Page 3 of Just for December

Evie checks the suitcase still has room for the last bits and bobs that will have to go in in the morning – toiletry bag, chargers, incidentals – by testing it closes. It does, but only just.

‘We got side-tracked,’ Magda reminds Evie, circling back around to the original point. ‘Your plan for survival is …?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Evie nods. ‘Well, basically, I’m on deadline for next year’s Christmas book – if I come back here with less than a hundred thousand words to my name you’ll have to lock me in the basement and only let me out for pee breaks and thirty minutes of fresh air – so I figure I’ll do whatever they need me to do on set and then peace out of there. As far as my agent can tell they just want me for extra content? For social media or bonus material or whatever? Maybe they’re making a behind-the-scenes doc for YouTube. I don’t know … if I think about it too much, I go crazy trying to understand why it’s an actual contractual obligation instead of an offer I could’ve turned down.’ Evie pauses, here, closingher eyes and taking a theatrical deep breath. When she opens her eyes, she continues: ‘So, once I’ve done whatever bull they need me to do, I’ll just write. At the end of the day, it’s a big fat cheque and a weight off of my mind in terms of Mom’s care, and as long as I get my word count, IsupposeI’ll survive …’

‘The Romantic Roaddoeshave all those Christmas markets and magical castles and ice skating …’ Magda points out, referencing the area of Germany they’re filming in. ‘If you’re writing next year’s Christmas book surely you can hunt all that stuff out to get into the spirit for what you’re working on now?’

‘Exactly,’ agrees Evie. ‘And I’m not too proud to admit that it’s time to write from somewhere other than the local coffee shop. Freddie’shas a soya latte that’s hard to beat, but I’m sure there’s some quaint Bavarian café that will suit me just fine.’

‘So you’re going to do the bare minimum for the movie, because movie sets suck and so does everyone working on them …’

Evie throws her friend an appreciative nose-crinkle then. Thank the Lord she gets it, where thousands wouldn’t: this isn’t exciting for Evie. It’s an inconvenience.

‘And meanwhile, you’re going to write your last forty thousand words, drink hot chocolate and eat little German pastries, and call me daily to fill me in on it all, reminding me that the last week of the semester is always the hardest.’

‘You got it! And …’ Evie adds. ‘Above all else …’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m going to avoid anyone famous. The director, theactors, the screenwriter even … They can do them, and I’ll do me.’

‘Of course.’ Magda laughs.

‘Egotistical, arrogant, fake Hollywood,’ Evie nods. ‘I’m going to enjoy the days as much as I can – but that doesn’t mean I won’t be counting them down, too.’

‘Got it,’ Magda shoots back. Then she thinks about something, her face lighting up as she hits on an idea. ‘But for what it’s worth?’ she adds, mischievously. ‘If it’s true that Duke Carlisle is now single again, please do pass alongmynumber. You might think he’s a jackass waiting to be found out, but I happen to think he’s hot as hell.’

2

Duke

Duke Carlisle has never heard of a man dropping dead from a broken heart, but that doesn’t mean it’s never happened.

The pull in his chest tests him – mocks him, even, for being such a fool.

He’s been such a stupid bloody idiot.

How did he not see it?

Why did he ever believe Daphne when she saidI love you? He obsesses over it for the trillionth time as he navigates the walk through Frankfurt airport to his waiting car out front, his Nikes thudding the ground, his designer tracksuit slung low on his hips. The click-click-click of paparazzi cameras and their accompanying flashes act as a baseline to the cries of fans who’ve been tipped off on his arrival time by some blog or social media account. It’s mad, the information superfans can get hold of. Somebody always leaks it, on nearlyevery production or media tour. He steels himself. They tell him it’s the price of fame. For years now, he’s been willing to pay it. He keeps his blue, almond-shaped eyes down, obscured by his designer sunglasses, and raises a large hand to his face to shield himself. He’s doing his best not to be grumpy. He really is.

Daphne Diamond, Duke’s improbably named co-star, now ex-girlfriend and the woman responsible for said debilitating chest pains, isn’t paying the same tax on her celebrity today. They were on the same flight from London, but she’s been ushered through the back exit, the private escape designed for high net-worth flyers and movie stars, probably already halfway to the hotel. She’s persona non grata with the producers right now, after attracting damning headlines about her cheating ways. Duke sighs. Daphne was caught in a tryst with their married director three days into filming the interior shots forOn the Romantic Roadat Pinewood Studios, photos splashed across every front page of her pressed up against a back-alley wall, her tongue in Brad’s mouth and Brad’s hands on her arse. And they’ve still got three weeks of all working together in Germany ahead of them. It’s rough.

But, mad as Daphne has made everyone by jeopardising the reputation around the film – she’s made investors nervous, and it’s put the whole production team on edge – she’s being protected by everyone, wrapped in cotton wool, until the team can figure out how to redeem her reputation as girl-next-door Leading Lady, making her a reliable draw for the box office again … and keeping the investors on board. Everyone thinks movies are about telling great stories for the world. They’re not. They’re about making money.

So, even though it’s Duke who looks like an idiot to the whole damned world for letting himself get cheated on, for not having a clue, his publicist has him taking the civilian route precisely so that he can be papped looking the opposite of his forlorn and heartbroken self – and save Daphne’s cheating arse in the process.

Darling, it’s good to be single and happy. The mums will go mad for it. Trust, baby, trust. It makes people fantasise about having a chance with you.That’s what he’d been told by Carter, the dazzling American charged with ‘Hollywoodising’ him.

Duke isn’t even sure who he is as a man anymore, such is the attention lavished on him as a brand to be promoted and monetised.Be careful what you wish foris Duke’s take on all of that. Not to feel sorry for himself or anything. It’s a privileged life. It’s just, hethoughtworldwide adoration and a brand-new Porsche in the drive of one of his many houses was The Dream until it all started to come true. But then when something like this happens and the press is so intrusive it doesn’t feel worth it at all. He’s treated like a story, not a human being, and for all his easy charm and gentle swagger in front of the cameras, it wears him down. The fame doesn’t cure him of being a person with feelings.

Boohoo,his brain tells him.Are your diamond shoes too tight, pretty boy?

‘Doook! Doooook!’ chant the throngs of German women, mildly mispronouncing his stage name. They’re older than you might imagine, but Duke knows from the research commissioned by his management that, whilst it’s Gen Z who put on his stuff to begin with, it’s parents the worldover who keep it on and then replay it again. Hence, the focus on the mums. Wide smile, tousled wavy brown hair, blue eyes described with a folklore-like mysticism last heard geared towards Sinatra – Duke Carlisle is an international movie star who could be your son’s very charming university friend home for the holidays with kind words and a secret cheeky wink. Hence being cast inOn the Romantic Road, an adaptation of Evie Bird’s German-set and internationally bestselling romance novel. There are a lot of fisherman’s jumpers involved in the role. A lot of bashful looks and stammered sentences and good manners. He’s perfect for it.

‘Hello, hi, thanks for the warm welcome,’ Duke says, lifting a hand and craning his neck so that the women can get their selfie. ‘You certainly know how to make a chap feel special.’

His Etonian-esque vowels are exactly as his voice coach trained him, all artificial plums and fake silver spoon. Duke was born and raised in Sunderland, but American audiences don’t know what to do with northern accents, his agent said, taking a further five per cent from his first paycheque to finance its flattening. Now he talks like Hugh Grant, which is no small mistake; now that Hugh has five kids and is in his sixties, someone needs to fill his British rom-com shoes. Nice bloke, though, Duke thinks. Hugh has always been very generous with his time towards him.

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