by Jill Mansell
‘But why?’ Lola protested. ‘What’s the point of me being there?’ Apart from anything else, they were bound to be a load of beardy, lentil-eating, Scrabble-playing old fogeys.
‘Because everyone’s heard all about you,’ Blythe said patiently, ‘and they’d love the chance to meet you properly. Come on, it’ll be fun.’
Hmm, that was debatable. In truth it was all a bit too meet-the-in-laws for Lola’s liking. She didn’t want her mother’s relationship with Malcolm to be progressing in this direction. Why would Blythe even want to carry on seeing Malcolm now that Lola had found her such an infinitely more desirable alternative? How could she possibly prefer bumbling teddy-bear Malcolm to someone as sleek and stylish as Nick?
But a deal was a deal and maybe Blythe just needed a bit more time to venture out of her comfort zone, to get used to the idea that Nick James was back in her life. Lola vowed to be utterly charming to Malcolm’s family and friends no matter how bearded and dull they might be, and then her mother would be forced to do the same when she came over to Radley Road next week to meet up again with Nick.
Oh God, please don’t let anyone this afternoon suggest a nice game of Monopoly.
***
After two hours of being relentlessly charming, Lola was beginning to flag. She’d talked—well, bellowed—about books to Malcolm’s ancient deaf neighbor from across the road. Then she’d chatted some more about books to one of his other neighbors, who was very keen on gardening. The drawback of her job was that when strangers were making polite conversation, they invariably started talking about their favorite books and authors. She now knew that the ancient deaf lady was a fan of Daphne du Maurier, that the gardening fan liked books about… um, gardening, and that Malcolm’s ruddy-faced friend Miles was immensely proud of the fact that he was capable of quoting great swathes of P. G. Wodehouse he’d learned by heart. Even when nobody was remotely interested in hearing him do it.
It almost came as a relief when Miles’s boisterous son—‘Can you ask J.K. Rowling to put me in her next book?’—accidentally knocked a slice of pepperoni pizza down the front of Lola’s cream shirt. Resisting the urge to reply, ‘You mean squashed between the pages like a beetle?’ she excused herself and escaped to sponge off the stain.
In the kitchen she found Annie, Malcolm’s plump daughter-in-law, busy taking trays of quiche and stuffed peppers out of the oven.
Annie chatted away as Lola sponged the front of her shirt.
‘It’s so lovely to meet you at last. Malcolm’s told us so much about you.’ Her bosom jiggling as she carved up the quiches, she added jovially, ‘That’s when he isn’t telling us about your mum!’
‘Poor you.’ Lola pulled a sympathetic face.
‘Oh we love it, it’s so sweet! They get on so well together, don’t they? Just like a couple of teenagers!’
OK, they definitely weren’t like a couple of teenagers.
‘Mm.’ Lola kept her voice neutral. Talk about getting carried away.
‘It’s wonderful for both of them. Malcolm’s such a lovely person,’ Annie prattled on. ‘And of course your mum is too! And now it’s just so perfect that they’ve found each other. I’m a sucker for a good old romance, aren’t you?’
Lola said cheerfully, ‘Old being the operative word!’ Yuk, please let Annie be wrong.
‘Oh dear, that mark isn’t coming out.’ Annie eyed the orange pizza stain Lola had been scrubbing at on the front of her shirt. ‘And now you’re all wet!’
‘Don’t worry, I’m fine. And definitely don’t offer to lend me one of Malcolm’s sweaters to wear instead.’ Flippantly Lola added, ‘Or one of his lumberjack shirts!’
‘Oh but—’
‘Honestly, I’d rather stay wet. I’m sure Malcolm’s lovely, but the geography teacher look isn’t quite me.’ Lola pulled a complicit face because Annie was herself wearing a stunning navy silk dress and jeweled Karen Millen shoes, so would understand.
Annie paused and gave her an odd sideways look. ‘Malcolm’s just Malcolm. Clothes aren’t his number one priority.’ Tipping frozen rosti onto a baking tray she went on, ‘Why, does that bother you?’
Damn, she didn’t understand. Hastily, Lola said, ‘No, it was just a joke.’
‘He might not dress like Prince Charles,’ Annie said stiffly, ‘but he’s still a nice person.’
Oh God, now she’d offended Annie. ‘Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—’
‘And it’s not as if your mum’s a great style queen anyway.’
Now it was Lola’s turn to be offended. She might be allowed to criticize Blythe’s dress sense but no one else was.
‘See?’ Evidently reading her mind, Annie raised an eyebrow. ‘Not very nice, is it?’
‘I just want my mum to be happy.’ Lola dabbed furiously at her wet shirt with a fresh handful of kitchen roll.
‘And you don’t think Malcolm’s up to the job? You don’t think he’s good enough for her, is that it?’
Honestly, all this kerfuffle because she’d said Malcolm dressed like a geography teacher.
‘Not at all,’ Lola ventured carefully. ‘I just wonder if they’re as compatible as you think they are. They might enjoy each other’s company, but how much do they really have in common?’
‘They don’t have to have anything in common! People are different! You love books,’ Annie retorted. ‘I think books are boring! But that’s just me and it doesn’t matter. My husband’s a motorbike fanatic and I love mushy movies. I like listening to Barry Manilow—he’s crazy about Meatloaf. But we’re still happily married. It doesn’t mean we don’t love each other.’
‘You might go off him if he made you play endless games of Monopoly.’ Lola couldn’t help herself; the words popped out.
But Annie didn’t take offense. Instead she handed Lola a tray of hot mini-samosas and said dryly, ‘OK, you may have a point with the Monopoly. Could you be an angel and take these through?’
***
At least at a film premiere you could safely assume that anyone turning up wouldn’t object to being snapped. Gabe, who had high hopes for this evening, marveled at the fact that the air temperature was minus several degrees and he was freezing his nuts off in his leather jacket, yet the endless parade of starlets doing their beam-and-pose bit on the red carpet were wearing dresses the size of your average dust rag.
Maybe the layers of fake tan kept them warm.
‘Tania, over here!’ bellowed a gaggle of paparazzi as a slinky brunette in a shimmering purple scrap of nothing emerged from the next limo in the queue. Gabe wasn’t entirely sure who she was—one of the Coronation Street girls possibly—but he clicked and snapped along with the rest of them and wondered briefly what it must be like to wear six-inch strappy stilettos. Oh well, with a bit of luck he’d never find out. Poor old Tania was developing a fine pair of bunions; soon all she’d be able to fit those feet of hers into would be flip-flops.
‘Matt, Matt, give us a smile,’ yelled the paps as the next celebrity sauntered up the carpet. OK, Gabe was pretty sure he knew this one, he was a Channel 4 TV presenter… or maybe a member of that boy band with the reputation for unzipping their trousers and flashing their—
Eurgh, right the second time. What these boys didn’t seem to realize was that where the sight of their backsides was concerned, familiarity bred contempt. Once you’d seen one spotty adolescent bottom, you’d seen them all.
‘What a tosser,’ murmured the photographer next to Gabe. ‘Their last single only just scraped into the top forty. They’re getting desperate now, terrified their record company’s about to dump them. By this time next month they could be back working in Burger King.’
‘Me too.’ Gabe spoke with feeling. Let’s face it, he hadn’t exactly set the paparazzi world alight since his fluke photo back in Sydney. As the next
limo drew up he polished the lens of his Leica Digilux, ready for whoever might be about to—
‘Hey, Savannah, this way!’ The paparazzi lurched into a frenzy of action, galvanized by the unexpectedness of her appearance. With a jolt, Gabe saw her emerge from the car behind a huge security guy in a too-tight dark suit with the look of a debt collector about him.
This was the public face of Savannah Hudson. Tonight she was in full-on film-star mode. Her blond hair was carefully styled, her make-up perfect. Around her narrow shoulders she wore a silvery velvet wrap; the rest of her body was draped in bias-cut white satin. She looked like an infinitely fragile, stunningly beautiful goddess. Not a plastic carrier bag, not a pair of Wellington boots in sight.
No bald heads either, unless you counted the shaven one belonging to the security gorilla.
Savannah posed for the photographers, showcased her outfit and dutifully smiled while turning this way and that. Having taken a few pictures, Gabe stopped and put his camera down in order to watch her. Maybe it was his stillness amongst the frenzied screaming horde that attracted her attention, but moments later she spotted him. Their eyes met for a second. Gabe nodded, acknowledging her with a brief smile, but there was no flicker of acknowledgement in return. Savannah’s gaze slid past him, the smooth professional smile moved on to dazzle the next gaggle of photographers and after a few more poses she was off up the red carpet to cheers of delight from the assembled fans.
Well, what had he expected? For her to wave and yell out, ‘Hey, everyone, there’s the guy over there who papped me when my wig came off!’
Gabe got on with the business of snapping the next wave of celebs, standing his ground as the other paparazzi pushed and shoved around him. Several minutes later, just as he’d bagged a telling shot of a husband and wife giving each other the kind of look that hinted their marriage might be on the rocks, he felt a hand grasp his shoulder.
It was a firm hand and—bloody hell—an enormous one. Looking round, Gabe saw that it belonged to the security guy in the too-tight suit.
‘What’s wrong?’ Gabe took in the grim expression on the man’s face, the interest of the photographers around him. Shit, was he about to be beaten to a pulp on the pavement?
‘You’ve been pestering Miss Hudson.’ The words were accompanied by a menacingly jabbed finger. ‘My advice to you, sonny, is to leave her alone. Got that?’
For a split second Gabe thought he was being targeted by a pickpocket. Then he realized his wallet wasn’t being stolen, something was being pushed into his jacket pocket.
He murmured, ‘Got it,’ and—out of sight of the other paps—felt the huge man give his pocket a meaningful pat.
‘Glad to hear it.’
‘Bloody hell,’ said one of the paps when the incredible hulk had stalked off. ‘I thought he was going to hammer you into the ground.’
‘Me too.’ With a grimace Gabe raked his fingers through his hair. ‘Close call. In fact I’m going to get myself a drink to celebrate still having a neck.’
Chapter 37
Around the corner, away from the crowds and the noise, Gabe pulled a folded cinema flyer from his pocket. In the semi-darkness he had to turn it over twice before spotting the mobile number scribbled diagonally across one corner.
Mystified, he called the number. It was answered by the incredible hulk.
This was getting more Dan Brown by the minute.
‘It’s me.’ Feeling stupid, Gabe said. ‘The photographer.’
‘That’s a polite way of putting it.’ The hulk sounded amused. ‘You could call yourself paparazzi scum.’
‘If there weren’t any of us,’ Gabe retorted, ‘you’d be out of a job. Why am I ringing you anyway?’
‘The boss wants to see you.’
‘Who?’ Why ever would his boss be asking to see him?
Evidently sensing his confusion, the hulk explained in a caring, gentle fashion, ‘Savannah, you dozy pillock. Wait on the corner of Irving Street and Charing Cross Road. We’ll be there in ten minutes.’
This was downright weird. Looking around to see if he was having an elaborate prank played on him—was Get Back at the Paps some new reality TV show?—Gabe zipped the Leica inside his jacket and headed away from the crowds. Lost in thought, he made for Irving Street. Was he out of his mind, even going there? If the hulk turned up with a couple of ready-for-trouble friends he could end up getting more than his camera broken.
Thirteen minutes later a limo with the obligatory blacked-out windows slowed to a halt beside Gabe. The door slid open and the hulk said, ‘Get in.’
‘You must be joking,’ Gabe retorted. ‘Do I look stupid?’
The hulk grinned, flashing a gold incisor. ‘Now you come to mention it…’
‘Oh, stop that,’ exclaimed a despairing female voice and Gabe’s mouth fell open as Savannah Hudson’s face came into view. Beckoning to Gabe she said, ‘Ignore him. Just please get into the car.’
***
It was something of a novelty, checking there were no paps lurking around the entrance to the Soho Hotel before diving out of the limo, through reception and into the lift.
The hulk waited downstairs in the bar. Up in her suite Savannah disappeared into the bedroom to change out of the liquid silk gown and into one of the hotel’s oversized toweling robes. When she returned Gabe sat in a chair over by the window and she perched cross-legged on the vast bed.
‘I wanted to say thanks properly,’ she ventured at last, ‘for doing what you did.’
‘That’s OK.’ Gabe was nursing a bottle of tonic from the minibar.
‘And for not doing what you could have done.’ As she spoke, Savannah’s hand fiddled nervously with a tendril of styled blond hair. ‘I should have thanked you when you deleted those pictures. I was just in such a panic at the time, you have no idea. Then when you’d gone I was convinced you’d only pretended to delete them. But it’s been over a week now. If you’d still had them they’d have been everywhere by now.’
‘I deleted them. Actually,’ Gabe pointed out, because it had been her index finger on the button, ‘you did.’
Savannah shrugged. ‘You didn’t tell anyone, either. My manager’s been bracing himself for a barrage of phone calls about my health and there haven’t been any. Not one.’
‘When I make a promise I keep it.’
‘I didn’t trust you. I’m really sorry.’
‘That’s all right. To be honest, I don’t think I’m cut out for this paparazzi business. Can I ask you two questions?’
Savannah took a deep breath then exhaled like a diver. ‘Go on then, fire away.’
‘Aren’t you supposed to be sitting in that cinema watching the film?’
For a moment Savannah looked nonplussed. Then the corners of her mouth began to twitch. ‘You’re new, right? We might turn up at a premiere but it doesn’t mean we watch the film. Most of us walk up the red carpet, disappear into the cinema and then head straight out again through the back door.’
‘Oh.’
‘That’s so sweet. If it’s any consolation,’ said Savannah, ‘I love it that you didn’t know that.’
‘There’s lots of things I don’t know about this stupid job. Can I ask my other question now?’
She nodded, took a sip of water.
‘Do you have cancer?’ said Gabe.
Flushing, Savannah shook her head. ‘No I don’t. And thank goodness I don’t, I’m truly grateful I don’t. But if I was bald because I had cancer at least people would feel sorry for me.’ She put the bottle of water down on the bedside table and said, ‘But I don’t, I have alopecia, which is something actresses like me aren’t supposed to get because it’s not glamorous and it’s not attractive, and p-people would make f-fun of me… oh God, and my career would be over…’ As she spoke, the tears spill
ed out and rolled down her cheeks. Shaking her head, she buried her face in her hands and began to sob, great heaving sobs that shook her tiny, towel-clad frame.
‘Oh don’t do that.’ Appalled, Gabe jumped to his feet.
The next thing he knew, she was in his arms, as fragile as a baby bird, weeping helplessly and soaking the front of his grey sweatshirt. A spider appeared and Gabe brushed it away in horror then realized when it landed on the white carpet that it was a clump of false eyelashes.
‘You’re so k-kind,’ Savannah hiccupped, her eyes now bizarrely lopsided.
‘Here, let me just do something…’ Gently Gabe peeled the strip of lashes from the other eye. With a handful of tissues he wiped away the dregs of the professionally applied make-up. It was surreal, doing something as intimate as this to a face he’d seen so many times on cinema screens. Everyone in the country knew Savannah Hudson from her TV and film roles. She was beautiful, talented, fragile. And he was sitting with her on a king-sized bed, consoling her as she wept. To lighten the mood he said, ‘I was just thinking I can’t believe this is happening. But I bet you never thought you’d be here doing this with someone like me.’
She managed a watery smile. ‘Not in a million years.’
‘Everyone hates us,’ said Gabe. ‘We’re right up there with traffic wardens, tax inspectors, and those people who club baby seals to death.’
‘And bitchy journalists,’ Savannah added, ‘who always manage to find something horrible to say about you, like how knobbly your knees are, or how unflattering your trousers. One of them wrote a piece last year about my eyebrows looking ragged. The headline was “Savannah Needs a Damn Good Plucking.”’ She paused and tapped her wig. ‘Can you imagine the field day they’d have if they knew about this?’
‘But it’s not your fault.’
‘They don’t care about that.’ Two more tears popped out. ‘All they want is a good laugh and to sell a few more copies of their rotten magazine.’