Ugley Business

by Kate Johnson

  I wandered round for a while, watching the room fill up with air-kissing celebs, avoiding the predatory reporter and photographers. It wasn’t that I wouldn’t like to be in the glossies, so much as I really didn’t think Karen would be too pleased at the exposure. Not to mention what excuses I’d have to come up with if people saw the photos.

  “Unknown beauty steals the show as role-model Lara Croft.” “Robbie Williams wants to know: Who’s That Girl?” Was Robbie even on the guest list? I had no idea. But a girl’s allowed her fantasies.

  Angel’s guest list had mostly been prepared by Livvy, but it included her three best friends from boarding school: Livvy (of course), Penny and Charis. I’d seen Livvy in a funky boiler-suited approximation of a fighter pilot, all the better to cling to her radio and clipboard and PR paraphernalia. Charis, who I’d last seen at Angel’s birthday party, dressed completely in black and purple, to match her hair, was wandering around in something green and flowy, her hair now blonde, some sort of woodsprite I think. I saw her with Angel and went over to say hello.

  “Isn’t this fantastic?” Angel gushed. “Livvy never tells me what she’s planning. She’s had someone on the door checking passes all day and I’ve not been allowed in.”

  “It looks great,” I said. “Hi, Charis.”

  “Hi,” she said shyly. “I like your outfit.”

  Charis is like the opposite of Tammy: looks really scary (most of the time) but is a complete pussycat underneath. Whereas Tammy looks like a baby kitten but is a scrapping ball of menace.

  God, I hoped she was okay. When this was over I was going to catch a squirrel for her to kill, just to rebuild her confidence.

  Just joking, okay? I couldn’t catch a squirrel. They’re vicious buggers.

  “Listen,” I said to Angel, “I need to tell you something.” I drew her away from Charis and gave her a brief physical description of the man I who had run over Tammy. “I know it’s not much to go on with everyone all dressed up, but I just thought you should know.”

  She nodded. “Thanks. I’ll keep an eye out. Basically I want to be aware of anyone who’s not a celeb, right?”

  “Well, that does narrow it down.” I looked around at the Who’s Who that surrounded me. “A lot.”

  I moved off again, bumping into people whose faces I knew best from CD covers and Sunday papers, smiling and avoiding the roving photographers again. It was hot in the ballroom, despite the high windows open behind the parachute silk, and I grabbed a glass of water from the bar. Then I spat half of it out, because it was neat vodka.

  “Bloody hell,” I spluttered, and a model who I was pretty sure had just publicly come out of rehab shifted away from me pretty fast. Oh, if only I could tell the press what she’d been drinking.

  I requested a large glass of very cold water, and while I watched the barman—topless, very fit, and painted all over in Day-Glo colours—pour it out, tuned into the conversation going on next to me.

  “…So I told him, fuck him. If he can’t even get me on bloody Parkie then what good is he? I mean, Paul McCartney’s been on bloody millions of times, and what has he done in the last ten years?”

  I flicked a subtle look in her direction. Soap star and ex-Big Brother housemate. I think.

  “I know what you mean,” the brunette moaned. “I tried to get on Ross but they weren’t interested. Anyway, who wants to go on TV to be insulted? What I’m doing is launching in the States. They know how to treat a celeb over there.”

  “The way to get noticed over there is to get a sexy walker,” the blonde confided. “Find out who’s newly single and offer yourself up as a date. The papers’ll get you, and that’s your start.”

  “Well, it’d have to be a Yank bloke, because there is just no one available over here. They’re all married or gay. Or,” the brunette winked, “both. Remember Carlos?”

  Who? Oh, yes, Big Brother again.

  “Married with kids, yada yada yada, and also making moves on all the guys in the house. But, only at night or in the hot pool or something, so the cameras wouldn’t see.”

  My my. You do learn something new every day.

  “Hey, speaking of sexy,” the blonde craned to see past the barman, “who’s he?”

  I diligently followed her gaze.

  “Which one?”

  “Well—both, but I meant the blond. I think Neo is engaged.”

  What were they talking about? I stepped to the side and looked over. And then I saw a marvellous Neo and Trinity, talking to someone in a long leather coat. Luke. With those stitches in his forehead he looked gorgeously dangerous, and my hackles rose up. I was not letting some two-bit soap star get her claws into my—erm, my colleague. Damn. I didn’t have any claim to him at all, now.

  “Wow, he is fit,” the housemate said. “Actually, I saw him earlier.”

  “No, you didn’t. Don’t try and pull first dibs on him.”

  “But I did! Tell you what, we’ll flip for it?”

  The blonde dithered. Eventually she picked up a two-sided cocktail stirrer. “Pink, he’s mine. Yellow, go get him.”

  The brunette nodded. I couldn’t watch. I drained my water and strode over to Luke and put myself under his arm.

  He looked down. “Hello.”

  “Hi.”

  “Erm, what are you doing?”

  “How do you feel about soap trash and Big Brother housemates?”

  He looked confused, but said, “Not particularly well disposed. Why?”

  I indicated the pair, who were glaring at me so fiercely I thought I might combust. “They were flipping a coin over you. Well, a cocktail stirrer, but you get the idea.”

  “So you thought you’d rescue me? Aren’t you sweet?”

  I’m afraid I blushed.

  “Oh, hey, I know you,” Trinity said. “You work with Angel, right?”

  I peered at her. She didn’t look familiar. “Erm, yes. At the airport.”

  “I thought so. You look different with your hair like that.”

  Which was a polite way of saying, I look different when I’m sober. The last time I met Angel’s friends I got really, really drunk.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “I really don’t remember you.”

  She grinned and took off her shades to reveal gorgeous violet eyes, and then I realised. “I’m Penny,” she said. “We met at Angel’s birthday party?” She touched her short black hair, which had been long and blonde last time I saw it. “I guess I do look pretty different. My agent sent me to John Frieda and told them to do something different and look what I got?”

  “It suits you,” I said, because, annoyingly, it did.

  “Just as well, or I might have sued. Have you met my fiancé, Daniel?”

  Neo took off his shades and held out a hand. “I think we have met. You were the drunk girl, yes?”

  I blushed again. Penny bashed Daniel, who rolled his eyes. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” Luke grinned, “Sophie’s hilarious when she’s drunk.”

  “Okay, change of subject,” I said, and Luke laughed. “Aren’t you hot in that outfit?” I asked Penny, who was, as I recalled, a model, and therefore looked perfect in her all-in-one PVC.

  “I am slowly roasting.” She grimaced. “But it takes about an hour to wriggle into this thing, so if I pee I’ll miss the rest of the party. So I can’t drink a thing.”

  “You have to suffer to be beautiful,” Daniel told her, and she sighed.

  “Sophie doesn’t. Look at her, she’s gorgeous, and she’s wearing comfortable shoes, too.”

  “Actually they’re a size too big,” I consoled her, and quietly glowed from being called gorgeous by one of the beautiful people herself. Luke still had his arm around me, his leather sleeve hot against my bare shoulders.

  “You do look pretty hot in that outfit,” he said in my ear, and I shivered at the feel of his breath on my neck.

  “The good kind of hot?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  Excellent. “
So what were you talking about?” I asked, rather blatant I know, but I was all out of subtle.

  “You kissing Angel,” Luke said. “Hey, you reckon you could go find her and show Daniel, ‘cos he was pretty interested.”

  Penny rolled her eyes at me. I rolled them back.

  “What is the big deal?” she said. “When I was in Milan, I snogged a girl for an ad campaign and no one batted an eyelid.”

  Yeah, right. A gorgeous blonde like Penny in Italy? The only way no one could have batted an eyelid was if no one saw the campaign.

  “How come I never heard about this?” Daniel wanted to know.

  “They didn’t use the shots.”

  There you go.

  “Show us how it went,” he said, taking my hand and eagerly putting it in Penny’s.

  “No,” we both said. “No offence, Sophie,” Penny added, “but you’re just not my type.”

  “I know,” I said. “If I’m going to kiss a girl, she has to be tiny and blonde, like Angel.”

  Luke started looking around. “I saw her just a second ago—”

  “Down, boy,” I said, and Penny and I shared a smile.

  Chapter Fifteen

  As missions went, it was pretty uneventful. One of Livvy’s It Girl friends threw up all over the floor and the cleaning team came in and vanished it away in seconds. A Pop Idol finalist (At least I think that’s who it was. Me and Chalker spent the whole final drinking beer, throwing popcorn at the telly and ripping the piss out of the contestants.) and his girlfriend had a screaming row and she yelled that she was leaving—only no one could leave, because the ‘copters were all on dry land and the tide would be in until the early morning. Everyone had been allocated a room and people gradually drifted away until there were just a few left, slow-dancing to Tony Bennett. The band had long since packed up and gone to sleep in their van down in the village.

  “Looks like that’s it, guys and gals,” Luke said. “No bad guy.”

  “It’s a tough job,” I said, clicking my fingers, “but someone has to do it.”

  He yawned. “What time is it?”

  “Lara doesn’t wear a watch.”

  “Well, neither does Spike. Livvy, what’s the time?”

  She lifted her nurse-style watch. “Four-thirty. It’ll be getting light soon.”

  “Four-thirty?” I said. “It can’t be.”

  “Time flies when you’re having fun,” Angel said, and we all grimaced at each other. We’d probably been the only ones at the party not drinking. And you know what? Celebrity parties without alcohol are really, really dull. Maybe they’re dull with alcohol too, I don’t know. At least you get to look at people through beer goggles. It’s amazing how ugly these beautiful people are in real life. And they’re all so sick of the sight of each other, their private lives are so public, that they have nothing to say to anyone.

  Celebs are really, really boring.

  “Right,” I said, swaying on my feet. I’d hardly slept in two days and I was knackered. “Bed?”

  Livvy nodded. “The caterers are coming back tomorrow for all their stuff and there’s a cleaning team arriving at seven and, you know what? Someone else can deal with them.”

  “Good girl,” Angel said approvingly. She tugged at the rather insecure zip on her wetsuit. “Bloody Brad Dennison kept trying to pull this down all night. And obviously I can’t run like this…”

  “Who’s Brad Dennison?” Luke asked.

  “He’s in some boyband or other. Can’t sing. Can’t dance. Can’t keep his hands to himself.”

  “Standard boyband, then,” I said as we started up the stairs to our rooms. Livvy had her own room in the family wing on the other side of the house, and she said goodnight halfway up the landing, veering off in another direction. It had seemed cool when we went up to the third floor for our rooms to begin with. Now it seemed like torture, and I wasn’t even wearing heels.

  Although the three bedrooms connected, there was only one bathroom, and we let Angel go in first to peel off her rubber wetsuit and wash away the sweat. She’d looked incredible, but whenever I caught her eye, she was grimacing with discomfort. How do those dominatrices manage it?

  I avoided Luke’s gaze and shut the door to my own room, undressing in record time in case he decided to come in and talk to me. But he didn’t, and when Angel came out of the bathroom I went in, washed away my makeup, and looked at my tired, pale face. I’d put bronzer on to compete with all the exotic tans out there, and now I looked wan and exhausted. Which I was. I was looking forward to sleeping so much I almost wanted to delay it so I could keep the anticipation going a little longer.

  But not that much. I shuffled back into the bedroom, looked gratefully at the bed and fell facedown on it.

  I woke when the hours were still pretty small, the very faint sounds of a guitar seeping in through the gap under my door. I listened carefully, years of living with Chalker having taught me to recognise a song by its bass line or drumbeat or sometimes, just by a couple of chords, and this song was one I knew well. It was on Top Of The Pops when I was a little girl, when bands still occasionally played live, before everything was manufactured, and when we used to take long car journeys it was always played on the tape deck. It was “Heartswings”, Greg Winter’s most famous, and possibly most lovely, song.

  I tiptoed out of bed to listen at the door, and when that wasn’t loud enough, gently turned the handle and watched Angel sitting with her back against her bed, playing for a few seconds before she saw me and stopped abruptly.

  “God, you startled me. Did I wake you up?”

  “Yes, but I don’t mind.”

  “You said you were really tired.”

  I shrugged. Once I was awake, that was it. I wasn’t going back to sleep now. “I’m okay,” I said. “I can sleep tomorrow.”

  She strummed a few more chords, then shook her head. “If I play any more, I’ll start crying,” she said.

  “Play ‘Beautiful Girl’,” I suggested, and then I did see a tear in her eye. “What?”

  “He wrote that for me,” Angel said. “When I was little. He hated all the lullabies he knew, so he wrote one for me.”

  Bloody hell. I wish someone had written a number one song about me. Maybe I could get Chalker to do one, “My Annoying Little Sister”. Except I’m not very little.

  “I always liked that song,” I said. “I used to wonder who he wrote it for.”

  She shrugged and said nothing, blinking furiously.

  “How old were you when he died?” I asked quietly, and she closed her eyes.

  “Twelve.”

  Less than a year after IC Winter shocked the nation one last time by going and dying on us. God. Poor Angel. I don’t know what I’d do without my parents.

  I made a mental note to call them when I got home.

  “I’d been at boarding school a year,” she said, “I started about three months after Mum died, and I met Penny and Livvy and Charis, and I sort of forgot about it all. Well—not forgot, but started a new chapter. I’d been gearing up to living without my parents for a while anyway, but I sort of thought I might get so see them in the holidays.”

  “You saw your dad,” I said.

  “He used to come up at weekends too,” she said, smiling tearfully. “He’d roar into the courtyard on his bike, which the headmistress hated, but from what I could tell she hated everything that was to do with the twentieth century anyway. All my friends fancied him. Charis had a massive crush on him and she was mortified when she found out he was my dad. I mean, imagine fancying your mate’s dad!”

  “I always thought your dad was pretty cute,” I said, with hindsight, because I’d been a child when he died. But then I guess that’s the magic of it—like Marilyn and James Dean and Natalie Wood, the Winters never did and never will get old. People remember them as young and beautiful, and they always will do.

  “He was great, my dad,” Angel said, and that nearly brought me to tears too, but I’d cried so mu
ch in the last couple of days I just couldn’t any more. I’d found my limit. I’d dried up.

  I should drink some water. This couldn’t be good.

  “What do you—” Angel began, but then the door opened and she jumped and dropped the plectrum inside the guitar. “Dammit!” She looked up. “Luke, you scared me. Make some noise when you open the door.”

  “I figured it might creak more. Is this one of those girlie midnight feasts?”

  “No—”

  “Is it a pillow fight?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Do you see any pillows?”

  “I see four, right there on the bed.”

  “Which is right where they can stay. Did you want something?”

  “To see what you two were up to.”

  It was pretty obvious what he hoped we were up to.

  Angel was still shaking the guitar, trying to get the plectrum out. “I hate when this happens,” she said. “My dad used to be able to shake out a plectrum in seconds but I usually end up having to unstring it…”

  She gave it one last shake and something fell out on the carpet.

  But it wasn’t a plectrum.

  “What is that?” Luke said, coming over. He was wearing a T-shirt and boxers and he smelled warm and sexy.

  “Is that a key?” I asked, trying to focus on the matter at hand.

  “Looks like.” Angel picked it up and turned it over in her hands. It wasn’t small and it wasn’t new, and all three of us frowned at each other.

  “You got any locked doors in that church of yours?” Luke asked, and Angel shook her head.

  “The only doors are on the stairs and I don’t even have keys for them,” she said.