 
# CELEB

David Robinson

Copyright © 2015 David Robinson

Published by David Robinson at Smashwords

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#  Chapter One

Celebs lead charmed, easy lives.

That's what the tabloids would have you believe. They pass their days moving from one glitzy party to another, bathing in Dom Perignon, snorting coke or swallowing E with a cocksure attitude that they will never be prosecuted, screwing around other peoples' husbands, wives, lovers, significant others, or else toasting their skin a golden brown in every exotic location in the world. And they never, absolutely NEVER, get to hear any bad news. Bad press, sure, but never bad news.

When I could be bothered to read half the tripe the tabloids and glossies printed on celebs, it would bring me near to laughter. All right, so being Clint Devries, megastar of the small screen, was better than working for a living, and with months still to go to my 30th birthday, I had more money than I could spend if I lived in the Bahamas for a year, but when on call, I often turned out seven days a week for anything up to ten or eleven hours a day.

And as for never hearing any bad news, what do you call crawling out of bed in the middle of the night to go to London for a morning slot on the news/magazine program?

To be scrupulously fair, the Underlinen Media Group treated its stars very well. If I'd worked for, say, the Beeb, I would have had to make my own way to London, and the most they would stump up for was the second class train fare. Underlinen laid on the corporate jet from Manchester to Heathrow for me and my co-star Emma Penton.

But I still had to be up at half past four and at the airport an hour later to make sure we were in West London for six thirty.

It would be a long day, too. Starting with our appearance on _Good Day_ , the Underlinen breakfast show, seven thirty in the evening would see us at an upmarket joint on Oxford Street for the Britbox Awards ceremony. _Bleaker Cove_ , the soap in which we starred, was nominated for a number of awards, not least Best Actor and Best Actress.

But even that wasn't the worst of the bad news we celebs never heard.

Emma and I were appearing on _Good Day_ to draw the names of four lucky winners in the _Bleaker Cove,_ Dinner Date competition. The actual dinner was still three months away, but these things tended to be long in the planning to give our producers the chance to work our filming schedules around it.

The idea had come up in mid-January. Four lucky people, two men, two women, would get night at the Maitland Hotel, and they would join four senior cast members for a day at the studios and a slap up feed, again at the Maitland.

It was the kind of stunt we'd pulled before and it invariably caused problems, but when I complained about it, I was told to shut up, and reminded that I was obliged to do whatever was necessary to promote the show.

As if appearing on the program five nights a week wasn't enough!

At half past six, we climbed out of the jet in the Underlinen private hangar at Heathrow, and jumped into the official limousine, for the twenty-minute drive through a turgid, overcast, March morning, to the company's headquarters. Situated near Chiswick Park, Head Office comprised as 20-storey high rise building, with an acre of studios at ground level, mainly for the news and magazine programs.

Having two of the most recognisable faces on TV meant there were no hassles or delays getting through security and reception. No need to check on who Clint Devries or Emma Penton were. Half the world knew us, and as a consequence, our visitor badges were waiting for us when we stepped through the glass doors. The security man saluted us, touching the glossy peak of his cap as we passed his station, and in a matter of minutes, we were in the green room adjacent to Studio Nine, and Emma was ready to start on the coffee and croissants.

Even so early in the day, this woman looked delicious.

Twenty-seven years old, she was outstandingly attractive, with a pert face, baby blue eyes, and one of the most readily recognised bustlines and bums on TV. A couple of years younger than me, she had become an icon of the small screen, and barely a day went by without seeing her picture in one tabloid or another, one celebrity magazine after another. Sadly, as so often happened with such celebrities, her upfront, in-your-face public profile meant she never really got the opportunity to demonstrate her acting skills. Fans, especially the male ones, were more interested in her tits than her _Titania_.

Many people, myself included, made disparaging comments about her, but in truth, she was an intelligent, well-trained and capable actress. After she won the part of Candy, my fellow male lead, Julius Quigley, homed in on her like a dung beetle heading for the nearest sewage plant. I leapfrogged him and inveigled my way into her affections and her knickers. Our relationship was short-lived. Within a month she was acting more like a wife than a fuck and I gently moved her out of my life, from where she latched onto Julius.

So early in the morning, with my brain not yet in full work mode, I had to ask myself why I had let her go... well, I knew why, but four years on it still didn't make much sense.

Our hostess provided us with breakfast. I drank the coffee quickly, gratefully, and held out my cup for a refill. I passed the croissants to Emma who accepted with a greedy smile. I would rather have had a full English, or a bacon butty. Like me, Emma was a slave to her appetites, and also like me, she worked tirelessly in the gym (when she had the time) to keep her figure in good fettle.

If it was all very comfortable and amenable, chatting with Vicky Valentine was the downside of the deal, and the final bit of bad news we celebs never go to hear. But what the hell; there's no such thing as a free lunch is there?

A bottle blonde in her mid-forties, Vicky had a history in mainstream journalism, where her self-centred, right wing extremism, appealed to a narrow readership and got her the boot from those broadsheets determined to straddle the middle of the road. She moved to Underlinen as the anchor on the late night news where at least someone else was writing the words she had to deliver, but before long she had her own chat show. After a few years of that, she moved to the breakfast slot as the major of two anchors.

She operated on the principle that as you climb the ladder, you get to kick people, and as you begin to slide down the ladder, you get to kick them again. She was about to go into the second half of that process, and she hated me with the same passion Man U supporters usually reserved for Arsenal, Chelsea and City. It was probably because she could not kick me as hard as she would like. I was Underlinen's golden boy, and that aside, if she did put the boot in I would kick back only harder. On the few times that I'd appeared on her chat show and _Good Day,_ the air of forced civility between us had been strained almost to breaking point.

Her partner on the morning show was Kelvin Henderson, a guy a little older than me. He didn't really give a hoot about Vicky or her half-baked opinions. In fact, Kelvin didn't really give a toss about anything, but he had a mortgage the size of banana republic's national debt, and unlike me, he tolerated Vicky's tantrums and the rest of her crap to make certain he could meet the repayments every month.

On most programmes like this, it was politic to meet with the presenters in advance to 'rehearse' for want of a better word, the coming exchange, but _Good Day_ ran from six until nine thirty in the morning, and I always flatly refused to show up at the studio at four thirty to rehearse a two minute spot with Vicky. It was bad enough that I had to speak to her at all, never mind having to get out of bed pre-midnight to do so. So we went live and ad lib... almost. A research assistant joined us in the green room a few minutes after 7:30 and gave us a rundown of the questions Vicky and Kelvin would put to us.

I checked through them and crossed two off, explaining that I had no desire to embarrass anyone, but I would refuse to answer them on camera.

After that, it was a case of waiting.

The cue to join the presenters is when they plug your show, so when a fifteen second clip from _Bleaker Cove_ hit the monitors littered around the studio (and the green room) and they broke for the 8:45 commercials, we were shepherded out to sit with Vicky and Kelvin. Aware of my antipathy for Vicky (and its reciprocation) the seating was strategically arranged with Emma between us. That way, if I decided to strangle the cow, I'd have to go through Emma first.

The researcher had briefed us on the draw. Sixty thousand people had entered the phone-in competition, and it was obvious that all with all those dipsticks calling a premium rate line at £1 a go, the entire shindig would cost Underlinen nothing. Not that it would have cost them much anyway. They owned the Maitland.

The callers had been split into two groups: male and female. Ignoring my cynicism when I asked who came up with such an innovative idea, the researcher had gone on to tell us that the names had all been entered into a computer. On cue, the computer would begin to scroll through the female names at the rate of 1000 per second, far too fast for the eye to follow. Somewhere along the line, I would push the button and it would stop at a name. It was as near random as possible. I would then repeat the process and then Emma would do the same for the two male winners. Simple, foolproof, fiddle-proof, unless you were a skilled computer programmer, which none of us were.

Prior to the draw there was the usual, inane chat, strictly non-controversial. I guessed Vicky and Kelvin had been briefed on my objection to the competition, so they stuck to neutral subjects, and my attitude never came up.

Finally Vicky funnelled the conversation towards the actual draw.

"We asked you to answer a simple question," she said to camera. "What is the name of Brett Sturgess' fishing boat in Bleaker Cove? Is it a) Candy Island, b) Candy Floss or c) Candy II? Well the answer was c) Candy II and over forty thousand of you got it right. We're now going to ask Clint and Emma to draw the names of the winners."

What occurred to me right away was that if over 40,000 got it right, then a sizeable proportion must have got it wrong. Who were they? Morons anonymous?

Vicky delivered a smile of nitric acid at us, and invited me to go first. Just to prove how awkward I could be, I stood on my chivalrous principles and invited Emma to go first. The bods in the control booth went apeshit because they'd flagged up the female half of the draw first and there was a delay of several seconds while the director switched feeds to male computer screen.

Emma pressed the first button.

"And the first winner is, Richard Hawkins of Northampton," said Vicky. "Congratulations Richard, you'll be escorted for the day by Brittany Spangler."

The screen rolled again, the names no more than a blur on the monitor. Emma hit the button and the scrolling stopped.

"And the second, male winner is, Lee Connors of Newcastle-Upon-Tyne. Well done, Lee, your escort for the day will be Emma." Vicky smiled more ice at me. "Clint, would you like to draw the female winners." Her voice hinted that she would prefer someone to draw blood from me.

I grinned sheer hatred back at her, and watched as the names scrolled up my monitor screen, my finger hovered over the button.

I didn't know how the names had been entered into the computer file. If they were alphabetic, then those whose names fell early in the alphabet had no chance. They were history after less than a second. If the names had been put in on a first-come, first-listed basis, then likewise, the early callers would not win. Unless I decided to hold on before pressing the button.

Let's see. Sixty thousand callers in total, and forty thousand got it right. Assume it was 50-50 split between men and women, assume that they were passing up the screen at 1000 per second, that meant twenty seconds would have to elapse before...

"Clint. The draw."

On TV, even a few seconds of nothing is an eternity, and I realised to my horror that almost ten seconds had passed since Vicky first invited me to draw the two names.

I jabbed the button.

"And the first winner in the ladies' draw is Allison Miller of Lanark, North of the border. Congratulations Allison. Your escort for the day and evening will be Julius Quigley. And the final winner, please, Clint."

I watched the names scrolling again, allowed just a few seconds this time, and pushed the button.

"And our final winner is Tanya Yaeger from Blackpool in Lancashire. Well done, Tanya, you will get to spend the day and evening with Clint Devries."

Oh joy. I couldn't wait.

From there, with Vicky spitting at the seat I had taken up, Emma and I drifted off set while Vicky and Kelvin went into their wrap-up phase, and we returned to the green room to wait for our limousine which would take Emma to somewhere in Bethnal Green and drop me off at my agent's apartment in St John's Wood.

Emma was cool with the wait. We had been excused filming duties in Manchester specifically for our slot on _Good Day_ and the evening's Britbox Awards, but between climbing aboard the company jet, arriving in London, and the researcher briefing and beefing us up and actually sitting with Vicky and Kelvin, we had exchanged barely a word or two. There was nothing strange about that. We'd both dozed on the flight down, and _Good Day_ was live and we needed to psyche ourselves to make sure there were no major cock-ups like the time my male co-star appeared on a BBC chat show and called the presenter a 'fucking idiot'. I wasn't deliberate. Julius had been thinking out loud when he should have been concentrating on what he was doing. Mind you, he did get a lot of support on most social media and the clip went viral after turning up on BoobooTube, that popular video site reserved for celebs dropping such clangers. Underlinen, naturally, did not see it in the same vein and after giving Julius a roasting, they put out an apology before the ten o'clock news.

Fortunately, we had go through our task without any such troubles, and now that our job was done, we were both wide awake, and Emma was in a chatty mood, particularly looking forward to the dinner date.

"I hope Lee Connors is young and dishy," she gloated as we accepted another round of coffee and cakes from the hostess, "and I hope Julius' date is an old bat."

I was suddenly interested in my co-stars' relationship. "Stormy seas in the marriage lines?"

"Hmph." Emma was scornful. "Marriage my eye. Mention the word to Julius and he runs a mile."

It was not often that I had anything in common with my male co-star, but I could identify with that.

"He's good to me, Clint," Emma said when I brought up the point. She gave me the beady eye. "Better than you were."

"Come on, Emma, I made it plain from the start that I wasn't into relationships."

"I know. All you wanted was me in your bed. Julius is different, but he has no go in him, no ambition. He'll be on _Bleaker Cove_ when he's eighty because he daren't do anything else. If I could have had Julius' commitment with you, we'd have been..." She trailed off for a moment and I thought I detected the glassy look of tears in her eyes. "Never mind. You wouldn't understand. You only care about you."

I felt aggrieved by the accusation. "That's not true."

"Yes it is," she disagreed with uncharacteristic candour. "Whenever there's a problem on set or in rehearsals, we never hear anything from you unless it concerns you directly, then you kick up hell. I didn't notice you shouting when Peter Willis hurt his back lugging those genuine beer barrels about. And I didn't notice you playing hell when they demanded I work even though I was full of flu, but you moaned about it when you caught it off me."

"We have a union rep to sort those things out," I reminded her.

"Yes, and a fat lot of good she is. Clint, you have the capability to be a wonderful person, but you're not. You're a celebrity instead. You don't give a toss about anyone."

We clammed up as the hostess, also taking care of a family ready to take part in the _Vince Pool Show_ , one of those bear-baiting type programs where the host rips one side or the other to shreds before a live audience, made her way over to see if we needed refills.

I considered Emma's words. Was she right? I'd always been a believer in plain speaking, and it had nothing to do with my size. My old man was considerably shorter and fatter than me, but he was just the same.

"Call a spade a spade, lad, and have done with it," he had taught me when I entered my teens.

And I had lived by that credo for most of my life. The problem I faced was that my size and physique made people wary of behaving the same way with me. Emma's pronouncement had been a long time coming, but now that it was there... was I really that selfish?

The hostess disappeared again, tending to the needs of the mob on the other side of the room.

"Emma?"

"What?" Surly, snappy.

"Have you ever considered projects other than The Cove?"

"I'm like you. I get a dozen offers a week. I turn them all down."

"Yes, and like me you get bored with the routine, don't you?"

"Who doesn't? We work long hours and we get pasted in some magazines. Those bastards in _Celebrity Today_ reckoned the only reason we're so successful is because the men tune in for my boobs, and the women for your pecs. But come off your high horse, Clint. Why are you still with The Cove?" She did not give me the chance to reply. "The money. Well that's why I do it, too. I have a fair bit put by out of my salary, but it's not enough to buy me a pension. Not yet." Her baby blue eyes narrowed on me. "I shouldn't have thought you could jack it yet, either."

"If I got booted out of the show, I suppose I could live for a year or two on what I have tucked away, and I reckon something would turn up before then. Hell, I could even contemplate going to Hollywood. They might not know me over there, but I can act, and I have the pecs and abs as you just pointed out." I flexed my right arm to show her what I meant, but considering I was wearing a jacket, it wasn't much of a demonstration.

She chuckled humourlessly. "Clint Devries. Action man."

"And why not? Others have done and it those Yanks pay ridiculous money for a movie, you know. All you need is a good agent, and despite his shortcomings, Ali is the best."

Ali was Alistair Greenall, our agent.

Vince Pool's researcher entered the room and sat with the family opposite, and it was obvious that she had never learned how to keep her voice down. From where we sat, we could hear her warn her charges that 'the opposition' were ready to tear into them and they were going to have to be tough.

"How come you haven't done it before?" Emma asked, picking up a salmon paste sandwich and nibbling delicately on it. "Gone to Hollywood, I mean."

"Ali won't go for it. He's happy where he is, working on The Cove, and realistically, I would need him if I wanted to go to the States." I slurped a little coffee and grimaced. "Cold." I signalled for the hostess. "Have you ever thought about other things? On British TV, I mean."

"I told you, I get my share of scripts, but I turn them all down. Underlinen are choosy about what they'll let us do, remember."

The hostess topped me up.

"Yes, I know. I put a project to Underlinen early this year, and I'm waiting to hear from them. But, if we presented a concerted front, we might get them to seriously think about it."

Interest suddenly sparked in her eyes. "Go on."

I spent the next ten minutes outlining the plot of a little-known Delderfield novel, _The Spring Madness of Mr Sermon_. Set in the early sixties, it was the tale of a schoolmaster coming up to his half century who throws a wobbler then does a runner. It's what we, in our more enlightened era, would recognise as a mid-life crisis. First recommended to me by one my university tutors, it was a tale I had always enjoyed, although I had to admit that if I rewrote it, I would have Sermon giving Olga a serious seeing-to after that dinner on the first night.

Listening to me, Emma became quite excited about it.

"All right," I said, "so it's one of my projects and I'm being selfish, but I can write parts for you and Julius, and if I could get you two on my side, we really would be able to pressure the management."

"But how would we fit it in with filming on The Cove?"

I frowned. "Logistical problem and we'd probably have to work eight days a week for a while, but I'm sure we could do it."

She too lapsed into thought. "It's sounds brilliant, Clint. A bit dated, though."

"It could be moved to a comprehensive to bring it right up to date. When Delderfield wrote it, no one knew what a mid-life crisis was, but I recognised it straight away, and it fits in with modern stresses suffered by teachers. Trust me, I know. I used to be a teacher."

"Suppose they reject it?" she asked.

"Well," I argued, "we could always take it to the Beeb or another independent, couldn't we?"

"And do you have a script?"

I shook my head. "I have a full treatment. Next time we have the day off from filming, why not come back to my drum and I'll show you."

Suspicion entered her eyes. "As long as you're only showing me your script."

I held my hands on my heart. "Emma, you hurt me."

# Chapter Two

Brett slots the last of the dishes into the draining rack, dries his hands on a tea towel, and passes from the kitchen into the living room where Candy is dozing in a fireside chair, and the TV plays to itself.

He switches off the TV and perches on her chair arm, running a gentle hand across her forehead. She wakes and smiles up at him.

" _Sorry, Brett. Tired."_

" _Hey. It's okay. No sense both of us staying awake night after night." Brett flops onto the settee. "I'll have to get down there and take over from Jace." He yawns. "It's the only way we'll catch them."_

Candy sits forward, her face creased with lines of worry. "You can't go on like this, Brett. Three nights without sleep. You'll make yourself ill and then where will we be?"

" _Radar scanner sabotaged, nets sliced. Candy, we can't afford another attack." He smiles wanly. "I remember when I was a lad and granddad had the same trouble. Rival boatman. Now I know how he felt."_

There is a heavy thumping at the door. Brett and Candy exchange a worried glance. Brett crosses to the door and opens it. Jace is framed in the doorway.

" _It's happened again, Brett. The cockpit windows have been smashed this time."_

***

The scene faded to be replaced by the logo of The Britbox Awards. The audience delivered a polite round of applause, but since I was one of the nominees, I elected not to join in.

There was a moment of expectant hush while Vicky Valentine opened the envelope. "And the winner is..."

Vicky read the card, and hung on for those vital extra seconds, generating the suspense required of such an august ceremony.

Some of the biggest names in TV were seated around the room, their overfed faces glowing in the stifling heat, the foreheads and bald pates reflecting the flickering light of electric candles, the sparkle of jewellery glinting like the flash of paparazzi cameras. And they were all agog, waiting for Vicky to announce one of the night's biggest awards: best actor in an ongoing drama.

Our table already sported two gongs: Best Director (Helen Sears) and Best Actress (Emma Penton) both in an ongoing drama, or soap to the great unwashed (pun intentional). I told myself I wasn't really bothered whether I picked up the Best Actor award, but the tension built by Vicky had its effect on me. I felt at least a passing excitement. Could we make it three out of three?

For a month, ever since I was told of the nomination, I had ordered myself to forget about it and just get on with doing my stuff.

"There's some stiff competition out there," I told Ali. "And it won't make a lot of difference to me whether I win or not."

But it _did_ matter. I _was_ the best actor in the country in an ongoing drama. The volume of fan mail I received said so and as if that wasn't enough, the major celeb magazines said so, too.

Ali had counselled caution. "Unfortunately, Clint, your habit of telling everyone, even the most important people in the biz, to piss off when they upset you, means you're not the most popular actor amongst the TV crowd, and they're the ones with the vote."

"You may have a point," I had replied. Over the last five or six years, I'd crossed swords with many of the showbiz types, and a major awards thrash like Britbox gave them the perfect opportunity for revenge.

To take my mind off the coming announcement, I reminded myself that six short years ago I was teaching PE, English and drama at a North Manchester comprehensive. Back then, in my English classes, I would give the students a series of 10 statements, each using the unsophisticated word, 'best', and order them to find 10 synonyms. Small wonder kids grew up with a limited vocabulary when awards ceremonies like this employed the word for every trophy handed out. Television had a lot to answer for. It was a much more powerful medium than a teacher stood before a class of teenagers who did not want to be there.

"Clint Devries," Vicky announced, bringing an end to my cogitations.

The theme from _Bleaker Cove_ filled the hall. Applause broke out. My tablemates joined in as I stood up and wove my way through a forest of the most famous faces in Great Britain.

As I hopped up onto the stage, I wondered which particular set of gods I had upset to make me speak to Vicky Valentine twice in one day.

I crossed to the centre and accepted the trophy, a cut glass ornament shaped like a television, from Vicky. As the music faded, I bent to deliver the obligatory air kiss, and she whispered, "It's a good job I didn't have a vote, you arrogant prick."

I was impressed by the way she delivered the line: without moving her lips, maintaining a fixed smile on her face.

Employing the same tactic, I smiled at her and replied, "Fuck you very much." I turned to face the audience and beamed out at them. I'd been working on the acceptance speech ever since I heard of the nomination, but the wins already collected on our table demanded a minor change of plan. "It's customary to thank everyone involved in helping me win this award," I said, "but my co-star, Emma Penton, has already done that, so I won't go through them again. Instead, I'd like to thank..." I paused for effect. "No one. I did all the hard work, so why should I give anyone else a plug."

They all laughed; including Vicky Valentine. With a broad grin, I half bowed, acknowledging the crowd and walked off stage left, arm in arm with Vicky.

As we passed into the wings, where we could take the stairs back down to the hall, her smile didn't so much fade as disappear. "If only they knew that you weren't joking."

I gave her a mock-ingratiating smile. "How do you do that? Talk without moving your lips? OD on the Botox did you?"

"Wanker."

"Whore."

"Pit licker."

"Cocksucker."

Our fight ended the moment we passed out of the wings and into the hall, where a tabloid snapper had me pose with the gong in one hand, a broad smile fastened on my face, and Vicky, grinning seductively, hanging onto my other arm. He took a couple of photographs, then she went her way and I joined my colleagues at our table.

"Congratulations, Clint," said Emma, running a loving hand over her own award. "That's three hits. Will we get Best Ongoing Drama?"

Alongside me, looking resplendent in his penguin suit and cummerbund, Ali took out his e-cig and began vaping, much to the displeasure of others on nearby tables. The crap in the cig caused him to cough. Once he had his breathing under control, he picked up a menu card and studied it. "My money's on _Wensleymead Farm_."

"He means it," I said to the table, "He was on the phone to his bookie this morning, laying a hundred on Wensleymead to win the biggie."

"Traitor," Emma teased.

Ali was in no mood for debate. "Loyalty is one thing, but money is money and where I come from, you bet with your head, not your heart."

The unseen announcer's voice boomed around the room. "Ladies and gentlemen, to read out the nominations in the category Best Ongoing Drama, please welcome the star of _Hucknall_ , Gerard Netherton."

Applause broke out again for Netherton, a sixty-year-old ham that the world had forgotten until he dropped on for the part of Chief Superintendent Hucknall.

There were, as always, four nominations, read out alphabetically: _Bleaker Cove, Derby Road, Palmerston Park_ and _Wensleymead Farm_.

"We must be in with a chance," whispered Emma.

"The Farm," I pointed out, "enjoys the advantage of networking on terrestrial, cable and satellite at prime time. I know we go out at prime time, too, but we're restricted to the Underlinen Channels and satellite and cable. No terrestrial."

As clips from the four soaps were shown, I ran an eye round the table. Emma and Julius, were riveted on the large screens hung either side of the stage. Helen Sears, our director, was reading a text message on her mobile (she had a severely disabled husband and a teenage daughter to contend with) and Ed Welch, our senior producer, chewed agitatedly at his lip. In the run up to the awards, he'd been certain that we would win this year.

"And the winner is," said Netherton, tearing open the golden envelope. He studied the card in an attempt to build tension as Vicky Valentine had done. He was less effective, and the delay was much shorter. " _Wensleymead Farm_."

Ed was crestfallen. I don't know whether it was losing or having spent half a morning dictating his acceptance speech to his secretary.

"Never mind, Ed," I consoled him. "There's always next year and at least we picked up three pots." I fingered the cut glass piece, engraved with my name as best actor. Somewhere in the bowels of the Britbox Academy's HQ would be a copy destined for Underlinen's head office _._

"Every year," Ed grumbled. "It's either the Beeb or one of the other terrestrial soaps picking up the best show award. We get best actors, best supporting roles, best writers, we even got the best theme music a couple of years back, if you remember, but never best show. Why?"

He looked to Ali for support, but my multi-tasking mate was miles away, still reading the menu. "Do you know how much they charge for roast beef and Yorkshires?"

I sipped expensive champagne. "This is the West End of London, Ali, not Sid's Café on Shaw Road."

He puffed on his e-cig and a woman behind him coughed. Ali ignored her. He was good at ignoring people when it suited him. "All the same, fifty nicker for a three course meal isn't just expensive, it's extortion."

"You've just cleaned up on your bet, and Underlinen are picking up the bill for this do," I pointed out, "so what are you worrying about?"

"I'm not. I'm just saying—"

"Will you two shut up about the price of food?" Having interrupted, Ed went on more insistently. "Tomorrow, I have to go to head office where I'll have to explain to Mr Verdonk why we didn't win the award for best ongoing drama... again."

Ed's impending interview with the big cheese garnered no interest from the table at large, but his pusillanimity did irritate me. "It's simple, Ed, just go in and say, 'if you got your finger out, and flogged repeats to the terrestrial channels, we'd be in with a shout'."

He looked down his hooked nose at me. "Clint, you do not speak to Orlando Verdonk like that."

On the other half of the table Helen was cobbling together a reply to the text she had been reading, while Emma and Julius applauded the nominations for Best Presenter of a Factual Documentary, which had me wondering what kind of documentary there was other than the factual.

Coming back to Ed, I said, "You can talk to anyone like that, if you want, as long as you don't give a toss."

"Well I do give a toss. Unlike you, I don't earn half a million a year, and my contract is renewable every twelve months, not every three years." He chewed his lip again. "I wonder if our scripts aren't too tame."

"Someone should tame these bloody chefs," moaned Ali. "I mean the price of tournedos is nothing short of—"

"Will you shut up about prices?" After cutting Ali off, I levelled a disapproving eye on Ed. "We created _Bleaker Cove_ , remember. Ali and me. And when we were first commissioned, we understood the requirement to be an ongoing drama that would not follow the lead of others in to sex, violence and issues. A peak time, family-friendly programme dealing with the problems of a small fishing and tourist village. That is exactly what we have, and we've won awards with it." I gestured at the cut-glass pots on the table.

"Times change, Clint," he told me, "and so do programming requirements. Mr Verdonk is sure to bring the matter up tomorrow."

Ali yawned. "I may need a pay rise if you need me to go back to the drawing board, and I'd definitely need one if I had to pay for the food at these thrashes. I mean I've seen expensive profiteroles before but this is ridiculous."

"As Clint has pointed out, you're not paying for it, so why are you worried?" Ed's pale features were practically begging. "Do you have any ideas for beefing up the plots, Clint?"

I shrugged and nodded at Ali. "He's the creative consultant, nowadays. I just help him out when I'm not filming. I'm sure Ali can do whatever you want as long as it's reasonable, but I wouldn't like to see The Cove become a cheap clone of the other soaps."

Ed turned his concern on Ali who put down the menu and blew another cloud of e-smoke into the soupy air. The woman behind him coughed again, and he turned to her. "You wanna see your doctor, luv, get a dollop of jollop for that cough." He focussed once more on Ed. "I'll think of something."

Our producer protested, "I can't go into a meeting tomorrow telling them you'll think of something. I need ideas."

"Ed," argued Ali, "you only began worrying about this two minutes ago. Just tell 'em Ali is working on it. That should be enough for anyone."

The bald statement may have been filled with hubris, but it was also the simple truth. Alistair Greenall's mind was wired up differently. He was, quite simply, a creative genius and salesman extraordinaire.

He and I created _Bleaker Cove_ , but we had long ago given up writing the show. Ali was still hooked into it as the creative consultant, which essentially meant he came up with the ideas and I helped polish them, when I had time, before we handed them to the staff writers. I had enough work playing the part of Brett, and Ali, as our agent, had enough on his plate taking care of Emma and me. To give credit where it was due, it was thanks to his astonishing negotiating skills, that we were where we were: under thirty years of age, wrapped in a cocoon of celebrity lifestyle and making a fortune.

More applause broke out as another award was delivered. Emma turned back to the table and sipped her bubbly. "Laura Tyndall just got the award for _Celebrity Look-Alikes_ as the best light-entertainment show. Underlinen are cleaning up."

I looked scornfully at Laura as she stepped from the stage clutching her award. "Cleaning up is about all that vacuous tart is fit for."

Emma pouted. "Who?"

"Laura Tyndall."

Emma brightened slightly. "Oh. Right. I thought you meant me."

I smiled. "Emma, would I call you a vacuous tart?"

She smiled sweetly. "Of course you wouldn't."

"Of course not. You're a brainless bimbo."

She turned an appealing face on our distracted producer. "Ed, do I have to sit here and be insulted like that?"

"What? Sorry. No. You can go where you want." Ed stood up without realising what Emma was talking about. "This charade is almost over and we've had our moment of glory. I'm gonna make my way back to the hotel. Any of you coming?"

"We're crashing at Ali's place," I reported, "and driving home tomorrow. I don't know what Emma, Julius and Helen are doing."

Emma pouted. "Julius's auntie lives in Bethnal Green, so we're staying there for the night."

"I'll be along in a little while," Helen said, and returned to putting together her text.

"I'll catch you all at the end of the week then."

With a final nod, Ed made his way across the crowded hall, snaking through tables accommodating the great and the glorious of television, waving here, pausing there to chat with people he knew, until he finally disappeared through the doors at the rear.

I raised my glass again. "Well, pal, here's to it."

Ali grinned and lifted his glass. "As long as Underlinen or Britbox are paying for it... To the next five years."

Emma raised her glass and even Helen abandoned her text for a moment to join us. Julius just looked on, a fixed, false smile on his beautiful face.

"Not toasting our success, Julius?" I asked.

He shrugged. "I'm happy for you and Emma and Helen, happy for all of us."

If there was one thing I loved more than winding up Ed Welch or Vicky Valentine it was getting up Julius Quigley's nose. "But you can't get over the feeling that it should have been you picking up the best actor award, not me?"

He smiled thinly, evilly.

Julius and I had an understanding. We detested each other. Like my dealings with Vicky Valentine, it was all very civil on set and on screen, but deep down there was a bubbling antipathy that went all the way back to the early auditions for _Bleaker Cove_ , when he was hotly tipped for the male lead and I auditioned for a minor role. Thanks to his inability to snog Emma on screen without blushing, I ended up with the part of Brett, but because he was some relation to the big boss's personal security chief, we had to fit him into the show, so we created a new part for him. Instead of playing Brett, he was cast as Jace Burridge, the hired deck hand with a yearning for Brett's wife. On a personal level, usurping his starring role firmed up the beautiful enmity between us, and it was hardly surprising that he resented my best actor award.

Excusing himself, Julius left the table heading for the lavatories and I took the opportunity to bad mouth him some more. "Emma, why do you bother with that prick?"

"Because," she replied matter-of-factly, "he's not interested in exercising his prick. At least," she moderated her statement, "not to the exclusion of everything else." She gave me a sweet, sardonic smile. "I told you this morning, Clint, you had your chance but you made it plain you only wanted what was between my legs."

I refrained from saying that it was because she spent most of her time hiding what was between her ears.

The awards ceremony was winding down. We had reached the annual Special Award For Outstanding Contribution to British Television, going this year to a has-been comic who had put in thirty years before the mast without ever making a serious dent on the national consciousness before the one-eyed monster unearthed him. Some people were following Ed Welch's lead and sneaking out while the organisation's President droned on about the recipient's 'incalculable and undervalued efforts in the furtherance of his art'. I couldn't help thinking that if telling blue jokes, which is what the comedian did before he hit the TV screens, was an art form, there were a lot of potential da Vincis and Picassos working in the factories, mills and on the building sites of Great Britain.

"You'd better get him to bed," Helen said, her gaze directing me to Ali.

His eyes were drooping and I knew that it wouldn't be long before he nodded off. "A long day," I said to Helen. "He had to drive my car down from Oldham first thing this morning."

Ali was often tired thanks to his prodigious work rate. Where I was one of life's drifters mostly too idle to do anything other than sling barbells about or hammer the rowing machine and treadmill for an hour a day, Ali was a grafter, and typically put in twelve to fourteen hours either on set, at the word processor or in this or that meeting. Even when he and his partner flew off to his villa in Tenerife, he always took his smartphone and a laptop with him. He was a driven man.

I nudged him. "What do you think, pal? Time to make a move?"

He was startled into almost awareness. "Fourteen pounds, three and tuppence. Huh?"

"He's been re-reading _Saturday Night and Sunday Morning_ ," I explained to the table.

Ali shook his head to clear it. "Oh. Right. Reckon we can get out without being noticed?"

"Easy. Make it look as if you're going for a pee." I leaned across and pecked Emma on the cheek. As Julius returned I gave him a curt nod of departure. "We're gonna shoot off. Be good all of you, and if you can't be good be careful."

"If I can't be careful, I'll call at the machine in the bogs." Emma chuckled and gave us a wave.

Maintaining a half crouch as if we were members of a SWAT team on a covert assault, we made our way in the general direction of the lavatories and/or the exit, weaving through tables where the necklines and wrists gleamed with precious metals and sparkling stones. One actress, who would have ignored me four years ago, buttonholed me for a whispered conversation during which she drunkenly congratulated me on my win no less than half a dozen times before pressing her agent's business card into my hand. Another actress gave me the traditional thespian peck on the cheek, her eyes begging 'come up and screw me sometime'. At another table, a writer pulled Ali, wishing him all the best, promising to ring sometime and hoping they could get together on a project. He had no chance. Ali's efforts were concentrated on The Cove these days.

By the time we made the exit, the President of the Academy was announcing the Special Award recipient's name and more generous, if insincere, applause had broken out.

The great doors at the rear of the room acted as a baffle. A penguin-suited bouncer about the size of an armoured car, opened the door for us, and we passed from the temperature controlled, stifling warmth of the interior into the chilly, March air of the foyer, greeted by a stroboscopic display of camera flashes. I did the celebrity bit, smiling and waving for the paparazzi.

A TV commentator grabbed my arm and almost yanked it out of its socket. I rubbed the circulation back into my shoulder.

"And here we have Brett Sturgess," she announced as if her audience may never have seen me, "as played by Clint Devries, winner of the Best Actor award. Clint, how does it feel now that your talents have been recognised by the academy?"

I wanted to say, 'Almost as good as having your legs wrapped round my back' but I suppressed my innate savagery. Aside from anything else, I'd never had her legs wrapped round my back. "Wonderful," I replied and left the talking to her.

"It must be wonderful to think that less than five years ago, you were teaching in a comprehensive, and now you're at the very pinnacle of fame."

I almost pointed out that I had used the word 'wonderful' first, and that it was actually _more_ than five years since I'd been a teacher, but again, I elected not to. It wasn't her fault she was thick. "I like to think I've come a long way in a short time, but I still have a long way to go."

"Do you have any plans for the future now that you've been voted best actor?"

The next moment or two was surreal. I opened my mouth to say something like, 'I'll be keeping my options open and looking round for other projects,' but the answer came out nothing like that and it emerged in a voice remarkably similar to Ali's.

"No he hasn't. He's gonna carry on with The Cove."

The reporter looked at him then at me, and the irritation was plain to see in her eyes. "When did you lose your voice, Clint?"

"The day I made him my agent."

From her, we passed through the clamour and the crowds, onto the pavements, where fans and press were gathered in their hundreds, their shouts augmented by the blare of horns, the irritating whirr and flash of digital cameras, and the flood of headlights. We climbed into a waiting taxi, and I gave a silent prayer of thanks to the Britbox organisers. They must have had most of London's black cabs on standby for the night.

"St John's Wood," Ali ordered the driver.

Settling into the back seats, I watched the lights and pzazz of the West End begin to pass by. "How do you know I'm just gonna carry on with The Cove?"

Ali kept a wary eye on the meter as the driver accelerated quickly through the side streets to point his cab in the right direction. "Well you're not planning anything else, are you?"

The lights of restaurants and bars at the western end of Oxford Street dwindled and diminished as Marble Arch grew. At this time of night, Manchester city centre would be busy, but it was nothing compared to London. At the top of Park Lane, cars, buses and cabs jockeyed for position, revved their engines and tooted their horns, waiting for the lights to change, emulating Lewis Hamilton on the starting grid. Our driver wove in and out of lanes, jumped for chancy gaps, generally making as big a nuisance of himself as he could, augmenting his aggressive driving with even more aggressive shouting, forcing his way through the crowded roads to get where he was going.

"We do have other projects, you know," I reminded Ali.

Our cabbie skirted round Cumberland Gate and the junction of Bayswater Road in the offside lane, the imposing arch barely visible through the barren branches of the trees, then he battled his way back across to the left, turning up Edgware Road, almost cutting a bus in half as he did so.

Ali was still captivated by the meter and the speed at which the numbers rose.

"Where d'you want exactly?" demanded the driver.

Ali gave him the address just off Abbey Road, and then turned his attention on me. "Clint, we're riding the _Bleaker Cove_ gravy train, and I'm in no hurry to get off."

"You may not be, but I don't wanna stick with the soaps forever. I'm a celebrity, remember, and celebs have a shelf life. I don't wanna be sat in one place until I'm past my sell-by date. Another couple of years and it really will be time to think about cutting and running."

Our driver jumped the lights at the junction of Maida Vale and St John's Wood Road, accelerated along the quieter streets and jumped the lights again just before Lord's Cricket Ground.

"Cutting and running?" My portly pal was so horrified he even forgot about the meter for a moment. It was almost as if I had suggested prostitutes on the NHS to combat sex addiction. "Duck out of the biggest soap on cable and digital telly? Clint, do you know how much you're making?"

I thought about it. "Just over half a million a year after that last pay rise you negotiated."

"Plus advertising deals, plus personal appearances. It's more like a million and you do not simply walk away from a million bills a year."

The driver turned into a side street. "Wot nahmber d'you want?"

"Sixty-seven," Ali snapped at the interjection.

"And your hundred and something thou a year in commission doesn't enter into the equation?" I asked.

"I'm shocked that you could think such a thing."

The driver whizzed along between parked cars and it occurred to me that any innocent pedestrian suicidal enough to try crossing the road, would be launched into orbit by our cab.

"Ali, have you ever considered how much Hollywood might be willing to pay?"

He never did answer me. He was about to when the cabby pulled in, double parking alongside my brand new, silver grey Volvo XC90, and there followed several minutes of intense negotiations while Ali tried to ascertain why the meter had rocketed to such huge numbers over such a short distance, and the driver threatened nuclear annihilation if my managerial mate didn't poppy up sharpish.

Many people mistook Ali for a pushover. I stood a shade over six feet, lean and muscular, as you would expect of a former PE teacher. I was also a known hard case. I could be taciturn and withdrawn, often to the point of rudeness. By contrast, Ali was five feet six, weighed in at around 13 stones, most of it concentrated in a waistline that reminded me of the M25: large enough to encircle London and somewhere to avoid if you could. He looked faintly ridiculous, especially in a dinner suit and maroon bow tie, but like me, he had spent several years teaching half-head teenagers whether they wanted to learn or not, and he was far from soft.

Couple that to a bolshie, London cabbie on a busy night, and you had the potential for all-out war in a leafy suburb, and that would not do our rep any favours. I intervened telling the taxi driver to button it and my mate to pay up.

"Talk about mugging," Ali complained as the taxi's lights disappeared along the road and into the darkness.

We trod the path to the front door, and I laid loving eyes on my car. It had cost me over sixty grand and I'd had to leave it to Ali to drive it down from our Oldham home. I hoped he had taken care of it.

Turning the key in the lock, he let us in and up a narrow flight of stairs to the first floor and his four-roomed apartment. Ali had bought the place a year and half previously, and like his moorland mansion on the outskirts of Oldham, it was mortgaged to the hilt.

He threw off his dinner jacket, unclipped the bowtie, and released the cummerbund with a sigh and wobble of relief from his rotund belly.

Throwing the sash to one side, he picked up our previous conversation. "Clint, we've got a good beat on things. You're earning a fortune, I'm making a butty and I have debts the size of the pension black hole. Don't go rocking the boat."

I tutted. "Your 'butty' is bigger than the Prime Minister's salary, you have savings _bigger_ than the pensions black hole and you could settle your mortgages tomorrow, with enough left over to buy a terraced street in Manchester, so don't give me any hot air. I'm going nowhere for the moment, but The Cove won't last forever."

"I don't want it to last forever. Just another thirty or forty years, that's all."

# Chapter Three

Fine, June sunshine beamed from a cloudless sky as Ali and I drove into The Mill.

A year or two after we first aired, when _Bleaker Cove_ really made its presence felt on the world's TV screens, the Underlinen Media Group demonstrated its commitment when they bought an old cotton mill in Newton Heath, a couple of miles out of Manchester city centre.

A listed building, it could not be altered on the outside, but there were no restrictions in the interior, so Underlinen converted the four floors to the many and various interior sets we needed to bring the show to life, reserving the upper floors for the admin and wardrobe departments, and the canteen.

It was no big secret what went on in The Mill, and daily, a small crowd of diehard fans gathered on the right hand side of the lane outside. Known in the biz as Covies, they were there every day. It wasn't the same fans there each time obviously... or maybe it was. I'd never taken much notice.

They were kept out of The Mill by a team of security officers, and I mean security officers, not moonlighting club doormen, not retired truckers or pensioners looking to make a few bob on the side, not young kids so desperate for work they were prepared to take on anything for minimum wage. These men and women were professionals; ex-army, ex-police, capable of dealing sympathetically and diplomatically with over-zealous fans, equally capable of strong-arm stuff to subdue the bog standard nutters and potential stalkers.

Some of the Covies carried placards: _'We luv you Brett', 'Candy 4 ever', 'Jace Burridge the best', 'BSFC'_ which did not stand for Bishop's Stortford Football Club but the Brett Sturgess Fan Club. It was instantly noticeable that none of them identified Clint Devries or Emma Penton or Julius Quigley. Instead, they homed in on our characters. Most of the time I felt sorry for them, but occasionally it irritated. How could otherwise intelligent people fail to distinguish between fictitious characters and real life?

I often reflected that these addicts were not the only ones incapable of distinguishing me from Brett Sturgess. Recalling the night of the Britbox Awards, the reporter who buttonholed me as we were leaving had introduced me as Brett not Clint.

With a check on my car registration and a quick glance to ensure it was me, not some paparazzo or lunatic posing as me, the gateman raised the barrier and I drove through.

The Mill towered above us, blotting out the warm, summer sunshine, and I shuddered inwardly at the thought of the coming day. According to the forecast, there would be no cloud and the temperature would climb into the eighties. And where would I be? Spark out in the back garden, soaking up the ultraviolet? Not a chance. I'd be cooped up in this iconic symbol of Victorian Manchester, playacting for the cameras. Worse, I was here an hour early because Ed had called a meeting of the senior crew and cast.

The car park, as usual, was nearly full. Hundreds of people were needed to bring The Cove to the TV screens, and parking was at a premium in a yard which had been designed for horse and cart. Not a problem for me. As co-creator of _Bleaker Cove_ and the male lead, I had a reserved slot between the space where Emma parked her Mercedes and the one where Julius kept his Porsche, well away from the gates and close to The Mill entrance.

Killing the engine, removing the keys from the ignition, I thought about the Covies. "What is it with these knobs that they can't rationalise Brett as a fiction?"

Ali reached over the back of the passenger seat for his laptop case. "Dunno, but remember this: those knobs pay your wages. Come on."

He made to get out, but I stayed him. "Just a minute, Ali. What's this morning all about?"

He shrugged and yawned. "You expect me to know? Ed said be here for nine, not ten, for a meeting. You now know as much as me."

"If he's looking for more hours—"

"You'll do them and shut up," Ali interrupted.

"Or is it just about Spangles' arrival? Only it doesn't take an hour to introduce her to us."

The news that Brittany Spangler would be joining us had been announced early in the year but no firm date had been given until the previous week when Ed told us she would be turning up on this fine, sunny morning.

"I just told you, I don't know."

Ten minutes later, armed with fresh coffee and a notebook and pen, I joined everyone on the kitchen set of Brett and Candy's cottage, which Ed had chosen because his office was not much more than a broom cupboard.

Gathered together were Ali, Emma, Julius, one or two senior crew members, and me, crammed in round a pine table, which in turn was surrounded by willow-patterned plates on a Welsh dresser, make believe washing machines and cookers that were not connected up to any water or electricity supply. In the corner by the sink was the window, which looked out onto nothing more exciting than a blue backdrop screen. Post-production, computer-generated images of exteriors were grafted on to add a sense of reality.

I hated the place. Not just the kitchen stage, but the whole mill. It consumed the greater part of my life and I resented that. And it had got worse recently. In the three months since our success at the Britbox Awards, we'd been on call for filming six and seven days a week, mostly at The Mill, with the odd week on location and occasional evenings at home working on the future plot lines with Ali. I was in no mood for one of Ed Welch's tedious meetings, and as if adding insult to injury, although everyone was on time, he and Helen were missing.

Producing a soap was a logistical nightmare. We filmed to a tight schedule. Every week we had to get five episodes in the can or we were in the S-H-one-T big style. As the creative consultant, which basically meant he came up with the storylines, Ali had to work 13 weeks in advance of broadcast. Shooting was six weeks in advance. It was enough to frighten off anyone who had worked on movies where they had the luxury of time to play with. On a movie set, they'd be happy with a couple of minutes finished film in a day. We had to have twenty-four minutes every day or we worked weekends to make up the time. Needless to say, we worked most weekends.

Ed appeared with a benign smile on his face, dropped his laptop on the table, and a CB handset on the worktop by the fake sink. "Good morning, everybody. Nice to see we're all on time."

A mutter of greeting ran round the table, accompanied by a soft, dribbling snore from Ali. I swear that man could drop off faster than my old ma's pet spaniel.

Ed seated himself at the top of the table where he could see everyone. I was at the bottom end, directly facing him. Emma and Julius were to my left and Ali on my right. The arrangement was deliberate. If the meeting ran to form, it would be difficult, and I would need allies. Sat like this we could present Ed with a united front.

Booting up his laptop, settling down with a cup of camomile tea and a crib sheet before him, he announced, "As you're aware—"

I cut him off. "Before we go any further, Helen isn't here. Whatever this is about, as our director, shouldn't she be in on it?"

He gave his first frustrated sigh of the morning. "Helen has already been given the overview, Clint. That's why I was a little late. She'll be along in a few minutes. Okay?"

I nodded and checking his notes, he went on with his prepared delivery.

"As you're aware, back in March we achieved three Britbox Awards: best actor, best actress and best director. Congratulations to Helen, Emma and Clint on that, by the way. However, I was a little concerned that, once more, we did not win best ongoing drama. I thought we deserved it. I thought we were streets ahead of _Wensleymead Farm_." He paused a moment, letting us bask in his praise. When it became obvious that no one was prepared to even dip a toenail in it, never mind bask, he carried on. "Anyway, the day after the ceremony, I met with Mr Verdonk and we chewed over a few ideas that will bring us out fighting next year. I've had several more meetings since, and the plans have been finalised." He paused again, this time to let his significance, a man who meets with the great and glorious, sink in. His eyes travelled around the table, fixing each of us in turn, and his voice carried an unmistakable threat. "These ideas are not up for negotiation."

I gave him a round of applause. "Author, author."

That took the wind from his sails. "Clint—"

"Just get on with it, Ed," I cut in. "We have a full day's filming ahead of us, and I'd like to get home before dark."

He puffed out his breath and took a sip of camomile tea to calm his nerves. "Mr Verdonk felt, and I had to agree, that the reason we keep coming third and fourth to competition from the terrestrial dramas is because we're losing touch with reality."

He fell silent once more, glancing around at us to see if anyone had any comment to make. I noticed that he held his eye on me for a fraction of a second longer than he did the others. When no one spoke, he went on.

"In addition, there's no immediately apparent connection between our theme, the life and times of a small fishing village, and our sponsors, Finestar Computer Supplies. Other soaps have sponsors that are more in tune with their stories and airtime. Chocolate, pizzas, even washing up liquid, can all be related to early evening TV. Computers are the kind of thing you use when you switch the telly off."

Once more he trailed off and allowed us to draw the obvious conclusion.

Satisfied that his melodramatic pause had had the desired effect, he went on. "As a consequence, a new sponsorship deal has been arranged and there will be changes to our storylines to suggest links to that sponsor. You're all aware that we're bringing in a new cast member in a senior role, and I'll introduce you to her in a few minutes." He put down the sheet of paper he'd been reading from, and laid his forearms flat on the table. As he spoke, his head passed slowly around the table, ensuring he took in everyone, accentuating the gravity of his words. "I'm not going to minimise this. It has absolute priority and it has come right from the top. Mr Verdonk made it clear that we have to better our previous performance, because if we don't, we could be axed."

Worried faces met his stare. I maintained a fixed irritation on my face and began to doodle on my notebook. Alongside me, Ali, his eyes now open, could not have been less interested if someone had said a Russian oil billionaire had just bought a majority shareholding in Underlinen and was insisting we all turn out for training with Stockport County. In fact, given his antipathy towards exercise, he'd probably have been _more_ concerned with a Russian oil billionaire forcing us to train with Stockport County.

Ed, checking out the silent reactions to his statement, settled for a moment on me, but the evil eye that I delivered by return soon changed his mind, and he moved on to Ali. "As the creator of _Bleaker Cove_ , and the man who owns the rights, I would have thought you'd have been worried."

Ali yawned, shook his head and slurped his coffee. "I'm not, because, unlike the rest of you dummies, I have intelligence."

That sent a shockwave of outrage round the table. Charitably assuming he did not include me in his opinion, I laughed out loud.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Ed demanded.

Ali, who had been leaning casually back in his seat, now pressed forward so that everyone could see him.

"Back in the days of yore, I used to teach maths and basic economics. That means I know something about large businesses like Underlinen, and the way they operate. Now, we're never given any accurate figures, but let's assume that The Cove generates between thirty and forty million a year for the Underlinen group; sponsorship, general advertising, syndication, and so on. Considering Underlinen's overall turnover, a couple of billion a year, our contribution is probably not a lot, but it's still significant." Like Ed, Ali knew about drama and he paused to stress his final words. "When you're looking to maximise turnover, you don't dump a show like this because it's only turning in thirty million instead of fifty."

Our producer was completely lost and I absently scrawled _Ed Welch is a prat_ on my notebook.

The prat in question resorted to bluster. "I'm only telling you what was said to me."

"And I'm telling you that the big boss is ragging you." Ali gestured around him. "No company goes to this level of expense, setting up permanent indoor sets, wardrobe, an admin staff that would have the council green with envy, only to pull the rug from under its feet." He aimed a wagging finger at Ed. "If we were losing money, if the sponsors and advertisers were pulling out left, right and centre, then I'd be worried, but you've just admitted that we've struck a new sponsorship deal."

Ed floundered some more and I could see the argument would go on for hours unless someone stepped in to stop it, and as usual, that someone was me.

"Ed, why don't you cut out the big stick, and go to the carrot. Tell us exactly what you and Verdonk have in mind."

"You mean _Mr Verdonk_."

"You can call him Mr Big Dick for all I care, as long as we know who we're talking about. Give us the bottom line."

Ed reached behind and picked up his CB radio. They were used by many people inside the mill as a means of keeping in touch.

"Bring her in, Helen." He put the radio down again. "I'm about to introduce you to a new member of the cast. Brittany Spangler is a comparative newcomer to mainstream drama. She's a beautiful young woman, and she'll be coming into the show as a love rival for Candy." He beamed on Emma. "The battle of the babes."

The door opened and Helen came in, accompanied by Spangles.

About five feet five tall, a striking redhead, she had these magnificent mammaries, which projected forward like the spearhead of an armoured assault, and were possessed of a cleavage so deep, it called to mind Tennyson's _Charge of the Light Brigade_. Not that this particular canyon was the valley of death, but there was sufficient room to prop the front wheel of a Honda 50 and if you ducked your head in, you'd need to come up for air now and then. Fiery green eyes blazed from beneath an unruly fringe, which must have cost her a fortune to get right, and a tiny, pouting mouth worked sweetly, invitingly as she took her place alongside Ed.

I knew her well... from _Bare Babes_ : that glossy piece of junk dedicated to male (and possible female) perverts everywhere, owned and published by none other than the Underlinen Media Group. It was the original magazine from which the company took its alliterative name.

Spangles had graced the pages of Verdonk's soft porn mag more times than any other bag on the circuit, owing largely to the fact that Mr Verdonk was allegedly bedding her. As far as I could recall, I'd never actually seen her act, other than in blue movies, and given her performances in those, I guessed she would be pretty good horizontally, but I couldn't comment on her vertical skills, so it was a bit of a mystery how she had come by her union card. Or maybe it wasn't. When the bloke you're supposedly screwing is one of the richest men in the world, with fingers in media pies of all descriptions, getting her into the closed shop world of the actors' union, would be child's play.

While everyone beamed smiles upon her, I tried to think of any TV show or movie in which I might have seen her act rather than fuck. _Casualty, Heartbeat, Doctors, Midsomer Murders, Waking The Dead_... well you never know, she may have turned up as a body.

After a moment or two of such pointless speculation, I focused my attention on Ed. Alongside me, Ali, who had been on the point of dozing off again, was suddenly alert, his rapt eyes fixated with the chasm between her bubs. Across the table, Julius' eyes were wide and greedy while Emma's had narrowed to tiny points of envious anger.

"Ladies and gentlemen," said Ed grandly, "permit me to introduce you to the newest cast member of _Bleaker Cove_ , Brittany Spangler."

She blushed convincingly. "Please. I like to be called Spangles."

There was a murmur of greeting around the table. Ali joined in, so did Julius, but Emma did not and neither did I because I was already trying to think up ways of getting up her nose.

"I remember you as a nude model," I said.

"I don't do that these days." Her tones were sweet as honey. "I'm an actress."

"And can you act?"

"Clint—"

Ed never got any further with his protest as Spangles interrupted him.

"I was told about you, Clint. They said you were difficult to get on."

"You mean get on with."

"I know what I mean." She gave me a twinkling half smile and a wink. "Yes, Clint, I can act. Can you act opposite me without getting a real hard on?"

She was trying to embarrass me. Obviously, she had not done her research or she would have known it was a waste of time. Trying to embarrass me was like trying to get MPs to vote against their pay increases. "I don't know. I've never appeared in porn, but it shouldn't be too difficult. I prefer a woman who puts up a bit of a fight."

That particular barb sent another shockwave around the table.

Ed raised his voice to the level of a politically correct, squealing protest. "Clint, you're going out of your way to be unpleasant, aren't you?"

"Not particularly." Ali answered before I could. "It comes quite naturally to him."

"Well it's not a very constructive attitude." Ed fumed for a moment longer while Spangles and Helen took their seats either side of him. "Right. To drag this meeting kicking and screaming back to where it should be, I said earlier that Mr Verdonk is insisting on more reality in _Bleaker Cove_. Ali, we need more sex in the plots."

Ali nodded contingently, a murmur of approval rippled round the table and I almost resigned on the spot.

"I thought you said you wanted more reality," I protested.

Ed was nonplussed. "We do. Sex is reality, Clint."

"So is shit, but I don't hear you wanting shots of me taking a crap." With disbelief registering at least eight on the Richter Scale, I jabbed an angry finger at the table. "Brett and Candy are battling EU fishing quotas, the falling price of haddock, and with townies buying up the local property, they're faced with bankruptcy, so what do you want them to do? Shag the brains out of the official receiver, while Julius rogers this bimbo?" I aimed an angry finger at Spangles, identifying her as the 'bimbo' in question.

"Spangles is not a bimbo," Ed retorted, trying to avoid the main thrust of my argument.

I could feel my temper rising. "Don't evade the issue. When we first set out we were asked to produce a soap that would appeal to a general audience, not follow the others soaps into sex, violence and _issues._ I told you that at the Britbox Awards. We did that, we're bloody good at that, we've won awards doing that. Now you _want_ us to follow the other soaps into sex. Is it going to be followed by violence and _issues_? And what next? Brett gives up fishing because it's unfair to the fish, and opens a brothel on the cliff top?"

Another murmur ran round the table; a murmur of approval.

"I was taking the piss, you idiots," I shouted.

Ed shifted his concentration to Ali. "Do you feel the same way?"

Divide and conquer was one of the hallmarks of Ed's approach.

Ali, who had been mentally picking his nose and studying the rise and fall of Spangles' jugs, focussed on the producer. "Clint is right. It is a daft idea. But I'm a lot more mercenary than him. I'm happy to carry on dreaming up the plots week after week, and as long as you keep paying my mortgage, I'll come up with whatever you want. Besides, if I jacked this in, I'd have to go back to working for a living."

I'm sure most of those around the table thought the same way. Like Kelvin Henderson's approach to _Good Day_ , they viewed _Bleaker Cove_ as a means of paying the council tax and mortgage. While the show ran, they were fine, but if the axe fell, they'd go back into the talent pool with all the wannabes and has-beens, worrying week to week, month to month on whether they would find enough work, make ends meet.

I didn't care. I had enough money to see me for years, and because I rented the granny flat attached to Ali's farmhouse, it meant I didn't have a mortgage.

Ed smiled sadistically at me. "Looks like you're in a minority of one, Clint."

"Is that supposed to persuade me? In case you've all forgotten, Emma and I are the ones who hold this show together. And that's not an idle boast. Eighty percent of the fan mail this show receives is for either her or me. Emma may be happy to turn _Bleaker Cove_ into Bed-hoppers Anonymous, but I'm just as capable of upsetting the applecart alone."

Ed remained unimpressed. "If you don't like the idea of more sex, you're not gonna like the new sponsors."

"Why? Who are they?"

"Embargo Condoms."

Another Ed Welch announcement greeted with silence, although it has to be said, Ali was neither stunned nor silent. He was nodding off again, and gave a soft grunt as he did so.

Carefully controlling my voice, I said, "Ed, not five minutes ago, you said we needed a sponsor with some kind of link to the programme. Now tell me how you can link rubbers to a fishing village? What message are you trying to get across? Fishermen wear oilskins to keep the weather at bay, so when you're out on the make, wear a skin to keep all those nasty little diseases at dick's length?"

With a cultivated imbecility that could only come from a public school education and years of working in TV, Ed managed to miss my sarcasm. "Well safe sex is one message, naturally, but there are other uses for condoms."

"Yeah, you can fill them full of water and string 'em up in the pub for your mate's stag party."

"I was thinking of birth control."

"Well it's a pity your father didn't use one."

I didn't mean to say it. The thought was there, and it slipped out before I could slot my brain into gear and stop it. The remark almost brought Ed and me to blows. He stood up, his features flushed a furious red, fists clenched, screaming obscenities, and for a moment I thought he really would come for me. Helen Sears and Spangles held him back, Ali and Julius made me sit down, I apologised, and a few moments of rhubarb chatter ensued while we all calmed down.

He drank more of his camomile tea and checked his crib sheet. "I have one more announcement to make."

Watching his shaking hands, and the darting movement of his eyes, I erroneously assumed he was still angry with me, but I was wrong. He was scared of our reaction, as I learned when he next spoke.

"From the New Year, we will be making one extra episode per week. It will go out late at night, post watershed, and it will contain full-frontal nudity and graphic sex."

Stunned silence was the first non-reaction. Total silence, as if we had all just witnessed a miracle and we were too overawed to speak.

A miracle or a horror?

When I finally recovered from the shock, I felt a rage building inside, and I knew I had to head it off before it exploded and I did some real damage.

"Graphic sex? Full frontal?"

"Yes, Clint. From January, _Bleaker Cove_ will be the first soap to go adult."

"Not," I said, "with me in it."

"Now, Clint, you can't—"

"Listen carefully, Ed," I interrupted. "I am not doing it."

"You have to. Your contract—"

"Allows me to walk out of this show on three months' notice, and if you push me, I'll give that notice now."

That perked up my mate again who had gone back to studying Spangles' bosom. "Leave it with me. He'll do it."

I wanted to protest further, but Ed got in first.

"Time is getting on, and we have to begin the day's filming, so I'll cut this short. I said earlier that these ideas were not up for discussion. Ali, I need to speak with you about plot adjustments. Head office are not happy with your current ideas for introducing Spangles to the show, so we need to make alterations and we need them ten minutes ago. Her character will need a new name, too." He glared at Ali. "They were extremely unimpressed with Doris Hepplethwaite."

I suppressed a smile. That name was my idea and it only came to me after I heard Spangles was joining us.

Ignorant of this, Ed carried on, "Clint, Emma, Julius, Spangles, you will all be notified when filming begins on the Embargo adverts."

Another puzzle. This meeting was turning into a live _Times_ crossword.

"Why should we be informed?" I wanted to know.

"Oh, sorry, didn't I tell you? A part of the Embargo sponsorship deal is that you four will front the advertising."

Emma and Julius were delighted, Spangles appeared as if she knew about it already, and I fumed again. "Forget it."

"Clint, you have no choice. Mr Verdonk—"

"Can donk off," I interrupted. "I work for me, not him, and I decide what work I will and will not take on."

"You will be paid for it." Ed pointed at Ali. "And he said you'd be happy to do it."

I glowered at Ali who carried on pretending to sleep. "I'll deal with him later. And this debate is academic because I won't do it, and that's that." I closed my notebook and dropped it in my pocket. "I may be a stud in real life, but I refuse to take on work that will cement that reputation."

"You're a celebrity," Ed pointed out, "and all celebrities are like that."

I glared murder at him. "You want me to behave like a celebrity, then I will. I'll bugger off now, go to the nearest pub, get pissed and wreck the place. Listen to me carefully, Ed. I – am – not – making – these – ads."

"He will," Ali assured them without opening his eyes. "Just leave it with me."

I turned my irritation on Ali, but before I could properly get into the swing of it, Ed began to gather his belongings together.

"Right, I think that's all for now. Thank you all for your input."

This left me wondering what kind of input anyone had put in, but before I could comment, Ed carried on talking.

"Ali, I'll need those plot alterations by the end of next week, and Clint, could I have a word in private?"

I groaned. "Haven't you had enough abuse for one morning?"

"Please, Clint," he insisted. "It'll only take a few minutes."

Totally mystified, I hung back while the others left. Once we were alone, Ed opened up his laptop and brought it out of hibernation.

"I had word from the commissioning editors on _Sermon_."

"Oh yes?" My attitude changed and my pulse increased slightly, anticipating a favourable response.

For an unknown, a script would have to jump through several hoops before it got to the commissioning editors, but my pull managed to short circuit the process. If they gave it the go-ahead, Ali and I would set to work on the script.

"They've rejected it as too expensive and too tame for modern TV." Ed's announcement brought me down from my daydreams with a crash.

One man's opinion is not necessarily representative, I reminded myself, and I'd had my share of rejections in the days before _Bleaker Cove_ , so I had no problem dealing with it. "No sweat, Ed. I'll send it off to the Beeb."

"Ah, now you can't actually do that, Clint."

I was surprised. "Says who?"

Ed ferreted about the file menu on his laptop. "Your mate, Ali, as a matter of fact. If only I can find the relevant email... ah, here it is." He studied the document for a moment, then concentrated on me. "When Ali negotiated your last pay rise, he tied you to Underlinen for the duration of your contract, which still has three years to run. That contract has a clause which specifically prevents you from working for any other production company in any capacity without the express permission of the Underlinen Media Group. It's standard for _Bleaker Cove_ , and it's been in your contract since day one. And before you whine over it, we're not the only soap which includes such a clause."

"I'm aware of it, but—"

He cut me off. "Their response to Sermon makes it plain that such permission will not be forthcoming. If you decided to go to the BBC or any other production house, for that matter, and take the project on, Underlinen will consider it a breach of contract, and terminate that contract. Upon such termination, they will reclaim any fees paid in advance and they will also reclaim the whole of the current year's fees that are above actors' union scale."

I was appalled, my mind filled with images of a disembowelled Ed Welch hanging by the neck and me cleaning the blood and guts off the knife. I checked the date on my Rolex Oyster.

"It's not Friday the thirteenth, is it?"

My question had Ed puzzled. "Er, no. Why?"

"Because just about everything has gone wrong this morning." I gave him my meanest glance. "And only since you turned up."

# Chapter Four

Brett washes his hands. "Mind your own business, Jace."

Jace steps into the kitchen. "I'm telling you, Brett, you're not doing right. If you don't pay her some mind, Candy will find what she wants somewhere else."

Brett picks up a towel and dries his hands, turning to face Jace. "I pay you to swab the decks, not stick your nose into my marriage. Now shut it."

" _Brett, what does she have to do to get through that thick head of yours? Find someone else?"_

" _Someone like you?"_

Jace answers cautiously. "Maybe."

Brett throws the towel down, strides across the kitchen, grabs Jace by the lapels and slams his back against the wall.

" _You listen to me, pal, you go anywhere near my wife and you'll lose a damn sight more than your bastard job. I'll cut your dick off and feed it to the chickens."_

***

"Cut."

With a final glare at Julius, I let him go and faced Helen.

She stood, hands on hips, features severe, her bubs pointing accusing nipples at me. In her early fifties, she was still an attractive woman, but her red hair and green eyes transmitted post-menopausal vitriol when she was that way out... like right now.

"Clint, none of that was in the script, and even if it was a clever ad-lib, we do not use that kind of language on The Cove."

"No," I retorted, "but we're happy to advertise the rubbers Jace would use on Spangles."

"Irrelevant. You know what I'm talking about."

I waved her argument away. She snatched her digital stopwatch, suspended from her neck on a black cord, and switching modes, checked the time.

"It's almost one o'clock. We'll break for lunch." The green eyes narrowed on me again. "You have been a pain all morning. I don't know what went on in your private chat with Ed, but whatever it was, get it out of your system and come back ready to work. All right, everyone, back at two fifteen. Don't be late."

I threw off my wardrobe-issued overalls and kicked the rubber boots away, and a technician tossed me my trainers. Pulling them on, flipping the Velcro straps tight, I followed the rest of the crew off set.

Stepping out of the bright lighting of the fake kitchen, I turned along a dark, narrow corridor, lined with the soundproofed walls of other production bays, each representing a different interior. Red lights shone outside some, indicating that filming was in progress and passers-by needed to keep the noise down.

By the water cooler Helen stood ear-bashing Ali. His occasional, worried glances in my direction, and his subservient gestures to Helen indicated that I was the subject under discussion.

I marched past them without a word and heard Ali say, "I'll deal with it, Helen. Catch you later." Then he came in pursuit of me. "Clint. CLINT. Wait, will you?"

I barely checked my pace and he hurried along to keep up, his five feet six inch frame struggling to match my six feet one inch, more athletic stride.

Eventually, almost out of breath, as we approached the mass crowded into the lift area at the end of the building, he grabbed my arm. "For Christ's sake, Clint, I'm talking to you."

"Piss off, Ali."

Yanking my arm free, I strode on, deliberately accelerating my long steps, leaving him behind. Unfortunately at the far end, there was a delay and I had to stop again, and wait with the crowd.

Ali caught up, grabbed my arm once more and spun me round to face him. Not many people would try that with me, but Ali and I had been mates since childhood and friendship has some odd side-effects, such as letting you know how much closer to the edge of the envelope you could sail.

"You are rocking the boat," he hissed, "and don't tell me to piss off."

"All right." I gave it a moment's thought. "Try this then. Take the words off and piss and rearrange them into a well-known phrase or saying."

He fumed. "What the hell is wrong with you? According to Helen, you've been like it all morning. Is it this sex thing, the Embargo ads, or are you trying to impress that Spangles totty with your moodies?"

"Just let it go," I suggested.

Credit where it was due, he ignored me. "Like hell. You may be able to brush everyone else off but it won't work with me. Now what the hell is going on?"

"I said, forget it."

He shook his head. "All I know is, after giving a lot of shit at the main meeting this morning, you had a private natter with Ed, and ever since I've had nothing but complaints about you. I have enough to do monitoring the scripts without babysitting you."

"Never mind the scripts. You're my agent. You get paid to babysit me. Now let it go."

"Clint—"

The lifts were the type which had been in use when the building was a mill: huge elevators designed to carry people and/or goods to the upper floors. They could take up to twenty people each, but they were slow and ponderous. The metal, concertina doors closed on the second lift and now both were on their way to the fourth floor canteen. It would be many minutes before the first got back down here, and even then we would be crowded into it, which would moderate Ali's attempts to hassle me.

I eyed the staircase; as good a way as any to get me away from the crowds and Ali. He had a phobia about stairs; they forced him into physical work.

I went for them, with Ali looking angrily after me, his grumbling voice drifting up to me, gradually fading to nothing as I rounded the corner at the top of the first flight.

Like any production house, Underlinen took their projects seriously. They were paranoid about security and would not tolerate leaks of plotlines, or any private, intrusive filming. As a consequence, when they took over the old mill, they were allowed to make one, minor change to the exterior; they blanked out the windows on the staircase using whitewash. It prevented the paparazzi flying by in helicopters trying to get unauthorised photographs.

As I climbed the stairs, I paused on the third landing, and by bringing myself up close to the window where someone had rubbed away the covering, I could see out, down to the main gate and the barrier, and the Covies beyond.

Usually, they were a source of wonder and amusement to me, but today I felt like smashing the glass out of the window and screaming at them, 'get a life you sad bastards. Switch the TV off and take the dog for a walk, go to the pub, jump the wife or your neighbour, play a game of Scrabble, anything to get you away from this mindless dross'.

By the time I had made the fourth floor, most of my irritation had been burned off with the excess energy involved in climbing the stairs, but it quickly returned when I found Ali waiting for me outside the canteen doors.

"You don't get away from me that easily."

We entered the busy dining hall and tagged onto the end of the line for service.

"Ali, why don't you do us both a favour and let it drop?"

"Because you are killing the golden goose that laid the chocolate egg."

Leaving me to decide whether I should ignore or smile at his mixed metaphor, he ordered a shepherd's pie before ranting again.

"Clint, we have solved the equation that has baffled economists since the year dot. We are making a fortune and doing as little as possible for it. I won't sit back and let you chuck it all down the drain just because you've got it on you."

"I have not got it on me," I told him as I picked up a tuna salad. "I am simply chuffed off with the way things work here."

Collecting a cup of tea each, we emerged from the serving line, scanned the crowded room, and made our way to an empty table in the far corner, not far from Emma, Spangles and Julius who were deep in conversation. As with Helen and Ali, the odd glances thrown my way told me I was the main topic under discussion.

"Things work the way they're supposed to work," Ali grumbled. "I dream up the plots, you act the part of Brett, and they pay us a small fortune for it. Christ, Clint, you're a millionaire out of it, and all in less than five years. What more do you want?"

"Freedom." It was a simple statement and nothing but the truth. "The freedom to spend some of that money. The freedom to do what I want where and when I want."

Chewing on his food with a grimace, he muttered, "This pie tastes like it was made from a real shepherd." He swallowed a lump of gristle and hassled me some more. "You _do_ do what you want. You do most of the spare women in Manchester, if memory serves."

"Balls," I groused. "For God's sake, Ali, do you remember when we enjoyed our writing?"

"Yes. When we were teaching and skint. Then you became an actor and I became a creative consultant as well as your agent, and the game changed. Now ask me if I'd go back to it. I wouldn't. Not for twice the salary and a guaranteed shag with the female gym mistress."

I tutted. "How about the male gym mistress?"

"That was you."

"Never mind, Ali. Just forget it all, will you?"

Typically, he refused point blank. "No, I won't forget it, Clint. You have one of the most recognised faces in Christendom, and I get fifteen percent of that, plus my consultancy fees and my cut of the rights, and no one recognises me, so I have it nice and cosy and cushy. It's easy money for an easy life and I'm not willing to let you rock the boat. Underlinen have called the shots, Spangles is in, you're making the Embargo ads, and that's it."

I chewed the tasteless salad.

If it was true that Ali knew me and just how far he could push, then the same was true in reverse. I knew him better than I did my sister. And I realised immediately that his reference to Spangles' inclusion in the cast was a blind. The nepotism deployed in getting her in niggled at me, sure, but it wasn't the first time it had happened and it would not usually annoy me to this extent.

Most of the cast, myself included, had been in acting for some time. When I was teaching, I auditioned for and landed odd parts, and I did a lot of am-dram in order to pick up experience. Even Julius, who I calculated would be just about perfect for _Play School_ , had trod the boards for a year or five before landing his part in The Cove.

Spangles' acting experience was limited to putting on the moans and groans when she took a length from behind in porno movies, and she had been levered into a starring role ahead of several minor cast members, some of whom would have been ripe for an affair with Brett or Candy.

But that was not the source of my irritation and Ali knew it.

I watched him shovel another mouthful of pie and gravy into his ever-open trap, and asked, "Talking of the post-watershed episodes and Embargo, when did they tell you about the sponsorship deal?"

He didn't answer straight away. He couldn't. A mouthful of hot pie prevented him. Instead, he wobbled the meat and mashed potato from side to side, chewing erratically on it, and eventually swallowed the whole thing, dribbled gravy down his chin and, wiping it off with the sleeve of his fleece, finally said, "This morning."

"Pull the other one. When Ed mentioned it this morning, you never said a word. In fact, you didn't even wake up until I refused to take it on."

He slurped some tea to ease the strain of a large lump of meat passing his vocal chords. "All right, all right, so I knew about it in February."

The revelation was shocking. "Nearly five months ago? And you never said anything to me?"

"I did say something to you. In the car on the way home from The Mill one night, but you'd had a tough day and you weren't in the mood to listen."

I recalled that he had mentioned something. "So you did, but you didn't go into detail."

"Because I didn't have any details." He put on his friendliest smile. The one that had me checking my wallet very closely. "Clint, I'm your agent and you're the big star. You're the male model, the one the chicks go for. You just amble through life getting laid, making money, opening supermarkets at ten grand a belt, handling the phones on charity telethons, chucking bottles of beer at the paparazzi. You don't get into the business side of things. I deal with that. It's what I get paid for."

"What are you saying?" I demanded. "I'm too thick to deal with it?"

"No," he hastened on. "Not too thick. Too laid back, too easy going on the one hand, too quick to lose your rag on the other. Listen to me, when you get into negotiations with these people, you're pissing with the big boys, and you can't go in with an, 'it's cool', attitude. You have to make 'em work for what they want. If you tried haggling with them, you'd be doing these adverts for scale or less. At least I can get you more money. Anyway, it wasn't about cash. That's due for negotiation next month. They just put the principle to me."

Ali was already losing me and I wondered if he was right. Was I too easy going with the business side of things? So concerned with having an 'easy' (I use the word as a comparative, not definitive) life that others saw me as a pushover.

I put the question to one side, homing in on the rest of his announcement. "What do you mean 'it wasn't about cash'? What's the _it_?"

"The meeting." He gave a heavy sigh, mopped his plate with a slice of bread, and went on. "While you were busy playing fishermen with Emma and Julius, I was called to Underlinen HQ in London where the notion of a graphic, post-watershed episode and the Embargo ads was put to me. The sponsorship deal had already been struck, and that had nothing to do with anyone but Underlinen and Embargo. We had no say in that. All they wanted to know was whether you would be prepared to make the ads and do the nuddy stuff. I said you'd be okay with the ads, but you might be a bit iffy on the nude stuff, but I'd try to persuade you... for the right money, which, as I've just said, hasn't been finalised yet." He began to lose some of his cool. "Jesus, Clint, what's the problem? Your scoring rate is better than Wayne Rooney's. You have more fanny than I've had hot dinners, and the number of skins you go through must have jacked the Embargo share price up three points. I spoke to Emma about it, and she's cool. You are the perfect man to front the campaign and let's be honest about this, Emma is the perfect woman. She's every young lad's dream girl." He narrowed his eyes on me. "At one time, I figured she was your dream, too."

I frowned. "You know my opinions on marriage. If God had intended us to be married, he'd have fitted us with dog clips so we could be kept on a leash."

What made Ali the best salesman you'd ever meet was his ability to find an answer for everything, and he did it again right now. "According to my information, Emma never talked about marriage, just something more permanent."

"She wanted the washing up done after meals," I grumbled.

"Whereas you preferred to chuck the plates away and buy new."

"Who uses plates?"

"You can't live on takeaways all your life, Clint." He went back into thrust mode, "This Embargo campaign will make you a bigger name than you are now. It's transmitting worldwide."

For once it was my turn to have an answer. "In that case, I'll want fees to reflect that."

"I'll open negotiations."

He pushed his plate to one side. I elbowed my unfinished salad away, and drank the dregs of tea from my plastic cup.

"That's Embargo out of the way. Now what about the 'adult' episodes?"

He shrugged. "Verdonk wants 'em, he'll get 'em, and you and Emma will be in them."

I shook my head. "Ali, I am not just some piece of meat. I won't do them."

"Emma will."

"You're sure of that?"

Starting work on an apple pie and cream, he nodded. "I mentioned it in principle months ago and she said she was okay."

"But you didn't give her the real lowdown."

"I couldn't. I didn't know it until this morning when Ed brought it up."

"Then let's ask her now."

I half stood, but he stayed me.

"Don't. You'll only cause another argument."

Cleaving a sizeable chunk of apple pie from the rest, he spooned it into his mouth. "Now will you tell me what's been wrong all morning?"

Again I bumped into this problem of Ali knowing me so well that I couldn't keep anything from him. I tossed the empty cup at a waste bin several feet away and missed. Looking him in the eye, I said, " _Sermon_ was rejected."

Ali was so astonished that another spoonful of apple pie, making its way from the plate to his mouth, fell off and splashed into his tea.

"That's what it's all about?"

"No, that's not what it's all about. During the process of telling me that it was rejected, Ed also detailed one or two items of my contract that I didn't know about. He reminded me that I'm tied to Underlinen for the duration, just like everyone else." I waved at the crowds around us. "But he also told me something I didn't know. Like, if I go elsewhere without their permission, they can cut my contract and claw back all my fees. Why the hell did you agree to that?"

He picked up his cup, his hand shaking.

"Ali..." I began, trying to stop him drinking from the tainted cup, but it was too late. He'd already taken a gulp of tea/pie/cream.

"Ugh." He spat the foul mixture back into the cup. "What the hell are they using to make the tea in here? Dog shit?" He tossed the disposable beaker at the same bin I'd aimed for. He, too, missed and splattered tea, apple pie and cream across the thin carpet.

Bringing his concentration back to bear on me, he began to wheedle. "You wanted a pay rise, they were baulking, I had to do something to break the deadlock. Besides, at the time, you were quite happy to stick with The Cove."

"Let's get this straight, Ali. I didn't want a pay rise. _You_ wanted a pay rise. You'd just had the back garden landscaped and it set you back thirty grand, so you needed to recoup the cash."

"Don't change the subject. I haven't noticed you turning the cheques away. It was a good deal. It left you as one of the highest paid TV actors in the country, possibly Europe, maybe, even, the world. Yes, and half the females in this country would give their eye-teeth to use an Embargo on you and the adult episodes will give them a sample of what they can expect."

"Only when I choose to let them, and I'm choosing not to." I stood up, ready to go back to the set. "Thanks to those negotiations, you chained me to this bleeding place forever. Or at least the next three years. It's either that, or I end up skint. Ali, I don't know how much longer I can carry on, but don't worry, pal, when I decide to leave, you'll be the first to know."

"Clint... Clint..."

# Chapter Five

Ali had always been more financially aware than me, so when the money started to pour in, he used his head and sank his share of the spoils into the one area where growth was practically guaranteed: property. He bought a rambling, decrepit farmhouse sitting on the edge of the moors, three miles to the east of Oldham.

A 19th century place, built of local stone, it was in a state of advanced decay when Ali picked it up for a song. And as he was so often at pains to remind me, he mortgaged it as far as the banks would allow before beginning work on the improvements. He converted the front, lower floor and the whole of the upper floor to a modern mansion, turned the lower rear floor into a granny flat, and attached a triple garage to the building which he, his girlfriend and I used. Sitting fifty yards off the road, the site came with a half-acre of land at the rear, which, as I was at pains to point out in the canteen, he landscaped on the back of my last pay rise. And because he no longer had a granny, he rented the flat out to me at a princely eight hundred a month. _Eight hundred pounds a month._ And he reckoned he only let me have it so cheap because we were mates. Thank God I'd never been his sworn enemy.

The location was ideal. The view from my flat stretched out over the moors and down into the valley to the town of Shaw, but when I drove out the front, I was looking down on the whole of Greater Manchester.

Like any other celebrity, I kept my address a closely guarded secret, but over the years a few hacks had made efforts to track me down; not one of them had succeeded for the simple reason that I only had the flat, not the house. Those reporters whose research and/or bribery in the town hall led them up the drive to the door were usually confronted with Sharon Crossley, Ali's girlfriend. Shaz was enough to frighten off the Argyll & Sutherland Highlanders, never mind your average, tabloid hack. When she said, 'go away', you went, and many journalists seeking the exclusive lowdown on Clint Devries' private life had wandered off, scratching their heads, wondering how the electoral roll, which said I lived at Ali's address, could have got it so wrong.

Ali took up most of the house with Shaz, but he reserved one upstairs room as an office. If _Bleaker Cove_ had not actually been born in that room, it certainly matured there.

Getting home around eight, I treated myself to a microwaved all-day breakfast, and I'd barely finished, when Ali called round and tried to pick up our argument from the canteen.

"While you were playing the part of downtrodden and skint Brett Sturgess, Ed read me the riot act again on your attitude, and he's threatening to cut your contract off at the bank balance."

"So tell him to bog off."

He looked askance. "How can I?"

"It's dead easy. You put your lips together, form the words and let them go."

"Clint, Ed is serious about this, and it's all because of your moods and that bloody script you had rejected." He sat in the armchair.

"You know, Ali, you can switch arguments on and off as easy as I switch the lights on and off. Easier. I have to get up to do that."

Raising the recliner's footrest, he shuffled into a more comfortable position. "I don't know what you mean."

"In the canteen you were saying half the world wants a flash of my todger, and Verdonk will insist on it. Now you're saying Ed is threatening to chuck me out. Make your mind up."

"Yes, well, I managed to talk him round by convincing him that you'll work with me on changing the story we'd planned for introducing Spangles, and I'd persuade you on the post-watershed thing—"

"You won't."

"Shut up and forget the bleeding adult episodes for now," he snapped, conveniently ignoring the fact that he had actually brought the subject up. "You have tomorrow off so we can work on a _major_ incident that'll bring Spangles to The Cove. Oh, she needs a new name too. Doris Hepplethwaite." He sneered and checked his watch. "I'll get a bite to eat, and we can start work tonight. I'll see you upstairs at half past seven. I've already had some ideas."

I shook my head. "No. Not tonight."

"Now listen, Clint—"

"No you listen, Ali," I interrupted. "I'm not working overtime for Ed bleeding Welch and Orlando frigging Verdonk." I felt the full force of my anger bubbling to the surface again. "What the hell has happened to you? Where's your bottle gone, man? There was a time when you'd have taken on the head of department, head teacher, Education Committee and the Minister of Education. And now you're scared of a shit like Welch?"

"What's happened? This has happened." He spread his chubby arms in a gesture that took in the whole house. "I'm worth a theoretical fortune, but it's all tied up in this place—"

"And your villa in Tenerife, and your boat in the Lake District, your North Wales holiday cottage, the flat in London, and that caravan in a field outside Accrington."

He frowned puzzlement. "A caravan near Accrington?"

I nodded. "The one you used when you were pulling the hens at university. You used to take them there for a shag."

"I sold that van years ago."

"Well, whatever. You've got more property than a Monopoly champion, so don't come pleading poverty."

"Yes, and it's all mortgaged to doomsday and beyond. If the four horsemen of the poxy clips show up, I'll have to ask them to hang for another hundred years while I settle up my loans."

A brooding silence settled for a while.

"What's wrong with the current plot?" I asked.

"He's not happy with Doris – did I say we have to think of a new name for her – turning up as a tourist and falling in love with the place. She's a major character and he wants a strong role for her."

"Good. We'll make her a docker then. She'd look good humping crates of fish before she starts humping the fishermen."

"Clint..."

There was warning edge to Ali's voice, but he trailed off as the doorbell rang. I was about to get up and answer it, when the door burst open and Shaz flooded in, her face vermilion.

This was not a woman you'd want to argue with. She was not unattractive, but she was large; about five foot ten, with huge shoulders and powerful arms. When she wore tight trousers, and you looked at her legs and thighs, you wondered how any man ever dare get between them. I had done so just once, and mercifully, I was drunk at the time, so I couldn't remember much about it. After me, she moved onto Ali, and they had been practically inseparable ever since. And she was never with him for his money. They had been together during the days when we were teaching and flat broke.

Dressed in a boiler suit open to the waist, with a stained, red T-shirt beneath, her juggernaut jugs poking forward, Shaz was a proper, working class, council estate girl. She had fists like shovels and packed a punch like George Foreman and she did not mince words. She called a spade a fucking shovel and had done with it.

Her look of thunder told us she was in a mean mood. "Are you sitting in here all bleeding night or are you gonna give me a frigging hand?"

Ali shrank under her anger, I simply smiled. "Hello, Shaz. Having a bad day?"

"Hello, Clint." She glowered at her portly partner. "I've spent all afternoon trying to plumb-fuck that new bastard washing machine in, and it won't bleeding have it, so I need this fat little tart to get in there and give me a lift, even if it's only to pass me the right sodding spanners."

I smiled ingratiatingly. "We're just about done here, Shaz, so you can have him. I'll see you tomorrow, Ali, ten o'clock, and don't be late."

He got up and left, scowling back at me, Shaz ripping into him as they went out the door.

With him out of the way, determined to check on some of the things he had told me, I called Emma, and once we had the preliminaries out of the way, I asked, "How much warning did you get of this post-watershed thing?"

"As much as you," she replied. "Well, Ali mentioned something a few months back, but I thought he meant some heavy snogging, and bedroom scenes. He never mentioned full-frontal or simulated sex. He said he didn't know."

"The same tale he told me. Are you prepared to do it?"

There was a long silence. So long I thought the connection had died. But as I was about to cut off and redial, she spoke up.

"Do we have a choice?"

"There's always a choice, Emma. Don't you want to expand your repertoire as opposed to those late-night pervs wondering if they can expand your tunnel to accommodate them?"

"Expanding my tunnel was all you were ever interested in, so what difference does it make if a couple of hundred thousand sad sacks are sat their pulling their pudding while I'm flashing."

Her tone was more accusatory than concerned.

"I'm not looking for an argument, Emma, but if it helps keep us on the subject, I admit, the only thing I was interested in was getting it on. But this is different. I don't want to be branded as the beefcake ready to flash for the viewers. All right, so I'll do the Embargo ads – as long as the fees are right – but I draw the line at adult stuff. Shit, Spangles did porn for years and the only reason she got out of it was because she was bedding Verdonk. There's more to you than that. More to me. There's even more to Julius, but don't tell him I said that."

She giggled. "It's late, Clint, and I'm at The Mill at seven tomorrow morning. Can we talk about it there?"

"Not tomorrow. I have the day off. Ali and I have to bring Spangles into the show."

"Later then. After the dinner date thing on Friday."

"Okay, kiddo, I'll catch you then."

I killed the call with the suspicion that Emma wasn't really up for the post-watershed, and if I played my cards right, I would have the best ally I could wish for.

***

At ten o'clock the following morning, stepping into our office, I still didn't feel like it. The previous day's rejection of my pet project needled and with every passing minute I got angrier about the way they were trying to pigeonhole me as no better than a soap-cum-porn actor.

The office was furnished to the minimum; the desk, with computer and accoutrements, phone, a generous supply of memory sticks, and an ashtray for Ali who, when he was home, preferred to smoke the real thing rather than an electronic substitute. In the far corner, near the door, the printer stood alone on a small filing cabinet where we kept our non-computerised records. The rest of the room was bare but for the carpet. Ali liked to pace when he was creating, and all that space gave him plenty of walking room. Pacing also helped get a little, unnecessary weight off him but that only made him hungry, so he ate a lot to put it back on.

There was no noise in the room. The odd creak of a floorboard when Ali was marching, the background hum of the computers, a faint, heavy and consistent beat of a rap tune from Shaz's radio downstairs, and right now, the woman herself was swearing a lot as she continued her efforts to plumb in the new washing machine, her curses coming almost in time to the rap beat and Ali's tapping of a magazine against his leg. Aside from that, the only noise we could usually hear in the room was Ali's chatter as he dictated storylines. Ali was too easily distracted and when you work to tight deadlines the way we did, distractions were a distraction we didn't need.

Back in the days when we wrote together, there was a strict dichotomy about our work, which would have brought tears of joy to any union shop steward from the 60s and 70s. Ali created, I typed. There were valid reasons for it, and it had nothing to do with demarcation, one-man-one-job demands, or any other kind of pseudo-political employment gobbledygook. It was purely practical. Ali's lightning mind could come up with plots by the thousand, but his word processing skills were crap. Almost as bad as his spelling. As a teacher who had dabbled with imparting English to the kids, my spelling was tickety-boo, my typing was of an adequate speed and standard, but the slower speed of transcribing thoughts to paper meant I could spot potential problems as we went along, and make the necessary adjustments.

When my filming schedule allowed me to work with him, we maintained that same system even though these days we had only to come up with an overview of the plots. To an outsider, it may have appeared that Ali did the lion's share of the work, and I was subjugated to the role of secretary/typist, but it was nothing like that.

I acted as a filter. Ali's mind was a wonder to behold, but so was most of the stuff that came out of it. Witness the time he dreamt up the idea of a plane crash in _Bleaker Cove_. Sounds like a good idea? Perhaps it was until he came up with the notion of Jace Burridge causing the crash while joyriding in granddad Sturgess' helicopter. We'd killed off granddad _(an expedient since the aged actor playing Ned Sturgess had succumbed to a heart attack a few weeks earlier)_ who was the poverty stricken owner of an old fishing boat. Because Jace was barely 20 years old, and had only just passed his driving test, having him flying a helicopter, which no one owned in the first place, to bring down a Boeing 747 which was not only miles off its official route but flying across the coast at less than 2,000 feet, and worse still, having Jace _survive_ the ensuing holocaust to serve twenty years in prison, would have been stretching credibility too far. Apart from anything else, Julius Quigley would have complained to his uncle Clive that we were trying to write him out of The Cove.

These days, Ali was fortunate in that he didn't have to go through the usual routine of editing, polishing and revising time and again. _Bleaker Cove_ had been such a success that Underlinen employed a team of staff writers and script editors to do that. His job, with my ad hoc assistance, was to turn out the plots and develop them sufficiently for the script department to work on.

For those staff writers, producing the scripts was the hardest work of all. Every week the team had to churn out 120 minutes worth of drama. We worked three months in advance, and normally, whatever we came up with would be passed to the scriptwriters and they would develop them. From there, the scenes would not be filmed for another five or six weeks, and would not be broadcast for a further six or seven weeks after that. On a good day, the team could turn out twice the required amount. On a bad one, they would be lucky to produce two scenes and that's when the manure really began to pour from the mincing machine.

The first order of the day was to get the mail out of the way. I received precious little of it direct. Most of it came via Ali, and it was always the same stuff.

As he skimmed through the correspondence, he spoke to me. "Would you like to do the next series of I'm a celebrity, gimme a big fat pay cheque?"

I knew that wasn't the official title of the series, but my answer did not change for all that. "Spending weeks in the jungle up to my crown jewels in bugs and stuff? Not likely."

He opened the next envelope. "The Beeb are running another dancing series—"

"Nope."

"Celebrity X-Factor?"

"How can you have a Celebrity X-Factor? Shove it."

"Celebrity Chef's Hat?"

"My culinary skills are limited to microwaving crap all-day breakfasts and ringing the takeaway. Would I have a chance?"

"Don't think so."

"That's out then."

"How about Celebrity Big Brother?"

"Ali, if it says 'celebrity' in front of it, I won't do it. End of. Okay?"

He threw several more sheets of paper into the shredder. "Let's get to work then."

With the rejection of our current ideas on introducing Spangles, the scripting process was to be short-circuited. We had just a few days to produce the necessary plot, which would be filmed early in September. After the previous day's ear-bashing from Ed, Ali needed to come up with an adjustment to our current storyline, so he could introduce a more solid character.

"He wants her filming in six weeks," Ali reminded me, distracting me from my grumbling thoughts, "and that means we have to move like shit off a shovel to get the scripts out."

"By we, you mean you and the muppets at the mill," I pointed out.

"Those muppets help pay your wages."

I sighed. "How long do we have for the overview?"

"Until next Thursday."

I threw down my pen. "Tell him to get stuffed."

"I can't, Clint, and you know it. If we don't do it the staff writers will, and I'll lose my drip for this week."

"Ali, I don't care about the money. Tell him—"

"Clint," he cut in, "I didn't bring you up to be so casual about money. The job needs to be done and if we have to, we will work every night for the next week on it."

"I can't. I've got that idiot dinner date thing on Friday and I'm filming from Sunday onwards. Let's try and get it done today, huh?" I forced myself onto Ali's wavelength. "Did you negotiate extra money for rethinking the current scripts?"

He looked down his nose at me. "Do fish piss in the sea? When have I ever been behind the door when it comes to cash? I get paid for the plot and I'll get paid for the adjustments. If I don't do it, I don't get paid for neither."

"Either," I corrected him.

"What?"

"I said either."

"Yes, I heard, but it didn't make sense."

I gave a heavy sigh. "You said, you don't get paid for neither, and that is a double negative. It should have been don't get paid for either."

His face twisted into a parody of anger. "Here I am, faced with open wallet surgery and you're correcting my English. Clint, you're not a teacher no more so let's just get it done, huh?"

"And what about me?" I wanted to know.

He blanked me. "What about you?"

"Did you negotiate more money for me?" I asked.

"No. Should I?"

"I just take ten percent of your cash, do I?" I stared him out.

"Well I, er... Anyway, Ed figures we need a major incident to bring Spangles in as a health and safety inspector." He paused and waited for me to challenge him. When I did not, he went on. "I think our best bet is to concentrate on Candy. If Spangles – oh, did I say we need another name for her? – is gonna have an affair with Brett, there's no point having _him_ hospitalised. We have to wall Candy up. I thought maybe a landslide or rock falls."

I shook my head. "We've established in the past that Bleaker Cove has been in existence for hundreds of years. If the cove was subject to landslides, they would never have settled there, so you'd need something to cause one and we just don't get that many strong earthquakes in this country. Think again."

"Flash floods," he speculated.

Again I refused. "Nope."

"Why not? It happened to that place in Cornwall a few years back, didn't it? Doncaster."

"Boscastle."

"Wherever."

"Ali," I pointed out, "over the past three months, Bleaker Cove, like the rest of the country has been fighting a drought. Where will the water come from for a flash flood?"

He plucked his lips. "Reservoir on the cliff top? Been sabotaged?"

I thought about it. "Back burner. In case we come up with nothing else."

While waiting for his brain to leap into orbit, I thumbed through my notebook and came across a single line I had written during Ed's tyrannical meeting.

Anagrams had always been one of my strong suits. I suppose it came from my studies in English language while I was at university. To put them together, I used a spreadsheet. Waiting for Ali to come up with something that made sense, I opened the software and transcribed the words from my notebook to the spreadsheet, one letter to a cell. Then underneath, I began to play with the letters, juggling them around to see what names I could come up with.

The first was Delia Chewsprat, which may have gone down well in Royston Vasey but was hardly suitable for _Bleaker Cove._

I yawned. "I don't know whether it really is time to walk out, Ali."

He threw down the magazine and leaned urgently forward. "Don't be hasty, Clint. _Bleaker Cove_ is our baby and it's a hardly five years old. You can't turn your back on it while it's at such a young age."

"It's about to discover sex," I reminded him, "and your mum and dad didn't stand behind you the first time you got your legover, did they?"

Silence fell and I studied the cover of the magazine he'd been looking at. It was the usual collage of photographs and sensational headlines. _How I took ten years off my face, My husband was a transvestite and I never knew, How I survived a terrorist atrocity, Eat yourself slim in just a few short weeks._

They were the kind of headlines that brought out the satirist in me. I couldn't make much of terrorist attacks, but the others leapt at me. Ali had been trying to eat himself slim for years, and the result was a mini-blimp. Anyone could take ten years off their face with an electric sander. As for the woman who never guessed her husband was a transvestite, didn't she suspect something when she got fresh engine oil on her best Alexander McQueen?

"Let's stick with it, Clint. I have a lot of money tied up in this place." Ali gestured around at the house, and as if to comment on his announcement, Shaz's voice floated up the stairs again.

"What do I have to do to get you in, you little bastard? Talk dirty to you?"

Ali blushed at her invective and tried to cover his embarrassment by pleading with me again. "Please, Clint. Stay on board."

I refused to commit myself. "Let's get back to work. How are we gonna bring Spangles into the story?"

Silence fell once more, and while he meshed the gears in his brain, I went back to my anagrams.

The name Christa leapt off the screen at me, but I couldn't find anything in the remaining letters to make up a surname, and once again, I scrapped it.

"What about an air crash?"

Ali's idea woke me up to reality. "We've had this debate before."

"An airliner whacking into the cliffs was a good idea," he argued. "The investigation would keep her in Bleaker Cove for a while and she could lodge with Brett and Candy."

I shook my head again. "If you had an airliner crash into the cliffs, half the villagers would be wiped out too, and if you had it crashing into the sea, Ed would have a fit at the cost of the underwater filming. Ali, we're overcomplicating it. Let's kiss." He looked alarmed and I grinned. "Keep it simple, stupid."

He grunted and I went back to the search for a name. I quickly dispensed with Tara P Chiselwed and it didn't take much longer to dispose of Craptied E Walsh.

Sat across from me, Ali picked up the magazine again. "Terrorist attack," he said suddenly.

His urgency brought me back to our joint effort. "What?"

He slapped the magazine cover, highlighting the feature I had spotted. "A terrorist attack. We could have terrorists attack the harbour, and Spangles plays an MI5 agent, who's sent out to check on it all, then meets Brett and..." He trailed off under my amused eye. "What?"

I laughed. "Think about all the trouble in the world. Europe still suffering from the economic crash a few years back, migrants pouring in from all over Africa and the Middle East, us and the Yanks poking our noses into Syria and Iraq, fighting extremist factions, the Russians table-thumping and sabre-rattling again, Far East players trying to break away, do you seriously imagine that a small fishing village would be a target for terrorists. I mean what are they after? Cutting off the cod supply, threatening the Great British chippy? Get real, Ali."

A slow, secretive smile spread across his face. "Ah, but suppose, just over the hill, was that reservoir we mentioned, and it fed the big city. They could attack the village just to get to the reservoir and poison the water with that stuff. Rice pudding."

"Ricin."

"That too."

I shrugged. "If they were hell bent on poisoning the water supply, which by the way, probably wouldn't work because of all the filtering the water passes through, they wouldn't bother with the village. They'd go straight for the water works."

"Yes but they could have already done the water works and be on the run before MI5 catch them and—"

"Tell you what," I interrupted, "why not have them blow the reservoir up and flood the cove."

He thought about it for a moment. "Rescuing my flood idea from the back burner, huh? Go on."

"We could claim it was the work of a suicide plumber."

"Oh yes, very funny." He raised a cheek and farted.

"If you're in a windy frame of mind, open the windows."

"Sorry, Clint. Shaz was in a mood last night. You probably noticed. I had to cook dinner, and that frozen Tandoori was a week past its best before date. I think it was a bit off."

Bing!

The idea hit me. "Food poisoning."

"Well I wouldn't go that far, but—"

"No, no, you don't understand." I interrupted. "I mean we could have Candy go down with a dose of food poisoning. Spangles would be the health inspector who calls to find out how it happened."

Ali's chubby face split into a broad grin. "I like it." Sitting at his own machine, he began to type. "I'll rough it out."

"And I'll think of a name for her."

Turning back to the spreadsheet, I noticed I could get the forename Stephie out of the words and it left me with the letters, D-W-L-C-A-R-A. With a little juggling, I finally had the name of our new character.

***

"Stephie Calward?"

Darkness had descended over the moors. Normally in midsummer, we would have been enjoying a long, hot evening, but heavy cloud and much needed rain had swept in from the west bringing an early twilight.

Having had a day off filming, I'd had no rest as Ali and I spent a full day adjusting the storylines from September onwards to introduce Spangles' new character. After much arguing and deliberation, we eventually settled on a plot and by the time we had roughed it out, we needed to bring Ed in on the act, but rather than make our way down to Newton Heath, we instead invited him to join us at the Moor's Edge, our favourite, local watering hole, where we outlined the plot idea to him.

He was initially unenthusiastic, and more concerned with a name for the character. When I told him, he was puzzled.

"Stephie Calward?" he repeated. "It's very unusual."

"Names need to be unusual," I persuaded him as Ali returned with pints of lager for me and him and a brandy for Ed. "You rejected Doris Hepplethwaite as too plain, and if we'd called her Irene Stubley, no one would remember her never mind care about her."

"True, true. Stephie I can see. I mean, Stefi Graf was called Stefi, wasn't she?"

I sipped the head off my pint. "Yes, but this is spelled different."

"It's the Calward that troubles me, because it sounds like coward. You see what I mean, Clint?"

"Well, Ed, the alternatives are Tara P Chiselwed and Delia Chewsprat. Which one of those would you prefer?"

He blanched. "Those were the only ones you could come up with?"

Ali took up the challenge. "Clint just said we need an unusual name. Normally we could have played with it for weeks, but you wanted this in forty-eight hours."

Ed took a swig of brandy. "Stephie Calward it is then. Now what's this about location shooting in Manchester to introduce her? Just run it by me again."

Ali took up the narrative. "You want sex, you want them in the altogether, so here's the way we see it. Brett and Candy have been through the mill just lately, and neither of 'em are getting enough rumpy-pumpy, so Brett decides to take her for a dirty weekend—"

"In Manchester?"

Ali looked annoyed at the interruption. "They live at the bleeding seaside. Where do seaside folk go when they want forty-eight hours of unexpurgated shagging? Manchester. Stands to reason, dunnit?" He did not wait for Ed to agree, but slurped half his lager, put the glass down and, gasping for breath, went on, "So there's Brett and Candy out for a night on the town, and she starts to puke. Then she gets the trots and before you know it, poor old Brett is playing with the five-fingered widow. They get home, Candy is diagnosed as having food poisoning and Stephie turns up as a health inspector wanting to know where they ate for Candy to get the thruppenny bits. Brett's still feeling his oats, he can't go nowhere near Candy because she stinks, so it's natural for him to pull Stephie, innit?"

Ed stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Are you sure a health inspector would be called in?"

I nodded sombrely. "When my mum got food poisoning, they were there within ten days."

"Ten days?" Ed's eyebrows rose. "Quite some time after, then?"

"Well, Mum got food poisoning in Lloret de Mar and it was eight days before we got home for her to see our doctor." Determined to distract him from nit-picking, I went on, "Yes we need to go on location, Ed, but we do that anyway, don't we? It's just that we're only going to Manchester instead of North Yorkshire this time."

"Hmm. I see your point. It's a strong storyline, but is it enough to bring Stephie in as a permanent addition to the cast?"

If he thought that kind of objection was enough to beat me, he was perfectly correct, but it was no problem to Ali.

"We could always have her fall in love with Bleaker Cove while she was there. Or alternatively, let's make her a doctor who works for the health inspectorate. But that would cost you more for research and consultancy fees."

The threat of having to spend more money did not sway Ed. "The staffers will do the research online. We'll go with it. Doctor Stephie Calward she is." He downed the rest of his brandy and stood up. "Let me have the outline by the end of the week, and I'll get the guys and gals on it." He gave me the benefit of a benign smile. "Good to see you back on board, Clint, enthusiastic as ever."

"No problem, Ed."

"I still can't work out where that name came from. Stephie Calward."

I smiled modestly. "It just came to me in a flash of inspiration."

He bid us goodnight and made his way through the tables to leave.

Ali watched and waved as Ed disappeared out the door, then turned suspicious eyes on me. "Where did the name come from?"

"It's an anagram."

"Of what?"

I drank more ale, reached into my pocket and pulled out the notebook. Opening it to the correct page, I laid it on the table and turned it to face him so he could read the five words on it. _Ed Welch is a prat._

# Chapter Six

Stephie and Brett are in bed, embroiled in a passionate kiss. Stephie suddenly breaks away. Her features are pained. "What about Candy?"

" _If Candy was fair to me, gave me what I need, maybe I wouldn't have looked twice at you."_

Stephie rolls from the bed, her back to camera, and puts on a wrap. "It's not her fault, Brett. It's the botulism. She may have recovered, but some of the symptoms can hang around for months."

Brett lies back on the bed, hands clasped behind his head. "Like being turned off?"

" _It's called depressed libido._

Brett reaches for her. "Mine ain't depressed. In fact, it's just the opposite."

Stephie avoids his long arms. She laughs. "Enough is enough, Brett, and with you, once a day is enough."

***

Helen let the cameras roll for a further five seconds, then called a cut. She checked her stopwatch and consulted with the production secretary, comparing timings.

"Okay, everybody, I think that's a wrap." Helen unclipped her radio from her belt and spoke into it. "Get Emma and Julius to stage four, please, I'll be there in a few minutes." She checked her clipboard. "Clint, you and Spangles are due on stage three with Emma in two hours. You'd better get to wardrobe, and don't be late." She cast a mean glance at two of the competition winners, sat off to one side, watching the production. "You have a busy enough night ahead of you as it is, and I want that scene finished today."

Spangles was not supposed to begin filming for several weeks, but once Ed gave the go-ahead for the new idea, the writers worked like hell and managed to produce a couple of day's filming for her in less than twenty-four hours.

"Mr Verdonk was asking about her progress," Ed explained.

"And like a good little poodle, you thought you'd put together an update."

He ignored my cynicism, but the changes to our filming schedule were winding up everyone, including Helen, who was snappier than usual.

As our director disappeared, I gave her a mock salute, and took my joggers and T-shirt from one of the technicians.

Alongside me, Spangles hooked a bra up beneath her wrap. I had never worked out how women learned the skill of putting underwear on while they were still wearing outer clothing, albeit only a bath wrap. It was something every woman I'd ever met, including my sister, could do. No way could I get a vest or a pair of trolleys on while I was already dressed, even if I was wearing a kilt.

Satisfied that the bra was both holding up and pinching her bubs satisfactorily, she stepped into a skirt and half faced me, her eyes on the bulge in my boxers. "What was it you said when we first met? You wouldn't get a hard on?"

"I was thinking of the Sugababes," I told her as I pulled up my joggers.

"Bit dated aren't they?"

"They were cool when I was about twenty, and I Just wondering whether they could cope with me."

"What? All of them?"

Hauling a Man U T-shirt over my head, I nodded. "I never do things by half."

Spangles laughed, threw off the wrap and put on a blouse, giving me several seconds to admire her chest. If mine were swollen like that, it would be pneumonia.

"That's what I like about you, Clint. Your modesty."

While she stepped into a pair of sensible flats, I pulled on my Reeboks, velcroed them up, and we both turned to face our dates for the day.

For once, I reckoned I got the better deal. Spangles' date, Richard Hawkins was almost as tall as me, but he was a lanky geek, sporting thick-framed glasses, a smart, white shirt and red tie bearing a badge that I didn't immediately recognise. Close up, I saw it read NTFC, Northampton Town. I was all for anyone who supported the beautiful game, but wearing a tie? Come on. Perhaps I had him wrong. Perhaps he _played_ for Northampton Town. I doubted it somehow. Despite his height, if we stood him sideways to a traffic light pole, we wouldn't be able to see him. I'd never seen anyone so slender, and I was tempted to suggest that he had a promising career as an actor ahead of him, if ever they decided to make more movies about the Holocaust.

Emma's date, a Geordie named Lee Connors, and Julius's Scottish partner for the day, a wee lassie named Allison Miller, were not much of an improvement. Connors, was a cocksure little snot who had appeared hell bent on hitting on Emma, and did most of the talking when he was with her. Julius's date was a little blimp of a young woman and when they were introduced, I distinctly saw Julius's jaw slacked in disappointment. He'd been hoping for some serious totty, but as usual, he lost out to me.

Coming off set, I beamed a smile at my date. With a name like Tanya Yaeger I was expecting a woman in her mid-forties, but in fact, she was twenty-eight and came in a lot better packaging than Julius's date. Hailing from Blackpool, she was neat, sweet and petite, and if her bubs were a little on the small side, that did not prevent her showing off what cleavage she had. The personality was all there, too, complete with a dirty laugh when I exercised some of my naughty jokes and saucy remarks on her. Perhaps the evening would not turn out so bad after all.

The moment the thought crossed my mind, I knew it would not happen. As a celeb, I regularly struck lucky with the chicks, but on an organised date like this it would be professional and possibly commercial suicide. It would not get any friskier than dirty jokes, one or two risqué stories and a goodnight kiss while the officially appointed photographer was watching. I would escort her to her room and that would be it. I would go my way, she would go hers and sleep and dream of what might have been, and never would we meet again, but she would tune in religiously for as long as I appeared in The Cove.

All of which was a damn shame because I really fancied her.

This was not the first time we'd run these dinner dates, and they were always problematic.

I remember when Ed cornered Emma, Julius and me to tell us about it, and predictably, I complained.

"With Spangles coming on board, head office is really pushing the series," our producer had stressed, "and this is a simple enough proposition. The entrants have to answer a trivia question by phone. There'll be two winners in the female category. You and Emma will make the draw, Clint, and their prize will be a day on set and dinner with you two, Julius and Spangles."

Julius's eyes lit up, mine dimmed and so did Emma's. "No way," I told him.

"Clint, there's no argument on this—"

"Yes there is," I interrupted. "I'm arguing, and I won't do it."

He placed his hands on his hips. "Do I have to bring Ali out here to persuade you?"

I offered him my phone. "You can fly Mohammed Ali in from the States for all I care. It won't make any difference. I refuse to get involved in this kind of publicity crap. They did it before, didn't they?" I indicated Emma and Julius. "Remember what happened? Emma's guy tried to rip her dress off, and he actually screwed his date."

Emma nodded sagely, and Julius thrust out his chest like a pigeon ready to begin strutting.

"I did not," he protested. "She claimed I did, but I denied it."

"Then how come Underlinen bought her off?" I looked down my nose at him. "Mind, with you, she was probably better off imagining it."

He glowered. "I don't have to take this kind of shit off you, Devries."

"No? Who do you normally take it from?"

While insulting Julius came naturally to me, this time it almost brought us to blows, before Ed stepped in.

"Guys, guys. Come on. Back off, cool it, chill out, take a stress pill."

I beamed hero-worship. "You never cease to amaze me, Ed."

"What? My natural authority?"

"No. In the space of a dozen words you churned out four clichés..."

I'd been overruled, and like it or not, I was now going through with it.

Aside from the general tastiness of Tanya, the day was as tedious as any other, and the last few had done nothing to ease my dissatisfaction. Stella Dennison, our union rep, had met with management to argue over proposed nudity in the show starting in the New Year, and she had come away with a flea in her ear. Stella played a minor, but consistent part in the show as Bleaker Cove's Postmistress, and had been with us since day one. It seems that when she got into negotiations with Verdonk and his mob, she was told of a new storyline to have the post office wrecked in a gas explosion and the postmistress killed in the ensuing holocaust.

I told her it was a frightener and nothing more. Ali assured me that he had not been approached on the storyline, but we quickly learned that one of the researchers had been ordered to look into legal procedures in the aftermath of a gas explosion, and what steps the Royal Mail would take if a postmistress was killed.

It demonstrated just how low Orlando Verdonk and his dirty tricks department were prepared to sink. Needless to say, Stella and the union were in the process of backing down, and as things stood, come the New Year, _Bleaker Cove_ would be the first bona fide soap in the world to go sexually graphic.

Spangles had already agreed to go full-frontal. She'd shown everything so many times in the past that it was no problem to her. Julius, too, had agreed. What would you expect of a wimp like him? I had not yet been formally approached, and neither had Emma, but my position was clear. I wouldn't do it.

When we signed for our pay rise and Ali agreed to the clawback clause, the Underlinen crew had not written out that part of our contract which gave artistes extensive control over how much flesh they would show and both Emma and I were ready to exercise the clause. I did hear that a top line member of the contracts department had been fired, and in the meantime I kept a wary eye over my shoulder for hit men like Clive Lorimer, Verdonk's personal minder.

My respect for Emma had gone up. I still thought she was naïve, despite the greater depth I knew she possessed, but she was also a fighter on the quiet. True, she had not put the gloves on yet, but she had assured me in private that when the time came, she would fight. Not for the first time, I asked myself why I had let her go when I had the chance to keep her.

Coming away from the set, Spangles and I took our dates up to the top floor and the wardrobe department where Spangles was kitted out in a topcoat and boots, while I was issued with my donkey jacket, overalls and wellies. The next scene would be in the pub where we would enter to find Jace and Candy in a cosy little tête-à-tête in one corner and the S-H-I-T would hit the F-A-N, big time.

I suppose one of the advantages of living next door to the creative consultant, and even helping him on the outlines, was that I knew what was in the scripts well in advance of everyone else. I knew, for example, that come the New Year, when we nosedived into soft porn, Candy and Brett would split up after she learns of his affair with Stephie, and naturally Jace would be there to provide comfort and the odd length of todger Candy needed to keep her happy. This was bound to cause friction between Brett and Jace, and they would come to blows out on the sea, where Brett would almost kill Jace. We were due to film those scenes at the end of September or early in October.

For now, however, there was the rest of the day and evening to get through. By five, we had another couple of the hurriedly prepared scenes in the can. Having had a day touring The Mill and the sets, and having had their photographs taken in the bar of the Fisherman's Rest with landlord Sid Carrier, played by Peter Willis, the four winners were shipped off to the Maitland Hotel so they could get ready for the evening, and I went home to change into my dinner suit.

I wasn't keen on getting dolled up. In fact, I wasn't keen on going to posh restaurants. Too big a danger of being spotted. I preferred a small, cosy place about a mile from home, called the Smugglers Inn. Where it got its name, I'll never know. We were 60 miles from the coast, which was where smugglers traditionally carried out their nefarious activities, and in the days of yore, you'd have been more likely to catch sheep rustlers round our way. Still, the ambience was good, the lighting usually kept low and the proprietor knew me well enough to reserve me a discreet corner booth when I booked. That kind of attention to detail permitted me to enjoy a meal in peace, or afforded me the privacy to chat up a bit of totty without being disturbed.

Tonight, I knew, would be totally different. Tonight would be a chuffing nightmare, and I wouldn't even get my legover after it.

The company limousine arrived for me at 7:30. I had stipulated as part of the deal that it must pick me up and bring me home again. I also suggested that if I were forced to go through this charade, I would need some fortification, like a few glasses of Chateau Rothschild '52. At eighteen hundred sovs a bottle, the company told me to either get stuffed or pay for it msyelf, so I said I would settle for house red, and when I demanded the lift to and from Manchester, they capitulated.

Watching the bright lights of Oldham turn to the brighter lights of the city, I ruminated on the way things had gone these last few months. I was a celeb, so Ed kept reminding me, and just lately I'd been acting more and more like one. Maybe it would not be long before I really did start punching paparazzi or chucking beer down the front of some bigwig's party dress at the mayor's annual thrash. Maybe I'd turn to coke, get myself boozed up day in, day out, slap my girlfriends about, cause a ruckus at the airport when they demanded I open my luggage.

It wasn't me. I liked my wealthy lifestyle, but I had not yet become so selfish as to believe in my own publicity, and yet as I searched the events of the last week, I could find no single cause for it. The rejection of _Sermon_ was the catalyst, causing a fire that had been stoked by the way Ali cut me out of the negotiations and signed me up to a life of virtual subservience. The Embargo ads added insult to injury, the proposed dumbing down of The Cove, taking it to the level of a skin-flick, merely fuelled my anger even further.

Unlike some celebs, I was sensible with money. I had enough salted away and invested to take care of me, and if I finished on The Cove, I would probably never need to work again. And I still owned half the rights to the show. It wasn't worth much, but I could use it as a pension, give them formal notice, maybe let them kill off Brett Sturgess, then move on to the other things I wanted to do. If I did it all above board, Verdonk and his cohorts could have no complaints.

So why didn't I?

As the driver turned down Portland Street, past the Portland Hotel and pulled up in front of the Maitland's entrance, I asked myself the question again and I was disturbed to learn that I didn't know the answer.

A commissionaire, looking every inch the ex NCO in his black uniform and white gloves, opened the door for me, stood back and saluted. Giving the driver instructions to be back at eleven to pick me up, I stepped out, nipped smartly across the pavement, and hurried up the steps, out of the cool, summer evening and into the warmth and grandeur of an earlier age.

Built in the early years of the 20th century, constructed of dressed stone, while the exterior may not look much different from the old cotton mills, the interior was the last word in opulence. A huge chandelier, like the one the Trotters dropped in an early episode of _Only Fools & Horses_, dominated an intricate an ornate, alabaster ceiling. A broad, carpeted staircase curved its way up to the upper floors, and the oak reception counter gleamed with a polish to match the commissionaire's boots.

I passed straight through reception, barely nodding to a porter who stood to attention. At the double doors to the brasserie, I announced myself, and the _mâitre d'hotel_ led me straight to a small, private dining area, especially reserved for the Underlinen party.

My companions and the four winners were already there, along with Matthew Irving, the officially appointed photographer.

"Opening piccies please, luvs," Irving said, ushering us all to four chairs he had already arranged on one side. The women, Emma, Spangles, and the two competition winners, sat down, the men, Julius, me and the other two competition winners stood behind them, each man behind his date.

The snapper took several pictures and as usual, I felt like a pillock, a cheerful grin plastered all over my face when the last thing I felt was cheerful. Just to add a little extra flair, Irving had the wine waiter crack a bottle of bubbly and pour everyone a glass, whereupon we posed for another half dozen shots.

I'd met this guy before, and had him figured as gay. Not that his sexual orientation troubled me. As long as he didn't come onto me, he could turn whichever way he wanted. As he took the pictures, I revised my opinion. Especially when he knelt on one knee and appeared to be concentrating on Spangles' legs. Her evening gown was split all the way up to her hips (deliberately, I hoped) and he was making hay while the sun shone. Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps he really was gay but suffered from a wallet fixation... like Ali. Shots of Spangles' legs would be worth a fortune in many a downmarket tabloid or internet rag.

Of the two geeks who had won their place this evening, Hawkins, the Northampton Town supporter, had changed into a dinner suit which hung on his lanky frame like a reant form the Oxfam shop, but the other lad, Emma's date, was still wearing his Newcastle United shirt under the jacket of a shabby suit. Trust one of their supporters to lower the tone.

The two professional women (I use the word in its thespian sense) had dressed formally; Spangles in her half torn evening gown, Emma in a low cut, full-length gown of pink, which aside from keeping her magnificent legs out of harm's way, nevertheless managed to flash her cleavage for the cameraman. The two female winners had also gone to some trouble. Julius's Scottish barrage balloon had put on a dark business jacket and skirt, with a loose fitting, deep blue blouse that made her look slimmer. I figured in her case, anything that could help was a bonus.

Tanya had changed from the jeans and fleece she had worn at the mill. She was now dressed in a body hugging lemon top that showed her tits to be almost as big as Emma's, and a mini skirt which, when she sat down, was decent by millimetres. Dark, fishnet tights and high heels completed the ensemble of a woman who was only short of a credit card reader to charge voyeurs and other perv's a tenner a time for piping her knickers.

The meal went smoothly enough. I picked at a green vegetable salad, and barely touched my top roast in a red wine sauce. Although I managed to keep up a cheerful banter along with the rest of the table, I longed for steak and chips at my favourite, Oldham town centre café, and I yearned for my season ticket seat in the Stretford End where I could talk about United and the forthcoming Premiership season.

For the four competition winners, I suppose the evening was a resounding success, but I wasn't the only one bored out of my tree. Around 10:15 I noticed Spangles, whose ears were pinned back by her lanky date, sneak a quick glance at her watch. I didn't know what he was telling her, but it sounded as interesting as a geological expedition to Cleckheaton. Emma too, I noticed, stifled a yawn when listening to her Geordie date prattling on about 'ganning doon toon for a few beers, man'.

Only Julius seemed to be truly enjoying himself. Either that or he, too, was a better actor than I'd ever credited. Throughout the evening, he was laughing and joking with his wee lassie, as they swapped tales.

When the entire table became involved in conversation, the humour flowed naturally. I demonstrated my ability to mimic Lee Connors' accent and even he congratulated me. "Divvent know that I wouldn't know you wasn't a Geordie," he applauded, leaving me trying to wade through a morass of negatives to sort out his meaning.

It prompted Spangles to tell us a tale of when she was filming in her hometown of Gateshead, and had used the famed running track for less seemly purposes than the 1000 metres, when she did a bit of horizontal exercise with two men dressed as graduates, complete with cap and gown. That reminded me of one or two tales out of school. Literally. I gave them anecdotes from my time as a teacher. Even Julius got in on the act, with tales from his drama school days (clean ones as it happened) and Emma told us of the time when a university tutor had tried to blackmail her into bed on the strength of her exam results.

Throughout the evening, the photographer was there in the background, whipping one way round the table, then the other, his camera flashing away to the point of irritation. The only time he was not in evidence was while we were actually eating. He sulked when I ordered him out, but as I explained, "for all you know, these people may have the table manners of pigs, and they won't thank you for plastering it all over the pages of _Celebrity Snaps_."

At 10:45, with hotel staff hanging around in the background, waiting to clear up and clear off, we called it a night. It was incumbent upon each of us to escort our dates back to their rooms. We packed into the lift, Julius hit the button for the second floor, but to my surprise, Tanya took us to the third.

We bid the others goodnight, Tanya pressed the button again, and a minute later, we stepped out of the lift. She led the way along the richly carpeted corridor, and we paused outside her door.

"Well, Tanya," I said, "This is where we part company. I hope you've had a great day and smashing evening."

"I have," she agreed.

"So have I," I lied.

I bent forward to peck her on the cheek, but she took me by surprise. She threw her arms around my neck and crushed my lips to hers, and her hands began to wander south.

Gently I prised her away.

"Come in, Brett. Come into the room, and I'll fuck you like that bitch, Candy, never could."

I felt instantly sorry for her. She was another sad, silly cow, too pissed or too dumb to distinguish my on-screen persona from the real me.

"My name," I told her softly, "is Clint Devries, not Brett Sturgess, and Candy is an actress, not my real wife."

Tanya came at me again, determined to have her way, but I held her off, gripping her lightly by the shoulders.

"Tanya," I whispered, "you're a very sweet young woman, but this is neither the time, nor the place. If I'd met you in a bar, maybe, but not on one of these organised beer-ups." I released her and backed off. She was pouting and sulking as I called the lift. When the doors opened, I stepped in and pressed the button for the ground floor. She was still looking at me. As the doors closed, I tipped a non-existent hat, and in my best Humphrey Bogart voice, said, "Here's looking at you, kid."

Emerging into the foyer, I found Emma sat off to one side, staring at the carpet. It took a moment for me to realise she was crying.

"Emma?" I was suddenly filled with concern, my mind flooded with images of that long streak of piss trying it on. "What's up, chick?"

She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. "Nothing. I'm all right."

I sat beside her and took her hand. "You look it, too. What happened? Was it that Geordie kid? Did he try his luck, because if he did, just say so and—"

"It wasn't him," she cut me off. "He's just a piss artist. Talked all night about the bloody toon and how he's got loads to tell his mates tomorrow. He's a wanker."

"He must take time off his wanking to watch The Cove." I calmed down a little. "So what's wrong?"

She waved angrily at the stairs. "That bastard. Julius. He's shagging her."

I looked around the foyer. Julius wasn't the only one missing. "Shagging who? Spangles?"

She gave a derisive, humourless little laugh. "Spangles would take him in, chew him up and leave the leftovers for the dog. Anyway, she left a couple of minutes ago. The fat little Jock woman. He's up there now, fucking her."

She began to weep again. I put my arm around her shoulder and hugged her.

"Come on, kid. We all know what a dildo Julius is. I've been saying it for years."

"We're supposed to be together, Clint," she cried. "How can he do this to me?" Now she gestured at the exit. "Our car is out there waiting. We were supposed to be going home together. The bastard."

I shrugged. "Well, why don't you take the car and leave him here? Drop him in it, make him take a taxi home."

"Because if I go home, I'll kill the little turd when he turns up."

I comforted her as best I could, but I had one eye on the clock. My car was due any minute now. "Tell you what, why don't you come home with me, crash at my drum for the night?"

She snapped her head up, her baby blues eyes had narrowed and she glared at me.

"No strings," I promised. "Unlike your boyfriend, I'm not after getting my porky home. I'll sleep on the settee, you can take the bed. I'm only thinking of you, Emma. You need to be with someone you can trust."

"And you think I'd trust you?"

It would have been so easy for me to rise to the challenge and bite her head off, but I didn't. Instead, very softly, I said, "Yes. You can trust me. I may be a lot of things, not all of them nice, but I don't take advantage of vulnerable women."

To my pleasant surprise, it worked. She softened, then she began to cry again. "How could he do it to me, Clint?"

"I told you, he's a knob. He knows no better. Now come on. Let's get you home and get you a good night's kip."

# Chapter Seven

"Somewhere between the derisory sum you are offering and the reasonable amount we're asking for, there is a figure upon which we can all agree. All we have to do, gentlemen and... er... lady, is find that figure."

I marvelled at Ali's ability to deal with the people ranged opposite. Called to a suite on the top floor of the Maitland, Emma, Ali and I were confronted by four suits, three of them male, accompanying Ms Thelma Brassington, a hatchet faced harridan of about 50, who was Underlinen's lead negotiator, and who had consistently refused to buckle under Ali's persuasive confabulation.

Her austere, tweedy looking, super-expensive Valentino business suit cut little ice with my portly pal. Ali had left his Gucci gear at home and wore a cheap suit from Primark, a purple shirt with a Man City tie, and completed his general scruffiness with a pair of fake Kickers which he'd bought for a tenner on Oldham market.

"You should be properly dressed, Ali," I had told him as we climbed into my car for the 12 mile journey into the city.

"Wrong. They'll power dress, I'll show up in my scruffs and they'll think I'm easy. I've told Emma to show plenty of leg and cleavage. That'll keep the men occupied, and your biceps should throw Brassneck so far offside she won't know her arse from her elbow by the time I get to work on her."

Ali had insisted that I put on a short-sleeved shirt with a tie, and leave my jacket off, to highlight my physique. He had slightly miscalculated, however. Judging from their straying glances, Emma's bubs, thighs and fluttering eyelashes had the necessary effect on the men, but my tanned, well-defined biceps failed to detract Ms iron drawers. Personally, I figured if I flashed my ram at her it wouldn't make any difference. She was not motivated by sexual attraction.

Not that it fazed Ali. As soon as he realised that, like him, she was turned on by money, he switched tack and came at her from a confusion of higher education and working class basics.

"You ask for my clients' loyalty. You ask them to give their all for the good of the company, the good of the show, the good of the viewers, and you have every right to ask that. But we are entitled to present a bill for such loyalty. You must let us dip our bread in the gravy."

The combination of an almost parliamentary opening assault, swinging wildly to Bernard Manning metaphor had the Underlinen negotiators reeling.

Outside, July sunshine shone on Piccadilly Gardens tempting the office workers to step out for lunch, yet the noise and fumes of traffic were subdued almost to nothing in that fine room with its double glazed windows and acoustically tiled walls. Beyond the highly polished table and comfortable furniture, prints of Monet, Gaugin and Renoir broke up the bland green of the walls.

Sat off to one side, under a framed print of Claude Monet's _Le Bassin Aux Nympheas_ , was Clive Lorimer, toying absently with his smartphone. Tall, lean, athletic and muscular, he reminded me of me and the way I would look ten or twenty years from now. However, the symmetry of his angular features were broken by the phone's earpiece. His eyes had been on me most of the meeting, and as he watched me, it seemed to me that a slight smile played about his lips; a sardonic and superior smile. As if he was assessing the possibility of taking me on and cocksure of winning.

Over a month had passed since the dinner dates, and Emma had practically been living with me. The day after the incident at the Maitland, she had called back at the Salford flat she shared with Julius, packed her things and gone home to her mum's in Bury. She called there regularly when she needed a change of clothing, but most nights she spent with me at my Oldham flat.

If Emma leaving him had done nothing to cheer Julius up, her latching onto me only made matters worse, and the last month had seen the thin veneer of mutual, professional respect all but disappear. When we filmed together, the second Helen called a cut, we left the set in different directions and we exchanged few words other than those that were written in the script.

The media lapped it up. _Candy dumps Jace, jumps Brett_ , read the headline in one tabloid when the news broke two days after the Maitland thrash. Both _Celebrity Snaps_ and _Soap Chatter_ had whipped up the story, running feature articles on the show and how the proposed on-screen love quadrangle between Brett, Candy, Jace and Stephie was suddenly mirrored by a real life triangle between us three.

Spangles proved a useful source of information. Her proximity to Verdonk meant she had the inside track on events at head office and the big boss was chuffed to bits with all the publicity.

"He says it's the best thing that could have happened for The Cove and Underlinen," she told me a week or two down the line. "Viewing figures have rocketed, and he's got mobile phone, insurance, loan companies, and the like, queuing up for advertising slots, so much so that he's been able to load the rates."

Other TV channels were not slow to catch on either. One company had gone to the extraordinary length of bringing a relationship counsellor onto their breakfast programme to talk about the real and imaginary problems we were supposedly facing. For a short time, we had even ousted the problems in the Middle East from the top slot of the news. Not to be outdone, most of the satellite news channels reserved a spot every morning to follow developments. The furore reached a new peak of frenzied speculation when Emma and I were spotted coming out of a jeweller's shop in Central Manchester. The media went apeshit. _Brett and Candy to marry in real life._ In truth, I'd gone with her to help choose a present for her parents' 30th wedding anniversary.

If there was bad blood between Julius and me, it was nothing compared to that between Emma and Julius. She treated him with complete disdain. She told me that the day after the Maitland incident, he had tried to apologise.

"I was drunk," he pleaded.

"Shove it," retorted Emma. "Right where you shoved your dick last night."

Allison Miller had not been slow to capitalise on the incident, either. _Jace gave me the ride of my life_ , blared the lurid headline in one downmarket rag, and a few days later, she sold the story for an alleged five-figure sum to the _Sunday Chronicle_ , Underlinen's biggest competitor in the tabloid market. A week and two days after the dinner date, I read the first instalment and she made no bones about what had happened. "He took me back to my room, we kissed and he sh**ged the a**e off me." Why they bothered blanking out the words was a mystery to me.

Reading her account of the actual meal, there was some embellishment. Whatever Julius did or didn't do in the bedroom, he certainly wasn't groping her under the table.

It all amounted to a tough time for my male co-star, but paradoxically, it did not do his reputation any harm. For almost six years, he had played second fiddle to me, but now he was hogging the limelight. Rumours that he was boring, unadventurous, even gay, were quashed. He was a man's man and had demonstrated that when it came to the chicks, he could score at least as high as Clint Devries.

I was quite happy with that. Julius looked uncomfortable in the spotlight, but according to Ali, who often had the inside track on these things, the offers had poured in for him. For me, it was a welcome and refreshing change. After a month of discontent, I was suddenly quite happy working on _Bleaker Cove_ and more than happy to have Emma staying with me four or five nights a week.

The girl herself was brighter too. Once she got over Julius's initial betrayal she soon returned to her old, vivacious and bimbo-ish self.

There were other, unexpected side effects. Ever since our original, verbal rejection of nudity, Underlinen had been applying subtle pressure on Ed and Ali to persuade Emma and me to change our minds. Now they had stopped. Now they were concentrating on Julius, who had already agreed to the nudity. Caught out sinking his rod where he should not have been, gave the company the perfect hook upon which they could hang the forthcoming adult episodes. There was even talk of minimising the roles Emma and I would play in those episodes, and concentrating more on Julius and Spangles.

"You are asking this beautiful young woman to compromise her virginity with the suggestion that she would make use of these products."

Ali's words brought me back to the reality of the negotiating room, and it was apparent that the negotiators were as dumbfounded as me. Emma had seen neither hide nor hair of her virginity since university.

"You must make recompense for that," Ali insisted. "You must allow her to smother the pork pie with brown sauce."

Once again the swing from Puzo's _Godfather_ to _Last of the Summer Wine_ had the negotiating eyes widening.

Lorimer suddenly put his hand to his ear, as if cutting out our crosstalk so he could listen to something on the phone. He spoke softly into the headset's inbuilt mike. As Orlando Verdonk's personal bodyguard, there was only one person to whom he would be speaking. The big cheese. But where was he?

Behind the negotiating team were sliding double doors leading to the suite's other rooms. I knew then that Verdonk was behind them. But how did he know what was going on?

I had to ask myself that when I worked in TV? Pinhole cameras were available for as little as £50 on the Internet and as the leader of one of the biggest media organisations in the world, Verdonk could probably get them cheaper in bulk.

I looked around for possible sites. There were too many. The vase of flowers by the window, the delicate cornice work of the plaster ceiling moulds, light switches, decorative china figures. It could even be amongst the sombre colours of Manet's bridge across _The Water lily Pond_.

Then I noticed that Lorimer was looking at me again, but this time he was still whispering into his lapel mike. He detached himself from his seat, came round the table and crouched at my side so that my nostrils were filled with the overpowering scent of cheap aftershave.

"Come with me," he whispered.

I leaned over and keep my voice just as quiet. "Mother told me never to go anywhere with strange men."

A dozen different emotions flashed across his clean-shaven features in a split second. From virulent anger, to puzzlement, to a gleam of triumph, he was having trouble deciding how to react to my riposte. He finally settled for the superior amusement I'd been seeing all morning.

"Come with me." There was no change in his tone, no more urgency, no greater insistence, just the same whispered monotone.

He straightened up and walked back towards his seat, but instead of sitting down, turned and opened the double doors an inch or two.

Intrigued, I elected to follow. I stood and smiled an apology at the table. "Would you excuse me for a few minutes?"

I let Lorimer usher me through the double doors, which he slid shut behind us, and found myself in a room slightly smaller than the one I had just left, where, at another highly polished, oval table sat Orlando Verdonk. This was almost exciting. Coming from such a humble background, I never expected to meet the likes of power brokers such as him.

He was the classic example of a self-made man. Born in West London to a working class family, leaving school at fifteen, he became an apprentice bricklayer, and then sometime in the early seventies went into business for himself. He bought a house, did it up, sold it at a handsome profit, then bought another two houses, did them up, sold them at a handsome profit, then a pub, then a hotel, and somewhere along the line, as the seventies distanced themselves from the swinging sixties to become the decade that fashion forgot, he acquired a major share in a Soho strip joint. By the time Thatcher had replaced Callaghan for her version of misruling the country, Verdonk owned half a dozen clubs and a clutch of glossy, girlie mag's, the flagship title being _Bare Babes._ With the explosion of satellite, and later, cable TV, he borrowed several millions and set up his own channel, mainly flashing more flesh, both male and female, and hooked into premium rate telephone lines. That was the birth of the Underlinen Media Group.

Since then, the company had become more 'respectable', fronting everything with that wonderful tabloid full of biased editorials and half-truths, _The_ _Daily Gazette._ Late at night, however, the Underlinen Kids Channel still switched to soft porn, still hooked into those premium rate lines, showing chicks who stripped off more and more clobber depending on how long the sad sacks paying for the call stayed on the phone. By the time they got down to the knicker-line and peeled them off to flash the minge, the berk on the other end had spent a small fortune. To my mind, he'd be better off with a copy of _Bare Babes_ to accompany his right fist.

With an OBE for his services to entertainment, Verdonk was reputedly a despot of the worst kind, ruling the roost with an iron fist, and prone, so legend had it, to temper tantrums if he didn't get his way. He'd been married five times and had more totty than me _(this took some doing, but I preferred to think that it was because he was 30-something years older than me.)_ One of his ex-wives insisted that he was an even bigger shit in private than he was in public, but for once, when dealing with her, his threats to sue didn't work. 'I'd have to pay the damages out of my alimony, so he'd end up paying them himself,' explained the ex-Mrs Verdonk the third.

His neo-fascist enthusiasm placed him somewhere to the right of Hitler, and had led to inevitable death threats from terrorists and criminals as diverse as Middle East and Chinese separatists, South American drug barons, the Russian Mafia, and reputedly, one or two European businessmen he'd crossed along the way. For his personal safety, he spent most of his time in his penthouse apartment on the top floor of Underlinen's London HQ, and when he did go out, he rode round in bulletproof cars, and had his personal bodyguard, the former Para and Julius Quigley's uncle, Lorimer, at his side day and night.

He was in videoconference using five laptops when I entered, haranguing various bits of his empire, all apparently making their excuses for yesterday's crap performance when they only made forty-odd million.

"I don't pay you to sit on your arses with your thumbs up your arses."

His words signalled his barely-literate background, and conjured an image in my mind of a man crushing a contorted wrist with thumb jammed up his butt.

He cast a mean glance at me as Lorimer led the way to the table. "I have a meeting right now, but I'll be back inside the hour. Get it on, get it right or you're fired."

He jabbed a finger at the keyboard, obviously cutting the connection, then turned his evil eye on me.

About 65-ish, he was bright red in the face and overweight, a tiny beard on his chin lent him an air of academic gravity, complete with blood pressure problems. He was poorly educated and that knowledge gave me a sneaking respect for him. Back in the days when the working classes knew their place and stayed there, he had the sheer balls to take the system on and win. No matter what his business guts, his outgoing demeanour did not endear me to him one iota. And he hadn't said a word to me yet.

That changed when he announced, "You are giving me shit."

To emphasise his point, he aimed a thick, stubby finger in my direction, allowing me to study the hand; lumpy, battered, gnarled, the skin creased with age and probable arthritis.

Taking a leaf out of Ali's book, I elected to throw him off balance. "You should cut down on your salt."

The inconsequential remark brought a puzzled frown to his podgy features. "What?"

"You're arthritic, your blood pressure's up, stress levels somewhere near the ceiling. Cut down on the sugar and the salt for the sake of your blood pressure, take more exercise for your arthritis and learn to say, 'sod it, I'm having a day off'. Trust me, you'll live longer."

The pointing finger shifted slightly to my right and up a little. "You see him?"

I looked up into Lorimer's face, evil, glaring, sadistic.

"You speak to me like that again," Verdonk continued, "and he'll tear you to pieces."

Lorimer laid a hand on my shoulder. Large enough to catch a soccer ball, it too was gnarled and battered, but this was nothing to do with wasting diseases like arthritis. This was a case of too many fights over the years.

Once more I looked up into the glaring, tiny eyes. They goaded me, dared me to take up the challenge, greedily waiting for me to grip the hand and try to remove it. Inside, I trembled. Indignation? Fear? Adrenaline-fed fury?

I took a breath, let it out in a slow hiss, allowing the fresh intake of oxygen to force calm upon myself, and softly warned him, "Take your hand off my shoulder or I'll snap it off at the wrist and feed it to the pigeons."

For a moment, we were locked in eye-to-eye combat and neither of us would back down. I could see the puzzlement in his eyes now; they were quieter, working on the implication in my words, weighing up whether or not I was prepared to back them. He had obviously never met such a direct challenge. At least not since he left the Parachute Regiment. He took his time weighing the odds. Inside, I shook even more, a raging torrent of emotion; worry, fear, anger, bloodlust, mostly anger, awaiting only the excuse to begin lashing out.

The tension was electric. I thought Verdonk and Lorimer had stopped breathing as well as me, but all I was aware of was the inner trembling. Was I afraid of this overblown ego and his bullyboy minder? I told myself that I was not, that the shakiness amounted to subdued, controlled rage, which I could unleash any time I chose. I tried to remember the last time I'd been in a fight. It was during my teaching days when a GCSE student had come on too strong and took a swing at me.

He was a half-drunken idiot, but Lorimer had a distinguished service record, which included action in Iraq where he had carried out subversive ops behind enemy lines. If he took a poke at me, it wouldn't be a random shot, aimed somewhere near my jaw, it would be a precise blow targeted where it could do proper damage.

I felt my fists closing, almost involuntarily, ready to swing into action, and I had visions of the suite, wrecked beyond repair, thousands of pounds worth of damage done in a few minutes from now, and either me or Lorimer or both of us flying helplessly through the window to drop 30 feet to the pavements of Portland Street. I was determined it wouldn't be me.

It seemed like minutes had passed, although it was actually only a few seconds, when slowly Lorimer removed his hand from my shoulder and backed off half a yard.

Setting my features in stone, refusing to demonstrate my relief, I faced Verdonk once more. Across the table, the despot regarded me with half amused eyes. The kind of look that said he knew something I didn't. I tried to guess what it was. Lorimer would never really have attacked me and the gesture had simply been an attempted frightener? There were another three Lorimer look-alikes the other side of the door and next time they would come in en masse?

I gave up the effort. Whatever his little secret, it would show itself in due course.

"Welch warned me that you fancy yourself," said the lord and master. "You are giving me shit, and I don't take shit from no one—"

"Anyone," I interrupted him again.

"What?"

"You mean you don't take shit from anyone," I repeated. "I used to teach, and don't take shit from no one is a double negative, indicating that you do take shit from someone."

He looked to Lorimer for a listening ear, and at the same time unknowingly echoed Ali's sentiments. "I'm bawling him out and he's correcting my English." He swerved his nasty features back on me. "You do know that I could arrange for you to disappear, without trace, forever."

I'd heard enough. It was time to go on the attack. "You do know, Verdonk, I could arrange for you to disappear. You and the parachute pansy behind me. But it wouldn't be without trace, because they'd find you flat on the pavement after I chucked you both out the window. Now I don't know why I've been called here, but cut the big 'I am' and get to it."

He stood up, leaning his arms on the table to tower over me as far as his five feet eight frame would let him tower. "You little arsehole. I was laying bricks with these fucking hands while your old man was learning to hump crates of milk about. I'm tougher than you'll ever be."

Before I had time to contemplate his knowledge of my father, Lorimer advised me, "And if you think we were all pansies in the Paras, take your best shot, but you won't find me as easy as some half pissed schoolkid." He sneered. "I've eaten bigger for breakfast."

Silently, I reflected that privacy was a thing of the past. A man as wealthy and powerful as this media magnate would have no trouble finding out everything he needed to know about me, including what my old man did for a living and details of the little incident at the Alan Turing Comprehensive.

"Just get on with it," I said.

Verdonk sat down and waved at the laptops. "My empire. You think I had this conference set up to impress you?"

"Funny," I replied, "that's exactly what I thought."

"Well think again." He slammed the lids down on two of the laptops. "I _own_ these pricks. I bark, they jump and they don't ask questions. They don't rock the boat because they know if they did, they'd be out on their arses before dinner, and they'd never work again. You get the picture?"

I was beginning to feel more confident, more relaxed. "Yeah, yeah. You're the bossman, dictator of all you survey. Get to the point, will you?"

"The point is, Devries, they're hard working, top flight business executives. They worked hard to get where they are and they work harder to stay there because I tell them to. Now let's look at you. A hack schoolteacher who dropped on lucky because he didn't get flustered when he had to grope some bimbo on a TV set. I don't take shit from them," he jabbed a stumpy finger at the laptops again, "I take even less shit from you."

I forced a yawn. "I've lost count of the number of times I've asked you to get on with it, and still you haven't said anything remotely interesting. What do you want? Me out because I won't flash my dick come the New Year? Fine, I'll get out, but you pay me up to the end of my contract, which is about another three years. Tell you what, I'll settle for one and a half million, tax free. That way, I'm out of your hair."

The sum, which I plucked out of thin air, was chickenfeed to him, and I didn't really want it. I wanted _Sermon_ on the small screen. I wanted _Bleaker Cove_ as it had always been; family entertainment. I wanted sufficient contractual freedom to let me do other things.

Verdonk wagged a disapproving finger at me. "Oh no. I don't want you out. You will flash your dick if I insist on it." He narrowed those blazing eyes on me again. "I want you at my feet, Devries, begging me to let you carry on working. Even if he has to force you into it." The finger ceased oscillating and pointed at Lorimer.

I pondered this for a moment, deciding on my attack. Insult his manhood or his intelligence? I figured the former would meet with disinterest.

"You know your trouble, shorty?" I hurried to answer my rhetorical question. "Apart from hypertension and arthritis, I mean. You're thick. You're so wrapped up in your own self-importance that you don't listen. Your parachute poofter has more brains than you. He knows that if he takes me on he may win, but he also knows he may not. I know, and so does he, that if he comes for me, he won't find me a pushover and if I get one clear swing at him, he won't get up for an hour. And when I've done with him, I'll tear you to pieces. Now cut out the macho crap and tell me what it is you want."

A long silence followed while he digested my words. He looked from Lorimer to me and back again, he looked at his silent laptops and he looked down at his battered hands. Finally, the eyes settled on me again. There was no softening in them, no hint of capitulation, and his tone did not alter, but the words were definite.

"I want an end to the farce in the other room. The Embargo campaign. How much do you want for fronting it?"

I was taken aback by the question. Despite his denial, I expected him pressing me to get out of _Bleaker Cove_ , to quit giving so much grief to Ed Welch, to insist on the adult episodes. Anything but ask me for a price to do the condom ads.

"So this isn't about the post-watershed stuff and the way I'm kicking against it?"

He was remarkably cool when he answered. "Separate issue altogether, and we don't even being to negotiate on that until next month. Now how much for the Embargo campaign?"

I didn't know how much. I'd done adverts before and been paid a lot more than scale for them, but that was because I had Ali negotiating for me. I'd turned out for several charity appeals, too, and charged nothing for them, and I fronted the appeal for people to voluntarily register on a DNA database. The campaign was a failure because before it was aired, some dipstick in the House of Commons let slip that it was intended for use by the police and intelligence services as well as the NHS, and the moment the world heard that, the volunteer numbers nose-dived. I had thought about asking for my DNA to be removed, but my celebrity status persuaded me otherwise.

Displaying a patience that would have endeared him to his hundreds of thousands of employees worldwide, Verdonk waited for me answer and I realised I had been silent for almost a minute. I plucked a figure out of thin air.

"A hundred grand."

"I'll go no higher than twenty-five."

Well at least we had an opening gambit.

"Well?"

Once again total silence had prevailed for a good few seconds too long.

"I... er. It's not enough."

"How much is enough?"

"I told you—"

He cut me off rudely. "I've heard the bullshit. There's no way you will get a hundred thousand for making half a dozen ads. You may be big, but you're not Meryl Streep. Get to the nitty-gritty."

This was not my scene. I was used to acting, playing a part where someone else wrote the lines and I read them and the other actors responded perfectly so that the script could progress. I was used to teaching where I did not negotiate, I dictated.

"Eighty,"

"Cloud cuckoo land."

"Seventy."

"Dream on."

"Fifty."

"Done."

I was about to drop to forty but I caught myself in time. "Done, did you say?"

He pushed aside the laptops and leaned heavily on the table. "You get fifty grand, and here's what I get. You make the initial six ads. You're on call at any time over the two-year deal to make fresh ads with extra payments at scale only. You don't get repeat fees no matter how many times they run." He leaned back. "Well?"

I wasn't sure where to go. I needed Ali the air horn to guide me, but Verdonk was applying the worst pressure of all. Silence.

Mercifully, he released the valve, saying, "You want a sweetener, I'll pay your income tax on the deal, so that you clear fifty thousand, and the bimbo gets the same deal."

"Bimbo?"

"Penton. The blonde with the big tits." He gestured at one of the laptops, and I figured it was the one monitoring the camera in the outer room and it was still switched on.

Recalling Emma's accusation that I only ever did things for myself, I asked, "What about Spangles and Julius?"

"Greenall isn't their agent, he's yours. We'll negotiate with them separately, so mind your own business. Now what about it?"

Five minutes later, Lorimer opened the double doors again and I emerged into the negotiating room where Ali was making an impassioned plea for custard to pour over the spotted dick.

I sat beside him. "Excuse me," he begged the room, and leaned into me, keeping his whisper super-low. "Where the hell have you been?"

I said nothing but handed him the piece of paper Verdonk had instructed me to write out.

_Ask them for 50k tax free_ , it read, _and_ _you'll get it._

***

Half an hour later, with the clocks striking two, we came away from the Maitland Hotel in a jubilant mood, and made for the Tramshed, a lively bar off Piccadilly, where I bought the drinks; a vodka and tonic for Emma, a pint for Ali and a shandy for me. I had to drive us back.

"I don't understand how you did it, Clint," Ali said.

"Easy," I breezed. "I stopped talking about pork pies and spotted dick, and threatened to drop Verdonk and his sidekick Lorimer out the window unless he settled, and he saw the light of day."

Emma was completely in awe. "And you could have done that?"

"Emma, when you've spent as long as I have teaching teenagers, you learn that there is nothing in life to be afraid of."

She glowed adoration. "I love you, Clint."

"Let's go back to my place and you can prove it... again."

She pondered the proposition for a moment. "No. I have to be at my mum's for dinner tonight."

"Plenty of time," I suggested. "It won't take longer than an hour."

She laughed. "You've never made it last longer than forty-five minutes."

# Chapter Eight

Brett is in the deck well stacking iceboxes of fish. Jace carries two boxes up onto the dockside. Stephie stands on the dock looking down.

" _I'm looking for Brett Sturgess."_

Brett looks up from the deck well. His features are haunted with suspicion. "You've found him."

" _I'm Doctor Stephanie Calward. Environmental Health."_

Brett gestures at the fish. "Aren't you a bit early? These are fresh caught. Be a day or two before they go off."

Brett passes two more boxes up to Jace, who stacks them on the dock.

Jace grins. "Maybe the Europeans are gonna do us for hauling in mackerel suffering the flu."

" _I'm not here about the fish, Mr Sturgess. I'm here about your wife. Candice."_

Brett is puzzled. He continues to pass the boxes to Jace as he speaks. "Candy? She's not too good, but it's nowt to worry about."

" _According to her GP, there is a something to worry about. The blood samples he sent to Lancaster contained a particularly virulent strain of botulism."_

Brett is puzzled. "You'll have to speak English, lady."

" _Food poisoning, Mr Sturgess."_

Brett passes the last of the boxes up and climbs from Candy II to the dock.

" _Food poisoning?"_

" _I need to know where she picked up the bug."_

Brett shrugs. "Search me. Coulda been anywhere. Local shops, shops down in Lancaster, even that place we went to in Manchester."

Stephie looks him urgently in the eye. "Manchester?"

" _Yeah. We were down there for our wedding anniversary the night Candy took ill. Big place in the city centre. We spent the night..."_

CRACK!

***

"Cut, cut, cut."

Hands on hips, Helen's haggard features displayed nothing short of absolute fury as an almighty boom of thunder rolled across the cove and bounced from the cliffs.

"Bloody hell," she screamed. "Why couldn't they have had the thunderstorms last week when we were in the studio?"

"Did you not call God and arrange it?" I asked, taking a quilted coat from one of the technicians.

"God?"

"Ed Welch."

"Helen," shouted a senior rigger before she could scream at me. "It's gonna bucket down any minute now. We'd better get the gear weatherproofed."

Helen irritably checked her stopwatch. "All right. Get on with it. Take a break, everyone."

Spangles, Julius and I headed quickly for our caravan as the first spots of rain began to fall.

We know what they say about all good things, well it certainly applied to Emma and me. After the success of the pay negotiations for the Embargo adverts, Emma and I were good for about another three weeks before it began to get repetitive and boring. Not her fault, and I certainly wasn't about to take the blame, but the constant round of filming, fucking and general domesticity began to get to me.

Admittedly, I was still wrapped in seething anger at the way _Sermon_ was rejected and the knowledge that I couldn't take it elsewhere for at least three more years.

Emma was more sanguine about it.

"We're young and we'll still be young enough to take it ahead in three years."

I took it personally. According to me, if I turned up with an idea for a documentary series proving that God existed and he really was Ed Welch, it would still be rejected the moment anyone saw my name on it.

At length I found Emma's constant presence stifling, she began to spend more and more time at her parents' and we gradually fell apart. She hammered home the final nail when she declared, "You don't know what you want, Clint. A guaranteed fuck with the freedom to look elsewhere, if you ask my opinion."

Well, I didn't ask her opinion, but I got it anyway, and as far as I was concerned, she was wrong. I liked my freedom, true, but I hadn't been near another woman since she moved in with me.

Never slow to capitalise on anything, Julius spotted the opportunity to get back in her good books and he'd spent the last fortnight trying to inveigle his way back into her affections, and from my point of view, he looked like he was slowly getting there.

Let him have her. Did I care?

Inside the van, Emma had the kettle and the telly on. I stepped in, switched off the TV and waited for her to pass me a mug of tea. My attitude was greeted with protests.

"Put the bloody TV back on," grumbled Julius.

"And get your own bloody tea," said Emma.

I switched the set on again and grinned. "I don't watch TV, and you're not being a very good wife, Candy. After I've been out there on the wicked seas for the last two days, bringing home the cod and chips, the least you could do is make me a cuppa."

They settled down to watch the final minutes of Vicky Valentine's morning programme, and I picked up the _Daily Chronicle_.

Our scripts were carefully written to ensure that ninety percent of the filming was interior and could be done at The Mill. The other ten percent was done at various locations in the Manchester and East Lancashire areas, but the bulk of location work was done here, in Coble Bay, a genuine if redundant fishing village on the North Yorkshire coast between Scarborough and Whitby, which represented the eponymous Bleaker Cove.

It was a pretty little place, protected on three sides by steep cliffs with a winding, precipitous road running down into the village centre. A natural harbour, the small dockside was taken up with a few privately owned pleasure craft, and one or two small fishing boats. And _Candy II_ , of course.

Underlinen Productions, in the shape of _Bleaker Cove_ , actually owned this tub. A fifteen-metre hulk with a little cabin and cockpit at the front, and along with the cabins below, a freezer unit which, in the days when it really did fish for its living, would allow the crew to stay out for a couple of nights until the hold was full enough to make a profit.

The only thing I knew about boats was they floated on water, so when we first bought it and Ed, proselytising as usual, told me she was enjoyed a 3.5 metre beam and 1.1 metre draft, I was flummoxed.

"The only draft I know anything about, Ed, is lager... oh and the type you get coming under ill-fitting doors, but I think both are spelled differently."

Occasionally, it was incumbent upon us to take the thing out on the sea, although we never ventured further than a few hundred yards offshore. For those scenes we employed Martin Oliver, a local seaman, to act as our pilot. If it was left to either Julius or me, we'd be half way to Denmark before the shoot was over.

Yorkshire folk have never been slow to make a profit, and the villagers of Coble Bay, where the moribund fishing industry had been no more than a rumour for the last two decades, were no exception. The entire village had been turned into a theme park for _Bleaker Cove_ fans. Every shop had memorabilia for sale, from models of the boat and caricatures of the stars cast in pot, to autographed photographs. Even the local café had been renamed _The Bleaker Cove Tea Room_ , and when we hiked into town with our convoy of vans and caravans, we were treated like royalty.

We generally spent one week in thirteen out there and with image and security at the spearhead of Underlinen's thinking, while the crew made do with accommodation in local B&Bs, Julius, Emma, me, and now Spangles, were housed in Scarborough's finest hotel, The Majestic. Like the Maitland, it was owned by Underlinen, which guaranteed that the staff would keep their mouths shut, the security men would keep the nutters out, and the paparazzi knew where to find us.

During the day, notwithstanding the personal mechanics between us, we had to make do with a shared trailer. Underlinen may have been a big hitter, but they still knew how to economise when they wanted.

We settled down, them to watch TV, me to study the Sudoku in the newspaper.

Emma broke the silence. "Ed's on his way over."

"Ed?" Julius was surprised and although I feigned indifference, I too was intrigued.

Ed was the best kind of producer; one who kept out of the way. A show like ours was a large undertaking and there were many, various and disparate elements all of which had to come together if the thing were to be aired on time. With anything up to a dozen assistant directors and half a dozen assistant producers working on the different elements of any given episode, the prospect was mind-boggling and given the stars' tendency to tantrums and Ed's general inefficiency, I was astonished that we ever achieved it.

Because of this, Ed spent most his time either in his office at the Underlinen's Northern HQ or at The Mill overseeing the work of his subordinate crew. It was rare that he visited us on location for the simple reason that he did not have time, and for him to come out to Coble Bay it had to be something important, which usually meant bad news.

With the announcement that our immediate big boss was on his way, Julius and Spangles picked up their scripts to give the impression of actors at least trying to learn their lines. I couldn't be bothered so I pumped Emma for more information.

"Did he say what he wanted?"

She shook her blonde curls. "I haven't spoken to him. It was the lady in the tea wagon who told me."

This was entirely typical of _Bleaker Cove._ If you wanted to know anything, it was a waste of time asking the team. Ask the tea lady. Not disposed to saying much, she nevertheless heard every snippet of gossip. I looked across at the dockside where her caravan was parked with Helen and a couple of crewmembers sheltering under its awning. We never brought our own catering with us. Like _Candy II's_ pilot, the lady behind the chuck wagon counter was a local yokel, but she'd been with us for the last four years, and if she said Ed was on his way, then it was practically certain that he was.

"She did say he's not on his own," Emma expanded on her knowledge. "Laura Tyndall is with him."

My features must have darkened as I grunted my dissatisfaction.

"What's the story with you and Laura?" asked Spangles, putting down her script.

"She wouldn't sleep with him," said Julius, and Emma giggled.

"Julius," I suggested, "why don't you wash your tongue, ready for licking Ed's arse."

He scowled. "One of these days you'll go too far, Clint."

"Yes, and I'll end up doing time for polluting the North Sea when I drop you in it." I turned my attention back to Spangles. "It has nothing to do with the fact that she wouldn't sleep with me. She's symptomatic of what's wrong with this country. She's an intelligent woman who wasted her education on cheap and nasty reality TV and celebrity gossip columns."

"But, Clint," protested our new co-star, "that's what the public wants."

"In that case," I objected, "why are viewing numbers falling consistently, year on year?"

She shrugged. "All right, it's what the TV watching public wants. All the others are on the Internet."

"And soap audiences are going up," argued Emma. As things stood between us, if I'd said _Bleaker Cove_ was the best thing to hit TV since the invention of colour back in the sixties, she would have disagreed.

"It's mindless dross. Even the crap we turn out is rubbish. Don't you ever think about switching that thing off," I gestured at the TV, "picking up a copy of _Pride and Prejudice_ and actually reading it?"

"It was a bit slow for me," said Julius and I was surprised that he had actually opened the pages of any book, never mind Jane Austen's classic. "Mind you, I thought Colin Firth was very good as Darcy." That provided a satisfactory explanation and eased my puzzlement.

"I meant the book, you berk."

"I know what you meant," he argued, "and I have read books."

"Oh yes? What colour were they?"

"Piss off, Clint." The presence of the two women and the close confines of the van were obviously giving Julius more bottle than normal. "When I was at school," he prattled on, "they made us read this book: _Great Expectations_. Can't remember who wrote it."

I tutted. "Dickens, you dickhead."

"Oh. Was it?" His puzzled frown indicated he was not much wiser. "Anyway, I couldn't make head nor tail of it. And I'd seen it on telly a coupla years before with Tony Hopkins playing the crook. Too dull for me. Tell you what, though, I have read _Charlie and the Chocolate Factory_ by Ronald Dowel."

I felt compelled to correct his ignorance once more. "Roald Dahl."

"Whoever. I read it after I saw the film. Wasn't half as good, though."

"Julius," I asked, "this fancy theatre school you attended, did they never suggest any reading?"

"Well, yeah," he confessed. "They said when you get a part, no matter how small, you should get the book, if there is one, and read it so you can get into your character. But most of the parts I got before The Cove, were in adverts, so there wasn't no book, and the only time I did get one where there was a novel behind it, was in summat about coal miners in Nottingham. _Sons and Lovers_. By Lawrence somebody or other. I played one of the village kids. Anyway, I bought the book skipped through it, looking for a mention of my character but I couldn't find one."

"So you didn't bother reading the thing properly?" I asked.

He shrugged. "Nope."

I made a determined effort to educate him. "That work is semi-autobiographical, and like much of Lawrence's work, it shows a picture of working class life in the early nineteen hundreds. It was just as dismal as Dickens' visions, but he came at it from a different angle."

"And we don't need reminding of it, Clint," he persisted. "These days all you have to do is turn on the telly and watch the news."

I threw my hands in the air. "Why am I wasting my breath?"

Spangles chuckled and put on her beaming face. "Actually, I thought _Sons and Lovers_ painted a beautiful picture of love. Given its background, that is. A tatty little street in a mining village."

I was astonished. "You've read it?"

She nodded vigorously. "I come from Gateshead, Clint, and I do remember how it was for working people. Better than in Lawrence's day, but still bad."

I wasn't sure I believed her, so decided to test her. "How did you take the scene of Gertrude's death?"

"Harrowing. It really made me... ooh... squirmy, I suppose."

This was a different side to Spangles. One that I'd never suspected. "Have you read _Lady Chatterley_?"

She nodded. "And _The Rainbow_ , and _Women In Love_. My dad loved Lawrence."

I shook my head in pure bewilderment. "Spangles, for someone who's so well-read, why the porn, why the airhead impression?"

She gave a Marilyn Monroe type, girly titter. "I make more money that way."

I took this materialistic view of life back to the _Chronicle_ and the Sudoku.

A short time later, there was a sharp rap on the door and Ed walked in followed by Laura Tyndall.

"Morning all," he greeted in a mock-cockney accent. "How's it hanging?"

"Low down and a bit to the left, as always," I replied.

The rumours that there was bad blood between Laura and me were well-founded. She had run one or two interviews for Underlinen's celebrity slot when the public first began to notice _Bleaker Cove_ and I soon discovered that she was less interested in listening to my answers and more concerned with putting the questions.

The presenter of _Celebrity Look-Alikes_ , which had been her idea, Laura was attractive in her own way, but one whose very voice managed to get on my wick. The animosity between us was cemented when we appeared on Vicky Valentine's chat show and I called her a vacuous tart for the first time. It was an epithet that had stuck ever since, although few people said it to her face.

A little older than me, rumour had it that she had screwed her way through three years of polytechnic to a degree in media studies, and dropped onto a job with the Beeb as a researcher, from where she wangled her way to the front of the cameras. Aunty soon learned that her major obsessions were her contract and her time in front of the lens and opted not to renew said contract. Speaking personally, I'd have renewed the contract with a mafia hit man to dispense with her, but Underlinen thought otherwise because she had all the natural assets required of a female presenter on a channel that had begun life as a soft porn outlet: big tits and strong legs, both of which she liked to show off. So they signed her up as the celebrity correspondent.

Not that she was much good at it. Like most celebrity journalists her main concern was poking her nose into my time away from the spotlight.

What's your favourite food (steak and chips), what's your favourite drink (John Smith's Bitter), what movies do you like to watch (anything by Truffaut or Woody Allen), what's your favourite chart music (I don't have any favourite chart music, because I only listen to classical).

The answers are all in brackets because the brainless bag never shut up long enough for me to give them.

Now, however, she was silent as Ed made tea for them both, and then perched himself on a long settee under the back window, and patted the seat next to his for Laura to join him.

"You all know Laura."

My three colleagues doled out the mandatory greeting, I ignored them both and turned instead to the back page reports of Man U's improvement in the early premiership games.

"I'm sure you're wondering why she's come along with me today."

Again my three colleagues responded as expected and I ignored him.

"You're not interested, Clint?"

I folded the _Daily Chronicle_ away. "Do I need to be?"

"Well you're part of the Embargo campaign, aren't you?" He gave me a sly grin.

Ed suddenly had my attention. "What does Laura have to do with it?"

Before he could answer, Julius speculated aloud. "Odd name for a rubber. Embargo. Still, I supposed it puts an embargo on pregnancy and STIs."

I shook my head in mock pity. It was hard to imagine one man could be so dense on so many fronts. "It's a perfectly sensible name if you read it backwards."

Emma tittered and Julius's brow creased. "I don't understand."

"Now why doesn't that surprise me? Tell me, Julius, what do you want any woman to do with your dick when you're horny?"

He frowned again, but this time his ears coloured. He didn't like the subject being raised, and judging by the scowl on her face, neither did Emma.

With an irritated "tsk" I picked up my pen and along the top of the newspaper wrote the word backwards, punctuating each letter with a hyphen.

O-G-R-A-B-M-E.

I passed it to Julius, he read it, and barely smiled. "Hmph. Very funny." He handed the paper back.

Satisfied that I had shown him up as a berk once again, I asked, "Ed, you were going to tell us why Laura is here."

"Underlinen Productions have decided to allow her to direct the Embargo shoots."

I opened my mouth to protest, but Ed carried on as if he were taking part in a filibuster.

"You probably know that Laura graduated in Media Studies and for some time now, she's hankered after going behind the cameras. She's done more than her fair share of second-string direction on _Celebrity Look-Alikes_ —"

"Most of it making sure the camera caught her fluttering eyelids and cleavage," I interrupted.

Laura's baby blue eyes fell sourly on me, and Ed let out a long sigh.

"You're becoming tiresome, Clint. You're being paid megabucks for this job, thanks to your mate's negotiating skill, and yet you still carp."

I gave him a sickly sweet smile. "You're the one who tells me I'm a celebrity. I'm just getting into part. Wait while I hit the bottle, start snorting coke and take the roof off your car with a can opener."

"You—"

I cut in again. "Ed, when I agreed to do this job, I expected them to appoint a crew with talent."

"I resent that," snapped Laura, opening her trap for the first time. "I have talent."

"According to the tales I've heard, your talents are open-mouthed."

I left her to interpret the insinuation, and she took it exactly as I thought she would, causing her cheeks and ears to colour. "You bastard."

"No. I refute that. I have an older sister and my parents were married some years before I was born." In an effort to get the message across, I forced patience into my voice. "Laura, these may only be adverts for rubbers, but the manufacturer will need them to be professionally produced with proper actors playing their dubious roles. We four," I gestured around the table, "may not be able to set Oscars night on fire, but we are professional actors. All of us. We require a professional production crew, and you do not have a track record as a professional director. Putting aside my personal opinion of you, you are probably an adequate presenter for this day and age, but you're obsessed with your own image and that is not what we want of a director, even if we are only churning out ads for skins."

"That's very rude, Clint," objected Spangles.

"No it isn't," I disagreed. "Normally, I find being rude to Laura quite easy, but this time I'm telling the plain and simple truth, because if I don't, someone else will, and it may be your oppo, Verdonk, when he sees the rushes. The difference is, he won't be half so gentle as me."

Julius chuckled "If that's being gentle, I'd hate to see what you're like when you get rough."

"Laura couldn't handle Clint when he gets rough," said Emma with a cheeky giggle.

Laura's dagger-like glances transferred themselves to Emma. "And you'll toe the line too, you tart."

All-out war suddenly threatened, but Ed stepped in as peacemaker again. "Let's just calm down, eh? This is all getting personal, and Clint, I blame you. Laura is directing these ads and that's that. The reason we came along today, is because we have draft scripts and we'd like you all to run over them during shooting breaks this week. Embargo have already approved them and we need your observations by Friday."

"When do we begin shooting?" I asked.

"A week on Monday. September the first, and the schedule is very tight. We need everything in the can by the following Friday."

A babble of protest ran round the table, but Ed was more than up to it.

"All right, all right, I know it's cutting things to the bone, but for God's sake, we produce a soap don't we? We turn out twenty-four minutes of top quality, professional drama every single day. Don't tell me we can't produce twelve minutes in a week."

There was no safe answer to that. Even I shut up.

He swallowed a large slug of tea and reached into his briefcase, from where he took the comb-bound scripts and handed them out.

I skimmed through the first, which starred Emma and me taking a shower together.

"Hang on, Ed. If I read this right, Emma and I are not only together but in the altogether."

Ed lowered his voice to a mutter. "If the rumours are true, it won't be the first time."

I was as angry at Ed's comment as Laura had been about mine on her proclivities. "That's not what I'm getting at, you dipstick. These ads are going out on early evening TV. You can't have Emma flashing her bubs at the camera."

"Firstly, all shots will be taken from behind, and secondly, two of The Cove's timeslots are being moved to nine o'clock, post watershed. To accommodate next year's changes."

As usual my fellow cast members left it to me to do the talking. "We're back to that, are we?"

"It's etched in stone, Clint. You can't get away from it."

"Yes, I can, and I've already told Ali, I'm not doing it. And I'll tell you something else, right now." I tapped the comb-bound script. "I'm not doing it in these ads."

"When I spoke to him, Ali was in full agreement."

"You mean he's crapped himself too, in case he can't meet next month's mortgage." I spat at the floor. "I'll speak to him when I get home. Ed, I'm giving you formal notice right now. Three months from today, I'm out of my contract."

"Clint—"

"I'm as healthy as the next bloke when it comes to sex," I cut him off, "but I will not allow my reputation, such as it is, to slide into soft porn. I'm better than that. Emma, let me give you a piece of advice. You're a better actress than most people give you credit for being, and you should get out too. While you still have a professional reputation."

Ed looked as if he was taking this too easily. "Don't be so hasty, Clint."

"Three months is not hasty. Three months is the minimum notice I'm required to give to get out of my contract."

"True, but the Embargo contract requires you to be available for two years. How many other networks will be willing to pick you up while you're tied into that?"

If Ed Welch figured he had me stitched up, he was mistaken. "It's perfectly simple, Ed. My contract, like that of any artiste, gives me extensive control over body shots. I'll do the Embargo ads, but you'll have the scripts rewritten to eliminate any nudity. The same goes for the up and coming _Bleaker Cove_ scripts. I will not do nudity, and if you, or Verdonk, want to challenge that, I'll go to the union and if that doesn't work, I'll go to the courts."

That wiped the smile from his mug and replaced it with his normal frown of intense worry. "Clint, how come you're the only one complaining?"

In a flash, I weighed up my three co-stars. Julius would hang himself if his uncle Clive told him to, so he was out. Spangles would not rock the boat while Verdonk was busy rocking her, so she would hardly speak out. In any case, her career was based on flashing skin. That left...

"Emma, do you want to do full frontal?"

"Well I, er—"

It was obvious from her frown that she did not want to do it, but she did not want to say so in front of Ed. Our producer could see it too and he started to work on her.

"Good girl, Emma. You know it makes sense."

"Emma," I suggested, "for once why don't you just say it like it is? Like you did on the phone when I first mentioned it. Don't worry about Ed. He won't come down on you. He'd have to get past me first. Do you want to do full frontal?"

"No. Not really. But I don't want to lose my job either."

Now I smirked at Ed. "There you are. Get it written out of both the Embargo ads and _Bleaker Cove_ or I don't do it, and I'll persuade Emma not to do it, either."

Ed was on the verge of turning apoplectic, when Spangles piped up.

"Clint, could I speak to you? In private?"

I shrugged. "You won't change my mind."

She stood up and slipped on a cagoule. "Come on. Let's take a little walk along the quayside."

"Spangles—"

She smiled sweetly. "It's all right. I'm not gonna lay you on the dockside, and I swear I will not compromise your reputation in public. Come. Let's go walkies."

Wary of her, I put on a waxed waterproof and we stepped out of the warm caravan into the cold, pouring rain.

Thirty yards away, Helen sheltered under the chuck wagon's awning while technicians of one description or another continued to build polythene shrouds around their various bits of equipment. Up above, the cloud showed no sign of retreating, and rain or no rain, I knew that within the hour, we would be out there, working again, but I consoled myself with thoughts of a hot shower and dinner at The Majestic in the evening.

Spangles and I walked away from Helen, following the line of the dockside.

"How well do you know Ollie?"

Her question had me stonewalled for a second. I'd expected her to begin persuading me that nudity was pure art, or some such claptrap.

I didn't pause for long, however. "I've met him. Once."

"In the negotiating room at the Maitland Hotel, where you came away with a sizeable deal for the Embargo campaign." It wasn't a question, but a statement and I wondered just how many tales Verdonk told between the sheets. "You don't know him as well as I do."

"I haven't shagged him if that's what you mean." I didn't know why I was being so rude. It was not as if Spangles had challenged me.

"Julius used his family contacts to get in the show, too, Clint. Does that bother you as much as me being here?"

"A little."

"To get back to what I was saying," she persisted, "you don't know him as well as I do. He'll get what he wants. He wants The Cove to go full frontal, and it will, and if he wants you as the male lead, you will do it." She linked her arm into mine as we ambled past _Candy II_. "He told me about the way you stood up to Lorimer. It caught him on the hop because no one's ever done that before. Lorimer is one hard arse. Ollie was laughing about it later. Not at you; at Lorimer. Ollie said if you weren't such a bolshie bugger, he'd probably sack Lorimer and hire you as his minder."

"And I'd tell him to sod off again."

"I think he knows that. Thing is, Clint, he also knows he can't intimidate you physically, so he'll find some other way of getting to you. Believe me, he'll do it."

We reached _Bleaker Cove Chippy_ , which before the advent of TV exposure, was the _Coble Bay Chippy_. Its doors were open, we stepped in. At this time of year, if the sun were shining and the TV cameras weren't in town, the place would be heaving, but the local filth were very amenable to shutting the village down when we were in production, and the company recompensed the local businesses for their co-operation. But the same communal business acumen that saw the local shops full of Bleaker Cove memorabilia, also told the proprietor, who I think was called Sam, to open up for the crew and extras.

I paid for a bag of chips and two cups of tea and we sat at a window table, watching the rain, sharing the chips.

"Is all this leading somewhere?" I wanted to know.

She chewed on a chip. "I'm simply suggesting you stop rocking the boat and do what Ollie wants."

"Compromise my standards, you mean?" I shook my head. "Like I told Ed, I'll walk out first."

"And never work again?" The look on her face told me she was not joking. "Clint, I mean it. If Ollie chooses, he'll ruin you. Not only that, he'll sue you for whatever tiny excuse he can find, and bankrupt you in such a way that you wouldn't even be able to go back to teaching."

I reached across the table and took her hand. "Spangles, I know you mean well and I'm grateful for your concern, but there's a lot more you don't know. Like the number of scripts that come my way in any given year. Almost all of them involve nudity. I turn them all down. Why? I'm not particularly politically correct, but I have the same objections to it as women have to beauty contests. In fact, I have the same objection to beauty contests. These writers, directors, producers, they see me as a hunk of meat, a commodity, and I won't have that. I want them to see me as an actor. I want to develop my talents, not flash my pecs and have women drooling over the TV screen. It's one of the reasons why, when Ali and I first wrote _Bleaker Cove_ , we planned it as family entertainment. No sex, no violence, just the tales of ordinary folk."

"And ordinary folk don't have sex?"

I smiled. "Now you're being as obtuse as Ed Welch. Of course they do, but it's a private part of their lives, not something for public consumption. It's enough that we hint at shenanigans on the programme, not bring them out into the open." I drank my tea and stood up. "We'd better get back. Don't you worry about me versus Verdonk. There's no way he can pressure me into doing anything I don't want."
Chapter Nine

Brett and Candy are in the shower; Candy is enfolded in Brett's arms. Brett looks over his shoulder into camera and indicates the shower unit.

" _A power shower. I like close control."_

He holds up a pack of Embargo.

" _These are for when you lose control. Embargo. Helping you contain the power of your shower."_

***

Candy rolls out of bed. She smiles fondly down at a pair of shorts on the floor. She speaks to camera.

" _Men. They forget everything."_

She reaches into the bedside cabinet and comes out with a pack of Embargo. "He's lucky. He has me here to remember for him. Embargo. For when he forgets."

***

Wearing only a pair of shorts, Jace stands before the mirror, rubbing his wet hair with a towel.

" _My mum always used to say to me, 'Jace, never go out with your hair wet. You might catch a cold.' She was right. Now I'll tell you something my mum never told me."_

He holds up a pack of Embargo.

" _Never go out without your Embargo, or you might catch something a lot worse than a cold."_

***

Stephie is looking through her handbag, ensuring she has everything. In the background, Jace is putting on a tie.

" _Lipstick, tissues, purse, credit cards, car keys. I think that's just about everything. Everything I need for a night out, letting my hair down... Oh. I almost forgot."_

She smiles to camera, and pulls a pack of Embargo from her bag.

" _I never go out without my Embargo. Just in case I decide to let down more than my hair."_

***

Brett is stripped to his shorts in Stephie's surgery. She is examining him. Brett looks to camera.

" _I like to keep myself in good trim. It makes sense. Exercise regular, eat proper, look after your heart and you'll live to a ripe old age."_

He holds a pack of Embargo before the camera.

" _But your heart ain't the only thing you should look after. Embargo. Safety first."_

***

Brett, Candy, Jace and Stephie are having dinner in a restaurant. They are all slightly tipsy. Jace reaches into his trouser pocket and surreptitiously ensures he has a pack of Embargo. Brett makes a pretence of checking his watch, and the fingers of his left hand slide into his right pocket to check that he has a pack of Embargo. Candy slips a hand into her handbag seeking a tissue, but she checks that she has an Embargo condom in the front pocket of her bag. Stephie excuses herself and leaves the table. She goes to the ladies and inserts coins into an Embargo vending machine.

Candy (voiceover). "You can't beat food and drink for a fine evening out, but to make it really special put on an Embargo."

***

Someone switched on the lights and I cringed at what I had just witnessed.

The contractual problems regarding the Embargo ads, which Ed had spoken of in the caravan at Coble Bay, were real enough to prevent me actually handing in formal notice. A good dose of Alistair Greenall salesmanship had helped keep me in place, too. But I had stuck to my guns and had the total nudity written out of the Embargo scripts. Throughout the four-day shoot, we all wore underwear or night attire of some description.

Having watched the finished product, however, I was beginning to think I should have walked and hang the consequences.

In common with many actors, I never liked watching myself on screen. It's a combination of factors; visual, audio and material.

I had this internal image which was the way I imagined everyone else saw me, but when I watched myself on telly, I viewed me as everyone else really does and I didn't always like what I saw. The cat-like grace I imagined, often looked awkward and angular, and the intelligent frown meant to indicate I was about to say something important, reminded me of a documentary on the great apes.

I didn't like the sound of my own voice, either, but there was nothing unusual about that. Because some of our hearing is internalised, reverberating around the skull bones, most of us don't hear our voices the way other people do, and for some of us, when we do hear it, the effect is appalling. I felt like that.

Finally, there is the material side. If a writer puts together a couple of lines of dialogue and I'm uncomfortable with them, that discomfort shows through when I'm compelled to read them.

Enclosed in a windowless meeting room, Ed, Laura, Emma, Spangles, Julius and Ali, augmented by a six-strong marketing team from Embargo, I was revolted at what I had just witnessed, and this time it had nothing to do with the way I looked or the way I spoke; it was exclusively down to the material.

While the two teams began muttering amongst themselves, and the tea trolley arrived, I leaned over to speak to Ali. "Did you write all that crap?"

"I planned it and sketched out the taglines. And it's not crap. It's good stuff, and the people from Embargo loved it." He nodded at the marketing men and women who were huddled in close conference.

"Ali," I protested, "you're putting rubbers across as just another item to add to the shopping list."

"Well aren't they?"

"Well... I, er... Look, it just doesn't feel right to me."

He tutted. "What century are you living in? It's not just the dirty mac brigade that buys johnnies these days, you know, and they don't keep 'em under the counter the way they did when your dad was a lad. You should know. You buy your share when you're online shopping and women do pick them up in the supermarket. There are just as many female buyers as male, because the women reckon men are always forgetting them."

"In the same way men forget to pick up a loaf of bread on the way home."

"Now you're getting it."

"I was taking the mick."

"You still got it."

Thelma Brassington, head of the Underlinen negotiating team and the same woman we had confronted at the Maitland over the fees, rapped her cup with a pen and brought the meeting to order.

"Right, ladies and gentlemen." She addressed herself directly to the Embargo team. "You've expressed total satisfaction with our planned campaign so far, and you've now seen the ads. Could we ask for your thoughts?"

Paul Keneally, the marketing director for Embargo, a forty-something with a wizened face who looked as if the last thing he would want to do was use a rubber with the hatchet faced Brassington, cleared his throat.

"We think the message is well put across, Ms Brassington, and we'd like to congratulate the actors on fine performances."

My heart sank. I had a vision of next year's Britbox Awards where I carried off the prize for best actor in a condom ad.

"The downside, from our point of view, is that the promised nudity did not materialise. Nudity and condoms do go together." As he said this, Keneally's eyes settled on me. "We understand that some of your actors had reservations."

I felt the familiar flash of temper and leaned forward in my seat to take him on, but a dig from Ali caught me in the ribs and while I turned to glower at him, Brassington got in first.

"We were not aware at the time, Mr Keneally, that there are contractual clauses when it comes to nudity, and they leave much of the control with the artiste. Had we known in advance, we would not have made such a rash promise."

My thunder moved to her, and Ali had no chance of stopping me this time. "If anyone had stopped to ask in advance, you would have known." Spots of colour came to her cheeks and while she scowled at my effrontery, I turned on Keneally. "And the only way you will get my bare arse on telly is to film my autopsy."

"Clint—" There was a warning edge in Ali's tone.

"And you can shut it too, you wanker. Your obsession with a fifty-pence piece brought this situation about in the first place."

There was an immediate uproar, silenced only by Ms Brassington's firm rapping on the table.

When she had quiet again, she oozed unction at Keneally. "I'm sorry about this. Once again, we were not made aware that one of the actors had more serious objections concerning the campaign."

Keneally all but ignored her. "You were, I understand, quite well paid for the work, Mr Devries."

"Yes. And?"

"Well in that case, it seems to me you are complaining that this kind of work is beneath you as an actor. However, if you are happy to compromise your professional standards in exchange for money, which you obviously were, then you have no business criticising the final product, and this is a free country. You were at liberty to refuse to front the campaign."

Unable to tell him anything of what had gone on between Verdonk and me, I simply said, "It's more complicated than that."

"But whatever those complications are, they are nothing to do with me or Embargo. We are happy for those commercials to be transmitted. The message in them is not so subtle that it can be missed, and to that end, we think they will significantly increase our market share. That is our sole concern. Any other problems you may have, Mr Devries, you should take up with your professional representatives and Underlinen."

I jerked a thumb at Ali. "He is my professional representative."

Keneally smiled bleakly. "Your problem, sir. Not mine."

I glared again. "By the time I've done with him, he'll never buy condoms again. He won't have anything to hang them on." I stood up. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to be elsewhere."

"You cannot simply walk out in the middle of a meeting, Mr Devries," snarled Brassington.

"You don't have three people big enough to stop me, and I need to go to the lavatory to get rid of the taste of this bullshit."

"Don't worry," I heard Ali saying as I walked out, "I'll talk to him."

I didn't hear any more of what went on in that room. As I stormed along the corridor towards the exit, all I could hear were Ali's feet scurrying to catch up with me.

"Clint... Clint. Wait, will you?"

I whirled on him. "Didn't I make myself plain in there? Just bugger off, Ali, and keep out of my way until my temper cools."

"No. Hang on. This is Ali you're talking to, not Ed Welch. What the bloody hell is wrong with you? You knew the score, you did the job and like that dick says in there, you can't whinge about it now. You should have cut out while you had the chance. Now, for Christ's sake, grow up."

"I am grown up," I snapped, "and I had accepted it all, but what I won't take is that bitch, Brassneck, laying the excuses at my door. And I blame you. You cut this deal, you knew what was going down and you never said a bloody word to me. And why? Because all you could see was the money."

"And what's wrong with that?" he demanded. "That's why we do it, isn't it? All the _Bleaker Cove_ crap, I mean, and the skins ads. You're not here for the love of it. Not anymore. You do it for the cash, and you need to make it while you can because tomorrow you'll be yesterday's congealed gravy."

I pulled in a heavy sigh and mentally counted to ten. "Ali, I'm not yet thirty. I have a lifetime in front of me, and I don't want to be remembered for advertising johnnies. I want to grow, to develop as an actor and a writer. If I leave it to you, I'll sink to porno movies in the New Year, along with the rest of them." I waved angrily back towards the meeting room.

"Clint—"

"No, Ali, no more. This is your last chance. We've been mates for years, but I'm warning you, drop me in the shit one more time, and our professional relationship is through."

I turned and walked away from him.

As I emerged into an overcast and chilly September afternoon, with the threat of rain in the air, my temper was still at an explosive level; too high for me to think clearly, too high for me to even suspect that when it really hit the fan it would not be Ali that caused it.

# Chapter Ten

Brett glowers. "What did you say?"

Jace puts down the nets and faces Brett. "I said Candy's been staying with me." As Brett turns angrily on him, Jace hastens on. "You've only got yourself to blame, Brett. Fooling around with that doctor. Candy ain't stupid, you know."

Brett's voice is a hiss. "I'll kill you."

Brett goes for Jace. There is a scuffle, Brett gets his hands to Jace's throat. Jace tries to prise the hands away.

Jace is gasping for breath as he speaks. "Killing me ain't gonna change nothing. It won't win her back."

***

"Cut... I said cut. Jesus Christ, somebody get them apart."

I wasn't really aware of Helen's calls until the soundman and lighting technician put themselves either side of us and began to cleave a gap between us.

Julius' look of thunder said everything. I couldn't see my face, but I knew it was the same.

"What the hell is wrong with you two?" Helen demanded. "I know you've never been the best of friends, but you looked as if you meant it, Clint."

"Sorry," I apologised. I glowered at Julius. "You okay?"

He rubbed at his throat. "Yeah. No bloody thanks to you though."

Helen delivered her favourite spiked glance, and then consulted the production secretary and lighting manager for a moment. She glanced back at the cliffs of Coble Bay, six hundred yards to the west. Pointing north, she called up to the cockpit. "Martin, turn us round, take us back that way for about five or ten minutes, please. Just while we set up the next shot?"

Martin Oliver, our pilot, gave her a nod and advanced the throttles, swinging his wheel hard left.

Helen turned back to us two. "Get yourselves downstairs, grab a coffee or something, and Julius, get your wetsuit on."

The script called for Brett to throw Jace overboard. With the year moving swiftly into autumn, the waters around the northeast coast were not exactly at their warmest, and Julius needed to be well insulated against the cold.

The hold was where they used to store the fish, (I think). It had been completely cleared of everything now, leaving just a table and chairs, and a workbench holding a small cupboard where we kept tea, coffee and sugar. Alongside it was a mini-fridge for milk and (during the warm weather) soft drinks.

Once below, Julius passed through to the rear of the hold, and a small bathroom where we could clean up or change for different scenes. Stripping off his outer gear, he put on the insulated wetsuit, which would keep him alive for the minute or so that he needed to be in the water, then climbed back into his jumper and fisherman's overalls. All he had to do was deliver a couple of lines from the water. The 'real' action, when Brett tossed him overboard, then had second thoughts and pulled him back in again, had already been filmed from our escort boat standing 50 yards off _Candy II_ 's starboard stern. Stuntmen had stood in for Julius and me. Not that I really needed one. I could have leaned over the side of _Candy II_ and yanked either Julius or the stunt double in, but Helen would not take the risk of me falling overboard while filming the scene. The stunt guys and gals we used were experts both in and out of the water.

The bad blood between Julius and me had got considerably worse since Emma and I split and he tried to get back with her, and most of it was my fault. Try as I might, I could not reconcile my attitude. I didn't want her, but I didn't want Julius to have her, either. Why? Search me. If I knew the answer, I'd be a psychoanalyst struggling to get by on forty grand a year instead of a TV megastar.

My anger had been exacerbated by the Embargo ads, but even when I thought about that, I realised the truth of Ali's observation. I could and should have dropped out of everything before the pay negotiations for the ads. I should have given them notice, and walked. Why didn't I? No need of a psychoanalyst to work that out. Money. Plain and simple.

If Julius and I were able to avoid argument by parting company on sets at The Mill, it wasn't an option aboard _Candy II._ Once he had donned his fisherman's overalls over the wet suit, he sat opposite me at the table and made no bones about his feelings.

"You're determined to sink everything, aren't you? Including me."

"I apologised. What more do you want me to do. Rewind time?"

"You fuck everything up, Clint. The condom ads, the studios shoots, and let's be honest, you didn't waste any time getting between Emma's legs after the dinner date, did you?"

The accusation stung me into retaliation. "I wasted more than you did with Allison Miller. Jesus, when I came down to the foyer, Emma was crying her heart out. What did you want me to do? Leave her there? Go home and let her hang about in the hotel while you were upstairs giving some totty a length? Get real, Julius. I offered to take her home, _your_ home, the place she shared with you, but she wouldn't go, so I took her back to my place and let her sleep it off, and no, I didn't get it off while she slept it off. I dossed down on the couch." I shrugged. "You were to blame."

"If you hadn't been there, I could have sorted it," he grumbled.

"It seemed to me that the only thing Emma wanted to sort was your place in the choir as a soprano."

"All right, so that's as may be, but now you don't want her, and you're pissed because I do. You don't make fucking sense, you don't."

The click of Helen's safety shoes coming down the steps ended the argument. The woman herself appeared, gave us both a withering glance and helped herself to coffee.

Joining us at the table, sitting at the head, so she could eyeball us both, she said, "I'm not stupid."

I grinned. "Just desperate."

"Watch it, Clint." The warning edge in her voice sobered up my attempt at humour. "I was saying, I'm not stupid. I read the papers and even if I didn't, the problems between you two and Emma are such common knowledge that I'd have to be half dead not to know about them. But they are _your_ problems, not mine. I don't bring my husband and daughter on set, so don't you bring your personal issues with you." She rounded on me. "For a minute there, I thought you were really going to throttle him."

"I was tempted but I don't think he's worth a life sentence."

Once more I got the glance. "I'll not warn you again, Clint. You are supposed to be professional actors. Start acting. Sort out your quarrels in your own time, not mine. Understand?"

Neither of us said anything. Helen allowed the silence for a long moment, and even increased it with a determined, fierce stare, until we both agreed.

"Right. That's better. Julius, are you ready?"

He nodded.

"He should have a lifejacket, you know Helen," I pointed out. "After all, if he wore an Embargo skin to combat anything Allison Miller may have been carrying—"

"Fuck off," snapped Julius.

"This is your last warning, Clint," Helen interrupted before hostilities could break out again. "One more word and I'll ring Ed and have you suspended."

I crossed fingers before them. "All right, all right. Pax. All I'm saying is he should be wearing a lifejacket."

"I can swim," Julius protested.

"This is the North Sea, not the local swimming pool, you dildo. If the current catches you wrong, you'll end up thumbing a lift home from Oslo."

In the early days, we had done a lot of research into crewmen's habits on board small fishing vessels, and we'd learned that although Health & Safety at Work rules insisted they should wear lifejackets, they often did not. Helen threw that research back at me now.

"Continuity, Clint. We can't have him seen in the deckwell without a lifejacket, then struggling in the sea with one on. I'll have four frogmen in the water, and they'll make sure he comes to no harm." She snapped her head round to Julius. "Are you all right with it?"

He nodded.

"I want it in one take. You have to look as if you've been thrown in, and that means getting your face and hair wet, so when you get in the water, duck your head under once. The cameras will be running throughout. You've only three or four lines, and they're short. Give it your best, Julius. Make us worry about you." Helen downed her coffee. "Right. Let's get to it." She led the way up to the deckwell.

The scene was nothing to do with me, but I went with them anyway, because I was always fascinated to see how they could arrange to con the viewers so easily.

When this episode was aired, sometime near the end of the year, all anyone would see was Jace floundering in the water, shouting for help, overlaid with the sound of Brett driving the boat away. During this shot, they would not see the frogmen around him, they would not see the escort boat standing by to act as a lifeboat if needed. And when it came to it, they certainly wouldn't see Julius gingerly climbing down the ladder, swimming ten feet from _Candy II_ before ducking under and then coming back up on his back.

"Help me, Brett." "Brett, you can't leave me like this." "They'll know, Brett, know that you threw me overboard." "Brett, for God's sake help me."

Leaving a space between each of his lines, Julius also ducked under a couple of times and spat water. He didn't convince me, but that was because I was watching him for real, but Helen, who had that wonderful capability of divorcing herself from reality and studying her monitor as a viewer would watch the TV set, was thoroughly persuaded. She allowed the camera to run on for five seconds after he had delivered the last line (it gave the online editors a natural break for cutting) then called for the frogmen to help Julius out, before asking Oliver to radio the escort boat and tell them to come alongside.

The escort, a tub named _Chrysalis_ , was slightly larger than _Candy II_ and better equipped. It had a couple of warm cabins below decks, fitted with a hot shower for those times when we got a soaking, and right now it also carried a complete change of clothing for Julius.

While the frogmen crawled into their dinghy, and we waited for the _Chrysalis_ to come alongside, a technician and I helped Julius back on board, and as he shivered in the deckwell, he got a round of applause from the crew and a cup of hot coffee from me.

Once Julius was transferred to _Chrysalis_ , the day's work was over. Preferring to keep my distance from him, I stayed with the crew while Oliver turned _Candy II_ back towards Coble Bay. Wrapped in a thick, lined coat to keep out the late September chill, I settled in the back of the deckwell for the short journey, while Helen, also wrapped in heavy winter clothing, studied the videos on her monitor and conferred with the production secretary on timings and cuts.

Half an hour later, changed back into my 'civvies' I climbed into my luxury Volvo for the 15 mile journey into Scarborough and The Majestic Hotel. With the time coming up to half past four and a gloomy sky threatening and early autumn darkness threatening a turgid night ahead, there was time enough for me to make my way home, but what the hell. I was in no hurry and anyway Underlinen had already booked a room for me.

I was in a fairly good mood by the time I made the hotel, but it didn't last long. I got to my room to find Ali waiting for me, his face etched with lines of worry.

"What's wrong, pal?" I asked. "Lost a pound coin?"

"What? Oh, yes, very funny. You should be on the telly. You'd look good next to the picture of my mum."

I helped myself to a beer from the minibar. It was one of the expenses the actors were obliged to pick up at The Majestic. Underlinen didn't mind paying for the rooms but they wouldn't poppy up for the stars' booze, too. "You weren't on call, so what are you doing here?"

"I got a phone call at eleven this morning, telling me to get over here. I tried to catch you, but you'd already left."

"Early doors, sport. I was on the road for eight. Got here about eleven." I laughed. "Just as you were getting the call, as it happens. Why didn't you come up to Coble Bay?"

"Not much point, was there? You were out filming on _Candy II_. Anyway, you and me are wanted on the top floor."

I thought he was taking a rise and I grinned again. "What are we gonna do? Pose for a photo shoot or dive off the roof for a bet?"

"This is serious, Clint," he insisted. "Verdonk is up there and he wants to see both of us, like ten minutes ago."

That wiped the smile from my face. "Verdonk? What does he want?"

"What is this, twenty questions? I don't know what he wants, but if we get a move on, we'll find out, won't we?"

I couldn't fault the logic and downing my beer I followed my chatty chum out of the room, along the corridor to the lift where we rode in comparative silence up to the eighth and top floor.

It was no coincidence that Verdonk was on the top floor. Like the Maitland, Underlinen owned the hotel, and this was penthouse territory. When we got there, Lorimer was only too keen to show us into the opulence.

"Hiya, tiny," I greeted, causing Ali to gape at my lack of respect.

Verdonk sat behind a polished table, his bank of laptops open in front of him, but this time, he was not ranting at his extended family of executives. Trouble was, he looked too smug.

I soon learned why.

"The dinner date at the Maitland," he barked. "Tell me what happened with the Yaeger bag."

Ali turned white, instantly taken aback, Lorimer picked at his cuticles with a nail clipper and although I was initially surprised, I managed to control it.

"What," I asked. "Not returning my greeting? No asking about the family or how the journey up in the lift was?"

"Don't play games with me, Devries. Just answer the question."

"All right, nothing spectacular happened with the Yaeger woman on the dinner date. We enjoyed a good day out, I showed her around the mill and the sets, sat with her on a second unit scene, told her what all the bits and pieces of equipment were for, and then took her out for dinner, at your expense, saw her to her room, and while his nephew—" I jerked a thumb at Lorimer, "— was stuffing the chick from north of the border, I bid Tanya goodnight, and left her a happy woman."

"But first you fucked her."

I shook my head. "No. I didn't. It wasn't in the script."

This time my attempt at humour drew no response. Verdonk went on as if I hadn't spoken. "Not only that, you had her against her will. Rape."

It was my face paling this time. I know. I felt the blood drain away. "What are you talking about?"

He held up a single sheet of A4 paper. "A statement from her. She claims that you invited yourself into her room, forced yourself on her, and even though she tried to stop you, you went ahead."

"Well she's lying. She came onto me by the door and I told her no."

He sat back, satisfied. "I think you're the one who's lying."

"That's about par for the course, though, isn't it?" I argued. "If I said black was black, you'd argue the toss because it's me saying it. Anyway, it's easy enough to prove. I'm on a DNA database used by the NHS and the cops, _and_ MI5. Any swab taken from her will show my DNA."

"It's nearly four months ago, knobhead. Any DNA would be washed out by now. Anyway, as luck would have it, she hasn't gone to the police. She contacted us instead. We can keep this away from the law if we all use our heads."

I fumed. "Buy her off, you mean?"

He smiled evilly. That was more like the Verdonk I knew. "It's surprising the number of problems a cheque will solve."

I shrugged. "Well you suit yourself, but don't include me. She's lying and I'm willing to go to court to prove she's lying."

The thick, stubby fingers I recalled from our last meeting pointed in my direction again. "You will do as you're told."

"Listen, tiny, we had this head to head the last time we met, and you didn't really win that one. You don't own me, you don't tell me how to live my life, you don't tell me what I can and can't do. I do as I please, not as you want."

Several seconds of silence followed. Verdonk raised his eyebrows. "Finished? Had your little rant? Good. Now you listen to me. Either toe the line or I will send this report to the police and regardless of whether you're innocent or otherwise, you have my assurance that it will be headlines in the _Gazette_ , and when that happens, every other tabloid, including that piece of arsewipe, the _Chronicle,_ will go to town on it _._ You will be through. No one will touch you this side of the next millennium. And not only that, I'll sue you for bringing my program and my company into disrepute."

Ali, who had sat alongside me in a state of abject terror, at last found his voice, soft and persuasive for once. "Clint, listen to the man. He's right. If this gets out, you're sunk. You won't even get a job teaching prisoners how to use computers."

Spangles' words came back to me, from the chippy on that wet afternoon in Coble Bay. _If Orlando chooses, he'll ruin you. Not only that, he'll sue you for whatever tiny excuse he can find, and bankrupt you in such a way that you wouldn't even be able to go back to teaching._

The anger in me brimmed to the surface. "Ali, I'm innocent."

My chubby chum shrugged. "What difference does that make? This isn't about guilt and innocence; it's about image. Your image, Underlinen's image, _Bleaker Cove's_ image. You'll be wiped out."

I could feel my blood beginning to boil. "Did it ever occur to you, any of you, that I might care more about the law, about justice than my precious bloody image or my precious bloody bank account? Or Underlinen's or _Bleaker Cove's_."

Ali shrugged. "I'm here as your manager and agent and in that capacity, I'm advising you to follow the official line, at least for the moment. As your best friend, I'm also advising you to follow the official line to save your hide."

Verdonk looked smugly satisfied. "You should listen to your pal. He has brains."

"Fuck him. And fuck you, too." I rounded on Ali. "Do me a favour and don't do me any favours." I stood up and this time I aimed the finger at Verdonk. "You can shove it. I'm walking out right now, and before you can get your hack reporters into business, I'll have visited the Manchester police with the full SP." I stomped off towards the door.

"Lorimer, stop him."

Responding to Verdonk's bark, super-duper paratrooper hurried across the room and grabbed my upper, left arm, spinning me round. I threw my right fist, his left hand came up, grabbed it, and he grinned. He applied pressure, forcing my arm back down, and his smile faded when my outstretched limb refused to buckle.

A puzzled frown crossed his features, and I understood at once. In all his life, certainly since coming out of the army and signing on with Verdonk, he had never come across anyone as fit or strong as him, had never met such stalwart resistance. He applied more pressure and I began to push back, pressing his arm down.

Now I smiled, fixing his gaze with mine. He began to sweat through the effort.

"Hard work," I commented, sufficiently charged with oxygen to let me speak through the effort. In truth, I couldn't recall when I had come up against anyone so strong.

I tired of the game and like lighting, whipped my head forward. It connected with his forehead and he crumpled to the carpet.

He wasn't down for long. Shaking his head to clear it, he jumped up and swung at me. I blocked. His knee came up aimed at my crown jewels, I sidestepped and he caught me on the thigh, which was instantly bruised.

"Fuck." I chopped a hand to his town halls. With an audible "oof" he doubled up and I brought the heel of my hand down to the back of his neck.

Once more he hit the expensive carpet, but this time, he didn't get up; just lay there, breathing heavily, snoring lightly.

I whirled on Verdonk and stormed the desk. "You happy now are you? Now that your precious hero is out for the count. You wanna get off your fat, rich arse and take me on? Come on, tough guy. Let's see what kind of balls you really have under there."

He gave me a twisted look, his mouth open and slobbering. His eyes bulged and he let out a gurgle. Then he clutched at his chest and toppled from the chair to the carpet.

My fury drained immediately. As former teachers, both Ali and I had undergone basic first aid training. As a maths teacher, he forgot most of his inside a month, as a PTI, most of mine stayed with me, but it was usually concerned with bumps, knocks, strains and sprains.

Bending over Verdonk, I checked him out. He was still breathing; bright purple but breathing.

Rolling him into the recovery position, I loosened his tie. "Call an ambulance."

"Clint, what are we—"

"Ali, call an ambulance. NOW."

While Ali snapped to obey and across the room, Lorimer got groggily to his feet, I attended to Verdonk. Opening the top button of his shirt, I checked his airway and put a cushion under his head. Once that was done, I stood upright, and faced my chum.

"Ambulance is on its way," he reported.

I nodded. "You wait here. Make sure Verdonk is all right."

"Where are you going?"

I shrugged. "I don't know, but someone has to stay with him, and I wouldn't back that slack tart to be of any use." I nodded at the dazed Lorimer, now sitting on a chair and trying to clear his head.

Looking frantically from me to Verdonk and back again, Ali was building up to more protests. I headed them off. "When he comes to," I waved at Verdonk's inert figure, "he'll start again, and next time, he might have a real heart attack. It's better if I just disappear. But remember, when the doctors or paramedics have done with him, you tell him I'm through with _Bleaker Cove_. I won't come back. Not now, not ever."

"Clint... Clint... CLINT..."

# Chapter Eleven

Ignoring Ali's pleas, leaving him to deal with the bruised bruiser and his groggy governor, I marched out of the room, took the stairs down four floors, barged into my room, threw my gear into my bag, packed up the laptop and then made my way down to reception, where I tossed the key onto the counter.

"Underlinen will pick up the bill as usual," I told the bemused duty manager.

"Your bar bill, Mr Devries?"

"See Mr Greenall."

I could hear a local clock chiming five thirty as I continued on my way out of the hotel. The breeze of what would be a chilly and blustery night, pierced my thin shirt like a hammer drill going through plasterboard.

Making my way across the car park, I threw my gear into the car boot, and turned to watch an ambulance arrive, all flashing lights and blazing headlamps. Two green-uniformed paramedics leapt out and, hauling more gear than the mechanics who serviced my car, hurried into the hotel.

Steaming angry, I climbed behind the wheel, fired the engine, slid her into 'drive' and pulled out of the hotel car park, fighting my way into the rush hour traffic clogging the narrow streets. The summer season was over, and yet the place was heaving. A quarter of an hour of seething rage later, I finally picked up the York signs.

I preferred to think it was the car's heating system that demisted the windscreen so quickly, but it could just as easily have been the burning anger inside me.

There were many targets for my fury; Ed Welch, Julius Quigley, Spangles, or anyone to do with _Bleaker Cove._ Orlando Verdonk was another point of furious frustration, so was Clive Lorimer, and naturally, there was Ali. But most of my rage was reserved for me.

The road from Scarborough to York was not a good one. There were stretches of dual carriageway near Malton, and another short stretch not far from Castle Howard, but the bigger part of that 40 mile drive was single carriageway and not conducive to fast driving or safe overtaking. Nevertheless, ignoring the dangers of poor weather and encroaching evening, notwithstanding the vagaries of variable levels of traffic, I managed to keep the car wound up around 70 most of the way.

Spangles, with my best interests at heart, had warned me what would happen, and it had happened. I was ruined. Some silly little tart had seen the opportunity to make a fast buck and she had taken it with the same alacrity that Ali took such chances, the same speed with which Allison Miller had moved to publicise her interval with Julius. Not only that, but Verdonk had also spotted the opportunity to pin me down, and he had taken it. The only idiot was me. I hadn't seen it coming. I had trusted human nature to the point of contingency and walked into the trap with all the innocence of a fish snapping at the fly on the end of a hook.

Worse than that, I was running away. I had left Ali, a mate since childhood, to deal with the consequences, and mates didn't do that.

We'd been through a lot together, he and I. Somewhere just east of York, passing the B-roads that led to the army training grounds at Strensall, I recalled the time when we were coming up to finals at uni' and he came to my digs, almost crying because he was sure he couldn't cope with it. I gently encouraged him, urged him to make the effort, and slowly, over a period of some hours and days, he lightened up. By the time he went into the exam room, a week later, he was top of the form. Well, top of his own form, which helped him scrape a pass degree.

Did my tactical withdrawal this afternoon balance that particular account? Nothing like it. Ali had more than repaid my faith in him over the years, and if it weren't for him, I probably wouldn't be half as successful as I was. Ali it was, who had encouraged me to concentrate on acting when I was first awarded the lead... even if he was concerned more with his bank balance than my future.

I picked up the dual carriageway at York and laid the hammer down even harder. With the needle hovering around 90, I picked up the A1/M1 southwest of Tadcaster, and promptly slowed down in heavier traffic.

What the hell was wrong with me? Had six years of superstardom retracted my intelligence to the degree that I had fallen to the same level as other celebs? Total idiocy? Complete faith in everyone on the one hand, and complete contempt for everyone on the other?

With the September night closing in, I hit the heaviest traffic south of Leeds at 6:55, and everything slowed to a crawl. I had only about thirty miles to go, but it would take up to another hour. With cars and vans and trucks jockeying for position, playing musical lanes, we shuffled along from junctions 29-28 and on the approach to junction 27, it became stop-start.

Pretty much like my thinking.

The traffic jam had no single, root cause; it was simply the pressure of so many vehicles joining the motorway at junction 27, forcing the overcrowded lanes to move over and crowd the outer ones.

In just the same way, there was no single, identifiable cause of my anger. I couldn't blame it on nudity and sex in the scripts. I'd been sent any number of projects over the last five years and all of them included a degree of nudity. I had that kind of body. I couldn't blame it on the Embargo adverts. They were done, they were history, they would go out whatever happened. I could no longer blame it on The Cove if the truth be told. Those few weeks with Emma had seen me quite content and her departure had not sent me back into a downward spiral.

Neither was it this afternoon's farce. At a real pinch, I could probably sort that out, and I knew I was innocent, which was what mattered most.

The cause had to go much deeper than that. It was the whole thing, the routine of Monday to Friday, hamming it up, putting in weekends to catch up, taking a day off when we were ahead, looking forward to annual holidays, keeping an eye on the clock when it came close to finishing time. It was as if we were working in a factory, the only difference being that we were creating something, rather than simply churning out items on a conveyor belt... wrong. That was _exactly_ what we were doing. It was a mass-production process, like stamping out car doors and body parts, like turning out piston rings on a lathe. We hammered out fiction, produced scenes on digital imaging equipment, but it was an endlessly repetitive process, the same factory drudge, week in, week out.

Could I live a life without acting? Yes. When I took my degree, I wanted to be a teacher and a writer not an actor. As Verdonk had pointed out at our previous meeting, I was just a cocky son of a bitch in the right place at the right time. Could I live a life without writing? No. I'd been a writer since my teens; I would always be a writer. Could I foresee a life without _Bleaker Cove_? Yes. Could I envisage life writing, without Ali at my side?

The other side of junction 27, the traffic began to flow more freely. Climbing the hill past the Bradford exit, whizzing past Hartshead Moor services, I tried to answer that last question and found I couldn't, but I reasoned that after legging it like this, walking out and leaving him with a crocked media magnate and a reeling bodyguard, I may very well have kissed our partnership goodbye.

By the time I was crossing Rishworth Moor, brighter autumn stars were showing in the night, and as the sky had cleared, so my thinking began to make more sense. But as the traffic and hills hampered my view of the road ahead, I still could see no way forward for me. The logical thing to do was go to the police and clear the mess up, but I was reluctant to do that. I had a reputation with the women and they would more than likely take the girl's side. It would lead to an inevitable, uncomfortable series of interviews, even a possible court case before I was found innocent and that would only serve to ruin me even further.

The booster transmitter at Rockingstones, near junction 22, watched over the bleak landscape of two counties like a sentry guarding the frontier post between West Yorkshire and Greater Manchester. I hurtled along at just under 90, climbed the last steep hill, then eased myself into a gap between two lorries, to come off at junction 22, killing my speed for a double bend on the slip road, until I crawled over a cattle grid where the motorway finally met the A672.

A sharp left turn, and a steep climb up past the transmitter, and I was on the downhill slope then, winding around the hillsides, looking down on the valleys below, making my way into the dip at Denshaw, four miles from Oldham, a mile and a half from home.

I climbed the hill on the other side, up to Grains Bar, from where I could once more look over the vase sprawl of Manchester, a myriad orange lights twinkling in the growing night like a galaxy of haphazard constellations. I turned off for Ali's place. Ignoring the 30 limit, I laid the hammer down, and half a mile on, cut across the nose of an oncoming taxi, to throw my car in through the open gates.

I was sure I heard the taxi's horn blaring, but I ignored it, drove around the rear of the house, and killed the engine. I climbed out, calmly opened the boot, took out my overnight bag and laptop and prepared to drop the lid again. Then I noticed a sack of mail and took that too. Fan mail from The Mill. I'd picked it up the previous day and taken it to Scarborough to deal with it, but it had remained in the car boot, forgotten. Taking it out, closing the boot, I made my way to the rear apartment, let myself in and slammed the door behind me.

Now, at last, in the confines of my own place, I could let rip. Ever since I left Scarborough, I had been steadily fuming, but the need to control the car had forced me to restrain myself. Now I was home, now it didn't matter, now I could lose it, expiate whatever demons were working inside me.

I started with a collection of mail on the doormat, tearing it all in half in a series of angry spasms. Leaflets, flyers, circulars, credit card statements, a mayoral invitation, one or two informal letters, my monthly copy of _Writers Bulletin_... Credit card statements and a mayoral invitation? Too bad. I could send the credit company a large cheque with a covering letter, and I didn't care for charity mayoral dinners anyway, so I probably wouldn't have gone.

The error only sent my anger into a higher orbit. I kicked over the coffee table, scattering remote control handsets across the carpet. I took the sack of fan mail, snapped it open, poured the 100 or so envelopes onto the upturned coffee table, threw the sack down after them, then picked up a few letters, tearing them in half, ripping them to shreds. In amongst them were odd photographs. I found myself staring at a pair of woman's parted thighs, her white knickers pulled to one side, showing me everything. I jammed my foot down onto it, ground it into the carpet.

In the kitchen, I raged at the kettle and toaster, tossing both across the room, not caring where they landed and whether or not they would work again. Back in the living room, I brushed a livid hand across the bookshelves, scattering hardbacks and paperbacks everywhere, kicking them across the room when they landed, and finally, I threw the recliner onto its back, before heading for the bathroom to see what more damage I could do.

Above the washbasin, I started at my own reflection and my fury increased. I suffered, if that's the right word, from a heavy beard, and consequently I was a dedicated wet shaver. My electric shaver was fine for travelling, but at home, I kept Gillette razors and a horsehair brush, with a can of shaving foam in a novelty mug that was shaped and textured like an overlarge golf ball. I picked up the mug and stared at my reflection again.

"You stupid prick," I shouted at myself and threw the mug at the mirror.

Too late I recalled glass' propensity for shattering into thousands of pieces. I put up my arm to duck the shards and felt the sting of a deep cut to my little finger.

This only served to increase my rage once more. I gripped the cabinet, tried to tear it from the wall, but this was an old house, with old walls, and all the attached furnishings had been properly hung by Shaz, not amateurs from a Laura Tyndall makeover show, and the cabinet would not budge. Blood poured everywhere. I ran the water, and held my finger under the cold tap for a moment, to take away the initial sting, then cut the water off, while I dug out a Band-Aid from the immoveable cabinet and covered the cut.

The brief hiatus assuaged my fury a little, but not much. I came back into the living room and somewhere at the back of my mind, a tiny voice told me I should, by now, be cool, feeling the first pangs of guilt and stupidity at my hasty actions, but I was neither calm, guilty, nor even feeling particularly stupid. Instead, I surveyed the scene of disaster with something approaching satisfaction.

Across the carpet lay books, CDs, DVDs, and a 6" tall model of Darth Vader, which had sat on my desk for many years as a source of inspiration to me. Now his tiny, red light sabre was crooked in my direction, almost beckoning to me. I picked it up, studied its absurd little mask for a moment, then threw it at the coal effect fire where it dislodged a couple of lumps of fake coal and lay there in the false fire glow, looking for all the world as it if it were on its funeral pyre, the way the 'real' Darth Vader had been cremated in _Return Of The Jedi._

One or two of the books had landed face up. Amongst them was Napoleon Hill's _Think And Grow Rich_ and a hardback I didn't readily recognise.

It was an old book, showing a predominantly green cover, a caricatured representation of the English countryside, and a bespectacled, middle-aged man walking along a rough track, wearing a trilby hat and carrying a rucksack.

The memory cells clicked into place, and I picked it up. _The Spring Madness of Mr Sermon._

Holding the book in my hand, staring at the simplistic, variegated image under the title, I blamed that book for all my troubles, and threw it on the heap.

Then I suddenly realised what I had to do. I had to get away, just like Sermon, for a few days, weeks, maybe months, and sort myself out.

The notion calmed whatever torrents had been raging through me, for no other reason than the boldness of the move. Could I really walk out on everything, take myself off to a new town where no one knew me?

Where no one knew me? I almost laughed. I had one of the most recognisable faces in the country, maybe even Europe. _Everyone_ knew me.

All the same, it was a tempting notion.

For a moment, I wavered. Despite my whinging and whining, I had it pretty cushy here. I wasn't tied to an office or the factory I'd thought about earlier, and even if Underlinen and _Bleaker Cove_ made what I considered to be unreasonable demands upon my time, it wasn't as if I was seriously worked to exhaustion. Walking away would not simply mean quitting the show, but my entire life, leaving this woman's scurrilous charges hanging over me, and that was a much more dangerous idea.

I looked down at my hands. Large and powerful, hard when the knuckles connected with a jaw, soft when the fingertips connected with a clitoris, but unsullied by manual labour.

My old man was fifty-five years old, and he'd worked for the local dairy virtually since the day he left school, crawling out of bed at half past four every morning, out on his rounds day in day out, lugging crates of milk around, delivering the bottles to houses all over the town. All right, so he no longer had the round since the dairy stopped doorstep deliveries, but he still showed up day in day out, and passed the time lugging bottles and cartons around. His hands were hard too, but gnarled by the cold, calloused with the sweat of his daily graft. I had never done a day's hard, _physical_ work in my life. Could I start now?

I concluded, I could not. I simply could not walk away from everything that I had here.

A deep disappointment engulfed me. This was the truth. In the finally analysis, Brett Sturgess, every woman's hero, victor of God knows how many bar fights, saviour of female frustrations, lacked the bottle to face life and take it by the balls.

Then I thought about going back to _Bleaker Cove_ and the inevitable inquest over today's tête-à-tête with Verdonk. It would go on for weeks, and much worse, Verdonk would get his way. I would be a eunuch, cut off at the balls, a piece of property owned by Underlinen. I felt a new resolve burning inside. They owned Brett Sturgess, not Clint Devries. I was my own man. I owned me and I was about to take me back; right here and now.

I stood up, passed through to the bedroom, where I dragged my overnight bag onto the mattress, emptied a load of laundry from it, threw in a few shirts and clean underwear, and zipped it up. I carried it and my laptop to the door, then paused to look back.

The mess could stay. Someone would clean it up. Maybe Ali, maybe his daily. I didn't care.

_Sermon_ took my eye again, the front cover staring up at me from the top of the heap on the carpet, almost appealing to me to take it. I strode back, picked it up and slipped it into one of the front pockets of my laptop case, turned back, picked up the bag again, and stepped out into the cold evening.

Opening the car door, I threw the bag and laptop on the back seat, climbed behind the wheel and fired the engine. I shunted her round, and as I pulled out of the gates towards Grain's Bar, I couldn't even remember whether I'd locked the flat door, and I didn't care. Everything could go hang.

Instead, I drove off heading back towards the motorway and freedom. There was only one place I could go. Blackpool. Tanya Yaeger came from Blackpool. Aside from needing time away, if I was ever to get my life back, I had to get to her first.

# Chapter Twelve

Three miles after leaving my flat, back once more at the Rockingstones transmitter, I dropped onto the motorway, turning west, and ten miles further on, I pulled into the service area at Birch.

Climbing out of the car, I pulled my hat low over my forehead, and buried myself in my big coat. I entered the service station and the shop, where I bought a plain red, overpriced T-shirt, a marker pen, a sandwich and a bottle of Pepsi. Then returning to the car, I spent a few minutes chewing on my sandwich and used the cardboard backing from the shirt to make a sign reading 'Preston'. I didn't want to go to Preston, but since it was on the motorway, I figured it would be easier than getting a lift to Blackpool. I collected my bag and my laptop, locked the car again, dropped the keys in my pocket, and made for the exit lane, where I thumbed for a lift.

It was a long wait. I didn't actually look at my watch, but it must have been the better part of an hour before a builder in a pickup truck finally stopped for me.

He dropped me at the next services, on the outskirts of Bolton and I waited again for a lift. This time it was a trucker driving a big rig with a brewery logo plastered all over its sides. He was from Birmingham and after delivering to a regional distribution centre on Trafford Park, he was making for a 24-hour supermarket in Preston.

Thirty minutes later, he came off the motorway at the Tickled Trout, climbed the steep hill and dropped me at the mini island at the start of Blackpool Road. I climbed out of his cab, he went on his way and I began the walk to the town centre and the bus station.

I knew where the bus station was in Preston. I'd fronted an advert for high-priced mobile phones a couple of years previously, and we filmed it in Preston near the Holiday Inn, which as it happened, was next door to the bus station. It was the thick end of two miles from where I left the lorry, and it took me the better part of forty-five minutes to walk it, just in time to miss the last bus to Blackpool. Checking the timetable, I learned it would be ten to six the following morning before the next one.

I passed an hour in the corner of a near-empty bar, sinking a few beers and considering my options.

For a number of reasons, legging it like that was the right thing to do. First off, no matter how hard Underlinen tried to suppress it, the story would break sooner rather than later. They would set about controlling it rather than burying it. Beyond that, it would also present Verdonk with a conundrum. He had said enough to indicate that he did not want me out of The Cove, he wanted me in, tamed, hooked on a leash. But could he admit that on TV? He could not. It would be tantamount to admitting he was burying a crime.

Also, getting away would give me time to sort myself out, work out a way in which I could get back at the bitch, Tanya Yaeger, prove her a liar and stitch Verdonk up in such a way that he would have to toe my line, not vice versa.

My disappearance would be good for _Bleaker Cove_. Any publicity was good publicity and the viewing figures would inevitably rise. If and when I decided to make a comeback, I would be in a much better negotiating position.

But would Verdonk sell me out? The bits of news I caught from the TV in the pub indicated only that there had been a problem in Scarborough, and I had stormed out of a heated meeting. There was no mention of anything criminal behind it, and neither was there any mention of my disappearance.

When the pubs shut, I toyed with the idea of checking into the Holiday Inn, but promptly decided against it. I had an idea it wouldn't take people long to track me down, but I'd no intentions of making it any easier for them. Visiting three separate ATMs, I pulled just over a thousand pounds from three different accounts, and then spent a largely sleepless night hanging around the bus station, hunched up on different benches.

No matter how often I said I'd become bored with The Cove, nothing could compare to the absolute, soul-destroying boredom of those seven hours. The sweep hands on the overhead clock and on my Rolex dawdled around the dials with a determination not to be rushed. Bus station staff and night cleaners approached me now and then, but I explained to each of them that I was there for a reason (waiting for the first Blackpool bus) and they left me alone. The odd drunk staggered in my direction, sometimes bumming a cigarette or small change, neither of which I had, and I made it plain that even if I had, I wouldn't hand it over. None of them got stroppy, although one or two did go away chuntering to themselves.

I was cold, tired and hungry, and the irony of a comfortable, heated (albeit wrecked) flat with a well-stocked larder less than one hundred miles away did nothing to lift the depression which gradually sank over me.

And through it all, the anger, mixed with self-pity, disallowed any planning. Instead, I alternately shivered and seethed.

I finally boarded the first bus at a quarter to six, and he pulled away from the stand at dead on 5:50.

Although Blackpool was only fifteen miles distant, it was a journey of about an hour and a half, calling at every little halt along the way, but that didn't trouble me since I slept most the time. I finally stepped out of Talbot Road bus station at twenty past seven and went into a nearby café to enjoy a full English breakfast.

While I ate, I learned that, at last, I could think something like straight. My fame, which I'd enjoyed for the most part, was the biggest problem confronting me. I picked up early edition newspapers, all of which had been given a formal statement by Underlinen saying I had gone walkabout after a professional disagreement with my agent. A pack of half-truths and blatant lies, sure, but it suited me, and it obviously suited Underlinen. All I needed was an effective disguise.

When the town began to come alive, I nipped into several charity shops, and eventually returned to the bus station toilets where I changed into a pair of jogging pants, a shabby jumper, and put on a cheap fleece and a flat cap which I kept pulled low over my brow as I made my way out into the town.

I recalled the dinner date where I had successfully mimicked Lee Connors' accent. Putting it to good use, I trawled the back streets off Palatine Road and finally found a landlady who was obviously still geared up for the illuminations, which ran until November, but would be prepared to rent me a room for a few days.

Settling into the dusty apartment, with its old-fashioned furnishings, I was satisfied that I had managed to disappear. That satisfaction was short-lived. I didn't take long to learn that I'd made some elementary errors, as I discovered when I sat in a bar near the Tower, just off the front, and caught the news on TV.

I had anticipated accurately that it would be the big story of the day, and it was. What I had not anticipated was that plod would misinterpret the blood in the bathroom and my abandoned car as a sign that I may have come to some harm. They were worried for my safety, so the cops said on the news. It occurred to me that one of the first things they would do would be to put a track on my bank accounts. I had drawn a grand in Preston, but it would not last long, so I rolled out to the nearest bank and drew the maximum allowed on my three debit cards – £350 on each – making sure I kept the hat low down to avoid too close a shot from any cameras fitted to the ATMs.

I went back to my digs, booted up the laptop and opened up a file; named it _Solve it,_ and I spent an hour noting down all I could remember of the disastrous, previous day.

By the time I surfed the news channels on my smartphone, my disappearance and safety were the only hot topics, far outweighing trivia like wars in Syria and Iraq, global warming, the Russians sounding off and the usual squabbles over the price of gas and electricity. Cutting the phone connection, I made a decision.

The sensible thing to do was ring the police and tell them that I was fine, but I knew that would only bring the paparazzi to my door again, and I did not want that. I wanted time alone to sort myself and the mess out. So I decided to keep quiet and let them carry on looking. But that presented even more problems.

First, I shut the mobile down and left it off. Instead I bought a new one, a pay as you go model, and didn't bother registering the number.

My readily recognisable features were easy to deal with. Wearing the flat cap in public and growing a beard, which I could do in a matter of a week, would solve the problem. I would still be recognisable as Clint Devries, but people would have to look closely to spot me.

That aside I would have to do something about money. I had a fortune in various accounts, but as time went on and the police became more and more convinced that some mishap had occurred, they would watch the accounts more closely, and without a car I could not travel great distances to use the ATM cards. The bank may even suspend the accounts to prevent what they might interpret as theft. I had to face it, if I was to live incognito, I would need a job.

Finally, I would need a new name. As a writer, it did not take me long to dream one up. Walking along the seafront, a Bentley, decked out for a wedding, drove past, and shortly afterwards, I was in a bar where a crowd of lads were celebrating _Big Jeff's Stag Party_. In no time at all, I ceased to be Clint Devries and became Jeff Bentley.

So I had a new identity, now I needed a new job to go with it. Trouble was, I'd never done a day's serious work in my life. When I was a student, I took on odd, vacation jobs; serving in a burger joint, serving behind a bar, stacking shelves in supermarkets, but I'd never really got my hands dirty. The only things I knew were teaching and acting. Teaching was out. No school would entertain me without my diploma and teaching certificate, history and references, and that would instantly tell the world who I was followed by where I was. I had to do something else.

Fortunately that very medium I had come to hate so much, TV, beefed up my determination.

Never let it be said that the media were slow to leap on stories.

On the second morning, I took breakfast at a café, and while I ate, I read the _Daily Gazette_ , its front page blazing the headline, _BRETT MISSING!_

I read on with an impending sense of doom and as I did so, I pulled my hat lower and lower over my forehead to hide my identity.

It's two days since the sensational disappearance of Bleaker Cove star, Clint Devries, and he's now officially listed as a missing person.

Clint, who was filming on location near the Yorkshire seaside resort of Scarborough, walked out of his hotel on Monday evening, following a disagreement between himself and his long-time friend and agent, Alistair Greenall.

Mr Greenall, interviewed at his Oldham home, had this to say. "I've known Clint all my life, and he's not the kind of man who would just take a hike. I'm worried something may have happened to him."

Mr Greenall would not comment on the substance of his disagreement with Clint, but a source close to the pair hinted that it concerned the direction in which Mr Greenall, who as well as being the creator of Bleaker Cove is also the creative consultant in charge of the scriptwriters, has taken the soap.

Clint Devries rose to stardom five years ago when he was cast in the lead role of Brett Sturgess. His muscular physique and good looks have endeared him to millions of fans, particularly women, throughout the UK and across Europe. Twenty-nine years old, unmarried, a former PE teacher, Clint's on-screen marriage to Candy, played by Emma Penton, is one of the mainstays of Bleaker Cove. Interviewed yesterday, a tearful Ms Penton had this to say.

" _Clint is a wonderful actor, and if he is a little outspoken at times, it's always with the best interests of the show at heart. He lives and breathes Bleaker Cove. It's so out of character for him to disappear like this and I'm worried for him. If you're reading this, Clint, please get in touch, even if it's just to let us know you're safe."_

Produced by the Underlinen Media Group, Bleaker Cove was an instant and spectacular success and within a year of its first broadcast, the show was syndicated throughout the world, translated into no less than 43 languages.

Bleaker Cove producer, Edwin Welch was unavailable for comment, but issued the following statement through his secretary.

" _The whole cast and crew of Bleaker Cove are deeply upset over Clint's disappearance, and very concerned for his safety. Clint is a valuable member of our team and I cannot overestimate his contribution to our success. I would ask Clint, or anyone who may have seen him to get in touch with us or the police."_

At a press conference yesterday afternoon, Chief Inspector Anthony Rummer of Greater Manchester CID said, "At the moment, although we are concerned at the manner of his disappearance, we are worried for Mr Devries's safety, but we would ask him to get in touch with us or his friends and family, if he's able to. There are certain circumstances surrounding his absence that need explaining."

Although pressed by reporters, Chief Inspector Rummer refused to divulge what the circumstances were.

Turn to pages 4 & 5 for a two page special on Clint Devries, the man every man wants to be, the man every woman wants to be with."

I groaned inwardly. What the hell kind of mess had I got myself into?

I could safely ignore the platitudes from the likes of Ed Welch, but Ali had obviously been got at, ordered to toe the line, give out a statement which was more lie than truth, and that very idea spooled up my temper again. I vowed that somewhere along the line, I would see to it that Verdonk paid for this.

My disappearance had been hot news since lunchtime the previous day and our regional independent channel had cobbled together a profile of Clint Devries's rise to stardom, which they ran after the early evening, local news, replacing their usual magazine program.

Although it was cringeworthy, I was glad I watched it.

It was no more than thirty minutes of clips and previous interviews with a variety of people, including my parents, sister and friends. Somewhere around the middle section was an item, about three years old according to my recollection, on the growth of the Brett and Candy Sturgess look-alike industry. Young men and women, some of them dead ringers for Emma and myself, offered themselves to make 'celebrity' appearances at weddings, parties, school open days, supermarket openings, and so on. There was a couple of minutes on a window cleaner from Norwich who looked something like me and had boosted his business on the strength of his physical similarity, and there was even a section on Brett and Candy strippers, men and women, some of whom looked alarmingly like Emma and me, letting it all hang out on stage. One couple actually worked together, running a soft porn routine at a men's club in West London.

I was no stranger to look-alikes. Underlinen actually employed them now and again, using doubles to get us away from the paparazzi, and of course, one or two had met with violence.

All the same, the program gave me an idea. Could I pretend to be a Clint Devries look-alike? Turn the whole of my acting career on its head and instead of pretending to be someone I wasn't, pretend to be someone pretending to be someone I really was?

It was totally outrageous, and naturally my accent would give me away in a flash. But that was not the problem it might have been. Part of my acting training had concentrated on the work of the dialogue coach and I'd discovered very early on a talent for mimicking regional accents, my best being Geordie, as I'd already demonstrated with my landlady.

So there I was. Less than an hour after making the decision, I had ceased to be Clint Devries and I was now Jeff Bentley, a Geordie who happened to be a Brett Sturgess look-alike, seeking work in the UK's busiest seaside resort.

The first test of my resolve came the following morning when I was out and about. I was cold and hungry. All right I had cash in my pocket, and I could eat for a week or two, but without any knowledge of how long it would take to find Tanya Yaeger, that could not go on. I needed to earn a living.

The irony was not lost on me. I spent little money. I had several millions stashed all over the world, a portfolio of solid investments that probably hiked my worth by several more millions, and yet I was practically broke, having to go through the kind of agonising choices our underclass experienced on a daily basis – whether to eat or keep warm when you can't afford both – but which I had never suffered in my life. Even when I lived at home with my parents, where we were never well off, the old man worked seven days a week to make sure there was bread on the table and gas coming through the meter.

I spent the next couple of days trawling the cafes and bars of Blackpool, with my fake Geordie accent, seeking work, trying to sell myself as Jeff, a Clint Devries/Brett Sturgess look-alike.

It was a hopeless quest. First off, I was the worst salesman in the world. Selling, as garrulous Ali Greenall knew only too well, was a subtle skill. It was not, as so many people would insist, about selling something to someone who does not want to buy, but persuading someone who _may_ want to buy, that they _should_ buy. Ali was a natural because his warped mind could paint the dream ad lib. I had no such asset. I needed to think it out, to plan, and when someone threw an objection at me that I hadn't planned for, I was sunk.

In the case of the café and bar owners, they threw the same objection at me time after time. It was the end of the season. During the summer, I could have had a hundred jobs, but at this time of year, with the visitor numbers winding down, they had all the crew they needed.

"I can give you a couple of nights a week casual work but I can't offer you anything permanent," said one guy who obviously saw the advantages of having a celeb look-alike behind the bar.

I went back to the drawing board. What else could I do? Trawling the employment pages of the _Blackpool Gazette_ I came to a horrible realisation. I was useless. There was not one single job in those columns that I could do. I was a celebrity, a good if not outstanding actor, a capable teacher and writer, but that aside, I was worth nothing to Great Britain's industry.

It was a shock. My old man had never aspired to anything grandiose. He was a milkman. A comparatively well off milkman after his only son had chosen to look after him, but a milkman nonetheless. I couldn't even do his job without some kind of training, and even if I applied for such work, and other, similarly unskilled vacancies, I would have to do so as Clint Devries, not Jeff Bentley.

At that point, I almost gave in, but a piece in the _Daily_ _Chronicle_ stopped me. The editor-in-chief, Ike Forrest, a man who had publicly hated me for years, made it plain that he considered Clint Devries's disappearance to be nothing more than a huge publicity stunt organised by Underlinen, and although Verdonk and his team vehemently denied it, Forrest went on TV to push that line, and he really gave us some stick: Underlinen and me both. With him shouting the odds, if I turned up again, I would probably be arrested and charged with wasting police time. I had made my bed and I would have to lie in it.

I mooched on the matter for the next twenty-four hours, then had a stroke of luck. Calling in at the Job Centre, I spotted an advert for an experienced barman at Schmitz. They made me an appointment and I went to see Bill Smith that very morning.

The club was situated in a pokey backstreet not far from Talbot Road bus station, and were it not for the glitzy sign above the metal door it would have been easy to mistake for a small warehouse.

Smith was in his early forties with a large paunch and a thick soup strainer under his bulbous nose. When I got close to him, I could tell he needed a good deodorant, but he could probably say the same about me. He was blunt and to the point.

"I don't need tramps, lad," he told me when I stood before him in his tiny office.

"I'm nay tramp," I said, forcing a strong, northeast accent through my voice, "just skint with naywhere to live. And I look like Clint Devries."

As I took off my flat cap, he studied my bearded features. "Interesting. I don't suppose you can dance?"

"Never in a million years," I replied. It was not true. A part of my drama course had involved learning to dance. Ballroom stuff, mainly, but the basics of more modern dance, including erotic/exotic had been included. But I did not want to dance. "I'm a barman," I told him. "I worked at Nutterflies in Bridlington and Willems in Middlesbrough, and they made a lot of me looking like Devries. Now that he's missing, you could dee worse." More lies. I knew the places I had mentioned but I'd only ever been to each club once in my life, and my bar experience was limited to the Union at university. "Listen, marrer, I'm broke. The landlady'll be chucking us out soon, and I need the work and somewhere to doss."

Smith agreed to give me the job.

Pulling pints, mixing cocktails was something I had learned at uni, but it was a long time since I'd done any. Could I do it again?

I reminded myself of my overarching objective – to find Tanya Yaeger – and to do that I needed to be in Blackpool. Necessity wasn't only the mother of invention, but part of the survival instinct, too. The need to be out of harm's way until I could find and get to this woman who had caused me so much trouble.

I started that very afternoon and it was nothing short of hell, but employing my capacity for fast learning (it came from having to learn lines too close to a filming deadline) within a week, it was like I had been doing it all my life.

The landlady, true to her word, threw me out by the end of the week. In exchange for working behind the bar, Smith not only paid me a pittance, but let me have one of the two dressing rooms in the club so I could doss. Not much bigger than the laundry room in Ali's house, it was there that I hid anything and everything to do with Clint Devries.

I would spend some of the most wretched weeks of my life at in that crummy room, watching crap programs on a portable TV, eating frozen meals from the nearest supermarket, passing my spare time keeping notes of everything the media reported regarding my disappearance, my search for Tanya Yaeger, when I could be bothered, and drafting the script for _Sermon_. Somewhere along the line, I would come back to life and present it, probably to the Beeb or one of the major independent players. I was certain that they would snap me up when Underlinen dispensed with my services.

# Chapter Thirteen

The busiest night of the week at Schmitz was Ladies' Night.

Six nights a week, Schmitz employed (if that was the word) pole and lap dancers, most of whom paid him to appear there and made their money from the punters. On Tuesday night, it was Men's Night, when he brought in a couple of professional strippers, but on Thursday, the reverse was true. The audience was exclusively female, and the stripper, Ramrod, was male.

The exception to the women-only rule was the staff. There were four of us; three men, including me, and a thirty-something brunette named Melanie. No way could Smith get hold of temporary, one-night only, female bar staff, so he waived the rules and allowed us to work.

It wasn't good for me because the performers, like their female counterparts on Tuesday nights, used my cubby-hole to change and since the place wasn't big enough for all of us, I had to get out of the way.

I don't know what I expected the first time I saw the show. A _Full Monty_ rip off, I suppose, but I was in for a surprise.

Ramrod, real name Tony Armitage, stood about six foot six, and had all the necessary attributes: six-pack, bulging biceps, and a bigger bulge between his rippling thighs. And could he dance? A rhetorical question. Of course he could.

In the run up to his first performance, we were going hell for leather at the bar. Piña Colada, Sex On The Beach, Orgasm, as well as standbys like Bacardi and coke and halves of lager, were moving like they were being taken out of circulation and the punters wanted their share while they were still available, and they wanted them handy so they could take their seats before the performance.

Then, almost like magic, the bar was clear, the lights dimmed, and Smith announced, "Ladies, here he is for your delectation... RAMROD."

He burst onto the stage, dressed in tight trousers and a black jumper, and wearing a Darth Vader mask. He began with a stomping routine to Queen's _I Want To Break Free,_ which sent a spark of 'I thought as much' through me. As he marched around the stage, he made a show of hooking thumbs into the waistband of his trousers before tearing off them off, spinning them round and round and casting them into the audience.

"He says it costs him a fortune when some of the cows take 'em home," Melanie told me.

From Queen, he moved on to Bonnie Tyler's _I need A Hero_ which let him slide off the jumper bit by bit, gradually exhibiting the biceps, pecs and abs, (all oiled and gleaming, of course, which Melanie told me was another expense he moaned about) to the suggestion that he had to be larger than life. By now he was down to a pair of calf-length leather boots (which he'd bought from a charity shop for a tenner according to the bar's newsfeed, aka Melanie) a pair of plain, black underpants which were a little too tight and outlined his bulge, and, as I would soon learn, a thong beneath those.

He cooled the music switching from rock to classical and the opening bars of Felix Mendelsohn's _Fingal's Cave_ , swaying sinuously, seductively round the stage while he teased the Y-fronts off, one leg at the time.

By now, the audience was warming up, and beginning to chant, "Off, off, off, off, off, off." I remained impassionate. If they were like that now, how would they be when the thong came off?

Suddenly a gaggle of women, obviously frequent visitors, rushed to the stage and stretch their arms up to him. Searching their faces with Vader's impenetrable eyes, he picked on a woman in her forties, and held out his hand for her to join him.

This woman needed no encouragement. She leapt onto the stage and into his arms. To Glenn Miller's _Moonlight Serenade_ he hugged and waltzed her erotically around the stage.

A plain, chubby thing, she was instantly in raptures. The extraordinary sight had most of the audience transfixed, too, and I could barely hear a sound from them, aside from the 'oohs' when he pressed her to him. As sexually blatant as his antics were, I noticed his hands were where the audience could see them at all times... even if they were pressed against her back bumpers to pull her closer.

The music stopped. He pushed the woman to her knees. An expectant hush fell over the crowd. The main theme from _Superman The Movie_ began to play, a solo trumpet announcing the arrival of the Man of Steel.

He presented his left hip and the thong's tie. The woman, her hands shaking visibly, pulled the bow. He quickly placed his hand over the front triangle to prevent it falling away and swivelled his hips to present the right side and the other bow.

The expectancy of the crowd rose by several decibels as they began to chant again. "Off, off, off, off, off, off," all but drowning out the music. The volunteer reached for the second bow, barely in control of her trembling hands. She pulled gently at it and it came loose. He took her hand, guided it to the hanging tie and when she held that, he took her right hand and guided it to the left tie. All the while the music climbed to its opening crescendo, and the only thing protecting his modesty was that small triangle of material, held up by this shaking volunteer.

The crowd's chanting reached a fever pitch. "Off, off, off, off, off, off."

The music hit a peak and he stepped back. A thunderous cheer went up from the audience. The volunteer, still on her knees, still holding the now empty thong, stared beyond her hands, her eyes bulging in total surprise at the prospect before her.

He was only half hard, but his rod was projecting far enough for the whole audience to gaze in raptures.

The music shifted again, this time to _Joybringer_ by Manfred Mann's Earth Band, based on _Jupiter_ from Holst's Planet Suite. Again, it was entirely apposite if oblique. I guessed that what he had between his legs had brought plenty of joy to many women in its time. He took the volunteer in his arms and waltzed her again, and I wondered what kind of confusion was going through the poor woman's mind. Her third finger, left hand said she was married and here she was dancing fully clothed with a naked man whose face was hidden by the absurd mask. The mere idea was probably enough to make most of those in the audience wet between the thighs.

As a finale, he let the woman go, encouraged the audience to give her a round of applause, and went into his finale, which was the main title theme from Star Wars. And as he marched and danced around the stage, he unclipped the Vader mask to reveal a handsome face, not unlike a young Mel Gibson, and the crowd went absolutely apeshit.

***

With Ramrod off the stage and the lights up, the bar was suddenly packed again and we were going hell for leather. It was a good half hour before it eased off, and I could talk to Melanie.

"He's been working here about a year, now," she told me, "and he's one of the best. This place is heaving every Thursday. His second spot is a _Bleaker Cove_ take. You'd do well at that, cos you don't half look like Clint Devries." She eyed my beard. "If you got rid of the bum fluff."

"Why do ye think I growed it?" I asked in my best Geordie. "Anyways, I cannot dance. Not like that."

With a financial awareness that would have Ali crying tears of joy, it occurred to me that there were about 200 women in the place, and unlike most nights when entry was free, Smith charged a tenner a head. He charged on Men's Night, too, but he didn't get anything like the same numbers in. All up then, he had taken two grand on the door, and he paid Ramrod a ton for each spot. Smith was eighteen hundred dabs to the good before a single drink had been served. Contrast that with Men's Night, when as few as twenty punters might show up. He compensated by paying the female strippers fifty notes a spot. That would have had the actors' representatives screaming on the set of _Bleaker Cove_ , but when I asked Melanie, she was quite blasé about it.

"They get work where they can, and they get whatever they can for doing it. That's the way it is these days. Not just in club work, but everywhere."

"Aye, I know aboot it, but I thought there were laws against it. Equal pay and stuff."

Melanie laughed. "Yeah, and these girls are gonna go skriking to some tribunal about it, aren't they? Smithy would just find someone else to throw their duds off for the dirty mac brigade."

I was secretly appalled. It was rare that I read newspapers, and even rarer that I watched the news on TV, but that did not mean I was completely ignorant of what went on in the 'real' world. I knew that women were paid less than their male counterparts in many industries, and they often found it difficult to climb the corporate ladder because of their gender.

It was not something I had come across on _Bleaker Cove_ , however. When Ali told me he was going to represent Emma, I insisted he struck the same deal for her as he had for me. I remember him telling me how tough the negotiations had been, but he did it. Comparing her to the women in Schmitz, and thinking how Ali had sold me into virtual slavery to get the deal, I wondered what he had done for Emma. The same, probably. Or maybe worse. Maybe she had promised to dance out of a giant birthday cake for Verdonk one of these days.

Melanie had more depressing news. "When they're really hard up, some of the girls will go with the men. Twenty quid a jump in the back of the car."

"Prostitutes," I grumbled. "I didn't know things was that bad."

"Jeez, Jeff, what planet have you been living on for the last ten years? Mars? Welcome to the twenty-first century, pal."

I had to admit, if only to myself, that she was right. I'd not exactly been wrapped in a cocoon, but my wealthy and secure lifestyle and unwillingness to keep up with the news, had inured me from such things. It was a sad and sorry state of affairs, but I was learning just how sad and sorry an excuse for a human being I had become.

As Melanie had promised, Ramrod's second spot was based on _Bleaker Cove_. While he did not look anything like me, when the show's theme tune began to play, he came out dressed as Brett Sturgess.

He soon switched to the _Alla Hornpipe_ from Handel's _Water Music,_ an allusion which was probably lost on most of the crowd, but which was lively enough for him to dispose of Brett's overalls and check shirt, and for me to revise my opinion of the man. He had had some kind of education, if only in classical music. Either that, or he'd done plenty of research on the web.

He danced another shaking woman around the stage to Handle, then switched to Eric Coates' _Dambusters March_ to dispense with the thong, from where he used the Bellamy Brothers _If I Said You Had A Beautiful Body_ , a lapse into the obvious which most people were willing to forgive while they enjoyed the naked dance. He ended the second set with a medley of music, a mixture of pop and classics, completing the show with the finale of Mussorgsky's _Picture At An Exhibition, The Grand Gate Of Kiev_ , a magnificent piece of music to augment what (according to Melanie) the local rag had once described as 'a magnificent finish to a show which, while it was aimed at titillation, was nevertheless entertaining'.

That first Ladies Night was an eye opener... and a muck sweat. I had never worked so hard in my life and by the time I hit my cot about half one in the morning, I was shattered and asleep in seconds.

It got easier. As I came up to speed with my colleagues, got to know where the different bottles were ranged at the bar, registered what some of the regulars drank so I could have it half prepared while they were still ordering, I also learned to ignore Ramrod and his show, and use his time on stage to take a break, nip outside for a breath of air. After three weeks, it was as if I'd been doing it all my life.

I did manage to collar Ramrod and speak to him about his work. It was on the second week, after the audience had gone home and we were having a blow before cleaning down.

"Does it not bother ye, man, flashing your wedding tackle at these women?"

"I have plenty to flash, so why should it?" When he spoke, it was with a strong, Welsh accent, and I later learned he came from the Barmouth area of Mid-Wales but now lived in Formby near Southport. "I'll tell you something, mate, I have a degree in history, but what bloody use is that to me? Best I could do would be research or teaching. But while I've got these" He flexed his massive biceps, "and these," he pointed to his crotch, "I can make two hundred pound a night, and I average four nights' work a week. More as we come up to Christmas. I couldn't make that kinda dosh teaching or poking round old texts in the British Museum."

He was right. Having been a teacher, I could vouch for that.

"Ah, but it's a bit degrading, innit?"

"Depends how seriously you take it. I'm an entertainer, aren't I? That's all." He laughed at my disdain. "Pity you can't get into it, sport. You're a ringer for Clint Devries, and you'd make a fortune."

I ended the debate after that, excusing myself to get with the cleaning.

His attitude rang so many bells that it irritated me. He was, as far as I was concerned, an excellent dancer, and his choice of music told me all I needed to know about his creativity. If he was telling the truth about his education – and I had no reason to doubt him – then he was simply another individual trapped on the money-go-round.

That was easy for me to say, considering my personal wealth, but it still rankled.

By and large, although it was hard work, I would have enjoyed my time at Schmitz, if it were not for the empty days.

I was looking for one woman in a town with a variable population, but which was estimated at140,000. As I began the search, it occurred to me that back home, I had several millions in the bank, and I could have hired a private investigator to look for her. He (or she) would have probably tacked her down in a matter of days.

I tried the obvious avenues. The phone book did not have any such name, which meant she was either not on the phone, living with someone who had a different name, or she was ex-directory. The electoral roll was out. First it was not alphabetic, and second I couldn't afford it on the wages Smith paid.

I tried social media, with no luck, but that stopped in a matter of days when I read the front page of the _Gazette_ for the latest update on my disappearance.

_BRETT MURDERED_ blazed the headlines.

Police, searching for missing megastar Clint Devries, believe he may have been murdered. Speaking outside Oldham police station, Chief Inspector Anthony Rummer of Greater Manchester Police gave the following statement.

We are becoming increasingly concerned for the safety of Mr Devries. We know that he left The Majestic Hotel in Scarborough after a stormy meeting and an argument with his friend, personal adviser and manger, Alistair Greenall. We know that he called at his home on the moors near Oldham, and we also know that his flat had been wrecked. Forensic officers, examining traces of blood found in the bathroom have since confirmed that the blood is that of Mr Devries. The amount of blood found was minimal, and we are fairly certain that when he left his home, Mr Devries was alive. His car was later found on the Birch service area on the M62. Our subsequent inquiries have revealed that £1,000 was withdrawn from three of Mr Devries' bank accounts in Preston on the night of his disappearance, and a further £1,000 was withdrawn from the same accounts a day later. We are examining CCTV footage from Preston Bus Station of a man, seen spending the night there. Although we cannot say this man looks much like Mr Devries, he is of a similar height and build, and if he becomes aware of this statement, we would like him to come forward.

We have eliminated Mr Greenall, and the cast and crew of Bleaker Cove from our inquiries, and we are now working on the theory that Mr Devries was unfortunate enough to come home that night, and disturb burglars at his home. We believe they bested him, drove his car to the services and abandoned it before moving him on. It's possible that they have been holding him in captivity, but if so, no ransom has been demanded, and it's possible that once his bank accounts were blocked and they realised they could not get any more money from them, they have decided to kill him.

This, obviously, is a worst case scenario, and it may very well be that we are wrong. If you are alive and well and able to do so, Mr Devries, I would urge you to get in touch with either ourselves or Mr Greenall or any of your colleagues involved in the production of Bleaker Cove.

The newspaper went onto say:

It's two weeks now since Clint walked out after a disagreement with Alistair Greenall, and the whole of the Bleaker Cove cast, crew and fans are still shocked and devastated by his disappearance.

Senior producer of Bleaker Cove, Edwin Welch, had this to say.

" _We really don't know what went off that night, but I would urge him to call us, if he's able. You are our friend and colleague, Clint, and whatever problems you may have, I'm certain we can help you sort them out."_

When the police statement broke, we asked other cast members for their comments, and they were unanimous in their shock and grief. The only person who would not speak to us was Emma Penton, who plays Clint's onscreen wife, Candy. Her agent told us she was heartbroken at the thought of Clint being murdered.

Turn to the centre pages for the full rundown on the story of Clint's dramatic walkout and subsequent disappearance.

I didn't bother. The front page was enough to infuriate me.

Not once did I see a mention of Tanya Yaeger and her insane accusations, not once did I see a mention of my argument with Verdonk and his tame terrier, super-duper paratrooper Lorimer. The entire thing was dropped on Ali and the spat between us in those final seconds before I walked out.

There wasn't even a report on Verdonk and the way he had collapsed, and I knew exactly what had happened when I left. He had recovered, booted the paramedics out with a warning to keep their mouths shut if they wanted to keep their jobs, and then turned the screws on Ali.

It was tough on my mate, but it convinced me that I had done the right thing by walking. Verdonk would not dare tell the real story, and while I was missing, it would be kept under tighter wraps than the Prime Minister's personal code for launching the country's nuclear arsenal. No one, absolutely no one would ever learn what this young woman had said or how Verdonk had reacted to it.

It also meant that Tanya Yaeger's life could be in danger. She knew everything. She could upset the applecart, and I would not trust Verdonk to stop at writing cheques to shut her up. If he felt she was a threat, he'd order Lorimer to take whatever steps necessary to keep her quiet. And that fruitcake would be happy to snuff her if he had to.

I had to find her and quickly.

It was only then that I realised Underlinen would know where she lived, and they would be well ahead of me. She could already be dead.

I needed help. I needed the two people I could trust the most: Ali and Emma. But I had blown it. I had shuffled Emma out of my life not once but twice, and I had cut Ali off at The Majestic that night. How the hell could I get them back onside?

I was still ruminating on it three weeks after going AWOL when the worst possible thing happened: Laura Tyndall turned up on Ladies Night.

# Chapter Fourteen

I didn't realise it at first. The crowd were chanting as usual, "Off, off, off, off, off, off," Ramrod was at the _Moonlight Serenade_ phase, waltzing a glassy-eyed, enraptured thirty-five-year-old round the stage and I was behind the bar skimming through the local rag looking for a mention of the name Yaeger. As _Superman_ began to play, and the stage volunteer pulled on the thong's ties, I looked up, glanced around the room and saw Laura standing just inside the doors, her features riveted on the action.

"Oh, shit."

"What's up, Jeff?" Melanie asked.

Even after three weeks, it sometimes took a second to recognise my assumed name. "Oh, er. Nowt, nowt." I tapped the newspaper. "Me horses went doon again."

I don't know whether Melanie was puzzled as to how I'd find the racing results from the Births, Deaths & Marriages page, because she never got to say anything before Laura strolled across to the bar. Melanie moved to serve her, but Laura shook her head and pointed a finger at me.

"I want to speak to Jeff."

My heart froze with terror. Any second now, the whole game would be over.

For a brief moment, I considered dropping the act and coming clean, but something prevented me. Something I had said in the caravan at Coble Bay months back. Most of her talents were open-mouthed. She thought I meant sucking, but in fact, I had been hinting at her inability to keep her trap shut. If I told her she was talking to the real Clint Devries, it would be all over the press, TV and web in less than an hour, and she would revel in the glory. _I FOUND CLINT DEVRIES SERVING DRINKS IN A BACKSTREET STRIP CLUB._ I could see the headlines unfolding before me. In less than twenty-four hours, the world would know, and less than twenty-four hours after that, I'd be manacled to Underlinen for life.

Even if I didn't own up, she would soon realise it. Thick and insensitive she might be, but not that thick.

Could I fool her? Was I a good enough actor to make her believe she was dealing with a bartender from Tyneside?

Why not? I'd been making people believe I was the skipper of a fishing boat for the last six years.

When I homed in on her she said, "And to start with, I'll have a vodka and coke, please."

"So what's wrong with Melanie?"

"Nothing. I want you to serve me."

So far, so good. If she knew, she wasn't letting on.

That, of course, meant nothing. Laura would want the story for herself, and the simplest way to ensure that was to make sure no one could overhear. She would insist on talking to me in private, not at the bar.

My hand shook almost uncontrollably, as I pressed a tumbler to the optic and pulled the vodka. Topping it with a less-than-generous slug of coke, I pushed it across the bar. "Fower thirty." I laid the Geordie accent on thick as I could. "Call it a fiver for cash."

"Let's call it four-fifty eh?" Laura said and handed over a fiver.

I rang up the drink, gave her change and dropped the odd twenty pence in the old Hamlet cigar canister we used as a tip box.

With _Star Wars_ coming through the speakers, Ramrod was nearing the end of his first set, and one or two women were already making for the bar.

"You know who I am?" she asked.

"Aye. I know ye."

"I'd like a word in private."

Ramrod took off his mask and bathed in the adulation. For once I was glad of the stampede heading our way.

"Come back when he's on his second set," I told Laura. "We're too busy now."

She was about to protest, but I had moved on to the first punters, and before she could get a word in, I was pulling Bacardis, Pernods, Camparis, et al.

Luckily by this stage, I was able to work almost on automatic pilot. I needed all my wits when I was taking orders and money. It allowed me time to think about my next move.

Run for it. It was the only option. In about forty minutes, Ramrod would come out for his second spot. If I timed it right, just before he emerged, I could be in the dressing room packing my gear, and while Laura was looking for me, I'd be on my way round the corner to Talbot Road Bus Station, and on the next stagecoach out of town.

The Western symbolism, perfectly apposite in my position, made me smile. The woman chasing me was a lot more frightening than John Wayne, Bob Mitchum, Clint Eastwood or even James Stewart, but then, I'd never considered James Stewart to be particularly frightening.

As it turned out, I miscalculated and it was all thanks to our doorman.

Phil Judd had managed to get up my nose ever since I first set foot in the place. Nicknamed Tattoos, thanks to the mess of so-called body art covering his hands, arms and neck, he came across as tough, but to me, he was only as chewy as my old Ma's Yorkshire puddings. We'd crossed swords on a few occasions, mostly when we were taking deliveries and he held me up with a metal beer barrel on my shoulders so he could check it off his sheet. More than once I'd threatened to drop the barrel on his foot... or his head.

He stopped me this time as I came out of the club room, making for my cubby-hole.

"Hey, where the fuck are you going?"

"Mind your ain business, man," I warned him.

He blocked my way as Ramrod came past making for the wings. "I'm making it my business. It's what Smithy pays me for."

"How much will he pay ye for your broken nose?"

"I haven't got a broken nose."

I cracked my knuckles. "It's still early. Now get oota the way."

"There you are, Jeff."

Laura's voice caused my heart to sink. I turned to find her hurrying along the corridor towards me.

"They said you'd gone for a pee," she told me.

"Well, let's be honest aboot it, eh? I was trying to avoid ye. Cos I knah what ye want and I wain't be deeing it."

She smiled coyly. "You don't know what I want."

Tattoos snorted. "You want him? A poofy Geordie? Tell you what, lass, you want some real action, why not come to me?"

Laura looked him up and down with a disdain I knew so well. "Hmm. Tell you what, why don't I tell you to fuck off and we'll call it a rain check. Okay?"

I almost laughed out loud. Only Laura Tyndall could put a man down so contemptuously, and Tattoos' gawping features told me she had bullseyed the target.

She took my arm. "Come on, Jeff. Let's step outside where I can have a fag and we can talk."

"You want a fag, you're taking the right bloke," Tattoos grumbled.

I rounded on him. "You open your gobshite mouth one more time, and I'll yank your tongue out and jam it up your own arse so you can taste the kind of shit you're made of."

"Could you do that?" Laura asked as she led me out into the chilly, October night. "Take him, I mean, not jam his tongue up his backside."

Was she ragging me? Had she genuinely not realised who I was?

"Aye," I replied. "Him and another half a dozen like him. Ha'way, lass, say what you have to say and let me get back to work."

She lit a cigarette and blew thin smoke at the night. "You've seen my program, _Celebrity Look-Alikes_?" She did not wait for me to answer. "I had a call from your boss, last week, telling me you looked like Clint Devries."

I steeled myself for the announcement.

"I have to admit, you're almost his double. Lose the beard, get shut of the godawful accent, and you could be him. How would you like to be the subject of _Celebrity Look-Alikes_ , Jeff?"

I was stunned. Not by the offer. That was to be expected. She really had not twigged me.

I recovered quickly. "Not interested."

"Why?"

"Because I told that prick, Smith, when I first started here, I divvent want any publicity."

"He said you would be amenable."

Another man sorting out my life. Shades of Ali Greenall. "He's wrong. I divvent do publicity. Right?"

"Jeff," she pleaded, "We'll pay you for it."

"Pay Smith, you mean," I argued. "I said I don't do publicity and I don't. Dain't bother turning up with your cameras. Or if you do, check out Ramrod. He looks a bit like Mel Gibson."

Laura took another drag on her cigarette and switched on her persuasive charms. "Look, Jeff, even a five-minute slot in this programme could launch you into a different world, and with Devries missing, we're looking to do a full half hour on you."

"I divvent want to be launched into anything."

"Most men would give their right arm for this kind of opportunity. Why are you so different?"

"Cos I have everything I want. Y'know? It's not a bad life, this. All right, all I'm deeing is pulling booze for sad sacks and one night a week for randy women, but it's what I'm cut for. I was good at school and I allus figured I might make summat of meself. Nay such bloody luck. Devries hit it big as Brett Sturgess, and that was enough for me. I'm a dead ringer for him and afore long I got pissed off with all the gadgies in bars who challenged us to a fight. Not to mention the hens who thought they were shagging Brett. So I grew this," I stroked a hand through my thin beard, "and came doon here to try and get away from it."

Laura's interest in Jeff's fake biog, piqued. "Jeff, you could make a fortune."

"I don't want to make a fortune," I insisted. "Money doesn't interest me. As long as I've enough to live on."

She began to get irritated. "For God's sake, what have I got to do to convince you? Sleep with you?"

I almost laughed. Laura was a bit on the chubby side, but still quite attractive, and many times in the past I had wondered how she would perform in the sack. Dare I find out now? I'd never get away with it. Would I?

I left a long, and from Laura's point of view, uncomfortable silence. I stood before her, my eyes fixed on her expansive cleavage. Then I raised my head slightly, fixed her gaze with mine and held it there for a long time.

She sighed and dug into her purse for her car keys. "It's years since I've had a back seat quickie, and you'd better make this worth my while."

# Chapter Fifteen

I didn't take Laura up on her offer.

I was going to but something called to me from within, telling me that to do so would make me the kind of man I had always been, and if I was ever going to get out of the mess I had created for myself, I needed to be a different man. And it wasn't too difficult. I had been at this dump for almost a month and I could have had more than my share of the women who turned up every Thursday, but I never had. That had to tell me something about myself.

To ensure that Laura was not offended by my refusal, I allowed her to persuade me to take part in _Celebrity Look-Alikes_ , but only on condition that I got the £200 fee, not Bill Smith. He would make enough from the extra publicity.

She and her full team turned up a week later and we spent most of the day filming the interview sequences in the dressing room and bar, and in the evening, she filmed me between both of Ramrod's spots, with a final piece to camera in the dressing room.

"Most of the time, Underlinen work pretty slowly on these shows. Normally, this wouldn't go out for transmission until early in the New Year, but because Devries is still missing, and because the cops now suspect he may have been murdered, they want to move fast on it." Laura chuckled. "They're trying to capitalise as much as they can on his disappearance, so your show will be aired in two weeks."

"Aye, lass, that's all reet with me. When dee I get paid, like?" The Geordie twang still had her fooled.

She shrugged. "That's up to the accounts department. Probably three months. If you haven't heard by the end of January, give me a bell."

My face fell convincingly. "Well, see, the trouble is I don't have a bank account. I could do with it in cash."

"Why don't you have a bank account?"

"Ha'way, lass, you know why. I live off the radar."

She may not have approved but she did understand. With an irritated cluck, she dug out her purse and rifled the contents. "Sorry. I don't have enough on me. I'll be back in touch with you, probably next week, so I'll make sure you get it."

"Just make sure you don't try to stiff us."

She laughed. "I was the one who almost got stiffed... or should that be stuffed? Maybe I'll call back and insist next time."

_Not while I'm still breathing_ , I thought. I said nothing aloud but gave her a thin smile, and she left.

And that was it. I went back to my futile search for Tanya Yaeger and got on with my crappy life as best I could, wondering how much longer I could do on with the charade, how much longer I would stick with it before going home and facing my friends and enemies alike.

But in less than a week, matters began to overtake me.

It was a routine Wednesday morning. I was up early, helping unload crates and barrels from the dray lorry, when a black Volvo, not unlike my silver one, pulled onto the club car park. If I hadn't recognised the number plate, it would not have taken long for me to make out the driver. Laura climbed out of the passenger seat, and Ali emerged from behind the wheel.

That was it and I knew it. Any second now, the air would be torn apart with every swearword Alistair Greenall could muster, and he could muster an awful lot, even if he couldn't spell them all. Fooling Bill Smith, whose main concern, like Ali's, was his wallet, tricking the half drunken punters who came to the club every night, including an audience of women who were more interested in Ramrod's dick than my face, pulling the wool over the eyes of Laura Tyndall, whose primary concern was her career, was all too easy. Hoodwinking Ali was impossible. I was coming up to my thirtieth birthday, and he had known me for most of those three decades. There was practically nothing he did not know about me, including my ability to mimic accents. And even if I managed to deceive him in the short term, I was sure to make a mistake somewhere along the line, and he would know. And when he knew, he would kill me. Probably by talking me to death.

Panic gripped me. I had to run, but they were walking up the narrow street from the car park, alongside the dray lorry, and there was nowhere to run, other than into the club. But if ran in there, they would find me. If they couldn't, that bastard Tattoos would grass me up. I had to either let the façade crumble or brazen it out.

"Hello, Jeff."

Laura was cheerful and breezy as she ambled up to me.

I was about to lift another keg of lager from the lorry, but I paused as Ali wandered round me, checked out my size and physique, then came back, and looked into my eyes, his lips pursed, eyes narrowed in deep concentration. I could almost hear the gears messing in his brain.

"Seen enough have you, pal?" I threw the Geordie accent at him.

He stroked his chin. "Lose the face wig, get shot of that shit accent and he's not bad," he said to Laura.

"Come off it, Ali. He Clint's double."

"Dunno. Like I said, he's not bad, but Clint's double? I really don't know."

"When you've done, I have work to do," I said.

"Yes. Right. Carry on, Jeff," Laura said. "This gentleman is Alistair Greenall, Clint Devries' long-time friend and manager and we have a proposition for you."

I almost admitted that I'd heard many descriptions of Ali, but never 'gentleman'.

"And I telled you, I wasn't interested, didn't I? I did your _Celebrity Look-Alikes_ but I'm not doing nowt else. Aye, and you've never paid us for that, have you?"

I carried the keg inside and behind the bar, where I dropped it on end for one of the bar staff to lower into the cellar, and picked up an empty to take back to the lorry.

As I made my way back out, I came across Laura and Ali in the main entrance, talking to Smith, who as usual was carping over something. It was only when Ali peeled off a couple of twenties that Smith shut up whining and said to me, "Jeff, these people have just bought an hour of your time."

I held out my hand. "So if they're buying me, where's my cut?"

Smith grinned but didn't come up with any cash.

I led them out of Schmitz along the street, turned right, and fifty yards on, stepped out onto Talbot Road, one of the main thoroughfares through the town. We made for a café near the bus station, where Ali went to the counter while Laura and I secured a table at the window.

"Everyone at Underlinen was raving about you, Jeff," Laura said. "But while I was editing your turn on _Celebrity Look-Alikes_ , I had an idea. I spoke to Ali and he's... well, not enthusiastic, but certainly not against it. If it pans out, it could be good for you, but we have a number of hoops to jump through first and Ali is better at jumping through them than I am."

"Laura, I thought I'd made meself clear—"

"We're making a biopic of Clint Devries, and we'd like you to play him."

I swear I almost fell off the chair. How much more bizarre could this get? I had fooled Laura and up to now, I had fooled Ali, but I _was_ Clint Devries, and they wanted Clint Devries, masquerading as Jeff Bentley to masquerade as Clint Devries.

Ali returned from the counter with three teas and cakes. I took one of the teas, and rejected the confectionery, so he helped himself to two cakes and one tea, leaving the remainder for Laura. When we were settled, heads together, voices low (the place was fairly busy, but we didn't want anyone listening in) I made my position clear.

"I told you the other night, I'm not interested in fame, fortune or any of the other things that went with Clint Devries. I'm quite happy doing what I do."

Laura was perplexed, but Ali understood at once. "The real Clint was like that. He had pots of dosh, but he wasn't bothered about it."

"Well there you go then," I said.

Ali refused to be put off, and I knew what was going through his mind. Some rudimentary calculations told me that with me missing, his income was down more than a hundred thousand a year and he need to claw some of it back. That more than any pressure from Laura, or my uncanny resemblance to myself had persuaded him to join her on this trip.

"Let me ask you a question, pal," he said through a mouthful of tea and cake. "You're what, thirtyish now, and you're in good fettle. You're well-built and strong enough to throw those beer kegs about like bowling balls. You're good at what you do, but what'll happen in fifteen or twenty years? I was Clint's best mate, you know, and he was PE teacher, and he knew about looking after himself, physically. He knew he'd have to keep it up because if he didn't he'd be leaving himself wide open to problems like arthritis and obesity when muscle tone began to sag."

I readily agreed. "Aye. I know. I'll just keep up the exercise."

"Sure you will, sure," said Ali. "But there's no future in it, buddy. Age will catch up with you, sooner rather than later, and then what will you do?"

"You're telling me I won't be able to pull pints? If I have to, I'll gan back to Newcastle, I suppose. Or see me days out here."

"Yes," Ali nodded. "Or work in a warehouse, a supermarket, or sweep the streets and remember how good it was when you got your rocks off with the groupies at these female-only nights? Face it, Jeff, there's no long-term future in what you're doing."

I answered carefully. I was still worried that I might trip myself up and give the game away.

With more than passable impression of irritation, I said, "Do you wanna know what I think of celebs like Devries? I cannot stand 'em, man." The natural Geordie twang places the stress on the first syllable of 'cannot' so it comes out more like 'cannat', and I had it perfect. "They strut the streets, pose for the cameras, and in private they're either pissed or stoned outta their minds, battering their wives and girlfriends, and when they don't get what they want, they scream like spoiled brats."

Ali shook his head in amazement and almost gave me a heart attack when he said, "You know, you're so like the real Clint, that you could be him, if it weren't for that godawful accent. Your attitude to celebs is exactly the same as Clint's. He couldn't abide the celebrity culture, and he never really went for it. But do you know what really surprises me, Jeff?"

"What?" this time I tried to spell out disinterest in quivering, capital letters.

"You're not prepared to exploit the similarities. And Clint would love to see a biopic of himself."

"That's not what you said on the drive over," Laura announced to Ali's dismay. "You said he'd be seriously pissed off—"

"Laura," he interrupted, fishing into his pocket for small change, "why don't you get us a couple more cakes?" He tossed the coins on the table and she got huffily to her feet.

"Sorry about that, Jeff," Ali apologised as she left for the counter. "She has a tendency to talk when she should be listening. Now, look, matey, we can offer you security and more of a future than you have pulling pints at a downmarket club in Blackpool."

"By appearing in this miniseries?"

"Potentially, yes."

"But what you cannot give us is freedom. And that's what I've got right now."

Ali was silent for a long moment, and I wondered whether I had cut it too close, expressed similarities to Clint Devries that would give me away.

"You've got a past, haven't you?"

"We've all got a past, pal."

"Yeah, but yours is hooky, isn't it?"

I smiled ruefully and shook my head. "Nay, nay, it's nowt like that, marrer. Let's just say, I'm happy with total obscurity."

I detected a change coming over me. I was beginning to enjoy this. I had everyone fooled, even my best friend of three decades. Wouldn't it be great if I could go back to the Underlinen studios in Manchester and take them in, too. Wouldn't it be great when I finally came out and told everyone how I'd made them look total, complete, utter prats. I'd even persuaded Laura Tyndall, one of a number of women who worshipped the ground I had coming to me, to drop her knickers... all right, so I didn't go through with it, but I had her on the ropes.

It's strange, but when an idea like that takes hold of you, and you run the mental vision to its glorious, triumphant conclusion, it becomes intoxicating. You can't see the pitfalls and pratfalls, only the ultimate victory.

Laura returned to the table and I recalled the last thing I'd said. Something about obscurity.

"I need to stay out of the limelight," I repeated. "At least until I have some dosh behind me."

It was deliberate. I was dangling the bait which I knew Ali would take with all the dunderheaded simplicity of a fish snapping at a fake, multi-coloured fly.

True to form, my old friend dug into his reserve of negotiating skills. "If it's cash you need, that shouldn't be a problem. See, if we cast you in this role, there's no telling where it might end. Naturally, there are no guarantees, but you'll make a good butty from this one project alone. Especially with me as your agent."

"But I cannot act, man."

"How do you know til' you try? Clint didn't have much training, you know. A year of drama school when he was at uni, but that was all. Ten to one you're putting on an act most of the time when you're being nice to the wankers on the other side of the bar. It's only a case of teaching you how to deliver lines, and we can get you plenty of tuition. We have acting coaches on call on _Bleaker Cove_."

"We'll need to get him in front of a dialogue coach too," Laura said as if I were not there. "Knock that Geordie twang on the head, get him to talk like he's from Manchester, and we've got Clint's double." Now she turned to me. "Jeff, you are the perfect man to play him."

I let my eyes light up. "How much would I make?"

I could see Ali sensing the victory I was feeding him. "Difficult to say off the top of my head. I haven't seen you in front of a camera, but if you appoint me as your agent, I could open negotiations around the fifty thousand mark. As long as you're good enough, and as long as you're willing to co-operate with Underlinen."

"Like Devries wouldn't?"

That was it. That was the mistake I had been dreading. All my contretemps with the management were closely guarded secrets.

To my surprise, Ali did not rise to it. "I suppose Laura told you about that, did she?" He scowled at her. "Listen to me, lad. Clint was my mate, and I won't hear a bad thing said about him, but it's true, he wouldn't co-operate with management. That goes no further than this table. Clint had all the trappings and he wanted the freedom you have to go with them. You can't have it both ways."

I smiled again. It was genuine this time. I had got away with it. "So me and Devries did have something in common."

They were perplexed. Ali raised his eyebrows inviting me to carry on.

"He wanted his freedom," I said. "I've already got it, and I'm sorry, marrer, but I'm keeping it. Thanks for the offer an'all, but it's no deal."

I didn't mean it. It's what Ali called a takeaway, and the theory was that when you're trying to hook a prospect, draw him all the way in, you give and give and give, then you take it all away again.

Ali stared around the café but Blackpool out of season offered less in the way of inspiration than Oldham in the depths of winter. At length, he stared back at me. "There you go again. You're underestimating the power of TV. It made Clint. It can make you too."

"It's never made me," Laura grumbled.

Proving he was more than a match for her, Ali nodded. "It does have its limitations." Swinging his attention back to me, he held up his right hand and rubbed the forefinger and thumb together. "Fifty big ones."

I forced some greed into my steel blue eyes, and made another dramatic change in my approach. "Fifty grand, you say?"

Ali's sense of victory piqued. I could see it in his face, no matter how hard he tried to hide it with a faked yawn. "I reckon. Provided you can act. And don't forget, it's only a launch pad. No telling what might come of it, but whatever it is, it'll be better, more secure than pulling pints in a downmarket strip club."

Now for the final, acid test. "Would it be tax free, though?"

Sensing he was almost there, Ali protested, "Come on, mate, we all have to pay tax... all right, all right, I'll see what I can do." Ali capitulated in the light of my fierce stare. "No promises, mind, and first, you have to show us how good you are. Can you get to Manchester for a few days?"

I shrugged. "I'd have to be back here as soon as or I lose me crack at Schmitz. And I need the money, mate. And I'll need somewhere to crash while I'm o'er there. I cannot afford hotels and the like."

Ali was happy. "You can use Clint's old drum." But it didn't take him long to revert to type. "It is only for a few days, though. After that, it doesn't come free."

# Chapter Sixteen

It was only after Ali and Laura left that I lost my bottle.

It was not because of anything they had said, nor the farcical offer to screen test me so I could play myself. It was the realisation of why I could not find Tanya Yaeger. I'd reached the conclusion earlier that she might be dead, but there was another possibility. One that I had not considered at the time.

She did not exist. The name was a fiction, the draw had been fixed, and the young woman I had dinner with was an Underlinen employee; or at the very least, someone Underlinen, in the shape of either Verdonk or Lorimer, had found, and it was unlikely that she came from Blackpool. Indeed, it was practically certain that she didn't come from there. If Underlinen really were playing dirty tricks, giving her a false hometown would be enough to throw the most ardent investigator off the trail.

The lead up to this startling conclusion came as I left Laura and Ali and went walkabout for half an hour. Stepping into a department store, as much to get out of the manky weather as anything, I looked at all the things Jeff Bentley could not afford, and I thought about Emma, and how I should dress for my arrival in Manchester next week. As with all such shops the men's clothing was not on the ground floor. I checked the store directory signs. Ground floor... first floor... second floor... third floor...

And that's when it hit me.

As part of the dinner date, the four competition winners were allocated rooms at the Maitland. The other three had been roomed on the second floor, but Tanya was on the third. Underlinen owned the Maitland so technically they could do whatever they wanted, and in the knowledge that the rooms would be needed that night, it was certain that they would have been reserved months in advance, possibly as far back as the New Year when the competition was decided upon. So why had they not reserved them all on the second floor?

The truth was, they probably _were_ booked on the same floor in the beginning, but somewhere along the line, the Maitland had received instructions to move Tanya up to the third floor. The staff at the hotel were good, solid faithful employees. They did as they were told. The penalties at Underlinen were too severe to consider any other course of action, especially when those orders came from the penthouse suite at Head Office.

Small wonder not one whisper of this had ever come out, and although by no means certain, it was possible that the girl herself knew nothing about the alleged rape claim.

How to get at the truth? How to expose Orlando Verdonk for what he was, for what he was trying to do.

I needed an ally.

I waited until the evening. It was my night off anyway, and even though Smith offered me extra money to work – "It'll offset what you lose next week, Jeff," – I refused.

I returned to my cubbyhole, fired up the laptop and made a note of Ali's mobile number. I had to because I didn't know it. It had always been stored in my smartphone, which I couldn't use for fear the cops might have a trace on it.

With darkness settling on the town, I sent him a text on the pay-as-you-go job I had been using since I arrived in Blackpool.

Ali, this is Clint. This is dangerous so don't tell a soul. Not even Shaz. Get yourself out of the house and ring me. No cops. No Underlinen. No one. Just you. If you don't believe it's me, ring and I'll tell you how Stephie Calward got her name.

With that and the time just turned eight, I made my way to the Castle Hotel, and ordered a beer.

Ten minutes passed before my cheap mobile buzzed for attention.

I made the connection and listened.

"So go on. How did Stephie get her name?"

"Are you alone?"

"Now listen, pal—"

"For fuck's sake, Ali. Answer me. Are you alone?"

"How did Stephie get her name?"

"Ed Welch is a prat. Now are you alone?"

There was a long silence. For a few seconds I wondered if he was not alone. Surely my best mate wouldn't have the cops putting a trace on me. Not until he was certain.

Finally, he spoke. "You bastard. You hair-brained, cowardly, fucking, aresholing, tosspot bastard."

"Are you in your car?"

"I haven't done swearing at you yet."

"Get in your car, come over to Blackpool. I'll meet you on the central car park about ten o'clock, and come alone, Ali, or you won't see me."

"You cunt-licking—"

I never did find out how many more names he was going to call me because I cut the connection. True, he rang back a couple of times, but I didn't answer.

I stayed in the bar for the next hour and a half, and it was the longest ninety minutes of my life. Young guys and girls busied themselves on the karaoke, Championship football played on the TV screens liberally dotted around the place, but I had no mind for any of them. Over a few more small beers, I psyched myself up for the forthcoming confrontation. It would not be the worst I had to face in the coming days or weeks, but it would be bad.

From Ali's place to Blackpool was a journey of about sixty miles. Ali did not drive fast, hence my allowing him two hours to get here. And it really would take him most of that two hours, which would give him plenty of time to rehearse the invective and abuse he would heap on me.

At nine thirty, I left the Castle, and crossed the road, to wait by the entrance to Bonny Street Market. Closed for the night (for the season for all I knew) it was the ideal place. I could watch almost the whole of the car park, and yet I was shaded from the powerful street lights, so I could not be seen.

And while I waited, I once more anticipated the coming vehemence. I could not, I _would_ _not_ blame him for the opprobrium he was sure to heap on me. I deserved it.

His car pulled in and parked behind the little National Express office at 9:55, and he climbed out, looking around for sight of me. I waited. Five minutes, ten minutes, almost fifteen minutes, watching my old friend to see if anyone had come with him, anyone had followed him, anyone phoned him.

The mobile rang several times, but I did not answer it.

And then, just after ten past ten, as he was about to get back into his car, I stepped out of the shadows and hurried across to him.

I snatched his arm as he was about to open the door, took the keys from him, slammed the door, and blipped the remote lock on the handset.

He yelled out loud, obviously worried that I was mugging him.

"Shut it, Ali," I growled, and ignoring his protests, led him hurriedly away, towards the sea front. Once there, I rushed him across the road through a chancy gap in the traffic, then across the tram tracks, to the railings on the front, fifty yards from the street lights which covered the road. Only then did I give him back his keys and face him.

He studied me in the faint light from the street lighting.

"You're not Clint. You're that crazy Geordie we came to see earlier."

"Wrong. Ed Welch is a prat."

He made a serious and long study of my features, and that did it. That's when the verbal abuse started. The stream of invective, containing some vernacular I wasn't sure I'd heard before, went on for minutes, and only stopped when he had run out of invention and breath.

"Why?" he asked at last. "Why did you run out on me? On all of us?"

I smiled without humour "I was practising my acting skills. You met me earlier today and you didn't even recognise me."

"Yeah. I have to say you were good, but... get serious, will you?" His dander came up again. "Fucking hell, Clint, you've had us chasing our arses for the last two months. Why? All you had to do was toe the line and the whole thing would have been buried."

I shook my head and remained silent.

"Why leave a trail of blood making it look as if you'd been killed?"

"An accident. I cut my finger when I smashed the mirror."

"Well it's a pity you didn't cut your throat. The bleeding cops thought I'd snuffed you."

"Not according to the papers."

"I was there. I know what happened. I found your place wrecked, I rang them. They questioned me like I'd attacked you. Brainless pillocks. They actually thought I'd killed you. Luckily Shaz was there and she told them what had happened." He lit a smoke and looked across the road at the bright lights of amusement arcades, cafes and the few souvenir shops still open. His temper was calming now. "I need a cuppa."

"Not yet, Ali."

"Clint—"

I cut him off. "It would have been buried, you said. Haven't you noticed that the incident with Tanya Yaeger _has_ been buried?"

"Well of course it has. They'll have paid her off."

"Wrong."

He took another drag, the cigarette glow lighting up his puzzled features. "Huh?"

Over the next few minutes, while he finished the one cigarette and lit another, I told him of my revelations that afternoon, the reason for me ringing him. When I had done, he was awestruck.

"Now I really do need a cuppa."

This time I agreed and we crossed the tram tracks and the road again, and made our way to a late-night eatery opposite the car park. I let Ali pay for the teas, and the inevitable biscuits on the grounds that he had more money than me.

"At least until I can get at my bank accounts again," I quipped.

"Clint, none of this is a laughing matter," he said, tearing open the packet of three Danish butter cookies and biting into one. "Privately, everyone believes that if you ever come back you're finished. No one wants to know you. When they find out you're back, Underlinen will tear up your contract and clean you out, just like Verdonk threatened."

"Not if we can dig out the truth," I replied.

"And how the hell are we gonna do that?"

"You're the ideas man. Why do you think I rang you?"

He almost choked on his biscuit. "Jesus, I write fiction, not true detectives stories. We don't even know if you've got this right. Suppose she's not an Underlinen employee? Suppose Verdonk isn't behind it? Suppose she really was just chancing her arm? And even if you're right, who is she and where do we start looking for her? The Manchester studios?"

"No." I took one of the two remaining biscuits and chewed on it. "If she was from the Manchester end, someone at The Mill might have recognised her. She was there all day, remember."

"The same applies if she worked at Head Office, Clint."

"No. Just humour me for a minute, Ali. Suppose she was a clerk, say, in the accounts office. The dinner date wasn't broadcast, and no one in Manchester would know her from the tea lady at Coble Bay."

"It might not have been broadcast, but there was an official photographer there. The pictures will appear somewhere."

Again I shook my head. "Suppose she refused to sign the release?"

He shook his head, finished off his first biscuit and took the last one from the packet. "Wrong, wrong, wrong. When they enter the competition, they agree to abide by the Ts and Cs, and they include image rights."

"So where are the pictures?"

He shrugged. "Search me. It is a few months back mind, so they should have appeared by now."

"So we have a start point. If we can trace them, we may be able to get a lead on her. If they've been shelved, then it proves my case."

"I'll bell the photographer first thing in the morning. Dunno what I'm gonna tell him, mind. He'll think you have copies of the pictures from Underlinen, so what excuse am I gonna use to ask him for copies?

"Tell him you're making a biopic of Clint's life and you're trying to track the girl down."

Finishing off the second biscuit, checking the packet only to find it empty, Ali wagged a finger at me. "Oh no. No way are we going through that. You can forget all about screen tests next week."

"We have to go through with it, Ali," I told him. "If I duck out, you'll have Laura Tyndall chasing you."

His face fell again and he slurped more tea. "Aw bollocks, man. You don't half know how to create trouble, don't you? We'll never get away with it."

"Why not? I fooled you and Laura, didn't I? I've been fooling the punters at Schmitz for the last two months. Ali, we have to push on with it. Trust me, they won't rumble anything." I sounded certain, but all the same, I crossed my fingers beneath the table, out of Ali's sight.

He leaned on his left arm, hand pressed to his shaking forehead. "Why can I see this thing going tits up?"

"Just trust me, Ali."

"Trust you? After what you've done. I've half a mind to dissolve our partnership right now. Disown you. Completely."

"Think carefully, my friend. When I'm back and earning even more money, you won't get a cent."

He groaned. "Oh, shit. Clint, you know how to hit below the belt, too."

"How long have we known each other, Ali? Twenty-five years? We've dropped our share of bricks in that time, but we've always helped one another. This time we're deeper in it than ever, and I'm the one who needs help. I'll go ahead with or without you, and I'll prove that this entire mess was an Underlinen setup to force me into line. You let everyone know I'm back and you won't stop that. You'll just make it harder."

He sat silent for a while. I bummed two quid off him and went to the server for more tea.

"Closing soon, son," the assistant told me.

"Yeah..." I was so wrapped up in the debate with Ali, I almost forgot my Geordie accent. "Aye. Right enough. One last cuppa, marrer."

I returned to the table where Ali had come out of his thought processes.

"All right," he said. "What do we do? Apart from the photographs, I mean."

I'd been giving at least some thought to this very problem. "There are probably a number of ways I could prove I never touched this bint, but off the top of my head, I can only think of one. Emma. She and the others got out of the lift on the second floor, Tanya and I went up to the third. I was back with Emma in less than five minutes."

His eyes lit up. He drank a slug of tea, and his features changed as he swallowed it. "Why the hell didn't you say so, man? We could have put that to Verdonk that night in Scarborough. He'd have been snookered."

"I didn't say because I didn't think of it at the time," I retorted. "And I'm glad I didn't."

"Why?"

"Do you not think they'd have stitched Emma up, too? Do you not imagine they'd have got that little shit, Lee Connors to claim she was the shag of his life? And do you think I'd want her to go through something like that? She would have been pressed into slavery along with me."

"Hmm. If you're right about all of this, then you're probably right about that too."

A brooding silence fell between us. I was glad that my secret was out, even if it was only between my best mate and me. Even so, I could see a stony, cobbled road ahead.

"How is Emma?" I asked.

Ali must have been on the point of nodding off. He started when I spoke, took another swallow of tea and said, "Shattered. She was heartbroken when you took off. She asks about you every day. When I go to the mill, she's the first to ask if there's been any news, and most of the time, when I see her in private, she's in tears. She's crazy about you, even if she does hide it from the rest of the cast."

The news only saddened me. "I miss her, Ali. And you."

My words only served to annoy him. "You're a complete arsehole, Clint. You don't deserve her, and you don't deserve me, either."

I said nothing. I couldn't think of a counter-argument.

The assistant, or proprietor, or whatever his role, was making a lot of noise putting away his crocks and cuttles and switching off his machinery. We drank our tea and left him to close up.

Crossing the road to the car park, we sat in Ali's car, and he ran the engine to get the heaters working.

"Who do we know at the Maitland who's hooky?" I asked.

He lit another cigarette and in deference to my disapproval let the window down an inch to take away the smoke. "One or two bods who will give me information in exchange for the odd fifty. Why?"

I explained my thoughts on the booking and how it must have been changed.

"It would have been done urgently, too," I concluded. "This argument over the adult episodes blew up the day Spangles joined us, and the dinner date was less than a week later."

"Yeah, but the draw was made the day after the Britbox Awards. How could they know they'd need a ringer then?"

I didn't answer. It was one of those questions I'd been asking myself all day, and I couldn't come up with anything.

At length, Ali tutted, blew another cloud of smoke through the narrow gap at the top of his window, and said, "I can't help wishing I'd spoken to you properly about this stuff when they first brought it up."

Bing!

"Shit, that's it."

He was so startled he almost dropped his cigarette. "What? What's it?"

"That morning at The Mill when Ed first mentioned the adult stuff. I rattled your cage over it in the canteen, and you said they'd mentioned it to you in February, and you told them I'd be iffy on the nude stuff."

"I also said I'd persuade you."

"Even though you knew you never could," I retorted. "I've made my objections to full frontal, male or female, plain enough a thousand times."

"Clint, you're just being picky. I meanersay—"

"You're doing it again, Ali," I interrupted. "Stop yakking and start listening. Now, we all know what Verdonk is like when it comes to getting his own way. He makes your average neo-Nazi look like a positive philanthropist. You've given them the bottom line on my attitude to nudity, and they don't trust you to persuade me, but Verdonk will have me baring all for the cameras. He needs an angle, he doesn't have one, so he decides to create it. First, he finds someone from Head Office who can play the part of Tanya Yaeger, then he rigs the computer draw and has the Maitland shift one of the rooms to the third floor. When the dinner dates are due, she is fully briefed. She has to snog me outside her door, and beg me to give her one. After that, she has to do only one thing..."

"Keep her trap shut," Ali said as I trailed off.

"Correct. No one must ever know that she was Tanya Yaeger."

We were both silent. Years of working together of dreaming up plots and then plugging the gaps had taught us the value of thinking long and hard and in silence.

"One thing, Clint," he said eventually. "You're looking in the wrong place."

"Huh?"

"This chick does not work for Underlinen."

"How do you know?"

"For a start off, there's too big a danger that someone there might recognise her from the photographs. We've debated that already. But what about her accent. Head Office is in Chiswick. The employees are all Londoners. Did she sound London?"

He was right. "No. No, she didn't. She sounded Lancashire."

More silence. Shorter this time.

"She's an actress."

"She's an actress."

The thought struck us both at the same moment, and we said it together.

Ali quickly expanded on the notion. "Despite Verdonk's threats that night in Scarborough, this thing was never intended to go public, so the actress would never know a damn thing about it. She was simply called to have dinner with the great Clint Devries, and snog him. They'd have had a plausible explanation. Maybe they told her it was a type of screen test and she could make money from it if she passed muster."

"This is getting complicated," I said.

"Actually, it's quite simple, Clint. Think back to when you were teaching and doing the odd bit parts. If some agent or producer came up to you and said, hey we want you to have dinner with this superstar chick and snog her, beg her for a shag after. We just want to see if you can act naturally. We'll pay you five hundred dabs for the job, and if you cut it, we'll put you up for this big movie. What would you have done?"

I nodded. "Bitten their hand off."

"Exactly. And afterwards? A quick phone call from them. You were good, Clint, but we're sorry you weren't quite good enough. What would have done?"

"Kicked the cat's arse and gone back to teaching."

"It would have to be a theoretical cat, cos you don't own one, but you're right. It might come out in your memoirs years later, but by then, it would be a piece of historical trivia, especially if you didn't know what they were really up to. No, Clint, it's not complicated. Devil in the detail, sure, but not complicated."

"All right, so how are we gonna find her?"

"I'll get onto the agencies. I'd suggest you doing it, but you can't. It'll be a long search and I can't put up a general message asking them to get in touch or it might tip Verdonk and his team off. In the meantime, you have to go through this farce next week, and I can see that ending in tears."

"Yeah, but who'll be crying then? Us or Verdonk?"

"You coming home now?"

I shook my head. "No. I have to stay here so the limo can pick me up Monday. Whatever we choose to do, Ali, we can't arouse suspicion." I opened the door to get out and Ali stayed me.

"Just one last thing. You shagged Laura Tyndall, yet you hate her."

I laughed. "No I didn't."

"She says you did."

"She offered, I turned her down. She's just fantasising."

"As fiction goes, that is brilliant."

"What? Laura Tyndall living in cloud-cuckoo land?"

"No. Clint Devries turning down a fuck."

# Chapter Seventeen

The following Monday, a plain black limousine picked me up from Schmitz, and drove me the 50-something miles to Manchester and the Underlinen Productions studios.

The limo was fitted with blacked out windows, and came complete with a couple of minders. If Jeff Bentley were real, he might have been worried, but he wasn't real and I knew what was going on. This was a hush-hush job, a project so secret that less than half a dozen people in the world knew about it. The minders were there to shield Jeff Bentley from the press, and I also knew that Bill Smith would have been promised a four figure sum to compensate him for losing one of his employees, but it would be conditional upon him keeping his mouth shut until Underlinen were ready, if ever, to make an announcement.

Although we produced _Bleaker Cove_ at The Mill, Underlinen's main Manchester studios were just off Alan Turing Way. A nondescript, long, low-rise building not far from the Etihad Stadium, it blended perfectly with the surrounding modern business premises. It could have been any conventional warehouse or administrative centre for any kind of company.

There were no Covies hanging around the gates. The security guard took one look at the car, and lifted the barrier. We drove in, swung round to the main entrance, where Ali and Laura were waiting for me, and I was rushed in through the open doors.

Still unwilling to use my laptop or smartphone for the web in case the police or worse, Underlinen could trace me, I'd spent the weekend grafting as usual, and my free time in one internet café or another, feeding what little money I had into machines to surf the theatrical and modelling agencies, but if looking for a woman in Blackpool was bad, checking the head and body shots on the agency sites was even worse. There were literally millions, many of them duplicating bio's, offering anything and everything from bit part actors to mainstream, comparatively well-known players.

Was I disheartened? Well, yes I was.

Ali kept in touch over the phone, and he was in exactly the same position, with one exception.

"A kid called Anton. Works reception at the Maitland. I've offered him half a ton to get me the booking details, _all of them_ for the dinner date. He has to do it on the QT, obviously, but he's promised to get back to me by the end of the week."

"Well, let's hope he has something. Did you get anything from the photographer?"

"Yes. I'm meeting him Monday night in The King's Arms. I told him we're looking for Tanya Yaeger because we have an offer for her, but it has to be hush-hush. He's bringing the portfolio of shots he took that night. You can't be there, Clint."

"Oh yes I can. But I'll be sat behind you, close enough to listen in."

We left it at that for the weekend, both of us aware that Monday would be the big test. Not for me. I'd either fool them or not. But for Ali. He was good at the negotiating table, but he'd never been an actor, and one slip up would blow the entire game wide open.

As the security officer inside issued me with a visitor pass, Ali went into part, reminding me that these were TV studios.

"Silence," he insisted as he led me through security and into the building, "is everything."

"Do I get to meet any of the people from _Bleaker Cove_?" I asked, maintaining an almost childlike enthusiasm for the experience.

"The Cove isn't filmed here," Ali explained, maintaining the fiction for Laura's benefit. "It's made at an old cotton mill about two miles away, but even so, many of these rooms are full blown studios." Ali sounded like a tour guide as we marched along a bland, featureless but thoroughly modern corridor lined with teak doors. "Ever seen 'You Pays Your Money?'"

I nodded. "That quiz programme where the contestants bet on who'll get the answer to a question wrong?" I knew all right. I'd once been asked to appear on a celebrity version, and told them where they could stick it.

"That's the one." Ali gestured at a door simply labelled '22'. "It's recorded in there. The audience are admitted through a rear door from the public car park." He pointed up at the light above and to one side of the door. "When the red light is on, it means they're recording, the door's locked and no one is allowed to enter."

"Right." I made sure I did not sound impressed but as if I were putting on an air of awe for the sake of appearances. It wasn't difficult because disinterest was exactly how I felt, but I had to fake it so they could read it.

"We're going to meet Ed Welch," Laura explained. "He's the producer of _Bleaker Cove_ , and of all the backroom staff; he had more to do with Clint Devries than most. If you can get past him, and get through your screen test, you're just about in."

"And is he all right, like?" this time I ejected a hint of worry into my tones. "I mean, is he, y'know, easy to get on with?"

Ali gave a fat shrug. "He's all right, is Ed. Under a lot of pressure. Most producers are charged with producing maybe six or seven hours of drama a year. Detective series, drama series, that kind of thing. Blokes like Ed are a special kind of berk. They have to produce two hours of drama per week."

I frowned. "Two hours? You mean two and a half, surely? Five episodes a week, half an hour a time."

"Slot time for each episode is thirty minutes," said Laura, "but there are six minutes of commercials in that time, leaving them with twenty-four minutes. Times five is a hundred and twenty minutes a week."

"About to go up by twenty-four minutes," said Ali, "when they get these additional, 'adult' episodes made." Using hooked index fingers, he described inverted commas in the air as he pronounced the word 'adult'.

"That why your mate took off, is it? The adult episodes?"

Ali cringed on the pronunciation of 'your' which came out 'yower'. "Never mind Clint," he said. "Just concentrate on toning down your natural accent." He tutted. "As well as PE and English, Clint was a drama coach when we were teaching. He'd have helped you drop it."

"Aye," I agreed, "but if he was here, you wouldn't have needed us, would ya?"

With a frustrated shake of the head, Ali stopped outside a door and rapped on it. From inside came a muffled, 'enter'. Ali pushed open the door and ushered Laura in ahead of me.

Ed Welch's office had always been described as 'lived in', particularly by Ali. Small, but larger than his cubbyhole at The Mill, its furnishings were tidily arranged, but around the floor were stacks of scripts. As the titular Senior Producer Underlinen Productions (Northern) every unsolicited script that came into the building eventually found its way into Ed's office, and those that littered his floor were the cream, the few that made it through the screening process of readers and editors further down the chain. Yet even those few appeared to number about a hundred.

When we entered, Ed rose to greet us.

"Ed, this is Jeff Bentley," Ali introduced us, "Jeff, this is our senior producer, Edwin Welch."

We shook hands. Ed circled me, studying me, taking in every detail of the facial structure, the eyes, the fine line of the nose, the slight furrow of the brow beneath a dark hairline, and the square jut of a chisel chin.

"Amazing. Absolutely amazing. They told me you were a look-alike, but they never said you were his double. Shave off the beard and you could be him." Ed seemed to recall his manners and returned to his seat. "Sit, please. Sit down, all of you."

We spread ourselves around the available chairs, Laura and Ali seating themselves either side of me, and I dwarfed both of them. I guessed that from Ed's point of view, we would have borne an absurd resemblance to a silhouette of the Taj Mahal, its central dome jutting above its sentinel minarets.

"You know," said Ed, "I've just had a thought. How would you..." He trailed off and abruptly switched tack. "No. Not yet. Tell me, Jeff, how good do you think you are in front of the cameras?"

I shrugged. "I divvent know. All I've ever done with me life is pull pints."

Like Ali, Ed winced at the accent. "Can you speak proper English?"

"I thought I was speaking English. It's the way I was brought up."

Ed frowned. "Clint Devries was a teacher. If he was here—"

"Aye," I interrupted. "I've already had that debate with him." I jerked a thumb at Ali.

Ed laughed with genuine pleasure. "He's even got Clint's mannerisms down pat," he said. "Clint used to do that with his thumb. Remember, Ali?"

My best friend nodded with a scowl. "I remember." Certain that his hint had drilled into Ed that such reminders were unwelcome, Ali asked. "How's the hunt for Clint going?"

"I've had the police here... again," Ed said. "Chief Inspector Rummer. They're still convinced Clint is dead, probably murdered. One good thing to come out if, Ali, is that Rummer has agreed to give us an interview detailing their progress, or lack of it. Anyway, it means they're working on the doorstep, so they'll be here to help you rough out the tail end of the biopic." Ed sucked in his breath. "But let's not get too far ahead of ourselves, eh?" He turned his attention on me. "Jeff, the company may have agreed in principle, but as we know, that is a long way from an actual commission." He beamed a beatific smile on me. "You won't know much about the TV process, but projects can take years before they finally get off the ground."

"Bit like shipbuilding, eh? We used to do a lot of that on Tyneside." I frowned again. "If that's the case, why have I been yanked down here, now?"

"Because," Ali explained as a canteen assistant brought in a tray of tea things, "like those ships, we need drawings, plans to present to the buyers, who in this instance are the commissioning editors at Underlinen. You are a part of those plans. We have to prove to them that you not only look like Clint and can copy some of his mannerisms, but that you can actually act and sound like him too."

Ed scowled Ali into silence, his eyes leaping to the canteen girl and back to Ali.

Ali shrugged, helped himself to a cup of tea and a couple of chocolate digestives.

When the girl had left and tea had been distributed amongst us, Ed took up the debate again.

"You'll be with us for most of the week, Jeff," he explained. "There are a number of screen tests we need to get you through." He smiled encouragingly. "Don't worry, all unknowns and untried performers go through this process. There's only the one test today, and it's a silent one. You'll be asked to walk onto a set and carry out certain actions. I've seen Laura's video of you at that club in Blackpool. You're very smooth behind the bar, but I'd expect that from a professional bartender. Will it translate to ordinary movement, walking and so on, when you're acting a part? That's why we're here, and basically, we have to ensure that your movements are natural. We don't want you to look like a clockwork soldier when you're moving around the set, do we?"

I grinned. "You're the boss."

"Right," Ed agreed. "We'll begin the tests today, and you'll know the result of the first one before Ali takes you off to Clint's place, this afternoon. After that, assuming you're all right, we'll go onto working with the dialogue coach. You'll spend tomorrow with her, and then on Wednesday, we'll get onto spoken lines and actions, your responses to other actors, and so on. Those," Ed concluded, "will be viewed on Thursday, and you'll know for sure by Thursday afternoon. All right?"

"And that's all there is to it?" I asked. "I don't get a shag on the casting couch?"

Ed rolled his eyes to the ceiling, Laura almost choked on her biscuit and Ali laughed.

"I was only joking," I apologised and drank my tea. "Right, marrer. I'm ready when youse are."

Ed made a brief call and we all trooped out of the office, and along a corridor to room Studio 8. I made a point of noticing that the light alongside this door glowed green. Ed led the way in, Laura followed Ali allowed me to go first and closed the door as he came in. A young woman, introduced as Shirley Nevinson, the floor manager, dropped the deadlock to prevent anyone else entering, and flipped a wall switch. A small display next to the switch turned from green to red.

"That turns the light red outside," Ali explained. "Everyone out there knows not to disturb us now."

I spent several moments gazing round the room and Ali, playing his part well, gave me a quick commentary on it.

It was an operational studio. To the right, raised several feet above floor level was a glass fronted control booth. I could see a couple of people already seated at whatever control panel was in front of them. There were no less than four mounted cameras before the stage, and two of them were manned, their operators wearing headphones to maintain contact with the bodies in the control room. Above and concentrating on the stage, was a lighting gantry, and there were several boom microphones surrounding the set, placed in what Ali described as 'strategic locations'.

The set itself was a kitchen, complete with worktops, hobs, ovens, microwave cookers, and a range of cookware from saucepans to casserole dishes, carving knives to whisks and blenders. There was even a table off to the right with settings for four people.

"If you've ever seen 'Cook with Cordelia'," said Ali, "this is where it's recorded."

I felt a flush of worry run through me. "Ya don't want us to cook, do ya?"

Ali laughed and shook his head. "The studio was vacant. That's the only reason we chose it." He chuckled again and laid a beady eye on me. "You're more like Clint than I imagined. He couldn't cook either."

I grunted in mock-sympathy. "I cannot boil a bloody egg wi'out letting it leak oota the pan, man."

Ed, who had been talking to Shirley off to one side, joined us. "Okay, guys, here's the score. Jeff, we have a series of little things we need you to do. We'll give you verbal directions as we go along. There's no dialogue for you to worry about, but when we speak to you, just respond as you would normally. We'll be running a sound as well as video recording. Although we're not keen on your accent, especially if you're going to play Clint, we do need to assess the quality of your voice." Ed gestured at the people around him. "Try not to be distracted by the work the cameramen and Shirley are doing. If you're going to make the grade, you'll have to get used to their movements, and on an operational set there would be a lot more people in the background. Okay?"

I nodded.

"One last thing," Ed insisted. "When we ask you to do simple things, like removing dishes from the oven or answering the door, concentrate on what you're doing. Don't look at the camera. The key to good drama is pretending the camera or the audience doesn't exist, and believe me, our directors," he waved at the control booth, "are the best. One glance at the lens and they'll hang, draw and quarter you."

Ed clapped his hands together loudly, drawing a wince from the sound engineer in the control booth.

"Okay people," he called out. "If we're all ready. Jeff, Shirley will give you your directions."

Having delivered his last instructions, Ed disappeared into the control booth followed by Ali and Laura.

Adjusting her earphone, Shirley led me onto the set. I'd never met her before, but she looked good to me. Five and a half feet tall, with a proud bosom projecting from beneath a simple, grey sweater, her brunette hair pushed back on the left by her earpiece, showered attractively onto her shoulders and smelled of high-priced hairspray. Her skin was pale – too many years working in a windowless studio, according to my diagnosis – but her eyes were wide and appealing, and the mouth held forward soft lips designed, I believed, for applying to mine.

"All right, Jeff," she instructed. "For the first test, all we want you to do is potter around the kitchen. Make as if you were preparing a meal. Get your equipment out and—"

"In my world," I interrupted, "when I'm told to get me equipment out, it has more to do with what's in me underpants than the kitchen."

She gave him a prim, disapproving stare. "We're trying to get you to act," she reproved. "I want you to get a plate, cup, cutlery, sort out a few pans. You know what I mean."

"I just told that fat little tart, Greenall, I don't do cooking."

Again she narrowed irritated eyes on him. "You eat, don't you? You know what a plate looks like, and I assume you've used knives and forks before. Or don't they have them where you come from?"

"Oh very funny." I sucked in my breath and expanded my massive chest. "You people take life too seriously, you know. You need to relax a bit more. What time do you get off?"

"Making TV programmes is a serious business, Mr Bentley, and when I get off is my affair." She scowled. "How I get off is my affair, too. Now instead of getting off, can we get on?" She waited for an amused nod from me. "I'll step off the stage now. When you hear my prompt, which will be the word, 'action', I want you to begin."

"Hang on," I complained. "I don't know where everything is. The pots and pans and stuff."

Shirley waved at the set. "You know what a cupboard is, don't you?"

"Aye. I live in one at Schmitz."

Shirley stared at me, trying to work out whether I was taking a rise or not. "We keep them in there. You'll just have to find them. Now, if you're quite ready, when I call action, we'll begin."

I moved to the rear of the set and leaned on the freestanding work area. Offstage, Shirley spoke briefly into her microphone and listened to her earpiece. Steady red lights glowed on the front of the cameras, and suddenly began winking, to indicate activity.

At a prompt from Shirley, a young man came onto the set with a clapperboard, stood before the primary camera.

"Jeff Bentley, screen test, one," called out Shirley and the youth clapped his board. Now she concentrated on me. "And... action."

"Time to get a bitta breakfast." I deliberately said it too loudly for the sound engineer who winced once more.

Turning from the worktop, I began to root through the cupboards, taking out a plate here, a cup there, then digging into the lower cupboards for one or two pans.

Eventually, I returned to the worktop, looked up and grinned. "All reet, what I'm gan to do now is show you how to make beans on toast... once I can find the toaster and a can of beans."

***

Ali brought me back to my granny flat from the Underlinen studios, and as I climbed out, I eyed my luxury Volvo.

"I've been looking after it since you disappeared," he told me. "The cops found it abandoned on Birch Services. I had keys cut to bring it back here. Yes, and the keys cost a bleeding fortune, too."

"I'll pay you back."

"Yes. You will."

"Does Shaz know?"

"Yes. She was there when I bought the key."

"Not the flicking car keys, man. Does she know who I am?"

"No. I haven't told her.

Still keeping up the fiction, he introduced me to Shaz and half an hour later, once I had 'got to know her a little' and been dutifully amused at her candour, Ali showed me around the granny flat. Eventually, Ali left, saying, "Don't forget, Clint, you owe me back rent on this place."

I gave a nodding agreement and watched Ali leave, before passing through to the bathroom and stepping under a hot shower.

Another ten minutes passed before I ambled, still naked, back into the living room and unzipped my bags to seek fresh clothing. I reached for a pair of shorts and as I did so the front door opened and Shaz stepped in.

"Sorry," she apologised.

I gave her an engaging smile. "Don't worry about it, lass. You're not the first to see it all."

"No," Shaz agreed with her eye on my todger. "And it's not the first time I've seen it all, either."

# Chapter Eighteen

I'm not a woman, so I can't be certain, but I think it would be impossible to suss a guy's identity purely from the size of his dick. As she left, I guessed she was referring to the apostrophe shaped scar on my right knee. It was the result of an accident when I was three years old and I fell on a broken milk bottle. All I could really remember was the river of blood, and me screaming the street down before the old man applied Dettol and a sticking plaster. And I screamed even louder when he swabbed the cut and the Dettol began to bite.

For obvious reasons we had to let Shaz in on the secret, and when we explained everything to her, she understood at once, but she also disapproved.

Toying with a large, chrome-plated spanner, she scolded me. "The Clint Devries I knew had more balls than that. You didn't have to run away."

"Yes I did," I disagreed.

Ali cringed. It wasn't often he disagreed with his girlfriend and when he did it was usually in expectation of a backlash measured in megatons.

"I had to get away, Shaz, if only to learn the lessons I have learned," I admitted.

"Bollocks. If that's what you wanted, all you had to do was come to me that night when you drove back from Scarborough. I'd have told you in no uncertain fucking terms." She tutted impatiently. "Wanna know why I prefer this fat little git to you?" She gestured at Ali.

"Because you knew I wasn't up for a permanent relationship?" I asked more in hope than conviction.

"Shite." She guffawed. "You're both a pair of dickheads. You keep your brain in your cock and he keeps his in his wallet. But he's a dickhead who'll listen. You never will."

"Never would," I corrected her. "I'm listening now, Shaz, because I'm in the very shit you just mentioned, and I need to get out of it. And worst of all, I need his help." I pointed at Ali.

"I wish you'd stop talking about me as I wasn't here," he protested. "Clint, we have it in hand." He checked the time on his Breitling. "In fact, we're due at the King's Arms to meet that snapper in an hour."

"And what good do you think he'll do?" Shaz demanded. "Right now, you should go to that twat, Rummer. The cop. Tell him who you are and why it all blew up."

"But that means Verdonk will profit from it all unless I have proof he's behind the woman."

Shaz tutted in exasperation. "I thought you were listening? You have as much chance as a snowball in hell of finding that little slut, but it's what the cops get paid for."

"I'll think about it."

I took Shaz's view of things to the King's Arms and ensconced myself in a corner close to the table Ali picked. My back was to him and when Irving finally arrived, ten minutes later, carrying a laptop, Ali moved seats to let the photographer sit behind me.

"I'll be honest with you, Ali – may I call you Ali – I didn't make a lot of money on this deal, and Underlinen are such tight arses with the rights. They expect a complete buyout for eight hundred nicker. Cheeky sods. I'd have made more doing a wedding or christening."

"Underlinen are like that," Ali agreed. "I should know. I've been contracted to 'em for over five years. And I'm sorry, Matt, but I won't be able to pay you much, because this is all unofficial. Just to be clear upon the matter. If Underlinen bought the rights, does that mean you don't have copies?"

"Does it buggery," I heard Irving say. "I may not be able to use them, but you'd be surprised what I can do with Photoshop."

My heart leapt. If he'd manipulated the images in any way, they would be worse than useless.

Ali's brain was on the same wavelength. "Are you telling me you've altered these images?"

Irving tittered girlishly, reminding me of my thoughts on his sexuality the night of the dinner date.

"Good heavens, no." I heard him tap his laptop lid. "I'm a pro, and a pro never alters originals. These are the originals." When he next spoke, his voice was lowered and I had trouble hearing him. "You're not going to use these pictures, are you, luv?"

"No, I'm not, and please don't call me luv."

"Pardon me for breathing." Huffy this time. Irving must have thought Ali was that way inclined.

Ali obviously realised it too. "Listen, Matt, what you get up to in your private life is no concern of mine, but I'm a happily married... er... cohabiting man, so stop trying to come onto me."

The distraction was beginning to get on my nerves but thankfully Irving bought the debate back to business.

"I was simply trying to find out why you want the photos?"

"What do you know about TV projects?" Ali asked.

"Only that they don't pay photographers a lot of money," Irving replied.

"Well, pin your lugholes back and let me educate you, sunshine. When you're planning a TV series, you keep it secret. James Bond has nothing on us, pal. Right now we're planning something, and less than three or four people in the world know about it. As I told you on the phone, we feel that the girl who was with Clint that night would be perfect for the part we're planning. But we can't find any pictures of her."

"They were in the July edition of _Celebrity Snaps_ ," Irving responded.

"Not on my regular list of periodicals," Ali returned, "and my chance of getting a back copy are lower than your chances of scoring with me, and you have no chance of that. I am willing to pay you for pictures of the girl who was with Clint."

"How much?"

"A tenner a picture."

"Oh, puh-lease, don't take the wee-wee. I could get more than that on a photo-sharing site. Make it a hundred a photo."

"Now who's taking the piss?" Ali demanded. "You might be good, but you're not David Bailey."

"Make me an offer then. A sensible offer."

Irving and I were back to back, and Ali was facing him, which meant my pal could see me. I raised my arm and held up two fingers, hoping he would spot the gesture and go for it.

"How many pictures have you got?"

"We don't have waiters here, chum."

The second announcement came from the bar manager who was hovering over my table.

"Ha'way?" I asked, laying on the Geordie.

"You put your arm up," the manager said. "I'm saying if you want a drink, you come to the bar."

"Ah, right. Sorry, marrer. I was just stretching, ya know?"

He took the empty glasses and to demonstrate that I was a bona fide patron, I took a sip from my glass of lager.

Behind me, negotiations had moved on.

"How many pictures of her do you have?" Ali asked.

"About ten," Irving admitted.

I heard the squeak of Ali's leather wallet and the soft rustle of notes being counted onto the table. "Two hundred for all ten. Come on, Matt, it's cash. No names, no pack drill, just copy them onto this memory stick for me."

Silence followed. For me, it was not just silence, but agony. I wanted to get up, turn round and see what they were doing, but I could not. All I could do was let my imagination run riot. What was Irving doing? Looking at the cash, opening up his laptop? Wondering whether he could chance leaning over the table and kissing Ali?

My pal spoke up. "Ah-ah. Naughty; copy them first, then you collect."

It was obvious that Irving had been about to pocket the cash.

There was another long delay but this time it was punctuated with the bleeps and tweets of a computer doing its stuff.

Occasionally, Irving would pass a comment. "That's a good one of Devries and her. They really looked as if they were enjoying themselves."

Finally, it was done. There was some after-deal chatter – Ali once told me it was known as consolidation amongst professional salespeople – and Irving left.

The moment he went out the door, I moved to join Ali, but the bar manager's suspicious eye fell on me, and I raised my hand. I lowered it again, and crossed to the bar.

"Sorry, mate, ah forgot ye don't do table service. Give us two halves of lager."

Wearing a face like a wet weekend in Withernsea, he pulled the drinks, I paid for them and joined my mate.

"Well?"

Keeping his voice down to ensure no one could hear us, he held up the memory stick. "What do you think?" he asked.

"I don't think anything. That's a memory stick and I can't see the pictures."

"This may surprise you, Clint, but neither can I. My eyes aren't tuned to reading memory sticks. Do you have a laptop with you?"

"No. It's in Blackpool. In my cupboard."

"Then we'll have to get it back. You shouldn't leave things like that lying around where others might find them."

"It's locked up with a password," I reported. "And Smithy knows better than to tamper with my gear. Now what about these pictures?"

"We'll have to wait until we get back to my drum. Even then, they're not going to tell us much, are they? We still don't know if it's her real name, and if it isn't..." He trailed off rather than stating the obvious.

I sank the lager in one hit. "Come on, then. Let's get moving."

But Ali was right. The pictures were excellent but they told us nothing. Without putting them up online and asking if anyone could identify the young woman, there was not much we could do with them other than pass them to an independent researcher or a private investigator.

We opted for the former, giving her the same cover story we had given Irving, and she promised to get back to Ali within a month.

"I don't know if I can stand another month as Jeff Bentley," I told Ali as he put the phone down on the researcher.

***

The next four days were a blur of activity.

When we arrived on Tuesday morning, I was escorted to the office commandeered for the dialogue coach. Priscilla Normanton was in her late 40s, had a degree in English, and was an expert on northern English dialect. A friendly woman, she had been on call to _Bleaker Cove_ since our early days. She never had much work to do with people like Emma and me, because we were Manchester born and bred, but others, like Julius, who originated from Yorkshire, and Peter Willis, who was born and raised in Lincolnshire, needed tuition in switching from their native accent to a Lancashire or Manchester brogue.

Priss had had a tough time with Peter, who played publican Sid Carrier in the programme, because, try as he might, he could not master the flatter vowel sounds of the native northwest tongue. In the end, he mimicked a Scouse accent, which Ali and I accounted for in the scripts by casting Sid as a born and bred Liverpudlian who had moved to Bleaker Cove to manage the pub.

Julius had been less of a problem for her, because his native Yorkshire accent wasn't much different to that of a Lancastrian. There were differences but Priss was able to sort them out fairly easily.

If I went in with some apprehension it was more to do with her tumbling my true identity, but Priss, obviously assuming I was simply nervous, soon put me at ease, and before long, I was 'picking up' the Lancashire tongue and coming across as if I had been born there. By two in the afternoon, although she had had some reservations, she pronounced herself satisfied with my efforts, and ready for the sound and vision tests on Wednesday.

I spent the evening in my flat learning the lines for the various screen tests I would undergo, and when I arrived on Wednesday morning, although I was once more apprehensive of my real identity being uncovered, I nevertheless soon settled on the sets.

There were various scenes I had to complete. Some were simply dialogue, others were dialogue with action and yet others constituted dialogue with emotion. Simply emotions like joy or sadness, anger or worry.

"He's never had any formal acting training," Ali had explained to Ed, "so you can't expect him to turn on the tears or bellow with laughter."

And Ed had agreed, while making a note in his journal to book a drama course for me. That almost made me laugh out loud. I controlled the impulse, but I did wonder how much longer I could go on with this farce.

The scenes I had to deliver varied. In one dialogue-free sequence, I had to strip down to my underwear, wind up an alarm clock and climb into bed. I guessed that they had Clint Devries' alleged dynamite love life in mind when they made me do it.

There were other, simpler scenes from the scripts of _Bleaker Cove_ , and beyond them, more complex, action and dialogue sequences from older dramas like _Cat On A Hot Tin Roof_ where, playing the part of Brick, I hobbled convincingly on crutches while arguing with Shirley Nevinson, who like most of the production staff had had some minimal drama training, playing the part of Maggie. Much to Ed Welch's delight, I even put on a Southern United States drawl for the part, and although Priss counted the number of errors in inflection and pronunciation, she nevertheless applauded the effort.

Aside from breaks, I was in the studio for most of the day, and my final piece proved the most taxing. I had to deliver part of Hamlet's soliloquy. It called for a deadpan expression in close up. No sweat. At least, the facial expressions weren't.

"To be or not to be that is the question..." I trailed off. I'd forgotten the rotten lines. How is it possible for a professional actor to forget some of the most famous lines ever written? I don't know, but I did it.

I knew that in the control room, the assembled crew would be holding their collective breath and Ali would be crapping himself.

Then just as suddenly, I took up the dialogue once more.

"Whether ter gan doon the pub or get yersel to St James' Park, take up scarves against a sea of Sunderland supporters, and by opposing, smite 'em."

The improvisation won the day. Despite its non-Shakespearean roots, I had managed to deliver it with a deadpan expression on my face filling the monitors.

Coming home with Ali on Wednesday evening, I had some major worries.

"Suppose I flunked the tests?" I asked as he eased his speed to allow a bus to cut him to shreds on Oldham Road.

"You didn't," he assured me, tucking in behind the offending vehicle.

"Gonna look bloody silly if I do, though," I pointed out. "When everyone learns that Jeff Bentley is really Clint Devries and he failed a screen test auditioning for the part of himself."

"Relax," Ali assured me as the bus pulled up at a stop and he sat behind it.

"You are allowed to pass buses, Ali," I advised him.

"It's just as easy to wait," he replied.

Ali and I turned up on Thursday to learn that the morning would be taken up with viewing the tests, and then I would be banished to the canteen, while the crew made up their minds.

Although Ed did not admit it, I learned that the producer had already viewed them and Thursday was more about showing other people the finished product and then picking holes in it.

Laura reassured me that she and Ali would be pushing for me. "Ali because he wants another actor under his managerial belt to replace Clint, and me, I see this biopic as a directorial opportunity which I can't afford to miss."

While watching the finished work in the viewing room, a small, comfortable room with several large TV screens dotted around the walls, I made it obvious that I was uncomfortable.

"I allus thought I looked cool moving about, but now I see meself as clumsy and awkward," I announced after watching a scene from the _Bleaker Cove_ test.

"TV does that to you," Ed told me. "It tells no lies. Everyone has this image of themselves locked away in their minds, but TV destroys that image, and instead tells them the truth."

"Aye," I agreed, "but let us give you a case in point. It's taken us years to develop these biceps in the gym." I flexed the muscles and noted Laura's eyes widening a little. "Between them and me pecs, they force my forearms away from me body so that I look like a gunfighter ready to draw his pistols."

Ed gave him a benign smile. "Fortunately, Jeff, these bodily quirks are something that other people see all the time, so to the audience, the TV image is no different to the real thing."

I was to learn, as if I needed the lesson, that this was the only thing the tiny audience were interested in. Did I look and sound as natural on TV as he did in the flesh?

Ed called a break for lunch at twelve noon. I passed my time with Ali and Laura in the canteen, and they were both upbeat.

"For my money you're in," said Laura, and with a jaundiced eye on me, Ali agreed.

At one o'clock, they rose to rejoin Ed and his team.

"You have to wait here, Jeff," Laura told me. "It shouldn't take long. Not with me and Ali batting for you."

"Ali and me," I corrected her and immediately cursed myself. That was the kind of thing Clint would say.

She gave me a smile. "Just the way Clint would have told me."

"Sorry," I apologised. "It's that dialect woman's coaching. Maybe it's starting to show through."

"I hope so," said Laura. "I expect big things of you, Jeff."

I was not alone for long. Within ten minutes, Ali and Laura came for me.

"Well?" I asked as they sat opposite.

"You're in," Ali reported. "Priss put up a few objections, but even she said it's nothing she can't iron out given time." He raised his eyes to the ceiling and tutted. "Another one making a butty out of the show. Anyway, Ed wants to see you and congratulate you personally."

Laura shook her head. "Does he ever do anything off the cuff? If you came to me and said, 'Ed wants to see you drop your knickers and flash your minge at the cameras' I'd think great, Ed Welch is doing something out of the ordinary."

"He's a boring fart," Ali agreed. "It helps pay for his house in Wilmslow. Anyway," Ali added, finishing his tea and standing up, "he has a proposition for you, Jeff."

"What?" I wanted to know.

"We don't know," Laura replied in light, yet puzzled tones. "He wouldn't say. Not until you were with us. Maybe he wants you to drop your shreddies and flash for Priss, Shirley and me."

"Not Ed Welch," said Ali leading the way out of the canteen. "He's as predictable as cold turkey sandwiches on Boxing Day."

"You have turkey left on Boxing Day?" asked Laura. "How do you resist all that temptation on Christmas Day?"

When we joined the remaining crew in the viewing room, Ed made the announcement as swiftly and painlessly as possible, and I modestly accepted the congratulations of everyone.

During the fuss, Ed rang the canteen and ordered tea and biscuits. There was some delay while they were delivered, and a lot of rhubarb conversation on who was in this show, who was out of that newsroom, how suchabody had got on since moving to Sky Sports, and the way in which the glamorous Asian woman who silently fronted one of Underlinen's game shows as support for the host, was now snapping up high profile roles in Bollywood. Eventually, when everyone had their little plate of custard creams and angel cake, Ed brought them to order.

"I have a proposition for you, Jeff. It's an idea that occurred to me on Monday when we first met. It'll get you plenty of exposure... literally." Ed laughed at some private joke and Bentley's face fell. Putting on his most serious face, Ed asked, "How would you like to star as Bart Sturgess in _Bleaker Cove_?"

For a long time I was speechless, and I guessed Ed arbitrarily assumed it was because I was overwhelmed with shock at the thought of superstardom. Ali was just as speechless, but again, Ed probably assumed it was because he and Laura had 'discovered' Bentley and he was awestruck by this masterstroke of genius, and wondering why he hadn't thought of it first.

For a woman who made her living tutoring others in how to speak in dialects that were not their own, Priss Normanton was similarly dumbstruck and I imagined she was weighing up the money she would make in coaching fees. Other people in the room could only stare at Ed and once more he probably felt it was because they had, at last, recognised his creative brilliance.

Laura, however, was the one person in the room who had no difficulty exercising her vocal cords. "Let's not forget who found him," she bleated. "I want a cut in this deal, Ed."

"We can iron out the details later, Laura," Ed said, and turned a benign beam on me. "How about it, Jeff?"

"Ed, you can't do this." Ali had at last found his voice. "What happens when the real Clint shows up?"

Ed shrugged. "He's through, Ali. The amount of trouble he caused us, who gives a toss about him? He walked out, dropped us in the S-H-one-T. As far as I'm concerned, he can eff off. Besides," Ed went on, "Jeff will be a lot cheaper than Clint. No offence, Jeff, but as things stand, you don't have a track record in any kind of acting, and I couldn't pay you anything like the amount he earned."

"No," I agreed. "I – er – course not, I mean I wouldn't expect you to."

"So how about it?" Ed repeated.

"Well, er, I really need to think this through, Ed. I mean, don't get us wrong, I'm grateful for the offer, like, but this is a big step for me."

"Sure, sure," greased Ed. "Take your time. You'll need an agent. I'm sure Ali will be prepared to act for you. Isn't that right, Ali?"

If Ali's eyes had been daggers, I would have been skewered to the chair. When Ed mentioned his name, my managerial mate woke up. "Yeah. Right, Ed. _Bart_ Sturgess?"

"Brett's long lost twin brother." Ed stood up and offered his hand. "Well congratulations and welcome aboard, Jeff. I'm sure you'll be a great asset to The Cove. Ali, if you're at The Mill tomorrow, we can begin negotiations on the contract. Jeff, come down with Ali and meet the rest of the cast in the rehearsal room. Laura, if you could spare me some time now, we need to talk about your future in this."

# Chapter Nineteen

The journey home passed in almost total silence, and it wasn't until Ali turned off Huddersfield Road in Oldham, and made his way up Ripponden Road, two miles from home that he eventually spoke.

Even then it was short and to the point.

"Well you've dropped us right in it now."

And I knew how he felt. When Ed added the word, 'literally' onto 'it'll get you plenty of exposure', I expected him to come out with some script that involved a lot of nudity. I was not prepared for him offering my role to a look-alike.

I knew that behind the wheel, Ali was still working on the most painful death he could think of for me. One that involved a lot of butchery and some of the tools I'd bought Shaz the other Christmas.

For my part, I could not think of anything other than the astonishing fact that in the space of two months, I'd come full circle. Disappeared, reappeared in a different persona and ended up right back at square one. Worse than that, in fact. I was at square minus one. If I accepted Ed's offer, there was no way I could refuse nudity and I'd be taking a huge pay cut.

"I can't do it," I said as we climbed the hill past what used to be Moorside Post Office.

"You've no choice," Ali told me.

"Ali," I insisted, "how will it look when I come clean? Here I am pretending to be someone else, pretending to be me, playing a role replacing the one I walked out on because I wouldn't strip for the cameras."

"And doing it for one eighth of the salary you used to make," he added, twisting the knife a little more. "And my commission drops from sixty grand to seven and a half. Like I said, you've dropped us right in the shit, but you can't refuse."

"Yes I can," I argued. "I can come clean."

He shook his head as we reached the turn at Grains Bar. Three miles away, standing proud on top of the moors, I could see the transmitter at Rockingstones and I recalled the night I had driven back from Scarborough. God, it was tempting.

"You can't," he repeated, accelerating along Buckstones Road.

"I—"

He cut me off. "You have to take it, Clint. Think about it like this. If you say no and go away, when you eventually tell everyone who you really are, they'll tear your contract up. As Ed pointed out, you walked out on them, dropped them in the shit. They will throw you out of the show, out of the building, out of town and out of the country if they can. Unless and until we can prove otherwise, you created this situation, not them. You'll have to go along with it. I'll be with Ed most of tomorrow, negotiating the contract, which Ed will have drawn up by Monday, and you will sign it. I'll get you the best deal I can, but it'll probably be parity with Julius Quigley, and even then you'll have to wait a year."

I shook my head. "It's too risky. If someone tumbles —"

Once again he cut me off. "He did it. That mate of yours."

I frowned. "What mate?"

"Him. You know. That book you're always on about. Sermon."

"Ali," I whined, " _The Spring Madness of Mr Sermon_ was a novel, not a real man, and anyway, he reinvented himself as himself at a different school. He didn't come back to the same school pretending to be someone, then pretend to be himself."

He turned into the farmhouse, stopped and cut the engine. Removing the key from the ignition, with it still in his hand, he faced me.

"I've said this many time in my life, Clint, but I've never meant it more than I do now. You are a grade one fucking idiot. You had enough intelligence to get you through university, sufficient brains to put _Bleaker Cove_ together, but once you made it, you switched your brain off."

"Ali—"

For the third time, he cut me down. "No, Clint, I'm talking, you're listening. Last March, at the Britbox Awards, I told you we had a good beat on things, I advised you not to rock the boat. All right, so I made a couple of bad calls on your behalf, I should have consulted you and I didn't. But you should have hassled _me,_ not Underlinen. You ignored me. You did rock the frigging boat and now instead of riding along on a luxury liner, you're working on a canal barge. There's no one to blame but you."

He opened the door, preparing to climb out. For my part, I accepted the tirade. "All right, Ali, where do we go from here?"

He shrugged. "I dunno. We need to find that little tart who had dinner with you. Until then, we toe the line. When Ed comes up with that contract, you don't argue, you sign. I'll see what I can do beyond that, but Christ knows how they'll react when they learn the truth. Without the Yaeger woman, we are neck deep in pooh, so we'll just have to cross that bridge if and when we come to it." He climbed out, I followed suit. He locked the door behind him, and looked me in the eye. There was anger, no bitterness, just honesty. "You're a dickhead. Now I'm going in for a night in front of the telly, and I don't wanna see or hear from you until eight o'clock tomorrow morning." He turned and marched away.

Letting myself in, I flopped onto the settee. Ali's placidity was as damning as it was uncharacteristic. In a situation like this, I would normally expect him to get his hair off. He was my best mate, and he was one of the few people who could give me it like it was without my threatening retaliation. But he didn't shout and rant. He was calm and in total control of himself. That told me he meant it.

Above the fire, stood a model of Darth Vader. Someone – I presumed it was Ali – had straightened out the sword. Looking at it reminded me of that terrible night just nine weeks back when I had all but wrecked the place before walking out and disappearing. Was it time to do it again? It seemed to me to be the only way out of the appalling and absurd situation I had got myself into.

Even as I thought of it, I knew I couldn't do it. There were too many problems hovering in the background: problems with the police, problems with Ali, Laura, Underlinen, The Cove. Problems, problems, problems. Why were there so many problems?

The essential truth of everything Ali had said in the car struck me like a hammer. It was all my own doing.

You're a celebrity. That's what celebrities do, isn't it?

How many times had Ed Welch said that to me over the last six years and how many times had I warned him that if he didn't shut it I would start behaving like a celebrity. The truth was I _had_ been behaving like a celeb all along. I wanted this, I wanted that, I had to have control here, I wouldn't relinquish my grip there. Give me what I want or I spit the dummy out. And then I had spat the dummy out, and fucked up big style.

I tried to rationalise it, tried telling myself that it wasn't really my fault, that it was all Orlando Verdonk's doing, but I knew it was bullshit. I never had to rise to the bait. I had three years of my contract left. I could have sat out the three years, done what he wanted, then walked and hyped the walk out for all it was worth.

Underlinen Productions are a shower of sh*t: Clint Devries tells all.

I could see the headlines in the tabloids. And it would have left Verdonk fuming, but me considerably richer with a reputation intact, and other companies queuing up to offer me work.

But that wasn't good enough for me. Oh no. I had to prove I was the bigger dick. And the result?

I don't know how long I sat there in the living room. The twilight was settling on the moors when I climbed out of Ali's car, and had turned to November darkness by the time I eventually responded to the grumbling in my tummy.

I took my coat off, turned up the heating, dug into the freezer and microwaved a TV dinner. It seemed apposite: a plastic roast beef and Yorkshire pudding for a plastic man, a man composed of a thin veneer of supposed artistic integrity, but who was as selfish as every other ranting, tanting celeb between the covers of the glossy magazines.

With the clock reading 9:00, I heard tapping coming from next door and I knew that if I put my ear to the wall, I would hear some of Shaz's choice language as she tried to persuade this machine or that tile, to fit properly into place. It set my mind thinking about the woman herself.

A month or two after Ali and I graduated, I was pissed out of my brains in an Oldham bar where I pulled her. When I woke up the following morning I had to wonder what I'd been drinking the night before. She was every sane man's terror: not unlovely, but large, aggressive and physically demanding. I ran for it and Ali fell for her instantly. There was no mistaking the look in his eyes. Within a couple of months, she was sharing our council flat and ever since that night they had been inseparable. She was loud, uncouth, outspoken and as hard as nails, but Ali had seen all that, then looked beyond the mere physical, which was why he loved her.

Sitting there, listening to the soft tap of a hammer coming through the walls, I suddenly realised why. It was because Shaz just was. Ali spent his life dealing with dreamers. Writers, actors, producers, directors. People who lived in a world of fantasy, much like the fabulous meanderings of his own mind. That was the world of TV. He didn't despise them. He made a lot of money off them. To a large degree, he was one of them. When he wrote, he could conjure up fantastic notions of other worlds, other galaxies, other universes, or he could simply take our world, our universe and put a twist on it.

Shaz was nothing like that. She refused, point blank, to go to dinner with any of TV luvvies, but it was not because she believed she would be out of her depth. It was because she considered them wankers.

"Never done a day's work in their frigging lives," she would say, and she was right.

Ali loved and needed Shaz as his anchor in reality. No airs, no graces, she didn't even give a hump about Ali's money. Sharon Crossley was Sharon Crossley. End of. Take her or leave her. She was Ali's earth connection, the thing that kept his feet on the ground.

Shaz, I reflected, as the ten o'clock news came on, was exactly what I needed in my life. Not Shaz as a person, but Shaz as an idea. But it was too late for me. I had needed Ms Ordinary at my side before I became what I was. If I went looking for a wife now, even as Jeff Bentley, I would have a queue from here to Oldham and back. Groupies, fanatical women who would stop at nothing to get to me, even down to threatening other female cast members, or opening their legs and taking picture of their most private parts. But they did not want me. They did not even want my money. They wanted Brett Sturgess, the fictitious hunk skipper of a non-existent small fishing boat sailing from a village that couldn't be found on the map. And soon it would be Bart Sturgess, Brett's long-lost brother.

The clock passed midnight and the calendar racked up another day. What was I to do? How did I get back what I had, how could I retrace my steps not two months but six years, and find again the burn, the lust for life that had been with me after leaving university?

I couldn't. That was the honest truth. As things stood, I couldn't even go back to being what I was eight months ago when I picked up the award for best actor at the Britbox Awards. To put no finer point on it, I couldn't go back to being what I was two months ago when I thumped Clive Lorimer. I was trapped as a Geordie jerk just starting out on the long climb to success.

With that sad thought, my eyes finally closed and I slept.

***

A fierce hammering on the door woke me at half past seven. I was still sat in the armchair. My back and head ached. I creaked to my feet, staggered across the living room, snapped the deadlock back and let Ali in.

"You look like shit," he told me.

"Thanks," I croaked. "I've always admired the cut of your jib, too."

"Get a move on, pal," he ordered. "We have to be at The Mill for nine."

"Make coffee, and crack the paracetemol bottle," I instructed him. "I'll take a shower."

Passing through to the bathroom, I spent five minutes under the shower, shaved the beard neatly into shape, and came back in time to collect a strong cup of coffee and two headache pills from him.

"Brighter mood this morning?" I asked.

"Some," he admitted as I pulled on a fresh pair of denims. "I'm still seriously pissed off with you, but what can I do about it?"

I took a healthy slug of coffee and savoured its invigorating bite. "If it's any consolation, I think I'm a daft twat, too."

He shook his head. "Shaz does too, but it doesn't appease my wallet." He put down his cup. "Now listen, Clint, you're being taken to The Mill this morning to meet the cast. Thump Julius Quigley if you must, but whatever you do, don't shag Emma."

I raised querying eyebrows.

"Women have a way of knowing these things," he said. "Shaz spotted the scar on your leg. That was how she knew who you were. One length of your dick stuffed up her and Emma may just twig who you really are."

I took this curious view to his car at ten past eight. I didn't think he was right, but I suppose it was possible that the vagina had a memory.

It was to be another tedious day, making it appear as if I was overawed by their glitter and glamour.

An hour later, Ali led me into the rehearsal room at The Mill and introduced me to those cast and crew who were present, amongst which number were Helen, Emma, Spangles and Julius. Ali then went off to open negotiations with Ed, leaving me, the new boy, at the mercy of the more experienced stars.

Everyone was naturally polite, and while my three co-stars were reserved, they nevertheless confessed themselves happy to have me aboard.

As Helen briefed everyone for the first read through of the day, I picked up the newspapers from the coffee stand and scanned the front pages. They were filled with the missing Clint Devries yet again, but the police had no comment to make.

I sat silently as they worked through the script, but occasionally, in an effort to lend verisimilitude to my 'new boy' persona, I distracted Helen with the odd question and although I could see the irritation behind her eyes, she still came up with brief yet polite explanations.

At 10:30, the director brought the read-through to an end, detailed which cast members were wanted on which sets, and called a thirty-minute break. I put on the appearance of one who is floundering and uncertain, and Emma came to my rescue, escorting me from the room to the canteen one floor up, where she invited me to join her, Julius and Spangles.

Sitting with them, I steeled myself for what I knew must come. Some hard-boiled and forceful opinions on Clint Devries.

"I hope you're not as big a prick as Clint," Julius said as they sat down.

I raised my eyebrows. "They reckon he spoke well of you, too."

"He was an arsehole." Julius spat venom. "He never gave a toss about anyone but himself."

"That's not how Ali tells it," I told him.

"It's not as bad as it sounds," said Emma, "but there's an element of truth in what Julius says. Clint was a hard case, and he could be very selfish when he wanted."

"Take no notice of her," Julius advised. "She fell for his bullshit."

"Only after Allison Miller's knickers fell at your feet," Emma snapped, and I scored her a point before focussing on Spangles.

"How about you? Did you hate him an'all?"

"Hate's a strong word," she replied. "To hate someone, you have to feel strongly about them, and I didn't. To tell the truth, I didn't know him that well. I've only been on this gig for four or five months. I'd agree with Emma. Clint was a hard nut, and he was selfish, but when he pushed for those things he wanted for himself, it usually benefited other cast members too."

"Not me," Julius whined. "I reckon we're better off without him." He put down his cup. "The last day's filming I did with him, he damn near throttled me for real, the bastard. And he was a complete prick with women. Picking 'em up, dumping 'em after a quick fuck."

"Sounds like I'm coming into the right show, then." I grinned and Emma tittered.

Julius looked down his nose at me. "Yes, I'd heard as much. Whisper is you were a male stripper."

"Well the whispers are wrong, sunshine. I was a barman in a club where male strippers turned out. But I did get to know them and none of them apologised for it. They reckon if the only way you can make money is to take your duds off for randy women, then you do it, don't ya?"

Spangles smiled and nodded her understanding. "I was doing it for years." She giggled. "No education, you see. Just big tits."

Julius scowled at her.

Picking up the conversational thread, Emma chuckled again and said, "I was in university with a young feller who dropped out to go stripping after he'd seen that film, _The Full Monty_."

"You were at university?" Right away it occurred to me that I'd put too much surprise into his voice, and I promptly apologised. "Sorry. I didn't mean it to sound like that."

"No problem," Emma said, brightly. "Everyone thinks I'm a dumb blonde, an airhead, but I did a year at Manchester Metropolitan University before moving on to drama school. What about you? Are you well qualified?"

I gave a derisive bark of a laugh. "I'm just a Newcastle dosser. Nay education, nay interest, nay worries."

There was a hubbub by the door. I turned to see the police coming through the door. I recognised Chief Inspector Rummer and Detective Sergeant Crandall from the number of times they'd been on TV recently, and when they headed in our direction, I began to worry. Ten seconds later I had just cause to worry when they hovered over me.

"All right, marrer?" I asked, struggling to keep the concern out of my voice.

"We are," said Crandall, "but you won't be."

"What?"

Rummer cleared his throat and with great formality said, "Jeffrey Bentley, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Clinton Devries. I must caution you..."

My heart sank and the rest of the official caution was lost in the general hubbub.

# Chapter Twenty

"Do you deny that you met with Clint Devries?"

I looked away, unwilling to answer, maintaining my right to silence.

"I'll tell you something," said Rummer, forcing me to drag my gaze back to the interview table where a cassette recorder whirred, "On Tuesday we had a call from a Mr William Smith, the proprietor of Schmitz in Blackpool where you worked behind the bar. According to Mr Smith, you live on the premises, renting one of the dressing rooms from him. When you left for Manchester on Monday, he decided to give your room a good clean, and do you know what he found in a cupboard there?"

I knew all right, but I wasn't about to admit it.

What surprised me about the interview room was how accurate programmes like _The Bill_ had it. On TV it was always small, cramped and crowed when you had two coppers, a lawyer and a suspect crammed into it. The real thing was exactly like it, just as small, just as cramped, just as full even though there was only me and the two plod, no lawyer.

What TV couldn't tell you was the smell. The composition floor tiles had been cleaned with a strong smelling, pine disinfectant, but even under that irritating tang, was the smell of urine and vomit. They'd probably had some drunk in there before me and instead of answering their questions he had pissed or puked all over the floor.

Rummer reached down to the floor and brought up an evidence bag containing my wrist watch.

"This watch, Bentley, is a Rolex Oyster Submariner. Blue dial, eighteen carat, yellow gold with a blue rotating bezel for the diver. I don't know how much you know about Rolex, but if they're genuine, they have a model number, and the movement has a serial number. The numbers on this watch match those of a piece bought by Clint Devries right here in Manchester, three years ago. It had had one previous owner, but Devries still paid several thousand pounds for it."

My gaze was transfixed on the watch.

"Well?"

I loved that watch. I could never wear it to the studios because poor old Brett Sturgess couldn't afford a Rolex. He was hard pressed to own a Timex. I would never risk leaving it in my locker in wardrobe, so when I was filming, it stayed at home, but I always felt it set the seal on my stardom when I got dolled up for the big thrashes that were a part of TV land.

I recalled the day I bought it from an authorised dealer on St Anne's Street in central Manchester. At the time, I was still running my old Ford Mondeo, and the watch was my first luxury purchase after my mega-pay rise. Wandering into a high-class jewellers, dressed in my scruffs and a baseball cap, the snooty sales assistant hadn't recognised me and was eager to shuffle me out the door with a fifty quid never-right, until he saw the name on my credit card. Then he was falling all over himself.

He had plenty of brand new watches for sale, but the startling contrast between the gold case and strap and the azure of the face took my fancy. He registered the watch to me right there and then and I came out pleased as punch with the thing on my wrist, and received the standard Rolex bumph through the post a few days later.

I became aware that they were still waiting for me to respond and I shrugged.

Crandall picked up another bag. "A Sony Xperia e4g smartphone," she announced. "The battery was exhausted, but fortunately, we have chargers for most modern phones. When we put some juice into it and switched it on, surprise, surprise, we learned it belonged to Clint Devries, which prompts us to ask what was it doing in your possession?"

Again I said nothing.

Frustration beginning to get the better of him, Rummer placed a third bag on the table, this time holding my laptop.

"One laptop computer. Fortunately the battery did work on this, and when we booted it up, we got a lock screen and do you know what that screen said?"

Again, I refused to answer.

"Hi, I'm Clint Devries, and if you don't know the password for this machine, then I'll know you're not me." Rummer repeated the lock-screen message word for word.

I yawned and looked around the room again.

I expected Crandall to have another go, but no, it was Rummer, speaking for the third time.

"Next, we have this. A cheap, leather wallet. It contains Amex, Diners, Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, and several store cards, all in the name of Clint Devries. In addition his photocard driving licence is in there, and in the back pocket of the wallet, there is a small photograph of a middle-aged couple. Having met Devries's mother and father, I would swear it's them." He leaned forward angrily. "And finally, currently with our forensic people, we have a set of clothes which we believe belonged to Devries. We're looking for traces of him on them. Now stop messing us about, Bentley. We know you met him, we know you robbed him, and we're sure you killed him. Probably when you were getting him to tell you the PIN numbers for his cards. We have you bang to rights. Just tell it like it is."

"I know nowt," I said, speaking for the first time.

Rummer relaxed and with a nod, let Crandall take up the interrogative reins.

"You're an interesting man, Bentley," she said. "You turned up at Schmitz a few days after Devries disappeared and landed a job. But when we spoke to Bill Smith, he told us he's still waiting for your P45. We checked up with the Department for Work & Pensions, and guess what? The national insurance number you gave Smith is false. It belonged to Mrs Rita Renson of Havant, Hampshire. And before you claim that she is your long lost sister, she is actually the _late_ Mrs Rita Renson of Havant, Hampshire. She died before you were even born. In fact, Bentley, we can't find you anywhere." She consulted her notes. "There are thousands of Jeffrey Bentleys, obviously, and a fair few of them come from Tyneside, but none of them ever worked at Willems in Middlesbrough, nor Nutterflies in Bridlington, two places where you assured Bill Smith you'd done some bar work."

"All right," I confessed, "so I told him a few porkies. It's not a crime, is it?"

"As a matter of fact, it is," Rummer said. "You can go by whatever name you choose, as long as it's not for purposes of fraud or deception." He leaned forward again. "Let me tell you a little more, Bentley. We checked prison records and you're not mentioned in them. Again, there are plenty of Jeff Bentleys who have been locked away, but none who fit your description or match the fake background you cooked up. The same goes for the armed forces."

"We're not stupid, Bentley," Crandall declared. "No one can vouch for you before last September. You're using a false handle. Now give us your real name."

"It is my real name," I said. "I've been working abroad."

Rummer took up his pen. "Details."

I clammed up again.

They were not ready to let go. "I'll tell you what else interests me," Crandall said tossing the bag with the wallet back to the floor. "You haven't asked for a brief. And we know why you haven't, don't we? Because you'd have to tell your brief the truth."

I sucked in a deep breath. "Listen to me. I did not harm Clint Devries."

"We didn't say you did," Rummer declared.

"You've arrested us on suspicion of his murder," I yelled, my strong Geordie accent blazing through. "What's that if it's not an accusation?"

"It's a suspicion, Mr Bentley," Crandall said in an effort to moderate the debate.

"You haven't even got a body," I shouted again. "How can you suspect us of murder without a body?"

"We have a strong suspicion that Clint Devries is dead," said Rummer. "That's enough for us to be going on with."

I slumped back in my chair. "What kind of bloody country is this. Hauled in for murder when you don't even know the blurk is dead."

"Everything points to Devries having been murdered," Crandall insisted.

I'd heard enough. I didn't want to do it, but if I didn't these idiots would send me to prison for life for murdering myself. I took another deep breath and in perfect, accent-less English, said, "I did not kill Clint Devries."

"Then where the hell is he?" Crandall shouted. She, too, had had enough. When I did not answer again, she stood and leaned threateningly over the table, her voice raised almost to a scream. "What the hell have you done with him?"

"I buried him," I shouted back.

Both assumed faces glowing with triumph. Crandall sat back down.

Wiping the smile from his face, Rummer asked, "You buried him? Alive? Where?"

I pointed to my chest. "In here." For a moment, I savoured the look of absolute mystification on their faces, and then, in a soft, unhurried voice, admitted, "I _am_ Clint Devries."

Crandall and Rummer could only stare. God knows what a brief would make of the cassette recording. There must have been near two minutes of silence.

"What did you say?"

"You heard. I am Clint Devries," I repeated.

Crandall suddenly recovered. "Oh this is bloody stupid. First you say you never met Clint Devries, then you won't talk to us at all, and now you say you really are Clint Devries." She addressed her superior. "I think we need a psycho to look him over, sir."

Fortunately Rummer was not so hasty. In a voice as calm as Crandall's had been excited, he asked, "Can you prove it, Mr Bentley?"

"My name is Devries," I repeated, more firmly this time, "and proving it will be surprisingly easy. Some years ago, I fronted a publicity campaign for a national DNA database. I volunteered to be added to that database. You have my DNA fingerprint on file." I bared my arm and thrust it forward. "Take a blood sample now. Have your boys analyse it. You'll find I'm telling the truth."

Crandall stood up. "I'll go get the doctor," she said.

Rummer stayed her with a hand on her arm. "Later. And the doctor won't be necessary. We can take a mouth swab." He turned back to me. "Even if you are Clint Devries, you still have a lot of questions to answer. For the moment, I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt. I'm going to assume you are telling us the truth. Now you tell me why you gave everyone the run around."

I fell silent again, and looked around the squalid room seeking inspiration. It was a pity I didn't have Ali there. His ability to think on the spot would have had them sobbing in their tea.

"Tell me something, Chief Inspector. Have I broken any laws?"

"You disappeared. You raised serious concerns for your safety. All you really needed to do was call in and let us know you were safe. Your failure to do so could be construed as wasting police time."

I shook my head. "I chose to disappear for personal reasons. I didn't call you, I didn't lead you to suspect I had come to any harm."

"Your friend Greenall did," Crandall said.

The belligerence in her voice annoyed me. "As I understand it, Ali called you because my flat had been wrecked. He was concerned, and he wasn't to know I was the one who wrecked it, and he wasn't the one who assumed I'd been murdered after he found traces of blood in the bathroom, blood, by the way, which came from a cut on my finger. It happened when I smashed the mirror."

"Most people let their family and friends know they are safe, Mr Devries," Rummer said.

"Family and friends were part of the problem," I replied.

"Would you care to outline that problem?"

"No, I would not. As far as I'm concerned, I needed time away from the pressure of my work and public life. And you may very well say that I presented Smith with fraudulent credentials, but I will say to you it was not with the purpose of avoiding taxation or deceiving anyone. It was done simply to grant me some privacy for a little while. My accountants will ensure that any income tax due on the money I earned working at Schmitz will be paid."

Crandall went on the attack. "If he's genuine, sir, I think this has been one huge publicity scam from the word go. I think he and Underlinen pulled this to hype the show."

Rummer looked at me and raised his eyebrows. I shook my head.

"Underlinen were also part of the problem, Sergeant," I said.

Rummer closed the file. "I'm disposed to believe you, but I will want that DNA swab, and preliminary confirmation before you go. I don't know if charges will follow. That will be up to the Chief Constable's office. But at least now we can close down this episode and let everyone know you're safe."

"No you can't," I declared.

"I'm sorry?"

"For my purpose I wish to be known as Jeff Bentley. At least for a few more days. I'm insisting that you tell no one."

"But—"

"Do I have to call my lawyers?"

"What you are asking, Mr Devries, is deception. You are involving the police in a deception of your own making. I will not do it."

I racked my brain for an excuse. "If you don't," I said, "you will upset some delicate contractual negotiations, and if that costs me money, I will sue."

Rummer proved tougher than his sergeant. "Then explain."

I sighed and sat forward. "Do you watch _Bleaker Cove_?"

"No. I don't watch television at all."

"Sensible man." I switched my attention to Crandall. "You?"

"I've seen odd episodes. Can't swear I'm a diehard fan."

"But you'll be aware of what's happening in the New Year?"

She scowled. "Oh, you mean the adult episodes. Yeah. I know about it. Who doesn't? Can't say I'm overly interested."

"And you're not on your own, Sergeant. Neither am I. But I'm being pressured to appear full frontal. So I took off, found a job in a sleazy strip club where they employed men who flashed their meat and two veg for women. I needed to know why they did it."

"But you didn't do it yourself?"

"I'm an actor not a dancer and certainly not a stripper." Again I pressed my argument on them. "They do it for the money and for the crack with some of the hens. That's it. And that's what I was researching. If I'm forced to do this, I will want recompense which recognises the artistic sacrifice I'm making. Those negotiations open soon and I won't have you screw them up by announcing my return."

"I need to think this through," Rummer said.

"Do whatever you want, but make it snappy so I can get off." I pointed at the heap on the table. "And you can give me back my property."

The sergeant appeared worried, and looked to her chief. He appeared less concerned, but he wasn't backing down. "I said, I need to think about it." He stood up. "In the meantime, I'll get someone to come in and take a mouth swab for DNA analysis." He checked his watch. "You'll be here for a while yet, Mr Devries."

He was right. They took the swab, but another hour passed before he and Sergeant Crandall sat with me again.

During that hour, I had decided that the time was right to come clean with everyone. It was becoming too complicated and too risky. I would give it the weekend and if we had made no progress on finding Tanya Yaeger, I would announce it to the world.

"The DNA analysis will take a few days to complete, but the preliminary results appear to confirm that you are who you say you are," Rummer told me. "Right now, Mr Devries, I'm releasing you, but it's too early to say whether charges will follow. And in accordance with your wishes, we will not be speaking to the press about this matter until the middle of next week. That's how long you have. You can go."

"Probably long enough." I eyed my possessions. "And that lot?"

"It stays with us until we have your identity confirmed," said Rummer, and walked out, leaving the door open for me.

# Chapter Twenty-One

I stepped out of the interview room, and made my way along a dim, gloomy corridor to the police station's reception area to find an agitated Ali waiting for me.

"What the bejeebers is going on?" he demanded as we stepped out into a clear, but cold, November evening.

I shushed him until we had made the 100-yard trip to the multi-storey car park of Spindles Shopping Mall, and once we were in his car, I brought him up to speed.

"I didn't want any stray ears rumbling my real identity," I concluded. "Rummer's giving us some breathing space. I spun him a yarn and he's giving us until the middle of next week before he tells the world I'm back."

"So whatever happens, we'll have to make the announcement before then."

Firing the engine, slotting the transmission into 'drive' Ali pulled cautiously out of his parking slot, looking both ways for oncoming vehicles, and drove sedately to the helical down ramp for the exit.

"I'd just hassled Ed up to forty thou' a year," he told me, "bringing you into line with the longer-serving cast, when Laura burst in and told me you'd been arrested. Ed almost tore the contract up there and then, but we managed to put him on hold." He gave a little sneer. "That silly bitch wanted to come with me."

"Which silly bitch?" I asked as we emerged into the twilight.

"Laura."

With that announcement, Ali pulled up at the barrier and fished into his pockets for change. "One pound fucking eighty. It's a bastard rip off. I've only been here twenty minutes. You got any change?"

I patted my pockets. "Brassic."

"Bleeding typical," he chuntered and put two pound coins into the machine. The barrier rose and Ali waited for his change. When it didn't come, he began to get annoyed, until I told him to get a move on before the barrier came down when he would have to pay again. "I seem to be getting mugged at every turn," he complained. "First it's you taking a pay cut of over four hundred grand a year, and now the bleeding car park is ripping me off."

"It nicked twenty pence off you, Ali," I declared. "I'm sure you can afford it. Why didn't you bring Laura with you?" When he didn't answer, I began to lose patience. "Ali, forget the lost twenty pee. Take it back out of my first week's wages. You said Laura wanted to come with you, but she isn't here. Why?"

"What's up with you?" he asked with some resentment. "Starting to fancy her."

"Well, I'm sure she's not a bad shag, but no I don't fancy her," I replied. "Now why didn't you bring her?"

"I know you're not Jeff Bentley. But she doesn't know that and we don't want her finding out."

I toyed with the idea for a moment. "It might not be a bad idea to bring her into our confidences."

"You shagged her," Ali shouted as he plodded down the hill to the Manchester Street island and dropped into the filter lane for the left turn towards the city.

"I did not."

"She says you did and she says it was Jeff Bentley who stuffed her and she's cool with that, but as far as Clint Devries is concerned, she worships the very ground he has coming to him. If... when she finds out you're you, she'll hit the roof."

"She's a fantasist."

"And you think that would stop her coming for you with a carving knife? If she'd known, you wouldn't have got within five miles of her trolleys."

"I _didn't_ get within five miles of her trolleys. She offered, I refused, and when this business is cleared up, I will set her right.

"How?"

"I'll take her to bed."

He snorted. "No, Clint, we can't take the risk of her learning who you are. Not yet. That's why I came alone. Now listen, by the time we get back to The Mill, Ed should have the contract drawn up. Just sign it, and think on, you need to sign Jeff Bentley, not Clint Devries."

***

Ali had phoned Ed from his car and assured our producer that the police arresting me was a mix up and everything was sorted. Ed was quite happy with that and by the time we got back to The Mill, there was a party in full swing in the canteen.

Ed made a short speech welcoming 'Jeff Bentley to the Bleaker Cove family,' and after that everyone started to hit the bottles of lager and spirits dotted around the tables, while Julius set up a CD player and put on some music.

It was tough for me. I had conversations with many of my fellow cast mates, and struggled to stay in part as 'Geordie Jeff'.

Ed then dropped a bombshell on us. "You, Jeff, and you, Emma, and you, Ali, are all booked on Vicky Valentine's evening show on Monday. They're laying the company jet on for you, Jeff. Quite an honour."

I knew that the jet was actually laid on for Emma, but I had other worries. Vicky was the last person I wanted to meet right then, but I couldn't say so. She hated Clint, and there was always the danger that I might slip up: especially considering I hated her, too.

While I accepted the congratulations and good wishes of the cast, Spangles passed me, took my hand and pressed a piece of paper into it.

Convinced that it was her phone number, I didn't even read it, but dropped it in my pocket. It would be one for the archives, and you never know when a bit of blackmail-type information like that might come in handy if I needed a spy in Verdonk's camp.

The party was in full swing. Couples were dancing, others were snogging, and many times, I saw Emma talking to one person or another, and every time she took my eye, I pined for her. But when I saw her talking to Laura, who was showing her images from her phone's camera, I began to worry. Laura was not known for her discretion, and I worried that she would be telling Emma her version of what didn't happen on the car park at Schmitz.

As the clock moved toward ten p.m. some of the cast, those due to work over the weekend, were making their way home. I was dropping hints to Ali, but Emma took me by surprise.

"Jeff, could I have a word in private, please?"

Her request brought forth many ribald remarks, particularly from Julius who was still smarting at the way she had dumped him for me earlier in the year and not taken back up with him when I dropped her.

"I just want to explain how things work here," Emma warned them all. "Let Jeff know who is top dog."

She led the way out of the canteen and along the corridor to the empty rehearsal room. Once inside, she closed the door so we couldn't be heard.

Then she rounded on me. "You bastard. You fucking arsehole. You total—"

Trying to keep up the pretence, I interrupted. "Ha'way, lass, just calm down."

"For Christ's sake, Clint, drop that bloody accent."

I was gobsmacked into momentary silence. Even when I found my voice, I didn't have much to say that was coherent. "I, er..."

Fortunately, Emma had plenty to say. "You may be able to fool everyone else, but you don't fool me. I suspected who you were the moment I saw you."

"How?"

"Jeff Bentley may be an undiscovered, theatrical genius, but no way could he mimic every tiny bit of Clint's body language. And he certainly couldn't mimic the scar on your right knee."

Unwilling, unable to trust myself to say more, I concentrated on the obvious. "How did you see that?"

"That cow, Laura. You did a screen test where you had to strip to your shorts and get into bed. That man-mad bitch downloaded images from the takes. She's just showed me them. Apparently, she was ready to drop her knickers for you in Blackpool, but you refused, and she wanted to know what she'd missed. Shit, you even wear the same underwear as Clint, and I should know. I've slept with him too often not to. The scar confirmed it. It's visible on one of the pictures she showed me. You fell on a beer bottle or something when you were child."

"Broken milk bottle, actually." I grinned. "All I can remember is the blood. I screamed the street down, according to our old man."

Emma rounded on me. I don't think I'd ever seen her so angry. Not even when she confronted Julius after his shenanigans with Allison Miller. "What the hell is going on?"

"Emma—"

"You walked out on everyone. Twice you shifted me out of your life, but then you walked away leaving me wondering where you were and what had happened to you. No one heard anything from you. Not even Ali. The police thought he'd murdered you."

"Yeah." I chuckled. "Pretty funny, eh?"

"No it is not bloody funny. None of it is funny. You go missing, you're found pulling pints in a sleazy club. Now, what is going on?"

I sighed and sat down. "I can't tell you."

"Can't or won't?"

"All right, so I won't tell you. I think I know, but I can't be sure. On the other hand, if I don't get my finger out, I'll probably never know."

"Clint, unless you tell me right now what went on in Scarborough, I will call Ed and tell him who you really are."

As wretched a cleft stick as I could ever have wished for.

I sighed again, more with frustration this time. "All right. But you're not gonna like it."

Over the next ten minutes, I told her precisely what happened in Scarborough, what I'd been accused of and what I'd been doing in Blackpool. I also told her of my interview with Rummer and Crandall earlier in the day, and our efforts to track down Tanya Yaeger.

Emma listened patiently to everything I had to say, but it was obvious as I went through the story that she was getting angrier and angrier with every word.

Yet, when I was through, she was calm personified. "Do you know how much I love you?"

I shrugged. "Ali mentioned something."

"And do you know what I ought to do now?" This time, the calm was gone, and the fury began to rip through again. "I should walk out of here, never speak to you again, and leave you to wallow in the shit you've stirred for yourself."

I couldn't argue. If the situation had been reversed I would probably have felt the same way.

"You are an arrogant prick. A grade one dickhead, and you deserve everything you get."

"Emma, I didn't know she was gonna come onto me like that. And for her to accuse me—"

"I'm not talking about Laura bloody Tyndall or the little tart at the Maitland. I'm talking about you. Mr Clint tough guy Devries, the man who doesn't need anyone's help. The hardarse who can sort everything for himself. Instead of running away, why didn't you come to me?"

Her accusations, accurate as they were, stung me into retaliation. "And what's to say Verdonk, Lorimer, even the filth would have believed you? You've already admitted you love me."

"It isn't about what I think of you. It's about me being able to _prove_ you didn't rape that woman." She paused a moment. "You didn't have the time."

I almost laughed, but this wasn't funny. "You've obviously never seen me when I'm in a hurry, have you?"

"Clint, engage brain and think. We all eight of us went up in the lift together. We got off at the second floor, you went up to the third. I said goodnight to that idiot, Lee Connors, then saw Julius going into the haggis woman's room and came back down with Spangles. She left and I was on my own. You appeared no more than two minutes later. Tops you were gone from my sight for five minutes. Not only that, but the Maitland would have CCTV footage from the foyer showing us taking the lift up and coming back. You didn't have time to get a hand to her knickers, never mind rip them off and shag her."

I knew it all right. I had known it for a long time, but I couldn't tell her that, because I would then have to tell her why I didn't come to her, and I figured I'd hurt her enough.

Right there and then, I knew what I wanted. Emma Penton. I wanted her near me, with me, under me, joined with me. I wanted her. And not just for the obvious. I wanted her in my life, I wanted her running my life. I wanted her.

But after all the hurt I had caused her, I neither deserved her, nor expected her to see my point of view. I had lost her permanently.

"Emma—"

"Just get out, Clint. Live your life as Jeff Bentley."

"Please, Emma. Listen to me."

"Why should I? All you ever gave me was a good reaming and a shed-load of grief. Just get out of here, out of my sight, out of my life."

"Emma, I need you. I'm on the verge of cracking it, getting it all back. Help me. Back me up when I go for it."

"Why should I?"

"Because you love me?"

"I—"

"And because I love you, too."

She sneered. "You? Love me? You love what I have between my legs, you mean."

"That's not true. Hell, I've only just realised it myself, and I'm not asking for anything beyond your help. I don't expect you to forgive me, and I'll have to live with the way I've lost you for the rest of my life. But I need to confront this business and get my life back, and all I'm asking of you is if you'll back me up. If you can't bring yourself to do that, then I really will have to become Jeff Bentley... for life."

She was still blazing. "Then go in there. Now. Tell them who you really are."

"Not now. Monday."

She frowned. "Monday? Why Monday?"

"One last push over the weekend to find this Tanya Yaeger. After that, I concede defeat."

She became a little less angry, but no less serious. "You mean it, don't you?"

"Every word." I smiled wanly. "I am Clint, remember, not Jeff. The real me has just been buried for a while. I'm ready to fight Verdonk. Even if I can't prove he's behind it, with your help I can prove it didn't happen and that may let me threaten him with the cops."

"Yeah, and, like, Verdonk will really be bothered."

"That's why I need your help."

She paced the floor back and forth in front of me. Making me sweat, I suppose. She reminded me of the way Ali paced when we were creating.

I checked my watch. "Won't Julius be getting anxious?"

She stopped pacing. "Julius? What does he have to do with anything?"

"You're an item, aren't you?"

She laughed. "You obviously haven't read many of the celeb mags while you've been away, have you? He and I haven't been an item, as you put it, since Allison Miller. He tried it on when you and I fell apart, but it got him nowhere. These days, he's into Spangles."

"Spangles?" I frowned. "But she's just slipped me her phone number."

"Maybe she wants someone who knows how to do it right."

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the note Spangles had given me. "Well, she can stick it..."

It was the note that made me go quiet. It wasn't her phone number at all. She had written something on it.

Her name is Sally Stratton. She's a Manchester actress, and you can find her through the AKK Agency.

My brain felt like scrambled egg. A thousand thoughts, ideas, scenarios, ran through my mind like a flicker book, but instead of producing regular movement, they were just random thoughts and I could make no sense of them.

Aware that something was amiss, Emma took the note from me and read it.

"Clint, does this mean what I think it means?"

"I, er, I don't know. I think so. But why would Spangles tell me? How does she know? How does she know I'm me and not Jeff Bentley? Has Ali told her? Have _you_ told her?"

"Have I hell as like. I only just found out myself and I've hardly spoken to her all evening."

I made for the door. Emma rushed after me and grabbed my arm. "What are you doing?"

"Speaking to Spangles. I want to know if that little shit, Verdonk, is putting her up to this, because that would mean he knows who I am."

"Very unlikely," Emma said. "Verdonk threw her out three weeks ago. She's living with Julius."

"I, er, oh..." Things were getting confusing again. "Right. Then let's talk to her."

The party was still in full swing when we got to the other room. Spangles and Julius were smooching to One Direction's _Story of My Life_ , which I thought was quite apposite given the circumstances.

I tapped Julius on the shoulder. "Gentleman's excuse me, so excuse me, Julius."

I pushed him out of the way and wrapped my arms around Spangles so we could sway to the music.

"Well this is a turn up for the book," she purred.

"Sally Stratton," I whispered.

"Ah. Yes. I'm glad you read the note. I thought you might think I was propositioning you and chuck it away without reading it."

"Why tell me?"

"Because that little bastard threw me out. If it were not for Julius, I'd be on the streets. And do you know one of Ollie's troubles? He talks in bed when he should be fucking."

"So you knew what was going on all the time?"

"Uh-huh."

"Yet you never said anything."

"I knew where the bread and jam were coming from, Clint, and at the time, they were coming from Ollie. When he took them away, I thought I'd get my own back. It's all right, by the way. I don't expect any favours in return."

"How did you know who I am?"

She laughed. "Everyone knows the size of my bust, everyone can recognise my bush, but no one ever remembers where I come from."

"Gateshead. The Northeast?"

"Why, aye, bonny lad." She smiled seductively. "You might fool pissy Priss, the dialogue coach, but there's no way you could fool a genuine Geordie."

The music came to an end and we pulled apart.

"Do yourself a favour," she said. "Get your blonde bimbo back onside, chase up Sally Stratton, and then see the little Hitler and jam it all up his jacksey."

# Chapter Twenty-Two

Crowded into the green room, I found it comparatively easy to maintain the fiction of a man out of his depth, for the simple reason most people were taking no notice of me. They were listening dutifully to Vicky Valentine.

Vicky was to the studio as Laura was to location TV. Determined to hog as much of the limelight as she could. Consequently, although she was one of two anchors on _Good Day_ between 6 and 9 in the morning, she also had her own chat show that went out live for an hour between 7 and 8 p.m. on Monday evening, before which she recorded a more adult version for screening at 10 p.m. on Wednesday.

The result of all this was that she was in a spat for most of Monday. Something to do with turning up at the studio at 4:30 in the morning, and not leaving until 9:30 in the evening, only to be back for 4:30 the following morning.

News of Jeff Bentley's inclusion in the cast of _Bleaker Cove_ had arrived too late to reschedule the guests for the afternoon recording of her Wednesday show, so we were not involved in that. Live events, however, were easier to handle, and over the weekend, her writers had put in overtime on the questions they wanted to put to Laura, Ali, Emma and me.

Ali and I had had a busy weekend, too. Thanks to Spangles, it took us less than ten minutes to find Sally Stratton's online profile, and we arranged to meet her at a cafeteria in a Manchester department store on Saturday afternoon, for a preliminary interview, with a view to an audition.

Ali called our lawyers and insisted they get someone to meet us half an hour before she was due, and when she turned up, my best friend and agent bought her a cup of tea, and escorted her to our table.

She looked as neat, sweet and petite as she had done on the dinner date, but when she saw me and my lawyer, she almost had a heart attack. At least that was the way I interpreted the way she said, "Oh, fuck."

We calmed her down and then started asking questions. She was very frank about the way she had been hired, but she absolutely denied accusing me of rape.

"I was told to snog you and tempt you into bed," she said. "I was told it was a screen test, and if I passed, I'd be up for a movie later in the year."

"And you failed the test?" I asked.

"They said I was good, but not quite good enough. I got paid for the job and that was it."

I cast a meaningful glance at Ali, silently reminding him of our conversation in Blackpool, and then asked Sally, "None of your friends commented when you appeared in _Celebrity Snaps_?"

"The pictures were Photoshopped. It didn't look a bit like me."

After forty-five minutes, our lawyer got a signed deposition from her, and a warning from me to keep her mouth shut until Tuesday at the earliest.

"There are things going on, Sally, which could land you in deep shit. And I mean like a stretch in the nick. After Tuesday, you can say what the hell you like, but until then, keep your mouth shut. You don't even tell you mother or your boyfriend."

When she left she looked to be the most relieved of us all.

The lawyer had a copy of her statement delivered to us by courier on Sunday morning and Ali expressed reservations about the course of action I planned.

"It's the only way I'll get to see Verdonk," I told him. "You wait and see."

If I had any doubts, they were dispelled on Monday evening when Vicky began to read us the riot act in the green room. The venomous cow took the opportunity to slag off Clint Devries something awful, and while some of her criticisms were probably justified, a lot were not, particularly the comment that if he was 'not guilty of cowardice, he damn well should be and he should be hung for it.' I almost made the mistake of telling her that when referring to people the word should be 'hanged' not 'hung', but I kept my trap shut. I was ever more determined to see this bitch get it between the eyes. I would have said between the legs, but I didn't know what she had there.

There were a number of people I felt sorry for; people like Sally Stratton, Emma, even Julius and Spangles, but the one person I really felt for was Laura. She was basically as thick as a brick, and despite some obvious hints at those times when I dropped the phoney accent by mistake, or the length of time I spent talking to Emma, she still had not tumbled that I was the real Clint Devries. I'd always had a low opinion of her, but to be fair, she had been very good to Jeff Bentley over the last fortnight or so. When she learned she had offered to drop her knickers not for a look-alike but the real McCoy, and much worse, a man she had always confessed to hating, she would be made to look a fool in her own eyes, and that was the worst possible kind of humiliation.

Switching off to Vicky's rants, I vowed I would make it up to Laura, possibly try get her appointed as director when I got _Sermon_ off the ground. She had done a fairly good job on the Embargo adverts, so maybe it was time for her to tackle a major project. And I would get _Sermon_ off the ground. It didn't matter whether it was with Underlinen Productions or the Beeb or one of the big independents, it would make it to the small screen.

In the meantime there was work to be done, and having finished telling the other three how she intended to rule the roost in front of the audience, Vicky turned her attention to me. She ran through the list of questions she would be asking and gauged my responses. As professional as ever, I maintained the false air of the overwhelmed newcomer and accepted her guidance on trying to tone down my guttural Geordie slang.

Eventually, ready to go to make up before stepping out in front of the audience, she gave me what she obviously imagined was an encouraging smile but which to me looked more like the kind of grin a lion reserves for a zebra around lunchtime.

The show began. Vicky rolled into the introduction of this _Bleaker Cove_ special, her honeyed tones pouring forth the unctuous and wholly false sycophancy she reserved for her audience/viewers. Everyone in the business knew it was fake. She had been heard to describe her audience as 'the two million morons' and 'the great brain dead'.

Emma and I sat off to one side of the stage watching on a monitor while Vicky demolished Ali and Laura.

"I know he's a friend, Ali," she said, "but why bother with a man who has been described as one of the most hated actors in soapland? Especially after he ran out on you like that?"

It was one of the few times I could recall when Ali was overridden. It wasn't that he didn't have an answer. He had several, but Vicky wouldn't let him get them out. When he tried to tell her that the bulk of fan mail did not reflect her statement, she rode roughshod over the answer by trying to claim that the figures were falsified and more mail arrived for Julius than me. When he made an effort to point out that _Bleaker Cove_ owed its success to the onscreen chemistry between Brett and Candy, she once more pooh-poohed him, saying that the vast majority of viewers were men and fancied Emma Penton. In the end Ali gave up and left it to Laura.

Vicky's teeth were in fine form by this time, and when she insisted that Laura was a fool to even suggest a biopic on a man she readily confessed to hating, Laura was livid.

"I'm a TV presenter and a journalist," she protested, "and I undertake such assignments as management set me."

Vicky laughed it off. "That's so much hot air, Laura and you know it. If they'd asked me to make a picture of his life, I'd have told them where to get off. And anyway, the whisper is it was your idea."

These arguments batted back and forth for almost fifteen minutes, before the director called a commercial break. If the show were being recorded, Vicky, Ali and Laura would have come off set, but because it was live, they stayed there, my best mate and the woman voted best reality presenter at the last Britbox Awards, arguing the toss, Vicky maintaining her hard line and winning through thanks to her blatant refusal to let them get a complete answer out.

After the break, Emma was called out and joined the other two. The sycophancy this time was reserved for her. Emma gave the dutiful answers and Vicky went on to blame Clint Devries for all the problems in Emma's life. Emma told her that was nonsense, but Vicky put that idea down to my domination of her.

By the time Vicky had done chewing up and spitting out Emma along with the other two, my blood was on the boil. I would make this silly, loud mouthed and spiteful bitch pay for every word. When she called the second break, the floor manager began to educate me in the way to walk in, shake hands and peck Vicky on the cheek. I accepted the instructions with the private thought that I could do with some of Dracula's fangs for the job, and I wouldn't be aiming for her cheek.

When the break was over, Ali, Laura and Emma had shifted off to one side leaving the chair nearest Vicky vacant for me, and the woman herself addressed the camera.

"With the untimely disappearance of Clint Devries," she read from the autocue, "a man who obviously lacked the stamina and courage to carry on with his starring role, the search was on for a replacement. By a remarkable coincidence, Ali and Laura came across just such a man working behind the bar of a Blackpool strip club. A man who bears an uncanny resemblance to the real Clint Devries, and who has subsequently been cast as Brett Sturgess' long lost brother, Bart. Ladies and gentlemen, we're about to meet that man in his first, public interview, so please welcome my final guest... Jeff Bentley."

Vicky led the applause and I stepped out.

It doesn't matter how long you've been in the game, there is always a knot of tension in your tummy when you walk out before a live audience. I felt it now as I strolled onto the stage, but it was different this time. It was stronger than normal. So strong that it made me tremble, and I knew that it had less to do with nerves than anger.

Pecking my cheek as she shook my hand, Vicky must have noticed my angst. With the same fixed smile she had used at the Britbox Awards, demonstrating a latent talent for ventriloquism, she said, "Just relax, sunshine. You'll be all right."

I sat down next to Emma and Vicky returned to her seat and took a sip from a glass of water. There was a rumour that the glass actually contained gin, but no one had ever confirmed it, although it was noticeable that when her live shows were over she always took the glass with her back to her dressing room.

Taking care to ensure she put the glass back on its coaster on the little glass topped table between and forward of us, she smiled on me and I looked forward to wiping the smile from her face.

"So Jeff, how does it feel to be stepping into the shoes of one of TV's biggest fallen icons?"

"It's nay bother," I replied.

It was not what I was supposed to say. I was supposed to say, 'I'm excited and pleased and a little bit nervous'. I was also supposed to say it in an accent approaching classless English, not a thick Geordie brogue.

Right away the reply threw her. She looked to the autocue where the next prompt was ready, but she could not ask me how I planned to get over my nervousness when I hadn't admitted to it.

She improvised. "Well aside from being excited and pleased, you must be a little nervous?"

I shook my head. "I divvent think so. See—"

"Jeff—"

"Ha'way, lass, I'm talking here." I cut her off as rudely as she had tried to interrupt me, as rudely as she had cut everyone else over the last forty-five minutes. "I was aboot to say that Devries had a lot of reservations aboot stripping in front of the cameras, whereas me, see, I divvent worry aboot it. I've been working in a strip club for yonks and I've watched how these gadgies dee it, and I'm ready to flash me baubles at randy women like you whenever they're ready?"

Off to my left I could make out Ali covering his ears with his hands.

"Yes, if we could just get this discussion back where—"

"Here, I wanna show you summat." I stood up and unbuckled my belt. The floor manager off to the side almost fainted and I could see her swiping a cutting hand across her throat to the director. "It's all reet lass," I shouted to her. "I'm not gan to flash me dick nor nothing."

I let my trousers drop and raised my right foot resting it on my chair, then spoke direct to the cameraman. "Ha, way son, get a close up on me knee. See that?" I pointed the apostrophe shaped area of milky white skin. "I've had that scar since I was three years old. I fell on a broken milk bottle." I dropped the phoney accent. "A milk bottle that fell from my father's milk float. My father... David Devries."

Vicky's mouth fell open. So too did Laura's. I stared directly into the camera lens. "I am not Jeff Bentley. I am Clint Devries. And the reason I've announced myself by dropping my trousers on lie TV is because it is precisely what I wouldn't do for this loud-mouthed whore five years ago at the Underlinen Christmas party, which in turn is the reason she takes every opportunity to slag me off." I glared down at the gobsmacked Vicky Valentine. "I am sick and tired of hearing you running me down, you drunken tart, and if I hear one more word I will drop my knuckles in your fucking mouth and shut it for good."

A loud cheer went up from the audience. Vicky sat, her mouth wide open, unable to speak.

The floor manager was quicker on the uptake, and sent security men in. As they hurried on, Vicky came to her senses, leapt up and aimed a punch at me. Because I had my strides round my ankles, I couldn't dodge it so I sat down and she smacked one of her own security men right on the nose. He staggered back, blood all over his face. I hiked my trousers up and was busy fastening them when the other security bloke grabbed me and yanked me to my feet. I let go of my trousers and they fell to the floor again, but as they did, I also jerked my head backwards and back-nutted him. He recoiled; crashed into the eight-feet-high, polystyrene 'VV' setup behind us, and brought it down in a shower of shattered plastic. .

Meanwhile, Vicky was screaming obscenities at me, Emma was laughing her head off and Ali stared out at the audience in deep shock.

Still trying to secure my pants, I was brought up short by a scream from behind me. Confronted by Vicky, I didn't realise at first what was going on. I turned my head to find Laura bearing down on me.

"I took my knickers off for you, you bastard," she screamed.

"No, you didn't," I protested.

"Well, I would have done." Laura aimed a punch.

I dodged and she smacked Vicky right on the nose. I heard the bone crack. Vicky crumpled to the floor, Laura launched herself at me again, I let go of my trousers and caught her arms, and Emma took her about the waist to try calming her down.

While all this was happening the audience were cheering and stamping their feet and baying for blood. They hadn't had such a good time since the last Manchester United/Arsenal scrap at Wembley.

First aiders and more security men came onto the set and order was eventually restored. Shrugging off the black-shirted minders, at last securing my pants, I stepped forward in front of the cameras.

"Ladies and gentlemen," I said, "I must apologise for the fracas. This is not the way I planned my reappearance. I came here tonight to announce that I was back, to reveal the truth about my disappearance, but that harridan annoyed me." I pointed loosely in the direction of Vicky still spark out after Laura had thumped her. "Without going into great detail, I disappeared because I had become the victim of a campaign mounted against me by persons unknown, a smear campaign that was designed to take away my reputation, my livelihood and worst of all, my freedom. I recently came into possession of evidence that clears my name, and because of that, I am able to say that I am back in _Bleaker Cove_." I held out my left hand for Emma, who came to my side and took it. "And I'm pleased to say my gorgeous and sexy wife, Candy, will be at home cooking the dinner while I'm out on the seas bringing home the cod and chips."

I smiled, Emma laughed and we both got a huge round of applause from the audience.

***

We were held in the green room for almost an hour. Vicky and the injured security officer had both been carried off to hospital, and Laura, facing a potential assault charge, was being interviewed by the police.

And while we waited, each deep in our own thoughts, Emma came across to me.

"Ali's just told me why you never came to me to ask for my backing."

I smiled thinly. "Verdonk wouldn't hesitate to ruin you, Emma. I couldn't let him do it."

"Why didn't you tell me on Friday night at The Mill?"

"Because I don't deserve you."

She kissed me. "I'll decide what you deserve."

Once the police were through with Laura, security men came down and we were finally called to Verdonk's office.

It had not been an hour completely wasted. Shortly before we were called up to the penthouse, I got a call from Chief Inspector Rummer, essentially giving me a warning that he was on his way and he was expecting explanations not only from me, but also from the Underlinen Media Group, and he warned me not to leave their HQ until he got there, which he figured would take about an hour and a half.

I was cool with that. I didn't know how I would handle him, but I was looking forward to the rest of it.

Entering the great man's room, we found him sat at the head of a horseshoe arrangement of tables, the one he used for general board meetings. Right in front of him, inside the horseshoe, was a single seat, which Ali told me was known as the electric chair. Most people who sat there were looking at the end of their life with Underlinen.

Lorimer stood off to one side, idly picking at his fingernails. Verdonk pointed to me, then the electric chair.

I responded with a cheerful wav. "Hiya, shortarse. How's it going?" I planted myself in the chair and relaxed.

"You are dog meat, Devries."

"Ooh. Like that is it?" I chuckled and lifted my right leg up, resting the ankle on my left knee. "See, I told you once before, tiny, you should learn to take it easy. Relax. Just say, 'bollocks to it, I'm having an hour off'."

"By the time I'm finished with you, you'll have plenty of time off. About ten years in the nick for rape, and then the rest of your life struggling by on the dole."

I feigned concern. "Oh dear. Not sure I'm up for that."

"After that farce down there?" he exploded, waving at his laptops where he had presumably been following events on Vicky's show. "You deserve hanging, you ungrateful little shit. We made you. Underlinen. You were nothing, nobody, you cut it groping that bimbo when Quigley couldn't." He aimed a wild gesture at Emma as the bimbo in question. "And in return we gave you everything."

Now I feigned apology. "You did. And I'm sorry. Tell you what I'll do with you. I've been doing a bit of bar work but those strippers taught me a thing or two, and surprisingly, I don't think I'd mind flashing me dick at women, so to make it up to you, I'll give Spangles a good shagging on air. How's that?"

"You can piss off," he bawled. "You are going down. I will see to that."

Now that I had him in full rant, I switched tack. "I don't think so. In fact, unless you listen to me, you're the one who'll be going down."

Vermilion with rage, jumped to his feet and leaned on the table in a desperate attempt to threaten me. "What? What the fuck are you on about?"

"Trouble is, Tom Thumb, you don't stop to think. You scream, others jump, and you're so used to it, that you don't stop to work out what other people are actually doing. Now take your parachute pothead, there." I aimed a finger at Lorimer. "Credit where it's due, he's a tough bugger, but he's also a thinker. While you've been ranting at me, he's been trying to work out why I'm taking the piss with you. Worked it out, Lorimer?"

"Some of it," Julius' uncle admitted.

"You, see, oh diminutive dwarf? You don't do that. You just scream and scream and scream, when you should be asking yourself questions, like, f'r instance, why did I go to Blackpool when I went AWOL?"

The puzzlement on his face told me he was struggling to keep up with my argument. "How should I know?"

"That's what I mean, see. You _should_ know. But you don't because you haven't even thought about it. And why? because you're so busy lapping up your power vision of me cut off at the balls." I sat forward. "I went to Blackpool because that's where Tanya Yaeger lives."

He was about to scream again, but he didn't. Instead, he suddenly sat down.

"Wanna know something else, my little garden gnome? We found her. Me, and Ali and Emma, and a lawyer tracked her down, and she told us everything. Course, we didn't find her in Blackpool and we didn't find Tanya Yaeger. Instead we found Sally Stratton in Manchester, but the result was exactly the same." Now I stood and just to show him how it was done, I towered over him. "You tried to set me up, you prick, and I'm going to make you pay for that."

"Ah. Now. Wait, I can—"

I hammered my fist into the table so hard, it made his laptops jump. "We had an insider at the Maitland who told us how you ordered Tanya's room to be moved to the third floor, and I'm sure when the cops get hold of people who programmed the rigged draw, they'll be falling over themselves to tell us who ordered it and how they made certain Tanya Yaeger would come out as my dinner date."

"Now look, Devries—"

I rode roughshod over his attempted interruption by smacking the table once more. "We have a statement from Sally Stratton, signed in the presence of independent witnesses, as in our lawyers, telling us that she played the part of Tanya, but she never, repeat _never_ accused me of rape. And you know something else, little teeny-bopper? We have cast iron proof that I could not have raped her. Tell him, Emma."

While Emma spoke up, I sat down again.

"Clint didn't have time, Mr Verdonk. He and I were apart less than five minutes in the Maitland Hotel."

Verdonk's mouth fell open and he slobbered.

"And, by the way, you don't have to worry about calling the cops," I pressed on. "Chief Inspector Rummer of the Greater Manchester Police is already on his way." I checked my watch. "He should land at Heathrow in about thirty minutes. No doubt he'll have a police escort from there, and I reckon he should be walking through the doors in about an hour's time. That's how long you have to rescue yourself from charges of bribery, coercion, corruption, slander or libel, and possibly an attempt to pervert the course of justice. All of that should add up to about two or three years, and I wonder what the other lags will make of your tiny little bot-bot. I reckon most of 'em will be getting a hard on the moment they hear you've been charged."

"I...er..." Floundering he looked to Lorimer for support.

"I shouldn't rely on him, oh petite one. He's tough, yes, but when the shit hits the fan, which it will do before midnight, I'm certain he'll turn you in rather than go down with you."

Lorimer nodded. "Sorry, leader, but he's right."

Sweat began to pour from Verdonk's hairline, and for a moment I thought he might have another wobbler. That was the last thing I wanted. I needed him alive, and lucid enough to instruct his legal team.

I eased off and went back into relaxed mode.

Dropping back into the electric chair, I went on, "Course, I could be persuaded to tell Rummer that the girl in question, Tanya Yaeger, really did accuse me of rape, and that my disappearance was agreed between us, you and me, so that we could make an effort to find her. I could also be persuaded to tell Rummer that we never did manage to find her and that both the name and address she gave us were false. Obviously the cops will want to see the letter she wrote to you demanding twenty-five big ones, so you'd need to get onto one of your apparatchiks and get it written sharpish."

Verdonk snatched at the straw. "Consider it done."

"Then I have to think of the stress it's caused me, the agony, the duress of having to live like a tramp for two months."

"Name your price," he gasped. "I'll do anything. Anything you want. You want me to double your salary? I'll do it."

"I don't want double salary."

From behind, I heard a thump and when I turned it was to see Ali slumped over the table, with Emma and Laura trying to revive him by wafting a handkerchief over his face.

"He fainted," Laura explained. "I think it was you refusing double salary."

Good old Ali. "Nice to see some things never change." I turned my attention back to Verdonk. "I'm no good at telling lies."

"You're an actor," he cried. "You spend your life telling lies to the cameras."

"Yeah, but that's different to lying to the cops. Chief Inspector Rummer will want the truth."

"You'll not find me ungrateful, Devries."

"Probably not, but I don't trust you, so get your lawyers in now. We can have the agreement signed and sealed before Rummer gets here." I checked over my shoulder. "Emma. Wake up Ali. We're gonna need him."

# Chapter Twenty-Three

The sun, an oblate, crimson orb swollen to at least twice its normal size, dipped towards the Atlantic Ocean, a warm breeze, ruffling my hair, drove the surf in to sweep across the fine sands of Hayle Beach.

Winter was way behind us, the spring had gone and summer was here. The Britbox Awards had seen _Wensleymead Farm_ carry off the award for Best Ongoing Drama for the second year in succession, and _Bleaker Cove_ had achieved only one award, Best Supporting Actress for Brittany Spangler. Ed Welch became an even-more depressed soul than he had been a year ago.

Although it was only eight months back, that night in Verdonk's office seemed an eternity ago. Rummer accepted our explanation and went away with the fake letter, presumably to look for Tanya Yaeger. He told us there may be charges, but we never heard any more, and I don't think Underlinen did either.

The company continued to profit from the story, having serialised it in the _Gazette_ and included hazy, faked photographs of the alleged Tanya Yaeger in the story. I don't know who the Jamaican girl in the pictures was, but I do know it wasn't Sally Stratton. We did, however hear that Matt Irving had been silenced with a rather large cheque.

And talking of Sally, she had been silenced. Not by any threats, not by any hitman, but by the simple expedient of casting her as a teacher in Underlinen's new drama series on life in a Manchester comprehensive. She had the part for as long as she needed it provided she kept her trap shut.

Vicky Valentine had taken extended leave of absence on the grounds of ill-health, by which we all assumed she meant drying out at a secret location, and rumour had it that her _Good Day_ partner, Kelvin Henderson, enjoyed a useful pay rise when he took over the role of main anchor.

Laura had forgiven me after I became instrumental in her appointment as director on _Sermon_. But she did threaten to make my life hell from behind the cameras.

Ali, Emma, Julius, Spangles and I were still putting in seven days a week, but now I was working five on _Bleaker Cove_ and two on the script for the forthcoming serialisation of _The Spring Madness of Mr Sermon,_ starring Clint Devries, Emma Penton, Julius Quigley and Brittany Spangler, produced by Ed Welch and directed by Laura Tyndall. Having recovered from being thrown out by Verdonk, Spangles appeared happy and settled with Julius, and I anticipated them making the announcement any time now.

And Emma had forgiven me. But I had asked her to continually remind me of the way I had caused so much trouble and given people so much pain. And she did remind me; regularly.

The contentment I had sought for so long had finally settled upon me.

It wasn't a place or a thing or even a person. It was an idea, an inbuilt paradigm as individual as a fingerprint, and the best two people could hope for was to seek the overlapping areas of their unique models and enjoy the mutual sharing.

Emma did not care for classical music, I had no ear for Rihanna. Emma enjoyed lying in until lunchtime on her day off, I was an inveterate early riser. Emma liked to walk the moors, I preferred to throw the barbells about, Emma liked to watch _Bleaker Cove_ so she could analyse her style, I could not bear to watch myself.

But Emma liked to walk this fine, Cornish beach at sunset, and I liked to walk the beach at sunset. Emma loved listening to seventies disco, and I liked seventies disco, Emma enjoyed the great dramas from Shakespeare to Pinter, and I loved the great dramas from Shakespeare to Pinter.

There were many areas of overlap we enjoyed, and contentment filled more than fifty percent of our lives. For the lesser time, when it didn't, we made the effort... for each other.

As I thought of her and basked in my new-found sense of peace, she came out of the cottage with two glasses of red wine. Another area of overlap.

"It was Ali," she said to my unasked question. She had gone in to answer the phone after I told her to ignore it.

"Just say no," I advised her.

"He's had a call from _Celebrity Snaps_."

"Oh yes?"

"They want to know if we're getting married. He reckons if we give them the exclusive on the photographs, he should be able to pull down a million on the deal."

I sipped the wine. Cheap, supermarket plonk, but not too heady, and it went well with the Cornish sunset. I cocked my head to one side. "Do we need another million?"

Emma smiled. She lit up the world when she smiled and I loved her all the more. "We could do with the bathroom tiling."

As well as investing in this Cornish holiday home, we had bought our own farmhouse outside Oldham, not far from Ali's. He'd whined that he was losing out on his rent, but it wasn't for long. Out of house and home Spangles moved in, and Julius wasn't far behind. Even at eight hundred a month, it was cheaper than his Salford flat.

"We don't need a million quid to tile the bathroom," I said. "I'll get Shaz to do it. She'll only charge us a few hundred."

Emma looked relieved. "I was worried you might want to take him up on it."

"You don't want to be Mrs Devries?"

"I'm happy as Ms Penton."

She laughed. I leaned over and kissed her. She put her arms around me and we sank to the lawn. Another area of overlap. We both liked sex in the grass.

THE END

Also available from Smashwords by David Robinson.

### The Midthorpe novels.

### Fiagara Nights

When successful novelist, Raymond Baldock returns to Midthorpe, the scum council estate where he was born and brought up, it is with the intention of wielding his wealth and influence over everyone for the few days that he is there.

But he has reckoned without Lisa, the love of his former life or the way his car wheels keep disappearing. When he learns that his demure, divorced mother is carrying on a rampant affair about which she is painfully frank, and that she has been arrested for poisoning her boyfriend, he cannot contemplate leaving Midthorpe until he has sorted the mess out and got his wheels back.

Comic mayhem and murderous mystery in the first of the Midthorpe novels.

Download your copy of Fiagara Nights here.

### Bumped Off in Benidorm

A comedy mystery of high-spirited partying, corporate chicanery, and murder, with a grumpy anti-hero and a gorgeous heroine, set in Great Britain's favourite sun-drenched Spanish holiday resort, Benidorm on the Costa Blanca, where sun, sand, sex and Sangria are the order of the day.

Raymond Baldock hates Benidorm. So why is there? Because he has been pressured into going, and when he gets there, it lives down to his worst expectations.

His laptop is stolen, his mother is there, attending a hen weekend, and he finds her in a compromising situation. He is humiliated in a bar, then blackmailed, and as if that is not enough, he has to face the determined wrath of Lisa, the woman he stormed away from in the summer. And this is all before a body turns up, leaving him as one of the prime suspects in the death of the person Bumped Off in Benidorm.

Another dose of comic mayhem and mystery from Midthorpe.

Download your copy of Bumped Off in Benidorm here

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# The Author

David Robinson is a British freelance writer and novelist. Creator of the popular Sanford 3rd Age Club Mysteries, he is known for his huge sense of humour, which often translates to the written page. He is married with four children and several grandchildren, and when he is not writing, he can usually be found fooling around on the web or flying off to Southern Europe for a top up of sun, sand and sangria.

You can find his general blog at http://www.dwrob.com / containing information on all his work

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