Friends and Rivals

Ivan’s mobile rang. ‘Let’s talk about this calmly, OK?’ Cupping his hand over his mouth, Ivan walked back into the kitchen and pulled the door closed. ‘We’re supposed to be a team, Jack. Team Jester.’

‘A team?’ If it hadn’t been so outrageously hypocritical it might have been funny. ‘You got my client to sign a deal behind my back!’

‘Our client,’ corrected Ivan. ‘They’re all our clients, remember?’

This was one of Jack’s favourite catchphrases back in the old days. He wasn’t amused to have it used against him.

‘And it wasn’t done behind your back. It was an opportun-ity; it came up very quickly, and Kendall wanted to take it.’

‘You should have called me.’

‘It was the middle of the night in LA. I took an executive decision, as your partner. I genuinely thought it was what you wanted.’

Jack let out a mirthless laugh. These days, Ivan was about as ‘genuine’ as a plastic Rolex.

‘You know, sometimes I really think you’re intent on holding Jester’s European business back.’

‘That’s crap,’ said Jack robustly.

‘Is it? Then why are you so against me diversifying and pursuing our interests in reality television?’

‘Because they’re not “our” interests, they’re yours,’ said Jack. ‘You want to take time out from the clients to become a TV personality.’ He injected these last two words with as much disdain as humanly possible. Ivan, who’d been about to casually drop his ITV offer into the conversation – Kendall’s deal probably made this his best opportunity to ‘bury’ any other bad news – suddenly thought better of it.

‘And this bullshit with Kendall is all about you too,’ Jack ranted on. ‘You want to move into pop and you’re using her to give you a foot in the door. She may be too naïve to see through you, but I’m sure as hell not. I trusted you.’

‘No you didn’t,’ said Ivan bitterly. ‘You haven’t trusted me for years. Just because I don’t always see things exactly the way you do. Seriously, Jack, who died and made you God?’

In his light-filled office in Beverly Glen, Jack felt his fingers tighten around the phone. How he wished it was Ivan Charles’s neck. For Ivan to pull a stunt like this was bad enough. But to try to turn it around, as if it were somehow his – Jack’s – fault … The whole thing was beyond ridiculous. On the other hand, today’s confrontation had been a long time coming. Perhaps it was no bad thing finally to air their grievances openly? As a partnership, Jester couldn’t go on like this.

‘Kendall Bryce is my client,’ Jack said evenly. ‘I will decide what deals she signs and when. I want you to call Polydor and back out.’

Ivan laughed. ‘Come on, Jack. You know I can’t do that.’

‘Sure you can. Tell them Kendall’s had a change of heart.’

Ivan paused for a moment, then said, ‘But she hasn’t had a change of heart, has she? She wants this Jack. It’s you who’s out of step here.’

‘Either you undo this deal and send Kendall back to LA,’ Jack said slowly, ‘or I leave Jester.’

Back in London, Ivan leaned against the kitchen sink for support. Jack Messenger, leave Jester? Would he really go through with it?

The idea had some advantages, of course, not least among them that Ivan would no longer have to work with Mr Saintly himself, or be hamstrung in his TV and other ambitions by Jack’s stubbornly old-fashioned approach to the business. On the other hand, Ivan had built the London business by being able to promise his clients global reach. If losing Jack meant losing the LA office, he would struggle to attract new talent, and might even lose some of the clients he now had.

If …

But what if I didn’t lose the LA business?I prised Kendall Bryce away from Jack easily enough, and she’s in love with the guy. I already have a good relationship with The Blitz. What if I convinced them all to stick with Jester? To stick with me? My star’s on the rise, after all. Talent Quest’s going to make me a household name.

Buoyed up by the twin successes of the last twenty-four hours and the adrenaline of his fight with Jack, not to mention well over a bottle of good red wine, Ivan felt emboldened.

‘If Kendall wants to stick with Polydor, I’ll stand by her.’ He chose his words carefully. ‘And if you elect not to manage her at that point, then I will. Beyond that, what happens is up to you.’

A few minutes later, Ivan opened the kitchen door and walked back into the living room looking shell-shocked.

‘What happened?’ All Kendall’s earlier defiance was gone. She looked small and anxious curled up on the sofa, like a child who’d just overheard her parents arguing. ‘Did he back down?’

‘Not exactly,’ said Ivan. ‘He quit.’

Kendall’s jaw dropped. ‘Quit? What do you mean? That’s not possible. Jester means everything to Jack. It’s his life.’

‘He gave me an ultimatum,’ said Ivan. ‘Either I get you out of the Polydor deal and send you home, or he’d leave the business.’

Kendall tried to process this, her eyes welling up with tears. ‘You mean … this is my fault?’

‘No, angel, of course it isn’t your fault. Your fault for what?’ Ivan sat down and put his arm around her. She was drunk and emotional, but she looked so fucking adorable in her knickers and T-shirt, with smudged mascara streaking over her high cheekbones, he felt a familiar stirring of desire. ‘For signing a record-breaking deal? For making a real splash in London, like Jack asked you to? I know you’re fond of him. But I’m afraid Messenger’s being a stubborn arse. This is a power thing between him and me. You just happened to get caught in the middle of it.’

Nuzzled against his chest, inhaling the protective warmth of his body, Kendall suddenly felt strangely close to Ivan. For years she’d wanted Jack to hold her like this, to hold her at all, but he was as cold towards her physically as a statue. She had Lex, of course – Lex was an amazing hugger – and scores of lovers. But none of them felt as safe and strong and solid as Ivan Charles did at this moment. Ivan was handsome and funny and powerful and smart. He’d done more for her career in the last two weeks than Jack had done since he signed her. Equally importantly, he was fun to be around. With Ivan, life was unpredictable and exciting. With Jack it was boring and claustrophobic and … disappointing. The years of unrequited love had worn her down. Before she knew what she was doing, Kendall found herself reaching up and clasping her hands around Ivan’s neck. It was Kendall who made the first move, but Ivan responded instantly, kissing her full on the mouth with a force and passion that took her breath away.

‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ His hands caressed her thighs as he whispered in her ear, his warm breath tickling her neck.

‘You mean the deal?’ she whispered back. ‘Or this?’

‘Both.’ Ivan’s hands were beneath her T-shirt now, fumbling with the strap of her Elle Macpherson bra. ‘If you go back to Matador and Jack,’ he planted a slow, lingering kiss on her collarbone, ‘everything could go back to the way it was.’

Kendall closed her eyes. Ivan’s hands and mouth and body felt wonderful. Wrong but wonderful. She forced herself to think about Jack. If she did this deal she would never go back to his guesthouse. Would she even go back to LA? She wasn’t sure. Either way, Jack Messenger would no longer be her manager. He won’t be my friend either. Or anything more than a friend.

But then she remembered the things she’d heard him say to Ivan. ‘She’s spoiled … emotionally immature … a walking disaster.’ With friends like that, did she really need enemies? Maybe Jack needed to lose her – really lose her – to realize she was something worth having?

Or maybe not. Either way, Kendall wasn’t about to walk away from forty million dollars just to massage Jack’s ego. Not when there were so many more appealing things to massage. Reaching down, she tentatively touched the bulge in Ivan’s jeans. It was enormous and hard as a bullet. For a second she thought about Catriona, and about Ned Williams in the stables at The Rookery, giving her the third degree. But only for a second. Clearly Ivan made a habit of extramarital flings. One more was hardly going to make a difference.

‘I don’t want things to go back to how they were,’ she murmured, unbuckling his belt. ‘I want London. And Fascination. And you.’

It was all Ivan Charles could do not to punch the air in triumph.

CHAPTER SIX

The next morning, Catriona Charles came down to breakfast to find Miley Bayley, the three-year-old daughter of The Blitz’s lead singer Brett Bayley and his wife Stella, drawing on the walls in indelible marker.

‘Stella!’ she said, horrified, removing the pen from the little girl’s clutches to a cacophony of spoilt wails. ‘Look what Miley’s doing. It’s everywhere.’

‘Hmm?’ Stella Bayley looked up absently. Sitting in the middle of Catriona’s kitchen floor in the lotus position, her lithe, perfectly toned limbs folded over one another effortlessly, like bent pipe cleaners, she was clearly in a world of her own. ‘Oh, sorry, sweetie. I was meditating. Nothing gets through to me when I’m in the zone.’ She turned her attention to her whining daughter. ‘Hey, baybeeeee,’ she crooned. ‘Whassamatter? Did you get scared, Miley-Moo?’ Scooping the child up into her arms, she turned back to Catriona. ‘We try never to raise our voices to her,’ she said chidingly. ‘Brett and I are big believers in peaceful parenting.’

Catriona bit her lip and counted to ten. What had possessed her to say yes when Stella invited herself down for the weekend? She was a well-meaning girl at heart, and Catriona felt sorry for her, trying to create an illusion of the perfect family life while married to the vain, philandering Brett Bayley. Stuck at home with Miley while her husband gallivanted around Europe on tour with his band must be a lonely life. But, even so, having Stella as a house guest was tough work. She wouldn’t eat anything that wasn’t organic and cruelty-free and purified to within an inch of its life. She would only sleep in east-facing bedrooms – something to do with energy flow – and was terribly keen on ‘healing’ people by laying her hands on their heads. Rosie and Hector both found this hilarious, but the poor dogs were really quite frightened by it. Old Mr Carruthers, the gardener, had threatened to give in his notice last time if Catriona’s American friend didn’t leave him and his tomato plants well alone. But worst of all was the little girl. Catriona felt guilty actively disliking a child of three. But Miley was without doubt the most whingeing, overindulged, obnoxious brat she had ever encountered, the spitting image of her famous father, and obviously destined to be just as much trouble.

‘I’ll pay to get it repainted,’ said Stella, sensing that Catriona had perhaps been pushed too far this time. ‘But you mustn’t yell at Miley.’

‘I didn’t yell at Miley, Stella. I merely pointed out that she was defacing my walls and took away the pen.’

‘The problem is she’s so creative,’ sighed Stella, smothering her daughter with kisses. ‘Gifted children often struggle with boundaries. Don’t they, Miley-Moo?’