A Beautiful Star (Beautiful Series, Book 5) (6 page)

When I wake the next morning, it’s to a text from Jonathan.

How was your date?

Frowning, I wonder how the hell he knows I went out and just hit the home button, exiting the message without responding. Before I can even put the phone down, another message comes through, explaining the first. It’s a link to an article that says I’ve moved on from Jonathan already, and shows a photo of me standing outside Quay with Brad, and another one of us kissing next to the cab.

Bloody paparazzi!

I roll my eyes, hating the fact that the people who write this shit share the same profession as me. It makes me glad I work for Voyeur though; it’s our company ethos to only report legitimate celebrity and world news. All news is approved, and we are committed to never buying paparazzi shots. Our photo shoots are done with permission when a person of interest lets us be a voyeur into their world (hence the name).

While I’m looking at the article, another text comes through.

I can’t believe you already moved on from me. After everything we went through together…

Rolling my eyes, I laugh a little as I switch my phone to silent and drop it in my bag, deciding that the best way to deal with Jonathan is to ignore him. Then I head out to the kitchen where I find my mother swearing over the coffee machine.

“You okay there?” I ask, watching as she slaps the top of it and exclaims that it's a ‘fucking useless piece of junk’.

“What? Oh yeah, I'm fine. Just the stupid coffee machine that has its days numbered,” she grumbles.

“Let me have a look at it,” I suggest, and she moves out of the way so I can switch the machine off at the wall outlet to give it a chance to reset.

“So, how was your date last night?” she asks while she watches me. “You got home early, so I'm assuming you didn't get up to any hanky-panky, which is very disappointing.  I really think you could do with a little bit of rumpy pumpy in your life.”

I roll my eyes hitting the power switch on the coffee machine and waiting for it to go through its start-up sequence again. “Rumpy pumpy? God mum.
Please
don't try and talk sex with me. It's just disturbing,” I groan.

“Why is it disturbing? It's not like I don't have any experience with it. Your father and I still —”

“Don't even start,” I practically yell over the top of her. “I so don't want to know that you and dad are still doing it.”

“Why is that an issue? Your father is the same age as Brad Pitt, and you wouldn't turn him down would you?”

“Well yes, I would turn him down. There is no way in hell I'd get involved with a celebrity. Especially one as big as him. And comparing dad to Brad Pitt like that is all kinds of wrong. I don't want to know anything about your bedroom business. There are some things mothers and daughters shouldn't share.”

She pokes her tongue out at me like a child who didn’t get their way, as I hear the coffee machine click to signal that it's ready.

“There,” I say. “All fixed. Now you can have your coffee.”

“Do you want one?”

“No thanks, I'm just going to go and grab a shower before work.”

“I still want to hear about your date, by the way,” she calls after me. “What does this Brad guy even do?”

“He's a chef,” I answer. “And that's all you get, or I’ll be late for work.”

“You’re no fun, Sandra Emily Haegen,” she calls after me, and I respond with a laugh as I shut the bathroom door.

***

When I arrive at work, it’s to a beautiful vase full of various types of blue flowers. I expect that they’re from Brad, after sharing such a lovely evening together last night, but when I read the card, I see the ‘J’ beneath the writing ‘these reminded me of your eyes’. 

“You can’t be serious,” I say to myself, looking over the arrangement and admiring its beauty while I feel a little saddened that I can’t, in good conscience, keep it. So I pick it up and take it out to reception where a young girl called Erin is working the phones.

She smiles at me brightly as I approach with the large arrangement in my hands.

“Is there somewhere I can put these?” I ask when she finishes on the phone.

“You don’t want them in your office?”

“I’m allergic,” I explain, even though it’s a total lie. I just don’t want to get into why I’m getting flowers from a man I don’t like.

“Oh, well, I have some Telfast in my bag if you’d like.”

“No. No, it’s fine. I’ll just put them somewhere where everyone can enjoy them,” I counter, scrambling for something to say to cover up my fib.

“Well, they are beautiful. Why don’t you put them on the table in the waiting area? They’ll look lovely there,” she suggests.

“Perfect,” I smile, placing them on the white square low-line table in the corner of the room before taking the card from the stem and thanking Erin before heading back to my office.

With the card in my hand, I close my office door and pull out my phone and tap out a message to Jonathan.

Me:
Please don’t send me flowers.

Jonathan:
You don’t like flowers?

Me:
I do. But not from you.

Jonathan:
What do you like from me?

Me:
Silence.

Jonathan:
You’re going to be very disappointed then.

Me:
Why?

I wait for a moment. But he doesn’t answer, so I just put my phone in my desk drawer and power up my computer to check on my schedule. I’m in the process of writing up an article about a boy band based in Australia who found each other online and don’t even live close enough to each other to rehearse, so they do it all via webcam. It had taken me a month to fly around the country to all five boys for their interviews and photo shoots, and with their album due to release in a few weeks. I’m to finish their story and send it to their rep for approval before the end of the day.

From what I saw yesterday, my schedule was cleared for the boy band article, but today, there’s a marking at eleven, simply saying ‘Junkett, Hyatt’.

“Junket? For what?” I ask myself as I pick up my internal line and call through to my editor. His receptionist answers but she would have been the one to add this to my diary, so she’s more likely to have answers anyway. “Hi Carrie, can you tell me what this junket is supposed to be? It wasn’t in my diary yesterday, and I don’t have any questions or information on it to prepare.”

“It came in late last night. You were a last minute addition to the list. It’s for some mini-series from what I can tell. The advisement notice says that you’ll be given an information pack when you get there. Looks like they’re trying to keep all the details hush, hush, so it’s obviously some big project that they’ll want us to launch at the same time. PR bullshit if you ask me.”

“A mini-series? That’s not my department. Why am I going?”

“I don’t know, love. Your name was just on request and the boss said to send you.”

“OK. I’ll get ready and head over there soon.”

Gathering my things, I make my way downstairs, hail a cab and ask to be taken to the Hyatt where the junket is being held. In the city traffic, it takes almost half an hour to get from my office in George Street to the hotel. But I arrive in plenty of time, which is why I feel strange about not seeing anyone I recognise. Normally, when there's a press junket I see colleagues from other magazines and newspapers–even a few TV reporters. But as I look around the vast lobby I see no one.

Stopping in the middle of the floor, I frown and look around again before pulling out my phone and double-checking my schedule. It says the Hyatt. So I'm in the right place. Perhaps the details were put in wrong when the appointment was set…? I'm just about to call my editor's office to ask Carrie to look over the details again when I'm approached by a dark haired man in a business suit.

"Ms Haegen?" he asks, and I nod. "If you’ll just follow me."

I follow along behind him, wondering what all this mystery is about and also wondering if I somehow messed up the time and I'm obscenely late. Although, what if I'm the only one here? That would be weird... He takes me through to a conference room that is set up with a podium upfront and rows of chairs on the floor below. But for some reason, I really am the only one here.

"Take a seat, miss," he instructs, holding his hand out and pointing at the seats in the front row.

A slight concern crosses my mind as I watch him walk into the adjoining room, leaving me alone. With my phone still in my hand, I decide to bring up my mother's number just in case I've been lured into some sort of serial killer’s trap. My thumb hovers over the screen as I wait for what's to come, and then a familiar face walks through the side door looking every bit the movie star in his designer jeans and tightfitting designer T-shirt, his skin glowing, his smile and his hair—perfect.

"I should have known this would be your doing," I deadpan, my voice completely flat as I drop my phone in my bag and Jonathan makes his way toward me. And as he sits, I fold my arms tightly across my chest. "This is a little drastic don't you think?"

He grins, and bounces his shoulder in a slight shrug. "I wanted to make sure you'd come."

"Why?"

"Because I need to talk to you."

"Need, or want to talk to me?"

"Okay, want."

I let out a long sigh and fold my arms just a little tighter. "Well you've dragged me down here–talk. Tell me the highly important thing that is on your mind that is obviously way more important than anything I might have needed to do today that was legitimate work."

"This is legitimate work."

"Dragging me to a press junket where I'm the only press is legitimate work is it?"

"No, selecting you to be the reporter who explains my story is legitimate work."

"Your story?"

"Yes. I'd like to tell my side of what happened with Leisel, I mean Lisa, and also about my breakup with Simone. And I want you to be the one to do it. You're the only one I trust to tell my story correctly."

"You do understand that I'll have to contact both Lisa and Simone to give their side of the story, right?"

"I do. But I need to do this. I need people to know. More importantly, I need you to know that I'm a different person now."

"Are telling me you're different person from the man I met only a couple of weeks ago?"

"That’s exactly what I’m saying. And the man I was a few years ago. That life isn't enough for me."

"And what is enough for you?"

"I just…I want more." His eyes darken with something I feel uncomfortable recognising. It makes the butterflies in my stomach flap around violently, and I need to avert my gaze to maintain my composure.

Suddenly, he's nearness becomes too much, and I need to put the seat between us. I slide to my right.

"Are you alright?" he asks.

I shake my head. "No, I don't think I am. I think…I'm just…You need to get someone else to do this," I state, grabbing my bag and standing with a view to leave. "I'll contact my editor and let them know they need to send someone else."

He stands and catches my arm, halting me in my escape. "I don't want anyone else. Don't you understand that?"

And I do understand that. I understand that he's decided that he wants me and not just as a journalist. He wants me for me. Lord only knows why, but he’s taken an interest in me that is far greater than I’d ever be willing to take him in. And as his hand holds my arm, that searing energy from his body, forcing its way into mine, I get it, I understand the connection and I feel the attraction. But that stuff is just physical. It isn’t real. It isn’t something that creates a life. It’s something that breaks hearts. And I’ve been there. I’ve done that, and I’m not willing to put myself through it again. "I don't
do
movie stars,” I bite. “Or any stars for that matter," I tell him, pulling away as I turn to leave again.

He laughs. "What does that even mean?"

I continue walking, heading to the door I originally came through. "You know exactly what that means, Jonathan. It means I don’t fuck stars. But if you go out onto the street, I’m sure you’ll find a very willing female just dying to be the next Jonathan Masters conquest."

"Just have coffee, a drink, a marshmallow–anything, with me. Please. Just give me one chance."

I pause before I reach the door, the pleading tone in his voice causing me to close my eyes as an overwhelming sense of something-I-don't-want-to-give-a-name-to washes over me and twists my stomach, creating a pressure in my chest.

"I'm seeing someone," I state, my back still towards him.

"I know."

"And there's Lisa's feelings to consider."

"I know. I'm just asking you to give me a chance. Nothing more."

I swallow hard, not wanting the word to escape my lips while at the same time knowing I can't stop it. “Why?”

“Because I like who I am around you,” he explains.