Half an hour after speaking to her boss, Max pulled up at the Hudson Hotel, one of New York’s coolest celeb hangouts. Shit. The entrance was teeming with security.
Max knew the only way she could pull off getting inside was to muster all the confidence she had.
In the absence of a ticket, supreme self-belief was her only option.
Max employed the old phone trick, speaking into her mobile while striding up the red carpet past a line of animated photographers. For once, someone really was on the other end of the line – her sister.
Shit, was that J-Lo they were taking snaps of? It was. There was no mistaking that perfectly rounded bottom jutting out from her tiny waist.
No matter how top-secret the party, a team of security men outside the Hudson was always going to attract the paparazzi. And here they were, feasting on the A-listers like hyenas on prey, salivating over the thought of how many thousands they’d make from a night’s work. The British tabloids alone – the Daily News, the Sun, the Mirror and Star – would pay premium prices for the best shots. They could hardly ignore them while rivals splashed them all over the front page. No editor would risk the resulting drop in sales.
Right, deep breath, chin up, chest out, Max told herself as her heart raced.
‘Excuse me, ma’am,’ a burly Spanish-looking man had stepped in front of Max. ‘We have a private function here tonight.’
Max let out a groan of frustration and spoke into her mobile. ‘Honey, hold on a minute, OK? I’m just speaking to the security man.’
Max smiled at the man.
‘Hi, I’m well aware of what’s on tonight. I’m Beyoncé’s PA.’
Max watched as the man took in her attire. In jeans, tan Ugg boots, black-wool poncho and tartan scarf, she couldn’t have looked more different to the women teetering to the entrance – all sparkling ball gowns with fishtail finishes and faux fur coats to fend off the December cold.
She laughed, her breath turning into white puffs as it hit the freezing air. ‘Do I look like I’m here to join a black-tie gala?’
The bouncer looked impatiently at her.
‘I have Beyoncé’s speech here. She’s addressing a room full of people in ten minutes and I’ve got the list of people she has to thank.’
‘Sorry, lady, no ticket –’
‘No ticket? Of course I don’t have a ticket. I was all set to watch TV and have a quiet night in.’
The bouncer frowned.
Max lowered her voice. ‘Look, that’s Beyoncé on the phone. She’s going fucking nuts in there. If she doesn’t have a list of who to thank, she’ll look like a prize tit.’
The man’s brow furrowed as though she’d just spoken to him in Gaelic.
‘You know, asshole… she’d look like an asshole. And if I explain she didn’t have it because I got to the hotel on time but the doorman wouldn’t let me in, well…’
Max let the words trail off, keen not to make any threats that might get his back up.
‘Look,’ she said, holding up her mobile. ‘She’s on the phone now.’
Max had edited Lucy’s entry in her phone during her cab ride and replaced her name with Beyoncé’s.
The bouncer’s eyes widened as he saw the star’s name on the screen.
‘Would you like to say hello?’ Max asked with more than a hint of sarcasm.
The man looked unsure. Max had forewarned Lucy to put on her best American accent if needed.
As if on cue – which it was – the sound of a woman shouting came from the phone. ‘I need that fucking speech – now. I’m on stage in five minutes.’
The man looked as if he’d been told he’d just won the lottery, but could only collect the winnings if he hacked off his right leg: utterly confused, star-struck and scared.
‘OK, baby, don’t you worry. I’m coming.’
Max put her phone in her pocket and took a step towards the door. ‘OK?’ she asked the bouncer.
Logically, a suitable compromise would be if he suggested making sure himself that the notepad got to Beyoncé, and Max left.
‘I’ve got to see her and calm her down,’ Max said, walking away from him.
Shit, he was coming towards her.
‘We’re all going to be in serious shit if I don’t get this to Beyoncé right now.’
The man froze. There had been a downturn in work of late. A couple of years back he had been booked by the security firm almost every night but now people seemed more cautious when it came to throwing money around. The last thing he needed was to be sacked by the biggest event-protection company in the city.
Max felt a rush of adrenaline as he stepped back. She’d done the impossible – got past a crack team of bouncers who looked like they were on leave from SAS training. Yes!
Max walked behind a crowd of guests, following them up the escalator into the bar area, which was bathed in pink light.
Taking a glass of rosé champagne from a waiter’s tray, she took a gulp. Right, where were the stars?
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ a man’s voice boomed, ‘I bring you Miss Beyoncé Knowles.’
The crowd applauded as the singer-turned-actress took to the stage. Jeez, how was it possible for any woman to look so good? She had curves in exactly the right places. Beyoncé thanked a host of people and talked about the charity the party was in aid of – orphans in Africa.
Max slipped to the back of the room, conscious of how different she looked to the glamorous guests. While Beyoncé spoke, Max texted Lucy: ‘Thanx 4 being a gr8 Beyoncé’.
Right, where were the stars? Sticking out like a sore thumb in jeans, she could be thrown out at any minute, so best make the most of her time.
Fuck, what if a star recognized her? It was unlikely, given that she was in New York, but what if movie star Mac Ford was here? It was the sort of thing he’d be invited to and Max had no doubt he would remember her.
She hadn’t realized quite how much he despised hacks until she met him at the premiere of chick flick Annie Goes To Hollywood, when she introduced herself as a reporter. There he was, all posh English accent, dazzling smile – and the perfect gentleman, charming every film bigwig and society beauty in sight. And the moment Max told him who she was, his eyes froze in horror; he mumbled, ‘Do excuse me,’ with his mouthful of marbles and left with an expression of such discomfort he may well have touched cloth before making it to the toilet. Maybe he still hadn’t got over being caught cheating on his wife with a hooker, and the very mention of a tabloid filled him with disdain.
Buoyed by the free champagne, Max had run after him and doubled up in fits of laughter while chasing him round and round a giant plant.
She had felt perfectly justified the following day in slating him in the paper. She wrote him an open letter asking if he knew what a tosser he was, accepting millions for a movie then refusing to spare journalists a few moments of his time to publicize it at its global launch party.
Thankfully, Max remembered he was shooting a film in London now.
Max concentrated on Beyoncé’s speech. Annoyingly, she wasn’t making some astonishing announcement. That would have been perfect: stay in the party five minutes, pick up a gem of a story then leave.
Oh there was Will Smith. Bloody hell, Oprah Winfrey. As the speech ended, the attention of guests was no longer on the stage.
Max’s heart was racing again – a mix of fear of being uncovered and of leaving the party without a story. She could hardly call herself a good journalist if she left this little celeb-fest with nothing to tell Claire.
Then it happened. Charlie Jackson, the bad-boy actor who had just finished a lengthy spell in rehab, turned round and smiled at Max. Under his nose were the unmistakable remnants of coke. Max guessed he’d been so eager for a line he’d been unable to wait until the speech ended and had covertly had a little sniff.
Six months ago, Max’s boss would have said, ‘So what?’ if she’d told her Charlie was back on the drugs. But just last week he’d done a TV interview on Tonight with Jay Leno, watched by millions around the world, claiming he was off the devil’s powder for good. With tears in his eyes he had told Leno he was a changed man after finding God. When he needed a burst of energy the strongest thing he touched now was Lucozade. And with the Lord’s help, he had said, turning to face the audience with his hands clasped together as if praying, he would stay clean one day at a time.
Rapturous applause followed. The Americans loved a sound bite, especially from a ridiculously handsome actor with blue twinkling eyes and fluffy blond hair, still boyish in looks having just turned thirty. He had simply lost his way and how wonderful to have him back in the fold.
Suckers. What a story that he was back on it.
It was totally unprintable, though, as her word against his. She needed a picture.
Slowly, slowly, Max prised her mobile from her pocket. She knew what she had to do: get a picture of his snowy nose. Then there would be nothing to stop the story being printed.
Max smiled back at Charlie, dubbed the new Robert de Niro a few years back after a string of stunning performances in dark, moody movies. The offers of work had dried up of late, though, as word spread about his erratic behaviour on set.
Max gave him a wide, beaming smile. She held his gaze, hoping to hell it would distract him from the fact she was edging her phone to his eye level and pointing it at him. It would only work if she got him face-on.
Click. Flash. Fuck. She hadn’t realized it would flash – must be on automatic because the room was dimly lit.
Charlie’s eyes stared blankly at Max, like a camera focus whirring into action. High or not, the realization of what had happened spread over his face.
Max turned, bumping into – shit – Jodie Foster. No time to ask her what life was like since coming out as a lesbian.
Max ran to the escalator. Fuck. It was the one that brought you up to the bar. Where was the down one? Fuck it. Before she knew it, Max was running down the mechanical stairs that were moving upwards, racing against them to make it to the bottom.
At last, at the bottom, she jumped on to the solid floor, dizzy. She didn’t look back. She knew they were after her. Charlie had too much to lose by letting her go armed with the photo. It was the last thing he had expected at this exclusive party. Max slammed her body against the door, her weight opening it. She ran down the red carpet, sprinted across the road and down the street. Thank God New York was always so damned busy. She merged into the crowd and slowed to a walk. When she got her breath back, she was overwhelmed by relief.