The Love Act: A Fake Relationship Celebrity Romance Page 3

  “Wait.” He checks my face. “Seriously?”

  I nod, scrolling down to some shots of me and Jack talking. We’re both gazing at each other very, very intently. I know it’s because we’re both blind, but I suppose it could look like calf-eyes. If you’re really stupid.

  Rob’s phone vibrates in my hand. He grabs it and checks the alert. “Oh, shit. I’ve got a meeting with a donor. Will you be okay alone? You can come along if you can be silent and invisible. Use your award-winning acting skills to be a filing cabinet, or something.”

  I plop onto the sofa and curl up. “I’ll be fine.”

  He gives me a shrewd look. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. If someone else comes, I’ll just shut all the curtains, put on sound-cancelling headphones, and pretend I’m in a bunker.”

  “Your classic move.” Robin ducks and hugs me, quickly. “Don’t worry. We’ll sort it when I get back, okay? Promise.”

  I shove him off me. “Go. Save the world, you disgusting good samaritan.”

  He bolts for the shower, and is out the door in two minutes flat. I flip open my laptop. The story is everywhere. Everywhere. Facebook, Twitter, Youtube. Apparently, in her heartbreak, Gina has managed to contact hundreds of different news outlets in the last nine hours, which is quite impressive. Apart from the one pap, no one else seems to have worked out that it’s me yet—but it’s probably only a matter of time. I look through some comments:

  I can’t believe it.

  i always thought he was one of the good guys :(

  Who is that bitch, anyway?! Who makes out with another girl’s man???

  I tug at my hair, stressed, and head to Jack’s IMDb page. I’m not really a fan of his, but I recognise a few titles. He mostly does action movies. His studio, Union, churns out at least five identical blockbusters a year, full of emotionless hot people and explosions. They’re not really my thing; I prefer a period romance. I like watching men in top hats helping women into carriages. Ballrooms heavy with sexual tension. Mr. Darcy climbing dripping out of a lake.

  I scroll to the trivia section at the bottom of the page. Apparently, the studio crowned Jack ‘Biggest Diva’ four years ago, when he left set during filming five times. He’s currently starring in a superhero franchise. His superhero name is The Guard, and his last film, Bound, is due to release this month. Intrigued, I pull up a video preview, and my mouth goes dry.

  It’s a scene of Jack in the shower. Water sprays across his face and streaks down his chest, licking over hard lines of muscle. Droplets bead on his arms and collarbone. The glass walls are soft with steam. As I watch, he turns off the water and climbs out, wrapping a towel around his hips. The camera angle keeps everything carefully PG. He opens the bathroom door to reveal a man dressed all in black with a sock on his head, pointing a gun at him.

  Jack raises a perfect eyebrow. “That’s not very polite. Can you at least wait for me to get dressed?”

  The socked man lunges at him, and Jack grabs his arm, yanks away the gun, and wrestles him smoothly to the tiled floor. There’s a brief tussle, which focusses mostly on wet, bulging biceps. Then a gunshot sounds. Jack stands up, adjusting his towel.

  “I haven’t even had breakfast yet,” he mutters, stepping over the body.

  BOUND: IN THEATRES SOON flashes across the screen.

  I narrow my eyes.

  It’s a pretty dumb teaser, although it’s hard to judge Jack’s performance skills, since the camera focussed solely on his abs for the entire sequence. As far as I can tell, The Guard’s superpower is just being very muscly. And naked. And wet.

  I decide I need to do some more research. I’m just loading up a new website when my phone rings.

  Alarm clangs through me. If the photographer worked out my address, he could definitely find my phone number. I pick my phone up like it’s a nuclear detonator.

  “Hi?” I venture.

  “Cassandra?” It’s a deep male voice with a crisp Eton accent. “We met briefly last night. My name’s Conlan; I’m the PR representative for Jack Hale.”

  I feel cold. “How did you get my number?”

  He has the grace to sound embarrassed. “I contacted your studio. They gave me all of your details. I assume you’ve seen the news?”

  “Ah, yes.”

  “Good. There’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”

  “If you want to sue me, I don’t have any money. Like, at all.” I cough. “Also, um, I’m not sure I’ve done anything wrong?” Stupid, maybe, but that isn’t usually punishable by law.

  “We don’t want to sue you, Miss Ray. The opposite, actually. Consider this more of a proposition.”

  What’s the opposite of getting sued? Getting paid? “O-kay? What are you proposing?”

  “It’s a bit sensitive. It’s better that I explain it to you in person.” He pauses. “Do you know the restaurant Ambrosia? In Camden?”

  “Yes.”

  “Meet us there at noon, please. We’ll explain everything.”

  4

  I stare at Ambrosia’s massive gold doors. My watery reflection stares back out of the glass. I look very scared and small and young, and definitely not posh enough to go inside and speak to a celebrity. My black hair is one waist-length, windswept tangle. The cherry-print sundress I fashionably grabbed out of my clean-enough laundry pile is slightly wrinkled, and is being set off nicely by the sweat-glow on my light brown skin. My red lipstick is too bright, and I still have pen all over my arm. No matter how much I scrubbed in the shower, I couldn’t get rid of it. I’ve been branded.

  To conclude, I look a complete mess.

  The door suddenly jerks open, and the maitre d’ peers out at me. “It’s not an automatic door, ma’am,” he says, helpfully.

  “Oh, I know, I was just…” He raises an eyebrow. I scuttle into the quiet darkness, immediately feeling hopelessly underdressed. The man is wearing a tuxedo. At midday.

  His eyes flicker when he sees me, obviously not used to such straggly clientele. “Ah—do you have a reservation?”

  I swallow back the nerves tangling in my throat. “Um. I’m here to meet Jack Hale?” It sounds so stupid when I say it out loud. I may as well have waltzed into the building and asked to have a sit-down with Bugs Bunny.

  The man just nods, consulting his list. “Cassandra Ray, is it?” I nod, then stare when he bobs a little heel-clicky bow. “I’ll show you to his table.”

  I look around as I’m led through the dim restaurant, taking in glossy mahogany tables and jewel-coloured wallpaper. People huddle over tiny plates of food, speaking in hushed tones. Crystal glassware clinks. I can feel my heartbeat in my skin. This isn’t a part of London I like to visit anymore. I’m not big-headed enough to think I might actually get recognised in public—but a lot of my old cast-mates still work in the theatres clumped around this street, and I want to bump into them about as much as I want to bump headfirst into a combine harvester.

  The maitre d’ deposits me by a little corner booth dipped in shadows. An ideal place for some shady dealings. I’m about to step forward when a silver-haired man I’ve never seen before unfolds himself from the table. He’s very pale, and is dressed in an old-fashioned suit like a vampire. “We’ll see,” he tells someone in the booth. “I’m not optimistic.” He turns to go and spots me standing there. “Oh. Are you Cassandra?”

  “Um, yes?”

  “Huh.” He runs his eyes over me. “She looks… innocent. People could buy it.”

  I try not to wince, but I get that comment a lot. Innocent little Cassie. Sweet little Cassie. I feel so wrong swearing in front of Cassie. I’m twenty-five, but it’s one of the trials of being five foot on a good day. Last month, I got ID’d buying Robin an energy drink. It doesn’t help that I’m also baby face personified: round cheeks, no bone structure and eyes too big for my face. I probably look like an infant marmoset in a dress.

  The man inspects me. “You look familiar. Have I seen you before?”

  I swallow. “I don’t think so.”

  “I could’ve sworn…” he trails off. “Well. You’ve got your work cut out for you. I’m not signing Hale onto anything until he shows me he can get his act together. Putting him in a film right now would be tantamount to throwing the whole thing in the trash.”

  Of course, I have absolutely no idea what he’s talking about. “Sorry, what?” I ask politely.

  The guy picks up a glass of wine and gulps it down, then blots his red-stained mouth with a napkin. “I’m a hard man to convince, Cassandra. The general public is harder. Good luck.” With that weirdly ominous closing line, he strides off, leaving the restaurant’s big glass door swinging.

  And sitting at the table behind him is Jack Hale.

  It’s bizarre seeing him in 3D. He shouldn’t be real. He’s a flat, two-dimensional character that should only exist in pixel form. But somehow, he’s here, and he’s massive, and he’s the hottest person I’ve seen in my entire fucking life.

  My brain tries to match up the flashing snapshots I got last night with this whole, entire man. I remember the high cheekbones and the sharp, square jawline, scuffed up with stubble. The hard mouth. I thought his hair was brown, but the restaurant lights are minting it with strands of gold. He’s almost larger than life, all thick muscle and big scaffolding bones. It’s like seeing a Viking scrunched into the tiny leather booth.

  He makes a sudden flinching movement, and I meet his eyes. They’re this bright, blinding blue. And he’s giving me a look that would melt metal.

  “Oh, good, you’ve found each other,” someone says. I blink back to reality, and turn to see the PR manager from yesterday, holding a thick envelope and a glass. His suit is burnt orange and gorgeous. “Thanks so much for coming, Cassandra. I’ve ordered you a
drink, I hope you don’t mind.”

  My brain finally whirs back to life. “It’s Cassie, actually. Thank you… was it Conlan?” I fall into one of the chairs. A glass of white wine is slid in front of me. I fight the urge to neck it like a dose of medicine.

  He smiles at me and sits down too, settling a packet of papers on the table. “Call me Con. How are you?”

  “Okay,” I say, tentatively, glancing at Jack. He’s staring at his name on my arm. I’m suddenly very aware of my dress tickling against my skin.

  “Good, good,” Con says, tapping his papers straight. “I suppose we should get to business.”

  “Please,” I practically beg.

  He clears his throat. “You’ve seen the news. This scandal has come at a very bad time for Jack’s career. His current contract with Union Studios is ending in a couple of weeks. Right now, he’s doing press for his very last movie with them, Bound.”

  I turn to Jack. “Does that mean you’re done with all the superhero movies?”

  Jack ignores me, staring pensively into his whiskey glass.

  Con nods. “Exactly. And now he’s looking to branch out into some more… challenging roles.” He leans across the table, lowering his voice. “Do you know Axel Mansen?”

  “The director?” I nod. He makes these gorgeous, heavily symbolic art-house movies with endings I have to look up online to understand. “Yeah, his films are great. What about him?”

  Con points at the door with his pen. “You just met him.”

  My eyes widen. “The scary guy?”

  “Yes. Jack’s wanted to work with him for a very long time, but his contract with Union was exclusive. Mansen’s starting filming for a new project in a couple of months—a modern adaption of Romeo and Juliet. He had been considering Jack for Romeo, before Jack managed to ruin his reputation completely. Now, we’ve got fans on social media threatening to boycott anything Jack gets cast in.”

  “They’re remaking Romeo and Juliet?” I ask faintly, feeling myself start to sweat.

  “Yes. Mansen’s dropping Jack from the film unless he can improve his reputation.”

  I turn to Jack. “You told me you’d already broken up with your girlfriend.”

  Jack silently spins the glass in his hand.

  Con swoops in to answer again. “He had. He decided not to make the split public. But,” he raises a finger, “Gina also doesn’t have any proof that they were still together. So this is a matter of public opinion.”

  “Okay.”

  “We can’t undo what everybody’s seen, but we can win back favour. The public loves a romance. If they see Jack start a really sweet, loving relationship, they’re more likely to side with him, and see him as a potential romantic hero. That’s the theory, anyway.”

  “Right,” I say, slowly. “I’m sorry; I don’t really get why you’re telling me this.”

  Jack turns to me, and finally, finally opens his mouth. “How are you being this slow?” He snaps out.

  I’m taken aback. “What?”

  Con sighs. “Jack. Please.”

  Jack plucks irritably at his cuff. “It’s pretty obvious what we’re asking.”

  “It would be a bit more obvious if you actually, like, asked it,” I point out, quite reasonably.

  Con straightens, pushing a pastel pink file across the table to me. “Here’s your copy of the contract I’ve drawn up. We want to hire you to act as his girlfriend. Mansen’s casting deadline is in seven weeks, so we’d need you for the next two months. The first meeting would be tomorrow morning at his hotel—Cassandra?”

  I jump up, but my legs get tangled in the chair, and I stagger like a foal. I grab the edge of the table with sticky hands. “I need to go.”

  5

  “What?” Con looks genuinely surprised. Like I should be dropping to my knees and begging for the privilege of shagging his client. “Are you okay? Do you want some water?”

  I turn on Jack, nausea blooming in my throat. I don’t know if I’m more angry or scared. “You know there are professionals that will happily have paid sex with you? It’s kind of unethical to just bribe random poor people.”

  Jack just looks up at me impassively, tapping the rim of his glass. Understanding dawns on Con’s face. “Cassandra, please, sit down, it’s nothing like that. No one’s expecting you to sleep with Jack. In fact, I’d highly recommend against it, I’ve heard nothing but bad things.”

  I take a deep breath, pushing back my hair. The sounds of the restaurant flush back into my ears. “Then what?”

  “It’ll all just be acting. Think of it as a role in a play. We want you to pretend to be his girlfriend in public for two months.”

  “Well that’s extremely normal!” I sputter.

  Con pats my chair, and I reluctantly sit back down. “I took the liberty of looking you up online. You went to a performing arts college, didn’t you? I’m sure you’re comfortable acting.”

  Terror curls in my stomach. He’s stalked me. I try to subtly look for the exit from the corner of my eye. “I’m not an actress.”

  “Even so, it’ll be an excellent opportunity for you.”

  “To do what?” Get my organs harvested?

  Con falters. “Well… you work backstage at a TV show. Surely you want a job in media. Isn’t that the reason most people take those entry-level jobs?”

  “Not me,” I tell him earnestly. “I’m just really passionate about making people tea. I think it might be my calling.” I grab my wine and take a gulp. It burns my stomach like petrol. “Sorry, this is just a really weird thing to ask someone to do.”

  “We understand it’s unorthodox,” Con soothes, “but it’s honestly quite common in the industry.” He reaches for my file. “Can I take you through the paperwork? That might give you a better idea of what we’re asking. I promise you, it’s all completely legal.” He flips through a few pages. Reassuringly, they’re not inked in blood. “Here, we’ve got the contract, release forms for our photographer, the NDA—”

  My head snaps up. “NDA?”

  “Non Disclosure Agreement,” he explains. “It helps keep sensitive information private.”

  I know what an NDA is. At my old job, we just called them gagging orders. “What sensitive information?” I ask suspiciously.

  “Of course, this whole…well…” he tries to think of a nice word for ‘extensive lie’, “…this charade would be useless if someone found out the truth. You wouldn’t be able to tell anyone.”

  “No one at all?”

  “Ah, no. It’s very important this all stays under wraps.” He flicks over another page, delicately clearing his throat. “Of course, you’ll be well compensated for your time, since you’d have to quit your current job. We’ll pay fifty grand a week. That’s four hundred thousand for the full eight weeks,” he adds, helpfully. “With a bonus hundred thousand if you make it all the way through. And we’ll cover any wardrobe, living, and travel expenses, naturally.”

  “What?” I think my ears are ringing. “Excuse me?”

  Jack rolls his eyes. “Now she’s interested,” he mutters to Con. As if it’s a bad thing to be interested in half a million quid. It must be nice to be so rich that you forget other people need money to survive.

  Con goes to answer, but his phone suddenly lights up, buzzing all over the table. He glances at the screen and stands. “I have to get this. It’s Union. One second.” As he edges out of the booth, he clips Jack hard over the head.

  We both sit quietly when he’s gone. I stare at the contract in front of me. I’m not actually reading it; I’ve temporarily forgotten how to read. I’m just sort of staring dazedly at the figures. Fifty grand a week. That’s over twice what I’ve earned in the last two years combined. What could I do with that much money? I could pay all of our outstanding bills. I could get rid of my university debt. I could help keep Rob’s charity afloat. I’m so used to feeling like I’m suffocating every single time a bill gets pushed through our letterbox. Living on minimum wage in London is not a joke. It’s scary, a constant fear that gnaws at you. Sometimes I feel like the anxiety is slowly killing me.