For Lindsey, who knows all the words
Actress Tiffany Webb stared at the morning newspapers and sighed. She’d been photographed leaving an exclusive nightclub at four o’clock in the morning. It was the fifth time this month that her face had been splashed across the front pages.
It wasn’t enough.
But the role she’d just been offered should get her more attention. She’d been chosen to play the part of Dorothy in a stage version of The Wizard of Oz! The newspapers were full of it. Her agent had said that if she got good reviews she could be on her way to Hollywood. Tiffany smiled to herself. She knew that everything would be perfect, just as long as she had the right help. The show would sell out; she would delight critics and dazzle audiences. They’d be on their feet at the end of every performance, clapping and cheering, with tears in their eyes – she could already taste her triumph.
What Tiffany didn’t know was that someone else was looking at the papers that morning, staring at the photographs with horrid fascination. While Tiffanywas indulging in dreams of a golden future, that same person saw a far darker vision of what lay ahead. Tiffany would never play the part of Dorothy. Before the opening night, she would have an accident that would bring her stage career to a sudden and dramatic end.
the reluctant marigold
My name is Poppy Fields. There are lots of things I like watching. Comedies? Great. Spy thrillers? Brilliant. War films? Dead exciting. But musicals? I just don’t get them. All that smiling and dancing and bursting into song for no reason at all? It’s weird. The first time I saw one I thought it was just plain silly.
So how did I end up with a huge orange flower stuck on my head, cowering in the dressing room, sick with stage fright among a bunch of Munchkins on the opening night of The Wizard of Oz? It certainly didn’t have anything to do with liking the limelight. I’ve never wanted to be famous. Most of the time I try to blend into the background. I’ve got so good at Not Being Noticed that sometimes my mum, Lili, calls me The Invisible Girl. I’m not shy, it’s just that I’m really interested in human behaviour. Studying other people is a bit like being a bird watcher: you have to keep quiet and move carefully so you don’t frighten your subjects away.
In normal circumstances I’d never even have considered auditioning for a part in a musical. But these weren’t normal circumstances.
Tiffany Webb made sure of that.
She was the star of the TV soap “Dead End Street” but she was as famous for her social life as her acting. She was forever being photographed at all-night parties, or getting arrested for bopping paparazzi or having screaming rows with other celebrities. Her face was constantly in the papers or on the covers of magazines – it seemed like you couldn’t walk past a newsagent without seeing a photo of her on something. She’d had a series of well-known boyfriends too. When I added them up it came to two film stars, three pop singers, seven footballers and a boxer.
But I wasn’t interested in her simply because she was a celebrity – it wasn’t the fact that she was famous that I found fascinating. What intrigued me was how desperate she was to be noticed. I saw her on TV at an awards ceremony once and she was practically pushing other people off the red carpet. It was like she had to be the centre of attention; as if she was scared that she might disappear in a puff of smoke if no one was looking at her. I was working on the theory that publicity was like a mirror: she needed it to prove to herself that she really existed.
I suspected that she was slightly insane, so when I had the opportunity to observe her up close it was irresistible. That was why I ended up in The Wizard of Oz.
It was right after the October half-term. The first Monday morning back at school our head teacher, Mr Thompson, made a dramatic announcement in assembly.
“Something rather exciting is going to happen this Christmas,” he told us, rubbing his hands together with obvious delight. I thought he was going to tell us about some school disco or a design-a-festive-card competition. I stifled a yawn. But then he said, “Anyone heard of the Purple Parrot Theatre Company? Come on now. Hands up.”
He looked expectantly at a sea of blank faces. Hands remained in laps. No one had a clue. No one but Graham, my best friend, whose arm shot up at once. He knows stuff, you see. His head is packed with a mind-blowing assortment of occasionally-fascinating-but-mostly-useless information.
“It’s a touring company that specializes in musicals,” Graham informed us.
“Good lad, well done,” said Mr Thompson, awarding him a house point while simultaneously looking deeply disappointed with the rest of us. “For those of you who don’t know, they’re one of the most prestigious outfits in the UK. They move from town to town, taking their spectacular shows from one venue to the next so you don’t have to travel to London to see first-rate theatre. And this Christmas they’re bringing their version of The Wizard of Oz to our Theatre Royal. What’s more, they’re looking for local children to play the parts of the Munchkins!”
There was a buzz of anticipation from the kids who liked doing school plays or were part of the choir. Graham and I weren’t interested in drama or singing so we didn’t share it. I’d kind of switched off by then and I barely heard Mr Thompson saying it was the “opportunity of a lifetime” and that anyone who succeeded in getting a part could have time off school for rehearsals.
But then he mentioned that Tiffany Webb would be playing Dorothy and suddenly I was all ears.
It was my big chance to observe a living celebrity in the flesh and I wasn’t going to pass it up without a fight. I mean, I’d had a similar opportunity during half-term when my mum – who’s a landscape gardener – was invited to make over the Hollywood estate of a retired actress. Sadly that particular star had gone and got herself murdered before I could study her behaviour. So I was doubly determined to grab this fresh chance with both hands. I had no choice but to audition.
Either side of me and Graham the girls we call the Pink Fairy Brigade began their preening rituals, flicking their hair across their shoulders and checking their nails. If I wanted a part, clearly I would have a lot of competition.
When I told Graham we were going for it, he was less than enthusiastic.
“You can’t sing and I can’t act,” he pointed out. “Statistically speaking, the chances of us being offered a part are a zillion to one.”
“It’s worth a go, though, isn’t it, Graham? What have we got to lose?”
“Dignity. Pride. Self-respect…”
“Come on, it will be fun,” I wheedled. And before Graham could start going on about the Very Slim Chances of the Experience Being Even Remotely Amusing, I offered him the best bribe I could think of. I promised to buy him the latest edition of Guinness World Records for Christmas. It wasn’t enough. I had to throw in an updated Book of Lists as well before he agreed.
For the next week we practised singing “Follow the Yellow Brick Road”. We even devised a sort of dance routine but I have to admit we were truly terrible. I didn’t think we had a hope of getting in.
But on the first Saturday in November we took the bus into town. Clutching the parental consent forms our mums had signed, we joined the back of a queue of Eager Young Hopefuls that wound three times around the Theatre Royal and snaked away over the horizon.
We had to hang around for hours: Graham and I were the very last ones in.
I was convinced that the Pink Fairy Brigade and the I’m-going-to-be-an-actor-when-I-grow-up mafia would have grabbed all the singing and dancing parts in the first few minutes. When we finally walked on to the stage, the director – a tall thin man who introduced himself as Peregrine Wingfield – looked about ready to gnaw his own hands off with boredom. We barely got the first word of our song out when he called, “L
ovely! That’ll do.” He turned to a large lady next to him and said wearily, “Cynthia, are they the right size?”
Graham and I looked at each other, mystified, as Cynthia ran up to us with a tape measure. “I’m the chaperone. I look after the children in the production,” she explained as she measured the circumference of my head. “Perfect!” she muttered to herself before turning to Graham and doing the same to him. “They’ll do!” she called back.
“What a relief!” Peregrine sighed. “That’s me done for the day, then. I’ll be in the bar, Cynthia. See you later.” He left the auditorium.
“Right, you two,” Cynthia said briskly. “Come with me.”
Cynthia sang softly under her breath (“It’s a Long Way to Tipperary”) as she descended several flights of stairs, Graham and I following obediently behind, all the way down to the basement, where a small room was stuffed with outfits.
It turned out that it was the Purple Parrot Theatre Company’s policy to audition everyone who turned up. Good for public relations, apparently. But in reality, once they’d cast the singing–dancing Munchkin parts it was down to who would fit into the remaining costumes. Cynthia told us that a load of wonderfully-talented-but-sadly-too-tall/short/wide/weedy kids had already been led away weeping by their disappointed parents.
But I turned out to be just the right size for the Orange Marigold.
Graham was perfect for the Pink Petunia.
It seemed that the person who’d designed the Purple Parrot’s production had given Munchkinland an extra special feature. We were destined to adorn the stage as part of a magical herbaceous border. We wouldn’t have to sing or dance. All we’d have to do was sit in a corner and wiggle our petals in time with the music.
“I hope you’re not too disappointed.” Cynthia looked deeply anxious. “The Fantastical Flowers aren’t what you’d call demanding roles. You might find it a little dull just watching everyone else do their bit.”
“No,” I answered honestly as I studied my outfit. Costume? I thought. It’s camouflage. It looked as solid as a bird watcher’s hide. “This will be perfect,” I said, thinking how closely I’d be able to study Tiffany’s Celebrity Behaviour.
I had no idea that someone else was already watching Tiffany Webb. Someone who wanted to do her some serious damage.
death threat
The first thing we had to do for the Purple Parrot Theatre Company was what they called “advance publicity”. They’d arranged a photo call early on Monday morning to launch the show so, instead of going to school as usual, Graham and I had to catch a bus into town. All the kids were supposed to report to Maggie on the stage door at 8 a.m. sharp so that we could get made up and into the right costumes. By 9.15 a.m. we should have been standing on the broad, stone steps of the Theatre Royal waiting for Tiffany Webb, dressed in her Dorothy outfit, to pull up in a horse-drawn carriage and pose for the flock of photographers and TV crews who’d turned up for the occasion.
Things didn’t quite work out according to plan.
First of all, the bus Graham and I were supposed to catch was fifteen minutes late. Then it crawled through the rush-hour traffic so slowly that we didn’t get into town until nearly nine o’clock. I was really edgy because I thought we’d be chucked out of the show before we’d even got started and Graham was beside himself because he hated being behind schedule. We sat there, drumming our fingers on the backs of the seat in front of us, jiggling our feet, tutting and sighing, and generally annoying the other passengers.
The area around the theatre was pedestrianized, so, once we’d reached our stop, we had to sprint the last five hundred metres. The quickest way to the stage door was through an alley where the fire escapes criss-crossed the side of the building down to the ground.
When we got there Maggie sent us straight inside. One minute and forty-seven seconds later we were clad in lurid leafy tunics and brightly coloured tights. Cynthia had done our faces to match, singing bursts of “I Can Sing a Rainbow” as she daubed us with garish greasepaint. Cramming the flowers on our heads, she dragged us by our wrists back through the stage door, along the alley and round to the front of the theatre.
“If we go this way Peregrine won’t spot you,” she said. “You can slip in among the Munchkins and he’ll be none the wiser.”
As we reached the theatre’s main entrance, Cynthia shoved us towards the already crowded steps. “Go up the side there. Stand at the back. You’ll be fine. Go on.”
We did as we were told, squeezing between Munchkins until we reached the top. From there we could see the rest of the cast arranged artfully for the cameras. They were all there: the Tin Man, the Cowardly Lion, the Scarecrow, the Wizard of Oz, Glinda the Good Witch and the Wicked Witch of the West. They were chatting and laughing but then there was the sound of hoofbeats on concrete, and everyone fell into a hushed, expectant silence.
An emerald-green open carriage was being pulled towards us by two pea-coloured ponies. “I wonder how they did that?” I whispered to Graham.
“Coloured hair spray I should imagine,” he replied. “It would need to be completely non-toxic.”
“Bet those horses didn’t like being zapped with green,” I said. “They’re probably really embarrassed.”
“Actually, horses are completely colour-blind,” Graham informed me. “But I wouldn’t want to be the person who has to wash it off.”
And then we fell silent too because all eyes were on the girl in the gingham frock and ruby slippers. Tiffany Webb. Dorothy. Smiling and waving just like the Queen, only with more enthusiasm and whiter teeth.
She was a lot smaller than I thought she would be and for a second I was slightly disappointed. She looked kind of fragile sitting there all on her own. When the carriage came to a halt the Cowardly Lion bowed and stepped forward to open the door. Suddenly the respectful silence was broken by the frantic clicking and flashing of hundreds of cameras. Photographers were shouting, calling her name to get her attention. “This way, Tiffany!” “Over here, love!” “Give us a smile, darling!” A film crew dangled a fluffy microphone in her face and demanded, “How do you feel about your new role, Tiffany?”
It was worse than being at a wedding. The photographs took forever. They took shots of Tiffany and the other principal actors and then did a load of wide-angle ones of the whole cast standing on the steps. Graham and I were elbowed out of the pictures by pushier, more publicity-hungry kids but neither of us minded. The TV crew did an interview with Tiffany and then a celebrity magazine wanted more pictures of her in the carriage with the green horses. Everyone’s eyes were firmly fixed on Tiffany at the bottom of the steps but my attention began to wander. I turned around and it was then that I noticed a wizard edging furtively towards the theatre’s front doors.
I prodded Graham.
“What?” he said, a little crossly. Then he saw what I was looking at and his mouth fell open.
I mean, it was quite a sight.
Six, maybe seven feet tall; black flowing cape; pointy hat; bright green warty mask. It was like seeing Darth Vader out trick-or-treating.
“Must be someone from the play,” said Graham uncertainly. “Probably here for the photo call.”
“Maybe,” I replied. “But why isn’t he down there with the rest of the actors?”
“I don’t know.”
“There’s only one wizard in The Wizard of Oz, isn’t there?” I asked.
“Yes,” replied Graham. “And he’s standing right next to Tiffany.”
We watched, and to our horror the tall wizard suddenly pulled a lethal-looking knife from beneath his cape and raised the blade high in the air. With a thud he brought it down hard, stabbing a piece of paper to the front door. Then he ran off down the side of the steps, disappearing into the alley so quickly that we didn’t have a chance of stopping him.
The piece of paper flapped helplessly beneath the knife in the breeze. When Graham and I read what was written on it, my blood ran cold. Scrawled in scarlet in
k were the words TIFFANY WILL DIE!
the stalker
“Inspector Humphries takes threats of this nature very seriously. He has placed Miss Webb under police protection until the suspect is apprehended.”
Graham and I watched the evening news wincing with embarrassment as the whole drama replayed across the screen for everyone to see.
I mean, we’d been horrified when we read the note. We were in deep conversation with our backs to everyone else when Tiffany finally ascended the theatre steps on Peregrine’s arm, closely followed by the film crew that was recording her every move. We didn’t even hear them coming.
In full, glorious technicolour the TV audience was treated to a close-up of our bright and leafy bottoms. We’d been blocking their way, so Peregrine had coughed loudly. Only then had we turned around.
He hadn’t said anything: just fixed us with a steely stare and jerked his head so that we were compelled to stand aside. Then he’d spotted the note and the knife, and chaos had erupted.
Tiffany had gasped and staggered as if she was deeply upset; Peregrine had sworn so violently they’d had to bleep his words out on the news; and Cynthia had called the police.
The TV news froze for a few seconds on a close-up of the note’s shocking words. An interview with Tiffany – distressed but courageous – followed.
“Is there anyone you think might be responsible for this?” the interviewer asked sympathetically.
“I really don’t know.”
“An ex-boyfriend, perhaps?” the interviewer suggested.
“Maybe,” Tiffany said.
“Or a crazed fan?”
“I’ve no idea. I can’t think why anyone would want to hurt me. The police are looking into it. They seem to think I might have a stalker.”
“And will you alter your plans at all as a result of this threat? Starring in a live theatre show might expose you to danger. Will you go ahead?”
“Of course!” Tiffany threw back her head, raising her chin defiantly. “I’ve always wanted to play the part of Dorothy. Nothing’s going to stop me. He’d have to kill me first.” Then she looked right at the camera, as if she was issuing her stalker a direct challenge.
Dying to be Famous Page 1