Christmas on Primrose Hill (38 page)

Nettie took a deep breath, giving a thumbs-up sign as she took the phone. ‘Hello?’ she asked innocently.

‘If you think I’m letting you sit on that sofa and destroy my reputation for a second time, you can think again.’

Jamie’s voice was a low rumble, like a faraway explosion finally reaching her and splitting open the earth at her feet. She felt her heart fall to her gut at the sound of his anger, his contempt for her wringing the breath from her lungs.

She squeezed her eyes shut. How could they have gone from lovers to enemies in the space of a couple of days? She forced herself to rally, not to be cowed.

‘I take it that means you’ll be there, then,’ she said in a voice that quivered only a little.

‘You’re damn right it does.’

‘Well, that’s great. I know Tested will be very relieved.’

There was a pause down the line. ‘Fuck you, Nettie.’

He hung up, leaving her reeling as she dropped the phone down from her ear.

Jules reached over the table in concern. ‘Christ, what happened? What did he say? You look like he just hit you.’

Nettie swallowed, managed a smile. ‘It’s fine. He’ll be there.’

‘Really? You look terrible.’

Nettie blinked, forcing herself to stand and pick up the packed bags by her feet. ‘I’m fine.’

‘But—’

‘No buts. There’s no time for chatting, Jules,’ she said, taking a shaky breath. ‘I’ve got a train to catch.’

Chapter Twenty-Two

They had taken a punt on the pressure campaign working and couriered the unwieldy bunny suit ahead of her journey. It was far too bulky and conspicuous for her to travel with and was already hanging up in her dressing room when she arrived.

The room itself wasn’t vast – not like Jamie’s at the O2 – but it was freshly painted with a desk and sofa, and, to her astonishment, a bottle of champagne, a fruit bowl, a basket of muffins, a bouquet of white roses and a handwritten note of welcome from the head of guest relations. She only had half an hour till she was supposed to be on – it wasn’t like she needed hair or make-up – and she wondered when she was supposed to eat and drink it all.

‘Gosh, is all this for . . . me?’ she asked, sure she must have been shown to the wrong room.

‘Of course. We’re so excited to have you on the show,’ Debbie, the press officer, said as she rearranged the roses. ‘Alex and Matt can’t wait to talk to you about the campaign. It’s just incredible what you’ve done. Do you know one of our researchers said you’d achieved more in terms of fundraising and raising the profile of male cancers in this last fortnight than has been achieved in the previous thirty years?’

Nettie was stunned. ‘Really?’

‘Yep,’ Debbie nodded. ‘In fact, we’re running it as the lead lifestyle story on
Breakfast
next week. The number of men – particularly younger men – booking to go to their GPs for tests has increased by eight hundred and forty-four per cent.’

‘That’s amazing,’ she said, feeling humbled and ashamed that while she’d been bemoaning wearing the suit and trying to wheedle her way out of the skits at every opportunity, the campaign had been making a real and tangible change to men’s health. What had started as a desperate blag to keep her job after a drunken prank, a pathetic attempt to keep the attention of a rich and famous man, had snowballed somewhere along the line into a health marketing campaign that was actually working! Of course, Jules’s scheme to get her married to Jamie Westlake and have his babies hadn’t quite gone to plan, but . . . She bit her lip. ‘Is Jamie here yet?’

‘No. We’re expecting him in seventeen minutes.’

‘Seventeen minutes?’ Nettie’s eyes widened and not just because the number was so precise. ‘But isn’t that cutting it fine? We’re on in just over twenty, aren’t we?’

‘Don’t worry. His helicopter pilot’s already radioed ahead so we know they’re on schedule. Jamie’s performed on the show before, so he knows the drill. He’ll go straight to make-up and see you in the green room.’

Nettie swallowed. ‘Oh. OK, then.’ If Debbie wasn’t worried, why should she be?

‘So I hope everything you’ll need is here,’ Debbie said, her eyes skimming over the VIP welcome and making a final check that everything was as it should be. ‘Daisy was adamant that we need to keep your identity a secret, and only myself and the presenters know your name, but if you can change into the suit first, before coming to the green room, OK? That way, no one will be able to put two and two together.’

‘Sure.’

‘And . . . well, I don’t know what you usually wear under the costume, but a word of warning – it is very hot under the lights. That jumper, for example, would be a mistake.’

Nettie looked down at her chunky marled sweater. There was significantly more snow in the North West than there had been in London and she’d dressed for the weather for once. ‘Oh right, thanks.’

‘Is there anything else you need?’

‘No, I think I’m fine, thanks. This is . . . amazing.’

‘Any problems, I’ll be in the green room. It’s just straight down this hall, to the right. There’s a sign on the door – you can’t miss it.’

‘Great, thanks.’

Debbie turned to leave, hesitating as she got to the door. ‘Would you mind if I ask you something?’

Nettie looked up. ‘Not at all.’

‘I, uh . . . I don’t usually do this. You can imagine, everybody who’s anybody comes here sooner or later, but . . . well, would you mind signing your autograph? It’s for my son. He’s twelve and officially your biggest fan.’

Nettie stared back in astonishment. Someone wanted
her
autograph? ‘O-of course,’ she said, gathering herself and patting her coat pockets for a pen. ‘I’d be delighted.’

Debbie gave a relieved smile, her hands folding over her heart. ‘Oh, that’s so kind of you. Strictly speaking, we shouldn’t ask. It’s not forbidden as such, but you could say it’s an unspoken rule not to do it, but I don’t think my son would speak to me ever again if I didn’t ask you.’

Nettie smiled, dazed that this was happening. ‘Um, is it OK to do it on this jotter here?’

‘Great. His name’s JoJo.’

‘“
Dear JoJo
. . .”’ Nettie murmured, her tongue poking between her teeth slightly as she concentrated. She stopped. ‘Oh God, I nearly signed it, “
From Nettie
”!’ she laughed, correcting herself in time and signing, ‘
Blue Bunny Girl
’
.

Debbie took the autograph with a delighted smile. ‘Thank you so much. I will officially be crowned Top Mum tonight.’

‘Great title to have,’ Nettie grinned, nodding as Debbie closed the door softly behind her.

Nettie stood alone in the dressing room, the pen still in her hand and taking in the glistening fruit and scented flowers, the stuffed sofa and chilled champagne. So this was a taste of it – life on the other side, how the stars lived, a glimpse into the luxuries and privileges that came with fame. Being treated as someone special, being pampered.

Of course, her experience within it was faceless. Three point eight million people now followed her Twitter feed every day, but no one knew her name or what she looked like. They didn’t know where she’d gone to school or the regrettable men in her past. They certainly didn’t know about her deepest shame, a missing mother who chose not to come back.

Copies of the day’s newspapers were fanned out on the desk and she picked up the one on top, flicking the pages listlessly, depressed by all the paparazzi shots of people whose names she knew but didn’t know why, climbing out of taxis or posing at drinks parties. Why did they chase fame, these people? What was it they hoped it would give them? She couldn’t think of anything worse than losing her privacy, of living in the glare of a spotlight.

She stopped at a page – a double-page spread – that seemed to glitter with gold dust. It was a round-up of the Jingle Bell Ball, a montage of all the night’s stars variously commanding the crowd with arms in the air and white-toothed smiles. She was there too, of course. It surprised her, though it shouldn’t have – she, or rather the Blue Bunny, had been one of the stars of the night, but she’d never thought about it beyond revenge; the team hadn’t thought about it beyond Web reach.

Somehow, seeing the image of her and Gus hugging on stage, part of that world, brought what she was doing into three dimensions. It was easy for her to hide herself in that suit; it was so huge it physically removed her from each situation, but as she looked at Jamie’s face as the water hit him – her paws in the air in a ‘what?’ position, the crowd open-mouthed – she saw that for him, it wasn’t some surreal joke that had accidentally tapped a public nerve and grown into a monster. This was his career, his reputation, his life. And she’d made it the butt of her joke.

No wonder he hated her.

In the bottom corner, she saw a small photo taken at the after-party. Jamie was sitting on a sofa, Coco to his right, her legs draped over his lap again, both of them looking to the camera with slitted, suspicious eyes, as though they’d been caught in the act of doing something illicit.

Had they? She blanched at the sight of them together, feeling like her heart was being pinched. What was the truth about the two of them? Jamie hadn’t, in their brief time together, mentioned Coco’s name to her – he certainly hadn’t acted as though he was with anyone else on Saturday night, but Coco had seemed jealous when she’d guessed he had slept with her.

Nettie looked away, remembering what they’d called her:
That little mouse . . . freak bunny girl . . . a groupie.
It was none of her business anyway, not her concern. Tossing the newspaper onto the sofa, taking a breath, she walked over to the costume, innocuous on the peg in its hanging bag. Who would have thought one big bunny could have caused so much trouble?

With a sigh, she brought it down and began to get undressed.

She walked into the green room several minutes later. Debbie was there, standing by a table and talking on her phone. She hung up when she heard the door close, her face brightening into an excited smile as she saw Nettie, or, rather, Blue Bunny Girl standing there.

‘Oh, it really is you!’ she exclaimed, rushing over.

‘It’s me,’ Nettie said, throwing her arms out a little, feeling silly again.

‘Would asking for a selfie be too much?’

‘Not at all.’

Debbie clicked. ‘If I tweet this now, saying you’re on in two, we should see a sudden
surge
in the viewing figures.’

‘Two minutes?’ Nettie echoed, looking around the empty room. ‘But where’s Jamie?’

‘Oh, he’s in make-up. Don’t worry – they’ve got a live link to me. I was speaking to them just then; he’s coming down in a moment.’

‘Wow. That’s close,’ Nettie said quietly, wondering whether this tight schedule was in fact a way to avoid seeing her till the last moment.

‘Oh, we’ve had worse than that before, believe me,’ Debbie laughed. ‘Honestly, why we all want to do live TV is beyond me. We’re living on our nerves most of the time, but I guess we must like the rush.’ She shook her head.

The door opened again and they turned as one to find Jamie standing in the doorway. It was as though a god had walked in: the actual composition of the air seemed to change and Nettie sensed Debbie shift.

Nettie offered a little prayer, yet again, in gratitude that she was wearing a giant bunny head that hid her face and allowed her to stare at him, unabashed and unregulated, immediately followed by her usual curse that she was wearing this damned giant bunny costume in front of one of the sexiest men in the world.

She watched in silence as he came over, wearing jeans and a khaki shirt that colour-matched his eyes, his attention resolutely not on her.

Nettie felt a stab of apprehension as she remembered the anger in his voice on the phone. What was he going to do? Sabotage her back on live TV?

‘Hey, Debbie,’ he said, greeting her with a kiss on both cheeks. ‘Good to see you again.’

‘A pleasure to see you, Mr Westlake. Is everything OK for you?’

‘Absolutely,’ he nodded, looking over at Nettie. He stepped forward, trying to peer past the black mesh that covered the bunny’s eye sockets and which allowed her to see out but no one to see in. His face was just inches from the rabbit head and her eyes roamed him like a foreign land, taking in the slightly forward thrust of his jaw, the hard glint in his eyes.

‘That you in there, Nettie?’ he asked.

‘Who else?’ Her voice in reply was surprisingly flinty.

He straightened up, nodding slightly, no trace of a smile on his lips. ‘Who else indeed.’ His hands were in his jeans pockets.

Debbie looked between them both, hesitation on her features – had she been expecting hugs and kisses? ‘I must say, everyone’s so delighted you’ve agreed to the interview as well this time.’

‘Yes, well, I’m intending to let Nettie do most of the talking.’

Debbie gave a nervous laugh, before her expression changed suddenly as she remembered something. ‘Oh God! Where’s my brain? We must get you rigged up to the mics.’ She jogged over to the nearest table and picked up two small, black square packs with wires hanging from them. She handed one to Jamie, who instantly, expertly, slotted the clip of the pack into the back of the waistband of his jeans, stringing the wire up under his shirt and clipping the mic to the front.

Debbie handed the same to Nettie, realizing their conundrum in the very same moment. ‘Oh!’

‘Uh . . .’ Nettie looked down at herself. There was nothing to clip the pack on to, on the outside of the costume.

‘Have you got a waistband inside the suit that you can clip it on to?’ she asked.

‘Uh, well, just my . . .’ Nettie lowered her voice, not wanting Jamie to overhear. ‘You said it would be hot, so I . . . you know, took off my jeans,’ she whispered. ‘Will it be too heavy for my . . . pants?’

Debbie looked panicked. ‘Oh golly. I’m not sure.’

‘I haven’t had to wear one of those things before.’

Jamie was watching with dark interest. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing,’ Debbie said brightly, before lowering her voice to Nettie. ‘We’ll just have to hope for the best and pray it doesn’t slide south. How do you get this thing on?’