‘Oi!’
Sam stopped dead, her heart pounding. The shout was aimed at her.
‘You slag!’
Striding towards her, heels click-clacking and fury crackling, was Lorraine.
Sam’s feet stayed glued to the pavement. She clutched her handbag to her chest as if for protection. She knew.
Lorraine was a storm of anger and pain. ‘You could’ve had anyone,’ she screamed. ‘But you had to steal my Wayne! How could you?’
Sam swallowed her panic. She tossed her hair and cocked her hip. ‘Well, who would blame him when you won’t give him what he needs?’
There was a beat, then Lorraine launched herself forward like a heat-seeking missile carrying a payload of rabid cats.
‘You cow!’ she screeched, her manicured nails locking onto Sam’s face.
Sam dropped her bag and caught Lorraine’s wrists just before impact. The women tumbled to the ground.
Lorraine straddled her on the dirty pavement, yanking a hand free and grabbing a fistful of hair. Sam tugged at her fingers, trying to break the grip. Lorraine was snarling, her bared teeth an inch away, spittle raining onto her cheeks.
Why isn’t anyone helping?
One of Lorraine’s dangly earrings caught in Sam’s hair and a sharp pain tore across her scalp.
‘Agh! Loz, stop!’
Lorraine went still. ‘You okay?’
‘Your bloody earring’s just ripped half my hair out.’
‘Fuck, love. Sorry, hang on.’
‘Cut!’ a voice rang out. ‘Shelley, can you give them a hand?’
In Sam’s peripheral vision another pair of hands reached into the bird’s nest of her hair where Lorraine’s earring was snagged.
‘Hold still, ladies, while I sort out this wardrobe malfunction.’
‘Cheers, Shelley,’ said Sam. ‘At least my boob didn’t pop out.’
Lorraine giggled. ‘If this show went out after the kiddies had gone to bed, I bet they’d write that scene in.’
Sam jiggled her breasts towards her friend. ‘Too right. These puppies have power. You’ve seen them, haven’t you, Shelley? They’re mag-nif-i-cent.’
Shelley shook her head. ‘Yes, darling, your boobs could awaken the dead. Now, hold still. Don’t make me get my scissors out.’
An hour later, Sam had been surgically removed from Lorraine without lasting damage and was in a taxi heading into central London. The driver was a regular for the production and Sam was grateful. She wouldn’t have to answer endless questions about Bethany—the character she played on the long-running soap—or deflect questions about future storylines.
Kicking off her vertiginous heels, she stuck in her earbuds and scrolled through the video library on her phone.
Three months ago, her best friend, Zoe, had moved from London to the wilds of Scotland. Sam missed her terribly and had hoped she’d come back. However, once Zoe fell in love with Rory, the Earl of Kinloch, it was clear her heart and soul were now in the Highlands.
Zoe had sent her a video of Jamie, her childhood friend from Kinloch, playing guitar and singing a love song he’d written. Sam refused to mark the videos, or any of the pictures of Jamie she’d saved, as favourites. That would be an admission of interest.
There was no way she was interested in someone three years younger than herself, who still lived with his mum, hundreds of miles away in the arse end of nowhere.
It was unfortunate, however, that Jamie possessed a certain level of physical attractiveness. He had deep brown eyes framed by long, dark lashes; thick, dark brown hair that looked as if it had just been ruffled out of place by an affectionate aunt, and a shy smile that pierced through the phone screen straight to her heart.
Even hunched over his guitar, she could tell he was tall. She stared at his thick, corded forearms, his long fingers plucking the strings. His big, gentle, clever hands...
Heat rose in her cheeks. Forget about his hands!
She’d watched the video hundreds of times, but each time her viewing followed the same script: stare at him as he chatted to Zoe and imagine he was talking to her. Look at his fingers as he started to play. Feel too hot. Close her eyes. Jump as he started to sing. Feel unwarranted emotions swirling inside her. Open her eyes and keep staring. Sing along with him in her mind.
‘That’s nice, love. What is it?’
Sam met the cab driver’s gaze in the rear-view mirror with a start and fumbled to shut off her phone.
‘What?’
‘That song you were singing.’
She sucked in a breath. It was like he’d caught her watching porn. ‘It’s nothing.' This was ridiculous. Fuck, she’d be less embarrassed if it had been porn. ‘Just a friend of a friend messing about.’
‘Well, it gave me goosebumps.’ He raised a tattooed arm from the steering wheel. ‘See? And you’ve got a lovely voice, too. Beautiful.’
Sam huffed a laugh as she looked out the window, then checked her watch. She was early. ‘Actually, Stan, can you drop me here?’
‘No problem, darling.’ He signalled and pulled over. Sam rammed her feet back into her heels and manoeuvred with practiced grace out of the car.
‘Thanks, Stan. See you soon.’
He gave her a wave over his shoulder as he drove away.
Sam gazed at the huge red-brick Victorian facade of the Royal Marsden Hospital. Standing at the bottom of the stone steps leading up to the main doors, she felt small and inadequate. A familiar knot of tension coiled tighter in her stomach. She deliberately let out a long, slow breath, flexed her fingers, and took out her phone.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d reached out to her oldest sister or spoken to her outside of family get-togethers.
The call connected.
‘Esther Adamson.’
‘It’s me. Sam.’
She could hear her sister speaking hurriedly to other people in the background, then her attention was back. ‘Is everything okay?’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Sam replied. ‘I had a minor head wound earlier from some cheap earrings, but—’
‘Head wound? You’ve been checked over? Vision okay? Slurred speech? What happened?’
‘Shit, no, I’m fine. I just got my hair caught in Loz’s earring, that’s all.’
‘Jesus, Sam.’ Her sister let out a loud breath. ‘Don’t do that to me.’
Fuck.
‘So, you’re okay?’
‘Yep, all A-okay,’ Sam replied brightly, squatting on the step and resting her forehead on her free hand. She chewed her bottom lip as she listened to her sister talking to others, the noises of feet running and doors slamming.
‘Look,’ Esther continued, ‘I was meant to be finishing a twelve-hour shift, but there’s been a serious traffic accident so I’m going back into surgery. Can I call you later? Where are you?’
‘I’m still on set. You know, busy, busy.’ Sam rolled her eyes at herself. ‘Sure, call me—’ The noises from her sister’s end of the line stopped. Sam stared at her phone, then dropped it into her bag. Way to go, Smulan...
‘Oi, oi, Bethany!’
Sam stood, the smile already fixed on her face. She saluted two men as they ambled past carrying takeout coffees.
‘Fancy a quickie?’
Her smile froze. ‘Not today, gentlemen. It’s my day off.’
She strode briskly in the opposite direction, her arm raised to hail a taxi. Just because her character put out to half the street didn’t mean she did.
Half an hour later, Sam was in Soho being shown into her agent’s office. Sandra Billings was in her sixties. She’d been there, done it, and had the photos and the gravelly voice to prove it. The walls were covered in black-and-white headshots of her clients and press shots of them holding awards. Each was signed with a gushing message thanking Sandra for their success.
Sam looked at her own, remembering how excited she’d been to land the part of Bethany on Elm Tree Lane. Yet now, less than a year after starting on the soap, she wanted more.
Sandra pulled Sam in for a kiss, then gestured for her to sit on the other side of her desk as she reached for a chrome and diamanté e-cigarette. She sucked deeply on it, accentuating the lines around her mouth, then exhaled a plume of sickly-sweet vapour.
Sam hated the smell of cigarettes, but this was worse. It was as if someone high on ecstasy and unicorns had staggered into a lab and instructed a minion to mix as many E numbers as they could until they came up with the smell of pink.
The stench from the real cigarettes Sandra used to smoke had seeped into every piece of furniture. It was now in a three-way fight for supremacy with the cloying vape and heavy punch of Cacharel’s Lou Lou that Sandra had been marinating in since the eighties. No matter how many painkillers Sam popped in preparation before a meeting, she always left with a headache.
As they exchanged pleasantries, Sam tried to stay calm. Sandra’s secretary had called her in for the meeting with the promise of ‘something big’, and her imagination had been running wild with possibilities.
Eventually Sandra put her vape to one side and leaned forward.
‘Right, love, I’ve got you the biggie.’
‘Strictly?’
Sandra shook her head. ‘Not this year—it’s Lorraine’s turn. You’re too new.’ She paused for effect. ‘I’ve got you another commercial.’
A few months ago, Sam had done an advert for a brand of instant coffee. The money and exposure had been good, but it wasn’t as high-end as she wanted.
Doubt pricked at her stomach. ‘It isn’t the thrush medication again? I told you, there’s no way I’m doing that.’
‘No, love, I’ve got you the one every hot young thing wants.’ Sandra sat back looking satisfied.
Sam’s brain went into overdrive. The Christmas advert for the John Lewis store? One for Coca Cola?
‘What is it?’
Sandra smiled enough to reveal yellowing teeth. ‘Mopeoke. I’ve gone and got you Mopeoke, love.’
What the fuck is that?
‘Er, Mopeoke?’
‘Yeah. Didn’t you see the pitch on The Bear Pit? They literally got into a fight over who was going to invest. Come on. You must have seen it?’
Sam struggled to think. She was so exhausted with the long days on set she rarely watched TV. Sandra spun her laptop around and Sam stared at the screen.
‘It’s a mop.’
‘And…’
She looked closer. ‘Is that a microphone at the end of the handle?’
Sandra nodded. ‘Syncs via Bluetooth to any device. Mop one end, karaoke microphone the other. Mopeoke. Fastest start-up since Trunkis and Loom bands.’
Fuck right off. She fought to buy time. ‘Er, why me?’
‘You’re the target demographic: lower middle-class, in your thirties, young family, house to keep clean, dreaming of stardom. Plus, you’re a household name now and I told them you could sing.’
‘I only turned thirty last month,’ Sam spluttered. ‘I’m single, childless, and my entire family are doctors.’
Sandra sat back, her smile gone. ‘Yeah, but you’re not a doctor, are you? And millions of people every week don’t hear your Home Counties accent. They hear Bethany, who’s rough as a badger’s arse.’
Sam stared at the edge of the desk and rubbed her forehead. The headache had arrived and was dancing the cancan inside her skull.
‘Look, are you interested or not?’
No, no, no, no, no. ‘Can I think about it?’
‘You’ve got till the end of the day.’
Sam nodded, and Sandra sighed.
‘What do you want, Sam?’
She glanced up. ‘You know what I want. I want bigger. I want films. I want more.’
Sandra dragged on her vape and engulfed Sam in a fog of overripe fruit.
‘You need a stronger platform before we make that move. You’ve got to start small. Your contract with Elm Tree Lane is up for renewal in a couple of months. Don’t rock the boat. Take the Mopeoke gig. Trust me, it’s the best thing in your life right now.’
Sam pushed open the door to the basement studio with her backside, holding coffees for her co-stars, Lorraine and Ian. They were filming a love triangle storyline on Elm Tree Lane and were doing a photoshoot for the cover of Soap First magazine that would go out when the plot aired the following month.
The shoot wasn’t complicated—just portraits of the three of them looking sufficiently angry or aroused, so they only needed a green screen backdrop and a few lights. The studio was small, old, and damp. Sam repressed a shudder as the soles of her shoes stuck to the tacky floor.
A door at the end of the corridor opened and Lorraine rushed out.
‘How’s your hair? I’m so sorry about earlier. How did it go with Sandra? What’s the big job she’s got for you?’
Sam pushed the coffees towards her friend. ‘I’m fine, sweetie. Can you take these?’
‘Are they for us? You’re a diamond.’ Lorraine read the sides of the cups. ‘Bethany.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Loz, yep, like it. And... Dickhead?’ She giggled. ‘He’s not here yet, so we can drink these while we wait.’
They entered a small room and perched on a cheap and uncomfortable sofa that had once been red but was now a muddy brown.
‘So tell me,’ asked Lorraine, ‘what was the job?’
Sam tapped the side of her nose. ‘It might not happen, so I’ve got to keep schtum about this one. But I did hear a rumour that a certain someone is going to be on Strictly this year?’
Lorraine squealed and tapped her feet on the floor. ‘I’m so excited! I’ve been watching that show since I was a baby. I can’t believe I’m going to be on it!’
Sam squeezed her arm. ‘You deserve it, Loz. You’re going to be amazing. I’ll be glued to my telly every Saturday night and have your voting number on speed dial.’
Lorraine teared up. ‘You’re the best, Sam. The older sister I never had.’
Sam smiled back, her throat tightening.
The door opened and Shelley bustled in, followed by a photographer, an assistant, and two of the wardrobe and make-up team from Elm Tree Lane.
‘Sorry we’re late, ladies. There was a snarl-up on the drive in.’
‘No worries, Shelley,’ replied Sam. ‘Can we give you a hand?’
Shelley dismissed her with a wave. ‘You two stay put. I’m going to sort your outfits, then you can get changed. Ian here yet?’
They shook their heads.
Shelley glanced at the word ‘Dickhead’ written on the third coffee cup and grinned. ‘Any later and that’ll be cold.’ She gave them both a wink and turned away.
‘Sam,’ Lorraine whispered. ‘Can I tell you something else?’
She leaned in. ‘Of course, sweetie. I presume it’s something good?’
Lorraine was jiggling again, her eyes darting about to make sure they weren’t overheard. ‘Yes! It’s almost as exciting as Strictly and I want you to be the first to know.’
Sam hadn’t seen such excitement outside of a child on Christmas morning. ‘Come on then, out with it, or you might have an accident and improve the colour of this sofa.’
Lorraine snorted and moved closer. ‘I’m second on the shortlist to do the ad for Mopeoke!’ She held her finger and thumb a millimetre apart. ‘I’m this close to promoting the product of my dreams!’
Sam swallowed. ‘That’s amazing, Loz.’
Lorraine sighed. ‘I love cleaning. I know it sounds sad, but I do. I get so excited when the Lakeland catalogue arrives in the post. Do you know what I mean?’
Sam grinned. ‘I’m afraid the only way I’d get excited about a mop would be if it had a ten-speed vibrator attached.’
Lorraine laughed as the door to the studio was flung open with a bang.
‘Speaking of giant dildos,’ Sam murmured.
Lorraine’s laugh turned into a snort as a man strode in. The last point of their love triangle had arrived.
Ian Berresford had gone from stage school to a moderately successful boy band to being cast as the ‘bad boy’ on Elm Tree Lane. It was a role he was born to play and the only difference between his onscreen and offscreen persona was that ‘market trader Wayne’ wasn’t sponsored by a condom company.
‘Ladies!’ he announced to the room. He shucked his leather jacket, ran his hands through his slicked-back hair, and stood in front of Sam and Lorraine with his legs too far apart. ‘The king has arrived.’
‘Have you disinterred Elvis?’ Sam asked.
‘The king is dead; long live the king,’ he replied with a wink at Lorraine.
Sam passed him his coffee cup.
He screwed up his nose as he read ‘Dickhead’ on the side. ‘Have you spat in this?’
‘No, but if you put your tongue in my mouth again during a scene, I will. If you’re that desperate to taste my saliva I can spit in all your drinks for you.’ She stood. ‘I’m just going to make a quick call.’
Pushing past Ian, she left the studio.
When she returned a couple of minutes later, Ian was next to Lorraine on the sofa, showing her his phone. He glanced at Sam.
‘I’ve got one hundred and sixty-four thousand Instagram followers. You’ll never catch up now, Adams.’
‘I wasn’t aware we were in a race, Berresford.’
He grinned. ‘Yeah, yeah, keep telling yourself that when you’re watching me accept “best bad boy” at the soap awards for the third year in a row. Remind me, you’ve yet to be nominated for anything, right?’
Sam willed her hands not to clench into fists.
Lorraine slapped Ian on the arm. ‘Don’t be such a twat.’
He flexed his muscles in response. ‘Do that again, Loz… you almost gave me a semi.’
Lorraine rolled her eyes and moved to Sam’s side.
Ian leapt up, fiddling with his phone. ‘This is your best mate, right?’ he asked, shoving the screen under Sam’s nose.
She glanced down and adrenaline drenched her like an icy bucket of water.
Ian had Brad Bauer’s account open, showing a photo of him sitting next to Zoe on wooden thrones in Kinloch castle.
Brad was the biggest star in Hollywood, a polymath who’d put his foot down on the accelerator of life and never once raised it. He was an actor, writer, producer, director, and serial shagger. Whatever he touched usually turned to gold, including the careers of his exes.
He’d recently discovered Zoe’s Instagram account and Kinloch castle. Now he was preparing to shoot Braveheart 2 there and had decided Zoe was his muse.
‘If we weren’t shooting so much, I’d be up there like a shot,’ said Ian. ‘Look. He’s following me. Game recognises game. Has he followed you back yet?’
Sam gritted her teeth. ‘I don’t follow him,’ she lied.
Ian laughed. ‘Yeah, right. You’re too small to register on his radar.’
‘Ian, can we have you first?’ Shelley called over.
He ripped off his T-shirt and flexed his pecs. ‘Sure, Shelley, you can have me anytime.’ He winked at Lorraine and strode off across the studio.
Sam felt her friend’s hand on hers, squeezing. ‘Ignore him. He’s being a royal prick today. Come sit down. Don’t let him get to you.’
Sam sat with a thump and let out a breath. ‘It’s like he knows every single fucking button to push.’
Lorraine curled up next to her and rubbed her arm. ‘I should warn you. He told me yesterday he’s also been offered Strictly.’
Her head dropped. ‘Fuck’s sake.’
‘Shh… you can’t trust what comes out of his mouth, but I wanted you to have the heads-up. In case it’s true.’
Sam gazed at her friend. ‘Loz. I need to get up to Scotland. Brad’s single, I’m single, and Zoe can get me in front of him.’
‘But we’re filming without a break until the summer. There’s no time.’
‘What if my grandmother suddenly got ill? And wanted me at her deathbed?’
Lorraine gasped. ‘But that’s not true! You can’t lie.’
‘Loz, I’ll never have a chance like this again. I can’t miss it.’
‘Sam, you can’t take that risk. We’re so lucky to be on this show. Promise me you won’t do anything stupid. Please?’
