Read Online The Perfect Hero by Victoria Connelly - Free Book Online
Authors: Victoria Connelly
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topsy-turvy sort of a world and such things could easily unbalance an insecure actress.
Gemma sank down on to her bed and picked up her script. She was quite sure her mother had never had such a problem with learning her lines. Gemma could remember her with her scripts throughout her childhood.
‘Mum,’ Gemma would say. ‘Can you help me with my homework?’
‘Darling, I have homework of my own!’ her mum would say, flicking her long dark hair over her shoulder and then sitting herself on the floor in a strange yoga position, her script in front of her and her back to her daughter.
Gemma would go upstairs to her room and, about an hour later, there’d be a knock at the door.
‘Did you still want some help?’ her mum would ask. Gemma would shake her head. She’d have done her homework by then.
Thinking back to those times now, her mother had never needed more than one read through a script and she had it down. Maybe she’d had a photographic memory or maybe her crime caper lines had been easier to learn than a Jane Austen adaptation, but one thing was for sure – her mother had never got nervous. She’d thrived on the adrenalin that filming produced. There was a permanent buzz about her – she oozed energy and was always the life and soul of the party – and there’d been quite a few at the height of her success in Bandits . Gemma remembered them well. She’d be trying to sleep upstairs when, downstairs, dozens of guests would be dancing and shouting in the living room. And the dining room, kitchen and garden. Even Gemma’s bedroom hadn’t escaped with one amorous couple once falling on to her bed in a lusty heap, the woman screaming to high heaven when she realised there was somebody already in it.
‘Come on! It’s time to go home,’ Kim Reilly would yell several hours later. ‘It is a school night, after all!’ There’d be ripples of laughter and Gemma would check the little light on her bedside clock. Her mother’s idea of ending a party early would be somewhere around three o’clock. Then, because she didn’t like to shirk her motherly duties, she’d come into Gemma’s room and squeeze her shoulder. ‘I didn’t wake you, did I, darling?’
‘No, Mummy,’ Gemma would say.
‘We were nice and quiet, weren’t we?’
Gemma would nod, the shrieking of the guests still ringing in her ears.
She’d lost count of the number of nights’ sleep she’d disturbed over the years and the number of tests she’d failed because she’d just been too tired the next day in class.
Gosh, Gemma thought to herself, is that who I’ll turn into in a few years’ time? The thought terrified her because, more than anything else, Gemma wanted to settle down with the perfect man and have lots of perfect babies. But what if she turned into her mother, putting her career as an actress first and partying hard into the night? She shook her head. She was never going to allow that to happen. It just wasn’t her. She was more of your sit-at-home-with-a-good-book-and-a-cup-of-tea sort of girl. And then there was the knitting. Gemma really wasn’t your typical young actress courting the press by spilling out of taxis wearing the latest fashions, and schmoozing with her fellow celebrities at every red carpet event going. Getting drunk in the newest bar or dancing at the trendiest nightclub just wasn’t her style. She’d rather get comfortable in the big old armchair she’d inherited from a maiden aunt and pick up her beloved basket of wool.
Beth had already sussed Gemma’s little knitting quirk.
‘Oh, it’s so wonderfully mumsy!’ she’d said, making the word mumsy sound like the foulest of insults whilst also insinuating that Gemma didn’t have a sexy bone in her body. Everyone in rehearsal had turned to stare at Gemma and the ball of lilac wool she was clutching, and there’d been a few sniggers which had cut her to the quick. But Gemma needed her knitting. Not only was it her passion but it calmed
Gemma sank down on to her bed and picked up her script. She was quite sure her mother had never had such a problem with learning her lines. Gemma could remember her with her scripts throughout her childhood.
‘Mum,’ Gemma would say. ‘Can you help me with my homework?’
‘Darling, I have homework of my own!’ her mum would say, flicking her long dark hair over her shoulder and then sitting herself on the floor in a strange yoga position, her script in front of her and her back to her daughter.
Gemma would go upstairs to her room and, about an hour later, there’d be a knock at the door.
‘Did you still want some help?’ her mum would ask. Gemma would shake her head. She’d have done her homework by then.
Thinking back to those times now, her mother had never needed more than one read through a script and she had it down. Maybe she’d had a photographic memory or maybe her crime caper lines had been easier to learn than a Jane Austen adaptation, but one thing was for sure – her mother had never got nervous. She’d thrived on the adrenalin that filming produced. There was a permanent buzz about her – she oozed energy and was always the life and soul of the party – and there’d been quite a few at the height of her success in Bandits . Gemma remembered them well. She’d be trying to sleep upstairs when, downstairs, dozens of guests would be dancing and shouting in the living room. And the dining room, kitchen and garden. Even Gemma’s bedroom hadn’t escaped with one amorous couple once falling on to her bed in a lusty heap, the woman screaming to high heaven when she realised there was somebody already in it.
‘Come on! It’s time to go home,’ Kim Reilly would yell several hours later. ‘It is a school night, after all!’ There’d be ripples of laughter and Gemma would check the little light on her bedside clock. Her mother’s idea of ending a party early would be somewhere around three o’clock. Then, because she didn’t like to shirk her motherly duties, she’d come into Gemma’s room and squeeze her shoulder. ‘I didn’t wake you, did I, darling?’
‘No, Mummy,’ Gemma would say.
‘We were nice and quiet, weren’t we?’
Gemma would nod, the shrieking of the guests still ringing in her ears.
She’d lost count of the number of nights’ sleep she’d disturbed over the years and the number of tests she’d failed because she’d just been too tired the next day in class.
Gosh, Gemma thought to herself, is that who I’ll turn into in a few years’ time? The thought terrified her because, more than anything else, Gemma wanted to settle down with the perfect man and have lots of perfect babies. But what if she turned into her mother, putting her career as an actress first and partying hard into the night? She shook her head. She was never going to allow that to happen. It just wasn’t her. She was more of your sit-at-home-with-a-good-book-and-a-cup-of-tea sort of girl. And then there was the knitting. Gemma really wasn’t your typical young actress courting the press by spilling out of taxis wearing the latest fashions, and schmoozing with her fellow celebrities at every red carpet event going. Getting drunk in the newest bar or dancing at the trendiest nightclub just wasn’t her style. She’d rather get comfortable in the big old armchair she’d inherited from a maiden aunt and pick up her beloved basket of wool.
Beth had already sussed Gemma’s little knitting quirk.
‘Oh, it’s so wonderfully mumsy!’ she’d said, making the word mumsy sound like the foulest of insults whilst also insinuating that Gemma didn’t have a sexy bone in her body. Everyone in rehearsal had turned to stare at Gemma and the ball of lilac wool she was clutching, and there’d been a few sniggers which had cut her to the quick. But Gemma needed her knitting. Not only was it her passion but it calmed
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