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won this BAFTA without Betsy’s mental health problems?’

      Tim shrugged.

      I picked up a pile of magazines that were on his bookshelf and went through them one by one.

      ‘Amy wins big,’ I read, showing him a photo of me with an armload of statues at last year’s soap awards.

      ‘Steal Amy’s summer style.’ I opened Hot magazine at a fashion shoot I’d done and waved it at him.

      ‘Amy bares all?’ I fake-gasped, then giggled as I showed Tim the cover of Cosmo featuring a make-up-free me. ‘I was in make-up for an hour before that shoot.’

      ‘Don’t,’ Tim said. ‘Don’t do this.’

      But I was on a roll. I picked up Yay!

      ‘Amy and Matty: Our plans for the future,’ I read. My voice shook as my bravado deserted me.

      ‘I’ve lost him, Tim,’ I said, hugging the magazine close. ‘Don’t make me lose this, too.’

      ‘No one’s bigger than the show,’ Tim said sadly. ‘But you’ll be okay. You’re very talented.’

      ‘I can come back, right?’ I said, still gripping my magazine. ‘Betsy will come back?’

      Tim looked down at his feet.

      ‘We’re killing you off,’ he said.

      I couldn’t speak.

      ‘It’s going to be huge,’ Tim carried on. ‘The biggest whodunnit since “who shot JR?”. People will be talking about it for years.’

      I bit my lip. I didn’t want him to see me cry.

      ‘We’re rewriting some stuff,’ Tim said. ‘And we’ll film your last scenes this afternoon.’

      I felt sick. This afternoon? How could my entire life change so fast? But I pasted on a smile, took a deep breath and stood up, throwing Yay! down on the desk.

      ‘Okay then,’ I said briskly. ‘Let me have the script A-sap, yes? Thanks for everything.’

      I air-kissed him on both cheeks and legged it out of his office, down the corridor and into the safety of my dressing room. And then I started to cry.

       Chapter 2

      I never let myself cry for too long because I hated when my face got all puffy and my eyes swelled up. So after about ten minutes sobbing into the cushions on my dressing room sofa, I forced myself to get up and face the rest of the day. At Turpin Road we shared our dressing rooms, though I’d heard that on other soaps they got their own. I shared with two other actresses, which I quite liked, actually. They were nice enough and generally I enjoyed having someone to hang out with. Not today, though. Today I was relieved that they weren’t around and I had the place to myself so I could wallow in gloom alone.

      I knew that I’d be called on set soon, so I dragged myself into the shower, trying to think about anything and everything apart from the fact that in the space of twenty-four hours I’d gone from being TV’s hottest star to a jobless, homeless, boyfriendless nobody. I stifled another sob as I shampooed my hair. Crying wouldn’t solve anything.

      By the time I got out of the shower, I had thirteen missed calls – mostly from my agent, Babs, who’d been phoning me non-stop since the story went viral this morning – and a script pushed under my dressing room door. That was it then, the end of Betsy. I picked up the envelope – it was very thin, so obviously the script wasn’t very long. Poor Betsy. I took a deep breath before I opened the flap and scanned the text.

      Interior: The Prince Albert

      Betsy is clearing empty glasses after closing time. A noise makes her jump and turn.

      BETSY: You! What are you doing here?

      A hand reaches out and whacks Betsy on the head. She falls, motionless, to the ground.

      Disgusted, I threw the papers to the floor. I’d given this show three years of my life, and this was how they repaid me? I was their biggest asset. In my head I heard Tim’s voice in my head saying: ‘No one is bigger than Turpin Road, Amy.’ I winced. What a way for him to prove his point.

      Well, at least I didn’t have any lines to learn really. I could just lie on the sofa and feel sorry for myself until I got called on set.

      I slumped down and had had my eyes closed for about thirty seconds when my phone rang. Listlessly I looked at the screen. Babs. Again. I supposed I couldn’t avoid her for ever, so I swiped the screen to answer.

      ‘Hi Babs.’

      ‘Bloody bollocking hell, Amy. What the flaming arse have you been doing?’

      I held the phone away from my ear as she continued her foul-mouthed tirade. Babs swore like a trooper at the best of times, so when faced with a crisis – like now – she was really filthy. Eventually she calmed down a bit and I cautiously put the phone back to my ear. Her voice softened.

      ‘How are you?’ she said. ‘Are you holding up?’

      I felt close to tears again.

      ‘Don’t be nice,’ I warned. ‘I am barely holding it together and if you’re nice I’ll crumble.’

      ‘Chin up,’ Babs said in her no-nonsense Glasgow tone. ‘I’ve got good news and bad news. Which do you want first?’

      ‘Bad,’ I said, bracing myself.

      ‘The catalogue’s pulled your fashion line,’ she said. I groaned. That was the end of my wardrobe full of free clothes then.

      ‘And the good news?’

      ‘Hold on, I’ve not finished the bad news yet,’ Babs said. ‘Your nail varnishes are on hold but it’s not looking good, and I’ve had a call asking you not to come to the premiere tonight.’

      ‘I’d forgotten all about it,’ I said. ‘And all my clothes are at Matty’s flat anyway.’

      ‘Where are you staying?’ Babs asked.

      ‘Phil’s,’ I said, sitting up on the couch and picking up a cushion to hug. ‘He’s looking after me, like always.’

      ‘Every girl needs a gay best friend, eh?’ said Babs.

      I laughed without any real humour.

      ‘Yeah, well, it’s not quite so fabulous when your gay best friend’s boyfriend hates you,’ I said. ‘I can’t stay there for long.’

      ‘Where will you go?’

      ‘Not sure,’ I said. ‘Maybe to my mum’s for a while. Get some sun.’ And a whole lot of grief, though – I was trying not to think about that. Another thought struck me.

      ‘What’s the good news?’

      ‘What good news?’

      ‘You said there was good news’

      ‘Oh, yes,’ Babs said. ‘I just want you to know that this is not a disaster. I’ve got people out of worse scrapes than a small punch-up in a nightclub.’

      I smiled despite myself.

      ‘It wasn’t really a small punch,’ I said. ‘More of a wallop.’

      Babs made a dismissive sound.

      ‘And my knickers are all over the internet,’ I added, feeling another wave of self-pity.

      ‘Ach,’ said Babs. ‘It’s fine.’

      ‘It’s not fine,’ I said. ‘It’s awful. I really just want to go away for a while. Disappear for, like, six months, longer even. I can get off the bloody media roller coaster and lick my wounds,

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