Protection (3 page)

Carrie often wondered if it was engraved on her headstone.

“Miss. Carrie! Why didn't you call me?”

Striding into Carrie's bedroom, Amanda gazed around her and with her usual admonition, tutted her disapproval.

Caught red handed, Carrie knew it was pointless trying to argue. Amanda was already in ‘mother hen' mode, and with her feet planted squarely on the carpet and her arms folded across her chest, she took in a deep breath and prepared to voice her objections to Carrie's latest attempt at ‘seeing to herself'.

Defeated before she'd said a word, Carrie held up her arms in surrender. “Okay, okay.”She said. “I know what you're going to say and I'm sorry. I promise I'll try not to do it again and to make up for it, maybe you could help me decide what I should wear tonight?”

Unconvinced by Carrie's shaky promises to do better, Amanda nevertheless huffed and crossed to the huge walk-in wardrobe, beginning to rifle through the rows of evening gowns which were hung according to colour and season and tagged with a small square of paper stating when the dress was last worn, for which occasion and how much press coverage it had received. Something Amanda religiously scanned the newspapers for and which she took personal umbrage against if anyone dared to criticize.

“How about this one?”She suggested, holding up a dark blue, silk dress whose hem reached modestly to the ground, but whose side had a daring split ending roughly where Carrie's waist began.

Carrie wrinkled her nose. “I'm not sure.”She said. “Have I worn it before?”

“Not according to the square.”Amanda replied. “You bought it for that charity function for kids with cancer last March, but it rained if you remember and you ended up wearing something else.”

Carrie nodded. “You're right, but I don't think it's quite special enough for tonight. I want something that's going to wow them! I want something that's going to knock their socks off!”

“How about your birthday suit then?”Amanda suggested, returning the dress to the rail. “That should do it.”

“Yeah, right. Have you seen my arse recently? But seriously, if I don't wear something the critics like, it's not me that's sulking for days is it?”

They were interrupted by the door bell then, and warning Carrie not to go ‘fiddling about with the dresses and messin' up the system', Amanda scuttled from the room to see who it was.

Barry Carmichael stood on the doorstep, dressed in a tuxedo and greeting Amanda with his usual welcome, thrust a huge bouquet of red roses at her.

“These are for you.”He said, stepping into the warm and briskly rubbing his hands together before kicking the door shut with his foot. “Been sitting in the car for a while I'm afraid, damn traffic was dreadful! I imagine the poor things are about ready to eat their own roots.”

“Better stick them in water then.”Amanda said, trying not to snag herself on the thorns. “Carrie's upstairs if you want to go up. But knock first! She's trying to make up her mind what to wear.”

Thanking her, Carmichael started up the long, sweeping staircase.

Thinking he'd timed his arrival just right.

A notion the little housekeeper probably wouldn't have argued with, for although Carrie was usually a calm, unflappable person, she was starting to grow increasingly nervous before these big occasions, sometimes to the point where she would shake from head to toe, and it was usually only the comforting presence of Carmichael that enabled her to recover her equilibrium and believe that she was, once again, going to be absolutely brilliant.

Amanda was only sorry she didn't have the same effect because Carrie meant the world to her. Never before had she worked for someone so kind or so generous and not only did Carrie ensure she had everything she could possibly want for the kitchen, she'd never once forgotten her birthday, not even when she'd been away filming. It truly was a revelation working for someone so considerate, especially when she compared her to some to the miserable, dried up old bitches she'd worked for previously.

Then there was Carmichael, Carrie's agent.

Tall and solidly built, he had a way about him that could diffuse even the most difficult of situations. A few well chosen words sometimes all it took to mollify the most savage of critics and an easy charm which he could turn on Amanda and Carrie with devastating effect. The pair of them instantly melting under his subtle touch as they found themselves agreeing to things they would otherwise never have considered. Yet, despite this gift for effortless control, Carmichael was never spiteful or malicious and he clearly cared for Carrie very much

Not that you could tell at the moment.

Climbing the stairs laden with a heavy, crystal vase brimming with perfectly trimmed roses, Amanda could hear the fierce debate from the end of the landing.

Carrie was in full cry. “You have got to be kidding!”She heard her say. “I can't wear this! Look at it! I've seen more material go into making a sock!”

“But that's the whole idea!”Carmichael replied heartedly. “Revealing but respectable. It's perfect! They'll be positively drooling!”

“Great.”Carrie retorted. “Grown men slobbering over me while I'm in jail for indecent exposure.”

Amanda appeared in the doorway then and trying not to convey her bristling curiosity, peered over the heads of the roses to see what all the fuss was about?

Carrie showed her. She had a point.

There wasn't much to see. Little more than a wide, silver band sparkling with glitter, the dress probably would have just about covered Carrie's cleavage and backside, providing, of course, she had no plans to actually sit or move around in it. It was daring to the point of illegal.

“Well? What do you think?”Carrie asked the housekeeper. “Would you send me out in something like this?”

Amanda hesitated. As scandalous as the dress clearly was, she could also see Carmichael's point of view. Carrie had a body to die for and she would look simply sensational in it. But Carrie clearly wasn't happy and not wanting to upset her by agreeing with the agent too quickly, she stalled for time by placing the vase just so and crossing the room to run a hand across the fabric.

It felt wonderfully sheer and running the palm of her hand across it she could hardly feel it at all, but on the other hand, it was dangerously delicate and if it didn't rip first then Carrie was likely to freeze. Letting it fall, she strode briskly over to the wardrobe and disappeared inside.

“Where's she gone now?”Carmichael whispered as the door closed behind her. “Narnia?”

Carrie humphed. “I doubt it. Knowing Amanda she probably has some master plan. Or you better hope she has, because I'm not wearing that!”

The housekeeper reappeared and crossing to the bed she laid down a plastic dress cover, opening it with a flourish.

Recognition flickered across Carrie's face.

“Oh!”She exclaimed in delight. “I'd forgotten I had this. Well done, Amanda. I don't know what I would do without you.”

“Learn to enjoy prison food?”Amanda offered and watched with satisfaction as Carrie swept the long, silver jacket off the bed and held it in front of her.

The shoulders were slightly padded, and with the hem falling just short of the floor it was long enough to keep Carrie warm, but daring enough, thanks to the split up the back, for Carrie to reveal tantilizing glimpses of what she was weaing underneath.

Rubbing his hands together Carmichael voiced his approval. “There you go then.”He said happily. “Problem solved. Dressed in that every bloke within a five mile radius will want you.”

“Really? Well, theyy'll just have to want.”Carrie said, turning her attention back to the minimal dress and finding she liked it a whole lot more. “But you're both going to have to excuse me now while I get changed. Can't spend all day in a bath robe.”

“Why not?”Carmichael asked. “I think it rather suits you. But, if you insist, I'm sure I could make myself scarce for five minutes. Which reminds me, why did you bring the roses up here, Amanda?”

“Because I thought Carrie might like them in her bedroom?”Amanda replied, a little taken aback at the question. “We already have plenty of flowers downstairs and I thought they'd look nice up here.Why? Did I do something wrong?”

“You most certainly did.”Carmichael said. ‘ When I said that the roses were for you, I actually meant for you Amanda. I bought the dress for Carrie. The flowers, my sweet, are yours.”

Okay. She was all set.

Her make up was on and the dress was perfect, even if it was the size of a microdot and she had to force herself to stop tugging at the hem for fear of her underwear showing. But at least she had the jacket, which was just as well because she doubted if she would be taking it off very much. Not if she didn't want tomorrow's headlines to have nothing to do with the film and everything to do with her legs!

Lord, even Liz Hurley would have felt exposed in this little number!

Carmichael, though, was no doubt hoping she'd cause a sensation and was probably even now working out ways he could persuade her to remove her jacket and give ‘em a flash of the Shilling figure. Well, he could dream on. The man might be a brilliant agent and a perfectly nice guy when he wasn't flirting outrageously, but there were times when he'd happily treat her like a pound of meat if he thought he could get away with it and tonight he was certain to have his butcher's apron on under his tux.

But she had the jacket and she was ready. Aside from one, last thing.

The ritual.

A solution Carmichael had come up with after Carrie, on the eve of a phenomenally, glamorous party, had suddenly got cold feet. The function hadn't been anything she hadn't done before. In fact, she'd been to hundreds of the things, but for some strange reason, on this occasion nerves had got the better of her and bursting into tears she had begged Carmichael to turn the car around and take her home.

A request Carmichael was more than happy to fulfil, on the condition she gave him a very good reason why first.

Still crying, Carrie had done just that. It was, she wept, because she felt she didn't deserve any of this. Why was she being invited to this party? What had she ever done to warrant such a grand invitation? One, piddly, little soap and a supporting role in a single film. That was all. Hardly enough to deserve rubbing shoulders with famous movie stars and legendary singers. She should go home. Right now. Before someone decided it had all been a huge mistake and she was turned away at the door.

They didn't turn round. Instead, Carmichael held her hand and gave her every reason why she did deserve to be there and on arrival at the party he skillfully guided her from guest to guest, effortlessly including Carrie in their small talk before pointing out their genuine smiles and words of congratulations the moment they'd moved on. Proving, he hoped, how much she was liked and respected.

Unfortunately his spirited words only lasted until they were out of the door and back inside the car, then the doubts came flooding back, and Carrie was crying again, leaving Carmichael to try and come up with a solution. A task he quickly discovered had to be completed in record time, especially after Carrie told him she felt this way before every occasion of note and even more especially as he knew Carrie was about to embark on a promotional tour for her new film, ‘Avenging Angels'. The long awaited sequel to ‘Angels with Attitude' which in a single weekend was set to catapulte Carrie's career so high they were both in danger of nose bleeds, and which promised to be so stressful that not only were Carrie's nerves in grave danger of being torn to shreds, but for the first time in her life she was considering wearing false finger nails. Her own already gnawed to the quick as she sought desperately to overcome her terror.

Terrifed himself that Carrie might pull out altogether, Carmichael organised a distraction in the shape of a house hunt, a search that culminated in the discovery of her current home - a twelve bedroom manor house set in nine acres of Surrey countryside. Delighted with it, Carrie's mind had finally settled on something other than stress and the best way to chew on plastic fingernail replacements, and it was while they touring the recently re-decorated property that Carmichael had come up with the ritual.

“This is just lovely.”He'd enthused, running an appraising eye over the sweeping staircase in the grand entrance. “Pleased with it?”

“Of course.”Carrie had replied. “I love it. It's spacious, it's modern, it's everything I've ever wanted.”

“Okay, so, tell me then. How did you manage to afford it?”

“What do you mean how did I afford it? You know how. I used the money I made from the movie.”

“Exactly! You used the money you made from the movie. Money you earned. No one gave you this place, Carrie. No one handed it to you on a plate. It was your own, hard work that made it all happen and you should remember that. And next time you get an attack of the wobbles, and start thinking that you don't deserve all the recognition and praise, walk round this house and just remind yourself that without all those long, tedious hours of hard work, that you put in, none of this would be here.”

Thus, the ritual had been born.

Not that Carrie had initially given its chances of success much credence. The first time she'd attempted to take the agent's advise, she'd simply felt stupid. Wandering around her home, dolled up to the nines, trying to convince herself that she did deserve the twelve bedrooms, the four bathrooms, the huge, sweeping staircase and the opulent entrance hall with marble fittings was to her mind, simply daft. As was trying to make herself believe that the spacious lounge with its comfortable furniture and the panoramic views of glorious, sweeping countryside were hers by right and not just thanks to blinding good luck.

Nor did she feel any better when she entered the dining room and run a hand along the polished, walnut table and across the backs of eight Regency style chairs with the memory of the ancient and battered old thing her family had been forced to eat off still fresh in her mind. Or when she wandered into the kitchen and saw everything sparkling and new. The remains of the evening meal nothing but a fading aroma mingling with the smell of Amanda's home made bread, proving that this kitchen did actually function.