“Bad,” replied George and Chloe at the same time. Chloe could hardly tear her eyes away from the feed. Accusations and vile, spiteful, nasty words, many of them about “that skank”. About her. Chloe felt the bile rising and swallowed repeatedly to keep from vomiting.
“As I said, I’m penning the press release now and as soon as you get to your parents’ house, read over it, so we can get it out as soon as possible.”
Chloe tore her gaze away from her phone and looked at Archer. His jaw was tense, and she’d only seen him scowl that intensely on film. “Will do. Thank you, George. Oh, and you took care of that other matter, I expect?” Chloe figured that the “other matter” was sacking the person on the publicity team who had leaked to Madison where Archer was.
“Of course. I sorted that out yesterday and I assure you, that will not happen again. Anyway, I shall wait to hear from you. And Chloe?” Chloe realised with a start that George was addressing her.
“Uh, yeah?”
“I’m so very sorry about all of this and to be meeting you, so to speak, under such terrible circumstances.”
“Oh, right. Yeah, no worries.”
“We’ll get it sorted, all right?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Archer, I’ll speak to you later. Bye.”
The call ended and Archer reached across to take her hand again. He lifted it to his mouth and gave it a soft kiss that Chloe barely registered.
This was real. This was her life now. Being in love with the world’s biggest film star came at a price—a massively huge and ugly price. As she took a long, steadying breath to quell the nausea, Chloe stared out the window at those poor wet sheep.
If only the girls were here.
*
“Right, can I get you some tea? Sherry? I think Max has some whisky somewhere.” Susan peered at Chloe, worry etched onto her usually smooth features.
“Well, I do, love, but it’s not even noon yet,” replied Max.
“Oh, right, of course.”
“Um, tea, please,” Chloe said. Archer had dropped her off, depositing her carry-on and handbag in the Browning’s entry, and giving Max and Susan a digest version of what had occurred. He’d left with a promise to return as soon as he could and a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
Chloe, who had watched the exchange like some sort of out-of-body experience, was now bundled up on the couch under one of Susan’s mother’s crocheted blankets, as though she was seven years old and off from school with a cold.
Susan disappeared from the front room, presumably to make the requested tea and Max, who sat across from her in his favourite chair, cleared his throat far more than was normal and glanced across at her intermittently over the top of his book. Chloe suspected that he wished he were anywhere else and felt terrible that she’d brought so much drama into the Browning’s home.
“That skank Australian snuck into his hotel room and stole my boyfriend!” The words played over in Chloe’s mind like a 1940s newsreel, as she stared into the flickering flames of the fireplace. Skank-y, Chloe thought. It was supposed to be an adjective. “That skanky Australian …” Somehow, focusing on Madison’s poor grammar was easier than delving into the implications of the predicament.
George had said he’d written a press release, but what on earth would it say? She’d written press releases—dozens of them—but never once had she needed to refute the skankiness of one of her clients.
Archer Tate would like to say that Ms Madison Strumpet is gravely mistaken. Ms Chloe Sims is not a skank. She is, however, the love of Mr Tate’s life and, as well as enjoying a rigorous and highly satisfying physical relationship with Ms Sims, Mr Tate finds her to be delightful company, extremely funny and capable, and very, very pretty. She is also highly respected by Mr Tate’s rather formidable mother, who reportedly was impressed by Ms Sims’s efforts as a last-minute addition to the planning committee for the Penham Christmas Fair.
Chloe imagined George reading it out at a press conference with her and Archer behind him, both wearing enormous dark sunglasses and waiting to take questions. It was a ludicrous image and a giggle bubbled up and took hold. When Susan arrived with a tray of tea and biscuits—milk chocolate Hobnobs—she found Chloe giggling quietly to herself.
Susan eyed Chloe with a mix of concern and confusion. “Are you all right, Chloe love?” She placed the tray on the coffee table and poured Chloe a large mug of tea, adding a generous dollop of milk.
Chloe stopped laughing and took the proffered tea. “Thank you and I guess so. It’s just all so ridiculous, don’t you think?”
Susan’s eyebrows knitted together, and she pursed her lips. “Mmm.” She didn’t seem wholly convinced of the ridiculousness of the situation and busied herself with pouring tea for her and Max. Chloe, riding the pendulum of emotion back towards dismay, reached for a biscuit and nearly upset her tea. Susan’s eyes widened and flew to the crocheted blanket, but Chloe recovered without spilling. “Sorry,” she said sheepishly.
Susan shook her head, “No need, Chloe love. But I’ll just leave these here, shall I?” She placed the plate of biscuits on the end table next to Chloe. Max harrumphed—he probably wanted one—but Chloe could foresee comfort eating through the lot. She took a bite. Delicious.
Susan sat in her chair, closest to the fire, and retrieved a folded newspaper and pencil from the table next to her to resume her crossword. Like Max, she peered across at Chloe from time to time, but Chloe barely registered the curious looks. She just snuggled further under the blanket, systematically eating her Hobnob and sipping her tea, all while staring into the fire. She was just starting on her second biscuit when Susan piped up.
“So, Chloe love, what more can you tell us about what’s going on? You and Alan seem—”
“I’ve just thought of something I need to do upstairs,” said Max, standing abruptly. He was out
