Beautiful People (40 page)

Up until the point Orlando's lips actually touched hers, Emma had not really believed that it was actually going to happen. And when it did, and she had melted into it, the kiss had been altogether deeper, more protracted, more tender than she had imagined possible.

    And then, obeying a shy, yet joyful impulse, he bent over and kissed her nose. As his lips moved down her face to her mouth again, a great plunge of desire swept through Orlando.

    She felt she were drowning in the green of his eyes.

    Then something looming over them made them both look up.

    Orlando stiffened in horror. He recognised her instantly. That awful pushy model-agent woman from Covent Garden. Oh, no. Not in front of Emma. The embarrassment would be excruciating.

    He leapt to his feet. "Look, I've got to go…I'll be back…"

    "Hey!" cried the woman. "Wait!"

    "I can't!" Emma cried after him. Her hand clasped Morning. "We have to go too…"

    She watched helplessly as the tall, blond figure rushed off across the square and disappeared into the crowd.

So violently had Darcy opposed the idea of a personal trainer from America that her agents had eventually given in. Running alone was no fun, but preferable at least to the prospect of sprinting through Rocolo accompanied by someone calling himself the Hero of Zero.

    Her victory was not absolute, however. Within days, a pair of DVDs addressed to Darcy arrived from L.A. via a courier. Apprehensively, she took them into the villa's large, light, stone-walled sitting room and slipped them into the gleaming, state-of-the-art player. Immediately the enormous, gleaming, state-of-the-art plasma screen was filled with some gleaming, white, obviously state-of-theart teeth. The camera panned back to reveal a maniacally grinning man with big hair, a pink mesh vest, and a glistening caramel tan.

    "Hello, Darcy!" he exclaimed with showbizzy emphasis. "I'm Rupert. Otherwise known as the Hero of Zero."

    Darcy stared, stunned, at the shining, black, swept-back hair, unlined forehead, and superhero jaw. He was extremely thin. His legs reminded her of pipe cleaners, very brown ones.

    "Otherwise known," the dazzling teeth on the screen continued, "as the Captain of Thindustry and the Queen of Lean. The guy the stylists to the stars all have on speed dial." He made a little exuberant, skipping movement. "And why? Because, dear, I can make you thin. I'm the man the model agencies call in times of crisis. And you're one lucky lady to have me make an exclusive and tailor-made programme just for you!" He rubbed his hands together gleefully.

    There was a tinny, ringing sound. Rupert rolled his eyes. "Hold on, dear. My Thighphone. It's going crazy."

    Darcy stared as Rupert lifted his bright-pink mesh vest to reveal a row of slender mobiles slipped into holders strapped along a belt. "All on vibrate, for emergency use only. It's a service I offer ultra- triple-A-list clients—people like you, Darcy," he added triumphantly, "when they have a problem. All part of my very special service," he explained to the camera with a smile like a flashgun.

    "Each of these phones relates to a different part of the body," the Captain of Thindustry now revealed. "Clients ring the number relating to their particular body issue zone. This," he pointed to the first pocket, "is the Batphone. That's for batwings and bingo wings. This,"—the second pocket—"is the Buttphone—self-explanatory, obviously. Then the Bellyphone—my little joke, dear, rhymes with telephone. And, last, but by no means least, the Thighphone and the Pork Roast Hotline," he added, indicating the others. "Hold on, hold on, I'm coming," he exclaimed, pulling out the Thighphone and frowning at the number. "Yes, Nicole?"

    He listened for a few minutes, his face grave. "Okay, Nicole. Not a problem."

    He put the phone away, flashed another grin, and proceeded to bound about the screen like a young gazelle. "We'll do some cardiovascular every day, of course," he told Darcy brightly. "Tricep dips to streamline those upper arms. My special Butt Blaster lunges—you'll enjoy those, dear. Everyone does. And running, of course. A good brisk jog with some uphill for an hour a day at least…"

    Running! Pure aversion seized Darcy. She hated running. Anything but that. It was painful, hot, and boring. Whenever, in the past, she had done it—usually in pursuit of an about-to-depart train—her chest had heaved violently; painful cramps had stabbed her sides; and her lungs had gulped agonisingly for air. She had always felt amazement that anyone could run for fun—could run at all—without a gun being pointed to his or her head. Running for her life was the only sort she could envisage.

    "…the quickest and most effective way to shed those naughty unwanted pounds…"

    Darcy lunged for the DVD player and switched him off.

    She slipped the other disc in. This one was about food and featured the Hero of Zero in a bright, white kitchen with a white apron over his pink mesh vest. The horror that had gripped Darcy during the first disc started to subside. If it was about food, it could not be all bad, surely.

    "Pasta's off, dear," Rupert beamed. "Ditto bread. It's all about low carb, low cholesterol, low fat…"

    Low fun, thought Darcy in dismay. She strained to listen. Had he really just said egg white omelette, poached chicken fillet, steamed broccoli, and as much undressed salad as she wanted to eat? How much undressed salad did anyone want to eat?

    "Seaweed protein shakes and tree syrup are an option…" Rupert was beaming. "And if you've got any food allergies, now's the time to really let them rip. Or else develop some. Food allergies can be very useful…"

    Crouched on the cool stone floor, Darcy groaned. It was bad enough from her point of view, but what the proud cook Mara was going to make of it hardly bore thinking about.

    The voice from the plasma screen trilled blithely on. "Finally, let me tell you something about diet food. Which is that nothing, absolutely nothing, tastes as good as…"

    He paused. Darcy, eyes riveted on the screen, held her breath. Was some stomach-filling, acceptably tasty low-fat wonderfood about to be mentioned?

    "Nothing tastes as good as thin feels," Rupert finished triumphantly.

    Darcy switched him off and sat gazing, unseeing, into the sitting room's great empty fireplace with its carved canopy.

    Never had the ridiculousness of Hollywood seemed quite so ridiculous. Nor was the Hero of Zero the only example of it; Darcy had now read the script and discovered that bidding other equally unlikely sounding characters to "Come forth, loyal servant of my late father" seemed to be the main function of her role as the Grand Duchess of the Galaxy. It was not a part to get excited about in any artistic sense or in any sense, it was increasingly beginning to seem.

    "Lose the weight, or lose the part," Mitch had warned her. He could talk, Darcy thought.

    The situation was simple enough. The sooner she reached the requisite point on the scales, the sooner she would be allowed to go on set in Florence and film her scenes. And see Christian. If she'd do it for nothing else, she'd do it for him.

    She missed him. Not spiritually or companionably, but physically. They had met only briefly, but searingly. Christian had lit her blue touchpaper, and now she wanted more. He was passionate and skilled. Was there a better lover in the world? No. Did she believe in love at first sight? Well, she hadn't, not before. But now everything seemed different.

It had taken Emma some minutes to work out, amid the confusion, that the bossy blonde with the doggy bangs, fishy lips, and uncomfortably tight ginger-suede trousers was a model agent. She had, apparently, spotted Orlando in London, and he had run away then.

    Emma, while aghast at his sudden departure, could nonetheless see why he might. But when, after the agent finally stomped off, Orlando failed to return before she had to leave for her bus, Emma's sympathy turned to despair. She had no address and no phone number for him—a fact the exasperated agent clearly had not believed.

    The night that subsequently passed was one of the most miserable and joyous Emma had ever known, as alternately she recalled the kiss and the probability the kisser was lost to her forever.

"You're in love," Mara teased in the kitchen the next morning.

"Of course I'm not," Emma riposted. "Don't be silly."

    "So if you not in love, why you leave the milk to boil over all the time?" Mara chided, snatching the pan off the stove. "Why you put Morning's clothes on back to front and walk around in a daze?"

    "I don't!"

    "And your face!" Mara teased. "You are glowing!"

    "I'm just hot."

    "And you are not eating!" the housekeeper accused. "Last night, I serve you some of my cannelloni, you not eat a thing."

    Emma reddened further at the memory. It had been particularly embarrassing as poor Darcy, who had been condemned to some sort of diet and was eating broccoli, had stared at the steaming dish of pasta with eyes like saucers.

"Nothing tastes as good as thin feels." Darcy tried to recall Rupert's words. But it wasn't true. Just about anything tasted better. She'd only been on the diet a day, and already, with the right sauce and seasoning, she felt she could eat the tablecloth.

    And now Mara had just gone back into the kitchen after having carefully put down a dish of pork fillet with cannellini beans at the table under the parasol. It was the same dish whose sumptuous sweet-savoury scent had been drifting around the villa all morning and driving Darcy mad as she performed her star jumps.

    Her own scheduled lunch was poached chicken and steamed broccoli, prepared by a Mara still tight-lipped after the experience of having to watch the Queen of Lean's dietary instructions on the DVD. She had agreed in the end to make what the Hero of Zero instructed—but her own dishes at the same time.

    To see, now, the two side by side on the table—what she had to eat and what she wanted to—was torture for Darcy. Only the thought of Christian made it worthwhile.

    It was intensely frustrating, communicating only by text. But as Darcy found herself effectively banned from the set, Christian seemed more or less permanently on it, and texts were the only form of mobile communication Saint apparently allowed, it was the only way. Until she was thin enough, that was.

    It was ridiculous. She, who adored food, was in an Italian palace equipped with a wondrous cook. And yet she was on a diet of steamed broccoli and undressed salad.

    No one had yet emerged from the villa for dinner. Meaning, thought Darcy, tiptoeing towards the table, the mice could play. Or at least taste what everyone else was having for supper.

    As a great stab of hunger pierced her, Darcy picked up a shining silver fork from where it lay on a crisply folded white linen napkin. She reached over towards the pork and bean dish. Her mouth watered as she anticipated the taste of bean, crunchy on the outside, giving in the middle, soaked in all the juices of the sage-infused meat.

    "Hoo, hoo, hoo! Hey, hey, hey! Whoa, there!"

    There was a flash of pink. Something whooshed across the terrace and grabbed her fork.

    "Thank God," panted Belle, with the air of James Bond having saved the world. "Darcy, you should be thanking me. I've just saved your career."

    "Thanks," muttered Darcy heavily, trying not to notice how Belle's rake-thin body looked thinner than ever in her hot-pink wrap dress. Was she dressing skinnier on purpose? To make a point?

    Belle shook her shining hair mock-sorrowfully. "I sympathise, Darcy. I really do," she breathed.

    "You're very kind," Darcy said shortly.

    "I mean, it's just so hard to stay thin," Belle added in syrupy tones. "For people like you, that is."

    "Sorry?"

    Belle smiled. "Personally, I don't know my BMI, and I have no idea what I weigh. I'm just made like this, I guess." She smoothed her tiny hands over the hipbones jutting through her pink wraparound dress and gave another of her tinkling laughs.

    "Oh, c'mon Darcy, cheer up," she urged. "At least you're eating off a whole side-plate. Some actresses I know had to eat from a saucer for months. Or a teacup," she added with another tinkling laugh.

    "I'm going running," Darcy growled. Anything rather than stay near that pork dish another second.