Page 126 of Guilty Pleasures

Stella could feel her cheeks burning red with embarrassment and fury.

‘I was just telling Petra the differences between billiards, pool and snooker,’ said Johnny casually. Stella turned and fled. With nowhere to go – home was ten miles away and she was stuck without transport in the middle of one thousand acres of estate – she ran back to the bedroom and locked the door behind her. Seconds later Johnny was banging on it furiously.

‘Stella! You’re being an idiot. We were just playing pool.’

‘Playing away, more like!’ screamed Stella, hot, furious tears flowing down her cheeks.

‘Stella, if you don’t open the door, I’m going to break it down.’

He banged on it insistently, the door rattling alarmingly in the frame.

‘Stella! I mean it! Open it now!’

Reluctantly, she unlocked the door. Johnny ran in and tried to hold her, but she fought him off.

‘Get away from me!’ she shouted, slapping him across the face.

He pulled back and rubbed his cheek.

‘I deserved that,’ he said quietly. ‘But she threw herself at me. I get that Stella, you know I do. But nothing happened.’

‘Oh yes, it’s so fucking tough, being Johnny Brinton, isn’t it?’ she spat.

He grabbed her shoulders and held her tight.

‘I love you, Stella. Honestly, nothing happened.’

She wanted to believe him. They hadn’t been actually kissing, or even touching. But it was enough. The tears started rolling down again.

‘Do you know what people have been saying behind my back?’ she sobbed, collapsing on the bed. ‘Poor Stella. Johnny Brinton can’t keep his dick in his pants.’

‘This isn’t those Lisa Ladro rumours again, is it?’ he sniffed. ‘For God’s sake Stella, if you’re going to be in the public eye, you’re going to have to get used to people making up this shit.’

‘And you expect me to trust you when you behave like that?’

They looked at each other in silence.

‘I want you to trust me,’ said Johnny. ‘I want you to know you’re the only girl in my life.’

‘You don’t want a girlfriend,’ snapped Stella. ‘You want a fan club.’

‘Marry me,’ he said quietly.

For a minute she wasn’t sure what he had said but his eyes had a profound look.

‘What did you say?’ she said, wiping her tears away with the back of her hand.

He took her hand, gave her a long smouldering look, the sort of look that had made him a star. Then he got down on one knee.

‘Stella Chase,’ he asked, ‘will you marry me?’

42

By helicopter the journey down to Devon’s Camel Estuary took just under an hour. Rob was flying the helicopter while Emma sat in the seat next to him, watching the English countryside slip by, through a glass panel beneath her feet. She couldn’t believe how, only twelve hours early, she had felt so panicked and dizzy when she had been forced to leave the Feathers. Now she felt happy and carefree and was looking forward to the day with a sense of excitement. Finally they flew over Camel Studios, circling the area. The building was a converted stone watermill perched on the edge of a wide tidal creek fringed with golden beech forest. It was set in large grounds: as they landed, Emma could see goal-posts for a five-a-side football pitch and a jetty complete with small boat which took musicians and crew across the creek to the nearest road. Rob had requested an isolated studio for Kowalski’s recording session: he felt it was the best way to protect his investment, not to mention the safety of the band members. After a disastrous holiday in the Greek Islands, Ste Donahue and his girlfriend Clover had almost hospitalized themselves with a reckless drink and drugs binge. Ste had spent six weeks in the notorious Second Chances rehabilitation facility drying out and although Sid McKenzie, Kowalski’s manager, swore that Ste was off the drugs, Rob wanted to do whatever he could to keep him out of trouble. An inaccessible studio wouldn’t prevent Kowalski bringing drugs in of course; over the years Rob had witnessed all manner of craziness during recording sessions, but at least it might keep any troublesome hangers-on away. That was his hope, anyway.

It was a glorious late morning as they ducked under the blades of the helicopter and walked towards the studio. The creek shimmered silver and bronze and although there were clouds on the horizon, for now they had been blessed with a window of warm sunshine. Rob led Emma through the building, past walls hung with dozens of gold and platinum albums, and straight into the control room, the studio’s nerve centre. It was a surprisingly cramped space dominated by a huge mixing desk which featured rows and rows of tiny knobs and sliding faders, over which was a large glass window looking into the ‘live room’ where Kowalski were playing. Rob and Emma stood by the door and watched as two sound engineers and an intense-looking man Rob introduced as ‘Chris the producer’ worked busily at two computer monitors and a huge rack of electronic gizmos, all of which were connected by a tangle of coloured cables. As Rob spoke to Chris, Emma took a seat and absorbed the sights and sounds around her. Even for a relative pop music Luddite, Emma could feel the magic in the air and she had to stop herself from grinning. Rob certainly looked happy too. Every now and then he would comment on a certain phrase or riff and tell Chris how fantastic it was sounding; she could see passion pulsing in his veins and his face was creased in seriousness as he listened to the tracks play back.

‘Nice one, Ste, let’s take some time out,’ said Chris into a microphone after the singer had done his vocals. They all went through into a room that adjoined the control room, a chill-out area that contained a table football game and some sofas. They said hello to the band, but Emma felt a little awkward until Ste walked over to her and smiled.