The Love Act: A Fake Relationship Celebrity Romance Page 4

  Jack sets down his glass and crosses his arms. “Just so you know,” he says quietly, “if you ever do anything like this again, I will take legal action.”

  I blink up at him. “Sorry? Do anything like what?”

  “Tip off the paparazzi.”

  My mouth drops open. “Excuse me?”

  He raises an eyebrow. “Do you really expect me to believe a group of photographers were hidden behind a pile of bins, waiting for me on the off-chance that I have an affair outside your studio?”

  I’m stunned. “But… how could I be working with the paparazzi if you were there before me? That doesn’t even make sense!”

  “How else would they find me in a completely dark alley?”

  “I don’t know! I just wanted some fresh air, I didn’t even know who you were.”

  His eyes are like ice. They’re freezing me up inside. “Everyone knows who I am.”

  I gape.

  He nods at my arm. “You haven’t even washed my autograph off. Didn’t you shower this morning? That’s disgusting.”

  “You used a permanent marker on my human skin! I’m probably dying of ink poisoning!”

  “I’m just letting you know that this isn’t some kind of reward. Trust me,” his eyes flick over me. “If we had a choice, you’re the last person I’d pick.”

  “JACK.” We both look up to see Con standing over us. He takes a calming breath, sliding back into his seat. “I know you struggle socially. Let me explain. When you’re asking someone to do something for you, it’s generally a bad idea to insult them.”

  Jack leans back in the booth like a king reclining on his throne. “I’m not asking her to do anything for me. I’m offering her a ridiculous amount of money to go on two months of all-expenses-paid dates with a celebrity. She’ll get all the press and media attention she wants.”

  I stand, reach into my bag, and toss a note onto the table for the drink. “No, thanks.”

  “What?” Con stands. “Cassie, please—”

  I start weaving back through the tables towards the door, keeping my head down. There’s some grumbling and clattering, and then Con’s suddenly next to me, shoving the file into my arms. “Here’s the contract, and my number. Think about it, and then call me later. Before midnight, please.”

  I try to hand them back to him, but he won’t take them. I end up just pushing them against his chest. “Sorry, but I don’t want them. I’m not going to change my mind.”

  He moves to stand in front of the door. “Look.” He drops his voice. “I’m sorry about Jack.”

  “Is he having some kind of narcissistic episode?”

  Con winces. “He’s not normally this bad. He just doesn’t think this is a good idea. He’s trying to scare you away.”

  “Well. It worked.”

  “He’s a suspicious bastard generally, but the woman who claimed to be in love with him for the last three years just tried to derail his career. He’s a bit—raw.”

  I’m not feeling very empathetic. I just got thrown into international media as the sluttiest home-wrecker since Helen of Troy. I’m not behaving like an utter twat.

  I do feel kind of bad for Con, though, so I try to soften the blow. “Look. I’m not the kind of person you’re looking for, anyway. I don’t like crowds, or yelling, or people staring at me. I’m not celebrity material, I’m boring. I barely even leave my house, except to go to work or the pub.”

  Con smiles, gently. “It sounds like a challenge like this would be good for you, then. It’s amazing what you can get used to.”

  I shake my head, slipping past him. “Goodbye, Con. Thanks for the… opportunity, I guess. You, um—might want to work on your hiring practises. They’re weird.” I push open the glass door.

  “Cassie?” He calls after me. I spin to face him. “He could really use a friend, about now.”

  Something in me responds to that, because I am a massive tool. I look over his shoulder. Jack’s still at the table, but he’s stood to watch us. When our eyes meet, he gives me a look of such deep, burning hatred that I think I might actually die.

  I’m a tool, but I’m not a bloody saint. I give Con an apologetic smile and shut the door behind me.

  6

  “You should do it,” Rob says, plonking a fresh bottle of whiskey onto the kitchen table. I look up from my laptop, where I’m halfway through an episode of Queens and Lovers. I know Robin is under a lot of stress with the charity, but I wasn’t aware that he’d lost his entire mind.

  “Rob. You can’t be serious. I’m probably going to get kidnapped and chopped into tiny pieces to feed to his pure-bred greyhounds.”

  He stacks together two piles of bills, cracks open the bottle, and glugs another shot into his glass. I watch with mild concern. He’s been downing whiskey like a lonely cowboy in a saloon since he got back from work. “I don’t see why he’d pick you for that. You’re too tiny. You’d barely feed one single greyhound.”

  “I have to trust that he won’t consider me his live-in personal sex slave? It sounds an awful lot like he wants an escort.”

  He wrinkles up his nose. “Don’t really see why he’d pick you for that, either. No offence.”

  I tap the space bar to pause the episode. “Let me get this straight. A strange man wants me to get into his car and drive to his hotel room every day, where we will kiss and touch and not fuck, and you think that’s totally trustworthy.”

  “Why not?”

  Do men not have self-preservation instincts, or something? “I don’t see why we’re even discussing this! I don’t need a job. I have a job.”

  He rolls his eyes so enthusiastically I’m a bit worried for his health. “Cassie. ‘Runner’ is not a long-term career goal, unless your goal is to be very tired and poor. You can’t make instant coffee forever.”

  “But I’m so good at it. I think it is my calling.”

  “It’s been three years. You need to get back out into the world, live your life.”

  I pick at a string on my dress. “I hate living. I want to stay here, quietly thriving in our manky bungalow and minding my own business ‘til the end of my days.”

  “Your life is so boring,” he complains. “I’m bored thinking about it.” He taps my laptop screen. “Look, what if Austen Boy asked you to do it?”

  I look at the frozen shot of Troy Spencer, and warmth floods through me. “Troy Spencer would probably ask me nicely and not make me feel like something that got stuck to his shoe.”

  “But you’d do it?”

  “I mean… yes?”

  Troy Spencer is easily my favourite actor. He’s everything Jack isn’t. He acts in funny rom-coms and period dramas, and always plays the charming romantic hero. Right now, he’s starring in my current TV obsession, the historical series Queens and Lovers. He plays a gentle, sexy earl. I saw an interview with him yesterday where he called an intern in front of the camera and French-plaited her hair while he answered the questions, and I almost exploded from sheer jealousy.

  In case it’s not obvious, I fancy the shit out of him. I blush when he makes eye contact with me through a screen.

  “So it’s clearly not the actual job you have an issue with,” Rob points out. “You just don’t like Jack.”

  “So? He deserves it! He walked into the restaurant assuming I was just obsessed with him. Like, how big-headed can you get? I’m sorry, I didn’t realise he owned all of London’s bins. What, should we all evacuate the street every time he needs to mope?”

  “Who cares? It’s just two months, and this could change everything for you. It would be so good for your acting career, Cass.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “I don’t have an acting career. I’m not an actress.”

  Rob sniffs. “Right. Frankly, I’m surprised Assembly’s venue security didn’t do anything about the strange girl who climbed onstage and interrupted Shakespeare performances eight times a week for two years straight.”

  I grab his arm. “That’s another thing! Guess what movie he’s trying to get cast in.”

  He gulps back more whiskey. “Trolls 5.”

  “… Would be an excellent type-cast, but no. Romeo and Juliet.”

  His eyes go big. “Cassie, this is fate. This kind of stuff just doesn’t happen. It’s a sign. And even if he’s an asshole, that kind of money will change your life.”

  I eye the pile of bills avalanching off the table. We’ve been tiptoeing around the subject since I got in, but clearly something’s wrong. “Um. So. Speaking of. How did the meeting with your donor go?”

  He groans deeply, dropping his head onto the table. “They’re backing out, too.”

  “Were they a big one?”

  “It was the local community centre. They brought in ten grand a year, easy.” He rubs his face. “They said they wanted to change their chosen charity to something more ‘cheerful’. I think they’re going to adopt panda cubs, or something.”

  “Ah. So that’s where you went wrong. Your mental health charity is too depressing.” I pick up a bill, read it, and wince. “Won’t your grandma’s money cover it, though?”

  A beat of silence. Then: “It’s gone.” I look up. He’s blinking fast, his green eyes glassy. He’s trying not to cry. “It’s all gone, Cass.”

  “Rob!” I shunt my chair closer to him and pull him into a hug. He buries himself into me, his breathing uneven and shaky. Hot tears slide my down my collarbone. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s all my fault.” He says, his voice muffled. “I screwed up my spreadsheets. There was an accounting error. The stupidest fucking error. We’ve been spending way too much. I assumed donations would go up, not down, but—shit.” His back contracts with a sob. “I made people trust me, I told them they were safe, and now I’m taking it away
again. All because I can’t count. This could really screw some people up, and it’s all my fault.”

  My throat scrunches. SAFE is mostly volunteering, but it also offers financial support to people who can’t work. It’s really hard to get disability benefits for mental illnesses. I know lots of people rely on the charity donations to buy food or pay rent.

  “I’m so stupid,” he whispers.

  “Noo. You’re not stupid. Do we need to do some affirmations?” I cuddle him tighter. “You are smart. You are kind. It’s okay you don’t know what Excel is. Spreadsheets are toxic.”

  He groans and pulls back, ruffling a hand through his curls. “I’m gonna have to start breaking the news. What am I supposed to say? Sorry, eighty-year-old lady with no family. I know your PTSD is so bad you can’t leave the house, but I can’t afford to bring you meals, so I guess you’ll just have to eat dog food until you wither away into a skeleton no one will even find for two months?”

  “I feel like you could word it a bit more sensitively.” He chokes, and I stroke his hair. “But Rob, it’s okay. We’ll hold some fundraisers or something. We can fix it. You’re doing a good thing, don’t beat yourself up for making a mistake.”

  “Yeah. Sure.” He takes a deep breath and sips his whiskey. “I don’t want to talk about it right now. Can we go back to your problems?”

  “No.”

  “Yes.” He wipes his cheek on his sleeve.

  “Even if I wanted to, I can’t stand in front of camera for two months. I can’t go to events, and get papped, and give interviews. I was terrified just meeting up with him in a restaurant. I almost didn’t go in.”

  “Hey.” He grabs me by the shoulders, his face stern. “You can do anything, okay? What is it you always say? Fear is good. Doing scary things is good.” He stares at the bottom of his glass and reaches for the bottle again.

  I swiftly confiscate it and hide it under my chair. “Aren’t you drunk enough?”

  “No, I still have emotions. Give it back.”

  “Sounds like you need cheering up.” I open a new tab on my laptop. “Perhaps you want to look up some cheerful videos of baby pandas?”

  “You’re such a bitch.”

  ♥

  Later that evening, I’m nestled in bed trying to write beggy emails to past SAFE donors. My bedroom heaves around me like a rubbish dump decorated with fairy-lights. A vanilla candle glows and melts on my bedside table.

  I can’t focus. Every ten seconds, my mind wanders back to the thick pad of paper sitting next to me on the bed. The contract has eyes, and it’s staring me down.

  It’s that stupid word Con used. Challenge. Maybe a challenge like this could be good for you.

  I don’t like turning down challenges. It makes me feel weak. But this isn’t a challenge, it’s just a bloody stupid idea. I don’t want to be famous. I just want everyone to leave me alone.

  I’m about to pick up the contract and lob it in the bin when I hear a choked noise through the paper-thin wall. I freeze, ears perked up, heart thudding. After a second, Robin sobs again, and I close my eyes.

  Can I whore myself out for charity? Nope.

  Can I whore myself out for my literal only friend?

  Yeah. Yeah, I can.

  Con picks up on the second ring. “Cassie?”

  I steel myself. “I’m not doing it if I have to sign an NDA.”

  There’s a very long, very suspicious pause. “May I ask why?” He enunciates every word carefully.

  I stare at the fairy lights strung on my pin board until they blur into holographic gold coins. “You’re asking me to spend months with two strange men I’ve never met before, and you want to legally bind me not to say anything, if something happens to me? For all I know, you’re kidnapping me. At the very least, I’m telling my flatmate.”

  “Cassie, I assure you, that’s not the purpose of the NDA. It’s to protect Jack’s personal information.”

  I lift my chin. “You’re worried about his shopping lists and telephone conversations getting leaked. I’m worried about my safety.”

  “He would never—”

  “Look, I really don’t mean to insult either of you. You both seem—well, you seem quite nice. But you can’t expect me to do this without any kind of protection. That would be completely unreasonable. My flatmate’s very trustworthy, he’s an ambulance call handler. He deals with confidential information every day. I promise he won’t say anything.”

  He’s silent for almost a full minute. I wait, drawing circles on the bedspread with my finger. “Fair enough,” he says eventually. “We’ll scrap the NDA.” I hear papers rustle and a pen scribble. “If Jack asks, though, you’ll have to tell him that you did sign it. This will be a deal-breaker for him. He’s a very… private person.”

  I wince. “You want me to lie to him?” It doesn’t seem like the best start to our sweeping love story. I missed the tips in Cosmo, but I’m pretty sure all fake relationships should be built on honesty.

  “He’s had some issues with people releasing his personal details in the past. He won’t agree to this if he thinks there’s a chance that it might happen again.”

  “Fine. I won’t tell him.”

  “Excellent. Text me your address, one of our drivers will come pick you up at noon. We’ll go through the rest of the paperwork tomorrow.” More paper rustling. “Thank you, Cassie. I think this will be really good for both of you.”

  He hangs up, and fear immediately slashes through me.

  “ROB?” I call through the wall.

  His grunt sounds like he’s face-down on his mattress.

  “I think I did something dumb.”

  7

  At noon the next day, I step out onto the muggy London street, just as the Batmobile rolls to a menacing stop outside my house.

  I’ve never seen a car like it. It’s black and hideous and only vaguely car-shaped. As I watch, the driver’s door opens, and a nondescript man in nondescript clothes steps out. He offers me his hand. “Good morning, miss.” His voice is like gravel.

  “Hi?”

  “My name’s Sam. I’m Hale’s head of security. He sent me to drive you to the hotel.”

  “Oh. I was expecting a taxi.” I look politely at the armoured fighting vehicle.

  “He prefers to hire drivers. This is one of his personal cars.”

  Well, it’s nice to see Jack isn’t flashy about his fame. Sam opens the back door for me, and I peek into the endless, cavernous darkness. This car is so massive, I can’t see all of it. “Um. Could I sit in the front with you?”

  “Whatever you’d like, miss.” I reach for the front passenger door, but he somehow beats me to it, dodging around me and holding it open.

  I slide clumsily into the hard leather. “I’m Cassie, by the way,” I say, as he starts the engine. He nods and checks his mirror.

  It turns out that Sam isn’t much of a talker. Which is fine, because I’m not feeling very chatty, either. I watch the grotty flats of my beloved Wembley roll by the window, wondering if I will ever set foot on its chewing-gum-kissed pavements again. I’m still only seventy-five percent sure I’m not being luxuriously kidnapped.

  After an agonising forty-minute drive, we arrive at the Angel Hotel. Two photographers loitering around the car park perk up when I get out of the car, and we head quickly inside. The entrance hall is beautiful; all white marble and crystal fittings. I glance upwards, and my mouth drops open. The ceiling is painted, Sistine Chapel-style, to look like a pale blue morning sky, decorated with foamy puffs of cloud.

  Sam ushers me along. At the reception, I’m given a keycard and a very enthusiastic bellboy companion called Henry to lead me to my suite. Sam disappears, leaving me to my fate.

  Henry talks the entire lift ride, nattering on about restaurant spots and hot stone massages, while I desperately focus on my breathing. I feel like a timer is ticking down over my head.

  “This is it!” He grins, as the lift dings on the twenty-third floor. “Swan Suite! It’s our most romantic room! It’s actually our honeymoon suite!”

  “Oh, good,” I say weakly. We step out into the hall. The rose-pink carpet is so thick I sink about an inch.