by Shari Low
There was a certain logic to that, but then what did I know? The closest I had ever come to the publishing world was devouring a Marian Keyes or a Carmen Reid novel on a rainy weekend.
Anyway, why was I even, to coin a Zara term, ‘giving this headspace’. My head was quite full enough, thank you; full of worry about Stu, full of resolutions, and full of new plans for the future.
I replaced everything in the envelope, added it to the pile, then marched downstairs and out of the door for the last time. Little did I realise that just a couple of hours later my headspace would be filled with sheer, unadulterated panic.
35
Star Central
My watch said 11 a.m. but my body clock said it was hours later. This had already been the longest day of my life, and I still had four hours to kill until I could go back to the hospital. The inside of my cheek was raw and bleeding, thanks to my subconscious nervous chewing as my optimism pendulum swung wildly between ‘he’s going to be absolutely fine’ and…I couldn’t even bear to go there. Fine. He was going to be fine.
At 11.05 a.m. I took the slip road off the M4, heading back home. At 11.10 a.m. I stopped for petrol. At 11.11 a.m., while aimlessly waiting for my tank to fill, I suddenly remembered–bollocks, bollocks, bollocks–that I had a lunch date with Jon at noon. As soon as the pump clicked off, I dragged my handbag from the front seat and rummaged for my phone. It was 11.14 a.m.: I still had time to cancel and I was sure that under the circumstances he wouldn’t mind. I’d just give him a quick call. As soon as I…Bugger, where was my phone? At 11.15 a.m. I mentally retraced my telecom steps: I’d spoken to Trish in the taxi last night, then gone upstairs, phone still in hand, into Mrs Naismith’s, put phone and bag on floor, and sometime during the night I’d switched the phone off because I was afraid the ‘low battery’ beeps would wake Mrs N. Then this morning I’d grabbed my bag and tiptoed out.
At 11.16 a.m. I realised that the phone was still lying on the floor beside Mrs Naismith’s couch. I also realised that I was only five minutes away from the pub where I was supposed to meet Jon in approximately forty-four minutes. No point in going home, retrieving phone and calling him, because he’d probably be on his way by now, so there was really no option other than to go as planned.
On the negative side, the last thing I felt like doing while my best friend was in hospital was having a lunch date. On the positive, it would at least pass some of the time until I could get back in to see Stu at three.
At 11.18 a.m. I made my way into the petrol station to pay, glanced at the rows of newspapers on the stand; and then, at 11.18 a.m. and a few nanoseconds: shock. Just complete and utter shock.
DELTA PORN, WHO’S THAT ACTOR YOU’VE GOT ON? screamed the headline.
I just screamed. I snatched the top copy of the Daily Globe and gasped at the picture that covered half the page: a black and white shot, taken through a car window, grainy but still clear enough to make out Zara, naked, obviously kneeling, the front of her body pressed against the reclined white leather front seat that she was spread-eagled across; and Stephen Knight, A-list movie actor, pressed against her back in what was obviously a sexual position taken from the Canine Book of Puppy-Making. And, judging by the ecstatic look on her face, Fido Knight was getting it just right.
Oh. My. God. How?
How had this happened? There must be earth tremors on Planet Zara today, and I’d no doubt whatsoever that she’d be reaching a ten on the Richter scale right about now. I should go to her. She’d need help, she’d need calming down, she’d…er, she’d need a new assistant because I didn’t work for her any more. The phone conversation between her and Conn replayed in my mind again, firming my resolve.
Delta Porn was just going to have to deal with this one herself.
My defiant attitude lasted until I was sitting in the pub shortly afterwards and about halfway through the story. It wasn’t good. It wasn’t just the facts: the debauchery (kinky sex in public places), the deviance (suggestions of swinging and group sex) and the sordidness (snaps taken of them entering a premises known to operate as a high-class brothel), but the innuendo, hints and blatant reminders about Stephen Knight’s drug use jumped off the page. Zara was a family celebrity–middle Britain had a precedent for overlooking sex scandals (thank you Camilla Parker-Bowles), but you had to be Kate Moss or Pete Doherty for your career to flourish after a proven connection with drugs.
I was almost at the end of the story, however, when a sentence made my blood run cold.
While her extra-curricular activities keep her very busy, Zara still has time to publicise her forthcoming book It’s in the Stars, a relationship guide based on the zodiac system. Concerns regarding the authenticity of the book and the rumours of fabrication of case studies have yet to be confirmed, as have the whispers that Zara continued to encourage the public to apply for a date via her website and premium-rate phone number even after the study was concluded. Perhaps when Zara isn’t quite as busy she’ll find time to give us a call and predict just what the outcome of this story might be?
‘Hey there, Star Lady, how are you?’ The voice caught me just as the wave of panic came crashing down.
His eyes went from my shaking hands to my stunned face.
‘I’m really sorry, Jon, but I don’t think I’ve ever been worse.’
‘Yes, but how? How could they know this stuff? Zara and Knight? Fabrication of case studies?’ I repeated for approximately the fortieth time, and again, for approximately the fortieth time, Jon shook his head helplessly. He’d been such a sweetheart. He’d shrugged off his deep caramel leather jacket (if I hadn’t been blinded by fear and confusion I would have noticed how well it looked with his cream T-shirt and faded jeans), sat back and, over pre-lunch coffee, he’d listened as I recounted the story of Stu’s hospital admission and current condition. In the calm, confident manner that had attracted me to him in the first place, Jon had taken my hand and reassured me that Stu would be fine. Yes, he used all the well-worn clichés (Stu was in the right place, the doctors knew what they were doing, etc. etc.), but his intentions were good and I appreciated the effort.
When the starters arrived, the conversation switched to the front-page splash, sending my anxiety back up to a level that could involve NASA, but again, Jon had listened to several blurts of, ‘But how? How could they know this stuff?’, then soothed me from ‘sheer terror’ down to ‘deeply horrified’ just by listening and caring and saying soothing words. He even had the decency not to laugh too loudly when I filled him in on all the actual details of her exploits with Knight, going right back to the knickers in the frock incident.
Cue several more variations on, ‘But how? How could they know this stuff?’
Over our main course, a barely eaten penne arrabiata for me and a steak for him, I’d focused on the line about fabrication of case studies and encouraging applications after the event. The latter was all on Zara–when she’d done that live on morning TV I’d been astonished. But there was no denying my involvement in the first accusation. Yes, I’d been economical with the truth, and yes, the little arrabiata I’d forced down was flipping over in my stomach every time I considered the consequences. It was a bit late to fire me, but could…could I get charged with fraud? Holy shit, I was going to end up in jail, and it would all be because of this fucking newspaper.
How? How could they know this stuff? My mind was banging itself against a brick wall in frustration as the same phrase ricocheted time and time again in my head. There were only two people who knew about the slightly underhand manipulation of the dates involving Nurse Dave, Ben and Stu–Trish and Stu–and those two people would never, ever, not even on pain of death, sell me out.
Unless…Oh crap, had Stu been gossiping at the salon? Had his love of passing on a great story blinded him to the sensitivity of my situation and he’d unwittingly blurted all to the wrong person? Or maybe he’d casually told Verity over a long weekend in bed (I mean, there was only so much sex a couple could
have), and she’d revealed all to a team of stylists while stuck in the boring waiting periods during a photo shoot.
Or Trish, had she been indiscreet and blabbed to her colleagues at Great Morning TV!? Had Goldie overheard and used the information to trash her nemesis?
How? How could they know?
We were on our coffees now, mine a creamy latte that I nearly spat across the table when Jon surprised me by taking my hand and whispering, ‘I like you.’
His flaw had suddenly become clear: his sanity was questionable.
‘Are you kidding me? Jon, when we met I was serially dating other guys, and now I’ve just sat and sobbed through a two-hour lunch while regaling you with the kind of drama that would make any sane, rational guy head to the nearest embassy to apply for emigration. I could double the population of some small countries just by being me.’
‘Well, I like you. And, if it’s okay with you, I’ll come home with you and hang around, just in case you need me in the couple of hours before you go to hospital. No telling what the fallout from these stories is going to be.’
‘You would?’ Oh, bugger, nice alert. I was just about holding it together, but now that he was being so sweet and concerned my tear ducts were threatening to go wild.
‘Sure.’ His hand stretched over as he pushed my hair back off my face and swept away the one solitary tear that had so far made a bid for freedom.
If Jon wanted to go out on a date with me after this then he must be crazy. Insane. Certifiable.
‘I’ll just go and pay at the bar and I’ll be right back.’
‘Wait! Let me share the bill with you,’ I objected, diving under the table for my bag, but it was too late, he’d already wandered off. Getting back up should have been a simple reverse manoeuvre, but for a female who had clumsiness at the top of her list of defining characteristics, it was a little more convoluted than that, culminating in a head-banging-under-the-table incident, a loud ‘Ouch’, a jerking sideways movement and a toppled chair. The diners at the surrounding tables did, however, have the decency not to laugh directly at me. Mortified, I reached over and attempted to lift the chair back up, but with the weight of Jon’s leather jacket it was impossible to do that with only one hand. Face beaming, I slid off my seat, performed a successful two-handed lift, and was just about to return to my seat when I realised that one of my Ugg boots was standing on something. A ribbon! I jerked it towards me and the small white card that was attached to it followed suit.
A security pass? We weren’t far from several large company HQs, so perhaps this had been left after post-work drinkies the night before.
One side was just a mass of standard text, so I flipped it over.
The two words in bold red capitals caught my attention first: PRESS PASS. Next came the photograph below it, a familiar face that seemed to mock me as it returned my stare. Finally, I registered the two lines on the sub-heading.
The Daily Globe.
Ed Belmont–Reporter
36
Cosmic Explosion
I took the stairs to the flat two at a time, desperate to get inside so that I could finally howl without the risk of crashing my car or forcing concerned passers-by to call the police.
Ed. He’d even lied about his name.
‘Did you put your steak on expenses?’ I’d spat as I’d passed him on my way out, the shock lowering my tone to somewhere around ‘homicidal’.
It hadn’t taken long to get the whole story out of him, just a dash to the car park, a face-off next to my Nissan Micra and a threat that I was going to call the police and report him for breach of the peace.
‘I haven’t breached the peace!’ he’d shouted, trying to manoeuvre in front of me so that I couldn’t get into the car.
‘No, but you will when I boot you in the bollocks!’ I’d screamed.
‘Let me explain, Leni, please!’
‘No!’
‘Yes!’
‘No!’
‘Yes!’
Victory was his unless I could suddenly summon the strength to drag a fully grown man off the driver’s door of a small yellow car.
And so I got the gospel according to Ed Belmont, lying bastard and reporter for the Daily Globe.
‘We’ve been after Zara Delta for months, sure that she’s a con artist and a scammer. Some of our people had readings with her, we tracked her for a while, we even infiltrated her organisation by getting ears on the inside, but then that person left and we were back to square one.’
‘The PA before me?’
‘I’m sorry, I can’t say.’
‘NOW YOU’RE DISCOVERING INTEGRITY?!!!‘ I’d blasted.
Elderly couples out for a quiet pub lunch were now pulling into the car park, spotting the scene, and reversing straight back out again, no doubt muttering about the ineffectiveness of the ASBO system.
‘Okay, it was! Then you took her place and we were going to talk to you, but then this dating thing was announced and it just seemed like too good an opportunity…Dozens of guys on the staff sent in multiple applications, but I got picked.’
My rage was turning from red to white. ‘Get away from my car.’
‘Come on, Leni…’
‘Don’t you dare use my name! I don’t even know you! I knew a guy called Jon Belmont…’
‘My brother,’ he interjected.
‘Who was a stockbroker…’ I spat.
‘Also my brother.’
‘Who used to write me lovely notes…’
‘They also came from my brother–but only because I routed them through him so that they’d look more official.’
‘Notes that I now realise were nothing but fishing expeditions for gossip. You. Evil. Prick. And I suppose that the sister you claimed sent the application in doesn’t exist either?’
He shook his head, as I realised that a couple more things weren’t adding up.
‘Why did you want to wait until I’d finished the dates before going out again? I would have thought you’d have wanted to wheedle your lying arse in there as much as possible.’
‘Too much of a danger that I’d get caught out–it was safer to get the info over email.’
‘But I never told you about Zara and Knight. How did you find out?’
His desperation was tinged with weariness now. ‘You mentioned in one of your emails that she was sneaking out with an A-lister. We just put a new tail on her and had the photos within days. I’m sorry, Leni.’
‘Sorry you did it, or sorry you got caught?’
At least he had the decency to ignore the question rather than to lie.
‘Get away from the car,’ I’d told him again.
‘Come on, Leni, we could turn this around and get something out of it for both of us. This story has been brilliant for me…’
That had stopped me dead in my tracks. Maybe he had a point. Perhaps I could forget that he’d completely used me, lied to me, implicated me–albeit not by name yet–in a fraud. Perhaps I could retract my resignation, go back to work for Zara and slip every little juicy nugget of scandal or suspicion to Jon/Ed. For a small fee, of course.
Perhaps I could do all that, and perhaps I should.
However, the next second of my life ruled that option out. He never even saw the fist coming, as I, for the first time in my life, punched a grown man in the face and then watched him go down like a whirligig in a hurricane.
I stepped over him, wrenched open my car door, battering him on the back of his head as I did so, climbed into the car and turned on the ignition. Before I closed the door, I looked down on him in all his pathetic glory. ‘You know, it’s a shame I didn’t meet your brother–I think I might have liked him.’
And as I had driven off, one resounding wish had come into my head: I just hoped someone had nicked his leather jacket.
Now the adrenalin, rage and despair was fuelling every step I took up those stairs, ending with a thump as I kicked my front door in protest because my shaking hands couldn’t get my k
ey in the lock.
Mrs Naismith’s door flew open. ‘Leni, love, here’s your phone, you left it under my couch last night, nearly ended up in the Dyson, so it did.’
‘Thanks, Mrs N–I’ll pop in and see you later.’
I needed to get inside. I couldn’t speak, couldn’t think, couldn’t function. I just needed to be on my own so that I could find a way to make sense of all this.
‘Okay, love, but you’ve got a visitor here.’
She swung her door back against the wall and stood to one side, allowing my visitor to step forward.
‘Leni,’ said a very tear-stained, crumpled face. ‘I’ve been fired!’
An instant response to something like that just didn’t come immediately to mind–unless, of course, you were Mrs Naismith. ‘Millie, love,’ she told the tall, weeping woman standing next to her, ‘you go on into Leni’s and tell her all about it. I’ll go and put the kettle on and be over in ten minutes.’
The key cooperated this time and Millie followed me in, launching the explanation of her predicament with a question.
‘Did you find some papers at reception on Friday and put them on Zara’s desk?’
I nodded. What was the problem with that? She’d been fired for envelope opening? For not sending the envelope up to Zara sooner? If that was the case, she’d definitely win at tribunal.
‘The chapters for her book,’ I clarified, and was rewarded with a bout of head shaking.
‘They weren’t Zara’s, they were mine! I wrote those!’
Yep, and any minute now Matt Damon was going to walk in the door, followed by Johnny Depp, and they’d have a punch-up on my walnut IKEA table to decide who deserved to whisk me off to Necker for a fortnight of serious shagging. And that would be the least surreal of the scenarios that were currently playing out in my life.