“That’s easy for you to say,” I whisper, pretending to turn and smile up at him. “You’re not the one having your organs mashed together by a corset. Is it just me, or is itreallyhot in here?”
Jett’s brow creases in concern, but, before he can answer me, my phone starts buzzing ostentatiously in my handbag — which is shaped like an apple, for some reason — and the concern turns to frustration.
“Maybe you should switch that off,” Jett murmurs, reaching over and taking my hand. To anyone looking on — and I’m trying hard not to think about just how many people will be “looking on” when these photos are published — he looks totally relaxed; maybe even slightly bored. The palm that grips mine, however, is ever so slightly sweaty, and as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, I get the distinct impression that he’s not quite as comfortable with this situation as he’s trying to pretend he is. Just to test my theory, I give his hand a quick squeeze, and, after a slight pause, he returns the gesture, his eyes still fixed on the crowd of photographers. It’s a small thing, really; so small that at first I wonder if I’ve imagined it. Then he squeezes again, and suddenly I’m breathing a little more easily.
Standing in front of the bank of cameras feels like facing a firing squad, but, just like when he stood up for me in the bar, Jett’s presence makes me feel like I just might be able to do this.
Evenwiththis infernal corset threatening to squeeze the last breath out of my body.
“Lexie!” one of the photographers closest to the front of the group calls. “Hey, Sexy Lexie! This way, please.”
My cheeks flush red as a flash goes off in my eyes.
“Hey,” Jett calls, raising a hand in front of my face. “Enough with the names, please. It’s Alexandra to you lot.”
The photographers laugh and go on clicking, but I’m grateful for the hand Jett places around my waist, pulling me closer, and ignoring the cheers that go up from the crowd at the unexpected PDA from him.
“Come on Jett, give her a kiss,” someone shouts. “We know you’re good at that.”
Jett smiles good-naturedly, but the arm around my waist is suddenly rigid with tension, and, after a few more seconds, he turns and steers me away from them, through the doors of the building behind us to safety.
Or as close to that as you can get among a crowd made up almost entirely of celebrities, I suppose.
As soon as we’re out of sight of the cameras, I pull out my phone to switch it off, but it instantly starts ringing again in my hand, and I’m so keyed up with nerves I almost drop it in fright.
It’s that number again: the Inverness one I’ve been ignoring. It’s probably just some random acquaintance from back home, wanting to pretend we’re besties now that they’ve seen my photo all over the tabloids. Grace warned me that kind of thing might happen. It’s one of the reasons I haven’t been listening to my voice mail, or reading any of the messages that keep threatening to blow up my phone. The head-in-sand technique might not be the best idea, all things considered — it’s the reason I don’t have the appropriate work visa, after all — but it’s the one I’ve always fallen back on, and I can see no reason to change now.
Except Jett.
“Just. Answer. It.”
We’re standing in a holding area just inside the building, waiting to be shown to our table, and if I thought Jett seemed slightly on edge before, the way his eyes are scanning the room now confirms it.
“Please just answer it,” he repeats, his tone pleading as he turns to glance at me. “My parents will be here any minute. I really want this to go smoothly.”
“Okay, okay.”
I don’t know why the thought of answering this call is making me feel sick to my stomach, but I know it’s not just the too-tight shapewear that’s to blame for the way my breath seems to be running out as I raise the phone to my ear and press the answer button.
“Hello?”
“Oh, hello, is that Alexandra Steele? Lexie? Och, I’m glad I managed to catch you at last.”
The voice on the other end of the line is slightly crackly and sounds like it’s coming from very far away. There’s no mistaking the Scottish accent of the woman speaking, though, and I realize I’m gripping the phone almost tightly enough to break it as I wait to hear what she says next.
“My name’s Mary McNamee,” she says gently. “I’m a nurse at the Raigmore Hospital in Inverness. I’m calling about your mum.”
* * *
“Is everything okay? It’s just, you look a bit weird, if you don’t mind me saying. Was it the phone call? Has something happened?”
Jett and I are seated next to each other at an elaborately dressed table in the center of the room. The place card on the seat next to me says ‘Charles Carter’ and I’m assuming the one next to it is for his wife, Gabriella — Jett’s mum — so to say that I’m feeling out of my league here would be the understatement of the century.
“Jett. Glad to see you made it on time. I take it this is the girl we hired?”
Actually, on second thoughts, make that the millennium.
Jett jumps to his feet at the sound of his father’s voice and shakes him by the hand, before going to give his mother a kiss on the cheek.
