The Final Act (#4 Bestselling Spotlight Series) (23 page)

Chapter
33

The buzz around Leicester Square is just incredible. I’ve never seen anything like it. But then again, I’ve never been to a premiere before.

For the time being, we’re all holed up across the street in a large
hotel suite.

Kristy and Scarlet are preparing
Natalie and I for the red carpet. Camilla has gone out for coffees.

The cars were overfull on the way here, and so I let Scarlet use my beloved Vespa to get herself to the premiere. And it looks like my generosity has paid off. Scarlet has lost some of her usual grumpiness and is tugging my hair around far less than usual.

Hmmm. Perhaps I should let Scarlet ride my moped more often
.

“Trust me,” Kristy is saying as she fans make-up around my eyes. “You are going to look spectacular. Just wait until you see the dress James has chosen.”

My eyebrows rise in surprise, and Kristy straightens my head firmly.

“James showed you the dress?”

“Of course,” she says. “I needed to match the make-up.”

James thinks of everything.

Kristy makes a final dusting of powder and declares me finished.

“You next,” she gestures to Natalie.

There’s a knock on the door, and we look at one another in confusion.

We’re not expecting anyone.

Natalie’s face breaks into a knowing grin. “I’ll bet that’s Mr Berkeley,” she grins. “Come to see his favourite actress.”

But I shake my head. “He’s not seeing me until the premiere,” I say. “He’s chosen the dress, so I want to surprise him with how I look in it.”

“Oooo,” says Natalie. “Like a bride on her wedding day!”

They
all exchange knowing looks, and I frown at them.

“Nothing like that,” I reply, shaking my head.
“You girls. Honestly.”

But they have set my mind thinking.

Marriage. To James. A girl can dream.

Scarlett moves to open the door, and to my great surprise, Ben Gracey is standing on the other side.

What’s he doing here?

Ben looks utterly dejected, and his usual smart attire is dishevelled.

He spots me and lurches towards me with a look of desperation.

“Issy!”

“Oh. Hi Ben,” I reply, making my mystification evident in my tone.

“Hi,” he says. “Good to see you. Listen, Issy. Have you seen Lorna?”

What does he want with Lorna?

“I
…” I open my mouth and shut it again. “She’s not here,” I admit. Lorna is due to come later, when the party starts. But she’s arriving with David the props handler. I know she wouldn’t thank me for revealing her whereabouts to Ben.

Since the pregnancy scare, she hasn’t the slightest desire to see him, and it looks as though she’s developing feelings for David.

Ben flops himself uninvited into a chair and buries his head in his hands.

We all look at one another in amazement.

“She won’t return my calls,” says Ben. His raises his eyes, and they’re red. His voice is on the urge of a sob. “She won’t… she won’t talk to me, Issy. Can you say something to her?”

“I… I don’t think Lorna is interested in you anymore,” I say gently.

No point in lying to him.

Ben’s face twists in devastation. But he looks as though this was the answer he was expecting.

“I don’t know what happened,” he says, more to himself than anyone. “She was just like all the others at first… And then. There’s something
about
Lorna, you know? She has this fire. This spark.”

The spark of not being interested in you
, I think.

“I’ve never felt this way about anyone,” says Ben. “It’s… It’s so awful
, Issy. Not being able to have Lorna. I feel like my heart is being ripped out.”

I regard him coldly. I have zero sympathy for Ben Gracey.

“I guess that’s how a lot of people feel,” I say icily, “when they get messed around.”

As if on cue, the door opens, and Camilla walks in. She’s dressed for the premiere, and in her professional make-up, looks stunning.

Ben’s mouth drops open.

“Camilla? Is that you?”

Camilla stares at him. “Ben,” she says after a moment. “You look… awful.”

Ben stands, straightening his clothes
self-consciously. There’s an uncomfortable pause.

“Are you coming to the premiere?” asks Camilla in the polite voice of someone trying to fill the silence.

“Yeah, well,” Ben says. “I was kind of depending on a date for this evening.” He tries for a rakish smile. “Are you free?”

Nothing could be a firmer refusal than the expression of sheer horror on Camilla’s face.

Since Bradley has swept Camilla of her feet, Ben Gracey has ceased to exist for her. And I can tell from Ben’s expression that he sees it all too clearly. I hide a smile.

Serves
him right.

“No,” blurts Camilla. “I mean. No. Thank you.” She adds, her good manners coming to the fore.

Ben sags a little further.

“Got a hot date lined up?” asks Ben in a nasty tone. He’s obviously expecting her to admit to attending alone.

“Yes,” says Camilla. And now she can’t keep the huge grin from spreading all over her face. “Yes. Actually, I do.”

She’s lit up with joy now. It’s beaming out of her. I can’t help smiling too. But her loved-up expression hits Ben like a
slap in the face. He flinches, as though he’s been struck.

Bye bye
, Ben Gracey,
I think.
Your spell has finally been broken
.
Good riddance.

Realising he’s overstayed his welcome, Ben makes for the door.

“Well, if you change your mind, you’ve got my number,” he says to Camilla.

She gives him a slightly
baffled look. And though it’s not her intention, Camilla’s expression is more cutting than a thousand clever insults ever could be.

Part of me, the old fiery Issy, wants to speak on Camilla’s behalf and tell Ben she’d rather die than
date a scumbag like him. But really, there is no more revenge necessary than the broken look of confusion on Ben’s face.

He walks out, and he doesn’t even have the fire left to slam the door behind him.

“That was
weird
,” says Camilla, her eyes wide as the door closes. “Uggh.” She gives a little shudder. “The idea of going on a date with Ben.”

“So, I guess Bradley is taking you?” I ask.

Her grin flashes back, doubly wide. “Yeeeaaaah,” she breathes. “Pretty amazing, huh?”

“Not amazing,” replies Natalie firmly. “Totally deserved.
You two are made for each other.”

“Hey Issy?” Scarlett is gesturing for my attention
suddenly. She’s holding a mobile phone. “Bad news about your dress.”

Oh no. Really?

“The company sent it to the studios instead of the hotel,” she says.

My face drops.

“Is there anyone there who can bring it?” I ask hopefully. Scarlett shakes her head. “Everyone is here.”

Kristy is by my side. “I’m sure we can get a company in London to send you a dress,” she soothes. “We’ve got four hours until the premiere starts. They’re used to more last minute requests than that.”

But James chose my dress!

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I want to wear the one James picked out.”

It’s so important to me to wear that dress. James would be disappointed not to see me in it.

The answer comes to me suddenly.

The Vespa!

Scarlett would have parked it in the lot beneath the hotel.
Berkeley studios are only half an hour from London by road. I can easily drive back and pick up the dress. The thought fills me with relief.

“I’ll take the Vespa,” I say determinedly. “I’ll be back in under an hour if I’m lucky.”

Scarlett nods at this, but Kristy looks uncertain.

“Should I let James know?”
she asks.

I consider this, and shake my head. “He’ll only worry. I’ll be back in plenty of time.
Where was the dress delivered?”

“It would have been sent to the costume department,”
says Scarlett. She turns to Kristy, obviously on my side. “She’s right Kristy,” says Scarlett. “Issy can make it there and back super-fast on that Vespa. She doesn’t even need to worry about traffic.”

I smile at
Scarlett gratefully.

“Just don’t smudge your make-up,” says Kristy.

I glide through the London traffic, feeling free as a bird on my moped. Within minutes, I’m on the English country roads leading to the studio, grinning as the green fields and trees whizz by.

I love this!

I make a mental note to drive my Vespa more often.

All too soon, I’m pulling into the studios. There’s no one on the gate, since James has pulled every available staff for the premiere security. But my pass opens the gate automatically, and I motor up to the costume department.

I drive right up close to save time, then cut the engine and rest the Vespa carefully against a wall.

Hmmm. No one here
. But I guess the dress will be with the other new arrivals.

I quietly let myself in
to the big maze-like warehouse and immediately see an exciting-looking dress bag bulging out on the new arrivals rack.

That
must be the dress!

I stride up to it, holding my breath in delight. There’s a tag with my name on it and the words: “
Isabella Green, Premiere.”

This is it! The dress James chose.

I check my watch. I made good time. I’ve got hours to make it back to London. Carefully, I draw down the zip and let my eyes roam the contents inside.

Oh!

The dress is blue silk and cut very low at the front and back. It’s long, to the ground, and looks incredibly elegant.

It’s such a beautiful, perfect choice that I check my watch again.

Have I got time to try it on?
I decide I have.

I scan around for a mirror. They are found fairly frequently in the huge costume hanger, and it doesn’t take me long to spot one.

The costume department is eerily silent. And since I’m the only one here, the high corridors of outfits and props are deserted.

Better take care not to venture too far in here,
I warn myself.
Knowing my luck, I could probably get lost.

Carefully, I slip off my print dress and let the silk premiere dress drop over my shoulders.

It feels so smooth against my skin. And the delicate straps drop onto my shoulders, revealing a neckline which plunges almost to the belly.

Risqué, Mr Berkeley
.

I’ll definitely be needing some tape to make sure this dress doesn’t show anything it shouldn’t.

The rest of the dress hangs in a graceful sheath, to the floor, enclosing my legs. It’s a contrast to the plunging top half, making the complete look both sexy and sophisticated.

The face in the mirror grins back at me. Mr Berkeley. You’ve done it again.

I’m at the front of the costume department with all the spooky horror outfits. And I roll my eyes to see my stunning dress showcased against a backdrop of masks and a Batman costume.

Talk about out of context.

I return my attention to the mirror. Probably time to go.

Suddenly
, I hear a hissing sound. Almost like a gasp of breath.

I freeze in front of the mirror. My smiling face resetting instantly to fear.

Did I just hear something?

“Is anyone there?” I say, feeling a little foolish. “Hello?”

There’s a pause, and silence. It’s a large department. Maybe there’s an echo, I tell myself. But now I feel uneasy. Time to head back to London.

I hear something else. Like an object falling from a shelf.

Then a figure steps out in front of me, blocking my escape from the aisle of costumes.

Oh no. No.
It can’t be!

“Hello Isabella,” says a rasping voice
which I recognise all too well.

A surge of fear hits me like a juggernaut.

Standing in front of me is the Lipstick Stalker.

Chapter 34

The stalker looks like he did in my dream. His brown hair free, rather than held beneath a wig. The twisted sneer of mania on his face. He’s dressed in a grey boiler suit and a tool-belt is around his waist. The stalker has come ready armed.

Pure white terror knifes through m
e.

“My little dancer,” hisses the
Lipstick Stalker. “Good to see you again. And this time - you are all mine.”

Hot fear tunnels into every part of me. And for a moment
, I am completely paralysed. The stalker stands, taking me in. Then he inhales slowly, as if drinking my essence. It’s such a horribly animal gesture, that my body recoils.

And
suddenly I act on pure instinct.

We’re at the front of the costume department, and close by me is the Batman outfit. Without pausing to think, I grab at the utility belt, y
ank out a fistful of smoke bomb props, and launch them towards the stalker.

I just have time to see the stalker’s face flash surprise
before the corn-starch bombs unleash their dusty contents. He chokes and splutter as the flurry of fake smoke invades his mouth and nose.

Without waiting to see more,
I turn and pelt in the opposite direction, heading deeper into the costume department. I know the smoke bombs have bought me a distraction at best. Likely, he’s right behind me.

The history aisle rushes past me, flashing caveman outfits and medieval court costumes. My brain is awhirl with panic, and I can’t think past running as fast as I can.

I’ve got to get away.

But I’m wearing the long blue dress James picked
for me for the premiere. It’s clinging to my legs, slowing me down and preventing my usual ability for speed.

Fear is tunnelling through every limb.

I hear the stalker’s voice echoing in the aisle behind me.

“There’s no way out of here,” he croons. “Not this time.”

I yank up the bottom of my dress, freeing my lower legs, but it’s still hard to run, clutching the fabric. The silken material keeps slipping from my grip, pinioning my legs, and making me stumble as I move.

I’m sobbing with terror now as I realise, there’s only one outcome to this chase. The stalker’s going to catch me.

How did he get out?
The question is echoing around my brain.
James stopped his source of money!

The thought brings another burst of dread. James doesn’t know
I’m here, and he’s no reason to think I’m in any danger. Kristy and Scarlett won’t tell him I’ve gone back to get the dress until it becomes clear I’m missing.

That might not be for hours.

I have to get out of this by myself.

Hide!

It’s my only option, and as the thought leaps into my head, the chance presents itself. I’m in the section of long Elizabethan dresses, and they’re hung long to the floor.

In a quick manoeuvre, I skid my legs down, pulling the rest of me under the nearest large dress.

I send a silent prayer of thanks for my dance training as I flip on my stomach and smoothly pull myself back and out of view.

The thick dusty costume is now hanging over me, but there’s a couple of inches which are now high off the floor.

I’m just about to tug it down fully, when a pair of soft grey shoes tread directly into my eye line. Every nerve in my body tenses.

It’s him.

My heart is in my mouth as the shoes take a few steps away. Then slowly, they tread back again.

Don’t look down!
I pray. If the stalker’s gaze drops to the floor, he’ll see the costume has been disturbed.

“There’s no way out of here, little dancer,” calls the stalker.

I stay perfectly still, hardly daring to breathe. He must think I’m somewhere else in the department.

“I’m going to find you,” he says, “and I’m going to take away your fame, drop by drop.”

He pauses, apparently savouring this image. The blood is pounding in my ears, and I’m willing every part of myself not to move.

Don’t look down, don’t look dow
n. I repeat the mantra in my head, sending up a jumble of heartfelt prayers.
Please, don’t let him look down.

“I know everything about you,” he continues. “
I knew you’d come running here for your precious dress. One phone call was all it took to have it sent here instead of the premiere.”

He pauses for a moment, as if waiting for a response.

“I know everything about James Berkeley too,” he continues. “And when he sees what I’ve done to you, I’ll have his fame as well as yours. All of it.”

I screw my eyes tight shut, forcing myself not to imagine James finding my body.

He’s just trying to get in your head, Issy
, I remind myself.
Stay strong.

My hands are throbbing. And I realise suddenly that my fists are balled up so tight, my fingernails have cut deep into my palms.

He only needs to glance down.

For a moment, it seems as though he’s about to do just that.

Then the soft grey shoes pad silently away.

I let out the slowest of terrified breaths.

He’s leaving!

I swallow, though my mouth is dry, trying to decide the best course of action.

Can I risk creeping out now?

Logically, I know the best thing to do would be to wait. But every muscle in my body is screaming to run.

I force myself perfectly still, plotting my escape. Surely there must be a fire exit in a warehouse this large?

The Vespa
. My moped is still outside. If I could only get to it. Then I remember.

Dammit! The keys!

The keys are in the pocket of my print dress. Which is on the floor near the exit. I’m guessing the stalker is smart enough to head back to that part of the warehouse. Making sure I don’t get away.

I’m trying to remember if there’s a fire door when I hear a splashing sound. My whole body freezes.

What’s happening?

It sounds like water is being thrown around the floor, a few aisles away from where I’m hiding. Then the smell hits my nostrils.

Petrol!

I hear, before I see
, the flames. A great gasp reverberates through the costume department as the building sucks in air to feed the fire.

No! He’s burning me out!

Thick smoke is rolling across the warehouse now. It hits my nose in an acrid wave.

I hold my breath,
keeping my lungs tight, and forcing away the cough which threatens to echo out. Desperately, I crawl out from under the costume skirts, trying to remember the best course of action in fire.

Stay low.
Crawl. Don’t let the smoke get in your lungs.

I can’t see any flames yet, or feel any heat. So I’m hoping the fire hasn’t yet caught on a large scale. But I can smell that petrol is all around.

I’m dizzy with the smoke and terror, and it’s hard to think. But I’m aware enough to know that the stalker must assume I’d make a run for the door.

He’ll be waiting for me. Outside. He’ll know I’ll come running.

I’m coughing now, shielding my face with my hand. The smoke is making me weak and groggy. I can’t risk hunting for another exit. It’s too risky in this vast labyrinth.

My only chance is to head back the way I came.

I’m going to run straight into his clutches. But I can’t stay here.

Smoke is in my eyes. But my blurry vision catches the shapes to the left of me. I’m in a props aisle. Could there be something to help me?

Guns?
I rule that out as useless. The stalker would know any gun I held would be fake.
A knife then?
Something sharp?

I stand shakily, making a burst of effort to overcome the smoke. Immediately
, my face is hit by a thicker wave of cloying smoke, and I choke right down to my stomach.

I
lean on a waist height shelf, trying not to fall, and scan for something to use as a weapon. But it’s useless. My eyes are watering too much too see properly. With the smoke choking me, I can’t think straight.

Coughing, I drop back down. And then I see it. The glint of an arrow.

It’s not much, but I grab it gratefully. At least now I have something to defend myself.

Gripping the arrow, I crawl on trying to retrace my steps. The maze-like costume department is closing all around me, and I head away from the smoke, realising this might not be the best course of action.

Which way is the exit?

I’m lost now, and desperate.
My situation rings hopelessly around me. Then I see a familiar pattern.

My print dress!

I limp towards it on all fours. I took the dress off right near the entrance. My hand grasps the fabric, and the shape of the key fits my palm. It’s not much, but this tiny victory fills me with new hope.

I’ve got the key.
If I can get to the Vespa, I can drive it. I can drive away.

But I have to get to it first. And I know the stalker
must be waiting right outside.

I can see the doorway
ahead now, but there’s no room left in my lungs to take a breath. Steeling myself, I try to stand, stagger, and grab at a clothes rail. Hangers scatter, but I manage to steady myself, fixing my watery gaze on the door.

This is it
, Issy.

I don’t have much of a plan, besides running as fast as I can. But I don’t count on just how much the smoke has slowed me up. I charge at the door, taking step after blundering step, and break through into the concrete parking lot outside.

At first all I can think of is taking a heaving breath of cool fresh air. And then I realise, I can’t see the stalker.

Is he still inside?

Not caring, I take a few tripping steps, replenishing my lungs.

And then the attack comes from the side, at a force I’d never expected. The stalker comes at me with a rugby tackle, throwing me bodily to the floor.

I feel my hip crack against the concrete ground, and cry out in pain as my legs flip out from under me.

The stalker lands heavily on top of me, pinning me to the ground. His cold eyes are level with mine, and his mouth is twisted in a humourless smile.

My hand jerks up on reflex, holding the arrow, and I feel the top sink deep into his thigh.

The stalker’s face jerks in horror, and his mouth opens. Seizing my chance, I twist out from under him, stagger to my feet, and run.

I can see the Vespa.

The Vespa. I
can get to it!

Behind me, I hear the stalker get to his feet. But I’m only a few strides away now.

Gasping with relief, I grab the handlebars and thrust the key into the ignition.

But the usual growl of the motor starting doesn’t sound.

Work!
I will the engine.
Work!

But the engine on the bike stutters and fails.

And then I realise where the stalker got his petrol from. The fuel cable has been cut, and the last few drops of gas are puddling on the ground.

The bike has been sabotaged.

I turn to see the stalker standing over me, a triumphant grin on his face.

He grabs my neck, and I cry out in pain.

The grin becomes wider. “I like that sound,” he whispers.

A trail of blood is snaking down his thigh, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

My gaze drops to his hand, and he’s holding a knife.

I twist away, trying to free myself from his steely grip. But he moves his arm up, holding the blade steadily against my throat.

I freeze, feeling the sharp metal bite against me.

“One wrong m
ove,” he says in a sing-song tone. “And I’ll bleed you out right here.”

I stay perfectly still, my eyes trained desperately on his.

“But I’d rather not do that,” he adds, removing the knife from my throat and pulling out a gun. “I’d rather take my time.”