Love...Among The Stars: Book 4 in the Love...Series (Love Series) (30 page)

And the evening was going so well, wasn't it?

We'd done so well to avoid any problems, hadn't we? There were no mistakes on the red carpet. I didn't trip up. Laura didn't vomit on anyone. Neither of us said anything rude or embarrassing to a celebrity. We made it into the cinema fine. I even made friends with Sylvester McCoy, and you'd have thought
that
would have been the perfect opportunity to make a fucking idiot of myself again. But no! It all went swimmingly.

We'd got to the point where all we had to do was stand around holding a drink for a few minutes, before going to watch a movie. That was it. That was all.

It would have been
fine
.

But then Sanjapat Hathiristipan happened.

Please remember that.

It wasn't
my fault this time.

'Er, as a writer, you do get attached to your work,' I offer, keep things nice and diplomatic. I look at Laura again, hoping she's going to back me up, but she just nods her head and takes a sip of Coke, before looking off in another direction.

'Who are you?' Moncrieff asks, looking down his nose at me.

'Um. Jamie Newman?' I reply, sounding somewhat unsure of myself. 'I write comedy books?' From his expression, I might as well have said I was the guy who filled up the popcorn machine.

'Well, I'm not sure you're qualified to have an opinion on this discussion,' Moncrieff tells me, lighting the blue touch paper.

I instantly change from awkward to furious. I may just be a hanger-on here tonight, and I may write the kind of books that this ludicrous human being wouldn't go within twenty feet of, but I will not stand here and be talked down to in public. That only happens back at home.

'Really? That's what you think, is it?' I say to Moncrieff, the venom in my voice plain to hear. I look at Sanja, who's flat, irate expression matches mine. 'Well, I think that anyone who changes a writer's work just to turn a fast buck should be struck off the creative register.'

That should do it. Moncrieff is definitely one of those beret wearing morons who believes that they are permanently creating great art, even when they're taking a crap. To have his creative credentials questioned is the worst insult I could throw at him.

Craig knows this too and is slowly trying to put himself between me and the director. I can hear a high pitched keening noise coming from the back of his throat as he mentally works out how much money I'm potentially losing us all right now. Show business is a small world, after all. This will get around in no time.

'I'm sure Jamie doesn't mean you, Mr Moncrieff. We all know how fantastic your reputation in the industry is. You've made some wonderful movies.'

Is it? Has he?

I've never heard of this bloke. But then I like movies that feature explosions and boobs, so what the hell do I know?

One thing I do know for sure, is that Sanja thinks he now has an ally in this argument, and is made all the bolder because of it. 'Jamie is right!' He points a stiff finger at Moncrieff. 'This charlatan has no creative merit! He is a puppet of studio executives!' The finger then gets pointed at Caroline Denham. 'I
knew
I should never have let you talk me into accepting the deal!'

'But Sanja, it was a great contract! The film will be
marvellous
!' Caroline objects, fear etched onto her face. She knows this is going south fast - and with it her next pay check.

'No it won't!' Sanja argues.

Moncrieff steps forward. A definite change has come over him. The faked concern for Sanja's wellbeing has gone. In its place is something far more honest, I'm sure. 'Look, just be happy the film got made,' he snaps. 'You've been paid a lot of money for me to make your story into something an audience will want to see. You should be grateful.'

There is an audible intake of breath from everyone in the crowd. When Lionel Moncrieff shows his true colours, he doesn't muck about.

There are several ways Sanja could have handled this. He could have continued to argue with the beret wearing
git
. He could have stormed away from the conversation with his wife in tow. He could have broken down in tears and apologised to Moncrieff for daring to question his artistic integrity.

He does none of those things however. He just slaps Lionel Moncrieff across the chops.

The blow is smartly delivered. There's not a huge amount of power behind it - this is an elderly gentleman after all - but it's enough to leave a red mark on Moncrieff's cheek. The director lets out a squeak of shock and his hand flies to his face.

'You hit me!' he exclaims in profound disbelief. 'You actually hit me!'

Sanja doesn't reply
,
he just kicks Moncrieff on the shin. Again, no real damage is done, but you can tell the blow smarts as Moncrieff squeaks even louder and starts to back away, limping slightly.

'Keep away from me!' he cries, but Sanja is having none of it. Leaving the rest of us standing dumbfounded, the little man stalks towards Moncrieff, rage still burning in his eyes. He looks like The Terminator after three hours on a hot wash.

The surrounding
crowd of smartly dressed show business types start
to notice what's going on. It's a little hard to miss the shrieking director of the film you're about to watch being pursued across the foyer by an enraged Sri Lankan man in a grey suit.

I take off after them both in hot pursuit.

I can't help thinking that my remarks to Moncrieff
may
have exacerbated the situation just a tad. The fool made me angry though.

If I can catch up to Sanja and calm him down a bit, maybe complete disaster can be averted.

'Jamie! What are you doing?' Laura calls after me, but I don't respond, as every moment here is vital.

By the time I do reach Sanja, Moncrieff is out through the large glass double doors again and back onto the red carpet. This comes as a complete surprise to the crowd outside, who were all starting to shuffle off, thinking that they'd had their evening's entertainment. The TV crews that are packing up look a bit startled, as Lionel Moncrieff, director of high brow cinema, comes stumbling towards them, warding off Sanjapat Hathiristipan, writer of high brow literature.

'Sanja, stop!' I exclaim right behind them. 'Just leave him alone. It's not worth it!' I now sound like a
drunk
working class girl trying to stop her tattooed boyfriend from beating up the bloke who spilled his eighth pint.

Sanja's having none of it though and reaches Moncrieff without breaking his stride. This time he pokes the director in the stomach, which makes the man wail in pained surprise and instantly bend double. The beret
comes
flying off to reveal a gloriously bald pate.

Which Sanja slaps.

Hard
.

Sky News can't get their camera rolling fast enough. Kay Burley has a combined look of shock and triumph writ large across her face. It's been a slow news day thus far, but this will liven things up a treat.

I have to get in the middle of this fight and break it up before any more damage can be done. It has to be me, as no-one else is taking any steps to stop it. I can only put this down to the fact that none of them have ever had to deal with a situation this ridiculous before, and it has rooted them all to the spot. On the other hand, I deal with this kind of shit on a seemingly daily basis, so I have no such issues.

Maybe I should join the police when I'm done here. I'd look quite fetching in a stab vest.

Channeling all the episodes of Cops I've seen over the years, I step between Sanja and Moncrieff. 'Now stop it!' I command. 'This is a film premiere, not an underground fight club!'

This just earns me a look of distain from Sanja, and a kick on the shin for my troubles.

'
Ow
!' I shout, clutching my leg. 'Why did you do that?'

'I thought you were on my side!' Sanja snaps in a betrayed voice.

'I'm not on anyone's side!' I argue.

'Then why did you support me against this buffoon?!'

'I don't know! You dragged me into it! I just wanted a quiet bloody evening where I didn't sexually molest Keira Knightley!'

Both Sanja and Moncrieff regard me with horror. I must remember not to speak out of context. It does me absolutely no favours.

'What's going on, Mr Moncrieff?' Kay Burley shouts, holding a microphone out to the harassed director. 'Why are you and the writer fighting? Who's the other man in the bad tuxedo?'

'
Oi
! Fuck off!' I object, forgetting where I am for the moment. 'This thing is costing me a fortune for the night!'

Moncrieff waves a shaking finger at Sanja. 'This maniac attacked me Kay! He assaulted me!'

I wave my hand. 'Oh, he did nothing of the sort. Look at him. He's way too tiny to do you any damage.'

'You ruined my story!' Sanja barks at the bald man, ignoring the back handed insult I've just thrown his way.

'You should be grateful I agreed to make the bloody thing into a decent movie!' Moncrieff counters.

Kay
is loving
this. She turned up expecting just to get a dull interview with Ralph Fiennes, but now she's getting a full blown domestic right on the red carpet.

Behind me I see Laura, Craig, Caroline Denham and a score of other people emerge back out into the open air. Much to the delight of the crowd, Keira and Ralph have reappeared as well. It looks like even the stars of the show know when they're being eclipsed, and want to see what the hell is going on.

And
still
nobody is stepping forward to calm the situation.

This leaves Jamie Newman as the only person here present with enough gumption to take a degree of control. Do you have any idea how
dire
a scenario has to be for that to happen?

My arms go out sideways and I step back between the warring enemies. 'Now, come on you two. Let's just calm down a bit and take a few deep breaths. We are on TV, after all.' I give Kay a smile.

'Who are you exactly?' she asks, microphone now pointing in my direction.

'My name is Jamie Newman,' I tell her. The blank expression I get in return proves that Kay Burley doesn't read romantic comedies. 'I'm a writer and a friend of Sanja's,' I add.

'And why are Mr Moncrieff and the author of the book fighting?' she demands in that strident way reporters use when they know they're on to a good thing. You'll note that Kay doesn't try to pronounce Sanja's name. This is probably wise on her part.

'Oh, it's nothing to worry about.
Just a few nerves before the big show.
You know how us show business types can be, eh Kay?' Hark at me, referring to myself as a show business type. I will be committing suicide the second I get home.

Kay Burley actually laughs. 'You seem like a funny fellow,' she tells me.

'You should read my books!' I look directly down the camera. 'Love From Both Sides, available in ebook and paperback from all good stores,' I tell the viewing audience.

From the crowd I hear Craig shout 'Yes!' triumphantly.

'Anyway,' I continue, returning my attention to the matter at hand. 'I think we should all go back inside now. I'm sure Sanja and Lionel would like to have a chat and make up.
Wouldn't you gentlemen
?'

Both of them have the good decency to look sheepish. 'Yes,' they both reply.

'Good!' I turn my head. 'And perhaps, from the crowd of bloody statues behind me, someone with a little more authority to deal with this kind of thing could
step forward and take over?
' I give the crowd an evil look until several people break their stunned vigil and move towards where I'm still standing with my hands held out. One of them is Caroline Denham, who has no doubt kicked into career preservation mode.