Superstar

by Southwell, T C

  Carrin could read no further, and flung the magazine away, then glared at Mark. "How can you read that rubbish?"

  "I don't. Janice showed me."

  "It's not true. I went back on Sunday to work on his computer. I had some last minute changes to do."

  "Yeah, sure." He sighed. "You're going to get hurt. But you don't believe me, I know. Perhaps if you talked to Jenna, she could tell you the truth about Simon. He's my friend, but he treats women like shit. He's dumped her."

  "So did you," she shot back.

  "Yes, but I had a reason."

  "I'm sure he did too, probably the same one. He got tired of her."

  "That was his reason," he agreed, "but it wasn't mine."

  "Well I really don't care how or why you two mistreat women, because I'm not involved with either of you, thank god. You're a friend and Simon is an acquaintance, nothing more. Tomorrow my business will be concluded with him, and then I'll tell you what it was."

  "Why not tell me now?"

  "I can't. I'll tell you tomorrow."

  He regarded her, his beautiful eyes making her want to confess everything just to make the distrust in them go away.

  He nodded. "All right. I just hope you know what you're doing."

  So do I, she thought. Mark marched back to the set, almost bowling over Gregory, who had obviously been sent to find him. Carrin smiled as the flustered assistant fell sheepishly in behind the superstar. Mark's timing was always good.

  For the rest of the afternoon, she tried to watch the scene being shot, but her worries about the upcoming meeting with Birdie distracted her. There was so much that could go wrong. She had to play a part convincingly, in a disguise. If she failed, she might be in grave danger. Mark had already told her that she was a lousy actress, and this added to her worry. What if he was right? What if Birdie smelt a rat? What would he do?

  By the end of the day, her nerves were jangling like too-tight piano strings, and she left early to return to her hotel and freshen up. She phoned Simon and told him the news.

  "How much did he want?" he asked.

  "He was offered one point two million by Class Acts. He asked me for two."

  He gave a low whistle. "Boy, that guy's got nerve. That's a real easy way to make money."

  "If you've got the stomach for it."

  "Yeah, you'd have to be a real low-life to do something like that."

  "I'm glad you agree."

  "Hey, I'm not that bad."

  "Will you send a car?"

  "Yeah, I've got someone here to help with your disguise, too. Don't worry, she doesn't know what's going on."

  "Good. I'll see you later."

  Carrin hung up and lay down on the bed, nervous tension draining her. It was one thing to plan such a daring scheme, but quite another to go through with it. The thought of Mark, and what he stood to lose if she failed, bolstered her resolve, and she got up and went to splash her face again. She owed him this, for all his help. She studied the pale face that stared back at her from the mirror. Lines of strain scored her brow, her lips were pale, and sadness and pain haunted her eyes. What a mess.

  By the time the car arrived, she had eaten a light supper, which calmed her somewhat. Before going down, she filled in the bogus cheque with the amount of two million dollars and made it out to Mr Michael Bird. She almost smiled, thinking about how angry he would be when he found that he could not cash it. He could hardly go to the police, could he?

  At Simon's house, she was ushered inside, wondering if any paparazzi were hiding in the bushes again. They would have a field day with all her comings and goings. Simon showed her into the study, where a round-faced girl with a mop of curly red hair, cheerful brown eyes and freckles looked up from the book that she was leafing through. She put it aside and bounced to her feet, grinning. Simon introduced her as Anne, a make-up artist in training.

  Carrin shook hands with her, noticing the covetous looks that Anne shot Simon when he was not looking. Simon explained, as he poured drinks for them, that Carrin was going to a charity ball that required its guests to dress up as famous screen idols. Carrin admired his smooth fabrication, and the ease with which he spun the tale, complete with embellishments. He really was an accomplished liar. Anne listened raptly, soaking up every word. When Simon had finished his story, he turned to Anne, who, caught unawares by his sudden attention, almost choked on the sip of cool drink she had just taken.

  "Well, who do you think you could make Carrin look like?"

  Anne coughed. "Oh, Patricia Merril, definitely."

  Simon's brows shot up in surprise, and Carrin stared at Anne in astonishment. Patricia Merril was one of Hollywood's most celebrated sex symbols, a sultry blond with come-hither eyes and the body of a Greek goddess.

  "Patricia Merril?" Simon echoed.

  Anne nodded. "Sure. She's got the bone structure and the right look. All she needs is make up and a wig."

  Simon looked delighted, grinning at Carrin, who pulled a face at him. "Great, let's do it then."

  Anne unpacked a professional-looking array of make-up and a selection of wigs from the bag she had brought with her. Carrin sat down, and Anne bent over her. For the next hour, Carrin learnt how Mark felt every day, trapped in his make-up chair. Anne applied the make up with pain staking attention to detail, first a mat foundation that matched her skin, then eyeliner, eye shadow and mascara. She darkened Carrin's brows, painted her lips a deep ruby red, and applied a thin layer of powder to her skin.

  The final touches were blusher on her cheekbones, under her chin and along the sides of her nose. Anne handed her a mirror and stood back to admire her handiwork. Carrin almost gasped at the stranger's face in the mirror. A sultry, radiant screen goddess stared back at her with enormous eyes that smouldered in a perfect face above a sensual mouth. Never had she looked so lovely, and she almost wished Mark was here to see her transformation. Anne brushed a curly blond wig and fitted it over Carrin's short hair, completing the illusion.

  Simon muttered, "That's perfect, Anne. Well done."

  Anne beamed and blushed, turning away to pack her bag and hide her embarrassment at Simon's praise. The actor studied Carrin with sudden interest, and she frowned at him, making him cough and look away. Simon pressed a cheque into Anne's hand as he showed her to the door, hushing her protestations. When he returned, Carrin scowled at her image in the mirror.

  "You're a knock out," he enthused.

  "Well I'm not supposed to be a knock out. I'm supposed to be a reporter from Centrefold Magazine. Anne's done her job too well. I do look like Patricia Merril." She glared at him. "That wasn't such a great idea, after all."

  "I had to think up a good story." He considered her. "We just have to make a few changes, that's all. Wait here."

  Simon put down his drink and left Carrin to sigh and study her perfect image. It seemed a shame to spoil it, which was, of course, exactly what they would have to do. Simon returned a few minutes later with a long black wig and a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles. He whipped off the curly blond wig and pulled the black one on, then slipped the spectacles onto her nose. They were props with plain glass in them, and when Carrin looked in the mirror again, the difference amazed her. Gone was Patricia Merril, and instead an attractive brunette with glasses stared back at her. Simon rubbed his hands.

  "Perfect! No one will recognise you now, not even Mark, I bet."

  Carrin tidied the tousled wig with a brush and twisted it up into a bun, which made her look like an attractive school ma'am.

  "Even better," Simon commented.

  Satisfied, Carrin glanced at her watch. "I'd better get going."

  "Right. I'm coming too, of course."

  "Birdie said I must come alone," she protested.

  "No way! I'll wait in the car. They won't know I'm there."

  "It's risky."

  He shook his head. "You're not going alone; it's too dangerous. We have to tell Mark about this afterwards, and if he found out that I let you walk
into that snake pit alone, he'd throttle me."

  "But I will be, anyway."

  "I'll be there if anything goes wrong."

  She sighed. "Okay."

  Finishing her drink, she pushed up the glasses that were sliding down her nose and followed Simon to the waiting limousine. In the car, Simon turned to her, frowning.

  "One more thing. Don't eat or drink anything at Birdie's. There's no telling what he might slip into it. He thinks it's a great joke to get people bombed. I remember once, a reporter went there to interview him and came out raving on cocaine. So be careful, okay?"

  Carrin nodded, her gut a tight knot, and pushed up the glasses that were sliding down to pinch her nostrils shut again. The limousine slid to a halt at a set of imposing iron gates, which opened to admit them. The car traversed a long, walled driveway and pulled up before an ugly, castle-like building that shrieked bad taste from every nook and cranny of its stone walls. Floodlights shone on the monstrosity, making it look like some medieval scene from a horror movie.

  "I feel sick," Carrin informed Simon.

  "You can't get sick now, for Pete's sake. Pull yourself together. Remember, Mark's future depends on this."

  Carrin nodded, taking deep breaths. The nausea passed just in time, as a flunky opened the door. Simon had switched off the interior light, and stayed the shadows as Carrin climbed out. Clutching the purse that contained the bogus cheque, she followed the man into the house. She walked along a depressing hall filled with bad paintings, and he showed her into a vast room hung with swathes of silky, transparent material, like a scene form Arabian Nights.

  Fake antiques nestled amongst cushions strewn across the floor. Several scantily clad girls lounged around, drinking, smoking or eating cakes and fruit. They all wore too much make up and looked stoned. A hairy man clad in loose robes sat in the corner twanging a sitar. A huge television screen on one wall showed a blue movie, and an odd, pungent smell hung in the air. She scanned the room, spotting a languid arm rising from a pile of cushions to wave her over.

  "Over here, Mrs Jones," a familiar grating voice said.

  Carrin hurried over, and stopped in confusion at the sight of two naked girls lying in the arms of a half-naked, bearded man. He wore a nose ring and earrings, his long hair braided and oiled. Tattoos covered his chest and patterned his arms with bright colours.

  He grinned. "Care to join us?"

  "No, thank you."

  He eyed her. "Hmm. Pity." He snapped his fingers, and a bikini-clad girl swayed over, carrying a tray laden with drinks and snacks. "Have a drink, something to eat."

  Carrin eyed the odd-coloured drinks and snacks. The girl leered, chewing her gum. Carrin shook her head. "No, thank you." She glanced at her watch. "Could we get down to business? I have another appointment."

  Birdie chuckled. "Sure, reporter lady, whatever you say." He pushed aside the naked girls and sat up. "Mitch, bring the stuff."

  A goon clad in a T-shirt and shorts came over with an envelope, which he handed to Birdie. The musician fanned himself with it, sucking on the pipe of a hubbly-bubbly.

  "So, let's see the money, honey."

  Carrin dug in her handbag and took out the cheque. His eyes followed it. "Let me see the photographs," she said.

  Birdie tossed the envelope to her, and she pulled out some glossy prints. They showed a naked Janice sprawled on the cushions of this room, her eyes glassy, and a silly grin on her face. In some, a near-naked man cuddled her, and he looked like the goon who had brought the envelope. Carrin swallowed and tried to look pleased.

  "Very nice."

  "Quite a scoop, eh? Well worth two million. Those will ruin Mark Lord and his new film." He chuckled.

  Carrin nodded. "Quite likely. Where are the negatives?"

  Birdie leered. "Well, now, aren't you a clever one?"

  "I'm paying for an exclusive. I want the negatives, all of them."

  His leer faded, and he looked a little peeved, but snapped his fingers at the goon, who went out. Carrin counted the photographs. There appeared to be a whole set.

  Birdie took a glass from the tray that the gum-chewing girl had left. "A toast, Mrs Jones. To business."

  Carrin eyed the glasses. "I don't drink."

  He gestured. "No problem, there's mango juice."

  She hesitated, trapped. Birdie held his glass up, waiting. One sip couldn't hurt, she reflected, and she really had no choice. Kneeling on the cushions, she picked up a glass of what looked like mango juice and clinked it against his.

  "To business."

  Carrin took a sip and put the glass back on the tray. It tasted like mango juice, to her relief. Birdie took a gulp of his drink and smiled at her. She wished the goon would hurry up. Behind her, the blue movie moaned and sighed. The sitar twanged, and Birdie's naked partners fondled each other.

  At last the goon returned and handed her a roll of film. She pulled it out and counted the frames, making sure that it was all there. Birdie leered at her.

  "It's all there, Mrs Jones."

  "How do I know you didn't take another roll?"

  He shrugged. "'Cause I say so."

  She pushed her glasses up her nose. "Very well." She gave him the cheque, which he held it up to the light, looking more alert. He scrutinised it while she held her breath, then kissed it.

  "So nice doing business with you," he grated. "A toast to Centrefold Magazine, and the lovely spread you'll have."

  Unable to refuse, Carrin picked up the glass of mango juice again, made the toast with a forced smile, and took another sip. Replacing the glass, she stood up, stuffing the negatives into the envelope with the prints. The room spun, and she swayed.

  Birdie chuckled from amongst the cushions. "Enjoy your trip, Mrs Jones."

  Carrin went cold with trepidation, but turned and walk to the door. The flunky escorted her back to the car, but by the time she reached it, her legs had turned to rubber and her head spun. The goon opened the door, and she tripped over the edge and sprawled across the seat into Simon's lap. The goon chuckled and slammed the door, then the car moved off. Simon helped her to sit up, and she took off the itchy wig and annoying glasses.

  "What happened? Are you all right?" he demanded.

  "I'm okay, but he slipped me something."

  Simon cursed. "I told you not to drink or eat anything."

  "I tried! He made me toast the deal with mango juice, only it wasn't just juice." To her horror, her words were slurred.

  "How much?" Simon demanded.

  "Just a sip. Two sips."

  "Why didn't you fake it?"

  "Fake it?"

  "Yeah! Act like you're drinking, but don't swallow."

  Carrin shook her head. "I'm not an actress. I don't know all the little tricks you do."

  He sighed. "Okay, well, we'll just have to get you home and sobered up. You got the photos?"

  She gave him the envelope, and he switched on the interior light to study them. "Wow, Janice's not bad. Maybe I should have gone out with her for a while."

  "Oh, give your ego a rest," she groaned.

  Carrin's head spun faster and faster, her eyes seemed to be permanently crossed, and her stomach heaved. The journey back to Simon's house passed in a blur, and the next thing she knew, the car had stopped, and Simon was trying to drag her out of it. Her legs wouldn't obey her, and buckled as he pulled her out, foiling his attempts to get her to walk. First he put her arm around his shoulders, but their difference in height made it awkward, and she kept swinging around to bang into his chest. She protested in slurred words that made no sense to her or, apparently, anyone else. Simon gave a grunt of annoyance and scooped her up. Carrin gazed up at him with dim eyes, wondering who the hell he was and why she did not care.

  The lights on the porch hurt her eyes, but revived her a little. The maid who opened the front door looked astounded, and Carrin waved gaily as Simon carried her past, heading for the lounge. The maid looked like she was about to say something, but was too st
unned to speak. Simon turned and pushed open the lounge doors with his posterior, backing in with his burden.

  "Grace, would you bring us some strong black coffee?" he asked the maid.

  Simon turned, and his grip on her tightened. "Oh shit."

  Carrin looked around, spotting a dark figure standing by the piano.

  Mark started towards them with a curse. "Simon, what the hell have you done?"

  Carrin grinned and waggled her fingers at him. "Hi Mark."

  Simon looked down at her despairingly. Mark advanced, his expression menacing, and Simon backed away. "It's not what you think, I swear!"

  "Oh no?" Mark snarled. "It looks very innocent to me. You walk in here carrying her, and she's quite obviously bombed out of her mind."

  "No, honest, would I do something like that?" Simon clutched Carrin to him, using her as a shield, she realised.

  "Put her down," Mark ordered.

  "No, not until you calm down."

  "Hi Mark." Carrin waggled her fingers again.

  "Put her down, Simon."

  Simon bumped into something and sidled around it. "If you promise to listen to me before you thump me."

  Carrin gazed up at Simon with deep concern. "Don't thumpim."

  Mark was obviously restraining himself with a great effort. "I won't thump you. I'm going to make you sorry you were ever born."

  Simon gulped. "Listen to me. We went to Birdie's -"

  "Birdie's! Are you cosying up to him too?"

  "No, let me explain!" Simon begged.

  Carrin was becoming tired of Simon clutching her. She could sense the tension building, and did not want to be involved, even though she was pleasantly detached.

  "Simon, poome down," she slurred.

  "Carrin, tell him!" Simon pleaded.

  "Tellim what?" She smiled at Mark. "We went to Birdie's."

  "No, the other stuff!"

  Carrin patted his cheek. "Mark wonurt you, he'shapushy cat."

  Mark snorted, and Simon groaned. "No, he'll just rip out my liver and feed it to me."