The Winner, page 11
‘I doubt your friend cares about you as much as I do. Would she wait around for four hours just to get a glimpse of you?’ He shook his head. ‘No. It’s because I’m devoted. And I think that sort of devotion deserves a reward.’ He was dragging her nearer as he said this, so close she could smell his breath: stale coffee overlaid with mint. Revulsion made her recoil reflexively. She could attack him, scratch and punch until he let go of her arm. But then what? She couldn’t run; he would recapture her easily. And this time, he’d be angry.
Think, Heather, think!
‘Would you like to join me and my friend for drinks? The three of us could have a glass of wine together. Then maybe you and I could go somewhere afterwards for a private chat.’ Heather knew she was blowing Noah’s ‘boundary-setting’ rule for dealing with ardent fans, but this one had clearly crossed the line between fan and stalker. At this point, she would have said anything to get away.
But he wasn’t so easily deterred. ‘No, I don’t think so. We can have a nice, private chat right now. On the bench under the willow.’
And he began dragging her past the climbing frame and towards the tree, with its thick curtain of leaves. He could do anything to her under there; no one would see.
‘No!’ she shouted. ‘Let go of me right now or—’
She was interrupted by a metal squeal – the west gate opening; it had needed oil for years – followed by a male voice, young and familiar-sounding, calling out, ‘It’s still open! C’mon!’ Then footsteps, indistinguishable words and laughter.
Heather couldn’t see whoever had just come in; her back was to the gate. But right now, they represented her best chance of escape.
Bill was still pulling her along by the arm, lips compressing into a line of displeasure as she resisted, digging in her heels and leaning back with all her weight.
She turned her head towards the gate, where she could hear more laughter, and shouted at the top of her voice. ‘Help me! I’m being attacked!’
The laughter stopped abruptly.
‘It’s fine,’ her captor shouted. ‘She’s my girlfriend. This is just a … a little misunderstanding.’
‘He’s lying!’ Heather screamed. ‘Help me! Please!’
There was a beat of silence. She had time to think that have-a-go heroes were thin on the ground in London, that the next sound she heard would probably be the gate’s squeak as whoever was out there decided this was hassle they didn’t need.
Please help me.
The grip on her wrist tightened.
Then footsteps again, not hurrying away – thank God, thank God – but running towards her.
‘Let go of her!’
The fingers released their grip suddenly, as though her skin had turned white-hot. But she could still feel him beside her, like a shadow. She felt paralysed as he whispered in her ear, the sensation of his breath sending a chill right through her.
‘I’ll be watching for your posts.’ And before she had time to react, he was gone, leaving only empty air beside her. She could hear him running, sending loose pebbles scattering as he dashed back towards the east gate.
‘Miss Davies? Are you okay?’
She couldn’t recall ever having been so grateful to see someone. Dean Mitchell, her teenage saviour. Again. His older brother appeared beside him a moment later. Jake, was it? Similar features to Dean, the same wide, dark eyes and curved cheekbones, the same short dreadlocks sticking straight up. She looked at the pair of them standing there, wearing matching expressions of concern and felt gratitude rising inside her. She resisted the impulse to pull them both into a hug.
‘I’m fine.’ But her legs clearly disagreed, because they suddenly seemed to be made of water. She sat down quickly on the grass, afraid she might collapse if she didn’t. The two brothers looked at each other.
‘What happened?’ Dean asked. ‘Did he really attack you?’
She swallowed. Nodded. ‘Yes. Well. He was trying to … drag me away.’
Dean frowned, clearly struggling to work out exactly what this was all about, who the man was and why he’d gone after her. ‘Maybe you should call the police?’
But now that she was starting to calm down a little, Noah’s instructions were coming back to her.
If you ever get into any trouble with fans, call me. There are … consequences to calling the police now that your life is open to the public. So it’s best to weigh all the options first.
‘Thanks, Dean. I’m sure I will. But there’s someone else I need to speak to first. And right now, I just want to get home.’ Her eyes moved to his brother. ‘Would you two mind walking me?’
The siblings exchanged a puzzled frown. There were, of course, plenty of people on the estate who would avoid calling the police at all costs. But the boys had clearly assumed she wasn’t one of them. Because she was part of the system, a humming cog in society’s machine, trying to stop young people from falling through the gaps. Or at least, that’s what she’d been at the school.
‘Okay, Miss. If you’re sure that’s what you want.’
CHAPTER 14
Heather’s heart began to race the moment she stepped out through her front door. She had spent the night slipping between dreams in which she was being chased but couldn’t run, and the morning hunched over her laptop with the blinds drawn, reading fan comments and catching up on other CelebRaters’ posts. By two-thirty she was starting to feel trapped. She needed to go for a walk, stretch her legs, get some air.
Stop hiding.
Her eyes dashed up and down the street, searching for the lurking figure of a man. No one. Just a father pushing a pram and an elderly couple strolling hand in hand. Her fear turned to anger as she walked away from the house. Some of it was aimed at the man in the park. But most of it was directed at herself. When she’d spoken to Noah, he’d told her that Bill the fan was just a sad, desperate loser who had become fixated on a stranger’s photos. And it was true. So why was she giving him so much power over her?
It began to rain as she headed towards Holland Park Avenue, slowing as she passed a lilac-painted house near the end of her street. There was a lilac convertible parked directly in front. A coincidence, surely? She couldn’t imagine any of her posh neighbours intentionally matching their cars to their houses.
Then, from the direction of the house, came the clatter of high heels, an erratic gait. Heather turned to see a woman struggling down the front steps dragging a wheeled suitcase, head bent, face hidden behind a curtain of blonde hair.
‘Can I help you?’ Heather asked, dashing up the stairs and grabbing the bottom of the case. The woman lifted her head, revealing her face.
Analise.
After their chat at the New Heights, Heather had watched a few of the make-up artist’s vlogs. The Analise in those videos had been articulate and relatable, with a dash of self-deprecating humour.
The Analise in front of her was a mess.
Her mascara was smudged, leaving dark blotches under her eyes that made it look as though she’d been punched. Her inflated lips had been outlined and painted red at some point, but she must have been drinking since, because most of the colour had been washed away, leaving only the crimson frame. One of her hair extensions had pulled free and become caught in her collar, where it hung dejectedly.
‘Hello, Analise!’ Heather took hold of the suitcase, carrying it down the last few steps to the pavement. ‘I had no idea you lived so close to me. Are you off on holiday?’
Analise stumbled down the stairs, staggering sideways when she reached the pavement, clearly drunk. She squinted at Heather, eyes widening and narrowing as though trying to bring her into focus.
‘Hey, you’re Heather from the party! You looked so pretty in that red dress. I forgot to tell you I liked your tagline in the Final Fifteen. “Classy Girl”. So cute!’
‘Class … never mind. Look, are you … okay?’
Analise gave her head a firm shake, sending the rogue hair extension sliding to the pavement.
‘No. It’s fair to say that I am not okay. I can’t get away, you see.’ She grabbed Heather’s shoulders, filling her nostrils with the smell of alcohol as she leaned in close. ‘Did he get to you too?’
A dark thought blasted through Heather like an icy wind. The man in the park. What had he done to Analise?
I’m your biggest fan.
She should never have let Noah talk her out of going to the police.
‘Who?’ she demanded urgently. ‘Has someone hurt you? What did he look like?’
But Analise was shaking her head, swinging it all the way from one side to the other.
‘I can’t see him. But he’s everywhere.’ Then she leaned forward and whispered into Heather’s ear, holding on to her arm, long nails digging in. ‘Watch out. He knows everything.’
‘Who does? Tell me what’s going on!’ But a car had appeared beside them, a Triple F Mercedes. Heather was surprised to see Noah step out of the back. He did a double-take when he saw her standing on the pavement next to Analise.
‘Heather … I didn’t know you two were friends.’ He looked down the street in the direction of her house. ‘Although I guess you are practically neighbours.’
The rain was coming down harder now but Analise didn’t seem to notice. She stood swaying beside her suitcase, which had somehow fallen onto its front. Noah picked it up and carried it to the boot, placing it inside. Then he took Analise by the arm and gently guided her towards the car, holding the back door open. But she didn’t get in.
‘Are you coming there with me, Noah?’
‘Oh. Actually, Analise, I wasn’t planning …’
She started to cry immediately, noisy tears that she didn’t bother to wipe away. ‘I’m scared! I need you!’
He put an arm around her shoulders. ‘In that case, I will come with you and stay until you’re settled in. There’s no need to feel scared.’ She nodded, tears still flowing as she hugged him around the waist before ducking inside the car. ‘Just give me one second, Analise. I need a quick word with Heather, then we’ll be on our way.’
His face was grim as he led Heather a few steps down the pavement.
‘What’s going on, Noah?’ she whispered. ‘Is it—’ She swallowed. ‘Did someone do something to her?’ She pictured Bill the fan pacing this very street, perhaps waiting for Heather, but seeing Analise instead. Recognising her from CelebRate. Falling in step behind her. If Bill had done something, it was all Heather’s fault for not reporting him.
Noah took a compact umbrella from an inner pocket. It sprang open at his touch and he held it above Heather’s head, protecting her from the rain. ‘I’m afraid Analise has had a … setback.’ He blew out a puff of air. ‘Okay, let’s call a spade a spade. A breakdown. She’s struggling to cope with the trolling aspect of Triple F life.’
‘Trolling?’ Heather frowned, remembering Analise’s dismissive shrug. You learn to step over them, not let them stick to your shoe. ‘She didn’t seem bothered about trolls when we spoke at the party. She sounded … fine. Happy.’
‘Well as you can see, she’s not fine and happy now. So she’s going to spend a few days in a very discreet mental health facility to help settle her nerves and get her back on track. I’m only telling you this because of what you’ve just witnessed. It’s very important that this doesn’t become public, so you cannot tell anyone or, God forbid, say something on social media. Doing so would cross a red line for the contest, resulting in immediate removal from CelebRate and the severing of payments. Analise needs time and space to recover. With a little luck, she’ll bounce back stronger than ever and no one need ever know.’
The threat of exile made Heather draw a shocked breath.
‘I won’t say anything. But I don’t really understand the need for secrecy. Can’t Analise just admit to her followers that she’s struggling?’
Noah sighed. ‘I don’t think she’d get much sympathy, do you? Here’s a girl who has been handed money and fame on a plate, freaking out because there’s one downside, a downside that she would have been well aware of going in. There’s a real risk that her popularity would evaporate – and with it the amazing opportunities that have come her way. Three million followers. A spot in the Top Trio, which as I’m sure you’re aware means a lot more media attention, not to mention higher-paying, more prestigious sponsors. Netflix has been in talks with us about a series based on her vlogs. Why risk it?’
Heather nodded. He had a point. ‘But won’t the fans notice she’s gone quiet on CelebRate?’
‘There are some unused vlogs and photos we can post to keep things ticking over until she gets back.’
Heather looked towards the car. The windows were reflective glass, so she couldn’t see Analise’s face.
‘I don’t understand how this happened so fast. She seemed so upbeat at the mixer.’
‘I guess she was keeping her true feelings buried.’ Noah glanced towards the car. ‘I’d better go. We’ve got a long drive ahead of us.’
‘Okay. Thanks for telling me. It’s kind of you to go with her.’
‘It’s nothing. I just wish I could do more.’ Heather trailed behind as he returned to the car, watching as he opened the door. She caught a brief glimpse of Analise, wild-eyed and tear-stained, as he ducked inside. Then the door closed and all she could see was her own rain-warped reflection in the window as the car pulled away.
‘Have you lost your mind?’ Steve said, waving a chip in the air. ‘Why the hell didn’t you go to the police?’
Heather poured sugar into her coffee. ‘Noah Fauster advised against it.’
They were sitting at the window table in Joe’s Café, a greasy spoon across from the school. She hadn’t thought about where she was going after the encounter with Analise. She had simply walked, sticking to familiar, busy streets, refusing to give in to the impulse to keep looking over her shoulder.
And somehow – whether through subconscious desire or simple habit – she had ended up outside the gates of Holland Park Upper. It was almost time for the final bell and she’d retreated into the café, ordering chips and a sandwich, watching the students pour out in a tumble of youthful energy. There was a pause after the teenage tide had ebbed. Then the teachers trickled out. Steve had spotted her in the window, joining her inside and helping himself to her chips.
‘Noah Fauster?’ he echoed, pouring ketchup onto the edge of the plate. ‘Who’s he?’
‘How can you not have heard …? Never mind. He’s the contest’s representative and the winners’ mentor. He said this stuff’s pretty common and that we have to expect some hassle from overly enthusiastic fans, especially at the beginning of our time on CelebRate. He says there are a couple of women and one bloke who pop up at every event he’s scheduled to attend, begging to speak to him. So just one is … not so bad.’
‘Yeah?’ Steve dipped a chip in ketchup before putting the whole thing in his mouth, frowning as he chewed. ‘Do his three grab him and try to drag him off?’
‘Maybe “drag” was too strong a word.’ She sipped her coffee. ‘It’s not like he actually hurt me or anything. And there’s no reason to believe he wasn’t telling the truth about just wanting to talk. I probably overreacted because I’m not used to it.’
Steve gave her a level stare. ‘Okay then, allow me to recap: a stranger waits outside your house for hours, chases you across an empty park in the dark, then grabs hold of you and starts dragging you against your will to a secluded area … and you’re saying “no harm done”?’ He massaged his temples with his fingertips as though trying to stave off a brewing headache. ‘That’s completely bonkers.’
Steve had ordered a coffee and the conversation paused as the waitress brought it over. Heather waited until she was gone before continuing.
‘It’s an occupational hazard.’
‘“Lottery winner” isn’t an occupation.’
‘Yes, it is,’ she said defensively. ‘I’m a Winfluencer.’
He tore open a sugar packet and emptied it into his cup. ‘Riiiiight.’
‘Don’t be like that. It’s actually a lot of work. Not in the same way as teaching, obviously, but there’s more to it than you’d think.’
‘Going to parties and then posing for pictures at those parties is not work.’ He stirred the sugar, spoon clinking against the cup. ‘Fame is not—’
‘Can we change the subject, please?’ She could see Steve was heading off on one of his rants and she didn’t want the conversation to descend into an argument. What could a trainee computer teacher possibly know about the challenges and pitfalls of fame? ‘Why don’t you catch me up on the gossip at school? Go on, spill.’
There was a pause as she watched him reverse course, pulling himself back from the path of confrontation. He stirred his coffee.
‘Okay, let me think … Oh, Angus has finally come out of the closet, to the surprise of no one.’
‘God, was he supposed to be a closet case? It never crossed my mind that he might be straight.’
‘Well, it clearly crossed his, because he made a big announcement in the staffroom and looked quite crestfallen over the lack of interest.’
‘Aw. Shame. I might send him an email congratulating him and feigning surprise. Any other news?’
‘Rumours persist of a torrid affair between the new geography teacher and the librarian. They were spotted arriving at work together last Monday.’ He put down the coffee mug and leaned back in his chair. ‘Oh, and I’ve started seeing your replacement.’
Heather ate a chip as she tried to work out why this last piece of information had caused a sour feeling in the pit of her stomach. She decided it was the word ‘replacement’. She’d been gone less than three weeks. Had she really been so easily replaced, her cast-off life eagerly snatched up by some stranger?
‘Congratulations,’ she said stiffly. ‘How is she? Any good?’ He raised an eyebrow and she felt herself flush. ‘With the kids, I mean. Is she connecting with them?’
‘Ah. That. No, not really. She says she picked the wrong age group. Should have gone with primary.’ He swallowed another mouthful of coffee. ‘She’s right, of course. Teenagers are selfish wankers. It’s the nature of the beast.’
