Girls' Night In

by Jessica Adams

  ‘Word on the street is that PR pairings are the thing when it comes to dating,’ Sly persisted, flattening himself back on the sofa as my fat old terrier, Carrot, flumped from one cushion to another in search of buried crumbs. ‘Meeting your lover at the Priory Clinic is very last year. Everyone’s getting together through the Alchemist these days.’

  ‘I don’t need another relationship right now – fake or otherwise,’ I sighed, reaching for my coffee. ‘I prefer life away from the spotlight.’

  He looked as though I’d said I’d be perfectly content wing-walking nude over the Gobi. ‘Smack, darling, you’re festering. You’re just this far away from appearing in one of those ghastly where-are-they-now shows.’ He pinched his fingers together and then narrowed his eyes as he spotted a chipped nail from fighting his way through my overgrown front gate.

  ‘My name is Sadie, not Smack,’ I reminded him gently. ‘No one’s called me Smack for months. People around here have no idea who Smack was.’

  ‘Precisely my point!’ he bashed his hand down on a cushion, propelling Carrot on to my lap. ‘You need to get back into the scene, go to some lovely parties, buy some new frocks. Look at you, you’re so gorgeous. You’re sitting in the middle of this – this isolated tip, accumulating cobwebs like Miss Haversham. And what is that?’ He spotted what appeared to be a sleeping woolly mammoth in the corner of the room.

  ‘Carrot’s bed,’ I explained sadly. ‘It’s a pile of gorilla suits Bill was going to use in the Christmas special before it was scrapped.’

  Admittedly, the cottage wasn’t looking its best. It was as dusty as a moth’s wing and three days of constant rain had left mud trodden all over the bare elm floorboards. When we’d bought the place six months ago, Bill and I had planned to scour antique shops and European flea markets for furniture. But I had no desire to shop now that I was alone and broke.

  Sly shuddered, doubly determined to make his journey into the wilderness worthwhile. ‘It’s time you cashed in, darling. Since he left you, Bill’s press has been so absolutely diabolical that he’ll never work in the UK again. You know the deal. As your agent, it’s my duty to get you out of this depression. I’m going to call the Alchemist straight away.’ He delved in his Prada courier bag for his mobile. ‘Face it, Smack – I mean, Sadie, darling – you’re up to your silicones in debt. You’ll lose this place soon. And Bill needs – Ah, hello, Al. Sly Preston here – the sly guy with the eye for to-die-for stars, remember?’ Sly had been spending too much time in Hollywood lately. ‘Now I am going to say one word and I guarantee you’ll pass out with happiness. Smack!’

  I pulled a face at Carrot as Sly started discussing me with the Svengali of the tabloids, a man who could give so much spin to a fading star that the Sun lit up.

  ‘Yes, that’s right. Bill Roth’s ex, as in “Smack my bitch up”,’ Sly was purring into his phone. ‘Mmm, co-hosted Loved Up, yes – now on NBC with Ash Numan. Not a patch on Smack. No, she still looks great. Suicide attempts?’ He looked at me in shock. ‘Not as far as I know. Oh, I see, that’s good press, is it? Maybe it can be arranged. Lunch? Let’s gaze at our windows as Chekhov said.’ He peered at his electronic diary.

  I closed my eyes. ‘Smack my bitch up.’ Oh Bill, if only they’d really known you, your adoring public. If only they’d seen the private side I saw, the gentle humorist, the philosopher, the lover who took all night to satisfy me even though it no longer gave him pleasure.

  In the six months since I’d been gone, London had turned its restaurant tables. I hadn’t even heard of the Michelin-starred Course in which we met A1 Matthews. It was a predictable minimalist hush of rich, celeb-spotting diners, and to my horror I seemed to be the star attraction.

  As expressionless waiters glided around on invisible tracks tending to our every whim, I studied Al over a Zen flower arrangement. He was known as the Alchemist, not just because he could turn base metal into gold, but because it was rumoured he knew precisely the right measure of drugs to keep most of his burnt-out celebrity clients partying late into the night. Yet he wasn’t quite the designer-suited automaton I remembered from endless parties with Bill. He was more self-effacing with very clever blue eyes. It was a calculated front, I realized, guaranteed to charm and disarm. It irritated me to find him so likeable. There was no denying his guile.

  ‘Now, sorry to go through the obvious, but I want to get my facts straight,’ he smiled easily. ‘You exploded into the spotlight because you were Bill Roth’s girlfriend, right?’

  ‘Well, yes–’ I started.

  ‘Not at all,’ Sly cut across me archly. ‘Smack – or rather Sadie, was a serious broadcaster in her own right before Bill head-hunted her from GLR to become the female voice in his radio zoo crew. She also co-produced many of his television shows.’

  ‘I can see why Roth brought you into the equation,’ A1 Matthews was looking at me thoughtfully, assessing the damage, the raw materials still available now that I had been robbed of my greatest asset, a celebrity relationship. ‘And you co-hosted all three series of Loved Up, as well as fronting commercials, writing several columns and continuing to work on radio?’ He sounded as though he was drafting my press release.

  I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. Loved Up had, in fact, been my idea. Not that I had ever leaked that, not even when Bill had broken his UK contract after three hit series and taken the ten-million viewer TV show to America with an ultra-famous new co-host. He was Hollywood A-list now, whereas I was credit card black-list and only remembered as his long suffering side-kick, the Ernie to his Eric, the Little to his Larging-it success.

  ‘The ad campaign for Tsar Vodka alone netted Smack a cool two million,’ Sly boasted, having set it up. ‘And let’s not forget that she came in third in MX magazine’s Sexiest Women on Earth pole only last year.’

  ‘Just before Bill ran away with Ash Numan, who incidentally came in at number two,’ I muttered. ‘He would have tried for the chart topper, but boning Lara Croft might lead to electrocution, not to mention the constant threat of a T Rex attack.’

  A1 hid a smile. I know my loudmouth Essex raver attitude irritates some people, but he seemed to like it which surprised me, given that he was so posh.

  ‘Sadie’s strength is in cutting-edge journalism,’ Sly clearly didn’t trust me to sell myself. ‘Her party column made cult reading.’

  ‘So did your credit card bills by all accounts,’ A1 glanced at his notes. ‘And a black Amex card has a very good cutting edge.’

  ‘There’s only one Bill I still owe,’ I hissed, deciding I didn’t like him after all. ‘Contrary to what you may have read in the papers, I did not take cocaine, or shop like it was going out of fashion, nor did I have personality and eating disorders.’

  ‘So set the record straight,’ A1 creased his forehead. ‘You can write, we know that; you’re clever as well as beautiful. I know you won’t kiss-and-tell but why not get a book deal? The syndication rights alone could earn you–’

  ‘The story’s not for sale,’ I snapped. ‘Like Sly says, I just want to be seen at a few parties, show the world I’m over it, raise my profile.’ I knew I sounded like I was having my teeth pulled, and Sly kept kicking me under the table, which didn’t help. I stared at Al’s curious asymmetric face with its crown of wild curls. For someone that repackaged people for a living, it seemed odd that he cared so little about his own image.

  A1 was watching my reactions carefully. ‘What good will appearing on a minor star’s arm do you at this stage? You’re not a bimbo.’ He sounded strangely sad.

  ‘Anyone would think you were trying to do yourself out of a job here, Al,’ Sly laughed nervously, knowing that if I hooked up with the right cheque-mate he stood to cash in on a small fortune, and not just in money. ‘You’re crying out for someone like Sadie. What’s the problem?’

  ‘I just want to make sure she’s ready,’ Al cocked his head, clever blue eyes seeming to strip my face of its skin. ‘Once bitten, twice camera-shy, after all
.’ It wasn’t the voice of a therapist, just a businessman who wanted to protect his investments and avoid messy mergers. It was common knowledge that Al’s sham get-togethers were starting to irritate the tabloids.

  ‘I’m ready,’ I shrugged far from enthusiastically. ‘I need the money.’

  His eyes didn’t leave mine. ‘I wish I could be so sure that’s all you’re after.’

  I stared back at him and instantly knew that he had rumbled me. I wanted to run back to my cottage. I wanted to bury my face in Carrot’s neck until the bailiffs arrived to throw us out. But Al Matthews said no more; he simply nodded at me and looked away. He seemed weary and surprisingly indifferent. I followed his gaze around the Course dining room, totally alienated from all the little power-hunches over power lunches taking place all around us. I half suspected that if I suggested Al and I slope out for a quiet pint he’d be game on, but Sly was calling the shots and picking up the Bill today.

  ‘You heard her, damn it, she says she’s ready,’ he was almost off his chair with excitement. ‘Tell us who you have in mind. Sadie won’t let you down, we promise.’

  Sighing, Al delved into a slimline briefcase to pull out several folders. ‘Next week is the Sound Awards, followed almost immediately by Elvis James’ annual ball, the Duke of Suffolk charity gala and then Red and Slim’s wedding. I am responsible for the smooth-running of all four events, and a big part of that is making sure the guest lists are topped up with newsworthy stars and their, er, partners.’ He fanned the files out in front of him and looked up at me tiredly. ‘Take your pick.’

  I couldn’t focus as I glanced at the names and faces swimming in front of me – druggy teenage pin-ups, fading comics, drunken footballers and wife-beating celebrity chefs all in need of an image boost. What did it matter? They were all in the same boat. I picked one at random. ‘Have him washed and dressed and brought to my hotel in a limousine an hour before the party,’ I joked feebly.

  Al slid a finger beneath his collar and cleared his throat. ‘Are you sure?’ Again, his eyes seemed to bore into my soul.

  ‘She’s sure,’ Sly grabbed the file and looked at it. ‘Oh yes, he’s gorgeous. Shame about the paedophile rumours. The papers will write anything these days.’

  A week later and the papers were all writing that I was dating the Premier League’s top striker. We had been seen at several parties together, plus shopping at Brown’s, lunching in Paris and out walking Carrot in Hyde Park. That annoyed me – I didn’t want Carrot exploited, but I was determined to be a consummate professional. I wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible.

  I wasn’t yet headline news, but I was back on the Tiffany chain gang. The phone in my hotel suite rang constantly, mostly calls from Al who was picking up my bills and making sure I gave good quote.

  ‘The Mirror want an exclusive. Your new-found love with Vizza, how he saved you from near-suicide. They’re offering good money.’

  ‘I won’t talk about Bill,’ I threatened. We argued about it endlessly, but I always got my way. He was annoyingly fascinated by our break-up.

  Of course, I couldn’t stop the press from writing about Bill anyway. Stories of my new romance had stirred up the whole love rat thing again, as I’d known they would. His name took another knocking as the nation was reminded how he’d dumped the pocket Venus for the six-foot Amazon to further his career over the Pond. The mud didn’t reach him in the States, but it was looking more and more unlikely that he’d be popping back to see his old ma in Guildford in the near future.

  ‘It’s what you wanted, isn’t it, Sadie?’ Al laughed cynically. ‘Revenge?’

  Knowing he couldn’t have been more wrong, I didn’t answer. Something about Al got under my skin, struck me as odd. He seemed almost as reluctant to be in this business as I was. If it weren’t for his reputation, I’d say he hated it.

  My ‘relationship’ with Vizza lasted just over a fortnight, and Al gave me a week off for good behaviour while Vizza revelled in increasingly outlandish exclusives, revealing his broken heart. Yeah. Like he knew how it felt – not.

  I installed satellite in my cottage, courtesy of the Mirror exclusive. Together, Carrot and I watched primetime television from America in the UK early hours. Night after night, I studied Ash Numan’s face, wondering how one woman could be so flawless. Watching Bill made me cry. He was back to his old form, just like the early days, almost deranged with energy and anger, not the self-satisfied overweight smug-bugger he’d latterly become in the UK series. Christ, he was operating. He was cruel and funny and sexy. I couldn’t take my eyes from the screen.

  To my amazement Vizza called several times a day, sometimes in tears, begging me in his broken English to reconsider ‘our love’. What love? He’d barely talked to me. Admittedly he’d tried to kiss me, but he’d also tried to kiss two members of a boy band in Kabaret, and Frankie Dettori at a sports charity dinner. At least Bill had been discreet.

  Al phoned me on Sunday to demand I buy the News and read a feature they’d cobbled together about me in the light of my latest doomed love affair. I snorted with laughter as it talked of my ‘inexplicable, compelling, dangerous sex appeal’, which brought grown men to their knees. If only they could see me now, schlepping around in shorts and wellies, eating ice cream at two in the morning as I watched Bill on television. The gap between truth and tabloid had never been greater. The plan was starting to work.

  ‘It’s time for the big guns,’ Al told me. ‘Are you sure you’re ready?’

  ‘I’m sure,’ I insisted, knowing that I had no choice now that the ball was rolling.

  Soon afterwards, I was officially the love of George Brian’s life. George was a tricky one. He was far more persistent than camp, confused Vizza, and he treated me as little different from a hired escort. Al had to repeatedly warn him off and remind him that it was just publicity.

  ‘I can fight my own battles,’ I told him, but he still appeared at most of the parties we went to, like a discreet bodyguard. To be honest, it was good to have someone to talk to – George communicated only in grunts. But the more I talked to Al, the more I realized that he resented saving celebrities from their own excesses.

  ‘Take George,’ he sighed, pointing out my supposed faithful new boyfriend slipping his hotel key card to a teenage model at a film premiere. ‘He thinks his fame makes him invincible. That’s my fault. I expect Bill was like that too, wasn’t he?’

  I ignored the question and made Al go and discreetly fetch George’s key while I resumed my duties at his side, acting the adoring girlfriend, jokily deflecting journalists’ questions about marriage and babies.

  George Brian was far hotter property than Vizza, a big-name actor with a long criminal record. As his girlfriend, I was instantly headline news, and the press swarmed all over me. My hotel was besieged, my face was everywhere, and Sly delightedly reported that offers of work were now flooding in.

  ‘You are so, so lucky going out with lovely George,’ he giggled. ‘Tell me, are the rumours true? Does he have a tattoo on it?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know – it’s strictly business,’ I snapped, although fighting him off was getting harder and harder. If only Bill had been so keen.

  Despite my resilience, I couldn’t take George for long. After a month, my body was black and blue from being felt up; I hated his stale breath and stupidity. George wanted me to join him on location in Italy, but I’d had enough and called time, asking Al if he could set me up with someone less demanding.

  To my alarm, the once-ambitious Alchemist refused, saying that we needed to cool my hot date image. ‘You’ve amazed me, Sadie. The press love you. You have the X factor they can’t get enough of. But you can go it alone now.’

  Much as I wanted to stay at home and watch Loved Up, I knew I was too close to my goal to give up. ‘I have to do one more. Just one more.’

  ‘They’ll cotton on to the fact that you just date my clients,’ he argued. ‘We’ve gone far enough. Vizza’s been tra
nsferred for five million; George has scotched the date rape rumours. You’ve got a column, a potential chat show and a new radio contract. It’s worked. Don’t be greedy. The press might well turn against you if you carry on.’

  ‘Just one more,’ I pleaded. ‘You have a list of clients as long as your arm who could use my help. I have credibility and you need that.’

  ‘Are you doing this for yourself or for me?’ he laughed, giving in. Why did he suddenly keep reminding me of Bill?

  My cottage was being made-over by a woman’s magazine, so I stayed in London and gave away the endless roses Vizza sent me to local hospitals. By the end of the week, the wards of UCH looked like marquees at Chelsea Flower Show and the papers went into overdrive as I was spotted coming out of The Ivy with new young pop heat throb, Mac Savage. I strongly suspected that Al had only paired us up because Smack and Mac looked great linked in print. He was getting dangerously cynical.

  Mac was sweet. Young, excited, hampered by a huge crush but far too shy to try it on. Best of all, he was a huge fan of Bill’s. He even sat up yawning in my hotel suite, drinking Sprite from the mini-bar as he watched Loved Up on NBC and agreed that Bill had got his old spirit back. But then he blew it by asking me to seduce him.

  ‘Bill was mad to dump you for that fake monster. You’re so beautiful.’

  I cried for hours. Poor Mac tried to understand, doling out tissues and joking that he’d been using Kleenex himself all week, but to mop up something far less delicate than my tears. He even said he loved me. Shit, I felt bad about that one.

  Al was livid.

  ‘You weren’t supposed to sleep with him!’ he complained when the papers were full of long-lens photographs of Mac leaving my hotel at dawn, looking rumpled and stubbly and devastatingly handsome.

  ‘I didn’t. We watched television,’ I sighed. ‘I thought this was precisely the sort of press you wanted. This is what you hired me for.’

  ‘I didn’t hire you,’ he sighed. ‘You employed me. I used to be quite good. And I don’t want to make you look cheap. This story just makes you look cheap, Sadie.’