"Oh yes," said the first girl with a grin. "And I'll try again this year. Only this time,
I'll make sure we're both drunk." Everyone laughed again.
Jane wondered what Marshall would think. Ashby, she knew, would have thrived on
the attention. The thought brought with it a stab of sadness. She sighed and bit into her
sandwich.
The conversation turned to gossip about people she didn't know. She allowed her
attention to wander, idly looking round the room. Over Ruth's shoulder she could see the table
where Keith was sitting. A woman joined them just then. Out of a shopping bag, she pulled
out a sandwich and a copy of
Spotted!
Jane's mouth went dry. Patent attorneys were supposed to have a good eye for detail.
Supposing one of them saw her photo and recognised her. She began fiddling with her newly
brown hair, until she caught herself and lowered her hand.
When Keith said something, the woman with the magazine turned to listen to him,
with one hand idly flicking through the pages. Suddenly she stopped and looked closely at
something in the magazine.
Jane tried to look inconspicuous, focusing on her sandwich. A quick glance showed
her that Keith and another man were now looking at the magazine over the woman's
shoulder.
Jane wondered if she could sneak out, or whether doing so would only draw more
attention to her. While she was debating with herself, the woman looked straight at her.
So much for anonymity. She would have liked to have had a few days to let people
get to know her as herself, before her past came crashing in. Maybe even build up some
loyalty so that they wouldn't tell the press where she was.
She stood up, gathered up her sandwich, which she no longer wanted, and left as
quietly as she could. Behind her she heard someone say, "Yeah, I reckon that's her
alright."
Back in her office, it took Jane a few minutes to compose herself. At least Ruth
wasn't back yet. She was surprised at how awful she felt. Even in this new setting, the idea of
being photographed and talked about wrung her out. She tried to pull herself together, but her
eyes filled with tears.
Right now, she needed a friend more than ever.
* * * *
From: Jane Porter
To: Polly
One of the patent attorneys was
reading
Spotted!
There isn't a chance it's a new edition and doesn't
have my photo in it, is there?
Jane
##
From: Polly
To: Jane Porter
It's not time for another
Spotted!
magazine to print, so this one will have your photo in it. It's
quite a nice photo of you, if it helps.
For someone who appears in these
celeb magazines on a regular-ish basis, you are remarkably clueless about
them.
Pol
##
From: Jane Porter
To:
Polly
I'm not a celebrity. I only went
to these events because Ashby wanted a bit of moral support and some totty on
his arm for his grand entrance. At least that's what he told me. He probably just
wanted someone sober enough to get him home in one piece, really.
I'm
pretty sure they recognised me from the photo. So much for my plan to get on
with my life.
Bugger
Jane
##
From: Polly
To: Jane Porter
Perhaps it won't make any
difference. These people are professionals, after all. Maybe they'll just judge
you on your ability to do the job and not take any notice of who you used to go
out with.
##
From: Jane Porter
To:
Polly
That would be nice, but I doubt
it. You should have seen the excitement when they spotted the photo. They
were all crowded round it gawping.
I left. I couldn't bear it. It's just
horrible. I don't want to spend my life with people watching my every move
again. What am I going to do?
##
From: Polly
To: Jane Porter
Oh Jane. I don't think there's
anything you CAN do. You're just going to have to tough it out. It might not be
as bad as you think.
* * * *
Ruth returned to the office before Jane could reply. She quickly closed down her
email and blinked back residual tears.
Ruth sat down and started pounding on her keyboard. Her eyes were sparkling.
Jane braced herself for questions, but none came. Was Ruth staying silent out of
politeness? As the minutes ticked by, Jane felt her nerves stretching more and more taut.
Finally, unable to bear the suspense, she decided to face the questions. "What did it say?"
Ruth looked up. "Pardon?"
"The magazine. What did it say?"
"Oh." Ruth looked furtive. "Push the door to, will you."
Jane felt a prickle of hope. She pushed the door closed, as requested.
"There's this girl. Dominique..." Ruth began.
Relief washed through Jane, making her body suddenly feel light. It wasn't her they'd
seen in the magazine. It was someone else.
Oh thank God.
* * * *
From: Stevie Winfield
To: Marshall Winfield
I see Dominique's made
it into the gossip mags--or at least someone who looks very much like her has.
She's going out with some footballer, apparently. Have you seen it? Are you
okay?
Stevie
##
From: Marshall Winfield
To: Stevie Winfield
One of the other attorneys
has very kindly left the magazine on my desk for me. Although I'm not sure
exactly why she thought I'd like to study a photo of my ex draped over some
footballer! Dominique and I split up ages ago. Why should I care whom she
decides to snog?
Marsh.
* * * *
Jane had been working at Ramsdean and Tooze for a week and she still couldn't get
over the fact that she lived in London now. Normally, she liked to ride on the top deck of the
bus, well above the familiar shop displays, where the buildings revealed their true nature.
While the shop facades were soulless and modern, the second floors of the building displayed
styles and decorations that spoke of what they used to be. She found it fascinating.
She hadn't managed to catch a double decker bus that day, so she was at street level.
At least she had a seat by the window, so she could watch the streams of people on the streets.
What it was it about London crowds that fascinated her so much?
It wasn't the diversity of races and colours. Manchester had that, although to a lesser
degree. Nor was it the sheer number of people. Partly, she realised, it was what they were
wearing. Classic, grunge, traditional garb from various countries and some outfits that were
just plain whacky. In the north people tended to dress more uniformly, especially on a winter
night.
Jane had tottered to clubs wearing open toed high heels and a small dress under her
huge coat. She had never been comfortable in the tiny scraps of clothing that most women
went clubbing in. After Ashby became famous she had opted for slightly more expensive,
longer dresses for media events, earning her the reputation of "classy bird" among the other
band members.
The bus crawled along in the slow traffic and drew up at a bus stop. The ad on the
bus shelter scrolled idly and settled with a shudder. Jane found herself staring straight at
Ashby. It was a nice photo, airbrushed slightly to get rid of the acne scars on his cheeks. He
stood in the foreground, looking moodily at the camera, with the band fanned out behind him.
His light brown hair had been highlighted to make it shine and the camera had caught the
lucent blue of his eyes perfectly. He looked younger than he was. And very sexy.
Jane instinctively ducked, hiding her face, until she remembered that she was in
London where it was very unlikely anyone would recognise her. As the bus moved on, she
risked a glance around. No one paid her any attention. She relaxed and turned back to the
window.
When people had first started noticing Ashby and his friends, it had been exciting.
They would be doing something fairly normal when giggling schoolgirls would ask Ashby for
his autograph. They would ask him what it was like being on TV. Ashby's brooding good
looks and the dry wit of the drummer had made them local celebrities.
After a few appearances on TV, they had been offered a recording contract and had
acquired PR agents. Through carefully orchestrated exposure, the band had risen to fame.
Their first album had been nominated for several awards.
Jane, by virtue of being Ashby's girlfriend, found herself going to parties, chatting
with minor celebrities and, usually, making sure her very drunk boyfriend got home safely at
night.
She had found glamour difficult. She had always worried about her make up
smudging, her hair not staying in place or her dress being tucked in her knickers. Sensible
suited her much better.
She looked down at her sensible work clothes. Her fingers tightened round her bag.
What was it about her that made her more comfortable thinking about science and talking to
scientists or lawyers than socialising with pop stars?
Perhaps, she reflected, it was because she didn't really care about the problems of the
famous. When they complained about the intrusion of the press, they were always secretly
hoping they'd be quoted. She, on the other hand, found the intrusion genuinely unsettling. She
had once thought anonymity was the curse of a mundane life. Now, she felt it was a
blessing.
* * * *
The door of Polly's flat opened straight into an open plan living room. Polly had tried
to divide the space up by placing the sofa with its back to the door. The TV was on so Polly
was in. "Hello," Jane called as she turned to hang up her coat.
There was a muffled curse and Polly's head appeared above the back of sofa. "Hi. I
didn't expect you home so soon." She sounded slightly breathless. Her hair had escaped from
its ponytail and her face was flushed.
Jane heard rustling and a few grunts and suddenly realised Polly was not alone on the
couch. She felt her face heat. "I... er... I'll just be in my room for a few minutes." Grabbing
her bag, she fled, careful not to look at the sofa.
In the safety of her room, she sank down onto the bed. Feeling a terrible urge to listen
to what Polly and Andy--at least, she assumed it was Andy--were saying, she dug her iPod out
of her bag. Unsure about whether it was safe to go out, she changed into jeans and a jumper
and sat on her bed.
The bed was really a sofabed and, open, it took up most of the room. Polly's nursing
books were still stacked in a corner, further crowding the room. Jane lay down and thought
about the flat she and Ashby had shared. They had moved in together straight after graduating
from university. She had got a job working for a pharmaceutical firm as a trainee patent agent.
Ashby had drifted from job to job until he and the band were selected to appear on a TV talent
show. After that, he stopped pretending to look for work.
They had been really lucky to find a pleasant one bedroom flat that they could afford.
At first they'd had very basic furniture and mismatched cutlery. Jane remembered the day
she'd bought new curtains for the flat, her first purchase towards making the place a home.
They were probably still there. Ashby might even have thought to wash them.
After Ashby's rise to fame, Jane had found the flat a huge source of comfort. It was
home. Whatever act Ashby had to put on when they were outside, once they were home, he
was the same haphazard, clever man she'd fallen for when she was eighteen. She loved the
predictability of it all. The fact that she knew that while she was cooking dinner or cleaning
the bathroom, he would be lying on his stomach on the living room floor jotting down song
lyrics and tapping out rhythms with the end of his pen.
The flat had been her sanctuary until the day she'd come home with a migraine and
found Ashby in bed with a wannabe actress from Hollyoaks. She could still see the girl's red,
red nails gripping the familiar lines of Ashby's back, still remember her irrational thought that
those sheets were clean on that morning. She would never forget the shock in the girl's eyes
when she saw Jane.
Ashby had followed her out of the bedroom, pulling on his dressing gown--which she
had bought him--and making excuses, as though there was anything he could say to make him
less despicable. Jane had left immediately, not waiting to pick up anything other than her
handbag. She had travelled, dry eyed, for nearly two hours, until she'd arrived at her parents'
house near Oldham. The minute her mum opened the front door, her composure had broken,
taking with it her heart. She had cried for days.
At the time she'd thought life couldn't get any worse. Later, when her mother
persuaded her to go back and talk to Ashby, she had found that his betrayal of her was the talk
of Manchester. People whispered behind her back at work. Photographers kept popping up to
take photos of her "looking distraught". After one particularly bad afternoon, when she'd been
trapped in the house because a photographer and a journalist were camped outside, she'd
given up.
She took what she could and went into hiding in London, which was two hundred
miles away and big enough to get lost in.
A month later, she was offered a job. Living with Polly was only ever meant to be
temporary. As soon as she got her deposit for the flat back from Ashby she would move
out.
Jane stared at the ceiling, hemmed in by the closeness of the walls. She closed her
eyes and tears started to slide out from under her lashes.
There was a knock on the door. "Jane?" said Polly. "Would you like some tea? I've
got a pasta bake in the oven."