Shafted (4 page)

With the champagne flowing as the night wore on, the VIP lounge was jumping by twelve, the stars letting their hair down and partying hard, safe in the knowledge that they were hidden from the public gaze. And in a corner booth off to the rear of the room, the Unreal crew were having a party all of their own; their table was brimming with bottles of alcohol as glistening, finely chopped lines of coke were passed around on one of their CD covers.

Larry was so pissed, he didn’t even notice the coke. But he wouldn’t have been interested even if he
had
seen it, because nothing could have elevated his mood any higher right now. Still buzzing about the positive response he’d received when he arrived, he’d mentally rewritten his shambolic performance on the telethon, convincing himself that it couldn’t have been anywhere near as bad as everyone back at the studio had tried to make out. Jeremy and his fellow dinosaur Frank were no doubt shitting bricks back there, panicking about the public’s reaction to tonight’s show and bemoaning the demise of the old-school stars who knew their place and did as they were told. But they were so far out of touch with the reality of today’s brand of celebrity that it wasn’t even funny, and Larry wished he’d invited them along to the club so they could see what was
really
what.

Still, he’d have time enough to bring them up to date tomorrow. For now, he was just happy to be seen with Unreal – the
real
big boys of the business. As well known as everyone else in the VIP lounge was in little old England, they were nothing compared to these American superstars, and Larry was amused by how many footballers and sexy starlets kept drifting by their table trying to get themselves noticed. But Unreal weren’t interested in socialising with small-timers like them. They were only interested in the big hitters, like Larry.

Closing his eyes now as his umpteenth glass of champagne carried him into oblivion, Larry reminded himself to swap numbers with the guys so he could keep in touch with them after they went home. He might even fly over for a visit in a month or so; set up meets with some producers while he was there and see what they had to offer. The US market was notoriously difficult to penetrate, but he didn’t think he’d have any trouble getting his foot through the door now that he had such high-powered friends to help him.

Shocked out of his stupor when bright lights suddenly started flashing in front of his face, Larry’s eyes snapped open. Struggling for breath as the girl – whose name he couldn’t even remember – jumped on him and clamped her mouth over his, he shoved her off and gazed confusedly around as Unreal’s minders leapt to their feet, sending glasses and bottles flying off the table. Screaming girls ran for cover as the bodyguards made a dive for the two men who had sneaked up to get shots of the party.

Too bleary-eyed to recognise them before the minders manhandled them out through the fire-exit door, Larry assumed they must have been a couple of Z-list chancers trying to steal money shots of Unreal at play. Grinning at their audacity, he shook his head and slumped back in his seat. It was one thing having paps waiting outside to take pictures of you with your latest shag, but if this was what you had to put up with when you were in the big league, he supposed he’d best get used to it.

And maybe he’d best start thinking about hiring himself a minder, too, because he was bound to get this kind of shit all the time when he hit the States. He couldn’t wait!

3

Frank Woods woke in a foul mood. Larry had already skipped out of the station before Jeremy had had a chance to tell him that Frank wanted to see him last night and, furious that he’d been denied the chance to give him a roasting, Frank had tried ringing him numerous times to tell him to get his arse straight back, only to find that the little shit had turned his phone off.

Reaching for the bedside phone now, Frank tried both Larry’s mobile and landline numbers, only to find one still switched off and the other engaged. Slamming the receiver down, he cursed under his breath. He’d been nothing but good to that boy, and the contempt he’d received in return was a real kick in the teeth. Larry had been unknown when Frank had handed him his first big break, and when his star rose and his drinking started to grow in line with his ego, Frank had given him chance after chance to sort himself out. He’d fobbed the crew off when they complained about his on-set behaviour, and had given Larry fatherly talking-tos when pictures of him and his whores falling out of nightclubs began to appear almost every day in the papers. And Larry always promised to curb his ways. But words were obviously cheap because he just carried on as usual, no matter what Frank said. And that angered Frank more than anything, because it gave everybody the impression that he was a pushover – which he most certainly was
not
.

Still, everyone had their limits, and Frank had just about reached his. If he could find an excuse to terminate Larry’s contract without giving Alan Corbin the satisfaction of thinking it had been done on
his
say-so, he’d dump him like a hot brick and bring in Matty Kline without pausing for breath.

The idea had been growing on him throughout the night, and he was convinced that it was the perfect solution to the problem of saving
Star Struck
. But his pride was still smarting too much to put his plans into action just yet. Not only because he couldn’t bear giving Corbin cause to gloat, but also because he didn’t want Jeremy Hislop thinking that it had been
his
suggestion which had swayed him, either. Everybody was just too damn full of their own self-importance these days, and it galled Frank that they all thought they had the right to butt into his business.

Still stewing, having failed to reach Larry after several attempts, Frank got out of bed and stomped down to the kitchen. Snapping at his wife when she handed him a cup of coffee and accidentally spilled a tiny drop onto the sleeve of his dressing gown, he immediately turned his frustrations onto the dog, yelling at the poor thing for getting under his feet when all it was doing was giving him its usual good-morning greeting.

Muttering under his breath when the dog slinked away to mope in its basket, he turned his back on his wife’s disapproving face and snatched up the kitchen phone. One last chance, and if Larry still didn’t answer, pride be buggered, he was history.

The newspapers dropped onto the hall mat with a dull thud. Lips pursed, Brenda Woods stalked past her husband and went to get them. She didn’t know what his problem was, but he’d better snap out of his mood before he even
thought
about leaving for his precious office today, or he’d find himself with a mutiny on his hands when he came home tonight.

Bringing the papers back into the kitchen now, she dropped them on the table, sending a cloud of soot from Frank’s ashtray up into the air.

‘Bloody hell, woman!’ he complained, snatching his cup up before the ash landed in it. ‘Watch what you’re doing, can’t you?’

‘Don’t you
woman
me,’ Brenda retorted indignantly. ‘I don’t know what’s eating you today, Frank, but whatever it is, it’s none of my doing, and I won’t have you taking it out on me. It was bad enough putting up with you tossing and turning all night. I hardly slept a wink.’

Muttering ‘Sorry,’ because she was right that this wasn’t about her, Frank clicked the still-unanswered phone off and swept the ash off the table with the back of his hand. But just as he was about to blow the residue off the newspapers, the main headline of the
Sunday Herald
caught his eye and, snatching the paper up, he spread it out to read the article.

‘
LOGAN’S LOLITA!
’ the headline screamed, followed by the sub-heading: ‘
Read the exclusive account of what happened when
Herald
reporter Sam Brady caught game-show host Larry Logan seducing the
16-YEAR-OLD
girl who tricked her way to the £10,000 jackpot on Star Struck last night!
’

Turning from her washing-up when Frank uttered a strangled gasp of horror, Brenda asked him what was wrong. Tutting loudly when he brusquely shushed her, she turned back to the sink and clattered the plates into the rack with venom.

Ignoring her, Frank read on.

And now we can exclusively reveal an even
darker
side to the Logan saga, having caught him in a steamy clinch with the winner of last night’s jackpot – 16-year-old TANIA BAXTER!

Looking now at the two photographs attached to the story, Frank gritted his teeth. Eyes glazed, body slumped like a sack of wet spuds in the first shot, Larry seemed to be sucking the face off the girl, who was more or less straddling him, with only the edge of the table and the bottles cluttered on its surface covering what was most probably going on below decks. The second shot clearly showed just how drunk Larry had been as, shocked out of the clinch by the flashing lights and fracas that had reportedly followed, he gazed out with unfocused eyes, not seeming to know what was happening or where he was.

The girl, however, not only looked absolutely aware of her surroundings, she’d even managed to locate the camera’s lens and was staring straight into it like a seasoned pro, with a mile-wide smile on her lying face – no doubt hoping to launch her future modelling career off the back of this amazing photo opportunity.

And the gold-digging, publicity-seeking little slut would probably succeed, too, Frank thought, furiously skimming through the rest of the papers now. The
Herald
was the only one carrying
this
story, but the rest were full of Larry pissed out of his head live on air, which was just as bad.

Shoving the papers angrily away when he’d seen enough, Frank lit another cigarette and snatched up the phone again. This was the worst publicity he’d faced in twenty-three years as a producer, and – pride be damned – he’d rather eat Corbin’s shit-caked underpants live on the six o’clock news than have the public think he was standing by Logan after this.

He would demand an internal investigation, of course – to find out how the girl had managed to slip through the net in the first place, and to nail the stupid bastard who’d let it happen. And he would stop the cheque immediately, before the girl managed to cash it. And – for face-saving’s sake – he would then publicly donate the prize money to the Kiddie Kare fund.

And then he would murder Logan with his bare hands!

‘I take it you’ve seen the papers?’ Jeremy said when he answered – further incensing Frank, who sensed more than a hint of
I told you so
in his flat tone. ‘Doesn’t look too good, does it?’

‘Get everyone in for a meeting,’ Frank barked, letting Jeremy know from the off that he was still in control and wouldn’t tolerate any bullshit. ‘And get hold of Matty Kline while you’re at it.’

‘Do you want Larry there, too?’

‘Only if you want to see me go down for murder! Just ring the little fuckwit’s agent, and tell her to tell him that if I see him anywhere near the studio again in this lifetime, I will personally rip his fucking face off. Got that?’

‘Loud and clear,’ Jeremy replied, sensibly keeping his opinions to himself: that this could have all been avoided if Frank had only taken his advice and kept Larry Logan well away from a live broadcast.

Over in the city centre just then, the sun was casting an orange glow through the uncurtained floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall window of Larry’s penthouse apartment. Hanover Towers boasted some of the finest views, and some of the richest, most famous inhabitants of Manchester – the latter being the major reason why Larry had bought the apartment. No point being a star if you couldn’t show it off to the world, and all that.