NATE
19th November
Leaning against the thick-framed door of the master bedroom of my Beverly Hills mansion, I watch as Celeste, my girlfriend, no sorry, ex-girlfriend as of ten minutes ago, throws her entire collection of designer dresses into an overflowing suitcase.
‘Don’t tell me, “It’s not you, it’s me,”’ I scoff.
I should probably care.
Or feel something, at least.
But I don’t.
And deep down, I know why.
‘Oh no, Nate, this is all on you.’ Celeste tosses her platinum blonde hair back from her shoulder. A bitter, high-pitched laugh rattles through her brilliant white veneers and directly over my spine.
‘You’releaving me for your co-star and it’smyfault?’ A disbelieving laugh erupts from my chest.
Narrow accusatory eyes shoot me a condemning glare as she shakes her head. ‘If you weren’t so emotionally stunted, I wouldn’t have looked at Spike twice.’
Emotionally stunted?
Me?
No way.
Admittedly, I’ve been a little more cautious with my heart since, well, since the Sally-Ann thing, but I wouldn’t go as far as saying I’m emotionally stunted.
And what sort of stupid name is Spike? At eight years younger than me, he might be Hollywood’s newest up-and-coming heartthrob, but his name makes him sound like a pit bull terrier.
My agent and closest friend, Jayden Cooper, warned me this would happen. Where I have a talent for pretending to be other people, he has a talent for reading them. His unwavering conclusion when I first introduced him to Celeste last year was that she was a social climber.
He warned me she’d use me like a climbing frame to drag herself up the notoriously slippery social ladder before moving on to the next shiny thing.
Or Spikey thing, as it turns out.
This new movie she’s starring in with Spike Hancock is her first big break.
But if she’s moving on, does that mean I’m no use for social climbing anymore?
Past my sell-by date?
My head shakes of its own accord, dispelling that stupid notion.
I’m in my prime. At thirty-four years of age, I’m in better physical shape than I’ve ever been in my life, thanks to gruelling workouts with an ex-military personal trainer. Besides, there are action stars still making movies who are twice my age.
My knuckles skim over the stubble jotting my jaw. I could do with shaving again, but the stubble grows back quicker than I can keep up with. I lift a wry eyebrow. ‘You’ve been cheating on me for months, and you’re telling me it’s my fault?’
‘You’re not exactly Mr Approachable.’ Celeste tuts, raising a manicured index finger and pointing it at my chest. ‘You know, sometimes, I think you actuallyaresome sort of closed-up wounded action hero in real life. Every movie you take on, you play the same character, just with a different name and different set of baggage. So, technically, it’s not acting because you’re playing yourself.’
‘You are way off the mark,’ I scoff. ‘I get offered action movies because I have fifteen years’ experience in similar roles.’ Being six-foot-four and swathed in tattoos might have something to do with it, too, I suppose.
‘Well, why didn’t you take that fantasy movie you were offered with Brad Pitt?’ Celeste relentlessly tries to divert the attention from her own misdemeanours. If picking a fight were an Olympic sport, the woman would be a gold medallist.
Why am I only realising this now?
Probably because I deliberately turned a blind eye. Having a new girlfriend who was featured in last May’s edition of Vogue and was supposed to distract me from the fact my old girlfriend, Sally-Ann, was pregnant by my best friend.
