Chloe's Rescue Mission (23 page)

Here we were again, seated in
Wake-Up!
studio’s green room with a familiar tray of pastries, fruit and coffee in front of us; and me feeling every bit as nauseous as the first time.

I’d arrived minutes after Duncan, who was now offering to pour my coffee.

‘Uh-uh,’ I said, pulling a face. ‘I’ll leave it till after, thanks.’

Duncan levelled a looked at me and asked quietly. ‘Nervous?’

‘You know me.’

He returned the empty coffee mug to the tray before asking, ‘Ever been potholing?’

‘Potholing? No. Why?’

‘Why not?’

I shuddered. ‘Are you kidding? What possesses people to even try it? Crawling on your belly through wet tunnels in the dark. No thanks.’

‘So you’d hate it.’

‘Absolutely. I would loathe it. But then, I wouldn’t be insane enough to go potholing in the first place.’

‘What if there was a hundred grand in it – for the theatre – would you then?’

My stomach lurched. ‘Oh, Duncan. Please tell me you haven’t.’

He shrugged. ‘It’s a lot of money, Chloe.’

I swallowed and rubbed my palms together. ‘No way! I’m not going potholing, not even for the theatre.’

‘Why not? What’s the worst that could happen?’

‘Getting stuck! Not knowing where I was going or how horrendously cramped it might be. I once heard about somebody stuck for hours, wedged horizontally in a tunnel, because their back-pack got caught. And two people behind them had to reverse out to go for help.’

‘So?’

‘So…imagine if the ceiling caved in. Or the torch battery failed so I was lying there in the dark – alone. I couldn’t even go for a pee!’

He chuckled. ‘Okay. So what would you be thinking about, lying there, in the dark?’

‘Killing you for making me do it, probably.’

‘Understandable. What else?

‘Getting out – obviously. Fresh air. Never going potholing again.’

He edged forwards on the sofa, his forearms balanced on his knees, hands clasped together. ‘You might think about sitting on a nice comfy sofa, chatting for five minutes on TV, before heading out into the sunshine and hunting down a good bacon sandwich.’

‘Huh?’ I looked into those deep, blue eyes of his, which were studying mine. ‘Are you…’ A smile crept over my face. ‘There is no potholing programme, is there?’

‘Could be.’

I could tell from the glint in his eye there wasn’t. ‘You’re just trying to take my mind off this, aren’t you?’

He grinned. ‘You have to admit, there are worse things than spending five minutes on TV.’

There were, much worse. ‘What is this – Thorsen Leisure branching out into psychotherapy?’

And did he plan on coming for a bacon sandwich, too?

He put his hand over mine. It felt warm and dry where mine, I knew, was cool and trembling. ‘Listen, if you can imagine just one scenario where the thought of this interview or performing on stage would actually seem like a better option, you’ll be half-way to cracking your stage-fright.’ His voice was so mellow, so deep, so mesmerizing. Maybe that was the answer. I could ask him to hypnotize the fear out of me.

‘At least, this time, I won’t be doing it on my own.’

‘Exactly,’ he squeezed my hand. ‘You’ll be fantastic anyway. The camera loves you.’

Did it? My already raging pulse surged.

This man was compassionate and he was strong. I could wallow in that kind of strength for the rest of my life.

If only.

Thinking about it and then trying not to think about it was driving me crazy.

The door burst open. ‘Oh, thank Larry! I made it!’ Alicia-May beamed at us, tossing her hair and raising her hand dramatically.

I jumped up and gave her a long, squeezy hug. Her fragrance was fresh, floral and probably expensive. ‘A-May! I can’t believe you’re here. Thank you so much for coming.’

‘My pleasure. You know I’d do anything to help.’ She stepped back. ‘And Duncan, so good to see you, again.’

‘You too.’ He stood up and accepted the press of her cheek against his, her hand sliding up his arm, over his shoulder and down again. ‘You know, Duncan, I’ve been fighting off all the gossip hags since you left Miami!’

‘I don’t doubt you coped,’ he grinned.

‘A-May, you look fantastic,’ I said, catching hold of her arm and giving it another squeeze. It really was so good to see her. We had quite a history through our formative years. She was like family.

‘Only landed last night – I feel like yesterday’s lunch warmed up!’

‘You don’t look it.’ She was in an emerald green, figure-hugging dress, and wore crystal earrings like chandeliers.

‘Hey, you two were looking pretty cozy when I walked in,’ she added with a twitch of her eyebrows.

‘Oh, that was nothing! I’m just extremely nervous. Duncan’s been helping me conquer my nerves.’

‘Whatever you say, my lover,’ she said in deepest Gloucestershire, before sitting on the couch and leaning forward to grab a bottle of water.

Moments later, we were called for our interview and, as I suspected, in the company of such stellar stars, I only had to answer two questions

It’s just a pity they related to my photo-shoot for
Gossip
magazine.

‘And what about these absolutely gorgeous pictures of you, Chloe?’ Kerry cooed, as they hurled intimate shots of me and my cleavage onto the screen behind us.

Sneaky bloody journalists.

Duncan and Alicia-May studied the image on the monitor ahead of us.

‘Good grief,’ I said. ‘It’s the first time I’ve seen those.’

Alicia-May slapped my thigh and laughed. Duncan also chuckled.

‘The pictures, I mean.’

Kerry continued, ‘Since first appearing on
Wake-Up!
all those weeks ago, it’s really opened up opportunities for you, hasn’t it? Is it what you bargained for?’

I wanted to declare, publicly, that glamour modelling had not been in the frigging plan.

At all.

Instead, I said, ‘The theatre has received so much support since that first programme. The family is extremely grateful for
Wake-Up!
inviting me on, and of course, for Duncan and Alicia-May’s backing. We couldn’t have got this far without so many peoples’ help.’

‘That’s lovely. Well, we wish you all the very best for the variety show, which is on Thursday July 9th at The Royal Theatre, here in London.’ She turned to the camera. ‘And you can find more details about that on our website.’

Considering the glee she showed at my discomfort over the boob shots, I’m amazed she segued into the weather report without any reference to cold fronts.

‘Whoa!’ I exclaimed, backstage, as I examined the double-page spread in
Gossip
magazine or rather – my double spread. ‘That sly old photographer must have been using a lens developed by NASA to get such a detailed close-up of my…my mammaries.’

Through the coffee-coloured lace bodice of the nightgown, you could see every follicle and freckle. I may as well have been starkers.

I scanned the whole set of images beneath the heading, Chloe Steele models Peaches’ finest Nightwear.

‘Let me have a look,’ Alicia-May urged, as Duncan – who I believe was straining to hold a massive grin in check – politely stood aside. ‘Wow!’ she said. ‘You beauty.’

‘What? If it weren’t for these stonking great ferns, I’d look like I was in a bordello.’

‘Well now, I don’t know so much,’ she tilted her head at the images, ‘it’s kind of got the feel of a Victorian knocking shop.’

‘Brilliant. Just what we need. Joshua Steele’s granddaughter portrayed as a woman of ill repute.’

‘Hey, this could be just what’s needed.’

I speed-read the copy and found only one promotional sentence and read it out. ‘Listen to this: “Chloe Steele has famously sold her services to Duncan Thorsen of Thorsen Leisure, in return for his help to save the Joshua Steele Theatre.” That’s it!’ I glared first at Alicia-May and then at Duncan. ‘That’s all the coverage we got. Why don’t they just say: “Chloe Steele is whoring for the theatre”?’

Duncan, God rot him, actually looked like he was enjoying this. He shook his head over an amused smile.

Alicia-May put her arm around me. ‘Listen, my lovely, you’re reading too much into it. You look absolutely fantastic. Okay, the pictures are vaguely, you know…titillating…but they’re tasteful. If you looked like some old boiler in cling-film, you’d have something to worry about but you look gorgeous. What do you think, Duncan?’

‘Nooo! Don’t ask him!’ I cried, as she passed the magazine across.

A flush of heat geysered through me while he cast a cursory glance over the images.

‘You’ve nothing to worry about. You look lovely.’

‘See!’

‘But how will this reflect on Thorsen Leisure?’ I asked.

The smile twitched on his face. ‘I promise you, Chloe, it won’t do us any harm at all. In fact, I think you’ve pretty much guaranteed a healthy following for the Challenge programme.’

My face felt as hot and red as a roasted tomato.

Alicia-May put her arm around me. ‘Honey, you’re fresh to this world of celebrity so it’ll all seem a bit scary. But trust me, there’s far worse ways you could be portrayed than this.’

Duncan handed the magazine back. ‘Exactly. You just carry on doing what you’re doing. Gemma Cox won’t let you down.’

I closed the magazine immediately. ‘I didn’t like the way they were trying to suggest I’d acquired some dodgy modelling career.’

‘Honey, they didn’t. Not really. All they were doing was getting as much value out of our four minute segment as they could. Hell, Chloe, your tits upstaged the both of us!’ She whooped with laughter.

‘Come on, ladies, how about we go and get some breakfast?’ suggested Duncan.

I was grateful for the diversion. ‘Good idea. I feel like committing murder, it’ll just have to be an egg and bacon sandwich.’

Over the next couple of days I lost count of the number of text messages, tweets and Facebook ‘Likes’ my tits generated. Although I’d lay bets Owen had the data somewhere – probably on a spreadsheet. They even headlined on Yahoo!

It had been agreed that, while the Thorsen Leisure team would engineer good opportunities for me to network and promote the theatre, we as a family were at liberty to do any other interviews and personal appearances as we saw fit.

The upside of all this publicity was, we harvested a heap of new promotional opportunities – not entirely in the same lofty league as
Gossip
magazine but opportunities nonetheless.

Mum had snagged a voice-over job for incontinence products. The brief – no pun intended – was for a mature, warm, intimate delivery. ‘Dear God,’ she said, ‘I trust they’re talking about my voice. I’m not bloody-well demonstrating them.’

The night of the variety show was almost upon us. On the day before, we Steeles plus Owen, headed up to London in Beth’s car. Thank goodness for Owen, who kept Tom entertained with a glove puppet, leaving me free to drift off into my own variety show of anxiety-fuelled daydreams. Would our performers turn up on time? Scratch that – would they turn up at all? We’d scheduled a run-through for tomorrow afternoon, but already had apologies from a couple of people who couldn’t make it until the evening, so we’d just have to rely on their professionalism to be there and on their mark, at the right time.

Marlean had booked us into Thorsen Leisure’s hotel in Soho – not the smutty part – and all at the company’s expense. Mum and I shared a suite. ‘Look at this,’ she declared, heading for a monumental floral display which was accompanied by six of the prettiest cupcakes which were sitting under a glass dome. There was also a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket, plus a sheaf of hotel pens, note-paper and chocolate bars – the handiwork of Chox-4-U. Not that I was one to pour scorn on blatant self-promotion.

Mum helped herself to a pastel pink cupcake, topped with crystallized violets. ‘Italian butter cream, the best,’ she said. ‘Try one, Chloe.’

Under normal circumstances, I could have scoffed the remaining five but since my stomach felt like it was dancing the hokey-cokey with my diaphragm, I swallowed fresh air and said, ‘Maybe later.’

We all made an effort for dinner. Even Tom wore a bow-tie. Admittedly it was integral to his shirt but no-one could say we didn’t have a sense of occasion. Owen looked like the next incarnation of Dr Who – with a tweedy waistcoat and trousers over a white shirt and a tie decorated in binary code. Not quite Savile Row but it was a relief not to see him in his usual battered cotton ensemble.

Duncan had invited us to dine with him. As we approached the dining room, one of the waiters said, ‘Mr Thorsen is expecting you in The Orchid Room. William will show you the way.’

William, a young waiter with a quiff in his hair you could ride a surf-board through, stepped forward and asked us to follow him.