‘I don’t need another relationship right now – fake or otherwise,’ I sighed, reaching for my coffee. ‘I prefer life away from the spotlight.’
He looked as though I’d said I’d be perfectly content wing-walking nude over the Gobi. ‘Smack, darling, you’re festering. You’re just this far away from appearing in one of those ghastly where-are-they-now shows.’ He pinched his fingers together and then narrowed his eyes as he spotted a chipped nail from fighting his way through my overgrown front gate.
‘My name is Sadie, not Smack,’ I reminded him gently. ‘No one’s called me Smack for months. People around here have no idea who Smack was.’
‘Precisely my point!’ he bashed his hand down on a cushion, propelling Carrot on to my lap. ‘You need to get back into the scene, go to some lovely parties, buy some new frocks. Look at you, you’re so gorgeous. You’re sitting in the middle of this – this isolated tip, accumulating cobwebs like Miss Haversham. And what is that?’ He spotted what appeared to be a sleeping woolly mammoth in the corner of the room.
‘Carrot’s bed,’ I explained sadly. ‘It’s a pile of gorilla suits Bill was going to use in the Christmas special before it was scrapped.’
Admittedly, the cottage wasn’t looking its best. It was as dusty as a moth’s wing and three days of constant rain had left mud trodden all over the bare elm floorboards. When we’d bought the place six months ago, Bill and I had planned to scour antique shops and European flea markets for furniture. But I had no desire to shop now that I was alone and broke.
Sly shuddered, doubly determined to make his journey into the wilderness worthwhile. ‘It’s time you cashed in, darling. Since he left you, Bill’s press has been so absolutely diabolical that he’ll never work in the UK again. You know the deal. As your agent, it’s my duty to get you out of this depression. I’m going to call the Alchemist straight away.’ He delved in his Prada courier bag for his mobile. ‘Face it, Smack – I mean, Sadie, darling – you’re up to your silicones in debt. You’ll lose this place soon. And Bill needs – Ah, hello, Al. Sly Preston here – the sly guy with the eye for to-die-for stars, remember?’ Sly had been spending too much time in Hollywood lately. ‘Now I am going to say one word and I guarantee you’ll pass out with happiness. Smack!’
I pulled a face at Carrot as Sly started discussing me with the Svengali of the tabloids, a man who could give so much spin to a fading star that the Sun lit up.
‘Yes, that’s right. Bill Roth’s ex, as in “Smack my bitch up”,’ Sly was purring into his phone. ‘Mmm, co-hosted Loved Up, yes – now on NBC with Ash Numan. Not a patch on Smack. No, she still looks great. Suicide attempts?’ He looked at me in shock. ‘Not as far as I know. Oh, I see, that’s good press, is it? Maybe it can be arranged. Lunch? Let’s gaze at our windows as Chekhov said.’ He peered at his electronic diary.
I closed my eyes. ‘Smack my bitch up.’ Oh Bill, if only they’d really known you, your adoring public. If only they’d seen the private side I saw, the gentle humorist, the philosopher, the lover who took all night to satisfy me even though it no longer gave him pleasure.
In the six months since I’d been gone, London had turned its restaurant tables. I hadn’t even heard of the Michelin-starred Course in which we met A1 Matthews. It was a predictable minimalist hush of rich, celeb-spotting diners, and to my horror I seemed to be the star attraction.
As expressionless waiters glided around on invisible tracks tending to our every whim, I studied Al over a Zen flower arrangement. He was known as the Alchemist, not just because he could turn base metal into gold, but because it was rumoured he knew precisely the right measure of drugs to keep most of his burnt-out celebrity clients partying late into the night. Yet he wasn’t quite the designer-suited automaton I remembered from endless parties with Bill. He was more self-effacing with very clever blue eyes. It was a calculated front, I realized, guaranteed to charm and disarm. It irritated me to find him so likeable. There was no denying his guile.
‘Now, sorry to go through the obvious, but I want to get my facts straight,’ he smiled easily. ‘You exploded into the spotlight because you were Bill Roth’s girlfriend, right?’
‘Well, yes–’ I started.
‘Not at all,’ Sly cut across me archly. ‘Smack – or rather Sadie, was a serious broadcaster in her own right before Bill head-hunted her from GLR to become the female voice in his radio zoo crew. She also co-produced many of his television shows.’
‘I can see why Roth brought you into the equation,’ A1 Matthews was looking at me thoughtfully, assessing the damage, the raw materials still available now that I had been robbed of my greatest asset, a celebrity relationship. ‘And you co-hosted all three series of Loved Up, as well as fronting commercials, writing several columns and continuing to work on radio?’ He sounded as though he was drafting my press release.
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. Loved Up had, in fact, been my idea. Not that I had ever leaked that, not even when Bill had broken his UK contract after three hit series and taken the ten-million viewer TV show to America with an ultra-famous new co-host. He was Hollywood A-list now, whereas I was credit card black-list and only remembered as his long suffering side-kick, the Ernie to his Eric, the Little to his Larging-it success.
‘The ad campaign for Tsar Vodka alone netted Smack a cool two million,’ Sly boasted, having set it up. ‘And let’s not forget that she came in third in MX magazine’s Sexiest Women on Earth pole only last year.’
‘Just before Bill ran away with Ash Numan, who incidentally came in at number two,’ I muttered. ‘He would have tried for the chart topper, but boning Lara Croft might lead to electrocution, not to mention the constant threat of a T Rex attack.’
A1 hid a smile. I know my loudmouth Essex raver attitude irritates some people, but he seemed to like it which surprised me, given that he was so posh.
‘Sadie’s strength is in cutting-edge journalism,’ Sly clearly didn’t trust me to sell myself. ‘Her party column made cult reading.’
‘So did your credit card bills by all accounts,’ A1 glanced at his notes. ‘And a black Amex card has a very good cutting edge.’
‘There’s only one Bill I still owe,’ I hissed, deciding I didn’t like him after all. ‘Contrary to what you may have read in the papers, I did not take cocaine, or shop like it was going out of fashion, nor did I have personality and eating disorders.’
‘So set the record straight,’ A1 creased his forehead. ‘You can write, we know that; you’re clever as well as beautiful. I know you won’t kiss-and-tell but why not get a book deal? The syndication rights alone could earn you–’
‘The story’s not for sale,’ I snapped. ‘Like Sly says, I just want to be seen at a few parties, show the world I’m over it, raise my profile.’ I knew I sounded like I was having my teeth pulled, and Sly kept kicking me under the table, which didn’t help. I stared at Al’s curious asymmetric face with its crown of wild curls. For someone that repackaged people for a living, it seemed odd that he cared so little about his own image.
A1 was watching my reactions carefully. ‘What good will appearing on a minor star’s arm do you at this stage? You’re not a bimbo.’ He sounded strangely sad.
‘Anyone would think you were trying to do yourself out of a job here, Al,’ Sly laughed nervously, knowing that if I hooked up with the right cheque-mate he stood to cash in on a small fortune, and not just in money. ‘You’re crying out for someone like Sadie. What’s the problem?’
‘I