Star Struck (7 page)

I was beginning to understand why Clive hid behind the camp manner. Underneath it all there lay a sharper mind than most of his fellow cast members ever exhibited. He was just as self-absorbed as they were, but at least he’d given some thought to how he earned his considerable living. I bet that made him really popular in a green room populated by egos who were each convinced they were the sole reason for the show’s success. “So you reckon the tug of fantasy is so strong that the millions who tune in three times

“
We
don’t, chuck,” Gloria said, lighting a fresh cigarette while Clive dealt the cards. “But the management do.”

“That’s hardly surprising,” Teddy said. “They’re the ones who are going to make a bomb whatever happens.”

“How come?” I asked.

“The contract NPTV has with the ITV network is due for renegotiation. The network knows NPTV have been talking to satellite and cable companies with a view to them buying first rights in
Northerners
for the next three years. So the network knows that the price is going to have to go up. There’s going to be a bidding war. And the only winners are going to be the management at NPTV, with their pocketfuls of share options. If they’re wrong and the viewers don’t follow the program in droves, it doesn’t matter to them, because they’ll already have their hot sticky hands on the cash,” Clive explained.

“So Turpin needs to plug the storyline leak,” Gloria said, examining her cards.

“I’m not sure I follow you. Surely any publicity is good publicity?”

“Not when it involves letting the public know in advance what’s going to happen,” Teddy said, raising his eyes to the heavens as if I was stupid. I didn’t react. After all, I wasn’t the one who was currently fourteen quid out of pocket.

Clive took pity on my puzzlement. “If people know the big storylines in advance, a lot of them think it won’t be the end of the world if they miss a few eps, because they know what they’ll be missing. Once they get out of the habit of watching every ep religiously, their viewing habits drift.”

“They find other programs on at the same time that they get to like. They don’t bother setting the video to watch us because they think they already know what’s going to happen. Or they just go down the pub. Before you know it, they’ve lost touch with the program,” Gloria continued. “One heart.”

“Especially now we’re three times a week. You dip out for two, three weeks and when you come back, you don’t know some of the faces. I’m going to pass this time.”

Teddy tugged at his shirt collar, a mannerism either he’d borrowed from Arthur Barrowclough or the character had borrowed from him. “Two hearts. And every time the viewing figures drop, John Turpin sees his share of the profits going down.”

“And we get to watch his blood pressure going up,” Gloria said. “Three hearts,” she added, noting my shake of the head.

“I’d have thought he’d be on to a loser, trying to find out who’s behind it. It’s too good an earner for the mole to give it up, and no journalist on the receiving end of a series of exclusives like that is going to expose a source,” I said.

“It won’t be for want of trying,” Gloria said. “He’s even got every script coded so that any photocopied pages can be traced back. I hope whoever it is really is making a killing, because they’re not going to earn another shilling off NPTV if they’re caught.”

“You’ll never work in this town again,” Teddy drawled in a surprisingly convincing American accent. I was so accustomed to him behaving in character I’d almost forgotten he was an actor.

“And speaking of making a killing, Gloria, any more news from your stalker?”

Gloria scowled. “By heck, Clive, you know how to put a girl off her game. No, I’ve heard nowt since I took Kate on. I’m hoping we’ve frightened him off.”

“How do you know it’s a he?” Clive said.

“Believe me, Clive, I know.”

We played out the hand in silence for a moment. In bridge as in life, I’ve always been better at defense than attack. Clive also seemed to relish the taste of blood and we left Gloria and Teddy three tricks short of their contract. My client raised her eyebrows and lit another cigarette. “She lied so beautifully, Teddy. I really believed her when she said she was crap at this.”

“Don’t tell Turpin,” Teddy said sharply. “He’ll hire her out from under you.”

“My dears, for all we know, he’s done that already,” Clive said archly.

I should be so lucky, I thought as they all stared at me. I’m not proud about whose money I take. Maybe I should engineer another encounter with Turpin the hatchet man and kill two birds with one

I nodded. “Fair enough. Whose deal is it?”

VENUS IN LEO IN THE 4TH HOUSE
She can show great extravagance, both practical and emotional, to those she cares for. She is loyal but likes to dominate situations of the heart. She has creative ability, which can sometimes lead to selfdramatization. Her domestic surroundings must be easy on the eye.
From
Written in the Stars
, by Dorothea Dawson

My second evening bodyguarding Gloria Kendal taught me that I really should pay more attention to the client. The evening engagement I’d so blithely agreed to turned out to be another of the nights from hell that seemed to be how Gloria spent her free time. That night, she was guest of honor at the annual dinner dance of the ladies’ division of the North West branch of the Association of Beverage and Victuals Providers. I’ve never been in the same room as that much hairspray. If taste were IQ, there would only have been a handful of them escaping Special Needs education. I’d thought the Blackburn outfit would have blended in nicely at a women-only dinner, but I was as flash as a peahen at a peacock convention. I should have realized Gloria wasn’t wearing those sequins and diamanté for a bet.

About ten minutes after we arrived in Ormskirk, I sussed this wasn’t one of those dinners you go to for the food. I know ’70s food is coming back into fashion, but the Boar and Truffle’s menu of prawn cocktail, boeuf bourguignon and, to crown it all, Black Forest gateau, owed nothing to the Style Police or the foodies. You could tell that every cooking fashion in the intervening twenty years had passed them by. This was a dinner my Granny Brannigan would have recognized and approved of. It wasn’t entirely surprising; nobody who had any choice in the matter would spend a

The landladies, most of whom almost certainly served better pub grub back home, didn’t care. The only function of the food they were interested in was its capacity to line the stomach and absorb alcohol. It wasn’t a night to be the designated driver, never mind bodyguard.

Gloria was on fine form, though. She’d heeded what I’d said about keeping her back to the wall and trying to make sure there was a table between her and her admirers. It wasn’t easy, given how many of the female publicans of the North West desperately needed to have their photographs taken in a clinch with my client. But she smiled and smiled, and drank her gin and made a blisteringly funny and scathing speech that would have had a rugby club audience blushing.

“I’m sorry you’ve been landed with all this ferrying me around,” she said as I drove across the flat fields of the Fylde towards the motorway and civilization.

“Who normally does it?” I asked.

“A pal of mine. He got the sack last year for being over fifty. He’s not going to get another job at his age. He enjoys the driving and it gives him a few quid in his back pocket.” She yawned and reached for her cigarettes. It was her car, so I didn’t feel I could complain. Instead, I opened the window. Gloria shivered at the blast of cold air and snorted with laughter. “Point taken,” she said, shoving the cigarettes back in her bag. “How much longer do you think we’re going to have to be joined at the hip?”

“Depends on you,” I said. “I don’t think you’ve got a stalker. I’ve seen no signs of anybody following us, and I’ve had a good look around where you live. There’s no obvious vantage point for anybody to stake out your home—”

“One of the reasons I bought it,” Gloria interrupted. “Those bloody snappers with their long lenses make our lives a misery, you know. All those editors, they all made their holier-than-thou
Sun
’s readers have any right to know whether I’m having Busy Lizzies or lobelia this year.”

“So that probably confirms that whoever has been sending the letters is connected to the show; they can keep tabs on you because they see you at work every day. And they can pick up background details quite easily, it seems to me. The cast members talk quite freely among themselves and you don’t have to set out to eavesdrop to pick up all sorts of personal information. I’ve only been on the set for a couple of days and already I know Paul Naylor’s seeing an acupuncturist in Chinatown for his eczema, Rita Hardwick’s husband breeds pugs and Tiffany Joseph’s bulimic. Another week and I’d have enough background information to write threatening letters to half the cast.” What I didn’t say was that another week among the terminally self-obsessed, and threatening letters would be the least of what I’d be up for.

“It’s not a pretty thought, that. Somebody that knows me hates me enough to want me to be frightened. I don’t like that idea one little bit.”

“If the letters and the tire slashing are connected, then it almost certainly has to be somebody at NPTV, you know. Of course, it is possible that the tire slasher isn’t the letter writer, just some sicko who took advantage of your concern over the letters to wind you up. I’ve asked you this before, but you’ve had time to think about it now: are you sure there isn’t anybody you’ve pissed off that might just be one scene short of a script?”

Gloria shook her head. “Come on, chuck. You’ve spent time with me now. You’ve seen the way I am with the folk I work with. I’m a long way off perfect, but I don’t wind them up like certain other people I could mention.”

“I’d noticed,” I said drily. “The thing is, now everybody at NPTV knows you’re taking what Dorothea said seriously. The person who wrote you those letters is basking in a sense of power, which means that he or she probably won’t feel the need to carry

“You’re sure I’ll be safe? I’m not a silly woman, in spite of how I come across, but what Dorothea said really scared me, coming on top of the business with the tires. She’s not given to coming the spooky witch, you know.”

“When is she in next?”

“Day after tomorrow. Do you want to see her?”

“I want to interview her, not have a consultation,” I said hastily.

“Oh, go on,” Gloria urged. “Have it on me. You don’t have to take it seriously.” She opened her bag and took out a pen and one of the postcard-sized portraits of herself she carried everywhere for the fans who otherwise would have had her signing everything from their library books to any available part of their anatomies. “Give us your time, date and place of birth.” She snapped on the interior light, making me blink hard against the darkness. “Come on, sooner you tell me, the sooner you get the light off again.”

“Oxford,” I said. “Fourth of September, 1966.”

“Now why am I not surprised you’re a Virgo?” Gloria said sarcastically as she turned off the light. “Caligula, Jimmy Young, Agatha Christie, Cecil Parkinson, Raine Spencer and you.”

“Which proves it’s a load of old socks,” I said decisively. A couple of miles down the road, it hit me. “How come you can rattle off a list of famous Virgoans?”

“I married one. Well, not a famous one. And divorced him. I wish I’d known Dorothea then. Virgo and Leo? She’d never have let it happen. A recipe for disaster.”

“Aren’t you taking a bit of a chance, working with me?”

Gloria laughed, that great swooping chuckle that gets the nation grinning when things are going right for Brenda Barrowclough. “Working’s fine. Nobody grafts harder than a Virgo. You see the detail while I only get the big picture. And you never give up. No, you’ll do fine for me.”

It’s funny how often clients forget they’ve said that when a case

It was almost one when I walked through my own front door. Both my house and Richard’s were illuminated only by the dirty orange of the sodium streetlights. I’d hoped he’d be home; I was suffering from what my best friend Alexis calls NSA—Non-Specific Anxiety—and my experience of self-medicating has told me the best cure is a cuddle. But it looked like he was doing whatever it is that rock journos do in live music venues in the middle of the night. It probably involved drugs, but Richard never touches anything stronger than joints and these days all the cops do with cannabis is confiscate it for their own use, so I wasn’t worried on that score.

I turned on the kitchen light, figuring a mug of hot chocolate might prevent the vague feeling of unease from keeping me awake. I couldn’t miss the sheet of paper stuck under a fridge magnet. “Babysitting for Alexis + Chris. Staying over. See you tomorrow. Big kisses.” I didn’t need to be a handwriting expert to know it was from my besotted lover. The only problem was, it wasn’t me he was besotted with.

I’d know how to fight back if it was a beautiful blonde waving her perfectly rounded calves at him. But how exactly can a woman keep her dignity and compete with a nine-month-old baby girl?

The following day, we were let out to play. Because
Northerners
traded so heavily on its connection to Manchester, the city of cool, they had to reinforce the link with regular exterior and interior shots of identifiable landmarks. It had led to a profitable spin-off for NPTV, who now ran
Northerners
tours at weekends. The punters would stay in the very hotel where Pauline Pratt and Gordon Johnstone had consummated their adulterous affair, then they’d be whisked off on a walking tour that took in sites from key episodes. They’d see the tram line where Diane Grimshaw committed suicide, the alley where Brenda Barrowclough was mugged, the jewelry shop that was robbed while Maureen and Phil Pomeroy were choosing an engagement ring. They’d have lunch in

To keep that particular gravy train running, the show had to film on the streets of the city at least once a month. That day, they were filming a series of exterior shots at various points along the refurbished Rochdale Canal. According to Gloria, a new producer was determined to stamp his authority on the soap with a series of themed episodes. The linking theme of this particular week was the idea of the waterway providing a range of backdrops, from the sinister to the seriously hip. Gloria had drawn the short straw of an argument with Teddy outside Barca, Mick Hucknall’s chic Catalan bistro. On a summer afternoon, it might have been a pleasant diversion. On a bleak December morning, it was about as much fun as sunbathing in Siberia. It took forever to film because trains and trams would keep rattling across the high brick viaducts above our heads when the cameras were rolling.