Seeking Crystal (13 page)

‘I wouldn’t miss it. Allow me to introduce you to my friend here—Crystal … um … Crystal.’ A blush stole over my cheeks. Steve didn’t know—or had forgotten—my surname. ‘She’s a Venetian fashion designer.’

I was a
what
?

Sebastian Perry (as I now worked out he was called thanks to the brochure another guest was clutching) kissed me as if we were old friends. ‘Crystal, lovely to meet you. Which label do you work for?’

I couldn’t carry off pretending to be something I wasn’t even if this was the usual modus operandi for Steve. ‘I think you’ve misunderstood, Mr Perry. I work for a Venetian costume maker—carnival costumes.’

‘
Mr
Perry!’ The artist tittered. ‘Your manners are impeccable, darling, but do call me Sebastian or I’ll feel about a hundred years old.’ Some of his show-nerves dissipated and he winked at Steve flirtatiously. ‘I can see why you chose this one: she’s a poppet.’ That was the very first (and possibly last) time anyone a foot shorter than me had called me a poppet; I warmed to him immediately. ‘But, Crystal, I am intrigued to hear more about what you do. Traditional theatrical skills such as mask making are very close to my heart.’ He flicked his fingers towards another canvas of what looked at a distance like a heap of massacred carnival participants.

But Steve was already pulling me away. ‘Later, Sebastian. I must go and drum up some buyers for you.’

‘Do that, sweetie, and I’ll be ever in your debt!’

Steve was already on the move. I glanced back and saw the artist jokily patting his heart for the benefit of his little circle. I know how he felt: Steve was all action man, enough to make anyone’s pulse race.

‘How do you know Sebastian?’ I asked, accepting the glass of sparkling water Steve snagged from a tray.

Steve’s eyes were roving the room, working the angles for his press profile. ‘Oh, how do I know anyone? Bumped into him at a gig like this—bought a couple of his canvases as my financial adviser said they’d increase in value.’

From what was on display, I decided that I liked the artist more than I liked his work. ‘Where have you hung them?’ I was struggling to imagine my little apartment with one of these nightmarish pictures on the wall. I’d only just taken down my Twilight poster and had moved on to Monet.

‘Oh, they’re in a vault somewhere. I don’t have a home right now—just a rented house and a few staff to keep things ticking over. I spend most of my time working. My personal assistant has got very, very good at packing suitcases for me. Hey, Mary, long time!’ And he was off on his second encounter for the evening: this lady turned out to be a reporter for the
New York Times
. I hung on at the edge of the Steve show, finding the position very familiar. Had it not been a bit like that for me with Diamond in Savant circles? The idea of making a name for myself had never seemed more attractive. I’d far prefer to be the one people queued up to talk to, rather than the afterthought tacked on to the evening to buff up his image. Steve wasn’t an unpleasant companion—far from it—but once I’d got over my breathless hero-worship I realized that he just wasn’t that interested in me or anything beyond his career. Why should he be? This whole evening fell under the ‘you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours’ category.

I began to have wild thoughts. I was a hanger-on now but I wasn’t powerless; if I felt really bitchy, I could scupper his little publicity voyage if I so wished. I imagined turning to the next journalist and saying ‘Hi, I’m Crystal. Do you know Steve likes to kick puppies and flushed his sister’s gerbil down the loo when he was ten?’ It wouldn’t be true but he’d have to spend the next week living the rumour down.

And I’d be sued.

Yeah, well, I wasn’t actually going to say anything so stupid; I was just enjoying the sensation of flirting with the edge of the abyss. Xav would get the joke. I’d never look at another edition of a gossip magazine with a ‘girlfriend’ clutching the arm of a celebrity without wondering if she was contemplating kamikaze tactics just to get real.

Pausing in his conversation with the local mayor, Steve glanced at his watch—one of those fancy kinds that retail for thousands. My gold(ish) bracelet one sells for twenty euros; I wonder if this crowd would recognize the difference? Probably had nannies that trained them in that sort of thing before they learned their alphabet. Steve gave a sigh and looped his arm around my shoulder. ‘Sorry, Mr Buccari, Crystal here has another party to go to and I promised I’d get her there on time.’

The mayor said something flattering and very Italian about beautiful girls being in demand.

‘I know—I have a hard time fending off all the other guys.’ Steve kissed the back of my hand, making it sound as though he and I were an item.

The mayor slanted a glance at me. ‘But you are Steve Hughes—you won’t have a problem keeping your girl. And if you do, there is no hope for the rest of us!’ The little group around the mayor laughed in appreciation of the quip.

I did my bit, hanging on Steve’s arm and looking suitably adoring. And I did still adore him a little, but only when I imagined him as the onscreen presence rather than the man beside me. What did that say about me? Shallow, anyone?

We returned to the cloakroom. Steve’s expression became very serious as he looked me up and down.

‘No coat and you’d better freshen up your lip-gloss.’

‘What?’

‘For the press pack, honey. This is what you came for, isn’t it?’

I suppose it had been but my feet were more than cold, they were ice cubes. Had I really thought this through? No. I’d let Lily bounce me into this as I chased a dream I wasn’t sure I wanted.

‘No coat? I’ll freeze.’

‘It’ll only be for a minute. My assistant will bring it along.’ He gestured to a young man waiting on a chair by the entrance who doubled as bodyguard. ‘John, bring Miss Crystal’s coat will you?’

‘My name is Brook, Crystal Brook.’

Steve was too busy checking the lie of his hair to listen, but his bodyguard had.

‘I’ll look after your coat for you, Miss Brook,’ he said giving me a kind smile.

‘Thanks, John.’ I leant closer, sensing an ally. ‘Does he do this kind of thing often?’

‘All the time, Miss. You’ll get used to it.’

I laughed and shook my head. ‘You won’t catch me freezing my butt off for publicity again. I’m just doing this for Lily.’

The bodyguard smiled again but I could tell he didn’t believe me. I suppose in the publicity hungry world of Los Angeles what I had just said was the equivalent of a habitual drunk promising to go teetotal.

‘Ready?’ Steve asked as I slipped my lip-gloss back in my little clutch bag.

‘As I’ll ever be.’

‘The press will want to know your name. I assume Lily has given it to my PA?’

Had she? I had no idea how this kind of thing worked. ‘I guess.’

Steve put his arm around me. ‘I’ll hustle you through. Smile and try to look as though we are good friends, OK?’

One more act in his life of acting—it was sad really.

‘Understood.’

We emerged from the privacy of the cloakroom and headed straight into the lightning storm of camera flashes.

‘Hey, Steve, how’s the movie going?’

‘Great, thanks, guys,’ Steve replied.

‘Crystal, Crystal, look this way, love!’

Caught off guard, I turned my head towards the shout. They already knew who I was. I imagine I looked like a startled rabbit.

Smile, you twit, I told myself.

The press mobbed us. My name ricocheted from all directions like pinballs. Now Steve’s arm was genuinely reassuring.

‘Give the girl room to breathe!’ he joked.

‘Steve, what did Jillian say when she heard about your new relationship?’ called another reporter.

Steve shrugged. ‘Why don’t you ask her? Look, guys, Crystal and I have places to go, people to see.’

‘Crystal, what’s this rumour about your career as a page three model?’

What!

‘Are you really fifteen?’

Oh God.

‘Ignore them,’ whispered Steve, his grip on my arm tightening in his anger. ‘They’re fishing for a story. John, take note of who asked those asinine questions and cut them from our list.’

Then, jostled by the scrum, someone trod on my floaty train and I felt a rip—and it wasn’t stopping.

‘John! Coat!’ I begged, clapping my left hand to my rear.

Steve did not pause. ‘Keep going—almost through.’

I’d had enough of this master/servant relationship. Anger made my hero-worship go pop. ‘Steve Hughes, unless you want my underwear on display on the news-stands tomorrow morning, we are stopping!’ I ducked out from under his arm and grabbed the coat John was hurrying to wrap me in—he at least had had an eyeful of the problem. I whipped it around my shoulders, making sure it flicked a few of the most persistent reporters in the face. ‘There. Now we can go.’

I stomped away, head held high. It took a split second for Steve to realize I was on the move. He hurried to catch me up, caught my arm and swung me round.

‘You were magnificent, darling,’ he said loudly, then planted a kiss on my lips. He nuzzled my ear. ‘Now they’ll have to choose between putting that or your superior rear on the front page.’

I relaxed in his hold. He wasn’t making an ill-timed move on me but trying to help.

‘Thanks,’ I whispered.

‘Don’t mention it.’ He patted the back of my coat over the offending rip. ‘You needn’t worry—either will be very flattering.’

Back in the safety of my bedroom by ten thirty, I heard Xav, Diamond, and Trace return half an hour later. I’d already confessed my wardrobe mishap to Lily who said it wouldn’t matter as long as the photos mentioned the dress that had almost been ripped off me. She thought the whole Steve/dress ripping thing might be thought very sexy and help shift a few couture items for the designer.

It had felt far from sexy to me—more like feeding time at the zoo with me as the hunk of meat. If I could magically blank out all the digital shots including me, I would have cast my spell. I knew though that it was far too late and already the images would be syndicating around the world. I’d done a search on the Internet—so far nothing—but it wouldn’t be long. I’d consoled myself with looking up other wardrobe failures of the rich and famous—and there are a few far more embarrassing ones out there.

Diamond stuck her head round my door. I was tucked up in bed wearing my PJs. ‘Hi, Crystal.’

I slammed the laptop closed. ‘How was your day?’

‘Oh, it went well thanks. Peace and harmony restored.’

Trace appeared beside her. ‘She was amazing—I loved seeing her at work.’

‘Yes, Di is a marvel.’ I gave them a bright smile that shouted ‘fake, fake!’ if they had but known.

‘Hey, cupcake.’ Xav poked his head round the door. What was this: a pyjama party?

‘Hi. Did you enjoy Rome?’

‘Fantastic—could have spent a week there. How was your day?’

‘Um.’ I went on a date with a hot movie star and may have got my picture taken with my knickers showing at the back of a hardly-there dress. God, I hope not. ‘It was fine.’

‘Great. See you in the morning.’

Not if I could make a run for it before they woke up. Maybe if I fused the electricity so the router was down and then bought up all the newspapers in a half-mile radius of our apartment, I’d be OK? ‘Yeah. Sleep well.’

The door closed. Oh my God, what had I done?

The wisdom of the new morning did not offer any comfort. I crept out of the apartment, bypassing breakfast and my run, and hid in the workroom of the shop.

‘How was your date last night?’ Signora Carriera asked as she checked her invoices against her bank statement.

‘Hmm,’ I replied, keeping a mouthful of pins.

‘That good?’ She smiled. ‘I have always hated those art openings—much better to go and admire the work when there is space to appreciate them properly. And how was your escort? Surely he made it special?’

I put the pins down. ‘He was lovely, but I didn’t make much of a blip on his radar, if you know what I mean.’