Page 77 of Guilty Pleasures

‘What’s so funny?’ she asked.

‘Nothing.’

‘Tell me what’s so funny?’ She was slightly offended. ‘What do you expect me to do each weekend? Sky-dive? Pole dance?’

He held up his hands.

‘Hey, I’m not laughing at you, but I don’t think it would be such a bad idea if you did have some fun. Listen, this wedding I’m going to,’ he said quickly, his words coming out in a rush, ‘it should be lovely, it’s in Wales, the bride’s dad has a castle. Why don’t you come?’

Emma was completely taken by sur

prise by his invitation.

‘I don’t think so,’ she stuttered. ‘I’d be in the way, wouldn’t I?’

‘In the way of who?’

‘Trudy.’

‘She’s not coming,’ he said, sounding mildly irritated. ‘I don’t want to give her the wrong idea. Anyway, stop mentioning her. She’s not my girlfriend. It’s just sex.’

She shot him a dirty look, feeling piqued at the way he confused her.

During the course of ten minutes, she had completely reversed her view of him, feeling empathy for his loss and respect for his efforts as a son and father. Then, with one comment, her view of him had come back, full circle: he was a sexist pig who treated women as nothing more than notches on his bedpost.

‘It’s very kind, but I’m so busy,’ began Emma, opening the door of her car and putting her books on the passenger seat.

‘Ah, come on, what else are you going to be doing?’ asked Rob, craning his neck to see the books. ‘Poetry and Romanticism, 1750-1840?’

She threw her bag on top of the book, as if to protect Ernesto’s books from him. ‘You should read it,’ she snapped. ‘You might learn something.’

‘Come on, Em. I don’t really want to go alone but I don’t want to take a girlfriend. And anyway, you said you owed me one. The bride’s dad’s an intellectual, so you’ll be able to talk to him about poetry and stuff.’

‘To think I thought you might want me for my company,’ she said, feeling a little hurt.

‘I’m leaving tomorrow afternoon,’ said Rob. ‘I think you’ll have fun. We’ll have fun.’

Emma knew he was right. A warm, sunny weekend had been predicted. So she loved her weekends pottering around Chilcot but it was hard to completely relax when there was a Milford employee at every turn. A wedding in a castle did sound like fun. As for Rob, well, what was she getting so worked up about? So he was a chauvinist. That wasn’t exactly news, but she couldn’t help admit that he was good fun.

‘Maybe I’ll call you tomorrow.’

‘Separate bedrooms and everything, I promise,’ he smiled, holding up three fingers like a boy scout.

Emma felt a sudden surge of spontaneity that was most unusual.

‘In that case you have a deal.’

Stella had been to premieres many times before in LA, having occasionally been thrown a couple of tickets by Cate Glazer for the opening of one of her husband’s films, but this was the first time she had ever gone alone. Stepping out of her taxi at the corner of Leicester Square, she felt a sudden knot of fear. What the hell am I doing here? she thought to herself. Meeting a man she hardly knew in a dark room surrounded by film stars? Just then she heard a mighty roar from a huge crowd squashed behind the crash barriers and police.

‘Not quite what I had in mind for a first date,’ she muttered under her breath as she walked towards the red carpet. Not that Stella was entirely sure she was even on a date. Johnny was going to the premiere separately with some of the cast, which was quite understandable. If he was seen walking the red carpet with any member of the opposite sex it would be a definite statement that they were together – and she and he had barely talked, let alone, well, done anything else. Johnny’s arrangements about meeting afterwards were vague to say the least too. Her ticket had arrived with a bunch of fifty red tulips and a note that read simply ‘See you at the party.’

But date or no date, Stella had wanted to look her very best, so she had decided to channel the ‘sixties starlet at Cannes’ look. Her favourite canary yellow chiffon dress, known by her friend Tash as ‘the man-magnet dress’, floated six inches above the knee and was cut dangerously low at the front. Her skin was tanned from the recent good weather, and silver Pierre Hardy heels and a vintage Milford clutch bag completed the look which was already getting her noticed. She was only a few feet onto the red carpet and already photographers had started snapping.

‘Over ’ere, darling!’

‘What’s your name, love?’

A woman with a clipboard and a headset darted out and pulled Stella into an area in front of a paparazzi scrum. ‘I think you’re wanted,’ hissed the PR woman, stepping out of shot. Stella was overwhelmed by the bright bursts of light and walked away dazzled and blinking.