FALLING STARS

SARA MADDERSON

For my husband, Chris, who’s my biggest cheerleader (and secret late-night romance reader. Of my books, anyway).

Thank you for giving me a Disney-level Happy Ever After.

CONTENTS

I.  2016—The Whirlwind and the Cluster-fuck

1.  Elle

2.  Elle

3.  Josh

4.  Josh

5.  Elle

6.  Josh

7.  Elle

8.  Elle

9.  Elle

10.  Elle

11.  Elle

12.  Elle

13.  Elle

II.  2021 Second Billing

14.  Elle

15.  Elle

16.  Josh

17.  Elle

18.  Josh

19.  Elle

20.  Elle

21.  Josh

22.  Elle

23.  Elle

24.  Elle

25.  Elle

26.  Josh

27.  Josh

28.  Elle

29.  Josh

30.  Elle

31.  Josh

32.  Elle

33.  Josh

34.  Elle

35.  Elle

36.  Josh

37.  Elle

38.  Elle

39.  Elle

40.  Josh

41.  Josh

42.  Elle

43.  Josh

44.  Josh

45.  Elle

46.  Elle

47.  Elle

48.  Josh

49.  Elle

50.  Josh

Epilogue

A NOTE FROM SARA

PART I

2016—THE WHIRLWIND AND THE CLUSTER-FUCK

1

ELLE

I ’ve been careful, until now, not to get sucked into the crazy machine that is the film industry. Admittedly, my acting career to date is a grand total of one bit part and one lead role. But still. It’s important to keep some perspective.

And I’ve always been a good girl. Head down. Work hard. Be ladylike. Unless there’s a dance floor present (I may or may not have been known as the Dance Floor Whore at university).

So, when I find myself at the Cannes Film Festival, going straight from the premiere of the film Gracie, in which I play the lead, to the Vanity Fair party, and there’s a dance floor beside the pool of whatever outrageous villa we’re at, I know I’m getting sucked in.

Big time.

I’m screwed.

But this is my night, and I’m damned if I won’t allow myself to succumb to whatever magic is in the air. My imposter syndrome is sky high. Any moment, one of those burly, ear-piece-wearing guys doing the rounds will chuck me over the bougainvillea-clad walls and out into the street.

And yet, A-listers I’ve watched on screen since I was a child are seeking me out. Shaking my hand. Air kissing me. And telling me I’m their bet for the Best Actress award at the Closing Ceremony next Saturday. Kirsten Dunst even hugged me in the loos and told me Gracie made her cry so hard, she had to have her makeup completely redone for the party.

It’s too much.

I’m at the poolside bar with my publicist, Mara, Gracie’s director, Tina, and a few other cast members. Mara’s as cool as a cucumber, even though she’s only been doing this a couple of years, but Tina’s almost as flustered as I am. She’s a cerebral art-house film maker from Chiswick, and she’s far more at home intellectualising in West London than she is hanging out in this kind of scene.

We started playing the how many people can we recognise game—well, Tina and I did while Mara surveyed the scene with a slightly bored air—but we gave up after thirty-three. It’s far more of a challenge to find people we don’t recognise, servers and security aside.

Although there are stars everywhere I turn, my number one eye-treat this evening so far has been the dreamy A-list trio at the bar earlier: Brad Burton. Davide de Luca. And Josh Lander. Yes. The Holy Trinity of all that is gorgeous and golden and Hollywood. My inner schoolgirl fanned herself, my ovaries did the Can-Can, and I had to use every ounce of strength I had not to pull out my phone and try for a surreptitious shot. Because that would be the least cool thing I could ever, ever do.

Despite my best intentions, I’m getting sucked into the surrounding carnival faster than an earring up a vacuum-cleaner. The whole spectacle is so chic I’m dying. We’re perched high on a hill above the Bay of Cannes, super-yachts twinkling on an inky Med. Around me, clusters of household names laugh and flirt and do deals and catch up. There are fire eaters and go-go dancers and saxophonists on roller blades. No one is eating the canapes.

It’s completely over the top and absolutely wonderful. Our little group is very much on the periphery as we people-watch. But then the DJ plays Cheap Thrills, and I know it’s time to stop being a wallflower. I graced the big screen at the Grand Lumière tonight, and whatever my inner judge is telling me, I deserve to be here as much as anyone.

More importantly, Gracie may bomb commercially, and I may never get another part. I owe it to myself to make the most of this crazy ride while it lasts.

‘Come on.’ I deposit my fancy cocktail—name, ingredients and potency level unknown—on the glass bar and give Mara and Tina a little shimmy. ‘Let’s show these guys how the Brits rock.’

Tina sniggers nervously, admiring my chutzpah even while recognising that I’m talking utter rubbish, and Mara rolls her eyes, tosses her cigarette and stubs it out with her Rock Stud stilettos.

‘Sure. Let’s do it.’

‘You really should be French,’ I tell her as we walk in the direction of the chequerboard marble dance floor. ‘You’re so cool. And so nonchalant. Please show me how to be like you.’

She brushes my shoulder in a move that’s almost affectionate. ‘Elle. You’ll never be cool. Or nonchalant. Just be you.’

‘Right,’ I mutter, feeling like a schoolgirl in her achingly cool wake. ‘Excellent. Really helpful, thank you.’

Maybe it’s the pulse of the music, or the scent of French cigarettes and flowers in the air, or the heady vibe of power and success all around me.

Maybe it’s the fabulous Paco Rabanne mini-dress I changed into for the party, which is little more than some huge silver paillettes (think giant sequins) on mesh, held up by fine chain-mail straps. Whatever it is, as we join the throng of lithe, glossy, immaculately dressed bodies on the dance floor, I find the music and I lose my inhibitions.

I lose myself.

Mara has a dancing rhythm of her own—a sultry sway that does little to accommodate the actual beat of the music but is very sexy.

Tina’s bopping like someone’s let her out of Book Club for the night.

And I absolutely go for it.

I gyrate my hips, throw my head back, brush my thick fringe off my forehead, and let my arms float in the air. I grind, I thrust, I squat. Again and again. My skin slicks with a fine mist of sweat. I feel limber and weightless and energised. I could dance like this all night.

And as I revel in that unmatchable feeling of being one with the rhythm of the music, I gradually clock that Mara and Tina are moving away from me.

And looking at me oddly.

And that Marion Cotillard has just shot me an approving smile and a thumbs-up from the left.

And that there’s heat building right behind my body.

Human heat.

I glance behind me and do what must be a comedic double take, because, inches from me, is Josh Lander, and the guy is moving. In. On. Me.

Oh, holy cow. Oh, my goodness. Josh Lander is mirroring my moves, and he’s now actually touching me. I can feel his knees right behind my knees. That means that right behind my bum is his… Jesus. Don’t dare think about Josh Lander’s penis.

My quick peek at him has confirmed that not only is he hotter than any actual human has a right to be, but that he’s in a white shirt, a few buttons undone at the neck. Sleeves rolled up. I have no idea what he’s wearing on his bottom half because craning my neck to look down at Josh Lander’s crotch seems ill-advised, even through my mystery-cocktail haze.

But instead of freaking out, like I would have put serious money on my doing, I embrace this madness. Having such a huge, hot Hollywood star gyrating inches from me gives me the most enormous surge of adrenalin and, to be honest, power.

I double down.

Hell, I may never again get to dance with someone this gorgeous and this famous. (To be more explicitly frank, I may never again get to dance with someone whose face graced my teenage self’s bedroom wall.)

I may as well just go for it.

The track changes to Rihanna’s Work, but she may as well be singing twerk because that’s basically what I do. I grind. I twerk. I thrust. And I squat and rise. And squat. And rise. I throw my head back and toss my hair (which is very Bardot-esque tonight) in Josh Lander’s face and throw my arms around. My dress acts like a disco ball, its silver paillettes reflecting all the lights of the dance floor back in every direction. And right behind me, because I can feel him, Josh Lander matches me beat for beat. The music pulses through our veins in tandem.

Then the light but delicious pressure of a hand on my waist. He’s guiding me. Pulling me in closer to him.

Oh my gosh, I’m gyrating against Josh Lander’s crotch.

Around us, people are clapping and whistling and clearing a larger space for us. Oh, dear Lord. I’m hazily conscious of a lot of phones aiming in our direction.

I want to turn around so badly, to slide down Josh Lander’s rock-hard body and possibly graze his arm or his stomach through his shirt with my fingers. But I won’t. I’m not brave enough, and I don’t know him. I mean, I know him, obviously, but I don’t actually know him.

Everyone’s eyes are on us, and I’m struck by a possibly childish desire to be the one to end this little dance floor flirtation (if simulating sex, while fully clothed and upright, with an A-list celebrity, in the presence of many other A-list celebrities does indeed pass as a flirtation). And so, as the song comes to its conclusion, I brave another backwards glance.

I look him in the eye, and dearest Lord, if his heavenly face isn’t radiating amusement and intensity and a teeny bit of lust. The jut of that famous, stubbled jaw is tense. He licks his bottom lip, and my gaze is there for it. He’s catching his breath (gratifyingly, he looks more out of breath than I feel) and his chest, so close to my shoulder, is heaving.

I give him a coquettish grin. Casual, just a twist of my mouth. Like we’re partners in crime and I’m not some total random.

‘See you,’ I say.

And off I sashay without a backwards glance.

Leaving Josh Lander on the dance floor.

Working that mini-dress.

And resisting the urge to punch the damn air.

2

ELLE

I  rouse myself early the following morning and take breakfast on a teak lounger on my delightful south-facing terrace. I have a lovely junior suite at the Hotel Martinez, bang in the middle of Cannes’ iconic La Croisette, and I’m damned if I’m not going to make use of the terrace, even if I’ve been warned about long-lens photographers. I’m wrapped up in a fluffy white robe—I’ve nothing to hide.

Alfresco breakfasts are one of my biggest pleasures when I’m on holiday, and although my schedule here is more labour-camp than holiday, I can take some time for self-care before the craziness starts again for another day. And so I tuck in happily to the spread in front of me as I watch staff rake the sand and lay out the mattresses for the day at the Martinez’s beach club across the road. The sights and sounds and smells of Cannes on this calm May morning are sublime. Oh, to start every day this way!

Breakfast consists of a pot of black tea (I love French tea in its posh little muslin bags), a herb omelette which is utter perfection, and the prettiest fruit platter garnished with mint.

No gluten.

No grains.

No dairy.

I have Crohn’s disease, an autoimmune disorder that inflames my gastrointestinal tract, and while it’s landed me in hospital more than once, I’ve had success in managing it over the past couple of years through an anti-inflammatory diet. The occasional cocktail excepted. I keep it very quiet. There’s nothing glamorous about Crohn’s, so it’s my little secret.

I’m pondering why watermelon and mint is such a heaven-sent combination when Mara bursts into my room. She has a key card; she’s on a mission to usher me through these frenetic days of interviews and screenings and galas and little else. She needn’t bother; I’m perfectly capable of setting my own alarm and getting myself out of bed. I have excellent self-discipline, but I like that she takes her job so seriously. Gracie is a big deal for everyone involved, and this press junket needs to run smoothly, and I’m a major part of its success (the junket and the film). I get all that.

Mara’s in major mother-hen mode this week, and so I let her order me around as much as she wants. It’s her way of caring. I have at least an hour before the interviews start, and I’m not doing any shoots in Cannes, so I don’t need much time to get myself looking presentable. I have full hair-and-makeup treatment for all the evening events, so I’d rather keep it simple during the day and let my skin breathe.

Therefore, I’m fully prepared to push back if Mara has plans to bully me into the shower. But her face is twitching, and she looks moderately excited for her.

‘You seen Twitter?’

‘No.’

I haven’t turned my phone off Airplane Mode yet. I’ve been enjoying ignoring the existence of the outside world beyond this breakfast, and this view, and the heavenly breaths of still-fresh air on my bare legs.

Her perfect eyebrows shoot up. ‘Well, let me tell you, young lady. You’ve caused quite a stir.’

Huh? ‘What kind of stir?’

‘A viral one. Look.’ She holds out her phone, which is a far more expensive model than mine and clad in a black Valentino Rockstud case. I take it. The Twitter app is open and as I scroll, I see the same video reposted again and again and again.

It’s one of me and Josh Lander dancing.

Oops.

I look up at her, and she nods tersely. ‘Check out the hashtag. JELLERY. You and Josh are trending. Watch it.’

I don’t really do Twitter. I mean, I post links about Gracie and I dutifully retweet any press about it, but that’s really it. I don’t engage much. I have an undeservedly decent following, but I’m still an unknown in the Twittersphere and in the world more broadly.

I click on one of the videos, whose caption is #JELLERY followed by lots of flame emojis, and watch. Oh, holy cow.

Someone with a great view of us has captured everything. They were clearly filming me dancing before Josh Lander even shimmied up behind me. I’m going for it. I’m not ashamed—I’ve been told often enough I’m a great (if dirty) dancer—but I’m a bit shocked it’s all over Twitter. And my dress looks fab. I am indeed a human disco ball.

Oh.

There he is.

He sidles up, a huge grin visible on his face, and tucks in behind me. I clock him and look back, and there’s the hint of a smile on my face, but thank God I don’t fangirl too hard. And we go for it in sync.

‘Watch his face,’ Mara says unnecessarily, because I can’t focus on anything else. It’s not always visible as he matches me squat for squat, but once he stands up and allows me to continue my hooker moves, I get a perfect view. I and the rest of the world.

He’s transfixed. His eyes are on me as I gyrate and shimmy up and down the length of his body. He’s definitely checking out my bum, and at one point he clenches and unclenches his fist before he slides his hand over my waist and begins to move with me again.

And his face. I wasn’t wrong about that glimpse I caught when I looked back at the end of our dance. He runs his free hand through his dirty blonde hair and seems to bite his lip. His jaw—that gorgeous, angular jaw—clenches. If I was an objective viewer, I’d say the expression on his face was priceless.

‘It’s priceless,’ Mara says. ‘He looks so fucking turned on.’

‘Oh my gosh.’ I put my hand over my eyes. ‘Don’t say that.’

‘What? It’s true. And you can’t be surprised—you basically gave the guy a fucking lap dance. I’m surprised he didn’t stick a fifty between your tits.’

I cringe. ‘I can’t imagine that makes much of a change from his usual nights out, then.’

It’s true. Josh Lander has a reputation for partying hard.

Drinks. Drugs. Women. God knows what else.

‘It’s probably a turn-on for him when he doesn’t have to pay for it.’ Mara grabs her phone back.

‘I’m sure he never has to pay for it.’

She ignores me. ‘The press are loving it. Typical. Your beautiful film premiers with the performance of a lifetime, and all the papers want to talk about is whether you and Josh Lander went home and had sex.’

‘Oh my God.’ I sit up straight. ‘They inferred that from a dance?’

‘The Post called you a “mystery starlet.” Mystery starlet my arse. These people are such fucking philistines. Well, that’ll come back to bite them on the arse. You’re about to become one of the biggest faces in the industry.’

‘What should I do? About…’ I gesture ineffectually.

‘Lap dance-gate? Ride it out. It’s amazing publicity—once the tabloids figure out who the fuck you are. Fuck’s sake. But no, babe, this is fantastic. I couldn’t have plotted it better myself.’

‘Please tell me you didn’t set this up.’ I wouldn’t put anything past Mara.

Her lips curve into a smile, and once again I wish I was as sexy and streetwise as her. Not in this lifetime.

‘I’m not that smart. Wish I was. Oh, holy fucking shit.’

‘What now?’ My stomach sinks.

‘Oh, it’s good.’ She holds out her phone screen for me to see. ‘Josh Lander just retweeted the video.’

I lean in and squint to read the tweet in the glare of the morning light. Josh (I’m calling him Josh in the same way that I would refer to Brad Pitt as Brad, because he’s so obscenely famous that he’s the only Josh that matters, not because I dare to presume to have any claim on him, despite lap dance-gate) has retweeted a tweet from gossip king Perez Hilton. Perez’s tasteful caption is @joshlander is having a good evening 🍆. How rude!

But it’s Josh’s response that gets me. He’s captioned the retweet with two words.

Busted, dude.

‘HE MUST HAVE BEEN HAMMERED when he wrote it.’ Honor Chapman brandishes a glass of champagne as she perches on my sofa. ‘Hammered or high as a kite. You know what they say about him.’

Honor runs a cosmetics brand called, intuitively enough, Honor Chapman Cosmetics. She took a chance on me after my first film, in which I had a tiny part, and I’m now formally an ambassador for the brand. More specifically, I’m her newest ‘face’.

She also happens to be one half of a couple so famous that I’m completely in awe. Her husband, Jackson James, is a massive British action movie star, so Honor’s at the Film Festival with a variety of hats on. She’s in my suite this evening ostensibly to oversee the work of her talented Head Makeup Artist, Lucinda, but I suspect she’s come mainly for the gossip.

I’m fine with that. It’s comforting to have her here; she’s so kind and so well-versed in the machinations of this weird world I’m entering. She and Astrid Carmichael, her great friend, have taken me under their wing.

Astrid is a high-end fashion designer with a brand that epitomises upper-class British living. Like her brand, she’s classy and elegant. And, like Honor, she’s warm and generous with her time and advice. She started dressing me for events as soon as Honor introduced us, and this week I’m proudly flying the flag for the British fashion industry in not one but three Astrid Carmichael dresses. One for my premiere last night, one for the amfAR Gala tonight and one for the Closing Ceremony next Saturday, when I’ll know my fate.

‘Do you know Josh Lander personally?’ I speak through the side of my mouth, trying not to move my head as Lucinda ministers to my brows.

‘I think you’re probably on first-name terms with him now, darling, seeing as you gave the guy an erection,’ Astrid quips.

I let out a groan. ‘Please. Don’t even. I can’t believe he wrote Busted. Do you really think he’s a druggie?’

‘To answer your questions in order, yes, I’ve met him a few times with Jackson, and yes, I’ve heard some chatter about substance abuse. But honestly, that’s equally true for most people in Hollywood. Everyone’s either permanently high or in NA, as far as I can tell.’

‘NA?’

‘God, you’re innocent. Bless you. Narcotics Anonymous.’

‘Oh.’ I make a mental note never, ever to live in Hollywood. It sounds like quite a messed-up place. And I’m not about to make any assumptions about a guy I don’t know beyond what I’ve gleaned as a lifelong Daily Mail reader, but Honor’s comments are another reminder that I’m out of my depth here. I should just chalk this tabloid coverage of last night’s antics with Josh Lander up to some fun memories of a very Cannes night.

3

JOSH

E llery Hart had me at “Yes, sir”—her opening line in Gracie.

Me and the rest of the Grand Lumière movie theatre.

I’m pretty careful which premieres I say yes to in Cannes. It’s usually way more fun to do the parties, or go hang at the Eden Roc with my buddies. But the critical buzz around this movie was major, and when Brad Burton offers to be your plus-one, you can’t say no. Amy, his wife, isn't here. I get the feeling there’s trouble in paradise. Again.

So, after Brad and I goofed around for the cameras on the red carpet, we settled down to watch the movie. It was a little indie production, but the cinematography grabbed me from the get-go. It was gorgeous: sweeping expanses of bleak moors and big sky, the stunning drone shots perfectly capturing the desolation and repressed turmoil of the characters.

But nothing about the movie was as ravishing as her.

Ellery.

When she was on screen, the camera barely had time for anyone else. The lens followed her greedily, like it couldn’t get enough of her. I sympathised, and I was grateful. Super grateful. Because she was a fucking vision.

I had to consult my programme to find her name. I’d never heard of her before. I’d be googling her as soon as I got out of here. Brad nudged me, and we exchanged a knowing nod. He got it too. The premieres at Cannes could be fucking tedious, but once in a blue moon you got those goosebumps that signalled you were witnessing something special, and I had those then.

Gracie was a maid in England, in I guess the 1920s. She was ravishing and shy—presumably from a lifetime of submission—and worked for a depressing couple in a depressing house somewhere in the middle of nowhere. Her odious little boss put pressure on her to have sexual relations with him, and man, it was tough to watch, because while she went along with it, nothing about that sex was consensual.

In this part of the story, the director had chosen to show Gracie through the male gaze, as a submissive, voiceless piece of pussy this creepy dickwad felt he could objectify and abuse. But there was also the suggestion of what this lifestyle, and his unwanted attentions more specifically, were doing to her. They were killing her, bit by bit. This douche was eating away at her soul, and her character took on the very blankness that he’d projected on her. It was fucking brutal.

Because this was a female-directed movie, we got a happy ending for Gracie where I was not expecting one, and a deservedly gory ending for Creepy Dickwad. She stabbed him and escaped with a huge chunk of his cash, which allowed her to flee to Paris and forge a happy and fulfilling life for herself.

The most troubling part of the movie for me was that, while I was clenching my fists in fury and disgust at this guy’s crimes, I was also so fucking into Gracie—Ellery—it wasn’t funny.

She was mesmerising. The camera was up in her space the whole time. And it should have felt relentless, and intrusive, and it did. But it was also a celebration of her incredible beauty. The way they’d lit this movie was a fucking miracle, and the luminosity of her creamy skin filled the screen. She was a triumph, and the curve of her breast and the indent of her waist and the plumpness of her lower lip were works of art.

The movie got a six-minute standing ovation. Six minutes. I’d only had two movies at Cannes, and neither of them had received any standing ovation. But this team deserved every fucking second, and I was there with the rest of them, clapping away long after my palms were stinging.

I was only a couple rows behind her and I watched as she stood and took a bow with the director and that jerk who played her boss. The storyline had hit me so hard I felt like punching his face in, but Ellery got him in a headlock and gave him a smacker on the cheek. I guess it was a good reminder that what I’d just experienced was fiction. I needed to get a fucking grip.

Anyway, I was happy to ignore the stinging of my palms and drink her in. She was young—like, seriously young. Twenty-one, maybe? And glowing and gorgeous in a long, strapless gold dress. That camera hadn’t lied. On her face was a mixture of delight and disbelief that she was on the receiving end of such a rapturous reception from the biggest names in the business. She was radiant.

And all I could think was, oh, sweetheart. One day, you’ll be a bigger name than anyone else here. You have no fucking clue what’s ahead of you.

I was still stuck inside my own head when I saw her at the Vanity Fair party later. You know it’s a good movie when you can’t shake its effect on you. To get in the party mood, I did a couple lines in the restroom and followed it up with some shots at the bar with my buddies.

And then I spotted her.

The woman of the hour.

The golden girl.

Ellery Hart.

Only, instead of playing a put-upon maid a hundred years ago, she was firmly in this century: hair loose, legs endless and all that skin now on display in a different, tiny silver dress that caught the light.

On the surface, I was nodding while Davide droned on about his latest movie, but mostly I just watched her. She had her share of well-wishers—her movie had had a good turnout—but she seemed to be keeping to the sidelines with her pals. Until she wasn’t. She headed for the dance floor and she let loose.

Man, could she move. I was having trouble squaring this vision of a twerking party girl with the austere beauty of the character I’d just lost my heart to on screen, but that conflict was just making me more curious. This Ellery Hart had many facets, and I was interested in getting to know all of them.

I downed the rest of my scotch and slammed my tumbler on the bar. Raked back my hair.

‘I’m gonna go dance with our girl, Ellery,’ I told the guys. They laughed.

‘Good luck with that, buddy.’ Brad slapped me on the shoulder.

‘I don’t need luck. Not with these hips.’ I rolled them for him, and he guffawed in disgust.

‘Get outta here.’

I made my way across the lawn to the dance floor. It was a gorgeous night in a spectacular location, and I’d done a million nights like this before. But Miss Hart over there was already making tonight far more interesting than it should have been.

I settled in behind her, enjoying the view of those long legs and that shapely ass gyrating in front of me. She was going for it like she should have been wearing pasties and a thong. I had a totally irrational pang of relief that this was her reality: that she was here, alive and vibrant and free and not being abused by her creepy boss in some fucking tiny British town.

We found a rhythm. Or, she kept doing her thing, and I followed her lead, loving that she seemed oblivious to my presence. She pulled her hair over her shoulder, and I got an eyeful of the flawless skin of her back, tiny beads of sweat shimmering under the disco lights. God, I could so easily dip my head and brush my nose along the curve of her shoulder. Lick the sweat off her back.

But I didn’t. I stayed where I was, and she rewarded me with a quick glance over said shoulder. Her adorable bangs almost brushed the long eyelashes through which she stared at me. She looked shocked, then tickled, and the way her lips parted when she clocked me was immensely gratifying.

She turned away before I had a chance to fuck up and sweep those bangs out of her eyes, and kept dancing. I followed suit. The track changed to Work, and I went for it, matching her rhythm as she pretty much ground herself against me. As my girl Rhi-Rhi worked, so did we.

I was as high on Ellery as I was on coke right now.

I was transfixed.

My focus narrowed to this beat, and this woman, and this moment.

As she flicked her incredible body up and down in front of me, I felt myself growing hard. Just a little, but enough. My hand snaked around her waist, carefully avoiding those weird-ass giant sequins on her dress, and I left it there.

And then her hair brushed my face as she turned to me again. Smiled like she knew exactly the effect she was having on me.

‘See you,’ she said, and off she sashayed like the fucking queen she was, leaving me rooted to the spot.

4

JOSH

I ’ve spent the past twenty hours thinking about Ellery Hart. I was still wasted when I sent that douchey reply to Perez this morning, but I know how to laugh at myself. Nearly twenty years in Hollywood have taught me that much.

The Twittersphere has gone wild today—I feel like we broke the internet—but I’ve spent most of the day over on Ile St Marguerite, ignoring it. Mom’s not happy, but I could give a fuck. A few of us chartered a yacht and headed over there mid-morning, where we hung at La Guerite, the iconic restaurant.

That place is sheer magic. The irony that you have to sell your soul and become rich as sin in order to sit at a table with peeling paint and pay top dollar for perfectly grilled prawns straight from the ocean below is not lost on me. But it’s worth every penny. And it’s especially valuable when everyone in the world seems hooked on whether you had a public hard-on last night or when you’re gonna marry a woman you haven’t technically met.

Tonight I’m going to fix that last part. Because my moles tell me she’s due here, at amfAR, which is a huge annual gig for AIDS research that Hollywood always comes out in force to support.

Another evening in this most magical part of the world, another crazy Belle Epoque villa. This evening we’re at the Villa Eilenroc, and it’s fucking amazing. When you mention Cap d’Antibes, people think it’s pure glitz, but up on the tip of the cape itself you’re aware only of the majesty of nature.

Sure, you have to be richer than God to stay at the Hotel du Cap or afford one of those wedding-cake villas up here—most of the owners are Russian oligarchs, I believe—but it certainly hasn’t been over-run. The scarcity of built-up areas only adds to its allure. The Eilenroc gardens are a national park, and there hasn’t been an amfAR Gala yet where I don’t escape off into the famous rose garden and wish I lived here in some decadent, F Scott Fitzgerald-esque existence.

But right now, the intoxicating scent of the rose gardens will have to wait, because I spot my target as soon as she comes through the meet-and-greet. For a newbie, she’s cool. I’ll give her that. The bank of photographers screams her name, and I get a sudden rush from the thought that that’s partly because of me. Having her publicly linked with me will hopefully make my job easier: unless she’s mad as hell about my tweet adding fuel to the Twitter fire.

She strolls into the room with a quiet confidence that impresses me. This woman has serious poise. She’s in a strapless, bubblegum pink tulle concoction that’s fucking huge at the back and completely cut away at the front, showing off those great legs. Her shoulders are bare again, her graceful neck glittering with a shit-tonne of diamonds, presumably courtesy of the Cannes Film Festival’s sponsor, Chopard.

I watch her accept a flute of Dom Perignon. I bide my time. She’s with Jackson James and Honor Chapman and another woman. Impressive allies for a first-timer. Though they’re British, I guess, so it makes sense they know each other. I know Jackson, but I won’t ask him for an intro. I got this.

I stuff one hand in my tux pocket and grip my tumbler of scotch more tightly. There’s a crowd between me and Ellery Hart, but I have tunnel vision. I make my way over. Jackson spots me first and nudges her, a cheeky grin on his too-handsome face. But it’s her face I’m fixated on, her lips I watch as they curve up into a smile that’s both amused and curious.

She murmurs something to Jackson.

I wish I could lip-read.

They stand there and watch me sweat as I make my way towards them.

I hold eye contact the whole way over. I feel like bowing down in front of this queen and begging for mercy, but I stick out my hand.

‘I figured we should introduce ourselves properly.’ I give her my most successful, most Hollywood grin. ‘Josh Lander.’

She rewards me with a smile that’s sincere, but definitely not effusive. Shakes my hand. Her fingers are cool and soft. ‘Ellery Hart. How do you do?’

She speaks like the fucking Queen. So that soft, regional accent she had in Gracie was just for the part. I’ve heard two sentences in her real cut-glass accent, and I can confirm it’s fucking sexy.

‘I do very well, thanks. I enjoyed our dance last night.’

She shrugs her shoulder. ‘It was fun, I suppose.’

I suppose. Jeez, tough crowd. Last night she was sweaty and unleashed and Bardot-esque; tonight she’s a ravishing ice-princess, that golden hair swept back and the delicate bones of her collar bones perfectly on display under those diamonds. Yet another side to her. Yet another side I’d like to get to know better.

‘Come ‘ere, mate.’ Jackson moves in for a bro-hug and I tear my eyes away from Ellery to throw my free arm around him and slap him on his insanely ripped back before kissing Honor and introducing myself to their friend, Astrid, who apparently is responsible for the gorgeous concoction Ellery’s wearing.

‘Doesn’t she look good enough to eat?’ Astrid asks.

‘She certainly does.’ I can’t help it. My eyes rake down her body. Right now, I’d give everything I have to see her standing naked, that soft cloud of tulle at her feet.

‘Er, thank you; I’m actually right here.’ Ellery waves her hand.

‘You’ve stirred up quite the social media shit-storm.’ Honor assesses me. I wouldn’t want to mess with her, but her expression is amused.

‘Yeah.’ I go for a joke. ‘Sorry about that, Ellery. We ageing has-beens have to resort to whatever stunts we can pull with the hottest stars of the moment, just to stay afloat in this shark tank.’

A little smile from Ellery. ‘Has-been. Right.’

‘May I borrow you before they call us for dinner? Given we’re apparently engaged, according to TMZ, I figure we should get to know each other better.’

‘You may.’

I offer Ellery my arm, and she closes the gap between us and slides her hand through the crook of my elbow. Instantly, I feel a million fucking feet tall.

Jackson points in my direction. ‘Don’t go into any dark corners with him, Elle. The guy has no morals.’

Not fucking helpful, but also one hundred percent accurate.

ELLE

I FLOAT through the crowd in this dream of a dress, on Josh Lander’s arm, and I feel as though I’m losing my mind a little. I should probably find the loos and bite down on a hand-towel and scream out my excitement, but I resist the urge and instead attempt to maintain my outer poise.

Heads—many of them very well-known heads—turn to stare. I was warned the guest list here would be model-heavy, but this is crazy. I spot Gigi and Bella Hadid and Kendall Jenner, all looking willowy and ravishing and endlessly tall. They are tall, of course; they’re also in heels. Oh, and I’m five-foot-five in bare feet. So no wonder I feel stunted in comparison, even in my four-inch Gianvito Rossi stilettos.

But more than the stares Josh and I are getting, I’m conscious of the heat of his body coming through his very nice dinner jacket. I’m conscious of the regular grins he shoots me, and the care with which he steers me past well-wishers and onlookers. He guides me out onto the terrace, pausing to gesture for me to swap out my half-empty glass for a full one with a server we pass.

A warm glow has been passing over my skin since Josh came over—a supreme sense of wellbeing. Obviously, last night’s little encounter was extremely exciting (and I may have watched the video of it about three hundred and fifty times since this morning), but I didn’t get to enjoy him beyond the knowledge he was behind me and those few stolen glances.

Now, I’m enjoying every bit of him.

His heat.

His smile.

His attention.

I know he’s got that slick film-star smile down pat, but still. It’s effective, in that I feel like the only person on his radar. He’s seriously good.

We emerge onto the terrace, and the cool air hits me. It’s really not very warm in the evenings at this time of year. I must have shivered, for Josh releases my arm and shrugs off his dinner jacket, sliding it over my shoulders. The delicious combination of warmth and the scent of him hits me, and I can’t stop the smile that breaks out at his chivalrous behaviour.

‘Thank you. That’s very sweet of you.’ I put my hand to my throat for the millionth time to make sure my gazillion carats of diamonds are still where they ought to be: around my neck.

‘Pleasure.’ He nods at my neck. ‘It’s still there. I’ll let you know if it disappears.’ He tugs the lapels of his jacket closer together around me and his fingers brush my collarbone. Everything inside me clenches in a most excellent way.

He really is gorgeous. I can study him up close now we’re alone and he’s standing right in front of me. His dirty-blonde hair is raked off his face for the night, and tiny, white-blonde baby hairs line his hairline. His face is perfectly tanned, and that famous bone structure certainly stands up to close scrutiny. He has an admirably straight nose, flanked by warm brown eyes that are surveying me with frank interest. I could drown in those eyes; I really could. Quite happily.

‘I have to say.’ He shifts his tumbler from one hand to the other. ‘Your performance last night was extraordinary. And I don’t mean your dancing skills.’

He grins, and my ovaries salute him.

‘Gracie,’ he clarifies. ‘I don’t wanna patronise you, because you’ve already shown me how talented you are, but I’m not sure if you realise how much things are about to change for you. Because that performance was exquisite. Flawless. And I’m pretty sure the juries will agree.’

Hearing this from the mouth of an A-lister is beyond surreal. I stammer a thank you in a very British, self-deprecating way, but he puts up a hand.

‘Don’t even think of trying to argue the fact. I’m not saying that to get in your panties. Well, I am. But it happens to be true.’

Oh my God. Oh my good Lord. Josh Lander has just told me he wants to—I begin to unravel, but he keeps going.

‘The reaction I had to watching you act—well, it doesn’t happen very often. I had goosebumps.’ He pauses. ‘And I couldn’t take my eyes off of you on screen. I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.’

My jaw drops open. I cannot believe he is saying this stuff. To me.

Josh gestures to a stone bench beside us and I sit gratefully. These shoes are murdering my feet already. He drops down right beside me and twists his big body to face me.

‘It was a big relief to see you all happy and normal on the dance floor later. That was one of the reasons I went over to dance with you—you looked so free and alive. I wanted to punch that guy’s lights out, though,’ he continues. ‘Your boss in the movie.’

‘Oh, yeah.’ I laugh. ‘David. I promise you, he’s a sweetie. He has a wife and three kids, and he’s not remotely pervy in real life.’

He frowns. ‘Still. He was way too convincing for my liking.’

‘I should say that’s a compliment to his acting skills,’ I say lightly. Josh’s overprotective vibe is not unattractive, to put it mildly. And he’s gazing at me as if I’m the only woman in the universe, which is also having an effect on me, stirring up butterflies in my tummy (and slightly south of there).

He seems to realise he’s being a little too heavy, and visibly pulls himself together. He grins at me. ‘So, how are you enjoying your first Cannes?’

‘It’s fabulous. And full on. Not much rest for the wicked.’

‘Yeah, I imagine they’re working you hard. That movie is all you. It’s a lot to carry. Junkets all day?’

‘All day,’ I groan.

He laughs. ‘It’s a fucking nightmare. You’ll have to come back when you don’t have a movie premiering—it’s a lot more fun. Have you even gotten into the ocean yet?’

‘They haven’t let me anywhere near a beach. Or a pool. Though I’d say the sea’s a bit cold at this time of year?’

‘It’s gorgeous. Refreshing. Where are you staying?’

‘The Martinez,’ I say, and his grin broadens.

‘Well, imagine that. Me too.’

I shake my head in mock disbelief. ‘What a coincidence.’

‘Isn’t it just? Very convenient for my intentions toward you. You got a full day tomorrow?’

I ignore his innuendo. ‘I do from midday. My publicist took pity on me and gave me the morning off so I could enjoy myself tonight.’

‘Did she now? You fixed on sleeping in, or can I proposition you?’

I narrow my eyes at him, Jackson’s warning ringing in my ears.

He laughs again. He seems to find me endlessly amusing. I have no idea why. ‘Come with me for a minute? I wanna show you something.’

I humour him and take his hand, and he leads me across the beautiful gardens, with their intoxicating mix of manicured flowerbeds and luscious greenery. The air is definitely cool up here, in this elevated position, but the view is spectacular.

‘This is so heavenly.’

‘The whole place was built by a Dutchman.’ He turns to me. ‘He named it after his wife—Eilenroc is an anagram of Cornélie.’

I’m impressed. ‘Good knowledge.’

He shrugs. ‘I’ve been here a lot of times outside of the festival. It’s a fucking circus at the moment, the whole area, but it’s more fun when all the douchebag movie stars go home. I fell for this place at amfAR one year and did some research. Got talking to a local server, who told me there are steps from the street outside all the way down to a hidden cove. Not really a cove, because there’s no sand. But there’s a little concrete platform you can jump off of, and it’s super quiet. I’ve never seen anyone else down there.’

I have an image of Josh in a T-shirt and shorts, exploring the hidden corners of Antibes alone with a backpack, and feel a sudden pang. This guy gets a bad rap.

‘It sounds absolutely gorgeous.’

‘It really is. Especially first thing in the morning. And you can walk all the way around the cape to La Garoupe beach on the east side.’ He points. ‘It’s a really fun hike. It’s pretty brutal in high summer, but at this time of year it’s perfect.’

He turns to me, and smiles down at me, and tugs the lapels of his jacket more closely around me. ‘What do you say? We take it easy on the shots tonight, and then tomorrow morning we come back early. You, me and a picnic. Bring some sneakers and a bikini.’

5

ELLE

J osh was right. It’s spectacular down here.

He organised everything: he met me in the lobby of the Martinez at seven-thirty this morning with a brute of a security detail called Matthieu, a beach bag of towels and a rucksack apparently containing a non-inflammatory picnic. He’d raised his eyebrows last night when I shot down his suggestion of croissants and asked for my breakfast to be non-dairy, grain free and gluten free.

‘Are you sure you’re not from Santa Monica?’ he said, but he let it drop when I said I had a sensitive stomach (he doesn’t need to know the rest of it).

We’re both in hoodies, baseball caps and no-nonsense trainers. Josh has his swim trunks on, and looks like a walking People magazine cover, and I’m wearing denim cutoffs over my bikini. This is by far the most dressed-down I’ve been since arriving on the Cote d’Azur. Matthieu got us here pretty speedily in a blacked-out Range Rover and is now following us at a discreet distance. I feel bad that he’s loaded up like a camel with our stuff, but we’ve decided to do the full walk, the whole way around to the eastern side of the cape, so we’ll need rations.

As we descend, more of the sea comes into view. It’s one of those clear, South-of-France mornings that makes you wonder why you choose to live anywhere else. The Mediterranean is sparkling azure, and the air is fresh and clean. The sun hasn’t come around the cape yet, but its rays dance on the sea in the distance. Josh wasn’t lying about it being deserted down here: the only company we have is some seriously perky seagulls.

We reach the bottom. We haven’t spoken much—the steps are uneven and narrow, so most of our focus has gone on watching our footing and drinking in the scenery when we get a glimpse of the sea. It strikes me that Josh is enjoying the meditative quality of this morning as much as I am, which makes me relieved. But God, it’s glorious down here, and he shoots me a huge grin when he catches what must be sheer rapture on my face.

I swing my arms like a child. ‘This is heaven.’ The vast expanse of blue beyond us. The isolation. The calm. I’m almost high on the novelty of having Josh Lander to myself in this beautiful place during one of the biggest industry festivals on the calendar.

That grin again. ‘Isn’t it? It’s like therapy after the rest of Cannes.’ He puts his hands on his hips. ‘So what’s it gonna be, Madame? Swim or breakfast?’

He’s looking at me as if that’s not all he’s asking me, and I rise to the challenge. I keep my eyes on him and unzip my hoodie. ‘Swim.’

He laughs, delighted. ‘Badass.’

‘I’m assuming it makes sense to swim now, and then dry off while we walk?’

‘Exactly. And we can eat on the way, or at the other end.’

As we shrug off our clothes, we watch each other. He has a T-shirt under his hoodie and he strips it off in that sexy male way of grabbing the back of the collar and yanking it over his head.

Oh.

My.

God.

I feel like I’m getting a private, live viewing of Magic Mike. He’s huge and golden and perfect. Broad shoulders tapering down to the narrowest hips and a hard stomach. A dusting of hair on his chest that I want to run my nose through. He’s close enough that I can see the goosebumps on his arms, and his nipples are tight buds. His swimming trunks lie low on his hips, and he has a magic V of muscle just above them that makes me lick my lips.

I’m clearly not being remotely discreet in my ogling, because he throws his T-shirt at me. ‘What you looking at?’

‘Nothing at all.’ I smirk. He knows I’m lying.

‘I’m not looking at anything, either.’ He stands and watches me shamelessly as I slide my hoodie off my shoulders, tug my vest over my head and shimmy out of my cutoffs to reveal a plain black string bikini.

‘Holy fuck.’ His voice is hoarse, and he takes a step towards me as I stare at him. ‘Come on.’ He holds out his hand. ‘Let’s get this over with—it’s gonna be cold.’

We jump off the low concrete platform into the shallow water, and he holds my hand as we run into the waves to find some depth. Oh my God. He was right. It’s bloody freezing. I gasp and he laughs at me.

‘You okay, Princess? Keep moving. You’ll warm up quicker.’

He’s right. Once we’re almost out of our depth, I tread water hard, and an invigorating sense of warmth floods my veins. It feels incredible. I feel alive. I dip my head backwards so I can look up at this glorious, cloudless sky, and the cold makes my scalp tingle and gives me a head rush.

When I right myself, Josh is closer to me. Or else I’ve moved closer to him. He’s staring at me wordlessly, and I gawp at the view of this man, his huge shoulders still visible above the water, at one with sky and sea. It’s just me and him and the seagulls, and anything feels possible.

‘Come here,’ he whispers. He slides his hand around my waist and pulls me in towards him.

I’ve been thinking about kissing him incessantly since he introduced himself last night. My brain keeps ricocheting between how ridiculous it is to even imagine that kissing someone like Josh Lander is possible, and remembering his words and looks and innuendos. He’s definitely been linked with his fair share of gorgeous starlets over the years, but to give credit where it’s due, he’s been nothing but attentive and sweet and complimentary with me.

Still.

It’s so odd to think I could have a shot with him. Even though he stuck by my side till dinner last night. Even though he’s sharing his secret hideaway with me this morning.

It’s odd until his other hand slides over my bum, which I take as a sign that I should wrap my legs around his waist and drape my arms over those hulking shoulders, which are coolly slick to the touch.

It’s odd until I find myself practically nose to nose with him, the coldness of the water forcing my blood to pump through my veins at a rate that makes me feel spectacularly alive.

It’s odd until he nudges forward and puts his mouth to mine, and I find myself in sensory paradise.

The welcome heat of Josh’s body against me.

The decisive grip of his hand on my bum, pressing me flush against his hard stomach.

The firmness of his lips as he kisses me, tentatively at first, and then more forcefully.

That first taste as our wet, salty mouths collide and I open for him.

The warmth of his tongue as it finds mine and strokes. Probes.

The delicious pressure of his chest against my cold, pinched nipples as he pulls me in closer and takes his liberties. His hands are everywhere: fisting in my wet hair, toying with the tie on my bikini top, thumbs dragging along my jawline, fingers sliding over the curves of my bum and down my thighs. For my part, I cling to him like a creepy koala and take my fill.

I am groping Josh Lander.

Josh Lander’s tongue is in my mouth.

Josh Lander is sucking on my lower lip.

Oh my goodness.

I wriggle in closer towards him and observe with delight that his washboard stomach isn’t the only thing that’s hard against me.

I have given Josh Lander an erection.

I’m going to die.

We do actually kiss like we’re dying, like this is our first and last kiss of all time. He’s really going for it, which makes me feel far better about the fact that I’m seriously going for it, too. I can’t get enough of him, can’t get enough of his mouth and his body and the way he looks at me like I’m a pain au chocolat fresh out of the oven.

I dip my head and slurp at the salty wet of his shoulder, and rub my nose along the curve of where his neck meets his shoulder. And when I lift my head and draw back enough to see his face properly, he gives me a panty-melting grin.

‘I have wanted to do that since you appeared on that screen with a bucket of chicken-feed.’

My face breaks out in a thrilled and embarrassed smile.

‘Oh, yeah.’ His hand cups my bum and squeezes, and his eyes darken. ‘I’ve been torturing myself with lust and remorse since I saw you lie back and let that dick fuck you on-screen. Because it was so fucked-up, but you were still the hottest thing I’d ever seen. So freaking beautiful. And I’m totally ashamed to say that when you said yes, sir to him, I nearly shot my load. Right there in the auditorium.’

I swallow. The weight of my desire hits me deep and low inside. Those scenes were seriously tough to film, but we talked about this so much on set: the conflict those sex scenes created. That they were simultaneously morally repellent and erotic. The discomfort the viewer would likely face in attempting to sit with that conflict. To square it off in his or her own mind. What Tina produced was true art, and this revelation that my on-screen self turned Josh Lander on in a dark auditorium is a heady gift.

I stroke my hands over the gorgeous caps of his delts and down his pecs. The intensity in his voice and in his eyes: it’s too much. It’s too alluring. And dangerous. I’m far from experienced in these matters, but I want him. Really, really badly.

He looks down at my breasts and strokes his index finger down between them. I dip my head and watch him move over the swell of my right breast and chafe my nipple through the fabric of my bikini. A bolt of heat flashes through me and I can’t help it: I grind myself further against his erection. I’m not sure what’s happening to my brain and my body, but I could do something seriously rash here, in this moment, with this man, surrounded by a blanket of sparkling water that hides all indiscretions.

He must be feeling the same, for he removes his fingers from my breast and cups my face with his hand. His eyes are shining with desire and fascination. He exhales slowly and lowers his forehead to mine.

‘Whew. Goddammit, Elle. If we don’t slow down, I won’t have any self-control left.’

‘Me neither,’ I mumble. I rub my nose against his.

‘We should swim this off and get on our way. But first, answer me this. It’s been driving me crazy since I danced with you the other night.’

‘What’s that?’ I lift my head and gaze at him.

His lips turn up into a tortured smile. ‘Tell me, do you fuck like you dance? Because if you do, I may not survive this.’

6

JOSH

‘I  hope I didn’t give you the wrong impression this morning.’

Elle’s smile quivers. Oh, shit. I don’t want her to think I regret the kiss, or that it meant nothing.

‘Not the kiss. That was fucking amazing.’

Her smile widens again, and she sits up straight. God, she’s so freaking adorable in that virginal white dress.

‘Really?’

‘Sure.’ I hesitate. ‘Why? Was it not good for you?’

I mean, she seemed into it, and all, but you never know. Maybe I’ve become one of those entitled douches who’s stopped noticing when the woman’s not as into it as I am.

But she leans over and covers the hand clutching my glass of rosé.

‘Josh. Relax. It was amazing for me too.’

‘Okay, then. Phew.’ I grin at her. ‘No, I was thinking about it in the shower when I got back, and—’

‘Thinking about me in the shower, were you? Interesting.’

I lower my voice. ‘I jerked off in the shower, thinking about you.’

Her reaction is fan-fucking-tastic. Her head jerks around as if she’s terrified we’ll be overheard, before her gaze slides back to me and she bites her lip. She’s blushing. Fucking adorable, as I said.

‘Oh.’

‘Yeah. Oh. I needed to, after spending the morning with you and that little bikini of yours. My point is, I feel like I made out that I was only into you because of your movie—like, I was turned on by your character. Gracie. I should have made it clearer. It’s not Gracie I want to get to know better. It’s Elle Hart.’

I pause to make sure the words sink in. After an awesome walk around the cape in the early morning sunlight, we drove back to the Martinez and went our separate ways: Elle to her interviews, and me to the Nikki Beach pop-up for lunch with the guys.

But now I’ve got her to myself again. We’re in a distinctly low-key restaurant in Le Suquet, which is Cannes’ Old Town. Matthieu dropped us at the bottom of the steep, winding cobbled street and we strolled up in search of some dinner, my arm draped loosely around her. The paps will catch up with us at some point, but I have no problems being snapped with Elle Hart.

In fact, I’ll be fucking thrilled.

This street is super-narrow and lined with the sweetest old-world restaurants. Most of them take walk-ins and have little terraces on the street, but we’ve gone for a dark corner in an old stone building. I want Elle to myself as long as I can get her.

I’m probably being a superior pain in the ass, but I feel protective of her. Despite her insane talent, she’s so clearly not part of my world yet, in the best possible way. She’s refreshing, and youthful, and she seems so innocent and so dazzled by the craziness of Cannes (and especially by the industry’s reaction to her and her beautiful movie). I wanna keep her like this, stop the inevitable jaded cynicism that will kick in.

I should know. I’m only seven years older than her, but I’ve been in the movie business since I was a kid, and it gets old. So fucking old, you need a constant carousel of liquor and drugs and women just to keep you awake.

But I don’t feel that way with Elle.

I haven’t even felt the need to do a line or down a shot.

I just want to drink her in.

She’s looking at me now as if she doesn’t know whether to believe me. She’s magnificent. Her white dress exposes her creamy shoulders, and I want nothing more than to lean over and bite down on that ripe flesh. That face will launch so many crushes and obsessions, and selfishly, I wish I could keep it all for myself. I have a hunch that the more I get of Elle Hart, the more I’ll want. And it doesn’t even freak me out. The opposite.

‘I mean it,’ I tell her now. ‘I wanna get to know you. Tell me about yourself. I find you fascinating.’

‘Why?’ She sips her wine, but her eyes don’t leave mine. ‘I’m not terribly interesting. I suspect I’m quite basic, actually.’

I smile at that. ‘You are anything but basic. You went to Cambridge, didn’t you? Don’t sell yourself short.’

We both sit back in our seats as a grumpy server brings our appetiser: soupe de poisson, or fish soup, a local dish that smells fucking amazing.

‘How did you know that?’ She shoots me a suspicious smile.

I’m shameless. ‘Googled you.’

‘Stalker. Yes, I did go to Cambridge.’

‘And… What did you major in?’

‘We don’t really major in the UK—that is, we choose our degree at the outset. Single or Joint Honours. I read English.’

‘Is that not hard? Having to commit so early?’

She considers. ‘Well, A Levels—those are the exams we do in our final two years of secondary school—are really, really intense. People tend to do three, or maximum four A Levels, and you go into great depth on your subjects, so by the time you’ve finished those, you have a fairly good idea of what you want to do at uni.’

‘I see. And how many A Levels did Ellery Hart do?’

She looks down at her bowl of soup. ‘Five.’

’Nerd.’

‘Totally. Full disclosure. I am a complete geek, just in case you had any doubts.’

‘No doubts whatsoever.’

‘But they were all Arts subjects. I was crap at STEM stuff, always have been. And I always wanted to do English at uni.’

‘How did you get into acting?’

‘I was really into it at school. And then in my first year at Cambridge, I got invited into the Footlights.’

‘Sure.’ Even I’ve heard of the Footlights. ‘Emma Thompson was in them, right?’

‘Yes. She was their first female member! Incredible. So I did the Footlights, and did the Fringe at the Edinburgh Festival, and just kind of got into it that way. And then, in my final year, the Footlights’ president introduced me to my agent, Richard, and he changed everything. He got me a small part in a movie Tina was making, and then Tina asked me to try for the role of Gracie. She took a massive, massive chance on me. And I’ll never be able to repay her.’

I smile. She has no fucking clue. ‘Tina sounds like a smart woman. And believe me, baby, you’ll repay her a million times over. You owned that movie. It was all you.’

‘That’s kind of you to say.’ She takes a dainty sip of her soup. ‘Gosh, this is good. And you, child star genius? What should I know about you, that I might not already?’

I’d much rather talk about her. I could watch her and listen to her all night, in that posh British accent with that self-deprecating manner. Unlike everyone else I hang out with, she doesn’t suffer from the affliction of being high on her own publicity.

‘I dunno.’ I shrug. ‘I did my first movie when I was eight; missed a lot of high school, but I got through it somehow, I guess, with tutors and stuff.’

‘That must have been disruptive. Did you go to university?’

‘Duke.’ I grin. ‘Best years of my life. Majored in Visual and Performing Arts. Got some great buddies out of it. But then right after, my mom—she’s my manager—’

‘Hang on. Your mum’s your manager?’

‘Yeah.’ Here we go.

She slaps the table. ‘You are kidding me. How did I not know this? So she’s, like, your momager? I’m imagining Kris Jenner now. Does she look like Kris? Are you secretly a Kardashian?’

She looks thrilled with herself.

‘Fuck you,’ I say. ‘She’s definitely not Kris Jenner. She’s a lot more WASPy. And she’s even scarier than Kris.’

‘God. She must be terrifying.’

‘She really is.’ She has no idea.

‘Is she here with you, then? In Cannes?’

‘She is, but I’ve made it very clear to her that we’re here on separate trips. Mom’s not a party girl. She’s staying at the Carlton. She’s here solely to schmooze.’

‘And what are you here to do?’

I lean forward and give her my most genuine smile, because I mean every fucking word. ‘I’m here to find the most beautiful, talented, mesmerising woman in this whole damn circus and get as much of her as she’ll possibly give me.’

She looks at me through her dark eyelashes. ‘And how is that going for you?’ she asks quietly.

‘Well, I’ve found her. Now I just need to get as much of her as she’ll give me. And yes, I mean that exactly how it sounds. I wanna spend the night with you, baby. I wanna get you naked and kiss every fucking inch of you, and I wanna see how you look and sound when you’re actually enjoying yourself in bed. And then I wanna wrap my arms around you and fall asleep with my nose buried in your neck, and wake up tangled in the sheets with you.

‘And ideally, do the exact same every night we’re here. And based on how I’m feeling right now having you across from me, and how fucking amazing it was kissing you earlier, I wanna see you again, somehow, after Cannes. Cards on the table, Elle. That’s what I want.’

She’s looking at me, eyes lidded and heavy with desire, that tongue I tasted earlier licking her lower lip. I nod encouragingly.

‘And now comes the part where you tell me what you want, baby.’

‘I want that too.’ She whispers it. ‘I want—I want everything you just said. I just—it’s quite quick, that’s all, and I don’t want to be made a fool of. I don’t want to be another notch on Josh Lander’s bedpost during an ill-advised few days in the South of France.’ She looks down at her bowl again. ‘Even if I want to be in bed with you really, really badly.’

I’m not gonna lie; it’s a sucker punch to the gut to hear her talk like that about my bedpost, but there’s not much about my past behaviour that could reassure her. All I can give her is my word.

I reach over and take her hand. ‘Hey. Look at me. I get it. A lot of what you’ve read about me is total trash, but a lot of it’s true, too. I like to party. I like women. But you are not the kind of girl any guy should get to mistreat. You’re not a conquest. You are… fucking amazing, and I’m so lucky to even have a chance with you.

‘I will not screw you over, baby. I’m already dreading getting on that plane next weekend, and we haven’t even fucked yet. I promise you, I will not make a fool of you.’

7

ELLE

I n the end, the paps find us, and we beat a hasty retreat because the swarm of cameramen up the narrow street is threatening to ruin the evening of everyone else trying to dine in Le Suquet this evening. But that’s okay, because ever since Josh brought up the subject of us sleeping together tonight, I haven’t been able to think about anything else.

I’ve only slept with two people. I had a boyfriend for most of my time at uni. Luke: a gorgeous hockey player who was at Emmanuel College with me. We drifted apart during the craziness of Finals and my first film role, which I started shooting almost immediately after Finals, and then I slept with the barman in our local pub in the Cotswolds a couple of times last summer. So while I had a decent sex life with Luke, I’m not exactly experienced.

But it’s quite obvious that Josh is—that he’ll be incredible in bed. I can just tell. He’s one of these guys who oozes confidence, which is ridiculously attractive in itself, and sex.

He looks at me; I think of sex.

He walks; I think of sex.

He kisses me, and my entire body primes itself to have sex now.

He also, despite my best efforts to rationalise with myself, seems genuinely attracted to me. And despite the many salacious stories I’ve read about him over the years, I choose to give him the benefit of the doubt. I do him the courtesy of judging him, not on what the gossip rags say about him, but on how he’s behaved since I’ve met him. And he’s behaved beautifully. Impeccably. He hasn’t put a foot wrong, and I literally fancy the pants off him. So we’re doing this.

‘Is this the suite they gave you?’ he asks as I self-consciously let him into my room.

‘Yeah.’ I stare. ‘Why?’

‘It’s tiny. Cheap fuckers. You’re gonna win Best Actress; you should be in the fucking penthouse.’

‘Stop saying that. You’ll jinx me. And I’m a nobody right now. And it’s just a little indie film—I would have felt awkward if they had to fork out for anything fancier.’

‘You’re the sweetest.’ He closes the gap between us. ‘And I take it back. There is no hotel room on the planet I’d rather be in right now.’

‘Maybe you should show me yours tomorrow night.’ There’s a defensive note in my tone; I’m conscious he still could run for the hills after he’s had his way tonight, but he smiles his amazing bedroom smile at me, a smile I’ve quickly decided is my favourite in the whole world.

‘I’ll show you my room whenever you like, baby. But I’ll most likely cuff you to my bed and never let you leave. Don’t worry.’ He lazily drapes my hair back over my shoulder and drops tiny kisses down my neck that make all my nerve endings stand to attention. ‘I’ll have someone come tell us if you win Best Actress.’

‘Right now, I’m surprisingly ambivalent as to who gets Best Actress.’

I gasp as his mouth moves along my shoulder, his lips brushing and kissing my skin.

‘Well said, my little minx. Let’s go see your view.’

He breaks away from me and slides the door to the terrace open, stepping outside. I follow cautiously and stand beside him, my hands resting on the top of the low wall.

‘I’ve been told to be careful of long lens photographers out here.’

Josh is behind me in a flash, pressing up against me, his breath hot against my neck. ‘You should definitely be careful. No funny business out here, that’s for sure.’

His hands span my waist and he pulls me against him. His teeth snag lightly on my shoulder. ‘Fuck, you taste good. I’ve been wanting to do that all evening. I can’t wait to see how you taste everywhere else.’

‘Josh!’ I’m torn between worrying that someone will get some inappropriate footage and abandoning myself to the pleasure of this gorgeous man sampling me like I’m the pudding we had to forsake at the restaurant.

‘Don’t worry. If anyone’s out there, all they’ll get is some stupid shots of us enjoying the view together. Nothing to see here. Just look at the pretty view, gorgeous.’

It is pretty. It’s stunning. La Croisette is alive with people strolling, milling, taking in the majestic row of hotels and designer boutiques on one side and the dark sea on the other. As usual, the super yachts are out in force on the horizon. But I hardly see any of it, because behind me, Josh Lander is busying himself with my zip, sliding it down my back.

I gasp and clutch a hand to the front of my dress. It’s strapless, and at this rate, it’ll fall straight down.

He groans behind me, fingering the closure on my strapless bra. He traces those same fingers down the indent of my spine. His nose is buried in my hair, and he mutters something unintelligible before a hand snakes through the opening of the dress and around my waist. He palms my stomach as his face slides down my back. His bowed head takes on a delicious pressure against my bum. He must be on his knees now.

I’m frozen on that terrace. Frozen with desire and the fierce thrill of anticipation. We really should go inside.

He circles his fingers and thumb around my ankle in a loose grip and slides them up my leg. Up, up, under the long skirt of my dress. His other hand is still palming the sensitive skin of my stomach. The hand on my leg moves higher, brushing its way up my inner thigh. I’m frantically wondering how far he’s going to take this out here, but my legs widen their stance of their own accord.

Josh’s fingers hit the very top of my inner thigh. Any higher and he’ll feel my thong. I gasp and he makes a strangled sound.

‘I guess we better get you inside.’ He gets to his feet and steers me around, staying close behind me so no sneaky long lenses get a shot of my unzipped dress.

Inside, he slides the door shut with a slam and pulls the curtains over in a hurried, haphazard way. I’m standing, watching him, my hand still holding my dress up at the front, my full attention on this gorgeous man shutting out the outside world. It’s just the two of us. This is it.

He prowls towards me. Strands of dark blonde hair have fallen over his tanned forehead, and his beautiful blue shirt is rolled up at the sleeves and undone at the neck. He’s good enough to eat, and judging by the hungry expression in his eyes, he’s thinking the exact same thing about me.

Both his hands slide around my neck and cup my jaw, tilting my face up to his. I take in the intensity in those brown eyes and the curve of his lower lip. I want to bite down on it. It’s irresistible. I laugh.

‘What’s up?’ He reaches a hand up to brush my fringe out of my eyes.

‘Nothing.’ I shake my head. ‘It’s just—you’re Josh Lander. This is quite surreal. And a bit scary. In a good way, honestly.’

He has that look in his eyes again, like he can’t work out where he found me or what to do with me.

‘You’re funny. There’s nothing surreal or scary about me. I’m just a guy whose mug everyone’s sick to death of. You’re the one who’s—’

‘Who’s what?’

He uses his hands to tilt my head to the side and buries his face in my neck, pretending to take a bite. ‘Fresh meat.’

I hit him on his very nice bicep.

‘Hilarious.’

He straightens up. ‘Look at it from my viewpoint. I’ve seen this carnival a million times. Same faces. Same dicking around, every year. Same old, same old. And then you show up.’ His expression grows serious. ‘And, boom. You hit me like… I don’t know what. A freight train, I guess. You’re so beautiful, and talented, so talented you blow me away. You’re exactly what I didn’t know I was missing. You’re different.’ He follows the curve of my eyebrow with his finger, tracing down my nose, over my lips and back along my jaw. ‘You are fucking exquisite, Elle. I’m a lucky bastard.’

I stare at him in disbelief. I’m having a major swoon. I can’t believe he feels this way about me.

‘You haven’t got lucky yet,’ I manage.

His grin is positively diabolical. ‘Cute. And true. I intend to fix that immediately.’ His hand closes over the hand that’s holding up my dress and he tugs it gently away. ‘Let me see you.’

8

ELLE

I  yield to Josh Lander, willingly. I let him take my hand. I let my dress fall straight to the floor and side-step out of it. And I let myself enjoy the priceless look of awe on his face as he sees me in my underwear for the first time. I also inwardly send thanks to the gods for Mara, my dastardly enabler, who snuck to the La Perla boutique further along La Croissette earlier and found me this push-up strapless bra and knickers, both in gossamer-thin, palest blue lace. She may also have made a condom pit-stop at the pharmacie.

‘Holy shit.’ His jaw is on the floor; he passes a hand over his face. ‘Oh, my Christ. Baby, you are a fucking stunner.’

‘Thank you.’ He seems shellshocked, so I shyly take a step towards him and close the gap between us, making a start on his shirt.

I am unbuttoning Josh Lander’s shirt.

Yes, yes, yes!

He trails his fingertips so lightly across my collarbones and down my arms that they leave a trail of goosebumps in their wake. Skims his hands down the sides of my bra and over the curves of my waist and hips. And halts my progress with his buttons by cupping my bum cheeks, which are only half-covered by a teasing scrap of lace, and grabbing them, hard. He pulls me in for a kiss that’s hot. Hungry. Hurried.

I free my hands from where they’re trapped between us and plaster them to his back, pulling him in as close to me as I possibly can and mentally high-fiving myself at his decisive erection between us. I’ve been thinking about that—this—since our decadent kissing in the sea this morning. It was a glorious taster, and this is the real deal.

From this point, things heat up quickly. Josh’s fingers slip under the lace of my pants before heading north to unclasp my bra. He chucks it away without breaking the kiss and pulls me more closely to him, my bare breasts crushing against his shirt.

I need to get his shirt off. I need skin on skin. I fumble with the remaining buttons while our mouths stay attached and our tongues continue their wet, heavenly dance. Josh impatiently tugs open his final button and pulls off the shirt before getting his first good view of my breasts. His look of appreciation and pain brings a huge smile to my face.

‘Oh, man.’ He reverently cups them, weighing them in his hands. ‘Oh, Jesus, baby. You’re beautiful. You’re—fuck. You’re incredible.’ And he slides a thumb over each nipple, flicking them lightly. Oh, God. Oh, God. My mouth is watering; the heat from his touch shoots straight between my legs. I cling to his now bare and bloody gorgeous upper arms as he acquaints himself with my breasts. I’m burning up already.

He looks me in the eye, his own eyes dark and molten under hooded lids. ‘How does that feel? Does that feel good, baby?’

‘So good.’ I’m arching into him, desperate for his touch. ‘Don’t stop.’

A little laugh and a shake of his head. ‘Believe me, I am not fucking stopping. I couldn’t if I tried.’

He releases my breasts reluctantly and grabs at his belt buckle, and I help him shove his jeans down. He kicks them off and I have the unearthly pleasure of a private audience with an almost-naked Josh Lander. He’s just willingly imprisoned himself with his biggest, perviest fan. He’s in Calvin Klein tighty-whities, and I swear the brand should make him a poster-boy, because holy cow, he is gorgeous.

Apart from the erection. I mean, the erection is definitely a big (operative word) part of the gorgeousness in front of me, but it may not be billboard-friendly. Anyway, Calvin Klein is missing a trick here. But back to the ridiculous specimen of manhood standing in front of me, giving me his best brown bedroom eyes.

My mouth-watering situation is getting worse. I swallow, and lick my lips, and put my palms flat on his golden, lightly haired pecs. Hard. Sublime. I brush them over his nipples and he shivers. I look up at him in delight.

‘Do you have sensitive nipples?’

He laugh-groans. ‘Yeah.’

‘Really? That is fascinating. I’ve never been with a guy who has sensitive nipples before.’ He doesn’t need to know it’s been a sum total of two. Third time lucky.

‘I don’t wanna think about the guys you’ve been with right now.’

‘It’s a far shorter list than your ex conquests, mate.’

His hands smooth over my bum again and squeeze. ‘You’re a handful. I really, really love your ass.’

‘I really, really love this.’ I trail my hands further down his stomach, which is so tanned and nicely hairy and hard I just want to lick my way down it. So I do. I bend, and I kiss the dusting of hair between his pecs, and I alternate licks and kisses as I make my way down towards his tummy button. As I squat, I steady myself by sliding my hands around his bum, and bloody hell. I take a leaf out of his book and grab it, hard. It. Is. Delicious. I dig my fingers in.

I’m level with the waistband of his briefs now, except the waistband is under severe strain from the tip of his penis, which is making a break for freedom. I brush my lips over it. Wet. Salty. Also delicious. Mmm. Josh Lander has many delicious body parts.

Either my action or my moan of appreciation makes him jolt, and he grabs me by the upper arms and hauls me up. He’s breathing hard.

‘Oh my fucking Christ, Elle—I’m gonna go off like a rocket if you do that. Bed.’

He kisses me hungrily, his hand a vice at the back of my neck, his tongue thrusting deep inside my mouth. I want that tongue on me. I want all Josh Lander’s body parts in me and on me, weighing me down and filling me up. He walks me backwards and I drop down on the bed when the backs of my legs hit it. I’m at the perfect height to grab him and make another attempt at his—but no, he gestures at me to scoot back.

Oh my goodness. Josh Lander is on his hands and knees on the bed, crawling towards me in a predator-meets-Patrick-Swayze manner, and the fact that he’s crawling between my legs means I have to spread them to make room for him. I watch him from up on my elbows. My breath is hitching. So, it would seem, is his.

I let myself flop back on the bed and he kisses me, deep and slow.

‘You’re a temptress.’ He tells me. ‘You are driving me crazy. So I’m gonna drive you crazy. Got it?’

I think my attempt at a reply is more like a shameless moan into his mouth, to be honest.

He pulls back and crouches over me, and I let my eyes fall closed as his perfect mouth moves to my nipple, those lips sucking and pulling at it and God. I wriggle on the bed, widening my legs. Desperate for him to free me of my knickers and put me out of my misery.

He moves to the other nipple, which immediately begins straining for his attention, and he lavishes it with hot swirls of his tongue and deep pulls with his lips. I throw my arms over my head and moan with abandon as he works me to just the right side of pain. His fingers find my first nipple, still bathed in his saliva and turning cold in the air-con, and roll it around. My noises get louder. I’m desperate for more from him.

Then he’s back at my mouth, kissing me, his hand kneading harder at my breast. He pushes his erection right against my core, rubbing against the soaking lace of my thong. This is what I need. This pressure, from his penis, or his tongue, or his fingers—I’ll take anything right now. I push against him and take his tongue fully into my mouth.

‘You’re such a good girl, Elle,’ he growls against my mouth. He tweaks my nipple, hard. ‘Such a good girl, I can tell, and that makes me wanna fuck you so bad. I bet you don’t let go much, do you? Unless you’re shaking that fucking amazing ass on the dance floor, or in bed. I wanna give it to you so bad, Elle.’

My head is literally spinning with desire. I feel as though I’m going to black out. ‘I want it so much,’ I tell him. ‘I need you. Please, Josh. I’m dying.’

‘That makes two of us,’ he says, and his hand moves down between my legs. Thank God. ‘You deserve everything.’ He grunts the words out. ‘I wanna give you everything.’

His fingers tease me through the lace. Oh my goodness. Oh my goodness. I can barely hang on. And then he jumps up and tugs my knickers off and settles back between my legs. His tongue finds the place where I need it the most, and it licks and slides and flicks. Whew. Whew. I’ve broken out in a sweat at the effort to hang on, hold back, prolong this blessed torture and not shove myself in his face.

Josh’s tongue then has the audacity to go on a meandering journey between my legs, and judging by the sounds he’s making, he seems to be enjoying himself as much as I am. Improbable that that might be. I have a tiny Josh Lander’s tongue is on my most private parts wobble before I get it together. This is just me and him. He seems to be doing this willingly, and he is good. Obscenely good, in my amateur opinion.

When he introduces his fingers into the mix, I practically fall apart. First one, then two. The pressure inside me is, I suspect, just a fraction of what it’ll be when he puts that penis in me, but it’s still perfect. Perfect.

He licks me again, and between licks he unleashes a string of anatomically detailed observations that are so dirty I practically come.

‘I’m so close,’ I tell him. ‘Josh, I’m going to—slow down. Hurry up.’

As I pant and talk absolute rubbish, he pulls away. ‘Come with me inside you,’ he tells me. ‘Hang on, baby. I’m gonna make you feel amazing. Let me get—’

At the risk of losing bodily contact with him for a second, my arm shoots out. ‘I’ve got condoms. In the drawer.’ I point at the bedside table.

That mouth that has just been on me curves into a smile. ‘Seriously? You’re full of surprises for a good girl.’

I smile at his praise despite my immense physical discomfort at being left hanging. But it’s almost worth the discomfort to watch Josh Lander gingerly tugging down his briefs and rolling a condom on over his impressive (again, in my pathetically amateur opinion) length. He fists himself and my jaw possibly hits my chest. I wriggle again and stretch my arms above my head.

‘Look at you. All laid out for me. I’m gonna fucking devour you, beautiful.’ He bites his lower lip and kneels back on the bed, running the pad of his thumb between my legs. I squeeze my eyes closed in frustration and open them when he puts his hands under my bum and lifts it, stuffing a pillow under it.

And then: oh, God. He runs a finger around to make sure I’m wet enough for him (I definitely am) and positions himself at my entrance. And pushes forward, braced on one arm. I lock gazes with him and marvel at the intensity in those brown eyes, at the focus on his face and the effort I can tell it takes him not to ram home. I roll my hips and accommodate him as he feeds himself into me.

‘Oh, fuck.’ He thrusts once more and bottoms out as I open as wide as I possibly can. ‘Fucking hell. You’re so tight. God, baby.’

Josh begins to move and I move with him, arching my back to give myself up to him as much as I can, to take him in as deeply as I’m able. And then, sweet Lord, he takes his fingers and opens me up wider and uses his thumb to rub me in circles in a way that has the heat at my core building and building in waves of pleasure as he moves in me.

‘Keep looking at me, Elle,’ he orders. ‘I wanna see those beautiful eyes when you come.’

The combination of the enormous pressure of having him inside me, the heavenly friction of his focused, relentless thumb on me, and the intensity of our unbroken eye contact is too much, and I freefall in a way I’ve never, ever experienced, my hips bucking as much as they can underneath Josh. My skin is prickling, my blood is zinging, and I go temporarily blind, the sight of his beautiful, triumphant, turned-on face replaced with a full-on firework show for a few moments.

I’m still surfing the waves of my orgasm when he stills and comes too, shuddering into me, adding to the incredible physical and emotional overwhelm I feel right now. He collapses on top of me, kissing me deeply, brushing my fringe out of my eyes, holding me and crooning to me.

‘It’s okay,’ he says, stroking the length of my back. ‘Holy shit, Elle. That was—that was fucking unreal. Jeez.’ He shudders and sucks the air in through his teeth in a happy way as I clench around him one last time and tilt my hips up to wring the last of his orgasm from him.

‘I take it back,’ he says. ‘I’m gonna tie you to my bed and I will not let you know if you win Best Actress. I’ll need you to clear your schedule for the next week because you, my little British princess, are not going anywhere.’

9

ELLE

J osh does let me go, obviously, but for as little time as possible. Over the next week, we’re attached at the hip.

And several other body parts.

That he’s not here to promote a specific film makes it easier for us to snatch time together. He’s incredibly sweet. Attentive. Adoring. He brings me lunch when I get breaks between interviews, and we eat in the hotel room or out on the terrace. A couple of times we even slip over to the Martinez’s beach club for seared tuna salads. Paps be damned.

The paps are indeed all over us like a rash. We’re the hottest story out of Cannes, even though most of the gossip rags are speculating that our fledgling relationship is actually manufactured to boost Gracie’s publicity.

I get it, I suppose. I mean, Gracie’s a little indie movie that needs all the publicity it can get. And if I were to put out for the movie (which is an offensive suggestion in itself), Josh Lander’s the biggest and most perfect star I could target. But no one who sees us together can surely doubt that this is the real deal.

The true story is far more fun, and some of the press have jumped on that: the ‘posh British princess’ (so they’ve dubbed me) and the all-American playboy, who’s basically Hollywood royalty. The NSFW dance floor meet-cute that went viral. And the PDAs that definitely aren’t for effect.

There have even been some photos of Josh rubbing sun cream very attentively on my bum cheeks up on the pier of the Martinez’s beach club. My bikini was particularly small that day (thanks to pressure from Bad Boy Josh) and there were definite overtones of Ben and J-Lo that I’m not proud of. But, hey. The experience itself was particularly gratifying. What can I say? He’s good with his hands.

And all his other body parts.

The press is certainly getting enough of those PDA shots to fuel speculation that we could actually be sincere in our courtship. When we walk, he has his arm around me the whole time. When I speak, he gazes at me in rapture and strokes my fringe from my face (or maybe I should say my ‘bangs’. He’s so cute).

My favourite headline so far?

FALLING STARS, courtesy of the Daily Mail. That one gave me goosebumps.

We’ve spent every night together since that first night. I was a bit worried about that, but not for the reasons you might think. It’s really because of my Crohn’s.

If you aren’t familiar with Crohn’s, think of the least sexy, least glamorous, most embarrassing and revolting illness you could have. My medical team thinks it was triggered by a bout of glandular fever when I was fifteen. I’ve been dealing with digestive disasters ever since, but being on a strict autoimmune protocol for my diet has really helped, so now most of my flare-ups come from being overwhelmed, stressed, or anxious.

That’s the really rubbish part. I get anxious that I’ll get a flare-up, and guess what? My anxiety brings on a flare-up. I’ve tried everything, believe me. Hypnotherapy and aromatherapy. Meditation and massage. Yoga and reiki. Acupuncture and homeopathy.

Some of it helps. But the best thing I can do is manage my lifestyle, so I’m not overworking and I leave space between big things—like long-haul travel or parties or long shooting days—so my body has time to recalibrate and rest.

Because it’s all so embarrassing and deeply personal, I don’t talk about it. At all. My family has been amazing, and my closest friends know—my best friend from uni, Nora, and Mara, obviously. And Tina. I told her out of courtesy (the insurance company for the film needed to know, anyway) but also so we could work together on managing my shooting schedule to avoid overloading me. If I have a flare-up and end up in hospital, or even just bedridden for a few days, nobody gains.

But otherwise, I don’t talk about it, and I’m definitely not planning on telling Josh. Not yet, anyway. Imagine being told your brand-new kind-of-girlfriend, who has been pulling out all the stops to impress you with her sexy new underwear and tiny bikinis and who is totally star-struck by you, actually has an illness that makes her involuntarily empty the contents of her bowels into her pants with no control from time to time, and even poos out blood clots straight from the lining of her inflamed intestines. Yeah. I know. It’s a bit heavy.

Annoyingly, my flare-ups are often worst first thing in the morning. I don’t know why, but it means I’m extremely antsy about doing anything too active first thing. I never, ever go for early morning runs, for example. So, the morning I was due to have my hiking date with Josh, I purposely set my alarm for 5am and took it really easy, doing some gentle yoga to test how my body was feeling, and drinking camomile tea to soothe my gut before I went out with him.

But thankfully, my body has been on board all week, and nothing embarrassing has happened. I was worried Cannes would be so frenetic that it would cause a flare-up, but I’ve been fine. Maybe all the orgasms Josh Lander is doling out are acting as panaceas to my nervous system and keeping inflammation at bay.

I don’t know.

But I’m grateful.

I’ve met this incredible man, who makes me starry-eyed and gooey whenever I’m with him, and I haven’t pooed my pants. I’ll take that.

Tonight is the Closing Ceremony, when the committee awards the prizes to the best of the competition. I’ve spent the afternoon getting ready with Astrid and Honor, whose brands are dressing me and making me up for my final red-carpet appearance. As Lucinda once again works magic with my face, we all chat about Josh. Obviously.

‘I have to say I’m impressed,’ Honor says. ‘I wouldn’t have thought he had it in him, but he’s been positively attentive this week, from what I’ve seen.’

‘Not that you read the tabloids.’ Astrid nudges her.

‘Ahem. Of course not. It’s just nice when they talk about someone else but me and Jackson. But you two look adorable together.’

I sigh in a not very cool schoolgirl-type way. ‘He’s amazing. He’s been so sweet.’

‘Good in bed?’ Astrid asks nonchalantly, and they all laugh when I blush.

‘Come on!’ Lucinda blows some excess powder off my under-eye area. ‘Throw us a bone, love.’

‘Let’s just say,’—I consider my words—‘there’s a reason I’ve spent every night this week with him, and it’s not because I’m cold.’

They whoop, and Honor high-fives me, causing Lucinda to glare at her.

‘Good girl, Elle!’ Astrid says. ‘Who would have thought it—Josh Lander, head over heels. But I get it. You’re so gorgeous and smart. You must be like a breath of fresh air to him. I’m a little envious, I have to say.’

Astrid, for the record, is stunning. She’s a (natural, Swedish) platinum blonde who always looks like a silver screen film star. She’s married to an extremely successful hedge fund manager, Mark, and they have a little girl, Tabby, who’s four and just as gorgeous as her mother. (I don’t like Mark. I’m sure he was hitting on me when I met him at Astrid’s fashion show in February, and I’m usually really clueless about that kind of thing. But he made it quite obvious. She could do better; that’s all I’m saying.)

‘Can I address the elephant in the room?’ Honor asks. ‘Have you guys talked about what’s going to happen after Cannes?’

It is indeed the elephant in the room, because tomorrow evening I’ll be on my flight back to Heathrow, and Josh will be on a private jet back to LA with his A-list buddies.

‘I was obviously a little nervous about bringing it up,’ I tell them, ‘because, you know, I didn’t want to seem too keen. But it was all Josh. He mentioned it quite a few days ago, asked me if we could keep seeing each other once we got back home. He said he thought we had something special together, and I agree.’

Honor and Astrid exchange an impressed look.

‘What have you done with the real Josh Lander?’ Honor asks. ‘That’s amazing, sweetie. I’m so pleased for you. Our boy has fallen. Hook, line and sinker. I gather you feel the same?’

I consider how I feel when I’m with Josh. How secure and adored he makes me feel. And how he’s never made any issue of the fact that he’s mega-famous and I’m just a newbie. And obviously, I consider the ridiculous amount of lust and idolisation I have for him. I’m in pretty deep. I think about him every waking minute. I crave him.

‘I’ve also fallen, big time. God help me.’

JOSH

I’M SITTING with Brad and Davide at the Closing Ceremony, further forward than I would have managed on my own because a movie they co-financed is a part of the competition. Elle and I arrived separately. She had to turn up with her Gracie crew so they could all have their red-carpet walkabout together.

To say I’m excited for her, and nervous for her, and proud of her, would be a huge fucking understatement. Ellery Hart has blown me away, on screen and in person, more than I could ever have thought possible. She’s one in a million, and the best part is she has no fucking clue how brightly her star is shining right now. Will shine.

Those offers will come flooding in after this, even if she doesn’t get Best Actress. She’s on everyone’s radar now, and not just for art-house movies. Those looks are gold dust. She is commercial gold, and she’s going to hit the big-time. I hope her agent’s ready.

Gracie wins the Palme d’Or, as expected, and the crowd goes fucking wild. We’re all on our feet, cheering and clapping and stamping as the entire team goes up on stage to receive the award. This is a big deal. Tina Winston is only the second female director after Jane Campion to be awarded this honor by the committee.

Elle’s up there with the rest of them, beaming from ear to ear and hugging Tina, and that douche who plays her boss, and some others I don’t know. She is a total queen in a platinum sheath, her golden hair up and fuck-off diamonds on her ears. I can’t wait to take that dress off later. I can’t wait to move inside her while I tell her how fucking amazing she is, how much she blows my mind.

And I’m so goddamn happy she’s had this recognition for her movie, because there’s no doubt in my mind that her performance closed the deal. Even if she doesn’t get Best Actress.

She gets Best Actress.

And I am over the fucking moon. I’m unleashed. I stick my fingers in my mouth and whistle; I stomp and punch the air. My girl. My amazing girl, whom I’ve only just met and can barely lay claim to, is the queen of fucking Cannes, smashing it with a performance so nuanced and raw and enticing that everyone’s fallen for her.

This time, when she takes her place on the stage, it’s just her and Léa Seydoux, who’s presenting the award. Léa’s a beautiful, seductive woman, a Cannes veteran, but in my mind there’s no contest. My girl shines. She literally shines, and she’s the most adorable mix of being genuinely ecstatic and impressively poised. She thanks the committee in what sounds to my dumb ears like perfect French, which is very, very sexy.

Maybe I’ll get her to speak French to me later.

In bed.

When she’s naked and wrapped around me.

The English part of her speech is short and self-deprecating and perfect. Deflecting the praise, and telling the audience Tina deserves most of this award for her incredible, sensitive direction and for coaxing out of Elle a performance she didn’t know she had in her.

My girl’s a class act. Tonight’s the starkest possible reminder of that. And so it’s no surprise that tonight, of all the nights since I saw her and went in for the kill, my freaking inner monster decides to goad me.

You’re a fucking joke, dude.

This woman’s the real deal.

She’s going stratospheric.

You’re a fucked-up dick who can’t get through an evening without half a bottle of scotch and a few lines.

Not until you met her, anyway.

She’s gonna figure it out—figure out you’re an empty shell dressed up like a pretty boy, and she’s going to leave you for fucking dust.

10

ELLE

D espite how high I am over winning Best Actress (not sure when, if ever, that will sink in), I’m absolutely dreading saying goodbye to Josh. I feel sick to my stomach every time I think about it. I’ll never have this time again: the insanity of my first Cannes, getting my award and the growing understanding that everything is about to change for me.

But the biggest deal this past week has been falling for Josh Lander. It’s surreal to think that, a few short days ago, I was in such a tizz over him brushing up against me on the dance floor (although that was one of the craziest moments of my life).

Now, I know the noises he makes when he comes. When he sleeps. When he’s waking up. I know how the inside of his mouth tastes, and the feel of his thumb pad tracing the curve of my spine. I know how soft the fine baby hairs on his hairline are when I brush my lips against them.

I also know lots of other things the public never will, because he’s let me in. For someone who’s been shafted by the press so many times, he’s been incredibly open with me from the start. Maybe it’s because I’m so obviously new to this game and he wants me to learn from his tales of woe. Or because I’m pretty clueless and highly unlikely to sell our story to the highest bidder.

Or, hopefully, it’s because he trusts me.

Feels close to me.

Is as drawn in by this instant bond we have as I am.

Whatever the reason, he’s let me into his life, and it’s even better than him letting me into his bed. I’m aware he and his mum don’t see eye to eye, that she’s an amazing businesswoman and deal-maker, but makes every decision based on numbers and little else. Certainly not based on what Josh wants. He joked with me the other day that if she wasn’t his mum, he’d sack her. I’m aware he’s horribly self-critical and continues to beat himself up over his performances, even years later.

He detested his performance in Hey, Jude, for example. It was a long-running series on the Disney channel in which he, of course, played Jude, and it made an entire generation of girls fall madly in love with him. Including me.

‘I had you-as-Jude on my bedroom wall for years,’ I finally confessed the other night when we were in bed. I ran my hands down his gorgeous chest.

I hadn’t planned on telling him that. At all. But he was being so down on himself, and I wanted to put a smile on his face.

It definitely worked. He grinned like the Cheshire Cat and rolled over, pressing down on top of me.

‘Is that so?’

‘Yeah. I discovered it a few years after you filmed it, I suppose. I was fourteen. Maybe thirteen. It was my favourite poster. By a mile.’

‘Hmm.’ He pressed down on me harder. ‘Fourteen-year-old Elle, crushing on me in her bedroom. Good job I didn’t know you back then. I bet you were a walking felony.’

I laughed and tried to wriggle away. ‘I wasn’t. Honestly. I was a late developer, and I had braces. But you broke my heart. I was so in love with you.’

He kissed me then, so softly. ‘I’m sorry I broke your heart, sweet girl. But I’m much more interested in making you fall in love with me now.’ He raised his head so he could see me. ‘How am I doing?’

I lay back on his pillow and met his gaze. My beautiful Josh, doing things to my heart this time around that my fourteen-year-old self would have been decidedly ill-equipped to cope with.

‘You’re doing a scarily good job,’ I whispered. And it was true. He was.

I DON’T HAVE to worry about saying goodbye to him in the end. Because the morning after the Closing Ceremony and one hell of an after-party, into which Josh and Brad carried me on their shoulders, for crying out loud, while everyone stood around and clapped me, he tells me he’s going to cancel his place on Davide’s jet.

‘I was thinking, it’s stupid to go straight back when London is so close to Cannes.’ He traces up and down my stomach with a featherlight touch.

My heart leaps with hope. ‘Really? I mean, it’s a good thousand miles, probably. So not exactly close. But it’s a quick flight. Two hours, max.’

‘A thousand miles is nothing.’ He kisses me. ‘Not if it means more time with my girl. Are you free?’

‘Free-ish. I promised my parents I’d go home and see them. They’re desperate to hear all the gossip. And it sounds like Mara has lots of press requests. Both US and British Vogue want to talk to me. Can you believe it?’

‘I can believe it. They should have been all over this months ago instead of playing catch-up.’

‘I think Gracie’s success has taken everyone by surprise. The film didn’t have a big marketing budget. But the win has done wonders for us.’

‘The win… and your face.’ He shifts on top of me and I grab his bum greedily and knead it. His bum is sheer heaven.

‘I don’t know about that.’

‘I do, Princess. So. How about I come with you to see your folks?’ He asks it casually, but his face tells a different story.

‘Really? You wouldn’t be freaked out? They’d love that. They’re dying to meet you.’

‘How come they’re not here this week?’

‘We talked about it, but Mara and Richard—that’s my agent—said it would be totally crazy and I’d be pulled in every direction. They didn’t want me to feel obliged to carve out time for them. They’ve been sending me incessant video messages, and we’ve FaceTimed, obviously.’

‘I bet they have. They must be so proud of their girl. Of course I want to meet them. Will I have to sleep in the spare room?’

‘Not if I can help it. They’re pretty liberal. We’ll just have to be quiet.’

‘Sorry. No can do.’ And he dives on me.

So, just like that, Josh comes to the UK with me, and it’s amazing. He sees my flat, which is a nice rental in Notting Hill, and we drive up to the Cotswolds and spend a couple of nights with my family, which goes really well.

Josh is charm personified and my parents love him. He doesn’t get to meet my brother, Alfie, who’s in finance and lives in New York. We get papped drinking Pimms outside a pub in Chipping Norton and escape to Soho Farmhouse for a morning. They have a photography ban there which gives us a bit of privacy.

There’s one hairy moment at my parents’ when Josh is gushing about how proud they must be of me. Dad gets misty-eyed and tells him my Best Actress award is especially meaningful because of everything I’ve been through with my health.

Josh looks understandably alarmed. ‘What have you been through with your health?’

I give Dad a pointed look. I’ve already warned them I haven’t told Josh about my Crohn’s yet, but I can’t blame them. My health dramas, and my ridiculous amount of time in hospital when I was a teenager, are such a big part of my whole family’s lives.

‘Glandular fever,’ I throw out. ‘I got it when I was fourteen and had to miss six months of school, right at the beginning of my GCSE syllabus. It was really tough.’

Josh looks blank. ‘What the hell is glandular fever?’

‘You guys call it mono,’ I tell him. ‘Same thing—it’s the Epstein-Barr virus, basically. Anyway. Moving on.’

After a final night in London, Josh flies back, and it’s really tough. I know it’s ridiculous, because we’ve only known each other a couple of weeks, but I got used to falling asleep with him. To hanging out with him every possible second of the day. And to having unfettered access to that body. That face. That mouth. Ugh.

Between crazy meetings with Richard and Mara, and exciting conversations about potential projects, and interviews with press outlets all over the world, I manage a long weekend in Santa Monica. Correction: I don’t manage it. I prioritise it, because much as I want to capitalise on the buzz coming off our wins at Cannes, I need to spend time with this incredible man who’s welcomed me into his life so enthusiastically.

Santa Monica is amazing. I love it. I was convinced I’d hate LA, but I love the beachy, healthy vibe here, and most of all, I love waking up to a view of the Pacific every morning from Josh’s gorgeous home. It’s a parallel universe here, and I’m a different person, though I do feel even more British and socially awkward here than usual, surrounded by all these lithe, uninhibited people with perfect bodies and perfect smiles.

Josh makes it back over to London in late June. He claims it’s because he misses me, but his excitement over the Queen’s tennis tournament tells the real story. He’s a total tennis tart, basically. And so we have a really fun few days at the tennis, drinking a lot of Pimms and cheering on Andy Murray to his fifth Queen’s title.

This time, when he leaves, it’s less painful, because I’m joining him in a few days.

On the East Coast, at his family home.

With his friends from Duke, and his family.

For the Fourth of July weekend.

Argh!

11

ELLE

J osh’s family home in St. Michaels, Maryland, reminds me of the big white house in The Notebook. It’s seriously gorgeous—and seriously intimidating. I assumed Josh was loaded because he was a film star, but this house screams old money to me.

And when I meet his parents, Jefferson and Greer Lander, they confirm my hunch. Josh mentioned his mum was a WASP, and she definitely has that patrician, glacial thing going on. She’s beautiful and elegant, with incredible bone structure and pale, fine blonde hair impeccably swept back in a tortoiseshell clip. Josh has inherited her long, straight nose.

Her welcome is warm and her manner delightful. She’s a natural hostess, but something tells me she’s not to be messed with. I’m hoping to pick her brains about the industry at some point over the weekend, though. From everything Josh has told me, it sounds like she’s completely masterminded his career.

Josh’s dad—Jeff, as he instructs me to call him—is a tall bear of a man with distinguished, silvering hair and a huge, booming laugh that makes me jump a little the first time I hear it. I have a feeling, though, that Greer wears the trousers in their relationship.

I love Josh’s sister, Katie, on sight. She’s a sweet-faced blonde who can’t seem to stop smiling at her brother. Katie is a senior at Duke, home for the summer. There must be a strong family connection to that uni, if Josh went there too.

I’ve been apprehensive about this weekend. I’m firmly on Josh’s turf here. I’m meeting the parents. His sister. And his friends—his old university friends, not his industry buddies. Even though the number of A-listers he introduced me to at Cannes made my head spin, this is a proper induction to his life. His past.

Josh pitched this weekend to me as a low-key party with family and friends. I certainly wasn’t prepared for the scale of his home, or his family’s lifestyle, or the festivities I hear will happen on the grounds on Monday.

Greer explains that because going out to celebrate isn’t an option (I guess because of Mr Child Star being too famous), they have a well-established tradition of holding a party here for local friends, with a big cook-out and their own firework display on the water.

I’m slightly embarrassed as to how much I’m looking forward to the cook-out, though I’ll obviously have to watch what I eat. I can’t afford any accidents, this of all weekends, and jet lag can be a big trigger for me. Basically, anything that makes me over-tired or messes up my body-clock can.

I’ve packed carefully: spare dark-coloured outfits in case wearing white starts to feel like a disaster waiting to happen, my supplements, lots of extra pads and disposable old-people pants, and my meds. I go on and off my meds intermittently. The steroids can prevent flare-ups, but I don’t like being on them constantly, so I take them when I have a particularly manic schedule. I went on them for Cannes and I’m taking them again now. I was really careful on the plane: I can now afford to fly business class, which helps, so I spent the flight hydrating and resting and only ate the food I brought with me.

Not being able to tell Josh makes it harder all round. I don’t want him to think I’m weird and boring and high-maintenance, but I’m also not ready to share with him that I regularly poo my pants and bleed out my innards. Luckily, because he’s such a sweetheart, he’s had his family orchestrate the weekend’s events around the likelihood that I’ll arrive jet lagged, so the pace starts off slow with just the family, picking up on Sunday when his friends show up ahead of the big Monday Fourth of July blowout.

I love seeing him here, in this house where he grew up. He’s my beautiful all-American boy, and this place fits him perfectly. On Saturday afternoon, the two of us don baseball caps and dark glasses and venture out into St. Michaels.

I can’t believe how scenic it is: the picturesque marina with its bobbing sailing boats and incredible examples of colonial and federal architecture (according to Josh). White clapboard and red roofs, and the smell of crab wafting from the waterfront restaurants that makes my mouth water, even though we’ve just had lunch.

‘You’ll have so much blue crab on Monday, you’ll be sick of it. I promise, baby.’ Josh uses the arm snaked around my shoulder to draw me in closer to him and kiss me lazily. I worry for a second about over-zealous onlookers and their cameras, but if Josh isn’t bothered, neither am I.

Especially not when his stubble grazes my chin, and the warmth of his tongue spreads from my mouth through my entire body, and his other hand finds my denim cutoffs and slides into my back pocket to grab my bum. This guy is so gorgeous. Gorgeous, and dreamy, and golden, and positively edible. He’s so going to get it later.

JOSH IS QUITE different around his Duke friends. Perhaps it’s because he’s at home with his family, too, but he seems like a normal guy rather than some celebrity superstar. His mum dotes on him, but his mates don’t let him get away with any behaviour they deem remotely pretentious, which is everything. Poor Josh. They rib him mercilessly.

They all seem to work on Wall Street. Kai is clean cut and deeply nerdy, which makes me instantly like him. I learn he majored in Mathematics at Duke and now does high-frequency algorithmic trading. Enough of my mates from Cambridge are starting out in the City that I have a vague grasp of some of the more popular job functions, but I have absolutely no idea what high-frequency algorithmic trading is. He has a sweet fiancee, Marina, who clearly adores him and is very welcoming to me.

But it’s Josh’s best buddy, Brandon, who raises my hackles, although I’m not sure why. There’s an odd dynamic to their relationship. Brandon seems successful—he’s a portfolio manager for a large hedge fund—but I suspect he’s jealous of Josh’s success, even though Josh’s fame preceded their relationship.

He makes quite a few digs about Josh’s wealth and talent and his latest movie, which was a commercial but not a critical success. And I’m on the receiving end of a few funny comments from him, too. I can’t quite put my finger on it. He’s charming on the surface, fawning, even, but he congratulates me a little too forcefully on my award, and makes some comments about my body and my looks and the fact that I’m too hot for Josh.

I don’t know—if I had to guess, I’d say it’s sour grapes. He resents Josh’s success. I’m sure Brandon is a big deal on Wall Street, so he may dislike the fact that Josh’s income and profile are superior. And he’s single—which is not the slightest bit shocking to me—so maybe he dislikes Josh having a girlfriend.

Maybe he’s jealous I’m taking his buddy away from him. Maybe he’s jealous that Josh is getting laid, although the amount of ‘hot women’ he drops into the conversation tells me he doesn’t do too badly for himself, flashing his cash around the bars of Manhattan.

He also makes enough comments about Gracie that I start to feel on edge. It’s the oddest feeling, knowing idiots like him have seen me naked on-screen. It’s one of the hardest parts of my chosen career to come to terms with.

Anyway, I shouldn’t let it bother me, because Brandon is towing the line, just about, and Josh is as adoring and sweet and considerate as ever. Sunday night is a big dinner in the house—Josh’s parents really are amazing hosts—and Monday, we all gear up for a huge, all-afternoon party. Brandon has been saying since he arrived that he has a little surprise, and on Monday he produces the surprise at breakfast, passing packages around the table.

A T-shirt for all of us. Saying I [heart] JL. As in Josh Lander. Excellent. The heart is in-filled with an American flag, and the girls’ version is sleeveless.

Josh rolls his eyes when he sees them. ‘You’re such a douche, man.’

‘Language, Joshua,’ his mum says automatically. She’s the only person I’ve heard call him Joshua.

Josh turns to me. ‘You don’t have to wear it, baby. In fact, the only person who needs to wear one is Brandon, because we all know he’s had a crush on me forever.’

‘No way, Lander. I want photos out of this. And you’re wearing one, bro, because you legit love yourself more than anyone I know.’

I roll my eyes internally. I’d say Josh is actually remarkably humble for someone who’s had such a high level of fame for so long. I’ll wear the stupid T-shirt, but I’ll wear it for Josh, not for Brandon the Bully.

In the end, we all put them on, and it’s quite funny, actually. Katie and Marina and I knot the bottom of ours to make sweet little crop-tops, and I wear mine with white denim cut-offs. Hurrah! It’s a safe-to-wear-white day!

Even Josh puts one on, good sport that he is, and we grab group photos on the lawn, the house behind us, looking utterly gorgeous with its stars-and-stripes bunting and banners, its huge flag waving proudly. Josh puts them on his Instagram, and I brace myself for enormous amounts of online flak.

It’s an amazing day. I adore being a fly on the wall, watching the pride and patriotism in everyone’s eyes as they celebrate this momentous occasion. I’m not sure we Brits do a great job on that front.

We eat till we’re broken. Potato salad; corn on the cob; barbecue chicken. Sadly, I have to give the burgers and hot dogs a wide berth. But, as Josh promised, the Maryland blue crab is in never-ending supply. Greer even has the chef make some gluten-free crab cakes specially for me, which I find really touching. Hopefully, it means she approves of me. I’m still oddly intimidated by her.

And it’s not just the food that’s divine. The carnival atmosphere is infectious, and we have the most incredible view of the water, with red-white-and-blue-decorated pontoons gliding up and down the river all day. This must be the best holiday ever if you’re a kid.

I feel like a kid myself, totally swept up in the relaxed, happy vibe. The weather is glorious, and all feels good with the world. I’m so at home here, in this gorgeous place, enjoying Josh’s family’s unstinting American hospitality, even though I have no place as a Brit in these celebrations.

After we’ve had our fill of potato and crab, and of patriotically themed meringues piled high with strawberries and blueberries, Greer materialises at Josh’s elbow.

‘May I steal her away?’ she asks Josh.

Josh mock-frowns. ‘Five minutes. That’s all. I can’t survive without her longer than that.’

She beckons to a couple of old Adirondack chairs overlooking the water, and I collapse into one gratefully, one hand on my full tummy. The sparkling water is still full of boats and pontoons.

‘I’m very glad you’re here,’ Greer tells me. ‘I can’t believe he managed to keep you away from me at Cannes.’

I blush. ‘Sorry about that. It was a bit of a crazy week.’

‘I’m sure it was for you. How are you feeling about it all?’

‘It all feels like a dream—I’m still processing it.’

‘I can imagine. What you’ve achieved with your very first movie, is something most actors never come near to achieving. It’s quite incredible. Your performance was simply stunning. You have such a dazzling career ahead of you, my dear. It’s very exciting. I hope my son isn’t taking up all your time when you should be focusing on your next steps. And I hope you have a good team around you, to advise you.’

‘I do.’ I nod vigorously. ‘I have an amazing agent, and a great publicist. She’s pretty busy at the moment. I trust them completely. And Josh isn’t taking up my time—I wish I could see more of him, to be honest. It’s tough, having him so far away, though it’s amazing to be here, with your family…’ I trail off.

‘We’re delighted to have you here.’ Greer nods matter-of-factly. ‘And you’re quite the attraction—so many of our friends are excited to meet you. You’re the woman of the moment, don’t you know? I’d be very surprised if you don’t get an Academy Award nomination.’

I cringe. So many people have said that to me, and it’s such a surreal concept that I daren’t consider it as a possibility, even for a second. So I demur. ‘Oh, I don’t know about that… Cannes can be a funny beast.’

‘It can, but I know an Oscar-winning performance when I see one.’ She pointedly raises her eyebrows in the direction of my I [heart] JL T-shirt. ‘Just don’t let my son distract you. I know how distracting he can be. This is your time. You have to put your career first. There’ll be time for love later.’

12

ELLE

T onight, I last till midnight without collapsing in an exhausted heap. I tell Josh he absolutely should not come to bed with me, and Brandon agrees, but Josh is having none of it.

‘You’re going home tomorrow, baby,’ he whispers in my ear, ‘and you think I’d rather hang out with this fuckwit than have you naked and calling my name?’

He gets me, every time. The scent of him, and that dirty edge to his voice. ‘You’re very presumptuous. What if I’m too tired?’

I’m not too tired. I’m too tired to make small talk and keep drinking with his friends, but I’m never too tired for him, especially when I have to drag myself away from him tomorrow and, as Greer reminded me, focus on my career.

Not ten minutes later, I have him lying beneath me, his arms folded behind his head. I’m straddling him: he’s all mine. I definitely have an unfair advantage over Brandon.

I love this stubbly look on Josh. I love it when that dirty blonde hair is messed up and screaming grab me. I love running my hands down the hairy tautness of his forearms, over the bulk of his biceps, and back down over his chest. And I particularly love the rush of power and desire that comes over me when the back of my hand moves lower, down that happy trail, looking to strike gold. I lick my lips.

Josh grins at me. ‘What are you thinking, beautiful?’

I sweep my eyes over his big, golden body. So masculine. ‘I’m thinking I want to imprint your skin with my dental records.’

His eyes widen. ‘Wowzers. Someone’s hungry.’

‘Only hungry for you.’

He’s laid out before me like a big, manly feast. Mmm. His skin is warm; he’s relaxed from today’s sun and merriment and beer. He stretches in a leisurely fashion, but he doesn’t take his eyes off me.

I use my knee to nudge his thighs apart and settle between them. I take hold of his glorious erection, and lower my face to it.

‘Baby. You don’t have to.’

‘I didn’t have a hot dog today,’ I say conversationally as I run my fingers up and down his smooth, silky length, and he guffaws.

‘Holy fuck.’ His laughter quickly turns to a sharp inhale as I lick around his tip and take him in my mouth. Josh. I love doing this so much. I love his taste, and the weight of his balls in my hand, and the responsiveness of his body to me here in this peaceful room, the muffled laughter and shouts from the party outside filtering through the windows.

I fall into a rhythm and his fingers brush my jaw, tuck my hair behind my ear. He growls a stream of dirty requests and observations as I suck, and I can feel he’s getting close when he grabs my upper arm.

‘Jesus, baby. I’m so close. I wanna save it. Come here.’

I edge up the bed, up his body, on my knees and look down at that face. That face I just want to devour.

So handsome.

So turned on.

So hungry.

‘Hi, down there.’ I give him a coy wave.

‘Hey, gorgeous. Come closer. I don’t bite.’ A wolfish grin. ‘Unless you want me to.’

He hooks his fingers around the backs of my knees and pulls me to him before his hands run firmly up my thighs, grabbing at my bum, then travelling further up and back around to my breasts. The pressure of his fingers on my nipples delivers an instant bolt of heat to my groin, and I shuffle my knees wider.

‘Wider, beautiful. Open up for me. And hold on.’

And his hands are back on my bum again, pulling me down onto him as I open for him as much as I can, and I drop my forehead to the headboard and moan as Josh’s tongue explores the most sensitive parts of my body, lapping and circling and teasing and acting like he can’t get enough of me.

I grind down further against his face as the heavenly pressure builds. He probably trusts I have no intention of going anywhere, because he releases my bum and moves his hands to my breasts and he kneads and rubs and pinches, and the combination of his magic fingers and his magic tongue sends me over the edge so I’m convulsing on top of Josh’s face, pressing my hand to my eyes and squeezing them shut as colours explode behind my closed lids.

I’m in a haze as Josh takes hold of my waist and flips me onto my back. Pressing down on me. Kissing me hard, so I can taste myself. And plunging inside me. No condom (I got myself on the pill pretty much as soon as I hit British land after Cannes). Nothing between us. Just our flesh, sliding and pressing and brushing. Our mouths desperately clashing. And the unmatchable feeling of having Josh fill me up, consume me, transport me in a way I’ve never had before him.

It may be Independence Day, but I’m feeling pretty damn co-dependent right now.

The T-shirt is right.

I love him.

13

ELLE

T he offensive sound of my doorbell ringing in one long, continuous buzz has me ripping off my eye mask and padding through my hallway, half blind from the head rush I got from getting out of bed so quickly. I’ve only been back from the US seventy-two hours, and I’m still a bit jet lagged.

I crank open the bolts on the front door. It’s Mara, looking immaculate, her biker helmet under one arm and a cup carrier with two Starbucks cups in the other.

‘It’s seven in the morning. This had better be good.’

I turn grumpily and lead her back down the hall.

‘Have you checked your phone yet?’ Her voice has an unusually nervous edge to it.

‘Uh, no, because you just woke me up.’

‘Good.’ I think she means sorry.

I flop on the sofa and cross my arms as huffily as I can over my camisole. Mara’s not the hysterical type, so a crack-of-dawn visit from her is very out of character.

‘Where’s your phone?’

‘On my bedside table. Why?’

She exhales. ‘Leave it there. And listen to me. I don’t want you to jump to any conclusions. But there’s something you need to see. Here. Have a coffee.’

‘Okay…’ I take the cup she offers.

‘It’s’—she clears her throat—‘following on from the T-shirt stuff.’

Of course it is. To say the press has gone crazy over Josh’s Instagram photos of us wearing I [heart] JL T-shirts is an understatement. The speculation that an engagement announcement is imminent has reached fever-pitch, as has the heated debate over whether it’s anti-feminist of me to wear my heart on my sleeve (or my boobs) so openly without Josh reciprocating. It’s frankly ridiculous.

I roll my eyes. ‘I can’t imagine what they’re saying that could warrant you showing up here at 7am.’

‘It’s something Josh said.’ Mara takes a slug of her coffee and looks straight at me. ‘In response to Gordon Kay.’

Gordon Kay is the British version of Jimmy Kimmel or Jimmy Fallon. He’s the biggest, longest-standing chat show host on this side of the Atlantic. He’s Scottish, and irreverent, and very funny. It’s no wonder he gets the biggest names on his sofa. I’ve been trying to avoid T-shirt-gate, but I’m aware he’s been ribbing both of us on Twitter.

‘What’s he said?’

She picks up her phone and scrolls. ‘This. Remember, babe, we have no context, okay? But you need to get hold of Josh ASAP.’

I take her phone. Gordon has retweeted some stupid meme of Josh and me in our T-shirts and tagged Josh in it.

No big deal.

But Josh’s response is a big deal.

I blink.

I look up at Mara, because I can’t take it in.

Is this a joke?

He’s written: Dude. Elle and I aren’t together anymore.

MY PERIPHERAL VISION GOES BLACK.

My world narrows to pin-points.

I’m vaguely aware of Mara kneeling in front of me and taking my coffee cup out of my hand.

And then I have a lightbulb moment. ‘He’s been hacked. He must have been. Hasn’t he?’

‘Could be,’ she says carefully. ‘It’s one explanation.’

‘Josh would never write that!’

‘When was the last time you spoke to him?’

I think. ‘He WhatsApped me yesterday lunchtime. Morning, his time.’

‘Did he seem okay?’

‘Yeah—he said he was fine. Hungover. He stayed on at his parent’s house for a few days with his friends. I think they’ve been partying hard. But he was normal. Sweet.’

I look through the activity on Josh’s account, my heart sinking and twisting as I do. He sent some tweets before the reply to Gordon Kay that all seemed genuine. The reply is the most recent tweet on his timeline. Since then, nothing, even though the Twittersphere has blown up over it while I’ve been asleep.

Mara pulls her phone out of my hand.

‘Don’t look at it. But go get your phone. See if he messaged you overnight.’

I stumble to my room. I leave my phone on overnight because occasionally Josh drunk-dials me to tell me how much he misses me, and even if he wakes me up, I never want to miss those calls.

There’s nothing from him. I check WhatsApp. He was last seen around six o’clock yesterday evening. That would be lunchtime Eastern time.

Where the hell has he got to?

And what in God’s name does that tweet mean?

Because I know Josh. I know how he feels; I know he’s in as deep as I am. And I believe, with every fibre of my being, that not only is he nowhere close to ending our relationship, but he would never do it on Twitter. Ever.

Mara’s looking at me with far more compassion and worry than is ever comfortable for her.

‘Nothing.’

‘No.’ My voice is tiny.

‘Call him.’

‘But it’s 2am there!’

‘I don’t give a flying fuck. Call. Him.’

I don’t have to be told twice. My stomach is flip-flopping like mad. I need to hear Josh’s voice. I don’t care what Twitter thinks; I don’t care about damage control on social media—I just want to hear him tell me he was hacked, or that one of his idiot friends thought it would be funny to grab his phone and stir up trouble. This has Brandon written all over it.

I cling to this thought as the call tries to connect. But it goes straight to voicemail. At the sound of Josh’s gorgeous, sexy, warm voice, my doubts kick in. There’s no way he could be ending it. Could he?

‘Hi.’ My voice sounds so trembly. I clear my throat. ‘It’s me. I just… well, I just saw that tweet from you to Gordon Kay and I was wondering, maybe, if you’ve been hacked, or something? It’s freaked me out a bit, that’s all. Call me when you get this. I—bye.’

‘I’m calling Mike.’ Mara picks up her phone. Mike Schultz is Josh’s publicist. He and Mara exchanged numbers in Cannes so they could coordinate on messaging around my and Josh’s relationship. He’s based on the West Coast, so hopefully he hasn’t gone to bed yet.

She gives me a thumbs-up. ‘Mike. It’s Mara. What the fuck is going on over there?’

‘Put him on speaker.’

‘Hang on. I’m putting you on speaker. I have Elle here with me—she’s losing her mind.’

I must be losing my mind, because I don’t even cringe at how uncool she makes me sound.

‘Talk. What do you know?’

‘I have no fucking clue.’ His voice comes through, gravelly but clear. ‘I haven’t been able to get hold of him since the tweet went live.’

‘What? Do you have access to his Twitter account—can you delete the tweet?’

A sigh. ‘No. He does it all himself. And even if I could, the damage is done. I have no clue why he wrote that. He certainly hasn’t mentioned anything to me, Elle, if that makes you feel better.’

‘When did you last speak to him?’ I venture.

‘We’ve exchanged a few messages over the past couple days, mainly about your… cutesy shirt situation and how to field incomings on it, but I haven’t spoken to him properly since before the holiday weekend. We’ve both been taking some time to be with family.’

‘Can you get hold of Greer?’ Mara barks. ‘Do you have a landline for them, even?’

‘I’ve tried. She’s not answering and their landline is disconnected.’

‘Holy fuck. This is a fucking nightmare.’ Mara swipes her hand over her face and pinches the bridge of her nose. ‘Call me as soon as you get hold of one of them. Any time. Just call.’

She disconnects without letting Mike say goodbye and throws her phone on the sofa in frustration. I stand, slumped, the reality of my situation kicking in. I feel helpless—so helpless I’m tempted to get a cab straight to Heathrow and jump on the first flight to Maryland. Go bang on his door and beg him to tell me what the heck is going on.

Because if I think about Occam’s Razor right now—the theory that the most obvious solution is likely to be the correct one—then Josh Lander has just dumped me. On Twitter.

PART II

2021 SECOND BILLING

14

ELLE

I  suppose you’d like to know what the hell’s been going on for the past five years. Well, on some matters, I’m as clueless as you. But—deep breath—I’ll give you a quick recap.

I never got any answers or explanations from He Who Shall Not Be Mentioned. I never heard from him again. Ever.

Within twelve hours of Mara showing up at my door, I’d accepted that He Who Shall Not Be Mentioned—oh, what the fuck, let’s call him HWSNBM; it’s far easier and he’s not worth the effort of the long version—had dumped me.

Within forty-eight hours, I was in such a state I triggered a flare-up with bad enough haemorrhaging to require two blood transfusions. I was in Chelsea and Westminster Hospital for a week.

By the time they discharged me, Mara had managed all the messaging around my love-life cluster-fuck. She’d put out a statement on my behalf saying Dickhead (another pithy nickname we settled on for him) and I were no longer in a relationship. At least the language of his tweet (Elle and I aren’t together anymore) allowed us to suggest it had been a mutual decision.

Not that anyone was fooled. Not for one second.

Josh Lander had dumped my shapely little arse, and the world knew it.

I spent six months trying in vain to steer media interviews away from my love life and towards my work. Richard and I reviewed tonnes of seriously amazing scripts. And Dickhead’s behaviour made the decision to accept the lead in Fae, a big-budget Tolkien-esque movie being filmed in New Zealand, a no-brainer. It proved the perfect place to hide myself away and throw myself into my work.

I only left New Zealand once during that year of filming: to fly to LA and accept my Academy Award for Best Actress. It was the most incredible evening, but the whole thing was marred by my constant worry in the run-up that Dickhead would show.

He didn’t.

Shortly after I’d got out of hospital seven months previously, we heard he was in rehab. And a few months after that, he began to materialise on the LA scene again, often with a model or wannabe actress in tow.

I can’t tell you how sick to my stomach every glimpse of him made me feel.

Ignoring HWSNBM’s antics became a matter of survival for me. He was dead to me. Thank fuck for work.

I’ve made four more movies since Fae. Two in the UK, two in the US, but I’ve avoided filming in Hollywood (you don’t need me to spell out why). It’s been a whirlwind. And I’ve loved every moment. And with every movie release, the public has taken me more seriously as an actor in my own right and not as that poor girl Josh Lander once chewed up and spat out.

See? I can say his name when I need to.

I’m not that broken.

I can’t say I’ve really dated, but I’ve had enough sex to keep me sane. And we’ve slapped every one of those guys with an NDA before I’ve so much as kissed them. Ironically, there’s practically no overlap between the guys I’ve fucked and the guys the world has seen me ‘date.’ All the latter have been meticulously set up by Mara, and I haven’t touched them out of sight of the cameras.

That’s who he’s turned me into.

That’s who this industry has turned me into.

Strangely enough, the more cynical I’ve become in real life, the more I’ve turned to romance novels. Specifically, historical romance. It’s odd, right?

When we were on location in New Zealand, my makeup artist was a historical romance obsessive. She always had an Amanda Quick romance on hand and I found them the perfect distraction from this weird, lonely mess my personal life had become. There, in the bubble of Fae’s lovely crew, I found healing. And heaving bosoms, feisty heroines and rakish dukes definitely helped with that healing.

It’s been a closet obsession ever since, but it’s only in the past few months that my secret penchant for historical romance has had any impact on my professional life. Because it’s only recently that Richard came to me, triumphantly clutching a heavily embargoed script of Grosvenor.

Grosvenor is the latest mega-project from streaming platform Azure in their battle to take Netflix’s crown. The storyline isn’t groundbreaking, at least not to anyone who’s well-versed in regency romance—like yours truly.

But the series of books by Nicola Marchant, on which the show is based, is one of my all-time favourites. The main storyline for the first season of the show involves a young lady of noble birth, Georgiana Kenworthy, who catches the eye of Dominic, Duke of Coventry.

The Duke is, of course, a thoroughly rakish rake, but he’s decided it’s time to find a wife and sire an heir to his considerable fortune. Georgiana’s family is only too thrilled to force her into this glittering match, even though she’s decidedly underwhelmed by the Duke’s rakish tendencies.

The script writers have honoured Georgiana’s roots from the novels. She’s fabulous. I know as soon as I get my greedy little mitts on the script, and proceed to spend the rest of the day reading it in Richard’s office while he plies me with almond-milk lattes, that I have to have this part. I’ve wanted to do a regency production for years. And I love Georgiana’s don’t-give-a-fuck attitude and her refusal to be impressed by a guy everyone else is in a total tizz over (I can relate).

But most of all, I adore their love story. I adore how, once they’re married, the Duke wins her over, slowly but surely, with a combination of patience, thoughtful gestures, fabulous banter and some seriously hot moves in the sack (and in the stables. And in the folly. And in the library). Because this show is going to be steamy. Whew! Georgiana is one lucky girl.

Sex scenes don’t scare me. Today’s intimacy coordinators are experts at making us actors feel comfortable, and I’m at a level in my career now where I can put iron-clad stipulations in my contracts. But I’m also happy to put out, professionally speaking, where the plot dictates it, and I get that the chemistry, which is smoking between these two, is integral to the plot (not to mention to Azure’s aspirations to hit a hundred million households with this series).

I just hope my co-star and I can work together to achieve the right level of chemistry, because with it, this show is going straight to the top of the charts. And my gamble to make the move from big to small screen will hopefully pay off in a big way.

RICHARD ASKS me to come see him today at eleven sharp, and I’m hoping he has news about my Grosvenor co-star. I skip along to his unnecessarily shambolic offices just off Brewer Street in Soho, clutching an almond-milk latte for myself and a full-fat one for him. It’s a gorgeous October day, still mild enough for a light trench coat. I’m in full baseball-cap-and-sunglasses disguise. It’s hard to get around London incognito these days. No more public transport for me.

Richard is dark and skinny and intense, with more than a hint of Stanley Tucci about him. I love him dearly. Especially since he procured the part of Georgiana for me.

‘Darling.’ He kisses me languidly on both cheeks. The ennui is an act. He adores me as much as I adore him. More, I should hope, since the mega pay cheques started rolling in.

But when I pull back, his expression stops me in my tracks. I narrow my eyes at him. ‘What?’

‘Have a perch.’

I sit on his ancient leather sofa and cross my legs. ‘What?’

‘I have some news, darling. And you’re going to flip your pretty little lid. But I need you to know we’ll handle it.’

Fear hits me in the stomach. ‘Give it to me straight.’

He sits in his swivel chair, facing me. Leans forward and takes my hand. Jesus Christ. What the hell is going on?

‘Grosvenor hasn’t fallen through, has it?’

A ghost of a smile. ‘No. It’s most definitely on.’

‘Okay, then.’ I loosen up my shoulders. ‘Anything else I can handle.’

‘It’s the Duke. They’ve cast him. Alyssa called me first thing. They’ve got a press release ready to go—she wanted to extend us the courtesy of letting us know in advance.’

Damn right she did. My contract doesn’t stipulate my sign-off on the casting of any other characters, but for a show this reliant on the sparks between the two leads, I’d expect a chemistry read before casting anyone as the Duke.

I raise my eyebrows. ‘Well? Who is it?’

Richard looks as though he may barf. ‘Lander.’

Something seriously weird happens to my body, like a full-body shiver or convulsion. It’s a thrill, but not in a good way. I’m ashamed to say it happens every time I come across him in the press or in conversation (with people who should know better).

But hearing it from Richard’s mouth, in the context of a casting for Grosvenor, magnifies the effect a million-fold.

‘Sorry. I thought you said the L word.’

‘I did. Alyssa’s offered Josh Lander the role of Coventry.’

It’s such a ridiculous statement, on so many levels. I say the first thing that comes into my head.

‘But he’s American! He can’t play a Duke.’

Richard’s still gripping my hand. ‘They’ve brought Victoria Wright in, apparently.’

Oh, shit. Victoria Wright is one of the most esteemed dialect coaches in the business. I switch to another method of rationalising this nonsense.

‘Alyssa wouldn’t do this to me.’

Alyssa Anderson is Grosvenor’s creator and showrunner. In a movie, the creator cedes authority to the director. In TV, it’s the opposite. The creator quite literally runs the show.

‘I wish I could believe that, darling. But Alyssa can do whatever the fuck she wants, and you know every decision she makes is for the good of the show. Not its stars.’

15

ELLE

A lyssa seconds this statement as soon as she arrives, fifteen minutes later. Richard teed up the meeting, knowing quite rightly I’d have a burning need to thrash things out with Alyssa there and then. He’s as pissed off as I am.

‘It’s not personal, Elle. It’s business.’ She takes a seat and puts her handbag down calmly.

‘It’s personal for me.’ I’m trying hard to keep my temper.

‘You never asked for veto rights in your contract.’

‘Because I never in a million years imagined you’d cast the one fucking person on the planet who totally shafted me—an American, at that—as my fucking husband in a British period drama!’

‘I haven’t done it to shaft you. I’ve done it because he’s always who I’ve had in my mind for the role. Ever since I wrote the screenplay. In my head, Josh Lander is Dominic, and quite simply, no one else will do.’

I’m fuming now. ‘You kept that quiet when we had our three-hour conversation about your vision for Georgina and Dominic.’

‘Because I knew how you’d react.’ She crosses her arms and looks at me as if I’m a petulant toddler and she’s waiting for me to calm myself down.

‘You tricked me.’

‘I did not trick you. I withheld context so you wouldn’t shoot yourself in the foot and turn down the role of a lifetime over some guy who broke your heart. This part is made for you. And it’s the next step in your career. And you know both of those things to be true.

‘Only one thing really matters, and that’s that we create the most beautiful work of art possible. Obviously, it’s imperative that you feel safe in your working environment so you can create freely. We’ll make sure that’s the case at every moment. But I truly believe you and Josh are the right two people for these characters. You’re both at the very heart of my vision. And it would have broken my heart to lose either of you.’

I have a sudden thought. It’s a terrifying one, but maybe I can make contact with Josh and appeal to his better nature—if he has one, which I doubt. But it’s worth a try. If I guilt him enough, maybe he’ll back out of the role. Except his latest movie, some shitty horror one called Ghoul, is currently out and proving to be a massive flop in the run up to Halloween. There’s no way he’s letting go of this role. It’s gold dust.

Alyssa must be a mind-reader. ‘Anyway,’ she continues, ‘it’s a moot point because you’re both contractually obliged now.’

‘He’s signed? Without a chemistry read?’

She allows herself a smirk. ‘Sweetheart, no one who ever saw you two together would require a chemistry read.’

Oh my God.

Oh my God.

I put my head in my hands. I’m this close to losing my shit. I’ve come so far in the past five years, and rebuilt my heart after the biggest heartbreak of my life, and right now I just want to call my mum and have her come and tell this nasty lady her little Elle doesn’t want to do this horrible part. I want her to take me away from it. I need Alyssa out of the room so I can talk to Richard about what the consequences would be of a breach of contract.

But she’s right—this part is made for me. Georgiana is me and I can play her better than anyone else out there. I understand her. Why the fuck should I walk away from the role of a lifetime because of Josh fucking Lander?

My head spins as I grapple with what this means. Shooting starts in seven weeks. I thought it was odd they’d held out so long on announcing the male lead, but they’ve probably had him up their sleeve for months. Not only will I have to see Josh Lander every day for God knows how long, but I’ll have to act with him. Be intimate with him. No matter what miracles the intimacy coordinator can work, there’ll be skin on skin. Lips on lips.

Oh, Jesus. I’ll have to smell him.

His smell always slayed me.

I have no idea how I’ll survive this.

WE CALL it a day shortly afterwards. I’m too blindsided, and too pissed off, to do any strategising with Alyssa today. I desperately need to get home and process. At least my flatmate Nora is working from home today. She’s my best friend from uni. We were in the same college together—Emmanuel—and read English together.

She’s not in awe of my career. Nora isn’t in awe of anyone on the planet. She’s my biggest cheerleader, yes, and my most ferocious defender, but her smart, beautiful head is most definitely not turned by anything that goes on in the movie industry. If anything, she’s contemptuous of the whole circus. She has a point.

Anyway, back to obsessing about HWSNBN. As my driver weaves through thick traffic back to Notting Hill, I allow myself to relax in the back seat and attempt to organise my thoughts. I put a hand on my stomach. Deep belly breaths. The last thing I need is for that fucker to cause another flare up.

Because I’m a total geek and obsessive about every role, I’ve been learning my lines for weeks. I know, I know. I have seven weeks to go before the table reads even kick off. But still. I like to be prepared, and I like knowing my lines well so all my focus can go on acting them to the best of my ability. Nora and I have had a few hysterical evenings of practice. She makes an excellent Dominic.

Now I have to recalibrate everything I thought I had straight in my head. Most of Georgiana’s scenes involve Dominic. Every line I’ve learnt, every line I’ve imagined saying to some dashing, dastardly stranger, I now know I’ll be saying to him.

The early scenes should be fine. Georgiana is openly contemptuous of Dominic at first, and aghast that she should be required to marry him to save her family. She sees him as a useless, frivolous waste of space.

Believe me, that should be easy enough to act.

But the two of them are married off in the second of six episodes, and, as Dominic woos his wife, Georgiana starts to thaw. The real delight of the show will be in watching these two fall in love as equals. And I will be acting out every single step of that with Josh Lander. Starting with the wedding night.

My rhythmic belly breathing falters as I mentally list the sex scenes. There are so fucking many of them, and I know I said I have no problem with sex scenes generally, but I do have a major problem doing them with Josh Lander’s lips against mine, his hands raking through my hair (wig, maybe, but still) and his mouth on my—oh. My. God. On my boobs. On my stomach.

There’s even a scene where Georgiana gives her husband head in his study. Obviously this is TV, not a porno, so I won’t be going anywhere near Josh’s dick IRL, but still. It’s horrifying to think about acting out anything like that with him. Fuck fuck fuck. I need a serious Nora pep talk, and I need it now.

‘HEADS NEED TO ROLL FOR THIS.’ Nora slams her hand against the marble kitchen counter. ‘They need to fucking. Roll. You hear me?’

‘They won’t roll.’ I shrug. It’s been an hour since the meeting, and already I’m broken. Defeated. ‘Alyssa calls the shots. There’s nothing Richard or I can do contractually. Believe me, I’ve thought about pulling out and paying the breach of contract fine, but I want this part. I deserve this part.’

‘Of course you do. I just can’t believe Alyssa would pull a stunt like this. Isn’t she supposed to be a feminist? I mean, what the fuck happened to female solidarity? You just don’t pull shit like this on another woman who’s putting herself in your hands. It’s not cool. It’s not what a leader would do. Can you imagine Michelle Obama pulling a stunt like that?’

(Aside: Nora is obsessed with Michelle Obama. And Brené Brown. And Oprah. And Glennon Doyle. You get the idea. WWMD, or What Would Michelle Do, is her mantra. And there’s a one-hundred-percent chance she’ll nod sagely and say when they go low, we go high before this conversation is over.)

‘Much as it pains me to admit it, I don’t think Alyssa’s doing this for unscrupulous reasons. Yeah, her methods are deeply dodgy, and it’s a definite case of the end justifying the means.’ I loll against the counter and flick the kettle on. ‘But she is a feminist, I know that. She told me at the end of the meeting she firmly believes this will be amazing closure for me, that it’ll prove to the world I have no issue working with Josh, that I’m totally over him.’

Nora snorts derisively, but there’s a hint of doubt on her face.

‘That may be, but if that happens, it’s all thanks to you and your professionalism, and she’d better not try to take the credit after throwing you under the bus. You’re sure you don’t want to try to get out of this?’

My tone is more decisive than I feel. ‘I’m sure.’

‘Brave girl. Have you thought about what you want to get out of it?’

‘How do you mean? Right now, I just want to emerge from filming with my dignity intact.’

She’s quiet for a moment. ‘And your heart?’

‘I beg your pardon?’ I shoot her a filthy look and shovel a mound of camomile flowers out of a caddy, throwing them in our teapot.

‘It’s me, babe. You can tell me anything. You’re sure you’re not worried you’ll fancy him again?’

‘No! For fuck’s sake.’ I slam the lid back on the caddy. ‘Honestly, I can’t imagine my body has that little survival instinct. Obviously, I’m worried sick about the sex scenes with him. I’m worried sick about all of it. But what he did—the way he disappeared on me—that’s pretty much the most unattractive thing someone can do to another person. There’s no way I’ll fancy him after that.’

It’s true. Everything good that I felt for him, physically and emotionally, has long since burnt out. The guy pulled the ghostiest of all ghosting moves on me. Now all I feel is disgust that I let him near me, that I trusted him so completely.

‘Okay, okay.’ She pries the little shovel out of my hands like I’m unstable and wielding a weapon. ‘I know you can handle yourself. And I know you know what you’re doing. My main concern is how we’re going to handle your health during all this stress.’

Her we makes me love her even more than I thought possible. Nora’s my guardian angel. She pours the boiled water into the teapot and takes a couple of mugs out of the cupboard. This is one of the many problems with my illness. Most of us like to comfort eat (and drink) when we’re stressed. Right now, I’d like to work my way through a giant tin of Cadbury’s Heroes, but I can’t.

Because what most people consider a treat is particularly toxic for my body. When it’s already at risk of stress-driven inflammation, adding processed and inflammatory foods is asking for trouble. Instead, I’m supposed to deal with this cluster-fuck by lying on the sofa, listening to a meditation and sipping camomile tea. It’s not fair.

‘We’ll put a protocol in place,’ I tell her. ‘Alyssa’s already aware of my Crohn’s. The chef on set will cater for me, and I’ll take my supplements. I promise.’ Despite my healthy diet, my supplementation is heavy because the absorption rate of nutrients through my damaged, scarred gut lining is so low.

‘Good girl.’ Nora puts the teapot and cups on a tray to take over to the sofa. ‘I suppose… at least he’s not, you know, physically revolting. Let’s be thankful for that, at least.’

I roll my eyes. ‘Possibly the least helpful comment you’ve ever made.’

‘Right. Sorry about that. Do you want me to come on set with you? I’ll bring my laptop and glare at Josh Lander the whole fucking time.’

‘It’s tempting. But thanks, Nor. I’ll be fine. ’ I give her a watery smile as I flop on the sofa.

‘I know you’ll be fine. You’ve got this. And just remember: when they go low, we go high.’

16

JOSH

I ’ve questioned this decision a million times since that first meeting with Alyssa in West Hollywood. And I’ve wanted to reach out to Elle a million times, too, but I haven’t dared. I can’t imagine what her reaction would be if I presumed to message her out of the blue.

I know I shouldn’t have taken the part. I know how pissed Elle must be. I know how unreasonable it is to show up and expect her to act out a romance with me for months on end after the way I left her hanging. But I also know three things to be true.

One. This part was written for me.

Two. My career needs it desperately, especially after the Ghoul fiasco and the press uproar around my latest stint in rehab.

Three. I honestly believe this is fate. It’s the universe giving me a second chance to make Ellery Hart fall in love with me. And to prove to her I’m worth it.

My whole future fucking career and personal happiness hanging on one show. Could the stakes be any higher?

This last stint in rehab was the real deal. Not because the process was much different from the times before, but because I went into it with a totally different mindset. I wanted to get clean. And I’m finally allowing myself to believe staying clean is possible.

It was one of Alyssa’s terms when she met with me to pitch Grosvenor. I’d just wrapped Ghoul, and I was partying hard. Obviously, I was sober when I met with her, but she’d heard the rumours. Seen the press. Josh Lander, still behaving like a pathetic party boy in his mid-thirties.

‘Go and get yourself sorted out,’ she told me. ‘Properly, this time. But don’t do it for me. Do it for yourself. That’s the only way this shit works.’

I agreed with her. And I liked her. A lot. I particularly liked that she was willing to take a chance on me after a rocky few years for my career.

‘I’m just so worried about Elle,’ I told her. ‘How do you think she’ll react when you tell her?’

‘I won’t release your name until the last possible minute. And she’ll be incredibly fucked off with me, as well she should. But I know you two are going to make magic together. What you had may not have lasted, but it would be a crime if you guys never got to flex your collective muscles on-screen.’

I went to rehab, and I did the work. For real. I did it for Alyssa, and I did it for Elle, but most of all, I did it for myself. And I could feel the difference this time. I could sense the relief, the release, as I worked to free myself from the demons that had had their claws in me for far too long.

This time, I wanted to be free of them. They’d directly and indirectly sabotaged everything I valued in my life. They’d driven me to do the worst thing I’d ever done to another human being. When I got out of rehab that time after breaking things off with Elle, I reached straight for what I needed to take the pain away. Liquor. Coke. Molly. Everything that felt good. Everything I could get my hands on.

The difference now is, I understand I need to feel the pain. I need to find my way through it to get to the other side. And I have to trust that what lies on the other side is worth it. Numbing the world out is no longer the answer for me. As the leaders of our programme promised, the process was—is—both a journey and a homecoming. I’ve felt more like myself than I have for years.

The question is whether I, as myself, am enough for others.

For Elle.

These past couple months since I got out have felt like the weirdest hiatus. I’ve been getting ready to move to London for filming, and every time I read the lines I’ll be saying with Georgiana, I imagine saying them to Elle. I imagine sparring with her (I bet she’s looking forward to that part). I imagine insisting she’ll be my wife. And I imagine looking down on her in Dominic’s bed, that incredible hair spread out around her, during the wedding night scene. God help me, if she doesn’t respond to our scenes together the same way I have, I’ll be fucked.

Because this script is a gift. It’s our story. Well, it’s the story of our second chapter. First time around, she gave her mind, heart and body to me so freely, and I threw all of it aside like it was trash. Or that’s the conclusion she’ll have drawn, in any case.

This time around, I’m Dominic, faced with a woman who despises me. And like Dominic, I’ll need endless patience and faith to win the woman I love over. Because there’s no doubt in my mind that as soon as I see her, I’ll know for a fact I’m still in love with her.

Obviously, I’ve watched with awe as her acting career has taken off in the most stellar way. And I’ve been fascinated to see her grow as a woman as well as an actor. My little Elle has grown up. It was so fucking difficult to stay away from the Academy Awards that first year after I finished it, not to be there to see her moment of triumph.

But I did it. I stayed away, and I watched it alone at home, and I got absolutely trashed. Because this was my doing—well, mine and Mom’s. I’d made my bed, and I had to fucking lie in it. And when it was announced she’d be the lead in Fae, it was the first time I felt like maybe I’d done the right thing.

I wasn’t worthy of her. She had so, so far to fly, and I would’ve held her back. There was a huge chance she wouldn’t have taken a role that involved a year in New Zealand if I’d been in the picture, holding her back with my issues.

My sacrifice has been worth it.

Look at her now.

She’ll never believe it, but everything I’ve done, I’ve done for her.

AZURE’S LONDON HQ, where we’re doing the first table read, is on the outskirts of London near Heathrow, in some god-awful place called Hounslow. But the building itself is seriously nice: brand-new, all glass and pale wood and living walls and open space. I eyeball the huge, sky-blue and silver Azure logo behind the vast reception desk. It’s kinda weird how Elle and I met on the Cote d’Azur, and now we’ve come full circle, kicking off this next chapter courtesy of media giant Azure. Do you think it’s a sign? I sure hope it is.

It’s not ideal that Elle and I will see each other for the first time at the table read. Scratch that. It’s a total fucking nightmare. But at least it means she can’t take a swing at me. Hopefully.

An executive who introduces himself as Dan is waiting for me at reception. He tells me he’s the first Assistant Director.

‘I hope you don’t mind, Mr Lander.’ He pushes his glasses up onto his nose. ‘But Ms Anderson and Ms Hart were wondering if you’d join them for a quick word before the table read?’

Were they, now. Dread and relief hit me equally.

‘Sure.’ I force a smile for Dan’s benefit. Don’t shoot the messenger. ‘Sounds good.’

I follow Dan to the bank of glass elevators, and we ride up to the second floor. Except it’s the first floor here. That always gets me. First floor is ground and second is first. As we rise at a snail’s pace (why British elevators are so slow is an eternal mystery), I focus on my breathing. On accepting. Surrendering. Being open. Wholehearted. Not fighting Elle’s reactions, whatever they may be, from a place of ego. I got this.

Except I don’t. Not really. My palms are sweating as I follow Dan down a bright corridor. I can’t believe this moment has arrived, nearly five years after watching that movie in Cannes, and seeing her face, and knowing I had to meet her. To be with her. To have her.

Dan stops at an opaque-glass-fronted room. He raps twice on the door and opens it, standing back to let me pass through.

And there she is.

Holy fuck.

I am so screwed.

Elle is standing in front of the full-length window, back-lit by the weak February morning light. She’s so fucking beautiful. Her hair is lighter, and her expression is stony, and her arms are crossed. She’s armoured up. I get it.

I’m so busy staring at her, I almost fail to register Alyssa’s presence in the room.

‘Josh,’ she says, and I blink. ‘You made it. Well done.’

She approaches and kisses me on both cheeks.

‘Hey, Alyssa,’ I manage. I turn back to Elle. ‘Hey, Elle. Good to see you both.’

Seriously? Good to see you both? Kill me now.

Elle nods tersely, but her eyes won’t meet mine. ‘Hi.’

I go to take a step towards her—I’m not sure if I should kiss her, or hug her, or something—and she shrinks back against the window.

No physical contact.

Got it.

‘How are your digs?’ Alyssa asks.

I turn back to her with effort. ‘My—ah—what?’

‘Your digs. Lodgings. Flat? Hotel?’

‘Oh right. Yeah, I have an apartment in Notting Hill. It’s nice, thanks.’ I threw that little detail in for Elle’s benefit. I wonder if she still lives there.

‘Excellent.’ Alyssa’s usually cool as a cucumber, but the frigid atmosphere in this room is throwing even her off her game. ‘Well, glad you’re getting settled in. The table read is next door, when you’re ready. I’ll leave you two to catch up.’

She gives us both a stern I hope I can trust you to behave look, pats me on the arm and practically sprints out of the room, shutting the door behind her.

I take a few steps toward Elle. It’s not even conscious. I want to be close to her, and I’m not having a conversation across the room. I have no idea what she wants or needs to say to me, but I’m there for whatever it is.

I gesture towards the small table in the centre of the room. ‘Shall we sit?’

‘No. This won’t take long.’ She reaches forward and picks up her teacup from the table. It shakes slightly and a little tea spills onto the saucer. So she’s as nervous as I am. I feel so bad for her. All of this is my fault, and I’m sure she doesn’t appreciate giving me a glimpse of her nerves. She abandons the cup and steps back, shaking tea off of her fingers.

‘Fuck.’

So she swears now. I never, ever heard her swear when we were together. She was all oh my gosh, like a British schoolgirl. It was the sweetest thing. But she says fuck in such a posh, clipped accent that it almost sounds like fack. It’s so sexy, I can’t even—

‘I just wanted to get a few things clear before we go in there.’

She rams her hands in the pockets of her very tight jeans and my eyes travel involuntarily down her gorgeous legs to her high-heeled boots.

‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Whatever you want. I’m not here to cause trouble for you, Elle.’

God, I love saying her name.

And I love how her eyes close for a split second when she hears me say it. Though I have a pretty strong hunch they close in a give me patience way, and not in a my name on your lips turns me on so much way. ‘I’m here to do a job, as I’m sure you are, too.’

‘Good. I wanted to see you before we went in there, to tell you this.’ She takes a deep breath. I suspect she’s been rehearsing this. ‘As far as I’m concerned, you don’t exist.’ She makes a figure of eight in the air with her index finger to emphasise her point. ‘When we’re working, you’re Dominic and I’m Georgiana. If you want to run lines, or discuss how a scene should work, I will, of course, be open to that.

‘But I don’t want to know what you had for breakfast, or what stupid fucking parties you went to at the weekend, or how you’re finding your time here. No small talk. No conversation. We are not friends. We don’t exist off screen. Do I make myself clear?’

Holy fuck. I was prepared for bitterness. And kudos to her for not wasting a second before communicating the boundaries she needs in place to make this work for her, but shit. It’s still a gut-punch.

I nod. ‘Crystal clear. I won’t bother you unless I absolutely have to. For work stuff.’

‘Good.’ She looks as though she was preparing for more pushback, but she won’t get that from me. ‘Okay then.’

‘You’ve changed your hair. It’s lighter.’

‘It’s for the show. They thought I’d look younger with blonder hair.’ Her eyebrows rise in a challenge. ‘More virginal. Whatever.’

Jesus Christ. I didn’t see that coming. I can barely look at her right now. There’s a good chance I’ll have an erection for this whole fucking production. I brave a glance at her. There’s an amused twist to her mouth. I see what she means about the hair—it is more, er, virginal. It’s seriously hot.

But apart from that, she looks older, and in a really fucking great way. The youthful roundness of her face has yielded to stunning bone structure; her cheekbones are more defined, her jaw more finely honed.

She is so beautiful, it’s breathtaking, and I have a sudden rush of understanding of how folks must feel when they meet me or someone else in the public eye, because I’ve been staring at magazine covers and Instagram posts of her for five years, and to be faced with her in the flesh is nothing short of spellbinding. And surreal.

‘Got it.’ I clear my throat. Moving on. ‘And you swear now, too?’

‘Josh.’

There it is.

My name on those lips.

And it fucking slays me.

‘This little now-versus-then game seems like it’s a lot of fun for you, but save it. I’m not interested in how you think I’ve changed. Okay?’

She grabs her cup again and this time there’s no spillage. She holds it to her lips and drinks. Closes her eyes briefly. And I watch.

She puts it down. ‘Come on. We’re done here.’

17

ELLE

I  grab my enormous bag, which is in fact a carrier for my dog, Olive, stride out of the room and let Josh trail in my wake. I hope he can’t see my legs shaking. Thank fuck that’s over with. I’ve been dreading that moment for seven weeks.

This morning, I thought I was going to puke from the fear of seeing him. In the end, I had an upset tummy, but nothing I couldn’t handle. Nothing that warranted a pair of incontinence pants. Which is good news, because I really wanted to look hot today.

Don’t judge me! Of course I wanted to look hot to stick it to the total twat who didn’t have the balls to dump me face to face. I’d been agonising over what to wear for an embarrassingly long time. I’m sure that as filming progresses and the working days get longer, we’ll all succumb to yoga pants, but I wanted to look smart today. Professional. (And hot.)

In the end, I’ve settled for my tight grey jeans, suede heeled booties, a snug cream wool sweater and my favourite Chanel jacket. I feel good in this outfit, and it gets the Nora Wilder seal of approval. I took far too much time with my makeup. It’s ridiculous how long the dewy, ‘no makeup’ look can take.

The table read should be a fun occasion. Normally, I get really excited about it. It’s usually the first time the cast is together, and it can be magical for cast and directors alike, hearing the script come to life for the first time.

But today, I’m rattled.

Rattled by the guy behind me.

Rattled at seeing him in the flesh for the first time in five years.

Rattled that I have to sit next to him for an hour or more, and more, act with him.

I still can’t square the reality of the Josh Lander I know with the vision of Dominic I’ve built in my head. Fallen in love with, even. I can’t even imagine him speaking with an English accent (I have to admit, I’m very curious about that). I have to trust that Alyssa knows what she’s doing.

At least in this room, I can hide. Hide behind my script, my lines. At least, today, we don’t need to read through any love scenes. We’re just reading Episode One, which we’ll start shooting next week. Today, I need to be contemptuous and outraged and defiant. That I can do.

Usually, having the cast around me at the table would be fun. I’d be swept up in the excitement, in that first flush of possibility and camaraderie. That will all be the case today, with one hitch: today, everyone around that table will be watching Josh and me like hawks.

The press hysteria over this casting has been insane, these past few weeks. The endless speculation over how I feel about us being paired, how Josh dared accept the part (I am also curious about that), whether I’ll gouge his eyes out on the first day, and worst, whether we’ll end up together off-screen. They seem to have certain knowledge already that Grosvenor is steamy, and the world is watching to see if that steam will stay on set. Spoiler alert: it will stay firmly on set.

The next few minutes are taken up with introductions. Alyssa will be running proceedings as the creator and executive producer of the show. Next to her are Abigail Ferriss and David Tait, the directors for Episodes One and Two. I meet a dignified woman who turns out to be Josh’s dialect coach, Victoria Wright.

Apart from Josh, Alyssa, Abigail, and the casting director, I don’t know anyone. The rest of the cast is a mix of well-known and newer British actors, none of whom I’ve worked with before. They mostly have a background in TV and soap operas, not film. I meet the cast members playing my mother, Lady Kenworthy, my two younger sisters, Flora and Cecily, my cousin Robert, Lord Rutland, who orchestrates our match (damn him), Dominic’s mother, the Dowager Duchess, the Kenworthy family’s friends, and Dominic’s closest friend, the Earl of Rugby.

Everyone is lovely and warm and excitable, and their enthusiasm helps to put me at ease. It’s an odd feeling, meeting everyone for the first time and knowing from experience that they’ll be like family in nine months’ time.

I take Olive out of her carrier so I can introduce her to everyone. She’s a blonde, long-haired miniature dachshund, and she is my whole life. She’s loving and peaceful and beyond adorable. The others respond to her with cries of delighted surprise. Olive is a definite crowd-pleaser.

But there’s no putting off the inevitable. I grudgingly take my seat between Josh and Thor, who plays Robert (yes, his name is Thor. IRL. I know). He’s a good-looking, dark-haired guy who cut his teeth on a famous soap, and who I already know will play a larger role in Season Two, if it happens, when he’ll get his own love match.

Thor gives me a wide grin and a nudge. ‘Ready, cousin?’ I return the grin gratefully.

But I’m not ready.

Because the man sitting next to me is sucking up all the air in the room.

At least, that’s how it feels.

I’m not sure if Josh has been remotely aware of me or my movements over the past five years, or if he deleted my number and never gave me a backwards glance after that tweet, but I for one have spent the time avoiding any mention of Josh Lander as diligently as possible.

The last time I saw him, he was kissing me like he’d never see me again before putting me in a car from his house in St. Michaels (obviously, he was planning on never seeing me again, which is perhaps why I got so thoroughly kissed). So, to come face to face with him is so confronting, I can’t quite process it.

So many layers of emotion hit me when he walked into that room.

Pure hatred.

Contempt.

White-hot fucking anger.

Still, after all these years.

And also—and I don’t want to admit this, even to myself—a huge wave of sadness. Heartbreak: fresh heartbreak. Like seeing him in the flesh meant I had to process the grief of losing him all over again. I was amazed and horrified by how strong my desire was to tackle him to the ground and kick the shit out of him and ask him why?

And that is why I’ll never let him bring up the past.

I’ll never let myself ask him why.

I’ll never give him the satisfaction.

He looks great; I can admit that objectively. Or rather, I can admit that subjectively, even from a place of deep loathing. He’s got a perfect LA tan (oh, the irony of him being allowed to have a tan while I had to watch my skin like a hawk when I went to the Maldives after Christmas, so I look as pale and freckle-free as a nineteenth-century young lady of breeding should be). His hair’s a little longer, probably for the role, and his black merino sweater clings in all the right places. It looks like he’s bulked up a bit.

I wonder what he’ll look like in a muslin shirt and breeches?

I wonder what he’ll look like with sideburns?

But please note, I absolutely am not wondering what he’ll look like naked. I’ve been there, done that. Not interested, thank you.

WHAT SAVES ME THIS MORNING, apart from having Olive quietly asleep on my lap, is that Episode One of Grosvenor introduces both families separately, setting the tone and teasing the viewers with pre-introductions to both Georgiana and Dominic via conversations to which each of them is not privy.

We kick off with a scene at the Kenworthy home in Grosvenor Square, Mayfair. Alyssa reminds the room that the scene’s objective is to showcase how turgid the existence of the Kenworthy daughters can be, to establish how high the stakes are (their home will pass to a distant male cousin once their father passes) and to pre-introduce Dominic in a negative light. Not a problem.

I lean into my mic. The banter starts. Light. Silly. Delightful.

Under-stimulated young ladies biding their time, my sisters living vicariously through me as I’m the only one ‘out’ in society. I’m also by far the best educated of the daughters, because of my voracious appetite for any book I can get my hands on (one of the reasons real me loves fictional me).

I’m following the script, though I know my lines by heart. It gives me a flicker of joy to see the characters come to life, even around the table. My darling mother is a royal pain in the arse: meddling, neurotic, and unintentionally comedic. Felicity, the actor, plays her to perfection.

The scene is short. The first episode covers the classic five-act structure of so many TV pilots, although it won’t be carved up with four sets of adverts, thank God, because it’s on a paid streaming platform. Even so, the writing is seriously tight. It goes by in a flash and I sit back, hands in my lap, catching my breath. I crack an encouraging smile at my youngest sister. Pixie, who plays her, is only fourteen, and her relief at getting through her first few lines without fluffing them is palpable.

I daren’t look at Josh.

Alyssa signals for him and the guy who plays Rugby to go ahead. Nick, I think his name is IRL.

In my peripheral vision, Josh leans into his mic. ‘I do not require a damned wife.’

Hooooooly fuck.

Where did that come from?

His voice is totally different. Obviously, I knew he’d need to put on an English accent, but he sounds so unlike himself. For some reason, a flash of heat washes over me. I bite the inside of my gum and focus hard on following their lines in the script in front of me.

‘You require an heir, you idiot.’ Rugby’s delivery is loud and cheerful. ‘Preferably, several heirs. And for that, inconvenient as it may be, you require a wife.’

‘I shall never be content with one woman. A wife will never be able to satisfy me.’

Ain’t that the truth? I resist the urge to slide down in my chair and remain apparently focused on my script, tracking their lines with the tip of my pen.

Rugby laughs. ‘Whoever said anything about satisfaction? Your wife is for siring heirs. You can keep your women down at the Docks, get your satisfaction there. I don’t care how many little bastards you have running around; you need a legitimate heir.’

Delightful pair, aren’t they? Georgiana is really going to enjoy taming this one.

‘My wife will have to satisfy me out of bed as well as in it.’ (The script notes that Dominic is getting dressed at this point: he’s topless and donning his shirt. The joys of a female creator.) ‘I will not settle for less. And I cannot imagine any of the vacuous virgins the Season has to offer will fulfil either of those functions.’

‘I hear the eldest Kenworthy girl is rather fond of her books. Perhaps she is the rare woman who would favour the library at Coventry. And she’s reported to be quite the beauty.’

‘A bookish beauty, you say? Don’t you start, Rugby. I’ve had nothing but people withering on at me about Georgiana Kenworthy. I’m sure she will prove to be as weak of chin, as prominent of nose, and as short of diverting conversation as the rest of them.’

His accent. His accent is impeccable RP (Received Pronunciation, which is a weird term for a standard, posh South-of-England accent). His speaking voice is lower and deeper than normal. His delivery is a perfectly contemptuous drawl, his intonations completely different from his usual ones. I want to turn my head so badly and gape, and see what he looks like when he’s making these sounds.

Because the way he’s speaking is completely transformative. He’s said a few lines, and already we have our Dominic. Arrogant and dismissive and quick-witted. It’s extraordinary. Alyssa’s grinning at him across the table, and I know she feels it too.

Fuck.

I have a horrible feeling Josh-as-Dominic will deliver a seriously sexy performance.

18

JOSH

I  finish the scene with Rugby and surreptitiously let out a big exhale. Whew. I’ve been dreading that almost as much as I’ve been dreading coming face to face with Elle. I grin at Nick, who’s playing Rugby and sitting next to me, and twist in my seat to Victoria behind me. She gives me a thumbs-up, and I allow myself to relax.

While I’ve been talking to myself in a British accent for weeks now—in the shower, in the car, in the mirror while shaving, giving myself a running commentary of everything I cook—it’s not the same as siting at a table full of British people and speaking in their accent. That is fucking terrifying, especially since my ex-girlfriend probably wants me to crash and burn. Grosvenor will have a dialect coach on set at all times, but Victoria is working solely with me.

It’s been an epic learning process. Incredibly, after over two decades in the business, this is the first time I’ve had to learn a new accent (never mind taking my speaking habits back a couple hundred years) and the first time I’ve worked intensively with a dialect coach. I think I’m a pretty good mimic, but Victoria works with phonetics rather than mimicry. Her method is basically science, and I’ve had to learn this British accent—RP—by completely relearning how to use my mouth, my tongue, my face resonator…

It’s intense, but using building blocks like this means I have the tools I need to say anything I want in my fancy accent. And I’ve surprised myself with how much I’ve enjoyed the mental stimulation of learning a new skill. This show is gonna demand so much of its cast—we have dance lessons and etiquette lessons and horse-back riding lessons scheduled—and while it’s a lot to carry, I feel really good about the challenge.

Obviously, the biggest challenge of all will be getting my beautiful co-star to play nicely. I have no doubt she’s the ultimate professional and will deliver a fantastic performance. I also have no doubt she’ll make me sweat for every ounce of civility she throws my way. I’m kinda looking forward to the scenes where we’re happily married. They might be the only time she looks at me with anything approaching fondness.

Elle is totally refusing to look anywhere in my direction so far. She’s stiff as a board, following the script and making notes like the good little student she is. I sneak a look at her. She’s chewing the top of her pen. Oh, fuck. I quickly look away from those plump lips. She’s gotta acknowledge me in a few minutes, because we have our first scene together. This should be fun.

Felicity, who plays Georgiana’s mom, and Elle and her cousin kick off the ballroom scene where Georgiana and Dominic meet. There’s some small talk and the introduction of minor characters, in particular the ball’s hostess, Lady Waverley. This is one of Georgiana’s first events of her social season, and she’s excited. Call me pathetic, but it feels good to hear Elle feign a little enthusiasm. Even if it’s not aimed at me.

There’s a cut to Dominic’s entrance with Rugby. I lean into my mic.

‘Wrong as usual, Rugby.’ I speak out of the corner of my mouth. ‘These women are all plain as can be.’

‘Don’t be such a devil. You’ve barely set both feet in the place. Let us see if we can’t find a young lady to tempt even the great rake himself.’

‘Hush. I may not be disposed to find a wife this evening, but that’s no reason for you to taint my reputation.’

He laughs. ‘Ha! Your reputation precedes you, my friend. Have no fear of that. You may find that the young ladies flock to the safety of their mamas and give you a wide berth.’

‘That has categorically not been my experience,’ I say wryly.

Rugby spots the hostess. ‘Ah! Lady Waverley. A good evening to you.’

And we make small talk until Lady Waverley says: ‘Your Grace. My Lord. May I introduce Lady Caroline Kenworthy and her eldest daughter, Miss Georgiana Kenworthy?’

This is it. I shift in my chair, turning my body slightly towards Elle while staying close to my mic. I nod curtly. ‘Lady Kenworthy. Miss Kenworthy. How do you do?’

Script note: Dominic does a double take as Georgiana curtseys to him. He is instantly struck by her beauty and elegance. There isn’t a young lady in the room who can hold a torch to her. Dominic stands and watches as she rises slowly from her curtsey, making eye contact with him. As their eyes meet, he experiences the most powerful sensation of desire, and something more—a sensation with which he is hitherto unfamiliar. In that moment, his world turns on its head.

‘Your Grace.’ Elle’s tone is appropriately polite and totally unimpressed.

‘We are quite enchanted to meet you, Your Grace,’ Lady Kenworthy says breathily. ‘I have heard that you are an accomplished dancer, as is my daughter.’

‘In that case, I must insist that you take this next dance with me.’

I make my voice slightly strangled. I feel for poor Dom. At this point, the blood is probably rushing straight to his cock, just like mine did when I saw Elle on that screen in Cannes, and then shaking her booty on the dance floor. Unfortunately for Dom, he’ll have to make do with a waltz instead of a twerk. At least he’ll get to gaze into Georgiana’s beautiful, pale blue eyes the whole time.

A pause, into which Georgiana pours her unspoken contempt for him. ‘I would be honoured, Your Grace,’ Elle says stiffly.

Oh, boy. Tough crowd.

ELLE

I COULD REALLY DO with a fan. Or some smelling salts. The table read is gathering heat, and as if he feels the same, Josh peels off his jumper, revealing a tight white T-shirt, and hitting me with the scent of his body in a way that practically makes me black out. Oh fuckity shit. It’s a smell that takes me straight back to Cannes, and to sex, and to lying in the crook of his arm, drunk on orgasms.

Which is the opposite of what I need right now, when I have to play the icy Georgiana and need to protect my off-screen heart. My self-control is excellent, but I can’t have my brain playing tricks on me. Sabotaging me.

Josh has shifted to face me, and he pauses to tickle Olive, who’s on my lap, under her disloyal little chin. I flinch at the proximity of his hand to my thighs. But it would be unprofessional of me not to make eye contact for this next section. After all, he’ll be whirling me around the dance floor when we actually shoot this part of the scene, and I’ll be gazing up into his face from inches away. Ugh. So I’d better acclimatise myself to the deadliness of his obnoxious good looks sooner rather than later. Or should I say, immunise myself against them?

We acknowledge the script note that there’s an awkward pause as Dominic and Georgiana start dancing. Clearly, she has about as much to say to him as I do to Josh Lander.

Josh begins. ‘I hear you are most fond of reading, Miss Kenworthy.’

‘I am, Your Grace. I find it more diverting than needlework, at any rate.’ I shoot him a look and raise my eyebrow in the droll manner I imagine Georgiana would adopt.

‘I dare say anything is more diverting than needlework. Although your delicate fingers are far better suited to it than mine would be, I fear.’

He holds my gaze and speaks without consulting the script. When we shoot this line, Dominic will brush Georgiana’s fingers with his. Finally, eye contact, and it’s as searing as I expected. It’s as if Josh is having an entirely different conversation with those bottomless brown eyes than with his words. I’m reminded that his eyelashes have always been unfairly long and thick. His pupils are huge as he stares at me, making his eyes improbably dark and impenetrable. Maybe he’s on something to take the edge off. I wouldn’t put it past him, given what I now know about him.

I stare back defiantly. There’s no way I’m consulting my script if he doesn’t need to. And this conversation between Dominic and Georgiana suddenly seems far less innocuous when Josh and I are drinking in each other’s faces.

‘Your Grace need not fear any imminent need to acquaint himself with the technicalities of needlework. I’m sure your hands are admirably suited to the duties your position requires: shooting, and writing, and… other things.’

Poor Georgiana: too innocent to have more than a vague hunch she’s entering dangerous territory, and too well-bred to allow for any awkwardness in the conversation. She pivots, quickly. ‘But do you read, Your Grace?’

‘I read as much as I possibly can when my time allows it. Which is not as much as I would like. But tell me, Miss Kenworthy, what reading matter interests you the most?’

Josh watches my mouth as I answer. To be fair, there is a note in the script that Dominic’s gaze is fixated on Georgiana’s mouth as she speaks.

I realise too late that I’ve licked my lips.

That’s definitely not in the script.

Josh’s mouth curves up ever so slightly.

‘My choice of books, Your Grace, is limited to my late father’s library. He favoured Christian works, philosophy and science.’

‘Did he, now? So your late father was both a man of God and a progressive?’

‘He was.’ My voice is quiet.

‘I should like to have met him. I dare say I should have relished the opportunity for a good debate with your father. I have a vast library at my seat in Coventry, Miss Kenworthy, and a more modest one in London. My tastes lean more towards economics, agriculture and art. But I should be honoured to show you either library one day, should you wish to sample some new subject matter.’

I smile at him blandly. Georgiana is humouring Dominic. She has no idea at this point that he’s already formulating a plan to marry her. She knows him to be an infamous rake, but he’s a smart one, using her beloved books to reel her in.

‘Your Grace is too kind. I should like that very much.’

‘Not as much as I should like it, I dare say,’ Josh mutters darkly. And I’m mortified to admit, we’re both still staring at each other when the read moves back to my mother.

19

ELLE

I  had no idea table reads could be so exhausting. I’m lying on the sofa in yoga pants and a cosy jumper with Olive on my tummy, completely pooped after the emotional turmoil of today. In the space of a morning and an afternoon we’ve read through two episodes, which means I’ve met Dominic, he’s fallen for me, professed to Rugby his desire to marry me, professed the same desire to my cousin, proposed to me and married me. All against my will.

I’m bloody knackered. Thank Christ Episode Two ends with the wedding ceremony, so Josh and I didn’t have to grunt and moan our way through the dreaded wedding night today. Not that Alyssa would make us do that at a table read. I hope.

We’ll be shooting out of sequence, as far as I can tell, given the amount of locations we’ll need to use, but Alyssa’s planning on shooting the intimate scenes sequentially, to help Josh and me find our feet as Dominic and Georgiana.

I suppose it makes sense. It means that any nerves from the actors during the early kissing scenes will be channelled into making the characters’ nerves more believable, and it also means I can plausibly be shitting it during the wedding night scene. (Although there’s nothing clever—or funny—about using that turn of phrase when you have Crohn’s.)

To be clear, the wedding night scene is So Hot. I lapped it up when I read the book. And the screenplay. I was fanning myself. Which means the prospect of acting it with Josh Lander, perpetrator of the best sex of my life and breaker of my heart, is So Scary.

But presumably, by the time we’ve coasted through the honeymoon scenes, I’ll have completely got over myself and we’ll be going for it like old-timers. That’s the plan, anyway.

Nora has miraculously extricated herself from the office in good time today, and Mara has shown up with a couple of bottles of lovely organic red. My friends are nothing if not obvious. But I know their presence here tonight is twenty-five percent nosiness, seventy-five percent fierce concern for me. Okay, maybe it’s fifty-fifty. But that’s fine.

Mara folds herself elegantly on the floor like a cat and shakes her hair out. ‘So, I don’t need to spin any unfortunate murders just yet?’

‘He’s still breathing.’ My tone is as grim as my face.

Nora brings over a tray with three enormous glasses, an open bottle of Mara’s red, and a bowl of our favourite chickpea crisps. She sets it on the floor and squats down beside Mara.

‘We need every detail. Chronologically, please.’

I groan and pick Olive up off my tummy, swinging my legs over the edge of the sofa so I can sit up with my wine. Nora and Mara sit at my feet like two Olives waiting for a treat. Which is, basically, exactly what they’re doing, though the treat is the vicarious thrill of reliving my nightmare day.

‘Give her here.’ Nora reaches out, wiggling her fingers, and I hand Olive over to her. She settles Olive in the crook of her arm and croons to her. I swear, Nora loves Olive more than she loves any human I know.

‘So,’ Mara orders. ‘Tell us what it was like when you actually saw him for the first time.’

And so I dutifully relay that moment when Josh Lander walked into the room after five years of silence and seven weeks of completely bricking it on my part, and my relief that Alyssa allowed us to meet privately before the read, and my even greater relief that she stayed to hold my hand for a minute.

‘How did he look?’ Mara demands.

I nod my head begrudgingly. ‘He looked—great.’

‘Hot?’

I nod again. ‘Seriously hot, if you like that kind of sexy sociopath look.’

‘I hope he showed up with his fucking tail right between his legs,’ Nora says, stroking Olive’s tiny head. ‘Who’s the most beautiful girl in the whole world? You are! You are!’

I roll my eyes. ‘I think he was smart enough not to try anything. He let me speak, and—’

‘Did you do your speech like we practised?’ Mara points at me accusingly.

‘Word for word.’

‘Good girl.’

‘And he didn’t put up a fight.’

‘He didn’t try to apologise, or explain, or any bullshit like that?’

‘God, no. I made it clear he doesn’t exist for me off screen. I should hope he gets the message loud and clear that any attempt at explaining or building bridges will be completely unwelcome and utterly inappropriate.’

Nora nods. ‘Exactly. We need serious boundaries when dealing with these celebrity wankers,’ she tells Olive, who’s gazing at her in fascination. ‘Especially when they’re so entitled, they probably think their past crimes are totally normal.’

While Nora is my biggest fan, she finds the world of celebrity deeply disturbing and thoroughly unimpressive.

‘So, how was the read?’ Mara asks. ‘Please tell me he’ll get hung out to dry for his British accent.’ She says the last two words in an over-the-top American accent.

‘Ugh, so here’s the thing.’ I pop a couple of crisps in my mouth and crunch them satisfyingly before continuing. ‘Not only was it flawless—we’re talking Gwyneth-Paltrow-in-Emma-level flawless—but it completely transformed him. At the table, it was like Josh Lander disappeared and Dominic Coventry was in his place.’

‘How irritating,’ Mara says, ‘but hopefully it’ll make your life a bit easier, if you can see him more as Dominic and not Josh?’

Nora perks up. Despite being far more cynical than me, she’s an even bigger regency romance aficionado than I am. I got her into them when we moved in together, and she’s never forgiven me. She’s also never got bored of them.

‘Was he sexy? As Dominic, I mean. Do you think he’ll make a good duke?’

I’d like to think I’m not an unfair person. I can be generous when I need to be. ‘He’ll make a great duke, Nor. He was seriously sexy—all rakish and arrogant. Just what we love.’

‘Oh, shite.’ Nora groans and buries her head in the soft fur of Olive’s chest. ‘You’re so fucked. It’s so annoying he was good.’

Mara brandishes her wine glass. ‘Okay, so I’m sorry to ask such a wanky and touchy-feely question. I’m only asking because I fucking love you. And you keep me in Balmain, so I need to make sure you’re okay. But… did it hurt? Your heart, I mean, when you saw him?’

I drop my head and focus on the pretty colours the pinot makes as I swirl it in its goldfish-bowl glass. And for the first time since we walked out of that room this morning and into the table read, I allow myself to reach beyond the anger and nerves and mortification and let the emotion that hit me when I saw him wash over me once again.

Heartbreak.

Because the last time I laid eyes on Josh Lander in the flesh, I was with him. And watching him walk through that door, as big and golden and fucking gorgeous as ever, and seeing the uncertainty and fear in his eyes, hurt. It really fucking hurt.

I thought we were so good together.

I got him so wrong.

And that spectacular error of judgement has haunted me for the past five years.

But as I formulate my response to the girls, which will include an admission of most of the above, I’ll keep something close to my heart. Because if they knew, they’d bollock me. Or worse, they’d be really concerned about me.

Because the biggest revelation I’ve had today, sitting next to Josh Lander for three hours in total, was that I’ve missed him.

There was so much anger and outrage and bitterness after he dumped me, and Mara and I both worked so hard on damage control and on fashioning my new reputation as a solo actor and not as one half of a celebrity couple, that it sometimes felt I wasn’t allowed to grieve.

I had to be dignified.

I had to be strong.

I had to be a good role model.

I couldn’t be a weepy, heartbroken mess, either in public or in private.

But I’ve missed him so fucking much. And it’s such a massive, physical relief to see him, to be in the same orbit as him.

Even if I hate him.

Even if he did something unforgivable.

And I’m deeply ashamed of feeling this way. So ashamed I have no intention of unpacking this revelation just yet. I’ll keep it safely bundled away until I’m feeling stronger, and until then, I won’t give Josh Lander an inch.

My therapist will have a lot to say about that.

JOSH

I SIT on the sofa in my beautiful apartment in Notting Hill. It’s in a gorgeous period building, and the living room looks out onto a private park out back. The apartment is on a road called Elgin Crescent, and apparently the communal park is the exact one where they filmed Notting Hill the movie. It looks forlorn at this time of year, so I haven’t made it out there yet. But it should be the perfect place to relax when spring comes.

I’m not gonna lie; I’m a little overwhelmed after today. Seeing Elle was a major deal. Doing my first read in front of the cast with my shiny new British accent was a major deal. So the two things together have pretty much finished me off.

The temptation to have a drink—a whisky, or even just a beer to take the edge off—is all-consuming. What I wouldn’t give to feel that scorching heat down my throat as the liquor hits me. My mouth waters just thinking about it. But I have no liquor in the apartment for exactly this reason. I checked in with my British sponsor as soon as I got back this evening, but the thing that stops me from hitting up some whisky on Uber Eats is the thought of Elle.

If I give in, I’ll be the pathetic loser she thinks I am.

If I give in, I won’t stop till I’ve drunk the bottle, and I’ll sleep like shit and show up tomorrow smelling of alcohol and looking like shit. And not only will I not let her see me like that, but I won’t do that to her.

Tomorrow, we have our first dance rehearsal together.

Tomorrow, I get to touch her.

It strikes me for the millionth time that I never let Elle see me high or wasted when we were together, and although I did that because I cared so much about her, it probably made it harder for her to guess at my motives for cutting our ties. I’m sure she heard on the grapevine I went to rehab after I sent that tweet, and I’m sure it puzzled her. Because the Josh Lander she knew wasn’t a user. I kept the ugliest parts of myself hidden from her. I was so careful. But it probably made it all worse.

I’ve typed out the twelve steps from Narcotics Anonymous and put them all over the apartment. I substituted the word God for the universe, because I am definitely not a God type of guy. There’s a copy right above my fridge, just in case I’m tempted to fall. I read it as I grab a bottle of cold Pellegrino and drink.

The bubbles don’t help, but the twelve steps do.

Particularly Step Nine.

Step Eight is listing all the people we’ve harmed and becoming willing to make amends with them all. That’s fine. I’m there. I’m willing.

Step Nine is making direct amends to these people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.

Motherfucker.

I think about Step Nine as I walk into the bathroom, crank the shower to cold, and shuck off my clothes. I have shown up for so many goddamned people, except for the one person at the top of that fucking list.

Elle.

I step under the spray, and the freezing water hits me in the face. It’s exactly what I need. I let myself process the experience of seeing her today. The old Josh would have raced to numb the pain with whatever the fuck he could find in his fridge or his medicine cabinet. The Josh I am today, for whatever that’s worth, understands how important it is to let myself feel. Even if it’s fucking agony.

She was everything I remembered, and yet totally different. The enjoyment of feasting my eyes on her while Dominic bantered with Georgiana was matched by the pain of what a fucking waste it’s all been. That lost time. That unnecessary heartbreak all round. The suspicion that this new, brittle, cynical Elle 2.0 is that way because of me.

If I thought it would help her, I’d have flown over here after my first stint in rehab and apologised. Begged her forgiveness. Explained. Done whatever I could to give her closure.

But not only was I totally disinterested in the twelve steps when I got out that first time, but I knew it would do her more harm than good if I showed up. She needed to get over me cleanly. She needed to hate me so goddamn much she’d never be tempted to look backwards. Not once. The thing she hates me the most for was the greatest gift I was capable of giving her at the time.

This time, it’s different. Step Nine is one of the reasons I’m here: to see if I can make things good without hurting her.

But it’s not the only reason.

This time, I’m standing at the foot of the mountain that is the journey to seeking Elle’s forgiveness, and I don’t care how long it is, or how hard.

This time, I want more. So much more.

20

ELLE

I ’ve been listening to the Grosvenor score on repeat since Alyssa sent it to me a few weeks ago. It’s a stunning combination of era-appropriate classical music composed especially for the show, and some contemporary songs reworked into clever, strings-heavy arrangements.

Case in point: the song we’ll be waltzing to at today’s rehearsal is a slowed-down, strings-only version of Chloe Adams’ Dirty Thoughts. It’s cheeky, and catchy, and perfect.

I’ve been having one-on-one dance lessons with the show’s choreographer, Jack Lawson, and various members of his team for weeks now, and I understand Josh has, too. I’ve really enjoyed myself. Having skipped drama school, I’ve missed out on any formal dance training, and learning to waltz and jig is a far cry from my usual Dance Floor Whore style, but I’ve taken to it quickly, and I’ve watched enough period dramas to know how important dancing can be as a mechanism for bringing love interests together and building intimacy.

Let’s hope it works for me and Josh too, because as much as I’m dreading spending the day whirling around in his muscular arms, I know we need to get comfortable acting together, and quickly.

We’re in an airy loft in Soho this morning, and I can’t help but feel like I’m channelling my inner Strictly Come Dancing pro. Ooh, maybe they’ll invite me on as a celebrity once Grosvenor has aired! I would love that so much.

I have an unfortunate tendency to get very involved in the buying of accessories to get into the spirit of hobbies, without actually committing to the hobby itself. Skiing is a brilliant example: I have a wardrobe full of gorgeous Perfect Moment ski gear at home, and very little skill to show for it. Today, in true Elle Hart style, I’ve gone to town on my dance outfit in leggings, a crop top and a light, baggy top that hangs off one shoulder. I’m basically Dance Barbie. It’s ridiculous, I know, but it makes me as happy as if I’m a four-year-old girl in her first ballet outfit.

Thankfully, I’m in ballet flats, similar to what I’ll be wearing under my costume. It’s more accurate, and the directors are keen to accentuate the height difference between me and Josh. I’ll probably have a stiff neck by the end of the day from looking up at him for hours on end, but at least my feet won’t ache as much as they would from dancing in heels all day.

I may or may not also have brushed my teeth three times this morning and packed five packs of gum to prepare for a day of close proximity. God knows what I’ll be like when we actually do a kissing scene (shudder).

When I show up, Josh is already there, chatting away to Jack and a group of people who I assume are dancing extras. I eye him curiously. He certainly seems to be making an effort. I noticed yesterday he spent a good amount of time greeting everyone around the table individually. I suppose he has a lot riding on this opportunity, what with the flop Ghoul was and his reported stints in rehab.

Josh, Josh, Josh. The guy is a total mystery. I can’t square the conflicting sides of this man, from the one making polite, cheery conversation with his colleagues right now, to the passionate, confident man I fell in love with, to the press reports of drug and alcohol abuse that I never personally witnessed.

I shake my head. It’s not my problem. He’s not my problem anymore. I just have to get through the next few months and enjoy them as much as possible, despite Josh Lander’s unwelcome presence.

He spots me, and his face brightens. He takes a step backwards, opening up a gap in the cluster for me to join.

‘Hey, Elle. Good morning.’ This chipper greeting is delivered with an equally chipper smile. I narrow my eyes at him. I’m not sure what the hell his game is, and whether he’s trying to throw me off mine or make out like he’s a good guy in front of everyone. Whatever.

‘Morning,’ I say tersely, before smiling more genuinely at the rest of them. I don’t want to get a reputation for being a total bitch. And it’s not their fault I hate my co-star. ‘Hi there. I’m Elle.’ I give them a little wave before spotting Thor and Nick, who are also in this scene, and giving them a higher-wattage smile.

‘You look ready to dance,’ Josh remarks. His gaze sweeps brazenly over my bare shoulder. Is he taking the piss? He also looks very, um, convincing, in manly harem pants and a zip-up hoodie that’s open just enough to show a tantalising hint of chest hair above his singlet. That hoodie had better stay the fuck on while I’m dancing with him.

‘Let’s do this,’ Jack says, saving me from a snarky response and throwing me out of the frying pan and into the fire all at once. ‘Josh and Elle, you’ll join the dance floor from here. Everyone else, to the sides for the moment, please. We’ll give Elle and Josh a few rounds to find their feet before we weave the rest of you in.’

As the others make their way to slouch against the walls of the studio, I curb my mounting desire to wriggle the horror of this situation off and focus on adopting the erect posture my etiquette teacher has insisted on for a young lady of breeding in the era. I straighten my back. Drop my shoulders. Tilt my chin up.

Beside me, Josh exhales. ‘God help us.’ My thoughts exactly.

‘Break a leg,’ I murmur in a tone curt enough to leave him wondering whether I’m actually wishing him luck or putting a curse on him.

He holds out his arm to me. ‘Miss Kenworthy,’ he murmurs.

The familiar first bars of the music strike up from the sound system, and I take his arm. Together, we move to the middle of the room, both staring straight ahead.

We stop. Turn towards each other. I raise my face to his, and he looks down at me. I wish I was in heels.

‘Ready?’ Josh asks. I nod.

He slides his hand around my waist and pulls me closer, and I slip my left hand over his shoulder as I’ve done with Jack and his team a million times. I extend my right arm straight, and Josh clasps my wrist.

Skin on skin.

The shock of it.

Josh’s hand is warm and dry and strong, his fingers closing effortlessly around my wrist. He’s close. Closer than my rehearsal partners seemed, closer than I thought he would be. Too close?

Despite the height difference, our mouths are inches apart, his lashes sweeping his cheeks as he gazes down at me, and I have a couple of most unwelcome, most unhelpful thoughts as he does.

First, he is fucking gorgeous. God. No one can deny the guy that. The fullness of his lips, those liquid brown eyes, his long, straight nose, and the perfect smattering of stubble running from his to-die-for cheekbones to his jaw. However hard Josh Lander is on the heart, fuck knows he’s easy on the eye.

Second, I am really going to enjoy looking at this all day. Despite the fact that this position we’ve got going on is uncomfortably familiar, and looking up at him from this vantage point is doing very strange things to my muscle memory. My body remembers all-too-clearly the unspeakable things we used to get up to from this launch position, as well as his penchant for gripping my wrists when he thrust inside me.

Clearly I won’t be able to relax for a second today. Can’t be on autopilot. Autopilot for taking me through my well-rehearsed dance moves: good. Autopilot for being in Josh Lander’s arms and being very well-rehearsed in closing the gap between our mouths like a starving woman whenever I had a chance: bad.

Josh looks as though he may be struggling with his autopilot too as we tentatively move off in a large circle, while Jack delivers a running commentary of encouragement and praise and tweaks. His eyes darken and his jaw tics and his nostrils flare as he tightens his grip on my wrist and waist, and all of these things make it very hard for me to look away. Very hard indeed. Thank God I’m not the one having to lead.

A small squeak of alarm behind me alerts us both to the fact that we’re about to career into some of the dancers, and Josh comes to his senses, righting us and pulling me even closer to him as we move.

‘Shit. Sorry, Elle.’

Please don’t say my name while I’m in your arms. It is spectacularly unhelpful.

‘Don’t worry. You’re doing fine.’ See? I can be nice. He is doing fine. This is bloody hard work, in every way.

‘It’s okay,’ Jack calls. ‘You guys will need to hold eye contact for most of this waltz eventually, which means you’ll have to lead while appearing to look only at Elle, Josh. But for now, I suggest you keep your eyes on the room while you get a feel for the space.’

Josh’s entire face relaxes. ‘Sure thing,’ he tells Jack, and proceeds to studiously watch where we’re going and avoid eye contact for the next few minutes, leaving me to stare freely at his lips, which are pressed together in concentration.

He’s good. We’re good. We’re doing great. I mean, I know we have past dance floor form that suggested we’d find our stride easily, and we do. The music is perfect, and Josh is a seriously good leader when he’s not gazing down at me and ignoring everything around us. It’s a relief and an irritation that we’re so good together on every kind of dance floor. Not to mention, he smells amazing—exactly like I remember. As we take our turn around the floor, again and again, our body temperatures rise and his scent hits me squarely.

Smell, oh smell, you are the most lethal fucking portal to the past. I force myself to silently chant the line Nora threatened to tattoo backwards on my forehead so I can read it in the mirror: Sociopaths are not hot. Sociopaths are not hot.

21

JOSH

T his is going better than I dared to hope. Technically, Elle and I are in perfect sync. She’s clearly been rehearsing as hard as I have; there are astoundingly few stumbles and fuckups. But, even better, I find myself having fun. This track is killer: light and sexy, Elle is featherlight on her feet, and as we spin around, I suspect the endorphins hit both of us, because when I glance at her face it’s lost some of the tension it held at the start of the rehearsal.

Jack tells us to take a quick water break before the rest of the dancers join us on the floor. I’m sorry to break this fragile truce, but I’m parched and sweating. I need to lose this hoodie. I swig from my water bottle as I unzip my hoodie and shuck it off, towelling my face and neck down with a towel from the pile on the table. I try not to look as Elle pulls her little shirt off over her head, revealing a black crop top to match her leggings. Holy fuck. That is not helpful.

‘Okay, folks,’ Jack tells the others. ‘You’re up. Get in position and we’ll take it from the top. We’re going to count it out together, yeah?’

I’m not sure what he means, but I know the rest of the dancers have been rehearsing without us, and people seem to be murmuring and nodding in agreement. I move back to my mark and Elle comes to stand beside me, graceful as a cat. The music begins. I lead her onto the floor, and we turn to face each other.

She’s flushed and so fucking beautiful as she looks up at me, strands of blonde hair escaping her ponytail and framing her face. Her gaze takes in my tank top and flits over my shoulders and arms, and when her eyes widen, I could punch the air.

Instead, I bite my lip as I check her out in return. Tight little top. Leggings like a second skin. And between them, a few inches of stomach so pale and smooth my mouth waters as I recall how that expanse of skin felt under my lips. My tongue.

I slide my hand around her waist and pull her into me more forcefully than I intended, my palm delighting in the light slick of sweat on her low back. She hesitates as she puts her hand on my now bare shoulder, her fingers closing over my skin. I hadn’t thought that through; maybe I should have worn a T-shirt, but she’s in a fucking crop-top, for chrissakes.

Jack has a loud metronome sounding out the beat over the music, but as we all start to move in a careful circle around the floor, the others start to count along to the beat. One, two, three, four. They recite the numbers quietly at first, then more loudly, and Elle and I join in.

As the dance gathers momentum, we’re not just circling the floor, but each couple is spinning as they circle. It’s heady and fun, and it feels like we could all lose control at any minute, as we shout out the count. When I look down at Elle, she’s laughing and holding onto my shoulder for dear life, and it’s such a miraculous sight I could weep. I fucking love having her this close to me, being reminded of how tiny and fragile and hyper-feminine she feels in my arms.

The dance ends, and people break away to clap, and someone wolf whistles. I release Elle to applaud the dancers—they really are awesome—and smile down at her. I forget to be careful and I forget to protect my heart from her wrath. Instead, I give her a totally genuine grin. She smiles back a little, and there’s wariness, but not hostility there. I’ll take it.

We do the whole routine a couple more times.

‘Elle and Josh, if you guys know your lines for this scene and want to run through them, feel free,’ Jack says. ‘I’m sure you won’t be saying much during the wide shots, but it might help to play around with timing before we block this scene out on the stage.’

He’s right. It’s one hell of an ask, to layer dialogue over the effort just getting through the dance requires, but it could help to run the lines while we have all the other guys here to keep us in our rightful positions.

‘You game?’ I ask Elle.

She raises her eyebrows. ‘Why not?’

I get the feeling she’d say yes to any challenge I set, just to prove to me (and herself) I’m not affecting her. I just hope I can remember my lines and deliver them while not steering the pair of us into a wall.

‘Great.’ This scene between the two of them is fun. And heated. Bring it.

‘We’ll give it a shot,’ I tell Jack. We all take our starting positions.

Elle and I begin to move, and I look down at her. I can focus just fine on her face, keeping the position of the couples nearest us in my peripheral vision.

‘You may be interested to learn, Miss Kenworthy, that both your mother and Lord Rutland have declared themselves in favour of our marrying.’

Elle’s eyes flash, and adorable, pointy little chin juts higher. ‘So they have informed me, Your Grace.’

‘And you? What say you to a union between us?’

Her face and voice are utterly blank. ‘I understand how advantageous a union with you would be, Your Grace. I consider myself most fortunate to have the opportunity to serve my family in this way.’

I can’t hide my amusement. Georgiana’s a piece of work. ‘You would consider marriage to me to be a form of servitude?’

She drops her eyes. ‘I would. But you need not doubt my commitment to being a loyal and dutiful wife.’

‘Georgiana, look at me.’

The other couples swirl around us. I have eyes only for this woman in front of me. She looks up at me with all the defiance that Georgiana should have. Jesus, she’s the perfect person to play this role, to be my fiery little wife. ‘If we are to be married, I think it appropriate that I call you Georgiana. And you must call me Dominic in return.’

‘Yes, Your Grace. Dominic.’ I have a sudden flashback to her yes, sir line in Gracie. I’d be lying if I said I haven’t watched that movie a million times in the past five years. We’re both getting tired from the effort of dancing, and the sound of my fictional name on Elle’s lips, her voice breathless, spurs me on to roughen my voice for my next line.

‘Georgiana. My beloved betrothed. As soon as this dance ends, you will come with me to the parlour just beyond, where I shall kiss you, do you hear? I shall kiss you most ardently, dammit, and I shall demonstrate to you that marriage to me will not be an endless sentence of servitude, but will instead hold numerous and profound pleasures for the both of us. Pleasures you have no earthly concept of in this instant, but which you will come to want. To need. To crave from me. Do you understand?’

I grip Elle’s waist as I whirl her around with one final, perfectly timed flourish, and have the total satisfaction of seeing her staring up at me, speechless, the size of her pupils giving me all the response I need.

22

ELLE

O live has adopted her favourite Dead Dog pose and is out cold on her back, paws in the air, catching flies. She’s asleep on a pile of jumpers and therefore not helping my packing much, but she’s so bloody cute I’ll forgive her anything. I’m going to miss her so much.

Shooting starts tomorrow at Elstree Studios up in Hertfordshire. While it’s perfectly commutable from London, I don’t fancy an hour’s car journey each way at the end of long shoot days, so I’m staying up there Monday to Friday for the next few weeks. They’re putting us up at The Grove, which is a lovely country house hotel in nearby Watford. I’ll be home at the weekends to hang out with my baby girl and her foster mother, who can’t wait to get her to herself.

‘Can we FaceTime every evening?’ I ask said foster mother.

‘By we, you mean you and Olive,’ Nora says. It’s not a question.

‘Obviously.’

‘Why not? You guys will have so much to catch up on. And you can confide in Olive if Josh Lander’s tongue accidentally ends up in your mouth.’

‘Nora Wilder! Have a little faith in me. It may well end up in my mouth in the next few days, though. On camera. We’re shooting the first kissing scene this week.’

Nora strokes Olive, who swats her away in her sleep with a paw. ‘They won’t make you use tongue, will they? Isn’t that a bit creepy?’

I cock my head. ‘Dunno. Sometimes, yes. It can be hot, too. Depends on how it’s done.’

‘I remember how cringey I found that silhouette of Tom Cruise’s tongue slipping into Kelly McGillis’ mouth in Top Gun when I was, like, twelve.’ Nora does a full-body shudder. ‘Ugh. It was so pervy.’

‘But if you watched it now, you might think it was great. I re-watched Pretty Woman recently, when I was recovering from a flare-up, and that moment where they finally kiss is so romantic. And Richard Gere gave it some tongue, and it was so hot. I was like, go Richard! He was so sexy in that movie.’

‘You’re so weird. Anyway, it’s not like you haven’t had Josh Lander’s tongue in your mouth before, and loved it. Is it?’

‘That is precisely the problem.’ I chuck a few pairs of socks in my case.

‘Interesting wardrobe choices.’ Nora rifles through the clothes I’ve put in my case so far. ‘Not planning on making much of an effort, are we?’

‘I’ll be sitting in hair and makeup in yoga pants, then I’ll be in costume all day, with corsets, which are fucking crucifying, apparently. When I get back to the hotel, I’ll be in a bathrobe faster than you can say Netflix. I really don’t need much stuff.’

My phone screen lights up and I glance at it. It’s a WhatsApp from Mum. I click through.

‘Oh! My cousin Miles is engaged! That’s so lovely.’

Miles is a great guy who’s had a shit time of it recently. His parents (our mums are sisters) founded Montague Hotels Group, which he now runs. He was married to a beautiful but shallow-as-fuck socialite, who left him and his gorgeous little daughter, Bea, and ran off to the US just before lockdown.

This new relationship has been a whirlwind, according to information gleaned from Mum. Miles hired a nanny for Bea a few months ago, just before Christmas, and fell head over heels in love. She’s Irish, and apparently absolutely lovely. He must be seriously smitten if he’s proposed this quickly.

Nora glances at me shiftily. ‘Theo Montague’s brother?’

‘The very same.’ I beam at her, unable to hide my glee. My cousin Theo overlapped with us for a year at Cambridge. He was the reason I applied to Emmanuel College, actually. He was at Emmanuel, two years ahead of me, and let me go stay with him when I was doing my UCAS applications. It was love at first sight. Me and Emmanuel, I mean. Not me and my cousin. That would have been creepy.

Other people were less immune to Theo’s charms. I made the mistake of introducing him to my brand-new friend Nora one night during our Fresher’s week, when we were wide-eyed and innocent and he was a predatory Third Year. He and Nora snogged in the shrubbery, and she’s always claimed, albeit resentfully, that it was the best kiss she’s ever had. She had scratch marks down her back afterwards.

From Theo’s fingernails.

Not the shrubbery.

Anyway, I get huge enjoyment from winding Nora up about Theo. Even if she met Jonathan shortly afterwards, and dated him for not only the whole of uni, but years after. They only broke up a few months ago. It was a massive shock to us all, but especially to Nora, and she’s still devastated and determined to win him back.

Jonathan’s a bit like a labrador, all big and golden and good-natured. He’s never done anything controversial in his life. Until he dumped Nora out of the blue and promptly got himself a new girlfriend. She’s called Lucy, and she went to one of those all-girls schools in Gloucestershire that basically teach you how to play lacrosse, cook and find a wealthy husband. Horrific. (You’ll have established by now that Nora and I are raging intellectual snobs.)

‘Is Miles as much of a dick as Theo?’ Nora asks with feigned disinterest.

‘No, he’s not. He’s a really good guy. A lot more reserved than Theo—he can be a bit grumpy, even. But according to Mum, this new girlfriend, Saoirse, is really good for him. Apparently, he can’t stop smiling.’

‘Ugh.’ Nora rolls her eyes. ‘Happy, loved-up people. Who’d have ‘em?’

I pull out a pack of disposable incontinence pants and stuff them in the case. Unfortunately, I daren’t travel without them. Especially for a shoot I know will have my tummy in permanent knots. ‘Remind me why you’re a wedding planner again?’

Nora, if you haven’t worked it out, is not the most obvious fit for an industry that revolves around celebrating other people’s (hopefully) lifelong happiness.

‘Disrupting the industry, bitch.’

It’s true. Nora left uni with that rare thing: an actual job. She went to work for one of the senior editors of the Times online edition, and this woman, who was a total cow, basically made Nora plan her whole wedding for her. Nora was horrified by the general flakiness and sloppy pricing in the industry and went on to plan her boss’ wedding with military precision, using hostage-negotiator tactics in her haggling, supply chain software for logistics, and excel spreadsheets that looked like the financial reports of a FTSE 100 company.

Thus, Nora Wilder Weddings was born, and Nora runs this mini empire with laser focus, zero emotion and a team of clones-slash-minions doing her bidding.

‘Do you want the job?’ My fingers hover over my screen. ‘Mum’s saying I should text Miles and congratulate him and recommend you.’

‘And this is why we love Linda,’ Nora sighs. ‘Yes, please.’

My lips twitch. This is an excellent distraction from the relentless reminders my brain keeps serving up that this week Josh Lander will be kissing me—what was it Dominic said?—most ardently. Fuck fuck fuck.

‘I’ll message him now,’ I tell Nora. ‘You realise Theo will probably be best man, right? Just saying.’

23

ELLE

I ’ve been in the hair and makeup trailer for two hours, and they’re nearly done. My up-do, including extensions and silk flowers, has taken up the majority of the time. For the most part, I’ve sat quietly and only spoken when the hairstylists and makeup artists have asked me questions.

It’s always odd at first on a new job, because I’m uncomfortably aware that everyone knows far more about me than I know about them. And that can make them uncomfortable, too. It’s like they’re afraid of stumbling over elephants in rooms. Not this lot, though. They’re a riot, and I suspect we’ll feel like a family by this time next week.

Parka Pete, as he introduced himself earlier when he got me a mug of tea, pops his head around the door, encased in the hood of a tatty-looking parka and holds out a cardboard box of the eggs and avocado I ordered from catering.

‘You want this in here, lovey, or when you’re out of the chair?’

I stick my hand out. I’m starving. ‘I’ll have it here, if you guys can work around it.’

Parka Pete is the Cast PA, or Cast Production Assistant. His job is to look after the cast, particularly the leads, and he will likely be my guardian angel.

‘Go for it, babes,’ says Cheryl, my makeup artist. ‘You need your grub; we’ll manage just fine.’

Felicity, playing my mother, pipes up from the chair next to me. ‘You got my bacon sarnie there, Pete?’

‘I most certainly have, your Ladyship.’ Pete edges in and puts a box and some cutlery down in front of both of us.

‘You’re an absolute star.’ She rips open her box in delight.

Today is our third day of filming, but I haven’t glimpsed Josh in costume yet. I shot a scene with my family yesterday, and according to yesterday’s sides (which are the little paper handouts distributed each morning that tell everyone who’s shooting what and where that day), he was shooting one between Dominic and Rugby on another stage.

We did, however, have our sit-down with the intimacy coordinator, Kate, yesterday morning. It was excruciating. I felt like Josh and I were two adolescents having to have a sex talk with a teacher. I’ve worked with intimacy coordinators before—all female—and I’m a huge advocate of their role.

The introduction of the IC role has taken sex scenes from potentially massive liabilities for everyone involved to heavily choreographed processes where the actors and directors have a chance to voice concerns, discuss the motivation and justification for having an intimate scene, and rehearse the sequence of actions the scene will comprise. When an IC does his or her job well, the actors feel safe and there are no surprises when the cameras start rolling.

Amen to that.

I liked Kate a lot, and I respected that she came out guns blazing.

‘Tell me if I’m wrong, but the main area I’d like to address is the fact that you have been involved with each other romantically in the past.’

Josh and I managed to avoid looking at each other, both acknowledging her point tersely. Poor Kate. We were on opposite ends of the sofa, stiff as boards. She was going to have a hell of a lot of work to do on our body language.

‘Thank you. I didn’t want to make assumptions that the relationship was real as opposed to something orchestrated for the press’ benefit.’

Bloody hell. This woman didn’t pull her punches.

‘It was real,’ I mumbled, picking at a hangnail. Operative word: was. I glanced at Josh, daring him to contradict me, but he just nodded like he was agreeing to a request to pull out his wisdom teeth without anaesthetic.

Kate nodded like I was a therapy patient who’d had a breakthrough. ‘Excellent, Ellery. Therefore, and please stop me at any time if I make any incorrect assumptions, you will both have concerns around intimacy that are quite different from ones actors who don’t know each other may have. My job is to ensure that to the greatest degree possible, when you are in front of the cameras you feel as safe and as prepared as you can be while honouring the needs of the story in that particular scene.

‘Think of it like a fight scene. The potential for injury in a fight scene that isn’t properly choreographed and planned out to the last detail is massive. It’s exactly the same with sex scenes, even if the potential damage is invisible.’

I nodded, even though I’d heard this analogy before from other ICs, because her words were a reminder that this wasn’t me, alone in front of the camera with Josh and relying on his good graces. We had a professional in our corner, reducing what would look post production like an effortlessly steamy sequence to a mechanical series of gestures. Move arm like X. Do Y with mouth. That I could do.

‘Let’s start by voicing any concerns you may have, if you feel comfortable sharing them in front of each other,’ Kate said. ‘If you’d rather both speak to me separately, we can do this as two private chats.’

‘I just want to make sure Elle feels comfortable and safe at all times,’ Josh said gruffly. ‘I don’t know how she’s feeling about this conversation, but I know it’s difficult for me. Having said that, I’m willing to discuss anything that needs to be covered—I’m hoping the more clarity we get now, the less margin for error or offence there’ll be when we’re shooting.’

‘That’s great, Josh,’ Kate said, and I rolled my eyes internally, even though I was grateful for his words. ‘Do you have anything to add, Ellery?’

‘I think Josh has covered everything,’ I said evenly. Wild horses could not drag my biggest fear out of me. What if my brain and my body get confused? What if I find myself practically naked with Josh on set and it triggers feelings I’ve worked very, very hard on burying? What if I fancy the pants off him in naked, sexy duke mode?

Luckily, movie sets are spectacularly unsexy places, and when I had the exposed paunch of some sound guy hanging over me as he held the boom in place, I’d be unlikely to be transported by desire.

We covered off the contractual boundaries we’d both stipulated. Josh and I had reasonably similar clauses: we’d both agreed to fully nude rear and side views and I’d agreed to show my nipples where we deemed it artistically appropriate. Whatever. They were just nipples. I was more worried about skin on skin than I was about the world seeing my boobs on camera again—

Oh, holy fuck. I suddenly sat bolt upright.

‘What is it?’ Kate asked.

I looked at Josh in a panic.

‘Do you want me to leave?’ He pointed at the door. ‘I can leave.’

‘No. No—I.’ Shit. This was important stuff. I needed to stand up for myself. ‘I just thought of something—we have clauses for what the camera can show, but not regarding… um, touch.’ I couldn’t have Josh touching my boobs.

Kate’s eyebrows knitted together.

‘I mean, I obviously have places I’m not comfortable being touched by’—I risked a look at Josh, who looked like he wanted to sink through the floor—‘my co-leads.’ I gestured vaguely to my boob area for good measure.

‘Oh, gosh.’ Kate held up her hand. ‘Please don’t worry about that, Ellery. Every single movement and point of contact will be pre-agreed. There will be no touch you’re not comfortable with, and I’d be very surprised if the directors made any requests in that department that you deem unreasonable. In the most extreme scenario, we could demand a body double, but I have a feeling that won’t be necessary. Now. Let’s talk about closure, shall we? And then we can run through your expectations for tomorrow’s kissing scene.’

I’d done closure before. The idea was that our bodies could get carried away in these scenes, producing the same chemicals they might produce in real life—endorphins, dopamine—and that it was healthy to have a ritual between the actors that marked the end of the scene. I usually high-fived, or hugged it out.

In Gracie, David and I had a particularly silly ritual of sticking our tongues out and making fart noises while putting our thumbs on our noses and wiggling our fingers like clowns. The sex scenes were so difficult, and often harrowing, we needed something infantile to snap us out of that headspace afterwards.

‘Do you have any suggested signs for closure?’ Kate asked.

‘How about a hug?’ Josh suggested at the same time that I said, ‘A handshake?’

I stared at him as if he’s lost the plot.

A fucking hug?

No way.

Kate cocked her head. ‘Okay. Why did you suggest a handshake, Ellery?’

‘It’s transactional.’ I glared daggers at Josh. ‘It reminds us that what just passed was us doing our job.’

‘That seems fair. Do you agree, Josh?’

‘Sure. Whatever Elle wants.’

‘Excellent.’ Kate picked up her notebook. ‘Now, let’s talk about this kiss.’

24

ELLE

O h, my sweet baby Jesus.

Parka Pete has just guided me from the costume trailer to the sound stage we’re on, protecting me from the drizzle with a golf umbrella (no umbrella for him. He has his trusty parka). This is one of those precious moments: those moments it all begins to feel real, the moments you sense what magic you all may be capable of creating together.

It’s my first time in full costume, hair and makeup, though I’ve had numerous fittings for the seventy-plus dresses Georgiana will wear over the course of the series. It’s also my first time seeing the sets, and I’m beyond excited.

Whenever my parents took me to the theatre when I was younger, I would obsess over the sets. I just wanted to climb on stage and examine every lick of paint, every prop. I’m not sure any theatre production has had a more appreciative audience member than me. So I’m simply dying to get up close to these sets and see how gorgeous and sumptuous and detailed they are.

Anyway. I digress. The reason for my blasphemy is that, as Pete and I traverse the wasteland of the studio floor and make our way over to what looks like a delightful set of a duck-egg blue parlour, I spot Josh.

In full Dominic regalia.

Holy fuck.

He’s lolling against a pillar, and I sweep my eyes over him as we approach. His hair is mussed and pulled forward in the style of the era. He’s sporting fake sideburns, but they look seriously good. A white shirt, collar starched and up, framing a cravat. A burgundy waistcoat, and black trousers, tails and boots. He looks like every romance reader’s fantasy. Colin Firth has nothing on this guy. I really wish Nora was here. She would die. Dominic, Duke of Coventry, is her favourite regency romance hero of all time (mine too. Nora and I are suckers for the bossy, commanding ones).

‘Jesus,’ Pete whispers in awe at the sight. I can relate.

Josh doesn’t take his eyes off me either as we approach, even though I have on my coat and a hairnet protecting my up-do. Not quite the first impression my dashing husband makes. He pushes himself off the pillar and comes towards me.

‘Your Grace,’ I retort, to break the tension. Well, I have no idea if he feels any tension, but I do. Thick and fast.

His eyes flash. ‘Georgiana. You look beautiful.’

I pat my head self-consciously. ‘Hopefully better once I lose the net. You look… convincing.’

I step closer.

‘Good sideburns.’

He switches to his regular accent. ‘Aren’t they? Wanna feel them?’

Why not? I’m curious. And our faces will be squished together soon enough, anyway. I put my hand up and stroke a sideburn carefully with my fingertips. He watches my face the whole time. Dear Lord, why must the guy look so good in this get-up? These fake rodents stuck to his cheeks should be ridiculous, but they give him gravitas. The mullet should be a disaster, but he just looks like he’s been riding through the moors and has dropped into a ball. It’s so unfair.

‘They’re scratchier than I expected.’

‘Yeah. They itch. I tried growing my own, but I couldn’t cultivate enough hair. It was just a bunch of butt-fluff on my face.’

I laugh a little. ‘Butt-fluff. Nice.’

This is by far the most civil conversation we’ve had to date. I still hate him. He’s still a sociopath. But I’m in my dream role on my dream show, and I’m damned if I’ll let Josh Lander spoil my fun today.

I squint at his hair. I’m standing far too close to him. Need to move back. ‘Is that all your own hair?’

‘They used some extensions.’ He’s still staring down at me. ‘I didn’t have enough natural volume for their liking.’

I blink. ‘Right. Me neither.’

Hayley, one of the hair stylists, comes up behind me and unclips the clips holding my hair net on. She lifts it gently off my head.

‘Want me to take your coat, lovey?’ Parka Pete’s been hovering, drooling silently over Josh-as-Dom.

‘Thanks.’ I slip gingerly out of it—I’m terrified I’ll snag the intricate beading on the dress underneath—and hand it to Pete. Josh’s eyes rake over me.

‘Anyone want a drink?’ Pete holds up a water bottle carrier. The bottles in it have our names stuck on. He’s seriously organised.

‘No thanks, Pete.’ We shake our heads.

‘Alrighty, then. I’ll have a nice cuppa waiting for you both after this.’

‘Coffee, please,’ Josh tells him, and then he fixes his molten brown eyes on my mouth. ‘I’m gagging for a coffee. Didn’t dare have one before I kissed my betrothed.’

I lick my lips.

It’s like a reflex when he looks at me.

Bugger bugger bugger.

JOSH

CALL ME FUCKED UP, or a total dick, but I’m really looking forward to this kissing scene. I can tell Elle is not; she’s twitchy as hell, and the look she shoots me when I make my betrothed comment is pure fucking hatred. Shame. We were playing so nicely there for all of thirty seconds. She even stroked the furry friend on my cheek.

And I saw the look in her eyes when she spotted me in costume. Huh. That was interesting. I remember how much she liked it when I took charge. When I pinned her wrists over her head when we had sex. Remember is an understatement. I recall every single second with her. How her back arched with frustration when I teased her. How her hips rose off the bed. How her lips parted in bliss when she liked something I did. (She still does that, by the way. If she knew how often she showed her tell, how often she licked her lips around me, she’d be fucking furious).

But it makes sense that she’d be into the whole dominating duke thing. Alyssa let slip that Elle’s a raging fan of the Grosvenor books, apparently. Dominic’s a total prick—at this point in his story arc, anyway—but he’s an awesome character to play. I’m going to have serious fun with him.

Especially when he’s educating his sexy, clueless little wife in the pleasures of the flesh.

I look down at her. She has fantastic breasts: they’re the perfect handful. High and tight. But in this dress, with whatever she’s got going on beneath, they’re on a fucking platter. Especially from my height advantage. This is a seriously great angle.

Maybe I should get the foreplay going. Rile her up for the main action.

‘I’m sorry we gotta go straight into such an intimate scene,’ I say now, playing up the concern in my expression.

Her eyes narrow in an are you kidding me way and she draws herself up to her full size, which, unfortunately for her, still puts her at a massive height disadvantage. Especially since my fancy black boots have heels. She takes a deep breath and I swear, her tits heave. She tugs at whatever corset or thing she’s got going on under that dress.

I may or may not have done some googling on regency underwear for women. What can I say? I don’t have much going on in my hotel room at night. I can’t even hit the mini bar. Anyway, I bet her corset is amazing. Uncomfortable for her, but amazing-looking. No wonder Dominic is desperate to get her married and into his cold bed as soon as possible.

‘I have no problem with that,’ she spits. ‘We’re both professionals. It makes sense to eat the frog first thing.’

My eyes widen. Jeez. Could she come up with a worse analogy for kissing me than eat the damn frog?

‘It’s Mark Twain.’ She smirks.

Jesus H Christ. She is so darn intellectually arrogant. ‘I know it’s Mark Twain. I’m just disappointed you would compare kissing me to eating a frog.’

‘You made the link. Not me.’

‘Is that how it used to feel when I kissed you?’ I shake my head slowly and step in closer to her. I tut at her from my lofty vantage point. ‘I don’t think so, baby.’

She puts her hands on her hips. Her head is practically the whole way back, her milky throat on display. What I wouldn’t give to run my fingers down it and along her collarbone.

‘What the fuck are you doing?’

I’m being a dick. I know. There’s only one dick in this situation; there’s only one person who bears any blame for the fact that she hates my guts, and that’s me. And I’ve overstepped the mark, bringing up our past. It’s one boundary she asked me to respect, and I’ve shit all over it.

But hear me out. She’ll thank me for this on set. She was in danger of forgetting how much of an unworthy tool I am, just then, and losing her edge on camera. This is me giving her back her edge. Reminding her to despise me.

Besides. This friction, this sparring, is the only thing I have with Elle anymore. Of camera, anyways. There’s no small talk. No reminiscing. This is the way to ignite that spark we never extinguished, despite my shitty behaviour. It’s pathetic. It’s low. But it’s all I got, and I’m getting off on it. That said, I don’t want her to totally despise me, so I throw her a bone.

‘I’m pissing you off. Georgiana needs to be pissed at Dominic.’ I shrug. ‘I thought it might help.’

She blinks, surprised, and looks up into my face. ‘I’m perfectly capable of harnessing my character’s motivations without your help.’

I put my hands up in surrender. ‘Got it.’

‘Pull a stunt like that again, and I’ll bite your fucking tongue when you’re trying to kiss me.’ With that, she spins and flounces onto the set.

25

ELLE

F ucking Josh.

We’ve blocked out the scene with Abigail, the director for this episode, and we’ve had a runthrough of the kiss with Abigail, Alyssa and Kate (just our marks—we choreographed the machinations of the kiss yesterday with Kate. No mouths, but it was intense). And I’m still angry. I’m angry he broke one of the rules I set by mentioning our past (how he used to kiss me, FFS), and I’m angry I let him get to me, and I’m angry I let him see how much he got to me, and, most of all, I’m angry that I now can’t stop thinking about how Josh used to kiss me.

Because those kisses were beautiful. Cinematic. Slow and rolling, or heated and frantic: whatever way we did them, we gave good kissing together. God, that first kiss in the Med was so fucking hot. We were so desperate for each other; I can still recall the relief when he pulled my legs around his waist in the sea and leaned into me.

But other kisses were even better. Some of the best were the intimate ones after sex. Languorously exploring each other. Speaking without words. His hand clamped to the back of my neck like a vice, pulling me in as close as he could physically get me.

It was real. It was. That’s the thing I always come back to, the thing that stumps me. The riddle that has haunted me for five years, despite all the work I’ve done. He felt it, too. He felt as strongly as I did. I swear it on everything I hold precious.

So why did he let me go? How could he just walk away without a backwards glance?

How could he bear it?

Because I couldn’t. It was unbearable.

It’s a riddle with no answer, and it’s taken a truckload of hard work and self-compassion and an impossible quest for the Zen required to accept that I’ll never have the answer. Even if I asked Josh for it, which I never would, I doubt he’d give me an answer that satisfied me.

Accept and move on. Accept and move on. Surrender. This is what I’ve been doing for five years, but it’s triggering, being here with him. That’s what Simon, my therapist, said last night on our Zoom call from my hotel room. Being in close proximity to him, and preparing for an intimate scene, is a cruel trigger. And I hate him for making it worse with his goading.

I hate him. That’s better. Hold on to this feeling. This is what I need for the scene. There’s a conflict there; I’ve already discussed it with Alyssa. The conflict is that Georgiana despises Dominic at this point; she’s furious she’s been forced into a match while knowing it’s the most dutiful and valuable thing she can do for her family, and yet, there’s an attraction there.

When Dominic kisses Georgiana, she feels things she has never felt before, both physical and emotional. It’s the first stirring of an awakening in her, and Dominic is the lightning rod for that awakening. She’s allowed to hate him, and she’s allowed to be moved by his kiss.

It’s very different from Gracie, where the conflict was all at the audience’s end. Gracie was categorically in a non-consensual relationship. Georgiana is resisting on the surface, but this is a love story. She’s about to embark on the ride of a lifetime, even though she has no intention of giving into her unwelcome emotions at this point in her story.

Maybe I can channel my own conflict, then. Maybe it’s not just okay to feel this way; maybe it’s helpful. As Simon reminded me last night, learning how to simply sit with conflict is one of the best skills we can empower ourselves with.

I was in love with Josh. He screwed me over.

Our kisses were hot. Hot as hell. And I’m scared of kissing him now.

He hurt me, and I fancied the fucking pants off him, and I’m fucking furious with him, and I hate him. And I still fancy the pants off him. And all that will improve my ability to portray Georgiana in this moment.

Okay, then.

Dan, the first AD, tells us we’re starting with close-ups. My coverage first, then Josh’s, then profile shots of the two of us. Sounds fine. If fine means kissing Josh multiple times from three different angles before we even get to the medium shots.

Josh and I are both chewing gum, I notice. As Dan leads us back onto the set, I get rid of mine in the bin by Abigail’s chair and Josh does the same. It’s not a sex scene, but there are very few people on set. I suspect that’s Kate’s work, and I appreciate it. Although I kind of wish she could actually hold my hand while I go through this kissing scene.

AN HOUR LATER, we’ve got coverage of both our lines in the run up to the kiss. It’s a short scene, as it follows Dominic practically dragging Georgiana out of the ballroom and into the parlour. Abigail’s beside the camera, Kate’s hovering, and Alyssa’s watching the proceedings on the monitor just off set. Now we’re rolling again in profile.

I’m backed up against a wall next to the parlour’s window. Josh plants a hand either side of my face. Framing me. Locking me in.

‘Never been kissed,’ he murmurs, his voice gruff and commanding and flawlessly British. Entitled. He plays the entitled dick perfectly. I stare at his cravat.

We’ve discussed at length that, right now, Georgiana will be in a state of eighty percent terror and twenty percent aroused anticipation, without being able to define the latter emotion for herself. God, I’ve read this part ad nauseam in the book. I’ve put myself in Georgiana’s shoes a million times, wishing I was her. Lucky cow.

And now I’m there.

With Josh Lander.

The universe certainly has a sense of humour.

Josh puts his weight on one hand and uses the other to touch under my chin and draw my face up towards him. I drag my gaze upwards, mirroring Georgina’s reluctance easily. And find Josh-as-Dominic inches away, his eyes darkening, his gaze burning into mine. He’s the whole package. Josh Lander is one of the world’s sexiest men in any case, and trussed up like this, he’s every woman’s Mr Darcy fantasy come to life.

His fingers slide down my throat. ‘Such a beautiful white throat.’ His tone is positively wolfish.

I repeat the moves I’ve already recorded for my coverage: swallowing, my eyes darting in a panic down to his hand, which is brushing my collarbone, and back up to his face. My chest heaves (not difficult to act; I can’t get enough lung capacity in this fucking thing to take a full breath).

Josh’s finger moves to my bottom lip. It presses and tugs it downward ever so lightly. My eyes dart all over his face, but I stay still.

‘These lips are far too precious to remain untouched,’ he murmurs.

I gasp.

He is so bloody close to me.

My pulse is pounding in my ears.

‘We will bring each other so much pleasure, Georgiana.’ His hand slides around the back of my neck and caresses it firmly. ‘I will teach you.’

Our eyes are locked tight. I couldn’t look away if I tried. He stares at me through those thick lashes. Dominic tells Georgiana with his eyes:

I want you.

I claim you.

I will teach you.

Believe me.

And Josh tells me with his eyes:

I’m sorry.

You’re safe.

I feel this too.

Believe me.

And then he bends and closes the gap between us, and his mouth is on me. Oh, Jesus.

I make the tiniest noise when his mouth closes over me, when his lips move against mine. I arch slightly away from the wall before collapsing again under the weight of Josh’s body as he presses himself against me. I catalogue each move as he makes it, as if it’s a dance step.

His hand, vice-like, on the back of my neck.

His thumb reaching around to stroke my throat.

His other hand seizing the bare flesh of my upper arm between my sleeve and my evening glove.

His face rotating against mine to better his angle, his access to my lips.

Oh my God. I feel lightheaded. Drunk. Like Alyssa’s roofied my drink to get me on board.

Because I remember this.

I remember the feel of his lips.

The heat of his exhales.

The smell of his skin, even though the layers of makeup they’ve put on him.

My muscle memory is doing me proud, or totally betraying me.

I remain frozen for the first few seconds, as we’ve choreographed, my arms stiff at my sides, my mouth clamped shut. Then I yield. Yield to Josh. Yield to Dominic. I arch my throat, just a little. I part my lips slightly against the relentless pressure of his mouth. And, because I know it will be a key shot, my hand finds the lapel of his coat and squeezes it, as if involuntarily, as Georgina allows herself to be unravelled by this kiss with the man who means to make her his Duchess.

And then, the money shot. Josh pulls away, just enough to slay me with those eyes and whisper You’re perfect as I stare at him with glazed eyes, before he pushes up harder against me, claiming me with his mouth, forcing my mouth further open with his tongue.

Jesus Christ.

His tongue plunges inside me as the hand on my neck drags greedily along to my shoulder, slipping my sleeve down a fraction. I pant and heave my chest again (between the corset and his tongue in my mouth it’s not difficult), my hand clawing helplessly at his coat, and Dominic remembers himself. Remembers where they are. That he is with a young lady, even if she is betrothed to him. And pulls away, pressing his forehead to mine, and groaning as Georgiana catches her breath.

‘And cut.’ Abigail breaks the fucked-up spell we’ve cast on each other. Josh releases me and steps back, and I wish I could wipe my mouth, but my lipstick will come off on my pristine white gloves. If Josh has left any lipstick on, that is.

As the makeup artists hurry over to touch us up, I watch him. He hasn’t taken his eyes off me. He glances distractedly in Kate’s direction as she gives us a thumbs-up from off stage before his gaze slides back to me. Assessing. Concerned.

‘You okay?’ he asks, his voice low.

‘Yeah.’ I nod vigorously, unsure of what else to say. Gosh, Josh, you really know how to play the bad-boy panty-dropper to perfection. Or shame we couldn’t keep going after the camera stopped rolling; I wanted to climb you like a tree.

I didn’t really want to.

(I did.)

Truthfully, I feel the oddest mix of relieved and turned on and violated and triumphant.

‘That was great, guys.’ Abigail’s voice cuts through my internal cluster-fuck. ‘I need you to try to get Elle’s dress a little further down off her shoulder this time, okay Josh? Otherwise, you nailed it. Let’s get you some water and go again.’

We do four more takes before Abigail is happy and we move to the medium shots. Four more snogs with Josh. If I’m not mistaken, each one is more heated than the last as we hit our stride and lose our inhibitions. My sense of triumph is mounting. Not only did I survive kissing Josh, but we’re good together on screen when we can get out of our own way. I know no one else doubted it, but I did.

That was hot.

Too hot.

After we get the medium shots, which focus on the compelling silhouette we make, coupling against the wall, and the desperate clawing of my fingers against his coat, we find our closure. And as Josh’s fingers close over mine in a decisive but emotionless handshake, I secretly wonder if he was right. If hugging it out would have been more apt.

26

JOSH

T his Watford place is a total shithole. But never mind, because I needed an NA meeting after today’s shoot with Elle. I was crawling out of my fucking skin after we wrapped the kissing scene, wrung out with emotion and boiling over with desire.

This morning was all kinds of crazy. After pissing Elle off, I went on set legit on edge. But I channelled that edge into Dominic, into his emotional state at being so close to getting this woman locked down and being so impatient for stuff she had no clue about. Into the tightrope he had to walk between worshipping her, and giving into his pent-up desires, and not scaring her the hell away.

Man, I knew how he felt.

My brain got all twisted up between Dominic and Georgiana and me and Elle. The strength of my feelings for her and the heat of my desire and the years of fucking history and yearning entangled themselves with Dominic’s desperation to enter into a state he’d scoffed at right before he saw Georgiana. He did a hard one-eighty and fell, big-time.

I fell years ago, and I was still flat on my fucking face.

Anyways, with all that shit in my head, I just went for it. Didn’t overthink it—trusted the process. All I knew was, whatever I felt for Elle would enhance my performance, not damage it. And despite what she said, whatever spark of anger I ignited before the camera rolled lit a fire under her, too.

I demanded; she resisted.

I pushed; she surrendered.

It was hot as fuck.

I wasn’t on the call sheet for the rest of the day so I took off as soon as I could and headed back to the hotel for a shower and googled up the closest NA. I’ve been to a few meetings in London, but this is my first one while on location, and I need to get involved. I thought about joining my local LA one on Zoom, but it’s better in person. Trouble is, NA meetings are a nightmare if you’re famous.

So I hit this one up in Watford. It’s in a depressing fucking building on a depressing street. The requisite plastic chairs are laid out in a circle. I’ve opted for a baseball cap and a face mask—no longer mandatory in the UK, but a handy disguise. I don’t mean to be aloof, but I’m not here to buddy up. I sit quietly and I listen.

I focus on absorbing others’ stories, their observations, their pain. These people are a world away from me in lifestyle terms, and yet we’re all here. Addiction is an awesome leveller. One guy, who seems to live with chronic pain and got addicted to pain meds (so common), fell off the wagon last night and is super cut up about it. Poor schmuck. It sucks, and it brings back my usual guilt.

Imagine trying to manage pain without the relief because you got addicted to the one thing that helps. I have no such excuse. My story is so freaking predictable. Party-boy-actor gets dependent on uppers to get him through his crazy lifestyle and downers to help him level out, and somewhere along the way, lost his ability to function without them. If I couldn’t feel good, I didn’t want to feel anything.

Except when I met Elle Hart, the biggest fucking walking dopamine hit on the planet. And I had to fuck that up, too.

I dig my fingernails into my palm. Hard.

Shit, that hurts.

The pain is good.

The pain means I’m feeling.

Feeling is what we all fear, especially me, and the pain reminds me that on the other side of that fear is nothing I can’t handle. I can survive this. I’ve survived so far.

I think back to Step Nine on the ride back to the hotel.

Make direct amends to the people we’ve harmed.

I can’t make direct amends to Elle for my fuckups back then, but I sure as hell can make amends for today. Even if she won’t take it, she deserves an overture from me.

I pull up her details on WhatsApp. We exchanged numbers after that first table read, though she made a very big point of dragging her feet. I sigh and punch out a message.

Me: Hey. I was a total douche today, bringing up our past. I guess I was getting into the mood of playing Dom in full asshole mode, and I took it too far. My timing sucked. Not cool. I’m sorry.

She types back almost immediately, and I suck in a breath as I wait for her reply.

Elle: It’s ok

I’m pretty sure that’s the equivalent of I’m fine.

Me: It’s really not tho

Elle: You’re right. It’s not. You’re an arsehole. I don’t think you need much help getting into character

Me: Fair. U ok tho? U survived kissing me?

Because I barely survived kissing her. Fuck knows what it’ll be like when she’s mostly naked and writhing underneath me. On camera, I mean.

Obviously.

Elle: I’m fine. Clearly your sexuality is not as lethal as you’d like to think it is.

Ha. Baby, the only one with lethal sexuality is you. A few on-screen kisses and you slay me. Fuck, that feeling of sliding my tongue into her mouth. Tasting her again. Drinking her in. I felt like someone was gonna pull me off of her, or she was gonna slap me around the face, but no.

This job is a gift sometimes.

Me (deciding not to mention her lethal sexuality): LMAO. Hey, wanna run lines in the morning?

I freeze as the ticks turn blue, and I wait to see her typing. Nothing. Have I overstepped? Maybe I shouldn’t be so impatient. I played nice and apologised. I should have left it there, not pushed her.

She’s typing.

Elle: I’m free now actually

Oh my God. Oh my God. I cannot be in her room with her. It’s a bad fucking idea, no matter how bad I want to lower myself into a chair and feast on her creamy skin with all that makeup scrubbed off her, and her pale blonde hair, and her yoga pants or whatever she wears when she’s off set.

Amazingly, because I have no sense of self preservation, I don’t go with a no.

Me: Cool. On my way back from Watford. Give me 30mins?

Elle: Watford? WTF?

Me: NA meeting

Elle: Oh. See you then.

I can’t get back there fast enough.

27

JOSH

I  feel ten feet tall as I make my way to her suite, just down the corridor from mine. Ellery Hart has invited me to spend time with her out of hours, and as far as I know, no one’s twisted her arm to do it. If she can tolerate me in her private space, even after the stunt I pulled this morning, then maybe she’s thawing.

I knock, and she opens the door immediately, standing back to let me through. She’s barefoot, in yoga pants and a soft-looking sweater. Her hair is damp and her face is bare. She looks tired, and fragile, and stunningly beautiful.

‘Hey.’ I sidle past her, sticking my hands in my pockets so I won’t try to touch her. I look around the suite’s living area. ‘So this is more like it. Remember that shitty room they gave you in Cannes?’

For a second I wonder if it’ll piss her off, my bringing up the room where we spent so much time fucking, but she gives a little smile.

‘Yeah, it’s nice. It’s definitely a perk of being at this level in my career.’

It’s a gorgeous room. One whole end is a semi-circle, with huge floor-to-ceiling sash windows. The drapes are open, but all I can see is the reflection of the room.

‘Does that look out onto the gardens?’

‘Yep.’

‘Sweet. This is fancier than mine. And bigger.’ I hold my hands up. ‘But that’s no surprise; I definitely got second billing on this show. You’re the star.’ It’s true. My girl is fucking huge now. And I’m nowhere.

I’m so proud of her.

And pumped to be in her orbit.

Even if it’s only her professional one.

She smirks. ‘You do okay for yourself.’

‘Not really. I’m surprised you invited me up to your room.’

‘I’m assuming you can behave yourself and stick to the sofa. Have a seat.’

She points to the couch. Through the double doors, I see her bed. I swallow. Couch. Sofa, whatever. Got it.

‘Really, though.’ I sit. ‘I appreciate it.’

‘You softened me up with your apology on WhatsApp. It’s amazing how much nicer people are when you apologise for doing bad things to them, Josh. Do you want some camomile tea?’

She purses her lips together and sits down, leaving as much space between us as the couch allows. Her tone just now was passive-aggressive enough to suggest maybe she was bringing up my break-up tweet. I eye her nervously. I’m not sure where to go with this, not sure what will get me in trouble here.

‘Step Nine, right? Yes please to tea.’ She’s still drinking that stuff. She drank gallons of it when we were together.

There’s a tray on the coffee table in front of us with a china teapot and cups. She sets to work, resting the silver strainer on the rim of one of the cups before pouring.

‘Step Nine of what?’ She doesn’t look at me.

‘Of NA. And AA, too. Step Nine is making amends to all the people you’ve injured along the way.’

I watch carefully for a reaction, for a glimmer of encouragement that she might want that. She doesn’t say anything for a second, but the hand holding the teapot shakes and a little liquid splashes on the saucer.

‘Fuck. What if people don’t want your shitty attempt at making amends?’ She’s still not looking at me.

‘That’s the other half of the step.’ My voice is low. ‘It says you should make amends, except where doing so would hurt the person you’ve wronged.’

‘Quite right.’ She puts down the teapot, removes the strainer and slides the cup towards me. ‘Here you go.’

‘Elle…’

‘Let me be very clear. I have no interest in being a box for you to tick off on your nice little list. We’re way past that. Okay? I meant what I said that first day at the studios. I’ll do this job with you, but I’m not interested in delving into the past. Here.’ She dumps a tiny pot of honey down in front of me. ‘It’s better with honey.’

‘I understand. But if you ever decide you want an explanation, then I’m here, and I would’—I swallow—‘welcome the chance to talk about what happened.’

‘I will never want an explanation, Josh. Nor do I need one. The way you treated me, that was solely on you. I sleep just fine at night without understanding what makes you do the things you do. And my sense of self-worth is perfectly solid without needing any belated closure from you. And honestly, your bringing it up just pisses me off, so do me the courtesy of letting things lie. Please.’

‘I will, I promise. And I’m really sorry for earlier. I just want to say—don’t rip into me for this—but whatever fucked-up shit I did in the past, I think it legit worked for us today. We were on fire.’

I know, I know. I’m pandering pathetically, but it’s also true. We were. The chemistry between Dominic and Georgiana was off the charts. Alyssa and Abigail were fucking thrilled afterwards, and Abigail showed me a few seconds of the rushes from the close-up profile roll. My fingers trailing down her pale neck. Her lips parting. Our mouths joining. Holy fuck. They were hot. We were hot.

She frowns at me, and I wish to God I could press the pad of my thumb against that creased brow and ease away those lines. Lines I’ve put there.

‘Yeah, well.’ She cracks open her pot of honey and dips her teaspoon in, lowering it into her cup. ‘Georgiana thinks Dominic’s a narcissistic, entitled twat, so it was easy to find that energy for the scene. Are you not trying the honey?’

‘I’m not eating any sugar at the moment.’

‘Seriously?’ She picks up her cup and holds it to her lips, blowing gently. Looks up at me. ‘Since when?’

‘Since rehab. I’ve been on a dopamine fast most of the time since then, so… eight, nine months, I guess?’

‘What the fuck is a dopamine fast?’

‘Are you sure you wanna know?’

‘I asked, didn’t I?’ She takes a sip of her tea and I do the same. It’s pretty good.

‘Okay. So… you know how our bodies are built for only tiny, occasional sugar hits, but we all consume far too much?’

She nods.

‘Well, it’s kinda the same with dopamine. Everything we do in this culture: video games, social media likes, porn, uh—gambling, online shopping, sugar, liquor, meds: it’s all available to us in a crazy, constant supply, and our nervous systems can’t handle it. We are all fucking wired all the time. I heard smartphones described as a kind of hypodermic needle, right? Just delivering dopamine to us twenty-four-seven.’

‘Makes sense.’

‘The problem is, pleasure and pain act like a balancing system. If my body is taking all these constant hits of pleasure at a way higher level than it needs, it’s gonna recalibrate itself to a far higher base level of pain, just to balance things out. So you need more and more hits just to offset that baseline. And when you’re not getting your hits—like when you’re not scrolling or counting your likes or getting high, everything sucks. Life feels flat, and you can’t feel happy naturally.’

‘So that’s what you’re trying to do? Take all that stuff away so you feel happier? Or are you trying to punish yourself?’

Man, she’s sharp. And brutal. I wince and laugh.

‘There’s definitely an element of both. But self-punishment doesn’t really work, no matter how much some people may think I deserve it.’ I raise my eyebrows at her. ‘At the end of the day, to be a mentally healthy person, you need a good dose of self-compassion.

‘So it’s not about punishing or denying myself so much as saving myself from myself—if that makes sense. Stripping away the artificial stimuli that were bad for me, and made me do bad shit, and trying to find a base equilibrium that will bring me peace.’

‘And is it working?’

I have her attention. She’s twisted her body towards me and has folded one leg up on the couch, resting her cup and saucer on her thigh. I check her face for snark and see only interest.

I nod my head slowly. ‘It is, I guess. It’s allowed me to be a lot more present. A lot. And it’s meant I have to feel—the good stuff and the bad. That’s what we uncovered at rehab. I was fucking terrified of allowing myself to feel anything but good. But there are no shortcuts. You gotta brave it out, feel that shit, to make any progress.’

She tilts her head. ‘So… no sugar for nine months? Or booze, or drugs?’

‘Nope.’

‘Can you go to NA for more general issues than just drugs?’

‘Sure. It’s also…’ I consider how to explain it. ‘I like the approach. In AA, they focus on the alcohol as the cause of the addiction. In NA, it’s more about the individual. So my addiction is the problem, not whatever substance I’m addicted to. Does that make sense? And then it’s a case of, well, the addiction is the symptom, but what’s the cause? What’s driving that addiction? And for me, doing the work to figure out that root cause is what’s helped me make progress.’

She’s staring at me, and I’m conscious I’ve bared a lot more of my soul than I planned to this woman who despises me. She thinks I hurt her, but really, she’s the one with all the power here. She’s the one who can annihilate me. And she’s the one who told me she didn’t even want small talk, and I just went way beyond that.

‘Whew.’ I run my hand through my hair, embarrassed at my outburst. It’s still sticky. ‘Jeez, I showered, but I can’t get this fucking product they used out of my hair.’

‘Your skin is a bit irritated where they stuck those sideburns on.’ She reaches across and brushes just in front of my ear with her finger. I stare at her.

‘Yeah—that glue they use is nasty. I’m gonna have to shave before they stick those things on each morning, or it’ll be like getting waxed every time they take them off.’

‘I have something that might help. Wait a sec.’

She jumps off the couch and crosses into her bedroom, and I watch her perfect fucking peachy ass as she walks. It doesn’t look like she’s wearing panties. Fuck. This dopamine fast suddenly feels like a bad idea, especially when I have weeks and months of being up close and personal with this temptress.

She’s back a minute later.

‘Here you go.’ She hands me a little bottle. ‘It’s a soothing serum. It’ll help with the irritation.’

I look up at her. For all she acts pissed with me, she’s still a totally decent human being. I don’t deserve this kind of thoughtfulness.

‘Thank you,’ I say as she sits back down. ‘That’s seriously sweet of you.’

She shrugs. ‘No big deal. My skin flares up too when I’m filming. All that makeup. So. Let’s go back to what you were saying, because it’s fascinating. You’re living like a monk, basically.’

I grin. That’s a good way of describing it. I am a fucking monk right now. ‘Pretty much, I guess.’

‘So no porn for you, then.’

I squirm. ‘No, ma’am.’

‘And no sex?’

Seriously? She’s smiling like she’s enjoying torturing me. Hearing the word sex come out of her mouth makes me feel like a horny teenager.

‘No sex since before rehab.’

‘Wow. You are serious about this. Are you allowed to... You know?’

She’s seriously asking me if I’m allowed to jerk off? What the hell has gotten into her?

‘Sorry.’ I mock-frown. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

She shoves my knee with her hand. She’s still smiling. ‘Stop it. Are you allowed to wank?’

I don’t miss her fleeting glance at my crotch. ‘I thank you for your concern. Yeah, I’m allowed to wank, as you so nicely put it. I’m not a fan of blue balls. I just do it as, you know, maintenance. Like, reactively. When I absolutely have to.’

She pauses. Cocks her head.

‘Like when you’re all worked up from having spent the day ravishing your co-star on camera, and you’re really wishing you hadn’t fucked things up so badly with her, because if you were on better terms, the two of you might be able to have a quick bang and give each other the release you both need? Like that kind of “absolutely have to”?’

Her smile is wiped from her face, and her jaw ticks as she stares at me. And holy fuck. Her eyes are wet. And I swear, I’ve never wanted anything as much in my entire life as I wanna flip her over on this couch, and pull down those leggings, and remind her how good we were together. How fucking good.

I need another shower. Now.

‘Yeah.’ I don’t flinch. I don’t look away. ‘Exactly like that.’

‘Thought so.’ She unfolds herself from the couch and stands up. ‘Pity you fucked that up, eh? You’d better go. We can go through our lines tomorrow.’

28

ELLE

F uck fuck fuck. I am such an idiot. I don’t know what the hell happened to me just now. One minute, we were drinking tea in a perfectly civilised manner and I was like, I can do this. And the next, he completely slayed me with this shock outpouring of vulnerability and brutal fucking honesty and I could not handle it. My heart just couldn’t take it.

The main thing I was thinking when he was talking, to be honest, was this is not the Josh Lander I knew. When I was with him, he was larger than life, an incredibly successful and charismatic, and yes, entitled, and secure-in-his-own skin celebrity who charmed the pants off me. Quite literally. And I was the little newbie who drank up that whole Hollywood persona he had going on.

But he’s different. And it’s not just because my own career has taken off and I’ve caught up with him (or eclipsed him, if I’m being mean or comparing box office takings). Someone’s turned the volume switch on Josh Lander right down and it’s kind of sad, in one way, because it feels like he’s gone through a lot of shit and then some.

It’s also… reassuring, oddly, to hear about his journey. About the work he’s been doing on himself. And unsettling. Because if I’m honest, I’ve reduced the entire guy down to one thing he did. One horrible, inexplicable and unforgivable act. And I’ve hated him for that for years, and hate is a nice, clean feeling. It’s easy to get your head around, and it feels great to act on.

But when he acted all honest and humble and vulnerable and insightful just now? Well, that really fucked with my head. Because Josh Lander, who I’d conveniently pigeonholed and made myself dismiss as a hot, basic douchebag, was easy to hate. But Josh Lander, working every day to stay clean from addictions I didn’t have the slightest clue he had, and sharing his inner demons with me in an articulate and generous fashion?

That I cannot handle.

That I’m not equipped for.

Because it’s too much. There’s so much regret and frustration and sadness there. The guy sitting across from me a few minutes ago is a hell of a lot more worthy of forgiveness and happiness and love than the guy I’ve reduced to a single loathsome deed.

Unless he was acting. He’s a bloody good actor, after all, when he wants to be. One of the best. It could all be a carefully plotted seduction strategy. There could be diddly squat under that pretty, pretty face and those impactful lines he reeled me in with.

So I couldn’t help but throw his mistakes back in his face, right there, and it felt good to lash out. To hurt him like he hurt me, if only in the most superficial way. To treat him like a small child: rather than forcing an apology for the sake of it, reminding him actions have consequences.

In other words, it’s karma, dickhead.

It is all such a fucking waste, because when he walked into my room in his baseball cap and jeans, I nearly pulled a Georgiana. I nearly swooned. He’s just as gorgeous in All-American-golden-boy mode as he is in repressed-English-Duke mode, and I want him so badly. And it’s not fair. It’s not fair he still has such a hold over me, after everything he’s done, after my years of work on myself. It’s so shit.

I wipe my tears off my cheeks. There’s only one way out of this pity-party for one, and it’s a chat with my girls. I need to FaceTime Nora and Olive.

Nora answers and the screen shows her sitting against her headboard, PJs on and Olive snuggled in happily under her chin. She looks so cosy and soft. I’d give anything to be there with those two right now.

‘Hi, girls.’ I give a lacklustre wave. Olive jerks her head up, confused by the sound of my voice, before deciding she’s too sleepy to give a shit and tucking her tiny head back under Nora’s chin.

‘You okay? How did today go?’ Nora is well-versed in the sexual arc of my shooting schedule.

‘Ugh.’ I make a face.

‘That bad? Tell me. Did Josh Lander stick his mouth-penis in your mouth?’

‘Oh my God, you are horrific. And yes, he did. About fifty times.’

‘And? How was it—violating?’

I rub my hand over my eyelids and squeeze the bridge of my nose. ‘Totally violating. And—don’t kill me—seriously hot.’

She’s silent for a moment. ‘Oh, sweetie.’

‘Yeah. It was shit. Nor, you would have died. He’s like the hottest Dominic ever. He looked so convincing—he gave me goosebumps. Even with the dodgy hairstyle. Everything about him… he’s nailed it.’

‘Bugger. How fucking dare he? No one will blame you if Josh Lander as Dominic Coventry does it for you. That combo is the Holy Grail for all womankind. Even if he’s a sociopath.’

‘That’s the thing.’ I reach for a tissue and attempt to blow my nose with one hand. ‘I invited him to my room earlier to run some lines, and he’d just got back from a Narcotic Anonymous meeting.’ I fill her in on Josh’s surprising revelations and his dopamine fast and the unexpected and very unwelcome things his honesty made me feel.

When I’m done, she sucks in a breath. ‘Holy shit. That is not good.’

‘Yeah. Tell me about it. I mean, the man shows up looking indecently good in jeans and a bloody fisherman’s jumper, for Christ’s sake, and starts spouting stuff like he’s a disciple of Brené Brown. It was like sexual crack. There was no way I could withstand that onslaught.’

‘Fucking hell. Sounds like it. Maybe you should go to NA for addiction to Josh Lander, human crack.’

‘Ha ha. Very funny.’

‘Seriously, no one would have blamed you for shagging him. But it’s really, really good you didn’t. Okay?’

‘I know, but now he’s going to think I’m a total psycho for losing my shit and kicking him out.’

‘He won’t. And who cares if he does? And don’t use that word. It’s not psycho to end a conversation that sends all your carefully constructed boundaries crashing to the floor. It’s the right thing to do. You did the right thing.’

I sigh. ‘Thanks. I can’t wait for the weekend. Wanna watch Bridgerton? Again?’

‘Indeed I do. Again. Hey, guess what? I’m meeting your cousin and his fiancée tomorrow. Saoirse, I think her name is.’

‘Oh, that’s excellent! Well done you. Knock ‘em dead, or stun them into submission with spreadsheets, or something.’

‘You know I will. They don’t stand a chance.’

‘Night night. Love you.’

I hang up and get ready for bed, but I can’t find peace under the covers. I don’t want to do this, but I need to. I need to get myself off. I’m so antsy and confused and overwhelmed after today. Kissing Josh, over and over again. Repeatedly reproducing that chemical cocktail of Georgiana’s terror and contempt and desire for Dom. And then on top of all that, this evening’s cluster-fuck.

I reach into my bedside drawer and pull out my vibrator. This is one dopamine release I really fucking need, and it’s all puritanical Mr Monk’s fault.

I turn it on and slide it under the covers, bending my legs. First over my pants, and as the sensation teases me to a point I can’t bear, I tug them down and put it to where I’m most desperately in need. My day plays like a movie behind my closed eyelids.

His face inches from mine. Never been kissed.

His fingers dragging down my skin. Such a beautiful white throat.

His hand closing over the nape of my neck. I will teach you.

His lips on mine. His tongue claiming me. The scent of him. The taste of him. The graze of his stubble.

It’s all too much. My breath comes faster. Searing heat pools against the vibrator and fans outwards.

But as I come, gasping and whimpering on my own in the dark, it’s not Dominic behind my closed lids. It’s Josh, on my sofa in his jeans and jumper, with his sexy, tousled hair and his vulnerability laid bare. Exactly like that.

That look in his eyes undid me. There was heat there, yes. Lashings of it. And I could have sworn there was something deeper there, too. But he’s looked at me like that before, so many times, and it didn’t stop him from walking away without a backwards glance.

So I can’t take those knicker-dropping, molten-eyed gazes seriously.

I need to remember that.

29

JOSH

‘B ig day today.’ Thor, who plays Georgiana’s cousin Robert, looks at me in the mirror we share in the hair and makeup trailer. ‘You ready, big guy?’

I shrug. ‘Don’t. I’m trying not to think about it.’

Thor peers down at the side lying on the counter. ‘Dominic and Georgiana: Wedding Night. Exciting stuff.’

‘You’re a dick.’

‘Seriously, though, mate. You okay?’

‘I’ll be fine. It’s just another sex scene. It’s not like I haven’t done a million.’

‘Yeah, but it’s not every day you have to do a sex scene with someone you’ve actually shagged, is it? Someone who hates your guts.’ He raises his eyebrows. ‘Or maybe it is. Knowing your track record, I wouldn’t be surprised.’

He’s not wrong. I’ve screwed a couple of my co-stars before, back in the day, but it’s always been casual. Not like Elle. She barely looked at me off-camera yesterday after our little episode in her suite. A fully clothed conversation over camomile tea got me hotter than I can remember being in a long time. Unfortunately, it’s had the opposite effect on her. She’s freezing me out.

‘I have nothing but respect for Elle,’ I say now. ‘And it’s not like there won’t be at least half a dozen other people breathing down our necks, even on a closed set. Intimate it will not be. We’ll be fine.’

‘Good man.’ He slaps me on the shoulder. ‘She’s fucking beautiful, though, isn’t she? Mind if I have a crack at her? Thought I’d ask her out for a drink. Or maybe invite her for a drink in my room. Probably more discreet.’ He winks at me in the mirror.

Thor has a lot of groupies waiting outside the studios each day. More than me, even. He was in a big soap over here called Eastenders and I can tell women would consider him good-looking. He told me he used to be a professional footballer before an injury forced him to go into modelling and acting. I personally wouldn’t go for his overly groomed, head-to-toe-Gucci-with-matching-fanny-pack look if I was a chick, but he’ll be a big star next season when his romantic storyline takes the lead.

A hunch tells me he’s not Elle’s type, but what do I know? I can’t be sure of anything with her. A wave of nausea washes over me as I contemplate this guy hitting on her, and her allowing it. But it’s none of my fucking business. She made that clear. I fucked up and I lost all rights to her. I’m not her keeper and I can’t get in the way of her life. Her happiness.

I give him a tight smile. ‘Go for it, man. She’s awesome.’

He shakes out his hand in triumph, and I flinch.

‘Nice one. Thanks, mate. And good luck today, yeah?’

I’ll need it.

Obviously, we’ve prepped and prepped for this scene. Not only did we do a full run-through with Kate yesterday, blocking out every move, but we had an insanely detailed conversation with Kate and the costume department around what Elle will be wearing under her dress, because over the course of Dominic and Georgiana’s wedding night, I’ll be taking off layer after layer, unfolding her like a precious flower.

Dominic specifically makes a point of dismissing Georgiana’s maid, telling her he wishes to undress his wife himself. I’m totally with Dominic. He’s finally getting access to the girl of his dreams: he wants to unwrap his fucking wedding present himself. And the removal of all those layers is the best kind of foreplay. It’s hot.

What’s even hotter, and pretty shocking to me, is that these well-bred ladies didn’t wear panties. No, sir. Drawers were considered racy, and under these gowns and petticoats and corsets and stockings and shifts, these ladies were bare.

When Hilary, one of the set costumers, told us that, I had to look down at my script. Holy fuck. Elle, dressed up in all her tantalising layers under a beautiful gown, and she’s bare? Come on. I’m a dude. I had to slide my chair further under the table in the trailer where the meeting was happening, because I was worried I’d disgrace myself.

And I’m worried I’ll disgrace myself today. I’ve never had that misfortune, but I’ve never had to undress Elle Hart on camera, and since the other night, my thoughts about her have ratcheted up to the point that I can’t get her out of my head.

Elle won’t be the only one exposed today. I’m ready to shed my jacket and waistcoat and pants and drawers and shirt, leaving me butt-naked except for my Hibue—a flesh-coloured, stick-on thong that makes me look like a fucking Ken doll. Alyssa has been insistent that this show will portray the female gaze as much as the male gaze.

I’ve been working out like crazy in the hotel gym every evening, but I’m nervous as hell. Getting naked in front of an ex who despises you, on camera, when your body is five years older than last time she saw it, is a fucking nightmare scenario. Still, I know Elle must be dreading it as much as me. We just need to get through this intact.

We’re breaking up the beginning part of the scene—where Dominic undresses Georgiana and himself—into a tonne of segments, mainly close-ups, so it will be pretty mechanical, and there aren’t many lines for us to say aside from Dominic’s compliments to Georgiana and his words of encouragement.

He’s not a total douche: he’s seriously into this woman and he wants it to be good for her, too. Their wedding night is as much about educating her and getting her on board as it is about him smashing that pristine surface of hers and claiming her as his own.

The first few hours of shooting go pretty well. Kate’s there every step of the way. At this stage of the process, it’s less about making sure we’re comfortable and more about imbuing each moment, each step in the choreography, with as much intimacy and sensuality and anticipation as we can. There’s a lot of set-up, as Abigail wants this beautifully lit. As she puts it, our skin should glow, and our eyes should shine, and the fabric of our clothing should tantalise at every step.

I step behind Elle and unfasten the silk-covered buttons down the back of her dress, focusing on what fiddly little fuckers they are, rather than the glimpses of her corset underneath.

I slide her dress off of her, my fingers lovingly following its progress down her arms.

I sweep her hair reverently over her shoulder and run my lips along her skin from one corset strap to the other as she bows her head and trembles.

I turn her around so I can tip her chin up and kiss her and tell her she’s beautiful, she’s mine. The wardrobe department explained they’d opted not to use a shift, or chemise, sacrificing historical accuracy for aesthetics. She’s just in her corset and a slim silk petticoat, but that thing has her tits trussed up and practically in my face, and they look fan-fucking-tastic.

I bend and press my lips to the curve at the top of her breast, and Elle gasps and holds onto my upper arm. Just like we agreed.

But I’m not being fair to Elle, because I’m not acting. As Dominic removes Georgiana’s clothing and discovers her body—worships it—so I’m reacquainting myself with the body of the woman I love, the body I haven’t had a chance to worship in five years.

AFTER LUNCH (LIGHT on my part, because I gotta get naked soon and show off my hard-earned six-pack), we’re down to the tough stuff. Kate explained yesterday she would have Elle and me gaze into each other’s eyes for a few minutes before we film the action on Dominic’s massive four-poster bed, ‘to establish intimacy and trust.’ I think I’m more nervous about that than getting my butt out.

Once Elle and I have our marks, I lean in towards her ear.

‘Hey. I just want you to know I’m pretty nervous. This kinda thing isn’t fun for anybody. Okay? So if you wanna stop at any time, just say it. I’ll back you up, one hundred percent.’

Her eyes dart away and back like she’s trying to work out if I’m serious. ‘Okay.’ She nods. ‘Thanks. But we’ll be fine. Let’s just try to get through it in as few takes as possible.’

‘Amen to that. I bet you’ve never been so desperate to shake my hand.’

At my sad little joke, she smiles, and her face loses some of its tension.

‘You’re not wrong.’

Dominic’s been a busy boy; he’s gotten Georgiana’s petticoat off (dropping to his knees and kissing her stomach while he slid it over her ass and let it slither to the ground), so Elle’s gonna be bare-assed on the bed in just her half-corset and stockings from this point on. I’m sure she has her Shibue on (the female version of a Hibue. Cute, huh?), but right now everything’s covered up in a big fluffy robe she’s clinging to like it’s a security blanket.

Don’t worry, I’m joining her in bare-assed heaven. Later I’ll get dressed again so they can shoot Dominic doing his Magic Mike performance just for Georgiana, tugging his shirt off over his head and unbuttoning his pants, because Alyssa wants a wide shot of me from the back later, butt-naked, and also close-ups of my abs.

But right now, we’re doing medium shots, which will involve the back of my body and Elle under me.

I pace and avoid watching as they get Elle on the bed, take her robe off, and mess around with the lighting. Once they’re happy with it, Dan calls me over. It’s a closed set, but there’s still Abigail, Alyssa, Kate, Dan, cameras, sound and the assistant script supervisor for continuity purposes. Cosy.

I’m up next, and I disrobe and carefully get up on the bed. It’s been specially built, so it’s pretty sturdy. None of us wants to be the one to break a priceless antique with going too hard on the fake fucking. The set is warm, but I couldn’t be more conscious that I’m butt-naked.

Elle and I are studiously avoiding looking at each other below the neck, which unfortunately means our eyes are trained on each other’s faces. An accidental downward glance as I was getting on the bed tells me her tits are practically falling out of her corset, but she’s pretty fucking naked from the waist down. Last time we were in this position was in my bed in St. Michaels and we were both making a lot more noise. Don’t think like that. Don’t think like that.

It helps that everyone’s fussing around us. One of the makeup artists applies some shimmery body powder to my shoulders, back and butt with a huge, fluffy brush, which makes Elle snicker and breaks the tension a little. And Kate’s there, providing encouragement and reassurance and reminders in a low voice.

When we’re in position (which is full-on missionary, this being a Regency-era wedding night with a bride who’s new to this shit), Kate steps a little closer and lowers her voice even more.

‘Remember we agreed yesterday that you two would hold eye contact for a minute or two, to establish that necessary level of trust? Let’s take a moment to do that now. I’ll let you know when a minute is up, but feel free to hold it for longer, if you like.’

And so I brace on my forearms to avoid collapsing on Elle, and I gaze down at the love of my life, who’s pretty much naked beneath me with her knees bent either side of my hips and a group of people around us. And she looks up at me, and we take a minute. I drink her in. I marvel at the clear whites of her eyes, at the specks of turquoise and silver in her irises, at the unknowable messages they’re transmitting to her incredible brain as she soaks me up too.

This woman is a miracle; she’s a mystery, and having this moment with her, where everyone else fades away, is such a head-fuck. I can’t help but be drawn in, and I know I’ll give a better performance because of it, but it’s a false intimacy. A cruel blow masquerading as a gift.

‘One minute done,’ Kate whispers, and Elle blinks and turns away from me, exhaling and breaking the spell. Okay then.

‘Well done,’ Kate tells us, before stepping back so Abigail can give us one last briefing before the cameras roll.

And then we’re rolling, and while the camera’s trained on Elle, I deliver my lines to her. I thrust against her, and her legs wrap around my ass, and her hand comes up to grip my back, and I don’t break eye contact for a second as I tell her I’m sorry it hurts, and she bites down on her lip, and her tits heave, and I increase my pace, and I swear there are tears in her eyes, but desire too, and she arches her back and grinds herself hard against me, and it happens, as if in slow motion.

‘You’re utterly perfect, you know.’

I can just about grit out my line as the ache builds in my balls, and streaks down my thighs, and my dick begins to strain unmistakably against my fucking man-thong, and holy fuck. I’m getting hard, and my skin slicks with sweat as the realisation kicks in that this is all going horribly, terribly wrong. And Elle feels it too; she must, because her eyes widen with a question even as she continues to go through the motions we’ve choreographed.

And I can’t. I can’t.

I pull back in a panic and jump off the bed, bent over to hide my arousal.

‘I need a minute.’ My voice is strangled.

Kate looks at Abigail.

‘Take a break,’ Abigail orders. ‘Take thirty.’

I grab my robe. And I fucking run.

30

ELLE

I  take a huge gulp of water as I lean against the breakfast bar in my trailer. Then another. But they don’t make me feel better. They don’t cool me down the way I need, because I’m on fire, and water won’t do the trick.

It was the eye contact exercise that was my undoing.

Lying there with Josh like we used to.

Staring into his eyes unashamedly.

Re-learning him.

Memorising him.

It was supposed to make us feel close. Connected.

It fucking worked.

And then, when the cameras rolled, and we began to move, it was too much. The lines were blurring, and I was powerless to stop them. Josh already looks far too gorgeous as Dominic. I’m already sold on him. But this wasn’t about Dominic. It was about Josh, and it was about the fact that no amount of sensitive, informed assistance from Kate could stop this from being obscenely triggering for me. And for him too, it would seem.

It wasn’t a stretch to act Georgiana’s apprehension as the scene opened, and it wasn’t a stretch to act her unfolding around Dominic like a flower as they moved together. I just channeled my nerves and hostility and fear of acting out such an intimate scene with him after blowing up at him the other night, and I channeled the mounting sense of pure pleasure I got from being under him, pinned down by him on a bed, consumed by him as he writhed on top of me in all his incredible, golden, practically naked glory.

Most of all, that eye-contact exercise had opened the floodgates, so it felt much more natural to hold his gaze as he pretended to take me. I took my cues from him: the camera was on me, but the desire building in his eyes made me feel I wasn’t alone as I let my face show not only what Georgiana was supposed to feel, but everything I wasn’t supposed to feel on a set with cameras rolling and an ex I despised moving on top of me.

Grinding his body against mine in a way that set of flashes of muscle memory like fireworks.

Nipping at my bottom lip and stroking my hair as if he’d never forgotten how to touch me.

Telling Georgiana she was perfect, in a voice thick with need, when it really felt like he was telling me.

He cast me aside five years ago, and I’ve never felt so powerless. But when I looked up at him just now, he was the one out of control.

Shit. What a mess.

There’s a knock at the door. Hopefully Parka Pete with a cuppa. But when I open it, Josh is standing there in his robe. There’s a mug in his hand and utter anguish on his face.

‘Can I come in?’ He looks quickly to both sides. ‘I want to... apologise. I told Pete I’d give you this.’ He holds up the mug.

I blink. ‘Of course. Come in.’

I stand back to let him through, and my trailer seems to shrink as his size fills it up.

He sets the mug down on the table and turns to me, going to rake his hand through his Dominic hair-do before stopping himself. He stares down at me and comes a step closer.

‘Elle, I am so sorry. Oh my God, I am fucking mortified—I’m furious with myself.’

‘It’s okay. I—’

‘No, it’s not okay. I wanted to treat you with respect, and then I get a fucking hard-on during a scene I know was already excruciating for you. It’s fucked up, is what it is.’

Something has shifted between us these past few days. For whatever reason, he seems to be struggling to handle his feelings for me, and it’s reassuring. Despite what he did to me five years ago, right now, he’s as vulnerable as I am. As exposed.

I look up into his brown eyes and see pain and a whole lot of need. He is so gorgeous it’s ridiculous. So beautiful, it shouldn’t be allowed. He’s chewing his lip. I run my eyes down his sideburns and over that jaw, currently tense with frustration.

And I make a decision.

I put my hand on his chest, over his robe. Jesus, his poor heart is hammering.

And I smile at him. ‘I had a hard-on, too.’

His eyes widen, and he lets go of his lip. His expression is absolutely bloody priceless as he clocks what I’m saying.

‘Josh.’ My hand slides upwards to his neck and curls in under his robe. ‘We have twenty-five minutes. Any ideas on how we can make each other feel better, so we don’t disgrace ourselves when we go back in there?’

He’s shaking. ‘God, Elle—oh my God. Fuck. Are you serious?’

I look up at him through my eyelashes. ‘Deadly. Just… don’t mess up my hair or my corset. I’d rather not give Wardrobe anything to talk about.’ I’m smiling at him still, enjoying this total head-fuck he’s clearly having. I cock my head. ‘Think you can do that for me?’

His hands come to the sides of my neck and slide under the lapel of my robe.

‘Are you positive you’ll be okay with this? I just want to make sure.’ He’s already stroking down my neck, grazing his thumbs over my collarbone. He licks his lips.

‘Don’t give me that, Josh. I’m a big girl, and I know what I want. Besides, you’re in a far worse state than me right now.’

I’m actually as desperate as he is for release, but he doesn’t need to know that. One of the benefits of not having a dick: I can hide my arousal better than he can.

He closes his eyes briefly before they sear into mine, and he drags his thumb along my jaw. ‘Tell me what you want, baby. Fuck—I’ll give you anything you want. Anything.’

I want to feel as though I’m the only woman in the world who exists for you in this moment.

I want everything you’ve got to give.

I stare at his mouth. ‘I want you to take charge.’ I pause. ‘I want you to stay in character.’

I’m rewarded with a dirty grin as his beautiful mouth curves up. ‘That I can do. I’m so fucking jealous of Dom, anyways.’

I sigh and arch my back, anticipation building and sending goosebumps down my body. I watch his eyes on my lips as I annunciate, just so he’s clear. ‘I am so. Fucking. Jealous. Of Georgiana. Your Grace.’

That undoes him. He grabs me around the waist and yanks me to him, and his other hand comes to the back of my neck as he smashes his lips against mine. Thank God. Thank God. I part for him and his tongue drives into my mouth, thick and taut.

Oh God, it feels too good to have him inside my mouth, the outrageous hardness of his huge body pressed against me, the full rigid length of his erection against my stomach. I slide my hands over those glorious shoulders and grip as hard as I can as he finds my tongue and takes it prisoner with his. He’s unleashed, and I’m the focus of his desperation, and it’s fucking fabulous.

He pulls away and tugs blindly at the cord of my robe so it falls open. I took off the ridiculous Shibue thingy so I could pee when I got back here, and stuck a pair of my own knickers on instead, but aside from those, I’m just in my half-corset, which stops a few inches south of my boobs, and my white silk stockings, held up with garters.

From the look on Josh’s face, you’d think he hadn’t just spent most of the day staring at some version of this exact outfit.

He swallows and runs his fingers across my stomach, sending delicious flutters south. His eyes feast on my boobs, which are so trussed up by the corset that it’s slightly obscene.

‘I wish to sample the delights of my new wife.’ His voice is low and thick with desire.

Oh, Jesus. This is so hot. I’ve got Josh-Lander-as-Dominic-Coventry, hottest combination womankind could ever cook up, in my trailer, in all his side-burned glory, complete with British accent and commanding demeanour. This guy is going to get everything he wishes, and then some.

I should probably stay in character, too.

‘As you wish, Your Grace.’

I stand there and let him take charge, as I asked him to.

He slides my robe off and chucks it across the room before turning his attention to my anachronistic knickers. He hooks his thumbs into them and slides them down, too. I step out of them and stare up at him.

‘Better.’ He nods curtly as he takes in the sight of me in just my corset and stockings, but I see the truth in his eyes. This man is completely entranced.

‘Up on the table.’

He puts his hands on my hips and guides me backwards to the table. I scoot up so I’m sitting on the edge and watch Josh. He unties his robe and throws it off as I shamelessly drool over his body. Obviously, I’ve been in a state of undress with him for the past few hours, but now I’ve got him to myself, I can enjoy the view properly.

And what a view! His beautiful, beautiful skin is tanned and velvety. There’s the smattering of hair on his chest that I used to love burying my face in. He’s in amazing shape these days: clean living agrees with him. His stomach is flat and perfectly defined, and a soft trail of golden-brown hair intersects his Adonis belt and disappears into the waistband of his pants. He’s done what I’ve done: replaced his modesty pouch with some grey boxers. There’s a huge, hard bulge in the front, as well as a wet spot near the top.

I feast my eyes on him as he tugs them down and steps out of them. I’d like to say I’ve forgotten how huge and gorgeous his dick is, but it would be more accurate to say my years of therapy and denial have been totally unsuccessful, because I can honestly say, as I sit there half-naked and gawp at him fisting it at the root, there is no one like Josh Lander.

He comes closer, his dick in his hand, and I shift on the table, opening my legs to make room for him. He tips my face up with his other hand and I take in the heat in his eyes as he rubs his wet tip between my legs.

‘What do you think of your husband?’ he growls against my mouth.

Presumably Georgiana wouldn’t speak like a hooker, so I swallow my true thoughts about my ‘husband’ as I push myself against him as much as I can in this position.

‘You’re magnificent, Your Grace.’ I lean into him and lick his bottom lip. ‘I’m worried you’ll be too big for me.’

‘We’ll fit perfectly,’ he tells me. ‘I’ll be gentle.’

‘I’ll be hugely disappointed if you’re gentle,’ I drawl in my own voice. ‘I need it hard from you.’

Josh laugh-groans and shakes his head. ‘You’re in danger of disabusing me of the fact that I married a lady. On your elbows, madam.’

I snigger and lower myself back down. My boobs are pushed so high in this corset that they’re practically popping out anyway, so it doesn’t cost him much effort to reach into one of the cups and find my already painfully hard nipple. He drags it out of the cup and squeezes it. Hard. I buck at the heat that lances through me. It feels so amazing to have his hands on me for real.

‘Oh my God, Josh.’

‘You mean Your Grace.’ He reaches over and plucks my other nipple out of the corset, rolling it between his fingers. He’s still sliding his tip slowly up and down between my legs, and I can’t decide if I need it against my clit or inside me more badly.

‘Your Grace.’

He rewards me with a deep sweep of his tongue through my mouth.

‘Enjoying your wedding night so far, my darling?’ he queries as he comes up for air.

I swallow. ‘Very much, Your Grace.’

‘Excellent. It’s about to get far better.’ And he gets to his knees in front of me, nudging his way between my legs with his shoulders. ‘Feet up on my shoulders.’

I drag them up despite the fact that my limbs feel leaden with desire. Having the smooth skin of his shoulders under the silk-covered arches of my feet is worth the effort.

‘Watch this.’ He stares up at me through those ridiculous eyelashes, challenging me to hold eye contact. As if I could look away. Josh Lander, his face between my legs, his expression positively sinful as he smirks at me and pushes two fingers inside me without warning, is the best sight I’ve ever seen.

Ever.

I’m honestly clueless as to how I survived without this for so long. Without him, I mean. No one else comes close.

I watch, hypnotised, from my front-row seat as his fingers slide in and out. He licks his lips and lowers his face and adds his tongue exactly where I need it, and Jesus Christ. I grind my feet into his shoulders and throw my head back as he lavishes me with flicks and licks and rolls and laps, but when I look down at him again, he’s looking straight at me.

He stops what he’s doing for a moment and replaces his tongue with his thumb. Gazes at me as I attempt to catch my breath, to hold on for just a little longer so I can revel in his sensory assault. He opens his mouth, and pauses, and then he says it.

‘You’re utterly perfect, you know.’

It’s Dominic’s line to Georgiana: the line Josh delivered right before he aborted the shoot and practically stumbled off set.

But it doesn’t sound like Dominic’s line.

It sounds like Josh’s line.

It sounds like Josh’s expression of what he’s feeling right now.

But before I can react, he dives back down and ramps up his onslaught on my body, his fingers fucking me, his tongue flicking against me with a relentless rhythm, and his other hand dragging up over my corset to knead my breast and roll my nipple, hard.

And I have no defence. I’m powerless to stop myself from responding to the heat that’s been building between us and his un-fucking-believable moves on my body. I ride and ride and ride the wave in absolute bliss, and as it crests and pulls me down with it, I find my voice.

‘Josh! Josh—oh my God, Josh. Don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop, oh my God, Josh.’

The hand that was on my breast skims down over my stomach, my hip, my garter, my stockings as I spiral through my orgasm, and he licks me until it subsides before pulling away the slightest bit. He lowers his forehead to my pubic bone.

‘Now look who’s breaking character,’ he whispers, but when he looks up at me, there’s only desire and wonder on his face.

I pull myself up off my elbows so I can sit up properly. Ouch. They’re sore from bearing my weight on the table.

‘Come here.’ I drag him up from his knees and he bends over me as I put one hand to his face to pull him closer and use the other to do what I’ve been dying to do, and get a feel of his dick. It’s angry and throbbing as I slide my fingers up and down his shaft and run them lightly over his balls, which are clenched so high and tight they’re close to exploding.

He’s so delicious. Our tongues dance and he skims his large hands up and down the skin of my arms. I brush my hand down his chest. Ugh, he’s so fucking grope-able. I’m so tempted to ditch the idea of a condom, and just have him inside me bare, skin on skin, but I cannot afford a mess down there if we’ve got to go back on set in a few minutes.

‘There are condoms in the welcome basket,’ I tell him and jerk my head to the sink. He lights up like I’ve just told him Santa’s been and hits the basket in a couple of strides. As he rifles through wet wipes and hand cream for the condoms, I shamelessly ogle his bare arse, which is so ridiculously toned I just want to get off the table and go bite it.

But he’s found the condoms.

Yesss.

He tears one open and rolls it on as he saunters back to me, biting down on his lip. I bet his dick is pretty damn sensitive just now. I stare down at his sheathed erection with what I’m sure is a shamelessly lascivious smile on my face, and he chuckles.

‘I hope you do a better job of playing the innocent little virgin once we start rolling again.’

‘I’m merely overcome by the thought of having Your Grace’s enormous cock inside me.’ I flutter my eyelashes at him.

‘Be careful what you wish for, my beautiful little wife,’ he murmurs, stroking me with it. ‘You won’t know what’s hit you.’

There’s something about Josh Lander saying the word wife to me as he prepares to fuck me that makes my insides twist in a way I don’t want to examine too closely. Instead, I wrap my arms and legs around him. ‘Try me.’

Josh grabs my arse and pulls me right to the edge of the table before positioning himself at my entrance and pushing in, hard. Oh, God. Oh, Jesus. I’d forgotten what it was like to be filled up so completely by him. I scrabble back down onto my elbows and arch my back. My elbows grumble, but the rest of my body sings as Josh digs his fingers into my hips and drives himself home. Again and again and again. I meet every thrust, pushing my hips forward as the heat and size of him engulf me and the pressure in my abdomen threatens to overwhelm me each time he bottoms out.

And then he reaches down and tugs me up by my upper arms so I’m flush against him, my nipples grazing against the bulk of his pecs as he grips my arse and quickens his pace, our breath mingling as we kiss frantically. He slows and stills and squeezes me in a vice as he shudders and comes inside me.

‘Elle.’ He releases my mouth and bends his head to my neck, his teeth dragging along my skin. ‘Elle, Elle, Elle. Fuuuuck.’

And I hold him, my arms locked around his neck as he recovers his breath and finds his sanity. He puts his hands under my arse and lifts me off the table. I can feel the tail of his orgasm pulsing inside me. I raise my head and find his mouth and kiss him, and he kisses me back.

Lazily.

Adoringly.

Appreciatively.

If only we could retire to my bed at the back of the trailer and do it all over again.

I wish I could say that the second it’s over, and I’ve had my release, I come to my senses. But I don’t. I’m fucking ecstatic. Sated. Addicted.

‘Maybe we should go back and film that scene while I’m awash with endorphins,’ I mutter, running my hands shamelessly over his epic shoulders. ‘I might put in a more convincing performance of not hating you.’

He smiles against my mouth, and the feel of it is so delicious I give him a little kiss.

‘At least I have less chance of turning a love scene into a porno this time around.’

‘I think we’ve established you need to shoot your load before you get naked with me on camera next time. Got it? None of this dopamine fasting crap.’

‘Are you volunteering? You can be, like, my fluffer.’

I put one foot down on the ground and ease him out of me. He winces.

‘Aren’t fluffers supposed to make the porn star hard? I think the precise opposite is what you need, my friend.’

‘Be my de-fluffer then. And I’ll take care of you in return, so the woman supposedly playing my innocent little wife isn’t writhing underneath me with “fuck me” eyes.’

He winks.

He’s so rude.

That said, it sounds like a truly excellent plan.

31

JOSH

I  have no fucking clue what just happened in Elle’s trailer. I have no clue if she’ll even look at me now we’re back on set and this bubble is broken. But right now, I’m so pumped I don’t even care.

She walks into the studio with Parka Pete, who takes her coat from her, leaving her in her robe and her favourite fluffy sliders. She’s had her makeup touched up, as have I—we both had reddened, swollen mouths from kissing so much. She sashays onto the set. I fold my arms and widen my stance and lie in wait. Let’s see if she tries to avoid me.

She doesn’t. Instead, she raises those beautiful, arched eyebrows at me and puts her hands to the knot of her robe, teasing me. ‘Your Grace.’

Jesus Christ. When she says it like that, in the same way she said it when I was getting her clothes off, she must know exactly what effect that memory has on me.

‘Your Grace,’ I murmur. My arms stay crossed. I’m not giving an inch.

‘Are you feeling better now? Did you get a bit of… rest in your trailer?’

‘I’m feeling much more relaxed, thank you, dear wife.’ I use Dominic’s accent and his low rumble. ‘I’m not sure what happened before. I think it was something I ate.’

‘Oh dear. Better be careful what you eat.’ Her eyes are fire. She is a piece of work. Suddenly, I’m not quite so confident I won’t disgrace myself during our second attempt at shooting this fucking scene.

Kate comes over to make sure I’m okay. Thank Christ she didn’t spot my hard-on earlier, and I tell her I had a bad stomach. Not the sexiest explanation, but it’s better than admitting the truth. Poor Kate does not need to know I’m having problems keeping it down in front of my sexy-as-hell co-star when she’s acting all virginal underneath me.

Abigail confirms we’re gonna shoot the same scene again from the same camera angle. I look away as one of the set costumers helps Elle off with her robe, but only because I don’t want any of the crew to think I’m a total creep. Once she’s on the bed, and the hair and makeup team has had its fun with her, I hand my robe off and hop on.

I notice Elle doesn’t take her eyes off me for a second. Clearly she’s not worried whether the crew thinks she’s objectifying her co-star. She lifts her knees up so I can wriggle between her legs, and I position myself on top of her again, up on my elbows, framing her face with my forearms.

‘Now this is a good position,’ I murmur under my breath. ‘I’m really sorry we didn’t get to try out that bed in your trailer.’

I look down at her and feast my eyes on her face. Her gorgeous blonde hair is artfully spread out on the pillow. Not only is she the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen (and I’ve had my fair share of impressive leading ladies), but the unique combination of her features fills a need in me I can’t explain. I could never, ever get tired of looking at this woman.

‘In your dreams, Lander,’ she whispers, but the animosity from earlier is gone. I was inside of her just a few minutes ago, and her features still have that incredible just-fucked look. She looks almost as good as she did when she was crying out my name.

That act, right there, hit me with a wall of emotion. I can’t imagine she was thrilled about having the hots for me earlier, but her letting go enough to say my name, and that she wanted me and wasn’t just using me to satisfy her duke kink is giving me hope this might not have been a one-off.

That I haven’t fucked things up so permanently that I killed off every last bit of the feelings she had for me.

‘At least I get to pretend to fuck you again.’ I reach out and rub a piece of her hair between my fingers. ‘At least I get to lie on top of you for the next couple hours, and look at you and only you, and stroke your hair. And at least I know when I kiss you on camera, you’ll taste yourself on my mouth.’

I watch with delight as her pupils dilate beneath me, and she bites her lip.

‘And here I was thinking I’d done a thorough job on you.’ She wriggles very slightly beneath me.

‘It was fucking amazing, but I can’t promise not to let you affect me again. And don’t move your hips like that. Seriously, baby.’

‘I’m not your baby.’ Her tone is serious, but next to me, her hand moves and she brushes the hairs on my thigh the tiniest bit. I shake my head at her with mock severity to let her know she’s playing with fire and I love it.

Kate comes over and kneels next to us. ‘Oh great, you both look a bit more relaxed. I know this is tough and exhausting.’

Poor Kate. She’s the one with the exhausting job, coordinating intimacy between two actors she believes hate each other.

‘I think, given we had a decent break and we’re about to shoot a very intimate scene again, it would be a good idea for you two to hold some eye contact, just to allow yourselves to find that place of trust again?’

I grin at her. ‘Sure, Kate. That sounds like a wonderful idea. Don’t you think, Elle?’

I turn to Elle, and she glares up at me. ‘Sounds very sensible.’

And so Kate steps back and gives us a minute—literally—for me to lose myself in the eyes of the woman I love.

The woman I’ve just come inside of.

The woman I thought I had no chance with.

For all her backchat just now, this staring competition is night and day compared to the one from earlier. There’s no discomfort when I look into Elle’s blue eyes. The barriers are swept away. There’s just honesty. Raw connection.

Kate calls time and turns away to let Abigail take over, and Elle seems as reluctant as I am to break our gaze. I quickly brush my thumb over her bare shoulder.

‘You ready to be ravaged by the ducal dick, little wife?’

‘Oh my God.’ She slaps my thigh with her hand. ‘You are horrific.’

‘You know you want it. Just try to act virginal, okay?’

‘Fuck off,’ she hisses as the sound guy approaches with the boom. I do not want this banter on tape, but I am fucking loving it. This sure beats her open hostility from earlier.

We nail the scene. Like, absolutely rock it. Whatever slight edge of sexual tension—or desperation, more like—we lose from having both gotten off during our break, we make up for with an intimacy and a tenderness and a knowing we just didn’t access to before. It’s like there’s an anticipation on both our parts that we’re gonna be really fucking hot together, and that comes across in our performances.

I’m in awe as I look down at Elle. After all, it’s her coverage we’re still shooting, so she has a tougher job than me today. She portrays Georgiana beautifully: the gradual shift from her clear apprehension that Dom is gonna put his big ducal dick in her to an awakening of desire and understanding that this is how good it will be between them.

She’s vulnerable, and fragile, and innocent, and watching her act Georgiana’s first ever orgasm is so mesmerising I almost forget to keep up my fake-fucking rhythm. I know the camera will love it as much as I do. But no matter how excellent and empathetic an actress she is, her performance has nothing on when she came for me on the table in her trailer earlier.

That was the real deal.

32

ELLE

O ur first filming location beyond the incredible sound stages the Grosvenor crew has created at Elstree is Painshill Park in Surrey. I take the opportunity to slip home for an evening the night before and see my girls before driving down to Surrey tomorrow morning. I consider offering Josh a lift for about ten seconds before deciding it would be a terrible idea: extreme forced proximity, and my need to focus on the road and not on the god beside me, is not a winning combination. He can stay at The Grove tonight and hitch a lift from one of the crew. I can’t imagine he’ll be short on offers.

I do, however, admit my indiscretion to the girls. I’m bloody exhausted—the long days of shooting are really taking their toll on my body, despite the fact that I’m in bed by nine most nights when I’m at The Grove—but I invite Mara, Honor and Astrid over to hang with us. Sometimes putting the world to rights with your girlfriends is more restorative than sleeping. And if not more restorative, then definitely more fun.

There is a predictably wide spectrum of reactions when I confess my totally wrong but utterly delicious secret. Nora looks like she’s bitten into a lemon. Mara’s conflicted—I can tell she’s dying for the sordid details, but with her publicist hat on she’s horrified.

Honor gets excited. She’s so loved up with her gorgeous new man, Dr Noah, that she’s forgotten all about how downright awful these movie stars can be (her ex-husband, Jackson, cheated on her for years before she got her own back with Noah) and wants to see everyone happy.

And Astrid purses up her lips. ‘Interesting. Did you know Gray’s been working with Josh on fronting a sustainability campaign while he’s over here? He’s been really impressed by him.’

Astrid’s husband, Gray, runs sustainability for Kering, the luxury goods conglomerate that owns everyone from Gucci to Alexander McQueen.

‘Sounds like he’s impressive all around.’ Mara swigs at her wine and picks up her phone, frowning at her screen. ’But is this a thing? Do I need to call Josh’s publicist? Fuck’s sake, Elle.’

‘I don’t know if it’s a thing yet. But it’s certainly not a public thing. I promise you, I have zero intention of going public with Josh Lander. Or private, even.’

‘Good. Because you’re on Gordon Kay next week and I know he’ll probe you about working with Josh.’

‘There’s nothing to tell.’ There’s definitely nothing to tell Gordon Kay, even if he considers Josh and me fair game, because it was in reply to his tweet that Josh so infamously announced we were done.

‘Are you going to do it again?’ Nora asks, still looking sour. ‘Or was it a one-off? How the hell did it happen, anyway? I thought you were very clear about staying away from Josh Lander and that sinful, sinful body.’ She shakes her head as if it’s a tragic waste that such a body should be attached to someone so morally repugnant.

I adjust Olive on my lap, and she burrows her sweet little snout happily into my crotch in her sleep. She’s a good distraction for my hands so I don’t pick up my wine glass too much. It’s better for my health, and my filming stamina, if I stay off the booze.

‘I’m sure the staying away part all made sense in theory.’ Honor winks at me. ‘Until you saw him in costume and had to fake-shag him. Am I right?’

I groan. ‘Ugh. Yes, basically. We had a big chat last week and, without wanting to betray his confidence, it sounds like he’s done a lot of work on himself since I knew him before. But still, I was adamant I was going to steer clear, because Twitter, obviously.

‘But you’re correct, Hon. Having to act opposite him all day long when he’s dressed up as my favourite book boyfriend of all time, and he’s being all arrogant and ducal and sexy—it’s bloody exhausting. Honestly. And he’s looking good at the moment, and I was very in character, I mean, deep in character, and, well, it felt mutual. You know?’

I pause and then decide the story’s far too good not to share. I lean forward conspiratorially. ‘So mutual, in fact, that he got a boner when we were filming a sex scene the other day and he had to request a break and run off set.’

There’s a chorus of shocked and delighted squeals.

‘Noooo!’ Nora puts her hand over her mouth. ‘Jesus Christ, what did you do?’

The performer in me is loving my rapt audience. ‘I bolted for my trailer and when he knocked on my door to apologise, I propositioned him. And he totally jumped on me. It was… it was absolutely unbelievable. Hot as fuck. We even stayed in character. For some of it, anyway—we got a bit carried away.’

‘Oh my God!’ Honor slaps the coffee table with her hand. ‘That is priceless. Who isn’t partial to a bit of role-play? Honestly, what a story. Good on you, darling. It would have been a damn shame to have missed that opportunity.’

Mara mock-glares at her. They’ve been friends for years—Mara is Honor’s publicist too, and it was Honor who put us in touch. Mara’s told me nothing matches the shit she had to deal with when Honor was married to Jackson.

‘Do I need to slap you with an NDA on this?’

‘No need.’ Honor hugs herself delightedly. ‘I’ll just retell it to myself when I need cheering up.’

‘I’m struggling here.’ Nora rests her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands. ‘I’m fucking furious with you, Elle, for caving like this. You know what that twat did to you—I’ll never forget what a state you were in when he dumped you. And I’ll never forgive him. But on the other hand, you’re telling me that you basically had sex in real life with Dominic Coventry? I mean, for fuck’s sake. How am I supposed to deal with that? You jammy fucking bitch.’

‘Sorry, Nor.’ I do feel a bit guilty. I wish I could share Josh-as-Dom around with everyone, as, like, therapy. Or a reward for getting through the week. Rent-a-Duke on a Friday night. Now there’s a business idea.

She raises her head and stares at me glumly. ‘Did he have one of those billowing shirts on? Did you get to rip it off?’

I squish my face up apologetically. ‘He was naked, I’m afraid. He had a robe on, obviously, to get to the trailer. But he was naked. Aside from his fake sideburns, basically.’ I make a mental note that if I do—big if—happen to fall into a heated de-fluffing situation with Josh Lander in my trailer again, I should ask him to wear that shirt. Because Nora’s right. That would be so hot. And maybe breeches, too. And boots. May as well go for the full ducal experience.

THE WEATHER IS HOLDING up at Painshill Park and the cherry blossoms are out, making it a perfectly pretty backdrop for Georgiana to promenade. My dear betrothed is also looking perfectly pretty. So pretty, in fact, I eye-fuck him as soon as he emerges from his trailer (conveniently next to mine. I shall note that for later).

Our relationship (that’s relationship with a small r, FYI) has improved no end since our wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am moment in my trailer earlier this week. Shooting with him is no end of fun. The banter is filthy and intoxicating: so much so it feels like foreplay. I mean, who are we kidding? I’m totally going to de-fluff him again.

And while I don’t think Alyssa or Abigail or Kate have guessed, exactly, they’ve certainly noticed a shift. The lack of excruciating awkwardness between us has meant we get our takes far more quickly, which is great for everyone.

I’ve stayed away from Josh outside of the studio, though. He suggested we eat together in my room last night, and though he framed it as a very throwaway suggestion under the auspices of running lines, I had my suspicions. I told him I was staying in London last night, so it wasn’t an outright rejection, but our dynamic is intriguing.

If I were observing him closely (which I absolutely am, to the point of being obsessive), I’d say he’s interested. He seems relieved we’re getting on well, he’s enjoying our sparring, and he’s been very attentive. But I sense he’s holding off, trying to hold himself back from coming on too heavy with me.

If that’s the case, I’d tell him he’s absolutely right to do that. Because no matter how amusing this is, no matter how secretly high I am on the sex we had and the delicious tension between us, I’m not stupid, and I’m not a masochist. Yes, he’s behaving like a man who’s captivated by his leading lady, but he’s behaved like that before. He was like that all the time before, and a fuck load of good it did me.

He called the shots.

He walked away.

This time, I’m calling the shots.

He saunters up to me as the crew members fanny around with setup. Our very new, and entertaining, thing is to talk dirty to each other before we shoot, while staying in character. It really bloody works. We’re fit to burst by the time we start filming. Working on the basis that Josh can manage an erection far better when he’s in a coat than naked on a bed, my objective here is most definitely to fluff him up.

The scene we’re shooting at the park takes place between the engagement and the wedding. Dominic’s objective in it is to persuade Georgiana to make use of the expedited marriage licence the archbishop has granted them, because he cannot wait to get in her pants.

Wait.

Nice ladies in those days didn’t wear pants.

He can’t wait to lift her skirts and have his way, basically.

‘You’re looking ravishing, Miss Kenworthy.’

‘Thank you, Your Grace. My, my, what gleaming boots you have on today.’

‘All the better to dazzle you with, Miss Kenworthy.’

‘Quite the peacock, aren’t you? And don’t your furry friends look particularly lustrous this morning?’

I reach up and touch his sideburn.

‘All the better to give you friction when I get my face between your legs, my beloved betrothed.’

I smirk in a decidedly unvirginal way.

‘Is that the case? I wouldn’t know, Your Grace.’

‘That’s why you will persuade your mother to move our wedding forward.’ He takes a step, so he’s towering in front of me, and I look up. Fuck. He’s so bloody hot; it’s a total pain. And seriously enjoyable. His brown eyes bore into mine. I can feel the heat from here. ‘I am not a man who takes kindly to being kept waiting, Miss Kenworthy. I know what I want, and that is you. And I want you now, dammit.’

I’m momentarily speechless. I gaze up at him and lick my lips. That mouth is so close to mine and I need to touch it. With mine. Bloody hell, Georgiana has depths of self-control I definitely haven’t been blessed with.

His voice softens. ‘I cannot help what I want. I cannot help that you look so beautiful today. And every day. But when you are in my bed, it won’t be like this. Your hair, so elegant now, will be spread loose across my pillow. You will be freed from the constraints of these fine clothes. There will be nothing between us. Nothing at all.’

Jesus Christ. If it all goes wrong for Josh in the movie industry, he could definitely write Regency romance. He’s seriously good at this stuff.

‘There is less between us than you think, Your Grace,’ I whisper. ‘I’m not wearing underwear.’

His reaction is priceless. His eyes dart down my body before he closes them and swallows hard. He takes another peek at me.

‘Seriously?’

‘Yes. I’m being authentic.’

‘The hell you are,’ he growls. He grabs my upper arm over my coat. ‘You know what that means, don’t you? In your trailer? When we’re done?’

I stare up into his molten eyes and nod my head slowly. Silently.

Dan hurries over to us. ‘You two ready to block this one out?’

‘Sure, buddy.’ Josh gives me a filthy once-over that’s a warning of what’s coming later, before turning and giving Dan his attention.

We could have spent the past few minutes going over our lines, but this has really got our blood pumping. This kind of banter will give Abigail every last drop of the tension she wants from this scene. Which is great, because I can’t wait to wrap it.

33

JOSH

I  am a lucky bastard, especially compared to poor Dominic, who’s days or weeks from having his wicked way with the woman of his dreams.

I, however, am minutes away.

We nailed our close-ups, the heated subtext we’d conjured up burning through every line we uttered to each other. Alyssa and Abigail were pumped, and it’s bought us some time while they set up for the wide shots.

Elle is leaning against the door of my trailer in full Georgiana regalia, watching me like an elk might watch a lion. I watch her right back as I shrug off my coat and throw it down. Unbutton my waistcoat. Pull my cravat loose and spool the silk along my neck, letting it slide to the ground. Finally, I roll the sleeves of my shirt up slowly as she gazes longingly at my forearms.

‘Hilary’s going to have your guts for garters.’ Hilary is my costumer today.

‘I don’t give a flying fuck about Hilary.’ I move toward her, finishing the job on my sleeves. ‘I’m gonna enjoy this. I’ve been desperate for this, baby. All. Fucking. Morning.’

I stand in front of her, the tips of our shoes almost touching, and turn my attention to her pointless little coat. It’s palest blue, to match her pretty gown, and as low-cut as the gown. Heaven forbid those ladies should choose warmth over the chance to showcase their wares to their suitors.

The coat is open the whole way down the front. The only bit that’s fastened is a patch across her chest. I attempt to focus on undoing the slippery, covered buttons as her breasts rise and fall right before my eyes. Fuck, she’s beautiful. That pale, smooth skin, begging for my lips. I get the offending coat off of her and bend to kiss the swell of her breast, sliding my hands around her waist to steady her. Her fingers sink into my shoulders.

I need to kiss her. Claim her. I’ve been thinking about nothing else since the other day. Every second I’m with her, I’m watching her mouth. Every second I’m not, I’m thinking about her mouth. I lift my head and drink in her utter beauty for a moment. The anticipation, the hunger, in her huge blue eyes. The delicate line of her jaw. The lustre of her skin that even layers of makeup can’t hide.

And then I seal my lips to hers. Jesus. The relief is so sweet. She’s so sweet. And I drag my thumb along that jawline as I thrust my tongue inside her mouth. Branding her. And, if I’m honest, beseeching her to remember why we should be together. Why she can’t live without this any more than I can.

But right in this moment, I shouldn’t worry, because she’s every bit as needy as me. She writhes in my arms and seals her hand to the back of my head and pulls me in as close as she can. I oblige, pressing my hips against her, crushing her against the door as the semi I’ve been nursing all day builds and builds with a desperate need for her.

‘Do you want me?’ I whisper roughly in her ear when I come up for breath.

She arches her neck against the brush of my lips and groans. ‘Yes. But—stay in character.’

If that’s how she wants to play it, fine. We’ve made it pretty obvious we both find Dominic and Georgiana’s dynamic super hot, but I have a suspicion there’s a strong element of self-preservation in there, too. I’m guessing she’s a lot more willing to drop her guard—and her panties, if she ever wears any these days—for her all-time favourite romantic hero than for me.

That’s okay.

I can roll with that.

Especially if it gives her the sense of security she needs to be intimate with me after the way I treated her. I’m pretty sure this is the only way I’m gonna get to be intimate with her right now. Hence my point. I’m a lucky bastard to get a second chance with Elle Hart, whatever it looks like. I know that.

This make-believe world we’re using works both ways. Dominic is as much of a shield for me as Georgiana is for Elle. I have no idea what she thinks my game is: she knows I want her, but not how strongly I feel about her.

Have always felt about her.

How much I regret what I did.

How little of a reflection of my real feelings that Twitter stunt was.

How undeserving of her I’ve always felt.

So just as she’s using Georgiana’s desires as a conduit for her own, I’m gonna use Dom to show her I not only want her, but respect her. Idolise her. Love her.

At her request to stay in character, I run my tongue down her neck and palm her breast. ‘I am your adoring servant,’ I tell her in Dom’s voice. I don’t even need to fake the huskiness. I’m so turned on by the taste of her skin and this world we’ve created between us, I can hardly speak. ‘All I want to do is worship you. Show you your beautiful body is made for pleasure. Not needlework. Not bible studies or any other things that call themselves diversions. Pleasure. I want to teach you. Let me teach you, my darling.’

She responds to my proposition by rolling her hips hard against mine. ‘Teach me. Please, Your Grace.’ There’s a catch in her voice that makes my breath hitch.

‘I will,’ I promise her, and I take her hands and lift up her arms and hold them above her head as I kiss her as deeply as I can, angling my head and winding my hungry tongue around hers before releasing her hands and pulling back.

‘Come with me.’ I lead her by the elbow to the breakfast bar and turn her to face it. Stand behind her and take a hold of her hips, pulling her back against me so she can feel my arousal.

‘Feel what you do to me?’ I ask in her ear, sliding one hand around her waist to hold her against me in a vice-like grip and the other up where it slips under the scoop of her gown and finds the hardening bud of a nipple just below. I roll it between my finger and thumb and feel it stiffen as I touch her. She moans and grips the edge of the island.

‘I’m glad my lady is bare for me.’ I sink down to a squatting position behind her, sliding my hands down the sides of her body as I do, and circle her stockinged ankles with my hands before they travel lazily up, hitching her skirts up as I go. My hands glide over silk until they strike gold and hit her garters. I rise to my feet again, keeping the fabric bunched up in my hands, and lift it high enough for me to see her bare ass. Oh, Jesus fuck. Look at those perfect white globes: they are so fucking perfect.

‘So beautiful,’ I murmur as I run a finger lightly between them, right between her legs. God, she’s wet. ‘Good girl. So ready for me. Have you been like this all morning?’

She whimpers as I part her with my fingers and slide a couple inside of her.

‘Yes, Your Grace.’ She shuffles her legs wider.

‘I am ready for you, too.’ I slide my fingers in and out of her tight, wet heat as I desperately tug at the buttons on the pouch-like opening at the front of Dom’s pants. Freeing myself, I fist my cock. Jeez, am I ready for her. I slide my tip up and down the crack of her fine ass, leaving a wet trail as I go, and she moans for me and bends over further so she’s laying her upper body over the breakfast bar.

God. I have her skirts the whole way up and I take a moment to worship the view of her ass in silence. Waiting for me. She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I grab a condom from the welcome basket (I definitely made sure I had that to hand as soon as I left Elle’s trailer the other day) and tear it open, rolling it over my super sensitive, impatient cock.

I know she wants this as bad as I do, but I need to make sure she’s gonna be able to come. I fist my cock and run it down her wet centre to where I know it’ll feel good for her, and she rewards me with a moan and a shimmy of that gorgeous ass.

‘Josh. Get inside me.’

I bend and kiss the very base of her spine. ‘Your Grace,’ I whisper. For her own protection, and her own satisfaction, she needs to stay in character.

‘Your Grace. I need you.’ Her words, and the shudder in her voice, are all I need to hear. I position myself at her slick entrance and push home, hard. My hands caress her ass as she rolls her hips to accommodate me. I’m biting down on my lip, holding my breath and manoeuvring myself deeper into her tight channel. And when I bottom out, she makes an animalistic sound deep in her throat that almost sends me spiralling out of control.

I fix one hand on her hip to hold her in place and my other reaches around and slides between her legs so I can max out her pleasure. Knowing Elle needs release, and knowing it’s me who’s heated her up to this feverish state, and knowing it’s me who’s gonna give her that release, has my head spinning.

My finger circles her gently as I keep up a steady rhythm, pulling out almost the whole way before thrusting deep inside her. I’m breaking a sweat from the effort of holding off from blowing my load too soon, and her breathing is getting more ragged, too. Every time I bottom out in her, she makes a little noise that, I swear to God, is the best sound I’ve ever heard.

She pushes back against me. ‘Harder.’

I smile to myself behind her back. There’s no way Georgiana would say that, and I could care less. Her desire is stronger than her inhibitions, and she’s letting me in right now, in the only way she’s capable of. And it’s far more than I deserve. I increase the pressure of my finger and drive harder into her, slamming her against the edge of the island, but she doesn’t seem to care. One hand scrabbles on the wood and the other comes back to claw at the fabric over my hip and pull me closer.

Elle’s noises become a string of obscenities, and she turns her head to one side and lays her cheek on the wood. I wish I had a spare hand to stroke the hair off of her face, but I content myself with grunting out exactly what I think of her. I tell her how beautiful she is, how fucking amazing it feels to be moving inside her, how much it turns me on to have her bent over for me, and how I’m gonna make it so good for her.

I wanna tell her she’s mine, but even in my far-gone state, I know I can’t tell her that.

Ask her to acknowledge that.

Because she’s not.

She’s gasping and thrusting back against me, and I watch in awe as her eyes squeeze shut and her lips part and she pretty much screams my name from there on the island. She convulses under my finger and around my cock, her muscles shuddering and fluttering so beautifully that I let go, too. I go rigid and pump into her as deep as I can and I see fucking stars as my orgasm seizes my body and robs me of my sight.

I stand there, shaking with effort and overwhelm as she goes limp beneath me and the side of her face I can see breaks out into a smile. There is nothing I want more than to pick her up and take her to the bed, and slide in next to her so I can hold her tight and feel her skin. I haven’t even gotten her naked yet. Fucking costumes.

But I can’t do any of that, so I bend over her and put my weight on top of her, and finally, I get to smooth back that intoxicating blonde hair from her beautiful face, and I lick up her neck to her earlobe before whispering in her ear:

‘You’ve fucking shattered me. I am a broken man.’

‘Mmm,’ she says sleepily. ‘You’ve broken me, too. That was incredible.’

But I know she doesn’t mean it how I mean it.

34

ELLE

A lthough Nicola Marchant, the author of the Grosvenor series of books, was involved in the casting process for the TV series, I haven’t met her. Apparently, Alyssa wasn’t the only one who had me and Josh in her sights for the lead roles: we were Nicola’s number one choices too. I’d like to think she’s a traitor for being on team Josh-as-Dom, but I can’t blame her.

Unfortunately, she and Alyssa were right. Josh is fucking amazing as Dominic.

Nicola’s on set today. She’s chosen a good day to visit: we’re shooting my favourite scene from the book. To be honest, it’s everyone’s favourite scene, and I’ve envisaged it a million times in my head. It’s the scene that marks the real turning point in Dominic and Georgiana’s relationship, when she finally allows herself to recognise that they’re good together and have a real hope of a happy marriage.

This scene follows a conversation between the two of them a few weeks after their marriage. They’re living in Coventry and suffering from a typical failure to communicate. Georgiana misses her family, and she’s intimidated and overwhelmed by having to be mistress of such a great estate. She’s desperately homesick.

Dominic, knowing this marriage is a love match only on his side, and overly conscious that she’s only married him to secure her family’s future, has decided it’s best to give her space. Suffice to say, they’re both utterly miserable.

Georgiana brings up her loneliness in a circumspect way at breakfast in the scene preceding this one and says she should like to see more of His Grace, whereby Dominic proposes a picnic lunch in Coventry House’s great library. Basically, cue the most gorgeous, intimate, sexy, dreamy scene I, as a romance reader, could possibly want. There are strong shades of Beauty and the Beast, which I suspect was a deliberate decision on Nicola’s part (what is it about libraries that makes our hearts flutter so?), and like in Beauty and the Beast, this is where Georgiana gets to see Dominic’s softer, more literary and more human side.

Most of all, I’m excited to see the set the crew has built for the library. Alyssa told me they tried really hard to get a licence to film at Admont Abbey in Austria, which is probably the most beautiful library in the world with its gold and white baroque bookshelves and domed, frescoed ceilings.

I can’t imagine it came as a surprise that the monks weren’t up for having oral sex simulated on their iconic chequered floor (spoiler alert: the library session with Dom gets pretty damn great for Georgiana), and they turned the Grosvenor producers down flat. So, the crew has built what is apparently the most intricate set of the entire production for the library, and the painted ceilings will be green-screened.

Nicola and I share a major fan-girl moment when Alyssa introduces us. I’m expecting a quirky type with a tea-cosy hat, but my assumptions are way off the mark. She’s platinum blonde and immaculate, despite having travelled up from Bath on the train this morning.

I’m in full costume—Georgiana is wearing a stunning, palest pink gown embroidered with seed pearls for her library tryst with her delicious duke—and Nicola claps her hand over her mouth when she sees me.

‘Oh my God,’ she says through her hand when she can speak. ‘You are a bloody vision, do you know that? A vision. Holy shit. Can I hug her? Can I hug you?’

‘Of course you can!’ I open my arms for a hug and she steps into them. It’s incredibly special and exciting for me to meet the woman whose amazing brain created Georgiana and Dominic, and I intend to grill her relentlessly about both of them, but I hadn’t realised, until I saw her reaction, what a head-fuck it must be to see her most famous and universally beloved character (well, second most beloved after Dominic Coventry, if I must be honest) made flesh.

‘I can’t believe it.’ She extricates herself from the hug and grabs me by the forearms so she can inspect me. ‘Look at you. I’ve always wanted you as Georgiana, you know that? Ever since the moment I started talking to Azure. I’ve adored you since Gracie. And that one’—she jerks her thumb at Alyssa’s retreating back—‘got you for me.’

‘Me and Josh Lander,’ I tell her drily, and I take a moment to enjoy the mortification on her face before I put her out of her misery and crack a smile.

‘Oh my God. Is it quite awful for you, acting with him? I felt so bad about the whole thing, but Azure told me you’d have the final choice, and Alyssa and I only ever had one Dominic in our heads, I’m afraid.’

This poor woman doesn’t need to know Azure totally shafted me on that front. She’s done nothing except create the world’s most delicious male hero.

‘We’re fine.’ I put a reassuring hand on her arm. ‘He’s fine, honestly. I don’t take any crap from him. And I have to admit, much as it pains me to—he is fabulous as Dominic.’

She looks as though the thought of Josh as Dominic is too much for her. I can relate. ‘Is he really? I haven’t seen any rushes yet—Alyssa’s promised me some today.’

‘He’s amazing. Just as arrogant and infuriating and sexy as you intended him to be—I think, anyway. Have you met Josh yet?’

‘No. And I cannot wait.’

‘I bet you can’t.’ I gesture to Parka Pete, who comes running over, and introduce them. ‘Pete, can you see if Josh has finished primping and get him over here to meet Nicola? And perhaps grab a cuppa for her, if there’s one going?’

‘Absolutely.’ He rushes off.

I sigh. ‘He’s my hero. Forget the delicious duke—Pete’s my man. Have they let you see the library yet?’

Nicola’s eyes widen. ‘No. But I can’t wait. Are you excited?’

‘About having Josh’s head up my skirts all morning?’ I shrug. ‘There are worse jobs, I suppose.’ And we dissolve into giggles.

I’m making Nicola promise to Face Time Nora with me later, because Nora will die if she gets to meet her, when there’s an unmistakable voice behind me.

‘Good morning, ladies.’

‘Here we go,’ I murmur. If I’m honest, just hearing his voice hits my skin with a smattering of delicious goosebumps. And if I’m even more honest, I find I’m having to watch myself when we’re around the crew and the rest of the cast to make sure I’m not being too buddy-buddy with him.

That’s crazy: I’m actively having to stop myself from being publicly nice to Josh Lander. That his ability to deliver earth-shattering orgasms has more of a bearing on my behaviour towards him than all the shit he threw my way is plain wrong.

Nicola is staring over my shoulder as if the second coming of Christ is playing out behind me. ‘Oh my fuck.’

I turn to see Josh smirking at us. He’s looking particularly easy on the eye today, in all his Dom glory. As he’s preparing for a sumptuous, NSFW feast with his wife—and on his wife—he’s in his gorgeous billowing shirt and waistcoat (fun fact: it was pronounced wes-kit in those days). I eye him greedily. He is good enough to eat.

‘Your Grace,’ I say breathlessly, for Nicola’s benefit.

‘Your Grace. My beautiful wife.’ He turns to Nicola. ‘Her Grace is ravishing, is she not?’

Poor Nicola. Having Josh Lander doing full-on Dominic cosplay must be completely overwhelming for her. Her mouth hangs open.

‘Ms Marchant may need her smelling salts, Your Grace,’ I tell him. ‘Do go easy on her.’

Josh relents, giving her his best Hollywood grin (which is pretty fucking fabulous) and lapsing into his own voice. ‘Nicola. Josh Lander. It’s such a pleasure to meet you. I’m a huge fan.’

Nicola holds her hand to her heart. ‘You are so perfect. I’m overcome. Oh my God. It is such a pleasure; you have no idea. I’m so thrilled you’re both playing my favourite characters.’

‘I’m honoured. Dom is a lucky bastard, isn’t he? Thank you for creating such a troublesome but beguiling wife for me. Now, shall we go see if this library lives up to the hype?’

He offers us each an arm and escorts us to the farthest sound stage that, until today, has been shut off. I’m excited, and I’m glad Nicola is here to share this moment with us. I can’t imagine what it must be like for her, seeing this world and these characters she’s held so dear for years come to life in front of her.

‘Mind if we sneak in here?’ Josh asks one of the crew.

The guy holds the plywood door open for us and oh my God.

It’s magnificent.

Seriously—I want to move in here. Or at least have them make me up a bed in here. This place is magical.

The space above us, where the domed ceilings should be, is open to the studio roof, but all around is a book lovers’ paradise. Carved white bookshelves with ornate, gilded mouldings line the set, which covers three sides of a room. Not only that, but the shelves are chock-full of books and each one is bound with a pastel-and-gilt jacket.

It gets better. There’s another level, a mezzanine-type balcony on top of the bookshelves that goes the whole way around and contains another full storey of identical bookshelves on top. I have no idea if we can get up there, but I raise my face and turn slowly on the spot as I take in the breathtaking level of craftsmanship that’s gone into this set.

And best of all, in the middle of the floor, which is tiled with three colours of marble to form a 3-D cube pattern, lies a large velvet throw piled high with pastel-coloured silk cushions and cake stands full of food. There are four people at work on the floor, putting finishing touches to the cakes and macarons and tiny sandwiches the stands bear.

Myriad emotions hit me in the gut. It’s partly allowing myself to experience this through my character and knowing how much this gesture by her husband will mean to Georgiana. By having this library picnic arranged for her, he’s showing her how much she means to him. How important to him her wellbeing is. How far he’s willing to go to make her happy.

It’s also the emotion of being part of a large TV crew family and taking a moment to revel in the sheer amount of talent and labour and dedication so many people are bringing to this astonishingly beautiful creative outpouring.

And it’s maybe a tiny bit the fact that as I stand on the spot, rotating in awe, Josh comes alongside me and brushes my fingers with his. He looks down at me, and I pause my sweep of the view to meet the chocolatey comfort of his gaze.

‘You love it, don’t you?’

‘I’m blown away,’ I tell him. ‘I want to move in—I could be very content here.’

Josh smiles down at me. His smile is tinged with wistfulness. ‘I think if that’s the reaction Dom gets from his wife, he’ll be a happy guy.’

35

ELLE

I  love shooting this scene with Josh. I adore every second of it. And I’m self-aware enough to know it’s made all the better because of how far our relationship has come. If I wasn’t sleeping with him (and it’s been five times, now. I know), we’d do a perfectly adequate job of it.

But although I’ve made it clear it’s just sex, and just on set, and just in character, it still gives us that element of comfort, of unselfconsciousness around each other, that I know will make this scene all the more tender and poignant.

We kick off with the aerial shots from a camera positioned high above us. That’s why the picnic is ready to go, and why the books Dominic and Georgiana choose as they explore the library together are now in pretty piles on the floor. There are two brief segments of the scene David, who’s the director for this episode, wants to capture from above.

One is where the book-porn and food-porn have had Dominic’s desired effect on his wife, and she relaxes enough to let him read to her. Even better, she relaxes enough to let him read with his head in her lap. There’s to be a beautiful aerial vignette of me, surrounded by silk cushions and gilded tomes and decadent platters of food, stroking my husband’s hair tenderly as he lies there, his long legs stretched out in front of him, a book in his hand (Dominic is in fact reading to Georgiana about Michaelangelo). It’s a picture of domestic bliss. A delightful foreshadowing of what’s to come for them, over the years.

And the other has the reading material lying abandoned as I lie back on the cushions, my knees up on my husband’s shoulders, my stockinged feet dangling down his back and his head between my legs. This will be the closing shot of the scene: Georgiana being a very. Happy. Girl.

Which basically means I’ll spend most of my day faking an orgasm, and Josh will spend most of his day with his head up my dress.

Excellent.

What I don’t really think about ahead of time is the amount of time I’ll spend gazing down at Josh’s face. Nicola seemed to enjoy the library set as much as I did, and we got some brilliant footage of her, me and Josh which I’ll share on social once the show’s publicists deem it appropriate. She’ll watch the filming from the sidelines with Alyssa, and I’m excited to be able to play a part in having another of her dreams come to life today.

But it’s not until we’re in place on the floor, the bookshelves of this magnificent set encircling us, that I realise quite how much I’ll enjoy shooting this scene. Dan and the script supervisor discuss the exact position we need to be in to follow on from the preceding scene, which we’ll shoot later in the week. Once I’m arranged on the velvet throw with the cushions scattered artfully around me, Josh lowers himself down and settles his head in my lap.

He sighs deeply. ‘Ahhh. This is pretty great—getting paid to lie here in my favourite place.’

I smirk down at him. ‘You mean the library, I take it?’

‘I mean between your legs.’ He laughs as my eyes widen and switches to Dom’s voice.

‘Do not deny your husband this brief respite, my darling, for he’ll be working hard on pleasuring you for the rest of the afternoon.’

I squirm beneath the weight of his head and run my finger inside the starched high collar of his shirt, dragging it over his collarbone. He looks so fine in this shirt: a powerful man at rest, the fine fabric draped alluringly over his body, giving me a glimpse of the musculature beneath.

‘Perhaps I can show my appreciation later, Your Grace. Perhaps you can teach me how to return the favour.’

Josh growls and switches back to his own voice. ‘Jesus. You on your knees is a mental image I do not need if I’m gonna keep it down for this scene.’

‘At least you’ll be lying on your front for the next shot, so you can disgrace yourself all you like.’

‘I bet I will, with my face stuck up your skirt. I’ll be horny as fuck. Wanna hit my trailer as soon as we’re done shooting later?’

‘We have the interview with Nicola, remember?’

‘Fuck. You’re right. Whew. I need to pace myself, in that case. I’ll just imagine you’re Bernie Sanders when I’m down there.’

‘Oh my God.’ I shove his shoulder, laughing. Mmm. The muslin of his shirt is such a thin barrier between my hand and the beautiful, masculine bulk of his delts. I look around. No one’s paying any attention to us whatsoever. I have a good grope of his shoulder.

‘I love this shirt on you. I just want to rip it off. I want to undo that cravat and slide my hand down over your glorious hair and your glorious pecs and just... devour you.’ I hiss out the words and he watches my mouth with an anguished expression, like he wants to rear up and bite my lip.

‘I’ll let Tom Ford know.’ He’s still looking at my mouth, so I lick my lips for his benefit. ‘Maybe he can knock up a modern take for me.’

‘It would be perfect for the premiere.’

‘Maybe I’ll ride up the red carpet on a trusty steed. I might keep these, too.’ He strokes his sideburn affectionately. ‘They drive the ladies wild.’

‘They do, do they?’

‘Yeah. There was this one absolute beauty I had the pleasure of going down on the other day, and she pretty much screamed her trailer down. I was embarrassed for her.’

‘Fuck you.’

‘I’d like to fuck you, actually.’

Thankfully, David puts an end to this increasingly dangerous conversation by announcing we’re ready to roll. Someone from props hands Josh his book, and he holds it up in position. We’re rolling. Most of the dialogue will be shot close-up in another take, and we’ll probably do some pickups too, at a later date, but we say our lines to ensure perfect continuity.

‘Do you have much knowledge of Michelangelo, my darling?’

‘I dare say I do not, Your Grace.’

‘Tell me what you know.’

I hesitate. Georgiana considers herself a well-educated woman compared to her peers, but in the world of art she suspects she is something of a philistine.

‘I know that he was a famous sculpture and painter. I know that he sculpted David and the Pièta, and that he is best known for painting the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.’

‘Very good. Do you know what the Sistine’s ceiling depicts?’

‘I… I do not.’ My hand twists into the velvet throw below me.

‘It depicts nine scenes from the Book of Genesis. The wonder of creation. The separation of darkness and light. The creation of Adam. And Eve.’ His voice drops. ‘I should like to see them. Very much.’

‘Have you ever journeyed abroad, Your Grace?’

‘I have toured through France and Spain and northern Italy. I have not yet visited Rome. I should like to, though.’ He lowers the book and lays it face down on his chest. ‘I should like to go with you.’

Josh stares up at me, a world of hope and possibility etched on his features, and I raise my hand tentatively from the floor. Because, despite their intimacies at night, in the darkness of the duke’s bedchamber, Georgiana does not yet have a casually intimate relationship with her husband. She is still cautious with him. Nervous. Closed off. As he is with her, for wholly different reasons.

I lower my hand to Josh’s temple and stroke the soft place where his skin meets his hair. I stroke downwards, over his sideburns, towards the perfect firmness of his jaw. Raise my hand and place it in his hair. Aside from the sideburns, he has no hair extensions in for this scene, so his hair is soft enough for me to run my fingers through.

Which I do. Again and again.

‘I should like that very much indeed.’ The words come awkwardly from Georgiana’s mouth. She wants so much to please her husband, and she’s beginning to understand that evidence of her contentedness pleases him more than many other things.

I add another hand to his head. Dragging my fingers softly along his scalp is like a form of therapy. Josh’s eyelids drift closed and I sit there, feasting on his beautiful features in private awe. I see the faint lilac veins in his eyelids. The slightest fluttering of his thick eyelashes. My head is lowered. The camera can’t see my expression.

Georgiana is having a true epiphany at this moment: that this act, this closeness she’s finding so rewarding, and which is stirring up such a well of emotion inside her, is at the very core of what it means to be husband and wife. She’s not only staring her future in the face, she’s immersing herself in it with growing confidence.

Josh’s eyes open. He reaches up and takes one of my hands, stilling it. Staring into my eyes. I continue to stroke the baby hairs of his hairline with infinite tenderness.

‘Do you think you can be truly happy here, with me, my darling?’ His voice has the gruff edge of withheld emotion. ‘I will do anything to ensure your happiness, you must know that.’

‘I do,’ I say, and I bend my face to his.

36

JOSH

I  haven’t arranged to catch up with Elle tonight, but as I knock on her door, I hope to God she’s on board. Because I’ve been bursting all day. Obviously, if she turns me down, I’ll go straight back to my room and jack the hell off, but I’d rather give it to my girl.

Don’t call her that. You have no fucking right to call her that.

She answers the door in those freaking yoga pants again. They’re flesh-coloured and, at a glance, they look just like skin. Fuck. But unlike last time I was here, the hostility in her expression has gone, and there’s a knowing. An understanding that I’m leaning against her door jamb because I want the same thing she wants.

‘Hi.’

I twist my neck, and my eyes dart along the corridor. ‘Hey. You busy? Can I come in?’

‘Sure.’

She gives me the ghost of a smile and stands aside. Her hair is damp and her bare face is glowing. I dunno how she looks this good on the hours we’re pulling at the moment.

‘How’s your evening going?’ she asks.

I lean against the door, and it shuts with a satisfying click. We can make small talk. I can sit on her couch again and drink camomile fucking tea. Or I can come clean. Tell her why I’m really here.

‘My evening is a write-off because I spent most of the morning with my head up your skirt, and despite those fucking chastity panties you were wearing, I could smell you the entire time. And I can’t stop thinking about how you smell. And how I know you taste. And I’m going crazy, and I’m sick of it.’

I exhale deeply, and my nostrils flare with the effort. She’s frozen, staring at me as if my words have made her lose the power of speech and movement.

I continue. ‘I’m sick of quick bangs in our trailers. I’m sick of touching you through your costume, relying on my memory and my imagination for how you look naked. I’m sick of it all.’ I take a step towards her. ‘I need you naked, baby. I need to spread you out on that bed in there and take you. Taste every single inch of you. Run my mouth over your sweet, sweet skin. None of this other bullshit. I got all night. And I just wanna gorge myself to my fucking deathbed on you.’

Her shoulders heave, and she lifts her eyes to the ceiling as if she’s seeking strength from someplace, and when she looks back at me, her face screws up and I think for a second she’s gonna cry, and then she launches herself at me like I’m her next dinner. She climbs me like a goddamn tree and I grab her ass—that gorgeous, peachy ass—and hold her up as she wraps her legs and arms around me.

She finds my mouth and parts my lips, and I’m there for her. Body, mind and heart. Even if she only wants my body right now.

‘I want that too,’ she whimpers into my mouth. ‘I really wish I didn’t, Josh. But I do.’

‘I know,’ I tell her. ‘I got you. This is only going to be a good thing for you. You hear that, baby? I’m only gonna make you feel good. We deserve this.’ I snicker against her mouth. ‘And it’s great for the show. Alyssa is so fucking happy with us right now.’

It’s true. Our chemistry, our tension, our intimacy and our familiarity with each other’s bodies are bleeding through to every scene and Alyssa, Abigail and David are on cloud fucking nine. And I get the feeling Kate knows she’s become redundant somewhere along the line and can’t really figure out how or why.

I keep a hold of her and walk across the living room and into her bedroom as she clings even tighter to me, like the sweetest baby monkey ever. Her chin rests on my shoulder and I turn my head a little to inhale her damp, fragrant hair. When we hit the bed, I stop and lean forward so she can uncurl herself and lay down.

Our faces are inches apart. ‘It’s you and me tonight,’ I tell her, scanning her face for a sign of either panic or acceptance. ‘I don’t want anything between us. No clothes. No characters. Just us. That cool with you?’

She nods slowly. ‘Yeah.’

This sliver of time feels sacred. We’re suspended here for a second before I give her more of a clue of how I feel. She still hasn’t let me explain myself, or redeem myself, or seek her forgiveness with words, but I’m more than capable of showing her with my body. My feelings for this woman run so deep there’s no way I can be naked with her and not have her understand.

My finger traces down the slope of her cute little nose, over those pillowy lips and over her chin. Down her neck. Down between her breasts, until it gets to the top button of her cardigan. I work at the tiny buttons—playing Dom has gotten me good at that—and slowly work my way through them. I came here desperate for her, but now I know I’ve got all night with her, I wanna take my time.

She doesn’t take her eyes off me, and I give her a smile I hope conveys how in awe of her I am. A plain black bra comes into view, and I suck in my breath. Having her trussed up in the corset was one thing; being able to lay her bare is another.

I tug the cardigan open and slide my hand down the velvet smoothness of her stomach before hooking my thumbs through the waistband of her yoga pants. As I drag them down over her hips, her matching black panties come into view. There’s something fragile, vulnerable about her in this state. She’s not on set. She’s not dressed up or in performance mode. She’s pared back, and I wanna show her how right she is to trust me with this privilege.

I pause to pull my shirt off over my head. Fair’s fair. I don’t want any power imbalance tonight. I unzip my jeans, ease them over my hard-on, and step out of them, and as her gaze dances over my body, her eyes soften. Darken. She can see the full effect she’s having on me.

That’s better. I crawl onto the bed so I’m straddling her, and help her wriggle out of her cardigan, dropping a kiss on her glossy shoulder as it slides off of it. I weave my fingers through hers and plant her arms above her head. Dropping down. Finding her lips. Getting her used to this nakedness between us. Not literal nakedness—though it will be in a few seconds—but this web of exposed emotions and vulnerabilities and humanity.

Our kiss deepens, and my mind is free of everything except the sound of her breath, the slide of her lips, the sensual tug of her tongue. The taste of her. Her skin against mine. This kiss is a movie in itself. It’s a love story, told through the nerve endings of our mouths.

I squeeze her hands before letting go and trailing my fingers back down the softest, creamiest skin on the underside of her arms. They roam over the plain cotton of her bra, and as my thumbs brush her nipples, she jolts a little. I suck on her bottom lip and increase the pressure of my thumbs as her nipples harden into beautiful little buds below them. Elle’s breathing deepens, which I take as a pretty clear signal that we can lose the bra. She arches as I reach under her to unhook it and pull it off.

And there she is. Fuck, she’s so beautiful, lying there for me, her breasts perfection, her face the most incredible mix of desire and trust.

‘Baby.’ I shake my head in disbelief. Holy fuck, was this worth waiting for.

She reaches up and strokes her knuckles down my chest, my stomach, and teases me with a finger skimming under the waistband of my boxer briefs. ‘I think we’d better lose the rest.’

‘Gotcha.’ I jump off the bed and lose my underwear before doing what I’ve been waiting five years to do and slipping her panties off of her.

And holy fuck. She’s totally naked and a sight for sore fucking eyes, up on her elbows. One leg up, foot sliding over the bedcovers. Watching for my reaction. Waiting for me to make my move.

I love you.

You are spectacular.

I am not worthy of you.

‘You okay?’ she asks, and I realise I’ve been standing there like a fucking zombie.

‘Yeah.’ I rub the back of my neck. ‘Yeah. I am so much better than okay it’s not even funny. You are so beautiful. I’m gonna worship you, all right?’

‘Well, hurry up then,’ she whispers, clambering upright and coming towards me on her knees. ‘Believe me, I’m going to worship you right back. You are magnificent.’

She’s right in front of me, on the bed, on her knees. She slides one hand around to grab my ass and draw me closer, while the other comes between us to cup my balls, and fuck. My dick is pressing against her, painting her stomach with its wetness. I lean down and tip her head up to me and kiss her. Mouths open. Tongues testing. The arch of her throat is so soft. She makes a little noise, and her vocal chords vibrate under my fingers.

Elle Hart is happening to me all over again. The awe I feel in this moment is just like that first night we were together in her hotel room in Cannes. But I can’t play the do you remember game, because she hates my fucking guts for everything that’s happened before. She’s here with me right now despite our memories, not because of them, and I’d do well to remember that.

Let’s see if we can make new memories. Memories that help us erase the past. Memories that just might form a foundation solid enough to allow us to move forward together.

With infinite gentleness, I take her shoulders and ease her back down onto the bed, because I won’t survive a minute with my goddamn balls in the palm of her hand like that. This moment is for her. Just her.

37

ELLE

I ’m in a dreamlike state before Josh even touches me properly.

He’s so right: our frantic hookups in our trailers have been hot beyond belief, and just what we’ve needed when we were shooting and got caught up in the moment, but we both need this. To enjoy each other. To take our time, luxuriate in each other.

The way he’s been with me these past couple of weeks, I can’t deny the fierceness of his appetite for me. It’s like the guy has tunnel vision and I’m the only thing he sees. It’s gratifying, I won’t lie, but I keep coming back to the same bloody thing.

He was like this before. Exactly like this.

And he walked away.

So however ardently his gorgeous brown eyes bore into mine, however worshipfully he touches my body, however skilfully he gives me release, I’m taking it one night at a time. Refusing to even let the F-word (‘future’) onto my radar when it comes to Josh Lander.

That’s not to say I’m not one hundred percent ready for tonight. As lovers (ugh, I hate that word, but what can you do? Is fuck-buddies better?), we’re so attuned it’s terrifying.

My body needs this.

I need this.

And I won’t deny having Josh Lander so far gone—so consumed over me—is a huge boost to my self-confidence and makes me feel a lot better about my decision to let him back into my life in this incredibly intimate way.

Not to mention, he’s the most beautiful specimen of manhood I’ve ever seen. That’s the really irritating thing. No one else hits the spot quite like him.

The way his jaw curves before squaring off.

The perfect density of his stubble (ridiculous, I know).

The slightly feline shape of his eyes.

The way his lids, with their dark, thick lashes, grow heavy when he looks at me.

The dip of his cupid’s bow.

That hair, the ultimate dirty blonde, cries out for me to rake my fingers through it.

To grab it and make his scalp tingle.

And shall we talk about his body? Hooooly hell, his body. Those crazy caps of his delts, and the fact that his torso manages to be beautifully lean but undeniably strong. His bum is edible, and his athletic thighs, with their powerful quads, taper into long legs. And let’s not even get started on his dick.

I stare down at it greedily as he frames my head with his hands and crawls up my body on all fours. This man has I mean business tattooed across his forehead, and I’m pretty ecstatic to be his project of choice this evening.

He lowers his gorgeous face to mine, his eyelashes sweeping his cheeks, and kisses me in a way that tells me he has all evening. He’s not in a hurry. I suspect he’ll eke this out. Make me wait. Make me beg.

I already can’t bear it.

As Josh’s tongue gives my mouth a little preview of its skills, his fingers find my breast and sweep around it in lazy circles. They trace the underside with a whisper-light touch and trail their way over to my other breast. My nipples are stiffening even more than they were, if that’s possible. They’re crying out to be touched. Rolled. Pinched.

But he ignores them. Instead, his hand trails down my stomach, leaving a smattering of goosebumps in its wake. His knuckles brush the very top of my bikini line before diverting north. He’s giving me almost nothing, and it feels amazing. I grab at the satisfying bulk of his bicep and whimper frustratedly into his mouth.

‘Josh. I can’t wait. Please touch me.’

‘You wanna be touched?’ His voice is low and gruff with emotion. ‘I’ll touch you everywhere, sweet girl. I was just enjoying your body for a second.’ He kisses me chastely on the lips before glancing down at my body.

‘Those nipples look pretty needy to me. Shall I start with them?’

‘Yes. Yes, please.’

‘So polite.’ He gets back up on his knees and nudges my legs apart so he can kneel between them, and reaching forward, he presses on one nipple, rolling it lightly under his finger. It’s heaven and hell at the same time. I need so much more. He does the same with his other hand, my other nipple, and then he takes his pincer grip and pinches them. Rolls them. Hard.

Oh holy shit. I’m ready to explode there and then. My nervous system zings celebratory messages through my entire body, and between my legs, I’m pulsing madly. I just hope he gets there soon. But I also hope it never ends.

‘Your body is so fucking beautiful,’ he huffs. ‘These nipples are like fucking candy. And I love how responsive you are. I love how easily I can get you off with my fingers.’

I stare at him through a haze of lust, my breath growing jagged as he keeps up the pressure.

‘But I really wanna get you off with my tongue.’ He releases my nipples and scoots further down the bed. His hands go to the inside of my knees and my legs fall open. He stops with his face inches from me and he plain stares, and for some reason that feels so intimate, even though this is one of my body parts he’s seen plenty of recently. ‘So beautiful.’ He blows softly between my legs, and the unexpected chill on my most exposed, needy parts makes my bundle of nerves down there cry out louder.

And then he closes the gap between us and puts his tongue on me.

Hot.

Taut.

Deliberate.

His thumbs rake down my inner thighs.

His tongue tests my entrance.

And he buries his nose in me.

Holy hell.

‘I could die like this. Inhaling you. Tasting you.’ His breath is hot now. ‘You are. Fucking. Intoxicating.’

His words send a wave of desire over me: a wave that grows stronger as he teases me with his tongue. Adding a finger. Then another. And another, so I’m filled up inside as he takes care of the outside.

His fingers move in powerful jabs.

His tongue is on me.

Flicking insistently.

Firmly. So firmly, it’s almost painful.

But not quite. It’s perfect. It’s fucking perfect.

The intensity of his mouth on me and his fingers in me builds and builds and builds.

He doesn’t let up.

He’s lulling me into a state where all I can focus on is the friction of his tongue and the pressure of his fingers and the dirty little groans he’s making, low in his throat.

Flick. Flick. Flick.

Push. Push. Push.

My legs tense. My abs tense. My jaw juts out in the effort to ride this wave Josh has created in my body.

I reach up for my nipples and pinch. Press. Roll.

And it’s too much.

I’m conscious that my moans, my whimpers, have turned to outright cries.

Josh amps up the torturous, teasing laps of his tongue. His fingers crook inside me. And I break.

I soar, heat flooding my body in shockwaves that ripple all the way out to my fingers and toes, and I writhe. Arch. Push into Josh. I abandon my nipples and I dig my fingers into his hair. Grabbing at it. Pulling him closer to me as my body unravels and unravels and spools into nothingness.

Holy fucking shit.

I lie there, hands in Josh’s hair, trying to regulate my breathing as I come down. He presses a sweet kiss to my most sensitive spot and makes his way up my body. His smile is a little triumphant, as well it should be—the boy did good—but mostly, it’s awed.

He lowers himself down on top of me, and his weight is a delicious antidote to the overstimulation he’s just delivered. I wrap my arms and legs around him as he strokes my hair back off my face. His erection is huge and hard between us. I need him inside me immediately.

‘I could have done that forever.’

‘I’ll hold you to that.’ I can barely speak.

‘You are addictive.’

‘Uh-oh. Says the addict.’

‘Seriously.’ He kisses down the side of my neck, from my earlobe to my collarbone. ‘It’s not good.’

‘It seems like a pretty good situation for me.’ I smile smugly at him and manage to roll us over so he’s on his back and I’m on top of him. I haul myself up onto my knees—it’s not my most graceful moment, but my body feels like it’s been hit by a sex-truck—and take him in my hand. His dick jolts at my touch, and Josh inhales sharply through his teeth. I raise my bum off my heels so I can position myself right on top of him and slide his slick wetness against mine.

He groans and his eyes roll back. His hands slide up my thighs. ‘Holy shit, baby. Wait—lemme get a condom.’ He goes to get up, and I put a hand on his chest.

‘It’s okay. We don’t need one.’ I feel oddly shy saying it.

He stares. ‘Really? You mean that?’

‘Yeah. I’m on the pill, because I have no intention of perpetuating your gene pool. No offence. And I had a check-up before filming started. And you’re a born-again virgin, basically, so…’

I trail off. Watch for his reaction. And it’s excellent. A slow grin spreads over his face and his eyes, which are practically all pupil, crinkle at me.

‘So, because I’ve been a good boy, I get to take you bare?’

He’s far too adorable for his own good.

‘Exactly.’ I’m still stroking myself with him, and I am so ready to push down, engulf his thickness with my body. So ready.

‘In that case… wait.’

He gets up on his elbows and scoots back all the way to the headboard. Plumps up a pillow and sits back against it. He’s such a sight. Honestly. His hard, tanned body sprawled out in front of me. He has his dick in his hand, and his other arm behind his head. Smiling at me. Waiting for me. I mean, come on. This whole pose he has going on is so ridiculously hot. He can’t be real. Can he?

I may snigger, just a tiny bit.

‘Come here.’ He lets go of his dick for a second and crooks a finger at me. ‘What are you laughing at? Should I be offended?’

I bite my lip. ‘I was just thinking how many millions of women—and men—would kill to see you right now. And how, if I posted a picture of you like this, we’d definitely break the internet.’

He shakes his head at me. ‘Remind me to confiscate your phone next time so I don’t get sex-taped. You coming over here, or are you chicken?’

He raises his eyebrows at me and pumps himself slowly with his hand. Oh, dear Lord. My eyes are on literal stilts.

‘Not chicken.’

I scoot up the bed on my knees, and he curls a leisurely arm around my arse, pulling me to him. He’s not grinning anymore, and I feel my smile fade too as he crushes my breasts to his chest. I can feel his heart banging against me as he closes the gap between our mouths.

‘It’s just the two of us,’ he whispers, ‘and there is not a fucking thing on this planet I want more than that.’

I’m conscious of every tiny detail.

The heat of his breath in my mouth as he says that.

The light chafing effect his chest hair has on my nipples, which are hardening again.

The leisurely glide of his hand as he cups under my bum and pulls me up.

The deliberation with which I reach between us and get hold of him, and God, he’s so glorious.

His low groan as I position him at my entrance, bare flesh against bare flesh, and his head enters me.

The sheer intimacy of being forehead to forehead and nose to nose with him as we gaze deep into each other’s eyes and I sink down onto him.

Holy hell, it feels amazing. Even more amazing than the previous times, and not just because there’s no condom between us. The condom isn’t the only barrier we’ve dropped tonight. The walls I’ve put up are coming tumbling down.

I roll my hips until he’s bottomed out, as deep inside me as is possible in this position, with my knees against the headboard. Josh sighs and cups my face with the hand that’s not on my bum, and the world outside could not exist for all I care.

It’s just us.

The play of his lips on mine.

The rise and fall of our chests against each other.

The feeling of true completeness that comes from being filled up with him.

I allow myself to stay lost in those rich brown eyes of his as I slowly push myself up, so he’s barely inside me, before sliding down, and God, that feeling of taking him back in again is so incredible that my face breaks into a smile.

‘So good,’ I tell him.

‘Wait till I’m actually doing some work.’ He brushes my lip and allows me to play with him a few more times, slipping off him and filling myself back up. He can’t really thrust in this position, so I’m not surprised when he holds me tight and leans forward so I’m falling backwards onto the bed and he’s crouched on top of me.

Gazing down at me.

Framing my head with his forearms.

Grinning that dirty grin that tells me I’m in the very best kind of trouble.

He slides a hand under my knee and puts it on his shoulder. Same for the other one. ‘I wanna be as deep inside you as I can,’ he whispers.

And all I can do is lie there and give him my best, laziest, most inviting smile because I want the exact same thing.

Josh moving inside me, at this angle, with both of us naked, wipes the smile off my face pretty quickly, because my overwhelm is building. Not just my physical overwhelm, although the friction and the pressure of feeling him buried deep within my body causes my breath to hitch with every thrust, but emotional overwhelm, too.

Because we’re stripped bare, and he’s looking at me with a whole world of emotion shining in those eyes of his, and it’s almost too much. He’s hitting the perfect spot inside me, a spot that makes my body ache with pleasure, and as he moves, I can’t help but make sounds that tell him how perfect every thrust is. How intense the friction is. How much I’m feeling right now, in my mind and in my body and in my heart.

I’m getting closer, and closer, and Josh is too; it’s in the way he bites down on his lip and tenses his jaw. It’s in the way the fingers stroking my hair begin to shudder.

‘I’m nearly there.’ I pant out the words. ‘God, Josh. God. I’m—’

He surges forward, burying himself deep in me. And that move has my body spiralling into a state of molten bliss for a second time, heat rushing through my insides and sparks dancing on my skin as he follows me over the edge and into oblivion.

38

ELLE

I  come back from my hasty trip to the bathroom to clean myself up before gravity does its worst, and slide back into bed next to Josh. He’s lying on his side, head propped up on one elbow and a dopey, sated grin on his face that’s the most adorable sight ever.

He pulls me right in towards him, his hand doing strokes of my back as he kisses me languorously. But when he pulls away, there’s uncertainty on his face.

‘I don’t want to leave. Can I spend the night?’

I know I should tell him no. I know sleeping together is a whole other level of intimacy from, well, sleeping together. But I’m awash with happy hormones. Drugged up to the eyeballs on post-sex endorphins. And I can’t bear the idea of him slipping out of this bed and leaving me alone.

‘Okay,’ I tell him. ‘You can stay. What time do you want me to set the alarm for?’

He sighs. ‘Better make it six. I gotta hit the gym.’

I smirk. ‘The abs maintenance is real.’

‘You betcha. But I can make time for a re-run tomorrow night.’ He kisses the tip of my nose.

‘I can’t. I’m in London tomorrow evening. We’re recording Gordon Kay. It’s all kicking off.’

The publicity for the movie I made before this show, a futuristic, dystopian action movie called Hysteria, is ramping up big time as the movie is being released next week. My co-leads and I are due on Gordon Kay tonight. The show will be broadcast this Saturday.

If our shooting schedule for Grosvenor wasn’t gruelling enough, adding publicity commitments into the mix will really finish me off. Obviously, we agreed all this with Azure before I signed up for Grosvenor, so my call-times have been carefully scheduled around my publicity requirements, but it’s still exhausting.

Not just physically, but mentally, too. I get so intensively involved in one character’s headspace that having to pull myself out of it and talk endlessly about a totally different production in a totally different genre is knackering. Shooting is a bubble, and coming off set and going into town to do publicity is a harsh way of bursting that bubble.

Not to mention that shagging my gorgeous co-star and all the emotional and physical effort I expend on that is adding to the strain on my capacity. But since this thing with Josh is so fucking spectacular, I have every intention of making the juggling act work.

Still. I need to be careful. My body has a particularly vocal way of making its needs heard, and an even more vocal way of complaining if it doesn’t like the way I’m treating it, so I should pay heed and not take the piss. I’m actually amazed I haven’t had more flare-ups while we’ve been shooting. There’ve been plenty of the usual early morning upset stomachs, but if I’m kicking Josh out at six, I should be fine until then. Other than those, my body has been amazingly resilient.

Sleeping with Josh is heavenly. I forgot how heavenly. Maybe it’s just sleeping with another human being, but I doubt it.

It’s him.

I wake up to pee in the middle of the night, and when I get back into bed he sighs in his sleep and rolls over and spoons me, tugging me right up against him as if he can’t be without me. It’s absolutely lush. The rhythmic rise and fall of his chest against my back lulls me back into a deep, blissful sleep.

I’m even nice when his alarm call wakes us up at six. I run my hand up the taut, hairy forearm wrapped around my waist.

‘Wake up, Sleeping Beauty. Time to go and admire yourself in the gym.’

He groans and buries his face in my neck. ‘Fuck. Maybe I can just stay here and we can do some cardio.’ His hand brushes my stomach suggestively, and all my nerve endings leap to attention. I slap it.

‘Go.’

He grumbles as he pulls himself away from me and gets out of bed. I roll over onto my back so I can ogle him as he dresses.

That big, golden body.

The things it does to me.

He pulls on his sweater and rakes his hand through his hair and I fangirl right there on the pillow. I positively swoon.

He comes and sits at the edge of my side of the bed as he puts his socks and trainers on, and I run my fingers lazily up his back. When he’s done, he twists his body around to me. His gorgeous face is serious as he brushes my hair off my face.

‘Hey,’ he says. ‘I want you to know something. I know we haven’t talked much about—our past. But I want you to know, I’m not gonna let you slip away again, Elle. Okay?’

I’m not sure what his reason for saying that to me is. He’s probably trying to give me something he thinks I need, but right here and now, it pops my fucking bubble so quickly I can hardly breathe. My chest tightens and my peripheral vision goes black. I pull myself up onto my elbows.

‘Seriously? Are we talking about the same situation here?’

‘What?’ He has the gall to look genuinely taken aback.

‘Don’t be disingenuous with me, Josh.’

‘Don’t get mad and go into full dictionary mode on me, Elle.’ He stands up.

‘You didn’t let me slip away. That would suggest an element of carelessness, like you weren’t paying attention and whoosh, I disappeared. You dumped me. On fucking Twitter. And far worse than that, you ghosted me to the absolute extreme of the definition. You invited me to your family home and then I never heard from you again. You did something unspeakably cruel to me, so don’t fucking rewrite history. For God’s sake, have the balls to man up and take responsibility.’

His face is desolate, but I’m unmoved.

‘Baby, I didn’t mean anything by it. It was just a turn of phrase. I meant—I meant I’m gonna do better next time. I promise.’

‘You promised me we were going to go to Capri together, after you put me in that car outside your home and before you hung me out to dry. So forgive me if I think your promises are fucking worthless.’

I put my head in my hands. ‘Oh, God. Will I never learn? You slink into my bed with your hot body and your sweet words, and I should know you just do whatever the fuck you like. I can’t believe I had sex with you without a condom. I can’t believe I let you stay the night! I’m. So. Fucking. Stupid.’

‘Elle. Baby. Stop it! You don’t need to stress. Last night was awesome. I wanna be with you—that’s what I’m trying to tell you!’

I can’t even look at him. I’m furious with him, but I’m far more furious with myself. It’s déjà vu - he has me all sleepy and sexed-out and defenceless. Just the way he likes me. I’m not the wide-eyed ingenue he seduced five years ago.

I’m a star in my own right.

I call the shots.

Fool me once, shame on you, Josh Lander.

Fool me twice, definitely shame on me.

‘That may be, but I’m not in the mood to hear anything you have to say, Josh.’ I look up at him, but my tone is flat. Exhausted. ‘Just go. Okay?’

39

ELLE

T his break from shooting actually feels pretty good now I’m in London. It’s a change of pace, a reprieve just when I need one (because we all know I need to save myself from myself where Josh Lander is concerned).

We shot a big ensemble scene this morning, which was fun and meant no intimate moments with Josh on set.

Thank God.

Then it was down to London in a car, and after two hours in hair and makeup, I’m ready to face the world. Tonight, I’m on Gordon Kaye’s iconic green sofa with my wonderful and highly amusing Hysteria co-star, Leo Spence. Leo played a most convincing villain and made my character’s life a living hell and my time on set a riot.

I’m going to need all Leo’s help to drum up some decent banter. I’m exhausted, and when I checked my blood pressure this morning, it was pretty low. Worst of all, my eyelids have started to hurt. They tend to get a red rash on them when my body’s considering a flare-up; it’s one of the early warning signals I get. There’s not much I can do about it given the relentlessness of my schedule this week, but I do make myself do a meditation in the car, which turns into a brief but restorative nap.

Anyway. Also on the sofa this evening are a YouTube cookery sensation and an Irish comedian. The four of us hang out in the green room and I allow myself a small glass of wine in the hope it’ll loosen me up. I’m choosing short-term fixes over my longer-term wellbeing; I know that. Wine’s the last thing my body needs right now, but my sanity requires it. I’ve had a total personality failure since my altercation with Josh this morning, mainly because an exhausting death-spiral of conflicting thoughts has taken over my entire brain.

I keep circling. Around and around and around.

I should never have let him get that close. Really, I should never have got naked with him this time around, and I certainly shouldn’t have let him spend the night and got all cosy and sleepy and vulnerable with him.

But last night was amazing. All the sex has been amazing. I can’t deny we have something incredible together.

But we had something incredible together last time, and look what happened.

It’s different this time. It feels different, anyway. I think. There’s a better balance of power. I’m not some star-struck innocent anymore.

But I’m not confident enough in my own objectivity to be sure it’s different. Maybe he is really a sociopath. Maybe he’s changed. Or maybe he’s just totally spineless and pathetic: a pandered child star who’s never had to be accountable to anyone in life or love.

Grrrrrrrrrrrr! I need to get out of my head.

There’s something about being fully made-up in a very sleek, modern way and donning a sexy little black one-shouldered dress and bad-ass, four-inch heeled gladiator sandals that helps me make the mental transition. It feels like I’m always with Josh, whether as me or Georgiana. Tonight I’m a movie star on the UK’s most beloved and long-running talk show to chat about a fun project that has absolutely nothing to do with you-know-who.

Gordon Kay himself is a national treasure, a terrifyingly witty Scot who can more than hold his own with the biggest celebrities. I’ve been on his sofa probably once a year since Gracie, and he’s always been an absolute sweetheart to me.

I suspect he feels partly responsible for the public shit show that was Josh’s Twitter break up with me, because it was his tweet Josh responded to. Maybe responsible isn’t the right word, but he seems invested in my wellbeing and he’s proven a steadfast champion of me and my projects.

He usually goes easy on me on the sofa, and I’m praying tonight will be the same. Mara’s made it clear to him that she will not tolerate him asking me about Josh. She’s been equally fierce with me. I’m to stick to the topic of Hysteria. It’s a big-budget movie and there is, aptly enough, hysteria building ahead of the premiere. My and Leo’s faces are on the side of every bus in London. It should be an easy gig.

Everything starts smoothly. We get a huge cheer from the studio audience as we traipse onto the set. Gordon mock-greets us all with kisses (he’s already swung by to have a quick drink with us in the green room), and he kicks things off with a viewing of the Hysteria trailer, which we all dutifully watch on the monitors. It’s high octane, fast and furious, and frankly ridiculous. We’re all laughing by the time it wraps up.

‘Wowzers.’ Gordon crosses his legs and stacks his prompt cards on his thigh. ‘You look exhausted. That must have been exhausting to film. Was it?’

I laugh. ‘It was pretty physical.’ Not as physical as filming Grosvenor, for totally different reasons I have no intention of disclosing to Gordon, but still. ‘Leo was already in great shape’—I grab his bicep to demonstrate—‘but they put me through a killer regime of weights and boxing to get me fit, and it was a shock.’

‘They practically had her in tears,’ Leo confirms. ‘Poor little snowflake.’ He hugs me to him in a brotherly way.

‘But it must have been great fun, all the same. What did you guys get up to together?’

‘Leo was the funnest part about it,’ I tell Gordon. ‘When there’s that much green screen, you really rely on your co-actors to keep the energy levels high. Leo’s great at impressions, so he kept me doubled up with laughter the whole time.’

‘Impressions like what?’ Gordon asks. ‘Give us an example, Leo.’

‘You sure you want me to do this?’ Leo launches into an impression of Gordon that’s so evilly accurate we’re all shaking with laughter. I carefully wipe under my eyes. The makeup team did a great job of covering up my rash, but the cosmetics are irritating my eyelids even more. I just want to get home and wipe this muck off.

‘You’re never invited on this fucking show again.’ Gordon points his cards at Leo. This show airs after the 9pm watershed, so the language usually gets fairly fruity. ‘Anyway, my dear.’ He swivels to me. ‘Going from Hysteria to Grosvenor must be a huge shift for you.’

I smile carefully at him to let him know he’s on thin ice, and cross my legs prettily. I think about taking a swig of the wine that’s been laid out for me, but my stomach is cramping.

‘It is. But they’re both great production teams, and I’ve wanted to do a Regency drama forever. Playing one of Nicola Marchant’s heroines, especially Georgiana Kenworthy, is a dream come true. And thankfully, playing a nineteenth-century lady means no gym. Which is a huge bonus for me. It’s basically the reason I took the role.’

Cue more laughter from the sofa and the studio audience.

Gordon leans forward in a predatory fashion. ‘Interesting. I was wondering what on earth attracted you to the job when you knew your co-star would be Josh Lander.’

He raises his eyebrows and sits back. The audience sucks its collective breath in with a drama level that’s totally unnecessary.

My stomach complains.

I ignore it.

My smile doesn’t reach my eyes.

‘Josh and I are both professionals, and for all those Nicola Marchant fans out there, let me tell you this. He’s going to make the most fantastic Dominic.’

‘So you haven’t gouged his eyes out yet?’

Leo still has his arm around me, and he gives me an imperceptible you’ve got this squeeze.

‘Sorry to disappoint, but we’re getting along just fine.’ If only you knew, Gordon.

I’m hoping the firmness of my tone communicates to Gordon that this avenue of conversation is closed, but he’s like a dog with a fucking bone.

‘Any chance of a happy ending for you two? That would be quite the story, wouldn’t it?’

This is only the start of it. I can’t even imagine what the questioning will be like when the Grosvenor publicity circus starts later this year and I have to sit next to Josh and politely bat back question after question about our personal lives.

There is no story.

There can’t be a story.

Because the only version of our story I can imagine the press spinning is that Josh broke my heart and I went back for more.

I’ve spent the past five years building a dazzling career for myself despite the stupid fucking headwind of being the girl Josh Lander dumped. On Twitter.

I think of his words this morning. I’m not gonna let you slip away again, Elle. For fuck’s sake. Everything about that sentence tells me the man is incapable of accountability. How ironic, given his tales of endless hours of self-work. You’d think if rehab had drummed anything into him, it would be the need to take responsibility. But if he feels no accountability for last time, he can’t feel any accountability to make us work this time.

I draw myself up so my spine is ramrod straight. I ignore the ominous, stabbing pains in my abdomen. The building nausea. The sheen of cold sweat blanketing my skin. I give Gordon my coldest, most Thatcher-esque smile and turn to Camera Three.

‘You can tweet this, Gordon. I don’t do re-runs. Ergo, I wouldn’t give Josh Lander a happy ending if he was the last man on earth.’

‘JESUS FUCKING CHRIST.’ Mara’s head is in her hands in the back of the car. She’s insisted on accompanying me back to the flat, and not because she’s worried I’ve got a flare-up brewing.

Nope.

She is pissed off.

I ignore her and stare out the window at London scrolling past us as we crawl down Bayswater. The lining of my coat is sticking to the cold sweat on my bare back.

She stabs at her phone. ‘I don’t know whether to be more livid with you or that little Scottish prick.’

I take slow, deep breaths and keep one hand on my tummy, willing it to comply as I rub my itchy eyelid hard with my finger. I give up on the view and loll against the headrest. Closing my eyes makes me feel nauseous. I open them again.

‘What was I supposed to do?’ My voice is flat. I’m fucking exhausted. ‘He totally blindsided me. You drilled it into me to bash down the remotest suggestion that Josh and I might not be over. So I did.’

‘You certainly did that.’

‘So why are you so pissed off?’

I’m being disingenuous.

I know exactly why.

‘Because you’ve given the tabloids the headline to end all fucking headlines. I wouldn’t give Josh Lander a happy ending if he was the last man on earth. Fuuuuuck. It’s so… sexual. I mean, it’s pretty bloody graphic.’

Despite myself, I smirk in the dark. ‘I thought it was quite witty.’

‘It is witty. It’s very fucking witty. But I could do without you having found your inner comedian on the bloody Gordon Kay show. Now, instead of quashing rumours, the whole world’s going to be imagining you giving Josh Lander a hand job. Excellent. What the hell do you expect me to do about that?’

I wave a dismissive hand in the air. ‘Figure it out. That’s why I pay you the big bucks.’

‘You know I will. No thanks to you. I have seventy-two hours to work my magic before it broadcasts. Are you still fucking him?’

I hesitate.

‘Seriously, Elle?’

‘As of today, no. We had a bit of a bust-up this morning. Suffice to say I’ve come to my senses.’

For now.

While there are a few miles between us.

While I don’t have to see him.

Act opposite him.

Simulate all kinds of stuff that makes me want to break the handle off his trailer door in my haste to be with him afterwards.

Luckily, I’m feeling so rough right now that my libido has well and truly deserted me. I couldn’t feel less horny. But I could feel less… attached. I know. It’s not great. But the memory of being wrapped up in his body this morning, of waking up with him, and of the profound sense of wellbeing it gave me? Well, that’s not something I can brush off easily.

We get back to mine. My cramping has grown steadily worse, and I clutch my stomach as Mara and I walk up the steps to my front door. I can feel a hint of dampness in my knickers. Thankfully, there are no paps loitering this evening. Not that I can see, anyway.

‘Is Nora home?’ Mara asks.

The lights are on. ‘Looks like it.’

‘I’ll come in with you. I want to make sure she keeps an eye on you.’

I wave her away. ‘I’ll be fine.’

She tuts. ‘Nice try, missy, but no way.’

Nora’s on the sofa, reading with Olive on her lap, but Olive hurls herself off and throws herself at me, leaping and twisting her little body in a frenzy of love and excitement. I grimace as I bend over to pick her up and kiss her little face, her tiny tongue darting all over me.

‘Hi girls,’ I say weakly.

‘Keep an eye on this one for me?’ Mara gestures my way.

Nora takes one look at me and bounds off the sofa. ‘Crap. You okay? You look like shit.’

‘I rubbed my eye makeup off. My eyes are giving me grief.’ I move slowly through the hallway. ‘I’m going to spend some quality time on the loo. Night, Mara. Thanks and sorry for fucking up.’

‘It’s nothing I’m not used to,’ Mara says gruffly as she hugs me goodbye and heads back out.

Nora pads down the hall after me.

‘Do you need help? What can I do?’

She’s well versed in my flare-ups.

‘A hydration drink would be great. And a heat pad? Thanks, Nor.’

I shut the bathroom door between us and pull down my pants. Sure enough, there are already some spots of blood. Holy fuck, that was a close call. I peel them off completely and sink down onto the loo, my head in my hands, as my angry, inflamed bowels begin their purge.

40

JOSH

‘W hy aren’t we shooting the dinner scene today?’

I consult the side in my hand. Elle and I were supposed to be shooting together today, but according to the side, I’m doing a short scene with Nick. Which I have not run my lines for.

Alyssa rubs her head distractedly and hesitates. ‘Elle’s ill. She won’t be back for a few days.’

What the fuck? ‘A few days? Is she okay? What’s up with her?’

I haven’t heard from her since she kicked me out of her room yesterday morning. I’ve sent her a few WhatsApps and nada. I know she was pissed at me, but I was hoping she’d cool off in London and be more amenable to me by last night.

‘She had a bad flare-up.’ Alyssa puts her hand on my arm as if in sympathy. ‘She’s in hospital, from what I understand. They admitted her in the early hours.’

Hospital? Hospital? Oh my fucking… ‘A flare-up? What kind of flare-up? What the fucking hell is wrong with her?’

She stares at me. ‘You don’t know? About her…’ She makes a circular motion around her stomach area with her finger.

‘No. About her what?’

‘My mistake. I just assumed—I can’t divulge any medical information. I’m sorry Josh.’

‘I’m not shooting today.’ I’m already pulling off Dom’s stupid coat. ‘I can’t. I need to go see her, make sure she’s okay.’

In the end, I have to call my publicist, Mike, who is not happy at being woken up. He calls Mara and gets her to cough up Elle’s location. Turns out, she’s at the Princess Grace Hospital in London, but I have no fucking clue what’s wrong with her.

I drive down there as quick as possible. The whole time, I’m wondering what the hell kind of health problems she has that I’m not aware of. Cancer? MS? Lupus? The M25 is clear, thank fuck, and when I get to the hospital in Marylebone, there are no paps circling. Good. The news hasn’t leaked, then. From what I know of Elle, she’d be furious if the press found out she had any vulnerabilities at all.

I pull my baseball cap right down and stick on a surgical mask. The front desk directs me upstairs, where I’m faced with a young nurse.

‘I’m here to see Ellery Hart,’ I tell her.

She looks at me like I’m stupid to even think I can pull one over her. ‘Miss Hart is not taking visitors.’

I hate doing this—it’s a douchey thing to do—but I’m outta options. I pull down my mask, take off my cap, rake my fingers through my hair and give the nurse my most devastating smile.

‘Look’—I peer at her name badge—‘Carly. I totally appreciate that. But Elle’s a good friend of mine. I just wanna make sure she’s doing okay.’

Her jaw drops and her eyes grow huge. ‘Ohmygod. Ohmygod. Hi. Hi! Sure. I mean, I’m sure that’s fine. I’m a really big fan. I loved Ghoul!’

You’re literally the only person on the planet who did, darlin’.

I keep grinning. ‘Aren’t you a sweetheart? That’s so kind of you to say. So what do you think? Can I sneak in and say hi to Elle?’

Her eyes dart down the corridor and back. ‘It should be fine. Just be quick, if that’s okay? I’ll get into trouble otherwise.’

I wink at her. ‘We absolutely can’t have that. I’ll be super quick. You won’t even know I’m here.’

I practically sprint to Elle’s room.

And when I open the door…

Oh.

My.

Fuck.

She’s lying there in bed, propped up on pillows. There are tubes everywhere. Machines beeping.

Her skin is deathly pale. Even her lips are devoid of any colour.

There’s a dark-haired woman sitting next to Elle. She shoots me a look I’m pretty sure she wishes was lethal.

I could give a fuck.

I walk towards Elle.

‘Hi,’ she croaks, and she doesn’t sound friendly. Not unfriendly. Just flat-out exhausted.

‘Oh my God.’ I cross to the bed and bend to carefully drop a kiss on her forehead. It’s clammy under my lips.

I straighten up and stroke her hair as I stare down at her, trying to wrap my head around what the hell happened since I left her in bed, pissed at me but otherwise fine.

‘What happened, baby?’

‘It’s none of your business,’ snaps the hostile brunette. ‘You shouldn’t be here—I don’t know how the hell you got in.’

‘Nor.’ Elle raises her hand off the bedsheets; she has an oximeter clipped to her finger. ‘Give us a sec, will you?’

The brunette gathers herself up with a filthy glare at me and stalks out of the room. I waste no time in stealing her chair and dragging it so it’s as close to the bed as possible. I sit and carefully clasp Elle’s hand between mine. It’s as cold and clammy as her forehead. I close my hands more tightly around it.

‘Jesus, baby. You have me fucking terrified. What are you—are you gonna be okay?’

She laughs weakly and sinks her head further back into her pillows. Lets her eyelids droop closed. ‘I’ll be fine. I’ve just been overdoing it.’

I scan the picture in front of me. ‘This isn’t overdoing it. You look like you’re dying.’

‘This is why I didn’t want you to see me like this.’ There’s a note of despair in her voice that I don’t get.

‘Who cares? What’s wrong with you—have they given you a diagnosis?’ Do you need me to speak to somebody?’

’No, Josh. Don’t get your knickers in a twist. I’ve had a diagnosis for years. This is not uncommon. Well—it’s uncommon for it to get this bad, but I’ve lived with this for over a decade.’

She opens her eyes, and my confusion must show, because I still have no fucking clue what’s going on.

I remember something. ‘Alyssa said you had a flare-up? But once she figured I didn’t know what she was talking about, she wouldn’t tell me any more.’ I rub her hand slowly between my fingers, urging it to warm up.

She sighs. ‘I have Crohn’s disease. Do you know what that is?’

‘Uh, no.’ But it sounds nasty. It sounds terrifying. My heart rate ratchets up at the idea that my poor, beautiful girl has some kind of scary-sounding disease.

‘It’s not very glamorous.’ She attempts a little laugh.

Is she kidding me right now? ‘Fuck glamorous. I don’t give a shit if it’s glamorous or not. I’m worried about you. I need information.’

‘I don’t have the energy to explain it all now. But it’s an auto-immune condition that causes inflammation in my intestines. For me, it’s mainly in my colon.’

‘And what does that mean—what does the inflammation do?’

‘It’s different for everyone. It makes my colon scab up and start bleeding. It’s incredibly painful, and, well, embarrassing.’

‘There is nothing you could say that would embarrass me or make me embarrassed for you. Shoot.’

She looks away from me, down at the cannula in her other hand. ‘I lose control of my bowels. I… get diarrhoea, basically. But much worse. And I haemorrhage. Out of my bum.’ She braves a quick glance at me before turning away. And oh my God. My heart is breaking for her.

‘It’s okay.’ I squeeze her hand. ‘And that’s what happened last night?’

‘Yeah. Both of those. Being run down brings it on. So last night, when I got back from Gordon Kay, things got pretty bad. I couldn’t stop the bleeding and so Nora—she’s my flatmate—called an ambulance sometime in the middle of the night. I’d lost a fair amount of blood, and the diarrhoea made me severely dehydrated too. Hence the drip.’

‘Holy fucking shit.’ I stare at her. ‘And you had this when we were together? When we dated?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because I was dating the most gorgeous movie star in the entire world, and I was crazy about you, and I had a hunch that if I told you I regularly lost control of my bowels and shat myself, you might not fancy me quite so much?’

I flinch, both at her brutal honesty and at how wrong she has it.

‘Nothing you could tell me would ever change my mind about you, about how beautiful and sexy you are.’ I stare at her, willing her to believe me.

‘Well, we’ll never know, will we? I didn’t tell you, and I still wasn’t enough for you.’

No.

No.

No.

I wasn’t enough for you.

That’s why I had to let you go.

‘You were everything. You were perfect. You always have been.’

She closes her eyes briefly. ‘Oh, shut up, Josh.’

I’m reeling to process all this information—not only how badly this Crohn’s shit (and I) have damaged her confidence, but the fact that she lives with an invisible illness and I’ve been oblivious. ‘Does this happen often? When was the last time you were hospitalised?’

‘A couple of years ago. The worst was—’ She stops suddenly.

‘The worst was what?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Elle.’

Her eyes slide back to me. If I thought I had feelings for her before, looking at her little white, drawn face only brings home to me how much I love her. I feel so fucking helpless here. I want to pull out these tubes and take her home and lie down beside her and not let her out of my sight.

‘The worst was when you dumped me.’

My body is splitting open from the pain. My heart is pouring itself out through my chest.

‘Go on, baby.’

I give her a nod. I can’t run from this. From the consequences of what I’ve done. I’ve gotten so good at running over the years. At avoidance. There’s no avoiding this. Yesterday morning, I had the nerve to think to myself that she was overreacting. I suspect I’m just about to get a giant fucking reality check.

‘I got myself into such a state, I had a massive flare-up. Like, huge. I was in hospital for two weeks. Multiple blood transfusions. I lost a stone and a half. The doctors were actually considering surgery—removing my colon and putting in a stoma bag.’

Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my fucking God.

She’s crying now. Heartbreaking little tears that run down her cheeks. She’s fucking dehydrated. She can’t go crying out her limited water supply on me.

‘Oh, sweet Jesus. Elle. Baby. I am so fucking sorry for causing you so much hurt.’

‘You didn’t just break my heart.’ She’s whispering. ‘You broke my body, too.’

I plummet over the edge. I press our entwined hands to my forehead and weep for the needless fucking agony and suffering I’ve caused this beautiful woman. The only woman I’ve ever loved.

‘Jesus Christ.’ I’m not usually lost for words, but there are no words to tell her how sorry I am. To make it right.

‘So you see why I’m angry at myself for letting you get close to me again. I’m here right now because I got in a state over you. Again. You’re not good for me. You’re really, really toxic for me. My body can’t handle you. It doesn’t know how. You’re too much.’

‘Don’t say that.’ I want to beg. I need to beg. ‘I know you have no reason to trust me. But I’m not the guy you dated back then. I was so fucking entitled and wrapped up in my own demons. But every piece of work I’ve done on myself is to become worthy of you. To be healthy enough to be there for you, the way you deserve.’

We sit there, hands sealed together, and she just shakes her head in this defeated way, and it fucking slays me. My tears come thick and fast from my well-hydrated body. She put up so many barriers around herself, and now they all make total sense. I’m a toxic parasite, and I can’t believe she’s let me in this close.

I can’t believe she can even bring herself to look at me.

To speak to me.

The door opens. Oh, fan-fucking-tastic. It’s her pit-bull.

‘You made her cry? Seriously? I leave for five minutes and you made her fucking cry?’

‘Nor. Leave it. I’m fine.’ Elle’s exhausted. I’ve exhausted her, which I have no business doing.

She should be resting.

She shouldn’t be letting me drain her. Again.

I let go of her hand and stand up. I need to do some serious grovelling, to Elle and to Nora. Given what Elle just told me, I’m surprised Nora even let me in the room.

‘Hey, Nora.’ I hold out my hand. ‘I’m Josh. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Elle’s lucky to have you in her life.’

‘Which is more than I can say for you,’ she mutters, but she takes my hand and eyes me curiously.

‘I’m gonna go and let Elle rest.’ I’ve done enough damage. I need to let her heal. But I can’t stay away for long. I turn back to Elle.

‘When will they let you go?’

‘Tomorrow morning, hopefully. If I promise to rest up when I get home.’

‘Do you want some company tonight? I can come back? I’m sure they have a cot I can sleep on.’

She smiles. ‘No. I’m pretty drowsy from the morphine. I’m sure I’ll sleep like a baby.’

‘Let me come help you get yourself home, then.’ I’m desperate.

To help.

To show up for her, for once.

To prove I’m not a flight risk at the first sign of trouble.

She and Nora exchange glances, and Nora gives a tiny nod.

‘If you’re sure?’ Elle says. ‘Nora has work tomorrow. She should be at work right now, in fact.’

‘You got it.’ Better and better. I get to take Elle home and avoid the pit-bull. ‘I’ll be here first thing. I’m gonna look after you, baby.’

41

JOSH

A  long night followed my visit to the hospital yesterday. Sleep eluded me as I agonised over Elle’s revelations. The first thing I did when I left the Princess Grace was drag my sorry ass off to an NA meeting.

Because if I didn’t, I was going straight for a bottle of the best scotch I could find and pretending like drinking four-figure scotch was somehow classy and not the desperate act of a pathetic fucking man who was scared to face up to the pain he’d caused the people he loved.

Person he loved.

The meeting helped me get my head straight enough to make my way home and figure out a game plan. And by the time I collapsed into sleep around 3am, my plan looked like this.

One. Don’t have a drink. Don’t pop a pill. Don’t fall at the first fucking hurdle. You let her down last time, man. Don’t you dare do it again. She needs you fully functional.

Two. You better persuade her to listen to your side of the story. She may tell you to go to hell. But without her hearing it, she’ll never trust you. Not really. Not enough.

Three. Do everything in your power to make sure nothing like this ever, ever happens to her again. Elle’s got herself a new pit-bull.

Four. Get some fucking sleep. See Point One.

I must have crashed hard, because when I wake up, I feel pretty intact, and I mentally high-five Yesterday Josh for staying away from temptation. I’m still reeling from everything Elle had kept to herself.

That when she was busy dazzling me and making me fall hard for her in Cannes and afterwards, she was hiding her illness.

Putting on a brave face.

Giving me a sanitised version of herself in case showing me the real Elle, ill and vulnerable, would put me off.

That when I pulled my unforgivable Twitter stunt, I triggered a flare-up so bad her doctors contemplated removing her colon.

I’ve gotten very good at shutting things out over the years. Obviously, hard liquor and a pharmacy of substances have helped enormously. But I’ve been so busy looking inward, hating myself, despising my weakness, that I can totally ignore the impact I’m having on those around me.

I’ve been working hard on this, these past few months, in rehab and since getting out. But for all the steps I’ve followed, for all the meditations I’ve done, I’ve never allowed myself to visualise exactly what it must have been like for Elle when I sent that tweet and shut myself off from her.

I told myself a million times it was for the best, that she’d be hurt, confused, but she’d see sense and go about collecting her Academy Awards and choosing from her endless choice of the best projects out there.

And she did. She did Fae, and every choice she’s made since then has been on point. But now I have another image. One I can’t get out of my head.

Elle in such emotional turmoil over my baffling silence that the trauma hit her body like a fucking sledgehammer. Elle haemorrhaging. Purging all her fluids. Weight dropping at a terrifying rate. Hospital beds. Transfusions. Drips. Her doctors’ worried faces. Total agony.

It’s too much. I can’t fucking bear it.

I need to bear it.

I need to feel it.

There’s no way around this. The only way is through it.

Even though, now that I know the truth, I can’t believe she’ll ever be able to trust me. Surely every self-protective instinct she has in her body will tell her to cut me loose, for her own good?

When I get to her hospital room, she’s sitting on the bed in jogging bottoms and a light sweater. I’m beyond relieved to see that the tubes are gone and there’s a little more colour in her cheeks and lips. Thank fuck there are people out there who dedicate themselves to putting their fellow humans back together and act as a counterbalance to those of us who go around breaking them.

I move over to the bed and cup her face in my hands and kiss her on the forehead again. It feels warmer now. More human. I rest my forehead against hers when I’m done. I won’t let her push me away today, because she needs me.

Almost as much as I need her.

Or, at least, as much as I need to help her right now.

To be the slightest bit of use to her.

To do something to claw my way out of the deep pit of shame and horror and remorse I’ve dug for myself.

I pull back to see her, keeping that face in my hands.

‘How are you doing?’

She looks up at me. Shrugs. ‘Okay. Knackered. Feeling pretty shitty. Thanks for coming.’

I shake my head. ‘Oh, no. Don’t thank me. This is all my doing, remember?’

She smiles weakly.

‘Let’s get you home. Is your little dog there?’

‘She’s with a local dog-sitter. They’ll bring her home later, if I’m up to it.’

We get Elle discharged and stocked up with the pain relief, antibiotics and heavy steroids she’ll need to reduce the inflammation. A porter brings a wheelchair, and I get her in it. The porter takes her overnight bag and we get her down to the basement parking lot and bundle her into my car. If there are paps outside her house, I swear I’ll…

There are no paps.

She lives a lot closer to the place I’m renting than I realised—just a couple streets away. She gives me her keys and I run up the steps to her front door, open up, and go back down for her. Help her out of the car.

She bats my hand away. ‘I can walk.’

‘Not a chance, beautiful.’ I pick her up and carry her up the stairs and into her hallway. ‘Couch or bed?’

She sighs. ‘Bed, probably. Next floor up.’

I carry her upstairs, her head resting against my shoulder. Her house is beautiful: elegant and feminine and tasteful. Just like Elle.

‘Do you own this place?’

‘Yeah. Nora rents off me. It’s much nicer than living by myself.’

I think of my empty place in Pacific Palisades. ‘I know what you mean.’

‘It’s this door, here.’

Holy fuck. We’re in her bedroom. It’s a huge, beautiful room. Light and airy. Cherry blossoms painted on the pale blue wallpaper. Enormous white bed.

I pull the comforter back with my free hand and lay her down against the pillows on one side of the bed—the side that has photos and books on the nightstand. She sinks into the pillows with a little groan. I set to work untying her sneakers, and get them and her socks off of her before I pull the comforter up over her. I smooth my hand over her forehead before sliding it around the back of her neck.

‘What can I get you? What do you need?’

‘I need to be really careful with what I eat.’ She puts her hand on her stomach. ‘Can you run downstairs to the kitchen? Adela, my housekeeper, should be there. Ask her for rehydration drinks and bone broth, and see if she’ll pop out and get some fruit? Honeydew melon and bananas. Thanks.’

‘Of course.’ My thumb strokes along the line of her jaw. She has no idea how beautiful she is, even like this. The late-morning sun pouring through her bedroom windows illuminates her clear, pale skin and the purple shadows under her eyes. ‘I’ll go see her. Do you want me to stay downstairs, or… Do you need to sleep?’

She yawns. ‘I might nod off, but I’d rather have you here. Is that okay?’

I swallow, surprised she wants me around when she was so pissed at me the other day. When she’s worked so hard at hiding her health issues from me. I’m pumped she hasn’t asked me to get the hell out of here. ‘Of course it’s okay. I wanna be here with you.’

I go introduce myself to Adela, who hooks me up with the broth and the drink and some straws, and decline her offer to take the tray up to Elle. I got this. I got her. I sit on the edge of the bed and hold the straw to her mouth as she sips. She gets a decent amount of her drink down her, and a little bone broth.

‘You can get on the bed with me, you know.’ Her voice is drowsy. I go around the bed and hop up onto it, lying next to her on my side. I smooth my hand super carefully over the flat of her stomach. She has a heat pad on it.

‘Does it still hurt?’

‘Yeah. But it’s manageable.’

She rests her hand over mine, and I lie there and watch in awe as she drifts off to sleep.

42

ELLE

I  nap on and off for most of the afternoon. Josh stays the whole time. One time when I wake up, he’s asleep, those killer lashes brushing his cheeks. The next time, he’s reading. And when I’ve finally decided I’ve had enough sleep, the shadows in my room are long. Josh is still there.

I brave a trip to the loo and wave off his offer of help. I’m still bleeding a tiny bit and with my bowels in the state they’re in, I have no interest in letting him too close to my bathroom. I splash my face and brush my teeth. I could use a change of scene, especially if I want to sleep well later, so Josh carries me and my pillow downstairs (despite my protestations) and settles me on the sofa before going to find Adela and ask her to heat up more broth.

There’s been a shift since he came to the hospital. He knows my deepest secret. He’s seen me wiped out and tubed up in hospital and he didn’t bat an eyelid. And since we got back here, there’s been this quiet ease between us. Like he doesn’t expect anything from me. He’s simply here if I need him.

And I don’t necessarily need him here, but I want him here.

There’s a thought circling in my mind. It’s been there since I woke up, and it won’t leave me alone. Maybe it’s because Josh has finally seen me in a state I’ve always been desperate to hide from him, and I feel like I’ve got nothing else to lose. The thought is this:

Ask Josh why he left you.

It’s driving me insane. Don’t get me wrong, that question has driven me insane for five years, but I had to make peace with not knowing a long time ago. The answer I settled for then was that he was a dick.

Really, there’s no other conclusion to be drawn, is there?

But despite my hissy fit the other morning, and my outrage that he’d try to brush off the gravity of what he did to me, I can’t square my ‘dick’ explanation with the guy I’ve got to know.

The guy who’s been doing a very good job of acting like he cares.

The guy who’s settled himself at the end of my sofa and is currently giving me a seriously blissful foot rub.

I cradle my mug of bone broth in my hands and blow gently on it to cool it down.

‘Josh.’

He looks up.

‘Why did you dump me?’

God. Just saying the words makes the emotion build in my chest, makes my chin quiver. Pathetic. I don’t ask him why he dumped me on Twitter—I’m less interested in the how than the why. But the fact that I’ve just been hospitalised because I let myself get so wound up over him, and the fact that he knows, makes me think I have nothing to lose. I’m already an open book where Josh Lander is concerned.

He stares at me searchingly while his blessed thumb kneads my arch.

‘You sure you feel up to talking about this? I mean, I’m happy to talk about it. I’ve wanted to for a while now. But you’ve been through a lot, baby. I don’t wanna upset you.’

‘I can take it. I meant what I said the other morning. When you talked about not “letting me go”, I wanted to punch you. I won’t let you rewrite history, so I suppose that means I need you to give me the truth.’

He clears his throat. ‘Okay. I can see where you’re coming from. But before I attempt to explain myself, I need you to know one thing, baby. Whew.’ He runs his hand through his hair a couple of times. ‘I was in love with you then, when I… broke things off between us, and I’m in love with you now. I’ve never stopped being in love with you, and I can prove it.’

I stare at him. I was not expecting the L word, and I don’t know whether to be gob smacked or ecstatic or furious. I think I’m a bit of all three. Before I can react, he continues speaking.

‘I wanted to tell you I loved you on the Fourth of July weekend. I wish I’d gotten to tell you, but I know it would have made things worse in the end, so…’

I wanted to tell him I loved him that weekend too, and it’s always been a huge source of relief that I didn’t. I kept that back, even though I came so close to saying the words. And God knows, he didn’t deserve to hear them. It would have killed me, knowing I’d given him that piece of me.

Shit. He’s fucking with my head now. I press my fingers to the bridge of my nose in an attempt to ward off the tears I know are imminent, and he leans over and gently takes the mug off me, putting it on the coffee table.

‘Elle.’ He lifts my legs and scoots further up the sofa so he’s sitting under my knees and can take my hand properly. ‘Baby. However badly you think of me, and I deserve all the bad thoughts, know this. I was a man desperately in love. Always have been. And everything I did, I did loving you.’

God. This is even worse than thinking he didn’t care. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with this information. I was happy with my decision to think of him as a spineless, entitled sociopath. My brain hurts with the effort of trying to retrofit this new information into a narrative I’ve trodden so faithfully over the years.

‘You’d better have a fucking good explanation, Joshua,’ I say through gritted teeth.

He continues his magic work on my foot as his other hand strokes down my fingers. ‘I don’t know if it’s a good explanation, but all I can say is, I did it for you. I did it to set you free from me. I was so fucked up, and I knew unless I finished it in the most cruel and fucking disrespectful way, you wouldn’t walk. I could tell. You have so much integrity. And I could see you had feelings for me, too.’

‘Did you know you were going to do it when I was out there at your parents’ place? Were you laughing at me the whole time, or was it a stupid tweet you sent when you were high?’

‘No. It was neither. I was on cloud fucking nine that weekend—I was crazy in love with you. I couldn’t believe the most beautiful, smart, amazing woman I’d ever met was into me. I couldn’t believe you didn’t see through me, to the extent I wondered if it was the fame thing you were into, and not the real me.’ He holds up a hand when I go to interrupt. ‘But I know it wasn’t the fame, because that’s not you. Anyways, I knew you weren’t seeing the whole picture.’

‘The drugs?’ I whisper.

He nods. ‘Yeah. I kept that side of me well hidden around you.’ A pause. ‘Kind of like you kept your illness hidden from me. Sounds like we both made a call not to show those uglier sides of ourselves to each other.’

That gives me pause. I’d never thought of it like that, but since that tense conversation with Josh about NA in my hotel room, I’ve wondered a lot about why he didn’t tell me, and how I never noticed any substance issues when I was with him. I’m not about to let him off—nowhere near—but I can appreciate the parallel.

‘Yeah, but I didn’t dump you because I was afraid you’d find out I poo my pants occasionally,’ I remind him.

‘Baby—Jesus. That’s not why I sent that tweet. I sent it because you didn’t know who you were involved with. You didn’t know you were falling for this sad fuck with all these addiction problems, who’d just drag you down with him right when you were about to go fucking stratospheric.’

I wipe my hand over my forehead.

‘Hang on. You’re telling me you broke up with me to set me free?’ The pitch of my voice rises. ‘Did you ever think about doing me the decency of consulting me? You said you loved me—you gave up on me, on us, just like that?’

‘No, baby. I gave up on me. I need to explain. After you went home, I had a bad few days. Brandon and I got really high—’

‘Fucking Brandon.’

‘Seriously. I haven’t spoken to him since that trip. I cut him off.’

‘You cut a lot of people off, didn’t you? Those who did deserve it and those who didn’t?’

‘I deserve that. Actually, my mom made me cut him off.’

‘Oh, and I suppose she told you to dump me, too?’

A pause.

‘Seriously?’ I’m icy cold now. ‘I suggest you tell me exactly what happened, Josh. Because none of this is making any sense, and it’s definitely not selling your case to me. And if you tell me you finished it because your mum told you to, I’m going to lose the fucking plot.’

‘Okay.’ He sighs. ‘So we had a rough few days, Brandon and me. We partied hard, and one night, I threw up, like, everywhere. Mom was fucking disgusted. I mean, it was seriously uncool of us. She kicked Brandon out the next morning and sent him home. And then she dragged me outside and told me I couldn’t go on like this anymore, that I was ruining what was left of my career, and that the best thing I could do for myself was check into rehab for a while.

‘She told me I hadn’t gotten considered for an exciting project in a while, that no one wanted to touch me because I had a reputation for being so unpredictable. Pathetic, she called me. She said you were about to go stellar—she was really fucking obsessed with you—and you were in a different league from me. That the only decent thing was for me to cut you loose and let you focus on your career.

‘She said you’d probably come to your senses and dump me soon, anyways. I said there was no way, that I was in love with you and I was pretty sure you were falling in love with me too, and she said if I loved you, I should consider how damaging it would be to you, being linked with me as you got more successful and I got more sick. Well, she didn’t call it sick, obviously, because the woman has zero compassion, but that’s what I was. She said I’d drag you down, be an embarrassment.

‘And I knew she was right, about you, and about me. She’s a total bitch, but she’s a good manager. It wasn’t a hard sell—I was so fucking filled with self-loathing and disgust, and you were the one perfect thing in my life. I didn’t deserve you, so I asked her what she suggested.’

I’m crying hard, tears and snot rolling down my face as I scrabble up my sleeve for a tissue. I can’t believe what I’m hearing, and I can’t believe how far Josh’s version of events is from the version I’ve held in my head for so long. He grabs me under my knees and around my back, and lifts me up onto his lap so he can hold me.

‘I’m wearing an incontinence pad that’s basically a brick,’ I tell him, its bulk wedged between us.

‘Baby, I’d love you even if you were in a shit-filled adult diaper.’ He coaxes my head down into the crook of his neck.

‘That’s not beyond the realm of possibility,’ I mumble through my tears.

‘I’ll take my chances.’

‘So you’re telling me you and your mum cooked up this plan to dump me on Twitter? A fait accompli, basically? I still don’t get it, Josh. Why didn’t you just pick up the phone? You still would have been calling the shots, but you could have told me what you were thinking. Tweeting it and going silent was, like, the cruellest thing anyone’s ever done to me. I grieved so hard for you. You have no idea.’

‘I have some idea, because I grieved for you, too. And I can’t even imagine how it felt for you, baby. I know how cruel it was, and how cowardly. But if I talked to you, there’s no way I would have been strong enough to go through with it. I know you would have been so sweet and supportive, and I couldn’t have said no to you. This was the only way. So Mom scrolled through our mentions and she found the Gordon Kay one, and it seemed like a good way to do it. I was hoping people would read the tweet as being ambivalent about who dumped who, but I know that didn’t happen, and I’m so sorry.’

‘It was so humiliating, on top of everything else. I’ve spent years undoing that one fucking tweet, and trying to persuade interviewers to ask me about my work and not about how it felt to be the girl Josh Lander dumped on Twitter. You really derailed my career, right when it was getting going.’

He clings to me, kissing the top of my head over and over again.

‘I’ll never be able to tell you how sorry I am. I meant to do the opposite. But it shouldn’t have felt humiliating, to be free of a douche like me. I’m the one who should feel humiliated, showing TMZ and the whole fucking world how low my lows are. You’ve been nothing but dignified and classy as hell this whole time. You have nothing to be ashamed of. I have everything.’

My anger is mounting, and it’s not necessarily aimed at Josh.

‘I want to punch your mum in the face.’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘How the hell does someone treat their son like that? Take away the person he loves? Tell him he’s not worthy of happiness? It’s so disgusting.’

‘Welcome to my family, baby. You know, I’ve learned these past few months not to blame others—I need to take responsibility for my actions. It’s the only way forward. But my family is so messed up, and their focus on money and profile and image and success is probably what got me rebelling in the first place, got me finding highs and coping mechanisms starting in high school. My mum has always seen me as an asset, and when that asset started going down in value? Well, she was gonna pull out all the stops to reverse that trend.’

‘She’s not your manager anymore, is she? Please tell me she’s not.’

‘I fired her ass after that first time in rehab. Problem was, the whole time I was in there, I had no intention of getting clean. Zero. Because I was withdrawing from the biggest fucking high of my life, and that was you. I needed every fucking pharmaceutical I could get my hands on to get me through losing you. Obsessing over you. Losing sleep over you. I wanted to stop feeling.

‘And it was only when Alyssa approached me about Grosvenor that I had any motivation to sort my shit out. I finally had a reason to clean myself up. And this time around, I learnt it was okay to feel. Not okay, necessary. And it’s been really fucking hard. But feeling the good stuff with you makes all the bad feelings worth it.’

His fingers slide over my neck as he buries his face in my hair.

‘Fucking hell.’ I wipe my nose with the balled-up tissue. ‘I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to think. I’m still so incredibly angry that you and your mum thought you had the right to ruin my life without giving me any say in the matter.’

‘I know. And I’ll never forgive myself for that. All I can do is try to make it up to you. I’ve done some real bad things, baby. Things that make me sick to my stomach. But I understand now that I had a legit illness, even if I was high-functioning. Addiction is just as valid an illness as your Crohn’s, even if it’s a hell of a lot harder to understand and accept.

‘But I’m not the guy who did those things anymore. I’m in a much better place. I’m waking up every day and doing the work, because I know I’m worth it. And I plan on never being that guy again. I love you so much. None of the things that felt good in those days were actually healthy for me, but you are. My love for you is the one thing that feels great and makes me better. That, and the work we’re doing together on set. And I want to be that guy for you: the one who makes you feel great, too.’

I sit in the cocoon of his body and his embrace and I wonder if I’m allowed to enjoy this. If I’m allowed to feel reassured and hopeful for the future with him. If I have the strength to take the leap and entrust my whole heart to him for the second time.

I jerk my head up. ‘You said you could prove to me that you loved me the whole time.’

He grins, and I swear parts of my heart melt and dribble down through my insides.

‘I did. The proof is at my apartment. When I told you I was staying on Elgin, you didn’t tell me you lived so close.’

‘I chose not to divulge that information to you,’ I say drily.

‘Minx. Should I go get it?’

‘I dunno. Will I ever see you again if I let you out of my sight?’

‘Har har. You’re funny. But I’m way too scared of Alyssa to vanish into thin air. Tell you what’—he takes out his phone—‘Lemme set this thing for fifteen minutes. I’ll be back before it goes off.’

And with that, he settles me back down on the sofa and is gone.

43

JOSH

I  make it back to Elle in twelve minutes. No way in hell will she ever get to doubt me again. If that’s the way to earn her trust back, I’m there: I’ll show up, again, and again, and again.

I’ve got my bag with me, but as I sit back down beside her and lift her legs so they’re draped over mine again, I have a surge of doubt.

This thing could backfire.

Like, big time.

It could make her run for the freaking hills.

I reach into the bag. She’s smiling at me like it’s Santa’s bag of presents I’ve got here, and I hope it goes some way to show her how bright this flame I’ve carried for her has shone all these years.

‘This may seem cute,’ I tell her, ‘or it may make me look like that psycho blonde guy in the movie Bodyguard.’

‘Creepy stalker guy?’

‘Yeah. Him.’ She can’t say I didn’t warn her.

Her eyes widen, and she smirks. ‘Okaaay. I’m definitely curious now.’

‘Here goes.’ I sigh and pull out the first book. Lay it on her lap. There’s a photo of us on the front, a selfie from that walk we took around the cape in Antibes. The first time I kissed her.

She looks down at it and then up at me. Her fingers stroke the photo. ‘What’s this?’

I clear my throat. ‘Um. It’s my Elle book. My scrapbook of you. Of us. There may be’—I glance at the bag—‘a couple more.’

Her jaw drops. ‘You’re a scrapbooker?’

‘Don’t say it like that. It’s not who I am. It’s just something I do.’

Jeez. Way to make a guy feel emasculated. I rub the back of my neck.

‘If you say so.’ She shuts her mouth and opens the book. I’m big on chronology, so the first pages have my ticket stub from the Gracie premiere as well as the gilt-edged invitation to the Vanity Fair party where Elle Hart shook her hot little ass against my dick. I’ve also printed out a screen-shot of my Busted, dude reply to Perez’s tweet, and there are a couple articles stuck in from French newspapers the next day with photos of the two of us dancing.

Elle touches the Gracie stub in wonder and smiles up at me. ‘This is amazing! I can’t believe you kept all this stuff.’

I nod at her. ‘Keep going.’

The following pages are a trip down a French memory lane: press coverage of the two of us at amfAR, more photos from our walk, the receipt from our dinner in Le Suquet and a coaster from the Martinez. I’ve devoted a few pages to coverage of her Best Actress win as well as a lot of print-outs of photos we took on our phones. My favourite is a selfie I took where I’m giving her a kiss on the cheek while she holds her award up in the air, looking shell-shocked. It’s awesome.

If Elle was paying attention, I reckon she’d notice how well-thumbed the pages of this book are. But from her expression, she’s struggling to take it all in. She’s getting close to the end of our time together now. As she looks through the pages of her trip to Maryland, complete with a piece of the banner decoration, the hand-lettered menu Mom had done for the Monday night cookout, and our photos as well as professional photographs from the night (Mom again), there’s conflict on her face.

I get it.

It’s bittersweet.

And it’s tough looking at those photos, the both of us so tan and happy, knowing what came next for us.

Or didn’t, I guess.

Elle closes up the book, a wistful expression on her face. She smooths her hand over the cover photo again.

‘Thank you for showing me that. It’s so beautiful, Josh. They were happy days.’

I swallow.

This is awkward.

‘Um. There’s more.’

Her eyebrows shoot up. ‘More?’

Oh, shit. This is where she takes out a restraining order against the creepy stalker guy.

‘Yeah. I kinda kept on… collecting stuff. About you.’

‘Seriously?’

‘I missed you so much. I was torn apart, baby. And at the same time, I was so goddamn proud of everything you were achieving. Staying away from those Academy Awards was the toughest thing I ever did. But it would have been so fucking rude of me to show up on your big night.

‘And everything I scrapbooked reminded me of how well you were doing. How much you were killing it without me. It helped remind me why I stepped away. I knew you’d fucking fly without me weighing you down.’

Her adorable little bottom lip is wobbling, and God, I wanna kiss her, but instead I reach back down into the bag and pull out the next book. Lay it on her knees. It has a Getty image of her holding up her Oscar on the cover. I love that photo—it shows her as the fucking queen she is.

Elle shoots me an I’m not sure about this look, but she opens the book, and her hand flies to her mouth when she sees the first page. It’s coverage of our breakup.

But only the stuff that praises her.

And the pieces that trash-talk me.

I know. I’m a fucking masochist.

She looks over the print-outs of magazine articles discussing my substance abuse, hailing her as the next Emma Watson, and banging on about what a lucky escape she had.

After those, there are pages of the editorial coverage. Coverage she deserved, dissecting what made her performance in Gracie so on-point, and requesting her viewpoints on everything from philanthropy to sexism in the movie industry. There are even two Vogue covers, cut from magazines I bought: the US and British editions.

She’s not the only one remembering.

Fuck, I remember how it felt to hold those Vogues in my hands.

To contemplate what a sought-after actor and icon my girl had already become.

To know I was voluntarily missing out on all of it. On all of her.

Elle’s laid herself bare for me these past couple days, and I’m doing the same for her. There’s no denying the strength, the consistency of my commitment to her, even though I couldn’t show it in the way she claims she wanted at the time.

By being there for her.

But I’m here now.

She takes a page-by-page tour of her Academy Award win, her casting in Fae, and all the rest, right through to the news in the final book that we’d both been cast in Grosvenor. I can’t lie. I couldn’t find an article that didn’t totally obsess over how much of a shit-show it would be, having us act opposite each other. Some of the more salacious headlines make her smile, and that’s a good thing.

‘I can’t believe you did this.’ She reaches over and takes my hand. ‘I’m blown away, Josh. I would never, ever have imagined you cared this much.’

‘Always.’ I brush my thumb over her knuckles. ‘Always. I’m not expecting a free pass—I know I’ll never make it okay, what I did—but I hope it shows you I was always thinking of you. I’ve always been your biggest cheerleader. And I’ve never gotten over you.’

‘Yeah.’ She fingers the cover and then shoots me a mischievous look. ‘Full disclosure: I didn’t scrapbook about you.’

‘Voodoo dolls felt more fitting, right?’

She grins. ‘Exactly. And more effective. I hope you felt it when I stuck the pins from my noticeboard in your eyes.’

‘Damn, girl.’

‘But I don’t get it—what is it with you and scrapbooking? I would never have made that connection. Ever.’

I think about how to explain it. ‘I think all kids like collecting stuff. Right? Making memories. I used to scrapbook all our family trips. And it was just for fun, at first. But then I started to notice the memories I had from looking through my scrapbooks were a helluva lot happier than the ones I remembered straight from the trips. It was like I was re-remembering them.’

‘Because the mind doesn’t remember things as they actually happened.’

‘Exactly. And it felt like if I made all these pretty scrapbooks, I’d genuinely enjoy reminiscing about trips where really I’d been exhausted from filming, or Mom was being a total bitch, or Katie and I were fighting. Does that make sense? The memories didn’t have to be accurate for me to enjoy them. I was happy to just look at the photos and not dig too deep on what was going on behind those smiley faces.’

‘It makes me sad you had to do that. From where I’m standing, it seems you grew up with a lot of privilege.’

‘Privilege, definitely. Happiness, joy, just being a kid: not so much. But with you, the books were more about celebrating you. And remembering what we had. I didn’t need to rewrite history with those. Every memory is perfect as it is. But the books allowed me to remember without it being tarnished by what came after, by all the loneliness and fucking desolation and bleakness.’

‘I know what you mean. That was another reason I was angry with you. You robbed me of those memories, because I never knew if they were real. I never knew if you were stringing me along the whole time, so I couldn’t trust myself to enjoy them.’

‘They were real, baby.’ I gaze into her beautiful, clear blue eyes. ‘Even more real for me than for you, if that’s possible.’

44

JOSH

A  little later, I run her a bath. She’s wiped from the emotional exhaustion of rehashing all those old memories. Those old wounds. And from trying to make sense of the head-fuck I’ve delivered to her.

I fill her huge marble tub almost to the top, pouring in a lot of the geranium bubble bath she’s asked me to use. It smells amazing, and I wish things were different and I could climb in there with her. Soap her up and enjoy her body. But right now, she’s sick and exhausted, and all that matters is her recovery. I test the water to make sure it’s not too hot. I can imagine she’s pretty sore. You know. Down there. And I don’t want it to sting.

I stick my head around the door to her bedroom. ‘It’s ready, baby.’

She walks slowly through and stops when she’s sees the candles I’ve lit. No big deal. I want it to be relaxing for her.

‘Ugh, heaven.’ She tugs her sweater off over her head. ‘Give me a minute, will you? I need the loo.’

I back out the door. ‘Sure.’ I know she’s wearing a pad, and I don’t want her to be uncomfortable about any of that. I close it behind me.

A minute later, she calls my name. ‘Josh? Come in and keep me company, will you?’

She’s in the tub, her hair up in a messy knot on top of her head, her neck resting on a rolled-up towel. Just her head and shoulders are visible above the bubbles.

‘You can join me if you like?’ Her expression is hesitant.

‘Nah.’ I sit on the closed lid of the toilet. ‘Don’t know what colour you’re gonna turn that water, do I? Red? Brown?’

Her mouth opens wide and she gasps. I’m not sure if she’s ready to joke about it yet, but I figure we may as well laugh about this shit (like, literally).

‘That is so unfair! You’re such an arsehole.’

‘Baby, if you haven’t worked that out already, there’s no hope for you.’

She pouts. It’s fucking adorable. ‘Making fun of me when I’ve just got out of hospital is low, even for you. I think that merits a few bath chores.’

I narrow my eyes at her. ‘What are bath chores when they’re at home?’

‘You know. Washing me. Maybe a little neck rub.’

‘The last thing you need right now is a dude with a hard-on up against your butt.’

‘You won’t be going anywhere near my bum. It’s so sore.’

‘Pity.’ I lean over and swipe some bubbles, decorating her shoulder with them. ‘So I guess that means anal’s off the table for a few days?’

Her face is fucking priceless. ‘I can’t believe you just said that.’

‘Believe it, baby.’

‘Come on.’ She jerks her head. ‘Get in. The least you can do is strip for me. You owe me that much.’

‘Oh, really.’

I stand up.

I tug my sweater and shirt off over my head.

She stares at my pecs. My abs.

I unbutton my jeans.

Her gaze drops lower. She bites her bottom lip as if she’s trying to stop herself from smiling.

I drop my pants and my boxer briefs. I’m semi hard, just from seeing her in the bath. Just from the knowledge that she’s naked, under those bubbles. And the way she’s eye-fucking my body isn’t helping.

I jerk my thumb. ‘Quit looking at my dick and scoot forward so I can get in behind you.’

She giggles and obliges, and I get one leg in the tub, then another, and ease in behind her.

Pulling her back against me.

Settling her head on my shoulder.

Smoothing her hair off of her forehead.

Fuck, that feels good.

She wriggles against me. ‘You’re getting harder.’

‘And whose fault is that?’

‘I suppose it’s mine. Shit, I really wish I was open for business right now.’

‘Shh,’ I croon into her ear. ‘You let that body of yours rest, all right? I am so fucking happy to be here right now. I don’t need anything from you. You got that?’

She nods and murmurs in the affirmative, and as we lie there together, I enjoy both the heat seeping through my skin and the sense of wonder that we’ve got to this point, after everything that’s happened these past few days. Right at this moment, my girl is recovering. She’s doing okay, and she’s here in my arms. And I feel like we know each other a million times better than we did when we were actually dating.

Because we’ve let each other in.

I stroke some bubbles down her throat, over her collarbone.

‘Are you ready to tell me some more about your illness? I mean, I did some googling

, but I want to understand it.’

‘I suppose so. What do you want to know?’

‘How long have you had it, exactly?’

She turns her head to the side, and I kiss her forehead.

‘I got a bout of glandular fever when I was fifteen. I missed six months of school, and my doctors think that might have been what brought on the Crohn’s.’

‘What’s glandular fever?’ Another disease I’ve never heard of.

‘We had this conversation with my parents, years ago, when my dad let slip about my health one night. You guys call it mono.’

‘Ah. Rings a bell. Yeah, that’s rough. And that triggered the Crohn’s?’

‘It’s the best guess the doctors can make. The Epstein-Barr virus is nasty, basically. And it can trigger auto-immune issues, which is what Crohn’s is. And the timing fits. I lose weight really easily when I have a bad flare-up. I was losing so much weight before I finally got a diagnosis that school thought I had an eating disorder. So many doctors struggle to diagnose Crohn’s.’

‘I guess I still don’t really get why you don’t talk about it. I imagine it would help a lot of women if you came forward, no?’

She groans. ‘I know it would, and I’ve agonised over it, because Crohn’s can definitely use more poster children. I told you. It’s mortifying. It’s so revolting. Not only does everything go right through me when it happens, because my bowel can’t cope, but I haemorrhage and I poo out blood clots. I mean, it’s so disgusting. No one wants to talk about that. And everyone gets so much of me already. Forgive me for wanting to keep this to myself.’

‘I totally get it.’ I ask the question I’ve been dreading. ‘Can it be fatal?’

My forearm is across her shoulders, holding her to me, and she brings her hand up to squeeze mine.

‘Only rarely. The most common reason people might die from it, I think, is if the inflammation in the gut gets so bad that sepsis sets in. That can kill you, obviously. Or I suppose if someone loses too much blood and can’t get a transfusion in time. But most of the time it’s just a nasty, debilitating and embarrassing chronic illness.’

‘So this is how it is for you? It won’t get any worse—you just have to manage your stress?’

‘Kind of. I’m very careful about what I eat—I try to stick to an anti-inflammatory diet. So, yeah, my main triggers are stress and overdoing it. But my biggest worry is that every time I have an attack, especially a bad one, I’m compromising my colon further. Weakening the lining further. And that’s not good for absorption—because nutrients get absorbed through the lining of the intestines—but the worst case is that the scarring gets so bad they need to remove my bowel and give me a Stoma instead. That’s a colostomy bag.’

‘Holy fuck.’ I pass my free hand over my face. I can’t imagine living with this hanging over me. And it’s so unfair to think that all my health issues, mental or physical, are totally self-inflicted, whereas Elle has to live with this huge fucking burden through no fault of her own.

I bend my head and kiss down her forehead, her nose, to her lips. ‘I think you are so brave.’ Kiss. ‘And resilient.’ Kiss. ‘And strong.’ Kiss. ‘And positive.’ Kiss. ‘And you’re the sexiest, most achingly beautiful woman I’ve ever known. And I will always think that, whatever physical version of yourself you end up being. Bowel or no bowel. Okay? I’m not going anywhere, and I’m so grateful you feel you can be open with me. And the more you open up, the more I fall in love with you.’

She leans her head back so I can get to her mouth, and I kiss her . Gently, but deeply.

I’ve told her a few times today that I love her, and she hasn’t said it back.

And that’s okay.

It’s way more than okay.

Because being able to say it to her without upsetting her, and knowing that she’s hopefully absorbing the words I’m saying to her, is more of a gift than I thought I’d ever get.

The whole of today has been a gift. Not doing. Not living life at the frenetic pace I’ve been used to for so long—a pace so crazy I needed a pharmacy-load of pills to come down at night. Today was slow, in the best possible way. It was about just being. With Elle.

‘Hey.’ I pull away a little so I can see her face. ‘With all the shit that went down, I never asked you how it went with Gordon Kay.’

She gasps. Sits straight up. Turns around and looks at me in horror. ‘Fuck.’

45

ELLE

T he fallout from Gordon Kay is a fucking shit-show.

Mara was right. I gave the world’s press a wet dream of a headline.

ELLE: I WOULDN’T GIVE JOSH LANDER A HAPPY ENDING IF HE WAS THE LAST MAN ON EARTH.

It’s on every news site. It’s above the fold on every single Sunday paper after the show aired last night. And it’s blown Twitter up.

I can’t believe I forgot to tell Josh. I suppose being ambulanced to hospital will do that for you. But it felt like we’d come so far together on Friday, and he’d finally laid himself bare to me, and he’d told me he loved me, for God’s sake—had always loved me.

So, when I had to come clean to him, there in the bath, the hurt in his eyes killed me.

‘It’s okay,’ he told me as he turned me back around and cradled me against him in his arms. ‘I get it. Seriously, baby.’

‘It’s not okay. But I’d got myself into a real state that morning, and I was so pissed off with you—and with myself—for letting myself get close to you again. And also, he took me by surprise. He was under orders from Mara not to ask me about you. So I let rip with this smart comment that was a mix of spite and deflection, I suppose. And all at your expense.’

‘It doesn’t matter what people think about us. It only matters how we feel about each other.’

But that’s a hopelessly naïve comment, coming from a guy who’s been a cog in this machine for half his life. Because what the world thinks of us matters far, far more than we’d like it to.

Mara’s been working hard since she dropped me at home after Gordon Kay, but there’s not much she can do to contain the story. She got in touch with Josh’s publicist, Mike, and gave him the heads-up. Josh has had Mike prepare some bland statement saying he’s enjoying collaborating with me on Grosvenor and wishes me nothing but well.

And Josh left my place at the crack of dawn on Saturday morning, which felt really shitty, given how amazing he’d been to me the previous twenty-four hours, but was strictly necessary. I hated how much of a wrench it felt, having him leave my bed after holding me all night.

‘You need to stay the hell away from him,’ Mara told me. ‘Until you go back to work, you cannot let anyone think there is a flicker of a personal relationship between you two. You know, the press will use this to re-anoint you as a feminist icon.’

I didn’t see that coming, but she’s right. The Sunday supplements are full of op-eds on how this is my moment, on how far the tables have turned on ‘predatory’ Hollywood players, on the increase in currency of strong female actors such as me, whose commercial success is eclipsing that of the men who prey on them.

I find their language terrifying. #MeToo didn’t become a thing until the year after Josh and I dated and blew up, so while the press shamed him at the time for using his fame to chew me up and spit me out, they also shamed me for being naïve enough to trust that he was in it for anything other than a quick fuck and a bonus boost to his career. And of course, some of them also shamed me for using him as a quick fuck and a boost to my fledgling career.

Now, with the #MeToo movement having gained such massive momentum in the intervening years, my participation is being reframed. According to many of the op-eds on both sides of the Atlantic, I’m the phoenix who brushed off the ashes of a disastrous romantic run-in with a huge Hollywood power player and emerged, not just intact, but positively triumphant.

It seems the press is loving that camera still of me, poised and dressed up to the nines on Gordon Kay’s sofa, a bona fide star at the top of my game, being in a position to laughingly shrug off my former lover as a total joke. I’m their new, involuntary poster child for female empowerment.

And given this is really the first time I’ve referred directly to my prior relationship with Josh, some reporters are speculating whether I felt too intimidated to speak out before: silenced by my terror that doors might close to me if I did.

There’s also renewed, more fevered speculation about how the hell Josh and I ended up starring opposite each other in Grosvenor and whether Azure is doing enough to ensure I feel comfortable with this situation.

Much as I count myself a staunch feminist, I’m horrified.

Because even if I hadn’t had Josh pouring out his heart to me, telling me he’s always loved me and sharing his scrapbooks (which were the nerdiest things I’d ever seen and made me fall into a whole other level of love with him), I wouldn’t have considered Josh and my fling to be a #MeToo situation.

It was born of intense attraction on both sides, and however unfathomable and unforgivable I found his behaviour when he ended it, it never felt like an abuse of power on his part.

Because I would have put money on him being as smitten as me.

And while I seriously resented the relentlessness with which the press stuck to their obsession with my having been dumped, our relationship didn’t do anything to damage my career, in the end.

I get the all-clear from my doctor, and go back to work on Wednesday. The team has done an incredible job of shifting the shooting schedule around, so my absence doesn’t cause too much of a delay, but I need to play catch-up. Josh has been back since Monday, and though we’ve spoken and WhatsApped a fair amount, I know he’s giving me space.

And it hurts like hell.

It’s a relief, being back in Georgiana’s shoes after what felt like a weird time vortex of being ill. Everyone’s being so sweet and attentive to me, treating me like I’m made of glass. Parka Pete has fresh camomile tea for me at every opportunity. Alyssa gives me a stern talk about communicating with her when I feel any inflammatory symptoms come on, so we can head off any issues before I have a full flare-up.

And Kate’s so overwhelmed by the furore over the headlines and the slurs towards Azure, with none of the benefit of knowing how close Josh and I have grown, that her processes and preambles ahead of any intimate scenes between Dominic and Georgiana are growing longer and longer.

And Josh is… amazing. He’s getting hit with all the bad press and he won’t listen to a single word of apology or frustration from me.

‘I deserve every single word of it,’ he tells me in my trailer when we’re supposed to be running lines.

‘You don’t! It’s all utter bullshit. They’re making up this ridiculous narrative when there’s no story there to tell.’

‘Hey.’ He pulls me close to him, and I turn my head to rest on his coat lapel so I don’t get Georgiana’s rouge all over his shirt. ‘It’s very sweet of you to say so, but we both know I deserve it, even if it’s Old Josh that was the total douche, not New Josh.’

‘New Josh is doing a pretty amazing job.’ I slide my hands under his coat and grip him tightly around his waist.

‘Thanks baby. But consider it delayed penance for shitty behaviour. I do.’

We’re at an impasse, and it’s made even more impassable when Mara comes to visit us on set one afternoon. Mike and Grosvenor’s publicist, Donna, have been working their arses off on damage limitation for Josh, because the last thing Azure needs is any negative publicity around their working practices.

We’re sitting down with Donna shortly, but given no one on the Grosvenor production team has any idea Josh and I are romantically involved, it makes sense to have a chat with Mara and Mike first.

Mara dials Mike in and they read us the riot act. I feel completely responsible for this whole situation with my stupid throwaway remarks on Gordon Kay, and Josh feels responsible because he behaved like a jackass five years ago (no argument here) and it’s coming back to bite him.

‘Mike and I have discussed this ad nauseam with Donna.’ Mara taps her pen on the table. ‘There is only one way out of this. That is that there’s no story. You two are colleagues. Nothing else. You’re getting along fine professionally, and you have no relationship off camera. Zero.’

‘That’s the only way this goes away,’ Mike chimes in. ‘I don’t know how strongly you guys feel about each other—I don’t wanna know. But given the way the press has come down as Team Elle this week, you wanna stay away from her, Josh.’

‘If anyone got a whiff of suspicion that you two are involved, the press would come down like a tonne of bricks on both of you.’ Mara’s now brandishing her pen at us like a weapon. ‘Elle, I know how unbearable things were for you first time around.’

She shoots Josh a look of utter disgust (Mara is not Team Josh). ‘I won’t have you go through that again on my watch—not if I can help it. Right now, the press is firmly on your side. And you know how mercurial they are. You’re a success story. You’re a feminist queen. And you’re an inspiration. You’re karma in action.

‘Nobody would understand if you took Josh back. Not the press. Not your fans. Not the millions of young women who see you as a role model. Your only option is to distance yourself as much as possible from him, except as colleagues. I’m sorry, but there it is.’

She throws her pen on the table.

I stare at her in horror.

‘So I’m supposed to just sit there and take it? Let everyone else decide what I want?’

‘She’s right, baby.’ Josh grabs my hand, and I don’t miss Mara’s look of disgust at the gesture and his endearment. ‘They will fucking crucify you if they think you’ve taken me back—they’ll say you’re weak and pathetic. Believe me.’

‘What if I speak up? Tell my side of the story?’

I’m desperate now.

This man has just shown me who he truly is.

I’ve made peace with our past.

With his sins.

I’m not about to hang him out to dry.

And I’m not about to try to live without him when we have this second chance.

‘No, Elle.’ It’s Mike again. ‘Honestly. It won’t just damage you; it’ll damage Josh. He’ll be painted as predatory again. Doesn’t take no for an answer. The press has decided “guys like him”’—he uses his fingers to make quote marks—‘don’t deserve a second shot. He needs to lie low, and so do you.’

‘I’ve served all the hospital staff who saw Josh with NDAs,’ Mara says. ‘Obviously, the whole crew here has signed them. I’m working on The Grove staff. But I mean it. Stay away from each other. No trailer trysts. You run lines, you do it in public. And don’t even think about going into each other’s rooms at The Grove. There are security cameras in the corridors. There are maids. Room service. Remember what happened to Jackson?’

Mara’s scarred because Jackson James and his co-star got outed by a server from Chateau Marmont who’d delivered room service, found them together in bed, and sold her story. He was still married to Honor at the time.

I nod soberly. She keeps talking. ‘Azure is doing its own thing—Donna will speak to you shortly. We’re thinking a BTS shot with Kate on Insta, mentioning in the comments how great she is as an intimacy coordinator. Maybe a couple of selfies of you and Troy. We might even arrange drinks for the two of you. Throw them off the scent.’

Josh looks as furious as I feel. Troy asked me out last week. No way is he my type. I reckon he spends longer grooming his eyebrows than I do on my entire skincare regime.

‘Listen to me.’ Mara leans forward. She’s really scary when she’s in full-on damage-control mode. ‘The only story is no story. Unless you want them to paint you as a spineless pussy who rolls over and spreads her legs when Josh Lander smiles at her, stay. The fuck. Away from him.’

46

ELLE

A fter Mara and Mike set down the new ground rules for us, the only time Josh and I have together is on-camera.

The only way we can truly be together is as Dominic and Georgiana.

And so, in the days that follow, I live for those scenes.

I live for every time Josh-as-Dom finds my mouth with his and claims me.

Every time we have permission to lock eyes across a crowded ballroom, our gazes lingering, living only for each other.

Every time we’re lying tangled in the sheets of Dom’s bed, an oasis in the centre of that sound stage.

We are so far from acting every touch, every word, every kiss, that I can’t believe everyone around us can’t see it.

But, however much we’re suffering, boy are our performances benefiting. There’s a beautiful tenderness, a wistfulness, a yearning when we’re together.

Like none of it is ever enough.

Like we’re both addicts.

There’s one scene in the final episode: we’re shooting it now before they dismantle the stunning library. Georgiana and Dominic are wandering around the bookshelves, browsing for a book he can read to her in bed. It’s evening, and they’re in their dressing gowns: his rich velvet, and hers sweeping jacquard, the voile of her nightgown billowing underneath.

We stand in front of a bookshelf. David is shooting wide shots of the two of us in profile.

Josh reaches behind my head to select a book. ‘This one may be diverting, I think, my darling.’

‘Dominic.’ The tone of my voice stops him, and he pauses and rests his other hand on the shelf, caging me in.

‘What is it, my love?’

I hesitate. I find Josh’s beautiful eyes and drink him in. My voice has a tremor when I speak, as I imagine Georgiana’s would in this situation. My hand slides under my dressing gown to my stomach.

‘I—I believe myself to be with child.’

His eyes widen as he absorbs my words, before his face collapses with emotion. There are real tears in Josh’s eyes, though it’s highly unlikely the camera will pick them up.

‘Oh, my darling.’

He leans forward and kisses me so sweetly, so tenderly on the lips, before dipping his head to kiss my neck. As he does, Josh’s whisper reaches me for my ears only. I love you so much. He withdraws, his eyes meeting mine, before he gets to his knees in front of me and slowly, slowly unties the silk tassels of my robe.

His hands slide up my bare legs, pulling my nightgown up with them, all the way up until he reaches my stomach. As this is a profile shot, the camera can’t see anything untoward, and I’m wearing flesh-coloured knickers for good measure.

But the way Josh peppers my stomach with featherlight kisses is real.

The goosebumps that erupt across my skin in the wake of his lips are real.

And the tears that well up in my eyes, as Dominic kisses his pregnant wife’s stomach, are real.

JOSH

I CANNOT FUCKING BEAR IT.

Elle and I have come so far together, but the world isn’t interested in the real story. All they see are the headlines. And I get it. The first time round, they turned her into a fucking joke.

I turned her into a joke.

At a time when she should have been triumphing in her Cannes win and her Oscar buzz, she was the girl who was stupid enough to get burnt by one of the biggest party boys in Hollywood.

I will never do that to her again.

I will never let her be a laughingstock again.

I will never give them an opportunity to call her spineless or naïve or delusional.

So I do the only thing I can.

I stay away, and I make sure, with every word and touch from Dominic to Georgiana, Elle knows I’m doing it because I love her.

She goes on a fucking date with Troy. I know this because Mara has a bunch of paps trail them, and they get photos of the both of them in a cutesy little French restaurant in North London. And leaving, his arm around her, her laughing up at him.

It makes me so fucking mad. But there’s nothing I can do, except leave her alone, and go to meetings. Because I’ll lose my mind without them, and I owe it to Elle and to Alyssa not to fall off the wagon.

Even though this is the ultimate test for me. God knows, I wanna stop feeling. I want that chemical high, the fan-fucking-tastic rush through my bloodstream. I want the euphoria. The oblivion. The supreme well-being. Because I sure as hell can’t get it from my love life right now.

The craving drags itself over my nerve endings. Creeps along my skin. Makes my muscles fizz. And ache. And jump. But I won’t give into it.

I choose not to give into it, because I choose not to be the guy everyone thinks I am.

Instead, I work. I work out. I swim. I drink crazy amounts of Pellegrino.

And I go round and round in my head with this impossible, unsolvable puzzle.

I fucked up once, and from the time I walked away, I wasted years of my life. Booze. Drugs. Women. Shitty projects.

Then I got another chance, and while I’ll never, ever be worthy of her, I’ve spent the past few months doing the work. Getting clean. Getting myself to a state where I can be strong enough for her. Where I’m not an embarrassment to her.

And now, the only way I can support her in her career, and allow her to scale the heights she’s capable of, is to be nothing to her.

Well fuck that.

I have nothing to lose. Sure, my career is on the up again, thanks to Alyssa and Azure taking a chance on me, but if I can’t have Elle, I don’t care about my career, anyways.

I laid myself bare to her.

No excuses.

No trying to skirt around the truth or rewrite history (well, after that disastrous moment where I said I wouldn’t let her ‘slip away’ again. Fuck’s sake).

Just the God’s honest truth about how pathetic I was. How I let Mom persuade me I was worthless. How I managed to do the very opposite of what I intended to do to Elle: throw her under a bus.

It worked with her. Maybe it worked because she could smell the lack of bullshit. Or maybe it was because she could see I was on my knees, willing to be vulnerable. Or at least, less scared of being vulnerable with her than I was of what I’d be sabotaging if I wasn’t.

If she’s been willing to listen to my truth and judge me on the man I am today, with all the risk that entails for her, then maybe the public will be too.

It’s worth a shot.

I message Mike and ask him to hook me up with Gordon Kay.

I DON’T TELL Elle till the morning of the day I’m due to shoot the show.

Gordon bit my hand off. Who wouldn’t? A no-holes-barred, one-on-one, ask-me-anything interview with a long-time Hollywood actor who’s provided fodder so colourful over the past twenty years, everyone’s lost any perspective on what’s real and what’s not.

Oh yeah, and we’re doing it live, and Kay will be taking questions via Twitter. Because I have no more fucks left to give.

I break the news to her when we’re standing by the set in costume, chugging from our water bottles before we have to hand them back to Parka Pete and take our marks.

‘Are you actually insane?’ Her free hand flies to her hip. ‘It’s like handing yourself over to a hungry wolf. He’ll tear you apart.’

I shrug. ‘I don’t care, baby. All I care about is you and the fact that the whole fucking world has decided I’m not good enough for you. I’ve wiped the slate clean with you, and we still can’t be together. The only way forward for me, for us, is to wipe the slate clean with everyone else and hope that, at some point, they stop seeing me as a predator who had some evil plan and start seeing me as a regular dude who fucked up and may be remotely deserving of a second chance.’

‘I don’t like it.’ She stares at me. ‘I mean, taking questions live from Twitter! It’s a disaster waiting to happen. God only knows what sorts of things people will ask.’

‘I’m sure his producers will only let the more family-friendly tweets through.’

‘Still. I can’t believe Mike’s okay with this.’

‘Mike works for me.’

‘Good for you. Because most of the time I feel like I work for Mara.’

That earns her a little smile from me. ‘I’d feel like that too, if I were you.’

‘Does she know? And Donna?’

‘Mike’s telling them this morning. He wanted to give them enough time to get their ducks in a row, but not enough time to derail the interview.’

She twists her mouth. ‘Makes sense, I suppose. I’m sure Mara will try her best, though.’

Dan calls over to us. ‘Josh. Elle. Ready for you.’

‘Sure!’ I call back to him. I turn to Elle.

There’s no way I’m letting this slide.

No way I’m losing her.

Not when we’ve come so far.

Tonight I’m gonna go out there and fight for my girl.

47

ELLE

F rom where I’m standing, there’s only one possible form of action to take.

Mara will probably fire me as a client after this.

But I have no choice.

48

JOSH

G ordon Kay’s couch feels different tonight. Back in the day, I’d be on here with a few Hollywood buddies, promoting whatever blockbuster we had coming out. They’d ply us with scotch in the green room and we’d be nicely mellow by the time we hit the sofa, banter flying as soon as we sat down, creating that magic vibe that made the studio audience and the viewers at home feel like they were part of an exclusive club.

Not tonight.

The green room is empty. Just me and my nerves and my what the fuck am I doing here thoughts. The set feels darker, the spotlights aimed at Gordon and me starker, the audience more subdued than usual. We’re airing at nine, because Kay knows better than to interview a loose cannon like me live on air before the 9pm watershed. And worst of all, I’m sipping on a Pellegrino. My only stimulant: a wedge of fucking lime.

We’re live. Gordon introduces me in a more sombre tone than usual, although his outfit is anything but sombre: he’s in a silver jacquard suit woven in a snake-print pattern, and a skinny metallic pink tie. Nice. He leans over from his swivel armchair and we shake hands.

‘Thanks for having me here, man.’ I’ve opted for a respectable look this evening: jeans, a black blazer and an open-necked white dress shirt. I want everyone watching to take me seriously. I wanna look like I’ve showed up intentionally.

‘You’re looking very smart, Josh.’ Gordon admires me openly.

‘Thanks dude. Kept it simple. Didn’t wanna steal your thunder, you know?’ I raise my eyebrows at his getup and the audience snickers. A little flash of relief hits me. My first teeny win.

‘I’ll make you pay for that, you bastard.’ He winks at me before addressing Camera Two. ‘Okay, then. Tonight’s a special night. We have Josh Lander all to ourselves, ladies and gentleman, and he tells me we can ask. Him. Anything. That right, Josh?’

I sit up straighter. ‘It sure is.’

‘Excellent. And can I confirm we can even mention the E-word?’

‘Yeah. We can mention Elle Hart.’ I grin, and the audience lets out an oooooo.

‘As you can see, Josh, we have a particularly mature audience in tonight. Before we unleash the mother of all Twitter storms, can you tell these good people why you’re here tonight?’

‘Of course.’

I look out at the cameras. Camera Three waves at me. My heart thumps in my ears. Here goes, Josh. You can do this. Surrender to this. Don’t get your ego involved. It has no place here.

‘I’ve done a lot of stupid things over the years. Really stupid. Gotten away with murder, and gotten called out a few times. What many of you might not know is I’ve been trying to make things right these past few months. Azure gave me an amazing opportunity—this role in Grosvenor—and I’m not gonna let them down. I checked myself into rehab when I got the role, and I’ve been clean for two-hundred-eighty-four days. No drinking. No drugs—’

Gordon puts his hand out to stop me so he can lead a round of applause in the studio. The sound of it makes my eyes prick.

‘Thank you. That’s very kind.’

‘Is that the longest you’ve gone sober?’ Gordon asks.

‘Yes, sir. The longest by a million miles, since I was a teenager.’

‘Good man, good man.’ He sits back and gestures. ‘Go on.’

‘I know there are people out there in far more difficult situations than me, with no support. No funds. No opportunities. And I wanna say, I see you. I know how hard it is.’ I clear my throat, take a quick sip of water. ‘Anyways. There’s been a lot of shit in the press, these past few weeks, about me, which I’m totally fine with. I deserve everything I get.

‘But people close to me are being hurt and judged. People I care about. Elle Hart is being judged, and her past dragged up. The press is reminding her of a period in her life she’d rather move on from. And Azure is being accused, in a toxic and cowardly way, through insinuation, of improper practices when it comes to casting me and Elle. And I won’t tolerate that. So if you have questions about me—about what I’ve done in the past, about who I was, about who I am—I say, bring ‘em on. I’ll answer ‘em all.’

I sit back, laying both my arms out on the couch, trying to ignore the slick of sweat on my forehead that’s only partly due to the lights.

‘You heard the man,’ Gordon says to the cameras. ‘Can we have the first question, please?’

He and I both lean forward to the screens embedded in the coffee table and he reads the first tweet out loud.

‘Josh, will you marry me? For fuck’s sake. No! I’m marrying him first. Next!’

The screen throws up a new tweet: What’s it like playing Dominic?

‘My producers are fucking useless,’ he grumbles. ‘Seriously, we need to put this man through the wringer! Go on, answer it.’ He waves his hand in surrender.

I laugh. I appreciate the easy start, and I kinda like Gordon’s producers. ‘It’s a lot of fun. It’s a fantastic role. Challenging—I’ve had to work really hard with an amazing dialect coach, Victoria Wright—to get the accent right. But Dominic is misunderstood, especially by Georgiana, his wife, and it’s wonderful to be able to play him through so many layers.’

‘Can you give us a taster? Say something for us in your duke voice.’

I clear my throat again, and go for something I know will make Nicola Marchant fans happy while not being too X-rated. ‘My wife will have to satisfy me out of bed as well as in it. I will not settle for less. And I cannot imagine any of the vacuous virgins the Season has to offer will fulfil either of those functions.’

The audience goes fucking crazy and Gordon fans himself theatrically. ‘Holy shit! Your wife is a lucky lady. I think that deserves a round of applause.’

The next tweet wipes the smile right off my face.

Who dumped who u or elle.

The audience sucks in its collective breath. Helpful. Gordon nods at me to take this one.

I move my legs around, rest my elbows on my knees. Clasp my hands. This kind of thing is precisely what I came on this show for. But it doesn’t make it easier.

‘Well. Firstly, I don’t like the word “dumped”. Okay? But, well. I sent that tweet.’ I’m not going to throw Mom under the bus here. I’m a grown man. ‘And Elle was not expecting it.’

The audience erupts, and Gordon asks for silence.

‘But I wanna make one thing very clear. I sent that tweet for one reason, and one reason only. To let her be rid of me. To force a clean break. Because I had a whole lotta issues. Drinking. Drugs. Issues I was very deceitful about. Elle knew nothing about them, beyond what the press had speculated. Bottom line was, I was not good enough for her. Not then, not now.

‘And I knew she was too good a person to walk away from me. But I had to let her go. She had this amazing career ahead of her, and I was a fucking mess. So I did what I had to do, because I loved her—I was out of my mind in love with her. And I’ve always loved her. Still do. She’s an incredible person.’ I bow my head, pinch the bridge of my nose, and maybe soak up a couple teardrops lurking by my tear ducts.

‘Does Elle know this?’ Gordon’s voice is soft.

‘Yeah.’ I look up at him. ‘She knows everything now. She didn’t when she was on here last week, though.’

‘Got it.’ He nods encouragingly. ‘Let’s keep going.’

Next tweet. What 1st got you using?

‘Huh. None of this will surprise you, but it was a combination of the pressures of the industry, especially as a kid, home life issues which I won’t go into here, and the fucking availability of these things. I mean, I’ve had people offer me drugs since I was fifteen or younger, man. It was too easy. I didn’t know which way was up, what was real and what was people blowing smoke up my ass.

‘And it was easier to control it all by taking the right pill for each moment. It was fucking amazing, actually. Until it wasn’t.’

The next tweet pops up on-screen.

You think you deserve our sympathy or somethin

‘No, man. No, I don’t. No way. I know I don’t deserve sympathy. Not like some people out there who are addicted to pain meds for totally valid reasons, or who’ve gotten themselves into a whole fucking mess by getting hooked on stuff doctors have prescribed them. I know how lucky I am, believe me.’

Gordon leans forward.

‘What’s the worst thing you’ve done while high?’

‘Without a shadow of a doubt, replying to your tweet about me and Elle. I wasn’t high—I was on a shitty comedown—but I know how much I hurt her. I’ve hurt so many people without even knowing it, but that was the worst.’

‘So you regret it?’

I hesitate. ‘I regret hurting her. I regret the way I did it. I regret having had to live without her for five years. But it’s hard for me to regret setting her free, because she was better off without me back then. I seriously believe that, man. And look at her now—look at what she’s achieved. I mean, I’m in awe.’

He holds eye contact with me. ‘And now? Tell us what you’re really doing here. What’s this all about, Josh?’

He’s right. It’s time to cut the crap. I look for the right camera and stare into the lens. Take a deep breath and rake my hair off my face. I need to find a way to plead my case without dropping Elle in the shit.

‘I have a colourful past. I get it. I’ve been a dick in public and in private so many times, and you guys have seen me fuck up time and time again. Elle was right to make that comment about me last week. And you guys are right to support her, and to feel protective of her. She’s unbelievably strong—so much stronger than you know.

‘But I love her. And I think she could maybe return my feelings, except she feels trapped now. Trapped by the weight of your expectations of her, and your judgements of what kind of decision it is and isn’t okay for her to make about her own private life. And worst of all, it seems to me she’s worried that if she takes a step towards her own happiness, she’ll be letting you down.

‘She takes her position as a role model so seriously, and I know she’d rather sacrifice her own happiness than risk any behaviour that might give mixed messages to her fans about what they should tolerate in their own personal lives, and how they should stand up for themselves towards guys who don’t treat them right.

‘So. I’m here, I guess, to tell you, I’m not a villain. Not anymore, anyways. I love Elle Hart, and I don’t give a shit what you think of me, but I need you to put the trust in her she deserves to make choices that are right for her. Because she’s super smart. She’s the smartest person I ever met, and she’s also badass. There’s no fucking way she’s cutting me any slack unless I’ve worked my ass off to prove I deserve it.

‘But she’s also compassionate, and she believes in giving people second chances. Elle’s been a great friend to me these past few weeks. She’s willing to judge me, not on my past mistakes—and fuck knows, they’re epic—but on the man I am today, and how I show up today.

‘This isn’t about me. It’s about Elle and her happiness. So I beg you, go easy on her, and if I’m lucky enough to get a second chance with her, don’t come for her, okay?’

My shoulders shake with emotion, and I wipe my eyes impatiently as Gordon sits and waits for me to pull myself the fuck together.

‘Thanks for your honesty, mate,’ he tells me. ‘I think we have one more tweet, and then we’ll put you out of your misery, eh?’

‘Sure. Go for it.’ I nod and sniff. Try to avoid the temptation to reach over and grab his glass of white wine, pour it down my own throat. Anything to take the edge off. Anything.

‘Great. Can we have the final tweet, please?’

Our eyes fix on the screens in front of us, and up it pops.

It’s from @ElleryHartOfficial.

@Joshlanderofficial r u still interested in that happy ending?

I snicker, despite myself. It’s obviously a dummy account, or a mock-up. I look over at Gordon.

‘Well played, bro.’

‘That’s from Elle.’ He jerks his head towards the screen.

Wait. What?

‘And on that note. We have a very special surprise guest who is keen to join Josh on the sofa tonight. Ladies and gentlemen: please welcome Ms Ellery Hart!’

Gordon stands up and holds his arm out towards the on-stage entrance. I look around in total bewilderment.

A woman is walking towards me.

She’s a vision in a long silver dress, her blonde hair like a halo.

I’m aware of the studio audience going fucking insane behind me.

But I only have eyes for her.

And it seems she only has eyes for me, as she wipes away her tears with a trembling hand and smiles at me.

It’s Elle.

49

ELLE

I  could never have let Josh throw himself under the bus for me like that.

As soon as he told me, I knew I needed to be there to take my share of the flak. After all, I was the one who shot my mouth off on this very sofa last week. I’m the one who stirred up a total shit-storm over what should have been old news.

Look, I have no doubt that if I hadn’t said anything, if Josh and I had just gone for it and quietly shown our faces in public as a couple, we’d still have been utterly crucified by the press. So maybe my outburst was meant to be. Maybe it’s afforded us both the perfect opportunity to shape the narrative, as Mara would say. She’s not happy that I’m coming on, but given the size of the hole I’ve dug us all into, she and Donna are resigned to my coming on here and presenting a united front with Josh.

But I’m not here for them.

Or me.

I’m here for him.

Gordon gets to me first and kisses me on both cheeks. When he releases me, I go straight to Josh, who’s looking at me like I’m a mirage.

‘Hi,’ I whisper, and I step right into his arms. His whole body sags as he wraps himself around me. Even his chin sags onto the top of my head. And the relief is sublime. The relief of being able to reach him, to show him I’m right here after sitting backstage, watching him in pieces. Watching him take so much shit on my account.

Out there all alone.

He hugs me and hugs me, and I don’t know if he’s sold the audience with his words, or if they’re just over-excited by watching tomorrow’s headlines unfold live in front of them, but the noise around us is deafening. I’m vaguely aware of Gordon behind me, asking everyone to settle down, but I don’t let go of Josh until Gordon puts a hand on both our shoulders to break us up.

We collapse on the sofa together, thigh to thigh. Josh has my hand on his leg and is gripping it like it’s the only thing stopping him from falling off the face of the earth right now. His head is bowed, and he’s shaking. While Gordon works on quieting down the audience, most of whom are on their feet, I bend my head to meet his eyes and use my thumb pad to wipe the dampness from his cheeks.

The guy is destroyed, and while it’s killing me to see him like this, part of me is glad. Glad the whole world gets to witness how amazing he is. How human. How humble. How selfless. Surely no one can dub him a ‘manipulative predator’ (yes, that was one of the recent headlines about him), seeing him so vulnerable.

So wide open.

So undone.

I grip his hand as Gordon regains control of the studio.

‘Er, Josh, mate—I think you’ve just been eclipsed.’

‘She eclipses everyone.’ Josh wipes his eyes again with his free hand.

The audience goes ahhhh, and Gordon rolls his eyes.

‘Right then, Elle. Good to have you back so soon. Let’s get you to earn your keep. Anything from your last visit you’d like to retract?’

Game on. I straighten up. ‘Yeah. I think it’s pretty obvious I shouldn’t have said what I said last week. This man deserves every type of happy ending, in case he hasn’t made that clear just now.’

‘So why d’you say it?’

‘He’d really pissed me off about something earlier that day. It was a stupid knee-jerk comment.’

‘What do you make of the press furore around it all?’

‘Look. I appreciate my fans more than I can say. And I appreciate all the platforms out there who have helped me find success, helped me find a voice. But what they’ve been saying isn’t my voice—they’re putting words in my mouth. And it concerns me, Gordon. And I don’t want to put a foot wrong here. Not because I’m worried about my image, but because I know people look to me for direction, rightly or wrongly, and I don’t want them to infer the wrong thing from my actions and get hurt in their own lives.

‘Yeah, Josh behaved like a dick to me five years ago. So what? People grow. They change. We’re all better than the worst things we’ve done. He’s explained himself to me, and I find his explanation acceptable, so I don’t need well-meaning third parties to protect me. I just want you all to know I’ve found a good man. No one hated this guy’s guts more than me a few months ago, when we started filming Grosvenor. Believe me. But he’s shown up for me. He’s put actions above words, and he’s won me over.’

‘Can I ask how?’

I glance at Josh, who gives me a little smile and a nod, as if to say you can do this.

‘You can. Josh never shared his substance abuse struggles with me, and I wish he had, because I would like to have been there for him. But it turns out, we were both keeping things from each other—hiding the sides of ourselves we thought made us less-than. It’s kind of ridiculous, because these are the things that have brought us closer recently.

‘So, when I was finishing up the interview with you last week, I felt pretty ill, and that escalated into a huge flare-up later that night that had me hospitalised.’

Gordon’s mouth is an O. I didn’t brief him on this.

‘I’m so sorry, love. Are you okay now?’

‘Yeah, I’m fine now, thanks. But I have Crohn’s disease, have done for over a decade. It’s not public knowledge. It’s something I struggle with every day, and yet I never told Josh.’

‘And why was that?’

‘Because it was so embarrassing. It’s a horrible illness that inflames your bowel, and let’s just say the symptoms are as revolting and unglamorous as you can get. And I’d got together with this Hollywood god, who I was besotted with, and there was no way I was coming clean to him about my condition.’ I bow my head.

‘I wanted him to think I was perfect. He seemed really into me, and I was worried I’d put him off me if I told him. And after he finished with me, I was so relieved I’d kept that bit of myself back, because I thought even the perfect front I’d put on hadn’t been enough for him. I know now I was wrong.’

Josh puts his arm around me and kisses my temple as the audience swoons.

‘So what went wrong last week then—are you happy to talk about your stint in hospital?’

‘Of course. I lost a lot of blood and fluids; I was severely dehydrated. Josh found out and came to the hospital. He took me home when I was discharged and stayed with me the whole time. Carried me around. Ran me baths. Fed me broth. He was amazing. And obviously it all came out, then. What I really have to deal with. He asked me if I’d consider sharing my story, and I haven’t, until now, for personal reasons.

‘But it was one of the things I wanted to do tonight. If Josh can be brave enough to share himself with all of you, warts and all, then so can I. I know how many of you out there suffer from Crohn’s, far worse than I do. I know how much it’s impacted your quality of life. And I’m going to get a lot better about championing you, I promise.’

Gordon leans forward, his cue cards hanging from his hand. ‘How do you feel about everything, Elle? Now you and Josh have got everything out in the open, with each other, and with the world?’

I smile at Josh, searching his beautiful face for a sign that he knows everything’s going to be okay.

‘I feel a huge sense of relief that there are no more secrets. And privilege, that this man has trusted me enough to show me his true self. I only wish he’d trusted me with that privilege sooner. Because the more fully I see him, the more I love him.’

I hold Josh’s gaze as I say this, and everything fades away as he lowers his mouth to mine. The audience. On their feet. Stamping. Cheering. Applauding. Gordon’s attempts to restore order. The cameras. Everything fades away but his kiss.

50

JOSH

‘I  still can’t believe how much nicer of a suite you got than me. It’s seriously uncool.’

I just hopped out of bed to open the drapes on her gorgeous rounded windows that look out on the sunlit gardens. Alyssa texted last night and said she was pushing back our call time today. Said she figured we may have some ‘catching up to do’. We’ll owe her (and Kate) a full explanation later, but right now I’m pumped I get to spend a lazy morning in bed with my girl. And because the cat’s out of the bag, we can even risk room service.

Reclining on the pillows beside me, Elle laughs. ‘Get over it.’

‘I’m very secure in my masculinity. I love how strong and successful my girlfriend is. I’m just happy she’s letting me sleep over in her fancy suite without kicking me out in the morning.’

‘You deserved it.’

‘I did. So I plan on showing you how grateful I am to be here.’ I drop a kiss on her shoulder, glowing gold in the morning sunlight.

‘Again?’ she asks, but the way she’s looking at me tells a different story.

‘Again. I recharged my battery overnight.’

We finished up late, staying behind to chat with Gordon, who seemed super happy with how it had all gone, before a car whisked us back up to The Grove. But there was no way in hell I was letting Elle out of my sight.

Not when she came to my rescue like the fucking superhero she is.

Not when she’d just told me she loved me live on TV.

So I made love to her before we drifted off to sleep. Claimed her. Reminded her she was mine, and I was hers. And now I’m gonna do it again.

I shuck off the sheets so she’s lying there, bathed in sunlight, her hair shimmering around her and her expression hungry.

For me.

I rear up onto my knees and brush my fingers down between her breasts, over the flat, white skin of her stomach and down her thigh. She’s so magnificent it blows my fucking mind.

‘I love you,’ I tell her. ‘I wanna worship you. I’m gonna kiss every single inch of your skin right now. Especially since Dom and Georgiana aren’t getting it on today, unfortunately.’

‘I think Kate will be scared for a whole other reason now. Instead of worrying we’ll gouge each other’s eyes out or storm off set, she’ll be worrying the sex scenes will rage out of control.’

‘Wise woman. She has no idea they’ve been raging out of control for some time now.’

‘Ignorance is bliss for her, I think.’

‘Agreed, baby.’ I bend to kiss her, and her lips part for me. My tongue sweeps through her mouth and my morning wood stiffens another notch. I need inside her, and quick. Fuck. The way she’s sprawled out on the bed for me. No covers. No shyness. All mine, to take my time with.

‘I want you to think about this all day.’ I loop my fingers and thumbs around her wrists, drape them above her head, and secure them with one hand. That’s better.

She stares up at me, her breath already coming quicker. ‘I will if you give me something worth thinking about.’

I shake my head. Grin. My girl is a piece of work, and I fucking love it.

‘I’ll give you something you can’t get out of your mind.’

My head dips to her nipple and I make my tongue as taut as possible and flick it. Over and over again. I want her thinking about what else this tongue can do to her. Flick. Flick. Flick. Fuck, the little bud is puckered tight, and sweet as hell.

She bucks, draws her legs up. ‘Oh, God, that’s good.’

‘Good.’ I switch to the other beautiful nipple. Can’t neglect that. God, I want my tongue everywhere on this woman. I flick, hard, and pinch the nipple I’ve just left with my finger. She arches her back under me, pushes her breast into my mouth. The noises she’s making every time she exhales are driving me wild.

I withdraw, crawl between her open legs. Her expression goes from bereavement—and a little outrage—to anticipation. That look in her eyes fucking slays me. She wants me, and she wants my dick, and she’s wide open for me. How I’ve gotten so lucky after fucking up so badly, I have zero clue. But I’m not about to waste my opportunity. I’m gonna show her how crazy she makes me. How far gone I am for her.

I’m gonna show her she made the right decision, trusting me again.

‘Hands on your tits,’ I order.

She palms them, not breaking eye contact. ‘Like this?’

Holy fuck. ‘Yeah.’ My voice is rough with need. I’m so turned on right now. I fist the root of my dick. ‘Rub them.’

She circles her flattened hands over them and moans. Jesus Christ, she is a sight for sore eyes, splayed out for me like this.

I can’t resist.

I rub the tip of my dick along her slick wetness, back to front.

We both groan.

‘Pinch them for me,’ I tell her. ‘Roll them. Hard. Whatever feels good, baby. I want you to do whatever feels most intense.’

She pinches her nipples hard, and her head rolls back on her pillow. What a show. I don’t wanna miss it, but I need to taste her. I scoot back and settle down between her legs, trapping my angry cock between the mattress and my stomach. I let my tongue follow the route my dick made up from her centre to her clit. Again. And again, burying my mouth and nose in her delicious, musky scent. Taste. I can’t fucking get enough of her.

Every time I hit her clit, she pushes harder into me. That bundle of nerves is so swollen and needy. I swear, she’s close.

‘Josh.’ She reaches down and grabs my hair. ‘I’m going to come. I’m going to come.’

‘Got it,’ I grunt, and she withdraws her hand while I up the ante, lapping hard exactly where I know it’ll be most intense for her, keeping my rhythm perfectly even, pushing a couple of fingers inside her, hard, and the extra pressure sends her over the edge with breathless, desperate cries that go straight to my cock and keep me working to eke this orgasm out as long as I can.

To make it count for her.

To make it something she’ll remember all day long.

And then I’m up and inside of her so quick, pushing in hard as she grabs my ass with her long fingers and pulls me as close as she possibly can. Her legs around my back. Her arms around my neck. And the glaze of a good orgasm still in her eyes.

She’s still quivering around my dick as I thrust, and I know this will be the part I remember all day. When I’m delivering my lines. Playing my part. Internally, I’ll be marvelling at the miracle that is being buried balls-deep in Elle Hart as she consumes my senses and sets off every nerve-ending in my body. The love and wonder and desire in her beautiful eyes are the only things I’m aware of as I explode inside her, shuddering and heaving, spinning out on the fact that this is my reality.

I’m not letting this woman out of my sight.

I mean it.

We order breakfast in bed. We shower together. I dress her, because I can’t keep my hands off of her. Can’t stay away from her. And then I drag her to my room so I can change out of my robe. I’m not being parted from her, even for a second, until we get to the studios and face the endless gossip and hilarity and fucking delight from the cast and crew.

This morning marks the precious dawn of our new life together. A life where we’ve bared all to each other, and no one’s run away. On the contrary, we’re all in.

EPILOGUE

ELLE

‘A re you nervous?’

‘I’m fucking terrified.’

I smirk as I smooth down the lapels of Josh’s blazer. They already sit perfectly; I just needed another excuse to paw at him.

‘Poor baby, having to face up to my big bad dad.’

He grimaces. ‘Last time I saw your folks, I was enjoying their wonderful hospitality while banging their daughter every chance I got. And then I sent that tweet. I wouldn’t blame the guy if he punched me in the face when he saw me.’

‘He won’t do that.’ I release his lapels and cup his face in my hands, scratching a little at his delicious stubble. ‘Look at me. They know the full story now. They admire you for how far you’ve come. And they know you’re Team Elle.’

‘As long as the whole world knows it.’ His arms come around my waist and pull me closer. ‘I won’t rest until they’re calling me Mr Hart.’

I can’t reply, because he’s kissing me then, one hand dragging the fabric of my dress over my bum and the other holding me in a vice as the heavenly plumpness of his lips caresses mine.

This man.

This mouth.

The things he does to me with his touch.

The absolute heaven of being able to be with him.

It’s been two weeks since our little Gordon Kay stunt, and life feels full. Shooting is still full-on, every news outlet on the planet wants an exclusive, and interest in Grosvenor has reached such fever pitch that Donna and her publicity team have brought forward their release schedule for previously embargoed footage, sharing behind-the-scenes photos and video clips on social media and giving us the green light to selectively do the same.

Josh and I may be having a little too much fun with it.

We run everything past Donna before we hit post, but we have Instagram Stories of us messing around in costume, a few growly clips of Josh talking in his Dom accent, and even some TikToks of us doing trending dance moves dressed as Dom and Georgiana.

But with the publicity push comes an endless clamour for photo shoots—both for Grosvenor’s publicity shots and for magazines. I can’t imagine what the reception will be like when the show actually launches in December.

I have a new pit-bull, though: Mr Joshua Lander. He’s in everyone’s faces, telling them where to go if he feels they’re piling too much pressure on me. Instead of giving me orgasms between takes, he gives me foot massages (although there’s plenty of opportunity for the former every night at The Grove) and he had me on an IV vitamin drip yesterday morning given the hectic weekend ahead. He’s a bit of a mother hen, truth be told. But mother hens have never been so sweet. Or sexy.

And it has been a hectic weekend. We came back down to London on Friday night and yesterday, Josh and I braved our first #Crohn’sWarrior event for women with Crohn’s. We had panels and breakouts and a lot of cheerleading, and it was fucking amazing. I welled up about every ten seconds, and more than once I found Josh bawling his eyes out as he hugged it out with attendees.

I made it clear he had to be there for two reasons.

One. Totally gratuitous, famous eye candy, to give these women a treat.

And two. To remind them that real men won’t let a woman’s Crohn’s diagnosis stop them from finding her beautiful.

So many of the women were younger than me, and so many of them—around seventy percent—had undergone major surgery, with a large proportion of those now stuck with wearing stoma bags for life. Hearing them open up about the body issues and depression so many of them had been through made me glad we’d chosen to hold this event for women only.

It’s important to be able to talk about this stuff in a safe place, because so many women feel completely isolated by their diagnosis. We discussed everything from how hard it is to make plans when you have Crohn’s to how to conduct your sex life with a stoma attached, and it made me more grateful than ever to still have my colon.

I almost felt inadequate, like my struggles had been so much less severe than those of so many people in the room. But I wanted to remind these women that fame doesn’t make any of these problems go away. I shared with them that the morning Josh invited me out on that first hiking date in Cap d’Antibes, I got up at 5am so I could hang around the loo and manage my dodgy tummy before I went out. He cried that night, in bed, recounting it to me.

AND IN CASE a roomful of women wasn’t enough for one weekend, today I’m inflicting my extended family on Josh. My aunt and uncle, Laura and Charles, are having us over for lunch with my cousins, and my parents are coming down from Chipping Norton for the day. Laura and Charles live locally in Holland Park, just a few streets away.

The lunch is to celebrate my and Josh getting together properly—which is very sweet of my aunt, though I have no doubt she wants a good chance to ogle him in person—and also to celebrate my cousin Miles’ engagement to his fiancée, Saoirse. I stayed away from their proper engagement party (because no bride wants her special evening hijacked by a couple of celebs whose mugs are all over the news at the moment) and I’m dying to meet Saoirse, so Laura suggested we do a family thing privately at their house.

Much as I’m looking forward to toasting Miles, and meeting Saoirse, and cuddling my cousin Stephen’s seven-month-old twin girls (they’re identical! Sooo cute!), and watching Josh cuddle them (be still my ovaries), the biggest treat of the day will be something else.

That something else walks into the kitchen, clutching Olive and looking stunning in a cream strappy dress with a subtle fern print all over it. Wow. Her makeup is light and dewy, and her hair is perfectly blow-dried with more bounce than her usual silky curtain allows.

‘Get a room,’ she mutters, but there’s no hostility in her tone.

‘You look beautiful!’ I release Josh, who turns to look at Nora and whistles.

‘Wow. Looking good, Nor. Where you going today?’

‘Lunch with you guys.’ She’s no longer pissed off with Josh, but her manner around him is still pretty stiff, mainly because, as she’s admitted to me, she finds him far hotter than she thinks is morally acceptable when he’s dating her housemate. I don’t have a problem with it; I’m used to every woman on the planet fancying my boyfriend, and I know when he’s unveiled as Dominic in all his ducal glory, his fanbase will grow to a whole other level of obsession. I’m happy to share the love.

‘How come? Is that because you’re doing the wedding planning for Elle’s cousin?’

‘Nope.’ I smirk openly at Nora, though I’m thrilled she got the gig for Miles and Saoirse’s wedding. It’s going to be epic. ‘Nora’s coming along as a member of the family, aren’t you, Nor?’

‘Fuck off, Elle.’

She scoots out of my reach with Olive.

‘Huh?’ Josh turns to me. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Did you not tell him?’ Nora asks me.

I pat Josh’s arm. ‘I did not. We operate on a need-to-know basis in this relationship.’

‘I’m so fucking confused.’ Josh tugs Olive out of Nora’s arms and holds her tucked under his chin, right up against his pecs. Lucky Olive. ‘You’re the only woman in this house who isn’t weird,’ he croons as she licks his stubble adoringly. ‘Aren’t you, baby?’

I decide to put him out of his misery. ‘Okay. I’ll say this fast. As far as our whole family and everyone else is concerned, Nora is dating Miles’ middle brother, Theo. But she’s not, really. Theo’s dating her to get his parents off his case about being irresponsible and immature, because he wants in on running their latest hotel venture.

‘And Nora wants to make Jonathan jealous—you know, her ex, who’s shacked up with that insipid girl. Also, Nora and Theo may or may not have shared an extremely passionate kiss when we were at uni, and Nora may or may not have more complex feelings for Theo than she’s willing to admit to herself or anyone else. Got it?’

‘Oh, boy.’ Josh lifts his face from Olive’s tiny head, which he’s been showering with kisses, and grins at Nora. ‘That is fucking awesome. That true?’

Nora folds her arms and narrows her eyes. ‘Your synopsis of the situation is technically accurate. Your insinuations about my feelings are not.’

‘Whatever you say.’ I bat my eyelids at her. ‘I just can’t wait to see you and Theo snuggled up together.’

‘It’s lunch. There will be zero snuggling.’

‘Did Theo get that memo?’ Josh asks, and I snort.

‘He knows if he takes the piss, I won’t play ball anymore.’

‘My middle cousin is a character,’ I tell Josh. ‘A bit of a ladies’ man. Let’s just say, I suspect he’ll play the part of the ardent boyfriend with great aplomb.’

Josh winks. ‘I gotta see this. I look forward to shaking him by the hand.’

I HAVE A NEW FAVOURITE PERSON, and that’s Miles’ fiancée, Saoirse. She’s adorable—a beautiful girl from Dublin who’s about my age, with a cloud of black hair, legs to die for and the sweetest manner with my niece (or second cousin, or whatever the hell she is), Bea. I mean, I know she was Bea’s nanny, but she’s seriously maternal in a way I hope I can be sometime.

And Miles is smitten. His ex was a scary, perfect socialite who I never clicked with much beyond superficial chit-chat, so I’m thrilled he’s found someone normal and warm and loving. He seems very protective of Saoirse, and she clearly adores him. This should be one fun union for Nora to plan.

My maternal aspirations ramp up at dizzying speed when Stephen, Miles’ youngest brother, drapes a muslin over Josh’s shoulder and hands him one of his baby girls to hold. She’s awake but sleepy, in the prettiest little dress embroidered with rosebuds. The twins were premature, and, at seven months, are still tiny and delicate. They’re identical, but I think Josh is holding Charlotte, and the look of awe on his face as he stares down at her tiny features is something I won’t forget easily.

I sidle up to them, like a moth to a bloody flame. ‘She’s pretty cute, isn’t she?’

He drags his eyes away from where she’s clutching his finger with her tiny hand. ‘Yeah. She’s perfect. Seriously, I can’t believe how tiny she is.’

‘Want one of those, one day?’

His eyes darken. ‘Only if she looks exactly like her mommy.’

Oh my sweet Jesus.

I want to take him home right now and make babies.

Over. And over. And over again.

Acting career be damned. I lean forward, careful not to crush Charlotte (or Emily, who knows?) and brush my lips against his. ‘Be careful what you wish for.’

Could this be my future? Kissing Josh while a sweet, sleepy baby lies in his arms? I fucking well hope so.

This morning, in bed, he asked me if I thought my dad would ever agree to my marrying an addict. It made my jaw drop with shock that that was how he saw himself: An Addict.

In my head, Josh’s addiction is a cross he has to bear, but it’s not who he is.

And it doesn’t make him broken.

Or unworthy of being loved.

Of being happy.

Forever.

‘I dunno,’ he said this morning. ‘If it were my daughter, I wouldn’t want to hand her over to someone who was an unexploded bomb like that. I mean, I could fall off the wagon and wreck our lives any time.’

‘Josh.’ I raised myself up on one elbow and looked down at him, scraping my fingernails lightly over his stubble. ‘Everyone is an unexploded bomb. I could get cancer tomorrow. More probably, I could lose my bowel tomorrow and have to shit in a bag for the rest of my life. You are not a liability, honey. You’re an amazing guy who is brave enough to make the right choices for himself every single day, and that’s the kind of guy I want to hitch my wagon to. Okay?’

‘Hitch.’ He ran a finger down my nose, over my lips. ‘Like, hitched? You wanna get hitched to me?’

‘Yeah.’ I faked nonchalance, really badly. ‘I mean, look at what you’ve put me through. I definitely deserve a fucking diamond out of this shit-show.’

He reached his huge arm around my back and tugged me down to the bed, and you don’t need to know the rest.

Now he stands there, holding my cousin’s baby in his big arms like he was born to be a father, and kisses me back. ‘I’m a pretty simple guy, baby. I need a lot less than you’d think. You, a couple o’ these’—he rocks Charlotte-or-Emily in his arms—‘and a nice car. Sunshine. That’s about it.’

When we sit down for lunch in Charles and Laura’s stunning garden, it’s that reference to sunshine that’s at the forefront of my mind, just like it has been since Josh brought it up last week.

‘When do you guys wrap up filming?’ Miles helps himself to some rice salad with one hand, his other arm resting on the back of Saoirse’s chair.

‘August.’ I look at Josh, who has his hand on my thigh under the table. I love how he always wants to have one of his body parts touching one of mine. Obviously, I have some favourite touching-body-part combinations, but I’ll take anything. ‘It’ll be sad, but it means Josh and I get a couple of weeks in the South of France.’

‘Nice.’ Miles passes the bowl to Saoirse. ‘Whereabouts?’

‘Cap d’Antibes first, where we met.’ Josh squeezes my thigh. ‘Well, we met in Cannes, obviously, but it’s a little crazy around there. Then we’ll head down the coast. Right, baby?’

‘And do you both have projects lined up for when you finish?’ Mum asks. Despite Josh’s fears, she and Dad have both been thrilled to see me and Josh so happy together, and because they’re lovely, gracious people who watched us on Gordon Kay, they can put his past wrongs to their daughter behind them.

I catch Josh’s eye again, and he gives me a smile I recognise as hopeful. Encouraging.

‘Actually, we’re both going to be working on the same movie,’ I tell the table. ‘We can’t tell you exactly what it is just yet, but we’ll be doing the main characters’ voices for a new Disney/Pixar movie.’

The D-word has little Bea piping up. ‘Disney? Like Encanto?’

Josh leans forward to grin across the table at her. ‘Yeah, like Encanto, but better. And guess what?’

She beams at him. ‘What?’

‘I get to play the baddy! Grrr!’

She shrieks in delight, and I roll my eyes.

‘It’s true. Excellent casting.’

‘Congratulations, guys. Will you need to be in California for that?’ Dad asks.

I squeeze Josh’s hand under the table. ‘Yep. But I thought it might be time to check out Josh’s new pad in Santa Monica. And it’s about time I did a movie in Hollywood, anyway. I’ve been avoiding it for the past five years.’ I mock-glare at the person I’ve been avoiding, who has the good grace to look ashamed. ‘It makes sense for me to give it a whirl. Josh thinks the sunshine will be good for me.’

‘I don’t want to take her away from you,’ he says, ‘but it’s a really great, healthy lifestyle out there. Lots of fresh air, runs on the beach, outdoor living.’

‘Sounds just like London,’ Dad quips, and we all laugh.

‘Will you put the house up for rent?’ Mum asks. ‘Or sell it?’

‘No. We’ll hold on to it. It makes sense to have a London base. And I have an excellent house sitter.’

I smile at Nora, who’s sandwiched between Bea and Theo. I can admit without being creepy that my cousin is ridiculously attractive. He has the same dark hair and eyes as Miles, but unlike Miles, who never has a hair out of place, Theo has that sexy, bed-head thing going on and a permanent naughty grin.

As he lounges in his chair, his hand caresses Nora’s bare shoulder, and the contrast between his relaxed posture and hers is hilarious. She looks like someone’s stuck a rod up her arse. I can’t tell if it’s because she’s trapped deep in a lie, or repulsed by Theo’s touch, or turned on by it. I’d put good money on the latter.

‘Thanks for letting me house-sit your obscenely gorgeous house,’ she says, ‘even if you’re stealing Olive away from me.’

‘By the time they go, darling, we might be ready to move in together.’ Theo fingers Nora’s strap and drops a lazy, open-mouthed kiss on her shoulder. I’m pretty sure he just used tongue. ‘You know, take the next step in our relationship.’

Theo is a piece of work. I focus very hard on not pissing myself with laughter as Nora looks like she’s simultaneously holding back both an orgasm and a desire to punch Theo in the face. Her jaw tenses, but her eyelashes flutter involuntarily. Josh is shaking silently beside me, and I nudge him with my elbow to behave.

‘I wouldn’t hold my breath, darling,’ Nora hisses.

‘I’m so jealous you’ll be spending the winter in California,’ Saoirse says. ‘I hate the cold!’

Miles gazes at her with the mix of amusement and adoration I’ve quickly worked out is his standard reaction to everything she says. ‘One, you’re Irish, baby. I would have thought the cold would be in your blood. Second, have you forgotten we spent most of this winter in St Barths?’

She giggles. She’s adorable. ‘I know, and I’m so lucky. I’d love to see California, though.’

‘Come visit us this winter.’ Josh addresses Bea. ‘We can go to Disneyland.’

She gasps theatrically and puts a hand to her heart. ‘Daddy, can we?’

‘Sure,’ Miles drawls. ‘Whatever my girls want.’ He winks at Saoirse, and my heart contracts. They’re such a sweet little trio. I’m so happy for him.

‘We would all love that,’ Saoirse says. ‘Thanks a million! So you’ll still be in the UK when we get married in July?’

‘Definitely,’ I tell her. ‘As long as it’s on a weekend, it should be fine. Where are you thinking of having it? The Montague?’ The Montague is their family’s flagship hotel in Knightsbridge.

She and Nora exchange a look, and Nora gives her a little nod.

‘We just decided last week. It’s going to be at Sorrel Farm in Kent—I can’t wait. Miles took us there for a weekend and we all fell in love with it.’

‘Oh, wow.’ Sorrel Farm is utterly idyllic. ‘How glorious! I assumed it would be at The Montague.’

‘Much as I’d like to funnel the vast wedding budget back into my own pockets,’ Miles says drily, ‘I think we need a break from that place. Sorrel Farm will be perfect. It’s more relaxed—it has a destination vibe we really like. We’re taking over the whole place for the wedding weekend.’

‘Nora has so many exciting plans,’ Saoirse gushes. ‘It’s going to be amazing.’

‘It will be perfect, I promise.’ Nora shivers slightly as Theo’s long fingers trail lightly up and down her arm. I really feel for her, but I’m enjoying every minute of her torture.

‘I’m just looking forward to all the family events,’ Theo tells us while looking adoringly at Nora. ‘This wedding will be the dog’s bollocks.’

‘The dog’s bollocks.’ Bea nods her head emphatically and we all burst into slightly shocked laughter.

‘Theo. Language,’ Laura says.

A rush of supreme well-being floods me. I’m sitting here with the man I love, secure in the knowledge that we’re planning a future together, and that future definitely involves new adventures, off-screen-and-on. Our family is in great shape, and everyone seems happy for us. Tomorrow, we’ll go back on set and give ourselves over to Dominic and Georgiana and their epic love story, but right now, our own love story feels pretty fucking epic.

THE END

Watch out for Nora and Theo’s steamy fake-dating, opposites-attract romance this summer!

A NOTE FROM SARA

Thank you so much for reading Elle and Josh’s love story! This one was a joy to write (and research: I can’t tell you how much behind the scenes footage of Bridgerton I watched), and I hope it’s provided you with some escapism.

Of course, this is a work of fiction, and any resemblance my characters may bear to real people, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

I’d like to thank Stephanie Paris, one of my beta readers, who gave me invaluable feedback on Josh’s speech patterns (I can’t tell you how many British-isms he was guilty of until she saw the manuscript!). His POV is far stronger because of her generosity and advice.

This is my first time representing a chronic, invisible illness in a novel. I’d like to thank a very dear friend of mine, who lives a far more glamorous and full life than me in the public eye, for being brave enough to share with me her fears and struggles when living with Crohn’s disease. I am in awe of her, and I hope I’ve represented her experiences adequately.

When researching Crohn’s, I also found Strictly professional dancer Amy Dowden’s documentary, Crohn’s and Me, incredibly helpful and thought provoking.

On a lighter note, maybe it’s time to assume my new pen name, Nicola Marchant, and get to work on Dom and Georgiana’s story! What do you think…?

Thanks again for reading. I can’t tell you how much it means to me that you have chosen to give up a few precious hours and spend time inside my head.

If my inner workings haven’t scared you off, you can follow me on TT and IG and join my FB Group, Sara Madderson’s Book Nerds. Let’s stay in touch!

Sara xx

Table of Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Contents

I. 2016—The Whirlwind and the Cluster-fuck

1. Elle

2. Elle

3. Josh

4. Josh

5. Elle

6. Josh

7. Elle

8. Elle

9. Elle

10. Elle

11. Elle

12. Elle

13. Elle

II. 2021 Second Billing

14. Elle

15. Elle

16. Josh

17. Elle

18. Josh

19. Elle

20. Elle

21. Josh

22. Elle

23. Elle

24. Elle

25. Elle

26. Josh

27. Josh

28. Elle

29. Josh

30. Elle

31. Josh

32. Elle

33. Josh

34. Elle

35. Elle

36. Josh

37. Elle

38. Elle

39. Elle

40. Josh

41. Josh

42. Elle

43. Josh

44. Josh

45. Elle

46. Elle

47. Elle

48. Josh

49. Elle

50. Josh

Epilogue

A NOTE FROM SARA