Читать книгу Love, Lies And Louboutins - Katie Oliver - Страница 10
ОглавлениеChrista 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, Christa,” her mother was saying, “not chasing after fame and fortune and a career in music.”
“It didn’t make you happy, did it?” Christa snapped.
Instantly, she regretted the words. Although it was true her father was a selfish bastard who’d kept Mum from her family in Mumbai, it was hardly her mother’s fault.
“In 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…”
