Dirty Bad Strangers (25 page)

Gemma

A big black car pulled onto the yard at ten to six. I peered out of the window, trying to catch a glimpse of the passengers before I bounded on down the stairs. Cara was waiting for me, practically jumping on the spot with excitement. She bundled me into the back, pushing the remaining messy curls up under my hat.

The guy in the driver’s seat was a hulk of a man. Stern eyes met mine in the rearview, and instinctively I settled down into my seat.

“Gemma, this is Masque,” Cara said. “You know Cat already.”

“James,” the man said. “We’re not at Explicit now, Cara.” His eyes sought mine again, just for a moment. “I’m sorry to hear about the tabloid hounding. I hate people invading my privacy, I can only imagine how unpleasant an experience it’s been to have your personal life plastered all across the media.”

I nodded. “Thank you. I’ve had quieter times.”

Cat spun in her seat. “My mum’s boyfriend is crazy over the Singers, he’ll piss himself when he knows what we’ve done for him.”

I smiled. “Thanks for doing this.”

“You’re welcome,” she said. “We’re hoping he pops the question sooner rather than later, he’s good for my mum, keeps her out of trouble.”

“I guess an autograph will help your case.”

“That’s the plan,” James said. “We’ll all sit back when we get to the ground, give you some space, don’t worry.”

I clutched at the notepad on my lap, the crappy little biro. I’d scrawled out a letter, just a few lines. I hoped it would be enough.

It was getting light as we pulled into the Singers’ training ground. Sure enough, the players’ car park was beyond. It was virtually empty, no sign of life. One old man hung around in a woolly overcoat, a Singers calendar under his arm. And me, with my little notepad. I pulled up the collar on my coat.
Please nobody recognise me.

A few more people turned up. A mother with two young boys, and a teenage girl with Singers’ pom-poms. A couple of lads, too, armed with a football and some marker pens. Then the press. I saw them setting up at the entrance, training their lenses on the players’ car park. Shit. I turned away, keeping my back to them.

A sporty BMW pulled up first, some lanky blonde lad getting out of it. He came over to the fence, smiled and signed his autograph. When it was my turn I made sure to pick a blank page, smiling like I was some kind of mega fan. He seemed to buy it. My heart sped up as a Range Rover pulled up, but it wasn’t Jason who got out, just some young whippet with hair as curly as mine. Theo Fernandez was next, and this time even I recognised him. He grinned as he signed the autographs, strutting around like he owned the place. A few more players came and went, and my nerves started up. What if he didn’t show?

A screech of tyres on tarmac and another Range Rover pulled into the ground. My heart fluttered and pounded as the driver’s door opened. Jason stepped down, face like thunder and dark eyes hidden behind darker glasses. He managed a wave to the small crowd, but showed little intention of stopping. I skirted along the fence as he made his way towards the entrance, pitching my voice just loud enough to sound above the others.

“Jason! Jason, over here!”

My dirty bad stranger stopped dead. My heart stopped, too.

***

Jason

I turned on the spot, scouring the crowd. Surely not?

But there she was. Hair hidden under a fluffy purple beret, and her dainty little fingers up to the fence as she stared over. I took off my shades, taking careless steps forwards. My Gemma was smiling. She was smiling so bright it lit up the grey fucking morning. I stopped for a moment, glancing over my shoulder. Bastard photographers were waiting, all out to cause me grief. They wouldn’t take this moment from me, though. No fucking way.

I met the fence a little way down from Gemma, taking some time to sign autographs before heading towards her. She had her fingers hooked through the wire, so close I could smell her perfume. Just the other side of the fence, but it was way too far.

My voice was low, barely more than a whisper. “I hardly recognised you, good disguise.”

“I needed to see you. This is pretty drastic, I know. I tried calling.”

“I’ve been having some problems, switched my phone off for a while.”

“I know.” She pushed her fingertips further through the gaps and instinctively I leaned closer before checking myself. Too many people.

She must have read my mind, raising her voice to be heard. “Please could you sign this for me? I’m a big fan. Probably your biggest.”

Her smile, oh fuck, her smile. She pushed the notebook through the fence and closed her eyes as my fingertips brushed hers. I held on just a heartbeat as I took the pen from her, as long as I dared. “Who shall I sign this to?”

“Mr Bingo. Don’t ask.”

“Mr Bingo?” I repeated. She had me smiling, just a ghost, but more than I’d smiled all weekend.

“I’ve marked out a page for you, if you could sign there, too, please.” Her beautiful eyes sparkled, willing me to turn the pages. I flicked through, holding my breath as I found a note.

I was wrong. Really, really wrong.

I’m sorry, Jason.

I can handle the crappy tabloids, I can handle people talking, I can handle being the fat girl with the fit guy.

I’m sure I could even handle being a footballer’s wife.

I miss you. xx

My voice was choked. I had to cough to clear it. “You’ve nothing to apologise for.”

Tears in her beautiful eyes knocked my breath. “I made a mistake. I was scared.”

“You should have been scared,” I whispered. “It was horrible, Gemma, all of it. I’d never have put you through it if I’d have known.”

“It’s over,” she breathed. “We’re out the other side.”

But I wasn’t. I’d made an agreement with that bitch, April. Given her twelve months in exchange for a fifty-fifty split, just as long as we got another season out of the Singers, and so long as her Cherry Electric reunion tour happened. This shit could even kick-start a new album for her. How fucking sweet.

“I miss you,” I said. “I miss your laugh. I miss your smile.”

“I miss your touch,” she said. “I miss you,
all
of you. Everything we had. Everything we could have had.”

“What about domesticity? I thought that was a no go?”

She shot me a smile. “Never say never.”

But I
had
said never, I’d said never when I’d promised April another year. I was already booked in with PR, ready to get our shit sorted.

“Come to me,” she said. “Please. Tonight.”

It broke my fucking heart to say no. “I can’t. PR meeting.”

She raised her eyebrows. “I see. No problem, maybe a different night?”

I pressed my face as close to hers as I dared, scribbling any old shit in the notebook. “April wants twelve months, then she’ll split the house. I said yes. I didn’t know you’d be here.”

Her expression dropped like a stone, eyes watery. “Of course, I understand. I’m sorry, I should’ve thought.”

My words were harsher than I’d intended. “You don’t understand. I’m a walking corpse, just trying to keep hold of something.”

“Keep hold of
me
.”

“I wish, Gemma, how I wish.” The crowd was dispersing, time up. “I’ve got to go.”

“Me, too. I have friends waiting.”

Words wouldn’t come out, lodged in my throat like fucking bullets. “This feels so wrong.”

“It’s ok, Jason. I get it, about the house. Steve told me about your dad. I get why you need to hang on to something. I get why you need to make it. I’m sure I would, too.” Her smile didn’t meet her eyes. “Twelve months? I bet you can’t wait.”

I was the last in the car park, unable to risk another bollocking. “I’m sorry, Gemma, I can’t stay.”

“Go,” she said, eyes glistening. “Don’t be a stranger, hey? Call me one day. Let me know you’re ok.”

I didn’t even have an answer for her, just a dull ache in my gut as I left my sweet girl behind.

It hurt like fucking sin.

***

Jason

Caroline Vaughan wasn’t one of those glossy-haired PR executives who float around and talk about charity opportunities. She was a fucking killer. I’d been forced into her company before, around the dogging scandal, and she’d handled the situation brilliantly, even if telling her about it was thoroughly uncomfortable. I’d pay through the nose for this, but I had no choice. She was the best. Her jet black hair was scraped into one of those twisty buns, and she had trendy thick-rimmed glasses that screamed sexy librarian. She was all in black. Black jacket, black blouse, even a black tie. A slash of shocking pink across her lips was the only break in the monochrome. Yes, she was a killer, alright.

She leaned across her walnut desk, handing me a selection of newspapers from the height of the Gemma craziness. “Tell me, Mr Redfern, are these stories true?”

There was little point in lying. “I was having a relationship with Gemma, a sexual relationship, that is. I met her on chatline, and she didn’t even know who I was.”

“Thank you for your honesty.”

I wasn’t sure she meant it.

“I like Gemma, a lot, whatever we do here can’t hurt her. Number one priority, non-negotiable. I’ll never sign off on it.”

“Of course, Mr Redfern. We will leave Miss Taylor out of this as much as possible. The focus will be on you and your wife.” She ran me through the proposal. I flinched as she reached the part of the plan where I confessed to having a sex addiction to the press, but she swore blind it was a sound, if uncomfortable manoeuvre. “The public love a flawed hero. They will love you for being human, Mr Redfern, and everyone loves a sex addict, it’s one of the most popular kinds of addiction.”

I raised my eyebrows. “The most popular kind of addiction?”

“That’s right. We grade them. Heroin comes out bottom, as you’d expect. Sex addiction holds intrigue.”

“So, April gets all teary-eyed on a talk show, tells the world how tough marriage is and how hard we’re trying? Then I confess to a sex addiction?”

“In a nutshell. We want the public to feel your pain, enter your healing journey with you. We play this right, Mr Redfern, and your public personas will be stronger than ever. Like I said, everyone loves a flawed hero, but they love a flawed couple even more.” This was crazy and ridiculous, but still I let her speak. “Six months’ time should see a very different landscape. I’m sure you’ll be impressed. I’ve sent our proposal along to your wife’s representatives, I’m sure we’ll be able to co-ordinate timescales if you wish to proceed.”

“This plan, we work it for twelve months and then we have an exit strategy, yes? A way to separate with as little damage as possible to our careers?”

Caroline looked confused, flicking through paperwork. “That isn’t the brief I received through Mrs Redfern’s team.” She handed me a printout. “Three year strategy. It’s clearly stated.”

The horror on my face must have spoken volumes. I felt ashen, broken. “I can’t do that long. I need out.”

“Three years is a sensible timeline, Mr Redfern, especially with your wife’s ambitions for music success. That will take time, the Cherry Electric brand is no longer valuable. If she wishes to be placed on one of the music reality TV panels she will really need a stronger platform.”

My voice was nothing more than a hiss. “I don’t care about her fucking ambitions, or her shitty music. I want half the house, and I want out.”

“You seem to be at cross purposes, I’d recommend you speak it over with her before our next meeting.”

“Fine.” I grabbed my keys, but she took hold of my wrist before I could stand.

“Mr Redfern, may I speak candidly?”

I nodded. “Go on.”

“Gables and I are
your
PR consultants, we are here to advise on your wishes, your public brand, with or without the association with your wife.”

“Yes...” I prompted.

“May I ask a question? You are free to answer, or not, as you see fit.” Her voice was clipped and professional, pausing until I gave a definite nod. “Gemma Taylor, do you have feelings for her?”

I debated my answer for a few seconds before I tossed the keys back on the desk top. “I’m in love with Gemma Taylor, Ms Vaughan. Life’s not all that fair in the public eye, is it?”

“Please, call me Caroline.” She reached into a desk drawer and handed me a flip file. “I took the liberty of formulating an alternate strategy. The social media positioning is too strong to ignore. I think it may interest you.”

I flicked through pages of circled Twitter hashtags.

#SupportGemma

#NoFakes

#LoveYourCurves
.

“What is this?”

“The social media support of Miss Taylor has been quite phenomenal. It appears she’s captured the public’s imagination. The ordinary woman is rooting for the flawed heroine, and that, Mr Redfern, has the makings of a wonderful PR campaign.”