Vocal Exercises
“Oh, that's good, baby. Keep going, just like that,” Jasper moaned.
I shuddered. Why did he have to be so damn loud?
If he kept that up, the whole corridor would hear him, and then Mags would hear him, and then I'd be out of a job.
I stood with my back flat against the dressing-room door, clipboard hugged to my chest, and studied the instructions on the fire extinguishers next to me. It hadn’t had a safety check in months. There was even a cobweb on the handle. Probably wouldn’t work to save me if I spontaneously combusted from stress then.
I checked my watch. His publicist was due to arrive any second. Why couldn’t he just hurry up and get it done?
“Mm. Right there. That’s the spot.”
Right there?! Not even remotely sexy. It sounded more like he was performing a clinical exam than getting laid.
In my defence, I hadn't chosen any of this. Nobody dreams of being a PA, especially not one who’s been relegated to general dogsbody. At school, when the careers adviser asked what we wanted to be, nobody said general dogsbody for an actor and his bad decisions. But that’s where I ended up.
It was ten to seven on the night of the Cavendish Court series two premiere, and the theatre was heaving with people holding phones, waiting for Jasper Hartley.
Yes, the Jasper Hartley who had spent fourteen months being publicly, adoringly, and contractually in love with his co-star Saskia Devereux.
Also, the Jasper Hartley who was behind this door with a woman called Tash from Rochdale. She had somehow talked her way past the stage door. How she managed that with a banner that said MARRY ME, DUKE, I’ll never know.
He'd given me the instruction at twenty to seven, with his shirt already half off. "Twenty minutes. Guard the door. Nobody is to come in. I need to decompress."
Decompress. Like he was a diver. A muffdiver, I sniggered to myself.
"Oh, God," said Tash, through the door. "Do that again."
"Don't mind if I do," said Jasper in the voice he used for the Duke.
I grimaced.
Here is what you need to understand about the fake relationship. The entire nation believes in it. People in other countries are buying it.
Over four million people follow a fan account called @JaskiaForever. There’s a collectible mug, badges and god knows what else. People loved Jasper and Saskia.
Mags Finch, Jasper's publicist, was the one who created it, to boost viewing figures, and she has told me that if a single photograph of Jasper with anyone else ever reaches a newspaper, the show's viewing figures will definitely drop and everyone working for Jasper will be dropped.
Starting with me.
"Louder, and harder," moaned Tash.
Not louder. Please, God, not louder.
"Jasper," I hissed, rapping on the door. "Volume."
"What?" he called in a voice too loud for this.
"Volume!"
"I can't hear you, Alice, I'm a bit busy."
“Keep it down!”
I put my forehead against the cold wall to calm me down.
I thought about how much I would love to quit, but how my stepmother Bev's bank letters had started coming in brown envelopes with FINAL DEMAND written on them.
I heard the heels before I saw them. Only Mags walked in that rhythm. I looked up and there she was
"Alice. Whatever are you doing out here?”
Mags was in an overpriced designer white trouser suit with her phone in one hand and her earpiece in, and she was early, which she has never been in the whole time I've known her.
"Where is he?"
"Warming up," I said.
"Warming up what? For what?” Mags raised an eyebrow.
"His voice. For the Q&A."
"Jasper has never warmed up in his life. He opens his mouth and hopes for the best. We both know that."
"He's trying something new. It was highly recommended on social media."
From behind the door came a long, rich, deeply unmistakable groan. Mags's eyebrows shot up even higher.
"What," said Mags, "was that?"
"Resonance. It's a technique. He hums into his chest." Mags wasn’t buying it and I was babbling. "It's, it's very method. The Duke’s a baritone."
"Jasper is a tenor."
"Well… He's aiming for baritone."
Mags looked at the door. She looked at me with narrowed eyes.
The door opened.
Out came Tash in a low cut top with a broken strap, her hair was in a state and her skirt was on backwards. She was glowing.
"Hi," said Tash.
"This is Jasper's vocal coach."
There was a long pause as Mags took in Tash. There’s no way she’s buying this.
"Lovely," Mags said, at last, through her teeth. "Do send me your invoice."
"Will do." Tash gave me a tiny, conspiratorial nod. "Cheers, love. He's got a great tongue technique.” She giggled as she sauntered off down the corridor.
Then Jasper came out with a red lacy G-string in his hands. His shirt was buttoned one hole out. His hair which had been perfectly styled was now messily tousled. He was flushed and beaming, like a man who'd just been told he'd won an Oscar.
"Ladies!" said Jasper.
"You look flushed," said Mags.
“It’s often that way after his vocal coaching,” I said, hoping he’d pick up on it.
"Yes, I've been deep breathing."
"Have you?" Mags frowned.
"Yes. Very deeply." He caught sight of his reflection in the glass of the door and adjusted a curl. "Alice. Remind me to send flowers. To Trish."
"Her name is Tash."
"That's the one." He smiled at me. "Good girl."
“You need to be onstage, like now. And button your shirt up properly,” I said.
And off he went, shoving the G-string into his pants pocket, and buttoning his shirt up on his way towards the stage, the press and the adoring fans.
Mags didn't move. When he was out of earshot, she turned to me and spoke in a very low, level voice.
"Vocal coach… was it?”
"Yes."
"Whatever that was, it doesn't happen again. Not before the Masquerade. Not for a fortnight. If it reaches a newspaper, we’ll all suffer."
"Understood."
"Good." She looked at my face for a second longer than usual. Something flickered in her expression, probably pity, and then went away again. "Alice. You do know you can do better than this."
I opened my mouth to say that I knew, but she was already walking away.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
It was a text from Bev. Home soon darling? Don't rush. Need a little chat about the bank xx
I stood there for a moment, reading it. Then I put the clipboard under my arm, straightened my lanyard and went to wait backstage. I could already hear four hundred people were applauding him. Not once did I get a thank you.
I did everything for this man and he couldn’t even say thank you.
After my father died the spring I turned twenty-one, I took the first high-paying job I saw an advert for, because we needed the money.
The advert said: Personal assistant to TV star. Must be calm under pressure, flexible schedule.
It didn't say: Must be prepared to be on duty 24/7. Will be required to manage all of his life because he is incapable. Will definitely see more of him naked than you’d like.
I'd have asked for more if it did.
That was eight years ago. Eight years of sacrificing my personal life to him. I hadn’t had a date in years or done anything nice in years without him interrupting.
I had the worst job in London, and I could not afford to lose it.
