‘But they’re offering you £20,000 an episode,’ she countered.
I thought about it for all of two seconds.
‘When do we start filming?’
I texted Nicu with the expectation he’d be proud of me, but his response was a simpleGreat. Not even an ‘x’ after it.Well to hell with him, I thought. I’ve had enough of trying to keep his interest and make him proud of me.
Now here I am, sitting in a trailer, waiting to get my hair and make-up done by a girl who resembles the ghost of Amy Winehouse, complete with battered ballet pumps and bird’s nest beehive. God knows what’s living inside it. Next to me is one of the stars ofKnightsbridge Knights, a scripted reality show, a little likeMade in Chelseabut with a cast with bigger bank balances. Myself and Tonya triple-barrelled-something-or-other are waiting to be called on set and be locked in a pretend house to face our fears.
Of the other ‘luminaries’ I’ve met in the last two days of filming, Tonya is by far the best. She likes to gossip, for one thing. I particularly liked one salacious story about her castmate, a private members’ club and a lazy Susan.
‘I’ve also heard some stories about her,’ I offer. ‘Apparently she’s a little light-fingered, but no shop ever presses charges because her father always steps in to settle the bills.’
‘OMG yes!’ Tonya chirps. ‘Who told you that?’
‘One of my neighbours. She was a Chelsea girl before she moved to Northampton.’
‘Do I know her?’
‘Liv Barton-Aldridge.’
‘Liv! Oh yes, we all know Live Wire Liv.’
I’m unsure how to interpret the wink that accompanies this remark.
‘What’s she doing these days?’ asks Tonya.
‘She’s opened her own wellness studio. So she must have had a successful banking career to fund that.’
She cocks her head. ‘Is that what she told you? She workedata bank, but she wasn’t actuallyinbanking.’
‘Oh really?’
‘She was a secretary, maybe even a PA, I can’t quite remember. But what I do recall is that it wasn’t her day job that paid the bills.’
‘So what did?’
I wait as Tanya taps her finger with her chin as if she’s wrestling with whether to tell me something. She’s play-acting. Of course she’s going to tell me.
‘Well,’ I say afterwards and with a theatrical brow wipe and broad smile, ‘I was not expecting that.’
Chapter 39
Margot
‘Fuck!’
I’m cursing aloud to an empty house when the doorbell rings.
‘Come in,’ I shout, ‘the door’s unlocked.’
I’m on my hands and knees searching the cupboard under the stairs when Anna appears. She said in a text that she’d call for me before we meet Liv for coffee.
‘Morning,’ she says as I turn to face her.
Even for Anna, she’s looking exceptionally beige today. Her T-shirt has a brown stain on her right breast, her leggings are too small, and that bob went out of style at the same time as UGGs paired with denim miniskirts. Many times I’ve offered to take her out clothes shopping, even to – God help me – Primark. She can chuck as much as she wants in a basket there and it will never break the £30 barrier. Each time, it has fallen on deaf ears.
‘Lost something?’ she asks.
