by Wendy Holden
‘I know how heartless I must have seemed,’ Harry added apologetically. ‘I was just trying to weigh up what to do. Stay in the managing job, or go back out in the field. But then we went to see that terrible Bond film with your friend in and—’
Someone now burst into the kitchen.
‘Terrible Bond film? Bloody cheek!’ said a voice that was well-known, not only to Laura, but much of the globe.
Laura twisted round. ‘Caspar! What…?’
Caspar was sporting his favourite dressed-down film star look: a white T-shirt showcasing his six-pack and biceps, jeans straining over his well-exercised thighs. His Aviator sunglasses were turned pointedly away from Harry. Laura felt a glow of triumph. He was jealous!
‘We’re having to redo the ball scene,’ Caspar said sulkily. ‘When the editor looked at the rushes, it turned out that the wall of the ballroom was covered in guns arranged in Chanel logos.’
Laura began to laugh.
‘It’s not funny,’ Caspar said crossly. ‘It’s like the watch in Ben Hur. An ack… an ack…’
‘Anachronism,’ supplied Harry.
‘Yeah, thanks, Einstein,’ snapped Caspar.
Laura squeezed Harry’s hand and looked down, smiling.
Lulu now trotted into the kitchen, her prison-soiled suede trousers replaced by ones of lime-green PVC, her curvy figure all but exploding out of a tight pair of pink silk stays. Laura felt Caspar’s attention turn off her as quickly and completely as if someone had flicked a switch.
‘Is my lucky Flora MacDonald corsets, hmm?’ Lulu purred, tracing a finger down the antique whalebone sides. From beneath weapons-grade false eyelashes she looked coquettishly at the goggle-eyed actor. ‘You give me extra part in film, hmm?’
‘I’ll give you an extra part wherever you want, baby,’ he assured her appreciatively.
Laura rolled her eyes and Lulu giggled.
The door to the outside world now banged open. Laura expected the rest of the film unit to start trickling in, staggering under great loads of equipment. Instead, a tall figure loped in, hung about with designer carrier bags. He wore a white track suit glittering with rhinestones, a silver skullcap and gold glasses with pink lenses.
‘South’n Fried!’ Lulu leapt from Caspar’s side and rushed to her husband.
Laura waited. She knew what was coming. In all of her many adventures with Lulu, South’n Fried always appeared at the last minute and asked if he had missed something.
The rapper looked round at Struan’s body on the floor and Mordor tied to a chair. ‘Hey! What happened? I miss something?’
Three months later
Laura picked up the ringing phone in her office.
‘Good morning, Mrs Sweet,’ she said as brightly and confidently as she could manage.
She still wasn’t quite sure of the CEO. But their relationship was much better these days. It had been considerably helped by Bev begging her to come back, helm Society and write about the Glenravish story for her rather than the many other publications offering Laura lucrative contracts.
It seemed that, after all, the Poison Pixie knew a good thing when she saw it. A bad one too; Clemency Makepeace was now back on the freelance trail, although Laura didn’t doubt they’d cross swords again in the future.
For now, though, she was safe. Her own exclusive version of the caledonium conspiracy, entitled ‘A View to a Kilt’, had swept the board at the British Journalism awards.
Perhaps she didn’t have quite as many statuettes as Harry, but Laura could live with that. She could not live with Harry, even so. After much discussion they had decided to return to their old on-off ways, which suited them both much better, especially now Harry was on the foreign correspondent beat again.
‘I’m ringing to ask you to come and have dinner with Harris Blankenberg tonight,’ Bev announced in her peremptory way. Laura’s fingers gripped the receiver hard. Harris Blankenberg was the chairman of the International Magazine Company, which was the parent company of the British Magazine Company. This was a serious honour.
‘I’m really sorry,’ she said with genuine regret. ‘But I can’t. I’m going to the Brit Awards. My friend’s husband’s getting one.’
‘South’n Fried!’ Bev sounded excited. ‘That new bagpipe album of his is massive, isn’t it? What’s it called again?’
‘Rebel Without A Sporran.’
‘That’s it. The soundtrack to Passionate Prince, wasn’t it?’
Laura was surprised her steely boss was so well-informed. On the other hand, Caspar’s new series, starting well below the radar on Helsinki TV, had become an international smash hit on a par with the hugely successful and equally Scottish-set Outlander.
No one had been more surprised than its star. ‘To quote an old showbiz adage,’ Caspar remarked to Laura from Hollywood, where he was restored and all was forgiven, ‘it’s not where you start. It’s where you Finnish.’
About the Wendy Holden
Number-one bestselling author WENDY HOLDEN was a journalist on Tatler, the Sunday Times and the Mail on Sunday before becoming an author. She has since written ten consecutive Sunday Times Top Ten bestsellers.
Find out more at wendyholden.net
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