The Vanishing Point (25 page)

‘I couldn’t handle it,’ I admitted.

Scarlett grinned. ‘Yeah, but you’re a ghost.’ Then she grew serious again. ‘I had that Madison Owen on the show the other day. You know, that Welsh kid that got her West End start from
Who Wants to Be a Thoroughly Modern Millie
. She reckons somebody’s been hacking her phone messages.’

I snorted incredulously. ‘You’re kidding? How could anybody do that? And why would they want to? It’s not like she’s a big star or anything.’

Scarlett let her sunglasses slide down her nose and gave me a knowing look over the rim. ‘She’s not. But the geezer she’s having an affair with is.’

‘Really? Who?’

She pushed her glasses up and turned down the corners of her mouth. ‘She wouldn’t tell me. Only that he’s a household name who makes a mega deal out of being the perfect family man. Anyway, she says that she hasn’t told a living soul who he is. Not even her best mate. And obviously the boyfriend’s not talking. They were supposed to get together last weekend. He’d borrowed a cottage in the Cotswolds from a mate of his. She was all set to meet him there. Except, when she arrives, there’s a car parked in the lane. And she recognises the guy in the passenger seat because she’d seen him interviewing one of the judges on that stupid bloody TV talent show she won. She puts her foot down and shoots past. Only when she drives round the bend, she sees another guy in a field with a long lens pointing back towards the cottage. So she had to high-tail it out of there and text the boyfriend to tell him they were busted.’

‘Maybe they were following the boyfriend? Maybe they’d had a tip-off?’

‘She says he wasn’t followed. He’s sure about that. He’s paranoid because of his wife and his reputation. Maddie says the only way anyone could have known about the arrangement was if somebody listened to her voicemail messages.’

It sounded to me like a tale that had the makings of an urban myth. Another case of a C-list celebrity who overestimated her importance. With my professional hat on, I’d heard a lot about the media’s dirty tricks – eavesdropping on mobile phone calls with a scanner, for example – but this was a new one on me. I was dubious, to say the least. And not just because it would be illegal. Mostly I couldn’t believe anyone could be arsed to hack the voicemail of people like Madison Owen on the off-chance of finding something more significant than, ‘Hi, it’s me, call me back when you get the chance.’

‘I bet there’s another explanation,’ I said. ‘This all sounds too far-fetched.’

‘House!’ Scarlett waved her hand in the air, all thoughts of invasion of privacy gone now she’d won.

The stallholder bustled over, delighted that she’d got a celebrity winner. ‘You’re supposed to get anything on the bottom shelf,’ she said confidentially after she’d checked Scarlett’s card. ‘But since it’s you, go on and have the pick of the stall. You deserve a treat after what you’ve been through.’

Scarlett gave her the hundred-watt smile. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ she said. ‘You’ve got a living to make. I’ll take one of those dolphins down the bottom. For my boy,’ she added as the stallholder handed her a small stuffed toy in white and royal blue. ‘He loves dolphins. He went swimming with them last year in the Bahamas.’

We slid off the stools and headed back into town. ‘I’ve had a brilliant time,’ she said when we turned into my street. ‘Next time, I’ll bring Jimmy again. When are you coming up to town again?’

I had an editorial meeting with a publisher the following week so we arranged to have dinner afterwards. I was glad that things seemed to be settling into an easy routine between us and when the day of our dinner rolled around, I made sure the meeting didn’t overrun. Turning down the offer of a drink I knew would roll into the early evening, I took the tube to Hyde Park Corner and walked up Park Lane to the Dorchester. Once Scarlett had discovered there was such a thing as posh Chinese food, there had been no stopping her. Tonight, we had reservations at China Tang in the Dorchester where the food makes me want to lay my head on the table and weep. In the best possible way. I was already salivating at the thought of it. Unusually, everything had run according to time and I was half an hour early for our reservation. So I took a deep breath, mentally checked my bank balance and walked into the cocktail bar. There’s a section of the bar that’s cordoned off for private parties and I glanced in as I walked down the steps.

I nearly missed my footing, only just saving myself from a mortifying sprawl at the feet of the cocktail waiter. Scarlett was raising a glass of fizz to her lips and smiling at the person opposite her. None other than Dr Simon Graham, clutching the matching glass and gazing into Scarlett’s eyes in an extremely non-medical way.

I carried on all the way down the bar and straight out the street door, much to the confusion of the waiter. I needed a drink, but definitely not in the Dorchester cocktail bar. I crossed the forecourt and headed round the corner to the tall redbrick building that houses the University Women’s Club. It’s the only women-only members club in the country and it’s my haven in central London. I first joined when I moved there and needed somewhere other than my horrible flat in Stepney to have meetings. Maggie recommended it and I was nervous at the thought of posh women with grand voices and even grander degrees looking down on me. But I couldn’t have been more wrong. I warmed to it the first time I crossed the threshold and it’s been my home from home in London ever since.

As soon as I walked in, I could feel my shoulders dropping in relief. I found a quiet corner and subsided in a comfortable wing chair with a Pimm’s. The first welcome mouthful did the trick of calming me down.
Bloody hell.
Had I seen what I thought I had? Was that really a secret romantic tryst? Surely not. How could Simon be stupid enough to become entangled with a patient? And if they were an item, how crazy was it to be making eyes at each other in a public place? Even somewhere as discreet as the private area of the Dorchester bar? Especially after everything she’d said about the eyes and ears of the media upon her.

Which indicated that, whatever I thought I’d seen, I’d been mistaken. It was nothing more than two friends having a quiet drink together, enjoying each other’s company. I was her dinner date, after all. It wasn’t like they were making a night of it. What was wrong with me? Was I jealous of Scarlett having other friends? How old was I, for heaven’s sake?

I took my time over my drink, then headed back to the hotel, walking into the restaurant precisely on time. Scarlett was already at the table, waving to me as I approached. She stood up to hug me in a waft of Scarlett Smile. ‘Great to see you, you look fab, is that a new dress?’ It came out in a rush and we both burst out laughing. ‘Anyone would think we hadn’t seen each other for months,’ she said, settling back into her seat. ‘Speaking of not seeing people for ages, guess who I just ran into?’

I shook my head, feeling irrationally relieved. ‘No idea. That dishy cop?’

‘Nick the Greek? You’re blushing, Steph. You totally need to get stuck in there, girl. Give him a call.’

‘I don’t think so. Come on then, tell me who you bumped into.’

‘Simon. Simon Graham. He was coming out as I was coming in, we chased each other round the revolving doors a couple of times. The doormen looked totally offended. Like, you don’t do that kind of thing here.’ She giggled. ‘Anyway, he had time for a quick drink. I tried to persuade him to stay and have dinner with us, but he’s meeting friends.’

‘Small world.’

‘Yeah. Six degrees of Kevin Bacon. It was nice to see him. When Simon says you’re looking well, it really means something. Know what I mean?’ She suddenly softened and I saw a reflection of the fear she always carried with her after her diagnosis.

But the moment passed, as did my misplaced jealousy of Simon. It was a good night, the first of many over the next few months. We’d meet in town or I’d go over to the hacienda and stay overnight. A couple of times she brought Jimmy down to Brighton and we had a typically English day at the seaside. She talked about her colleagues on the TV show, the people she was working with on her merchandising, Georgie and his team, Leanne in Spain and, of course, Jimmy. Choosing a school for him was high on her list of priorities and I lost count of the number of prospectuses and websites we looked at. But Simon never came up in conversation again.

The only time I ran into him after that was at Scarlett’s birthday party. Although she’d pretty much given up on the club scene, and in spite of her regular fulminations against the vile tabloid media, she understood that she still had to make her presence felt in the red-tops. So her birthday bash was in a new triple-decker bar on the South Bank with amazing views of the river from the roof terrace. As usual at Scarlett’s shindigs, I knew almost nobody except the journos, and I wasn’t in the mood for them that night. I found George leaning on the balustrade looking out at the river and the crowds walking past towards the South Bank complex and the London Eye. The music pulsed around us, quieter than it was on the dance floor below, but a presence nonetheless. ‘Lovely evening for it,’ George said.

‘Perfect venue,’ I agreed.

We stood in companionable silence for a bit, then he said, ‘You’ve been terrifically good for her, Stephanie. She’s a much improved piece of merchandise since you got your hands on her.’

‘You are dreadful, Georgie.’

‘It’s the truth, sweetie. Look around you. At least half of the people here are perfectly respectable. Most of us have never been on reality TV. Our ugly duckling has turned into a swan, I rather think.’

‘It’s all been her own doing.’

Before George could say more, Simon Graham moved alongside me. ‘Mind if I join you?’ he said, both hands on the stem of his glass in an anxious posture. He gave a quick, nervy smile. ‘I don’t know anybody else here,’ he added, throwing himself on our mercy.

‘Neither do we,’ George said.

‘Liar, half of them are your clients,’ I said.

‘That doesn’t mean I want to engage socially with them, Stephanie. I fear that I no longer number among the bright young things.’

‘I never did, Georgie.’ I smiled at Simon. ‘You’re welcome to hang out with the boring old farts, even though you are clearly not one of us.’ And in truth, he did look more of a piece with the other guests than us in his low-slung jeans and body-hugging black satin shirt.

Still, he stayed and we made genial, forgettable conversation about this and that for quarter of an hour or so, then Simon’s phone beeped. He dipped two long fingers into his tight pocket and pulled it free, then frowned. ‘I’m sorry, I have to go. Work, I’m afraid.’

‘That’s a pity,’ George said politely.

He gave a half-shrug. ‘Goes with the territory. Nice to see you both again.’ And he was off, weaving through the dancers and the drinkers and the talkers.

‘He seems like a nice bloke,’ I said.

‘If a little dull.’

‘There are worse things than dull.’

‘Indeed, Stephanie. And I suspect both of us have had rather too much of them. Personally, I think dull rather a fine quality in a doctor. It suggests a devotion to his work which always inspires confidence.’

‘Obviously worked on Scarlett,’ I said.

George raised his eyebrows in an arch expression. ‘Meaning what?’

‘Only that she invited him to her party.’

George chuckled. ‘I think she invited the entire contents of her phone contact list to her party.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Are you staying in town tonight?’

‘I’ve got a room at my club.’

Now his smile was wholehearted. ‘How very splendid. The University Women’s, I assume? Are you ready to let me drop you off on my way back to Chelsea?’

I was ready. Maybe if there had been a handsome copper around, I’d have contemplated dancing till dawn. But I was

out of luck on that score. Clearly his number hadn’t made it into Scarlett’s phone memory. We skirted the crowd, looking for Scarlett, fighting against the press of bodies and the growing volume of the music.

We found her near the top of the stairs leading to the dance floor, vaguely gyrating with a couple of fashion models. ‘We’re off,’ I said. ‘Great party.’

‘Really?’

‘Really. Are you having fun?’

‘I’m having a ball,’ she said, stepping away from the models and steering us towards the lift that would take us to the ground-floor exit. I noticed her wince as she turned.

‘Are you OK?’ I asked when we’d emerged from the crowd on to the landing. I gestured to her naked midriff. ‘You made a face.’

‘It’s nothing. I think I must have put my back out picking Jimmy up. It’s been bothering me the last couple of days. I’ve made an appointment with the osteopath. Little bugger’s getting too heavy.’ She pulled me into her arms and kissed me on the mouth. ‘You’re a total mother hen, Steph. You need to loosen up,’ she scolded me.

‘Be grateful somebody gives a toss about you, sweetie,’ George said as the lift arrived.

We all laughed. And I went home and thought nothing more about Scarlett’s back pain. More fool me.

42

I
don’t buy the red-tops unless it’s for professional reasons. But I will glance at the headlines if someone on the train or in a café is hiding behind their paper. I’m only human, after all. And that’s how I learned my friend was dying.

In fairness to Scarlett, she wasn’t holding out on me. She’d only had the news confirmed the night before. She wasn’t ready to share with anyone yet. She certainly wasn’t ready for the whole bloody world to know she’d been diagnosed with terminal cancer.

The headlines screamed the story.
SCARLETT’S DEATH SENTENCE. TV STAR HAS ONLY WEEKS TO LIVE
. I’d only gone into Costa Coffee for a quick latte, but instead I’d been hit with the worst possible news.

I wanted to snatch the copy of the
Daily Herald
out of the hands of the plaster-stained workman reading it. But good sense prevailed and I ran out of the coffee shop and down the street to the nearest newsagent. I grabbed a copy off the shelf and threw a pound coin on the counter, not waiting for change.

I stood there on the street, the sun shining as if it had something to celebrate, and read the terrible news.

TV show host Scarlett Higgins has been diagnosed with terminal cancer. The former
Goldfish Bowl
star has been told she has only weeks to live.

Last year, Scarlett was treated for breast cancer. After undergoing surgery and chemotherapy, she was given the all-clear.

But doctors have revealed her body is riddled with secondary cancers which have invaded vital organs and her spine. The cancer is inoperable.

One of her medical team said, ‘I’m afraid the news is as bad as it gets. The tests have confirmed our worst fears.’

Scarlett was not available for comment last night. Her agent, George Lyall, said, ‘This is devastating news. I would ask that you respect Scarlett’s privacy while she comes to terms with it.’

Only last year, tragic Scarlett’s ex-husband, DJ Joshu, died from a drug overdose.
Cont p3–4
.

The rest of the article was a rehash of Scarlett’s background and career, lavish with pics of Scarlett with Joshu, Scarlett with Jimmy, Scarlett (or possibly Leanne) falling out of a limo, Scarlett with shaved head and swimsuit promoting her charity swimathon for Timonescu. My eyes scanned the article, but nothing was really sinking in. I was appalled, numbed, shattered by the news.

I closed the paper and walked the short distance home. It was as if I had forgotten how to walk. Every step of the way needed concentration, like when I’d had to learn how to walk properly again after the accident.

I don’t remember how I got there, but I seemed to come to on the doorstep, fumbling the key into the lock. I wasn’t sure what to do when I got inside. My first instinct was to call Scarlett, but I didn’t know if that was a good idea in my present state. I felt dazed and stupefied, unable to make the right connections in my head. Instead, I called George. He always knew what to do.

I had to hold for a couple of minutes. I barely noticed. And then his rich chocolate voice was on the line. I’d never noticed before how very comforting his voice is. But then, I’d never needed comfort from him before. ‘Stephanie, my dear. You’ve heard the terrible news, I take it?’

‘Is it true?’

‘Lamentably true, I’m afraid. I’m so sorry, Stephanie. I know how fond you are of her. And she of you. We’ve no idea how the media got hold of it. Someone at the clinic must have leaked.’

‘Some greedy selfish pig,’ I said. ‘What happened?’

‘She was having back pain—’

‘I remember, at her birthday party last month. She was complaining about it.’

‘That’s right. Her osteopath couldn’t resolve it and she was concerned enough to suggest Scarlett consult a doctor. The only doctor she knows enough to trust is Simon Graham, so she went to see him. And because cancer is always Simon’s first thought, he gave her an MRI. And the shocking truth was there to see.’

‘Christ,’ I said. ‘And when was this?’

‘A couple of days ago. Simon’s very thorough and he insisted that she not panic until he’d carried out further tests. The results came through yesterday afternoon and he tried to call her. She wasn’t answering her phone because she was on set. So he left a voicemail confirming that what they had feared was indeed the case.’

‘That sounds suspiciously like the quote in the paper.’

‘That’s what Scarlett said too. She’s convinced someone hacked her voicemail. But I think it’s more likely that a nurse or technician overheard Simon leave the message and got on the blower to some hack at the
Herald
. These people sicken me,’ he said, sounding thoroughly disgusted. ‘They know no boundaries of taste or decency. The woman has a child, for God’s sake.’

His anger was shielding his sorrow. It’s the only way men like George know how to express their pain. I was pretty sure George was as distraught as I was. How much worse must it have been for Scarlett? She’d fought through so much, but this was one battle she couldn’t win. ‘How is she? Or is that a stupid question?’

‘Still stunned, I think. Is there any possibility you might get over there? I really think she ought to have someone with her who cares about her. I’m stuck here holding the fort. But if you could . . . ’

‘That was my first thought. But I wanted to check with you. I wondered if maybe she wanted to be left alone with Jimmy.’

George made a strange, choking sound, like a man struggling with his composure in the face of tears. ‘Stephanie, if I was attempting to deal with what Scarlett has on her plate at present, I would want my best friend by my side. You know she won’t ask. But she would be much better off with you there. Please, if you can, go to her.’

I didn’t need telling twice. I wasn’t sure whether I was fit to drive; I kept breaking down in tears and having to pull over on to the hard shoulder. Even so, driving would be a lot quicker than trains and cabs. And it would provoke less curiosity. Nothing attracts attention like sobbing on public transport. I really didn’t feel up to dealing with the kindness of strangers. As it was, I had to convince one traffic cop that I wasn’t having some sort of nervous breakdown.

Of course, when I got to the hacienda, it was even more of a media brawl than when Joshu died. Scarlett had a much higher national profile than her ex-husband and they all wanted a piece of her tragedy. There was something profoundly disgusting about their display. The hunger, the lack of compassion, the blatant parasitism of their desire to feed off Scarlett’s suffering: it all made me feel tainted by my own tangential connection to their world. The only real difference between us was that I operated by consent. I drew a line that respected what my subjects wanted to keep private. But we were all in the business of satisfying an appetite that was rooted in prurience. As I inched my car forward through the press of press, I wondered whether I needed to reconsider how I earn my living.

For a moment it seemed they were actually going to try to follow me into the courtyard, but good sense prevailed and they didn’t spill in behind me. When I got out of the car I could still hear them baying their questions in my wake. Horrible.

The kitchen was empty and the house had the feel of a place where nobody’s home. At this time of day, Jimmy would be at nursery, but Marina should be around somewhere, doing housekeeper things. ‘Hello?’ I called. My voice echoed back at me. No signs of life in the living room or in the guest rooms. I carried on to what I always thought of as the leisure club, wondering if I’d find Scarlett in the pool, relentlessly swimming lengths in spite of her pain. But she wasn’t there either.

The gym was empty too. But when I peeped through the window in the sauna door, there she was, hunched naked on the top bench, her head in her hands. I stepped back before she could sense my presence and went through to the changing room. I undressed quickly. My hand was halfway to a swimsuit when I thought,
Fuck it. Meet her on her own terms for once
.

Scarlett barely looked up when I walked in. When she took in my nakedness, she gave a tired little smile and said, ‘Fucking hell, it must be bad if this is how you show you’re on my side.’ Her eyes were puffy and swollen, and she looked as if she’d lost weight.

I climbed up beside her and put my arm around her. Thank God it wasn’t too hot in there for once. It felt strange to be naked with another woman, but only because I’m a bit shy about my body, especially when I compare it to an impressive specimen like Scarlett. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said, aware of how inadequate the words were. ‘I’d take the bullet for you if I could.’

‘I’d let you, an’ all.’ She groaned. ‘It’s Jimmy I feel for. First he loses his dad and now he’s going to lose his mum.’

‘It’s not a done deal, surely? There must be some treatment they can try?’

‘Simon came round first thing,’ she said. ‘He’d have been here last night instead of relying on a voicemail, only one of his patients was dying and he needed to be there.’ She sighed. ‘It’s inoperable. I’m riddled with it, Steph. It’s in my liver, my pancreas, my colon, my spine, my lungs. I’m a fucking walking cancer. They can give me chemo, but that’s not going to give me more than a few months, and it’ll be a few months of feeling like shit. You remember how it was before.’

‘What’s the alternative?’

‘No chemo. Just pain relief. That way, at least I get a bit of time with Jimmy where I’m not throwing up or feeling too tired to be arsed with him. And I don’t have to be in hospital either. I can stay here in my own home till the end. Simon’s promised me that. I’ll have to go into the clinic for check-ups a couple of times, but that’s all.’ She made it sound as insignificant as a trip to the supermarket. Her stoicism amazed me.

‘If that’s what you want,’ I said.

She tilted her head back, squeezing her eyes shut. ‘None of it’s what I want,’ she shouted. ‘I want a life. I want to see my boy grow up. I don’t want to die.’ Her voice cracked and so did her fortitude. Tears trickled out from her clenched eyelids and her lips curled back in a rictus of anguish. I put my hand on her head and pulled her into my arms. I could feel myself choking up, and before long I was crying silently with her.

We stayed in the sauna for a while, sobbing and sweating and generally being maudlin and miserable. With good reason, it must be said. ‘Where’s Marina?’ I eventually asked.

‘I told her to take Jimmy off somewhere for a few days. Euro Disney or something. Just till the fuss dies down a bit. I need to get myself together. I don’t want him to see me in bits. Or to have those fuckers outside snapping him every time he goes out the gate.’ She shook her head. ‘How the fuck did they find out so fast? They must have hacked my voicemail, it’s the only thing that makes sense.’

‘You think? Surely it’s more likely that someone from the clinic leaked it.’

‘They’d have known a lot more, though,’ Scarlett said. It was a good point, one that I hadn’t considered. ‘I hate that I don’t even have control over my own terminal bloody illness. I wanted to have a little bit of dignity about the whole thing.

Not this bloody circus. I can’t help thinking those fuckers created the stress that made me ill in the first place. Vultures. Can’t wait to cash in.’ She managed another tired smile. ‘If anybody’s going to make a bob or two out of me dying, it should be me, not some bloody hack or some Judas that works for Simon.’

It might sound strange that Scarlett was thinking about the cash implications of her announcement. But at that point, I thought I understood where she was coming from. Scarlett’s working capital was her fame. Now it had a strictly limited shelf life. The swimathon might outlive her. But her fragrances and her endorsements would likely die with her. Unlike authors and musicians whose work carries on earning after their death, a celebrity’s earning power dies with them. And Scarlett had a child she needed to provide for, as well as a charitable foundation whose work she presumably wanted to maintain. Of course she had half an eye on the bottom line.

She leaned into me. ‘Are you up for another book? The last will and testament? The diary of a dignified death? It would be a bit classier than another pile of celebrity bollocks. Every - body’s talking about going to Switzerland to that Dignitas place, whether we should be allowed to choose how we die. We could do a book about how I manage it.’ Her enthusiasm might have seemed bizarre to an outsider. But to us it made perfect sense.

‘Why not? If Biba wants it, we’ll give it to her.’

When we couldn’t stand the heat any longer, we moved to the pool. Scarlett lowered herself gingerly into the water. Already I could see the changes in the way she moved – normally she launched herself at the water in a running dive and broke the surface with a powerful overarm stroke. But today, a slow breast stroke was all she was up for. She seemed to be ageing in front of my eyes.

And that was only the start of it. Her decline was frightening. The weight seemed to fall off her. By the time Jimmy and Marina came back a few days later, I reckoned she’d already lost half a stone. She had no interest in food. ‘It all tastes grey,’ she said. And when she could bring herself to eat, she couldn’t keep it down for long.

Leanne turned up the day after the news broke. I looked at her with new eyes thanks to Scarlett’s revelations, but there seemed to be nothing artificial about her grief. That first night, after Scarlett had gone to bed, we sat up late in the kitchen, drinking brandy and railing against the injustice of it all. When we ran out of rant, I asked her how it was going in Spain. ‘I like it,’ she said. ‘The weather’s lovely and the people are friendly. It’s quite nice to go to a place where nobody’s made their mind up about you before you get there. It’s like a clean slate.’

‘I think we all fancy that sometimes. Ditch the past and start from scratch.’