Confessions of a Showbiz Reporter. Holly Forrest

      I met Daisy behind the scenes at an awards show and we’ve been friends ever since. She knows the deal. Her revelations alone are unlikely to end up printed word-for-word online, but the nuggets she feeds me often morph into bigger stories. I think she rather likes the playground superiority of being able to say ‘I know something you don’t’, and I know she likes the idea of being someway party to a world that isn’t her own – the world of journalism. Most importantly, though – and this is crucial for a source – Daisy and I like having a few drinks and a gossip together.

      She tells me a lot of stuff, of course, that I can do nothing with. If a star she’s working with is secretly trying for a baby with her boyfriend then I’m not going to blow their cover. There’s no scandal there; it’s all too personal. If that boyfriend is actually a front, though, a cover for the relationship she’s having with another woman, but is too desperate for mainstream stardom to admit it? Well, I’m not so keen on letting people get away with lying.

      One night over a bottle of red Daisy told me about a recent client – a slightly square middle-aged thespian renowned for his earnest acting – who spent his half hour of being dressed for a photo shoot making lewd suggestions to her. When he’d had enough of her rebuffs, he telephoned a mate and was even more crude about the teenage starlet he was currently starring in a film with. Thanks to Daisy, I’ve been closely watching this chap ever since. If the tip-off is anything to go by, he’ll have a sexual harassment case hanging over him within a year.

      As well as a stylist, there are other ‘insiders’ it’s always useful to be friends with. Such as:

      The hotel concierge. Trying to find out if a star really is in town? London might be a city boasting thousands of hotels, but in reality the rich and famous only ever stay at a handful. And I’m not talking about Travelodges or Holiday Inns. Having someone on the ground in Mayfair’s swankiest accommodations is always worthwhile, even if they often only answer my questions with a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’. It was a ‘yes’ that I heard down the line when I asked a concierge contact at a top hotel if a certain pop star was staying there. Not a story in itself, perhaps, but it certainly gave credence to the rumours we’d heard that his wife had kicked him out of the marital home. As a renowned drinker and party animal, that was going to be one big mini-bar bill.

      The door whore. I will be eternally grateful to the guy who used to control the guest list at one particularly poncey club in Central London. It’s not that the place was even my scene – the drinks were overpriced and the decor was more S&M dungeon than classy lounge – but through a few visits with friends, I’d got to know him reasonably well and one night it paid off. A famous pop star had been strenuously denying he was marrying his girlfriend that week, but it was rumoured they would both be partying with friends down in this basement hangout for an impromptu joint stag and hen do. As I trotted up to the door, my friend with his clipboard ‘umm-ed’ and ‘aah-ed’ and generally became a drama queen for a few minutes, but ultimately he let me downstairs. Yes, he knew why I wanted to go down there, but he also knew that a bit of publicity about his club being the venue for such a rock ’n’ roll party wouldn’t do him any harm either. After spotting the happy couple in a corner, I sent a text to a photographer friend to wait outside for a shot of them leaving then went about the business of noting everything the duo were drinking, eating and dancing to. Combined with the snap of them coming out of the club at 3 a.m., the piece I wrote prompted more than one person to comment on it being ‘so detailed, it’s like I was there’. I didn’t have the heart to tell them it was because I was.

      The clinic receptionist. When you work in a job where celebs take you into their confidence, it’s understandably difficult not to get carried away. You become party to some pretty juicy gossip – gossip many would pay you for – and it’s only human to succumb sometimes to temptation. That was certainly the case with one receptionist at a plastic surgery clinic who I had in my confidence. Camp as Christmas and eager to share his star spots, I always found out pretty quickly which megastar was having what done to their nose, eyes or forehead. When one of those ‘have they or haven’t they?’ articles is mooted at a morning meeting, I have all the names immediately to hand. And while we are careful not to state anything as ‘fact’ in a feature, there is no uncertainty in my mind as to whether those names have had work done or not. Every single one, according to my loose-lipped receptionist, will have passed through his doors in the last year. And to think they all put their beauty down to just having ‘good genes’.

      The publicist. It’s assumed that publicists have to follow some kind of moral code, meaning that all their work is officially set up and planned – sit-down interviews for a magazine or studio photo shoots with a top snapper, for example. If only life were that innocent. Getting your client into the press is now a shame-free exercise and publicists are more likely to be heavily suggesting stories and angles to showbiz journalists than waiting for a more traditional promo opportunity to come up. The old adage that ‘no publicity is bad publicity’ is truer than ever, and publicists will tip off the paparazzi with something as pointless as their client walking down the road in a particularly skimpy dress. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve been spun the yarn that the good-looking but frankly talentless Mr X is in talks to go over to Hollywood and make a movie, but with an ever-increasing number of spaces to fill in magazines and websites, sometimes that kind of story – however tenuous – is just what I need.

      Ten past two in the morning and the cab is dropping me off at my flat. I hand Daisy 20 pounds to cover my share of the fare and remind myself once again to get the train next time.

      ‘Bye darlin’, ha ha ha!’ Daisy shouts through the taxi window, apparently not caring about everyone trying to sleep. ‘Let’s do it again soon, yeah?’

      ‘Definitely,’ I reply, trying not to stumble up the kerb.

      ‘And make sure you remind me – I must tell you about this singer I’ve been working with. Was the face of a charity campaign and claimed to be all “right on” about it, y’know. Actually she was getting paid a fortune for it. She couldn’t give a shit about hungry Africans.’

      My ears prick up, sensing a story.

      ‘Dais, you’re a star. Same time next week?’

       Flirting

      There was this one actor – a pretty boy who looked as if he spent more time than I did preening himself – who simply took my breath away when I met him. Wow was he beautiful. Puppy dog eyes, a Celtic accent, and bee-stung lips that looked even more kissable in real life than they did projected on to a 15-foot cinema screen – I was smitten. I suspect that he’d had one of those long, tedious days of promotion because, when I walked into the interview room I sensed immediately that he was up for some fun. ‘Chemistry’ is the kind of cheesy word used by dim WAGs talking about their latest footballer boyfriend, but there was definitely something scientific happening when he and I talked. Well, I say talked. We giggled. We flirted. Any talking we did was the kind of hilarious-at-the-time nonsense that’s more suited to a drunken pub date than a professional interview. Still, I left 20 minutes later buzzing from all the pouting and eyelash batting that had just taken place – and that was just from him.