Love, Lies And Louboutins. Katie Oliver

that, you are wrong,” Deepa said firmly after a brief, wounded silence. “I was very happy raising you, making sure you had everything you needed. That was more than enough for me.”

      “I know. I’m sorry.” Christa sighed. “It’s just that I don’t want to settle down, Mum, at least…not yet. There’s too much I want to do, too much I need to accomplish, first.”

      “Just don’t leave it too long, jaanu,” Deepa warned her, “or you’ll grow too old to have babies, too old to attract a worthy man. You’ll end up like your Auntie Bal, old and alone, taking in mending and eking out a living in the market stalls.”

      “I have to go,” Christa told her mother as Dominic Heath boarded the jet with a guitar and a noticeable scowl. Uh-oh, he must have problems with Gemma, once again… “We’re almost ready for take-off. We’ll talk again soon.”

      “You’re on a plane?” On the other end of the phone, Deepa made a clucking noise. “Go then. At least you had the decency to call and let me know you’re all right. I was worried.” Her voice softened. “I love you, Christa.”

      “I love you, too, Mum. I’ll call soon. I promise.”

      “What’s wrong, Dominic?” she asked the rock singer – who looked like he’d just rolled out of bed – as she ended her call. “You look as if Arsenal just lost the world cup, or something.”

      “It’s Gemma,” he answered as he laid his guitar down. “She’s pissed off at me yet again, because she thinks you and me are an item. She took her wedding ring off, says she wants a divorce.”

      Christa looked at him in dismay. “Oh no. I’m so sorry, Dom. She’s really got the wrong end of the stick… Do you want me to call her and explain?”

      “Shit, no!” he said with a shudder. “That’ll just make everything nineteen times worse. Let sleeping cogs lie. Or whatever that saying is. Besides, it’s none of her bloody business why you’re here, is it?”

      Christa couldn’t argue with that. The fewer people who knew the real reason she’d really run away, the better. “Still,” she pointed out, “you owe Gemma some kind of an explanation.”

      “I did explain. I stuck to our cover story. I told her all that overnight attention did your head in. But it didn’t matter. Gemma didn’t believe me anyway,” he went on, his scowl deepening. “She never does. She always thinks the worst of me. And I’m bloody sick of it.”

      His friends had warned him about getting married. She’ll throw your past in your face every chance she gets, they said. And she’ll never trust you.

      And they’d been right.

      “Do you ever get tired of all this?” Christa asked curiously as he flung himself down next to her.

      “Tired?” He sighed. “I’m always fucking tired.”

      “No, I mean tired of this.” She swept one hand out to encompass the interior of the private jet. “This life – the paparazzi, the obsessive fans. The tabloids. The fame.”

      Dominic shrugged. “Sometimes, yeah. It’s not always all it’s cracked up to be.” He eyed her in sympathy. “Getting to you, is it?”

      “A bit,” she admitted, and frowned. “I mean, being famous is everything I’ve always wanted, and yet…it’s not how I thought it would be. It’s a kind of prison, isn’t it? It’s a nice one, but still – a prison. I only ever imagined the singing when I started out – recording my first album, headlining concerts. I never gave a thought to all of the normal things, the everyday things, I’d be giving up.”

      “Yeah, like going down the pub for a drink, or having a shop without sneaking in the back entrance, or wearing a hat and scarf and sunglasses everywhere you go. Or having a wife who trusts you not to shag every woman you see.

      Christa drew her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. “Do you ever regret it, Dom?”

      “What? Being famous?” he asked, startled. “I dunno. I never gave it much thought, to be honest. It’s all right, most of the time. The good stuff outweighs the bad.” He reached out and took her hand. “Speaking of the bad,” Dominic added gently, “how are you holding up? Are you all right?”

      He saw traces of discolouration still showing around her left eye, where her boyfriend had punched her. The thought of it swept him with renewed outrage.

      “I’m fine.” Christa squeezed his hand.

      “Are you sure? What about Tony? Will you press charges against him?”

      She shook her head. “Why bother?” she asked, her words weary and bitter. “If I go to the police, he’ll only beat me again, and harder, the next time. I’m not making excuses for him, mind,” she added as Dominic bristled, “but he’s scared, Dom. He’s got mixed up with a Turkish gang, and he owes them drugs money.”

      “That’s his problem, not yours. And if what you say is true, he’s involved in some serious shit, Christa. If he doesn’t pay up, they’ll kill him. Those lot don’t mess around.”

      “I know. And I don’t know where he’ll get the money.”

      “Well, I know this much.” Dominic straightened. “It’s not your problem. It’s a good job you’re away from the whole mess. Now –” he reached for his beat-up Gibson “– if you’re up to it, let’s run through a few song ideas I had last night. Max thinks we should do another duet. What d’you think?”

      Christa leaned forward. “I think you’re the sweetest, best friend I ever had,” she said softly as she laid her hand atop his.

      He snorted. “Tell that to Gemma.”

      “She’s very lucky to have someone like you in her life. She’ll realize it eventually, and come back to you.”

      He regarded her doubtfully. “You think?”

      “I know.” She brushed her lips against his cheek. “Thanks, Dom, for…everything. You’re a good friend.”

      “Yeah, right, well,” he replied, embarrassed, “you’re welcome. We’re mates, after all.” He strummed a couple of augmented chords. “Now, then, let’s get to work. Here’s what I came up with for the chorus…”

       Chapter 3

      It was half-past eight on Friday night and raining when Jools Beauchamp answered the doorbell. “Dad! I didn’t think you were coming.” It was his turn to have her for the weekend.

      “Sorry I’m late,” he said as he entered the hallway and shook the rain from his umbrella. “There was an accident on the A4, and of course I caught every light. How was school?”

      Jools shrugged. “You know. It was…school. I’m studying for a history test on Monday. The ancient Greeks.”

      “Ah, yes,” he said. “Herodotus and Pythagoras, Euripides and Sophocles…”

      She gathered up her things; a rucksack stuffed with clothes and her iPod (she loved that new song by Christa, “Promise Me Stars”) and called out over her shoulder, “Dad’s here, Mum. We’re leaving.”

      “Bye, darling,” came her mother’s disembodied voice.

      “Have fun.” In a slightly less friendly voice she said, “Hello, Oliver.”

      “Hello, Valery. I’ll have her back on Sunday evening.”

      With that, he opened the door and held out his hand for the rucksack. “Give me that. You take this.” He handed Jools his umbrella. “Let’s make a dash for it, shall we?”

      Jools unfurled the umbrella and pelted down the path, following her dad