Murder Most Fab (24 page)

‘All
right. But this is your last chance, Bernard, I mean it. Tell me what you’ve
got planned for me. If I like it, I’ll stay. If not, I’m leaving.’ I took off
my jacket. ‘You’ve got five minutes.’

Exactly
five minutes later, when Bernard had outlined (with uncanny accuracy, as it
turned out) the amazing new career that lay in store for me, I called Room
Service and ordered a bottle of champagne.

My
depression had lifted like the morning mist. Fate had done it again. Just as my
musical-theatre adventure had made way for a more exciting, lucrative career on
the game so that dubious occupation had run out of steam just in time to
accommodate the new challenge of a job as a television presenter. Life seemed
to evolve in the most unexpected ways. Student, hooker, murderer, TV star.
Bring it on!

That
night I fucked Bernard as if my future depended on it.

It took Bernard a while to
reveal it, but the exciting TV role he had earmarked for me was, strictly
speaking, on a kids’ programme. When he confessed, I was a little put out.

‘You’re
being rather ungracious, darling, I must say,’ he remonstrated. ‘My kingdom
only extends as far as the BBC children’s-television department. Much as I’d
like to introduce you to the British public as David Hasselhoff’s replacement,
it’s not within my powers to do so.’

But
this time Bernard was true to his word. Two days after our conversation I had
my screen test in a bare little studio in Hammersmith, nowhere near the BBC. I
was filmed talking to a glove puppet and pretending to introduce Mariah Carey.

‘A
sensation!’ declared Bernard.

A week
after that I was taken to lunch at an expensive Italian restaurant in
Shepherd’s Bush. It seemed I was moving closer and closer to Television Centre,
which had to be a good omen. There, I was introduced to various suits and heads
of departments who all seemed to have clammy hands and dry, flaky complexions.
Over coffee and chocolate mints I was officially welcomed on board.

I could
hardly believe it. Bernard had been telling the truth all along.

The BBC
advised me to drop the JD and revert to my real name of Johnny Debonair. Then,
after several high-level meetings, it was decided I should be known as Johnny
D. I liked the change. It seemed to fit my new identity.

Bernard
summoned me to his office to sign my contract. It had happened so quickly that
I hadn’t had time to consider what I would be paid — and there it was in black
and white. Ten thousand pounds a week for every week the show was broadcast,
plus rehearsal fees.

‘That
should keep you in condoms, my darling,’ said Bernard, locking the door and
moving determinedly towards me, unzipping the fly of his slacks.

Catherine
will be pleased, I thought. We were in the money again.

I
immediately withdrew my adverts from the gay magazines, phoned round my
regulars, told them I was moving on and changed my telephone number.

Madame
was gracious. ‘It is good for you. You be happy. I always here if you need make
money one day. Good luck.’

My
mother was only slightly surprised by the news. ‘My little puddle-duck, you’re
so pretty that it was only a matter of time before the world fell at your feet.
I can’t wait to see you on the television. Perhaps I’ll buy one.’

And
Catherine, as predicted, was beside herself with excitement at this sudden
change in my fortunes. ‘Blimey, Cowboy. There’s a turn-up for the books. You
lucky bastard.’ She got that far-away look in her eye, thinking intently about
how this news might benefit her. ‘Of course!’ she exclaimed. ‘I can be your
manager! You’d only fuck it up without me. I’ve been shagged by someone from
Hollyoaks
and he told me you can get a couple of grand for opening a supermarket.
Imagine that! More than I get for opening my legs.’ She looked quite serious.
‘I’m not kidding — my snatch is red raw. I could do with a career change. Go on,
let me be your manager. I’ll get some stationery printed and change the answerphone
message. I’ll work from home initially, but offices in Holborn and a secretary
called Kirsty are almost inevitable …

I had
no idea whether Catherine would make a good manager or not but I didn’t know
how to go looking for a proper one —and, anyway, I trusted her. If anyone could
work out how to get on in a crazy world, it was her. ‘Of course you can be my
manager, but don’t get too excited. The programme might be a terrible flop for
all we know,’ I cautioned her. ‘Steady yourself.’

‘I’m
going to need some new clothes,’ she said, disregarding my warning. ‘Power
suits, designer briefcase, maybe some discreet platinum jewellery. Trousers
will be a novelty.’

‘It’s
only children’s television,’ I said. ‘How successful can it be? Let’s wait and
see.’

My life
as JD, prostitute
extraordinaire
and snuffer-out of old men, was
officially over. I had a chance to be reborn.

I woke and we were sailing on

As in a gentle weather:

‘Twas night, calm night, the moon was high:

The dead men stood together

When Bernard had said I
was doing children’s television, he hadn’t really explained what he meant. It
wasn’t going to be quite as dreary as introducing cartoons at three thirty
every weekday. Instead I would co-host a programme called
Shout!,
a hip
teenage news show with live bands performing in the studio, broadcast on
Saturday mornings.

‘Are
you really sure I can do this, Bernard? I haven’t a scrap of experience,’ I
said, one night, as we lay in his bed together. I was being nicer and nicer to
him as the reality of my new future sank in. Every day I woke with a feeling of
pleasurable anticipation and excitement, as though I was about to get a
particularly lovely present.

Bernard
was blossoming under all the attention. ‘Of course you can. It’s easy as pie!
Don’t listen to those silky lies about how difficult it is to do television. If
you can read aloud convincingly, you’re almost there . Just practise on a
newspaper or something —as long as you can do the autocue, you’ll be fine.’

‘I’m
sure I can manage that.’ I knew it wouldn’t be a problem because I’d read all
those books to my mother over the years as she reclined picturesquely on the
sofa.

‘Your
job is to smoulder in a subtle, suggestive but, above all,
masculine
fashion
for the camera. I want teenage girls to play with themselves under the duvet as
they’re watching you. Boys, too, if that’s their inclination.’

I
understood my brief. This would be a walk in the park.

Six
weeks before the show went into production, Bernard summoned me to a meeting at
Broadcasting House. The long corridors and the dreary public-school types who
haunted them sucked the life out of me, but Catherine clicked alongside me in
her killer heels, her blonde hair pulled back in a tight, business-like up-do,
and a new shiny leather briefcase tucked under her arm. As my manager, she had
insisted that she accompany me to the meeting, even though she had no real idea
what a manager’s job was. She seemed to think it meant being as close to me as
she could get at all times and she steered me by the elbow as if I was
partially sighted, and said a bright, ‘Good morning!’ to everyone we met. Much
to my mortification she handed out business cards to the people we stood with
in the lift.

‘I
think that was Esther Rantzen, presumably on her way to make-up,’ she said
excitedly.

‘No,
Catherine. It was Simon Fanshawe. After make-up.’

When we
found our meeting room, she marched in confidently and shook hands with a
bemused Bernard. ‘How do you do? I’m Catherine Baxter, Johnny’s manager.’

‘Er,
how do you do?’ said Bernard, and raised an eyebrow at me. ‘Please do come over
and sit down.’

We
joined the other people at a table laid with a jug of water, glasses and a
plate of nasty-looking biscuits, still in their individual cellophane wrappers.
Before we’d taken our seats Catherine tapped the water jug accusingly. ‘Is this
tap water? Not quite what one expects. My client’s body is a temple, I’ll have
you know.’

Bernard
coughed and patted the chair next to him. ‘Of course it is, Miss Baxter.’

Next
she lunged for the biscuits. ‘What’s this muck? Don’t touch them, Johnny!’ she
cautioned me, as if she had discovered a landmine. ‘He’s wheat, meat and dairy
free,’ she explained to the room in general. ‘He can’t come within ten feet of
a Scotch egg.’

‘We’ll
see that all his needs are catered for,’ said Bernard. ‘Now, if we can get on.
Everybody, this is Johnny Debonair, our new host for
Shout!.
Johnny,
I’ll go round the table and introduce you to everyone. This is Ruby. She’s
going to host the programme with you.’

A
pretty and demure Asian girl gave me a warm smile. ‘It’s great to meet you,
Johnny. I’m really looking forward to working with you.’

I liked
her at once.

Next I
met the series producer, an unfeasibly thin Geordie woman called Mo, who sat
with her legs spread wide apart like a barrow boy.

Mo
introduced us to a couple of assistant producers, four runners and a director
called Maxwell. I had seen Maxwell out and about at gay venues that favoured
military haircuts and camouflage trousers. ‘Can we have pyros?’ was all he
seemed interested in. He clearly spent much of his time at the gym but had
concentrated somewhat on his upper body ‘T-shirt’ muscles. Wisely, his spindly
neglected legs were hidden under the table.

Catherine
made lots of notes, which seemed to put everyone on edge. Then she lit a
cigarette, which Mo told her curtly to put out. ‘We don’t allow smoking in this
department.’

‘Sorry,
Mo,’ she said, then dropped it under the table and trod on it. ‘I suppose you
go outside when you fancy a pipe, do you?’

Mo gave
her a withering look. She explained the format. ‘The show is basically
Blue
Peter
with balls—’

‘My
client won’t work with dogs,’ said Catherine. ‘No disrespect to you, Mo.’

I
nudged her hard. I was so used to Catherine, and so fond of her, that I hardly
noticed how mean she could be, but suddenly I was seeing her as a stranger
would. She couldn’t help cracking jokes, no matter how cruel or inappropriate,
and she always did it with a completely straight face . I could see that lots
of people might not get her.

‘Miss
Baxter!’ said Bernard. ‘This is no place for cheap jibes. We’re not at the WI
now.’

‘Sorry,
Mo,’ said Catherine breezily, but she shut up after that. She wasn’t going to
jeopardize this whole TV adventure of ours.

‘Bernard,
you carry on,’ Mo said frostily.

‘Very
well.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Buzzwords for this show are: funky, energetic,
unpredictable and sexy. Our research has shown that our target audience of
twelve- to eighteen-year-olds is interested in music, comedy, sexy popstars and
clothes. We’re going to give them two hours of their favourite things every
Saturday.’

As he
spoke Bernard reached under the table and laid his hand gently on my thigh, his
fingers undulating in what he imagined was a seductive fashion.

‘Johnny
and Ruby are to be
über-hip,
achingly trendy, gorgeous, clever and very
“now”. In fact, they sum up our show. Our viewers throughout the United Kingdom
must want to
be
Johnny and Ruby, speak like them, wear their clothes, have
their babies.’

Ruby
and I looked at each other and smiled.

‘I’ll
do Wakes if you do Scotland’, I scribbled on a notepad, then passed it to her.

‘I’ll
toss you for Northern Ireland’, she wrote back.

This
was going to be fun, I could tell.

Straight
after the meeting, Ruby and I were whisked to a photo studio in the basement.
There we posed against the show’s DayGlo logo while Bernard jumped about behind
the photographer, shouting, ‘Rest your arm on his shoulder, Ruby! Show us
those beautiful teeth, Johnny! Think
pow!
Pizzazz! Hit series!’