Love...Among The Stars: Book 4 in the Love...Series (Love Series)

by Nick Spalding

  'We shall see,' he answers noncommittally.

  'It'll be wonderful,' Caroline Denham assures him, patting one of his wrinkled little hands. Sanja's having none of it, and regards her with cynicism.

  I'm really starting to like this little fella, for some reason.

  The rest of the limo journey passes in idle chit chat. Alberto and Maxine don't say much, but they're essentially ambulatory fashion accessories anyway, so that doesn't come as much of a surprise. Amazingly, Sunil has read Love From Both Sides. I don't know whether to be pleased or worried, given how much of an insight it is into what pillocks Laura and I are.

  Luckily, before Sunil has chance to ask us about how true the fajita incident is, we turn into Leicester Square, and a rather large crowd of people.

  It's rather large, as opposed to enormous, because this is a period drama, rather than the latest Marvel blockbuster. If Keira and Ralph wore capes and fought Sir Ian McKellan in a helmet, the crowd would be three times the size, I have no doubt. The media are still out in force though. Nobody likes a good film premiere more than the 24 hour news cycle.

  As the limo approaches the cinema entrance and the legendary red carpet, I start whispering a mantra under my breath. "Don't do anything stupid, don't do anything stupid, don't do anything stupid." I will approach this event as one might approach a pit of exploding scorpions. Very carefully. If Laura and I can just negotiate our way through the public aspect of this premiere and get into our seats, things might not go too badly for us.

  Stop making that face. Stop it!

  The limo parks up directly in front of the cinema. 'After you Sanja,' Caroline Denham says, waving a hand in the direction of the door. Sanja is up out of his seat like a man who just wants to get this shit over and done with. The door is opened by the chauffeur, and the little man steps out onto the carpet with a decidedly unimpressed look on his face.

  No-one in the crowd pays him the slightest bit of attention. This is to be expected, of course. We don't get into the writing game for the public fame and adulation, after all. That's the job of the actors who have already arrived at the premiere, and are being papped to within an inch of their lives.

  The rest of us bundle out of the limo and find ourselves at the back of a queue. The queue is being held up by Ralph and Keira, who are taking part in interviews for Sky and the BBC respectively. Miss Knightley looks as glamorous as you'd imagine. The girl needs to eat a bloody pie though. There's nothing of her in that grey, sequined dress she's wearing.

  Oh shit.

  Her dress looks like Laura's. Exactly like Laura's.

  Now, do I turn to look at my wife's expression? Or should I just pretend she doesn't exist for the next few hours?

  I take a chance. 'Don't worry sweetheart, I think you look much better in yours,' I say, as I see the thunderstorm brewing.

  'Don't be such a fucking idiot, Jamie,' she replies. 'That's Keira Knightley. She'd look beautiful in Poppy's chicken costume.'

  I take her hand. 'Okay, but please just try to relax. We're not here to cause a scene, are we?'

  Laura manages to successfully wrestle her emotions under control. She's as determined as I am that we don't make fools of ourselves tonight. That starts with not flying off the handle because one of the biggest movie stars in the world is wearing a more expensive version of the same dress. Laura counts to ten under her breath... and we're back in the game.

  Caroline grabs Sanja and Sunil, and leads them off in the direction of the Sky News camera, lining up behind Keira for a chat with Kay Burley.

  'Come on, let's get inside,' Craig says. 'I believe there's a free bar here tonight.'

  He takes Maxine by the arm and stamps off up the red carpet, pushing past poor old Ralphy boy as he does so.

  Laura gasps. 'There's Maggie Smith!' she says, looking just past Fiennes, to where the Dame is standing close to the cinema's entrance.

  'Do you want to meet her?' I ask.

  Laura suddenly looks very nervous. 'I'm not sure.'

  'Yeah, come on! You'll never get the chance again!'

  Laura doesn't move. 'But we might be morons, Jamie. In front of Maggie Smith!'

  'She's been in the movie industry for decades, baby. I'm sure she's met countless morons before.' I move in the Dame's direction, dragging Laura with me.

  We have to wait a few moments for her to finish her interview with ITV, but that's fine, as it gives Laura a chance to calm down a bit. As the actress moves towards the entrance, I intercept her with a friendly wave. 'Excuse me, Dame Maggie?'

  'Hello young man,' she replies with a smile.

  'Sorry to interrupt, but my wife is a big fan. Can she say hello?'

  'I can speak for myself, Jamie,' Laura snaps, and steps in front of me. Dame Maggie Smith rolls her eyes in a show of female solidarity at my blatant chauvinism.

  'I'm so pleased to meet you, Dame Maggie,' Laura continues. 'Downton Abbey is my favourite show.'

  This is utter shit.

  Laura's favourite TV show is Location, Location, Location. However, there's no sign of Phil and Kirsty, so we'll let her get away with this white lie for the sake of a peaceful evening.

  My wife engages the enigmatic actress in a conversation for a few minutes as we all walk into the cinema, leaving the crowd of on-lookers and media representatives behind.

  Inside, it's even more crowded in the enormous foyer. Hundreds of well dressed and well heeled people stand gathered, holding free drinks and talking amongst themselves. If I breathe in deeply enough, I can smell the pretentiousness emanating from every pore.

  Still, we're a good ten minutes into this charade and neither Newman has done anything to embarrass themselves yet, so it's so far, so good. We're well past the cameras now as well, which is a bonus. Laura even manages to finish her brief chat with Dame Maggie without coming across as a moron.

  'I did it!' she says with triumph as she rejoins me. 'I was smooth. I was charming. I didn't talk bollocks.'

  'Well done baby!' I tell her, and give her a celebratory kiss. 'Let's get a drink.' Laura gives me a look. 'A soft drink, I mean.'

  We go to find Craig at the bar, who has been joined by Caroline, Sanja and their respective partners.

  'All going well then?' he asks us all.

  'I met Dame Maggie Smith!' Laura says happily.

  'Well done you!' Craig replies, trying to sound as non-patronising as he can, but failing miserably. 'How was Sanja's interview, Caroline?'

  The agent goes even more thin lipped than usual. 'It was okay. Sanja was a bit nervous.'

  The little man gives her a look of contempt. 'I was not nervous! I was merely pointing out to the lovely ginger lady that I'm not happy with some of the changes that that smarmy fool has made to my book!'

  I give Craig a confused look. He mouths the words 'I'll tell you later'.

  I lean forward on the bar and order Laura and I a Diet Coke. As this is a bar for celebrity show business types, I don't have to wait too long. I hand Laura her drink, take a sip of mine, and let out a deep breath.

  'You okay?' Laura asks.

  'Oh yes, I'm fine. Just happy we've made it this far without any probl - '

  My arm is jostled, spilling my drink. I turn quickly to see who has bumped into me.

  'Oh, I am so sorry, I didn't see you th - '

  The man's apology dies on his lips as he realises who I am.

  It's Sylvester bloody McCoy. My pedalo nemesis.

  'You!' we both say at exactly the same time.

  'What are you doing here?' McCoy asks in disgust.

  'I might ask you the same thing, Doctor!' I spit.

  Laura, seeing that this could end in disaster - despite there being no fibre glass boat for a hundred miles around us - steps between the old man and I. 'Now stop it, the pair of you!' she commands. 'This is a lovely evening out, and we're not going to spoil it with an argument... are we, Jamie?'

  I open my mouth to protest that this isn't my fault. But then I remember that o
f course it is my fault, so I close it again.

  'You look lovely Laura,' Sylvester says. 'How is Poppy?'

  Blimey, he remembered both their names.

  'She's very well Sylvester, thank you.' Her head whips back to me. 'You remember how I told you how helpful and caring Sylvester was to our traumatised daughter when you went gallivanting off in that bloody pedalo, don't you Jamie?'

  If I didn't, I certainly do now.

  I heave a reluctant sigh. 'Thank you for taking care of Poppy, Mr McCoy,' I tell him, in the tone of one who knows when he's been chastised.

  The seventh Doctor's face softens. 'A pleasure. And I assume you recovered from your sun stroke, young man?'

  'I did, thank you.' My face creases. 'Why are you here, by the way?'

  McCoy points over to where Sir Ian McKellan is standing. 'Ian invited me along.'

  I make the connection. 'Ah! Of course. You were in The Hobbit together.'

  'Oh my God, you were in The Hobbit!' Laura exclaims loudly.

  I give her a withering look. 'Yes dear. And he was Doctor Who? Remember me telling you?' I shake my head. 'You really need to pay more attention to movies and TV you know, sweetheart. I keep telling you that.' I give McCoy a 'you just can't get the staff these days' look that makes him smile. I take another sip of Coke and reach a decision. 'I am so sorry about my behaviour on that island, Mr McCoy. I don't think you were worse than Colin Baker at all. In fact, The Curse Of Fenric is one of my favourite Who stories.'

  'Well, thank you very much, Mr Newman!'

  'Call me Jamie.'

  'I shall. And do call me Sylvester.'

  'What the hell's a Fenric?' Laura asks us both.

  Sylvester and I both chuckle indulgently at Laura's evident confusion.

  The seventh Doctor and I have managed to successfully bond over my wife's lack of geek credentials. It means that Laura will be mad at me for the rest of her natural lifespan for using her as a tool to break the ice, but at least I am no longer at loggerheads with Doctor Who.

  I'm about to ask Sylvester what he thinks of Peter Capaldi's interpretation of the character when a roar of anger interrupts me from behind.

  'You have done what?!' Sanjapat Hathiristipan bellows. Bellowing isn't something that comes easy to a man who can't be much over five foot two and eight stone, but he achieves it magnificently.

  I turn round to see Sanja standing opposite a man who's wardrobe marks him out to be a wanker of the highest order. We're talking tenth level pretentiousness here, folks. For starters, that is indeed a dark blue beret parked on his pointy head. The glasses perched on his nose are small, round and ever so thin. The beard is as pointy as his head. The shirt is black with small white polka dots, and the cravat is the same shade of deep blue as the beret. The velvet smoking jacket is urbane, and the black spats on his feet are highly polished. I want to punch this man repeatedly until the beret turns red.

  It seems Sanja feels much the same way. 'You said the ending would not change!' he storms, squaring all of those five feet two inches up to the much taller man. 'You said Verity would still die at the end!'

  Oh thanks Sanja. Now you've ruined the ending of a book I was never actually intending to read. How could you?

  'But Sanja, my friend,' the beret wearing codpiece replies, 'the test screenings weren't positive. We simply had to reshoot the ending to something more palatable to an audience!'

  'With Verity living, marrying David, and buying a cottage in the bloody Cotswolds?!' the old man screams.

  Oh thanks Sanja. Now you've ruined the ending of a movie I was going to pay absolutely no attention to. How could you?

  'Yes! The second test audience loved it!' the twat in the cravat simpers.

  'It ruins the story! Destroys its meaning! You've turned my diatribe on loss and emotional detachment into an episode of Escape To The fucking Country!'

  I don't know what I'm more surprised at, Sanja's use of the F word, or that he knows what Escape To The Country is. He looks far too upper class for a bit of Jules Hudson of an afternoon.

  'Oh dear,' Sylvester says under his breath from my side. 'This could get nasty.'

  'What's going on?' I ask out of the side of my mouth.

  'That is Lionel Moncrieff, the film's director. I knew him back when he was just Lionel Sidlington. A tiresome man, I found.'

  Sylvester doesn't have to say any more. The cravat and the name change are all I need. 'I gather poor old Sanja doesn't like some of the revisions to his book.'

  'Doesn't look that way, does it?' Sylvester turns to leave. 'I think I'll just go and talk to Ian for a while.' And with that he disappears like his Tardis, only with slightly less wheezing. I can't say I blame him. I wish I knew someone rich and famous who I could go and have a chat with right about now. Sadly, everyone I know is standing in a semi-circle watching the argument unfold.

  Moncrieff is still simpering. 'But that's what the audience wants, Sanja! We have crafted a fantastic story, and I'm sure it will go down an absolute storm.'

  'We? We have crafted?! All I see is that you've taken my story and bent it out of shape to suit your money men!'

  'Nothing could be further from the truth!'

  'Lies! All lies! You people are all the same. Taking an author's work and ruining it for the sake of the almighty dollar! Isn't that right Jamie and Laura?'

  What?

  'What?' I exclaim in shock. Why the hell is he dragging us into this? We're just along for the ride tonight. We're background artists, not main characters!

  'You're writers,' the little man continues, 'help me explain to this idiot what it feels like to have your book so badly mistreated!'

  I go a bit pale and look at Craig, who is shaking his head quickly back and forth and giving me the bulgy eyes. No help there, then. I turn and stare at Laura, whose letterbox shaped mouth is no help either.

  I then look at Lionel Moncrieff, who now has the bearing of a man studying a small lemming like creature as he regards me, awaiting my opinion.

  I'll have to say something, won't I? I can't just stand here in front of all these toffs with my gob hanging open.

  And the evening was going so well, wasn't it?

  We'd done so well to avoid any problems, hadn't we? There were no mistakes on the red carpet. I didn't trip up. Laura didn't vomit on anyone. Neither of us said anything rude or embarrassing to a celebrity. We made it into the cinema fine. I even made friends with Sylvester McCoy, and you'd have thought that would have been the perfect opportunity to make a fucking idiot of myself again. But no! It all went swimmingly.

  We'd got to the point where all we had to do was stand around holding a drink for a few minutes, before going to watch a movie. That was it. That was all.

  It would have been fine.

  But then Sanjapat Hathiristipan happened.

  Please remember that.

  It wasn't my fault this time.

  'Er, as a writer, you do get attached to your work,' I offer, keep things nice and diplomatic. I look at Laura again, hoping she's going to back me up, but she just nods her head and takes a sip of Coke, before looking off in another direction.

  'Who are you?' Moncrieff asks, looking down his nose at me.

  'Um. Jamie Newman?' I reply, sounding somewhat unsure of myself. 'I write comedy books?' From his expression, I might as well have said I was the guy who filled up the popcorn machine.

  'Well, I'm not sure you're qualified to have an opinion on this discussion,' Moncrieff tells me, lighting the blue touch paper.

  I instantly change from awkward to furious. I may just be a hanger-on here tonight, and I may write the kind of books that this ludicrous human being wouldn't go within twenty feet of, but I will not stand here and be talked down to in public. That only happens back at home.

  'Really? That's what you think, is it?' I say to Moncrieff, the venom in my voice plain to hear. I look at Sanja, who's flat, irate expression matches mine. 'Well, I think that anyone who changes a writer's work just
to turn a fast buck should be struck off the creative register.'

  That should do it. Moncrieff is definitely one of those beret wearing morons who believes that they are permanently creating great art, even when they're taking a crap. To have his creative credentials questioned is the worst insult I could throw at him.

  Craig knows this too and is slowly trying to put himself between me and the director. I can hear a high pitched keening noise coming from the back of his throat as he mentally works out how much money I'm potentially losing us all right now. Show business is a small world, after all. This will get around in no time.

  'I'm sure Jamie doesn't mean you, Mr Moncrieff. We all know how fantastic your reputation in the industry is. You've made some wonderful movies.'

  Is it? Has he?

  I've never heard of this bloke. But then I like movies that feature explosions and boobs, so what the hell do I know?

  One thing I do know for sure, is that Sanja thinks he now has an ally in this argument, and is made all the bolder because of it. 'Jamie is right!' He points a stiff finger at Moncrieff. 'This charlatan has no creative merit! He is a puppet of studio executives!' The finger then gets pointed at Caroline Denham. 'I knew I should never have let you talk me into accepting the deal!'

  'But Sanja, it was a great contract! The film will be marvellous!' Caroline objects, fear etched onto her face. She knows this is going south fast - and with it her next pay check.

  'No it won't!' Sanja argues.

  Moncrieff steps forward. A definite change has come over him. The faked concern for Sanja's wellbeing has gone. In its place is something far more honest, I'm sure. 'Look, just be happy the film got made,' he snaps. 'You've been paid a lot of money for me to make your story into something an audience will want to see. You should be grateful.'

  There is an audible intake of breath from everyone in the crowd. When Lionel Moncrieff shows his true colours, he doesn't muck about.

  There are several ways Sanja could have handled this. He could have continued to argue with the beret wearing git. He could have stormed away from the conversation with his wife in tow. He could have broken down in tears and apologised to Moncrieff for daring to question his artistic integrity.