The Morning After (6 page)

“I can explain,” Cara started, in a last ditch attempt to save her job.

“I’m sure you can, dear,” Father Delany said, although his expression revealed that he’d be unlikely to believe any words that came from her mouth. “But the board’s mind is made up on this matter. I’m afraid we have to terminate your employment.”

****

The director shouted, “Cut!”

Ethan held onto the rope as the crane slowly lowered him to ground. He stood patiently as the head of the stunt team unstrapped the hidden body harness, and pulled it off.

John Mosse strode over. “That was a good take, Ethan. We don’t need to do it again.”

Ethan’s shoulders relaxed. He felt relief paint a grin on his face. “That’s great, John.” His face was smeared with fake blood, which itched like the devil. The prosthetic wound that half closed his eye had been irritating him all morning, and his back ached from being suspended over the skyscraper mock-up for the past three hours.

“Half an hour’s break, then we’ll move on to the shoot-out scene.”

“So I’ll have to stay in makeup?”

“No, you can clean up. You’ll be in SWAT gear,” John said. “Makeup will take your scars off now.”

If only taking real scars off was as easy as surrendering to the makeup team.

At least Ethan’s scars weren’t on the surface. He needed his face for his work.

He strode stiff-legged to the makeup trailer. Being back in Ireland had brought the past back into focus. And raising money for the ambulance service had re-opened the old wounds that he and Sean had tried to let grow over. The wound of their mother not reaching the hospital in time to save her life, after the car his father was driving veered off the road and collided with a tree. Their father had been killed instantly, but his mother could have been saved if an ambulance had reached her in time. And if he’d been there, instead of being away, working on a film, maybe the whole damn disaster could have been avoided.

In the makeup trailer, Ethan sat patiently as the makeup lady removed the slivers of rubber from his face. But when Doris approached with a jar of cold cream, he shook his head.

“Just give me some on a hank of cotton-wool, will you, Doris? I’ll take it off in my trailer.”

Doris smeared some cold cream onto cotton-wool, and handed it over. “Are you sure, lovey? I can…”

“I’m exhausted. I need to lie down.” His voice was harsher than intended, so he softened his words with a smile. “I’ve been hanging around for hours.”

Doris grinned. “I know, we were all watching. It was very exciting. That scene will be dynamite in the movie.” The older woman’s eyes lit with concern. “Would you like me to get someone to bring you a cuppa? You’re looking peaky.”

Ethan pulled himself out of the swivel chair, feeling the burn ache of abused muscles in his thighs. “I’ll be fine, Doris.”

He made it halfway across the lot to his trailer before Maggie caught up with him.

Her skyscraper heels clattered on the asphalt. She was almost jogging—tight pencil skirt gluing her thighs tight together while her calves scissored in rapid motion. He’d told her often enough she didn’t need to dress so fancy while they were on set—she looked completely out of place next to the production assistants and assistant directors strolling around in cargo pants and lace-up boots. But she’d sternly told him she needed to look the part of a Hollywood star’s assistant. She was representing
him
after all.

He’d often thought it was much more likely that she wanted to look like a woman to meet his fellow stars, especially the unattached male ones. He couldn’t really blame her for that. She worked hard. And, by all accounts, played hard too.

He slowed. “Hi, Maggie.”

She gripped a cup of something steaming in a polystyrene cup. The other hand clutched her android phone. As she reached him, she handed over the cup. “Tea. Just the way you like it.”

Ethan accepted it gratefully, and ripped off the top.

“You’re trending on twitter.”

Crash Carrigan was often trending on twitter. It sure didn’t merit the look of horror on her face. “Let’s talk inside.” If he didn’t sit …

Maggie’s lips pursed in a thin, you’re-not-going-to-like-this line. She trotted along next to him.

Ethan lowered himself into the leather armchair in his trailer, and stuffed a cushion behind his back. “So…” he started.

“It’s about Ireland.” Maggie slumped onto the cot next to him. “And you’re not going to like it.” She chewed on her bottom lip.

She actually looked worried. In the five years she’d worked with him, he’d never seen Maggie looked worried before. Annoyed and frustrated, but never worried.

“They’ve even started a hashtag, and one of those annoying couples word smash-ups.”

A dull ache bloomed in Ethan’s temples. “What are you talking about?”

“Carethan. It’s a combination of Cara and Ethan. It’s everywhere.”

“Ca…”

“Ca-rethan,” Maggie said, stretching the sound out. “Someone got pictures of you and Cara at the event, and they’ve also dug up pictures of you and Cara, uh…” She blushed. “Well, with her in her underwear.”

“What?”

“They also found a picture of you hitting her fiancé.” Maggie avoided his eyes. As if somehow thumping that lying dog of an almost fiancé was the greatest of crimes.

“She wasn’t engaged,” he snapped.

Maggie’s gaze flicked to his.

“He’d proposed, but she hadn’t accepted.” He took the cell phone from her hand, and scrolled through the ever growing list of tweets with #carethan before them.

“My phone’s been ringing every second with journalists wanting a quote. I don’t know what to tell them.”

The paparazzi were relentless, chasing something like this. If they tracked Cara down...Ethan’s blood ran cold in his veins. Maybe they already had. “Who published the photos?”

Maggie’s brow creased. “I can’t remember the name, it was a paper in Ireland.” She pushed back the sleeve of her tight black jacket and looked at her watch. “You will be wanted in wardrobe soon.”

They needed damage limitation. Fast. Adrenalin flooded Ethan’s veins. “Track down a copy of the paper online. I need to see the pictures and what they’re saying.” He drained his tea. “I need to make a phone call.”

As the trailer door closed behind Maggie, Ethan punched in Cara’s number. It rang for a few moments, then he heard her familiar voice.

“Ethan?”

Relief flooded him. “Cara. I heard about the newspaper.”

“It’s been crazy here.” Fatigue flattened her voice. “I’ve had one hell of a day. The school…”

Damn, he hadn’t even thought about her job. Having your teacher plastered all over the front of the paper in their underwear would be every schoolboy’s dream, and every teacher’s nightmare. “What happened?” He reckoned he knew the answer to the question before he asked it, but asked anyway. His hand clenched into a fist. If only he was there, he could offer her some sort of comfort.

A G-rated vision of sliding an arm around Cara’s shoulders, pulling her body close to offer comfort suddenly went right to NC-17 with the thought of pressing his lips against hers, sliding his hand down her back…

“They sacked me.” Her quiet voice jerked him back to reality.

Ethan closed his eyes.

“I won’t get another job as a teacher. Not now.”

The entire situation was beyond unfair. She’d been so happy when she’d got the job. It gave her the funds to finally strike out from her family to make a home for herself. They’d burned up the wires for nights on end, her telling him of the improvements she’d made to her grandmother’s cottage.

Once the paparazzi tracked her down things would only get worse.

“Come out to stay with me.” The words were out before his brain kicked in. If she arrived in America, the press would be more focused on their relationship, not less. But he couldn’t just leave her to the jaws of the rabid press.

He winced at her brittle laugh.

“Ah, Ethan.” Her voice warmed with a hint of the old Cara. “That’s sweet, but…”

“But nothing.” He was responsible for destroying her career. What did she have to lose by spending time with him anyway? At least if she was in his new place in Malibu the press wouldn’t be able to hound her, the estate had been specially chosen because of its high walls and strictly enforced privacy. “I’ve just bought a house in Malibu. I haven’t moved in properly yet, I’ve been waiting for the movie to be finished. You can help me get settled in. I need you, Cara.”

The idea was perfect. There was less than a week more of filming to complete. They could hang out, talk about old times. Brainstorm ideas to get her back on her feet.

“You’re feeling sorry for me, Ethan,” Cara’s voice was low and quiet. “I appreciate that, really. But I don’t need you to. It’ll all die down in a day or so.”

Ethan stood to pace the trailer. “You don’t know the half of it. The internet is buzzing with the story. It’s gone viral. Things are only going to hot up from here on in.”

“It’s a non-story,” Cara insisted. “Once we both tell them that we’re just friends—”

“Just friends?” Ethan ran a hand through his hair and held back a groan. “Have you any idea how often celebrities insist they’re just friends, Cara? Just friends means there’s a hot and heavy affair going on. They won’t let it go. If you’re here, at least I can protect you until some other scandal hits the tabloids.”

He rubbed the ache blooming at his temples. Now they’d got their very own couple-tag, it would be practically impossible for the press to let it go. But at least if they were together they could work something out. Maybe even pretend to be in love, and then have a public break-up. “I’ll organize a ticket and email it to you.”

“Don’t.” Cara’s voice was laced with determination. “Honestly, Ethan. I know you want to protect me, but I’m not a child. I don’t…to be looked after.” She must be walking around—the signal was dropping mid-sentence. “My dinner is burning. I’ll…tomorrow.”

Before he had a chance to respond, she was gone–her voice replaced by dead air.

Chapter Seven

Life changes in a split second. When the path that you’re following disappears, there are two things you can do. Stop dead, or search in the undergrowth for another route. Cara smothered jam on her morning croissant, and considered her options. When Ethan suggested a visit to America, she hadn’t for one moment considered it.

He’d stepped onto the path to his future years ago, when he’d left Donabridge at seventeen to enroll in acting school in Dublin. His mother had been the driving force in helping him achieve his dream, and worked two jobs to pay the fees.

All her sacrifices paid off the moment he got his first role in a celebrity-heavy movie filming in Dublin. Even as a bit-actor, he’d commanded the screen, and his Hollywood debut had come soon after.

Unlike Ethan, she’d struggled to find a niche to settle in. Her love of writing and the written word had been the reason she went to college to get her English degree. But an English degree wasn’t worth much in the currency of getting-a-job, so she’d followed it up with a teacher training course.

Now that dream was over, the future was clouded. At least she had the cottage rent free, but she’d need something to support herself. What that something might be eluded her.

Cara swallowed a mouthful of coffee. The blows had come so quickly she still reeled from them. Mere days ago, she’d been considering whether she should accept Michael’s proposal. Looking forward to introducing her students to Shakespeare. Now all that was yesterday’s news.

Just, hopefully, as she was.

She picked up the gift voucher that Ryan had given her for her birthday and pushed back the kitchen chair. She’d booked a facial and eyelash dye for today a week ago. Maybe being slathered in goo and relaxing while someone fussed over her would restore her spirits. It certainly couldn’t hurt.

An hour later, lying on the padded couch in ‘Temptations’ with her eyes glued together with black dye, and her face covered in a lavender scented mask, Cara listened to the discordant clanging of the oriental ‘relaxation’ music and tried to still her racing mind. She hated having her eyelashes dyed.

“Don’t open your eyes. I’ll be back in ten minutes,” the beautician said, instantly filling Cara with the compulsion to flicker her eyelids open, despite the cold paste covering her lashes.

“Right,” she managed.

“Relax,” the disembodied voice advised, tucking a warm blanket around her.

The sound of a match striking was followed by the musky scent of a joss stick, doubtless more ‘atmosphere.’

Cara’s nose twitched. She only had to bear it for ten minutes. She’d be able to open her eyes soon…

A door slammed in the outer room.

“You can’t go in there!” the beautician’s familiar voice warned.

A cool breeze chilled the mixture on Cara’s face. “Cara Byrne?” a soft female voice with a British accent asked.

“Who…”

“I’m sorry, Miss Byrne. I told this woman you couldn’t be disturbed,” the beautician said. “You’ll have to come back. She’s half way through her treatment.”

“I just have a few questions.”

Cara’s hands clenched into fists. She fought the instinct to open her eyes, and possibly destroy her vision forever. “I don’t know who you are, but I’m hardly in a position to talk to you at the moment,” she forced through gritted teeth. “Leave me alone please.”

“My readers would like to know about you and Ethan Quinn,” the voice continued. “If you could just give me a quote…”

“You want a quote?” Cara felt her blood heat. She was stuck under a blanket, with her face covered with goo, and her eyes iced together. She couldn’t stand up and push the intruder from the room, and the beautician had gone suspiciously quiet, maybe she was agog to hear the quote too. “I’ll give you a quote. Bugger off.”

Silence. Followed by the slamming of one door, then another.

“I’ll take the dye off now,” the beautician whispered.

“You might as well take the mask off too.” No way she staying here one moment longer than necessary.

She felt the characteristic cold slide of water-soaked cotton wool chill her eyelid.