Whose Bed Is It Anyway? by Natalie Anderson

the bucket too. She struggled to swallow her latest mouthful. What was it he wanted to hear? Would he actually listen or would he leap to conclusions? And if she did tell him the truth, would he believe her? People tended not to. People tended to think the worst.
    Maybe telling him would clear the sultriness of the air between them. He’d end this flirtation. He certainly wouldn’t want to kiss her again. Wouldn’t that make her life easier? Wouldn’t that stop her stupid yearnings?
    â€˜Okay.’ She put her plate down on the floor and reached out for the iPad.
    He grabbed her arm to stop her.
    â€˜ Tell me.’ He frowned.
    â€˜Think school,’ she said crisply. ‘Show and tell.’
    He released her and she took the device, switching it on and plugging in a search. In a second she’d pulled an old promo pic for her show. She turned the iPad so he could see the screen.
    He took a second to find her in the centre of the group of youths and read the advertisement. His jaw fell open. ‘You were a teen soap star?’
    â€˜Never a star ,’ she corrected with a wry smile. ‘More notorious.’
    â€˜You told me you don’t want to act.’
    â€˜I don’t. I’m hopeless at it.’
    â€˜But you were—’
    â€˜In a British school drama for a couple of seasons, yes. Before then I’d mainly done ads, modelling work and stuff.’
    â€˜As a child?’
    She nodded.
    â€˜ Why? ’ He looked as if he couldn’t think of anything worse. He wasn’t far wrong.
    â€˜My dad was an actor. At holiday parks, cruise ships, panto, a few walk-ons in the West End. You name it, he did it. Then he got a few bit parts on TV shows. One episode appearances in “character” things. He wanted us to do the same.’
    â€˜Your mother?’
    â€˜Died when I was seven,’ she said. ‘We needed money and there was good money in TV. I did some child modelling, had that cute factor. Did a lot of clothing catalogues. Then I did some stage stuff and eventually I landed the part on the show.’
    â€˜But you said your sister is famous.’
    â€˜She is.’ Caitlin braced herself. ‘My sister is Hannah Moore.’
    His brows lifted. ‘The movie actress?’
    Caitlin nodded, waited for it.
    He frowned. ‘She doesn’t look anything like you.’
    Bingo.
    Hannah was brunette to Caitlin’s blonde. Was taller, coltish, had darker eyes, bigger lips. Caitlin had been the stereotypically ‘pretty’ one with the blue eyes and the blonde hair. Hannah was more ‘different’ looking. Now she’d gone raven she was even more striking.
    â€˜So how come you’re afraid of being recognised?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘What happened?’
    â€˜What happened?’ She stared down at the pretty young blonde smiling out from the centre of the posed photo. ‘I was young and stupid and spoiled.’
    Silently he waited.
    With an impatient growl she confessed. ‘I come from this “luvvie” family. We grew up backstage. The modelling work paid bills but it was assumed we’d act eventually. I had basic technique but no real talent. But I got on the show and it turned to custard.’ She frowned. ‘I’d always worked, right from when I can remember. And yeah, I might have been spoiled but I’d worked hard. But I knew it wasn’t my strength. I didn’t really want to do it but I couldn’t say that. So I acted out. And I was stupid. So stupid. I partied, I talked back...’
    â€˜You were the wild child.’
    â€˜And my off-screen dramas elevated our name.’ She winced. ‘I couldn’t live up to it. The expectation, the pressure was huge. And there was no getting away from it. But my mistakes were my own. There’s no one to blame but me. I earned myself this diva-bitch label and it got fixed with perma-glue. And like all good stories