Inside, the hotel’s ballroom was crammed with hundreds of tables barely twelve inches apart. The place mats were miniature versions of the
Daily Post,
printed with copies of their most famous headlines over the past ten years. At each place was a shiny bag stuffed with goodies. Guy was astonished to find a silk tie, a badger shaving brush and a leather-bound notebook in his, as well as a selection of luxury male-grooming products. This was obviously big business; the suppliers were banking on celebrity endorsements. Either that or they were getting rid of old stock…
Comely waitresses were circling the room with trays full of some filthy, lurid cocktail. Guy took one sip and gagged. Sickly, oversweet and artificial. Nobody else seemed bothered, presumably because the cocktails were free. If you wanted something else, you had to pay for it. He found another waitress and sidled up to her with a winning smile and a twenty-pound note.
‘Do you think you could possibly get me a bottle of beer?’ he asked politely. ‘I’m seriously allergic to whatever’s in that.’
The waitress nodded eagerly, obviously mistaking him for some big-time, small-screen star, and rushed off to do his bidding. Happy that he would at least have something decent to drink, Guy looked around him. Through the crowds, he could see Richenda talking to the executive producer of the company who made
Lady Jane.
The simplicity of her outfit and her natural make-up were, he realized now, an act of considerable cunning, for next to her every other woman in the room looked overdressed and obvious. Fake tans, false hair and elaborate
scaffolding abounded. There were unnecessary acres of exposed flesh – some firm, some flabby. In this day of stylists and personal shoppers, there really was no excuse for fashion blunders. But in the battle for attention, most actresses made the mistake of revealing as much as they could to ensure they were the focus of every camera. Richenda had done quite the opposite, and as a result all eyes were upon her. Of course, you had to be stunning to pull that trick off in the first place, but she had been canny to resist showing off either cleavage or leg. She glided amongst them all with an aura of serenity and class. How ironic, thought Guy.
He wandered amongst the guests, realizing how few of these so-called celebrities he actually recognized, sickened at the thought that the nation was riveted week after week by their fictionalized antics or their ability to redecorate a house in twenty minutes. A few of them managed to do some good, no doubt, as their agents or managers would ensure they did a quick stint in some war-torn third-world country to plump up their image. But on the whole they were superficial and self-absorbed, unable to handle the attention or the money that went with meteoric rises that weren’t underpinned by any particular talent. Guy felt a shudder of revulsion at the forced camaraderie, the shallow air-kissing, the false shrieks of greeting that ill-disguised the underlying rivalry. He wondered about moving through the glazed expressions and pinprick pupils to reach Richenda, but decided she would be able to work the room better without him standing like a lemon at her side. Not that he wasn’t supportive, but no one was really interested in
him. After all,
he
had no influence over the outcome of tonight’s awards. Nor could he offer anyone a plum role in a forthcoming production, or write them a glowing review. He was just arm candy.
If he’d known it was going to be this ghastly, he’d have found an excuse not to come. There were a million and one things that needed doing at Eversleigh: they had a party of twelve coming this weekend, who’d emailed an endless list of dietary requests and peculiarities. He really could have done with going over it all with Honor – these were going to be difficult clients, and it was vital to get everything right at this early stage while they were establishing their reputation.
Slugging back his beer, he wondered if he was being sanctimonious and a bit of an old fogey. Who was he to look down on these people? What right had he to scoff at their success, just because it didn’t fit in with his view of the world? After all, he came from a world of privilege and what had he actually achieved? Running a bed and breakfast wasn’t something most people aspired to. He shouldn’t be so smug and judgemental: if he wasn’t careful, he could end up losing Eversleigh and it would more than likely end up in the hands of one of the people here tonight. As his mother had pointed out, they were the new aristocracy. They represented the nation’s values.
And to be fair to Richenda, she handled her celebrity status with aplomb, or so it seemed to him so far. She didn’t fall over herself to court publicity or exploit situations. She’d made as little fuss as possible over the engagement; the photo session hadn’t been that much of an ordeal. And even though he’d been unsettled by her
revelations earlier that day, Guy felt confident that Richenda would handle the knock-on discreetly. He resolved not to be petulant and self-righteous. He mustn’t let this blip spoil their relationship. There were bound to be pressures all the way through their marriage. If he fell at the first fence, what hope did they have? She needed his support, not his judgement.
Resolved, he pushed his way through the jostling throngs until he reached her side. The way her face lit up when she saw him was reward in itself.
‘Hello, darling,’ he murmured.
After Ted had been tucked up safely in bed, Honor served supper. She realized it was years since she had done this: sat down at the table with another adult, enjoyed a simple meal and idly chatted about their respective days. Johnny was on top form, thoroughly appreciative of her cooking.
‘This is way better than my curry would have been.’
‘I still think it’s a myth. I think you forgot accidentally on purpose. I don’t think you’ve got a clue what’s in it.’
‘Ginger, coconut milk, lemongrass…’ Johnny started reciting the ingredients indignantly, then ran out of steam.
‘Chicken?’ suggested Honor helpfully.
Johnny thumped her arm.
‘I’ll prove it to you Saturday. Definitely. Tell you what, why don’t you ask some friends round? We could have a supper party.’
Honor didn’t reply for a moment. She couldn’t say that she hadn’t actually mentioned Johnny to any of her friends yet. She’d been on the verge of telling Henty, but
even then something was still holding her back. Like the fact that as soon as she publicly acknowledged his presence in her life she’d have to start making decisions.
‘I don’t think we’d better. They’ve got a big party at Eversleigh this weekend – they might need me till quite late. Why don’t we wait till I’ve got a weekend free?’
Johnny looked a bit crestfallen. There was nothing he liked better than a party.
‘I can hold the fort till you get back. Everyone will understand. And I can get to know your mates.’
She definitely wasn’t letting Johnny loose without supervision. That was asking for trouble.
‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘It’s too early, Johnny. I think you should be spending the time with Ted, not showing off your culinary prowess.’
Johnny stuck out his bottom lip.
‘I’d forgotten what a bloody school marm you can be,’ he complained.
‘I thought that’s what you liked,’ she flashed back with a mischievous grin, then stopped herself. Don’t flirt, don’t tease. That was dangerous ground.
Even though the hotel boasted four stars, dinner was far from impressive: chicken with a parmesan and polenta crust that tasted as if it had been picked up at the local KFC two hours before, then a raspberry mousse that resembled Instant Whip with a drop of créme de fram-boises mixed in. However, no one seemed bothered. Most of the guests didn’t eat anyway as their outfits didn’t allow it, and they were more intent on a liquid intake. When the time came for the awards to be presented the
atmosphere was decidedly relaxed. Make-up was fading, guards were dropping, hairdos were drooping. Guy was relieved to see that Richenda was still as fresh as a daisy. Apart from a glass of champagne on arrival, she had wisely been sipping mineral water throughout the evening.
The ceremony began. It seemed tediously slow and repetitive to Guy, but everyone seemed to be on the edge of their seats as the Best Television Makeover Show or the Best Celebrity Chef was revealed. And the ritual really tested everyone’s acting abilities: the agonizing expectation, the bitter disappointment, the delight, the fixed smiles, the false congratulations, the forced tears, the gushing. By the time the award for Best Actress arrived, Guy was thoroughly nauseated. Yet he still felt a flurry of nerves for Richenda. Of course it would be wonderful if she won. Not to mention awful if she lost. He squeezed her hand under the table and crossed his fingers secretly. She sat, straight backed and serene, the only sign of any tension the tightness of her fingers on the stem of her glass as the nominees were announced.
The award was to be presented by a young comedian whose filthy innuendo had made him a celebrity almost overnight. He bounced on to the stage in a dinner jacket, worn with leopardskin winkle-pickers and matching dickie bow. Which bit of black tie did these people not understand? wondered Guy.
‘I have to admit, I was feeling a right tit earlier,’ he said, then trailed off. ‘Thirty-six double D,’ he added helpfully, waiting for the audience to get the joke. Then he picked up the gold envelope.
‘No point beating about the bush, is there? Anyway, I’m sure all the ladies here have had Brazilian waxes…’
The audience laughed again.
‘’ Scuse me – I’m just fumbling with the flap… As usual…’
Another slightly nervous laugh. His jokes were getting a bit too close to the bone. Being a professional, he sensed this.
‘And the winner of the Best Television Actress Award, as voted by the readers of the
Daily Post,
is…’
Everyone held their breath as he drew out a thick card.
‘… the fox herself. Richenda. Richenda Fox, ladies and gentlemen. Congratulations, my darling…’
Richenda had a look of utter amazement on her face. She seemed slightly dazed. Guy leaned over and gave her a kiss on the cheek. She turned to him with a smile, shaking her head in bewilderment, then accepted a kiss from the delighted producer on her other side. Then she stood, gathered up her skirts and picked her way through the tables as daintily as a milkmaid picking her way through a field of buttercups. She ran lightly up the stairs on to the stage, accepted a congratulatory hug from the comedian, then took her place behind the microphone. She waited for a few moments before speaking, while she composed herself. Then she looked round the huge audience with a dazzling smile.
‘Every little girl likes to dream. When we’re dreaming those dreams, I don’t think we expect them to come true. I invented many wonderful scenarios for myself as a child, but this is beyond my wildest imaginings. So thank you.’
She paused and a smattering of applause began, but
she put her hand up to show she hadn’t finished. The clapping abated obediently.
‘So… this is the fairy-tale ending. But what you don’t know is that the beginning of the story is rather different from what you’ve been led to believe. The readers of the
Daily Post
gave me this award, so in return, I’m going to give them the truth. Tomorrow you can read all about my reunion with my estranged mother, and I hope you won’t judge me too harshly for the past I invented for myself. I’m sure when you read what happened you’ll understand why I felt the need to pretend for so long.’
She paused for a moment, the smile never leaving her face, while the audience digested this information, murmuring speculatively and exchanging surprised glances. Then she cleared her throat, to indicate that she wasn’t finished. She carried smoothly on, before they’d really had time to digest the shock revelations, thanking the cast and production team of
Lady Jane,
name-checking the minions as well as the producer and directors.
‘Finally, there’s one person I’d like to thank in particular, without whose support I wouldn’t be standing here, and that is my wonderful, big-hearted, generous-spirited fiancé, Guy Portias. Thank you a thousand times, my darling.’
A collective, heartfelt ‘Aaah’ swept the room at these words. Heads swivelled as she blew Guy a kiss, then rapturous applause broke out and hundreds of flashbulbs popped. She had the entire audience in the palm of her hand. She paused for a few more moments to ensure that every photographer had had their fill of her radiance, then she glided back down the steps and made her
way back to the table, stopping en route to shake hands and receive kisses of congratulation with gracious modesty.
Guy felt slightly sick. How could he have misjudged Richenda like that? He had assumed that she would try and make as little as possible of the forthcoming revelations about her past. Instead, she had used her victory to blow it out of all proportion. Admittedly, it was a bloody masterstroke in how to manipulate the media. In one fell swoop she had ensured that the photographers would be falling over themselves to snap her: she wouldn’t feature just in the
Daily Post,
but all the papers. The entire episode had been contrived and calculated – she had engineered the situation to bring her maximum publicity. Worse than that, she had used him; capitalized on their recent engagement with that nauseating name-check. He cringed as he remembered all those grinning heads swivelling round to look at him. Did she have any idea how that had made him feel? He thought not.
Guy topped up his glass, realizing that he was the only one left at the table. Everyone else was circulating. Richenda was surrounded by a huge crowd of sycophants. He watched as she embraced Cindy Marks from the
Daily Post,
and his stomach turned over. Was he imagining it, or did the two of them share a conspiratorial smile? Had the whole thing been conceived and engineered between the two of them from the very beginning? He remembered them directing him during the photoshoot a fortnight ago – at the time, he’d gone along with it with good-natured grumbling. Now he wondered if he’d been
naive; if he was in fact part of a more sinister plan; an extra in a piece of theatre they had been rehearsing for weeks.