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Authors: Ben Elton

BOOK: Chart Throb
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‘Because you always show an interest in arrogant middle-aged bastards.’
‘Shall we not go there?’ Mel appealed. But of course they had already gone.
‘Don’t you understand, Tom? My dad
walked out
. He dumped me and my mum. I
hate
him for that. The
last
thing on earth I’m going to try and do is replace him!’
Tom raised his eyebrows, while Emma sucked furiously on her cigarette.
‘It’s so ludicrously oversimplistic,’ she said finally. ‘Freud for fucking five-year-olds.’
Not in Love Either
‘No one
noticed
him,’ Dakota drawled through exquisitely glossed, half-closed lips that hovered lazily at the salty rim of her margarita. ‘Ah confess, Ah am most surprahsed!’
She and Calvin were in Sardinia, having a breaking-up summit aboard their boat, a seventy-foot, ten-berth fun palace with a hot tub and bar on the foredeck, and Dakota Simms had made no secret of the fact that she was looking forward to taking possession of it the moment Calvin failed in his mission to turn her chosen ringer into the winner of
Chart Throb.
‘So far anybody who bothered to look at him at all thought he was a lookalike. It’s amazing, he’s just such an unassuming man and when you put him in a crowd of crazy pop hopefuls he sort of fades into the background.’
Dakota’s sparkling, ice-cold eyes narrowed with suspicion.
‘Hey, if y’all sell him as a lookalike tha bet is ahff. Ah said you had ta git tha Prince o’ Wales ta win, not some guy
preetendin
’ ta be tha Prince o’ Wales, even iffn he really
is
tha Prince o’ Wales. Ah hope Ahm makin’ sense, precious, because tha agreement we drew up is verrah verrah specific.’
‘I know what we agreed, Dakota. Don’t worry, the minute we go to air the whole world is going to know just how low fame and rank has fallen in its ambitions to meet the standards of celebrity.’
‘An’ then you are gonna be
furked
, Calvin, because evahbody
hates
thait
poh
, dull may-un. Did you see tha papers this mohnin’? Ah declare Ah was
sharked.
’
That morning’s papers had indeed presented more unpleasant reading for the beleaguered heir. In the latest royal ‘revelations’, an unnamed source ‘close’ to the Prince had suggested that the Queen Mother’s death at the age of a hundred and one had not been from natural causes, as previously thought, but that the Prince had cunningly poisoned her with a Duchy Originals organic pistachio and nutmeg biscuit which he had intended for the Queen. The papers were quoting ‘palace insiders’ as saying that the Prince’s general air of gloom and melancholy of late was due to his being increasingly racked with the guilt of having murdered his much-loved grannie when he had in fact intended to top his mum. Stories had also surfaced claiming that he’d spent countless thousands of pounds of public money having heating devices installed in his sporrans so that he might wear his kilts in the traditional manner without risking chilblains on his crown jewels.
‘I’m well aware of the depths to which His Royal Highness’s stock has sunk,’ Calvin replied. ‘But I accepted your challenge and I intend to follow it through.’
‘We-ell, you’d better ’cos it’s all or nerthin’ fer you an’ me, baby, an’ Ah plan ta git it all.’
Calvin stared at his beautiful soon-to-be-ex wife and wondered how he could ever have been such a fool as to marry her. Everything about her that had seemed so
right
when he had proposed now seemed so utterly wrong. Her sophistication was exposed as nothing more than cynicism, her joy in luxury mere greed, her wit and intelligence just low, sly cunning and even her glamorous beauty was now an ugly maggot baiting the steely hook of her soul.
Why couldn’t he have chosen somebody
real
? A sweet girl, a pretty girl. An honest girl. A girl like . . . like . . .
How strange, he thought . . . Why had he thought about
her
?
‘Whart you thinkin’ ’bout, honey?’ Dakota enquired.
‘Nothing,’ Calvin said quickly, surprised and angry with himself at what he
had
been thinking about. Calvin did not like his mind to wander; above all things he liked to stay
focused
and in control.
‘Well then, Ah’ll thaink you not t’ sit there lookin’ lahk you swallowed a June bug, Calvin. Jerst because we are no longer
close
does naht preclude us bein’
civil
.’
Suddenly Calvin was angry. Furious, in fact. Perhaps it was thinking of the other girl that made him so frustrated with Dakota.
‘Oh, do fuck off with all your hypocritical airs and graces!’ he snapped. ‘You’re not a lady, Dakota, you’re a lying, cheating tart.’
‘We-ell, Calvin,’ Dakota drawled across her glass, ‘mebby Ah aim, bert iffn Ah
aim
a tart, thain Ahm a tart who’s fixin’ ta furk you rigid.’
Later that day Calvin took a private jet home to London, leaving Dakota to enjoy the spacious luxury of the boat that she was certain would soon be hers and hers alone. Sitting on his plane in solitary splendour, Calvin attempted to turn his mind to the game plan he must prepare in order to achieve his goal of making the Prince of Wales popular and fashionable. A huge task, a seemingly impossible task. A task which he must accomplish while simultaneously creating another smash-hit series of
Chart Throb. A
task upon which, therefore, he must
focus.
And yet he could not focus, for his mind was
wandering
and a wandering mind was something Calvin could not afford.
He was thinking of Emma. The girl from the office. The girl whose skirt and hair had been lifted by the wind in the car park at Brize Norton. The
nice
one whom he had smiled at when she dropped her glasses on the plane.
Calvin frowned angrily and lit a cigarette. He had no business to be thinking of Emma. He had no business to be thinking of anything other than the enormous task in hand. He did not
want
to think of Emma, he didn’t know the girl, he did not
wish
to know the girl. The only girl he needed to be considering in the near future was the Southern princess whom, like a lunatic, he had married and who was currently attempting to
furk him rigid.
Calvin continued to frown for the time it took him to smoke three cigarettes, lighting one from the other. He drummed his fingers and paced about the cramped confines of his jet. The smartly uniformed hostess enquired if she could get him anything but he ignored her. Finally he sat back down and took up his telephone.
‘Trent?’ he said. ‘I want you to do something for me.’
Arranging for a Lift
Having dealt with her stepdaughter’s artistic self-doubts, Beryl called Carrie, her long-suffering American agent, to discuss the timing for the next season of
The Blenheims
.
‘I don’t care if it is two in the fucking morning,’ Beryl snarled. ‘Has Fox agreed to the delay? I’m starting to look like Cruella De Vil again and I need to get my eyes softened. There’s not time before we start work on
Chart Throb
so I need to squeeze it in afterwards.’
‘Beryl, you’re crazy. You look great, you don’t need any more work done . . .’
‘Yeah, you were saying that when I still had a scrotum. Listen, we’re scheduled to start with
The Blenheims
straight after we’re done with
Chart Throb
but I need a one-week window for my eyes. Priscilla has found me a new guy who she says is absolutely the best, he improves
teenagers
, he could have turned Mother Teresa into Jessica Simpson.’
‘Can’t you just get a little collagen refill? That takes a day.’
‘Can’t have any more collagen, Carrie. You know that. I already have trouble pulling any expressions, it’s like my face is set in plaster. I have to do a facial workout before I can smile. I need a little lift and Priscilla’s guy has me booked for the fortnight after the finals. I just need a one-week delay on
The Blenheims
.’
‘Fox have their schedule locked, Beryl, this is very hard for them. Can’t we make the first episode about your face work?’
‘Fuck OFF, Carrie! I have that work done so I
won’t
look shit on TV. You think I’m going to invite the cameras in while I’m Frankenstein’s monster? You
never
show people the process, that way they can half believe it’s natural. I need that postponement.’
‘OK, OK, I’ll talk to them again, see what I can do.’
‘Do it now.’
Refocusing
Emma rose early and picked out her wardrobe with care. She had originally intended to wear a short skirt and possibly even a cropped midriff-baring T-shirt but decided eventually on some slightly less flirtatious figure-hugging jeans and a pretty blouse. She then put her glossy, freshly washed hair into a cute ponytail, smoked a cigarette, brushed her teeth and set off for the tube station.
By tradition, inner London’s commuters call the Northern Line the misery line, but on this particular morning, as Emma took her seat and tried to focus on her research notes (one of the very few advantages of living so far out was that she did at least get to board the train before it turned into a sardine can), she could not stop an involuntary smile from flitting across her lips.
Soon she would be in the same room as Calvin. She had not seen him since sharing a cramped private plane with him over RAF Brize Norton. He had not noticed her much then and she was realistic enough to believe that he would not notice her much today either. Nonetheless she was happy that morning and she was happy because of him. It was truly shocking to Emma how quickly this obsession (for how could she call it love when it was so entirely one-sided?) had come upon her. One moment she had thought him an attractively roguish bastard whom any sensible girl would do best to avoid and the next she was sitting dreamily on the tube, falling prey to romantic musings in which he whisked her off to isolated moorland cottages where he would see to her needs like Heathcliff ought to have seen to Cathy’s. It was so strange, she had gone through the whole of the previous series without any such thoughts, although if she were honest she had to admit to herself that towards the end her feelings had begun to grow. On this series, however, it had hit her with the force of a sledgehammer and, ridiculous though it was, she knew she was in love.
Emma emerged from the tube at Tottenham Court Road, made her way along Oxford Street and, after picking up the obligatory pint of coffee-flavoured froth at Starbucks, joined the throng of other attractive young people crowding into the beautiful offices of CALonic TV, the company Calvin had turned into a global entertainment colossus. Contemplating the golden legs and naked midriffs of the majority of her colleagues, Emma could not avoid a feeling of jealous resentment. Did these girls have to be so
obvious
? Most of Calvin’s employees were attractive young women, but unlike Emma they were generally tall. Calvin famously liked tall women.
Emma was about to enter the crowded meeting room when a voice behind stopped her.
‘Emma, could I have a word?’
It was Trent. He led her into his private office and half closed the door behind him.
‘There’s no easy way to say this so I shan’t attempt to find one,’ he said. ‘Calvin is no longer happy with your work. You’re to leave the company forthwith.’
Emma did not reply. She couldn’t, she was too shocked.
‘Of course you will receive your full entitlements and the company will supply you with a reference.’
‘Not happy with my work?’
‘That’s right. I’m sorry. It does seem unfair but, as you know, Calvin acts on his instincts. Human Resources will be contacting you to discuss your departure package but of course we are all on short-term contracts.’
It was finally sinking in and Emma was blinking back the tears.
‘Calvin is firing me?’
‘Yes. Now. You’re to leave immediately.’
For a moment she stood still, seemingly unable to move. The blinking was faster now.
‘Please don’t cry,’ said Trent. ‘There’s any number of options out there.’
He looked at his watch. He seemed nervous, impatient to be rid of her.
Emma turned to go.
‘Oh, could you leave your research notes please, Emma?’ Trent said.
‘What?’ she asked distantly.
‘Your notes. I want them.’
‘My notes?’
‘Yeah, in fact they’re not really
your
notes as it happens. They belong to CALonic. I mean, you were paid to make them, legally they’re ours . . . I don’t need the folders. They belong to you, of course.’
Without speaking, as if walking in a dream, Emma took out the sheaves of notes upon which she had been working over the previous months and handed them to Trent.
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Keep in touch, right?’ And he rushed out of the office.
Emma followed him and made her way towards the stairs. Standing at the top of them, she paused. Some instinct made her turn and look in the direction of Calvin’s office. The door had been closed a moment before but now it was open a few inches. She saw his face, watching her, and then it was gone and the door closed once again.

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