‘Didn’t look like she was about to complain last night. Shona doesn’t want a big relationship, not yet. The dust is still settling from her last one. Maybe you’d be good for each other.’ He shrugs. ‘None of my business, mind.’
Could I go there? I’m not sure.
Either way, it’s spiced up the four-hour M6 journey nicely.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Phoebe
Thank goodness for my friends.
It turns out that Olivia, the person Osh called about my dress, is a costume supervisor he worked with on an advert a few years ago. As well as designing clothes for film and TV productions she also makes a few of her own pieces that she sells privately. When I meet her in the Aladdin’s cave of fabric she calls her workshop near Elstree studios, she tells me she has the perfect dress.
It’s a repurposed garment: the original a part of a set of gowns she’d made for a magazine photo-shoot that was supposed to be a modern reimagining of Versailles. When I first try it on it’s covered with drapes of pearls and has extra material wrapped in heavy folds around the hips to mimic the opulent wide dresses popular in King Louis XVI’s court.
‘Don’t worry about this stuff, I’ll whip it all off,’ she says with a mouthful of pins as she circles me, pinning parts of the dress in place. ‘As long as the basic garment fits, I can sort the rest.’
‘Thank you so much for doing this,’ I say, a little dizzy from watching her.
‘Total pleasure. Always wanted to loan a film premiere dress.’ Olivia pauses as she’s pinning the top of the bodice. ‘I take it this is your first? Premiere, I mean.’
‘First one I’ve had to walk a red carpet for,’ I say, my stomach somersaulting at the prospect.
‘Bit scary, huh?’
‘Terrifying.’
She smiles and resumes her alterations. ‘It’s a load of bollocks, that’s what you have to tell yourself. Lots of people trying to get a picture and lots of people trying to get in one. Don’t worry. This dress will do all the hard work for you. Just enjoy wearing it.’
* * *
When Olivia’s completed creation arrives at our house three days later I can’t believe the transformation. The peacock-blue velvet has been gently draped where the extra pieces once were and wearing it feels like being held in the gentlest embrace. It makes the most amazing sound when I walk, too. I’m still terrified of being in the spotlight but being able to wear this dress will be a great compensation.
Gabe is preoccupied all day. By the time we’re getting ready we’re snapping at each other. We hardly talk in the car over to the cinema where the film is premiering. I glance at him, feeling exposed with my off-the-shoulder dress and borrowed heels. Meg did my make-up and hair and Osh found another friend to lend me some costume jewellery. When I peered in the mirror before we left the house, I didn’t recognise the woman looking back. Despite her beautiful dress she didn’t seem happy. She didn’t look like she was living the dream.
Tomorrow Gabe flies to New York for the US premiere, then on to LA to spend time with his American agent and meet people. The machine has cranked into gear around him and he’s being swept up in a rush of schedules, meetings and opportunities. I’m thrilled for him, of course. But I feel like he’s pulling away from me.
Or maybe I’m pulling away from him.
‘Relax, you look fine,’ he says, but he sounds irritated and instantly I am, too.
‘I know I do.’
He stares at me. ‘Phoebs, I didn’t mean… You look stunning, obviously.’
Obviously?
I watch London moving at dreamlike pace past the passenger door window. Gabe glares at his phone.
This is horrible. How did we get here? Until the film job kicked in we were so happy. I’m shocked by how quickly it all changed. It’s like I don’t know where we fit into this new world of flashbulbs and interviews.
I want to drag it back, find a sliver of us before the pantomime cranks into action again. I return to him, my heart hammering hard.
‘Gabe, I think we—’
‘Here we are,’ the driver chirps, swinging into line behind a queue of identical people-carriers. ‘Just need to wait our turn, but you’ll be good to go in a few moments.’
I grip my bag and the wrap that weighs uncomfortably around my arms and wait. Gabe is adjusting his suit, checking his reflection in the rear-view mirror. He doesn’t look like my Gabe at all.
The door is being opened and he’s out as flashbulbs fire like angry lightning. For a moment I think he might have abandoned me, but then his hand reaches back into the car. It’s warm when I take it, one tiny scrap of reassurance I cling to.
The flashes of light imprint on my eyes and I can’t see where I’m walking. Disoriented, I find myself being pulled from one place to the next; a few steps and then a pose; a few more and a smile. At every stop, Gabe’s hand rests at the small of my back and sometimes he pulls me into him. I look up and there’s Gabriel Marley, the performer, the consummate professional, working every angle and lapping up the adulation. This is his world and he is as at home here as I am surrounded by books.
But this isn’t my world.
I do everything I am expected to do, reminding myself that I’m here for him not me. I’m smiling but I’m drowning in a sea of dread, gasping for air and terrified I’m going under. It isn’t a panic attack: it’s a portent. If this film takes off as the buzz around it suggests, this will be the first of many premieres. The higher Gabe’s star rises, the more scrutiny anyone in his world will face.
If I want to be with him, this becomes my life, too.
It’s far more terrifying than facing a sea of yelling photographers on a red carpet in London, wearing a dress that isn’t mine and a smile that doesn’t fit.
By the time we reach the entrance and hurry inside, I know what I have to do.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Sam
In Bristol, we get early access to the venue so we’re all set up by midday. Blessed with an afternoon to kill before we play we predictably end up in a pub. We haven’t had a decent blowout for a week and as we’re staying locally tonight we can drink a little more than usual and enjoy ourselves.
Since her bombshell Shona hasn’t said any more, but I watch her all the same. I can’t quite believe she meant what she said although I can find no other, safer explanation for it. This afternoon she is mocking Niven for his near encyclopaedic celebrity knowledge – admittedly not the most obvious skill you would expect Mr McNish to possess – and for a film he wants to see that she thinks is lame. Their banter is endlessly entertaining as they check a film news website. Then Shona snatches Niven’s iPad from his hands and scrolls down the movie-news page he’s been reading.
‘Now, this will definitely be worth your time. Everyone is talking about this one.’
‘Volozhin 82? What do you care about Russian spy thrillers?’ Niven asks.
‘I care a lot when Gabriel Marley’s in it,’ she says.
My smile freezes. I haven’t heard that name for a while.