The Love Act: A Fake Relationship Celebrity Romance Page 2

  The hairs on the back of my neck electrify when the man turns to face me. “Your shift?”

  “My shift, yes,” I lick my thumb and furiously rub at the marks. As far as I can tell, they don’t budge. “I’ve still got hours left, we’re filming ‘til midnight. Probably later. Some asshole has decided he doesn’t want to do his interview, he’s holding everybody else up.”

  A few beats of silence.

  “Oh,” I say. “Oh. Ah. Uh. Um? That wouldn’t happen to be you, would it?”

  “It certainly sounds like something I would do,” he says, thoughtfully.

  I squint up at where his voice is coming from. I can just make out a huge, staticky silhouette looming over me. Massive arms, big broad fireman shoulders. Possibly Bigfoot. “Are you okay?” I ask. He flinches. “Why are you hiding out here in the dark? Everyone’s running around looking for you.”

  He huffs, annoyed. “I’m not hiding. I was taking a phone call. Then my phone died. Why don’t you have lights back here?”

  “Because this is for bins,” I explain patiently. “Hey, if you come back inside, I can charge your phone for you, no problem.”

  “No.” He says it so icily the air gets colder.

  Okay. “Is there a reason you’re not going on? Are you nervous? We can get you a glass of wine or something, it’s totally normal!”

  He snorts. “I’m not nervous. I’ve done this a couple times before.”

  “Great.” I wait. “Uh, could you do it again, then, please? Like, right now? We don’t get paid overtime.”

  He’s doesn’t say anything.

  I lean against the door. It occurs to me that if I’m the one to find the missing celeb, Paul might forget what just happened in the hall. I need to find a way to coax him inside. “Is something wrong?” I ask the void.

  I don’t know what’s come over me. I would normally be wary of massive men on London backstreets, shrouded in shadows, but he doesn’t sound like an axe murderer. Despite his crisp accent, his voice is deep and soft and velvety. It’s making my skin hum like a tuning fork. I’ve always said I’m not that bothered about looks in men, but this is definitely the first time I’ve been attracted to a disembodied voice. I tentatively decide he sounds too hot to be a murderer.

  That’s probably the kind of thinking that gets people killed and skinned and turned into taxidermy sex dolls. But for some reason, I feel safer out here with this annoyed stranger, than back in the studio, where Paul’s always screaming and women are always crying and the lights are always on.

  Our sides suddenly brush, and I recoil as he leans against the wall next to me. “I’m supposed to be here to promote my latest film,” he says. “My ex-girlfriend was invited to do the interview with me.”

  I wince. “God. Why?”

  He sounds unbelievably irritated. “More views. We haven’t announced that we’ve broken up yet, but my management knows. I was calling them to get her removed from the interview. I’m not going to act like we’re in a relationship when we’re not. Which is what we’ll both have to do in front of your crew, if I go inside now.”

  I remember something. “Wait, is your ex called Gia? Or Gina? Something like that?” He tenses. “I heard that she got sent home, so you don’t need to worry about her.” I try to pat his arm comfortingly and end up slapping his stomach like a bongo drum. “Oh, sorry!”

  He startles, and I hear something clatter to the ground. “Don’t touch me,” he mutters, bending to scoop up whatever he dropped. When he straightens, pain bursts in my scalp.

  I let out a squeak and blindly grab him, pulling him back down. “Ow, okay. Sorry, but I think my hair’s caught on your button.” I tug him further down. “Sorry. It really hurts.”

  He ducks his head to my level. “What are you, an imp? I’m going to break my back.”

  “Maybe you’re just massive,” I mumble, fumbling my fingers across his chest, trying to unhitch myself. He’s wearing a thin, starched-feeling shirt that lets out puffs of cologne every time he moves. The scent warms the air between us. I can feel hard muscles and heartbeats under my palm. I swallow. I need to make this less awkward.

  “So. What’s your name?”

  “You don’t know?” His mouth is right by my ear. I get a feeling like silk tickling down my spine.

  “I’m not a lizard, I don’t have thermal vision.” He doesn’t say anything. “I’m Cassie,” I hint encouragingly.

  He grunts and starts helping me untangle myself. His fingers brush my damp shirt, and he goes very still. “Why,” he says, terrifyingly slowly, “are you wet?”

  “It’s tea.”

  “I was wondering why you smelled like that.” He rakes his hand through my curls, then swears and tries to shake his wrist free. “What’s wrong with your hair? Is it alive? I think it’s eating my hand.”

  I set my jaw and choose not to respond. This is actually a fair comment. My hair is black, goes down to my waist, and gets tangled every time I move my head or encounter a slight breeze. If I go to bed without tying it back, I wake up looking like the result of an illegal breeding experiment between a human and a mop.

  I tug at it frustratedly. The more I pull, the tighter the knots get. It’s like a Chinese finger trap. “Can we just do this inside? I need light.”

  “No.” The word is as final as a door slam.

  “Why not? Your ex has gone.”

  “I’m too ugly.”

  “Oh.” I try to think of what to say to that. “I bet you have a great imagination, or something.”

  He snorts. “Not really, no.”

  Somewhere in the city, a church bell starts to toll. More bells join it like echoes, gonging across London. Eleven PM. My ten minutes is up.

  “Crap. I need to go. I’m about to turn into a pumpkin.”

  “Don’t be embarrassed. You can do it here, I don’t mind. Stop moving, I think I’ve got it.” His fingertips brush my cheek, tilting my head closer to him while he tugs at a curl. Our faces are so close I can feel his breath on my lips.

  A white strobe cracks between us. I blink, briefly blinded, and the broad silhouette of the man flashes behind my eyelids.

  “What was that?” I look around, my vision flooding with black again. “Lightning?”

  The man swears loudly and starts working harder at my hair. “Do you not own a brush?”

  “I did once,” I say sadly.

  There’s another flash. And another, and another. If this is lightning, the silent storm is right over our heads. The lights are giving me little electric slices of the man, and I can’t stop staring. I’m collecting the pieces, clicking them together into a full jigsaw. A sharp cheekbone. A hard jaw. Incredibly broad shoulders in a black suit jacket. Bright blue eyes, lit up like neon, fixed on mine. He’s all angles and dips and shadows. I shiver.

  He swears again and turns. “For fuck’s sake. You’ve got your shot,” he bellows at the bins.

  Paparazzi.

  Oh God. What if I turn up on tomorrow’s newspaper? With my hair all over the place, I probably look like a tiny brown Hagrid.

  With one final, triumphant tug, the man frees himself from my hairy snare. A button pings off his shirt and clicks against the pavement. My hair broke a celebrity’s shirt.

  He puts his hands on my waist and swivels me like a ballerina, pointing me firmly towards the door. “Go. Now.” He suddenly sounds furious.

  Alarmed, I fumble at the door, finally finding the handle. Yellow light spills into the alley as I push it open, and I get a brief glimpse of a giant in a suit before he steps back into the shadows. “Hey. Aren’t you coming?”

  “No.”

  I sigh. “Look, it’s okay that you’re hideous. It’s what’s inside that counts.”

  I think I hear his teeth grind together. “If you want to go home that badly, find the producer and bring her here. I need to confirm if Gina or I’ll be doing the interview.”

  “But I already told you—”

  “I don’t believe you.” His voice slices through me. “Go inside before you do any more damage.”

  I sputter. “What damage—”

  “Goodbye,” he prompts. Then, over his shoulder. “You. Let me see your camera.”

  Whatever. He looked about eight foot tall, I can’t pick him up and sling him over my shoulder. I’ll just rat him out to security. I head back inside, with the weirdest impression of eyes following me.

  And immediately smack into a man’s chest.

  He reaches out and grabs my elbows, steadying me. “Ah. Sorry. My bad.”

  I can’t believe it. A polite person! My first of the night! He’s hot, too: probably early thirties, with high cheekbones and brown, freckled skin. He’s impeccably dressed in a plum-purple suit and thick-rimmed glasses, and he’s balancing a polished wooden cane over his forearm. The whole look gives off a sort of Sexy Professor vibe.

  “Sorry about that.” I smile up at him. “Can I help you with something?”

  “Yes, I don’t suppose you’ve seen Jack Hale about, have you? Tall, blondish-brown hair—” He gestures vaguely at his face, “frowns a lot? I’m his PR manager. He’s escaped his leash again.”

  “Sorry, what?” I ask politely.

  “Jack Hale? The actor? You’ll know if you’ve seen him, he’s quite hard to miss.”

  He certainly is; for one thing, his resting bitch-face has been plastered on the side of my afternoon bus for the last two months straight.

  Oh my God.

  Jack Hale.

  I was imagining the secret celeb was a soap actor, or a West End singer, or something. Not a Hollywood star with more followers than Rihanna. No wonder he was such a brat. He was probably throwing a tantrum until he got exactly twelve bottles of Evian delivered to his dressing room, or a b
owl of only yellow Skittles hand-fed to him, or something. I can’t believe a man that famous touched my skin.

  I glance down surreptitiously at my arm. It’s a barely legible scribble, throbbing in the low light, but I can definitely make out a J and an H. I point at the signature wordlessly.

  He leans in, examining it. “Ah. Yes. That’ll be him. Where exactly…?”

  I smile and jerk my thumb in the direction of the back door. “He’s outside, contemplating the bins. Tell him Cassie says hi.”

  3

  I’m woken by someone hammering at the door of our tiny, mouldy bungalow. I groan into my pillow and roll over. It’s too early. There’s no way I have to be up yet. They’ll go away soon.

  The knocking gets louder, and I bolt up as my dusty windows rattle in their frames. Oh, shit, it must be the landlord. I don’t think we missed any bills, but it’s definitely possible. Maybe even probable.

  There’s a muffled, angry yell from outside, and I quickly throw on a pair of joggers and zip down the hallway, flinging the front door open.

  There’s a man there, standing silently on our doorstep.

  “Um. Hello.” I smile at him uncertainly. “Can I help you?”

  He lifts a very fancy camera and takes a photograph, right in my face.

  I’m too shocked to respond for a second, so I just stand still, posing like an ideal little life-model, as he snaps away at me. Then I remember I’m wearing a clingy white pyjama top. And no bra.

  I slam the door in his face and fumble at the lock. He knocks again, pounding with his fist, and I jam a chair under the handle, then make a beeline for Robin’s bedroom. When I sneak inside, he’s still snoring. Robin famously once fell asleep at a screamo concert, so I’m not particularly surprised.

  “Rob!” I hiss into his dark cave.

  No response.

  I snap on the light, and he jerks upright. His brown curls are standing up like he’s been tazed. “Wha—? Why would you do that?” He sounds deeply betrayed.

  “There’s someone—” I go to sit on the bed, and step on a crumpled mound of fabric. My whole body shrivels. “Oh, God. Am I standing on your pants?”

  “They’re clean,” he grumbles, scrubbing a hand across his face. “That’s what you get for walking into my room uninvited.” His eyes finally focus enough to see my expression. “Jesus, I get it, you’re grossed out by my underwear. There’s no reason to pass out.”

  My hands twist together. I look back at the door. “There’s a man outside.”

  Robin slumps back in his pillows, unimpressed. “What’s he doing, threateningly delivering post? Go run after him, it might be my posters for the community centre.”

  “When I opened the door, he started taking pictures of me.”

  That gets his attention. “He took pictures of you?”

  “I think I’m being stalked.”

  “Why would anyone want to stalk you?!”

  The rhythmic banging on the front door gets louder, and I clutch my chest.

  Robin rolls off his mattress like a manatee and grips my shoulders. “I’ll go talk to him. Stay back here, so he can’t see you.” He strides off down the hallway to face his fate in his boxers.

  I run after him, grabbing his arm. “No! You can’t!”

  “I know you went to drama school, but I really can’t deal with this many theatrics in the morning,” he says flatly.

  “Don’t open it!” I hiss. “What if wants to knock you out with a baseball bat so he can come and nick all our stuff?”

  “What’s he going to steal? My broken laptop, or your two-pound headphones? This isn’t a movie, Cass. Now shove it.” I shake my head and stand my ground. I’m not about to let my literal only friend face his death like this. He rolls his eyes, looping me around the waist and hauling me behind him. I am very small, so I am sadly pretty easy to haul. “You realise you’re the size of a Chihuahua, right? I’ll call you if I need a hand beating him up. Now, off you go.” He claps. “Chop, chop.”

  I slouch into our miniature kitchen. Like the rest of the building, it’s hideous. There are broken tiles on the walls and strange stains on the cupboard. I stare at one as I fill up the kettle with shaky hands. Why would anyone want to take pictures of me? A memory tickles my brain, but is interrupted when Robin suddenly yells “WHAT?” from the front door.

  I jump so hard I slosh tap water all over the kitchen table. One of Rob’s poster designs gets soaked, and I pick it up, grimacing, as it dissolves into mush in my hand. Luckily, it appears to be a work-in-progress: it’s just a piece of printer paper with the words, ‘Support, Assure, Finance, Empower. Help us build a S.A.F.E. London’ written on it in the world’s ugliest font. There’s a clip-art cartoon heart underneath.

  Maybe it’s okay if it gets ruined.

  Robin’s grandma died five years ago, and he inherited a tiny fortune off her. Despite working full time as an ambulance call handler, he didn’t do what any normal person would do and retire rich; he put all the funds into starting a charity in her honour, to support people with mental illnesses. SAFE. In other words, he’s an angel in human form. Goodness shines out of his pores like holy light.

  Sadly, that doesn’t stop him viciously bullying me. He bursts back into the kitchen as I’m mopping up the mess. “You little slag!” he crows.

  “Yes? Hello? Did you want something?” I wave the soggy bit of paper at him. “I ruined your marketing campaign.”

  He waves it off. “Who gets it on in the street behind their workplace? Oh, Cass, I’m so proud. My only child. All grown up at last.”

  “You were a terrible dad,” I mutter, dropping into a chair. It creaks ominously. Like everything in this building, it’s currently held together with duct tape and wishes. “What, exactly, are you talking about?”

  He sticks his phone in my face. “You didn’t tell me?”

  I squint at the screen. And blink the sleep from my eyes.

  And squint some more.

  It’s a photograph of me kissing Jack Hale. My hands are on his chest, his are wrapped in my hair, our faces are tilted together, and we both appear to be pulling back for air after a passionate snog by the dustbins.

  I’d been so alarmed by my stalker that I’d forgotten about last night. Memories click through my head like a slideshow. Fingers on my elbow. Warm breath in my hair. A very rude man.

  Definitely no kissing.

  Rob’s grin is going to split his face. “The guy was paparazzi. It’s good to see you haven’t forgotten how to kiss. How did it feel, to finally be in the warm embrace of a man again?”

  I shake my head, dazed. “I don’t…”

  “Jack Hale, Cass! Jack Hale! Pure fucking Greek God Jack Hale! You literally don’t feel the gentle touch of a man for five years, then you pull Jack Hale?!”

  “Stop saying his name, you might summon him.” I bring the screen right up to my face, studying every glowing pixel. Looking closely, I can see how the photographer caught us at an incriminating angle. Half of Jack’s face is hiding mine—our lips aren’t even touching. “This isn’t right, though. We didn’t kiss.”

  He snorts, jabbing the screen. “Who’s she, then?”

  “Looks like A Mystery Girl.”

  “Yeah, okay. Did you get his number? Did heavenly choirs of angels descend and warble in your ears? What did he smell like?” That’s the thing about Robin, he’s shy.

  “It was dark. My hair got caught on his button, he bent down to untangle it. That’s it.” I scroll down to read the story.

  Despite being booked for a live appearance on the SPEAKEASY TALK SHOW last night, Jack Hale chose to spend his evening differently. The famous actor made a scene when he kissed a crew member outside the studio, in full view of paparazzi. Hale is currently dating fellow actress Gina McClive.

  A source close to McClive claims, ‘She’s devastated. She’s used to desperate women throwing themselves at Jack, but she’s always trusted him to remain faithful. That he would humiliate her so publicly is a real blow. He hasn’t apologised, or reached out at all.’

  The identity of the young employee remains a mystery.

  Robin grabs my wrist. “He signed your arm?” His voice has spiralled so high, bats can hear it.

  I look down in horror at the black permanent marker tattooing my skin. “Rob, stop it. I don’t like this. I really didn’t kiss him. I don’t know what’s happening.” My heart is hammering. This isn’t fair. Someone’s made up this story about me, and I have no way of talking back.