He then spent the rest of the working day trawling the Internet for any information he could find on Jackson Young, considering it pre-research. After the fiftieth article about Jackson’s late-night escapades, his drinking, his party lifestyle that had led to his turbulent relationship with socialite and heiress to the London Hotel chain, Tallulah Payne, Fletcher glanced up to an empty office, save for Scarlett who switched off her PC and blew him a kiss.
“Don’t stay too late, Rose doesn’t pay overtime.” She waggled her fingers, then exited toward the elevators and left Fletcher in a sudden haze of darkness.
He wriggled in his seat, the motion sensor lights buzzing into life, then fell back, tapping a pen to his lips. He closed his eyes, the stubborn thoughts prodding him dangerously in the temple and coercing him to do something he really shouldn’t.
It would dredge up something painful.
But he picked up the phone anyway and dialled the mobile number etched to his memory, which was answered within two rings.
“Cameron Dale.” Responding with his full name meant Cam would think this was a professional call.
Which it was.
Sort of.
“Cam, howaya?” He tried to sound casual, off-the-cuff, cool, calm and collected, even if his insides churned like a spin-wash stuck on max.
“Fletcher Doherty?” Cam’s voice was like wading through butter mixed with sugar—soft and sweet with a crisp undercurrent. It was like coming home to his mother’s baking. “Mate, how the hell are you?”
“I’m grand, lad, grand.” Rubbing the tip of the pen against his temple, Fletcher closed his eyes to imagine his old friend was there in front of him whilst listening to the sounds of his startled breaths.
“Good to hear it!” Cam’s smile beamed through the genuine words. “And how’s that man of yours? What was it? Fester? Lester?”
“Heston.”
“Heston! Of course! Like the chef. How’s things there?”
“Aye. Good. We’re good. Better than good.” Fletcher swivelled in his chair, creaking the cogs and swishing from side to side. He swallowed down the lump in his throat, then rolled forward to rest his elbow on the table, giving him the support he needed to ask the returning, “How’s…Vanessa?”
There was a distinct hush the other end of the line before Cam returned with a jaunt, “She’s pregnant, mate.”
Fletcher stiffened. He sensed the spread of a wide grin behind the words and it stabbed his chest. That’s what you get for falling in love with a straight man.
“That’s…grand news. Congratulations. When can we expect the wee little tyke?”
“It’ll be a Christmas baby by the looks of things.”
Fletcher shut his eyes for a moment, telling himself to get a goddamn grip. It had been long enough. He’d moved on. He was happy. “You, Cameron Dale, University of the Arts’ greatest bachelor, a father. Who’d have fecking thought it, eh?”
“I know, I know. Can hardly believe it myself. But, hey, what do I owe this pleasure anyway? It’s been, what, a year, two?”
“Two.” He had no idea why he’d been so eager to admit that, but it had fallen from his tongue before he could push the regret away. “I’m sorry. Life took over.”
A slow exhalation gusted down the phone. “That it does.” And those three soft-spoken words flew right into Fletcher’s crushed soul. Lucky Cameron followed it up with a quick, “So what’s up?” Or it could have gotten ugly.
“Do you still do running at the TV studios?”
“Running? Mate, that was straight out of uni. I hope you don’t think that’s all I was capable of?”
Fletcher chuckled. Sharing a student flat with Cameron at university had led to many an argument as to where Cam’s Media Production degree would get him. It’d been a miracle when he’d beaten the masses to the post to land the bottom-of-the-ladder running position at the London Studios. Fletcher had been happy for him. He had. Even if he’d known that it would ultimately lead to their separation.
The post-graduate depression had been hard after that. For more reasons than having to find a job.
“What are ya now, then?”
“Assistant Floor Manager.” The pride oozed down the phone.
“You work on anything I’d know?” Fletcher hoped so, or this call had been a waste of time. Not to mention the agony of digging up a past he’d long buried.
“Sure, most of the live stuff. Here, I was working on the Jax & Kris Roadshow, ‘til that shit happened.”
“Yea? You knew them?”
“Kinda. As much as you can know two celebrities with a bigger entourage than fucking J-Lo.”
“Ha, I’ll bet.”
“Now it’s just the one, he’s calmed down those on the payroll.”
Fletcher leaned back, chewing his bottom lip. “You’re working on Kris’s solo show?” That was interesting. He’d been hoping to get some insider info on how Jackson could be to work with. But this…this he could work a new angle.
“Yeah. Rehearsals at the moment. Why? You a fan?” Cam sniggered. “‘Cause I read what you wrote about the other one. Fletcher Doherty, meow.”
“That got me in some hot water.”
“I don’t doubt it, mate, but you never were one to keep things to yourself.”
Any returning words were caught in Fletcher’s throat and the silence heightened the awkward unspoken between them.
Until Cam chose to fill it with, “What’s this about, Fletch?”
“I was after your opinion.”
“On what?”
“More like who. Jackson Young.”
The long burst of tuneful whistling down the phone indicated that this wasn’t going to be a simple answer. “Do you want to know if I think he did it?”
That hadn’t been what Fletcher had been getting at. He’d wanted a simple opinion of the man. Was he hard to get to know? Was he difficult? Was he a diva? Was Fletcher making the biggest mistake of his life to form a bond with him in order to write his story? But seeing as it was out there—
“Do you think he did it?”
“I think anything’s possible. He certainly had a temper. And she could rile him up better than anyone. But I don’t know, mate, he doesn’t come across like a cold-hearted killer.”
“Do they ever?”
“Good point. So what’s it to you?”
Moment of truth. “I’ve been asked to write his biography.”
“No way! That’s amazing. Finally getting your creative juices flowing, eh? Using that degree for better use. Well done, mate. For a publisher?”
Fletcher paused. “For the man himself.”
“Fuck.”
“Aye.”
Pause. Then, “You wanna talk to Kris?”
“You can do that?”
Tapping the other end suggested Cam was mulling it over, drumming fingernails to his handset. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks, Cam. I appreciate it.”
“No sweat. Listen, why don’t we get together? Me and Vanessa, you and Heston? Before the baby comes? Send me some dates.”