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homeless. And someone’s going to have to tell my mother…’

      ‘What are you talking about?’ James pulled away my hands with his own, warmed through by his hot tea. ‘Why are you going to get fired?’

      ‘Because Blake cancelled the interview.’ I looked at him as though he was slightly stupid. Very pretty but slightly stupid.

      James looked back at me the exact same way. ‘Blake can’t cancel the interview.’

      ‘He can’t?’ I asked, puzzled. ‘I thought he did everything?’

      ‘Well he didn’t set it up,’ James explained.

      ‘He didn’t?’

      ‘No, Angela. I did.’

      ‘OK, I know I’m not very clever at the best of times, but I don’t understand…’

      ‘The interview, you, it was my idea,’ James said, looking really rather pleased with himself. ‘I’m not stupid, I know what people must think when they see all those photos of me and, well, every woman I’ve ever met. So I read some women’s magazines, checked out some of the writers and that’s how I came across you.’

      ‘You asked for me?’ I was confused. Not unusual, admittedly. ‘It was actually you?’

      ‘I asked for you. I loved your writing,’ he nodded. ‘But once I’d chosen you, I had to put everything through Blake, after I’d picked a magazine, otherwise it would have been weird. Actors don’t usually set up their own press. To be honest, Blake wasn’t completely convinced you were the right pick, so I would really, really appreciate it if you could at least attempt to prove him wrong.’

      ‘So the interview isn’t off?’

      ‘Well, you threw up on me yesterday, got me and my assistant into a fight today, I can’t wait to see what you come up with tomorrow.’ He shook his head and looked out of the window. ‘I’ll call for your car, you should be safe now.’

      I sat back in the chair and watched the muscles in his back leave the room. James Jacobs had chosen me. The interview wasn’t off. Maybe I wouldn’t have to leave the country after all. Which meant Alex and I probably wouldn’t be breaking up because I had to go back to England. Which was a really, really good thing.

      Unless Alex was still so busy getting it on with his groupies he didn’t even have three minutes to spare to leave me a voicemail. The battery indicator on my silent phone flickered in the bottom of my clutch. Obviously it wasn’t as though he was desperate to get in touch and tell me he loved me or anything. How come he couldn’t even tell me how he couldn’t bear to live a single second of his life without me when a global superstar—no, megastar—had handpicked me out of every single journalist in the entire world to interview him? I’d now been in his hotel twice. And twice I’d been out of my frock. That had to be a sign. Another knock on the door interrupted my entirely unhelpful thoughts.

      ‘That’ll be your dress,’ James called from the other room. ‘Your car’s going to be about five minutes.’

      I wrapped myself up in the dressing gown, trying not to trip over the hem and opened the door. There was my dress, all pristine, wrapped in shiny plastic. Twenty-minute dry cleaning had revolutionized my life. ‘Thank you,’ I said, taking the hanger.

      ‘No…thank you,’ said a voice behind a huge camera.

      ‘What the…?’ I stumbled backwards, holding my dress out in front of the rapid fire-flashes.

      ‘Angela!’ James yelled, sprinting across the living room. ‘Close the door, get away from the door!’

      I slammed the door into the camera, heard a dull thud, a quiet ‘shit’ and then the sound of quickly retreating footsteps. Dazed, I looked at James, but he was already on the phone, yelling incoherently. For the want of something to do, I staggered into the bathroom and got changed. I checked myself in the mirror: nope, my skirt wasn’t tucked in my pants, not even a bra strap was on show. Impeccable. For me. And if you went for the ‘startled deer in headlights’ thing, I actually looked pretty good.

      ‘OK,’ I said, teetering back into the lounge and grabbing my handbag. ‘I think it’s best if I just go, I’ve caused enough chaos tonight.’

      ‘You can’t go out there now.’ James looked at me as if I was stupid. He and Jenny would actually get on really well. ‘I’ve just called security but they haven’t caught him yet. You can’t go anywhere until they’ve got that camera.’

      I wanted to laugh but had a feeling that it wouldn’t go down well. ‘Seriously? James, all they’ve got is a picture of me holding some dry cleaning.’

      ‘Yes, maybe,’ James mused. ‘Or, they’ve got a picture of you, without your dress on, standing in the doorway of my bungalow at one a.m. What’s that going to be worth to your boyfriend? Or your editor? Or your mum?’

      ‘My mum would probably be quite impressed actually,’ I said, feeling a little bit sick. ‘But I see your point. I really can’t stay here, though. I have to see Jenny; I have to go back. Is there no way out without those arses getting a photo?’

      All six-foot-something of James Jacobs stood squarely between me and the door, staring me down with an intensity I usually saved for the person in the queue between me and the last espresso brownie in Starbucks. And I wasn’t sure if I was the person or the brownie. ‘Do you really want to leave?’

      No no no no no no no no no no.

      ‘Yes.’ Wow, who knew I was so strong?

      ‘Then I’ll call a car to come to the back of the bungalow,’ he said, breathing out and letting his shoulders drop. ‘They should have something that won’t attract attention. I left the phone in the bedroom.’

      I realized I hadn’t breathed out since I’d said I wanted to leave and the zip on my bag was cutting into my hand, I was clutching it so tightly. This was horrible. How could I even be thinking these things about James when Alex was at home in New York, just waiting for me to call. Probably. He just wasn’t desperate to call me. Or tell me he loved me. Or even come to LA with me. Whereas James seemed relatively keen for me not to leave for one reason or another. Surely ninety-nine out of a hundred girls in this situation would stay, boyfriend be damned. Maybe if I talked to the boyfriend quickly, it would be easier.

      I released my vice-like grip on my bag and pulled out my mobile. Yes, it was four a.m. in New York, but he wouldn’t mind a quick call. And tough luck if he did.

      ‘Hello?’

      ‘Alex, it’s me,’ I gushed. ‘I’m sorry; I suppose I didn’t expect you to answer. I’m just having the most chaotic night and—’

      ‘Angela?’

      ‘Yes?’

      ‘It’s four in the morning.’

      ‘I know.’

      ‘What do you want?’

      I bit my lip. ‘I just wanted to speak to you. Tell you I missed you.’

      ‘Are you drunk?’

      ‘No,’ I frowned. ‘I’m just having a bit of a nightmare evening. We were out and James got into a fight and then there were loads of paparazzi—’

      ‘Seriously, Angela, I’m sleeping. Call me tomorrow, OK?’ Alex sighed.

      I tried not to be stung. He was perfectly within his rights to be a bit peeved but I had been hoping he might have thought my spontaneous call was cute. He certainly seemed to think it was acceptable to turn up on my doorstep at all hours of the night. Surely just calling to tell someone you missed them at four a.m. was romantic? ‘OK,’ I muttered into the phone, ‘go back to sleep. I just wanted to say—I just thought I’d call and…well, I love you.’

      ‘What?’ he suddenly sounded considerably more

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