Chloe's Rescue Mission (19 page)

Mum gave me one of her sympathetic looks as her head popped through the door. I smiled and she began clambering around the clutter. I hefted a plastic bag of Egyptian cotton bed-linen from the cushion next to me and nursed it on my lap. It was heavy. Quality costs, and I’d scrimped and saved like Scrooge to buy the best.

She plopped onto the sofa beside me. ‘It won’t be long, sweetie. I know you’ve sacrificed such a lot for the theatre and sometimes, I wish you hadn’t.’

‘What else was I going to do?’

‘You should have carried on letting your flat.’

‘The rent only just covered my mortgage repayments. At least I made a healthy profit on the sale.’

The twenty-grand had made a good dent in the theatre’s debts.

‘When the theatre’s a success again, we’ll pay you back, just as fast as we can.’

We had such a big task ahead of us. Even if we were able to refurbish the theatre, it would have to turn a profit – month in, month out. Right then, the mood I was in, I doubted I’d ever see a penny of it.

*

Chloe may not have seen Duncan but he had seen plenty of her. At the end of each shoot, Evan had uploaded the rushes to the company server for him to review. Duncan wasn’t a video producer but he was bankrolling the documentary and, in that respect, was executive producer, with some say in what went in and what stayed out.

He would sit in his apartment, sometimes in the early hours, running through the previous day’s material. There were interviews with local people, theatre staff and amateur groups but, of course, it was the footage of Chloe he really focussed on. She lit up the screen, whether performing to the camera as a commentator on the shabby fabric of the building or being observed talking to members of the theatre. And through all the footage, her integrity and passion for the project shone through.

Just before he boarded a flight to Miami, a bunch of memory sticks containing the week’s rushes, were delivered to him at the airport. He settled down after his airline meal, plugged a pair of headphones into his laptop and began to watch the first of them. Chloe was sitting in the auditorium, running through plans for the variety show she was organising. Her hair was loose and falling about her shoulders, the random curls looking like barley-sugar twists. She was playing with one of the strands as she spoke, totally unaware of just how mesmerising this was.

He swapped the memory stick for another and immediately the scene was different. She was seated in an old leather armchair. Behind her was a photo of Joshua Steele. As she settled herself for the shoot, she looked calmer than before. The lighting man had added atmosphere to the scene by spotlighting her face and that of Joshua; both of them surrounded by darkness.

The producer was asking her to talk about her grandfather. Her responses were warm and full of affection. She told stories Duncan had heard during lunch with her family. But it was when she spoke of Joshua’s devotion to family, his belief in loyalty and working as a tight team for the good of the family – whether that was blood family or professional family – she touched something deep within Duncan. He suddenly and clearly saw the parallels with his own life; how after the death of his father, he’d assumed as much responsibility as he could within the family. He had stepped in to run the hotel when his mother had become ill, because he’d wanted to hold it all together for the family.

Then he remembered how comfortable and familiar Sunday lunch at Juniper Cottage had been, and he realised how much he missed the cosiness of family life. When his concentration came back to Chloe’s face, he saw she was stemming the flow of tears with the cuff of her sweater. She shrugged, nodded and smiled a teary smile at the producer.

Duncan paused the clip and looked out of the window, not really seeing the clear blue sky at all, just using it as a backdrop for his memories. Memories that hurt in such a bitter-sweet way; the kind of pain hard work could only suppress.

He thought of his first and only true love, Lorna. Lorna Janette McKenzie – softly spoken, infectiously giggly – Lorna. The girl with time for everyone; trusting, encouraging and surprisingly strong-willed. What a waste to lose her life so soon.

His gaze came back to the still of Chloe. He closed the screen and he closed his eyes.

*

I lay in the bath, soaking my limbs after nine hours on the go at the theatre’s office. Tomorrow, I was going to be driving a sports car round some race-track over a hundred miles away, and making money for the theatre.

I’d switched my phone to silent, selected my ‘Tranquillity’ playlist on the iPod and placed four scented candles on the end of the bath. I watched their flames flicker in the deepening gloom of twilight before floating off to sleep. I awoke some time later with a chill. The bath water was just hovering around body temperature, with a cool, jojoba oil slick now settled on the surface. Unlocking my stiffened joints, I pulled at the bath plug, climbed out and wrapped myself in a towel. Time for a cup of hot chocolate and bed.

*

In his hotel suite, overlooking Miami Beach, Duncan sat at the desk flicking through emails Marlean had flagged in his In-box. He was thankful his meetings were done. The next twenty-four hours in his diary were clear. He could relax.

Spotting an email from Ross Arlington – more on the Business Angel series, he imagined – he opened it and skimmed the contents. He stopped skimming and read it again. As the information sank in, a frown sewed itself back into his brow. Snatching up the phone he punched in a number and waited. Ross’s answer-phone cut in. Cursing he selected another number and called that. No reply. Finally, he resorted to Marlean’s private mobile number. After three rings, she answered.

‘Marlean,’ he began immediately. ‘What’s this about a motoring programme Ross Arlington’s lined up for Chloe? And how on earth is it relevant to the theatre project?’

In the background he could hear the squeals of young children as Marlean responded. ‘They wanted three female celebrities to test-drive “hot chick sports cars” as he put it. A girl from one of the soaps had to drop out, so Ross thought Chloe would be up for it. Gemma and Rusty seemed to think it was a good idea. I’m guessing you don’t.’

‘And this is happening tomorrow?’

‘Eleven o’clock.’

‘Is Chloe contracted to do it?’

‘Yes, Duncan. The paperwork went through this morning. All fees are going to the theatre.’

Duncan grunted into the phone.

Marlean, whose children were suddenly becoming more raucous, asked, ‘What did you say? I’m at the skating rink. It’s Ollie’s birthday party and it’s rather chaotic here.’

He closed his eyes as the realisation hit home. ‘Oh, I’m sorry Marlean.’ He looked at his watch, it would be nearly seven in the UK now. ‘You had the afternoon off today, didn’t you? Sorry. You carry on. Give Ollie a hug from me and tell him I’ll bring him something back from my trip.’

‘You don’t have to do that.’

‘It’ll be my pleasure. See you.’

He re-read the email. Of course Marlean was right. He was over-reacting. All the same…

He picked up his phone again.

Despite my relaxing bath and hot chocolate drink, I had a very poor night’s sleep. Worries about the variety show kept popping into my head, forcing me out of bed to find a notepad to write them down. Several times, I’d jolted awake only to lie for ages, waiting for sleep to return. So when my alarm went off at six-thirty, all I really wanted to do was nestle back into the marshmallow softness of my pillow and sleep. An hour later, I was jumping into my car with an apple and a bottle of water and by nine I was sitting on the motorway, staring at the bumper of the car in front and wishing I had my own private jet. By ten, I was still fifty miles short of the race-track. Desperate for a pee, I pulled into a service station. Flicking open my phone to call Ross, I noticed a missed call. I clicked to see who it was and pulled a face as I saw Duncan’s name appear. Immediately, I returned the call. I’d been so tired last night it had completely slipped my mind to check.

His phone was off. Nothing I could do about it now.

Ross, on the other hand, picked up immediately and was fine about my delay. ‘We won’t start shooting until twelve, anyway. Don’t worry, sweetheart, we’ll save you a Danish pastry.’

I arrived at the racetrack to be introduced to the other drivers; a tall blonde model called Mazz, with glowing skin and cheekbones you could rest a tube of mascara on, and Jooli, a singer who’d recently been catching the headlines with her individual style and sultry voice. Best of all, she had a wicked sense of humour. Frazer, the uber cheerful presenter, was keen to make us all feel welcome and, I suspect, rather chuffed to be in the company of three women, as opposed to the petrol-heads and macho drivers he usually performed with.

After being kitted out in fireproof outfits and fluorescent jackets, we ‘hot chick’ drivers stood around shivering from nerves and a brisk north-easterly wind. Overhead, the clouds were thickening and, any minute, the heavens threatened to open. After a health and safety briefing and familiarisation with our assigned cars, it was time to begin filming.

‘It’s going to be like this,’ Ross explained, ‘first you’ll do an individual lap and then we’ll line you up for a short race down the straight to see which car’s the fastest.’

Jooli grinned, ‘You mean, which hot chick has the biggest balls.’ To emphasise the point, she held the helmet against her crotch.

Just as I was settling into my seat and preparing for the first circuit, I noticed Duncan’s silver Mercedes scorch through the gates and come to a dramatic halt in the car park. Duncan Thorsen – never one to pass up an opportunity of mixing with a few female celebs.

It certainly never occurred to me for one moment that he was about to leap from his car and call a halt to the proceedings.

‘I don’t want Chloe doing this!’ I heard him announce, as he stormed towards the crew.

‘You’re kidding?’ I heard jolly Frazer say, in a not-so-jolly way.

I wasn’t feeling too jolly myself.

Ross closed the distance between them, probably in hope of a reasonable debate. So near to the cars, he’d had to resort to an e-cigarette, which made him look like he was smoking a fountain pen. I could tell he didn’t like it.

Duncan dismissed him and again ordered that no filming was to take place. He then marched past the rest of the crew and headed in my direction.

Oh lucky me.

He loomed over the little sports-car, planting both hands on the roof and looked in at me through the open window. His tanned face was more beige than bronze.

I didn’t know what I was supposed to have done wrong but had the distinct impression I was about to find out. I spoke first. ‘What’s going on?’

He glowered down at me for so long, I felt like an X-factor contestant waiting for the judge’s verdict. Just as I was on the brink of screaming, ‘For the love of God just tell me!’ he said, ‘Have you thought this through?’

My head jerked inside the ugly crash helmet. ‘What’s to think through? We’re earning money for the theatre and I get to test-drive a brand new BMW.’

‘So, you’re just planning on cruising round the circuit for a couple o’ laps and saying nice things about the car?’ His accent had strengthened, which didn’t bode well.

‘Exactly.’

He glared down at me. ‘So, there’s no chance you’ll be racing it or driving it to the limit?’

I switched off the ignition. ‘Do you mind if I get out for a moment?’

He had the all the charm and presence of a policeman with haemorrhoids during a heat-wave. He pushed himself off the car and stepped back. Once I was out and standing as tall as my driving boots would allow, I looked him in the eye. ‘Would you mind explaining what all this is about? Because I’m very unclear. Gemma organised this and Rusty gave me the go-ahead – so what’s changed?’

Duncan glanced over at the rest of the crew and swore quietly. As did I when I realised Ross was filming us. ‘Take the microphone off, please,’ he said, under his breath.

I reached round and flicked off the radio-transmitter strapped to my waist. Then I pulled my helmet off; no girl looks good in a helmet.

‘Okay, now will you tell me?’ I asked, oozing irritation.

‘It’s a case of responsibility. While you’re contracted to Thorsen Leisure, I can’t risk you having an accident. That wasn’t part of the plan.’

‘Why? I’ve agreed to do it and I’m doing it for the theatre. I’m not doing if for Thorsen Leisure.’

‘But you’re contracted to my company.’

I folded my arms over the helmet. It was my turn to glare. ‘Does that mean you own me? I don’t remember reading that in the small print.’

‘Of course not!’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘Although, technically, on a professional level it does restrict what you do whilst you’re in our employ. That means, only activities approved by the company.’

‘Well, your staff – acting under their contracts to your company – advised me to go ahead. Does that mean you’ll be giving them the third degree as well?’

He glared back at me for an eternity of seconds. He drew a deep breath and said, in a truly pompous manner, ‘I shall obviously have to discuss the implications with my staff, yes.’

I was well and truly hacked off now. Not only did I think he was taking his company’s responsibility way too far but I wanted to do this.

I squared up to him. ‘Well how about this, Duncan – I’m thrilled to have been asked to get involved and it’s one of those life experiences I really don’t want to miss. So, if I ask the Managing Director – really nicely – and assure him I’m a very good driver with absolutely no points on my licence and no accidents on record, will he kindly give me a special dispensation to turn a blind eye to company policy and let me drive this car?’ Temper had added a little crescendo for emphasis and I wasn’t proud. But who did he think he was, marching in with his it’s-my-ball-and-you-can’t-play-with-it attitude?

I focused on his eyes, challenging him to refuse me. He was studying me and no doubt working out his next argument to gain control of the situation. Tough. I was going to do this and to hell with the consequences. What could he do – hoist me over his shoulder and carry me away?

My face flushed as the idea developed legs.

He could hardly withdraw my contract after his staff had okayed the enterprise. There was no clause saying my improper behaviour would result in Thorsen Leisure suing the guts out of me.

Ross had joined us, e-cig clenched between gritted teeth. ‘Hey, Duncan, what’s the problem? We’ve got a lot to get through, here, and if Chloe bails then there’ll be a whole load of costs to pay. The programme needs three drivers. We won’t find another one today.’

Who’d have thought Ross would come to my rescue?

I raised enquiring eyebrows at Duncan, who was doing a lot of macho jaw clenching.

Nobody spoke.

It was like a Mexican stand-off.

Duncan was first to step back so I took a chance, turned on my heel and headed over to the car, ramming the helmet on as I went. My heart was hammering, so my face would be a flattering shade of pomegranate.

Sitting in the driver’s seat, I just resisted slamming the door. Nobody likes a tantrum queen.

I sucked in a shaky breath, and noticed Ross signalling to me to turn the radio-mic back on. I swore to myself. I bet the whole scene was still on camera, sound or no sound.

Duncan was slowly walking over to the car.

Oh, I’d just bet he’d like to rip open the door and drag me out. Too bad he couldn’t because Ross would catch it on film – and neither of us wanted that. I stared at the badge on the centre of the steering wheel. How could a programme like this cause so much trouble? I was only driving a car in an entertainment show, for heaven’s sake!

Why did men – correction: men like Duncan – always have to be in charge?

He hunkered down at the side of the car. ‘Chloe,’ he said, his voice surprisingly soft now. I turned my head to look at him, suspecting this change in approach was just a tactic to get his own way. But his eyes had lost their flintiness. ‘The Managing Director requests that you take very great care.’

I studied his face before answering. His eyes, blue as a mountain lake on a sunny day, were settled on mine with genuine concern. At least, that’s the way it seemed. When, finally, I spoke, my voice was equally quiet. ‘I will.’

Then he stood up and walked over to Ross and the crew, no doubt to give some plausible explanation as to why he’d changed his mind. I let out a sigh. The guy was a megalomaniac. But then, why wouldn’t he care? The last thing his company needed was the kind of bad publicity associated with his ‘new squeeze’ writing off a freshly minted BMW. I let out a long sigh.

The track was stretching ahead of me and, right now, I needed to perform for the cameras. I flicked the switch on the radio-mic. ‘This is Chloe Steele for The Hot Car Show, are you receiving me?’ The sound guy gave me the thumbs up. I pressed the starter button and revved the engine.

I saw Duncan speak briefly to Ross before distancing himself from the crew to watch.

Ross trotted over to speak to me and leaned in through the window. ‘Well, Chloe love, I don’t know what you promised him but thanks, you won him round. I imagine you’re a hard woman to resist, once you set your mind to it, eh?’ He winked.

How I hated winkers.

I stared out of the windscreen. Small spots of rain were gathering on the glass. I found the button for the wipers and tested them. They were smooth.

Ross continued, ‘Okay, just drive like you did with the trainer. When I give you the sign, you’re off – twice round the track. You don’t have to set any land-speed records, but try and get as much out of the car as you’re able. Okay? And don’t forget the little camera up there,’ he said, pointing to the lens glinting on the opposite sun visor.

‘Okay. I’m looking forward to this,’ I said, giving him a polite smile.

‘Enjoy, sweetheart.’

My first lap was steady, the increasing rain making me cautious. As I passed the crew going into my second lap, I could tell Duncan was still there. I picked up the pace, braking before the first corner and driving through it. The rear wheels kicked out but I corrected and carried on down the back straight. The wipers picked up speed too, and I could see water bouncing off the bonnet and the track ahead. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, I braked a little too harshly and lost control of the car. It started to skid dramatically. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I remembered Grandee telling me that if I ever found myself in a skid, to keep the wheels in the direction of the skid and take my feet off the gas and brakes. Automatically, I did as I was told and in a surreal way, the car performed, and I enjoyed, a ballet-like pirouette, finally coming to rest on the grass.

‘Yee-hah!’ I cried, slapping the steering wheel with both hands and grinning up at the small camera. ‘That was some ride!’

The car had stalled, so I restarted it and manoeuvred it back onto the track. I couldn’t see much of the others through the heavy rain, but I knew that if I could hear them, they’d probably be laughing and cheering too – with the possible exception of Duncan. I pointed the car in the right direction and completed my lap – a tad more gingerly than before.

Duncan, Ross and the crew were soaking wet. The others had retired to the training room. I pulled off my helmet and beamed at them through the car window. ‘That was fun!’ I yelled. ‘What a rush!’

Duncan walked over and opened my door. ‘If that’s what you call taking very great care, I’d hate to see you being reckless.’

I grinned up at him but he wasn’t smiling.

‘Well done, Chloe,’ Ross called from over Duncan’s shoulder.

Duncan shot him a look. ‘It’s irresponsible having them drive in these conditions. If you take my advice, you’ll postpone the rest of the filming till a drier day.’

I climbed out of the car, avoiding the hand Duncan offered. ‘I bet if it was a bunch of men out here, you wouldn’t be so concerned.’ I side-stepped him and ran over to the training room.

‘Go girl!’ Jooli crooned, as I burst in through the door. ‘Wicked spin.’

‘Certainly got your boyfriend worried,’ Mazz added.

‘He’s not my boyfriend.’

Mazz shrugged her shoulders. ‘Whatever. You should have seen him rocket over to the monitor to check what was being filmed. And he called Ross a professional idiot.’