Butterfly of Venus Page 16

  Natasha gloated. One of ATM’s biggest stars, a man who boasted about how attractive he was to women, a man with legions of female fans and who’d been married four times in extravagant ceremonies, was gay. It was time the world knew. Natasha composed her press release as if she was Franco. “To all my fans. It’s time I was honest with you. I am a gay man.” She accessed the list of press contacts, then hit Send All. Within minutes, phones began ringing. Media gossipmongers cranked into high gear. Franco was no longer yesterday’s news. He was suddenly a juicy story.

  * * *

  Kinlochbervie buzzed with excitement. The Screen Machine, a travelling movie theatre, was due to arrive that day. Thanks to the benevolence of the Scottish government, once a month remote rural areas had access to movies that were taken for granted in cities. Tonight was a showing of Midnight in Paris, Woody Allen’s homage to the city and the romance of the past. Elizabeth decided to go.

  The back of the massive screen truck featured a movable side wall that slid out to expand the width of the transport. The interior accommodated eighty seats. Elizabeth was amazed. She felt as if she was in a real theatre, yet here she was in a truck parked beside a harbour. Several locals waved to her or stopped to say hello. She knew many of them considered her to be American, even though she’d made it clear she was Canadian. No matter. She settled into her seat, preparing to forget her troubles and be transported to another time and place.

  She was definitely transported to another time and place—two months ago, to be exact, and to La Closerie des Lilas in Paris, the restaurant where she and Declan had dined. They might even have sat in the same seats as Owen Wilson and Vincent Menjou Cortes in the movie. It wasn’t fair. Her attempted escape had turned into a reminder. That night seemed so long ago. It was before they had lain together in each other’s arms. It was before she had revealed her darkest secrets to him. If only she could go back and live that night over again, she would never agree to sex. How stupid she had been. She had handed Declan, and Natasha, a weapon to hurt her. She reached into her purse for a Kleenex, crying quietly in the dark.

  Not wanting to chitchat, Elizabeth slipped away as soon as the movie’s closing credits rolled. So much for escaping: even though she was three thousand miles away from her other life, it had been brought back to her courtesy of Hollywood. Of all the movies she could have seen tonight, it had to be that one.

  Back inside her cottage, Elizabeth put the kettle on and changed into cotton pyjamas. Outside, the wind was picking up. She could see tall clumps of grass bending to the ground. She clicked the TV remote to check the weather. As she was changing channels, she saw a reporter from an entertainment news show in front of a large picture of Franco. The reporter was saying, “A release from the talent agency ATM, in which four-times-married singer Franco declared himself to be gay, is a hoax. Franco vehemently denied the statement, saying it was a cruel practical joke and that he’s still Mr. Wonderful, a lover of women, and also chihuahuas.”

  Elizabeth practically fell over herself in search of her cellphone. Of course, she had turned it off while she was watching the movie. Now she waited impatiently for it to find a signal and load her messages. Fifteen texts, nine of them from Manny. She returned the last one immediately. “Skype now!” It was five hours earlier in Canada, so Manny would still be at work. She plugged in her laptop, opened Skype and clicked on Manny’s Skype handle. God, this was disastrous. Whatever had happened?

  Within a minute, Manny’s nervous face was onscreen. He was wearing headphones so Elizabeth’s words wouldn’t be heard by anyone else. Anything he didn’t want overheard he wrote down. He looked pale.

  “Who had access to the press list? That’s Suzie’s department.”

  Manny held up a piece of paper for Elizabeth to read: NATASHA???

  “I might have guessed. Can we use this to get rid of her?”

  Manny shook his head. “No proof.”

  “Have you heard from Franco?”

  Manny nodded and looked even paler. He wrote another word: LAWSUIT.

  Oh great. That was just what she needed. “I’ll get the next plane back.”

  “No point, boss. The queen is out of the closet and she’s scratching at your castle. I’ll keep our official statement at ‘No further comment.’ Nothing is gonna happen for the next few days. You might as well take advantage of the rest.”

  Manny was right. Let Franco blow off a bit of steam. Maybe by the time she returned she could placate him. Elizabeth felt certain it was indeed Natasha who had released the damaging news. The girl was evil—or, at the very least, deranged.

  “Okay, Manny. I’ll be back next Monday.”

  Elizabeth signed off and checked the rest of her texts. Three were from Effie. One was from Declan, simply titled “Proof,” with a photo attached. The photo was of her father’s guitar with the strings cut. Proof of what? What the hell was that about? Elizabeth was furious. She looked Declan up on Skype and dialled. She could barely contain herself.

  The annoying chirrup of Skype went on for five minutes before he answered. “Hey, where are you?”

  “Scotland.” Elizabeth seethed. “Proof? Of what? What an asshole you are? Why did you do that? My father’s guitar? What the hell kind of person are you, Declan?”

  Declan was lying semi-naked in his bunk on the tour bus. His dark hair was tousled as if he’d just woken up. His dark blue eyes were sleepy. They widened in surprise at her anger. Elizabeth resisted a ridiculous urge to touch his bare shoulder onscreen.

  “What?” he said. “How can you think I’d do something like that?”

  “Frankly I’m not at all sure what you’re capable of doing.”

  “It’s proof that Natasha is crazy.”

  “She did it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “I’d never damage an instrument, particularly one that’s so special. You should know that.”

  “Why would she do that? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “I told her to stay the fuck away from me. It’s her way of getting back at me. If she can’t have me, she’ll destroy me—and you, for that matter.”

  “How did she get to my father’s guitar, anyway?”

  “At my place. The night she spiked my drink.”

  “She stayed with you?” Elizabeth was incredulous.

  “Yes. No. Not like that.”

  Declan shifted to turn onto his side. Elizabeth caught a glimpse of deep scratches that had just begun to heal.

  “Tip your computer down,” she commanded.

  “What?”

  “I want to see you.”

  “You want to have Skype sex?”

  “No, I do not want to have Skype sex or sex of any other kind with you. I want to see your chest.”

  Declan suddenly clued in. “Look, it’s not what you think.”

  “Those are scratches.”

  “Natasha did it.”

  Elizabeth wanted to scream. “She slept with you. You bastard. I fucking hate you.”

  “It wasn’t like that.”

  “Oh no? What was it like, Declan? Did you enjoy getting off on telling her about me?

  “Whaat?”

  “Goddamn it, Declan! You told her about us, about me. I fucking hate you.”

  Declan stared in confusion. At that moment the screen froze. Oh God. The timing couldn’t be worse. Internet reception in KLB was spotty at the best of times, and even worse when it was windy. Elizabeth was shaking with rage. How dare he? She slammed her computer screen closed. Those scratches told her everything she needed to know. Natasha and Declan were getting it on. The story about her spiking his drink was a lie. She had no reason to spike his drink and ruin his chances. He’d just gotten wasted. Simple as that. And nothing explained Natasha knowing her slave fantasy. Nothing except Declan telling her.

 
Elizabeth burned with rage and humiliation. It was purely and simply unforgivable. Natasha might even have posted about her fantasies on Facebook by now. Elizabeth could feel her blood pressure rise. She was supposed to be resting and relaxing. Instead she found herself in the middle of mayhem.

  She threw on her waterproof rain gear and walked out the front door. The wind had definitely picked up. She could see waves crashing onto the beach below. Tears rolled down her face. She desperately wanted to hate Declan. She told herself he was an immature, indiscreet, loathsome, loudmouth bastard. He’d seduced her beyond her wildest dreams. He’d taken her heart and effectively smashed it into little pieces. He’d spoiled her for every other man. She couldn’t imagine getting to the same sexual heights and depths with anyone else. This was terrible, a type of sickness. She even felt feverish. Just seeing his outrageously handsome face on Skype had ignited a passion that overwhelmed her. She’d fought not to reach out and touch his gorgeous body onscreen. But those scratches! He’d been naked with that piece of shit. It no longer mattered what type of fucking contract Natasha had, or how much money it cost. As soon as Elizabeth got back, that poisonous bitch was fired.

  The thought of Natasha and Declan in bed together made her crazy. Well, she and Declan were welcome to each other. She would cancel his contract as well. Not only that, but she’d see to it that he never worked again. She had plenty of clout with the clubs. She would put out the word that he was not to be hired. She would demand that he return her father’s guitar. To think she had given away something as precious as that to a good-for-nothing, cheating, lying fucker. It made her feel physically ill. What in God’s name was wrong with her? Was she losing her mind? How could she have been so bloody stupid? She’d behaved like a besotted schoolgirl. She deserved everything that had happened.

  To hell with the cost, she would pay Natasha off and never have to see her again. Declan’s contract would be broken. She would never see him again either. They were welcome to each other. She would do her best to forget about everything and enjoy her remaining days in KLB. But first she needed to release some tension.

  Only a soaring seabird heard the Canadian woman screaming “Fuck!” at the top of her lungs.

  * * *

  By the next morning, the Internet was up and functioning again. Elizabeth desperately wanted to Skype with Effie, but she didn’t dare call while Effie was sleeping. The time difference meant it was the middle of the night in Toronto. Instead, Elizabeth distracted herself by googling Chaotic’s tour. She came across several reviews of their show, with phrases like “mind-numbingly wonderful,” “like having a crash cymbal implanted in your head” and “vomit for the brain.” In other words, they were still a big success. One female reviewer wrote: “The big surprise of the evening was the opening act, a singer/songwriter named Declan Thomas who calmed the metalheads with his haunting voice and infectious cerebral lyrics. Doesn’t hurt that he’s sweet to look at.”

  She’s right about him being sweet to look at, thought Elizabeth. Even though she hated him, seeing him last night on Skype had sent her heart racing. If he was now off limits, he could still be present in her fantasy. That was the great thing about fantasies. No one had to know—well, unless you were Natasha. No, she was banishing that vicious lunatic from her thoughts. She could please herself right now.

  She thought about Declan’s mesmerizing blue eyes burning into her, his hot and youthful sexiness, the lean and muscular strength of his limbs. She imagined the force of his passion bearing down on her, holding her, demanding her surrender. Now she was going back to the slave market. Declan was no longer controlling her, he was just one of many in the crowd. An anonymous figure was in charge of her actions. One tug. Declan’s gaze burned with lust. Two tugs. She opened herself for him. The burning of Declan’s dark gaze ignited into lust. She exposed herself for his eyes only. She would make him want her as he had never wanted anyone, but he would never have her. Three tugs. Oh, the hot delight of her humiliation as all eyes in the crowd stared intently between her cheeks. Declan was mad with desire for her. Too fucking bad, you asshole. Elizabeth turned on her vibrator. This time she’d made sure the batteries were working.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The peat road was a good three-mile hike, uphill all the way, along a rocky footpath surrounded by heather and outcroppings of rock. Halfway up, deep trenches gouged the landscape where locals had cut out rectangular blocks of peat to be dried and used for winter fuel. Except for sheep, the path was usually deserted. Elizabeth was surprised to see the tidy little figure of a woman striding downhill towards her. The woman stopped and blew a shrill whistle on her fingers. In response, a black and white sheepdog bounded across the heather into view. As the woman got closer, Elizabeth saw that it was Alison MacFadyen, the local schoolteacher, in matching waterproof hat and wellingtons.

  “Good morning. Nice day,” said Elizabeth.

  “Yes. Oh dear.” Alison seemed flustered and out of breath.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “There’s a sheep on its back up by the stream, about halfway up. Silly thing must’ve fallen off a ledge.”

  “Do you want me to help you right it?”

  Alison looked at her in disbelief. “Och, no. It’s too heavy, plus it could kick your eye out. It won’t be grateful. It’ll struggle. But if it doesn’t get upright soon, it’ll die.”

  “What do we do?”

  “Can you go down to the village and find some muscle?” Alison looked at her watch. “I’d go, but I’ve got a class in ten minutes.”

  “Okay. Sure,” said Elizabeth.

  “Right. Go to the village store and tell them they need to find Tattie. He’s probably in the pub. He’ll get it sorted.”

  Elizabeth set off at a brisk pace with Alison, trying to avoid slipping on loose stones strewn along the path. Mac, the sheepdog, romped happily beside them.

  “I’ve seen you in the village before, though we’ve never met,” said Alison. “You’re American?”

  “Canadian, actually.”

  “Ah, yes, the kinder, gentler version.”

  Elizabeth smiled. “I never thought of it that way.”

  “I’m Alison, the teacher. That’s my house there.” Alison pointed to a cottage at the end of a row of houses. “Come for tea sometime. I’m home every afternoon by five.”

  “Thanks. I’m Elizabeth.”

  “I know. You’ve got the wee cottage up by Polin Beach.”

  “That’s right.”

  Mac barked furiously as a helicopter appeared from behind a hill. It swooped perilously low over them, startling Elizabeth, before chop-chopping its way across the loch.

  “Where’s it going?” asked Elizabeth.

  “Och, poor soul. A wee tourist boy stood on a jelly at the beach. Went into shock. The doctor gave him an injection, but they’ve got to transport him down to the hospital in Inverness to make sure he’s all right.” Alison turned to Elizabeth. “Got to dash. Don’t forget. Find Tattie. If sheep up here had a smidgen of brain, they wouldn’t have a whole brain between the lot. Bye for now.”

  Alison took off, leaving Elizabeth charged with the task of finding Tattie in order to rescue a sheep. Alison had said to go to the local store, but she’d also said Tattie might be in the pub. Elizabeth thought she’d try there first. She hopped into her little Peugeot and sped off. Part of the local hotel, the pub was a large, charmless room with one pool table, a dartboard and a flat-screen TV hanging over a scratched wooden bar. Elizabeth walked in to find four middle-aged, whiskered men gathered around the TV with pints in their hands. Nobody paid any attention to her until she addressed them directly. “Excuse me. Would one of you gentlemen be Tattie?”

  At the word “gentlemen,” they roared with laughter.

  One of them said, “Who might be looking for him?”

  “I am. Well, actually it’s on behalf of
a sheep.”

  This caused another outburst of laughter.

  A good-looking giant of a man emerged from the bathroom, zipping up his fly. “Hey, Tattie,” one of the men yelled across the room. “There’s a wee lass here lookin’ for ya.” He winked at Elizabeth. “Don’t let his wife find out.”

  Elizabeth blushed. “Really, there’s a sheep in trouble. Alison, the teacher, sent me to get help.”

  The men laughed again. “Sheep, aye.”

  Tattie, in his early forties, was about six foot four and 250 pounds. His shoulders and hands were massive. He looked as if he could easily tuck a sheep under each arm and still have room to carry something else. His grey eyes, twinkling with humour, took in Elizabeth. “Aye, so where is the daft creature?”

  “Up the peat road.”

  Tattie downed his pint of beer in one long gulp. “Right. D’ya care to come along?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  Minutes later, Elizabeth was sitting on the back of Tattie’s four-wheeler RV, her arms locked around his massive frame. He was very handsome in a ruddy, outdoorsy way, built like a stone house, strong and solid.

  “Did Alison say how far up?” roared Tattie against the noise of his engine.

  “Halfway. By the stream,” shouted Elizabeth.

  The office would never believe this, she thought. Here she was on her way to rescue a sheep. Back in Canada she had a spiteful girl who wished her harm, an irate singer who was launching a lawsuit against her company, and a lover who had betrayed her. Never had the contrast between two worlds been more evident. This environment was beginning to feel comforting and more like home than ever.

  Halfway up the road, Tattie stopped and turned off the engine. As always, Elizabeth was struck by the wild, remote beauty of the hills. In the far distance she could see the gray sea and, way down below, the tiny village of Kinlochbervie.

  “Listen,” instructed Tattie. “We should be able to hear it.”

  Sure enough, she heard a faint, pathetic bleating carried on the wind.

  “This way.” Tattie set off with long strides across rocks and heather to a small stream that burbled and gushed over the landscape. After following it uphill for five minutes, they arrived at a rocky ledge. Down below, half in water, half on land, struggled the hapless sheep.