bent down to tickle a brace of plump tummies. ‘Daddy’s home, girls.’
Elsie and Ethel were miniature dachshund sisters. Ryan had brought them home nine months ago, the day he had landed the title role in Venini, a TV series about the exploits of a globe-trotting classical conductor who moonlights as an MI5 agent. The show had been an overnight success and as a result the tabloids had given Ryan the dubious honour of dubbing him ‘the thinking woman’s brioche’.
Jess recalled that cold January afternoon when he’d poked his head round the living room door, the smell of frosty air clinging to him. She was huddled on the sofa in front of the TV, swaddled from head to toe in their duvet to combat the lack of heating, watching Deal or No Deal and wondering whether she should apply to be a contestant in the hope of bringing home some prize money. One look at Ryan’s face told her his audition had been successful.
‘Oh my God! You got the job?’ The icy temperature forgotten, she’d thrown off the duvet and leapt up from the sofa.
‘Yep. Call me Cosmo!’ He pushed the door wide open and stood in front of her, smiling self-deprecatingly, still wearing the huge misshapen tweed overcoat that he’d bought in the charity shop the previous winter.
For a moment Jess could only jump up and down on the spot, beside herself with happiness, then she ran across the room, hugged him tightly and kissed him. ‘I’m so happy for you! This is it, Ryan! This is your big break – oh my God, oh my God – we can pay the gas bill!’
‘I think perhaps we can!’ he laughed, pulling her closer to him. ‘Oh …’ He loosened his grip on her and created a little space between them, ‘Almost forgot – I’ve bought you a present to celebrate.’
She smiled, wide-eyed with excitement, thinking of the silver earrings she’d pointed out to him the previous weekend. ‘You mustn’t, Ryan. We don’t have any money yet.’
He opened his coat and rummaged in the deep poacher’s pockets within.
‘Ta-dah!’ His hands emerged clutching two long bodies with impossibly short legs.
‘What the hell …?’ These were not earrings. ‘Who are they for?’
‘You.’
‘Why?’
‘Present.’
‘I don’t need a present. My present is you getting this great job.’ In spite of herself she reached out and tickled a pair of silken ears. ‘When does shooting start?’
‘In a couple of days.’
‘Gosh, that’s quick. Where?’ Jess asked.
‘Northumberland.’
‘A bit of a schlep from Willesden.’
‘Yeah … Then Milan, New York and Hong Kong.’
She stopped the tickling and looked at Ryan.
‘For how long?’
‘Six months.’ His eyes dropped to the two warm, wriggling pups.
Jess pushed her hair behind her ears, suddenly feeling all of her pleasure at the news drain away. ‘Six months? But you will be coming home, won’t you? Backwards and forwards?’
Ryan shook his head, ‘Probably not.’
‘Oh,’ said Jess, suddenly deflated.
He held the puppies up and spoke to them: ‘So that’s where you two come in. You’re going to look after Mummy while Daddy’s gone.’
Now she got it. The dogs were her consolation prize. A way of keeping her occupied while Ryan was away having the time of his life.
‘So you get to swan off and I’m left holding the fort here, on my own? And it isn’t only that, Ryan – pets are such a tie.’ She was aware of the whining note that had crept into her voice. ‘Suppose I get a job that means I have to go away? Who’ll look after them then?’
He set the dogs down and she heard their little tappy claws on the tiles as he put his arms around her. She clung to him and inhaled the distinctive smell of his coat, burying herself in his neck.
‘Don’t be like that, Jess. I’m really trying here. Don’t spoil it for me.’
*
Ryan ran the soap over his body and revelled in his newly honed physique. His personal trainer, insisted upon by the production company, had worked him hard but it was definitely worth it. Biceps, triceps, abs, quads, arse. Not bad for a forty-two-year-old. There was no doubt about it: men were luckier than women. The older they got the better they looked. George Clooney, Richard Gere – even Sean Connery in his eighties. For women it was tougher, and everyone in the business knew it. Helen Mirren and Meryl Streep were the exceptions. Poor Jess; she would struggle to find work now, unless it was playing a worn-down mum, or a character role.
Ryan got out of the shower and wrapped a large bath sheet around his waist. He checked himself out in the mirror then pulled the towel a little lower to show off the muscled definition of his hips, stomach and groin. Donning his ‘Cosmo’ face he gave his reflection a seductive grin and growled, ‘Down, boy! It’s only me, silly.’
*
Ryan loved going out in public. He always wore his film-star-in-disguise sunglasses and a baseball cap. The thrill of being recognised hadn’t left him yet. Today, walking the dogs on a busy Hampstead Heath, he felt as if he owned the world. Venini was top of the ratings, his face was on the cover of Esquire magazine, he had just been voted the Sexiest Man in Britain and it looked as if the Best Actor BAFTA was sure to have his name on it. Beside him, Jess was recounting what he thought was a rather tedious and seemingly interminable story about her agent and a part in a commercial she’d been put up for the previous week.
‘… I wouldn’t have cared if she’d told me they were looking for actresses ten years older than me. I would have dressed the part. But then to go and be told that I looked too middle-aged, without even trying, it was just so humiliating … Ethel, come away from the ducks! I mean, do I really look middle-aged? My CV says thirty-eight! Where do these advertising execs, fresh out of junior school, think middle age begins? Twenty-five? … Elsie, come away from the Labrador, he’s too big for you! Honestly, Ryan, maybe I should start thinking about a bit of Botox or getting my hair cut or dyed. What do you think?’
But before Ryan had a chance to respond they were interrupted by something that was becoming an ever-more regular occurrence.
‘Cosmo! Cosmo Venini! It is you, isn’t it?’
An over-made-up woman in her fifties was power-walking towards Ryan, who had stopped and was taking off his sunglasses, wrinkling his beautiful eyes into a smile. He held his hands out in a gesture of surrender.
She arrived, puffing slightly, and all but elbowed Jess out of the way in her eagerness to accost Ryan.
‘I knew it was you! What’s your real name again, I’ve forgotten?’
Only Jess knew the slight tightness at the corner of Ryan’s lips signalled annoyance.
‘George Clooney,’ he replied, oozing charm. The woman laughed hysterically as if this was the funniest thing she’d ever heard. He held his hand out to her. ‘It’s Ryan, Ryan Hearst. And you are …?’
‘Gilly. Gilly Lomax. I live over there –’ She pointed to a pretty pink house just outside the railings of the park. ‘You’re always welcome to pop in.’
‘I’m afraid he’s very busy.’ Jess stepped in. ‘I’m his partner.’
‘The kettle’s always on …’ Gilly continued talking to Ryan. ‘I think you’re marvellous, and all those gorgeous locations you film in. Venice is my favourite. I’ve been to the Teatro La Fenice, it’s so romantic!’
‘Ryan, we must go,