Page 44 of Star Struck

I looked down at my velvet hem, slightly ragged and dusty. ‘No.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘What, you think I might not have noticed him trying to grope my boobs and shove his tongue down my throat? No, I shan’t fall for that one again, Jack, whatever you might think, I’m not that desperate.’

‘Oh for God’s sake.’ Jack got the cigarette lit and the first puff visibly relaxed him. ‘I’m not saying anything like that. But you were very odd when Erlon and I got there. Like something had happened and you were covering it up. Although why you’re not yelling sexual assault from the rooftops already I can’t fathom.’

Jack smoking. Worried. Perhaps I should tell the truth. ‘He was . . . a bit pissed when I arrived.’

‘How pissed?’

‘How am I supposed to tell?’

‘How many bottles did he have?’ Jack wasn’t looking at me now; his eyes were following the smoke as it trailed lazily into the hot air.

‘Two. That I could see. But he could still walk and talk. And anyway, he’s a grown man, what was I supposed to do?’

He sighed. ‘Nothing. I was worried, that’s all. When you opened that door, I was scared that he might have . . . he takes advantage of who he is sometimes. Well, you know that already, I guess. It’s okay, Skye, it’s not you I’m angry at, it’s Geth. He’s behaving like a total pillock . . .’ A long exhale. ‘It’ll be the end of him. Professionally, I mean, he’ll never work over here again. In fact, given the way reputations travel, he’ll be lucky to get a job filming public information videos in Uzbekistan.’

‘He said he was going to Hollywood.’ I brushed the skirt down once more.

‘Yeah. I bet he did.’ Jack sounded tired. ‘Did I tell you yet that the dress looks fantastic on you? Very sumptuous.’

Distracted and pleased I pulled some imaginary fluff from the bodice. ‘Thanks.’

‘You’re welcome.’ A sudden turn and he bent to stub out the cigarette, grinding it into the floor beside his feet as though he had a personal grudge against that particular bit of dirt. ‘Okay. Better get back to work. I’ve scripts to deliver, so—’

‘What’s the rush?’

He stopped and turned around, looking baffled and switching back hair from his face as though it annoyed him. ‘What? I just said, two scripts to finish.’

‘I mean, why are you wanting to quit the show and go back to Britain?’

Jack stared at me. He really did have beautiful eyes, I thought, and there was something about the way he stood, the way he was, that was inherently attractive. ‘What makes you ask that?’ He had to clear his throat to speak and his fingers were fiddling, searching for another cigarette.

‘Just wondering. If you needed to get home for anything specific.’

A sudden smile, and he’d turned away. ‘Nah. Need a change, new challenge. I’ve done the TV thing now, I’m not a novelty to them any more. And, like I told Liss, my editor wants more novels.’ His voice dropped a tone. ‘And I miss Yorkshire. You get a bit sick of relentless sunshine and OJ. I’m pining for drizzle and curd tarts.’ And then he was walking away, slamming the heavy door that led to the stairs without looking back.

I found my fingers were picking at each other again; Jack wasn’t the only one with a habit he indulged when he was stressed. But this time I wasn’t thinking about the past, or fretting over the loss of Michael, or Faith. I was thinking about Jack Whitaker. About the weight of longing in his voice when he spoke about Yorkshire, about how looking at him made me think of the dark infinity of the whole of space. Of how I wanted to give myself up to him but didn’t know how or whether he even wanted that from me. Of how I could hardly offer him anything when I didn’t even know what I had to offer.

* * *

He walked to the base of the stairs and punched the motel wall hard enough to make his fist sting. Buggerbuggerbugger! ‘Sumptuous’! He’d told Skye she looked like a fucking sofa! And then she’d caught him out, cut right through to what was at the heart of everything right now, and there’d been nothing he could say or do without telling her she’d hit it spot on. Home. He wanted to go home. And, yes, it was specific.

I want to go home with you, Skye. I want to show you where I live, that lovely little white house set on its own in the dale. I want to walk in the air with you, sit and write in the office while you . . . I dunno, do whatever it is that you do. I want to feel that you’re close by . . .

He raised his head and stared a challenge at the ceiling. Yeah, he wanted it. But he’d wanted an awful lot of things over the years. Starting with death and working his way up to success, which, now he had it, didn’t look like such a great deal any more. Success came with debts to the life he’d had before.

Without thinking, he rolled the leather lace through his fingers and knew he didn’t deserve the life he’d got. Didn’t deserve Skye. Couldn’t have her. Push it away, Jack. Keep the feelings down. If you don’t feel, you don’t hurt . . . And definitely don’t let Geth see. If Gethryn knew Jack cared . . . if he knew Jack could hurt, then he’d hurt him.

He’d been totally blasted; even Skye’s best efforts hadn’t totally sobered him up — what was he playing at? He must know his career was on the line here. Had he stopped caring? If Geth ever even suspects I feel anything, anything at all for Skye . . . Jack bit a fingernail, chewed it down to the quick as he stood, using the pain to distract himself from the horrible inevitability of Skye finding out what a bastard he was. Not just a bastard either, he could have dealt with that . . . A sharp jab of adrenaline hit him in the gut, as though he was looking down from a great height, preparing to fall. If this wasn’t just a day off’s unwinding then . . .

Shit. Everything is blowing up in my face. And Jack remembered the compassion in Skye’s eyes when she’d asked him if he needed help, wondered how far that compassion would stretch. Would she have been there for him, if she’d known him in the old days? Would she have talked him down, held him when the demons came calling with their vicious, insinuating claws digging deeper and deeper every day?

He chewed at his forefinger in the absence of another cigarette and contemplated the newly rising emotion that beat away inside him as though he’d swallowed a seagull. Skye. She made him feel . . . different. She makes me feel. All that passion, all that nerve-scraping stuff that had once made him so alive, all that stuff that he’d locked down so tight that nothing really got through any more. She drew it all to the surface, like the poison in an abscess. Like all the stuff worth living for.

Jack shook his head hard, still mouthing around his knuckle. He was letting her get to him, that was all. Skye was like a cat which had been kept indoors all its life suddenly allowed out into the big world, creeping around, almost afraid of each new discovery. Be afraid, Skye, be very afraid. Most of those things you discover have the potential to turn septic underneath you. Like me. You should stay away from me . . .

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