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Angel scribbled away as a succession of stylish celebrities, from chefs to soap-opera stars, made their way up the carpet, those used to the limelight striding forward with unflappable confidence, others shy and diffident in the face of the blaze of cameras.
An expectant hum went through the pack and she heard Carole Beaumont’s name spoken in hushed tones by the people around her. Craning her neck to get a better view over the pony-tailed photographer in front, Angel saw the film’s elegant, dainty little star stepping from a chauffeur-driven limo at the other end of the carpet. A shiver slammed through her, despite the heat from the press of bodies on every side. Would Seb be with his wife? Or had he sneaked in through the back entrance? Leo said he almost always did at premieres, to avoid the gaggle of press.
Unsure whether the vibrations shooting up her spine came from fear or excitement, or perhaps a touch of both, Angel bent her strappy shoes into a tiptoe position to get a better view. She wasn’t worried now about being seen. The flashes from the wilderness of cameras were as good as a smokescreen.
Her stomach did a double somersault when she saw Seb follow his wife out of the limo, his tall, athletic frame breathtaking in a classic but immaculately cut dinner jacket and black tie. The wild, curly hair Angel remembered so well running her fingers through was gelled smartly back. He gave the crowd a half-smile, but she could tell he was bored.
She hadn’t realised how deeply it would affect her to see him in person again after the two months that had passed since that night at the hotel. Still on tiptoes, she almost reeled backwards into another reporter. She clutched at Leo’s arm for support while she struggled to regain her footing, knocking the hand he was using to operate the flash as she did so. He shook her away with an impatient gesture.
Really, Angel, knocked off your feet? Eurghh. You are such a bloody cliché.
The glamorous couple swept hand in hand along the red carpet and Angel wondered with a wave of cynicism if their in-your-face togetherness was genuine or a stage-managed show of affection for the benefit of the gathered pack. She assumed the sharp-suited man waiting for them with arms folded at the end of the walkway was, as everything in his appearance seemed to suggest, some sort of public-relations advisor.
Seb kissed his wife on the cheek and took a step back as they neared the top of the carpet, letting Carole take centre stage. The slight scowl on his handsome face told Angel these kind of events were a duty rather than a pleasure, and only pressure from the stern PR man had convinced him not to slink in round the back as usual.
Carole more than made up for his standoffishness, however. She smiled and waved for the press, kissed adoring fans across the barrier and signed autographs until she held the crowd in the palm of her hand. She was every inch the consummate professional, the former child star who had been wowing fans almost from the cradle.
She was wearing a simple but dazzling backless dress in cream chiffon, ending in a floor-sweeping transparent train with a hemline rising in front to skim her knees. An embroidered peacock motif picked out in sparkling aquamarine beads curled down one side of the bodice. Angel felt a twinge of something – jealousy? – as she noted the shapely legs, remembering Steve’s description of Seb as a ‘leg man’ and the way the director had seemed to approve so much of hers that night in the hotel bar. For some reason she found herself blinking back tears, recalling him scanning the curve of her crossed legs when he’d stood up to hand back her bag, and the heat that had slammed through her when she’d felt his soft curls brushing against her calves…
Carole’s platinum-blonde bob was flawless as always, the fair skin was set off perfectly by delicate pencilled lashes and a slick of baby-pink lipstick, yet there was a childlike air of fragility to the diminutive actress that couldn’t help but make an onlooker feel protective. Angel noticed the bruised circles indicating sleepless nights around her eyes, almost but not quite hidden by the make-up artist’s skill. But Carole didn’t let her tiredness show while she laughed and chatted with the assembled crowd.
‘Who am I wearing?’ she said in answer to a reporter. ‘Why, myself, darling, of course. I make nearly all my own dresses.’
Well, of course you do. It seemed Carole Beaumont really was practically perfect in every way.
‘But I do wonder why that’s always the first question I’m asked,’ the actress went on. ‘Usually followed by a request for details of my beauty routine, while my co-star is asked about his role in the movie.’
Carole spoke lightly, with a little tinkling laugh, but her smile had a hard edge, making it clear this particular question was an irritation she’d encountered before. And it was true, her leading man had been asked just moments earlier how he’d prepared for his part in the film by the very same reporter. Angel felt her respect rise for this woman, gracious but firm, who refused to let the press reduce her to a glorified clothes-horse.
‘Do you have any comment to make about your husband’s recent infidelity, Ms Beaumont?’ yelled a pimply young man close by Angel’s elbow. ‘Will you be seeking a divorce?’ called someone from the other side of the carpet. But Carole Beaumont was suddenly deaf as she took Seb’s arm.
She nudged him slightly and as he began to speak Angel was overcome by a sudden, vivid memory of his woodsmoke-chocolate aftershave when he drew his face in close to hers, eyes kindled with a flame that seemed to spark from his tawny irises into her green ones. She scrunched her eyes tight shut, trying hard to rid herself of the memory. The seductive embrace of his tongue with hers as he expertly explored her mouth, drawing her arched, willing body into his…
Once again she felt tears rising and blinked hard to fight them back. This pathetic habit of crying whenever she thought about Seb had got to stop.
‘I’d like to thank you ladies and gentlemen of the press for turning out to the premiere of The Milkman Cometh,’ the director said, taking care there should be no trace of emotion in his polished tones while he delivered the obviously rehearsed speech. ‘This black comedy is something different for Carole and myself, but a project that has long been close to our hearts. It is also the first release to be entirely filmed at, and distributed by, our studio, Tigerblaze. Now there is nothing left for us to do but throw it on your mercy, and I hope you will not stint in either your praise or your criticism as the curtain lifts on our newest baby.’
This gave the up-and-coming reporter at Angel’s elbow a new idea. He chose this moment to shout out his next question.
‘Why do you think you and your wife have never had children, Mr Wilchester? Isn’t a family something you want in your lives?’
Angel shrank back as Seb’s gaze flickered over to the unfortunate young man beside her with a sneer of dislike. But Carole’s selective deafness seemed to be catching. The question remained unanswered, hanging in the air as the couple were escorted by their PR man into the cinema.
Chapter 7
‘Right, that’s your lot,’ Leo said, taking hold of Angel’s elbow and guiding her away from the fenced-off area along with the rapidly dispersing crowd. ‘Come on.’
‘Where do we go now?’
‘Servants’ entrance, round the back. The stars all get shown into the VIP area, then we humble Newsround presspackers are allowed to go occupy the cheap seats. Have you got your pass? You’ll have to show it to the security bods to get in.’
Angel reached into her handbag for the press pass. It did have a little clip to attach it, but she couldn’t bear the thought of doing any damage, no matter how tiny, to her dress. Not that she’d ever admit such feminine weakness to Leo. She’d never hear the end of it.
She pulled out her phone too, scanned the screen. One new message.
Cal can’t make it. Need review for Monday. Take notes and let’s see what you can do with it.
Great, thanks Steve. So now she was supply film critic and supply showbiz editor. Did no one else do any work on this paper?
‘Looks like I’m reviewing for the arts section as well as the summary for the showbiz supplement.’ She showed Leo Steve’s text. ‘Cal’s off sick or something. Typical. Come on, let’s get round the back and try to get some decent seats.’
Leo’s eyes saucered with surprise. ‘Bloody hell, that’s huge, Ginge! I’m impressed: from intern to film critic in well under a year. That’s some jump, you know.’ He gave the elbow he was holding a swift squeeze. ‘Steve must think you’re the dog’s wotsits or something. At this rate you’ll be deputy editor by this time next week. Listen, you will remember the little people who put you there, won’t you, and make sure my name’s in the hat for director of photography?’
She linked his arm as they joined the end of the queue snaking down towards the cinema’s rear entrance. ‘No worries, little person. Shame there isn’t any extra money in my rapid rise to the top, though, instead of just twice the work for the same salary. I’m about one taffeta ballgown from the breadline at the moment.’
Ten minutes of very British queueing later, a beefy security guard eyeballed them as they arrived at the entrance and flashed their press passes.
‘Paper, mag, blog?’
‘The Investigator,’ Leo said. ‘Angel Blackthorne and Leo Courtenay.’
The guard glared at them with lowered brows. It didn’t take a big stretch of the imagination for Angel to figure out why.
‘That stunt you pulled was a new low, even by your rag’s rock-bottom standards,’ he growled. ‘I don’t know how you hacks have got the balls to show your faces here. Really top couple, the Wilchesters. I’ve worked with them for years.’
Angel examined her feet carefully, feeling the tips of her ears starting to burn. ‘Look, we just work there,’ she mumbled. ‘The editor decides what we run…’
Oh yes, the old ‘just obeying orders’ defence. Always a winner.
But the guard was just getting warmed up. ‘A real lady, Mrs Beaumont, and she’s looked just about ready to break her heart these last few months. I mean, ‘mystery girl’? Come on! One of your hired whores, more like. You know as well as I do the whole thing was a set-up. Otherwise how would you have known to plant the bloody cameras in the first place? Your white-van-men punters might have a reading age of six but even they can’t be that thick.’
Behind them, the impatient queue started to rumble at the hold-up. Angel felt nauseatingly conspicuous, her cheeks blazing with shame and embarrassment.
‘Listen, mate,’ Leo said to the security guard, his mouth setting into a firm line. ‘You’ll have to take any complaint up with our editor. I’m more than happy to give you his email address. Christ, you can even have his private mobile if you want. By all means ring him, any hour of the day or night for all I care. The man’s a first-class prick and you’d have my blessing. But me and this lady have got a job to do, and if your boss wants to promote his film in the country’s biggest daily then you’d better tick your little box and let us in. Or you can explain to him why ours is the only paper not carrying a review, and he doesn’t look like a man you’d want to cross.’
The guard’s brow lowered like thunder but Leo’s words did the trick. With muttered oaths and imprecations, he looked the pair up on his guest list and waved them through the barrier.
‘God, Leo, how long is this thing going to haunt me? I feel awful. I deserve to feel awful,’ Angel murmured when she was slumped into the uncomfortable vinyl upholstery of a cinema seat.
‘Well, don’t. Feel awful, I mean,’ he whispered back. ‘That guy was bang out of order. There’s nothing wrong with exposing a cheater for being a cheater. It’s not like you made Wilchester do anything he didn’t want to, and in the end the only person responsible for Carole Beaumont’s bleeding heart is her husband. He’s the one who promised to love and snuggle her till death do they part or whatever, not you. You don’t even know the woman.’
‘Yeah, maybe, but…’
‘Anyway, they were both of them brought up in the public eye,’ Leo continued, warming to his subject. ‘They know how the game’s played, the extra caution you have to take when you’re a celebrity. You’d almost think from his willingness to give it up he wanted to get caught – or at least that he didn’t care if he was.’
‘That doesn’t change the fact I set him up and then humiliated his wife by spending the night with him when I was never supposed to take it that far. You can’t tell me you think that’s okay because we both know it bloody well isn’t, and if I wasn’t your best mate you’d admit it in a heartbeat. Anyway, it’s not a ‘game’ I ever want to play again, Leo, not with people’s lives…’
But Leo shushed her as the lights dimmed and the curtain came up. ‘We’ll talk more after, okay?’ He gave her shoulder a firm, reassuring squeeze. Between him and Emily, she felt like ‘reassuring squeeze’ was likely to be listed on an autopsy certificate under ‘Angel Blackthorne: Cause of Death’ any day now.
As the opening credits started scrolling across the screen, Angel fished the notebook and pen from her handbag and began scribbling away in shorthand, listing the names of the principal actors, the setting for the opening scene, some brief notes on the performances. But half an hour later the same pen hovered motionless over the page as she stared, open-mouthed, at the screen.
Steve, Savannah, everyone had been right. Wilchester was brilliant. Perhaps even a genius. The writing, the direction, the casting: it was all spot on.
The plot was original and yet somehow quintessentially British: a bored, ditzy 1970s housewife, Beaumont, seduces the local milkman and then convinces him to carry out a hit on her philandering businessman husband. Seb’s script was the perfect combination of farce and thriller, with the audience laughing, gasping, and on one occasion, screaming on cue in all the right places. Angel couldn’t tear her fascinated eyes away, watching the plot twist and turn with dizzying speed, keeping her guessing until the very end.
And Carole Beaumont! Who could have predicted the icy, regal blonde would have such perfect comic timing, delivering one sparkling line after another, or such a talent for physical comedy? She might have the looks of a Grace Kelly but her performance reminded Angel of Lucille Ball in her prime.
As the end credits rolled Angel heard a round of applause start to ripple through the press area, becoming a standing ovation as those around her rose to their feet. Angel and Leo joined them, clapping wildly with the rest.
‘Does that happen a lot?’ she whispered to Leo, sinking into her seat again.
Leo shook his head. ‘First time I’ve seen it. First time it’s ever been earned. He’s a talented bastard, I’ll say that for him. I was doubtful when he announced the next Tigerblaze film would be a comedy, but it seems like everything that pair touches turns to gold.’
Angel nodded her enthusiastic agreement. ‘God, it was unbelievable. Like Ealing in its glory days, but with a dark modern edge that really gave it bite. If Carole Beaumont hasn’t got a best-actress BAFTA heading her way next year I’ll be amazed.’
‘You were certainly paying attention.’ Leo looked impressed by her insight. ‘Sounds like you’ve got a great starting point for your review, anyway. A fresh perspective too, which I guess is a rare thing in critic circles. You’ve not seen any of their other work, have you? I forgot you were a Wilchester virgin –’
Leo grimaced. ‘Oh God. Forget I said that, will you? I can’t believe I just said that.’
‘Let’s just pretend I didn’t hear you,’ Angel said, flinching in her turn.
But it was too late: she’d seen his mouth start to curve. Before she could help herself it had affected her too and she was lolling back in her seat, giggling uncontrollably along with Leo. Other journalists squeezed past them, shooting odd-but-I’ve-seen-it-all looks in their direction.
Angel snorted helplessly into Leo’s shoulder for a solid two minutes until the tears stung. ‘Come on,’ she said at last, wiping the corners of her eyes and catching her breath. ‘Let’s get out of here to somewhere I can sort out my mascara. I must look like a reject from an eighties pop video.’ People were pouring down the aisles out of the cinema now and they were the last two left in their seats.
She gazed through the open doors of the fire exit to the freedom of the brightly lit square. ‘I don’t suppose we could just go home, could we?’ She angled a pair of hopeful, pleading eyes up to Leo. ‘I’ll buy you a Domino’s on the way? It’s emotionally draining, this film-reviewing lark.’
‘Wish we could, Ginge. A slice of stuffed-crust double cheese and I’m anyone’s under normal circumstances, as you well know. But Steve’ll have my goolies for garters if we don’t turn in some photos and a report on this after-party. When it comes to selling papers, that’s the most important part of the night. It’s where all the dirt is anyway, which you must have worked out by now is all the boss cares about.’
He grabbed her arm and dragged her towards the exit. ‘Look, we don’t have to stay long if you’ve had enough. It’s a great opportunity for you to get a really class piece into your portfolio. Come on, I’ll call a cab to take us over to the club.’
***
The lavish Luxe nightclub announced its status as the official after-party venue for The Milkman Cometh with a large plasma screen mounted over the door showing clips and trailers for the film. The building’s black mirror façade was illuminated with electric-blue strip lighting. Another plush red carpet, bordered by plaited ropes suspended between highly polished brass stands, guided guests up to the entrance. It looked like exactly the last place Angel would ever choose to be if her time was her own.
‘Shouldn’t you be crouching somewhere, taking leggy shots of celebrities as they get out of limos?’ she asked Leo.
‘Yeah, I actually should.’ He pulled a face. ‘Hey Ginge, do you think we can ever leave this gutter-press lifestyle behind us and go work somewhere really classy, like Big Jugs Monthly?’
‘We can dream.’
Leo screwed the lens on his camera and prepared to dash off. ‘Go on, you get inside. I’ll meet you at the bar.’
It didn’t take long for Angel to discover film premiere after-parties were everything she hated about nightclubs, with an extra coating of awful. Or rather, it took ages to discover that. She had to queue for twenty minutes to get through the security checks, watching her bag turned inside out and the assorted debris that made up the contents scrutinised by three different security officers, plus another ten minutes for them to ring head office when they discovered it was Sarah, the Investigator’s heavily pregnant showbiz editor, and not Angel whose name was on the guest list.
When they were finally satisfied she wasn’t a terrorist with a vendetta against the British film industry and let her through, she’d spent another fifteen minutes in a cloakroom queue so she could see her favourite jacket thrown into a pile with a raffle ticket pinned precariously to the collar. By the time she made it to the black gloss bar, trying to do a bit of subtle spying into the roped-off VIP area where she knew Seb and Carole would be seated on the way past, Leo was already there with a pint of something amber and a white wine served in a miniature milk bottle. Nice touch…
‘For the lady,’ he said, nodding towards the wine. ‘Probably a bit warm by now. I see you made the rookie mistake of bringing a coat.’
She threw herself on to a barstool. ‘Yeah, could’ve warned me, couldn’t you? Plus they insisted I had to be Sarah or the computer would apparently get very upset. Steve forgot to get the guest list updated.’ She looked at the pint in his hand, already half gone. ‘How’d you get through security so fast anyway?’
He shrugged. ‘They should know me by now; I’ve been to a few of these things. Just had to hand my camera in at the door until the end. They don’t like press photographers creeping about trying to catch out the celebrities. There’ll be an official Tigerblaze camera chimp somewhere around here.’
Angel sighed and took a long swallow of wine. ‘You know, I’d expected this thing to be all Ferrero Rocher pyramids and free booze, not just a glorified clubbing trip.’
She flung a worried look at the pint glass in Leo’s hand then yanked her gaze away, but he’d already caught her eye.
‘Just apple juice, Ginge. Still on the wagon, eighteen months and counting.’
‘Em said you’d stopped going to meetings…’
He knitted his eyebrows and angled his face away from her, staring down into his drink. ‘Will you girls ever stop worrying about me?’ he said, swirling the liquid around the sides of his glass. ‘I’m fine, honestly. I’ve just been busy with work stuff. Look, I’ll go back just as soon as I’m on top of things again, promise.’
She put a hand on his wrist and twisted her face around to his to look into those dark brown eyes, always so mournful even when they crinkled with laughter.
‘There’s no cure, Leo,’ she said, her voice soothing and gentle. ‘Only control. Remember what you had to go through, how hard it was in those early days of cold turkey? You couldn’t have done it without the meetings to support you. I think after everything we went through together trying to get you off the stuff, you can trust me on that one.’
Leo jerked his hand away and stood up, his eyes flashing with resentment. ‘Yes, and you’re always ready to remind me, aren’t you? Still trying to ‘fix’ me. Well you’re not my girlfriend any more, Angel. Is it really too much to be allowed to forget and move on?’ Grabbing his drink, he stormed off into the crowd.
Great. Angel Blackthorne, man poison. First Seb, now her ex the recovering alcoholic, who she’d managed to take on an emotional rollercoaster from hysterical laughter to growling rage in the space of just under two hours. You’re on fire tonight, girl…
Man poison of sorts anyway, she thought, clocking the pinstriped specimen eyeing her with interest from across the bar. Picking up guys in bars was clearly something for which she had an innate talent. If only she’d realised earlier in life, while she was still choosing her future career. She could have earned a small fortune in folded fivers as a pole dancer by now.
Angel finally pinned down the nagging sensation that the man ogling her was someone she’d seen before. Of course. It was Seb and Carole’s PR guy, the one who’d waited for them on the red carpet and guided them into the cinema.
PR Guy edged smoothly over to where she was sat. ‘Top up?’ he asked, gesturing to the barman. She could see him skimming her body with approval. The silver taffeta had made its first conquest.
‘No thanks, but there is something else you can do for me.’ She forced her voice into a seductive purr, and the PR man’s self-assured smile told her he had every expectation he was about to get lucky.
‘And what’s that?’
She dropped the simpering smile and pulled her press pass out of her bag. ‘You can get me an interview with your boss.’
The man’s face hardened as he took the photocard from her. ‘Serves me right for going slumming in the pleb section. You do know you’re supposed to wear this at all times?’
‘What, and ruin my pretty dress?’
‘Sorry, darling, but you’re wasting your time. Wilchester never gives interviews after premieres.’ He cast a cursory eye over her pass and his lip curled into a sneer. ‘Particularly not with the hacks at this rag, I rather think, don’t you?’
‘Oh, he’ll see me,’ she heard herself say with a calm confidence quite unlike her normal voice. ‘Just show him that, will you? I’ll be waiting here for his answer.’