Tales Of Temptation: Rivals / Pride / Ambition

‘Maybe I do, maybe I don’t.’

‘Come on, Jules, you’re better than them. A million times.’

She didn’t believe that for a second either. ‘Thanks.’

‘So…’ Isaac chewed his lip, ‘…tonight?’

She scanned the cast, landing on Christopher and Nina chatting amiably while Emily lurked moodily behind. ‘What about tonight?’

‘The pub?’

‘Oh yeah. Course.’

‘Meet you at the main gate at six?’

‘Sounds good.’

Isaac grinned. She noticed what a nice smile he had.

‘OW!’ The teacup, spewing hot liquid, flew to the ground. ‘My God, how on earth do you expect me to handle boiling-point liquids and remember my lines?’

‘CUT!’

Shakily Julia deposited her silver tray, stepping forward to collect the discarded china and help stamp out the wet patch spreading through the rug.

‘You asked for the tea to be fresh, Emily,’ commented the director. Emily insisted on her scenes being as ‘real’ as possible, including props, so had commanded that if Lucinda were drinking Earl Grey, so should she be.

‘But palatable, at least!’ she snapped. Her hazel eyes landed on Julia. ‘It’s Maud Screwe’s fault. Couldn’t you have let it cool down, I don’t know, a degree, before forcing it on me?’

Julia’s mouth went dry. ‘I thought that was how you wanted it,’ she managed.

‘Well next time why don’t you bring the whole bloody kettle through and chuck it all down my dress? It’d save us the china, wouldn’t it?’

Oh, how she’d love to.

‘Let’s go again,’ intervened the director. ‘From: Remember you taught me the “Suite Bergamasque”?’

Julia retrieved the tray and took her position against the fireplace. The scene began with Lord Ackland giving Lucinda a piano lesson. When they were interrupted by Nina Tarot’s character, Vivian, Lucinda was relegated to a nearby couch to watch as the two duetted (and what a proficient pianist Christopher was!), devoured by jealousy that Julia suspected was only partly acted and clutching her too-hot tea.

Afterwards, Emily stalked off to have words with the director. Julia scratched under the cap—the cotton made her itch—and was fidgeting with a stain on her apron when she heard a deep, seductive voice enquire, ‘Are you all right?’

Christopher Fenwick was standing right there. He was talking to her.

‘Y-yes,’ she stammered. ‘Thanks.’

He placed one hand on the wall and regarded her mockingly. Julia couldn’t help but glance down. As she did, she took in his stance. Those breeches were tight.

‘Can’t think what’s got into her,’ observed Christopher, as though he were chatting to an old friend. ‘I thought it was jolly rotten the way she spoke to you.’

Julia resisted returning something catty like, I’m used to it—you should’ve seen her at school! and concentrated on removing the teastain, all the while burning with embarrassment and thinking, Why can’t I speak to him?

‘Need someone to look at that?’

‘Oh! No. I’m fine. I mean, it’ll come out—’

‘Here.’ Before she knew what was happening, Christopher had lifted her apron in his manly fingers and was inspecting it with a nail. ‘Might scratch off…’

‘Careful, Christopher, it might be catching!’

Emily joined them, quick as a snake, her eyes flashing, and laughed to make light of the horrid comment. ‘That is to say, you don’t know where it’s been.’ Julia saw her adversary stare pointedly at the maid’s costume but knew the implication concerned what—or who—was beneath it.

‘Come, come!’ she sang, looping her arm through his.

Christopher acquiesced. ‘I was seeing if I couldn’t help a lady in distress…’ He winked at Julia. ‘Sorry, what’s your name?’

‘Julia Chambers—’

But Emily had already dragged him off. Julia watched them go, anger building inside her, rising and rising like an unstoppable tide until it threatened to steal the breath from her lungs.

She would get revenge on Emily Windermere if it were the last thing she did.

Next week’s live appearance. It was meant to be.

Chapter Five

Shopping used to be a pleasure—before she’d started getting recognised!

Of course Emily embraced the adulation, being stopped for her signature or to listen to a teenage girl rhapsodise about what an inspiration she was. Part of her job was to give back to her fans (especially after a magazine piece last month had labelled her ‘snotty’ and ‘detached’—how dare they?) and she considered herself generous to permit the intrusion, on a day like today when all she was after was a Mulberry plum leather handbag. Still, it wasn’t fair that only Emily Windermere got to enjoy Emily Windermere—aside from Christopher Fenwick, of course, who was enjoying her too.

Unable to get down to any serious retail pursuits (in Louis Vuitton she’d been chased by a furiously whispering duo to the point where she’d been afraid to use the changing rooms), she emerged from the shopping centre, adjusted her huge sunglasses against the morning light and made her way to her brand new Audi R8.

A flurry of paparazzi blocked her path.

‘Emily, are the rumours about you and Christopher Fenwick true?’

‘Do you dispute allegations you’re sleeping with a married man?’

‘Have you got a message for his wife and children?’

Managing to battle through, Emily wrenched open the driver’s side and slipped in, slamming the door behind her on the cacophony of shouts and flashing bulbs. The horde chased her to the road, aimlessly snapping, and she kept her face impassive lest the tinted windows let her down.

That was it: she’d have to get a bodyguard. Everyone who was anyone had security—she bet Nina Tarot had bloody security—and besides, when it came to this level of harassment it was surely a question of safety. The car could have crashed! Admittedly only into a bollard on its way out of the car park, but even so.

As she concentrated on steering the vehicle through a jam of west London traffic, hands shaking on the wheel, Emily realised what had vexed her. It wasn’t the paparazzi’s persecution—it was the reason for their hounding. Somehow her trysts with Christopher had shifted in the press from a teasing, sexy possibility that no one took too seriously, to an altogether more sinister and unsavoury accusation. Perhaps public feeling towards her was changing, rumbles of objection beginning to rise from the ranks. It was one thing to have people merrily speculating on a fact they couldn’t prove and another entirely to be thrusting a mic into your face and demanding you pay penance to a middle-aged woman whose husband was banging everything in sight. It made her feel like a tacky wannabe who’d slept with a married footballer.

Emily was destined for more than that. Wasn’t she?

Arriving on set half an hour later, she scanned the grounds for Christopher. He was nowhere to be seen.

‘How’s that feeling?’ asked the wardrobe girl as she tightened Emily’s bodice. There was so much boning in it she felt like she’d been gobbled up by a wild animal and was now gasping for air inside its ribcage.

‘Fine,’ she squeaked, unwilling to admit to a slow asphyxiation because that might mean she’d put on weight. Next came the painstaking arrangement of her hair, which required several hundred hairgrips and so much Elnett that had someone struck a match anywhere nearby she would have gone up in a puff of smoke.

A folded tabloid was sticking out of the stylist’s bag. Emily could make out the glaring headline—MY STEAMY NIGHT OF PASSION WITH LORD LOVE!—and Christopher’s brooding picture beneath it, alongside a busty blonde with barely anything on. Her face burned. You had to take these kiss and tell scandals with a pinch of salt, but the story was hardly outside the realms of possibility.

She grabbed the paper and skipped through the article. We went for hours…the most amazing lover… He begged me to strip… I kept on my stilettos; he likes a woman in heels…

Well, that last bit was true.

Disgusted, Emily flipped the page with force. How could he? Wasn’t having the most beautiful actress in England between his sheets enough? Clearly possessing a fridgeful of steak didn’t mean you weren’t partial to a KFC once in a while. How humiliating! She would never be taken seriously as the actress of her generation while she was associated with sleazy scoops like this.

As Emily was about to demand to be released, already reeling through the catalogue of insults she could throw Christopher’s way, her attention snagged on the subsequent spread.

CACATRA ISLAND—PLAYGROUND OF THE RICH AND FAMOUS.

She frowned, remembering Nina’s infuriating claims about her mega-selective luxury spa. A quick glance revealed it was the same. The piece was studded with images depicting the highest order of indulgence: sparkling turquoise sea and alabaster sand; chalky cliffs and lush green palms; A-list starlets frolicking in bikinis as they swam and caught the rays; bare-chested actors gunning jet-skis and enjoying a cold beer on the beach; helicopters and jets coming to land on the island’s private airstrip… There was a photograph of Reuben van der Meyde, the world-famous entrepreneur, casually leaning against the balustrade of his whitewashed mansion and looking decidedly pleased with himself. So he owned it. That made sense.

Your own stake of Eden hidden away in the Indian Ocean, the jewel in Reuben van der Meyde’s crown is stunning Cacatra Island. Ultimate holiday destination to a galaxy of stars, Cacatra’s opulent shores promise a shelter from the spotlight, guaranteed to cleanse the spirit and soothe the soul. A week’s stay will set you back—

Emily baulked at the expense.

But rest assured this is no ordinary retreat. By invitation only, access to ‘the closest thing on Earth to Paradise’ is reserved exclusively to those with the cash—and credentials—to pay for it.

‘All done, Ms Windermere,’ said the stylist, applying a finishing blast of hairspray. ‘Looks incredible, doesn’t it?’

Emily surveyed her reflection in the mirror. ‘It’s fine.’

‘I meant Cacatra Island. What I wouldn’t give to swop my Ryanair flights for a trip out there!’

Emily resented the implication that she, too, were contemplating a dismal week in some squat in Alicante. After Kate Middleton she was the loveliest woman in the country. Wasn’t that credentials enough?

‘Keep dreaming, girls.’ A shadow passed over the print and Nina Tarot came to rest in an adjacent chair. ‘That’s where the big kids hang.’

Emily raised a hand to ward off the sun. ‘Excuse me?’

‘The big kids. You know, the most important people alive?’

‘How depressingly hierarchical,’ muttered Emily, whose every perception of the world relied on the presumption of a hierarchy in which she held supreme rank.

‘I wouldn’t say that,’ drawled Nina as the stylist took a brush to her hair. ‘Earn and reward, it’s a straightforward principle.’ Emily tried not to get distracted by the bulge of cleavage bursting forth from Nina’s coral taffeta dress. She looked as if she’d just stepped off the Moulin Rouge.

‘And you earned it, I assume?’

‘If earning it amounts to being a world-famous actress who vacuums up so many drugs she doesn’t know what day of the week it is, apart from the day she catches her darling husband nailing the poolboy up the ass, then, yeah, I did. That island saved my life.’

Emily shuddered.

‘You gotta know people, sweetie. Even those kids who’ve got more money and celebrity than’s good for their health, even then they’ve got to get the invite, and even then they’ve got to sit on a list for however long…’

‘Who do you know?’

Nina looked at her sideways. ‘Why?’

Emily shrugged. ‘In case I wanted to see what the fuss was about.’

This time the American turned to face her. Was that pity in her eyes?

‘Honey, I’ve got to be straight with you. I’m not being mean here, but I really don’t think…’

‘You don’t think what?’

‘I know you’re famous in the UK and all, but…well, to be frank, I’m not sure you fit the bill.’

‘What bill?’ Emily spluttered, humiliated.

Nina sighed, as though obliged to explain something basic to a simpleton. ‘They’re selective,’ she said. ‘Very. I’m talking aristocracy. Government leaders. Olympic idols. It’s an A-listers’ game—’

‘But I’m an A-lister!’ This was unbelievable.

‘Maybe in this part of the world, sugar.’

Emily huffed a laugh. ‘Nina, please be assured that everyone I meet finds me utterly charming.’ She lifted her chin. ‘Your contacts would be safe with me.’

‘But would you be safe with them?’

She squinted. ‘Excuse me?’

‘This is an arena you know nothing about,’ Nina remarked gently. ‘You’ve got no idea what or who you’d be dealing with…’

Emily gritted her teeth. That was enough. She stood, flung the paper down and marched into the house, prompting a cluster of assistants in the main hall to fretfully disperse.

Who had been chosen to present live on Saturday at the charity ball? Who was tipped for an Onscreen Trophy at this autumn’s awards? Who was set for international stardom once this film was released?

Who was Nina Tarot to say she didn’t fit the bill?

Christopher passed her on the stairs. He grinned lasciviously and clasped her waist, drawing her close. ‘Lucinda,’ he rasped under his breath, ‘the mere sight of you fills me with rapture; promise to extinguish my pining.’

‘Sod off, Christopher,’ she said, pushing him away. ‘I’ve got places to be.’

Chapter Six

‘Let me get this straight. Emily Windermere stole your boyfriend?’

‘Yep.’ Julia rested her chin on her hand. They were in a booth in her favourite Italian, days after getting raucously drunk together at Isaac’s promised pub: she had mentioned the restaurant once, ages ago, and he’d remembered. ‘Emily just grabbed him one afternoon and rammed her tongue down his throat. I caught them, in the changing rooms. I hated gym class even more after that.’

‘Did they get together?’

‘No. She got bored after a week.’

Isaac frowned. ‘I’m sorry. That sucks.’

‘She only did it to hurt me. She didn’t even like him.’

‘Why?’

Julia considered it. ‘He had nice eyes, I guess, but he was a bit chubby. And then there was chess club…’

He laughed. ‘No, why did she do it? Why would she want to hurt you?’

‘Because that’s what Emily does: she belittles people. Ever since we were small and our mums made friends at nursery. Whenever we played make-believe I’d be the Post Office clerk to her management, the Jason to her Kylie, the hunchback to her Esmerelda…’ She sighed, batting away Isaac’s amused grin. ‘Pretty much like now.’

‘So she couldn’t handle it when you got a guy.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s a control thing. Insecurity. The thought you might actually be capable of happiness terrifies her. Trust me: it says more of Emily than it does of you.’

‘The irony is, she wasn’t always idolised at school—it was only when she was the first one to get tits and all the boys wanted to date her. Before that she used to get called Windy Rear in the playground!’

‘Nice!’

Julia smiled. ‘Even though part of me wanted to join in calling her names, I didn’t. I was always her friend. And then see how she repaid me.’

‘You’ve got to get over it.’ The pizzas came. ‘I see why you don’t like her, but the fact is you’re in the same business so you’re bound to run into each other—’

‘It’s a jinx. This is the third time we’ve worked together. I mean once, just once, I want to be the one that matters.’

Isaac watched her. ‘You are the one that matters.’

‘Well.’ She prodded her pizza, her appetite gone. ‘I’m not convinced.’

Isaac had invites to an album launch in Soho.

‘Come on, it’ll be fun!’

‘I don’t know, I should probably get a cab…’

‘Are you drunk?’

‘A bit.’

‘If you go home now, you’ll only wake up with a headache. Let’s go.’

They went. Outside the event, a band of paparazzi stood around smoking. They clicked on autopilot as Julia entered, recognising her from a Dickens adaptation she’d been in at Christmas. Emily had been in it, too. It was a matter of seconds before they made the connection.

‘What can you tell us about Emily Windermere and Christopher Fenwick? Are the rumours true? Will we see them tonight?’

Isaac took her hand and steered her through. Julia swallowed a lump of embarrassment: yet again, the moment she attracted one ounce of interest, there Emily was, waiting in the wings to stride on and ruin it all.

‘Come on,’ he said, lifting two drinks from a passing tray. ‘Let’s count how many egos it’s possible to fit in one room.’

Inside, the bar was lofty with sloped, beamed ceilings and a high mezzanine. The place was packed with familiar faces, pop starlets and presenters, comedians and reality TV sensations. Journalists were working the space, bulbs flashing at a procession of VIPS being positioned on a lip-shaped couch. Two topless male models with chests of golden steel posed with models and socialites.

‘D’you think it’ll be like this tomorrow?’ Julia asked as they settled on a couple of stools. A girl in a fifties prom dress came up with a tray of retro sweets. Julia sifted out a candy necklace and wound it round her wrist.

‘What’s happening tomorrow?’

‘The charity ball. It starts at six.’

Isaac rolled his eyes. ‘Do we even have to be there? It’s not like we’ve got to do anything. I thought it was all about Emily and Christopher.’ He held his hands up. ‘And that is the last time her name gets mentioned tonight.’

Julia bit off one of the sweets. ‘I might go anyway,’ she said. ‘Check it out.’

‘Seriously?’

‘Why not?’

Isaac squinted at her. ‘You’re not planning anything stupid, are you?’

‘Like what?’

‘I don’t know. That’s what worries me.’

Julia stirred her drink. ‘Emily’s going to be in front of the nation, doing what she does best and doing it to perfection. What could possibly go wrong?’

‘Well, if you’re going, I’m going.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah.’ He nicked his chin with a thumb. ‘You know, Julia…’

‘Hmm?’

‘I want to be there. For you. If you’re going to find it hard.’

‘You don’t need to be—’

‘Like I said, I want to.’ He was looking at her funnily, as if he expected her to get something obvious. ‘I always want to be with you,’ he continued carefully, ‘because when I’m with you I feel better than I do with anyone else. Do you get what I’m saying?’

She thought she did. Only, it couldn’t be true. Isaac was good-looking and funny and popular—no one had ever said anything like that to her before.

Julia watched him, waiting for the punchline, searching for the joke, but his gaze was steady. A tentative smile began to spread across her face, but before she had time to articulate her response Isaac’s mouth was on hers and he was kissing her.

Chapter Seven

Emily would never tire of the buzz of a live TV appearance. She’d done it countless times and never got nervous, but the anticipation of knowing you were about to be broadcast into countless living rooms across the country invoked a peculiar, addictive sort of adrenalin. Power, Christopher had diagnosed not twenty-four hours earlier when they had wrapped their scenes for the day. In those moments, darling, you can say or do anything and they can’t do a thing to stop it. You could plant an idea, you could sow a revolution; you could change the world!

Emily wasn’t interested in changing the world. The world changed for her.

One thing of which she was starting to tire, however, was Christopher. She found she got easily weary of men once the initial chase was done, once they had told her how stunning and perfect she was over and over again and they’d experimented with every conceivable sexual position so there was no more mystery to uncover. That was the point at which she became aware of Christopher’s breath in her face and the fact he had hairs growing out of his nose, if you looked closely.

Her stylist had brought a selection of outfits and laid them out now for Emily to choose from. It was refreshing to be able to model her own clothes—recently it had felt as if the Heriscombe House production were taking over her life—and perused the options.

Burberry pearl dress: ‘Too frumpy.’ Ghost knee-length tunic: ‘Too officey.’ Lacy Elie Saab number not a million miles from what her character might wear: ‘Too Lucinda Liddell!’

She raised a beautiful beaded Julien Macdonald.

‘I suppose this will have to do.’ She sighed. It was slightly shorter than she’d wanted—tonight Emily was determined to give the right impression, of a girl who would never contemplate getting involved with a married man, let alone one who was having his end away with everything in a skirt (more to the point, out of a skirt)—but she had to admit the heatwave was unrelenting, and to dress like a nun would only make her sweat and her concealer run.

Part of the heath had been closed off for the ball and people were arriving in droves, milling in conversation as smiling waitresses circulated with trays of fizzing champagne and extravagant canapés. A hundred or more lavishly decorated tables—white linens running to the ground and gold-leaf centrepieces—were arranged in view of the stage, which was decked out in swathes of hanging silk and a glinting podium where she and Christopher would shortly appear to present the award. A raft of cameras was positioned beneath it, lenses pointed like rifles.

Quite what the award was for, she wasn’t entirely sure…something to do with fundraising pioneers? It didn’t matter—what mattered was that she would waft out looking angelic, flash her megawatt smile and appear as graceful and alluring as she always did. A few pretty pictures in tomorrow’s papers would soon quash any murmurs of dissent. It was amazing what the right gown could do.

Emily stepped out into the balmy evening. The sun was cooling, falling behind the trees and bathing the grounds in burnished light.

She was about to go find Christopher so they could practise their banter when something in the trees caught her eye.

Maud Screwe.

Rather, Julia Chambers: but there had always been a Maud inside Julia just waiting to get out. One of life’s born losers; she’d known it the instant they’d met.

Only, for once, Julia wasn’t alone.

The footman was with her; the one who had dared speak to her the night Nina Tarot arrived. And they were holding hands! Were they? Yes, it wasn’t her eyes deceiving her, and now he was stroking Julia’s face—her pasty, plump face! And, yes, it was really happening: he was leaning in to kiss her…! That couldn’t be right. Emily was the pretty one, the one all the boys fancied and all the girls wanted to be—it had been that way for ever and always would be: a fact sure as day followed night, a truth so fixed and final it belonged inscribed in some leather-bound tome gathering dust on a library shelf. Julia was fat and boring and in sixth form had cultivated a spotty back: the concept that a man could be interested in that when Emily Windermere herself was in the vicinity tipped her globe drunkenly off its axis. She endured a rush of dizzy nausea.

Oblivious to the world around them, the couple linked arms. Emily watched them go, incensed, confused, staring for a long time at the spot where they’d been.

Julia mounted the slope behind the house and surveyed the scene. Evening dresses sparkled in the last of the afternoon sun, the fragrant aroma of summer flowers mixing with the heady scent of perfume as guests settled and the ceremony began. The compere was a weekend talk show host renowned for his close-to-the-bone humour: she wondered if he’d be making a quip at Emily and Christopher’s expense tonight.