It had taken a long time to convince Sheri to take the pregnancy test. Claire had insisted she used one of the home pregnancy tests – the ones you peed on to get a result, positive or negative – and that she did it in front of Max. That way Sheri couldn’t doctor the results. This story was worth a lot of money and there was no telling what Sheri would do to get it.
‘I’ve got to fucking piss in front of you?’
‘Yes, Sheri. Sorry. It’s at my boss’s request. She doesn’t know you as well as I do and she’s nervous about paying anyone that amount of money – you asked for twenty grand.’
Max thought it kinder not to mention the fact that no one with half a brain would trust Sheri in the same sentence as twenty grand.
Initially, Sheri had asked for twenty. Max had bartered her down to a more realistic price.
At first Sheri had refused point-blank to take the test.
In that case, Max had told her, no dinero.
‘I’ll go to the Sunday Mirror,’ she spat.
‘Sheri, they’ll just tell you the same and pay you a lot less.’ So Sheri had eventually succumbed and shut herself in the small toilet of her Bermondsey flat with Max.
Handing her the test kit, Max, dressed in a black, sixties-style Warehouse mini shift dress and black-leather, knee-high Gucci boots, felt her cheeks flush as she perched on the edge of the bath and watched Sheri.
She could hear Sir Trevor McDonald now. ‘And the award for losing all self-respect goes to a journalist who watches coke-head kiss-and-tell girls urinating in front of them. Ladies and gentlemen, Maxine –’
Max’s thoughts were interrupted by the noise of Sheri’s trickling pee. She looked up and took in the pathetic figure Sheri cut: her tracksuit bottoms crumpled on the floor under her orange legs, her skinny, muscle-less stomach on show under a T-shirt emblazoned with the words ‘You Want Some?’, which was cut off under her huge breasts.
Is this what Max’s career had come to? Years of effort, tears, hard work – for this?
She had gone straight from school to the local paper, the Dundee Courier, with the DC Thomson publishing family, fitting in journalism night classes at college where she learned 100-words-a-minute shorthand and media law.
Then, aged twenty, she moved down south to Manchester for a news reporter position on a respected local paper.
She was named young local journalist of the year at the National Press Awards when she was twenty-three and promptly offered a job with one of the Sunday tabloids in London. And now, as a showbiz reporter, life was whizzing by in a flurry of free bars and canapés. Well, when she wasn’t watching Sheri piss on a stick.
‘Done,’ announced Sheri, waving the kit above her head.
Max’s mobile rang before she could take it from her.
It rang three times before Sheri asked, with barely concealed irritation, ‘You gonna answer that or what?’
‘No. If it’s important they’ll leave a message.’
Sheri looked utterly devastated, dropping her gaze to the bathroom floor.
This pretty much confirmed Max’s suspicion that Sheri had planned to trick her.
Sheri had shouted ‘Done’ a little too loudly. Max guessed it was her flatmate Envy’s cue to call Max, withholding her number. Sheri knew Max always answered her phone for work and a few seconds would be enough time to swap the kit for another (either tampered with earlier or peed on by a woman who was really pregnant) hidden somewhere in her loo. You can’t trick a trickster, thought Max as she watched Sheri hoist up her pink Playboy thong and Juicy Couture tracksuit bottoms. How come she was tanned mahogany even on her hairless bits down there too?
A deflated Sheri handed the spatula to Max.
‘It hasn’t turned pink, Sheri – it’s negative.’
‘I swear the test I did yesterday was positive.’
Max didn’t have the heart to tell Sheri she knew what had happened. As ludicrous as the plan to deceive Max was, in Sheri’s desperate mind it was her only option. She needed money fast.
She had to look good and that came at a price – manicures, fake tan, hair extensions and designer bags. Maintaining her appearance was a full-time job. And she wouldn’t let the other glamour girls who were regulars on her club circuit have the satisfaction of seeing her dressed in H&M rather than Dolce & Gabbana.
But most of all she needed the money to pay off her coke dealer so she could start getting credit again. Sheri knew she was taking too much but a line or two took the edge off and she needed that for the confidence to blag herself into VIP areas and chat up stars.
She’d finished her last lot of coke before Max came. She liked Max and was normally honest with her. But she really needed the cash. Anyway, if Max had printed her pregnancy story she’d have said she’d had a miscarriage a couple of months later and nobody would have been any wiser.
‘Sorry, Sheri. I’m happy to stay and watch you do another test – this one might have been faulty – but I really can’t pay you if it’s negative.’
Max wanted to give the money to Sheri – and insist she used it on a spell in rehab.
Sure, she looked her tarty best for the snappers waiting outside Embassy or Elysium but it took a hell of a lot of time and money for Sheri to transform herself these days. She was taking so much coke she shivered uncontrollably – even when immersed in a piping-hot bath – until she’d had a livener. Her eyes were sunken, her streaky-blonde hair lank.
Max did not consider Sheri to be her friend exactly – how could they be when their relationship was based on stories for cash? Sheri helped Max get good scoops and therefore give her boss goodies for morning conference, while Max helped Sheri make a living. For what, though? To snort more marching powder, Max thought sadly. She couldn’t help but feel a little protective.
‘Sheri, I was thinking that maybe with the next lot of cash you get you could go away for a bit. Even party girls need their rest. There are some lovely spas just outside London. Or rehab? It’s all the rage with the A-listers. You might even get a famous boyfriend.’ Max hoped her tone was light enough so as not to sound like she was lecturing Sheri.
‘Nah, babes. I’m fine for now. Maybe in a few weeks I’ll ’ave a beach holiday or somefing.’
Max knew she couldn’t push it any further – it wasn’t her place.
But Sheri didn’t seem to have any real friends and Max couldn’t help feeling sorry for her.
‘Listen, Max, maybe I made a mistake with the test. Don’t worry about it.’
‘OK, Sheri. Listen, I have to head off. Will you be OK?’
‘Sure… Hey, Max?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘You couldn’t lend me fifty quid, could ya? I’ll pay you back next week.’
‘Sure,’ said Max, despising herself as she reached for her wallet.