Scandalous

by Martel Maxwell

  ‘I think you did it for the right reasons. You were protecting me. But guess what?’

  ‘You don’t need any protecting?’

  ‘Exactamundo, sis. And guess what else?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I really like Max too.’

  NO REST FOR THE WICKED

  It was a joy to catch up with friends who had nothing to do with media. They had chosen the Scottish-themed St Andrews bar off Times Square. Soho House could wait. Drinking Guinness with her pals Sean, Connor and Cath, who worked in New York selling the sports channels to bars in the city, was much more fun.

  ‘Whiskey chasers?’ Sean bellowed over the Proclaimers’ ‘I’m Gonna Be’ in the background.

  ‘Why not?’ Max replied, clapping her hands.

  It never failed to amaze Max how her friends’ accents grew more Irish each time she saw them. They had lived here for over a decade but sounded more Irish than most of their friends back home.

  ‘Ah it’s simple,’ Sean told her, downing his pint and picking up a full one. With dark auburn hair, brown eyes, freckles and a growing beer belly, there was no mistaking Sean’s Celtic roots. ‘I have Irish friends who were born in New York and sound as comically Irish as Brad Pitt in the film Snatch. They work in Irish bars, they have Irish friends and family here. They never talk to Americans.’

  Max laughed. ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘On me maither’s life, Max, it’s the truth.’

  ‘Anyway, when are you moving out here, girl?’ asked Cath, a curvy size 14 with magnificently full breasts, curly strawberry blonde, shoulder-length hair which fell into pretty wisps around her face, and those blue Irish eyes.

  ‘Yeah, the place was made for you, and we know all the bars that’ll serve you at any hour,’ Connor piped up. He was just an inch or two taller than Max, with curly brown hair, bright green eyes and the solid frame of a featherweight boxer.

  ‘Just what I need.’ Max laughed.

  She had to admit, she had often thought about moving to New York. She would miss Lucy, her parents, Simon, Suzie and a few other girlfriends, but the change would be wonderful for a couple of years.

  She picked up her shot and toasted: ‘To us.’

  As the dram hit the back of her throat, Max felt her phone vibrate in her Seven jeans pocket (she’d washed them three times after the Tom Cruise incident and was certain they were now pee-free).

  Claire’s number flashed on the screen.

  ‘I’ll just be a mo – it’s my boss – too noisy in here, better go outside.’ Max walked quickly to the door and answered. ‘Hi, Claire.’

  ‘Hi, Max, how’s New York?’

  ‘Wonderful.’ It wasn’t, however, a wonderful sign that her boss was calling her when it was almost 2 a.m. her time. It must be serious.

  ‘Max, I know you’re on holiday but here’s the thing… I’ve just had a tip that Beyoncé’s throwing a party tonight – some charity do with a guest list that reads like a copy of Who’s Who.’

  Max knew what was coming. She happened to know the paper’s New York correspondent was off on honeymoon.

  ‘You know Paul’s away?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Well, I’d ask an agency reporter in New York to cover it but you’re much better. If anyone can blag in, you can.’

  Flattery. Great. Max knew there was no way out. All she wanted to do was switch off and listen to her friends’ singsong voices in a cosy bar.

  ‘I’ll send you details of the address. You have your BlackBerry?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Great. I really appreciate this, Max.’

  ‘No worries.’

  There was no point in telling Claire she had plans. On a Richter scale of care factors, her interest would be zero.

  ‘Oh Claire, what time does it start?’

  ‘Nine.’

  ‘That’s in twenty minutes.’

  ‘And it’s black tie.’

  ‘I’m in my jeans – I don’t have time to change.’

  ‘Sorry? Oh Max, I think the line’s breaking up. Good luck, thanks again.’

  A CLOSE SHAVE FOR MAX

  Half an hour after speaking to her boss, Max pulled up at the Hudson Hotel, one of New York’s coolest celeb hangouts. Shit. The entrance was teeming with security.

  Max knew the only way she could pull off getting inside was to muster all the confidence she had.

  In the absence of a ticket, supreme self-belief was her only option.

  Max employed the old phone trick, speaking into her mobile while striding up the red carpet past a line of animated photographers. For once, someone really was on the other end of the line – her sister.

  Shit, was that J-Lo they were taking snaps of? It was. There was no mistaking that perfectly rounded bottom jutting out from her tiny waist.

  No matter how top-secret the party, a team of security men outside the Hudson was always going to attract the paparazzi. And here they were, feasting on the A-listers like hyenas on prey, salivating over the thought of how many thousands they’d make from a night’s work. The British tabloids alone – the Daily News, the Sun, the Mirror and Star – would pay premium prices for the best shots. They could hardly ignore them while rivals splashed them all over the front page. No editor would risk the resulting drop in sales.

  Right, deep breath, chin up, chest out, Max told herself as her heart raced.

  ‘Excuse me, ma’am,’ a burly Spanish-looking man had stepped in front of Max. ‘We have a private function here tonight.’

  Max let out a groan of frustration and spoke into her mobile. ‘Honey, hold on a minute, OK? I’m just speaking to the security man.’

  Max smiled at the man.

  ‘Hi, I’m well aware of what’s on tonight. I’m Beyoncé’s PA.’

  Max watched as the man took in her attire. In jeans, tan Ugg boots, black-wool poncho and tartan scarf, she couldn’t have looked more different to the women teetering to the entrance – all sparkling ball gowns with fishtail finishes and faux fur coats to fend off the December cold.

  She laughed, her breath turning into white puffs as it hit the freezing air. ‘Do I look like I’m here to join a black-tie gala?’

  The bouncer looked impatiently at her.

  ‘I have Beyoncé’s speech here. She’s addressing a room full of people in ten minutes and I’ve got the list of people she has to thank.’

  ‘Sorry, lady, no ticket –’

  ‘No ticket? Of course I don’t have a ticket. I was all set to watch TV and have a quiet night in.’

  The bouncer frowned.

  Max lowered her voice. ‘Look, that’s Beyoncé on the phone. She’s going fucking nuts in there. If she doesn’t have a list of who to thank, she’ll look like a prize tit.’

  The man’s brow furrowed as though she’d just spoken to him in Gaelic.

  ‘You know, asshole… she’d look like an asshole. And if I explain she didn’t have it because I got to the hotel on time but the doorman wouldn’t let me in, well…’

  Max let the words trail off, keen not to make any threats that might get his back up.

  ‘Look,’ she said, holding up her mobile. ‘She’s on the phone now.’

  Max had edited Lucy’s entry in her phone during her cab ride and replaced her name with Beyoncé’s.

  The bouncer’s eyes widened as he saw the star’s name on the screen.

  ‘Would you like to say hello?’ Max asked with more than a hint of sarcasm.

  The man looked unsure. Max had forewarned Lucy to put on her best American accent if needed.

  As if on cue – which it was – the sound of a woman shouting came from the phone. ‘I need that fucking speech – now. I’m on stage in five minutes.’

  The man looked as if he’d been told he’d just won the lottery, but could only collect the winnings if he hacked off his right leg: utterly confused, star-struck and scared.

  ‘OK, baby, don’t you worry. I’m coming.’

 
; Max put her phone in her pocket and took a step towards the door. ‘OK?’ she asked the bouncer.

  Logically, a suitable compromise would be if he suggested making sure himself that the notepad got to Beyoncé, and Max left.

  ‘I’ve got to see her and calm her down,’ Max said, walking away from him.

  Shit, he was coming towards her.

  ‘We’re all going to be in serious shit if I don’t get this to Beyoncé right now.’

  The man froze. There had been a downturn in work of late. A couple of years back he had been booked by the security firm almost every night but now people seemed more cautious when it came to throwing money around. The last thing he needed was to be sacked by the biggest event-protection company in the city.

  Max felt a rush of adrenaline as he stepped back. She’d done the impossible – got past a crack team of bouncers who looked like they were on leave from SAS training. Yes!

  Max walked behind a crowd of guests, following them up the escalator into the bar area, which was bathed in pink light.

  Taking a glass of rosé champagne from a waiter’s tray, she took a gulp. Right, where were the stars?

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ a man’s voice boomed, ‘I bring you Miss Beyoncé Knowles.’

  The crowd applauded as the singer-turned-actress took to the stage. Jeez, how was it possible for any woman to look so good? She had curves in exactly the right places. Beyoncé thanked a host of people and talked about the charity the party was in aid of – orphans in Africa.

  Max slipped to the back of the room, conscious of how different she looked to the glamorous guests. While Beyoncé spoke, Max texted Lucy: ‘Thanx 4 being a gr8 Beyoncé’.

  Right, where were the stars? Sticking out like a sore thumb in jeans, she could be thrown out at any minute, so best make the most of her time.

  Fuck, what if a star recognized her? It was unlikely, given that she was in New York, but what if movie star Mac Ford was here? It was the sort of thing he’d be invited to and Max had no doubt he would remember her.

  She hadn’t realized quite how much he despised hacks until she met him at the premiere of chick flick Annie Goes To Hollywood, when she introduced herself as a reporter. There he was, all posh English accent, dazzling smile – and the perfect gentleman, charming every film bigwig and society beauty in sight. And the moment Max told him who she was, his eyes froze in horror; he mumbled, ‘Do excuse me,’ with his mouthful of marbles and left with an expression of such discomfort he may well have touched cloth before making it to the toilet. Maybe he still hadn’t got over being caught cheating on his wife with a hooker, and the very mention of a tabloid filled him with disdain.

  Buoyed by the free champagne, Max had run after him and doubled up in fits of laughter while chasing him round and round a giant plant.

  She had felt perfectly justified the following day in slating him in the paper. She wrote him an open letter asking if he knew what a tosser he was, accepting millions for a movie then refusing to spare journalists a few moments of his time to publicize it at its global launch party.

  Thankfully, Max remembered he was shooting a film in London now.

  Max concentrated on Beyoncé’s speech. Annoyingly, she wasn’t making some astonishing announcement. That would have been perfect: stay in the party five minutes, pick up a gem of a story then leave.

  Oh there was Will Smith. Bloody hell, Oprah Winfrey. As the speech ended, the attention of guests was no longer on the stage.

  Max’s heart was racing again – a mix of fear of being uncovered and of leaving the party without a story. She could hardly call herself a good journalist if she left this little celeb-fest with nothing to tell Claire.

  Then it happened. Charlie Jackson, the bad-boy actor who had just finished a lengthy spell in rehab, turned round and smiled at Max. Under his nose were the unmistakable remnants of coke. Max guessed he’d been so eager for a line he’d been unable to wait until the speech ended and had covertly had a little sniff.

  Six months ago, Max’s boss would have said, ‘So what?’ if she’d told her Charlie was back on the drugs. But just last week he’d done a TV interview on Tonight with Jay Leno, watched by millions around the world, claiming he was off the devil’s powder for good. With tears in his eyes he had told Leno he was a changed man after finding God. When he needed a burst of energy the strongest thing he touched now was Lucozade. And with the Lord’s help, he had said, turning to face the audience with his hands clasped together as if praying, he would stay clean one day at a time.

  Rapturous applause followed. The Americans loved a sound bite, especially from a ridiculously handsome actor with blue twinkling eyes and fluffy blond hair, still boyish in looks having just turned thirty. He had simply lost his way and how wonderful to have him back in the fold.

  Suckers. What a story that he was back on it.

  It was totally unprintable, though, as her word against his. She needed a picture.

  Slowly, slowly, Max prised her mobile from her pocket. She knew what she had to do: get a picture of his snowy nose. Then there would be nothing to stop the story being printed.

  Max smiled back at Charlie, dubbed the new Robert de Niro a few years back after a string of stunning performances in dark, moody movies. The offers of work had dried up of late, though, as word spread about his erratic behaviour on set.

  Max gave him a wide, beaming smile. She held his gaze, hoping to hell it would distract him from the fact she was edging her phone to his eye level and pointing it at him. It would only work if she got him face-on.

  Click. Flash. Fuck. She hadn’t realized it would flash – must be on automatic because the room was dimly lit.

  Charlie’s eyes stared blankly at Max, like a camera focus whirring into action. High or not, the realization of what had happened spread over his face.

  Max turned, bumping into – shit – Jodie Foster. No time to ask her what life was like since coming out as a lesbian.

  Max ran to the escalator. Fuck. It was the one that brought you up to the bar. Where was the down one? Fuck it. Before she knew it, Max was running down the mechanical stairs that were moving upwards, racing against them to make it to the bottom.

  At last, at the bottom, she jumped on to the solid floor, dizzy. She didn’t look back. She knew they were after her. Charlie had too much to lose by letting her go armed with the photo. It was the last thing he had expected at this exclusive party. Max slammed her body against the door, her weight opening it. She ran down the red carpet, sprinted across the road and down the street. Thank God New York was always so damned busy. She merged into the crowd and slowed to a walk. When she got her breath back, she was overwhelmed by relief.

  HARTLEY SINGS THE BLUES

  Hartley felt stupid but more than anything he felt ashamed. Here he was, founder of a charity he had lovingly created, the very charity that existed to give people a chance. So why couldn’t he have given the one woman who meant so much to him a chance? He was a hypocrite.

  All the while he had thought Bridget was being so kind and non-judgemental about Lucy, she was really playing the long game. Hartley felt sick. He had slept with Bridget. He barely remembered it, but God, how could he have been so stupid? For weeks she must have been plotting, ever since… since – Hartley felt a shiver down his spine – Scotland. Lucy hadn’t been behind the photographer episode, of that he was sure. He could tell Marj wasn’t lying. She had admitted she thought it was too late for him and Lucy; she simply wanted to clear her daughter’s name.

  He hadn’t given Lucy a chance; he saw that now. But was there any way he could be wrong about Bridget? He had been in a bit of a daze after reading about Kirk and Lucy in the newspaper, but since Marj had come to see him it was as though he could see Bridget clearly for the first time since he had bumped into her at the flower market.

  He remembered Jasper Whitaker telling him that night at Clarissa’s supper that he was leaving for Dubai within days for at least a few months, something abo
ut a horse-racing opportunity that had come up. Hartley made a call to a friend to make sure Jasper was indeed still in Dubai and yes, he was. So how could he have been ‘the friend’ Bridget had said was in Sheekey’s that night and spotted Lucy all over Kirk like a rash?

  Hartley remembered little things – like the time Bridget had told him she was going on a course to learn how to speak to people who had depression and a friend had casually remarked he’d met her that very day at a polo match. He’d brushed it from his mind as some misunderstanding on his part. But the only thing he’d misunderstood all along was Bridget – she hadn’t changed at all.

  Marj had said that Max had even proved Bridget had been behind the photographer at Peat, that somehow she had linked her to him. Hearing her say it, he had no doubt it was true. He’d been stupid not to give Lucy a chance and idiotic to put any faith in Bridget.

  He called Robbie. He had to talk to someone.

  ‘I didn’t think Lucy seemed the type to stitch you up,’ he told Hartley. ‘And it comes as no surprise that Lady Muck had something to do with it. She always was vile. I heard on the grapevine you’ve been seeing her?’

  Hartley was silent.

  ‘Look, I didn’t want to put my size tens into your business but I was speaking to Charles the other night. He called to say Bridget had thrown some kind of hissy fit at Claudia. She was taken aback at Bridget’s hatred for Lucy. Even by Bridget’s standards it was pretty frightening, he said. Claudia said she all but boasted about being behind the photographer.’

  ‘Bloody hell, you should have told me,’ Hartley said, his voice more resigned than angry.

  ‘I probably should have, old man, but I’m hardly Bridget’s biggest fan and I didn’t want you to think I was out to get her, not if you were happy with her…’

  The friends were silent.

  ‘But Hartley?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It took all the willpower I had not to call you. I really do think she’s a nasty piece of work. I’d made up my mind to tell you when I next saw you – these things are better said face to face.’