The Queen of New Beginnings (20 page)

“Glen? You still there?”

“I’m in shock. I’ve just picked myself up from the floor. Did I hear you right? You’ve started writing?”

“Hey, less of the sarcasm and more of the support for which I pay you so handsomely.”

“Tell me all. What have you got?”

“A bit of a departure from anything I’ve written before.”

“I like the sound of it so far.”

“What do you mean? Are you saying you didn’t like what I’ve written before?”

“Just when exactly did you get to be so needy?”

“Oh, go blow smoke up your gigantically oversized ego! Now shut up and listen. I think I’ve got something. Something that’s going to go the distance. It’s about a family. A gold carat, all the way to the top, screwed up family.”

“Mm…remind me, has that ever been done before?”

“Of course it’s been done before, but whoever got tired of watching other people mess up? Schadenfreude’s never going to go out of fashion.”

“Good point. Talking of which, according to a site on the Internet, you’re currently languishing on a beach in Mexico. There’s even a photograph of you. Although I’m inclined to think that showing you wearing nothing but a thong was an unnecessary touch.”

Clayton groaned. “Will it never end?”

“That, my friend, is something we need to discuss. I’ve been wondering whether you should come back to London and deal with things. Just get it all over and done with. It’ll be bloody, I’ll warn you, but I’ll be there for you. I’ll hold your dainty little hand every step of the way.”

“As tempting as the idea is of you holding my hand, the answer is no. I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying here.”

“I thought you hated it there?”

“But I can write here. This place is working for me. I’m not leaving and that’s flat.”

The point of Glen’s call, other than to wind Clayton up, had been to let him know that Bazza and Stacey would be on the Stevie McKean show. Forget Brad and Angelina or the Beckhams, Bazza and Stacey were the new Golden Couple on the block. What the hell were they up to now? What latest promotional trick had they devised for themselves? Could it be yet more charity work? Perhaps they were campaigning to help the deprived credit-crunched kiddies of Notting Hill whose parents couldn’t afford violin lessons anymore? Or better still, were they there fund-raising for a donkey sanctuary in Darfur?

Whatever the cause, Clayton was under no delusion that his name wouldn’t be further besmirched during their television appearance—what chat show host could resist raising the subject? The last time he’d forced himself to watch them it hadn’t ended well.

But it wouldn’t happen now, would it? He was over that madness, surely? He could be trusted not to react and do something silly again? Couldn’t he?

Don’t watch the programme
, Captain Sensible whispered in his ear.
Avoid it at all costs.

Yeah right, like that was going to happen. This was classic road crash stuff. You could tell yourself all you wanted not to turn and stare, but there wasn’t a power in the world that could stop you from twisting round in your seat to have a jolly good gawp.

Well, if you must
, Captain Sensible said priggishly,
but be it on your own head. However, I strongly advise against watching it alone.

“Don’t watch it alone?” Clayton said aloud with disbelief. Just whom was he supposed to invite to watch it with him?

No sooner had he articulated the thought than it came to him whom he could, and
would
invite. OK, it was pretty weird, but then what wasn’t weird about the set up here? Besides, she’d given him her mobile number and the instruction that if he needed anything he had only to ring her. Admittedly she had probably had something a little more mundane in mind when she’d offered her help. Keeping him company while he watched his two exes giving another tearfully brave performance on the teatime telly slot would not have been her first thought. Question was, should he insist that Alice restrain him if it all got too much? Should he warn her that on no account was he to be allowed to make a phone call?

OK, that was probably going too far. Having somebody with him, as Captain Sensible wouldn’t hesitate to point out, was the ideal precautionary measure. He’d be on his best behaviour with Alice. It would also provide a convenient segue to giving her his story. A deal was a deal, after all. Originally he’d had no intention of sticking to this supposed deal of you-show-me-yours-and-I’ll-show-you-mine, but he felt he owed her something. For one thing she had proved to be pleasantly agreeable to be around, interesting and fun, and had very likely saved him from dying of boredom here. There was also the small matter of what he was writing to broach with her. It was only polite that he ask her permission to go ahead with it. Naturally, he’d abandon the project if she objected. No question. There were lines that should never be crossed. This was one of them. What kind of a man would he be to go against her wishes?

Hmmm…
observed Captain Sensible with his arms folded in front of him.

• • •

Alice had intended to read through the manuscript of
Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire
one more time in preparation for going into the studio next week, but Clayton’s phone call had made her change her good intentions. She hadn’t needed much persuading; the chance for some company was a welcome diversion. Her visit to Well House had been a lot more distressing than she had expected. She had been so deeply upset she had called off her evening out with Bob, much to his disappointment. She had claimed a headache. She didn’t think for one moment he had believed her.

What George had told her had left her feeling more alone and isolated than she had ever felt in her whole life. What hurt most was that she had to accept that she had made a terrible mistake and there was no way of righting it. How would she ever come to terms with that?

• • •

“You OK?” Clayton greeted her when she arrived at Cuckoo House.

Surprised that he should notice there was anything wrong with her, she shook off his concern. “I’m fine,” she lied offhandedly. She placed her coat over the back of a chair in the kitchen and noticed the tray of tea things on the table. There was a plate of biscuits and a Mr. Kipling fruit cake which she remembered seeing in amongst Clayton’s bags of shopping the other day. Over on the work top, it was action stations with the teapot and a box of tea bags all set to go.

With his back to her as he put the kettle on the hob, Clayton said, “You mentioned on the phone earlier that you’d been to see George yesterday. Did she scold you very badly for not visiting her before?”

“She was remarkably lenient with her scolding,” Alice replied, “but I ought to warn you, she knows who you are.”

Clayton turned round. “You told her?”

“I didn’t need to.” Alice explained about George seeing a newspaper and then checking him out on the Internet.

“She uses the Internet?”

Alice nodded. “I know; it’s too incredible for words. It’s like suddenly discovering the world really is flat. And don’t worry about her telling anyone about you being here. She would never do that.”

“My agent seems to think that I should go home and face the music.”

Alice felt a pang of disappointment. She would miss her visits here to see him. Or was it, she wondered, the house she would miss visiting? “When will you go?”

Clayton shook his head. “I’ve told Glen I’m not going. Not yet, anyway.”

“I’m glad,” she blurted out.

He looked at her hard. “Are you? Why?”

Embarrassed at her admission and worried that he might misinterpret it, she said, “Well, you don’t want to go back to London until the dust has properly settled, do you? And the longer you stay away from London, the more chance there is of those journalists finding someone else to get their teeth into. That’s all I meant. Kettle’s boiling,” she said helpfully.

With his back to her once again as he dropped two tea bags into the pot, he said, “I also have another reason why I want to stay on. The thing is, I’ve started to—” He broke off and turned to face her. “Is that your mobile ringing?”

“Not guilty; it must be yours.”

He put down the teapot, looked about him, then eventually located his phone on the other side of the kitchen beneath a hand towel. While he took the call, Alice finished the job of making the tea.

“No, Glen,” Clayton said wearily, “I haven’t forgotten. Yes, I’m well aware that it starts in ten minutes. I’m even more aware that you’ll make me miss it if you don’t get off the line. Yeah, it’s great that you care so much. Love you, too.” He ended the call and caught Alice’s eye. “I hope your agent doesn’t treat you like an idiot the way mine does.”

“What starts in ten minutes?”

He put his mobile on the table and picked up the completed tray. “The Stevie McKean Show. I thought you could watch it with me.”

“Any particular reason why?”

“To save me from doing something silly.”

• • •

“Why exactly are you putting yourself through the ordeal of watching Barry and Stacey being interviewed?”

“When I could have my teeth extracted without anaesthetic, you mean? Good question.”

“And the answer?”

Clayton passed Alice a biscuit. She was sitting on the floor just a few feet away from where he was fidgeting anxiously on the sofa. The first guest was banging on about a forthcoming comeback tour and album. He was a knuckle-dragging moron from a long-forgotten boy band with a drugs-to-hell-and-back biography to flog. He had yet to purchase his return ticket, by the looks of his glittering eyes. He was beyond dull. He was mind-numbingly, stultifyingly boring. He would make a baboon with a speech impediment sound articulate. “There’ll be a tour, right…an album, of course…it’ll be the comeback of all comebacks, man…it’ll make Take That’s comeback look like…like shit, man. Sorry, dude. Are we cool about swearing?”

“Still waiting for that answer,” Alice said.

“Sorry, I got sidetracked by the sparkling quality of this guy’s r
iveting banter. I’ve decided it’s time to see how I’ll react. Or rather, I want to know whether I’m overreacting.”

“OK, but here’s the deal. If you go psycho on me, I’m out of here.”

Finally, having exhausted the moron’s supply of misplaced bravado and shifted him from the sofa, Stevie McKean was now introducing his next two guests. The audience began their dutiful burst of enthusiastic applause. His body thrumming with nervous energy, Clayton slid off the sofa and joined Alice on the floor. His shoulder touched hers.

She turned and looked at him. Their eyes met and for the craziest of nanoseconds he contemplated kissing her. Anything to distract himself.

Erm…not a good idea
, Captain Sensible cautioned from the back row of the cheap seats inside his head.

The applause reached its crescendo as Lucky Bazza and Stacey took their positions on the sofa. Stacey’s expression, as she acknowledged Stevie and the audience, was loaded with sugary Hallmark card sincerity. She even had the Princess Di head tilt going on.

“Well,” said Stevie when the applause had ebbed away, “you’ve had a busy time of it recently. I don’t seem to be able to open a magazine or a newspaper without seeing the pair of you in it.”

“I’ll second that,” Clayton muttered.

Lucky Bazza gave a coy little shrug as if to say, what’s a guy to do, can we help being so damned popular? “Yes, Stevie,” Stacey said gravely, “we’re hoping it’s all going to calm down before too long.”

“Like hell you do!” Clayton muttered.

“Are you going to mutter like that throughout the entire interview?” Alice asked.

“Probably.”

“I hear congratulations are in order,” Stevie said with a twinkling, meaningful look. “I hope there’s an invitation in the post for me.”

Stacey reached for Lucky Bazza’s hand and they gazed sickeningly into each other’s eyes. After an eternity had passed, Stacey said, “You’re more than welcome to the wedding, Stevie, but I have to tell you, it won’t be anything grand. It’s going to be very low-key.”

“Oh, in that case I won’t come,” Stevie quipped. “I only do grand these days.” The audience tittered, as did the Golden Couple.

“We don’t want to do anything overly lavish,” Lucky Bazza said earnestly and speaking for the first time, “not when there’s so much human suffering in the world. It would seem obscene.”

“So no delicious photos in
Hello!
for us to enjoy?”

If it were possible, Lucky Bazza adopted an even more earnest tone. “There will be pictures in
Hello!
” he said, “but we won’t be touching a penny of the fee; we’re donating it to an orphanage in Malawi.”

There was a collective
aah
from the audience.

“Would that be the same orphanage where the world’s most notorious child-snatcher stole a baby?”

The audience snickered, but there was a perceptible slip to Stacey’s sugary Hallmark card expression. “Now, Stevie,” she rebuked him, “you know that’s not true. Madonna went through all the proper channels. Why only the other day, she was telling me that—”

“I don’t believe it!” Clayton shouted at the television. “They’re hobnobbing with Madonna these days!”

“Ssh!” Alice said.

“You’re pals with dear old Madge, are you?” Stevie said with an exaggerated look of awe.

“We’ve spoken a few times on the telephone,” Stacey said. “I decided to get in touch with her about the orphanage so we could make a donation.”

“It’s what everybody does, isn’t it?” muttered Clayton. “It’s the first thing that would enter my mind if I had some cash to give away. I’d call Madonna.”

“So you’re getting a right old wodge of cash for your wedding snaps, are you?”

“As Barry explained,” Stacey said with a steely tone that belied the saintly expression on her face, “we won’t be receiving a penny. It will all go to the orphanage. After we lost our—” she paused for unmistakable dramatic effect—“after we lost our baby—” another pause as she and Lucky Bazza exchanged doe-eyed glances—“we just felt this was the right thing to do. Something positive.”

“Oh, shit, here we go.”

“
Ssh!
”

“The loss of your baby has been well-documented in the press, and I know how painful that must have been for you, so perhaps it’s better if we don’t—”

“That’s all right, Stevie,” Stacey said hurriedly, as if she were terrified she might be denied the chance to lay out her stall of well-publicized emotions. “We don’t mind talking about it. Especially if it will help other couples who have had to face the trauma of a miscarriage.”

“You’re very brave.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” she said. “But if Clayton is watching this…” she snapped her head round to find the camera and stared directly into it like a real chat-show pro. “I’d just like to tell him that we no longer bear him any malice.”

“Really?”

“Really, Stevie. In my opinion he needs help. You know, professional help. Barry feels the same way. Isn’t that right, Barry?”

The camera zoomed in on Lucky Bazza’s face: his forehead was shiny with perspiration. “Clayton had more than his fair share of problems and bad luck,” he said, “and I want him to know that I wish him nothing but the best.”

The camera stayed on Barry for an unnaturally long time, then slowly panned to the show’s host. “Ladies and gentlemen, I think we should give this extraordinary couple a round of applause and wish them well for the future. And Clayton,” he added when the clapping was over, “if you are listening out there, let me tell you, you look a right slapper in a thong!”

“It wasn’t me in the thong!” Clayton shouted back at the TV.

“That’s all we’ve got time for today, folks,” beamed Stevie. “Catch us tomorrow when I’ll be chatting to a medium who’s regularly in touch with a whole host of stars, including Marilyn Monroe, Frank Sinatra and Elvis. Don’t miss it!”