Say hello kiss goodbye, p.27
Say Hello, Kiss Goodbye, page 27
“All hail the sticky bra! It’s a life-changer.” Leia snickered and stepped forward, the heels she’d switched into at the hotel just shy of the green carpet.
“You’re a lifesaver!” Shantelle clutched Leia’s hand. “Thank you, Scotty! I couldn’t do this without you.”
“Yes, you could.” Leia squeezed back and let go. “It’s a shame Morgan couldn’t make it.”
“Yeah, well…” Shantelle bit her glossy lip and peered past Leia where her mom and dad happily chatted over FaceTime to the Midwest. She whispered in Leia’s ear, “Don’t tell my parents, but…Morgan and I split three weeks ago.”
Split? Three weeks— Leia’s head jerked back. But Morgan’s lovely! A cinnamon roll of a guy! “Oh, Shan…” she muttered under her breath. “What happened?”
Loud squeals from the far end of the carpet disrupted their conversation. Fans draped over the metal barricades cried out for autographs and selfies every time another Lost for Breath star joined the press parade. Shantelle did a double take. “My psychic advisor, she recommended it.”
Oh, god. She didn’t! Leia’s face blanched. “What!?” She blurted through a fake smile, plastered on for the benefit of Mr. and Mrs. Joy. Her family loved Morgan like a son. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No!” The actress let out a rushed breath. “She said Morgan was holding me back…like, physically.”
“How?!”
“One guess—sex scenes. Morgan hates them. I’ve told him repeatedly, ‘They’re make-believe, they’re part of my job,’ but he kept freaking out about Bastien.”
Leia peered over her friend’s shoulder. Bastien Soulier. Dressed in a floral print designer suit, the quirky French actor raked a confident hand through his thick mop of shoulder-length mahogany curls and held court in the middle of the carpet, teasing the baying photographers and hysterical fans with his pouty air of Gallic indifference. Known more for his sensitive musings and love of existential poetry than his pecs, “beautiful Bastien with the f*ck-me eyes” (trademark The National Mail) had given Hollywood gossip magazines a huge scoop during his previous film’s press junket, announcing his newfound—and fan-criticized—celibacy. With his whimsical je ne sais quoi, the twenty-nine-year-old had divulged that by forgoing sex, his on-camera love scenes were indulgent and raw, sizzling with pure, primal instinct.
He’s not signing for his fans? Leia curled her lip as Bastien ignored their frantic pleas and lingered just out of reach before sauntering toward Radio City Music Hall’s entrance, its open doors dispensing frigid air onto the steaming pavement. Morgan had good reason to freak out. Shan confided that they had to stop filming their nude scenes twice because Bastien got a raging hard-on inside his flesh-colored modesty pouch. And once, he ejaculated! Blech! Leia’s flesh crawled. Shantelle might call that make-believe, but I call that real—and really gross.
Shantelle stared at her left hand and the three-carat pink diamond ring on loan for the premiere from her former employer, Tiffany & Co. “I don’t want a fight every time a role requires love scenes. I’ve supported him through injuries, trade rumors…if Morgan can’t support my dream, it’s time to move on—from hockey and him.”
Two months ago, she was talking wedding dresses, hoping he’d propose. Leia exhaled heavily. Morgan didn’t seem controlling. He was a nice guy.
“Leia, you left Tyler when things weren’t good. You understand, right?” Shantelle blinked, eager for approval.
I don’t regret my decision, but will she?
“And look! You’ve rebounded nicely!” The actress grinned. “What I wouldn’t give for a steamy sex-fest with a London hunk! Now, why you broke it off with him is beyond me. He looked tasty!”
I wish I’d never told her about Tarquin. I should tell her about Cressida later—that’ll shut her up. Leia clocked the impatient huff of the film’s publicist behind Shantelle’s back. “Shan, maybe tomorrow you should give Morgan a call—”
“Shantelle!” The PR guy waved her forward. “You’re up.”
Leia banished her questions and doubts and gave her friend a soft hug—a tight one could’ve crumpled her gown. “This is it! You’ve earned this, Shan! Go, enjoy tonight!”
She squeezed Leia’s hand. “Aw, thanks, Scotty—love you!” She blew a kiss to her beaming parents. “I’ll see you inside!”
“SHANTELLE, OVER HERE!” A slew of photographers beckoned, jockeying for the perfect shot.
Chin up and shoulders back, wearing a cheek-pinching smile, Shantelle pranced toward the noisy crush and posed, fluffing out her gown in front of the Lost for Breath publicity backdrop like Leia had taught her.
Look at her, Hollywood’s brightest new starlet—in my gown! Leia’s heart swelled with joy as she snapped several photos on her phone.
Shantelle followed each photographer’s hollered prompt, swiveling left then right before looking over her shoulder with a sassy, confident grin, any hint of nerves long gone.
I did good, Mom. Leia grinned and lowered her phone, blinking back tears. Shantelle began chatting to microphone-toting reporters, boasting about her one-of-a-kind Frill-Seekers gown. I wish you were alive to see this. You’d be proud. She sniffed. I’m finally on my way.
“Leia, come!” Mrs. Joy paused in her daughter’s footsteps. “Shantelle reserved us seats.”
“Oh, I’m not staying. My job ends tonight when Shantelle’s with the press. And to be honest, I’m dying to kick off my heels and crash on my sofa!” Leia laughed, meaning every word.
“I understand, it’s been a long day for you—but tonight’s your victory too!” said Mrs. Joy, her husband nodding in marital agreement. “You’ll celebrate tonight at home, won’t you?”
Yep, with a call to my dad, a take-out gyro, and Ross Poldark on my TV. Leia hugged Shantelle’s mom. “Yeah, the night’s still young, right?” Jeez, sound like Tarquin much? She twisted her grimace into a smile and pulled back, adjusting the bag on her shoulder. “It’s been so wonderful seeing you again. Enjoy the film, okay?”
“We will!” said Mr. Joy, joining his wife and the steady stream of passholders entering Radio City Music Hall.
Leia stepped out of the way and scrolled through her pictures of Shantelle, smiling up a storm on the green carpet.
On my last night in London, Tarquin asked me to text photos of my gown at its first premiere, but what’s the point now? Heart heavy, she turned off her phone and meandered through the Sixth Avenue obstacle course of TV crews and rubbernecking New Yorkers, her thoughts far away from celebrities and honking taxis. I can’t stop thinking about it—Tarquin has a serious girlfriend. I thought I’d be fine with it when it happened. She sighed, aimlessly following the flow of pedestrians crossing West 50th Street as she plunged her hand into her tote, battling past her mini sewing kit, portable steamer, and comfy flats. But here I am, so freakin’ jealous of Cressida I could scream! Her hand resurfaced with her red telephone box keychain. Dammit! I shouldn’t be thinking of him—of her—today of ALL days. Frill-Seekers just made its movie premiere debut! That’s what I should be focused on. Lifting her chin, she chucked Tarquin’s London trinket back in her bag and widened her stride. So, this is it, girl. No more pining for him, no more wistful memories or asking Saz how he is. He’s moved on. I will, too. Today I’m done with Tarquin Balfour—for good.
Twenty
TARQUIN
Brooklyn, one week later
Taking a large sip of his beer, Tarquin leaned against the Williamsburg Hotel’s rooftop bar and squinted through his eyeglasses, the laughter of several bikini-clad women splashing in the pool teasing his attention away from his oldest brother, Nick.
“If you were smart, Tarq, you’d do something like this.” Long sleeves of his pink shirt rolled up just so, Nick was immaculately overdressed for their sun-soaked, midafternoon liquid lunch. His navy tie, Hugo Boss suit trousers, and shiny Oxfords belonged in a boardroom on Sixth Avenue, not poolside in trendy Brooklyn. Based in America the past three years, the former child actor, now a lithe six-foot-four inches of square-jawed handsomeness, held the esteemed role of vice-president of TV sales and co-productions for the BBC’s Manhattan office. His love of restaurants, boutique hotels, and the latest fashions meant that if something in New York was hip, happening, and expensive, Nick was all over it. “Old pubs and theaters are lovely, but just imagine the money you’d rake in building something new and spectacular like this.”
Tarquin yawned beneath his New York Mets cap, his sleepy eyes sailing away from the pool and across the East River. New York, you sure scrub up nice. With a bittersweet smile, he scratched his moustache and ogled the Empire State and Chrysler Buildings glinting in the late August haze. It’s strange, being back. His heart weighed heavy.
“You could still have the vibe of a repurposed building even when it’s not,” said Nick, sharing a flirty smile with one of the female bartenders. “This place just looks old because of that water tower and the reclaimed bricks. Why bother with all that legit ‘heritage designation’ stuff when you can fake retro just as easily?”
Fake it? Does he even know me? What a twat. “You reckon, Nick?” Battling jet lag and the prickly heat, Tarquin’s patience was dangling by a single thread. He glared through his glasses and tugged at the open collar of his baby blue shirt, his fading sunburn-turned-tan a lingering reminder of the previous month’s raucous weekend in Orkney. “First, it was the corrugated hardwood downstairs, then the brass accents, and the Brooklyn toile-inspired wallpaper—”
“Oh, man, you saw it, right?” Nick’s smile beamed beneath his Tom Ford aviators. “It’s got Brooklyn Bridge, hot dogs, and Notorious B.I.G. in the design!”
Tarquin plowed his hand into the pocket of his shorts, silently cursing into the midday sun. Why did I let him talk me into coming here? I agree, this hotel is smashing, but I’d much rather have this go-see on my own without know-it-all here pissing himself about every… single… detail. I should’ve stayed at my hotel, chilling out with Harry before his club opening tonight.
“It’s the Where’s Waldo of wallpaper! And a Beastie Boy designed it—”
Oh, for fuck’s sake! “Nick, enough! You’re doing my head in! How about you leave building development and renos to me, okay? I don’t tell you how to make reality shows or whatever the hell it is you do all day.”
Nick raised his shades and gave Tarquin a searing dose of side-eye. “Someone skipped coffee this morning! Christ, what’s eating you?!” He lowered his sunglasses and dragged several corn chips through a bowl of guacamole. “Oh!” With a mischievous nod, Nick pointed at his brother. “I get it.”
Tarquin curled his lip, watching Nick crunch his way through whatever ridiculous revelation he’d concocted.
“Sexual frustration, thy name is Tarquin! Aw, baby brother’s missing Cressida.”
Tarquin toyed with the damp edge of their bar bill. “At least I’m not plastered all over The Mail in a sordid three-way kiss-and-tell.”
Nick’s face soured. “That’s old news. Banff happened months ago.”
“But it’s like herpes, mate—it’s the horrible gift that keeps on giving!” Tarquin reveled in his brother’s public embarrassment. “Talk about making Mum proud, eh! What was last week’s headline again? Lairds Stunner Bree Nicked With Stripper—”
“Stop being a tit!” Nick muttered into his Aperol Spritz. “How was I to know the woman Bree brought to her room would sell her story?”
“You could’ve prevented it.”
“And let her blackmail me? No, better to call her bluff.”
“And lose big! You always were a rubbish gambler.” Tarquin laughed, his cheeks pink from the heat.
“Bree still won’t take my calls.” Nick raked his hand through his dark waves. “She shouldn’t be pissed at me! It’s all that hack’s fault, paying over the odds for the ridiculous sex tape. It’s not like we did anything kinky, for fuck’s sake. Three-ways are ten-a-penny these days.”
“But Lairds and Liars is a hit worldwide, and Bree’s a household name in Britain.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not. My acting career tanked when my balls dropped.”
“Ahh, but you’re not just any child star, Nico. You’re the son of British telly’s comeback queen. If I were you, I’d be more careful. If they’ve sniffed out one salacious story, they’ll dig for more—guaranteed.” Tarquin chuckled and sipped his beer. “Come to think of it, I should be thanking you.”
Nick narrowed his eyes. “Because…?”
“You’ve usurped me as the Balfour family fuck-up! My past indiscretions pale in comparison to you landing on the front page of every red top in Britain. Now, I can go to Poppy’s baptism in November and watch you take all the flak for a change.”
“Hey, don’t throw a parade just yet. Knowing Mum, she’ll probably forget by then.” Nick stared at the mint leaf discarded on his cocktail napkin. “And I hope she’s not the only one. If this mess costs me the senior VP position, there’ll be hell to pay.” He drained his drink and slammed it on the bar, sending melting ice cubes swirling around the bottom of the sweaty glass.
“You think it might?”
“Who knows. I keep getting funny looks in the halls, mostly from junior staff snickering behind my back.” Nick pushed his sunglasses up his nose. “From now on, I’m only getting involved with women who’ve been properly vetted. Like Cressida was for you.”
Tarquin raised an eyebrow. “It’ll cost ya.”
“What was the fee? Ten thousand quid? Won’t even miss it.” Nick slapped him on the back. “Right. I’ll have a wee and then we can head out.” With a nod, the elder Balfour strolled off, checking his phone while he weaved through the maze of poolside daybeds crowded with sun-worshipping hipsters.
Tarquin downed his beer and dove into his phone. 1:47 P.M. already? He yawned. I should’ve flown in last night instead of this morning. Can’t believe I fell asleep in the shower. I’m so knackered. Blinking through his jetlagged daze, he scrolled through the day’s texts, the only unread message from cat-sitter Freddie: a photo of Mrs. Chuzzlewit sitting on a frowning Simon. At least Chuzza looks happy. Damn, I really should’ve grilled Si about Leia, if she asks about me. If I had just answered her email, thanked her for the postcard, things could’ve been so different. I’d reach out now, but… He swallowed heavily. Dex won’t be the only one who’ll kill me—
“Tarquin? Tarquin Balfour…?”
He glanced over his shoulder. A short, clean-shaven guy with sandy brown hair worn messily in a topknot leaned in, his eyebrows rising above his Ray-Bans. Unlike most of the rooftop sunseekers, he wasn’t flaunting much skin, choosing a black short-sleeved shirt and dark jeans instead of bathing trunks. He clutched a file folder stuffed with papers against his toned chest and clicked a pen non-stop with his thumb. “I just said a quick hey-ho to ol’ Nico. He said you were here! Great to see you, man!”
Oh, bugger! Do I know you? Tarquin gave his best breezy chuckle and extended his hand. “Hey! Long time, no see, mate! What’ve you been up to?” C’mon, help me out. Drop a name, a place… your job…
He smacked his file folder on the bar and snapped up Tarquin’s hand, shaking it vigorously before letting go. “Oh, the usual, you know?” He spoke rapidly and jittered on the spot like a toy wound up too tightly. His pen-free hand flitted from his puka shell necklace to his stubble-free chin, to his sunglasses as he shifted them onto the top of his head.
Someone’s full of beans. “That’s great.” Tarquin pulled back, a taut smile on his face. Ah… nope. Even without the shades, I still don’t know who the hell you are.
“So, what about you, man? I thought you were in London.”
“I am, but my best mate is launching his private members’ club tonight.”
“Oh! That’s…” Narrowing his gaze, the guy searched the cloudless sky and snapped his pen in a frenzy—chk, chk, chk—until something besides his ballpoint clicked. “Bespoke!” His eyes jagged back to Tarquin. “Bespoke New York, right?” He laughed apropos of nothing. “You mentioned it, like, last summer.”
I did? Tarquin scratched his moustache. Were we drinking? Gambling? Jeez, it must’ve been quite the bender if I can’t place him.
“I saw something about it in Time Out this week, too. It’s that cool red brick building on Greenwich Street…from the 1850s or something?”
“The 1830s.” Catching the bartender hovering, Tarquin pulled his wallet from his shorts’ pocket.
“Ooh, so close! So, what’s my prize—an invite?”
That’s… pushy. Will he go away if I say yes? “Sure. Come any time after nine.” Tarquin’s jaw tensed. “I’ll need the correct spelling of your full name…you know, for the guest list.” And my restraining order.
He bobbed on the spot. “You know, it would be bangin’ if I could bring a plus one. I’m trying to impress her. The whole velvet rope treatment would, you know, slay.”
The cheek! Tarquin swallowed what he really wanted to say. “Uh, sure…whatever.” He tapped his card against the bartender’s payment terminal.
“Cool beans!” The guy tossed another glance poolside. “Hey! You can meet babe now.”
Oh, brilliant. Removing his baseball cap, Tarquin wiped perspiration from his brow. I could do without these people glomming onto us tonight.
“Hey, Leia?!”
LEIA?! Tarquin froze. No! Can’t be.
He dropped his cap on the bar and spun around, spotting a tall redhead wearing large, Jackie O-style sunglasses and a soaked one-piece, her phone and a long white towel in her hands.
