Love...Among The Stars: Book 4 in the Love...Series (Love Series) (6 page)

The old Newman charm makes a triumphant return as Jamie smiles, kisses me gently on the cheek and says 'My pleasure, baby. Anything for you.'

I've been married to this idiot for a long time now, and I still love the fact his kisses can make my heart flutter.

Jamie leads me out into the corridor and through the large glass door, where we are greeted by a hundred happy looking individuals.

At least I think they're happy. In the relative gloom I can't quite make out their facial expressions, but I'm going to be positive here and assume that they are pleased to see us.

Cringingly, we then receive a short round of applause from everyone gathered. The enthusiasm of the clapping varies, according to how much money the individual is making from our book sales. I see our agent Craig smacking his hands together with great aplomb, while several others at the back of the crowd are showing far less
vigour
. I can only assume that they are the poor schmucks who actually have to do all the work around here, and would much rather be at home right now watching Netflix.

Thankfully, this squirm inducing exercise is brought to a halt when we are approached by Craig, and Peter Hincham, the head of the company. Hincham is the kind of man who looks like he should be in a Hugh Grant comedy. Not one of the main cast you understand, he's a bit too non-descript for that. But there is no doubt in my mind that he'd provide a cracking cameo as the eccentric uncle, or the kindly antique store owner who tells the hero which direction the love of his life has just run off in.

You probably don't need any more description of Peter Hincham than that, but just in case - he has wavy grey hair, is wearing a maroon waistcoat underneath his Hugo Boss suit, and his fingers are stained with forty years of heavy tobacco usage. You couldn't get a man more different from our towering agent Craig, who beams magnificently as he reaches us.

'Glad you're here at last!' he booms, then contrives to look concerned. 'Hope you're not feeling too bad, Laura.'

I affect a slightly pained squint. In for a penny, in for a pound, as they say. 'No, no. It's okay. I just can't stand in bright lights for too long.' I hold up a hand to the dim arc sodium strip lights above our head, shielding my eyes slightly. I'm going comprehensively overboard here, but what can I say? I'm getting a flair for melodrama in my old age.

'Pleased to hear it!' Peter Hincham chimes in. 'We would have hated for you to miss the event Laura. You are, after all, the star of the show!'

Flattery will probably get you somewhere Peter, but not quite as far as you'd like, I'm sure.

It is at this moment that the most important person in the entire building approaches me... the guy with the plate of drinks. I swiftly grab a glass of white wine, and try my very best to hide myself completely behind it. Jamie blanches as soon as he sees the arranged alcoholic beverages. 'Have you got any orange juice?' he asks, and is delighted when a girl enters from stage left carrying a plate of softies.

'All ready to do a little speech guys?' Peter asks.

'Sorry, what?' I reply, nearly spitting out my wine.

'A speech?
I did ask Jamie if it was okay...' Peter replies, looking to my husband for affirmation.

Jamie's lips purse, and all the good, hard work he accomplished with the photophobia has now flown merrily out the window, thanks to the fact that he has neglected to tell me that we have to stand in front of this lot and speak.

'Jamie, should you have told me about this, do you think?' I hiss under my breath.

'Er... um... ah... '

Oh, for fuck's sake.

Craig, who may be a bull in a china shop 99% of the time, is still capable of tact and diplomacy when necessary. 'Never mind, Laura,' he says, putting one arm around my shoulder. 'I'm sure Jamie can do the speaking for the both of you, if you'd like him to.'

'I can?' my husband responds with a slight whine.

'Yes. Yes,
you
can Jamie.' I tell him firmly.

'Great!' Peter exclaims and rubs his hands together. 'Thank you very much.' He cranes his head over one shoulder, and looks over to where
a contingent of small Oriental men are
standing near the drinks table. One tiny woman is also with them, nursing a small glass of water and pretending to look interested in what’s going on. 'We've got some important folk here this evening. Mr Sakamura is here from Rokuko Holdings.'

Peter says this as if it's meant to mean anything to us.

'Who's that?' Jamie enquires, peering through the gloom.

'Rokuko have just bought a large stake in Watermill Publishing. Mr Sakamura is very excited by his investment. He's even brought his wife along tonight, which just goes to show how proud he is,' Peter explains. 'His money couldn't have come at a better time, what with the economic climate, and the whole ebook thing...
' he
trails off, as if talking about it gives him physical pain.

'Ah, I see,' Jamie says with a nod. 'Then I'll try my best.'

'Thank you!' Peter responds, genuinely pleased. 'I'll introduce you to him after your speech.' He glances at his watch. 'Speaking of which, shall we get it over and done with so you can enjoy the rest of the evening?'

'Yes please!'

My husband is eager to get things under way. I, however, am not. You see, Jamie may have been volunteered to do the whole of the speech alone, but he is to public speaking what Pol Pot was to the Cambodian tourist trade. I am not looking forward to what comes next.

'If I could have everyone's attention!' Peter calls over the crowd, immediately ending the variety of hushed conversations that were going on in the room. 'Thank you. We're all delighted to be here tonight to celebrate the launch of the third book in the Love series. It's fantastic to have the writers Jamie and Laura Newman here this evening, and I think Jamie would like to say a few words to you all. Jamie?'

Peter moves aside as a small ripple of applause breaks out. Jamie moves forward, and for a moment I think I'm going to avoid embarrassment, but then he reaches out a hand for me to join him. I suppress a growl of discontent, and reluctantly go to stand next to him. I know the lights are low, but I still don't want to be in front of a crowd of onlookers as little miss banana face.

'Hello everyone,' Jamie begins, which is as good a start as any. 'Thanks for coming.' Also fine. 'We're delighted to be here this evening.'
A lie, but only a white one.
'Even if I'm a little
hungover
and Laura has turned into a vampire.' Yep, there we go. Not three sentences in, and Jamie has screwed the pooch already.

There are a couple of uncertain titters from the crowd.

'It's lovely to be here, so we can thank you for coming to launch our book with us.' Okay, that's better again. Let's just hope the references to his drinking problems and my skin issues were just minor aberrations on the smooth path to a successful speech.

'They say you should always picture a crowd naked when you're talking to them,' he continues. 'If you're feeling nervous that is.' Jamie looks at me. 'To be honest with you though, Laura's about the only one here I'd like to see naked!'

Oh, fuck me.

Jamie has decided he's going to be funny. Disaster is imminent.

He points at the girl with the soft drinks. 'And maybe that girl over there, eh? Ha ha!'

Nobody is laughing, least of all the poor bitch Jamie has just singled out for his perverted attentions.

My husband realises that the crowd is not with him on this one, but instead of shutting up, he instead ploughs onwards with this feeble line of comedy. 'I certainly wouldn't want to see old Craig our agent with no clothes on!' My hand goes to my forehead. 'Or anyone here who's fat!'
Facepalm
. 'Or over fifty!' Double
facepalm
.

I suppose it was inevitable that I'd have to step in and take over at some point, but you like to think in life that things can change every once in a while. I had hoped that at the age of nearly forty, Jamie would be able to stand in front of a small group of people and make a short, sensible speech without insulting anyone, but it appears that I am comprehensively wrong.

'I'm sorry everyone, my husband gets a bit tongue tied when he has to speak in public,' I smoothly interject. 'Why don't you let me say a few words,
darling
?'

Jamie's left eye twitches a couple of times. 'Yeah... maybe you should. Thanks,' he replies slowly, and hands the floor to me.

'What I think my husband was trying to say,' I start, attempting to polish this turd a bit, 'is that we're very grateful to see you here this evening, and that it feels quite humbling to have all of your support.' This gets me a few appreciative nods, so I know I'm on the right lines. 'While Jamie and I write these books, they wouldn't see the light of day without your hard work, and it's very important that we - '

I'm interrupted by the sudden glare of the overhead lights ratcheting up in intensity by several notches. Everyone in the room is forced to shield their eyes to adjust, as the general ambience goes from the soft gloom of an Italian bistro, to the harsh arc sodium glare of an operating theatre.

While this brings a short and unpleasant wince from everyone gathered, it marks a far darker turn of events for yours truly. The hideous yellowness of my face is now on display for all to see and gawk at. I might as well start charging 50p to come up and have your picture taken with the half banana woman.

What's more, Jamie has of course told everyone that I am suffering from photophobia, so I'd better do something right now to back up the charade, or I'm going to make him look like a liar.

I turn my head away from the lights as swiftly as possible.

This doesn't feel like it's enough to convey how bad my fictional photophobia is, so I also make a hissing noise as I do so. I'm meaning to sound the same way a person does when they put their hand into scalding hot water, but what I actually sound like is Christopher Lee at the end of Dracula, when Peter Cushing pulls the curtain aside to let in the glorious Transylvanian sunlight. I have gone from erudite public speaker, to evil creature of the night in a few split seconds.

Jamie sees what I've done and decides to make the whole thing worse by throwing his arms around me and barking 'will somebody please turn down the lights! My wife!' He screeches this in such a high pitched, tremulous voice that anyone would think my face was melting right off and into the carpet.

'Somebody turn the bloody lights down!' Craig roars, picking up on Jamie's panicked tone.

'Get me to the bloody toilet Jamie,' I whisper to my husband from my hunched position. "And calm the fuck down before somebody calls an ambulance!"

'Sorry! Just trying to sell the illusion!'

'I think you've sold it, bagged the damn thing up, and followed the customer home to watch them insert it. Now get me to the toilet!'

Jamie does as he's told, shielding me from the crowd as we trot swiftly across the room. We hurry down a corridor and I slam the door to the ladies open, disappearing inside without another word, leaving Jamie to handle the concerned partygoers.

The lights in the toilet are pretty bright, but at least I don't have to worry about pretending they are burning my face off. With a sigh of relief, I lean against the long row of marble sinks and take a deep breath.

'Photo
bloody
phobia,' I mumble. 'What a great excuse Jamie,' I admonish to my absent husband. What had seemed like a great idea to begin with, has now turned comprehensively sour, and left me conducting a vampire based pantomime for a hundred publishing people. I turn to the mirrors behind the wash basins and let out a sharp intake of breath as I am confronted once again with just how bloody yellow my face truly is. They had better have lowered the lights out there again, otherwise I'm not coming out until everyone else has left.