Max had been sitting outside the pop star Jay Conner’s Hampstead house for two hours. At least she was warm; she was in Greg’s van with blacked-out windows. Greg, a photographer with baggy jeans and shifty eyes, worked for the same paper. He moaned less than most of the snappers, but their conversation had dried up a good hour ago and Max studied the Daily Express. Not that there was much to study apart from a couple of thin showbiz stories and the obligatory front page about Princess Diana. What was it with the paper’s obsession with her more than a decade after her death? Max browsed the sport pages. A poor knowledge of the big-hitting Premiership football players’ names, their salaries and their positions let down many a female showbiz reporter. Football and celebrity were inextricably entwined, after all, Max thought as she nursed a polystyrene cup of lukewarm coffee from a café at the end of the road.
Max’s boss had had a tip that Jay – whose second single had followed the first to the top of the charts last week – was in the grip of a serious addiction to the old Columbian marching powder and his dealer called by his house religiously on Thursday afternoons. As many stars who had found fame at a young age would testify, they had no idea how to handle the massive transformation. Jay’s case was the perfect example. He had found himself on the guest list to every celeb party in London, with no shortage of hangers-on queuing to buy him drinks, offer a line or two and laugh at his jokes. Club owners would ask him to choose a girl he fancied and they’d bring her over – oh, and they could use the back room if they wanted. Having Jay in their club brought publicity money couldn’t buy. Nothing was too much trouble when it came to making sure Jay became a regular. Just months before, he’d been stacking shelves at his local Tesco supermarket in Leeds. How the hell could anyone stay grounded in such a situation at that age? He was handsome in a messy-haired student kind of way – tall and slim with a mop of wavy brown hair girls would kill for. But he was in danger of becoming a two-hit wonder if he continued down this route.
Back in the world of newspapers, it would make a great story if Greg grabbed a picture of Jay welcoming the dealer at the door. And then, when he left the house, Max would pounce on him and ask Jay why a known dealer was visiting him. How the fuck will I know it’s the dealer, Max had asked Claire.
‘Just call me as soon as he goes in. Don’t let him know you’re there, and get a picture from inside the van. Then call me, describe him. Jay can’t have many visitors with shoulder-length peroxided hair, head to toe in leather and riding a Harley Davidson, for fuck’s sake.’
Max wondered how Claire knew Jay’s dealer. She knew that to get exclusives her boss would have some dodgy contacts; maybe she’d come across him in a club and he had tipped her off he’d be making a visit, and would be paid handsomely for the information. With no police on hand to search him, he couldn’t be arrested – and he was probably the type who craved celebrity himself.
And so Max had waited, and waited.
She reflected on Lucy’s insistence that she should not contact Hartley to tell him about the text she had received from Bridget. She could see Lucy’s point of view. If Hartley thought enough of Lucy, if he really knew her, she shouldn’t have to prove her innocence. Fuck him, Max thought as she looked over at Jay’s house. Then again, he had made Lucy happier than Max could remember ever seeing her sister.
A bit like Luke, she thought with a wry smile as she remembered yet another text that had come from him this morning. She had deleted it without reading it. God, that had hurt. But what was the option? Tell him Lucy had warned her off because she was bound to fuck everything up like always? No, she had shut out memories of bad stories she had covered as a trainee – the smell of burning bodies after a horrific train crash near York, all those death-knocks, calling at the homes of parents whose child had just died to ask for a comment – so she sure as hell could block out Luke. It was only fair on Luce. She couldn’t resent her sister for protecting Luke – after all, Lucy had always put Max first. The least she could do was return the favour by putting Lucy first if this meant so much to her. Max tried to brush the thought away but she couldn’t shake the feeling of hurt that Lucy had assumed she would mess things up with Luke.
Max’s thoughts were interrupted by the buzzing of her phone in the pocket of her brown Paul Smith cords. It was Sheri.
‘Awright, darlin’?’
‘Tickety boo. What’s up?’
‘It’s been a week, Max, can we do it now? Please, I need the money bad.’
If Max left the photographer here, Claire would still get her picture – and she could always phone Jay’s agent for a comment. Meanwhile, Max would have another, potentially brilliant, story.
‘OK, I’ll have to clear it with my boss to leave the job I’m on. But it should be fine so I’ll be at yours in half an hour.’