Love...Among The Stars: Book 4 in the Love...Series (Love Series) (29 page)

'Come on, let's get inside,' Craig says. 'I believe there's a free bar here tonight.'

He takes Maxine by the arm and stamps off up the red carpet, pushing past poor old Ralphy boy as he does so.

Laura gasps. 'There's Maggie Smith!' she says, looking just past Fiennes, to where the Dame is standing close to the cinema's entrance.

'Do you want to meet her?' I ask.

Laura suddenly looks very nervous. 'I'm not sure.'

'Yeah, come on! You'll never get the chance again!'

Laura doesn't move. 'But we might be
morons
, Jamie. In front of Maggie Smith!'

'She's been in the movie industry for decades, baby. I'm sure she's met countless morons before.' I move in the Dame's direction, dragging Laura with me.

We have to wait a few moments for her to finish her interview with ITV, but that's fine, as it gives Laura a chance to calm down a bit. As the actress moves towards the entrance, I intercept her with a friendly wave. 'Excuse me, Dame Maggie?'

'Hello young man,' she replies with a smile.

'Sorry to interrupt, but my wife is a big fan. Can she say hello?'

'I can speak for myself, Jamie,' Laura snaps, and steps in front of me. Dame Maggie Smith rolls her eyes in a show of female solidarity at my blatant chauvinism.

'I'm so pleased to meet you, Dame Maggie,' Laura continues. '
Downton
Abbey is my favourite show.'

This is utter shit.

Laura's favourite TV show is Location, Location,
Location
. However, there's no sign of Phil and
Kirsty
, so we'll let her get away with this white lie for the sake of a peaceful evening.

My wife engages the enigmatic actress in a conversation for a few minutes as we all walk into the cinema, leaving the crowd of on-lookers and media representatives behind.

Inside, it's even more crowded in the enormous foyer. Hundreds of well dressed and well heeled people stand gathered, holding free drinks and talking amongst themselves. If I breathe in deeply enough, I can smell the pretentiousness emanating from every pore.

Still, we're a good ten minutes into this charade and neither Newman has done anything to embarrass themselves yet, so it's so far, so good. We're well past the cameras now as well, which is a bonus. Laura even manages to finish her brief chat with Dame Maggie without coming across as a moron.

'I did it!' she says with triumph as she rejoins me. 'I was smooth. I was charming. I didn't talk bollocks.'

'Well done baby!' I tell her, and give her a celebratory kiss. 'Let's get a drink.' Laura gives me a look. 'A
soft
drink, I mean.'

We go to find Craig at the bar,
who
has been joined by Caroline, Sanja and their respective partners.

'All going well then?' he asks us all.

'I met Dame Maggie Smith!' Laura says happily.

'Well done you!' Craig replies, trying to sound as non-patronising as he can, but failing miserably. 'How was Sanja's interview, Caroline?'

The agent goes even
more thin
lipped than usual. 'It was okay. Sanja was a bit nervous.'

The little man gives her a look of contempt. 'I was not nervous! I was merely pointing out to the lovely ginger lady that I'm not happy with some of the changes that that smarmy fool has made to my book!'

I give Craig a confused look. He mouths the words 'I'll tell you later'.

I lean forward on the bar and order Laura and I a Diet Coke. As this is a bar for celebrity show business types, I don't have to wait too long. I hand Laura her drink, take a sip of mine, and let out a deep breath.

'You okay?' Laura asks.

'Oh yes, I'm fine. Just happy we've made it this far without any
probl
- '

My arm is jostled, spilling my drink. I turn quickly to see who has bumped into me.

'Oh, I am so sorry, I didn't see you
th
- '

The man's apology dies on his lips as he realises who I am.

It's Sylvester bloody McCoy.
My pedalo nemesis.

'You!' we both say at exactly the same time.

'What are
you
doing here?' McCoy asks in disgust.

'I might ask you the same thing, Doctor!' I spit.

Laura, seeing that this could end in disaster - despite there being no fibre glass boat for a hundred miles around us - steps between the old man and I. 'Now stop it, the pair of you!' she commands. 'This is a lovely evening out, and we're not going to spoil it with an argument...
are we, Jamie
?'

I open my mouth to protest that this isn't my fault. But then I remember that of course it
is
my fault, so I close it again.

'You look lovely Laura,' Sylvester says. 'How is Poppy?'

Blimey, he remembered both their names.

'She's very well Sylvester, thank you.' Her head whips back to me. 'You remember how I told you how helpful and caring Sylvester was to our traumatised daughter when you went gallivanting off in that bloody pedalo,
don't you Jamie
?'

If I didn't, I certainly do now.

I heave a reluctant sigh. 'Thank you for taking care of Poppy, Mr McCoy,' I tell him, in the tone of one who knows when he's been chastised.

The seventh Doctor's face softens.
'A pleasure.
And I assume you recovered from your sun stroke, young man?'

'I did, thank you.' My face creases. 'Why
are
you here, by the way?'

McCoy points over to where Sir Ian McKellan is standing. 'Ian invited me along.'

I make the connection. 'Ah!
Of course.
You were in The Hobbit together.'

'Oh my God, you were in The Hobbit!' Laura exclaims loudly.

I give her a withering look. 'Yes dear. And he was Doctor Who? Remember me telling you?' I shake my head. 'You really need to pay more attention to movies and TV you know, sweetheart. I keep telling you that.' I give McCoy a 'you just can't get the staff these days' look that makes him smile. I take another sip of Coke and reach a decision. 'I am so sorry about my behaviour on that island, Mr McCoy. I don't think you were worse than Colin Baker at all. In fact, The Curse
Of
Fenric is one of my favourite Who stories.'

'Well, thank you very much, Mr Newman!'

'Call me Jamie.'

'I shall. And do call me Sylvester.'

'What the hell's a Fenric?' Laura asks us both.

Sylvester and I both chuckle indulgently at Laura's evident confusion.

The seventh Doctor and I have managed to successfully bond over my wife's lack of geek credentials. It means that Laura will be mad at me for the rest of her natural lifespan for using her as a tool to break the ice, but at least I am no longer at loggerheads with Doctor Who.

I'm about to ask Sylvester what he thinks of Peter Capaldi's interpretation of the character when a roar of anger interrupts me from behind.

'You have done what?!' Sanjapat Hathiristipan bellows. Bellowing isn't something that comes easy to a man who can't be much over five foot two and eight stone, but he achieves it magnificently.

I turn round to see Sanja standing opposite a man who's wardrobe marks him out to be a wanker of the highest order. We're talking tenth level pretentiousness here, folks. For starters, that is
indeed
a dark blue beret parked on his pointy head. The glasses perched on his nose are small, round and ever so thin. The beard is as pointy as his head. The shirt is black with small white polka dots, and the cravat is the same shade of deep blue as the beret. The velvet smoking jacket is urbane, and the black spats on his feet are highly polished. I want to punch this man repeatedly until the beret turns red.

It seems Sanja feels much the same way. 'You said the ending would not change!' he storms, squaring all of those five feet two inches up to the much taller man. 'You said Verity would still die at the end!'

Oh thanks Sanja. Now you've ruined the ending of a book I was never actually intending to read. How could you?

'But Sanja, my friend,' the beret wearing codpiece replies, 'the test screenings weren't positive. We simply had to reshoot the ending to something more palatable to an audience!'

'With Verity living, marrying David, and buying a cottage in the bloody Cotswolds?!' the old man screams.

Oh thanks Sanja. Now you've ruined the ending of a movie I was going to pay absolutely no attention to. How could you?

'Yes! The second test audience loved it!' the twat in the cravat simpers.

'It ruins the story! Destroys its meaning! You've turned my diatribe on loss and emotional detachment into an episode of Escape To The fucking Country!'

I don't know what I'm more surprised at, Sanja's use of the F word, or that he knows what Escape To The Country is. He looks far too upper class for a bit of Jules Hudson of an afternoon.

'Oh dear,' Sylvester says under his breath from my side. 'This could get nasty.'

'What's going on?' I ask out of the side of my mouth.

'That is Lionel Moncrieff, the film's director. I knew him back when he was just Lionel
Sidlington
. A tiresome man, I found.'

Sylvester doesn't have to say any more. The cravat and the name change are all I need. 'I gather poor old Sanja doesn't like some of the revisions to his book.'

'Doesn't look that way, does it?' Sylvester turns to leave. 'I think I'll just go and talk to Ian for a while.' And with that he disappears like his
Tardis
, only with slightly less wheezing. I can't say I blame him. I wish I knew someone rich and famous who I could go and have a chat with right about now. Sadly, everyone I know is standing in a semi-circle watching the argument unfold.

Moncrieff is still simpering. 'But that's what the audience wants, Sanja! We have crafted a fantastic story, and I'm sure it will go down an absolute storm.'

'We
? We have crafted?! All I see is that you've taken
my
story and bent it out of shape to suit your money men!'

'Nothing could be further from the truth!'

'Lies! All lies! You people are all the same. Taking an author's work and ruining it for the sake of the almighty dollar! Isn't that right Jamie and Laura?'

What?

'What?' I exclaim in shock. Why the hell is he dragging us into this? We're just along for the ride tonight. We're background artists, not main characters!

'You're writers,' the little man continues, 'help me explain to this idiot what it feels like to have your book so badly mistreated!'

I go a bit pale and look at Craig, who is shaking his head quickly back and forth and giving me the bulgy eyes. No help there, then. I turn and stare at Laura, whose letterbox shaped mouth is no help either.

I then look at Lionel Moncrieff, who now has the bearing of a man studying a small lemming like creature as he regards me, awaiting my opinion.

I'll have to say something, won't I? I can't just stand here in front of all these
toffs
with my gob hanging open.