Starstuck

Isabella lay star-fished on her bed, transfixed on the ceiling above her. As usual, whenever she was unhappy or stymied, she lay here and let her eyes travel across the ornate cornices of the high Georgian ceiling of the townhouse flat she owned in central London. She knew every detail of the elegant plaster by heart. But these last few months, she had spent too much time here, visually traversing the architecture above her. Every day, it seemed at the moment, brought a little more wistfulness into her life.

She rolled onto her side and glanced at the clock on the bedside table. In an hour, the car was coming to collect her and she had yet to shower and make herself look presentable. Outside, a winter rain washed the sleet from the pavements and downstairs, she could hear her flatmate, Tula, singing along to the Christmas songs on the radio. It was no use just lying here though. She had to muster the energy to leave the cosy warmth of the flat and head out into the cold of the night. Much as she would have loved to have changed from work clothes into her pyjamas and taken a glass of wine onto the sofa to watch a box set with Tula, she had made a promise and she couldn’t renege on it now.

Yesterday, it had seemed like a fun - if somewhat extraordinary - idea. Buoyed by a successful pitch at the public relations company – Clarion Communications – where she worked, Isabella had, for once, managed to push her thoughts about Miles and the awful conversation they had had two weeks ago, out of her mind. She had bounced down the corridors, the plaudits of her client and executive television producer, Jerry Weinberger, ringing in her ears. She was already planning what she would say to Claudia, her boss, about the deal they had just struck to manage the campaign of a series of high profile documentaries.

Knocking on Claudia’s door, Isabella had opened her mouth to give her the news but was cut off at the pass.

‘I want to scream!’ Claudia had said, staring daggers at her. ‘Literally, right now. I want to…’ she looked rapidly around her desk as if searching for something to throw. ’I don’t know…kill someone!’

Isabella halted on her toes, biting her lip.

‘Bloody Thom Harkitt,’ Claudia had snapped. ‘I mean, seriously?’

“Who’s Thom Harkitt?” Isabella had asked.

Claudia had leaned over her desk ferociously. ‘Nobody,’ she had hissed, pointing a finger at Isabella. ‘That’s the bloody point!’

’Sorry, Claudia, I’m confused,” Isabella had ventured. ‘Can I help at all? I’ve just been in with Jerry Wein…’

‘Can you help?’ Claudia interrupted. She sat back abruptly and frowned. ‘Interesting proposition. Can you help? I wonder…’

Isabella had smiled. She liked Claudia. She was terrifying in many ways, but she was also fun and not afraid to stand up for what she believed in. Her dark hair was always piled on top of her head, a white streak cutting through the parting which emphasised her vivid violet eyes. Isabella had never seen Claudia eat a single thing. She was rake thin and always wore black. And she was never without a large bottle of San Pellegrino within clutching distance, which she invariably used to wave in people’s faces when she wanted something done.

‘I’d be happy to help,’ Isabella had said, leaning back on the doorframe. ‘What’s the problem?’

Claudia had glanced behind Isabella to the corridor outside her office. ‘Shut the door,’ she said.

Complying, Isabella came further into the room and sat in the chair opposite Claudia which the older woman had gestured at regally with her bottle of water.

‘Thom Harkitt,’ Claudia had grimaced, ‘is Norwegian.’

Isabella waited for some further information. The fact of this Thom Harkitt being from Norway didn’t strike her as immediately annoying but, knowing Claudia, there would be more.

Her boss duly flapped a hand in front of her face. ’It’s irrelevant. The point is, that I’ve finally managed to swing an invite to the INTO THE DUSK premiere tomorrow night.’

Isabella raised her eyebrows. INTO THE DUSK was the hottest film on release and Leicester Square was already packed with barriers and fans queueing overnight, desperate for the sight or autograph of the Hollywood stars who would be flying into London especially for the occasion.

‘Exactly,’ Claudia said. ‘But this meeting with Harkitt has been in my diary for months. He’s flown in from Oslo and we arranged dinner to talk about how Clarion can help him raise his profile here.’

‘He’s an actor?’ Isabella asked.

Claudia shrugged. ‘Some old singer I think,’ she sighed. ‘Joss has never heard of him anyway. Hence him needing our services.’

Isabella nodded, smiling. Joss was Claudia’s niece and generally her watermark as to the popularity of singers or actors.

Claudia shook her head vigorously. ‘I can’t do it. I have to go to the premiere. I’m not going to turn it down for old Thom Harkitt.’ She threw Isabella a beguiling look. ‘You on the other hand…’

Isabella met her gaze. ‘Me?’ she said innocently.

’He’s lovely,’ Claudia purred.

‘You said you’d never met him.’

’Well, not in person. But I hear he’s divine…’

Isabella laughed. ‘Alright, alright. I’ll do it. Tomorrow night?’

‘I’ll set the whole thing up,’ Claudia said brightly, looking down at her desk. She gathered some papers together and leaned back to read. Isabella was clearly dismissed and turned to leave.

‘Oh, Jerry Weinberger?’ Claudia shot at her departing back.

‘We got the commission,’ Isabella replied.

‘That’s my girl,’ Claudia said, her eyes still on the papers.

Twenty-four hours later however, and the prospect of going out for the evening with Thom Harkitt was anything less than appealing. Isabella forced herself to get off the bed and stood in front of the mirror, twirling the ends of her shoulder-length blonde hair. She had been working at Clarion for two years since she had graduated from Oxford with a First Class degree in English Literature. It was the classic two-year dip that all of her friends had warned her about. Either you got promoted or you moved on elsewhere.

‘Or you get married,’ Tula had said to her cheerfully the other night. ‘And go and live somewhere fabulous in the country. Oh!’ her face had fallen as she had seen Isabella’s expression. ‘Oh, sorry babe. I didn’t mean to remind you about Miles or anything…sorry.’

Isabella had smiled ruefully and topped up her wine. She didn’t need reminding about Miles as she thought about him every second and every minute of the day. How she had been so sure of them as a couple, so sure of their future. And how it had all collapsed into clouds of dust just a few weeks ago.

She lifted her chin. She wouldn’t think about that now. Looking at her reflection, she thought about Clarion and Claudia and how she wanted to stay on there. She wanted more responsibility. And if that meant going out for dinner with an old Norwegian folk singer, so be it. Not that she had any information that he was a folk singer, or even that he was that old, but she pictured him a little like an old fisherman with a navy roll-neck jumper and a white beard and hair. And if she had to go and sit opposite him in a restaurant and extoll the virtues of Clarion to him so that they could get him on their client list and she could further impress Claudia, so be it.

Turning to her wardrobe, she scooped her hair into a loose bun, clipping it at the base of her neck. She picked a rose-coloured silk dress with long sleeves. Claudia had mentioned dinner but she had no idea where. Apparently, Thom was sending a car for her to the flat. It was freezing outside, so she put on fawn suede boots and grabbed her cashmere coat from the hallway outside as she left her room.

‘You look nice!’ Tula called from the open-plan kitchen as Isabella passed by in the hall. ‘Want a quick drink before you go?’

‘Ugh,’ Isabella popped her head around the doorframe, checking her watch. ‘I’ve got about five minutes. Captain Birdseye is picking me up soon.’

Tula raised one eyebrow as she poured an inch of white wine into a glass. ‘Hot date?’

‘Hardly. Work dinner. Some Norwegian bloke.’

‘Oooh, I love Scandinavians,’ Tula said, hopping up onto a bar stool at the kitchen island. ’They’re so outdoorsy and wholesome. Rugged. Think of that guy – that actor, what’s his name…? Bjorn someone…’

‘Are you thinking of the guy from ABBA?’ Isabella asked wryly.

‘Ha – no. The fit one. Anyway,’ Tula sipped from her wine. ‘Where are you going?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ Isabella admitted. ‘He’s sending a car for me.’

‘Very Cinderella.’

‘We’ll probably end up at some fish place eating smoked herring.’

‘Could be worse,’ Tula said, glancing at the corner of the room where a mound of ironing was bundled onto a chair. ‘You could be stuck here tackling that for fun.’ She paused before saying, ‘it’ll be good for you anyway. Getting out with someone else. Stretching your wings a bit.’

Isabella looked down at her fingers entwined around the stem of the wine glass. A knot hardened in her throat and for a terrible moment she thought that she might cry.

The sound of the doorbell cut into the room.

‘There’s my Prince Charming,’ she said with something approaching relief.

Tula downed her wine in one gulp. ‘Be back by midnight, Cinders.’