OLLIE QUAIN lives in London. She has worked for Ministry of Sound, The O2, a load of fashion mags and also done a bit of telly. She is a fan of techno, Jason Orange from Take That, Citalopram, white leather and black liquorice. She hopes for global harmony, but wishes one of her exes wasn’t so annoyingly fit. She loves her cat, Eddie—even when he sneezes in her face—and hates writing about herself in the third person. How to Lose Weight and Alienate People is her first novel … the second is on its way. Follow her on Twitter @olliequain.

How to
Lose Weight
and Alienate
People
Ollie Quain

www.mirabooks.co.uk

This book is dedicated to Mummy Q.

She is the best.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

My biggest thank you goes to Ben Mason, fabulously dynamic boss of Fox Mason Literary Agency, who has made it possible for me to be a) an actual writer and b) able to shout, ‘Well, my agent says …’ loudly (and a lot) in public places. In addition, a waggy tail of gratitude to Silvio, his equally nimble canine cohort.

Next up, I am hugely appreciative to publishing wonder woman Donna Hillyer and her crack team at Harlequin. (That’s ‘crack’ in the expertly insightful and brilliantly motivated sense, not the junkie one. Obvs.) The peeps at Cherish PR have been absolutely splendid too.

Then there’s my brother, David. He’s ace and my life has been made infinitely better by having him (and occasionally his cheque book/PIN number) in it for all these years.

As well, shout-outs must go to my oldest buddies, who I will obviously disregard entirely as soon as I am summoned to Los Angeles for discussion of movie and/or TV serialisation rights of my novel. They are: Sean ‘Barbara Jean’ Varley and The Drag Queen Massive (Faris, Otto, Mazza’n’Rosie); my USofA family, Scott, Val, Noah, Alex and Jack Sapot; Suzette ‘The Schnitzelator’ Allcorn; my gurrrrrrrrrrls, Hugh McPhillips’n’John Tippens; Anoushka ‘Wheely’ Healy; Felix Bowers-Brown (fancy an international mini-break?!); the West London legend that is Misty Gale; Sandra ‘Crofty’ Carter; and The Carlisle-Griffiths unit, Fi, David and Ruby … and of course, at numero uno, Martyn Fitzgerald—my worst friend in the best possible way.

I’d also like to give maje props to Ben Raworth, Rob Fitzpatrick, Annabel Brog and Grub Smith (although the latter will be appalled at the expression ‘maje props’), who all inspired me to do a book, like, totes way back, innit.

On a more superficial note, my Dior Homme grey beanie hat is doffed to the peeps I rely upon to keep me clinging on to 2007. They are: Pete and Nathan at boxcleversports.com (big upz da lunchtime krew!); Dr John Quinn at Quinn Clinics—’cos who actually needs to frown?; my DC10 Ibiza amigos; the gang at Aveda Notting Hill; and supersnapper Darren Orbell.

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

PART TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

PART THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

PART FOUR

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Endpages

Copyright

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

I am aware that learning my lines on the loo is not the classiest way to prepare for an audition, but it works for me. The gentle trickle of a cistern filling up, the hypnotic whirring of an AC unit in the background; it helps me concentrate. I often imagine what other actresses get up to in the toilet. I picture them:

a.) Sticking Post-it notes on the shoots in W magazine they would like their stylist to draw inspiration from.

b.) Tweeting a supposedly self-deprecating, goofy ‘selfie’ in which they actually look fabulous.

c.) Plotting how to raise awareness of their worthiness and humanity by raising awareness of worthy humanitarian causes.

d.) Using their visit as me-me-me-time to consider their brand extension. Maybe – right now – somewhere in the Hamptons in a WASP-y ‘new minimalist’-style bathroom, Gwyneth Paltrow is coming up with a low-GI (but highly condescending) spelt-based agave-nectar-infused muffin recipe for her latest cookbook.

I doubt I will ever get to confirm d.), though, as Gwynnie and I don’t mix in the same circles. Unlike her, I am not a super-successful thespian with my fingers in other financially rewarding (gluten-free) pies. I am a hostess at a private members’ club in central London called Burn’s. I act when given the opportunity but I am certainly not at risk of suffering from ‘exhaustion’ due to a relentless schedule of back-to-back projects. My own fault – I have some focusing issues – but honestly, I am not desperate to become a huge star. Besides, I don’t do ‘selfies’ and I reckon I’d struggle with the worthy humanitarian angle.

I leave the loo and head for a meeting with Roger, my boss. It still feels weird calling him this because over a decade ago we started out as waiting staff together. We always used to request the same shifts so we had the same hours off to party and go on the pull. We went for the same type of guy, too: those with directional haircuts and an enticing after-the-club-shuts attraction at their apartment, like an ice box full of premium vodka or tandem-functioning disco lights and surround sound. But then Roger met Pete and our late nights out together? They petered out.

‘Hi, Rog,’ I say, loitering outside his open office door.

He looks up from his desk. ‘Come in, Vivian. I saw you in that advert for the Sofa World Spring Clear Out! last night. To be fair, you made that cream leather recliner look very tempting indeed. The way you flopped down on to it in your sensible office separates without spilling a drop from your glass of vin rouge – I was absolutely convinced you’d been grafting at work all day … not a look of yours I’m particularly familiar with.’

We both laugh as I enter the room. Like the rest of Burn’s it is painted in an understated off-white Farrow & Ball paint and the furniture is a mixture of ultra-contemporary pieces and perfectly worn classics. Ten years ago, when the club first opened, this schizophrenic new-meets-old look was reasonably fresh. Now you can’t move in London’s hospitality industry without tripping over an angular chrome footstool and landing on a tattered leather sofa.

‘Anything exciting?’ he asks, pointing in the direction of the manuscript I am holding.

‘Surf Shack. The audition is tomorrow. It’s a new kids’ show for a late-afternoon slot, so even if I get the role and deliver a performance with Tilda Swinton-esque intensity, it’ll probably only be seen by some homework-dodging ten-year-old in between mouthfuls of reconstituted poultry “nibblets” and ketchup.’ I pass Roger the script and sit down on the Eames office chair in front of his antique desk.

He flips open the first page and reads out loud. ‘“CHARACTER: DEBBIE. Debbie is a neurotic yet stubborn and antagonistic mother. She takes echinacea, spinning classes and life very seriously. In the scene below (taken from Episode 1) Debbie is nagging her daughter to do her homework instead of hanging out at the local water sports club, the eponymous Surf Shack.’” Roger gasps sarcastically. ‘Ooh, nail-biting stuff. I’m already envisioning an end-of-series drowning or a story line involving a stranded dolphin. It’s got Emmy Award written all over it.’

I yawn and rub my eyes. ‘Did you actually want to see me about something to do with Burn’s, Rog? Or did you just want to remind me how insignificant my contribution is to global entertainment?’

‘Both really.’ He grins at me. ‘This morning, Fiona on the board told me she still hasn’t found a suitable candidate to take over my role as Head of Staff when I get made General Manager in six weeks. You’re easily the most experienced person on the floor, so I’m pretty sure if you made yourself available she’d give you the position. Shall I lie and tell her how industrious you are?’

I take a good two seconds to consider the offer. I covered for Roger once before – when he had his wisdom teeth removed – and found myself having to do some work. ‘Thanks, Rog, but nah.’

‘But nah? Is that it?’ He gives a deflating lilo of a sigh. ‘Think about this seriously, Vivian, it’s obvious you need some motivation. If you had some extra duties it would inspire you to take more of an interest in how Burn’s operates. You’d be organising all the private functions, doing the rosters, liaising with the committee over membership, structuring and monitoring the deliveries …’

I zone out temporarily at this point as I notice a glass jar of truffles on Roger’s desk. Each chocolate is individually wrapped in yellow metallic paper. I think of Keira Knightley wrapped in gold lamé at the second Pirates of the Caribbean première. A classic noughties’ moment. Bitchy bloggers accused her of appearing ‘emaciated’. I think the intention was more …

‘You’d be silly not to consider it,’ Roger is saying. ‘You would even have this office all to yourself …’

… ethereal.

‘And you would finally be part of the management. It’s your chance to stop winging it, Vivian.’

I re-engage. ‘Newsflash, Rog … most of the staff at Burn’s are “winging it”. None of us grew up with a burning ambition to provide mouthy media executives with Long Island ice teas and fresh towels. It’s just a means to an end until we get into our chosen career.’ This is true. Amongst the ‘floor’ team are various hopeful thespians, writers, fashionistas and musicians. When clearing up at night, you can guarantee someone will break Fame!-like into an impromptu song-and-dance routine using their mop as a microphone.

‘Look …’ Roger sighs again. ‘I really do not mean this in a patronising way …’

‘Which means it will sound exactly that.’

He laughs. ‘Okay, fair enough … it might do. The thing is, you’re not in your twenties any more. There comes a time in life when you have to accept the reality of your situation and simply make the best of it. I’d say you are unequivocally at that point, Vivian, given you are thirty-five years old.’

‘Don’t exaggerate, I’m thirty-four.’

‘Thirty-five on Saturday; and since that is only two days away it’s time for you to create a more secure life for yourself. Because, face facts, this,’ he taps my script, ‘is not exactly lining the coffers and it’s showing no signs of doing so in the near future. At this rate your breakthrough lead role is going to be the sequel to Driving Miss Daisy. Question: do you know what a PEP, ISA or Tessa is?’

‘The more precocious characters from a Dickens novel?’ I joke, but I shift a little irritably in my seat. I don’t want a conversation about the future. I’m not done with the present. The only time span I am totally done with is the past, but I am not going to talk about that either.

‘I’m only saying this because I’m your mate, and I understand your situ,’ explains Roger. ‘I used to be a hot mess too, but I had to change when things got serious with Pete …’ He glances fondly at the framed picture of his husband – a garland of flowers round his neck on their honeymoon in Hawaii – that takes pride of place on the desk. ‘Because he had this crazy idea about wanting us to have security.’ Roger looks back up at me and grimaces. ‘But guess what? Earning then saving can be fun. Having a few quid in the bank means that should you ever want to shake things up a little and do something out of the ordinary – just for you – it’s possible.’

‘Rog! Are you suggesting I might want to go and find myself? Ha! Count me out. I’ve seen Eat Pray Love … What a load of bollocks. Trust me, any woman who spends six months scoffing pasta, pizza and traditionally manufactured Italian ice-cream, then another six months in an ashram thinking about the amount of white flour, wheat and trans-fats she has consumed would end up in a mental institution. Not Bali.’

He tuts. ‘There’s more to life than getting trashed in London every weekend, Vivian.’

‘I know. That’s why God invented budget airlines … so that from the beginning of May to mid-October for less than the price of a round of drinks in one of our capital’s leading nightspots we can go and get trashed in Ibiza instead.’

‘Does that mean you’re going there again this summer?’

Depressingly I can’t, as I am the poorest I have ever been. I don’t know where my money goes. Okay, that’s a lie. I know exactly where it goes: nights out, minicabs on the aforementioned nights out, St Tropez (the tanning mousse not the luxury French seaside resort), Grey Goose vodka (the lowest carbohydrate content of all the brands but the most expensive) and ASOS. I am addicted. It’s the crack pipe of the online fashion world. Every time I enter my three-digit security code I tell myself that it is my last hit but two days later I’ll find myself buying another load of basic vests and skinny-leg trousers … in the style of Tyler Momsen. I am too embarrassed to tell Roger the truth, though, so I blame him.

‘I won’t be heading to the White Isle this year, actually. Since my once reliably up-for-it GBF won his man but lost his sense of adventure,’ I fix him with a pointed look, ‘I haven’t made any plans. I’m assuming you and Pete are already booked into a four-hundred-euro-a-night boutique hotel in Mykonos.’

‘Turkey, actually. Greece is too much of a cliché.’ He smiles at me. ‘Seriously, at least take Fiona’s number and have a chat with her.’

I get out my absolutely knackered old Nokia from my back pocket to show willing. Roger laughs loudly when he sees it.

‘Piss off, Rog, I will get round to upgrading at some point.’

‘Vivian, since you last mentioned you were going to do that, London has bid for the Olympic Games, won the honour to stage them, built the Olympic Park, staged the event and the athletes are now in training for 2016. But if you do, obviously get the new iPhone. It’s genius, I can’t live witho …’

I zone out again and get up from the desk, taking one last glance at the truffles. Ethereal. Ethereal.

Roger cocks his head at me. ‘Vivian? I was saying I’ll text you her number.’

‘Ace. You do that …’ I tell him. ‘Now, can you quit with the concern and return to your usual light bitching – you’re freaking me out.’

He repositions his Joe 90 spectacles and glances down again at my manuscript for Surf Shack. ‘A neurotic yet stubborn and antagonistic mother’, eh? Well,’ he grins, ‘you’ll have to dig deep on the maternal angle. But other than that, you should be fine.’

It’s only early evening but the atmosphere in Burn’s is what British Vogue once described as ‘expensively buzzy’. For many of our members – now that summer is here – Thursday marks the end of their working week. Tomorrow they’ll either head off to a music festival with VIP laminates dangling round their necks or jet off on a European city mini-break. Those with kids will jump into their 4x4s and motor down to the West Country for a relaxing weekend at their second home – usually some sort of traditional fishing cottage, which thanks to a chi-chi interior designer (based in Hampstead, naturally) is now free of any sense of sea-faring tradition bar a Cath Kidston table cloth bearing an anchor motif.

In addition to the restaurant there are four other floors at Burn’s. It’s a similar layout to Shoreditch House – our main competitor – except they have a rooftop pool. Our basement has a cinema, the top floor has a spa and a gym, the first floor has a cocktail bar and alcoves for private dining, whilst the second floor is used as a lounge area. This can be used for business meetings, reading the papers, playing games … whatever. Some members spend all day and all evening here until 2 a.m. when Roger has to ask them to leave so we can close. These die-hards always look panicked when they get booted out, as if the prospect of fending for themselves for the next five hours (until we re-open at 7 a.m. for breakfast) without instant access to Molton Brown toiletries, a decent Caesar Salad and an antique backgammon board is really quite daunting. My job is to flit unobtrusively between all these floors making sure that everything is running smoothly and that all members are happy. They usually are, but today, one of them looks even happier.

‘Oi, Vivian! Over ‘ere a sec, sweet’eart.’ The genuine cockney bark of Clint Parks resonates around the restaurant. The letter ‘h’ has no place in his vocabulary.

I wind my way through the tables and give him a kiss on the cheek. As always, he smells of Envy by Gucci and over excitement. ‘How are you, Clint? I haven’t seen you for a few days.’

‘I’ve been in Tenerife on a nice little freebie, as it ‘appens … judging some beauty contest for a chain of ‘otels. Naturally, I made sure the fittest bird came second so I could cheer ‘er up in my suite afterwards.’ Everyone at the table giggles. Clearly, they aren’t picturing Clint hammering away at some desperate wannabe with vacant eyes.

As the loud, crass, womanising gossip columnist for News Today, you would have thought that Clint is exactly the kind of punter who would have his application for membership at a swish private club like Burn’s revoked as soon as it came before the selection committee, but actually he and his friends are just the kind of punters we need. It’s simple. Clint and his mates rack up huge bills on booze, then go to the toilet to rack up huge lines of cocaine and then they return to the bar to rack up even bigger bills on booze. If we turned him away he would only go to any of the other members’ clubs in London, then Burn’s would miss out on his custom and all the free promotion we get from being mentioned repeatedly in Clint’s Big Column.

He can be a handful, but I like Clint. Without him I wouldn’t have my job at Burn’s, and he’s saved me from being sacked a number of times. (‘If you tell ‘er to ‘oppit, I’m ‘opping off to Shoreditch ‘ouse.’) When I first met him I had left drama college and was working in a scuzzy basement wine bar. We were open from 5 p.m. until My Boss Was Drunk Enough to Ignore All Laws Concerning Sexual Harassment in the Workplace and Would Start Pestering Me to Sleep With Him. Clint bowled in one night, celebrating his first major splash as a junior reporter: revealing the three married Premiership soccer stars behind a series of roasting orgies. He got so plastered he left without his laptop; it contained all his leads and contacts. I made him sweat a couple of days then called him at News Today saying I had found the computer. He immediately asked what he could do for me in return. I told him I was desperate for a new job; somewhere with a bit more pizzazz and finite working hours. Clint had the answer; he had just been asked to become a member at a brand-new private club in West London. He put a word in for me and I was hired instantly. So, I slept with my boss one (more) time, then handed him my resignation.

‘So, ‘ere’s the score, Vivian … we need some of that quality Krug. Something very special indeed ‘as ‘appened.’ Clint rolls up the sleeves on his jacket – a pale blue silk bomber with the word ‘Parksie’ emblazoned on the back in diamanté studs. ‘The wife’s only got a bleedin’ bun in the oven. She’s preggers!’

‘Wow,’ I say.

After this initial response, I have time to practise my ‘I’m thrilled for you’ face, as one of his cronies – a depth-free harridan called Sophie Carnegie-Hunt, who runs Get On It! (a celebrity management and promotions company) – returns from the loo. As usual she is wearing a hat tipped at a jaunty angle and a guitar band gig T-shirt. That’s her thing. Today it’s a woven tweed shooting cap with a top from the Strokes Is This It? tour. She sits down without acknowledging me and rubs Clint’s back in that overly earnest way induced by a recently ingested substantial line of coke.

‘You really bloody deserve this blessing, angel.’ She nods. ‘You’ll be a bloody amaaaaaaaaaa-zing father. My daddy is a bloody amazing man … genuinely philanthropic. I think I got the desire to nurture and support people from him.’

Clint rolls his eyes at the rest of the table. ‘That’ll be the nurture and support our Sophs offers at a standard rate of thirty per cent of all future earnings, eh?’ They all laugh and he turns back to me. ‘She’s right, though. With me as a dad, Junior will want for nothing …’

‘Except maybe regular visits from Social Services.’ I smile at Clint. He snorts loudly and winks at me. ‘Anyway, let me get that champagne sorted. You wanted the Krug Grand Cuvée?’

‘That’s the one. Three bottles to get us going. Bung ‘em on my tab.’ No one else at the table gives me another option for payment. ‘Right, I’m off to the khazi.’ He pulls away from Sophie’s hand, which is still pawing his back. ‘Oi, Sophs, you got my nonsense?’

She passes him her handbag. ‘In there somewhere, angel.’

I pretend not to notice, but the truth is none of the staff at Burn’s would ever stop anyone from doing drugs. The police never come in anyway. Years back, they did show a bit of interest after Sadie Frost’s sproglet was reported to have found an ecstasy pill to nibble on in another leading members’ club, but these days serious knife crime quite rightly takes up more of their time than preventing go-getting career professionals from bellowing self-aggrandising crap at one another for hours on end.

Clint heads off upstairs. Our members tend to eschew the lavatories on the restaurant level for coke snorting as the futuristic egg-shaped toilet bowls jut out of the cubicle wall. There is no visible cistern or anywhere to get a purchase on, unless you use the loo seat … which they would consider using a bit … well, druggie. So they go upstairs. There, the roomy art deco influenced unisex conveniences have the required air of decadence and purpose. In fact, they may as well have been designed in consultation with regular visitors to The Priory or Promises. Every surface in the loo is mirrored, including a heavy back shelf – which is also under-lit, so every last grain of gak can be accounted for.

I wave over to Dane, one of the waiters. He also plays guitar in a folk rock band … sort of Mumford and Sons-ish but with more of a message. Despite this, he’s an all right guy. He walks over.

‘Parksie’s having an ickle tiny kidlet,’ Sophie tells him in a baby voice. (Another of her ‘things’, it’s not just because of the subject matter.) ‘Bloody-wuddy amazing, no?’

‘That’s cool, man. Pass on my congratulations, won’t you?’ Dane smiles sweetly, whilst I’m thinking how much I would like to plunge a fork into her hand. ‘Champagne all round, then?’

‘Three bottles of Krug,’ I instruct him. ‘Cheers, Dane.’ Then I mooch off …

… to do more mooching around the restaurant; checking that orders are being taken, glasses filled, bills issued and tables turned over swiftly. The air is thick with braying voices regaling industry anecdotes. Our members are a mixture of those with glamorous jobs in the media (movies, music, television, journalism, advertising), the fashionably creative (designers, artists, photographers), plus a few of the more urbane City boys and girls. Everyone wears conspicuously on-trend outfits. For the men this means sharp suits and smart-casual wear from fashion-forward labels available on Selfridges first floor, or an ironically hip talking-point garment like Clint’s ‘Parksie’ jacket. For the girls it’s bang up-to-date designer gear mixed smugly with decent high-street copies, vintage pieces, and a ‘statement’ handbag (usually a Mulberry or a Chloe). A statement that they hope says emphatically: I have it all! But what it actually says is, I have a very negative image of myself but forking out nine hundred quid on a single accessory every season has a temporarily positive effect.

As a hostess I have to wear black. Within this remit I can choose clothes that are stylish enough to give the place an aspirational vibe and slightly intimidate the non-members coming in, but not so stylish that I make the regulars feel like they are losing it or that the venue is too of-the-moment. I can get fully ready – tan, outfit, face, hair – within two hours. This may sound like a long time but as well as wanting to get my look right for work I have always stuck to a simple grooming statute: I will never leave the house unless I wouldn’t mind bumping into anyone who I went to school with. Obviously, when I say anyone, I mean someone.

‘What a gorgeous evening. Summer really is on its way,’ trills Tabitha, the receptionist, as I am walking into the foyer to check on … not much. (Tabitha always has everything under control.) ‘We’re going to be busy bees …’ She rearranges her tartan headband. ‘The restaurant and alcoves are all fully booked and the first-floor bar has been chock-a-block since lunchtime.’

Tabitha is in her mid-twenties but accessorises as if she was still nine, and likes to send group emails to us all of YouTube footage showing different breeds of animals unexpectedly befriending one another. She sees the good in everyone and is always irrepressibly cheery. So much so that at first I thought this might be a front she puts up to hide a much darker side, but then I bumped into her having a night out with her friends. Were they similar to Tabs? Let’s say it would be safe to assume not one of them will go to the grave knowing how filthy an amphetamine comedown on a Wednesday can be.

‘Oooh, it’s your b’day on Saturday, isn’t it? How exciting!’ she squeals.

‘Very,’ I lie. I’m not excited. Birthdays make me uncomfortable.

‘Have you got the whole weekend off?’

‘No, I’ve got to do the breakfast shift on Sunday morning.’ Roger’s idea of a joke – making me drag my sorry carcass into work with a hangover.

‘Me too. But since I won’t see you on the special day itself, let me give you your gift now.’

She reaches under the desk and pulls out a white cardboard box. I flip open the lid. Inside are six mini fairy cakes decorated with pink icing and crystallised jelly hearts.

‘Ah, thanks a lot, Tabs … you shouldn’t have.’ She really shouldn’t have. Later they will be placed in the big black wheelie bin outside the club. ‘So, who’s in tonight? Anyone interesting?’

She grabs the reservations clipboard and holds it to her chest. ‘Ooooooooooh, has no one told you?’

‘About what?’

‘About who has arrived for supper?’ She claps her hands repeatedly like a delighted seal. Tabitha still hasn’t got her head round the whole pretend-to-be-utterly-unimpressed-by-all-celebrities that is a given amongst staff working in the high-end hospitality market. ‘My tummy totally did a flick-a-flack when he walked in.’

‘Who is it, then?’ I ask distractedly. I could do with a Nurofen. The raspberry-tinged scent of the freshly baked cakes hovers in the air between us. I bet Tabitha loves eating pink food. Personally, I stick to green, white or brown. Everyone has their nutritional colour rules, don’t they?

‘Hello? Vivian? Reaction, please!’ Tabitha claps again. ‘I said, it’s MAXIMILIAN FRY! He must have literally just got out of rehab … Oooooh, he is sooooo cute in the flesh. Even cuter than he was in The Simple Truth. Un-be-l-iev-able to think that what’s-her-name actually cheated on him. I tell you, if given the opp, I would never ever ever be unfaithful to him. Honestly, I wouldn’t.’

I smile at her. ‘Very decent of you, Tabs.’

Dane trots down the stairs holding a giant ice bucket with bottles of champagne poking out the top.

‘Did you see Maximilian Fry up there, Dane?’ Tabitha grins. ‘How gorge is he?’

‘Yeah, yeah … but it’s what’s inside that counts,’ says Dane. ‘You know he’s a Buddhist? Always cool to hear people embracing a sense of spirituality … whatever the origin. I’d love to play him some of the band’s tracks.’

‘I think he’s had more than enough to deal with this year,’ I laugh. But then something occurs to me. ‘Dane, how come you saw him? You only went up to the bar. Isn’t he dining in one of the private alcoves?’

‘Nope, he’s at the bar.’

Tabitha checks her yellow Swatch. ‘I seated him there ten minutes ago … he said he’d prefer to wait there until his guest arrived.’

‘Great. Clint Parks went upstairs about five minutes before that to use the loo.’

‘What’s the issue?’ she asks, furiously batting inch-long (natural) eyelashes as she senses impending drama.

I take a deep breath. ‘It was Clint who broke the story about Zoe Dano doing the dirty on Maximilian Fry. It was also Clint who printed those pictures of Fry heading off to treatment. He’s going to walk straight out of the toilet and slap bang into the one person who wants to kill him. Well, one of. Trust me, it will kick off.’

I run up the stairs to the first floor. There is a long line of people sitting at the bar on stools all with their backs to me, but I recognise Maximilian immediately because of his footwear: textbook A-List-actor scuffed hiking boots. (All generations wear them off set. Depp, Pitt, Farrell, DiCaprio, Butler, Cooper, Franco, LaBeouf, Lautner, Lutz, etc.) As I detect the shoes and approach Maximilian, the door of the unisex loo opens on the other side of the bar. Clint Parks bowls out looking refreshed. He immediately spots his nemesis.

‘Well, well, well! If it ain’t Max—’ is all he manages to say before Maximilian shoots off his stool and charges towards him.

‘You fucking noxious lump of shite,’ snarls Maximilian. ‘How dare you screw over my life to sell your contemptible whoring rag?’ Which is language he definitely did not use when last interviewed on the red carpet for E! by Giuliana Rancic.

Then everything seems to move in slow motion. Maximilian steams into Clint, knocking him back through the lavatory door; women at the bar start screaming, grab their drinks and jump off their stools. Tabitha and Dane come running up the stairs behind me, our head barman drops his silver cocktail shaker and tries to hurl himself over the bar in an attempt to split up Maximilian and Clint. But I get there first and find myself wedged between them. I don’t even get a fleeting glimpse of Maximilian’s face before his fist comes hurtling towards me.

It says a lot about how strange that day eventually turned out to be when the weirdest thing that happened to me was not getting punched in the eye by an Oscar nominee.

CHAPTER TWO

I open the door to the flat, automatically sling my keys in the glass fish bowl on the hall table and hang my leather jacket on the back of the door. I have been trained to do this by my flatmate, Adele, who has a zero-tolerance policy to household mess. For example, dirty clothes have to be washed, transferred to the dryer and put back in the wardrobe in quick succession – not left to ‘linger unnecessarily’ on the radiator. Smoking is strictly prohibited (even on the patio) and the fridge is constantly monitored for decaying comestibles. The chances of a bio-yogurt drifting past its best-before date are very slim indeed. Adele was only half joking when she once said to me, ‘Those bacteria may be friendly now, Vivian, but who knows when they might turn?’

A lot of people would find Adele’s idiosyncrasies a nightmare to live with but I am not really in a position to complain. I am lucky to be living in such a nice apartment in Bayswater, with a big clothes cupboard and the added bonus of a flatmate who travels abroad whenever she has time off. For some unfathomable reason Adele is never happier then when she is tramping through some Third World country under a spine-crunching backpack. I don’t see the point of travelling to far flung places myself, unless it’s to stock up on hardcore downers and speed-based diet pills, or to catch dysentery – the ultimate detox – then all the hassle would be worth it. Anyway, she bought this flat after she’d quit the drama college we were both at to become some sort of money broker. I was shocked when she told me she was giving up her dream of being on stage, and remember asking, ‘Do you think working in the City will be that rewarding?’ The answer turned out to be ‘yes’. Last year, her basic income (she wouldn’t tell me her bonus) was two hundred grand. She has an extensive shares portfolio, two sports cars, a buy-to-let in the Docklands and this place, which – after the installation of a hi-tech new kitchen – has been valued by a number of local agents at just over a million.

I feel like a bit of a fraud for living here. I always avoid saying hello to the upstairs neighbours – a German couple with their own architectural practice – and if I ever see them I pretend to be deep in conversation on my mobile. Stupid really, what are they going to do? Drag me into the upper maisonette and interrogate me using a Philippe Starck brushed-steel anglepoise lamp until I admit Adele lets me live here for a minimal rent? One thing is for sure, without her generosity I would be living in a much lesser flat somewhere a lot further west … like Wales. So, what does she get in return? Well, someone to stand by her, I suppose. Or more specifically, someone who is on standby 24/7 with a box of man-size Kleenex to mop up her tears. They fall quite often. Adele may have her working life neatly squared off, but her love life is a pentagram of doom.

I pick up an ASOS package off the hall table. It should contain five vests, four grey marl and one nude, plus two pairs of skinny-leg trousers, one black, one grey. It is the second ASOS parcel to arrive this week.

I can hear Luke in the kitchen, opening then banging cupboards shut, still trying to work out where things are. I have been letting him stay here whilst Adele is trekking across the Himalayas with her latest boyfriend, James. They met in Asia doing voluntary work at a wildlife sanctuary for endangered species. She has already hit a new record with him: they’ve been together since the end of last year and she hasn’t cried once.

‘You’re back early,’ shouts Luke.

‘Yes, I am,’ I shout back. ‘Five hours and thirty-three minutes earlier than I should be, if you need the exact timings for your log book.’

‘Thanks, I’ll jot those figures down.’

I hear him laugh as I walk into the lounge. The usual organised debris that appears whenever Luke is within a ten-metre radius is all present and correct. A half-drunk two-litre bottle of Dr Pepper, headphones, laptop logged onto beatport.com and back copies of dance music magazines are lined up on Adele’s African chest, which doubles up as a coffee table. In a pile on the floor next to it are his hooded grey sweatshirt, gaffer-taped work boots, thick mountain socks and a plastic bag from an electrical wholesaler. It’s full of electrical leads.

‘Luke!’ I yell. ‘Why have you bought more cables?’

‘Because I need them.’

‘Christ, how could you? Your bedroom floor already looks like the snake pit in Indiana Jones. By the way, Adele gets back tomorrow so we need to clean up this mess. It’s a tip in here.’

I sit down on the sofa and notice a Kentucky Fried Chicken bucket on the floor the other side of the arm rest. Luke must have bought a snack from there at teatime on his way home from the building site. I peer inside the container at the gnawed, withered drumsticks and find myself thinking about Angelina Jolie’s leg poking out of her dress at that Oscar ceremony …

‘This isn’t a tip,’ says Luke, walking into the lounge holding a plate of more food. ‘Mine and Wozza’s place is a tip. What you’re looking at is just surface rubbish, which admittedly has shock value, I’ll give you that. But it’s easy to get rid of. Although, I still can’t find the bin in there.’ He nods towards the kitchen.

I smile. To be fair, Adele’s recently installed kitchen is a complex set-up. You feel pressurised cooking in there … it’s like competing in an episode of The Cube. Fortunately, that – preparing and assembling dishes or game shows – is not something I like to get involved in very often.

Luke sits down next to me and puts his dinner on the leather chest. He has made himself a grilled lamb chop with salad and potatoes.

I find Luke’s approach to diet interesting but baffling. On the one hand, he is quite content chomping his way through the types of dishes laid out in front of the obese person on the first episode of The Biggest Loser to serve as a reality check. On the other, he could name most superfoods (probably not the goji berry, though), and more often that not always has his five-a-day. He eats what he wants, when he wants it. His approach to exercise is the same. He doesn’t bother with a gym schedule, but if he fancies some fresh air he goes for a run. Not that he needs to burn anything off; there is no ‘excess’ on him. The combination of doing manual labour and a ridiculously high metabolic rate keeps his body hard and angular. It’s like sleeping next to a bicycle.

‘So why did you sack off the rest of your shift?’ he asks, leaning over to give me a kiss. Then he clocks my blackening eye and leaps back. ‘Jeeeeeeeeeesus, who the fuck did that? I’ll kill them!’

I burst out laughing. Luke is the least confrontational person I have ever met. If he found a spider in the bathroom he would negotiate with it to leave as quietly as possible and put in a polite request that any flamboyant scuttling is kept to a minimum.

‘It was an accident,’ I explain. ‘A couple of the customers had a run-in; I tried to split it up and got whacked by mistake. It looks a lot more painful than it is.’

‘Ouch.’ He peers at the bruise. ‘That’s a shiner. Why didn’t you call me when it happened?’

‘Because I was flat out on the floor.’

‘Afterwards, I mean. I could have come to get you.’ He picks up his fork and motions at me to try some of his meal, but I pull a face and shake my head. This is our standard procedure. ‘You might have got delayed concussion on the way home and passed out on the pavement.’

‘Well, I didn’t, did I? I’m here.’

‘You never phone me in a crisis.’

‘That’s because in the year I have known you there hasn’t been a crisis to report. It’s not as if one has occurred and I have made a point of not informing you. Besides, this wasn’t a crisis it was a drama.’

His face crumples slightly. It always does when I have a verbal jab at him. First his forehead creases, then his cheekbones sink and his mouth turns at the corners.

‘At least, let me get you some ice,’ he says.

‘No way, I want it to look really bad for tomorrow. I may be able to elicit some sympathy at my audition and get a call-back because they feel sorry for me. Desperate times call for desperate measures.’

‘Don’t be stupid, you’ll get a call-back because you’re talented not because you’re injured.’

‘Luke!’ I nudge him on the leg. ‘What have I told you about being overly supportive of my non-existent career?’

‘Sorry, I’m afraid it’s in my genes. Despite inventing the drinking game, Show us your rack, Sheila! …’ He smiles pointedly at me, knowing full well it winds me up when he uses Australian slang. ‘… us Aussies are extremely sensitive. It’s a fact.’

But I smile back at him, because here’s the thing. Despite the obsessive timekeeping, low-level buzz of neediness and his place of birth … Luke is hot. If he was in a boy band, he’d be the tall one at the back who never gets to sing lead vocal but is on hand to do some decent break-dancing moves and point at the fans a lot. He was born in the eighties, at the nineties end … so when he was in a cot, I was in a bunk, not a grown-up bed. He would be even hotter if he cut his hair, used some basic grooming products on his skin to protect it against the elements, and wore some better clothes. I don’t mean expensive, but just something that fitted properly, with possibly a hint of tailoring or edginess. Just because he has an athletic physique, doesn’t mean that sweatshirts should be the only option. I don’t badger him about this sort of thing, though, because I wouldn’t expect him to change himself for me, as it’s not as if I would change myself for him. I think that’s why it’s lasted twelve months. We’re together, but there isn’t any grand plan for us; we’re having a laugh. When we stop having a laugh we’ll go our separate ways.

‘Did you know the person who clobbered you?’ he asks, as he chews.

‘Kind of. It was Maximilian Fry – the actor.’

‘Maximilian Fry?’ He repeats his name out of surprise, not because he is remotely impressed.

‘Uh-huh. He was trying to have a pop at Clint Parks.’

‘Who’s that?’ Luke doesn’t look at any of the tabloids. He buys the Guardian and reads it on the building site at lunchtime.

‘The gossip columnist on News Today. As soon as Maximilian saw him leave the Gents he pelted towards him, I jumped in the middle and pow … he thumped me.’

‘So did the cops pitch up and bundle him into the back of a police van?’

‘God, no. His PR rep arrived within minutes and ushered him through the fire exit into the back seat of an air-conditioned people carrier.’ I had missed all of this, though, because I had to go and look after Tabitha who was upset about seeing me get hurt. ‘Have you fed Monday?’

The second I say that, my cat’s big orange face appears in the doorway. He does one of his mammoth over-exaggerated yawns (similar to how a cobra dislocates its jaw to swallow a whole deer), and then blinks slowly as he scans the room, assessing the current situation. Monday has got blinking down to a fine art. He can say so much simply by shutting his eyes and opening them again. If he is feeling particularly narked he also raises his eyebrows. For example, if someone offers him fish. He can’t stomach seafood.

Luke nods. ‘Yeah, he’s been fed, but I think he may have been upstairs for a snack first because he smelt of bratwurst. Anyway, I got him some chook from that butcher’s round the corner. You know, the posh one where they pride themselves on the non-stressful conditions the animals are reared in? Apparently, this particular bird was allowed to hang around in the barn all day wearing his dressing gown and playing the most recent Grand Theft Auto on the Xbox. Wasn’t it, little mate?’ He gives Monday a thumbs-up. Monday pads over to him and rubs his head on Luke’s shin.

Luke adores Monday and Monday seems to like Luke a lot too, which is saying something as in the eleven years since I collected him from the Cat’s Protection League he has found fault with most of the men I’ve been with. Yes, I’m aware that the words, ‘Men I’ve Been With’ aren’t likely to inspire Danielle Steel’s next romantic bestseller, but it’s the closest I can get to describing the connection I make with members of the opposite sex. I am with them, and then I am not. Not in the way that Adele is. She is an emotional car crash. I’ve never even come close to having a minor prang let alone careered into a major pile-up. This is because I am always in the driving seat and plan exactly where I am going. Adele instantly hands over the keys and never bothers with GPS.

‘That Fry bloke … was he on speedo?’

I make a face at Luke for using another annoying Aussie-ism. ‘Speedo’ is what he calls cocaine … because it speeds up time.

‘No, he’s just come out of rehab.’

‘But he managed to apologise for hitting you?’ asks Luke.

‘Nah …’ I shrug my shoulders. ‘I wouldn’t have expected him to.’

He laughs. ‘Oh right, is that one of the rules of joining a private members’ club, then? You have to behave as rudely as possible at all times? I would sign up myself but I may only be able to manage “faintly offensive” during opening hours. “Wholly insulting” could take some practice.’ Then he mutters to himself, ‘What a pretentious wanker.’

This is classic Luke. Maybe it’s because he grew up on the beach in Sydney where life was one long fun-packed family barbi, but he is so grounded. He is entirely unaffected by everything that everyone else I know is affected by. He doesn’t concern himself with what people do, how they live or what they look like. He doesn’t care what anyone thinks about what he is doing either, as long as he is content within himself and sticks to his plan. Case in point, he graduated from university in Australia with a first-class degree, and then worked for five years in an ultra-dull-sounding recruitment job, just so he could save up for a deposit on a property in Sydney to keep as an investment for the future. Then he travelled over here to fulfil his ultimate dream: becoming a DJ. Not because he eventually wants to be the idolised centrepiece of wild parties where the crowd scream his name and supermodels nosh him off behind the decks – which I thought was the whole point of deejaying – but because he is genuinely into the music and wants to ‘share’ this passion. It goes without saying that when we very first met, I warned him that his plan was unlikely to work out. After all, for nearly two decades it has been mandatory for every bloke under thirty inhabiting the hipper UK towns to know how to mix, run club nights and produce their own tunes on set-ups in their bedroom. Everyone is a DJ, or a promoter, or a producer; other typically young male-dominated industries have suffered as an effect. You can’t get a decent plumber for love nor money over Hackney way. Anyway, Luke ignored what I said, found work on a building site so he had a reliable job that required no overtime and then set about finding some gigs.

To be fair, he has managed to land a few. Mainly through his flatmate, Warren, who knows everyone in Clubland and also throws the odd party himself at an underground venue in South London. (That’s underground as in literally below street level, not underground as in madly cool.) But Luke always has to play the thankless slot at the very beginning of the evening when punters are thin on the ground. It’s the bar staff turning up for their shift who tend to congratulate him on his set. This does not bother him in the slightest; he’s thrilled to be part of the environment. For me this would be like meeting someone for a drink at Shoreditch House who enjoyed full membership all year round, whilst you were still waiting for your application to be processed and approved. Which I am. Small acorns have grown into large oaks since I’ve been on their sodding waiting list. Roughly, twice a year I get to the top and am offered a contract, but I can’t afford the fee because I will have just spent/be planning to spend an eye-watering amount of euros at the Ibiza opening/closing parties. So, I go back to the bottom.

‘Are you hyped for Saturday night, then?’ asks Luke, as he puts his knife and fork together and pushes his plate away. He hasn’t eaten all his potatoes.

‘That depends on what we’re doing.’

‘We’re celebrating your birthday.’

‘Yeah, I know. But how?’

‘It’s a surprise,’ says Luke, then he winks at Monday. ‘Isn’t it, little mate?’

Monday blinks at him and kneads the carpet with his two pristinely white front paws.

‘A surprise …’ I repeat.

‘Yeah, a surprise!’

‘Putting an inflection on the end of the word doesn’t make it sound more appealing.’

‘Everyone likes surprises,’ Luke argues.

Not me. I don’t even put my MP3 player on ‘shuffle’. In fact, I like surprises even less than birthdays. Combined? No, thanks.

‘I’d prefer to know where we are going, Luke.’

His face crumples slightly but he pulls it back. ‘And the award for most ungrateful reaction to the news that someone has gone to the trouble of organising a nice treat goes to … Vivian Ward! Jesus, you can be such a witch sometimes. You’ll have a great time, I promise, not that you deserve it,’ he says, and pulls off his T-shirt over his head. ‘Now, I suggest you make some amends by getting your kit off.’

‘Why is that?’

‘Because I want to have some of that really bad nookie we’re so good at.’ He reaches into his pocket, fishes out a condom and Frisbees it into my lap.

‘Ok-aaaaay.’ I pick up the sealed plastic pouch faux-wearily and shove the trunk with my foot to get the leftover potatoes out of my line of vision. One of them has a large blob of mayonnaise next to it. ‘But please, let’s make sure it is a whole different level of unsatisfactory this time. Dull, perfunctory humping only. Do you mind if we have the TV on in the background?’

‘Nope, we’ll switch it on when we’ve finished … then we’ve got something to look forward to,’ says Luke, dexterously unbuckling his belt and jeans with his left hand. With the right he throws his T-shirt towards the doorway where it drops on Monday’s head, making him look like a furry-legged ghost. ‘Sorry, little mate, this is not for your eyes.’

I wriggle out of my skinny-leg trousers, which are almost identical to the ones that arrived today, and lie back on the sofa. ‘Let’s press on. Try to keep it under five minutes, yeah? Then we can actually enjoy what’s left of the evening.’

‘Got it.’ His jeans come off.

And then so are we. No awkwardness, no hesitation, no more admittedly fairly laboured sarcastic build-up, which I am well aware is only funny if you are us, just no-holds-barred, relentless shagging accompanied by some slightly feral grabbing, licking, sucking, biting and maybe a bit of light (non-scab forming) scratching. This is certainly not the Calvin Klein approved, black-and-white lurve-making that goes on in advertisement for Eternity. It’s full-on fucking; the purely-for-pleasure stuff my mother would warn me against as a child. Corinthians Chapter 6 Verse 18; Flee fornication. Every sin that a man doeth is without the body; but he that committeth fornication sinneth against his own body. There is no gentle whispering or delicate contemplation, just ecstatic yowling and frenzied gulps for breath. It’s been like this since the moment I met Luke; one knock-out session after another. The sort you might want to record for posterity … so on occasion, we have. When I watch the footage back, I am always amused – and rather impressed – by the assorted surfaces we manage to utilise.

Tonight, we end up on the new island unit in the kitchen, possibly the most uncomfortable material in the flat – no, Europe – but Luke likes it. Probably so he can give me a knowing smile whenever Adele is using it to assemble one of her authentic ethnic dishes, as if to say, We both know it’s not just cumin seeds that have been pummelled up there … It’s good. Really good … and when it’s over, we stay sprawled on the granite, the endorphins that are pelting round our bodies easing the pain in Luke’s spine and my cruciate ligaments. That’s when I look across at him – his unkempt hair in an (entirely unintentionally) sexy mess – and at that very moment I think about what a nice addition he is to my life right now.

Then I look over to the fridge and stare at the photograph stuck to the refrigerator of Adele and James grinning manically as they cradle an orphaned baby orang-utan in the Bornean rainforest. It reminds me that I must must must remember to remove her stone-coloured Max Mara tank top from its dry-cleaning cellophane, unpin the yellow ticket from the care label and replace it in her wardrobe. Ditto her LnA white V-neck tee. And grey Equipment shirt. (Adele’s closet is a haven of high-quality basics that I like to borrow – without asking – on a regular basis.) I also need to sweep up the fag butts on the patio, buy some Pantene shampoo and conditioner to put in the shower so she doesn’t think I’ve been caning her Aveda Colour Conserve, and then I need t—

‘Vivian?’

‘Mmmm?’ I twist to face Luke. ‘Christ!’ His eyes are one centimetre away from mine. ‘You gave me a shock.’

‘Sorry.’ He pulls back a little awkwardly. ‘I was figuring out whether I should talk to you about something. Something quite … serious.’

‘Serious? Like what? You’ve acquired an STD …’

‘Ha! No, nothing like that.’

‘You’ve got a wife back home in Australia and she drives a “yoot”…’ I smile.

‘I don’t.’

‘You’ve been to prison?’

‘Would that be a turn-on?’

‘Possibly, if it was an act of selflessness that got you sent down – like Wentworth Miller in Prison Break. But if it was manslaught—’

He interrupts me. ‘What are your feelings about reproduction?’

‘Reprod …’ I tail off.

‘… uction. Reproduction.’ He visibly relaxes as he says the word a second time and stares directly at me.

I tense and look away. ‘The heavy wooden French furniture, you mean?’

‘Not that, Vivian. Human reproduction, as in the creation of another being. It’s something that I’ve been meaning to get your thoughts on for a while,’ he says, as if he were casually requesting my opinion on which actor has been the most convincing James Bond. ‘Well, not a while as in ages and ages, we’ve only been together for a year so it would be pretty scary if I had been thinking about it for too long. Don’t panic, I’m not some sort of psycho-sperminator who’s simply been biding his time for the right moment to impregnate you.’ Definitely not Pierce Brosnan – too self-conscious. Or Timothy Dalton – too self-righteous. ‘And even though I said it was a “serious” subject, it doesn’t mean I “seriously” want us to think about doing it right now, but it would be good to know your feelings about the subject, generally.’ I know this is controversial but I wasn’t mad about Sean Connery – too hairy, and I can’t even remember the name of the actor in On Her Majesty’s Secret Service. George someone? ‘I can tell you’re a bit surprised, but I’ve surprised myself by even wanting to approach the whole issue. I certainly didn’t think I’d be asking you about it tonight, but …’ Lazenby! George Lazenby, that was it. As for Daniel Craig – way too shaggable. Distractingly so, it’s impossible to concentrate on the plot. ‘… sometimes it’s hard to plan when you’re going to talk about the things in life that need the most planning, and you don’t get something that needs more planning than a … baby.’

ROGER MOORE! There’s your answer. He was the best 007. Yes, he was cheesy, but I like cheese. (The sentiment not the dairy product.) Plus, he made my favourite movie of the entire franchise …

Luke shakes his head at me. ‘Aren’t you going to say anything?’

‘Moonraker.’

CHAPTER THREE

‘Eh? Moon-what?’

Luke is confused. I go into the lounge and stand in the nude for a few seconds staring aimlessly round the room, before grabbing his grey hooded top and putting it on. It’s long enough to reach past my mid-thigh but I still feel weirdly bare, so I find my knickers and put them on too. When I return to the kitchen Luke is aimlessly opening and shutting cupboard doors.

He stops when he sees me and smiles, tentatively. ‘I’m guessing by that reaction you would have preferred it if I was actually diseased, hitched or an ex-con. I’ve caught you unawares, haven’t I? Maybe it would have been best to wait.’

‘Wait?’

‘Yeah, wait.’

Or rather … weight. Because that’s what you actually gain, isn’t it? As well as a child, I mean, you gain weight during the storing and development of the foetus. Even if you have the dollars to pay an illegitimate Miami surgeon to perform one of those sneaky Caesareans where Junior gets whipped out six weeks early to avoid Mom piling on the last trimester of bulk, for the other six and a half months hormones will send your taste buds loony tunes. Some women are lucky. They get savoury cravings along the lines of pickled onions or gherkins. (At least over-consumption can have a laxative effect.) Some not so, and spend the entire gestational period with their head in a catering-sized pot of peanut butter. Or maybe even that special variety – based on Satan’s own recipe – which comes with swirls of milk chocolate spread woven through it. After the expulsion of the fully formed anthropoid, the only way they are going to ‘ping’ back to their pre-baby size is to surround themselves with a crack team of nutritionists and exercise specialists like the top models do. Miranda Kerr’s were fucking efficient. When she stalked down the catwalk at Paris Fashion Week for Balenciaga eight weeks after giving birth, she didn’t even look as if she’d had a bowl of porridge, let alone a son.

But obviously I don’t say any of this to Luke. He wouldn’t understand what I was saying. Nor would I want him to try. Because then he may try to understand something else. Me. I clear my throat to buy myself some time to think. I am baffled as to why he would have even thought to approach this subject. At some point, I must have started behaving in a way that has triggered him to start seeing ‘us’ in a way that was not intended. This unnerves me, because none of the other ‘Men I’ve Been With’ have misread the signals. I am angry with myself. So, obviously, I channel the anger towards him.

‘Are you completely fucking unhinged, Luke?’

He doesn’t reply to my question. He shakes his head at me and stomps into the lounge. I follow him in and watch as he puts on his boxers inside-out, yanks on his jeans and buttons them up incorrectly, then puts on his T-shirt back to front.

‘And you reckon you could handle a nappy?’ I taunt.

‘Forget I even mentioned it, Vivian. We need to clean up. I’ll turn the sofa back round and you do the cushions. You’d better get a cloth too. There’s Dr Pepper all over the carpet,’ he mutters.

‘Don’t sulk, Luke. You can’t just blurt out that you want to get me knocked up—’

‘Knocked up? Nice choice of words.’

‘Whatever you want to call it … and then go off into a strop when I don’t immediately suggest we start stocking up on sterilisation equipment.’

‘That wasn’t what I was saying. You weren’t listening properly. It was only meant to be a discussion about the subject.’ He pushes the couch back on its legs and turns round. His face is fully crumpled. ‘Jesus, Vivian. You can be such a …’

‘… witch. We’ve already established that.’ I make a concerted effort to soften my voice. ‘Okay, I’m sorry, go from the beginning. What made you start thinking about all this?’

‘I suppose it was because your birthday is coming up.’

‘My birthday? Well, it was really sweet of you to consider the gift of life as a present option but vouchers for Space NK are fine … then I can get some decent eye cream. Adele doesn’t keep hers in the bathroom any more – so selfish, how am I meant to stand defiant in the war against puffiness and dark circles on my rubbish wages?’ I force a laugh, but Luke’s face remains crumpled. ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry … again. Go on, explain. I’m listening.’

He sits down on the sofa and sighs. ‘I suppose I’ve been thinking about you turning thirty-five.’ He shrugs. ‘If you wanted to have kids, then I figured now would be the time you would be starting to examine what’s involved. Clearly, you have a very thorough understanding of the initial phase …’ He manages a small smile. ‘But the rest of it can be more complicated, especially as you get older.’

‘Older?’ The word judders through me. ‘Cheers, Luke. That’s the second time today someone has brought up my advancing years. Roger was going on at me earlier for not having a pension plan. I had no idea that come Saturday I am an official shambles if I haven’t got the blue print for the rest of my time on earth signed off.’

‘I’m not saying that at all,’ he replies plainly. ‘I was thinking realistically. The fact is it does get more difficult and dangerous to have babies after thirty-five. It’s basic biology.’

‘That’s bollocks. Jennifer Lopez didn’t have hers until she was thirty-nine. Twins.’

‘They were probably IVF.’

‘Actually, they weren’t. Going down the in vitro route would have been entirely against J Lo’s strict beliefs. She’s publicly said as much. Fortunately for her, though, she didn’t have any ethical guidelines in place about accepting a whopping six-figure fee for supplying pictures of the tots to People magazine … ha!’

But this information does not throw Luke off track. He simply picks up where he left off.

‘Actually, irrespective of your current age, I sort of assumed you might have already thought about the whole parenting thing. Without getting too deep, it’s a pretty common thing for people who have difficult relationships with their own parents to want to create a more secure unit themselves.’ He pauses. ‘What with you not having that much contact with your mum, obv—’

‘I do have contact with her.’

‘I know, but not that much.’

‘She’s busy with the church and her catalogues and … stuff,’ I retort. ‘It doesn’t mean she doesn’t care about me or vice versa.’

‘Vivian, I make sure I see mine three or four times a week and she lives in another continent.’

‘That’s different, you Skype her. I’m not going to go to all the hassle of utilising visual communication technology to contact my mother when she lives the other side of Milton Keynes.’

‘And you never see your brother or sister.’

‘Because we don’t get on. Oh, and believe you me, if you’d seen any of my sister’s children when they were babies, you wouldn’t want to risk me having one. I’ve seen more attractive beasts carved into the stone of French cathedrals. I might carry the same genes.’

Luke laughs and I think he is about to drop the subject. But he doesn’t.

‘Okay, but there’s the issue of your father.’

‘What issue? There is no issue. I’ve told you he’s not around.’

‘And that’s where the discussion always ends. Why?’

I hold my hand up. My face feels hot and my neck is itching. ‘Right, the cod psychology stops here, Luke. We don’t need to talk about family stuff. It’s boring … and pointless.’

‘Not when they are the people who have shaped you.’

‘I shaped me!’ I snap. It’s definitely time to re-route this conversation. I flop down onto the sofa, put my head on Luke’s shoulder and change tack. ‘Look, I know I’m handling this chat quite badly, but you have to admit it was a bit of a curveball. Let’s face it, we’re hardly in a practical position to think about a, er …’

‘Baby,’ he says, putting his arm around me. ‘A baby. You won’t get pregnant by saying it.’

I smile, equally pleased he has been drawn away from the subject of my family and is loosening up. ‘Whatever you want to call it. How could we consider having one of those when we’ve only been seeing each other a year?’

‘I agree,’ he says simply. ‘It would be ridiculous, which was why I was only approaching the issue. It was you who went off on a tangent. Kids would obviously be some way down the road …’ Not if I’m driving! ‘… after we’ve lived together for a while.’

I feel uncomfortable again; as if I’m lying on the island unit, my joints pressed into the marble. ‘Where would we do that?’

‘Why not here?’

I burst out laughing. ‘Luke, hell would have to freeze over before Adele let you do that. In fact, hell would have to freeze over and then maybe a few years later sometime after an entire winter theme park with snowboarding facilities and an ice hotel had been built on top then maybe she would consider a trial period … as long as you didn’t bring your records, music equipment or cables.’

He tilts my head up towards him. ‘We could always get our own place – just you and me. It wouldn’t be as big as this place but—’

‘Monday would find downsizing hard,’ I interject quickly. ‘It wouldn’t be fair on Warren, either.’

‘Since when have you cared about Wozza? You called him “tragic” last week.’

‘He is. But he’s a tragedy who has done you a lot of favours recently. If you moved out he’d really struggle to fill your room. I doubt he’d get too many responses from an advert on Gumtree: AVAILABLE! Tomb-like space in dark basement flat on very rough road in Shepherds Bush (usually cordoned off by police) – must be okay with dark Berlin techno and basic communication with other tenant. General knowledge of hydroponics and GCSE chemistry Grade C or above a plus …’ I lean up and kiss Luke’s cheek. ‘You can laugh now. Go on, I know you want to.’

He doesn’t. Which makes me feel odd, because that’s why I thought both of us were here – to have a laugh – and now Luke isn’t laughing. But what is even odder is that I’m sorry that I am the reason he’s not. I genuinely am. More than I thought I would be.

CHAPTER FOUR

A full English breakfast is not something I would ever choose to make. There are too many individual components. Personally, I think that three is a more than sufficient number of items for any dish. But the following morning, I feel I ought to get up at the same ridiculous time Luke always has to (on week days) and do something he would consider a nice gesture. So I pop a Nurofen and cook.

Things appear to be fine between us. We potter about the kitchen bantering with each other as normal. He in his favourite T-shirt, the one with a picture of a large cartoon fish wearing a pair of headphones underneath the words, Cod is a DJ. Me wearing his boxer shorts and sweatshirt. As he grabs his car keys from the fishbowl, I attempt to pull him back in the flat by his rucksack.

‘Stay for a bit longer,’ I tell him. ‘Just for a few minutes … I’ll make it worth your while.’

‘Really? How would you go about doing that?’ He turns round and prises my fingers from his bag. ‘Actually, don’t answer that. I’ve got to pick up Kevvo en route and I’d prefer to do that without a hard-on. I mean, he is a fellow Aussie and, admittedly, we have got a lot closer recently, but …’

I laugh. ‘You always used to stay when I asked you.’

‘That was an isolated period of a few weeks, before I got a job. I can’t be late … it’s not fair on the others. When we all put in the effort we get more done.’

I roll my eyes at him and push him out into the corridor. ‘Tsk, no one ever got anywhere by having a strong work ethic and a dedicated sense of teamwork, Luke. You should remember that.’

Smiling, he rolls his eyes back at me, then backs off down towards the front door. ‘Play a blinder at your audition. Shall I come round later?’

‘Nah, Adele will be back. I ought to spend the evening with her and feign interest in her endless camcorder footage of imposing mountainous terrain.’

‘Well, look after yourself and don’t get into any more fights.’ He bends down to stroke Monday who has wandered out into the hallway and is doing that feline slalom thing; twisting in and out of Luke’s legs. ‘Make sure you have a productive day, little mate,’ laughs Luke. But when he stands up his expression is serious.

I feel that marble surface digging into my joints again. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘About last night …’

‘Last night?’

‘Yeah, last night. I’ve been thinking … about what happened.’

‘What about it?’

‘I think you should know something. Something very important—’

‘Which is?’ My voice goes up a nervous octave as I interrupt him.

Luke repositions his rucksack, but doesn’t stop staring at me; his mouth is fixed in a sombre straight line. I swallow hard. I really can’t be doing with another heavy conversation.

‘I think I … well, I’ve got a bad feeling about something.’

‘A bad feeling about what, Luke?’

He pauses, then suddenly, grins. ‘I may have thrown away that condom in a cutlery drawer … not the bin. That new kitchen set-up is a total mind-fuck.’

I burst out laughing.

I am still laughing as I dispose of the offending article in the actual waste unit … along with the breakfast leftovers. I squirt these remains with washing-up liquid and then finish my necessary chores throughout the flat. In the background, I can hear an American actress being interviewed on some morning TV show, talking openly about how she doesn’t let Hollywood’s obsession with size double zero concern her – yeah, right, treadmill face! Then I do my Barry’s Boot Camp DVD and collapse on the sofa. Monday is already on there enjoying a snooze, clearly not having had enough quality shut-eye during the twenty odd hours he slept yesterday. I lie down next to him and scroll through a load of programmes I’ve stored for viewing. I plump for the last series of 90210. The opening scene on the beach in the first episode is entirely stolen by AnnaLynne McCord’s ribcage. It is so prominent I wonder if it has hired its own publicist during the down time between seasons. My mobile bleeps. I don’t recognise the number.

‘Hello?’

‘Vivian Ward? Barb Silver …’ She sounds a bit like Streisand. ‘Publicist. I represent Maximilian Fry. I got your number from the manager at Burn’s. I’m assuming you’ve seen what’s happened?’

‘Er, no.’ I try to sound slightly irritated, as though getting calls from tough-talking industry players is a regular part of my daily routine.

‘You haven’t been online yet this morning?’ she asks, aghast. ‘Freakin’ hell, it’s half past nine! Silver’s Golden Rule Number Twenty-six: Get down with your day before the day gets you down …’

I turn down the volume on the television.

‘So listen, kiddo,’ she continues, ‘Clint Parks has conjured up a load of bull in his column about what happened last night … that Maxy got mad and lashed out like a crazy person.’

‘Which is what happened.’

‘Ha! Details, details. Anyway, there’s no doubt Parks will try to eek the most he can out of this non-story so he’ll probably come waving his grubby chequebook at you. You’re a sensible girl, though … am I right?’

No, not really, but selling a story to the press about a celebrity who had come into Burn’s would immediately result in me getting the sack. In fact, once word had travelled no private members’ club would ever employ me again. I could even end up employed by a chain of ‘lifestyle’ bars – collecting empty pint glasses and clearing up piles of pistachio shells as privately educated ex-school boys grapple each other whilst singing faintly racist/homophobic/misogynistic songs in front of giant screens beaming live sport. Shudder.

‘You don’t have to worry about me talking to anyone. It’s not my style, Ms Silver,’ I say toadily. ‘I know the score with these situations. Besides, I also do some acting myself.’

‘That’s neat,’ she replies. In the way that Rafael Nadal might react to someone who enjoys the odd gentle knockabout during the summer when the weather permits telling him they ‘also’ play tennis.

‘And besides, Clint wouldn’t put me in an awkward position. We’re mates.’

‘Mates?’ Her voice becomes thicker. ‘You’re close?’

‘Yeah, kind of. He’s always looked out for me. We met years ago when I was working as a wait—’

Barb interrupts. ‘Listen, I’ve had an idea. Why don’t you come and see Maxy at his place? I was going to apologise on his behalf but it’s occurred to me that you deserve a direct apology from the man himself. He actually suggested this to me earlier. I guess it’s a Buddhist thing … they dig all that sackcloth and ashes shizzle.’

‘I think that’s the Catholics.’

‘Ha! I bet it is. Makes more sense … attention-seeking as usual,’ she cackles. ‘Meet me outside The Lansdowne public house in Primrose Hill at two p.m. Don’t be late.’ She hangs up without waiting for my answer.

One hundred and fifteen minutes later, I have exfoliated so rigorously that my entire upper epidermis is probably sitting in the drain, and have applied a dense layer of St Tropez Whipped Bronzing Mousse all over my face and body. My tan is developing nicely. I’d say currently somewhere between Natural Cedar and Rich Teak on a generic DIY wood stain colour chart. After blow-drying my hair to a wavy mess, I switch on my special ghd straighteners with ultra-hot ceramic blades (not available over the counter – I bought them from a session stylist on an advertisement shoot) and the real work begins; parching each strand of any natural moisture or oils to get it poker straight. I’m also pleased with my make-up (all by MAC except Yves St Laurent Volume Effect mascara and Touche Eclat under-eye concealer), which I have applied then reapplied with Shu Uemura brushes in twenty-minute stages to achieve a natural yet hermetically sealed finish. Outfit-wise I have gone for a pair of my new grey skinny-leg trousers from ASOS and a brand-new Stella McCartney putty-coloured silky racer-back vest that I found in Adele’s cupboard. It’s baggy on me but that doesn’t matter because the Stella look is all about the billowing top, isn’t it? I also ‘borrow’ some barely worn flat gold sandals. Heels would look as if I had made too much effort. The last thing I want Maximilian to think is that I am some wide-eyed fan who is in any way overawed by the situation. To make absolutely sure of this I spend fifteen minutes in front of the mirror planning a nonplussed greeting. Next, some research. I go into the lounge to find Luke’s laptop.

Yes, I am aware that I am probably the last inhabitant in the developed world who does not own a computer themselves, but a long time ago my chunky Hewlett Packard was stolen as I travelled up the escalators at Oxford Circus tube station. Obviously, it wasn’t insured. Who takes out insurance on anything in their twenties? Actually, I haven’t got anything insured now, but anyway … I didn’t replace it. It was the right thing to do. I’d developed a problem with the internet. My days had become consumed by celebrity images, the hours nibbled at by Google Alerts, but I wanted to digest more. This over-consumption hit a high in the mid to late noughties … as it did with a lot of women. I dread to think how many times that decade – as a nation – we double clicked on ‘Nicole Richie’ to observe her head getting comparatively more enormous until it was perched on top of her delicate body like a Scotch egg on a cocktail stick. So, now I have a rule. I’m only allowed to use other people’s computers. Limited access is healthier. More people should give it a go.

I flip open Luke’s laptop, have a quick squizz at the ‘New In’ section on ASOS and then I do a search to find Maximilian’s account on Twitter, but I only find fake ones. Hardly a surprise, Maximilian Fry falls into the Jude Law/Robert Pattinson camp of scandal-embroiled/fiercely private actors who would shun any sort of social media. So, I log on the Internet Movie Database for some career statistics.

The son of glamorous diva Violet Carrington and millionaire playboy Harvey Fry, Maximilian Kavanagh Fry’s big break into movies came whilst he was studying at the illustrious Sturrow School for Boys, when he beat hundreds of young actors to play the young D. H. Lawrence in A Son and a Lover, by British director Charley Naylor. His acclaimed performance led to a place on the now iconic Vanity Fair gatefold cover of nude teen actors – ‘Naked Ambition’ – and a 17-million-dollar deal to star in the blockbusting trilogy based on the fantasy novel The Orc’s Progress by Irish writer Donal O’Hare. Fry then honed his skills in a number of small independent films including anti-war docu-drama Victim X, which caused controversy in the US. But he was soon propelled back into the spotlight as special agent Jack Chase in The Simple Truth – a low-budget action thriller that became a mega box-office hit on both sides of the Atlantic. The role secured him his first BAFTA Award and an Oscar nomination. Previously engaged to the American model Zoe Dano, Fry is currently single.

This is typical. The IMDB always concentrates on the career of the star as opposed to their private lives. ‘Previously engaged to the American model Zoe Dano, Fry is currently single’ was the succinct and non sue-able way of saying; ‘After years of persistent speculation that Maximilian’s fiancée Zoe Dano – labelled Zoe Can’t Say (Da) No by British tabloids – was sleeping with half the iTunes download chart she finally left Fry after an affair with Rick Piper, soap dodging guitarist from Seattle rock band Squalor, who were touring the UK at the time. Devastated, Maximilian Fry turned to drink and drugs. Following an arrest for disorderly conduct and an incoherent acceptance speech at the BAFTAs, he checked into a Swiss rehabilitation centre. Zoe Dano joined Squalor on their world tour where she appeared on stage with the band performing mercilessly weak back-up vocals and was booed by fans …’.

Clearly, she’s a total bitch, but it has to be said – I Google image her – she does have to-die-for hair. Thick, long, defined, strong, glossy locks. I’d go as far as calling them tresses. According to Glamour magazine, the volume isn’t boosted with any extensions, either. The popular girls at school all had ‘tresses’. I can picture their blonde pony-tails swinging like gold pendulums as they skipped down the corridor giggling. Swish, swish, swish. I focused on the longest ponytail – always in the centre of the coven – the one that belonged to Kate Summers … and kept a safe distance behind.

CHAPTER FIVE

At 1.50 p.m., I am sat on a wooden bench outside The Lansdowne having a single vodka on the rocks and sucking on Smints. At the table next to me, a couple are enjoying a relaxed alfresco pub lunch. I can smell pork belly. Did you know, Cameron Diaz stopped eating pig when she read an article that swine have a mental capacity similar to a three-year-old child, and can master very basic maths?

Since I have been here only two cars have gone past: a retro convertible of some sort and a vintage Jaguar. There is no noise bar the gentle burr of conversation and laughter emanating from the pub. This is typical Primrose Hill. It came as no surprise when Barb told me that Maximilian lived here. If a bomb was dropped on this villagey part of North London it would decimate the British film-making community. Richard Curtis would literally have no one left to star in his heart-warming ensemble pieces except possibly Emma Thompson, who no doubt would survive the explosion thanks to her British fighting spirit and thick helmet of hair. Bayswater – where Adele and I live – is hardly slumming it, but Primrose Hill has an air of effortless sophistication and moneyed calm. Luvvies love it.

The couple next to me finish their main courses and ask for a dessert menu. It looks extensive … and gooey. I am pulling a pack of cigarettes out of my bag when a black people carrier draws up on the pavement. The electric window whirs open and I immediately recognise Barb Silver in the back seat wearing her bug-eyed sunglasses and trademark vampiric blood-red lipstick. The PR mogul looks no different to how she did back when she was directing movies. When I was at drama school, I remember an interview with her in an industry magazine where she said, Most freakin’ film stars aren’t actors, they’re simply professional narcissists … She is gripping an iPad and shouting into a BlackBerry.

‘Problems? Maxy’s problems are over, for sure. You know you can trust me, JP, we’ve got history. I wouldn’t be telling you the kid was ready if he wasn’t.’ She pauses briefly. ‘He’s not a risk. Last night, last shmite! Minor hiccup, and you know it. He’s good to go. End of.’ But clearly it isn’t because then she adds, ‘Look elsewhere and you’ll regret it, big time – you’ll kill the franchise. Maxy is Jack Chase. Wait there …’ She pauses again, peers out of the window over the top of her sunglasses and squints at me. Her forehead doesn’t move. ‘Vivian?’ I nod. ‘Barb Silver. Get in the car, kiddo, and don’t you dare fire up that freakin’ death stick.’ She points at my packet of Marlboro Lights. ‘I haven’t spent forty thousand dollars on surgery to smell like a goddamn ashtray.’ She shuffles along the seat and gets back to her telephone conversation. ‘Don’t disappoint me, JP. Let’s nail this today.’

She hangs up as I get in the people carrier. Safe to say it is far more comfortable than Luke’s car, which is always knee deep in club flyers, plastic bottles and discarded snack packaging. This vehicle has a cream leather and walnut finish, pleasantly squidgy seats with television monitors on the back of each headrest and a selection of newspapers and film magazines fanned out on the back shelf. Actually, it’s far more comfy than Luke’s actual flat. As soon as I am sat, Barb hands me News Today open at Clint’s Big Column. STIR CRAZY FRY HITS ROOF AND DEFENCELESS WAITRESS! screams the headline.

‘That Parks is a cretin,’ she says. ‘He should get his facts straight.’

‘He’s not a cretin, but yeah, he should get his facts straight,’ I tell her. ‘Clint knows full well I am a hostess, not a waitress. There’s a big difference between the two. The waitress has to take the drink order, then the food one, deliver both to the table, check what condiments are required, continue to monitor the customer requirements throughout their meal, clear away the crockery, make coffee, organise the bill and prepare the table for the next set of diners. The hostess just watches.’ I laugh.

Barb snatches back the paper. ‘I wasn’t referring to your job title. I meant the way he’s making out my Maxy is madder than a box of frogs. We really don’t need this kind of bull at the moment.’

‘I thought any publicity was good publicity.’

‘Not these days, kiddo. The money guys are nervous about expensive over-runs and rescheduling. In the old days, a bit of chaos was part of the fun. When I worked on set I didn’t care what my leading man was doing – usually me, ha! – as long as he delivered. Everyone is so precious now. Which reminds me, you need to sign this before you see Maxy. It’s a confidentiality agreement … regulation procedure with the big stars. But I guess you’d know that,’ she smirks, ‘what with you being in the industry yourself.’

I cringe as she pulls out a document and a gold fountain pen from her red Hermès Birkin bag. As I’m signing, her BlackBerry buzzes and she checks the caller ID. I glance at it too. It says ‘Achilles’.

‘Woah, someone’s keen.’ She cackles satisfactorily but then zaps the call with a scarlet fingernail. ‘I’ll make him sweat, though. Some model I met last night,’ she explains. ‘I’ve got a good feeling about this one.’

‘Boyfriend material?’

‘Sheesh, no! I’ve got handbags older than him. The prognosis for relationship age gaps is never good in the entertainment industry … no matter how much the more mature party spends on cosmetic surgery. I mean look at Demi Moore. She looked younger than Ashton Kutcher by the time they hit their fifth wedding anniversary, but he still celebrated it in a Vegas hot tub with someone other than his wife.’ She cackles harder. ‘I meant I’ve got a positive hunch about the kid’s career.’

‘Is he an actor too, then?’

“Course he is, all models are actors. At least, they all think they could be. Trust me, if I had a dollar for every clothes horse I’ve screwed that wants to play a misunderstood junkie in some leftfield art-house movie opposite Chloe Sevigny I’d be a lot richer than I already am.’ She removes her shades and raises her eyebrows at me. Well, judging by the expression in her eyes I assume that’s what her brows would be doing if the surrounding area wasn’t paralysed with Botox. ‘Take us round the back, sugar …’ She taps the driver on his left shoulder. ‘There are paps outside the front gate.’

‘But you think this one does have talent, Barb?’ I ask.

‘From what I’ve seen so far? I reckon he’d be hard pushed to show grief at a funeral. But you know what, sometimes they don’t need any real ability for a crack at a screen career. Okay, so in shelf-life terms we’re not talking canned goods, but they can make a few dollars. Way more, if they really luck out. Enter stage left, Channing Tatum!’

‘Did Maximilian ever model?’

‘No goddamn way … Besides, he’s more than an actor.’ Her voice becomes serious. ‘He’s an artist. What he does is who he is.’

She inserts a piece of gum into her mouth and as she breaks it in we drive down a road lined with stucco-fronted five-storey white houses, then turn down a back street behind them and stop outside a wide iron gate. The driver jumps out of the car, enters a code into a security box and the gate swings open to reveal a decked garden full of exotic-looking flowers and a big lily-covered pond with its own fountain. Next to the pond is a giant bronze Buddha.

‘Just what this house needs,’ I deadpan. ‘A tranquil point of worship to help combat against the surrounding chaos and disorder of Primrose Hill.’

Barb smiles. ‘I bought Maxy that statue. Personally, religion gives me the willies. I used to sneak out of Sunday School and go to the flicks. But hey, if it provides him with a little tranquillity then I’m not going to argue.’ She turns to the driver. ‘I’m going back to The Dorchester in a couple of hours, so you might as well wait here.’ He nods and doffs his cap at her. ‘Payton, sugar, how many times do I have to tell you not to do that? I’m not the Duchess of goddamn Cornwall. Chill!’ She beckons to me. ‘Come with me, kiddo …’

I follow Barb as she stalks up a decked pathway, round the pond, across a flagstone patio and into the house through a set of French windows at the side. She glances at me over her shoulder.

‘So, this is my Maxy’s place …’

CHAPTER SIX

I immediately notice two things about ‘Maxy’s place’. Firstly, it looks like something out of the hardback book on hip hotels that Adele bought for the upstairs neighbours last Christmas; full of expensive design details like marble flooring, leather padded walls, giant neon crystal chandeliers and the odd piece of slightly risqué art – including a semi-nude photograph in the hallway of Zoe Dano, only her ridiculously long, lustrous, unassisted hair retaining her modesty. Secondly, it is spotless. Not in a quick-whip-round-with-some-antibacterial-spray-on-a-wet-cloth kind of way but clinically clean, like a hospital operating theatre. Every surface is bare and all the walls are painted white. As Barb guides me down the hallway into an immaculate kitchen with pristine stainless-steel worktops I get the impression that Maximilian Fry clearly feels that the home shouldn’t necessarily be where the heart is but more somewhere you could potentially transplant one.

‘Right,’ says Barb. ‘You stay here, kiddo. I’ll go and find him.’

She leaves the room, her heels clip-clopping across the marble. I walk over to the kitchen window and look out onto the garden. From this angle I can see an ivy gazebo sheltering a raised multicoloured platform where there is another Buddha on a podium. It is scattered with flower petals. That’s probably a meditation area. This thought makes me squirm a bit. There’s something rather embarrassing about celebrities who are seeking a higher meaning – especially those who wear a wristband to prove it. Luke was right. What a pretentious wanker.

‘Yeah, yeah, I know … I’m a pretentious wanker.’

I spin round. Standing in the doorway of the kitchen wearing a pair of worn grey tracksuit bottoms with a T-shirt tucked in the pocket and a white towel draped round his neck is … Maximilian Fry. Now, I had always thought he had shown potential – even as a ‘wolf-boy’ in The Orc’s Progress and badly wounded in Victim X – way before everyone fancied him as Jack Chase in The Simple Truth. But nothing could have prepared me for this … the live version. Like all actors he is smaller than he looks on film, probably no more than five foot ten-ish, but he is a lot broader and his features are much more intense. His eyes are a velvety brown. His cheekbones are sharper, his jaw line is squarer and the jagged scar that runs down his right cheek is much deeper, giving his face a kind of brooding darkness. He has obviously just finished some sort of exercise session because his body is covered in a thin sheen of perspiration, making him look sort of … not simply sweaty, more basted. My eyes fall to his torso. Parts of it are so defined that I never even knew were an official muscle group. I force myself to jump past the pelvic area and scan down to his feet. Like the rest of him they are immaculately groomed – the nails on each toe are buffed and shaped to perfection, a world away from the pterodactyl-like claws that most men tended to reveal at the beginning of every summer. A lemony, woody scent fills the space between us. I have a feeling it’s Issey Miyake. The visual and nasal stimulus is so intense that I totally forget to do my (heavily rehearsed) casual greeting, cowering as if I am expecting him to hit me again. Instead, I find myself giving him a wave as if I’m setting off on a cruise. He gives me a confused but half-hearted wave back as though he is unsure as to why I am departing these shores, but isn’t that fussed if I do go.

‘A pretentious wanker?’ I repeat.

‘Well, that’s what the press makes me out to be, isn’t it?’ His voice is posher than I was expecting, but it isn’t luvvie-ish. It’s got a kind of lazy lilt to it.

‘But that doesn’t mean everyone accepts what they say.’

‘Most people do.’

‘Why do you think that is?’

‘It’s easier to take the piss out of someone than to try to understand them. Any form of spirituality is only wanting to be at peace with yourself and the world around you, but it’s hard to explain that without sounding even more of a …’ He drifts off, as if he can’t be bothered.

‘Why talk about it, then?’

‘I wish I hadn’t, but I had to give them something. They need those sorts of details to manufacture the image of … “the” Maximilian Fry.’

I pull a face at him. ‘Did you just place an italic ‘the’ before your name and imaginary parentheses around it?’

‘Not purposefully,’ he replies. ‘I’m severely dyslexic – so that all sounds rather complex.’

I realise the lilt in Maximilian’s voice is not laziness, it’s guardedness mixed with arrogance … plus a tinge of self-persecution. Or possibly self-righteousness. Definitely self-indulgence.

‘Give them something else, then,’ I tell him. ‘Lose the spiritual stuff and find another party piece.’

He peers at me.

‘You know, a prop, a talking point, a gimmick …’ I explain. ‘What about a pig? George Clooney used to bang on about his pot-bellied one the whole time and everyone always says what a regular dude he is. Make sure you opt for traditional swine like him, though, those tiny micro ones are way too 2010 and dubiously bred. You wouldn’t want animal rights groups on your back.’

Now, he yawns. We stand in silence, and I really mean silence. It feels weird, being in London and hearing no sound whatsoever. Actually … what’s that? I hear a very faint humming noise. Possibly the buzz of anxiety from a neighbour running low on Prosecco or Jo Malone candles. Then I realise it is coming from Maximilian’s gigantic steel fridge.

‘Well,’ I say. ‘This is, er, … fun.’

He drains his bottle of water, then crunches the plastic container into a ball. ‘It wasn’t my idea, it was Barb’s,’ he replies, flatly. Irritability now edging past the guardedness and arrogance.

‘Charming.’

‘But obviously, I am glad you’re here.’

‘Oh, clearly you are. Although, I have to say you were a lot more convincing as a wild dog human hybrid in The Orc’s Progress than you are now as the welcoming host in your own home.’

He gives me the faintest hint of a smile. ‘I would say touché but then the “pretentious wanker” badge would be a done deal, wouldn’t it?’ He pauses and throws the crumpled bottle of water in the direction of a steel column by the door that leads out onto the terrace. Annoyingly it sails over my head and lands perfectly in the slot at the top. ‘Look, I’m not great at entertaining, never have been. Not a very attractive trait, I know …’

It is impossible to put into words how attractive he looks as he says this. His sudden body movement has caused beads of sweat to slide down between his pectorals and then one, two, three, four … they trickle over his eight-pack as if they were driving over speed bumps, and consequently disappear under the low-slung waistband of his tracksuit. But just as a new batch of droplets are about to begin their journey, he ruins the show by yanking out the T-shirt from his pocket and putting it on. I force myself to speak.

‘Don’t worry, you’re doing okay. I wasn’t expecting to arrive and find you setting up for a game of Twister. But I suppose if I was being really picky, you could have said “hello”.’

He rubs his head with his towel and I notice a small ‘Z’ tattoo on the inside of his wrist. I’m surprised he didn’t have it lasered as soon as he found out Zoe had cheated on him.

‘Didn’t I even do that? Fuck … sorry. Let me get you some tea or something.’

‘What’s the “something”?’

He goes over to the fridge – I can almost taste the trail of Issey Miyake he leaves in his wake – and opens the door. Every shelf is packed with row after row of Fiji water, each bottle placed perfectly in line with the label turned out.

‘Is that the only choice for “something”? I ask.

‘Yes, this would be the “something”.’

‘Well, you’ve redeemed yourself a little bit in the pretentious wanker stakes. I was fearing coconut water.’

He starts opening cupboards randomly, briefly reminding me of Luke in Adele’s kitchen.

‘Bet I lose points for not knowing where the glasses are kept, though … the housekeeper usually leaves some out.’

‘I’m fine with the bottle,’ I tell him, although I am intrigued to see what he keeps in those cupboards; whey powder, protein bars, supplements … no real food. Interesting.

‘Who the fuck drinks coconut water, anyway?’ asks Maximilian.

‘Celebrities. It’s the showbiz refreshment of choice … especially post work-out. You must know that? Everyday there’s a picture on the TMZ website of some ambitious personality vacuum leaving a West Hollywood studio gripping on to a yoga mat and a carton of the stuff.’

He shrugs. ‘I’ve never used the internet.’

‘You what?’ I try to imagine the self-control and the complete indifference to modern culture that must require. It is mind blowing. ‘Aren’t you remotely curious?’

‘No. Barb does my official site, but I’ve never looked at it. Occasionally, I look at a computer screen when my financial advisor is here … but I don’t even have an email address.’

‘And you’ve never Googled yourself?’

‘Why would I need to do that?’ His eyes focus directly on mine for the first time. ‘I’ve got a pretty good idea of who I am.’

I’m still considering how to reply to this when Barb clip-clops in. She winks at me, then nudges her client in the stomach and pretends she has hurt her knuckle on his rock-hard abdominals.

‘That’s what you call marketable goods, right, kiddo?’ she gushes. ‘Bet you’ve never seen anything like it.’

‘Him,’ mutters Maximilian. ‘Him.’

‘Yeah, you, er … must have a really good team of trainers,’ I say casually, in a bid not to sound as if I am agreeing too wholeheartedly. ‘Or do you just have one really mean one?’

‘I don’t have any,’ he says, his voice flattening again.

Barb’s BlackBerry vibrates. She checks the caller ID and immediately answers it.

‘Yeah, it’s me. Shoot … uh huh. I’m listening.’ She covers the phone with her hand and glances over at Maximilian. ‘It’s JP. I’m going to take this in the study and put him on speaker with Nicholas. FYI, Maxy, Vivian was telling me she also acts.’

As she leaves the room, I shake my head at him. ‘When she says I “act”, she doesn’t mean I act in the way that you act.’

‘What way would that be?’ he asks, indicating to me to sit down at the large glass table in the centre of the room. ‘Acting is acting. Either you are or you’re not.’

‘I mean, I haven’t hit that level … doing movies and stuff,’ I tell him. ‘I’ve appeared in lots of commercials. Have you ever been in an ad?’

‘No,’ he says emphatically. ‘I don’t do advertising.’ He adds this in the same tone as Martha Stewart might insist she has never bought pancake mix. ‘We’re talking about you, though. What about television drama … done any of that?’

‘Yeah, a fair bit.’ I sit down in a Perspex dining chair. ‘The best role I’ve had was the first one I landed after college: a prostitute in Prime Suspect. I featured prominently in the first two-hour episode but then I was garroted and dumped in a lock-up.’

‘You got to work with Dame Helen Mirren?’ comments Maximilian. ‘Many actresses would kill to work alongside her …’

‘… and more often than not pretend to have been killed too,’ I laugh, but he only reciprocates with another tiny flicker of a smile. ‘Have you ever died on screen? I mean, acted as if you were passing away, not been crap in the role.’

‘I nearly died in A Son and a Lover of pneumonia.’

‘Oh yeah, I remember. You were skeletal …’

All the papers reported on Maximilian’s dramatic weight loss for the role, especially as he was still only a teenager. It seemed extreme then, but not so much now. Since then, actors such as Christian Bale, Matthew McConaughey, Michael Fassbender … they’ve all been allowed to damn nearly starve themselves to death to play a movie character. It’s weird how actresses never get to go that far on screen. (They’re expected to look skinnier in real life.) Even when supposedly suffering from malnutrition in Les Mis, Anne Hathaway merely looked as if she was on the Attack phase of the Dukan.

‘How did you reach your target weight?’ I ask casually. But specifically so.

Maximilian shrugs at me. ‘Incredibly, I ate less and exercised more. It wasn’t a big deal. I’ll do whatever a role requires to convince an audience I am that character. I love what I do and get paid stupid amounts of money to do it. Ultimately, total dedication is what the crew who surround me and the audience who pay to come and see me deserve. It’s no more or less fucking complicated than that.’

‘Wow, that’s a particularly un-pretentious and nonwankerish thing to say. Didn’t you mean, I believe in becoming one with my art?’

He ignores my quip and sits down opposite me, his eyes focus on mine again. ‘So, tell me, Vivian, how far would you go?’

‘Erm … oh, I er … well …’ I look at my lap. ‘To be honest, the sort of parts I audition for don’t require too much application.’

‘There’s your answer, then.’

‘Answer to what?’ I ask, suddenly noticing a loose thread on the bottom of Adele’s vest. Shit. I must have snagged it on something.

‘Why you haven’t hit “that level”,’ explains Maximilian. ‘Decent casting directors can sense a lack of commitment. They can smell it the moment you walk in the room. You should approach every part wanting to feel that person; give everything, do everything, be everything that they are … because that’s what acting is. The ability to reach inside yourself and pull out a truth …’

He pauses. I glance up. He is staring at me. I stare back.

‘But you won’t be able to do that until you know the truth,’ he continues, his eyes penetrating mine. ‘Until you know your truth … who you really are, you can’t pretend to be someone else.’

‘O-kay. Thanks for the career advice. I’ll bear that in m—’

He interrupts me. ‘Oh, that wasn’t just career advice, Vivian. That was advice for life.’ He holds my gaze for a few moments longer, then his eyes dart to the side. ‘Barb?’

I twist round to see her head cocked round the door. She is chewing her gum even more vigorously.

‘Maxy, we need to have a quick pow-wow with Nicholas.’ She beckons at him with a heavily jewelled hand and then beams at me with an overly generous smile, one that I haven’t seen yet. ‘Apologies, kiddo. We won’t be long.’

As they leave she pulls the door behind them, but it swings back open.

‘Okay, Maxy,’ I overhear her say as they disappear down the corridor. ‘I’m going to give you this straight. JP has bailed. He’s looking to cast elsewhere for Truth 2.’ She doesn’t give him a chance to react. ‘Am I surprised? Not really. Your train hasn’t exactly been pulling into Good Press Central recently, but hey, I’ve never let you come off the tracks. You know I’ll get you to your final destination.’

‘Barb, lose the clunky metaphor. I’ve already told you, I’m not going t—’

She interrupts him. ‘You’ll do what’s required, Maxy. You hear me?’ Again, she doesn’t give him time to reply. ‘By the way, how did you get on with that Vivian?’

‘Why?’

‘She could be useful.’

Then a door slams and I can’t catch any more.

I sit back in my chair. Useful? Really? I’m not usually. Most of what I do on a daily basis could easily be done by someone else. I like the idea of being considered useful, though. Definitely a step up from simply serving a purpose and a world away from being wholly surplus to anyone’s requirement, something which I used to feel every day when I wasn’t so …

CHAPTER SEVEN

… normal.

Obviously, now I am. Aren’t I? But I was not a normal child. I had a sort of … dark side. I wasn’t born with it. One day the darkness descended and before I knew it, that’s who I was: someone who preferred to hide away in the shadows. Nowhere was this more noticeable than in the framed photographs that decorated the corridor of my family’s home. On the wall, you could see my football-fanatic brother scoring goals, celebrating with team mates and waving his club scarf at away games. My teen-model sister was pictured (professionally) frolicking in paddling pools or through sprinklers for leading homestore retailers or leaping off a diving board for travel brochures. There is no photographic record of me after I hit double figures. I avoided cameras.

Obviously, my parents were not oblivious to my downward spiral but they dealt with it in different ways. My father said nothing. My mother asked Jesus to help me. (As in the Son of God – our local GP was not an immigrant Mexican.) She encouraged me to pray as well … up at the jagged crack in the ceiling of my bedroom, which according to her had been created by God with a thunder bolt to create a clear pathway of communication to Heaven. Clearly, all the crap that was stored in the loft kept getting in the way of my prayers, because my mood did not improve. So then – on advice from her church group – my mother screwed a full-length mirror to the wall, on the opposite side to the other one that was already there. They thought it may help if I could look at myself from a different perspective. But it only gave me a new angle from which to question myself. … And now I could see exactly why Kate Summers thought she had all the answers.

After the second mirror was installed, no matter where I stood in my bedroom I was reflected, so being horizontal was key. I would get under the duvet on my bed and place my hands straight down my sides, in an attempt to make myself as invisible as possible. I used to lie there for hours and hours and hours; day and night, in exactly the same position. But one day – not long after finishing school for good – I woke up to find my hands placed across my chest, not down by my sides as they usually would be. It was as if I was about to be buried. My bed had become a coffin, my bedroom was a morgue. I could see myself lying there. I still can. I was dead. Yeah, I know, I know … I told you … dark side! Anyway, I left home that day. Ironically, the next time I saw any of my family again was actually at a funeral.

I hear voices coming from the corridor.

‘You know as well as I do we’ve had worse freakin’ bull to deal with than this,’ says Barb. ‘It won’t take too much to get him back on top. Maxy isn’t just a ripped torso with a twinkle in his eye … he’s got talent.’

‘He’s also bloody temperamental and testing my patience.’ A flat male voice that I don’t recognise interjects. ‘Look, Silver, like I’ve always said: I certainly don’t give a singular monkey’s bollock whether Fry is respected. To misquote that bell-end in Jerry Maguire, “Show me the sodding money!” All I am asking you to do is make him popular and bankable again and fast. It’s getting ridiculous. Your face has had more work than Fry has over the last year. I don’t care if they spit his name at the Royal Shakespeare Company as long as every sad female singleton wants to screw him, every moronic alpha male wants to be him and he delivers the wonga. Now, where’s this waitress?’

Barb appears at the kitchen door with a sharply dressed man in a grey suit with a silk striped shirt and matching tie. His thick blond hair is swept back to show off an angular although not entirely unattractive face. He marches over to me.

‘Nicholas Van Smythe,’ he says, flashing a set of brilliant white veneered teeth. ‘Fry’s agent, visionary, evil overlord … depending on which rag you read.’ He kisses me on both cheeks. ‘Pleasure, darling.’

‘Hi,’ I stand up. ‘I’m Viv—’

He interrupts me. ‘Not to worry, darling, there’s only one thing I’m worse at than remembering names and that’s small talk, so I won’t bother with that either. Silver and I have got a proposal for you.’

Barb motions at me to sit back down at the kitchen table. ‘We thought we’d have some fun, kiddo. The Great British Youth Awards, sponsored by News Today, take place at lunchtime on Saturday. Usual drill: a bunch of adolescents who have fought against the odds get to go up on stage in a top London hotel to receive a trophy from a celebrity and the editor of News Today. The ceremony raises money for a children’s charity, is broadcast live and the paper always does a huge pull-out in the Sunday News. It’s a good marketing tool … it makes the celebrities look more sympathetic to their fans and the editor more sympathetic to his readers. Everyone’s a freakin’ winner.’

‘Except the courageous youngsters, of course,’ laughs Nicholas. ‘Who get to experience the charmed life of the rich and famous for just a few precious hours, before being herded on the early-evening train back to their insignificant lives in some depressing backwater of the UK.’

‘Really? There was me thinking everyone stayed in touch after those sort of events,’ I say sarcastically.

Nicholas smirks at me. ‘I think we all know that the whole point of celebrity charity work is to get recognised for it, not to do it on the quiet so you don’t get anything out of it for yourself. There’s a reason why Madonna takes a full sodding camera crew to Malawi; free children and additional downloads. I jest! I love that old crone. She’s an icon.’ He taps the table. ‘Let’s get to the point, Silver.’

‘So, kiddo,’ she continues, ‘we’ve decided to throw an olive branch to News Today after all the recent hoo-ha in Clint’s Big Column, by getting Maxy to present an award at their ceremony. It’ll be a good coup for them, what with it being Maxy’s first public appearance since rehab, and of course, if you came too we could show everyone that …’

‘… despite what happened,’ I continue for her, ‘Maximilian and I are great mates. Maybe even inspire Clint to write a little piece on what great mates we now are. Do you really think people are that gullible?’

‘The readers of News Today and the Sunday News are,’ confirms Barb, her voice thickening. ‘But, kiddo, this isn’t all about Maxy. It would be a nice little bit of exposure for you and that acting work you were telling me about. I don’t know what kind of performer you are – you could be shit or you could be shit hot, but either way no one is going to find out unless you get some roles. You’re not getting them at the moment because no one has a freakin’ clue who you are. In this day and age there is no such thing as a lucky break, everything is engineered by a relentless PR machine. Hype is everything. Silver’s Golden Rule Number Forty-three: There’s no such thing as a squirrel … he’s just a rat with a better tail and a good publicist.’

‘She’s right,’ adds Nicholas, twisting the gold Rolex on his wrist. ‘No offence, darling, but at your age you need all the help you can get. As far as the industry is concerned, as a woman in her mid-thirties—’

‘I’m only thirty-four.’

He smirks again. ‘As I said, mid-thirties … your career is pretty much finito. This is a good offer. We’re not asking you to snog some reality TV chump at a suburban nightclub, we’re asking you to attend a top-flight awards show at a five-star hotel with the Maximilian Fry …’ Clearly, this is how they all refer to him.

With perfect timing, Maximilian walks into the kitchen pulling a grey hooded sweatshirt over his head. I can tell that the top is fashionably distressed, i.e. it’s brand new but looks as if it has been damaged whilst the owner was engaging in some kind of heavy-going manual labour. (Not like Luke’s one that looks that way because he has been doing precisely that.) Maximilian gets another water bottle out of the fridge and swigs it back without looking directly at me. The expression on his face is exactly as it was when I arrived.

‘Come on, kiddo. It’ll be fun …’ pushes Barb.

‘Not for me,’ I tell her. ‘Rubbing shoulders with celebrities is not everyone’s idea of a perfect day out.’ She looks confused, as I expected. ‘Anyone who works in show business always finds this hard to believe. I mean, most of you assume any normal member of the public would sell a kidney to catch a glimpse of Kristen Stewart buying acne wash in Sephora, but it really isn’t the case. Besides, I see enough famous faces at work so when—’

Nicholas butts in and stands up. ‘Look, I don’t want to hear the labour pains, darling, I just want to see the baby. If you’re not up for it, fine. Obviously, this is the pro-active go-get-’ em attitude that has resulted in you clearing dirty dishes off restaurant tables at thirty-four years old.’

I look across at Maximilian and wonder whether he will apologise on his agent’s behalf, but he is concentrating on peeling off the label from his water bottle. Arsehole. Suddenly, I find myself thinking about the scene at the very end of The Simple Truth where Jack Chase leaves the exquisite Arabian princess (who is also a spy and a professor of metaphysical engineering) he has been shagging. By this point, the two characters have escaped from the desert and are back at the ornate Persian palace owned by the now-dead leader of the rebels who was also the princess’s husband. After a steamy session in her four-poster bed with the silk curtains billowing in the breeze as per movie-set-in-a-dust-bowl standard, Jack Chase waits until the princess is asleep, slips out the window and shins down the side of the building, onto his next adventure. When the princess wakes up at dawn, she touches the pillow next to her, realises Jack has gone for good and then smiles. She smiles. This is a woman who has betrayed her own people, committed adultery, got her husband killed, lost her job – and at one point nearly her right leg – all for some bloke. Who has now deserted her. But is she pissed off? Does she immediately get on the phone to a girlfriend and have a good moan about the chaos-causing non-committal tosspot? No, she walks over to the window and stares into the horizon all gooey-eyed … because he is Jack Chase. Well, I’m not such a sap.

I stand up too. ‘Actually, for your information, I don’t remove any plates. That is the waitress’s job. I’m a hostess, so technically my role is to look after the cust—’

But suddenly, I stop. My hands become clammy and my heart races. This can happen in the aftermath of a minor flashback. What Maximilian said pings back into my head. Until you know your truth … who you really are, you can’t pretend to be someone else. I look up, and consider attempting to continue what I was saying … but I don’t bother. I know when I’ve lost an audience. Even I don’t want to hear what I have to say.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Losing an audience is also a familiar feeling for every one of the thirty-something females hovering around at the East London studio, waiting to be seen by the casting director and producers for the Surf Shack audition. I recognise nearly all of them. For over a decade we have been competing against each other for the same parts. In chronological order these have ranged from sassy graduate to sexy love interest to wise-cracking singleton to office gossip and now (gulp!) trendy mum. Much further along the line, woman of the people (with some sort of all-consuming job in the federal civil service) will be up for grabs, then plucky divorcee rebuilding life. The thought of getting to the stage where we are vying for the role of crime-solving gardening enthusiast makes me shudder.

The atmosphere is exactly the same as it always is on these days, with everyone being pleasant and encouraging to each other. Good-luck hugs and supportive smiles are dished out without being meant in the slightest. I try to bypass the main throng without getting caught up in any chit-chat but am stopped in the hallway by Harriet Morgan. She was at drama school with me and Adele.

‘Vivian … hi!’

‘Oh, hi … how come you’re here?’ I ask. ‘I thought you were still shooting Nurses?’

Harriet plays ‘Angela’, the sensitive doctor with a crush on ‘Danny’ the married night porter. I’ve been in that show before. I was the first victim of a three-way suicide pact. It was a rubbish part – I got the least camera time out of the three corpses because at that point my demise didn’t appear to be part of a bigger plan, merely unfortunate.

Harriet sniffs acridly. ‘I’m being written out. Apparently, Angela can’t handle the pressures of hospital life. She’s going to deal with a horrific RTA at Christmas – drunk driver, natch – then lose confidence and leave to open a beautician’s. Bastards.’

‘That’s such shitty luck.’

I grimace, but I am not feeling too sorry for her. I auditioned for ‘Angela’ too. The casting director asked if I would put on a few pounds for the role. The character needed to appear more ‘comforting’, supposedly. I was extremely annoyed. Why can’t a thin person be seen as sympathetic on the screen? Surely, when you don’t revolve your day around mealtimes, you’re more flexible with the time you can give others? But that’s British TV for you. You wouldn’t get that in the States. Over there, if an actress has a strong stench of a disordered approach to eating and/or exercise about her she’s more likely to smell success.

‘Yeah, really shitty …’ agrees Harriet.

‘Maybe you should go on one of those soap chat-rooms to moan,’ I tell her. ‘Surely, there was far more to come from the Angela/Danny/Danny’s wife plot-line? I for one would adore to see the love triangle reignited after Danny nips into Angie’s Spa for a seaweed wrap.’

She shoots me a withered look. ‘Piss off, Vivian. I don’t think I’m quite ready to laugh about it yet. Nice shiner, by the way.’ She points at the bruise under my eye. ‘I read about your little incident on Perez. Did Fry apologise?’

‘Kind of.’

‘He did it through his agent, you mean. Bastard. Don’t give a fuck, do they?’ (They being our alias for anyone enjoying exceptional standing within the world of entertainment.) She eyes the packet of Marlboro Lights in my bag. ‘God, I’d kill for a fag.’

‘Help yourself.’

‘Nah, I’m crapping myself about wrinkles. Do you think I look older than when you last saw me?’

I pretend to examine her face. ‘Well, you’re hardly Yoda … but I think we both know you haven’t got a portrait up in the attic.’

‘Piss off,’ she says again, laughing. ‘Anyway, I never knew you smoked.’

‘I like to have some on me, just in case …’

‘Of what?’

I shrug. ‘You know, stress.’

‘Yeah, I do know. Agh, I WANT ONE! But it’s a sad fact that no one can get away with puffing cigs at our age. Even Sienna Miller will struggle.’

‘That’s true,’ agrees one of the girls further down the queue who has been ear-wigging our conversation. ‘She’s already got sallow looking.’

‘Mmmm, sort of pasty and “lived in”,’ says another.

‘Oh, stop!’ grins another.

But they carry on, because this is how they kill time before any audition: gunning down Sienna Miller. It’s been like this on the circuit for a long time, and there is no sign of a ceasefire. It may sound a negative thing to do, but actually it has a positive effect on morale for the regulars to have at least one actress they hate more than each other.

I sneak off to the loo, my place of comfort. I’ve always liked toilets. A locked cubicle is a good place to escape the potential uneasiness of any communal area. Once inside, I read through my script one more time. On the last page, I find a message from Luke. He must have written it while I was making his breakfast.

Since I’m not allowed to say anything encouraging about your acting I thought you should know that there are many other areas you excel in. I won’t list these areas in case you stop excelling in them on purpose to wind me up but rest assured, on a scale of one to ten … one being someone with a single niche party talent (e.g., swallowing whole fist or very low limbo-ing) and ten being bonzer across the board, I’d say you’re a nine*. Good luck.

*You lose a point for not being able to swim.

Luke has started to leave me more and more messages like this. He uses them to say the stuff he has realised I am uncomfortable with him saying to my face, i.e. Aussie-isms and slushy stuff. The messages are never texted or emailed; they’re always handwritten on random bits of paper. Given that all other males born at the nineties end of the eighties have fully rejected the concept of communicating through either the medium of handwriting or speaking in favour of tapping a screen … well, it’s quite nice, really.

Prior to Luke, the only ‘secret notes’ I’d ever been written were at school. They would be slipped into my pencil tin, often with an added gift of spit globules, bogeys or pubes. I knew who the perpetrators were and who they were led by. Their leader never ran out of names to call me but never had the guts to sign hers.

I don’t audition for Surf Shack. Twenty minutes after arriving I am on my way back to the Underground; hands clamming up again, heart racing faster. As I walk, I realise Maximilian Fry was wrong about me lacking commitment. I don’t. I am wholly committed to playing one role: ‘me’. The thing is that sometimes leaves me too exhausted to play anyone else.

CHAPTER NINE

Adele is home. I would know this even if her backpack wasn’t sitting in the corridor because I can smell something spicy wafting from the kitchen. She brings back some kind of pungent brew from each trip abroad and can’t wait to tell me the ludicrous myth behind its production, like it was originally ground from the bark of a hallowed oak tree and rubbed on the bleeding feet of Taoist monks during long pilgrimages. But no matter what the mystical back story to the leaves, the finished drink always tastes like piss with a hint of cinnamon.

I drop my keys in the goldfish bowl and creep into my bedroom to get undressed and hide the things I nabbed from Adele’s wardrobe this morning.

‘Vivian, is that you?’ she calls from the bathroom, in her resolutely middle-class Home Counties accent.

‘No, I’m a masked robber with a spare set of keys to the flat,’ I shout, clicking back into ‘me’ mode with ease. (Years of practice.) ‘I’m going to fleece the spare room first, then the lounge. Is that okay?’

‘Fine. Do your worst … as long as you don’t call it the lounge!’

I strip out of the Stella McCartney vest, chuck it under my duvet, kick off the sandals under the bed and manage to pull on Luke’s sweatshirt seconds before she appears in the doorway.

‘… or the living room,’ she says. ‘Repeat after me … sitting room.’

‘It’s been seventeen years, Dels. I think it’s about time you accepted I’m a bit common.’ I smile. ‘Wow, you look fantastic.’

I am not being sycophantic. She has got a post-vacation zing about her; the type that comes from two weeks spent at one with nature and yourself. She is refreshed. Personally, I have never quite grasped the concept of a health-boosting break. If your internal organs aren’t really feeling it, what’s the point? Once, as I was sunbathing on the final day of a heavy trip to Ibiza, Roger told me I looked like that Roswell alien laid out on the autopsy table …

Mind you, except when she’s sunk too much white wine, Adele always looks fresh and expensively demure. Today, her bouncy bracken-coloured curls are neatly held back with a beige silk scarf and she is wearing a white smock top with an ankle-length white tiered skirt. I think it’s all Anna Sui. It’s gypsy chic but done in an off-duty high-powered career-girl kind of way; a look that says more, ‘This cost me a fortune!’ as opposed to, ‘Can I read your fortune?’.

‘Ah, thanks,’ she says, pushing her scarf further back off her forehead. ‘I feel great. Nepal was amazing. Such an intriguing country and the people were so kind and generous.’

‘Good, good … but most importantly did you remember to get me some super-strength sleeping pills that have definitely not been authorised by any medical governing body, during your stopover in Bangkok?’ Adele always manages to get me the strongest downers without prescription in Thailand – presumably the Thai people need easy access to medication like that to help them zone out from the constant flow of gap-year students in Billabong T-shirts called Josh invading their homeland. I rub my hands together. ‘Please, tell me they’re as powerful as that batch you got me at Christmas? They could have felled an ox.’

She grimaces guiltily. ‘I didn’t get any. I’d planned to get them on the way back, but then … well, something happened. I got distracted and totally forg—’

‘Dels! Nooo! I took the last one after going clubbing while you were away assuming you’d replenish my stock.’

‘You shouldn’t take downers after doing uppers, anyway, or vice versa,’ admonishes Adele. ‘You’re asking for a cardiac arrest. If it’s any consolation, I did get you some Napalese black tea. I’m brewing a batch on the stove. It’s good stuff – packed full of antioxidants. In the old days, the villagers in the foothills filled pouches of—’ But then she stops, distracted by something on the floor.

I follow her line of vision to the carpet where one of her gold sandals is sitting. It didn’t quite make it under the bed. Shit.

‘Sorry, Dels, I really needed a pair of smart-ish summer shoes f—’

‘Don’t panic.’ She smiles. ‘Anything else you took whilst I was away? Confess now and we’ll leave it at that. Call it a flatmate amnesty.’

I peer at her suspiciously. ‘Seriously?’

‘Seriously.’

‘No repercussions?’

‘You have my word. I won’t even confiscate any of my Aveda products from the shower as punishment, so you won’t have to use your decoy bottles of Pantene.’ She carries on smiling. ‘I do know they are a decoy, by the way.’

Nervously, I peel back my duvet to reveal her Stella McCartney top. ‘It still had the price tag in it.’

‘Again, it’s not an issue,’ she says breezily. ‘Just get it dry-cleaned.’

‘Dels, have you lost the plot? You hate it when I stea … borrow without asking.’ I grab the vest and show her the loose threads. ‘Look, it’s snagged, beyond repair probably, and you haven’t even worn it yet.’ Something else odd occurs to me. ‘Hang on a sec, you haven’t even mentioned Luke’s music equipment littered around the lounge.’

‘Sitting room. Personally, I don’t think he’s left enough. I was hoping to come back and find it rigged up to rival Madison Square Garden.’ She carries on grinning at me as she curls a tendril of hair round her finger.

I step closer to her. ‘And you haven’t told me off for filling the bathroom bin with latex gloves.’ I use them for tanning. Adele always moans that it makes her feel like she is living with a full-timer carer.

‘Sod all of that, Vivian.’ Her eyes are glassy. ‘Something incredible has happened. It’s actually happened …’

‘It has?’

She nods and my chest clenches. Obviously, her membership has been accepted for Shoreditch House. Before mine. For years, she never saw the point in shelling out for any other private clubs as she always came down to Burn’s for free. But just before she met James, Adele panicked that she wasn’t casting her net wide enough to meet Mr Right and filed requests to all the other leading clubs in town.

‘I can’t believe it. But it’s only been six months.’

‘Just over. I know. Crazy, isn’t it?’ She grins, her eyes filling up even more.

‘Congratulations, Dels …’ I reply, stoically, as I try to blank out the image of her plonked on a sunlounger by Shoreditch House’s famous rooftop pool, caipirinha in one hand, Factor-30 suncream in the other. ‘Perfect timing too, now that summer has arrived.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ she laughs. ‘I’ll never have enough time to organise it for this summer. We’ll aim for December at the earliest. Hopefully it will snow. How fab would it be to have a white wedding?’

I cock my head at her. ‘Eh? Who’s getting married?’

‘Earth calling Vivian!’ She shakes her head. ‘Have you not heard anything I’ve said? It’s me. I am getting married. Me! Well, me and James.’

‘You’re what?’

‘Getting married. James asked me to marry him!’

‘Christ! That is such fantastic news! I thought that you had got your … Oh, it doesn’t matter what I thought.’ I rush over to hug her. ‘Dels, that is so amazing. You must be so pleased and …’

‘Shocked, yes. Very. It’s still sinking in.’ She steps back and looks at me. ‘I am engaged, Vivian. Engaged! Can you believe it? After the quagmire of relationship sewage that I’ve waded through – the crap excuses, the cheating turds, the full-of-shit arses on dating websites – I never thought anyone would propose to me.’

‘Oh, ye of little faith. I always knew someone would.’

She bursts out laughing. ‘That is such a whopping lie.’

‘Yeah, I did. Actually, I thought it might happen last year, with oh, you know, that guy who got so pissed during dinner at your parents’ house, your mum came down in the morning and found him asleep in the dog basket. What was he called? He actually sounded as if he could be a dog … ha! Was it Spike?’

‘Rex,’ she says, sounding less amused. ‘Anyway, look at the ring. The ring! My ring!’ She thrusts her left hand about a millimetre away from my face. ‘Look, look, look at it!’

‘I’m looking. I’m looking! That is some rock, Dels. So how did James propose? Did he get down on one knee?’

‘Eventually. But there was a bit of a build-up.’ She grins. ‘He asked me on the final leg of our trek through the Himalayas. Funny thing was I had been in a strop with him that day, because after breakfast he pelted off at a fast pace and left me with the dawdlers. But as dusk came and the peak came into view I could see everyone in the front pack holding up a massive sign with the lyrics of “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” followed by MARRY ME, ADELE!’ Then as I made my final climb to the top, James got in position and everyone serenaded me with the whole song. How romantic is that? No prizes for guessing what retro classic I’m walking up the aisle to.’

‘“Smack My Bitch Up” by The Prodigy?’

She punches me in the shoulder a little harder than is necessary. ‘I’m obviously having “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” by Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell.’

‘I was only mucking about. Come here, you …’ I give her another hug. ‘Congratulations, Dels, you’re getting married!’

‘Yes, I am. I am engaged. I am going to get … maaaaaaaaaarried!’ she screeches, directly into my left ear. ‘Married. Married. Me? Me! Getting MARRIEEEEEEEEEED!’

I jump back. ‘Ouch, volume!’

‘Eek, sorry …’ Her eyes glaze over as she reties her scarf. ‘I guess it’s still sinking in.’

‘Of course, it is. We should go out and celebrate.’

She fans her cheeks with her hands, and watches as her ring glints in the light. ‘Not tonight, James and I are having supper with my parents … to tell them our news. We need to visit James’ foster family too, but they live in Leeds.’ She says this as if it would be more difficult to arrange a couple of days in the North of England than one of her month-long treks across another continent. ‘We’ll have to get something in the diary soon. God, there is so much to organise …’

As Adele chatters away I am distracted by Monday appearing in the doorway. He stares at me in utter bewilderment. Clearly, having heard me get home ten minutes ago he is now wondering why the hell I am not preparing his tea. If he owned a wristwatch he would be tapping it with a single claw. I tell Adele to come and talk to me in the kitchen.

She pads after me. ‘Anyway, if we’re aiming for a Christmas do, I’ll need to step on the gas to arrange everything in time. Twenty-four weeks is nothing.’

‘I’m sure you’ll be fine, Dels. Bob Geldof organised Live Aid in less than that. At least you won’t have the added hassle of trying to perfect the most ambitious international satellite television link-up ever for a global audience of four hundred million.’

‘Very funny. I’m certainly going to need to be focused,’ she says, pouring herself a mug of her stinky brew. ‘On the plane yesterday, I had already come up with the idea of a winter wonderland theme … possibly at Burn’s … Luke could DJ … but we’d also have world music to encapsulate mine and James’ love of travelling … and possibly some sort of tribal entertainment. That was before the cabin crew had finished their safety demonstration. We hadn’t even taken off!’ She giggles, but a little uneasily. ‘Joking aside, Vivian, do you think ethnic drumming whilst canapés are being served is too much?’

I laugh and suck in a sharp intake of breath. ‘I’d be very careful with bongos, Dels. They really are the Nicki Minaj of the percussion world – quite fun for five minutes but they’ll do your head in any longer than that.’ I get a serving of organic goose and venison chunks in gravy out of the cupboard.

‘Ha! Okay, no bongos.’

‘Or children,’ I add. ‘Too distracting, noisy, messy, demanding and unpredictable.’

‘And an added expense.’ Adele nods. ‘Thank you, Vivian. That’s exactly the sort of solid advice I will be needing from my chief – and only – bridesmaid.’

I stop peeling open the sachet. From between my legs, Monday looks up at me and mews, his face a picture of panic and confusion. I stare at the slimy cat food for a few seconds then return to removing the foil and scraping the contents into his bowl. I don’t put it down on the floor, though, because then I will have to turn round and react to what Adele has just said.

‘You heard right, by the way,’ she says. ‘I did just ask you to be my bridesmaid. Well, I-asked-you-slash-told-you.’

I half twist round. ‘Oh, Dels, that’s so …’

‘So?’

Monday mews again. I put his food down on the floor and immediately his distress signal turns into a joyous high-pitched chirrup, all his years of experience informing him how tremendous the next few minutes are going to be. I stand up and turn to face Adele properly. She smiles at me.

‘It’s all right, Vivian. I know what you’re thinking, and quite rightly so. You’re thinking I’ve gone back on that deal we loosely made …’

‘Erm, I think you’ll find we shook on it. We said that—’

‘I know what we said,’ she interrupts. ‘We said that after the age of twenty-nine, if either of us got married we would never do all that following-each-other-up-the-aisle, telling-each-other-what-to-wear nonsense, because being a bridesmaid …’ I wince as she says the word again, ‘… in your thirties is a bit embarrassing.’

‘A bit? Dels, they’ve even made a blockbuster movie about how embarrassing it is since we had that conversation. The agreement was that we help each other organise everything; hen do, dress, venue, etc., but we’re not officially one of them. I’ll do anything else you want me to that wasn’t on that list too – within reason. I’ll even do a reading from the Bible.’

‘Don’t be silly, you don’t believe in God.’

‘Neither do you and you’re the one wanting to get married in a church.’

She giggles. (I don’t.) ‘That’s not the point, Vivian. Look, I didn’t realise I was going to feel this way, but now I am actually going to be a bride, I want to do things the right way on my big day. All my other close girlfriends are married so they aren’t allowed to be bridesmaids. You aren’t so you are.’

With that she puts one foot firmly in that metaphorical stirrup, ready to mount the moral high horse I can tell she will be riding right up until the big day. Why can’t people get married properly, like Penelope Cruz did in Blow? Off the cuff (and off her head) in Vegas wearing a purple jumpsuit. I had expected more from Adele, but like a shocking number of females who have made a point of swerving dry customs their entire lives she has turned into Anne of Green Gables now she has got a wedding to organise.

‘Fine, I’ll do it. But you better make sure this is the one and only time …’ I smile back at her as I sit down. ‘And you can forget about me wearing anything ten swatches in front of or behind “dusky peach” in the fabric sample flip book.’

She bursts out laughing and idly picks up the pepper grinder from where it is still lying on its side from, er, last night. I watch Monday as he finishes his meal, licks his whiskers, does a few feline press-ups and strolls out of the kitchen without thanking anyone. When I turn back to Adele she has stopped laughing. Her eyes have gone watery again.

‘Stop that.’ I tut at her. ‘You’re not allowed to cry today, or this week, or this month. You’ve shed enough tears over the years. In fact, I am going to lay down a non-negotiable rule now. You are not allowed to blub for your entire engagem—’

‘Stop! Stop being so lovely, Vivian. Look …’ She stares into her tea. ‘There’s something else that I … I don’t know how to tell you. I’ve been dreading this moment so much.’ She stops to take a deep breath. ‘Okay, I’m going to come straight out with it. God. Oh God. Oh God …’

‘Oh God, what?’

Another deep breath. ‘The thing is, I … well, we … as, in James and I … we’ve had a lot to talk about since he …’ She flashes her ring hand at me. ‘And moving forward, we’ve decided to use his place as our base whilst we look for a, er, forever home. Or, at least what I hope will be our forever home … as long as I don’t make a total mess of this relationship like I have done all the others … I mean, he could cheat on me or turn about to be a …’

‘Compulsive liar?’ I raise my eyebrows at her. ‘Christ, remember that one? The psycho you met in that wine bar who told you he was a professional polo coach, and then freaked out when you organised a date horse riding in Hyde Park. Now, what was he called?’

‘I never got to find out his real name, did I?’ she says, slightly boot-faced again at the mention of a previous amour. ‘But listen, about the flat …’

I reach across the table to her. ‘It’s fine. I know what you’re going to say; I need to find someone to move in. Don’t worry, it won’t be too hard. Dane could be up for it. He mentioned the lease on his place is com—’

‘Vivian! Let me finish. Look, I’m sorry, so sorry … but you’re going to have to move out. I’m selling up.’

‘Selling?’

She nods solemnly. ‘It’s time.’

‘When are you going to put it on the market?’ I really don’t like the way she is forced to take yet another deep breath as I ask this. This one is more of a desperate gulp for air.

‘When the work has been completed. To get the best price I need to install another bathroom so there is one for each bedroom. It’s what young professionals expect … so I’m getting a wet room installed.’

‘Where?’

‘Your clothes cupboard. I’ll be staying here to keep an eye on the builders, but you won’t be able to stay in your room with all the work going on.’

‘How long have I got?’

‘Three weeks.’

‘Three weeks? Christ, Dels, I’ve spent less time getting ready to go out on New Year’s Eve.’

‘Trust me, I feel awful about the timescale, but the builders who did such a good job of installing the kitchen here and doing my place over in the Docklands had a cancellation, so I wanted to book them in.’

She pulls off her scarf and hangs her face in her hands. When she looks up, I can see a tear is about to slip over the edge of the lower lid under her right eye. I get up and put my arm round her, fully aware that she needs to remember this day as the one she threw her happy news out to the world … not the one I threw Himalayan tea over her.

‘Dels! Remember the rule. No tears.’

‘I feel dreadful for doing this to you.’

I squeeze her tighter. ‘Don’t worry about me, I’m extremely resilient. And besides, being made homeless is not the worst thing that can happen to a girl at thirty-four years and three hundred and sixty-four days old.’

She wipes her nose. ‘It isn’t?’

‘Nah …’

‘W-what is?’

‘Being made a fucking bridesmaid.’

‘Vivian!’

CHAPTER TEN

When Luke realises who has buzzed the bell, he flings open the door, picks me up, swings me round, then snogs me for more than a minute.

I untangle myself from his arms. ‘I see you haven’t got round to reading that treat ‘em mean, keep ‘em keen manual I ordered for you.’ I bend down and pick up the squashy bag I have brought with me containing his laptop, magazines, cables and sweatshirt, as well as the grooming tools I will need in the morning. ‘Adele got back and was being narky about your stuff littering up the lounge so I thought I would bring some of it over.’

‘Ha!’ he laughs, straight at me. ‘I see someone else hasn’t got round to reading the manual I ordered for her on coming up with decent excuses to cover up for the fact that she really wants to spend time with me. Besides, I think we both know that if I was that into you, I would have got rid of these by now.’

He points at the trousers he is wearing. They are my most hated item of all his clothes: knackered army-surplus combats that have a side pocket long and wide enough to hold a family-sized tube of Pringles. Today a red tube is peeking out. Paprika.

‘Yeah, but—’

He interrupts me. ‘The “yeah” is all I need.’ With that he picks me up, throws me over his shoulder, leans down to grab the bag and carries me down the corridor. ‘So, how did the audition go?’

‘I won’t get the part,’ I say with absolute certainty.

‘You reckon? I’m sure you were m—’

‘Stop!’ I reach down and wallop him on his concrete-hard backside. ‘Don’t even try to make me feel better.’

‘Okay, okay. I’m saying nada.’

He kicks open the kitchen door and plonks me down on the floor. The room is a tip. The sink is full of dirty crockery, the bin is overflowing with empty takeaway cartons, the floor is littered with cardboard pizza boxes and all the surfaces are covered in a thick film of biscuit crumbs. It’s like a Disneyland for real mice.

‘Christ, Luke …’

He shakes his head at me. ‘Don’t give me grief. I try to keep it clean but you know what Wozza is like having his mates over the whole time to party. It’s like living within the eye of a storm. I haven’t been around the past few weeks to contain things, have I? Let’s get out of here and grab some dinner.’

‘It’s Friday … eating is cheating. Besides, we’re having dinner tomorrow.’

‘Oh yeah, I forgot. Having dinner on consecutive nights is a crazy Aussie thing, isn’t it? You only have it once a week in the UK.’

‘Exactly,’ I say, pleased he is making a joke. ‘Besides, I had something earlier.’

‘Earlier today, or earlier in the month?’

‘Don’t nag, I had a proper meal.’

‘A proper meal from whose point of view? An adult human or a baby marmoset?’

Now I can tell he isn’t joking, and I am not particularly amused either. The anti-congratulatory way in which he refers to my neatly calculated portion control pisses me off. On The City, Allie Crandell’s boyfriend never said anything about her weight, despite her being so waifish she often wafted into scenes like an apparition. I did eat tonight. I had an Atkins bar. Then I did an hour of Jillian Michaels – Body Revolution. Then I had a vanilla Skinny Cow ice-cream.

‘I don’t know what you’re so worried about, anyway,’ continues Luke, shrugging. ‘There’s nothing of you. Put on a few kilos and there’d be more of you to do bad things to, which could only be a good thing. Guys like something to grip onto.’

I nod as if I am taking on board what he is saying. I am not. He’s speaking like a larger lady who is trying to convince herself that she is happy with her size. Next he’ll tell me that Beyoncé is ‘bootylicious’ (read: bottom heavy) or that Jennifer Hudson looked better with ‘more junk in the trunk’ (she didn’t) or that Christina Hendricks’s curves are ‘old Hollywood’ (i.e., not so helpful when getting roles in this century). But I don’t bother repeating any of this. I can feel them – the thoughts from earlier – lining up, ready to start running through my head again.

‘Why don’t we go clubbing?’ I suggest. ‘Ask Warren to bung us on the guest-list somewhere. He’ll have some gear too, right?’

Luke raises an eyebrow at me. ‘You want to get stuck into the speedo?’

‘You know I don’t do that any more.’ I may have stopped purely not to hear him say that beyond-irritating expression. ‘But I …’

‘… wouldn’t mind doing something to let the wheels come off?’

Yes, I would like to. Maybe an E, but not because I want the wheels to come off. The opposite. When I occasionally use drugs, it is as a tool to get myself back in control. I see it like this: being yourself and convincing other people of this self is a mental marathon. One that does not have a finish line. The stop watch will never go back to zero. Nor will you be wrapped up in a heavily branded silver foil blanket. There is certainly no medal. It’s a hard slog. So sometimes you need time out from the race. For me, that’s what drugs are about: a reprieve from thinking. It’s a trick. Not a treat.

‘Why not?’ I say to Luke, reaching into the bag I brought with me. I get out a bottle of Grey Goose vodka and some beers for Luke (which he will probably ignore in favour of a Dr Pepper). ‘And stop looking at me like that.’

‘Why don’t you just tell me what’s the matter? You’ve obviously had a shit day.’

I prickle, wrong-footed. ‘I haven’t. I simply want to go out and have fun. That’s all.’

‘Fair enough, but I can’t stay out late; I’m working in the morning.’

‘I thought the whole point of your job was that you didn’t do weekends or overtime.’

‘I could do with some extra cash right now.’

‘What for? More cables to add to your viper’s nest?’ I huff. ‘Look, I won’t keep you up for hours. Warren has got some Valium’ – another necessary trick – ‘hasn’t he? It’ll knock me out as soon as we get back.’

‘You’re really not dressing this up as A Night to Remember.’

‘Christ, Luke … live a little.’ I add another huff and untwist the cap on the vodka bottle.

He huffs back at me, then opens the freezer compartment for a bag of ice and half fills two pint glasses with cubes. I pour at least three measures of Grey Goose into one of the glasses. He reaches into the fridge for a bottle of Dr Pepper. When he turns round I can see his face could be about to crumple.

‘Why do you always have to lash out at me like a cut snake?’

I figure this is not the time to pull him up on his usage of Aussie slang. ‘I don’t mean to.’

‘Try harder.’

‘I am trying.’

‘Yes, you are … very trying.’

‘Why do you bother with me, then?’ I nod at my glass. ‘More ice, please.’

He looks at my glass, then at me, chucks the ice on the table, and gently pushes me back against the fridge. ‘Why do I bother? I wish I didn’t feel I had to. But unluckily for me I find your combination of short temper and long legs extremely attractive.’

‘How attractive?’

‘On a scale of one to ten?’

‘Yep.’

‘With one being reasonably do-able if there was no one else around who I fancied the look of and ten being this much?’ He grabs my hand and places it firmly over his crotch. ‘I’d say you’ve got yourself full marks there.’

So, we don’t go out. Luke keeps me entertained in his bedroom. He entertains me on the floor, in the chair, against the door, by the wardrobe and over the mixing desk – we video that bit. Basically, we do it everywhere except the bed because the frame is about to collapse. You can sleep in it but that’s about it. Bar the rickety bed, Luke has made a real effort to make the room comfier over the past year. Although the floor is still covered in cables, he has filled the shelves with candles (bit corny, I know, but the original ceiling light could have been used to perform laser eye surgery), painted the walls, acquired new bed linen (black to hide my fake tan smudges), stripped the floorboards and covered them with a fluffy rug from Ikea, bought a miniature fridge and kettle so I don’t have to go into the kitchen in the morning, and he’s had the window fixed so it can open and his boyish smells aren’t allowed to fester. He also keeps it pretty spotless. Okay, so it’s still not going to merit the cover feature in Architectural Digest but it’s a world away from the dank, putrid cave that is Warren’s bedroom up the corridor.

Before we go to sleep, Luke gives me an early birthday present; not clothes, thank God. Hair straighteners. He says they are for me to keep in his bedroom so I don’t need to bring mine over every time I stay. The tongs are made by ghd, but they are the pink ones, which means that a certain amount of the purchase price will go to a breast cancer charity. Typical Luke; reminding me that having hair with a propensity to kink if left to dry naturally is not the most life-threatening condition that can affect a woman. They make me smile, and a few seconds later I find myself telling Luke about Adele’s engagement and asking him if he minds me staying with him for a short while when I move out of her flat. He reacts as a young spaniel might having just been told he is the new quality-control manager in charge of road-testing products at The Squeaky Ball and Throwable Stick Company. He is as ecstatic as it is possible to be without risking further structural damage to the bed … and I have to admit, that as I lie there under the more than adequately togged new duvet but with just the right amount of cool breeze drifting in through the window, I don’t think it’s the worst idea in the world. Just until I get myself sorted, anyway.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

‘Oi oiiiii! Wozza’s in the hoooooooooouse. Time to get the mother-fuckin’ clown car out the rave garage! Vroom vroooooooooom! Ooooooooooh, this gear is mental. MENTAL! It’s mental continental Avis four-door hatchback seven-day rental chicken orientaaaaaaaaaal!’

At seven o’clock the next morning, Luke’s flatmate Warren – the only living organism to make Scott Disick look complicated – returns home from a night out with his mates. Banging dance music starts pounding through the wall. Simultaneously, the washing machine in the flat above kicks into the planet’s clunkiest spin cycle, so I give up trying to sleep and make a cup of tea. Luke has stuck a note on the kettle.

Happy birthday! As they say in The Outback, ‘Rinse it like a drongo!’ So here’s the plan. From now until 8 p.m. I want you to remember you’re awesome, because you are. Then, at 8 p.m. meet me outside that Spanish place round the back of Bethnal Green Road. We’re going for tapas …

I freeze and immediately stop reading. Christ, really? Tapas is a ridiculous way of eating. Multiple dishes come to the table at random times and nothing on the menu is straightforward, i.e., plain brown, white or green. Bar the olives, I suppose, but even they could be stuffed with an insurgent pimento. I take my tea back to bed and pull the duvet around me. Luke’s room hasn’t got the same kind of feel about it in the cold light of day, with no twinkling tea lights or post-coital glow to bathe in. (Spotting the almost full tape in my video camera makes me cringe slightly.) I listen to the bass pounding away through the wall, and as much as I wouldn’t want to be hanging out with Warren and his gang, I am jealous that they have all been out having fun. The thought of not going to Ibiza this summer – the Promised Land of Fun – makes me disgruntled.

I look over to the mantelpiece. Propped up behind a photo of Luke’s family is the acting card my agent, Terry, uses to send out to casting directors. For someone who resolutely avoided a single picture to be taken of them between the age of ten and twenty, it’s weird how relaxed I appear. The shot is in black and white and I am looking directly into the camera whilst pulling my best smiley yet pouty, serious but light-hearted, angelically devilish face … to show I have a fantastically varied range. I lean forward and try to figure out how old I look in the picture but it’s difficult to tell. I certainly don’t look my age, but then I’m not, not really. According to my birth certificate I am thirty-five today, but in a sense I’m only twenty-five. That dark side period … it obliterated a whole decade of my life. Losing me to it, looking for me, giving up on me to create the new me, getting used to this me … took close to ten years.

My eyes wander back to the picture of Luke with his family; he is laughing as his father pretends to plonk a large prawn on his mother’s head with some barbecue tongs. He must be seventeen, nearly eighteen, at the time that picture was taken – round about the same age I was when I left home. The scene looks like something out of a summer TV commercial for outside grilling equipment, with Luke’s parents cast as the perfect mum and dad. But then Luke thinks his parents are perfect. One of the first things he ever said to me was that the greatest lesson he learnt from them was to be honest with yourself … because then you will be honest with other people. I murmured something resembling an agreement – as I do every time he imparts any other words of wisdom his ‘folks’ have bestowed upon him – because it’s the easiest thing to do. But frankly, their inspirational fridge-magnet approach to life doesn’t sound that far up the well-meaning-but-delusional scale from my mother’s biblical one. Proverbs Chapter 10 Verse 9: Honest people are safe and secure, but the dishonest will be caught … She couldn’t have been more wrong.

I flop back against the head rest. The bed snaps in two like a Venus fly trap, ensnaring me in the middle and sending my tea flying. Wriggling out, I catch my hair on one of the broken springs, which causes unhelpful tangling. So I switch on the do-gooding styling irons Luke gave me last night. But even after a minute they don’t heat up to a level anywhere near as powerful as my own ones that I bought off that stylist. It just goes to show you can’t save lives and achieve a catwalk-ready look. I crawl over some electric leads to get my own straighteners out of my bag. But whilst rummaging, I stop, grab my Nokia instead and quickly scroll down the list of received calls. I find the number I need and before I give myself a moment to change my mind, I phone it. The call is answered on the third ring – I knew she would be up.

‘Ha!’ cackles Barb Silver. ‘You do have a bit of freakin’ ambition after all, kiddo. Maxy will be freakin’ pleased you’re coming. Listen, I’m mid Gyrotonic … I’ll shoot you over the details in five minutes.’

They ping through in three. I am back at home in forty. I am ready in two hundred and twenty-six … and waiting by the window in the lounge for my cab. Whilst I am there, I text Adele, tell her I’m going to a party and ask if I can go into her closet and borrow some accessories – namely, the ones I have already stolen. Monday watches me from the sofa, blinking. He blinks a few more times then wraps his big orange tail tight round him, and settles down amongst the cushions with his back to me.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The Rexingham Hotel car park is teeming with coordinators and assistants buzzing around wearing Prada pumps, headsets and stoic expressions at having a job that is so all consuming it would make a student nurse feel positively overrun with leisure time. A bank of photographers are positioned either side of the entrance steps, where they are being monitored by security guards in dark suits. Not that the press are likely to get out of hand today. On an event like this, which is supposedly not about the stars, there probably won’t be any outrageous outfits on display for the paps to get in a frenzy over, which is a shame. I like female celebrities to always go the whole hog – I want to see them sucked in by Spanx, splattered in Swarovski crystals, feet scrunched into podiatrist-baiting high heels and heading for the ‘What Was She Thinking?’ pages of a trashy magazine. Otherwise, what’s the point of them?

I wait in a holding area for ten minutes before the people carrier draws up with Payton at the wheel. Nicholas sticks his head out the front passenger window.

‘You’ve scrubbed up more than adequately, darling,’ he says, eyeballing me.

I eyeball him back, knowing that I have scrubbed up way more than ‘adequately’ in a clingy, short, charcoal-grey dress (a decent – if you don’t come too close – Alexander McQueen rip-off from ASOS for £39) worn with no hosiery (my legs are smothered in that chip-fat style body grease the models in the Versace adverts are always varnished with), smoky eyes, nude lips and just-got-out-of-bed-hair (which took an hour and a half to perfect two hours after I initially got out of bed). On my feet I am wearing truffle-coloured Marni shoe boots (Adele’s) and in my hand I am holding a flat leather clutch (ditto), which is more of a yellowy beige. Nothing is more damaging than ‘matchy-matchy’ accessorising – it can make an outfit look very cheap. Especially when it is.

‘Let’s get one thing straight,’ I tell Nicholas. ‘I’m not here because of your lecture on being some sort of desperate old husk.’

‘No?’ He smirks at me as the window whirs up. ‘Of course, you aren’t.’

The back door of the people carrier slides open and Barb lowers herself onto the tarmac. She is wearing a metallic dress that coils down into a twisted fish tail, with stilettos and a feathered head-dress. That’s more like it.

She whistles at me. ‘Check you out. Cinder-freakin’-ella is certainly going to the ball.’

‘Cheers.’ I smile. ‘Although, I can’t afford to lose one of these shoes. They’re not mine.’

‘Lose? Ha!’ Barb cackles. ‘Cinderella didn’t lose that goddamn slipper. Girlfriend clearly had an agenda. Can’t blame her though … did what she could to get out of a bad situation. You have to admire that.’

Maximilian gets out of the people carrier next. He jumps down next to Barb.

‘And here’s Prince Charmless,’ I mutter. ‘Hi, Maximilian, you look …’ I glance casually at him, ‘… nice.’

Make that dazzling. His complexion is ultra matte and unblemished, except for the jagged scar, which I have a feeling could have been accentuated with cosmetics. His hair is artfully tousled and gelled to give the appearance of being ever so slightly wet, as if he could either have just leapt out of the shower or out of some dangerous rapids after rescuing a baby deer from drowning. His pectoral and stomach muscles are conspicuously nudging the fabric of a precisely washed-out grey T-shirt with the sleeves casually rolled up so that the full curve of each bicep is on display. The indigo-blue jeans he is wearing are also exquisitely distressed and tucked half in/half out of his scuffed hiking boots. Barb must employ a crack team of men with a similar physique to Maximilian to wear his brand-new clothes until they are sufficiently worn-looking for him to pop on.

‘Hi, Vivian. You look nice too.’ He gives me a pointed look and pauses as Barb goes over to the wing mirror to redo her lipstick. Then he lowers his voice. ‘About what happened at my house … I should have said something when Nicholas spoke to you like that, but I’m …’

‘An arsehole. As well as a pretentious wanker.’

‘No, well …’ He gives me one of his very slight smiles. ‘Sometimes. But not on that occasion. Look, this is going to make me sound like a tool, but before you arrived I was in a shitty mood about the stuff Parks printed … and then I got some bad news about the sequel for The Simple Truth. The producers are looking to cast someone else as Jack Chase.’

‘Yeah, I overheard. Your publicist doesn’t have the quietest voice.’

‘I was gutted. I still am … and before you have a pop at me, I am fully aware that there are worse things going on in the world than my inability to re-secure the lead role in an action franchise.’

‘Yeah? Name one …’

He ignores me and continues. ‘The thing is, I don’t want to lose the part. I can’t. That character means so much to me. I made him. I am him. I believe in him.’

I laugh. ‘I bet you had an imaginary friend as a child.’

‘Forget it,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘You clearly can’t give the back chat a rest for five minutes, can you? I was only trying to be honest with you.’

I allow myself to stare at him again. The sincerity written over his face makes me uncomfortable. It’s not just Jack Chase he believes in … he believes in himself. I don’t let myself consider if that look has ever been written on my face.

‘Okay, okay … so, who might nick your role, then?’ I ask.

‘We’re hearing rumours that JP Goldstein wants Orlando Bloom.’

‘Ha! It’s not 2006 … since then it has been proven that Bloom only works well as part of an ensemble cast in a fantastical location with some form of historical weaponry at hand; bow and arrow, sword, sickle – delete as applicable. If he ever plays the lead in a modern setting the film flops.’

Maximilian thinks for a second. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen him in one.’

‘Exactly, neither has the rest of the developed world. If you wanted to feel really confident, though, I suggest you take a look at Elizabethtown, which Orly stars in with Kirsten Dunst. There’s a scene in it where they speak to each other on the phone till dawn. It’s excruciating. They should have used it on a loop as one of the torture devices in a Saw movie.’

Amusement flickers across Maximilian’s face. ‘Thanks for coming, Vivian, I appreciate it.’

‘That’s okay, but I haven’t come here because of you.’

And that wasn’t more back chatting. I genuinely have not. Nor have I come – as Nicholas has assumed – because he goaded me into it. Nor have I come – as Barb has assumed – hoping that the event will serve as the defibrillator for my flat-lining career. Nor have I come because I’m not exactly thrilled with Luke’s plans for this evening. The reason I came is because it’s my birthday and therefore essential I distract myself as much as possible, to stop me thinking about my other birthday, that one, when it … the darkness … descended …

Barb totters over and slaps Maximilian on the back. ‘Shake out the tension, Maxy. Shake it out, shake it out, shake it out …’

‘Calm down, Barb,’ he replies, as he hunches his shoulders up then releases them, in quick succession. ‘It’s not as if I haven’t done this sort of thing before. I’ll be fine.’

‘I know, but it’s been a while. You’re bound to be feeling the pressure. After the torture and isolation you suffered last year …’ She drifts off – a pained expression on her face, as if it wasn’t that long ago her client was unzipping an orange boiler suit after a stretch in Guantanamo Bay, not packing his jim-jams after a two-thousand-euro-per-night stay at a leading Swiss clinic.

Nicholas opens the passenger door and nods at Maximilian. ‘Remember what I said, Fry. I want you looking suitably moved during the awards – some mild welling-up will suffice – and keep yourself in check if you bump into Parks. Oh, and get some decent shots with the kids. Go for the ones who have obviously been through the mill. Wheelchairs, braces, not quite complete re- constructive surgery … make every shot count.’ I choke and even Barb looks disapproving. ‘Lighten up, ladies,’ he snorts. ‘Isn’t that why he’s here?’

A blonde woman from the events team dashes over to us. She is talking nineteen to the dozen into a mouthpiece hooked round her head.

‘Yup … currently in docking area. Yup, yup, yup … really? Already in. Great … yup. Great … yup. Yup! Yup, yup, no … not them. Cancelled. Pricks! No, no … she’s here. God, yes. Div-ine! Yup, collecting Maximilian Fry now. ETA meet and greet with charity reps approx. three minutes. Yup. Totally.’ She swings her mouthpiece to the side. ‘Hi, hi, hi

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