That evening, Jessica returned to her room after a long workout in the hotel gym. It had been such an eventful and exciting day that she’d needed to run some of it out of her system. She smiled. Pam’s delighted screams were still ringing in her ears from when she’d phoned earlier to tell her she’d got the job. She was such a sweetie and Jessica would seriously be considering her most recent offer to move into her house in Hampstead. She’d been expecting her wage to be low, but when Kerry had informed her of the exact amount she’d be getting paid as her assistant, certain truths had finally hit home. In one week she’d be earning less than she was currently paying for a single night in the hotel.
She flicked on the TV. Now that the adrenaline she’d been surviving on all day had run out, she felt exhausted and not a little fearful of what she’d be facing on Monday. All the doubts that had first emerged at the BBC about what she was getting herself into had risen to the surface. How was she going to pull this off? She’d never had a job like it before in her life and the people seemed downright scary. For the first time ever she wouldn’t be wearing the armour of her identity and it had taken that interview for her to fully comprehend how much it usually protected her. No one ever wanted to upset her dad, so they didn’t upset her.
She stared at the screen. An English soap called EastEnders was just starting. She’d caught it a few times since arriving and found it fascinating. The tempo of the show was fairly slow and everything and everyone in it appeared to be either a shade of grey, brown or pale green, and yet the combination was strangely soothing. By the same token, watching such ordinary-looking folk going about their day was almost more surreal than the outlandish characters and plots one found in the colourful, high-octane American soaps she was used to.
Ten minutes later and Jessica had decided that EastEnders was doing nothing to dissipate her nerves. If anything, some of the more bolshie female characters were reminding her of Kerry, so she switched off the TV and picked up the phone to ring her dad. She fancied hearing his voice and it would be fun to tell him that she’d found a job. Not that she’d be telling him what show she was working on, or where it was, otherwise faster than she could say ‘intruding old fart’ she’d probably have a promotion and a pay rise.
‘Hey, Dad? It’s me …’
Half an hour later, in Malibu, Edward replaced his receiver, feeling better than he had in ages. Chatting to Jessica for so long had been wonderful and he suspected that the job she’d got could be her ticket home. He knew what it was like being a lowly assistant in TV. It was bloody hard work and with a bit of luck she’d soon appreciate how good she had things here and come home. He hoped so; he really missed her.
Putting thoughts of Jessica to one side for the moment, though, he stretched before bounding upstairs to start getting ready for his big day. Today it would be nice to feel like Edward Granger the movie star again. It had been a while. Feeling chipper, he strode into his bedroom only to find Betsey lying provocatively on the bed, wearing a black negligee and very little else. His heart sank.
‘Hi, honey,’ she purred. ‘Come and get me.’
His first reaction was to start making excuses about not having enough time, but once he’d had a second to think about it a spot of sex didn’t seem like the worst idea after all. What the hell. She did look pretty hot in that black thing she was wearing and it would get her off his back for a while.
A few minutes later, however, his back wasn’t the only body part Edward was wishing Betsey would get off. Meanwhile, Betsey was trying hard to lose herself in the moment. To be fair, she was hugely grateful it was happening at all, having spent days nagging Edward for sex, but was disappointed that the only thing (or things) that were stirring up any real feeling of desire were her own boobs, which she was enjoying watching in the mirror as they jiggled up and down. A flash of grave concern for her marriage almost overwhelmed her for a second, but she quickly quashed it. Making love brought couples closer together, babies even more so. It was a well-known fact.
‘Oh yeah,’ she panted. ‘Oh yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah.’ She threw her head around a bit, emulating someone in the throes of passion, hoping that by doing so she might start feeling it for real. Briefly, she opened one eye to check what Edward was doing and for a second they made eye contact, which rather ruined the moment and only served to remind her how disconnected they were. Dismayed, she snapped it shut again, having seen enough to know that Edward’s expression wasn’t one of desire. His face looked the same as it did when he was putting on his socks or plucking his nostril hair.
Betsey upped the ante. ‘Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,’ she screamed, riding her husband as vigorously and as determinedly as a cowboy on a bucking bronco. Again, as her head flailed around, she opened one green eye for a peak. Fuck it, now his expression was less enraptured passion, more alarm, horror, terror. Clearly, the quicker she got this over and done with the happier they’d both be.
One and a half minutes later, Edward was standing stark bollock naked at the foot of the bed, watching his suits glide by inside his remote-controlled hi-tech wardrobe.
‘Er, how was that for you, darling? Was it … good? Did you … you know?’
Betsey, who couldn’t stand it when Edward got all coy about things, pulled the sheets up under her armpits and deliberated for a while before answering. ‘No, but it doesn’t matter. I’m just glad we finally got round to doing it. I was starting to think you were avoiding sex altogether.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Edward, not particularly convincingly. With a bit of luck that might be his conjugal duties over and done with for another month, he thought hopefully.
Plucking one of Savile Row’s finest from the rail, he swung round to face Betsey, who couldn’t help but notice that his balls swung round with him, only a split second later. She averted her eyes and fixed them on his face instead, as Edward lifted the suit up for her to see. ‘What do you think? This, or I could just wear my blazer with some beige slacks?’
What Betsey thought was that she couldn’t believe she was married to a man who could, in all seriousness, utter the words ‘beige slacks’. She also wished to high heaven that, whatever he chose to wear, he’d hurry up and put it on because the harsh sunshine pouring through the window was rather unforgiving. As a result she was being forced to confront the fact that, handsome though her husband still was, he had most definitely passed his prime and was starting to look less fillet steak, more scrag end.
‘The suit would be better, honey. It’s much more your image than a blazer and slacks. Leave that to Roger Moore,’ she said pointedly.
‘You’re the expert,’ said Edward, sounding more cheerful than he felt. He pressed another button, which caused the top rail to start moving so that he could pick a shirt out from the hundreds he owned.
Betsey sighed and rolled on to her side. It was probably time for her to get up and get changed too. Today was a big day and while her marriage might not be everything she had once hoped it would be, it was important to remind herself how lucky she was to be married to her very own movie star. James Bond, no less. Today her husband was being awarded a gold star on Hollywood’s walk of fame and she would be by his side, playing the part of the beautiful, loving wife. She slid out of bed and went to the chair where she’d already laid out the outfit she’d bought especially for the event.
Five minutes later, Betsey was examining herself in the mirror. She’d chosen her outfit with a great deal of care, but with hindsight probably wasn’t really a Chanel kind of gal. She looked at least five years older than she was, though maybe subconsciously that was what she’d been aiming for all along. Recently she’d been feeling horribly aware of the twenty-seven-year age gap between herself and her husband.
‘You look beautiful,’ said Edward, sidling up to her and putting an arm round her waist. He wasn’t just saying it either. His young wife looked much more elegant than usual. The Chanel suited her.
Touched by her husband’s clearly genuine compliment, Betsey turned to give him a hug. Not a grope, or a lusty grab, but a hug, and for a second everything felt right between the two of them. A calm descended and in that moment the couple felt closer than they had in a long while. Edward was pleased. Maybe he could even forgive her for the Roger Moore jibe. As they pulled away, Edward smiled down at his wife, and in a manner that would have had his legions of female fans swooning, proffered his arm for her to take. ‘Shall we?’
‘Yes,’ she said softly, taking his arm. ‘It’s a good thing I’m not wearing any knickers, otherwise I really would be feeling like Barbara Bush in this get-up,’ she had to add though, which ruined the moment completely.
Edward sighed wearily and, as Betsey made her way downstairs, he stopped to check his appearance in the landing mirror one last time. ‘Nothing wrong with Roger’s style anyway,’ he muttered to himself as he adjusted his cuffs. ‘One of the most stylish men I’ve ever met, I’ll have you know.’