Second Hand Jane by Michelle Vernal Page A

Ewan
Reid—looking as swarthy and gorgeous as he did on the big
screen—was lounging alongside a tall, blonde handsome stranger;
their backdrop was that of a sleek grey convertible.
    Thank God the
roof was on, was Jess’s first thought, or her artfully tousled
auburn curls would have been an artfully tousled bloody fright by
the time they got to wherever it was they were going. Not to
mention it would be bloody freezing. Her second thought as the
stranger stepped forward, introducing himself as Nick before homing
in to drop a kiss on her cheek, was that he was not bad, not bad at
all. Nora might just get to live after all.
     
    ***
     
    Juan’s was buzzing, Jess noticed, glancing
round the popular Spanish restaurant’s bar. It was standing room
only and by the harassed look of the maître de, they would probably
have to wait ages for a table. She was proved wrong and was only
halfway through her Singapore Sling—she’d thought it sounded
suitably sophisticated for the company she was keeping, even if
sangria would have been more in keeping with the restaurant’s
theme—when Manuel from Faulty Towers appeared in front of her.
    She had to bite
back a laugh when he introduced himself in a dodgy Spanish accent
as Miguel, their waiter for the evening. It was her first taste of
a proper celebrity lifestyle, as in his next breath he began bowing
and scraping to the great Ewan Reid before whisking them away from
the minions who kept coming up to ask for his autograph.
    Actually, she
mused as Miguel held her seat out for her at their table that
overlooked lively Harcourt Street below, the whole being famous
thing—while having obvious perks like fabulous seats in fabulous
restaurants—was also kind of annoying. No sooner did Ewan attempt
to start up a conversation than some stranger would butt in, asking
for an autograph. People seemed to think that because his face was
familiar it gave them the right to be pushy—especially the women.
Still, underneath Nora’s fluffy blonde exterior and white silk
sheath dress lurked a woman with the strength of King Kong, so if
things were to get serious between her and Ewan, his female fans
would have to watch out.
    No, fame
certainly wasn’t something she hankered after, she thought as
Miguel made a show of flapping the crisp white linen napkin before
draping it across her lap. At least with writing she got to retain
a certain amount of anonymity because while people often looked
twice at her, they didn’t usually twig that they recognised her
from the passport-sized photo featured alongside her column. Though
Nora would beg to differ; she maintained that the reason people
looked twice at Jess was more to do with what she deemed her
friend’s bizarre choice of clothing.
    Once the others
were seated, she turned her attention from the window back to Nick,
who was telling her he did something or other in property and that
he had known Ewan since school. The convertible had been his, so
whatever it was he did with property he obviously did well, she
concluded, feeling slightly ashamed of how easily impressed she
was.
    Now though, as
he smiled across at her, she couldn’t help but notice that as well
as driving a fancy car, his eyes were impossibly blue against the
tan of his skin and blonde, stylishly cropped hair. Very Pierce
Brosnan in his younger days but with blonde hair cut into a much
better style. Oh my gosh, she thought, grinning inanely back at him
and admiring the pearliness of his perfect teeth—my mother would
absolutely love you!—and wondering at the same time whether he’d
mind whether she whipped her cell-phone out and took a photo as
proof that she was on a date with a man who so far appeared to have
no underlying issues and was obviously successful.
    At that moment,
she received a sharp kick to the ankle and biting her lip, managed
to stop herself from crying out. Bloody Nora, she swore silently
but nevertheless took her friend’s hint and wiped the sappy look
off