I sat alone on the bench, not feeling connected to anything. Stunned. Like I‘d just been mugged. Like some trapdoor had suddenly opened up beneath me. What just happened?
Barry’s just shafted me, I thought. That’s what happened.
Chapter 14
Under The Skin
I spent the rest of the day with Becky, trying to forget the whole thing.
Which was very easy, actually. We had a lot of laughs, that Sunday. Toast crumbs in bed. Conversations in the shower. Old photo albums. Spending half an hour saying goodbye, up against the wall by the front door.
But after I’d left her flat, it all came creeping back like a bogeyman from under the bed. Should have been thinking about the case. Should have paid more attention to Barry. Should have made notes – buy yourself a Blackberry tomorrow, Scott. What a waste of a day!
Oh sod off, I told myself. Today’s been great, don’t spoil it. You can’t take the case anyway, it breaks the Rules, so don’t worry about it.
Bet Emma’s already made a start. She’ll have put the day to good use. Probably halfway done by now.
So? So? So what?
I’m just saying. That’s all.
For most of Monday, I was up in the air. Just hanging there, like a dog fart. Walking in circles. Thinking in circles. Barry’s voice looped through my head for the entire day while I made my very own crop circle in the living room carpet, walking round and round.
It was crazy, it had to be a joke. Meg and Dec? Don’t make me laugh! They were way too big. They were media celebrities, bigger than anything, anyone, I’d ever done before. Wouldn’t know where to start. Did I even want to start?
Becky texted me twenty-six times. Just silly stuff, lots of xxx’s, lots of new nicknames following our weekend. I smiled with relief every time my mobile bleeped. Distractions. She asked if she should let the girls in the office know.
About what?
About us.
I got goosebumps over that. I’d never been an ‘us’ before. God, that girl was into me. And I was into her, I really was, but I just couldn’t relax and enjoy the feeling, with all the other things in my head.
I thought of Barry. I thought of Emma. I thought of Megan. I thought of Becky. I thought of myself. Like a plane in a holding pattern above the airport, I just circled the problems. Round and round. Head full of pissed-off passengers, muttering to themselves, just wanting to touch down and get out. I needed terra firma. I needed to know where I stood. But my landing gear wasn’t budging. And my compass was damaged. I just didn’t know which direction to take. Have I sucked the life out of that metaphor yet?
“You can’t take the case,” I said aloud to myself. “Rule One. That’s that.” I fired up the pinball machine, as if now free to play it.
“SE-CRET A-GENT!”
Blam blam blam blam! Dum-da-da-daahhhmmmmm!
I pulled back the plunger, but then just stood there, staring at the big target sight up there on the backglass. ‘Secret Agent’.
“Emma will go for it,” I muttered. Of course she would – no stupid Rules stopping her. Her target sight was already fixed on the prize, whereas I was fart-arsing around in my flat like an…
Say it. Say it! “Like an amateur.”
And that did it. I switched the pinball machine off and sat down. Not sure why. But something about that word caused my mental landing gear to creak back into place. It wasn’t just about stopping Emma getting to the money, or proving to Barry that I could still cut it. It was about proving to myself who I was. I was more than just Becky’s new boyfriend, I was a relationship assassin, and it wasn’t like I’d done a great job of sticking to my Rules anyway what with me now going out with an ex-target, so what was the point of letting them get between me and the biggest mission ever…
I felt myself approaching the runway at last. I was going to land this one.
Yes. The quarter of a million pound case. I’d land this bastard even if it killed me.
The minute my local newsagent opened next morning, I was there. Buying every single newspaper, women’s monthly, gossip rag, teenage pop magazine and TV listings guide he had. And a pint of milk. Told him he could close early.
By lunchtime, I was sitting cross-legged in the middle of my living room, surrounded by Megan. Everywhere I looked, she smiled and laughed and posed back at me, covering almost every single inch of carpet. Articles ripped out of the tabloids, glossy magazine pages, programme reviews and features, and dozens of photographs. Some were ragged where I’d torn Declan or other celebrities out, so their faces didn’t distract me. I only wanted her.
I ate my lunch there, in the middle of my Megan-explosion. Scoffing a cold beef sandwich and just looking at her face, all around me. Soaking her up.
Spent the afternoon on Google. 48,401 results for Megan MacLeod. Fan websites, gossip websites, TV websites, charity websites, porn websites with her face pasted onto some other girl’s body. Saw a lot of those. All in the name of research, so that’s all right then.
Gradually, I built up a profile of my target.
Name: Megan MacLeod. Age: Twenty-four. Height: 5’3”. Weight: 88lbs. Hair: Red. Eyes: Green. Birthdate: 15th August. Starsign: Leo. Place of birth: Stornoway, Isle of Lewis, Outer Hebrides.
TV appearances: Emmerdale (ITV1, 2007) The Bill (ITV1, 2008) EastEnders (BBC1, 2008 – present) Comic Relief: Dropping The Soap (BBC1, 2008) The Highlands – Ancient To Modern [presenter] (BBC2, 2009) Shadows Of The Glen [narrator] (Channel 4, 2010) Blood Rush [currently in pre-production] (Channel 4, 2010)
Favourite food: Chicken Caesar salad and Bourneville chocolate.
Favourite drink: Any good red wine.
Favourite colour: Red. “Redheads rule!”
Favourite film: The Bodyguard. “Oh, I love that movie, I always cry so much!”
Favourite TV show: EastEnders. “Obviously! But I like the Discovery Channel as well, it’s fascinating stuff. Oh, and X Factor, of course!”
Person you admire most: “Jodie Foster - if I can have anywhere near the varied career she’s had, I’ll be over the moon. I’d love to be as well-respected as she is, I’d rather that than money any day.”
What animal would you come back as? “Everyone says dolphin, don’t they? Well I’ll say dolphin as well then, cos I’ll get to see all my mates again that way! That’s how important my friends are to me.”
Where would you want your honeymoon? “Wow, it’s a bit early to be thinking about that, but… somewhere with a beach, definitely, maybe Hawaii. I know Declan would love that, he’s a water baby, he’ll be off jet-skiing or something energetic while I sit on my bum and read Jackie Collins! I know, how common am I?”
…and it was all bollocks.
I flung my mouse away in disgust, kicked a bunch of magazines across the room. This wasn’t her! This wasn’t a real woman I could get to know, whose skin I could get under. This was PR. Meaningless fluff for the punters, designed to make her come across as down to earth and likeable. All the young female celebs had profiles like this. I’m just one of the girls really, I’m one of you lot, just about a thousand times richer that’s all, honest! It was cack. Where was the real Megan?
I had to get closer.
But when Tuesday evening rolled around, I had to abandon my work and go back to being John, spending a night in with Becky. So there we were, both lying on her sofa, me pressed against her back with an arm round her. I’d never done this before, slobbing out in front of the telly with somebody else. It was always just me and the TV. Weird, but I got used to it quickly. Somehow telly was more fun when there was someone else there.
When EastEnders started, Becky elbowed me to hush, but I could tell she didn’t mean it. We both just kept chatting and making comments – again, so different from the total silence in my flat whenever the TV was on.
“Slag!” we chorused, as soon as Megan MacLeod came on screen.
It was only then that I shut up. Wished Becky would too. I stared at the screen, st
raining to hear everything Megan’s character, Danielle Ferguson, was saying. This wasn’t just telly any more. This was research.
I’d already picked up a little about Danielle from all the websites and tabloids. All the juiciest plotlines seemed to revolve around her. Oh here she goes, causing trouble again, coming over all sweet and lovely while yet another dodgy ex-boyfriend from her troubled past runs amok in Albert Square. Same old storyline. Same old Danielle. Couldn’t take my eyes off her.
The eyes in the back of Becky’s head (those invisible ones that every woman in a relationship grows silently beneath her hair) must have noticed. “I still reckon you’re lying. You must fancy her, every bloke I know does.”
High-pitched Michael Jackson voice: “I’m not like other guys.”
She laughed. “You’re full of shit, John.”
“No really, I’m not like other guys. I’m actually somebody else,” I felt like saying. But only for a second. I was far too comfy, lying there with her in my arms. Being John Holmes again felt good. Plus, I was busy studying Megan’s acting style. You can learn a lot about someone when you see them lie, and acting is one big lie, really.
How mental is this, I thought. Me pretending to be someone else while I observe my target as she pretends to be someone else.
“Laura still hates her, you know,” said Becky. “Dunno why, but she just can’t stand her. She got into a big catfight over her the other day.”
“Mm?” I was too busy watching the screen to really listen.
“Yeah, with Ben, this gay guy in the main office. He started sticking up for her, said Megan’s the new Kylie as far as the gay community’s concerned, they all adore her apparently. Put Laura right in her place, you should have heard him. ‘The minute you’re ten per cent as fabulous as her, you can put her down, but till that happy day, you’re just wrong and that’s that darling, deal with it’… it was hysterical!”
“Hmm,” I said, listening closely now. Gay icon, eh? New fact. Add it to the profile.
As soon as the EastEnders music kicked in, I was reaching for the remote. “Right, time for Top Gear.”
“Oh God no, don’t make me watch that! Bloke telly.”
“You could always go make us a cup of tea instead.”
“Cheeky fucker.” She kissed me briefly then jumped up from the sofa to do precisely that.
I settled back to watch Top Gear for the very first time. Hadn’t seen it before. But John never missed it.
The next morning, shortly after coming home from a very passionate and energetic night with my girlfriend, I became the gayest gay you’ve ever heard.
“Golden Screen Theatrical Agency, Juliet Reyes speaking.”
“Juliet hi, hope you can help, darling,” I said into the phone.
“I’ll try!” she chipped in, all bubbly. Good. I could use bubbly.
“Fantastic, okay well my name’s Jonathan Inman, and I’m the commissioning editor with Attitude magazine. I’m calling about one of your clients, Megan MacLeod? You do represent her, don’t you?”
“Oh yes, Megan’s one of ours.”
“God, she’s fab isn’t she? Have you ever met her?”
“Um, not personally no, I’ve seen her come in a few times. But yeah, she is kind of cool.”
“She’s more than cool, babe, she’s hot right now! She came top on our readers’ survey of people they most wanted interviewed in the magazine. You might not know this but Megan’s absolutely massive in the gay community, she’s already edged out Kylie quite honestly, she’s on her way to becoming a full-blown icon like Madge and Dolly Parton and all those real diva superstars!”
“Is she really?”
“God yeah! I tell you if she ever releases a single it’ll go straight to number one just ‘cos of all the boys buying it!”
Juliet laughed. “Wow!”
“So obviously what Attitude is looking to do is feature her as soon as possible. I’m hoping to be able to squeeeeeeze little me into her schedule somewhere and set up a nice photo shoot. You know the sort of thing, lots of designer clothes, Megan surrounded by muscley boys with their tops off, mmm sounds yummy doesn’t it? So if you can help me out, Juliet, I’ll make sure you get invited to the shoot! It’ll be hunk-tastic, darling, you’ll love it! Oooh, we might find you a Romeo!”
While Juliet giggled and made all sorts of approving noises, I leaned back in my chair and smiled. My new mask was working a treat.
Jonathan Inman, commissioning editor on Attitude, the leading gay lifestyle magazine. Professional, energetic, witty. Camper than the camp tents on that campsite in ‘Carry On Camping’. I know not all gay men are like that, but I needed him to be that way. I was pretty sure that when I called the Golden Screen Theatrical Agency, I’d be speaking to a woman. And women tend to react well to openly-gay men, especially ones that make them laugh. Which is an enormous help if you’re trying to extract highly-sensitive information about a public figure.
Wing and a prayer on this one. I’d never had to pretend to be a gay man before. My research stretched to the latest copy of Attitude, lying open in my lap. The newsagent looked at me like I’d wiped my bum with it in his shop. Happy to take my money, of course, although he’d held out his cupped hand for it like he didn’t want to risk touching me. Homophobic bastard. I decided I’d go in and buy it every month just to irritate him, and blow little kisses his way. See how you like them onions.
“So can we make this happen then Juliet, are there any gaps in Megan’s schedule over the next few weeks?”
“Hang on a minute, love, let me check. I did this yesterday for someone else as it happens, one sec.” And so good old Juliet started rattling off Megan MacLeod’s schedule. I scribbled down the details as fast as I could. It didn’t look good, though. Megan was in the East-Enders studio a lot, with a few personal appearances here and there. But I identified some windows of opportunity, days when she had nothing scheduled. One of which was this Friday. Damn. Too soon. I still didn’t have a plan of attack.
“Juliet, you’re an absolute star, I just need to run these dates by my boss and I’ll be straight back on the phone to organise something. Oh and hope you don’t mind me asking, just being nosey now really, but who was it asked you about Megan’s schedule yesterday? Wasn’t one of the other gay mags, was it? Do I have to start getting all butch?”
Juliet chuckled. “No, you’re all right, don’t worry, it was some woman from the BBC. About getting Megan to pre-film something for Children In Need in November, you know she does all that charity stuff.”
“Hmm… that sounds interesting actually, we’re looking to do something for Children In Need as well, I wonder if we could tie it in? Any chance I could get her details babe, give her a call?”
“Sure, okay. It was um… here we go, Julie Andrews, BBC Advance Scheduling Office. Oh, she didn’t leave any contact details though.”
Neither did I, when I flamboyantly thanked Juliet and hung up.
I made some enquiries with the BBC. They didn’t have an Advance Scheduling Office. And they certainly didn’t have ‘Julie Andrews’ working for them, any more than Attitude magazine had Jonathan Inman.
Emma.
She was on my case.
That rattled me so much that I didn’t do anything useful for the rest of that day, and when Thursday came around, it turned out to be all about John Holmes. Becky and I had planned to spend another night in, which meant another night of me constantly pretending to be someone else. John was becoming more real by the day. And it was doing his head in.
I mean it was doing my head in.
The problem was that John was only supposed to have a half-life of around two weeks, just long enough to land the Hargreaves case. It hadn’t taken me long to come up with his character: a courier, a devil-may-care guy, a boy next door. Fast, sexy, in and out, job done, bang. But now he was being stretched. Expanded into someone more three-dimensional. If I’d known I was going to be wearing the mask this long, I’d have done
it differently. I wouldn’t have given him the name of a famous porn star for a start! How long before Becky or someone else realised my name was a complete joke?
In some ways, being John was easy. And being around Becky was easy as well… far too easy. But in other ways it was bloody hard graft. I was thinking on my feet as never before. It was the longest ad-lib session ever, like performing a live play with no script and no director. Just make everything up as you go. That was a lot of stress. So I spent much of Thursday thinking about John and his life, when I should have been working on Megan. I sketched in his background: college days, past jobs, family. Gave him a sister and some normal, boring parents down on the coast.
But Becky always asked me stuff I hadn’t anticipated. Usually tiny things, the sort of off-the-cuff comment that just falls out of regular chat. Where did you go to school? What’s your favourite movie? What did you think about that story in the papers last week? Not exactly the Spanish Inquisition, but still.
Eventually, in order to sound genuine, I started answering with the truth. I went to Hackney Central Comprehensive and it was a shithole. I think Godfather Part II is an all-time classic, but secretly I love the Bond films, cheesier the better. That thing in the paper has to be made-up, those tabloids will do anything to sell more copies.
Becky didn’t realise it, but slowly she was getting to know the real me. And you know what? I didn’t care. I told her whatever she wanted to know. Sometimes the truth, sometimes a lie… as long as it kept her on that sofa next to me, did it matter?
So that was Thursday, and on Friday, I hung around outside a famous person’s home all day.
Thanks to Juliet, I knew that Megan wasn’t filming EastEnders that day. She had nothing planned, a rare gap in the busy schedule. If she was doing something, anything at all, her agency would know about it, if only to arrange security and transport for her. But she was free. So I walked up and down outside her house.
A quiet street in the richest part of Kensington. Road and pavements cleaner than you’ve ever seen. Rows of white-washed buildings, with pillars and stone steps leading up to massive oak doors. CCTV cameras everywhere. Occasionally, gleaming cars or limousines would slide up to the kerb, and private security staff in dark suits would ferry people back and forth between vehicle and house. Celeb street.
Bang: Memoirs of a Relationship Assassin Page 17