Love...Among The Stars: Book 4 in the Love...Series (Love Series) (31 page)

She gives Kay Burley the widest berth possible, puts an arm around Sanja, and escorts the little man back inside. The only people who come rushing to Moncrieff's aid are a couple of the cinema's smartly presented staff, which should give you an idea of how popular the man actually is with his colleagues.

I have to admit that at this point I'm basking in my own glory a little bit. Not only have I been an effective peacemaker in an argument between two emotionally charged men, I have done it in front of a large crowd.

I think you'll find that doing
anything
successfully in front of a large crowd is a great ego boost.

Yes. Including that.

'Well done, husband,' Laura comments as she joins me.

I give her a look. 'And where were you when all this was going on, woman?'

Laura takes a deep breath. 'I thought I'd leave you to it. You look like you had the situation handled.'

I put one hand up to her forehead. 'Are you sick again?'

Laura bats it away. 'I'm fine. I do trust you to do the right thing, you know.'

'Do you?'

'Yes. Provided there isn't a pedalo or Chihuahua in sight.'

'Excuse me?' Kay Burley says from where she is still standing behind the barrier. The camera is now fixed squarely on Laura and I.

'Oh Christ,' Laura moans, and sticks her head behind my shoulder.

'What's up Kay?' I ask the ginger newshound.

'Would you do an on-air interview with me in a moment? About everything that just happened?'

Laura moans again. I rub my chin. 'Well, I'm not sure that'd be a goo - '

'Of course they'll do an interview!' Craig roars, coming between us, and propelling us inexorably at the Sky News camera with his arms around our shoulders.

'Oh, I don't think we should!' Laura protests.

'Sky News is watched by millions of people,' Craig stage whispers out of one side of his mouth. 'This interview could sell you a hundred thousand books.'

A brief war goes on behind Laura's eyes, between her inherent reluctance to appear on national TV, and pure unadulterated greed. I'm proud to say that the greed wins out. She plasters on a dazzling smile and looks at Kay Burley.
'Pleased to meet you, Kay.
I'm Laura Newman.
The brains behind the operation.
Can I just say how lovely your hair looks this evening?'

The interview goes well. Kay asks us lots of searching questions about why Sanja and Moncrieff were arguing, which we ignore like crazy in favour of talking about our books. After five minutes, she wraps things up with a wry smile on her face, knowing full well that we've just turned her interview into one long book advertisement. Still, we were both as charming and as witty as it's possible to be when there's a camera shoved in your face, so hopefully the folks at home liked us... and will therefore buy our entire back catalogue.

In the end, neither of us
get
to see the movie. By the time we're done with Kay, everyone else has trooped in already and sat down. It's either go in late and have to climb over people, or stay out here at the bar with Craig for a while, before sloping off home. The bar seems the obvious choice, given that if I had to climb over anyone, it would no doubt be Keira Knightley, and there would therefore be a sexual assault charge coming my way in no time at all.

Our cue to leave occurs when Sanjapat Hathiristipan comes storming back through the foyer about an hour and half later, screaming obscenities at the top of his voice.

Craig pulls out his mobile phone. 'I'll get the car to come round,' he says in a resigned voice, draining the last of his scotch.

As we amble our way back to the limo, I make a firm decision. 'Craig?'

'Yep?'

'If anyone wants to make a movie out of Love From Both Sides, they are more than welcome to. On one condition.'

'What's that?'

'I get to vet the director beforehand to see whether I can have him in a fight or not.'

Our interview is repeated on Sky News later that evening, so Laura and I get to watch it when we get back to the hotel room.

We then have epic sex... because you would, wouldn't you?

For once, just for once, we're going to put this one in the win column.

Don't
worry,
I'm sure normal service will be resumed shortly.

Laura's Diary

Tuesday, November 2nd

Dear Mum,

A funny thing happens when you appear on TV, and have a YouTube video go viral. You suddenly become popular with people who haven't paid you the
slightest
bit of attention previously.

Jamie and I have written three books so far, but haven't had much interest from the major media outlets. But you break up one fight at a film premiere, and get one dildo waved at you by a man in a Sherlock Holmes costume, and suddenly all sorts of people start popping out of the woodwork.

Today, we are being interviewed by the BBC!

An email arrived last week asking us if we'd be interested in appearing in a new documentary about comedy writers, commissioned by the BBC for broadcast in the spring. They needed someone to talk about writing humorous novels, and apparently neither Terry
Pratchett
nor Helen Fielding were free, so they settled on two idiots with no media training instead.

While I was less than initially willing to be interviewed live on Sky News by Kay Burley, I am much happier to let the BBC into my house, given that I have ample time to prepare my hair and make-up. They are due to arrive at 9am, so I'm up at 7 to give it a good hour to make myself look beautiful. First I safely lock all of the self tanning cream away in the cupboard. I'm not falling for that one again.

It promises to be a long day. According to Jonathan Lightfoot, the documentary's producer, the shoot could go on for several hours, depending on what footage they want to film when they get here. Mostly it'll just be a talking heads interview with me and Jamie sat at our dining table, but Lightfoot also wants lots of flavour to add to the segment, so there will be additional footage shot of us doing all those things that the public expect authors like us to do on a day to day basis. There will be shots of Jamie and I sat writing, Jamie and I sat reading, Jamie and I taking a brisk walk to cure writer's block, Jamie and I playing with Poppy and Winklehoven, Jamie and I having a massive argument over who should have turned the dishwasher on last night, because now the thing stinks of curry.

Actually, not that last one. That may be exactly the kind of thing that happens on a day to day basis for the Newmans, but it's hardly the kind of thing that's suitable for a well intentioned documentary on humour. Things will be kept light and fluffy, in no uncertain terms.

Given the length of the shoot, I've asked Dad to come by and help look after Poppy. Once the excitement of seeing all the cameras and lighting equipment has passed, my daughter will become instantly bored. We'll need someone there to occupy her while we film the stuff without her, and Dad is perfect for that. We've also shut poor old Winklehoven in the utility room for the duration. The interview will not go well if Jamie's toes get bitten off half way through it.

By 8.50am I am just about done with my preparations. The make-up is thick, the hair is sprayed,
the
knees are covered. I've elected to go with a daytime chic look, comprising of a smart but cute white shirt, and a pair of dark blue power trousers that I haven't worn since I ran the chocolate shop and had to go to meetings with suppliers. I am delighted I still fit into them.

'Going to a job interview, are we?' Jamie remarks when he sees me coming down the stairs.

'Quiet you. This is the BBC. I want to make a good impression.' I squint at him. 'And so do you. Take off that bloody hoodie and go put on a shirt.'

Jamie grumbles his way past me and I venture into the living room, where Dad is already holding a giggling Poppy up by her ankles.

'Please don't make her sick, Dad,' I admonish, and go to the dining room mirror to check my eye-liner for the tenth time in as many minutes.

At 9.30, the doorbell rings.

'Good morning Mrs Newman,' Jonathan Lightfoot says as I open the door to him. 'Sorry we're a bit late. Pete's Tom
Tom
took us the wrong way down the motorway for ten miles.'

Lightfoot is a man of about fifty, wearing a rather crumpled blue suit with no tie. Pete is short, chubby and balding, wearing jeans, a black waistcoat and a BBC production crew t-shirt. He's obviously the cameraman, given the three large bags he's carrying awkwardly over both shoulders.

'No problem.' I reply. Best to keep these two on-side. I want them to film me in the best light possible, after all. 'Do come in. Would you both like a cup of tea?'

'Oh, just water for me,' Lightfoot replies.

'Yes please love,' Pete says with a grin. 'White, two sugars, thanks.'

I leave them both with Jamie, who has managed to squeeze himself into a half decent blue shirt, and go to make Pete his
cuppa
.

By the time I hand it over to him, both men have been introduced to Poppy and Dad.

'I wasn't aware your father was going to be here,' Lightfoot says as he sips his water, 'maybe he could be included in the interview as well?'

Dad beams. 'Really?'

'Yes, why not.
The proud father commenting on his daughter's success.
It'll add a lovely bit of colour.'

Dad gives me an expectant look.

This is it then.

This is the moment when I either accept Dad into my life again 100%, or I don't. Once I acknowledge his relationship with me on live television there's no going back.

I hope you don't mind Mum, when I say that the decision is not all that hard for me to reach. Over the last eight months, Dad has done just about everything right. It's time to let the barriers down completely.

'Yeah, sure.
It'll be nice to have him in it with us,' I tell Lightfoot, and give Dad a warm smile. Even Jamie doesn't seem bothered by the idea. We must be making progress.

Lightfoot looks at Jamie. 'Seems a bit unfair to just have Laura's parent included though. Would you like yours to be part of it too Jamie?'

My husband's face goes instantly white and he lets out a strained laugh.
'Um... no.
No, that's fine Jonathan. We'll just have Terry in it. That's more than enough.'

I can't say I blame his reaction. If Jane Newman gets on camera and starts talking about her son and daughter in law, there's no telling where it might end up.
In court, possibly.
Or hospital.
The psychiatric kind.

'Fair enough!' Lightfoot says, and bends down to address Poppy. 'And no forgetting about this little monkey, eh? She's the real star of the show.'

This is the best thing anyone has ever said to our daughter. She couldn't love Jonathan Lightfoot more now if he produced a life-sized animatronic Simba from his back pocket and started singing
Hakuna
Matata
.

The BBC producer tells us he'd like to start with filming all the extra material first and the interview second, so we obligingly wait for half an hour while he and Pete bash out what they want to film.

For the next three hours Jamie and I get a flavour of what it feels like to be a professional actor - and it’s one career that I wouldn't want for all the tea in China. By the time lunchtime rolls around I'm exhausted. We've had to repeatedly drive up to our house and walk in through the front door 'to establish geography', as Pete puts it. We've had to sit at our computer and write nonsense over and over again so they can get some good shots of us working. Jamie and I are never in the room at the same time when we're actually writing, but Lightfoot has my husband stand over me with a studious look on his face as I type whatever gibberish comes into my head. It's a load of old bollocks, but Lightfoot assures us it'll look good.

Never, ever believe what you see on the TV. That's one lesson I'm learning here today.

If that felt
fake
, then walking along the street with shit-eating grins on our faces, while we merrily swing Poppy between us is a thousand times worse. I have to cringe every time a car goes past. It wouldn't be so bad if we only had to do it once, but the two BBC men have us walk down the same bit of pavement at least twenty times, just to get the shot absolutely right. By the time we're done, my arm feels like it's going to come out of its socket, and Poppy has gone a bit green from being swung around so much.

'My jaw hurts from all the smiling,' Jamie says as we go back into the house.

'I know what you mean,' I reply. 'I've never felt so miserable having to look so happy.'

'Let's not become movie stars any time in the near future, eh?'

'
Pfft
. Some chance of that happening. Lionel Moncrieff has probably told every director in the world not to come within a mile of us.'

'Thank heavens for that.'

Dad pops up to Asda to buy us all sandwiches for lunch. This I am very grateful for, as if I try to butter any bread right now, my arm will fall off. Lightfoot pays for them, which is a bonus. Even he can see how tired we're getting from all the happy walking to and fro, and probably buys lunch as some kind of peace offering.

At least the rest of the filming will just be the interview. All the extraneous stuff has been done. We can sit with a nice cup of tea and talk bollocks for a couple of hours.

Pete sets up the camera so the garden can be seen through the patio doors. Given that it's a crisp autumn day, and the fact that Jamie spent most of yesterday picking up fallen leaves, it's a very pleasant backdrop to have behind your head as someone grills you about how hard it is to write comedy.

Lightfoot sits Jamie and I behind the dining table, and tells us to look casual. This is not easy when someone is pointing a camera lens directly at your face. It's not quite as bad as a gun, but it's not far off. I am suddenly aware of all the pits and cracks in my face. The cavernous crow's feet extending from my eyes will look terrific in glorious HD, I'm sure.

'Er, can I just pop to the loo?' I ask the BBC men.

'Didn't you just go?' Jamie says, earning himself a dig in the ribs.

'Of course, we're still checking light levels, so please do,' Lightfoot replies.

I get up and make my way upstairs to the bathroom, where I spend the next ten minutes applying a month's worth of foundation and a year's worth of eye liner. This means that in my BBC debut I will look like a whore. But I will be a whore that isn't covered in wrinkles, so I have no problem with it whatsoever.

A horrid thought then springs into my head. I have now been up here quite a while. Everyone downstairs will naturally assume that I am having a poo. It's a testament to my desire not to look old and haggard that I find I really don't care that much. I will just be a whore with irritable bowel syndrome.

By the time I get back to the dining room Pete has set up a couple of small lights that brighten the room like it's a summer's day outside. I consider turning on my heels to go back and apply even more foundation, but common sense gets the better of me. Looking like a whore is one thing, looking like Barbara
Cartland
is entirely another.

Lightfoot sits himself down opposite us, to one side of the camera.
'Now then, folks.
This should be quite easy. All I want to do is interview the two of you on your own for a while, and then we can do a bit with Poppy and Terry together as well at the end.'

I look round to see Poppy pouting from the kitchen doorway. She obviously thought she was going to get in on her mother and father's interview, and is not happy about being relegated to 'a bit at the end'. Jonathan Lightfoot had assured her that she was the star of the show, but this is not proving to be the case. My daughter is learning a valuable lesson about show business here: people will lie to your face just to shut you up. It will hold her in very good stead, I'm sure.