11

In the back of the limousine, Delia Cartwright reached for Oscar Buzz’s hand. When he didn’t reciprocate the squeeze she gave it, she pulled her hand away.

Too early! She felt foolish. Maybe later, when he’s tanked up on free champagne...

She looked out of the window, not seeing the streets of Dedley passing by. Damn it; you’re a beautiful woman. Men the world over would love to get a leg over you. Why do you think he needs to be pissed as a fart to see that?

She forced herself not to cry - a much more valuable skill than being able to cry on demand, she’d found. She didn’t want to ruin her face when there’d be paps waiting as soon as the car pulled up at the venue. She began practicing her smile.

At her side, Oscar Buzz was lost in thought. He hadn’t heard from Dan all day and it concerned him. He cursed himself for agreeing to accompany the doe-eyed actress to this whatever-the-hell-it-was they were going to, when he could be spending the evening with Dan. Ah, Dan... For all the similarities, there was something different about Dan. Different from all the other hangers-on, the fan boys and the star-fuckers. Not that there had been many of those for a long time. Pinkie always saw them off.

Pinkie!

Oscar chuckled to himself. He’d left Pinkie waiting for him in his trailer. He was most probably still there now, filling the place with dream catchers, scented candles and incantations. What a jerk.

It served Pinkie right. Flying over here uninvited.

Perhaps I can duck out of this fashion thing early, Oscar thought. I can develop a headache. I can make some excuse - Hell, I am an actor, aren’t I? I’ll do the minimum, show my face, up the charity’s profile - whatever the fuck it is they’re supporting. And then I’ll tell Delia I’ve got to go. Heavy scene tomorrow and all that. Need my rest. Alone.

Feeling a good deal better about the evening ahead, Oscar broke into a grin. The car glided to a halt. The driver got out and opened the door. Oscar stepped out into camera flashes and thrusting microphones. Graciously, he took Delia’s hand and helped her from the limo. The crowd of fans cordoned off by hired muscle oohed and ahhed.

Oscar and Delia stood close, still holding hands, and beamed for the photographers. Delia leant her head against his shoulder. The crowd gasped: this was as good as the beautiful couple having full-on sexual intercourse in front of them.

Oscar escorted Delia up the red carpet, waving and grinning at a sea of camera phones.

“Miss Cartwright! Mr Buzz!” reporters clamoured for their attention. “Have you any statement to make at this time?”

“It’s all for a great cause,” said Oscar Buzz.

“We’re very happy,” said Delia Cartwright. “To be here,” she added with a wink.

They entered the foyer where a champagne reception was underway. The great and good from Birmingham were there. The weather presenter from local television. Some radio djs, who no one recognised until they spoke. The manager of a football club. The Mayor of Dedley.

And Bunny Slippers.

“Darlings, darlings!” she swept across the foyer in a sparkling evening gown. “Isn’t this marvellous! Do you know, I haven’t been invited to one of these shindigs for years?”

“Hello, Bunny,” said Delia, airkissing near Bunny’s cheeks.

“Shindig?” said Oscar.

“Oh, I don’t think there’ll be dancing,” said Delia. “This is a fashion show, remember.”

“There will if I have anything to do with it,” laughed Bunny. She shuffled off to get a refill.

“Dear old Bunny,” said Delia. She risked hooking her arm through Oscar’s. More flashes went off around them.

“She’s a sweetheart,” said Oscar. “Excuse me, I need to find the restroom.”

He detached himself and slipped away. Delia did her best to stop her smile from faltering. She waved vaguely at people across the room and wished her clutch purse was big enough to hide behind or climb into.

A man approached. “Miss Cartwright, stunning as always.”

“Thank you, kind sir!”

“So what’s all this I hear about Hospital Corners?”

“What have you heard?”

“That there’s more drama off-set than on... You and a certain Hollywood heartthrob, for instance... ”

Delia batted her eyelashes and did her best to look coy. “I think our chemistry will ignite the screen,” she said. She pretended to see someone she knew across the room and, excusing herself, left the reporter where he was.

Where was Oscar? The show was about to begin. People were being ushered into the auditorium.

Delia jumped as a hand clamped onto her arm.

“You can sit by me, dear,” grinned Bunny Slippers, already three sheets to the wind. Her dentures wobbled. Before Delia could utter a word, she found herself being whisked through the doors and down the central aisle to the front row.

“You can keep me awake, dear,” Bunny nudged her with a sharp elbow. “I tend to fart in my sleep and that would only frighten the models.”

***

Pinkie Green was furious. He lit a third incense stick to clear his bad mood. The previous two must have been defective. He sat on the floor of Oscar’s trailer in the lotus position and pressed his fingertips together.

He tried chanting but he was too wound up. Fucking Oscar and his fucking online boyfriend. Or best friend. Or whatever the hell he was. The point was Oscar shouldn’t want anyone else while he had Pinkie in his life. Pinkie could do anything and everything Oscar might require - why then was he talking to men halfway around the world?

It pained Pinkie but he couldn’t help poring over the printouts of those private conversations. Why did Oscar never tell him any of this stuff? Oh, you adore the British accent, do you? Oh, you admire a guy with intelligence? Oh, you were bitten on the knee by a rattlesnake when you were a kid?

The guy’s replies were just as gut-wrenchingly awful. Oh, you adore an American accent - on the right guy? Oh, you think intelligence attracts intelligence, do you? Prick! And you once twisted your ankle running away from an earthworm?

Funny guy.

Fucking prick.

Pinkie cast around for something to drink. In a kitchen unit he found a bottle of Scotch. A gift, no doubt, from the intelligent, funny British guy with worm-o-fucking-phobia.

He took a sip and spent the next couple of minutes coughing. Neat Scotch was not his usual tipple. But it was too much to hope there’d be the makings of a sea breeze or a slippery nipple in a crappy trailer in the asshole of England. He took another sip. It went down easier this time so he drank a bit more. It did nothing to assuage his anger but somehow it brought matters into startling clarity.

He was willing to bet his left nut that’s where Oscar was right that minute. Boinking the British guy, who just happened to be Oscar’s stand-in on his latest picture. Oh, well played, British guy! There’s no question about your intelligence.

He took a hefty glug but slipped and drenched his smock top with whisky.

Shit.

He didn’t want Oscar to come in and find him in that state, stinking of booze. He’d only had enough to steady his frazzled nerves, but Oscar wouldn’t believe it.

Shit fuck.

Pinkie peeled off the sodden shirt and twisted the shower control to the ON position.

Yeah! A shower would calm him down as well as make him smell fresh.

He stripped off the rest of his clothes and left them pooled on the floor. He got into the booth and slid the Perspex door closed. The jet of water hit him in the face, energising him. Within seconds, Pinkie began to feel better. Why, clean and fresh and pretty again, Pinkie would be nothing short of irresistible. Oscar wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off him.

He sang to himself and to the spirits of refreshing, life-giving water and to the omniscient Power of Now, praising and thanking as the case may be, but his song was interrupted by the sound of someone coming into the trailer. A shadowy figure loomed beyond the steamed-up screen. Pinkie slid the door open and thrust out his head.

“Oh,” he breathed out in relief, “it’s you!”

***

Delia Cartwright, having been unable to concentrate on the fashion parade - it was amateurish stuff and unimaginative, and you wouldn’t catch Delia Cartwright dead in as much as a stitch of it - she’d slipped out for some air. This was easily accomplished because Bunny Slippers had dozed off as soon as the houselights had dimmed. Oscar Buzz hadn’t returned and she wondered if he was in some toilet stall snorting something or other. She knew what those Hollywood stars could be like. Unlike the Brits who preferred a mug of builder’s tea and a chocolate digestive.

She asked one of the doormen to summon her car. While she waited she occupied herself with her phone, googling Oscar Buzz. Looking for pictures or stories that linked her with him.

Closeted Star Flies To England.

Buzz Buzzes Off to Britain.

Oscar Flees Gay Scandal.

What was all this bollocks? Delia sighed. She supposed it was the lot of those in the public eye. The higher up you were, the more this kind of shit was flung at you. It was part of the deal, she reckoned, having fallen victim to her own cellulite-on-the-beach photograph only last summer. It had done wonders for her gym membership.

The car pulled up. She flopped into the back seat. After a while she realised the car was going nowhere and the driver was patiently awaiting instruction.

“Oh, I don’t bloody know,” she sighed. “Take me where the movie stars go.”

She sat back and the car pulled away. She supposed she would end up at some swish nightspot where she could dance and drink the night away. She was surprised, then, to be roused from her google search to find the fool of a driver had brought her to the movie set. The grim edifice loomed in the dark, foreboding and malevolent. You could make a great horror film here, she observed.

“Um, thank you, driver,” she jiggled the door release. “I - er - I left my script here and need to learn it before the morning.”

In the rear view mirror the driver’s eyes rolled up, as if he understood completely what it is to be a high-pressured, globally famous film star.

She tottered across the forecourt in her ungainly heels and fished in her clutch purse for the keys to her trailer. The stillness of the place was menacing. By day it was a hive of activity, a cauldron of creativity; there was definitely a different vibe by night.

There’s a bottle of voddy in my trailer, she remembered. This little trip wouldn’t be a complete waste of time after all.

She heard something. She paused and tried to focus on the sound.

Bloody whale song!

Who the bloody hell was playing whale song at this time of night? She turned a corner and reached the car park that was crowded with trucks and trailers. Lights were on in one of them - she knew which right away.

Oscar!

You sneaky bastard! Abandon me at that fucking feeble fashion fiasco and come back here and listen to fucking whale song!

Well, we’ll see about that.

She slipped out of her shoes and strode wilfully to Oscar’s door.