Protection (9 page)

Snuggled beneath her duvet, Carrie lay in bed wondering if Andrea had got the message with the wink. She hoped she had. She had certainly grown very quiet following it, and had spent the rest of the meeting watching her. It was just a shame she'd hadn't been able to follow it up with anything else, but she hadn't wanted Carmichael to see and mistakingly think it was directed at him. But God, she hoped she had. Andrea was beginning to be all she thought of, and one day soon she was going to have to tell her how she really felt.

How could she put it though? She would hate it if Andrea got the wrong idea and thought that she been hired just because she fancied her. Or what if she thought she'd lose her job if she said no? Or that she was one of those dreadful celebrities who used their position to bully others into giving them what they wanted? She'd hate that, especially as it wasn't true, but without having some idea of how Andrea felt herself, she had no idea how to tell her without running the risk of loosing her.

Carrie walked on to rapturous applause.

From the wings, Andrea watched her glide effortless across the pale blue carpet and seat herself on the dark blue sofa beside Belinda Cross, who greeted Carrie warmly and then beamed into the camera.

“Today, ladies and gentlemen.”Belinda began. “We are honoured to have with us Carrie Shilling. The star of the hugely successful ‘ Angel' films. The latest of which, ‘ Walking Wild', is currently being met with rave reviews and is expected to be a box office smash.”

More applause.

Andrea switched off. She didn't like Belinda Cross. The woman never wore anything but pale blue and over time it had become her trademark, effectively preventing her from wearing anything else. Even her car was pale blue and if the rumours were true, the interior of her house, which meant that Belinda Cross lived in nothing short of an igloo.

If only she'd go the whole hog and live in Iceland, Andrea thought, then the general public wouldn't be forced to endure her nauseating show three times a week. Except the viewing public loved her and Belinda's ratings were phenomenal, meaning that Carrie was doing herself nothing but good by appearing on her show.

It was just a shame that Belinda's interviewing technique swung either of two ways. Either she was down right rude and offensive or bordering on full scale, sickly adoration, which meant she was either in constant danger of being punched to the ground or thrown up on.

And if that wasn't bad enough, surely someone would have had the guts to tell her that a black bra beneath a pale blue top really didn't work.

Turning her attention away from the set, Andrea studied the audience.

Most of them were members of the blue rinse brigade and therefore no trouble at all, but seated amongst the rows of twin sets were a few men and that did interest her.

Stalkers were not uncommom these days. The media having unwisely given the premise false respectability until now it was almost taken for granted that every successful female star would have some nut following them around, and although security at this particular television studio was tight, it wasn't insurmountable, and if some weirdo really did want to sneak in an offensive weapon, Andrea doubted they would have any difficulty.

But these happy pensioners seemed harmless enough, providing they didn't do anything more threatening than reach for a cough drop! Then she'd have them!

The interview continued and obviously having decided to treat Carrie to her simpering side, Belinda lavished praise and laughed at everything, asking a series of banal questions that Carrie had heard hundreds of times before but answered anyway. Receiving enthusiastic applause from the audience, which Andrea suspected might have been out of sympathy.

Belinda, however, almost wet herself with joy and twenty minutes later, dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief, she beamed into the camera and announced that after the break Carrie would be taking calls. “So if there's anyone out there who would like to ask Carrie a question, please call the number coming up on the screen.”

Then, with the red light on top of camera one switched off, the smile and Belinda vanished, leaving Carrie to exit the stage on her own.

“Charming!”Andrea said as Carrie joined her back stage. “Cleary the over-the-top politeness doesn't extend much beyond the lens. Irritating cow! I don't know how you manage to keep your temper.”

“Nor do I.”Carrie sighed. “I don't know if you noticed, but most of the time I had my hands clenched together just to stop myself from hitting her.”

Andrea laughed. “Damn that self control! But you're certainly winning over the old dears. They love you.”

“You think? I doubt if half of them even know who I am and most of them are probably only here because its warmer inside than out. Still, with any luck the calls will be a bit more interesting. At least one of them might have actually seen one of my films.”

“Yeah. I was stunned by how much she didn't know! Clearly no one had done any research or she didn't bother to read it, and I'm really surprised Belinda allows a phone in. Not being the centre of attention must kill her.”

“We can but hope. Now run along and hide before she sees you and starts probing you about your life as a bodyguard!”

Once more, Andrea swept the audience. There were quite a few empty seats now, the sad result of quick trips to the toilets that hadn't been quite quick enough. Andrea felt sorry for them. They couldn't help being old and slow, but everybody knew that once that red ‘transmission' light went on over the door, it was game over. If you weren't in your seat, you weren't getting in. No matter how bad your incontinence.

On stage, Belinda Cross simpered and struggled to stay in the spotlight. Carrie's easy manner at taking the calls was upstaging her at every turn, and although she nodded sagely at every question and pulled a variety of inquisitive faces before butting in with comments of her own, no one took much notice.

Irritated, she tried again. “I think we have time for just one, more call everybody and I believe it's Tracey from Swindon. Tracey, can you hear me?”

“I can.”

“And what's your question for Carrie?”

“Actually it's not really a question.”Tracey said. “I just want to say that I can't believe she's forgotten what happened between us all those years ago!”

Belinda hesitated. What was this? This angry, accusary tone. All the other callers had been so kind, so enthusiastic, not like this!

Still, with her face finally back on screen she wasn't about to relinquish her hold now and fixing her smile, she pressed on. “What do you mean dear?”She asked. “Surely you don't expect Carrie to remember all the people she's ever met? There must be thousands of them!”

“I don't care about them! Or her! I just want her to remember me and know that I'm still here! Waiting for her! Watching her…”

The line was abruptly pulled, and the camera swung round to focus on Belinda, who gaped at the camera until a barked instruction in her ear piece jerked her from her seat and she cleared her throat, quickly bringing the interview to a close and abruptly handing over to the chef in the cookery corner who was still busy finishing his fag.

Then, with the spotlight off her, she seemed to come round a little and gripping Carrie's hand, she thanked her for coming and quickly disappeared off in the direction of her dressing room, leaving the producer to make the final farewells.

Waiting outside with the car, Brick wisely chose to say nothing even though he had witnessed the whole thing on the in-car set, and ushering them into the warm, leather interior, he slid behind the wheel and whisked them away from the studio, quickly leaving behind the small band of journalists struggling to catch up.

Closing her eyes, Carrie leant back in her seat. “Well, that went slightly astray towards the end.”She said. “I wonder who the hell that Tracey was?”

Andrea shrugged. “Do you know a Tracey?”She asked. “No? Well ignore it then. There's always one that thinks they're clever, although I'm surprised it was a girl. Usually it's the blokes who do that sort of thing.”

“I guess, but whoever it was, at least they gave me the perfect excuse not to join the lovely Belinda for drinks afterwards and for that I thank them.”

“Amen to that.”Andrea agreed and logged the incident in her diary.

In her small, shabby flat, Isobel bit into a chocolate bar and smirked. How easy had that been? A ticket secured over the Internet, a few old ‘granny' clothes pinched from a washing line, and no one had even looked twice at her. She had simply sat there, wedged between the wrinklies until the commercial break, then she had sneaked into the ladies, changed into her normal gear and exited the studio before ringing the number she'd stored on her mobile and putting the wind up Belinda Cross. Managing to say nearly everything she'd rehearsed before the bastards cut ‘ Tracey' off.

She wondered, though, if her message had been received and understood?

Not that it mattered too much. She had plenty of other ideas for getting her point across.

But Amanda never got to open the next of Isobel's letters.

A few days after complaining to Carmichael that she couldn't manage the workload, he arrived at the house, smiling broadly and announcing that some bright spark at the studio had finally got round to setting up an official Carrie Shilling fan club.

“Oh, they have, have they?”Amanda muttered over the rim of her cup. “I trust, in that case, they won't be sending out any unsavoury pictures. We have enough trouble with photographers trying to get a picture of Carrie naked, without your lot joining in.”

Disgruntled, Carmichael stared at her. “Firstly, they are not ‘my lot.'“He huffed. “And secondly, all because you no longer have control over the photographs that get sent out doesn't automatically mean the fan club will send out pictures of Carrie in the nude. She has to approve all the pictures they use anyway and that's the reason why I'm here. To go over ideas for merchandising which quite frankly I think is rather exciting.”

“So's getting icing to stay on a cake.”Amanda threw back. “But you don't see me selling pictures of it.”

Scowling Isobel screwed the letter into a ball and tossed it in the bin. Why on earth would she want to join the Carrie Shilling fan club? That sort of thing was for simpering idiots or people with more money than sense. Certainly not her! And ripping open a packet of crisps, she stuffed a handful into her mouth and struggled to get into her uniform, begrudgingly conceeding that soon she would need a bigger size. The shirt was already too tight under the arms, and her trouser button hadn't done up for a month.

Still grumbling, she wandered into the hallway and picked up the latest letter adressed to the Shilling household. Every day she had written since Tracey's TV appearance, always using a different coloured envelope and paper each time and always wearing gloves. Prevention of fingerprints, she figured, could turn out to be vital and she'd even stuck down the stamp with glue, posting them in the main post office instead of the local one, thus ensuring her letter would be lost amongst the hundreds that flooded in every day.

But now, it seemed, all her efforts had been in vain. Thanks to this bloody fan club all the letters she'd sent to the address in Surrey had been sent on to.. she examined the postmark... North London! Which meant it was now going to be twice as difficult to stay in touch.

What could she do? Her flat was in Kent. Carrie's house in Surrey. Not very far apart in the grand scheme of things, but still too far to go tearing down there every other day, find the house, deliver the letter and still get back in time for work. She'd be knackered in less than a week.

Unless she moved to Surrey? Now that was an idea. She could get a transfer from work -everywhere needed traffic wardens - and if she lived in Surrey she could be sure her letters were getting through, and who knows? She might even find somewhere nicer than this ratty, little joint to live.

Her mind made up, Isobel experienced a rare spurt of enthusiasm and during her lunch hour she trotted into the nearest estate agents and emerged twenty minutes later with details of several properties to view that weekend.

Isobel moved into her new home on November the 23rd. A step up from her last residence, it had a separate bedroom and a small garden at the rear, in which Isobel briefly harboured the idea of planting flowers, before deciding it was too much trouble.

It's biggest asset, however, was the fact that it was sited less than a mile from Carrie Shilling's country estate, and although Downlands was very much a blink-and-you'll-miss-it village, there was a fantastic view from the top of the hill at the end of the high street. A vantage point Isobel soon discovered enabled her to see straight down into the gardens surrounding Carrie's property.

To celebrate she bought a mountain bike and spent her fourth day at the new house struggling to get the front wheel to stay on. On the fifth, she wrapped herself in double the usual amount of layers, and braving the chilly wind, cycled the short distance to the manor house where she slipped the yellow envelope into the letter box without any trouble at all before stopping at the local newsagents on her way home.

Once indoors she fixed herself a huge sandwich and ate it sprawled on her bed. Then, emptying her purchases onto the duvet, she picked up a pair of scissors and attacked the gossip magazines. Arranging her cut-out pictures on top of a brightly coloured scrapbook.

Eyeing the view in her bedroom mirror, Carrie doubted if she and her backside would ever be on speaking terms? At the moment her derriere was pissing her off royally, and aside from a strict diet of steamed carrots, she didn't know how she was ever going to make it look any slimmer.

Pulling on a dark red sweater to cover the top half of her bum wasn't really the answer either, but for the moment it was all she had.