Page 17 of Not Just for Christmas

He set down his bottle and sloped across the room, hoping nobody noticed. He pushed open the door just as someone on the other side pulled it. He found himself eyeball to eyeball with the red-haired journalist.

‘I’m so sorry,’ they both said and laughed.

She wasn’t so much like Lucy now he could see her face. Lucy had green eyes and freckles. This girl had pale blue eyes and thick black eyelashes.

He held the door open for her to go through first, but she stayed where she was. ‘We haven’t had a chance to chat. I’m Sasha.’

‘Good to meet you,’ he replied, shaking her outstretched hand.

‘So …’ She nodded to the party room, ‘are you coming back in?’

‘I was hoping for a French exit.’ He pressed a finger to his lips. ‘My bed calls.’

‘I could come with you? To your hotel?’ She smiled coquettishly. ‘I just have a few questions.’

He shook his head. ‘Sorry but I can’t do the interview tonight.’

She pouted. ‘But we’re here now and it won’t take long.’

‘I’m tired.’ He held his hands up in protest. ‘Speak to my PA, Janet, she’ll set up a time.’

‘We don’t have to do the interview.’ Her fingers danced lightly over the open neck of his shirt, and he caught a whiff of her spicy perfume.

Maybe a few years ago he might have been tempted, but he wasn’t interested in hook-ups anymore. Besides, he’d met women like Sasha before, women attracted to his fame, rather than Dylan himself. He wanted more now, real connection, real affection. Someone who wanted the same things out of life he did.

‘I’m flattered,’ he lied, ‘but I’ve got a busy day tomorrow.’

‘My number, in case you change your mind.’ Sasha handed him a piece of paper. ‘Or if you need cheering up now that Amelia is seeing someone else.’

He froze and stared at her. She looked triumphant, clearly knowing that this was new information to him. He and Amelia had only broken up days ago, she still hadn’t moved her stuff out of his Brooklyn apartment.

‘Goodnight, Sasha.’

He walked away and didn’t look back when she called his name. Dylan was constantly surrounded by people, he was hardly ever alone. His publicity team, his manager, Phoenix Records, the press, and of course his fans. But that didn’t stop him feeling lonely. In fact quite the opposite. And right now he’d never felt lonelier in his life.

Chapter 7

‘Mummy, I’m really sad that Granny Linda and Grandpa aren’t coming to stay at Christmas,’ said Sam, stepping into the pyjama trousers I was holding out for him.

It was his bedtime. I wouldn’t be far behind him, just a few emails to send, and one last check on a pregnant cow when I took Gus the dog out for his last wee of the day. Those pyjamas were too small for him, I realised, looking at his bare ankles. How long was it since I’d been shopping for clothes for him? Or me for that matter? Not that I cared much about my wardrobe these days. I mentally added pyjamas to his Christmas list.

‘Me too, darling. But we’ll still have a lovely time,’ I said, injecting as much joy into my voice as I could muster. I pulled back the corner of the duvet of the bottom bunk bed for him and he climbed in. ‘I’ll be here, and Nanny Heather, and Gus!’

‘Yeah.’ Sam let out a big sigh. ‘But Nanny always tells me that I’ve got to be a farmer, and I don’t want to be and that makes me a bit sad too.’

I pulled him into my arms, my heart aching for him as I tried to kiss away his sadness.

‘Try not to worry about that,’ I said, in a tone lighter than I felt. ‘Nanny only says that because Grandad Jim wanted to be a farmer, and so did Daddy. But everyone’s different – you can be anything you want to be, anything at all.’

Heather had been lucky that her son had wanted to take over Merrydown from her and Jim. It had worked out well for everyone. But Sam was far too young either to make decisions about his future career, or to feel under any pressure.

‘I know!’ Sam gasped, his face lighting up. ‘Maybe Uncle Dylan can come for Christmas instead. That would make me happy. Can we invite him, Mummy?’

‘Oh darling, I’m sorry but we can’t.’

Dylan Wilde. My stomach flipped at the mention of his name. Singer, celebrity, heart-throb and the man Jack had classed as his best friend. I’d known him almost as long as Jack and I had been together, and way before he’d become famous. He’d been a part of the happiest and most important times in my life, squeezing in visits to the farm whenever he was in the UK. He and I had always had a special connection, but we hadn’t seen each other since the funeral.

‘Why not?’ Sam demanded now.