Gemma Heath leaned forward and picked up the morning edition of the London Probe from her desk. It was time for a coffee, and a quick catch-up on the latest celebrity gossip was just what she needed after a crazy-busy morning.
She glanced around her tiny but oh-so-familiar office. Dominic had said she might quit her job at Dashwood and James now that they were married; it wasn’t as if she needed to work as Rhys Gordon’s personal assistant any longer.
Her husband was a rock star, after all, with masses of fans and masses of money. She could afford to stay home, just like the other celebrity wives. Gemma sipped her tea and frowned. But she still hadn’t turned in her notice. She liked her job, for one thing. She’d worked damned hard to get here.
No matter what the tabloids might say, Dom’s money wasn’t the reason she’d married him.
She’d married him because she loved him.
Oh, the money was nice, and no mistake. After years of riding the tube and buying her knickers in three-packs at Primark, she loved strolling into Prada, Boodles, or Hermès and laying down the black AmEx card to buy shoes or a bracelet or a gorgeous silk scarf without a thought to the cost.
But Dominic meant more to her than a generous credit line or a hefty amount on their bank balance. He was sweet, and loving, and attentive – and he’d put his womanizing escapades of the past firmly behind him.
Despite his birth into the aristocratic Locksley family, Rupert had left at seventeen to go on the road, travelling with the band in a van that was forever breaking down, living on Pot Noodles and struggling to make it as a musician, and he’d done it with no help from his family.
He changed his name to Dominic Heath to please his father,
Lord Locksley, who demanded his son not ‘besmirch’ the Locksley name with his regrettable rock career
Crikey, hard to believe people actually used words like‘besmirch’ in this day and age, Gemma thought uncharitably as she set her cup down. But in her father-in-law’s case, she wasn’t surprised. If you looked up ‘snob’ in the OED, you’d find Charles Locksley’s photo staring right back at you.
Truth to tell, he always made her feel lacking... in background, in comportment, in – well, in just about everything. Still, she and the Locksleys were family now, whether his lordship liked it or not, and he’d just have to get used to it.
“Good morning, Gemma.”
She looked up as Rhys, her boss at Dashwood and James, strode in with his briefcase in hand and headed to his office.
“Good morning, Rhys. Shall I get you a coffee?”
“No, thanks, I got one on the way in. The meeting ended early.”
As she heard his briefcase snap open and the sound of his voice on the phone, asking to speak to someone at the Croyden store, Gemma hurriedly flicked through the Probe.
She had to let Rhys know her decision, and soon. Today, possibly...
She sighed. She loved her job as Rhys’s assistant. It was demanding, but paid well; and Rhys was wonderful to work with, challenging at times, with the devil’s own temper, but fair.
And now, thanks to Dominic, she could become a lady of leisure if she liked – and hopefully a mum as well, and soon.
The thought made her smile in anticipation. She adored Dom and couldn’t wait to start a family with him.
Gemma took another sip of her tea and had a quick glance at the headlines. Another reality show star admitted she’d had Botox – really, was that even news? – and that hot new Latin pop singer was back in rehab again, no surprise there-
She turned the page, and froze. What the hell-?
Dominic stared back at her in lurid, four-color glory. Her rock star husband was prominently featured on pages three and four of London’s most notorious tabloid – with a beautiful girl clinging to his arm, looking up adoringly into his eyes.
And this girl, Gemma noted in burgeoning anger, wasn’t her.This particular girl – Christa, the new pop singing sensation - had striking turquoise-blue eyes, a face to make an angel weep, and a body to make the devil smile.
Christa shot to fame when her duet with Dominic, “Promise Me Stars,” rocketed to number one on the UK charts. Half Indian and half British, Christa was beautiful, talented, and popular – but she’d disappeared shortly after producing a single smash album. Why, everyone wanted to know, had she withdrawn so abruptly from the music scene? And where had she gone? Her producer wanted to know. The tabloids wanted to know. Her fans wanted to know.
But Christa wasn’t talking.
Now, here she was...boarding a private jet – Dom’s private jet – on Dom’s arm! The photographs swam out of focus as tears blurred Gemma’s vision. Everyone warned her that Dominic was a serial womanizer who’d cheat on her and break her heart into tiny pieces at the first opportunity. He’d sworn to her that he’d changed – and she’d believed him.
Now it looked as if they’d all been right.
Without bothering to read the story that accompanied the coy headline (“Dominic and Christa: Making More Than Music?”), Gemma snatched up the phone and punched in Dominic’s private mobile number with vicious jabs of her indigo-blue fingernails.
Twelve rings later, there was a fumbling sound and a muffled “Hello?”
Gemma wasted no words. “What’s Christa doing with you,” she demanded, her voice unsteady, “and why are you both canoodling on your jet on page three of the Probe?”
“Wha…? Gemma...is that you?”
“Of course it’s me, Dominic,” she snapped, “who else would it be?” Her eyes narrowed. “Is she there with you now?”
“No, of course she’s not! And we weren’t ‘canoodling’!” he added grumpily as he sat up – alone - in bed. “What the hell does ‘canoodling’ mean, anyway?”
“What’s going on, Dominic? Why are you and this singer-” she invested the word with scorn “-so bloody cozy in the Probe?”
On the other end of the phone, Dominic let out a short breath. “Listen, babes, it’s nothing. Christa’s just feeling a bit...overwhelmed. All the sudden fame’s got to her. She needs some time away.”
“Time away from what?” Gemma demanded, and angrily brushed
her tears aside. “Being famous, and gorgeous? Yes, that takes so much out of a girl! And what about me, you knob? I could do with a little ‘time away’ myself, you know!”
“I know it’s asking a lot, but try to understand, Gems,” he said, and a note of irritation crept into his voice. “Christa’s gone overnight from being a backup singer no one’s ever heard of, living in Bethnal Green, to being an international star. It’s doing her head in.”
“Oh, I get that,” Gemma conceded, her voice deceptively calm, “but what I don’t get is why you’ve appointed yourself as her personal tour guide on this little ‘time away’ adventure.”
“Because Christa needs my help,” he said, trying to hold on to his patience, “and because I have the Lear. I offered to take her away from everything for a while, until she gets her head together.”
“Very kind of you, I’m sure.” Her voice dripped sarcasm. “But what about your new solo album? What about your fans? What about me? We’ve only been married a few months. We’re still practically newlyweds!”
“I’ll be back in a week or so. We haven’t started recording yet, so it’s all good.”
“Does Max know about this?”
Max Morecombe, Dominic’s long-suffering agent, was the only person – outside of herself – who could keep the rock star in line.
“’Course he knows,” Dom grumbled. “He doesn’t much like it, but he understands. Which is more,” he couldn’t help adding, “than I can say for you.”
“I understand this – your story’s a big load of bollocks!”
Gemma retorted. “Besides, you need to start rehearsals for your new album soon, and you haven’t even picked out the songs yet-”
“It takes time to write a song! I don’t just crap ‘em out like laying eggs, Gemma. Besides, I’m going for a different sound this time around.” Dominic flung the covers aside and stood up. “I can’t be an effing punk rocker forever, you know.
I’m not nineteen anymore. I need to grow as a musician. I want to explore other styles-”
“-you want to explore Christa’s knickers, you mean.”
Dominic let out a pent-up breath of frustration. “I don’t know why I bother talking to you, Gemma. I really don’t. You always jump to the wrong conclusion. You don’t trust me, not at all. You just don’t get it.”
“Oh, I get it, all right,” she flung back. “You’re doing what you do best – reverting to form and chasing after another skirt.” She leaned back in her chair and eyed her laptop through eyes awash with angry tears. “Now if you’ll excuse me, Dom, I have work to do.”
“Wait!” Dominic protested. “You can’t just ring off in the middle of a conversation-”
“Au contraire, Dominic, I can. And I will. But first-” she lifted her shoulder to keep the mobile phone in place against her ear “-I have one last thing to say to you.”
“Yeah?” he snapped. “And what’s that?”
Gemma yanked the wedding ring from her finger and threw it down on her desk. “You can have your ring back. We’re through. Oh... and give my best to Christa. Happy canoodling. Bye.”
And with that, she rang off, and burst into tears. Good job she hadn’t turned in her notice yet...
A moment later, her boss, Rhys Gordon, appeared in his doorway, a look of concern on his face. “Gemma? What the hell’s going on? Is everything all right?”
She grabbed a tissue from the box he held out to her and blew her nose. “No, it’s not all right! It’s Dominic again... like it always is. We’re through. This time,” she added firmly, “for good.”
Having heard this refrain many times before, Rhys knew better than to believe it. “What’s the little sod done this time? Or should I say...who’s he done this time?”
Gemma sniffled. “Her name’s Christa. She’s half Indian, half Anglo, and one hundred percent gorgeous.”
“Christa? Oh, yes. I’ve heard her song on the radio. Repeatedly,” he added. “Natalie loves it.”
“According to Dominic, she can’t cope with the sudden fame. I don’t buy it for a minute, though.”
Rhys shrugged. “Who knows? It sounds reasonable enough. That’s the problem with Dominic – there’s always a tiny bit of truth buried somewhere in amongst the bullshit.”
“Well, I can tell you this much,” Gemma said determinedly, “married or not, I’m through with Dominic Heath. And you can take that to the bank.”