‘It wasn’t Kendall,’ Lex piped up from the couch. ‘It was me. I’m sorry, I, er, I had a few friends over on Friday and I needed some decent vintage stuff, so I, er, I borrowed a couple of bottles. I replaced them at the wine merchant’s today. I must have forgotten to lock the, er, the closet.’
Jack sighed. He liked Lex and was an ardent admirer of his work. But when it came to Kendall, he couldn’t be trusted. ‘Do yourself a favour, kid. Never go into acting. You suck at it.’
‘No, really …’ Lex protested.
‘Go home,’ said Jack. ‘Before I fire the both of you.’
Lex left. Kendall continued watching TV defiantly until Jack picked up the remote and turned it off.
‘Hey! I was watching that!’
‘No you weren’t. Give me one reason why I shouldn’t kick you off my books and out of my guesthouse right now.’
‘I’ll give you three,’ said Kendall. ‘I make you a ton of money. I’m the best female artist Jester has. And I didn’t take your stupid wine.’
‘You’re a liar.’
Kendall tried not to show how hurt she was. Even after a long flight, in a crumpled shirt and chinos, Jack looked so insanely handsome it was torture. It was bad enough that he didn’t want her. But that he should disapprove of her too was more than she could bear. The fact that she’d brought it on herself was no consolation.
‘OK, fine. I was pissed at you for not taking me to Ivan’s party. I should have been there.’
‘You’ve never even met Ivan,’ said Jack.
‘So? I was invited.’
‘And you would have gone if you hadn’t proved once again that you can’t be trusted. You cannot drink, Kendall, OK? Some people can take their liquor. Others cannot.’
He sounded exasperated because he was. Though she might not realize it, Jack was immensely fond of Kendall Bryce. He’d seen addictive personalities like hers before. They couldn’t do moderation. Kendall could no more stop at one drink than stop at one breath. It was all or nothing.
‘I’ve got to be honest with you,’ he said. ‘At this point I have serious reservations about letting you go to London next week.’
‘Yeah, well, get over them,’ snarled Kendall. ‘I’m a professional. I have commitments and I meet them. I’m not about to let my fans and record company down because you’ve got an overdeveloped father complex. I’m twenty-three fucking years old, Jack!’
‘Then act it. Stop behaving like a spoiled teenager. And stop letting poor Lex lie for you. Unlike you, my dear, he’s no good at it. I’m going to bed. We’ll discuss this further in the morning.’
After Jack had gone, Kendall went to bed and lay awake for hours, staring at the ceiling.
It’s all so wrong. I’m in bed alone. He’s fifty yards away, in bed alone. Why aren’t we holding each other?
One day, they would be. One day, Kendall Bryce would become Kendall Messenger, and all Jack’s grief and Kendall’s longing and frustration would be things of the past. It will happen. It has to happen. It’s fate.
Who knew, maybe this trip to London would be the start of a new phase in their relationship. Maybe Kendall’s absence would make Jack’s heart grow fonder?
Stranger things had happened.
CHAPTER THREE
Ivan Charles kept a firm grip on Joyce Wu’s hips as she bucked and moaned in pleasure. As well she might, thought Ivan, who’d spent the last fifteen minutes with his head between his teenage lover’s legs, trying to bring her to climax. Generally he wasn’t much of a one for oral sex – giving it, that is; receiving it was naturally an entirely different matter – but he made an exception for Joyce. Partly because she begged him to. Ivan Charles did enjoy a bit of begging. And partly because her smooth, hairless Asian pussy made him feel like he was doing a porn star, not a virtuoso violinist from a strict Chinese family. Although that was kind of horny, too.
Even so, fifteen minutes was enough to give anybody jaw ache. His own orgasm already felt like a long time ago and he’d spent the last five minutes at least thinking exclusively about his meeting at ITV tomorrow and whether the blue or the green Paul Smith shirt would make him look more telegenic.
‘I’m coming!’ Joyce gasped, unnecessarily. Her twitching thighs had already imparted this information forcefully to the sides of Ivan’s head. Finally she stopped moving and slumped, exhausted, back against the chaise longue, panting. Ivan, also panting, headed to the kitchen for a much-needed glass of water.
Ivan loved his Belgravia flat. Loved it. The lateral, two-bedroom apartment on Eaton Gate was his own private lair, his 1,500 square foot kingdom where he could do what – and whom – he pleased. Of course, The Rookery was home and he loved that too. In Oxfordshire, with Catriona, he was grown-up Ivan, husband Ivan, daddy Ivan. The unfortunate incident that Jack had witnessed in the bathroom on the night of his birthday was an anomaly. Usually, Ivan Charles made a point of keeping his two lives, and two selves, utterly separate. Here, in London, he was Ivan the player, Ivan the music mogul. He was, as one of Jester’s interns had rather brilliantly named him, after a brief but passionate affair, Ivan the Terrible. And the Eaton Gate flat was his palais d’amour.
Every room was filled with mementos of his triumphant career. Here, in the kitchen, two Grammys and a Brit Award gleamed proudly on a shelf above the sink. The drawing room, an elegant Georgian reception space with double-aspect sash windows and original parquet flooring, was littered with framed photographs of Ivan with music industry greats. Ivan and Burt Bacharach hugged on top of the piano, Ivan and Alfie Boe laughed on a yacht on the antique side table. On the wall above the chaise longue, where Joyce Wu lay sprawled in postcoital contentment, Ivan had a paternal arm wrapped around Charlotte Church back in her gawky teenage days.
Secretly, Ivan longed to be able to line the walls with a different kind of star. The kind of artist that Jack represented for Jester almost exclusively. He wanted to have his picture taken with Will Smith and JLS and Justin Bieber. With Katy Perry and Britney and Kendall Bryce. He wanted to be in the pop world, to be young and contemporary and relevant. Most of all, he wanted to lead Jester out of the dark ages of old school music management and into the new era of reality television, of YouTube virals and multimedia world domination. It was a terrible irony, a travesty really, that he, Ivan, who ‘got’ the pop scene and was excited by the brave new world of free downloads and webcam concerts, should be stuck with an overwhelmingly classical list, while Jack ‘Sam Eagle’ Messenger, he of the paper diaries and computer phobia and all-American family values, should represent such cutting-edge acts as The Blitz and Kendall Coke-Head Bryce. The fact that Ivan’s list made more money than Jack’s was insufficient consolation. Classical fans still bought albums. Pop fans downloaded (aka stole) them. But if only Jack weren’t so pig-headed about Jester diversifying, into the TV world and beyond, Ivan was sure their rock and pop business would blossom exponentially. Tomorrow’s meeting with ITV would be Ivan’s first concrete step into these choppy waters, a step he was taking without his partner’s knowledge, still less his permission. Ivan had a lot riding on it.
‘Sweetheart, I hate to do it, but I’m going to have to ask you to skedaddle.’ Walking back into the drawing room he passed a still-naked Joyce her clothes. ‘I’ve got a ton of work to do this afternoon. Plus the cleaner’s coming in twenty minutes. We wouldn’t want her to find you here and spill the beans to the missus, would we?’
Poor Ivan, thought Joyce, pulling a lemon-yellow sundress over her head and stuffing her knickers and bra into her handbag. Imagine being saddled with an old frump like Catriona and having to sneak around behind her back, just for the sake of the kids. He really is