‘But I need you to come to the dinner,’ said Johnny, a little whine entering his voice, ‘my mum will get so pissy if you don’t come, she wants to hear all about the Vanity Fair shoot. Surely we can drive down to your dad’s on Monday? I’ll be free for the week then unless I get a recall for filming.’
‘You selfish bastard,’ snapped Stella. ‘A dinner party! You think a bloody meal’s more important than my father?’
Johnny stood up and moved towards her, his arms open.
‘Stell, come on. You’re upset. We’ll go first thing Monday and I’ll stay as long as you like.’
‘Oh, just leave me alone,’ she said shaking her head angrily as she stalked towards the bedroom. ‘I’m going to bed – you can sleep in the spare room.’
‘For fuck’s sake,’ he muttered under his breath, turning the television back up again. ‘Moody, bloody women.’
It was pitch black when she awoke. Stella turned on the lamp and glanced at her watch. Four a.m. Her head was pounding and her mouth was dry. Desperate for a glass of water and an aspirin she got out of bed, peeping into the spare bedroom before she went downstairs. Johnny was fast asleep, snoring lightly, a long, tanned leg peeking from u
nder the duvet. She longed to climb under the covers with him but shook the thought off. If he thinks he can get around me that way, he can think again.
She walked into the kitchen, now fully awake and feeling unaccountably anxious. Knowing she wouldn’t be able to fall back to sleep, she drank the water and went over to the computer in the living room to check train times to St Ives. She kept all the lights off except for a small lamp; she didn’t want to wake Johnny and spark another confrontation. After a few minutes she heard a low insistent beep coming from somewhere in the room. She tracked it down to Johnny’s coat on the sofa: the beep indicating an unread text. Curiosity needled her. Who would text Johnny in the middle of the night? Knowing it was wrong, she pressed the ‘read’ button on the phone.
Left you a message. Must speak to confirm a few details before we run story. Elsa x
She stared at the phone, feeling nausea rising from the pit of her stomach. Elsa? What story? Elsa. Elsa. She’d met a reporter called Elsa at the Dugdale Festival in the summer, a pretty showbiz writer for the Sunday Herald. Elsa x. That kiss was familiar: far too familiar for her liking. Feeling guilty at the intrusion, but needing to know, Stella dialled 1-2-1 to listen to his messages.
‘Message left at 1.35 a.m., 25 November.’
‘Hi Johnny, Elsa here,’ said a bouncy voice. ‘Listen, great to speak earlier. Stella’s dad divorcing – wow! So sorry, but it’s a great tip-off and you know that if you look after us, we’ll look after you. I hope to get the story into Monday’s issue. We want to be the first on this one, so it will probably go in the main paper rather than the showbiz pages. I’m rambling. It’s late. Call me first thing. Need to know how long Chessie and Chris were married for, plus a few details on how cut-up Stella is: “A close friend revealed”, you know the sort of stuff. Anyway, call me. Ciao.’
Stella sat there, stunned in disbelief. If he wanted to peddle stories about himself that was fine, but deeply personal stories about her and her family? The bastard!
‘Get up!’ she hissed, standing over his bed. Johnny groaned and turned away.
‘I said GET UP!’ she yelled, pulling his pillow from under his head.
‘Hey!’ he protested, rolling over and blinking at her, ‘What’s happening?’
His bed-head hair was sexy and tousled, his pale blue eyes squinted at her sleepily.
‘You’ve told the papers about my Father,’ she growled, fury building inside her.
‘What?’ he replied groggily. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Don’t bother fucking denying it!’ she shouted. ‘You phoned that tart Elsa at the Herald! You told her! And what else have you told her? I suppose the pap turning up outside China Tang was your work too? Plus all the other little details of our relationship that seem to get out on a weekly basis.’
Johnny sat against the bedstead and rubbed his face.
‘Don’t be so bloody naïve and hypocritical, Stella,’ he said sharply. ‘You’re quite happy to be one part of the new hot couple, aren’t you? You love the attention, the party invites and the free holidays. And you love being called the new Stella McCartney and getting all that free publicity for Milford. How do you think it happens? Simply by being talented? Grow up. The media creates stars and you have to give them a helping hand. When we’re big enough, established enough, then we hire a publicist to keep the attention away from us but we’re not A-list yet. We need the attention right now, any way we can get it.’
‘Get out,’ she snarled. ‘I’m sick of it – sick of you, sick of your selfishness and sick of your self-obsession.’
He laughed nervously.
‘You’re kicking me out?’
‘It’s over.’
‘Over! What about Vanity Fair?’
‘Get out!’ she screamed, pulling the silver band off her wedding finger, the stand-in ring for the engagement rock he hadn’t quite got around to buying, like all the other things he had never got around to doing, not when there was his career to consider.
‘And by the way,’ she added, ‘your cock is tiny.’