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

by Nick Spalding

  He does none of those things however. He just slaps Lionel Moncrieff across the chops.

  The blow is smartly delivered. There's not a huge amount of power behind it - this is an elderly gentleman after all - but it's enough to leave a red mark on Moncrieff's cheek. The director lets out a squeak of shock and his hand flies to his face.

  'You hit me!' he exclaims in profound disbelief. 'You actually hit me!'

  Sanja doesn't reply, he just kicks Moncrieff on the shin. Again, no real damage is done, but you can tell the blow smarts as Moncrieff squeaks even louder and starts to back away, limping slightly.

  'Keep away from me!' he cries, but Sanja is having none of it. Leaving the rest of us standing dumbfounded, the little man stalks towards Moncrieff, rage still burning in his eyes. He looks like The Terminator after three hours on a hot wash.

  The surrounding crowd of smartly dressed show business types start to notice what's going on. It's a little hard to miss the shrieking director of the film you're about to watch being pursued across the foyer by an enraged Sri Lankan man in a grey suit.

  I take off after them both in hot pursuit.

  I can't help thinking that my remarks to Moncrieff may have exacerbated the situation just a tad. The fool made me angry though.

  If I can catch up to Sanja and calm him down a bit, maybe complete disaster can be averted.

  'Jamie! What are you doing?' Laura calls after me, but I don't respond, as every moment here is vital.

  By the time I do reach Sanja, Moncrieff is out through the large glass double doors again and back onto the red carpet. This comes as a complete surprise to the crowd outside, who were all starting to shuffle off, thinking that they'd had their evening's entertainment. The TV crews that are packing up look a bit startled, as Lionel Moncrieff, director of high brow cinema, comes stumbling towards them, warding off Sanjapat Hathiristipan, writer of high brow literature.

  'Sanja, stop!' I exclaim right behind them. 'Just leave him alone. It's not worth it!' I now sound like a drunk working class girl trying to stop her tattooed boyfriend from beating up the bloke who spilled his eighth pint.

  Sanja's having none of it though and reaches Moncrieff without breaking his stride. This time he pokes the director in the stomach, which makes the man wail in pained surprise and instantly bend double. The beret comes flying off to reveal a gloriously bald pate.

  Which Sanja slaps.

  Hard.

  Sky News can't get their camera rolling fast enough. Kay Burley has a combined look of shock and triumph writ large across her face. It's been a slow news day thus far, but this will liven things up a treat.

  I have to get in the middle of this fight and break it up before any more damage can be done. It has to be me, as no-one else is taking any steps to stop it. I can only put this down to the fact that none of them have ever had to deal with a situation this ridiculous before, and it has rooted them all to the spot. On the other hand, I deal with this kind of shit on a seemingly daily basis, so I have no such issues.

  Maybe I should join the police when I'm done here. I'd look quite fetching in a stab vest.

  Channeling all the episodes of Cops I've seen over the years, I step between Sanja and Moncrieff. 'Now stop it!' I command. 'This is a film premiere, not an underground fight club!'

  This just earns me a look of distain from Sanja, and a kick on the shin for my troubles.

  'Ow!' I shout, clutching my leg. 'Why did you do that?'

  'I thought you were on my side!' Sanja snaps in a betrayed voice.

  'I'm not on anyone's side!' I argue.

  'Then why did you support me against this buffoon?!'

  'I don't know! You dragged me into it! I just wanted a quiet bloody evening where I didn't sexually molest Keira Knightley!'

  Both Sanja and Moncrieff regard me with horror. I must remember not to speak out of context. It does me absolutely no favours.

  'What's going on, Mr Moncrieff?' Kay Burley shouts, holding a microphone out to the harassed director. 'Why are you and the writer fighting? Who's the other man in the bad tuxedo?'

  'Oi! Fuck off!' I object, forgetting where I am for the moment. 'This thing is costing me a fortune for the night!'

  Moncrieff waves a shaking finger at Sanja. 'This maniac attacked me Kay! He assaulted me!'

  I wave my hand. 'Oh, he did nothing of the sort. Look at him. He's way too tiny to do you any damage.'

  'You ruined my story!' Sanja barks at the bald man, ignoring the back handed insult I've just thrown his way.

  'You should be grateful I agreed to make the bloody thing into a decent movie!' Moncrieff counters.

  Kay is loving this. She turned up expecting just to get a dull interview with Ralph Fiennes, but now she's getting a full blown domestic right on the red carpet.

  Behind me I see Laura, Craig, Caroline Denham and a score of other people emerge back out into the open air. Much to the delight of the crowd, Keira and Ralph have reappeared as well. It looks like even the stars of the show know when they're being eclipsed, and want to see what the hell is going on.

  And still nobody is stepping forward to calm the situation.

  This leaves Jamie Newman as the only person here present with enough gumption to take a degree of control. Do you have any idea how dire a scenario has to be for that to happen?

  My arms go out sideways and I step back between the warring enemies. 'Now, come on you two. Let's just calm down a bit and take a few deep breaths. We are on TV, after all.' I give Kay a smile.

  'Who are you exactly?' she asks, microphone now pointing in my direction.

  'My name is Jamie Newman,' I tell her. The blank expression I get in return proves that Kay Burley doesn't read romantic comedies. 'I'm a writer and a friend of Sanja's,' I add.

  'And why are Mr Moncrieff and the author of the book fighting?' she demands in that strident way reporters use when they know they're on to a good thing. You'll note that Kay doesn't try to pronounce Sanja's name. This is probably wise on her part.

  'Oh, it's nothing to worry about. Just a few nerves before the big show. You know how us show business types can be, eh Kay?' Hark at me, referring to myself as a show business type. I will be committing suicide the second I get home.

  Kay Burley actually laughs. 'You seem like a funny fellow,' she tells me.

  'You should read my books!' I look directly down the camera. 'Love From Both Sides, available in ebook and paperback from all good stores,' I tell the viewing audience.

  From the crowd I hear Craig shout 'Yes!' triumphantly.

  'Anyway,' I continue, returning my attention to the matter at hand. 'I think we should all go back inside now. I'm sure Sanja and Lionel would like to have a chat and make up. Wouldn't you gentlemen?'

  Both of them have the good decency to look sheepish. 'Yes,' they both reply.

  'Good!' I turn my head. 'And perhaps, from the crowd of bloody statues behind me, someone with a little more authority to deal with this kind of thing could step forward and take over?' I give the crowd an evil look until several people break their stunned vigil and move towards where I'm still standing with my hands held out. One of them is Caroline Denham, who has no doubt kicked into career preservation mode.

  She gives Kay Burley the widest berth possible, puts an arm around Sanja, and escorts the little man back inside. The only people who come rushing to Moncrieff's aid are a couple of the cinema's smartly presented staff, which should give you an idea of how popular the man actually is with his colleagues.

  I have to admit that at this point I'm basking in my own glory a little bit. Not only have I been an effective peacemaker in an argument between two emotionally charged men, I have done it in front of a large crowd.

  I think you'll find that doing anything successfully in front of a large crowd is a great ego boost.

  Yes. Including that.

  'Well done, husband,' Laura comments as she joins me.

  I give her a look. 'And where were you when all this was goi
ng on, woman?'

  Laura takes a deep breath. 'I thought I'd leave you to it. You look like you had the situation handled.'

  I put one hand up to her forehead. 'Are you sick again?'

  Laura bats it away. 'I'm fine. I do trust you to do the right thing, you know.'

  'Do you?'

  'Yes. Provided there isn't a pedalo or Chihuahua in sight.'

  'Excuse me?' Kay Burley says from where she is still standing behind the barrier. The camera is now fixed squarely on Laura and I.

  'Oh Christ,' Laura moans, and sticks her head behind my shoulder.

  'What's up Kay?' I ask the ginger newshound.

  'Would you do an on-air interview with me in a moment? About everything that just happened?'

  Laura moans again. I rub my chin. 'Well, I'm not sure that'd be a goo - '

  'Of course they'll do an interview!' Craig roars, coming between us, and propelling us inexorably at the Sky News camera with his arms around our shoulders.

  'Oh, I don't think we should!' Laura protests.

  'Sky News is watched by millions of people,' Craig stage whispers out of one side of his mouth. 'This interview could sell you a hundred thousand books.'

  A brief war goes on behind Laura's eyes, between her inherent reluctance to appear on national TV, and pure unadulterated greed. I'm proud to say that the greed wins out. She plasters on a dazzling smile and looks at Kay Burley. 'Pleased to meet you, Kay. I'm Laura Newman. The brains behind the operation. Can I just say how lovely your hair looks this evening?'

  The interview goes well. Kay asks us lots of searching questions about why Sanja and Moncrieff were arguing, which we ignore like crazy in favour of talking about our books. After five minutes, she wraps things up with a wry smile on her face, knowing full well that we've just turned her interview into one long book advertisement. Still, we were both as charming and as witty as it's possible to be when there's a camera shoved in your face, so hopefully the folks at home liked us... and will therefore buy our entire back catalogue.

  In the end, neither of us get to see the movie. By the time we're done with Kay, everyone else has trooped in already and sat down. It's either go in late and have to climb over people, or stay out here at the bar with Craig for a while, before sloping off home. The bar seems the obvious choice, given that if I had to climb over anyone, it would no doubt be Keira Knightley, and there would therefore be a sexual assault charge coming my way in no time at all.

  Our cue to leave occurs when Sanjapat Hathiristipan comes storming back through the foyer about an hour and half later, screaming obscenities at the top of his voice.

  Craig pulls out his mobile phone. 'I'll get the car to come round,' he says in a resigned voice, draining the last of his scotch.

  As we amble our way back to the limo, I make a firm decision. 'Craig?'

  'Yep?'

  'If anyone wants to make a movie out of Love From Both Sides, they are more than welcome to. On one condition.'

  'What's that?'

  'I get to vet the director beforehand to see whether I can have him in a fight or not.'

  Our interview is repeated on Sky News later that evening, so Laura and I get to watch it when we get back to the hotel room.

  We then have epic sex... because you would, wouldn't you?

  For once, just for once, we're going to put this one in the win column.

  Don't worry, I'm sure normal service will be resumed shortly.

  Laura's Diary

  Tuesday, November 2nd

  Dear Mum,

  A funny thing happens when you appear on TV, and have a YouTube video go viral. You suddenly become popular with people who haven't paid you the slightest bit of attention previously.

  Jamie and I have written three books so far, but haven't had much interest from the major media outlets. But you break up one fight at a film premiere, and get one dildo waved at you by a man in a Sherlock Holmes costume, and suddenly all sorts of people start popping out of the woodwork.

  Today, we are being interviewed by the BBC!

  An email arrived last week asking us if we'd be interested in appearing in a new documentary about comedy writers, commissioned by the BBC for broadcast in the spring. They needed someone to talk about writing humorous novels, and apparently neither Terry Pratchett nor Helen Fielding were free, so they settled on two idiots with no media training instead.

  While I was less than initially willing to be interviewed live on Sky News by Kay Burley, I am much happier to let the BBC into my house, given that I have ample time to prepare my hair and make-up. They are due to arrive at 9am, so I'm up at 7 to give it a good hour to make myself look beautiful. First I safely lock all of the self tanning cream away in the cupboard. I'm not falling for that one again.

  It promises to be a long day. According to Jonathan Lightfoot, the documentary's producer, the shoot could go on for several hours, depending on what footage they want to film when they get here. Mostly it'll just be a talking heads interview with me and Jamie sat at our dining table, but Lightfoot also wants lots of flavour to add to the segment, so there will be additional footage shot of us doing all those things that the public expect authors like us to do on a day to day basis. There will be shots of Jamie and I sat writing, Jamie and I sat reading, Jamie and I taking a brisk walk to cure writer's block, Jamie and I playing with Poppy and Winklehoven, Jamie and I having a massive argument over who should have turned the dishwasher on last night, because now the thing stinks of curry.

  Actually, not that last one. That may be exactly the kind of thing that happens on a day to day basis for the Newmans, but it's hardly the kind of thing that's suitable for a well intentioned documentary on humour. Things will be kept light and fluffy, in no uncertain terms.

  Given the length of the shoot, I've asked Dad to come by and help look after Poppy. Once the excitement of seeing all the cameras and lighting equipment has passed, my daughter will become instantly bored. We'll need someone there to occupy her while we film the stuff without her, and Dad is perfect for that. We've also shut poor old Winklehoven in the utility room for the duration. The interview will not go well if Jamie's toes get bitten off half way through it.

  By 8.50am I am just about done with my preparations. The make-up is thick, the hair is sprayed, the knees are covered. I've elected to go with a daytime chic look, comprising of a smart but cute white shirt, and a pair of dark blue power trousers that I haven't worn since I ran the chocolate shop and had to go to meetings with suppliers. I am delighted I still fit into them.

  'Going to a job interview, are we?' Jamie remarks when he sees me coming down the stairs.

  'Quiet you. This is the BBC. I want to make a good impression.' I squint at him. 'And so do you. Take off that bloody hoodie and go put on a shirt.'

  Jamie grumbles his way past me and I venture into the living room, where Dad is already holding a giggling Poppy up by her ankles.

  'Please don't make her sick, Dad,' I admonish, and go to the dining room mirror to check my eye-liner for the tenth time in as many minutes.

  At 9.30, the doorbell rings.

  'Good morning Mrs Newman,' Jonathan Lightfoot says as I open the door to him. 'Sorry we're a bit late. Pete's Tom Tom took us the wrong way down the motorway for ten miles.'

  Lightfoot is a man of about fifty, wearing a rather crumpled blue suit with no tie. Pete is short, chubby and balding, wearing jeans, a black waistcoat and a BBC production crew t-shirt. He's obviously the cameraman, given the three large bags he's carrying awkwardly over both shoulders.

  'No problem.' I reply. Best to keep these two on-side. I want them to film me in the best light possible, after all. 'Do come in. Would you both like a cup of tea?'

  'Oh, just water for me,' Lightfoot replies.

  'Yes please love,' Pete says with a grin. 'White, two sugars, thanks.'

  I leave them both with Jamie, who has managed to squeeze himself into a half decent blue shirt, and go to make Pete his cuppa.

  By t
he time I hand it over to him, both men have been introduced to Poppy and Dad.

  'I wasn't aware your father was going to be here,' Lightfoot says as he sips his water, 'maybe he could be included in the interview as well?'

  Dad beams. 'Really?'

  'Yes, why not. The proud father commenting on his daughter's success. It'll add a lovely bit of colour.'

  Dad gives me an expectant look.

  This is it then.

  This is the moment when I either accept Dad into my life again 100%, or I don't. Once I acknowledge his relationship with me on live television there's no going back.

  I hope you don't mind Mum, when I say that the decision is not all that hard for me to reach. Over the last eight months, Dad has done just about everything right. It's time to let the barriers down completely.

  'Yeah, sure. It'll be nice to have him in it with us,' I tell Lightfoot, and give Dad a warm smile. Even Jamie doesn't seem bothered by the idea. We must be making progress.

  Lightfoot looks at Jamie. 'Seems a bit unfair to just have Laura's parent included though. Would you like yours to be part of it too Jamie?'

  My husband's face goes instantly white and he lets out a strained laugh. 'Um... no. No, that's fine Jonathan. We'll just have Terry in it. That's more than enough.'

  I can't say I blame his reaction. If Jane Newman gets on camera and starts talking about her son and daughter in law, there's no telling where it might end up. In court, possibly. Or hospital. The psychiatric kind.

  'Fair enough!' Lightfoot says, and bends down to address Poppy. 'And no forgetting about this little monkey, eh? She's the real star of the show.'

  This is the best thing anyone has ever said to our daughter. She couldn't love Jonathan Lightfoot more now if he produced a life-sized animatronic Simba from his back pocket and started singing Hakuna Matata.

  The BBC producer tells us he'd like to start with filming all the extra material first and the interview second, so we obligingly wait for half an hour while he and Pete bash out what they want to film.