There’s no motive clearer to a minor celebrity than self-interest. Scarlett perked up. ‘So if you don’t fuck me over, you can come back for more when I get to be even more famous?’
‘That’s right. When I look at you, Scarlett, I don’t just see the story you’re going to lay out for your baby to read when they’re old enough. I can see you’ve come a long way. And I believe you’ve still got a long way to go. And I want to be the person who tells all those stories still to come. That’s my vested interest in doing the right thing by you.’
She gave me a grudging nod. ‘That makes sense. I couldn’t figure out why you would be on my side. But I get it now. You don’t just want my story because it’ll make us all a load of dosh now. You think I can be a cash cow down the line.’
Brutal, but not so different from the way Maggie would have put it. ‘I think of it more as a long-term partnership,’ I said wryly.
‘I want to see what you write before it’s turned into a book.’ Scarlett wiped the sweat from her upper lip with the back of her hand.
‘Of course you do. How else will you know I’m not putting the shaft in? You’ll be the first person who reads it. You get it before my agent, before your agent, before the publisher. After you’ve read it, we sit down together and go through anything you’re not happy with. But there shouldn’t be any problem. Because this is your story, after all. I’m just the person who knocks the sentences into shape and gets the spelling sorted.’ It never ceases to amaze me how my subjects always swallow this. They’re completely comfortable with the idea that there’s no skill in what I do. They genuinely believe all I’m there for is getting the commas in the right place. Because I’m such a good ventriloquist, what they hear is their own voice. They have no idea how much craft has gone into shaping what are often little more than inchoate ramblings.
Scarlett had taken the bait, though. And that was the main thing. ‘Sound as a pound,’ she said. ‘I like you, Steph. You talk sense. You don’t try and blind me with science. So how do we go about this?’
‘You talk, I tape. I’m told you want this to be in the form of a letter to your unborn baby? Is that what you’ve got in mind?’
Scarlett’s chin jutted up. ‘There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?’
It’s interesting to me that it’s always the women I write about who see criticism in the most straightforward of questions. The men – even the ones who are abuse survivors – are seldom assailed by any flicker of self-doubt. Deep down, they believe they have a right to be heard. Even when they’ve been mired in sexual and financial scandal, like another politician I did a few years ago, they’re still convinced that their story should be told exactly as they perceive it.
‘Quite the opposite. I think it’s a good idea. It always helps to have a theme that pulls the book together. How did you see it taking shape?’
‘I know it sounds back-to-front, but I want to start where I am now, pregnant and getting over being in disgrace. But how my baby’s saved me from myself. About Joshu and how loving him’s changed everything. And then go back to the beginning and talk about my crappy childhood and my shitty family and how I got out alive.’ Scarlett dipped her head and gave me the up-and-under look that Princess Diana added to the armoury of generations of women. ‘Without sounding like a twat, obviously.’
I gave her a twist of a smile. ‘I think we can just about manage that. It would be good if I could talk to Joshu too.’
She looked uncertain. ‘I suppose. He’s not one for sitting around talking, Joshu.’
‘It wouldn’t have to be a long chat. Does he actually live here with you?’
Now Scarlett was positively shifty. ‘He’s supposed to. Only, when he’s DJing club nights and shit, it gets late and he crashes with his mates in town instead. So sometimes he’s here and sometimes he’s not. I used to go out on the town with him, but obviously now I’m pregnant I can’t be doing that kind of shit. Not with the paps round every bloody corner.’
I do try not to be judgemental. Mostly because it makes the job easier. But sometimes there’s a little voice at the back of my head that gibbers things like, ‘Never mind the paparazzi, what about the fucking baby?’ And I struggle to keep my face on straight and my voice even. ‘That’s fine. I’m sure he’ll turn up sometime when we’re doing the interviews and I can slot in a chat with him. And if that doesn’t work out, we’ll set something up.’
‘So we do this talk and tape here, do we?’
‘Not actually in the Jacuzzi. We need to be somewhere quiet. But yes, here at your place would be the easiest.’
The wary look was back. ‘Would you stay here, like?’
‘No, I’d go home at the end of the day. Back to London.’
She nodded. ‘Yeah, you wouldn’t want to be round here when Joshu starts playing his music. Some nights, bands come back here and all sorts.’ Her mouth curled in an indulgent sneer. ‘You wouldn’t like the kind of stuff they get up to, a nice respectable lady like you.’
I laughed. ‘I’ve not been called a lady for a very long time. Or respectable, come to that.’
Scarlett’s eyes clouded over. ‘Compared to my life, chuck, you’re Mother Teresa. And while we’re on the subject, I don’t want you shooting up to Leeds for a cosy little chat with my mam and my sister. You keep them well the fuck out of it. I’ll tell you all you need to know about them and then you’ll understand why I don’t want you listening to their poisonous crap. We clear on that?’
I eased myself up till I was sitting on the lip of the Jacuzzi. ‘You’re the boss. But it would make good reading if we could meet up with somebody who does know you from those early days. Just to make the comparison more powerful.’
Scarlett scowled. ‘I’ll have a think. Trouble is, they’re all drunken slags and junkie wankers. You wouldn’t want to be in the same room.’
‘I’m sure you can come up with—’
‘What have we here?’ An amused voice cut across mine. ‘Scarlett, my girl, my woman, what’s on your mind? You bringing your girlfriends round to have fun with us now? You got a nice little threesome in mind?’
I swung round to see a young Asian man in familiar uniform – baseball cap set at an angle, athletic letter jacket two sizes too big shrugged on over a dark polo shirt, low-slung baggy trousers falling in folds on over-sized trainers.
But it wasn’t the outfit that caught my attention. It was the gleaming chrome handgun cradled in his hands.
5
Stephanie stopped in her tracks, clearly reliving the shock of that moment. As a trained FBI operative, Vivian McKuras had faced danger and loaded guns and taken them in her adrenalin-fuelled stride, but even she was taken aback by Stephanie’s revelation. Till then, the woman’s story had seemed a pedestrian tale of low-level fame gilded with the rosy glow of Vivian’s idea of British life mainly garnered from Mystery Theatre. But it had been starkly transformed by the introduction of a big shiny handgun.
‘He was toting a gun?’ She wanted to be clear about this before she put out an APB on this British DJ.
‘With the emphasis very much on toting,’ Stephanie said. ‘The thing about Joshu is that he was always a complete tosser.’ Seeing Vivian’s frown, she clarified. ‘A wanker. A jerk-off. All mouth and trousers.’