Love, Lies And Louboutins. Katie Oliver

he knows,” Dom grumbled. “He doesn’t much like it, but he understands. Which is more,” he couldn’t help adding, “than I can say for you.”

      “I understand this – your story’s a big load of bollocks,” Gemma retorted. “Besides, you need to start rehearsals for your new album soon, and you haven’t even picked out the songs yet—”

      “It takes time to write a song! I don’t just crap ’em out like laying eggs, Gemma. Besides, I’m going for a different sound this time around.” Dominic flung the covers aside and stood up. “I can’t be an effing punk rocker for ever, you know. I’m not nineteen any more. I need to grow as a musician. I want to explore other styles—”

      “You want to explore Christa’s knickers, you mean.”

      Dominic let out a pent-up breath of frustration. “I don’t know why I bother talking to you, Gemma. I really don’t. You always jump to the wrong conclusion. You don’t trust me, not at all. You just don’t get it.”

      “Oh, I get it, all right,” she flung back. “You’re doing what you do best – reverting to form and chasing after another skirt.” She leaned back in her chair and eyed her laptop through eyes awash with angry tears. “Now if you’ll excuse me, Dom, I have work to do.”

      “Wait!” Dominic protested. “You can’t just ring off in the middle of a conversation.”

      “Au contraire, Dominic, I can. And I will. But first,” she lifted her shoulder to keep the mobile phone in place against her ear “I have one last thing to say to you.”

      “Yeah?” he snapped. “And what’s that?”

      Gemma yanked the wedding ring from her finger and threw it down on her desk. “You can have your ring back. We’re through. Oh… and give my best to Christa. Happy canoodling. Bye.”

      And with that, she rang off, and burst into tears.

      Good job she hadn’t turned in her notice yet…

      A moment later, her boss, Rhys Gordon, appeared in his doorway, a look of concern on his face. “Gemma? What the hell’s going on? Is everything all right?”

      She grabbed a tissue from the box he held out to her and blew her nose. “No, it’s not all right! It’s Dominic again… like it always is. We’re through. This time,” she added firmly, “for good.”

      Having heard this refrain many times before, Rhys knew better than to believe it. “What’s the little sod done this time? Or should I say…who’s he done this time?”

      Gemma sniffled. “Her name’s Christa. She’s half-Indian, half-Anglo, and one hundred percent gorgeous.”

      “Christa? Oh, yes. I’ve heard her song on the radio. Repeatedly,” he added. “Natalie loves it.”

      “According to Dominic, she can’t cope with the sudden fame. I don’t buy it for a minute, though.”

      Rhys shrugged. “Who knows? It sounds reasonable enough. That’s the problem with Dominic – there’s always a tiny bit of truth buried somewhere in amongst the bullshit.”

      “Well, I can tell you this much,” Gemma said determinedly, “married or not, I’m through with Dominic Heath. And you can take that to the bank.”

       Chapter 2

      Christa picked up her mobile phone, took a deep breath, and scrolled to her mother’s number. There was no use in putting it off any longer; she owed her mum an explanation for her abrupt departure.

      “Hi,” she said when her mother answered. “It’s me.”

      “Christa? Where are you? Tell me, what’s going on?” Deepa Shaw demanded.

      “Nothing’s going on, Mum, I’m fine. I just needed a break.” She glanced around her at the interior of Dominic Heath’s personal Lear jet. “The paparazzi, the constant interviews and press conferences…it was too much, too fast.”

      It was amazing, she reflected with a twinge of guilt, just how easy it was to lie when you were partly telling the truth. “I don’t believe you. I know you better than anyone, jaanu. Tell me – what’s really going on?” her mother pressed.

      “Why have you abandoned your singing career, eh? Please tell me you’ve found a nice Goan boy instead?”

      “No,” Christa said firmly, “I haven’t, Mum, sorry. And I didn’t abandon my career. I just needed a break from it.”

      “A break?” Mrs Shaw echoed. “A break from being famous? Saints preserve us, have you lost your mind? Being famous is all you’ve ever wanted!”

      Christa didn’t answer. Perhaps she had lost her mind.

      After all, she’d walked away from a brilliant record deal, a top-ten single in the UK charts, and a beautiful town house in Primrose Hill.

      She’d achieved everything she’d ever dreamed of. And she’d worked bloody hard to do it. All those years of singing back-up, dodging various band members’ wandering hands on tour, paying her dues recording commercial jingles and radio ads, singing at weddings and in hole-in-the-wall clubs where the patrons were too drunk to listen to her sing…

      How to explain to mum that she had a very good reason for leaving her newfound fame behind?

      “If you ever question me again,” Tony ground out as he stood above her, fists clenched at his side, “I promise you, Christa, the next time, you won’t regain consciousness.”

      It took nearly two weeks for the bruises and black eye to fade. She cancelled two nights of the northern leg of her tour and rescheduled six interviews. When she finally ventured back in public, pancake make-up hid the remnants of Tony’s beating, and carefully placed scarves hid the throttle marks on her neck.

      “No, Mum, singing is all I ever wanted,” Christa corrected her. “It’s the fame I can’t deal with. I can’t go anywhere without being photographed – at the grocery store, in my car, even in the ladies’ loo. I’ve had to change my mobile phone number three times already. It’s ridiculous.”

      And it was ridiculous. Why should anyone care if she bought herself freesias at the corner market, or a tabloid at the newsagents? What did it matter if she went to get a cup of chai with her mates or went to her girlfriend’s birthday party in Fulham?

      Yet it did matter. Ever since her duet with Dominic Heath climbed to number one on the UK pop charts, nothing she did escaped public scrutiny. From her lip gloss to her love life to what she had for breakfast, everything was fodder for the tabloids. And although it was annoying, and although she knew she’d for ever lost her privacy, Christa accepted those losses as the price of fame.

      No, she decided with a heavy heart, better to let everyone think she simply couldn’t deal with the pressures of her sudden celebrity. Her family – and her mother in particular – must never know the truth.

      “I don’t understand you young people!” Deepa scolded. “The freedom you have to do as you like, to be anything you like, and yet you’re still not happy. When I was your age, I was already married and pregnant with you, running a household, cooking and cleaning and being a good wife.”

      Christa groaned inwardly as she listened to a refrain she’d heard, over and over again, as long as she could remember. According to Mum, the only route to happiness for a young woman was marriage and lots of babies.

      Two things had saved Christa from a traditional Indian arranged marriage; her mother’s rejection of the Goan man her own parents had chosen for her (in favour of an Irishman), and the fact that Christa had left home at sixteen.

      “Meet a nice young man and have his babies, that’s what makes a woman happy,