True North

Chapter five

"Here, Ems, let me take that out for you." North lifted the large platter out of my hands.

"North, I'm fine."

His torn up expression stabbed me in the gut. "I don't like that you wouldn't go and see Dr Mike yesterday."

"I told you, he can't help me." During the filming for my second video, the director decided he wanted to film me in a harness, which was fine until the damn thing flipped. When I passed out, I was rushed to hospital, where I lied and said it was the first time it had happened. No one needed to know about my damaged childhood; I had an image of the mysterious and aloof Duchess to maintain.

After a barrage of tests, the doctors concluded there was nothing physically wrong with me. It must have been a freak event or perhaps psychological. There was no way the Duchess could start therapy—because what if the press caught wind—thus we ignored the issue.

So, I wasn't going down that road. Turning away from North, I grabbed the gravy boat. "It's just something that happens to me when my head gets lower than my hips."

"Well, that must suck for your sex life," he mused wickedly.

I choked on shocked laughter. "North!"

He grinned. "I knew I could make you laugh." He walked to the swinging kitchen door and pushed it with his butt. Which, incidentally, was filling out beautifully, the swell of the globes glorious under his jeans—not that I'd noticed, or anything. "Come on, let's have dinner, ay?"

Pointing my chin high in false confidence, I said brightly, "Let's."

Inside the dining room, there were five guests; two couples, one staying with their bored teenaged son, who was sitting at the far end of the table with ear buds in. North laid the heavy plate in the centre of the table and announced, "Grub's up, people! Let us feast as the kings of old!"

Everybody giggled, not because North was particularly hilarious, but because there was something about him that drew people instantly to his side. I watched him as he fussed over the ladies, laying napkins over their laps, and bonding with the men with ribald humour. He settled into the chair next to the teen, murmuring a constant stream of silliness in his ear until the young man cracked and smiled.

Meanwhile, Mrs Waters called out, "Emily, I hear you're joining us tonight? I saved you a seat!" Her face was a mass of happy lines, crinkled deeply for my benefit. Feeling as sulky as our teenage guest, I slid into the seat, wondering why on earth I'd agreed to this at all.

I'd never been a fan of small talk with strangers. I didn't see the point. There were people you had to talk to, like teachers and colleagues, then there were people you wanted to talk to, friends and lovers and probably family, if you had any. But strangers? What was the point of all the 'where are you from? what do you do?' type questions? It wasn't like we'd ever see each other again anyway.

Mrs Waters' table was filled with small talk every night of the year. That evening was no different. She turned to the couple on her left and asked, "So, tell me, what do you lovely people do when you're not off mini-breaking?"

"Well, I'm in engineering," said the husband, a boring-featured man in his late twenties. "And my Mandy here, she has a million hobbies. Don't you, sweetness?"

Here was a girl who looked like she spent way too much time in a tanning bed. With her perpetually critical expression under her jet-black hair, she retorted, "They're not hobbies, Dave, how many times do I have to tell you?"

"Sorry, love, sorry. Interests."

She sighed, as if he was the most stupid person in the world. "Interests, yes. I've been painting a lot over the last year, but I gave it up when I discovered millinery."