Celebrity Shopper

by Carmen Reid

  She lay carefully back on the pillow, face, layer of cream and Frownies facing upwards, then she placed her gloved hands on top of the duvet.

  ‘That looks so relaxing,’ Ed told her. ‘You’re just going to nod off straightaway, aren’t you? Why don’t you put in your teeth-bleaching tray as well, just to help you doze off?’

  ‘Ed, I am so tired, I could be on a lilo at the top of a waterfall and I would sleep like a …’ She paused. There was no point saying she would sleep like a baby because those two at the end of the bed woke up every two hours and bawled.

  ‘Log,’ he finished her sentence.

  Annie closed her eyes but Ed, propped up on his elbow, continued to look at her affectionately.

  ‘Go to sleep,’ she told him.

  ‘I don’t want to,’ he whispered and reached over to put the strap which had slipped from her shoulder back into place.

  ‘Oh no … you can’t really be thinking … ?’ she began.

  ‘I’m always thinking … there’s no harm in just thinking,’ he said and ran his fingers gently round her shoulder; the merest touch, but it seemed to bring the hairs on the surface of her skin to life.

  He touched the side of her neck with the same very gentle, tickling caress.

  ‘I’m not doing anything,’ she told him, but she did nothing to move his hand away.

  ‘Neither am I,’ he replied, but his hand was still on her skin, ruffling the downy hairs, touching the very tips of her nerve-endings and making them tingle.

  When he slid the V-neck of her vest down, revealing her breast, she didn’t move, just lay with her eyes closed, perfectly still.

  ‘I’m just kissing your nipple,’ he whispered, ‘don’t read anything into it. Don’t expect it to lead anywhere …’

  But then she felt the roughness of his stubble and his warm, wet tongue against her. Her nipple puckered up to attention and she immediately felt blood rushing from her stomach down to tingle between her legs.

  Ed’s fingers moved over the skin on her stomach, then walked lower.

  ‘Just kissing your stomach,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t read anything into it … don’t expect …’

  But his fingers were touching expertly, parting the skin and finding absolutely, exactly … the right place.

  She didn’t want to move and not just because of the face cream, the Frownies and the cotton gloves. She wanted to do nothing, to lie back and let him and his tingling touch slide up and down against her. Wash over her.

  But then came the moment of urgency and Annie was wiping off both Frownies and Crème de la Mer with her cotton hands, peeling the gloves off and throwing them to the floor. Her vest and pyjama bottoms followed and now they were naked with intent.

  Ed sat on the edge of the bed, Annie straddled over him, his hands clasping at her buttocks, her breasts bouncing up and down against his chest, gloriously getting it together in delighted defiance of all the obstacles: the unexploded baby bombs, the beauty creams, the shooting schedule, the third series angst and the sheer, grinding exhaustion.

  A baby stirred.

  A baby definitely stirred.

  ‘Don’t stop,’ Annie whispered against his ear.

  ‘No,’ Ed assured her.

  They concentrated … this could be the only sex for weeks … it had to be good. It had to glow in their memories as a very happy moment; something definitely worth trying to get round to again.

  ‘Is this a good time to bring up the marriage question?’ Ed whispered against her ear.

  ‘No!’ she told him. ‘Definitely not. Just because you’ve got Owen to agree to violin practice doesn’t mean it’s your lucky night.’

  ‘Pleeeeease?’ he tried.

  ‘Babes, not now,’ she whispered. ‘Shhhh …’ she added, hoping this might soothe the stirring baby.

  They moved back across the bed and lay as quietly as they could, Annie feeling Ed’s heartbeat thud on top of hers and his blood pulse inside her.

  She wiggled her hips, wanting to feel him move against her again. Needing to feel him move against her again.

  He kissed her neck, slow, warm kisses from the shoulder up to the ear, which made her shudder with pleasure.

  ‘If anyone’s going to scream tonight,’ he whispered against her ear, ‘I want it to be you …’

  Chapter Eight

  Amelia’s work look:

  Batwing neon brights tunic (Topshop)

  White cropped jeans (Whistles)

  White wooden wedge sandals (New Look)

  Orange nail polish (Mac)

  Pink eye shadow (Miss Selfridge)

  Total est cost: £170

  ‘Girl, you so need more sleep.’

  ‘Knock, knock,’ Ed said outside Annie’s office door. He couldn’t actually knock because he had the tray of drinks orders in his hands.

  ‘Come in,’ Annie told him in a subdued voice.

  He opened the door with his shoulder and brought in the tray, setting it down on the desk where Annie and Amelia were once again going through her schedule.

  Annie was rubbing at her forehead, trying to make some impact on the exhaustion headache that was building up behind there. Her eyes alighted on the steaming cafetière, the two mugs, the jug of milk and the bowl of sugar Ed had just brought up from the kitchen, and she visibly perked up. ‘Oh yes! Everything’s going to be much better now. Ed do you have … the other stuff?’ she asked with a wink.

  ‘I really don’t know if you should be doing this, not with coffee. You’re going to be really jittery.’ Nevertheless, he slid one slim, chilled can of Red Bull from his trouser pocket.

  ‘Girl, you so need more sleep,’ Amelia informed Annie.

  ‘Yeah, try telling Micky and Minnie about that.’ She looked up at Ed and saw the dark blue rings underneath his eyes too.

  ‘OK.’ Ed nodded and turned to leave the room because he didn’t want this conversation to continue. He knew where it led; it led to talks of ‘sleep training’ and ‘sleep clinics’ and ‘sleep rules’ and he didn’t want to know.

  ‘So today’ – Amelia directed Annie’s attention back down to the sheets of paper in front of her – ‘I’ll take you over to the studio, we’ve got to film a few links in the morning, then there doesn’t seem to be anything else in the diary apart from “Check out high street”. Tomorrow, Friday, is obviously the full-on hectic all-day filming. Probably right on into the evening. We’re going out of town. Remember?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Annie did remember, but she was looking at today’s lunchtime gap in the schedule and wondering why it was there. She couldn’t remember organizing any time off. ‘So I’m supposed to be checking out some shops this afternoon?’ she asked.

  ‘Well … in your own time, if you are. There’s nothing official down.’

  ‘Thursday?’ Annie asked out loud. ‘I thought there was something else happening today.’

  ‘There’s nothing down here,’ Amelia assured her. ‘Anything in your personal diary?’

  Annie flicked through to the right page, but nothing had been written down. ‘Thursday?’ she frowned. There was something …

  Connor had arrived at De Soto’s almost twenty minutes early for his lunch date with Annie.

  He’d dressed carefully and taken a taxi, because you never knew whom you might run into. Well, at De Soto’s you hoped that you would run into everybody. That was the whole point.

  He walked up to the bar, took a seat and ordered himself a soda and lime with ‘plenty of ice, please’. In the mirror behind the bar, he briefly checked himself out and felt content with the handsome, well-groomed man reflected back at him.

  Connor had spent the last five years trying to come to terms with his phenomenal success as a TV, film and theatre actor. The past five months had been all about trying to come to terms with his phenomenal, well … ‘failure’ wasn’t a word he liked to use. ‘Hiatus’ was infinitely preferable.

  Three horrible things had happened to Connor all at once. His movie
career, currently based on one so-so film, hadn’t taken off in LA; The Manor, the TV series that had made Connor a star, which paid all Connor’s bills, on which Connor relied as his career backbone, had decided it could get along just fine without him; then, to add injury to insult, Connor’s boyfriend Hector had met someone much more appreciative of his many talents than Connor had ever been.

  Connor was definitely having a very bad run. Every morning he woke up and remembered how horrible his life was at the moment; then he psyched himself up, got out of bed, showered, dressed well and picked up the phone, hoping that today was the day things would start to get better. Much of the time he managed to keep the dread that his career was over to the back of his mind. But at least once a day and about three times a night, it flooded over him.

  His agent had promised to put him on the lists for as many auditions as possible.

  ‘Theatre, TV, film … whatever!’ Connor had advised him. ‘As long as there’s a cheque at the end of it, I’m there. What about adverts? Isn’t there anyone who’d like The Manor’s cheery policeman advertising their product?’

  ‘Well, it’s a bit tricky,’ his agent had admitted. ‘If you were still in the show—’

  ‘If I was still in the show,’ Connor had interrupted with exasperation, ‘we wouldn’t be having this conversation! I’d still be in bed dreaming of how to spend the vast amount of money in my bank account.’

  ‘How many times did I tell you to set plenty of money aside?’ his agent had blurted out. ‘Acting is an unpredictable career. How many times do I have to say that?’

  Sitting in the bar, Connor tried not to think of how rudely he’d replied to that comment.

  Never mind, today was a good day, he was wearing his favourite Armani sweater and jacket, his hair looked fantastic and he was about to be treated to lunch by one of Channel 4’s hottest new stars, his very own dear old best friend, Annie Valentine.

  ‘Hey, Connor!’ He felt a firm smack on the back and turned round to see a TV producer pal he hadn’t bumped into for ages. ‘How are you doing?’ Jay asked, pulling up the seat next to Connor’s and clearly preparing to settle down for a few minutes to chat.

  Connor was currently spending a lot of time prepping himself to give great answers to the ‘How are you doing?’ and ‘What are you up to?’ questions, but despite his prep, those questions still seemed to punch him in the solar plexus every time.

  ‘I’m … I’m … fine,’ he began, knowing perfectly well that it wouldn’t end there.

  ‘So what’s the big project that’s stolen you away from The Manor?’ Jay asked, because obviously the trade press had not been informed that Connor McCabe had in fact been axed from the Sunday schedule favourite.

  This was tricky. On the one hand Connor could lie and say it was something top secret and he couldn’t breathe a word about it just yet. On the other hand, wouldn’t it be useful for Jay to know that Connor was looking for something new? He might know of some good opportunities coming up.

  ‘I needed something new,’ he began carefully. ‘I’ve been doing The Manor for years … I’m speaking to lots of people but I’ve not found the right thing yet. So I’m biding my time, because I want it to be absolutely the right project.’

  ‘Ah!’ Jay smiled.

  Connor wasn’t 100 per cent happy about that smile. There was just a little hint of something in it: triumph? Sympathy? Something he wasn’t quite used to. He was used to telling people how fabulously everything was going and watching them as they tried to swallow down their jealousy and wish him well.

  ‘How about you?’ Connor added quickly.

  ‘Just been commissioned to do a new series for BBC Four,’ Jay said, giving a little wave to attract the attention of the barman. ‘Nothing fancy, nothing as well paid as you’re used to, I’m sure. But we are still looking for the lead, and we want to get a big name.’

  ‘Really?’ Connor tried not to sound too interested, tried in fact not to actually pant. ‘So what’s the series about?’

  ‘Costume drama …’ Jay began.

  Connor perked up. ‘How interesting!’ He knew he looked pretty damn good in a doublet and hose. He filled a hose.

  ‘It’s a new, much more realistic and insightful look …’

  ‘Yes?’ Connor encouraged him. This sounded good; he imagined himself striding about in his doublet and hose, swashbuckling a little. Maybe it was Dick Turpin the highwayman? He’d always fancied himself as a bandit.

  ‘… at The Elephant Man,’ Jay said.

  Connor’s lime and soda nearly splurted from his nostrils. The Elephant Man?

  ‘Oh boy,’ Connor had to tell him, ‘you’ll have a job casting a name in that part.’

  ‘John Hurt’s played him,’ Jay pointed out.

  ‘Even so … Who are you meeting here today?’

  ‘Another producer,’ Jay said before mentioning a name Connor didn’t recognize.

  ‘I’m sure he’d like to meet you,’ Jay added.

  ‘Thanks, I’d love to say hello,’ Connor gushed.

  ‘What about you?’ Jay asked. ‘Meeting anyone?’

  ‘Oh’ – Connor would at least enjoy this bit of the conversation – ‘my old friend … Annie Valentine,’ he said with relish.

  ‘Oooh! Annie Valentine.’ Jay looked impressed. ‘That show’s doing so well, isn’t it? Totally girlie pants obviously,’ he added spitefully, ‘but a ratings treasure.’

  ‘Hey! Don’t knock that show!’ Connor rushed to Annie’s defence. ‘I love that show.’

  ‘Sir?’ A waitress approached him. ‘It’s one p.m. Shall I show you to your table? You can wait for your guest there.’

  ‘That would be fantastic, thanks.’

  Connor was shown to his seat right in the middle of the restaurant. It was a generous four-seater table, which had been set for two. Connor seemed to remember that he’d mentioned both his and Annie’s names when he’d made the booking.

  The maître d’ was obviously a big Connor McCabe (or maybe, he had to grudgingly admit, a big Annie Valentine) fan, having placed them so conspicuously in the middle of the room like this.

  Several minutes later, Connor cast another glance at his watch. Surely she’d be here soon … wouldn’t she?

  Chapter Nine

  Plain Jane:

  Red trenchcoat (Debenhams sale)

  Blue sweatshirt (her sister’s)

  Faded khakis (Gap sale)

  Lace-up shoes (Clarks)

  Total est. cost: £105

  ‘You’re Annie Valentine!’

  Many, many miles from Soho, Annie was walking round a branch of Hobbs and looking at the clothes carefully. She was taking hangers down from the rails, feeling the material, checking out the price tags and assessing cut and colour, like the true professional she was.

  She had a tiny notebook in her hand with a small pencil pushed into the wire spiral binding. On the rare occasion when Annie found an item which met all her stringent criteria, she wrote it down in the notebook. Then Amelia would phone head office, a sample size 10 would be shipped out to the studio, and it might, just might, absolutely no promises or guarantees offered, be featured on the show.

  Of course the programme was sent things ahead of season, but Annie also liked to do it this way round: go to one of the less fashionable edge-of-town concessions on her own and see what was really out there hanging on the rails for women to choose.

  One of the shop assistants approached Annie to ask: ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks, just taking a good look. If I want to try anything on, I’ll let you know.’

  ‘OK.’ The assistant smiled and looked at her for just a little too long.

  Annie was trying to get used to this look. She came across it more often now. People would look at her and she could see them trying to work out why her face was familiar. ‘Have we met before?’ they would sometimes ask, to which Annie would wink and say: ‘No, but I’m sometimes on TV,’ as modestly as she c
ould possibly manage.

  ‘YOU’RE ANNIE VALENTINE, AREN’T YOU?’

  Annie was startled by the woman who ran straight up to her now, shouting this out at what seemed like the top of her voice.

  ‘YOU ARE! YOU’RE ANNIE!’ the woman went on. ‘I thought I saw you out in the street and I followed you in here.’

  Annie was slightly taken aback. Not only had she been spotted, she’d also been followed. Even though the woman looked perfectly normal, it was just a bit odd.

  ‘Yes,’ Annie said, smiling at her fan. ‘How nice of you to notice,’ she added, hoping this would calm the woman down.

  But it already felt as if there was something of a stir in the shop. The assistants had heard what the woman had said and so had several of the customers.

  ‘You have to help me!’ the woman exclaimed and reached out to take hold of Annie’s arm with both of her hands.

  ‘How can I help you, darlin’?’ Annie asked cheerfully, trying not to worry about how strange this was making her feel.

  ‘Look at me!’ the woman blurted out. ‘I need your help. If you don’t help me, I … I don’t know what I’m going to do!’

  Annie looked at the woman closely. She was aged somewhere between forty-five and fifty-five. Her hair was dark with lots of grey shot through it, in a messy, grown-out short cut. She was buttoned up into a shapeless red trenchcoat which didn’t go well with her chubby red face.

  ‘What help do you need?’ Annie asked in her most soothing voice.

  ‘I need you to shop with me!’ the woman exclaimed. ‘I’m absolutely useless. I have no idea what suits me or what goes with what and all these girls’ – she waved about the store with her hand – ‘they’re no good. They never help me either.’ Suddenly her shoulders seemed to sag and any sense of threat totally disappeared from her.

  ‘That’s fine,’ Annie assured her with a smile, ‘I’ve got some time, so we’ll do a little bit of shopping together.’