didn’t mean to give you such a shock.’
‘Not to worry!’ I turn to the sink to grab a dishcloth. Oh dear God, Gilly, stop talking with exclamation marks. I’m also mortified that he caught me out talking to my dog.
‘I hope that’s not a favourite dress?’
I point to it. ‘What? This old thing!’
Ruskin sniffs Jack’s jeans and looks up at him suspiciously, wondering who this person is invading his breakfast routine.
‘Did you forget something?’ I ask, composing myself.
‘My script.’ Jack pulls an ‘aren’t I stupid’ face before heading back upstairs to his room, his telephone ringing again. He’s turning my house into an office. ‘Hi, sweetie,’ I overhear him say.
I rush to mop the milk from under the table, wondering who his ‘sweetie’ is. I am on all-fours with Ruskin beside me, when he bends down and says, ‘That was the office. They don’t need me until later. How about some bacon and eggs? You got time?’
I nod, before forgetting where I am, and crash my head against the table. How am I ever going to relax around this man? Perhaps Roy chilling out in his trackie bums would have been a better and safer option.
As I watch Jack cook (even the way he fries the bacon and cracks the eggs into the bowl in one neat action is sexy), he fills me in on the Stargazer gossip. One of the contestants has threatened to pull out due to negative attention from the press. Jack reaches for his leather jacket, hung on the back of my chair, and in the process brushes my shoulder. From his jacket pocket he produces a pack of cigarettes and a flash silver lighter. I must frown without realizing because he says, ‘Sorry, I forgot your house was non-smoking, I’ll go outside.’
He opens the French doors leading out into the garden, taking his mug of black coffee with him.
As I watch him light up, for a split second I see my mother in a mouldy blue dressing gown standing in the kitchen. I see her flicking the ash into the sink as she stands gazing out of the window. ‘Dreadful habit,’ I tick him off, but Jack even looks sexy smoking. All he needs is his Martini, shaken not stirred, to go with it.
He rolls his eyes. ‘You sound like my mother.’
I smile, noticing a bundle of clothes in a bag by the kitchen door.
‘You’re welcome to use the machine here if you want.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll take it home.’
‘Where’s home again?’
‘Bath.’
‘Right.’ I don’t know why, but I’m surprised he lives in Bath. I think of Bath as a place to visit for the day by coach.
‘Do you live on your own?’
He nods. ‘I split up from my girlfriend . . .’
Hallelujah! In excitement I knock a knife onto the floor.
‘. . . about a year ago now. Christ, time flies.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, trying to look it.
‘Past history. What are you up to this weekend?’ he asks brightly.
‘Oh . . .’ I pause. ‘Um, a couple of parties . . .’
Ruskin barks, as if to say, ‘Liar, liar, pants on fire.’
‘Cool.’
‘Why don’t you live in London?’ I ask.
Jack stubs out his cigarette. ‘Sorry, Gilly, would love to chat but I need to make a move.’
‘Yes, right, me too,’ I say. ‘I need to take you for a walkies, don’t I? Don’t worry. Not you, Jack.’
He smiles. ‘Have a great weekend.’ He picks up his laundry bag and heads off.
Just as I am about to go upstairs to put on a new dress I spot his script on the sitting-room chair. I grab it and bolt out of the door. Jack is striding down the road, car keys in his hand, heading towards his BMW on the other side of the street.
‘You left this,’ I say breathlessly, as he zaps a button to unlock the front door.
He takes the script. ‘God, I’m an idiot. Thanks.’
‘You need a full-time assistant.’
‘Are you offering?’ He winks at me, a hint of mischief back in his voice. Now I didn’t like Roy winking at me (poor old Roy), but somehow Jack can be forgiven. I think I could forgive Jack for quite a lot of
‘Not to worry!’ I turn to the sink to grab a dishcloth. Oh dear God, Gilly, stop talking with exclamation marks. I’m also mortified that he caught me out talking to my dog.
‘I hope that’s not a favourite dress?’
I point to it. ‘What? This old thing!’
Ruskin sniffs Jack’s jeans and looks up at him suspiciously, wondering who this person is invading his breakfast routine.
‘Did you forget something?’ I ask, composing myself.
‘My script.’ Jack pulls an ‘aren’t I stupid’ face before heading back upstairs to his room, his telephone ringing again. He’s turning my house into an office. ‘Hi, sweetie,’ I overhear him say.
I rush to mop the milk from under the table, wondering who his ‘sweetie’ is. I am on all-fours with Ruskin beside me, when he bends down and says, ‘That was the office. They don’t need me until later. How about some bacon and eggs? You got time?’
I nod, before forgetting where I am, and crash my head against the table. How am I ever going to relax around this man? Perhaps Roy chilling out in his trackie bums would have been a better and safer option.
As I watch Jack cook (even the way he fries the bacon and cracks the eggs into the bowl in one neat action is sexy), he fills me in on the Stargazer gossip. One of the contestants has threatened to pull out due to negative attention from the press. Jack reaches for his leather jacket, hung on the back of my chair, and in the process brushes my shoulder. From his jacket pocket he produces a pack of cigarettes and a flash silver lighter. I must frown without realizing because he says, ‘Sorry, I forgot your house was non-smoking, I’ll go outside.’
He opens the French doors leading out into the garden, taking his mug of black coffee with him.
As I watch him light up, for a split second I see my mother in a mouldy blue dressing gown standing in the kitchen. I see her flicking the ash into the sink as she stands gazing out of the window. ‘Dreadful habit,’ I tick him off, but Jack even looks sexy smoking. All he needs is his Martini, shaken not stirred, to go with it.
He rolls his eyes. ‘You sound like my mother.’
I smile, noticing a bundle of clothes in a bag by the kitchen door.
‘You’re welcome to use the machine here if you want.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll take it home.’
‘Where’s home again?’
‘Bath.’
‘Right.’ I don’t know why, but I’m surprised he lives in Bath. I think of Bath as a place to visit for the day by coach.
‘Do you live on your own?’
He nods. ‘I split up from my girlfriend . . .’
Hallelujah! In excitement I knock a knife onto the floor.
‘. . . about a year ago now. Christ, time flies.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, trying to look it.
‘Past history. What are you up to this weekend?’ he asks brightly.
‘Oh . . .’ I pause. ‘Um, a couple of parties . . .’
Ruskin barks, as if to say, ‘Liar, liar, pants on fire.’
‘Cool.’
‘Why don’t you live in London?’ I ask.
Jack stubs out his cigarette. ‘Sorry, Gilly, would love to chat but I need to make a move.’
‘Yes, right, me too,’ I say. ‘I need to take you for a walkies, don’t I? Don’t worry. Not you, Jack.’
He smiles. ‘Have a great weekend.’ He picks up his laundry bag and heads off.
Just as I am about to go upstairs to put on a new dress I spot his script on the sitting-room chair. I grab it and bolt out of the door. Jack is striding down the road, car keys in his hand, heading towards his BMW on the other side of the street.
‘You left this,’ I say breathlessly, as he zaps a button to unlock the front door.
He takes the script. ‘God, I’m an idiot. Thanks.’
‘You need a full-time assistant.’
‘Are you offering?’ He winks at me, a hint of mischief back in his voice. Now I didn’t like Roy winking at me (poor old Roy), but somehow Jack can be forgiven. I think I could forgive Jack for quite a lot of
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