gentlemen.
“And what’s it like dating another actor?” The woman wonders. “Does it
affect trust in the relationship?”
I feel like I’ve fallen into a well.
Jack shakes his head. “Cassie’s not an actor. She works behind the scenes of
a late-night TV show.”
The interviewer checks her notes. “I—it says on her Wikipedia page that
she worked as a stage actress for two years.”
He looks down at me. “Her Wikipedia page?”
I don’t have a choice. Jack’s about to blow our cover to shreds. “You know,
babe,” I say, wincingly. “My… theatre career.”
I feel it run through him, like a wave. His whole body tenses up. He steps
backwards, dropping my hair. “Right.” He says, icily. “That.”
“It was a while ago,” I tell the interviewer. “I’m not actually an actor
anymore.”
She beams. “Oh, but you’re going to get loads more opportunities, now
you’re with Jack, huh? I bet he’ll give you a massive leg-up in the
business!”
Jack physically flinches behind me. I wish I was dead. “Er. Hopefully?”
“We’re done here,” Jack snaps, grabbing my hand and carting me away. He
leads me a few feet from all the cameras, then crosses his arms. “Explain.”
He’s looking at me as if he’s just unearthed my secret criminal past, not
found out my previous job. “Well. You know I got my degree in performing
arts five years ago —”
“You have a degree?”
I stare at him. “We discussed my dissertation this morning. You can’t be
mad at me for keeping secrets from you, and then not listen when I speak.”
A muscle twitches in his jaw. “Get on with it.”
I shrug. “When I graduated, I played Juliet for two years onstage.”
“You played Juliet? Shakespeare’s Juliet?”
I smile weakly. “It’s well weird, right?”
He takes a deep breath through his nose. “Amateur?” he clips out.
“I mean, I got paid. It was at the Assembly of Silence Hall in London. I
don’t know if you—”
“I know it.” Of course, he does. Assembly is one of the biggest theatres in
England. He probably owns a box there.
I bite my lip. I don’t love talking about this. “It was just a crazy stroke of
luck. The director was interested in casting new faces, and I was writing my
thesis on Romeo and Juliet, so I’d analysed it to death. I knew how to act it.
I looked right for Juliet, as well, sort of—young and small. The director
just… just took a shine to me.” Heat burns in my cheeks. “The run went on
two years. After it ended, I decided acting wasn’t for me, and I’ve never
tried out for anything else.”
He’s furious. Blazing white hot. “You told me you were a runner.”
“I am a runner.” I fold my arms. “I don’t know why you’re acting like this
is some heinous secret I’ve kept from you. You never asked about my job
history.”
“You lied to me.”
“I lied to you, actually,” Con says, appearing behind us. “So sorry.”
Jack spins on him. “You knew?”
“Of course I knew.” He sounds exhausted. “I did a background check on her
before we hired her, and the press picked up on it almost immediately. It’s
your fault for not Googling your own girlfriend.”
“Why?” I think Jack might be hissing.
Con sighs from the depths of his soul. “Because you’re a lunatic. I knew
you’d react like this. And it doesn’t matter.”
“It bloody matters!”
I’m offended. “Hang on. Do you still think I tipped off the paparazzi?”
Jack shakes his head at the audacity of it all. “Stay here,” he mutters. “I
can’t look at you right now.” He stalks off to talk to a journalist on the other
side of the room. Con gives me an apologetic glance and trails after him. I
stand rooted to the spot, buzzing with anger. I can’t believe he still thinks I
set him up. How can you be that self-centred?
“CASSANDRA!” Someone calls. I tilt my body away, ignoring them.
“CASSANDRA! OVER HERE! COME TALK TO JOHNNY G, BABE."
I grimace. It’ll look rude if I keep ignoring the guy.
I reluctantly go to join him. He’s clearly from some kind of shitty comedy
channel. He has his jeans halfway down his bum, and he’s wearing his
neon-trimmed baseball cap backwards like an absolute dick.
I force a pleasant look onto my face. “Hiya!” I chirp, settling in front of the
camera.
He grins, running his eyes over me. “Wow, I love the outfit. It’s really
sexy.”
I look down at myself. I’ve been put in a tight dress in a stinging chilli-red.
“Thanks!” I do a little spin for him.
“Yeah, you look really hot. You must have a heavy-duty push-up going on
under that, right? What is that, like a Bombshell?”
I blink. “Sorry, what?”
He leans in. I lean out. It’s like a shimmy of disgust. “I mean, I don’t see
how you can even wear underwear in a dress so tight. But what do I know
about this girly shit, right? I’m just a guy.” He shoves the mic head into my
face.
I smile like a Barbie doll. “Um—I’m wearing underwear?”
“Like, okay. Serious question.” He turns and gives the camera a shit-eating
grin. “Are they real or fake? The people need to know.”
He gestures at my boobs, and I flinch away so violently, I think I
technically headbang. Something in me shuts down. I struggle desperately
to get my train of thought back on track. The camera lens stares at me like a
blank, shiny eye.
This is live. All across the world, there are people staring at my tits right
now. They’re all watching me flail and stutter. I cross my arms over my
chest, fighting not to let my smile fall. “I don’t—um. No, they’re not—”
An arm wraps around my collarbone, and I almost slump back to into Jack.
“What’s going on?”
“Jack!” Johnny G perks up. “Great to see you, man! Tell us about Bound.
How has press been so far?”
Jack looks down at me. I turn my face into his shirt.
“This interview is over,” he grates out, and starts towing me away like a
malfunctioning car on its way to the tip.
“Oh, come on!” The guy yells after us. “We asked Amy Sanchez that! She
didn’t get all pissy about it, she just laughed!”
Clouds of interviewers push forward, clamouring, shoving microphones at
us. “Don’t react,” Jack says in my ear, leading me to the doors. “Keep your
face blank. There’re cameras on you.”
I don’t respond. Panic is blooming in me, like blood around a cut. It’s going
to be all over the internet. On YouTube. Facebook. The news. Everyone will
see.
Jack drags me out into the empty corridor and puts his hands on my
shoulders, forcing me to look at him.
“What did he say to you?” He demands.
I can’t make eye contact. “Nothing.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“He asked about my boobs.”
Jack lets go of me and walks back into the hall without a word. There’s a
row of chairs lining the corridor, and I sink down onto one. Two tears track
down my cheeks before I can blink them back. I can’t help it. I’m
embarrassed. I close my eyes, give myself half a minute to feel utterly
humiliated, then dig my nails into my palms and pull myself together. I’m
fine. Nothing happened.
I’m just stuffing a makeup-stained tissue back in my clutch when Jack
reappears.
“He won’t be bothering you again,” he says, like an Italian mobster.
“Thanks.”
He leans against the wall, watching me. “You’re allowed to talk back, you
know.”
“What?”
He looks irritated. “I know Con’s been telling you to be careful what you
say, but no one expects you to deal with bullshit like that. Stand up for
yourself.”
His tone pisses me off. “It wasn’t my fault. And Con hasn’t been the one
telling me to shut up. That was you.”
He clenches his teeth. He does that a lot around me. I wonder if I should
make a charitable contribution to his dental bills. “You just stood there
smiling like a doll. You should’ve said something.”
“What do you want me to do, yell at him? I don’t exactly want to draw
attention to some guy making creepy comments about my underwear.”
“So you’ll just smile?” His face twists. “That’s pathetic, Cassandra.”
My lungs squeeze like a straitjacket. “Thanks.” I get up and turn to go back
inside the hall, but he stops me, touching my face. I freeze. The pad of his
thumb strokes lightly under my eyes.
“Um. Yes?” Does he think romantic affection involves fondling one
another’s dark circles?
He straightens with a sigh. “There were tracks in your makeup. The
cameras will pick them up. Everyone will know you’ve been crying.”
Crap.
He takes my hand. “Come on. Let’s go back to the room.”
“What? No! There’s still loads of stations to talk to.”
“You’ve been crying,” he repeats, as if it’s some kind of deadly illness that
requires immediate bedrest.
“Oh my God, I am fine. I was really embarrassed, I cried a tiny bit, and now
I’m okay again. I don’t know why you’re making such a big deal about
this.” I push past him back into the hall.
 16

WE FINISH up interviews at five PM. Our dinner reservations aren’t until

nine, so I nip to the vending machine and buy a smoothie to avoid dying of
hunger. When I step back inside the hotel room, I stop dead.
My face is on the wall. My massive, massive face is filling the entire wall-
mounted wide-screen plasma TV.
I’m horrified.
“Where the Hell did you find that?” I watch giant-me twirl around the stage
during the Romeo and Juliet masked ball scene. “Are you watching a
bootleg?! You’re a pirate! It’s people like you that are killing live theatre!”
Jack’s stretched out on the bed, arms behind his head, ankles crossed. It’s
the most relaxed I’ve ever seen him. “It’s an official press recording. I
called the company and asked for a copy. Live theatre will live another
day.”
I remember, now. They filmed opening night. “I didn’t know they released
it.”
“They didn’t,” he says, simply. “I can be quite persuasive.”
I flop down onto the mattress next to him, and he shifts to give me more
room. I make it through about three seconds of listening to my awful voice
before I groan and roll over, trying to suffocate myself in a pillow. “This is
so embarrassing.”
“Grow up. It’s your work; own it.”
I can always trust him not to baby me. “Why are you even watching it?”
My voice is muffled by Egyptian cotton and shame.
“It’s incredibly entertaining. Be quiet.”
Onscreen, the dancers whirl aside, and Juliet spots Romeo for the first time.
Two spotlights crack down like lightning, illuminating us both. I watch my
expression soften into something dark and wistful.
“This is so weird,” I whisper.
“Cassie?
I pop my head back up like a meerkat.
He reaches over and drops a handful of pillow chocolates right on my face.
“Shut. Up.”
Because Jack Hale is a horrible, heartless man, he plays the recording right
to the end. We both watch as I jog to centre stage to take my bow. I look lit
up. I look—sort of beautiful, actually, grinning in my white dress, starry-
eyed and flushed and happy. A spotlight shines gold onto my hair like a
crown. I wave to the audience and shout Happy Birthday! to someone in the
front row, then step back into the line of other actors. The theatre thunders
to its feet as the director, Simon Harvey, comes out. He didn’t normally do
bows with us, but since it was opening night, he was there celebrating. He
installs himself between me and Romeo, wrapping his arms around our
waists, and bends to kiss me on the cheek.
I grab the remote off the bed, pausing the recording. It freezes on an image
of me, beaming up at him.
“Well.” Jack somehow makes the word sound like an accusation.
The sound of applause echoes in my ears. People used to stand up and clap
for me eight times a week. “You really thought I couldn’t act, didn’t you?”
“You can’t even act normal.” He’s looking at the frame thoughtfully.
“You’re actually talented.”
I lick melted chocolate off my thumb. “You don’t need to sound so
surprised. I’m slowly convincing the world I’m in love with you, and that in
itself is perhaps the most difficult acting job known to man. If the truth
about our relationship got out, I’d win awards.”
“You already did,” he points out, picking up his tablet and scrolling down a
page. I balk when I recognise my very limited C.V. “Two of them. Best
Debut Performance in a Play; Best Actress in a Revival.”
My cheeks start to glow. “British theatre was having a pretty slow year.”
“I looked up reviews of the show, they called you a ‘rising star of the
stage.’”
“I believe I was fully risen at that point, actually.”
He switches tabs and starts reading out reviews. “Theatre Today said it was
the ‘most convincing portrayal of Juliet they’ve ever seen.’”
“Don’t read that.”
He keeps going. “‘Cassandra Ray is skilful enough to add fizz, daring, and
realistic vulnerability to a stagnant, under-developed heroine.’”
“Stop it.” I feel like a butterfly fluttering under a pin. I try to grab for the
tablet, but he slides it out of my reach, scrolling down.
“‘Ray’s Juliet embodies a fierce, kind, childlike bravery that makes the
play’s finale even more tragic. One of Simon Harvey’s greatest triumphs.’”
“Stop. Stop it.” I manage to yank the tablet out of his hands. “You’re
obsessed with me,” I chide.
“Why the Hell are you serving drinks six days a week when you could be
doing this?”
“Why does everyone keep ragging on me for being a runner? It’s a hard job.
I’m proud of it.”
He waves me off. “Anybody can do it. You’re wasting your potential.
Why.”
My eyes narrow. “Oh, like you can talk about wasted potential. You
exclusively play roles that revolve around you taking off your shirt and
pouting at a camera. Anyone with a set of abs could play them.”
He looks surprised. “You don’t like my films?”
For God’s sake, he still thinks I’m a stalker fan. I’m sick of it. “No,” I bite
out. “I don’t. All your character does is shag nameless hot women and
throw stuff around. He’s been in six helicopter crashes and has survived
every single one without a scratch. They’re shit.”
Jack turns his head away.
I immediately feel terrible. I cover my mouth with my hand. “That was so
mean. I’m so sorry. I’m a snob.”
He shakes his head, and I see the curve of a smile he’s trying to stifle. “I’m
not offended. They’re awful.”
I heave a sigh of relief, flopping back on the pillows. “Oh, thank God,
somebody told you.” I take a reviving sip of mango smoothie.
“At least you can sleep through them. I wasn’t aware you could get
boredom-induced migraines until I took the role. I have no idea how they
keep getting such good reviews.”
“I assumed you were holding peoples’ loved ones hostage, or something.
Why do you make them, if you don’t even like them?”
He plucks the bottle from my hand and takes a long pull from it. “I took the
job when I was nineteen because I needed money, and the contract was
eight films long.”
Jesus. Talk about selling away your soul. “You’ve been trapped in this job
for nine years? Didn’t you grow up rich? Surely you didn’t need money that
much.”
He takes another swig of smoothie and licks his lips. “Why did you stop
acting?”
I pluck at the quilt. “Stage fright.”
“Did you forget your lines? Fall into an open trapdoor?”
I snatch back the bottle before he finishes it. “I got lured into the sewers by
my masked singing teacher. It happens more often than you’d think.” He
stares at me, obviously waiting. I sigh. “I had some… personal issues that
affected my ability to work.”
His raised eyebrow tells me just what he thinks about that. “Well. Have you
considered on-screen acting?”
“The fear transcends the style of performance. I probably couldn’t even do
a puppet show.”
“Huh.” He looks thoughtful for a moment, then zaps off the telly. “I’m
sending the tape to my agent.”
Something in my chest clenches violently. “Jack. Don’t. This isn’t funny.”
“I’m sure she’ll find it fascinating.”
I’m so frustrated. “Are you just doing this to piss me off? I don’t want to act
anymore.”
“The staging really is very interesting. Honestly, Cassandra, this has
nothing to do with you.”
I look down at the tablet and suddenly feel exhausted. “Fine. Whatever. I
want to take a nap before dinner.”
Jack dims the lights and pulls out his laptop. I curl up next to him in the
dark. After a couple minutes, I hear my own voice coming quietly out of the
tinny speakers, and peep at his screen. He’s on YouTube, watching an
interview I did with Simon at the British Theatre Awards.
“I’m so thankful for the opportunity Simon’s given me,” I’m telling the
reporter. “I’d never expected to make it to such a big production. I owe him
so much.” I look giddy in my little sparkly dress, tucked under my
director’s arm. I look so, so happy.
I roll over and go to sleep.

♥
I dream that I’m onstage again, and I’ve forgotten my line. The audience
stretches endlessly above me, a colosseum of expressionless faces. Tears fill
my eyes. I try to dart into the wings, but strong arms wrap around me from
behind, trapping me. The crowd boos and jeers as I’m dragged to the edge
of the stage and dangled over the orchestra pit. Hands flatten on my back,
shoving, and I scream.

“CASSIE. God. Wake up. Cassie.” Hands grab my shoulders, heaving me

upright. I’m pressed against something warm. My eyes crack open to a dark
room cut through with shadows.
“What?” I don’t know where I am. There’s some fumbling, then the bedside
lamp flickers on, illuminating Jack hunched over the bed. He’s wearing a
tank top, his skin sheened in sweat. “Jack? What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
He pulls me into his side. “Jesus, you scared the shit out of me.”
“What? Why? What did I do?” I start to shake, adrenaline rattling through
me. “Jack please just tell me what’s happening—”
He runs his hand up and down my spine. “You were asleep, so I went to the
gym. When I came back, I was signing an autograph in the corridor and I
heard you scream. I’d left the door open. I thought someone had come in.”
It takes a second to digest that. “What?” I shove him off me. “Why the Hell
would you leave the door open?!” I knew he didn’t like me, but I never
thought he would actually put me in danger. That’s dangerous. We’ve had
plenty of rabid fans stalk Jack to his room. I’m lucky I didn’t get stabbed by
a hopeful successor.
“It wasn’t on purpose. I was… distracted, I forgot to kick away the jamb.
I’m sorry.” I look at him in the lamplight. He looks slightly horrified. He’s
telling the truth. “Sorry,” he says again.
Embarrassment crushes me. It’s been a while since I’ve had one of my
anxiety dreams. The kind that sent Robin skidding into my room to make
sure I wasn’t being murdered, and which left me too scared to go to sleep. If
they’re making a reappearance, I’ll never be able to fall asleep in front of
Jack again. Most five-star hotels probably don’t rent out soundproof
bunkers.
I glance at the clock. It’s quarter to nine. “I should get ready for dinner,” I
mutter, pushing my hair back and sliding out of the sweat-damp sheets. I’m
so gross.
“We don’t have to go. You can get room service, or go home.”
“I’m going,” I say flatly. “Whether you come or not.” I open the wardrobe
and pull out my dress.
 17

THE NEXT DAY IS AWKWARD. Jack and I don’t talk much. A bunch of
reporters have flown over from Singapore to film segments with him, and
they keep looking between us, obviously confused as to why I’m here. At
this point, I’m confused about it, too.
After interviews, Jack goes outside to sign autographs for some fans that
have collected in the hotel car park, and I try and wake myself up with a
shower. I stand under a steamy Niagara Falls jet, soaping myself up with
strawberry body wash and reflecting on yesterday’s terrible interviews. I
should feel embarrassed, but somehow, I don’t. Yes, it was a disaster, but
it’s been a long time since I’ve done anything vaguely new or impressive. I
didn’t run away, I didn’t give up. I pulled myself together and kept going. I
feel a weird tinge of pride.
As I climb out onto the bathmat and start towelling myself off, I hear the
men slam into the bedroom. They’re arguing. Jack’s cutting voice easily
slices through the bathroom door.
“…have to get rid of her. One guy makes an inappropriate comment, and
she runs off and cries, for God’s sake.”
I watch my eyes go wide in the mirror.
It sounds like Con has his hands over his face. “Jack. You cannot fire a
woman for being upset when she’s sexually harassed.”
“People say that shit to women in the industry all the time. My mum got
hundreds of comments like that a day. My mum, Con—”
“That doesn’t mean you should punish Cassie for it. She’s not done
anything wrong.”
“If she can’t handle it, she can’t do it. I can’t look after her for the next two
months.” He pauses. “Does your leg hurt? You’re using that more than
usual.”
“Oh, fuck off,” Con says irritably, dropping his cane with a wooden clatter.
I fall even deeper in love with him. “Has she asked you to look after her? I
don’t imagine anyone would go running to you for sympathy. They’re
usually running away from you, actually.”
“She’s too weak for this. Too sensitive. You have to be a strong person to
survive this industry. She’s terrified of the paparazzi. She gets so nervous
before events that she shakes. She’s screaming in her sleep. She’s like a
wounded deer, she’s going to get eaten alive. By the end of the month
there’ll be nothing left of her.”
A switch trips in my head.
Not a lot of people know this, but I have an absolutely horrendous temper. I
don’t get set off easily, but when I do, I explode. I become possessed. Rob
has a nickname for me when I’m like this: Rocket. I think it developed
because I’m so short—when you’re small, sometimes people treat you like
a pet, rather than an adult. You have to learn to stand your ground and shout
until they listen. It wasn’t until my run in Romeo and Juliet that I realised
sometimes it’s best not to stand up for yourself. Sometimes, the best thing
you can do is shut up and smile. Life isn’t a movie, where the cute, spunky
heroine can yell at her boss without consequences. In real life, you get
punished for that. Nowadays, I do my very best to stay calm and collected
at all times.
That being said: I. Am. Fuming. I grab my dress and wriggle into it,
blazing.
Con’s voice is harsh. “I’ve seen you have plenty of nightmares. No one’s
ever tried to fire you over them.” There’s a long silence. He sighs. “This is
working. The public is warming up to her. I reckon, given a couple of
weeks, you two will have people convinced.”
“She’s won’t be convincing anyone when she’s hospitalised after a nervous
breakdown. Con, please. Please.”
“No. Have you actually asked if she’s okay, or have you decided for her?
She looks completely fine to me.”
“For God’s sake. She was just a runner. She doesn’t deserve any of this.”
The coals in my belly spit sparks. Yesterday, I ran and hid and cried. I’m
sure as Hell not doing the same thing today. I unlock the door and kick it
open like I’m in a karate movie.
The two men stare at me. I smile tightly back. “Hey.”
Jack speaks first, eyes clouding over stormily. “How long were you in
there?”
“Oh, about three hours. Every time I was done with my makeup, I’d hear a
loud noise and burst into hysterical tears. Then my mascara would run, and
I’d have to start again. You know me, and my nervous breakdowns.” I know
I sound horrendously bitter. I couldn’t stop if my life depended on it.
“You’re not exactly inspiring my trust,” he says, crossing his arms. “What,
you hid in there and listened in on us?”
Breathe. Breathe. Don’t blow up. “I apologise, I was naked.” I say crisply.
“So, what? You’re firing me, now?”
He shrugs fluidly. “You can’t do the job.”
“If I couldn’t do it, don’t you think I, like, wouldn’t be doing it?”
“You’re terrified of paparazzi and journalists. This isn’t going to work out if
you’re too scared to talk to people. This entire industry is about people,
Cassie.”
“Why are you such an antisocial prat, then?”
Con chokes, and I mentally slap myself. I need to keep calm.
Jack ignores my polite and professional critique. “That reporter made you
cry.”
He’s baiting me, now, I can see it in his face. And I’m falling for it. Keep it
together, I beg myself. “Let me get this straight,” I say slowly. “You’re mad
that I cried, for ten seconds, in private, where no one could see me? I’m
sorry. It must have been very embarrassing for you.”
“You’re right. It was embarrassing. I don’t want to spend the next six weeks
with you bursting into tears every time your feelings get hurt.”
The word embarrassing hits me like a freight train, and my last fibre of
self-control snaps. “You think I’m embarrassing?!” I burst out. “You
literally need to hire women to pretend to like you! That’s embarrassing!”
“Excuse me?”
I’m so angry my vision is vignetting. “Sure, I’m never going to be as rich,
or hot, or successful as you, but at least I don’t treat everyone around me
like shit! You walk around like you’re so much better than your fans, and
your runners, and your hotel staff—but you’re not!”
Con pipes up. I’d forgotten he was here. “Cassie, I don’t think you
understand what he—”
“Let her speak,” Jack orders.
I straighten my spine, taking a step towards him. A red haze has descended.
I’m a bull charging a matador. “You think I don’t deserve you? Maybe
you’re right. Maybe you deserve a 5’11 blonde lingerie model with a trust
fund. Suck it up. Right now, you can’t have one.” My laugh is hollow. “Did
you ever think that I might deserve better than you? You’re a terrible
boyfriend! You invited me here, then tried to make my life miserable by
abandoning me at events and refusing to speak to me. I am just trying to do
my job. Not because I want to be famous, or get in magazines, or because
I’m ‘secretly in love with you’—because I’m poor. I need the money. I’m
doing my best, and you have the nerve to act like I’m pathetic for being
upset when someone publicly humiliates me on live television? Not
everybody has the emotional capacity of a hunk of rock! I have done
everything you asked of me, and I’ve complained a damn sight less than
you have. I am a capable adult, so please, just treat me like one.” I break
off, panting.
Jack’s silent for a moment, then frowns. “Oh, sorry, did you want me to
reply? I thought you were monologuing.”
I shake my head. “I just don’t understand what I’ve done wrong.”
“Want me to make you a list?”
“According to you, I’m either some calculating gold-digging attention-
seeking spy, or I’m a stupid little girl too weak to handle anything. It
doesn’t matter what I do, you’ll never see me as an equal, will you? You’ll
always assume the worst of me.” I’m so frustrated my eyes are watering.
His brow furrows. He stands up. “Are you upset?”
“No. I’m angry.”
His frown deepens. “It’s nothing personal. I tend to assume the worst of
everyone.”
“Why?”
“I’m famous. It tends to bring out the worst in everyone.”
Con looks at him with deep empathy. I wait to see if he’ll expand, but as
always, he’s cryptic as a Sphinx. I’m over it.
“Right. Okay. Whatever.” I grab my purse and head to the door.
“Cassie—”
“I’m gonna see if I can work up the courage to go get a drink. I doubt I’ll
manage, but I like to challenge myself.”

I stomp upstairs to the rooftop pool and head straight to the bar. “An iced
tea, please,” I beg the beaming cabana girl. “With lots of ice cubes, please.”
Right now, I’d eat a snowball. I’d lick a glacier. I need to cool down from
the inside, before my organs melt.
I don’t know how he does it. In just a couple of weeks, Jack’s managed to
find the hidden bullseye in my soul, the thing I’m most ashamed about, and
he’s shot at it with scary precision.
I’m not weak.
I collect my drink and sit down at one of the wobbly poolside tables, pulling
out my phone to text Robin.

C: clean up all evidence of your orgy. i’ll be home early.

He responds immediately.

R: okay i’ll call my fumigation guy xx

R: what did you do??

C: told Jack he was an antisocial prat

C: technically I yelled it

R: HA I knew this job would be good for you

C: ???

I have no idea what that means. I’m undoubtedly about to get fired. How on
Earth could it have been good for me? I’m about to ask as much, when I
hear the chair next to me scrape out.
“I am so sorry,” I blurt, as Con crams himself into the tiny seat, setting a
takeaway cup of black coffee in front of him. “I don’t know what came over
me. That was so unprofessional. I’m usually a lot better at gritting my teeth
and smiling when people give me crap, but he’s just so… so…”
“Aggravating?” Con offers, leaning his cane against his chair and
straightening his wine-coloured blazer. “Irritating? Exasperating?
Exhausting? I’ve got a thesaurus app on my phone we can use, if you like.”
I gnaw my straw guiltily. “Sorry. My comments definitely could’ve been,
um. Phrased a little more constructively.” He nods and takes a calm sip of
coffee, crossing his legs. My eyes catch on the thick, red scar running up
the back of his ankle and stretching under his trousers. I’ve never noticed it
before.
He notices me staring and smiles. “Motorcycle accident.”
“Metal.”
He snorts. “Thanks. It was a couple of years ago. I was biking alongside
Jack’s car, but some paps saw him and started chasing him. One swerved
into me on a tight corner and knocked me right off the bike.”
“Oh my God! That’s horrible!”
He shrugs. “I knew the risks. Jack was more cut up about it than me.”
We’re silent for a moment, looking over the pool. Impatience wriggles
inside me. “So, um, is there a termination contract I need to sign, or
something?”
He looks surprised. “You want to quit?”
“I assumed I was getting fired. I called my boss an antisocial prat.”
He waves me off. “Some fighting is natural in new couples. People don’t
usually call him out on his bullshit. They’re too scared.”
I frown. “He’s not scary, he’s just a dick.”
“I agree. But it seems we’re in the minority.” He looks up at the sky,
collecting his thoughts. “You may have noticed that Jack’s not very good at
emotion.”
“How can you be bad at emotion? It’s not a verb.” I stir my drink. “You
mean he’s bad at, like, expressing emotion?”
“No. Well, yes. But he’s also bad at recognising emotion, understanding
emotion, feeling emotion, coming to terms with emotion—”
“Okay, I get it. His makers never programmed him with empathy. Keep him
away from the blade runners at all costs. How is he an actor?” Most of my
old Theatre Kid friends performed tragic soliloquies whenever they broke a
nail.
“Oh, he’s incredibly good at faking emotion, if he feels like it benefits him.
He just generally doesn’t bother.” He purses his lips, selecting his words
delicately. “As a rule, it’s more productive to judge Jack’s feelings by his
actions rather than his words. He’s very easy to misread, but there’s a
reason he acts the way he does. I can really, honestly say that he’s one of the
best men I’ve ever met. You’ll see, sooner or later.”
I nod and vaguely wonder what the typical timeframe for Stockholm
Syndrome is.
Con presses on. “It can be hard to tell if he’s trying to be helpful, because
he usually does it in the most annoying way possible. But he’s not
malicious. Not ever.”
“So, he was helpfully trying to fire me?” I’d hate to see him in a crisis
situation, he’d probably throw kids back into burning buildings and return
rescued kittens to their trees. “That doesn’t make any sense at all.”
Con goes to say something, but gets distracted when my phone lights up
with another text.

R: I missed my rocket <3

Con points at my lock screen. “Sorry, I—who’s that?”

It’s a picture of me and Rob at a SAFE fundraising event for kids. He’d
artistically painted my face to look like a pound coin, assumedly to
encourage people to donate. I think I made five children cry that day.
“That’s my flatmate, Robin.” I smile fondly. “He’s a right knob.”
Con blinks a lot. “Right. Uh. Anyway, what I’m trying to say is—” he
clears his throat. “I think Jack is worried about you, Cassie. And this is his
idiotic way of expressing it.”
I stare at him. A kid splashes in the pool, throwing sparkly droplets into the
air. High up above me, a bird sings, a high, pretty, hopeful tune.
I burst out laughing. Yeah, he’s going to have to come up with a much,
much better story than that.
 18

“I JUST DON’T GET why it bothered me so much,” I mutter into the

receiver, as I pour dry rice into a pot. Con cancelled our dinner reservations
and let me go home early, so Jack and I don’t commit mutual murder in a
Michelin star restaurant.
It’s been a few hours since our fight, and my blood has finally cooled. All
signs of the devil have left me. I am become human again. So now, I’m just
making dinner and moaning to Rob over the phone.
“It’s because you fancy him,” Rob mumbles around a mouthful of
something. He’s still at work, but he’s on break, which means I get to listen
to him loudly chew his sandwich down the line, like a really gross
mukbang.
“I don’t.”
“There is no way you’ve spent weeks snuggling into his abs and you don’t
fancy him a little bit.”
“I’m physically attracted to him, I’m not a rock,” I say irritably, swilling the
rice with water. “But then he talks.” He’s only attractive when he’s
inaudible. “Just because he’s hot, doesn’t mean I want to date him. He
doesn’t respect me at all. He just sees me as his underling. It’s driving me
crazy.”
“Maybe he likes you. Some guys are rude to the girls they like.”
“He must like me a lot, then,” I say, doubtfully.
Rob sighs. “Yeah, that’s probably not it. He’d at least be giving you longing
sideways glances. He looks like he’s contemplating euthanasia in most of
the shots of you two together.”
“I know.”
Con’s weekly PR packet of gossip articles is on the coffee table. It arrived
on Sunday in a pretty pastel folder, with positive, negative and neutral news
stories marked with carefully labelled tabs, and sticky notes with
suggestions for improvement written in beautiful Victorian copperplate. It’s
currently open on an article by Buzz magazine: Fans Declare Lack of
Chemistry Between Hale and His New Boo ‘Completely Hilarious’.
It feels great to excel at my job.
I turn off the tap. “How’s your day been?”
“Shit. I’m pretty sure Caroline from the church will only donate in return
for sexual favours. She keeps bending over in front of me so I can see her
cleavage.”
“She’s in love with you.”
“Yeah.” He sounds grim. I have to laugh. Rob’s a gem among men. Big
green eyes and muscles and a heart of gold. No woman can resist him,
which is very unfortunate. “I’m trying to find someone who can help me
sort out the financial stuff, but even starving students aren’t interested.”
My chest burns. “It’ll be okay, I promise.”
I’ve decided not to tell Rob about my plans to become his wealthy
benefactor. I’ll probably be fired any day now, and besides, there’s no way
he’d let me donate that much money. If payday ever comes, I’ll have to just
sneakily slip it into his bank account when he’s not looking. I drain off the
milky rice water, watching the droplets sparkle in the setting sunshine.
“I’m going to have to start selling my body,” he laments.
“For sex or organs?”
“Both.”
“I’ll help you set up an e-shop,” I assure him. “Con told me it’s a great way
to attract more customers. I—”
I’m interrupted by a yell from outside the window. “JACK! JACK, OVER
HERE!”
Oh no.
The doorbell rings. I peep through the dusty net curtains, and see a
horrendously ugly car parked up on the pavement.
I squish the phone closer to my ear. “He’s here!” I hiss to Rob.
“Who, Jack? Jack Hale’s at our house? Ooh, that’s actually a bit romantic.
Maybe he wants to apologise.”
“I don’t want to talk to him! I didn’t even realise he had my address.” The
doorbell rings again. I think frantically. “I’ll just pretend I’m out. Or dead.”
I used to fake my death eight times a week, I’m excellent at it.
“No. You’re a big girl. Resolve your argument nicely, like a real couple.”
“But—”
“I have to go now. Very busy. Lives to save. Don’t kill him, please, I’ll have
no one to split rent with if you’re in prison. Love you.” He hangs up.
The doorbell jangles irritably.
I wipe my hands off on a tea towel and dump the pot on the hob, then go to
open the door. Jack is standing on the front step. His silhouette blocks out
all sunlight.
“Can I come in?” He asks.
I’m so frustrated. “Why? Why are you even here? I don’t inflict my
presence on you out of hours.” He shifts to hide my hallway from a
photographer, eyeing a picture on the wall with interest.
My inner hostess shrieks, and I relent. “Fine.” I step aside. “Do you want a
drink or something? I have water, juice, squash…”
“Water’s fine.” He follows me inside, and I head to the freezer, filling a cup
with ice cubes. The only ones we have left are novelty heart shapes, so he’ll
doubtless think I’m hitting on him via beverage. He stands awkwardly in
the kitchen-lounge, probably paralysed by the squalor. I try to see my house
from his perspective. It’s tiny, full of bright, mismatched bits of furniture,
and more than a little messy.
I’m sure he’ll be able to cope.
I point to the sofa. “You can sit down. We treated it for fleas yesterday.”
He stares at it disdainfully for a moment, then stalks over and slumps onto
the cushions, unfolding his long body. The hem of his shirt slides up, and
I’m treated to a sliver of hard, muscled abdomen, which I don’t look at.
“There are three photographers outside.”
“I think they live there, now.” They’re not too bad. One of them put our
wheelies out on bin day the other morning. Granted, he sifted through our
recycling first, but beggars can’t be choosers.
Jack shuffles uncomfortably on the sofa, and I almost expire from shame as
he unearths a buttercup-coloured bra from under the cushion. He holds it
crumpled in his palm, like a dying canary. I must have ripped it off and
flung it onto the sofa the second I got back inside.
I snatch it and chuck it through my open bedroom door.
He clears his throat. “You can’t have people waiting for you outside your
door. You need some more security.”
“Good idea. I’ll just erect an electric fence in the middle of the public road,
shall I? Not all of us are landed gentry.” I hand him his water, and he stares
silently inside the cup.
“There’s hearts in it,” he says after a moment.
“Because we’re in love.” I sit down next to him, folding my legs under me,
preparing for battle. “So, why are you here?”
He looks at me. “I’m sorry.”
I blink. “What?”
“You weren’t supposed to hear that conversation. It was rude. I didn’t mean
to hurt your feelings.”
His words sink in. I’m utterly stunned. “I… is this a prank?”
“Smile, you’re on camera.” His voice is dry. “I am capable of making
apologies. You said—” an odd expression flickers across his face, gone in a
second. “That I was making your life miserable. That’s not what I’m trying
to do. I just don’t want you to stay in this position if you’re struggling to
cope.”
“I said you were trying to make my life miserable. You weren’t succeeding.
And I’m not upset. Just frustrated. I know you’re my employer, and you
have the right to complain about my performance; but this isn’t a normal
job situation.”
“I don’t understand.”
I try to put it into words. “Every day, I put myself in a vulnerable position
for you. I’m going on dates with you. I’m kissing you. I’m spending hours
alone with you in a hotel room. I’m putting the same trust in you as I would
a boyfriend. But you’re not my boyfriend, you’re my boss, and if I don’t do
exactly what you want, you can fire me. The power dynamic is weird.” I
pick up an embroidered cushion and give it a hug. “I’ve had shitty bosses
who lord it over me before, and it’s awful. I can’t do it again.”
His face fogs over. “Have I pressured you into doing something you didn’t
want to do?”
“No, no. But I’m not a prop you can just drop, Jack. If you’re acting as my
boyfriend, you have to treat me as a person. Respect me. Talk to me. Give
me the benefit of the doubt. If I do something wrong, give me feedback. I’m
not asking you to be super nice, I think we’ll always argue. But you’re
acting like I’m completely useless. And really, if anyone’s letting the team
down, it’s you.” I pick up Con’s folder of gossip off the coffee table and
pass it to him. “Look at these photos. It’s pretty obvious that you’d rather
fondle a working lawnmower than touch me. At least I’m trying.”
Jack’s jaw tightens as he scans the first article. Then tightens even more as
he runs his eyes over the next page. And the next. And the next. By the time
he gets to the bottom of the file (Sick of His Latest Fling, Jack Hale is
Clearly Missing Ex Gina) I’m wondering if I should intervene while he still
has teeth. “They all say this?”
I take a sip of his water. “You haven’t been checking what people are saying
about us?”
“It’s not my job. It’s yours.” He glares at the paper so hard, I’m surprised
smoke doesn’t start rising off it. I don’t know why he’s so mad. I’m the one
who looks like a mug whose boyfriend secretly hates her.
He thinks for a while. I look inside the glass, watching the half-melted
hearts chink together.
“Fine.” He says eventually. “You’re right. This is just bad performance. I’ll
put more effort into acting like you’re tolerable.”
“And you’ll stop trying to fire me whenever I do something that annoys
you?” I ask hopefully.
“Well, clearly, you’re not getting the hint, so, yes. I promise not to fire you,
as long as you stick to your contract.” He suddenly looks a bit evil. His
hands fold on his stomach, fingers fidgeting, like they’re missing a villain
cat to stroke. “I have a condition too, though.”
My limbs all go heavy. “Yeah?”
“You say you’re capable of coping in this industry, but how am I meant to
believe you when you apparently gave up your entire career because of
‘stage fright’?”
“That’s different,” I protest.
“My agent somehow got ahold of your recording. If she sent it out to some
casting directors and you got called in for an audition, would you go?”
“You don’t even want to date an actress! You made such a big deal about it
yesterday!”
“Would you go?” He repeats evenly.
My head aches. All the energy leaks out of me. This is a topic that never
fails to make me weak. “Sure, fine. Is that all? Can you leave, now?”
He stands up. “If there are photographers outside, you may as well walk me
out.”
I nod, following him to the door. As soon as I open it, the cameras start
snapping away. I wave at them, then turn to Jack. “Bye, then.” I sound like
a sulky toddler.
He rolls his eyes. “Put your arms around my neck,” he mutters. Before I can
say anything, he puts his hands on my waist, pivots, and dips me, right on
my doorstep, like we’re in an old movie. He’s not actually kissing me, just
nuzzling my cheek. His skin is warm and stubbled, his lips brush my throat,
and for a second, I can’t breathe at all. My body automatically softens into
him. I feel like I’m melting. Falling asleep. Dissolving. My fingers curl in
his shirt.
Slowly, he tips me back upright. The rest of the world seeps back in. I can
hear shutters clacking, wolf whistles.
“The fuck was that?” I wheeze. I sound like I need medical attention.
“I told you. I’m going to make more of an effort to give the impression that
you’re tolerable.” He untwists the strap of my dress, smoothing it down,
and gives me a look so full of raw heat that I take an involuntary step back.
“See you tomorrow, Skittle,” he says, touching my cheek. “I’ll miss you.”
I smile weakly and close the door behind him. The yells of the paps get
more distant as they start trailing Jack to his car.
My phone cheeps. I check the screen.

J: Whatever you’re cooking is burning, by the way.

I wander back into the kitchen, where my rice is ragingly boiling and
emitting furious black clouds. My poor Bengali grandma is rolling her
grave. I dump it dazedly into the sink. I can still feel ghostly hands on my
waist.
I think I may have made a terrible mistake.
 19

JACK STICKS TO HIS WORD. Over the next week, he is the most
loving, tender, attentive fake boyfriend a girl could ever wish for. On
Monday, we go for dinner, and he doesn’t let go of my hand once. During
interviews on Wednesday, he keeps glancing over at me curled up on the
bed, like he’s checking I’m still there. On Friday, we go to the Tate, then a
20s themed cocktail bar suspiciously full of paparazzi. We stay out late, and
he keeps an arm slung around my waist the entire time, one hand playing
with my hair. Every so often he bends down to nuzzle my neck for good
measure.
I’m finding it difficult to cope with this development. It’s rubbing on my
nerves like a cheese grater. Every time he touches me and doesn’t
immediately follow up with an insult, I feel mildly electrocuted. I haven’t
slept in days; I’m being kept awake by raunchy memories of him tucking
my hair behind my ear, or gingerly pecking me in front of the cameras. I’m
delirious. I know I still don’t like him, but it’s hard to not respond to very
hot men pretending to care about you.
Naturally, I do the adult thing, and deal with this by getting tipsy on too
many highballs. I get very giggly and chatty when I drink, which Jack finds
immensely amusing.
I wake up on Saturday hanging hard, and barely make it out the door in
time for my 9AM start. Turns out, Jack’s running late too; when my driver
pulls up in the hotel car park, I see him getting mobbed outside the entrance
to the building, signing for a group of fans who’ve collected around the
door, screeching and crying and throwing their warm underwear at him.
I hang back to watch. He looks even worse than I feel. He’s pale, tense with
a headache, and running on no sleep. I know, because I woke up this
morning to find he’d spent all night texting me questions about the Romeo
and Juliet script. Mansen’s planning to start filming in a few weeks, so his
Final Decision deadline is looming, and I think Jack’s getting nervous.
According to Con, Mansen has whittled the possibilities down to Jack, and
a handsome, established BBC actor called Tom—I’ve seen him in a couple
of period dramas, and unfortunately, he’s really good.
Jack looks up and scans the crowd. I feel a little electric roll in my belly as
our eyes meet. He makes a move towards me, but a teenage girl lurches at
him out of nowhere, sticking her phone in his face.
I feel sick.
Jack bends, letting her take a selfie. She twists, grabs him by the collar, and
kisses him hard on the lips.
For a second he’s frozen. Then he pulls back and wipes his mouth on the
back of his hand, giving her the same burningly disgusted look he gave me
when we first met in the restaurant. And suddenly, I get it.
Of course, he thought I’d orchestrated our fake little bin kiss. People really
do this shit to him, all the time. They trick him. They take advantage of
him. They trap him. I watch as he still scrawls his signature on her book,
slapping the Sharpie back down between the pages. She grabs his sleeve.
My rocket engine roars, and I’m not myself.
I push through the crowd to his side and wheel on the girl. She towers over
me in her sleek red-bottom heels, and I do not give a crap. “Excuse me, can
you not assault my boyfriend, please?” I demand, putting my hand on his
chest. He makes a choking sound.
She rolls her eyes. “Oh, come on. How can you be jealous, you get to kiss
him whenever you want. Lucky bitch.”
“I’m not lucky, I’m just, like, not a sex offender. Don’t grab him like that!
What the Hell is wrong with you?”
“I love him,” she retorts. “I’ve loved him forever. I’m not gonna miss my
one shot to kiss him.” She smiles. “Wait ’til everyone at work hears I kissed
Jack Hale. They’ll die.”
I shake my head. “You say that you love him, but you don’t care about his
feelings at all! None of you do! Can’t you all see that he hates this?” I raise
my voice. “If you like his work, that should be enough—stop trying to take
more from him. Stop mobbing him and grabbing him and following him.
Just leave him alone. He doesn’t owe you anything.”
The girl snorts. “Of course he does. We paid for him.”
My mouth drops open. For a second, I actually think I might throw hands at
this teenager.
“Okay, Skittle. Calm down,” Jack says in my ear. He lassos me with an arm
round my waist and tugs me a few feet away. The crowd roars in
indignation.
“ASSHOLE,” a middle-aged woman shrieks. “I’VE BEEN WAITING OUT
HERE AN HOUR!”
“He’s a human being,” I snap back at her. “Not a landmark. He moves
around.”
She ignores me and nudges her friend. “Quick! Get a picture of his arse as
he’s walking off!”
I start to shake like a boiling kettle.
Jack swivels me away so I’m only facing him. “Sorry about that.”
“Sorry? What do you mean, sorry?” I seethe. “It wasn’t your fault! She
only did it because she knew you she had you trapped. You couldn’t push
her off, it would look bad on camera.” I’m incandescent with rage. “We
paid for him?!? She thinks she owns you! Ugh, gross, her lipstick is on
you.” I reach up and smudge off the glossy red with my thumb, then put my
hands on his shoulders. “Are you okay?”
He looks taken aback. “Of course. It happens. It’s not a big deal.”
“I want to beat her up,” I decide.
He looks at me for a moment, then strokes a thumb down my cheekbone.
“I’m going to kiss you,” he warns me, and before I can respond, he hooks
his thumb under my chin and drags it up, pressing our mouths together.
Happiness streaks through me. I close my eyes.
The problem with all this acting is, I’m really quite stupid. I didn’t realise
Jack’s rudeness was keeping a safe barrier between us. Now, when he takes
my hand and squeezes it, it doesn’t feel strange at all. He reaches down to
brush a curl out of my face, and I glow inside.
Then he twists us slightly, so we’re angled towards a nearby camera-man,
and I remember I’m an idiot.
After a few seconds of posing, he pulls away. “What are you even doing
here?” He winds a hand in my hair.
I frown up at him. “Reporting for duty. Quit messing up my hair and buy a
stress ball.”
He gives it a thoughtful tug. “Didn’t you get my message?”
“I got all thirty-seven. I didn’t have time to go through them all. Please just
use CliffsNotes like a normal person.”
“The Chinese station I was meant to meet with this morning cancelled. You
can go sleep off your hangover upstairs.”
Oh, thank God.
He goes to follow me inside. The crowd screams when they see that he’s
leaving, and he pauses in the doorway to sign a couple more autographs,
caught between the erratic camera flashes and the steady, warm light of the
corridor. I watch how his left hand is bracing him in the doorframe as he
leans outside to sign. His nails gouge painful marks into the soft wood.
When we finally make it back to the room, I collapse onto the bed with a
groan, jumping when Jack kneels next to me and starts unlacing my shoes.
We just look at each other, then he drops his eyes and slips my pumps off.
“Thanks,” I whisper, as he straightens.
“We have a lunch date in three hours,” he says. “You look really terrible.
Are you always this much of a lightweight?”
I rub my eyes with the heel of my hand. “It’s not just that. I can’t sleep.”
“Me neither,” he admits.
“Come on, then.” I smack the mattress, letting my hand bounce.
He wavers, so I just take his hand and tug him down. Maybe I’m the
superhero, because I’m strong enough to easily pull him down next to me.
“Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone that you’re secretly a real boy,” I mumble
in his ear.
He shivers and kicks off his own shoes, climbing under the covers with me.
I roll into him until we’re kind of snuggling. He loosely tosses an arm over
my waist. Sleep deprivation can cause hallucinations, and I assume that’s
what’s happening here. He’s probably imagining I’m some six foot model.
Right now, I don’t give a shit. I’m so warm and my eyes are so heavy.
 20

WHEN I OPEN MY EYES, the windows are darkening. Shit. I try to sit up
to see the clock, but I can’t move. I look down and freeze.
Jack’s arm is casually thrown over my waist, his fingers brushing the
bottom of my rib cage. His head is on my pillow, fine hair tickling my
cheek. I lie still, my face buried in his fresh-laundry scented shoulder,
feeling him breathing steadily against me. How do I escape from this
muscly prison?
I try to wriggle free, and a hot hardness presses against my thigh. I squeeze
my eyes shut. I know he can’t help it. That’s just how dicks work. They’re
very easily excited. Even a good few REM cycles can get them going.
That’s not the problem.
The problem is the low ache building between my legs, the fluttering tickle
deep in my belly. I shift uncomfortably, and feel him sigh against me. My
blush is hidden by the dark.
Well, this is a terrible turn of events.
I shake his shoulder gingerly. He mumbles something. “Jack.” I shake him
harder.
“Mm?” His lips part. I can feel his eyelashes flitting against my neck.
“Gee?”
Oh, God. I cannot deal with this. I pat his cheek. “Nope, it’s your current
adoring girlfriend, Gina doesn’t like you anymore. Wake up, babycakes. We
overslept.”
He groans, stirring in the sheets, and finally opens his eyes, blinking
sleepily. “Wha—babycakes?”
I sit up and wind my curls into a bun. “Time to get up, my sleepy little
peanut,” I coo.
He sits up, checks his watch and hisses. “Christ. It’s been eight hours. How
did that happen?” He squints at my giant, puffy topknot. “Did you do your
hair like that on purpose?”
“Yup.”
“Your head looks like it’s being eaten by an octopus.”
“Yup. What were we supposed to be doing?”
He smothers a yawn in his shoulder. “No clue. Con hasn’t battered down
the door, so I’m assuming it’s nothing too pressing.” He checks his phone.
“Ah. Afternoon interviews cancelled too. Apparently the weather in China
was too bad to fly.”
My stomach audibly rumbles. “Lunch,” I say after a moment. “You were
going to woo me. I’ve not been taken on even one obnoxiously public date
today, I’m leaving you.”
He rubs his face. “You like sushi? Your hair’s inspired me.”
“Jack, I appreciate your work ethic, but I would literally rather throw
myself off the balcony than go on a date with you right now. No offence.”
“How could that be offensive? It was practically a compliment.” He stands
up and rolls out his shoulders. “I’ll get room service.”
“Get a lot!” I call, flopping weakly back onto the mattress.
He does. He orders a literal boatload of sushi—a giant bamboo ship, stuffed
full with fish and rice and seaweed. There’s a frozen glass box of tiny pink
and yellow mochi decorated with flowers, and big steaming cups of miso
soup. I fall on it all, ravenous.
“This is my favourite date so far,” I mumble through a mouthful of
seaweed.
Jack startles. He’s sitting next to me on the bed, close enough that our arms
keep brushing.
“This isn’t a date,” he says slowly, as if I’m very stupid. “No one else is
here. If anything, this is a waste of an evening. If you didn’t look like you
were about to pass out from hunger, I would’ve just sent you home.”
“Oh, my God. Give me your jumper.”
He puts down his chopsticks and pulls off his pale grey sweatshirt in one
smooth motion. I shrug it on. It’s all warm from his body.
I hand him his phone. “Now, just take a photo of me stuffing my face and
caption it ‘night in with this one’. Put a little heart emoji. That’s how
normal people publicise their relationships. You don’t need a camera crew
every time.”
He takes the picture, then unearths his script for Romeo and Juliet and starts
re-reading it again, as I attempt to inhale a full day’s calories.
“Cass?” He nudges me, pointing at the page. “Are these lines supposed to
rhyme?”
I squash up closer to him to look. “Nope. Blank verse.” He nods and makes
a note. I watch him, thoughtfully gulping down miso. I can’t quite work out
why Jack wants this part so much. Romeo is essentially his polar opposite.
He’s sensitive, boyish and emotional. He loves his girlfriend so deeply he
can’t survive without her. Jack, on the other hand, seems to put all his
energy into being as distant and emotionless as possible, and as a result, has
to buy his romantic interests. But he wants the world to see him playing one
of the most famous lovers in history? He wants his first role free from his
old contract to be an emotionally vulnerable boy? It makes no sense.
There’s a knock at the door. A concierge sticks his head in. “I’ve got some
scripts, sir?”
Jack nods. “Just put them on the bed.” He puts Shakespeare back in the
drawer and starts clearing aside our plates.
“Are you planning to fail the audition?” Seems uncharacteristically humble
of him.
“They’re not for me, they’re for you. My agent sent them over. Thank you,”
he tells the boy, who reverses out of the room as if Jack is a king he cannot
turn his back on. He spreads the pile of scripts over the duvet like a deck of
cards.
I twitch. “You do realise this is pointless, right? Even if I wanted to get back
into acting, I’m not getting a film.”
He ignores me completely, picking one out. “They’re doing another remake
of Pride and Prejudice,” he muses. “I think you’d make a decent Elizabeth
Bennet. A bit too excitable, but I’m sure you could tone that down if you’re
getting paid.”
“I am getting paid,” I point out. “Next.”
“You don’t like the book?”
“Love it. I want to swan-dive directly into Mr Darcy’s breeches. But I’m
not getting cast in a film like that.”
“Why not?”
“Um, I’m not period-appropriate?” He stares at me. “I’m not white,” I
remind him gently, in case he hasn’t noticed. I wouldn’t put it past him. He
doesn’t look at me very often.
He blinks. “Oh.”
I spot another piece of seared salmon and leap at it before he notices. “Not
white enough, anyway. It’s one of the reasons I got into theatre. Lot more
lenient. You don’t have to be white, skinny, and model-gorgeous.” I cast
around for wasabi. “Although, when I was thirteen, I got told by my local
theatre group that I was too ‘ethnic’ to play Alice in Alice in Wonderland.
Because ‘she’s a little English girl’. Like, what am I, French?”
“That’s fair enough. I imagine your skin colour would have really disrupted
the realism of Alice in Wonderland.”
I snort. “They did graciously invite me back the next season, though. They
were doing Peter Pan, and they thought I’d make an ideal Tiger Lily.
Weren’t too bothered about casting a ‘little Native American girl’, funnily
enough.”
Jack sifts through the pile. “You did a lot of acting as a kid?”
“God, yeah. I was in every school play, every club I could find. My parents
spent all their free time ferrying me around to rehearsals and watching me
play Annie for like, the fifth time.”
“Can you sing?” He sounds doubtful.
“My choir teacher once told me I’d invented a new musical note. So, no.
I’m very enthusiastic, though.”
“Doesn’t that make it worse?”
“Yes.” I pass him a bit of unidentified fish that’s been staring at me. “Eat
this shiny white one, please, it’s scaring me.”
He eats it boldly, without fear. “Then, what? You went to university to study
theatre?”
“Yep. The London Institute of Dramatic and Fine Arts. I was in
ShakespeareSoc, DramaSoc, OperaSoc. Greek TragedySoc. Dunno how I
got my degree at all, to be honest.” I dip some tuna generously in wasabi.
“You must really love acting,” he says quietly.
I shrug. “I guess I liked getting to be someone else for a bit.” Someone
brave enough to go on adventures.
“Don’t you miss it, then?”
“No. When I acted as a job… it was different. I didn’t like it anymore.”
He frowns. “You only had one job, right? One bad role seems like a pretty
stupid reason to give up your career.”
I stuff my sushi in my mouth to avoid answering. Immediately, my sinuses
start burning.
“No need to get emotional,” Jack says, mildly, as tears start rolling down
my face. “Don’t worry, I’m here, I’ll help you get back into it.”
“I think I ate a whole tablespoon of wasabi,” I choke. He pats me on the
back, and I’m so surprised, I jump and slide right off the frictionless silk
sheets.
“What about this?” He calls over the side of the bed. “Le Cirque. A
romance about two circus performers. You’re clearly quite acrobatic.”
I stand up. “A romance, eh? Thought you didn’t want me kissing other
men.”
He rolls his eyes. “Obviously that doesn’t apply in professional situations.
You’re not going to find a decent female role without some kind of romance
arc.” He flips it over. “Auditioning now, they’ll accept a tape. We should
send it in tonight.”
“What? No!”
“Come on. Finish eating, we’ll read through the script together.”
This cannot be happening. “Seriously? What am I now, your little project?”
I pretend to poke his eyes out with my chopsticks.
He’s unimpressed. “You said you weren’t scared.”
The little bastard. He’s testing me. He still thinks I’m not brave enough to
handle this job. The challenge is a tangible gauntlet thrown between us—he
may as well have drawn a rapier and ordered me to meet him at a duelling
ground at dawn. I wish he would’ve. It would make stabbing him a lot
easier.
I mentally strap on armour. I don’t really have a choice. It’s this, or he
thinks I’m a pathetic little mouse. “Fine,” I growl. “Give me the script.”
 21

THE NEXT WEEK and a half passes by in a blur of interviews and dinner
dates, and before I know it, I’ve been dating Jack Hale for a full month. The
day of the premiere, I’m running late. Jack and Con are already there,
sipping drinks and schmoozing with media, and I’m still stuck in my stretch
limo near Euston Square, getting odd looks from all the uni students. It’s
very unprofessional, but it’s not my fault. I couldn’t work out how to
operate my dress.
Rob had howled in delight when it arrived on my doorstep this morning. It’s
essentially a human-sized condom; fawn-coloured liquid latex that matches
my skin tone so well that I just look wet and naked. It’s so tight it makes me
walk like a penguin. I’ve made a mental note to limit my fluids, because I’ll
probably have to be cut out of this dress with a blow torch if I need the loo,
and I doubt a welder would fit in a stall with me.
When the car finally pulls up outside the cinema, a valet sweeps over and
opens my door. I try to slide out gracefully, but my rubbery bum gets stuck
to the leather. I unstick myself with an embarrassing squeak, and the valet
chokes into his fist.
I look around. I’ve been to this cinema before, but it’s unrecognisable now.
A literal red carpet has been rolled out against the side of the building.
Hundreds of photographers and fans press up against the tasselled rope
sectioning off the public. Shivering women pose, showing off their outfits. I
spot Jack deep in conversation with Con off the side of the carpet, gesturing
emphatically with his hands. When he sees me, he stops talking mid-
sentence.
I bounce over. “Hiya!” I give him a hug. Cameras twinkle at us. He holds
me like a Ken doll without joints, staring at me as I pull away.
“For God’s sake,” is his tender, loving greeting.
“Having a stroke, babe?” I wonder cheerfully. “Hey, Con.”
Con easily picks up my useless boyfriend’s slack. “Good evening, Cassie.
You look beautiful.”
“Thanks!” I do a twirl. “I feel like a sexy balloon animal.”
Jack swears, looking around. “Can somebody get her a jacket, or
something?”
Someone—a runner? A stylist? A passing peasant desperate to meet Lord
Hale’s demands?—hands him a thick fur coat, which he tries to drape over
me.
I push it off. “I feel pretty warm. Thanks, though.”
“Put it on.”
“No, I’ll suffocate.”
“It’s not even that hot,” he argues, weirdly persistent in his quest to boil me
to death. “You’ll be fine.”
“Can I please have some body autonomy?” I hiss, as Con leads us toward
the red carpet. “I’m not a doll for you to dress up.”
He glares at me, and I glare right back. I hope on film this looks like we’re
staring deeply into each other’s eyes, and not vividly dreaming of
incinerating one another.
He goes quiet as we file into position in front of the logo-studded backdrop.
The photographers, who have mostly been chewing gum and checking their
email, go mental when they spot Jack. We both tense as they scream. It’s a
pity, really. If they acted like regular, calm people doing their job, and not a
horde of primordial demons just escaped from the Underworld, we’d
probably take much better photographs. Instead, it takes all my acting skills
to hide the alarm in my eyes as they yell orders at us.
“Over the shoulder, Cassie! Over the shoulder!”
“On your left! Your left!”
“Who made your dressssss?”
“Pull her into you, Jack.” Con calls. He’s a few feet behind us, out of shot.
“You’re not even touching.”
“Con,” Jack says, flatly.
I’m hurt. I thought we’d gotten over the stage where he thinks I’m a leper.
“Hug me, coward.”
With a grumble, Jack grabs my hips and pulls me closer. We pose, slide a
few feet down the carpet, and pose again. Cameras flash endlessly, and the
yelling all mixes into an annoying hum. Everything’s unnaturally bright and
loud. I smile and smile until my cheeks strain, trying not to fidget. Jack
strokes his thumb absentmindedly over my hip. I feel myself flushing all
over.
“Give us a kiss for the camera, guys!” Someone shouts.
Jack touches a finger under my chin, nudging my face up and studying me
for a moment. I stare back, shifty and pink-cheeked. “Can I kiss you?”
“You don’t have to ask,” I whisper. “It’s not weird anymore.”
He blinks. “Likewise,” he says, then touches our lips lightly together. When
he pulls back, I feel weirdly teased, like I want to press back into him to try
and soothe myself. My body aches. I want a cold drink and a freezing
shower and a lie-down in a cool room.
Eventually, the glamorous Hell of press is over, and I take Jack’s hand to
walk into the cinema. As we file through the door, something truly amazing
happens. We get given a bag of branded Swag. As soon as we get to our
plush velvet seats, I empty it into my lap.
There’s a USB keyring with the words BE YOUR OWN SUPERHERO
inspirationally printed on it, and Jack’s face on the back. I immediately
slide it onto my keys, then dive for a mug with Jack’s face on. A t-shirt,
with his face on. A water bottle, with his abs on. I keep unearthing more
and more free gifts, collecting them on my lap like a pile of offerings to a
greedy God. I can’t stop cackling.
3D Jack scowls at me. “Cassie. Put that away.”
I pull out a PEZ dispenser with his head on it, and collapse. “Babe. Oh my
God. Look at your little face!”
He grabs one of the massive cartons of popcorn being handed out by a
passing usher and shoves it into my hands. “Here. Eat this.”
I am a child, so this tactic actually shuts me up. But I make sure to hoard up
all my branded goodies so he can’t steal any of them.
Sadly, the premiere only goes downhill from there. Jack has to give an
incredibly boring speech. I watch with glazed eyes as he blatantly lies to us
all about how much he likes the movie. Other actors speak, then the
director, then the producer. Then, finally, he’s allowed back to his seat and
the film starts.
I soon have a few questions: How long is this film? Has anyone ever died
watching this film? Is the premiere is just a test run, to find out if healthy
human beings can survive three hours without expiring from boredom and
exploded bladders?
I watch dully as Jack makes out with a female superhero dressed like a
dominatrix stripper. They’re currently in the Arctic.
“Why do you get people-clothes and she doesn’t?” I whisper. “Wasn’t she
cold?”
He glances down at me. “I had to give her my coat between takes. Her teeth
were chattering so much she almost bit my tongue off.”
“I wish she’d finished the job,” I confide.
He gives me a flat look, then reaches across and drags my immaculately
styled curls over my face.
The movie continues for several years. I eat some PEZ from Jack’s trachea.
He steals a fistful of my popcorn, then subtly checks his phone. Around us,
half the theatre is holding their breath, and the other is assumedly asleep or
dead. My eyes start to flutter, and everything goes a bit fuzzy.
I jolt awake to a gunshot and loud gasps from the audience. For a few
blindingly scary seconds, I don’t remember why I’m in a dark room filled
with sweeping violins and screaming.
“It’s me,” Jack mutters from above me. I’ve tipped onto his shoulder.
“Wake up, I think you’ll like this bit.”
I glance up to see the German villain cackling. “It’s over for you, sonny!”
He announces, stroking his shiny moustache. “I have you right where I want
you!”
“You’ll NEVER get away with this!” Jack declares courageously.
“Oh yeah? How are you going to stop me—WHEN YOU’RE DEAD!”
There’s another gunshot, and Jack collapses in a pool of red food colouring.
I stare. “Did you just actually die?”
His breath is warm against my ear. “I told you. My contract ended.”
“Ha!”
Around us, there are people crying. Someone wails. I’m personally trying
not to laugh. He was right, this was a great ending. Jack seems quite happy
about it, too, leaning satisfied back in his seat.
I poke him in the ribs. “How does it feel to be free?”
“Good.” He checks his watch. “There’s fifteen minutes left, if you want to
go back to sleep.”
It’s hard to tell, because it’s dark, and he never learned to emote, but I think
he’s being serious. I tentatively lay my head back in the curve of his
shoulder, expecting him to push me off. He just shrugs a bit, settling me
more comfortably against him.
When the film finally finishes, and we all get freed into the late night air,
the entrance to the cinema is still buzzing with reporters and photographers
wanting a second scoop. They clump around us, blocking our path to the
car. I smile, wave, give a paparazzo some PEZ.
A finger curls in my hair and I glance up. Jack’s jaw is set tight as he looks
over the crowd. It’s an expression I used to think was superiority, but I now
recognise as ‘there are too many fucking people here and I’m getting
overwhelmed’. I feel something fold in my chest. The chink of vulnerability
is making me protective. I want want to stand in front of him and growl like
a guard dog.
A lightbulb clicks on over my head.
I twist and wrap my wrists around his neck. It takes some stretching—I
almost dislocate my shoulder—but I manage it.
He raises an eyebrow, looping an arm around my waist and sliding me into
a better position. “Yes?”
When his eyes are lit up by camera flashes, they go fluorescent. It’s very
distracting. “Hi.”
“Hello.” His forearm squeezes me to him, holding some of my weight. “It’s
nice to see your face. I was getting bored of the top of your head.” He
pauses. “You need to wash your hair.”
“I have a plan,” I hiss, “to avoid all these people, and convince the world
that we find each other attractive.”
“Wow,” his voice is dry. “It must be a very complex plan.”
I steel myself. “Kiss me. Properly.”
 22

HIS EYES BLACKEN. I swear I see it. “Excuse me?” He says, politely.
“Kiss? Me?”
“Are you propositioning me? Right now?”
“If we make out hard enough, people will assume we’re stumbling to our
bedroom for a passionate congratulatory shag. Then we can go home, and
no one will write about how you rudely ignored them in their movie
reviews. They’ll just write about our wicked chemistry.”
He glances out over the crowd. It will take at least an hour for him to speak
to everybody, and more people are gathering as we watch. We both just
want to be in bed.
His eyes drop to my mouth. He lifts a hand to my cheek. His thumb trails
down the side of my neck, and I shudder, suddenly very aware of how my
dress is rubbing over my body. “Are you sure?” He asks quietly, looking
very closely at me. Possibly checking if my pupils are dilated.
I squirm. I’m not. But I want to get that tight, tired look off his face, and I
can’t think of another way. I don’t know why it’s bothering me so much;
this is his job, and he can certainly handle it. But Jack’s discomfort leaves a
very bad taste in my mouth.
“I’m an actress, right? I won’t fall for you because we have one kiss.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You’re all pink.”
“I’m acting.”
“You’re very good.”
“Thanks. I won awards.”
He considers this for a moment. Lenses gleam around us. Photographers
wait with bated breath.
Nothing. I take a step back. “You’re right. It was a dumb idea. I just thou
—”
He cups my jaw in both hands and presses his lips to mine. They’re hot and
soft, and camera flashes light up the insides of my eyelids like stars.
It’s a soft, full, delicious kiss, sexy and sliding and deep. I sink into it like a
plush sofa at the end of a long day. He scoops me closer, lifting me into
him, right off the ground. His arms wrap fully around me and lock behind
my back, holding me tight. Our chests wedge together. I fist a hand in his
shirt and feel his heart going hard and fast through his clothes. He kisses me
again, and again, lips sliding across mine, and my skeleton hums. My blood
rushes. I flutter all over. He’s breathing hard into my mouth, like he’s
struggling to fill his lungs. His fingers grasp at my waist.
We gasp apart to a smatter of applause. He presses his hot cheek against
mine for a second, a disarmingly sweet gesture that sends me spinning.
Then he sets me down very, very gently, and takes me by the hand. I make a
big show of blushing and giggling as he silently leads me through the
crowd. It doesn’t take a lot of effort. Or, like, any effort at all.
The car is ready and waiting for us, and as we climb inside, I loudly
announce, “NOW LET’S GO TO BED,” like an absolute idiot.
Jack closes his eyes and turns away as the door slides closed, cutting a
wolf-whistle short. “You’re so bad at this,” he mutters.
“I know. I’m so sorry. You can return me if you like. Hey, are you smiling?”
I tug at his sleeve, trying to see his face.
“No.” He says, turning back. His eyes are star-bright in the low light. He
looks as flushed and restless as I feel. “I didn’t keep your receipt.”
“Damn.” I clear my throat, then fan my face. “Guess you’re stuck with me.”
Am I flirting? Is this flirting? Have I lost the plot completely?
The door opens again. Con climbs into the car and calmly belts himself in.
“I suppose we’re dropping you off then, Cassie?”
“Um. If it’s not too much trouble.” I wait for him to say something about
our little scene, but he just smiles, blandly.
We sit in awkward silence. I cast around for something to say. “I-is that a
new air freshener? Yum, I love vanilla.”
Jack pushes the driver intercom button. “Just go.”

It’s dark by the time we pull up outside my house. Everything is still and
quiet. The trees are full of sleeping birds. All the photographers are gone,
out trailing celebs with enough social skills to attend after-parties.
I unbuckle myself. “Thanks for the ride, guys. See you later.” They both
murmur goodbyes, and I trip out of the car, skin pricking with goosebumps
in the cool night air. I hear the engine idling behind me as I cross the
pavement and unlatch our rickety gate. As I push it open, a man unfurls
himself from the shadows of my tiny garden. I almost scream, staggering
back a step.
Rob rolls his eyes, straightening. “Relax. It’s me. I’m clearing up the yard,
those dumb photographers keep dropping their cigarette butts. Litterbugs.
How was the premiere? You look wrecked.” His eyes flick over my
shoulder and go wide as plates. “Wait. Is that?”
I hear two car doors open behind me, and turn to see Jack and Con climbing
out onto the pavement, both openly staring at us.
“Who the Hell are you?” Jack barks, pushing through the gate to stand in
front of me. He fills up the garden almost completely. “What are you doing
at her house? Are you okay, Cass?”
“I’m fine!” I pipe up, alarmed. “He’s not a stalker, he’s my flatmate.” I
wave between them. “Uh, guys, this is Rob. Rob, this is Jack and his PR
manager, Con.”
Rob smiles easily. “I’m a big fan.” He offers his hand to Jack, who shakes it
after a pause.
“Robin?” Jack asks, glancing across at me.
“If you like,” Rob says cheerfully. Then he turns to Con and freezes. “Oh
my God. No way. It’s you.”
Con, who I have never seen less than completely eloquent, is silent and
open-mouthed. “I need to—I think your bag is in the car,” he tells me,
vaguely, turning on his heel and power-walking back to the road. I look
doubtfully down at my goodie bag and little beaded clutch.
“I can help!” Rob offers brightly. I strongly suspect ulterior motives as he
darts after Con, leaving Jack and me alone.
“You never mentioned that your flatmate was a man,” Jack mutters,
watching as Con opens the boot and starts frantically sifting through it. Rob
gamely sticks his head in as well.
Well, this conversation took a very dramatic swerve. “He was last time I
checked. He doesn’t give me regular updates, though. What’s that got to do
with anything?”
His transfers his glare to me. “You know, when you signed the contract, you
agreed that you’d remain single for the whole time we’re ‘together’?”
“I am single. Shh, it’s a secret.” Realisation dawns. “Wait, you think I’m
dating Robin? Gross.”
“You live with him, and you’re not dating?”
“He didn’t even propose before we signed the lease. He’s very modern like
that. I know you’ve probably only ever owned entire mansions, but surely
the concept of shared rent isn’t completely new to you?”
Jack glowers. “It would have been helpful to know. We could’ve made a
statement earlier. Paparazzi will soon notice you’re going home to another
man every night. ”
“Oh.” Now I think about it, that does make sense. “Sorry. I didn’t realise. I
guess his name is kind of girly.”
He sighs. “It’s fine. You didn’t know.”
We stand awkwardly for minute. Moonlight outlines us in silver. Drunk
laughter echoes down from one of the neighbour’s open windows. I clear
my throat. “So, um. Since press is over, we might not be meeting every day,
now, right? I guess I'll hear from you, for dates, and stuff?”
Not my smoothest moment. He won’t look at me. “I’ll call when your
services are needed.”
“Cool, cool.” I lean against my front door. “Love when you talk about me
like a prostitute. So… Bye?”
He opens his mouth. Closes it again. Then he turns and stalks back to the
car, yanking open the door and climbing inside. Con finishes his thorough
inspection of the boot, gives Rob a weirdly helpless look, then gets inside
too.
Rob joins me on the doorstep, and we watch as the car zooms away. “Well,
well, well.” He says, damningly. “Did I spy with my little eye some actual,
real life flirting?”
I elbow him. “Keep your tiny little eyes to yourself.”
“I can’t. He’s so much more fit than I imagined. Seriously. You snogged
that?”
“He’s a ‘he’, not a ‘that’, although it can be hard to tell.” I root around in
my clutch for my key. “Do you know Con, or something? Why was he so
weird with you?”
“I matched with him about a year ago on a dating app. We talked for a
while, but he was always too busy with ‘his client’ to actually go on a date.
I thought he was messing me about, but I guess he was telling the truth,
huh?”
“Looking after Jack is a twenty-four-hour job.” I agree, unlocking the door.
“He’s like a giant, stacked, rude baby.”
“I can’t believe I sent Jack Hale’s best mate a picture of my dick,” Rob
muses, wonder in his voice. “Pretty sure he sent one back, too. Wait a
second, I’ll check.” He hooks his phone out of his pocket.
“Stop talking to me,” I order.
He doesn’t, unfortunately, and I tune out his nattering as we head back
inside. I feel different. Like something’s changed. Something’s missing.
Something’s—
“Found it,” Rob says, staring at his phone. “Holy shit, he is hung.”
I kick him in the ankle.
 23

THE NEXT WEEK PASSES QUICKLY. Jack and I go out most days,
kissing and holding hands all over London. I hope nobody notices we’re
just going down the TripAdvisor list of top date spots. My schedule feels
weirdly free without my normal job of sitting quietly in the background for
nine hours.
On Sunday evening, I’m lying on the sofa rewatching White Stallion, when
I get a call from Jack’s agent, informing me that I have a callback for Le
Cirque the next day. Apparently, the tape Jack bullied me into submitting
was low-res enough to hide my terrible acting.
Naturally, my first instinct is to change my phone number, email address,
and legal name, and go start a new life in Alaska—but surprisingly, when I
wake up the next morning, I’m not dreading it. It’s a decent script, about
two circus performers who get tragically separated by the WW2 draft. It’s a
good role, too, a female love interest who actually impacts the story-line
and appears to have a soul. Doing scary things is good, I remind myself, as
I slip on my black audition dress. Auditioning is good. Who knows? Maybe
this part will be perfect for me. Maybe they’re looking for a terrified little
miniature.
I’m buzzing with nerves as I step into the sparkling glass high-rise. The
reception is airy and pretty. Sunlight streams through the windows and
paints rainbows on the floor. I give my name at the desk, and a silver-haired
lady waves me over to the lifts. “Room 402,” she tells me. “Just wait inside,
someone will meet you shortly.”
The audition room doesn’t look like a regular studio; it’s more like an
office, with bookshelves built into the walls, and a desk covered in papers.
I’m starting to wonder if I’ve got the room number wrong, when the door
swings open, and Troy Spencer walks in.
For a moment, I think maybe I’m having a very, very vivid sex dream. But
then he smiles at me, and my heart lurches.
“Oh, crap, I’m so sorry,” I babble. “I must have come to the wrong room,
I’ll just go—”
I try to slip past him and escape, but he grabs my arm, laughing.
“Cassandra. It’s fine. You’re in the right place.” I stare down, star-struck, at
his fingers on my skin. He cocks his head, grinning. “Please don’t leave,
I’ve been looking forward to this all day.”
“You… remember me?” I’m so close to him, I could count his freckles. I try
to contain the urge.
He strokes soft-looking brown hair out of his eyes. “’Course I remember
you. It’s not been that long since I last saw you.” He waves a hand around
the room. “I thought we’d run this round of auditions in my office. I find
it’s a bit less intimidating this way.”
I go silent to try to connect the dots. It takes an embarrassing amount of
time. “Wait. You’re in this?”
“I’m co-directing.” He heads to the desk and clicks on a little portable
kettle. “But I’ll be playing the lead, too.”
“Oh, this was the project you mentioned? That’s so cool!”
“Thanks! Directing is something I’ve always wanted to get into. Do you
want a cup of tea, or something?”
“Um. Sure.” I trail after him, and he pulls a chair out for me. I’m so
shocked at the chivalry, it takes me a second to remember to sit down.
He grins. “Come on, you look nervous. My co-director isn’t here, yet, so
let’s just have a chat first, get you more relaxed.”
That’s so nice. He’s so nice. I don’t really know how to respond to it. The
kettle steams, and he pours me a big mug of tea, sitting down opposite me.
“So.” He steeples his fingers. “Tell me about yourself.”
I open my mouth, and nothing comes out.
This is the difference between Jack and Troy. They’re both famous and hot,
but I never had an issue talking to Jack, because he was so rude I didn’t care
about his opinion of me. Now I’m in front of someone who was once my
lock-screen background, and I’m completely tongue-tied.
“Um. Like. What?”
He slides me a packet of chocolate biscuits. I delicately select one. “You
know, give me all the gossip. How’s life as the greatest home-wrecker in the
West?”
“Okay, actually.” I nibble at my biscuit, trying not to get crumbs down me.
“I thought it would be much harder, but Jack’s, um, looking after me.”
“Of course he is,” Troy says, with deep sympathy. “He knows what can
happen when people get overwhelmed by fame.” I nod, sagely, as if I have
any idea what he’s talking about. He leans in. “Hey, how’s he doing? I
know he always finds this time of year difficult.”
“He’s… as well as I’ve ever seen him,” I try.
Troy smiles wryly. “That’s not much of an answer. I’d ask him myself, but,
as you saw, we’re not exactly on the best terms anymore.”
“Did you guys used to be friends?”
He nods, leaning back and rummaging through a drawer. “When I was a
kid, I worked on Caught in the Act with his mum. I played her son on the
show for five seasons. That’s how we met.” He extracts a photo and hands
it to me. I stare at baby Jack, probably around ten, with his arm around a
young Troy. They’re both grinning widely, squinting against the sun. I can
just make out a treehouse in the background.
“This is so cute! Was it taken on set?”
“That’s Jack’s old garden. I used to go over there every day after we
finished shooting. He was home-schooled, so he always wanted to hang out.
He was just desperate to interact with another child, I think.”
I study Jack. I’ve never seen him like this. His face is sun-flushed. His
hair’s sticking up and his shoelaces are untied. My eyes follow the curve of
his smile. “What happened?”
“A stupid fight. Jack’s not exactly one to forgive and forget.” He clears his
throat, taking back the photo. “Anyway. How are you two?”
“Madly in love,” I reply, automatically.
His perfect white teeth glint like a mouthwash advert. “I’m so happy for
you both.”
Look at this. Sweetness. Politeness. I feel hot under the collar.
There’s a knock at the door. An older, white-haired man saunters into the
room, followed by an embarrassed-looking teenage girl. “Oh, finally.
Cassandra, this is Archie, he’s going to be co-directing with me; and this
little one is Anne, she’s one of my interns. She’s going to be filming the
audition today, aren’t you, love?”
The girl doesn’t meet his eye. I smile at them both, shaking their hands.
“Okay. Down to business.” Troy sets his shoulders. “I’ve reviewed your
audition tape, and Jack’s agent also sent us a recording of you onstage. We
really like what we’re seeing. For this movie, we want something raw, you
know—something fresh and real.”
I nod like a manic bobble-head. “I can be real.”
He smiles. “You’re clearly a talented actress. But in film, it doesn’t matter
how good the actors are; if they don’t have chemistry, there’s nothing there.
So today we’ll be doing a chemistry test.” He pushes a thin script at me.
“Here’s the revised scene. Have a flick through it while we get set up.”
“Um,” I say. “Isn’t that going a bit fast? I’ve only auditioned once.”
Archie speaks up. “We’re looking at you as a serious candidate, Cassie. You
don’t need to jump through all the hoops, here. You think Jack goes through
ten rounds of auditions before he does his screen tests?”
I shake my head jerkily, flipping open the script. It’s pretty much the same
as the one I was taped reading, but with a few line tweaks and an added kiss
at the end. I read through it twice, then nod. “Okay. I’ve got it.”
“Great.” Troy takes my elbow and directs me to stand on a mark on the
floor, while Anne sets up her phone on a little tripod. “Any questions?”
“Yeah—how do you want to block the kiss?” In theatre, the general kissing
etiquette is stick to the blocking, keep your mouth closed, don’t eat garlic
balls in the interval. For a close-up film shot, though, I guess it could be
different.
Troy waves dismissively. “Oh, I think it’s best for us to just feel it out, you
know? We’re looking for a personal connection. Just do what feels natural.”
“I’m not sure kissing you will feel natural at all,” I blurt out, then blush. My
crush simmers in my veins.
Troy’s eyes crinkle. “I’m sure you’ll do perfectly.” He looks over my
shoulder. “Alright, Anne. You can start recording.”
 24

I THINK I act the scene pretty well. Troy’s given me the big emotional
climax of the movie, where the two lovers say goodbye to each-other before
the hero heads off to sacrifice himself for The Greater Good, and the
heroine assumedly just goes home and makes a sandwich. I slip into the
character easily enough, and I’ve always been good at crying on demand.
When we get to the kiss, Troy slides a hand around my waist and pulls me a
little closer, pressing his lips to mine. It’s a nice kiss, sweet and slow and
close-mouthed. After a few seconds, he pulls away and grins at me, hazel
eyes burning into mine.
“Are we done?” I ask hoarsely.
He laughs, cupping my cheek again, and I jump at his fingers on my skin. It
took me and Jack weeks to get used to touching each other like this; it feels
bizarre to jump right into it.
Calm down.
“Oh, Cassandra. We’re just getting started.” He turns to the intern, who is
studiously ignoring us. “Again, I think, Anne.” She nods, not looking up
from her phone.
So, we do the scene again. Then we kiss again. This time, one of his hands
slides up from my waist, tracing the curve of my body. I freeze in surprise,
and the kiss turns awkward and weird.
After a few seconds of making out with a rubbery shop mannequin, Troy
sighs, pulling back. “You’re holding back.”
“Sorry, sorry. I’m finding it hard to concentrate.” I touch my face. I feel
kind of spacey and disconnected. I wish I’d eaten lunch before coming out.
He nods understandingly. “These things are always awkward, but it’s
something you’re going to have to get used to if you want to work in film.
This isn’t the stage. We can’t peck each other behind a fan.” He taps the
script. “This is a passionate scene. A sexy scene. Lorelai doesn’t know if
she’ll ever see Ryan again. Give it some fire.”
I smile uncertainly. “Nothing gets a woman going like her partner’s
impending death, right?”
“Fear and desire are two sides of the same coin,” Troy informs me, eyes
gleaming. “It’s all passion.”
I try to think of a single time I’ve wanted to have sex whilst I was scared
and come up blank. “Ha. Yeah.”
Troy turns to Archie. “What do you think?”
“Her acting’s good,” Archie says, slowly. “But I’m not convinced you two
have a spark, if I’m honest.”
That’s quite impressive, since I’m literally infatuated with him.
Troy nods, turning back to me. “Let’s dial it up a notch, okay? Really show
me what you’ve got. I know you can do this.”
I take a breath, straighten my back. I can do this. Onstage, I used to
scaldingly kiss my Romeo eight times a week. At the premiere, I snogged
Jack so hard I saw stars. This is the same thing. Troy is just a normal
person. It’s all just acting.
“Okay.”
“All out,” he reminds me, and I nod.
We kiss again, harder than before. He takes my hands and gently guides
them to his chest. I clutch awkwardly at his soft jumper as he pushes me
back against the wall. The kiss gets deeper, and I have to force myself to
stay pliable as his palms smooth down over my hips, feeling me. Cold
fingers slide under the hem of my dress, touching my thigh. They cup my
arse and squeeze.
I freeze.
“Keep going,” Archie calls. “This is good stuff.”
Panic spikes my blood. There’s a hand on my arse, and I hate it. I’m not
doing this. I don’t care what the audition’s for.
I try to speak against Troy’s lips. “I’m sorry, can we stop?” He doesn’t
respond, still sucking at me like a hoover. I shove at him, but it’s like a
mouse pushing at a boulder. “Troy. Stop.” I shove again.
“Relax,” Troy mumbles, “we’re getting there.” He leans onto me, pinning
me more firmly against the wall. I’m squished under his weight. The script
falls between my fingers and flutters to the ground.
There’s a loud smashing sound, and we both jump and look at Anne, who’s
guiltily plucking slivers of porcelain out of the carpet. Coffee drips off the
table. Troy sighs and pushes off the wall, stepping away from me. “That’s
my favourite mug,” he snaps.
“Sorry,” she doesn’t look at either of us. “I’ll have someone come in and
clean it.”
“Look, it’s fine. Just leave it.”
I blink around me. I feel really odd. Really disconnected and confused. I
robotically bend to pick up the script and don’t feel it in my hands. The
room suddenly looks like a movie set, plywood and props. I touch my cheek
and wonder if I’m dreaming. “Listen,” I mumble. “Um. I need to—go.”
Troy frowns. “We still have stuff to get through. It’s pretty bad form to walk
out of an audition before it’s over.”
Anne silently passes me my bag.
“I’m really sorry, I don’t, um, feel great.” My fingers slip; the bag falls to
the floor, spilling keys and tampons and strawberry lip salve. I bend down
to gather everything up, and blood gushes to my head.
Troy’s large hand touches my back. “Hey. You’re okay.” He stands me
upright like a bowling pin and scoops a bobble off the floor, dropping it into
my bag for me. “I used to get freaked out the first few times I had intimate
scenes, too. It’s a strange feeling, right?” I nod like an automaton and he
smiles kindly. His lips are still red and inflamed. I can’t stop staring at
them. I have the feeling that if I didn’t consciously inhale and exhale, I just
wouldn’t breathe at all. “It’s completely normal to feel this way. You’ll get
used to it. It won’t feel so overwhelming after a while. You just need to
push through it.”
I hug my bag and try to swallow. I can’t. “Um. Listen. I don’t think this
script is right for me. Thanks for the opportunity, but—I don’t think I can
do this.”
Irritation creases his face for a moment, before his expression smooths over
again. He takes my elbow and leads me to the door. “Well, that’s up to you.
But this is all part of being an actress, Cassandra,” he tells me sternly. “If
you want to be in this business, you have to step out of your comfort zone
and learn to handle scenes like a professional. Right now, frankly, you’re
coming across as a bit difficult to work with.”
That shocks me halfway back to reality. A man who I’ve fancied for years
is telling me I’m being difficult. I scrabble for a will to live.
Troy gives me a meaningful look. “Don’t run away from something just
because you’re scared.”
“I don’t know if I’m cut out for screen work, honestly. I—”
He cuts me off, opening the door. “Take a few days to cool off and really
think about it. I’ve got your number. I really do like you, Cassandra. I think
you’d be a great fit, if you could just get past this mental block.”
“But—”
He smiles gently. “Bye. We’ll be in touch.”
The door shuts in my face. Through the swirling in my head, I can hear
voices, muffled through the door.
“Jesus.” Archie says. “What was wrong with her?”
Troy mutters something, and I hear both men start to laugh.
Tears blister my eyes as I stumble down the corridor to the lift. It takes a
few shaky jabs before I manage to hit the button. Everything looks 2D, like
photographs of what they’re supposed to be. The doors hiss open, and I fall
inside. I rub my eyes as old, familiar anxiety clenches inside me.
I’m so frustrated. I’ve done chemistry tests before, and they’re always
awkward. You stand in a room in front of a panel of men trying to act like
you’re attracted to a stranger you’ve never met before. It’s normal to feel
uncomfortable. It’s not normal to practically pass out and run out of the
room. I thought I’d gotten over this.
I think I’m just not cut out to be an actress. I don’t know why I’m so bloody
sensitive, but it makes me want to punch myself in the fucking face. The lift
dings as it hits the ground floor, and I watch my reflection flinch like
somebody’s just swung at me. I’m so preoccupied when I step out into the
sunshine that, at first, I don’t even notice the monstrous armoured car
parked up by the pavement, taking up literally the entire road.
 25

THE PASSENGER DOOR CRACKS OPEN, and Jack slides out onto the
street. He’s wearing a blindingly white t-shirt that clings to his chest and
gleams in the sun. He leans against the side of the car and silently watches
me.
I blink at him for a second. Then I stumble across the road and fling myself
into his arms.
“What are you doing?” He asks stiffly, awkwardly hugging me back. “I
don’t think there’re any photographers around.”
I push into his t-shirt. It’s so soft. I want to be buried in it when I die. “I just
wanted a hug,” I tell the crisp cotton. “You’re the closest warm body. Sorry
to use you like this.”
“Oh.” He’s silent for a moment, then he bends down and hugs me properly.
God, this man can hug. He’s all warm muscle pressed up against me,
gathering me up carefully and holding me tight. The audition has left me
feeling peeled naked and raw, and Jack’s hug, possibly the first genuine
thing he’s ever given me, helps. It helps so much. I’m like a little caterpillar
cuddled up safely in a cocoon. His hand strokes slowly up and down my
back, and I focus on that feeling. Fingers on my skin. The smell of clean
sheets. The weird disconnected feeling fades away, and my mind and body
join back up again. I feel myself calming down in his arms.
“You’re shaking.” He touches my hair. “Cass? Did something happen?”
“Just post-audition adrenaline. I was so nervous.” He squeezes me tighter,
and I turn my face into his neck. “You’ve gotten so good at hugging, what
the Hell? Who taught you? Are you cheating on me?”
“I’ve been practising on my pillow.” What a lucky, lucky pillow. He pulls
back, studying my face. “I’m guessing the audition didn’t go well, then?”
I try to smile. I’m an actress, so naturally, I pull it off excellently. “I froze.
Ran out before it even finished. Feel free to gloat.”
He shrugs. “You’ll do better next time.”
“Did you know Troy Spencer is co-directing?”
He drops his arms. “What? Are you serious? My agent didn’t tell me that.”
I smile ruefully. “I figured you probably didn’t know. He auditioned me.”
A lot of emotions shift across his face very quickly. “Do you think you’ll
get it?”
“No. Even if they call me, I’m not going back.”
“You could. I wouldn’t stop you.” His voice is so unenthusiastic, it sounds
like someone might be pulling out his fingernails. I peek up at him. He
looks like it too.
“I appreciate the autonomy. But… the script is awful. I don’t wanna do it.”
The breath leaves his body in a big rush. “Well, thank God for that.”
There’s a yell from down the street, and we both turn to see a group of
teenagers pointing their phones at us. I smile and wave, but I’m
uncomfortable. I don’t want to be stared at right now. I want to be curled up
somewhere private, alone.
Jack tugs me closer. “I came here because I have something I need to tell
you,” he says, quietly. “You look kind of out of it. Do you want to go eat?”
I nod. He glances at the teenagers again, then dips his head to give me the
obligatory kiss. I pull away before our lips touch and blurt out: “I kissed
Troy.”
He stares at me.
“In the audition, I mean,” I add quickly, “as part of the scene. The role is for
his love interest, so, I kissed him. Pretty intensely. I should probably warn
you that his spit is in my mouth.”
Jack’s silent for a long moment. The hand on my shoulder clutches in a
weird spasm. Then he reaches into his jeans pocket, pulls out a fresh pack
of gum, and empties the entire thing into my hand. Little silver-wrapped
stripes overflow my palm and skitter on the pavement. “We’ll stop by a
pharmacy to pick you up a toothbrush,” he says grimly, patting me on the
back.

Jack takes me back to Ambrosia for lunch. I’m not sure why—it’s not a
very good fake-date spot. There aren’t many windows, and the table he
picks out is in a dimly lit booth. No one else can even see us as I force
down a meal.
I’m not hungry. Everything tastes like lightly seasoned cardboard.
For the first time in his life, Jack is the one to break the silence. “Gina’s
made another statement.” He reaches over and subtly steals a profiterole.
“She’s over me. She’s seeing Manuel Wright now.”
“Who’s he?”
“An executive producer. It’s a clever move for her. She’s probably angling
to get her script picked up.”
“She writes?”
“She’s been an aspiring screenwriter since she was a child. Acting in soaps
was only ever really a gateway for her to get into the industry. Her scripts
are actually really good. Smart and funny.”
“Oh.” I sound distant. “Does it bother you? That she’s found someone
else?” I remember him mumbling her nickname in the hotel room.
He gives me a sidelong look. “Gina doesn’t matter.”
“Did you tell her that while you were together? Because then I’m not
surprised you two didn’t work out.”
He shakes his head, scooping up another bite of chocolate sauce. “She was
nothing.”
I’m exasperated. “You dated her for two years. You must’ve liked
something about her.”
He thinks for an offensively long time. “Gina’s a rock. She was never fazed
by the fame. I liked that I didn’t have to worry about her.”
“She’s a Cool Girl.” I’m openly wistful. I’m as far from Cool as it’s
physically possible to get. I freak out over everything. Absolutely
everything.
Jack nods, and I dig my nails into my palms. “It wasn’t a very romantic
relationship, though.”
“I can imagine. You can’t both be rocks. Did you ever even speak to each
other?”
“Not a whole lot. Argued, sometimes, at the end. We had very different
ideas about privacy.”
“What, she didn’t want to burn her bills and eat her receipts like you?
Shocking.” I sip my water. “Why did you even get together?”
He shrugs a shoulder. “I met her at a party, and we had good chemistry. She
was pretty. Neither of us particularly enjoys sleeping around, and it solved
the problem of finding a date for every event. It was a logical solution.”
“What weirdly non-human reasoning for a relationship,” I mutter, rolling
around a profiterole with my fork. I feel his eyes on me.
“You’re not hungry?”
I tug at the hem of my dress. It’s the one I always wear for auditions, a basic
black body-con. “This dress is a thirty-quid gastric band.”
“I noticed. Is it normal in theatre to audition in such tight clothes?” His
voice is cool. “I feel like it’s giving you an unfair advantage.”
I suddenly can’t breathe right. I have to focus all my attention inwards,
trying to soothe everything in me that’s beginning to race, but it just gets
worse. Adrenaline sloshes through me as my body primes itself to fight off
a tiger in a Camden restaurant. I could cry with frustration. I thought my
anxiety was so much better, but having such a terrible audition has clearly
knocked my confidence.
I refuse to have a panic attack in this lovely, soft-lit restaurant. I get up and
cross to the other side of the booth, sliding in right next to Jack.
He blinks. “Hello.”
“Hi,” I whisper.
His hand touches my back, then slides up to my shoulder, before he works
up the inner strength to just wrap his arm around me. “Jeez, Cass. Your
heart’s going so fast. You’re like a little bird.”
“It’s because you’re close to me, babe” I drawl, sinking into him.
A heavy hand falls on my thigh, stopping the frantic jiggling. “And you
can’t stay still,” he notes.
“I can’t help it.”
“No?”
I glance up at him and shake my head. We’re quiet for a few minutes. My
heart starts to settle as endorphins soften my brain instead.
“This is where we first properly met,” Jack says, suddenly.
I nod. “The very first place you called me stupid. We should buy a
commemorative plaque.” I curl up tighter under his arm, laying my head
tiredly in the curve of his shoulder. I want to nestle into him like a plum in a
tree. I love hugs.
He spoons up some more melted chocolate. “Okay. You’re not talking
enough. It’s disconcerting.”
“Can’t you insult yourself for a few hours? I’ll get to you later. I’m just
tired.”
“I’ve never seen you like this.”
“Like what?” I look up at him from under my lashes. I’m not being coy,
he’s just, like, sixteen inches taller than me.
His eyes are darkening like the London sky outside. “Shy. You’re being so
shy. How unusual.”
“I am shy.”
“You’re one of the least shy people I’ve ever met.”
“I’m a teeny little wallflower,” I insist.
“You get nervous. It’s not the same thing. You’re usually impossible to shut
up.”
“Well, thanks, I guess. Glad to know you want me to shut up. You’re such a
good friend.”
He feeds me a mouthful of chocolate. “I don’t want to be your friend,” he
says, his voice low.
“Oh.” Bit rude, but okay.
A man walks past us to his table. His briefcase brushes against my arm, and
I jump like I’ve heard a gunshot. Jack pulls me closer and glares at him.
“Tell me.” He orders. “What are you thinking?”
“Just imagine the sound of TV static,” I mumble. He waits, and I sigh. “You
know that feeling where you’re sure something is going to happen, and
you’re just waiting? Like when you’re at the top of a rollercoaster and
you’re just waiting for it to fall?” He hums noncommittally. He’s probably
never been on a rollercoaster. I can’t imagine him ever going to an
amusement park, on account of his hatred of amusement. I close my eyes
for a second. “I feel like that right now.”
He doesn’t respond. A couple of waitresses pass by, unabashedly looking at
us. Dutifully, I reach up and press a tiny kiss to Jack’s jaw.
“You’re so sweet today,” he mutters into my hair. “Not irritating at all. I
really think there’s something wrong with you.” He adjusts me, moving me
closer.
The waitresses move out of sight, so I poke him as irritatingly as possible.
“Nothing’s wrong.” I take another deep breathful of his cologne.
“Everything’s right.”
He makes a low, punched-out sort of sound. “Cassie.”
“Mm?” I tilt my face up to look at him. His pupils are blown-out and shiny,
reflecting the gold lights.
He leans in and touches my mouth with his, a camera-kiss so gentle I can
barely feel it. His lips taste like chocolate.
Adrenaline gushes up in my body, and I automatically flinch away.
He pulls back. “Hey. Look at me.” He nudges my face up. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I say, immediately.
His mouth twists wryly. “You look like you’re about to throw up. It’s
hurting my feelings.”
I try to untangle my brain. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do here.
Should I be professional and do my job, or tell him I want some space? It’s
not that I’m uncomfortable kissing Jack, but right now, I need my mouth for
more basic processes, like breathing, or possibly throwing up.
I unwind his arm from my shoulders. “Can I please get a rain check? I’m
sorry, I just—can’t do this, today.”
His hazy eyes sharpen. “Do you want to go home? Are you not feeling
well?” Incredibly, he starts to fuss over me, touching my forehead, then my
cheek. “Is that why you’ve been so quiet? You’re all sweaty.”
I bat him off. “It’s my highlight, stop wiping it off. I’m not ill. I just—can’t
stand all the kissing and touching, today. It’s making my skin crawl.” I
don’t feel bad saying it. He guards his personal space like an antisocial
dragon. He’s flinched away from me more times than I can count.
He pulls back his hands and slides away in the booth. “Of course.”
“Thanks.” I cross my arms over my chest. “Sorry. I was trying to be
professional.” I examine my cloth napkin. “Sorry. I just don’t feel like
myself right now. Sorry.”
“Stop saying sorry.”
“My apologies.” I look around the almost-empty room. “Where were the
photographers, anyway?”
He stands up suddenly. “I’ll call the car.”
“What? Why?” I get up. “Wait, weren’t you gonna tell me something?”
He hesitates. “Next week, I’ll be—” His face is tight with indecision. I can
practically hear him thinking. Then he swallows and shakes his head. “Well.
It doesn’t matter. You should go home.”
I balk at his jerky movements. “Are you angry at me?”
“No,” he says, distantly. “I remembered: I have something to do.”

When I get home, Robin is on the sofa with my fluffiest blanket on his legs.
He slaps his laptop shut the moment I open the door.
I drop my bag and kick off my heels like a quarterback aiming for goal.
“What are you looking at?”
“Porn,” he says, quickly.
I pull a face. “In the lounge? You literally have a bedroom, Jesus.”
His eyes narrow on me. “Hey, what’s happened? You look awful.”
“Nothing happened. Just a bad audition.”
“You’re auditioning again? That’s great!”
“I completely froze. It was a stupid idea.” I shake off my coat like a
moulting bird, then collapse on the sofa next to him. Every bone in my
body feels sapped and hollow. He looks at me strangely. “What?”
“Er, have you read the news recently?”
“Not today, no.”
He bites his lip, reaching slowly for his laptop. “I need to show you
something.”
I groan. “Do you need to? Is it that one with the two guys and the tuning
fork?”
“Not this time.” He opens his screen and swivels it to face me.
I take one look at the article he’s reading, and it feels like something in me
dies.
 26

RIGHT IN THE middle of the screen, there’s a photo of me standing next

to my old director Simon, uncomfortably close. His arm is wrapped around
my waist, and I’m smiling widely up at him. I feel sick as I look at the
blaring pink title.

EXCLUSIVE GOSS: CASSANDRA RAY TRIED TO RUIN MY

CAREER!
The Ex-Actress Gets SLAMMED by Former Theatre Co-Stars.

From the beginning of her high-profile relationship with Jack Hale,

fans have questioned Cassandra Ray’s motives, with some claiming
that she is USING Hale’s success as a BOOST for her own career.
More concerns were raised when she was spotted getting VERY
COSY with Queens and Lovers star Troy Spencer during the Bound
press tour, raising the question: is she just trying to climb the career
ladder?
The answer is probably yes.
In this GOSS EXCLUSIVE, we spoke to Cassandra Ray’s ex-
director, who revealed some SHOCKING SECRETS from the
actress’s DARK PAST.

Tight metal bands clamp around my chest. I lean forward to read about my
DARK PAST.
Simon Harvey, 61, is one of the most influential figures in British
theatre. A talented director and impresario, he currently owns 15
theatres around the country. Harvey worked with Cassandra Ray for
two years, casting her as Juliet in his VERY popular adaptation of
Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. Today, the director is claiming that
the young ingenue tried to SEDUCE him in an attempt to climb the
professional ladder.
“She was very flirty,” Simon tells Goss. “I suppose it makes sense. I
kick-started her career. In the two years we worked together, I cast
her in her first professional show, and helped her win multiple
awards for her performance as Juliet.” [He chuckles] “I’m a
married man, and she’s young enough to be my daughter. I told her I
wasn’t interested, but that didn’t stop her. What can I say? She’s a
very flirty girl.”
To Goss’ SHOCK, Harvey tells us that when he refused the budding
starlet’s advances, she began making false claims of
HARASSMENT and BULLYING in an attempt to ruin his
reputation.
“She started telling everybody that I had been making inappropriate
comments, coming onto her. She was clearly angling to get me in
trouble. You can’t say those things about men, these days. It’s
heartbreaking to hear such an awful rumour about yourself. I have
been nothing but professional and kind to Cassie, and I was very,
very hurt.”
One ex-castmate, who has chosen to remain unnamed, told Goss:
“Si’s is a lovely guy—one of the nicest men in the business. She
knows she could’ve ruined him with accusations like that, and she
didn’t even care. It doesn’t surprise me that she’s moved on to find
new ways of getting attention.”
So what does this revelation mean for current beau Jack Hale? Fans
of the hunky superhero have chimed in with their thoughts on social
media, warning him to get out before it’s too late:
 Oh my god the @cass.e.ray thing is shocking, she’s awful. Jack
should put on a body cam when he’s with her, who knows what story
she’ll come up with.

First she’s talking to Troy on the red carpet, now this? She’s clearly
f***ing her way to the top.

Wake up, Jack! She’s just using you! Everyone sees it!!!

Women like cassie ray are a danger to men. Completely disgusting.

There’s more, but I can’t read it. I hear Rob talking to me from far away.
“It’s okay, Cass.” The laptop is eased out of my hands, and he presses my
fingers. “Breathing. In and out. Come on.”
I stare at him, wide-eyed and frozen. I don’t know how to react to this. My
muscles are tense and twitching, like they’re preparing to bolt—but I can’t
run away from rumours. They’re inside peoples’ heads. I feel like an
unearthed corpse. I thought this part of my life was over. I’d buried it so
thoroughly.
“How many people have seen it?” I whisper.
“It’s already got half a million hits. I’m sorry.”
I grit my teeth. “It’s fine,” I say very clearly. I won’t cry. I won’t. If I do,
it’ll just play into that picture they’ve painted of me, of a weak little
attention-seeking crybaby. Crocodile tears and a wobbly bottom lip. I won’t
be that.
“Whatever you’re thinking, it’s probably shit,” Rob says, helpfully.
My face crumples.
I’m so screwed.

♥
Jack doesn’t call. Days pass, and he doesn’t call. When I finally build up
the courage to ring him, I just get his answering machine. I don’t try again.
I hadn’t realised how much of myself I’ve invested in Jack. Somehow, he’s
managed to take so much more than I meant to give him. The last time I
saw him replays over and over in my head. Whenever I think of way his
face glossed over after I refused to kiss him, I feel sick. He was angry with
me. He’s not used to people saying no to him, and now I guess he’s
punishing me by ignoring me while thousands of people bay for my blood. I
don’t know why I thought he’d be different.
The worst part is, I need someone right now, and there’s not really anybody
I can talk to. Robin’s great, but between his job and the charity, he’s
working eighteen-hour days. I’m struggling. I can’t sleep at night, terrified
of what new story I’ll wake up to in the morning. Every time I close my
eyes to sleep, my mind gets louder and my heart gets faster until I open
them again, gasping for air, and power up my laptop to flick between news
sites. To make sure no one else has said anything.
A week after the article was released, I venture out of the safety of the
house to creep to the corner shop. Our current grocery state is getting
drastic—we’re living on a wartime rationing system, except with more
Coco Pops. I’d hoped that going at night would mean less people would see
me, but if anything, the black sky just makes the camera flashes more
shocking. I’m half-blinded as I stumble down the street back home,
juggling three bags of shopping and a massive package of discounted loo
roll. Five or six paparazzi circle around me, whooping and hollering and
mocking me, shoving cameras in my face and laughing uproariously when I
flinch.
“What’s Jack up to these days, huh? You two have a fight?”
“What did he think of the article Goss released?”
“Can you confirm you made false allegations against your old boss?”
I drop the loo roll. “No. I didn’t.”
One of the men stoops to pick it up. “I believe you, honey,” he says in a low
voice.
“Thanks,” I mumble, trying to take the pack from him.
He won’t let go, holding my toilet paper hostage. “So, tell us, what’d he do
to you?”
I snatch it off him and head up the path. He calls out after me: “Come on,
sweetheart, give us something, here, no one’s going to believe you if you
don’t say what happened. Hey! Why are you ignoring me?”
I grip my keys in my fingers and keep my head down, praying. They’re not
actually going to hurt me, I remind myself. Con warned me about this.
Paparazzi provoke celebrities on purpose, laughing at them, insulting them,
crowding in on them, because a photo of someone crying or yelling is more
valuable. Magazines can slap the word “breakdown” or “drugs” on that, and
they’ve got their rent for the month. When I’m with Sam or Jack, they don’t
dare go too far. But all alone, they know I’m easy prey. I feel like a fox
getting hunted by slavering hounds. I need to get inside, I need to go to
ground.
I jog up the stone steps to my door, but as I stick my keys in the lock, it
lurches open. Robin stands shirtless in a pair of joggers, hair ruffled,
squinting out at the crowd. The paps go wild.
“Who’s the man, Cassie?”
“Does Jack know you’ve got a guy over?”
“What’s your name, man?”
“WHORE!”
I dodge under Rob’s arm into the house. Rob examines the sea of faces.
“YEAH?” He yells back. When there’s no reply, he turns and shuts the
door. “Weird. Thought somebody called me.” He squints at me. “Oh, shit.
Cass. Are you okay?”
I nod, blankly, shoving the shopping in his arms. I lock myself in my room,
climbing into bed and pulling the quilt around myself, an animal crawling
safely back to its den.
Back when we fought in the hotel room, what feels like months ago, I told
Jack I could handle this. I’d stood and shouted about how capable I am.
What a pile of crap.
I’m a coward. I know I am. I always have been. If my life were a movie, I’d
be left on the cutting room floor. In films, everyone wants Strong Women,
big bold girl-power heroines who never cry or smudge their perfectly
applied scarlet lipstick. They calmly beat people up, then roll their eyes and
strut off in slow motion to a Beyoncé song while a building explodes
behind them. I’m not like that. After I got fired from Romeo and Juliet, I
spent six months mouldering into a skeleton because I was too scared to go
food shopping, for God’s sake. And I thought I was better now, that I’ve
gotten braver—but I haven’t. One teenager on the street calls me a whore
and I can’t think straight for a week. Five guys follow me home at night,
and I barricade myself in my room and never re-emerge to see daylight. I’m
pathetic. Anything can hurt me.
In the darkness, I curl up in bed and turn on my laptop. I have hundreds of
messages and mentions calling me a slag, a whore, a bitch, a slut. They call
me every name under the sun, they tell me they wish I was dead, and I don’t
understand how I can be expected to keep doing this. There’s a bubble of
pressure growing in my chest, pushing outwards, shoving the air out of my
lungs. I feel like I’m about to split out of my skin.
And through it all, Jack hasn’t even bothered to call and tell me what I’ve
done wrong. To ask about the article. To check that I’m safe.
Things are getting harder, the days are getting longer, and I can’t leave the
house anymore.
 27

“YOU HAVE TO LEAVE THE HOUSE,” Rob says kindly, three days
later, “Or you’ll wither up and die.”
I tuck my feet under me. “Glad to hear it.”
“Seriously. You’re shrivelling up like a little raisin.”
“I anxiously await my sun-dried end.”
He flops onto the settee next to me, peering at my laptop. When he sees the
gossip page I’m perusing, he groans like he’s been stabbed. “I’m hiring
myself as your social media manager. I’ll work pro bono.” He snatches the
laptop off me.
I try to wrestle it back. “No one wants to hear about your bono, Rob!”
“You can’t keep looking at this stuff. I’m serious. It’s not healthy.” He slaps
the laptop shut and drops it behind the sofa cushion, then reaches out and
uncurls my fingers from my palm. “Don’t do that, you’ll hurt yourself.
Cass, come on. You know what happens if you lock yourself inside.”
I sniff. “I don’t know what you’re referring to.” He’s referring to my brief
stint of agoraphobia after I left the Romeo and Juliet cast. I spent six
months too anxious to leave my bedroom, drinking out-of-date cup-a-soup,
crying, and falling steadily into my overdraft. Not my finest hour. I snatch
my hand back. “Robin, I love you so, so much, but can you please leave me
alone? I’m fine.”
“Nope.”
“Why not.”
He smiles innocently. “I need help.”
He knows this is my Kryptonite. I lean my head back and close my eyes.
“No, you don’t. Liar.” He waits. I crack a single eye open to look at him
suspiciously. “Help with what?”
He shrugs, exaggerated. “I mean, if you don’t want to, that’s totally fine. I’ll
sadly struggle on all by myself—”
“Robin Arthur Brannigan.”
He leans forward, grabbing my hands. “So, there’s this guy. He just started
at the office, and everyone’s going on a night out to welcome him. He’s so
fit I can’t look directly at him. You’re the best wing-woman I’ve ever had. I
need you.”
I’m horrified. “I can’t go clubbing. I hyperventilated when I opened the
front door to sign for a package.”
“I thought we agreed I was going to handle the packages.” I don’t dignify
this with a response. He sighs. “I’m worried about you. And you haven’t
come on a night out in ages.”
It’s true. Before I signed my life away to Jack, I used to go out with Rob
and his workmates at least once a month. It turns out, emergency call
handlers really know how to party. Even if they do cry a lot when they’re
drunk.
I consider. He’s blatantly manipulating me, but maybe this is what I need.
Everything in me hurts. My heart is skipping beats, I’m full up with shame,
and I’ve not been able to get in a full breath for days. I just want it to go
away for a bit.
Scenting blood, Rob presses a glass of rosé into my hand. “Live a little,” he
says, encouragingly.
“I would rather die,” I declare. Then take a delicate sip.
I mean, it’s not like I can make the situation any worse.

Two hours later, I’m dancing in a crowd of swaying, singing people, and I
feel fucking amazing. It’s such a bloody relief to not have to hyper-analyse
every single move I make. Someone pushes a shot of something lime green
and probably radioactive into my hand, and I toss it back, set the little
plastic cup on the side, and get back to dancing.
I love to dance. Like a good little stage kid, I danced ballet, tap, modern and
jazz for fifteen years before I realised musical theatre wasn’t in the cards. I
can’t carry a tune to save my life, but I can dance, kind of.
“Oh my God, why are you like this,” Rob says, as I sashay around to
Beyoncé. But he says it while smiling a lot, which means this is exactly
what he wanted. I pirouette, plié, and then gravely grapevine towards the DJ
booth.
“You’re ridiculous,” he mutters, and grabs me around the waist, pulling me
into some kind of improvised waltz. We spin through the crowd, the club
lights blurring to streaks of colour.
“Let’s do a lift!” I announce, and because Rob is the best person on Earth,
he doesn’t even hesitate before throwing me up over his head like Simba,
and immediately dropping me. I hoot in delight. For the next hour, we work
through every move we know. He shows me the steps to a cowboy line
dance he picked up from God knows where, and I subtly improve it with
some cha-cha footwork when he’s not looking. We solemnly foxtrot around
the room, then he almost gives me a black eye when he attempts to pop-
and-lock.
“Do you reckon I can do the worm if I try really hard?” I yell at him.
“Definitely not!” Some random clubber doing a sensible fist-pump behind
us yells back.
Rob bends down and hugs me tight. “I love you.”
“You’re such a good friend,” I babble, wide-eyed and sincere. He laughs
and twirls me again, then drops me into a dip which is mostly successful,
even though my boobs almost fall out my dress. After I’ve fixed that little
issue, I remember the task at hand.
“So. Where’s your boy, then? Or are you going to admit this was all a
cunning ruse?”
Rob spins me in his arms so I’m facing the corner. “Ripped tank top,” he
mutters in my ear. “What do you think? That man has forearms.”
“Most men do, Robin. Is that your only criteria?” I squint, making out
tattoos and a ninety-degree jawline. “He’s well fit. Go for it.”
“He’s too hot to be straight, right?”
“Ouch.”
“No offence.”
I shove him towards the guy. “You don’t need me cockblocking. Go bat
your eyelashes at him. I’m good here.”
He blinks furiously at me and disappears into the crowd. His coworker
Julian grabs my hand. “Show me how to do that thing with your legs,” he
yells. I happily oblige, performing what’s probably a hip-hop variation of
the Twist.
I gulp down a fourth sticky-sweet glass of wine, and then a fifth. It sizzles
in my veins. Dry ice billows into the room, blending with the bright colour-
changing lights, acid green melting into hot pink into blue. I let myself lose
time, dissolving into the crowd.
After an hour, Rob interrupts me Cha-Cha sliding with one of the interns.
His face is very pink, and he’s got his arm slung around the new guy’s hips.
“We’re going home, it’s late,” he yells in my ear. “Wanna get a taxi?”
As much as I am thrilled by the idea of sharing a car with Rob while he
slowly grinds a strange man to orgasm through his jeans, I decline. “I’m
gonna stay.”
He bites his lip. “Are you sure? I don’t wanna leave you here alone.”
“I’m not alone, I know tons of people here. Seriously, I’m fine. I’ll order a
taxi back.” He hesitates. “I’m twenty-five, I can handle myself!”
“Okay, okay, don’t go off on me, Rocket.” He messes up my hair. “Call if
you need anything.”
I twinkle my fingers at him. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
“Pretty sure we’re only going to do things you wouldn’t do,” Rob mumbles.
Forearms leans down and bites his ear. Someone passes me a jägerbomb,
and everything blurs.
For a long time, I don’t have to think.
About an hour later, I’m busily occupied doing an improvised tap dance on
top of a table when the mood in the club suddenly shifts. It’s like electricity
runs through the room. The music is still going, the lights are still flashing,
but everybody stops dancing and turns towards the door. I crane my neck to
see what’s going on, and my heart flies open.
Jack’s standing there, bathed in blue and white lights. And he’s staring right
at me like I’m the only other person in the room.
Although, admittedly, I am on a table, so I’m probably pretty easy to spot.
“Jack!” I light up embarrassingly. There’s no way he knows anyone here, he
never rubs shoulders with the Great Unwashed. That means he’s come for
me. Maybe I got it all wrong. Maybe he’s just been busy. Maybe he doesn’t
hate me.
I step towards him. Quicker than the speed of light, he zips over,
materialising through the dry ice like an angel. He grabs my waist as I begin
to fall off the table, setting me gently onto the floor.
“Jesus, Cassie,” he booms. “You’re going to break your fucking neck.” It
sounds vaguely like a threat, like he’ll take matters into his own hands if
I’m not dead as predicted by the end of the night.
I can’t help myself. I throw my arms around him. “Ohmygodhi! I missed
you so much! I thought you were ignoring me forever!”
He pushes me away, grasping my chin and reading my face. “How much
have you had to drink?” He shouts over the bass.
“Like, a bottle of wine. And some shots. I don’t remember. I’m good.” I
readjust the straps of my dress. His eyes flick, for the briefest moment, to
my cleavage, and I feel intensely alive.
He sucks in a breath between his teeth. “We’re leaving. Now.”
I don’t really want to go, but duty calls, I guess. “Kay.” I slip my hand in
his. He shakes me off.
“Don’t touch me. People are taking pictures.”
“Duh. That’s, like, my whole purpose in life.”
He puts a hand gingerly between my shoulder blades and propels me
through the club, back out into the freezing night air. I’m frogmarched
down the black London street like a prisoner getting led to the gallows.
He’s parked illegally on the curb. I’m not surprised. He could pay a
thousand parking tickets and probably not even notice the money leaving
his bank account. Rich people aren’t subject to normal laws. They do what
they want.
He props me up against his car door and fumbles for his keys. The sky
grumbles above us, and I look up. Dark clouds are tensing over our heads,
throbbing with pressure.
“It’s going to rain,” I natter. “Your favourite. You love the rain. Can we get
cheesy chips, I’m starving. You can come back to mine if you want, the
chippy across the road is well nice. But I guess we’re going on a date? I
wish you’d told me, I wouldn’t have drank. I’m not very professional right
now. But I promise I will try my best!” He stays silent. I examine his profile
silhouetted against the sky. His face is drawn, his eyes hollow. “You look so
sad,” I realise. “Oh no. What happened? Are you okay?”
He pinches the bridge of his nose. A doctor once told me that when I’m
anxious, I should mentally list as many happy things as I can think of. Jack
appears to be doing that now, but with swearwords.
“Cassie,” he says, very slowly. “Shut. Up.”
Lightning flickers across London, and my wine-marinated brain finally
catches up. He’s not happy to see me at all. Not one little bit. For the past
week, I’ve been waiting for him to call. I’ve missed him. But here he is
again, treating me like the worst item on his to-do list.
I’m sick of it. I don’t know why I have to go through life trying to be nice,
keeping everybody happy, when he can stomp around ignoring all the
people he upsets.
“Oh, screw you,” I mumble. “Did you come all this way just to make me
feel like shit? I have email.”
He bleeps his keys and opens the door. “If you’re sick in my car—”
“You’ll throw it away? Buy a new one?” I glare at him hazily.
“Get. In.”
I slide into cool leather and darkness, jumping out of my skin when he
slams the door shut behind me. He climbs into the driver’s seat and
clenches the steering wheel, not starting the engine. Neither of us speaks.
Rain starts to spatter the windshield.
Eventually, he sighs, wiping a hand over his face. “What the Hell are you
doing, Cassie?”
 28

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN?” Jack pulls out into the road. I cross my arms.
“Why are you being so mean to me, again? I thought we were over this.”
“I hoped so, too.”
“So what is your problem? I was just dancing.” He smoothly turns the
wheel, joining a line of late-night traffic. I shiver a bit in the harsh air-con,
and he leans over me to switch it off. “Is this all because I didn’t kiss you at
the restaurant? Are you punishing me?”
His hands freeze on the dial. “What?”
“I didn’t kiss you, you got all huffy and sent me home, you pretended I
didn’t exist for ten days, then you turned up tonight looking like you hate
me.” I rub my sternum. It feels cracked.
He glares at me, jabbing the button to turn on my seat warmer. “Don’t say
shit like that. I’ve been busy this week, I haven’t had time to make public
appearances. It was nothing to do with you.”
Frustration rises up in me. “And you couldn’t tell me? Was I not important
enough to notify? Do you cut contact with your other employees for ten
days without telling them why?”
He hooks his phone out of his pocket, unlocking it without taking his eyes
off the road, and tosses it onto my lap. I pick it up, blinking a bit as the
article comes into focus.
JACK HALE’S GIRLFRIEND SPOTTED GETTING COSY WITH
STRANGE MAN IN LONDON CLUB
I scowl. “I wasn’t getting cosy with anyone. What, am I not allowed to
stand next to men, now? Should I stay at home all dolled up and wait for
you to snap your fingers at me? You can’t ignore me, then pop up out of
nowhere and yell at me for having fun. That’s shitty, Jack.”
“As far as I can tell, you did a bit more than stand next to him.”
I scroll down to a photo of me dancing with Robin. He’s dipping me, hands
around my waist, and I’m laughing into his neck. It’s such a cute picture, lit
up in flashing lights, and I feel like I’ve swallowed a stone.
“Oh,” I whisper, staring at the screen until the pixels flicker and pulse. “Oh,
no.” I bite my lip. “But we were just dancing. That’s how we are with each
other.”
“Part of your job is to maintain your image. You need to be aware of what
you look like when you’re out in public. This is in breach of your contract.”
He’s right. I’ve messed up. I swipe to the next photo. Rob’s tugging up the
front of my dress so my boobs don’t pop out. From this angle, it definitely
looks like he’s fondling me. I lean against the headrest as my vision spins
viciously. The sickly blue light from the phone screen fills the car. “We’re
not together. Robin would never—”
“I’m not saying you are.” We stop at a red light, and Jack wipes a hand over
his face. He sounds exhausted. “I’m not mad at you, Cass. Just annoyed you
didn’t think twice before getting drunk and wrapping yourself around
another man. I’m tired, I have things to do, and now this story is all over the
news and I have to come pick you up. I don’t have time for damage control.
I’m sorry I’ve ignored you, you’re right, it was rude, but if this is your way
of getting back at me—”
“No! I promise it was an accident!” Outside, the rain gets heavier, licking
thick stripes down the windows. “I’ll call Robin, he’ll tell you himself! He
knows how important this job is to me, he wouldn’t let me break contract
on purpose. We just weren’t thinking.”
A second of silence.
The lights flash green. A car in the next lane suddenly swerves towards us,
headlights flaring, and Jack swears, wrenching around the wheel and
smacking down the horn. It blares through me like a fire alarm, and my
stomach does a roller-coaster drop.
“He knows about the fucking contract?”
Ah, shit.
“Cassie,” Jack practically growls.
I close my eyes. “Yes. I’m sorry, but I had to tell somebody. For my safety.”
“Your safety? Seriously?” If he was pissed off before, now he’s steaming.
I try to pull myself together. “You do realise most girls won’t even go on a
date with a stranger without telling someone, right? You wanted to pay me
to go alone to your hotel room. It would be literally insane to not tell
anybody.” My mouth is so dry, I can barely speak. “I’m sorry. Maybe I
shouldn’t have done it. But I don’t think it’s fair you have a whole team of
people who know this is fake, and you don’t want me to have anybody. You
didn’t even give me an emergency contact. You wanted me to sign a
contract that says you can do what you want with me, and I have to keep
my mouth shut. I—I can’t do that, Jack. Do you have any idea how
terrifying that is?”
His expression twists. “Do what I want with you? What the Hell do you
think I’d do to you?!”
The bubble under my lungs is stretching to bursting. “This job is hard,
okay?!” I half-yell. “It’s scary! Grown men follow me in the street, shouting
at me! People message me saying they wish I was dead! And it’s not like
you have any interest in helping me. You don’t care if I’m miserable, or
scared, or lonely, as long as I don’t tell people about it. You can’t cut me off
from everybody in my life, make me public enemy number one, and then
ignore me! I needed someone!”
Rain clashes against the roof in big sheets, and Jack’s presence next to me is
like an ice sculpture, freezing me right through. His face flashes yellow
under the streetlights.
He finally finds his voice again. “You’ll get paid for the work you’ve
already done. Con will send you some paperwork to sign.”
It feels like my lungs are full of water. “You’re firing me.”
“You broke your NDA. Yes, I am firing you.”
I consider telling him Con removed the NDA requirement from the
contract. But it seems like Jack’s on a friend-firing rampage. I want him to
have one left. “Fine,” I whisper.
I shove his phone in the cupholder and fumble for my own with numb
fingers, flicking to my social media. The photos are already everywhere,
and everyone has an opinion on them.

well I can’t say I’m surprised… #slut

How the hell is her fatass attracting all these men? Is it the big tits?

That fckn broad didn’t think we’d find out. Dumb ugly bitch, now
EVERYONE knows what you are.

I can’t breathe. I lay my head against the seat back and close my eyes.
We pull up on my street. There are paparazzi ready and waiting, and as Jack
parks up, the shouting starts. I could cry. It’s too much. I’m sick of being
watched all the time.
Jack gets out the car and strides over to my side, yanking open my door.
“Out.” I fumble with the seatbelt, and fall out into the night. Jets of rain
burn my face, and I’m immediately drenched as Jack drags me up the street
to my house. Camera flashes scald my eyes, the yelling is right in my ears.
I’m so scared. I don’t understand how I’m supposed to live like this. I can’t.
I can’t. I can’t do it.
Jack tows me up to my front door and waits impatiently. “Give me your
keys, then, if you can’t operate them yourself.”
I paw at my bag. I can’t feel my hands. My keys drop and hit my doorstep. I
close my eyes and bend woozily to scoop them up.
Jack shifts behind me. “Stand up. I’ll get it.” He turns and addresses
someone in the crowd. “I’ve got your license plate. Sell that picture and I’ll
make your life a living Hell.”
The man yells something back, but Jack ignores him, tugging me upright.
“Stand up. They’re shooting up your dress.”
Everything tips. He opens the door, and I slither past him.
“Okay thanks for driving me home I’m really sorry about Rob bye,” I
mumble, staggering towards the bathroom.
I hear the front door slam shut and then footsteps behind me. I grip the
doorframe. Did he come inside? Haven’t I suffered enough?
“We’ve got to do something about those fucking paparazzi. I’m hiring you a
bodyguard.”
I try to lean on my blue bathroom walls, but they fuzz and fall away. I drop
to my knees. Everything is going grey. I’m going to faint. “Get out.” I need
him to leave. I can’t hold it back anymore.
I feel him come and stand in the doorway. “I understand you’re upset, but
this is a bit dramatic,” he says, icily.
“Go. Away.” My heart flutters, and I grasp at my chest with wide eyes. I
need air.
He steps closer. “I know you’re not this drunk.”
Someone bangs on my front door. Camera flashes burn through the window,
flickering like lightning. I cover my face. “Please go. Go.”
“Cassandra. Look at me.”
Why won’t he leave me alone? Why does he have to watch me like this? I
can’t go anywhere, do anything, without someone watching me. I wish I
was invisible. I never want anybody to see me ever again. Everybody has
seen me, and everybody hates me. Everybody hates me.
Terror hits me in a big blinding wave, almost knocking me flat. I pant as it
swells, crests, then crashes over me. It happens again. And again. It feels
like my bones are frozen and splintering. I shake and choke, grabbing at my
throat. I can’t breathe.
“Cassie.” Jack’s kneeling next to me. Cupping my sweaty face. His eyes are
so intense they cut through the noise in my head. His fingers slide over my
pulse and he swears loudly. “Fuck, what did you take?”
“Go away,” I gasp. I can’t remember how to breathe. I’m sure it shouldn’t
be this hard.
Everybody hates me.
“What was it? Coke?”
“’S just a panic attack,” I spit out. “Pl-please just leave.”
He says something I can’t hear. I give up and flop down, pressing my face
on the freezing tiled floor, trying to heave in air. I dimly feel Jack scoop up
my head and balance it on his knee. For a while, my brain stops making
thoughts, and it’s all just fear.
 29

I SWIM BACK into my body, shuddering. I can feel denim pressed against
my cheek. My ears are ringing like someone’s running a wet finger round
the rim of a glass. My skin is numb and fizzing, and I’m shaking badly,
slippy with rain and sweat.
“Cass?”
I look up and blink Jack into focus. I have my face pillowed on his thigh.
He’s breathing raggedly.
Perhaps it’s a sympathetic reaction. There’s a first time for everything.
I run a hand across my face. “Uh.” Not to be dramatic, but this is the worst
day of my life. “S-sorry. Whew. Bit embarrassing. What d-did you want?”
Jack stands up and leaves the room.
All alone, I start to cry, curled up on the floor—big, juddery sobs that rock
up out of me. I just feel empty. I’m so, so tired. This job isn’t worth half a
million, it really isn’t. It’s too hard.
“Shh.” Jack’s back, draping something soft around my shoulders. “It’s
okay.” He passes me a plastic cup of water. “Come on. Sit up and drink.”
“Thanks,” I mumble, forcing myself upright. Everything spins. I glug the
water, sloshing half the glass down my front like a real lady.
Jack rearranges the blanket around my neck. “I called your flatmate from
your phone. He’s coming home. He’s on the other side of London, but I sent
him a car.”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
His eyes are flat and blue as slate. “I had to make sure you’d be okay.”
I nod and huddle into myself, shivering. I’m so cold. I’ll never be warm
again. “I can’t do this anymore,” I whisper.
It’s like some sort of chemical reaction happens in him. All the muscles in
his body go rigid. “You can’t do what anymore?” He asks urgently. “The
job?”
“Yeah.”
He visibly deflates. “I should never have hired you.”
“I mean. It was done without your consent. None of this is your fault.”
He stares. “Not my fault? I just shouted at you until you collapsed!”
I shake my head, hard. “You barely raised your voice. This has been coming
on for a while now. Sooner or later, something w-would have set me off.” I
wipe my face. “S’why I decided to go out tonight. I was hoping I’d get
drunk enough to throw up my nervous system in a bush.” It’s never worked
before, but I’m an optimistic soul.
“Does this happen often?” He looks alarmed.
I try opening and closing my fingers. There’s no blood in them. “N-not for
ages. Guess I’m struggling more than usual.”
Jack’s silent for a long time. The white streetlight coming through the
bathroom window frosts the sharp lines of his face. “You could have told
me.”
I snort. “You try to fire me every time my eyes water. You were the last
person I could ask for help.” My mouth wants to turn down, but I don’t let
it. “I need this job. I need the money, but you were right all along. I’m too
weak.” I swallow. “I’m so sorry about the photos. And Robin. I messed up.”
“No,” he says emphatically, “I overreacted. I didn’t realise this was hurting
you. It was selfish, and stupid, and I’m sorry, Cass. Shit, I’ve gone about
this whole thing all wrong. It’s a good thing that you talk to Robin.”
I stare at him. “But what about the pictures?”
“Con will work it out. It’s okay.” He rubs my back. “Just—stop worrying.
It’s all okay. Come to bed.” He helps me up, and we head down the hallway.
He props me up in my bedroom doorframe, and I watch as he makes me a
little nest of pillows and bunched-up blankets in my bed. He takes my
shoulders and pushes me into it, wrapping me up. It’s insanely cosy.
“How’d you make my horrible bed so comfy?” I wonder. “I think the
mattress is made of straw.”
“When my mum was ill, sometimes she couldn’t get out of bed for days. I
learnt how to make it easier for her.” He kneels down and tries to slide off
my shoes.
I kick them off myself. “Do you miss her,” my idiot drunk mouth asks.
He pauses. “Yes,” he says eventually, sitting gingerly on the very edge of
my bed. “So, this is what your bedroom looks like.” He looks around. “It’s
so…”
“Tiny? Messy? Dangerous to be in?” I spot pair of pants puddled on the
floor and feel faint. “I should make you sign a waiver.”
He looks like he’s trying not to smile. “Yellow.”
He’s not wrong, I suppose. A cheapy paper-lantern lampshade is painting
the walls gold. My crumpled quilt is the colour of sunshine. There’s a bunch
of supermarket daffodils dying on what is probably my desk. I know I
should politely offer Jack my chair, but I can’t find it.
“It’s disgusting,” I declare.
He picks up a tiny glass bottle of perfume from my nightstand. “It suits
you.”
“Thanks. I bet your house is spotless. All bare walls and glass and chrome.”
“Kind of.” He tilts the bottle to look at the name on the side. “White
Vanilla. I wondered why you always smell like cake batter.” He sets it back
gently, and I jump when he leans closer and touches my throat. He looks at
my bedside clock, counting.
“You’re good at that.” My voice is bleary from alcohol.
“Taking a pulse?” Warm breath touches my cheek. “Doesn’t require an
MD.”
“You’ve done it before,” I mumble.
“On my mum, a few times.” I stare up at him with big eyes. His Adam’s
apple bobs. He pats my head like I’m a pet kitten. “Your breathing still isn’t
great, Skittle.”
“I’ve never been very good at it,” I admit. “Please stop fussing, I’m so
embarrassed.”
He thoroughly fusses with my pillows, tucks in a blanket corner. “Now,” he
says, all business-like. “Do you want a hug?”
I shrug. “I don’t need one.”
“So selfless. So frugal. Would it make you feel better?”
A hug is the only thing that ever makes me feel better after a panic attack. It
feels like I just had a near-death experience. I need someone to hold me
together, and he’s right here, all strong and steady. I want to nuzzle into his
warm-laundry smell and disappear off the face of the planet.
Frankly, though, I’m fed up of myself. I can’t stand being this weak. “Do
you want a hug?” I counter, brattily.
He’s silent for a long time, not moving towards me. I slide down the bed,
pulling the covers over my head, trying to muffle out the death-knell of my
dignity. Of course he doesn’t. I’m gross. He can probably smell the vodka
rotting in my bloodstream.
He climbs under my sheets and wraps his arms around me. He’s so big, he
can hold me properly, and he gathers me up in a hug so comfortable I could
cry. I put my hand tentatively on his chest and try to copy his inhales,
because I’ve forgotten how fast humans breathe. I half-expect him to brush
me off, but he cups my hand under his own big palm. His heart pounds into
my fingers, way too hard.
“Are you okay?” I whisper. Now his face is only inches from mine, I can
see how it’s changed. I think he’s lost weight. His cheekbones are sharp,
dark circles smudge under his eyes. He looks so tired he might shatter.
“Hm?”
“You’re upset.” I press down on his sternum, rubbing slightly.
His jaw locks. “I thought you’d taken something. Overdosed.”
Has he met me? I’m so law-abiding, I get stressed when Rob illegally
streams movies. “Why would you assume that?”
“I grew up in Hollywood,” he says sharply. “You went clubbing, then came
back and collapsed. Your pulse was too fast for me to count. What the Hell
was I supposed to think?” I flinch, and he softens. “Sorry.” He ticks his
thumb over my temple. “Sorry.” He clears his throat. “It’s okay if you want
to quit. I’ll pay you for the full period. I could wire it to you tomorrow,
you’d never have to see me again.”
“I’m not taking money for something I didn’t even do.”
His fingers tighten on my bones. “You said it yourself, you need it. So take
it. I don’t want you to feel pressured into doing this, just for money.”
I wriggle uncomfortably, and he puts his hand on my hip to stop me
moving. I feel its weight through all the blankets. I close my eyes. “I
shouldn’t have said that I couldn’t do the job—I was just overwhelmed.
And drunk. And I had no oxygen in my brain. I want to finish the contract. I
can do it.”
“I know you can. But if it’s hurting you, I don’t want you to.” It’s the
kindest thing he’s ever said to me. A single tear rolls down my cheek and
onto his shirt. It’s probably eighty percent proof.
“I just want us to be friends,” I whisper.
He stiffens. “What?”
“Friends? Is it a new word?”
“I’ve heard it in passing. I don’t have much practical experience.”
I agitatedly twist up a handful of his shirt. “I’m so tired of being mad at
you. I don’t think we’re meant to hate each other. I think maybe the
opposite.” He stops breathing. “Sometimes, I think we’re kind of friends. I
didn’t realise until this last week, but I actually really, really like you. I
missed you so much. It hurt a lot to be ignored by you.”
He groans, leaning his forehead on my shoulder. “Are you trying to rip my
heart out?” He loosens my grasping fingers.
“Mine isn’t working. Please can we share?” He starts rubbing circles onto
my back. “If you were anybody else, I would’ve given up on you, but I
can’t. I can’t. I think we fit together too well. ” I press my cheek into his
hair. “Don’t you think we could be such great friends?”
His voice is tight. “I don’t think I can do that.”
“Why not? Are you already at capacity? Are you only allowed one at a
time? Do I have to kill Con to become the alpha?”
“I don’t think it would work out.”
“Oh. Kay.” I roll over, putting my back to him. “You can go home, if you
want. I’m okay now. Thank you.”
Instead, he rolls me back towards him, stroking the inside of my wrist until
everything in me goes still and quiet. Outside, rain soaks the pavement and
gushes through the drains, pouring underground.
“I’ll be your friend,” he whispers into my hair, as I tip under. I’m not sure if
it’s real, or if I’ve dreamt him up. But I’m sure I couldn’t dream the warm
hug that squeezes me tight, cradling me under the soft covers. I don’t trust
my subconscious to come up with anything that feels this good.
 30

SOMEWHERE AN ALARM IS BEEPING, and it’s making me want to

die. I blindly fling out my hand to turn it off. My fingers touch warm, living
skin, and I shriek.
“What, what?!” Rob yells, half-falling out of bed.
“It’s you!” I collapse in relief.
“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint, that’s no reason to scream,” he hisses.
“What the—” I take stock. I can barely breathe, my head’s slamming, and it
feels like my ribcage has been trampled in by a horse. I look down at
myself. I’ve slept in a red dress, bra and everything. The underwire bites
me.
Slowly, memories start to bloom, and I drag up the covers as shame washes
over me. “Oh, my God. Last night.”
“Yep.” Rob picks a shirt I’ve stolen from him out of my drawer and shrugs
into it. “How do you feel?”
“I’ve been worse,” I grit out grimly.
He snorts. “True. Will you be okay by yourself? I have to go to work.”
I nod. “Thanks for staying with me. You didn’t have to.”
“If you pull me out of my post-coital bed, you have to let me spoon you. I
don’t make the rules.” He looks guilty. “Sorry for making you come out. I
honestly thought it would help. I really shouldn’t have left you there alone.”
I shake my head. “I agreed to go, and I chose to stay on after you went. You
didn’t make me do anything. It was gonna happen sooner or later.”
“Mm. You scared the shit out of your boyfriend, you know.” I groan. His
lips quirk up. “Oh my God, when I picked up the phone—not easy, by the
way, my hands were kind of slippery—”
“Ew.”
“—I thought you were dying. I could barely understand him. He kept
saying you’d overdosed on something at the club. I told him that since you
still buy gummy vitamins shaped like teddy bears, you probably don’t have
a secret coke habit, but he was very insistent.”
I cover my face. “He must hate me.”
“I don’t think he hates you.”
“He,” I repeat, “hates me.”
Rob starts rooting through my sock drawer. “I thought we hated him? No?
And his stupid giant biceps?”
“I never said that,” I moan.
“Oh, yeah, that was me.” Rob finds a pair of his huge men’s socks. We do
our laundry together, and things tend to get a bit mixed up. “I don’t think he
hates you. When I got in, he was holding you all bundled up like a little
burrito, it was so cute.”
“I literally begged him to be my friend.”
“He didn’t look that put-upon. He was stroking your hair and whispering to
you. I wanted to take a picture, but he glared at me so hard I died.”
“He does that.” I wince, remembering. “Oh my God, I told him I really
really like him.”
“Poor Cass has unhealthy coping mechanisms,” Rob says unkindly, sitting
on the bed and patting my head.
I rub my chest. “Everything hurts.”
“Same,” he soothes. “I’m going to have to take all my calls standing up
today.”
“Gross,” I whisper. “That is so gross, please be less gross. I am so fragile.”
Rob dips down and gives me a quick, gentle hug. “Your nervous system’s
gonna take a while to rebalance from all the alcohol. Call me if you have
another one. I am a Champion Of Mental Health, remember.”
I nod, trying to smile. He grabs his keys and heads out. “I LOVE YOU!”
He yells through the wall, before the front door slams shut.
I lie in my gross sweaty sheets for a few hours, drifting in and out of sleep
and reflecting on what a shitty person I am. Eventually, though, I have to
stop being mean to myself and face the day. I fall out of bed and stumble,
bleary-eyed, to my bedroom window, shoving it open and leaning my
forehead against the glass. The thick pressure that’s been boiling over
London dissolved in the storm; the streets have been washed clean, and the
air smells like rain. I close my eyes and try to forget last night. Forget the
article. Forget the photos with Rob, the paparazzi, the awful social media
comments. I inhale the cool breeze wafting in.
There’s a bang on my front door, and I startle. Another bang. Then another.
It sounds like someone is trying to barge their way inside. I creep through
the hallway, sticking to the shadows like a spy, and peep through the
window, expecting to see another dickhead paparazzo. Sadly, it’s even
worse: it’s Jack.
I shakily open the door. He’s dressed very dramatically in all black—black
shoes, black jeans, black t-shirt desperately clinging to his biceps. Before I
can say hello, he shoves inside, setting down a plastic bag. He takes a few
steps down the hall, then spins to face me. “How are you?” He asks, gruffly.
I bare my teeth at him.
“Wow. So cheerful.” His lip twists. “Hungover?”
I cross my arms over my stomach. “The kindest thing to do would be to
shoot me.” I assume that’s what he’s here to do. “What are you doing
here?”
He looks shifty. “I was in the neighbourhood.”
“Visiting one of the hoodlums? This where you buy your weed, or
something?” He doesn’t say anything, looking around my hallway. “Jack.” I
prompt. “Why are you here?”
His clear eyes pierce into me. “Do you feel well enough to go out?”
“Um, I suppose?” I can’t understand what’s happening. “But isn’t Mansen’s
audition tomorrow? Shouldn’t you be rehearsing?”
He delves into the plastic bag and hands me a polystyrene takeaway box.
“Here. You should eat first.” I open it to reveal the most gorgeous cheesy
chips I’ve ever laid eyes on. Hot, oily, crispy gold, drenched in thick,
melting mozzarella.
My mouth floods with drool. “Are you bribing me?” I guess it makes sense.
We’ve already established that I can be bought.
“It’s my peace offering. What I should have done last night, instead of…”
he trails off, runs a hand through his hair. He looks so uncomfortable. “I’m
trying something new,” he explains. “Being friends.”
I blink. “Oh. What for?”
“Novelty, mostly.”
I suddenly feel defensive. “You don’t have to do all this out of pity. I really
can handle myself fine. I know I was disgusting last night, and I’m really
sorry—but to be fair, I was trying to keep it together until I was alone. It’s
not my fault you invited yourself in to watch my breakdown.”
He narrows his eyes. “You’re embarrassed.”
“Completely mortified.” I eat a chip, then catch my reflection in the
hallway mirror and grimace. I’ve got no makeup on, apart from the smudgy
dregs of mascara under my eyes, and my hair looks like something you’d
find at the bottom of a drain. “We’re going out, then? If you don’t want
people to think you’re dating a baby goblin, you’ve got to give me at least
an hour to get pretty.”
“We’ve got twenty minutes.” He squints at me. “You always look like that.”
I roll my eyes and head to my bedroom.

Twenty minutes later, I’m washed, fed, dressed in my neon yellow SAFE
shirt, and sliding into the front of Jack’s car. Jack gets in the driver’s seat; it
must be Sam’s day off, or something.
He raises an eyebrow at my t-shirt. “I might have to sue you for damage to
my public image if you’re photographed next to me wearing that.”
I tug down the hem. I’m not sure what made me pick it out of my wardrobe.
“I’m going to get papped whether I like it or not. I may as well promote a
good cause.”
“Blinding innocent bystanders?”
I flutter my eyes at him. “Want me to get you one? We can match, babe.
You need to learn to use your voice for good.”
“There aren’t enough guilt-tripping charity ads in the world.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I buckle in. “Where are we going?”
He checks his rearview mirror. “I’ve got us tickets to see a show.”
My blood pressure rises. “A show, like, a theatre show? Or show, like, an
art show?” He frowns at the mirror, re-angling it slightly. I’m getting
desperate. “Air show? Car show? Magic Mike show?”
“I said I was being your friend, not organising your bachelorette party.
We’re going to the theatre.”
I’m silent as he pulls out into the road. My mind is buzzing. I’ve not been in
a theatre for three years. I don’t know if I can. Maybe I’ll disintegrate, like a
vampire crossing the threshold of a church, or something.
I jump when Jack’s hand lightly touches mine. “Are you actually okay?” He
asks quietly.
I squish down in my seat, humiliated. “Yeah. Sorry for sobbing on you until
you almost drowned.”
He shrugs one shoulder. “Sorry for calling you on such short notice.”
“Well.” I stare at the road. “It’s my job.”
He nods, and we don’t talk for the rest of the journey.
We are not very good at being friends.

Sunstruck is being shown in the Assembly of Silence Hall. The same theatre
I performed in eight times a week, for two straight years. The very theatre
that saw my boring rise and fall from grace.
Of course, it is. Of fucking course.
When we park up and get out of the car, Jack gets stopped at the door by a
knot of hyperventilating teenagers. I hang back and wring my hands as he
silently signs autographs and takes pictures. Every cell in my body is
reminding me: No. No. Do not go in there.
“Cass?” Jack’s eyebrows are furrowed.
I take a big breath. “This is where I used to work. I’ve not been here in
years.”
“Oh.” He looks up at the ornate, pretty building, probably wondering why
I’m staring at it like it’s the House of Usher. “Do you not want to go in?”
I grit my teeth, shaking my head. “Not a big deal at all,” I lie. “Just a fun
factoid I thought I’d share. Lead the way.”
The foyer looks exactly like it used to do. Exactly. I might as well have
stepped back in time. I keep my head down as Jack collects our tickets,
silently praying that none of the cashiers recognise me. As the receipts
print, he taps my shoulder and points, silently, at the wall. There’s a display
of pictures from old shows pinned up. Jack’s looking at a photo of me on a
rose-entwined balcony, staring tearfully off into the lights. Underneath, a
little cardboard sign: Cassandra Ray as Juliet Capulet.
“Not quite as impressive as a movie poster,” I allow. “But it’s nice I left a
legacy.”
We have a private box, naturally. They probably cleared one out as soon as
they saw Jack’s email address. It kind of defeats the purpose of a public
date, if we’re tucked away up here alone, in the dark, but I’m not
complaining. Maybe this way, I won’t see anyone I know. We settle down
in the plushy velvet seats, and my heart starts to pound as I see the stage,
draped in a rippling red curtain. It’s like nothing’s changed.
I’m distracted from my spiralling panic when Jack clears his throat, and I
turn to properly look at him. His face is completely blank, his jaw so tense
my molars ache in sympathy. I go back over the last ten minutes in my
mind. While I’ve been selfishly freaking out, Jack’s been getting whiter and
tenser with every fan interaction we’ve had. Now he looks like he might
throw up.
The lights flicker. I touch his elbow. “Jack?”
“Mm.” He coughs again.
“You look ill. Are you okay?”
He closes his eyes briefly and nods. I stare at him, and he smiles vaguely. If
he was aiming for normal, he just vastly overshot. When have I ever seen
him smile?
I don’t know what to do. I want to hug him, but I don’t know if I can.
Instead, I just reach out and take his hand. He’s completely still for a
moment, tension radiating off him in palpable waves, then his fingers grip
mine, so hard it hurts. He turns his face away from me, intently studying the
wallpaper. His swallow looks painful.
Something is wrong.
Below us, the audience settles into their seats, fluttering programmes and
crackling snack bags. I feel like Jack and I are cut off from them, in our
own little bubble. I lean into him. “Jack, if you don’t want to—”
The lights fall. I’m a stickler for social rules, so I immediately stop talking,
but I don’t let go of his hand. A riffle goes through the crowd, and everyone
goes silent. Nerves squeeze my stomach. We sit in the cavelike darkness
and wait. Then the curtain rises, a spotlight slowly fills the stage, and tears
flood my eyes.
I love the theatre. Adore it. I’ve seen hundreds and hundreds of
performances. I love them all, everything from big fancy ballets to
nonsensical, drunk theatre-kid nonsense down the uni pub. In real life,
everybody acts like someone they’re not. Everybody lies. But onstage, even
though the lines are scripted and rehearsed, the actors are telling the truth.
The feelings that rush up and swell inside you as you watch are so strong
and so real, even though you know it’s just a story. It’s like magic.
I lose time as the show plays out in front of me. My hand squeezes Jack’s. I
feel touched, deep inside. The music surges and soars up from the pit, and I
feel like I’ve come home.
When the curtain falls for intermission, I exhale, all my muscles relaxing.
This was just what my soul needed. My blood feels charged. I want it to
start again, right now. I need more. I’m an addict.
I turn to Jack, and he’s looking right at me. “So this is what you look like
when you actually enjoy a show,” he says under his breath.
There are cartoon stars twinkling in my pupils. “Isn’t it amazing? The girl
playing Emma is so good!”
He shrugs. “You’d be better.”
I lean over and hug him, hard. “Thank you! I love it. I’d never have come
alone.”
He sucks in a deep breath, touching my back. “We can come whenever
you’d like, Cass.”
“Well, you’re not stuck with me much longer. We’ve got less than two
weeks left. Let’s do Shrek next.” I hop up, brushing down my dress. “I’m
going to the loo. Do you want anything? A drink?” He goes to stand, and I
push him back down. “Better not. Your face causes traffic jams, and the key
to a successful interval is speed. We’ve only got ten minutes.”
He nods. His face has gone stony again. On an impulse, I bend down and
kiss him very lightly on the cheekbone, before grabbing my bag and
dashing off to the bar.
I’m just waiting for the bartender to pour Jack’s coffee into a paper cup,
when a hand touches the back of my neck. I can’t hold back my smile,
everything in me warming. “You know,” I tell the dark, polished wood of
the bar, “it’s very bad theatre etiquette to hold up performances because you
caused a human stampede.”
The man behind me laughs and I feel my blood slide down my body.
 31

MY EX-DIRECTOR SIMON HARVEY stands behind me, breathing all

over me, and for a second I think I might faint. I can smell him, the stench
of sweat thickly covered with expensive musky cologne. I trip a step back,
trying to shake off his hand, but it follows me.
“Cassie, sweetheart.” He smiles down at me. “What a nice surprise. I didn’t
expect to see you again.”
“Yeah, uh, hi.” My mind starts running faster. Why didn’t I think he’d be
here? He owns the theatre, for God’s sake. He’s obsessed with it. When I
was working here, he came in almost every day, haunting the place like the
bloody Phantom of the Opera. I’ve been so stupid. So, so stupid.
He leans his hip against the bar, trapping me on one side. “What are you
doing here, Bambi?” He croons. The old nickname pulls a drawstring in my
throat.
“We’re just, um, watching the show.”
“Twelve seventy-five,” the cashier interrupts, completely oblivious to the
fact that I’ve frozen like a rabbit in headlights. Simon nods at him, and I
fumble with my purse, counting out change. I need to get away from him.
Simon leans forward, looming over me. “You’re here with your new
boyfriend?”
I nod silently, not looking up.
“Aw, come on. It’s been three years. I would think you’d be a bit happier to
see me.” He pauses. “Is this about the article?” He bends down closer. He’s
well in my personal space, now. He’s close enough to kiss me. “No hard
feelings, right? A journalist came by after the show one night and got a bit
of wine in all of us. It wasn’t anything personal. I only told him the truth.”
“It wasn’t the truth.”
His eyes flash. “It’s a bit late to be changing your story now. It’s all
documented. You’ve made your statement.” He eyes me appreciatively.
“You’re looking nice. I like the skirt.” I close my mouth, and my purse
drops to the carpeted floor, exploding in a smattering of coins. I go to pick
them up, but Simon stops me.
“Here.” He reaches for his wallet. “Let me get those drinks for you.”
“No.” My thoughts are getting all jumbled. I go to grab the paper cups but
the server glares at me, irritated.
“Twelve seventy-five.”
“Can you hurry up?” Someone jostles me from behind, someone else from
the side. A man bends to help scoop up my change and I stagger back,
running my hands over my face. I can feel my skin going numb, and it’s
terrifying me. Not now. Not now.
A hand taps my arm. “Hey. Aren’t you Jack Hale’s girlfriend? I’ve seen you
in the magazines.”
“She is.”
Someone grabs my elbow. “Can you get me an autograph?”
I can’t breathe. “Uh... Maybe?”
“Oh my God! Is he here? I swear if I get to meet him I’ll die!”
I wave at the theatre door. “Yeah, he’s inside… don’t die…”
“Are you guys on a date?” A tall woman in a black coat asks.
I remember my girlfriend duties. “Yes!”
Her brow furrows. “Today?”
“Yes?”
There’s the flash of a phone camera, and I back up, smacking right into
someone who swears and sloshes beer onto the floor. “Watch where you’re
going!”
“Sorry—um—” I can’t breathe. The floor tips under me.
Simon puts a comforting hand between my shoulder blades. “Hey. Don’t
look so scared, Bambi. It’s alright.”
I. Am. Done.
Without even thinking, I’m pushing through the crowd of patrons and
dodging through the hall. I duck past the reception through the familiar
staff-only doors, ignoring someone who yells after me, and stumble down
the hallway, until I’m back out in the buttery sunshine. I collapse onto the
stone step, letting the door slam shut behind me, and press my head into my
hands. My heart is hammering so hard my pulse hurts. Hot shame pours
over me, over and over.
I met Simon Harvey. He spoke to me. He touched me. My brain keeps
jamming on each clunky thought. What if he tells somebody? Did people
see us? Of course, people saw us, we weren’t just surrounded by crowds of
blind theatregoers, God, what the Hell are people going to say? I can’t
handle this being in the news again. I can’t handle having to see more
stories about this. I just want it to go away.
Rob wasn’t lying about my oversensitive nervous system. It takes a few
minutes to calm myself down enough to look around and register where I
am. I’ve sub-consciously found my way to stage door, a back exit that
opens out into a narrow, cobbled alley between this building and the
neighbouring café. When the show ends, this street will start filling up with
fans hoping to get their programmes signed by the actors, but for now, it’s
empty.
My stomach sinks as I remember Jack. I’ve just ditched him in the
auditorium like a massive dick. The show will have started again, and he
doesn’t know where I am. I’m about to get up and force myself back inside
when I feel the door swing open behind me.

“There you are,” comes a deep voice, and my stomach instantly settles. “I
thought you’d fallen down the toilet.”
I close my eyes. “Sorry, not this time.” After a pause, Jack sits down next to
me, stretching his long legs over the steps. “I needed some fresh air,” I
mumble, wiping my cheek with the back of my hand. “How did you know I
was here?”
“You’re dressed like a warning flare. I just asked the receptionist if she’d
seen a girl wearing an optically damaging t-shirt.” He tugs the sleeve of my
top, then touches my cheek when I tense. “Hey. Look at me. You’ve gone
grey.”
“Shit. Must’ve mismatched my foundation.”
His thumb runs down the side of my neck, pressing against my pulse. His
eyebrows pinch together. “You didn’t have to lie to me,” he says, a little
coldly. “Why would you pretend you were having fun? There weren’t any
cameras in the theatre.”
“I was having fun. I—” I trail off as he takes my sweaty palm and puts it on
his chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Come on,” he says simply.
I am far too embarrassed to do deep breathing exercises with him. I wad up
the panic, sticking it under my ribs like a bit of gum I’m saving for later.
“Sorry, sorry, I’m fine now. All better,” I lie, pulling back.
“That was quick,” Jack notes, drily.
“I pictured a tranquil beach in my mind’s eye and it instantly healed me.”
This would probably be more convincing if I wasn’t still gasping slightly.
“Right. You know, when you mentioned stage fright, I assumed you meant
you were scared of being on stage. Not of stages in general.”
“Well, now you know,” I say weakly. “Those pesky trapdoors get me every
time. No, no, it’s just. I just met Simon Harvey.”
It doesn’t have quite the movie-dramatic impact I was expecting. He looks
at me, completely blank. I try again. “My old director? Informant of the
timeless tell-all article Cassie Ray is a fame-hungry hoe who tried to ruin
my life, let’s stab the bitch with pitchforks?”
Jack’s jaw tightens, and he looks out onto the empty street. “Him.”
“Yup.”
“I read the article last week. I didn’t really think last night was the right
time to mention it.”
Probably because I was having an emotional breakdown so dramatic he
thought it was literally a medical emergency. I lean my head back against
the hot brick wall. “It’s not true.”
“I know,” he says simply. Then: “Tell me.”
“Why?”
“I’m your friend.”
“As of, what? Three hours?” He frowns unhappily, and a sigh bubbles up in
me. The problem with this story is that it makes me sound like a pathetic
idiot. It will change the way he sees me. But, hey. It’s the truth. I can’t
change that. “You have to promise not to tell anyone.”
“But you know how I love to gossip,” he drawls.
“Yeah. I forgot. You never speak.” I look around us. We’re sitting on this
sun-soaked step like a couple of teenagers. Someone could come down the
side-street at any time, but I doubt anyone will until the show ends. I feel
okay.
So, I talk. “I auditioned for Juliet in the last year of my degree. I didn’t
actually think I would get it. I’ve always been warned that acting was a
really tough business and it probably wouldn’t work out. When I got the
phone call offering me a principal role, I thought I’d finally found where I
was supposed to be. I didn’t really get why Simon picked me, though. It
wasn’t a particularly great audition. It was good, but nothing incredible.”
“He must have seen something in you.”
“I would say that, yes.” I twist my fingers together, trying to get the words
out. I don’t know why they’re so hard. Jack offers me his hand, palm up,
and after a second, I take it. “Um. It was just comments, mostly. ‘Jokes’. I
remember, at the end of the first day of rehearsals, Simon thanked the cast
and crew for all their work, then he turned to me and went, ‘and I’d like to
thank Cassandra for wearing that bra today.’” A wave passes through Jack’s
body. I wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t. Just listens. “I was so
embarrassed, I just laughed it off. But it kept happening, every day. ‘Are
you wearing that skirt for me?’; ‘Can we make her costumes a bit lower-
cut?’; ‘Cassie better make sure to lock her dressing room door!’ Shit like
that. Whenever I asked him to stop it, he went all defensive and said he
didn’t want someone on his team who couldn’t take a joke.”
Jack wipes a hand over his face. “You didn’t tell anyone?”
“Who could I tell? It’s his company. The HR department work for him. I’m
not that stupid.” I shake my head. “Simon is one of the most powerful
people in British theatre. He owns half the theatres in London, and he’s
friends with all the other directors and producers and stage managers. I
knew that if I got on his bad side, I’d never get hired again. I’d spent my
whole life trying to become an actor. I sacrificed so much time and money
and effort to get where I was, ever since I was a kid, and it wasn’t fair that
some creepy guy could take everything away from me. So, I ignored it. I let
him do it. The director’s normally supposed to piss off after the premiere,
anyway. But Si’s such a perfectionist, he decided he needed to oversee stage
management too. He was almost always there, for two years straight.
“I thought I was strong enough to put up with it; I didn’t realise until after
how much it was messing with my head. I was on guard, all the time.
Whenever he was anywhere near me, I couldn’t focus. Everyone thought I
was so happy, but it was all this big act. I was living my dream, and I
thought about quitting every day. But I couldn’t. I needed the money. I
needed the job. That’s why I let him renew my contract after the first year.
Money. I didn’t know if I’d get another role somewhere else.” My voice
catches. “It was so dumb.”
Jack tugs me closer with an arm around my shoulders. He starts trailing his
fingers up and down my bare arm, very lightly.
“Um, so. One night, we had a cast party down the local pub. Everybody
was hammered. I went to the loo, and when I came out, Simon was standing
outside the bathroom. He gave me this whole drunk rambly speech about
how he ‘really cared about me’ and he was ‘tired of waiting’, and then he
kissed me.”
Jack’s arm is steadily getting tenser, like he’s a boa constrictor coiling to
squish me to death. “What did you do?”
I touch my cheek. “It’s kind of blurry. I was very drunk. I’d like to say I
kneed him so hard his balls fell out of his mouth, but I always freeze up
when I’m scared. I think I just said ‘sorry’ a lot and ran away crying. He’d
emailed me my notice by the time I got off the Tube. For ‘uncooperative
behaviour.’”
Jack sounds as if he’s having breathing difficulties. “He fired you for not
kissing him? Jesus, no wonder you thought—”
I speak over him. I need to get this out. “When I got home, I tried to call up
one of my castmates to tell him what had happened, but he declined all my
calls. Everyone I tried to contact did. I was so upset, a complete wreck, and
no one even picked up their phones.” I cough away the tension in my throat.
“I went back the next day to clear out my dressing room, and it was fucking
awful. Everybody just stared and whispered. Turns out, after I’d ran away,
Si had gone back into the pub and told everybody that I had just
blackmailed him: if he didn’t renew my contract, I’d falsely report him for
sexual harassment. Because, you know, I was always getting so huffy over
his harmless little jokes and nicknames. Si used to be an actor, so he was
probably very convincing. Apparently, there were tears and everything.” I
look down at my hands. “I thought I had friends in the cast, but every single
one of them believed him over me. I guess none of them wanted to risk
their careers.” Who can blame them? I did the exact same thing for two
years.
Jack’s silent for over a minute. He keeps stroking my arm, gentling me, but
his free hand is clenched into a fist on his knee. I reach across and take it,
and his fingers instantly soften. He doesn’t want to hurt me.
Eventually, he seems to decide something. He untangles himself and stands
up.
I look up at him, squinting against the sun. “Where are you going?”
“To find him.”
 32

PANIC FLUSHES ME. I jump up. “No! No, Jack, don’t.”

His eyes are black and hard. Red rises in his cheeks. He looks like he wants
to burn the theatre to the ground. “He’s in there? What does he look like?
I’ll just ask someone.” He goes to yank open the door.
I step in front of him, blocking his way. “I said no! Jack, please, please
listen to me.”
“It’ll just take a minute,” he gets out through painfully gritted teeth. “I
won’t hurt him.”
The shouting from the street is getting louder. I grab his arm. “Stop it! Stop
being so selfish, this has nothing to do with you!”
He spins on me. “Selfish?!”
“You don’t want to make me feel better, you want to make yourself feel
better! Listen to me. I don’t want you to do this.”
“Cass, I—” he trails off and hisses in a breath. “It’s bullshit. Why would he
do that to you?”
I have to laugh. “You said it yourself. I’m a wounded deer. An easy target.
He knew I was too pathetic to say anything, and even if I did, no one would
believe me.”
He crosses his arms. His biceps bulge and tense into steel ropes. “He
backed you into a corner. He made it so you couldn’t talk without ruining
your life. It’s not fair that you should have to throw away your whole career
just because he’s a fucking predator.” He steps onto the pavement. “Con
will organise you an interview.”
Fear slams on me like a trapdoor. “What? No! Jack, you can’t tell anyone.
You promised!”
He keeps talking as if he hasn’t heard me. “That’s defamation, at least. And
then—unfair dismissal? Emotional damages? Fuck, I don’t know, I have to
speak to my lawyers.”
I put my head in my hands, despairing. I shouldn’t have said anything. “I
don’t have any evidence.”
He stops planning my fictional court date to grasp my shoulders. His eyes
burn with righteous fire. “People know who you are now. You have a voice.
You can talk back.”
“I don’t want to.” My shout echoes around the alleyway. Anger tugs around
my throat, strangling me. “For God’s sake, I don’t want to stand in a
courtroom while a bunch of rich lawyers call me a liar. I don’t want the
most embarrassing moments of my life reported on in magazines. I don’t
want to get humiliated and threatened and bullied by the whole fucking
world.” I pull away from him and flop back down on the step. I’m tired. “I
know you think I’m a coward, but right now, I don’t want to be strong, I
just want to be safe. I want to be left alone. That’s it.”
Silence.
I rub my eyes. “Sorry. Sore spot, I guess.”
He expels a furious breath. I feel him trying to calm himself down. Slowly,
he sits next to me again. “You’re not a coward. You’re one of the bravest
people I’ve ever met.”
“Yeah.” My face burns. “Eye contact and loud noises make me
hyperventilate. I should go on quests.”
“You’re brave,” he repeats, and it’s the most difficult thing for me to hear.
“For God’s sake, look at me! I’m so scared of my old boss, I can hardly
bloody stand up! I hate that my brain overreacts like this!” A tear slides
down my cheek. “You know, for about six months after I left the company, I
just locked myself in my room. Two of my castmates lived in my old
building, and I was so scared of seeing them that I didn’t go outside. After a
while, I got so anxious that I couldn’t leave the house without having a
panic attack. I couldn’t get on a bus. I couldn’t answer my email. I was
twenty-two years old. That wasn’t brave. It’s not brave to hide in your
bedroom. It’s not brave to not stand up for yourself, because you’re scared
of the consequences.”
“You’re not locked in your bedroom now,” he points out. “You clearly got
over it.”
“Yes, well done me, now I can go outside like everybody else. Do you
know how humiliating it is to have to fight fears that stupid?”
He looks angry. “I’ve seen you give live interviews in front of hundreds of
thousands of viewers. Deliver an award-winning performance onstage.
Defend me from rabid fans. You’re. Not. A. Coward.”
“I was pissing myself through almost all of it! It’s pathetic!”
Jack sets his jaw and looks at the blank wall on the other side of the street.
“I don’t even remember the last time I did something that scared me. It’s
been years.”
I roll my eyes. “I’ve seen your movies. You keep jumping out of planes.”
“You think anybody would let me die? I’m safer than a paratrooper. If one
of us is a coward, it’s me. I avoid things that I don’t want to deal with.” He
ticks off his fingers. “I always have security around me. Electric gates
around my house, bodyguards when I go out. I ignore people I don’t want to
talk to. You get so scared your body shuts down, and you still make the
effort to be nice.” He shakes his head. “I think you’re amazing, Cassie.”
“What?”
His eyes reflect the sky. “I think you’re amazing. I don’t think you’ve ever
tried to hurt someone in your life. Sometimes, I still can’t believe someone
like you exists.”
The thought rushes out of me in an unstoppable blurt. “You know, when
you’re not being a dick, you’re probably my favourite person.”
He freezes. I frantically try to turn back time. I’ve never managed before,
but perhaps it’s a latent super-power. Doesn’t hurt to try.
Instead of saying anything, he leans forward and touches my jaw, kissing
me softly on the cheek.
I turn into the kiss like a sunflower, not even really meaning to. Our cheeks
flicker together. His is so hot, like he has a fever. Stars probably burst in the
sky. Maybe planets collide. Something massive and trembling and cosmic
must happen as our lips touch. It’s not even a kiss, more of an utterly
unscripted accident. Our lips sort of bang together. It feels divine to have
his mouth back on mine. We both pull back and suck in air. My heart’s
going again, but God, it feels good. I feel his warm breath touch my lips,
and I part them, breathing him in.
“JACK HALE! OH, MY GOD!”
My entire body jerks like I’ve been jabbed with a cattle prod. I look up to
see a grinning blonde girl clutching a bit of paper.
“I’m one foot away from you,” Jack mutters, not looking away from me.
“GOD!” She screams at him. “HI!”
“Hello.”
“I CAN’T BELIEVE IT’S YOU!”
“It’s definitely him,” I croak. “Unless I’ve made a terrible, terrible
mistake.”
He sighs and grabs the glossy headshot flopping from her fingers. Which
is… weird. Is she just carrying around a picture of him?
It doesn’t seem to faze him. “Certainly looks like me,” he says crisply,
slashing his signature across the bottom, then shoving the page back at the
girl. “Could you please stop shouting? I don’t want people to know I’m
here.”
“OH MY GOD!”
“No? Okay.”
“She’s going to tweet about this, isn’t she?” I mutter, when she finally
staggers, wide-eyed and shell-shocked, back down the street towards the
square. It sounds like something’s happening out there. Shouts and honks
echo down the alley.
“Yes.”
I dust myself off. “Well, we’ve got a private box, so we won’t disturb
anyone as long as we go back in during scene change.”
He looks at me like I’m mad. “You want to go back in?”
“I don’t like to run away from things that scare me. It makes me feel weak.
I don’t do that anymore.”
He’s quiet for a while. “Cassie, I can’t be in the same building as that man
right now.”
“Oh. Well, I suppose there’s not much left anyway.”
He examines the stone step. “We can rent the film and watch the end at my
house. If you want. I have a cinema room.”
“You’re inviting me to your house?”
He won’t make eye contact. “I’ve been inside your garden shed three times,
now. It only seems fair. Or I’ll take you back, if you’d rather—”
I take his hand. “I’ve never been to a rich person’s house before. Do you
have a fountain?”
He helps me up. “The peacocks have to swim somewhere.”
I smile at him.
We make our way down the cobbled street. Jack’s hand on the small of my
back is so warm and steady, I barely notice the shouting getting louder and
louder.
Then we finally get in view of the square, and we both freeze in horror.
 33

THE SQUARE IS COMPLETELY RAM-PACKED. It’s as if every person

in the whole of London has migrated to this one road and decided to stand
as close together as possible and yell. Jack turns to rock.
I take a step back, automatically cringing away. “Do you think it’s a
protest?”
He rubs a hand over his face and shakes his head, pushing down his
sunglasses. “We’ll have to be quick. Keep your head down.”
It takes a moment for that to sink in. “Wait. Do you think all this is for
you?” I scoff. “No offence, you’re fine, but I don’t think you should be
inspiring parades.” He doesn’t smile. I bite my lip, looking at the heaving
mass. “Should we call someone to come pick us up?”
“My security has these two weeks off.” His fingers grip mine. “We need to
be quick. Stay close to me.”
We plunge in. As we start to plough through the crowd, it takes a second for
everyone to realise it’s him. Then bright white floods my vision, and
everyone starts screaming. Proper, horror movie screams, like we’re
zombies coming to gobble up brains and not a couple trying to get to their
car. Hands grab at me. We’re jostled and elbowed and shoved forward until
the pavement isn’t in sight anymore.
The questions are like rapid-fire bullets.
“Jack do you have anything you want to say—”
“Are you doing anything special this evening—”
“Why did you choose to go on a date on the anniversary—”
I’m horrified. I know Jack hates the paparazzi, and this is the worst I’ve
ever seen them. Camera flashes blitz us, they’re right up in my face,
literally blinding me. I try to cover my eyes, but my arms are pinned to my
sides. Everybody’s too close, and they’re pressing in, squeezing in on us,
tighter and tighter.
“Fuck,” I hear Jack mutter over my head. I look up at him. The blood has
drained out of his face. He grabs onto my shoulders. “I’m not signing
autographs right now,” he calls out. “Let us through.”
The exact opposite happens. The crowd clenches, drawing closer around us.
The pressure is horrendous. All I feel is bodies and skin.
“Get off!” I hear someone scream. “You’re crushing me!”
“Jack oh my God I’m your biggest fan—”
“Please we’ve been waiting here for an hour—”
“Condolences, Jack—”
“Sign my shirt—”
“Sign my tits—”
Jack’s palm curves over my cheek, hiding my face from the cameras. “For
God’s sake, move. You’ll trample her. Are you okay, Cass?”
I nod. I’m not, I’m dying, but I like to remain positive. The air is humid,
misty and thick with sweat and hairspray and sugary perfume. Everywhere I
turn, I’m breathing in other people’s sticky t-shirts.
Suddenly, a photographer grabs my arm and tugs me sideways like a doll. I
struggle. He tightens his grip, digging in his nails. “Jack! Would your mum
approve of Cassie?”
Jack wheels on him. “NEVER touch her,” he roars in the man’s face. He
tries to scoop me away, but the guy clings to me. I kick him, but he barely
seems to notice, still bellowing questions.
“Jack, what would Angelica think of you going on a date today? Why aren’t
you at her memorial service? Hey, Jack, is it true she committed suicide?”
The tautness that’s been charging in Jack’s body all day like a spring
suddenly erupts. He lets go of me. The world becomes a dramatic slow-mo
shot, and I watch him draw his fist back.
“Jack! No!” I scream as he launches himself at the man.
I’m instantly lost as the crowd sucks him up. People descend on me from
every side, and I feel the air getting crushed out of my lungs. I crane my
neck, but Jack has fully disappeared. My mind is racing. Out. I need to get
out.
No. I don’t have time to panic, I need to find him. I start trying to fight my
way to the edge of the street, but I’m going against the tide. Next to me, a
girl gets shoved and falls on top of me, knocking me onto my knees.
Tarmac burns my palms. Before I can get up someone trips over me,
kicking me in the shoulder. I’m at the bottom of a pile of bodies. For a
horrifying second, I’m sure that I’m going to get killed.
Sirens start to shriek. Blue lights flash over our heads. Arms wrap around
my waist, pulling me up, and I dig my elbow hard into the guy’s stomach.
“Hey, hey, hey. Easy, Cassie. It’s me.” Sam lifts me fully off the ground,
holding me at arm’s length so I can see him. He’s wearing a t-shirt and
jeans, not his usual suit. “Con monitors Jack’s social media,” he shouts over
the noise. “Someone posted that they saw him going into the theatre, and a
bunch of fans planned to gather out here to meet him. Guess the paps got
the memo, too.”
I don’t care. “Where’s Jack?”
He sets me down. “I have to get you home.”
“What? No! He might be hurt! We have to find him!” I turn wildly,
scanning the throng of fans—and suddenly spot him. There’s a little knot of
police on the corner of the road, pushing teenage girls firmly back, and
towering in the middle of them all, I can see Jack’s face. He’s arguing hotly
with a police officer. I push determinedly towards him. Sam groans, then
puts a hand on my back and helps shoulder me through the crowd.
I reach the ring of police. An officer obviously recognises me and stands
aside, letting me in.
When Jack catches sight of me, he backs up against the car, looking vaguely
horrified. “Cassie.”
I’m panting. “Are you okay? What’s happening?”
“You have to get out of here.” He turns to one of the policemen. “Would
you—”
Behind me, Sam grips my shoulder. “It’s alright, Hale. I’ve got her.”
Jack’s eyes flick to the guard. “Oh, thank fuck. Take her to my place. The
car will probably get followed, it’s safer than her house.”
Sam nods. “I can pick up her stuff afterward. Pack her an overnight bag.”
Jack shakes his head. “Best not to lead them there, she has a flatmate. If she
needs anything, just buy it.”
I look incredulously between the two men, discussing me over my head like
I’m a kid. “Wait, what? Where are you going?” I notice blood on Jack’s
sleeve and reach for his hand. “Oh my God, you’re hurt—”
He tugs away. “You need to go home,” he snaps. “Pick a guest bedroom and
go to sleep.”
“But—”
“I don’t have time to deal with you right now! Go, before all the cameras
see you crying.” He turns to Sam. “Take her away. Now.”
The screaming turns to static in my ears. A policeman gives me a
sympathetic look. I touch my cheek. It’s wet. I want to disintegrate into
dust.
Asshole.
“What’s wrong with you?” I yell. “Why are you being like this? Why are
you bleeding? Can you please just fucking talk to me?”
Jack gives Sam a pleading look, and Sam tugs at my shoulders, pulling me
away towards the car. “Come on. Let’s go home.” He glares at a fan who
gets too close.
“Why won’t he come with us?” I twist around to look back, and my mouth
falls open as I watch an officer yanking Jack’s hands behind his back. His
hair falls over his face, hiding his expression.
Sam smiles ruefully. “He’s been arrested, love.”
 34

AFTER I WATCH Jack get pushed into a police car, Sam tries to hurry me
around a side exit, but frankly, I’m just not in the mood to be bundled away
like a kidnapping victim. Like a teary, pink-faced bull, I push through the
crowd to the corner of the square, where an ambulance has parked up.
Paramedics crouch on the pavement, tending to a handful of injured
teenagers. I take the kids’ phone numbers, figuring Jack can call and send
them some merch, or something. I feel so, so bad they got hurt. They’re just
children. None of this should have happened.
Sam manages to drag me away from my First Lady duties before I can find
any babies to kiss, and drives me away to the poshest part of Hampstead.
I’ve never been to this bit of the city before. I’d assumed Jack was joking
when he made fun of my grotty bungalow, but looking at this
neighbourhood, it’s possible that he actually thinks I’ve just taken all the
trowels and the rusting lawnmower out of a garden shed, and decided to
curl up in the spilt compost. These houses are insane: four or five stories,
with fountains and swimming pools and pillars. I think I see a turret or two
as we speed up the road, climbing a hill.
Sam eventually pulls up outside a massive iron gate. I crane to look through
it, but all I can see are trees, lazily ruffling green leaves in the breeze. “Is
this it?”
“Yeah.”
“Aren’t you going to blindfold me?”
“Nah. He likes you.” He holds his crackling radio to his mouth. “Sam. Open
up.” The gate swings open. I’m impressed at the completely reasonable
level of security. I was expecting a moat and drawbridge. Three-headed
hounds howling round the door and a Sphinx guarding his postbox.
Then we roll inside, through a little grove of silvery beeches, and my mouth
drops open.
Jack lives in a house made of mirrors. Every visible inch of the building is
paned with floor-to-ceiling mirrored windows which gleam in the late
afternoon sun, reflecting back sky and clouds and trees. The whole thing
sits on top of a ridiculously steep drive like a massive glass jewellery box.
Sam parks up and leads me inside. He leaves me in the middle of the lounge
with a takeaway menu, and goes to patrol the perimeter, or whatever it is
bodyguards do. And I’m alone. Jack Hale has left me alone in his house.
The living room is cool and empty, but not in a bad way. I can feel him
here. There’s a huge telly, and some black leather sofas. A few tall leafy
plants, and a massive sound system in the corner. The walls are lined with
bookshelves, neatly stacked with books. I go to investigate, and realise
they’re scripts. Hundreds and hundreds of scripts. I riffle through a few. I
don’t recognise many of the titles; they look like indie films. They’re all
from the last ten years, and they’re all thoroughly read, battered and stuffed
with fluorescent sticky notes.
On the end of the shelf is a framed photograph, and I drift over for a closer
look. It’s of Jack when he was much younger, probably still a teenager,
standing on a red carpet next to his mum. They’re both smiling at the
camera. I touch the glass. He’s got her smile—so big and blinding and
beautiful it sort of hurts to look at. If I had a smile like that, I would never
stop grinning at people. I’d jet around the city like London’s Joker.
A violent shiver shakes my skeleton, and I pull back my hand. I’m freezing.
I know from experience that not even a boiling shower and a mountain of
blankets will warm me up when I’m like this. I consider trying to find
Jack’s bed and taking a nap in it, then decide to suppress my inner
Goldilocks and not be really creepy.
My eyes catch on a grey hoodie thrown over the arm of his sofa. After a
moment’s hesitation, I pull it over my head, figuring it’s a slightly saner
compromise to climbing between his sheets. I bundle myself in the squashy
sofa corner, bury my face in his warm-comfortable-safe smell, and let
myself cry. Just a little bit. It’s nice to be able to cry in private, in his giant,
quiet, mirrored house, where no one can see me. Somehow, this privacy has
become a luxury.
When I’m done, I wipe my face and turn on the massive TV to fill the
silence. I almost have a heart attack when I recognise the giant scowl filling
the screen. Jack’s on the news.
“In celebrity news today, well-known actor Jack Hale was arrested two
hours ago in London for violently assaulting a paparazzo.”
There’s a shaky phone-camera video of us both huddled together, shot
through a heaving crowd of bodies, and I watch in horror as Jack lets go of
me and launches himself at a greying camera-man. A different angle
catches Jack smacking the guy in the jaw. It’s easy for me to forget, but
Jack is a trained fighter. He’s been taught boxing and martial arts and
wrestling for his roles. The photographer hits the ground so hard he
crunches.
“Hale and his girlfriend were cornered outside the Assembly of Silence
theatre by almost three hundred fans hoping to get a glimpse of the star.
Some are claiming his actions were justifiable as self-defence; others are
calling for charges to be pressed. No statements have been released from
either party.”
The picture switches to a crowd of people in raincoats huddled together in a
cemetery.
“Meanwhile, on the other side of London, crowds gather around Angelica
Hale’s memorial to pay their respects on the anniversary of her death.”
I close my eyes slowly. Oh, God.
The newsreader keeps droning on mercilessly. “The renowned actress
tragically died of a heart attack three years ago, at the age of forty-seven.
Her loss is still felt today by the British public, and over five hundred
people were in attendance at today’s memorial service. The event was
arranged via social media by her friend and previous co-star, Troy
Spencer.”
I flop back on the cushions as a series of pictures of Jack’s mum fill the
screen. I feel numb, like my whole body’s buzzing. Poor, poor Jack. He’s
having the most awful day.
“Hello, Cassie,” someone says behind me, and I jump so hard I think my
soul leaves my body for a few seconds.
“Sorry,” Con grimaces when I spin on him, wide-eyed. “I’m just passing
through; Jack spent most of his only call insisting I come check on you.” He
eyes the hoodie I’m wearing, his face carefully blank. “Do you need
anything?”
I shake my head jerkily and bounce off the sofa. “No. No. For him to come
back okay.” Con’s gaze drifts to the television. His lips press together. “I
didn’t know—” I trail off.
“That Angelica died today?” I nod. He doesn’t look surprised. “He doesn’t
talk about it. Never.” He gives me an assessing look, calmly examining my
soul, then seems to come to a decision. “Come on. Let’s have a talk.”
“Now? No. Can you just go get him, please?” I’m so frustrated.
He sits down on the sofa. “That can wait. He’s not going anywhere. And I
think it’s time for your performance review.”
Oh, God. I am so in trouble. I drop back down next to him and nervously
hug one of Jack’s cushions. “Is this about the pictures from last night?”
“Of you and your flatmate?” He shakes his head. “You’ve done nothing
wrong. You’ve actually done excellently.” He pulls out a magazine and
dumps it on my lap. I read the hot pink lettering:
Celebrity Sweethearts: Jack Hale and Cassie Ray Named Your Third-
Favourite Red Carpet couple!!
Underneath, there’s a picture of us taken a couple of weeks ago. I recognise
it. We’d been on a fake ice-cream date, and Jack had thought it would be
funny to order me a cone with every single topping on, assumedly just to
watch me struggle. In the picture, I’m stubbornly trying to catch all the
gummy-bears and cherries slowly avalanching down the side of the cone.
Jack’s looking at me and smiling.
Huh. I didn’t realise there were people that liked us. It occurs to me that
maybe I’ve only been reading the hate comments.
“It’s quite an act,” Con says softly. “Last night’s blip aside, you two are
being very convincing.”
“Yeah, well, apparently I’m a better actress than even I knew,” I mutter,
scanning the reader comments.

I think they’re cute together! he looks so huge next to her lol

Cassie seems really good for him, he’s so much more relaxed with
her than he was with Gina.

i’ve never seen him smile like that before. not even in a movie.

Con’s low voice breaks through my focus. “You know, there’s no need to
convince everybody, Cassie.”
I blink up at him. “What?”
Con sighs and takes off his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose. It’s a
long time before he speaks again. “Jack… had a very different upbringing
to you and me. It’s not something we can really comprehend, but he’s been
taken advantage of and tricked and lied to since he could talk. His mum had
to take him out of primary education because his teachers kept prying into
his home life. He wasn’t allowed many friends, because whenever he was
invited round their houses, the kid’s parents would grill him for private info.
He couldn’t leave the house alone, because journalists would follow him.
He’s been taught from the moment he was born that there’s a very, very
small group of people he can trust, and all other people will manipulate
him. He accepts that as a fact.” He glances at the screen, where a reporter is
interviewing mourners at the graveyard. “And he’s not wrong. Only family
members were invited to Angelica’s funeral, for security reasons. One of
them took a photo of Jack crying over the grave, and it sold for half a
million.” My heart is unravelling. “He changed a lot, after she died. He was
always reserved, but he just disappeared inside himself, for a long time. You
could talk to him, and it was like—interacting with a screen. No emotion at
all.”
“He was grieving.”
“Yes. And the last two years, he’s just stayed at home for the two weeks
around her death, drinking himself stupid. He’s completely unreachable. He
doesn’t like to go out in public, because the idea of being caught grieving in
front of photographers is…. horrific to him. His worst nightmare.”
So that explains Jack’s radio silence: he wasn’t trying to punish me, he was
mourning his fucking mum. Shame bubbles in my throat like acid.
Con continues relentlessly. “I assumed this year he would be the same. But
today, he decided to go to the busiest part of London, without security,
ostensibly to get photographed with you inside a dark room that doesn’t
allow flash photography. Why do you think he did that, Cassie?”
“I don’t know. I don’t understand anything he does. He never tells me how
he feels.”
He pushes his glasses up his nose. “That’s what I’m trying to explain. Jack
acts like he doesn’t have feelings, because people profit off his emotions.
He’s put money in the pockets of tens of thousands of paparazzi and
bloggers and reporters over the last six and a half weeks, by pretending to
be in love. As I’m sure you’ve realised, those people make even more from
him being sad, or angry, or hurt.” He waves a hand at the screen. “He hates
being famous. He hates the people. He hates not being able to leave his
house without getting harassed. It all just drives him further inside himself.”
His eyes burn into mine. “But he’s human, Cassie. He’s a person. He’s
perfectly capable of emotion. And he’s dealt with far, far more than his fair
share of betrayal.”
I wedge the cushion against my chest. “I’d never want to hurt him. Not
ever.”
He eyes Jack’s hoodie. I must have screwed up, putting it on. Maybe it was
his great-grandad’s, or something, and now I’m besmirching the Hale
Family Hoodie with my cheap vanilla perfume and tears. “I’m just
concerned at what direction this is going in,” he says, carefully. “I think you
two need to start being honest with each other, before something goes
wrong.”
“I don’t understand.”
He switches tactics. “Why are you so worried about him? You know he’ll
be okay. He’s with the police, he’s not going to get hurt.”
Sure, not physically. But I don’t want him hurt in any way. I want him safe
and happy and here. With me. I’ll keep him safe, away from the hundreds
of thousands of people that think he owes his life to them.
“Be honest with him about your feelings, Cassie.”
“But I don’t know what I feel,” I blurt out. “I still don’t properly even know
him. I don’t think he knows me. What’s real and what’s acting is all just…
blurred together.”
Con’s phone starts to ring, and he stands with a sigh. “Well, I suggest you
work it out. Quickly.” He picks up his jacket. “Can you convince him to get
some sleep tonight, please? He’s got his last audition tomorrow, and the
Star Charity Gala in the evening. It’s in aid of rescue animals this year.
After beating up a civilian, he should probably be seen cuddling some
puppies.”
I nod. He leaves.
Hours pass. Hours and hours. The room darkens, filling up with sharp
shadows that thicken the air. I can’t find any light switches, and after a few
embarrassing attempts at yelling at the wall (“Um. Lights on! Lights up!
Turn on the lights, please?”) I intelligently conclude they’re not voice-
operated. I resist the urge to explore. It seems wrong to go wandering round
Jack’s house and snooping through his things, especially after everything
Con’s just told me. So instead, I just sit on the sofa and burrow into his
hoodie, frozen and tired.
Finally, when the sky outside the windows is pitch-black, the front door
slams open.
 35

JACK NOTICES ME, and shuts the door softly behind him. We stare at
each other in silence. Then I stumble off the sofa, run across the room, and
throw myself into his arms like a wife greeting her husband on the docks at
the end of the war.
He peels me off him, gently pushing me away.
I step back. “Jack?”
He doesn’t say anything, reaching out to touch a spot on the wall. A light
flicks on above us, illuminating his face. It’s absolutely awful. He’s trying
to hide it, but he’s so, so upset. He can’t even look at me.
He heads to the corridor, and I trail after him. “Jack. Are you okay? What
happened? Are you hurt?”
He pauses in a doorway. “I’m gonna take a shower,” he says very quietly.
“Could you please just—” his voice chokes off, apparently physically
incapable of expressing one whole need.
I start making guesses to help him out. “Go home? Write a passive-
aggressive Tweet? Get you a towel?”
He shakes his head, the muscles in his arm flexing as he grips the
doorframe. “Please just… stay. Don’t go home.”
Relief floods me.
He showers forever. I listen to the rush of water, digging my nails into my
thighs. When the taps finally turn off and he reappears, dressed in heather-
grey joggers, his damp hair is darkened to brown. He leans in the doorway
and stares silently at my boobs.
I peer down at myself and remember I am a thief. “Oh. Sorry. I’m going to
sell it on eBay.”
“Looks better on you,” he says, voice grating.
“I can’t believe you own a hoodie.”
He heads to open-plan kitchen. “Want something to eat?”
“No. Are you okay?”
“Drink?” There’s the glass scrape of bottles.
I follow him. “What happened? I was so worried about you.”
He opens a cupboard. I peep over his shoulder, expecting an IKEA display,
shelves full of sterile white china—but all of his mugs are mismatched
merch emblazoned with movie logos. He has endless tins and packets of
posh coffee. I stare at the brand-new box of strawberry tea, shiny in its
plastic wrapping.
He grabs two wine glasses, then clatters through a drawer, unearthing a
corkscrew. “You like Reisling, right?”
“I don’t know. I like screwtop. Jack. Please. Please. Talk to me.”
He uncorks the bottle and pours two big glasses of pale white wine. Liquid
sloshes onto the marble counter, and he swears. His hands are shaking.
I take the bottle off him, setting it gently on the counter. “Can I have a
hug?”
He doesn’t say yes, but he doesn’t say no or obviously recoil, either, so I
reach up on my tiptoes and wrap my wrists around his neck.
Slowly, slowly, he winds his arms around me, curling his hands in my hair. I
feel him relaxing, stone softening to skin and muscle. I always thought our
size difference was awkward, but I’m just the right height that I can feel his
heartbeat against my cheek. “Thanks,” he mutters. I shake my head. Wine
drips off the countertop. He turns his head into my neck, breathing me in.
“Are you smelling my hair?” I whisper. “You’re so weird.”
His arms tighten. “I‘m sorry, Cass. I’m so, so sorry.”
I pull back, shocked. “What? None of it was your fault. All you did was
leave your house. Your fans are the ones who went all The Walking Dead.”
“I put you in danger. I took you out without security. You could’ve gotten
hurt. I can’t believe I put you in that situation.” He presses me closer to his
chest. “Jesus, why are you so cold?” He sounds frustrated.
“Sorry. You scared me. I’ll be like this for a while.”
He sighs and cups my face, his thumbs stroking my cheeks. Heat explodes
in my belly, and I wonder if he can feel me blushing. “I thought you’d be in
bed by now. Did you find a guest room?”
I wet my lips. His eyes flick to my mouth, just for a second. “Can I please
stay with you? I don’t think I’ll sleep alone.”
He nods and lets me go, picking up the wine glasses. “This way.”
I’m led through a door down a long white corridor, and into a planetarium.
At least, that’s what this room feels like. Jack lives on a hill, and his house
is a guard tower overlooking the city. Two of the walls are floor-to-ceiling
windows that open right out into black sky. London is spread below us, a
mess of millions of starry little lights, white and amber and red. It’s like
peering over the edge of a galaxy.
“Oh my God. Is this your bedroom?”
“Yes.”
I spin, taking in the wide space. “Be it ever so humble…”
“I know.”
He disappears into his walk-in wardrobe, and while he’s gone, I examine
his stuff. He’s hung vintage film posters behind glass on the walls, and
there’s a projector set on the ceiling. Another packed bookshelf crouches in
the corner of the room, which is pretty hot. I hear drawers being rolled open
and patter across the hardwood floor to his big white bed. His rumpled
sheets bunch together like snow drifts. My body aches to be inside all that
softness.
A piece of paper on the bedside table catches my eye. I carefully pick it up.
It’s a wobbly wax-crayon drawing of a blonde stick man in a cape, with
glitter-glue sparkles around his head. At first, I’m a bit concerned Jack has a
secret son, but then I realise it must be from one of his kid fans. A child
drew him a picture, and he kept it.
I put it down hastily when Jack comes back into the room, carrying some
fluffy blankets which he busily bundles me up in. I feel a bit like an hors
d’oeuvre, but it seems to be making him feel better, so I don’t say anything.
When he sits down and opens his arms to me, his face cautious, I have to
log roll across the mattress to get to him.
He holds me, and for a long time, we don’t move. We don’t say anything. I
tuck my head into his collarbone and press as close as I can. It’s obscene,
how long we hug. Longer and harder and more urgently than any pair of
friends. Endorphins sparkle through my blood. There’s a kind of hug you
can only get from your boyfriend, I think, and sadly, my neurons haven’t
quite gotten the message.
“You got this cold last night,” he mumbles into my hair. “You’re usually so
hot. Like a little furnace. Now you’re frozen.” He frowns. “Give me your
hands.”
“I’m honestly fine,” I protest. “Jack, this is normal.”
He somehow locates my hands in my cocoon and presses them between his.
Slowly, ice water stops rushing down my spine, and my muscles stop
clenching. I feel the softness of the quilt around my shoulders, the warmth
of Jack’s body next to mine. I push into him, eyes fluttering closed.
“Better?” He murmurs.
I nod. I wish I could make him feel better so easily.
He heaves a sigh that trembles my hair and unearths a remote from
somewhere, flicking on the TV and finding the news channel. I wince as his
face fills the screen. They’re playing his little exposé again. “You want to
watch that?”
“Con told me to check it out when I got back.” He turns the volume up and
we watch the same story I saw earlier. His face flickers ice-blue in the TV
light, completely empty of expression; he just looks exhausted. Drained.
Resigned. When a shot of me crumpled on the ground comes on, he groans
deeply, running a hand over his mouth. “Fuck.”
“It’s fine, I’m fine.”
“I left you alone. With them.” He sounds like he hates himself.
“You were quite busy being arrested, it’s okay.” Quick, change the subject.
“Is the guy pressing charges?”
“He threatened to. Gave a whole list of reasons. Assault. Battery. Emotional
distress.”
I snort. Emotional distress? Please. Come back to me when you black out
from hyperventilation, you whiny bitch.
“And,” his lips twitch. “Attempted robbery.” I stare at him. He shrugs. “I
grabbed his camera.”
“Wow. Can’t believe I’m dating an absolute delinquent. I’m gonna be a
prison girlfriend.” I snuggle into his side. “Can’t you tell them you were
defending me?”
His tiny smile disappears. “If I’d said that, you’d get dragged into the legal
stuff. Trust me, you don’t want to go to court. Anyway, he made it pretty
obvious he’ll drop charges for a payoff, so I doubt there’ll be a trial. Even if
there is, I deserve it.”
For a while, we both listen to the TV chatter. “Why did you hit him?” I ask
eventually.
“I couldn’t stand it anymore.” He grips the quilt around my shoulder.
“You’d just told me you got sexually harassed for two years straight,
everybody was yelling about my mum, there were photographers crushing
kids to get closer to me. Then he grabbed you. I don’t—” he takes a breath.
“I don’t understand how people can do that. You were obviously scared, but
he didn’t care. I hate this job. I hate these people.” I can feel him getting
more worked up. “I’m sorry I shouted at you. I didn’t want you to see me
getting handcuffed. It was embarrassing, and I thought you might get hurt, I
just had to get you away—”
I put my cheek on his arm. “It’s okay. I’m sorry, too.”
“You are literally the only person who has done nothing wrong in this
situation.”
“I misjudged you. I thought you were rude because you didn’t care about
people. But you’re rude because you want them to stay away from you.”
“Do you understand why, now?”
“Yes.” I bury my face in his shirt. “I want them to stay away from you, too.
I want you to live on an island with only people who love you.”
“It would be a very small island,” he mutters.
I cuddle him tighter, and he sighs, relaxing slightly. The news story changes
to the report on his mum, and clips from her shows flash onto the screen. I
watch from under his sleeve. “She’s so smiley,” I whisper.
“She was a people-pleaser, like you. Always so nice.” He huffs a laugh.
“She’d have bloody adored you. She always wanted a daughter.”
I’ve just taken an ill-timed sip of wine, and my lungs fill with Reisling. I
almost drown. “You two were really close, weren’t you?” I sputter, when I
can breathe again.
He shrugs, rubbing my back a bit. He looks miserable. “She was a single
parent, and I was home-schooled, growing up. I don’t know if I’ll ever be as
close to anyone again.” His eyes are so distant, watching her on the screen.
“It’s been years. Sometimes I still feel like I can’t see clearly. I still feel—
unsteady.”
I look up at him, and he falls silent again, snapping his jaw closed. He’s
said too much. He’s going to shut down.
I take the remote off him and zap the telly. “I think we should talk about
this.”
 36

HE REACHES FOR THE REMOTE, and I put it on his bedside table.

“You never speak about her. You never speak about any of your family.
Sometimes I feel like I don’t know anything about you at all.”
“I was assembled in a factory. I have no past.”
“That explains your ineptitude at human communication, I suppose.”
He leans against the headboard and takes a deep breath. I look out the
window, watching red and white ribbons of car lights stream slowly through
the city. “I’m still very, very angry,” he says quietly. “Besides, there’s
nothing to say. Her whole death is on public record. Gossip magazines
wrote about it, next to their Who Wore it Best columns. You know almost as
much as I do.”
I shake my head. “You interrupted my sleuthy research, remember?”
His eyes slide across to me. “I assumed you must’ve looked it up some
other time.”
“You told me you didn’t want me to. I wasn’t then going to covertly Google
her behind your back.”
He blinks. “Oh.” He’s silent for a moment, collecting himself. Then he
takes a deep swallow of wine and starts to talk, in slow, stilted sentences.
“She just wasn’t… built for fame, I guess. She was always a bit… fragile.
She’d been acting since she was a kid, just small roles in soaps and stuff—
but then she landed a contract on Caught in the Act. No-one expected it to
blow up like it did. It terrified her.” He curls his fingers around my wrist,
like he’s testing the size. “I remember, once, her therapist told her she was
paranoid. But she wasn’t. Paranoia is when you’re imagining a threat;
everything she was scared of was real. People really were following her
home. They were hacking into our internet to leak her emails. They were
taking photos of her changing through the bedroom windows. People really
did want to hurt her, just because she was famous. Maybe she made some
mistakes, but she was a good person, she didn’t deserve that. She was…
kind. And gentle.”
I put my head on his shoulder. “You get that from her, then.”
His laugh is empty. “I don’t think anybody’s ever called me either of those
things.”
“You are. You’re kind to me. And gentle.” I lift my wrist, where his big
fingers are loosely looped like a bracelet. “Look how you hold me. No one
touches me like this.”
His thumb strokes over the faint veins. “She couldn’t handle it. I found out
later that her agent had started pushing all these drugs on her—giving her
sleeping pills for the insomnia, filling her up with coke and champagne
when she had to be on set. Mum was really, really good at hiding it. Perils
of being an actor, I guess.” His eyelashes curl against his cheek. “After the
show ended, she couldn’t work anymore. She went to court a couple of
times for various legal issues, and we went into debt. When I turned
nineteen, I thought I’d help take the financial stress off her shoulders. I’d
always wanted to act in indie films, but the contract for the Union franchise
was seven films long, and it paid phenomenally. When I walked into the
audition, I read for less than a minute. They were thrilled to get their hands
on Angelica Hale’s son.”
“That was so kind. Giving away so much of your time to look after your
mum like that.” Jesus, he signed nine years of his life away to help her. I
think of his bookshelves of dog-eared scripts and my brain hurts.
“It made everything so much worse. We thought she was famous before—
when the Union films started releasing, it was a completely different level.
The paparazzi wouldn’t leave us alone. Our house was getting broken into
three times a week. Journalists were going through our bins. Mum was
petrified, all the time.” He pauses, rubs his eyes. “Then, on my twenty-first
birthday, I walked in on her passed out on the sofa. When she woke up in
the hospital, she broke down and told me about the booze and the drugs. It
probably wasn’t a fair reaction, but I was furious. I went over to a friend’s
house after she fell asleep. We drank a bottle of whiskey, and I told him
everything. He was very supportive. Very helpful.
“The next day, it was splashed on the front of every magazine in print. ‘This
Week’s Goss: Jack Hale Opens Up About Addict Mother’s Drug Issues’. My
friend made a bloody fortune, and mum was mortified. So, so upset.” He
stares blankly at the wall. “So upset.” He takes another gulp of wine. I
watch his throat move.
“Once the papers got ahold of that, it was a downward spiral. The media
was ruthless. Every single story was calling her a burnout, a has-been, an
addict. A bad mother. Tens of thousands of people were commenting, and
there wasn’t any sympathy. At all. And no matter how much I apologised to
her, I could tell my mum was never going to get over the fact that I’d told
anyone. It was the worst thing I possibly could’ve done to her. I opened her
up to all that hate. It was me.”
I start rubbing his arm. I don’t know what else to do.
“There were a few years where she was in and out of rehab, but it was the
beginning of the end, really. She couldn’t stop. Said the drugs were the only
thing that made the world feel safe. She was getting hospitalised every few
months. I hired Con around this time, and he managed to keep it all pretty
under wraps. He looked after her, better than I could. That’s why I went
along with this plan at all. He’s a genius. And very trustworthy.”
“He’s the only person you trust.” A thought occurs to me. “Is that why you
left set so often? To be with your mum?”
“What else could I do? She needed me.”
“Oh, Jack. And everyone thinks you’re a diva.”
His sigh heaves out of him. “Three years ago, I was on set in Australia, and
I got a call from her publicist saying that she was acting really strange. I
flew straight home, and—” he trails off. “And. It was too late.” I run my
hand up to his shoulder. His collarbone feels like the handlebar of a bike
under my fingers, and his muscle tension would give a masseuse night
terrors. He rubs his throat. “They ate her alive. She should’ve gotten better.
If she was in any other job, she’d still be here right now.”
I dig my nails into his shoulder. “She didn’t have a heart attack?”
“No, she did. It was because she had about ten times the lethal amount of
coke in her system—but it was a heart attack. I didn’t lie to you about that.”
“I wouldn’t have minded if you had.” I flop against the headboard,
processing. “Oh God. I’m so, so sorry. That’s so horrible.”
“Again, I doubt you were involved. Unless you used to moonlight as a very
high-end dealer?”
“Is that why you thought I overdosed last night?”
“You collapsed, you were struggling to breathe, and it just stopped my brain
for a second. I thought I’d done it again.” He stares blindly out of the
window. “That I’d actually made your life so fucking miserable that you
couldn’t handle it.”
Horror slams into me, knocking the air out of my lungs. “Oh my God,
Jack.” Without thinking, I climb on top of him and wrap my arms around
his neck, burying my face in his shoulder. “No. No. You don’t make me
miserable. You don’t make anyone miserable.”
He snorts. “You’ve kept me fully informed of when I’m destroying another
teenage girl’s life.”
I feel awful. “Yeah, but that’s just because you hurt my feelings, and I
didn’t understand why you were being an ass. I get it, now. You went out
without security, and you were assaulted by, like, three hundred people
simultaneously. Of course, you want to keep them away from you. You
have to, to live a semi-normal life.” I press my forehead against his.
“You’ve made so many people happy with your films.”
“Not you,” he points out. Wow, it feels pretty shitty, being officially the
worst person on Earth.
“You still make me happy. Just being around you makes me happy. Seeing
you is the best part of my day.” I stroke back his hair compulsively, like
being pet will make him feel any better. He doesn’t pull away, so maybe it
does, a bit. “You know it wasn’t your fault, right? You did nothing wrong,
getting angry and confiding in a friend. It’s their fault for being evil. Who
would do that?”
He shakes his head. “It was irresponsible of me to talk to them. I should’ve
known every single thing I said would hurt her. I should’ve known not to
talk.” His face darkens. “On my last press tour, I mentioned in an interview
that I didn’t like an app, and the company went under practically overnight.
Hundreds of people lost their jobs. When I think of how many families that
must have hurt, how many kids, how many marriages—sometimes I feel
like I shouldn’t bloody talk at all.” He picks up my arm, noticing a faint
bruise forming on my elbow from getting knocked about in the scrummage.
He looks at it like he’s heartbroken. “And now I’ve dragged you into it.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not. You’re hurt. And scared.”
“Hey.” I shove him gently. “You’ve not made me do anything. I’m the one
who chose to do this job. I decided to stay, when you tried to make me quit.
Don’t take that away from me. I haven’t done many brave things in my
life.” He’s silent, still staring at the bruise like it is life’s greatest tragedy. I
sigh. “There’s one thing I don’t understand, though. Why did we even go
out today? You could’ve stayed at home and avoided all the press.”
He hesitates. “Honestly?”
“Nope.” I take back my arm and press into him, forcing him to hug me
again. “Please spin me your very finest lie.”
He’s quiet for a long time. “I wanted to be with you,” he says, eventually. I
close my eyes. “I was upset, and I wanted to see you, but I couldn’t stand
the idea of being watched by security all day. I didn’t want to be around
anyone else. Just you. So I brought you out in public without them, and put
you in danger.”
“Jack.” My voice is hoarse. “We can hang out in private. If you’d called me,
I would’ve come over.”
“I know. I know you would. You’re a very good friend.” His chest expands
in one giant breath, then he stands up and heads to his wardrobe, effectively
ending the conversation. “Do you want something to sleep in?”
I hug my knees. “Do you have, like, a t-shirt?”
“It’s possible that I own a t-shirt,” he says, dryly, passing me a folded
square of white cotton.
“Thanks.” I shake it out. It’s faded, like he’s had it years. I rub the fabric
between my fingers. “Is it three thousand pounds?”
“I’m sure.”
I check the label. Topman.
We get ready for bed in silence, facing opposite walls. When we slip under
the covers again, he looks a bit lighter, like an angry black cloud that’s
softened up after a storm.
“Do you feel better?” I whisper into the dark.
He thinks about it. “I don’t know.”
“I won’t tell anyone. I won’t hurt you with it. Wanna hug?”
He wraps his arm around my waist, gripping his hand in his t-shirt. It pools
around my hips like a dress. “Christ,” he mutters, shifting me against his
chest. “Everything about you is so small. And soft.” His hand touches my
hair. “And… fluffy. You make me feel huge. Are you warm, now?”
“Yep.” Apparently we’re changing the subject. “I like that you’re a giant.
Makes me feel…” I trail off. The wine is going to my head. Everything is
humming.
He nudges me. “Makes you feel what?”
I flounder. I don’t remember where I was going with that. I can’t really say
‘catastrophically horny’, can I? He nudges me again, completely
unhelpfully.
“Safe. Comfortable. Like… coming home after a day of work.”
“I make you feel comfortable?” He echoes faintly.
“Relieved and comfortable and happy. You’re the human manifestation of
the feeling I get when I take off my bra in the evenings.”
“I’m not sure how to respond to that.”
I squish closer like a slug. “I’m really, really sorry about your mum, Jack.
It’s disgusting, what happened to her. No one deserves that.”
He gives me the tiniest smile. “Thank you.”
I nod and curl against him. I’m exhausted, but I lie still and wait for his
breathing to deepen and even out. There’s not a lot I can do to look out for
Jack—he’s bigger and stronger and richer than me. But I can keep him
company until he falls asleep. I can hold him and help him talk and make
sure he’s not left alone with his thoughts after a day like today.
Eventually, I feel him relax. I try to roll into a more comfortable position,
and he mumbles something in his sleep, tugging me closer to him. A wave
of affection washes over me, warming me to my toes. I stare at his profile in
the half-darkness.
Con was right. I do care about Jack. No matter how much I try to act like I
don’t, I care about him a lot. I can still feel this afternoon’s kiss pressed into
my lips, like when you touch something hot, and it’s still burning in your
skin hours later.
And I think I need to tell him. So many people have lied to him in his life—
he at least deserves the truth from me. I need to tell him before this blows
up in my face. I need to be brave enough to do that.
I’ll tell him tomorrow, I decide, before sleep drags me under.
 37

I DRIFT SLOWLY BACK AWAKE. I’m so warm. So cosy. I stretch,

blissfully. Someone shifts next to me. Arms pull me closer.
“Skittle,” a voice murmurs. A hand strokes back my hair.
I hum, happy. I love waking up with a man. Love when they’re all gruff and
sleepy. I squash deeper into his shoulder, snuggling my face into muscle.
The bed vibrates under me. “Not that I’m not really enjoying this, but I
don’t think Mansen will take ‘I was buried alive’ as a serious excuse for
missing his audition.”
Horror shoots through me. I’m instantly wide awake, and I can suddenly
feel every millimetre of the giant human body underneath me. One inch
from my face, Jack raises an eyebrow at me. “Good morning. Sleep well?”
I look down. It appears that I am lying directly on top of him, trying to
burrow into his chest like a little termite.
Good to know my subconscious isn’t desperate.
“Oh my God.” I whisper, still pressed into his neck. “Did I just rub all over
you?”
“Like a very happy cat. It was quite sweet.” He puts an arm on my back so I
can’t sit up. His voice is all rough and sexy. “Your hair almost suffocated
me, though. I thought I’d die before morning.” He pushes away a mass of
curls winding threateningly around his neck.
“How did I even get on top of you?” I give his shoulders a little rocking
shove. He doesn’t budge.
“You were cuddling me, and at some point in the night, I tried to roll onto
my back and you… stuck.” He looks like he’s trying not to smile.
“I’ve been lying on your chest for hours? Christ, are you okay? You’ve
probably got a collapsed lung now.”
He bursts out laughing. I feel it rumbling under me and through me, feel the
movement of all the muscles in his chest. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him
laugh before, but I’m not particularly surprised that the first time is at my
expense.
“Well, at least you’re in a good mood,” I grumble, sitting up and
accidentally straddling him. I’ve miscalculated my angles. Our crotches rub
together. His entire body jolts, and his hands fly to my hips, keeping me
still. He says an impressive number of four-letter words, closing his eyes.
“Sorry! Sorry.” I carefully slide off him and hide in the corner of the bed,
covering my face. Why am I like this?
I hear him take a steadying breath, then he leans over to peel my hands
away and study my expression. “Are you embarrassed or upset?”
“Embarrassed.”
“Okay. Carry on, then.” He puts my hands back over my face and picks up
a remote from the bedside table.
I watch through my fingers as the black polarised glass in his windows
turns translucent, then transparent. A pink and red sunrise streaks across the
sky all around us. It floods the room up with sugary light, turns our rumpled
silky sheets into a scoop of ice cream. My mouth drops open. “Holy crap.
That’s amazing.” I reach for the remote and press the button, darkening the
room and then brightening it again. “Why do you live on a spaceship?”
We both watch a bird flutter past. He tugs one of my curls. “I need to get
ready for my audition.”
“Will all this—the being arrested—will it affect your chances of getting the
part?”
He stands and slowly stretches out his muscles, letting out a soft sigh. I do
not watch. “We’ll find out, I guess,” he says eventually, rubbing the back of
his neck.
“Will it be done by nine, do you think? Con says we have to go to the
charity Gala because you beat that man up.”
“We’ll have time for both.” He assesses me. “It’s okay if you want the night
off. I can go alone.” He ruins the kind sentiment by adding, “You look like
shit.”
“Such romance from my boyfriend. Such tenderness. How he adores me.” I
roll over and hear him leave the room. Now I’m not aggressively cuddling
someone, I do feel pretty bad. I’m achy and cloudy with an anxiety
hangover, and my eyes are gritty from crying so much yesterday. There’s
some clattery kitchen sounds, then Jack comes back and sets a heavy mug
on the bedside table. Fragrant strawberry steam warms my cheek like a
blush. He touches my head lightly. “I’ve got to go.”
I check the bedside clock. “It’s like, six thirty. Is Mansen a Soviet
General?”
“I’m going to the gym first. You can stay as long as you want. Will the
mattress be enough, or should I go find some poor security guard for you to
lie on?”
I throw a pillow at him. He laughs again, then turns to go.
“Don’t you want your gym bag?” I point at it, curled in the corner of the
room.
“Right. Yes.” He slings it over his shoulder and heads out.
“Break a leg, babe!” I call after him.

♥
At one PM, I’m still curled up in Jack’s bed, trying to process my
unfortunate attraction to him, when my phone starts to buzz. After some
desperate fumbling, I find it under the pillow. Jack’s name glows on my
screen.
“Are you awake?” is the first thing he asks, because I guess even men that
look like gods can be idiots, sometimes.
“No. Are you auditioning?”
He huffs. “No. I forgot my script.”
“You’re not off-book yet? That’s embarrassing for you. The play’s been out
for about four centuries.”
“Will you come in and bring it for me?”
“You literally pay people to do things for you. Do you want me to ask one
of your drivers to do it?”
“I pay you to do things for me,” he points out, and yeah, I guess he’s got me
there. “Let me reiterate. I forgot my script. Come and bring it for me.”
“But… Sam would have to drive me to you, anyway. What’s the point of
me coming as well?”
“It’s the kitchen. See you.” He hangs up. I stare at the phone in my hand. I
really will never understand this man.

Nerves crunch me as I stand outside the door of the rehearsal room, peering
through the little window like an utter weirdo. I’m too shy to interrupt. The
room is full of people. A beautiful guy in a shirt the colour of prosciutto is
reading Juliet, mangling her lines so badly I’m certain it must be
intentional. As I spy through the window, his eyes flash up to me, and he
shoots me a smug look, as if he knows something I don’t.
It’s certainly not how read Shakespeare. This man wouldn’t recognise an
iamb if it came and slapped him in the face.
Embarrassed that he caught me, I knock on the door and push it all the way
open. “Um—sorry to interrupt. I’ve got your script, Jack.” I stand at the
threshold, waving the papers through the door. Jack gives me a pointed
look, clearly waiting for me to come in. I do, reluctantly, smiling around at
everyone.
“Thanks, Skittle,” he says, wrapping an arm around me. He presses his lips
to my ear. “Trust me,” he mumbles against my skin, too low for anyone else
to hear. I am instantly terrified. What an ominous, foreboding thing to say.
I’m probably about to get gang-murdered by all these people.
Or maybe just Mansen. He looks furious. “You’re giving me a migraine,
Tye. Can you actually read English? Is that the part that you’re struggling
with?”
“I am a musician,” Prosciutto protests. “Not an actor. I promised to write
you a score, not snog Hale whenever you needed a stand-in.” He considers
Jack thoughtfully. “You’re just not my type, mate. Maybe if I put a bag on
your head.”
Jack gives him the finger. I’m amazed. He has a friend!
“Where the Hell is Rosie?” Mansen rages at the room. “How the Hell am I
supposed to direct Romeo and Juliet without Juliet?” Everybody looks at
the floor.
Jack’s arm tightens around my waist. “Cassie knows the scene,” he drawls,
superlatively casual. My suspicion instantly becomes aroused, as well as the
rest of my body, a bit.
“You act?” Mansen asks, turning to me.
“Um,” I start, “nah, no, not really—”
“She played two runs as Juliet at the Assembly of Silence a couple years
ago,” Jack interrupts, turning crystal-blue eyes on me. “Lucky, isn’t it?”
Mansen sparks. “I knew I recognised you from somewhere. Harvey directed
it, didn’t he?”
I nod, stiffly. “Yeah.” Jack’s boyfriendly hand on my hip gives me a little
squeeze.
“Great director. Total git, but he knows what he’s doing. I saw the show five
times.” Mansen stares at me, probably imagining me in a bloodstained
nightgown. I try to look stricken with tragedy to help jog his memory. “Yes,
I remember you. I kept waiting for you to turn up in another production, but
you never did.”
“Uh. That’s me.” Universal disappointment.
“Hm.” He claps his hands. “Well, go on, then. Save Tye’s life. I’m on the
brink of killing him.”
Prosciutto blows me a kiss. Jack’s grip tightens.
“I’m sorry?”
“Be Jack’s Juliet. I suppose someone has to.”
 38

“BUT I—” before I can finish, Jack pulls me to the side of the room, away
from the others. “What the Hell are you doing?” I hiss, as he flips open his
script. “I can’t perform in front of Axel Mansen. I’m going to die.”
Jack rustles loudly through the pages. “No, it’s just the balcony scene. You
can stab yourself later.” He passes me the script, using the movement to
hide a quick stroke on the back of my hand. Which is weird. His PDA
should be very open and visible, not hidden behind a script. Everything is
happening backwards. There’s only so many levels of performance I can
process without overheating.
I grab his sleeve. “Jack, I’ll mess it up. This is your audition. I’ll ruin it.”
“You’re used to acting like you’re in love with me; I’d say it’s one of your
major skills. You’ll be fine.”
“I’ll be awful!”
He touches my face quickly, a fleeting brush of fingers. “You can do this,
Cass.”
“I—” I look around the room at all the expectant faces. I can’t believe I’m
getting peer-pressured into reading Shakespeare. This is a new level of
uncool. “Fine,” I mutter, my insides hurting. “If it’s that important to you.”
So much for ‘I’d never make you do something you don’t want to do’. I
guess being in the same room as Mansen has thrown that out of the window.
He dips and kisses the top of my head. I elbow him hard in the abs, eliciting
a muffled grunt, and feel a bit better.
“Ready?” Mansen calls, completely impatient. “Go from ‘It is my love, O
that she knew she were.’”
Jack starts to read, and I stare at him.
Of course, I’ve seen him read the part a hundred times, but not when he’s
giving it his full energy. He says the words slowly, weighing them in his
mouth. There’s a real, raw, complex expression on his face, all soft and
gentle and wanting. The afternoon sunlight slants over him, touching gold
into his hair. He’s stunning.
He raises an eyebrow. Oh, crap. My line. “Ay, me,” I stutter out.
Nailed it.
“She speaks,” Jack announces, dry. “Oh, speak again, bright angel.”
The familiar sarcasm is what I need to breathe out and relax into Juliet’s
skin. We make our way through the scene easily, bouncing off each other
without a hitch. It’s a little bit creepy, how well we work together. Like
we’re two dancers in step. I’ve never felt anything like it with another actor
before.
Jack’s eyes flash up to mine, and I startle like I’ve touched something
electric. It’s a look I’ve never seen from him, dark and sexy, like he wants
to press me against a wall. I feel myself starting to blush; I’m too hot in my
thin dress, squirming, restless. I suddenly feel his presence around me, like
he’s standing too close.
“Good night, good night,” I tell him, my eyes bouncing over his face.
“Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow.”
Jack says the last few lines quietly, almost under his breath. And then it’s
over.
No one says anything. I can hear the soft cooing of doves through the
cracked window. Everyone is staring at me, including Jack. He reaches out
as if he’s going to touch my hair, but then lets his hand fall.
“Again,” Mansen says. Jack drops his script, and this time we do the scene
off-book. I’m sweating by the end of it. When we’re done, Mansen pulls out
his phone and starts filming. “Again.”
He makes us repeat the scene three more times. When we finish the fifth
run-through, Mansen stays silent, watching us both. Outside, a cloud passes
over the sun, and the light glowing on our skin fades away.
“Who’s your agent, Cassandra?” Mansen asks, eventually.
My head snaps up. “I’m sorry?”
“Who’s your agent? They didn’t tell you I was auditioning for a film
adaptation of the show last year?”
“I don’t have one.”
He looks annoyed. “How do you expect to get roles without an agent?”
“I don’t act, anymore.”
“Little early to retire, isn’t it? Harvey must be paying his actors well.” He’s
silent for a moment, thinking. I reach out and curl my hand into Jack’s. “I’m
not going to lie, Hale. If you didn’t have the following you had, Tom would
edge you out.”
“I know,” Jack says calmly.
“Just barely, though. He’s more skilled, which isn’t surprising; he hasn’t
spent the last decade prancing around shirtless. But talent-wise, you’re
pretty much performing on the same level. Have you been getting training
outside of Union?”
“A lot, yes.”
“You’ve got some tics you need to unlearn, but I’ll beat them out of you.”
Jack inclines his head. I fizz with excitement.
Prosciutto raises a finger. “Maybe don’t say it like that?”
“You seem to have fixed your PR issues,” Mansen continues, his eyes
flicking to me, “and while I would appreciate you not smacking any more
paparazzi, you were probably doing the world a favour.” He sighs. “And
frankly, I want this film to make money. Which you will do.”
He presses his lips together, thinking hard. My heartbeat is in my ears. Next
to me, Jack breathes steadily, apparently completely relaxed.
Mansen comes to a decision. “Okay, Hale, the part’s yours.”
Jack’s eyebrows shoot up. He pulls away from me. “Really?”
“That was an excellent audition. You weren’t just acting, you were feeling.
And you’re the same,” he says to me. “Anyone would believe you’re in
love with him.”
My smile cracks. “Ha. Yeah.”
“I’ll contact your agent, Hale, you’ll have the contract by the end of the
day.” Mansen turns back to his phone. “Now that you’ve rigged your
audition, can you please call Rosie and inform her that her break is over,
and we do actually need her here.”
Butter could not melt in Jack’s mouth. “Rigged?”
“Well. I would suggest that telling your co-star a different call time so you
can use an award-winning Shakespearean actress in your audition is
probably cheating.”
“She’s my girlfriend,” Jack says, calmly, dropping his gaze back to the
script. He flips it over, making a note on the back. “I can use her how I
like.”
Something in me snaps.
 39

THE ROOM GOES dark around me. I’m still here, but my mind is
spiralling away, away.
A woman taps my shoulder. “Excuse me, Cassandra. My name is Elise, I
work as a stage manager at the—”
“I’m so sorry,” I mumble, “I really need to go.” I slide past her and out of
the room. I have to get away from him. I start down the corridor with his
voice ringing round my head, cold and direct.
I can use her how I like.
Jack respects Mansen. He really wants to impress him. He’ll do anything to
get this part. Right now, he’s giving the director a clear, level look he’s
never given me. He’s looking at him like he’s an equal, a partner, and I’ve
been so stupid.
What was it that Con said? ‘He’s incredibly good at faking emotion, if he
feels like it benefits him.’ Jack didn’t even bother denying that the audition
was a set-up. And I fell for it, like I always fall for Jack whenever he’s the
tiniest bit nice to me.
I know that I’m overreacting. I have no right to be upset. He was just trying
to get his part, and that was the whole point of our relationship in the first
place. But it hurts, and I can’t do this anymore. I’m being run ragged. My
whole life is acting, nothing is real, and my heart can’t take it. I reach the
lifts and push the button. I need to get out of here.
“Cassie!”
I close my eyes. Jack jogs down the corridor towards me. “What’s going
on? Are you okay?”
I jerk away as his fingers brush my neck. “I’m going home.”
The lift dings behind me and I throw myself into it, slamming the G button
and praying that the doors will close before he follows me in here.
Obviously, this does not happen, because he is right fucking there, two
metres away from me. He steps neatly into the cube of the lift car and
crosses his arms, looking distinctly unimpressed. “No.”
“Why not? You’ve got what you wanted.”
He gives me a dark look. “Not yet.”
I could scream. “So go back in there and sign the contract. Why are you
following me around? Go get your dream job and let me live my life.”
“No.”
What can I do? I can’t eject him from the lift. I stand in the opposite corner
to him and glare. He watches me back steadily.
The longest lift ride in the history of human existence finally ends, and I
head for the nearest exit. It leads into a little courtyard hidden round the
back of the building. Glossy green trees stand around a duck pond lined
with big grey stones. I sit down on a wooden bench with so much force, my
bum is probably going to bruise, and steel myself. This seems like as good a
place as any to hand in my badge. Jack stands over me, arms crossed, a
silent giant. Sunlight flickers at us through the trees.
“Is it true? Did you trick me into performing with you?”
“Yes,” he says, levelly.
I inhale through my nose. “And why didn’t you just ask me?”
“Because you’re scared of performing.” His eyes bore into me. “And I
thought you’d say no.”
Wow, that hurts. “I’m not that pathetic. I went to the audition you sent me
to.”
“You did. Then you stopped, for whatever reason.”
I turn away, my throat closing. “Fuck you.” I whisper. “If I don’t want to go,
I won’t.”
He takes my elbow. “Cassie. Listen—”
“No! You listen. I don’t like being lied to. You plotted this without me. That
guy in the awful shirt knew what you were doing, and I was in the dark.” I
take a deep breath. “I get it. You’re good at acting with me. We’ve practised
loads. And you really want this part. You didn’t have to be such a dick
about it, though.” My face twists. “I can use her how I like? Are you
serious? I’m not a bloody prop!”
“I thought it could help you get over your fear of performing. You’re so
used to acting with me, I figured that if I was in there with you, you’d be
less scared. And it’s a play you know so well.”
“You’re telling me,” I say flatly, “that you were lying to Mansen, and you
actually turned a career-defining audition into some kind of non-consensual
therapy exercise for me.” It’s the most ludicrous excuse.
He doesn’t blink. “Did it help?”
“I resign.”
“What?” He takes a step back. “Cassie. I’m sorry if what I did was out of
line. I didn’t expect it to upset you so much.” He runs a hand over his face.
“You mentioned yesterday that you didn’t think you could get back into
acting again, because of your old director’s influence. Mansen’s consulting
people in theatre. They’re in that room, they just saw you perform.” I stare
at him, disbelieving. “I just wanted to help you, Cass. You deserve to be
onstage.”
“That doesn’t mean you get to trick me! This is my life! My career! You
don’t get to swoop in and make these decisions for me!” I shake my head.
“And what if it went wrong? What if I screwed it up? I could’ve cost you
the job.”
“Worse things have happened,” he says, simply. “You love this. I saw that
yesterday. It’s what you were made to do. I’ve never worked so easily with
someone, it wasn’t acting at all. It was the most natural thing.”
“For me too. That’s the bloody problem.”
He goes still. “What?”
“Because—this feels real to me, Jack, and it’s starting to hurt too much,
okay?” I sag. “There’s only a week left, and you don’t need me anymore,
right? You’ve got the part. My work here is done.” His face is completely
blank. “It’s too hard, acting twenty-four-seven. Normally, when I play a
role, I step off stage, and I’m me again. I’ve never had to act out my own
life. I feel like I’m always on the back foot. I can’t trust anything. I can’t
trust you, I can’t trust my own mind. It’s starting to scare me. You said I can
leave if I want out, and I want out. I’m sorry.”
Jack’s silent for a long, long time. Minutes. He makes a move like he’s
going to come and sit next to me, then turns at the last second and stalks
over to the pond, raking a hand through his hair. I’ve seen this before. He’s
trying to express another Emotion.
I pat the warm wood of the bench and wait.
Eventually, he comes to a decision. “No.”
“No?”
“I really didn’t want to do this now.” He comes up to the bench and kneels
on the ground in front of me.
I stare. “Please don’t propose.”
“I’m just trying to get to your eye level.” He takes my hand.
I start to freak out. “Seriously. I won’t agree to fake-marry you, I’ll push
you right in the pond.”
“Cassie.” He squeezes my hand. “I will be anything for you. Anything you
want. But please don’t go.”
I can’t breathe. “What?”
He closes his eyes, and for the first time, I notice the starburst of tiny gold
freckles under his eyebrow. I watch his Adam’s apple bob. “I can’t stop
thinking about you,” he admits, as if he’s confessing something awful.
“Sorry?”
“I’ve not stopped thinking about you since you walked into the restaurant to
sign the contract.”
“Er.”
“I don’t know what I was expecting. An average terrible fan, I guess. I
thought you’d start screaming or crying, or something. I was furious with
you. But you walked in, and you were so beautiful. You were wearing red
lipstick, and this short dress with little red hearts on it. Or flowers?”
“Cherries.”
He groans. “You were all pink from being in the sun, and your hair looked
like it was eating you alive. I felt like I’d been slammed into by a truck
when you looked at me.”
I’m vaguely concerned someone back in the audition room slipped
something into his water bottle. I check his eyes. Yep: black and drugged.
“Are you on LSD?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone so...” He trails off, looking down at my
palm. His finger strokes my life line.
“Yeah, you’re going to have to pick an adjective, before I think of the worst
one imaginable.”
He swallows. “So comfortable. I feel like I can breathe out when I’m with
you. I’ve never felt like that with anyone, really.”
A feeling in my chest, like a wave breaking inside me. He’s breathing hard
now, I can feel it on my collarbone, and I’m shaking. “You’re right. I did lie
to you. I’ve been lying to you this whole time. I’m sorry. I tried to tell you
how I felt a while ago, actually, but when I kissed you, you said I was
making your skin crawl.”
“I think I misread the situation,” I choke out.
He lifts his head, looks straight at me. His eyes are clear as blue glass. “I
know that I’ve made your life so much harder. And probably a lot worse. I
know that I’ve given you no reason to want to be with me. And I know that
you said you wanted to be friends. So if you want to, we’ll end this now. I’ll
give you the money and you can go. But, God, Cassie, if you feel the same
—”
“Yes.”
 40

HE LOWERS HIS GAZE. A leaf drops off a tree above us and spirals
though the air, landing with a tiny plop in the pond. Very slowly, he reaches
out and cups my cheek. “Just to make this very clear,” he says, “I am
kissing you because I want to.”
“Kay.”
“The last time I tried to kiss you, you moved away so fast I think you broke
the sound barrier.”
“It’s my signature move.” I squirm, hot all over. “Guys love the chase. I
read it in a magazine.”
“Warn me if you’re going to do it again.” He lightly touches a curl on my
collarbone, eyes dark as he studies it. “It was bad for my self-esteem.”
I don’t say anything. I just look at him. He leans forward and grazes his lips
against mine, gentle as a butterfly landing on a leaf. He’s giving me a
chance to pull away.
I don’t. I close my eyes and breathe.
He makes a rough sound in his throat and wraps his hand around the back
of my neck, kissing me properly. Brightness bursts in my belly like a star as
we kiss, in slow, deep strokes, melting into each other. Somehow his bottom
lip ends up in my mouth. I take a tiny bite and start to sweat. He nips me
back, then squeezes my hips, pulling me off the bench and fully into his
arms.
Summer buzzes around us. Daffodils shiver in sunny clusters. The sun beats
down, white and hot, setting my hair burning black against my skin. I kiss
him again, and again, and again, licking into him, lapping him up, until he
starts making soft, low noises against my mouth. His breath is coming
faster, I feel the slow drag of cotton rubbing against my skin as his body
shifts under mine, like he can’t quite keep himself still. A flashing,
shrieking ambulance tears down the street, too fast; a heavy bird plops onto
the tree above us, scattering puffs of pollen over our hair and shoulders.
We’re still kissing, alone in this courtyard. It’s just us here. No one else.
Just us.
My breath hitches then sighs as he finally pulls away, graciously saving us
both from suffocation. We both stare at each other, breathing hard. His
normally icy eyes are steamy and black.
His thumb traces my bottom lip. “I’ve never met a girl that kisses like you.”
“Oh, God.” I’m suddenly mortified. “Am I doing it wrong?” It’s been years
since I last kissed someone properly. Not onstage, or posing for a photo, or
in an audition.
How depressing.
Jack distracts me from that ugly spiral of thought when he throws back his
head and laughs. I watch the green shadows of leaves flicker across his face
like an uncompleted puzzle. “No. No, you’re absolutely doing it right. It
just feels different, with you.” He cradles my cheek. “How do you feel?”
I don’t think anyone’s ever asked me that after a kiss, before. “Great. Just…
great. Warm. You’re so lovely.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Lovely.”
I snuggle into his hand. “Yep. And wonderful. Sorry to have to break it to
you. I know you think you’re the Big Bad Wolf, but you’re completely
lovely inside.”
He scowls like I’ve insulted him, but I can tell he’s pleased. His hand
curves down my back, solid and steadying, and I lean in, aching, to press
my mouth to his.
“I swear to fucking God,” Mansen snaps.
I jump so hard I almost bite Jack’s lip off and die. He just laughs,
smoothing my dress against my skin, then presses his cheek against my
chest and looks up at Mansen.
“I got lost on the way to the bathroom,” he deadpans. He’s an actor. He
really should be better at lying. I try to concentrate enough to come up with
an excuse for him, but his mouth is two thin layers of fabric away from my
boob, and the sensation is tangling up my synapses a bit. I’m gaping like a
fish.
Mansen’s face is steely. “Get back inside. Break’s over. Rosie’s finally
made her grand appearance.”
“Oh. I’m sorry—” I try to stand up, but Jack just clutches onto me,
apparently completely happy in our compromising position.
Mansen rolls his eyes. “I’ve called your agent. You should receive a formal
offer sometime this evening, all you have to do is sign it. Now put her down
and come back to the studio.”
Jack nods and stands, still holding me. He sets me gently back on the
ground. I feel as light and sparkly as a fairy. “I’ll just get Cassie a car, then
I’ll be right up.”
“You’ve only been employed a few seconds and you’re already being
irritating.”
“He’s actually a bit less irritating when you get to know him,” I speak up
defensively.
Mansen stares thoughtfully at the two of us with his creepily piercing eyes,
taking in the sunlight shimmering over our skin, our clinging fingers, the
shifted disarray of my dress. “It would be helpful if you two could drag this
out until after the film release. The last thing we need is another messy
breakup from Jack. I’ll sponsor extra time.”
I’m horrified. “But that will be at least a year! Or two!” I feel Jack turn and
look at me. “I mean. We’re actually dating? You don’t need to pay us.”
“We didn’t come out here to lie in wait for you,” Jack mutters.
“No,” Mansen says, archly. “You came here to find a toilet. We’ll discuss it
later. Five minutes, Hale. Feel free to just piss in a bush, if you’re that
desperate.”
He crunches off through the grass, and we’re alone again. I squint up at
Jack. He’s being haloed by the sun like an old Renaissance painting. “So,
um. What do we do now?”
“You’re going to have to take your hand off my belt, for a start,” he says
crisply. “I’m struggling to form full thoughts, at the moment.”
I hadn’t even noticed I had my fingers tucked under his belt. I try to let go
and end up gripping it harder. “Oops. I can’t let go. Is it magnetic?”
He groans, winding his fingers between mine and pulling my hand away.
“Do you want to kill me?”
“Yep. This was my secret assassination plan; do you like it?”
He bends down and kisses the corner of my mouth. “It has its perks.”
“Con’s next.”
“Absolutely not.” He winds a curl around his finger. We sigh in harmony.
“And now you have to go act like you’re in love with Rosie.” I sound so
sad.
“I wish it was you.”
“Be nice to her. There’s no way she’s getting paid enough to put up with
you.”
He looks amused. “I’m not known for my niceness.”
“You’re known for your White Stallion,” I say, a bit wistfully, and he barks
out a laugh, kissing me one last time—on my eyebrow, of all places. It’s so
full of affection that my throat tightens.
“Con’s ordered you a dress for tonight,” he says quietly. “Go home, rest. I’ll
see you at the Gala.”
 41

I CONTORT my body on the limo’s dark leather seat, trying to prop all my
weight on my elbows. I have been informed by the designer who so kindly
loaned me tonight’s dress that if it has a single crease in any of the
photographs, he’ll sue. Which seems reasonable.
Honestly, though, it’s worth it. The dress is delicious. I’d found it sitting on
my bed when I got home, wrapped in pearly tissue: a slinky piece of silk
which skims down my body and clings to my hips. It’s very pale blue, the
colour of the morning sky on a cool, wintry day.
I stroke the hem as the car rolls up outside the Gala. Paparazzi flashes start
popping through the dark windows, and my insides cramp. Sam opens the
door and I slide out gracefully onto the road, careful not to flash anyone.
People clamour around me, but my eyes go straight to Jack. He’s standing a
few steps away, waiting for me, his hands behind his back like a butler. I
watch as his gaze trails down my body, snagging on the silk slicked over
my skin.
“Hey,” I say breathlessly. I go to hug him, but he touches my waist and
stoops, kissing me hard. I hear wolf-whistles from the paparazzi as I soften
into his arms.
When he pulls away, he cups my cheek. “There’s been so many times I’ve
had to see you in these dresses,” he rasps, “and I couldn’t…” he trails off to
press a kiss to my temple. I close my eyes.
The carpet is torture. Slow, drawn-out, socialite torture. It’s for charity,
though, so at least we’re suffering for a good cause. We inch down the
carpet, talking to journalist after journalist, and while I smile and laugh and
make polite conversation about labradors, Jack keeps his hand flat on the
small of my back, left bare in my dress. His handprint burns into me, a few
inches above my bum. I try to act a publicly acceptable level of turned-on,
but when he draws a tiny circle with his finger, right at the base of my
spine, I can’t contain the shudder that runs through me. Jack pulls in closer
behind me, and I hear him breathe out audibly, low and deep.
We only make it four journalists in before a pretty blonde leans in and asks
Jack, “And how are you doing? You got in a bit of trouble on the
anniversary of your mother’s death. Are you still feeling upset?”
Jack locks up. “I’m fine,” he says, stiffly. I slip my hand under his jacket
and slide it up his back. He rolls his shoulders slightly. “I’m doing much
better, thank you.”
I give the interviewer a polite smile and push Jack gently along the line. He
picks up my hand and gratefully kisses the inside of my wrist. Only forty
more to go.

As soon as we step inside the hall, Jack pulls me to a bench in a shadowy

corner and onto his lap. He kisses me deeply, winding his hand slowly in
my ponytail, tilting my head back. Heat trembles inside me. “This is
literally a charity event, I don’t think it’s okay that I’m turned on,” I
whisper.
“It’s a charity for rescue animals. I don’t think the dogs will care.” He
strokes the inside of my elbow soothingly with his thumb. “I’ll leave a big
donation.”
I sigh and kiss his throat. He goes stone-still. I pull back. “Crap. You hate
necks. I forgot, sorry.”
He doesn’t say anything. I smooth his lapel, feeling how hard he’s
breathing. When I look up at him, his eyes are dark. We watch each other
for a moment, then he tilts back his head, baring his throat. I press a soft,
open-mouthed kiss under his jaw, then suck gently. His body jerks under
mine.
“You’re so sensitive!” I marvel.
“Gina used to call it my Achilles’ heel.” His breath starts speeding up as I
lick the hollow of his throat, tasting the warmth of his skin. “She’d attach
herself like a vampire every time she wanted to win an a-argument.”
“Does that work?” I murmur, getting ideas. I kiss my way up to his pulse,
feel it battering against my lips.
“I’d prefer you to not use my erogenous zones against—fuck.” He can’t
hold back his groan as I get a little skin between my teeth, tugging softly.
His fingers curl tight into my waist, digging in.
“You know I won’t,” I whisper, nuzzling him. “I will only use them to bring
you great pleasure, like a normal girlfriend.”
I feel his swallow against my cheek. He presses his lips back to mine,
hungry, and everything blurs.
Suddenly, a booming voice breaks between us. “Jack Hale! There you are! I
knew you’d be hiding somewhere!” I turn to see a man I vaguely recognise
off the telly standing next to us. He beams at Jack, completely ignoring my
existence. “I’ve been wanting to catch up with you! Is it true, you’re our
new Romeo?”
Jack’s hands tighten on me. “Yes,” he says tersely.
I know where I’m not needed. “Go on,” I hiss, sliding off his lap.
“Socialise. I need to go fix my lipstick, you’ve eaten it all.” I shove him out
into the hall, watching his face freeze over as he braces himself for social
interaction, shifting from intimate to professional like he’s flipping a
switch. He shakes the man’s hand, and the two enter a deep discussion. I
head to the loo and spend extra long touching up my makeup, hoping it will
force him to actually talk to people.
When I finally re-enter the hall, everything in me goes cold. My plan has
backfired dramatically.
Jack’s talking to Gina.
 42

I DIDN’T KNOW she was going to be here.

For a moment, I’m actually too stunned by how hot she is to move. Gina is
nuclear-level sexy. She practically emits heat. People can’t take their eyes
off her as she leans against the bar, delicately sipping a pretty pink cocktail.
There’s a ring of men flocking around her like sailors drawn onto the rocks
by a siren song. Most of them would probably pay her to murder them. I
think I would.
And she’s standing talking to Jack, close enough that their arms are
touching. I watch as she assesses him with her gorgeous green cat eyes,
biting down on the straw of her drink. I can’t properly see his face, but I
have to admit, the two of them look perfect together. They’re like a
painting. The chandeliers scatter gold light over their skin. Her perfectly
highlit cheekbones are as sharp as his jawline. She’s at a height where he
can actually see her face, not just the top of her head. They have to be two
of the fittest people alive, and I look like a plate of mashed potato with a
face.
I go to approach them, but I’m stopped by a stressed-looking photographer
with dangerously red cheeks. “Excuse me, miss? Can we take some outfit
pics?”
“I—uh—”
“Please,” he looks a bit desperate. “Honestly, I have a quota to fill, and no
one wants to stop and get photographed. I really need some pictures.”
I relent. “Oh. Right. Sure.”
He grins and leads me to the photography booth by the bar, which is
essentially just a set of cameras set up around a black background. From
this position, I’m close enough to actually hear Jack and Gina’s
conversation. I crane my neck to spy as the camera starts flashing at me. I
really hope the photographer thinks this is just a chic over-the-shoulder
pose.
“Is that why you haven’t been answering my calls?” I hear her say, in her
low, sultry voice.
“No,” Jack says, “it’s because I don’t want to speak to you.”
Gina sighs. “I do feel bad, but I did what I needed to do. If I hadn’t kicked
up a fuss, everybody would have forgotten my name within a week.”
“And now you’re with Manuel Wright. I’m assuming that’s a publicity
move as well, unless you’ve had some kind of traumatic head injury in the
last two months.”
“He’s hot right now.”
“Is that all that matters to you?”
“Yes, it is, actually!” She snaps, suddenly losing her glamorous composure.
“How else am I supposed to get my foot in the door?”
I smile at the photographer and go to leave, but he stops me. “Sorry. Can we
just get a quick shot of your bag? And the shoes, too, please.”
Gina’s voice drops to a low hiss. “For God’s sake, Jack, don’t you get it? I
need him. Without him, I disappear.” I feel a tiny fish-hook tug of
sympathy. “Do you think I want to spend my life stuck on the arms of men I
don’t actually love? What the Hell am I supposed to do?”
“I’m sure there are less morally corrupt options.”
“Oh, that’s rich. Have you ever had a female screenwriter? Ever? What
about a director? Producer? Editor? I’ve tried to make it the hard way for
twelve years, and it’s not just hard, it’s impossible. This whole game is
unfair, and the only way to get my movies made is to cheat. I’ll fuck the
entire bloody production team if I have to. I’ll do anything. I know it makes
me a bitch, but I just don’t care, anymore.” Jack doesn’t say anything. She
sighs again. “I don’t hate you, Jack. I don’t want to see you fall apart when
this girl takes what she wants from you and leaves you for the next big
name.”
Oh my God. “Okay, I really have to go,” I say.
“Oh, just one more thing, please, if you’d just stick your nails in the mani
cam, that would be great…”
I thrust my sparkly silver nails into the box, straining to hear.
“Don’t talk about Cassie,” Jack spits out. “You don’t know anything about
her.”
“She’s a woman. I know her better than you ever will.”
“I wasn’t under the impression you were all a hive-mind. Excuse me.” He
goes to slide past her. She grabs his bicep. He tenses. “What the fuck are
you doing?”
“Come on, Jack, you’re many terrible things, but you’re not stupid. Look at
her. Her entry-level acting career has suddenly exploded, she’s on the front
of every gossip magazine in print, and I bet she’s getting more job offers
than she has time to read. That’s how it worked for me.” She pauses, then
huffs out a breath. “Has she asked you for money?”
I wince.
“That’s none of your business. Get off.”
“Yes, then. My friend Amanda saw you two at a press event a couple of
months ago, and she told me your girl was blushing and giggling all over
Troy Spencer. He gave her his number. Wake up, Jack.”
“Okay, you’re done,” the photographer says, freeing me from his torture
chamber. I turn on my heel and practically sprint to Jack, zooming into the
crook of his arm like we’re magnetised. He looks down at me, his face
completely blank.
“Hey!” I say, eagerly. “Sorry to interrupt.” I tip my lips up for a kiss, and he
ignores me. Splendid.
Gina lets go of him and glitters at me. “Hi, Cassandra.”
I smile like the Mona Lisa. “Hi, Gina. It’s nice to meet you. Do you mind if
I borrow Jack for a sec?”
We’re gathering quite a bit of attention, now. I can see people squinting
between us, wondering how, exactly, I’m the upgrade. I get it. I look like a
failure in evolution next to her. She could gobble me up whole.
“’Course.” She runs her eyes over me. “Love the dress,” she says softly.
“That colour’s gorgeous on you.” Then she turns and drifts off, leaving
dazed men following slowly behind her.

Jack watches her back fade, his expression unreadable. “Let’s go to the car,”
he says, tonelessly.
I examine him. He’s snapped shut like a Venus flytrap. “You want to
leave?”
“I think that would be for the best.” He turns cold eyes on me. “Don’t you?”
I would have been so down for that plan half an hour ago, but right now, he
doesn’t look like he wants to ravish me at all, so I don’t have much
incentive to go. At least here, there’s an open bar.
“Not really.” I touch his lapel. “Hey, are you okay? I saw most of that
conversation, by the way, I was helplessly trapped in the photo booth.”
“Am I what?” He asks rudely.
“Uh, ‘okay’? Do you want me to rephrase the question? Which word are
you struggling with? They’re all quite short, I really thought you’d know
them all.”
Jack looks around the hall, then wraps his fingers loosely around my wrist
and tugs me towards a non-assuming door. It opens when he tries the
handle, and I’m gently pushed into a tiny dark room that stings my nostrils
with cleaning product. I flick on the light to illuminate more floor mops
than I’ve ever seen in my life.
“What an interesting storage closet,” I say. “Great choice.”
He shuts the door and turns on me. “Why would you ask me that?” He
sounds irritated.
“It’s the first time you’ve seen your ex since you broke up, and she grabbed
you. I’d be a bit shaken up, if I were you.”
He stares at me for a long time. “You’re not upset?”
“Um, no? Should I be?”
“If Gina had seen another woman touch me,” he says, slowly, “we’d
probably not speak for the rest of the week.”
“Ah, there’s the issue. We’re actually completely different people, I thought
you’d noticed.” I put my hand on his stomach. “It’s fine, Jack. I’m fully
aware I’ll have to deal with women chucking themselves at you whenever
you walk past. And I’m aware you can’t push them off you in front of a
camera. And I’m sorry, because I know you hate it. But I trust you.”
Before the last word is out of my mouth, he’s taken a step closer to me,
pushing me up against the wall. My pulse jackhammers. It’s like he’s been
switched back on. The coldness is gone, and his eyes are electric. His belt
buckle touches my belly. “You trust me.”
“Yep. I am very trusting, though, so it doesn’t mean much,” I gasp. Maybe
this closet exists in a vacuum. There’s no air in it. I clench my thighs, then
clench them harder as he dips his face into the crook of my neck. “Jack?”
“It does to me. It’s rare.”
It makes me sad, that he’s grown up in a place where no one trusts anybody.
He kisses my throat. “You’ve been driving me mad all night. I can’t stop
looking at you.”
I close my eyes as he pushes forward with his hips. The mood went from
heavy to horny real bloody fast, and I could not be more thrilled about it.
He thumbs the silk at my waist. “Like water.” The fabric slides under his
fingers, stroking me all over, rippling down my stomach and between my
thighs. I shiver. Jack notices, curving his hand over my belly, and I twitch
against him as heat pangs through me, sudden and frantic. How is this
happening? He’s barely touching me, but I’m suddenly so sensitive, my
whole body feels like it’s crackling. He takes a deep breath, letting me go.
We both watch the silk fall and splash around my ankles.
He laughs, suddenly. “God.” He lets his forehead fall onto my shoulder with
a groan, and I feel his hair shifting over my skin as he presses a chain of hot
kisses under my jaw, half-desperate. Everything in me pulses. I twist my
fingers in his jacket. I can’t act cool; I can’t act at all. I need him.
“Jack, I think I’ll die if I don’t have you.”
He pulls back to look at me. He’s flushed, blue eyes clouded and drunk.
“Well, we can’t have that,” he rasps. “I need you alive.”
I look at him from under my lashes. “Why? What are you going to do with
me?”
He takes my clumsy flirting and gives me back pure romance. “Everything.
I want to do everything with you.” We stare at each other in the ambient
cupboard light. Then, slowly, I headbutt his shoulder.
His hand finds my hair. “Can I call the car?”
I nod into his collarbone.
 43

THE DRIVE back to Jack’s house is a dark blur. After he writes a cheque
that would purchase a nicely sized London home, and I write one that might
buy a small shed if it was on sale, Jack drags me to the car, ignoring the
yells from photographers. Sam opens the door for us, smirking, and Jack
pulls me into his lap. We sink deep into buttery leather. Through the
window, camera flashes light us up like stars.
We fall on each other. He starts kissing urgently down the side of my neck,
and I focus on undoing him. I pluck off his cufflinks and rattle them in my
palm. I undo his tie and open his collar. I roll his sleeves up, trailing my
eyes up the tanned, thick muscle of his forearms, and fight the urge to fan
myself. You could steam vegetables under my dress.
As Jack kisses me, he tells me things. He tells me that he wants me. That
it’s been keeping him up at night. That he can’t get a decent night’s sleep
without me. He unclasps my hair, and it falls around my shoulders in loose
curls that he sweeps aside. His teeth bite down on a sensitive spot under my
ear, and I start to shake, clinging onto his shoulders. I feel so hot inside, like
someone’s pouring boiling water into my stomach, and it’s steaming and
burning deep inside of me. I squirm, and he just holds me tighter, fiercely
intent on murdering me. Our hips move together involuntarily. He groans.
We’ve been kissing and hugging for too long. I feel teased beyond belief.
Everything in me is tugging me forwards. I’ve never felt like this before.
Jack’s mouth starts to trail down, pressing against my cleavage, and I’m so
turned on I’m getting dizzy. I have to turn my face away and gasp for air as
my lungs crush.
“Hey.” His cool palm cups my cheek, turning me to him. “Cass, you’re
shaking.”
Am I? I raise my hand and watch it trembling. I shake my head jerkily,
wrapping my arms around his neck. “It’s fine.”
He pulls back, narrowing his eyes on my face. “You’re scared.”
I blink, checking inside me, and realise that I am. I’m kind of terrified, I
was just too horny to notice. I wonder if this is a potential therapy route for
me.
He strokes the curve of my cheek with his knuckle. “You know we don’t
have to do this. I can take you home. Or you could come over, and we can
just sleep. Watch a film. Order food.” His brows furrow. “I didn’t mean to
scare you.”
Embarrassment floods me. Why can’t I just be sexy, for once in my life? “I
so absolutely definitely want to do this,” I babble, “Jack, it’s fine. I’m
always scared. It’s in my nature. I’m an injured deer, remember?”
“I didn’t mean that.” He slides me closer, wedging us tightly together. “I
never want you to be scared with me. Not ever. Certainly fucking not when
I’m kissing you.”
“Does abject terror turn you off?” I wriggle on his lap. I could be wrong,
but he doesn’t feel turned off.
He clears his throat, shifting my weight on his thighs. “Very much, I’m
afraid.”
“Why do you like me at all, then,” I mumble.
“Talk to me. What’s wrong?”
“I just…” a ghostly image of Gina slinking around the Gala like a human
sex bomb pops behind my eyes. I try to bust her. Insecurity is not attractive.
“I think I’m star-struck,” I admit.
His face flickers. “You’ve known me almost two months.”
“But your celebrity dick’s going to be inside me, a peasant,” I insist.
“So that’s what you were hoping for.” His hands slide up to my shoulders
and squeeze reassuringly. “And why is that a problem?”
I look out of the window, watching the dark shapes of trees flash by. “This
is my first time in years. I’ve only slept with three people before. You’re
probably a fucking sex God, and I’m—not. I won’t be as good as… as the
people you’re used to.”
“Years?” He says hoarsely.
“About five years, yeah. I just forgot. Does that turn you on? Do you have a
fetish for chastity? That’s pretty unfortunate.”
He looks down, slowly thumbing the lace of my underwear through my
dress. “Have you forgotten how it works? I can give you a practical
demonstration.”
“This is important!” I insist. “I really like you. What if I’m shit in bed, and
then I ruin everything?”
“You are vastly underestimating how attracted I am to you,” he murmurs,
tracing my collarbone. I shudder as he trails his finger lightly down the
neckline of my dress. Stripes of amber light roll over our bodies as we
zoom past streetlamps, but his eyes don’t leave mine as he slowly cups my
breast, lifting and squeezing, like he’s testing the heaviness. All the breath
dissolves out of my body as silk slides over my skin. His thumb rubs a tiny
circle over my nipple, and I arch into him with a quiet noise. “That feel
good?” He asks softly. I nod. “We’re doing perfect, then.” His lips press to
the side of my throat. My eyes close. “Jesus, Cass. I don’t know what you
think I’m expecting. I just want to feel you. I want to be close to you. That’s
it. You can’t do anything wrong, okay?”
“Okay,” I whisper.
He gives my boob a comforting little squeeze, then pulls me into another
kiss. According to my phone, it lasts fifteen and a half minutes, until we’re
pulling up into the gravel drive of his house. Jack takes my hand and leads
me to his beautiful, cool, white room, surrounded by the darkening sky. I’m
breathing hard as he shuts the bedroom door. London twinkles at us through
the windows, and he’s silhouetted against it all.
I reach behind me to undo my dress, but he stops me, spinning me in his
arms.
“No,” he orders. “I’m undressing you. Stand still.”
I do, hardly daring to breathe. He touches the zip at the back of my neck,
but doesn’t pull it; his hands flatten and stroke over my back. They squeeze
my shoulders, stroke my arms, then slide down the curve of my waist,
feeling the silk glossed over my skin. Heat trickles through me, settling
between my legs. “Please,” I whisper, after a few trembling minutes of
petting.
He drops to his knees and kisses the small of my back, a few inches above
the scooped back of my dress. My spine jolts like a struck lightning rod.
“You have a freckle here,” he explains, touching his fingertip to my skin.
“It’s been killing me. All night, it’s been killing me.”
“Do you know what a zip is,” I say.
He smiles into me and stands, mercifully slitting the zip down my spine.
Silk flutters to the ground, falls to a frothy puddle at my feet, and I’m left
standing shivering in my bra and pants.
Jack makes a wounded sound. He takes my hips, and I’m carefully pivoted
back towards him, like a figurine on a music box. His lips part as he looks
at me. “Fuck.”
He sinks down onto the edge of the bed so we’re more level. I hear London
traffic honk in the distance. My breasts feel tight and heavy. “Christ,
Cassie,” he rasps. His fingers stroke the little stretch marks striping my
hips. “You’re like a Greek statue. Of Aphrodite, or someone.”
“My arms did fall off a while ago. Didn’t think you’d be rude enough to
mention it.”
Blue eyes wash over me like a hot tropical wave, drinking me in. He leans
forward, kissing a freckle on my collarbone. Then bites my bra strap. I
watch, my heart thudding in my throat, as he trails his lips down, down,
down across the pretty indigo lace. His rough stubble scrapes up my skin
unbearably lightly, teasing my nerves. My body is tickling, tingling all over.
It makes me want to press against his chest and desperately rub. When his
lips dip between the cups, I make a soft noise. His hands cup me through
my bra, slowly squeezing, then he slides his thumbs under the lace, nudging
my nipples. I twitch.
“Can I take it off?” He whispers.
I nod. He reaches behind me and unhooks. My breasts fall loose, and Jack
exhales, dipping his head, kissing down my cleavage. I squirm. A cool
night breeze flutters the thin curtains and trails goosebumps over my skin. I
hear the rush of cars and point at the windows.
“One-way glass,” he says quietly.
“It better be.” His lips touch my nipple, and my hands fly up to ball on his
shoulders.
He closes his eyes briefly. “Cassie.” He sounds like he’s dying.
“This isn’t fair. I’m completely naked. Let me do yours,” I beg, reaching for
his shirt. He catches my hand. A strange expression I haven’t seen before
flits over his face. He looks almost shy.
I frown, lowering my hand. “Jack?”
“I don’t look like the posters,” he warns me.
“What?”
“You’ve been seeing me on Bound press posters for the past two months.
When I took the photos, I was working out four hours a day and eating
creatine out of the jar. Mansen didn’t really want Romeo looking like a
bodybuilder.”
I stare at him. “Uh, Jack, I don’t want to shag a poster. I want to shag a
human man. Please.” His lips curve. He puts my hand back on his chest,
and I fumble at all his buttons. His shirt is cast aside into the darkness, and
my mouth goes dry as I see him. The hard lines of muscle. The flat
stomach. The strong arms. I run my fingers slowly down his chest. He’s
right, he does look different from the photos. He’s still so abbed-up I could
play him like a xylophone, but he looks a little more human, now. Solid. It’s
delicious. My eyes are probably black saucers, drinking him in.
“I like you better like this,” I promise, bending to kiss the spot right over his
heart. His hands wrap around my hips, squeezing me as I explore him. I
want to touch every part of him. I want to lick him all over. I kiss down the
faint line of gold hair trailing to his waistband, feeling his muscles clench
under me. “I hate these trousers, though.”
He looks down at his very expensive, totally nondescript black dress
trousers. “Really?”
“They’re horrendous. Literally so ugly. Please take them off.”
 44

THERE ARE a few beats of silence. Then he bursts out laughing. “God,
Cassie. Is that your idea of a pickup line?”
I stick my tongue out at him. He unbuckles his belt, slowly unlooping it,
and I watch, salivating, like I’m at a personal striptease. His trousers
disappear. He sits down, pulls me onto his lap, and kisses me so hard I think
I might black out.
It turns out, Jack loves kissing. Hard, soft, fast, slow. He loves all of it. It’s
so sweet. He holds me tighter and tighter against him, kissing me with
increasing urgency, until I’m bleating and sighing into his mouth.
I’m slightly less romantic. After a couple of minutes, I reach around and
grope him clumsily, grabbing his arse. “Give me your butt,” I order him.
“Give it to me right now.” He laughs into my mouth, and rolls his hips
forward, creating the most delicious pressure right where I need it. I moan,
running my hands over him. When my fingers slide over the bulge in his
underwear, he tips his head back. I squeeze a little, and his hand clenches in
the sheets. He only lets me touch him for a few seconds, making soft,
throaty noises, before he pulls away my hands, kissing my palms. “Go easy
on me. I’ve waited a long time for this.” He laughs, embarrassed. “I’ve been
turned on for about six weeks straight.”
There’s no way it’s been that long, but now is not the moment to quibble.
There are more important questions to ask, such as: “That sounds unhealthy.
Your dick’s probably fallen right off. Can I check?”
“Another pick-up line. They’re so original.”
I kiss his cheek very gently, then grope his butt again. “Is this okay?”
He snorts and rolls me over onto my back, staring intently at my shoulder.
“Um. Do I have something on me?”
“Freckles,” he murmurs, putting his lips on them. I’ve never thought much
about my freckles, but now I learn that they spangle my body. He dots me
over with tiny kisses. My shoulders. My chest. My hipbone. I am being
turned into the world’s first piece of pornographic pointillism.
As he kisses down my stomach, his hands sweep up to my breasts,
squeezing, pinching, rubbing, and my body starts to twist in the sheets,
trying to soothe itself. Shivers rush over me in waves. Every nerve in me
flares and burns. I’m sweating. So this is foreplay. No one has ever taken
the time to heat me up like this before. I legitimately feel like I’m about to
come, and he’s not even inside me, yet.
His mouth brushes against the blue lace of my thong, and I squeak and grab
his head. “Jack, please. Stop torturing me. I’ve been nothing but kind to
you.”
He looks thoughtfully at my face.
I kick off my pants encouragingly. “Please.”
Relenting, he sheds his own underwear, then leans over me and pulls
something out of his bedside drawer. I could sob when I see the sparkle of
silver between his fingers.
He snaps out the condom, but I steal it, and his whole body jerks as I slowly
roll it on for him. We both look down. He hisses out a breath through his
teeth. “Such small hands.”
I don’t think it’s my hands which are the problem. “You know human
growth hormones are bad for you?”
He throws his head back and laughs. “Comes with the Sex God territory,
I’m afraid.” He guides me back onto the pillows. “Lie down, Skittle. I’ll be
gentle.”
The first stroke into me is slow and steady. Careful. His jaw is clenched in
concentration. Outside the window, London’s lights blur. It’s been so long
since I’ve felt the weight of a man on top of me, and it is sensational.
I reach up and pet his hair. “Welcome! Come inside!” I slur, delirious with
pleasure.
He presses his forehead briefly against my collarbone, taking a shuddering
breath. “Jesus. You feel so fucking good.”
“Thanks,” I press desperately up into him. “Move please.”
He doesn’t. He strokes the inside of my wrist. “You’re all tensed up.
Relax.”
“I’m tense because you’re killing me. Please move, I’m dying.” I wrap my
arms around his neck. “I’m dying, babe, I’m dying, I’m dying. I’m literally
—”
He rocks into me. I go quiet.
“Still dying?” He checks.
I shiver all over.
He starts up a slow rolling rhythm, and I tilt my hips, trying to remember
the angle I like. His hand lifts my pelvis slightly, adjusting. There’s some
tiny sensitive spot deep inside of me that I swear has never been touched,
and when Jack grazes against it, I jolt under him, shocked. He smiles
against my cheek, rolling his hips again. The little brush sends a powerful
tingle through my belly, a bright spark.
“Does that feel good?” He murmurs in my ear.
I nod frantically into his arm. “I didn’t think I had a G-spot.”
He chokes. “Stop making me laugh.”
“Why? Do you want to stoically bang while we talk about the weather?”
He strokes my hair and presses into me again. And again, and again, and
again. I shut my eyes, letting myself feel. With each slick stroke, cold
sparks fly down my scalp, raining down my back, leaving me shuddering
into the pillow. I start to gasp over and over, in time with his sliding
touches.
He groans. “God. Yes.” A hand tangles in my hair, tugging slightly. “You’re
so beautiful,” he mumbles into my skin. His breath is hot as steam. “Cassie,
you’re so special.” I cling to his shoulders and make a crying noise. He
cups my face. “Hey. Talk. Don’t go quiet.”
“I’ve forgotten English,” I inform him, probably in some alien tongue.
“Sorry, I should be being more—”
“Shh. You’re perfect.” He speeds up. The bed thuds rhythmically against
the wall. It’s a good thing he’s so generous, because all I can do is lay
weakly back in the soft blanket folds. There are tears of pleasure on my
cheeks. I’m not getting out of this bed without smelling salts.
I don’t know how long passes. Minutes. Hours. Our hips roll and rub
together, his muscled body moving over mine, and I feel like I’m scrabbling
for purchase on the edge of a cliff. I’m holding back as long as I can. I need
this to last forever. A bead of sweat rolls down the side of Jack’s throat, and
I lap it up like I’m dying of thirst. His arms buckle and I almost get crushed.
I can’t believe I forgot his weak spot.
He apologises gruffly. I shake my head and start desperately making out
with his neck, kissing and sucking and licking and biting. His thrusts get
shuddery and uneven. Soon, he can’t stop groaning. He pulls my lips to his,
which is dangerous, because we’re both struggling to breathe, choking tight
little pants into each other’s mouths. Eventually, my body starts to give in.
My head tilts back, and my thigh jerks against his. He reaches down to
stroke it. I’m so, so close, I can feel this orgasm building in my goddamn
bones. I’m almost scared.
“Jack,” I say, suddenly. “Jack, please, please—”
I don’t know what I’m asking him for, but somehow, he does. He takes my
hand and puts it on the pillow over my head, tangling our fingers. Our
palms press reassuringly together, slipping with sweat. My fingers open and
close uselessly. He’s holding my hand. That’s so sweet I could cry. My
eyelids start to drop, and I can feel myself tipping over. “I’m going to—”
“I know, Skittle,” he rasps out. His thrusts are just uneven jolts as his body
tenses around me like a fist. He’s been holding back too. “Let me see.” I tip
my face towards him and we stare at each other. His eyes are foggy,
steamed-up stained glass, so incredibly blue. Emotion squeezes my heart.
“Smile,” I choke out.
He does, bemused, and my orgasm hits me like a cannonball, wrenching my
body hard against his. Jack shudders and clenches my waist and moans
softly, right in my ear. It’s so bloody hot it lights me on fire, blowing up the
heat inside me. I’m clawing at his back and bucking and gasping, and I
guess I’m going to be stuck in this state of perpetual orgasm until I die of a
heart attack or dehydration or something. Jack holds me steady through it
all, pressed safe against his chest.
 45

EVENTUALLY, the tension drains out of our muscles and we soften

together. We’re both panting, sticking together with sweat. He pulls me
even closer, wrapping his fantastic arms around me in a proper cuddle. I’m
still shivering and hitching with little flinchy aftershocks. I feel him stroke
my hair out of my face and press tiny, sweet kisses to my burning cheek. I
remember how to breathe again.
“Holy shit,” I whisper, flopping in the crook of his arm like the heroine in a
bodice-ripper. My body is singing like a struck bell. “Mmmm.”
He curls a finger under my jaw, turning my face towards his so I’m looking
into sweet sky-blue. I watch him languidly, waiting for my liquid body to
reform into bones and muscle. He watches me back, stroking my cheek
with the side of his finger.
“I can’t believe I met you,” he murmurs, and I crack open inside. I press our
foreheads together, and we just lie like that, as our breathing evens out and
our skin cools. I never want to move. I never want to let go of him.
“I need to pee,” I whisper.
He snorts. I slip out of bed and stagger off to the bathroom, collecting his
discarded shirt to wrap myself up in. In the loo, I wash off my smudged
makeup and drink a giant glass of cold water. When I look in the mirror, I
barely recognise myself. I’m half-naked, my hair falling in loose black
ringlets to my waist. My cheeks are flushed, my lips licked-candy red. My
eyes are almost black. My skin is glowing gold. I haven’t seen myself like
this in years.
I reach out to touch the glass with my fingernail.
I look sort of beautiful.
When I head back to the room, Jack is sitting up in bed, talking to someone
on the phone. I hover in the doorway, sneakily spying. “Yes, I’m happy.
This is just my voice,” he says. There’s a pause. “Well, I don’t have any
professional obligations, no.” I’m flattered. I’m no longer a professional
obligation. “Right. Well, thank you. I appreciate it. Yes, send the car round,
my security team will let it in.” He hangs up without saying goodbye and
drops the phone onto the bed with a sigh, running his hand through his hair.
I go to join him. “Are you going somewhere? Put some trousers on first, or
you’ll just get arrested again.”
As soon as he sees me, his shoulders loosen. “I like the shirt.” He reaches
up and drags it off my shoulder. “Take it off.”
I climb into his arms, and he pulls me down onto the mattress, gathering me
up. Oh, my God, he’s cuddling me. Jack Hale is honest-to-God post-sex
snuggling me. Every part of my body is being gently cradled. I wasn’t this
comfortable in the womb.
“Your bed is…”
“I know.”
“How much does this mattress cost?” I roll over and rub into the warm
sheets like a kitten.
He’s amused. “Are you interested in purchasing it? We could just share.
You can come visit it whenever you like.”
“It’s so weird when you’re cute.” I kiss his bicep. “So what’s happening?
When are you leaving?”
“Monday.” His face is inscrutable. “Now he’s finalised the cast, Mansen
wants to start shooting in Italy immediately. We’ll do some filming in
Rome, then go down south to some private Italian island.”
“Oh.” My voice sounds small. I shake myself out of it. This is great news.
“Well, that will be fun.”
He twists a curl between his fingers, watching it ringlet. “Sure.”
“You’ve wanted this for so long,” I remind him. “Are you going to get
sword-fighting workshops, and stuff?”
“I’ve already learned most of the fight choreography.”
“I love stage-fighting rehearsals. Even if I just had to quietly kill myself in
the corner and then be a corpse for twenty minutes, they were always
hilarious. Someone always gets kicked in the nuts.”
He sighs, then kisses the curl, letting it bounce back. “I love your hair. It’s
so fluffy.”
“You use it like a fidget toy when you’re stressed. Whenever we’re at
events, you can’t keep your hands out of it.”
“Do I mess it up?” He asks, sounding completely unbothered.
“I’ve learned not to bother with hairspray around you.” I toss my head and
shiver.
He traces his finger lightly over the bridge of my nose. “You have freckles
here, too. They’re the sweetest thing. I was so pissed off when my stylist
covered them up. You didn’t look anything like yourself.”
“Why did you care? You hated me.”
He frowns. “No. Never hated. I was very… conflicted.”
“You thought I was using you.”
He’s silent for a while. “It’s been a theme,” he says, eventually.
“Yeah, you can barely move for desperate wannabes popping up to ambush
you by the bins,” I say, lightly. “I’m like Oscar the Grouch.”
He lifts my arm and kisses the inside of my wrist. “I broke up with Gina
because I heard her on the phone to one of her girlfriends. ‘Dating Jack’s
like dating a Cyberman, but I can’t dump him, I need a ticket to the Golden
Globes’. Something like that. After years together.”
“That’s horrible. She’s horrible.”
He shrugs, fastidiously kissing the other wrist. “I was more annoyed than
upset.”
“If that’s true, you have no excuse for being such a dick to me.”
He frowns. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. For the first couple weeks, I honestly
thought you’d set me up. I saw you as an enemy. I didn’t want to be nice to
you.”
“When did you realise that wasn’t true?”
He takes my arm and starts absentmindedly stroking it, like it’s a pet.
“When that girl kissed me outside the hotel. Normally when shit like that
happens, people just laugh at me.” His lips quirk up. “You were so
outraged. You literally pushed me behind you, like you were going to
physically protect me from her. You’re like, this tall,” he raises a hand to his
mid-chest. “It was so fucking cute.”
I scowl. “I’m not cute.”
“You’re adorable.” He squeezes my forearm in a big palm. “And then we
went upstairs and napped in the hotel room, and I was holding you, and it
was the best sleep I’d had in months. Probably longer than that.” His fingers
slide to my elbow. Another squeeze. My muscles quiver. “What about you?
When did you stop hating me?”
“I guess I realised how much I liked you after you cut contact. I couldn’t
stop thinking about you. I never hated you, though. If you’d been nice from
the beginning, I would’ve wanted you from the very first day, probably.”
He drops my arm. “I’ve been an idiot.”
“You were ridiculously stubborn.”
“I didn’t want to believe you. I didn’t want to believe you were in the
wrong place at the wrong time. Because then I’d dragged an innocent,
unprepared bystander into this shitty industry against their will. And I know
what that does to people.”
I cup his jaw, forcing him to look at me. “Hey. Don’t worry about that. I am
fine.”
He smiles wanly. “I can’t exactly stop, Cass. It’s always in the back of my
head. It never goes away.”
“Is that why you tried to fire me after I nearly screamed the building
down?”
“A reporter had made you cry, and now you were having nightmares. It
scared me.” He swirls a fingertip on my shoulder, absentmindedly joining
up my freckles. “I’ve made so many mistakes. Sometimes my life just feels
like a whole chain of my own fuck-ups.”
“Yes, go on, say it like that.”
“Cassie. I’m starting to feel like maybe, maybe, I’ve finally got something
right.”
I look at him for a long time, then lean over to kiss him. Far below me, a
whole city throbs and twinkles. The millions of tiny lights fill up my heart
to bursting. Jack sighs and shuffles beneath me, tugging me so I’m lying
directly on top of him again. His heavy hand lands on the small of my back,
pressing our pelvises together. I cross my legs. Is it medically safe to be
turned on this much?
“I really don’t think your ribcage can handle this. You’re gonna develop
sleep apnea.”
“Have to feel you.” He starts stroking my back in long, lazy circles, and I
feel my body getting heavier. The last two days have really taken a toll on
me, and I just want to curl up into Jack and disappear for a few hours.
I’m halfway to sleep when my phone buzzes. I’m refusing to move ever
again, so Jack picks it up off the bedside table to hand it to me. His hand
stills as he stares at the screen. “Why the Hell is Troy Spencer calling you?”
Oh shit. “It’ll be about the audition.” I snatch the phone off him and decline
the call. “I told him no, but he didn’t seem to get the message.”
Jack looks at me steadily for a moment, then presses his face in my neck.
“Prick,” he whispers, starting to kiss me back to sleep.
 46

FOR THE WHOLE WEEKEND, I barely exist outside of Jack’s arms. It.
Is. Sensational.
Each morning, we sleep in late, then eat a giant breakfast in bed. Drink
coffee and tea on the terrace. Take slick, hot, steaming showers in his pretty
tiled bathroom. Turns out, we’re both very thorough washers.
When we finally make it onto dry land, we spend the afternoons watching
films and talking. I loll on his chest in one of his t-shirts while he plays with
my hair, and it’s so relaxing I keep falling asleep on him. Every time I wake
up, he’s looking right at me.
I’m not usually one to spend all day in bed, but honestly, we’re both drained
dry. I can see it in his face. It’s been a long few days, and I think he’s still
grieving a bit. I guess maybe he’s always grieving a bit. I don’t want him
getting attacked again, so I’m more than happy to keep him safely curled up
inside with me while we recharge. The days rush by quickly, but the nights
are slow and steady and deliciously good.
At some point on Sunday afternoon, Jack’s fiddling with his phone, when
he suddenly goes stiff. And not in a fun way.
I look up from where I’m obsessively petting his chest. “What?”
He shows me the screen wordlessly. He’s looking at Simon Harvey’s social
media page. I see my name, and fear clamps down on me. I bat away his
phone like it’s a rattlesnake. “Oh, God. What does he say?”
“You don’t want to read it?” I shake my head. He scans the screen quickly.
“Something along the lines of, ‘the accusations printed against Cassie Ray
are false, she is a lovely girl and an incredible actress who never threatened
or blackmailed me in any way.’”
I’m bowled over. “What? He said that? Why?”
“He didn’t take any responsibility at all,” he mutters.
Everything clicks into place. “Did you do this?” I demand. “Did you
threaten him?”
“I had a quiet conversation with him before the audition. It only took a few
minutes.”
Of course. I’ve been agonising over this for years, I lost all my friends, no
one believed me, and Jack just had to pop in for a quick chat to fix it all.
“Everything is so easy for you, isn’t it?” My voice is hollow.
His eyes cut to me. “Are you angry? I know I should’ve asked you, I just
—”
“You knew I’d say no,” I finish.
“It’s not just that. He clearly won’t listen to you, but I know he’ll listen to
me.”
Somehow, that doesn’t make me feel much better. He purses his lips,
rereading the message. “It’s definitely not an apology.”
I throw up my hands. “I don’t want an apology! Jack, I don’t want him to
talk to me! I don’t want any more of my life to have him in it!”
He grips my leg. “I don’t get it. Why aren’t you angry? He ruined your
career. Get mad about it.”
I yank away from him. “Don’t tell me how to feel!” I roll out of bed and go
to the window. London glitters blindingly under the hot sunny sky. I feel
useless. And stupid. And weak, needing a big strong man to come in and
solve all my problems.
Jack sighs from the bed, then comes to join me, laying a heavy hand on my
shoulder. “I should’ve asked you. I’m sorry. I had to do something. I can’t
sit and let people hurt you. I can’t watch you struggling to deal with media
attention that I put on you.”
I frown up at him. “You can just hug me. You don’t have to commandeer
my life.”
His voice is quieter. “I can’t let this keep happening to people I care about,
Cass.”
I think of him slowly turning to stone as he tried to tell me about his mum,
and I get it. Of course, I get it. He wants to protect me.
“This isn’t about you, though. It happened to me.” I twist to face him.
“Thank you for sticking up for me. Just ask me, next time, please? I don’t
have a whole lot of control over my life right now. I have a right to make
my own decisions.”
“Sorry,” he brushes our cheeks together. “It was out of line.”
“It’s okay. I get it.”
He kisses me gently, an apology, and all my muscles turn to water.

Eventually, my little bubble of paradise has to pop. On Monday, I wake up

to Jack rolling on top of me and slowly kissing the curve of my neck. I feel
his hot, heavy body moving over mine, pressing me down onto the soft bed.
Silky hair brushes my face, and I hum happily, wriggling under him.
“Don’t make those noises, Skittle.” His voice is rough.
I hug his bicep. “If it’s before seven I will kill you,” I warn him. “Kill, kill,
kill.” I ruin the threat a bit by snogging his arm.
“It’s midday. I don’t know how we slept this long.” He looks unhappy. “I
wanted to take you to breakfast. I wanted to talk.”
I roll over and hook my leg around his. He lets me pull him down on top of
me, and I can’t help my little sigh as I get squished into the mattress. I’m so
happy and warm. I can’t believe this is real. “We can talk now.”
“I’ve got a flight to catch,” he mumbles in my ear, and everything shatters.
“Nooo.” I try to buck him off and feel something interesting. I roll my hips
again. “Hey, if this acting malarkey doesn’t work out, you should get an
office job. You could punch holes with this thing.”
“Jesus, Cassie. Stop,” he chokes out. “Listen. When I’m back, can I take
you on a date?”
“Since when do you ask? Usually you command me on dates like a Sultan.”
He touches my lips with his thumb. “All of this will be over in a few days.
You won’t be under contract anymore.” There’s the weirdest lilt of
vulnerability in his voice.
“Ha! You won’t be the boss of me anymore.” I squirm out from under him
and head to the bathroom. I need to kiss him, which means I really need
some mouthwash. “Can the first date be mine? You’ve had loads.”
He leans in the bathroom doorway and watches my reflection as I brush my
teeth. “You pick. Wherever you want. We could go to Paris, or Greece. I
know a great restaurant in Verona.”
“Baby, that’s not a date, that’s international travel,” I manage to get out
through a mouthful of bristles. “I’m going to take you out, and I’m going to
pay, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”
His eyebrows pinch together. “What’s the point? You don’t have a job, and I
make so much money.”
When I first met him, I probably would have found a comment like that
rude; now I find his directness kind of endearing, which is embarrassing.
“Well, I don’t want to be your kept woman, do I? In a proper relationship, I
wouldn’t let my boyfriend pay for everything, no matter how loaded he
was.”
“But—”
I frown at him in the mirror. “I don’t want to feel like I owe you anything.
That’s scary to me.”
He comes to stand behind me, wrapping muscly arms around my waist. He
dips his head and breathes in my hair. “You don’t.”
“You’re right, though. I need a new job. D’you reckon now I’ve padded my
C.V., someone else will hire me to be their fake girlfriend? I bet it’s so hard
to get experienced workers in the industry these days.”
“You’re hilarious,” he says drily, letting me go and heading back into the
bedroom. I rinse my face, swish around some mouthwash, despair at my
hair, then join him. He’s sitting on the bed, elbows on his knees. His eyes
are faraway.
“Crap.” I slide into his arms, hugging him. “I’m sorry. I was only joking. I
forgot you have pathological trust issues.”
He settles me closer. “I was just thinking.”
“As if.” I stroke his chest. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know how to do this,” he says slowly.
“Do what? Cuddle? May I suggest squeezing my bum?”
He does, but it’s lacklustre. “I know what to do in a fake relationship. Most
of my romantic experience has been scripted, in front of a camera. But, as
Gee pointed out, I’m not exactly the best boyfriend in real life.”
“I love Cybermen,” I whisper. “They’re so hot.”
His mouth twists. He rests his chin on my shoulder. “You’ll meet someone
better. I’ll mess up. Something will happen. And when your contract’s up,
you won’t have any reason to stay.” He frowns. “That sounds like I want to
trap you with me. I don’t. But I’m aware that I don’t have a lot to offer…
personality-wise.”
I’m slightly offended. “You think I’m going to run into another man’s arms,
just because you’re not paying me anymore? I like your personality.”
He nudges my cheek with his nose. “Yesterday, when Mansen suggested
that we carry on dating until the film is out. You looked at him in complete
horror. Is the idea of two years with me that unbelievable?”
I sigh. “I just want this to be real. The next relationship contract I’m signing
is my marriage papers.”
He doesn’t respond. I reach up and cradle his head. “Trust me,” I whisper.
“I want you for you. Not your money, or your superhero muscles, or
anything else.”
He nods and tilts his lips up for me.
His phone starts to ring, and we both look at it like we want to throw it into
the fires of Mount Doom. He sighs. “That’ll be my car.”
I look around for a shirt. “Wait a second, I’ll walk you to the door.”
He eyes my completely naked body and swallows. “Please don’t.”
“Yeah. I don’t have any breadcrumbs handy. I’d never find my way back.” I
catch his hand and press it against my cheek. “Hey. I’ll miss you.”
He kisses me one last time, pinching the sheet and drawing it gently around
my shoulders. Then he grabs his suitcase, visibly steels himself, and walks
out of the room without looking back.
I lie there, cooling in the sheets, feeling like a bit of my heart has been dug
out of my chest with an ice cream scoop. I stare mournfully at the ceiling
for a bit, like the heartbroken heroine in a teen drama, but I’m soon
interrupted by a dull buzzing. I cast around for my phone, and read the text
shining up at me.

J: I’ll miss you too.

I fill up with butterflies. I flop back onto the bed, stuffing my smile into the
pillow.
 47

THE NEXT FEW days pass slowly. I am, predictably, utterly pathetic. I
miss Jack to bits. Apparently, one weekend of having an actual boyfriend is
enough to turn me into a total sap. What’s worse, Mansen subscribes to
these weird immersive acting methods, which means the cast aren’t allowed
to use phones or the internet while they’re filming, to help them stay in
character. Assumedly, they’ve also chucked their jeans and trainers, and
have to regularly stab each other offset.
I keep myself busy by helping Robin out with charity work. He’s organising
a fundraiser at the local park in a last-ditch attempt to raise some funds. On
Friday evening, we’re sprawled on his bedroom floor, sharing a bag of
donuts and shuffling two thousand glossy flyers into envelopes.
He doesn’t say anything as we work. He’s been subdued all week. I can see
how worried he is, and it’s killing me to not tell him about my upcoming
donation, but I’m terrified of jinxing it. I have a genetic resistance to luck. I
can’t say anything until I have the money.
I watch as he flinches with a paper cut, then just stares blankly at the blood
beading on his finger like he doesn’t know what to do about it.
I touch his knee. “Maybe you should take a break,” I offer gently. “I’ll
finish up here. Go out for a drink or something.”
He snorts, flicking a curl out of his face. “With who?” He sucks his finger
and keeps going one-handed.
I think. “What happened to the guy from work? Forearms. Aren’t you
seeing him?”
“In the closet,” he says, tersely.
“Caroline?”
“Keeps asking me to take her clothes shopping.”
I scrunch up my nose. “Why? You own two pairs of jeans and they’re both
dirty.”
“You know why,” he snaps. “Just drop it. I don’t have time, anyway.”
I hesitate, then tentatively put my head on his shoulder. “Are you okay?”
He wipes a hand over his face and nods. I think he’s getting wrinkles.
“Yeah. I just—everything is shit, you know?”
Robin is the strongest person I know. He spends all day answering
hysterical ambulance phone lines, then comes home and just keeps on
helping people. Screw The Guard, with his dumbass forcefields, he’s a real
life superhero. And he’s so tired.
I don’t know what to say, so I just sympathetically feed him a donut. It’s a
terrible idea. We’re still trying to wipe strawberry jam off the white
envelopes when my phone rings. I check the number, and my stomach
contracts. It’s Troy.
I ruffle Rob’s curls as I head into the hall to accept the call. “Hello?”
Troy’s soft voice filters through the speaker. “Hi, Cassandra. I’m just
calling to congratulate you! We’ve shortlisted you for the part of Lorelai,
the next audition’s tomorrow at my office, three o’clock—”
I suddenly have to lean against the wall. “Sorry, Troy, I still don’t think I
want to audition any more. Thanks so much for the offer, though.”
There’s a pause. “Well, that’s a surprise.” He sounds kind of irritated. “Can
I ask why?”
I watch through the doorway as Rob climbs precariously on his spinny desk
chair to grab another crate of envelopes from the top of his bookshelves.
“Like I said last time, I don’t think I’m a good fit for the role. I’ll bet there’s
loads of other people you’re auditioning who are so much better than me.
My last audition was a bit of a disaster.”
“Obviously, there’s room for improvement, but we really think you can do
the part justice. This is a big break, Cassandra.”
I examine my nails. I’ve bitten off my manicure. “Sorry. I just don’t think
I’m ready for a movie right now. I’m so sorry to have wasted your time.
Good luck, though, I’m sure it will turn out great—” There’s a sudden
clatter. I look up to see Rob lying dead in a heap of jiffy bags. “Oh, Jesus!
Are you okay?!”
A lone thumb rises from the pile. I run to his side.
Troy’s voice is flat in my ear. “Well, you’re obviously busy. Bye.” He hangs
up before I can say anything. I blink a bit at his abruptness, but figure he’s
probably just stressed. I imagine directing a film for the first time is
nightmare enough, without people dropping out of the audition cycle. I start
digging Rob out of the wreckage.

Later that night, I crawl into bed to read Con’s daily PR email. I scroll
through the regular articles, and click on one mysteriously titled JACK
HALE’S NEW FLING!!!
So enigmatic. I wonder what it’s about.
Roughly a million photos pop up of Jack canoodling with his Juliet, Rosie
White. She’s pretty. Very pretty. From the pictures, it looks like she’s
permanently sexily pouting, which must make speech a bit difficult, but we
all know Jack isn’t exactly a talker. I flick through the pictures. They’re in
front of a restaurant, and he’s cupping her face. Pulling back her hair.
Kissing her ear.
I feel my heartstrings start to snap, and shake my head firmly. I’ve learned
not to jump to conclusions with these things. I trust Jack. Let’s be honest;
he might look like an Action Man come to life, but he has absolutely no
game, and hates almost everyone. Unless Rosie is turned on by being glared
at and insulted, I probably have nothing to worry about.
Still. It’s hard to see, sometimes.
My phone lights up in my hand. I see Jack’s name and can’t press accept
call fast enough.
“Cass?” One syllable, and I can tell he’s exhausted.
“Hey, Romeo! What happened to the phone ban?” I settle back in my
pillows.
“I broke it.”
“You’re so bad. How’s fair Verona?”
“A bloody mess.”
“Oh, baby,” I coo. “Did you get kicked in the nuts?”
“Not yet. Where are you?”
“In bed.”
“Mmm.” He makes a grumbly noise, and I squirm in the sheets, my body
heating. “What are you wearing?”
“Oh, a corset and suspenders. Candy bra. One of those thongs with the
crotch cut out. Something like that.” I hesitate. “I was, um, thinking of
calling you about something, actually, but I didn’t want to get you in
trouble.”
“Should I be worried?”
“No. No. It’s just… there’s this story about you and Rosie.”
“I’m sure there is,” he mutters. “When we were in Rome yesterday, the paps
wouldn’t leave us alone. We’re working, for God’s sake.” I don’t say
anything, and he sighs. “Okay. What does the story say?” I send him a link
and hear him clicking. “Oh, we were having lunch in the city. It was hard to
hear over the reporters yelling, so I had to talk in her ear.” He pauses. “I
think I was telling her to move out of my way.”
As far as alibis go, it’s definitely plausible. I wriggle down in my duvet,
trying to get more comfortable. “Okay. Sorry. Was that rude? It’s not that I
don’t trust you, it’s just a bit hard when you’re dating a man who half the
human population wants to lick.”
“Ask me whatever you want, Skittle. I don’t want you to worry. I promise
you’re the only one who gets to lick me.”
I can’t really think of anything to say to that. I roll over onto my side. “So
why’d you break your phone ban? Is there something I’m supposed to be
doing? Am I not making enough public appearances looking forlorn and
lonely? Do you want me to hang outside the cinema staring wistfully at
your posters and hugging your cardboard cutout?”
There’s a beat of silence. “The contract’s over. It ended at midnight.”
“I’m a free elf,” I agree. “Did you call to dump me?”
“I just wanted to hear your voice.”
Ironically, I am instantly speechless.
“If I’d known it was this easy to shut you up, I would’ve told you that when
we first met,” he says, dry.
I rub my throat. “Well—what would you like me to say?”
His breath echoes down the line, so close in my ear I can almost feel it.
“Anything. Anything.”
My chest hurts. I look around my shadowy bedroom. “I miss you,” I
confess. “I really, really miss you.” My voice maybe cracks a bit. “Isn’t that
sad? It’s been less than a week. I’m getting so lonely without you.”
“Oh, Cassie,” he says, softly. “I miss you, too. I can hardly concentrate.
You’re all I bloody think about. We started shooting on the island today, and
you’d love it here. It’s nothing like Rome—it’s so quiet, no one ever bothers
us.”
I desperately cuddle my pillow. “Tell me about it. We’re on your island.
What would we do?”
In his deep, quiet voice, he paints me a picture. Dreamy evenings on sun-
warmed terraces; little blues bars tucked away in shady corners; nights of
endless spaghetti and olives and fresh pesto. Red wine in vineyards. Bright
blue sea and steamy heated pools. I start to ache.
“I’m getting turned on. You should be a travel agent. You’d sell so many
package holidays.” He makes a rough noise that sounds almost like a purr,
and I tingle in my blankets. “I haven’t been on holiday in like, seven years.”
“Seriously?”
“Not since I moved out of my parents’ house. And even then, they’d spend
the whole time examining leaf shapes.”
“I haven’t been on holiday since my mum died. We’ll go, when I’m done
with the film.”
“Really?”
“Of course. We’ll come here. In fact, maybe I’ll just buy the place,” he
muses. “I could do with investing in some property.”
I yawn. “You can’t buy an island, you div.”
“It’s only a little one.”
I close my eyes, listening to Jack’s steady breathing down the phone.
He sighs. “Cassie, I…” He trails off. “You’re falling asleep, aren’t you?”
“Mm… no. A bit. You should do ASMR.” I curl up in my blanket nest. It’s
so warm and soft. “‘M listenin’. You what?”
He keeps talking, lulling me to sleep. My dreams are a soft-focus movie,
low-lit scenes of white sheets and his warm body moving slowly over mine
as the sun beats down. Our real, unscripted, non-contractual future rolling
out in front of us. Just letting the days go by. Alone.
ACT THREE
THE END
 48

I’M WOKEN by my pillow vibrating under my face. I moan, clinging to the

fading images of a beautiful sunlit sex dream as my brain claws its way out
of sleep. When I finally get my eyes to crack open, I’m tragically not
getting dicked, it’s black outside, and my phone is ringing.
I fumble for it. Jack’s caller ID flashes up again, and I check the time. It’s
five AM. I groan, accepting the call, and flop back on the mattress like a
seal. “Babe, I love you, but you’re pushing it right now.”
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I clamp my teeth shut. Oh my God. I
can’t believe I said that.
There’s a long, long pause, then Jack clips out: “I just landed. Don’t speak
to the press. I’ve sent a car to bring you back to the house.”
“Wait, what?” I sit up. “You’re in England?”
“Obviously.”
“Why didn’t you say last night?!” I scramble to get out of bed, but I get
twisted in sheets and roll right onto the floor with a thump. “Why am I
going to your house?” I hiss, frantically disentangling myself. “Is this a
booty call? Should I—”
He hangs up. I stare at my phone for a second and then run to the bathroom
to brush my teeth. It’s embarrassing how gassed I am. There’s a heavy
knock on my door just as I’m spitting out toothpaste, and I literally squeak
in excitement, dashing to chuck a coat on and heading out onto the cold
street.
Sam doesn’t say anything as we drive to Jack’s place, which is fine. I chat
enough for both of us. I can’t help it, I’m buzzing. When we finally park up
outside the mirrored mansion, though, my nerves suddenly kick in. I go
quiet as I’m led into an office I haven’t seen before. It’s looming and dark,
stuffed with bookshelves and files and a mahogany bureau. I don’t know
what colour the walls are in daylight, but by desk lamp, they are a hideous,
bloody maroon. I wonder if he’ll let me advise him on interior design.
Both Jack and Con are there, looking rumpled and tired, watching
something on Jack’s computer. My heart throbs when I see him. He’s here.
We’re in the same room again. I’ve missed him so much.
I decide to play it cool, and lean glamorously in the doorway like a sexy
love interest. “Seriously? Five in the morning? Next time, just break into
my crappy flat and climb into my bed.”
Jack’s eyes flick up to mine. I beam at him, and he looks away. “I have to
be back on set by afternoon,” he mutters.
I’d been hoping he’d look even slightly happy to see me, but Jack’s not
exactly a morning person, so I trip across the room and slide into his arms
anyway. I fit there so well, slotting against his chest. “I’ve missed you so
much,” I mumble, pressing my face in his shirt and huffing him in.
His hands wrap around my wrists, and he pushes me off. “Don’t touch me.”
My heart sinks. “What?” His eyes are dark and glittery, his skin is pale.
“Are you okay? Oh, God, has something happened?” He doesn’t respond,
turning back to his desk and tapping at his laptop. I turn desperately to his
interpreter. “Con?”
Con doesn’t meet my eyes. The room is weirdly dark and full up of
shadows; the windows are opaque and blacked-out.
“You’re scaring me,” I say, uncertain.
Jack swivels his laptop around. He’s got a picture of me kissing Troy open,
like the world’s shittiest screensaver. I fight the urge to groan. Not this shit
again. I step forward for a better look.
The photo is a still from my audition, assumedly snatched from Anne’s
video. Troy’s pressing me against the wall, one hand up my skirt and the
other brushing my boob. I’m clinging to his jumper like I want to rip it off
him. I’m impressed with my acting abilities—considering how awkward
that kiss really was, I look quite enthusiastic in this shot. Which I’m
assuming is Jack’s issue.
“You’ve done your time,” Jack says robotically. “If you want to get
involved with him, I can’t stop you. I’ve got my role. You’ve got your
money.”
I straighten. “I hope you didn’t fly all the way back to confront me about
this, I could’ve told you over the phone. It’s a shot from an audition, the one
on Court Street. I don’t know how it got leaked, but I wasn’t cheating on
you, if that’s what you’re implying.” I eye the door that leads to his
bedroom. “How long before you have to leave again?”
He ignores me, picking up another file and ruffling through it. He really
doesn’t believe me, I realise. I take his hand, stilling him. “Jack. Listen to
me. It wasn’t—”
He shakes me off. “I didn’t call you here to talk. I called you here so we can
go through the paperwork. And to remind you of your legal responsibilities.
Spencer’s a chatty man; I don’t want you telling him anything.” He slams
the folder down on the desk. “Con, I can’t find the damn NDA.”
Con doesn’t move. Neither do I. Jack looks between us. “What.”
I cross my arms, bracing myself for the explosion. “I didn’t sign an NDA.”
Jack turns on Con. “Explain.”
Con hesitates. “She stipulated that she would only sign the contract if we
waived it. She seemed genuine. I thought it was worth the chance. I didn’t
think this would happen.”
Jack looks his best friend dead in the eyes. “Get out.”
“What?”
“Get out of my house. I’ll call you later.”
“You’re being—”
“I don’t want to fucking hear it. Get. Out.”
I watch Con deflate. “Just… be careful,” he mutters, before he leaves the
room. He takes all the air with him. The door swings shut, and we’re both
stuck in a vacuum.
My voice is quiet. “It wasn’t his fault. I insisted.”
“He agreed. He didn’t tell me. He was the only fucking person who’s never
—” He trails off, running his hands through his hair. For a second, he looks
completely raw. Then his face freezes carefully over again, and he
straightens up, taking a deep breath. “Well, thanks for that. Obviously, I’ll
ask you not to reveal any of my private information. But you’ll do what you
want, I suppose. Your payment will be wired into your account by the end
of the day.”
“Jack, you’re literally getting mad about something you’ve made up. I was
in an audition with Troy. We were doing a chemistry test, and we kissed. I
told you about it after. That’s it.”
His face twists. “Whilst his acting is so poor that it’s hard to tell, I was
unaware Spencer was a pornstar.”
I’m so frustrated I could stamp my foot like a toddler. “What are you
talking about? It was acting!”
“This isn’t an audition, Cassie. He’s got his hand up your skirt. Maybe I’m
just a gentleman, but I’ve never groped a girl in an audition.” He frowns
suddenly. “Troy didn’t actually—”
I scoff. “Please. He wasn’t groping me, it was a chemistry test. The scene
was in the movie.”
“Right. I see. So he’s fondling all the potential candidates. How thorough of
him.” He examines the screen. “I’ve been in the Court Street studios
hundreds of times. That’s not even what the rooms look like. Where are
you, his house?”
“His office. He was holding the auditions in his office. It’s got all books and
stuff in.” I rub my forehead. I can’t believe he got me out of bed just to
argue. “I understand how this looks, okay? I’ll just call Troy, he can tell you
what happened. It will all be fine.”
He shakes his head jerkily. “I’m not talking to him.”
“For God’s sake, Jack, you got set up as a cheater when we first met. Do
you really trust me so little you won’t even talk to someone who can vouch
for me?”
He starts sorting through the scattered papers on his desk, slowly tapping
them into piles. “I should’ve never doubted your acting skills. They’re
superb. I believed it.”
“If you don’t start listening to me, I’m going to scream. It. Was. An.
Audition. I just don’t understand how the photo got out. Don’t they have to
ask my permission first?”
“Troy’s a money-hungry piece of shit. He’s in debt. He’ll have sold it to the
press.”
I roll my eyes. “I seriously doubt he’s that desperate, he’s famous. He’s
probably loaded. Maybe he got hacked, or something. This picture is from
an intern’s phone; maybe she wanted some extra cash.”
Jack turns his back to me, sliding the NDA-less file into its place on the
shelf. “It was him.”
“Why would you assume that? You said it yourself, people invade
celebrities’ privacy all the time. Or do you think it only happens to you?” I
step towards him. “You know he keeps a childhood picture of you two in
his desk drawer? He misses you. I know you two fought over a part, but this
is ridiculous. He’s a nice guy.”
He spins to face me. There’s a red bloom spreading down his neck. He pulls
out his phone and speed dials someone. “Sam. Come to the office and
escort her out, please.”
My jaw drops. “What?”
He ends the call. “I’m not going to stand and listen to you lie to me.”
My rocket fuse catches alight, and suddenly, I’m incensed. “Don’t call me a
liar! Who the fuck do you think you are?”
He doesn’t say anything. We stare each other down, breathing hard. Anger
hangs in the air between us like gunpowder. His face is completely empty
of expression, and I realise mine is, too. We’re back to acting, and we’re
worse than when we started. He’s pretending he doesn’t care. I’m
pretending I’m not hurt. How did we get here again?
I shake my head. “You know what? Fine. I’m not going to argue with you.
You’re clearly not interested in listening to me.”
“You gave up that argument awfully quickly.”
“Jack, I’m not going to sit here and cry and beg you to pay attention to me.
If you don’t want to let me talk, I don’t want to date you. I’m supposed to
be your girlfriend, and you want to manhandle me out of your house in the
middle of an argument! I can’t believe you’re so scared of being lied to, that
you’d rather believe a gossip magazine over me. A gossip magazine!
They’re paid to write stories about people!”
“They’re not paid to falsify photographs, last I checked.”
Sam appears behind me, puts a light hand on my shoulder. “Come on,
Cassie.”
I shake him off. “You’re being fucking horrible,” I tell Jack. “I would never
treat you like this. I’ve trusted you with things I’ve barely told anyone.”
He crosses his arms over his chest, silently seething. I spent months
creeping under his walls, and now I’ve been chucked back out again. Sam
grasps my elbow more firmly this time. I try to wriggle free. My heart is
beating out of my chest. “You’re really not going to let me call Troy?”
Jack nods at the photo. “This is enough evidence for me. I have a plane to
catch.”
“You’re breaking up with me,” I clarify, trying to keep the wobble out of
my voice, “over an audition you sent me to.” Sam tugs me. I scowl up at
him. “Stop. Let me talk.”
His face is completely impassive. “Jack wants you to leave.”
Jack looks at the blacked-out windows. “I think we both got caught up in
the act. It happens. This was never going to actually work.”
It’s the stupidest ending line imaginable. “Oh, go fuck yourself,” I hiss,
yanking out of Sam’s hold. Tears prick my eyes, but I hold them back as I
march to the door. “Fine. Whatever. Hide back inside your shell. Good luck
with your life, babe.” I pause in the doorway, look at Jack’s dark shape
hanging over the desk like a spectre of death. “Maybe one day, if you ever
get your head out of your ass long enough to actually listen to a woman
speak, you’ll manage to find a girlfriend you don’t need to fucking pay.” I
turn on my heel and slam out of the room.
 49

OVER THE NEXT couple of weeks, the anger seeps out of me, leaving me
cold and sad and lonely.
I’m not physically alone, of course. I’m actually incredibly popular.
Everyone wants a piece of me. More paparazzi have started living outside
my front door, like a particularly persistent strain of mould. They wait and
laugh loudly and smoke, occasionally banging on the door. Every time I so
much as twitch a curtain, there’s a barrage of flashes. I’m trapped inside my
mouldy den. My phone buzzes so constantly, I could probably use it as a
reliable vibrator, but I can’t seem to get in the mood. After a few days, I just
dunk it under the water while I’m doing the washing up, and leave it there
to drown. I order a cheapo pink little pay-as-you-go and give the Rob the
number, then sit and stare at the empty contacts list, and realise I don’t have
a single other person on the planet I can trust enough to share my contact
information with. Eventually, I add my mum and dad and send off a quick
text to let them know I’ve switched numbers. Message failed to send flashes
on the screen, and I refuse to cry.
Mostly, I use my new phone to ring Troy. I ring him and ring him and ring
him. I ring his personal number; I ring his assistant; I ring the receptionist at
the block where I auditioned. He’s not made a statement, and I don’t want
to jump to conclusions. Maybe one of his workers released the picture.
Maybe he was hacked. I just have to get in touch with him, and he can clear
all of this up.
But he won’t call me back.
The only person I do have left is Rob. Luckily, he’s an excellent best friend
when it comes to break-ups. He efficiently goes through the massive pile of
posh clothes and makeup and jewellery I’ve accumulated over the last two
months, and shoves it all into big black bin bags. When Jack’s cologne ad
comes on telly, he boos and throws his popcorn at the screen. He even
offers to cut out a bunch of photos of Jack from magazines, so we can
conduct a ceremonial bonfire ritual—I decline, because it honestly seems a
bit weird, but at least it makes me laugh. I don’t laugh a lot, nowadays. I’m
so sad I feel a bit dead.
I know I should be angry with Jack. He’d been furious with me, for
something I didn’t even do. But for some reason, I can only remember him
gentle. When I lie in bed alone, all the pictures that flash through my mind
are soft and intimate. I remember him drawing a sheet up over my shoulder.
Kissing my hair when he thought I was asleep. Cradling my hand in his lap.
Now he hates me, and it’s like my breath had been taken out of my body.
It’s difficult to cope.
Still, at least one good thing has come out of this: I certainly did my job.
The public love Jack. He’s gone from being a cheating ass to a tragically
heartbroken martyr. His reputation is so immaculate it glows with holy
light. Mine, however, is trashed beyond repair. The amount of public hatred
for me is actually unbelievable. School kids are probably making voodoo
dolls of me in textiles class and stabbing them. New parents are singing
their babies to sleep, Cassie Ray broke Jack Hale’s heart, let’s burn the
bitch at dawn. Every day I’m flooded with messages and mentions and
news articles, and I know that I shouldn’t look, but I can’t stop myself, and
every time it’s worse. The words thrown at me are shocking.
People don’t want me to survive this. They want to break me down into
absolutely nothing, and it’s working. I’m terrified. I can barely eat. I don’t
sleep. My ribs feel like they’re on fire because my chest is permanently
tight. I stumble through the house in this weird, dreamy daze where nothing
feels real.
It’s not fair. Troy and Jack are smoothly prowling the streets in their
Jaguars, they’re getting handed shiny gold awards while thousands of
people clap, girls are sticking posters of them up in their bedrooms. All
while I’m curled up alone every night, choking and scrabbling and fighting
just to be able to breathe. It’s like there’s not enough space on Earth for
people like me.
Saturday is the day of Rob’s fundraiser in the park. I’m tempted to stay at
home and float sadly around the house wearing a quilt, but I did do all of
this for a reason, so I pull myself together and go to the bloody park. Or at
least, I try to. When I arrive and go to find Rob, everyone turns and stares.
A neighbour’s kid I used to babysit runs up to say hello. I smile and bend to
hug him, but his mum takes one look at the man behind me surreptitiously
filming me and quickly drags him away.
Rob’s too kind to say it, but I soon realise that I’m such a well-renowned
whore that I’m actually making the charity’s reputation worse. So I go
home.

Later that night, I’m doing my normal post-breakup dinner routine

(morosely staring at my reflection in a bowl of soup) when Rob storms into
my room.
“Are you serious?” He yells at me. He’s holding his sticky-note plastered
laptop. His eyes are golf balls.
“Sometimes,” I say, warily. “Are you?”
“You donated four hundred and fifty grand to SAFE?”
Oh, good, it finally went through. When I first tried to make the transaction,
the bank got a bit confused as to why I’d gone from overdraft, up to six
figures, and then back down to four. I had to prove I wasn’t a mule.
I wave him over and tap the screen with my nail. “See, that says
anonymous. It could’ve been anyone.” He gives me a Look. “What? You’ve
got a wealthy benefactor, I don’t know why you’re complaining. Now you
can finally afford to join high society.” I turn back to my cream of tomato.
“Do something fancy. Go to the opera. Have a scone.”
He’s shaking his head. “Cassie. No. You can’t do this. You went through
Hell to earn that money. The least you can do is buy yourself some nice
stuff.”
“It wasn’t me!” I insist.
“You’re the worse actress in the world.” Robin sits down next to me,
softening his voice. “Do you feel bad about keeping it?” I don’t say
anything. He sighs. “Cassie, you shouldn’t feel guilty. You earned the
money.”
“Look.” I put down my spoon. “You’re doing good work. I believe in it. It’s
so, so important. I’ve spent the last two months doing all this showy,
superficial shit that meant absolutely nothing, so please, just let me do
something good.”
“I’m not going to let you give this much—”
I throw up my hands. “I was never going to keep the money, anyway! And
I’m not taking it back, so stop being a twat and spend it!”
Rob sits back, realisation dawning. “This is why you took the job, isn’t it?
This isn’t a last-minute decision because you’re all sad and martyred. You
planned this all along.”
“I blame you, you know. None of this would’ve happened if you weren’t
such a bloody good person. You set the bar way too high.”
“Cass, what the Hell.” He rubs a hand over his face. “No. No.”
I roll my eyes. “Oh, calm down. I didn’t sell myself into indentured slavery,
it was two months of eating caviar and getting photographed in Chanel.
And it wasn’t all the money. I paid off my student debts, and I prepaid our
bills for the next six months. That should be long enough for you to get
SAFE back off the ground, and for me to find a real job.”
He sags. “You’re not going to take no for an answer.”
“I am fully prepared to die on this hill.”
“You’re absolutely insane, did you know that?”
“I didn’t, no, but thanks for the update.”
He launches himself at me. “Thank you, Cass. I—thank you, thank you. I
don’t know what to say.”
“It’s not for you. It’s for people that need help.” I pull him upright. “Will it
be enough to keep everything running?”
“Um, yeah.” He clicks through his laptop, bringing up a booklet of
spreadsheets to show me. “We’ll have to downsize a bit, but this will keep
us going for ages.”
“Hey, you fixed the finances.” I lean in, taking in the beautiful colour-coded
columns and complicated cell formulae. “This is so fancy. How’d you learn
to do this?”
He flushes pink. “I, er, had some help.”
I suddenly notice the notes stuck to his laptop. I peel one off. The
handwriting looks like something you’d see in a Victorian love letter. I stare
at him. “No. Way.”
Rob covers his face. “He offered to do it for free! I couldn’t say no! He was
too hot!” He sighs. “I’m sorry for fraternising. You’ve been so great, and
I’m total crap.”
“I didn’t break up with Con.” I’m completely delighted. “What happened?!
Isn’t he in Italy with Jack?”
Rob shakes his head. “He stayed in London. Apparently they’re not
speaking after the NDA situation. He couldn’t get in contact with you, so he
found my number on SAFE’s website and called last week asking how you
were.”
I blink. “Really? Why didn’t you tell me?”
He waves me off. “You were crying again. Anyway, we started talking
about the charity, and I mentioned I was looking to hire an accountant. He
said he’s got a finance degree, and he’s happy to volunteer while Jack’s
filming, so we met up in a pub and worked on it together.” He coughs.
“And then, at some point, I was like, ‘ha ha, looks like we’re finally having
our first date, lol’. And he said, ‘finally,’ and kissed me.”
I’m impressed. “Jesus. That’s so smooth. It took me and Jack months to get
to that point.”
“Yeah, but Conlan and I both have social skills.”
Fair enough. “And now?”
He winces. “I tried to resist, because he’s the best mate of the guy who
broke your heart—but he’s really fit, so I’m happy to announce I’m in
love.”
I’m buzzing. “Does he like you? Are you seeing him again?”
“I mean. He sent me more pictures of his dick, so I’m hoping they were for
my personal use, and not to put on my beautiful, chaste charity website.”
“Con sends dick pics?” I marvel. “Are they all anatomically labelled and
MLA formatted?”
Robin gawps. “You are a horrible little girl.”
I bounce on my mattress. “This is the best. Let me write you a list of all his
favourite things so you can woo him. First: pens.”
 50

TWO WEEKS LATER, I’m quietly minding my own business, hiding in

my room and pretending not to exist, when my phone buzzes. I open the
message, not bothering to check the contact, since I only have one.

R: just a warning, there might be some more paps outside the house
today…

He’s attached a screenshot from one of Troy’s social media pages. I blow up
the image and read the status Troy just posted.

To clarify: I was not aware Cassandra and Jack were still together
when the picture was taken. Jack is an old friend, I would never hurt
him. Cassandra’s choices are her own, but I’m still sorry if I’ve
upset anyone :(

I take a deep, calming breath, sit down on the sofa, and read the status
again. And again.

Cassandra’s choices are her own, but I’m still sorry if I’ve upset
anyone :(

It’s the emoticon that gets me.

:(
Anger sloshes through my blood like rocket fuel. It’s burning up every last
morsel of fear in me. It’s torching my humanity to ashes. Oh my God, he
did this on purpose. He released that photo to make the whole world think
he cucked Jack. He’s still bitter that he didn’t win Jack’s shitty superhero
part. He used me as a pawn in their stupid, petty fight.
I’m actually going to fucking murder him. I’m going to track him down and
garrotte him with his stupid Regency cravat. I’m going to carve a sad face
emoticon on his goddam gravestone. I am going to kill tonight.
I stomp into the kitchen, but before I can unearth our largest, sharpest bread
knife, my phone starts jangling. I pick it up reluctantly.
“Hi, are you going mental?”
“Rob! Nice to hear from you. I was just heading out. Shall I pick up a bung-
in for dinner? I’m thinking shepherd’s pie.” My mind is racing. I have to get
that video. I have to post it and prove that he’s a liar.
“Cassie, whatever you’re about to do, don’t do it.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I head over to the door and hop
into my boots, trying to zip them up one-handed and one-legged. “I was just
about to go for a nice brisk walk.”
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have sent you that. I forgot that you get possessed by
the devil when you’re angry.”
“Did you see what he wrote?” I get out through fiercely gritted teeth. “He
put an emoji at the end.”
“He’s a dick,” Rob soothes. “Listen, at least wait ‘til I’m off work. I’ll come
with you. We’ll fight him together.”
“You’re the one who always says I can do anything,” I remind him, jingling
my keys into my pocket.
“And you can, Cass, but you’re the size of a troll doll, so you might need a
bodyguard to do those things.”
“No time.” If Jack has taught me anything, it’s how to use anger and
irritation as a weapon, an energy source to help you stand your ground. If I
let this fizzle out, I’ll just go back into hiding. My chance will be gone.
“Has to be now. See you for dinner, if I’m still alive. Love you.” I cut off
his protests and shove my phone into my pocket, yanking the front door
open to complete and utter chaos.
There have to be at least twenty-five paparazzi milling around the street
outside. When they see me, they all start shouting. Flashes go off so fast my
vision strobes. I watch as a woman holding a child’s hand turns the corner
of the street, stares at the massive hoard of bellowing photographers, and
hurries the little girl back the way they came. I suddenly feel so, so sick.
This isn’t just affecting me. These idiots are scaring my neighbours.
I stamp down the steps to my garden gate and shove it open, almost
accidentally slamming one of the guys in the dick. “If any of you get too
close, it’s your fault that your equipment gets damaged, not mine,” I tell
them all, pushing through the crowd. There’s a taxi idling on the curb next
to the newsagent’s, and I jump in it, forcing a calm smile onto my face.
“Hiya! Can you take me to Court Street, please? Thank you so much.”
As we whoosh across London, I stare out of the window and simmer. It’s
true that I might not be hard or brave or authoritative. I’m not a badass girl-
power heroine. But I am a fucking actress. At the very least, I can pretend
to be.

Thirty minutes later, I swan up to the reception of Troy’s building. “Excuse

me?” The receptionist looks up at me, and her mouth drops open. I smile at
her pleasantly. “Hi, we’ve spoken on the phone, about forty times? You’ll
remember me, I’m Cassie.” My voice has the measured cadence of a tube
station announcer.
She sputters, “I—I told you, if you want to speak with Troy, you’ll have to
book an appointment with his management team.”
“Oh, I tried that, I just got hung up on, for some reason. Anyway, I’m
actually looking for Anne.”
Her eyes narrow. “Anne who?”
Well… crap. I ignore her. “Quite tall, red hair, lots of freckles, kind of shy?
You must have seen her around. She’s interning here. I have to talk to her.”
She looks disbelieving. “How do you know her?”
“She’s a friend.”
“And you don’t have her number?”
I toss my head, doing my best Jack Hale death glare. “I’ve lost my phone. Is
there a problem?”
“Well, I can’t just let you in to speak to one of our workers!”
I smile. “Tell her that Cassie Ray is here to see her, then. I’ll wait.”
She narrows her eyes. “I think you should leave.”
Before I work out what to say next, I notice a flash of red stepping out of
the lift. It’s Anne, struggling with a tray of about twenty cups of coffee.
“Anne?” I call. The receptionist swears under her breath.
The girl jumps, spilling coffee all over her hands. Her eyes go wide when
she sees me. “Oh, crap.”
“Hi.” I pluck a pack of tissues out of my bag and go to dab at her. “Sorry,
you didn’t get burnt, did you?”
“I—um—maybe? Oh, my God. I can’t believe it’s you.”
“Nice to see you too,” I say, taking the tray of coffee off her and sliding it
onto the counter. The receptionist squawks as her papers get sprinkled with
caramel macchiato. “Listen, can I just pull you for a quick chat? There’s a
cafe across the road.”
Anne nods jerkily. “Ah, yeah, um. I’m about to go on break.”
“Great.”

♥
Anne has been saying sorry for the past five minutes. She’s the single most
apologetic person I’ve ever met. I’m struggling to get a word in edgeways.
“I’m so sorry,” she says, again, and I nod as forgivingly as possible. “I
should’ve said something. I feel awful.”
“It’s fine. I don’t blame you at all. You didn’t do anything.”
“I should’ve done something!”
I rip off a piece of my Danish and dip it in my fruit tea. “I couldn’t expect
you to call up a gossip magazine and set them straight on my behalf. That’s
crazy.”
“No, I mean, I should’ve done something in the audition.”
I’m confused. “You couldn’t have done anything in the audition. Apart from
not film it, I guess, but you didn’t know what he was gonna do with the
footage. But listen.” I wipe my crumby fingers on a napkin. “I really need a
copy of the video.”
She hesitates.
I lean in confidingly, lowering my voice. “Nobody has to know you were
involved,” I mutter. I’m half a second away from saying, It’ll be our little
secret, but I think I might be getting carried away with the mafiesque drama
of it all. I am not a Russian drug lord, I remind myself firmly.
“I think they’ll probably be able to work it out,” she says doubtfully. “Apart
from Archie, I’m the only other person that was in the room.”
Fair. I think about it. “How about I make a lot of loud comments around
paparazzi about how I know code? Maybe then everyone will think I’m a
master hacker.”
She tugs the end of her ponytail, looking stressed beyond belief. “No, no,
it’s fine. Of course I’ll help you. I can get the file on a pen drive, or
something. It’ll be with all the other tapes.”
I push her muffin encouragingly toward her. “Don’t do it if you think you’ll
get fired. I don’t want you losing your job over me.”
Her mouth curls unhappily. “I hate this job anyway. This is supposed to be a
PR internship, but all I do is make coffee and get donuts. And I haven’t
been able to sleep at night, knowing that I could’ve done something to help.
Everybody’s being so awful to you.”
Oh, wow. Someone with a moral compass. Forgot they existed.
“Troy won’t have destroyed the footage?” I check.
She shakes her head. “It wouldn’t have crossed his mind. He’s used to
getting away with stuff like this.”
I lean across and give her a hug. “Thank you, Anne. I really appreciate it.
Hey.” I fish in my pocket for my keyring, dropping it in her hand. “Pen
drive.”
 51

WHEN I SLAM, victorious, back into the house, I am expecting to get

hailed as a hero. Instead, I’m confronted with Robin in his boxers, trying to
suffocate me.
“Oh, thank God, you’re alive. And not drenched in blood.” He clasps me so
hard I can’t breathe.
“It was well weird, I couldn’t get any of my knives through the metal
detector of his building.”
He buries his face in my shoulder. “I thought I’d killed you. Don’t leave me
like that again.”
“You have so little faith in me. I’ve survived this long, I’m quite robust.” I
pause. “I do need a bit of oxygen to survive, though.”
He finally lets me go. “What happened?”
I reach into my pocket and pull out my keyring, jangling out the BE YOUR
OWN SUPERHERO USB drive I got at Jack’s premiere. I find it quite
satisfying that the stolen video is now on the dumbest novelty pen drive on
planet Earth. “Can you pass my laptop?”
I stick it in the port, clicking through the folders. When I glance up, Rob is
smiling at me, like a proud parent whose child is graduating nursery.
“What?”
“I like this side of you. It suits you a lot better than moping around. I was
waiting for something to set off the rocket.”
I find the file and open it. “Cometh the hour, cometh the rocket. Get in
here.” He leans in behind me as I click play.
The video is pretty clear. It looks worse from third-person than I could have
possibly imagined, although I suppose my view was fairly obscured at the
time by Troy trying to lick the filling I have on my back tooth. What starts
off as a relatively sweet, slightly awkward embrace slowly devolves into a
heavy groping session that is actually pretty disturbing to watch. Especially
when I stop struggling to push him off and go limp.
We both watch as there’s a crash (I can see Anne’s hand purposefully
shoving the mug off the table, and I’m full of gratitude) and we finally pull
apart. The camera jolts, panning to fit me in frame as I collect my things,
stammering excuses, white and dazed and visibly shaking. Unedited, it’s
very obvious what has happened. There’s no question. Not even I can
convince myself that this was my fault, and I’m great at doing that.
When the video ends, all the heat drains out of me. I just feel cold and
empty. I slump back onto the cushions, bringing my knees to my chest. I
want to be small.
Rob’s voice is soft. “I’m assuming that wasn’t scripted.”
“That’s why Jack didn’t believe that the photo was from an audition.” My
voice is robotic. “Because no actor would stick his hand up an auditionee’s
skirt. He literally told me that, and I still made myself believe that it was
normal. How did I even do that?”
Rob sighs. “I mean, last time something like this happened, everyone said
you were crazy and oversensitive and a liar, and you got fired and lost your
flat and your dream career and all your friends. I don’t think it’s so weird
that you would internalise—”
“I convinced myself it was normal,” I repeat slowly. What is wrong with
me? Is stupidity a progressive disease?
“Stop it. Don’t do it. Don’t go there. You’ve done nothing wrong.” He jabs
a finger at the screen. “Look at that video. Only one person is committing a
crime, and it’s not you, okay? You idolised him, and he tricked you. There’s
no shame in being tricked.” I cover my face. He scoots closer and drapes an
arm over me. “It will never be your fault, so stop looking for ways you
messed up.”
Tears blur my eyes. I grit my teeth, not letting them fall. “What am I going
to do? I can’t release that. I just wanted proof that it was an audition, not—”
I stare at my frozen picture on the screen. I look petrified. I look weak. I
don’t want anyone else to see me like this. It would be like broadcasting a
video of myself getting smacked around the head with a sledgehammer. I’d
honestly rather have the entire world think I cheated on Jack, than let them
watch this.
Oh my God, what will people do to me if this gets out? The past few weeks
have been horrendous, and everyone just thinks I’m a cheater. This is
serious. If Troy’s fans think I’m making false allegations against their Lord,
they’ll rip me to shreds. They’ll defend him no matter how much proof I
show them. He has hundreds of thousands of people on his side, and I have
one.
“You need time to process,” Rob says, closing my laptop and cuddling me
properly. I sit like a statue as he rubs his curls against my neck. “Let’s
watch crap telly. I’ll go get some cheesy chips.” I don’t move. Rob is
clearly desperate. He brings out the big guns. “I can pop to the shop and get
you some potato smileys? Cass?” He looks at my face and swears. “Say
something so I know you’re in there.”
I rub my chest. “I can’t—” I clench my fists. “Do I have to tell people,
now?”
He looks uneasy. “You can. But you don’t have to. Really think about it
before you do anything.”
My head snaps towards him. “You don’t think I should?”
He hesitates. “I can’t say.”
“Say!”
He sighs. “Troy deserves for you to tell everyone what a piece of shit he is,
but it’s okay if you don’t want to. You have a right to be safe, Cass. Like,
it’s a literal human right. I know you were embarrassed about not reporting
Simon, but don’t let that affect what you do now. This is a totally different
scale.” I don’t say anything. “I could send the video to Con?” Rob offers.
“He’ll probably know the best way to handle it, PR-wise. He’ll help you.
Oh God, he’s gonna be so devastated.”
I shake my head. My throat is drying up. Sweat is prickling over my skin.
I’m sensing an impending breakdown, and I need to be alone. “Can you get
the smileys,” I ask Rob, who nods understandingly and leaves the room.
I shakily check my phone. Oh, excellent, Troy’s post got lots of attention.
#CheaterCassie is trending worldwide. Forty thousand people across the
planet have posted that they fucking hate me today. I’m connecting
mankind.
Forty thousand.
I scroll through them, and tears start to drip down my face. My heart is a
hamster on a wheel, going faster and faster. Everyone hates me.
This is all my fault. I should never have signed the contract. I should never
have kissed Troy, I should never have gone to the audition, I should never
have thought I could do any of this at all, I’m such an idiot, I hate myself, I
hate myself—
A pain in my hand bites through the panic. I look down and realise that I’m
digging my nails into my palm. I loosen my fingers, staring, dumbfounded,
at the little red crescent marks. I didn’t mean to do that.
All at once, the fear melts away, and I suddenly feel very gentle. I stroke my
fingers over my palm and look dazedly at my phone screen. All the
disgusting comments blur, and something clicks into place.
Robin said I have a right to be safe, and he meant safe from other people.
But right now, my own mind isn’t safe. It’s sucking up all the vicious, ugly
hate everyone is spewing at me, projecting it into my soul like toxic
electromagnetic waves. It’s sewing me up with self-hatred. Marinating
every thought I have in guilt and disgust. I’ve been internalising all the hate
and cruelty without even noticing.
I cradle my hand like a bird with a broken wing. What the Hell am I doing,
hurting myself? I can’t stop people from hating me or wanting to hurt me,
but I sure as Hell aren’t going to do it for them.
It’s like an epiphany. A pressure around my ribs lifts. My lungs suck up a
giant gulp of air. I think there has been shame lining my insides ever since
Simon’s very first gross comment at my very first rehearsal. It’s been
wrapped around my lungs like a heavy-bodied snake. As it uncoils, I can
see what was trapped underneath it all along was anger. Anger and
humiliation and hatred that fills me up. I start to shake with it. I burn with it.
Violent loathing runs through my blood, but for once, it isn’t aimed at me.
Why should it be? I didn’t do anything wrong.
I look at the marks on my palm again, and realise: I can’t keep all of this
inside me any more. It’s starting to hurt me. I need to start protecting
myself, from the inside out.
I pull out my phone and look up the number of Goss magazine.
 52

“YOU CAN’T WEAR THAT.”

I look up at Louise, then down at my dress. In a weird full circle, I have
ended up back in one of the dressing rooms at the Speakeasy Late Night
Talk Show. I contacted Goss and released the video last night, and I woke
up this morning to see it had already got almost a million views. My laptop
was choked with tens of thousands of emails and DMs and notifications
from people wanting statements. While I was dispiritedly sifting through
them, I spotted the message from my old workplace begging for an
interview.
I still don’t fully know why I said yes. I know what happens to guests on
this show. But Speakeasy attracts hundreds of thousands of viewers, and
it’ll be easier to do one widely broadcast interview, than to try and explain
everything in 280 characters. Speakeasy is also the only show I would feel
comfortable enough to go on. The idea of going onto an unfamiliar set and
talking to unfamiliar people is unthinkable.
I failed to take into account my own patheticness. I. Am. Petrified.
I clear my dry throat. “What do you mean?”
“It’s too tight on top,” Louise says, flatly.
I squint doubtfully at my boobs. “Is it?” It’s just a regular tea dress. “I’ve
seen guests wear much more revealing stuff.”
She sucks her teeth noisily. “Yes, but I want to put you in something more
conservative. To help credit your story.” She starts sifting through the lost
property bin, pulling out crumpled, unwashed clothes. “I’ll see if I can get
you a shawl, or something.” A shawl? What am I, a Victorian nanny?
Mario rolls his eyes from where’s he crouched, patting powder on my
cheeks. “Troy Spencer’s probably swimming in models, Lou. This has got to
be believable. You can’t cover her up completely.”
“She’s not going to get any sympathy if she looks like she just stepped out
of a brothel,” Louise snaps, pulling out a hideous hairy lump and tossing it
onto my lap. “Ah, here we go.”
I flinch away from the furry mass, but it turns out not to be roadkill. Just a
suspiciously bristly black turtleneck, size XXL Mens. I take a calming
breath and hand it back to her before I contract fleas. “This dress is fine. So
is the makeup. Thank you both. Can you please leave, now?”
Louise frowns. “But—”
Irritation electrifies me. I straighten my spine. “I worked here two years, I
know the wardrobe code. The dress is fine. I’d like some time alone before
I go on-set.”
I don’t exactly where the authority in my voice just came from, but it
works. They both shut up and sulkily leave the room.
For approximately one second, I feel okay.
Then a wave of nausea gushes up in me and my senses start to jumble up.
My skin numbs. The room closes in on me like an Indiana Jones booby
trap.
I groan, burying my face in my arms. I’m so frustrated I want to scream.
How the Hell am I supposed to stand up for myself if I pass out every time I
do something that scares me? I’m sick of being weak all the damn time. I’m
scared of my own mind, for God’s sake.
Jack’s cold, hard voice starts helpfully gonging in my ears.
She’s like a wounded deer. She’s going to get eaten alive. She’s too weak. It’s
embarrassing.
I want to claw my hands and rip his words out of my brain.
Sadly, before I can perform my DIY lobotomy, there’s a knock at the door.
“Are you ready?” Louise calls.
“I am going to wet myself,” I inform her.
A pause. “And are you normally incontinent?”
That drawl is definitely not Louise.
I look up, and my eyes go wide when I see the hottest woman alive standing
in my dressing room. She slides into the seat opposite mine, and I have to
blink a bit, to make sure she’s not a sexy mirage. “Gina? What are you
doing here?”
“I just filmed my slot. I’m promoting my new perfume.” She pauses. “I
think they thought it would be better television to put us on the same show.”
“Awesome,” I choke out. “Congrats.”
She gives me a once-over, tapping a manicured nail on the dresser. “I hope
you ruin his life,” she says, conversationally.
I’m so surprised, I’m jolted out of my spiralling panic. “You believe me?”
“Please. Everyone in the business knows Spencer’s a pig. Why do you think
no one will work with him?”
Of course, everyone knew. “I’m such an idiot,” I whisper.
She rolls her eyes. “It happens to everyone. This industry is so screwed up
on every level. So please, stop calling yourself an idiot, because you’re also
calling me, and like, billions of women throughout history idiots, as well.”
My eyes widen. “Oh, crap. I didn’t mean—”
She sighs. “I get why you blame yourself. It’s natural. Everyone does it. But
it’s a stupid habit, and you need to stop. If you wouldn’t say it about me,
don’t think it about yourself.” She runs a hand through her bouncy blow-
dry. Under her usual glitzy glow, she looks tired. Run down. “I’m guessing
you don’t have a PR manager?”
“Nope. Why?”
“No professional would let you do this. Mine didn’t.” She starts rummaging
around in her bag.
“Oh. You—”
“Don’t ask.” She holds out a pearly embossed business card. “You’ll need
numbers backing you up. Call me. I have some girlfriends who’ll vouch for
you.”
I stare at it dumbly. “I thought you hated me.”
She frowns. “I’ve never had anything against you. If anything, I’ve been
meaning to apologise to you. I put you through a shit ton of negative press.
It wasn’t personal.”
“I’m not the one you should apologise to,” I point out, and she flushes a
pretty pink. “Jack barely has anyone he can trust. Why did you lie?”
She’s silent for a few seconds, collecting her thoughts. “I didn’t, at first. My
publicist wrote the story. I woke up one morning and there it was.” She
fiddles with her necklace. “I did follow it through, though. I was hurt. We’d
always been on-again, off-again, and I assumed this was just another break.
Then suddenly, he was snogging some other girl. God, I was so angry. I
figured, I may as well get some exposure out of it before everyone forgets I
exist again.” Her voice gets harder. “Being arm candy feels like shit. It
pissed me off that I only mattered when I was with him. I still wanted to
matter.”
“You really liked him?”
She scoffs. “You know what he’s like. Of course, I loved him. Who
wouldn’t? We were terrible for each other, though.”
“Did you not tell him how you feel? He needs emotions spelled out very
clearly. Over and over again. In really big letters.”
“No, I didn’t. We were never a very sentimental couple.” She bites her
perfect coral lip. “I’ve never been able to get through to Jack. It didn’t
matter how hard I tried, he’d never open up to me about anything. It was
like falling for fucking automated phone system. It made me wonder if he
ever really cared about me, or if it was all just an act.”
“I know the feeling.”
She shakes her head. “No. Not you. He’s actually in love with you.”
I close my eyes.
She keeps talking, because the universe hates me. “I saw it at the Gala. I’ve
never seen him look at anybody like he looked at you. You’d think you
were the only person in the room. He was… soft. That’s why I tried to warn
him off you. I didn’t want him getting screwed over by someone he actually
loved.”
I really don’t want to talk about this right now. “If he loved me, he wouldn’t
have left me. We’re not getting back together.”
There’s a knock at the door, and Louise sticks her head in. “Come on, then,”
she barks.
Gina shoulders her bag and stands. She narrows her eyes at me. “Don’t be
weird about this, but I want to give you a hug.” Before I can say anything,
she’s lightly folding me up in her arms. Her skin is satiny and smells like
roses. I try my best not to shake. Robin is the only person who’s hugged me
for a month. I can’t even remember the last time a woman did.
She pulls back and jabs a spiky nail at me. “Argue everything. Okay? Don’t
let him talk over you. Say what you need to say.” I nod, simultaneously
intimidated and empowered. Her voice is stern. “And call me. If you don’t,
I’ll bribe a pap for your address and send someone to your house.” With
that vaguely threatening line, she flips back her hair and breezes out of the
room in a puff of rose perfume.
Heart pattering, I sit up straight and set my jaw, looking at myself in the
mirror.
For this interview, my motto is What Would Jack Do? Jack would be cold
and hard and he wouldn’t give an inch. Obviously, that didn’t work out well
for our relationship, and it leads to a pretty shitty personality—but I think
it’s what I need to be right now.
I’m not a wounded deer. I’m not prey, I am a person. I can turn around and
face Troy down. I can hunt him, too.
I get up and head to the door, not bothering to smile at Louise on my way
out.
 53

“THIS ALL SEEMS like an attention-seeking scheme, if I’m honest,” Paul

tells me, fifteen minutes later. Before I can reply, he cuts me off. “You’re
accusing Troy of groping you, but you’ve published this video publicly. If
you think you’ve been the victim of a crime, why not go straight to the
police?”
I shift on the sticky vinyl sofa. Bright studio lights beat down on me,
threatening to melt me. Cameras point at me from every angle. Paul has
been conducting some kind of forensic examination of my story for the last
ten minutes, tearing it apart very loudly and then completely ignoring my
answers. I’m trying very hard to stay calm.
“Again. He released the photos of us kissing to the entire world,” I say
patiently. “How is me doing the same with the video any worse? I don’t
want him arrested, I want people to stop believing the lies he’s telling about
me. I couldn’t have done that by privately conferring with the police, could
I?”
Paul leans forward, grey eyes gleaming cold like he thinks he’s caught me
in something. “So, you’re doing all this to make a point.”
I stare stonily back. “Yes. Is there a problem with that? It’s an important
point. It should be made.”
“Don’t you think this is a bit of an overreaction? Let’s be honest, this is a
fairly serious crime you’re accusing Spencer of, here. There’s a lot of
stigma being attached to sexual harassment right now.”
Jesus. “Oh, I apologise. Let’s all de-stigmatise sexual crimes.”
He looks at me blackly. “Don’t twist my words, you know what I mean.
This could be a career-destroying accusation for him. He deserves due
process.”
I lean back. “Sure. Never said he didn’t. While the legal experts decide
whether this video of him committing a crime is sufficient evidence of him
committing a crime, I’d quite like it if people called me a ‘whore’ a bit less.
Shouldn’t I be innocent until proven guilty, too?”
Paul sniffs. “Well. The video isn’t particularly clear, anyway.”
“Funny, it was clear enough when people thought I was cheating on my
boyfriend.”
He makes a big show of squinting at the screen. “It’s actually quite blurry.”
“I’m sorry to hear it doesn’t meet your standards.” I’m getting beyond
irritated, now. “How could I have improved it? Maybe multiple camera
angles? A boom? Nice HD quality? Should I bring a film team with me
everywhere just in case someone sticks his hand up my skirt? I’d be glad to
hear your feedback.”
“The video is perfectly clear, Paul,” the other interviewer, Heather, adds.
“Maybe you should get your eyes checked.”
He brushes her off. “The fact of the matter is, you’re in an audition. You’re
doing a scripted scene. Even if you are uncomfortable, this is part of the
job.”
I try to lock in my screams of frustration. “Just because you’re acting,
doesn’t mean you can grab someone’s ass without asking, that would be—”
He butts in. “So, maybe he overstepped the line by touching you, maybe he
didn’t, we don’t know enough of the details. But even if he did; come on,
now. People make mistakes.”
I pointedly look at his awful, heinous, disgusting tie. “Yeah. They sure do.”
An intern snorts off-set. “This wasn’t a mistake. He didn’t drop his phone in
the toilet or spill coffee on his laptop, he reached under my skirt, grabbed
my arse, and didn’t stop when I told him to. Barring demonic possession,
I’m finding it difficult to work out how he could do that accidentally.”
Paul’s nostrils flare. He leans back in his chair and calmly studies me,
folding his hands. He looks like the voice of Educated Reason. “Now, many
viewers at home won’t know this, but Cassie here used to work for me. I
certainly wouldn’t have hired you, if I’d seen all this in the news. Do you
think this will affect your employability?”
“Well—”
He cuts across me. “If you act like this after an audition, I can’t imagine
what you’d be like after a sex scene. I’d be worried about you running off
onto social media and blasting whichever poor sod’s working with you, just
for doing his job.”
“I wasn’t the one who lied. How many times do I have to say this? He
decided to unearth that video, crop it incriminatingly, then post it as
evidence of an affair that I wasn’t having to get his name in the press. When
he did that, he wasn’t touting it as a still from an audition, he was falsely
claiming that I was cheating on my boyfriend. How come when I show the
actual unedited video, I’m being vilified? I’m just telling everyone the
truth!”
“Well, no, shut up a minute—”
I cross my legs, forcing myself to sit up straight under the throbbing bright
lights. “No. Can you please stop interrupting me?”
“You don’t need to be rude.”
“I don’t think I am being rude. I’m just trying to talk.”
“Okay,” the female host smiles, placating Paul. It’s essentially her entire job
description. “Let’s settle down.” She turns to me. “You mentioned Jack
Hale. I understand you cut ties with him after these allegations were made.
Were the pictures the catalyst for your break-up?”
I take a deep breath. “Yes.”
“That must’ve been hard,” she says gently. “He’s still single, I believe.”
“Okay.” I’m not sure how this conversation has been hijacked into a gossip
sesh on Jack’s love life.
“Our reporters tried to speak to him this morning, but he refused to
comment.” She points behind us.
I turn and watch as the screen gets filled with a shaky video of Jack, dressed
in a black coat, pushing through a crowd of jabbering journalists. He’s got
his head down, his hand shading his eyes.
Cold slices through me. Something’s wrong. Jack hates the paparazzi with
every atom in his body, but I’ve never, ever seen him try to cover his face in
front of them. He’s too proud. He usually just glares right at the cameras
until their lenses shatter. Jack’s brave, he never hides.
I reach for my water glass. “Those are your reporters? Leave him alone.
He’s working.”
Paul rolls his eyes. “He chose this career. His fans are the ones who made
him famous, he owes it to them to answer questions now and then.”
“And I’m sure he’d be happy to do that, in a scheduled interview. But it’s
not fair to mob him every time he leaves his house.”
Paul scoffs. “That’s rubbish.”
“It’s my opinion. Don’t call it rubbish,” I snap back. After seeing Jack, my
resolve is getting shaky. “Look, I really don’t see the point of me being here
if you’re just going to yell over me. You’re a terrible interviewer.”
Paul opens his mouth. Heather leans forward, looking desperate. “Cassie.
Do you think this gesture will win him back?”
I stare at her. “What gesture?”
“The video you published.”
Oh, my God. She thinks publishing a video of a man groping me is a
romantic gesture. “Yes, I’m sure it’ll sweep him right off his feet. I thought
about getting him a box of chocolates, but I wanted to really pull out all the
stops.” I shake my head. “I’m never going to see Jack again. I’m not here to
talk about him.”
“And why are you here?” Paul exudes adult patience.
“Because I’m tired, and angry, and—I didn’t do anything wrong. I’m tired
of people taking advantage of me, just because they can. I’m tired of them
not getting punished for it, because I’m not as important as them. I’m tired
of feeling ashamed all the time for something someone else did. I want—”
“So you’re playing the victim,” Paul interrupts smugly.
I glare at him. I don’t even have to imitate Jack, this time. It’s all me. “Are
you blind? Do you honestly believe I’m in the wrong here? Or do you just
get paid to be cruel to people? All you are is a professional bully, you’re
disgusting and no one respects you, so shut up and let me speak.”
He laughs, but the sound is strained. “Well, ladies and gentlemen, now you
see the kind of person we’re dealing wi—
“Fuck you,” I say. That shuts him up nicely. Off-set, Louise drops her
clipboard. “No, I’m not being a victim, I’m standing up for myself. I know
you don’t want me to, but I am. I have to. Keeping all of this inside me was
hurting me. I’ve told you the truth; people can do what they want with it,
now. I’m done.”
There’s a wave from the side of the set, warning us to wrap it up. Heather
takes a breath through her nose and smiles at me. “So what’s next for you,
Cassie? Are you planning to return to the stage?”
“I doubt the set designers would appreciate the rotten eggs getting thrown at
me every night. I’ll see if I can find another service job, and just get on with
my life.”
Paul smiles like a snake. “Well. I hope this all gets sorted out, and you get
whatever justice you deserve.”
I nod. “Thanks, Paul. Me too.”

I’m quickly shunted off-set to make way for the next guest. Nobody speaks
to me. As I stand still so one of the sound guys can unclip my lav mic, I
overhear someone mutter: “Like, it’ll be so annoying if Queens and Lovers
gets cancelled. That’s my favourite show.”
I feel the cold hardness leaking out of my bones and dissipating into my
body. My eyes blur. My hands start shaking. I can’t believe what I just did. I
look around at all the blank faces staring at me, and terror clutches me. I’ve
screwed myself. For life, probably. I thought it was bad last time, with a
theatre of people turning against me—this is the whole damn world. I doubt
a man will ever want to be within a ten-metre radius of me again, in case I
hysterically interpret our arms brushing as a sex crime. I’ve just ruined my
own life.
I stumble back into my dressing room and drop into the chair, putting my
face in my hands. All alone, I finally let myself cry.
“Cassie.” A very familiar voice comes from behind me, and I choke.
 54

“HOW THE HELL did you get in here?”

Jack watches me in the mirror, not moving. “I just walked in,” he says, after
a long moment. “No one stopped me.”
“Right. Of course not.” Celebrities can get through locked doors as
efficiently as ghosts. Everyone just bows and scrapes and rolls out the red
carpet. Jack could probably wander through Fort Knox unmolested. I pick
up a wipe and start scrubbing my face. “Did it not occur to you that I
probably wouldn’t want my ex to lie in wait for me in my dressing room?
Or did you just not give a shit?” I toss my blotted wipe in the bin and reach
for my hairbrush.
Jack’s voice is so soft. “I called. So many times. But you didn’t answer your
phone.”
I yank out a clutch of hairgrips. They clatter on the dressing table. “I
drowned it in a fit of rage.”
“That’s… understandable.” He watches silently as I brush out the hard,
tacky hairspray. My hair explodes into a waist-length curly poodle puff, and
I twist it into a bun with more force than necessary. “Cassie,” he says, and
something tugs at me. A line from Romeo and Juliet floats across my mind,
as gentle as a breeze across a pale morning sky.
It is my soul that calls upon my name.
I am literally mad at my brain for coming up with that soppy tripe. “What.”
“I’ll leave if you want. But I had to see you.”
I sigh and turn to face him, and my mouth drops open.
He looks like utter crap. I’ve never seen him so pale. His hair’s sticking up,
his cheeks look gaunt. The collar of his leather jacket is open, and stubble
stains his throat. He watches me, his chest rising and falling raggedly.
“Are you okay?” I ask automatically.
“Am—am I okay?”
“Did you come here halfway through filming your death sequence, or
something? Why do you look like that?”
He just stares at me. Whatever wall he’s kept carefully built between us has
decomposed into nothing, and I see everything he’s feeling on his face.
Anger. Guilt. Horror. Sadness so deep I want to cry. He takes a deep breath,
and I’m not entirely sure he’s not about to throw up. “I just watched a video
of you being assaulted on national TV, Cass.”
I look down. “Right. That.”
“Cassie. I am so, so sorry. I—there aren’t words.”
“It’s fine,” I say stiffly.
“It’s not.”
“No. Really. It is. You were given literal proof of me kissing another man.
A man that you’ve seen flirting with me before. A man you know I used to
fancy. Anyone would have come to the same conclusion. It’s the only
conclusion to come to.”
He shakes his head, frustrated. “Stop being so bloody nice about it!”
“How could you possibly know what happened? I literally told you he
didn’t grope me. I was there, and even I didn’t realise until I saw the
video!” I swallow. “I know that doesn’t make sense. But it all happened so
fast. It was an audition, a scene between a couple, it made sense that he’d
touch me. And I was so used to acting out being intimate all the time, I
think I forgot what was normal. I trusted him.”
Jack physically flinches. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me. You’ve
never even been in a film audition; your only professional acting experience
was with a theatre director who sexually harassed you for two years
straight, for fuck’s sake! Of course you don’t know what’s normal!” He’s
breathing hard. “I’m the one with the industry training. I’m the one who
made you audition. I knew this sort of shit happens in auditions, and I knew
there was something wrong with your audition story, but instead of looking
into it, I just took it as a sign that you were lying. I messed up, not you. You
did nothing wrong.”
My throat tightens as I look at him. He’s standing right there. Three steps,
and I can be in his arms. But I don’t know if I want to be in them, anymore.
He’s hurt me too much.
I have to get out of here. I heave my bag onto my shoulder. “Okay. I’m
gonna go. Bye.”
“Wait—” he steps forward, but his phone interrupts him with a bleep. He
checks the screen and declines the call. “Have you spoken to Troy? Is he
going to sue you?”
“What do you think? You know him better than me.”
“He probably will. I’ll pay whatever fees you rack up. I have some very,
very good lawyers. You don’t have to worry about anything. They’ll help
you through it all.”
I shift my weight. “I don’t think—”
He raises his hands. “I won’t get involved. You won’t see me. I promise.
But he’ll be spending a lot of money on his legal team, and you need to be
on equal footing.” I hesitate, and he swears. “Please, Cassie? You don’t
stand a chance, otherwise.”
I look down, tears blurring up the speckled carpet. “Yeah, okay. Thanks.”
His shoulders slump. “God, Cass, it’s nothing. Absolutely nothing. I should
have done so much more. Do you need—security? A PR manager? A flat
with a locking door? If you want to go away for a while, I can find you
somewhere quiet to stay, until it all dies down. Anything you need.”
I shake my head. “I’m fine. I’ve been coping. I can handle this by myself.”
He looks frustrated. “But you shouldn’t have to.”
“No,” I say flatly. “I shouldn’t.” My almost-empty bag suddenly feels too
heavy for me to carry. I set it down and face him properly. I’m shaking
again. “Why couldn’t you just believe me?” I whisper. “It took me two
hours to get my hands on the video. Two hours. If you’d just let me, I
could’ve found the video, you could’ve got your PR team on it, and it
could’ve been dealt with quietly. Instead, I had to do this all alone, in the
most humiliating way possible. The whole bloody world will that video,
because you were so scared of being cucked, you couldn’t even entertain
the idea that your girlfriend might be telling you the truth.” He covers his
mouth. “I’m not mad that you believed the photo—anybody would. But I’m
so fucking angry you didn’t give me the benefit of the doubt for two damn
hours.” I press my lips together so I don’t cry. “I can’t stand what I just had
to do, Jack, I can’t stand it. I thought you actually cared about me.”
I’ve never seen a man look so cut up. “I did. I do. You have no idea how
much.”
“I wanted to have a conversation, and you tried to have me physically
removed from your house like I’m a fucking burglar! Who does that to their
girlfriend? Who?” I shake my head. “When you were spotted sucking
Rosie’s ear, it was embarrassing for me, but I asked you for your side of the
story, and I believed you. Because I trusted you. But you’ve never trusted
me. How am I supposed to be with someone who respects me so little they
won’t listen to me speak? All your life, you’ve had things you say put on
magazine covers and splashed over tabloids. You have no idea what it’s like
to be so small and insignificant that no one listens to you. Ever.”
He passes a hand over his eyes. “If it was any other man, instead of Troy
bloody Spencer.”
And suddenly, I get it. “He was the one. Who sold your mum’s story to the
press. That’s why you hate him so much.”
His head jerks up. “How do you know that?”
“He told me you two used to be close, when you were kids.”
“I know it’s pretty hard to believe that I ever called him a friend.”
“It’s pretty hard to believe you had a friend,” I point out. “Like, ever.”
“We grew up together. He worked on Caught in the Act with my Mum for
years. Played her son. He used to practically live at my house. Mum adored
him, she treated him like her own kid, and he sold her out, just to make
some cash.”
I can’t stand the rawness on his face. I’m angry, but I don’t want to see him
hurting. “Jack, you don’t have to—”
He shakes his head. “After she died, I swore I’d never talk about her again,
to anyone. I’d done more than enough damage. I shut down all media
questions, I never spoke to Gina about her, or Con. But I couldn’t help
telling you. And then, less than two weeks later, you were kissing Troy, you
were defending him, telling me what a ‘nice guy’ he was, and—I just shut
down. I leapt to conclusions. I assumed you were like him.” He rakes a
hand through his hair. “It wasn’t you. It was me. I was scared of you.”
My skin tingles painfully. “Scared of me? Why?”
“I was falling in love with you.”
I feel like I’ve jammed my finger in a plug socket.
“You were getting under my skin in a way I’d never felt before. You were
making everything I used to find hard so easy. It felt like a trap. Too good to
be true.” He rubs his throat. “What is it they say? Insanity is doing the same
thing over and over again, but expecting different results? Ever since I was I
was a kid, I’ve learnt to keep people distant, over, and over, and over
again.”
I think of him as a child, getting followed home by journalists. Getting his
house broken into multiple times a week. Getting tricked by his teachers. I
don’t think he’s ever felt safe. I don’t think he’s ever been safe.
“I felt like such an idiot for letting myself fall for it again. Especially when
I knew from the beginning that it was just an act. You were literally
contracted to pretend to care about me, for God’s sake. I was paying you to
date me. And then I’m surprised when you get photographed with the man
you’ve always preferred to me, the day the contract ends? How thick can I
get?”
“Immensely,” I say hoarsely. “But I don’t think this is a good example of
your incredible thickness.”
“I didn’t have the patience to get lied to anymore. Not from someone I love.
I thought I’d screwed up again by letting you so close.”
Love. Present tense. I’m so shocked my ears are ringing.
It’s hard to get the balance right between being too warm and too cold. I
feel like one of those shitty old-fashioned bathroom sinks that has separate
hot and cold taps, so you have to alternate between third-degree burns and
third-degree frostbite every time you wash your hands. Maybe when I
signed the contract, I started out too warm, too trusting; but Jack taught me
to be glacier-cold, and now I need to find someplace in the middle. I need to
learn when to be which. Empathy tugs me, begging me to soften, but I’m all
frozen inside. I’m scared, too.
His pocket lets out a frantic flurry of beeps. I look at it warily as he checks
the screen. “Your phone has a bomb in it.”
“It’s just Mansen.” He pockets it again.
Something clicks into place. “Wait a second. Why are you even here?
Shouldn’t you be sipping daiquiris and staring over an Italian vista, or
something?”
“I’m not sure you really understand my acting process,” he says, dry as
ever.
“Why are you in London?”
“I saw you in the news this morning. Saw the video. When I heard you were
filming this show tonight, I got a hire and came straight here.”
I frown. “You drove from Italy?”
“A hire jet, Cass.”
“Right. Obviously. Duh.” I pause. “But what about the film? Have you
wrapped early? Are you on a break?”
He shakes his head jerkily. “I’m sure they’ll manage without me for a few
days.”
I stare at him. “You walked off-set? Did you ask for time off?”
“He wouldn’t have given it to me.”
I’m horrified. “They’re going to sue out your soul, are you serious? No.
This is everything you wanted. Why the Hell would you walk away from
it?”
He looks miserable. “What else was I supposed to do? Send you an email?
A text? I didn’t come to apologise. I appreciate you letting me, but—I had
to see you, I had to speak to you, I had to know you were okay, that you
weren’t—that it wasn’t all getting too much for you.” He clears his throat,
but he can’t get rid of the thickness in his voice. “It would kill me if
something happened to you. It would completely fucking end me. I don’t—
I can’t even think—I—” His cheeks flush with blood. He rubs a hand over
his chest, pressing down on his sternum like it hurts.
“Breathe, Jack. Hey.” I’m crossing the room without thinking. I take his
hand. His eyes melt into mine, dark and frantic. “Look at me. I’m fine. I’m
okay. I might have to find a weirdly niche therapist, but I know I can handle
this. I know it. You don’t need to worry.”
He’s breathing hard, looking down at my fingers curled around his. “Cassie
—” he starts, his voice rough. “I—” his phone beeps again.
I frown at it. “If you get fired, I’ll feel awful.”
“I don’t care. I don’t care, anymore.” His fingers suddenly squeeze mine.
“You’re so, so much more important. God. I can’t believe I made you go to
those auditions.” He looks pained. “You’re so cold again.”
“You didn’t make me do anything. Part of me wanted to go. To get back
into acting.” I only realise the words are true as I’m saying them, but now I
think about it, it’s so obvious. “I still want to, but on my terms, this time.”
He nods and swallows. We stand there, breathing, our fingers twisted
together. Eventually, he steels himself and steps back, dropping my hand.
“So what, now?”
I shrug. “I wait for the public verdict.”
“You don’t look optimistic.”
“People won’t care that I have proof. He’s famous, and I’m not, so all
anybody cares about is him. I’m nothing.”
He stares at a tear rolling down my cheek. I didn’t even notice I was crying.
“Maybe they won’t listen to you. But if they don’t, they’ll probably listen to
me.” His hands fist at his sides. “They’ll believe you this time. I promise.”
“You don’t get it. I appreciate the help, of course I do, but I want them to
listen to me. Not you. Me.”
Before he can reply, both our phones ring simultaneously.
 55

I GROAN INWARDLY. It’s sweet of Robin to check up on me, but his

timing is awful.
But it’s not Robin. When I glance at my phone, it’s not a saved contact, but
the number is still familiar. It’s a number that I’ve been calling nonstop for
the past two weeks. It seems His Majesty has finally deigned to reply.
I look up at Jack. “Speak to Mansen. You’re not losing your job because of
me. Not when I worked so bloody hard for you to get it.”
He reluctantly steps back, and I quickly make my way through the halls of
my old workplace, looking for a private spot where I can maybe do a bit of
screaming without disturbing anyone too much. I gravitate to the back of
the building without thinking, and before I know it, I’m pushing open the
fire escape where I first met Jack, stepping back into the cool evening air.
Tonight was an early weekday show, so it’s still light out. After a suspicious
glance at the bins, which appear innocently empty, I take a deep breath and
flip open my pink phone. “What.”
“Do you have any fucking idea what you’re doing, you stupid girl?” Troy
bellows down the line. I hold the phone gingerly away from my ear. I can
just imagine his face, all red and snarling, spit flying out of his mouth. How
did I ever, ever find him attractive?
“Hi, Troy,” I say politely. “Thanks for taking the time to answer my calls. I
know you must be very busy.”
“You have no clue what you’ve just started. We will be taking this to court,
Cassandra. This is defamation. I can sue.”
“No, see, you can only sue for defamation if I’m lying. Like, for example, if
I illegally published a screenshot of you out of context to make it look like
you were cheating on your partner. That would be defamation.” I’m not
sure how my voice is so steady. My heart is pounding, and deep inside,
some part of me is scared stiff—but another part of me is angry and cold
and just bored of this whole situation. I tap into that.
“You are lying!”
“Am I?” I say, doubtfully. “I don’t think so.”
“Well, then you clearly misunderstood what was happening. We. Were. In.
An. Audition. It was acting. What kind of fucking idiot doesn’t understand
that?”
I lean against the wall, pressing my cheek against the cold brick. “I’m not
an idiot.”
“Do you know anything about the legal system? I have some very, very
good lawyers.”
“How weird, that’s exactly what Jack said. I hope you two don’t have the
same ones, that’ll be well awkward.”
He pauses. “Jack?”
“Tall, blondish, you hate him because he’s been getting all your roles for the
past ten years? You remember. You told the papers his mum was a drug
addict.”
He exhales slowly, and his voice changes, smooths out. “Cassandra. It
doesn’t have to be this way. My PR team will send a statement over, all you
have to do is publish it, and then we’ll never talk about this again.”
“Why would I do that? I’ve made my own statement.”
“I’ll pay you.” It sounds like he’s talking through gritted teeth.
I check my nail beds. “I don’t actually need any money, thanks.”
His huff crackles down the line. “For fuck’s sake, no one did anything to
you. This is all just part of the industry. You’ll get a lot more work if you
embrace it.” He pauses. “You should be thanking me! I’ve got your face out
there.”
Sure. It’s on Wanted: Dead Or Alive posters up and down the country. “I
told you to stop, and you kept going.”
He heaves a sigh. “You’ve blown this up in your head. I understand how it
can happen. But you’re just making yourself look stupid, love.”
“Bye, Troy. I guess I’ll see you in court.”
“You can’t do this!” He yells, before I can hang up. “Cassandra, please.”
I’m getting frustrated. “What? I’m going to tell the truth, and there’s
nothing you can pay me to shut me up. Are you really too thick to
understand that?”
There’s a soft, hitched breath. Christ, is he laughing at me? “Do—” his
voice cracks. He’s not laughing—he’s crying. Or pretending to, anyway.
They can be sneaky, these actors. “Do you have any idea what this will do
to me? This will end me.”
I stare flatly at the bins. “Oh, no.”
“You’re a nice girl.”
“I’m really not that nice at all.”
“You won’t just destroy my career because of one mistake.”
I blow up. “What about my fucking career? What about my life? You didn’t
give a shit about either of them when you sold the pictures!”
“You need to understand what this industry is like. It’s so unsafe. You can’t
predict what the public will love or hate. I got my Golden Globe, but my
next three films flopped, so now the big directors won’t touch me with a
bargepole.” He stifles a sob. “I love my job, Cassandra. I love it. I need it. I
can’t live without it. Staying current is a constant battle.”
“Jack’s managed to do it without becoming a psychopath,” I point out.
Admittedly, he has become a bit of a hermit. But in hindsight, maybe that
was quite responsible of him.
“Jack.” He scoffs. “Jack doesn’t count. He doesn’t even have to try. With
Angelica as his mother, he’ll always edge everyone else out at auditions.”
“Is that why you sold her story to the tabloids? You were mad because he
stole your big role?”
“The rest of us work our asses off, and he has everything handed to him,”
he whines. “If I’d gotten the Union part, my career would still be on the
upswing.”
“Have you ever considered maybe people prefer him because he’s a good
person?”
“He’s not. He’s ruthless. Cassandra, love, I’ve known him a lot longer than
you have. If you knew the things he’s done to get to where he is now…”
I grip the phone tighter. “Jack is many awful things. Ruthless is not one of
them. He’s not a bad person. He just… has a bad personality.”
“He can’t be that good of a person if he left you over a photograph.”
“I never said he wasn’t an idiot. But no more than anyone else is, really. He
was just trying to protect himself, and who can blame him? He spent his
whole life getting hurt by shitheads like you. He lost his only family,
because of shitheads like you.” I touch my face. “He’s rude, and guarded,
but he’s kind. And gentle. He would never hurt someone to get something
he wanted. The idea would make him sick.” As I say the words, they hit me
like a brick wall. I know they’re true, one hundred percent. I shake my
head. “You tried to use me for clout. I’m not going to let anyone use me.”
“It was one mistake. Honestly, I thought you wanted it! The way you were
looking at me…”
That is it. “Bye,” I tell him, and hang up.
He texts me immediately.
 T: Cassandra, you’re not thinking straight.

I respond with one emoticon.

:(

Then I turn off my phone.

My head is swimming, so I sit on the cold pavement and breathe and do not
panic. How could I have gotten the two men so wrong? The total prat is one
of the gentlest, most generous people I’ve ever met, and Mr Nice Guy is
actual, bona fide evil. It feels like I’m living in a fun house: everything is
flipped. I used to think Jack was selfish, but he’s not. He only signed onto
Union to help his mum. His entire career was about someone else. And
now, he’s finally gotten a chance to do something he loves, and he’s given it
all up to have a five-minute conversation with me. To check I’m okay. He’s
cold, and distant, and he pushes people away, but that’s because shitty
things happen when people get too close to him.
And he’s lonely.
And I’m in love with him.
I barely understand anything that’s happening, but that’s for certain. I love
him. I love him. I have for a while, and I’ve got no idea what to do about it.
It’s hard. Right now, I’m safe. Jack can’t hurt me when I’m not with him. I
honestly, truly don’t think he would ever hurt me on purpose—but he hurt
me so bad by accident. He’s not careful enough.
I hug my knees and try to work out what would make me feel most
powerful. The sky changes colours over my head.
After about ten minutes, there’s a sudden clatter, and Jack’s deep voice
melts through the falling dark. “I thought I’d find you out here.”
 56

“I’M FEELING SENTIMENTAL,” I confess. “Bins remind me of you.”

“I’ve missed how sweet you are.”
I look down at my phone. My brain helpfully censors his statement, so I just
hear I’ve missed you. My mouth wants to say it back so much it burns.
“Why are you sitting on the floor?”
“Necessity, mostly.”
He pauses, then sits down next to me. His hand brushes my cheek, tilting
me to face him. He looks at my black eyes and red face, and down to the
phone I’m clutching. “That was Troy.” I don’t say anything, and he sucks in
a breath. He looks like he wants to burn the world to ground. “I swear to
fucking God, I will rip—”
“Don’t,” I say. And he doesn’t. Warmth floods me. “I don’t want to waste
any more time on him,” I explain. “Let’s just hire some PR people, and let
them deal with it. I don’t want to think about him anymore.”
“Fine. But he’s never coming anywhere near you again,” he announces,
with the vehemence of a Mafioso swearing to avenge his dead father.
I just look at him. His hand is still touching my cheek. His thumb presses
against my neck, then slides a couple of millimetres and presses again. I
realise what he’s doing. “Are you trying to secretly take my pulse?”
“My other option is to secretly watch your breathing, but I have a feeling
that might just look like I’m checking you out.”
I push off his hand. “Don’t do that. Listen to my mouth-words. I’m okay.”
“Yeah?”
I nod, putting my chin on my knees. “Yeah.”
A cool breeze rushes between us, and he takes off his jacket, offering it to
me. I stare at his t-shirt. Even in the dying light, it would be impossible to
miss that fluorescent yellow.
“What the Hell are you wearing?” I demand. The word SAFE blares at me
like a foghorn.
He looks down. “Oh.” A spot of colour touches his cheekbone. “I bought it
online.”
“And you wore it out? In public? Visibly? People took your picture in this?”
“I really think you should look into getting a graphic designer, so my
charity stunts are less embarrassing.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Are you trying to win me over?”
He rubs his thumb against the fabric, not looking at me. “It’s like you said.
I’m trying to learn to use my voice for something positive.” Then, quieter.
“A charity like SAFE could’ve really helped my mum, I think. Your
flatmate does good work.”
I can feel my heartbeat in my mouth. “I’m gonna be helping out there for
the next few months. You can come with me when you’re done filming, if
you like.”
His eyes flash to mine. “Really?”
“I mean, you don’t have to.”
“I know. I want to.”
I look up at him. The sky behind his head is tinted rose quartz-pink. The
gentle, diffused light washes over him like a watercolour, taking away his
hard edges, and he looks so tired and sad. I decide to be brave. “Can I have
a hug?”
His arms immediately wrap around my waist, pulling me closer. His palm
cups the back of my head. I press my face in his shirt, breathing him in. We
stay like that for a long time. Jack starts stroking down my back.
“I should’ve known,” he says, quietly. “You started acting so differently.”
I shake my head. “Let me remind you, I’m an award-winning actress. Don’t
blame yourself for being taken in by my performance. It’s just that I’m so
very skilled, you see.” I dig my fingers into him. “Just believe me from now
on.”
He freezes. “From now on? Cassie. What are you saying? Can you—can
I?”
I take his hands, his beautiful big hands, and slide them slowly from my
back to my hips. They grip me. My stomach flips so hard I have to catch
my breath. “I miss you so much. I want to try again. Please?”
He looks at me intently. “Are you sure?”
I slump a bit. “So, you’re not doing great at believing me.”
“I don’t think you’re lying, Skittle. I just don’t think I can handle you
changing your mind.”
“I’m sure. Just—please don’t be a prat this time.”
He presses our foreheads together. “Fuck, Cassie. I promise.” His thumb
traces my lips, and I close my eyes, tilting my face up for a kiss. He takes a
deep breath. “No,” he says. “You kiss me.”
My eyes flit open.
He takes my hands, puts them on his face. I cup his cheeks, running my
thumbs over gold-sugar stubble. “Take whatever you want from me. Take
everything I have. Everything. It’s all for you.”
I don’t need any more encouragement than that. I wrap my fingers in his
collar and pull him down into me. We both gasp into each other, and heat
licks through my chest. Being kissed by Jack Hale feels like being caught.
As if he’s held his arms out and caught me right as I’m tumbling out of the
sky.
Eventually we pull apart. His eyes are all fuzzy, like he’s just woken up. He
strokes a wisp of hair behind my ear. “How do you feel?” He asks, in a very
low voice. I kiss him again.
Some time later, when we’re both out of breath and my arse is getting cold
from snogging on the floor, I climb into his lap. His arms wrap around me.
“What now?” I whisper, trailing my lips against the shell of his ear. “You go
back to Italy?”
“I can’t leave you,” he says simply.
“I can tell. I think you’re trying to absorb me into your body. You wish you
were a marsupial so you could carry me around everywhere in a pouch.”
“I’ll just get a rucksack. You’ll fit.” He presses me against his chest,
cradling the side of my face. “That’s what I came out here to tell you.
Mansen says you can come with me, if it’ll actually get me to stay on set.”
I frown. “That’s very nice of him, but I don’t belong there. I’m getting a bit
sick of uselessly hanging around your heels. We’ll be fine for the next
month or so.” I’m not looking forward to facing all the Troy backlash alone,
but I can do it.
Jack shakes his head. “That’s not what I meant. Mansen offered you a job
on the shoot.”
“I suppose big productions can always use an extra runner,” I muse. “Please
tell me he doesn’t have a ridiculously complicated coffee order.”
A smile peeks at the corner of his cheek. “Not as a runner. As a consultant.”
I pull away to stare at him. “Like, an actual job? Me? How?”
“You wrote your thesis on the play, and you’re an award-winning
Shakespearean actress. You’re perfectly qualified.” He tugs at me gently.
“Come back.” I put my head back on his chest. “He keeps showing Rosie
videos of your performance.” He confides. “I think he wants you to coach
her.”
“Will I be able to tell you what to do?”
“Perhaps. If I decide to consult you.”
“Oh, you’d better. I am incredibly wise.” I consider the idea. “I’ll think
about it. Maybe I want my own job, now. I could go back into theatre.” I
smile up at him, but he still looks miserable. “Wait, why are you sad?”
“I hurt you,” he roughs out. “I should’ve been helping you, and instead, I
pushed you away. If anybody else hurt you like I did, I would—” His
fingers tighten on me. I watch fury trickle through him, and stroke his hair
to tame him. His breath puffs out. “Jesus, Cass, I’ve put you through Hell.”
“Turns out I’m fireproof. Who knew?” I run my lips across his Adam’s
apple, making his breath stutter. “Please stop apologising. I forgive you. I
am incredibly generous, probably an angel.”
He shakes his head and presses the softest kiss in the world to my cheek.
“This is the worst thing I’ve ever done. All because I was scared.”
“You don’t have to be scared. I won’t let anyone hurt you. You don’t have
to do all the protecting, you know. I’m looking out for you, too.” I put my
palm over his heart. It pounds back at me like it wants to me to scoop it out
and hold it in my hand.
“Thank God. Now I feel safe,” he mumbles into my neck. I can tell he
means it. How strange. This massive, muscly superhero feels safe when a
barely-five-foot girl wraps her scraggly arms around his neck. He has
enough money to buy several small countries. Enough fans to make up the
biggest army in history. And only I make him feel safe enough to soften like
this. Only me.
He presses his face in my puffy bun, breathing me in. Well, why not? I help
people. I don’t have to beat people up to be strong. I can be soft and brave.
I’m a proud patroness of SAFE, helping people all over the city cope with
life. I can keep Jack safe just by loving him; no one will hurt his heart again
if it’s with me. I’m sure I won’t.
He kisses my temple. “You’re glowing.”
I know I am. Love is shining out of me. My veins are full of it, bright and
humming like neon tubes. I can hear birds twittering in the trees. I feel so
full of love I could light up the sky.
“I love you, too,” I confess, and he lets out a breath, closing his eyes.
“I’ve never been in love before,” he admits. His palms curve around mine.
“It’s easy. Are you scared?”
He nudges my nose with his. “Yes.”
“Be brave,” I tell him. “We’ll do it together.”
 TWO YEARS LATER
♥

IT’S the end of the run, and I’m packing up my stuff.

I got offstage half an hour ago, and I’m still flying. The post-show high is
warming the inside of my body like vodka. It was a perfect last show.
Perfect. I reach up to my hair and unpin my delicate crystal crown, setting it
carefully to the side to be wrapped up. It glitters under the massive burst of
sunflowers Jack sent me three days ago. I’m going to miss my crown; I
think it really added to my look, cool tones be damned. I reckon I was a
pretty good Ice Queen.
I’m done with playing a young, innocent girl in love. Now I get to play a
damn evil queen who sleighs around in white fur coats and lives in a
massive ice palace. I was concerned that I wouldn’t be able to pull off a role
so different to my personality, but then I realised I could just use Jack as my
muse, and it all turned out quite well. We’ve had very good reviews.
Excellent, actually.
I just wish he was here with me. It’s been two months since I last got to
touch him, and I’m getting lonely. I start to pick up the glossy gold
sunflower petals scattered over my things. I hear the door open behind me,
and then a voice over my shoulder.
“Sorry to disturb you. I’m your biggest fan. Could you sign my
programme?”
A shiver shakes my spine, and I close my eyes for a moment, before
twisting to graciously uncap a sharpie and scribble my signature across the
paper. I even draw a little heart over the i, because I am a teenage girl. “You
know, we don’t normally allow fans in the dressing rooms,” I chide. “Did
you climb in through the air vents?”
“I just walked in. Nobody stopped me.”
I carefully cap the pen, drop it, and throw myself at Jack. He catches me
easily, like he always does, wrapping his strong arms around me and
holding me tight. I bury my face in his neck and greedily breathe him in. He
smells like waking up, cradled and twisted in crispy white sheets. Rumpled
blankets glowing bright under morning sunshine. I’ve slept alone for the
last two months, and it’s driving me to the edge, blinking awake in a cold
bed. I’ve been getting up and running, like some kind of weirdo, because I
can’t stand lying in bed without his warm skin pressed up against me.
But that’s all over, now. He’s here.
Jack tightens his arms around me. “God, that feels better,” he exhales, the
tension leaving his shoulders. “I missed you like Hell, Skittle.”
“Missed you too.” We just hold each other for a while. His lips touch my
throat.
He pulls a face. “You taste awful.”
I’ve never had that complaint before. I look at his sparkly cheek. “Oh dear.
I’m finally rubbing off on you.” I rub his jaw with my thumb, and his eyes
flutter closed for a second.
One drawback of my latest role is the makeup. Every night, I dust myself
with sparkly white powder that glistens under the stage lights, like my body
is covered with frost. No matter how much I shower, everything I touch is
doomed to get drenched in glitter. The cast and crew have started calling me
Tinkerbell. They hug me at their peril.
Jack sets me on the edge of the dressing table, wrapping my legs around his
hips. I close my eyes, glowing under the attention, as he finds a packet of
makeup wipes and starts carefully cleaning paint and glitter off my cheek.
“Why are you here?”
His lips brush my clean cheek. He hasn’t shaved, and his sandy stubble
roughs my skin. “I had to see your last show.”
“You were in the audience?” The thought makes me warm. “I could’ve
bribed someone in the front row to illegally film it for you.”
“It’s just not the same,” he sighs, sweeping down the side of my neck. “You
were incredible.”
I drape my arms around his neck. “You’re supposed to be in New York.”
He’s just finishing up filming We Are Merely Players, a cutting
psychological thriller written by one Gina McClive. Apparently she had a
hand in the directing process too, and found great glee in bossing Jack
around, which is hilarious.
The wipe sweeps under my jaw. He presses his lips there. “We wrapped
early.”
My hands turn into fists on his shoulders as he gently sucks my pulse point.
Heat wires down to my belly. “A-and you didn’t tell me?”
He presses his cheek against mine, closing his eyes. I feel my body melting
into his. “I wanted to surprise you,” he murmurs against my skin. “We’re
going on holiday.”
I pull back. “What? Really? I’m supposed to be helping Rob flat-hunt
tonight.”
“It’s all just a ruse, I’m afraid. He’s already paid half of Con’s rent for next
month.”
That little liar. “Did you put him up to that?” He nods. “Where are we
going?”
He kisses my cheek, his eyes sparkly with the secret. “A surprise,” he
reminds me, and I start to fizz like sherbet.
There’s a knock on the door. Tommy pops his head in. He is my frosty
husband, the Ice King. I murder him in the first act by jabbing an icicle in
his throat. He’s great. “Whoops, hope I’m not interrupting anything! Just
wanted to come and say bye, Cass.”
I wave at him, gently pushing Jack off me. “Sorry I couldn’t go out with
you guys tonight.”
While we chat, Jack shamelessly goes through my stuff, examining my
tubes of lipstick and bottles of makeup before packing them away. He turns
the head of one of the sunflowers towards me, scoops up some abandoned
hairgrips. He flips through my keyrings, checking the ugly pen drive with
his face on is still there. When he finds it, he kisses the top of my head.
After a couple of minutes, Tommy checks his watch and says he has to go.
“See you around, mate,” he grins at Jack.
“Bye,” Jack says, tersely, glaring at him until he shuts the door behind him.
I elbow him in the ribs. “What was that about?”
“I’m an asshole,” he reminds me, pulling out another wipe and finishing up.
“I had to sit in the audience and watch him kiss you. Three times. I haven’t
kissed you in months, it was fucking torture.”
I roll my eyes. “Well, by all means, then, go and bully him.”
He drops the last wipe into the bin and looks at my bare face with naked
softness. “You’re so beautiful.”
I tilt my lips up for a proper kiss.
There’s another knock, and the door gets pushed back open. Jack growls
against my mouth.
“Told you they’d be making out,” comes a smug voice. “I’m a fortune-
teller.”
“As prophecies go, that’s not particularly impressive,” Con says, drily. He
hands me a bottle of expensive-looking champagne. “You were wonderful,
Cassie.”
Rob bats his eyelashes at me, leaning in the doorframe. “How’s that
dressing table? Nice and comfy? Have you been snogging on it long?”
I throw a pot of highlight at his face and extricate myself from Jack to give
Con a hug. “Thank you! What are you two doing back here?”
“I just wanted a word with Jack before you head off. Ideally, we would have
had it after the show, but he ran away.”
“And I didn’t want to see you at all,” Rob says breezily, “But Conlan’s
stolen the car keys.”
With great reluctance, Jack lets go of me, going to join Con in the corner of
the room. The two of them start whispering intensely. Jack pats down his
pockets and nods.
I turn to Rob, who’s now also sifting through the stuff on my dressing table,
and kick his ankle. “You lied to me.”
“Your scary boyfriend made me.”
“So you’re finally moving in with Con?”
He picks up a box of chocolates and opens it. “These are mine now. Yes,
next month.”
I sigh. “I’ll miss our mouldy house.”
“No, you won’t.”
“No, I won’t,” I agree. “Do you reckon the government will burn it down
after we go?”
“For sure. It’s a biohazard.”
I kick him again. “I’ll miss living with you.” I’ve been mostly moved-in
with Jack for a while, but I’ve kept our old bungalow as a home base,
partially because it’s closer to the theatre. But I don’t have that excuse
anymore.
He snorts. “Our boyfriends work with each other every day. We’ll probably
end up spending even more time together. And you won’t have to hear me
singing in the shower.”
That is a definite plus. I open my mouth like a baby bird, and he feeds me a
truffle. “How was your meeting?” I get out through a melting mouthful of
white chocolate. “Are you on track for your fundraising goal?”
“We’re probably going to double it, actually. Won’t be long until we can
expand. Help more people.”
SAFE is doing very well indeed. The new wave of donations every time
Jack leaves the house in his favourite t-shirt helps too. Still. “Isn’t that
risky?”
“Con’s got everything under control.” He glances at his boyfriend, and
hearts visibly pop in his eyes.
I’m not surprised. Con, being an utter whore for spreadsheets, is handling
SAFE’s finances with more enthusiasm than I’ve ever had for anything. He
doesn’t even see it as volunteering; it’s just a hobby. Maths runs in his
veins. I bought him a Chinese abacus for his birthday a few months ago,
and he almost cried. Rob’s shared tentative plans to propose in the rollerball
section of Staples. Apparently, he’s respectfully waiting for Con’s
homophobic gran to die first.
“Isn’t he wonderful?” He sighs.
I watch Con reach over and fix Jack’s hair. “He kept me sane the first few
weeks.”
“He begs like a dog,” Robin says. I choke on air.

After all my stuff is boxed up and I’ve said all my goodbyes, Jack and I
head out to stage door. I grin goofily as I sign big loopy autographs and
field questions. Since the matinee was our last performance, there’s a bit of
press mixed in with the fans, but it’s nothing like the kind I get when I’m
out with Jack. People don’t just want to know what dress I’m wearing, and
what it’s like sleeping with a superhero, they actually ask me about myself.
About my job, and my characters, and my life. I have actual, real life fans,
who reply to my dumb Tweets and come to stage door just to say hi.
Jack looms behind me in the doorway and shakes his head at the few people
who are brave enough to approach him. “You’re here to see her,” he nods at
me. He never signs autographs when he comes to see a show. This is just
mine.
A journalist wrestles her way to the front of the group and sticks a
microphone in my face. “Cassie!” She gasps, clearly thrilled to get to ask
her question, “have you seen Troy Spencer’s new release? Any comments
on its critical reception?”
Le Cirque came out a couple of weeks ago, and it bombed pretty
spectacularly. It turns out, once my audition tape circulated, lots of people
weren’t that interested in watching a movie made by an evil asshole. In fact,
no one wanted anything to do with Troy at all. I saw him in Goss magazine
just yesterday, topping a list article sensitively titled Top Ten Washed-Up
Actors Nobody Cares About Anymore. He even got dropped from Queens
and Lovers, when his character was suddenly drowned in the lake mid-
season. I have that episode recorded.
“I haven’t seen it,” I say. “I heard it was pretty terrible, though.” According
to the critics that did bother to go, Troy’s first attempt at directing was
hilarious, which is a pity, because it was supposed to be a tragedy.
So much has happened since Jack abandoned set to come see me. I never
ended up joining him on the Romeo and Juliet shoot. It was hard being
away from him, but I knew it wasn’t where I was supposed to be. We spent
one weekend together after my Speakeasy live debut, then I sent him
packing back to Italy and started sorting out my life. I got a whole PR team
—including Anne—to help me sift through my hundreds of offers to
interview, and pick out the three biggest ones. I didn’t want to repeat myself
any more than that. Gina and a bunch of her friends got busy, tweeting their
support, and in the end, the response was overwhelmingly positive.
All three interviewers also asked about Simon, and I ended up telling them
what happened during my years at the Assembly of Silence Theatre. Once
you start telling the truth, it just gets easier and easier. The more I talked,
the more the shame unravelled, and the easier I could breathe. A few other
actresses he’s worked with came forward with similar stories, and Si’s been
MIA ever since. I think he’s fled the country. Scummy git.
I blink back into the present when Jack’s hand tightens on my wrist. I
glance up at him. He looks like he’s about to rip off his shirt and go full
berserker. It’s been two years, and he still can’t hear Troy’s name. “I don’t
see how this is relevant to her performance,” he barks at the reporter. “Did
you even see the show?”
She blushes. “Ah—well, I just thought—people were wondering—”
“It’s fine. I don’t really want to talk about him,” I say, leaning against Jack’s
chest. The terrified reporter watches in awe as he bends, tenderly kissing
the freckles on the bridge of my nose.
“Let’s get out of here,” he mumbles in my ear.
I pat his cheek. “I’m not done, babe. You can go wait in the car if you’re
bored.”
He laughs and makes a hasty retreat.

Later that evening, a private plane lands us in a deserted Italian airport.

We’re bundled into a car and driven away from the city to an isolated
beach. Jack takes my hand and leads me to the pier, where a little white boat
is bobbing in the waves. A moustached man is standing in it, beaming at the
two of us like it’s his birthday.
“Okay. Where are we going?” I narrow my eyes. “Are you kidnapping me
again?”
“Yes.” He passes my suitcase to the grinning man, then climbs into the boat.
“There are other ways to keep the romance alive, you know. You don’t have
to resort to Stockholm Syndrome every time. Most people just buy
flowers.”
“But it worked so well the last time. Careful, Skittle.” He wraps his hands
around my waist, helping me into the boat. I wobble precariously, but
there’s no chance in Hell he’d let me fall. I’m settled safely between his
knees, and we begin to cut through the waves. Cool salt spray mists our
skin, soaking through my thin dress. Even though it’s getting late, it’s June,
and the sun isn’t near setting. The sky is blue and hot. I close my eyes and
sigh as Jack gently gathers up my hair, touching his lips to the side of my
throat. I was not made for English grey skies and drizzle. I was made for
this. I don’t know where we’re going, and I don’t care. Everything is
beautiful. It usually is, these days.
I look out at the bright expanse of blue, then up at him. I examine the
relaxed lines of his face as the wind whips back his hair. He smiles, a flash
of teeth, squeezing my hand.
“Are you happy?” I ask.
“With you? Always.”
It’s true. He is. We both are. It’s all this love. It glows out of my skin, it
keeps me safe and warm. I never feel alone anymore, and neither does he.
I snuggle back into his chest and just soak him up until the boat stops.
“We’re here,” Jack announces, picking me up again and carefully
depositing me on the pier. I look around. We’re on a little island. There’s a
white beach that glitters with sugary sand, and big palm trees flutter along a
road up to a hill. On the hill, there’s a house, all white stone and sun-baked
clay roof tiles.
“It’s only a short boat-trip to the mainland,” Jack says. “We can go over
whenever you like. If you want to go shopping, or to get dinner. There’s
theatres, an opera house. Even in the winter, it doesn’t get too cold. The
house has a pool, and you can snorkel around the island.” I stare at him, and
he shrugs, slightly. “I bought it.”
“It?” I point at the big house on the hill, windows gleaming gold in the
sunshine, and he nods. I move my finger down to point at the sand, and he
nods again, lip curving up.
“All of it.”
I spin in a slow circle, staring. “All of it?”
“All of it, yes.”
“I… But… You can’t do that!” I burst out.
He shrugs, lifting my suitcase out of the boat and onto the weathered pier.
“I needed more storage space.”
“Jack. No. It’s too much. Stop colonising. Give it back.”
“I figured when we’re not using it, we can rent it out to holidaymakers and
donate the income. People could come here on their honeymoons. If
anything, it’s a charitable venture. Right now it’s just sitting here.”
“You want to be a landlord. Of a literal whole land.”
“I wanted us to have someplace where no one could see us,” he says,
quietly. “Somewhere completely private. ”
He needs this, I realise. He’s gotten much better at dealing with people
since I’ve known him, but getting mobbed every time we leave the house
exhausts us both. We’re both hoping if he does enough pretentious indie
movies, he’ll sink back into semi-obscurity.
“Well,” I nod, blinking back the tears starring my vision, “Think you
managed. You didn’t need to buy a tiny country to do that, but.”
“Hey, Skittle. Don’t cry.” He wipes off my cheeks then kisses them. “Don’t
you like it?”
I shake my head. It’s too expensive. It’s wasteful. It’s extravagant. It’s not
right for one person to have so much, when so many people are struggling
to get by. “You mean it? About the charity?”
He strokes the seam of my dress obsessively. “Con ran the numbers. We
could bring in a few million a year, easy. I’m sure lots of people will be
interested in staying on my private property.” Sarcasm colours his voice.
“You’re perfect,” I whisper, and he smiles, slow and big. He gives the
boatman a rustling handful of notes, and the boat disappears off over the
water.
And we’re alone. Together.
“Wait ’til he’s gone,” he murmurs in my ear.
“Why?” I whisper back. “Are we going to strip?” I gamely kick off my
sandals in preparation.
“You can in a minute. I want to get this right, I won’t be able to concentrate
if you’re naked.”
“Get what right?”
He drops onto one knee, and half my senses immediately cut out. I hear the
sea rushing in my ears, deafeningly loud. I watch his mouth move, but the
actual words fly over my head. I get the gist of them. You make me strong. I
love you, I want you, I need you. Please marry me.
Please marry me. Marry. Me.
He holds up a tiny black box and snaps it open. Something shimmers inside,
the most inviting, precious little promise.
I look at him. His face is open as a flower. For the past eight weeks, I’ve
only seen him in photos, piles of coloured pixels bleached by paparazzi
flashes. Out here, in natural light, he looks fucking delicious, golden and
healthy and hot. His eyes make the sky look undersaturated. As I watch, he
smiles at me dazzlingly, setting sunshine into my skin. It’s the smile I’ve
always wanted. The smile for me only.
I realise he’s stopped speaking.
My eyes drop to the white sparkle in the soft velvet box. My head is
spinning. Maybe I have sunstroke. I think I need to sit down.
“Sorry, I…” I lower myself shakily onto his knee. I’ve never been very
good at coping with shocks. Delicate nerves, and all.
He strokes my arm. “You can say no,” he says, quietly. “We can wait. I’ll
wait as long as you need.” I swallow. He frowns, touching my back. “Cass?
Are you okay?”
I can’t believe it. He wants me to be his wife. My dumb, beautiful boyfriend
who breaks into my dressing room and buys land when he want some alone
time. He wants to be my husband. My husband.
“You want me?” I check.
“I’m really not sure why you find that so surprising,” he mutters.
“You want me forever?”
He reaches up and cups my cheek, stroking it like he’s trying to learn its
shape. “Longer than that, if it’s an option. I don’t think I’ll ever have
enough time with you.”
I chuck myself at him, knocking him back onto the sand with an oof. “Yes.
Yes, please.”
He laughs, relieved. “Christ, Cass. Christ, I thought you were going to say
no.” He takes my hand and slides on the ring. We both watch, memorising
the moment. Something in my heart clicks into place, and I yank his face to
mine for a kiss, curled up in the warm sand.
After a few minutes, he picks me up, kicks off his shoes, and carries me into
the sea, still kissing me. When he sets me down, the waves lick my feet.
“I love you,” he tells me, touching our foreheads together. “I love you.” It
sounds like a promise. It sounds like a million promises, all wrapped up in
three words. I won’t hurt you. I won’t leave you. I won’t lie to you. I’ll listen
to you. I’ll trust you, always.
“I love you, too.”
He dips to press his lips to mine. Heat pounds down onto our shoulders.
Sunbeams light up my hair. If somebody could see us now, I bet we’d look
like a freeze frame. The last shot of a movie. A man holding a girl with wild
black curls, kissing her against a sky blue backdrop while credits roll down
the screen.
But no one can see us, and out here, we’re not actors. We don’t have any
roles left to play. It’s just us. So we kiss, standing in the ocean. We kiss and
kiss and kiss. We kiss until I’m sure I’m dying, because nothing in my life
has ever felt this good. His hands slide down to my waist, mine climb up to
his shoulders. Cold waves splash around our ankles and the diamonds on
my finger sparkle in the sunlight, shooting rainbows all over his cheek.
I can barely believe how far I’ve come. The past few years have been so
hard on me, but I’ve fought and I’ve fought and I’ve rebuilt my life better
than it ever was before. It’s hectic, and busy, and full, and I’m in love with
every second of it. God knows what will happen tomorrow; but right now,
my breathing is easy. I feel like myself again. I’m not scared anymore.

Thanks for reading! If you have time, please consider leaving an

Amazon review—they’re vital for indie authors. Even one sentence is
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 ABOUT THE AUTHOR
♥

Zara Bell is a literature and publishing student living in London, England. She decided to become an
author for the drugs, fast women, and rock-n-roll lifestyle. Some of her favourite things include
plants (although she struggles to keep them alive), glittery eyeshadow, and musicals. The Love Act is
her first romance novel.
For news, updates on upcoming releases, and the opportunity to join her ARC team, sign up to her
mailing list at https://www.zarabellauthor.com/
WATCH OUT FOR ZARA BELL’S
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