PENGUIN BOOKS
For Lily and Freddie
PENGUIN BOOKS
Published by the Penguin Group
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First published 2011
Copyright © Jemma Forte, 2011
The moral right of the author has been asserted
All rights reserved
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book
ISBN: 978-0-14-196205-4
Prologue
Twenty-Six Years and Three Months Later (To Be Precise)
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
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
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
PENGUIN BOOKS
From London with Love
Jemma Forte has worked for many years in the television industry, including five years at the Disney Channel, as well as presenting on BBC, ITV and Channel 4. She lives with her husband and two children in London. This is her second novel. Her first novel, Me & Miss M, is also published by Penguin.
Two parents, that much we all have in common, at least at the point of conception anyway. Nothing’s guaranteed after that, of course, though thankfully most baby makers are keen to stick around to look after and enjoy the fruit of their loins. After all, the word ‘parent’ is a verb as well as a noun.
Parenthood, it’s the club that’s easy to get into (fertility permitting) and yet such a privilege to be part of. The club which doesn’t offer money back, a trial run or any guarantees but entices us with the promise of untold joy and fulfilment. And which, for that reason, will always have people on the waiting list.
One day, back in 1984, movie stars Edward Granger and Angelica Dupree didn’t know it yet but they were about to come off the waiting list and become fully paid-up members themselves, any second now …
The famous couple were in London celebrating the royal première of Edward’s latest outing as James Bond and with two weeks to go until their due date they had the world at their feet (not that Angelica had seen hers for months). They were excited and nervous about the birth of their first child in equal measure, though admittedly Angelica was looking forward to getting the ‘shoving it out’ bit over and done with. After that, however, the couple assumed the rest would be plain sailing. Why would it not? They were rich, gorgeous and hugely successful at everything they did. The timing was a little off, but millions of people looked after babies every day. How hard could it be?
‘Are you all right, my darling?’ Edward asked Angelica. ‘Not too uncomfortable on that stool?’
‘I’m fine, just tired. Can we go soon?’
‘Of course,’ he replied, placing a protective hand on her burgeoning belly.
Just then, Jill Cunningham, his agent, sidled up to them, breaking the spell. ‘The critics love you,’ she drawled with greedy relish. ‘This time tomorrow we’ll have signed another two-movie deal.’
‘Wonderful,’ replied Edward agreeably and was just about to ask what she wanted to drink when an excited-looking woman came charging into their eye line.
Barging her way through the crowd, she looked overcome with excitement. ‘I can’t believe it’s really you,’ she squealed, clamping her hand over her mouth. ‘James Bond in the flesh and … oh my God! Sorry, it’s just I didn’t see you at first. Angelica Dupree! You’re even more stunning than in your pictures and … you’re expecting!’ she gabbled, pointing out the obvious.
‘Lovely to meet you,’ said Edward chivalrously, sliding off his stool to greet his fan. ‘And what might your name be?’
‘Anita,’ she said coyly. ‘Or should I say, “Fletcher, Anita Fletcher”.’
Edward flung his head back and laughed as though this was the most original thing he’d ever heard. Angelica smiled to herself.
‘So tell me, Anita Fletcher, what did you make of the film?’ Edward was saying now.
‘Loved it, really loved it. In fact, me and my sister who’s … somewhere … anyway, we’re huge Bond fans and we won a competition to come tonight, and it was just brilliant. The baddie was excellent and we loved the Bond girl … though she wasn’t as good as you were in the last one,’ she added hurriedly to Angelica.
‘Don’t be silly,’ placated Angelica, despite the fact that a slightly sore point had been touched upon. Getting pregnant now, when she was on the cusp of a glittering career, hadn’t exactly been the plan. ‘Bond’s supposed to have different girls and, besides, I wouldn’t fit into my bikini at the moment anyway – though hopefully I’ll be back into it in time for the next one.’
Jill Cunningham was dying to interject at this point, but held her tongue. As Edward’s agent, she’d always hated how ambitious his young wife was and wished she’d stop trying to compete.
Anita Fletcher stared back gormlessly. She wasn’t sure where to look. Angelica’s silk maternity dress plunged into a low V, showing off to full effect her incredible bosoms and perfect décolletage. ‘You’re carrying beautifully,’ she said eventually. ‘What do you think you’re having? Apart from a baby obviously …’
‘I don’t know,’ interrupted Angelica.
‘Really? Gosh, when I was pregnant with my Paul, I knew it was a boy from the beginning. Didn’t stop kicking, for one thing.’
‘Right,’ Angelica replied faintly.
‘And what would you have called him if he’d been a girl?’ asked Edward politely.
‘Lorraine.’
The smile faded from Angelica’s face. ‘Mon Dieu,’ she wailed in her first language.
‘Lorraine’s not that bad,’ Edward said.
‘No!’ cried a mortified-looking Angelica. ‘I’ve had an accident, look.’
Edward followed her gaze downwards. A huge wet patch was emerging through the pistachio silk of her dress. ‘Angie darling,’ he said, blue eyes twinkling ‘That’s not wee. I think your water’s have broken. We’re going to have a baby.’
Angelica stared blankly at him for a second and then she gasped, and in years to come Edward Granger would always remember that moment. For it was the moment his life changed for ever. The moment that marked both a joyful new beginning and a sorrowful end, and the last time Edward would feel absolutely sure about anything for a very long time to come.
Jessica Granger was sitting behind her desk at work, trying to figure out what on earth was going on. For nearly a month now she’d been working as a receptionist at one of the most prestigious art galleries in Los Angeles and, while manning the phones wasn’t the most stimulating of jobs, she liked it. It was something to get up for in the morning and lent a comforting sense of normality to her otherwise abnormal life.
The vast white space, located a few blocks from Rodeo Drive, was a magnet for wealthy residents and tourists alike and Jessica’s desk was situated right in the middle, at the back. The atmosphere inside the air-conditioned gallery was sombre, quiet and still, and – as in a library or a church – visitors spoke in hushed, reverential tones. Though in the case of the current exhibition, if they’d run from the building screaming Jessica wouldn’t have blamed them.
On the walls was the work of a hip new German artist. The show comprised eight huge canvases, which were smothered in fluorescent blotches, bright splatters of primary-coloured paint and speckles of gold and silver. Not content with the cacophony of colour he’d created, the artist, for some reason Jessica had yet to grasp, had also smeared the finished pieces with buffalo dung. So they smelled, as one would expect, very unpleasant. To be more precise, they smelled of shit.
Having lived with the paintings for the last few weeks, Jessica had grown to hate them. They made her feel anxious, gave her a headache and offended her senses. Passers-by recoiled in horror as they took the full impact and when one of her colleagues described them as offensive Jessica couldn’t have agreed more. But then what did she know? Christopher, their boss, obviously thought they were good enough to grace the gallery’s walls, and now, as it turned out, he wasn’t the only one.
‘It’s amazing, isn’t it?’ said financial controller Nick, one of several members of staff who had gathered round Jessica’s desk to gaze in wonder at the red dots that were stuck next to every single piece.
‘Unbelievable,’ agreed Jessica wholeheartedly, as she looked around the room warily, half-expecting Ashton Kutcher to spring out from behind a pillar yelling ‘You’ve been Punk’d!’
Just then, Christopher himself arrived. ‘Morning everybody, and good morning Jessica, how are you today?’ he enquired, striding in triumphantly.
‘Er – great, thanks, Mr Starkey,’ Jessica replied, surprised to have been singled out.
‘Look,’ he said dramatically, ‘sold, sold, sold.’
‘Huge congratulations,’ said Kate, who as head of sales was immensely relieved she could finally stop risking her reputation by pretending to like them. ‘So who bought them then? Did they all go to the same client?’
‘Yup,’ said Christopher, grinning smugly, his eyes flitting to Jessica once more. She blushed, panicking in case someone had told him what she’d said about the paintings.
‘Was it Stevie Wonder by any chance?’ laughed Kate, confident that now the paintings were finally off their hands, a joke might be permitted.
Several people spluttered with laughter. Unfortunately Christopher wasn’t one of them. ‘Well, thank goodness not everybody shares your narrow view of what is, and what isn’t, great art, Kate,’ he snapped, before storming off to the back offices, leaving an embarrassed silence in his wake. One by one, everyone shuffled back to work, but Kate marched after Christopher, looking like she wanted to pick a fight.
Minutes later, however, she reappeared. ‘I may have been wrong about these paintings, you know?’ she said tentatively, hovering round Jessica’s desk. ‘They’re really pretty amazing when you think about the amount of work that’s gone into them.’
Jessica looked up from the mailing list she was updating and tucked her fair hair behind her ears. ‘Um … sure, I suppose.’ Privately, she was disappointed by Kate’s lack of backbone. Just because one insane individual had decided to buy the paintings didn’t mean anything had changed. They were still an eyesore.
Still, at least Christopher’s mood had reverted to one of friendliness and joy, and when he reappeared a little later he even offered to pop to Starbucks to get Jessica a coffee. On the one hand she was delighted her conscientiousness and eagerness to please was finally being recognized; on the other, it was unnerving. Then, when he laughed like a drain at something she said as if it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard, a sixth sense suddenly made her feel horribly wary. As soon as he’d left again Jessica dialled best friend Dulcie’s number.
‘It’s me,’ she whispered into her headset. ‘I’m having a really strange day so I need you to tell me that I’m going crazy for having the thoughts I’m having.’
‘Tell me in a second because I’m so glad you’ve called,’ came the reply. ‘I’ve just booked my next dress fitting, so put July twentieth in your diary and, oh my God, you will not believe who Kevin wants to invite …’
Five minutes later and Jessica was beginning to regret calling. Her friend was in full bridal flow, she hadn’t got a word in edgeways and there was a call coming through that she needed to answer.
‘Dulcie …’
‘… anyway, it’s such a relief about the chairs, I knew you’d be pleased, and next time I go to check out the venue you should come because –’
‘Dulcie …’
‘That way we can decide together –’
‘DULCIE!’
‘What?’
‘I’ve got to go.’
A few minutes later, Rob, the gallery technician, turned up complete with ladder.
‘Morning, Jess,’ he said. ‘Just to let you know, the new paintings for the next exhibition have arrived and Christopher said to feel free to look at them in the viewing room.’
‘Right,’ said Jessica, who didn’t know quite what to make of that. ‘That’s cool of him.’
‘I guess,’ said Rob.
Jessica watched thoughtfully as he climbed the ladder, which he’d positioned underneath one of the lighting rigs. ‘So, only a couple of weeks to go and we don’t have to see these any more, eh?’ she said conspiratorially.
From his lofty position, Rob looked at her with a bemused expression. ‘You mean because we’ll see them somewhere else?’ he said and then he winked.
Jessica’s hackles immediately went up. ‘Who bought the paintings?’ she asked impulsively.
‘Don’t know,’ said Rob quickly. Too quickly. He was lying.
Thinking swiftly, Jessica changed tactics. She had a hunch, a hideous one that she simply had to eradicate. ‘It’s all right,’ she stage-whispered, going for a bluff. ‘I know.’
‘Really?’ he replied, concentrating just a little too hard on his light bulb.
‘Yeah,’ said Jessica in a blasé voice, which belied the fact that her pulse was accelerating by the second.
‘Who told you?’ asked Rob as he climbed back down.
‘Oh, you know,’ said Jessica, as if he ought to.
‘It’s just that Christopher said we shouldn’t say anything,’ he replied, looking flustered, ‘because I think he thought you didn’t want us to know about who … you know … though I have to admit,’ he said, looking pained, ‘I’ve been feeling really bad ever since I found out. I want you to know that when I called them monstrosities the other day I was only joking.’
Jessica’s heart fell into her stomach. ‘Oh, sure,’ she said weakly. ‘Anyway, don’t worry about it. Obviously I know that he … my –’ She stopped, still hoping she might have got it wrong. Maybe she was being paranoid, fishing in the wrong pond?
‘Your … dad?’ offered Rob hesitantly.
‘My dad …’ Right pond then.
‘O-K,’ said Rob, suddenly looking anxious in case he’d said the wrong thing. ‘So, anyway, I need to go out now, Jess, but …’
‘What?’
‘Don’t take any notice of what anyone else thinks, yeah? At the end of the day, art is entirely subjective,’ he added kindly.
Jessica nodded faintly and forced a smile. She didn’t know where to begin so she just didn’t bother and as she waved goodbye to Rob she suspected she was waving goodbye for good, because how could she possibly stay at the gallery now? She sat there despairing for a while, feeling utterly humiliated and more than a little stupid. Yet another job had just hit the dust, been taken away from her, and now she needed some lunch, to resign and to work out what on earth to do about her interfering dad, only not necessarily in that order.
Jessica was anxiously nibbling on a breadstick when her phone vibrated.
‘Dulcie,’ she muttered, ‘I can’t talk. I’m at Spago waiting for Shawn.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Dulcie, ‘everyone talks on their phones there. What did you want to tell me earlier?’
Jessica glanced around the Beverly Hills restaurant. ‘Well …’
‘Actually, before you tell me, Jess, I need to pick your brains about which magazines to approach about the wedding. I mean, they’re going to be interested, right?’
From nowhere Jessica found herself battling with an overwhelming urge to scream ‘NO ONE IS INTERESTED! Even I, your best friend, would rather impale myself on a rusty sword than see or hear anything else about your wedding right now because, as astounding as this may sound, I actually have other things to think about. And, by the way, who are you and what have you done with my friend? ’ This flood of pent-up emotion took Jessica quite by surprise. Until this very second, she hadn’t realized just how much Dulcie’s perpetual wedding chatter had been bothering her. Still, she opted for a less controversial reply.
‘I’m sure they will, Dulcie, I’m sure they will.’
‘Yeah, I think so. I mean, between me and Kev, there are going to be a lot of well-known people there and …’
There was only one thing for it. Jessica cut her off, before wearily placing her head on the table for a quick despair, which she was actually quite enjoying until her phone bleeped, signalling a text. She turned her head to the side and brought up one hand to press the view button.
THINKING OF HAVING
‘PRE-HEN’ DRINKS SOON.
WHAT DO YOU RECKON?
Jessica ‘reckoned’ there were twelve whole months to go until the wedding next May for crissakes and that there were only so many times a girl could say ‘Yay!’ A silent scream unfurled in her belly as she sat up to text back a reply.
YAY!
Now she was relying on Shawn to help her figure things out, something which didn’t fill her with a great deal of hope. Especially considering he wasn’t actually there yet which, come to think of it, was really annoying.
Feeling like her scrambled brain was in need of a break, Jessica reached over to the adjacent table to pinch a discarded copy of the Los Angeles Times. She flicked through it, eventually settling on a piece on page seven about British culture and traditions, and which aspects of it did and didn’t appeal to Americans. The history, the royal family, much of the pop, art and TV culture all got the thumbs-up and then it went on to dissect what the US weren’t so sold on. Bad dentistry, the cuisine, all the usual suspects were there, as were more left-field examples such as funny spelling that incorporated far too many vowels and Simon Cowell’s dress sense.
Jessica smiled. She’d been born in England, had lived there for the first seven years of her life, in fact, so felt a strong connection with the place. Having an English father and a French mother was something she was proud of and her peers had always been fascinated by her European heritage. However, the truth of the matter was that her memories of actually living in England were pretty hazy these days, though she’d never forget being a pupil at Parkhurst.
Parkhurst Abbey was one of England’s most prestigious and traditional girl’s schools, set in stunning rural surroundings. As a confused five-year-old it may have taken her a while to settle in, but when she had it had been like living in an Enid Blyton book. Until, of course, Edward’s time as James Bond came to an end, at which point Hollywood had beckoned and moving Stateside became inevitable.
Jessica scanned the restaurant briefly, looking to see if Shawn had appeared yet. As she did, she suddenly vividly recalled – for the first time in a long time – how much of a wrench it had felt to leave England behind all those years ago and how, back then, it had been the place she considered home. A strange thought, given that these days she felt like a Californian chick through and through and was so totally used to her sun-drenched way of life.
Of course, over the years there had been many trips back to England, but returning as a tourist had never felt quite the same somehow. Whenever Edward had a movie to promote, or simply fancied a dose of home, she’d usually gone with him and had often wondered what it would be like to return to Britain as a separate entity one day. To view the country through the eyes of an independent adult, as opposed to a child’s, had always been something she was keen to do at some point. Obviously she had dual nationality so whenever that time came it would be easy to organize and …
At that instant Jessica experienced a strange surge of excitement and found herself staring with renewed interest at the accompanying pictures of Buckingham Palace, fish and chips, Cat Deeley and red buses. A warm flood of welcome nostalgia washed over her as she recalled one particularly happy trip to London during which she’d spent lots of time with her auntie Pam, Edward’s sister. Maybe it was time for a long vacation of some description? To get away and rediscover her British roots would be fantastic and being away might just provide her with some much-needed answers and ideas. After all, what was keeping her in LA? Apart from her friends, her boyfriend and her own foolish reluctance to ever make a go of anything in case it didn’t work out.
Five minutes later Jessica finally spotted Shawn, looking irritatingly unflustered about the fact that he was late. Though he soon looked less smug when he casually tried to barrel straight through the gate and the doorman prevented his entry with a large, unimpressed arm. Feeling weirdly detached, Jessica watched him bluster and protest for a while, but then he must have mentioned her name because the doorman’s entire demeanour changed and Shawn was swiftly ushered in. She sighed, feeling thoroughly underwhelmed to see him.
‘Hey, baby,’ he said in an overly loud voice as he swaggered over to their table. ‘Look at you with your LA Times. You hiding a copy of In Style underneath?’
What exactly was he trying to say? ‘Actually, I’ve just been reading an article about England, which has kind of given me an idea,’ she replied, trying to perk up but hating how Shawn’s eyes were flitting around the restaurant, busily scanning for famous faces. He didn’t have to look too far.
‘And what might that be?’ asked Shawn, not looking remotely interested but at least doing her the honour of swivelling his eyeballs back in her direction. There was no denying he was a good-looking guy but today Jessica hated how contrived everything about him looked. His T-shirt was so … ironed. His dark, longish hair had been slicked back into a rather creepy ponytail and his nails looked suspiciously like they might have been manicured. She was sure he hadn’t been anywhere near this groomed when she’d first met him, but then again, she had met him at the beach. She opened her mouth to reply but closed it again when she noticed the approaching waiter.
‘Good afternoon, Miss Granger,’ he said, greeting her like an old friend. ‘If I may say, you are looking very lovely today, very much like your father.’
Jessica blushed. She was an attractive girl but nowhere near as extraordinary-looking as either of her parents, and she lived in permanent dread of the inevitable comparisons.
‘Speaking of which, how is he? I’ve not seen him for a while.’
‘Oh … he’s fine. Busy as always, but great … thanks,’ mumbled Jessica, omitting the part about him being desperately annoying.
‘Please send my regards,’ the waiter replied, whipping Jessica’s napkin off the table and placing it across her lap with a flourish. ‘Now, what can I get you?’
‘We need a couple of minutes,’ said Shawn brusquely, making it clear that his fragile ego didn’t appreciate being ignored.
Jessica waited a beat. For weeks now Shawn had been getting on her nerves. Any of the original charm he may have possessed when she’d first met him seemed to have evaporated completely. ‘Actually, I’ve been waiting ages,’ she said eventually. ‘And I’m starving. So, the chicken Caesar salad with extra anchovies and some iced water would be great, thank you.’
‘Jeez, what’s wrong with you today? Since when was waiting twenty minutes such a big deal?’ Shawn said petulantly. ‘OK, I guess I’ll have the same, but make my dressing low cal and hold the anchovies. Can’t stand the fishy fuckers,’ he said, delighted by his hilarious alliteration. ‘Fish breath is so not a turn-on.’
Jessica made a quick mental note to eat every scrap of anchovy on her plate and then breathe all over him first chance she got. The waiter finished scribbling and walked away.
‘Anyway, what’s up, sweetie?’ said Shawn, misinterpreting her frown. ‘How come it was so urgent we meet for lunch?’
Briefly Jessica toyed with the idea of keeping what had happened to herself, but the need to confide was too great. ‘Oh, Shawn,’ she began. ‘I’ve had an awful morning and, to cut a long story short, I’ve resigned.’
‘Why? Were you bored?’
‘No,’ said Jessica impatiently. ‘I left because I found out that …’ She swallowed, as the extent of how hurt she was caught up with her. She blinked and looked at the ceiling for a moment. She needed to start at the beginning. ‘You remember how I told you that Christopher was always pretty grumpy? Well, today he was in a great mood because the show had sold out, and he started being really nice to me –’ Shawn rocked back on his chair and cocked one eyebrow skywards, which Jessica tried not to let bug her as she carried on – ‘which only goes to show how naive I must be, because Rob let it slip that the person who bought the whole exhibition – you know the one I’m talking about? The paintings you said looked like alien puke. The ones with shit on them. Anyway, the mystery buyer who bought the entire lot was … my dad.’ Jessica looked down at her hands. ‘Everybody at the gallery knows, so they all think I had something to do with it, which is hideous on so many levels. Though I think what I’m most upset about is the fact that he’s gone behind my back again, even though I expressly asked him not to interfere.’ Having finished, she waited for some sympathy.
‘Cool,’ said Shawn, nodding and grinning enthusiastically. Then, as her face dropped, ‘Aw, come on, Jess, don’t look like that. Who cares if your dad wants to help you? You should be proud of your connections – though personally, if I were you, I’d forget about working altogether and take some time out.’
‘Time out from what?’ asked Jessica quietly, feeling baffled, dismayed and not a little frustrated. How could he not get it? She gave up, cross with herself for having expected anything different from Shawn. There was no point explaining anything to him. He was simply too moronic to understand. At that moment Jessica realized this probably wasn’t a great thing to be thinking about her own boyfriend. She cleared her throat. ‘Look, let’s just forget about it, all right. I’ll sort it out with my dad later,’ she said, suddenly keen to move on.
‘Hey, you’re not exactly being fair, Jess … oh, hang on a minute, I need a beer,’ said Shawn, and then he actually clicked his fingers at a passing waiter.
In that instance, the many niggles that Jessica had been experiencing about her ‘boyfriend’ seemed to solidify. It occurred to her that she didn’t just find Shawn annoying, but that she loathed him, which said less about the flakiness of Jessica’s personality and more about how tenuous their relationship had been in the first place. After all, what was an amazing torso without a personality to go with it?
The waiter turned slowly, bestowing a smile upon Jessica before eyeballing Shawn as threateningly as possible, given the customer/waiter dynamic.
‘Can I help you?’ he enquired frostily.
‘Don’t know. Can you?’ chuckled Shawn. ‘Get me a beer and make sure it’s ice cold.’
It’s over, thought Jessica resignedly, not feeling much apart from mild relief.
Shawn was off again. ‘Listen, you get all cagey when we talk about your dad, but how can you expect me to say the right thing when I haven’t even met him? We’ve been dating, what, three months, and we still haven’t set up a time for me to meet your folks.’ As Shawn swung back on his chair his face clouded over with an expression that looked suspiciously sulky. ‘It’s like you’re ashamed of me or something.’
He probably had a point.
‘Why are you so obsessed about meeting my parents anyway?’ she asked wearily, even though she knew the answer. ‘Most guys would be grateful not to have to meet their girlfriend’s family. I’ve told you how busy Dad is and you know I hardly ever see my mom myself.’
Shawn struggled to come up with a rational argument, but it was too big a task so he gave up and reached for a breadstick, which he gnawed on like a huffy chipmunk. Jessica gazed into the middle distance. Not only was she furious with herself for letting the relationship get this far, she was also sick and tired of feeling like her entire life was defined by one thing, and one thing only. That she was the daughter of Edward Granger and Angelica Dupree, otherwise known as James Bond and Heavenly Melons, the sexiest Bond girl of all time.
Suddenly she remembered what she’d been considering earlier. ‘I was telling you before that I’d had an idea. Do you want to know what it was?’ she asked her sullen-looking, soon-to-be ex-boyfriend, her tone almost daring him to say no. All she wanted was for someone, anyone, to be remotely interested in what she had to say, just for once.
‘Go ahead,’ said Shawn magnanimously.
‘Right,’ said Jessica quietly, fighting to hold back the tears that were suddenly threatening to slide down her face. ‘Well, I was thinking that, what with everything being such a disaster here, maybe it was time for a trip. I was thinking about England, actually, London.’
Shawn stared hard at her and for a fraction of a second Jessica thought he might be about to show some proper interest. ‘Cool, count me in. Didn’t you say your mom was in Europe? We could go see her at the same time.’
And there it was. That famous last straw.
‘Shawn,’ Jessica said calmly, folding away her paper and standing up, ‘that wasn’t an invitation. It’s over. I’m sorry, but I can’t go out with someone who only likes me for my parents any more.’
And with that she left, although not as abruptly as she’d intended.
‘Excuse me,’ said a man in a suit, springing up from his table and blocking her escape from the restaurant. ‘You’re Edward Granger’s daughter, aren’t you? I hope you don’t mind me introducing myself but your father and I go way back. I’m Billy, Billy Jackson, and I’ve got a script here that I’d love him to take a look at. The part of Steven has been written specifically with him in mind and I was going to send it to his agent, but if you could give it to him directly it would be so fantastic and –’ He broke off, misinterpreting Jessica’s horror at the situation entirely.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, honey, I’m being rude. Are you an actress too? Because I’m sure we could come up with a part to accommodate you. In fact, if you get this to Edward for me then we could even write one in especially for –’
Jessica shook her head vigorously. ‘I’m not an actress.’
‘You’re not?’ replied Billy Jackson. ‘Well, what are you then? What do you do?’
Squirming inside, Jessica shrugged. Everyone was staring. ‘I’m not sure,’ she muttered, before grabbing the script and fleeing the restaurant as quickly as she could, leaving Billy Jackson scratching his bald pate, the other diners with something to talk about and Shawn with the bill.
As she waited on the sidewalk for the valet to bring her car round, Jessica Granger made a decision. It was time to leave LA, go somewhere she could be herself and find out what on earth that might be like. That way, the next time someone asked her what it was she ‘did’, she might know what to say.
Across the pond in London, Mike Conner, executive producer of The Bradley Mackintosh Show for the BBC, was sitting in one office, well aware of the fact that his entire team were waiting for him in another. He insisted on punctuality for the weekly meeting but then liked to keep everyone waiting, just a bit, to remind them that he was an incredibly busy man.
He sipped his latte. Compared to being at home, the office was a luxurious haven of calm and he suspected it might continue to feel that way for some time to come. Thank God he wasn’t Scandinavian, he mused, for he seemed to remember reading somewhere that Swedish men were allowed to take a full year of paternity leave, which the journalist had written as if it were a good thing. As far as Mike was concerned, two weeks of keeping his toddler daughter Grace entertained while Diane, his teary, lactating wife, got to grips with feeding the latest addition to their family, had been plenty. Not that he didn’t love them. He did. Adored them, in fact. It was just that recently, according to Diane, everything he did was wrong, so it seemed easier to stay away. Hence why this morning, despite not really needing to start work until ten, he’d invented a completely imaginary nine o’clock meeting. Something he’d be doing more of in the future. During that first quiet hour before the office had filled up he’d watched Sky News and read the paper cover to cover. Bliss.
Still, he’d have to be careful. His wife would take serious umbrage if she were to find out that he was purposefully absconding from the morning chaos otherwise known as family life.
While he had a minute, Mike decided to email everyone on the team to say that next week, due to something terribly urgent having cropped up, the production meeting would have to be cancelled for one week only. An agent had invited him out for lunch and he intended on getting stuck in. He certainly wouldn’t want to have to rush back.
Mike pressed ‘send’, then scrolled through the rest of his emails, squinting as he did so. His eyeballs felt gritty, due to lack of sleep. Last night he’d been able to hear baby Ava screaming even from the sanctuary of the spare room. Maybe later he’d hold his calls, lock the door and put his head on the desk for a twenty-minute power nap. Not that he’d tell Diane. He wouldn’t dare, for fear of being stabbed. His wife was so wild-eyed with exhaustion at the moment that the mere mention of anybody getting any sleep at all was enough to set her off on a jealous rant, and while he understood and appreciated it wasn’t easy for her, Diane didn’t have a stressful job like he did.
Still, his recent ‘time off’ had served as quite a vivid reminder that by choosing to stay at home Diane wasn’t exactly having the life of Riley, drinking coffee and watching daytime telly as he sometimes liked to imagine. In fact, if he were completely honest, he didn’t know how she did it day in and day out.
He turned his attention back to his in-box just as an internal message arrived. It was from David Bridlington, the controller of light entertainment, who also happened to be his father-in-law. (A double-edged sword in many ways and something Mike was incredibly paranoid about.) As he read it, a vein of worry flowed through him. The contentment he’d been feeling was abruptly replaced by an unwelcome shot of stress. Bloody ratings were the bane of his life and this week they’d been lower than expected. He clicked on the next email just as a rap on the door made him jump.
‘Come,’ he shouted authoritatively.
Kerry, his feisty celeb booker, poked her head round the door. ‘Hi, Mike,’ she said. ‘It’s gone two, just in case you hadn’t realized.’
With the door now open, Mike could hear that the natives were getting restless, but he didn’t like the feeling that he was being told what to do by a member of his team.
‘Yeah, thanks, Kerry, I’m well aware of the time, but sometimes things come up that I have to deal with right away – unless, that is, you want to risk us not getting on air this week?’ he said, not even looking her way and concentrating instead on the screen as if what he was reading was a matter of vital importance. In fact, he was quickly scanning a reminder from M&S that there was twenty per cent off the Autograph collection as of Thursday.
Having taken the hint, Kerry closed the door and Mike was left to ponder firstly whether to go for the V-neck or the crew-neck sweater and, secondly, how to handle his boss’s misgivings about last week’s show.
Suddenly he felt a bit sorry for himself. There should be more passion and excitement in his life than he was getting at the moment. The strong, sexy career woman he’d married had disappeared and been replaced by someone who resembled early woman and who seemed to have forgotten how to shave her legs or give a blowjob. And now, instead of grabbing forty winks later, he’d probably spend the rest of the day feeling uneasy about the prospect of a meeting with David, who was always on his case about something. Mike knew he felt compelled to justify his huge salary, which was fine, but David was also aware that he and Diane had just had a baby and that things were a bit tough at home at the moment, so surely ‘Granddad’ could back off for a short while?
Still, there wasn’t time to dwell on all of that now. It was time for the meeting, even though he knew the majority of his team resented having to down tools in order to listen to him vent his spleen. He knew because he’d heard them say as much, but he didn’t care. The meeting would remain a regular fixture (unless he had a lunch), whether there was anything important to convey or not, so he could remind everyone exactly who was boss. So if they didn’t like it, they could go fuck themselves. This burst of vitriol finally jet-propelled him into action. He leapt out of his chair and started gathering together what he needed for the meeting. It was seven minutes past two, time to get the show on the road.
Edward Granger let his script drop to the ground and reclined on his lounger, letting the afternoon sun’s strong rays shine fully on his face for a few lazy moments. He didn’t start shooting for months, so there was plenty of time for learning his lines anyway. He inhaled deeply, savouring the tangy aroma of Pacific Ocean salt that hung in the air, taking the edge off the extreme heat and refreshing the atmosphere, making it just about the healthiest lungful one could enjoy in California.
From where he was sitting he had a perfect view of his magnificent, colonial-style mansion, sprawling landscaped gardens, enormous infinity pool and portion of beach that was exclusively his; one of the most sought-after pieces of Malibu real estate. Yet despite having been successful for over a quarter of a century now, his fame and fortune still never ceased to amaze him, a by-product of years spent struggling before landing his big break. When he had finally won the role of 007 he’d been pronounced an overnight success, the irony of which hadn’t passed him by. There was nothing overnight about the bars he’d worked in, the years spent labouring on construction sites, or how long it had taken to persuade his family that there was nothing ‘poncy’ about wanting to be an actor.
Belching softly, Edward adjusted the waistband of his khaki sailing shorts, easing them off his distended stomach slightly. He’d had a delicious lunch but had eaten far more than his recommended calorie intake, even allowing himself a glass or two of fine Merlot to wash it down with. He felt rather guilty about this rare venture off his strictly managed culinary piste. In terms of getting back into shape for his next movie, he was cutting things fine. Then again, if you couldn’t indulge occasionally when approaching the age of sixty-five, frankly, what was the point? The roar from the ocean in front of him was immensely soothing, as was the feeling of the sun warming his bones, and soon he felt himself sliding towards a lovely soporific afternoon snooze.
‘Honey,’ squealed a voice, dragging him back to the here and now. Maybe if he ignored her she’d get the hint, he thought wistfully, knowing full well she wouldn’t.
‘Honey, put the umbrella back up. You know you shouldn’t have the sun shining directly on to your face and I bet you’re not wearing protection,’ chastised wife Betsey, who was undulating across the lawn towards him, ruining the moment completely.
He sighed inwardly.
‘Are you even listening to me?’ she asked, bending over him, her tanned, pneumatic breasts in his direct line of vision, hoisted inside one of her many sports bras. This one was hot pink.
‘I could hardly not,’ Edward replied, but with enough affection in his voice for her to know he wasn’t angry. Betsey bent down and ruffled Edward’s thick thatch of silvery hair, which still possessed the faintest trace of blond. Then she picked up some lotion that was lying nearby, squirted some into her hand and proceeded to slather it on to his face, probably a case of too little too late given that he was already brown and weathered from years of outside shooting. The crinkles around his piercing blue eyes were another giveaway; not that they detracted from his handsome looks particularly, a huge and horrifically unfair advantage of simply being male. Edward blinked – Betsey had managed to get some lotion into his right eye and now it was stinging. Unaware of her husband’s discomfort, Betsey enthusiastically straddled him until she was sitting directly on his groin. He groaned, but only out of discomfort.
‘It’s day fifteen. My eggs are ripe and ready for in-se-mi-na-tion,’ she purred, oblivious to the fact that the second she’d mentioned her ‘eggs’, any chance she’d had of turning him on had vanished. ‘Come on, honey,’ she persisted, her bossy manner reminding Edward, not for the first time, of Miss Piggy. ‘Let’s go make love.’
With the eye that wasn’t blurry and stinging like hell, Edward surveyed his second wife’s cleavage and silently grieved for the breasts they’d once been. She’d previously had a beautiful set of medium-sized, natural breasts which he’d only had to look at to feel blood flowing to the appropriate area. Yet Betsey had insisted on going under the knife and was now delighted with the results, presuming Edward was too, though, in truth, her new assets held zero appeal. He regarded them now, trying his best to summon up desire but failing miserably. They were perfect orbs, having been transformed from bosoms to tits, and nuzzling into them had somehow lost its appeal.
‘Well?’ said Betsey.
Edward swallowed. ‘Maybe later, darling? A lie-down sounds wonderful, but I’ve just finished eating so I should probably digest … and I need to learn my lines,’ he added hastily.
Betsey’s incredulous expression spoke volumes and Edward didn’t need to be told how middle-aged he’d sounded, yet rather begrudged having this held against him given that middle age had passed him by long ago. He sighed again, only too aware that Betsey was wondering how a red-blooded man could turn down sex on a plate from a nubile woman nearly half his age. He could see the all-too-familiar disappointment and frustration showing in her green eyes. Then he spotted his housekeeper, making her way towards them from the house across the lawn.
‘Ah, Consuela,’ he yelled gratefully, practically tipping Betsey off his lap and on to the grass. ‘You’re a mind-reader. Jill’s coming over later with my contract. Would it be OK if she joined us for dinner?’
‘Not a problem, Mr G. I was just coming to see if you wanted coffee,’ she replied, as a sulky-looking Betsey stomped past her in the opposite direction, pert, lycra-clad behind positively bristling with resentment, muttering loudly to herself, ‘Digest … I’ll give you freaking digest …’
Edward exchanged a long-suffering look with his loyal maid, who chuckled and rolled her eyes heavenwards.
‘Coffee would be great. I’ll come and get it in a bit,’ said Edward. Consuela headed back to the house.
Alone once more, Edward sat up and fiddled with the parasol. His previous good mood had vanished, for he knew he couldn’t blame this lack of interest in what was once his all-time favourite occupation squarely at the feet of Betsey’s bosoms. His legendary sex drive had been on the wane for a while now, but if before it had been staggering about like an old drunk, then it had finally been knocked out altogether when, from nowhere, Betsey had done the most enormous about-turn on their original joint decision not to have children. She’d announced her change of heart six months ago, as casually as if she was talking about buying a new lipstick, and it had come as a terrible shock. Why on earth would she want to be impregnated with his ancient sperm?
Since then, Betsey had become obsessed. Not a day went by when Edward couldn’t tell you what day of her cycle she was on, what her temperature was, and whether or not her discharge resembled egg white, all of which he found baffling and faintly repulsive. Meanwhile, she seemed determined to continue ignoring his protests, as if his words were a mere buzzing in her ear. At times he felt like a fly trapped in a room, repeatedly banging itself against a window pane.
Feeling irked, Edward retrieved his reading glasses from the table next to him, picked up his script and found the next scene. The dialogue was terribly banal, which only depressed him further; especially when he realized that here was yet another scene that required him to take his shirt off.
‘Dad!’
Edward shaded his face with his hand just in time to see his beloved daughter coming round the side of the house towards him. One interruption at least that was more than welcome. His heart swelled with affection as it did every time he set eyes on her. Today she was wearing a denim skirt, with a plain white vest and flat, jewelled sandals, a silver bracelet on her wrist her only jewellery. She looked divine.
‘Hi, Dad,’ Jessica panted, having run the rest of the way across the lawn, so desperate was she to cool off in the pool. She was already pulling off her skirt and shoes, until she was wearing only her top and underwear. ‘You don’t mind, do you? It’s just I’m so hot, I can’t be bothered to get my costume.’
‘Don’t mind me,’ he said smoothly in his quintessentially English voice. ‘You’re home early, aren’t you? I thought you were working at the gallery today.’
But Jessica had already flopped into the pool. Small air bubbles came to the surface as she swam a length underwater, and when she reappeared at the other end she swept her hair off her face and blew water out of her nose before replying. ‘I was supposed to be, which is what I need to talk to you about. Where’s Betsey?’
‘Working out,’ Edward replied, glancing over to the house where he could see her through the glass doors, contorting herself into the most alarming positions as she practised her yoga.
Jessica resurfaced from the bottom of the pool again and gasped for air. ‘She’s exercising a lot at the moment, isn’t she?’ she asked before swimming to the side, where she pulled herself up and clambered out.
‘Mmm,’ murmured Edward vaguely, peering down his pale pink shirt at the small pool of sweat that had gathered in the middle of his chest. It was true; the more frustrated Betsey grew sexually, the more she exercised. What a shame he couldn’t hire someone in to see to her needs, he thought ruefully, a wry smile spreading across his handsome features as he even considered such an outrageous idea.
Jessica grabbed one of the numerous white fluffy towels that were piled up on a table by the pool and dried off her legs, which, like her father’s, were covered in freckles. With her fine blonde hair, looks-wise Jessica was the polar opposite of her sultry mother. She was very much her father’s daughter. It was his fair skin she was wrapped in, his blue eyes she’d inherited and his features she wore on her face, though they didn’t fall into their place quite as effortlessly as his did. What looked handsome on a man looked slightly more ordinary on a girl and Jessica had also inherited his robust frame, though she kept her figure trim with plenty of exercise.
‘Anyway, what did you want to talk about?’
Jessica drew up one of the loungers, making a huge puddle on the cushions as she did so, and plonked herself down. Searching for the right words, she frowned. ‘Dad, I found out you were the “mystery” buyer at the gallery who bought the entire show,’ she said evenly and only then did her face display the betrayal she was feeling.
Edward’s jaw dropped. Then, realizing he’d been well and truly rumbled, he opened his mouth to begin explaining. Jessica cut him off. ‘Don’t. I know you only do these things because you love me, but you will never understand how stupid I felt knowing that everyone at the gallery knew except me.’