How To Lose Weight And Alienate People - Ollie Quain

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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

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