It Felt Like a Kiss

  David didn’t say anything, which was unnerving but also kind of hot, but then he moved a crucial, mood-killing three centimetres away from her. ‘Now, where were we?’ he said in a clear, calm voice as if Ellie was entirely alone in her fevered imaginings. ‘I think you were saying something about being sexually active.’

  ‘I can’t keep repeating myself, but the Sunday Chronicle story was a tissue of lies and I was deeply mortified when I read it.’ Ellie shut her eyes because she couldn’t bear to look at him any longer. ‘You met Richey at Glastonbury, didn’t you?’

  He nodded, or rather dipped his head down so slightly that it barely qualified as a nod. ‘Yes, I did,’ he said as if the memory wasn’t one he cherished.

  Ellie pressed her point. ‘So, you probably formed a pretty accurate opinion of him, but until then, he’d been really sweet … Well, most of the time. The thing is … the thing is that I’ve always tried to see the best in people, whereas you seem determined to think the worst of me,’ she finished reproachfully.

  It was late and that smile that he wore like armour was beginning to chip. He ran a hand through his hair, the curls rushing up to meet his fingers. ‘I don’t think the worst of you. The nature of my job means that I have to think the worst of everyone until they prove otherwise. Cynical, I know, but that’s how it is.’

  It was a horrible way to look at the world and your fellow human beings, but it might have been the most honest thing he’d said to her so far. Now she could glimpse behind the mask of good cheer and bonhomie he’d constructed and she didn’t like what she saw.

  ‘It’s not important what you think about me,’ she said, and her voice barely wavered. ‘I know what’s true and what’s not.’

  ‘Good. Now we both understand each other’s position, which is useful, I suppose.’ He smiled at Ellie again; but this time it lacked even trace amounts of humour or warmth. ‘Right, even if you don’t want to give me a breakdown of your sexual activities I will still need names and contact details for all your exes.’

  ‘Why would you need that?’ Ellie asked.

  ‘Oh, it’s standard crisis management,’ Georgie said from the doorway. ‘It’s best my office coordinates the press strategy and makes sure everyone’s on the same page. Don’t worry, your secrets are safe with me, Ellie.’

  Georgie was definitely someone you wanted on your side, but seeing the best in people was what had got Ellie into this mess. She decided to double-check with Ari before she offered up her exes, just to be safe. ‘That’s ever so kind, Georgie, but it’s all a lot to take in so I’m going to have a think and call you in the morning.’

  ‘The quicker you give David those names, the quicker we can start kicking ass on your behalf.’ Georgie treated Ellie to a dazzling smile. ‘No offence, dear, but I don’t want to read any more kiss-and-tells about your rather colourful sex life.’

  ‘If I’d known this was going to happen, I’d have saved myself for my wedding night,’ Ellie sighed. She knew she was being paranoid but she was sure that David Gold had just very softly snickered at the idea that she might be able to keep her legs closed. ‘If I’m taking away one life lesson from this it’s that the fewer people who know my business the better, so I’m not doing anything until I’ve slept on it.’

  ‘You’re being very obstructive,’ David said sotto voce. ‘Just how bad do you want this situation to get?’

  It sounded like a threat, but trying to figure him out, what made him tick, if he really was on her team, was beyond Ellie. All of it could wait, because at this point she didn’t care how bad it might get. It wouldn’t matter if she were tucked away in the minimalist splendour of a superior Queen room cocooned in crisp white linen with the curtains closed and where nothing and no one could get at her. She stood up. David Gold stood up too.

  Ellie started edging towards the door, half-steps at a time, David Gold on her trail. ‘I’m getting the most terrific headache, I really need to go to bed, but again thanks for all your advice. I’m sure we’ll speak soon.’

  ‘Oh, we will. Have no doubt about it,’ he said, then he reached in front of Ellie, arm grazing her side so she reared back in alarm and almost cannoned into Georgie, but he was only opening the door wide for her. ‘Goodnight, I hope you sleep well,’ he added as Ellie raced past him.

  ‘I’ll call you tomorrow,’ Georgie called after her. ‘We’ll do lunch. It will be fun!’

  Chapter Sixteen

  Ellie had thought that as soon as she heard the reassuring soft click of the door to her hotel room shutting behind her, she’d burst into tears, but she stayed dry-eyed. She looked around cautiously.

  All was soft and clean. Brilliant white and dove-grey accents. Everything was arranged in perfect order, from the pillows stacked up on the huge bed and the top cover folded invitingly down at an exact right angle. In the bathroom the bottles of toiletries were arranged in ruler-straight formation on the marble basin surround. It was ordered. It was calm. It was just what Ellie needed.

  It was inconceivable that anything bad could happen to her in this room.

  Ellie took off her sandals, feet sinking gratefully into deep, white carpet. She looked longingly at the bed, but as well as being bone weary, she was also grubby and hot. Messy and chaotic. After texting Ari to let her know where she was and whacking up the air conditioning, Ellie took a shower. The water sluiced away the dirt and grime that were the mementos of a dry, sticky day in the city heat.

  She lowered her shower-capped head so the spray of water could pummel the back of her neck at the spot where all the tension was focused, and concentrated on breathing in and out very slowly and very deeply. By the time she was wrapping a pristine and plush towel around her, Ellie hadn’t solved any of her immediate problems but she felt more like herself again.

  As she went through the familiar, comforting rituals of bedtime from brushing her hair to hot-cloth cleansing to patting the delicate skin under her gritty red eyes with revitalising cream, she wasn’t a figure of curiosity, a subject of speculation any more, or someone to be pitied or even a crisis to be managed, but Ellie Cohen.

  But Ellie Cohen couldn’t even face the thought of calling room service, though she hadn’t eaten all day, and as she pulled back the covers so she could get into bed, she still had that sick feeling of dread spreading through her body in waves that started in the pit of her stomach. It was like the night before a big exam. Or when she’d just been dumped yet again. Or when there was some awful, snarly situation brewing at work that she needed to sort out.

  Except, her dread was bigger than that. As she stared up at the ceiling, she wished that all she had to worry about were the kind of problems that had an expiry date. While her most pressing concern was hiding herself away from the press and cringing at the thought of tomorrow’s papers, there were other demons lurking just out of reach, dancing at the back of her mind, where Ellie would prefer them to stay.

  She found that if she concentrated on a tiny gap in the curtains that let in a shaft of light from the world outside, then it didn’t matter that she hadn’t cried, even though she really wanted to, or that she couldn’t sleep, even though she really needed to. If she concentrated especially hard, then she needn’t think at all.

  Eventually the heat and the weight of the covers heaped around her forced Ellie from her vigil. She pulled back the quilt, turned over, plumped up the pillows and snatched five minutes of sleep here and there while she thought about Billy Kay. Rather, she thought about what Billy Kay must think about her. He’d spent a lifetime apart from her so he had no way of knowing that Ellie wasn’t an amoral party girl constantly searching for the next thrill. It wasn’t as if she could rely on David Gold to give her some good press, to tell Billy that when you took Richey out of the equation, everything in her life was running smoothly, whether it was her career trajectory or her credit rating or how she’d tamed the frizzy curls that he’d passed down to her, Ari’s hair being poker straight.

  But David Gold
wouldn’t pass any of that on, because David Gold didn’t believe it was true. Apart from those fifteen minutes at Glastonbury when they’d been complete strangers who might have been perfect for each other, David Gold had every reason to believe that she was exactly like that girl in the newspapers who flashed her arse and fell apart at the first sign of trouble.

  ‘I’m not going to fall apart.’ Ellie said it out loud to the shadows in the furthest reaches of the room, so the words existed. ‘And I don’t care what he thinks about me. What either of them thinks about me.’

  When there was a sharp rap on the door at six, it was a relief. Ellie had abandoned even the faintest hope of sleep and was watching one of the shopping channels where a camp man with an orange face was shilling a cubic zirconia jewellery set, so she was glad of an excuse to stagger off the bed, which had become her own personal purgatory.

  Maybe if she’d slept better she might have paused, but it wasn’t until the door was opened and she was momentarily blinded by the flashing light of a camera that Ellie stopped to consider who might be knocking her up this early as she stood there open-mouthed and squinty-eyed, in a skimpy cotton nightdress.

  ‘Velvet! Want to give us a quote on your fragile mental state?’

  ‘What the hell …?’

  ‘Lots of celebs stay at this hotel. Anyone in particular you’ve got your eye on?’ asked her early-morning caller, a leering middle-aged man with sweat patches under the arms of his straining white shirt, camera slung round his neck. Even though she was stupid from lack of sleep, Ellie instantly knew the spin he’d put on this. Any vaguely famous person that had stayed at the hotel in the last six months would be someone that she was having a torrid affair with. She was all set to spit out a denial when she remembered what had happened the last time.

  Slamming the door was far more effective. Then, to the familiar accompaniment of a steady banging at the door, she phoned down to reception.

  The night manager was extremely apologetic when he came up to Ellie’s room. The reporter had booked into the Penthouse Suite, so wasn’t trespassing and couldn’t be ejected from the premises. He had promised to keep the noise down because other guests were starting to complain, but there was nothing the hotel could do if he wanted to camp outside Ellie’s door for what was left of the night.

  However, he could pretend there was a problem with the credit card the man had checked in with and while he was down at reception, Ellie, now back in the crumpled, flouncy dress she’d worn earlier, was led down the fire stairs to the manager’s office, to stay, red-eyed and jaw-clenchingly awake, until she could come up with a plan B.

  ‘This happens all the time,’ Eamonn, the night manager, told Ellie helpfully as she tried hard not to rest her head on his desk. ‘Celebrity signs in. An hour later, the press turn up. I don’t know how they always find out.’

  ‘Beats me.’ Being diplomatic required more effort than Ellie possessed. ‘Unless someone on your staff tipped them off.’

  ‘Never!’ Eamonn sounded appalled. ‘Now, the Grillon down the road; they’d sell out their grandmothers for five quid and a fish supper. Apart from the people you came in with, who else knew you were here?’

  Ellie couldn’t imagine Ari passing her location on to the entertainment desk of the Daily Mirror, which left just David Gold and Georgie Leigh.

  It was unthinkable that either of them had any hand in this, because they were taking their orders from Billy Kay, who’d sent them to help her in her hour of need. Not because his paternal instincts were kicking in but because he wanted her to keep her mouth shut so she could disappear back to her own obscure little life as quickly as possible. So, despite Eamonn’s protestations, it was obvious someone at the hotel had tipped the papers off and she needed to find somewhere else to hunker down stat.

  At eight o’clock, when Eamonn handed over to Mohamed, the day manager, Ellie decided it was a perfectly acceptable time to start ringing round to see if she could scrounge a place to crash. Her dreams of a minimalist, holistically healing white room had to be dialled back. It was clear that all hotels had a pet reporter on speed dial in case a celebrity OD’d in an en suite. Ellie could only stay in private residences belonging to people she absolutely trusted.

  Lola and Tess were still under siege – ‘though now that they know you’re not here, it’s a very civilised siege,’ Tess explained when Ellie called her. ‘Lola asked them to get us some milk last night when we forgot to buy any on the way home.’

  She already knew that Ari was surrounded. Chester was in Benidorm. Sadie and Morry would have her to stay in a heartbeat but if word got out, then Ellie didn’t want them besieged by a shoving, jostling mass of media mercenaries. They were too old and frail. Tabitha was on lockdown as she thought there were moths in her latest consignment of vintage dresses and Ellie was just wondering if she had the guts to ring Vaughn and beg for a room in his obscenely huge house, which was nestled behind a very convenient alarmed security gate, when the BlackBerry she was clutching in her sweaty hand rang.

  It was David Gold. ‘Good morning, Ellie. I take it that you didn’t have the most peaceful of nights?’ he asked without preamble.

  Had he fitted her with some kind of tracking device last night? ‘Well, no, I didn’t, but how you—’

  ‘Obviously it was too soon for the print edition but you’re the lead story on the Chronicle’s website,’ he explained as Ellie’s fingers fumbled to type in the address. The page loaded before she had time to remember what she’d been wearing and mentally prepare herself. ‘Shit, shit, shit.’

  Her thin cotton nightdress had been no match for the glare of a camera flash and the Chronicle readers and, once again – oh God, no – David Gold could clearly see the dark outline of her nipples. At least she’d been wearing knickers. At least she’d been spared that final humiliation, not that it was much comfort. It used to be that if Ellie wanted someone to see her nipples, she let them come home with her.

  ‘It could be worse.’ His words weren’t even a token comfort. ‘And I hate to be the bearer of yet more bad news but the Daily Mail has a photo of you from yesterday and you’re reaching up to touch that hanging bike and maybe you weren’t aware that your dress—’

  ‘Please don’t say anything else. I get the picture.’ Ellie’s face once again hurt from the acid burn of mortification and she was swallowing hard to choke away the sobs that were rising up in her throat. Ari was a big fan of a fifties pin-up artist called Elvgren and his paintings of voluptuous women all caught in a state of accidental undress: skirts snagging on nails as they climbed over fences, frock hems caught between the teeth of playful puppies and an ‘Ooops! You can see my panties!’ expression of sheer coquetry on their faces. Nobody liked a girl who played coy. ‘I can’t take much more of this.’

  Ellie hated to admit even to her friends, even to Ari, that there were things that she couldn’t control, and telling David Gold this, when he was always so impeccably in control, was almost as humiliating as her press coverage. Why couldn’t it have been Sadie who’d been her first phone call of the brand-new day?

  ‘Do you need my help?’ he asked baldly.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Ellie stumbled. She’d never thought of herself as one of those girls who needed rescuing. Usually, she was able to rescue herself. ‘What sort of help, exactly?’

  ‘Why do I have to keep reminding you I have considerable experience in this field? I represent a number of clients from the entertainment industry who occasionally need extracting from similar predicaments,’ he muttered darkly as if he spent a lot of time paying off hotel chambermaids and concerned parents whose underage daughters had been cavorting with … ‘Is the hotel manager there? Put him on.’

  Ellie looked at Mohamed, who’d just come back to his office and had spent the last thirty minutes fretting about the effects the events of last night would have on his hotel’s reputation. ‘Billy Kay’s lawyer wants to speak to you.’ She held out her BlackBerry, which he took relu
ctantly.

  The conversation was brief. It was impossible to tell from Mohamed’s nervous smile and his ‘I see’s and ‘that’s do-able’s what David Gold was saying.

  She found out half an hour later when a porter came to take her bags and Mohamed led her out through the kitchens to a loading bay where a huge trolley was waiting to be loaded on to a laundry van under David Gold’s supervision.

  He turned as Ellie and her entourage approached and smiled. It wasn’t a very comforting smile. She tensed already aching muscles.

  ‘I’ll give you a leg-up, shall I?’ he asked, gesturing at the laundry trolley, and Ellie, who’d been expecting a nondescript people carrier with tinted windows, looked at him in dismay. And aghast. Also with sheer unadulterated horror. There was only so much she could handle in a twenty-four-hour period.

  ‘But … but … is that dirty linen in there? Bed sheets that people have slept on and towels they’ve dried their hands on after they’ve been to the loo?’

  ‘The housekeeping staff always put the less soiled linens on top,’ Mohamed said, but Ellie knew he was lying, and anyway he’d used the word ‘soiled’ and things were either soiled or they weren’t.

  She wasn’t being a princess, she really wasn’t, but Ellie refused to go near the laundry hamper until several clean towels and sheets had been spread on top. She didn’t care how bad it was for the environment to launder already laundered linen.

  Then she climbed in, despite grave misgivings and the barely concealed smirk on David Gold’s face. She was ceremonially covered up with yet another clean sheet, before the trolley was loaded onto the back of the van and the door slammed shut.

  There was no reason not to shuck off her shrouds, but Ellie didn’t know if the laundry service were in on the subterfuge so she stayed exactly where she was, trying to take only very, very shallow breaths so she didn’t inhale the smell of other people’s bottoms. I bet Angelina Jolie’s never had to put up with this, she thought to herself as she tried to track where the van was going from the corners it was taking, but that proved impossible.