Starstruck Page 4

  Christine’s mouth dropped open. “You didn’t think to mention that to me before I left?”

  “What’s the big deal? You’re not still wearing it are you?” Drew gasped. “You did not cut the corset, did you? That took me two full weeks. I still have your pattern but—”

  “Relax, I did not cut the corset. It's just that the only person around to help was—” she lowered her voice, not knowing why she was even doing so— “Nick Cleary.”

  “No!” Drew sounded scandalized. “I don’t know what to ask first: how he had the guts to even get within ten feet of you or what he’s doing in London in the first place?”

  “Well, you know Night Music has a huge following. The whole cast is here at FanFest.”

  “No, there’s more to this story. I know you. I can hear it in your voice.”

  Christine spilled the whole story, how Connor Bell was in the hospital with a broken leg, how David was pushing to have him replaced by Nick Cleary. How Nick was trying to play nice in order to get the role.

  “You know, he’d actually be pretty good as Jackson.”

  Christine gasped. “Drew!”

  “No, I know, we hates him, precious. But still… you did kind of write it for him…”

  “Whose side are you on anyway?”

  Drew’s voice sobered. “Yours. Always yours, Christine. And I’m with you no matter what you decide. No one gets to dump you three weeks after your engagement, embarrass you on national TV, and still get everything he’s ever dreamed of. At least not without a little payback.”

  There it was, the mischievous tone Christine knew so well. “What did you have in mind, exactly?”

  “Oh, I have some ideas. It all depends on how much you want him to pay.”

  “Dearly. He needs to show me that he’s truly sorry and he’s willing to go to any length to get this.”

  Drew gave an evil giggle. “In that case, I have the best idea. Here’s what you’re going to do…”

  * * *

  Christine slept restlessly that night, partly from gleeful anticipation about the plan she and Drew had concocted, partly from nerves for today’s book signing. It was one thing to put on a good show for Nick; it was another to keep it up all morning for the hordes of fans who came to cry, hug her, and take pictures while she signed books. She was immensely grateful for her fans—that was never in question—but for someone who was essentially an introvert and spent most of her time in her own quiet home office, FanFest felt a little like going into battle.

  When she finally opened her bleary eyes after catching a short nap in the pre-dawn hours, it felt like she’d washed them out with sand. One look in the bathroom mirror told her she looked like she’d washed them with sand as well. Dark bags puffed out beneath her bloodshot eyes, her skin somehow managing to be simultaneously sallow and pale. Good thing she’d brought her train case, filled with more makeup than most professional artists carried with them. She had two hours to make herself back into Cressida Lyons, Bestselling Author, from little Chrissy, bag of nerves and self-consciousness. Which was exactly why she’d created this new image. She supposed she and Nick weren’t all that much different in their ability to change themselves into different people; except she did it out of necessity.

  Nick. As soon as she finished, she would put phase one of her plan into action. No doubt he thought he’d won her over last night, but she wasn’t for a minute convinced that it hadn’t all been for her benefit. They’d see how far he was willing to humble himself for something he really wanted. But not now. Now, she had more pressing concerns. As layer after layer of makeup went on, transforming her round moon face with blotchy cheeks and stubby eyebrows into the femme fatale in mink lashes, Christine began to disappear into Cressida. If today was a battle, this was her armor.

  An hour later, she wasn’t even the same person, her hair curled up into an elaborate updo, little stick pins with gears and charms dangling from the messy twists, her eyes now looking huge and seductive, pouty lips drawn on like a doll’s. She slipped into the shift and crinoline that went beneath the striped Victorian style dress—historically accurate but for the front that cut up to the knee to reveal her stockings and lace up boots—then looked in consternation at the corset. Somehow, she’d forgotten about the bent busk pins, which meant the only way to get into the garment was to have someone else to lace her.

  She certainly wasn’t going to call Derek to do it. Instead she dialed Remy, who thankfully answered on the first ring. She led with, “I’m desperate. Can you help me?”

  Five minutes later, Remy arrived at the door, already dressed for the day in a stylish black suit and towering nude heels. “Wardrobe,” she trilled when Christine opened the door.

  “Thank you. You have no idea how much you just saved me.”

  “Don’t thank me yet,” Remy said with a grin. “You look great, by the way. How did the signing go last night?”

  “Wonderful. Sold out all the books they’d ordered. I’m hoping it’s an indication of how today’s going to go. There’s nothing worse than sitting at a table all alone, trying not to look forlorn.”

  “And how was dinner?”

  Christine looked at the publicist sharply. “Dinner?”

  “I saw you and Nick at the restaurant downstairs, looking pretty cozy.”

  Fortunately, she got a hold on the blush before it could get started and gave a nonchalant shrug. “It was fine. He’s trying to convince me that he can play the role. I’m trying not to be swayed too much.”

  “Why not? You know he’d be perfect.”

  “Yeah, but…” She found she didn’t really have a response that didn’t sound petulant or unnecessarily vengeful. Instead she nodded toward the heavily boned brocade spread on the bed. “The instrument of torture is over there.”

  Remy picked up the corset unperturbed and handed it to Christine, who positioned it around herself and held the sides steady while the other woman threaded the laces through the eyelets and tugged. “You might want to hang on to something.”

  “I thought you’ve never done this before.”

  “I’ve watched Gone with the Wind.” A glint of wickedness surfaced in Remy’s smile. She should have figured the pretty, professional publicist had a sadistic streak. Christine clamped her hands on the bathroom doorframe and planted her feet as Remy pulled the laces tight up her back.

  “Ow!” Christine exclaimed. “Did you just brace your knee against my butt?”

  Remy laughed. “Stop whining. I’m trying to get the lacing even. The gap is supposed to be the same all the way down, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, but it didn’t take this much work to get into yesterday.”

  “You didn’t eat dinner at ten p.m. the night before either.”

  “Yeah. Great. Thanks.” When the laces were finally tightened and knotted in a way that Remy assured her would come loose without trouble, she turned. “I would say I really appreciate it, but I have a feeling you take a sick kind of pleasure from torturing me.”

  “What are friends for?” she said lightly. “Now get yourself ready. Your fans await.”

  “Don’t remind me.” Christine’s stomach jumped with nervousness. She started to psych herself up for the signing, but Remy’s hand was already on the door. “Don’t take too long. I’ll wait downstairs.”

  “You’re coming?”

  “Of course. Unless you’d like to field all the questions about the show yourself?”

  Christine shuddered. “No, thank you. I’ll see you downstairs then.” She waited until the door clicked closed behind Remy and put on the striped dress, buttoning up the front and arranging the pleats of the skirt to show the right amount of leg and crinoline. When she was finally ready, she packed her touch-up makeup, a couple of extra copies of her recent release, her wallet, and her cell phone in a suitably in-character brocade carpetbag and made her way to the lift. A pair of businessmen waited in front of the doors, briefcases in hand; she struggled to keep a straight face a
s they stole looks at her, clearly taken aback by her outfit.

  In the end, they merely gave her a polite nod and gestured for her to enter the lift first. She inclined her head like a proper Victorian lady, rather enjoying the experience. This was the reason for the Cressida persona. Christine would be humiliated, but Cressida was fearless. Cressida could handle anything, including a pushy actor who was sure that he could win her over. That was the mistake she had made last night. She’d attended dinner with him as Christine. Tonight, she would bring Cressida.

  And yes, she was aware of how schizophrenic that sounded.

  She joined Remy in the lobby, and they exited the stately brick hotel across the expanse of green lawn that separated it from busy Hammersmith Road. The July air condensed on their skin, warm and sticky thanks to the rare London heat wave. Thank goodness the convention center was only a couple of blocks away. Any farther and she was going to melt into a puddle on the sidewalk. Not for the first time, she felt sympathy for Victorian ladies with all their layers.

  Half a block later, she was only feeling sympathy for herself. She dug in her satchel for a silk fan and ignored Remy’s amused look when she fluttered it in front of her face. As they dodged backpack-wearing students and impatient office workers on their lunch breaks, Christine’s thoughts turned inevitably back to Nick.

  It was difficult to look at him and not remember the years they’d spent together, him as a struggling actor, her as a struggling writer. The date nights that consisted of cheap noodles at ethnic restaurants or staying out all night on the beach and then seeking out tacos for breakfast from one of the ubiquitous trucks that populated LA. The way he always brought her a single Gerbera daisy on Fridays to put on her desk while she worked, despite the fact that they were both barely making rent.

  The way he dropped her for another woman with a helpless shrug and the explanation, “We just don’t match. You see that, don’t you, Chrissy?”

  What she could see was that she hadn’t been good enough for him until she became a bestselling author with a TV series and she once again had something he wanted. That thought brought up a wave of anger that carried her through the doors of the Olympia Exhibition Centre and into a wash of air-conditioned madness.

  Long lines of people crowded around the doors, getting their badges scanned before they entered, dressed in all manner of cosplay. She lost track of the number of Marvel and DC characters she passed as she and Remy pushed their way through the throng to the exhibitor entrance where staff scanned their badges and waved them through into the main hall.

  Voices melded into a dull rumble in the exhibit area, reverberating off the barrel-vaulted glass ceiling. Below stood booths crammed with memorabilia and costumes dedicated to various comic, TV, and film fandoms. Christine scanned the crowd and saw the steampunk contingent had made a good showing, no doubt helped by the cast announcement and panels for Smoke and Glory.

  Too bad she still didn’t know who would be sitting up there representing Jackson Landry.

  “You okay?” Remy whispered in her ear.

  “I’m great.” Christine inclined her head just a tad, letting a half-smile come to her face. She was Cressida now, and these were her people.

  “Cressida! Cressida!” She hadn’t made it more than four booths before a teenage girl recognized her and came rushing toward her, a book clutched in her arms. “It really is you, I can’t believe it! I tried to get tickets to your signing and the cast reveal but they were sold out and I…” She broke off, running out of breath before she could get the rest of the sentences out.

  “What’s your name?” Christine asked with a smile.

  “Lindsey.”

  “Nice to meet you, Lindsey. Mind if I sign that for you?” Christine gently eased the book out of the girl’s arms and flipped it open to the title page. Remy handed her a pen and she scrawled a quick message inside along with her signature. “Here you go.”

  “May I…” She held out her phone wordlessly, and Remy took the phone while Christine positioned herself alongside the beaming, gaping girl. The camera flashed and Remy handed it back.

  “Thank you so much. You’ve no idea how much I wanted to meet you!”

  “It’s my pleasure, Lindsey. Enjoy the rest of your convention.” Christine smiled warmly and let herself be pulled away by Remy.

  “We’re never going to make it to the signing if you stop for every single fan. There’s a reason people pay for autographs here.”

  “Oh come on,” Christine said. “She brought a first edition hardcover. And not even the UK version, the US version. You think I’m not going to sign it for her?”

  Remy maneuvered her through the hall into the booth where she would be signing. It was simply a black-draped table in front of a standard convention logo backdrop with a single banner stand advertising Christine’s books behind it. Ropes measured off the line for the signing, already packed with people. Her heart leapt and fell in relief as it always did. By now one would think she wouldn’t worry, but a large part of her always was afraid that no one would show up. The bigger the deal they made out of her appearances, the bigger the risk if they didn’t go well.

  “Relax,” Remy whispered as Christine enjoyed her last minute of anonymity. “They love you. They’re all here for you.”

  And that was the other side of the fear. What to do with all the people who showed up.

  But she put on a Cressida smile and walked confidently by the security guard who was manning the space between her booth and the neighboring one and gave a big wave. “Hello everyone!”

  A cheer went up from the line along with an “I love you, Cressida!” She laughed and took her seat, where everything was already laid out for her as specified: a certain brand of pen, a stack of fresh yellow post-it notes. She settled herself behind the table and then the first person in line came.

  As usual, it was mostly girls in their teens and twenties, but she was once again surprised at how many grown men were there at the signing with her books. They tended to gush over her even more than the girls, wanting a photo with her after she signed. Remy was there to move the line along, and security was there to hurry on anyone who got too handsy or clingy, yet it seemed like they weren’t making any dent in the line. And then a tanned hand pushed a book across the table to her. “Would you mind signing my personal copy?”

  Christine jerked her head up and found herself looking directly into the eyes of Nick Cleary. “What are you doing here?”

  “I told you, I’m a fan. Would you sign it?”

  Christine flipped the cover open—paperback, she noted, the cheapskate—and scrawled her name on the title page, then pushed it back. “There you go.”

  “A photo too, if you wouldn’t mind?” He grinned, his eyes sparkling mischievously.

  But Christine’s narrowed in return. “I know what you’re doing.”

  “Trying to show you that I really am a fan of your work?”

  “Trying to get rumors started.”

  “What kind of rumors?” he asked innocently.

  “Hey, are you going to take a picture or what?” A grumpy American voice from the line nudged them out of their personal squabble.

  Christine sighed and stood. “Fine. You can have your photo.”

  But when Nick took his place with her and dug his phone out of his pocket, a whisper went through the readers in line. She distinctly heard the name Nick Cleary and more than once Jackson Landry.

  “Smile,” he said, passing the phone to Remy so she could take the photo.

  Christine bypassed the smile and gave a pouty look that could be interpreted as sultry or angry, depending on how well the person in question knew her. But Nick just grinned as he swiped back to look at it. “That’s great, Chrissy. Thanks for being a good sport.”

  “Oh you bet,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “Now if you don’t mind…”

  “Sure.” He gave a wave toward the whispering fans that caused a titter to ripple through the line and the
n disappeared, leaving her shaking in frustration. Christine shot a worried glance at Remy and motioned her over.

  “You know what that was about, right? He’s stacking the deck in his favor. If he can get rumors flying about him being under consideration it makes it that much harder for me to turn him down.”

  “Do you blame him? He knows this role can make his career. And I hate to say it, but he could make the series too. Christine, look at him.” Remy inclined her head toward where Nick stood taking selfies with a cluster of fans, beaming and schmoozing like a pro.

  Christine didn’t dignify that comment with an answer, even though she knew it was true. She settled back at the table, put on a bright smile, and took the next person’s book for signing.

  Inside, though, she was fuming. How dare he pretend to be all patient and reasonable with her last night and then try to force her hand today in front of the fans? It was a typical Nick Cleary move: play nice until you got what you wanted, then throw everyone else under the bus.

  Fine. He might make this series successful. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t break him first.

  “We have news.”

  Christine blinked at Remy as they walked out of the exhibition hall, the publicist’s eyes—and thumbs—glued to her phone. “What kind of news?”

  “Not sure yet. David wants to see us in his suite when we get back.”

  Christine took a deep breath and tried not to let the words send any more panic through her system than she was already feeling. Nick had thrown her off her game. There was no doubt about it. From the minute he’d shown up, she’d ceased to be the strong, successful woman she liked to think she was, pulled right back into the young girl who was still shattered by his betrayal. Betrayals. Because until he’d come back into her life, she’d been convinced she was completely over it.

  But she wasn’t going to show Remy that, because Remy didn’t need to see the resurgence of those old insecurities. “That went well. At least I think that went well. What do you think?”