‘AAAAAMMMMMYYY!’ Matty was yelling. ‘Whaaaat have you dooooonnnne?’ He had blood all over his white T-shirt.
The girl he’d been kissing was squealing as TJ shoved napkins at her, and out of the corner of my eye I could see other clubbers filming the whole sorry escapade on their phones.
Sounds bad, doesn’t it? Really bad. But that’s not even all of it.
Realising I’d gone too far, I turned to leave. But like I said, I’d had quite a lot to drink at that hairbrush launch (honestly, it’s the only way to get through things like that – the free booze) and I was wearing really high heels.
As I spun round, my foot caught on the edge of the dance floor and suddenly I was face down in a puddle of pina colada with my super-short dress up round my hips and my Hello Kitty knickers on display.
Lying there, my cheek stinging from the pineapple juice, I watched two men compare photos on their phones’ screens and high-five each other. And then firm hands lifted me up.
‘Out!’ said one of the two bouncers who were either side of me. They were both twice as tall as me and seemingly three times as wide. They’d lifted me so high that my feet weren’t even touching the floor.
‘Don’t worry, I’m going,’ I muttered to the bouncer on my left. ‘I just feel a bit …’
And then I puked. All over his trousers.
‘Get your lips off my man.’ My boss, Tim, threw the paper down on his desk and glared at me. ‘Amy’s meltdown. Full story continues on pages three, five, seven and nine.’
I glanced down at the photo on the front of the paper and winced as I saw the now familiar shot of me face down on the dance floor, bum in the air, as a blood-splattered Matty gazed on in horror.
‘Today’s news, tomorrow’s fish and chip paper,’ I said hopefully.
Tim rolled his eyes and turned his computer screen round so I could see it.
‘You are the only person who’s ever made every single thumbnail on the PostOnline’s Sidebar of Shame,’ he said. Sure enough, the column of pics down the side of his screen replayed each moment of that awful night in full technicolour glory. It was like a flipbook animation of the punch, the blood, the fall and the vomit.
‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered. ‘I just really loved him, you know?’
Tim’s face softened.
‘I know you did, sweetheart.’
‘So what happens now?’ I asked, scared to hear the answer. Tim was the producer of Turpin Road. It was the biggest soap in Britain and I was arguably its biggest star – at least I liked to think so. I played Betsy, a damaged but sparky barmaid at the Prince Albert pub. I’d been on the show for three years and I absolutely loved it. And Tim loved me. I’d had some brilliant storylines and I was tipped as the next big thing. At least I had been, until I punched a reality TV star called Kayleigh and showed my knickers to the world.
I gave Tim a sheepish grin.
‘Suspension?’ I suggested. ‘I’ll go to my mum’s in Spain for a month, stay out of everyone’s way, and when I get back all this will have blown over and the tabloids will have a new victim. Just write me out for a bit.’
I was wearing a scarf round my neck – I’d hidden my face with it when I’d come into the studios earlier to avoid the paps waiting at the gate. Now I wrapped it round my head like Dolly, the actress who played my on-screen granny, and picked up the phone on Tim’s desk.
‘Oh, hello, Betsy,’ I said, in what I thought was a pretty good impression of Dolly’s shrill cockney voice. ‘Oh, your uncle’s broken his leg, has he? Of course you should stay and look after him. About a month, you say? We’ll miss you.’
I put the phone down again, pulled the scarf off my head and stared at Tim, waiting for the axe to fall.
I knew how these things worked. One of my co-stars had sent a photo of his willy to a fan via Snapchat, she’d screengrabbed it, shared it, and it was all over the internet about thirty seconds later. He’d been suspended for a while but he was back now and it was like nothing had happened. Tim adored me. The Turpin Road viewers adored Betsy. Surely my punishment would be similar?
Tim shook his head and my heart sank.
‘Longer?’ I whispered. ‘Two months?’
‘You assaulted her, Amy,’ Tim said. ‘You broke her nose.’
‘She was kissing Matty,’ I pointed out.
‘You were given a caution. You were lucky not to be charged.’
‘I wasn’t charged because her nose was full of coke and she didn’t want to make a fuss,’ I said.
Tim shrugged.
‘That’s as may be,’ he said. ‘But she doesn’t work for me and you do.’
He paused.
‘At least, you did.’
I went cold. I buried my face in my scarf and looked up at Tim in horror.
‘What are you saying?’
‘Don’t give me those puppy dog eyes Amy,’ Tim said. ‘You know what I’m saying.’
‘I’m out?’
He nodded.
‘My hands are tied, love,’ he said. ‘You punched someone, your pants are all over the PostOnline and there’s bound to be more. They’ll be after anything and everything. Ex-boyfriends, girls you fell out with at school, hairdressers you were rude to – it’s all fair game now.’
I closed my eyes.
‘Build them up, knock them down,’ I said.
‘Exactly,’ Tim said.
‘No,’ I said. ‘No. The viewers love Betsy. They love her and they love me.’
I jumped to my feet.
‘Look,’ I said, pointing to a framed photo of me gripping a gold statue that had pride of place on the office wall. ‘Do you think the show would have won this BAFTA without Betsy’s mental health problems?’
Tim shrugged.
I picked up a pile of magazines that were on his bookshelf and went through them one by one.
‘Amy wins big,’ I read, showing him a photo of me with an armload of statues at last year’s soap awards.
‘Steal Amy’s summer style.’ I opened Hot magazine at a fashion shoot I’d done and waved it at him.
‘Amy bares all?’ I fake-gasped, then giggled as I showed Tim the cover of Cosmo featuring a make-up-free me. ‘I was in make-up for an hour before that shoot.’
‘Don’t,’ Tim said. ‘Don’t do this.’
But I was on a roll. I picked up Yay!
‘Amy and Matty: Our plans for the future,’ I read. My voice shook as my bravado deserted me.
‘I’ve lost him, Tim,’ I said, hugging the magazine close. ‘Don’t make me lose this, too.’
‘No one’s bigger than the show,’ Tim said sadly. ‘But you’ll be okay. You’re very talented.’
‘I can come back, right?’ I said, still gripping my magazine. ‘Betsy will come back?’
Tim