Page 16

Chapter Nine

I thought that things got pretty wild at the award ceremony: a soap star challenged his ex-fiancee’s new fella to a fight instead of giving a thank you speech, and Alexis Vonette overshadowed Samantha’s puny little nip-slip on the red carpet when, during her performance, her dress, which already had a huge slit up one side, got caught on one of her dancer’s earrings while he was crawling around on the ground below her.

In a desperate bid to shake him free, the whole thing ripped off.

Her dancer tried to cover her dignity by jumping up onto his knees, so his head covered her downstairs…

but the cameras never miss these things.

Everyone had caught a glimpse. Then someone ran on stage and quickly tied the dress back up again, fashioning it into a sarongstyle mini, and all the while she kept on singing, pitch perfect.

I took note: if you’re a true star, the show must go on, come what may.

But after the awards, came the after-party.

That was where the stars seemed to really kick back.

Once again, I mistakenly thought that things had reached peak wildness.

I spotted three people cheating on their partners, or at least, I guess that’s what I think I saw…

as Verity says nothing in showbiz is actually what it seems. Layla was busy trying to pull the mean and moody one from a new boy band, Madison was receiving posing tips from a glamour model, and I was happy just taking it all in.

I’d not seen the boys for hours but finally I felt like I was fitting in.

Actual famous people knew who I was. A really gangly serious actor who’d been the star of some grim police drama even asked for a selfie with me.

But you live and learn, and I’ve learnt that the after, after party is really where it’s at.

There’s definitely something in the air tonight, as I just know it’s going to get even wilder.

I should have known it was going to get messy when Gerald, high on something – lust, viewing figures or gin, who knows – agreed, when Layla oh-so-sweetly asked if we could invite ‘one or two’ people back to our mega apartment.

After all, it needs to be shown off. The Born In Buckinghamshire lot have been making snide remarks all night, saying things like we’ve never encountered food that’s not deep-fried or that our onscreen antics are so extreme that it means we’ve only got fifteen seconds on our timer of fame, and we’ve been determined to show them just how wrong they are about us.

They’re not wrong about the things we did on camera, that’s clear to see, but they’ve broken most of the ten commandments on screen too.

Shagging someone on camera isn’t any more sophisticated just because your ride has a double-barrelled surname.

Anyway, have they not seen our ratings? But what’s even better than us smashing them at ratings is how our apartment is so much better than theirs.

They’re in cabs on their way here now and I can’t wait to see their faces when they walk in.

It’s the one thing that’s united me and Samantha.

After her seething comment, I pulled Madison and Layla into the bathroom for a quick girls meeting.

I didn’t know what to do, Madison wanted me to declare all-out war with her but Layla said to hang back and just carry on being myself.

“There’s something about you that’s obviously got her intimidated,” she said.

“All your success so far, it’s come without trying.

Just you being you. And I think that drives her wild.

Let her do the running after the award – she’ll wear herself out and you can just keep being you. ”

So, I’ve just been being myself, almost acting as if she said nothing at all.

It clearly got to her as now she’s beside me, as part of our welcome party for the BIB lot.

She may see me as an enemy but she sees them as one even more, and we grin at each other as the group enter.

Olympia Mountbatten’s face on entry was priceless.

Her jaw literally dropped wide. “Welcome to our humble abode,” Samantha says sweetly to her.

“Oh, but we have a no-shoes policy, sorry, can you take those off?” she says, looking down at Olympia’s black patent Louboutins.

“But, but…”

“Sorry, house rules,” Samantha insists, knowing full well she’s standing there in a pair of six-inch platform wedges.

Olympia reluctantly bends over to take her shoes off, leaving her much shorter, and less commanding, than she was when she walked in the room.

I give Samantha a sneaky high-five before setting off to find out where Damon has got to.

My tour of the apartment is like walking through a reality TV zoo, where each room is a different cage of feral television stars.

The COC lot are already here, and they’ve stripped off and clambered into the hot tub.

Only someone thought it would be a good idea to add some bubble bath to it, which has caused a riot of foam, spilling out all over the floor.

The flat has practically become a foam party, which I know means however wild things look above the bubbles, the foam will be hiding much worse.

There are two girls, one who’s a famous soap star and the other a politician’s daughter, rolling around, kissing on the floor, soaked in the foam.

When I go into one of our bathrooms, I find Sebastian from Born In Buckinghamshire with some of his posh mates lining up shots.

“We’re going to play ‘I have never,’” he shouts after me, after I turn around.

“For every label you don’t own, or country you’ve not visited, you have to down a shot.

” It’s not my scene and I shut the door.

I’ve never really had the opportunity to travel much so far, and I’ve certainly not had the cash to splash on designer labels.

In our bedroom, I’m relieved to find something more my scene, in the form of Madison and Layla, apparently changing into their second outfit of the night, but sidetracked into a slut-drop battle.

Say what you like about my girls, but no one can say they’ve not got thighs of steel.

I’d like to see fellas try doing squats in stilettos.

“Guys, you know that Adam Tanner is here, don’t you?

” I can’t get over the fact that people I’ve watched (OK, and lusted after) on TV are here in our apartment, drinking our booze, and in the case of period-drama heartthrob, Adam Tanner, making every woman he speaks to melt.

I’m so used to him speaking in a cut-glass accent and either clutching a top hat awkwardly or riding a horse past a stately home that I can’t quite believe he’s here in a tux, bowtie now loosened to reveal a distracting glimpse of chest through his opened shirt.

Plus he’s actually got a rolling Irish burr rather than some aristocratic English drawl.

I was so disconcerted that after I’d said hello to him at the door I’d beaten a hasty retreat in case instead of congratulating him on the award he won tonight, I blurted out what I was actually thinking – which was to ask him if he rode women as well as he rode horses.

“He’s hot, sure,” Madison says, “But I want to find Marc tonight and show him what he’s been missing,” while Layla shouts over the top of her, “Angelica, stay, we need you to judge who’s going lower.”

I tell them I will, in a minute, just once I’ve found Damon. “Have you seen him, maybe him and Marc are nicking all the good booze somewhere?”

“No, but Angelica…” Madison starts but I’m already out the door before I can hear what she was about to say.

I’m about to enter the next room, where I can hear some very strange noises coming from behind the door (it really does sound like I’m about to enter a zoo; is that an elephant I can hear? Followed by a lion’s roar?), when someone wraps their arms round my waist.

“Damon,” I say, turning slowly around, “I’ve been looking for you.

” But I’m not faced with Damon’s hazel brown eyes, or breathing in his delicious new scent.

Instead, I see a pair of small, wide-set, sludge-colour eyes staring at me, not blinking, and am hit with the sharp tang of an aftershave that’s pure midlife crisis.

“Ben,” I say, trying to breathe through my nose and not choke.

Ben Bradshaw is the hotshot agent that every reality TV star wants to be signed by.

He’s got Jimmy Sharpe from COC on his books, and the world has fallen in love with him.

Jimmy’s got the body of a Ken doll, and everyone assumes he has the brain of one, too until they get to know him.

Mums want to look after him, all girls think they stand a chance and the gay audience all think he’s secretly closeted and they’re in with one, too.

Everyone’s saying his fame is all down to Ben’s secret formula, and that without him Jimmy wouldn’t have secured half the brand deals he has.

But I’ve met Jimmy a few times on the circuit now and whatever the X factor is, he’s just got it.

He’s a properly nice guy who treats everyone like they matter.

That’s what’s made him a star – not Ben Bradshaw’s dirty tricks.

Ben got lucky, it’s not the other way around.

“So, Angelica, I hear you’re one of the top contenders for Reality TV Star of the Year…”

If it was anyone else, I’d tell them I actually don’t care that much about the vote – sure it sounds like fun but it’s really the chance to get the kind of contracts that mean I can stop my folks having to worry about the roof over their head.

Well, that and the fact it comes with a hefty donation to a charity of your choice and I can think of so many places that deserve it.

Ben is still droning on, but with his eyes firmly on my boobs rather than my face, so I’m not inclined to listen too carefully.

“…You know with me by your side, I can practically guarantee it…”

Wait, is he offering to be my agent? Everyone says Ben is so picky about who he works with, and will only sign on those who he really thinks will make him a lot of money. After all, he takes even more than industry standard of earnings, a fat 30% cut, I hear.

“I’ve already got an agent,” I say, scanning behind him for Damon.

I don’t like how close Ben’s standing or the fact one of his hands in his pocket is doing something I really don’t want to picture.

I wouldn’t want Damon to come into the hallway and get the wrong impression.

Or maybe, thinking of the way he spoke to the journalists earlier, I would…

“Fliss Johnston? She can’t take you to the next level, she’s old-school. She wouldn’t know Instagram if it came up and slapped her on the arse.”

“That’s just not true,” I say, shaking my head. “When you say old-school I think you just mean she cares about her clients, and she absolutely knows social media, like she’s got me on Neos and everything. And you know that’s invite only. It’s the social network for the elite…”

“Of course,” trills Ben. “I can also totally get my top-tier talent on that.”

I know he’s bluffing as I just made Neos up on the spot. But still, I decide to play on a little longer, maybe I can get some insider information for Fliss on what he’s got planned.

“I guess I could be persuaded to come across to you though,” I say, flipping my hair.

Ben looks me up and down, I can’t tell if he wants to eat me, sell me or worse.

I try my hardest not to shudder. He begins to jabber on about the different shows that he thinks I’d be perfect for, which brands are in dire need of someone like me, and they’re all very kiss and tell, sell-my-soul suggestions.

Fliss’ plan for me is much more original, and I am barely listening until I hear him say: “of course, we’d have to clean up your reputation. ”

“My reputation?”

I notice that some of the foam has started to leak into the hallway, and is beginning to spread like a frothy river over towards our feet. Layla better be on her best charming behaviour tomorrow, Gerald is going to kill us.

“Yep, I mean it’s no news to you, is it Angelica,” he looks me up-and-down again.

This time I do shudder, and decide I can blame the apartment being cold. “Is it me or is it chilly in here?”

“Well it’s a bit nippy, I think it’s safe to say,” he says widening his eyes as he looks at my nipples, which I admit are making their presence felt in the tight dress. “But that all fits with the reputation you’ve built. Let’s pull no punches. You’re a bit of a slut.”

What a wanker! Just because I got with a few guys in the house, and had sex with someone who I really, really liked, he thinks he can call me a slut to my face?

And, even if I’d shagged more people than that, as long as no one is getting hurt, it’s all consensual, and everyone’s having a nice time, there’s nothing wrong with that.

“And what do you propose we do about my slutty problem?” I ask, and he doesn’t notice that my voice is dripping with sarcasm.

“Well, we’d set you up with someone pre-approved for a PR relationship, a nice cosy acceptable boyfriend type, you don’t have to actually like the guy.

Then, you can do a couple of interviews about how devoted you are to him, how you’ve left all of that nastiness behind and you’re now a one-man woman and all that jazz, plus we’d make sure that anyone you shag on the side keeps quiet so it doesn’t get out there that you’re still the tramp you always were. ” He finishes with a wink.

When Ben first started talking I was shocked that anyone – any man, especially, thought they had a right to pass any comment on my sex life, but now, I’m simply furious.

How could he even think I’d want to sign over 30% of my hard-earned cash to someone like him?

But he clearly can’t see the rage that’s rising, how my hands are shaking with it, I’m flushing, my disgust at him clearly manifesting itself in my body, as he’s still droning on.

“You will quickly learn though, that this industry is all about favours, Angelica. My clients know that I will do them a lot of favours, so I tend to ask we seal the deal with a little favour for good old Ben…”

He’s staring at me, so intently now, but I’m too furious to reply so he carries on.

“I make a nice little sideline in selling stories, and I’m sure you hear all kinds of gossip.

So be a good girl and give me a little titbit I can pass to my contact, and there could be some extra cash coming your way. ”

“OK Ben, I’ll do you a favour,” I say, horrified by how casually he’s inviting me to spread rumours for money. He grins. “If you do me one…” Then, in one quick, sharp movement, I knee him, right in the balls. “And get the fuck out of my apartment.”

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