A Little of Chantelle Rose Read online

  A little of Chantelle Rose

  Cristina Hodgson

  “An extremely witty romance with a twist

  and refreshingly different. For all the “roses”

  that know the only spike should be a stiletto, here

  is a new heroine to escape with. Chantelle Rose

  is like chocolate something to devour in one sitting...

  the perfect date night book when you're not out

  on your own adventures.”

  Camilla Morton,

  International Bestseller of

  "How to Walk in High Heels”

  Copyright © 2017 by Cristina Hodgson

  Artwork and Design: Soqoqo

  Editors: Sue Barnard

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Crooked Cat Books except for brief quotations used for promotion or in reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are used fictitiously.

  First Red Line Edition, Crooked Cat Books. 2017

  Discover us online:

  www.crookedcatbooks.com

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  this book to @crookedcatbooks

  and something nice will happen.

  To my mum, dad and brother.

  Everything I am, you helped me to be.

  Acknowledgments

  There are many special people I would like to thank who have formed part of my journey. It's actually hard to express in words (contradictory as that sounds coming from a writer) how grateful I am to be given this opportunity to present my debut novel. For this, I would like to firstly thank my publisher, Crooked Cat, for this amazing opportunity. To Laurence and Stephanie who are the team behind this unique publishing company, and who have created a wonderful community of "Cats" who have become my writing family.

  To my brilliant editor Sue Barnard. I write to express what’s burning inside me. You edit to let the fire show through the smoke. Thank you!

  To all my amazing friends from childhood, through School and University. A special thank-you to each and everyone of you. Impossible to name you all here, but you know who you are!

  Some friends, however, are like stardust on a dark night, leaving a magical trail in their wake, and as if touched by magic come into your life and stay there. To Alice, Dush, Suzanne, Aimee, Steph M, Steph R and Sara, thank you for your friendship and unconditional support and for so many special moments. Here's to many more.

  To MG, for giving me a chance many years ago. For believing in me then and now.

  Finally, to Fran and to my two beautiful children, without whom this journey would have no meaning...

  About the Author

  Cristina Hodgson, mother of two, born in Wimbledon, London, currently lives in southern Spain. Cristina had a long career in sport, reaching national and international level and still actively participates in Triathlon races and enjoys outdoor activities. In her spare time she also enjoys reading and writing. She won a sports scholarship to Boston College. After a period in Boston, she returned to the UK and graduated from Loughborough University with a degree in Sports Science.

  A Little of Chantelle Rose is her debut novel. Amazingly, it has nothing to do with running!

  You can find out more about Cristina Hodgson at www.cristinahodgson.com

  A little of Chantelle Rose

  PROLOGUE

  “CUT!” called the director. “Lunch break.”

  Thank goodness for that, I thought, as I eased myself of this really stiff, hard- backed stool where I’d been sitting all morning. My legs felt numb, with pins and needles in my feet. Any attempt at walking at this point meant a shuffle across the set towards the canteen in the most unglamorous manner. What on earth had possessed me to be an extra in this gangster film? I sighed. I'd been here since 6am, rushed through hair and make-up, landed on this stool by 7am and had been sitting here ever since. It didn't help that the rickety old stool had joint problems and creaked and squeaked every time I so much as breathed in, much to the despair of the director who kept sending me death looks throughout the morning.

  “The mikes are latest technology, my dear,” he'd said. “Very sensitive. So please KEEP STILL!!!! Thank you darling.” Which was actually, I think, my cue to get up and leave. But instead, much to my bewilderment, I’d remained like a dumbfounded child.

  I glanced at the mirror as I moved through to the canteen area. What I saw was not a pretty sight. I looked like I’d run my hand over an electric fence. My frizzed-out big, sooty-black hair, never the best even on a good day, had suffered an hour of backcombing which had left it standing on end, and a whole can of hairspray had finished the job off. Quite effectively too, as six hours later there wasn’t a hair out of place. Or in place, if you see what I mean. And as for the make-up… Purple lipstick (which, believe me, does not go with my skin type), and sparkly, sparkly eye shadow… Well, Monster High springs to mind. This is not the appearance I’d expected after sixty whole minutes under professional hands. I looked better after a night clubbing to the wee small hours.

  What was I doing here? I had been brooding over this question all morning, and I had the spiel ready for anyone who asked: “Well, I just thought it would be great to meet the stars...”

  Or: “I just wanted to live the experience...”

  The truth is, I was just desperado for money, and, what the heck, the pay wasn't bad. Actually it was a snooty accountant "ex" of mine who got me into it – although he meant it as one of his typical put-downs. He saw an ad in one of the local weekly rags which said that a long-running TV series – and as near porn as British TV is allowed – was looking for extra "extras". He sent it to me with a stick-on note from his snotty City firm. He could have simply texted me and saved the first-class stamp, but then that would have been way too “normal” for him. His note candidly read: You're good at acting… and deceiving... and lying. Why not apply?

  Bit harsh, I thought, but I'll show you. And, anyway, something devilish inside me said, This could be fun. And money, too!

  I rang the number and a nice-sounding lady (who I later found out was actually a man… Well, you know…) told me to send a photo and they'd "let me know." And that was that. Nothing. But nine months later the nice-sounding "lady"(who, I must say, was really nice – and, as my snooty ex would have said, "as camp as a row of tents") telephoned and said they were making a low-budget full-length gangster film, and I had one of the faces they wanted.

  They were shooting sleazy bar scenes. Bloody cheek. I didn't think I had a sleazy-bar-type face, and was tempted to tell them to shove it. But, then again, I thought, it might be wicked fun. And, of course, there was the money…

  I skived off work for the day. Which is, in short, how I found myself looking like the "tart" they'd had in mind from the start.

  I didn’t realise how hungry I was until I entered the canteen area. There was a really long queue at the healthy food option, and I hesitated for a moment. If I joined that queue, the chances were that by the time I got any food on my plate it would be time to get back to the set. I like to watch what I eat, but not eating at all didn’t seem a good idea either. If my stomach started rumbling during the afternoon takes and the mikes picked up on all the noise, I think I’d be personally assisted off the set by the director himself.

  There was nothing for it. I made a bee-line for the hamburger stand and piled my plate with chips, ketchup, and the works.

  I felt a bit out of place; everyone else seemed to know one another.

  “Dah-ling, it’s so wonderful to s
ee you again! Cynthia, isn’t it?”

  I was also snatching comments like “Well, my agent tells me...” and “My personal trainer...”

  None of this held much interest for me, as much as I tried to be intrigued by what agents and personal trainers had to offer. I was more concerned about juggling my mountain of food and my large coke with its feathered straw while at the same time attempting to perch myself delicately on a lop-sided bench. The furnishings on this set really did leave much to be desired.

  Finally settled, and at the same time feeling a bit guilty about all these calories I was about to get my digestive system to try to break down, I heard a small sharp cry to my left. I looked up and saw Susie, one of the ladies in the make-up department, dashing towards me with her make-up bag swinging on her arm, and looking like one of the medics in Grey's Anatomy out to save the world. She paused by my side, and to my amazement snatched the burger right out of my hands. The burger sailed through the air and narrowly missed the film director as he walked past. I thanked my lucky stars that he was completely unaware that he’d almost got mayonnaise all down his Armani suit.

  I turned my attention back to what I assumed was a sun-stroked crazy woman who'd blagged her way to becoming a make-up artist. This would actually explain my "sparkly, sparkly" eye-shadow.

  “Dah-ling!” she exclaimed. “Like this!” She then dug into my still untouched plate of chips, picked one up and opened her mouth so wide that I could just about make out her tonsils. She placed the chip onto her tongue with delicate fingers, making sure not to brush her lips or lick her fingers. This, I reflected in part admiration, must have taken some practice.

  “You mustn’t smudge your make-up,” she went on. Then, like a mother hen, she peered over at the other members of the cast, searching out others in need of her attention. In a flash she was gone, bags swinging.

  Right… I picked up my plate of chips. I had the solution and promptly made my way to the Ladies room, where I proposed to wolf down the remainder of my food out of sight of the beady eyes of Mother Hen.

  I stood in the washroom, avoiding the mirror because I really did look something shocking, and finished off my lunch. I was given a couple of suspicious looks by some of the other girls who'd entered the Ladies in order to preen themselves. I just winked at them and went on eating. I’m not sure if the looks were aroused by my metre-high hair or my choice of lunch location, or that, despite all the food piled on my plate and my apparent unhealthy appetite, I managed – though God knows how – to stay relatively slim. And in that tight-fitting red catsuit I’d been given to wear, my figure was highlighted all the more.

  Lunch over, I slipped out of the toilets and meekly sought out Mother Hen, bracing myself for her disapproving glare. Though, when I finally found her, she just clucked over me in a disappointed tone, but didn’t seem the slightest bit surprised to find me lipstick-free. She got right into re-applying all my make-up, and as I moved back onto the set, I felt I had a brick wall of foundation applied. To my horror she even got out the shiny eye shadow again, despite my moan of protest.

  I got told by one of the crew that the director wanted to see me. In a panic I walked over to where he was with the “hot stars” of the film, thinking I probably did get mayonnaise down his suit and he’s going to charge me for the dry cleaning.

  “Turn around,” he instructed as soon as I approached. Bemused, I turned, feeling like a fool, and blushing as red as my catsuit.

  “Cute tight ass,” he said, though not to me, rather to the gang around him. I felt my skin crawl and flush even redder. What with the red outfit I was wearing, I felt I was glowing as bright as a light bulb.

  “Excuse me,” I stuttered as I finally got my voice back.

  “Come and see me after today’s shoot and we can talk business,” he replied.

  Bet we can…! But I didn’t think it was talking he had in mind. Warning bells rang, and escape plans shot through my head. But before I could leg it off the set, I was taken by the arm by the owner of the only friendly face there seemed to be around, and was led right to the front of the set.

  “Just stand here,” I was told. I remained frozen to the spot – not because I wanted to, but because my legs refused to obey my brain’s instruction to run. I was still stunned by the comment I had just heard. Once again I wondered what on earth had possessed me to agree to this idea of being an extra.

  Suddenly the whole place seemed to go mad. People started crowding around me with lights, light-meters and clipboards. Others were shouting to technicians and floor crew, whilst Mother Hen attacked my hair and my face – again! I was pushed and shoved and manhandled, shoulders pulled back, bust out, red catsuit smoothed over bum, hips twisted.

  Silence.

  In this scene, I was told, I was going to be "in shot." I was rigid with fright. My only relief was the thought that at least I wasn't an extra "extra" any more.

  There was a really hot camera light focused right to one side of me, and I wondered how long it would take for me to sweat off all my make-up. I was handed one of those small battery-powered pocket fans to keep the sweat beads from gathering whilst I waited. Then I was given instructions that “Craig” (the star of this really tawdry gangster movie I'd got myself into) would walk past me, which is when I would have to "hold it" as the camera would zoom in on me. The one comfort I had was that with my hair all buffed out and the mountain of slap I had on, no one would actually recognise me when the film got shown on the big screen.

  “ACTION!”

  The shout brought me back to reality, if you could call this madness reality. I’d been given strict directions not to look at the camera, and to act surprised when Craig sauntered past me. I don't think I could have acted more startled if I'd tried, for Craig didn’t just meander passed me. He halted by me with a loud “HI SEXY,” grabbed my arse and planted a kiss full on my lips as the camera zoomed in for a real close-up. Furthermore, for some reason known only to the director we had to repeat this scene at least fifteen times – and with each re-take, Craig’s hands lingered on my bum and his lips on mine a little longer.

  “Don’t know about you, Kiddo, but I love this scene,” he'd whispered as he'd moved back for the thirteenth take. I don’t know what offended me more, being called “Kiddo” by someone who was (mentally at any rate) several years younger than me, or with his over-familiar manner with my body parts.

  By the end of the day, and – mark my words – it had been a long day, I was exhausted. The last thing I wanted was to “talk business” with Mr Director. So cash in hand I made a quick exit, hopped into my Mini (not one of the nice spacious modern ones, but the classical model – in other words, a real haggard old banger), and once safely inside I whooshed off, leaving behind a black cloud of exhaust fumes.

  Chapter One

  I'd almost forgotten most of the details (the waiting, the boredom, Mother Hen, the panic, the horror, the shame, the chat-up) until months later, when I actually found myself watching the film, The Business, in the cinema. Then all those memories came flooding back. What's more, my thirty seconds of fame seemed to last a lifetime as I watched from the plush and comfy cinema seat, which I just wanted to sink into and curl up in shame. Not only did the camera take a close-up of my face as Craig’s lips clamped down on mine, it then panned out and took a shockingly close look at my bum, and I realised that the clingy all-in-one catsuit was totally transparent. Peter – my boyfriend of two months – let his hand go limp in mine as I also grasped that, despite the big hair and that scary amount of make-up, the girl on the screen was obviously me. And, to put it mildly, I came across as a real tart.

  I got stared at as I walked out of the local cinema, but probably could've got away with denying the whole thing, had it not been for the fact that they'd even used my name in the closing credits. Peter refused to budge, not having said a word to me until he could confirm that The girl in the bar was Chantelle Rose – in other words, ME.

  “I’m an extra in
this film” I’d casually remarked to him, as we’d queued up for the tickets earlier on in the evening. He’d looked at me in amazement; he obviously hadn’t believed me. Well, he believed me now!

  As soon as we left the cinema, he just exploded. We hadn’t been together long, but he was the real jealous type. Having just witnessed his girlfriend expose her behind to the whole world in a cheap film – and one that was actually becoming a box office hit – was just too much for his ego.

  “Christ, Chantelle, you said you were an extra in the film. You never told me that you were a... a... a hooker,” he spluttered, quite loudly. The people around us hushed in expectation.

  “Hooker!” I actually snorted out loud at the notion. “In that case,” I continued, as sweetly as possible, “you’ll find that you owe me a hundred quid, and that’s just for tonight’s pre-dinner rendezvous. I’ll send you the bill sealed with a kiss, Romeo...”

  As I walked off, I heard someone say, “Is this some sort of sketch to the sequel?”

  I found myself heading towards Tammy’s house. She'd been my best friend since I got out of nappies and became aware that I'd actually found someone who truly understood my babbling baby talk. And still does.

  “Peter is a real geek,” Tammy stated, after I’d told her what had happened.

  “Thanks Tammy,” I replied sarcastically. “It’s not what you’ve been telling me over the last two months. What were your words? He seems a fine lad.” This, I then suddenly realised as I started laughing at my own ignorance, was Tammy’s way of saying Girl, he’s a real nerd, and I was just too desperate at the time to cotton on.