Scandalous

by Martel Maxwell

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  Scandalous

  Martel Maxwell, a columnist, television and radio presenter, is also a regular showbiz expert for ITV1’s This Morning and Sky News. For four memorable years she worked on the Sun’s showbiz column, Bizarre, interviewing all the major stars. Martel is from Broughty Ferry in Scotland, and now lives wherever parties and work take her. Scandalous is her first novel.

  To find out more about Martel, please visit her website: www.martelmaxwell.com.

  Scandalous

  MARTEL MAXWELL

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  For my mum, Anne Maxwell-Stevenson. Thank you.

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3

  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia

  (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)

  Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi – 110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand

  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  www.penguin.com

  First published 2010

  Copyright © Martel Maxwell, 2010

  All rights reserved

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  ISBN: 978-0-14-195832-3

  Contents

  LATE EDITION: LET’S GET THIS PARTY STARTED

  EXCLUSIVE: BEAUTIES GO TO WAR

  LADY BRIDGET 0… LUCY SUMMERS 1

  REVENGE IS A DISH BEST SERVED… NOW

  EXCLUSIVE: GOTCHA!

  SHAGGER SHERI SAVES THE DAY

  HOLD THE FRONT PAGE

  WHEN LUCY MET HARTLEY

  MAX DRAWS THE SHORT STRAW

  BUTTERFLIES OVER CREAM TEA

  CHIN UP, CHEST OUT

  HUBBLE BUBBLE, TOIL AND TROUBLE

  SHERI COMES GOOD AGAIN

  UNCOVERED: SHERI IN ALL HER GLORY

  SOME THINGS ARE NOT FOR SALE

  GIRLS’ GUIDE TO A NIGHT OUT

  UNCOVERED: WHAT REALLY HAPPENED AT CLARISSA’S FRIDAY-NIGHT SUPPER

  THE PLOT THICKENS

  HOT OFF THE PRESS: MAX’S NIGHT OF SHAME

  TEARS FOR FEARS

  HERE’S LUKE-ING AT YOU

  LIKE A BRIDGET OVER NASTY WATERS

  A VERY BIG HOUSE IN THE COUNTRY

  SHERI, ANYONE?

  POWER TO THE MAX

  GOTCHA!

  JUST LIKE CLOCKWORK

  AMBI – PURE AND SIMPLE: I’LL BE THERE FOR YOU

  ALL IS NOT WELL

  SISTER ACT

  IN FOR THE KILL

  FAMILY COMES FIRST

  THAT’S WHY THE LADY IS A TRAMP

  EXCLUSIVE: EARL’S EX HIDES HUMBLE BEGINNINGS

  A TIME FOR CHANGE

  EXPOSED: TRUTH BY TEXT

  LUCY: I WILL SURVIVE

  ANOTHER DAY, ANOTHER DOORSTEP

  ONCE, TWICE, THREE TIMES A BLOODY LADY

  THE SHEEKEY GIRLS

  EXCLUSIVE: BILLY’S IN THE BROWN STUFF

  LUCY HAS AN ADMIRER

  CHARITY STARTS AT HOME

  LUCY LETS HER HAIR DOWN

  SMITTEN KELNER MAKES HIS MOVE

  AMY MAKES HER MOVE

  A DRUNKEN LUCY MAKES HER MOVE

  SHOCK OF THE MORNING TO YOU

  MARJ HAS NEWS

  MUM’S THE WORD

  KIRK’S CRAZY IN LOVE

  THE SECRETS OF JADE’S TRADE

  MARJ TAKES CHARGE

  BRIDGET THINKS ON HER FEET

  HARTLEY IS STUNNED BY SPLASH

  MARJ COMES CLEAN

  MARJ MAKES HER MOVE

  DON’T LUKE BACK IN ANGER

  CLARISSA’S BACK

  SHERI TOASTS NEW START

  THE EARL’S EYES ARE OPENED

  … AND NOW FOR MAX

  BRIDGET PLAYS THE WAITING GAME

  NEW YORK, NEW YORK

  LUCY MAKES AMENDS

  NO REST FOR THE WICKED

  A CLOSE SHAVE FOR MAX

  HARTLEY SINGS THE BLUES

  THE LUKE OF LOVE

  AN EVEN CLOSER SHAVE FOR MAX

  GAME OVER

  LUCY’S UNEXPECTED BLOW

  ZIP ME UP BEFORE YOU GO GO!

  LUCY SEES THE FUNNY SIDE

  LUCY SEES CLEARLY NOW THE PAIN HAS GONE

  FLYING WITHOUT WINGS

  TESTING TIMES

  BACK TO BLIGHTY

  THE TIMES THEY ARE A-CHANGIN’

  MOTHER’S RUIN

  WHAT GOES AROUND…

  THE TIME HAS COME

  THE LADY IS NOT FOR TURNING

  HARTLEY GOES PUBLIC

  TWO’S COMPANY…

  THE FINAL COUNTDOWN

  WHAT HAPPENED NEXT

  Acknowledgements

  LATE EDITION: LET’S GET THIS PARTY STARTED

  Max’s body was pumping with adrenaline. Somehow, she’d managed to scale halfway up a twelve-foot pole – the only thing between her and Hollywood’s man of the moment, Kirk Kelner.

  Sheer determination had got her this far. Well, that and three eye-watering gin cocktails from the free bar. Just a few feet more, she thought as she hoisted herself up the pole, then who knows? The biggest scoop of the night – maybe the biggest scoop of her career. Showbiz Reporter of the Year had Max’s name all over it.

  She could hear legendary newsreader Sir Trevor McDonald now: ‘And the next award goes to a young woman who brings you the stories the stars hope you will never read. Ladies and gentlemen, Maxine –’

  ‘Nice view.’

  What? Who the hell? Max’s thoughts returned to the present as the voice carried up to her precarious position. Oh bugger, had she remembered to put pants on? She had read in Glamour last week that it was healthy to let in a bit of air down there and since then she had sometimes gone commando.

  Quickly, she took one hand off the pole and patted her pleated grey-velvet Armani skirt which only just covered her bum. Thank God, she had remembered. A teeny La Perla pink thong, but knickers nonetheless. Just enough material to cover her landing strip. Getting that done had really hurt. But she thanked her lucky stars she’d kept her waxing appointment the day before.

  ‘Thanks, boys,’ Max shouted down to the two men who had a bird’s-eye view, one of whom, she noted, was rather fit. Tousled blond hair, twinkling blue eyes, slight tan, oh and no wedding ring…

  Stop it, not the time or the place, she told herself and focused on making a final hoist over the pole, one of dozens holding together a temporary canvas wall shielding the VIP enclosure at the after-party for the premiere of Man of Steel 4.

  Pity she had no one to admire her landing strip. Being single was such a waste as Max had felt decidedly horny for the past few days. Perhaps it was the summer heat. They said men thin
k about sex every few seconds. Max was beginning to realize how disabling this was as her mind drifted constantly during work to thoughts of one of the messenger boys, a boy in his early twenties, and she pictured him bumping into her in the corridor, pushing her into a conference room, pulling her skirt up and pants down in an expert move. He groaned as he felt how wet she was… and then Max’s thoughts would come crashing back to the real world in which the singer at the end of the phone had been silent for a while. Shit, what bollocks had he said about the American Billboard charts?

  Focusing on the matter in hand – gatecrashing this celebfest of a party – Max spotted a ledge halfway down the other side of the wall. She used it as a footrest for the toe of her tan leather Miss Sixty cowboy boot before jumping down. She noted a few odd glances as she landed, but only from bemused guests more interested in the champagne and canapés. Fortunately, there was not a security guard in sight.

  Just twenty minutes earlier, Max had been turned away from the VIP entrance by a burly black security guard called Mike.

  Mike was a regular bouncer on the London showbiz circuit and was used to Max’s attempts at sneaking into the VIP section of A-list parties.

  Despite her biggest brown-eyed Bambi look, he had refused her entry. Max asked him to check the list.

  ‘My name is most definitely there, Mike.’

  ‘I don’t need to check, Max. All journalists are banned. Orders from above. Kirk Kelner can’t stand you lot. Says all those stories in the papers about his affairs will cost him millions in his divorce.’

  Mike was already looking over Max’s shoulder, preparing himself for three girls standing behind her.

  Max was relieved to note they did not belong to the competition – the tabloid showbiz writers on rival columns who wanted the same thing: a scoop on Kirk Kelner. The Mirror ’s 3 am girls hunted as a twosome, as did the Star’s Goss team, while the Bizarre editor on the Sun was usually with one of the largely unknown members of his team. Those writers had their airbrushed pictures at the top of their columns while only Max’s name appeared, with those of a few other showbiz reporters, under her boss’s picture. Max liked it that way – it gave her the freedom to be a chameleon and adopt a whole new identity if the fancy took her. Fuck, concentrate. What kind of a journalist would she be if she rolled up for work tomorrow with a stonking hangover and no story on Kelner? And God, the thought of the roasting she’d be in for if the rival front pages had some juicy exclusive on him made her shudder.

  ‘Come on, Mike, no one will know.’

  ‘No, Max. Nice try, but not even your old phone trick is going to work.’

  Ah, the phone trick. It had served Max well in her three years as a showbiz reporter for the Daily News, Britain’s second biggest-selling daily newspaper. Only the mighty Sun sold more copies.

  She would pretend to be on her mobile and march straight into the VIP section of a premiere with all the presence of an A-lister.

  Normally, Max grabbed her opportunity to waltz in when the regular guards who knew her were on a break or had gone to the toilet.

  When a guard grabbed her arm, she would give him a venomous look and hiss, ‘Can’t you see I’m on the phone? Anyway, I’ve been in already.’

  Sadly, tonight Mike’s bladder had remained resolute.

  The Daily News, along with the other newspapers’ showbiz desks were always given one pass, sometimes two, for premiere parties. The PRs were paid to make sure the film was talked about, after all. But she had learned within weeks of starting her job that a premiere ticket meant little if you wanted to mix with the big stars. Sure, some old-timer soap actor or struggling singer might have a ticket to join the main crowd at the after-party.

  But the big names always insisted on a VIP enclosure with a strict no-entry rule for journalists. They were happy to pick up their £5-million pay cheques for filming but didn’t want some hack witnessing their drunk and debauched behaviour.

  With a natural beauty, petite frame, long chestnut hair and big brown eyes, Max was prettier than many of the stars she wrote about. In the dog-eat-dog world of tabloid journalism, every reporter used what they had to get a scoop.

  One girl from the Sport, a tall, slim brunette with a slight acne problem, was renowned for sleeping with male stars’ security guards – normally after the celeb had turned her down. She got her monthly quota of stories during warm-up cocktails, and warm-down pillow talk.

  Max had never gone there – and never would, no matter how pressurized she felt to bring in stories. She had simply learned to play on her looks and wit, and nine times out of ten flirted her way past security guards into the VIP enclosure. But tonight she had been unceremoniously knocked back by Mike. Max had given it ten minutes before deciding to climb her way to the A-listers.

  And here she was, mingling with the cream of Hollywood. Yes, her unorthodox arrival had gone largely unnoticed, aided no doubt by the never-ending supply of pink Laurent-Perrier circulating in the room.

  Guests outside the enclosure were being offered cheaper rosé Cava, served on trays by ultra-toned, tanned girls in khaki-coloured bikinis with camouflage paint on their cheeks – in keeping with the action theme of the movie. Mini pokes of chips with battered fish were offered up by rugged men with bulging biceps and rippling six-packs hidden under Die Hard-esque string vests and combat trousers.

  Outside, hundreds of partygoers chatted and looked over each other’s shoulders to spot a star, talking over some up-and-coming rock band, while a few tipsy guests attempted an assault course set up for the evening.

  Max surveyed her new surroundings in the VIP area. She stifled a giggle when she saw three women wearing identical bright green Versace frocks spattered with orange sunflowers. How embarrassing – the hottest ticket in town and they had chosen the same outrageous number. Must remember to dig out their pictures tomorrow at work. The headline ‘Frocky Horror Show’ for a picture feature would be perfect.

  The outfit wasn’t all they had in common. Max wondered if they shared the same double-F boob-job specialist. At £3,900 a pop (the dresses, not the boobs), only the rich could afford Versace’s latest number.

  Since these silicone-enhanced ‘beauties’ were balancing their mounting overdrafts with growing coke problems, Max had no doubt they had asked their rich sugar daddies to cough up for the latest must-have. Having forked out the cash, the married men were supplied with blow jobs on tap during their twice-weekly visits, while their wives did their credit cards some damage on Bond Street.

  What went over the girls’ highlighted heads, Max thought, was that class or style can’t be bought. Madonna might have worn the dress ten days ago but no A-lister worth her salt would go near them now the wannabes had them.

  Max grabbed two flutes of bubbly for Dutch courage from the nearest waiter and drained the first in two gulps before smoothing down her skirt. She checked that her black-satin Vivienne Westwood corset was showing just enough cleavage but no trace of her boob-boosting Wonderbra.

  Max then shook her mane of glossy hair, tinged with auburn in certain lights and cascading over her shoulders in heavy waves, and told herself she belonged with the stars.

  They were no better than her. OK, so the women looked like they’d taken two days to get ready. Manicured, hair-extensioned and fake-tanned to the max, they certainly turned heads. But they also managed to look near-identical.

  Holding on to her remaining full glass of bubbly, Max strode into the crowd. The mix of champagne with the gin she’d already drunk had the desired effect of numbing her nerves.

  Now she wanted a cigarette. As she negotiated her nicotine craving Max recognized a woman she’d seen on the red carpet earlier that night: Kirk Kelner’s mum, Daphne. Good spot. Kirk had charmed the camera crews by telling the pretty reporters his mum was his date for the night. Daphne, in her mid sixties, clearly loved every moment and took to it like a duck to water yet she was full of grace and didn’t try to steal the limelight. She spoke only when spoke
n to on the red carpet but never failed to give reporters quick, witty replies to their questions.

  Jesus, was that the new-season Prada dress in scarlet she was wearing? The richly coloured, velvet, floor-length dress cost £7,000 and she made it look worth every penny. It covered her breasts but plunged low at the back, revealing flawless skin, and finished with a fishtail skirt.

  Sexy but refined. Demure and elegant.

  It looked better on her than on the girls a third of her age in the magazine ads. Daphne Kelner reminded Max of veteran Bond girl Honor Blackman. She was one classy lady.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Kelner,’ offered Max. ‘I just wanted to say how lovely you look.’

  On the surface Max had no hesitation in talking to anyone at a bash like this. Aside from the bouncers, no one had a clue who she was. The more confident she acted, the more important people assumed she was. In truth, Max was often terrified to strike up conversations with stars. But a few vodka Red Bulls, or whatever was on offer, always did the trick.

  Daphne gave Max a quizzical look but hardly missed a beat before breaking into a welcoming smile. ‘Why, thank you, darling. How very kind of you. My son bought me this dress for tonight.’ Then, as though confiding a secret with her best pal, she leaned in close and placed a perfectly painted long scarlet fingernail on Max’s arm. Whispering loudly, she said: ‘Having a famous son has a few bonuses, you know.’

  They giggled like new schoolgirl pals. Then, as silence fell upon them, Max prepared to ask where her celebrated son was.

  ‘Ah, here he is. Kirk, darling. Come give Mommy a kiss.’

  Swaying slightly, the movie god that was Kirk Kelner lurched between them, stooping to give Daphne a peck on her cheek.

  Max couldn’t believe it. The superstar voted sexiest man in the world for three years running by GQ – ahead of Brad Pitt, George Clooney and Russell Crowe – was standing beside her. She looked up into his smooth tanned face and found the twinkling blue eyes that had graced thousands of magazine and newspaper covers. Wow. He really was as handsome in the flesh. Almost flawless. Like a waxwork.

  ‘Kirk, you must meet this lovely lady, Miss…?’

  ‘Alison Brown.’ It was the first name that came to mind – hell, better safe than sorry. If he was anything like most celebrities, he’d spend hours Googling his name and know the names of all showbiz reporters on the nationals.