Scandalous

by Martel Maxwell

‘Oh for fuck’s sake. Give me your number and I’ll get one of my friends to call you… I’m sure we can arrange something.’ Max detected the guarded tone creeping back into Billy’s voice. ‘Listen, doll, please don’t say a word to anyone, OK?’

  ‘Course, sweetpea.’ Sheri gave Billy a false number, changing a couple of digits of her own – the last thing she wanted was a footballer with a grudge getting his heavies on her – then she said goodbye.

  The moment she hung up Sheri jumped up and leaped on Max, hugging her with everything she had. ‘You little beauty, Max. We did it.’

  Indeed they had. Max would have tomorrow’s splash and Sheri would have the thirty grand they’d agreed on to pay off her dealer, stock up on supplies and kit herself out like a WAG once more. Max asked herself if she felt bad about uncovering Billy’s exploits. After all, when the story went to print, he’d have a hell of a time – from his wife, his family and probably his manager, who liked his team to be cleaner than clean. Jeez, Max had cheated in her time so who was she to expose him? But then Max wasn’t earning millions from advertising campaigns, sponsorship deals, TV documentaries and magazines by pretending to be Britain’s Number One family guy.

  A politician who banged on about family values deserved to have details of his exploits shagging his secretary or visiting a brothel laid bare. Likewise, Billy would be exposed as a hypocrite. As well the £50,000 a week he pocketed from his club, he’d made millions from his image as a family man. He’d picked up a £5-million pay cheque posing with Becci and their kids for Marks & Spencer, Gap and American Express in the last year alone, going on about how much he loved his wife and children in media campaigns. He’d even had the nerve to share some words of wisdom with the footballers who had been caught cheating, urging them to act as role models and turn their backs on temptation. Now his lies would be exposed.

  Max called her boss to give her the news.

  Claire wasn’t one for showing much emotion over the phone or face to face, but her voice crackled with excitement and relief.

  ‘Thank fuck for that. You know that tip I was working on? Well, turns out it’s bollocks. We need a good story like this.’

  Max could imagine Claire biting on her well-chewed biro, typing an email to the editor spelling out the bones of the story, the phone cradled between her shoulder and chin. Every now and then she would pull her bleached white hair behind her ear, becoming a little impatient. She would be glad Max called but desperate to get off the phone so she could walk into the editor’s office with the triumphant news. Sure, it wasn’t her story but she would take credit for giving Max plenty of time to work on it, to set it up, to wine and dine her contacts.

  Max had learned much from observing Claire at work in the office. Like the phone stunt she used whenever she had to make a call to a PR or agent of a star, but really didn’t want to have the conversation. Claire had taught her there was a way out.

  With a really big story, reporters were obliged to run it by someone who represented the star in question the day before publication. This was, of course, fine if you wanted a comment on how the actor’s movie had smashed box-office records or the singer’s single had rocketed to number one. But there were some conversations Max dreaded having, like the one she would be having with Billy Brown’s press spokesman very soon: ‘Hi, it’s Maxine Summers from the Daily News. Having a good day? Good. Listen, just to let you know we’re running an exposé in tomorrow’s paper about how golden boy Billy has been shagging for Britain, outing him as a scumbag cheat and jeopardizing all those lucrative advertisements painting him as a family man. OK?’

  The get-out ploy went as follows:

  Take two phones, usually your mobile and a landline when in the office. Dial the number on both then, at the same time, press the ‘call’ button on both, thus creating an engaged signal, putting you straight through to the answer phone. Leave a message spelling out what the story is and the evidence you have and… hey presto, deed done.

  Of course, the PRs usually rang back. Max always took the calls, though some reporters didn’t, reckoning they’d done their bit.

  But at least the PRs had had a little time to digest the facts and there was less chance of them screaming like a banshee down the phone.

  Max had transferred the trick into her personal life, cancelling dates or giving the ‘I’m really busy at work and won’t be able to see you for a few weeks’ speech to an answering machine. Cowardly, yes, but preferable to listening to some halfwit drone on about how he really cared for you and hoped you were both on the same fucking page.

  Claire told Max she was a superstar. ‘The editor will love it. Well done, Max. I’ll put you through to a copytaker.’

  Max was mid ‘Thanks, Claire’ when she heard the click that signalled she was being transferred. Her boss would already be sprinting as fast as her Gucci heels could carry her to the editor’s office.

  ‘Hi, ready? OK. “EXCLUSIVE by Maxine Summers: BILLY’S IN THE BROWN STUFF. England hero Billy Brown is today exposed as a love cheat. We can reveal the England captain has been playing away with busty glamour girl Sheri Jones. The news will devastate Billy’s pin-up pop star wife, Becci, mother of their two children…” ’

  Max dictated the story expertly, breaking halfway to get a few more lurid details from Sheri.

  After five hundred or so words, Max’s story was complete and she called her boss.

  ‘Spectacular, Max. I think we’ll splash it and run on to a four/five.’

  This was as good as a story got: a dedicated front page and a double-page spread inside.

  ‘Maybe you’ll need more copy?’

  ‘Don’t worry. If I need more, I’ll get Simon or Jade to knock something up.’

  Max was wary of such a scenario. She was less protective than most over bylines. But experience had taught her the hard way that a reporter might kindly offer to add a few facts to a story while she was out of the office doing another interview then, lo and behold, the next day their byline would appear alongside hers. Simon would never indulge in byline banditry, but Jade Stone, with her small, twitchy grey eyes and tight curly brown hair, was another story. She had famously done the dirty on her own boyfriend, a reporter for a rival daily, to get a scoop. After sifting through his text messages to see if he was cheating, she had stumbled across a story from a tipster telling him where Russell Brand was holding a secret party. Jade had gatecrashed the party the following night and bumped into her boyfriend, who promptly dumped her. Not that Jade cared – she got a great story that one of Russell’s movie star pals had turned down a well-known girl band singer for a threesome with two waitresses.

  As if reading her mind in the few seconds of silence, Claire told Max not to worry. ‘I’ll see to it that there’s only your name on it. It’s a brilliant story and you got it – it’s all yours. Now, treat yourself to something cold, fizzy and expensive – on me.’

  Maybe she had a heart after all.

  ‘Max,’ Sheri said the moment she had hung up, ‘any chance of getting some of the money now?’

  ‘Sure, Sheri. We can stop off at my office – I’ll call the finance department and ask for an advance of, say, £500 in cash?’

  Sheri nodded like a child who’s been told she could lick the Angel Delight from the bowl.

  ‘OK, and the rest will be in your bank within three working days, just like normal.’

  ‘Sorted. I’m gonna get me hair done right now and go out to celebrate. You wanna come?’

  Max considered the prospect of partying with Sheri, watching her gyrate in a bikini top and hot pants beside the VIP section of the latest trendy club, seeing her drag off some footballer, like a python with an oversized kill.

  Max decided she’d rather pour lemon juice into a paper cut while listening to a medley of Johnny Cash’s most depressing songs. ‘Thanks, Sheri, but I’ve got plans.’

  Max had plenty of options – she could call Lucy and join her for dinner with Amy; she could head to a sh
owbiz party with Simon and get drunk as a skunk. Hell, she could even have meaningless sex with whiffy Phil. Wonder if he’d started wearing deodorant?

  She longed to call Suzie, who always had a way of making her laugh, no matter how awful she felt. But she was on holiday in Spain with David and had updated her Facebook status to: ‘Suzie is… pickled on sangria in Barcelona with her fiancé.’

  The last thing she needed was Max droning on about her broken heart. At times like this, she missed Suzie desperately.

  Max wanted to be alone. Not quite true – she wanted to call Luke and tell him how much she thought about him, that she woke every morning with a dull ache at the memory of him.

  She might have deleted his number from her phone but had forgotten they had become Facebook friends: she had received a message from him through the site back when she first started ignoring his calls and texts. She had deleted the message straight away.

  Damn Facebook for showing pictures that had been tagged of him by one of his mates. She couldn’t help clicking on one of the images and there he was. So bloody gorgeous, just as she remembered. No, even better. Max felt a stab of pain as she noted the girls in the background at some party. Attractive, blonde. Fuck, what if he’d moved on? She had given him no option but to continue his life without her, but it still hurt to see him laughing, to see him getting on with things. He looked so happy. And so fit. That was the thing about Facebook. It allowed you to spy on snippets of people’s lives – the bits they wanted you to see when they were surrounded by friends, having fun. And sometimes, when you wanted to be part of that person’s life, it hurt like hell that you could only watch on your laptop from afar, your stomach churning each time you saw them. Max considered deleting Luke as a friend but it was her last remaining link to him. She could kick herself for being so weak, but she couldn’t cut the last tie.

  She should be out celebrating tomorrow’s splash, but Max the party girl just couldn’t face it and that was most definitely a first. Max Off Booze shocker. This wave of sadness would pass. Luke would be a distant memory soon. He had to be – this feeling of loss was too strong to sustain.

  LUCY HAS AN ADMIRER

  Lucy and Amy had giggled like giddy schoolgirls when they spotted Kirk Kelner, before telling each other to get a grip and act like they hadn’t seen him. There was nothing more pathetic than grown women drooling over a man just because he was famous.

  ‘Not just famous,’ Amy had pointed out. ‘He’s also the fittest man I’ve ever seen in my life. By far.’

  Lucy had laughed, stealing a last glance at the actor. ‘Agreed. He’s divine. But enough about him. This restaurant was a great choice after all, Aims, and this lobster bisque is amazing.’

  Amy lifted her glass and clinked Lucy’s.

  ‘Here’s to you, Luce – and the future.’

  Lucy felt the effects of their gin martinis and the bottle of Chablis, and revelled in the abandon she felt.

  ‘It’s got to be better than the last few weeks, Aims. Here’s to both of us.’

  The girls caught up on each other’s news over their main courses – Dover sole off the bone for Lucy and hake for Amy. There was so much to tell. James was desperate to marry. Part of Amy couldn’t wait for the fairy-tale wedding she’d always dreamed of but the thought of a lifetime of school runs didn’t do it for her.

  ‘I love my job, Luce.’

  ‘I know you do but James isn’t so stuck in the Dark Ages, Aims; surely he’d be happy for you to carry on?’

  Amy drained her glass. ‘I don’t think so. I’m over thirty, his mum is desperate for grandchildren and it’s simply not the done thing for a de Vosse mother to work. It’s modern in the very worst way to them. But it’s just not me.’

  Lucy felt a surging sense of respect for her friend. Many women would jump at the chance to be kept for the rest of their days, the hardest decision they had to make being what kind of nanny to hire – an enthusiastic young French one or a sterner lady of a certain age because the more nubile option might turn hubby’s head. Amy had never changed to fit with James’s set. She stood out, with her Manchester accent, swearing when the mood took her to bring a story to life. Lucy had no doubt that’s why James adored her – he had fallen for Amy as she was. Lucy couldn’t believe he’d expect her to change who she was just because he’d decided the time was right to start a family.

  As the girls gave their cards to the waiter, he smiled back.

  ‘Mr Kelner has taken care of the bill for you.’

  ‘Mr…’

  ‘Yes, Mr Kelner,’ the waiter said, with a hint of an Italian accent. ‘He hopes you do not mind. He has also asked for a bottle of champagne to be sent to your table.’

  Amy lowered her head to the table, then looked up at Lucy and spoke in a hushed tone: ‘Bloody hell, bloody Kirk Kelner has bought us dinner.’

  Hollywood star Kirk Kelner. The man Armani dressed for free because the clothes looked so good on him.

  ‘Please tell him we would love to accept his champagne, and thank him for us,’ Amy told the waiter firmly.

  ‘Very well, madam.’ The waiter nodded, marching off to Kirk’s table.

  ‘Luce,’ Amy was still talking in a hushed tone, full of urgency and excitement, ‘Kirk Kelner – the only man in the world I’d be unfaithful to James with… I’ve told him that, don’t worry – is after you. He’s bought us dinner and is making eyes at you like a lovesick schoolboy.’

  ‘What’s your point, Aims?’

  ‘My point is… go and bloody say thank you. Now.’

  Of course he wasn’t really after her. He had his pick. Mind you, she thought, looking over at his table, his dinner companion didn’t look much like a date. Unless he’d taken a fancy to the more mature lady. She was a stunning woman – perfectly turned out, great skin – but must be over fifty or wearing well for sixty. And she looked far too poised and refined to lust after a toy boy.

  God, Kirk was handsome. Hell, when would she ever contemplate not thanking anyone who had just bought her dinner?

  ‘OK, I will.’

  Lucy was grateful for every sip of alcohol she had had since opening the bottle of wine at the flat. She needed the courage it had given her.

  Floating over to the other side of the room, she felt detached from her body, like she was watching this surreal scene from above. Was this really happening?

  ‘Hello, Kirk?’ Shit, it was real, she thought as she heard the words come from her mouth.

  ‘Yes, hello. Pleased to meet you…?’

  ‘Lucy – Lucy Summers.’

  Kirk offered his hand and stood for a few seconds. He held Lucy’s frozen gaze. He was overwhelmingly handsome, gorgeous. Better than on film. She was aware he was motioning to the other side of the table.

  ‘This is my mother, Daphne.’

  Daphne offered her hand and a broad smile. ‘Charmed.’ She was even more stunning up close, all white teeth and luminous skin.

  ‘I… I just wanted to thank you for your lovely gesture. It was very kind.’

  Kirk’s eyes were twinkling, still fixed on Lucy’s. ‘It was my pleasure.’

  Lucy felt she should be overcome with nerves and shyness. But somehow she felt alive, more sure of herself. Maybe it was the drink. More likely it was the fact that Kirk Kelner had bought them dinner. If that wasn’t a boost to the ego, what was? And why be nervous? He was, after all, only human.

  ‘There is, however, a catch.’ Kirk was studying Lucy. ‘I can’t pretend my motives were completely selfless.’

  Lucy found herself smiling at him, intrigued by what was coming.

  ‘The thing is… I’m on the guest list for a club nearby – my driver’s waiting outside – and as hard as I’ve tried, my mother is refusing to even entertain the thought of accompanying me. So…’

  Lucy raised her eyebrows, playing this fun flirting game with Kirk bloody Kelner.

  ‘Would you like to be my guest? You and your friend…?’

  ‘A
my.’

  ‘I’d be delighted if you and Amy would join me. I shall try to be as entertaining as is fitting for two such beautiful ladies.’

  What was a girl to say to such a proposition?

  ‘Thanks, we’d like that.’

  Lucy couldn’t wait to tell Amy.

  CHARITY STARTS AT HOME

  It had all been so easy. A leaflet about the Moonwalk marathon in London in aid of breast cancer here, a ‘£5 a month could save an orphan’s life’ pamphlet there. Bridget had been sure to leave some charity paraphernalia behind at every opportunity. Last week, having popped into Hartley’s flat to drop off some home-made Dundee cake (it could only do her good if he learned to associate her with his beloved Scotland – her mother’s party caterer had actually made it but dear H needn’t know), she had left behind a book on depression. Hartley had called her soon after she left, gingerly bringing up the subject of the book.

  ‘Oh darling, don’t worry. It’s not for me. What have I to be down about? I’m a very lucky girl. That’s why I’ve decided to do some voluntary work, you know, chatting to people who are a little less happy. But I’m doing some training first, sweetie – these things have to be handled ever so gently.’

  ‘Oh I see. That’s, erm, lovely, Bridget. Good for you.’

  Bridget beamed with pride at the other end of the phone. Thankfully, he couldn’t see the wicked smile that then spread across her face.

  Yes, she had painted a rather saintly picture of her new self. In fact, when she was at his town house yesterday she had overheard Hartley tell an old school friend just how kind she was. When his mobile had started ringing she had kissed him on the cheek and waved goodbye before running down the stairs to the first floor as noisily as she could – then she had quietly retraced her footsteps back up to the landing to listen in.

  ‘Bately, I really appreciate your concern… Yes, I know, but really, she’s a different person… Yes, old chap, you’re right, I do know best…’

  Bloody Bately, the interfering idiot. OK, so she’d told a girl Bately was dating a while back that he had cheated on every girlfriend and that she would be no different. Actually, Bridget told her, she had heard whispers he’d been seeing quite a bit of an ex recently. She was only looking out for the poor girl… Mel, was it? Bately hadn’t seen it that way. He had called her in such a rage he could hardly get his words out. He had, however, managed to convey his thought that Bridget had sabotaged the relationship because she was jealous. His girlfriend had finished things even though Bately insisted he hadn’t so much as looked at another girl since he met her because he was smitten. He pleaded, he begged, but it was no use. He said Bridget was a spiteful bitch who couldn’t stand the fact Mel had been an instant hit with their group of friends.