He dipped his hand into his pocket and called a taxi from his mobile. Feeling less wobbly now, Emma was actually enjoying the feeling of someone taking care of her. It was something she wasn’t used to.
‘You’re right,’ she said softly when he’d come off the phone. ‘I think I do need a break.’
‘Why is work so important to you?’ he asked seriously, studying her face.
She shrugged.
‘It’s all I have.’
‘OK, that’s it. I’m picking you up at 10 a.m. tomorrow,’ he said suddenly.
‘I suspect I might be in bed.’
‘If you’re ill, then fair enough and I’ll send Morton round with the Lemsips. If not, you’re coming with me to Devon.’
‘Devon?’ laughed Emma weakly. Rob had such a decisive look on his face, she knew she was going to have to humour him.
‘Kowalski are recording their third album. I usually swing by when my big acts are in session to see how things are going and I’m flying down tomorrow.’
‘Don’t be silly. I don’t want to intrude on your work.’
‘It’s not really work. I just lurk in the background, checking they’re not doing anything too experimental,’ he grinned. ‘Anyway, the studio is in a great spot, right by the river, and I know a fantastic place nearby for dinner. Before you ask, I have to be back in work for Monday too – that’s why I’m taking the chopper. We’ll be back for midnight and then you can carry on working yourself to death. Is it a deal?’
The taxi had arrived and was tooting its horn.
Emma put her hand nervously on Rob’s and nodded.
‘Are you feeling better?’
She nodded. ‘A lot better. See you tomorrow.’
‘So you’re going to come to Devon?’ he replied, a note of surprise in his voice.
‘If some deadly virus hasn’t got me in its grip, yes. I think Devon might be just what I need.’
‘Consider it part of your continuing musical education.’
‘In that case, count me in.’
The Brintons’ Oxfordshire home, Greywood, was the most sumptuous property Stella had ever seen. Grander even than Winterfold, it was an enormous Jacobean mansion recently revived by a multi-million pound makeover courtesy of Astrid Brinton’s design flair. The ground floor contained Greywood’s most formal rooms including a wood-panelled library and a banqueting hall with beamed ceilings and a table that comfortably seated forty. A less formal wing of the property contained a billiards room, media room, farmhouse kitchen, gym and playroom – there were even ‘servants’ loos’, although Stella hadn’t quite worked out if the term was a relic from a more distant era or whether that was how the Brintons regarded their vast team of home-help. And fittingly for the master of the house, there was a 48-track recording studio and a certified organic dairy in the grounds, which delivered ice cream, cheese and milk to the house.
Stella sat curled up on an egg chair in the playroom, a shag-piled pleasure palace that contained a bank of vintage video games and a 60-inch plasma television, wishing she was alone with her boyfriend. Johnny had only finished filming principal photography of his latest film two days ago, but instead of having a quiet weekend with Stella he’d invited his mates to Greywood and suggested Stella invite some of her own mates to make up numbers. The boys had arrived at the Feathers, just after Emma’s abrupt exit, with two friends called Jamie and Piers, who had recently returned from a long hot summer in Ibiza and they had all quickly returned to Greywood to take advantage of Blake Brinton’s extensive wine cellar. Now she was here, Stella was feeling uncomfortable. In the company of his posh London friends, Johnny had turned a little boorish, opening bottles of expensive claret at random and then leaving them uncorked and barely touched. It didn’t help that Petra had been flirting so outrageously with Jamie; she thought they were going to have full sex up against the Space Invaders machine. It was already past 2 a.m. and Stella was feeling tired, with no desire to keep herself pepped up with the cocaine that was circulating around.
‘I’m going to bed,’ she smiled at Johnny, expecting him to take the hint.
‘I’ll see you up there in a little while, hon,’ he said kicking back on the sofa, a bottle in his hand.
Against her better judgement Stella went upstairs. The Brintons still kept a bedroom for their son which had been redecorated as part of the house’s tasteful overhaul. Grey silk wallpaper hung on the walls, along with a framed selection of magazine covers featuring Johnny. There was a vast, oak, sleigh bed against one wall and a claw-foot bath in a large
bay window. Stella undressed, switched off the lights and slipped into bed in her bra and thong waiting for Johnny. She lay back on the pillow, her eyes wide awake, straining her ears for sound. Where the hell is he? Outside she could hear the screech of an owl. She struggled to stay awake, but the bath tap was dripping and its hypnotic sound pulled her eyelids closed.
Suddenly Stella awoke with a start. It was pitch black and she turned over to find the bed beside her empty. She turned on the bedside lamp: 4 a.m. – Johnny should have been here hours ago. She slipped out of bed, pulled a towelling robe from a hook nearby the bath and went out into the corridor. The dance music that had been blaring through the house earlier was gone and now it was so still that she could hear a violent snoring coming from one of the guest bedrooms. Stella crept through the house feeling on edge, but angry. Where the hell was he?
The playroom was empty and dark, the kitchen too. Perhaps he was playing snooker, she thought, trying to remember where in this labyrinth of rooms the billiards room was. She thought she heard faint laughter and followed the noise, unconsciously walking on tiptoes. As she drew closer, she had a sudden sense of foreboding as she remembered what Emma had said about Johnny in the summer: You know he has a bad reputation. There had been other things too; a blind piece in the Sun about a hot young actor having an on-set fling with his older co-star. That couldn’t have been Johnny and Lisa Ladro? She wanted to turn back and hide. The truth was what she feared most.
She pushed open the billiard room door a crack and saw Petra sitting on the edge of the pool table, her legs apart, Johnny standing between them, their faces were inches apart, Petra’s head tipped suggestively to one side.
They sprang apart when they saw her.