The Love Act: A Fake Relationship Celebrity Romance Read online

  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, traili
ng 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!”