Star Crossed (Starlight #3) Read Online Free Page A

having a good time,’ I say, imagining George on a yacht in a bikini.
    ‘ I nearly forgot,’ adds Tammy. ‘Did the journalist contact you too? About the photo shoot?’
    ‘ No,’ I say, bemused.
    ‘ Oh,’ says Tammy. ‘You’re going to love this. Some magazine for aristocrats wants to do a story on George.’
    ‘ What kind of story?’
    ‘ About her being the most eligible rich bachelorette, or something,’ scoffs Tammy. ‘They want to photograph her in all the latest designer wedding dresses. And get this. They want us to be bridesmaids.’
    ‘ No one told me that,’ I say. ‘Do you think we should do it?’
    I can almost hear Tammy’s shrug on the other end of the phone.
    ‘Whatever,’ she says good-naturedly. ‘I don’t mind. I think George will love being the centre of attention for once. Remember how shitty she got in that last journalist interview? When you were getting asked all the questions?’
    ‘ Yeah, I remember.’ I say.
    I think for a moment.
    ‘I think the photo shoot will be fun,’ I say. ‘I’ve never been a bridesmaid. And it will get us all together again.’
    ‘ Yeah,’ says Tammy airily. ‘I guess so. I’ll make sure the magazine gets in touch with you. I think it’s called Horse and Hound or something.’
    ‘ Ok,’ I say, realising that I’m relishing the thought of having all three of us together again. ‘I guess I’d better get going,’ I add reluctantly. ‘I have to go to hair and make-up.’
    ‘ Have fun,’ says Tammy. ‘I’m looking forward to seeing you on this week’s show. Remember I’m still your number one fan.’
    I smile. Tammy and I used to say this to one another between gigs, when we were struggling to make it.
    ‘I’m your number one fan too,’ I reply. ‘I can’t wait to see you perform with Dev.as.station.’
    We say our ‘goodbyes’ and I hang up the phone. It’s bittersweet talking to Tammy. I really miss having her by my side. But I’m also incredibly happy for her. Dev.as.station is a much better fit for Tammy, than She’s All That.
     
    After I hang up, I head to hair and make-up by myself. The other acts have already been styled, so it’s just me in the dressing room.
    I go through hair first, and the hairdresser gives me a little quiff, showing Debbie Harry style dark roots against my bleach blonde hair.
    The n it’s the turn of the make-up artist – a nervous-looking blonde named Susie, who doesn’t seem too keen on making conversation. I attempt to chat with her a few times. But it soon becomes clear I’m making her uncomfortable. So I let Susie concentrate on layering foundation onto my face, and turn my attention to a TV which someone has thoughtfully placed in the make-up room.
    But as I fix my attention to the flickering screen, I stifle a groan. The TV plays Sing-Win re-runs over and over. Great. I’m betting this was Jenny Grogan’s idea to try and focus the performers. Being primped and preened seems to take forever as it is, without being subjected to a constant barrage of footage you’ve already seen.
    We’re at the part of the show before the performers come on. When the singer’s loved ones have recorded some words of encouragement.
    I smile a little. At least I’ll get to see my relatives.
    First, however, are Deven’s parents. His mum and dad sit bolt upright on an immaculate sofa, inside a huge Victorian house.
    ‘ We’re so proud of you son,’ says Deven’s father, smiling indulgently. ‘We always knew you’d make it.’
    Hmmm. That’s not what I remember Deven telling me.
    I think back to my ill-fated date with Deven. From memory, he told me that his parents were ashamed of him when he worked as a male model. And they weren’t too keen on the singing thing either.
    I look back at the screen. Deven’s mother is talking now, her eyes shining with pride. She sits perfectly poised, hands in lap and ankles neatly crossed.
    ‘ We know you’re going to win,’ she says with a steely glint in