She was wearing a simple but dazzling backless dress in cream chiffon, ending in a floor-sweeping transparent train with a hemline rising in front to skim her knees. An embroidered peacock motif picked out in sparkling aquamarine beads curled down one side of the bodice. Angel felt a twinge of something – jealousy? – as she noted the shapely legs, remembering Steve’s description of Seb as a ‘leg man’ and the way the director had seemed to approve so much of hers that night in the hotel bar. For some reason she found herself blinking back tears, recalling him scanning the curve of her crossed legs when he’d stood up to hand back her bag, and the heat that had slammed through her when she’d felt his soft curls brushing against her calves…
Carole’s platinum-blonde bob was flawless as always, the fair skin was set off perfectly by delicate pencilled lashes and a slick of baby-pink lipstick, yet there was a childlike air of fragility to the diminutive actress that couldn’t help but make an onlooker feel protective. Angel noticed the bruised circles indicating sleepless nights around her eyes, almost but not quite hidden by the make-up artist’s skill. But Carole didn’t let her tiredness show while she laughed and chatted with the assembled crowd.
‘Who am I wearing?’ she said in answer to a reporter. ‘Why, myself, darling, of course. I make nearly all my own dresses.’
Well, of course you do. It seemed Carole Beaumont really was practically perfect in every way.
‘But I do wonder why that’s always the first question I’m asked,’ the actress went on. ‘Usually followed by a request for details of my beauty routine, while my co-star is asked about his role in the movie.’
Carole spoke lightly, with a little tinkling laugh, but her smile had a hard edge, making it clear this particular question was an irritation she’d encountered before. And it was true, her leading man had been asked just moments earlier how he’d prepared for his part in the film by the very same reporter. Angel felt her respect rise for this woman, gracious but firm, who refused to let the press reduce her to a glorified clothes-horse.
‘Do you have any comment to make about your husband’s recent infidelity, Ms Beaumont?’ yelled a pimply young man close by Angel’s elbow. ‘Will you be seeking a divorce?’ called someone from the other side of the carpet. But Carole Beaumont was suddenly deaf as she took Seb’s arm.
She nudged him slightly and as he began to speak Angel was overcome by a sudden, vivid memory of his woodsmoke-chocolate aftershave when he drew his face in close to hers, eyes kindled with a flame that seemed to spark from his tawny irises into her green ones. She scrunched her eyes tight shut, trying hard to rid herself of the memory. The seductive embrace of his tongue with hers as he expertly explored her mouth, drawing her arched, willing body into his…
Once again she felt tears rising and blinked hard to fight them back. This pathetic habit of crying whenever she thought about Seb had got to stop.
‘I’d like to thank you ladies and gentlemen of the press for turning out to the premiere of The Milkman Cometh,’ the director said, taking care there should be no trace of emotion in his polished tones while he delivered the obviously rehearsed speech. ‘This black comedy is something different for Carole and myself, but a project that has long been close to our hearts. It is also the first release to be entirely filmed at, and distributed by, our studio, Tigerblaze. Now there is nothing left for us to do but throw it on your mercy, and I hope you will not stint in either your praise or your criticism as the curtain lifts on our newest baby.’
This gave the up-and-coming reporter at Angel’s elbow a new idea. He chose this moment to shout out his next question.
‘Why do you think you and your wife have never had children, Mr Wilchester? Isn’t a family something you want in your lives?’
Angel shrank back as Seb’s gaze flickered over to the unfortunate young man beside her with a sneer of dislike. But Carole’s selective deafness seemed to be catching. The question remained unanswered, hanging in the air as the couple were escorted by their PR man into the cinema.
‘Right, that’s your lot,’ Leo said, taking hold of Angel’s elbow and guiding her away from the fenced-off area along with the rapidly dispersing crowd. ‘Come on.’
‘Where do we go now?’
‘Servants’ entrance, round the back. The stars all get shown into the VIP area, then we humble Newsround presspackers are allowed to go occupy the cheap seats. Have you got your pass? You’ll have to show it to the security bods to get in.’
Angel reached into her handbag for the press pass. It did have a little clip to attach it, but she couldn’t bear the thought of doing any damage, no matter how tiny, to her dress. Not that she’d ever admit such feminine weakness to Leo. She’d never hear the end of it.
She pulled out her phone too, scanned the screen. One new message.
Cal can’t make it. Need review for Monday. Take notes and let’s see what you can do with it.
Great, thanks Steve. So now she was supply film critic and supply showbiz editor. Did no one else do any work on this paper?
‘Looks like I’m reviewing for the arts section as well as the summary for the showbiz supplement.’ She showed Leo Steve’s text. ‘Cal’s off sick or something. Typical. Come on, let’s get round the back and try to get some decent seats.’
Leo’s eyes saucered with surprise. ‘Bloody hell, that’s huge, Ginge! I’m impressed: from intern to film critic in well under a year. That’s some jump, you know.’ He gave the elbow he was holding a swift squeeze. ‘Steve must think you’re the dog’s wotsits or something. At this rate you’ll be deputy editor by this time next week. Listen, you will remember the little people who put you there, won’t you, and make sure my name’s in the hat for director of photography?’
She linked his arm as they joined the end of the queue snaking down towards the cinema’s rear entrance. ‘No worries, little person. Shame there isn’t any extra money in my rapid rise to the top, though, instead of just twice the work for the same salary. I’m about one taffeta ballgown from the breadline at the moment.’
Ten minutes of very British queueing later, a beefy security guard eyeballed them as they arrived at the entrance and flashed their press passes.
‘Paper, mag, blog?’
‘The Investigator,’ Leo said. ‘Angel Blackthorne and Leo Courtenay.’
The guard glared at them with lowered brows. It didn’t take a big stretch of the imagination for Angel to figure out why.
‘That stunt you pulled was a new low, even by your rag’s rock-bottom standards,’ he growled. ‘I don’t know how you hacks have got the balls to show your faces here. Really top couple, the Wilchesters. I’ve worked with them for years.’
Angel examined her feet carefully, feeling the tips of her ears starting to burn. ‘Look, we just work there,’ she mumbled. ‘The editor decides what we run…’
Oh yes, the old ‘just obeying orders’ defence. Always a winner.
But the guard was just getting warmed up. ‘A real lady, Mrs Beaumont, and she’s looked just about ready to break her heart these last few months. I mean, ‘mystery girl’? Come on! One of your hired whores, more like. You know as well as I do the whole thing was a set-up. Otherwise how would you have known to plant the bloody cameras in the first place? Your white-van-men punters might have a reading age of six but even they can’t be that thick.’
Behind