‘The truth, darling,’ said Carolyn.
‘It’s fine. Fine as in thin. You don’t have thick hair, Carolyn, you never have.’
‘Is it finer than it was?’
Tracey exhaled through pursed lips. ‘Maybe.’
Carolyn cursed under her breath.
Tracey put her hands on Carolyn’s shoulders. ‘You’ve got great hair,’ she said.
‘Don’t say for my age,’ said Carolyn.
‘For any age. But yes, it’s fine. And Jake said the light was shining through it, which never looks good. But it’s easy enough to put a bit of thickening through it.’ She took a step back and looked at her reflection. ‘You might want to start thinking about a wig.’
‘A wig? Are you serious?’
‘Half the actresses on EastEnders have wigs,’ said Tracey. ‘The older ones, anyway.’
‘Oh, thanks Tracey,’ said Carolyn.
‘I didn’t mean you were…’
‘Old?’ Carolyn sighed and leaned towards her reflection. She examined the crows feet at the corners of her eyes. ‘Do I need my eyes doing again, do you think?’
‘Your eyes are fine. Everything’s fine.’
‘Including my bloody hair?’
One of the runners popped his head around the door. ‘Miss Castle?’
Carolyn twisted around to look at him. He was a good-looking boy on his gap year, the son of one of the network producers. ‘Yes, Harry?’
‘Mr Harrington says he doesn’t need you for the rest of the day. They’re having camera problems.’
‘Thanks, sweetie. Can you dig up my driver for me?’
Harry flashed her a beaming smile and closed the door.
‘Well, Tracey, it looks as if we won’t be needing the thickener just now,’ said Carolyn. She looked at her watch. ‘You know what, I think I’ll give Eddie a surprise.’ She gave Tracey a sly smile in the mirror. ‘Do you think you could use your magic brushes and give me some seductive warpaint?’ Eddie Hunter was Carolyn’s long-time boyfriend, and had been since soon after her third divorce. Eddie was a musician, a talented pianist, but hadn’t had any work fixed up that month so he’d been hanging around his Chelsea flat at a loose end. She’d been working pretty much non- stop all week and had barely spent any time with him so she figured her early cut would be the perfect opportunity to put that right.
‘It’ll be a pleasure,’ said Tracey. ‘Would you like the Parisian courtesan, the subtle seductress or shall we go the full Madonna?’
CHAPTER 3
Carolyn’s driver was waiting for her in reception, sitting on a sofa as he tapped away on his iPhone. He jumped to his feet as he saw her coming through the double doors from the studio and pocketed his phone. ‘Early bath, Miss Castle?’ he asked.
‘Camera problems so Seb has to stay after school but I get to go home early,’ she said.
‘It’s an ill wind,’ he said, opening the main door for her. His name was Billy McMullen and he’d been her driver for the past three years. He picked her up each morning, drove her to the studio and took her home each evening. If there was any location shooting to be done, it was Billy who drove her in his Mercedes S-Class. He was a former soldier who had driven tanks in Iraq before leaving the Army and setting up his own minicab company in South London. The recession had sent his fledgling business into a tailspin and he’d joined the production company as a driver. Carolyn had immediately liked the former soldier’s gruff no-nonsense approach to the job and, in particular, his knack of knowing when she wanted to talk and when she wanted to sit in silence. It was a skill none of her three former husbands had ever acquired.
They walked together to the car and Billy opened the rear door for her. ‘Can we stop at an off licence? Then I want to go to Eddie’s place,’ she said as she climbed in.
‘Not a problem, Miss Castle,’ Billy said, closing the door. He was an excellent driver; nothing seemed to faze him. If a bus pulled up short in front of them, he just braked and smiled. If a courier cut him up, Billy just grinned. Carolyn had asked him once how he’d become such an unflustered driver and Billy had just shrugged and said that once you’d driven down a road that you knew was littered with IEDs — Improvised Explosive Devices — whatever happened on a London street was a walk in the park. ‘I’m just grateful no one is trying to shoot me,’ he said. ‘But there are some parts of South London that are a bit dicey these days.’
Carolyn took her iPad from her bag and passed the time on Twitter. She had more than a quarter of a million followers and she Tweeted at least half a dozen times a day, and always posted at least twice on her Facebook page. She knew her livelihood depended on her fan base and that time spent interacting with her fans was as important as the time she spent in front of the camera.
After half an hour Billy pulled up outside a Nicolas off-licence not far from Eddie’s apartment. ‘Shall I pop in for you, Miss Castle?’ he asked, looking at her in the rear-view mirror.
‘Thanks, darling, but with my luck you’d get a ticket,’ she said. ‘I’ll only be five minutes.’ She let herself out of the car and hurried across the pavement and into the shop. There was a cooler full of white wine and champagne and she studied the labels. Eddie was a big fan of Cristal and Pol Roget but they had neither so she had to settle for a bottle of non-vintage Bollinger. She preferred red wine but was happy enough to share a bottle of champagne with him. As she took it out of the cooler, she realised an old couple were watching her, the woman in a cheap cloth coat and wool hat and clutching a leather handbag to her chest, the man in a tweed overcoat and a long striped scarf. ‘It’s you, isn’t it?’ said the woman. She tugged at her husband’s arm. ‘It’s her. Off the telly.’
Her husband was in his late seventies with a liver-spotted bald head and the look of a turtle that was about to withdraw into its shell. ‘What telly?’ he said,
‘The telly.’ She nodded at Carolyn. ‘You’re that Diana Bourne, off that show.’
Carolyn smiled. ‘Yes, I am,’ she said.
‘I love that show,’ said the woman. She nudged her husband. ‘We love that show.’
‘How lovely,’ said Carolyn.
‘What’s it called? Rag and Bone?’
‘Rags To Riches,’ said Carolyn, trying to get by the couple to the cash register.
‘That’s it,’ said the woman. ‘We love it. Wouldn’t miss it. So much better than that EastEnders. What is it with EastEnders? There’s always someone dying or fighting or shouting. But we love your show.’
‘Thank you so much,’ said Carolyn.
‘Could I have your autograph?’ asked the woman. ‘My daughter loves the show and she won’t believe I’ve seen you if I don’t have your autograph.’
‘Of course,’ said Carolyn. She looked at the old woman expectantly. ‘Do you have a piece of paper or something? And a pen?’
The old woman shook her head. ‘No dear. Sorry.’
‘Let’s see if the sales lady has one,’ Carolyn said and smiled. She managed to squeeze by the couple and went over to the cash register. The woman behind the counter was in her late twenties with dyed blonde hair, dressed all in black. Carolyn asked for a pen and then scribbled her Diana Bourne signature on the back of a leaflet advertising Australian wine. She handed it to the old woman and waved away her thanks, then paid for the champagne. The cashier held out her hand with the change. Her eyes widened in recognition. ‘You’re. . Carolyn Bourne,’ she said. She had an East European accent. Polish, perhaps.
‘Last time I checked, yes,’ said Carolyn. She motioned with her hand, asking for the change. She couldn’t be bothered correcting the girl, it was just too much effort to explain that her name was Castle and that Bourne was the character she played.
The cashier took back the change as if she had forgotten she had it in her hand. ‘It must be great to be a movie star,’ she said.