Page 24 of Star Struck

I watched Jack’s long fingers fiddle with the toothpick-container on the table while he ate his eggs one-handed. He pulled the lid off the box and, as soon as the eggs were finished, he put a toothpick between his lips, not even seeming to notice what he’d done.

‘You’ll never get it to light.’ I ate my last piece of bacon.

‘What?’ As he spoke he noticed the wood, pulled a face and shuffled it to one corner of his mouth. ‘Oh, bugger.’

‘Why don’t you try giving up? There’s all those nicotine patches and everything now, supposed to make it easy.’ I drained my coffee and a hovering waitress pounced with a refill.

‘Have you ever given anything up, Skye?’ Jack pulled the chewed end from between his teeth. ‘Because, let me tell you, it’s not a bundle of laughs. In fact, it’s not even one small giggle. I smoke because . . . well, because everyone needs a vice, a crutch, something to hang onto, and that’s mine.’ He wasn’t looking at me; he kept his eyes on the scratched tabletop. ‘And unless you can talk from a position of experience . . .’ now he raised his eyes and his gaze met mine, something like a flare of anger shone deep inside it, ‘then don’t moralise, okay?’

I opened my mouth to ask how he could talk when he obviously hadn’t given up, but then it suddenly struck me that I was sitting in a diner in America eating breakfast with a writer from my favourite TV series and the oddest urge to start giggling swept over me. My lips must have twitched because Jack raised his eyebrows. ‘This is just so weird,’ I tried to explain. ‘A few weeks ago the high spot of my life was watching Fallen Skies on TV, and now . . .’ I waved an arm, ‘here I am!’

Jack gave an answering grin and I had another jolt of realisation that he was quite a good-looking man, under all that dark, scowling façade. ‘Yeah. Moving and shaking with the movers and shakers. Not that I can get my head around myself as either a mover or a shaker. I’m a bit more of the slight oscillator.’ He wiggled his head from side to side. ‘We’re not as popular.’

The moment opened up, stretched somehow, and enclosed both of us in a little bubble of time. Jack was still smiling and I was still grinning like a mad person, fighting the urge to burst out laughing at the absurdity of actually being here. Our eyes met, something moved between us, a recognition, an acknowledgement that we saw a piece of ourselves in the other, and then the moment moved past and was gone like a lighthouse beam that had picked us out for a fleeting second.

I cleared my throat and stared down into my unwanted refill. ‘I’d better go and talk to Felix. He’s got so much explaining to do . . .’

‘You want me to come? Is there likely to be violence done, or is it all going to be tedious hugging and forgiveness?’ Jack swallowed a last mouthful of coffee. ‘’Cos if it is, I’m gonna stay right here and get another refill. I can watch Friends re-runs anytime.’ His eyes were back on the table, as though he was ashamed of letting me see a glimmer of what lay underneath his grouchy persona.

‘There may be shouting. But you stay, I’ll be fine.’

He reached out without looking, and grasped my wrist. ‘Need me, I’ll come. Okay?’ He was still focusing on the dregs in the bottom of his cup, looking serious.

‘Understood. But Fe’s not likely to do me any damage.’ I pushed away from the table and stood up. Jack still didn’t look at me.

‘I’m kinda in charge of the quiz, so . . . if you decide to take part, I’ll be there.’

I couldn’t help myself, I looked back over my shoulder as I left the diner. Jack was sitting, still alone at the table despite the comings and goings surrounding him as the diner began to fill up. He looked like an island in a constantly moving sea. People would glance at him, at the empty three seats tucked in around his table, then quietly move away as though they didn’t want to disturb him. He wasn’t exactly looking open to contact, leaning back in his chair, hands embracing a coffee cup, eyes partly closed behind his slim glasses with his hair dancing an untidy fandango in the breeze from the open doors, but why were people giving him such deference, such a wide berth? What the hell was he thinking, this dark man, hidden behind those heavy lids?

* * *

What the hell am I thinking? Jack tipped his head back and felt the tension in his neck. Why am I even getting involved? The wash of conversation became so much white noise and static as he let his thoughts roam, falling into the writer’s zone of what-if and what-could-be.

What if Skye got herself caught up with Gethryn? That was what lay behind it all, he knew that. This was where having an imagination was not a good thing — extrapolating the real and happening and pushing it into the place of what-could-be — and in this case it was worryingly easy. She was obviously completely swept away by Geth, beyond the point of any rational words getting through. He could warn her, he could even lay it on the line, tell her exactly what Geth was like, and she’d smile, nod, accept his words and then go right out and let herself get taken in by the charm, that almost supernatural ability the man had to form a connection.

Bugger. Jack drained another cup and felt the caffeine give his system a good kicking, the nervous twang of a brain in overdrive. Why hadn’t he got it, that easy smile, the charisma that enabled Geth to chat, flirt, draw the girls in? Why did talking to Skye make him feel that urge to withdraw, like he was indulging in something that was eventually going to hurt? As if he didn’t know.

Did he want to save her? And if so, what from? She was clearly an adult . . . he let the memory of her slim body in the really quite see-through T-shirt she’d worn yesterday flow through him . . . clearly adult, oh yes. She could make her own decisions, reach her own conclusions. He had a life, a complicated one that needed no more help to get even more problematical. Two perfectly good reasons for him to shrug his shoulders and get back upstairs to the next episode. Easy.

He put the cup down but didn’t move.

Chapter Twelve

Felix was flat out on the bed, wearing underpants and with his head wrapped in a towel. When he woke up he was going to have scary hair, I thought happily. Then I bounced on him.

‘Ow! Sod! Oh, it’s you, how was your breakfast with Mr Luscious? You know, if you decide you don’t want him then I think it’s only fair that you let me have a go; did you see that body? Oh, sorry, of course you did, in great and glorious Technicolor close-up. Is he really huge? Looks like he’s a big boy in those jeans, but then, denim can be so . . . oooof.’

I kept my hand over his mouth. ‘Why didn’t you just tell me? About the quiz.’

‘Mmmmmffffff.’

‘Sorry.’ I removed my palm and wiped it on the sheet.

‘I didn’t know how to. I knew you wouldn’t go for it. But, Skye, think about it, please, you’re brilliant at anything to do with Fallen Skies, and you might just decide you did want the part, and if not . . . well . . . I could do with the break,’ he finished, sounding unFelixly downbeat.

‘It’s all about you, isn’t it? You drug me up, drag me out here, and all so that I can be your patsy in some scheme to get a job! Why couldn’t you just audition like everyone else?’

He unwound the towel from his hair and began to rub, spreading his spiky locks around and mopping at them, thinking. ‘It was Faith’s idea.’ He nearly whispered it.

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