Friends & Rivals (5 page)

‘Stop being provocative,' snapped Lex. Reaching into his messenger bag, he pulled out the photographs he'd brought her. ‘Take a look at these. You need to pick one for the album cover.'

‘Ooooo.' Kendall leaned forward excitedly. ‘Has Jack seen them?'

‘Not yet.'
Jack, Jack, Jack. If only she knew how transparent she was.

‘Well, we can't use this one.' Kendall handed back the portrait shot. ‘I don't look anything like myself.'

‘That's exactly what you look like,' said Lex. ‘The camera never lies, remember?'

‘Says the man who just had a sense of humour failure about the paparazzi,' Kendall shot back. ‘I look like a twelve year old with TB. That's a no.'

‘You look beautiful.'

‘Yada yada yada. Oh, now this I like.' She picked up one of the thorn tree images. ‘Both of these. They're sexy but classy. Like art.'

‘
Like
art?' Lex sounded horrified. ‘They
are
art.'

‘You know what I mean,' said Kendall. ‘They're arty
and
commercial. The label's gonna love them.'

‘Do you love them? Lex hated himself for the tentative, hopeful tone he heard in his own voice. With other clients he was confident in his work. With Kendall, he never stopped feeling as though he was auditioning for her approval.
Pathetic.

‘I do.' Kendall beamed, leaning across the table to kiss him. ‘I love them and I love you. Where would I be without you, my lovely Lex?'

Lex's heart beat so fast as she pressed her lips to his that he worried it might jump out of his chest and start throbbing away on the table. He closed his eyes, let the happiness rush through him and immediately heard the
click click click
of a camera shutter. This time it was Kendall who spun around, shaking her fist through the café window.

‘He's my friend, asshole, OK? You can quote me on that. Read my lips: We are just fucking friends.'

Lex's happiness drained away like pus from a lanced boil.

One day they'll carve it on my tombstone: Just Fucking Friends.

Jack Messenger pushed open his front door with a sigh of relief. It was good to be home.

Jack didn't enjoy travelling at the best of times, and this trip to England had been particularly stressful. He'd spent the entire eleven-hour flight home unable to concentrate, or to banish the vomit-inducing image of Ivan pumping away at that teenage violinist from his mind. Poor Catriona. A midlife crisis was embarrassing enough to watch, but Cat had to live with it. Or rather, she chose to live with it. That was the part that bothered Jack the most. The fact that even after all the betrayals, all the slip-ups and lies and bullshit, Catriona Charles was still in love with her husband. She still saw the Ivan she'd fallen in love with at Oxford. Whereas for Jack, that person, his friend, was all but gone.

Dropping his suitcase on the floor, he wandered into his study. As usual it was immaculate, an oasis of calm and order in the frantic chaos of Jack Messenger's professional life. He and Ivan used to joke that running a music management business was the best on-the-job training a psychotherapist could have. As managers they were part mentor, part friend, part boss, part life coach to some of the most talented, spoiled and rampantly fucked-up individuals on the planet. Life at Jester was equal parts exhausting and rewarding, but it was never dull. Jack loved it. But he also loved leaving it behind in the evenings and retreating behind the walls of his tranquil fortress.

Sonya had designed and decorated the house, and her presence was still everywhere. Jack limited photographs of his wife to the master bedroom. He'd learned that having them around the house made some people feel uncomfortable, and prompted others to try and talk about his loss, something Jack was congenitally incapable of doing. But you couldn't pick up a cushion or switch on a lamp, without being reminded of Sonya's subtle, feminine taste, her love of colour and texture, her
warmth.
That was the one thing Jack Messenger missed most about his wife. The world was a colder place without her.

Flipping open his calendar (Jack was still a pen and paper man where possible), he groaned. He'd totally forgotten he had a dinner date with Elizabeth tonight. Elizabeth Grey was Jack's female companion of the moment. Nominally his ‘girlfriend', though that wasn't a word Jack himself ever used. She was a senior exec at Paramount – smart, funny, independent and kind, as well as beautiful in the classy, understated way that Jack liked: long hair, minimal make-up, slim without being scrawny. There was absolutely nothing wrong with Elizabeth, not one complaint that Jack could level at her. Except the fact that she wasn't Sonya.

Dialling her number, Jack was relieved to get the voicemail. ‘Hi, Liz. Listen honey, I'm sorry, I'm gonna have to bail on tonight. I'm totally wiped after my trip. I'll call you tomorrow, OK? OK thanks. Sorry. Goodnight.'

He hated how awkward he sounded. Somehow he couldn't shake the feeling that dating at 40 automatically made you a jerk. Switching off his phone so Elizabeth couldn't call him back, he padded into the kitchen for a snack when something caught his eye. The door to his wine cabinet was ajar. No bottles were missing. Everything else was as it should be. But Conception, Jack's housekeeper, always locked that particular cabinet.

Kendall.

Kendall was curled up on the couch watching
Two and a Half Men
with Lex Abrahams when Jack burst in with a face like fury.

‘Have you taken wine from my house while I've been gone?'

Kendall didn't look up from the screen. ‘Hi, Kendall, hi, Lex. How are you? Nice to see you again,' she said sarcastically.

‘Answer the question.'

‘Of course not! Jesus, so what, I'm a thief now?'

‘Not a thief. You replaced it,' said Jack. ‘But you forgot to lock the wine closet afterwards. Where's Kevin?'

‘He wasn't feeling too good,' said Kendall blithely. ‘So I sent him home and called Lex to come over and save me from my deepest, darkest urges. So far it's going great.' She raised a glass of Diet Coke in Jack's direction. ‘How was England?'

‘Don't change the subject,' snapped Jack. ‘How much did you drink?'

‘It wasn't Kendall,' Lex piped up from the couch. ‘It was me. I'm sorry, I, er, I had a few friends over on Friday and I needed some decent vintage stuff, so I, er, I borrowed a couple of bottles. I replaced them at the wine merchant's today. I must have forgotten to lock the, er, the closet.'

Jack sighed. He liked Lex and was an ardent admirer of his work. But when it came to Kendall, he couldn't be trusted. ‘Do yourself a favour, kid. Never go into acting. You suck at it.'

‘No, really …' Lex protested.

‘Go home,' said Jack. ‘Before I fire the both of you.'

Lex left. Kendall continued watching TV defiantly until Jack picked up the remote and turned it off.

‘Hey! I was watching that!'

‘No you weren't. Give me one reason why I shouldn't kick you off my books and out of my guesthouse right now.'

‘I'll give you three,' said Kendall. ‘I make you a ton of money. I'm the best female artist Jester has. And I didn't take your stupid wine.'

‘You're a liar.'

Kendall tried not to show how hurt she was. Even after a long flight, in a crumpled shirt and chinos, Jack looked so insanely handsome it was torture. It was bad enough that he didn't want her. But that he should disapprove of her too was more than she could bear. The fact that she'd brought it on herself was no consolation.

‘OK, fine. I was pissed at you for not taking me to Ivan's party. I should have been there.'

‘You've never even met Ivan,' said Jack.

‘So? I was invited.'

‘And you would have gone if you hadn't proved once again that you can't be trusted. You
cannot drink,
Kendall, OK? Some people can take their liquor. Others cannot.'

He sounded exasperated because he was. Though she might not realize it, Jack was immensely fond of Kendall Bryce. He'd seen addictive personalities like hers before. They couldn't do moderation. Kendall could no more stop at one drink than stop at one breath. It was all or nothing.

‘I've got to be honest with you,' he said. ‘At this point I have serious reservations about letting you go to London next week.'

‘Yeah, well, get over them,' snarled Kendall. ‘I'm a professional. I have commitments and I meet them. I'm not about to let my fans and record company down because
you've
got an overdeveloped father complex. I'm twenty-three fucking years old, Jack!'

‘Then act it. Stop behaving like a spoiled teenager. And stop letting poor Lex lie for you. Unlike you, my dear, he's no good at it. I'm going to bed. We'll discuss this further in the morning.'

After Jack had gone, Kendall went to bed and lay awake for hours, staring at the ceiling.

It's all so wrong. I'm in bed alone. He's fifty yards away, in bed alone. Why aren't we holding each other?

One day, they would be. One day, Kendall Bryce would become Kendall Messenger, and all Jack's grief and Kendall's longing and frustration would be things of the past.
It will happen. It has to happen. It's fate.

Who knew, maybe this trip to London would be the start of a new phase in their relationship. Maybe Kendall's absence would make Jack's heart grow fonder?

Stranger things had happened.

Ivan Charles kept a firm grip on Joyce Wu's hips as she bucked and moaned in pleasure.
As well she might
, thought Ivan, who'd spent the last fifteen minutes with his head between his teenage lover's legs, trying to bring her to climax. Generally he wasn't much of a one for oral sex – giving it, that is; receiving it was naturally an entirely different matter – but he made an exception for Joyce. Partly because she begged him to. Ivan Charles
did
enjoy a bit of begging. And partly because her smooth, hairless Asian pussy made him feel like he was doing a porn star, not a virtuoso violinist from a strict Chinese family. Although that was kind of horny, too.

Even so, fifteen minutes was enough to give anybody jaw ache. His own orgasm already felt like a long time ago and he'd spent the last five minutes at least thinking exclusively about his meeting at ITV tomorrow and whether the blue or the green Paul Smith shirt would make him look more telegenic.

‘I'm coming!' Joyce gasped, unnecessarily. Her twitching thighs had already imparted this information forcefully to the sides of Ivan's head. Finally she stopped moving, like an exhausted epileptic at the end of a fit, and slumped back against the chaise longue, panting. Ivan, also panting, headed to the kitchen for a much-needed glass of water.

Ivan loved his Belgravia flat.
Loved it.
The lateral, two-bedroom apartment on Eaton Gate was his own private lair, his 1,500 square foot kingdom where he could do what – and whom – he pleased. Of course, The Rookery was home and he loved that too. In Oxfordshire, with Catriona, he was grown-up Ivan, husband Ivan, daddy Ivan. The unfortunate incident that Jack had witnessed in the bathroom on the night of his birthday was an anomaly. Usually, Ivan Charles made a point of keeping his two lives, and two selves, utterly separate. Here, in London, he was Ivan the player, Ivan the music mogul. He was, as one of Jester's interns had rather brilliantly named him, after a brief but passionate affair, Ivan the Terrible. And the Eaton Gate flat was his
palais
d'amour
.

Every room was filled with mementos of his triumphant career. Here, in the kitchen, two Grammys and a Brit Award gleamed proudly on a shelf above the sink. The drawing room, an elegant Georgian reception space with double-aspect sash windows and original parquet flooring, was littered with framed photographs of Ivan with music industry greats. Ivan and Burt Bacharach hugged on top of the piano, Ivan and Alfie Boe laughed on a yacht on the antique side table. On the wall above the chaise longue, where Joyce Wu lay sprawled in postcoital contentment, Ivan had a paternal arm wrapped around Charlotte Church back in her gawky teenage days.

Secretly, Ivan longed to be able to line the walls with a different kind of star. The kind of artist that Jack represented for Jester almost exclusively. He wanted to have his picture taken with Will Smith and JLS and Justin Bieber. With Katy Perry and Britney and Kendall Bryce. He wanted to be in the pop world, to be young and contemporary and relevant. Most of all, he wanted to lead Jester out of the dark ages of old school music management and into the new era of reality television, of YouTube virals and multimedia world domination. It was a terrible irony, a travesty really, that he, Ivan, who ‘got' the pop scene and was excited by the brave new world of free downloads and webcam concerts, should be stuck with an overwhelmingly classical list, while Jack ‘Sam Eagle' Messenger, he of the paper diaries and computer phobia and all-American family values, should represent such cutting-edge acts as The Blitz and Kendall Coke-Head Bryce. The fact that Ivan's list made more money than Jack's was insufficient consolation. Classical fans still bought albums. Pop fans downloaded (aka stole) them. But if only Jack weren't so pig-headed about Jester diversifying, into the TV world and beyond, Ivan was sure their rock and pop business would blossom exponentially. Tomorrow's meeting with ITV would be Ivan's first concrete step into these choppy waters, a step he was taking without his partner's knowledge, still less his permission. Ivan had a lot riding on it.

‘Sweetheart, I hate to do it, but I'm going to have to ask you to skedaddle.' Walking back into the drawing room he passed a still-naked Joyce her clothes. ‘I've got a ton of work to do this afternoon. Plus the cleaner's coming in twenty minutes. We wouldn't want her to find you here and spill the beans to the missus, would we?'