Tough Love (2 page)

Along with
Jeremy Kyle
, one of Tracy's pleasures in life was
The Late Nite Love-In
on Bradington Community Radio. The voice of the DJ, Kent Graham, was enough to make her go weak at the knees. After Paul's no-show and the subsequent arguments, in which he had defended going on a three-day bender, Tracy had decided to do something for herself for once. Never mind sorting her rabble
out. She was going to look after number one. She had picked up the phone and rung the radio station, then asked to be put through to Kent, saying she was an old school friend. When she finally had him on the phone, she put on her best, most seductive voice and asked him out. And Kent, to her utter amazement, said yes.

What followed was a whirlwind romance. At first, Tracy thought he might only be interested in her because she was Leanne's mum. Her daughter was the local celebrity and everyone, as far as Tracy could see, wanted a piece of her, and if that meant going through her mother, then so be it. But it soon became apparent to Tracy that Kent wanted her for herself.

A month later, Paul had found out. Tracy soon tired of hiding her new love and became more and more brazen in her choice of venue when meeting him. She wanted Paul to see that someone else was more interested in her than he was in the bottom of a pint glass. She was finally spotted by one of the locals from the Beacon, being pushed on the swings in Bolingbroke Park by Kent. She had thought Paul would realise that this spelled the end of their marriage. The kids were all grown-up now: Jodie still lived at home but was working at the Beacon; Karina had moved in with Gaz; Scott and his girlfriend Charly had a flat on the other side of the estate; and Markie was in prison but was due out
any time now. Leanne, of course, little Princess Tippy Toes, as Tracy liked to call her, if not to her face, was off setting the world alight. They didn't need a mum and dad – she and Paul had done their bit, Tracy thought rather grandly. She didn't understand that her ‘bit' couldn't be considered first-class parenting.

Paul didn't take it well. He broke every window in the house and posted a lit rag through the door. The whole thing got dragged through the papers because someone on the street saw a quick buck to be made. It was good reading: the page-three girl, the psycho dad and the DJ. Tracy had played the injured wife, but the truth was that she enjoyed winding her ex-husband up. She'd even got the police to install a panic button in case of violent attack. Paul had laughed at this, thinking it was a joke, when he had come round to have his monthly Shout-at-Tracy-from-the-Garden. She had pressed it, and he'd found out the hard way that it was anything but a joke. He had spent the night in Bradington Bridewell with his belt and shoelaces confiscated.

As for Kent, he'd stuck with Tracy through thick and thin. He felt he'd met his soulmate. He'd say, ‘I feel like I can tell you anything.'

Tracy would reply, ‘Me too.' But there were a few things she thought it was best not to let him in on, such as that when they'd all ended up in the
tabloids she had grasped there was money to be made. Ever since, she had been anonymously drip-feeding the papers stories about Leanne to make herself a nice bit of coin on the side. Now if she could only get Leanne to spill the beans on who Kia's dad was, which she had been tight-lipped about from day one, Tracy'd have two weeks in La Manga and a plasma-screen telly sorted. She had an idea who it was, though. And if it was who she thought, then it was tabloid dynamite.

Tracy liked to think that what stopped her finding out more was that she was concerned about Kia: she didn't want her dragged through the papers like the rest of her family had been. But she knew she could rationalise it, if push came to shove and a large cheque from the
News of the Screws
was winging its way in her direction. Her other, bigger, concern was that she didn't think Kent would be very understanding about her on-the-side income. He could be a right uptight sod sometimes, she thought. She'd sit schtum on that one for the time being.

With Paul still shouting outside, Tracy wandered over to the panic button and pressed it. A few minutes later the police were at her door. She prepared herself for another Oscar-winning performance.

‘Thank God you came so quickly, officers,' she said, fighting back crocodile tears – they came so
easily to her. ‘I thought he was going to kill me.' If there was one thing Tracy loved more than
Jeremy Kyle
, it was a good drama.

*

Lisa Leighton looked out over the beautiful blue crystal waters of Lake Garda and snapped the magazine shut. Ever since her husband Jay had moved to Milano Atletico she had had the weekly gossip magazines shipped out from the UK just to see how many column inches she and her beloved had notched up that week. It had been Lisa's idea to move to Italy three years ago. Jay's reputation had been getting slightly out of hand back home but she knew that if she could get him away from the hangers-on they might be able to get on with their lives in the way she wanted. For the most part her plan had worked. The move had seen the Leightons go from being the UK's golden couple to a European phenomenon.

Lisa based herself in Italy and London. She quite liked Italy, but found the language barrier tough. Also, everyone went on about Milan being the fashion capital of the world but the place was an overgrown industrial estate and the clothes were like something her mother would have worn out for a night on the tiles in Essex, all gold lamé and appliqué clowns.

It was strange to be so famous, but Lisa felt she had the hang of it now. She had grown used to being photographed everywhere she went, and so had Jay. But that was more to do with the fact that she let the paparazzi know where she was going to be than their popularity.

Since the move her own career had rocketed. When they had lived in the UK she had been a TV presenter. She'd started off on a music channel but had soon been noticed for her good looks and bright on-screen personality. The main channels had snapped her up. Now she had her own column in a weekly glossy, her own fashion show on UK Lifetime TV and her own perfume, Suggestive, by Lisa Leighton. It actually smelt of turps, but she wasn't wearing it: her loyal public was and that suited her fine.

Even now, ten years after she and Jay had first got together, she knew she could expect to see herself and him on the front cover of at least one of the weekly magazines with a couple of mentions from Rav Singh or the 3 AM. girls thrown in. But this week there was nothing. All anyone was interested in was Leanne bloody Crompton. There were pictures of the glamour model getting into her car with her face screwed up – she was obviously asking for privacy – and the rest were old reruns that Lisa had seen a thousand times.

Did people really fall for this? she wondered, not
for the first time. If the press didn't have a picture, or a story for that matter, they would delve into their archives and use an old one. Lisa should know: they'd dined out for months on Jay's alleged affair with a Manchester Rovers female physiotherapist, using the picture of her massaging cramp out of his leg at the FA Cup final over and over again. Lisa knew that she'd massaged more than his leg, but she wasn't about to let the mask of her perfect marriage slip any time soon. She knew she and Jay were worth far more together than they were apart, and so did he.

Just when Lisa had thought that Leanne Crompton might drift into obscurity she'd reared her not-so-ugly head again. Even when she was papped with a scrunched-up face she looked all right, Lisa thought grudgingly. She herself daren't go out of the house without having every one of her long auburn tresses in place, her green contact lenses in and her Fake Bake professionally applied. She knew that if the paps caught her first thing in the morning they'd jump out of their pasty skins, shortly before snapping their shutter lenses and making themselves at least ten grand for the picture. She was naturally pretty, Lisa, but not naturally stunning. That bit took work. But years of eating only protein and constant high-end professional grooming had made her the svelte size eight über-redhead she was today.

Lisa didn't mind reading about Leanne when it was bad news. In fact she enjoyed it. Leanne, it appeared, had finally been dumped by her agency. The magazines were talking about it being the end of her. But Lisa knew that if Leanne was smart it could be the making of her. She could turn her hard-luck story into a lucrative rags-to-riches, riches-to-rags story. But Lisa didn't have Leanne down as smart. She had her down as Bradington scum. And people like her, Lisa knew, didn't think to look at the bigger picture and plan a career. They spent money when they had it and panicked when they didn't. And if Leanne started panicking, God only knew what would come out of her mouth. Well, Lisa wasn't about to take any risks.

She picked up the phone and dialled Jay's number. It went to answer-machine before she remembered he was having one of his tattoos lasered off. He'd had it for three months and thought it read
‘my country, my life, my heart, my wife'
in Sanskrit. But it had turned out that the tattooist had been a Manchester City fan and apparently it read ‘
I flick turds for a living.'
She wouldn't mind but he hadn't played for Manchester Rovers for years.

Lisa rose from her sun-lounger and walked across the balcony of the villa they were renting from George Clooney. They'd never met him but that didn't matter – she knew they would now be
associated for ever with him in the public's consciousness. For a moment, she wondered what to do, then picked up her phone and called Mike Atkinson, their head of security.

‘I think we might have a little problem that needs attending to,' she said, splaying her free hand and checking that her perfectly manicured nails didn't need a touch-up.

*

Leanne walked along the Thames by the imposing Tate Modern with Kia, looking at the sky-line. St Paul's Cathedral rose up on the other side of the river and the buildings in the Square Mile vied to be noticed too. Leanne loved and hated London. She had worked in the capital since she was sixteen, moving in a year later, but she had always felt like an outsider. She envied the Sloaney young women in the coffee shops around Regent Street who could order a double mocha choco skinny latte and not feel they had to apologise for their pain-in-the-arse order. She still felt grand when she asked for a cappuccino.

She had come for a walk to clear her head. She lived in a house in Greenwich. The rent was astronomical but until last week Leanne hadn't cared. She'd always had money coming in and spent it accordingly. But this morning she had sat
down and opened the credit-card statements she usually tossed to one side to discover that she was in trouble.

She glanced down at Kia, who was wearing her favourite Dolce and Gabbana trainers with her Matthew Williamson for Kids jumper, and her heart sank. Her poor little girl had grown used to having the best of everything, and Leanne had grown used to assuming that she could give her the best of everything.

She took out her mobile phone and rang Directory Inquiries. ‘Can I have the number for Pink Models, please?' Pink Models were Figurz Management's biggest rivals.

The operator put her through. ‘Hello, can I speak to Meagan Richards, please?' Meagan had been Jenny's arch enemy.

‘May I ask who's calling?' the receptionist asked, in a nasal voice.

‘It's Leanne Crompton.' She felt nervous to be ringing up and asking for work, which she hadn't had to do since she'd first done the rounds in Bradington, looking for a cash-in-hand Saturday job.

‘One moment, please.'

The receptionist must have pushed the wrong button. Instead of Meagan's polite business voice, Leanne heard, ‘Leanne Crompton? Ha! She gets dropped by Hag Features and thinks she can come
crawling to me? Let her sweat. Tell her to call back tomorrow. She's old news, anyway.'

Leanne clicked the phone off, feeling sick. She had a strong suspicion that she and Kia were in for a rocky year.

*

Karina was off her head. Gaz, her boyfriend, had been dealing coke for a year or two but had suddenly landed a massive stash, and while he was off working as a bouncer at Bradington's current number-one night spot, Cloud Nine, she had been charged with dealing it up and hiding it. Never one to pass up the opportunity to test Gaz's wares, Karina had tucked into the coke like a kid in a sweet shop. She was now on day two of a paranoid bender, which had started with her being Queen of the World and was ending with her scrabbling around on the floor, taking the coke out of the settee cushions and sewing it into her two-year-old daughter Izzy's teddy bears. Which was a good idea, as it turned out, because when she heard a loud knocking at the door, it wasn't just her paranoia at play, it really was the police.

‘We've a warrant to search the premises, Miss Crompton,' the police officer said, and barged past her.

Karina reverted to the cocky madam she'd been
at school and started telling the police what she thought of them.

‘Nothing better to do? Haven't you got some tom you should be shaking down for free blow-jobs or something?' she asked sarcastically.

‘Good afternoon to you too,' the police officer said.

Karina was trying her best to act normal, but she had no way of knowing whether she was pulling it off. She flattened herself against the wall and looked on as the police tore the flat apart.

‘What you looking for, then?' she asked, aware that her eyes were like saucers.

‘I think you know, don't you?' The police officer stared at her, raising an eyebrow, as his colleague upturned cushions and rifled through drawers. ‘Mind if we look in the bedrooms?'

‘No, go ahead. You'll do what the fuck you please anyway,' Karina said, trying to pretend that she wasn't completely bricking it.

‘No need for the bad language. What did your mother teach you? Oh, that's right, nothing – your mum's a scumbag.' The two coppers fell about laughing as Karina scowled at them.