Tales Of Temptation: Rivals / Pride / Ambition

Managing to battle through, Emily wrenched open the driver’s side and slipped in, slamming the door behind her on the cacophony of shouts and flashing bulbs. The horde chased her to the road, aimlessly snapping, and she kept her face impassive lest the tinted windows let her down.

That was it: she’d have to get a bodyguard. Everyone who was anyone had security—she bet Nina Tarot had bloody security—and besides, when it came to this level of harassment it was surely a question of safety. The car could have crashed! Admittedly only into a bollard on its way out of the car park, but even so.

As she concentrated on steering the vehicle through a jam of west London traffic, hands shaking on the wheel, Emily realised what had vexed her. It wasn’t the paparazzi’s persecution—it was the reason for their hounding. Somehow her trysts with Christopher had shifted in the press from a teasing, sexy possibility that no one took too seriously, to an altogether more sinister and unsavoury accusation. Perhaps public feeling towards her was changing, rumbles of objection beginning to rise from the ranks. It was one thing to have people merrily speculating on a fact they couldn’t prove and another entirely to be thrusting a mic into your face and demanding you pay penance to a middle-aged woman whose husband was banging everything in sight. It made her feel like a tacky wannabe who’d slept with a married footballer.

Emily was destined for more than that. Wasn’t she?

Arriving on set half an hour later, she scanned the grounds for Christopher. He was nowhere to be seen.

‘How’s that feeling?’ asked the wardrobe girl as she tightened Emily’s bodice. There was so much boning in it she felt like she’d been gobbled up by a wild animal and was now gasping for air inside its ribcage.

‘Fine,’ she squeaked, unwilling to admit to a slow asphyxiation because that might mean she’d put on weight. Next came the painstaking arrangement of her hair, which required several hundred hairgrips and so much Elnett that had someone struck a match anywhere nearby she would have gone up in a puff of smoke.

A folded tabloid was sticking out of the stylist’s bag. Emily could make out the glaring headline—MY STEAMY NIGHT OF PASSION WITH LORD LOVE!—and Christopher’s brooding picture beneath it, alongside a busty blonde with barely anything on. Her face burned. You had to take these kiss and tell scandals with a pinch of salt, but the story was hardly outside the realms of possibility.

She grabbed the paper and skipped through the article. We went for hours…the most amazing lover… He begged me to strip… I kept on my stilettos; he likes a woman in heels…

Well, that last bit was true.

Disgusted, Emily flipped the page with force. How could he? Wasn’t having the most beautiful actress in England between his sheets enough? Clearly possessing a fridgeful of steak didn’t mean you weren’t partial to a KFC once in a while. How humiliating! She would never be taken seriously as the actress of her generation while she was associated with sleazy scoops like this.

As Emily was about to demand to be released, already reeling through the catalogue of insults she could throw Christopher’s way, her attention snagged on the subsequent spread.

CACATRA ISLAND—PLAYGROUND OF THE RICH AND FAMOUS.

She frowned, remembering Nina’s infuriating claims about her mega-selective luxury spa. A quick glance revealed it was the same. The piece was studded with images depicting the highest order of indulgence: sparkling turquoise sea and alabaster sand; chalky cliffs and lush green palms; A-list starlets frolicking in bikinis as they swam and caught the rays; bare-chested actors gunning jet-skis and enjoying a cold beer on the beach; helicopters and jets coming to land on the island’s private airstrip… There was a photograph of Reuben van der Meyde, the world-famous entrepreneur, casually leaning against the balustrade of his whitewashed mansion and looking decidedly pleased with himself. So he owned it. That made sense.

Your own stake of Eden hidden away in the Indian Ocean, the jewel in Reuben van der Meyde’s crown is stunning Cacatra Island. Ultimate holiday destination to a galaxy of stars, Cacatra’s opulent shores promise a shelter from the spotlight, guaranteed to cleanse the spirit and soothe the soul. A week’s stay will set you back—

Emily baulked at the expense.

But rest assured this is no ordinary retreat. By invitation only, access to ‘the closest thing on Earth to Paradise’ is reserved exclusively to those with the cash—and credentials—to pay for it.

‘All done, Ms Windermere,’ said the stylist, applying a finishing blast of hairspray. ‘Looks incredible, doesn’t it?’

Emily surveyed her reflection in the mirror. ‘It’s fine.’

‘I meant Cacatra Island. What I wouldn’t give to swop my Ryanair flights for a trip out there!’

Emily resented the implication that she, too, were contemplating a dismal week in some squat in Alicante. After Kate Middleton she was the loveliest woman in the country. Wasn’t that credentials enough?

‘Keep dreaming, girls.’ A shadow passed over the print and Nina Tarot came to rest in an adjacent chair. ‘That’s where the big kids hang.’

Emily raised a hand to ward off the sun. ‘Excuse me?’

‘The big kids. You know, the most important people alive?’

‘How depressingly hierarchical,’ muttered Emily, whose every perception of the world relied on the presumption of a hierarchy in which she held supreme rank.

‘I wouldn’t say that,’ drawled Nina as the stylist took a brush to her hair. ‘Earn and reward, it’s a straightforward principle.’ Emily tried not to get distracted by the bulge of cleavage bursting forth from Nina’s coral taffeta dress. She looked as if she’d just stepped off the Moulin Rouge.

‘And you earned it, I assume?’

‘If earning it amounts to being a world-famous actress who vacuums up so many drugs she doesn’t know what day of the week it is, apart from the day she catches her darling husband nailing the poolboy up the ass, then, yeah, I did. That island saved my life.’

Emily shuddered.

‘You gotta know people, sweetie. Even those kids who’ve got more money and celebrity than’s good for their health, even then they’ve got to get the invite, and even then they’ve got to sit on a list for however long…’

‘Who do you know?’

Nina looked at her sideways. ‘Why?’

Emily shrugged. ‘In case I wanted to see what the fuss was about.’

This time the American turned to face her. Was that pity in her eyes?

‘Honey, I’ve got to be straight with you. I’m not being mean here, but I really don’t think…’

‘You don’t think what?’

‘I know you’re famous in the UK and all, but…well, to be frank, I’m not sure you fit the bill.’

‘What bill?’ Emily spluttered, humiliated.

Nina sighed, as though obliged to explain something basic to a simpleton. ‘They’re selective,’ she said. ‘Very. I’m talking aristocracy. Government leaders. Olympic idols. It’s an A-listers’ game—’

‘But I’m an A-lister!’ This was unbelievable.

‘Maybe in this part of the world, sugar.’

Emily huffed a laugh. ‘Nina, please be assured that everyone I meet finds me utterly charming.’ She lifted her chin. ‘Your contacts would be safe with me.’

‘But would you be safe with them?’

She squinted. ‘Excuse me?’

‘This is an arena you know nothing about,’ Nina remarked gently. ‘You’ve got no idea what or who you’d be dealing with…’

Emily gritted her teeth. That was enough. She stood, flung the paper down and marched into the house, prompting a cluster of assistants in the main hall to fretfully disperse.

Who had been chosen to present live on Saturday at the charity ball? Who was tipped for an Onscreen Trophy at this autumn’s awards? Who was set for international stardom once this film was released?

Who was Nina Tarot to say she didn’t fit the bill?

Christopher passed her on the stairs. He grinned lasciviously and clasped her waist, drawing her close. ‘Lucinda,’ he rasped under his breath, ‘the mere sight of you fills me with rapture; promise to extinguish my pining.’

‘Sod off, Christopher,’ she said, pushing him away. ‘I’ve got places to be.’