LITMIR.BIZ

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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.’

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